#neither of them wants to lose what they have with lisbon (and neither of them are in a position to take the next step they may want to)

[lisbonsteresa]

YEAH

[needcake]

whumptober 2021, day 3: taunting

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The King of Northern Lusitania.

That was what his Marshal claimed to be now that he had taken the country without resistance.

France could barely conceal his disgust. The Marshal, standing by the window of a house he had confiscated from a noble family that had fled to Brazil along with the court, seemed to have forgotten for a moment that, although he had been appointed Ambassador to Portugal in the years before the invasion, he was far, far, from the succession line of the new country they would create after partitioning Portugal into three, and that this insubordination would not go unnoticed once the news of his claims reached Paris.

But this was a matter for another time. His last conversation with Spain before coming to Lisbon had left him with a persistent headache and his patience was wearing a little too thin.

“Is he here?” he limited himself to ask and the Marshal informed him that no, the man he wanted had been moved to another location after his last escape attempt. “Take me to him, then.”

He cared very little for the thoughts the Marshal was entertaining in his head as he stared at France, but the longer he went without complying to his order, the more France felt like breaking his nose.

At last a junior officer was called upon and he was taken down the street to an unmarked door, past the two soldiers posted at the entrance with their weapons on their shoulders, and up two flights of marble stairs. All the furniture and the ornaments in the house had been removed, every painting, every object on display, even the chandeliers. Of their existence, only the empty squares of faded color remained on the wallpaper.

The empty corridors echoed their footsteps and the young man guided him to a door at the far end, pulled a heavy keychain from his pocket and unlocked the door.

“I’ll have that now,” he told him and extended his hand. He hesitated, his eyes darting between France’s tight lips to the insignias in his uniform. He deposited the set of keys on France’s white gloves and stood at attention. “You can go wait downstairs now.”

He waited until the young officer had nodded and complied, his steps fading in the distance, before he breathed deeply in. The ache in his head was killing him.

The first thing he saw after he pushed the door open was Portugal’s furious green eyes, his body a shadow against the wall in the dark room.

“It’s a lovely day outside, you should open the curtains,” he said as he locked the door behind him. Portugal remained in silence, still glaring at him. France huffed a breath and walked to the window himself, throwing the curtains open and allowing light to enter the room. Portugal squinted at the sudden change in luminescence, but he soon glared at him again.

France allowed himself a small smirk.

“Do you remember when father dragged you back after your brilliant escape attempt while he was in the East? You looked at him like that too.”

“And he beat me,” Portugal said, his voice a little hoarse. From disuse, France presumed.

“Ah, yes,” he said lightly, unbuttoning his gloves. “Castile wouldn’t leave your bedside.”

“You said I deserved it.”

France held his gloves in one hand; looked at him in the eye. “You did.”

The growl that escaped his lips as he surged in his direction would have amused him were France not in such a terrible mood. Tackling him to the floor and twisting his arm behind his back took less effort now than when they were children.

He pressed his knee over his spine and Portugal stopped struggling, breathing hard into the wooden floorboards.

“You never learn, Ulterior,” he whispered above him, watching Portugal turn his head and snarl at him for the choice of name. “I’ll always win.”

“Get off me,” Portugal spat, but France only settled his weight more firmly down on him.

“You have always been too angry to be good at fighting, Portugal. Stop struggling before you hurt yourself.” He felt him breathe deeply a few times, but his body was still too coiled, still too tense for France to release him just yet.

He looked around the room and saw that it had been stripped bare of its ornaments as well. Only a few pieces of furniture remained.

“Father would have been disgusted with the way we treat our prisoners,” he commented out loud and felt Portugal shift beneath him.

“Stop calling Rome that,” Portugal said, but his voice was lower, his body less resistant.

“Why?” France asked, lowering his body over Portugal’s. “We’re sons of Rome, you and I. Us and the Italies are all that’s left.”

“Romania is still alive,” Portugal countered quietly, the fight finally draining from him, his fingers unclenching behind his back.

“That he is,” France whispered into his ear, brushed his lips against the soft cartilage and felt him shiver in his grasp. “Don’t worry, I’ll find him eventually.”

He released Portugal’s arm and felt his eyes on his back as he got to his feet and walked over to the bed.

“What was the nickname Castile had for you when we were kids?” he asked, sitting on the feather mattress, tucking his hair behind his ear. Portugal got up gingerly from the floor, dusted the knees of his simple cotton trousers.

“Lusi,” Portugal whispered, the word heavy in his mouth, laden with memories France did not know and did not care to know. He hummed, undoing the fastenings on his collar and breathing a little easier.

“Did you have a nickname for him as well?”

France followed Portugal’s eyes down his chest as he continued to undo the buttons of his uniform coat and smiled to himself.

“Dickhead,” Portugal told him and France snorted, undoing the buttons on his waistcoat next. “Yours was Asshole.”

He laughed, shrugging off his outer clothes and folding them carefully by his side, the pressure on his head somewhat subsided now that he had removed his heavy, hot uniform. Portugal’s eyes were trained on him, still standing a few feet away, still hesitant and wary.

“Come here,” he called, extending a hand towards him and watching with some amusement as Portugal’s face contorted into a frown. Huffing an impatient breath, he rose to his feet and went to him instead.

Portugal seemed somewhat smaller, dwarfed by a too big linen shirt and his simple brown cotton trousers. But his body was still the same as France remembered when he pulled him closer, his arms still strong and hardened by years at sea, his eyes still a pale shade of green when he looked at him.

“You are always so difficult,” he told him, settling his hands on the curve of his hips, watching his eyes as he looked down at France’s lips. “Always stubborn as a mule.”

His hands came to rest on his chest, neither to push him away nor to pull him closer, and France sighed, pushed his hair back over his shoulder, ghosted his fingers across his face.

“He is not going to come for you,” he said and Portugal’s eyes turned to his, the soft skin around them tightening slightly in worry. “England has what he wants now that Brazil’s ports are open to him.”

The hands on his chest gripped his shirt, but there was no more fight in them, no more blind, raging anger. “You’re lying,” Portugal whispered quietly, but his voice was thin, threadbare, doubt creeping into his words, taking hold of his thoughts.

“England doesn’t need you anymore,” he continued, petting his hair, caressing his cheekbones, his jaw, his ear. “But you already knew this, didn’t you?”

His fingers slackened, the last wall of his resistance crumbling under his words and France leaned in, brushed his lips against his. “Oh, Lusi,” he whispered, “Aren’t you tired of fighting?”

Portugal's mouth opened beneath his lips and France smiled, “Don’t you want to come home?”

 --

Notes:

In 1807, French Marshal Jean-Andoche Junot led the French army across Spain to seize Portugal in November 30. When he reached Lisbon, however, he was able to see the tails of the ships that took the Portuguese royal family and the court across the Atlantic to Brazil, which effectively saved the Portuguese Empire from falling into Napoleon's hands, but caused them to lose the mainland territory.

After taking control of the country, Junot seized what was left of the Treasury and any wealth available that had been left behind in the escape. He also put in motion the partition of the territory as devised by Napoleon, which would divide Portugal into three, granting the Southern portion to Spain's PM, Manuel de Godoy, keeping the middle part for France itself and giving away the Northern part to the King of Etruria. Junot, however, who had been France's Ambassador to Portugal during 1804-05, decided to proclaim himself as King of Northern Lusitania. Napoleon was not amused.

As part of the agreement to help the royal family escape Napoleon, the Portuguese regent, future João VI, opened Brazil’s ports to British trade, which had suffered under Napoleon’s Continental System and US neutral policy. At the time, Portugal and her colonies were responsible for consuming around half of Britain’s exports. That trade was thus protected after being moved to Brazil, which in turn made the continental territory of Portugal redundant.

However, the partition of Portugal never took place because in May 1808, after trying to double-cross Spain and take control of the territory, the Spanish revolted and the Portuguese followed in June. In August, the British sent troops under the command of Arthur Wellesley, future Duke of Wellington, and the French were forced to leave Portugal in what would be the first of three attempts to take control of the country.

[specialagentlokitty]

Patrick Jane x reader - everyday

36 with Patrick Jane.-Scylla/50 with Patrick Jane.-Scylla/55 with Patrick Jane.-Scylla❤️

36. “Put a jacket on idiot.”

50. “Look, I’m sorry I lied. I can’t take it back, but I can make it up to you.”

55. “How do you know he/she’s still alive?” “I can feel it.”

You hated this, you hated watching your team cry over your funeral but you had no other choice, you had to do this to keep them safe for now. You stood in the far back, watching as they all stared at “you” being lowered into the ground, all of them crying, though Cho wasn’t crying you could tell he was upset.

You watched Patrick say something to them all before he spun around and started walking towards you, and in a panic you climbered up into the tree you were hiding behind, carefully sitting on one of the branched, praying you didn’t make any noise as he got closer.

“Jane!” Lisbon called.

The man stopped right under you, and you held your breath, he turnt around, and you watched Lisbon walk over, wiping her tears. You were full of regret, it you had to do this, at least that’s what you kept telling yourself.

“That’s not her.” Patrick said sternly.

“Jane, we’ve been over the evidence three time, it’s her. Even th DNA matches.”

Patrick shook his head, slamming his hand against the tree. You swallowed thickly as you watched the pair.

“I’m telling you now Lisbon, I know it’s not (Y/N), I know she’s not dead.”

There was a tense silence, both of them glanced back over to where so called you were being buried, neither of them saying anything for a few minutes before Lisbon turns her attention back to Patrick, placing a head gently on his shoulder which caused him to turn to her.

“How do you know she’s still alive?” Lisbon asked gently.

Patrick stayed quiet, you glanced around the area, he seemed to be trying to figure out what to say before he simply just shook his head.

“I can just feel it.” He muttered.

With that, Patrick left, leaving Lisbon there. She sighed heavily amid wiped her eyes, heading back to the others, leaving Patrick to do his own thing clearly not wanted to make him any more upset.

That was the last time you saw them for nearly a year, the last time you saw them all was when they were crying, upset, distraught over your death. You could’ve gone back to them months ago, but after the stunt you pulled you knew they would never be able to figure you, so you simply spent your time wondering the city, minding your own business working jobs at home where you wouldn’t have to risk running into them.

It was raining while you slowly walked through the quiet streets, you had nothing more that a thin hoodie on, you were soaked. While walking back to your place, you passed some police tape, but you didn’t think nothing off it, you carried on walking, over as a car pulling up next to you and the familiar voices of your team reached your ears.

You froze, none of them seemed to spot so you used this as your chance to leave, hands stuffed in your pockets as you carried on walking like normal until you got around the corner where you stopped, trying to calm your beating heart.

Unknown to you, Patrick was the only one who saw you. When they pulled up he recognized you instantly but said nothing to the others, they had just gotten over your death, and he didn’t want to open old wounds. He watched you freeze then walked away, and that was all the clarification he needed, when no one else was looking he followed you. He was sure it was you, but he never saw your face, so there was doubt in the back of his mind.

Taking a deep breathe, you steeled your nerves and went to walk away.

“(Y/N)...”

You froze again, eyes slowly meeting those of Patrick Jane, he was soaked as well, but at least he had the common sense to put a jacket on unlike you. Neither of you said anything, you both just stood there staring each other. Tears stared to fill your eyes, and a few of them slipped free, mixing with the cold rain.

“Patrick...” you whispered, “I’m so sorry...”

He still said nothing, and your heart broke. You wanted him to scream, shout, anything. You wanted him to speak to you, not just stand there in silence.

You took a step forward and reached out, only to pull away quickly, balling your hand into a fist, lowering it to your side. You lied to him, you didn’t desrve to be comforted, it was him, Lisbon, Grace, Rigsby and Cho that deserved the comfort, you led to them all. You lied to Patrick after promising you never would...

“I should’ve told you....” you started, “Look, I’m sorry I lied. I can’t take it back, but I can make it up to you.”

Still, Patrick said nothing, you sniffled a little, turning your head to face the grey clouds, feeling the ran pelt your skin as you closed your eyes.

“Say something...” you whispered again, “anything.... scream, yell, curse.... give me something...”

Rain filled the silence, as you were stood there with your eyes closed. Then something was draped over your shoulders making you snap your eyes open, Patrick took his jacket it and was putting it on your, oding a few buttons up before taking a step back, brushing some soaked hair from his face, running his hand down it to get rid of the extra water.

“Put a jacket on idiot.”

That was all he said, he turnt around and liked back around the corner, leaving you stunned. You quickly recovered and ran around it, reaching out you grabbed Patrick’s hand, pulling him to a stop. You wouldn’t turn around to face you, and you were okay with that, you kept a lose grip on his hand instead.

“I’ll tell you everything... I promise... just... know there wasn’t a day that went by that I didn’t think about you...”

Patrick pulled his hand and walked to the police tape you passed, only glancing back once before he disappeared, leaving you in the rain

[ragingbookdragon]

Before You Go, Was I Someone You Loved? PT. 1

A Shay Cormac x Reader Story

Word Count: 2,042 Warnings: Mentions of Death, Explicit Language, Violence

Author’s Note: Holy shit this is the first time I’ve written something this long in a while that wasn’t for a class! Admire the growth I’ve made! Y’all take Fiction Writing in school if y’all can! THE GROWTH! AND ANGST! ENJOY! -Thorne

“Shay?”

           He looked up from the aimless lines he’d been drawing in the snow to see her standing before him, a frown etched onto her face. He blinked in shock, surprised to see her. “(Y/N)?”

           She took a step towards him and sat down on the log next to him, closer than she’d been in the past few months. “I heard,” she started, but lowered her voice, “about Lisbon…and about this evening.”

           Shay swallowed the sigh and looked back down at his feet. “Come to tell me that I’m a murderer?”

           He didn’t need to see her face to know that there was disappointment written across it. “If that’s what you think I’m here to do, then the few nights we spent together taught you nothing about me.”

           Glancing up, he caught her eyes. “I figured you’d never talk to me again after threatening to shoot me.”

           (Y/N) nudged her elbow into his ribs. “I still could if you want.” It did the work, and she watched a small smile cross his lips. She leaned her head onto his shoulder, curling her right arm around his left bicep. Her fingers felt cold against the bare side of his wrist. “I’m so sorry about Lisbon, Shay.”

           This time, he let the sigh leave him and he allowed himself to feel her comfort, resting his head on hers. “It wasn’t your fault, (Y/N).”

           She nodded. “I know…but neither was it yours.”

           The thorn that had stuck itself in his heart since he left Portugal dug a little deeper and he countered, “But it was. I moved the piece…I caused the earthquake.”

           He knew she had no idea about the Precursor artifacts, but she still tried to understand. “You may have moved it, but it wasn’t your fault. You were merely the instrument used by the Brotherhood. The fault lies with them.”

           Shay looked off into the distance. “Misplacing the blame won’t bring the dead back.”

           “No,” she murmured, “no it won’t.”

           They fell into a silence for some time, watching the snow fall around them, their breaths coming out in pale, airy wisps. “Shay?”

           “Hmm?”

           “What…what are you going to do?”

           He looked down at her, confusion swimming with suspicion. “Why?”

           (Y/N) met his gaze. “I know you well enough Shay Cormac. You’re going to do something about all this.”

           Shay knew it was useless to hide from her when her eyes saw straight through him; he sighed. “I can’t let them keep going. They’ll kill millions if I don’t stop them.”

           She was quiet, then she reached into her pocket and pulled out an old iron key. (Y/N) held it out for him. “Achilles has the items stowed in the desk upstairs. You’ll need this to get into the house and second bedroom.”

           He stared in shock at the key and then at her. “Why would you do this for me?”

           (Y/N) smiled. “What you considered a few nights of fun, I considered it to be something deeper.” She folded the key into his palm then rose, standing before him. “You know my feelings for you, Shay. And I know that you wouldn’t go against the Brotherhood if you didn’t think it was the right thing to do.” (Y/N) bent down and pressed a chilled kiss to his lips, whispering, “I’ll always be on your side, Shay. No matter the cost.” She pulled back and smiled sadly, then turned to leave.

           He stood and called out, “(Y/N)?” She spun on her heel and waited. Thousands of thoughts ran through his mind, but he simply said, “Thank you.”

           She nodded with a small smile. “Please be careful, Shay.”

***

           (Y/N) held the hem of her skirt in one hand, the other pressed to her chest, fear dripping down her spine at the sight of Shay standing but a few feet from the cliff edge. She watched Hope take a step forward.

           “Give back the manuscript, Shay!” The assassin shouted. “I’m sure Achilles—”

           Shay shoved a hand out towards them, voice cracking as he countered, “I cannot. I will not let this happen again.” He shook his head. “All those souls lost…” He met (Y/N)’s eyes and she mouthed his name in terror. Shay lowered his head and declared, “One more hardly matters.”

***

           She didn’t know who fired the shot, but it felt all the same in her heart as she sprinted after him. “Shay!” Her scream tore through her throat and before she could get to the edge, someone’s arms wrapped around her waist. She thrashed wildly like a mountain lion caught in a steel trap. “Let go of me! Shay!”

           “Enough (Y/N)! He’s gone!” She realized it was Liam who had her by the waist.

           (Y/N) spun on him, pounding her fists to his chest, borderline hysteric. “How could you?! He was your best friend!” Liam let her hit him. “Answer me!”

           He grabbed her hands, but before he could speak, Chevalier snorted, “The cabbage farmer betrayed the Brotherhood. He’s better off at Davy Jones Locker.”

           Her eyes drifted to the smoke clearing from his gun and as if another shot had gone off, she was throwing herself at him, and had Liam not had her, she’d have clawed the Frenchman’s eyes out. “You arrogant bastard!” Fury mingled with her pain. “That man was more of an assassin than you’ll ever hope to be!” She spat at him. “You will reap what you sow!” Her eyes drifted to Hope and Achilles, to all of the assassins standing behind them. “You all will! You all—” Finally, (Y/N)’s legs gave out beneath her and she hit the ground, sobs ripping through her chest.

           Liam sighed behind her. “Easy (Y/N).”

           She sucked in a breath, grabbing his hands as if anchoring herself would take it all away. “How could you?” Her voice was quieter, but certainly harsher. “How could you let this happen to him?”

           He frowned and clenched his jaw. “I don’t know (Y/N)…I…don’t know.”

***Two Years Later***

           She barely kept the tears at bay as she stumbled through the New York streets. Mid-afternoon, but it felt so much busier than it usually was, and she felt as though everyone’s eyes were on her, watching her with pity. Another failed attempt at earning a job. She frowned and drifted into the garden of a home, collapsing onto the bench just outside it. She vaguely hoped that whoever owned the property wouldn’t chase her off in her apparent moment of breakdown. She brought a hand up to her face, wiping the tears from her face before sucking in a breath, then she heard, “Dear?” Her head shot up and she saw an older woman standing with a basket of clothes under her hip.

           Quickly, she stood to her feet and the words poured from her mouth before she could stop them. “I’m so sorry ma’am.” She thrust a hand back at the house. “You own this home, don’t you?” She brought her hand to her middle and bowed her head. “Forgive me, I’ll leave.”

           The woman huffed and shook her head. “Nonsense dear. I’d be a wretched woman to leave a young lady like yourself to cry your heart out.” She stepped forward and curled an arm around her. “Come now, inside for some tea and we’ll see what’s wrong.” The older woman smiled. “My name is Cassidy Finnegan. What’s yours?”

           She offered a wobbly smile to Cassidy—It’d been some time since someone had showed her such kindness—she hoped it would last a bit longer. “I’m (Y/N) (L/N).” Cassidy ushered her inside and she couldn’t help but marvel at the interior. “Your home is beautiful, Miss Finnegan.”

           “Oh, call me Cassidy, (Y/N).”

           “Okay then, Cassidy.” The two smiled at one another and the woman set the basket of clothes down on the desk, ushering her to follow. (Y/N) found herself in the kitchen, sitting on a stool as Cassidy handed her a cold, wet rag.

           “Here,” she said. “Wipe those tears away. They don’t suit a face as pretty as yours.”

           (Y/N) felt her cheeks warm and she did so, feeling as if a years’ worth of dirt and grime had come off. “Thank you, Cassidy.”

           The older woman shuffled across from her towards the open fire pit, hanging a tea kettle on the rack. “Want to tell me why you were crying outside?”

           “I—” (Y/N) started, but faltered, afraid to offer all her knowledge. Eventually, she settled for, “I used to work for a man as a maid, but some of the things he was doing got the man I cared for killed.” She thought of Shay’s smiling face, then to that night when the pain, but determination was written across it. “I refused to work for the man anymore but…well, he has connections all over the colonies.” (Y/N) met Cassidy’s gaze. “I’ve essentially been blacklisted from any workplace I could go.”

           “Oh no.” Cassidy’s voice was full of sympathy. “You’ve been on your own for all this time?”

           (Y/N) shrugged. “I’ve been fortunate to work in some places before they figured out who I was. I’ve been working at taverns here and there.” She looked away. “I’ve been lucky to not end up in a brothel yet. But…I fear I’m beginning to lose options.”

           “I’ll not have you working in a place like that!” Her head shot up at Cassidy, who had her hands placed on her hips. “You’ll stay here and look for a job!”

           Before (Y/N) could get a word in, a man stepped through the doorway, griping, “What are you screamin’ at Cass?” He looked between his wife and (Y/N) then sighed. “Another one?”

           Cassidy shushed him. “Hush, Barry.” She gestured between them. “Barry, this is (Y/N). (Y/N), this is my husband, Barry.”

           (Y/N) waved and smiled as best she could despite the man’s frown. “Pleasure to meet you, Mister Finnegan.”

           He harrumphed. “At least this one has decent manners.” Cass scowled at her husband and he turned, waving them off. “I’m going to take a nap.”

           “Oaf,” Cassidy hissed, and (Y/N) couldn’t help but giggle.

           “He seems like a good man, Cassidy.”

           “He is,” she agreed. “When he’s not being rude.” She turned. “You wouldn’t mind helping with dinner, would you? I’ll need to go ready your room.”

           “Oh, please, let me do it! You can go sit and relax!” Cassidy was about to counter, but (Y/N) begged, “Please, if you’re going to let me stay here for free, you’ll have to let me pull my weight.”

           Cassidy watched her then offered, “How about you go fold the clothes in that basket and start dinner, and I’ll take care of the room.”

           (Y/N) nodded and after grabbing the basket of clothes, she found herself standing in the master bedroom, quietly folding the clothes as to not wake Barry. A warm smile spread across her face as a sense of security filled her veins. She’d certainly not been the assassin’s target, but her fleeing was obviously an offense against them either way. She had no doubts that Hope had been the one to spread the rumors of terrible work ethic throughout the elite in New York—the assassin had the power and connections to do so. (Y/N) shook her head and put away the clothes then headed towards the door but stopped when she felt something in her pocket. She pulled out a coin and flipped it over, seeing the Celtic shield of luck imprinted into it. A sad smile crossed her lips as she ran her thumb in a routine manner. His words came back to her.

           “Here (Y/N).” She looked up from his chest to see him handing something to her.

           Her brows furrowed as she stared at it. “What is that?”

            Shay brought his free hand up behind his head, resting on it. “A Celtic shield of luck.”

           (Y/N) couldn’t help but snort. “I think you need this more than I, Shay Cormac.”

           He chuckled and pressed the coin into her hand. “What are you talking about, lass? I make my own luck.”

           (Y/N) inhaled deeply and shoved the coin back in her pocket, gazing out the window. The sun was beginning to set, but for the first time in two years, she felt hopeful. “I make my own luck.” She whispered and descended the stairs to start dinner.

[lifeinpurplestars]

Run

Post Killing Red John. A tragedy hits them hard as they were chasing down a suspect on a mission for the FBI, just after arguing. Also, Jane clearly doesn't want Lisbon to go to D.C with Pike. What will happen to them? Will their true love come to light?

“I'll sing it one last time for you

Then we really have to go

You've been the only thing that's right

In all I've done (…)”

 ‘JANE!!!’, screamed Cho as Abbot and Fisher tried to hold him back, ‘You can’t go in there!! It’s too late!!

But Patrick Jane wouldn’t listen, not when she was in danger, not when she was trapped in a building on fire which could collapse anytime with her inside. Patrick Jane wouldn’t listen, not when Teresa Lisbon could die. He’d do anything to save her, as he had promised her so many years ago, even if it meant dying for or with her.

Marcus Pike looked horrified at the fire consuming the abandoned building , it had been a death trap and no one has seen it coming. But everyone had managed to leave it on time, but not Teresa Lisbon who had sacrificed herself so everyone else could escape the fire.

Dennis Abbot looked in astonishment as their blonde consultant had hit three FBI men larger than him,  shouting and howling the name of Lisbon, and no one managed to stop him.

Jane had started to run toward the building, not caring about any flames, not caring about the imminent explosion.  And no one could do anything to catch him, no one would dare to try.

 ‘FOR FUCK’S SAKE JANE, COME HERE. IT’S TOO LATE’,  yelled the Asiatic agent in despair, completely defeated at the thought of not only losing Lisbon but losing Jane too.

                                                     30 minutes before

 ‘Jane, why can’t you just leave it alone?’, begged Lisbon

‘Because you’re being an idiot, Lisbon’, he told her without looking at her.

They have been arguing for the last ten minutes in the car, they have been following the main suspect of an investigation they have been working on for the last two weeks. He couldn’t even look at her because she had committed a mistake, she had endangered her life and the worst thing is that she would do it again.

The truth was that he was enraged with her and himself because she was seriously thinking about moving to Washington with Marcus Pike.

But he wouldn’t admit it out loud.

‘Really, Jane?, she asked looking at him with a mixture of anger, disappointment and sadness in her emerald eyes. Those eyes could send him straight to Hell and back to Heaven in a matter of seconds.

‘And tell me, Teresa,  what does your agent Pike think about that little stunt you did? Throwing yourself in front of a fucking BULLET?’, he asked her almost shouting.

She drove faster, making the car shifted dangerously, but neither of them care.

‘It’s my job, he understands it better than you do’, she said as she tried to control the car, focusing on the task in hand.

‘And I don’t, do I? May I remind you that I have been your partner for more than 12 years?’, he asked her angrily, almost spitting the words.

‘You remember that when it suits you, Jane’, she answered him coldly.

And he knew the conversation was over.

He closed his eyes, he has committed many mistakes, he had broken her trust in the past but one thing was certain, he would never put her in any danger, he would always put her safety in the first place.

Why couldn’t she see that?

Why couldn’t she see that if she dies, his life would be over too?

‘Eh.. guys… it’s just.. a few miles from here’, whispered the shy voice of Wylie.

Lisbon and him growled in response, both of him had obviously forgotten about the presence of the young agent in the car.

 “And I can barely look at you

But every single time I do

I know we'll make it anywhere

Away from here “

 He moved fast to her, just as they left the car, he took her arm pushing her against the car.

‘Forgive me if I have done anything to upset you, but the only thing I care about is your safety, you know that’, he told her as she looked around nervously, uncomfortable with their interaction. Anyone could see them, but everyone was too concentrated on the mission.

‘Jane..’, she whispered looking at him straight in the eye.

‘Guys, it’s time’, shouted the voice of Abbot as he started to give orders to everyone.

Lisbon moved away from him, her mind already focused on the task in hand, her body tense, her soul clearly debating between staying along him to continue their argument or going to do her job.

He looked down, defeated, letting go of her arm.

But she surprised him, taking hold of his hand, touching him willingly for the first time in weeks.

‘I’ll be careful and  promise me you won’t do anything stupid’, she muttered to him with her teary eyes.

She ran away then, gun in hand, before he could had time to answer her.

 “Light up, light up As if you have a choice Even if you cannot hear my voice I'll be right beside you dear”

 ‘WHERE. IS. SHE?’, he growled at Pike who was trembling.

‘I couldn’t bring her, she stayed back with one of the other agents who have been trapped by the ceiling failing on us and then, I just… I lost sight of her’, cried the man as he fell down, defeated.

Abbot caught the man while Cho looked at him in shock.

‘You let her there alone??? You abandoned her???’, growled Jane as he threw a punch to the man.

Mercifully, Cho hold him back, while Pike continued crying.

The four men looked at the building which looked as if it was going to collapse at any moment.

Then, it happened.

An explosion that hit them so hard it sent them to the ground, the building now was being devoured by the flames with rage.

‘TERESA!!!’, he roared with all the strength in his body.

He tried to get up, failing, a force preventing him from running to the collapsing building. Cho was attempting to stop him but he hit him with his head hard, sending him to the ground once more. Then, he felt as Cho and other two men tried to stop him again.

But he hit them hard with a force he never knew he possessed.

And then, he ran.

He ran to her.

 “Louder, louder And we'll run for our lives I can hardly speak I understand Why you can't raise your voice to say”

 He found her as soon as he entered the building, she probably had almost managed to escape the building, the explosion surprising her and sending her against one of the walls.

She laid there, unconscious, still as a battered doll, surrounded by smoke and flames.

He felt to his knees, touching her cheeks, begging her to wake up.

At her lack of response and the sound of the building starting to crumble around them, he took her in his arms, coughing hard and he moved to leave the place. Thankfully, he found a broken window close to the main gate, jumping in it, just as a flame threw them outside with force.

He hit the ground hard, but managed to take her in his arms once more, his strength was his love for her. He needed to keep her safe at all costs.

He moved her to a safe place, carefully putting her on the ground, falling to his knees once more. He caressed with his trembling hands her reddened cheeks, her messy hair full of ashes.

‘Teresa, please, wake up’, he begged her as he shake her once more.

‘Teresa’, he repeated as he started to cry, his tears damping her ivory face.

 “To think I might not see those eyes It makes it so hard not to cry And as we say our long goodbyes I nearly do”

 He heard the sirens surrounding him, he heard his team screaming for help, he even distinguished Abbot voice asking him to move away so they could both be taken care of. But hell, he couldn’t.

All he could see what that she wasn’t moving.

She was as still as a statue.

And then, he begged, crying, almost howling.

‘Please, please, please’, he muttered shakily as he felt Cho kneeling next to them, carefully touching her head. The agent was in tears, the man too shocked to see his dear former boss in that state, terrified at the idea of her being dead. He continued begging her to wake up, praying to the God she believes in,  that for fuck’s sake, she needed to live. Please., ‘ Please, I beg you.. don’t take her away from me. Not her. Please, oh God, not her… I love you, I love, you… please love, come back to me… you’re my everything’

“Have heart my dear

We're bound to be afraid

Even if it's just for a few days

Making up for all this mess”

 Abbot looked in defeat as his team broke down in front of him, feeling utterly in despair, he had failed one agent, and by failing one, he had let down his whole team. He looked at Marcus Pike, petrified at the sight in front of them. He looked at Wylie who was crying openly now.

He moved to Jane and Cho, both men trying without any luck to revive Lisbon.

Cho, the ever stoic agent, was shattered.

The man could not stop looking at her, muttering something to himself.

And Jane,

God,

Jane.

It looked as if he had lost it completely, rocking her, bathing her with his tears.

‘Please, sweetheart, come back to me. I can’t live without you, I can’t… ‘, begged the man.

Their consultant broke down, putting his head against her chest, crying openly.

And then, a miracle happened.

Lisbon started to cough, sending Jane to the ground, who looked as if he had just seen a ghost.

 “Light up, light up

As if you have a choice

Even if you cannot hear my voice

I'll be right beside you dear”

 He had never heard a sound more beautiful, had never seen a sight like that.

His heart had stopped beating the moment he had realised she would never say a word to him, the moment he realised she would never throw at him one of those radiant smiles again.

His heart had stopped beating along hers.

And then, she started to breath.

She lived, and he started to live with her again, breathing with her.

As if they were one,

Because the truth was that they were one.

Two bodies, one soul.

 ‘Jane’, she whispered with her broken voice, not seeing anything else, just him.

‘Teresa’, he breathed.

He heard the paramedics rushing to them as the team shouted at everyone for help.

‘Hi’, she whispered, ‘I saw you… You saved me from the dark’

‘I promised you, I’m always gonna save you, love’, he answered her as she fell into oblivion, safely kept in his arms.

Neither of them noticed Marcus Pike leaving the place, relieved at her being alive but defeated, realising now he never stood a chance.

Neither of them noticed Dennis Abbot breaking down into tears, falling to the floor, thanking God for this miracle.

Neither of them noticed Cho, laughing as he had never laughed, relieved and happy to see that his dearest friends, his family was safe.

The world around them disappeared.

It was just the two of them.

                                                    15 months  later

 ‘Tessa? Where are you?’, asked Patrick Jane as he looked for his wife.

He found her in their front yard, dressed in a yellow, long dress mimicking the colour of their yellow house, as she  danced slowly at the rhythm of a song in her head.

And in her arms, their most precious treasure, their one month old baby.

Lizzie Jane.

He breathed into the air, closing his eyes, smiling at the heavenly feeling of their new lives.

‘Come, Jane’, she shouted at him, her eyes shining under the light of the sun, ‘ She’s smiling, come quick, look how precious she is’

He moved closely to them, holding his wife from behind, looking at his treasures.

‘How precious you both are’, he stated as they enjoyed the peace of a summer morning in their home.

    The song used in this fic is “Run “ by Snow Patrol.

[cyclicallife]

Cancer is a sort of middle-ground between that which was and that which will eventually be. This middle ground is unstable, it is forever shifting and changing — often on a daily basis. As unstable as it is, it also acts as an anchor. With a diagnosis and subsequent treatment, with life revolving around clinics and tests, trying to grapple with the “new normal” post cancer as well as the shift in perspective of life when the dust settles, patients seek the refuge of this ground.

This middle-ground, however, cannot hold, nor is meant to.

To acknowledge that one is in remission is to become aware that the steps, however frightening, must be taken to move away from the middle-ground, to step forward. I have kept myself there, in this gray area.

I can stay here forever. There is safety here. I’ll live here. I’ll build a life here.

This middle-ground, however, cannot hold, nor is meant to.

As horrifying as they were the circumstances in France rattled parts of me, they forced me to bear witness to the events that had taken place over the years. I was unprepared to handle the deluge of emotions that came from observing this. The events snapped me into such intense awareness of all that had come to pass, each and every brutal moment of my journey. The emotional scars became apparent. The physical scars radiated and I could not look away from either, or turn my attention elsewhere. My emotional being couldn’t hold out any longer; I was shedding layers and the feeling of emotional nudity was unbearable. I was losing the self I had been constructing, who was Jeremiah now? This identity was slipping, try as I might I couldn’t hold it. Everything came to a grinding halt, I was literally and figuratively unable to take another step. During active treatment, brain surgery had to take place, there was no question at all about the procedure. When everything started to rise to the surface, when the layers were dropping away, the physical and psychological acknowledgment of this particular scar was the trigger that sent me into a tailspin. 

I have been able to meditate on some of the imagery and hallucinations experienced during my breakdown. There are some images that, until now, have remained mysterious or so tangled in metaphor that I couldn’t decipher them. One in particular was the gesture of pulling a hair like substance from my chest. This unnerved me and I wasn’t ready to interpret it. I had been building an identity around cancer; it engulfed my entire life for so long, I took on that persona, that of a patient. ‘I have cancer’, I’d say to myself, or I speak about it as though it was current, that I still had it, that I was still in the place of treatment. Neither is true. This gesture of pulling this substance from my chest is so clear to me now, so obvious. I was trying to extract this identity, this version of myself that has since passed. The transient persona that I had outgrown yet was fiercely holding onto. From within me, from my core, I was trying to haul this out, to unburden myself of it. Not to rid myself of the memories, good or bad, nor the lessons learned, as there are numerous — a lifetime’s worth! I was trying to purge myself of all that which didn’t serve me, that which is holding me back from stepping off the crumbling middle-ground.

I had to return to France, Golinhac was calling me. All of this came about there; all that which was dormant within me rose fully to my attention — glaringly so! In returning I would leave the remanence of this deteriorating middle ground, leave the persona that I had been meticulously crafting. I’d keep the new awareness and lessons from the incidences experienced there, and feel a sense of certainty in stepping away.

I put a ticket on my chargecard and began packing. Just a few weeks after I left France a complete emotional and psychological mess, I was going back.

Everyone expressed their concerns. They were worried that I was still very vulnerable and returning so soon, in a fragile emotional and psychological state, would be very unwise. Why, after such a short period of time, would I want to return to the site of my breakdown? To the place where, just a few weeks ago, I was admitted to the emergency room after being found screaming and howling in the middle of a footpath just outside of Golinhac. These questions starting building in my mind, too. Why would I want to do this? The entire way to Boston, which on the bus feels like an eternity, I was wondering what on earth I was doing. What was I hoping for? I didn’t know the answer to anything. Even on my layover in Lisbon I was still wondering and questioning everything.

I admitted to a dear friend who has been an incredible support this entire time and someone I feel safe confiding in,

“I don’t know what I’m searching for.”

“I don’t either,” she replied.

This is the uncertainty that keeps a cancer survivor remaining on the middle-ground. Not only the uncertainty of life, as explained, but that of oneself, the question of who one is — who is this Jeremiah? How has he arrived here?

I don’t need an identity here. I can stay here forever. There is safety here. I’ll live here. I’ll build a life here.

This middle-ground, however, cannot hold, nor is meant to.

I walked east out of Golinhac with ever increasing anxiety. A few times I had to stop and gather myself in order to go on. At one point I even considered returning home admitting that it was far too soon for such an undertaking. But I was still being drawn onward and slowed my pace considerably, taking deep, slow breaths with each step. I stopped at a certain point, put down my pack and started emulating the gesture of pulling the hair substance from my chest. Gently, slowly, without the frantic haste of my hallucination, I mimicked the action; one hand then the other in a rhythmic fashion as though softly pulling one long, continuous thread from my chest. The action became ritualized in its repetition, its fluidity, its symbolism, and brought a deep sense of peace. I envisioned dismantling the persona that had been constructed around cancer, the identity that no longer served me. Bit by bit, as if pulling a single thread that unweaves a tapestry, I unraveled an identity. I simultaneously entwined a new Jeremiah; no longer the patient, yet holding the memories and lessons -- the same thread yet a different weave pattern. 

I stood still amongst the silence of the location and continued taking long, slow breaths. Dusk arrived and with it a chill. I retrieved my pack and walked westward back towards Golinhac.  

The peace I felt there has remained. Returning to France, which consisted only of four full days, left me feeling as though I had undergone years of psychotherapy. It isn’t so much that I am thankful for the breakdown itself, as it was terrifying, rather, that I am thankful for that which it revealed to me and the metamorphic shifts that have since followed. 

This is not to say that I have stepped entirely forth from the teetering middle-ground, but I do have one foot firmly planted on the other side.

I can build an identity here, one that is linked to (the) cancer via memories and life lessons and not one that is torn between two worlds, two worlds that ultimately hinder the desperately needed stability required for reconstruction.

[leafenclaw]

That OTP ask thig! Jane and Lisbon- 6 Jamie and Sherlock- 15. X3

(-meme-) Hey! ^^ Didn’t expect this question to pop up, hehe. Let’s see…

6. Who would run into a burning building to save a stranger while the other calls 911.

LOL. Okay so this is actually quite funny because I expect the situation would be somewhat similar with both of those ships, with one key difference between them. But for Jane and Lisbon, it would go like this:

- Jane and Lisbon are going to interrogate a suspect. When they get there, the house is on fire.- Jane notices their suspect in the living room behind the closed window, realises what is going to happen, and freezes in horror for a very short moment.- At the very same time, Lisbon immediately takes out her phone to call emergency services.- The suspect screams, Lisbon finally notices them and realises by the time emergency services get here they’ll die. She tosses her phone at Jane, tells him to call 911, and runs right into the building.- Jane calls 911 while running after Lisbon, screaming and trying to prevent her from going into the house.- Lisbon is fearless and doesn’t hesitate going in. Jane isn’t fearless and recoils when he feels the heat of the fire on his skin. In the second it takes for him to control himself, Lisbon is inside and out of sight.- Jane runs inside the house after Lisbon, trying to find her, but there’s smoke everywhere and he gets lost.- Meanwhile Lisbon finds the suspect and pulls them along to the exit. They’re singed a little but aside from missing eyebrows and a cough, they’re fine.- Lisbon realises Jane isn’t anywhere and goes back in to find him. Meanwhile, emergency services arrive.- Lisbon follows the sounds of coughing and finds Jane crouching on the ground, trying to call for her and unable to get a sound out because his lungs are filled with smoke.- Lisbon wants to pull Jane out of the house but at this point she’s starting to have trouble breathing, and she gets dizzy with lack of oxygen.- The emergency services end up pulling them both out and treating them for smoke inhalation.- Killer or not, that suspect is going to be very sorry. x)

Bonus => with Sherlock and Jamie, the key difference would reside in the fact that Jamie probably wouldn’t even bother with the emergency services the moment she realises Sherlock is running into the fire, and from that point on Sherlock would have to physically fight her every step of the way while she screams creative insults in his face and tries to pull him out. And at some point when they’re inside Jamie would probably take the lead just to get Sherlock out more quickly, but Sherlock wouldn’t let her because he doesn’t trust her intent so they would keep fighting and lose a lot of time there, until emergency services get them all out (because the neighbours called even after Jamie didn’t). Otherwise same outcome, and I suspect Sherlock will be just as sorry as the suspect because Jamie is definitely going to make him pay as well. XD

15. Who would fight an impossible battle to give the other time to escape. 

Asdfghjkllkjhgf this is the hardest possible question and I sort of want to say… both of them? Except, it would have to be a spur of the moment thing because if asked, Jamie would definitely say she’d save herself first (but considering how she stays in jail for four whole-ass years just to be able to trade letters with him, I think canon established -repeatedly- she doesn’t really have her own best interests at heart where he’s concerned lol). And of course, unless Watson pulls Sherlock out of there herself, they’re probably both going to die together trying to get each other to escape. So, yeah. (Why would you ask that sort of question T_T)

(But also, to be fair, Jamie and Sherlock would probably find a way to out-smart whatever is getting in their way if they stay there together because who better to defeat the impossible than Sherlock Holmes and Jamie Moriarty? Getting them to work together is more likely to be the impossible thing. XD)

Bonus => uhm, Jane and Lisbon, exact same scenario. Except considering there’s two whole teams to pull them out of there, neither are going to die because nobody would let Lisbon die ever, they’d all sacrifice themselves first, and they’re also way too used to saving Jane’s ass by now. XD

[asoulofstars]

Familiarity (S5)

Here we have Riona and the CBI confronting the man who killed Riona’s little brother, Soll, back when Riona was 12 and Soll was 8. This case had been cold for 20+ years, and Jane made a promise to Riona that he would help her find closure. Neither of them expected it to be like this.

Massive trigger warnings for torture, death, knife injuries, mutilation, car accident, broken bones, etc. While I don’t actually go into detail of any of the events besides the death, all the other stuff is mentioned and the results of such things are observed.

Switches back and forth between Riona’s POV and Jane’s POV. Takes place between 5x04 and 5x06. This fanfic is almost 8,000 words, so please enjoy.

Spoilers for the Season 4 finale and pieces of early Season 5 are present.

Break

           “Riona! Are you at home or at CBI?” Jane said into the phone.

           “Home. I was sleeping. Jane, what time is it?” she asked, yawning.

           “Does it matter, Riona? I have a name!” he replied. “I know who killed Soll!”

           Riona sat bolt upright. “What?” Her heart pounded against her ribcage, and she nearly dropped her phone.

           Freyja meowed loudly at her as she threw the blankets aside and stumbled to her closet, putting on the first things she touched. Her wardrobe was fairly consistent, though, so it didn’t really matter what she grabbed.

           “I’ll be at your place in five minutes. We’ll discuss more in person,” Jane told her.

           “Okay. Okay, good. Patrick, thank you.” Riona nearly choked as it all overwhelmed her.

           “Who better to assist than a man who’s been obsessed with his own serial killer for a decade?” He chuckled. “I’ll honk when I’m here.”

           “Don’t bother; I’ll be in the driveway.” Riona hung up her phone, put on her coat, grabbed her purse, and headed out, locking up the door.

           She had never been so happy when his Citroen pulled up into the drive, and she jumped into the passenger side. She looked at him, and he beamed.

           “Warren Andrews,” he said. “Those six months that I was off having my breakdown was not just about fooling Red John. I did a lot of digging into your case.”

           “You did?” Riona asked, turned towards him as much as the seatbelt allowed.

           “Well, I couldn’t exactly be digging into Red John while making him think that I’d given up. So, when I wasn’t drinking or borrowing money and running from loan sharks, I was researching. You’d be amazed at what you can find out at a blackjack table.” He grinned. “There are a lot of cops who are willing to talk about their work, especially to a man with a high rate of closed cases. They want new leads, and I was able to get information from a lot of different jurisdictions that wouldn’t have shared leads if it hadn’t been for me.”

           “How were you able to connect things?” Riona asked.

           “A knife wound that damages the hyoid and cervical vertebrae, boys 7-9, dark hair, cold cases. Predators are particular. Soll was lucky he cried out for you.” He put a hand on her knee.

           Riona wrapped her fingers up in his. She always assumed the worst. How could she not? Who else would kill an eight-year-old boy? He squeezed her hand tight.

           “Thank you,” she said.

           “Of course. I’ve got more information back at CBI. We can look at it together, narrow down his location. We can get the team together to figure everything out and bring him in.”

           He came to a stop at a four-way intersection, and then he made his way forward. Just as they moved through, a car smashed into the driver’s side of the Citroen. Riona heard Jane’s arm snap with the same echo as a gunshot. The airbags went off, and Riona screamed.

           “Ri, you okay?” Jane groaned.

           “Your arm. You need a hospital.” She pulled her phone out and dialed 911.

           Before she could say anything, she was yanked out of the car. She screamed, and she heard Jane yelling for her.

~*~

           Jane grabbed the phone that had clattered to the floor, and he groaned.

           “Sir, I heard yelling. What happened?” the dispatcher asked.

           “We were in a car accident. Riona…Riona was taken. My arm is broken.” He groaned again; his head hurt.

           He really needed to stop getting his head bashed around.

           “Sir, officers were dispatched when I didn’t get a response. They’ll be there soon.”

           “Okay. Okay. I…I think I’m going to pass out.” Jane leaned against the seat, and his eyes closed.

~*~

           He woke up with Lisbon beside him. He swallowed hard, and he turned his head.

           “Where’s Riona?” he asked.

           “We don’t know,” she replied. “Van Pelt’s trying to get security footage—traffic cams…anything—to see what car took her and where they went.”

           “It has to do with the man who killed her brother. His name is Warren Andrews. I did a lot of digging into him when I was pretending to have a breakdown. And I found him, Lisbon. And I finally got his name, and I went to pick her up, and he must have found us. You know I’m good at picking up a tail. You know how careful I am. But he found us. He found her. And, Lisbon, he’s going to hurt her.”

           “We’ll find her. I promise, Jane.” Lisbon took his hand. “But you have to do as the doctor says. Your arm and a couple ribs are broken, and you have a concussion.”

           “Lisbon, let me come back to CBI with you. I can’t just sit in here. I have to help.” He didn’t want to pull out words like please or using her first name, but he would if he had to. He wasn’t one to beg, but Andrews found her because of him.

           “If your doctor says that you can leave, I’ll let you come back with me,” she said. “Otherwise, I’ll have Van Pelt come here with a laptop so that she can keep you in the loop while you rest.”

           “I want out, Lisbon. I can’t stay here. I can’t think in a hospital room.” He pushed himself upright with his right arm.

           “I’ll talk to the doctor,” she said. “Don’t move.”

           “Okay.” He tried to breathe slowly, feeling his ribs stab at him.

           He knew that he was pushing it with trying to get out of the hospital. He was surprised Lisbon hadn’t tried to order an MRI for him with as many times as he’d been concussed now. But he also knew that he would be of no use in a sterile, bright room with only his thoughts for company. Even if Grace came to sit with him, he’d go insane staying in the hospital.

           “Mr. Jane, Agent Lisbon has asked that we release you.” His doctor stood with hands on her hips.

           “I would appreciate that,” he replied. “I have things to do that I can’t do in a place like this. The walls are closing in on me. I will not do anything strenuous. I will take it easy. I promise. I just can’t stay here.”

           “Alright, Mr. Jane. But if you have any problems at all, you have to come back immediately.”

           “I promise. Thank you. Lisbon, can I have a moment to change?”

           “Yes. I’ll be right outside.” She gave him a pointed look that told him not to do anything stupid.

           As if he could do anything. His left arm was in a cast and a sling; his ribs were taped and moving at all hurt. But he couldn’t stay in the hospital. He had to be with the team, figuring things out. And he would be able to help them make sense of his research a whole lot better and faster in person.

~*~

           “What have you got?” Lisbon asked as they walked in.

           Jane was proud of himself for staying upright without Lisbon’s assistance, and he waved off Grace’s concern when her eyes widened in response to his arm. He moved to his couch, waiting with bated breath to hear what her security camera search had given them.

           “Not a lot. It’s a dark van, tinted windows, no plates. It starts off heading back towards Riona’s house, and then it vanishes.”

           “Okay. Grace, upstairs in my loft, there’s a box under my bed. It just says SG on it; it’s not an evidence box as it’s not an official CBI case. Until now.” He gestured to his arm. “I would grab it, but.”

           “No, I got it. You need to rest. You shouldn’t even be here.” She eyed him pointedly.

           Sometimes the concern that radiated from Grace, the way that she looked at him, how she felt the need to protect him…all of it made him forget that he was at least ten years older than her. She cared, and it was a trait he admired her for. It was part of what made it easy to accept her, when it had taken him a while to warm up to others on the team.

           “She’s family,” he said quietly.

           He’d tried to deny it for so long. But somewhere in the years since he started at CBI, between late night discussions over tea and companionable silence while she worked in the morgue (and he had nothing better to do and was there anyways), things had turned into her inviting him to her place so that he could get some real sleep. She swore up and down he was magic when all he had to do was kneel down to Freyja before the cat purred at him and climbed into his arms. Even though he had weird dreams because the cat was at least twenty pounds and enjoyed sleeping on his chest, he always did sleep the best when he was over at her place. Even though she was optimistic and genuine where he was skeptical, cynical, and distant, she understood him in a way that no one else had ever been able to. Losing someone you love to a serial killer changed you as a person, and she knew that. She accepted that his methods were how he had to find his closure, to find his own sense of peace for Angela and Charlotte, and she refrained from judging him for his relentless hunt for Red John. Because she’d been quietly doing the same for years, just trying to find a name. He remembered the first time she told him about Soll, after she’d done Rebecca’s autopsy, and he was stunned. It had been clear as day to him that she faced tragedy when she was young, that she’d been abused, but he never realized how she actually did know all that time what he was going through. He asked why she kept it to herself, and she told him that he didn’t need to think about her closure on top of his. But what was the point of working at CBI and working on cases that weren’t Red John if he couldn’t help people like her? And if Warren Andrews killed her, if he wasn’t fast enough to save her, then it would all be for nothing.

           “I have to be here,” he said simply.

           Grace nodded, and he knew that she understood the way his chest felt like it was collapsing—and not just because he couldn’t take a full breath with his broken ribs. He could see the way that Grace’s fingers shook as she moved them over her keyboard, the way she stared at the screen for so long and only blinked when he assumed the information blurred together in an effort to keep herself from crying. Riona wasn’t even officially a part of this unit, this team, but she was a constant, a pulse for CBI.

           “Can I help?” Grace asked, voice cracking, as she set the box by his feet.

           “By all means,” he replied.

           He watched as she dutifully sorted his notes and files, and how the rest of the team slowly came and joined her on the floor. Every so often, someone would get up to make a coffee run for the group, and Grace brought him some of his tea. He kept staring at the piles, hoping his brain would make some connection. The man had to be local; it had to be somewhere private. Moving back towards Riona’s house had to be a misdirect.

           He swallowed hard. “Can you spread a map out?”

           “Yeah.” Grace pulled out their Sacramento map.

Jane pointed to Riona’s street. “Here’s her house.” He found the intersection. “That’s where the crash happened.”

Grace marked the two points. Jane started scanning the map, trying to find the best way to where backtracking towards Riona’s house would then redirect to a location. He scanned the map, and he found CBI. He tapped his finger on it, and Grace put down another mark.

“What is it?” she asked.

“I’m trying to figure out if he followed me, or if he was watching her.” Jane sighed and rubbed his eyes. “He had to be watching her; I just got there before he made his move. But that still doesn’t tell me if his location is closer to her house or closer to CBI; I don’t know if he was backtracking to throw us off his trail or if his location is actually in that direction. He knew we were heading back to CBI; he had to have followed her route between the two places, and I didn’t pick up a tail, because he already knew how to use side streets to get to that intersection at the same time as us.” He stared at the map again. “Let me just….” He trailed off, gesturing to the map with his good hand.

Grace put a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll get her back.”

He reached up and squeezed her hand. He flashed her a small smile, and he tried to lend her some of the comfort she was also trying to give him. Just because he was guilty didn’t mean he was the only one who cared about Riona or wanted her back. But he was now left with more questions than answers. If Andrews wasn’t tracking him to get to Riona, how did he know that they were close? His hand drifted to his pocket.

“Can someone drive me to Riona’s? I need to figure out how he knew she was there.” He looked around.

“Van Pelt, go with him,” Lisbon said. “Rigsby, Cho, keep looking into Warren Andrews and any known associates. Jane, is this all your research into the case?” She gestured to the box and piles now sorted over the floor.

Jane nodded.

“Good. I’ll go through this some more and see what I can get from the police you have reports from. Senior Special Agent will help with cooperation.”

Jane watched her eyes as she let out a slow breath through her nose. She was worried, and he didn’t like it when she worried.

“Be careful, and don’t give Van Pelt any trouble,” she warned.

“I promise,” he replied and turned to Grace. “After you.”

She wrapped her arm around his good one, and he couldn’t help the small smile that formed in response. He pressed into her, knowing that they both needed the contact. He took a breath and swallowed hard, and he let her lead the way to the car.

The ride there was quiet, and Jane watched Grace. She kept fidgeting with her fingers, and Jane watched as she focused on her right ring finger. The finger that Riona wore her Claddagh Ring on.

“How long have you had feelings for Riona?” he asked quietly.

“For years.” She shifted. “It took a long time to come to terms with it. My family was fairly conservative growing up. So it took a long time to accept that my feelings for her were more than platonic.” She swallowed. “I’ve looked at other women before, but I never gave it much thought. Looking at people is human nature, and to me looking doesn’t really mean anything. But having feelings means a lot. And, well, I know you don’t have romantic feelings for her, but there’s just something about Riona that makes it impossible to not have feelings of some kind for her.”

Jane nodded. “I know.”

“It was that day you took us both out to the racetrack. Craig and I had just started dating, and I didn’t know how to handle it, so I threw myself into my relationship with him. And we both know how that turned out.” She let out a deep breath. “Do I really have that bad of luck with my relationships?”

Jane shifted his jaw back and forth, thinking on all of Grace’s relationships since he’d met her. Dan, the sociopath who tried to kill them. Rigsby, who he wasn’t sure would ever get over Grace. Craig, who was working for Red John and she had to shoot and kill. And then there were her—what she thought were unrequited—feelings for Riona. And Jane knew that they were anything but; he’d been teasing Riona about her feelings for Grace when Grace was dating Rigsby.

“You can say it,” she said.

“Well, I can’t include Riona in anything. You two will need to talk yourselves when we get her back.” He needed to be confident. If they lost her, it would be one more death on his hands, and one more serial killer he would have to hunt down.

“Thanks,” she replied.

Jane wanted to say more, but it was hard enough to focus on the current task. They pulled into Riona’s driveway, and Jane unlocked the door with his tool he kept in his pocket. He heard a loud mreow, and then Freyja was on her hind legs, paws at his hips.

“Hey, Pretty Kitty. I can’t really pick you up.” He gestured to his left arm.

She huffed at him, and she went over to Grace, winding her way around Grace’s legs. Jane watched as Grace knelt down and ran her fingers through Freyja’s fur.

“We should bring her back to CBI with us,” she said. “She’ll be upset and lonely.”

“Yeah,” Jane agreed. “She can stay in my loft.”

Jane looked around the house, watching the windows, the doors, the way the cat moved. He looked at the cat again. No, Freyja wasn’t allowed outside except when Riona was out, and Freyja was too loyal to stray from Riona’s side. Plus, Riona had gotten someone to build her a beautiful inside…kingdom…was the best way to describe it. Freyja was a spoiled cat. She got the stimulation that she needed without spending too much time outside. That cat never left Riona’s side. Freyja wasn’t the way in.

The windows and doors were all secure, besides the front door that he picked the lock on. No other signs of forced entry were present, and he couldn’t find any signs of cameras. Grace pulled out a laptop, and he watched as she did her own bug sweep. She shook her head, and he nodded.

“He’s old fashioned, personal. We need to check the yard, check her garden, see where he could have been watching her from.” Jane went to the back of the house, heading out the slider into her backyard.

Jane walked the garden, smiling at Riona’s flowers. Morning glories, galaxy petunias, roses; all of them had multiple colors. She had a vegetable garden and some berry bushes. He walked around, noting Riona’s footsteps in the dirt. The marks from her knees when she pressed into the dirt. He walked the property line. She had a bunch of trees lining her property, and he swallowed hard.

“What is it?” Grace asked, putting her hand on his arm.

“The trees. She’s got a fence line; the trees block the view of the fence in the back, so he could hop it without being noticed. Hiding in the trees, he learned everything he needed to about her patterns. She doesn’t have the same instinct to look for a tail, and he’s smart enough to not be following right behind her in some big truck like creepy guys, so he didn’t trigger that instinct that women have.” Jane pushed into the tree line. “Yep. Look at all these footprints.”

“So how did he know you were close? Why take her now?” Grace asked.

“I think he was always planning on taking her,” Jane replied. “She’s been digging. She went into law enforcement. That’s why he didn’t just kill me. He didn’t know I was involved. I just happened to be driving Riona the night he finally wanted to make his move, so he had to go through me.”

Grace nodded. “Okay, so where does that leave us?”

“That leaves us knowing that this is all about her. So, get me back to CBI, and I can really focus on the map.”

Grace wrapped her arm around his and leaned into him as they moved back inside. Freyja meowed at them, and Grace released his arm to pick up the cat.

“You want to go for a ride?” she asked. “Come on, Pretty Kitty. We’ll go play at CBI until Riona comes home.”

Grace let him get in the car first, and then she put Freyja in his lap. Freyja purred loudly at him and nuzzled his chest. Jane ran his fingers through the cat’s long fur, trying to let her warmth calm him and help him focus on the problem at hand.

~*~

           When they got back, Jane watched Grace carry Freyja into the CBI office, and he settled back into his spot on the couch, and he accepted Freyja from Grace. The cat rubbed on him.

           “Jane, why do you have a cat?” Lisbon asked.

           “We couldn’t leave her there,” Grace replied before he could. “And she loves Jane, so he’ll look after her until we get Riona.”

           “And I live here, so here she is,” Jane continued, stroking her fur. “This is Freyja. She’s going to help me focus.”

           He pulled the map close to him as Lisbon held out a hand to Freyja. Freyja meowed at her, sniffed, and put her head closer to Lisbon’s hand. Jane smiled slightly as Lisbon ran her fingers through the cat’s fur. He groaned slightly as Freyja pushed off of him, but he couldn’t be mad as she trotted after Lisbon. Freyja seemed to realize, even without Riona here, that these were Riona’s people, and thus they were now her people.

           “What does it being personal do for narrowing down the location?” Grace asked.

           “It means that he’s going to stay close to Riona. This is about her. He wants his location to be close. No serial killer who is this determined and watches victims’ families for years is going to want to spend a lot of time traveling. You said that it was a black van, dark windows, no license plate. Which means that the neighborhood has to be private, probably an isolated house, big house.” Jane stared at the map. “Wait. Wait. A boat. The marina’s perfect. Even if he has someone with him, he could easily slip in and out. He’s been doing this for years.”

           “Good, Jane!” Lisbon said. “But we can’t get a search warrant for the entire marina.”

           “Not for the individual boats, but if we can get access to surveillance photos of the marina, we can do a profile of the boats, and we can figure out what one she is on.” Jane looked at Grace. “Can you get those photos?” he asked.

           “Sure, okay.” Grace sat down at her computer and started typing.

~*~

           Riona’s arms were spread straight out, old fashioned restraints used to keep her down. Her legs were secured, too, not that it mattered since he seemed to exclusively stand behind her as he was working. She was bleeding, exhausted, and she was barely holding on. Her left shoulder was in agony. She knew the knife he used was going to do lots of damage, but she really didn’t expect it to feel like this.

           “Getting sleepy?” he asked.

           “As if I could sleep with my shoulder,” she replied through gritted teeth.

           “An unfortunate outcome, but you are right hand dominant, are you not? I could have done worse.” He twirled a knife around his fingers. “Who was that man who was with you in the car?”

           Riona scoffed. “You’ve been stalking me. You knew where we were going, otherwise you wouldn’t have been able to cut us off like that. You know who he is.”

           “I know he’s a coworker of yours. But he isn’t a usual coworker, is he?”

           “Oh, there’s nothing about him that’s usual,” Riona replied. “But why do you care?”

           “Because you care about him. None of the rest of your coworkers come over like he does.” He stopped twirling his knife and rubbed his thumb along the flat side of the blade.

           “The rest of my coworkers also actually sleep in their own beds,” Riona replied. “I feel better when he doesn’t sleep at CBI, even if he chooses my couch.”

She had a spare bedroom at her house, and she told him to use the bed, but he always ended up on the couch. But she’d learned to make his tea, so when she came downstairs in the mornings and found Freyja on his chest, she started a kettle of water on the stove, and she would wake him up. He’d spent the night only a couple times recently, having grown more reclusive over recent months. She knew he was afraid of showing Red John any kind of relationships and connections that he had with people, especially now that they had Lorelei.

“So, he’s just a coworker, then? Sleeping on the couch.” He toyed with the tip of the blade against his fingertips.

“If you’ve been stalking me, you know who he is, and I don’t feel the need to discuss his life.” Riona would have shrugged if she could, but even if her arms weren’t bound, she would not be able to do it.

“Do you not have anyone in your life, Riona? No romantic relationships?” He was rubbing the side of the blade again.

“Nope,” Riona replied. “What can I say? I’m a workaholic.” She turned her head from side to side, trying to find something to help cut through her restraints, not that it would help while he was watching her so closely.

“And why is that?” he asked. His eyes bore into hers.

“Maybe because someone decided to murder my little brother, and I never got any closure for it, so I work tirelessly to make sure that other people don’t have to live not knowing!” Riona strained against the restraints, and then immediately collapsed against the table as her left shoulder gave out. She saw a flash of white against her eyes with the searing pain, and then she was unconscious.

~*~

           “I think I’ve got her,” Jane said. “But how do we find the boat?”

           He’d been pouring over the satellite photos from Grace for what felt like an eternity, looking at boats that had been in port and now weren’t. Boats weren’t like planes, though. They didn’t have to file any sort of travel plans. As long as they stayed out of foreign waters, nothing mattered. And he had a sickening feeling that by the time that boat returned, it would be too late.

           “Well, it’s just him, right?” Grace asked. “He would have to anchor somewhere in order to do anything. I can see about getting satellite photos for the area. He wouldn’t have to go too far out to keep from attracting attention. It’ll just take a little bit, especially since it’s been dark.”

           “Okay, good. Do that.” Jane gestured at her. “We need to find her soon, because if he starts heading back, she’s dead.”

~*~

           When Riona came to, she was alone. She turned her head from side to side, and she noticed the tray of smaller knives and scalpels. On her right side. Her good side. She stretched as far as she could, and her fingers snagged the end of the tray. She pulled it, and the little table moved closer. It was enough for her to grab a scalpel to work on the restraints.

           She just finished her left restraint when she heard a noise, and she tucked the scalpel into her shirt, put her arms back under the now useless restraints, and gently pushed the tray back. She blinked slowly at him as he reemerged.

           “We heading back to the marina?” she asked.

           “Not yet,” he replied. “When did you learn you were on a boat?” he asked in return.

           “I can hear the water lapping. You couldn’t have expected me to be so quiet, so I imagine we’re actually out in the bay.”

           “You are very smart.” He grinned and waved his knife at her.

           Riona watched as he turned around. He just stood there, twirling his knife. Riona watched him throw it up in the air and catch it again. She pulled the scalpel out of her shirt, and she took a slow breath.

           “You know, your brother surprised me. He wasn’t squirmy. But he shouted for you, and I had to get away before I was seen. It was a quick death.”

           She clenched the scalpel in her right fist, knuckles white. “You claim you’re merciful for a quick death? Him and how many other boys with a knife wound so deep that it left marks on bone? That’s a quick death, but it’s painful.”

           “But it’s a satisfying death. Watching someone’s blood drain from their body. Watching their eyes. The light leaves faster than the blood. The color drains from their face; the light fades away; the blood waterfalls down. It’s a rush.”

           Tears welled up in Riona’s eyes for the first time since she’d been taken onto the boat, and in three strides, she was behind him, scalpel gliding over his throat.

~*~

           He was between Grace and Cho in the backseat, having practically begged Lisbon to go with. Coast Guard had located Warren Andrews’ boat, and they were waiting for CBI before boarding. They went out on the Coast Guard boat, and he found Grace’s hand with his good one. There had been no response to Coast Guard’s attempts to contact the boat, and he was preparing himself for the worst.

           “She’s gonna be okay,” Grace whispered.

           He watched her reach up to her cross necklace with her other hand while squeezing his tighter. He wondered what kind of prayer she was saying. Whatever it was, he hoped Grace’s God or Riona’s stars or something was there to answer it, because his gut was tightening the closer that they got.

           They found themselves on the boat, and he stayed back as the officers with guns went first. He hoped it wouldn’t come to a shootout. If it did, they would likely lose Riona in the process, if they hadn’t lost her already.

           But there was no response to them as they descended. When he caught sight of the scene in the lower part of Warren Andrews’ boat, he knew what happened immediately, and his breath caught in his throat. He rushed to Riona’s side faster than a man with broken ribs should move, and his fingers shook as he wrapped them around her wrist. Her pulse was strong, and he let out a slow breath that caught multiple times. He closed his eyes to hold back the tears that burned, and he took a few deep breaths to compose himself.

           “Riona!” Grace fell down next to him, and he felt her fingers over his.

           He moved his hand aside so that Grace could feel Riona’s pulse for herself, and he took Riona in. She would need surgery for her left shoulder; he could tell that she was going to be dealing with the effects of that wound for the rest of her life. Andrews carved it open like it was a Thanksgiving turkey. Both her tattoos on her forearms were dissected, pieces of skin carved out carefully. He remembered a memory that felt like a lifetime ago now, sitting with her in the morgue long after she’d finished Rebecca Anderson’s autopsy, where she rolled up her sleeves to show him the tattoos for the first time, and she just simply said What do you see? An offering for him to do what he does best, to read her.

           “Why isn’t she responding?” Grace asked. “Her eyes are open; her pulse is so strong.”

           “She killed a man, Grace. Her brain and heart couldn’t reconcile it, so her brain put her in a catatonic state to shut down the emotional trauma. I can hypnotize her, get her to sleep, so then she can get to the hospital and be taken care of, and she’ll wake up when her body’s ready to let her be conscious during her healing.” He looked around at Grace, Lisbon, Cho, and Rigsby, who all hovered much closer than the Coast Guard.

           “Do it,” Lisbon said.

           He took Riona’s right hand and started twisting her Claddagh ring around her finger. “Riona, feel your ring spin. Feel how it moves. A circle, endless, flowing, no right or wrong. It just is. Float with it. The hands represent friendship. Your friends are here. Me, Grace, Cho, Rigsby, Lisbon. We’re right here. The crown represents loyalty. We all fought so hard because it was you. The heart represents love. You’re family, Riona. You have all of our love. We’re all here. We always will be. Just like the circle. Always going. When I stop twisting your ring, you’re going to go to sleep. And when you wake up, you will never panic about what you experienced. You will be able to say what you want to say about it. You will be able to move through this without shutting down. You will still have the emotions that you would carry from this, but you will never feel so boxed in by them that you turn off. Because you know that infinity goes in both directions. Because you know that energy is never destroyed nor created. You didn’t take this man’s life; you just changed the form of energy he is. So, now, you’ll go to sleep, and when you wake up, you’ll be in the hospital, and you’ll be safe, and you’ll be able to heal.”

He kept his voice soft and measured and strong the whole time, even though he wanted to cry in relief. He stopped twisting her ring with the last word, and he watched her eyes slip shut. He squeezed her hand, and he then leaned into Grace. Grace put her arms around him and held him tight, watching as the Coast Guard got her set up for an immediate transfer to an ambulance when they got back to shore.

~*~

Jane was grateful for his ability to sleep on couches and also for the fact that Lisbon didn’t want him out in the field until he was mostly healed up. His ribs were more of a concern than his arm to her, mostly due to the amount of times he had to run away from a problem he caused. So, he’d made himself a spot in Riona’s hospital room, watching over her. She would wake up eventually, and he didn’t want her to be alone. He had gotten the doctors to let him keep Freyja with him, too, and the cat often just laid on the foot of Riona’s bed, watching the nurses and doctors, and occasionally jumping up on the couch with him for love. Grace had been half working out of the hospital, using a laptop to do the work Lisbon asked of her.

He found it funny that no one questioned why Grace was hovering as much as he was, waiting to see when Riona would wake up. It wasn’t like they even worked with Riona every case—or even every other. He’d bonded with Riona, because there were just so many late nights where the two of them were both there, and then when she finally told him about Soll and things clicked into place, but the rest of the team barely saw her.

But he knew that Grace stayed later than everyone else, especially after what happened with Craig. He knew that Riona had reached out to Grace, knew that Riona had gotten Grace to start gardening with her, knew that they were friends and not just colleagues in passing.

“How is she?” Grace asked, handing him a cup of tea and scratching Freya’s ears.

“The same. They’ve been lessening the drugs, so she should be waking up any day. They’re keeping her pain medication dosage pretty high, though. Her shoulder’s a mess.” He looked over his friend, bandages wrapped around both of her forearms, left arm in the worst looking contraption to keep her shoulder in place. “But you’ll be able to actually have that conversation you need to have.” He grinned at Grace.

“I don’t even know if she feels the same way,” Grace said. “It should wait until she’s further in recovery.”

Jane just chuckled. He wouldn’t reveal Riona’s secret—which he was amazed was still a secret, but that’s what happened when she didn’t work with them often. Riona was the easiest person to read; she didn’t have a subtle bone in her body, nor did she know how to lie. She was as clear as glass.

“Why are you laughing at me?” she asked.

Jane snorted. “I’m not laughing at you,” he replied. “I just think that it’s funny that you would want to wait. She very nearly died.” He took a sip of the tea. “Mmm. Thank you for this.”

           “You’re welcome,” she said, setting up her laptop. “I’m glad you’re staying with her.”

           “Me, too. I just don’t want her to be alone.” He looked at Riona again.

           She looked so small. It was disconcerting to him. She was a passionate woman, always full of life. Even the first time that he met her, when he’d been fresh out of the inpatient facility, she was just so vibrant.

           “How’d you convince the hospital staff to let you keep Freyja here?” Grace asked.

           “I clean up after her; Riona’s in her own room, and they’ll be sterilizing it when Riona leaves. Freyja isn’t one to wander. She guards Riona or lays with me. When the nurses or doctors come in, she stays out of the way and just watches. They agreed to try it for a day, and Freyja was a model cat, so she got to stay.”

           Grace reached out for the cat, who purred and put her head in Grace’s hand. He smiled as Grace scratched Freyja’s chin.

           “You know, it’s a good sign that Freyja likes you so much. It means that she accepts you as part of the family.” He took another sip of tea.

           “Oh, really?” Grace sat down beside him, and she pulled her laptop close.

           Freyja meowed, and the cat jumped up into Grace’s lap, settling against her. He grinned. The cat liked proving his points. He reached over with his good hand and rubbed the top of the cat’s head.

           “I just want her to wake up,” Grace said quietly.

           “I know,” he replied, leaning against her and resting his head on her shoulder.

~*~

           He was resting. He was in the chair beside Riona’s bed, leaning back, and he held her right hand in his own right hand. Only one more week in his sling, and then he’d be free of it. He opened his eyes when he felt her shift, when her fingers clasped his.

           “Riona?”

           “Mmm. Patrick Jane, is that you?” She blinked over and over again, words slurred and hoarse, voice scratchy.

           “Yeah,” he replied, laughing.

           “Mreow!” Freyja walked up the bed and nosed at Riona’s hand.

           “Kitty! Pretty Kitty!” Riona dropped his hand and cooed at Freyja.

           Freyja nuzzled Riona and purred loudly.

           “How about I get you some water?” he asked.

           Riona nodded, rubbing Freyja’s ears. He handed Riona a cup with a little straw and sat back down. She took little sips, and she smiled at him.

           “I love you,” she told him.

           He smiled. “I know you do.” He caught Grace’s red hair through the window, and he beamed. “But who do you love more?”

           “Grace!” she exclaimed. “Grace is passionate and dedicated and kind and warm and beautiful, and I love her so much! Is Grace coming? Do I get to see her? Oh, I hope that she’s coming. When she’s here, everything is just better.”

           He watched Grace turn bright red as she overheard Riona’s grand declarations, and he snickered. Yes, he was going to have fun with a heavily medicated Riona. He winked at Grace, and she just narrowed her eyes at him.

           “Riona, are you feeling okay?” she asked.

           “I’m great,” Riona replied. “So much better now that you’re here, Grace! Oh, you just light up the whole room. What day is it?”

           “It’s Tuesday. You’ve been in the hospital for two weeks,” he told her gently. “What do you remember?”

           “Oh, I remember all of it,” Riona said, waving her good hand around. “The boat, the knives, the death. There was a lot happening. I don’t like serial killers.”

           He and Grace both laughed, and he got up and offered his chair to Grace. Grace sat down beside Riona, and he settled on the couch.

           “They should make a constellation for you,” Riona said. “Croi de Grace. Something that emphasizes your heart.”

           “You’re sweet,” Grace replied.

           “It’s true,” Riona insisted. “You should be immortalized in the stars.”

           “Riona, you are truly something when drugged,” he told her.

           “Well, whatever they’re giving me is fantastic.” Riona giggled. “Patrick! Patrick, come here!”

           He moved over to her side and looked at her with a half-smile. “Yes, Riona?”

           “Thank you. You promised me a few years ago you’d help me get my closure for Soll. You did.”

           “You’re welcome.” He kissed her forehead. “I’m going to get some tea. Grace, you want anything?”

           “No, I’m fine,” she answered.

~*~

           It was another week after she first woke up, and Riona was decidedly less drugged. She didn’t really remember much of what happened. It was mostly a blur, just knowledge that Jane and Grace had been there most of the time, and that she had a very happy cat. She still wasn’t sure how Jane had conned the hospital staff into letting Freyja stay with her, but she was glad he did.

           Grace came in, and Riona smiled.

           “Hey,” Riona said. “Thanks for keeping me company.”

           Grace smiled at her. “Well, since Jane’s back in the field, I thought I could do some work from here. And, I…I wanted to talk to you.”

           “What about?” Riona asked. “Did I say something really embarrassing?” She wracked her brain, trying to remember what she could have said, but the last week was so disorienting to her.

           “Um, it’s only embarrassing for me if you didn’t mean it,” Grace replied.

           Riona’s eyes widened as she vaguely recalled Jane asking who she loved more than him. Heat burned her face.

           “You remember?” Grace asked softly.

           “Very vaguely. Jane has known how I’ve felt forever. He finally brought it up to me when he sat with me after I did Rebecca’s autopsy.” Riona let out a small laugh. “I was never going to say anything; it’s hard to tell when I come across other women if they’re just friendly or if they’re actually interested in women.” She chewed her bottom lip. “But I do love you; that wasn’t just the drugs.”

           “Good. That’s really good. Because I’ve spent so long trying to figure out how to tell you that I have feelings for you. That day Jane took us riding at the racetrack. That was when I started looking at you differently. I’ve always seen you as an attractive woman, but I grew up in a conservative Christian home, and I’m lucky that since coming here, I’ve figured out how to reconcile my religion with my sexuality. But it was a long, private process, and then Craig happened, and I had no idea if you would ever feel the same way, so I just kept my feelings buried, but then you were just saying all these things, and—”

           “Will you just kiss me?” Riona asked, finding Grace adorable when flustered.

           “Yes,” Grace replied.

           Riona leaned into Grace’s hands as the other woman cupped her face, and she closed her eyes when Grace’s lips brushed hers. Grace kept it short and gentle, but it was enough. Especially for while Riona was hooked up to a bunch of machines, especially the one that was monitoring her heart rate.

           “I love you, Grace,” Riona said.

           “I love you, too, Riona.” Grace kissed her forehead.

           “Stay?” she asked.

           “Of course,” Grace replied. “I brought some crime scene photos if you want to help.” Grace pulled the file out of her bag.

           “Oh, you are wonderful,” Riona mused.

~*~

           Riona watched the window as she saw the CBI team coming in. They had boxes of pizza with them.

           “What’s this?” she asked.

           “Case closed pizza,” Grace answered. “We cleared it with your doctors, and you actually noticed stuff off those photos that the forensics unit missed, so you get to share it with us.”

           Riona beamed. “Thank you!”

           “Thank you,” Lisbon said. “Although I miss having you at crime scenes to make Jane behave himself.”

           Jane just shrugged and handed Riona a plate with some veggie pizza on it. “Extra mushrooms for you.”

           “You know, Grace can find my prodding tool. You’re welcome to use it while I’m gone.” Riona took a bite of pizza. “Mmm. Thank you.”

           A knock on the door interrupted Jane’s protest to being prodded, and a nurse came in with an envelope.

           “Someone dropped this off for you, Dr. Gallagher,” she said.

           Riona gestured to Jane, pizza still in hand. “Since my good hand is otherwise occupied, can you hand it to him?” she asked.

           The nurse nodded and handed it to Jane. Riona was curious.

           “Who delivered it?” she asked.

           “No one knows. It just appeared at the nurse’s station. We checked the cameras already, but no one has been able to figure out when it arrived.”

           Riona’s chest tightened. That sounded bad, and she knew all the agents in the room agreed, as they’d all stopped eating. The nurse left without another word, and Riona just gestured for Jane to open it up.

           He did, and he immediately dropped it. Grace grabbed the paper off the bed.

           “Dr. Riona Gallagher, my sincerest gratitude for your help in ridding the world of Mr. Andrews. He was not a rival, more of a friend, but he did know who I am. I would have had to do the work myself one of these days, but I had not realized that Mr. Jane dug so close to Mr. Andrews. Best wishes for your recovery.”

           Riona dropped her pizza when Grace turned the letter around to reveal the Red John smiley drawn onto the otherwise typed letter in red pen.

           “Get that to forensics,” Lisbon ordered. “Cho, Rigsby, go double check the cameras. Grace, stay with Riona. Jane and I need to go talk to the other nurses.”

           For the first time since Riona cut Warren Andrews’ throat, she began to cry.

[1-800-444-tune]

Demonology + Witchcraft🀄♠

Introduction

Part 1 or I , and the other volumes will be posted at a later date, each separately. (Enjoy)😆

To find my copy of Demonology......

so you are going to want to search tags that I use if you're looking for it. Or just follow me, that's easier.

Letters written in the 1800's have resurfaced and are being preserved by some very highly spiritually invested peoples; I own a copy and the rights to distribute this material as long as I am within the very strict guidelines agreement I signed with this website that is helping to distribute and preserve older historical witchcraft or paranormal and spiritual writings that are not related to The Holy Bible. At all! Lol. Anyways, I have been wondering for quite some time how to approach the problem of having a very looooong post; so this will be the introduction and partial of...

Letter 1: by Sir Walter Scott

With an Introduction, By: Henry Morely

Professor of Literature @ London University College ; London, UK.

demonstrates to all men, except the few who are hardened to the celestial voice, that there is within us a portion of the divine substance, which is not subject to the law of death and dissolution, but which, when the body is no longer fit for its abode, shall seek its own place, as a sentinel dismissed from his post. Unaided by revelation, it cannot be hoped that mere earthly reason should be able to form any rational or precise conjecture concerning the destination of the soul when parted from the body; but the conviction that such an indestructible essence exists, the belief expressed by the poet in a different sense, Non omnis moriar must infer the existence of many millions of spirits who have not been annihilated, though they have become invisible to mortals who still see, hear, and perceive, only by means of the imperfect organs of humanity. Probability may lead some of the most reflecting to anticipate a state of future rewards and punishments; as those experienced in the education of the deaf and dumb find that their pupils, even while cut off from all instruction by ordinary means, have been able to form, out of their own unassisted conjectures, some ideas of the existence of a Deity, and of the distinction between the soul and body—a circumstance which proves how naturally these truths arise in the human mind. The principle that they do so arise, being taught or communicated, leads to further conclusions.

These spirits, in a state of separate existence, being admitted to exist, are not, it may be supposed, indifferent to the affairs of mortality, perhaps not incapable of influencing them. It is true that, in a more advanced state of society, the philosopher may challenge the possibility of a separate appearance of a disembodied spirit, unless in the case of a direct miracle, to which, being a suspension of the laws of nature, directly wrought by the Maker of these laws, for some express purpose, no bound or restraint can possibly be assigned. But under this necessary limitation and exception, philosophers might plausibly argue that, when the soul is divorced from the body, it loses all those qualities which made it, when clothed with a mortal shape, obvious to the organs of its fellow-men. The abstract idea of a spirit certainly implies that it has neither substance, form, shape, voice, or anything which can render its presence visible or sensible to human faculties. But these sceptic doubts of philosophers on the possibility of the appearance of such separated spirits, do not arise till a certain degree of information has dawned upon a country, and even then only reach a very small proportion of reflecting and better-informed members of society. To the multitude, the indubitable fact, that so many millions of spirits exist around and even amongst us, seems sufficient to support the belief that they are, in certain instances at least, by some means or other, able to communicate with the world of humanity. The more numerous part of mankind cannot form in their mind the idea of the spirit of the deceased existing, without possessing or having the power to assume the appearance which their acquaintance bore during his life, and do not push their researches beyond this point.

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Enthusiastic feelings of an impressive and solemn nature occur both in private and public life, which seem to add ocular testimony to an intercourse betwixt earth and the world beyond it. For example, the son who has been lately deprived of his father feels a sudden crisis approach, in which he is anxious to have recourse to his sagacious advice—or a bereaved husband earnestly desires again to behold the form of which the grave has deprived him for ever—or, to use a darker yet very common instance, the wretched man who has dipped his hand in his fellow-creature's blood, is haunted by the apprehension that the phantom of the slain stands by the bedside of his murderer. In all or any of these cases, who shall doubt that imagination, favoured by circumstances, has power to summon up to the organ of sight, spectres which only exist in the mind of those by whom their apparition seems to be witnessed?

If we add, that such a vision may take place in the course of one of those lively dreams in which the patient, except in respect to the single subject of one strong impression, is, or seems, sensible of the real particulars of the scene around him, a state of slumber which often occurs; if he is so far conscious, for example, as to know that he is lying on his own bed, and surrounded by his own familiar furniture at the time when the supposed apparition is manifested, it becomes almost in vain to argue with the visionary against the reality of his dream, since the spectre, though itself purely fanciful, is inserted amidst so many circumstances which he feels must be true beyond the reach of doubt or question. That which is undeniably certain becomes, in a manner, a warrant for the reality of the appearance to which doubt would have been otherwise attached. And if any event, such as the death of the person dreamt of, chances to take place, so as to correspond with the nature and the time of the apparition, the coincidence, though one which must be frequent, since our dreams usually refer to the accomplishment of that which haunts our minds when awake, and often presage the most probable events, seems perfect, and the chain of circumstances touching the evidence may not unreasonably be considered as complete. Such a concatenation, we repeat, must frequently take place, when it is considered of what stuff dreams are made—how naturally they turn upon those who occupy our mind while awake, and, when a soldier is exposed to death in battle, when a sailor is incurring the dangers of the sea, when a beloved wife or relative is attacked by disease, how readily our sleeping imagination rushes to the very point of alarm, which when waking it had shuddered to anticipate. The number of instances in which such lively dreams have been quoted, and both asserted and received as spiritual communications, is very great at all periods; in ignorant times, where the natural cause of dreaming is misapprehended and confused with an idea of mysticism, it is much greater. Yet, perhaps, considering the many thousands of dreams which must, night after night, pass through the imagination of individuals, the number of coincidences between the vision and real event are fewer and less remarkable than a fair calculation of chances would warrant us to expect. But in countries where such presaging dreams are subjects of attention, the number of those which seemed to be coupled with the corresponding issue, is large enough to spread a very general belief of a positive communication betwixt the living and the dead.

Somnambulism and other nocturnal deceptions frequently lend their aid to the formation of such phantasmata as are formed in this middle state, betwixt sleeping and waking. A most respectable person, whose active life had been spent as master and part owner of a large merchant vessel in the Lisbon trade, gave the writer an account of such an instance which came under his observation. He was lying in the Tagus, when he was put to great anxiety and alarm by the following incident and its consequences. One of his crew was murdered by a Portuguese assassin, and a report arose that the ghost of the slain man haunted the vessel. Sailors are generally superstitious, and those of my friend's vessel became unwilling to remain on board the ship; and it was probable they might desert rather then return to England with the ghost for a passenger. To prevent so great a calamity, the captain determined to examine the story to the bottom. He soon found that, though all pretended to have seen lights and heard noises, and so forth, the weight of the evidence lay upon the statement of one of his own mates, an Irishman and a Catholic, which might increase his tendency to superstition, but in other respects a veracious, honest, and sensible person, whom Captain ——had no reason to suspect would wilfully deceive him. He affirmed to Captain S—— with the deepest obtestations, that the spectre of the murdered man appeared to him almost nightly, took him from his place in the vessel, and, according to his own expression, worried his life out. He made these communications with a degree of horror which intimated the reality of his distress and apprehensions. The captain, without any argument at the time, privately resolved to watch the motions of the ghost-seer in the night; whether alone, or with a witness, I have forgotten. As the ship bell struck twelve, the sleeper started up, with a ghastly and disturbed countenance, and lighting a candle, proceeded to the galley or cook-room of the vessel. He sate down with his eyes open, staring before him as on some terrible object which he beheld with horror, yet from which he could not withhold his eyes. After a short space he arose, took up a tin can or decanter, filled it with water, muttering to himself all the while—mixed salt in the water, and sprinkled it about the galley. Finally, he sighed deeply, like one relieved from a heavy burden, and, returning to his hammock, slept soundly. In the next morning the haunted man told the usual precise story of his apparition, with the additional circumstances, that the ghost had led him to the galley, but that he had fortunately, he knew not how, obtained possession of some holy water, and succeeded in getting rid of his unwelcome visitor. The visionary was then informed of the real transactions of the night, with so many particulars as to satisfy him he had been the dupe of his imagination; he acquiesced in his commander's reasoning, and the dream, as often happens in these cases, returned no more after its imposture had been detected. In this case, we find the excited imagination acting upon the half-waking senses, which were intelligent enough for the purpose of making him sensible where he was, but not sufficiently so to judge truly of the objects before him.

But it is not only private life alone, or that tenor of thought which has been depressed into melancholy by gloomy anticipations respecting the future, which disposes the mind to mid-day fantasies, or to nightly apparitions—a state of eager anxiety, or excited exertion, is equally favourable to the indulgence of such supernatural communications. The anticipation of a dubious battle, with all the doubt and uncertainty of its event, and the conviction that it must involve his own fate and that of his country, was powerful enough to conjure up to the anxious eye of Brutus the spectre of his murdered friend Cæsar, respecting whose death he perhaps thought himself less justified than at the Ides of March, since, instead of having achieved the freedom of Rome, the event had only been the renewal of civil wars, and the issue might appear most likely to conclude in the total subjection of liberty. It is not miraculous that the masculine spirit of Marcus Brutus, surrounded by darkness and solitude, distracted probably by recollection of the kindness and favour of the great individual whom he had put to death to avenge the wrongs of his country, though by the slaughter of his own friend, should at length place before his eyes in person the appearance which termed itself his evil genius, and promised again to meet him at Philippi. Brutus' own intentions, and his knowledge of the military art, had probably long since assured him that the decision of the civil war must take place at or near that place; and, allowing that his own imagination supplied that part of his dialogue with the spectre, there is nothing else which might not be fashioned in a vivid dream or a waking reverie, approaching, in absorbing and engrossing character, the usual matter of which dreams consist. That Brutus, well acquainted with the opinions of the Platonists, should be disposed to receive without doubt the idea that he had seen a real apparition, and was not likely to scrutinize very minutely the supposed vision, may be naturally conceived; and it is also natural to think, that although no one saw the figure but himself, his contemporaries were little disposed to examine the testimony of a man so eminent, by the strict rules of cross-examination and conflicting evidence, which they might have thought applicable to another person, and a less dignified occasion.

Even in the field of death, and amid the mortal tug of combat itself, strong belief has wrought the same wonder, which we have hitherto mentioned as occurring in solitude and amid darkness; and those who were themselves on the verge of the world of spirits, or employed in dispatching others to these gloomy regions, conceived they beheld the apparitions of those beings whom their national mythology associated with such scenes. In such moments of undecided battle, amid the violence, hurry, and confusion of ideas incident to the situation, the ancients supposed that they saw their deities, Castor and Pollux, fighting in the van for their encouragement; the heathen Scandinavian beheld the Choosers of the slain; and the Catholics were no less easily led to recognize the warlike Saint George or Saint James in the very front of the strife, showing them the way to conquest. Such apparitions being generally visible to a multitude, have in all times been supported by the greatest strength of testimony. When the common feeling of danger, and the animating burst of enthusiasm, act on the feelings of many men at once, their minds hold a natural correspondence with each other, as it is said is the case with stringed instruments tuned to the same pitch, of which, when one is played, the chords of the others are supposed to vibrate in unison with the tones produced. If an artful or enthusiastic individual exclaims, in the heat of action, that he perceives an apparition of the romantic kind which has been intimated, his companions catch at the idea with emulation, and most are willing to sacrifice the conviction of their own senses, rather than allow that they did not witness the same favourable emblem, from which all draw confidence and hope. One warrior catches the idea from another; all are alike eager to acknowledge the present miracle, and the battle is won before the mistake is discovered. In such cases, the number of persons present, which would otherwise lead to detection of the fallacy, becomes the means of strengthening it.

Of this disposition, to see as much of the supernatural as is seen by others around, or, in other words, to trust to the eyes of others rather than to our own, we may take the liberty to quote two remarkable instances.

The first is from the "Historia Verdadera" of Don Bernal Dias del Castillo, one of the companions of the celebrated Cortez in his Mexican conquest. After having given an account of a great victory over extreme odds, he mentions the report inserted in the contemporary Chronicle of Gomara, that Saint Iago had appeared on a white horse in van of the combat, and led on his beloved Spaniards to victory. It is very curious to observe the Castilian cavalier's internal conviction that the rumour arose out of a mistake, the cause of which he explains from his own observation; whilst, at the same time, he does not venture to disown the miracle. The honest Conquestador owns that he himself did not see this animating vision; nay, that he beheld an individual cavalier, named Francisco de Morla, mounted on a chestnut horse, and fighting strenuously in the very place where Saint James is said to have appeared. But instead of proceeding to draw the necessary inference, the devout Conquestador exclaims—"Sinner that I am, what am I that I should have beheld the blessed apostle!"

The other instance of the infectious character of superstition occurs in a Scottish book, and there can be little doubt that it refers, in its first origin, to some uncommon appearance of the aurora borealis, or the northern lights, which do not appear to have been seen in Scotland so frequently as to be accounted a common and familiar atmospherical phenomenon, until the beginning of the eighteenth century. The passage is striking and curious, for the narrator, Peter Walker, though an enthusiast, was a man of credit, and does not even affect to have seen the wonders, the reality of which he unscrupulously adopts on the testimony of others, to whose eyes he trusted rather than to his own. The conversion of the sceptical gentleman of whom he speaks is highly illustrative of popular credulity carried away into enthusiasm, or into imposture, by the evidence of those around, and at once shows the imperfection of such a general testimony, and the ease with which it is procured, since the general excitement of the moment impels even the more cold-blooded and judicious persons present to catch up the ideas and echo the exclamations of the majority, who, from the first, had considered the heavenly phenomenon as a supernatural weapon-schaw, held for the purpose of a sign and warning of civil wars to come.

"In the year 1686, in the months of June and July," says the honest chronicler, "many yet alive can witness that about the Crossford Boat, two miles beneath Lanark, especially at the Mains, on the water of Clyde, many people gathered together for several afternoons, where there were showers of bonnets, hats, guns, and swords, which covered the trees and the ground; companies of men in arms marching in order upon the waterside; companies meeting companies, going all through other, and then all falling to the ground and disappearing; other companies immediately appeared, marching the same way. I went there three afternoons together, and, as I observed, there were two-thirds of the people that were together saw, and a third that saw not; and, though I could see nothing, there was such a fright and trembling on those that did see, that was discernible to all from those that saw not. There was a gentleman standing next to me who spoke as too many gentlemen and others speak, who said, 'A pack of damned witches and warlocks that have the second sight! the devil ha't do I see;' and immediately there was a discernible change in his countenance. With as much fear and trembling as any woman I saw there, he called out, 'All you that do not see, say nothing; for I persuade you it is matter of fact, and discernible to all that is not stone-blind.' And those who did see told what works (i.e., locks) the guns had, and their length and wideness, and what handles the swords had, whether small or three-barr'd, or Highland guards, and the closing knots of the bonnets, black or blue; and those who did see them there, whenever they went abroad, saw a bonnet and a sword drop in the way."[1]

[Footnote 1: Walker's "Lives," Edinburgh, 1827, vol. i. p. xxxvi. It is evident that honest Peter believed in the apparition of this martial gear on the principle of Partridge's terror for the ghost of Hamlet—not that he was afraid himself, but because Garrick showed such evident marks of terror.]

This singular phenomenon, in which a multitude believed, although only two-thirds of them saw what must, if real, have been equally obvious to all, may be compared with the exploit of the humourist, who planted himself in an attitude of astonishment, with his eyes riveted on the well-known bronze lion that graces the front of Northumberland House in the Strand, and having attracted the attention of those who looked at him by muttering, "By heaven it wags! it wags again!" contrived in a few minutes to blockade the whole street with an immense crowd, some conceiving that they had absolutely seen the lion of Percy wag his tail, others expecting' to witness the same phenomenon.

On such occasions as we have hitherto mentioned, we have supposed that the ghost-seer has been in full possession of his ordinary powers of perception, unless in the case of dreamers, in whom they may have been obscured by temporary slumber, and the possibility of correcting vagaries of the imagination rendered more difficult by want of the ordinary appeal to the evidence of the bodily senses. In other respects their blood beat temperately, they possessed the ordinary capacity of ascertaining the truth or discerning the falsehood of external appearances by an appeal to the organ of sight. Unfortunately, however, as is now universally known and admitted, there certainly exists more than one disorder known to professional men of which one important symptom is a disposition to see apparitions.

This frightful disorder is not properly insanity, although it is somewhat allied to that most horrible of maladies, and may, in many constitutions, be the means of bringing it on, and although such hallucinations are proper to both. The difference I conceive to be that, in cases of insanity, the mind of the patient is principally affected, while the senses, or organic system, offer in vain to the lunatic their decided testimony against the fantasy of a deranged imagination. Perhaps the nature of this collision—between a disturbed imagination and organs of sense possessed of their usual accuracy—cannot be better described than in the embarrassment expressed by an insane patient confined in the Infirmary of Edinburgh. The poor man's malady had taken a gay turn. The house, in his idea, was his own, and he contrived to account for all that seemed inconsistent with his imaginary right of property—there were many patients in it, but that was owing to the benevolence of his nature, which made him love to see the relief of distress. He went little, or rather never abroad—but then his habits were of a domestic and rather sedentary character. He did not see much company—but he daily received visits from the first characters in the renowned medical school of this city, and he could not therefore be much in want of society. With so many supposed comforts around him—with so many visions of wealth and splendour—one thing alone disturbed the peace of the poor optimist, and would indeed have confounded most bons vivants. "He was curious," he said, "in his table, choice in his selection of cooks, had every day a dinner of three regular courses and a dessert; and yet, somehow or other, everything he eat tasted of porridge." This dilemma could be no great wonder to the friend to whom the poor patient communicated it, who knew the lunatic eat nothing but this simple aliment at any of his meals. The case was obvious. The disease lay in the extreme vivacity of the patient's imagination, deluded in other instances, yet not absolutely powerful enough to contend with the honest evidence of his stomach and palate, which, like Lord Peter's brethren in "The Tale of a Tub," were indignant at the attempt to impose boiled oatmeal upon them, instead of such a banquet as Ude would have displayed when peers were to partake of it. Here, therefore, is one instance of actual insanity, in which the sense of taste controlled and attempted to restrain the ideal hypothesis adopted by a deranged imagination. But the disorder to which I previously alluded is entirely of a bodily character, and consists principally in a disease of the visual organs, which present to the patient a set of spectres or appearances which have no actual existence. It is a disease of the same nature which renders many men incapable of distinguishing colours; only the patients go a step further, and pervert the external form of objects. In their case, therefore, contrary to that of the maniac, it is not the mind, or rather the imagination, which imposes upon and overpowers the evidence of the senses, but the sense of seeing (or hearing) which betrays its duty and conveys false ideas to a sane intellect.

More than one learned physician, who have given their attestations to the existence of this most distressing complaint, have agreed that it actually occurs, and is occasioned by different causes. The most frequent source of the malady is in the dissipated and intemperate habits of those who, by a continued series of intoxication, become subject to what is popularly called the Blue Devils, instances of which mental disorder may be known to most who have lived for any period of their lives in society where hard drinking was a common vice. The joyous visions suggested by intoxication when the habit is first acquired, in time disappear, and are supplied by frightful impressions and scenes, which destroy the tranquillity of the unhappy debauchee. Apparitions of the most unpleasant appearance are his companions in solitude, and intrude even upon his hours of society: and when by an alteration of habits, the mind is cleared of these frightful ideas, it requires but the slightest renewal of the association to bring back the full tide of misery upon the repentant libertine.

Of this the following instance was told to the author by a gentleman connected with the sufferer. A young man of fortune, who had led what is called so gay a life as considerably to injure both his health and fortune, was at length obliged to consult the physician upon the means of restoring, at least, the former. One of his principal complaints was the frequent presence of a set of apparitions, resembling a band of figures dressed in green, who performed in his drawing-room a singular dance, to which he was compelled to bear witness, though he knew, to his great annoyance, that the whole corps de ballet existed only in his own imagination. His physician immediately informed him that he had lived upon town too long and too fast not to require an exchange to a more healthy and natural course of life. He therefore prescribed a gentle course of medicine, but earnestly recommended to his patient to retire to his own house in the country, observe a temperate diet and early hours, practising regular exercise, on the same principle avoiding fatigue, and assured him that by doing so he might bid adieu to black spirits and white, blue, green, and grey, with all their trumpery. The patient observed the advice, and prospered. His physician, after the interval of a month, received a grateful letter from him, acknowledging the success of his regimen. The greens goblins had disappeared, and with them the unpleasant train of emotions to which their visits had given rise, and the patient had ordered his town-house to be disfurnished and sold, while the furniture was to be sent down to his residence in the country, where he was determined in future to spend his life, without exposing himself to the temptations of town. One would have supposed this a well-devised scheme for health. But, alas! no sooner had the furniture of the London drawing-room been placed in order in the gallery of the old manor-house, than the former delusion returned in full force: the green figurantés, whom the patient's depraved imagination had so long associated with these moveables, came capering and frisking to accompany them, exclaiming with great glee, as if the sufferer should have been rejoiced to see them, "Here we all are—here we all are!" The visionary, if I recollect right, was so much shocked at their appearance, that he retired abroad, in despair that any part of Britain could shelter him from the daily persecution of this domestic ballet.

There is reason to believe that such cases are numerous, and that they may perhaps arise not only from the debility of stomach brought on by excess in wine or spirits, which derangement often sensibly affects the eyes and sense of sight, but also because the mind becomes habitually predominated over by a train of fantastic visions, the consequence of frequent intoxication; and is thus, like a dislocated joint, apt again to go wrong, even when a different cause occasions the derangement.

It is easy to be supposed that habitual excitement by means of any other intoxicating drug, as opium, or its various substitutes, must expose those who practise the dangerous custom to the same inconvenience. Very frequent use of the nitrous oxide which affects the senses so strongly, and produces a short but singular state of ecstasy, would probably be found to occasion this species of disorder. But there are many other causes which medical men find attended with the same symptom, of embodying before the eyes of a patient imaginary illusions which are visible to no one else. This persecution of spectral deceptions is also found to exist when no excesses of the patient can be alleged as the cause, owing, doubtless, to a deranged state of the blood or nervous system.

The learned and acute Dr. Ferriar of Manchester was the first who brought before the English public the leading case, as it may be called, in this department, namely, that of Mons. Nicolai, the celebrated bookseller of Berlin. This gentleman was not a man merely of books, but of letters, and had the moral courage to lay before the Philosophical Society of Berlin an account of his own sufferings, from having been, by disease, subjected to a series of spectral illusions. The leading circumstances of this case may be stated very shortly, as it has been repeatedly before the public, and is insisted on by Dr. Ferriar, Dr. Hibbert, and others who have assumed Demonology as a subject. Nicolai traces his illness remotely to a series of disagreeable incidents which had happened to him in the beginning of the year 1791. The depression of spirits which was occasioned by these unpleasant occurrences, was aided by the consequences of neglecting a course of periodical bleeding which he had been accustomed to observe. This state of health brought on the disposition to see phantasmata, who visited, or it may be more properly said frequented, the apartments of the learned bookseller, presenting crowds of persons who moved and acted before him, nay, even spoke to and addressed him. These phantoms afforded nothing unpleasant to the imagination of the visionary either in sight or expression, and the patient was possessed of too much firmness to be otherwise affected by their presence than with a species of curiosity, as he remained convinced from the beginning to the end of the disorder, that these singular effects were merely symptoms of the state of his health, and did not in any other respect regard them as a subject of apprehension. After a certain time, and some use of medicine, the phantoms became less distinct in their outline, less vivid in their colouring, faded, as it were, on the eye of the patient, and at length totally disappeared.

The case of Nicolai has unquestionably been that of many whose love of science has not been able to overcome their natural reluctance to communicate to the public the particulars attending the visitation of a disease so peculiar. That such illnesses have been experienced, and have ended fatally, there can be no doubt; though it is by no means to be inferred, that the symptom of importance to our present discussion has, on all occasions, been produced from the same identical cause.

Dr. Hibbert, who has most ingeniously, as well as philosophically, handled this subject, has treated it also in a medical point of view, with science to which we make no pretence, and a precision of detail to which our superficial investigation affords us no room for extending ourselves.

The visitation of spectral phenomena is described by this learned gentleman as incidental to sundry complaints; and he mentions, in particular, that the symptom occurs not only in plethora, as in the case of the learned Prussian we have just mentioned, but is a frequent hectic symptom—often an associate of febrile and inflammatory disorders—frequently accompanying inflammation of the brain—a concomitant also of highly excited nervous irritability—equally connected with hypochondria—and finally united in some cases with gout, and in others with the effects of excitation produced by several gases. In all these cases there seems to be a morbid degree of sensibility, with which this symptom is ready to ally itself, and which, though inaccurate as a medical definition, may be held sufficiently descriptive of one character of the various kinds of disorder with which this painful symptom may be found allied.

A very singular and interesting illustration of such combinations as Dr. Hibbert has recorded of the spectral illusion with an actual disorder, and that of a dangerous kind, was frequently related in society by the late learned and accomplished Dr. Gregory of Edinburgh, and sometimes, I believe, quoted by him in his lectures. The narrative, to the author's best recollection, was as follows:—A patient of Dr. Gregory, a person, it is understood, of some rank, having requested the doctor's advice, made the following extraordinary statement of his complaint. "I am in the habit," he said, "of dining at five, and exactly as the hour of six arrives I am subjected to the following painful visitation. The door of the room, even when I have been weak enough to bolt it, which I have sometimes done, flies wide open; an old hag, like one of those who haunted the heath of Forres, enters with a frowning and incensed countenance, comes straight up to me with every demonstration of spite and indignation which could characterize her who haunted the merchant Abudah in the Oriental tale; she rushes upon me, says something, but so hastily that I cannot discover the purport, and then strikes me a severe blow with her staff. I fall from my chair in a swoon, which is of longer or shorter endurance. To the recurrence of this apparition I am daily subjected. And such is my new and singular complaint." The doctor immediately asked whether his patient had invited any one to sit with him when he expected such a visitation. He was answered in the negative. The nature of the complaint, he said, was so singular, it was so likely to be imputed to fancy, or even to mental derangement, that he had shrunk from communicating the circumstance to any one. "Then," said the doctor, "with your permission, I will dine with you to-day, téte-à-téte, and we will see if your malignant old woman will venture to join our company." The patient accepted the proposal with hope and gratitude, for he had expected ridicule rather than sympathy. They met at dinner, and Dr. Gregory, who suspected some nervous disorder, exerted his powers of conversation, well known to be of the most varied and brilliant character, to keep the attention of his host engaged, and prevent him from thinking on the approach of the fated hour, to which he was accustomed to look forward with so much terror. He succeeded in his purpose better than he had hoped. The hour of six came almost unnoticed, and it was hoped might pass away without any evil consequence; but it was scarce a moment struck when the owner of the house exclaimed, in an alarmed voice, "The hag comes again!" and dropped back in his chair in a swoon, in the way he had himself described. The physician caused him to be let blood, and satisfied himself that the periodical shocks of which his patient complained arose from a tendency to apoplexy.

The phantom with the crutch was only a species of machinery, such as that with which fancy is found to supply the disorder called Ephialtes, or nightmare, or indeed any other external impression upon our organs in sleep, which the patient's morbid imagination may introduce into the dream preceding the swoon. In the nightmare an oppression and suffocation is felt, and our fancy instantly conjures up a spectre to lie on our bosom. In like manner it may be remarked, that any sudden noise which the slumberer hears, without being actually awakened by it—any casual touch of his person occurring in the same manner—becomes instantly adopted in his dream, and accommodated to the tenor of the current train of thought, whatever that may happen to be; and nothing is more remarkable than the rapidity with which imagination supplies a complete explanation of the interruption, according to the previous train of ideas expressed in the dream, even when scarce a moment of time is allowed for that purpose. In dreaming, for example, of a duel, the external sound becomes, in the twinkling of an eye, the discharge of the combatants' pistols;—is an orator haranguing in his sleep, the sound becomes the applause of his supposed audience;—is the dreamer wandering among supposed ruins, the noise is that of the fall of some part of the mass. In short, an explanatory system is adopted during sleep with such extreme rapidity, that supposing the intruding alarm to have been the first call of some person to awaken the slumberer, the explanation, though requiring some process of argument or deduction, is usually formed and perfect before the second effort of the speaker has restored the dreamer to the waking world and its realities. So rapid and intuitive is the succession of ideas in sleep, as to remind us of the vision of the prophet Mahommed, in which he saw the whole wonders of heaven and hell, though the jar of water which fell when his ecstasy commenced, had not spilled its contents when he returned to ordinary existence.

A second, and equally remarkable instance, was communicated to the author by the medical man under whose observation it fell, but who was, of course, desirous to keep private the name of the hero of so singular a history. Of the friend by whom the facts were attested I can only say, that if I found myself at liberty to name him, the rank which he holds in his profession, as well as his attainments in science and philosophy, form an undisputed claim to the most implicit credit.

It was the fortune of this gentleman to be called in to attend the illness of a person now long deceased, who in his lifetime stood, as I understand, high in a particular department of the law, which often placed the property of others at his discretion and control, and whose conduct, therefore, being open to public observation, he had for many years borne the character of a man of unusual steadiness, good sense, and integrity. He was, at the time of my friend's visits, confined principally to his sick-room, sometimes to bed, yet occasionally attending to business, and exerting his mind, apparently with all its usual strength and energy, to the conduct of important affairs intrusted to him; nor did there, to a superficial observer, appear anything in his conduct, while so engaged, that could argue vacillation of intellect, or depression of mind. His outward symptoms of malady argued no acute or alarming disease. But slowness of pulse, absence of appetite, difficulty of digestion, and constant depression of spirits, seemed to draw their origin from some hidden cause, which the patient was determined to conceal. The deep gloom of the unfortunate gentleman—the embarrassment, which he could not conceal from his friendly physician—the briefness and obvious constraint with which he answered the interrogations of his medical adviser, induced my friend to take other methods for prosecuting his inquiries. He applied to the sufferer's family, to learn, if possible, the source of that secret grief which was gnawing the heart and sucking the life-blood of his unfortunate patient. The persons applied to, after conversing together previously, denied all knowledge of any cause for the burden which obviously affected their relative. So far as they knew—and they thought they could hardly be deceived—his worldly affairs were prosperous; no family loss had occurred which could be followed with such persevering distress; no entanglements of affection could be supposed to apply to his age, and no sensation of severe remorse could be consistent with his character. The medical gentleman had finally recourse to serious argument with the invalid himself, and urged to him the folly of devoting himself to a lingering and melancholy death, rather than tell the subject of affliction which was thus wasting him. He specially pressed upon him the injury which he was doing to his own character, by suffering it to be inferred that the secret cause of his dejection and its consequences was something too scandalous or flagitious to be made known, bequeathing in this manner to his family a suspected and dishonoured name, and leaving a memory with which might be associated the idea of guilt, which the criminal had died without confessing. The patient, more moved by this species of appeal than by any which had yet been urged, expressed his desire to speak out frankly to Dr.——. Every one else was removed, and the door of the sick-room made secure, when he began his confession in the following manner:,

I

I have read this demonology book when I was I think, 11 or 12 maybe 13. Anyways, I am getting a far lot more out of it NOW ; as compared to then!

The next posting about this Demonology and Witchcraft by Sir Walter Scott will be in the next hour or so, if not then when I wake up!

[fabien-euskadi]

28 Questions Challenge

tagged by @thepurelands (thank you:)

Rules: Tag the person who tagged you, answer the questions, tag people

1. How tall are you?: 5 feet. Wait, was I supposed to mention the inches as well?

2. What color and style is your hair?: Dark brown, long(ish) and rather wild.

3. What color are your eyes?: Sad brown.

4. Do you wear glasses?: No

5. Do you wear braces?: No. And never did.

6. What is your fashion style?: A year ago, I decided to isolate myself from the world (especially, the humans). Being so, I moved to a farm on a valley, lost in a place so remote that a lot of people ask me if I even have electricity here. I did that to cure a severe depression and to reignite my writing sparkle... but, a year later, I am on the verge of suicide with zero lines written since I moved. I lost my contact with Humanity, I no longer see neither the good nor the bad side of human species. I am a shadow of what I used to be - I am a shadow of a being, I became a creature. Being so, I lost any fashion/style sense at all - but that is just until I get out of this horrible pit with wonderful views.

7. Full name: You will have to kill me to know that. But since none of you is a shooter, you'll have to call me Miguel, just Miguel.

8. When were you born?: This body was born a long time ago (before some of you did), but my soul may be even older - much, much older. 

9. Where are you from and where do you live now? Actually, I was born in Lisbon and, after many unfortunate events, I ended up in a remote place in Upper Alentejo that few even know where it is - it's just a rural hamlet/place between Portugal and Spain. But soon, I shall be moving to some other place and I have no idea where I am going - and, somehow, that is strangely exciting. I hardly know where I am and I only know that I must go.

10. What school do you go to?: The FSHC of the Algarve University. Yes, college is in Faro and I live 350 km away from it.

11. What kind of student are you? One that is postponing all deadlines regarding his thesis, even if I have all the tools and the knowledge (and research) to do a good job. What is blocking me? Depression.

12. Do you like school? I liked some places where I studied and hated others. But I really like the Algarve University, I must admit. The same cannot be said about my previous college, ISCTE.

13. What are your favorite school subjects? Any subject can be either interesting or boring - basically, all depends on the teachers. During my masters course (in History and Heritage, btw), all seven subjects/lectures were truly amazing, fascinating, deeply challenging and that says a lot about my professors.

14. Favorite TV shows: What is a TV?

15. Favorite movies: If I had to choose just one, it would be "The Crow" - the original one, the one with Brandon Lee and with The Cure on the soundtrack.

16. Favorite books?: Again, if I have to choose just one, it has to be "Wuthering Heights", for being, basically, an epiphany for me.

17. Favorite pastime: I have no free time, to be honest. Being depressed means that I have a small amount of energy for all my tasks and that energy is clearly insufficient. Being so, when I am not just on my bed, agonizing, I am doing less stuff than I should and that means there is hardly any time left for hobbies. But even if I had time, depression would steal any pleasure I could have with them.

18. Do you have any regrets? I regret the last fifty years of my life (and I didn't live fifty years yet). I regret being born. And I may regret these two last sentences.

19. Dream job: Writer. Full stop.

20. Would you like to get married someday? Is there anyone insane to the point of marrying me? Even those who are addicted to pain, misery and suffering think that marrying me is beyond all the agony they can endure.

21. Would you like to have kids someday? That is something that requires the opinion of two people. 

22: How many?: Again, that is something that requires the opinion of two people.

23: Do you like shopping? Hum... not really, although sometimes it can be therapeutic - when you go shopping, you try to please and improve yourself and, for someone with depression and a low self-esteem, that can be important. But since there is no mall around where I live…

24: What countries have you visited? Portugal and Spain do not count for this list and Morocco must be out of it as well, since I visited it when my mother was pregnant. Being so, I've been in France, Italy, United Kingdom, Germany, Netherlands, Luxembourg, Belgium, Malta, Bosnia and Herzegovina, Croatia, Cape Verde, Tunisia and my beloved Egypt.

25. What’s the scariest nightmare you’ve ever had? Someone invented a way of making the ones who already went to greener pastures come back for a while and I decided to use that machine to make my grandfather return for a while. For a week, I had my grandfather again, although it was a rather ill, vaguely percipient and weak version of him - but I remained by his side all the time, absorbing every second of those extra days with him that were given me by science. Once the miraculous week was over, I realized I had to feel the devastating pain of letting him go again... but I didn't want to, I wasn’t ready to lose my grandpa once again, after losing him in 2004. But there was someone who, wisely, convinced me that I should let my grandfather rest, for he really needed to go, to go forever: my father. By the time I had this dream, my father had already passed as well - so, there I was, surrounded by those who are just a memory in the world of the living. This may not be scary… but, by the gods, it was one of the most painful sensations I had in my life, since it triggered me all the feelings, all the despair, all the pain of loss.

26. Do you have any enemies? I am my own enemy. I am the one who is actively trying to find ways of killing myself and I fear I may end up being successful.

27. Do you have a s/o?: That's the typical question of that unpleasant old aunt, that is always trying to do her best to make you feel like crap. Mind your own business, Aunt Doris. 

28. Do you believe in miracles? If I survive the next few years, it will be a miracle. But, hey, one of my nicknames is Jesus.

Now, I shall tag... whoever wants to answer this. You are reading this? Consider yourself tagged.

[assassins-writing]

Request: I would adore a story where the reader was able to stop Shay from defecting. Maybe she could get in between him and Achilles and calm Shay enough for him to slow down in a way that only she could, as well as the afternoon. Pretty please?

Pairing: Shay Cormac x Reader 

Word count: 768

Note: @ my nonnie who requested this: hope you’re still around & that you like this! I missed this Irish babe so, so much. (I’ll probably always have a soft spot for Shay).

"Shay." Y/N said gently, her touch soft as her hand landed on Shay's shoulder before stepping between him and Achilles, the hand not on Shay’s shoulder hovering above Achilles’ chest, trying to seperate the men before punches were thrown (or worse- they did both have hidden blades strapped to their arms). Shay exhaled heavily through his nose, his gaze leaving Achilles and now was on the girl standing in front of him. His hand came up, resting gently on Y/N’s before he removed her hand from his shoulder. 

"Come on. Before someone says or does something they’ll regret later. Come with me, Shay.”

Y/N’s voice was still soft, gentle- completely opposite from the tones that Shay, Achilles, and even Hope had been using just minutes before. 

Shay trembled, with fear and hurt before he sighed, closing his eyes and looking towards the floor. He exhaled heavily, placing his own hands on Y/N's free one, squeezing softly before he looked up at her, then to Achilles.

"Shay, we will talk about this tomorrow. Until then..."

Achilles didn't even have to finish his statement before Shay had turned around, Y/N right at his side. The two of them walked out of the room, with Hope shutting the door behind them softly. Y/N looked back as she heard voices muffled by the door, hoping that maybe Hope was believing Shay after all and was speaking to Achilles about what happened in Lisbon- hoping that neither Hope or Achilles were actually doubting what exactly had seen, first hand.

The destruction, death… A city crumbling, people losing their lives because of something he did.

Y/N and Shay walked down the stairs, side by side, until they reached the door. Shay was the first to walk out, grumbling and cursing under his breath, his anger not yet having left. Y/N just followed him silently, until they had found a spot to sit and, hopefully, talk.

"Do you want to talk about this, Shay?"

“Why would I want to talk about it when no one would listen in the first place?”

“Why else would I be standing here now? To listen. Maybe no one else is willing to, but I am. Now stop being stubborn and talk to me.” Y/N said, one hand resting gently on Shay’s shoulder. In response, Shay made a noise- one that sounded like a grunt- before he sighed, looking at her.

“It was the earthquake. I feel responsible, and like no one will even take into consideration that we’re responsible- the assassins. This is the second time this has happened, and I just so happened to see it first hand. I can’t help but believe that it’s not just bad luck.” Shay said, sitting on the ground, stretching his legs out in front of him and leaning back on his elbows, looking towards the sky.

“Maybe the assassins are responsible. But Shay, and earthquake is natural. Not caused by humankind- assassin, templar, or neither.”

“I just feel responsible for it. Natural or not. I know what I saw in Lisbon, Y/N. I know what happened. The ground started rumbling as soon as I picked up the artifact- the exact moment. That places the guilt, the blame on my shoulders- on the assassin’s.” Shay said, looking at Y/N as she sat across from him.

“And I understand that. A natural disaster though, Shay. Natural. For all we know, it would have happened days later- it’s just a case of wrong place, wrong time.”

“I’ll take your word on that, lass. You’re always more willing to talk about these things than Hope, or even Liam- that, and you saw Hope in the mansion- she’s furious at me. Achilles is furious at me. Liam… Liam won’t speak to me.”

Y/N simply nodded as Shay spoke, leaving her spot across from him to sit beside him.

“It’ll pass, Shay. It’ll pass, I promise. You and Liam will be back to being yourselves- joking, laughing. Achilles… Maybe it’ll take a little more time, but our Mentor won’t stay angry at you long. And Hope? Shay, the same with Achilles. Just… Let this pass. Things will be fine. I promise.” Y/N said, reaching a hand out to hold Shay’s hand. He only hummed in response to her, turning his hand so that their palms were pressed together before squeezing her hand.

“Again, I’ll take your word. Thank you, regardless, lass.”

Y/N smiled and rubbed the side of Shay’s hand with her thumb, sitting back to mirror Shay, keeping her hand in his.

[pierregasly]

Hey presley, how you doin'? i wanna do a request to! i would do it in spanish because, yea i need to practice my spanish in somewhere lol: Podrias hacer por favor una historia sobre JEV and André algo como un SpyAu! o algo por el estilo? Gracias por tus fics que son geniales ♥

Gracias! Here you go, I wrote it all up for you. I hope it’s not too long for your liking? It’s not my best work :( Anyone can feel free to request anything! This is also posted here on ao3. Hope you like it:

__________________________

          Andre’s lips always taste like bullets. It is mixed with the stiff scent of his cologne and, of course, a lingering aftertaste of gunpowder or sweat. But it is strange that despite everything that occurs, he always stays the same. A part of him wishes that he could match that type of consistency. JEV understands he has a tendency to overthink things, not just his actions, but it is his overwhelming sense to save the lives everyone around him. These are the thoughts that paint him when the filth of the day is stripped from himself and he lies on the bed. This time, it occurs for him while Andre is away in the shower and JEV is quietly humming underneath his breath as he watches the ceiling.  

         The mattress he is laying on squeaks beneath him with every shift of his weight, there isn’t any coffee and he despises the Russian cold. He’s usually been quite good with timezones, but for now, his eyes are wide and alert with every footfall in the narrow hallway. JEV hears the water shut off and rolls over onto his side to make room. A few minutes later, Andre emerges with a towel wrapped around his waist. Amused, JEV leans on his elbow and passes an almost flirtatious grin.

         “Finished?”, he mutters, shivering at a cold chill that gusts from underneath the crack in the wooden door.

         Andre smirks smally, “да.” He moves to take a shirt from his bag on the floor. “You need to work on your Russian, моя любовь,” he tugs it over his head. JEV knows the language plenty well, but it is his French accent that digs out beneath every word

         “Why?”, he raises an eyebrow, “I am never sent out to mingle anyways.”

         Andre follows him from the corner of his eye for a moment, disregarding his belongings and stepping towards the bed. Cheap motel, Di Grassi, JEV thinks disdainfully. The frigid weather nips at his nose and Andre is surprisingly warm to the touch when he reaches to place his hands on either side of his shoulder. JEV enjoys this, small moments with only eye contact to sustain the long occasions they are otherwise apart. Andre touches his face with his fingertips, leaning over and his lips brush his shortly, “But it’s safer.” He pulls away and JEV lets out a whimper of annoyance. He digs into the bag for a second and tosses a pair of pants over. “Put some pants on,” Andre suggests, “You’re going to freeze to death and then I’ll have no one.”

         JEV pauses briefly and these words cause him to think more than he believes they were supposed to. Then I’ll have no one. He himself feels that he could’ve said the same. “You’ll have Lucas still,” he mumbles before crawling back underneath the sheets.

         “I suppose,” Andre shifts in besides him and his face is warm against the back of his neck as he tosses an arm over his waist. “But then again,” and his breath brings a heat to his spirit, “He’s not you, милая.”

         It was dangerous of them, to do with each other this way. JEV had promised himself he wouldn’t fall too deeply into things this time, a second chance. He only hopes Antonio will bring the equipment quick enough tomorrow. He falls asleep frozen, exhausted, with Andre’s breathing to lull him into sleep. He ponders:

         Life is too short, moments such as these too rare.

         It is a warm belief.

____________________________

         The both of them get three hours of sleep before Antonio barges into the room, shuts the curtains and flicks on the light. Immediately, Andre shoots upright, stretching to the bedside table for his weapon.

         “Chill!”, Antonio raises both of his arms defensively and Andre has to blink momentarily before setting it back on the table. JEV rubs his eyes, he hadn’t noticed he was gripping Andre’s upper arm until Antonio raised a brow at them. “You guys didn’t fuck did you?”, he grins and pressing his elbow down on the bed, releasing the pressure as the olden springs scrape together. “You would’ve blown our cover with your noises,” he rolls his eyes. Embarrassed, JEV pulls his hand away and places them into his lap.

         “Shut up, de Costa,” Andre growls, slipping out of the bed into the chill of the four am morning air. “You couldn’t of knocked?”, he whispered, shutting the crack in the drapes.

         “Nope,” he draws it out and then smiles cheekily. Antonio’s attention shifts to JEV and his brows arch high on his forehead once again, “Where is your gun?”

         JEV doesn’t want to talk about his last mission. There is a brief minute where his throat closes and his hands begin to quiver. There is an image that comes with this; sometimes he peers under his nails and he still believes that there is blood caked in the cracks. Andre notices this moment of discomfort and chimes in. “Skills testing,” he interrupts before changing the subject, “Di Grassi asked for it.”

          In actuality, Di Grassi asked for my gun, six months of deskwork and almost my certification.

         Antonio has a short attention span and loses interest soon after not receiving a reply. “Why the porra is it so cold?”, he moans, complaining and turning around the undo the technology onto the corner desk.

         “Ask Di Grassi to assign us to Spain next time,” JEV mutters, not like we have any choice. “Mortara and Engel are in Italy, Piquet in Nicaragua, Prost and Buemi in South Africa…”, he drones as though nobody cares.

         “We always get the winter,” Andre chorals in good humor, “Sweden, Finland, D.C. and now Moscow? Even Frijins and Bird are in Lisbon for Christ’s sake!” A momentary lapse of uncomfortable silence transform the air. It feels soft on his cheeks, the cold, as though it were preparing himself for something. Antonio respites amidst that reticence and his back remains turned. An audible sigh leaves him. “Da Costa?”, Andre edges carefully, glancing to JEV with a hint of confusion in his eye. Neither of them approach and the normal, easy-going air has left the atmosphere.

         “Antonio?”, JEV stiffens, “What is it?”

         They can practically hear the gears in his head shifting. “I heard only just before I arrived,” he started quietly.

         JEV’s heart race kicks up, spilling messily into his breath. “Heard what?”, he pushes.

         “There was a problem in Lisbon.”

         “What kind of problem?”

         “Robin Frijins is dead.”

         The words don’t hit him immediately. Andre’s eyes fall to him but JEV cannot do anything for stare at an empty corner of the room where the carpet is molding. He had just seen him, just before the plane to Russia, Robin had slapped his back and congratulated him on the end of his detention in office buildings. It steals the breath straight from his lungs and he suddenly feels extremely sick. JEV only wishes that the information would’ve left him with at least one lung with which to inhale with.

         “That’s not the end of it,” Antonio finally wheels around to face them and his eyes are dull beads bleeding out from their absence of light or excitement.

         Andre swallows, sitting calmly on the edge of the bed. “What-what do you mean?”, his voice breaks and JEV can hear the sound of him chewing on his inner cheek to contain himself.

         Antonio sighs, “Bird is missing.”

         JEV sucks in a pulse of air and shifts his focus from his absent stares to a small crack in the window where the night sky folds out over the horizon. “Why the hell weren’t we notified?”, Andre growls, his jaw moving upwards.

         “We only found out an hour ago. They missed their reconnaissent, Di Grassi sent Heidfeld to check and…”, he alters his gaze away nervously biting on his lip.

         JEV doesn’t want to imagine what that was like for Nick to see. But he remembers Lynn leaving his certification on Di Grassi’s table all those months ago. Perhaps it is more haunting than the failed mission, the lifeless gaze and Alex’s disheveled appearance. It was standing in that hallway with the memories of a phantom’s last breath in his arms. Blue lips, stiff eyes and cold hands at their sides. Sam once mentioned to him that Alex still wears his ring even after everything had happened. Maybe I’m not ready for field work again, JEV muses.

         “Why are we here then?”, Andre demands, his tone taking a sharp tone that is only occasionally heard. “We should be out there looking for him,” Antonio steals a step away from him cautiously and deviates the subject even though JEV can see that his hands are visibly shaking.

         “Come on,” Antonio begins to set up the pieces of two microphones together on the table, clearing his throat, “You two need to get ready.”

         With an empty gaze, both JEV and Andre peer to each other. There is a hint of clarity in how their eyes branch together. His soul shows itself itself to the sun, shows to the rain. There isn’t anything covering his open, disillusioned thoughts. There is a pale streak of early morning light that shines through muffled curtain. He can’t help it then, but he thinks of Robin. He hates not the loss, but the remembering most of all.

         Slowly, Andre nods in confirmation and broadens his stance once again. “Okay,” he sighs.

         JEV only studied the blue tint of light fade father away from Robin…

________________________

         Andre maintains a cautious air around him until they get into the car and Antonio is absent. He nudges his shoulder gently with his own, “You’re thinking of him, aren’t you?”

         JEV peels his eyes down to the hands in his lap. He flips them over and over again but still there isn’t any blood underneath the nails as he imagines there should be. “Which one?”, he grumbles.

         “The first one,” Andre replies.

         “No.”

         “Don’t lie to me, please.”

         “Fine,” JEV shifts uncomfortably in his suit, “I am.”

         Andre exhales, reaching over discretely and sliding a hand over his knee. JEV looks to it, he should tell him to stop that, he could buck it off. But he doesn’t. It fills him with an odd sense of comfort as he leans to put his hand over the interaction. “You’ve heard this a lot, but it was not your fault and you know that, right?”, his tone begs him to look to his face but JEV doesn’t.

         “I know,” and he sounds tired like he has aged a century in only two months.

         “When’s your next meeting with your therapist?”

         “I haven’t scheduled it,” he leans his head on his elbow, his forehead meeting the glass of the vehicle.

         “Why?”

         “I didn’t know when I would be coming back. Or if…”, to not upset Andre he hushes to a stop but the magnitude is enough.

         Andre’s grip on his knee tightens and JEV sees the carved veins of his wrist pop out under the tanned flesh. “Don’t say that,” he hisses, “Don’t ever say that, JEV.”

         My last partner was supposed to get married in a month.

         Eventually, in a small movement, JEV moves his head up and their eyes meet. It is calm, serene almost, witnessing the little sun behind his shadowed eyes suddenly burst into life. “J’aime,” he murmurs discreetly into his hair.

         Andre grins and then removes his hand from his thigh. The reply of, “Moi aussi,” blends into the scenery as the car begins to move.

         JEV wonders where Mitch is right now. He hopes Alex knows that he is sorry.

________________________

         “Caralho sagrado! Did someone just get shot?!”

         “You’re not helping, Antonio!”, Andre objects angrily, ducking his head with a shove to JEV’s back as they pass into a long hallway.

         “Seriously, are you guys okay?!“

         JEV has learned to expect the unexpected in this job. He hadn’t imagined he’d be losing his hair and thining up, but he has through these years. It’s strange that he peers into the mirror and finds that he recognizes himself less and less with everyday. It was a simple mission: Andre sweet talks himself with a glass of champagne rolling lazily in his hand into a group of the Russian political elite. Dmitri Raskolnikov (the last name was actually Nico’s idea).

         “Why the hell do I get to be called Александр?”, JEV groaned a week earlier, leaning back in his chair, “That’s a boring name.”

         Nico scoffs, “Are you really going to be picky about your alias? ”

         Robin had bumped JEV’s shoulder playfully behind him, “What are you talking about? He is always picky! Why do you think he never drinks the coffee here?”

         Robin was alive then.

         JEV’s mouth is dry and his hands stiff in front of him as he sprints. It’s a long marble hallway, little reflections of the tile glisten of the ceiling. If, perhaps, he wasn’t being shot at, then he could’ve thought that it was beautiful. He sweats beneath the collar of his suit and his fingers are beginning to quake. The footsteps and shouts follow them with a peculiar whizz of bullets dashing into the stone. Suddenly, hands wrap over the back of his neckline, tugging him backwards. JEV chokes, stumbling backwards and reaching for his throat.

         “Be quiet,” Andre demands, ripping him into an open doorway along the hallway. The footsteps still beat down in the hall towards them. The only thing JEV thinks un-ironically is: Блядь. Andre’s hand clasps over his mouth, tugging him into his chest. “I have another pistol on my calf,” he whispers, “Reach down and get it.”

         JEV realizes it is against the rules, considering he doesn’t even have him own weapon with him at the moment. He nods and he Andre’s frantic heartbeat beats through his chest to his skin. Swallowing, he unloops himself, crouching down in the shadowed room. JEV reaches his hand up his pant leg out of the holster. At that precise moment, the shouting picks up again and a stray bullet splinters the wooden frame of the doorway. JEV throws an arm over Andre, ducking his head at the splinters fraying into his hair.

         “Andre!”, JEV shouts, a white noise ringing in his eardrums. His eyes press shut, his hand rubbing over the side of his hand. Baise, that hurt.

         “JEV, what is going on?!”, Antonio’s voice shatters in his earpiece.

         Andre groans underneath him, his back folded from the ceiling and his body hunched. “Andre?”, JEV swallows thickly, blinking his eyes through the dust and caressing a hand over their spine. At this slight contact, they crumple, sliding to the floor with his head in between his knees. He almost appears like a small child crying out. JEV lowers himself, meeting both of his hands and planting them onto his shoulders. “Please,” he quivers, prodding him, “Talk to me.” A finger taps underneath their chin, lifts his attention to his eyes. His dark pupils are wide, blown and this skin is stiff with a certain shock. JEV’s attention falls to their shoulder, “Why are you holding yourself? Show me.” Hesitantly, eyes squinting, Andre removes his hand from underneath his waistcoat. JEV has experienced his world crumpling quite a few times. He felt it when he watched Mitch’s eyes fade, when he saw Alex in that long hallway, and now as he kneels on the ground beside Andre. “What is that on your hand?”, he trembles, everything slowing.

         Andre peers into his eyes and it is perhaps the only time he has ever seemed afraid.

         JEV knows then what it is.

         It’s blood.

____________________________

         Less than thirty minutes ago, JEV had been able to sneak himself out of the eye’s view into the backroom at the top of the stairs, stripped the hard drive and hidden it into his coat pocket as though it never had happened.

         “Do you have it?”, Antonio questioned quietly.

         “Yes,” JEV whispers, searching both ways. There must have been a silent alarm because seconds later he is on his knees with a pistol to his skull. The cold metal stabs into the outage of his neck. He is of few who doesn’t believe it’s cowardly to close your eyes when you believe you are going to die. If he closes his eyes, he could imagine anything he pleases: he chooses what he sees last. That’s what he envisions, a two story house with green fields and a setting sun. There is a sensation of ardor like no other and Andre is dressed up in these colors, all of these hues as though they were specifically for him and him alone. The gunfire goes off and JEV laments: I must be dead. Something thumps to the ground.

         “JEV!”, a voice hollers in the space.

         He parts his eyes and Andre is standing above looking into him. “Andre?”, he edges, nictating widely.

         “We don’t have much time,” he grabs the pads of his shoulders and tugs him onto his feet, “We have to run.” The confidence in his voice causes JEV nod and reach for his hand.

         This is my confession.

         I am dark.

         And you will always find those lighter pieces of me.

         All of my pieces.

         Just for you.

         Andre moans again and JEV snaps back to his attention. “Lotterer has been hit,” he stammers and his eyes spy about wildly.

         “Is he–is he…”

         “No,” JEV interrupts and Andre’s eyes are slits, his head reclined back and his features tight.

         “Plan B–”

         “No,” JEV snaps and Andre smirks slightly, a bit of blood dripping from the corner of his mouth. “We have to get him out of here,” he barks.

         “You have a mission.”

         “Andre has a life!”, he shouts frantically, his face heating and rising with every drip of energy. JEV can’t stand the thought of coffins, or funerals. He’s lost too many in his years, too many. For a moment, Robin snaps into his mind but he quickly shakes it away. “I can’t–”, he can hear the voices approaching, “We can’t lose another.”

         There is a recess as if all of the activity in the world as ceased. A breath, “Then do your job.”

         JEV’s fist pounds into the floor and he rubs his face roughly. “JEV…”, Andre whimpers and he immediately spins towards him.

         “Yes?”, he uses the pad of his thumb to wipe away the blood. “Just keep pressing there,” he directs his hand to the wound in his collar.

         “Take this.”

         Something chilled, hard and metal drops into his hand. It takes JEV a second to want to look away from Andre’s face. “You’ll need this,” he beams softly and the light bulb in the chandelier flickers and wanes like a candle across the sweaty grime of his face. It’s a pistol. It’s his pistol. “Remind us all of why you deserve this,” he nods.

         “Andre–”

         “Go,” he demands, shooing him away, “Go save us.”

         Andre always tastes like bullets.

         A ticking time bomb.

         The both of them are fumbling to cut the right wires.

         JEV slides along the tile, scampering at the sting of bullets erupting behind him. One crumbles the marble above his head. “Which way?”, he huffs, the adrenaline coursing through his veins causing him to be suddenly aware of everything in his surroundings.

         “Right. At the end you’ll get to the staircase.”

         It’s oddly quiet at this end.

         Andre once told him: “I’m not a marrying man.”

         JEV had believed the same thing. But for now, as he dodges life and death for the first time in six months, he believes that his hand looks rather naked without a gold band on his left finger. There is a box on the door. “What is the code?”, he frantics, panning over his shoulder and then back again

         “1-9-1-8.”

         Ironic and tragic.

         He punches in the code with a shaking finger and the door buzzes.

         “Now, go up the stairs and Lopez–”

         JEV’s hand tugs open the door. But then something makes him pause on the first step. Andre. “No,” he strides away, the door crashed shut behind.

         “Vergne, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

         “I’m not leaving Andre,” he purses his lips. The cuff of his sleeve is ripped, the collar of his shirt is patent at the neck. “I am not losing another person,” the ear piece irritates him and he contemplates taking it out as he passes back the way that he had come through a maze of marble hallways and doors. His heartbeat drums in his ears.

         “Listen to me,” and it causes JEV to stop, his hand catching on the wall to steady himself. “You can’t save everyone,” and those eyes, they are there glaring into his, lifeless and dull. “You’re risking your life, your risking the life of others. He isn’t Mitch, JEV, Andre isn’t Mitch. You didn’t know what was going to happen that day. No one of us did. Robin was on that mission, Bruno was there too, you aren’t the only person at fault,” a sting pierces into his core, prodding at the very sense of who it is he is.

         “Robin is dead. Bruno retired. I am all that is left,” his throat closes.

         A slow draw of air arrives from the other end. “Come home,” and the last sentence shatters his illusion.

         His bones ease together. “Have you ever seen someone become more and more beautiful everytime that you saw that them?”

         “Where are you going with this?”

         “You can’t live without them.“ He reaches towards his ear, “I can’t live without him.” He tugs out the earpiece, “I can’t make the same mistake I did before. I’m sorry.” And, in the end, not a part of him feels guilty.

         Andre’s eyes are closed when he arrives again. JEV gasps, sliding to the ground and his arm folds underneath his arms. “Can you stand?”, he whispers, struggling to lift his weight up. The tufts of his brown hair tickle up underneath his chin. “You’re going to be okay, Andre,” he ushers him out of the doorway.

         “JEV…”, he stumbles at a corner, fighting to regain his balance.

         “We are almost there,” JEV soothes, rubbing circles into his back.

         “I need to ask you something.”

         “Please,” he begs, “Don’t speak.”

         “No,” Andre frowns, his mouth twisting firmly in pain, “I have to ask you.”

         “What?”, the door is just a few meters away now.

         “Will you marry me one day?”

         JEV doubletakes and his body freezes involuntarily. The image is there once again, the nature and the sun. Everything that makes the world so beautiful in the end. His future plays like a spell in the back of his mind. He shakes it off and continues, “Why are you asking right now?”

         “Just in case.”

         “You’re not going to die,” JEV darts, his hand shifting over the keypad and the door closes behind them.

         “Please,” his whimpers. His voice is so tiny under his shoulder as he drags him up the staircase.

         “Lopez is waiting with the helicopter.”

         “Jean-Eric.”

         The breath catches in his throat. A ball of matted words clinging to his tongue. “I-”, he swallows, “I will. I’ll marry you one day.”

         Andre chuckles lightly, his head tipping forward and his feet dragging, catching on the edges of the steps. “I knew you would,” he simpers. Their eyes close just before they reach the roof, his body crumpling.

         “Andre? Andre! Hold on, love, just hold on for me.”

______________________________

         JEV hates hospitals. He despises the way that they smell, the sensory they give him. But he’s sitting beside Andre on a bed as they pick and prod at his wound. Because he is too nice, Andre doesn’t snap, he only digs his nails into the palm of JEV’s hand to contain the pain. In a simple moment of clarity, he turns to him, his attention blinking faintly into his.

         “Do you still want to get married one day?”

         The doctor holds back a laugh, “Where do you guys work?”

         JEV peers down at his clothing: his torn suit and haggard appearance. A headache throbs deeply behind his brow and bags weight heavily on his cheeks. The clock on the wall ticks past five in the morning and his vision blurs as his eyes drip for the need of sleep. “We’re lawyers,” he lies.

         Andre raises a curious brow and his face is pale, pallid in the fluorescent lighting. “Yes,” he confirms, nodding slowly, “We are lawyers.”

         The Doctor hums. “You do a lot of shooting as lawyers?”

         “Of course,” JEV chimes.

         “Absolutely.“

         The curtain around them shuffles and Heidfeld’s head peers through the parting, catching everyone’s attention. “Sorry to interrupt,” he ruffles his blonde hair with his hand and glares to JEV. “Di Grassi wants to see you.”

         Oh boy.

________________________________

         JEV would prefer if he could go back to the hospital with Andre’s kisses on his forehead and crawl in beside him after a long shower. The disgust is heavy upon his wretched soul. Antonio is exiting the office as he enters. There is a still moment of tension and contact before he glances to the ground and brushes past him in the doorway. Lucas stands with his head down staring at a stack of papers and he glances up at the knock gently rapping at the frame. But he doesn’t smile. He only gestures to the chair in front of his desk with a low, unruly gaze. JEV sits, his long limbs crouching and knocking together in the tiny office space.

         “You disobeyed the plan,” Lucas stiffs out. The only thing JEV notices is that they forgot to brush their hair that morning.

         JEV leans back in the chair, “I know.”

         “You could’ve gotten yourself killed,” Lucas’s vision narrows, his shadowed eyes staring out at him from behind his desk.

         “I know.”

         “You sacrificed not only your team members for yourself or your own personal agenda.”

         He rises heatedly, “But–”

         “But,” Lucas lingers, his fingers unlacing from in front of him. “You did get the hard drive, and you saved your partner successfully with a clear head.” Lucas is the type of man to draw in dramatics, the theater type nearly.

         “And…”

         He squints and then reaches into his desk drawer. A leather badge glistens the light. “You can have your certification and your gun back.” JEV blinks blankly for a moment before reaching for it. Sliding it across the table closer towards himself and peering around it. Just the same as it was before, cracked, fraying from years of work and the weapon with his fingerprints planted all over it.

         “What are we doing to get Sam back?”

         Lucas recesses, licking at his lips in thought. “Da Costa told me you want somewhere warmer?”, he raises a brow.

         JEV shrugs, “Sure.”

         There is a pause. “How do you feel about Portugal?”

         “Why Portugal?”

         Lucas smiles sadly, “So you can murder the sons of bitches who took Sam Bird.”

         Andre told him something before he had left the hospital in between swears of agony and broken sentences:

         “Not everything is terrible in the end, isn’t it? The world isn’t so frightening after all.”

         JEV had shut his eyes and leaned his head on his shoulder.

         Especially with you, love. Especially with you.

[nethwan]

I Found you

Sebastugal for @d-joana-a-shippadora Happy birthday! I hope you like it :’v 

It was a very warm afternoon, the streets seemed calm, and there weren’t so many people. Paulo went out on a walk, hands in pockets he walked around, and he felt bored. That week he didn’t have so much to do. Suddenly, someone got his attention; a blond young man was sitting there, admiring the city. “A tourist” he thought, but there was something on him, something…

The young man felt observed and turned around to see him, he smiled and Paulo smiled awkwardly. Paulo came back to his home. It was getting dark, and he was hungry, besides he didn’t know what his brother was going to cook, he tasted that olive oil again and worried. So, it was better to hurry up.

The next day, when he went to buy groceries, the young man was in the same place, this time he had a camera. The man looked at him and smiled again. He just nodded as a greeting.

They saw each other every day, and they just smiled. Paulo started having a strange warm feeling on his chest. Every time, he knew he would see him, he felt his heart beating fast and his legs trembled. He wondered why, they hadn’t talk and even more important, he didn’t even know his name.

He thought about asking him, but with which excuse? He wasn’t shy at all, but somehow, that man intimidated him. The next day, he tried to be very casual and ask him some random question.

“Hmmm excuse me, what time is it?” he asked.

“12 o’clock” the man said laughing and looking at Paulo’s watch.

Paulo was embarrassed, he felt so dumb. He forgot to take off his watch first.

“I’m sorry. I am Sebastião” he said.

“Paulo”

“Nice to meet you” the man smiled.

He was about to ask him more questions, but Antonio went to see him to tell him about the surprise visit from their parents. Paulo sighed disappointed; their parents chose a very bad time to visit them. He said bye to Sebastião.

“Who’s your friend?” his brother asked.

“Shut up”

Two days later, Paulo found Sebastião in the same place of the past days, with his camera as always.

“And what are you doing here? Are you a tourist?” he asked pointing at his camera.

“No, I live here now because of my job. I was born in Lisbon, but I always wanted to visit Coimbra. Are you from here?”

“No, in fact I was born in Lisbon too, but I’ve been living here with my brother for a couple of years. Because of work too”

“I see. Hey! Maybe you could show me around… but only if you want, of course” Sebastião said nervous.

“Ok”

Almost everyday they hung out, took pictures and talked for hours. Sebastião was a history teacher, he was in love with the history of Portugal, and his hobby was the photography. Paulo has never met someone as interesting as Sebastião. He liked his sweet smile and the way he laughed when he told him some silly joke.

Sometimes, he invited him to have dinner. Antonio left them alone, so they could talk more calmly and being more comfortable. Then, Paulo played the guitar for him. One of those nights they said goodbye with a kiss.

“And of what do you take pictures?” Paulo asked him.

“Buildings, random people and you. From that time before talk” he admitted.

Paulo felt flattered and curious.

“May I see them?”

“Maybe one day, but no now”

However, the next day, Sebastião wasn’t there, neither the day after nor all the week. Those days were so difficult for Paulo. He missed Sebastião. Why did he leave him? At least, he would have like to hear some words, his reasons, and a goodbye. He was about to lose his faith on everything when Sebastião appeared at his door. He looked fatigued as if he had run.

“I am sorry… I had to go to Lisbon… but I won’t disappear again, I promise” he said trying to breath.

Paulo looked at him serious.

“You fool”

And he approached to hug him. He would never let him go again.

[thefortyeightlawsofpower-blog]

LAW # 34 : BE ROYAL IN YOUR OWN FASHION: ACT LIKE A KING TO BE TREATED LIKE ONE

JUDGEMENT

The way you carry yourself will often determine how you are treated: In the long run, appearing vulgar or common will make people disrespect you. For a king respects himself and inspires the same sentiment in others. By acting regally and confident of your powers, you make yourself seem destined to wear a crown.

TRANSGRESSION OF THE LAW

In July of 1830, a revolution broke out in Paris that forced the king, Charles X, to abdicate. A commission of the highest authorities in the land gathered to choose a successor, and the man they picked was Louis-Philippe, the Duke of Orléans.

From the beginning it was clear that Louis-Philippe would be a different kind of king, and not just because he came from a different branch of the royal family, or because he had not inherited the crown but had been given it, by a commission, putting his legitimacy in question. Rather it was that he disliked ceremony and the trappings of royalty; he had more friends among the bankers than among the nobility; and his style was not to create a new kind of royal rule, as Napoleon had done, but to downplay his status, the better to mix with the businessmen and middle-class folk who had called him to lead. Thus the symbols that came to be associated with Louis-Philippe were neither the scepter nor the crown, but the gray hat and umbrella with which he would proudly walk the streets of Paris, as if he were a bourgeois out for a stroll. When Louis-Philippe invited James Rothschild, the most important banker in France, to his palace, he treated him as an equal. And unlike any king before him, not only did he talk business with Monsieur Rothschild but that was literally all he talked, for he loved money and had amassed a huge fortune.

As the reign of the “bourgeois king” plodded on, people came to despise him. The aristocracy could not endure the sight of an unkingly king, and within a few years they turned on him. Meanwhile the growing class of the poor, including the radicals who had chased out Charles X, found no satisfaction in a ruler who neither acted as a king nor governed as a man of the people. The bankers to whom Louis-Philippe was the most beholden soon realized that it was they who controlled the country, not he, and they treated him with growing contempt. One day, at the start of a train trip organized for the royal family, James Rothschild actually berated him—and in public—for being late. Once the king had made news by treating the banker as an equal; now the banker treated the king as an inferior.

Eventually the workers’ insurrections that had brought down Louis-Philippe’s predecessor began to reemerge, and the king put them down with force. But what was he defending so brutally? Not the institution of the monarchy, which he disdained, nor a democratic republic, which his rule prevented. What he was really defending, it seemed, was his own fortune, and the fortunes of the bankers—not a way to inspire loyalty among the citizenry.

Never lose your self-respect, nor be too familiar with yoetrself when you are alone. Let your integrity itself be your own standard of rectitude, and be more indebted to the severity of your own judgment of yourself than to all external precepts. Desist from unseemly conduct, rather out of respect for your own virtue than for the strictures of external authority. Come to hold yourself in awe, and you will have no need of Seneca’s imaginary tittor.

BALIASAR GRACIAN. 1601-1658

In early 1848, Frenchmen of all classes began to demonstrate for electoral reforms that would make the country truly democratic. By February the demonstrations had turned violent. To assuage the populace, Louis-Philippe fired his prime minister and appointed a liberal as a replacement. But this created the opposite of the desired effect: The people sensed they could push the king around. The demonstrations turned into a full-fledged revolution, with gunfire and barricades in the streets.

On the night of February 23, a crowd of Parisians surrounded the palace. With a suddenness that caught everyone by surprise, Louis-Philippe abdicated that very evening and fled to England. He left no successor, nor even the suggestion of one—his whole government folded up and dissolved like a traveling circus leaving town.

Interpretation

Louis-Philippe consciously dissolved the aura that naturally pertains to kings and leaders. Scoffing at the symbolism of grandeur, he believed a new world was dawning, where rulers should act and be like ordinary citizens. He was right: A new world, without kings and queens, was certainly on its way. He was profoundly wrong, however, in predicting a change in the dynamics of power.

The bourgeois king’s hat and umbrella amused the French at first, but soon grew irritating. People knew that Louis-Philippe was not really like them at all—that the hat and umbrella were essentially a kind of trick to encourage them in the fantasy that the country had suddenly grown more equal. Actually, though, the divisions of wealth had never been greater. The French expected their ruler to be a bit of a showman, to have some presence. Even a radical like Robespierre, who had briefly come to power during the French Revolution fifty years earlier, had understood this, and certainly Napoleon, who had turned the revolutionary republic into an imperial regime, had known it in his bones. Indeed as soon as Louis-Philippe fled the stage, the French revealed their true desire: They elected Napoleon’s grand-nephew president. He was a virtual unknown, but they hoped he would re-create the great general’s powerful aura, erasing the awkward memory of the “bourgeois king.”

Powerful people may be tempted to affect a common-man aura, trying to create the illusion that they and their subjects or underlings are basically the same. But the people whom this false gesture is intended to impress will quickly see through it. They understand that they are not being given more power—that it only appears as if they shared in the powerful person’s fate. The only kind of common touch that works is the kind affected by Franklin Roosevelt, a style that said the president shared values and goals with the common people even while he remained a patrician at heart. He never pretended to erase his distance from the crowd.

Leaders who try to dissolve that distance through a false chumminess gradually lose the ability to inspire loyalty, fear, or love. Instead they elicit contempt. Like Louis-Philippe, they are too uninspiring even to be worth the guillotine—the best they can do is simply vanish in the night, as if they were never there.

OBSERVANCE OF THE LAW

When Christopher Columbus was trying to find funding for his legendary voyages, many around him believed he came from the Italian aristocracy. This view was passed into history through a biography written after the explorer’s death by his son, which describes him as a descendant of a Count Colombo of the Castle of Cuccaro in Montferrat. Colombo in turn was said to be descended from the legendary Roman general Colonius, and two of his first cousins were supposedly direct descendants of an emperor of Con stantinople. An illustrious background indeed. But it was nothing more than illustrious fantasy, for Columbus was actually the son of Domenico Colombo, a humble weaver who had opened a wine shop when Christopher was a young man, and who then made his living by selling cheese.

Columbus himself had created the myth of his noble background, because from early on he felt that destiny had singled him out for great things, and that he had a kind of royalty in his blood. Accordingly he acted as if he were indeed descended from noble stock. After an uneventful career as a merchant on a commercial vessel, Columbus, originally from Genoa, settled in Lisbon. Using the fabricated story of his noble background, he married into an established Lisbon family that had excellent connections with Portuguese royalty.

Through his in-laws, Columbus finagled a meeting with the king of Portugal, Joao II, whom he petitioned to finance a westward voyage aimed at discovering a shorter route to Asia. In return for announcing that any discoveries he achieved would be made in the king’s name, Columbus wanted a series of rights: the title Grand Admiral of the Oceanic Sea; the office of viceroy over any lands he found; and 10 percent of the future commerce with such lands. All of these rights were to be hereditary and for all time. Columbus made these demands even though he had previously been a mere merchant, he knew almost nothing about navigation, he could not work a quadrant, and he had never led a group of men. In short he had absolutely no qualifications for the journey he proposed. Furthermore, his petition included no details as to how he would accomplish his plans, just vague promises.

When Columbus finished his pitch, João II smiled: He politely declined the offer, but left the door open for the future. Here Columbus must have noticed something he would never forget: Even as the king turned down the sailor’s demands, he treated them as legitimate. He neither laughed at Columbus nor questioned his background and credentials. In fact the king was impressed by the boldness of Columbus’s requests, and clearly felt comfortable in the company of a man who acted so confidently. The meeting must have convinced Columbus that his instincts were correct: By asking for the moon, he had instantly raised his own status, for the king assumed that unless a man who set such a high price on himself were mad, which Columbus did not appear to be, he must somehow be worth it.

In the next generation the family became much more famous than before through the distinction conferred upon it by Cleisthenes the master of Sicyon. Cleisthenes... had a daughter, Agarista, whom he wished to marry to the best man in all Greece. So during the Olympic games, in which he had himself won the chariot race, he had a public announcement made, to the effect that any Greek who thought himself good enough to become Cleisthenes’ son-in-law should present himself in Sicyon within sixty days—or sooner if he wished—because he intended, within the year following the sixtieth day, to betroth his daughter to her future husband. Cleisthenes had had a race-track and a wrestling-ring specially made for his purpose, and presently the suitors began to arrive—every man of Greek nationality who had something to be proud of either in his country or in himself.... Cleisthenes began by asking each [of the numerous suitors] in turn to name his country and parentage; then he kept them in his house for a year, to get to know them well, entering into conversation with them sometimes singly, sometimes all together, and testing each of them for his manly qualities and temper, education and manners.... But the most important test of all was their behaviour at the dinner-table. All this went on throughout their stay in Sicyon, and all the time he entertained them handsomely. For one reason or another it was the two Athenians who impressed Cleisthenes most favourably, and of the two Tisander’s son Hippocleides came to be preferred.... At last the day came which had been fixed for the betrothal, and Cleisthenes had to declare his choice. He nzarked the day by the sacrifice of a hundred oxen, and then gave a great banquet, to which not only the suitors but everyone of note in Sicyon was invited. When dinner was over, the suitors began to compete with each other in music and in talking in company. In both these accomplishments it was Hippocleides who proved by far the doughtiest champion, until at last, as more and more wine was drunk, he asked the flute-player to play him a tune and began to dance to it. Now it may well be that he danced to his own satisfaction; Cleisthenes, however, who was watching the performance, began to have serious doubts about the whole business. Presently, after a brief pause, Hippocleides sent for a table; the table was brought, and Hippocleides, climbing on to it, danced first some Laconian dances, next some Attic ones, and ended by standing on his head and beating time with his legs in the air The Laconian and Attic dances were bad enough; but Cleisthenes, though he already loathed the thought of having a son-in-law like that, nevertheless restrained himself and managed to avoid an outburst; but when he saw Hippocleides beating time with his legs, he could bear it no longer. “Son of Tisander, ”he cried, “you have danced away your marriage. ”

THE HISTORIES, Herodotus, FIFTH CENTURY B.C.

A few years later Columbus moved to Spain. Using his Portuguese connections, he moved in elevated circles at the Spanish court, receiving subsidies from illustrious financiers and sharing tables with dukes and princes. To all these men he repeated his request for financing for a voyage to the west—and also for the rights he had demanded from João II. Some, such as the powerful duke of Medina, wanted to help, but could not, since they lacked the power to grant him the titles and rights he wanted. But Columbus would not back down. He soon realized that only one person could meet his demands: Queen Isabella. In 1487 he finally managed a meeting with the queen, and although he could not convince her to finance the voyage, he completely charmed her, and became a frequent guest in the palace.

In 1492 the Spanish finally expelled the Moorish invaders who centuries earlier had seized parts of the country. With the wartime burden on her treasury lifted, Isabella felt she could finally respond to the demands of her explorer friend, and she decided to pay for three ships, equipment, the salaries of the crews, and a modest stipend for Columbus. More important, she had a contract drawn up that granted Columbus the titles and rights on which he had insisted. The only one she denied—and only in the contract’s fine print—was the 10 percent of all revenues from any lands discovered: an absurd demand, since he wanted no time limit on it. (Had the clause been left in, it would eventually have made Columbus and his heirs the wealthiest family on the planet. Columbus never read the fine print.)

Satisfied that his demands had been met, Columbus set sail that same year in search of the passage to Asia. (Before he left he was careful to hire the best navigator he could find to help him get there.) The mission failed to find such a passage, yet when Columbus petitioned the queen to finance an even more ambitious voyage the following year, she agreed. By then she had come to see Columbus as destined for great things.

Interpretation

As an explorer Columbus was mediocre at best. He knew less about the sea than did the average sailor on his ships, could never determine the latitude and longitude of his discoveries, mistook islands for vast continents, and treated his crew badly. But in one area he was a genius: He knew how to sell himsel£ How else to explain how the son of a cheese vendor, a low-level sea merchant, managed to ingratiate himself with the highest royal and aristocratic families?

Columbus had an amazing power to charm the nobility, and it all came from the way he carried himself. He projected a sense of confidence that was completely out of proportion to his means. Nor was his confidence the aggressive, ugly self-promotion of an upstart—it was a quiet and calm self-assurance. In fact it was the same confidence usually shown by the nobility themselves. The powerful in the old-style aristocracies felt no need to prove or assert themselves; being noble, they knew they always deserved more, and asked for it. With Columbus, then, they felt an instant affinity, for he carried himself just the way they did—elevated above the crowd, destined for greatness.

Understand: It is within your power to set your own price. How you carry yourself reflects what you think of yourself. If you ask for little, shuffle your feet and lower your head, people will assume this reflects your character. But this behavior is not you—it is only how you have chosen to present yourself to other people. You can just as easily present the Columbus front: buoyancy, confidence, and the feeling that you were born to wear a crown.

With all great deceivers there is a noteworthy occurrence to which they owe their power. In the actual act of deception they are overcome by belief in themselves: it is this which then speaks so miraculously and compellingly to those around them.

Friedrich Nietzsche, 1844-1900

KEYS TO POWER

As children, we start our lives with great exuberance, expecting and demanding everything from the world. This generally carries over into our first forays into society, as we begin our careers. But as we grow older the rebuffs and failures we experience set up boundaries that only get firmer with time. Coming to expect less from the world, we accept limitations that are really self-imposed. We start to bow and scrape and apologize for even the simplest of requests. The solution to such a shrinking of horizons is to deliberately force ourselves in the opposite direction—to downplay the failures and ignore the limitations, to make ourselves demand and expect as much as the child. To accomplish this, we must use a particular strategy upon ourselves. Call it the Strategy of the Crown.

The Strategy of the Crown is based on a simple chain of cause and effect: If we believe we are destined for great things, our belief will radiate outward, just as a crown creates an aura around a king. This outward radiance will infect the people around us, who will think we must have reasons to feel so confident. People who wear crowns seem to feel no inner sense of the limits to what they can ask for or what they can accomplish. This too radiates outward. Limits and boundaries disappear. Use the Strategy of the Crown and you will be surprised how often it bears fruit. Take as an example those happy children who ask for whatever they want, and get it. Their high expectations are their charm. Adults enjoy granting their wishes—just as Isabella enjoyed granting the wishes of Columbus.

Throughout history, people of undistinguished birth—the Theodoras of Byzantium, the Columbuses, the Beethovens, the Disraelis—have managed to work the Strategy of the Crown, believing so firmly in their own greatness that it becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. The trick is simple: Be overcome by your self-belief. Even while you know you are practicing a kind of deception on yourself, act like a king. You are likely to be treated as one.

The crown may separate you from other people, but it is up to you to make that separation real: You have to act differently, demonstrating your distance from those around you. One way to emphasize your difference is to always act with dignity, no matter the circumstance. Louis-Philippe gave no sense of being different from other people—he was the banker king. And the moment his subjects threatened him, he caved in. Everyone sensed this and pounced. Lacking regal dignity and firmness of purpose, Louis-Philippe seemed an impostor, and the crown was easily toppled from his head.

Regal bearing should not be confused with arrogance. Arrogance may seem the king’s entitlement, but in fact it betrays insecurity. It is the very opposite of a royal demeanor.

Haile Selassie, ruler of Ethiopia for forty or so years beginning in 1930, was once a young man named Lij Tafari. He came from a noble family, but there was no real chance of him coming to power, for he was far down the line of succession from the king then on the throne, Menelik II. Nevertheless, from an early age he exhibited a self-confidence and a royal bearing that surprised everyone around him.

At the age of fourteen, Tafari went to live at the court, where he immediately impressed Menelik and became his favorite. Tafari’s grace under fire, his patience, and his calm self-assurance fascinated the king. The other young nobles, arrogant, blustery, and envious, would push this slight, bookish teenager around. But he never got angry—that would have been a sign of insecurity, to which he would not stoop. There were already people around him who felt he would someday rise to the top, for he acted as if he were already there.

Years later, in 1936, when the Italian Fascists had taken over Ethiopia and Tafari, now called Haile Selassie, was in exile, he addressed the League of Nations to plead his country’s case. The Italians in the audience heckled him with vulgar abuse, but he maintained his dignified pose, as if completely unaffected. This elevated him while making his opponents look even uglier. Dignity, in fact, is invariably the mask to assume under difficult circumstances: It is as if nothing can affect you, and you have all the time in the world to respond. This is an extremely powerful pose.

A royal demeanor has other uses. Con artists have long known the value of an aristocratic front; it either disarms people and makes them less suspicious, or else it intimidates them and puts them on the defensive—and as Count Victor Lustig knew, once you put a sucker on the defensive he is doomed. The con man Yellow Kid Weil, too, would often assume the trappings of a man of wealth, along with the nonchalance that goes with them. Alluding to some magical method of making money, he would stand aloof, like a king, exuding confidence as if he really were fabulously rich. The suckers would beg to be in on the con, to have a chance at the wealth that he so clearly displayed.

Finally, to reinforce the inner psychological tricks involved in projecting a royal demeanor, there are outward strategies to help you create the effect. First, the Columbus Strategy: Always make a bold demand. Set your price high and do not waver. Second, in a dignified way, go after the highest person in the building. This immediately puts you on the same plane as the chief executive you are attacking. It is the David and Goliath Strategy: By choosing a great opponent, you create the appearance of greatness.

Third, give a gift of some sort to those above you. This is the strategy of those who have a patron: By giving your patron a gift, you are essentially saying that the two of you are equal. It is the old con game of giving so that you can take. When the Renaissance writer Pietro Aretino wanted the Duke of Mantua as his next patron, he knew that if he was slavish and sycophantic, the duke would think him unworthy; so he approached the duke with gifts, in this case paintings by the writer’s good friend Titian. Accepting the gifts created a kind of equality between duke and writer: The duke was put at ease by the feeling that he was dealing with a man of his own aristocratic stamp. He funded Aretino generously. The gift strategy is subtle and brilliant because you do not beg: You ask for help in a dignified way that implies equality between two people, one of whom just happens to have more money.

Remember: It is up to you to set your own price. Ask for less and that is just what you will get. Ask for more, however, and you send a signal that you are worth a king’s ransom. Even those who turn you down respect you for your confidence, and that respect will eventually pay off in ways you cannot imagine.

Image: The Crown. Place it upon your head and you assume a different pose—tranquil yet radiating assurance. Never show doubt, never lose your dignity beneath the crown, or it will not fit. It will seem to be destined for one more worthy. Do not wait for a coronation; the greatest emperors crown themselves.

Authority: Everyone should be royal after his own fashion. Let all your actions, even though they are not those of a king, be, in their own sphere, worthy of one. Be sublime in your deeds, lofty in your thoughts; and in all your doings show that you deserve to be a king even though you are not one in reality. (Baltasar Gracián, 1601-1658)

REVERSAL

The idea behind the assumption of regal confidence is to set yourself apart from other people, but if you take this too far it will be your undoing. Never make the mistake of thinking that you elevate yourself by humiliating people. Also, it is never a good idea to loom too high above the crowd—you make an easy target. And there are times when an aristocratic pose is eminently dangerous.

Charles I, king of England during the 1640s, faced a profound public disenchantment with the institution of monarchy. Revolts erupted throughout the country, led by Oliver Cromwell. Had Charles reacted to the times with insight, supporting reforms and making a show of sacrificing some of his power, history might have been different. Instead he reverted to an even more regal pose, seeming outraged by the assault on his power and on the divine institution of monarchy. His stiff kingliness offended people and spurred on their revolts. And eventually Charles lost his head, literally. Understand: You are radiating confidence, not arrogance or disdain.

Finally, it is true that you can sometimes find some power through affecting a kind of earthy vulgarity, which will prove amusing by its extreme-ness. But to the extent that you win this game by going beyond the limits, separating yourself from other people by appearing even more vulgar than they are, the game is dangerous: There will always be people more vulgar than you, and you will easily be replaced the following season by someone younger and worse.

[reds-revenge]

im feeling evil so ALL THE LOCATION ASKS

>:( probably Josie anon, do you know how many times I gotta switch pages now? I’m kidding you’re cool mobile just sucks.

*deep breath* here we go

Amsterdam: yeah, I think so. I’ve always been the weird one, usually in a nice way but I’m still the weird one. I kinda sound like a robot when I’m tired, or trying to accomplish something, and I guess that’s not how all people think?? Anyway.

Athens: ahaha I’m not a perfectionist, I’m the PLATONIC IDEAL OF A PERFECTIONIST. Listen okay I will sink as much time as I need to get it perfect, that’s happening less with the depression bc I just can’t get it up to my standard, I’m trying to make this a Growing Opportunity and learn to set Attainable Goals, but it usually ends with me panicking instead. Ah well

Belgrade: my mother had a loooong list of names and my dad tried to mock them all, they only kept ones that you couldn’t really make weird nicknames for, one of my friends took that as a challenge and called me Kira the Mirra (like mirror) for a year, it was interesting

mom called my kiramodo dragon bc of some noise I made when I was a baby. I thought my name was baby for a while bc they called me Baby Kira my Deara. Then I decided I wasn’t a baby and dubbed myself Kira my Deara the Kid.

Berlin: well for that I’d have to KNOW what I what. I can usually do whatever, but I would really like is absolute certainty about things like do I exist, am I hurting people by existing, etc. and that’s just not something we get in this life. It’s :) so :) fun :) :) :)

Bratislava: it doesn’t have a firm genre, there’s a lot of oddly philosophical themes for something that’s mostly sci fi/ comedy, but there’s also bildungsroman elements bc life amiright, and what’s science besides a mystery?

The protagonist is Done™ with everyone including herself, there’s cephalopods.

Brussels: I’m not fluent in all the languages I borrow from but yeah I do this a lot, I’m a language nerd. I did it more often when I was younger and still liked learning Latin.

Bucharest: NOT ON PURPOSE OKAY, WE’D KNOWN EACH OTHER SINCE WE WERE FIVE SO ALMOST TEN YEARS AT THE TIME, I THOUGHT OF HIM AS MY BROTHER, WHY THE FUCK IS HE WRITING EMO STORIES ABOUT KISSING ME WE WERE S I B L I N G S.

I don’t think of him as family anymore but not bc of the ~*drama*~, I learned some Things and grew Wise. (Well, wisER)

Budapest: maybe, I was five, my love was unrequited. We ended up being friends bc in such a small class whatcha gonna do? We didn’t talk about that fiasco for ten years, turns out that whole declaring my love to the class thing was pretty awkward for him. Whoops.

Copenhagen: outside of old, distant relatives, no. I haven’t actually kissed someone romantically before at all, and I don’t have a desire to. I’m not saying I wouldn’t ever someday, I just haven’t sought that kinda thing out.

Dublin: between being a minor and being an obsessive rule follower, that hasn’t happened. I doubt I ever will, losing even the slightest bit of control over myself terrifies me

Helsinki: now this is interesting. I’m guessing this is referring to romantic love, but it doesn’t SAY that.

Look, I wanna be a scientist. Like really really wanna be a scientist, always have, always will. This sounds cliche but I feel like I was made for the sciences, I really do.

but I gotta go with love. Not romantic necessarily, just in general. And this isn’t a “well I’d better choose the Virtuous thing.” Like, I feel made for science, but science doesn’t mean anything if you’re not using it for something. Neither does art for that matter. Idk, but without love–for my family, my friends, for squids, for God–i just don’t see the point of this whole life thing. So yeah, I’m going with love

Kiev: YES AND FRANKLY I’D CHOOSE THE KNIFE EVERY TIME. I’m not gonna tell you EVERYTHING EVER THAT WAS SAID TO ME bc that would take way too long but yes, yes I have even when they weren’t trying to be knife words

Lisbon: I’m honestly not sure, like I like Hamilton’s America but I hate Trump’s, also I’m really drawn to the British isles and honestly France and Polynesia and India and Russia are all cool, so like I don’t feel like I belong but I might not belong anywhere if that makes sense? Idk tbh

Ljubljana: not really, I sound like my mother over the phone and if you look at baby pictures without the hair showing Greta and I get mixed up (not by family by friends) I have kind of distinctive hair, so.

London: Google says this is thinking vs feeling basically so I gotta go sense (thinking)

Luxembourg: I REGRET EVERYTHING and I often regret things deeply, like really stupid things bc of ~*damaging theology*~ but now mostly because ~*Ocd*~ (I think idk I guess maybe knocking that board over really will send me to hell, I’ve been spinning over this for YEARS)

Madrid: ALL THE TALENTS but maybe speaking fluent French, juggling, and playing guitar if you want some specifics

Moscow: No. I mean when else would I do all the thinking? Not during the day when I’m half asleep, surely.

Nicosia: whenever I’m nervous or exhausted which is most of the time now tbh

Oslo: HAhahahahaha this is hilarious. I’d like absolute 100% certainty that everything is 100% okay, always has been, and always will be. I don’t know what okay even is here but I know that 100% certainty does not exist and also everything probably isn’t okay, and EVEN IF I KNEW THIS I would still be nervous for some hellish reason, I don’t think I’ll ever actually have peace of mind :/

Paris: I mean yeah, but not more afraid than I am of most things. I guess I’m more scared I’d mess it up somehow

Podgorica: HELL YEAH. I mean, I’m curious about death and franklyitwouldntbeterribleifigothitbyasnipertomorrow @ the government, but setting that aside I’ve been raised on stories of people dying, dying for good or evil but for what they believe and I was kinda scared when I was little that I’d chicken out and surrender to the fascist government or whatever but I won’t, I’ll just do the thing, follow the rule same as any other. And even if my beliefs are wrong we’re all gonna die anyway, so

Prague: not really, no. I’ve got a good family, a good church for once, I’m heading to running start next year to study what I want, I don’t really have something to be jealous of.

I mean I’d like my brain to work but I’m not *jealous* of people who’s brains do the thing, I’m happy for them I just would like to be like that too

Reykjavik: A TINY FLOATING ISLAND COUNTRY I COULD PARK WHERE I WANTED I MEAN I DOUBT I’M GONNA MOVE PERMANENTLY OUT OF AMERICA BECAUSE THAT SOUNDS HARD AND MY FAMILY’S HERE BUT I DON’T LIKE ABSOLUTE RULES WHERE I DON’T NEED THEM

Riga: I would take as many selfies as I had to to get one I only kinda hate, I would post that one. (Yeah this is specific but I’m waiting for the technicality police over here, I totally would tho I don’t really care)

Rome: yeah but not romantically. I mean this is gonna sound weird I’m sorry but once in a blue moon I get an overwhelming sense of God and His love for me, that sounds cheesy or fake or something but I’m too tired to not be painfully honest rn

Sarajevo: TO INFINITY AND BEYOND. I wouldn’t do whatever they asked me to, I’m not gonna sign my mind over bc they’re human too and not always right and maybe the stakes are high etc, but if they need something I'ma do the thing at any cost of time, resources, sanity, etc. to myself I’ve got no boundaries here

Skopje: I honestly don’t know?? I’ve been called a lot of sweet things by a lot of sweet people and I remember EVERY SINGLE ONE and honestly I don’t think I could choose one, they’re all sweet in different ways, you know?

Sofia: not in a physical way, women are shockingly treated differently from men in Puritainville, but most people were fine with me in general if I didn’t touch certain buttons. Everyone had different buttons but never said what they were until whoops! It was fun :)

Mental health is also a super fun topic in Puritainville if you were wondering, someone told my mom when I first pulled out of school that I didn’t need a doctor, I just needed a book on Grace, because clearly my theology was why I couldn’t talk and slept fifteen hours a day

Also being Anglican was interesting, I tried explaining the whole icon thing and Lent and via media but it fell on deaf ears

I dunno if this is prejudice related or not but some guy called me a Pharisee when I was seven bc I told him off for making it impossible for me to follow the rules, he was trying to make us scared to teach us about God’s grace, you can imagine how well tiny Kira handled that

wow okay well I guess that’s a yes then

Stockholm: UNFORTUNATELY

In middle school everyone wrote stories about their thinly disguised classmates, and then in ninth grade creepy mcbadideas wrote stories about me saving him from his life basically and then him saving me from depression with a kiss, it was weird

and then Mom has used the whole family for story ideas

Tallinn: I can’t recall a rumour I’ve heard about myself, I’m very open. There were certainly rumors about me being ~*liberal*~ but that was actually true so idk.

I’d like to hear some though, I’m so out there already it’s gotta be entertaining

Tirana: no??? I’m honestly not sure what sexy is but everyone else seems to? Mom swears boys look at me–she’s usually telling me how not to die at a bus stop when this comes up– but I don’t notice anything

Valletta: thankfully no, at least not a big one. The worst I’ve injured myself was when I kinda timed a jump over a brick wall wrong and took out a chunk of my shin.

Vienna: I gave this one A LOT OF THOUGHT but I don’t think there’s like one song that totally captures my life, I definitely identify with songs but there’s not one single song in part because I’m still trying to process my life, you know? Fit things into the correct slots. Until I do that–if that’s even possible–i won’t have just one song. Sorry!!

Vilnius: yeah, why not? If it’s not like a permanent thing bc I have issues with permanency then it’d be cool, if only to get another point of reference for how things are done

Warsaw: i AM a depression lol. I thought two years was about as long as major depressive episodes lasted but I guess not, or maybe I was misdiagnosed idk

Zagreb: I’ve certainly given my TRUST to people I shouldn’t have, I’ve given my FRIENDSHIP to people I shouldn’t have, but I don’t think I’ve ever given someone my heart when I shouldn’t have.

Zurich: not at all. It’s a means to an end, you need it for college and food and stuff, but outside of that I really don’t care. I’ve been trying to figure out how we could restructure society without money and keep it fair and not suppress individuality and keep everyone taken care of it’s an interesting thought experimentTHERE I’M DONE I hope you appreciate that that took me a couple HOURS JOSIE I love you but WOW am I glad that’s over