#threads of memory

[foxblood]

The Threads of Memory VI - Unmasking

Editor's Log 5/24/25 - More gore in this chapter now - Made some changes to names - More scenes w/ Velim's family

TW: blood/gore, surgical gore, minor self-mutilation, non-consensual drugging, kidnapping, captivity

1/2/3/4/5/6/7/8/9/10/11/12/13/14/15/16/17/18/19/20/21/22/23/24/25/26/27/28/29/30

Gale slammed the desk drawer, then kicked the table leg.  Mystra’s statue teetered towards the precipice.  Tara tried to will it the last millimeter over the edge, but the goddess stood firm.  Gale cursed at his stubbed toe and tore his coat off the rack.

“Mr. Dekarios, slow down,” she huffed, trotting up beside him. 

He yanked his boots on.  “There’s no time, Tara,” he massaged his chest, the ache of the orb more present than ever.  His stomach growled too, but he ignored it and Tara’s protestations as he hurried out the door.

Tara dogged his steps.  “Mr. Dekarios, it will kill neither you nor Velim to take care of yourself.  They would not want you running yourself ragged on their account.”

“They’re a doctor, Tara, they would have to say that,” he lengthened his stride, “Gods, if I just walked them home when they asked.”

Tara sprang from the ground.  Gale lurched forward as she landed on his shoulders and made new runs in his coat.  She anchored her claws in the fabric and hunkered down, ears pinned back.  “Velim would mean it,” she insisted.

“Tara, please.” Gale considered brushing her off.

“Gale, please,” she hissed back.

“Come with me if you must, but we cannot waste time,” Gale pinched the bridge of his nose and forced a deep breath into his lungs, pushing the orb back.

Tara kneaded his shoulder.  “I’ll make another loop of the Sea Ward.  Promise me you’ll eat when you return?”

Gale released the breath in a truncated sigh, misting in the cold air.  “I promise.”

“Very well, Mr. Dekarios.”  He winced as Tara flushed off his shoulder, her wings ruffling his hair.

The townhouse door swung open before Gale could knock.  The kobold saluted him, dropping the rope she used to reach the doorknob.  “Jada saw you coming!”

A violet tiefling made a beeline down the hallway and Jada scrambled out of his way.  He glared at Gale, dark red eyes suspicious in the way that teenagers are of most adults.  “You Gale?”

“Yes it’s a pleasure to --” Gale attempted a greeting.

“Come on,” the tiefling cocked his head down the hallway and slammed the door behind Gale, “don’t bother taking your shoes off.”

Gale hesitated to step on the carpet, but the muddy footsteps tracked up and down the hall indicated that the floors were the least of this family’s worries at the moment.

Jada tugged at his coat when he waited too long. “Velim’s wizard should hurry.” 

Helena held up her finger when Jada ran up to her, and Jada bounced from foot to foot waiting for her to finish her hushed conversation with one of her older children -- a human girl, maybe 15.  The human girl looked Gale up and down as she passed, flipping her box braids over her shoulder as she passed him by.  Helena smoothed the plaits in her graying beard.

“Velim’s wizard is here!” Jada chirped.

“She can see that, Jada.” The tiefling scowled down at her.  Jada stuck her forked tongue out at him.

Helena shook Gale’s hand, her palm warm and grip stone-solid.  “Mr. Dekarios, a pleasure to finally meet you.  I wish it was under better circumstances.”

“Like a wedding!” Jada chirped, and the tiefling shushed her.

Helena cleared her throat.  “You’ve met Jada.  This is my son, Garus.  Kitty has been running messages to Georgie all day,” she gestured after the human girl, “Have you met Georgie?”

The barrage of names left Gale’s head spinning.  “Is Georgie another one of your children?”

Helena shook her head.  “No, no, Georgie is Velim’s fledgeling.  She’s working with Harold on the council to find a man named Unger the Gold.  Did Velim tell you why they were on leave?”

“Yes, they mentioned Unger the Gold in passing once or twice,” Gale said, “I have my tressym doing flyovers of the city, in case they’re out and about.”

Helena shook her head.  “Oh dear, Velim doesn’t vanish like this on a whim.  Your tressym isn’t likely to find them.”

Gale’s chest spasmed, pins and needles running up his arms.  He excused himself and sat down.

“Are you well, Mr. Dekarios?” Helena asked, thick brows knitting together.

“Yes, fine,” Gale choked out, “please continue.  How may I help?”

Helena looked at him skeptically.  “I understand you’re tenured at Blackstaff Research Institute?”

“I am.”

Helena produced a Vulture’s badge from her pocket, four black stars marking over a decade of service.  “Jada found this in the grass beneath Blackstaff Academy.”

Gale studied the badge, his heart dropping.  “I’ll ask around, but I don’t know what they’d be doing there.”

Velim reached inside their open chest cavity, hooking the blade of their scalpel beneath the aorta and slicing through with a hollow pop.  Their heart slipped free of the pericardium and into their hand, sputtering blood onto Gale’s pale skin.  They held the organ out and let it drop from their palm and into the maw of his chest.  Gale’s face twisted in pain as the teeth ground their heart to slivers.

“We’re gonna run out of ether at this rate,” Unger’s voice grated.

“Looks like someone’s tried to get at it’s heart before,” a woman said.

Velim bit down on the gag, gasping around the sweet chemical stench of ether.  Their vision swam, eyelids heavy.  They lolled their head aside to see their captors better and the echo of pain radiated up their neck.  The needle snapped off in their throat, a gush of blood splashed hot then cold on their bare skin.

“Awake again.”  Another voice, one Velim recognized but couldn’t place.  Like Unger’s, but softer.  

A hand grabbed Velim’s hair and wrenched their head back.  They choked on the flood of ether soaking the gag, their lungs and throat burning.  The skin around their mouth cracked and bled.

The maw yawned.  Velim wrapped their finger around the back of their pulmonary artery, the pain coming half a second after they sliced their finger on the way through the rubbery resistance of the vein.  They tipped their heart off their bleeding hand and into the mouth again.

“I don’t mean to cause you pain,” the maw said.

Pain is just pain, Velim tried to say, but heard only the wet inflation of their lungs.

“We have opium,” suggested the woman.

Velim’s eyelids fluttered, searching for the sound of her voice.  The leather straps firm on their upturned hands strained against the weak twitch of their limbs.  Their back ached like they’d been skinned.  They winced as Unger plucked off another scale.

“Couldn’t spare opium for me,” he grunted.  His legs clanked on the polished tile.

We had no opium, they wanted to say.  The gag still stank of ether, burning their eyes and tearing down their raw throat.

“Try this,” the voice that was Unger’s but softer said.  Velim couldn’t see what he held up, but felt the slice of a scalpel in their arm and rough fingers pushing a hard seed beneath their skin.  They whimpered.

Unger ripped out another scale and laughed when their body twitched.

They cut the inferior vena cava and fed their heart to the seething black void in the middle of the room.  It floated off their hand, coaxed forth on black tendrils that blackened the muscle.  Their claws cracked and crumbled away to ash.  The scales peeled back, the skin beneath blackening and muscle withering.  The bones of their hands charred, each fragment drawn into the void.  It smelled of afterbirth and vinegar.

Gale put his head down.  No trace of Velim but their badge in the grass beneath the infirmary.  His head pounded, the ache in his chest demanded attention.  Security checked the watching eye on the bridge, the wards on the doors, no sign of Velim or anyone else that night. He found himself walking the Sea Ward, and almost didn’t recognize the stairwell or the worn wooden sign for Lonzok’s Arcane Supply.  He opened the door, the familiar warmth of magic and incense greeting him.  

Lonzok looked up from the bookshelf he was stocking, his spectacles shining strangely in the gray daylight filtering in through small windows set high in the wall.  “Surprised to see you in the daylight,” he grunted, “in for the usual?”

Gale sighed.  “Yes.  No time for browsing today, I’m afraid.”

Lonzok presented the tray to Gale.  It rattled with its usual selection of odd trinkets.  Gale looked at the offerings, each a pittance for the waxing hunger of the orb.

“Do you have anything… more?” Gale asked, “something with a greater charge.”

Lonzok smiled knowingly and tucked the tray away.  “As a matter of fact, I do.  Came into it not long ago.”

Gale leaned in.  “What do you have?”

“If it’s concentrated magic you need, I can get you a pint or two of black dragon blood.  The genuine stuff, not some swill from a caged dragonling.  Fresh from the source, it’s potent if you know how to process it for extraction.  I’d cut a deal for a repeat customer,” Lonzok explained, setting a vial of blood on the desk.  

The orb lurched for the viscous red-black liquid.  Gale picked up the vial.  The orb throbbed, hungry.

“That’s already purified,” Lonzok explained, “fresh from the living beast.”

Gale felt the power of it, the weave primed for extraction.  The orb lashed.  Gale considered the things in his tower he hadn’t yet sold -- ancient tomes, the statuette of Mystra, the artifacts and trinkets he couldn’t bear to be rid of.  Dragon blood of this potency may silence the orb for a month, time enough to search for Velim unimpeded.

“Very well,” Gale conceded to the hunger, “let us deal.”

Dim light filtered through the slats between the boards of the crate.  Splinters dug into Velim where the wood wore their raw skin ragged.  They ached like a bug shoved in a box.  They willed their leaden limbs to move.  Their right arm throbbed numbly where Lonzok drove the seed beneath their skin.  The sutures pulled tight, professionally done.  The woman must be a surgeon, whoever she is.

Gods, they put some faith in that thing, Velim thought as they tested the flimsy hempen binds on their wrists and feet.  The cloth gag still stunk of ether, stinging the cracking skin of their lips.  Magic buzzed discordantly outside the thin barrier of wood. The moans of another trapped creature echoed forlornly.  A storehouse or a warehouse, not the place with the operating table.

Acid dripped from their claws and onto the rope.  Sulfurous smoke billowed up from the burning fiber.  They winced at the heat on their scoured skin as acid pooled on the floor of the crate.  Sulfur fumes choked Velim’s senses as the wood beneath them eroded.  They closed their eyes against the sting and woke again with a gasp that ravaged their scorched throat and sent them into a coughing fit.  The ripped the gag out of their mouth and retched.

Heartbeat loud in their ears, they ran their hands over the rough floor of the crate until their claws caught in the deep gouges the acid left behind.  Another dose of sedative coursed through their body in response to their adrenaline, dragging them back under.  Velim focused on the creaking pain in their shoulders and shifted their weight against the side of the crate until it tipped over and they crashed into the floor, unconscious.

The creature moaned again, morose at the sound of the padlock on the heavy door clicking open.  Velim’s arms buckled as they tried to push themself out of the twisted position they’d fallen into.  It clicked and howled in indignation, drowning out the clanking footsteps approaching Velim’s crate.

The storehouse sat third in a row of identical boxy brick structures set back from the docks on the Sea Ward and invisible in the hustle and bustle of ships and sailors.  The steel service door was locked with a padlock that whirred with wards Gale felt over the hot seething of the orb in his chest.  The keeper, a tall elven woman, grunted with the effort of turning the key.  A series of locks tripped inside, clicking in the static silence of sleet pattering on the ground.

She hauled the door open, putting her full weight against it to get it moving.  The swing of the door passed over four wards carved into the concrete floor, each glowing in turn as they activated.

“Quite the advanced security system you have there,” Gale commented in an effort to fill space, “the circuit goes all the way around the structure of the building?”

“You'd have to ask Lonzok.” The keeper held the door for him.

Gale peered down the long brick side of the building until the keeper gently nudged him inside.  The trilling of the manticore caged on the far wall drowned out the sound of sleet on the roof.  It paced, howling at them through the narrow slots between bars and working a single large claw through like a cat pawing at the crack beneath a door.

“Don’t worry about Milo,” she nodded at the beast, “we're holding her for a menagerie.  She's loud, but pretty girl wouldn't hurt a fly.”

Gale lowered his voice, doubting her assurances.  “What a treasure trove this place must be, have you worked for Lonzok long?”

She nodded. “Old School friends, he calls on me when he has a beast he needs kept down.”  She stopped at a wobbly wooden table and simple chair with a heavy leather coat draped over the back and picked up the pry bar leaned against it.

Gale stared at the coat.  Even in the dim warehouse, it seemed familiar.  The wear on the shoulders and cuffed sleeves nagged at his mind.  He looked at the coat, and at the tall woman.  “Are you working with a Vulture?”

“That’s mine,” Unger clanked out of the stacks of crates.  He crossed his arms, his brass legs shining, “took you long enough.”

“And you are?” Gale held out his hand. 

“Unger the Gold,” Unger crushed Gale’s hand in his grip.  He sniffed, his crooked nose twitching, “used to be a Vulture.”

The coat still bothered him, and he stared at the oilcloth hood until his guts dropped into the void. “It’s a bit small for you.”

“You callin’ me fat, wizard?” Unger scowled, then laughed and slapped Gale's back, “I'm kiddin’.  Let's get set up.  And just so you know: it looks like a person, but it ain't.  You seen the product for yourself already, so you know.”

“Come on, Unger, while the sedative still works.” The keeper handed him the prybar.

Unger approached a crate, askew from the others surrounding it.  As he wedged the prybar beneath the top, the crate exploded with a thunderous crack that sent the broad man flying into a wooden barrel. It split open, spilling a viscous silvery black substance over his head.  Unger wiped at the oil clinging to his face.

Gale covered himself against the hail of splinters that rained from the shattered crate.  He blinked the dust out of his eyes and grabbed the Vulture’s coat, holding it up like a shield as the dragon uncoiled from the crate and fell on Unger.

Unger’s body convulsed as Velim’s weight knocked the wind from him.  They snarled with jagged teeth, a screech rolling from their ragged throat.  Unger thrashed, but the acid dripping off Velim’s claws sizzled in the mechanisms of his brass legs and they seized.  The stench of burning flesh filled the room as they dug their fingers into his throat, the tissue coming away in strings of charred flesh. 

The keeper readied a spell, but Velim flung their’s faster.  A flash of green streaked between rows of crates, and the keeper screamed as her face melted away.  She pawed at her curdling flesh before falling. 

Velim staggered back from Unger’s body and collapsed.  The concrete floor leached what remained of the warmth from their body.  The sudden brightness from the lantern on the table drove a blade of nausea into their stomach, and they hissed as they leaned heavily on a nail lodged in a shard of wood.  The nail pierced their right palm, and they yanked it out as they forced themself to their knees.  The room spun and their hand throbbed dully, the sedative blunting the pain as another dose surged into their bloodstream.  They gripped the wood shard like an anchor, spine curling over and pressing their forehead to the cold concrete.

Velim braced their right arm against the floor.  Their vision resolved on the neat stitches between quills and scabs, and they drove the nail beneath them.  Blood welled up and obscured the site, but they continued levering the nail up until the sutures broke.  The sedative numbed the pain as they clawed for the little metallic seed and ripped it out of their skin.  They shook it off their claw and it made a hard little splat on the floor in the moment before they finally doubled over and vomited stomach acid onto the concrete.

“Gods, Velim!” 

The sound of their name pierced through the nausea and they rose on their knees as footsteps approached them, meeting the voice with a clumsy lash and wordless snarl that connected weakly with the stranger's shoulder.  The familiar voice yelled as Velim doubled over again and a violet woolen coat dropped to the ground, an acid burn eating away at the sleeve.  They blinked hard against the onslaught of the sedative, but their muscles went rubbery despite their resistance.  Heavy fabric settled over their bare back, pushing them further into the concrete.

Warm hands held them steady, their leaden head lolling back.  The stranger pulled the coat around their shoulders.  Their coat, they knew it by the smell of the beeswax they sealed the leather with, deadening the sharpness of sweat and blood clinging to their body.  He cradled their face, pushing mats of hair out of their eyes.

“Velim, can you hear me?” Gale asked, his voice low.  The manticore howled at the commotion.

Velim grimaced at his question, flashing their teeth.  Gale thought they might try to bite him, but they just lurched forward into his shoulder.  He cradled their head against his heart, their body shivering.

“That’s alright, just listen to the sound of my voice,” Gale’s heart slammed against his chest.  The orb reached out for them, caressing their face with burning filaments of weave.  He could have them.  Right now, drain them away to nothing and feed the orb a piece of Tiamat so powerful, a meal so satisfying, that it might not bother him for the remainder of his natural life.

The thought arrived so quickly and so selfishly that a knife twisting between his ribs may have been less painful.  He pulled Velim closer.

“I’ve got you,” Gale counted the steps he’d taken around the building, how many steps to the intersection closest to his mother’s house, “just hold on to me, I’ll get you out of here.”

“Please don’t…” Velim stammered, their voice giving out to ragged breathing.

“I won’t -- I-I’m --” Gale checked his calculations one more time, “I've got you.  Just hold on, I’m getting us out of here.” He adjusted his grip, hooking his arm around their waist and adjusting their arms over his shoulders.  They held onto his neck, the tips of their filed claws grazing his shoulders.

“Complicare viam,” he spoke, the words becoming truth in a gust of cold wind.  

Sleet dripped down the back of his shirt and melted on Velim’s hair.  He held them until the vertigo of traversing dimensions subsided, then hauled them to their feet.  They stumbled, knees buckling beneath their own weight.  Gale propped them against the wall of the alley to button their coat and pull up their hood.  He thanked the gods that the scabby black skin on Velim’s legs looked like boots in the dark.

Velim blinked up at the cloudy sky, letting Gale ease their arms through the sleeves of their coat.  He took their weight again, stooping so Velim could rest their arm across his shoulders.  They struggled to lift their legs, each step half-dragging through the mud until they found a stumbling rhythm with Gale pushing them forward.  

“Almost there,” Gale panted as they turned the corner into his mother's neighborhood.  The gas streetlamps flickered eerily off the sleet melting into the gutters.

Velim’s knees buckled as they lost consciousness, bringing them both down in the cold street.  Velim blinked back awake with a low groan, ice chilling their skin.  Gale glanced down the street at his mother’s stoop, just a half block away.  The orb throbbed in his chest, still reaching for the dragon in his arms. 

“Not far now,” Gale pushed wet hair out of Velim’s eyes, “I’m going to carry you.”

Velim nodded, letting Gale sweep his arm beneath their knees.  He staggered back to his feet and shifted their weight against his chest, each step fell forward harder than the last until he reached the short staircase leading to his mother’s stoop.  He braced himself for the final exertion, breath wheezing through his teeth, and surged to the top of the stairs where he let Velim down gently, holding them until they found their feet again.  Once he was sure they wouldn’t fall, he reached for the knocker and slammed it against the door until someone answered.

“What?” Charrel’s anger dropped away as she took in the scene on the front step.  Her long ears fell slack in surprise as the frustration that had rocketed her out of bed dissipated in a cloud of inert steam. “By the Gods, Mr. Dekarios,” was all she could manage in a small voice.

“Prepare a room and wake my mother, it’s an emergency.” Gale mustered his most authoritative voice, but Charrel was already helping him drag Velim across the threshold and lower them down on a bench in the foyer.

Velim traced the designs carved in the velvet upholstery, watching Charrel and Gale bicker.  Gale locked the front door, then warded it, and stormed up the stairs past Charrel yelling for his mother.  The commotion faded into footsteps above them.  The feeling came back to their toes with a prickling sensation.  Their arm and hand throbbed.

Gale and Charrel rushed back down the stairs, and Velim’s stomach churned as they were hoisted to their feet and carried up the stairs.  The patterns in the wallpaper morphed, birds stretching their feathers and turning to watch Velim pass by.  Gale and Charrel carried them into a bedroom lit with the low glow of an oil lamp on the desk and set them on the desk chair.

“Get out,” Charrel demanded of Gale.

“Get out?  What do you mean ‘get out’?” Gale’s voice didn’t rise above a harsh whisper, but his grip on Velim tightened.

“I mean what I say, Mr. Dekarios, now get out and let your friend some modesty,” she hissed, but her hands were gentle in prying Velim away.

Velim noticed the callouses on her fingertips as she eased them onto the bed, and thought dimly that she must play some kind of string instrument.  Gale’s vigor dissipated as he released them, holding their hand.  They left a smudge of blood behind on his palm as they finally slipped free of his grasp.

“Gale,” Morena lingered in the door in her housecoat.  Beside her, Delores and Dorothea blinked sleepily through curtains of curly brown hair mussed from sleep.  

Gale hurried out of the room and closed the door behind him so Del and Dot couldn’t see inside.  

Dot blinked up at him, her stormy gray eyes narrowed suspiciously as she pulled her curls back into a messy bun.  “Who’s that?”

“Is that who the matchmaker set him up with?” Del asked through a yawn.  She wiped the tears out of her cloudy eyes.

“Go back to your rooms,” Morena said through her teeth.

Her daughters looked at her skeptically, but both turned back on Gale in their own time.

“Go back to bed, it’s none of your concern,” Gale snapped.

Del blinked, full awake.  She ran her hand through her hair, but it fell back into place.  “What’s none of my concern?  Don’t you have your own tower to bring your dates back to, or would you rather spend the night in your childhood bedroom?”

“Delores,” Morena snarled.

Del matched Gale’s confrontational stare.  Dot grabbed her sister’s arm and dragged her back to her bedroom.  She waved to Gale as she slipped back into her own bedroom across the hall and closed the door.  Morena walked past Gale, gesturing him towards the sitting room.  She pinched the bridge of her nose.  Gale followed, shoulders slumping under his mother's scrutiny.

Morena sat in her rocking chair and folded her hands in her lap.  Gale sat on the long sofa across from her, avoiding her stern gaze.

���Gale, would you like to tell me what happened?” She asked, her voice measured.

Gale shrunk, his body responding to a tone of voice he had known before his feet reached the floor from the couch he was sitting on.  He gripped the brocade upholstery and blinked back tears.  When the onslaught didn’t stop, he buried his face in his hands.  His mother waited.

When Gale looked back into his mother’s stone eyes, the words spilled from him in an unstoppable tide.  He stared at the blood smear on his hand as he told his mother about his search for Velim and what he intended to do with the dragon.  He covered the aching black scars beside his eye when he explained the reason for his drastic measures.  He sobbed outright when he begged her forgiveness for all the time he’d been gone.  He was still crying when Morena sat down beside her son.  She rubbed his back and leaned against his shoulder, humming a soft lullaby beside him until he stopped sobbing.

The throbbing in Velim’s arm woke them.  They rolled over and covered it with their palm, pressing down on the flimsy bandage until the scab slipped.  Daylight streamed through the gaps in the curtains.  Velim squeezed their eyes shut against the light until the stinging pain drove them out of bed.  They leaned on the wall, picking up their coat from the back of the desk chair on their way to the bathroom, and closed the door behind them.

The water inside the tub steamed, the washbasin full of clean water.  Some kind soul whose face they couldn’t recall left fresh clothes and towels on the table beside the bathtub.  They dug for the bag of holding sewn into the lining of their coat and removed their surgery kit and a roll of gauze, dropped it on the table, and peeled away the stained bandages.  They dunked their wounded hand and forearm into the washbasin and scrubbed with soap until both injuries were red and raw, then studied them.

One all the way through puncture and one gash too open to stitch up.  They turned their hand over and flexed it where the nail had pierced their palm, matching the two holes dorsal and palmar.  They tested the movement, touching each fingertip to their thumb in turn.  It ached when they moved, but like a bruise and not a ruptured tendon.  When they turned their forearm over, some of the quills sat at odd angles.  They opened their surgery kit and picked out a set of forceps and one of the clean towels, then leaned their forearm on the table and plucked off the skewed quills.  They blotted at the blood welling up from the base.

They stripped the night dress and clambered into the tub.  Their body ached in the hot water, and slipped under the surface and let the world go thick and quiet until their lungs burned for air.  When they surfaced, their fingers were wrinkled.  They combed out their hair and washed the blood and sweat from it, soap clouding the water.  When the water cooled, they stepped out and scrubbed until the raw skin bled from the pinprick scabs where the scales were plucked.

They reveled in the feel of clean clothes and properly tightened bandages, the shirt supple from years of wear but missing the tie so it sat wide over their collarbones and left the scars down their chest plainly visible.  They held the collar closed as they approached the bedroom door and paused to listen for strangers in the hallway.

“Oh, good!  You’re awake,” Tara exclaimed, emerging halfway through a porthole above the wardrobe.

Velim startled back into the bed, knocking their already aching legs on the bedpost.

“Oh, my apologies,” Tara sat primly on top of the wardrobe, “I should have announced myself.  In any case, no need to listen for danger.  Morena sent the girls away this morning, and Gale received his scolding last night.  It’s only myself, Mrs. Dekarios, and dear Charrel.  Mrs. Dekarios sent me up to check on you.”

“Where is Gale?” Velim asked, rubbing their aching shin.

“Taking urgent meetings with his colleagues at Blackstaff,” Tara explained, “he’s been making calls since before dawn, I expect he should return past lunchtime.”

“I see,” Velim fussed with the fresh bandages on their arm.

“Fear not, doctor, I’ve been keeping vigil since I heard.  No ruffian is getting through that window without a good deal of scorching,” she flicked her tail at the closed curtains, “Mrs. Dekarios is expecting lunch downstairs.  I would appreciate it if you joined us.”

Tara disappeared back through the porthole and Velim heard her soft landing on the hallway carpet.  Velim followed Tara’s flagging tail down the hall until she vanished around the curve of the main staircase and left them alone on the landing.  Velim hesitated, tracing the carpet runner down the sun-dappled stairway -- much like the stairway in the Hazelight home, with windows set into the eaves letting the light in.  The stairs Everon chased them up with a kitchen knife.  They were whipped for it when they got the knife from him and chased him back down and into the arms of his waiting mother.  The chill of her hateful glare waited just around the corner.

Velim ignored the way their stomach clenched and took it one stair at a time until their hand passed into a sunbeam on the railing.  Their remaining scales flashed, inky black and glossy.  They pulled their hand away as though the gentle warmth burned and crossed their arms tight across their chest as they turned on their heel and walked quickly back to the bedroom.

The door clicked closed.  Velim sucked in deep, hungry breaths while their heart slammed against their ribcage.  They blinked back tears, and repeated against the tight wall of their throat, “I’m safe.  No one is going to hurt me here.”

The panicked animal at the back of their mind railed against them with worst-case scenarios.  They looked for a place to hide, some dark and tight corner of the room, and found the nook between the bed and the far wall.  Their head swam, body swamped by hyperventilation and the aching twitch in their fingers threatening to throw open the windows and jump out.  

Velim staggered into the corner and curled up, digging their claws into their knees and focusing on the pinpoint pressure on the joints.  Panic hammered at their defenses, tremors climbing up their spine.  Hot tears ran down their face, tracing odd patterns between the scales on their cheekbones.  They sucked in deliberately slow, stuttering breaths through their clenched teeth.

“Oh dear,” Tara mewed from her perch on the wardrobe.  She sighed and shook out her wings with a soft rustle, then left again.  She landed softly in the hallway.

Velim’s heart was just beginning to slow when Tara returned, gliding off the dresser and trotting up to rub against Velim’s knees.  Velim peeled their claws off their legs and scratched behind her ears.

“Doctor, I’ve arranged for lunch to come to you,” she explained.

A knock came at the door.

“Come in, Mrs. Dekarios,” Tara called.

Velim’s hand stilled, their body freezing tight.  

Tara pushed her head up into their hand.  “You’re okay, Doctor.  Morena already knows, and I’m afraid this conversation must occur while Mr. Dekarios is still out making his calls.  And besides that, we really must get some food in you.”

Morena set the serving tray down on the desk, the smell of hot coffee mixing with her rose perfume.  She pulled out the chair and sat across from Velim, taking her own cup of tea from the tray and sipping it.

“Gale tells me you prefer coffee, Charrel brewed it with cloves and ginger for their warming properties,” Morena said, studying the tea leaves drifting to the bottom of her cup, “she insisted I tell you that.”

Velim pressed their thumb into their injured palm, still stiff and cold despite the hot bath and now clammy with panic.  They swallowed the fear in their throat.  “That’s kind of her.”

Morena waited.  Velim felt her eyes on them, studying their loose hair and the pattern of scabs on their arms.  The scrutiny sent their heart hammering again.  The frigid hatred of Ulana Hazelight haunted the chair Morena currently occupied, as though she was hanging over Morena’s shoulder with her chestnut hair pulled back in a tight weave of braids and whispering all their horrid actions into her ear.

Tara leaned against their knees, but they made no move to pet her.  The shade of Ulana Hazelight froze them in place, but she dissipated as Morena got up from the chair and took a seat on the unmade bed beside Velim.  She leaned down and offered Velim a handkerchief.  

Velim flinched at the movement.  They wiped their eyes and blew their nose, then balled the handkerchief up in their palm.  “Thank you.”

Morena sat herself on the bench at the foot of the bed, adjusting her skirts and pulling her embroidery project from her pocket.  She hummed quietly as she worked the needle through.

Velim’s heart calmed and they unwound themself from the corner.  They leaned against the wall until they found their balance, then relocated to the desk chair and picked up the coffee, warming their hands on the mug.  The warm drink settled their stomach enough for them to realize how ravenous they were.  Morena continued her embroidery.

“I’m sorry for the trouble I’ve caused you.” Velim balanced the fork on the empty plate.

Tara jumped into their lap with a huff and balanced herself in an indignant loaf on their knees.  “Far more trouble had you died, Doctor.  Do you have any idea what kind of state Gale was in when you didn’t arrive for dinner?”

“I’m sorry for that, too, then,” Velim sighed.

“Are you done?” Morena asked without looking up.

Velim watched out the crack between the curtains at the empty courtyard below.  “Yes.”

“Come sit, please.” Morena moved to one side of the bench and patted the empty seat beside her.

Velim sat, crossing their arms across their chest as though they would stop being a dragon if they just hid enough of the evidence from sight.  Tara had enough of that, though, and followed them from the desk chair to the bench.  She settled in Velim’s lap, pushing under their folded arms until they reluctantly extracted a hand to pet her.

“Thank you for bringing Gale back,” Morena said, her stern face drawn, “last night, he came home for the first time in more than a year.  I am grateful to you, and glad to finally meet you, although I wish the conditions were within your control.”

Velim traced the timeline in their mind.  One year previous Gale had his run-in with the Netherese magic, and then vanished from public life.  They wondered if he had to take desperate measures to control the parasite from the beginning.  

When Morena noticed that Velim was lost in thought, she continued with a small smile, “Gale is working to secure another option for disguise.  Until then, we will keep the blinds drawn.  You may stay here for as long as you like, but I believe it would be best for both of you to leave the city while the investigation runs its course.  I can only turn away your visitors so long.”

“He hoped he would return in time for lunch,” Tara sighed, “I always tell him that bureaucracy takes time.  When Mr. Dekarios hurried out the door this morning, he was so hopeful that he would return and prepare breakfast before you woke.”

Velim smiled at that.  “He knows he doesn’t owe me for dinner, doesn’t he?”

“Oh please,” Tara scoffed, “he talks about repaying the favor all the time.”

“Has Gale told you much about us?” Morena asked.

Velim began to relax, the tension easing out of their shoulders and leaving a throbbing ache in its place.  “Some, mostly about his sisters.  I understand he’s much older than them?”

Morena nodded, working her needle through the eye of the crane in her embroidery hoop.  “By ten years for Noelle and fourteen for Dorothea and Delores.  He helped raise them after his stepfather died.”

“Stepfather?” Velim echoed.

“Yes, stepfather,” Morena confirmed, “I met Gale’s father when I was still very young.  He fled his familial responsibilities in the Silver Marches, but he had to return shortly before Gale’s birth,” Morena trailed off, studied the stitches of her embroidery, “ten years later, I received his will as the only surviving inheritor for the family.”

“I’m sorry that happened to you,” Velim watched her work the thread back through, pulling a downy gray feather into the bird’s body, “he never mentioned that.”

“He never met his father, and I don’t speak much of him. He doesn’t have much to tell you,” Morena pulled another feather into place, “I’m sure you’ve had more than your fair share of losses.”

“Yes, haven’t we all?” Velim tried to shake the oppressive memory of their years at the Hazelight home from their mind, a shadow cast over Ortheon Hazelight’s proud expression at their first amputation.  Instead, the hurt pinged against the memory of Luz’s body in the mass grave at Ulivin during the smallpox outbreak.  They settled on the grief of that memory instead.

Morena waited for Velim to elaborate, but they stared down at the tortoiseshell patterns in Tara’s fur and said nothing.  She set her embroidery in her lap.  “Is your family aware of your condition?”

Velim shook their head.  “Only Jada.  Peiotr and Helena don’t know.”

“Have you considered telling them?” Morena asked.

Velim shook their head again.  “The less who know, the better.”

Morena angled her body toward them.  “I have a proposition for you, and I would like to put it to you before Gale returns so that when he brings it up, you already have your answer.”

Velim waited for her to continue.

“I’ve staffed his father’s ancestral home in the Silver Marches with a skeleton crew for years to keep the place functional.  Willowdarn Manor, it’s been in the Halavar family for ten generations, and Gale is the last of the line.  It rightfully belongs to him, but I’ve never extended the offer because of its remote location.  Now, it seems a blessing,” Morena laid a hand on Velim’s shoulder, “I would send you both out there while the ruckus dies down and rumors of Tiamat’s Spawn running rampant among the townsfolk dissipate.”

“Does anyone else know about Willowdarn?” Velim asked, anxiety churning in their chest.

“Just myself and Gale, as the home is his birthright,” Morena assured them, “if you decide to go, we must make the arrangements quickly before the roads become impassable.”

Velim considered their options, glancing at the curtains and imagining the city beyond boiling with talk of another sacking on their doorstep at the hands of Tiamat’s own black dragon.  It wouldn’t be long until a mob with torches and pitchforks made their way to Morena’s door intent on tearing them limb from limb.  A desolate swamp sounded like paradise in comparison, but perhaps that was the dragon talking.

Morena gathered her embroidery and stood up to leave.  “Take your time and consider my offer,” then a small smile crossed her face, “I can't hold Peiotr off for long, so while you may remain in here until supper, I must insist that you join us for the meal.”

“Then I thank you for the warning,”  Velim smiled, and felt a buzz of warmth as Morena returned it on her way out the door, “Tara, would you be joining us at Willowdarn?”

Tara hopped off their lap.  “No, Doctor, someone must care for the tower while Mr. Dekarios is away.  I’ll keep an eye on your flat, as well, but it would just be the two of you.”

“And the staff,” Velim clarified.

“Yes, and the staff,” Tara echoed, flitting up to the top of the wardrobe, “get some rest, Doctor, I’ll send Gale up once he’s home.  Is there anything you’d like me to retrieve from your flat?”

“There’s a journal on my desk, if you can carry it,” Velim requested, thinking of the magical circuits scratched into the pages, “do you know where it is?”

“I absolutely can, and I do,” Tara purred, then was gone through the porthole.

Velim wondered how long Tara had been watching and how much she had known.  They had never heard of a familiar keeping secrets from their wizard before, but as they sat in Gale’s childhood bedroom wearing his sister’s old clothes, they figured there was a first time for everything.

[witchiestwitch]

Reunion at Joyous Guard X

[itscolossal]

Deniz Kurdak Crafts Fragility and Resilience in Embroidered Depictions of Porcelain

[gloriousmonsters]

love when you can ask the Narrator why the Princess is a Princess and he's like 'well i uhhhh YOU did that. maybe it's because uh... something something about her being above you... but still approachable... look i don't want to analyze or anthropomorphize your--' my guy. i am a primal being of Order and Eternity and Shaping. You're the one who convinced me I was some dude and were quite willing to take credit for shaping my view on the world through narration five seconds ago. Are you gonna look me in the eye and tell me the desire to interpret something worthy of adoration and more powerful than me as a dommy princess is written in the very nature of the universe or are you going to show me your browser history like a man

[sevdrag]

Remember my boy. My mans. My sweetest of mans. (And his tan brother I lost years ago.)

Look how stupid he was! He was just a little guy! That was 15 years ago!!!

(He comes home tomorrow. In a box. Sent to ashes with his favorite pink kickeroo.)

[troythecatfish]

[wildstar25]

MiqoMarch Day 18 - Legacy

"This legacy I've inherited; these remnants of your Oblivion..."

[perhaps-in-anotherdream]

[CN] Li Zeyan’s Candlelight Date (Eng Translation)

⌚Warning⌚ This post contains detailed spoilers for a date, 烛火之约, that is yet to be released on the global server! ♡

[Translation Under the Cut]

•─────⋅◍♡◍⋅─────•

【Subbed Video】

─────────────

【Chapter 1】 

After being stuck in traffic for over forty minutes on the way to the airport, I slam on the brakes once again, staring in despair at the unmoving stream of cars ahead. 

The weather outside is gloomy, the sky overcast with heavy dark clouds, and the wind howls through the crevices of the car windows. 

Even though the evening has barely fallen, the sky is already darkened completely. 

MC: Feels like it’s gonna be pouring hard... 

MC: I don’t know if Li Zeyan’s flight has been affected. 

Just as I am about to look up the flight information, his call comes in. 

LZY: I’ve arrived. 

MC: That’s great! It looks like there’s gonna be a heavy downpour outside, so thank goodness you landed on time. 

MC: On the downside, though, I’m stuck in traffic... 

LZY: Given the weather, I could guess that already. 

LZY: Don’t rush, safety first. Turn on your headlights and take your time. 

MC: Don’t worry, I promise to follow the traffic rules~ So, I must apologize to CEO Li and ask him to wait for me a little longer~ 

LZY: No worries, I’ll just take this time to think about what to make for Pudding. 

The day Li Zeyan is returning from his business trip also happens to be Pudding’s birthday, and we’ve planned to have a small celebration at home. 

As I picture Li Zeyan making a birthday cake for the little kitten, the corners of my lips involuntarily curl upwards. 

MC: Pudding’s parents are so thoughtful! The little birthday boy is blessed with the luck of tasty treats today. 

MC: Rest assured, I’ll definitely get you to Pudding safely and in one piece. 

LZY: With a certain someone “braving the wind and waves” to come pick me up, I’m already luckier than those who can’t get a cab. 

MC: Hehe, this time it’s my turn to be the prince who cuts their way through thorns and thistles to rescue the sleeping princess! 

LZY: Well, it seems like I’ll have to wait a hundred years then.

MC: ...you just told me to take my time. 

A soft chuckle transmits from the other end of the phone, and carried by the car’s stereo, it spreads through the entire space, giving me the illusion as if he is right next to me. 

LZY: It’s not contradictory. 

LZY: Even if it takes you a hundred years, I’ll still wait.

–

──────

[Tidbits]:  This conversation here is a reference to one of Li Zeyan’s earliest ASMRs, “Sleeping Beauty,” where LZY said in response to MC’s question that if he were the prince, he wouldn’t let the girl he loves wait a hundred years. Whereas, in the reverse scenario here, he tells you that if he were the sleeping princess and you the prince, he would gladly wait a hundred years (இдஇ; ) though, for a man who literally did wait 17+10000(*n) years for you— a hundred years is, well, still unbearable to think about ahah (ﾉಥ益ಥ) 

–

•─────⋅◍♡◍⋅─────•

【Chapter 2】

I park the car near the exit, and as soon as I look up, I see Li Zeyan walking towards me, dragging his suitcase. 

I immediately push open the car door and run up to him, throwing myself into his arms as hard as I can. Both his hands are occupied by luggage, and I collide against him so hard that he staggers back a few steps. 

His familiar scent wraps around me securely, instantly dispelling all the tension and fatigue from the road. I nuzzle against his chest contentedly, earning a soft chuckle from above my head. 

LZY: Why the lack of courtesy right off the bat?

MC: I haven’t seen you for days, and I’ve made our big busy person wait so long. I can’t afford to be polite anymore. 

Li Zeyan smiles, lets go of the luggage, and draws me into his arms, lowering himself to rest his head on my shoulder. 

A soft sigh sounds next to my ear, and I sense how exhausted he is. I put aside my playful thoughts and stroke the back of his head. 

MC: I hoped you could get some rest after getting off the plane, but I didn’t expect this weather… 

MC: I’ll head out earlier next time! 

LZY: You already got here much faster than I expected. 

LZY: Let’s go, there’s a birthday boy waiting at home. It’s raining hard outside; I’ll drive on the way back. 

┈┈┈┈┈┈ ✄ ┈┈┈┈┈┈

As we head home, rain begins pouring down in torrents. Even with the wipers operating at their highest speed, the visibility only clears for a fleeting moment. 

Through the impenetrable curtain of rain, the emergency lights of nearby vehicles flicker faintly. The water pooling on the ground reflects the surroundings like mirrors, and the streets have transformed into an utterly bizarre kaleidoscopic labyrinth. 

I hold up my phone to record the scene outside the window when suddenly, a blinding flash of lightning splits the sky not far away, followed by a rolling thunder approaching from the distance, pressing closer and closer. 

I can’t help but shrink my neck and set my phone down. 

MC: This weather is just ridiculous… I’m sure today’s Moments posts are gonna be flooded with candid shots of the rainstorm. 

LZY: A certain someone has made significant strides. 

LZY: A few years back, you would get so nervous in this kind of weather that you’d grab onto other people’s clothes. Now, you'd just make a fuss about it on Moments. 

MC: Huh? When did I grab onto your clothes? 

I turn my head to look at him with a puzzled expression. Li Zeyan glances at me, and before he can even speak, a smile creeps onto the corners of his lips. 

LZY: That time when you asked me if I dared to like you. 

I freeze for a second, the familiar feeling of nervousness and anticipation surging to the forefront of my mind. 

Memories flood back along with the warmth of my cheeks, as I’m reminded of a similar night in the past mirroring this raging storm. 

The pitch-black darkness that descended after the power outage was so thick that one wouldn’t even be able to make out their own hand in front of them. I felt like danger, and the unknown would swallow me whole at any moment. But he was there with me, accompanying me for what felt like an eternity on that apocalyptic night. 

Back then, I felt like I couldn’t handle it on my own, so I wanted to cling to a straw, to hold onto this steady and exceptionally gentle person beside me. 

Snapping out of the reminiscence, I clear my throat to dispel my embarrassment. 

MC: Y-You don’t need to remember such things so clearly! 

MC: But come to think of it, ever since I met you, I don’t seem to have gotten rained on much. 

MC: Even if I forget my umbrella or can’t catch a ride, you always manage to “scoop” me up right on time. 

LZY: So, as a result, a certain someone has developed the bad habit of not checking the weather forecast before going out? 

MC: …It clearly taught me the good habit of how to “scoop” people up in crucial moments! 

The car stops at the intersection, waiting for the traffic light. Li Zeyan casts a glance my way, his lips curving into a smile as he strokes my head. 

LZY: Given that the person “scooping” me up is also the one I want to see, it does feel pretty good. 

His warm palm rests on my head for a moment before sliding down to my cheek with yearning. A small sense of satisfaction leaps in my heart, and I smile, poking his cheek. 

MC: I think I can understand why the prince braves countless perils to reach the princess.

MC: For this moment right now, I’m willing to endure any hardship~

–

──────

[Tidbits]:  The call-back of the apocalyptic night is from one of Li Zeyan’s earliest dates, “Doomsday Date,” where MC asks him if he’d dare to like her and if he’d dare to be by her side even if doomsday arrived – and the rest, as they say, is history, quite literally in this case ahah~ (இдஇ; ) 

–

•─────⋅◍♡◍⋅─────•

【Chapter 3】

“Bzzz!” 

As I step through the doorway and flip the switch for the pendant lamp, to my surprise, the light flickers and then abruptly goes out. 

The inside of the house is instantly taken over by the dimness from outside the windows. Pudding, who was originally crouching at the door to welcome us, lets out a yelp and scurries under the table. 

My mind automatically starts concocting a horror movie scenario, and I immediately step back a few paces. 

MC: What did the power suddenly go out? It was perfectly fine before I left... 

My words are barely out of my mouth when a series of extremely bright streaks of lightning flash outside the window. 

The howling gale rattles the window frames, while the water pipes exposed to the downpour on the side of the building, pelted by large raindrops, are making peculiar noises. 

The continuous flashes of lightning project the wildly swaying shadows of the trees onto the floor, making the storm outside seem even more terrifying. 

Li Zeyan sighs and steps forward, taking hold of my hand that is frozen in mid-air. 

LZY: Are there any spare lights or flashlights in the house? 

MC: Yes, there are, in my room... 

While saying this, I clutch Li Zeyan’s arm and carefully start walking towards my room. A hand reaches out and pulls me into a familiar embrace. 

LZY: Wasn’t a certain someone “scooping people up” pretty amazingly just now? Why are you so nervous now that we’re home? 

MC: ...I guess I’ve been overdoing it with the horror movies lately, and the after-effects are still a bit strong. 

I laugh awkwardly and, relying on the dim light of the flashlight, dig out a large, bulging bag from the storage box. 

MC: Rechargeable desk lamps, some decorative fairy lights, and lanterns. 

MC: They should work if we plug them into the power bank. 

LZY: ...That’s it? 

MC: They can provide light and serve as tools to set the ambiance. Isn’t that wonderful? 

Li Zeyan turns on a palm-sized rechargeable desk lamp and releases a small sigh. 

LZY: In that case, the gift I brought you can also be included to make up the difference. 

MC: Huh? What gift? 

Li Zeyan rummages through his suitcase, takes out an exquisitely wrapped box, and gestures for me to open it. 

I lean in closer and find a very charming candle holder with a glass cover nestled inside. 

MC: It’s so beautiful! As expected, CEO Li’s eye for things can never go wrong. 

LZY: Simultaneously doing the job of adding flowers to the brocade and delivering charcoal in snowy weather一 it definitely seems to be maximizing its value.  

LZY: Come on, let’s go and light up all the lamps that we can use first. 

┈┈┈┈┈┈ ✄ ┈┈┈┈┈┈

With me “lending a hand” by holding the flashlight through the entire process, dinner and Pudding’s salmon cake are soon prepared. 

Pudding, who had been hiding in the corner this entire time, also forgets his fear under the temptation of delectable food and begins prancing around again. 

After eating and drinking to our fill, I sit on the carpet with another small blanket, light a scented candle, and carefully set it in the candle holder Li Zeyan gifted me. 

Li Zeyan then casually plops down at the foot of the bed where I’m leaning, naturally stretching out his arm for me to use as a pillow. 

I look at Pudding grooming his fur not far away and can’t help but sigh with emotion. 

MC: Time sure flies! Pudding has grown another year older. I wonder what progress he’ll make this year. 

LZY: He wasn’t very brave when he was younger, but now he, too, looks after the house on his own and appears to be fairly calm and composed. 

MC: Why did you use “too“? I suspect you’re insinuating something about someone else. 

LZY: Just stating facts. 

LZY: The way a certain someone acted when she walked into the house earlier didn’t exactly resemble the “prince“ who came to pick me up. 

I glance again at the flashes of lightning and thunder rolling outside again, scratching my cheek awkwardly. 

MC: The house just went dark all of a sudden; I wasn’t mentally prepared. 

LZY: What about now? 

LZY: Are you still scared? 

I turned sideways to watch him. The dancing candlelight paints his side profile in a warm glow, and the subtle fragrance of the scented candle melds into his calm gaze, making me gradually relax. 

I hug his arm and pull him into my arms, beaming a wide smile at him. 

MC: I have my “fragrant princess“ in my arms now, and I fear neither getting swept by wind nor being battered by rain any longer. [3]

LZY: Are we sure about who’s in whose arms? 

MC: Does it really make a difference who’s in whose arms? 

Li Zeyan gives me a look that says “whatever you say,” and I smile victoriously at having my way before turning to glance at the pitch-black darkness outside the window.  

The small lights in the room are mirrored on the glass, reminiscent of stars, blurring into a cluster of halos by the unrelenting rain. 

Serenity and turmoil are separated by only a wall. I grasp his wrist and tilt my head, pillowing into his palm and nuzzling against it. 

MC: Luckily, you came back today. Otherwise, I would have definitely dragged you into “simmering a pot of telephone congee” with me all night long. [4]

LZY: That wouldn’t have been too bad either. 

MC: Well, that’s true, but it would have made me seem like I haven’t grown at all... 

I raise my head and look into his slightly puzzled gaze, feeling a little embarrassed as I lower my voice. 

MC: I’m clearly not a child anymore, and many of the things I used to fear shouldn’t be a big deal now. 

MC: Yet when running into situations where I’m not entirely confident, I can’t help feeling a little afraid. 

MC: For instance, a pitch-dark empty house, not being able to find the kitten, and a thunderstorm that I don’t know when will end. 

MC: I still can’t seem to be like you, to be able to keep myself from thinking the worst regardless of the kind of situation I’m confronted with... 

I soliloquize in a whispered tone, and the palm I’m resting my head on suddenly moves. I look up, and my fingers are immediately swept up in a reassuring warmth.

Li Zeyan is pillowing himself on my bolster, covered by a blanket that is clearly not big enough for him, creating for a rather comical scene. Yet, I find myself solely captivated by his extraordinarily serious gaze. 

He quietly watches me like this for some time before finally opening his mouth to respond. 

LZY: Then just be afraid. 

MC: ...Huh? 

LZY: Building courage doesn’t mean you should be absolutely fearless. 

LZY: If you have no reaction to the unknown and uncontrollable, that, on the contrary, is dangerous. 

LZY: For a dummy, knowing how to dodge in the right direction at a critical moment is also progress. 

He strokes the back of my hand meaningfully, and I clasp his fingers even more tightly in tacit understanding. 

In moments of fear and anxiety, I always want to hold onto something, to reassure myself that I’m not facing it alone. 

And this man in front of me, as fortune would have it, always happens to be within my reach, catching my insecurities and leading me along slowly. 

I think back to the first time I “grabbed onto” him, the gentleness in his tone that I had rarely seen, and I can’t help but laugh. 

MC: Well then, it seems I’ve been making progress since the first time I grabbed onto your clothes. 

LZY: Mm-hmm, it hasn’t been easy. 

MC: But I can only advance a little bit at a time. I’ve kept you waiting for so long. 

The corners of his lips curl up slightly, and his eyes, sparkling with a smile, gently embrace me. 

LZY: This isn’t work; nobody is asking anything from you. 

LZY: If you’re afraid, just light up a lamp.

–

──────

[Tidbits]

[3] LI ZEYAN WRITERS!!! CRIES AT THE SACRIFICE I HAD TO MAKE AND HOW THE BEAUTY OF THE WORDPLAY JUST GETS LOST IN TRANSLATION HERE 😭 anywho, as you might’ve already noticed, “rescuing the sleeping princess“ theme and the “seeming“ role reversal has been one of the running themes of this date. The term used here is 软香 (lit. meaning soft fragrance), which is usually used to refer to the delicate scent of a woman or a woman in general and, in the context of the times, a palace beauty. The full term MC uses here is 软香在怀 (lit. meaning having ‘soft fragrance’ in one’s arms), which also conveys a deep emotional closeness, a sense of security and comfort as scent is something very sensitive. What the writing does here is kill three birds with one stone— (i) conveying MC’s “prince and princess role reversal“ quip, while also delivering the emotions of the candlelight monologue two sentences prior, i.e., (ii) the fragrance melding into his calm gaze, the vivid imagery of her sensitivity to his presence itself, (iii) the reassuring effect of his being. 

[4] I’m gonna cry; this is such an adorable expression haha 😭 the term MC uses here is “煲电话粥,” which really does mean “simmering telephone congee.” The idea of it is to have a marathon phone call with sb, but it’s more intimate— similar to how simmering sth can take a long time and porridge essentially is a comfort food 😂 

–

•─────⋅◍♡◍⋅─────•

【Chapter 4】

The night is dark, and the rain seems to have weakened a bit. I hug the blanket and squeeze onto the small bed with Li Zeyan. No matter in which position we lay down, most of our bodies are pressed against each other. 

I watch the person beside me becoming a part of the scene I’ve been familiar with since my childhood days, and for a long time, I find myself unwilling to close my eyes. 

MC: It feels so surreal to have you and Pudding together at my place. 

MC: It’s like having guests at home, but at the same time, it feels like welcoming new members to the family. 

LZY: So, which one do you hope I am? 

MC: I’ve long regarded you as the latter in my heart, obviously. 

MC: However, this situation makes me seem like I’m not being a gracious host... 

MC: Having to deal with the bad weather is one thing, but who knew the electricity in the house would be unstable at a critical moment, and now my bed isn’t big enough either. 

I look up at the small pink pillow under Li Zeyan’s head and sigh softly. Li Zeyan, however, just smiles calmly and brushes aside the hair falling over my face. 

MC: Be careful when you roll over. If you’re afraid of falling off, just hug me a little tighter~ 

LZY: [i’m cRY at how he just plays along with you haha] It’s certainly something to be afraid of. 

Li Zeyan says this as he gets up to turn off the lights, and the room is plunged into darkness once again. 

I reach out my arms towards him and am immediately swept back into his arms. 

MC: Thank you, CEO Li~ How about I repay you with a goodnight kiss? 

LZY: That’s it? 

MC: Then what else do you want? 

I blink my eyes at him, and suddenly, he lifts his hand to cover my sight. 

A soft warmth captures my lips, swallowing my confusion. 

He holds me too tightly in the square of his arms, and his broad palm accidentally presses on my nose, causing my already erratic breathing to become even more difficult to maintain. 

I punch him indignantly, and Li Zeyan finally moves his hand away, his fingers cradling my face. 

LZY: Didn’t you say you wanted to repay me? 

MC: T-This isn’t what I had in mind! 

LZY: Is this not good? 

His warm finger pads caress the side of my face in a back-and-forth motion, leaving me with no refuge to escape but to gaze into his smiling eyes. 

LZY: Instead of letting your imagination run wild every time you’re scared, why not think about something that can put your mind at ease?  

LZY: For example, me. 

LZY: So, consider this as collecting a tip in advance to cover your memories.  

A soft chuckle drifts from above me, and he lifts my face again. With the last hint of light also overlaid, I close my eyes, welcoming this novel memory pertaining to the night’s darkness. 

┈┈┈┈┈┈ ✄ ┈┈┈┈┈┈

The next morning, the sky finally clears up. 

The entire city looks as if it has taken a bath. Under the early morning sunlight, there are glittering lights refracted by water droplets everywhere. 

I summon every bit of my self-control and more to extract myself from Li Zeyan’s warm embrace and rise early to make breakfast. 

Originally, I planned to have him take the day off and recover from jet lag, but as soon as he gets out of bed, he receives a call from LFG, saying there is an urgent matter that needs to be dealt with in person. 

I watch as a certain someone at the dining table finishes his breakfast with a sullen look on his face and can’t help but burst into laughter. 

MC: Who knew even CEO Li could show such a “rebellious” expression about having to work overtime. 

LZY: ...It’s just that I haven’t gotten over the jet lag yet.  

MC: Who told you not to sleep obediently last night? 

I stand up with a laugh before he can glare at me and push his suitcase to the door for him. Li Zeyan dons his coat, seems to hesitate for a moment, and then turns back to look at me. 

MC: What’s wrong? 

LZY: Nothing. 

MC: It doesn’t seem like you’ve left anything behind, have you? 

I look around to check while speaking, but I realize that Li Zeyan has kept his gaze trained on me, with no intention of searching for anything. 

I blink my eyes, and an adorable guess bubbles up in my heart. 

MC: Could it be that... CEO Li is unwilling to leave? 

Li Zeyan grips the handle of the suitcase, averts his eyes, and smiles. 

LZY: Let Pudding stay at your place for one more day. 

MC: No worries, we’ll get along perfectly. 

He doesn’t give a direct answer to my question, so I take it as his tacit assent and continue along with his words. 

LZY: He ate quite a lot last night, so feed him less cat food today. 

MC: Understood~ 

LZY: Be careful with the electricity today, and if you run into any issues, reach out to me right away. 

MC: Uh-huh, anything else you want to remind me of? 

I stare at him, smiling giddily. Li Zeyan opens his mouth, but in the end, he just displays a helpless expression and says nothing. 

The rare instance of not being able to find the words to say, the rare moments of being dumbstruck and not knowing how to reply, the rare scenario of dragging his feet about going to work... 

All of this shows that he is really unwilling to leave. 

I smile even happier and tiptoe up to lock my arms around his neck.  

Li Zeyan seems a bit puzzled, but he promptly supports my waist and arches an eyebrow, waiting for me to continue. 

MC: Hehe, consider this as a tip you’re paying in advance. 

MC: This way, whenever you feel overwhelmed in the future, you will think of only me. 

I mimic his words from last night, and even reach up to muss his hair. 

LZY: Little copycat. 

Li Zeyan seems to want to resist this “childish” act subconsciously, but his arms betray his honest feelings and draw me in even tighter. 

He looks at me with a silly smile on my face, about to say something when I suddenly feel a tickle on my ankle, as if something furry is rubbing against it. 

Just as I’m about to look down, my face is pinched by someone. 

I’m compelled to raise my head and see the sunlight falling on Li Zeyan. 

The locks of hair hanging over his forehead and eyelashes are all bathed in dazzling, golden-bright luster. He reminds one of a big cat who has just woken up, making people irresistibly want to get closer to him. 

And he does exactly as I wished, taking the initiative to bring this warmth to me. 

The distance between us is reduced to zero, and I naturally close my eyes, welcoming this kiss infused with the warmth of the sunlight. 

Even if a person grows accustomed to the humidity of this city, they will still rejoice when the sky clears and the sunshine beams down. 

Even for those who can see the person they love every day and kiss them whenever they want, they will still find that any small separation feels too long. 

The meow of the kitten rises from our feet, as if it also wants to participate in this wordless goodbye. I gently bite Li Zeyan’s lips, and he, rather reluctantly, pulls back just a bit. 

MC: Mr. Customer, you’re being too generous with your tip. 

With his eyes cast down, he continues to gaze at me, his breath still lingering at the edge of my lips. 

LZY: Because I’ve already fulfilled the conditions you set. 

LZY: Now that I’ve paid double the tip, I’m asking for an upgrade on the terms. 

He raises an eyebrow, as if he is genuinely negotiating with me. 

At such proximity, my mind is already a muddled mess, yet I still manage to capture the answer he desires from the look of yearning in his eyes. 

I strive to muster my willpower, rise on tiptoe, and kiss his lips again.

MC: Then you must work diligently and clock out early... 

MC: And who knows, perhaps I’ll suddenly appear when you’re missing me?

──────────────────────────────────────────

[pastafossa]

Haunted (Matt Murdock x TRT!Reader, Fic, SFW)🌧️

Right, so close to 3 years ago, I had an ask in my box: 'what would happen if TRT!Reader/Jane Hind lost her memory just before returning to Matt after her three months away', aka: just before point where they both confessed their love and got together in mainline TRT. So I wrote up a fairly angsty, no happy ending sort of fic about it, which you can find here. But there just felt like there was more to the story, and the idea of a sequel wouldn't leave me alone, so I've worked on it in little bits and pieces over the past few years and I'm finally ready to unleash that into the world now that it's been edited to my satisfaction.

This will have a happy ending and hurt/comfort, once we swim through a lot of Matt Suffering. <3 Ship: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Chapter Summary:

Leaving him like that shouldn’t have bothered you as much as it did. You didn’t know him. This man should have been nothing more than a stranger on the street, one you wouldn’t glance twice at, much less feel some ridiculous sense of attachment or obligation to. Yet the memory of walking out of his apartment still left you shaken whenever you allowed yourself to think too long on it.  He… shouldn’t have been alone. That was wrong, somehow.  There was no memory attached to the thought, no blinking sign you could point to that would justify your growing unease. You just knew it. You knew it in the way you knew how to breathe, how to blink, knowledge etched into your very bones over and over by an unfamiliar hand. And no matter what you did, no matter where you went, you were unable to escape the feeling that… that you’d made a terrible mistake, broken something good, tilted the world on its axis until the whole of the city, the earth, the very sky hung just a little crooked like an off-center painting.  Matt was alone.  You’d left him alone.  It was the right choice, one you’d made dozens if not hundreds of times before. Hell, it should have been even easier this time since there were no memories to hold you back. So… why did you feel so very sick?

Wordcount: 11, 805 words so, hilariously, about 3 times the length of Part 1

Warnings for this chapter: angst, alcohol, matt spiraling fairly badly, he throws some things, LOTS of TRT references and spoilers so I wouldn't do this one unless you've finished the Miami arc in TRT.

Sad Matt gif as a reminder that the angst is pretty heavy here because I'm really going to emotionally beat on this poor man for a bit.

At Ciro’s insistence, you gave yourself one month in Hell’s Kitchen. 

A month wasn’t much time, granted, but it would hopefully be enough to see if there was a chance of bringing back the memories you’d lost: memories of friends, of your life here, and of… of whatever it was that you’d had with Matt Murdock. Based on his grief over the loss of Jane Hind—not you, but her surely, the role, the mask you’d worn while here—his attachment to her had been deep and fervent, and those feelings appeared to have been at least partly reciprocated. The dangerously intimate photo you’d found in your memory box was all the proof you needed of that. 

Your past self had already been accustomed to his touch when the photo was taken, based on the way she’d allowed him to press his head tenderly to her temple, his dark eyes warm and fond as he'd smiled in her direction even if he couldn't see her, his arm draped over her shoulders. She should have been put off by the proximity, by such a blatant show of physical intimacy, but instead of looking distressed, she’d been relaxed and comfortable where she’d confidently tucked herself up against his side. Try as you might, you hadn’t been able to find any hint of discomfort, any clue that signaled the obvious affection she’d felt was an act, her shoulder angled in a way that made you think she’d wrapped her arm comfortably around his waist, her grin bright and so very real.

This couldn’t be you.

When was the last time you'd looked that happy?

When was the last time you’d let someone hold you close? 

And when was the last time someone had looked at you like… like they might… 

“Did I… love him, Ciro?”

“I believe that… you might have, yes. Him, and this city. That is why I encourage you to stay, for a time at least. See if the memories return to you. Even should you leave, it would be wise to know of the life you led here.”

Ciro had sent a check to your office, booking you for the month and clearing your schedule. Just like that, you were free to focus on looking for something that might trigger the return of your memories. Though what that something might be, you weren’t really sure. A more thorough examination of the apartment had been your first step. Unfortunately, there’d been nothing there that seemed familiar beyond the same cheap decor and calculated set pieces you’d always used. You’d quickly ruled those out. They were meaningless distractions meant to reinforce the lie of whatever pre-planned identity you’d taken on. In this case, that identity was Jane Hind—practical, professional, detached, likes sailboat paintings and the color grey. Based on the fine layer of dust you'd found coating everything but the kitchen counter and a neat stack of mail, no one else had spent much time here during your months away. That, at least, fit your pattern. You weren’t in the habit of making friends or putting down roots. There was no point in doing so when you’d just wind up cutting them loose and running again. 

What had unsettled you far more were the hints of connection you’d found quietly tucked away:

A fleecy stuffed bear holding a plush crystal ball, the threads connecting the two uneven as if hand-stitched. That kind of time and effort wouldn’t have been spent on anyone but a friend, and the bear’s prominent position on the counter lent it far more importance than any of the other decorations.

A tacky ‘Handsome Devil’ coffee mug, the curling red script and clichéd devil horns design bizarrely out of place amongst the rest of the plain white mugs in the cupboard. An identity like Jane Hind wouldn’t have been caught dead drinking from it, which meant someone else was here with enough regularity to have a mug of their own. Further digging revealed a second decorated mug, this one adorned with the name of the law firm co-run by Matt. You could have written off one mug, but two? Two was a pattern.

An entire drawer in the dresser devoted solely to a pile of dangerously soft shirts that clearly didn’t belong to Jane Hind, the fabric threadbare and worn. They looked about the right size to be Matt’s, though, the faint traces of scent a match for him. The fact that they took up an entire drawer indicated he’d visited often enough to need a space for his clothes. 

You’d… made space for him in your false life. That wasn’t something you did.

Or had you been the one wearing them? 

Maybe…?

You’d spent a long moment holding one of the shirts in your hand, rubbing at the fabric in hopes of stirring something. When that hadn’t worked, you’d even brought it up to your nose to inhale slowly, just in case the traces of scent brought some memory back. 

Clean soap. Salt. Copper. Faint cinnamon. 

All it had done was remind you of holding a grieving Matt in his kitchen after he’d realized your memories weren’t coming back. It was a gloomy enough memory, but ultimately unhelpful.

You'd tossed the old shirt on top of the dresser and moved on. 

While you didn’t know who exactly you’d been here in New York, the longer you searched, the more it became clear what had happened. You’d started to slip, your years of isolation forming a crack in your layers of armor. That fracture had allowed an attachment to form, an insidious connection worming its way in through the open gap like poisonous roots through crumbling pavement. You’d grown weak, and careless. There was no other explanation for why you’d broken so many of your rules, dominoes tipping one by one until it cascaded into a waterfall of mistakes. You’d slipped before, of course—loneliness was natural and expected, which was why you had so many contingencies—but you’d never let yourself get in this deep. Not until now. 

What you didn’t know was… 

Why?

Why here? 

Why these people? 

And why the fuck hadn’t you followed your rules and run? 

If there was an answer to be found in Jane Hind’s apartment, you couldn’t seem to find it, no matter how hard you look, no matter how many of her belongings you dug through. Even your memory box had failed you, the photo of you and Matt at the back of your stack of pictures an outlier you couldn’t explain, this fruit of an as-yet unidentified poisonous tree. You had no real leads, no faint ringing of memory to guide you beyond a vague sense that, somehow, this started with Matt. You didn’t even know where to begin. 

At least, not until some shaggy-haired guy named Foggy—what the fuck kind of nickname was that?—showed up entirely and rudely unannounced at your front door, dressed in a cheap suit and wearing a bizarrely determined look. Despite your doubts, you reluctantly allowed him in. He made it pretty clear he knew you, and if you were lucky he could tell you more about your life here.

“So I know you usually skedaddle when things get uncomfortable, which I imagine they are at the moment. How long are you trying to stay?” 

“One month.” You shrugged casually, a cover for just how warily you were watching him as he paced in your—in Jane Hind’s living area. He knew far more about you than you knew about him, a reversal you were uncomfortably aware of. That vulnerability was almost enough to trigger a retreat beneath that cold, brittle shell you’d used long ago, though you quickly caught hold of that instinct and buried it back down deep where it belonged. Still, you couldn’t quite hide the cool clip to your voice, your walls firmly in place. “Leaving after that. Don’t see the point in staying if the memories are gone. Truthfully I’m not sure why I stayed in the first place, especially once it was clear I was getting attached. No offense.” 

“None taken, my hopefully-still-friend-when-your-memories-come-back.” He abruptly swiveled on his feet to face you, squinting at you thoughtfully. “How badly do you want your memories back?” 

You thought of out-of-place mugs and hand-stitched psychic teddy bears; of faint cinnamon and a worn photo frame; of the way you’d held a broken Matt in his kitchen until he’d carefully pushed you away and asked you to leave, his face closed off and distant despite the tears on his cheeks and yours. 

You’d… been someone here. Someone cared for. Someone whose loss was mourned.  

Even if you left, you needed to know just who that someone had been, if only so you could make sure this never happened again. Not until you reached your island in the sun. 

“Badly enough to stay for the month,” you said quietly. 

“Then put some shoes on. We’re going on a memory hunt.”

Over the next few weeks, Foggy took you all over Hell’s Kitchen. 

You visited Jane Hind’s office, abandoned warehouses, and empty rooftops covered in thick blankets of snow. He reintroduced you to Karen, to your upstairs neighbors, and to a bartender who didn’t seem all that inclined to be introduced to anyone. You drank crappy beer and slightly less crappy vodka, played pool, and went to the zoo to stare for far too long at penguins, which Foggy refused to explain no matter how much you pressed. He had you focus on sights, on smells, on sounds that might trigger a memory. He joked with you in between, and he was just funny enough, friendly and clever enough, that for the first week or so, you were consistently cracking a smile. Hell, you even laughed now and then, much to your surprise. He really did know you, enough so that you gradually began to relax around him, just a little. He was likely hoping the addition of a friend’s voice would bring back what you’d lost, especially when paired with all the other sensations. 

But no matter how much you both tried, your memories remained lost. 

God, you hadn’t thought this would… would hurt as much as it did. Yet with every day that you failed to find your way back to who you’d been, the more that fierce ache, that old longing inside you grew. Your smiles became brittle, your laughter fading, until both finally dried up like withered, crumbling leaves beneath a bitter frost. You couldn't help pulling away really, not when your soul curling up in the dark might protect you from the agony of knowing that maybe, just maybe, you’d finally found what you'd always wanted. How fitting that it had been ripped away from your bloodied, desperate hands like so many times before, one more square for the filthy patchwork quilt of shredded lives and possibilities you’d been forced to leave behind. What was worse: even your memories of that seeming joy had been stolen, too, leaving you with nothing left to carry but the tattered scraps of a ghost and the photograph of a stranger wearing your skin.

It shouldn’t have been possible to miss what you couldn’t remember. Yet here you were missing it all the same. 

It didn’t help that Matt was avoiding you in every way that mattered. You’d thought about calling him if only to ask him questions about your life here, but you could never quite work up the courage to do it. He must have felt the same since he hadn’t reached out to you, either. And why would he? He knew as well as you did that your memories likely weren’t coming back. It made sense to cut that connection, tear it away like a weed before the roots could do more damage—something you should have done sooner, for both your sakes. What you hadn’t expected was just how good he was at dodging you, somehow absent no matter how many places Foggy took you to, places he swore Matt frequented with you when you’d lived here, as if Matt’s mere presence might be enough to trigger some memory in you. Had he been that important? Either way, it didn’t matter. You hadn’t seen Matt once since you’d walked out, doing your best to ignore his hitched breath as you’d opened the door. You’d forced yourself to ignore, too, the broken, agonized sound of grief that he’d let out as you quietly shut the door behind you, leaving him alone. 

Leaving him like that shouldn’t have bothered you as much as it did. You didn’t know him. This man should have been nothing more than a stranger on the street, one you wouldn’t glance twice at, much less feel some ridiculous sense of attachment or obligation to. Yet the memory of walking out of his apartment still left you shaken whenever you allowed yourself to think too long on it. 

He… shouldn’t have been alone. That was wrong, somehow. 

There was no memory attached to the thought, no blinking sign you could point to that would justify your growing unease. You just knew it. You knew it in the way you knew how to breathe, how to blink, knowledge etched into your very bones over and over by an unfamiliar hand. And no matter what you did, no matter where you went, you were unable to escape the feeling that… that you’d made a terrible mistake, broken something good, tilted the world on its axis until the whole of the city, the earth, the very sky hung just a little crooked like an off-center painting. 

Matt was alone. 

You’d left him alone. 

It was the right choice, one you’d made dozens if not hundreds of times before. Hell, it should have been even easier this time since there were no memories to hold you back.

So… why did you feel so very sick? 

Sympathy. 

That was all you were feeling. Matt was grieving a woman he’d cared about, one who’d died and left a cold stranger in her place. It was normal to feel for someone in that much pain, and no one should be alone while grieving. Maybe this was for the best. The sooner you were fully out of his life, the sooner all his friends and family could step in, and the sooner he could move on. He wouldn’t be alone, then. And even if he was, his loneliness wasn’t your goddamn problem. You had more than enough troubles of your own.

Protect yourself. 

Protect what you might one day have. 

All else was irrelevant.

You just… hoped he was doing alright. 

He did his best to avoid you, but that only grew more difficult once your ghost began to haunt his every step.

Even Josie’s quickly became off-limits—something he discovered one night when he stepped through the front door where he was promptly met with the familiar, comforting scent of you floating like a haze beneath the smell of cheap beer and sour sweat. His body went rigid the moment he recognized it, your presence across the room a sharpened knife that only widened the wound carved into him by your death. And if the scent of you was a knife, then your bark of laughter was a cruel twist of the blade, one that left him gutted and shaking there in the doorway. He drank in his apartment after that, waiting for that blessed moment when he would feel nothing, waiting for the very second the glorious shroud of night fell. Only then could he finally escape to the streets and drown himself in a far better kind of pain, taking his rage and his grief out on whatever piece of shit had the misfortune of falling into the Devil’s path. 

But Foggy seemed determined to shove the specter of you directly into his face. 

“You need to talk to her!” Foggy snapped, his voice only just shy of a shout. Matt ignored him as he headed for his office, desperate to retreat from your scent lingering on Foggy’s clothes. Foggy had taken you to a coffee shop that morning, one you’d frequented when you’d lived here, and now each inhalation was a vicious torment. It felt like breathing in shards of glass, the sharp pain of it throbbing with every stuttered, choked breath he drew in. If Foggy noticed, he didn’t seem to care. “Christ, Matt! You love her and we both know it. If you talk to her, it might trigger something—”

“Stop,” Matt grit out, reaching up to scrub his hand angrily over his face. He stalked his way over to his desk, still desperate to escape somehow, even if it was into his work. “Just stop, Foggy. I did talk to her, and you know what happened? Nothing. She didn’t remember anything at all. She’s gone, and you dragging this out is just making everything worse for all of us.” 

“So what, you’re just gonna roll over?” Foggy scoffed, crossing his arms as he planted his feet in Matt’s doorway. “Are you sure you actually loved her? Because I’m pretty sure she loved y—”

Matt slammed his fist down on his desk, the furious crack of it echoing through the office like a gunshot as he shouted, “Don’t you fucking dare!” 

Tension hung thick in the air as Matt’s chest heaved, his teeth bared, blood and adrenaline running hot in his veins as if Foggy were some sort of-of threat. Everything in him shook with rage, or maybe unshed grief, the burden of them both impossibly twisted and tangled beneath the sea of his guilt and his self-loathing until he couldn’t tell which was which. He just couldn’t—how was he supposed to force it all down when Foggy had just come so close, so dangerously close to shattering what few pieces remained of Matt’s crumbling armor?

It was bad enough loving you the way he did only for you to slip through his bloodied, desperate grasp like whispering grains of sand. What was worse, this entire disaster was one of his own making, a series of mistakes whose snarled, winding paths led inevitably back to him just like they had so many times before in his life. This loss of someone who’d truly understood him, accepted him, cared for him had already broken something inside him he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to repair. But that fracturing inside him would surely rise up to consume him if Foggy were right, if you’d truly cared for him that deeply before your memories were taken, so deeply that you might even have…

I miss you, sweetheart.

…loved him the way he loved you. 

Abruptly Matt’s surge of rage drained away and his head fell, leaving him feeling all the more empty and broken. He braced his arms weakly against his desk, drawing in a shaky breath as he forced himself to confess, his voice gone hoarse and ragged with grief. “I loved her, Foggy.” He lifted one shaking hand to his face. “God, I loved her so, so much. I can’t… I don’t know what to do without her now that she’s gone.” “I know, Matt,” Foggy said gently. “I know.” “I loved how she always smelled a little like coffee, and the way she always managed to wind up climbing into the oddest places for a case. She had one of the foulest mouths I’ve ever heard, but I swear she could use it to talk her way out of almost anything or to bring someone up out of whatever dark hole they were trapped in. She was… far kinder than she’d ever admit.” His lips quirked, but there was no humor in it, the expression miserable and gutted. You’d have likely argued with him about how kind you were if you’d been here. But there was no chance of that now, no matter how much the scent of you on the air told him otherwise. “Some days it felt like she was the only thing holding me together, like the only time I could breathe was when she held me in her arms. She was always there when I fell apart, or when it all… when it all started to hurt too much. And I tried to give her whatever pieces of me the Kitchen hadn’t already taken, to be there for her like she was for me, to keep her safe. We were finally going to make our relationship official when she came back, her and me, even if there’d… already been something there for a while now if I’m honest.” 

And it had, it had been there, this soft, tender thing that had developed slowly but surely between the two of you, a tangling that came by degrees rather than all at once. It had sprouted, grown, and blossomed so gradually that even now he struggled to point to any one moment where it had truly begun—the night he found you in the warehouse, maybe, or that first game of Devil Hunt, or when you’d both almost taken the leap before he’d realized you were drunk. But the question of where it began didn’t matter. All that mattered was that it was there, something nameless yet still so good and warm and perfect, a connection nurtured in the low light and the blood-soaked soil of the Kitchen. You’d felt it just like he had, and you’d been willing to take that chance with him despite the baggage he carried behind him like an anchor destined to drag him down. You never would have agreed to kiss him when you came back otherwise. Now that chance was gone. 

“How much did she know before she left?” Foggy asked quietly, leaning against the doorframe. 

”She knew that I-that I wanted to be with her, but I never told her that I loved her.” Matt blew out a slow, heavy breath. “I was too scared of chasing her away, I guess. I thought maybe when she came back, if she still wanted me, I would… I decided that I would tell her. But I waited too long. Now she’s gone and I’ll never be able to tell her. All because of me.” 

He finally lifted his head, tipping it at Foggy. Neither of them dared mention the wetness on Matt’s cheeks. Even speaking about this—about how much he’d loved you only for him to ruin it—was almost more than he could bear, the edges of the wound still fresh and raw. Then again, maybe he deserved that pain after how miserably he’d failed you, just like everyone else in his life. “I miss her. And what’s worse is even when she’s right there in front of me, she’s not. She’s not, Foggy. Because I-I fucked up. I’m the reason the woman I knew, the woman I loved, died. I’m the reason she’ll never remember what we had, why I’ll never hold her again, and why she’ll leave New York at the end of the month like she does whenever she’s afraid of forming a connection.” He let out a bitter laugh, waving towards the windows, towards the place you’d once held dear. “I couldn’t even keep her here before. She almost ran last summer and the only thing that stopped her was being kidnapped. That was what slowed her down long enough for our thread to turn red, not me. She won’t let that happen a second time, not now that she’s seen what happens to people I care about. Do you understand?” 

The door to Nelson and Murdock creaked open, Karen’s voice making its way in first. Her voice was followed only a moment later by another’s, one still so familiar. 

“—I mean, winding up in a pool while chasing a kid sounds about right for me, so even if I don’t remember, I won’t argue—”

“I had to keep you here somehow.” Foggy’s voice remained quiet, but there was no disguising the ferocity in it now, the fervent belief. “Get out of your own head and talk to her, Matt. Fight for her. She would want you to.” 

No. 

No, no, no.

Your body may have been here, whole and real, but the woman who’d known him wasn’t. The song of your voice, your sweet scent, the flames of heat and stirred air currents around you flaring into a familiar shape: all of it was nothing but a lie, a snare for his senses, a ghost of his own making, and he wasn’t about to be caught by it again. 

He darted back around his desk, shoving his way past Foggy on the way toward the front door, his heart racing. If he was quick, if he just put up enough of a front, he could get out before they trapped you here with him like they’d planned. He wouldn’t relive this grief again, he couldn’t, not without falling apart. The moment he’d had with you in his apartment had been enough agony for one lifetime. 

“Hey, Matt.” You cleared your throat, shifting awkwardly on your feet where you’d stopped by the front door. Your stance was cautious and guarded, almost wary of him. It was just one more reminder of how uncomfortable he made you now. “Are you—”

“Heading out,” he said stiffly, only belatedly remembering to trace one hand along the wall as if his heightened senses hadn’t given him a clear map of the room the moment his adrenaline spiked. That spike was a curse all its own. It made the scent of you so much stronger, the lie of it fresh and present as it twined around him. His chest hitched just once before he forced himself to breathe his mouth. But that route of escape had been cut off, too. All it did was shift his focus to the taste of you on the air, and the taste of familiar fabric once so tenderly given. 

You were wearing one of his shirts. 

He fumbled for his cane, his hands starting to shake before he finally found it where he’d left it against the wall. He couldn’t let you see him like this. It wasn’t your fault that you didn’t remember him, nor was it your fault that he’d lost you. He’d done enough damage without adding a layer of guilt to what you were dealing with, too. But despite his attempts to hide what he was feeling, his face a hard mask, your fingers still brushed gently against his arm a moment later. It was an offer of help, or maybe an attempt to reach out, to slow him down, to connect. It was a kindness, a sympathy he didn’t deserve. Even now, you read him far too well, this touch the same as it had been that first night he’d met you when you’d gently brushed your hand against his arm. “Hey, do you need… I could walk you home.”

He shied away from your touch, finally managing to roughly unsnap his cane before going for the door. “I’m fine. I just—I have things to take care of. Excuse me.”  

He went straight home and showered, but no matter how many times he scrubbed, he couldn’t seem to wash the ghost of your scent away.

You slowly wandered around Matt’s office, taking it in. This was another place you’d supposedly frequented, a place that should have been familiar, and one you'd avoided until now.

Even though Foggy had assured you it was alright, it felt… almost wrong to explore a stranger’s space like this without them present. But you couldn’t help but brush your fingers across the battered desk and the small labels in braille you couldn’t read, run your hands along the chair for clients that you might have sat in once, and trace curiously the small seashell next to Matt’s laptop. The base scents of Matt were stronger here where he spent so much time, only partly erased by the smell of coffee and paper. The room was clean, cared for, and well-organized despite how rundown the office was. Important to him. You could tell that much, even if the scents and sights had failed to spark any memories.

Maybe… knowing his space wasn’t enough. 

This was about more than just figuring out who you were, now. For some reason, you needed to know who Matt was, too: this man Jane Hind had cared so much about and who’d cared so much about her. You told yourself it was practical. Matt was your best bet when it came to remembering who you’d been. But some part of you deep down recognized the lie. No, there was something in you inescapably drawn to him, a pull you couldn’t quite explain. Maybe that strange, unnatural gravity was what had started this whole mess in the first place. What was it about him that was so different, that had driven you to break every last rule you’d lived your life by for over a decade? 

And why… did you spend so long wondering if he’d ever climbed out his office window?

It had been twenty-nine days, and not a single memory had returned. 

Oh, there were beats now and then when you thought that maybe, just maybe something was coming back, but those moments were painfully few and far between. Even in those moments, you couldn’t say remembered anything, exactly. It was more a frustrating sense of deja vu, a fleeting little itch at the back of your mind like you’d forgotten something important, flashing road markers to warn you of the dark, empty gaps in your memory. That sense was probably driven at least in part by Foggy’s growing desperation as he frantically hunted for something that might trigger a return of your memories. 

But the rest of that feeling… the rest was all you. 

There was no denying a traitorous part of you wanted to remember no matter how ill-advised it might be. You wanted to remember this bizarre little family you’d stumbled into and then lost, just like in Los Angeles. You wanted to remember the love you’d had for this place, this city, this taste of mutual affection that had grown up around you after going so long without. After endless ages and ages of drought, of starvation, you hungered for even these bare crumbs of connection, something to tide you over until you found safe haven on the distant horizon. What a tempting thought it was to slither back into the life of this woman who’d been so cruelly murdered and replaced by a stranger wearing her skin.

Was this what a demon felt like when it took over a body? To walk around with someone else’s face, to speak with the unnatural voice of the dead, tormenting the loved ones that remained? 

That, ultimately, was why it didn’t matter what you wanted. Your presence in this city only spread rot and suffering. It would be better for everyone involved if you left like you should have long before now. Then they could all grieve without you tainting the very soil around them. 

Especially Matt. 

You’d seen him once or twice in passing as your time in New York wound down. Even at a distance, you’d marked the growing circles under his eyes, dark enough to be visible despite the glasses he always wore. The rest of him wasn’t doing much better. It seemed like every time he crossed your path, there was another bruise, another cut across his face or knuckles, a shifting canvas of pain painted across skin grown pale and drawn. He didn’t just look tired—that wasn’t what this was. This was something far worse, a haggard exhaustion, a weariness that couldn’t be solved with sleep, if he slept at all. This was someone being haunted. 

Probably because the ghost of Jane Hind kept crossing his path. But that would be solved soon enough. 

You’d already packed up your things, not that you had much to take. Just your bag and your memory box. You’d be leaving the next day. Foggy was still convinced he had a few more days, but you had other plans. You couldn’t give Matt back the woman he’d lost, nor could you give him a body to bury, a grave to lay flowers across, but you could give him what Jane Hind had carried with her until her dying breath. 

“I thought you might… want these before I left tomorrow,” you said quietly. “I… sorry, it’s… it’s a bag with my—with her things.” 

Matt took it carefully from you, the motion mechanical and stiff. He hadn’t really invited you the rest of the way into his apartment, the two of you now stalled out in the hallway just beyond the closed front door. He hadn’t taken his glasses off, either. It made it harder to read him, his face closed off and impassive, a wall of red glass placed firmly between you. Come to think of it, you hadn’t seen his eyes even once since that day you’d first come back, and you didn’t blame him. You didn’t like feeling vulnerable, either, though that was just a guess when it came to what he might be feeling. 

“It’s the shirts from her apartment, which I think are yours. And the stuffed bear.” You bit your lip and released it slowly, shifting uncomfortably on your feet. “And the… the mug, which Nelson said was yours, too. The one you used at her place. I also put the hoodie in there, the one she had with her while she was traveling. And…” You reached into your pocket, fumbling for a moment. God, you were bad at this, unsure of just how to do this without hurting him any more than was absolutely necessary. It wasn’t a concern you usually dealt with since your goal was almost always the exact opposite, a precaution meant to destroy any threads of connection they held with you. Unfortunately, he wasn’t giving you much to work with, though you didn’t miss his subtle flinch when you drew the key from your pocket. “I thought you might want this, too.”

You cautiously edged forward, daring to breach the ring of radiant heat that surrounded him, the closest you’d come to him in almost a month. He went stiff as you approached, his jaw growing tight as the gap between you both closed. Another step, and his head cocked as if he were listening to your footsteps, or maybe… maybe he was just waiting to find out what you had to give him. But he wasn’t telling you to fuck off or just set your gift aside, which was a good sign. So you hesitantly reached out and brushed your fingers lightly against his bicep, a signal so he knew you were about to pass him something. 

A breath.

He remained absolutely still amidst the sudden, crackling tension in the air as your fingertips skated gently down and around his forearm, stirring all the little hairs, his skin shockingly warm. All you’d intended to do to take his arm and guide it up so you could place the key in his hand, but you quickly found yourself distracted by a ragged scar along the back of his forearm, one your fingers seemingly made their way to on instinct. It was a deep scar, the original cut likely made by some sort of blade, the edges of it rough and uneven from messy stitching. Your curiosity got the better of you, so much so that you missed the way Matt had begun to hold his breath.

“Who fucked up the sutures on that?” You furrowed your brow, your thumb smoothly marking out the jagged line of it. “They did a terrible job. No offense.” 

Matt’s face fell and you only realized too late just who it was that must have patched him up. 

Before you could blink, he’d yanked his arm out of your grip as if your touch had burned him. “Don’t,” he grit out, his chest heaving as he put a few steps distance between you both. “You can—just put your key on the bench.” 

“How did you know—” “Because there’s only one thing left it could be.” 

You nodded weakly, taking a few steps back towards the little bench beside the door. That unfamiliar ache, that sense of wrongness was back, the weight of it settling uneasily in your chest like a stone until you almost wanted to retch. It didn’t help that Matt was just barely holding himself together while you were here. 

Best to say what you’d come to say and leave him be. 

You gently set the key down, and the quiet click of the brass against the wood seemed to echo in the hallway, a graveyard bell tolling with a looming sense of finality. What you were about to tell him would hurt, you knew it would, but maybe one day he’d find comfort in it. This—a sign of what she’d felt—was the real gift you’d truly come to give, the only true token of her you could offer. Your words, when you spoke, were almost as hoarse as his. “I thought you should know I… she wore it. The key. I asked them. She wore your key and she never took it off. Not once. Whatever you both had, she treasured it, and all she wanted was to get back to you. She didn’t leave you by choice, Matt. I hope that… that helps.” 

Of all the things you’d said and done, it was this that finally seemed to break him. His face twisted in a sudden wave of grief, and regret hit you all at once. You quickly took a step towards him, one hand out, though you weren’t sure what you’d do if he reached back—it wasn’t like you knew how to comfort him, and you sure as hell didn’t know if he’d tolerate you holding him again, nor whether he was someone that needed some sort of touch when he was hurting. But before you could take another step he’d flinched away from you, retreating quickly back into the darkness of his apartment, his voice ragged. “Just go. Get out.” 

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, backing away towards the door. “I’m… I’m so sorry.”  

It shouldn’t have hurt as you closed that door one last time. But you cried all the same. 

Somewhere within the apartment came the sound of splintering furniture and a hoarse scream wracked with grief.

“Look, Nelson.” You tiredly adjusted the strap of your duffle bag over your shoulder, reaching up to pinch at the bridge of your nose as if it would stem your growing headache. “I know it’s a day early. But another twenty-four hours isn’t going to make a fucking difference.” 

“I don’t need another day!” he pleaded, his arms spread wide where he’d blocked your front door, ensuring you couldn’t leave your apartment until you’d heard him out. You’d had no idea he even had a key until today and, not for the first time, you cursed Jane Hind’s apparent lack of common sense. You did not give out keys, or at least, you hadn’t before coming here to this ridiculous fucking city. “Just five minutes. That’s all. I’ve got one last thing to try.”

“Maybe I don’t want to try one more thing!” you snapped bitterly, dropping your hand. That anger was a good cover for the way something sharp and prickly had begun to catch in your throat, the incident with Matt still fresh in your mind. “I’ve tried for a month, and it’s gotten me nothing. Fucking-fucking bars and random rooftops and a shitty little duck, goddamn penguins and keys, and none of it did shit! Jane’s gone, ok? She’s dead. And I’m sorry, I know you all cared about her, but I’m done—”

“Have you climbed inside a thread?” 

“...What?” you asked in sudden bewilderment, your rage abruptly faltering in the face of pure confusion. “What the fuck does that even me—”

He let out a whoop, practically dancing on his feet. “Yes! I knew it! I can’t believe no one told you!” 

“Told me what?!” You chucked your bag back onto your couch in sudden exasperation. If this was thread-related, at the very least you could stay long enough to listen. “There’s nothing to climb!”

“Ok, so stick with me.” He rubbed his palms together eagerly, a bright light in his eyes. “Because I’m about to get really metaphysical.”

It took you what felt like hours to climb inside the shimmering honey-colored thread that lay between you and Matt—a thread that sang with his sorrow and your reluctant sympathy. 

It wasn’t right having your soul constricted like this, all of who you were narrowing down into something so small as you squirmed through a barrier that tasted and felt like dirt and earth, chasing after the sound of trickling water. There wasn’t supposed to be anything on the other side. It was an emotional connection, nothing more.

And yet here you were, standing in a place that had no reason to exist.

“Holy shit,” you whispered in amazement, spinning on your heels to examine your surroundings. “Holy shit, he was right.”

Despite the late hour, the air was full of a muted light that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once, tinting the world a hazy, eerie green. High up above you roiled thick, sullen black storm clouds, silent flashes of red lightning carving their way between swirls of charred smoke. It wasn’t much light, but it was enough to see by.

And what you saw was heartbreaking. 

You stood in a dry, stony riverbed. The ground beneath you was cracked and brittle where the water had receded, leaving behind nothing but dust and broken branches. The river itself remained though just barely, the thin trickle of flowing water down the center of the riverbed a far cry from whatever immense force had carved its way through the landscape until the banks were a good ten paces from one side to the other. The terrain beyond the river didn’t look much better, wilted, drooping cattails dotted up the bank before giving way to endless forest that stretched farther than your eye could see. Like the cattails and scrub, the pine and fir trees stood withered and brown, casting their empty branches up toward the sky. 

If it had been beautiful here once, whatever had happened to you had destroyed that beauty. 

“Jesus,” you whispered. 

“Can you hear me?” Foggy’s voice sounded distant and far away, tinny like he was talking through a long tunnel. 

“Yeah. Can you hear me?”

“...Ok, if you’re trying to respond, I can’t hear you. But according to Matt, whenever you were here, it felt like memories. So poke around, see what you can find.”

You sighed and started down the riverbed. “Not super helpful, but ok. Let’s give it a shot.” 

The water was the most obvious place to start, and you made your way over to the thin stream that ran raggedly across the parched soil. Much to your fascination, you quickly discovered that what you’d thought was one current was actually two, one layered over the top of the other, each flowing in the opposite direction. The first of those currents hiding on the bottom was fairly calm, steady if a little restless, swirls of pale color that almost felt like curiosity, though how you understood that translation was a mystery. The second current seemed far rougher where it roiled atop the first, its section of the stream cloudy and thick with swirls of black and the red of an open wound. You hovered over the second current for a long moment, working up your courage, before you finally knelt and hesitantly brushed against it with one finger. It was just water. How bad could it be? 

The moment your skin made contact, your chest seized on a sudden swell of agony. Your mouth filled with the taste of grief, with the sound of an empty home, the lack of some familiar scent that meant affection and warmth and softness and safety, the ache of an old wound reopened just when it had started to heal. Alone, always alone, I deserve it, so many gone, he was right, when will I learn? There was no hope for comfort from that pain, no escape from the darkness into tender arms that could hold you just right when it all hurt. All you had to look forward to was more— 

You threw yourself backward, scrambling away from that terrible current as if what you’d felt might rise up and chase after you, snapping its teeth the whole way. You didn’t stop retreating until your back slammed against the dry soil of the riverbank. Only then did you stop, panting, your eyes wide in shock as you cradled your hand against your heaving chest. 

Emotion. It’s emotion.

That was what the water was. Matt’s emotion. Which meant the other current—one now shifting back to yellow despite a momentary surge of twisting, roiling black—was… yours. 

Right. So you could rule the water out. But if that was emotion, where was memory? 

Examining the rest of the river was the most obvious next step now that you’d ruled out the water. Based on what you could see, the original riverbed had been a mix of silt and stones of varying sizes, a firm foundation beneath a once-powerful river. Now, though, the grey, dried-out silt was covered in a strange sea of divots and dips, as if something—a lot of somethings—had been plucked up and removed. You traced one of the indents in the soil curiously, lifting your hand back up to consider the grit as you rubbed it between your fingers. Another glance around revealed the answer. 

The stones. 

There were still plenty of stones remaining in the riverbed, but the divots in the dry silt told you there’d once been far more. If that was what you’d lost, then maybe…  

You rocked up eagerly to your feet, pacing around breathlessly as you searched for a promising stone to start with. Eventually you made your pick, plucking up a stone just small enough to fit in your palm, flat and smooth save for a little groove in it as if someone had run their fingers over it endlessly. Strangely, it smelled like honey and herbs, the surface oddly warm against your hand like the brush of a thumb against your mouth. You waited for a long, impatient moment, and when nothing else happened, you tapped it a few times. 

Still nothing. 

And something inside you… cracked. 

“Fuck!” you screamed, hurling the stone back down the river in a sudden rage. The pain and the loneliness you’d been suppressing for the last month, the last year, the horrible, endless eternity since leaving your family in Los Angeles began to claw its way up your throat, the clouds churning wildly above you in response. A wild rain came next, each droplet sharp and cold and edged like the blade of a knife, bitter and biting as it beat against your skin. You grabbed another stone, one that tasted like shitty beer—Josie’s beer. You threw that rock, too, then another and another, throwing stones that smelled and tasted and felt like your shriek of laughter as he grinned and caught you against his chest, like torn flesh and a needle held by tender hands, like your face nuzzling fearlessly against Matt’s throat as he whispered comfort into your hair and held you close, like synced breathing and hearts and dances between binary stars as you both fell into sleep, fell into safety, fell into one another, phantom sensations that only made the fierce ache in you grow stronger because with every stone you snatched up it became clear that… 

You’d been loved. 

Not your identity.

Not the image you showed to the world. 

Not the walls you’d put up in front of him before he’d found some way past them. 

You. 

And he’d loved you with every part of him. 

You weren’t sure when you started crying, a violent, vicious stream of tears that was just as much a product of rage as grief. Here was someone who’d loved you fully, loved you despite every asterisk and bit of baggage and sharpened edge that came with being a broken hound, with being a former experiment still on the run. But you barely noticed your tears, spitting up at the unforgiving clouds and the howling wind, because you could howl, too, just as violent, just as much a threat as any storm in this place. “I want my fucking life back! I want him back!” 

You hadn’t wanted it before, or maybe you had and you’d just been too afraid to ask for it. But now? Oh, oh, now you were furious, furious and hurting and screaming, because you’d denied yourself connection all these years only to find it in the last place you’d expected. That was what this had been—home, family, love. That had to be why you’d stayed in New York, why you’d risked everything for these people, for Matt. You weren’t an idiot. You’d have run the numbers and the math, made your calculations.

You couldn’t bear to lose this. Not… not again. 

You threw stone after stone, hunting frantically as your fingers bled dry, desperate fury into the air, reddened drops disappearing before they ever hit the ground. The trickle of water in the center of the riverbed had churned itself into a frenzy, but you ignored it. There had to be something here that would trigger a memory, something that would let you remember being loved again, something big enough, important enough, so you grabbed and you grabbed and grabbed and grabbed and grabbed until at last, you found a stone the size of your fist. You snatched it up with a ragged sob, cradling it greedily against your chest as if doing so might let you carry it out of here, because you wanted it, you wanted him, wanted to remember more than anything in the world. 

“Let me have it!” you snarled, snapping your teeth at the howling winds of the storm as if you might catch this place between your jaws and tear it open until you at last found what belonged to you. “Give it back!” 

And with a blink—

He tore one of his bloodied gloves off, his hand shaking as he reached out to you.

You stilled the moment his fingertips brushed tenderly against your cheek, so very gentle, affection layered over blood and earth and hurt. And god, your skin was so terribly dry and cold, the beat of your heart uneven as it struggled to pump blood through your body, but he could feel you react to him, the barest parting of your lips as you dragged in a startled breath. He didn’t want to startle you further or risk you fighting him, so he let his voice drop into a whisper, soft as the brush of a feather.

“It’s me. I’m here.”

‘I heard you,’ he tried to say. ‘I heard you. I’m here.’

And your weakened heart… skipped.

He wasn’t sure if he reached for you or if you reached for him. All he knew was it was the sign he’d been looking for. In a heartbeat, he scooped you up off the floor, stealing you back from that dry, filthy cement and crusted blood that had tried to take you from him. He cradled your cold body against his chest, then, held you there where it was warm and where you were safe. You made the softest little noise, the sound choked and dry, but there was no disguising the heartbreaking relief in it. He pulled you in further, pulled you up until you were curled up in his lap, not an ounce of air left between your bodies, your head laying against his shoulder.

He would never let you touch the floor of this place again.

“D…” you mumbled, not one hint of fear in you despite what he’d just done, the blood on his hands and the burning heat of violence that still lingered in his bones. You wearily slid your head over, inch by inch, until you’d buried your face against the sweat-slick line of his throat, nuzzling in against him with a hoarse sigh that only made him hold you tighter. You inhaled slowly then, heedless of the blood and dirt and sweat that coated his skin, your fingers coming up to hook weakly in the collar of his shirt. “You came.”

And you… smiled.

He buried his face against your hair and let out a shaky breath. As he did, he dug down past blood and dust and dirt, dug and dug until he found the sweet, familiar scent of you, a scent he never wanted to leave him again.

The stone fell from your limp hands, a ringing in your ears you could barely hear beneath the sound of the water nearby, frothing and wild. 

The increased sensory feedback had been bizarre, and there was… there was no reason he should have been covered in so much blood, his body burning as if he’d been fighting before coming to you. But…  

“Hey, you in there?” Foggy called. 

“D.” The letter felt strange, and yet… natural, as you cradled it on your tongue. “D?”

And you knew what came after that letter, shaping the word again in your mind. 

You knew. 

You… remembered. 

“Always,” he’d said. 

“Always,” you whispered, casting your eyes up the riverbed towards another large stone. “Always, D.”

He didn’t know what you were doing or why you’d climbed inside the thread. 

“Always, D.”

All he knew was that it hurt. 

“You’re stuck with me, unfortunately for you.”

He’d thought catching your scent, hearing your laugh, being forced to take back the key he’d given to you had been the worst of it. But no. It was far, far worse having to relive these memories of your time with him over and over and over without pause, his senses filled with you: with your touch, with your scent, with the taste of you on the air. He heard you whisper, laugh, and sigh; felt the brush of your fingers in his hair and your body shaking with laughter when he snatched you up during a game of Devil Hunt and the safety of you as you’d held him so tenderly after his fight with Foggy. All of it was a reminder of what he’d lost, what he’d never get back. 

“Don’t you give up on me, Matt. Ok?”

He was in agony. There was no blocking you out like this, no escaping your memory no matter how much he tried to push back or retreat, until he wound up trapped and spiraling in his kitchen. 

“Kiss me when you come back.”

On and on it went, memories snapping at his heels until all he had left to hide behind was rage. He swept his arm across the counter, glass shattering as he screamed himself hoarse. Eventually he found himself backed up against the wall, sinking down as he hitched out something like an agonized groan, his hands over his ears, his eyes shut tight. “Don’t do this to me, sweetheart, please—”

“Adoringly yours, because I do adore you, you ridiculous man...”

“Leave me alone,” he whispered. “Just leave me alone.”

“...Remember that. if nothing else.” 

In hindsight, it was a really bad idea to give back your key.

“Matt!” you shouted, pounding frantically on his front door. “Matt, let me in! It’s me, I swear, I can-I can—”

Silence. 

And you weren’t willing to wait any longer. This wasn’t something you could explain through the door, out here in the hall where the neighbors could hear. You needed to get inside. You knew he was in there somewhere. 

Red threads never lied.  

You wiped the blood away from your nose and took off for the stairs. It was only one flight up to the roof, and sometimes he left the rooftop door unlocked. Even if it wasn’t unlocked, you’d use the key under the mat. You didn’t remember everything. But you remembered that. And if the key wasn’t there? You’d break that fucking door down.

He sat unmoving in his meditation pose on the floor, the sound of your attempts to get into the apartment distant and far away. Meditation had been the only thing left he could think of that would allow him to escape the pain and the memories of you that had flooded his thoughts. Like this, with his mind and his focus withdrawn until it lay deep within himself, he’d hoped he’d be far enough away from the world that the ghost of you couldn’t reach. 

Yet even deep in meditation, his instincts were set off by the crack! of his rooftop door slamming open.

He was on his feet in a heartbeat, his heart racing as he bared his teeth, his body prepared to face whatever threat had just broken in. The sensations of you, at the very least, had quieted during his meditation, which should have left him enough space for some small margin of peace as he threw himself into a fight. But that peace was nowhere to be found, because you were here again. 

He recoiled from that thought the second it crossed his mind. This wasn’t you, that much had become painfully clear. You’d passed away somewhere far beyond his reach, away from the home, the life you’d lived here. The woman that stood on his landing now was nothing but a ghost, a fading memory and a terrible reminder of what he’d had and lost, what he’d earned by daring to reach for something good. There was no undoing it, no washing away the blood on his hands. If anything, how he felt for you had doomed any hopes of you staying long enough for him to reform that connection with you. He knew how you operated—hell, you’d tried to run on that hot summer night so many months ago after seeing just how much he’d cared, even if you’d ultimately changed your mind. At the time, he’d thought it was Destiny, the hand of God ensuring you remained in the Kitchen where Matt could keep you safe from the Man in the White Coat, here in this place where you both might… might shape something good out of all the broken pieces you’d both been left with. He knew better, now. Even the hand of God couldn’t break the curse Matt placed on those he loved. You would leave, leave like all the others, and he deserved it. 

The only question that remained was why you seemed so, so fucking determined to make him suffer. 

“Matt.” Your voice cracked as you stumbled down the stairs. “Matt, I—”

“Why can’t you just leave me alone, sweetheart?” he grit out, reaching up to fist his hands tightly in his hair. He’d never known you to be unnecessarily cruel, but there was no other explanation. “God, I-I can’t—you can’t keep doing this to me.”

“Matt, just let me—”

“Do you even care how much you’re hurting me?” He hitched out a broken laugh, something bitter and tormented, the sound absent all humor as you made it down the stairs. “All those months, all I wanted was for you to come back. I begged. I prayed to God, over and over again, that he would bring you back to me. And now that you’re gone, you just won’t leave. I can’t get away from you no matter what I do. Do you know what that’s like? To lose someone you love only for their ghost to haunt you every time you turn around?”

A soft intake of breath. 

There it was. Now that he’d said it, you’d leave. There would be nothing more frightening to the You he’d first known than a word like love. 

“I just…” His breath hitched again, something thick building in his throat. It was just another sign of his weakness, the same weakness that had gotten you killed. 

‘I warned you, kid,’ came Stick’s voice, so smug that Matt bared his teeth. ‘I fuckin’ warned you the night I opened up her eye. But you didn’t listen.’

He started to pace wildly, ignoring your voice as he hunted for some opening through which he could escape, flee from Stick’s voice hiding in the corners of his thoughts, from your ghost. With every step his movements grew more frantic, more furious as his rage built like a rising wave: rage at himself, at God, at the monster who’d taken your memories and the possibility of a life for you here with Matt, and at you, too, because you just didn’t get it. “I just want to grieve, and God can’t even give me that much, can he? Is that what this is? Punishment? Revenge? Congratulations. Job well done. You can go.” 

You tilted your head as you watched him pace, the same cock of your head you got when considering your potential routes forward. As far as he was concerned, the only route he’d give was a route out the door.  

“I don’t know why you came back, and at this point, I don’t fucking care,” he told you hotly, nothing but burning smoke and thick venom in each word. “We don’t have a red thread anymore. There’s nothing to keep you here. Leave. Now. I’m not asking.”

Your soft response was a single letter, one that struck directly at the open wound inside his chest. 

“...D.” 

He snatched up an empty beer bottle from the kitchen counter in a sudden rage, turned, and hurled it past you. 

You didn’t so much as flinch as the bottle came within inches of your head. Nor did you react to the distant shattering of glass, the sound of it barely audible over his anguished roar. 

“Leave me alone!”  

And then he froze in sudden horror at what he’d done, his heartbeat almost drowning out the soft sound of your steps. All he’d wanted to do was scare you away, frighten you away so he could break where you couldn’t see, because it had hurt, it had hurt to hear you call him—

Wait. 

You’d… you’d called him…

“My Devil Man, my Saint Matthew,” you whispered, the touch of your hands cool and endlessly gentle as you cupped his face. His skin was wet, damp beneath your thumbs as you swiped them across his cheeks, when had he started crying? You brought his head down until you could lay your forehead against his, the taste of salt hanging in the air. Your voice grew achingly tender, so longed for that he swayed helplessly on his feet, wanting nothing more than to be held like you’d held him so often before when he was hurting. “I’m so sorry, D. I’m so sorry I left you alone, sweetheart.” 

He closed his eyes tight, his breath growing shaky. You couldn’t know that he was two steps away from crumbling in your arms, fractures widening with every breath. He had no energy left to fight your touch, your misplaced mercy, but giving into the lie was another thing entirely. He couldn’t bear to hope again, not when it would crush him if he were wrong. “Foggy told you to… he told you to call me that, didn’t he? To see if you’d remember. But I can’t—you’re going to leave me, you’ll—” “Do you remember what I said before I left? Because I do.” You swiped your thumb gently against his cheek, your uneven breathing skipping and falling into rhythm with his as his hands shakily rose. They hovered hesitantly a few inches away from your face, terrified that you might vanish beneath his hands like a ghost. “I don’t leave my box behind, and I won’t leave you behind, either. I told you that you were stuck with me after Nobu. I meant it. It’s really me. I know you’re tired and hurting, sweetheart, but listen to my heart. What does it say? Truth or lie?”

…Steady. 

Truth.

Could it really be you?  

He held his breath as he dared at last to touch your cheek, stirring the fine hairs as he stroked his way along the familiar shape of your face, one he’d traced so often in his dreams. Your skin was damp with tears just like his, another sliding down to bump against his thumb as your lips quirked up into a brilliant smile. And the moment his trembling fingers passed your lips, you kissed the tip of each with a warm fondness, a mirror of that night you’d held his broken, torn body and he’d kissed your fingers and palm. 

“How much do you… do you remember?” There was a ringing in his ears as the world beneath him seemed to roll beneath him. “Everything?” “Not everything. Some pieces are still missing, with Foggy and Karen and my job, but I-I remember enough. I remember you, and what I had with you.” Your voice grew fierce and fervent then as you drew in a sharp breath, preparing yourself. “I remember you, D. And I remember that I love you. I love you, Matt Murdock, all of you, so, so much. And I will never leave you alone again.” You loved him. 

You loved him. 

The weight of it—being forced to let you leave the city, the ensuing months alone, the agony of the past few weeks thinking he’d lost you entirely, and now this, this, knowing you loved him like he loved you—hit him all at once, and with a sudden groan he started to drop. You caught him in your arms, the two of you sinking to your knees as you held him tight and he wound desperately around you in return. Only then did he start to fall apart in your arms, shaking in your hold, his grief, his hurt, his relief spilling out in choked gasps where you’d tucked his head down against your neck. He fisted his hands in your shirt as you both rocked, and a ragged moan tore free from him, spilling against your skin when you lifted your hands to trail your fingers lovingly through his hair. You knew, you remembered just how to hold him when he was hurting, a balm across every last wound. His shivering, touch-starved body remembered your touch, too, drowning beneath the sudden surge of good, warm, safe, soft after months of nothing but pain, so much so he couldn’t help but gasp out your name. 

“I’ve got you now, D,” you whispered, burying your face against his shoulder until he could feel the heat of your tears against his shirt, too. “I’m here, now. You’re not alone. I’ve got you, Matt.” 

“I thought you were gone.” There was no way for him to truly sync his breathing with yours, not with the way you were both crying, but still his body tried on instinct, tried and failed over and over again. He closed his eyes tighter, burying his face deeper against your throat as he pulled you in even closer, until there wasn’t an inch of space between your body and his, where he could feel every beat of your heart against his skin, as if to make up for the way he’d almost… almost chased you away. “I thought you’d left me and I was alone. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t try harder, and that I didn’t-I didn’t go with you, but I couldn’t—I’m so, so—” 

“Hey, hey, it’s ok.” You kissed shakily at his hair, his shoulder, and whatever other parts of him you could reach, your breath, your tears, your absolution washing over him like rain. “It’s not your fault, D. It’s not your fault sweetheart. None of this was your fault.” 

“But—” “Hey. Listen to me, before you get any further down in that hole.” You lifted his head from your shoulder, cupping his tear-stained face in your hands again. For a moment you both simply breathed with one another, your forehead to his, soaking in the contact, the affection that you’d both dearly missed and needed. “What happened to me outside New York, my memory loss… all of that is not your fault. It never was, D. There are-there are a lot of things we’ll have to deal with in the future, things I need to tell you. Consequences of what we’ve done, and—but this isn’t one of them. Never this. You’re what helped bring me back.” “How? I didn’t…” He let out a breathless, watery little laugh. “I didn’t do anything but try to chase you away.” “Some part of me couldn’t help but be drawn to you. I remembered, deep down, I think.” You gave an amused little huff. “And once Foggy showed me how to get into our thread, all your memories are what brought me back, helped me remember, because I could feel it, how you loved me. That was the key. Speaking of which…” You leaned in to nuzzle up against his cheek, your voice lowering to a whisper. “I think I made you a promise, you ridiculous man. And it’s one I intend to keep.” 

And with one small tip of your head, and a single slow breath… 

“Kiss me when you come back.” 

…your lips brushed against his for the very first time, tender and achingly soft, and so full of love that it would have stolen his breath away if he’d had any left at all. 

It wasn’t the first kiss he’d envisioned months ago just before you left, something triumphant and wild. Nor was it anything like the first kisses he’d imagined before that, the first kiss he’d thought this journey with you might lead to. And God only knew he’d considered kissing you for the first time more than was healthy.

Your first kiss with him was, instead, shaky and gentle, tasting of salt and tears and the fading shades of grief retreating like streamers of night before a welcome sunrise. Slowly, and then more surely, his lips began to move against yours, finally allowing himself to truly taste you for the first time, his eyes slowly falling closed as your fingers ran fondly through his hair, you, it was really you, you remembered. With a quiet moan, he breathed you in deep, calling your grace, your love deep into him until it settled there against his heart, knowing that, no matter what else might come, he would never lose it again, one of his hands rising to tenderly wind around your throat, his other hand finding yours so he could lace his battered fingers tightly with yours.

It wasn’t the first kiss he’d expected, but it felt perfect all the same. 

Because all that was left was him… 

And you. 

[foxblood]

The Threads of Memory I - Matchmaker

Editor's Log 5/9/25 - Made some basic edits for readability - Added a scene that introduces Gale properly - Now with more Tara

1/2/3/4/5/6/7/8/9/10/11/12/13/14/15/16/17/18/19/20/21/22/23/24/25/26/27/28/29/30

Morena sat in the seat across from Madame Toussau in her parlor with her shoulders tight and face pinched, sipping from a teacup decorated with delicate ropes of petals belonging to no specific flower.  Her eyes fell upon the matchmaker, narrowed in skepticism, and took in the lush pinks and oranges of her dress that seemed to affront her neatly kept sitting room’s airy blue curtains.

Madame Toussau awaited Morena’s assessment, always best to let the client find the first words.  Especially one as particular as this mother -- single mother, so declared the portrait of herself and three children on the wall lacking any man besides the young starry-eyed fellow who was clearly her son.  

Morena finally set her cup down on the saucer.  “Please, drink your tea,” her command practiced, and Madame Toussau found the cup in her hand as soon as Morena asked.  Morena continued, “if I may be frank with you madame, a matchmaker is my last resort.  This process brings me no pleasure, but my every other attempt to return my son to society has thus far failed.  There is no more I can do on my own --” she rolled her wrist, “-- If he will not reforge his own social connections, then I must do so on his behalf.”

“So, are we seeking a spouse?” Madame Toussau asked.

Morena gave a curt shake of her head.  “I will not impose such a thing upon him.”

Madame Toussau finished her tea and set the cup down, tapping her long nails on the porcelain.  Morena filled it again.  Madame Toussau considered the lines of Morena’s face, the worry pulling at her mouth.

“A companion?” Madame Toussau ventured, “a reliable friend, perhaps someone interesting enough to coax him back into public life?”

“Can you provide someone like that?” Morena watched her face for any twitch or doubt.

“Under the correct circumstances.  Tell me about your son,” Madame Toussau prompted.

Gale leaned back in the creaking chair, massaging the ache in his chest.  He squeezed his eyes shut and focused on the expansion of his lungs with each slow breath he took.  Sometimes, the orb eased away if he just let it file its complaints, and sometimes it spasmed like a crack of thunder through his ribs, hungry and threatening to suck him and the whole of Waterdeep into the abyss.  This was just a grumble.

The ceiling beams melted together.  His pulse throbbed hard in his neck, and he missed the first knock at the door because it mixed with the sound of blood in his ears.  He muttered a curse when he heard the second knock, fumbling for the drawer in his desk where he kept the enchanted trinkets Tara managed to pilfer and picking apart the tangled chains of amulets.

The orb throbbed harder, reaching for the weave within the locket.  Gale pressed it to his bare skin, the magic peeling his flesh away and sucking the locket dry until it was hot in his fingers.  He tossed the spent thing beneath his desk and wiped the sweat from his forehead before answering the door with black spots still in his vision.

“Mother?” his vision resolved on Morena’s stout frame, then on the tall and thin outline of a second woman, “and a guest,” he smiled politely, “to what do I owe the honor?”

Morena’s eyes stared pointedly past him and into the flat.

Gale stepped aside.  “Please, come in.  I apologize for the mess, I wasn’t expecting company,” he bent down and kissed his mother’s cheek as she stepped across the threshold, “should I make some tea?”

“That would be best, Gale,” the tone of his mother's voice assured him that what followed would not be a request, “I must discuss something with you.”

“Yes, of course, mother.  Would you mind introducing me to your lovely friend?” Gale nodded to the other woman, hoping his brow was neither too tightly furrowed nor shiny with sweat.  He already felt his face burn as his mother took stock off his unkempt apartment. 

“Madame Toussau,” she offered a hand bedecked in brass rings that gave off no magic, “it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Dekarios, Morena told me much about you.”

Tara swept through the open balcony door and puffed her feathers in surprise as she noted the guests.  Morena nodded in greeting, and Tara hopped to the top of a high shelf to observe.  Her ears tilted back in concern, tail twitching.

“And who is this?” Madame Toussau cooed in delight over Tara's feathers. 

“Tara, she's a tressym,” Gale waved away any further explanation as he put the kettle on, ducking Madame Toussau’s hand as she became fascinated with Tara, “what is it you do, Madame?”

“Madame Toussau is a matchmaker, Gale,” Morena stated.  She waited for Gale to finish fumbling the dishes in his surprise. 

“Mother,” Gale protested, “you cannot simply marry me off because I've taken some time off to deal with an illness.  I --” his further argument was cut short as his mother's gaze, firm and full of concern, fell upon him.

Tara shot him a look, wondering if clawing the Madame's hand might prompt her to leave.  Gale stared at the floor, so she chose to flit to another perch, less easily reached by curious hands.

“Sit, Gale, let Tara tend to the tea while we talk.” Morena beckoned to the couch, ignoring Madame Toussau’s confused look back at the tressym.  She placed the books and papers on the floor in a neat pile and brushed the dust from the cushions for herself and Madame Toussau.

Gale reluctantly pulled out the desk chair and sat.  “Why have you brought me a matchmaker, mother?”

Madame Toussau cleared her throat.  “Allow me to allay your fears, Mr. Dekarios, I am not here to marry you off,” her high voice pitched strangely through the quiet flat, “Morena shared with me that you experienced a loss about a year hence, and she expressed concern for your well-being.  She thought that, perhaps, you could use a small nudge back into public life?”

Gale absent-mindedly rubbed his chest.  “I've been ill.”

Madame Toussau nodded knowingly.  “Yes, of course, but is healing not easier with friends to share the burden?”

Gale scoffed. “I wouldn't place such a burden on a stranger.”

“So you lay the burden at my feet instead, Gale?” Morena demanded, “am I, as your mother, expected to sit here and watch loneliness rot my only son from the inside out?  I'll tolerate it no longer, you will do this.  You will do this for my sake, and for your sisters’.  Am I understood?”

The room fell silent until the kettle whistled, and remained without conversation until all three of them held cups of hot tea in their hands. 

Madame Toussau sipped her tea.  “This is delightful, Tara,” the tressym groomed herself on the desk, Madame Toussau continued, “would you like to hear about the match I've made for you, Mr. Dekarios?”

Peiotr cleared his throat for the third time, his legs dangling off a rattan chair not built for dwarves.  Velim barely glanced at him, tapping the page of their notebook with their pen to feel the muted round of it against their lambskin gloves.  They scratched out more notes about the ins and outs of matchmaking.  A loose strand of dull brown-black hair slipped from their ponytail and they tucked it behind their ear.

“Shouldn’t I be the nervous one?” Velim teased in their trademark deadpan.

Madame Toussau chuckled, disguising her laughter with a cough when Peiotr’s nose grew redder.  “It’s not unusual for those doing the matching to experience more nerves than the matched,” she assured Peiotr.

“And you’re my publisher, not my father,” Velim reminded him as the flush reached his ears.

Peiotr crossed his arms.  “I just want to see him for myself. Don't trust wizards, city’s too full of them charlatans.”

Velim checked the time on the clock tower peeking above the buildings.  “Might have decided against it, he’s late.”

“Perhaps nerves on his part, too,” Madame Toussau chimed.

“You intend to get lost once he arrives, don’t you, Peiotr?” Velim asked, dotting a spot of ink on his freckled arm.

He tried to wipe the ink away, leaving a black smudge.  “Aye,” he grunted.

Madame Toussau straightened up, her long neck craning,  “There he is,” she waved to a man making his way through the crowd.

The man gave her a shy wave back, and Velim closed their notebook to assess him.  Brown hair slicked back, brows drawn close in concern and a couple tenday’s worth of a beard, tall enough to see over the crowd and well-dressed in the way of a man who stepped out of the house too quickly to consider pressing his shirt.

Peiotr hopped down from the chair as Gale jogged up the stairs with a breathless apology prepared.  Peiotr intercepted him before he reached the table.

“Peiotr Ironfoot,” he extended his hand and shook Gale’s in a crushing grip that left his niceties a pained grimace, “Velim Tav’s publisher, good to meet you Mr. Dekarios.”

“Peiotr,” Velim waited for him to meet their eyes so they could mouth “get lost” as they wiped the remaining ink off their pen.

Peiotr cleared his throat and released Gale’s hand, glancing back up at the man’s face, but he was already fixated on Velim.  He met their muddy green eyes and looked away as though burned, then looked back and ran a hand through his hair.

“Shall I get us some coffee?” he asked, “recompence, for my tardiness.”

Velim sat back in their chair.  “Sure.”

“Nothing for me, thank you, Gale,” Madame Toussau said, “I don’t indulge on business.”

“Not even coffee?” Velim asked, flashing the sharp white canines wood elves sometimes possessed.

“Not even coffee, sera,” Madame Toussau made a shooing motion at Velim, “you know the rules.  Behave as though I am not here at all.”

“Difficult thing to do,” Velim commented, ignoring her rules as Gale ducked into the cafe, “where did you find him, anyway?”

Madame Toussau laughed soft.  “I could ask you the same.”

“Peiotr?  He and his wife have a habit of picking up strays, of which I am the honorary eighth,” they waved her questions away, “how’d you make your way into this business?  If you’re willing to share?”

Madame Toussau scanned Velim’s still face, their skin smooth and flawless when they dropped the practiced facial expressions.  “I used to be a madame of a different sort,” she watched for a reaction.

“Got sick of making yourself the match, then?” Another half-smile.

Madame Toussau restrained herself from scolding Velim for their packaged expression.  If the pair was good, the facade would fall away without her intervention.  Gale returned with two espressos in small cups and a glass full of water, which he placed in front of Madame Toussau.

“Forgive me, my mother raised me better than to leave a lady without refreshment,” Gale apologized.

Velim took the chipped cup from the center of the table, long fingers domed over the top so the steam billowed into the palm of their hand and held it like that on their side of the table until Gale sipped his.  They savored the rich warmth against the chill of the encroaching autumn, then set it down with their fingers still resting on the rim.

“I’m sure I’ve been a topic of discussion already,” Gale began, “but I know very little about you, besides what Madame told me.  This whole process happened in such haste, I hardly remembered your name when I stepped out the door today.”

“Velim, if you need the reminder,” they rattled off their qualifications, “Vulture, surgeon, and author.”

“Of course, Velim,” he considered their name, matching the sound of it to their placid face, “a Vulture, you said?  With the Waterdeep Public Health Corps, I’d imagine?”

Velim inclined their head, urging him on.

“A perilous occupation, how long have you been in it?”

They tapped on the table, counting the years.  “15 years, give or take.”

“15 years?” Gale’s eyes widened.  Madame Toussau also took notice of the statement and leaned in.  Gale stuttered out his disbelief, “Gods, are you under some divine protection?”

Velim shrugged.  “Perhaps just lucky, there are more tenured plague doctors than you may expect.  ‘Survive the first two years, work another ten,’ the saying goes in the industry,” they changed the subject, “I hear you’re a researcher at Blackstaff.”

“Once, but no longer,” he held his espresso in front of his mouth, a barrier between himself and Velim’s probing gaze, “I’ve been on an extended sabbatical.”

“What did you research?” Velim pushed past his shield.

“Ah, well, are you familiar with the Empire of Netheril?” Gale asked, “I don’t imagine your studies make many forays into archaeology.  It once soared the skies above where the deserts of Anauroch sit today.”

Velim leaned forward.  “I know very little about Netheril,” they admitted, “a magocratic empire based out of floating cities.  That’s about all.”

Gale set his espresso down and forgot about it as he flourished his hand in introduction.  “Then you may be interested to learn that the current state of magic in Faerun -- and, indeed, the world over -- is connected intimately with the fall of Netheril wherein the Archwizard Karsus attempted to wrest control of the weave from Mystryl and destroyed him entirely in the process in an act known today as Karsus’ Folly.”

“Himself, or Mystra?” Velim cocked their head to the side.

“Mystryl,” Gale corrected, “the god of magic preceding Our Lady of Spells, and the reason we mortals are bound to the limits we are when practicing her Arts.”

“Mystryl,” Velim glanced up at the gutter around the roof where an intrepid pigeon eyed the finger sandwiches on a neighboring table, “can you find remnants of those floating cities in Anauroch?  I imagine you could, deserts preserve such things.”

“Well, yes, but my particular area of study lies elsewhere at the moment,” Gale bloomed under the rain of questions, “I’ve been studying the works of an Archmage known as Ortenkus who lived some thousand years before Karsus’ Folly.  He was instrumental in the annexation and settlement of territory near the western border of the empire -- if a floating empire can be said to have a border, but I digress -- the suspected site is in the Silver Marches.  Recently, I’ve been investigating a tale regarding a military victory.  During Ortenkus’ lifetime, a small nation whose name has long since been lost became a wall to Netheril by inverting their magic.”

Velim’s mind added a new observation to their catalog, relieved that they might observe him unwatched as long as they kept him talking.  His spinning wheel earring possessed no mechanism for removal.  He reeked of magic, and it crackled against their skin as static because he spoke with gestures pronounced enough to waft it across the table.  Every few seconds, he stole a glance at them with a kind of bashfulness in his eyes as though asking for permission to continue.

Gale continued on, a train rolling down the tracks of his thoughts.  “Ortenkus, as the main strategist for the King at the time, was tasked with laying the nation low.  He spent twenty years and twenty days in the great libraries of Palter -- an enclave known even among the Netherese as a bastion of knowledge -- and when he emerged, he descended to the earth with an object that the texts describe as an egg.  The word used could also refer to a large seed, but that’s splitting linguistic hairs.  He disguised himself as an old man and walked into the foremost bastion of the country, left the egg beneath the center of their government, and walked back to Netheril. 

“Within a year, the capital city lay in disarray without even the knowledge that they were once allies with any of the other groups within the land.  The infighting destroyed them, and with each fracture Ortenkus led the armies of Netheril in to seize the lands, starting with --”

“Wait a moment,” Velim interrupted.

Gale’s speech stuttered to a stop.

“How, exactly, did Ortenkus initiate memory loss on such a mass scale?  The erasure of an entire culture suggests psionic impact on the level of…” they trailed off, unable to think of a comparison, “well, regardless, what could mediate such a thing?  The focus must have been enormous, like the ones they used to power their cities.”

“Yes, the mythallars,” Gale nodded sagely, then leaned on the table as though sharing a secret, “but I haven’t the slightest idea how he did it.  No mention of anything but an egg within any translation or account I’ve come across,” a smile tugged at the corner of his lips and he lowered his voice, “my personal theory is that he made use of a living creature of some sort.  Perhaps something of ilithid origin, given their psionic capabilities.  A sufficiently powerful ilithid placed at the center of a society may cause enough neurological fallout to destroy the whole thing down to the very bolts.”

“Ilithid,” Velim repeated, “no archeological sites for this event, I imagine.”

Gale sat back and ran a hand through his hair, dislodging a greying strand that fell against his forehead.  “One, possibly, but it’s out in the Silver Marches.  Difficult to reach under ideal conditions…”

“Which the Silver Marches do not possess,” Velim finished.

Gale leaned in again.  “So you’ve been?”

Velim glanced at Madame Toussau, and she blinked at them reassuringly.  They picked at the chip in the rim of their espresso cup.  “A year ago, for diphtheria.  We lost a whole crate of antitoxin and a horse to the mud before we even reached the center of the outbreak.”

“Gods, what a fetid wasteland it is.  Even hags avoid the place.” Gale chuckled to himself, “you mentioned you were an author?”

“Just textbooks.  Peiotr’s been looking for a publishing house that might take my fiction, but no such luck as of yet,” Velim explained, “the matchmaking is itself for research.”

Gale thought of his mother’s demand for cooperation and felt a pang of relief as the expectations lifted from his shoulders.  “What are you writing that would require you to employ a matchmaker for research?”

“You’ll laugh,” Velim’s smile this time was genuine but muted, “it’s a romance about an accidental match with a devil.”

Gale did laugh, just a little.  “What makes a devil lovable?”

Velim shrugged and finished their coffee.  “It would be my job to find out.”

Gale’s voice ached, and yet Tara sat on the bench beside the door and swished her tail at him with expectation.

“It went well, Tara,” he assured her, scratching behind her ears the way she liked and sitting beside her to doff his shoes.

“Nothing strange about them?” Tara demanded, “no scales or claws?” she sniffed him tentatively.

“No such thing, Tara,” Gale huffed, “I did bump into a dragonborn on my way home.”

She sniffed again.  “Possible.  Morena asked me no less than four times if I had heard from you.”

“You visited my mother four times?  Tara, you must quit pestering the poor woman,” Gale scolded, his voice soft.

Tara flicked her ear at him.  “She was concerned.  You were gone for hours.  I was under strict orders to report back as soon as you arrived, but I only expected you gone a short time.  We both did, and look --” Tara trotted to the glass doors to the balcony and sat pointedly in front of the reddening sky.

“Then it went much better than either of you expected,” Gale stretched and shrugged off his vest, “Velum is a surgeon with the Waterdeep Public Health Corps of 15 years, and as though they had the time to spare, they’re also an accomplished author.”

Tara met him at his desk and settled on the shelf he set up above it just for her.  “And did you give them time to speak about being a decorated plague doctor, author, and surgeon, or did you simply talk their ear off until you were hoarse?”

“They kept asking me questions, Tara,” Gale collapsed into his desk chair with a sigh, “thank you for talking me into going.”

“Do you need me to fetch you something?” Tara purred, the scolding out of her voice.

“No, Tara, thank you,” Gale smiled at his ceiling, “I’m feeling just fine.”

Velim closed the door of their flat behind them and slid all three deadbolts into place before their shoulders slumped.  They sat on the bed, pulled off their boots, and tucked them beneath the bedframe, then fell back into the unmade blankets.

They pulled their gloves off one finger at a time, then plucked the Ring of Mortal Guise off and dropped it into one of the gloves for safe keeping.  Their scales reappeared, glossy black in the low light filtering in from the sunset.  They studied the shine on their hands, their claws filed as short and flat as they could get them without hitting the quick.  They ran their hand up their arm until it caught the edge of a scale coming loose and plucked it off, leaving a pale green patch of skin underneath.  Blood beaded up jewel-like where it had been anchored.  

They listened to their neighbors argue below them until someone threw something soft across the room.  Velim took the increasing volume of their voices as their sign to get up.  They lit the oil lamp on their writing desk with a wave of their hand, then pulled a box from the shelf and dropped the scale into it, replaced it, and pulled a leaf from the sheaf of paper in the drawer and began copying their notes on matchmaking and a detailed recounting of the day’s events, as requested by Madame Toussau.

[bmpmp3]

not used to this kind of mascot

[itscolossal]

Sophie O’Neill’s Detailed Embroidery Journals Chronicle All 365 Days of the Year

[natgoodmans]

books read in 2025 🤍

books read so far: 89 reading goal: 100

as always, askbox + dms are open if have any questions or would like to chat about books! you can find me on goodreads here, and on bookstagram here. 🤍

♡ indicates any new favorites; ⊹ indicates a reread.

january ⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚

1. writers & lovers by lily king 2. the art of memory collecting: 15 scrapbook, collage, trinket and zine projects for crafting treasured moments by martina calvi 3. tom lake by ann patchett (audiobook) ♡ 4. our town by thornton wilder ⊹ 5. beloved by toni morrisson 6. promise me sunshine by cara bastone (arc) ♡ 7. days at the morisaki bookshop by satoshi yagisawa & translated by eric ozawa ♡ 8. small things like these by claire keegan (audiobook) 9. beartown by fredrik backman ♡

february ⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚

1. the fellowship of the ring by j.r.r. tolkien (audiobook) 2. i'll pretend you're mine by tashie bhuiyan (arc) 3. sense and sensibility by jane austen ⊹ (audiobook) 4. the lonely city: adventures in the art of being alone by olivia laing (audiobook) 5. everything i learned, i learned in a chinese restaurant by curtis chin (audiobook) 6. tiny moons: a year of eating in shanghai by nina mingya powles 7. sorcery of thorns by margaret rogerson (audiobook) ♡ 8. more days at the morisaki bookshop by satoshi yagisawa ♡ 9. mysteries of thorn manor by margaret rogerson

march ⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚

1. an enchantment of ravens by margaret rogerson (audiobook) 2. white ice: race and the making of atlanta hockey by thomas aiello 3. lost and lassoed by lyla sage 4. holy terrors by margaret owen (arc) 5. swift and saddled by lyla sage 6. circe by madeline miller (audiobook) 7. a dark and drowning tide by allison saft (audiobook) 8. intermezzo by sally rooney (audiobook) ⊹ 9. my side of the river by elizabeth camarillo gutierrez (audiobook) 10. four weekends and a funeral by ellie palmer ♡ 11. the bell jar by sylvia plath (audiobook) 12. the break-up pact by emma lord 13. love lettering by kate clayborn 14. the partner plot by kristina forest 15. the rom-commers by katherine center 16. emily wilde's compendium of lost tales by heather fawcett (audiobook) 17. dolls of our lives: why we can't quit american girl by mary mahoney & allison horrocks (audiobook)

april ⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚

1. you between the lines by katie naymon 2. my not so perfect life by sophie kinsella 3. a quantum love story by mike chen (audiobook) 4. the siren of sussex by mimi matthews 5. the love wager by lynn painter (audiobook) 6. you belong with me by mhairi mcfarlane (audiobook) 7. puck and prejudice by lia riley 8. swept away by beth o'leary 9. great big beautiful life by emily henry (arc) 10. second first impressions by sally thorne (audiobook) 11. i who have never known men by jacqueline harpman ♡ 12. the belle of belgrave square by mimi matthews 13. the kiss countdown by etta easton 14. lovelight farms by b.k. borison 15. the wedding people by alison espach (audiobook) 16. the ex vows by jessica joyce 17. deep cuts by holly brickley 18. remember me? by sophie kinsella 19. here we go again by alison cochrun (audiobook) 20. the most wonderful crime of the year by ally carter (audiobook) 21. mistakes we never made by hannah brown 22. when you least expect it by haley cass (audiobook) 23. pitcher perfect by tessa bailey (arc) 24. the next chapters: an on the same page novella by haley cass (audiobook) 25. on the same page by haley cass 26. it happened one fight by maureen lee lenker 27. hello stranger by katherine center 28. ps: i hate you by lauren connolly 29. the rose bargain by sasha peyton smith (audiobook) 30. out on a limb by hannah bonam-young 31. make the season bright by ashley herring blake (audiobook) 32. flirting with disaster by naina kumar 33. first-time caller by b.k. borison 34. welcome to the hyunam-dong bookshop by hwang bo-reum, shanna tan (translator) 35. funny story by emily henry ⊹ 36. the guest cat by takashi hiraide, eric selland (translator)

may ⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚

1. evenings and weekends by oisín mckenna (audiobook) 2. the dragon's promise by elizabeth lim (audiobook) 3. the examiner by janice hallett 4. i want to die but i want to eat tteokbokki by baek se-hee, anton hur (translator) 5. the manor of dreams by christina li (arc) 6. lonely castle in the mirror by mizuki tsujimura (audiobook) ♡ 7. john proctor is the villain by kimberly belflower ♡ 8. the crucible by arthur miller, christopher w.e. bigsby (audiobook) ⊹ 9. in a not so perfect world by neely tubati alexander (audiobook) 10. the vanished birds by simon jimenez 11. time is a mother by ocean vuong 12. promise me sunshine by cara bastone ⊹ 13. straight white men / untitled feminist show by young jean lee 14. before we forget kindness by toshikazu kawaguchi, geoffrey trousselot 15. passion project by london sperry 16. the killer question by janice hallett (arc) 17. the cat who saved books by sōsuke natsukawa, louise heal kawai 18. bibliophobia: a memoir by sarah chihaya (audiobook)

[warrior-of-storms]

Carrie's interpretation of "good soldier" as the highest praise Batman can offer, the thing he says when he's claimed you as his own vs Jason’s interpretation of "good soldier" as an indictment, proof that he was nothing more than a soldier, evidence that Bruce doesn't care, maybe never did

[socialbutterfly19]

One thing I can honestly say…. I tried and whatever happens will just have to happen

[foggyinphx]

Saw someone who has seen the whole season say that this first season of Daredevil Born Again could have been a 2 hour movie to set up season 2 free of the original DDBA footage, which honestly just reaffirms in my mind that episodes 1, 8, and 9 are going to be one cohesive narrative.

Does episode 1 seem rushed and unresolved and unexplained? It's because we've only seen act 1 of our 3 act play.