#that post about how old people will cheerfully admit to murder when you get to know them

[wolves-in-the-world]

everywhere eliot goes he befriends the kind of old ladies who share recipes and tell him about their hobbies and call him a nice young man (as he rapidly approaches fifty he finds this increasingly sweet; the others are kind enough not to point this out to him), and even keeps in contact with some of them by merit of the vamped up security hardison put on his phone.

everywhere quinn goes he befriends the kind of old ladies who look utterly sweet and normal and the second time they meet him (once it's clear he listens to them & they've had a chance to sample the vibes) will admit to having killed their husband, while quinn nods and asks questions with genuine interest and gets them another cup of tea. he keeps in contact with some of them, too, and he has a particular fondness for the most inventive.

there's more overlap between these two categories than eliot would like to admit, but he at least has a little more discretion about it.

[viky2318]

Reminder for myself and any content creator: when you start taking the rythm and (almost) post regularly DON'T SAY IT OUT LOUD. you'll get punched by lazyness and procrastination in 0.002 seconds and you'll take a month for something that needs less than a week. with this said, HAVE A SPIDER.

This wasn't what Muffet expected or hoped for. She had been so close to finding Sam, and now that she was ready to deal with them… they were either gone or coming by themselves. She didn't want the others to have to deal with them. She couldn’t risk it. She quickly grabbed Grillby by the arm-

Or at least she tried. He wasn’t there anymore, and neither was Maddy. Even Flowey was gone without her noticing it. Suddenly she felt something pulling her upwards, and she found herself thrown in the white infinite sky. Her strings were all gone, so she had nothing to hold on to. Her “going up” became a “falling down”, as if gravity inverted direction, and she soon fell hard on a huge field. Somehow (miraculously) her bones were intact and she had no bruises or wounds, but her back hurted a bit. She slowly got up, wary of her surroundings. The sky was now of a normal cyan, there was a sun slowly moving in it, and she was surrounded by trees on one side and a huge mountain on the other.

“Sorry for the initial mess, I was experimenting a bit”, a well-known voice explained. Muffet turned to face Sam, throwing at them a magic string and trapping them. The human gave her a friendly look, raising then a brow. “Seriously? I still didn’t do anything”, they commented, making the strings disappear as if nothing. “Where are we?” Muffet asked, keeping her eyes on the human as if they could disappear any moment. They smiled quietly, apparently not minding her almost hostile stare. “This is the Void. not the old man’s Void, of course. It’s surprising how easily it can be shaped at will, right? I’m having so much fun messing around with this place’s codes. It’s like modeling fresh clay. So simple and interesting”, they explained cheerfully. “Where are the others?” the spider asked without hesitation. The human shrugged. “They’re fine, you shouldn’t worry”, they shortly replied. Their simplicity made Muffet only more wary. “I feel like I shouldn’t trust you, you know?” she commented, frowning a bit. Sam looked at Muffet in silence for a moment, then sighed quietly. “... yeah, I never gave you a good reason to trust me…” they admitted. The two remained silent for a moment, a slightly awkward tension in the air. Sam broke the silence, tilting their head on a side. “... sooooo… aren’t you gonna ask why you are here? You know, just for conversation”. “You either want me to get out of your way or to join your murderspree again, and both are things I’m not planning to do”, Muffet shortly replied. Sam smiled more widely. “Ah yes, that’s why I like you, buddy. You’re a smart girl” they commented, taking a step towards the spider. “Anyway, it’s the second one. You’re a professional murderer, quick and merciless but not too aggressive. You can perfectly work alone, without risking other people's lives. The most efficient of the three, in my opinion”. Something tingled in Muffet’s mind at their words. “And what would happen to Maddy and Grillby if I accepted? Would they get discarded? Abandoned in the multiverse without a place to stay? Or would you directly kill them?” she asked with a stern look. The human’s eyes widened a bit in concern, but his smile remained. “What? You really think I would do something like that? I’m not such a soulless being. After all, you wouldn’t even think to come with me if I did”. The spider couldn’t help not trusting them. “What about Flowey? Where is he?”, she asked. At this question, you could clearly see Sam’s smile dropping a bit, his face morphing into a more annoyed one. They clearly didn’t have a good relationship with the flower… “he’s fine. For now. I still have to speak with him, but I'll do it right after I finish with you”. Muffet took notice of the human’s evident hostility against the flower, but decided to not say anything about it for now. Something felt clearly off. There was something in the back of her mind yelling at her that she had no control over the situation, that no matter what the human will do what they wanted without giving weight to her words or actions. Maybe Grillby and Raehel really were right, maybe she really couldn’t do what the smiling man asked her… But she wanted to give it a shot. Just because she could. If needed she could always kill him, right? 

“I’m not going to kill people for you again. It’s unuseful and you know it”, she stated. Sam’s annoyed expression didn’t change. They probably expected such an answer.

“It’s not unuseful, it will only take time. Also, the murder part is just one of the many things that we can do to change the multiverse. With my abilities I could learn to change the universes themselves one by one, and for the better. We’ll eliminate only what is rotten by the root, and the rest will develop in a more joyful way!” Sam explained patiently. But Muffet didn’t like how it all sounded.

“... let me guess. You will decide what to change and how to change it. You will decide what is rotten. You will decide how the worlds will develop. You know, it sounds a bit like a dictatorship or something on the line. You can’t control all the hundreds of timelines of all the universes. You should be always everywhere, and you aren’t Core Frisk. And by the way, not even they can always intervene everywhere”, the spider replied. But Sam didn’t seem to fully listen to her.

“That’s why I said it will take time. I can’t be everywhere, so we’ll have to work on all this bit by bit. It will take a while, maybe a few decades. And for the “dictatorship” part- don’t see it like that. Of course it sounds bad if you picture it as something bad. I don’t want to be a ruler or anything like that. We’ll do what is necessary, and when the situation becomes stable we will leave it as it is. You could find home in a quiet timeline and forget about everything! Wouldn’t it be nice?”. Muffet remained silent for a moment. Sam sounded a bit like some mindless idiot. Were they even thinking about their words?

"... You really think that in the end this all will "stabilize" and keep going the way you decided? Sam, think about it. It all started nice, with those lovely worlds where the important thing was making everyone happy. Underswap, Underfell, Outertale… they were all like that. You know it better than I do. Then, the creators started to create sad stories. It's something normal, that probably was impossible to prevent. Even if you miraculously succeed, and everything actually goes as you said, and for some godforsaken reason everyone is happy, one day the creators will again create pain. You can't avoid it. You will work your whole life on something impossible that you'll never reach, and when you'll die it will all be for nothing". Something in the human's expression changed a bit the more they thought about her words, some sort of bad aura around them. Or were they just getting tired of discussing? After a moment, Sam spoke again.

“... I see. I'd rather avoid using this card, but you really don't seem to listen to me. Remember I said Maddy and Grillby were fine? You were right. I lied. They aren’t. One is trapped in an empty timeline and the other one is dead. But… I can bring them all back. I can erase their memories and send them back to their timeline, perfectly unhinged and happy with their old families. I’ll even spare the flower, if you really want. Only if you help me finish what we started, of course.”

“The choice is yours”.

DO NOT TRUST TH- ...

START PREVIOUS NEXT

[bigskydreaming]

Okay, long time followers will probably remember having read this, but I can’t find the original post and I’m trying to like.....force-reboot/jumpstart me working on my ‘Kings of the Sky’ AU again because I haven’t touched it in awhile and I have like literally eight different installments in various stages of completion and that’s ridiculous even for me. So here’s a repost of the first part of “Teachable Moments” the canon-divergence point of that AU series, where Jason calls Dick for advice after the Garzonas case and everything changes from there.

******

The way Jason Todd warily eyed the device in his hand, one might think it was an instrument of great and terrible destructive power, rather than just…his own personal cell-phone.

To be fair, he was Robin, and pretty used to the idea that even the most unlikely of things could be used for evil in Gotham. It could’ve been stolen and replaced at some point by a henchperson of Mr. Freeze, and using it could unleash some kind of cryogenic freeze ray that would turn him into a Robinsicle. Mad Hatter could be up to shit again, and dialing the phone at this very minute might mean syncing it up with a remote radio signal that would override his natural brainwaves and turn him into Tetch’s mindless minion of like…doom and stuff. Or…or…

Or sometimes, even in Gotham a phone is just a phone, and Freud is still a dumbass. And neither of the above possibilities had anything to do with why Jason was being a giant freaking pansy about entering the last digit of the phone number he would never ever admit to having had memorized for months now.

Nightwing had said to call if he ever needed to talk. He wouldn’t have done that if he didn’t actually want Jason to call, right? Like, its not as if Jason had remotely been expecting him to do that, so its not the sort of thing someone did just because it was ‘expected’ or shit. He was pretty sure. Rich people manners were weird though. Had to factor that in.

But Nightwing had also even made a point to say not talking to people about stuff was Bruce’s problem and that Jason shouldn’t let it be his problem too, and even though months ago Jason had been a starry-eyed dumbass who was totally drunk on the Bruce is the Bestest Kool-Aid or whatever, ‘Wing had definitely known what he was talking about there. So maybe he’d get it, and having this conversation with him wouldn’t be. Like. The actual worst idea in the history of ever.

Deductive logic said that Jason was getting worked up over nothing and there was no rational reason for him to be this nervous about dialing a fucking phone number. And he’d gotten pretty good at the whole deduction shit, given all the work he and Bruce had put into training his mind to view the world through entirely new paradigms, so Jason was pretty sure his math on that checked out. But on the other hand, Bruce was a hypocritical asshat that Jason was currently not speaking to, so what the fuck did he know about anything?

Aaaaand he was back to square one. Well damn. This was excellent. Very productive. Good hustle out there, Jay.

Sighing gustily, Jason flopped back on his bed, staring up at the ceiling and trying to pretend he hadn’t gotten used to how luxurious and cushion-y his ridiculously expensive mattress was. He’d gotten soft, he told himself. Then he scoffed at the idea that the past year and a half of rigorous Robin training and patrols had made him less tough than the pipsqueak he’d been back when living on the street, getting his ass kicked by bigger and badder on the regular. That hadn’t been hardness, that had been bravado.

But it had gotten him this far in life, so maybe there was something to be said for it after all?

Ugh. Decisions were hard. He objected on principle. He also really wanted to understand why he was this nervous…if he could literally fill the guy’s shoes and kick supervillain ass as Robin, what freaking sense did it make that he couldn’t even call him up on the phone?

Maybe you just know better than to ask him questions you don’t really want to hear his answer to, a smug voice said in the back of his mind. It sounded suspiciously like Willis Todd, which was all kinds of weird and fucked up, cuz Jason was damn sure his abusive a-hole of a deadbeat dad had never said anything that insightful in his life.

Which meant it was his own screwed up subconscious - presenting in the voice of his not so dearly departed douchebag dad, no less - that had Jason reacting out of spite, entering the last number and hitting Talk, all while totally on autopilot. Because apparently we’re all making healthy life choices in this Chili’s tonight, Jason snickered somewhat hysterically while his phone rang once, twice, three times.

Ugh. Was he always this fucked up in the head and he just never noticed, or was it a side effect of running around rooftops in a cape. Inquiring minds wanted to know.

“Hello?” Someone said then, answering on the fourth ring. Jason sat bolt upright, his nervous humor vanishing as quickly and unexpectedly as it’d hijacked him in the first place. For all that he’d only actually interacted with the older man a few times, his voice was instantly recognizable. As was his slight confusion.

Right. Because why would Nightwing have the untraceable number of the latest burner phone Bruce had given Jason, when the ever paranoid Bat had him swapping out phones every freaking week? Duh, Jay.

“Uh, its me,” Jason said hastily, as if he could somehow catch up to and overtake the epically long ten second silence he let lapse before his mouth started making words again. “Jason?”

“Jaybird! Hey! What’s going on?” The older vigilante’s tone instantly morphed into one of surprised delight, so apparent even across the phone that Jason actually pulled it away from his ear and stared at it, as if that could explain Nightwing’s inexplicable giddiness. He’d literally only met the dude three times. Give or take a concussion he was forgetting about maybe? Weird.

Then again, the older man was a circus performer from birth. Might just be good at faking being super excited to hear from people? Whatever. Still weird.

“Uh, you said to call if I was ever having, I dunno, issues with Bruce I guess? So I kinda had a question? I mean, if you’re not busy or anything.”

Just one question? Willis’ voice asked snidely, echoing in time with the rapid tripartite beat of Jason’s heart. Since apparently everything Jason said was trying to come out with a question mark attached to the end of it at the moment. Ugh, fuck you, subconscious, Jason thought forcefully, even as he ransacked the recesses of his mind for that bravado he was thinking about earlier. It had to be in here somewhere…

“No worries dude, I’ve got time. Hit me!” Nightwing said cheerfully. His lighthearted cadences were so at odds with the sweat suddenly breaking out on Jason’s forehead, the younger teen couldn’t help but wince in anticipation of its inevitable change once he got his actual question out. This was a bad idea, he decided, way too fucking late for it to make a difference. He had a hunch Nightwing wouldn’t be content to ‘just forget it’ or whatever even if Jason chickened out now.

So he took a deep breath, shrugged and did what Jason Todd did best. Said fuck it, put pedal to the metal, and drove at full speed for the metaphorical police barricade that was his way of picturing all the things telling him He Should Definitely Just Not.

“Do you think I’m someone who could kill somebody in like, cold blood?”

Aaaaand there went the lightheartedness. Well, he’d definitely stone cold killed that, Jason thought grimly into the silence that followed.

“Huh,” Nightwing said at last. “You’re gonna have to give me a second to switch gears here, Jay. I was kinda expecting something along the lines of ‘how do I avoid Bruce giving me the safe sex talk.’”

Jason flushed and nodded jerkily, not that the older man could see it. Still, it’d been enough of a workout just getting to this point. He didn’t trust what might come out of his mouth next if he kept trying to force it. Thankfully Nightwing didn’t make him wait too long before continuing.

“I think anyone’s capable of killing somebody in the right circumstances,” Jason’s predecessor began carefully. Except that was not remotely what he wanted to hear. Or helpful.

“I’m not looking for platitudes,” Jason grit out, not angry at the other vigilante so much as the whole fucked up mess and his inability to think about anything else at this point. “It’s just a simple fucking question. You’ve met me, do you think like, I’d be capable of just killing somebody or not.”

“I’m not offering platitudes,” Nightwing continued calmly, as if he wasn’t phased by the younger boy’s interruption or sudden aggression at all. “And its not a simple question at all. Speaking from experience, most people wouldn’t think of an eight year old as a cold-blooded killer, but that’s what I could have been if Bruce hadn’t stopped me from killing my parents’ murderer when I first tracked him down. And yet that’s still totally different from when I held a gun on Two-Face barely a couple years later, about to shoot him because somebody else told me to, and because I wanted to hurt him like he’d hurt me. Wouldn’t you agree those are two different situations and two different ‘kinds’ of cold-blooded killer? Context is kinda a big deal here.”

Huh. First off…what the fuck? Jason stared blankly up at the ceiling, trying to hurry up the processing functions of his brain because, again, what the fuck? He was like ninety nine percent positive none of that had been in the Dick Grayson Is The Greatest and Here Are All The Reasons Why brochure he’d had read to him every time someone new found out he was Wayne’s newest stray, and like. Uh. Yeah, that part would have definitely stood out. Because once more, with feeling:

“What the fuck?”

Oops. That hadn’t been supposed to be out loud. Bad mouth. Bad.

Nightwing just did a weird kinda half laugh half sigh combo. Rueful, Jason would describe it, if he were describing it to someone else, which it kind of felt like he was, relaying the conversation to himself now that it’d taken a hard right turn into the surreal.

“Blindsided you with that, huh? Sorry, should’ve figured neither of those are the kinda stories Bruce would want to share with you. Then again, I don’t really have any idea what Bruce has told you about me.”

“Not much,” Jason admitted. Which was a major source of irritation, if he was being honest. The much sung praises of Dick Grayson came from literally everyone he met except for Bruce. Who usually just got a pinched expression whenever Jason brought him up, and a rapid subject change that was not nearly as subtle as Bruce seemed to think it was.

“Yeah, that sounds about right,” Nightwing sighed. “I hope you haven’t put too much stock in anything else you’ve heard about me then. I’ll admit to a bad habit of enjoying my mystique, so secondhand hearsay tends to lose my best nuances.”

Despite himself, Jason’s lips curved up and he let out a rueful huff of his own. “I mean, this definitely isn’t where I saw this conversation going.”

The older man chuckled. “Thought I was going to just assume the worst and chuck the book at you?”

“Well. Yeah.” Jason shrugged, even though he knew it wouldn’t come across. “Bruce did.”

Nightwing heaved an exasperated breath. “Yeah, that’s kinda the thing about B. Sometimes, he’s great. Other times, he’s an ass. Its kinda an either or thing. He’s never really mastered the art of finding a midpoint between two extremes. Mostly because he’s never seen the point of aiming for middle ground.”

“Well its not like he’s ever really had to,” Jason griped. It just slipped out before he could stop it, leaving him feeling guilty for bad-mouthing B when he wasn’t around to defend himself. Especially since he knew Nightwing wasn’t the guy’s biggest fan these days. But he couldn’t deny it also felt good, in a way.

To his surprise, Nightwing just laughed. And not even in a malicious, spiteful kind of way, but almost relieved.

“God, thank you. You’d think that ‘hey, so my billionaire guardian kinda has entitlement issues’ would be a water is wet kind of revelation, but try saying something like that to pretty much anyone else…”

“And they look at you like you’re an ungrateful asshole?” Jason finished for him. Not that he’d ever actually tried saying that to anyone before, though he’d definitely thought it a time or two. But he could all too easily imagine the reactions he’d get, which was pretty much why he’d never gone so far as to speak the words.

“Yup,” Nightwing drawled, dragging out the p and popping it with emphasis. “And its not about being grateful or not, its just…there are some parts of everyone that just aren’t up for grabs, for other people to weigh in on or take charge of, you know? And a lot of people just don’t get that…because nobody’s ever tried it with them, or had to deal with expectations that…overstep, let’s call it?”

“Is that why you left?”

Jason winced the second it left his mouth. Too far. Definitely way too far, but he’d just gotten unexpectedly comfortable with the back and forth, and now he’d done the overstepping thing himself and was left with just dead air.

But ten seconds of heavy silence stretched into twenty, and went no further, as Nightwing sighed into his side of the phone again.

“The spiteful part of me wants to say it was more of a push than me just up and leaving,” he laughed again, but this time with unmistakable bitterness. “But even while that’s true, its not really the right answer to your question, because no matter how much of a clusterfuck that was at the time, its not…I mean, I knew at the time how to fix it. Where and how I needed to cave in order to make up with him and let things get back not quite to normal, but at least close enough.”

The pause wasn’t as heavy or tense this time, as Jason could almost sense the older man gathering his thoughts, trying to put them into words. He bit his lip rather than risk any more unexpected utterances escaping. This might not have been where he’d thought his phone call would lead, but now that he was here, hearing the answers to questions he’d wanted to ask for over a year and finding them almost comfortably familiar, he wasn’t going to risk distracting Nightwing or shutting him up for well. Anything.

“But it would have meant me caving. Settling in ways that I just…couldn’t. So in a way, yeah, I did leave, it was still my choice. And all of that was definitely a big part of it. I love Bruce, I do. I just couldn’t live with him anymore. Not without feeling like I had to give up my own autonomy and just be what he wanted. Or what he’d expected me to grow up to be, back when he first took me in. And as grateful as I am to him for that, I can’t honestly say I would have stuck around back then if I knew that was the price tag attached. I’m not…I don’t do well with people trying to force me to stick to one place, one thing. I was born on the road, you know? When I was a kid, I expected to spend the rest of my life living like that. Home was people. Not places. And so Gotham…its never fit me quite right, the way it does him, or even Barbara. Its not like I was miserable there, its just.”

“It wouldn’t have been your first choice,” Jason finished again, quietly. There was silence again for awhile.

“No. No, it wouldn’t have been. Not then.”

[sleepymarmot]

Opinion: MAG 187 doesn’t invalidate Helen’s more sympathetic moments

It is possible to interpret the episode as retconning everything the Distortion has ever said and done into a manipulation targeted at Jon, which would undo the character’s complexity and make them revolve entirely around the protagonist. The key for this interpretation seems to lie in the following exchange: 

ARCHIVIST You worked to hurt us and help us, all with the same smile, until we can barely tell one from the other. Keeping us off-balance, constantly second-guessing our own opinions of you. Never quite crossing a line we could never forgive, but never putting yourself on the line either. And when one face finally stopped smiling, you just changed the face.

HELEN Fine. So if that’s all true… why? Why would I do any of that? What’s my actual motive?

ARCHIVIST I don’t think you even have one. It’s just what you are.

But I don’t think most of what was said here is new information.

Let’s go back to season 3. Here’s how the newborn Helen Distortion explains her identity:

HELEN Michael isn’t me. Not now.

ARCHIVIST What happened?

HELEN He got… distracted. Let feelings that shouldn’t have been his overwhelm me. Lost my way.

In other words, the Distortion’s modus operandi is a long, long game of cat and mouse (see also: MAG 146 Threshold). Michael got sidetracked by his (or Michael Shelley’s) revenge against the Archivist(s) and decided to actually kill the mouse. But it was unnatural for the Distortion, so it shook off the troublesome identity, and Helen was both an instrument to get rid of Michael and a continuation of what was started by him and worked so well.

ARCHIVIST A-are you still going to kill me?

HELEN No. That was Michael’s desire, not mine.

The Distortion doesn’t want to send the Archivist into its corridors. Why would it, when it’s so rewarding to misdirect and mess with him in other ways?

Now, for episode 115.

HELEN I… I’m not… I’m not entirely sure. I’m… having trouble. I don’t think I was meant to be Helen.

ARCHIVIST I’m – I don’t understand.

HELEN Neither do I. Michael was… pulling away. His anger was interfering. I don’t, I don’t think I have a choice but to be Helen. Self is difficult.

ARCHIVIST Michael, he, uh, he, he wasn’t meant to be you either, though, was he?

HELEN No.

There’s an internal conflict between Helen and the Distortion -- just like there was between Michael and the Distortion. I don’t think the new episode invalidates or undoes that. On the contrary: it restated that Michael strayed from the Distortion’s purpose, which means Helen could have done the same.

HELEN Something happened when I became ‘Helen’. She wasn’t right, she wasn’t ready.

ARCHIVIST I don’t…

HELEN Before, talking to you made Helen feel better.

ARCHIVIST You’re not that Helen!

HELEN I just want… I just want to feel better.

Helen was supposed to be a meal that replenished the Distortion’s energy. But it seems that the food was not as fully digested as the Distortion would prefer, and tried to bite back.

ARCHIVIST Wh-what? Why should I believe… a-a-any of this? You’ve told me over and over that you’re… what was the phrase? The ‘throat of delusion’? All of this is –

HELEN I have never told you a lie, Archivist. I wouldn’t dare. I, I just thought you might understand.

ARCHIVIST Uh… How could I possibly…

HELEN We’re both changing, Archivist. I had hoped, that together –

The Distortion has never lied (and now we know why). The Distortion has truly changed. Its new face genuinely wanted Jon’s company, just like the previous face had wanted him dead. But both faces interact with Jon in a way that leaves him confused and upset, because such is their nature.

In MAG 131, Helen insists that her identity is not a mask but a new but inseparable part of herself. As we now know, she is not lying: 

ARCHIVIST

You’re still wearing her face.

HELEN

Not this again. I’m not “wearing” anything, Archivist. I am at least as much ‘Helen Richardson’ as you are the ‘Jonathan Sims’ that first joined this Institute. Things change. People change. It happens.

We get a double confirmation that Helen is different from the Distortion’s previous incarnations in MAG 146, in the words of both Helen and her victim:

This wasn’t like before; there was no playfulness here, none of that malicious joy that I had always felt coming off it. Now there was just a cold hunger, a deep anger, as though I had no right to just stand there looking at it. The street was silent, but I could feel it screaming at me to open it.

HELEN (all business) Oh, well; the son, I was pursuing long before I was even Michael. And technically, I didn’t eat the old man. He passed away from terror long before I got a chance to open properly.

ARCHIVIST His son Marcus – he – he was fine when I read his father’s statement two years ago, but now, suddenly, I can’t get through to him.

HELEN No. I imagine not. I decided it was time to finish that game a few months ago.

ARCHIVIST You – Why?

HELEN Not sure. I suppose Helen didn’t have quite the same attachment to him as a project. I’m not quite as much for decades-long campaigns of subtle terror these days.

ARCHIVIST (soft) That’s horrible.

HELEN Is it? We do what we need to do when it comes to feeding, don’t we? (pointed) Don’t we, Archivist?

Helen Distortion doesn’t derive joy from terrorizing people for months or years with doors. That’s just food now. Now she gets the same joy from messing with people with the help of her humanlike appearance and personality.

An often-quoted line from MAG 152:

HELEN Even if it were capable of doing so, what possible reason would the Eye have to change how you feel, when it makes no difference to your actions? Helen was like you, at first. She felt such guilt over taking people. Until one day she realized she wasn’t going to stop doing it. So she chose to stop feeling guilty.

Again, the new episode confirms two things: 1) Helen wasn’t lying. 2) Helen was telling this to Jon to make him doubt his loyalties. And again, this is not new information! She laughs at his misery and confusion very openly!

Episode 157. Jon gets a shocking reminder that Helen is Just Here To Troll:

HELEN Because I have a good enough sense of what’s going on to know that it will be much more fun without my involvement! (begins laughing)

...

ARCHIVIST Just tell me what’s going on. Please.

HELEN (gleefully) Bad things, Archivist. Really bad things.

MAG 164, Helen’s first appearance in s5. There’s so much going on, let’s try to list at least some of it: she congratulates jonmartin on their relationship, immediately tries to play them against each other, cheerfully deflects all blame onto Jon and also Georgie and Melanie, admits to betrayal, announces she wants to be friends “again”, then expresses pity that Jon isn’t hostile to her enough. Absolutely everything she does is about creating relationship chaos.

MAG 166, second encounter with Helen post-Change, and she is delighted to see disagreement between Jon and Martin unprompted by her:

MARTIN Yeah, I, I, I think we should go for it, get our murder on!

ARCHIVIST (disbelief) Sorry, what?

HELEN (surprised delight) Yes, Martin!

In MAG 177, she moves the focus of ridiculously blatant manipulation and provocation onto Basira, and also doesn’t bother to hide she enjoys scaring her “friends”:

HELEN Not interrupting anything, Am I?

MARTIN Christ, Helen, you scared the life out of me.

HELEN [Insincere] Sorry, darling.

And finally, MAG 183. By now, everyone in the scene is aware that she’s here just to get a rise out of our heroes and metaphorically eat popcorn.

MARTIN Look. Listen, I’m getting really sick of all thi–

ARCHIVIST Leave it, Martin. She’s just trying to get under your skin.

MARTIN Yeah? Well, she’s really good at it!

HELEN Aww. Thanks, sweetie. But to be honest, I’m mainly just here to see which path you choose.

Which brings us to MAG 187. We already know that Helen isn’t Jon and Martin’s “friend” as in “ally” -- she hangs out with them to provoke strong responses and sow chaos. The plot twist is that she’s not just doing it for fun, like a human would -- it is her way of avatar feeding.

The Distortion has always been a trickster. I am glad that they died this way, instead of becoming either an over-the-top villain or a reluctant hero -- before the plot could corner them into becoming one. And as Jon said, the reason Helen had to die was not her trickster nature, but the side she picked on the “Eyepocalipse: keep or cancel?” issue. 

The reveal in 187 does not contradict the information we had before, and so it doesn’t retcon or undo the complexity or character development that the Distortion had. The fact that the Distortion fed on Jon (and others’) reaction to them does not mean that they never had any motivations or thoughts beyond that. Jon says it himself: “keeping us off-balance” is not the Distortion’s motivation, it’s “who they are”, it’s the natural, instinctive way they conduct themselves. We have learned that the Distortion's behavior was Eldritch Trolling instead of Regular Trolling, that's all.

[pikapeppa]

Felassan/f!Lavellan: Imshael

Chapter 14 of The Love That Grows From Violence (Felassan x Tamaris Lavellan) is posted!

In which a lot of lore is discussed, including the story from Tevinter Nights that’s narrated by a character named Hollix. A note before we start: Hollix is a master of disguises whose gender identity is non-binary or fluid, but in this fic, I have Dorian calling Hollix ‘she/her’ because that’s what Dorian calls Hollix in the Tevinter Nights story — he gets the impression that Hollix is a ‘she/her’ based on Hollix’s disguises, an impression that Hollix doesn’t correct because they easily and cheerfully slip into either gender identity/role as part of their position as a Lord of Fortune.

~6000 words; read here on AO3 instead.

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“Listen closely now,” Dorian said jauntily. “My story begins with a series of unsolved and rather gruesome murders that had been going on in Minrathous for some time. Rumours had started to circulate that the perpetrator was a creature that came to be called the Cekorax.”

“Cekorax?” Varric asked. “What does that mean?”

“It’s a butchering of the old Tevene word for ‘headsman’,” Dorian said. “The creature earned this charming name because its victims were all found without their heads.”

Tamaris grimaced, and Felassan laughed. “This story is exciting already.”

“Not quite so exciting for those who lost their heads, but I digress,” Dorian said delicately. “No one was doing anything about it, unfortunately, especially since the beast hadn’t attacked any of the altus class yet. So I put out a bounty for the perpetrator’s head, and the person who came to my aid was a wily little thing whom I’ll affectionately call Hollix.”

Tamaris raised an eyebrow. “That you’ll call Hollix? What was their actual name?”

“I haven’t a clue,” he said cheerfully. “I called her Hollix on a whim. She decided to keep the name while she was in Minrathous, and who am I to argue with the adoption of a silly nickname?”

“Fair enough,” Varric said.

“Of course you’d agree,” Dorian said drolly. “In any case, Hollix did some unsavoury investigating for me — for a fair price, of course — and discovered that the creature doing all the killing was…” He sighed. “Frankly, it was a creature of unearthly and uncanny horror. And you know I don’t say this lightly, considering all that we’ve seen together.”

“No kidding,” Tamaris said flatly.

Felassan sat forward and rested his elbows on the table. “What did it look like? This uncanny creature of horror?”

“I can only tell you so much firsthand, as I was high above the action when the creature presented itself,” Dorian said. “But Hollix described it more fully. It was…” He hesitated for a moment before going on. “It was an enormous fleshy mass as large as a house that was able to peel parts of itself away to produce… tentacles. Unbelievably long tentacles bearing human eyes that it had stolen from its victims’ heads.”

Tamaris exchanged a horrified look with Varric. “So it just took the victims’ eyes?” she asked Dorian. 

“Unfortunately, no,” Dorian said. He sounded very serious now. “In the deepest part of this fleshy mass, it was harbouring the heads of all of its victims. Over two dozen heads, Hollix said — all perfectly preserved as though they were still alive. And the monster was… animating the heads. Speaking through their mouths.”

A cold ripple of revulsion ran down the back of Tamaris’s neck. “Oh fuck,” she breathed.

“Shit,” Varric muttered.

Felassan narrowed his eyes. “It was speaking through the heads? Using their mouths to express its own thoughts?”

“Apparently,” Dorian said. “Hollix said it was trying to lure her into joining it. To ‘keep her safe’, it said.”

Felassan leaned back in his chair and tapped his fingers on the table. “So it seemed to have motivations of its own. That’s fascinating.”

Tamaris tilted her head. “Do you know something about this?” 

He grinned. “Are you asking if I’m responsible? That hurts. I’m clever, but I’m hardly diabolical.”

She tsked. “Of course I don’t think you’re responsible. But is it an ancient monster or something like that?”

His smile faded slightly. “I… honestly can’t say.” To Dorian he said, “How did you defeat this creature in the end?”

“An ingenious plan that I regret to admit was not mine,” Dorian said. “The creature had entwined itself in one of the city’s finest public gardens, which happens to be just below my apartment. Hollix cleared the gardens and exploded the fountain with gaatlok so the creature was drenched, and Maevaris and I electrocuted it from the upper balcony of my apartment.”

Tamaris raised her eyebrows. “So wait, you weren’t even in the garden during all this? I thought you said you were involved in the disgustingness.”

“I was involved,” he said. “That doesn’t mean I was in it. Can you imagine?”

Tamaris snorted in amusement. “You’re such a spoiled noble.”

“I do miss your loving insults,” he said. “In actual fact, though, Mae and I had to keep distant so the monster wouldn’t suspect anyone else but Hollix was involved. I do feel sorry for Hollix though, poor thing. The creature popped like an enormous filthy balloon when we zapped it, and she got rather, er, moist in the process. When all was said and done, only the creature’s skin was left behind.”

Varric grimaced. “Like a sausage casing?”

“Ugh,” Dorian said. “That’s what Hollix said. Believe me, you wouldn’t be thinking about food if you’d seen what I had.”

Tamaris looked at Felassan. “So? Does it sound familiar to you?”

He twisted his lips. “Yes and no, actually. It almost sounds like one of Ghilan’nain’s delights, but not completely.”

Tamaris blinked in surprise. What did Ghilan’nain have to do with a horrific murderous monster in Minrathous?

“Ghilan’nain?” Dorian said. “Isn’t that one of the Dalish gods? Er, so to speak.”

“Yes indeed,” Felassan said. He raised his eyebrows at Tamaris. “Would you care to start us off?”

She groaned. “Do I have to?”

He chuckled. “No, you don’t. But it would be informative for everyone.”

“Uh-huh,” she said skeptically. Then she addressed Varric and Dorian’s crystal. “The Dalish say that Ghilan’nain was the mother of halla, and the goddess of navigation and wayfaring. She was actually a mortal who was raised to the status of a goddess thanks to Andruil, who’s the goddess of hunting.” Then she frowned at Felassan. “But in the Temple of Mythal, we found an old inscription that Solas translated. It said that Ghilan’nain created all kinds of creatures, but the creatures ran rampant through the elves’ lands until the Evanuris offered her godhood in exchange for destroying them.” 

Felassan grinned. “Fen’Harel translated that for you?”

“Yes, he did.”

Felassan chuckled. “I can just imagine him screaming on the inside while he read that to you.”

She offered him a slightly bitter smirk, and he folded his arms. “Well, that inscription had the right of it. Like all the Evanuris, Ghilan’nain was a powerful mage, and her favourite hobby was creating new forms of life.” He held up a finger. “Wait, I should be specific: she created new forms of life from ones that already existed, blending and forming them into new creatures that were increasingly spectacular and powerful.”

Tamaris harrumphed. “Until the Evanuris got sick of her shit, it seems.”

Felassan smiled at her. “Blunt as always, avise, but yes. This was before my time, but my understanding is that Andruil became enamoured with Ghilan’nain, who created increasingly insane creatures for Andruil to hunt. Andruil praised her efforts, which spurred Ghilan’nain’s experiments on.” He smirked. “They encouraged each other’s insanity, just as any good couple should.”

Dorian chuckled, and Varric ruefully shook his head. “Very romantic, Jester.”

“I am, aren’t I?” he said. “In any case, Andruil and Ghilan’nain’s… activities eventually drew concern from the other Evanuris, who offered to raise Ghilan’nain to the status of a goddess if she destroyed her more disturbing creatures. By that time, she had already gained a measure of infamy among the people, so it took little propaganda for them to believe she was a goddess like the others.”

“Let me guess,” Dorian said. “Her experimenting didn’t stop just because she became a goddess.”

Felassan widened his eyes in mocking surprise. “How did you know?”

Tamaris folded her arms. “But you don’t really think that this Cekorax could actually be one of Ghilan’nain’s creatures. That would mean it was thousands of years old.”

Varric shrugged. “It’s not impossible, Cuddles. Think about some of the old shit we’ve encountered. Corypheus, the Titan…”

“A certain person in this room,” Felassan said blandly.

Tamaris snorted a laugh, and he winked at her. Then Dorian spoke through the crystal. “Whether this creature is new or old, what was it doing roaming around beneath Minrathous?”

“That is an excellent question,” Felassan said thoughtfully.

“Can you answer it?” Tamaris asked.

He shrugged. “I can try.” To Tamaris and Varric he said, “Recall that I told you about Mythal’s Sentinels, and how the other Evanuris sought warriors who were equally dedicated and fierce?”

“Yeah,” Varric said.

Felassan nodded. “Ghilan’nain’s efforts involved attempts to make hybrid… species that would be good fighters and soldiers. And her experiments didn’t just use non-sentient animals anymore.”

A cold stone of horror dropped into Tamaris’s gut. “She started experimenting on slaves?”

“Yes,” Felassan said. His manner was completely serious now, without a hint of levity. “From what we gathered at the time, she wanted her… creations to have some level of sentience, but not so much that they would try to rebel. Which is why I wonder if this Cekorax wasn’t just a simple monster, but a monster possessed by a spirit, since it sounds like it had more… motivation than Ghilan’nain’s surviving creatures had.”

Varric sighed and rubbed his chin. “A possessed monster? As if a regular monster wasn’t bad enough.”

Felassan didn’t reply, and Tamaris looked at him; he had an oddly absent-looking half-smile on his face.

“What?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”

He met her eye, then let out a little laugh and shook his head. “Oh, nothing. Just an idle thought, really.”

She narrowed her eyes, but Dorian spoke before she could press Felassan further. “This still doesn't explain why one of Ghilan’nain’s creatures might be roaming around beneath Minrathous now.”

Felassan sobered once more. “Ghilan’nain had multiple hidden… laboratories, for lack of a better word, where she was creating her so-called soldiers. I don’t know where they were located as her activities weren’t my particular area of focus, but if one of Ghilan’nain’s laboratories was recently… activated, or disturbed, then it’s possible that this Cekorax broke free.”

Dorian sighed. “The murders started shortly after some surviving Venatori opened an underground cavern of some kind.” 

Felassan grimaced. “That could explain it. You should probably look into where that cavern was, in case you start getting more lovely visitors from the deepest pits of Ghilan’nain’s twisted imagination.”

Dorian tsked. “Fasta vass. Of course. We’ll look into that.”

“Felassan,” Tamaris said. 

“Yes, avise?” he said pleasantly.

She frowned slightly. “You mentioned that you thought the Cekorax was possessed by a powerful spirit.”

“I did, yes.”

“Do you know the spirit that might have been possessing it?”

A slow smile lifted the corners of his lips. “Why do you say that?”

“Why are you dodging?” she said quietly. 

His smile faded. “Force of habit,” he said ruefully. “I apologize. I did wonder if the spirit might be one that I was acquainted with in the past.” He smirked and rubbed his chin. “Possessing a many-headed and many-eyed monster that can shape itself at will would be in keeping with this particular spirit.”

“What spirit?” Tamaris asked.

“It called itself the Formless One,” he said. “As you can probably guess, it didn’t have any particular shape that it preferred, nor a name to go by.”

“A name?” Dorian said in surprise. “Spirits have names?”

“If they want one, certainly,” Felassan said. “Though many of them are boring and keep the name of the virtues they embody.” His tone was bland once more, and Tamaris shot him a chiding smirk; he was clearly taking a jab at Solas.

Dorian’s voice was keen with curiosity through the sending crystal. “What are some of the spirit names you’ve known?” 

Felassan casually laced his fingers behind his head. “There was an amusing group of spirits who were banished from Elvhenan long before I was born. Or were supposed to have been, at least,” he added with a smirk. “The Formless One was one of them, though it obviously didn’t have a name. Gaxkang was one, and Imshael was another—” 

Tamaris straightened in surprise, and Varric interrupted. “Imshael?” he said.

Felassan’s eyes widened, and he smiled. “Don’t tell me you met him.”

Varric and Tamaris stared incredulously at him, and Dorian answered. “We didn’t just meet him. We killed him.”

Felassan’s face slackened with surprise. Then he laughed. “You’re kidding. Well, now you have to tell me how that happened.”

They told Felassan how they’d met Ser Michel de Chevin during their travels to Emprise du Lion, and how Michel had asked for their help defeating Imshael at Suledin Keep. When they described how Imshael had been directing and guiding the growth of red lyrium in the Red Templars and peasants in the quarry, Felassan laughed and tugged his ear.

“Well, I suppose I did tell him to have fun,” he said dryly. “Not the sort of fun I would have chosen, but…”

Tamaris recoiled slightly at his flippant reaction. “Were you friends with Imshael?” she asked.

“More like long-time acquaintances who made deals sometimes,” he said. “He was supposed to have been banished from our lands along with the others I mentioned, but he, er, stuck around.”

His tone was curled with mischief. She eyed him shrewdly. “Did Solas know you made deals with a spirit who was supposed to be banished?”

“He knew, but... unofficially,” Felassan said.

“Why unofficially?”

“Because Mythal didn’t know,” Felassan said slyly. “She was one of the Evanuris who banished him, you see.”

He was grinning now. Tamaris frowned more deeply. “How is this funny?”

“It’s not, actually,” he said. “Not at all. Can I ask if Fen’Harel was present when you met Imshael?”

Varric nodded. “Yeah, Chuckles was there.”

“And he didn’t say anything?” Felassan said. “Any… recognition or anything?”

“Not a fucking word,” Tamaris said bitterly.

Felassan let out a snort of laughter. “I bet he was fuming on the inside. If I wasn’t already out of the picture, he probably would have skinned me.” He snorted again and rubbed his mouth, then suddenly burst into laughter.

Tamaris’s heart clenched; the quality of his laughter was wild and uncontrolled. She took his hand and squeezed it. “Hey,” she said quietly. “Just breathe.”

Another blast of laughter left his lungs. Tamaris stroked his arm with her metal fingers. “Look at me, brat,” she said softly. 

He wheezed as he met her eye, and Tamaris nodded encouragingly. A few breaths later, he was calm again.

She squeezed his hand before releasing it. “Why did you say Solas would skin you?” she asked.

“Because it’s my fault Imshael was free to run a red lyrium farm in Emprise du Lion,” Felassan said. “And whatever shortcomings the Dread Wolf has, he does not like red lyrium.”

“No one in their right mind does,” Varric said flatly.

Tamaris frowned. “What do you mean, it was your fault Imshael was free?”

He looked at her, and her belly jolted; for a split second, an odd flash of wistfulness had crossed his face before his usual pleasant half-smile returned. “Imshael had been summoned and bound by a Dalish clan,” he said. “My… lack of involvement, shall we say, led to him being set free.”

Her gut twisted with apprehension. A Dalish clan?

Dorian’s words echoed her thoughts. “You were with a Dalish clan?” he asked.

“For a very brief time, when I was travelling with Briala and the others,” Felassan said. His tone was light and pleasant, but he was still gazing steadily at Tamaris, and there was something about the neutrality of his expression that she didn’t like. 

Then Dorian spoke in a peevish tone. “I beg your pardon, but what in Andraste’s sacred underthings are you talking about? I’m feeling terribly left out.”

Felassan finally looked away from her to face the crystal. “I travelled for a time with Celene, Briala, and the illustrious Michel prior to the Orlesian civil war breaking out in earnest,” he said. “At one point during our travels, we were hosted by a Dalish clan.”

“Hosted?” Dorian said. “The Dalish hosted Celene and Michel?”

Varric spoke up. “I didn’t think Dalish hospitality extended to humans. No offense, Cuddles.”

She didn’t reply; she was too focused on Felassan, who was now wearing a little smile that somehow made his face look empty.

Felassan shrugged. “Well, they tied Michel up and beat him, and they kept Celene under guard. Does that count as hospitality?” 

Tamaris’s gut twisted. Something awful had just occurred to her. “Felassan, what happened to the Dalish clan after Imshael was freed?” she said quietly. 

His eyes returned to her face. “Imshael killed them all.”

A jolt of shock stabbed her in the gut. She stared at him for a second before finding her tongue. “Imshael killed them?” she said weakly. “The… the whole clan?”

“All but one, yes,” Felassan said. He was still wearing that empty little smile, and he sounded so casual, and it… it didn’t add up. 

“Wait,” she said. “He…” She trailed off; her heart was thrumming now, and it was making it hard for her to breathe. She forced herself to inhale. “Imshael went after the clan because you let him go free?”

“Yes,” Felassan said.

She dragged in another breath. “Did you know that Imshael would attack the clan?” she demanded.

“Yes,” he said. 

He wasn’t smiling anymore. He looked so serious now — no, not just serious. He looked…

Her heart twisted. He looked wolfish, somehow. Dangerous. This wasn’t the Felassan she knew. 

She swallowed hard and lifted her chin. “So you… you purposely let a demon go free, knowing it would kill an entire Dalish clan.”

“Yes, Tamaris,” he said. “I did.”

She stared at him in shock. His face was so forbidding and his voice was uncharacteristically hard, and … and he’d purposely given a demon free reign to kill a Dalish clan. 

She hadn’t known. She hadn’t known about this. He hadn’t told her about this, for obvious reasons — he’d gotten a Dalish clan killed, for fuck’s sake, so of course he hadn’t told her. But if he hadn’t told her this, what else was he hiding from her? What other ugly secrets was he keeping? 

Nauseous with horror, she gazed into his violet eyes — his beautiful violet eyes that were usually full of warmth and humour, and that she’d been growing to trust more and more with every passing day. 

Beautiful violet eyes that were probably hiding all kinds of deeds that Tamaris knew nothing about. 

She rose from her chair, and his hard expression cracked. “Tamaris,” he said.

She shook her head and took a step back from the table. Felassan stood up and reached for her hand. “Tamaris, don’t—”

She whipped her hand away. “Don’t touch me,” she snarled. She turned on her heel and ran up the stairs.

She went straight to her room and shoved open the window, then climbed up to the roof and started pacing. Her heart was pounding in her chest and behind her eyes, and her fingers shook as she dragged them through her hair.

Felassan had gotten a Dalish clan killed. He had purposely let a demon run rampant and kill an entire clan, and he hadn’t told her. They’d been living here for weeks and he hadn’t… she had no idea.

She was so stupid. She was so fucking stupid to have thought she could trust him. He was thousands of years old and she’d only known him for three weeks, and — she knew basically nothing about him. How could she have thought she could trust him at all? 

It’s Solas all over again, she thought. Once again, she’d been lulled into a false sense of safety with a compelling older man, and once again, he’d betrayed her trust. 

Her ribs felt like they were swelling with misery. She sat down abruptly and leaned back against the chimney, and for some uncounted time she just sat there ruminating on her own idiocy. 

Eventually, she heard the distinctive soft shuffle of bare feet joining her on the roof. She clenched her jaw and looked away, but Felassan sat beside her anyway.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said.

His voice was back to its usual warmth, but this only made her feel worse. She shot him a venomous look. “Don’t act like you know everything about me. You’ve only known me for a couple of weeks.”

He elegantly lifted an eyebrow. “Can I speak without you biting my head off?”

“Why should I let you?” she snapped. “So you can talk circles around me?”

His eyes narrowed. “I have never done that to you and you know it.”

A pang of remorse penetrated her anger, and it was enough to make her relent. She shrugged and looked away from him. “Fine. Talk.”

“As I said, I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “You’re thinking that I’ve withheld this terrible tale from you, and that if I was hiding this, there must be an entire thaig’s worth of villainous secrets that I’m keeping from you. I am extremely old, after all. There must be hundreds of skeletons in my proverbial closet that you don’t know about, so how can you possibly trust me?”

His tone was annoyingly playful, but what really rankled her that he was right. “Look at you, using your spy skills to figure me out,” she said snidely. 

“I am only using the information that you told me yourself,” he said. “I know you’re on alert for reasons to cast me aside. I am not going to give you any.”

A sudden throb of pain in her chest took her by surprise. She swallowed hard and lifted her burning eyes to the sky as Felassan continued to speak. “I was not purposely hiding this from you. If the topic had come up before, I would have told you.” He lowered his voice. “And I think you know that.”

Fuck, her lips were trembling. She looked away from him and didn’t speak, and Felassan was silent as well. 

When Tamaris was able to control her face once more, she shot him a hard look. “Tell me why you let that clan get killed.”

His shoulders loosened slightly. “The practical reason is that Imshael had something I needed: a keystone to unlock the eluvians. Setting him free gave us access to the keystone, which ultimately ended up in Briala’s possession.”

“That’s not what I mean and you know it,” she said coldly.

“I do know what you mean,” he said calmly. “The real truth is this: I could have gotten that keystone in other ways. I knew Imshael, and I knew how his mind worked. But I wanted that clan to suffer.”

“Why?” she demanded. “What the fuck did they ever do to you?”

“Nothing,” he said. “They did nothing to me, and there was nothing they could have done to harm me.” He paused and clenched his jaw, and her gut twisted; his expression was hardening again in a way that she didn’t like. 

“It was the way they treated Briala,” he said. “Briala had been supplying information to that clan for years through me. She’d pinned her hopes and dreams on them, and do you know what they said to her when they finally met her?”

“What?” Tamaris said faintly.

“They called her a flat-ear and said that she was not their people,” Felassan said.

For a moment, Tamaris stopped breathing. That was what Abelas had said to her at the Temple of Mythal, and she still remembered the way his disdain seemed to stab her straight in the heart.

Felassan went on. “Their Keeper, Thelhen…” He curled his lip in disgust. “It wasn’t that he was blind to the plight of the alienages. He knew what they suffered, and he didn’t care. He was no better than the human nobles that beat and killed city elves for looking at them the wrong way. He knew the problems that city elves faced, and he chose to do nothing, claiming that they were not his people.”

His voice was growing angrier by the second, and Tamaris held up a hand in surrender. “Okay,” she said quietly. “Okay, I… I hear what you’re saying.”

He took a deep breath and nodded, then leaned his head back against the chimney, and for a moment they were both silent. 

For once, Tamaris broke the silence. “Was that the only clan you ever had dealings with?” 

“No,” he said. “But I had dealings with Clan Virnehn for as many years as I have known Briala. No matter how many times I told them that a city elf was the one to thank for their knowledge of Orlais and how to avoid the shemlen troubles that plagued the country, they still refused to accept her as their own.”

“I hear you,” she said gently. “Honestly, I do. And that’s… it’s fucking awful, and I’m sorry Briala had such a shitty experience with the first Dalish clan she finally had a chance to meet. But do you really think that’s enough reason to let the entire clan get killed?”

He exhaled heavily. “Tamaris…”

She pushed on ruthlessly. “What about the kids in that clan? There had to be kids. Did they deserve to die because their Keeper was a piece of shit?”

“You don’t understand,” he burst out.

“What don’t I understand?” she asked. 

“The…” He dragged his hand over his hair and glared at her. “The frustration of living through the same short-sighted stupidity from thousands of years ago. The fact that our people are still so divisive and blind. You can’t understand how frustrating it is to wake up thousands of years later to realize that the worst attitudes of my time were one of the things that survived.”

“You can’t judge all of the Dalish based on that one clan’s attitudes,” she said firmly. “That’s you and Solas’s biggest problem. You’re judging all of us based on just a few.”

He let out a rather tired-sounding laugh. “This kind of sparkling optimism is a strange look on you.” 

She couldn’t tell if he was complimenting her or insulting her, but it didn’t matter right now. She shifted a little closer to him. “My clan isn’t like that, Felassan.”

“You’ve said that before,” he said. “You told me you take in city elves who run away from the alienages.”

“Yes, we do,” she said.

“And the elves who can’t run away?” he said. “Those who are stuck in the alienages with no means of escape? You told me you knew of the massacre of Halamshiral’s alienage. What did you do about it?”

His tone was calm but piercing somehow, like he was trying to dig beneath her skin with his pointed words, and Tamaris forced herself to reply just as calmly. “Me personally?” she said. “Nothing. By the time I heard about it, it had happened six months before and I was travelling to the Temple of Sacred Ashes to spy on the Conclave.”

“And once you became the Inquisitor?” he said. “Once you had power? What did you do then to help your brothers and sisters in the alienages?”

She narrowed her eyes. “I allowed the Empress of Orlais to be murdered in order to make a city elf the real power behind the throne,” she said quietly. “Or have you forgotten that already?”

His eyebrows rose. After a brief pause, he smiled and bowed his head to her. “Fair enough, avise.”

She relaxed slightly. “I can’t speak to that clan you ran into,” she said. “And… fine, all right, I’ve known some people from other clans who… who feel like we don’t owe anything to the city elves.” She scowled at him. “But Clan Lavellan is not like that, okay? I’m not bullshitting you. We don’t look down on city elves that way. My clan purposely went into Wycome to protect the city elves, for fuck’s sake.”

He looked at her in surprise. “They did?”

“Yes,” she said. “This was a couple years ago. The Duke of Wycome was involved with some Venatori, and they were trying to frame the elves for red lyrium getting into the water supply. The humans tried to burn the alienage down, and my clan interfered to help the city elves fight back. After the Duke was killed, my clan stayed in Wycome to support the city elves, and my Keeper and a city elf got sworn in on the city council along with some human merchants to run Wycome. A third of the clan is still there.”

He nodded slowly. “And the rest?”

“They didn’t want to stay in the city,” she said. “Most of us prefer the woods. But a number of city elves wanted to leave the city with them, and guess what? My clan adopted them.”

He gazed at her appraisingly and didn’t speak, and she gave him a pointed look. “What, nothing to say? That’s new for you.”

“It is, yes,” he said. “It’s an interesting change. It’s not often I’m struck speechless.”

“You do talk a hell of a lot,” she said.

“Don’t pretend you don’t like it,” he retorted.

She scoffed, then realized she wasn’t feeling angry anymore. And then she felt weird about the fact that she wasn’t angry.

He tilted his head. “What are you thinking?”

“I don’t… really know,” she said slowly. She was feeling oddly at a loss, and she couldn’t say why.

He gave her a slow smile. “You’re not used to winning arguments about the virtues of the Dalish, are you?”

She lifted her chin. “So you admit that I’ve won.”

He chuckled and flicked her knee. “Yes, avise, you’ve won. You can gloat if you like.”

She didn’t laugh. Instead, she studied him thoughtfully. “You really care, don’t you? About the elves of this time. The city elves especially.”

“Why wouldn’t I care about them?” he said.

She didn’t reply right away, but instead continued to study him. The more she thought about it, the more she understood where his attitude about present-day elves came from. Felassan might wear vallaslin and know things about the elvhen gods, but his origins as Andruil’s slave gave him far more in common with city elves than the Dalish. 

A little pang squeezed her heart. That was why he cared about the city elves and their suffering. He’d essentially been one of them, back in the times of ancient Elvhenan.

He lifted one eyebrow quizzically, so Tamaris replied. “Solas didn’t care about the city elves,” she said. “Not like you do.”

Felassan sighed. “I suspect the issue is more that he couldn’t care. He couldn’t afford to. With all that guilt hanging over his head? He couldn’t afford to carry any more by caring about anyone else that he couldn’t save. It would crush him.” He suddenly grinned at her. “I imagine he must have been furious with himself when he realized he was in love with you.”

She raised her eyebrows. “You think that makes it okay that he… how he treated me?”

“No,” Felassan said. “Not by any means. A stronger man would have distanced himself from you.”

She huffed, then shrugged. “He tried to. Sort of.”

Felassan shot her a half-smile. “Meaning what exactly?”

“He warned me more than once that getting involved with him was a bad idea,” she admitted. “I guess I… I should have listened.” She scowled. “But he was saying one thing and acting a different way… fucking Solas.”

Felassan smiled to himself, and Tamaris shot him an exasperated look. “What’s so funny now?”

His smile widened. “If I tell you, you’ll say I’m full of shit.”

“Well, now you have to tell me,” she said.

He huffed a little laugh and shook his head, then looked her in the eye. “Fine. I say a stronger man would have distanced himself from you. But it would require the strength of Titans to resist your brassy charms.”

She stared at him. Then she started laughing. “You are completely full of shit.”

He placed one hand on his chest and bowed his head politely. “Acknowledged and accepted.”

She smiled at him, then chuckled and shook her head before taking a joint out of her breast pocket. She lit the joint and took a drag, then offered it to Felassan.

He accepted it with a nod and lifted it to his lips, and as she often did, Tamaris appreciatively watched his lips as he drew from the joint and released the smoke into the air. 

He took another drag and blew a perfect series of smoke rings before offering back the joint, and she carefully took it from his fingers. “You know,” she said, “for someone that he tried to kill, you sure spend a lot of time trying to make me forgive him.”

“That’s not my intention,” Felassan said. “I told you before: I’m not defending him, only explaining him. Know your enemy, blah blah and so on.” He shrugged casually. “Besides, there is only so far that sheer anger can take you. An adversary as unexpected and subtle as Fen’Harel can be requires an approach that’s equally unexpected and subtle.”

She wrinkled her nose. “What approach is that?”

He gave her a fond look that made her heart flip. “This is one thing I won’t tell you,” he said. “Think about it, avise. You’ll figure it out on your own.”

She harrumphed, but with no real ire. “Fine. Keep your secrets.” She took a drag from the joint.

He gently took the joint from her fingers. “I will say this: of everyone who is working against him, you stand in a unique position. You are someone who knows Fen’Harel, loved him, and still wants to defy him. You may be the single most dangerous person to him in all of Thedas.”

She shot him a sharp look. “Is that really what you think?”

“Of course,” he said. “I always tell the truth. To you, at least,” he added with a smirk.

“Then you’re just as dangerous,” she said firmly. “You know him and loved him, and you’re defying him too. You’re just as dangerous as me.”

He raised his eyebrows, then brought the joint to his lips. “How about that? What a team we make. The woman who dances with fire and the slow arrow.”

Her heart did a little squeeze. He’d called himself a slow arrow, not a broken one. 

She smiled at him, and he smiled back at her. Then she reached up and plucked the joint from his lips. “I still think you’re a fucking asshole for letting a demon loose to kill that clan.”

“I know you do,” he said. “And I’m not asking your forgiveness. But I will ask you to recognize that I did not lie about this to you.”

She eyed him appraisingly for a moment, then nodded. “I know. And… I do appreciate that.”

They smoked together quietly for a moment, and the silence between them stretched like warm taffy. From the corner of her eye, she watched as the joint met his lips and moved away to let the smoke bleed from his perfectly sculpted mouth.

She had no reason to trust Felassan. There were thousands of years’ worth of heinous things he could have done and hadn’t told her about. But he had been honest with her about his reasons for doing this one heinous thing. He hadn’t tried to sugarcoat anything, and he hadn’t tried to prevaricate. He’d even followed her to the roof in order to tell her the truth, knowing full well that she wouldn’t like it. 

He offered her the joint once more, and she took it. But instead of bringing it to her lips, she leaned into his side and rested her head on his shoulder. 

He shifted slightly so her head was tucked more snugly against his neck. When he turned his head to speak to her, his words wafted over her forehead in a soft murmur. “You walked away from me.” 

She sighed and closed her eyes. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right,” he said. “It gave me an excuse to watch you walking away.”

She snorted a laugh. “You’re such a fucking rogue.”

He chuckled and took the joint from her fingers, and for a time they simply sat pressed together on the roof with her head tucked against his neck. The longer she sat there savouring the steady warmth of Felassan’s neck against her temple, the more she realized how strange it was to feel this relaxed and at ease after a fight. How strange it was to feel so… resolved.

“Any particular thoughts on your mind?” he said.

His voice was low and warm, and it was just as comforting as the warmth of his neck. She shrugged and nibbled the inside of her cheek as she considered her reply. She was having plenty of thoughts, thoughts about Felassan’s mischievous smirk and his righteous anger and how patient he was with her, even though she’d walked away. 

She was having thoughts, all right. But nothing that she was ready to say out loud just yet. 

“Not really,” she said. “I’m just… content.”

“Ah, contentment: my favourite,” he said. “It really is an underrated feeling, you know.”

“You said that before,” she said drolly. But in the privacy of her heart, she knew what she was really feeling.

Athdhea’lath, she thought: the precursor to love. A feeling which Felassan had openly admitted to having, and which he was so carefully fostering in the closely guarded garden of Tamaris’s heart.

A little jolt of nerves plucked at her gut, but she took it in stride. She drew from the joint once more, then exhaled and closed her eyes. She breathed in the scents of herbal smoke and Felassan’s skin, and she enjoyed the feeling of being… content.

[thorne93]

Inside the Criminal Mind (Part 20)

Prompt: You’re married to Dr. Spencer Reid of the BAU, and are a distinguished doctor yourself on the team. You’re sent down to Miami, Florida for teaching and as a side request from the FBI, to investigate a string of missing persons. When you think you’ve figured out who the unsub is, your life becomes more complicated than you ever could’ve imagined.

Word Count: 2430

Warnings: (throughout the fic –>) death, blood, gore, killings, language, disturbing mental notions, mentions of rapes/murder/etc (You know, Dexter and Criminal Minds related business)

Notes: Thank you so much to @arrow-guy​​​​​​, @carryonmyswansong​​​​​​, and @mrs-dragneel-stark-solo​​​​​​ - without each of you, I couldn’t have finished, written, or properly navigated this story. Each of you helped me fish out details that were incredibly important to me. Beta’d by @carryonmyswansong​​​​​​ and @mrs-dragneel-stark-solo​​​​​​… Aesthetic by @mrs-dragneel-stark-solo​​​​​​

This is a crossover of Criminal Minds x Dexter. First time writing Dexter.

Also, the timeline is after Season 1 of Dexter, but during season 14-ish of Criminal minds into Season 15. Enjoy!!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When you got up the next morning, you felt like a truck had hit you. You slept maybe thirty minutes, if that. The anxiety settled on you heavily. Your marriage, career, and freedom were on the line. 

The worst part was you knew if you lost one of them, you’d lose them all. Everything that had transpired between you two lately seemed so insignificant at that thought. Yes, you were the one doing the killing, being the accomplice, but suddenly, the problem with JJ felt miniscule. When Spence was kidnapped and you weren’t sure you’d ever see him again, you still wondered how he felt about her, how you two had a future together.

Yet, now… now you were terrified you’d pushed him into her arms. Between keeping your distance physically and emotionally, and literally admitting to being a serial killer, you weren’t sure there was much hope for your marriage. 

How did it all go so wrong, so fast? Six months ago, you two were the picture of a happy, perfect marriage. 

Now you’d spend the next two weeks looking over your shoulder, wondering when and if your husband would show up with the handcuffs -- and not for pleasure this time. 

You only had to teach ten classes - two a day each day this week. Then next week, you would be giving out finals. This was your late afternoon Monday class, and you were just getting started. 

“Alright everyone. Hope you had a great weekend,” you said with a cheery smile, thinking about how you had a horrendous weekend. “Today, we’re going to be talking about resolving the case. You’ve found the killer, now you’re at trial. We’re going to talk about everything that could go right, or wrong, and how a forensic psychologist might be able to help with this.”

Just then, the door towards the back of the room opened and you saw a very familiar face. It was Rossi. 

Your gut dropped. Oh no, did Spence tell the team to just go ahead and come arrest you? 

But his face said otherwise. There was no disappointment or grimness, or hesitation. No, actually, he had a shiteating grin on his face. 

“Well, look who it is everyone. This is my very esteemed boss, David Rossi,” you announced as he made his way to the front of the lecture hall. “Are you here to ream me on my teaching?” you teased.

“Even better, I plan to sit in on it and correct you when need be,” he stated cheerfully before slightly turning to your students who laughed. 

“It’s always a pleasure.” 

He smiled at you before pulling a spare chair up to sit somewhat behind you in the corner as you taught and went through your powerpoint. You were only on your second slide when he interjected. You’d just asked the class, “What does it mean if a defendant wants to plead NGRI.”

A boy who usually spoke up in your class, raising his hand. “It means not guilty by reason of insanity.”

“Right, and what happens when they plead that?” 

“They get cut slack and the jury sees them as insane. Then instead of going to prison, they go to a mental institute for a shorter amount of time,” the student explained. 

“Actually,” Rossi started before standing up, “that’s not usually the case. An NGRI is only successful 1% of the time, and when it is, the defendant has to usually stay in a facility for a lot longer than the prison sentence would’ve been and they have to prove themselves capable to a doctor.” 

At this point he was pacing and you couldn’t help but grin fondly as you gave him the floor.

“This actually reminds me of a case I word back in the late 80’s,” he continued. With that, he took off down memory lane. It was one epic story after another. Some included you, some were decades before you, but all of them had the kids on the edge of their seats, soaking up every one of his words. After each anecdote, the kids had questions. 

Before you knew it, class was over. Rossi sort of touched on the points you wanted to, but mainly it turned into a lot of his exciting tales of being in the field. Which was ultimately fine. You’d just post the lecture notes online for the kids tonight. 

When the kids left the lecture hall, you gathered your things and turned to Rossi as you exited the room. 

“So what brings you down, other than crashing my lecture?”

“That was it. Hadn’t seen or heard from you in a while, thought I would come visit the ole sunshine state,” he informed. “How’s it going down here? I hope I didn’t step all over your class.”

You shrugged. “Oh, it’s fine. You talking about the glory days is a lot better than me droning on about court cases.” You laughed slightly. 

“So you sad to leave it? I know your classes are almost up.” 

“No, not really. Teaching is fun, but I miss field work. Actually catching criminals, instead of teaching how to catch them.”

“I think your husband might say the opposite.”

At the mention of Spence your heart hammered and went icy. 

“Spence would probably say that because he doesn’t like the fact that we do have to do our jobs.” 

“This is true.”

“Hey, you wanna grab dinner? You flew all the way down.”

“I’d love to, kid,” he agreed, taking you up on your offer. 

“Awesome. I know a great seafood joint nearby. I know you might prefer italian but maybe a change of pace would be nice.”

“Just point the way,” he said, gesturing forward. You smiled and led him to your car where you two piled in and drove about five minutes away to a nice restaurant. You got in, ordered your drinks, and settled in. 

“So you ready to be back in the field?” he asked with a grin.

“Yeah, I think I am. Every time Spence calls and mentions a case I’m profiling immediately,” you stated with a slight laugh, trying to hide how you felt like you were dying inside. Your stomach was a war of anxiety, dread, depression, and a tiny flicker of hope.

“Yeah, he tells us,” he remarked. “So your time as a professor down here is ending. What’d you think? Would you want to keep it up back up at Quantico?”

“You offering me a job?” you teased.

He shrugged, raising his eyebrows. “The academy is always looking for teachers. But I’m curious. I know Reid loves teaching, didn’t know if that extended to you now.”

“Well, if it was back in DC and it didn’t take me too far away from the BAU and Spence, yeah I’d probably be up for it.” 

“See? You were nervous for nothing.”

You chuckled. “Hey, I’d never done this before!” 

“Talking to a crowd of people is a lot easier, and safer, than talking to one unsub.” 

“I’ll drink to that,” you said as soon as the drinks hit the table. 

“Are you going to miss all this sunshine?”

You peered around the restaurant, as if you were actually gauging it. That’s when the question hit you -- if, by some miracle, Spence didn’t turn you in, you would be leaving behind Dexter. Your truest friend. You’d miss him dearly. He was unusual, yes, for an FBI agent, but he was also… very real. You could joke, be yourself, not be judged around him. He wouldn’t take what you said too seriously or get offended. He found your dark humor delightful. You hoped that he found a friend in you too. 

Yes, despite everything, you’d miss Dexter, the one person who truly knew every part about you. 

“I’ll miss some things about the state. Yeah,” you admitted with a fond smile. 

“Well you can always visit,” he reminded as he raised his glass.

The two of you talked, caught up like old friends. Shop talk was little, and you discussed life with Spence, kids, the marriage. You pretended he didn’t know you were a serial killer and you weren’t on edge, wondering if you were going to prison any second. Rossi didn’t know about JJ, or if he did, he didn’t say one word and you didn’t feel like airing your dirty laundry. So you left the topic alone. 

Other than that, it was a great dinner with a friend. He said he and Krystal were on their way to a little resort for a few days. She was sightseeing in Miami while Rossi visited you. As soon as he was done with the restaurant, he was going to meet her at the resort.

Unfortunately for you, your distraction was gone now, and you were back to being consumed with anxiety. Seeing Dexter didn’t help either, or at least, you didn’t think it would. 

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

The next day, around 4:30 pm, you got a text from Dexter asking if you’d want to grab dinner. You agreed.

The two of you met at a little outdoor restaurant. It was a beautiful night. Very warm, but a cozy kind of warm, not a strangling type. The ocean breeze was doing an excellent job at calming your nerves. 

You were daydreaming, wondering when or if you’d ever see or feel anything this beautiful again when Dexter took a seat right in front of you.

“Hey,” he greeted, a slight smile on his face.

“Hi,” you softly said. Not one little part of you was mad at him. Maybe some part of you should’ve been, but how could you be? You were the authority in this relationship. You could’ve locked Dex up a long time ago, not looked back, and been a local and FBI hero. But no, your personal vendetta and vices got in the way and you gave into a darkness inside you that you never knew you had. Not until you met Dexter and knew what a good vigilante looked like. 

“How’s...uh, how’s everything going?” 

“As good as can be expected,” you truthfully stated, frowning a bit. “Listen I’m so sorry I--”

He held up his hand. “Nope. No. You don’t have to apologize. I knew that there was a risk in teaching you. I knew that one day your coworkers might figure it out. I was sort of hoping they’d only take you down though,” he stated with a grin that made you laugh. “But seriously… I knew the risks. I could’ve said no. Like I said, if this is how I go out, then your husband is a worthy opponent.”

A sorrowful smile touched your face for the briefest of seconds. 

“So you’re not mad?”

“Mad? Y/N, I’m the killer. I know the dangers I face every time I take someone out. That was happening long before you were in the picture.” 

“Yeah but having an FBI agent for a partner must not be ideal.” 

“On the contrary, there might be hope. Do you really think he is going to turn you in? Turn us in?” 

You heaved a large sigh. That’s all you’d thought about since the words came out of your mouth and you were still no closer to an answer.

“I honestly don’t know. The fact that it’s been a few days and we haven’t been arrested is a good sign. But, Spencer is practical too, he may be waiting until I get home to sort out details of the marriage, the home, and everything else before asking me to give myself up.” 

He nodded. “I don’t know him as well as you, so I can’t say anything on that. But we should take it as some form of hope that there aren’t feds at our door.”

“Yeah, I suppose so.” 

He eyed you up and down, seeing as you were clearly miserable. 

“Hey, well, worst case, he does… Don’t spend your last days of freedom sulking. Spend them doing what you want. Go take a tour, go see a museum, go… do whatever it is you do to relax. Speaking of, do you ever relax?”

A half smile perked up on your face. “Yes, Morgan, I do relax.”

“Oh, ‘Morgan’, did I hit a nerve, Agent?” 

You shook your head and laughed, sticking your tongue out. 

“Hey, Dexter…” you started, your eyes down at your fingers that were playing with each other. “I want you to know that you’re a really good friend. If it wasn’t for you when Spence got kidnapped… I would’ve been a mess. I would’ve gone off on JJ. Hell, I’d be a lot of things.” You took a deep breath. “But not just that. Spence, he knows me inside and out. He even knows about my… secret now, but you… Well you saw all of me and didn’t judge me. I mean, you know I’m an agent and you didn’t give me a lecture.”

“That’d be a bit of a double standard, don’t you think?” 

You shrugged. “Maybe, but you could’ve, and you didn’t. I appreciate that. Even when we weren’t… teaching, I liked just hanging out with you. It was nice to have a friend that wasn’t so by the book. I mean, the BAU is great, and we’re a family, but I can’t be my morbid self with them. They just don’t share my ideals and if I said half the shit I did to them that I did to you, they would be so offended that I’d be sent off for a psych eval faster than you could say ‘unsub.’” 

He slightly grinned. “Yeah, I liked our time too. It was nice to be myself too. Harry… he did his best but I could tell he didn’t accept me, not all the way. With Deb… shit, with Deb, she barely knows me. Rita sees a little bit more. She can tell when I’m upset, or agitated but… yeah it’s nice to have a real friendship. I’m going to miss this.” 

“Yeah… me too.” 

“Thanks… for looking behind the mask and not being afraid.”

“Thanks for letting me look behind the mask,” you countered, raising your beer, clinking it with his.

The rest of the evening was spent just talking. Not about kills or teaching. Not about prison. Just about your accomplishments, why they meant so much to you, what you’d seen, what you loved about Spencer. 

But something had clicked with you. Dexter said something and it resonated deep inside you. So you set the plan in motion when you got home that night.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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[shirtlesssammy]

15x05: Proverbs 17:3

Then:

I’m not crying, you’re crying!

Now:

(weeping in corner ---this is Steve Yockey’s last episode) 

Black Forest, Colorado

Three young women on a Pinterest inspired LL Bean photoshoot getaway, toast to friendship and good times. Now that they’re done with college, two of them have found jobs and are on their way to subverting the new world order of underemployment. Ashley, the other friend, will be driving for Uber. 

They all hear a noise outside the tent. Julie goes for more rum and gets yanked. The other one tries closing the tent but is also yanked. Cue Ashley’s screams!

At the bunker, Sam checks his messages to Cas. He’s been texting and texting but hasn’t heard anything back. I am emotional. Dean is going to bury that shit and not even tell his brother what happened? ARGH. Sam hides his phone pretty quick so it’s obvious that he knows something isn’t right --and he doesn’t needle his brother about it so he knows something REALLY isn’t right. 

Dean’s back from a supply run and is back on his overcompensating with food bullshit. He eats a ghost pepper jerky bite and instantly regrets it. On the plus side, we get this:

Anyway, they’ve got a case. 

*Dream Vision Alert*

Lucifer!Sam sits at a table in the bunker. Dean approaches from behind, draws the Colt, asks for forgiveness, and shoots Sam in the back of the head. Lucifer!Sam doesn’t die though. The wound heals and his eyes glow red. Lucifer!Sam scoffs at the idea that the Colt would kill him, adding, “we both knew it had to end this way.” Then fire consumes Dean. 

Sam wakes in the Impala. Dean wants to know what’s up but Sam will only admit to a bad dream. 

They reach Colorado and instead of their usual routine, Dean pulls out some old school tricks: Fish and Wildlife agents. They were babies! (But this is also just such a nice way to show HOW MUCH Sam and Dean have changed over the years. The story Chuck was telling in season one has changed so much --they are not the same anymore. And while Dean continues to repress his current issues (ala Cas), it’s clear that he’s not the same.)

They go in and talk with the sheriff.

(Also, this is yet another week using an actor that has been in a previous episode of Supernatural. I realize this does happen, but this actress played Tara, the hunter that helped Dean and Crowley find Cain and the First Blade--and the Mark of Cain.) 

The sheriff doesn’t think these attacks are animal in nature. There’s one witness they can talk to. They head to the hospital to talk with her. They ask what she remembers. She flashes back to the forest. She’s running and a man/monster is chasing her. She’s reluctant to talk, but Dean assures her that they’ve heard it all. The man that killed her friends had claws and fangs. A werewolf. Dean tells the poor girl that monsters and werewolves are all real. 

Dean gets a name. Sam points out that it wasn’t a full moon the night Ashley was attacked (Dean suggests pureblood), and Sam sets off to find an address. 

They head to a cabin in the woods where Andy, the werewolf, lives with his brother, Josh. They’re isolated, reluctant to have visitors, don’t have a phone. Just as God intended. Sam and Dean leave. 

Josh yells at Andy for not killing Ashley. I’m just loling all over the place. This melodramatic crazy is TOO much. Family of werewolves that hunt people. Their dad’s dead but it’s the family business. Reluctant younger brother...

The brothers check in at the Sleepy Bear Inn. (Have we mentioned HOW MUCH WE LOVE JERRY WANEK? It’s true!) 

They’ve got Ashley under their protection. They need to go take care of “the lumberjack twins.” Sam wonders why this whole case seems too easy. Lololol. Ashley asks the brothers to stay with her until she falls asleep. Meanwhile, Andy and Josh are outside the motel ready to kill her. 

Dean and Ashley talk about hunting. Dean says he likes his job --helping people. She asks if he ever wanted to be anything else: Jimi Hendrix. He says that so quickly. It breaks me a bit. But then he toes the company line. Ashley wondering how great life would be if it was all planned out. That makes Dean turn a little green. Poor bby. 

Sam wakes Sleeping Beauty - I mean, Dean. He zonked out while Sam headed out to get food and while he was sleeping, Ashley disappeared.

Cut to Ashley who is astonishingly NOT DEAD YET. She’s tied up in a bloody slaughter room, though. The two werewolf bros burst in, mid argument. “This isn’t who we are,” Andy protests, his pure white, tucked-in sweater standing out sharply against the ACTUAL BLOOD SPATTERED WALL. (Like, seriously, guys. Get a cleaning service, at least. That can’t be sanitary.)

“This is exactly who we are,” Josh growls. Hoooo-boy.

Dean and Sam race back to the cabin and quickly follow Ashley’s screams to the slaughter room. Their approach causes the werewolves to scamper, but not very far. As they attempt to escape, the Winchesters and Ashley get ambushed in the main room. The two werewolves get the upper hand on Dean and Sam, and the werewolf with a taste for human flesh closes in on Dean, snarling. Andy picks up Dean’s dropped gun and points it at Sam. He stares between Sam and Josh in agony.

Andy shoots and kills his brother. “He turned into a monster,” Andy explains tearfully. “And I’m a monster too.” He turns the gun on himself, killing himself with one quick shot to the heart. (Jeez, always the heart in this season. It’s almost like it’s an important metaphor or something.)

“That was weird,” Dean says which is like a total UNDERSTATEMENT… But that doesn’t even come close to what happens next. Dean tries to comfort Ashley, who pushes away and…

…trips and falls right onto the antlers. BOOM. Ashley’s dead. Sam, Dean, and pretty much every single one of us viewers stares at Ashley’s body in shock and confusion. That’s…not…normal. Also, this episode is only half over. WTF?

“Well, this is a bitch,” Ashley grumbles, opening her eyes and standing up, still impaled. She cheerfully flashes her eyes white at Sam. She’s LILITH, baby! 

Lilith has clearly never made friends with the phrase “Loose lips sink ships” because she spills E V E R Y T H I N G. Chuck pulled her out of the Empty (where she was dead as a demon doornail), gave her instructions to seduce Dean post-rescue, told her to show Sam and Dean the werewolf murder/sacrifice mirror, and sent her to retrieve the magic gun: Ye Olde Equalizer. 

The Winchesters try to fight Lilith, but she blasts them into the walls, knocking Sam out. Dean promises Lilith the gun as long as Sam’s okay. Same old song and dance, my friends. But now we get the feeling that Dean’s SEEING THE SCRIPT even while he’s still feeling utterly trapped by it.

Sam has another vision while he’s power healing through his latest concussion. This time, Dean’s out to kill a human Sam. Dean, under the influence of the Mark of Cain, murders his brother with the first blade. When Sam wakes, the cabin is empty. 

In the Impala, Lilith is sitting about two feet away from the equalizer gun - still hidden in the glove box- and amusedly answers Dean’s questions. She’s massively irked that she’s back on Earth as part of Chuck’s latest story…when the story she THOUGHT her death was integral to was foiled by the Winchesters. It’s adding insult to injury, man. “Wouldn’t it be great if everything was just planned out for you?” she repeats and then laughs right in Dean’s face. Chuck fed her that line directly. 

Lilith chirpily comments on Chuck’s storytelling propensity and his hamfisted werewolf brother foreshadowing. “It always ends the same,” she tells Dean. “One brother killing the other.” 

Back at the motel, I am still UTTERLY DAMN CHARMED at the Wanek crew’s amazing work on this room. 

For Please Come Decorate My House Science:

Dean tells Lilith that she’ll NEVER get the gun and she starts to slice him bit by bit. It’s the death of a thousand cuts!

Sam breaks in and shoots Lilith in the forehead without another word. He traps her in place with a devil’s trap bullet. “I’ve got you now, my pretty!” Sam should have shouted (but didn’t). What he does do is threaten to kill her. Lilith gets pissed at this. Like, EXCUSE HER VERY MUCH, but she’s a total badass who LET Sam kill her back in season four. Don’t mess with her! 

The Winchesters flee but don’t even make it past the parking lot. Lilith zaps out to meet them. Where’s the gun??? She reasons it out, and concludes that the gun is clearly in the Impala. (Clears throat… The most important car in the universe!?) Lilith finds the equalizer pretty much right away and laughs at how damn easy it was. Which...yeah.

“We’ll get it back,” Sam snarls and without further ado, Lilith melts the heck out of the gun. Now it’s just a cooling black pool against the asphalt. Oooooookay. Plan...X?

Back at the bunker, the boys fortify themselves with liquor. Sam leaves ANOTHER voicemail for Cas. (Pardon me while I take a short break to weep and rend my clothing.) “We gave him the head’s up on Chuck and Lilith,” Dean says. “What else are we supposed to do?” Oh, I don’t know. Probably apologize? Tell him you love him and value him as a person. That sort of thing. 

Dean’s pretty shattered at the revelation that Chuck’s still pulling their strings. Thanks to Lilith, he understands that Chuck wants an ending where one of them kills the other. Sam immediately ties this into the dreams he’s been having. “You’re just telling me this, NOW?” Dean asks. And…I think that reaction is justified. Sam speculates that his equalizer wound is showing him Chuck’s endings and MAYBE a slice of Chuck’s mind. 

“This was supposed to be over,” Dean says in response. “Are we just gonna keep running in this friggin’ hamster wheel until we die? Or we get boring and he ends us?” I’m laughing at the direct commentary on how TV shows live and die but also...DEAN BBY. 

Sam thinks they can fight. Dean wants to know how the hell they’re supposed to FIGHT GOD.

______________________________

Goldilocks and the Three Quotes:

Poor, faithful Dean. We both knew it had to end this way

I’ll Freud you

Whatever you’re about to say, I want you to know that we’ve heard worse. We’ve heard weirder

I don’t lie to you. I look out for you

That’s not how this story goes

Oh, you would promise a girl the moon, Dean Winchester

Of the three potential vessels, Ashley had the best hair

God? He is not exactly Shakespeare. He’s more of a low rent Dean Koontz

Be a good boy and show me that BIG GUN, huh?

______________________________

Want to read more? Check out our Recap Archive! 

[inyournightmares97]

Unwritten

A chance encounter with a stranger on a rainy night shows you that it doesn’t have to matter who you are or what you’ve done until now... your story can always begin today. 

Warnings: Fluff, some intense topics. I’m not sure what this is. Maybe it’s a birthday gift to myself because who can possibly know what I want as a gift better than me? I probably shouldn’t have posted this since it’s really personal and kind of a mess, but eh, what the heck. (Also, inspired by my all-time favorite song, Unwritten by Natasha Bedingfield) 

Word Count: 3.6k

Maybe you were a little bit crazy. 

It could have been the alcohol, the stuffy atmosphere of the club, or even the crushing weight of the realization that you hated absolutely everything about your life. But none of those things were new. 

The truth was, you weren't entirely sure what had caused you to snap that particular dark and drizzly Wednesday night. But somehow, even the lack of any evident stimulus was fitting. 

Everything doesn't have a reason. 

The world is a mess that we've somehow convinced ourselves makes sense. 

You didn't tell any of your friends that you were leaving the club. One second you were dancing and celebrating the hours leading up to your birthday and the next, something inside of your brain snapped and you needed to get out. It was like a sudden rush of clarity. You hated being here. Surrounded by people who you hated, people who themselves hated life and who lived it so begrudgingly. 

Everyone around you suddenly seemed to be carrying this huge, indescribable void inside of them and you had to leave. You didn't want to be here. You weren't sure where you wanted to be but it definitely wasn't here. You grabbed your purse, walked out of the club and hailed down a taxi. 

The brightly colored car stopped in front of you and you grabbed the door handle of the front passenger seat and plopped down onto it. 

You could feel the driver's eyes staring into you. 

"Are there, uh… are there more people coming?" he asked, since that was the only logical explanation why a taxi passenger would sit in the front seat. You blinked. 

"Nope." 

"O-oh." 

"Why?" you demanded, turning to look at the driver. He was young; you were struck by how incredibly handsome he was. He had dark, kind eyes and the softest lips you had ever seen. The startled expression on his face was adorable. "Am I not allowed to sit up here unless the back seat is occupied?" 

He blinked at you and then the corner of his lips turned up. 

"No, you can sit wherever you like. I was just asking." 

You grinned. You liked this driver. His shoulders visibly relaxed. Maybe he'd just resigned himself to the fact that he was going to be driving an annoying and drunken woman home. You turned back to face the front. 

"Okay. Start driving!"

He started the car and slowly merged into the main road with his hands on the steering wheel. He had pretty hands, you thought. Everything about him was pretty.

Why are humans so drawn to beauty? 

"Where are we going?" the driver asked you. You hesitated. Where were you going? You weren't sure yet. When you didn't reply, the driver turned and frowned at you. His dark eyes crinkled at the corners. 

"Where do you live?" he pressed gently. 

"I… I don't want to go home," you admitted. 

"Then where do you want to go? Another club? Maybe a boyfriend's place?" he continued to prompt. You were still silent so he pulled the taxi over by the side of the road and bit his lip. "Ma'am. I can't keep driving if you won't tell me where you want to go." 

You suddenly felt empty. 

"If you could go anywhere right now, where would you go?" you asked him suddenly. 

The man blinked. "Uh, home, I guess." 

The answer disappointed you and you pursed your lips with a frown. Home? Why was everyone so obsessed with home? Home was an illusion of safety and comfort that we try to lure ourselves into thinking belongs to us. Nothing really belongs to us. 

"Why? Why is it that we have this enormous world at our disposal but every single night we go back to the same boring old place and sleep there? What's so great about it?" you demanded. 

He blinked at you. "It's just… comfort, I guess. Home is where we're happy and we can be ourselves."

"You know what?" 

"What?"

"I'm happy right here in this taxi so I've decided it's my new home," you informed him defiantly. You kicked your painful heels off and crossed your bare feet on the comfortable seat. 

"That's… not how it works," he told you with a hesitant chuckle as he watched you get comfortable. You tried to take the seat belt off but he silently put it back on. "Can you please give me either your ID or your wallet so I can find your address and take you home?" 

You frowned at him. "I just told you that this is my home. Your car-sorry, what's your name?"

"Jinyoung." 

"Well, Jinyoung, your taxi is my home." 

He sighed. "Look ma'am, if you don't tell me where to take you then I'm gonna have to drive you to the nearest police station and drop you off there, cause I can't be responsible for your safety-"

You groaned. "Wow, Jinyoung, are you always such a buzzkill?" 

"... Yes." 

"Fine. Then let's go to the beach." 

"It's raining outside."

"And I want to go to the beach, so get driving, mister!" 

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

If you believed in fate, then you would perhaps have thought it was fate that you got into the handsome and patient Park Jinyoung's taxi that night. 

But you didn't believe in fate. 

Not tonight. 

You settled back into the taxi and rolled the windows down. If Jinyoung was upset that rain was entering the car and ruining the seats of his taxi, he certainly didn't show it. Freezing cold air hit you in the face and little droplets of rain grazed your skin. You took a deep breath and smiled happily. 

You felt excited. For once, you felt this sudden burst of hope and relief. It was almost like you had just escaped the prison of your life's monotony and you were on your way to your newfound freedom. You turned and saw that Jinyoung was watching you out of the corner of his eyes. 

"Do you think I'm weird?" you asked. 

"A little," he admitted honestly. 

You spotted Jinyoung's wallet lying in the cupholder and reached out to grab it. You leaned back in your seat and opened it up. Jinyoung watched you warily but again, said nothing as you lifted the flaps on the inside of the wallet. 

"Let's see who you are, Jinyoung," you said cheerfully. In the first slot was his driving license. You glanced at the photo and made a face. "Ew, you're handsome even in your driving license picture. How does that work? Who did you pay to get that done?" 

Jinyoung chuckled. "The camera doesn't lie." 

"No, but it can be a little bitch sometimes," you complained. You sighed and dug further into his wallet. You found a student ID card. "Oh! You're a college student! Do you drive part-time?"

Jinyoung nodded. "Actually, I just graduated." 

"Oooooh." 

"Yeah, I uh… I start my first full-time job tomorrow," he admitted to you. He wasn't sure why he was telling you this. Maybe it was just the way you were staring at him with your innocent wide eyes. Jinyoung couldn't remember the last time someone had seemed so curious to learn about him. "Tonight is my last day as a taxi driver."

You gasped. "No!"

He smiled. "Yeah."

"And I'm your last passenger? I'm the last person to ever sit in a taxi driven by Mr. Park Jinyoung? That is so cool!" you decided. 

"It's not that cool," he muttered. "Besides, you might not be the last because I might find another passenger after I drop you off-"

You weren't listening. "We have to celebrate!"

"It's not worth celebrating." 

"Everything is worth celebrating," you told him decidedly. "Do you know what I was supposed to be celebrating tonight? My birthday. In other words, I'm celebrating the fact that the earth was at this exact position in relation to the sun at the time I came out of my mother's vagina because my parents had sex nine months prior. If we can celebrate something as pointless as that, then we can celebrate anything." 

Jinyoung couldn't hold back a smile. "Okay." 

"So, Park Jinyoung, allow me to congratulate you on managing to operate a taxi for, um, how long?"

"2 years."

"-2 years without any accidents, without killing anybody and without getting your license revoked," you announced happily. You offered your hand for Jinyoung to shake in congratulations but he simply raised an eyebrow.

"How do you know I haven't killed anybody?" he challenged. 

Your eyes widened excitedly. "Have you?" 

He shook his head with a chuckle. "No. That's not really the reaction I was expecting, though. Would you rather I had?"

"It might have been an interesting story. I've never met a murderer." 

"Most people would consider themselves lucky." 

"Well you know what, fuck luck," you told him with a frown as you folded your arms across your chest. "I'm so sick and tired of luck. Whenever something good happens to me then people go oh, you're so lucky! And when something bad happens then they go, oh it's nor your fault it was bad luck. If luck decides everything then why do we even try? What's even the point?"

"I don't know. I guess that's just how it is."

"I'm tired of luck. I want to be in control. I want to be able to do whatever I want and steer my life exactly where I want it to go. Wouldn't we all be so much happier if we could do that?"

"That depends," Jinyoung mused. 

"On what?"

"On whether you really know what you want." 

You furrowed your eyebrows. "How could I not know what I want?" 

"You want to be happy," Jinyoung reminded you. "But the truth is, you don't know exactly what will make you happy. It's like knowing the name of the place you want to go but not having a map to get there. You'll end up trying all the wrong roads until you stumble across it by accident. Chances are high that you will never find it at all." 

You stared at Jinyoung. "Wow."

"What?" he asked, with a flustered smile. 

"Jinyoung that was so deep, I'm so impressed," you told him with a grin. His ears turned a light shade of pink. "You're so right. Happiness is like a destination we don't know how to get to. But you know what the problem is? The problem isn't that we keep trying all the wrong roads. The problem is that we're scared to try new roads so we keep asking other people for directions and they don't know where it is either." 

Jinyoung hummed. "Maybe." 

"Do you think anyone is happy? Do you know someone who's happy?" you asked him. 

He shrugged. "There's no way to know, is there? You can't feel someone else's happiness or experience their emotions. You can ask them… but words are an inadequate way to express emotions. Only the person experiencing an emotion can ever know the true intensity of it and he can never know whether his emotions are greater or lesser than others because his own emotions are the only emotions he can ever experience." 

You stared at him. "So it's possible that we're all equally miserable?" 

He chuckled. "It's also possible that we're all equally happy."

"But we'll never know."

"Nope. I suppose it's one of the many mysteries of the world," he replied simply. You stared at Jinyoung in confusion as he slowly pulled the taxi over by the side of the beach. It was still raining and you glanced out of the car window nervously. 

"Too cold to get out?" Jinyoung asked knowingly. 

You pouted and dug into your purse. "No. I'll get out. How much do I owe you?" 

Jinyoung bit his lip. It was dark and deserted in the beach in the middle of the rain and you didn't look entirely sober. It was also unlikely you would find another taxi out here in this weather. He sighed and cursed himself for being worried about you, but he was. 

"How about I wait until you're done?" 

You paused and blinked. "Until I'm done what?"

"Whatever you're planning to do here."

You stared at him and fell silent. What were you planning to do here? You didn't really know. You had just come here on a whim. But there was genuine concern in Jinyoung's eyes and it made your heart skip a beat. You wondered why this random man was so worried about leaving you here. 

"Okay," you decided. "Let's go take a walk in the rain!"

"Hold on, I have an umbrella in the trunk-"

"You can't carry an umbrella! Where's the fun in that?" you demanded, getting out of the car. But there was no stopping Jinyoung from locking the car and walking around it to extract a large umbrella from the car trunk. You shouldn't have been surprised. Jinyoung looked exactly like the kind of guy to carry an umbrella around in case of emergencies. 

"Do you want to get under it or not?" he asked, holding it up over his head. You folded your arms across your chest and frowned. It was cold and you weren't dressed for the weather but you refused to get under the umbrella. 

"Nope!"

"Okay, your loss," Jinyoung replied simply. 

You started walking down the beach towards the sealine, wet sand between your toes and the soft rain hitting your cold skin. Jinyoung followed you silently with his umbrella. He watched as you tilted your head upwards and let the water run down your skin. 

You were beautiful. 

"You're going to fall sick," Jinyoung scolded you with a sigh. 

You turned to look at him, your eyes shining. You couldn't worry about tomorrow. You didn't want to worry about tomorrow. You wanted to enjoy now. You spread your arms out happily and smiled. 

"So what?"

He raised an eyebrow. "So what? You're going to be miserable." 

"I've decided I'm not going to be miserable anymore." 

Jinyoung chuckled. "I wish it was that easy." 

You didn't respond. You simply closed your eyes and felt the cold freshness of the rain on your skin. Jinyoung was right. Nobody else could feel this feeling for you right now. Maybe they could feel something similar… but right now, this very moment, you were the only person in the world who could feel this exact rain on your skin in this exact way. 

You suddenly felt warm. 

Jinyoung had placed the umbrella over your head and was looking down at you with a small frown. You opened your eyes and blinked at him. 

"Jinyoung!" you protested. 

"You look like you're having too much fun, it's making me jealous," he muttered. 

"So get rid of the stupid umbrella."

"No." 

"Yes! Get rid of it!" you insisted. You could see a small smile on the corner of his pretty lips but his grip on the umbrella was still tight. He shook his head and you sighed, continuing to walk down the beach as Jinyoung followed you with the umbrella. 

"Are you always this crazy?" he asked you honestly. 

You frowned. "You really want to know?"

"Yeah." 

"I'm really shy." 

"Why don't I believe you?" he asked with a chuckle. 

"Ah, but that's the nice part," you told him with a grin. "You'll never know. I could be completely nuts. I could also be the most boring person in the world. Who knows? Not you, Park Jinyoung!"

He looked like he didn't know whether to laugh. "I'm leaning towards completely nuts." 

"Suit yourself. Truth is, I'm undefined. We all are." 

Jinyoung shrugged. "Maybe so." 

"Does it even make sense to slap labels on people when we change every moment? What does it even mean to say I'm not like this normally? What counts are normally? I've lived for 22 years in this world and I think I've been a different person every single day I'm pretty sure 20-year old me or 21-year old me had a bunch of feelings and a personality but who cares? She's gone. I'm not her anymore."

Jinyoung raised an eyebrow. "I thought you didn't care about birthdays."

"I never said that. I just said they were a random thing to celebrate. It doesn't make sense to me to celebrate one day. We don't suddenly get a year older. We grow a little bit every day, every hour and every second. We're just too lazy to keep track."  

"I'd like to see you keep track of how many seconds old you are."

You rolled your eyes. "Now you're just being annoying."

Jinyoung chuckled. He had never met anyone like you. Perhaps on another night he would have been annoyed to have to deal with a crazy woman who insisted on walking on the beach in the rain. But not tonight. Maybe it was something to do with your beautiful eyes, the smile on your lips or the way you looked like a bird that had just broken free from a cage. 

Something about your magic was contagious. 

Jinyoung found himself wanting to see a little bit more of it. He followed you as you continued to skip down the beach, holding the umbrella up over his own head and yours. Your hair and clothes were drenched but you didn't seem to care. You walked until the edge of the water and then stood staring out at the roaring sea. 

"Isn't it sad that we're so limited?" you wondered. 

Jinyoung chuckled. "What's this about, now?"

"Like the human body is so limited and useless. I want to jump into the roaring sea and feel it. I want to fly into the sky and see a thunderstorm up close. I want to feel that freedom. I want to do so many things but I can't because my body doesn't let me feel all these amazing things." 

"I think there are a lot of things only humans can feel, though." 

"Like what?" you demanded. 

"Love?" 

You rolled your eyes. "Don't disappoint me now, Jinyoung. I was just starting to like you. What is love even? It's just something we make up to make ourselves feel better. It's a comforting delusion that we need because we're too scared and weak to be alone." 

Jinyoung bit his lip. "You don't think love exists?"

"I don't know. All I know is this; the only person who is ever going to have to be with me no matter what is myself. The person I spend the most time with is myself. So why would I ever waste my time loving someone else?" 

"Because love is about taking a break from yourself."

"Is it?"

"You don't fall in love with someone because they're amazing or attractive or irresistible," Jinyoung replied thoughtfully. "That's not real love. You fall in love with someone because you want to love them and you want to dedicate your time and attention to them. Love is, for that tiniest moment, forgetting yourself and letting go and immersing yourself completely into another person. Love isn't one huge thing. It's a bunch of tiny things." 

You stared at him. Jinyoung's shoulders were damp from having shared his umbrella with you. His dark eyes were shining and you couldn't tear your gaze away from him. 

"Have you ever felt love?" you asked. 

"Sure. Love doesn't have to be a huge commitment or a promise. It doesn't have to last forever or be with a single person. It can be any number of tiny things and experiences." 

"I don't think I've ever felt it."

"Maybe you should try." 

"Should I?"

"Give it a shot." 

You weren't sure what Jinyoung had been expecting but it probably wasn't that you would knock the umbrella out of his hand. He was surprisingly calm as the rain soaked his soft hair and you stepped closer to him. Your hands snaked around his shoulders. 

Jinyoung was the first one to lean down to kiss you.

Both of you were cold and wet from the rain, and you each clung onto the small shreds of body heat coming from the other. Jinyoung's lips were gentle and soft and exciting as he grasped your waist and brought his lips down on yours. Your spine tingled in delight. 

Perhaps you should have thought about the fact that you were kissing a stranger in a deserted place, perhaps you should have been worried that this was inappropriate and rushed. 

But it wasn't. 

It wasn't, because like Jinyoung said, love wasn't a promise or a commitment or a trap. It didn't have to be with someone you knew everything about or understood. It was a moment; a small, fleeting moment when you give yourself entirely to somebody else and as Jinyoung kissed you in the rain and the sky ahead thundered, you experienced that moment for the first time. 

There was a beeping from your phone and you reluctantly pulled away from Jinyoung to take it out of your pocket. You'd set an alarm for midnight. The time was clear on the screen. 

00:01

"Oh look at that," you muttered. "Happy Birthday to me."

Jinyoung was still staring at you, his eyes sparkling. His fingers slowly slid up to your face and he cupped your cheeks and turned you to face him. There was a magic in your eyes. He wondered how a complete stranger had managed to take his breath away so suddenly. 

"Who are you?" he breathed.

You slid your own fingers into Jinyoung's damp hair and smiled. 

"Does it matter who I've been until now? All that matters is who I'm going to be from this moment on." 

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

Drench yourself in words unspoken

Live your life with arms wide open,

Today is where your book begins,

The rest is still unwritten...

[okaybutlikeimagine]

The shovel talk prompt is so cute. I was wondering if you could do one where the kids or Joyce gives billy a shovel talk since Steve’s dad defiantly wouldn’t do it.

(heyo dears, the post we’re talking about is right here!)

I fuckin love this and you KNOW they both would but in very very different ways.

Bc with Joyce, it’s still very motherly and a lot more gentle than Hop, but also Extremely Serious.

Bc i like to think Joyce has known Steve since he was a very little kid. Like… her kids have always gone to school together and she went to school w/ Steve’s parents. and she doesn’t really like steve’s parents like… at ALL. and she kind of thought Steve was mean (bc he was, guys. Love our babe, he’s a gem, but 1st season he was a jerkwad w/ little to no self awareness and that’s why i love his growth bc he was a teenage boy who grew from his mistakes and i love that for him♥) but he’s softened up in the past year and he babysits all of the kids and it just means a lot to her. She knows she can trust Will in the hands of Steve and that will forever and always mean the world.

And of COURSE she knows she can trust Billy too, but she’s known Steve longer and she’s watched him grow up and she’s seen the way he’s grown and she’s just… so proud of him. She’s so incredibly proud of him. He’s such a good kid and he has a good heart and Billy is also a very good kid with a very good heart (and she will defend that stance till the day she dies) but he can be a bit… rough. She knows it. He’d probably admit to it too. He’s just a little rough and tough and Steve is a very soft boy and Joyce worries.

So she definitely sits Billy down and talks to him about it. She puts a motherly hand on his knee like she always does when she has serious talks with him. She’s very gentle about bringing Steve up.

And then she squeezes his knee a little tighter than normal and says: “Now don’t do anything to harm Steve, alright? Because you’ll have a lot of upset people on your hands, and one of them will be me.”

She’s stern. Billy just kind of… laughs nervously.

But the KIDS… ohgod guys, the kids.

The kids would devote their lives to protecting Steve if they needed to. I’m thinking that Knight guard at the end of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade who loyally guards the grail w/ his life. I’m thinking of them forming a transformer like thing, all of them becoming a different part of the body so they can ward off evils and wrongdoers. I’m thinking something along the lines of London Tipton’s father’s body guards who form a literal blockade around him so you never see his face. Like, imagine these lil children banding together to form a little square around Steve, blocking him from the rest of the world so that no one can touch him or even look at him w/o going through them first. (There’s a scene where London dances w/ her dad except the body guard dudes don’t really move so she’s just holding his hands and all of the body guard dudes are moving side to side as they dance and it’s Hilarious and i just want to put that image into your heads but w/ the kids around Steve and Billy pouting bc whythefuck isn’t he allowed to see him goddamn boyfriend???)(anyway, i digress)(and might be making some references you don’t understand goodness i’m so sorry)

okaY so the kids are all at Mike’s house playing DnD or being dorks or whatever it is 14 yr olds do in a group alone. Or at least, that’s what Billy thinks. He’s really not sure what’s going on, he doesn’t pretend to understand their little shenanigans, he listened to Will rant about DnD character types for about 2 hours last week and his brain still feels a little fried by it so he just…….. He lets it be. All he needs to know is when to drop them off, when to pick them up, and when to tune them out just enough to where he doesn’t feel like a total jackass. Really, only w/ Will though bc Will is his favorite and he’d never wanna upset Will.

Anyway, he’s at Mike’s house, knocking on the door, here to pick Will and El up, when Mike opens the door and ushers him inside immediately.

“Hi Billy come in! We uhhh… we need you to help us… decide something.” Mike says lamely. Billy’s so unconvinced it’s insane.

“Decide something? Seriously? Since when have you nerds ever wanted my opinion on anything?”

“Well uh… this is a weird situation and we need your help.” Dustin says in what he probably thinks is sweet but to Billy is actually just very irritating, but he turns his attention to Dustin anyway.

Billy rolls his eyes and crosses his arms. “Whatever, what do you need?”

“Uhhhhhhh…. Now Mike!”

And suddenly, Billy’s world is black and very fabric-y. He’s been blindfolded. It’s very dumb and Mike probably would have struggled if he wasn’t Billy’s exact height so Billy starts wriggling and struggling and reaching for the blindfold when he feels someone grab his hand.

“It’s alright, Billy. We’re just going downstairs.” Will’s calm, soft voice says as he pulls him in some direction. Billy follows with a lot less struggle. He doesn’t wanna hurt Will.

And in a few minutes, Billy’s being pushed into a chair. He’s pretty sure he hears voices quietly bicker over tying him up but the consensus seems to be a “no” on that one bc soon he’s gaining sight again.

His vision clears from it’s blinded blur to see a kid w/ a mop of curly hair in front of his face.

“Hello Billy.” He says like he’s intimidating or something.

“Hi Billy!” El says extremely cheerfully. Dustin turns his head to shush her.

“El! Sh! We’re supposed to be intimidating!”

“Ohhhhh…. Intimidating?”

Max chimes in. “Like, scary.”

“Oh!” El says in understanding, making her best angry face and thinking way too hard and, very suddenly, exploding a lightbulb. She shrieks.

“Sorry…”

“It’s alright El.” Will says kindly, walking towards a closet. “Mike’s mom keeps extra lightbulbs in the closet.”

“Will!” Mike hisses “We’re busy right now!”

Will hits Mike with a silencing look. “I think you guys can handle this.”

Mike pouts. “Why are none of you helping us?” He looks to the corner where Max and Lucas are sitting, Lucas on the arm of a lounge chair and Max on the seat.

“We’re… supervising.” Lucas says over a sip of his soda.

“Yeah, we’re just making sure this dumbass doesn’t get murdered for being stupid.” Max says, gesturing to Dustin who makes a very loud noise of indignation. Max shrugs.

And Billy?? Is tired as all hell. Kinda just wants to leave. Really, he could leave and these little twerps probably wouldn’t even notice. They didn’t tie him down or anything, he’s just sitting in a chair watching these children fumble like idiots trying to be intimidating.

But…. he indulges them. He thinks it’s kind of entertaining. Sure, he could be doing a lot more w/ his day, but seeing these kids be dumb is still vaguely enjoyable. Plus, he likes El and Will and Max and he thinks sitting here for their sake might be worth it maybe.

So he sits and he watches and he listens to Mike and Dustin bicker about how to “interrogate a witness”

“We’re not interrogating him, we’re intimidating him!”

“Well you gotta use the same tactics, right?”

To the point where Max heaves a bit sigh and shoves them aside so she’s standing in front of Billy, sitting in her hip w/ her arms crossed.

“Alright Billy, look. We know you’re dating Steve. And we’re fine with you dating Steve.” She gives a hard look to Mike and Dustin, who look about to chime in w/ opinions of their own, but wither under Max’s gaze. “All we’re saying is we need to set some ground rules here.” Max says as she turns back to Billy. “Number one-”

“Don’t hurt Steve!” Dustin all but screams, causing Max to sigh with a roll of her eyes.

“Alright, yes. Rule number one: Don’t hurt Steve.  He’s like… family at this point. He’s super cool and nice to all of us and we care about him so don’t hurt him.”

“Or else I’ll hurt you!” Dustin pipes up again LOUDLY.

“Or Dustin will talk your ear off and probably accidentally spit on you while he does it.” Max says to a chorus of snickers and one very loud “Hey!” from the subject of her teasing.

“Rule number two: don’t be too…. Gross around us.” Max makes a face. “Like, if we have to witness you two kissing more than once a week, that’s excessive.”

At that is where Billy scoffs. “Are you serious?”

“Yes. at least for those of us who don’t live with you. And Number three: I don’t wanna hear ANYTHING about you guys… sleeping together.”

Everyone audibly gags at the thought. Billy is full on laughing now.

“Wow, such a kid you can’t even say the word fu-”

“NONE OF IT. Not even in passing or anything bc you guys accidentally talk too loud. I don’t want to be subjected to any of that.” Max is adamant about it, sealing it with a punch to his shoulder. Billy just puts his hands up in defeat.

“Yeah, fine, whatever. Like I wanna talk about my sex life with a bunch of twerps.”

Billy is thoroughly entertained by the faces of the kids, all looking absolutely mortified, Will’s face blushing like crazy, El’s head tilted bc she doesn’t understand.

Billy gives Max a look.

“Can I go now?”

Max shrugs, eyebrows furrowed bc she’s mad she had to hear the word sex come out of her brother’s mouth. He’s so grossly brazen all the time.

“Yeah, whatever. Just be nice to Steve.”

Billy pats his own knees and gets up, gesturing to El and Will to follow him.

“Let’s go, punks.” He says, the two of them following, Will’s face still red and El’s eyes a little less confused bc she doesn’t really care anymore. They say goodbye to their friends before following Billy out the door.

The three of them leave behind 2 very loud and complaining boys (Mike and Dustin), but it sounds like Max puts them in their place. Billy chuckles as he slips into his car.

[in-tua-deep]

i need you to know that every once in a while i go back and read your whole responsible luther au from start to finish and like.... i would legit read 100k of that and still want more, i LOVE that entire concept to PIECES and just kdjdjfhfl thank you for elaborating on that plot so much

adsfdDFSGHF i’m v flattered i will admit I myself didn’t expect to become as fond as I have with that particular au lmao i think it’s a combo of the way luther in that au is generally unflappable and “same shit as always” and the family actually getting together and being an actual family

Not even the big family stuff either just the dumb little interactions

(posts for this au here: one, two, three, four, five, six)

Like Luther comes home from work, exhausted, walks in and the first thing he sees as he walks in is Diego standing at the open fridge drinking straight from the milk carton.

“Diego.” Luther states, halfway incredulous because come on, “Do I live in a frat house? There’s glasses in the cabinet to your right and I know you know that.”

“What do you know about frat houses?” Diego sneers, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “Not like any of us went to college, ‘les they give out degrees in sucking up.”

Luther presses his hands together and touches them to his mouth for a second of patience. “Diego,” He starts over, “What are you doing here?”

“Babysitting.” Diego shrugs, placing the milk back in the fridge and closing the door. Luther makes a mental note to buy more if only so that he doesn’t have to share in Diego’s gross mouth germs.

He can’t contain it. “For fu - is this what you do at home Diego? Do you even own glasses?”

Diego shrugs again, not even disguising the grin across his face. He likes pushing Luther’s buttons, like the absolute dick he is. “Just saving you on some washing up, Luth.” Diego informs him cheerfully, moving to pass him and clapping him on the shoulder in faux friendliness. 

Luther is about to make an very inadvisable movement (that movement being grabbing Diego and tossing him across the room and maybe pouring out the rest of the milk on top of his smug little - ) when Five pops into the room in a flash of blue.

“Luther!” Luther’s favorite brother greets him enthusiastically as Klaus stumbles out of his bedroom, brandishing a bottle of nail polish like a weapon. Judging from Five’s half-done fingers, it’s clear what they were up to. Luther has a feeling he’s going to end up with nail polish on his coat in a hot second.

It’s more of a surprise when Vanya walks out of the room as well, sporting electric blue painted nails and looking mildly uncomfortable. Of course, mildly uncomfortable is pretty much Vanya’s default state so Luther doesn’t think anything of it.

“Hello Five, hello Klaus.” Luther greets his roommates, smile plastered on his face, “Hello people who do not live here.”

“You need to get more eggs.” Diego tells him, not even looking abashed at Luther’s implied reprimand. Which, considering Diego procured a key weeks ago (which Luther did not give him) might be a little fair. It’s not like Diego isn’t invited maybe 25% of the time.

“Klaus called.” Vanya admits, “He said Diego was being boring and I needed to come over before someone was murdered. Probably Klaus, if we’re being honest.”

“Hey!” Klaus protests automatically, before tilting his head to acknowledge the point.

“Luther!” Five tugs at Luther’s coat insistently as he’s been doing pretty much since they walked out of the bedroom.

Well, time to pay attention to the little monster. Luther reaches down and swings his littlest brother up into his arms, earning a shriek even though it’s a familiar move at this point. 

“Ooh! Me too, me too!” Klaus crowds closer, making grabby hands. Luther sighs deeply but obliges, swinging Klaus up and over his shoulder easily and earning another delighted shriek. Luther wonders what it would be like without his super strength. Wonders how the rest of the world manages.

He ignores Diego’s look as he makes his way over to the couch, swaying both his brothers from side to side as they try and grab at one another. It’s a little bit like trying to balance a very tall stack of books with a wine glass on top - difficult but not exactly impossible. They certainly don’t try make it easier on him.

Having had enough, Luther calmly dumps both of them onto the couch. 

Vanya strolls over and plucks the bottle of nail polish out of Klaus’s hands, circling the couch and nudging him over so she can sit by Five where she wordlessly unscrews the cap and reaches out a hand for Five to put his into. Apparently it’s nail painting time again.

“What did you want, Five?” Luther asks, amused as he collapses into the big thrift store armchair with a quiet oof. 

“What’s for dinner?” Five asks, rolling his eyes.

Diego groans, “Ugh, that’s all he’s been asking for like, an hour.”

“I’m a growing boy!” Five protests, jerking his hands and earning himself a scolding shush from Vanya as the nail polish smears. She uses the corner of one of her own nails to clean it up a little. 

“Growing sideways,” Diego teases, reaching a hand out to ruffle Five’s hair. Unfortunately, it seems Five anticipated the move and Diego narrowly avoids the snap of Five’s teeth and the resulting shit eating grin.

“Luther!” Diego sounds scandalized, gesturing at their grinning brother as Klaus laughs quietly to himself.

“Children, behave.” Luther deadpans. 

“That’s what they say when we’re together!” Klaus immediately sings at the top of his lungs, making Vanya wince away and give him a look. Klaus shrugs unapologetically and she rolls her eyes, turning her attention back to her task.

“We should liberate Luther’s records from the house.” Five says, looking thoughtful.

“No one’s going to the house.” Luther vetoes, again. It’s like Five is just looking for excuses these days to suggest exploring the house for things.

“Maybe when Dad’s dead.” Diego says, finally coming around the sofa to sit in the last remaining armchair. Luther winces and doesn’t respond. As much as he doesn’t see eye to eye with Reginald these days - there’s still a part of him that loves the old man, even if therapy is making him see more and more that the feeling wasn’t exactly returned.

“God,” Klaus sighs, throwing his head back dramatically, “If you had my powers you wouldn’t be wishing for the old man’s death, ugh.”

The family shares a collective wince as they remember that for Klaus, harassment from their father wasn’t exactly something that stopped with his death.

“Aw, don’t look so glum! Ben here has promised to be my guard chihuahua.” Klaus informs them all cheerfully after noticing the long faces. He turns his face to the side, where it’s probably Ben exists. “What? Chihuahuas have a great and noble history! You should be flattered! What? Wait, Ben, no - ”

The rest of the family decides to move on as Klaus devolves into a whispered half-conversation with their dearly departed sibling. It drives them all crazy that they can’t hear one half of the conversation.

“You never said what’s for dinner.” Five points out, just a little petulantly. Vanya gives him a gentle nudge as reprimand for moving too much, but she’s finishing up with the last nail anyway so it’s not terribly important. 

Luther really doesn’t feel like cooking. Mainly because he’s really bad at it. He looks over at Vanya, who is the only person who has been keeping them all from eating like freshman college students and getting scurvy, but she’s studiously examining her job on Five’s nails. Clearly she doesn’t exactly feel like cooking, either.

“Chinese?” Luther offers, hopeful. 

Five pulls a face, but Klaus brightens up, head snapping around from his little argument. Luther’s hope dies in his chest. Feeding their whole family is an adventure in juggling - how their Mom fed them all for so many years without snapping in half from bending over backwards to please everyone.

Then again, it’s not like any of them had the choice to refuse their food in their father’s house no matter personal preference. It was wolf it down regardless of taste or starve and potentially faint during training.

But there is one thing they can all agree on. t’s just a last resort because Luther is so very tired of having it every other night but hey, when needs must, right?

“Pizza?” Luther offers and everyone sort of nods and hums their agreement at that. Luther knows all of their orders by heart at this point. Even Diego “my body is a temple” Hargreeves doesn’t say no to pizza, usually. 

“You know, we could make it slightly healthier and make our own?” Vanya points out, but it’s only halfhearted. “I heard you can make the crust with cauliflower or something.”

“You think we have cauliflower in this house?” Five asks with an arched eyebrow, and Vanya concedes the point. Luther feels almost offended at the implications about the state of health food in his place, but it’s also a fair point so. No like he can rebuff it. 

“Pizza it is.” Luther states firmly before this can devolve into an actual debate on the state of their dinner. 

He gets up to go grab his phone and can hear the sound of a fight breaking out behind him, Klaus’s voice being the loudest. Luther had so hoped Vanya sitting there would have prevented the inevitable but she was in on the shenanigans far more often than Luther would have expected.

(Sometimes he wondered what their childhoods would have looked like if Vanya had been more included. He had suspicions that she would have never been on his side in an argument, anyway.)

Luther shakes his head as he punches in the number for the pizza place. For a few minutes that mess in the living room is not his problem.

Of course, a few minutes of peace never lasts for very long. Not in this family.

[sirbeaumains]

Drabbles

Some drabbles I wrote a few months back set in my Colors series, featuring a variety of major and minor characters and also some technical spoilers. -shrug- These are true drabbles, aka 100 words exactly ignoring the prompt. And all the prompts were given by @stardustscribes who patiently came up with 15 words for me over the course of like two hours lol

///

Horse

As Bran trudged through the field, disgruntled, Gillian ambled slowly behind her. Whatever his opinion of living in the capital, seeing the mountain bloom in spring was a beautiful thing and he was glad to see it.

Bran had taken to mumbling under her breath.

“Are you complaining about walking again? How many times have we talked about this?” Gillian asked in amusement as Bran kicked a wildflower. She’d gotten better at travelling discretely and not acting like a duchess, but there were some things she’d never fail to complain about.

“Is it so much to ask for a horse?”

Dusk

It’s dusk as he slips out of the palace and into the city that sprawls before it. Yet another day of forced interaction with nobles who abhor his presence. Yet another day of people giving his father pitying looks, murmuring about how poor King Dov is left with his own future murderer as a child. How sad the other two were killed. They were good girls, unscarred, no miserable prophecy on their head. How sad.

Medrath pulls his cloak’s hood up as he enters a market square, merchants packing up for the day. How sad, he thinks bitterly. How sad.

Starlight

Dairna pulled at Medrath’s hand as she led him through her house. It was the home of the Baron of Hoaryrath, but it was small and barely a house in Medrath’s opinion. He was used to the large castle in the capital, and this tiny lodge high in the mountains was as different as you could get.

He let Dairna yank him around, unsure why the younger girl was so excited. He expected she didn’t meet many people.

A blast of frigid air hit him and he shivered, but his eyes went wide. The snow under the starlight looked incredible.

Reflection

Gillian can see himself reflected in Fay and Maylor de Catroph. He has Maylor’s height, and Gillian wonders if his beard will grow in that thick when it finally appears. His resemblance to Fay is more obvious—they both have fair hair, fair skin, and fair eyes. He finds himself glad that she has silver hair and blue-green eyes compared to his gold hair and blue eyes. If he had been a male copy of his—of Fay, he wouldn’t know what to do.

He laughs to himself. Even in his mind he can only call them by their names.

Dozen roses

Cassia spends the days mending clothing instead of making gowns with her sisters. Her mother is angry at her for staying out so late the night before, and darning socks is her punishment.

She knows she shouldn’t be upset—she broke the rules, so punishment is natural—but she can’t help but pout. Eir had snuck her into her castle and let her look through the medical books in its library. Cassia had never been happier. And then Eir had given her a bouquet of roses. Books, flowers, Eir—her favorite things. How could she have remembered to go home?

Protect

The maze is silent around them, and the silence is only magnified in Gillian’s mind each time they come across another corpse.

There’s chaos all around them as Gillian darts forward, but the king is already dead, dead at Diomedes’s hand and Bran’s sword.

There were riots throughout Perfysiko he was told, but he was forced to stay the night on the boat. They didn’t want any of the Stelemuntene delegation hurt. For their protection.

Protection, Gillian thinks, staring out the small porthole at the sea. Something I have failed to do this entire journey. What a healer I am.

Statue

Shasta stared at the lady statue unblinkingly. She wondered who it was. There was writing at the bottom, but she couldn’t read, and neither could any of the animals.

It was a good statue, she guessed. Even covered in moss it looked like a human. A very green human.

Shasta peered around it. The grove behind the statue was the greenest thing she’d ever seen. She looked over her shoulder at the brown and white of the mountain in winter. She looked back at the much-too-green grove.

The animals said it was weird, she mused. A god’s grove. Still odd.

Cook

“What is this supposed to be?” Gillian asked flatly, staring down at the bowl in front of him.

Bran scowled at him. “Haven’t you ever seen porridge before?” She held her head high and tossed her braid from one shoulder to the other in a show of pride, but the blush on her cheek betrayed her embarrassment.

Gillian raised an eyebrow and made a show of lifting the entire bowl up by the spoon.

“Oh, shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything. But if I did, it would be that you should never, ever cook anything ever again.”

“Oh, shut up.”

Seaside

Chrysanthe loved the sea. It would be hard for her to hate it—she lived on an island—but she found it fascinating. It was a force of destruction—destroying ships with storms, flooding her village every spring, silently killing anyone who dared to think they could tame it.

And yet there were moments like this. She had convinced Diomedes and Tabitha to take a break from worrying about the future to go seashell collecting at the beach. The sea gently pooled around her ankle before retreating, a playful game of tag.

Chrysanthe could hear her siblings laughing. She smiled.

Seraphim

Gillian goes through the motions of gardening, instead focusing on his recent conversation with Fay. He didn’t enjoy initiating one-on-one conversations with her, but he needed a ten-year long mystery solved.

Unfortunately, she had no idea where he had received a brand of the sun goddess Orleana’s mark. He hadn’t had it as a child, and the Tesvik general that had kept them hostage hadn’t dared touched them—they were noble prisoners, deserving respect.

The mark brushed uncomfortably against fabric. He usually forgot about the raised skin, but he was intensely aware of it now.

How did it get there?

Woods

The woods grew deep on the mountain. The trees rose tall, tall enough to nearly blot out the midday sun. Gillian wanted to make a comment to tease Bran about how they could never maneuver a horse through this dense forest, but something stops him. He didn’t want to be the first to break the unsettling silence that surrounded them.

He knew it wasn’t truly silent—they had passed many animals already—but the woods had a strange way of muffling all noise. Gillian found himself uneasy, but Shasta and Dairna both considered it normal.

Even their footsteps were silent.

Companion

Medrath was talking but Gillian wasn’t listening. It was unusual for him to ignore the other man, but Gillian couldn’t stop looking at a moving lump on Medrath’s arm.

“—and, Gillian will you listen?”

Gillian started and looked up. Medrath was glaring and Bran was snickering. He smiled sheepishly.

“Sorry, it’s just that you have a moving lump on your, well, shoulder now.”

Medrath paled slightly. “Ah, that’s—”

Whatever he was going to say was drowned out by Bran’s laughter. A small mouse peeked over Medrath’s collar, whiskers twitching adorably.

He was never going to live this down.

Soft

“Gillian,” Dairna says as she sits next to Gillian.

He smiles in greeting. “How did you get in here? I thought only students were allowed in the Academy’s library?”

Her smile turns playful. “How can they tell who is a student?”

Gillian laughs. “Fair enough. Why are you here then? I didn’t know you liked reading old tomes.”

“Not particularly,” Dairna admits. A hand plays with a heavy looking necklace, the softness of her hands contrasted to the angles of the metal. Gillian tears his eyes away to look her in the face. “I just knew you would be here.”

Breeze

A gust of wind signals Dimi’s arrival. The steward of the Royal Communications building gives him an exasperated look. “Dimi Knifesmith. I believe we’ve talked about your tardiness.”

Dimi gives his award-winning smile. “A charming habit, I believe you said.”

He sees the steward beat back a laugh. Dimi counts that as the win for the day—late to the job and made his superior laugh it off. “If you weren’t one of our fastest runners—and such a smooth talker—you would’ve lost this job months ago.”

“But I am, and I’m still here!” Dimi cheerfully waved himself in.

Storm

It’s said that the unpredictability of the ocean is caused by Safloes declaring war against the humans who dared think they could cross his sphere of influence unchallenged. The other gods of the elements were incensed at this and fought Safloes back with their own power, turning the world into their battleground and causing typhoons and volcanic eruptions in their wake.

As Gillian desperately hung onto a post fixed to the wall, he could see how an ocean storm was a battle between Safloes and Herion. He had never felt anything fiercer. He hoped their ship could weather the damage.

[btsybrkr]

Here’s A List Of Things I Hate

I've reached something of a mental block recently when it comes to writing. I think it's because, despite sometimes coming off like I'm mocking things or just being a general smart-arse, I usually write about things I genuinely love. I love The Apprentice. I love Come Dine With Me. I love the idea that the Saturday night schedule, currently occupied on ITV1 by The Masked Singer - a horrifying cross between The Voice and a recurring nightmare I had between the ages of 6 and 8 - might one day be livened up by a post-apocalyptic The X Factor-style talent show in which we choose the next Prime Minister from a roster of Average Joe’s that just feel like giving it a bash.

I usually have lots to say about things I love, but recently, for some reason, I’m struggling to even think of anything that I love enough to write about. Maybe I’m being dragged down by the fact that this January alone seemed to last three long months, or perhaps because January itself included ‘Blue Monday’, the so-called ‘most miserable day of the year’. Maybe it's neither of things, maybe I’m just suffering from a bad case of The Realisation That We And Everything That We Do Are All, In The End, Meaningless, And That Every Day, We Are Collectively Hurtling Closer And Closer Towards The Endless Void And There Is Nothing That Any Of Us Can Do To Stop It. There's probably a snappier name for that, but you know what I mean. In any case, I’m just finding it much easier to think about things I hate recently.

Anyway, what do we do with these feelings of negativity to get rid of them once and for all? We express them. So, for anyone willing to read it, here’s a list of things I hate.

Stephen Mulhern

ITV mainstay Stephen Mulhern arguably belongs on television - not for any positive reason, just because it’s only the barrier of television between him and the viewer that allows him to appear as a cheerful friendly presence, rather than an insufferable know-it-all prick, whose repeated condescending glances to the camera during interviews with rejected Britain’s Got Talent contestants just wouldn’t fly in real life. I mean, really, imagine you were having a conversation with someone, and they reacted to something you said by looking off into the distance, à la Fleabag, with an expression that quite clearly reads “This person is an idiot!! Laugh, everyone!! Laugh at the idiot!!” You know what, Stephen? You’re the idiot. But I won’t laugh at you, because then you might think that you’re funny, and I’m just not having that.

Coleslaw

I saw a tweet years ago that said “what was the first person to milk a cow thinking?”, and honestly, it raises a very good question. I can only imagine that there was some perverted ulterior motives at play, for someone to not only milk the cow’s udders in the first place, but then to drink it, at a time when that just wasn’t done. They must have been a pretty nefarious character, it almost doesn’t bear thinking about. Instead, I’d like to question the motives of the even dodgier character who first looked at grated carrots, cabbage and onions, and thought ‘You know what might really tie these bland individual tastes together? Mayonnaise. A fuckload of it.’

You know what, though? It's not the existence of coleslaw that confuses me the most about it - it's the popularity of it. It has pride of place on the table at every family buffet, it’s disappointingly included in otherwise-appealing wraps in the Boots meal deal fridge, and it's an option on the menu in a shocking majority of takeaways, despite the fact that nobody has ever emerged, staggering and bleary-eyed from Walkabout at 3:30am and thought ‘I could absolutely murder some coleslaw’. Most annoying of all is the way some restaurants chuck a bit of paprika in the mix and use it as an excuse to rename it ‘POW POW GROOVY SLAW’, or something equally ridiculous. Why are we trying to sex up a bowl of vegetables covered in mayonnaise? I can't think of anything less sexy, and I don't particularly want to try.

Let's face it, coleslaw has long overstayed its welcome. It's the last stubborn hanger-on from the pages of stomach-churning 1970s dinner party cookbooks (probably found somewhere between the recipes for spinach and tuna pie and a boiled, unglazed joint of ham suspended in gelatine), and it's time we admitted that and stage a renaissance for the real king of the veg/mayo combo. Rise, Sir Potato Salad - your rule has begun.

Facebook

I recently deleted Facebook off my phone, and immediately noticed an improvement in the overall quality of my life. I promise I don’t mean this in the typical ‘phone bad, book good’ way that fake-’woke’ holier-than-thou characters preach about (usually on Facebook itself, ironically). I still happily waste away hours of my life on Twitter, and Instagram, the latter of which arguably has the most negative influence on my brain out of all the social networks. The thing with Facebook is that it doesn’t necessarily have a negative influence on my brain, so much as it has no influence on any part of me whatsoever. Facebook is a vacuum. It's completely, entirely pointless. In fact, it’s where ‘point’ itself goes to die.

Considering there’s probably no two Facebook users out there with the exact same friends list, I'm willing to bet that everybody’s News Feed looks eerily similar. Every scroll through is the same - a former workmate announcing a pregnancy, someone you forgot about from school sharing a vague, ‘deep’ quote about their hurt feelings, an elderly relative you didn't realise was racist until literally right now, when they began sharing posts from a page eloquently titled ‘MUSLIMS!! it is TIME to go HOME so we can have BRITAIN BACK’, or something along those lines. If you ever have nothing better to do - although, I'm sure there is always something, anything, better to do - just set a timer, open up Facebook, and see how long it takes before you come across a single thing that genuinely resonates with you in any positive way at all. I just redownloaded Facebook to try it for myself, and it took me 46 minutes.

Sound like a lie? Well, to be fair, it is. But there's more truth in that than almost anything you'll see on Facebook.

Those Slush Puppy Straws With Tiny Spoons On The End

Plastic straws are on their way out, and quite rightly. The Sea Turtle Conservancy estimate that around half the world’s sea turtles have ingested plastic, and straws are believed to have accounted for a lot of that. With everything you read or learn about the effect of straws on the environment, it's surprising that it's taken this long for us to do something about it.

With that said, it's not just the turtles that are benefitting from the rise of the paper straw - I'm pretty pleased about it as well. Why? Because using paper instead of plastic might mean that we stop manufacturing those evil straws with tiny spoons on the end of them.

Yes, evil. How many times have you been enjoying a Slush Puppy on a hot summer’s day, only to realise you can't get to the bits at the bottom of the cup, because your straw inexplicably has a spoon on the end of it. What's that for? A Slush Puppy is a drink, and spoons are for eating things with. “It's for eating the delicious bits of vaguely-flavoured ice after you've sucked up all the syrup”, you might say, but then why? Mojitos are made with crushed ice, but you wouldn't go up to the barman and go "excuse me, mate, you forgot to give me a spoon so I could eat all these delicious bits of vaguely-minty ice", would you?

Anyway, you can't suck up all the syrup in the first place when the bottom of your straw just isn't a straw. This a problem we usually solve by holding the cup above our mouths and giving the bottom of the cup a gentle tap, usually sending the rest of it falling out of the cup and all over your face, shirt, anywhere but your mouth, faster than you can say “I can't believe I’m 23 years old and writing an angry blog about straws with tiny spoons on the end”. Another solution we often resort to is turning the straw upside down, which, in my experience, always leads to cutting the roof of your mouth on the tiny spoon that you were never going to use in the first place. No wonder it took us so long to show a bit of sympathy for the turtles - we've been ignoring our own straw-related injuries for years, probably just because we think it makes us look hard.

As far as I'm concerned, spoons are for food, and straws are for liquids. That's why, whenever I order soup in a café, I always ask for a straw. Yes, I get looks from the other customers, but I'm sure they aren't looks of amusement or confusion - everyone else just wishes they'd thought of it first.

Ladybirds

Ladybirds aren't cute. They are not ‘nice’ bugs. They are beetles, in a quirky disguise, who can also fly. With all that in mind, why are we taught to like them? Why do people spot one land on your clothes, or in your hair, and cheerfully announce “oh, there’s a ladybird on you!”, as if you’ve somehow been chosen by the ladybird and should feel honoured. Get it off me now, because I don’t know what it’s going to do! Don’t tell me that it’s ‘harmless’ and that I’m ‘overreacting’. We thought that cigarettes were ‘harmless’ before the mid-60s, cheerfully puffing our way through life, with one in each hand at any given moment, as we watched our darling babies speak their first words, which were usually something along the lines of “alright, mate, 20 Sterling Dual, please” - but then we learned. We learned that they weren’t as harmless as we first thought. And believe me when I tell you that, one day, we’ll reach the same conclusion about ladybirds. Just as soon as we find out exactly what they’re planning.

In fact, where have they gone? I haven’t seen one for a good while. Surely, they’re holed up in a specially designed lair somewhere, millions of them, carefully planning their next move in their efforts to overthrow the human race. Planning and watching. We may not be able to see them, but I’m willing to bet they have eyes on us. You know when you’re alone and you get the feeling there’s something or someone else present? It’s ladybirds. I’m sure of it. We need to watch our backs.

I’m not really sure where my fear of ladybirds has come from. Perhaps it’s down to a dream I’ve been having at least three times a year since I was a teenager, in which I’m leaving my Nan’s house and spot a ladybird the size of a Golden Retriever out in the alleyway, just sitting there, still and silent. I run around the corner to one of my friend’s houses, to warn him of the arrival of our ladybird overlords, but the entire front of his house is covered in millions of the things. I shout his name, up at an open window, and he replies that he’s coming down to open the door to me, but when he does, it isn’t him at all - it’s just a 6ft tall ladybird. I usually wake up in a cold sweat at that point, but when I try to go back to sleep, I can feel them crawling all over me.

I know I sound insane, but I promise you, I’m not - I just don't trust them, and I think that’s understandable.

Hate

If there's one thing I hate more than all the above, it's the very concept of hate itself. I don't just mean in a political or universal sense - although, I do agree the world might be a far better place if we all just hated each other a little bit less - hate has an effect on all our personal lives, too.

I'm really trying to make the most of my early twenties, and that means conserving what little energy I have left after I'm done working, drinking, and crying - just the usual daily activities that we all partake in - to be a little more productive. I can't be using that energy up on hate. In fact, in a scientific study that I've literally just made up, it was found that feeling hatred for even one fifth of a second uses up three times as much mental and physical energy as smiling at sixteen angry strangers, half of which are making fists at you. You can't argue with those sorts of statistics.

Anyway, I'm hoping to return to talking about things that make me feel a little more positive next time, because, besides anything, it's just nice to be nice, isn't it?

Not to Stephen Mulhern, though. He needs to learn his lesson.

If you like seeing me talking shit, but would rather it wasn't so bloody long, you can follow me on twitter here.

[convenientalias]

A prompt for POTO: something about Christine learning to love music again after the main events (let's assume it's hard for her to love it now because she basically associates it and her own musical talent with Erik). Can be gen, R/C or C/C.

It is 2 AM where I am but yes that is definitely a good idea. Thanks for the prompt!

Here, I cross-posted to AO3.

Raoul was never a good singer. Not that he was badeither; he simply lacked the training. He liked singing, though, would oftensing without really thinking about it, one reason he and Christine had gottenalong as children.

It broke Christine’s heart to tell him to be quiet.

The first couple times she simply asked him, and heobeyed with an embarrassed if slightly confused smile. The cabin they weresharing on the ship was small. He must have thought it was just her nervesacting up. Well it was, just not the way he probably assumed. She didn’t hatethe sound of his voice, but he’d picked up scattered tunes from the opera houseafter hanging around there with her too often. And she’d just run away from theOpera Populaire; why would she want to think of it?

When she finally snapped at him, it was because theexercise he was absently humming wasn’t just one that all the singers used butone that Erik had taught her personally. “Will you be quiet for once, Raoul?Dear God!”

Raoul was taken aback. And as was typical of him,rather than submitting to the appearance of anger, he instantly becamedefensive. “I don’t see that there’s any harm in my humming once in a while,Christine. I’m not that loud.”

“You’re not that melodious either,” Christine said. “You’renot a trained singer, so why play with scales? Don’t put on airs like you’reUbaldo Piangi.”

“There’s no harm in it,” Raoul repeated, crossing hisarms. “For that matter, why haven’t you been singing scales?Shouldn’t you keep up with your practice?”

“I’m not going to be an opera singer anymore,”Christine said, “I’m going to live in Sweden and be your wife, so what does anyof that matter?” When she saw he was taken aback, she said, “Fine! Keep onsinging. I’m going to get some air.” And she went out onto the deck.

They’d talked many times before about how she wasleaving Paris and her life as an opera singer behind. She’d always focused onthe life she would live instead: A peaceful life, in the land of her birth—certainlya more respectable one, having a husband instead of singing on stage for herbread, and the fact that the husband would be Raoul was something straight outof a fairy tale. And even more than that, she’d thought about the fact that shewouldn’t be afraid anymore.

But even out at sea, having left Erik far behind(even had he wanted to, he couldn’t swim the ocean and climb onto the boat,could he?), the fear had not left her. She found herself watching dark cornerscarefully, and starting at sudden noises. Other times in broad daylight herheart would race endlessly for no reason at all.

She didn’t mind talking about Erik, or the events ofthe past few months, with Raoul. They had talked about it often. It felt safe,somehow, to talk about Paris and Erik as if they were far past, now onlydistant memories to pick apart into little innocuous bits. But then he’d dosomething like a hum a line from one of the operas and she’d feel as if shewere still in her room at Mamma Valerius’s house, and Erik was somewhere justout of sight, listening to her recite and watching, always watching…

She shuddered.

Later she’d apologize to Raoul. And she’d explain,maybe. If she could. He always tried to adjust for her needs, so he’d adjustfor this odd one too. If only it didn’t make her seem so weak! That was theworst of it. Raoul could sing as cheerfully as he wished—she’d seen him singingalong with the sailors’ chanties, some of which he already knew—and yet she, aprima donna of the best opera house in France, could barely stand to sing anote without cringeing.

In Sweden, Erik should have seemed distant. Instead,he seemed closer than before. In Paris, she had known when to expect him—at homeand at the opera house mostly—and had had some sort of idea how to avoid hissight as well, even though it hadn’t always worked. On the ship, with landnowhere in sight, she’d felt somewhat separate from any mortal world. But onland and in a strange place, everything seemed dangerous. Erik might well beanywhere. Of course she knew he wasn’t. He’d said he was letting her go, andshe believed him. Her dear teacher.

Only, she could know he was nowhere near and stillbelieve he might appear at any moment at the same time.

Raoul had stopped singing when she was around to hear,which was most of the time. They currently were living in a house of the Daaes,small but decent, in separate rooms since they still weren’t married. Causing abit of gossip in town, but gossip hardly bothered Christine. She liked to thinkpeople might talk about her being involved in a scandal that had nothing to dowith murder or ghosts.

At home there was no music. When she went out,though, there was no way to always avoid it. Beggars singing in themarketplace, or sounds emanating out of bars and public houses. And then in herhead, she’d hear Erik’s critique.

“That man! Frogs sing better—no, that is almost acompliment—howling cats sing better. Can you believe he has the audacity to askfor money for that? He’d do better to stand with his hat in his hand and hismouth firmly shut. Now, dear, this is why I always tell you not to mistakevolume for quality—aren’t you glad for the tip? You’ll never sound like thatrogue, but only ever have a voice of the sweetest honey, singing the loveliestnotes. My voice from your lips.”

That’s why I don’t sing anymore, she thought to herselfonce, because he’s not here and he’s taken his voice back with him…

This frightened her in a whole new way. She went homeand tried singing scales, testing if her voice still worked. She found that ittrembled, but it grew stronger little by little. No, she still had her voice.But she could feel him, Erik, standing behind her, listening carefully.

Clapping broke out behind her when she finished herscales and she jumped, turning around quickly. It was Raoul, standing in thedoorway of her room with a smile on his face.

“I haven’t heard you sing in a long time,” he said.

She smiled nervously. “Well… I just thought I’d seeif I still had the knack.”

“Still have the knack! Darling, as if you could everlose it. You’re the best singer in the world. I love hearing you sing.”

Impulsively he hugged her. She hugged him back. Raoul…He’d been out in the garden, and smelled of dirt and labor, which was a littlefunny for a vicomte. His enthusiasm for her voice was reassuring in a way, oldand familiar. He’d always liked her music, after all, even before Erik.

Then he said, “You can’t imagine how happy I was whenI saw you singing at the Opera Populaire. I recognized you immediately with theballerinas, but when you sang I knew I had to get up the courage to go see you—youhad the voice of an angel.”

She stiffened.

He realized his mistake immediately. “Christine, I’msorry, I know—I didn’t mean it like that, Christine, I’m sorry…”

She pushed him away and smiled off his apologies. “Don’t.It’s me, I’m being ridiculous.”

The voice of an angel. Raoul had always loved hersinging, but now, she thought, it was ruined. Refined, of course, as Erik sawit, and as she couldn’t help but see it too. Everyone in Paris wanted to knowwho her tutor was. Everyone in Paris thought she was brilliant. But it was avoice somehow dirtied, too, perverted, no longer the voice Raoul loved, nolonger her voice at all, even if she could still sing with it. It was not hers.

She didn’t sing again for days. Yet, having sungonce, she couldn’t quite stop herself again as thoroughly as she had on fleeingParis. She sang quietly when no one was around, scales and opera pieces sotto voce. Dirty music withwhich she perverted her home, yet she loved it. She loved singing.

She’d loved Erik, for a while. But loving him hadhurt. She liked to think she didn’t love him anymore, and he had no hold onher. Yet there he was, in her beautiful, ugly voice. There he would be untilthe day that she died.

The one thing Christine regretted about leavingFrance was that she had left behind her father’s burial ground.

(There might have been other things she regrettedabout leaving France, but this was the only one she would admit to herself.)

She couldn’t head down to Perros-Guirec to visit hisgrave, so when the mood took her to pay her respects, she instead went down tothe seashore and sat on one of the rocks. Perros-Guirec, with its cold watersand pink granite, was not so different from here. It was a good place to mournand pray and feel her father’s presence.

“I will sing to you,” she said, when she had run outof prayers. She took a deep breath. “Gentle flowersin the dew, be a message from me, and to flow’r that is rarer, and moreprecious than you… though fair you be.”

Lines from Gounod’s Faust, from Siebel’s song. Howoften had she practiced this song, guided by one she thought was the angel ofmusic. And she had kept faithfully to her practice out of filial piety; herfather had sent him. Or so she had thought.

“How my life I surrender, with your beauty sotender…” She paused for breath. How out of practice she was, to need breath!And her voice was hitching. “How my life I sur…”

How she had surrendered her own life! And not to herfather’s wishes, nor how her father would have chosen.

She curled into a ball on top of the rock, knees pressedagainst her chest, and broke into sobs. Even here, trying to speak to herfather, she was faced with her own foolishness, with the tarnishing of herlife. Yet she would have liked to sing to him. He had taught her music first,had been her first teacher.

“I will do it!” she said suddenly. She got to herfeet. “He cannot stop me. I will sing for you, papa, like you taught me to do.”

The song that she sang then was nothing so refined asGounod. It was a folk song she had learned long ago, a song of a sailor lost tothe sea and his mourning wife who would miss him forever. She hadn’t learned itfrom her father, but somewhere else—in town maybe—but they had sung it togetherbefore. She sang it as well as she could, though the waves drowned out hervoice to some extent.

When she was done she stared out over the waters. Achill took her. It was bad luck to sing about drowned sailors when her ownRaoul was a sailor of sorts. Not that he was off at sea. He was safe at home.Suddenly she had the urge to go make sure, to be with him…

She blew a hurried kiss to the ocean and raced offdown the road back to her cottage.

Sometimes when Raoul started humming, she would stopand listen. He was not always humming songs from Paris. Some of the songs hehummed she didn’t even know, and she would ask him about them. He wouldapologize, and she would tell him not to.

Sometimes she practiced her scales and sometimes shedidn’t. Erik never showed up to scold her or praise her either way.

Sometimes she sang.

And one day in town she saw a violin in a store,selling for less than she would have expected. Though she and Raoul did nothave all that much money saved up, she asked if the store owner would take hermoney and give her a little credit. The Daae name was good in town.

She brought it home and presented it to Raoul withmuch ceremony.

“But Christine, I’m not in practice. I’m not really aviolinist anymore.”

“There are plenty of fiddlers around. I expect we canget someone to help you. Besides, you’re probably not as bad as you think.”

He placed the violin in the crook of his neck andraised the bow. Carefully he scraped it against the strings. She winced at thesound. “…I think it needs rosin.”

“I think I need rosin.”

“No, you need practice. But soon you’ll be playing aswell as ever. It will be nice to have music in the house again.”

He smiled a little sheepishly. “Well, maybe. We’llsee.”

Someday she would be ready to sing around him, too,maybe even around other people. It would come in time.

[flightfoot]

Apollo has PTSD

So I’m planning on going through all of Apollo’s various mental issues that I’ve seen, was going to go through them all here... and then realized that PTSD was long enough to deserve a post on its own. Seriously, he’s shown signs of PTSD from SEVERAL different sources, though surprisingly enough, none from the events of TOA itself... yet. I’m betting that’ll change with Jason’s and Crest’s deaths, though.

PTSD

 I think most people know what this looks like. It’s been discussed in popular culture rather a lot in recent years For those who don’t, here’s a quick briefing on it. I’m using that guide for my PTSD criteria.��

Daphne: Even after all this time, he still harbors an intense guilt over her fate, has a tendency to start crying when reminded of her, and tries to avoid forests:

I wanted to say: You remind me of someone. But I didn’t dare open that line of conversation. Only two mortals ever had broken my heart. Even after so many centuries, I couldn’t think of her, couldn’t say her name without falling into despair. (THO 23)

As I said earlier, I was generally not a fan of the woods. I tried to convince myself that the trees were not watching me, scowling and whispering among themselves. They were just trees. Even if they had dryad spirits, those dryads couldn’t possibly hold me responsible for what had happened thousands of years ago on a different continent.

Why not? I asked myself. You still hold yourself responsible. (THO 43)

A woman whispered in my ear. This time I knew the voice well. It had never stopped haunting me. You did this to me. Come. Chase me again.

Fear rolled through my stomach.

I imagined the branches turning to arms; the leaves undulated like green hands.

Daphne, I thought.

Even after so many centuries, the guilt was overwhelming. I could not look at a tree without thinking of her. Forests made me nervous. The life force of each tree seemed to bear down on me with righteous hatred, accusing me of so many crimes….I wanted to fall to my knees. I wanted to beg forgiveness. But this was not the time.

I couldn’t allow the woods to confuse me again. I would not let anyone else fall into its trap. (THO 83)

Apollo can’t stop remembering what happened to her, checking off the “Re-experiencing” box. He shows avoidance symptoms: he tries to avoid things that remind him of her (which is pretty difficult, considering that “trees” are on that list, and he happens to love the outdoors). He doesn’t seem to have the arousal and reactivity symptoms all that badly, unless feeling tense while around reminders of the event counts. He definitely has the cognition and mood symptoms though, since he has those intense feelings of guilt and negative thoughts about himself, which he admitted in his failure song:

I sang of my failures, my eternal heartbreak and loneliness. I was the worst of the gods, the most guilt-ridden and unfocused. I couldn’t commit myself to one lover. I couldn’t even choose what to be the god of. I kept shifting from one skill to another—distracted and dissatisfied.

My golden life was a sham. My coolness was pretense. My heart was a lump of petrified wood. (145)

Of course, Daphne isn’t the only cause of his PTSD: not by a long shot.

Hyacinthus: While Apollo doesn’t seem to have quite as many PTSD symptoms in regard to Hyacinthus’s fate - his guilt over his death doesn’t appear to be quite as intense for starters, since Zephyros can reasonably be blamed for most of it - he still exhibits some of the symptoms. He feels intense sorrow over Hyacinthus’s fate, and has a tendency to break down when reminded of his death:

I opened my eyes and saw a ghost—his face just as precious to me as Daphne’s. I knew his copper skin, his kind smile, the dark curls of his hair, and those eyes as purple as senatorial robes.

“Hyacinthus,” I sobbed. “I’m so sorry…”

He turned his face toward the sunlight, revealing the ugly dent above his left ear where the discus had struck him. My own wounded face throbbed in sympathy.

“Seek the caverns,” he said. “Near the springs of blue. Oh, Apollo…your sanity will be taken away, but do not…”

His image faded and began to retreat. I rose from my sickbed. I rushed after him and grabbed his shoulders. “Do not what? Please don’t leave me again!”

[...]

How cruel to see them—the flowers that I had created to honor my fallen love, with their plumes stained red like his blood or hued violet like his eyes. They bloomed so cheerfully in the window, reminding me of the joy I had lost. (141).

Later, in Burning Maze, Apollo loses his temper in his grief over being reminded of Hyacinthus by Herophile’s crossword puzzle:

First the maze forced me to read Walt Whitman. Now it taunted me with my own past. To mention my dead love, to reduce him to a bit of Oracle trivia... No. This was too much.

I sat down on the rim of the fountain and cupped my face in my hands.

[...]

I surged to my feet, my sadness converting to anger. My friends edged away. I supposed I must have looked like a crazy man, and that’s indeed how I felt.

[...]

“Enough is enough! HYACINTH!” I yelled into the corridors. “The answer is HYACINTH! Are you happy?” (TBM 350-351)

His grief still feels fresh, even after all this time. Mind you, I don’t think what’s shown here alone is enough to say he has PTSD over Hyacinthus’s death in particular, but it just compounds the symptoms of PTSD he already had from other events.

That’s still not the end of PTSD symptoms Apollo has accrued over his lovers’ fates. Can’t forget about Commodus.

Commodus: Now, I’m gonna have some trouble categorizing “flashbacks” here. Apollo regularly gets overwhelmed with past memories while in his mortal form, and they frequently don’t appear to be PTSD related, such as his flashback to transforming Emmie and her sister into gods or his memories of Herophile’s past. Still, he’s traumatized by his flashbacks of Commodus in ways that he isn’t for other flashbacks.

When Calypso asks Apollo about combat ostriches, he’s thrown into a flashback of the last time he saw Commodus before he became emperor. He’s distraught after the vision ends:

Then he left the tent - walking, as the Romans would say, into the mouth of the wolf.

“Apollo,” Calypso nudged my arm.

“Don’t go!” I pleaded. Then my past life burned away. (TDP 124)

The vision’s ended at this point, since he’s aware of Calypso again, but mentally, he’s still there, pleading for Commodus to come back - because he knows what will happen to him. But what’s done is done, and no amount of pleading will change the past.

He has a much worse flashback later on, when he remembers murdering Commodus.

Her words struck me in the gut like one of Artemis’s blunted arrows (and I can assure you, those hurt.)

We can take him.

The name of my old friend, shouted over and over.

I staggered to my feet, gagging, my tongue trying to dislodge itself from my throat.

“Whoa, Apollo.” Leo rushed to my side. “You okay?”

“I-” another dry retch. I staggered toward the nearest bathroom as a vision engulfed me... bringing me back to the day I committed murder.

[...]

But as I stumbled to the bathroom, ready to vomit into a toilet I had cleaned just yesterday, dreadful memories consumed me. I found myself in ancient Rome on a cold winter day when I truly did commit a terrible act. (176-177)

Other times Apollo’s had flashbacks, he’s collapsed, but he hasn’t felt this much distress. Needing to strangle Commodus affected him BADLY, as he accounts at the end of the flashback:

Britomartis was wrong. I didn’t fear water. I simply couldn’t look at the surface of any pool without imagining Commodus’s face, stung with betrayal, staring up at me.

The vision faded. My stomach heaved. I found myself hunched over a different water basin - a toilet in the Waystation.

I’m not sure how long I knelt there, shivering, retching, wishing I could get rid of my hideous mortal frame as easily as I lost my stomach contents. (TDP 182)

                                                                                                                                Honestly, this flashback really comes across as being at least influenced by PTSD, considering his highly negative physical reaction to it, which fulfills the “re-experiencing” criteria.

As for avoidance: well, he tries to avoid still pools of water in order to avoid memories of the murder (kinda sucks how commonplace Apollo’s triggers are).

For arousal and reactivity: Apollo just doesn’t have these symptoms as much. Immediately after being reminded he’s slightly snappish, but I don’t think it’s enough to really qualify.

And finally, for cognition and mood symptoms: well he definitely has some feelings of guilt over this, though guilt over the murder itself isn’t all that distorted since, you know, he DID murder him. But he also feels guilt over the events that led up to Commodus going off the deep end, which aren’t really his fault:

I sobbed and hugged the commode - the only thing in the universe that wasn’t spinning. Was there anyone I hadn’t betrayed and disappointed? Any relationship I hadn’t destroyed? (TDP 183)

Negative feelings about oneself: check. Distorted sense of guilt or blame: considering that Apollo didn’t really have a choice in this, him either killing Commodus, or letting someone else do it after he destroyed Rome some more, I’m gonna say check.  

So yeah, at this point Apollo doesn’t really have any faith in himself to even HAVE relationships, though he at least seems to feel a little better after a visit with Jo.

Not all of Apollo’s trauma is related to his dead lovers, though. Who can forget the first source of his trauma, Python!

Python: So the trauma with Python is more hinted at, than fully explored. I have a feeling we’ll see it more in subsequent books, as Apollo gets closer to taking him down again. At least this trauma doesn’t fill Apollo with guilt, so, small mercy there. Also, his memory loss is actually kinda nice here, since the memory of fighting Python is blurred. Python TERRIFIES Apollo, especially in his vulnerable mortal state. He had nightmares of Python for centuries afterwards, and he has a phobia of scaly reptiles, to the extent that he only barely tolerates Hermes’ Caduceus’ snakes. He hasn’t really had flashbacks to the fight that much, though he DOES remember being trapped in Python’s coils when Meg is ALSO caught in a serpent’s coils:

I knew the strength of such a serpent. I remembered being wrapped in Python’s coils, my divine ribs cracking, my godly ichor being squeezed into my head and threatening to spurt out my ears. (TDP 201)

So I guess that MIGHT count as a flashback? Overall though, his trauma with Python seems to mostly just be “that was a nightmarish and scary fight”, but he won and it doesn’t really seem as emotionally taxing as the other things I’ve listed. At least this one doesn’t cause him any cognitive or mood symptoms.

Lastly, I want to talk about something I’ve left OFF the list: Zeus’s lightning. As much as it would make sense for him to have PTSD over being zapped by it, he doesn’t really show signs of it. He acknowledges being hit by the bolts and says he hates it, but the most obvious trigger, lightning, doesn’t actually seem to freak him out.

Still... something was strange about his use of lightning. I could always recognize the power of Zeus in action. I’d been zapped by his bolts often enough. Jamie’s electricity was different - a more humid scent of ozone, a darker red hue to the flashes. (TDP 361-362)

He certainly notes the similarities to Zeus’s lightning, but he doesn’t seem to have any flashbacks or be scared of it. And in TBM, he doesn’t seem especially freaked out by Jason’s use of lightning, even though it WOULD feel the same. 

Before he could recover and decapitate her, Jason got overexcited. 

I say that because of the lightning. The sky outside flashed, the curved wall of glass shattered, and tendrils of electricity wrapped around Timbre, frying him into an ash pile.

Effective, yes, but not the sort of stealth we’d been hoping for. (TBM 251-252)

Apollo just isn’t all that much more freaked out by lightning than he should be. I’m not ENTIRELY sure why that is - though I do have some speculation - but regardless, he doesn’t seem to have PTSD from this in particular, at least.

Apollo has a crapton of PTSD, and with TBM’s events, I’m betting it’ll get worse before it gets better. He does a pretty good job of functioning though, even WITH PTSD, and doesn’t tend to take it out on others (not that he can at the moment). I feel bad for Apollo, and hope that he can come to peace with some of these issues - at least somewhat - by the end of the series.

PTSD isn’t the ONLY issue Apollo has - not by a long shot - but that’s an analysis for another time.

[remindme2breathe]

Inspired and alone

I just wrote a recent entry about how I made my money. In that I mentioned a patient who inspired me. It’s been a few hours since I posted that and could not stop thinking about this notorious patient... I gotta get it out... I gotta just tell it! 

We will call him Amazon (it’s the first word I saw when I looked up, sorry, I’ll try and be more creative next time). Amazon was about 82 when he landed a spot in my unit of the hospital I worked for. I’ll admit that when I first met him I didn’t think he was any more special then the 60 year old in the next room, to me, a patient was just that: a patient! The hospital I worked at has a wing for the Wealthy, I didn’t work that wing, I worked the ER right next to it. While I saw the druggies, drunks, rape victims and stabbings (the list goes on), just on the other side of the wall lived a land where the patience laid on temperpedic mattresses, had one nurse for every two patients (while in ER you take on about 6-10 depending on who’s scheduled). Everything was different, it was like coming out of a high end store and walking right into the hood! Literally, that’s how different it was. While our waiting rooms had wait times of up to 3 to 4 hours, that wing had a special phone line for these wealthy members to call and announce their arrival, at which point the linens were placed, bed available (not shared), a fruit basket for their guest to enjoy while waiting in their own private living room. Their menu was ridiculous too, ‘ridiculous’ when you compare it to the soupy salt less mashed potatoes, stale graham crackers and watered down orange juice. That wing had dinner options for the guests (up to 2), salmon, some type of roast or something else. Their water came in bottles and water glasses. The patients had to survive on a better quality diet that it typically suggested by the attending Doctor. Their were several perks to being in that wing, one being the awesome accommodations, the second, YOU WAIT FOR NO ONE. There is a Doctor available. Can’t find yours? THEY WILL FIND HIM AND BRING HIM TO YOUR ROOM. On that floor, it was said, that when a Doctor has his patient in that wing, they do not leave (they stay in a designated resting suite) because they have 10 minutes to report. This comes with a hefty membership cost. Back then (2015) I believe I heard someone say it was upwards of a 150K ‘’donation’’. Today I KNOW FOR SURE THAT DONATION IS A LOT HIGHER. 

I had a friend who worked in that wing, she always complained about how BOUJEE her patients are or how demanding their guests are, I just smiled and listened. I kinda knew the feeling but had no desire to fuel her opinions, we all had problems with patients, but this is what we signed up for! While I was standing in her nurses station I noticed how many nurses would go to lunch at the same time, I was shocked. The ER was permitted one at a time, if the day was slow (which hardly happened) you’d be lucky not to eat alone. While I stood there I was noticing other tiny differences. For instance, they don’t have crash carts near by, they don’t have many assistants, in fact I think they had way more records people on the floor then actual nursing staff. As luck would have it someone started Coding. Apparently this didn’t happen often as I looked at my friend and she looked lost, as though she had no clue what to do! I yelled at her to call ER for a crash cart and to call the MD on call. I bolted to the patience room and immediately started my ER shift. Thankfully the patient pulled through and this brought great attention to the response time. Can you believe that floors director had the gull to yell at me for responding! Because it wasn’t my floor! OMG, the nerve! Needless to say she was fired for that among other things, but that’s neither here nor there.  Directly across the hall was patient by the name Prime, first name Amazon (I know, I know! Next time, I PROMISE I’LL TRY HARDER!) who would one day turn into my best friend. 

A few days after that happened I was given an award via the hospital for my quick thinking and whatever else they wrote on it. With that came a gift basket and a sealed envelope. I thought it was quite amusing when they said the envelope is from a patient of the hospital and they were under strict orders not to open it. They suggested playfully for me to read it out loud, to which I kindly declined. On my lunch hour I sat in my car and opened the envelope. Inside was a $25.00 gift card to starbucks <3 and a short handwritten letter from the Prime Family. They said they watched the whole event and were incredibly impressed with my quick response and ability to help. They admitted that although they do not know the family of the man who Coded, that Mrs Prime took it upon herself to let them know who saved their family member. I’ve been told that Mrs. Prime also ripped the hospital a ‘new one’ for its lack of education for the staff- I never bothered to see how that turned out. They left their phone number and ask that I call it because they had some questions for me. Of course that struck a curiosity. What could these people possibly need to ask ME? I waited a few days (no one wants to seem desperate), and oddly enough when the day came, I felt nervous. 

When I called it rang exactly 5 times when a cheerful voice answered ‘Hello, This is Mrs Prime’. WHO ANSWERS LIKE THAT!!! Important people I guess. I said something lame “Hi, I got a letter asking to call?” I had nothing clever to say! REALLY!!! She giggled and said ‘’I didn’t think you were going to call! I’m so glad you did! My husband and I would love to sit and talk to you about a potential position, if your interested”. At that time I was working at the hospital, I had a decent schedule, benefits, and was established, but where there is an opportunity to grow, I will always entertain the idea. She asked if I can come by their home the very next day. At first I was a little hesitant because these are complete strangers, what if they murder me? Or what if they try to get me to play some kinky game? Ewww. Anyway, I went. 

They lived in a very expensive country club in our area. I couldn’t believe it. I fell in love with just the front of their house, as I sat in my car I prayed to be kept safe and to not fk up my words! I felt I took an eternity to walk to their front door, but the walk was nice. They had a tiny river running under the walk path, fruit trees on both sides, everything immaculate! I reached the 23 steps to get up to their front door. I knocked on the enormous steel double doors. A Hispanic woman opened the door with the biggest smile on her face. For a split second I thought of that movie GET OUT, I thought GIRL IS YOUR SMILE SUPPOSE TO GIVE ME THE SIGNAL? WHATS GOING ON! She asked me to come in. Standing in the entry way really made you feel tiny. There was beautiful artwork and busts on custom built cut outs, polished concrete floors- impeccable. I was at a loss for words. The woman walked me towards a grand living room (I bet my living room would fit in there maybe 5 times! No exaggeration). They had an over-sized ivory colored sectionals (ahh, the luxuries of not having small children in the home) with light grey and cream colored throw pillows surrounding a glass coffee table. They had a small marble cheese platter, so fancy these Prime people were! Mrs Prime immediately stood up and shook my hand, and on a recliner was the top of a balding head with a sea of white hairs. She cheerfully said “This is Dr Prime” he reached his old wrinkled hand out to shake my hand, a firm grip. He was not all smiles like his wife, he was more serious. He had CNN on the lowest volume. He was not for chit-chat, he immediately gave me a short background of himself. He said he has been a Doctor for over 45 years, he explained that he became handicapped because of a bad knee surgery that could not be reversed, hence keeping him from all his social activities. He walked at snail speed and used a walker, he was embarrassed and felt like a burden to his family, he didn’t say it directly but I heard him loud and clear. He said he appreciated my professional performance at the hospital and wanted to offer me a full time position in his home. To me this seemed like such a risk! I had kids to take care of! I can’t leave a solid stable job for something that can potentially go bad. I explained my circumstance and said I was flattered and appreciated his interest in hiring me but that I couldn’t risk not having money coming into my home in the event that he fired me for whatever reason. He laughed, the kind of laugh that almost says ‘don’t be silly’. I looked confused because these are moments I only watch on movies, these things don’t happen to me. He said he will have his lawyer draw up a contract and to let him know what I want (yes, this part was a little creepy, there’s millions of nurses who know as much as I do, WHY ME!). I joked and said ‘’Dont play with me Mr Prime! I’ll ask for everything, including your walker! Then what are you gonna do!” Everyone laughed, it was at that moment that I noticed a ‘CLICK’ between all of us. Humor was his way of facing everything, a shield I often used when I’m nervous. He said he noticed that he was putting me in a difficult situation then proceeded to ask me question, “what does the hospital offer you that you feel you can’t let go of?” I said “my insurance, my kids benefit from that”. Then he asked “what about the hours you work, do you like those?” I said ‘’not really but it’s responsibility”. He then said “I WANT TO HELP YOU, and I need you to help me, we both are taking risks, you ready?” The way he delivered his words locked me in, he seemed so absolute and confident. It took me a minute to answer when he said “this is what we will do, give me one week to have my lawyer draw up a contract that will make us both happy. You can then review it and decide at that point, what do you think?” To that I did agree. 

Exactly a week later, his housekeeper... no, assistant? no... right hand woman to the Mrs? no... I still don’t know what to call her, it wouldn’t even matter, because I didn’t know then that I was eventually going to take her job. Anyhow, She (oh gosh, we need to name her guys! We will call her Rosa, truthfully, I think her name really was Rosaline, or Rosemary or something like that) called and said Dr Prime would like to see me this evening, I agreed. After my shift I went to his mini-mansion and found him, his wife, and two other men in suites sitting at a round cherry wood dining table. I felt so out of place! Here I am showing up in crocks and scrubs and these people look like their about to have some fancy dinner. The house smelled GREAT! Someone was cooking, I know it wasn’t Mrs. Prime. Anyway, I went and sat across them (talk about feeling like your in the Lion’s Den). One of the men in the suites introduced himself and said he is an Estate Lawyer for the Primes and that he will be reading my contract to me. I have that contract in my possession but its LONG! So I’ll highlight the benefits. 

If I took this employment opportunity I will be required to travel with the family. Certain accommodations will be available for my family in the event that the trip is more then 2 days or out of the Country. I was to receive a Vehicle to be used only for trips that Dr Prime needs to be transported. I will be responsible for all medical equipment and prescriptions in accordance with his personal MD. I am to be available to the family 24 hours a day with no days off (I know, hold on, I’ll explain), If I get sick I am to schedule an assistant and visually be of assistance from my location to ensure safety and organization. I will have access to a Credit Card for any work-related expenses (Pay attention, this gets better). In case of personal family issues, arrangements will need to be made known to Dr and Mrs Prime as soon as possible. In taking this position I will be allotted $1,000.00 in uniforms including shoes a year. This position will require me to overlook a private chef who will prepare breakfast and lunch for Dr. Prime. On Occasion I will need to ready him for social events. In the contract it stated that in case something should happen to Dr. Prime that I will have a year’s pay.  There’s more but this was the gist. I was overwhelmed, THIS DOES NOT HAPPEN TO ME!!!!! They covered everything! All my worries were spoken for. I looked at Dr Prime straight in the eye for what seemed like forever. I felt like he was saying IT’S GOING TO BE OK the whole time... I signed. 

I turned in my immediate resignation at the hospital and quickly went to work. One the first day he said to get my car keys, there was a beautiful black Range Rover that was to be called my WORK vehicle. I asked how this was suppose to work? Am I suppose to leave it here? He said no, you take it home, your on the clock 24 hours a day, you need it. OMG!!!!!! Then he said there was fine print that was not included in the contract but that I needed to know about- awww shit! Here we go. He said “my wife and I are snow birds, we will be here 5 months out of the year and the other 7 months we spend it in Vermont. I CANT GO TO VERMONT FOR 7 MONTHS!!! He quickly came in and said “you are only on the clock until I am settled in out there, when the time comes for me to go back, you will pack up everything, ship it, fly with me, and hand over my records to my daughter who lives out there and has an assistant to help me” He informed me that it would be like a vacation and my kids are welcome to go as well since this process usually takes about 2 weeks. He said the car can still be used because I am still on the clock according to my contract. 

Fast forward a few years. Him and I became the best of friends. He was a great debater, I enjoyed out conversations. He was to me what Tumblr is now... my personal therapist. He always had great advice and truly came to care for my family, and my family for his. 

There’s a lot to say about him, and I will eventually. It still hurts to not have him around. Although I stayed fairly close to his children and wife, he is a massive existence that can never be replaced. He was my financial guide, he told me how to make money that can work for me. My job was easy with him, I think the emotional part was the most challenging. Aside from his physical ailment, he suffered with depression and has mentioned not wanting to be around anymore. As a matter of fact, at one point he took some pills he knew he wasn’t suppose to have, they were his wife’s. He was rushed to the hospital, as soon as he was himself again I dropped the bomb on his old ass! What a selfish move! And not that I struggle with my own anxieties, I can understand the feeling, I wish there was more I could have done to help him with that. Side note: no, he didn’t die of suicide, it was natural causes. 

In the end, when God took him home, I was home. It was about 9:30 a.m. when I got the phone call from his house, and it was his daughter crying uncontrollably. I obviously got worried and said IM ON MY WAY, she said “No, It’s not that, my daddy passed away this morning” I dropped to my knees and cried. I remember because I was in my backyard doing yard work with my kids. I remember they hugged me, I was numb for weeks to come. About two weeks later his wife called me to help her with some things. When I showed up, her kids were there too. They all hugged me and cried quietly. Mrs Prime said she needed me to fly with his remains back to Vermont because no one else had the strength to do it. I agreed. Before I left Mrs. Prime said the lawyer was going to contact me in a few days, I cut her off and said “really, I don’t want anything, he was a great friend and you all have been so kind to me” she just smiled and said it again “the lawyer will call you okay”. About 3 weeks went by and a lawyer called to come to his office. When I went he said that Mr. Prime added me to his will and requested a few things for me. 1. My vehicle keys will be surrendered to lawyer for updated vehicle. 2. I will receive pay from the Family Trust for 3 years of the same amount discussed. 3. 2 College accounts have been started courtesy of the Family Trust for my two boys. 4. All bills for my household will be covered by the Family Trust for one year. 5. A letter. 

I was as white as a ghost. I definitely didn’t deserve that! The lawyer handed me a manila folder with a single white envelope that read the following:

MY TRUEST FRIEND, 

I WISH I COULD SAY THAT LIFE IS EASY KID, BUT WE BOTH KNOW IT’S ONLY EASY FOR THOSE WHO REALLY WANT IT THAT WAY. I’M WRITING THIS TO SIMPLY SAY THANK YOU. THANK YOU FOR MANAGING TO MAKE ME SMILE AND FEEL ALIVE. FOR NOT TREATING ME LIKE A DYING MAN. THANK YOU FOR ALLOWING ME AND MY FAMILY ENTER YOUR HEART LIKE YOU ENTERED OURS. THANK YOU FOR NEVER LEAVING MY SIDE WHEN I WAS TOO SCARED TO ADMIT IT. I WISH YOUR BOYS SEE YOUR WORK ETHIC AND EMPATHY FOR PEOPLE AND ABSORB THAT. YOU ARE A GIFT! PLEASE TAKE CARE OF MRS PRIME, YOUR CONTRACT IS NOT OVER UNTIL SHE’S GONE. YOU WILL HAVE A FOREVER JOB HERE, AS LONG AS YOU WANT IT. THANK YOU FOR ALWAYS KEEPING ME IN YOUR PRAYERS AND FOR SHOWING ME THAT HONESTY AND NOBILITY STILL LIVES. ILL SEE YA AROUND KID! I LOVE YA!

[unsettlingshortstories]

The Bog Girl

Karen Russell (2016)

The young turf-cutter fell hard for his first girlfriend while operating heavy machinery in the peatlands. His name was Cillian Eddowis, he was fifteen years old, and he was illegally employed by Bos Ardee. He had celery-green eyes and a stutter that had been corrected at the state’s expense; it resurfaced whenever he got nervous. “Th-th-th,” he’d said, accepting the job. How did Cillian persuade Bos Ardee to hire him? The boy had lyingly laid claim to many qualities: strength, maturity, experience. When that didn’t work, he pointed to his bedroom window, a quarter mile away, on the misty periphery of the cutaway bog, where the undrained water still sparkled between the larch trees. The intimation was clear: what the thin, strange boy lacked in muscle power he made up for in proximity to the work site.

Peat is harvested from bogs, watery mires where the earth yawns open. The bottom is a breathless place—cold, acidic, anaerobic—with no oxygen to decompose the willow branches or the small, still faces of the foxes interred there. Sphagnum mosses wrap around fur, wood, skin, casting their spell of chemical protection, preserving them whole. Growth is impossible, and Death cannot complete her lean work. Once cut, the peat becomes turf, and many locals on this green island off the coast of northern Europe still heat their homes with this peculiar energy source. Nobody gives much thought to the fuel’s mortuary origins. Cillian, his mother, and several thousand others lived on the island, part of the archipelago known to older generations as the Four Horsemen. It’s unlikely that you’ve ever visited. It’s not really on the circuit.

Neolithic farmers were the first to clear the island’s woods. Two thousand years later, peat had swallowed the remains of their pastures. Bogs blanketed the hills. In the Iron Age, these bogs were portals to distant worlds, wilder realms. Gods travelled the bogs. Gods wore crowns of starry asphodels, floating above the purple heather.

Now industrial harvesters rode over the drained bogs, combing the earth into even geometries. On the summer morning that Cillian found the Bog Girl, he was driving the Peatmax toward a copse of trees at the bog’s western edge, pushing the dried peat into black ridges. True, it looked as if he was pleating shit, but Cill had a higher purpose. He was saving to buy his neighbor Pogo’s white hatchback. Once he had a car, it would be no great challenge to sleep with a girl or a woman. Cillian was open to either experience. Or both. But he was far too shy to have an eye-level crush on anyone in his grade. Not Deedee, not Stacia, not Vicki, not Yvonne. He had a crush, taboo and distressing, on his Aunt Cathy’s ankles in socks. He had a crush on the anonymous shoulders of a shampoo model.

He had just driven into the western cutaway bog when he looked over the side of the Peatmax and screamed. A hand was sticking out of the mud. Cillian’s first word to the Bog Girl required all the air in his lungs: “Ahhhhhhfuuuuuck!”

Here was a secret, flagging him down. A secret the world had kept for two thousand years and been unable to keep for two seconds longer. The bog had confessed her.

When the other men arrived, Cillian was on his knees, scratching up peat like a dog. Already he had dug out her head. She was whole and intact, cocooned in peat, curled like a sleeping child, with her head turned west of her pelvis. Thick, lustrous hair fanned over the tarp, the wild red-orange of an orangutan’s fur, dyed by the bog acids. Moving clouds caused her colors to change continuously: now they were a tawny bronze, now a mineral blue. It was a very young face.

Cradling her head, Cillian lost all feeling in his legs. A light rain began to fall, but he would not relinquish his position. Every man gathered was staring at them. Ordinarily, their pronged attention encircled him like a crown of thorns, making him self-conscious, causing red fear to leak into his inner vision. Today, he didn’t give a damn about the judgments of the mouth-breathers above him. Who had ever seen a face so beautiful, so perfectly serene?

“Mother of God!” one of the men screamed. He pointed to the noose. A rope, nearly black with peat, ran down the length of her back.

Murder. That was the men’s consensus. Bos Ardee called the police.

But Cillian barely heard the talk above him. If you saw the Bog Girl from one angle only, you would assume that she was a cherished daughter, laid to rest by hands that loved her. But she had been killed, and now her smile seemed even more impressive to him, and he wanted only to protect her from future harm. The men kept calling her “the body,” which baffled Cillian—the word seemed to blind them to the deep and flowing dream-life behind her smile. “There is so much more to you than what they see,” he reassured her in a whisper. “I am so sorry about what happened to you. I am going to keep you safe now.”

After this secret conversation, Cill fell rapidly in love.

Cillian was lucky that he met his girlfriend on such a remote island. When these bodies are discovered in Ireland, for example, or in the humid Florida bogs sprinkled between Disney World and Cape Canaveral, things proceed differently. The area is cordoned off. Teams of experts arrive to excavate the site. Then the bog people are carefully removed to laboratories, museums, where gloveless hands never touch them.

Cillian touched her hair, touched the rope. He was holding the reins of her life. Three policemen had arrived, and they conferred above Cillian, their black boots squeezing mud around the bog cotton. Once it had been determined that the girl was not a recent murder victim, the policemen relaxed. The chief asked Cillian a single question: “You’re going to keep her, then?”

Gillian Eddowis was on a party line with her three sisters. She tucked the phone under her chin and took the ruby kettle off the range, opening a window to shoo the blue steam free. In the living room, roars of studio laughter erupted from the television; Cillian and the Bog Girl were watching a sitcom about a Canadian trailer park. Their long silences unnerved her; surely they weren’t getting into trouble, ten feet away from her? She had never had cause to discipline her son. She wouldn’t know where to begin. He was so kind, so intelligent, so unusual, so sensitive—such an outlier in the Eddowis family that his aunts had paid him the modern compliment of assuming that he was gay.

Voices sieved into Gillian’s left ear:

“You want to warn them,” Sister Abby said.

“But, Virgin Mother, there is no way to warn them!” Sister Patty finished.

“We were all sixteen once,” Cathy growled. “We all survived it.”

“Cillian is fifteen,” Gillian corrected. “And the girlfriend is two thousand.”

Abby, who had seen a picture of the Bog Girl in the local newspaper, suggested that somebody was rounding down.

A university man had also read the story of the Bog Girl’s discovery. He’d taken a train and a ferry to find them. “I’ve come to make an Urgent Solicitation on Behalf of History,” he said. He wanted to acquire the Bog Girl for the national museum. The sum he offered them was half of Gillian’s salary at the post office.

In the end, what had happened? Christian feeling had muzzled her. How could she sell a girl to a stranger? Or pretend that she had any claim to her, this orphan from the Iron Age? Gillian told the university man that the Bog Girl was their house guest, and would be living with them until Social Services could locate her next of kin. At this, all the purple veins in the man’s neck stood out. His tone sank into petulant defeat. “Mark my words, you people do not have the knowledge to properly care for her,” he said. “She’ll fall apart on you.” The Bog Girl, propped up next to the ironing board, watched them argue with an implacable smile. The university man left empty-handed, and for a night and a day Gillian was a hero to her son.

“So she’s just freeloading, then? Living off your dime?” Cathy asked.

“Oh, yes. She’s quite shameless about it.”

How could she explain to her sisters what she could barely admit to herself? The boy was in love. It was a monstrous, misdirected love; nevertheless, it commanded her respect.

“The Bog Girl is a bad influence on him,” she told her sisters. “She doesn’t work, she doesn’t help. All day she lazes about the house.”

Patty coughed and said, “If you feel that way, then why—”

Cathy screamed, “Gillian! She cannot stay with you!”

It was gentle Abby who formulated the solution: “Put her back in the bog.”

“Gillian. Do it tonight.”

“Who’s going to miss her?”

“I can’t put her back in the bog. It would be . . .”

Silence drilled into her ears. Her family had a talent for emitting judgment without articulating words. When she was Cillian’s age and five months pregnant with him, everyone had quietly made clear that she was sacrificing her future. She’d run away to be with Cillian’s father, then returned to the boglands alone with a bug-eyed toddler.

“I’m afraid,” she confessed to her sisters. “If I put her out of the house, he’ll leave with her.”

“Oh!” they cried in unison. As if a needle had infected them all with her fear.

“Do something crazy, stupid . . .”

Silently adding, Like we did.

“Now, be honest, you little rat turd. You know nothing about her.” His uncle put a finger into his peach iced tea, stirred. They were seated on a swing in the darkest part of Cillian’s porch. Uncle Sean was as blandly ugly as a big toenail. Egg-bald and cheerfully unemployed, a third-helpings kind of guy. Once, Cillian had watched him eat the sticker on a green apple rather than peel it off. Sean was always over at the cottage, using Gillian’s computer to play Poker 3000. He smeared himself throughout their house, his beer rings ghosting over surfaces like fat thumbs on a photograph. His words hung around, too, leaving their brain stain on the air. Uncle Sean took a proprietary interest in anything loved by Cillian. It was no surprise, then, that he was infatuated with the Bog Girl.

“I know that I love her,” Cill said warily. He hated to be baited.

Uncle Sean was packing his brown, shakey weed into the rosy crotch of a glass mermaid. He passed his nephew the pipe. “Already, eh? You love her and you don’t know the first thing about her?”

What did he know about her?

What did he love about her?

Cillian shrugged, his body crowding with feelings. “And I know that she loves me,” he added, somewhat hastily.

Uncle Sean’s pink smirk seemed to paste him to the back of the wicker seat. “Oh?” His grin widened. “And how old is she?”

“Two thousand. But she was my age when they put her in the bog.”

“Most women I know lie freely about their age,” Uncle Sean warned. “She may well be eleven. Then again, she could be three thousand.”

Gillian, plump and starlit, appeared on the porch. A pleasant oniony smell followed her, mixing with the damp odor of Sean’s pot.

“Are you smoking?”

“No,” they lied in unison.

“Tell your . . . your friend that she is welcome to eat with us.” With a martyred air, Gillian lifted her kitten-print pot holders to the heavens. Cill smiled; the pot holders made it look as if she approved of the situation—two big thumbs-up! His poor mom. She was so nervous around new people, and the Bog Girl’s silence only intimidated her further. She was insecure about her cooking, and he knew she was going to take it very personally when the Bog Girl did not touch it.

Dinner was meat loaf with onions and, for Sean, a thousand beers. It was not a comfortable meal.

Gillian, stirring butter into the lima beans, beamed threats at her son’s new girlfriend: You little bitch. Crawl back into your hole. Stay away from my son.

“Biscuit?” Gillian asked. “Does she like biscuits, Cill?”

The Bog Girl smiled her gentle smile at the wall, her face reflected in the oval door of the washer-dryer. Against that sudsy turbulence, she looked especially still.

Three drinks in, Uncle Sean slung an arm around the Bog Girl’s thin blue shoulder, welcoming her into the family. “I’m proud of my nephew for going after an older woman, a mature woman . . . a cougar!”

Cillian fixed his uncle with a homicidal stare. Under the table, he touched his girlfriend’s foot with his foot; his eyebrows lifted in apology. His mother shot up with her steaming cauldron of beans, giving everyone another punitive lima ladle and removing the beer from the table. Their dog, returning from her dusk mouse hunt, came berserking into the kitchen, barking at a deranged pitch. She wanted to play tug-of-war with the Bog Girl’s noose. “Puddles—_no! _” Cillian’s vision was swimming, his whole body overheating with shame. He relaxed when he stared into the Bog Girl’s face, which was void of all judgment, smiling at him with its mysterious kindness. Once again, his embarrassment was soothed by her infinite calm. His eyes lowered from her smile to the noose. Of course, she’s seen far worse than us, he thought. Outside the window, insects millioned around the porch light. The bog crickets were doing a raspy ventriloquy of the stars; perhaps she recognized their tiny voices. Soon Uncle Sean was snoring lightly beside the pooling gravy, face down in his big arms. Cill sat slablike in the moonlight. The Bog Girl smiled blindly on.

For the first two weeks, the Bog Girl slept on the sofa, the television light flickering gently over her. That was fine by Gillian. She wasn’t about to turn an orphan from the Iron Age out on the street.

Then, on a rainy Monday night, without warning or apology, Cillian picked up the Bog Girl. He cradled her like a child, her frondy feet dangling in the air. Gillian, doing a jigsaw puzzle of a horse and colt in the kitchen, looked up in time to see them disappearing. She felt a purple welt rising in her mind, the revelatory pain called wonder. Underneath the shock, other feelings began to flow, among them a disturbed pride. Because hadn’t he looked exactly like his father? Confident, possessed. He didn’t ask for her permission. He did not lie to her about what he was doing, or hide it, or explain it. He simply rose with the Bog Girl in his arms, nuzzling her blue neck. The door shut, and he was gone from sight. Another milestone: she heard the click of the lock.

“Good night, son!” she cried after them, panicked.

She could not reconcile her knowledge of her sweet, awkward boy with this wayward, confident person. Was she supposed to go up there now? Pound on the door? Oh, who could she call? Nobody, not even her sisters, would take a call about this problem, she felt quite certain. Abby’s son, Kevin, met his girlfriend in church. Cathy’s son, Patrick, has a lovely fiancée who teaches kindergarten. Murry’s girlfriend is in jail for vehicular manslaughter—but at least she’s alive!

In the morning, she watched the mute, hitching muscles of his back as he fumbled with the coffeepot. So he was a coffee drinker now. More news. He kissed his mother’s forehead as he left for work, but he was whistling to himself, oblivious of her sadness, her fear, completely self-enclosed in his new happiness. It’s too soon for this, she thought. And: Not you, too. Please, please, please, she prayed, the incomplete prayer of mothers who cannot conceive of a solution.

That evening, she announced a new rule: “Everyone has to wear clothes. And no more locked doors.”

That Saturday, Cillian took the ferry three hours to a mainland museum. Twelve bog bodies were on display, part of a travelling exhibition called “Kings of the Iron Age.” The Bog Girl had met his family—the least he could do was return the favor. Cill sneaked into a tour in progress, following a docent from sepulchre to sepulchre. Under the glass, the Kings of the Iron Age lay like chewed taffy. One man was naked except for a fox-fur armband. Another was a giant. Another had two sets of thumbs.

Cillian learned that the bogs of the islands in the cold Atlantic were particularly acidic. Pickled bodies from the Iron Age had emerged from these deep vats. Their fetally scrolled bodies often doubled as the crumpled maps of murders. They might have been human sacrifices, the docent said. Left in the bog water for the harvest god. Kings, queens, scapegoats, victims—they might have been any of these things.

“From the contents of his stomach, we can surmise that he last dined on oat gruel. . . .”

“From the forensic analyses, we can surmise that she was killed by an arrow. . . . ”

“From the ornaments on this belt buckle, we can surmise that these were a wealthy people. . . . ”

What? No more than this could be surmised?

The docent pointed out the dots and stripes on the potsherds. Charcoal smudges that might be stars or animals. Evidence, she said, of “a robust culture.” Cillian took notes:

“they had time to kill. they liked art, too.”

Back on the ferry, he could admit to his relief: none of the other bog bodies stirred any feeling in him. He loved one specific person. He could see things about the Bog Girl to which this batty docent would be totally blind—for example, the secret depths her smile concealed. How badly misunderstood she had been by her own people. She was an alien from a planet that nobody alive could visit—the planet Earth, in the first century A.D. She felt soft in his arms, bonelessly soft, but she also seemed indestructible. According to the experts, a bog body should begin to decompose rapidly when exposed to air. Curiously enough, this Bog Girl had not. He told no one his theory but polished it inside his mind like an amulet: it was his love that was protecting her.

By August, their rapport had deepened immeasurably. They didn’t need to say a word, Cill was discovering, to perfectly understand each other. Falling in love with the Bog Girl was a wonderful thing—it was permission to ignore everyone else. When school started, in September, he made a bespoke sling and brought her with him. His girlfriend, propped like a broomstick against the rows of lockers, waited for him during Biology and Music II, as cool and impassive as the most popular girl the world has ever known.

Nobody in the school administration objected to the presence of the Bog Girl. Ancestral superstitions still hovered over the islanders’ minds, exerting their quiet influence, and nobody wanted to be the person responsible for angering a visitor from the past. Soon she was permitted to audit all of Cillian’s classes, smiling dreamlessly at the flustered, frightened teachers.

One afternoon, the vice-principal called her into his office and presented her with a red-and-gold badge to wear in the halls: “visiting student.”

“I don’t think that’s really accurate, sir,” Cillian said.

“Oh, no?”

“She’s not a visitor. She was born here.” In fact, the Bog Girl was the island’s oldest resident, by at least nineteen hundred years. Cillian paused. “Also, her eyes are shut, you see. So I don’t think she can really, ah, study. . . .”

“Well!” The vice-principal clapped his hands. He had a day to live, quotas to fulfill. “We will be studying her, then. She will give us all an exciting new perspective on our modern life and times—Oh my! Oh dear.” The Bog Girl had slumped into his aloe planter.

Cillian put the badge on her polyester blouse, a loaner from his mother that was vintage cool. Cillian—who never gave a thought to his own clothing—enjoyed dressing the Bog Girl for school in the morning. He raided his mother’s closet, resurrecting her baby-doll dresses. The eleventh-grade girls organized a clothing drive for the Bog Girl, collecting many shoplifted donations of fall tunics and on-trend boots.

Rumorsprawl. Word got around that the Bog Girl was actually a princess. A princess, or possibly a witch. Within a week, she was eating at the popular girls’ table. They’d kidnapped her from where Cillian had positioned her on a bench, propped between two book bags, and taken her to lunch. Already they had restyled her hair with rhinestone barrettes.

“You stole my girlfriend,” Cillian said.

“Something awful happened to her,” Vicki said reverently.

“So bad,” Georgette echoed.

“She doesn’t like to talk about it,” Priscilla said, looping a protective arm around the Bog Girl. The girls had matching lunches: lettuce salads, diet candy bars, diet shakes. They were all jealous of how little she ate.

How had Cill not foreseen this turn of events? The Bog Girl was diminutive, wounded, mysterious, a redhead. Best of all, she could never contradict any rumor the living girls distributed about her.

“She was too beautiful to live!” Priscilla gasped. “They killed her for her beauty.”

“I don’t th-th-think,” Cill said, “that it happened quite like that.”

The popular girls adjusted their leggings, annoyed. “No?”

Cillian was dimly aware that other tables were listening in, but the density of the attention in no way affected him. “I am hers, and she is mine,” he announced. “I have dedicated myself to learning everything about her.”

A sighing spasm of envy moved down the popular girls’ table—what boy alive would say this about them? A miracle: nobody mocked Cillian Eddowis. They were all starving to be loved like this. The popular girls watched him avidly as he ate a grilled cheese and waffle fries, his green irises burning. Between bites, his left hand rose to touch the Bog Girl’s red braid, tousling it like the pull-chain of a lamp.

Gillian couldn’t help it: she was heartbroken. The past that was most precious to her had filtered right through her son. The songs she’d sung to him when he was nursing? The care with which she’d cut the tiny moons of his fingernails? Their 4 a.m. feedings? Erased! Her son had matured into amnesia about his earliest years. Now her body was the only place where the memories were preserved. Cillian, like all sons, was blithe about this betrayal.

“There is so much about yourself that you do not recall,” Gillian accused him after dinner one night. Cillian, writing a paper about igneous rocks at the kitchen table, did not look up.

“When you were my boy, just a wee boy,” Gillian said in a voice of true agony, “you used to be terrified of the vacuum cleaner. You loved your froggy pajamas. You used so much glue on your art projects that your teachers—”

“Quit it with these dumb stories, Ma!”

“Oh, you find them dumb, do you? The stories about how I had to raise you alone, without a penny from your father—”

“You’re just trying to embarrass me in front of her!”

The Bog Girl smiled at them from the amber armchair. Her leather skirt was outrageously short, a donation from tall Bianca. Decorously, Cillian had draped the cable guide over her lap. Bugs spun in her water glass; mosquitoes and dragonflies were always diving into the Bog Girl’s food and drink, as if in strange solidarity with her.

Cillian drew himself up triumphantly, a foot taller than his mother. “You don’t want me to grow up.”

“What? Of course I do!”

But Cill was ready with his rebuttal: “You gave us rhyming names, Ma!”

This was true. Gillian and Cillian. She’d come up with that plan when she was a teen-ager herself, and pregnant with a nameless otter, some gyring little animal. A rhyming name had seemed just right then; she couldn’t have said why, at seventeen. Had Cillian been a girl, she would have named her Lillian.

“You’re so young, you can’t know . . . ” But what did she want to tell him?

Her body seemed to cave in on itself then, becoming smaller and smaller, so that even Cillian, fortressed behind the wall of his love, noticed and became alarmed. “Ma? What’s wrong?”

“It’s changing all the time,” she murmured ominously. “Just, please, wait, my love. Don’t . . . settle.” What a word! She pictured her son sinking up to his neck in the reddish bog water.

She was hiccupping now, unable to name her own feelings. Without thinking, she picked up the murky water glass, drank from it. “Your potential . . . all the teachers tell me you have great potential.”

Just come out and say it. “I don’t want you to throw your life away on some Bog Girl!”

“Oh, Ma.” Cill patted her back until the hiccups stopped. Her face looked crumpled and blue in the unlit room, hovering above the seated Bog Girl. For a second, they might have been sisters.

The Bog Girl floated, thin as a dress, on the mattress. Barrettes, pink and purple, were scattered all over the pillow. She smiled at Cillian, or beyond him, with her desiccated calm. Downstairs, Gillian was making breakfast, the buttery smells threading through his nostrils like an ox ring, tugging him toward them. But when she called up for him he was barely in the room. He was digging and digging into the peat-moss bog again, smoothing her blue cheeks with both hands, spading down into the kingdom that she comes from.

“Cillian! The bus is coming!” It should have taken him twenty seconds to put on pants. What was he doing in there? Probably jacking off to a “meme,” whatever that was, or buying perfume for the Bog Girl on her credit cards.

“Coming, Ma!”

Cillian was always learning new things about his girlfriend. The longer he looked at her, the more he saw. Her face grew silty with personality. Although she was young when she disappeared into the bog, her face was plowed with tiny wrinklings. Some dream or mood had recurred frequently enough to hammer lines across her brow. Here were the ridges and the gullies her mental weathers had worked into her skin.

Cill studied the infloresences on her cheeks. Her brain is in there, the university man had said. Her brain is intact, preserved by the bog acids. Cillian spent hours doing this forensic palmistry, trying to read her mind.

“Will you have a talk with him?” Gillian begged Sean. “Something is going really, really wrong with him!”

“First love, first love,” Sean murmured sadly, scratching his bubonic nose. “Who are we to intervene, eh? It will die of natural causes.”

“Natural causes!”

She was thinking that the poor girl had been garroted. Her bright-red hair racing the tail of the noose down her spine. You could not survive your death, could you? It survived with you.

In mid-October, a stretch limousine pulled up to the cottage to take Cillian and the Bog Girl to the annual school dance. A techno-reggae song called “Bump de Ass!” filled the back seat, where half a dozen teen-agers sat in churchlike silence. The Bog Girl’s reticence was contagious. Ambulance lights sparkled through the tinted windows, causing everyone to jump, with one exception: Cillian Eddowis’s date, the glamorous foreigner, or native—nobody was sure how to regard her.

Since acquiring his far older girlfriend, Cill had begun speaking to his classmates in the voice of a bachelor who merely tolerates children. “Carla,” he said, clearing his throat. “Would you mind exhaling a little closer to the window? Your smoke is blowing on us.”

Two girls started debating whether or not a friend should lose her virginity in a BMW that evening. What was the interior of the car like? This was a very important question. The girl’s boyfriend was a twenty-six-year-old cocaine dealer. Prior to the Bog Girl’s arrival on the scene, everyone had found his age very impressive. The dealer boyfriend had been unable to accompany the girl to the school dance, so she had taken poor Eoin, her sophomore cousin, who looked near fatally compressed by his green cummerbund. The twenty-six-year-old would be waiting for her in the BMW, post-festivities. Should she deflower him?

“Wait. Uh. I think he’s deflowering you, right? Or maybe you’re deflowering each other? Who’s got the flower?”

“Just do it, and then lie about it.” Carla shrugged. “That’s what I did.”

“My advice,” Cillian said, in the unfamiliar voice, “my advice is, wait. Wait until you find the person with whom you want to spend all your earthly time.” The Bog Girl leaned against his shoulder, aloof in her sparkly tiara. “Or until that person finds you. If that’s this guy, well, kudos. But, if not, wait. You will meet your soul mate. And you will want to give that person every molecule of your life.”

The attempted conversion of the high-school gymnasium into an Arabian-themed wonderland had not been a success. Cill and the Bog Girl stood under a palm tree that looked like an enormous toilet brush, made of cellophane and cardboard tubes. Three girls from the limo came up and asked to dance with Cillian, but he explained that his girlfriend hated to be left alone. All were sulkily respectful of her claim on him.

The after-party was held in an old car-parts warehouse on the west side of the island, where everything was shut or abandoned; the population of the island had been declining steadily for three decades. The music sounded like fists beating at the wall, and the floor was so sticky that Cillian had to lift and cradle the Bog Girl, looping her silver dress around one arm. Cillian had never attended an after-party before. Or a party, for that matter. He surveyed his former tormenters, the seniors, with their piggish faces and their plastic cups. Some were single, some had girlfriends, some were virgins, some were not, but not one of them, Cillian felt very certain, knew the first thing about love.

Eoin the sophomore came over, his date nowhere to be seen. He was breathless in the cummerbund, in visible danger of puking up Bacardi. He rolled a bloodshot eye in Cill’s direction, smiling wistfully.

“So,” he said, “I’m just wondering. Do you guys—”

Cillian preëmpted the question: “A gentleman never tells.”

It was a phrase he’d once read in a men’s magazine, while waiting to get a root canal. In fact, his mother needn’t have lost so much sleep to this particular fear. At night, Cillian lay beside the Bog Girl, barely touching her. A steady, happy calm radiated from her, which filled him with a parallel euphoria.

Cillian carried the Bog Girl onto the dance floor, her braided noose flung over his shoulder. And even Eoin, minutes from unconsciousness, could hear exactly who the older boy believed himself to be in this story: Cillian the Rescuer.

“Oh, damn! Wise up! She’ll make you wait forever, man!” The lonely laugh of Eoin died a terrible death, like a bird impaled on a spike.

At 3 a.m., the lights were still on. Uh-oh, Cill thought. Mom got into the gin again.

Drinking made her silences bubble volubly. He almost got the hiccups himself, listening to her silences. Oh, God. There was so much pain inside her, so much she wanted to share with him. Cillian and the Bog Girl tried to tiptoe past her to the staircase, but she sprang up like a jack-in-the-box.

“Cillian?” She looked child-small in the dark. Her voice was tremulous and young, and her slurring reminded him of his own stutter, that undead vestige of his early years. His mother sounded like a sleepy girl, four or five years old. Her feet were bare, and she rose onto her stubby toes to grip his arm. “Where are you coming from?”

“Nowhere. The dance. It was fun.”

“Where are you going?”

“Aw, Mom. Where do you th-th-think?”

“Good night!” she called after him desperately. “I hope you had a good time! You looked so handsome! So grown up!”

By early winter, the Bog Girl’s stillness had begun to provoke a restlessness in Cillian, a squeezed and throbbing feeling. He was failing three subjects. His mother had threatened to send him to live with Aunt Cathy until he “straightened out.” He didn’t care. Waiting for the bus in the freezing rain, he no longer dreamed about owning a car. He knew what he would do with the summer money he’d earned from Bos Ardee: run away with her.

He’d flunk out of school and take the Bog Girl with him to the mainland. She’d be homesick at first, maybe, but they’d go on trips to urban parks. It was the burr of peace, the burr of happiness, goading him on to new movement. Oh, he was frightened, too.

In his fantasy life, Cillian drew the noose tighter and tighter. He imagined, with a strange joy, the narrow life they would lead. No children, no sex, no messy nights vomiting outside bars, no unintended pregnancies, no fights in the street, no betrayals, no surprises, no broken promises, no promises.

Was the Bog Girl a co-signer to this fantasy? Cillian had every reason to believe so. When he described his plans to her, the smile never left her face. Was their love one-sided, as the concerned and unimaginative adults in his life kept insisting? No—but the proof of this surprised no one more terribly than Cillian.

One night in mid-December, lying in bed, he felt a cobwebby softness on his left cheek. It was her eyelashes, flicking over him. They glowed radish-red in the moonlight. Cillian swatted at his face, his own eyes never opening. Still sunk in his dreaming, he grunted and rolled over.

Cillian.

Cillian.

The Bog Girl sat up.

With fluttering effort, the muscles of her blue jaw yawned. One eye opened. It studied itself in the dresser mirror for a long instant, then turned calmly back toward Cillian. Very slowly, her left arm unhinged itself and dropped to the plaid bedspread. The fingers curled around the blanket’s edge, and drew it down. A blush of primal satisfaction colored the Bog Girl’s cheeks as the fabric moved. She tugged more forcefully, revealing Cillian curled on his side in his white undershirt. Groaning in his sleep, he jerked the covers back up.

“Cillian,” she said aloud.

Now Cillian was awake—he was irreversibly awake. He blinked up at her face, which was staring down at him. When they locked eyes, her frozen smile widened.

“Mom!” he couldn’t help screaming. “Help!”

The Bog Girl, imitating him, began to scream and scream. And he could see, radiating from her gaze, the same blind tenderness that he had directed at her. Now he was its object. Something truly terrifying had happened: she loved him back.

For months, Cillian had been decoding the Bog Girl’s silences. He’d peered into her dreams, her fears, her innermost thoughts. But her real voice was nothing like the voice that he’d imagined for her—a cross between Vicky Gilvarry and Patti LaBelle. Its high-pitched ululations hailed over him. In the kitchen, the dog began to bark. The language that she spoke was no longer spoken anywhere on earth.

He stumbled up, tugging at his boxers. The Bog Girl stood, too. The past, with its monstrous depth and span, reached toward him, demanding an understanding that he simply could not give it. His mind was too young and too narrow to withstand the onrush of her life. An invisible woods was in the bedroom with them, the scent of trees multiplying. Some mental earthquake inside the Bog Girl was casting up a world, green and unknown to him, or to anyone living: her homeland. Her gaze drove inward, carrying Cillian with it. For an instant, he thought he glimpsed her parents. Her brothers, her sisters, a nation of people. Their cheeks now beginning to redden, every one of them alive again inside her village. Pines rippling seaward. Gods, horned and faceless, walking the lakes that once covered Cillian’s home. Cillian was buried in water, in liquid images of her; he had to push through so many strata of her memories to reach the surface of her mind. Most of what he saw he shrank away from. His mind felt like a burned tongue, numbly touching her reality.

“W-w-who are you?”

“Heartbreak” is the universal diagnosis for the pain that accompanies the end of love. But this was an unusual breakup, in that Cillian’s mind shattered first. The love that had protected him began to fall away. Piece after piece of it clattered from his chest, an armor rusting off him. What are you?

The Bog Girl lurched toward him, her arms open. First she moved like a hopping chick, with an unexpected buoyancy. Then she seemed to remember how to step, heel to toe. She came for him like an astronaut, bouncing on the gray carpet. The only English word she knew was his name.

Almost weightlessly, she reached for him. For wasn’t she equally terrified? There was no buoy other than this boy, who had gripped her with his thin, freckled arms, bellying her out of the peat bog and into time.

Cillian hid behind the dresser.

Her fingers found his hand, threaded through his fingers.

He screamed again, even as he squeezed the hand back.

Her words rushed together, a thawing waterfall, moving intricately between octaves; still the only word he understood was his name. Perhaps nothing he had said to her, in their six months as a couple, had been comprehended. Cillian worked the levers in his brain, desperately trying to find the words that would release him.

“Unlock the door,” his mother’s beautiful voice called.

Cillian was frozen in the Bog Girl’s grip, unable even to call out. But a moment later he heard the key turning in the lock. Gillian stood in the doorway in her yellow pajamas. With a panoramic comprehension, she took in what had happened. She knew, too, what must now be done. If she could have freed these two from the embrace herself, she would have done so; but now she understood the challenge. The boy would have to make his own way out. “Take her home, Cillian. Make sure that she gets home safely.”

Cillian, his eyes round with panic, only nodded.

Gillian went to the Bog Girl, helping her into a sweater. “Put a hat on. And pants.”

His mother shepherded them downstairs and onto the porch, switching on every yellow bulb as they moved through the cottage. It was the warmest December on record, rain falling instead of snow, the drops disappearing into the rotted wood. Cillian carried the Bog Girl to the edge of the light before he understood that his mother was not coming with him.

“Let her down gently, son!” his mother called after them.

Well, she could do this for him, at least: she held a lantern steady across the rainy lawn, creating a gangplank of light that reached almost to the larches. She watched them moving toward the inky water. The Bog Girl was howling in her foreign tongue; at this distance, Gillian felt she could almost understand it.

Oh, she hoped their breakup would stick. She had divorced Cillian’s father, then briefly moved into his new house; it had taken years before their affair was truly over. You had to really cultivate an ending. To get it to last, you had to kneel and tend to the burial ground, continuously firming your resolution.

This was a bad breakup. A quarter mile from the cottage, under a bright moon, Cillian and the Bog Girl were rolling in the mud, each screaming in a different language. Their screams twined together, their hands reaching for each other; it was during this undoing that they were, at last, truly united as a couple. His flashlight rolled with them, plucking amphibious red and yellow eyes out of the reeds. “It’s over. It’s over. It’s over,” he kept babbling optimistically, out of his mind with fear. Her throat was vibrating against his skin. He could feel the echo of his own terror and sorrow, and again his mind felt overrun by the lapping waves of time. She clutched at the collar of his T-shirt, her body covered in dark mud and cracked stems of bog cotton, blue lichen. At last he felt her grip on him loosen. Her eyes, opaquely glinting in the moonlight, liquid and enormous, far larger than anyone could have guessed before their unlidding, regarded him with what he imagined was a soft surprise, and disappointment. He was not who she’d expected to find when she opened her eyes, either. Now neither teen-ager needed to tell the other that it was over. It simply was—and, without another sound, the Bog Girl let go of Cillian and slipped backward into the bog water. Did she sink? It looked almost as if the water were rising to cover her. Her cranberry hair waved away from her scalp. As he watched, her body itself began to break up.

Straightening from where he was kneeling on the ledge of mud, he brushed peat from his pants. His arms tingled where her grip had suddenly relaxed. The clear rain drenched his clothing. The bog was still bubbling, pieces of her sinking back into the black peat, when he turned on his heel and ran. For the next few days, he would be quakey with relief; he’d felt certain, watching her sink away, that he would never see the Bog Girl again in this life.

But here he was mistaken. In the weeks and years to come, Cillian would find himself alone with her memory, struggling to pay attention to his droning contemporaries in the cramped classroom. How often would he retrace his steps, wandering right back to the lip of the bog, peering in? Each dusk, with their primitive eloquence, the air-galloping insects continue to speak the million syllables of her name.

“Ma! Ma! Ma!” That night, Cillian came roaring out of the dark, pistoning his knees as he ran for the light, for his home at the edge of the boglands. “Who was that?”