#oaths and omissions

[honestlyyidk]

so who was gunna tell me this is the best one

[contemplatingoutlander]

"Once a constitutional crisis becomes an endemic condition, the term no longer usefully describes our collapsing system. Instead, we live in an era of constitutional failure when the relevant institutions cannot fulfill their responsibilities."

—Jack Rakove, PhD, the Coe Professor of History and American Studies and professor of political science and (by courtesy) law, emeritus, at Stanford University.

The historian Jack Rakove makes a chilling case that we are now beyond calling what is happening with the Trump administration a "constitutional crisis." Rakove claims that what we are experiencing now is a "constitutional failure." Below are some excerpts.

The idea that the United States awaits some dread constitutional crisis has become commonplace. For lawyers, such a crisis would likely involve Donald Trump’s administration defying the Supreme Court on some critical ruling. [...] Such scenarios are not unfounded, but they do not diagnose our true malady. Our ongoing constitutional crisis began with the presidential election last November 5. Reelecting an individual culpable for January 6 who has twice made a mockery of the presidential oath of office is itself a constitutional crisis. Nothing in his past or current behavior suggests that Trump has ever felt fidelity to his constitutional duties.

Once a constitutional crisis becomes an endemic condition, the term no longer usefully describes our collapsing system. Instead, we live in an era of constitutional failure when the relevant institutions cannot fulfill their responsibilities.

Because constitutional failure is a term we have never needed to use, it merits a precise definition. First, it must identify the specific situations where the government institutions have manifestly not fulfilled their constitutional functions. Second, it should treat these omissions not as occasional lapses but systemic defects. Third, it must explain how the political and ethical norms of constitutional governance have evaporated.

To apply this framework to the second Trump administration is hardly difficult. The only problem is where to begin. Consider its authoritarian reliance on executive orders to vitiate legally established government activities, its attempt to intimidate institutions outside of government to do its bidding, and its insistence that servile loyalty to the president outweighs fidelity to constitutional norms. That some commentators describe this last practice as the "Führerprinzip"—the Nazi principle that the will of the leader transcends all legal norms—tells us everything.

Deciding whether the Constitution is failing requires asking if and why the other two branches of government have been remiss in checking a rogue executive.

[thedwarrowscholar]

So, I’m writing a fic and I was wondering accent of Khuzdul would Fili and Kili have (I know for definite they would speak classical khuzdul). Do you think they would have an accent from The Blue Mountains? Or would it be one from Erebor? I know they would also speak the dialect of khuzdul from the blue mountains from just living there their whole lives.

Thank you!!!

Well met!

A thoughtful and wonderfully specific question — just the kind I enjoy most. And one that invites us to peer into both the linguistics and lore of Dwarven life. Let’s dig in.

🧭 Where (and When) Were Fíli and Kíli Born?

Both brothers were born after the fall of Erebor and raised in the Blue Mountains (Ered Luin) — far from the halls of their ancestors.

Fíli was born in T.A. 2859

Kíli followed in T.A. 2864

This places their births nearly 90 years after the refugees of Erebor had fled Smaug’s attack. By then, Ereborian speech patterns were still very much present — but largely maintained by older generations. For young Dwarves like Fíli and Kíli, day-to-day speech would have already been shaped far more by the local Blue Mountains Dwarves, among whom they were raised.

🗣️ What Form of Khuzdul Did They Speak?

They would certainly have been taught Sutumkhuzdul ("Stable Dwarvish") — a.k.a Classical Khuzdul — which remained the prestige variety of the Longbeards, used in formal documents, oaths, and instruction. This was especially likely given their royal lineage as sons of Dís, sister to Thorin Oakenshield.

But just like in our world, a noble education doesn’t override regional influence.

Fíli and Kíli would have spoken Classical Khuzdul with a slight Blue Mountains accent — shaped by their surroundings, their peers, and everyday use.

Fíli and Kíli as seen in Peter Jackson's The Hobbit

🏔️ Features of the Blue Mountains Accent (CK-BM)

This refers specifically to the accent of Classical Khuzdul as spoken in the Blue Mountains — not the separate dialect (more on that below).

Key CK-BM accent features include:

Omission of articles in casual speech (influenced by local dialect)

Velar nasal [ŋ] replacing final “n” — e.g. mann (“letter”) = [mɑnəŋ]

Open vowels, such as long “e” being pronounced as [ɛ:] instead of [e:]

So a sentence like "The letter has arrived at my house" (mann nekha zai zaharê) might come out as:

[mɑnəŋ nɛkʰɑ zɑɪ zʌhɑrɛ:] — softened vowels, nasal ending, and omitted article

🧓 What About the Ereborian Accent?

The Ereborian variant of Classical Khuzdul (CK-ERE) had distinct features:

[z] becoming a stressed [s:] in the onset of words

e.g. zanâtdiya (“her hair”) = [s:ɑnɑ:t.dɪjɑ]

Shifting placement of the schwa in consonant clusters

e.g. imnhu (“his name”) = [ɪmnəhʊ] (Ereborian) vs. [ɪmənhʊ] (Standard)

By the time of the Quest of Erebor (T.A. 2941), those speaking this variant were largely elders, and even among them, it may have been fading. Fíli and Kíli, having spent their entire lives in the Blue Mountains, would very likely not have spoken with Ereborian pronunciation natively — though would very likely have been continuously exposed to it through their mother, uncle and other refugees.

As a side note, in The Hobbit, Thorin refers to Fíli as “the youngest,” though Appendix A reveals that Kíli was in fact five years younger. Whether this is a narrative oversight or simply Thorin forgetting in the moment (neither dwarf had reached 85 at the time of the quest), it’s a charming reminder of generational distance.

🏔️ Accent vs. Dialect — Not the Same Thing!

It’s worth pausing here to make an important distinction: Fíli and Kíli would not have spoken the Blue Mountain Dialect (BMK), also known as Khagalkhuzdul.

This dialect is spoken primarily by Firebeards and Broadbeams — the ancient clans native to the Blue Mountains — and it represents the greatest divergence from Classical Khuzdul across all Dwarven speech.

Among its traits:

Complete lack of articles

Distinct verb conjugations in all tenses

e.g. “You walk” is sabsini (CK) vs. ubzûnzu (BMK)

Presence of additional vowels ([ø], [æ]) and unique consonants (“v,” “p,” “zh”)

Use of velar nasal [ŋ] and voiced glottal fricative [ɦ]

Significantly extended vowels in compound words

While Fíli and Kíli would likely have heard this dialect spoken frequently — especially in markets or cross-clan events — it was not their native speech. Their royal education, Longbeard heritage, and cultural context anchored them firmly in Classical Khuzdul, albeit with a slight local accent.

Blue Mountains and Dwarf Hall

🌍 A Shared Tongue, with Subtle Shifts

While regional accents and minor variations exist across Dwarven clans and holds, it’s important to remember that Khuzdul changes very slowly — far more slowly than the tongues of Men or Elves.

Tolkien himself wrote (HoME X – Of Dwarves and Men):

“The change in Khuzdul… was like the weathering of hard rock compared with the melting of snow.”

Even in the late Third Age, all Dwarves could converse with ease in their ancestral tongue — and often adjusted their speech to suit their audience.

Motivations for shifting speech could include:

Formality or ritual

Quoting from written texts

Cross-clan communication

Clarifying a point

Seeking approval or making an impression

As noble heirs, Fíli and Kíli would no doubt have been trained in this linguistic adaptability — likely slipping into more polished, “neutral” Classical Khuzdul in official or diplomatic contexts, while speaking in a softer, (even BM-accented) register at home.

🧱 In Summary:

Fíli and Kíli were born in the Blue Mountains decades after Erebor’s fall

They very likely would have spoken Classical Khuzdul with a Blue Mountains accent

They did were not native Blue Mountain Dialect speakers, which is a separate linguistic tradition

The Ereborian accent was fading and mainly spoken by elder exiles

All Dwarves still understood one another easily in Khuzdul, and speech could be adjusted as needed

As royal sons of Durin’s line, they would have been taught to speak with precision, pride, and adaptability

📜 An Important Note on Source and Speculation

While much of what we’ve discussed above is grounded in Tolkien’s writings, especially in The War of the Jewels, Of Dwarves and Men, and various Appendices, it’s important to acknowledge that the details on dialects and pronunciation — such as those related to Blue Mountain speech — are extrapolations.

They are based on:

Patterns Tolkien established

Real-world linguistic evolution (especially Semitic languages)

Earlier versions of Neo-Khuzdul that had to be consolidated with more recent updates

Cultural distinctions among the Dwarven clans

Descriptive phonology inferred from Khuzdul roots and root clusters

So while this reconstruction is informed and consistent with Tolkien's world, it remains largely speculative — a scholarly guess, if you will, crafted with care, rather than direct canon.

Ever at your service, The Dwarrow Scholar

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Stephen Robinson at Public Notice:

Donald Trump repeatedly promised voters during the 2024 campaign that he was going to reduce prices to pre-covid levels. This pledge was never rooted in a real plan, but he skated by with help from a press that has spent nearly a decade normalizing his lies. When Trump gave a speech in August detailing his “vision” for a second term, he declared, “From the day I take the oath of office, we will rapidly drive prices down, and make America affordable again"

“Prices will come down,” he said. “You just watch: They’ll come down, and they’ll come down fast, not only with insurance, with everything.” And during a speech in October, Trump proclaimed that he would “very quickly” make groceries more affordable.  These comments and others he made on the campaign trail were quite definitive, but now that he’s won the election and is set to return to the White House next month, Trump has dropped his Santa act and gone full Grinch. During his Time Magazine “Person of the Year” interview, he all but laughed in voters’ faces when asked about lowering prices. “It's hard to bring things down once they're up,” Trump said. “You know, it's very hard. But I think that they will.” This sudden about-face is hardly shocking considering Trump is a world historical liar. What’s damning, though, is that the mainstream press enabled Trump’s scam by helping him create an impression that he had an actual plan to lower prices instead of reporting the obvious truth — that he was offering nothing but bluster and empty talking points all along.

Double standards

Trump’s correct, of course, that it’s hard to lower prices once they’ve gone up, but any freshman economics student could’ve told you that before the election. The coverage of Trump’s shameless backtracking is revealing. A USA Today headline read, “Trump says bringing down grocery prices is 'very hard' after vowing to cut costs on the campaign trail.” From ABC News: “Trump now says bringing down grocery prices, as he promised, will be 'very hard.’” And Vanity Fair: “Trump Promised No Wars and Lower Prices. Now He's Walking That Back.” Absent from these headlines is the simple word “lied,” which is what Trump did.

Compare this to the media’s reaction when Joe Biden pardoned his son Hunter. PBS declared, “Biden broke a promise pardoning his son Hunter, raising questions about his legacy.” The Guardian tut-tutted, “With his pardon of son Hunter, Joe Biden delivers a heartfelt hypocrisy.” Trump isn’t responding to compelling new information, as Biden did when he pardoned Hunter after Trump nominated malevolent conspiracy theorist Kash Patel to be his new FBI director. And economic indicators haven’t drastically changed since Trump’s carnival barker routine was in full swing during the campaign. Legacy media gullibly accepted Trump’s promises to magically lower prices even though there was no coherent economic agenda behind his empty talk. In fact, Trump’s signature tariffs proposal would only cause prices to increase. But the press mostly let the conman behind the curtain do his thing.

[...] When he accepted the Republican presidential nomination for the third time last summer, Trump vowed to “make America affordable again.” At a press conference, he claimed that prices for everyday grocery items had surged specifically because of the Biden/Harris administration’s policies, with no mention of the pandemic he’d mismanaged. Reporters rarely pressed him on this omission. "Harris has just declared that tackling inflation will be a day one priority for her," he said. "But day one for Kamala was three and a half years ago. Where has she been?" Trump went even further, though, and vowed to outright lower prices. That’s all but impossible without a recession or deflationary period, both of which would be far worse for the average American’s wallet than a $3 carton of eggs. The press would have been doing the country a service by exposing Trump’s pandering instead of nitpicking Harris to death. But even Trump’s most ridiculous campaign proposals — such as trying to rebrand himself as an advocate for women by floating the idea of taxpayers picking up the tab for costly IVF treatments — received exactly the sort of credulous coverage he was hoping for.

It’s just a fact that Trump will says anything to win an election and more often than not is full of it. But stating that clearly would make mainstream outlets like the New York Times seem like they were in the tank for Harris. And so instead of being straight with their audiences and telling them what Trump himself now admits — that he has no real plan to bring prices down — journalists far too often took him at face value.

Donald Trump lied to the American people on the campaign trail pitching himself as a man who’ll lower your gas and grocery bills. In reality, he never had a real plan to tackle those issues, and most of the mainstream media gave Trump’s lies credence.

[spunkykirby]

Oh wait.

Based on Neuvillette's line about Ei, he'd be primarily judging the Archons' actions that took place after they've accepted the Authorities, not before, because before taking the Authorities, they wouldn't be classified as Usurpers he needed to judge.

"As a survivor of the dragon race who has regained my full dragonhood, I must fulfill my oaths and obligations even if it means returning all the water in the oceans back to the heavens. In taking the Authority of Electro, the Narukami placed herself on the list of the usurpers, she will..."

"But wouldn't this mean he's incapable of judging the Heavenly Principles' actions before they stole the Authorities too??!?!??"

No.

He knows by now the current Archons had nothing to do with directly stealing the Authorities from the Sovereigns, therefore they can't be charged with that crime. The direct stealing and m-rdering of the Sovereigns and their Authorities was committed by PO and his Shades alone. Therefore, only they can be charged with crimes/actions committed before they got their Authorities (because during their time usurping they didn't have the authorities, they were unrightfully battling for it).

"Wwell they STILL accepted the Authorities, therefore that makes them guilty by association!"

Then they'd all be automatically declared guilty without need for trial. That'd not only make no sense but there'd be no use for a trial.

In regards to their potential crimes, he'd more than likely (at most) be able to charge them with the charge he gave to Childe: Tangential Liability. This basically means an individual is held responsible for the actions or consequences indirectly related to their own actions or omissions.

In other words, it involves liability that arises from a secondary or collateral involvement in a situation, rather than direct participation or causation. The secondary and collateral involvement is (should be) in reference to the actions they've committed only after becoming Official Usurpers (like HP) re:accepting the Authority.

After all, the judgement of Childe did not refer to the actions he partook in before waking the whale, but after. Same applies to the archons and when they took the authorities.

Now idk if they knew the basis of the thrones before accepting them (unlikely, because before they did, their knowledge of the thrones was more than likely the same as Orobashi's: none. Orobashi was only sentenced to death after learning of the true history without having the "right" to know that info i.e. not having the Authority. The Archons likely would've been given the same sentence should they have learned before gaining the right to the knowledge as well...unless they're exceptions who had other ways of guaranteeing their silence).

[butterflydm]

2x7 - daes dae'mar (more thoughts)

I threw some thoughts out last night before I went to sleep because they were bouncing around in my brain and I wanted to get them down but I wanted to expand on some of that this morning.

Two things we were told in 2x1:

every choice has consequence(s)

alone, we are exposed but, together, we can be a shield wall

We have seen a lot of consequences coming to roost on people's heads this season. One that seems to have surprised a lot of viewers is that we are seeing big consequences from Moiraine and Lan's twenty years of secrecy. Which is both things wrapped up together - the choices they've made have isolated them. While in some cases that's a good thing (Liandrin knowing about the Dragon Reborn hunt would have been very bad!), they've also now had two different Sisters willing to go against Tower law in order to help them (Verin & Alanna).

Choices and consequences.

Moiraine lets Rand go at the Eye of the World in 1x8 -> it takes her until 2x4 to find him again, and it's only after one of the Forsaken has already been manipulating him for months.

Moiraine hides her weaknesses and fears even from the people she loves most -> the people that she loves worry about her intentions. Lan had to go on an entire season-long journey to come to terms with being shut out of Moiraine's head; Siuan has only just learned that Moiraine has been lying to her by omission for six (!) months. (Siuan has just as much right to be angry over this as Rand's loved ones have to be angry with him over lying about being dead imo)

Lan keeps Moiraine's secrets at any cost -> Alanna, Ihvon, and Maksim note his shady behavior and are worried that he's a Darkfriend.

I find both Alanna's worry in 2x5 and Siuan's worry in this episode to be incredibly reasonable reactions to the actual information they had been given (or not given).

Not telling the people you love what you're afraid of or about your failures creates separation (one of the themes of the season). It happened with Moiraine and Lan, and now it's happened with Moiraine and Siuan.

So Siuan has, for the last six months, believed that Moiraine was in control of the situation with Rand. Siuan sent Logain to Cairhien so that he could teach Rand and otherwise has been hands-off, trusting Moiraine to do what was needed to be done. And she just found out that this appears to have been a huge mistake - the Dragon has no control over his power, enough so that Siuan was able to easily shield him. He's barely been taught at all. And at the end of the episode... Moiraine feels betrayed because Siuan used her Oath against her; Siuan feels betrayed because Moiraine help the Dragon break out of Tower control using the help of one of the Forsaken. Even if you strip away Siuan wondering if Moiraine is a Darkfriend/Black Ajah (and given that she straight-out accuses Moiraine of lying, Siuan must be wondering if Moiraine is BA), Moiraine's actions look terrible. Especially since I'm assuming Moiraine didn't mention Lanfear in any of her letters either.

Rafe mentioned that one of the priorities about this season was making sure that the stage would be set for The Shadow Rising and I definitely am feeling that way in this plotline especially. We've just set up the fault lines that will lead to the coup and we've set up chaos in Cairhien.

Choices and consequences.

Rand leaves his loved ones behind, cutting his past life off behind him -> leaving him incredibly emotionally vulnerable when 'Selene' comes to call on him. We are still seeing the consequences of that initial choice unravel. His choice to try to strike it out alone has meant that he has no clue what he's doing.

Mat stays behind at the Waygate, confirming to himself that he's a coward -> again, this opens the door to emotional vulnerability. Something that both Liandrin and now Ishamael are taking full advantage of, pressing on that button of self-loathing in the hopes that it will break, and Mat will break with it.

This season has been making it clear, over and over, that it is a choice to be united, not something that happens by default. You don't have to come with me; you don't have to stay; you don't have to help. Nynaeve tells this to both Egwene and Elayne; in a reversed way, Elyas tells this to Perrin (you can come with me instead of helping your friends who were captured); Rand tells this to Mat.

Moiraine has spent all season trying to make it impossible for Lan to stay by her side, because she believes that she can't protect him without her powers. But that's Lan's choice, not Moiraine's. This fight is his too, not just hers. We see this echoed in Anvaere's storyline -- Moiraine doesn't even know that her life was threatened! She doesn't know that Anvaere destroyed all her hopes and dreams of the future, and of her son's future, to save Moiraine's life. And Anvaere did this in the full belief that Moiraine doesn't love her (which I don't think is true, but Anvaere absolutely believes it). Anvaere will lose everything and gain nothing out of this... except that she is doing the right thing.

It matters to Anveare that she does the right thing, even if it costs her dearly. Even if it costs her everything.

And this is exactly what Siuan does too -- I love that both Siuan and Moiraine make extremely terrible choices because they believe those choices are necessary to save the world -- which ties them into what Renna tells Egwene this episode in a fascinating way. We are definitely getting our Rand & Egwene parallels in 2x6 & 2x7!

Doing the right thing is a choice. But it's a choice that you need accurate information in order to make good decisions about. Lan did a lot of fact-finding recently, and what he learned helped him parse out what 'the right thing' was in the cloud of possible right things.

Nynaeve actually said something like this, back during 1x7 -- Moiraine has already made her choice, now it's time for the Two Rivers' group to make theirs. She does not get to make it for them. And that's what we're seeing this season. We're seeing all of these other players on the board making their choices (and seeing how information, or lack of information, informs those choices).

(which also ties into the theme of cages and freedom; we have to be given the freedom to make choices. Which ties into... well, something that is more spoilery than my tag, so I will stop there.)

[lya-dustin]

The Moon Lives in the Lining of Your Skin

chapter 4

Gil-galad x OC(Erinti of the Mair)

They are Lady Athaenis of Nan-Tathren here.

That is what the human village called her and some of the elves here had remembered that.

They could not be Lothíriel here, it does not feel like a name Erinti feels like letting other people use yet.

And then there is her hurt at having been lied to.

It tainted her joy at meeting Dior’s daughter and her babies, and she could not wait until he left to the Isle of Balar. Erinti avoids him and spends as much time as she can catching up with old friends from Doriath and getting to know Elwing.

And she adores her great-niece even if she has only known her for ten days. How could she not? Elwing was her blood the moment the One made Melian Erinti’s elder sister in his music.

“What was my father like as an elfling?” Elwing asked as Erinti played with the twin boys.

Twins were treated like treasures, almost all of them suffered terrible fates. Sometimes the mother would not survive the birth, sometimes the mother would see her children die or the children see their mother die. These boys would not be the exception.

One will die a mortal death and the other will have to see it happen.

“Dior was a good child, even if he loathed my vegetable soups. Grew like a weed after spring rain, one moment he was bouncing baby boy like these two and the other he was a man grown and wanted me to meet his pregnant wife, Nimloth Galathiel.”

Erinti answered her question as she played with Elros. He would die as a human, a human with exceptionally long life, but still sundered forever from his family in Valinor.

A sad thing, but ,alas, they cannot change the Music.

“Yes, we grow at the pace of the Edain, but age at the pace of the Eldar when we reach our twentieth begetting day. My boys will grow at that pace too, I fear they will be unrecognizable when Eärendil comes back from his voyage.” Elwing looks out the window sadly.

The boys are toddlers, they can walk and run now. Elrond and Elros’ babbles were turning into words, they were nearly three in human years.

She cannot bear to be apart from her husband, so afraid of being alone again.

“He will return, and the Valar will come to our aid before it is too late.” Erinti assured her. “It is in the Music, I am sure of it.”

Eärendil would leave in search of the Undying Lands, a last resort because things are so dire.

Almost all of Beleriand was under Mogroth’s control, the Sons of Fëanor flailing as they tried to overcome their cursed oath.

The tree is swaying and there is no way of telling when and how it would fall.

If there was a way for the oath to be broken and for them to receive aid, they needed the best mariners for the quest.

And that was Eärendil son of Idril.

“I could stay with you until he returns.” Erinti suggests. “Help you with the children and keep you company.”

“I would like it very much, if it’s not an inconvenience to Gil-galad, that is. He may be loath to part with you.” Elwing said as if they were something.

They were friends at the least, soulmates at the most.

But a soulmate does not mean it will be smooth sailing, even Melian and Thingol had their quarrels and she’s heard from the birds that one-time Manwë and Varda quarreled. It had been about reintegrating Melkor back into society, the warbler had said. Even Elwing and Earendil have been angry at each other, like now that Elwing has been completely honest with her husband about her thoughts on this quest to find the Valar.

Things were odd between Erinti and Gil-galad now.

Erinti felt hurt that he had lied to her. A lie by omission is still a lie in their book, and she just needs time. Maybe the Maia will forgive him for it, but it will not be today. More than just a day and a night to think about it.

“If he misses me, he will visit or we could visit the Isle of Balar, but I am sure his grace will understand.” Just like he expected to her to understand him lying about his identity for almost two weeks. “Besides, the Isle of Balar is not that far.”

“No, but it feels like it is sometimes.” Elwing said unable to shake off a sudden chill she felt as she looked at the Nauglamír hidden under the floorboards of the nursery.

The gardens here are beautiful, but nothing compares to the wild beauty of Arda.They like it here, here where she can lay on the grass like an enchanted maiden as the night turns to morning. There was another fine banquet this day, Erinti has not consumed so much mortal food since Menegroth and, frankly, they were no longer used to eating this often.

“You have been avoiding me.” Gil-Galad comes and lies down beside her.

“So, I have.” They admit and refuses to even look at him.

“I did plan on telling you who I was, just so you know.” He turns to see her even if she just stares into the heavens hoping for an answer to be spelled out to her.

Are the star people laughing at her childishness, they always had the feeling that the more powerful maiar viewed her as nuisance. Erinti was part of the same thought Eru Iluvatar used to create Eonwe and Ilmare, and yet Erinti was the weakest of their kind.

So weak that their original corporal form was a child, like the little children Erinti had been so fascinated by when Iluvatar revealed them in the Music. Perhaps that was why she liked children most of all, perhaps that’s why the One gave her the privilege to eventually grow and mature into an adult.

“I know, but it stung my feelings to know you did not trust me enough to be honest, Rodnor.” She likes this, the honesty with which they talk to each other. They enjoy Rodner’s company and if it is in the Music, Erinti would like to spend the rest of it with him.

“I was afraid you would see me differently, that you would think of me as the King of the Noldor and not Rodnor Gil-Galad.” He admits quietly, as if he was afraid people would know how much he enjoyed being a nobody for even a little while.

Uneasy is the head that wears the crown, Erinti now understood what Thingol meant by that. He can never show weakness, he can never let himself be who he is now that the Noldor chose him as their ruler.

“I would not have treated you any differently.” This time she allows herself to move her head and look at him.

He was beautiful, like all the Eldar are, but there was that indescribable thing that pulled her to him, that made him appear to be everything she ever wanted or could ever want.

“I am sorry I lied to you, Lothíriel. Will you forgive me?” Rodnor reached out for their hand on their stomach and Erinti did not flinch away.

“I do forgive you, but I am afraid I will not go with you to the Isle of Balar.” It is very difficult to say that when he is looking at her like that.

It makes her want to say she did not mean it and that she will leave with him and continue their courtship in person. But Elwing needs them here and Erinti needs time to adjust to society. It had changed so much in this past century; it was almost unrecognizable from when Erinti was a courtier in Menegroth.

 “Elwing has need of me, Rodnor. She will be so lonely without Eärendil, and I want to get to know her better.” Erinti explained turning to lean on her side.

Love is so strange; they have spent all this time alone and now that she really liked someone enough to let themselves be courted, Erinti must be apart from him. She doesn’t want to cause the beautiful elf king any pain, and yet she must cause some if they want to spend what little time Elwing has left in her song with her.

“It will make our courtship difficult, Lothíriel.” He reaches out with his free hand to caress the side of her face and she leans into it hoping she could make the warmth and tenderness stay with her forever.

“But not impossible, once I master the new words and writing styles, I will be sending you letters longer than the Anduin.” Erinti tries to make him smile, make him laugh like he did in Nan-Tathren.

If Erinti were given a choice they would have stayed there for the rest of eternity, and she had a feeling Gil-Galad was thinking the same.

He then says the last thing they had expected.

“I love you, and I want to marry you. What is your will?” Gil-Galad asks her and begins the with the official words of a courtship. Typically, this was done at a feast with your family and friends, yet here, whispered as they lay together in a dark garden, the words feel as if they were never meant to be heard by anyone else.

“We have no silver rings, Rodnor.” Erinti finds herself saying in response to his words.

“Melian and Thingol never had them, who says we need them?” Rodnor brushed a stray curl away from the maia’s face and moved closer to her.

“Melin tye ar merin vesta tyenna. Man indotya ná?” he repeats the Question in Noldorin Quenya, all formal ceremonies for his people were done in their language.

I love you, and I want to marry you. What is your will?

“Indonya ná ve indotya. Apa coranar mine, vestuvangwe.” Erinti answered in like.

My will is like your will. At the end of one year, we shall wed.

Notes:

Athaenis is a Sindarin name meaning the kindly/helpful woman the name much like the betrothal words are sourced from realelvish.net

[imyourenglishteachernow]

“What We Ought to Say”: Debating the Morality of Dishonesty Equivocation in King Lear by Markelle Jensen 

This second article was much shorter and simpler than the first (link to that one here) but still good. Like before, it's a free PDF available to peruse.

This text has 1-4 main ideas, which are:

Shakespeare is not interested solely in moralizing, but in using the play (and art, which has inherent elements of fakery/dishonesty) as a stage through which to explore different aspects of honesty vs dishonesty in a more neutral space rather than being the former being inherently moral and the latter being inherently immoral

Characters such as Kent, Gloucester, and Cordelia in particular exemplify moral dishonesty

Conversely, characters who are brutally honest (like Goneril) after their deception(s) are immoral

Having a personification of Honesty (Kent) or Morality (Cordelia) as characters was a common 16th-century trope at the time

I also thought it was particularly interesting that this text notes/emphasizes that King Lear, despite being written in a Christian time period, is not set in one. This might have given Shakespeare a little more moral flexibility to play with, particularly surrounding suicide, and makes me want to look reflexively back at the first article's discussion of suicide in King Lear through both a Christian and 'non-Christian' (quote marks are because that's arguably vague as hell) lens. It also makes me want to look into if there is any basis for seeing the three sisters as a subversion/analogue for the three Fates from Greco-Roman myth.

Passages of Note/Interest:

"the meanings of a Shakespearean play are not static but dynamic, subject to frequent change and modification; the plays do not reveal the nature of moral truth, they debate it�� (128). King Lear, therefore, does not “reveal the nature” of honesty but provides a stage on which the morality of honesty can be debated. The play questions whether honesty is inherently moral at all, or if there are ways in which honesty can be considered harmful and even immoral. If so, there also must be forms of moral dishonesty (pg 1)

the meaning of the word “equivocation” shifted abruptly in the first few years of the seventeenth century to mean “concealing the truth by saying one thing, while deceptively thinking another” (156). This shift in meaning was largely due to the discovery of a Jesuit pamphlet detailing the ways in which Catholics could morally lie under oath (157). [...] According to the document, equivocating involved “deliberately choosing ambiguous words,” lying by omission, and most significantly, speaking one thing while thinking another privately (158). He seems to portray equivocation in some of his characters as playful, while in others it is destructive. This inconsistency implies that Shakespeare believes equivocation—not quite dishonesty but an incomplete form of honesty—can be hurtful or damaging towards others. A significant number of Shakespeare’s contemporaries viewed art (especially poetry and theater) as dishonest because it involves twisting reality and pretending. (pg 2)

Both theater and flattery cause people to disregard facts and reason in favor of feeling positive emotions, or to lose oneself in a rosier, imaginative world. This calls to mind Lear himself, whose “power to flattery bows,” precipitating his downfall (Shakespeare 1.1.146). According to Plato, art (like flattery) is dangerous because it equivocates. It is close to reality and to truth, but with distortions, exaggerations, and ulterior motives. Shakespeare would not have thought it problematic to represent honesty and dishonesty ambiguously in King Lear; it was a means to explore societal values, which is art’s prerogative. Sidney also wrote that poets are “not labouring to tell you what is or is not, but what should or should not be.” (pg 4)

The paradoxical notions of morality, honesty, and dishonesty involved in playwriting manifest in the paradoxes of moral dishonesty and immoral honesty in King Lear. Just as art and theater can paint a rosier world in which love and passion triumph all, flattery can enhance one’s perception of oneself in a more positive and possibly unrealistic light. Of course, Shakespeare’s tragedies, especially Lear, contradict that notion, as they do not paint a world anyone would want to escape to. Shakespeare is rejecting what Plato and his own contemporary antitheatrical critics accuse him of while simultaneously representing the ideas they clung to within his plays (pg 4)

Goneril and Regan are truthfully correct—Lear has no real need of any servants while living with his daughters. Despite the truth of their statements, they are not acting in a morally upright manner. Lear responds to his daughters, “I gave you all” (2.4.246). In his old age, Lear did give his daughters all. Now, all he asks is to be welcomed into their homes and not to be stripped of the dignity his retinue affords him. Lear expects them to uphold “the offices of nature, bond of childhood, effects of courtesy, dues of gratitude” owed to him, but they fail him in their cruel honesty (2.4.173–74). (pg 8)

Lear, in his misery, says to Cordelia: “If you have poison for me, I will drink it. I know you do not love me; for your sisters Have, as I do remember, done me wrong. You have some cause; they have not.” (5.1.74–77) To which Cordelia responds, “No cause, no cause,” (78). [...] Her benevolent dishonesty is what begins to bring Lear back from the brink of madness.

Perhaps if Cordelia had professed her love to Lear in the opening scene as expected, those deaths could have been avoided altogether. But then, Lear would have remained blind to the truth about his relationships, about his own self, and about the world around him. (pg 10)

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Judging by the video that Kamala Harris’s campaign is circulating, her aides are pleased with one particular exchange during her interview with Fox News’s Bret Baier. In it, Harris dressed down Baier for playing video of Donald Trump that sanitized away his threat to unleash the military on “the enemy within.”

Many observers immediately surmised that this moment—which showed Harris digging in hard against Baier—could wreck Trump’s most cherished spin about Harris. As Andrew Egger noted at The Bulwark, Harris punctured the “right-wing caricature” of her as “an insipid airhead with no ability to think on her feet.”

But this is a seminal moment for another reason as well. It starkly revealed the degree to which Fox News—and by extension Trump’s other right-wing media propagandists—has constructed an informational universe around Trump that, at the most fundamental level, is comprehensively fictional.

MAGA’s biggest deception of all may be its portrayal of Trump as enjoying public support that is not just authentically, broadly, deeply majoritarian but also is only constrained from realizing its full explosive potential by interference from corrupt institutions like the media and the Deep State. The reality is the opposite: Without the massive propaganda support system he benefits from—and the gravitational pull it exerts on mainstream news outlets—Trump, who has never enjoyed majority support in this country, probably could not long politically survive.

Harris’s confrontation with Baier illustrates the point. After Harris pointed out that Trump has threatened to target an “enemy within,” Baier said that Fox News had asked Trump to address those comments at its town hall on Wednesday. Baier then played Trump’s response at that town hall, but he left out the footage of Trump recommitting to targeting the “enemy within,” only airing Trump’s insistence that he is the one treated as the enemy.

That makes Trump look uniformly like the victim of corrupt political prosecutions—prosecutions that are actually in keeping with the rule of law—while omitting Trump’s explicit doubling down on his threat. Harris called out the omission.

“With all due respect, that clip was not what he has been saying about ‘the enemy within,’” Harris noted. “You didn’t show that.”

Baier protested, but Harris kept it up, essentially accusing him of concealing what he knows to be true about Trump. “You and I both know that he has talked about turning the American military on the American people,” Harris said. She added:

He has talked about going after people that are engaged in peaceful protest. He has talked about locking people up because they disagree with him. This is a democracy. And in a democracy, the president of the United States, in the United States of America, should be willing to be able to handle criticism without saying he’d lock people up for doing it. And this is what is at stake.

What Harris revealed here is that, at the most basic level of all, Trump is campaigning on an explicit vow to treat the opposition and its voters as sub-American. He has threatened persecution of the “vermin” opposition, vowed to use federal disaster relief money to extort blue states into doing his bidding, floated sending the military into Democratic-run cities, and, now, made it all even more explicit with his latest “enemy within” rants.

Trump is essentially running on an open promise to serially violate his oath of office to carry out a kind of scorched-earth campaign against blue America. Baier knows all this is toxic among swing voters. And so the picture of Trump he presented was one in which the only victim of persecution is Trump himself.

What’s more, in a little-noticed move, Baier also inflated Trump’s public support. Baier asked Harris: “Why is he beating you in a lot of swing states?” But that’s false: It’s largely tied in all of them, with Harris retaining an almost imperceptible edge in enough states to win the Electoral College. Baier also repeatedly said “half” or “50 percent” of the country backs Trump. But again, Trump has never enjoyed majority support at any point.

MAGA is a minoritarian movement that derives energy from treating itself as “the people” and the non-MAGA majority as rooted in political aspirations and beliefs that are in some sense illegitimate. Yet Baier erased Trump’s lack of majority support and downplayed his explicit campaigning on a vow to violate his oath of office toward the more populous rest of America that doesn’t support him. As Matt Gertz of Media Matters has shown, Fox often downplays and sugarcoats Trump’s most explicitly antidemocratic threats and actions. Baier carried out that project at an exceptionally high-profile moment.

Something similar happened with Baier’s widely discussed questions on immigration. It’s true that Harris had trouble answering them—no one would deny that the Biden administration has struggled to manage the immigration system—but this is partly because here, again, Baier constructed a largely imaginary world. The basic premise of his questions was that under Trump, all migrants were either detained all the way through their removals or forced to wait in Mexico; that none were released here; that crimes committed by migrants occurred only during the Biden years and are directly traceable to lax border policies.

But as the American Immigration Council’s Aaron Reichlin-Melnick has demonstrated, none of this is true. During the period that Trump’s Remain in Mexico program was in effect, only a small minority of apprehended migrants were forced to wait there. And according to Reichlin-Melnick’s calculations, tens of thousands of migrants were released into the interior while Remain in Mexico was in place, which debunks the Fox News host’s suggestion that the program created some sort of enforcement panacea.

In fact, as the Cato Institute’s David Bier has shown, hundreds of thousands of migrants were released all throughout the Trump presidency. That’s fewer than under Biden—in part simply because more have migrated during his presidency for all sorts of complex geopolitical reasons—but far from the migrant release–free utopia Baier presented.

Why did Trump release so many migrants? Because Congress under-resources the executive for processing and detaining them and because the law requires some releases. In Baier’s fictional portrayal of the situation, if migrants are released, it can only be a function of the executive’s permissiveness. But every administration has done this—including Trump’s. How many migrants released by Trump then committed crimes? We don’t know—in part because Democrats don’t highlight such crimes to demonize immigrants the way Republicans do. In the universe Baier constructed, none of these complications exist.

Harris deserves credit for calling out Baier’s MAGA cleanup efforts. But all this raises a bigger question: How much public support would Trump have right now if Fox and other right-wing outlets had not been pumping out sanitizing propaganda about him and his presidency for the last 10 years?

Greg Sargent @GregTSargent

Greg Sargent is a staff writer at The New Republic and the host of the podcast The Daily Blast. A seasoned political commentator with over two decades of experience, he was a prominent columnist and blogger at The Washington Post from 2010 to 2023 and has worked at Talking Points Memo, New York magazine, and the New York Observer. Greg is also the author of the critically acclaimedbook An Uncivil War: Taking Back Our Democracy in an Age of Disinformation and Thunderdome Politics.  

[asgardianhammer]

Wisdom, knowledge, strategy - The myth of Alvíssmál (The Song of All-Wise) or The makings of a prince-general.

Though best known for strength and elemental powers, Thor is also a shrewd, observant thinker, raised in the halls of kings. Protector of realms not only through force, but through deep cosmological understanding and a rare kind of straight-edged cunning. There is the wisdom of a statesman, the mind of a soldier-scholar, along with instincts of a hunter. The myth of Alvíssmál showcases this.

Educated Strategist

Raised in Odin's court, Thor has studied:

Runes and ancient names ( magical, linguistic, and cultural knowledge )

the nature of the Nine Realms, their people, powers, and politics.

Laws and legacy, especially inheritance, oaths and bloodlines

His performance with Alvíssmál shows encyclopedic knowledge of what things are called across various races and planes — this is not brute memory, but literacy.

Martial Mind

A battle-hardened warrior but also a tactician

Does not just fight, but studies his enemies, their weaknesses and mythic vulnerabilities

Knows that a sword is only useful if the mind behind it is sharper

Uses delay, baiting, and the enemy's own traits against them

Guardian of Lineage

Guarding his daughter's fate with Alvíssmál is a true royal act, treating it not as matter of property, but as a matter of legacy. Who marries into Thor's bloodline is a political matter, not just a personal one.

Views marriage, kinship, and lineage as critical to stability in Asgard and the Nine Realms.

Moral Simplicity

Thor is straightforward, not simple-minded in thinking.

He prefers honest confrontation, but that does not mean he cannot and will not lie by omission, or mask cunning as curiosity.

His ethics are build on protection, loyalty, and earned worth, which is why trickster behavior and arrogance from those he considers not honorable is an issue.

Tactical Cunning

In Alvíssmál he exploits:

Alviss's arrogance

The dwarf's weakness to sunlight.

Delay tactic of extended question disguised as genuine interest

It is not just stalling, it is controlling the pace, the terms and the environment, without ever using a weapon.

Archetypes Combined The Warrior-King: Protects his people and family by any means — sword or speech.

The Riddle-Sage: Wields knowledge like a blade, respecting lore and language.

The Guardian of Order: Understands that law, fate, and names matter deeply.

The Lion in Winter: Often underestimated, but wise with age, experience, and scars.

Behavior

Condensed this means:

Knows more than he lets on,

Has courtly and martial gravitas,

Will use wit and knowledge when force would be too crude,

Understands how the pieces fit across realms, and plans accordingly.

[comparativetarot]

Ẹlẹ́rìí Ìpín. Art by Hannah Ebunoluwa Morenikeji Bello, from Ìwà Pẹ̀lẹ́ Tarot.

Ẹlẹ́rìí ní yanjú ẹjọ́; ẹlẹ́rìí kì ṣe elégbè. - It is a witness who straightens out a matter; a witness is not a seconder. ...The Ẹlẹ́rìí Ìpín reminds us that co-creation is a big part of the birth and rebirth cycle, with Olódùmárè actively involving us in the formulation of our own destiny. We have free will to choose and accept the requisites, thereby setting up the parameters for our own final judgment. It reminds us that judgment is never done in isolation, and it is not one size fits all. It is based on choices made in the earthly realm in relation to the terms selected and conditions accepted in the heavenly realm. It turns out, after all, that we are indeed the masters of our fate and the captains of our soul. In Ire: Absolution, acquittal, apology, appeasement, atonement, catharsis, compassion, confession, conscientiousness, covenant, cosmic consciousness, discernment, divination, duty, evolution, exoneration, exorcism, expiation, forgiveness, harvest, irreversibility, liberation, mediation, mercy, oath, order, outcome, patterns, peace-offering, perfect balance (between reasoning and intuition), probity, prophecy, propitiation (ètùtù), purification, purpose, readjustment, rebirth, redemption, release, remission, remorse, renunciation, restitution, revelation, review, reward, righteousness, self evaluation, surrender, threshold, vindication, winnowing, wisdom In Ibi:  Accusation, amorality, breach, chaos, complicity, concealment, condemnation, consequences, corruption, culpability, death, defiance, eclipse, futility, guilt, hecatomb, incitement, indiscretion, inertia, injudiciousness, insubordination, irreversibility, limits, martyrdom, mercilessness, non-compliance, oath-breaking, omission, petrifaction, provocation, punishment, purgation, rebellion, remorselessness, renunciation, resignation, resistance, scapegoat, self-immolation, suppression, suspension, threshold, treachery, trials, tribulations, unrepentance 

Read more...

[thegreatzombieartisan]

How did Galadriel see through Sauron’s Annatar alias?

From Unfinished Tales:

[Sauron] perceived at once that Galadriel would be his chief adversary and obstacle, and he endeavoured therefore to placate her, bearing her scorn with outward patience and courtesy.

[No explanation is offered in this rapid outline of why Galadriel scorned Sauron, unless she saw through his disguise, or of why, if she did perceive his true nature, she permitted him to remain in Eregion.]

My theory: game recognizes game.

Or “it takes one to know one.”

When the Noldor arrive in Middle Earth they also claimed to be messengers from the Valar. But Melian confronts Galadriel with her suspicions.

“There is some woe that lies upon you and your kin. That I can see in you, but all else is hidden from me; for by no vision or thought can I perceive anything that passed or passes in the West: a shadow lies over all the land of Aman, and reaches far out over the sea. Why will you not tell me more?” — The Silmarillion

Coyly, Galadriel mentions seeking vengeance upon Morgoth despite the Valar. However, she left out some key details: the Silmarils, oath of Fëanor, kinslaying of the Teleri and burning their ships.

She essentially plays dumb and lies through omission. To me, it’s her most disappointing lapses in virtue.

I understand she’s caught between loyalty to her family and her friend who hosts and teaches her the queenly arts, as if Galadriel were her own daughter.

Fastforward, and this Annatar pulls the “Valar emissary” move with an offer too good to be true. And Galadriel, in her wisdom, is like, “Mmhm nice try, mister. Been there, done that."

[scorpiongrassfield]

Make your guess 

Start | Prev

You know the answer, but you don’t want to say it. What if you��re wrong? You don’t want to wish ill on Theo. You don’t want your suspicions to be true. You almost lie to Pat. Tell them that you think Theo is a relatively normal person. But. It would be rude to demand honesty in exchange for an omission of your own. 

“He’s not a murderer,” you hedge. 

“What is he then?” Pat prompts. They light a cigarette, and something about that click of the lighter almost sparks something in your memory.

There’s something important about lighters. You just can’t quite remember it. It doesn’t seem important now, so you push the thought aside for later. 

It's time to focus on the present. You take a deep breath to steady yourself. The only way forward is to play by Pat's rules. 

“Theo is a ghost, isn’t he?” 

Pat denies you the catharsis of a big reaction. Their face is impassive, the dying light of dusk and the cherry glow of the cigarette aren’t helping. “What makes you think so?” 

You explain it to them. All the ways that Theo fits the profile for a ghost. His memory issues, his strict adherence to the routine he followed in life. The way he seems to have no knowledge of the incident, despite all the reasons he should. How he responds to questions about it. 

He was never an official suspect, because even the cops aren’t dumb enough to suspect a dead person of murdering themself. They would at least use different words for it. You hope. 

You don’t mention the near-drowning to Pat, because you suspect that they will be very upset with you if you do. 

When you run out of things to say, Pat finally acknowledges that you’ve spoken at all. 

“Well. I’m glad that losing your memory didn’t make you lose your sixth sense at least. But that’s about the only good thing going on in this whole situation. Because you’re right,” they say. They blow out a slow breath of smoke. 

“Theo’s been dead this whole time, and that’s exactly why I’m so keen on ‘solving the case’,” they say.

“I made an oath once. And I don’t do promises much, but oaths are to be kept, you know?” They gesture a bit with the hand that’s got the cigarette in it as they speak.

Their voice picks up speed and emotion as they talk, like they were trying to act unaffected and are now failing. “You and I are some of the only people out there that will help a ghost at all..."

They drop their still smoldering cigarette on the ground.

"Instead of trying to crush them like a cockroach."

They stomp on the cigarette heavily, putting it out.

The atmosphere is heavy. It's now fairly dark out, though the ambient lighting suggests that it might be a full moon. She's nowhere to be seen.

Pat mutters something about being a litterbug and picks up their cigarette butt to dispose of later. It breaks the tension enough for you to push your luck.

"Is that the only reason? You didn't know he was a ghost at the beginning."

“You’re too damn perceptive, who taught you to perceive like that?” they grouse without any real edge. 

“It was probably you.” 

Pat snorts, and says sarcastically: “I love it when things backfire on me.” 

They sigh and rock on their heels a bit. “Anyway. You’re right. There was some time between thinking that our original client was just being a homophobic asshole and realizing that Theo was a ghost where I normally would have been happy to let things lie. I don’t need to solve a mystery when there’s none there,” they explain. 

“But…?” 

“But Theo reminds me of you,” Pat admits.

Next

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

Day One - a Malevolent fic

Time to process grief and shock? There is no time.

Everyone has plans, worries, schemes. Parker, Sunny, Larson. John, Arthur, Faroe.

Hastur doesn't care. He has six years to protect his family. It doesn't matter if they hate him at the end. What matters is they survive.

Part of the Surrogate Series. Written with @sepiabandensis

AO3

------------

Sun warmed the room, golden and sweet. Outside, birds—with no idea what day it was, or why it mattered—chirped happily, singing in the morning.

Hastur lay and looked at his family.

Arthur was pale as all hell. He slept with one arm around Faroe, his mouth open, deeply out.

Faroe looked… flushed. Hastur checked; she was slightly feverish, but it didn’t seem to be an illness. She was stressed. Nibbles had settled down in the shadows, watching—her ears flicked forward with every soft breath.

Patience, he told himself. He would fix this. 

What are you going to do now? said John, the first thing he’d said in hours.

What, indeed. Hastur had a plan—one he’d added to all night, like a quilt—but it would not work unless he restored their faith in him. 

He had to be perfect from now on; he had to be competent, and worthy of trust. There would be no more chances. “Triage, first,” murmured Hastur. “I must deal with our guests.”

Without knowing what the fuck you’re walking into?

“Do you wish to tell me?” said Hastur.

John hesitated. It’s really Arthur’s to tell.

“He worried me last night,” Hastur said. “I’m not sure he should be the one to speak right now.”

John’s left hand rose and stroked Arthur’s hair. I can at least give you parts. Larson is some asshole cultist leader. This was when we were separated. I don’t know a lot more than that because Arthur was too upset to tell me. 

That tracked. Arthur probably would still be too upset. Whatever Larson had done in the day and a half they’d known each other had left a scar. The villain, indeed. “And the other?”

Parker… that’s his partner. That’s the man I killed.

“The one who lived with him.”

Worked with him.

“Bought him a piano.”

Yeah.

John and Arthur would have to work that out between them; but if there was one thing he was certain of, those two idiots would work it out. With a lot of yelling. Foul language. Oaths. “And Yellow?”

A piece of you Arthur screwed over. Yellow and Larson were just after the pits. After you snapped his fucking legs and threw him to Earth. He was a mess. 

Hastur noted that John skipped over and he cut his own throat. An interesting omission. “Go on.”

Kayne promised him he’d give me back.

Hastur grunted. “What? Kayne did? Why?”

I don’t know. It was never a really… clear retelling. Somehow, he got Arthur to flip this coin, and say he wanted me back, with the deal that I kept his eyes.

Fuck. They really were never going to lose the attention of that being… and Arthur really would be staying blind. All right. The plan already compensated for that part. “That doesn’t sound like much of a deal.”

Take it up with fucking Kayne. But instead of me, he gave Arthur that guy. John hesitated. Arthur didn’t… treat him well. Yellow didn’t get to learn like I did. He didn’t have a good example, but the worst possible version of Arthur.  John’s voice dropped. When I found Arthur… when I got back to him… Hastur, he was insane. He was crazy. He murdered a guy and got eye goo under his thumbnails. I almost lost him.

Hastur was beginning to see the silhouette of what had happened. Regret; shame; guilt; betrayal—every negative emotion a human could have was wrapped up in this mess, which had lasted all of a couple of days, but managed to hit all of Arthur’s weak points. 

It was masterfully done. Some tiny part of him was grudgingly amazed. “I see Kayne has found a way to continue his little drama.”

Well, you got boring, so he had to do something.

He had six years to fix this. He couldn’t kill them. He couldn’t send them away. Fuck. “Yes, thank you. Is there anything else?”

John huffed. Damn you, fucking fight back. Um. I don’t know. Like I said, he never really talked about it beyond these details. I… I stitched him, though. When Larson’s monster in the mine gutted him.

“So that’s when that happened.”

It just… from behind, it just… The memory was unbalancing.

“You saved his life,” said Hastur, pulling his focus back.

I did . John calmed. I did.

By stitching Arthur’s stomach… when he’d been pierced from behind .

The scar on Arthur’s back was large and strange, like a starburst. How had he not died? It pierced his intestines; at the least , infection should have killed him.

More questions to answer. Hastur added it to the what the fuck is he part of the plan. “I will go and hear their side now.”

Why?

“Because I need to know what they think is happening so I can predict their actions. John… I have a request.”

Join’s golden form twisted, coiling like smoke in spiral. What?

“Will you watch them for me?”

John paused. Huh? 

“Watch these two. I choose you to care for my precious family.” So casually said, as if it were a given.

John sputtered. What? Wh… what are you… your FAMILY? You fucking son of a bitch… after what just happened to your fucking son —

“Yes. Please watch them until I return.” Hastur rose from the bed, aching. Bleeding where it could not be seen.

More sputtering. Get back here!

Nibbles moved into the space Hastur left, lying next to Faroe, cradling the girl against her great body. She watched Hastur with a half-dozen eyes, tired and concerned, but made no noise of complaint.

“John. I trust you.”

John went dead silent. 

Hastur could feel him staring holes in his yellow-clad back the whole way out the door.

#

Larson slept better than he had in months.

The Dreamlands had its perks, but the rooms the mighty King in Yellow had placed him in were luxurious, more than anywhere he had ever been. 

For this to have been granted him so quickly could only mean that either even the basest of Carcosa’s citizenry lived in the lap of luxury, or that he had made one hell of a splash.

He was so close to his goal now. So close to ascension. There were problems, of course: issues he needed to iron out. He needed to speak with the King soon, if he was going to get ahead of whatever horseshit Yellow was likely to spew. And the thief… that thought alone made him furious, but surely the King would know to disregard someone so lowly.

And then there was the conundrum of Arthur Lester. What the hell had happened there? The man wasn’t sane , that at least was clear; but he looked pretty good, in spite of that, and the way the god had held him…

That was weird. That required study. Was that what the King in Yellow did to vessels who’d held pieces of him?

Would He do that to the thief?

Would He do that to Larson?

Oh, that thought made him sick. He had to get in front of it, somehow, and that meant discrediting Yellow as soon as poss—

The door opened and a creature stepped through, carrying fabric. He’d seen her (it?) last night as well, tall and willowy and golden, utterly inhuman. She was made of wisps of yellow silk and sharpness and fluid movement. She moved like a dancer.

“Hello,” Larson said softly, watching her with rapt attention. “You must be one’a his attendants, then. I am honored.”

She said nothing, pivoting on one needle-sharp foot and fluttering through the door. 

Did all guests get attended to by one of the King’s own? This could only be a good sign. He fondled the clothes he’d been given. Fine, fine material; the embroidery was unreal, intricate, far superior to anything humans could do. The suit almost seemed to be catching the light in dimensions Larson couldn’t quite see.

He had set it aside and was washing his face when he felt it: the change in pressure.

Like when a ritual had gone right.

Like the incredible moment before Yellow had started bellowing in his head, on the night Arthur Lester dashed his peaceful life to the ground.

He dried his face as quickly as possible, straightening his pajamas (finer than any French silk). He wasn’t dressed yet. What to say? How to play this?

The King in Yellow knocked on his door.  

Well, that was unexpected.

It was an honor. Respect offered, and Larson would take it for all it was worth. He flung open the door and damn near blinded himself with His Radiance. [“My Lord, you honor me with your presence!”] he said, backing away, genuflecting, and knelt. 

He hadn’t backed up far enough. Hastur flowed into the room like light itself, pushing him further back, filling more space than he filled. Power distorted the air around him. 

Arrogance was impossible in this presence. The god looked down at Larson, unreadable, tentacles slowly undulating as though he swam in a secret ocean. “You are Wallace Larson,” he said in English, and the floor beneath Larson rumbled.

To hear his name in the voice of a true god was…

Larson had spoken to their shades, their projections; he’d met with the shadows of gods, or their representative voices. He had never truly been in one’s presence. 

This was everything he’d hoped it would be and nothing like he’d expected. All he’d sacrificed was worth it. It all led to this moment, and he would not blow this chance. Larson looked up, eyes wide and reverent. “Yes, my Lord, oh Prince of the Great Old Ones, the Lurker Who Slept Beneath. I am Wallace Larson.”

The voice was massive, echoing somehow before and after itself. Every breath was a universe of meaning, power, as if the very air currents belonged to this being. “My time, Wallace Larson, is not to be wasted on small matters. I give you this chance, here and now, to tell me who you are and why you are here.” 

Well, that was a problem, as he had no earthly clue how he’d gotten here or why. The King himself hadn’t done it? Then Larson didn’t know.

Like hell was he going to admit that. “My Lord, Feaster From Afar,” said Larson. “I have been brought here… to serve you.”

“Oh, have you, now?”

Larson couldn’t read the tone. “I know many things; I come with connections, with earned powers. With the will to do anything you ask of me, even shedding my own blood.”

“Indeed?”

The god sounded unimpressed. Larson pushed harder. “I believe I was chosen because I proved myself worthy. For nearly ten years, I have carried a fragment of your power within myself—a part of your holy magnificence, damaged by his first host and in need of aid. I have protected him, sought to elevate him, to grow his power and my own, with the plan of returning him here to you in Carcosa someday.” Might as well hit two birds with one stone.

“A noble goal.” Still unreadable. “How did you happen to capture a fragment of my power?” 

Capture. That word was a test, or he was an idiot. “He came to me by makin’ his escape from a wicked man—a man you now hold as prisoner.” His own test-word.

Hastur gave him nothing. “Go on.”

Damn it. He couldn’t tell if he were succeeding or not. He had to make this work. “Ten years ago, nearly, Arthur Lester came to my precious town of Addison, which I founded with my own blood, sweat, and tears, and named after my own daughter. He tore through my home, harassing my people, causing one hell of a ruckus. When I at last captured him, I could tell he was a sick man: talkin’ to himself, twitchy, half-insane. Threatened to kill me. It looked like the reason he went mad was he couldn’t handle the presence of that piece of you.”

“Oh?”

“He was bonkers. I tried to contain him until I could figure out what to do, and imprisoned him with one of my servants in the mines beneath my house.” He took a breath. “In that moment of imprisonment, this fragment of you appeared in my head, Lord, having made his harrowed escape. Yellow is his name. He’d been trapped in Arthur; he told me of the crimes Arthur Lester had committed, and was pleased as punch to be outta him.”

“No doubt,” said the King in Yellow.

No, no, it wasn’t enough; Larson had to do better. “Yellow amazed me, my lord. Such wisdom; such grace! I’d never known anything, or anyone, so worthy of worship. Together we decided somethin’ must be done about Arthur Lester, but by the time we’d made up our minds, that man murdered my son, my Lord. My Jack.” Larson let his voice break; he summoned some tears. “He murdered my son and fled my home. I’ve been lookin’ for him since, even while endeavorin’ to get your fragment back to you.”

The King in Yellow shifted, tentacles gracefully sliding through the air; oh, the power . Larson could taste it, like pennies, like gold. “He was quite insane, yes,” said Hastur. “He came to you broken. By me.” 

Oh, boy. Oh, boy. “Yellow told me you’d punished him, but not enough.”

“Arthur Lester did indeed commit crimes; and as is my wont, I drove him mad for them.” 

Yes, yes, yes��� Larson licked his lips, tasting that statement. “I had no idea how filthy he was, or I never would’ve let him leave my sight alive,” he said carefully. “Yellow did tell me Arthur Lester was the one who ripped him away from you, and was the cause of all of this. I operated under the knowledge your fragment told me.” Time for some damage control: “Yellow admitted to me many times that his knowledge was… incomplete. That his memory can’t be trusted. He said it was like his memory was leaking, spilling out of him. Even now, he doesn’t remember things correctly, which is why he’s with that man . He doesn’t recall what happened; don’t blame him, your Lordship, for choosing such a lesser being as his host right now. He can’t help it.”

“A tragedy.” The god sounded so unmoved for that piece of himself, as if it were beneath notice. “A matter of note: Arthur Lester is mine now. He belongs to me; I have claimed him. Any justice done to him is mine to pursue, and mine alone. Do you understand, Wallace Larson?”

Larson licked his lips. This was a relationship he didn’t understand; and until he did, he couldn’t manipulate it. “Of course, my Lord,” he said with the utmost reverence. “I trust you shall ensure his penitence for his transgressions against myself and your fragment. Though if there is anything I may do to assist you in such matters, I beg you to inform me. I live to serve.” 

“A lover of justice, I see.” Flat. “I assure you—his desire for death has been denied.”

Well, that sounded pretty damn good.

Larson decided to push it. “That other man is a thief, my lord. He took your fragment from me right as we were on the crux of giving Yellow the power he needed to return home to you.”

“If so, I will deal with him.”

If so. Nope, no good. Larson had to nail this. “My lord. I live to serve you. I will give you anything, absolutely anything you wish.” He prostrated himself, forehead to the floor.

The King in Yellow… sighed. “I confess I do not welcome this intrusion, Wallace Larson. Many of my works are at a delicate stage; I do not have time to… babysit.” 

That had to be another trigger word, a test.

What was he being tested for? A position of power? Authority? He had to up his game. “I will never cause you trouble!” Larson surged to his feet, glowing with eagerness. “On the contrary, my Lord! If you but bid me to do so, I could be of great use to you. All my wealth, my people, lives—I have that in spades, oh Great One. Do you wish to bring more people into your fold, to marvel at your city, to die for your cause? I can provide!”

“You wish to serve me? With such a position comes responsibility. With a position comes my gaze. I am not forgiving of error. Are you sure that’s what you want?”

Arthur, still being tortured after years . Clearly driven mad. Clinging to the god who denied him death . A terrifying fate.

But what if Larson got to be the one doing the torture? What if he got to do it to the thief? Oh! “I will do as you ask, my Lord,” Larson vowed. “Anything you wish, I will do for you.” He went back to his knees, arms raised. “Iä!”

And with just the tip of one tentacle, Hastur touched under Larson’s chin to raise his face higher. “And in return, what do you expect from me?” 

The god was touching him!

Larson couldn’t stop shaking. The thrill, through his entire body, illicit, terrifying, marvelous—“I wish for power, my Lord,” he said, voice thick with need. “On Earth, I… I brokered a deal with another great power for prosperity for my little town, and youth for myself to ensure it was taken care of for all of its days. The rituals I conducted were to grow my strength so I may better protect my people and guide them into prosperity. If I was granted even a fraction of the power you wield… I could do great things in your name, my Lord.”

“Power is something I am capable of granting. Let us see, then, if you truly deserve it. Remain for now. I shall return soon.”

“As you will, my Lord. Thank you, my Lord. Iä!” And Larson bowed, his face to the ground as the god swept away.

And, face down, he smiled. He had absolutely nailed this audition.

#

Yow , that guy. Yikes.

Hastur had seen this kind before. Desperate. Slimy. Intelligent. Obsequious. He’d used this kind before, too. This was the kind who could be bought.

The kind his son had purged from his court. The kind Gokar’luh had targeted, back when…

Hastur stopped moving, briefly hunched as though speared through with obsidian. Quickly, he turned to the window, as though merely seized with a desire to enjoy the view.

His tears fell. He caught them, magically evaporated them, before they could be seen.

There had been a time when Hastur would have used the hell out of that man—taking advantage of his purported loyalty, his determined yet expendable mind. Now, he… would not do that. What he would do, he wasn’t sure, but he would not give Larson an ounce of power.

Hastur shuddered, holding himself together by will alone, keeping it in; no one could see him vulnerable. No one could see him in grief . He could not risk weakness now. He wove a few more spells to hide his sorrow, to prevent tears from being seen.

It was not even a question that he’d take Arthur’s word over that man’s, whatever Arthur was able to share. Now, however, it was time for visit number two. 

He knocked on Parker’s door.

#

Parker could fall asleep anywhere—even in the palace of a potential enemy that had fucked up his former partner and sure as hell hurt his new one.

Good morning, Sunny said. His voice was still soft, but he didn’t sound wobbly, which was a good sign. A Dancer brought in clothes for you about twenty minutes ago: they hung it right inside the door. You seemed peaceful, so I didn’t want to wake you.  

Parker grunted. “So I didn’t dream all of this.” He sat up. Sheets silkier than he’d ever known slid off his body like oil. “Damn,” he said, staring at them.

A pause. I don’t… quite remember what they’ll do for breakfast, but I hope there’s fruit. Parker, I think I would like to eat a fruit.

“Okay. A fruit.” He hopped out of bed and began stretching. “I think we can swing a fruit.” The view out the balcony was just as lovely during the day, and he was amazed at the life he could see in the city.

There were no engine noises, nothing like that, but he caught motion; this city clearly thrived. It gleamed, polished in the sun. From here, he couldn’t spot where the slums were.

All cities had slums. “Hey, where’s the—”

There came a knock at the door. 

It’s him, Sunny gasped, already starting to breathe too fast. Parker, I… I don’t know what to do. To say. What should I say?

Shit. They’d had no time to process, no time to anchor themselves. Parker was naked. He grabbed the pajamas left him last night (fine, fine silk, very weird, he couldn’t process wearing them to bed) and pulled on the pants, hopping toward the door. “I’m more interested in what he’s got to say. I’ll do the talking, buddy. Okay?”

Okay… okay. I’ll follow your lead, partner.

Parker steeled himself and opened up.

He was nearly blinded.

The King bled into the room, power warping the air, so brilliant he made the sunlight seem dim, and then, he loomed. Stood there, looking down at them, limbs gently curling; it was impossible to read his masked face.

Gods were hard to think around, it turned out. Parker would manage. Step one was learning to read this thing.

He’s seen this being at least annoyed last night, if not angry. This wasn’t that. This seemed… neutral, somehow.

For now, Parker mirrored as best he could, trying not to provoke. “Good morning.”

“Greetings. Did you sleep well?” 

That voice would take time getting used to; it sounded somehow in more dimensions than Parker knew existed, rattling in his skull. “Better than the ground or a prison cell,” Parker said. “It’s like the Ritz in here.”

“The Ritz? Ah… a human inn. I certainly hope it surpasses that. I am here, Parker Yang, to ask you some questions. To ascertain some truths. To determine your worthiness to carry what you carry… and to remain in my presence at all.”

Well. That could be a whole ass-load of threat. Or it could be genuine curiosity. Or it could be something else entirely—Parker had never learned to read squid . “Fair enough. Ask away.”

“Why are you here, Parker Yang?”

“Not a damn clue,” he said without hesitation. “Not concretely, anyway. The thing that dropped us here sounded like it wanted to hurt Arthur, though.” He paused. “Is he okay?”

The squid-god’s uncountable tentacles undulated, ends flipping; Parker wondered if he’d surprised him. “No. But he will be. He is mine now, and I will see to his recovery.”

Marked. Claimed. What the actual fuck. “All right. So. I don’t suppose you know why all of this is happening.” Parker set his jaw, crossing his arms over his bare chest, and chanced looking up at the King. Direct contact made his eyes hurt, but he would adjust, damn it. “Neither of us can figure it out. Don’t even really have a theory.”

“You are bold.” The King said that almost to himself. “Or at least, choosing your moment to be. Are you not afraid, Parker Yang?”

“I already died once,” Parker quipped. “Figure if you’re gonna kill me, you’d have done it by now.”

Parker, be careful, Sunny whispered.

“I got this, Sunny. We’re okay.”

“So John was correct: he did kill you.” Neutral, like it meant nothing. “You have been to the Dark World.”

What was this guy after? “Yeah. Don’t remember much about it.” Parker shrugged. “Sunny said it was the same for him.”

“Sunny. You have given that name to a piece of the God in Yellow?” Absolutely unreadable tone.

Parker suspected he knew this technique. It was a good one; by not revealing emotion, the interviewer guaranteed the interviewee would try to fill the vacuum themselves, giving shit away. It was comfortingly familiar. “I’ll have you know Sunny named himself.”

The King tilted his head. “Good.”

Parker thought he meant it. “Why’s that matter to you?”

“Because he should have the choice. Know this, Parker Yang: I do not have time for intrusions right now. All of this is inconvenient, as much as it is unavoidable. There are forces at work creating this situation.”

“That Outer God.”

“Yes. Because of him, you may not leave. Because of him, you may not change your circumstances. Because of him, I must mitigate the damage you do to my own with your presence. Do you understand?”

Holy shit, that was a lot. “Your own? Damage? To what, Arthur?“ Parker said. “You want mitigation? You might need a plan for if that slimy fuck Larson tries something. He had us imprisoned before that Outer God tossed us in your lap, and he ain’t the type to forgive and forget.”

“Imprisoned,” the King said slowly. “Hear me: from here on out, you will likely not have my ear alone. From here on out, you will be faced with others, and their opinions on events. This is your chance to tell me the truth without interruption—or fear of reprisal. Tell me what you believe happened.”

No pressure. 

“Wow,” Parker said. “All right. I guess it’s storytime. Whatcha think, Sunny?”

There was a weighty pause. Great One, I… Parker is a good man. Do you truly mean no… no repercussions, for us sharing this story?

“None.”

I think… Sunny said, voice so soft it was as though he spoke from a distance. You can tell him, Parker.

“You’re sure?”

I’ll be fine. This is important.

Sunny was not okay. Parker did what he could to draw attention back to himself. “Might want to grab a chair, sir. It’s a long story, but a damn good one.”

“Continue,” said the King.

Parker adopted his best convince-the-jury tone. “Well, it all started when I woke up in the middle of some fucked-up ritual that I think was supposed to do something to Sunny. I was in some basement, surrounded by chanting guys and dead animals, in the suit I got buried in—not that I knew I’d been dead yet.”

“This sounds like quite a surprise,” said the god.

“You ain’t kidding! Larson had the cult guys saying, ‘c' ymg' uln, c' llll ah'mglw'nafh ymg'.’ They said it like a thousand times, so I remember.”

The King went absolutely stock-still, like a photograph. “Did he?”

To Parker’s surprise, Sunny spoke up. Your pronunciation is getting so much better! I’m proud of you. Before long I’ll have you singing Carcosan poetry.

“Hey, I got a good teacher,” Parker said, encouragingly.

Heh. Sunny’s voice was strained, but clear. Great One, Larson was going to broker a deal for more power. What I’d provided wasn’t enough, anymore. We’d done it before, once or twice, but this time he attracted the attention of something else. The Outer God.

“I see.” So flat. “And I presume this Outer God was the one who rehomed you, Slice.”

“Sunny,” said Parker.

“My apologies. Sunny.” 

Had that been a test? Maybe. “We think so. He was in my head, boom . Larson wasn’t too happy about it.”

He threw Parker in a cell. Attempted to get information out of him, but neither of us knew what was going on. So he had some thugs beat him, and I… I…

“You’re okay, bud.”

Yes. Yes, I discovered I had partial control over Parker’s mouth when one of the thugs socked us in the jaw.

“You were beaten.”

“Not too bad,” said Parker in his patented tough-guy-detective delivery. “They were pros, and didn’t want me hemorrhaging, or nothin’. Didn’t even tie me all that good. Well. I guess the knots were fine, but the table thing they had me on was half-rotted.”

He didn’t account for Parker being impressively strong, Sunny said, caught up in their story. Or for the lockpicks in his suit jacket.

That rumble… was it… a purr? “So this challenge was not outside your experience , ” said the King in Yellow.

Parker shrugged. “I get bad guys put in jail. Yeah, I get in some situations . But that ain’t the point here. We got out, mostly ‘cause Sunny knew where to go and what to do. Knew right where that prick Larson kept his cars. So you know what we did?”

“What did you do?” rumbled the King.

“First, we fuckin’ climbed a hidden stairway behind one of those tapestry things. Then we crawled down a garbage chute—went straight outside into a dumpstah.”

“I see.”

“Then we crept through the woods, bein’ all sneaky-like.”

Parker used a branch to confuse our footprints, Sunny volunteered.

“Fuck, yeah. Then we hotwired a car and got the hell outta Dodge.” He grinned. “Pretty sure we heard Larson shrieking like a baby.”

You did steal his car, specifically.

“Hell yeah, I stole his car. It was the nicest one. Should’a pissed on the thing and set it on fire.”

“So you wished to leave Larson,” said the King mildly. “Sunny.”

Sunny went very, very quiet upon being addressed.

“It’s okay,” Parker said softly. “You can tell the truth. He said no repercussions.”

Larson had… promised to return me to Carcosa, Sunny said, very carefully. 

“Did he? Curious that he told me the same thing, but his version did not include the chant your Parker just quoted.” 

Shit. He’d already talked to Larson. “Yeah? Well, they were doing it,” Parker said firmly, because it was the truth.

He… He’d sworn it to me, but it had been over nine years, Great One. I couldn’t wait any longer. When I was put in Parker, I… I took a chance, and helped him escape.

No reaction. “Continue. After your escape, what did you do?”

We made it to New York City, but I… I was foolish, said Sunny. I hadn’t realized Parker was Chinese, and on Earth there is a war with some of the Eastern powers. Men who look like Parker are being put into camps, and on top of that… Larson had much influence there. His voice wavered, a bit. Dropped. It was… It was incalculably foolish of me. 

“Naw,” said Parker. “It was still our best bet—and we wouldn’t’ve made it here if you hadn’t. You did good, Sunny.”

Sunny leaned into the reassurance. His men were waiting along our route into the city, and they found us almost immediately. But Parker was brilliant, and navigated like an expert.

“Wasn’t my first time playing rat-catcher,” Parker said. “Only usually, I ain’t the rat.”

He got us to the sewers, and negotiated with a ghoul to use one of their tunnels to come here, to the Dreamlands.

“Hey, you forgot our rooftop adventure.”

I did! He jumped across rooftops, running from the police, with Larson’s men shooting at us from the ground! We howled!

“We sure as fuck did howl!”

“An experienced escapist, I see.” Hastur’s tone was warm.

He was shot, but he persevered, even through the sewers. Sunny had gained momentum, voice soft and wobbly but clear. Parker had only just met me, but he kept his promise, Great One. He was offered the choice, to leave New York or go to the Dreamlands, and he chose to honor his promise to me.

“Did he?” said the King.

He did! The ghoul-tunnel led us to the Underworld, but there were stairs to the surface. Parker… Parker almost died, again, but I took a risk and was able to heal him. From there, we got lucky and met a Trader, and… Sunny paused, hesitating. And… And then we started…

“You got this,” Parker said, his voice gentle.

We… We began… Working.

Parker nodded.

The King’s tentacles undulated in a different way, and Parker thought it might be questioning. “Working?”

“Sunny wasn’t sure where we were, but before we could find Carcosa, we needed a bed and some food. So we got to work. Solved a few mysteries as we started trying to track you down. Healed some folks. Your city moves? That’s real weird. Does the lake go with it?”

“It does.” The King was silent for a long moment. “How long have you been in the Dreamlands?” 

“About eight months?” Parker said. “Apparently, we got here way at the other ass-end of the place. We’ve been busy. Working, making our way here. Trying to help folks. Heh, eating, too.”

It was almost like a gasp. I—I can taste! I can taste food, Great One. I had forgotten what food was like. Parker and I would work for food, sometimes, but it also let us be close to people who talked, which is how we found work and could travel. And I taught Parker some magic—healing magic, though I also granted him a few minor spells for convenience. He’s proven to be capable and responsible.

“Flatterer,” said Parker. 

The King sounded thoughtful. “You have made good use of your time.” And he touched one tentacle to the underside of Parker’s chin to lift his face.

Parker stepped back, away from that touch. “Hands off the merchandise.”

Sunny gasped. Parker!

The King didn’t seem upset by this. Had that been a test, too? “There are some rules for you here,” he rumbled.

If Parker is kept safe, I will do my best, Sunny said gravely.

“Rule one, you already know—my daughter is to be respected. Do you understand?”

“Neither of us have any interest in hurtin’ kids,” Parker said. “But yeah. Understood.”

“Good. Rule two: do not attempt revenge. If there is to be justice, I will deliver it.”

I don’t want revenge, Sunny said, very quietly. I want Larson to stay the fuck away from us. He might try to hurt Parker.

“Same, but for Sunny,” said Parker. “If Larson tries something, I can’t promise I won’t fight back.”

Parker once punched a wizard in the face to stop a spell.

“He punched…” 

“I sure as fuck did,” said Parker. “That guy deserved it. Look, do we have to stay in this room?” he gestured. “It’s nice digs, but we’re not used to staying in one place for too long.”

The King seemed to settle a little, his tentacles lower as they waved, and Parker thought maybe some tension had left him. “As long as you do not leave my palace grounds, nor attempt escape, I give you permission to wander. Of course, I expect common sense. Do not steal weapons. Do not pick fights. Do not antagonize unnecessarily; I may protect you from revenge, but there can be consequences you bring upon yourself.” After a moment, lower, he said, “Larson is dangerous. I would advise you not to push him. And if he pushes… tell me. I will make it stop , no matter the confines I have been given . ”

So a vow from a god was a thing Parker could feel. It penetrated; he suspected it actually did something to him that he couldn’t see, and he shuddered. This wasn’t a lie. “Thanks. We will.”

“Now,” said the King. “You will join me for breakfast.”

Breakfast? Sunny’s voice was soft with fear. Will… Will Arthur be there? I don’t… I don’t know that I can… Parker?

“Hang in there, Sunny.”

“Arthur will be there. Arthur is mine. He is my own. Marked.” And the King suddenly came at him .

Parker startled, stepping back. 

The King stopped right in front of him, creepy chipped white mask (wait… was it a mask?) right in front of Parker’s face. “I know you are aware of other relationships here. I saw the look you gave them.”

Definitely not a mask! Oh, boy! Parker swallowed hard. “We’re shooting straight? Okay. Yeah. Your kid? That’s his kid.”

“Yessss.” The tentacles undulated all around, eclipsing Parker’s vision, making the room otherworldly, frightening.

But… how? Sunny was fumbling, now, on the back foot. I know she looks—but I don’t… Parker, this is a lot.

“I know, buddy. Hold on a little longer.”

I… This is important. Yes. I’ll try—no, I will.

The King was silent for a long moment. This close, his every word rumbled through Parker like a train. “Did Arthur Lester trust you?” 

Power gripped Parker like a fist. This question had to be answered true. “With his life.”

Sunny made one, very small noise, but was otherwise silent.

Finally, the King withdrew, looming again, but at a distance. “She was his daughter. She died. I brought her back.” There was absolutely no tone to this; no indication of how he expected them to feel. “She is my daughter now. And his. Yes. I brought her back to hurt him, in the beginning. Now, she heals him.” 

Parker gawked at him. “What the actual fuck? ” he said.

“Is that your only question?” said the King, mildly amused. 

“If you were just some guy, I’d sock you,” said Parker, low.

Parker! whispered Sunny, afraid.

“Refreshingly honest. Perhaps you wish to know why I chose to hurt him so?”

Was this happening? Was this really happening? “I think only a fucking monster would use a little kid like a weapon,” Parker said through clenched teeth.

“True, and accurate—I make no excuse.” 

That was unexpected. Parker frowned, peering at him.

The King’s many limbs undulated. “He took something from me, Parker Yang. And he would not give it back. He took the one called John. You know something about this, don’t you, little one?”

Sunny did not sound good. He did not sound okay. John. The one Arthur… wanted me to be. Outside of Addison, when I was torn away from you. He made a deal to get John back, but he got me instead. His voice was very soft. He hated you, and he hated me because I am you. But you’ve marked him! Why?

“Because over the last six years, he’s proven me wrong. He’s worthy of keeping John, and worthy of keeping. I will no longer try to separate them—nor will I see him broken again. As you’ll be here for some time, you are going to witness the rebuilding of Arthur Lester. Perhaps… you might choose to be part of that. If you do not, I will not hold it against you. But I intend to repair all damage I have done to that man.” 

This was not in any playbook Parker knew.

Why was Hastur telling them this? Admitting this? Confessing? Letting them in on some crazy plan? What the hell was the purpose of this? “Uh,” said Parker. 

The… the damage. Like his legs. And… Sunny’s voice was very, very small. Distant. Strangely… blank. Parker?

Sunny had never sounded like that before. “Sunny? You okay?”

The King spoke low, but like when he’d gripped Parker with that power to tell only truth, he caressed Sunny with it now. “Sunny. Do you trust this man?”

With my life, Sunny said, his voice going even softer, a whisper.

What? What was happening? “Sunny?”

Parker, I… I think I… I have to… I can’t. It was like he was sinking, somehow, worse than Parker had ever heard. I really tried. I’m sorry.

Parker inhaled. He could feel it. Sunny had shut off . Sunny was gone, sunk. Parker began breathing low and sharp. Sometimes a guy got angry, even if there was nowhere for it to go.

“I see,” said the King quietly. 

Parker stared at him, stared hard, telling himself that trying to hit the damned squid wouldn’t fix anything. “What the fuck was that? What did you do?”

“Tested the water.” The King seemed to be staring back, as if watching some kind of result. “Was he like this when you were given him?”

“What kind of… you listen here, you fuck! He’s doing… he’s been doing great! He’s learned. He’s grown. You just… came in here like a godsdamned brick to the head!”

“Taking advantage of the lack of consequences, I see.”

“Yeah. Fuck off! Leave him alone!”

“As you wish. Though for today, you will join us for breakfast.”

“What the hell? Like I wanna be part of any plan you got going now?”

“You don’t have the choice. Had the Outer God not pressed you into service, I would simply let you go—but my daughter’s life is threatened. I will not permit threats to her… and so you must stay.”

“ His daughter!”

“Mine. She is mine, now.”

“Like Arthur?”

“Both of them, Parker Yang, are unusual. I think you know how unusual; Arthur Lester did something to you, too, in the years you were together. Didn’t he?”

Parker clammed up. That wasn’t this god’s business. That was nobody’s business.

The King knew, anyway, and continued. “Arthur Lester won my respect. Faroe won my love. They are my family now. I am not kind, Parker Yang. I am not generous, like your earthly saints, your fairy tales, so hear me well as I say this: they are my priority. I do not know you .”

What the hell was Parker supposed to do with that? 

The devil was vowing familial love. What the fuck. Parker swallowed down the growing urge to grapple with this thing. “The hell was all this for?” he said. “What, you wanted to see what happened if you pushed real hard?”

“To see if you are a threat to my people.”

Parker’s voice dropped. “I’m not. We’re not.”

“I believe you. Thus, you now have information no one else in this palace has.”

Parker went still. “What?”

“Faroe’s parentage. My admission of guilt regarding Arthur. You alone hold this.”

Why the fuck had he shared all that? This guy wasn’t fitting into any of the boxes Parker had prepared. “Okay,” he said carefully.

“You may keep Sunny. Had you been like Larson, I would have taken him from you.”

Parker inhaled, fists clenched. So it had been a test. All of it. “Okay.”

“I am not attempting to befriend you.” The King’s tone was even. “Should we gain intimacy over time, then that will be the reward of choices and proof of character. You have been dropped into this situation, Parker Yang, at the highest point of a storm which you cannot control, and cannot steer through. I have already crashed the ship; from this point, my goal is to protect the survivors.”

Parker stared at him. They were back to confusing confessions, vulnerability in the middle of threats. This felt…

Rushed. That was the word. Rushed. Like they had no time to do this with grace.

But he was a god. That couldn’t be right. “Okay,” Parker said again.

“I have no time to rest. I have no time to babysit . It is clear to me that Sunny is… damaged, and that is not his fault. I believe he will heal with you—but he cannot be my focus. My people are.”

Shit. “Arthur and his kid.”

“And my city of Carcosa. Yes. I have six years to please that Outer God, or I lose them. Do you understand the situation?”

Parker exhaled slowly and swallowed around the lump in his throat. He couldn’t be sure if the metal taste in his mouth was his anxiety or Sunny’s panic. “So. Ship’s wrecked. Pirate’s coming in six years. You’re trying to save your own Swiss Family Robinson, and suddenly you got random guys dropped in that you don’t got any connection with, were told to care for, but you won’t do it at the cost of your people. That’s what you’re saying.”

“Something like that.”

Parker’s brow knit. “You’re in emergency mode. That’s what you’re saying.” 

Again, that pleased rumble. “That is what I’m saying.”

What was with this guy? “I don’t get you.”

“I hardly expect you to.”

“I don’t know if you’re the good guy or the bad guy.”

And the King laughed. It was a shocking sound—bigger than Sunny’s, but the same, wicked and dark and terrible. “Neither do I.”

What the hell? “You… you’re really giving me the chance to help with Arthur.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because his guilt and grief regarding you are in the way of his recovery.”

If the King meant what he said about fixing Arthur, then that made sense. “Practical reasons. Okay. Sure.” Parker rolled his shoulders. “And Sunny? He wants to rejoin you, though I gotta admit, I ain’t too keen on that idea anymore.”

“Understandable. Then perhaps this will please you: he will not rejoin me. Neither will John.”

Parker’s jaw dropped. Oh, that was… that was big. The shadow of something he couldn’t make the shape of, and didn’t have enough experience to identify. “Why the hell not?”

“I do not have the time required to do it, not with the constraints placed upon me. Perhaps after the six years are up, assuming Kayne—the Outer God—has moved on.”

Shit. That sort of made sense? But Parker’s gut was never, ever wrong; something in there was a lie. He just wasn’t sure what. “Sunny’s good. You’d benefit.”

“Oh, I would, without doubt—but there is no time to make it so. You will come to breakfast in an hour; dancers will guide you there. I expect it to be awkward.”

“Wait, that’s it? You’re just going?”

“You have questions?”

“I… fucking will . I need to take care of Sunny. Uh. You guys got… baked goods?”

The King’s tentacles moved in a way Parker realized was puzzled . “Would you like some?”

“Good-smelling. Chocolate, if possible. Oh—and some kind of fruit, too.”

“As you wish. It will be sent. Don’t ruin your appetite.” But that sounded humorous, not threatening.

“Nobody knows what you just told me?” said Parker to his back.

“Nobody knows. You are coming into the middle of a chapter, Parker; you are… what is the human phrase? ‘Hitting the ground at a run.’”

All because, his gut said, Arthur had trusted him with his life. 

Parker chose his last words carefully. “Don’t fucking poke Sunny again. Don’t you fucking dare. He’s been through enough.”

“I won’t. No further testing will come from me—I’ve decided.” The King paused right at the door. “That chant was not what he thought it was, but it was what you thought.”

Parker’s stomach sank. “Yeah?”

The King’s back was still to him. “That chant was sacrificial. He’d planned to offer Sunny to something in exchange for power.” And with that horrifying statement, he just floated out the door.

Parker knew it. He knew it . That fuck, Larson… oh, it was a damn good thing he wasn’t in the room right now. Hit the ground running, nothing; this really was like being dropped into a storm, with forty-foot waves and just a little stick for buoyancy. 

And real important: the squid had body language he could read. Parker knew he could figure him out, and wanted to analyze the hell out of this conversation, but right now, it was time to be a good partner. He began pacing and rubbing his jaw, gently stroking his lips, like trying to restore circulation to a body part that fell asleep. “Hey, buddy. Come on back to me. He’s gone. It’s okay. We got good food coming. You’re gonna be all right.”

Sunny was silent.

Dissociate. He’d seen it; that kid from that case had done it, and they’d had to learn about it for the trial. Sunny…

Sunny was there. He was . He would come back. Parker kept talking to him, rubbing his mouth, walking. He continued until the Dancer came, pushing a cart that wafted such an aroma of chocolate and hot sugar that even Parker salivated. 

“Thanks,” he said to the Dancer, whatever the hell it was, and picked a sort of chocolate cup-cake looking thing. He took a hot, steaming bite, and discovered it had melted chocolate in the middle.

It was much better than an arm pinch, for damn sure.

Parker? Sunny’s voice was foggy, like he was waking from a deep sleep, and still soft. Oh, Parker. What… What is that? It’s good.

“Fuck yeah, it is. I don’t know what it’s called, but I asked for it. That King guy delivered. Man.” He was mouth breathing. “There’s more. Check it out. Drinking chocolate, too.”

There were plates of things. So many things.

Parker considered this. Don’t ruin your appetite. And then this… bounty. Was it another test? Had they somehow won points?

The god talked about repairing damage done to Arthur. If he tied that with this, it almost looked like… guilt. Because this was overdoing it. Hm. “Whatcha wanna try next? Ha, we’re salivating.”

Oh. Is this… For us? Really? Sunny was waking slowly, dragging himself up from wherever it was he’d gone. I would… I would like some drinking chocolate next, please. What… did something happen, when I was… gone?

“Yeah. He was pretty honest.” And he made an instinctual leap: one he might not do normally without more information, but it felt like throwing out a life preserver for Sunny to latch onto. “He wasn’t a real nice guy, I got the impression. But… that guy… he’s trying to make up for something. I think we’re safe from him. I really think he won’t hurt us. I got pretty sharp with him. He didn’t take it wrong. He didn’t lash out. I really think we’re gonna be okay.” He took in the scent of the drinking chocolate. “Hot damn, that’s thick.”

Don’t choke on it—maybe there’s a spoon. Or if there’s something that is more substantial than those pastries, you could dip them. Sunny very nearly sounded like himself, and the relief tasted even better than the chocolate. It is good to know he won’t hurt us, Parker. I was… I was afraid that he might, especially after… learning what happened to…

“Yeah. I understand what you mean. I’m glad too.” Another bite, building that flavor-anchor. “But we’re here at the right time: he’s not going to hurt us, I’d bank on it. I think he’s trying to fix shit. More shit than we know about. Sounds like that Outer God’s been fucking with all of them for years.”

The Outer God certainly seemed to think using you to interfere with Larson’s ritual was funny, Sunny murmured, but it was a content sound, a hum of pleasure with the bites. I… I don’t know what to think quite yet. There’s still… There’s so much yet to learn. Did he tell you any more?

“Yeah. A lot of things. Do you wanna hear ‘em now? It’s not an emergency. There’s no rush.” Another bite, getting liquid chocolate on his chin. He laughed. “Gonna need another shower.”

Hey, I need all that! Don’t go wasting it now, Sunny said. His voice was still weak, but his tone… Tentatively, Parker put him in the clear. I… I want to hear it, but maybe in an hour or two. It… It takes me a bit to… Really come back. I should have discussed this with you before, but I didn’t think…

Dissociate. “Hey, it’s okay. Water under the bridge, now. I’m just glad you’re back. I’ll always be here when you do.” Parker picked up a weird fruit he’d never seen, like some kind of shiny, golden peach. 

Oh, a fruit! Parker… you remembered. 

“Of course I did.” He bit.

The fruit was juicier than the lava cake, and made a mess, getting all over his chin and chest. They both laughed, utterly sticky, mouth alight; he’d never tasted anything so sweet.

Sunny was better. Parker hated to risk it, but… he had to warn his partner. “One thing you need to know. He wants us at breakfast in an hour with everybody. He knows it’ll be rough. He believes us about Larson. He believes us. But we do have to show up.”

…Fuck. Sunny was quiet for another long, horrible moment. I’m going to try not to… I’ll do my best. I’ll follow your lead. But I’m not… I don’t think I’m ready to talk to Arthur yet. I haven’t… there’s just so much, Parker.

“You don’t got to. We’re partners. That means we got each other’s backs. You don’t got to talk. Try to listen, but I understand if you can’t.” He meant that. “I got this.”

I’ll do my best, Parker. I promise. And… If… I’ll tell you, if it’s too much and I have to go again. I’ll try not to. But… I can prepare, at least. He was quiet, again. Is it strange to you, that he sent all of this when we are expected at breakfast? It feels strange to me.

“I asked for something chocolate. That asshole said he wasn’t good or kind, but I think… I think he felt bad he upset you.”

But we still have to go to breakfast. Sunny rumbled softly. I don’t know what’s going on, Parker. I feel like we just walked into a new town and people are asking us who the killer is, when we thought we were investigating someone stealing a pie off a windowsill.  

“Good example.”

Sunny sighed. That chocolate is really, really good. Thank you for… for asking.

“You’re welcome, buddy.” He could get into the rest of it when Sunny was better. “I say we ruin our breakfast.”

There was a pause.

Well, if you insist, Sunny said, and Parker smiled.

#

Hastur took a moment in the hall, casting another spell over himself so no one would see him trembling.

He liked Parker Yang. He was concerned about Sunny.

What were those two to each other? Their ease of communication was… it was like they’d known each other for years. Was it happening again? It couldn’t be. It wasn’t the same vibe as Arthur and John, for certain, and besides, surely it couldn’t just happen again. 

Surely. Hastur couldn’t be so pathetic that every part of him just fell stupid in love with…

He was distracting himself. 

This day was far from over, and he had so much more to do. He paused to study himself in the many mirrors he’d installed for Arthur’s sake, and was shocked to realize he was damaged.

There was a visible chip in the corner of his face.

He stared. He tried to heal it; it did nothing.

The choice not to panic, right now, took everything he had. Whatever that was, it was an injury —a wound from an Outer God. Nothing would heal it.

Larson had possibly seen it. Parker, he was certain, had. No one else could. Hastur wove more spells, rooting them, ensuring that chip would stay invisible from now on, no matter what happened. 

This was so hard. 

It didn’t matter. He had to do this. The plan was on track. Now, he would go back to his family. Now, he would wake them, and reassure them, and gently place them upon their new path.

His heart lifted as he opened the door and saw them on the bed, and he could not even take the time to consider why.

#

rthur slept like the dead. There was such an exhaustion to it, like he just hadn’t gotten enough on their trip.

Faroe did not have that problem. She was young; she was awake, sitting up and leaning against Nibbles, watching her human father sleep.

She knew John could see her.

John peered at her from one eye, cracked just enough to see, a flash of gold beneath fluttering lashes. He didn’t know what to say. Everything had changed between them. He should fix this. He… wanted to fix this. Could he fix this?

Faroe was looking at him. There was something edging into royalty in her look, sort of imperious, the gaze of a true queen. But she was also a child. She sniffled once. “John? Are you there?”

Yes, he said, very softly, opening his eye fully. Good morning, Faroe.  

“Why are you still in Arthur?”

John made a strangled noise. I—what?

“No one can hear us right now,” Faroe said, her voice hard. Furious tears welled at the corner of her eyes—she’d thought that she would feel better in the morning, after everything, but she very much did not . “You lied to me too—as much as everyone else did. Dad is hurt , and you’re—you’re still in Arthur. Why?”

John focused on her from underneath Arthur’s brow, his gaze hard—and then it flicked away as he thought. I… I understand you’re angry, he said slowly, cautiously. I’m angry too, Faroe, but—

“You said, in the Woods, that this was your fault,” she snapped. “So if you understand that, why are you still in Arthur?”

Because I don’t fucking want to leave him, John snarled. Alright?

Like that was an answer. Like that wasn’t what had gotten Kayne’s attention, six years ago, and nearly doomed the lot of them. “So you’re selfish,” Faroe said softly. “Arthur is marked by both of you. You have him. You’ll never leave. And you’ll just let dad be torn. ”

Do you have any idea what you’re asking of me? John’s voice was a growl. You’re just a fucking kid. Do you get that you’re asking me to fucking die in the hope that it’ll make things better?

She startled. “Die?”

I wouldn’t be me anymore. I’d be gone. I’d be him.

“Why is that so bad?” She knew she was being defiant, knew she was being awful, but she couldn’t help it. She wiped her eyes with the back of her sleeve, leaning into the feeling of Nibbles’ nose pressing against her side in a halfway-hug. “Dad wants to take care of Arthur. You want to take care of Arthur, too, and you could—and dad wouldn’t be in pieces anymore!”

John sighed. I wouldn’t be me, Faroe, and Arthur still needs me. He still needs my help, and last night was proof of that. Fucking Kayne gutted him three times, if you weren’t paying attention.

“But Dad was the one who calmed him,” Faroe said, her voice carefully neutral. “So if you—”

Your Dad, John growled, tortured him. He threw us in the prison pits for three months and nearly starved Arthur to death. He—six years ago, he used you to try and get Arthur to kill himself.

Faroe really needed to learn what had happened six years ago. 

Faroe was terrified of learning what happened six years ago.

Suddenly, an insane thing happened: John began to cry. Tears welled at the corner of Arthur’s eyes. You don’t get it, John said with a sob. He… He’d given up. He asked me permission to die. 

Her face twisted. “What? Permission to…” 

And you were just there , skipping around like you didn’t have a care in the fucking world, because Hastur had done it. He’d fucking won, and if Kayne hadn’t shown up—

What? She’d what? Faroe’s breath hitched, but she kept her mouth shut. What was he talking about?

He was ready to fucking kill you because Hastur had fucked up his show, and we’re all really fucking lucky that Arthur somehow begged for him to spare you. Do you fucking get it, now? Those golden eyes shut against the tears, which welled and trickled down Arthur’s nose—John’s hand came up, brushing them away quickly.

No, she did not get it. How could she get it? Who had been ready to kill her? Kayne? Why? What?

John kept going. I almost fucking lost him, and even at the end, when he had the gall to ask me permission, I decided I’d rather go with him to the Dark World than go back to your fucking Dad! I’m not him, anymore, and I don’t fucking want to be ever again!

Faroe swallowed thickly. “I don’t understand.”

I… I know.

Silence for a moment. 

She could not figure out that night. The pieces everyone kept giving her didn’t fit together; they were like the outside puzzle pieces, but the center of the image was still missing. 

She knew one thing, though, and knew it with all her heart: “You love him.”

Yeah.

“I love him, too.”

I know.

Faroe scrubbed at the corner of her eye with the bathrobe. Trying to imagine herself skipping around while Arthur was suicidal… “So this is why you hate me?”

The golden eyes snapped back open. What?

“You’re not… you’re not subtle,” she said, her own voice strained. “You always got snippy when I came to visit Arthur. I just wanted to spend time with him. I tried to tell myself you were just grouchy, but… I’m older now. I know you hate me.”

I don’t hate you, John said, voice quiet.

Faroe just looked at him.

He looked away, dropping Arthur’s gaze. I don’t, he said. I was afraid of you. Hastur had already used you once to nearly destroy Arthur. I was afraid that Arthur would get… For a long time, when I looked at you, all I could see was a weapon. A wedge that Hastur tried to use to separate Arthur and me, that he used to crack Arthur into pieces. And… and sometimes… Do you remember the nightmares you used to have? About drowning?

Oh, no. “Yes.” Oh, no.

The first time it happened, he was so depressed he didn’t get out of bed for three days, and there wasn’t anything I could do to help him, John said.

She felt herself go pale. “What?”

He fucking—he blamed himself. For what happened to you, and we both know it wasn’t his fault, right? In the tub.

Faroe shook. “Yes. I know it wasn’t. He didn’t put a toddler in running water and walk away.”

Yeah. But he blames himself, still. And gods, yes, I was fucking angry about it, but that wasn’t even anything someone had done on purpose. It was just you being around hurt him. He let out another sob. But then… then you showed up, and for you , he got out of bed, and for you , he played the piano, and it was… you could do that, but I couldn’t. It was so fucking unfair. I held all his pieces, I did everything for him… but you were healing him.

So she had hurt him by going to him for comfort?

Her heart… hurt . Such a strange feeling, physical; sharp and heavy and sour. She pressed her fist into her chest. “I… I didn’t…”

Something about her expression tipped John off. Don’t you fucking do that.

“What?”

That’s the same damn look he gets when he blames himself for you drowning. Don’t you fucking dare. Did you hear me? You’re healing him . And in the end, it doesn’t matter to me if it’s fair or not. You’re healing him. Don’t you dare pull away just because you’re finally learning what your dad did to that man.

She took a shuddering breath. “I didn’t know I was hurting him!”

How could you? You were just a fucking kid, John said. You’re still—you’re still just a kid. What the fuck am I doing? He inhaled sharply. Faroe, I’m sorry.

John did not do that without being forced. John did not apologize unless someone made him . Faroe was certain she had never heard those words, spoken freely and genuinely, from John in her entire life.

She swallowed, wiped her nose on her sleeve, wiped her eyes. “Why?” She was asking so much more than just this.

He did his best to answer. Because… He took a breath. Because Arthur needs you, too. And I’ve been a selfish asshole, and I’ve kept you away. I’m sorry I made you think I hated you, and I’m… I’m sorry. I’m sorry all this happened. I’m sorry I made you run away. You’re a good kid.

Faroe swallowed back the tears she wanted to shed, refusing to cry. She watched John’s hand brush Arthur’s cheek, gently running over the scars with the pads of his fingers.

She didn’t understand them. She didn't really understand all of this. 

She remembered, again, Arthur rescuing Nibbles, getting them out, then turning back, blind, to fight gods.

She remembered, again, her father letting himself be torn into so he could reach her and heal her throat in time.

She remembered… John being the one to cut Nibbles free.

Her dad and Arthur loved her. Whatever else was happening, she knew that .

And John…

She couldn’t just let all this go. But then, he couldn’t, either. 

Arthur loved John. Dad needed John, which maybe was the same thing. She didn’t know.

They all loved each other, and they were all a mess. 

So this was being a grownup. It sucked. She swallowed. “John,” she said, and wasn’t sure what to follow it with.

And then with incredible timing, Hastur entered the room.

He hesitated in the doorway, surveying the scene, then swept toward them, silent.

Faroe wanted to run to him, to hide in his many arms, to cry where no one could see her. It was all too much, and she hesitated. “Good morning, Daddy,” she managed, trying to sound fine, trying to sound adult .

He knew anyway and grabbed her up at once, holding her close, hiding her against the world. “My daughter. Good morning.”

She made one tiny sound and hid her face.

Fuck, she heard quietly behind her.

“Thank you for watching, John,” said Hastur, and he sounded… gentle. So that was weird.

Yeah, sure, I did great, John said, weirdly subdued. Should put me in charge of this all the time. I can fuck everybody up on a regular basis.

“John,” said Hastur. “We have all been through terrible things in the past week. Thank you for watching them. I don’t hold you responsible for damage done by circumstances.”

Silence. Nobody knew how to respond, except for Nibbles, who stood and shook herself vigorously and then dipped into a magnificent stretch.

Hastur gently picked up Arthur next. Arthur was completely limp, boneless; the robe fell off one shoulder, revealing scars on his chest. Hastur held him close, adding another tentacle, tugging his robe back up. “Time to wake, my own.”

“Mm,” said Arthur.

“Daddy,” Faroe said quietly. “Can we go away for breakfast today?”

He stroked her curls, evening them out a little. “I’m afraid not this morning. Kayne’s guests must be faced, at least for this meal.”

“Mm?” said Arthur, who seemed to be rising from such a deep sleep that he didn’t fully recall himself. He settled against Hastur, making small, contented noises.

“Fool,” said Hastur warmly. “You could be like this all the time, you know.”

“You’re the fool,” Arthur said out of habit. “Wait. Could what?” And Arthur went stiff. He sat up. “Faroe?”

“Good morning, Arthur,” said Faroe from beneath the tangle of her father’s arms.

Hastur, maybe this isn’t such a good idea, John said, voice low and worried. We’re all fucked up. We need time. We need to talk about this beforehand. Prepare ourselves.

Hastur’s sigh was heavy. “We have a choice. Before us lies a forked path.”

“What, in a yellow wood?” blurted Arthur.

“Essentially, yes. Both roads last for six years. Both involve unpleasantries—things that must be done. Errors that must be addressed. Repairs that must be made. So: we can drag those horrible things out, make them last, linger … or we can get them fucking over with so we can move on with our lives.”

Arthur rubbed his eyes. “Um. What are we talking about?”

“I have decided we’re getting this over with. To that end, John, we have to face them. You’ve already told me what you can of the situation. Arthur… are you ready to talk about Larson and Yellow and Parker?”

Arthur went stiff as a board. “No!”

“Then we won’t wait. I know enough: these people were brought here to hurt you.”

Faroe went stiff, too, but said nothing.

John growled.

Arthur swallowed. “Me?” he said, tiny.

“Yes—and allowing that isn’t one of Kayne’s fucking rules, which means I don’t have to. So: today, we are drawing boundaries. Our guests will respect those boundaries, or they will know deep regret. Done. Then we move on with the next steps.”

Next steps? said John suspiciously. 

“Wh—you can’t hurt Parker!” Arthur made a desperate noise. “And you can’t fucking trust Larson, no matter what he says. He’s a liar, and a killer, and—”

“And we are stuck ,” Hastur said with a growl. “Do you recall Kayne’s rules? Because. I. Do. And I am not going to risk any of you by flaunting those again!”

Arthur’s left hand rose with a mind of its own to touch the scars Pers had left behind.

“I will not trust Larson,” said Hastur. “I will not hurt Parker, unless provoked. But we must establish boundaries now . Then it is done, and we can move on. ” Hastur’s tentacles lashed.

Fucking hell. John made a noise of distinct unhappiness. Hastur… this is a lot.

“It can’t wait until tomorrow?” Faroe said, very tiny, hidden.

Hastur sighed heavily. Clearly, he’d have to get them on board with some honesty. “I have made mistakes.”

Arthur’s mouth hung open.

“I intend to correct those mistakes. And I intend to do it… quickly,” said Hastur.

Quickly? John said.

He cradled Faroe close. “My errors have cost us all far too much. I move now to correct them. I know it’s happening fast.” They didn’t understand yet, but they would. “Arthur, you were right: the state of Ishara is unacceptable. John, Arthur is now being paid.”

“I’m what?” said Arthur.

“Faroe, I will work with Dis to ensure you can fight even more effectively.”

“Oh,” she sighed, sounding relieved.

“Arthur, I intend to repair what I have done to your reputation.”

You what? said John.

Arthur’s brow was knit. “Okay. Sure. Wait. What?”

Hastur was moving, carrying them all out into the hall. He placed Faroe in front of her door. “I’m sorry, my daughter. This breakfast will be unpleasant. I wish for you to dress as the future queen you plan to be. We are drawing battle lines. Do you understand?”

“Yes, dad,” she said, shuffling inside, her robe dragging on the marble floor.

Hastur carried Arthur to his room.

Servants peered, doing doubletakes at the King in Yellow and the Composer in a bathrobe. Arthur just sort of hung there, face red. There wasn’t much else he could do.

Hastur, for fuck’s sake! People are seeing this!

“Good.”

“Good?”

Hastur explained again. “We are playing Kayne’s new game, must make many changes.” They were in Arthur’s room at last. Hastur put him in the bathroom and began picking through Arthur’s clothes. “The playing field has been made more difficult, but we will succeed. For Faroe’s sake.”

Arthur took care of business, frowning, washing up. “Yeah. Yeah, but—”

“Your Parker is an interesting character. I am surprised you never took him up on his offer.”

“What offer?” Arthur said, wandering over. “What the fuck, Hastur?”

“You will wear this.”

“I don’t want to wear that!”

“Arthur, you don’t even know what I’m holding.”

It… it’s fine. It’s mostly black. Just yellow piping. It’s the one you wore on that one jubilee when all those representatives came from Koranth.

“Why?” cried Arthur.

And he explained again. “Because today, we turn over a new leaf.” Hastur pressed the outfit into Arthur’s hands.

New leaf? You’re being the usual pushy ass.

“That’s because I have much to make up for. Arthur, after breakfast, you are coming to court with me.”

Arthur stared at nothing, clutching the outfit like a security blanket. “To… go on trial?”

And again . “No. To be seen. Acknowledged. Presented.”

“Presented?”

“As I should have in the beginning.” Hastur touched his face. “Do I need to dress you?”

Arthur’s expression was a journey . “John,” he said evenly. “How long was I asleep?”

Not long enough for all of this. What the fuck, Hastur?

“I am moving too fast for you,” said Hastur softly. “I apologize.” And then he just took the bathrobe away.

“For the love of—” Arthur startled, covered himself, then started pulling on the outfit. 

“Today,” said Hastur, “we will first have a terrible, awkward meal. We have no choice about the inclusion of these three people. Larson is untrustworthy.”

No shit, John muttered.

“Parker is interesting. A shame I have no time to pursue him. Sunny—”

Parker is what? You what? Who the fuck is—

“Sunny—whom you knew as Yellow, but who has renamed himself—is damaged badly, thanks to Larson. You will be gentle with him.”

Gentle with him?

“After breakfast, you will come to court. John… it is time.”

Time for what? John growled.

And again. “To be seen. It’s time to correct my mistakes.” He picked them up.

Seen? John said, his voice almost small. For what in fuck? 

“We’ll talk more after breakfast,” said Hastur. “We go now to meet our foes, our forced family—and get it over with.” He picked Arthur up again.

“Wait!” Arthur cried.

“There isn’t time,” said Hastur, and carried him out of the room.

#

Dancers went to Larson’s room, where they found him dressed as fancily as Carcosa allowed—which was golden and caped, embroidered and jeweled, and Larson felt more glorious than he ever had. He smiled, following them out the door.

Dancers went to Parker’s room, where they found him dressed as an ordinary citizen—not peasant rags, but just clothes, a tunic and trousers, cinched at the waist, showcasing his shoulders and shape in simple, neutral colors. He followed, too, looking grim. 

They met Larson and his group halfway there. Dancers fluttered between them, a sharp, inhuman army to keep them apart.

Parker and Larson still shot glares at each other through the golden gauze. The march to the breakfast table was done in thick and terrible silence.

#

Faroe had not gone the direction Hastur expected. This was no gown; no loveliness of sparkles and pastels. She did not wear yellow. Instead, she wore what Dis had called her battle dress .

It was a sheath, fitted to her; thin leather lined it, protecting her organs, her wrists, her throat. She wore her wooden knife at her side; her bow had been destroyed, but she’d fetched another one, just some soldier’s bow, and carried it with its quiver to the table. Over her shoulder stood Nibbles, a silent sentinel of raw eldritch power that peered down the table with dozens of disinterested eyes.

Faroe had tied her hair up, and she wore her crown. She sat on Hastur’s right. back straight, smile absent. Ready for war.

“My precious one.” Hastur sounded proud, amused, warm. “It will be over soon.”

“I know. We’re drawing battle lines,” she said.

“Oh, boy,” said Arthur.

And in swept the dancers with their uninvited guests.

Hastur put Arthur in the usual spot to his left. That meant seats on both sides of him were taken, and Larson was not pleased. Lips tight, he sat next to Faroe, looking back and forth as though sizing up a game of poker.

Parker stared wildly at them all, then sat beside Arthur. He could still feel that god. He swore he could feel the god in his fucking teeth. 

The Dancers flitted away with a rustle of fabric. 

Awkward silence thickened, like clay.

“So this is weird,” Parker finally said. “Awkward as a shotgun wedding.”

Arthur snorted.

“You dare,” whispered Larson.

“We are here,” said Hastur, “to come to an understanding. Living beings have conducted business, made peace, and entered agreements over food as long as memory itself exists, and so we shall honor that tradition today. This will be a calm meal. We will speak, discover our roles, and lay out our boundaries. Decide on your questions. There will be time to ask them.”

The new guests stared at him.

And in came the dancers, loading the table down with incredible smelling food, savory and delicious. It was a full spread, a proper kahvalti —black and green olives, cucumbers, cured meats, spiced eggs, fresh sheep and goat cheeses, fresh tomatoes, fresh-baked bread, apricot, cherry, and apricot jams, honey, pastries, and sweet butter.

Parker’s jaw hung open. Larson gawked.

Faroe’s cold exterior melted, and she looked at Hastur. “Oh! You remembered?”

“Of course I remembered. Happy birthday, my precious one.”

Faroe beamed at him, tears shining in her eyes, and dug in.

Arthur sniffed. “It’s that favorite of hers.”

Turkish-inspired, said John.

“Uh, I don’t… I don’t know where to start,” said Parker, staring. Salivating. (Or maybe Sunny was.)

Arthur turned toward him to speak, but Sunny spoke first. There isn’t really a wrong way. I’d start with the eggs; they smell fantastic.

“Yes, he’s right,” Arthur said. There was something pleading in his expression. “However you like. I’d start with the bread, unless you’d prefer something else?”

Sunny said nothing.

Arthur sighed, his attempt abandoned, and turned away. “Sorry.”

Parker was not a fan of the new and crunchy Arthur. “Don’t be,” he said slowly. “After all…” He met Larson’s gaze. “We all gotta find a way to get along, don’t we?”

“Do we?” said Larson conversationally, wrinkling his nose at the feast before him.

“Yes,” said Hastur with a low rumble of warning, tentacles lashing briefly. “You do.”

Parker shuddered. Fuck, gods were distracting.

“My lord, oh great one, I will—” Laron began.

“Stop,” said Hastur. “ Eat. And while you’re at it, listen and learn.” He touched Faroe’s cheek, focusing on her because—as they would all understand—she was the priority. “What are your plans this day, my darling?”

“I want to talk to Dis,” said Faroe. “I want to advance my training.”

“An excellent idea. I need to speak with her, as well. We should consider several new aspects of your education, if you are willing.” One of his tentacles had picked up a bowl and was delicately filling it with several tomatoes, a spread of cheeses, olives, and topped it off with a generous drizzle of honey.

Then, inexplicably to his guests, he put it in front of the goat, who began to eat quite happily.

Faroe smiled up at Hastur, one hand straying from her silverware to pet the soft, bare spot by Nibbles’ ear. “I am willing, father.”

“I am proud of you, my daughter.”

She leaned into his touch.

Arthur was making good progress with his plate. He muttered, “What’s Parker doing?”

He’s eating. I don’t know what to tell you.

Parker snorted. “How about I tell you when I stop eating?”

“How about you remain silent as we were asked?” said Larson sweetly.

Parker looked at him. “Says the guy who didn’t eat as he was told. You’re just grouchy nobody wants to talk to you , aren’t you?”

“Parker,” said Hastur, but there was no accompanying growl. “Behave.”

Parker sighed dramatically. “Boss said behave. Sorry, everybody,” he said, stood, did an awkward bow, and sat again.

Faroe giggled, staring at him like she’d never seen a human before, cheeks flushed.

“Here is the situation,” said Hastur. “Wallace Larson, Parker Yang, Sunny Ot H'aaztre : you are here as part of an experiment of sorts, run by an Outer God. To wit, I cannot get rid of you; I cannot release you. I cannot lock you away. I cannot kill you. However…” The room rumbled threateningly, and the plates rattled. “Those are my only limitations. I can hurt you. I can set you on fire—or make you believe that you burn. I can skin you, erase your mind, force you to live in wordless agony. There are many things I can do. But I would rather not have to do them. They take time; they take energy. I do not care to spend them on you. Am I clear?”

“Crystal,” said Parker.

Yes, said Sunny, very quietly. 

Larson was an eager beaver. “I understand, oh great and glorious lord! Iä!”

Faroe gave him a magnificent side-eye.

“Therefore,” said Hastur like that hadn’t happened, “what I would like to do is offer you… a chance. I’m sure you have things you want to do. Things to pursue. You probably left a life behind; I will allow, through my agents, for a graceful end to that life. You will never return there. This is now your home.”

“The Dreamlands for good?” said Parker, brightening.

“Yes,” said Hastur, “though initially, only my palace; after that, Carcosa. Then, we will see.”

“I’m so sorry,” whispered Arthur.

“You kidding? This is great!” said Parker. “Fuck, yeah.”

Faroe grinned and hid it behind her hand.

Larson was dead pale. “How long do I have to… to close out my life there?”

“How long do you believe you will need?” said Hastur in a gracious tone.

“I got lots of investments, things that ain’t made to pay out for years to come. I got people. Land. I can’t just…” He stopped, licked his lips. “I need at least a few months to contact everybody.”

“Granted.”

Larson stared. “Really?”

“Yes. I can be reasonable—though of course, all of your decisions will be made through my agents. You are not to return.”

“My lord, there are some things that need to be done in person,” said Larson.

“I will send copies of you,” said Hastur to Larson, his tentacles undulating all around like dark flame. “You will not leave here. I’m being generous to prisoners forced upon me, Wallace Larson. I wouldn’t suggest you try my patience.”

Larson swallowed. “Thank you, gracious lord,” he said, tone bitter.

“Don’t remember much about religion,” Parker muttered to Arthur. “But something about rich guys, a camel, and the eye of a needle seems to be coming to mind.”

Arthur had a choking fit.

“Geez, sorry,” Parker laughed, and smacked Arthur on the back.

Breathe! Shit!

Hastur waved one tentacle, and Arthur’s throat cleared. He was red.

Parker laughed.

Faroe’s eyes were bright as she giggled, too.

Larson went very carefully neutral. He poked at his plate as if he thought the feta might be alive.

“And you, Parker?” said Hastur.

“Been dead for ten years,” said Parker, and shrugged.”If I had anything left, it’s long been sold off, or stolen. Didn’t have anything worth keeping, anyway.”

“I’m sorry,” whispered Arthur again.

“Quit that. I would’ve chosen to stay here on my own, anyway,” said Parker.

“I will find employment for you in time,” said Hastur, “but for now, I expect to be adults and entertain yourselves. You may study in the libraries. Should you wish, you may train in the grounds below. If you wish a hobby—plantlife, or something—you are welcome to pursue it, but there will be no rituals. No gathering of followers. Nothing that in any way threatens a single being in my palace or my city, and certainly nothing that puts anyone at this table at risk.”

Larson’s eyes narrowed. “In spite of the sins these two thieves and murderers have committed?”

And Arthur… bent his fork. It was a spark of magic, flashing through, it bent, just creaked to a useless vee. 

Parker jumped. “Shit!”

“Arthur?” Faroe gasped.

What did you just… said John, feeling the fork.

“You dare talk about sins?” Arthur growled.

“I do,” said Larson. “Unlike you, any deaths I have overseen were done as worship . They were for the gods who are so much greater than we are, greater than any death that could be given. You think your sacrifices really mattered? Do you? They were nothing. I know the true cost of devotion. The gods eat it up like a single grain of rice and demand more… and I will always give them more. ”

Faroe stared at him, eyes wide.

Nibbles’ great head swiveled to watch him, very carefully.

Arthur started to stand.

“No,” said Hastur.

Arthur froze. “Hastur…”

“No. Larson understands that I do not permit such sacrifices here. Don’t you, Wallace Larson?”

Larson stared for the briefest moment. “What do you wish for, my lord? I will provide it.”

“Obedience.”

Arthur was breathing through his nose like a bull, but he sat back down, obeying.

“There,” said Hastur, straightening his fork. “Was that so hard?”

What the hell did we just do? John muttered, feeling the fork.

“I don’t know,” said Arthur.

“Now,” said Hastur. “Questions.”

“Do we get to eat whenever we want? Whatever we want?” said Parker.

“Yes,” said Hastur. “You are responsible for your own health, of course.”

“Cool.”

Larson’s look clearly said waste of a question. “What opportunities are here to advance ourselves? To gain independent wealth.”

“For you?” rumbled Hastur, sounding amused. “None at the moment. You see, gentlemen, I don’t trust you yet.”

Larson stiffened.

Parker eyed the King. “You trust us enough to run around your home.”

“That, Parker Yang, is trusting me . I know my power. I know the extent of my network here. You cannot betray me.”

Larson looked aghast. “Never! I would never.”

“Let us hope you are never foolish enough to try,” said Hastur mildly. “Any more questions?”

“Yeah,” said Parker. “How long we gotta stay cooped up?”

“The palace is vast. The grounds are large. You will not feel cooped up. But… it may be a couple of years before you are given true freedom to roam.”

Parker looked sick. “Years?”

“I am unfortunately tasked with keeping you alive for now. That becomes harder the further you roam.”

Larson licked his lips. “If I find a way to serve you, may I pursue it?”

“You may ask me about it.”

And Sunny blurted, Do we have to eat together every day?

“I would prefer it,” said Hastur. “We must grow accustomed to one another. But if you choose to eat at another time, I will permit it.”

Sunny’s relief was palpable. Thank you, lord. 

“You’re doing great,” said Parker softly, and bit into some flatbread spread with apricot jam.

Sunny let out a soft sigh. That’s really good. You should add a few crumbles of the goat cheese as well.

“You sure?” Parker raised an eyebrow.

Trust me.

Arthur turned his head toward them, looking puzzled.

“I will sit when you do, lord,” said Larson. “And join you. In court. In anything you do.”

“If that is what you wish to do with your time,” said Hastur.

Faroe made such a face.

Hastur stroked her hair. “We have responsibilities, dear one, whether we enjoy them or not.”

“This is our time,” she said.

“Mmm. Perhaps lunch will be ours.”

“That means you have to always be there for lunch,” Faroe said loftily.

Hastur chuckled. It was such a wicked sound, and so incredibly pleased. “Expertly negotiated, my child. Very well. I will always be there for lunch, and it will be together, alone, with our family.”

“What about… what about me?” said Arthur.

Hastur touched his face with the tip of one tentacle. “You are family.”

Arthur exhaled in relief.

Hastur turned to the others. “Gentlemen, for lunches, you three are on your own.”

Faroe smirked.

Parker chuckled softly. “Nice one, kid.”

She glanced at him sideways, cheeks red. “Thank you, Mister Yang.”

“Parker’s fine.”

“Pah…kah?”

“It’s his accent,” Arthur said quietly, and tried to elucidate. “Parrrrkerrrrr.”

John started snickering. Then he guffawed. 

Arthur went red.

No, do that again! Do it with all our names! Farrrrroooooe!

“Don’t howl it!” Faroe cried, and then she, too, started giggling.

Parker laughed. Sunny made a tiny sound that might have been a laugh. Hastur laughed.

Larson stared.

“Ah,” said Hastur. “Have we covered it all?”

“Sir,” said Parker. “There are gonna be more questions. And we… we all got a lotta baggage to work through.”

“I understand this. Do no harm to one another, and work as you will.”

“What if we can’t?” whispered Arthur.

“If you ask for my help, my own, I will give it.”

Arthur turned his face toward Hastur, brow knit. “You really did change yesterday, didn’t you?”

Hastur did not answer that. He took Faroe’s hand in his human one. “Is there anything else right now?”

“Sunny?” Parker said softly.

N-no.

“Oh, great Lord,” said Larson, bowing from the waist. “It is an honor to be yours.”

“Then let’s hope someday you will be,” said Hastur, because right now, Larson was not.

Larson got it. He inhaled, held it; after a moment, he spoke again. “I shall please you,” he growled, doubling down.

Parker snorted. “Good luck with that,” he muttered.

Faroe giggled again.

“Arthur,” said Hastur. “John. It is time.”

Oh, no. Court. “I usually compose now,” said Arthur.

“You will after. Come.” Hastur stood. “Unless you would prefer to be carried.”

“I can fucking walk ,” Arthur snapped, and stood. He kept his face turned away from Parker.

Faroe stood. “Thank you, dad.”

“I haven’t forgotten. You will, of course, be given a party—but it’s all delayed. I apologize, my daughter.”

“It’s my fault our schedule is off,” said Faroe. “You don’t have to celebrate my birthday.”

“Yes, I do,” said Hastur. “Every single one is precious.” His tone was thick.

“For once, I’m with him,” said Arthur.

They loved her. She knew they did. Faroe smiled. “All right. But maybe just… something small this year.”

“Of course. When you find Dis, send her to me,” said Hastur. “We must speak at once.” And he swept away.

He’s headed to the throne room.

Arthur followed.

Parker eyed Larson. “You’re gonna be here all the meals, huh?”

“Yes,” Larson said through clenched teeth.

“Then I won’t. Solved.” Parker stood. “Nice to meet you, Faroe.”

Faroe looked disappointed in that decision. “A pleasure, Mister… Parker.”

He nodded to her and left, but not before grabbing one more piece of fruit.

Larson looked at the little girl.

She looked back; standing, she was barely taller than he, but her chin was raised so she could look down her nose.

And over her shoulder that creature , tree bark and shadow and power.

“A remarkable princess, to be sure,” said Larson, standing, and bowed to her slowly. “Truly a treasure.”

Faroe made a face. She wasn’t even sure why; something about him was just… slimy. She simply nodded, then left, Nibbles trotting at her heels.

#

Larson abandoned the horrible food and hurried after the King.

So. This wasn’t what he’d thought it would be.

You really did change yesterday, didn’t you?

Just his luck that he finally got in tight with a real, live god, and it was after something went horrifically wrong.

He’d suspected for some time that the gods might be… petty. Pathetic, even, with base desires. What they wanted was always so simple ; pain and suffering, blood and death, blah, blah, blah. Well, here was a Great Old One, a million years old, and he wasn’t even particularly esoteric. 

Arthur was part of his ‘family?’ Please! The King probably just liked how the disgusting man sounded when in pain. It wouldn’t be difficult to supplant him. Between Arthur and that nonsense with a human daughter…

And Parker .

The thief wasn’t worth considering right now. He’d pay for every stupid quip. Every pinch of attitude. But not yet.

It was going to be harder than he’d thought to gain the favor of this god, but it was possible. It was clear this god could be controlled. Some Outer God, who for reasons unknown had arranged this whole thing, clearly had the King in Yellow by the shorthairs.

Larson hadn’t been able to figure out who the hell the Outer God was, and so hadn’t known how to appease it. Could this be the same Outer God who’d interrupted before? Why? Why had it chosen him? 

Because it had chosen him. He was a shark, swimming among irritating goldfish.

To be given an opportunity like this was incredible.There could only be one reason: somehow, he must have pleased this god. An Outer God’s true favor. What a thing to have!

His end goal was still on track: godhood. Deification. Unlike Yellow, Hastur genuinely had power. Larson could taste it. Magnificent. Perfect. Wasted.

This Great Old One might be messed up (and Yellow’s brokenness suddenly made so much sense ), but that only made him vulnerable . Yes: vulnerable. 

With so many doors to try, one of them would damn well open wide. For now, he followed, determined to learn everything he could about this true god and whatever happened yesterday, to find whatever he needed to become a god himself.

It was only a matter of time.

[reikomania]

Goodness folks, seems I've been busier this weekend than I thought!! It's time again for another "ChronoXAngel" character introduction!!!

Let me introduce one of my personal favorite characters, Sarah O'Malley!!

Sarah is a nearly 2000 year old Banshee from Ireland. She has a long long history as a mercenary, yet one with a heart of gold. Sarah is a naturally mischievous woman, fond of the odd prank or tease, but knows the proper time and place for such things. She is Nonami's oldest friend, having served her as a personal guard and instructor for nearly a century when the Vampire was still a child. As a member of the O'Malley clan of Spirits, Sarah has taken an oath to never tell a lie. Fudgings and lies of omission are not counted in this oath, but even the tiniest of white lies would be cause for banishment from her clan.1

Sarah's unique hairstyle is due to the placement of her Banshee comb, an artifact all Banshee possess, and one that is extremely cursed. It is said that if one touches the comb they are doomed to die and soon. To prevent this from causing anyone grief, herself included as she would not be able to bear the guilt of someone innocent dying because of her carelessness, Sarah keeps the comb woven into her bangs at all times.

Sarah's hair color is silver, with glowing yellow-green eyes and incredibly pale skin. She can make herself solid with some effort, and effect a more humanlike appearance with the aid of a Yokai Crystal. She is around 5'3.

Sarah joins the main crew around the midway point of the first book, after a mission goes wrong she seeks to atone for her perceived failure.

Below are several images of Sarah, in order:

Promotional art of Sarah, with her more "traditional" Banshee form behind her.

Sarah's appearance as a human millennia ago.

Sarah's Magical Girl form.

Sarah enjoying some cake and tea with Nonami and [Spoiler for next post]

Sarah lurking in an abandoned church (see if you can spot her!)

The original sketch of Sarah from late 2013

[the-darkness-does-not-bargain]

1 - Because

3 - I know, but I wanna hear why.

9 - WIP crumbs plz!

1. Answered here!

3. Favorite POV. Maybe this is controversial, but I actually really like second person. I didn't always, but I've really come around to it! It's so versatile, and I think it helps the reader connect with the POV character's perspective more. At least it does for me. Third person is also good, it's the classic etc etc. First person is much maligned and I don't personally enjoy writing in it, but it has its own merits too. My favorite series is written primarily in first person.

9. Try this on for size.

In the end, there was nothing to be done except keep moving forward.  Beatrice delivered her formal lesson plan to the Director’s desk at 5pm sharp that Friday evening, and spent the weekend brooding in her room and dreading the coming Monday.

As she trudged through her routine that morning, she tried to put it out of her mind.  The dread, she reasoned, was unwarranted.  The situation was the same.  Her job, her goals; nothing was meaningfully different.  She had received some new information.  That was all.  Her second week at Site 17 would proceed business as usual.

But she couldn’t maintain that delusion even through breakfast.  She could not shake the feeling that while her work may not have changed, her position in relation to it had been significantly altered.  No longer was she the new doctor recruited to lead an important project.  Now, she was the carefully vetted replacement for a traitor who had been killed and erased from all records for his crimes.  No longer was she the inexperienced newbie getting friendly help from her coworkers.  Instead, she was the upstart rookie who challenged authority and couldn’t leave well enough alone.  Shannon and Camila didn’t treat her any differently, but Mary’s eyes now watched her with barely-concealed suspicion, and Lilith greeted her coldly when she wasn’t outright avoiding her.  (Yes, it was avoidance.  She knew that from the others’ concerned comments on the matter when Lilith repeatedly failed to show up for dinner or evening social hours.)

She supposed the one thing that remained the same was her relationship with Ava.  Keeping secrets from the girl was one of her explicit responsibilities.  But while that merely rankled before, it now actively stung.  The truth of her dread was that she didn’t want to face that sweet, smiling face again and lie directly to it, even by omission.  She’d already been forced to do so the remainder of the week as they developed a curriculum together, and Ava didn’t deserve that.  She didn’t deserve being deceived or having her memories played with just so she would remain compliant to the Foundation’s whims.

Beatrice had sworn an oath, both officially and to herself, to put her personal morals second for the good of the Foundation and its mission to protect humankind.  But abiding that oath in this situation would be a greater test of her philosophical fortitude than any other.