#to some of them it's a hopeful beacon. an ally across dark waters

[sae-mian]

The trees deny themselves nothing that makes them grow, No rain fall, no sunshine, No blood upon the snow-

[itsclydebitches]

Hello, everyone! Can you believe this is the third time I've started the recap for this chapter? Between a dying computer and a mass edit during my monthly state of, "Oh my god get rid of everything we can't let people know that we wRITE!" this project is cursed. This is the version though, I can feel it. Be positive!

Now, where were we? It's been some months (RIP) since I last posted, so I wouldn't be surprised if everyone's forgotten what's going on in this insane novel. A quick recap before the recap then: new teams have formed, no one is happy about it, Sun and Velvet went off to a shady club run by The Crown and — shock shock, surprise surprise — got themselves into a heap of trouble. That's the long and the short of it. We have to wait a while to find out what happens to them though because this chapter is focused on Coco.

We learn that Professor Rumpole has sent Coco and her new team — Team ROSC — out into the desert to take care of the grimm around the city's borders. To say that Coco is disappointed in this assignment is an understatement. We learn that they've been at this for a week straight and have gone without showering or a change of clothes that entire time (no one packed a bag?), so for a second I was hugely sympathetic. You know this vine? 

I feel this vine in my soul. Give me hot water and hot coco or give me death. Besides, work is work and dangerous, physical work without a break or basic comforts is incredibly taxing. Toss in the extreme heat of a desert and I'd be pissed at everything too, no matter how important my work was. That's human.

Yet instead of humanizing Coco like this, it turns out she doesn't care at all about the hardship involved. It's fighting grimm that she's annoyed by. She thinks that "Searching for the person or persons kidnapping innocent people for some unknown but dark purpose was way more useful than fighting Grimm far from the city" and I'm just like, Coco, honey...

Do you know what your career path is?

IT'S TO KILL GRIMM.

Okay, there's admittedly a justification here, but it's a stupid one. Coco goes on to say that "This area was called the Wastelands for a reason." She's snarky about it, saying that it wastes “her time, her talent, and her patience," but the real takeaway is that it's, you know, a wasteland. Deserted of grimm and of people. What's the point of defending an area that doesn't need defending? A huntress' job might normally be to fight grimm, but when those grimm aren't around and kidnappers are, that's a whole new set of priorities.

The problem with all this is that the Wastelands is definitely not deserted and it's definitely not as far from the city as Coco would like to imply. In just a few paragraphs an alarm is going to trip and Coco will find six grimm roaming in a pack. Then she finds a person. Then that person says she needs to get back to see someone in the city within half an hour. So there are grimm, there are people about, and this area is apparently close enough to the border that you can get back to the city proper, on foot, and then get wherever it is you’re going in a bustling metropolis... all within half an hour. By that logic these grimm aren't out in the boonies, they're right outside everyone's door.

Yet Coco isn't convinced, saying that "Post Beacon [killing grimm] had been for a noble cause, but this just felt like … busywork." I cannot possibly emphasize enough that this is the job she signed up for. Not to be a detective specializing in missing people, not a war hero always on the front lines of a battle, but one of many huntsmen who perform the daily, routine, very necessary task of protecting the people from grimm. With "protecting" covering both immediate threats and preparatory work that ensures more threats don't come about — like taking care of grimm outside before they become a larger threat. You know what would have happened if Beacon had a daily chore of students killing grimm within a few miles radius of the school? There would have been far less grimm charging a mass of unprotected students when negativity unexpectedly skyrocketed.

And, as always, I am aware that Rumpole is the likely villain here. From a writing perspective, this is very much presented as her getting Coco out of the way so that she can go about her nefarious deeds in peace... but that doesn't erase the fact that the task itself is a sound one. Rumpole's motivations don't matter here, only Coco's annoyance that she... has to do her job?

I mean yeah, everyone complains about their job to one extent or another, but can you imagine if you stumbled across a firefighter complaining about all the kitchen fires they've had to put out lately? "It's so boring! There are much better things I could be spending my time and talent on. I mean, that inferno that took out a city block last year? Putting that out was noble. But routine fires? House fires? Giving lectures on how to prevent fires in the future? Ugh, I can't believe the department expects me to do this grunt work." Meanwhile, you're sneaking off, hoping that this firefighter is never called to your house, nursing mild worries about how much they're romanticizing the recent tragedy that took so many lives...

Complaints about the job turn into complaints about the teams, which makes far more sense for Coco's character. Anyone's, really. Despite my insistence that it's a good thing they're learning to fight with people other than their three besties, that was absolutely a sudden and rather traumatizing change, just given how attached the teams already are. I'm not at all surprised that Coco is struggling to cope.

She says she misses her friends, obviously, but also "surprisingly, Coco missed being in charge."

...That's supposed to be surprising? Coco, you love being in charge! How is this in any way a revelation?

Apparently it is though, stemming from how bad Reese is as their leader. As with so many things in RWBY, I find myself disagreeing with a perspective that's presented as a fact: "She liked to lead by group vote, which wasn’t leading at all." Yes... it is? We could go down a rabbit hole of literal definitions — to lead is to direct, to direct is to regulate, to regulate is to direct again — but ultimately our understanding of a word does not adhere to the dictionary alone. It's a knowledge built on experience and I would hope that everyone's experience with the term "leader" includes that person considering multiple perspectives before making a decision. A leader doesn't impose their view on a group without due consideration of their preferences and needs — that's a dictator — a leader guides the group based on feedback and their personal knowledge. If that feedback and knowledge results in a standstill, or if their knowledge outweighs preferences, they are the deciding vote because the people have previously said, "We trust your decisions" through the act of making them leader in the first place. 

Asking for a group vote isn't avoiding leadership, it's an act of leadership. Reese decided that these situations warranted a majority rule. She further decided that whatever they settled on was indeed an appropriate course of action. Leadership skills are required to assess a situation and determine whether it's appropriate to vote on in the first place. If I announce to a group that we're voting on whether we go to the movies or the museum, I've done the work to determine that both of these choices are of roughly equal value and roughly equal availability. I haven't hit on any snags like, "The only movies playing are mindless blockbusters and I want this to be an educational outing" or "The museum is too far away. We'll never make it to dinner on time." Figuring out that a group can vote is its own kind of work. This avenue is particularly useful when the group is of roughly equal standing. With a few exceptions (like Ruby and Jaune) huntsmen classmates are all the same age, underwent the same training, and have had the same combat experiences. This isn't a case of one elite huntsmen lending their knowledge to an otherwise green party, it's a school randomly pointing at a somewhat outgoing individual during orientation and saying, "You. You're leader material, I guess, even though you've done little differently than the person standing beside you." Someone has to lead and Vacuo's switcheroo proves that anyone can be the leader if they're just put in that position. Coco claims a group vote is just "passing the responsibility off to your team" and yes! You want to share the responsibility because you are a team. They are a group of four equals working together with one person to guide them, they are not a boss with three subordinates. Why wouldn't Reese utilize the skills and ideas of those teammates? When making a decision, why wouldn't she see if everyone believes it's a good idea to do Thing A as opposed to Thing B? Unless Reese is outright ignoring her own ideas, beliefs, or gut feelings to cater to the others — which there's no reference of — this is good leadership. She's assisting her team in making decisions as a whole, rather than arbitrarily imposing her view on three others of similar skill and experience.

Yet Coco acts like because Reese doesn't go, "We're doing Thing A! End of discussion!" it's not leadership. Which, frankly, says a lot about how the RWBY-verse sees leadership as a whole.

I realize I'm rambling a great deal, so let me quickly provide a different media example. I'm currently immersed in Star Trek: Voyager and in season two, episode 14 "Alliances," Captain Janeway is faced with a difficult choice: align herself with a violent and so far untrustworthy species, or risk traveling through this quadrant of space without any allies. At first she's entirely against the idea of an alliance, going so far as to say that this isn't a democracy. She's the captain, dammit, she makes the decisions! But her first officer begs her to reconsider. Then the crew express disappointment — even disgust — that she won't consider this alternative. Then her chief of security, being a Vulcan, provides a persuasively logical argument for why an alliance is worth the risk... Long story short, Janeway finds herself in the minority and changes her decision accordingly. She attempts to garner an alliance and the fact that she was right — the species wasn't trustworthy and the alliance fails — is entirely beside the point. She realized that the majority voice matters. As far as we know, Reese is already practicing what Janeway learned.

ANYWAY the point is none of it matters because these characterizations are a mess. Coco also throws out that Reese "dressed like she was a twelve-year-old hanging out at the mall" and supposedly acts like one too. We're not given any examples of what that behavior looks like and, sorry, but I'm not personally inclined to judge someone based on their fashion sense. It would be great if this story actually engaged with some of the flaws the characters demonstrated, rather than just throwing them out to exist in this unacknowledged void.

Not that Coco's fashion-focused personality is really that important. Truly, the best thing about all this is how contradictory Coco's own thoughts are. She also listens to her teammates... except when she doesn't. She know when to go with their ideas and when to dismiss them for her own... except when she gets it totally wrong. As with so much in RWBY, this doesn't feel like the author giving Coco deliberate flaws that the story will grapple with down the line, it just comes across as a nonsense philosophy about leadership we're not meant to examine too closely. Coco gets to make references to the fact that her own, supposedly superior leadership is filled with holes, but heaven forbid she engage with that. 

She ends all this with the thought that no matter what she might decide, she trusted her team to "do what she demanded of them” and is now extending that courtesy to Reese. This I'm inclined to praise Coco for. No matter what she might be thinking, it doesn't appear as if she's tried to undermine Reese (well, not yet. More on that at the chapter’s end), and she doesn’t appear to be refusing to listen to that leadership, even if she doesn't like how it comes about. As we're about to see, Coco has her team's best interests at heart, no matter the challenges they're facing.

Her thoughts turn back to her old team and we get... this.

Velvet was with a team that didn’t recognize her awesome capabilities. Fox was withdrawing, having lost his family for the second time. Yatsuhashi was going mad with worry about Velvet and his teammates, knowing that he couldn’t be there to protect them, and worrying he would accidentally hurt someone on his new team.

This is so unnecessarily dramatic. First, how does Coco even know any of this? Because it's been heavily implied that the old teams are barely in contact with one another. See: Velvet refusing to loop anyone in about the club and Coco stuck in the desert for a week. Second, why aren't they in contact, at least those who aren't on away missions? The entire group is acting as if changing teams means they're no longer allowed to be friends — family, as Coco puts it — when the relationship between Team RWBY and Team JNPR creates the opposite expectation right at the start of the series. Clearly, people from different teams can be close. Yatsu's worry that he might stumble using his semblance with new people is the only conflict that holds up here. Everything else has fairly straightforward solutions. Velvet needs to prove herself to new people. Yatsu needs to text Velvet if he's that worried about her. And Fox "having lost his family for a second time" is a pretty ridiculous exaggeration. You're attending the same school! Your family is still living down the hall if Vacuo has dorms like Beacon! In what world are these students unable to interact largely as they did before? They're acting as if the school has outright barred them from hanging out, rather than doing what will no doubt occur the moment they graduate: force them to work with different people. Just catch up with Fox over dinner! 

Honestly, this chapter is pretty short, I'm just continually bewildered by this story.

To get back to the actual plot, something trips a sensor the group has set up and Coco responds to the situation in what I think is both a smart and empathetic manner. Previous experience has taught her that it's likely just a lizard, so she doesn't want to wake up her team for no reason. Disagreements aside, she cares enough to let them rest — "They’d probably appreciate the extra sleep." However, if it's a "rare case of something she couldn’t handle alone" she'd immediately call for help. Great plan! It's not often in this novel that I feel like I enjoy the characters, but this little moment actually had me liking Coco. Which, yes, I realize is a complicated claim. Characters should test the reader to a certain degree, mirroring all the personalities we see in real life, including biased, mean, or contradictory people. It's often a good thing to write a character that your reader is frustrated with. That can be the point! The problem with Myers' writing is that it isn't the point. Coco, as the former leader of our heroes in this tale, should be someone we enjoy spending time with and her flaws should be the basis for growth, or an acknowledgement that she is an imperfect, but well-rounded person. As it stands, flaws in this novel just sort of... exist? They bop around in the RWBY universe with almost no acknowledgement from the narrative or other characters, leaving the reader with little to nothing to take away from the text. Is Coco correct in her judgement? Is this a bias she needs to work on? Is she putting on a facade and her natural instinct to care for her team is the real Coco hidden underneath? Who knows! She’s just frustrating to read about most of the time and nothing comes of that. 

Regardless, she heads out into the desert, using the night vision glasses Velvet made her. 

Now see, this would have been the perfect thing to introduce before Velvet was fixing relay towers after the expert was injured. Remember how I said the novel didn't do enough to establish Velvet's own expertise? Not that a pair of goggles is really comparable to fixing a communications issue, but it still would have gone some way towards convincing me that Velvet is this super impressive tech gal, capable of handling any and all situations that might come her way.

But no, we get this impressive display of skill after Velvet's knowledge was needed in a pinch. 

The glasses help Coco navigate the terrain, allowing her to both see in the dark and zoom in on things in the distance. This allows her to spot the six jackalopes that tripped the sensor, as well as the woman currently fighting them: Carmine, a villain from After the Fall that I know nothing about. Ah well. Note though what I said at the start, that Coco's dismissal of this assignment is based entirely in its supposed uselessness. Yet now here we have a pack of dangerous grimm and an enemy to content with.

Also, this is where Coco moves from kindly teammate to overconfident fool. She said she'd call for backup if she needed it... and she clearly needs it! From what I can gather, all of Team CFVY lost to Carmine last time they met up. But now she wants to risk fighting Carmine alone? Go get the others!

She doesn't, of course. Carmine doesn't notice Coco at first. She's talking about how she has to get back into the city. "He’s going to kill me if I’m not back to the Mirage in thirty."

As said, this also implies that Coco isn't nearly as far out as she initially suggested. If Carmine can feasibly finish this fight, cross the desert, navigate who knows how much of the city, and meet up with the mysterious "he" all in under half an hour, then Coco is patrolling pretty much right at the walls. AKA, the area that absolutely needs to be grimm free.

Luckily for those of us who are reading the books out of order, Myers gives a quick recap of Carmine's significance. Last book she had kidnapped Gus and "held off the combined might of Team CFVY in the desert” (oh hey, I was right), presumably escaping afterwards. Now here she is again, likely up to some new, nefarious deed. 

Our of curiosity, I googled to see what she looks like and... 

WHAT IS THAT OUTFIT? 

Coco watches as she works to keep on top of the six grimm, debating whether she should help or walk away, but when Carmine is taken unawares, Coco acts without thinking, throwing herself into the fray.

Sometimes decisions were like that—your body already knew what to do while your brain was still processing the situation. Only in this case, Coco’s body wasn’t necessarily the clearest judge of character. Her brain would have said that Carmine didn’t deserve her help.

Now see, this is a scene I can get behind. The entire RWBY-verse is based around a type of superheroism: people with unnatural abilities, fantasy weapons, and extensive training devote themselves to protecting the people from various threats. Yet too often RWBY fails to convince me that these people are actually heroic, taking the standard flaws of a character and unknowingly exacerbating them to the point where I think, "Is this meant to be a commentary on the anti-hero? Or a critical look at these fantasy formulas? Because we've got the elements of that here, but no indication that the authors realize they're writing something other than that standard story." But this? This works for me. Coco, as a huntress, is so conditioned to help others that her body responds instinctively to someone being in danger, regardless of who that someone is. She outright admits that if she'd had the chance to think about it she would have decided against helping Carmine. The fact that she recognizes this and move anyway says a lot of good about her. Well done, Coco!

We see later that Carmine probably didn't need the help, but between the two of them the grimm really don't stand a chance. What's interesting though is how chummy the two are while defending themselves. Coco comments on Carmine's tendency to talk to grimm (like she does) and Carmine freely offers information about her movements, the fact that she lost her other sword, and that her partner, Bertilak, needs to "recharge a little" before getting back in the game. Carmine asks Coco if she'd like to team up with her instead (she does not) and the two have a number of flirty exchanges to top things off:

“I’ve been dreaming of a rematch with you,” Coco said.

“You’ve been dreaming about me? I’m flattered.” Carmine winked.

***

“Hot date with the Crown?” Coco asked.

“Don’t be jealous, darling.”

I bring all this up not as a criticism of the buddy-enemy dynamic (it's a favorite of mine), but simply because of something that happens next. Before we get to that though, I admit that I am on the fence about the flirting. Given that I haven't read After the Fall (assuming this characterization exists there), I know that Coco is a lesbian mostly via RWBY cultural osmosis, rather than through the text. This is one of the few (the only?) times that I've gotten a hint at her sexuality, yet it's associated with predatory behavior. Carmine, her enemy, is the one who turns an angry dream into a flattering one, the hot date with the bad guy into something to be jealous of. I'm honestly struggling to remember what, if anything, Coco has had to say about women in this book — this is what comes of such slow recapping and I acknowledge that this is entirely my fault — but I'm nevertheless discomforted by knowing Coco's canonical status, knowing RWBY's struggles with queer rep, and then reading a scene where the most overt representation thus far is the bad guy twisting Coco's words into something sexual.

I'm no purist. Give me a good enemies-to-lovers fic any day of the week, but that doesn't mean that kind of dynamic is the best to pull from in a franchise already facing heavy criticism for its queer rep.

Especially since the moment the grimm are gone Carmine turns her sai on Coco.

This is the "something that happens next" that I referenced above. It's weird to have them attacking one another after a whole scene of pretty genuine companionship. Coco doesn't help Carmine as a consequence of defending herself, she willingly gets involved. They tease one another. Carmine appears to answer her questions honestly. There's both implied and overt references to how well they work as a team. Then, suddenly, Carmine is outright trying to kill Coco, not just with her sai but by burying her alive. It's not the sort of banter that Ruby and Roman used to engage in, trading fake compliments and, in Roman's case before his death, legitimate feelings while attacking one another. Nor is Coco prepared for an attack the moment the grimm are gone, and she's not surprised by it. It’s just this sudden change that feels rather jarring. 

Though it's far from the first time BTD has failed to convey the emotion of a scene. Here's another example rnow. As said, Carmine is attempting to bury Coco alive by moving the sand with her semblance. That's horrifying enough on its own, but remember that Coco is claustrophobic. Yet none of that panic shines through here. She comes across as indifferent throughout the attack, thinking back to summers when her brother tried to bury her while she sunbathed, amazed that she could ever consider this fun. You know who Coco sounds like in this scene?

At no point during this attack did I get the sense that Coco believes she’s in serious danger, let alone that she's struggling against a long-term phobia. The only time I even remembered that claustrophobia is meant to be a challenge for her is when she throws out the oh-so casual line, "One of her worst nightmares was being buried alive." Oh really? Because it doesn't seem like it! Coco is calm enough to remember that she used to be able to hold her breath for exactly three minutes and forty-two seconds. That doesn't feel like a character fighting against her worst nightmare.

So this scene isn't exactly compelling. Which is too bad because, as said, Coco as some other nice moments in this chapter.

However, during all this we do learn a little more about Carmine. Prior to getting trapped in the sand, Coco comments on how shockingly strong she is. "Carmine should have been at least a little bit worn down from fighting Grimm," but she's not, "She seemed nearly unstoppable now." Coco hits her full in the face, but she doesn't seem fazed. Earlier in the chapter there was that comment about how she previously took on Team CFVY alone and at the end of the battle Coco observes that Carmine "still seemed as fresh as she had at the beginning of the fight. How was she even doing that?" My basic reading comprehension skills tell me that this is setup for something, likely some change enacted by the Crown. Surely the text wouldn't put so much emphasis on Carmine's strength — have Coco questioning it to this extent, framing it as unnatural — unless we were going to get an answer, right?

But this is RWBY, so I'm not inclined to count my chickens before they hatch.

The rest of Coco's team arrives and it's then that she decides to pull the super dangerous stunt to free herself. Yeah, yeah, I get that she's suffocating and needs to do something now, can't wait to be dug out I suppose, but the timing is pretty ridiculous. The cavalry has arrived, yay! Time to blow myself up.

Seriously. She blows herself up. Using her own semblance, Coco focuses on one of her gravity dust bullets and detonates it, causing all the others in her arsenal to detonate too. It gets her out of the hole and "knocked her Aura down to a dangerously low level."

So... let’s see. Coco can literally detonate a bunch of explosives on her person, after suffocating under stand, after fighting Carmine, after fighting grimm, after a week long mission, and her aura doesn't break... but Yang's does from a single Neo slash?

Okay, RWBY.

Reese and Olive try to attack Carmine together, but end up eliminating one another's attacks. I like that a team actually has some realistic difficulties for once. Coco, however, is internally an asshole, calling them "idiots" and saying that they need to learn to coordinate their attacks. Thing is, she apparently hasn't done anything over the last week to help with that. She's been too busy complaining about Reese's clothes.

Carmine runs off as more grimm show up, drawn by Coco's non-existent panic. To her credit she does thank the others for saving her... but then immediately tries to downplay that. “It wasn’t a fair fight,” Coco spat when Reese (correctly) points out that she's the one who was ambushed. She also starts giving orders and when Reese (again, correctly!) goes to point out that she's the leader, Coco talks over her, saying they can't waste any more time out here because she has reason to believe that Shade has been compromised. She needs them only because she's out of bullets and low on aura, but they definitely need her because "let’s face it, I’m the best strategist around for miles."

Coco's a strategist?

And why does she sound like a villain trying to convince the heroes to work with her? She’s already part of the team!

Putting all that aside for the moment, we're back to this prideful characterization. I liked the well-rounded Coco from a few pages ago who balanced caring for her team with the likelihood of needing backup. Now she's flinching from the idea that she'd ever need help (hello, Sun characterization too) and snatching Reese's role the moment she's given the chance. So much for respecting her position. If the book wants me to believe that Reese is unfit to be leader and this is a golden opportunity for Coco to right a wrong... how about we actually show Reese being a bad leader?

Regardless, yay working together? The chapter ends with them presumably taking out the grimm before heading back to Shade, along with an important revelation. Prior to leaving, Carmine asked Coco why Yatsuhashi and Fox weren't rushing to her aid. It's only now that Coco realizes she didn't mention Velvet. Why? Perhaps because Carmine already knows where Velvet is, which obviously doesn't imply anything good.

And that's the end of Chapter Ten! Can you tell I never know how to finish these recaps? Describing cliffhangers doesn't have quite the same punch as, you know, actual cliffhangers. You all just have to suffer through my mediocre endings with me.

But would you look at that! Turns out the third attempt at writing this was the charm! :D

See you for Chapter Eleven! 💜

[bloodycassian]

Enemies and Allies - Reader + Night court. the concept:

enemies forced together in alliance to save their courts. Politics, tension, "Once we're done here I will be the one to kill you." slow burn reader x an Illyrian? Not sure who yet

Part 1 of a possibly reoccurring fic.

You never liked dealing with other courts, but Rhysand and Tamlin were possibly the two worst high lords to deal with. Helion would have been up there too if he wasn't so damn charming. And Beron didn't even count, considering he was your uncle. He was annoying automatically. And a damned fool for not showing up to the funeral. Tamlin was a brute shoved into power much too early. You could tell just from the way he carried himself. No nobility, no grace. Just the brutal beast that lurked under his skin. The way he didn't bother leaving any flowers along the coast line was further proof of his childish ways.   Rhysand was the polar opposite. The epitome of arrogance, grace, poise and political power. All words and strategy, enough to make you double take every time he opened his mouth. Constantly on the lookout for hidden meaning or loopholes in his word choice. He made your heart race with stress.  His spymaster and general though, were like two neutral, yet menacing gargoyles on either side of him. They were unsettling, especially with the shadows that crept over the spy. You tried not to stare at those curling around his shoulders, or the dull siphons that laid on each of their hands. Or the wings.  The wings would have been the worst part if there weren't other winged generals at the funeral. Peregryns guarded their high lord, one at each side much like Rhysand. Only they radiated sunshine, and light and goodness. Still terrifyingly deadly, though. Their polished armor and ceremonial scepters glinting from the overcast skies.  "A funeral should be a celebration... of the life that was. Please, join us." Tarquin said, voice thick. His mate's lip quivered. The ocean crashed against the sand, scooping up the flowers left to honor his son. Your heart squeezed at the tone change in his voice. The way he struggled to hold himself together for his court.  Vivienne turned from the crowd, and Tarquin followed. Her dark hair moved like water over her thin frame. They held each other for a long moment while the Summer court guards ushered guests to the large open beach house. You hesitated, looking out towards the ocean as it roiled. The dark water churned, seagulls overhead made no sound as they passed.  "Its been a long time, Autumn." The sultry voice was enough to make your skin crawl. He had kept the nickname since he'd met you. And in the two hundred years since. He did not forget such a remarkable introduction. Especially of someone who had your kind of power in an opposing court.  His eyes flashed with amusement when you turned, plastering on a charming smile. "I would have preferred longer, but the Cauldron works in strange ways sometimes." You retorted, and began walking away from him, grinding your teeth when he followed with ease.  He laughed and nodded. "Indeed it does, with the passing of Tarquin's only child." the not question was leading, looking to see if you knew anything of the murder. Anger spread though you at the subtle accusation. You couldnt let it show.  You had to keep your calm. Or he would surely suspect something of you. You could practically see the accusation scene play out when Night court invaded Autumn on Summer's behalf. Claiming that Autumn had killed the boy. "A parent should never outlive their own child." You said mournfully. You knew from experience how it ruined families after such a loss.  When you snuck a glance at his face, you could have swore you saw pain there. A longing that you didnt understand coming from him. It almost made you feel bad for him. You jolted yourself, forcing your mind to focus upon on your steps in the sand.  He paused for just a second before opening the bungalow door for you, inviting you to the wake. All courts dressed in mute tones of their colors, not one dared to raise their voice above the hushed murmurs. Rhysand gave a nod to his two generals in the corner, standing like statues. "I'll be seeing you then, Autumn." His eyes met yours and you swore you saw something linger there.  Before you could tell him to knock it off with the nickname, he was weaving his way across the room to the two Illyrians. Stopping every so often to give grim smiles to the families of Summer Court. His actions seemed genuine in nature. You dared not reach out a mental hand to him though, knowing you might not return with it intact.  + "And what of Night court?" Beron's slurred words were familiar. The old man had been wasting away in his own filth for years. After the Lady of Autumn disappeared, he had nothing left to keep him in line. His sons - Eris namely- made the important decisions in the court, but he still acted as ruler. The figurehead for important events and nothing more.  He had also become obsessed with the innate abilities of all the other high lords. Constantly comparing his own lingering power with the others. In two hundred years, his body had seemed to begin to wither. Directly after your birth, some said. And cursed you for their ruler's demise. After the shame of being one of the few courts to refuse to help win the war, Beron had given up completely. Still power hungry, but no longer driven.  "Night court seems to be fine. Not shaken by the murders." You surmised as best you could after your short interaction with the High Lord.  "Was it's high Lady there?" He asked with a grunt of a laugh. He was always undermining the role, laughing whenever you mentioned seeing the lady of Night. "She was not. I believe she was taking care of the babe, as the two generals were there." He shook his head, his gray hair falling in his face. "As a female should." You fought not to cringe or bite back at him. Even if he was your uncle, Beron would be a fantastic target if there was, in fact a murderer loose in Prythian. You shooed the tratirous thought away.  "Tarquin and Vivienne send their regards." You said, hoping he would allow you to take your leave. You glanced around to the cavernous space that encapsulated the dark throne room. The banners on the wall seemed lacking in color. Years of dust likely growing on them. The cracked stone floor showed its age as well, moss growing in the corners. He refused to let anyone touch up the dim room after his wife had gone.  Echoing steps sounded behind you. You turned on your heel calmly, but gripped your sword. Ready to defend your High Lord if needed.  Your mouth fell open at the sight of The Morrigan striding down the long hall. Eris on her heels behind her. She was a beacon of light among the dull ancient stone walls. Eris had a wicked grin on, eyes locked on his father.  +  "The Queens have been killed." She announced, no wavering in her tone. Your stomach hit the floor. Beron said nothing, didnt show any reaction in the slightest. As if he already knew. "And they sent you so I could be assured the court of Nightmares isnt lying?"  "They sent me because I saw to their end personally." Eris even glanced at her with the tone she used. She leveled a look at Beron.  He waved a hand, as if the Night court commander hadn't just announced that the biggest enemies to Prythian were dead."Cut off the head of the snake and more appear." He coughed after the shrug, his breathing labored. Eris hid a pained look that you knew all too well. The denial of his father's life coming to an end in front of him. You could have balked at him for the outright insult but kept your mouth shut. "High Lord.." you began, wanting to consult him on the weight of the situation. He glared at you, that familiar piercing stare that told you to stop whatever you were doing. As a child, that stare was enough to make you behave. You didn't dare think of what more than a stare Eris had to go through during his childhood.  Eris' jaw clenched before he began "Father, the Queens no longer pose a threat. This would be the perfect op-"  "Enough, boy!" Beron's voice echoed in the hall. Your cousin's face went red with shame. Fear settled in your stomach. If Beron  had no plan for moving forces to the continent to stablaise, there would be a power struggle. Even you knew that. "You assume I dont have a plan. We can discuss this when there are no wandering eyes or ears present." His tone was softer, but still laced with that High Lord's authority.  Mor's eyes could have killed them if she had the ability.  She snorted, and turned on a heel to leave. Her footsteps echoing in the long hall. "The Night Court's whore, going back to where she belongs." Beron mused to himself. She stopped dead in her tracks. Eris' face went pale when she turned. Your palms went sweaty at her eyes, like two daggers looking at him. She held up a hand. Light flashed, and suddenly there was a razor thin spear flying through the air.  You ran at The Morrigan before you knew what you were doing. Your hands were a flurry of movement as you tried to keep her down. Eris just watched, unable to move as he watched death race for his father.  A wet splatter, and Beron's chest was punctured by that golden spear. His mouth leaked blood, his eyes closing. Eris was rooted to the spot. Your body locked up, and Mor shoved you off of her with a grunt. She wasnt trying to win the fight, she could have obliterated you in a second if she was. You felt like you weren't in your body. She stood, wiping the blood from her face. You didnt remember hitting her that hard. Your mouth was dry, mind buzzing. Mor waved her hand again and the spear was gone.  "Have all the power you want, Eris. Our deal has been struck. Send your forces to Rask by next week." She scowled at the body on the throne. The male you had just wished death upon. The reality of it made everything fuzzy. Eris was still pale, his eyes not looking away from his father. "We will see you there." He said, voice weak. Distant.  You could only faintly hear Mor Winnow away. The roaring in your head was overwhelming. Your uncle dead on his throne. A hysterical laugh bubbled from Eris' chest. Only one, before you could catch his gaze and see the silent tears streaming down his cheeks. + "You killed the Queens and my father without consulting me first. I hardly think our deal was struck." Eris had been strange after his father's funeral. But for the first time since, you saw a glimpse of the old him. On the move to Rask, he had been that hollow shell he seemed like. Btu as soon as he laid eyes on Morrigan waiting at that tent, he seemed to put on more of a show.  Inside the tent seemed too small. It was enormous, but with everyone inside it was too hot. Too cramped. The sun beating down did not help. The two Illyrians in the corner leering at you and Eris was not helping either. "A deal's a deal young Lord. I suggest you choose your words more carefully next time." Rhys winked. You crossed your arms over your chest, trying to hold back your tone. "You murdered him. I am being blamed for not guarding him well enough." Your reputation in the court had fallen.  Several Royal court members had been rumoured of your position inside the court, if you should be banished because of the death. None of them knew what actually happened. You and Eris had agreed on a believable story though, whoever had murdered Tarquin's son also reached Beron the night of the funeral. "I did not murder him. My lovely cousin however, did." Rhys drawled with a cat-like grin. It made you see red. Azriel grinned behind him. Those creepy shadows of his seemed more transparent in the sun. Mor glanced to you, her eyes not betraying anything she felt of the kill. You were hoping she would show some remorse for the death. Heat roiled in your stomach at the lack of care.  "Dont act so upset, Autumn." Rhys waved a hand, and you felt those clawd mental hands whisk across your shields. You snarled at him, reaching for your sword. You knew you couldnt win, even on your best of days. That didnt stop you though. Eris placed a hand on your arm. The two Illyrians had their siphon shields glowing in front of their high lord instantly. Rhys laughed calmly despite the tension in the room.  "You did give Mor quite the cut however, and burn it seems. Call it revenge." He folded his hand on the desk, wiping away dirt that wasnt there. Azriel's siphons burned brighter. His wings tightened behind his back. Mor still showed nothing, only looking from her cousin to Eris. Tense, her shoulders and posture radiated the worry. The tension of the room. Eris' jaw locked. He pulled you, willing you to let it go. You weren't proud of the fight with Mor. You wanted Beron to have at least died in an honorable way. But in the recent years with him hardly leaving his seat at the throne or his room at the castle, it made the chance of him seeing battle again nearly impossible.  "Maybe I should have done more." You muttered, sheathing your sword. The shadowsinger stepped forward, chest pushed out. His lips pulled back in a snarl, "Do not-" He began, voice a low threatening growl. "Azriel." Rhys said calmly, voice like honey. You grinned at the Shadowed one.  Rhys sighed and waved his tattooed hand in the air. Wine glasses appeared on the table he sat at. "Let's begin the real discussion at hand." He said calmly, pouring a glass. You glanced to Eris. He hesitated, but strode forward, taking a glass and downing it. + Eris was nearly drunk by the time you helped him out of the tent. After the long hours of dribble and stale conversation about diving resources, you couldnt blame him for having a few extra glasses of wine. He tripped on the rug going out. You caught him, but noticed shadows lingering around his torso.  "Get. Off."  You hissed, Not looking back. The shadows lingered for just a moment, then skittered away. You heard something like a sigh come from one of them as you led your cousin to his tent.

[summonerscenarios]

Hope ur doing okay Juno! Could I get your choice of summoners & shinjuku teachers reaction hcs to Mc just up and disappearing without a trace and they just stumble onto Mc a week or two later beaten and bleeding trying to patch their very real, non app inflicted wounds (like requires stitches type wounds) and when Mc notices them they just light up with a big smile and go "Oh hey! :D I got kidnapped!". I doubt much would happen legally with Mc being a transient and all ^^

Heyya hun I’m doing better! ^^ Man with everything that’s happened to the MC we may as well add kidnapping to the list! If they’ve got a dangerous situations bucket list they’ve got one more thing to cross off asdfghjkl.

Had to limit this one to three or else I probably would’ve gotten carried away but I hope it’s okay! ^^

----

Toji

When news had first started to circle that you hadn’t been showing up to your lessons Toji’s immediate first thought was to wonder what kind of trouble you’ve gotten yourself into now. It’s no secret that you have a penchant for running headfirst into danger, disappearing for a time without any warning , but you always find your way back one way or another, ever optimistic and often with a gaggle of new allies in tow. And it’s because of this that Toji doesn’t worry as much as he should, and makes a point to assure the other Summoners that you’ll be coming back soon, a statement that he finds himself regretting the next day. When he comes to your room and finds the place completely untouched is when he starts to doubt his surety; it’s clear you never made it back here the last time you two talked, and when night turns to day and you still haven’t returned is when the Summoner’s realize that you aren’t just lost - they need to find you.

While Shiro goes to inform the teachers Toji takes to the streets to look for answers, hoping for even a  sliver of information he can find about your whereabouts that will convince him that you’re fine. He finds himself delving back into the nooks and crannies of Tokyo, getting in touch with the few contacts he still has in the hopes to bear some fruit in the investigation and growing increasingly more tense as each of those leads turns up absolutely nothing. It’s almost like you’ve just disappeared, but Toji knows better, and the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach only blooms further at the realization that it’s something more sinister.

At the end of each unsuccessful day Toji finds himself returning to your dorm room. That place has been essentially torn apart and rebuilt looking for clues but even so he comes back if only to remind himself why he’s trying so hard to look. There’s pieces of you here, signs of the life that you’ve lived at the school and the memories you’ve made - pictures, books, spare uniforms, games - they’re a reflection of who you are, and seeing them renews his determination to find you and bring you back so this place can continue to swell with memories. 

But one night is different. As Toji comes down the hall to check on your room a chill runs up his back when he sees the door cracked open, light filtering out into the dark of the hallway like a beacon. Immediately he’s on the offensive; no one else should be in there at this time of night (though Ryota did try to insist on a roster in case someone came back) and the possibility that the ones responsible for your disappearance has come back makes him cautious. He approaches silently one hand prepared to unsheathe his sword as the other comes to rest against the door, listening to the sounds of movement inside. One,two…

At the third count he shoves open the door and prepares himself for a fight, the demand for answers barely passing his lips at the sight before him. Back resting against the bed, covered in bruises and looking like an absolute mess is you, midway through using a piece of your shirt to cover the nasty gash dug into your thigh when you jolt at his sudden entrance. He expects you to scream, to cry or even get angry at him for scaring you, but instead your entire expression brightens up, a smile that would have been dazzling if it wasn’t for the bruises marring your cheek spreading across your face as you try to stand and greet him. Toji has to dart across the dorm room to catch you as you buckle, easing you back onto the floor as he comes to kneel by your side. He scolds you to stay still but really he’s just baffled; you’ve been gone for days without a trace only to appear back in your room looking like you took on all of Tokyo (which honestly he wouldn’t put it past you) and yet you’re still smiling as though nothing’s wrong. But even he can see you’re exhausted, exhausted but relieved that he’s here. 

He should go and notify the others, and goes to do so, but when you cling to his arm and beg him to stay with you at least until you finish patching up Toji relents, ordering you to try not to move too much as he takes over trying to fix you up. He’s been in situations like this before - he’s had to deal with his own wounds outside of the app in the past so he has an idea of what he’s doing, but with nothing but the torn remains of a shirt and water from the sink to clean and dress the wound Toji knows that this is only a temporary fix. 

You fill him in on what happened, about the kidnapping and the fights that led up to your escape and running until you were right back here. The way you tell the story is so nonchalant, even laughing about how you would have gotten here faster if it wasn’t for your leg as though it’s a funny story. He’s seen people cope in different ways but just hearing you attempting to make light of the situation makes his heart clench . Now that you were back the investigation would likely be called off - even with the kidnapping and injury the fact you were alive would be enough for the legal system to back off, convinced the situation has sorted itself out. But Toji knows that the others won’t back down so easily - Kengo will go on the warpath just to find the people responsible, Shiro will be filling every ally guild to get them on board with tracking them down, and Ryota will be getting in touch with just about every friend you’ve ever made since entering Tokyo to join the search and get you justice. And of course Toji will be right alongside them, but for now his focus is on you, biting his tongue as you continue to downplay your experience if only to keep you comfortable, and making plans for notifying the other Summoners as soon as you’re stable enough for him to bring them together.

Ryota

Ryota had started to worry when he realized that you hadn’t been with the other Summoner’s when school started. He’s been the last one to see you last night, the two of you walking back to his dorm room after the latest Summoner meeting and him seeing you off at the door. Sometimes you were late and that could very well have been what was happening this time, but Ryota still finds himself growing concerned when the day goes on and you still don’t show up. The nail in the coffin is when the night time curfew rolls around and Shiro comes back from your dorm room with a serious look on his face, letting the other Summoner’s know that you haven’t touched your room and it’s clear that you’d never made it back the night before.  

Immediately the worst case scenarios fill his head - where could you be? Surely you were okay! Maybe you just went to sleep over at a friend’s house and lost track of time - that happens all the time so of course that had to be it!...Right? Toji makes a remark that maybe you had ended up wrapped up in someone else’s problems again, something you were probably famous for at this point, but Shiro is firm that if you aren’t back by morning they’re going to have to assume you’ve gone missing. Sure enough once the next day rolls around and you’re not back everyone’s jumping into action - Shiro goes off to alert the faculty and the necessary adults, whilst Kengo and Toji take to Tokyo’s streets looking for any sign of you that they can find. Ryota starts with the people you guys know at school and starts branching out reaching out to others; Moritaka and Choji, the mountaineering club, Maria and the Missionaries - he gets into contact with as many as he can in the hopes that they can help find you and bring you back safe.

He’s relieved that so many people are pulling together to help but Ryota still can’t help but worry. You were so strong, but what happened if you’d been taken? You could be out there waiting for them to come and save you and they don’t even have an inkling to where you are. You must be so scared...no. Every time those thoughts creep in he shakes them away - you’d come back, you always did! They just have to keep looking until you do! And sure enough a week later you turn up! 

Right at his door.

When a knock came at his door he’d assumed that it was Shiro or Moritaka - the two of them had made a point of doing the rounds once every night to update them on the situation - but when he opens the door he finds someone else. You’re leaning against the door, trying to make it look casual even though you’re shaking and giving him a wave as you greet him like nothing’s wrong. Ryota’s shouts so loud it’s a miracle that no-one woke up at the sound and he doesn’t hesitate to hug you, holding you close just to make sure that you’re actually there; that you’re okay. When you let out a pained wheeze however a new wave of panic seeps in and suddenly he’s panicking all over again because that’s when he really gets a look at you. 

You’re hurt, really hurt. If this had been in a battle zone Ryota could use his sacred artifact to heal you up but this is real life, your wounds are real, and he can’t do anything about it. And yet you still seem so happy to see him, smiling and apologizing for making him worried. He begs you to at least sit down before you tell him anything about what happened, calling out into the hallways hoping that someone else hears him and comes to help and nearly paling when he notices the bloody hand print you left on the door frame when you went to sit down. The more that Ryota hears about what happened to you the more visibly horrified he becomes; the whole time everyone was trying to find you this is what you were going through? It’s almost as though you’re trying to reassure him by acting so nonchalant but he knows that this situation is serious. He’s glad you’re back now but this isn’t the end of it, and he’s not the only one who knows it when the other Summoner’s come barging through the door to find out what’s going on.

Mononobe

Mononobe would be at the forefront of the investigation since the alarm was first raised that you’d disappeared. When you fail to show up to your classes there’s initially talk about you skipping classes, leaving the school grounds to avoid getting caught by the teachers, but Mononobe knows that if you had gone anywhere you would have told at least one of your friends where you were going. This is only confirmed when Shiro approaches him at the end of the school day to confide in him that you still haven’t come back. Not only that but after checking your room it’s clear that you never made it back to your dorm room - everything is exactly as you left it before, and that is when the seriousness of the situation sinks in.

Word fortunately gets around fast; with how many friends you’ve made across Tokyo there’s more people reaching out to the school every day with an offer of help towards the investigation.  Mononobe, while hesitant at the influx of people getting involved (i mean fighters, missionaries and literal millionaires make for an odd combo of friends) he’s relieved that there’s so many people who want to get you back home safe and sound. If it had been any other transient student the investigation would likely have been left purely in the schools hands, and with each day that passes the situation weighs ever more heavier on him. Even locked away from the world Tokyo’s a big place - you could be anywhere and could maybe even disappear altogether if you really wanted to, but there’s a sinking feeling in his gut that tells him this time wasn’t such a case.

It’s the week after you went missing that you show up. It was after school hours and after reminding the students to stick together when going home Mononobe was heading back to the staff room when he hears it. The sound of something toppling over and a curse makes him freeze in his tracks and he turns towards one of the classrooms. It’s empty, should be empty, but someone’s rummaging around inside and they’re not being quiet about it. At first it’s easy to assume that it’s a stray student - during the first day of the search for you, students were sneaking into the school grounds hoping to find some kind of clue to where you had gone. But this time was different.

When Mononobe opened the door and flicked on the light you were right there, sat on the teacher’s desk with a first aid kit open and scattered across your lap. You were in terrible shape, body beaten and bloody in a way that most people probably wouldn’t be standing, but your expression looked determined, fingers working sloppily to dress a wound that even across the room he can see needs more than a bandage. You were so focused you must not have heard him come in, but after a week of seeing hide nor hair of you your name comes from his lips in a quiet gasp before he can stop himself.

You immediately perk up, head snapping to meet his eyes as your entire body tenses up. However as soon as you recognize him you relax, shoulders dropping as your expression brightens up and you all but forget what you were doing. Mononobe doesn’t expect you to move but you hop off the desk sending supplies rolling across the roon and run right into his arms, gushing about how happy you are to see him again as though you weren’t even hurt, but up close the wounds are even more apparent. Most are surface level injuries but there’s a few that are in desperate need of medical attention, and it’s clear you’re in pain - if the pained hiss you try to hide when he returns the hug is anything to go by. He holds you for a little while, rubbing your back and reassuring you that it’s okay, you’re safe now, but you can tell that he wants answers.

Unsurprisingly you’re reluctant to let go so Mononobe gradually convinces you to back step until you’re back over to the desks, coaxing you to take a seat and making sure to let you know he’s not going anywhere as he starts picking up the first aid kit supplies that you’d dropped. It’s got the necessities to treat the immediate problems, namely the cuts and scrapes, but you’d be lucky if a hospital visit wasn’t in your future just to be on the safe side. Mononobe tries to keep you distracted from the discomfort by asking about what happened, and you don’t hesitate to fill him in on what’s happened while you’ve been gone. The moment the word kidnapped leaves your mouth you can see his expression turn serious, even though he shoots you a reassuring smile and tells you that it’s okay to keep going. With everything that had happened inside of the app you forget just how serious these kinds of situations were - you risked your life on a daily basis, so seeing the graveness in his expression when you talk about your escape makes you realize the gravity of the situation in real life. You can tell he’s trying to comfort you, giving your hand a reassuring squeeze when he’s not applying gauze and even ruffles your hair when you ask him if everything’s okay - you have to admit after everything it’s comforting. This peace isn’t going to last for long - Mononobe’s going to have to let the appropriate authorities know and you’re sure that you’re going to be swarmed by your friends for the foreseeable future, not to mention your other enemies are going to take this slip up as their cue to jump in, and that’s what you’re dreading the most. So for now, for this moment, you’re gonna enjoy this while it lasts.

[nomattertheoceans]

The Siren attack - original extract

Author’s note: So....... this is my first time actually sharing a piece of my original writing with someone other than a very few number of people (they know who they are and I love you). I’m sort of stressed out, but excited too? Anyway! This piece is part of a fantasy WIP I started for Camp NaNo in April, it’s an adventure story where pirates reluctantly ally with a siren to hunt a treasure. Oh and also if you saw me talk about my poly OT3, they’re from this story ^^

I would love to know what you think!! Keep in mind that this is a first draft, and it’s also part of a much bigger story (of which I have about one third written). I’m really happy with how this scene turned out though, so I’m happy to be sharing it! Feedback would be great :) 

The scene is under the read more!!

They advanced smoothly for the whole day, and where sailing at night across Windward Passage when it happened.They’d reduced their speed to navigate more easily through the  pass, and Charles had taken this opportunity to check on the sails along the main mast. He was sitting across the yardarm, fixing a sloppy knot on the main sail, tightening it just enough for it to hold until the next morning. He couldn’t very well fix the entire sail right now, with no candle with him. He was good enough with the sails that he could fix knots in almost complete darkness, but he didn’t want to risk damaging anything if he missed. So he finished his task, and was slowly moving backwards towards the mast to go back down when he heard it.

It was a woman’s voice, singing. For a split second, he thought it might have been Beth, but then his mind conjured up an image of her, drunk and singing in a tavern, very badly. This voice was nothing like that. He let himself listen to the deep inflexions, the sound resonating as if it came from the bottom of the waters, a never ending chant full of sorrow and melancholy.

And as he listened, he realized that it wasn’t just one voice. The song seemed to come from everywhere around them, floating against the small waves until it reached the ship and vibrated against the wood, all the way into his skin, into his heart.

As if in a daze, he looked out at the sea, trying to catch a glimpse of where the voices were coming from. But the night was too dark to see anything. He had to get down and look for the source or --

“Sirens!” A voice shouted from the main deck. The captain. “Sirens ahead! Everybody, in the sails! Now!”

The ethereal chorus of voices was suddenly drowned in the smashing noises of the crew, yelling and climbing on to the masts. And with that, he seemed to come back to reality. An attack of sirens. He’d never lived through one, but he’d heard enough stories. They always attacked in group, never alone. The wave of music always came first, drawing the sailors near the edges of their ship, and only then did they strike. It wasn’t known if it was some sort of magic, but the legends said that a siren had such stunning features that they would enchant you the second your eyes met theirs, compelling you to jump in the waters in the desire to join them in their underwater lairs, only to die drowning the second you opened your mouth to kiss them.

The only way to try and avoid death was to stay away from the railings. Climbing up the sails, making enough noise to cover their voices, and hope they’d go away without taking anybody. He was grateful he’d already been in the sails this particular night.

All of his crewmen were climbing, and he was looking for Beth, when he caught a glimmer coming from the water. Before being able to stop himself, he looked, and his eyes fell on the creature approaching the ship, her form barely visible in the lantern light coming from it. He couldn’t see her features, only the movements of a long tail behind her, languidly getting her closer and closer to her prey. A feeling of pure anguish invaded him, and he looked to the other side of the ship, only to see two other forms slithering in the water.

And Beth was still nowhere to be found.

That’s when he saw them. As the alluring chant gained more momentum, four figures came out of the sleeping quarters. One of them had a silk headscarf on her hair, one he knew too well, having bought it for her a few years back. And just as the other sailors, she was slowly walking towards the edge of the ship, apparently unaware of the danger ahead.

“Beth!” he yelled, and heard that his crew mates were shouting for her and the others sailors. “Beth! Look away!”

But she didn’t seem to hear him. Nor did the other men down on the deck. He started to move towards the mast again, but as he reached it, Jones grabbed his arm.

“There’s nothing we can do, Charles. I’m sorry.”

Charles yanked back his arm and looked the captain straight in the eyes.

“I’m not letting her die.”

And without waiting for an answer, he grabbed the nearest rope and jumped.

***

She had never heard anything so beautiful. The voices from the sea were like beacons calling her home. Maybe that home had always been here, hidden in the depths of the waters. Maybe that was the reason why she’d always wanted to sail. She could go there right now, and finally feel complete.

Beth took one last step, reached the railing of the ship, and looked down at the sea. A woman was here, waiting for her. And she was the most exquisite woman she’d ever seen. Her long dark hair floated around her in the water, and they looked to be a dark shade of blue in the starlight. Her naked skin almost seemed to twinkle, and her eyes… Beth could have spent the rest of eternity staring into those eyes, and never have enough of it.

The woman had stopped singing, although the voices still filled the air around them, and she was smiling at her. An open smile, inviting. Beth wanted to touch it, to feel the smoothness of that skin under her fingers and caress those lips with hers.

She started to climb onto the railing, her heart aching more and more for every second she wasn’t near that face, that smile.

But then the smile shattered, and a loud, monstrous shriek came out of those tantalizing lips. Beth registered the blood coming out of the creature’s shoulder as well as the large arm that had encircled her waist and was pulling her back. She struggled against the grip, her mind still set on jumping overboard and joining the sea, but a second arm joined the first, pulling her towards the inside of the ship and crashing down on the deck. And slowly, as the image of those dark blue eyes faded away, she heard other shrieks from the water, shouts from the deck, and a familiar voice against her ear.

“Calm down, you’re okay. You’re okay, you’re safe.”

Charles.

Her breathing still ragged from the struggle, she glanced behind her and saw him, holding her tightly in his arms, leaning against a canon. His eyes were closed, as if he’d kept his eyes shut for most of what had just happened. Looking at his face helped her get rid of the lingering images in her mind, and listening to the sound of his breathing made her forget the chant. Slowly, she relaxed and let herself rest against his chest. She lifted an arm and slipped a hand in his hair, saying in a breath:

“It’s okay, you can open your eyes, now.”

They stayed like that for an eternity, huddled together despite the chaos around them. The rest of the crew had apparently come back down to save other sailors that had been as foolish as her, and they were shouting and firing at the sea. She could feel Charles’ heartbeat coming back to its normal pace as she started to understand what had happened. Sirens. She could still feel the pull of the song in her guts, an unstoppable power driving her to sink into the waters, as if nothing else in the world made sense. And yet, she was alive, and not drowning blissfully in the arms of a sea monster.

“How did you manage it?”

She didn’t have to elaborate, he understood what she meant. How had he managed to save her? How had he resisted the sirens’ powers? She didn’t need to ask why he’d risk his life for her. She would have done the same for him, and they both knew it.

“When I came down, most of the crew followed me, so the noise we made helped with the singing. And then I closed my eyes, I shot at her, and I grabbed you. I don’t know if I killed her but -”

“I don’t think so. I saw blood on her shoulder when you fired. I think she was just injured.”

“Well anyway, that seemed to throw her off her game enough to pull you away.”

She remained silent, processing everything she’d just heard. One more second, and she would have been in the water, out of reach, and neither Charles nor anybody else would have been able to save her. She turned into his arms and rested her head on his shoulder.

“Thank you.”

He looked at her and smiled. “Of course.”

And the look in his eyes was so intense that she felt heat rise to her cheeks. Immediately, she laughed it off and added in a light tone:

“I can’t believe you got a chance to shoot a siren and managed to not kill her.”

“Oh I’m sorry, was my rescue not good enough for you?”

“I’m just saying, had I been the one rescuing you? I’d have killed her.”

“Think whatever you want, you ungrateful imbecile.”

She let herself answer him, and as they fell into a familiar rhythm of banter, she closed her eyes and thanked the heavens for having this boy in her life.

[love-killed-the-superstar]

what the hell is this i’m so LATE for the last day of cassunzel week but here, take it

CASSUNZEL WEEK DAY 7 - HOME IS WHERE YOU ARE

Cassandra has been everywhere at this point. She has climbed mountains, drifted for days on the open sea, trudged through deserts and forests, passed through quaint town after quaint town, bustling city after bustling city. Every life is so very different from her own.

Still, after just over six years of walking this earth, nothing quite feels like home when she’s alone. Letters from Rapunzel find her easily, thanks to Owl, scrawled with child-like excitement; they document long days in the palace court and fun little mishaps with their friends in the same chipper tone, all while telling her each time without fail how much she misses her… how much she loves her.

Cass, in return, has done her best to keep Rapunzel in the loop in regards to her travels. There’s a letter sent from the peaks of the Koto mountain range, slightly blood-stained from scraping her hand on a rock during her climb; a postcard reading With Love, From Arendelle! on the cover, with warm regards from Anna and Elsa along with her own; several letters that are more ink prints of various fish she’s caught than anything, with a few words about how good they tasted and a vague grid location of whatever woodland she’s been wandering through between settlements. She’s even sent Rapunzel crude copies of maps she’s made, spinning the tale of how she’s made a small side business out of selling her maps to travellers she meets on her journeys. They don’t sell for all that much, with most travellers being just as broke and starving as she is, but it’s a small, honest living, and it does feel good to have her efforts appreciated.

She never used to be much of a sentimental type, but if Rapunzel is good at anything it’s rubbing off onto others, so for every loving letter that Rapunzel writes to her, she saves it in a small wooden box and sends her own back in return. Cass is pretty bad at writing mushy things to Rapunzel, but she does try to throw in an I-Love-You on occasion. More often than not, she writes what she knows, waxing poetic in her own special love language.

One such letter comes to her tonight, as she winds down for the day and watches the sky darken overhead.

Hey Raps,

It’s been another long day of travelling. Fortunately for me, I mapped out this area the last time I travelled through, so as long as I keep my wits about me I’ll be out of the woods in no time. For now, I’ve made camp. Owl is out hunting, so I will wait until he returns to entrust this letter to him, and Fidella is just outside the cave, grazing. I’m at the mouth, just sheltered enough so that my fire doesn’t blow out, but still with a view of the night sky. I hope you’re looking too.

I often find myself staring up at Polaris these days when the nights are clear, and I’m ever thankful for all those times you’ve taught me what you know about stargazing. I don’t have quite enough time or patience to chart the skies each night, but that’s why I’m grateful for navigational stars like Polaris. I LOVE that it doesn’t move. The other stars will stray from port, but no matter how far they go Polaris is always there like an anchor until they pass by once more. In that sense, I suppose that makes you the Polaris to my own fleeting skies.

Thank you for that. I love you.

Always Yours – Cassandra.

As she awaits Owl’s return, Cass watches that star like she does every night – the star that burns so brightly night after night, as though holding up an oil lamp, waiting in the darkness for something, some one – and hopes that maybe Rapunzel is watching that same sky with matched wonder.

Rapunzel’s reply comes a few days later, and Cass is knee-deep in a river trying her hand at spear-fishing when Owl swoops overhead, a letter clutched in his talons. She hoists herself out from the water and reaches for the letter, uncaring of the mud that squelches uncomfortably between her toes. She wastes no time in tearing open the envelope with that familiar purple royal seal.

Parts of the letter are nearly illegible; Cassandra can only imagine that Rapunzel scrawled it feverishly, so as not to keep Owl away from her for too long. But her reply is as lovestruck as ever, and Cass is unable to hold back her laughter at the adoring response.

My Darling Cassandra,

I’m glad to hear you’re doing well. Your letters have grown a little infrequent lately, I thought maybe you were somewhere new and remote, and perhaps too far away for Owl to fly or for the courier to travel. I’m grateful you wrote to me. I treasure each and every letter you send my way, I hope you know! I scrapbook them so that I can flick through and read them whenever I miss you. They’ve filled up almost an entire journal at this point.

Castle life is as it always is: hard. Everyone is wonderful and I feel like I’m making good strides, but gruelling work is gruelling work, as you perfectly well know. Entertaining allied royals and diplomats is always a treat, but they ask after my absent wife often since you’re rarely back in Corona these days. (I’ve also heard rumours that a few don’t truly believe you exist, because you’ve alluded their notice. Lucky you! They can be very boring. Oh, I know that sounds mean, but we’re just incompatible people! I’m sure they find me boring too!)

Cass laughs aloud at that. Rapunzel may be many things, and they certainly might not enjoy her company, but the notion of Rapunzel being boring, even to people who don’t understand her, is just too ludicrous.

But anyway. Let’s talk about stars.

Your words on Polaris moved me when I read them. Eugene thought I had seen a ghost! I will gladly treat you to another astronomy lesson the next time you come home. I never knew you to be such a poet, Cass, but here you are! I find it hard to pick a favourite star, but now that I know your favourite I’ll have to watch Polaris each night too, and hope you’re also looking. Watching the same sky does make me feel closer to you now. I just wish there was some way to fully bridge that gap. Do you know that I miss you when I climb into bed at night and you’re not at my side, ready to hold me? I’d give anything to have you in my arms right now.

I love you so much. Please be safe, wherever you go next.

With all my love, Rapunzel.

PS. Eugene says hi. Well, he’s actually working right now, but I’m sure if he was here he’d be saying hi.

With a heavy sigh, Cass leans back, bringing the letter up close. It smells faintly of Rapunzel, somehow – a trace of her perfume or something. Just enough that if she shuts her eyes tight, she can pretend her wife is hovering over, a playful smile on her lips, ready to kiss her.

She can’t wait any longer.

“We’re going back to Corona,” Cass tells Owl and Fidella, who seem unsurprised that the change of plan comes so soon after a letter from her sweetheart. “At first light, we’re heading east.”

I’ll be home soon, she thinks to herself, resolutely. Wait for me, just a little longer.

…

A week later, home is in sight. She passes through the Corona gates just as night is about to fall. The guards at the gates are pissed that she’s slipped through at this time of night, grumbling that it makes their life harder having to carry out ID checks by lamplight, but when she says as sweetly as she can that she’s the princess fucking consort and hasn’t posed a threat to the kingdom for many, many years now, they shut up surprisingly fast.

Cassandra feels a little bad for them, in all honesty; she used to be just like them, after all, and they’re only following orders. So she thanks them for their service and crosses over the bridge, choosing to ignore Fidella’s disapproving snort. After all, she’s so damn close.

She rides through the courtyard, nodding towards Stan and Pete and asking breathlessly if they’ve seen Rapunzel this evening. She’ll catch up with them later, but she’s on a mission that leaves no time to stop and smell the roses.

“The princess has already retired to her room for the night,” Stan begins, and Cass gives him her thanks and swiftly rides on, giving a quick wave as she goes. Owl, who has been silently perched on her shoulder the entire time, takes off into the sky and soars upwards, past the balcony of Rapunzel’s room. Cass and Fidella wait at the bottom, watching with bated breath as he disappears from sight.

She feels… disheveled. Maybe she should have freshened up a bit first? But then again, Rapunzel has seen her in just about every state of dirty, sweaty and tired known to mankind, so to pretend that she’s been fresh as a daisy this whole trip would be a little ridiculous.

Cass reaches up to smooth down her hair, self-consciously trace a thumb across the crows feet that have become more noticeable in the last few months, and for a moment she considers turning around and heading towards her old quarters to freshen up.

But then there’s the creaking of a window pane, and suddenly Rapunzel’s face, flung over the edge of the balcony, stares down at her in starry-eyed wonder. Cass stares up at her, a beacon in the fading light.

Ah, Polaris.

“Cassandra, you came back?!”

“I am! Didn’t I tell you?” Cass calls up to her, cocking her head in confusion. “I could have sworn I wrote another letter.”

“No,” Rapunzel says simply. “No, you didn’t.”

“Oh.” A beat of silence, then Cass stretches out her hand towards her. “Hey, come for a ride with me?”

“Are you sure?” Rapunzel asks, craning her neck a little further. “It’s getting late.”

“Hey, it wouldn’t be the first time we snuck out at night, would it?” Cass grins up at her. “Come on, Raps. Let’s go on an adventure.”

Rapunzel matches her grin with equal glee, and nods.

“Okay, okay, yes! Give me a moment to change, I’m in my nightgown.”

She blows a kiss and then turns, disappearing from view. Cass waits patiently, reveling in the silence of the empty courtyard, before seeing another figure peeking over the edge, looking more pasty than usual.

“Oh, look what the cavalry dragged in.”

Cass can’t fight her eye-roll back. “Evening to you too, Fitzherbert. What’s that on your face?”

“It’s an oat facial,” he retorts. “What’s it to you?”

“Well, I’m just glad to hear it’s not mould, because from here…” She waves her hand in an uncertain manner, earning a harsh laugh from him. Her face softens. “How have you been?”

“Oh, just great. I’m training some new recruits and they’re right cocky little shits. You planning on sticking around for a few days? I need someone to scare ‘em straight and you look like you have at least six facial scars at this point. I’ll tell them you were barred from the guard for extreme war crimes.”

“Sure, it’s a better story than choosing not to join after having all of my extreme war crime charges dropped in court because of my quote-unquote ‘emotional issues’.” She clicks her tongue. “So an oat facial won’t help my cause, then?”

“Cass, if you want to do facials with me all you have to do is ask, I’ve been dying to set you up with a skincare routine for years.”

“I’ll pass, but thanks for the consideration,” she says dryly.

“Rapunzel will be down in a second.” Eugene hesitates, and for a moment Cass gets the sinking feeling he’s going to ask to tag along on their would-be date, but then he adds, “You’ll keep each other safe?”

Cass cracks a smile.

“We can handle ourselves,” she promises. “I’ll be sure to get her back in one piece.”

“You’d better, because I can’t be waiting up for you two, I have morning drills at five and I need my damn beauty rest.”

“Well, I won’t keep you,” Cass says cheerily. “I only came for my wife.”

“Our wife.”

“Details, details.”

Cass hears the heavy creak of the main doors opening and closing, and turns her head to see Rapunzel approaching. In terms of physical appearance, she looks marginally the same as always, but Cassandra is pleasantly surprised by the fact that she’s donned a pair of riding trousers for their big adventure, though has still foregone any shoes. They suit her, Cass muses. She finds her gaze lingering on Rapunzel’s legs a little longer than she should, but then Rapunzel is right in front of her and all thoughts leave her head as they lean down to kiss.

“Hey there, stranger,” Rapunzel whispers, giggling as Cass takes the opportunity to pepper her brow and nose and cheeks with quick kisses.

“Hello to you too, Princess. Here, hop on.”

Rapunzel reaches over to give Fidella a loving pat in greeting, and Cass outstretches her arm to pull her up. Rapunzel hugs her waist once she’s settled down, and Cass shivers happily at the contact.

“You kids have fun now,” Eugene calls, punctuated by a yawn. “I expect no funny business, all right? Make good choices!”

Rapunzel blows him an exaggerated kiss as Cass rolls her eyes, and they take off towards the gates once more. The guards from earlier are perplexed by the sudden appearance of the princess, while being revisited by the grumpy woman they’d only just ushered in; but after taking a brief statement as per safety protocol (“A romantic rendezvous with my wife,” Rapunzel says cheerfully, while Cass simply responds, “We’re going out, what other reason would we have for leaving?”) the gates are opened, and they take off into the night.

With Rapunzel clinging to her, whooping and cheering, Cassandra feels happier than she has in a long time. She encourages Fidella to go faster, faster… the thrill sets her heart aglow, the blood thrumming in her veins.

They soar through the country roads and follow the light of the moon, and Rapunzel is squealing with laughter, uncaring of any attention they may draw from shopkeepers locking up, or drunkards leaving The Snuggly Duckling. They glide past effortlessly, and Rapunzel asks, “Where are we going, anyway?”

“Oh trust me, you’ll know,” Cass calls back. They veer off the roads and into the woodland, heading west for a while. Rapunzel’s laughter dies out once Fidella begins to slow down, weaving through unruly trees. Under the cover of the forest, moonlight barely peeking through the high branches, it becomes increasingly difficult to see. Cass blinks rapidly, eyes trying to adjust to the darkness, thankful Fidella is having an easier time of it than she is.

“You didn’t find another strange cottage with a magic teapot on your travels, did you Cass?” Rapunzel teases. “Because wherever you’re taking us…”

“Trust me, will you?” Cass says again, tilting her head back to fix Rapunzel with a raised eyebrow. “You think I’ve ever gone to someone’s creepy magic shack after what happened out on the road with those bird-brains?”

Rapunzel giggles and leans forward to press a quick kiss to Cassandra’s cheek.

“Sorry, sorry. I trust you! Wherever you’re taking us, I’m sure I’ll love it.”

They ride on in comfortable silence for another few minutes, both happily revelling in each other’s company, until they pass through a pair of old oaks.

“Ah, I see,” Rapunzel sings, squeezing Cassandra’s waist a little tighter. “You’ll go all out on the romantic gestures when it’s the middle of the night, but if I invite you to come home and spend the most romantic Coronan holiday with me…”

“Nice try, but you can never guilt me to join you for the Day of Hearts, Raps,” Cass sing-songs back to her. They follow the path as it grows narrower, and Fidella treads carefully through the gulch, raising their feet to avoid the cold rush of water. The lagoon comes into view, the moon gleaming on the water’s deep indigo surface.

“Oh, it’s beautiful as ever,” breathes Rapunzel. “I haven’t been back here in a long time.”

Cass cocks her head towards her. “You never visit?”

“Not without you. It feels weird.”

“Well fear not, I’m here now!” Cass reaches over to pat Fidella’s head. “Think you can hang back here for a while so Raps and I can have a little… alone time?”

Fidella grunts in reply, and Cass reluctantly pries Rapunzel’s arms from her waist before climbing down and reaching into her travel pack to offer Fidella up an apple.

“Good girl, thank you.”

She helps Rapunzel down and the two of them take off, running through the narrow strip of shoreline. Rapunzel wastes no time in shimmying off her trousers and wading in, while Cass hangs back to take off her boots, pouring sand out of them with a grimace and slipping down her stockings.

“Augh, it’s cold!” squeals Rapunzel. “Not like, horribly cold? Lagoon-cold? But still, it’s cold!!”

Cass laughs at Rapunzel’s shrieks, but still finds herself shivering a little once she slips her tunic off. She takes a few tentative steps in, gasping sharply as the cool water laps around her ankles. Rapunzel, at this point, has slipped off the waistcoat and blouse she’d been wearing, and flings them in the vague direction of the shore. They land, unsuccessfully, in the shallows.

“Oh, well done. You’re lucky I have some spare shirts in my travel pack.”

Rapunzel cheers. “Yes! You know I love wearing your clothes!”

“It’ll be a bit spicy,” Cass warns. “I haven’t had a chance to do laundry in the past week.”

“Eh, I’ll manage.”

Cass plucks the now drenched clothing from the water and tosses it onto shore, before following Rapunzel further into the water. She makes it up just above her waist, shivering and grumbling all the way, when suddenly the sand beneath gives away and she plunges below the surface. For a split second, panic settles in; that primal fear of sinking like a stone and never coming back up that has haunted her since she was a child. Her arms thrash wildly, trying to push herself up to the surface, when a pair of arms wrap around her waist and pull her up.

Cass gasps and splutters, and Rapunzel’s face swims into view.

“Cass! Cass, it’s okay! You’re okay, I’ve got you!”

Gulping a few deep breaths, Cass is pulled in close, and Rapunzel kisses her brow and strokes her soaking wet hair.

“It was just a sand bank that gave away underneath you. You’re okay. You’re treading water without even realising, see?”

Cassandra realises dizzily that Rapunzel has a point. She’s doing okay. She’s not drowning, not even close.

“I… I don’t normally, uh,” she begins, and Rapunzel shushes her.

“I know. It just took you by surprise, huh?” Cass nods numbly, and Rapunzel pulls back a little, hands reaching to cup Cassandra’s face. “I’ve got you,” she says again, quietly, eyes bearing into hers with fierce devotion.

Cass manages to smile, heart still pounding in her chest, her mouth dry. “Yeah. You’ve got me.”

They swim a little further out, with Rapunzel facing her the whole time and offering smiles of encouragement, and when Cass’s heart has calmed down, she leans over to kiss Rapunzel softly.

“Well,” breathes Rapunzel, punctuated with another kiss, “this has been quite the excursion, huh.”

“I aim to please.” Cass kisses her again, humming happily against her mouth. “By the way, those riding pants you were wearing? They really suit you.”

“I had a feeling you’d like them,” Rapunzel grins.

She holds her arms out, and hesitantly, Cass leans back into them. She focuses her centre of gravity and lightly sculls the water with cupped hands to keep afloat while Rapunzel lays back beside her, arms and legs spread out like a starfish. It’s only once Cass properly looks up at the stunning sky above, stars and light everywhere, that her body grows still and simply floats on the lagoon’s surface.

“What a view,” she murmurs.

“I know it’s the same sky, no matter what,” Rapunzel muses, “but somehow the stars look even prettier here in the lagoon, don’t they?”

“Corona is always lit up,” Cass explains, voice tuning in and out as the water laps against her ears. “The sky isn’t as visible in places where a lot of people gather because of the light they produce. You remember how many stars we could see on the road, whenever we spent the night between towns?”

Rapunzel nods. “It was beautiful. I suppose you enjoy views like this all the time, then?”

“When the weather permits,” Cass laughs. “But yeah. Out in nature, it’s much easier to see a full sky of stars.”

“But Polaris is your favourite!”

Cass feels the heat come to her face a little, knowing Rapunzel is about to steer this somewhere overly sentimental. “Yeah. I mean, It’s a key navigational star, so… it’s a pretty obvious pick.”

“I like that,” insists Rapunzel. “The reasoning, it’s… authentically you. I think.”

“Why, because I like things based on how practical they are?”

“Because only you could make a navigational tool sound romantic.”

“Is that a gift or a curse?”

Rapunzel giggles and Cass joins in, their hands lacing together as they stare at the patchwork sky above.

“I love the idea, though,” Rapunzel murmurs, once their laughter dies down. “That I’m your anchorpoint.”

“You’re so much more than that.”

“Oh, I am?” grins Rapunzel, tilting her head towards Cass.

“Don’t ruin it,” Cass says flatly.

“Sorry, sorry. Please, tell me?”

Cassandra stares up at the northern star, twinkling bright, and exhales. “Rapunzel, when I’m coming back to visit and I’m riding through Corona, all that I really feel is that I’m in Corona. It might as well be any other place. Sure, I’m more familiar with each side street and stray cobble, but… there’s no real, you know, connection there, not after everything that’s happened. But when I turn the corner and lay eyes upon your face, that – that’s the moment I think to myself, ‘I’m home’.”

The world is still, just for a moment, before Rapunzel lets go of her hand and changes to an upright position in the water, reaching up to smooth her soaking hair back. Cass also gives up on floating on her back, already thinking of ways to backtrack if what she said was too embarrassing, even for Rapunzel to bear. But then she notices the way the tips of Rapunzel’s ears are burning.

She turns to face Cass, all red-faced and slicked back hair and wide, longing eyes, and utters, “Cass, I love what you’re saying, but Corona and I are kind of a package deal.”

Cassandra snorts with laughter. “Yes, Raps, I know that. And I do love Corona, in my own way. But my point is that if you were… I don’t know, living life out in the marshes as a bog witch or something, I’d still feel the same way. To me, home is wherever you are.”

“If this is your way of saying you want to go live in a marsh for a while,” Rapunzel begins, a sly gleam in her eye, and Cass reaches over to splash her.

“Shut up! This is why I don’t do schmaltz.”

Rapunzel squeals and splashes back, before swimming over to her and reaching for her waist, pulling her in close. The constellations above don’t compare to the galaxy of freckles dusting Rapunzel’s nose, or the universe in her irises. Cass reaches up to cup her jaw, and Rapunzel shivers when her cold wedding band makes contact with the soft skin of her cheek.

“Cass,” she murmurs, eyes bearing into her own, almost afraid of the answer she’ll find, “do you think you’ll stick around this time?”

“I don’t know,” Cass admits. “I’m not ready to settle down just yet, if that’s what you mean. I’m… I’m getting good at making my own happiness, Rapunzel. Real good.”

Rapunzel nods, offering up a bittersweet smile. “Okay. I understand. I’m proud of you, Cass, I really am.”

Cassandra sees herself as Rapunzel sees her, just for a moment as she catches her brief reflection; an older soul, face marred with scars, eyes tired but kinder. The road has been hers for a fair few years now – the events prior to the eclipse feel like a lifetime ago, out of sight and out of mind. She likes to keep it that way, and perhaps that’s why she never stopped moving, even after the honeymoon, even after her textbook happily ever after.

She isn’t ready to give up that life yet – maybe she never will be – but perhaps she can take a short reprieve from destiny. Maybe staying in one place for a little while, being around Rapunzel, letting Corona get used to the idea that someday she’ll be around for a long time… maybe this is something she can do.

“I know you are,” Cass affirms, offering up a warm smile. “I don’t know if you’ll be so impressed with me once I start sitting in on some of these fancy diplomat dinners as your wife, though. Any training I might have had is long gone by this point.”

Her proposition takes a few moments to really dawn on Rapunzel, who then squeals, launches herself at Cassandra and hones in with a kiss, drinking her in readily as the placid water laps around them. When they part, Rapunzel hugs her tightly, resting her head against the crook of Cassandra’s neck and pressing kiss after gentle kiss to whatever bare skin she can find.

“I never said this earlier,” Rapunzel utters, dithering happily, “but welcome home, Cassandra. Welcome back.”

“It’s good to be back,” Cassandra whispers.

She holds Rapunzel close as they tread water in the quiet of the lagoon, the stars their only witnesses as they enter the next chapter of their happily ever after.

…

(Eugene is unimpressed when they finally stagger into the castle at 4:30, shivering from a night of swimming and Rapunzel in Cassandra’s grubby clothes and barely standing upright from the way that sleep seizes her. He helps Cassandra set her down on the bed, and is about to launch into a speech about how they promised to be safe and responsible in their late night tomfoolery, before catching the goofy smile on Cassandra’s face.

“What’s got you so chipper?” he asks.

“I’m home,” she says with a shrug. “That’s all there is to it.”)

[seyaryminamoto]

Matching Heartbeats: Sokkla Saturdays 2020

Day 4: Lost in a Forest and Feelings

On FF.net//On AO3

Trudging through the thick trees, staring at that broad, strong back, Azula couldn't quite keep at bay her suspicions that, regardless of her stubborn companion's claims of the opposite, they were lost in the woods, with no salvation in sight.

He wasn't a woodlands savage, she'd told him, he was a snow savage: she'd believe him if he said they weren't lost while they traversed a large, frozen continent, but she wouldn't quite be so lenient if he said the same while in a forest, of all places. And of course, there was no chance they'd find his missing sword in a large, frozen continent unless someone had already retrieved it from these woods and taken it there, for whatever reason.

Not for the first time, she asked herself why she had bothered coming along for what everyone, even her brother, had deemed a pointless, doomed enterprise. Guilty as she appeared to feel about the matter, Toph had been far too busy with her budding police department in Republic City to join Sokka's quest. Aang was ever ferried from one end of the world to the next by his Avatar duties, and Katara had to cover for him in the city while he was gone: Zuko, of course, was the Fire Lord, and there was no chance he'd take any sorts of flights of fancy and disregard his duty to his nation just on a personal trip that might yield no results… well, that is, if the trip was for a friend's sake rather than his own, Azula had interjected, and her reminder of how he had been perfectly willing to leave their nation in their uncle's most undependable hands while they searched for their mother had been as unwelcome as she could have expected.

All in all, she had meant to offer some moral support to the tall Water Tribe man by cutting down Zuko's excuses and dismissive attitude towards Sokka's plight… but nothing she said seemed to work. Sokka kept looking at her with those dead-like eyes that only convinced her that she wanted to be dead, too. She wondered, truly, if he was different while she wasn't around. If he was happier, cheerful, relaxed… rather than miserable, awkward and tense. If so… why had she even bothered coming along for this trip? Was it merely pity over how he'd sworn he'd go alone if no one wanted to give him a hand? If so, it was no true wonder he had been so aloof and irritated so far, for no man as proud as him would ever accept pity and charity without consequence.

Yet she had decided to come along indeed. And now, it seemed, she reaped what she had sowed, in more ways than she had expected to: it wasn't merely that she was uncomfortable about hiking through nature this far from civilization – she found herself missing the train-tank, with which she had traversed large territories of the Earth Kingdom in the past without the slightest inconvenience –, but Sokka wouldn't travel on the vehicle, not when their mission was explicitly about rummaging throughout Wulong Forest until they finally came across his beloved Space Sword.

Her strained muscles had seen plenty of exercise over the ten years that had passed since the end of the war, but not quite in this manner: she forced herself to walk behind him, keeping up with his pace as best she could, until at last that strong back, that at this point was nearly a beacon in the darkening forest, slowed to a halt as Sokka assessed his surroundings in a clearing within the woods. Azula damn near bumped into him, but she managed to stop right behind him anyway.

"Seems like a good place to camp for the night," he announced. "It's getting too dark to keep going anyhow."

"Just how much further are we supposed to go, anyway?" Azula asked, as Sokka approached the larger tree in the clearing, setting down his bags at its foot. "Have you narrowed down the searching area at all, or are we merely going blind all across Wulong Forest…?"

"I've narrowed some of it down, yeah," Sokka huffed, opening his pack to show her a map he had brought with him. "We'll search thoroughly throughout the area once we get there. But we're still too far north to be near Space Sword's location."

"Of course," Azula sighed, setting down her own bags next to his. "You do realize this might be a longer venture than you hoped?"

"Why would it be? Your brains and mine, together? Who's ever going to stop us, huh?" Sokka said, though there was no humor in his tone upon uttering those questions.

Azula tensed up beside him as he rose fully to his feet, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. What was he thinking? Why had he spoken as he had just now? Yes, it was a certainty that they were smarter than most people, and joining forces might just be enough for them to find his sword… but it didn't seem he was all that pleased for it anyway. She let herself wonder, briefly, if he wished they wouldn't find the sword all that fast so they could spend more time together… did he begrudge their intelligence for such a fickle reason?

Oh, what nonsense. Of course that wasn't it. She was a fool to so much as indulge in such a possibility.

"I think I see some water beyond these trees," Sokka said, gesturing at the cluster of vegetation behind the tree they had stopped at. "Could be we can wash up there. It's one of the reasons I thought we should slow down here for the night…"

"Ah. So, we truly aren't lost in this forest, are we?" Azula asked. Sokka tensed up. "You knew there was a river up there?"

"Uh… well, I didn't know, I just decided we'd stop at the first place with water we came across once it was sunset," he said. Azula huffed.

"So we are lost."

"I didn't say that!" he squeaked.

Despite herself, Azula smiled. Eliciting such silly reactions from him was strange, but very welcome. It almost felt as though she hadn't pushed him away when she had… as though things could go back to the way they once had been.

"Ugh, anyway, you can go clean up if you want, I know all that dirt and sweat must make you uncomfortable," Sokka said, waving a hand towards her. "I'll set up my tent in the meantime. If you need help with yours, I can give you a hand after I clean up too…"

"Why would I need help?" Azula said, raising her eyebrows dismissively. "I'm perfectly capable of assembling a tent by myself."

"I didn't say you weren't," Sokka raised his hands defensively before starting to rummage through his bag for the implements he'd need for his tent.

His tone was disappointingly non-confrontational. Just after giving her hope, he took it away: she had expected a whole throwdown about how there was nothing wrong with asking people for help, or how he was sure she was a pampered princess who had never had to do anything mundane for herself… but nothing. He had shut down yet another possible conversation, and she was left high and dry, waiting for nothing.

"If that's how it is, then… yes, I'll go clean up," Azula declared, attempting to hide how disappointing his response had been. "Make sure not to peek, alright?"

"Nothing new under the sun there, is there?" Sokka said. Azula froze. "You have nothing to worry about, I won't do that, I'll only go after you're finished. Ten minutes will probably be enough."

"You know just how long I spend bathing, then?" Azula nearly hissed by now. Sokka shrugged.

"I remember, is all," he said. "Ten minutes might even be too much in these circumstances, I'd say…"

"I'll take as long as I please, thank you very much," Azula scowled, searching her own bags for a change of clothes. Suddenly, the last thing she wanted was to hold a conversation despite having spent the whole day fishing for one.

"I'll go after I'm finished setting up my tent, then," Sokka said. "And if you're not out yet, don't worry. I'm not going to look anyway."

She snapped her tongue before storming off without another word. Well, that was his loss, if so.

The words rang hollow in her mind as she walked thoughtlessly towards the water source… a lake, not a river, as she discovered upon reaching it. She wasted little time disrobing, despite she was far from accustomed to loosening her clothing in the middle of nature as she just had. But with a mind as troubled as hers, sometimes even the notions of dignity and pride went forgotten once she had something else to worry about.

No, truthfully, it wasn't his loss. It never had been his loss. He was as good as the perfect guy, without embodying some impossible, unreasonable ideal: Sokka had been kind, thoughtful, intelligent, unyielding… he was the perfect rival for her many instincts and impulses. Just so, each of those factors drew her to him in ways they shouldn't have… but the one thing that drew her most was his honesty. So many people were capable of lying to her face, they'd done it for years, without her awareness… others lied far less effectively, pretending to care about her, but she could tell, by their actions, by their behavior, that they were merely telling themselves as much, to chase away their own guilt about having abandoned her when she had needed them most. She couldn't trust anyone, that was what she'd told herself…

And yet, against all common sense, she had grown to trust him. Upon scheming a mischievous prank to torment her brother – her special kind of birthday present, as she'd thought of it at the time –, she found her plan had overlapped with his: in the end, they joined forces and Zuko had quite an unforgettable day chasing off turtle ducks in the Palace, and tripping over the droppings they had left all over the place while panicking while attempting to find their way out of the building. From that day forward, they had been allies, messing with their friends and family whenever the chance arose, not realizing they were drifting together in more ways than they'd originally planned…

She never did expect to wake up in his bed one day, and she suspected he never expected that, either. She kept her distance for a few days afterwards, and he didn't complain… which bothered her, of course. Upon cornering him for answers, he admitted he wouldn't push her for more than they'd had, considering she ran away from his bedroom even before he woke up. He had assumed it was a one-night-stand for her… and he had teasingly remarked that he wouldn't mind if she decided to make it a two-night-stand instead.

That number, of course, only continued to increase upon each of their encounters. Every time he paid a visit to the Fire Nation, on any official business, she'd find a chance to sneak into his room, or to drag him into hers, and they would both be in the highest spirits on the next day, trading silent smirks whenever they crossed paths again. For a time, Azula had thought this was the greatest of all pranks they had pulled so far, for her whole family, and his, would be so appalled to discover what they'd been up to in secret…

… Until one night, as he laid in bed behind her, arms wrapped around her waist, he had uttered words that shattered her whole world in a single instant:

"I love you."

She thought to pretend she was asleep, though her eyes were still open, and she knew he could see it. He sensed her breath hitching too, her heartbeats picking up speed… there was no way she could pretend she hadn't heard him. And yet, as he nestled behind her, fingers caressing her hair, she couldn't bring herself to answer. She couldn't say the words that were crossing her mind… because there was only one word, truthfully. And that word was simply: why?

Why would he love her? Why would he admit that he loved her? Why would he even think it was a good idea to say such words to her? Why on earth had he decided to say it right then and there? Why, why, why…?

And yet she knew she couldn't say any of what she was thinking. She didn't dare. She didn't truly want to hear his answers to those questions.

For he was honest, yes, that was the first thing she had known she liked about him. He wasn't the type to lie, whether to spare her feelings or his own. He hadn't said those words on a whim: he had likely carried them inside him for ages, blurting them out as he had, unthinking, because he couldn't contain the emotions anymore. And yet… she couldn't accept it. She simply couldn't accept it.

Instead of lying quietly there, of staying put in his bed, silently enduring the panic attack his words had triggered in her, she sat up and left. She avoided him for the rest of his visit, pointedly… and she didn't even say goodbye, when he finally left.

She needed time. That was it, she guessed: time to process his affections, time to understand how on earth he had ever reached such levels of devotion towards her. And she should have simply told him that, right? And yet how on earth does someone answer an "I love you" with "Give me time to think about it"? She didn't dare do that. And yet perhaps, if she had dared, he wouldn't have been hurt. It was almost a whole year before he returned to the Fire Nation again, and when he did, he scarcely spared her a few glances. She had sent him no letters while he was away, and he had sent her none either. Was he confused? Was he angry? Was he depressed? She couldn't tell anymore. All she could tell, however, was that he seemed to have decided he wouldn't dwell on the past anymore, and he wouldn't indulge in any hopes that something genuine could come from their casual relationship.

She had tried to interpret that as a sign to move on and forget about him. Perhaps he truly hadn't loved her at all – not that she had truly believed he could have loved her, she believed he THOUGHT he did, but she was quite certain that was, all in all, implausible on every possible level. So she had decided to shake it all off, to continue with her life… and yet it wasn't easy to do so. They had met a few more times since then, and every cold shoulder, every dismissive word, every plain interaction between them, with no hint of the old affection he used to line his words with, had felt like a frozen dagger digging deeper through her heart.

And that was, ultimately, why she had offered to travel with him to retrieve his sword. It was a strange way to attempt to mend fences, she knew… but she hadn't known what else to do to stop the pain she felt when she saw him. She hadn't known how else to tear down the walls that he had built between them… walls she had as good as asked him to build, in the first place.

Suffice to say, it wasn't going as she had planned, not in the least. She had hoped to entice him, perhaps… but he seemed to be completely invulnerable to her charms by now. He knew all her tricks, and was utterly unwilling to fall for any of them. Had she really pushed him away that hard, that violently…? Or was it, perhaps, that he had already found someone else? Maybe that was it, and she was wasting her time here…

"If so, why isn't he here with his new girlfriend instead of me?" Azula reasoned out loud, just before dipping one toe in what turned out to be a near-freezing lake. She snarled before raising her hands, quickly warming the water with her bending.

She managed to warm the water she would use, spreading the heat through the small lake until she found a comfortable enough spot, with her torso still above water. He wasn't wrong, she didn't quite enjoy all the dirt that clung to her after their whole day of hiking in this forest from the city of Garsai… but that he dared even comment on how long she usually bathed had surprised her. It was the first time he had acknowledged their relationship in any way, if just by admitting he knew Azula a little more intimately than anyone else was aware. Fool that she was, she had wistfully wondered if perhaps it meant he wasn't that unwilling to return to what they'd had… then he had shut everything down all the same, no thanks to her foolish responses.

She had no patience for these matters. She was far from the most sociable person there was, to begin with, and she was more than a bit tired of chasing after him, when every passing day further convinced her that he wanted nothing from her anymore. It was outrageous, though, wasn't it? If he truly had loved her at all, which no, she didn't think he had, why would he begrudge her for not saying the daft words right back at him? She was far from a connoisseur on the matter, but conditioned love didn't appear to be true love at all. Her relationship with her father was supposed to be the clearest example of that, or so every damn expert at that wretched asylum had insisted on drilling into her head until she had begrudgingly accepted it as a reality.

So, as far as she could tell, he was a selfish hypocrite, and he was trying to guilt her into loving him. Ha! That was utterly stupid, and he was playing a losing game, if so. He prized honesty as much as he did, didn't he? Why would she bother lying to his face to make him feel better? He would know it was a lie immediately, so he'd only grow more frustrated with her if she played the mild-mannered, sweet girl who could become a housewife and live happily that way, if only to spare his thrice-accursed feelings…

Caught in her thoughts, she often forgot to warm the water again, and in the process of overthinking and warming the water, she had damn near forgotten, too, what she was supposed to be doing in this damn lake in the first place. She returned to shore, gathered some soap, and traversed the lake to the spot she had liked once again… only to hear rustling of tree leaves that indicated someone was approaching.

She almost wished it were a wild animal, then she could have merely set it ablaze and been done with it… but upon quickly turning her head around, she found, of course, that it was him. Sokka glanced at her but raised his hands defensively before turning around. Azula gritted her teeth and tore her eyes away from him too, knowing he was disrobing… knowing she wanted to see it happen, too. Curse him for being such a sensitive idiot…

Or was she the sensitive idiot, instead? She hadn't known for sure who was at fault back then, and she didn't have any clarity on the matter now, either.

She heard him slipping inside the water, and she only endeavored to continue rubbing the soap over her arms and torso, pointedly ignoring the urge to glance at the body she had grown used to caressing and gazing upon for as long as their dalliance had lasted… just how long had it been, really? She barely knew anymore. A little more than a year, maybe? Who the hell said "I love you" within less than a year of secretly dating someone, if what they were doing could amount to dating?

Ugh, well, how was she supposed to know that, truly? Mai had outright spat to her face that she loved Zuko more than she feared Azula, and those two had only been together for months at the time… had she told Zuko she loved him, directly, by then? Maybe she had. Such nonsense…

"You sure take your time bathing out in nature, huh?" he said suddenly, startling her. "Didn't take you for the type to be that bold when the whole world could see you…"

"Bold? Hardly," Azula rebuffed, and she chided her own heart for beating that fast upon being addressed by him again. What nonsense was that, too? "I'm taking my time because we were quite filthy after a whole day of hiking, don't you think?"

"Fair enough… though the water's colder than I'd think you'd be comfortable with," he said. "Though… heh. You're warming it up, aren't you?"

"Sharp as ever, I see," Azula said, rinsing off the soap already. Sokka chuckled.

"And you're either being sarcastic, which is just like you, or you're being flattering, which… is new. Just as taking baths that last longer than ten minutes would be new for you."

"You're awfully hung on that matter, aren't you?" Azula asked, rolling her eyes. "I'm pretty sure I've taken longer baths than that…"

"Sure you did. When you took them with me."

His words froze her anew. Again, that stupid, weaseling hope, needling through her body like a snake, seeking to dig its fangs into her damn heart… poisoned fangs, as far as she could tell. He had to stop it. He really did. At this rate they'd end up having the argument of the century, and she wasn't sure she cared to endure that, not when she was miles away from civilization with only him for company…

She'd tell him not to do that anymore, then. She would. She wasn't sure their conversation wouldn't escalate into an argument even if she said so, but if she spoke earnestly, surely he'd back off…?

She turned her head towards him, finding he stood about fifteen feet away from her. Again, that strong, muscular back was the sight that greeted her, and oh, what a sight it was…

But before she could utter a single word, a most unwanted, unfamiliar and distressing sensation on her arm stopped her from speaking.

She had no idea what it was at first, but it was uncomfortable from the first instant: something had latched onto her skin, tugging at it, as though sucking it… and her immediate instinct was to trash the affected arm into the water, instinctively panicking and seeking to get rid of whatever this strange offender was.

Only upon shaking her arm did she identify whatever clung to her arm as a purple, round being… a living being: there was an animal stuck to her arm.

"What's…?! Oh, no, no, get off me!"

She pushed it, smacked it, attempted to force it to loosen its grip on her skin, and yet it seemed her every violent reaction only compelled it to cling tighter. Curses, was it some sort of leech? Was it clinging to her now, only to stick some poisonous, murderous sting into her body…? Her eyes widened at the possibility, and she slammed it harder into the water, to no results.

"Go away, go away, you stupid, damned…!"

"Woah, Azula, what's going on?" Sokka called to her. Her first shouts had been alarming enough, but he had briefly taken her silence to mean she had dealt with the problem… apparently not, though.

"It's nothing, it's…! Shit, what is this?! Get off me, damn it, go away already!"

"Ugh, okay, you know what? I'm sorry. I don't know what's going on, and I think I need to," Sokka sighed, turning towards her. "I promise I'm not doing this to peek, just to help…!"

"W-well then, help! Find your damn sword and slice this wretched thing off me!" Azula almost shrieked, turning towards him and gesturing at him with her afflicted arm.

Yet to her surprise, there was no sign of urgency in Sokka's face when he identified the creature on Azula's arm. She damn near snapped at him for being so nonchalant when, for all she knew, her very life could be in danger… yet he surprised her by wading towards her and reaching for the creature.

"What are you…?" she asked, nervously, until her nervousness was replaced by sheer outrage… when Sokka scratched the strange, purple being's head. "Are you kidding me?! What are you doing?! Do you hate me so much you're congratulating the damn thing for…?!"

Sokka's deadpan stare didn't change in the least when the creature's five, flat tentacles released Azula suddenly. Her eyes widened as she stared at it, and Sokka snatched the creature off her body, showing it to her deliberately.

"This, Princess, is a pentapus," he stated. "And that's how you get rid of them. It's as simple as that."

Oh, to hell with it. Her outburst had been more than unwarranted, if the solution was truly that easy… and now she felt utterly idiotic for it, which she had no doubt her blush was transmitting to Sokka. She didn't even dare meet his eyes… hence, she was surprised upon hearing him laugh softly.

"Don't feel that bad, Azula. I reacted the same way when they stuck to me the first time, too," he said. "And it was way worse than this, if I may…"

"Worse?" Azula repeated. Sokka nodded solemnly.

"You know, a story worthy of a savage like me, of the sorts you love to make fun of me for," Sokka grinned. She had dared gaze up at him, and that he'd smile genuinely at her was… well, not unpleasant. For once. "It happened… in a sewer, of all places."

"In a… a sewer?" Azula asked, grimacing as Sokka chuckled, shaking his head.

"My dear sister and her beloved Avatar… those two jerks took to diverting the waste off themselves with their bending. And who's the guy who couldn't possibly get away with doing the same thing? That's right, the stellar non-bender who took all that… literal shit, straight to the face, in many cases."

"That's… ugh, that's so gross, Sokka!" Azula exclaimed, horrified as he laughed carelessly.

"It's okay, I've cleaned up many times since then, you don't have to worry that the gross waste still clings to me somehow…" he smiled. "Took me about ten rounds of proper soap as soon as I had a chance to clean up to get rid of the stench, but it worked in the end. No need to be too grossed out anymore."

"I only hope now that your creepy story is no sign of… well, of this lake being less pure than we expected it to be," Azula said, eyeing the waters warily. Sokka chuckled and shook his head.

"It's a bit too dark already to tell, but hey, this place is in the middle of a forest and it doesn't reek of waste… so it might not be that bad, huh?"

Azula gazed at him wistfully, at that smile… it was charming, she knew that from the start. She liked him well enough serious and brooding, there was more than enough charm in that too… but that smile. The chance to make him happy, even if just by being foolish, careless and clumsy, was a surprising blessing… one that now soothed her heart despite she had been troubled and anguished mere moments before he entered the water too. To think such a small, simple creature could have served as a harbinger of harmony between them… though, again, she shouldn't get her hopes up. That wouldn't be a good idea, no matter what…

"You're all done washing now, though?" Sokka asked. Azula snapped back to her senses upon those words. "If so…"

"I'll go fix my tent, yeah," Azula said, though Sokka bit his lip.

"I was actually going to ask if… if you could do me a favor," he blurted out. Azula frowned.

"A favor?" she asked.

"Well… the water's kind of chilly," he smiled awkwardly. "Can you, maybe, warm it up a little further? I mean, I would've asked all along if I'd thought we could just bathe at the same time without consequence, but I figured you wouldn't want that, so…"

"I wouldn't want that…?" she asked again. Sokka shrugged.

"You did tell me not to peek," he said. "I said there was likely nothing new for me to see, but if you didn't want me looking at you, I wasn't going to bother you…"

"That's… that's what you meant?" Azula asked, surprised. Sokka nodded.

"Why? What else did you think I meant?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

Azula opened her mouth to speak, but said nothing. She was such an idiot when it came to this sort of thing, oh, she really was, and yet… how to speak at all? How to tell him that she kept saying things she didn't mean only to elicit reactions from people? But where she had once been able to read him like a book, now he was undecipherable to her…

The silence between them continued… until suddenly Sokka flinched, turning his head, hopelessly glancing at his back.

"Uh… crap. Oh crap. Azula? Is there a pentapus on my back too?" he asked, spinning in circles as he struggled to glimpse the creature. Azula blinked blankly before shaking her head rapidly.

"S-stop moving around, I can't get it if there is one!" she said, grabbing his flanks to stop him… and trying not to think of the implications of touching him. No, that was best stashed on her mind for later.

The pentapus was on his lower back: she nudged it with her finger at first, sighing before settling for caressing it properly instead… and then she felt another set of such tentacles around her ankle. Startled, she fell into the water when she lost balance, and that could only be bad news for her…

Sokka clasped her wrist and pulled her to him: their bodies slapped together, not with the erotic intent with which they had been in contact in the past, especially while naked. And while the thought crossed Azula's mind, it was but a fleeting thought nonetheless: Sokka's hands relocated to her shoulders, though he kept her close all the same.

"Did another one get you?" he asked. Azula grimaced and nodded.

"It's on my ankle," she said. Sokka huffed.

"Maybe we should just get out of the water, get rid of them on land," he suggested, before flinching. "Ack, another on the back of my knee and… woah, that's dirty! It's on my asscheek!"

Despite her own discomfort, that final claim of Sokka's caused Azula to burst into laughter as they stumbled towards the lake's shore together, squirming at the discomfort of the tentacles that stuck to their bodies, and wincing every time a new one caught either of their legs.

"Okay, okay! We're going to get rid of them all, one by one!" Sokka squeaked, once they reached the shore indeed: Azula had two more in one calf, and she grimaced while raising her leg, but Sokka pulled it towards him without even asking: he rubbed the two small pentapi until they detached, and then he cast them powerfully towards the lake, prompting Azula to chuckle at his powerful heave. "That's what you get! You can't touch a lady without permission, damn pentapus!"

"You didn't exactly ask for permission either, did you?" she smiled. Sokka blinked blankly and smiled guiltily at her.

"I figured, since it's an emergency…?"

That Azula was amused by the situation seemed to have defused some of their lingering tension: she reached for the pentapus that clung to his rear, and Sokka grimaced as Azula succeeded at pulling it off his body. He continued working with hers too, ridding her of the pentapus on her ankle, and Azula did away with the one behind the knee he couldn't flex anymore because of it. It was a gradual process, and one that forced them to reacquaint with each other's body in a less intimate manner than intended… and yet it felt intimate in its own way too.

"Is that all of them?" Sokka asked her, after removing the final one that had latched to her upper thigh. "None got your ass, did they?"

"You'd rather they had?" Azula asked, amused.

"I didn't say that, but… I wouldn't have minded too much, is all," Sokka smirked a little, more shameless than he had allowed himself to be for a long time.

"How about you?" Azula asked, biting her lip as she gazed upon his body, trying to focus on the task at hand, on the many strings of concentric red dots over his skin now, especially in his lower body's area. "Anything I missed?"

"I think not?" Sokka said, glancing about himself with uncertainty. "Though now we look like we've got pentapox, heh. Did I ever tell you about that? How we got all the people out of Omashu…?"

"You… didn't tell me, no," Azula said, staring at him keenly through narrow eyes. Sokka chuckled and shrugged.

"I got the idea of using a fake disease to pretend there was an outbreak in the city," he said. "It happened after the pentapi got me in the sewers, the Fire Nation soldiers thought who caught us in the city thought I was sick, Katara told them I had pentapox, and they panicked… and then, when we met up with Bumi's resistance, they had no idea how to get out of the city and I suggested they used pentapox as an excuse: the soldiers panicked about the outbreak and let everyone go, and they were free from Fire Nation tyranny for it."

"You… are either an idiot or a genius," Azula said, smiling and shaking her head. Sokka huffed, raising his head haughtily.

"Wrong, Princess, for if other people's perception of me is to be accounted for, I'm actually both things at the same time," he declared, prompting her to laugh, despite herself.

"I gave Ukano such a hard time for that foolishness," Azula acknowledged. "Now I can see I was right to do so: pentapox, seriously?"

"Hey, fooled your people, even if it didn't fool you," Sokka smiled. "For an idiot, I'm not really that stupid, am I?"

"No, I guess you're not," Azula admitted.

Her smile was far more affectionate than she intended for it to be, and yet she didn't contain it. She didn't restrain herself. The very chance to swap stories with him, to talk at leisure, to smile and laugh… how she had missed that.

Oh, she had missed him, terribly so. It wasn't something she could deny to herself any longer.

"Don't feel bad, though, Princess," Sokka smiled. "The suction dots fade away after a while. Kind of like a hickey does."

"Heh. Those didn't fade away all that quickly, as far as I recall," Azula said, raising her eyebrows. Sokka chuckled and shrugged.

"Guess not all of them would, no," he admitted. "But you know, these are way smaller, and most are on our lower bodies, so it's not like there's going to be much to worry about. Unless, I don't know, you had a gig modeling naked for some sculptor within the next, what, ten-to-twelve hours…?"

"If I did have one, and you'd pulled this on me, I'd make you pay for this humiliation for as long as we lived," Azula assured him. Sokka grinned too honestly, closing his eyes and shaking his head.

"Fine, then. No trips to weird lakes with Azula right before she has an appointment with the royal sculptor," he decided.

It was so natural, so easy… she almost felt like sitting at the edge of the lake with him, and merely talking for as many hours as they'd had failed to talk throughout their journey so far. Though she also felt like doing something else, as she allowed her eyes to gaze at his still-glistening skin… at the body she had grown so accustomed to once, and that she had deprived herself from, by her own foolish mistakes. Suddenly, all the bad blood seemed to be irrelevant, and she wanted nothing but to touch him, and not merely just to rid him of another pentapus anymore…

"Here I thought I wasn't allowed to peek… yet you're checking me out, Princess?"

She froze, shooting a glare at him as he smirked in her direction. Azula rolled her eyes at his reaction, though she smiled before long.

"Fine. What's fair is fair. You're free to ogle me if you so wish."

"Ah, thanks for allowing it. I mean, I already had looked at everything I wanted to look at, but knowing you allow it does lighten my heart's load…"

"You're the worst," Azula smiled, glancing at him again as Sokka chuckled. "Here I thought you weren't stealing any glances at me, that all this pentapus business was very professional…"

"It was, Princess, of course it was. If I'd broken protocol, you'd be moaning your lungs out by now," he said, nonchalantly. Azula gasped, and he smirked proudly.

"And what makes you think I would've allowed you to get away with that?" she asked.

"That you were checking me out just now, of course," he determined.

"Heh. And what convinces you that it'd be me moaning instead of you?" Azula huffed. Sokka raised his eyebrows and smiled at her, biting his lip playfully.

"Then… you want to make me moan as badly as I want to make you moan?" he asked. Her cheeks flushed violently. "Are we going to play it fair that way, too? A glance for a glance, a touch for a touch, a kiss for a kiss…?"

"Who said anything about kisses?" Azula whispered, though her eyes didn't leave Sokka's: she offered him a challenge, and the Sokka she had always known had been unable to resist one… she only hoped he'd be just as unwilling to hold back this time as he ever had been in the past.

"I just did, didn't you hear me?" He smiled as he leaned closer to her: Azula's heart raced gaster still. "Because something tells me you wouldn't mind it if I kissed your pentapox marks better…"

"There's no such thing as pentapox," Azula retorted. Sokka smirked.

"Funny thing to focus on, when I just said I wanted to kiss your legs all over," he said. Azula shivered visibly, breaking their eye contact by drawing her eyes down, almost bashfully.

It was not too surprising that she'd be that flustered, though it disappointed Sokka to a fault, all the same. Back in the day, she would have merely responded with her own crude remarks until they wound up in bed, thrusting wildly at each other. Now, though… she hesitated. Just as she had run away that night. It was no surprise, not really…

"Just the legs?"

Her question threw him off, just as he had been about to make up his mind to stand up and return to their campsite, once he told her not to make much of their flirty teasing. He blinked blankly, as Azula raised her face again, with fierce determination.

"You just said… what, now?" he blurted out.

"Didn't you hear me?" Azula said, despite her voice trembled. "Is it just the legs you'd kiss… snow savage?"

A title that had started as a mere jest at his expenses had eventually gained another meaning, after their third opportunity to sleep together: she had determined the true reason Water Tribe people were thought to be savages wasn't that their civilization was underdeveloped… but rather, that their erotic inclinations were so wild and unrestrained they stood out from the rest. She couldn't speak for a whole culture, of course not… but she could certainly speak for Sokka's skills. And after making such surprisingly flattering claims, Sokka had pinned her to the bed and proven himself a savage more proudly than ever before – and Azula had some trouble walking the next day because of it.

She had called him a snow savage before in their journey: had it been to evoke that night, or had it been, again, just a jest? All possibilities were on the table when it came to Azula. Yet right now he couldn't possibly doubt what she was suggesting… he couldn't second-guess it. He knew he wasn't getting a better deal than this one, and he had been too selfless as it was: he couldn't resist her, let alone her striking, gorgeous body, for another moment.

Sokka's hand shot to the back of her head, and when he pulled her closer to press his lips to hers, he found her own hands had clasped his neck: so violently they joined that their teeth crashed, and yet they didn't stop because of it. They had wasted too much time, worried about too much nonsense… it was enough by now. There was but one solution for their predicament, and the best prelude for it was heated, savage sex of the sort they had enjoyed before their relationship had fallen to shambles.

His arms surrounded her waist, compelling her to wrap her legs around his body: he rose to his feet, fearing he'd lose balance, but he remained determined to kiss her deeper and longer. Azula's heart raced ferociously, her fingers tight around his smooth hair locks as every familiar, blissful sensation he elicited in her body tore through her very soul. He wasn't kissing her halfheartedly, as he might have if he no longer cared… as he might have, if he no longer loved her. Then… he had distanced himself from her because he had believed, again, that that was what she had wanted? He hadn't chased after her… because he had taken her behavior as rejection, rather than an invitation to try harder? He had given her space, assuming she needed it, taking for granted that she didn't love him back…

He was kissing her wildly, walking naked through a forest with her, despite he probably thought she didn't love him back.

And now her heart ached, even if she didn't know why. She couldn't understand it, try as though she might. He interrupted their kiss briefly, only to ensure he was on the right track towards the tent he had pitched, and he stole a few more kisses from her lips before reaching their destination: tugging the flap aside, he knelt before the entrance, setting Azula down atop the sleeping bag. He kicked the tent's flap closed clumsily, and quickly returned to worshipping her body, his full weight crushing her delightfully.

He certainly hadn't expected her to return his passion as she did: even now her legs seemed unwilling to let go of him, and her long nails dug into his skin, proving she had wanted this desperately. He had found it odd that she would tag along for a trip with him, eventually he took for granted that she only wanted to torment him, and relish in a rare chance to leave the Fire Nation Palace, seeing as Zuko scarcely ever let her set foot outside it, let alone outside her nation… but if she had merely wanted to escape, using him as a stepping stone for it, she wouldn't have stayed with him once they reached the Earth Kingdom. He had half-expected to wake up and discover his traveling companion was gone, on the previous night, which they'd spent in a modest inn at Garsai… but she was still there. Then, he had expected her to take off through the forest, leaving him to his own devices… and again, she didn't do that. She seemed to genuinely want to come with him… though why, he didn't know for sure, not until now. He had pondered that she might have wanted to make amends for breaking his heart, but he hadn't thought she'd wish to rekindle their affair at all…

Now, as she thrusted upwards at him, one of her hands dashing between their bodies to pump his manhood, he realized the most wishful of all possibilities was, despite his rational mind had constantly claimed otherwise, the true explanation for Azula's actions.

He didn't hold back, not in the least: he drilled into her fiercely once they joined their bodies, thrusting with as much strength as he could muster while still kissing her as often as he could. She was breathless, her body strained, her heart still racing… and yet she wanted more, as she proved by rolling them over on the sleeping bag once he was finished, straddling him as she strived to make him hers for the thousandth time. More savage thrusting, and this time her head nearly crashed with the tent's ceiling as she sat up, riding his shaft recklessly: the tent truly could have fallen down upon her, she wouldn't have cared one bit. Then it was him who took over yet again, and they spent hours taking turns to lead their savage coupling, decorating each other's bodies with as many hickeys and bite marks as they could lavish each other with… and it would make quite the spectacle come morning, once they saw in full daylight the full score of reddened marks their bodies would sport, paired with the many dots the pentapi had left upon them.

The final round found them lying together on their sides, face to face, thrusting slowly into each other while they shared countless kisses after their last climaxes. Sokka closed his eyes, overwhelmed by pleasure: they hadn't eaten dinner yet, and his body appeared to resent him for it, seeing as they'd exercised rather extensively just now. They had also left their clothes behind by the lake, and he certainly hoped they'd still be there by morning… but he didn't dare let go of Azula to deal with any such matters, not just yet. Not while her body was wound so tightly around his own, not when it might be one of the last times it ever was… for he had no foolish hopes that this rekindling would last longer than this trip to find Space Sword. Not when Azula had already ran away from him before… when she might just do it again if he ever overwhelmed her ever again…

"You're… not going to say anything?" her voice broke through the darkness and silence, and Sokka damn near wished she hadn't spoken at all. Silence, uncertainty, were better than the mistakes he was likely to make while attempting to read her once again.

"Didn't think you'd want me to," he whispered, simply. He had thought that would be enough for Azula to understand how scared he was, how unwilling to let go of her… but naturally, the proud princess couldn't make anything easy for him.

"Since when do you do whatever I want you to?" she said. He huffed: he should know better than to fall for her verbal traps and tricks… and yet he plunged headfirst into this one, hating himself for it as he uttered his response.

"Since always," he said, bluntly. Azula frowned, but fell silent again. "Since the first night we spent together. For every minute and every moment of my life since then."

"That's… not true," Azula said, though her voice trembled lightly. "How… how could you even know what I wanted without asking me, anyway? If you didn't know…"

"I fucked you when you wanted me to. I walked away when you wanted me to," Sokka said, simply. "And I shut up now, because I know that if I dare say what I'm really thinking, you'll take off again and I don't think my stupid heart will be able to take that anymore."

Azula tensed up next to him. He didn't attempt to soften his words, which he had spoken far more bitterly than he had intended to… but it was true enough that he had seen more than his share of heartbreak throughout his life. There was only so much he could take before he came crashing down for good, unwilling to love ever again… frankly, he had thought he was there already, after she had ran off on him that night. He had been so anguished for the next months, doing his best to stay out of her way, to never inconvenience her… and in the process, he had nearly self-destructed. He was dead sure the reason no one wanted to take a road trip with him wasn't because everyone was too busy… but rather, because none of his friends thought it was a good idea to spend long stretches of time with the moodiest, least fun Sokka they had ever known. To this day, none of them understood why he had changed so much, so suddenly… and to this day, he refused to explain, too. How to explain he had finally found the right person to spend his life with, only to discover he didn't embody the same thing for her…?

"S-Sokka…" she called for him suddenly, bringing him out of his thoughts. Sokka breathed deeply and rubbed his face with a hand, as though trying to shake off the emotional words that had tumbled out of him. What a fool… he wasn't supposed to tell her any of that. He wasn't supposed to guilt her into a damn thing, what was wrong with him?

"Don't mind me, Azula, don't… don't worry. I'm okay," he said, simply.

She seemed rather determined to prove him wrong, however: her hand reached for his chest, touching his heart, feeling its powerful, yet fragile beats. He gritted his teeth, trying to find something to say, anything to defuse the charged situation, far more tense now than in the rest of their awkward days on the road, combined…

"You said you loved me," she whispered. His breath caught. "You said so… and I left. But it wasn't because I… b-because I didn't want to see you anymore."

"What?" Sokka said, and the confusion did nothing to help his current discomfort.

"Sokka, I… I'm sorry. I know you believe you loved me, and because you did, I ruined everything, but the truth is…"

"Woah, what's that supposed to mean, 'I believe I loved you'?" Sokka snapped, eyeing her dark silhouette with a scowl. "There's no 'believe' about it, Azula. I loved you: I still do."

"You… no, Sokka, no," Azula said, shaking her head promptly. Yet her tone, the nervousness with which she spoke… it gave him pause, where he'd had none before. While he certainly didn't appreciate being told by anyone that his feelings couldn't be what he knew they were, he also knew Azula well enough by now to understand there was more going on underneath the surface than she wanted to admit right now.

"No what?" he said, softening his voice. "What are you trying to tell me, Azula?"

"You can't love me. And if you truly did, t-then… you shouldn't," she said, shivering against him. "I can't be… I can't be loved, not like other people can. I can't love, either, so maybe just…"

"What the hell? What's that supposed to mean?" Sokka asked, and Azula shook her head.

"That's what they said. In that damn asylum," she swallowed hard. "They diagnosed me, and tested me, and decided I was… incapable of I don't know how many emotions. They said I couldn't feel them, that I only pretended to, that I… that I copied what I saw in others, but was incapable of truly feeling those emotions myself."

"What sort of…? That's bullshit!" Sokka exclaimed, frowning. Azula shrank in her spot beside him, pressing her head to his chest. "What the hell's that supposed to mean?! You're capable of emotions alright, of so many of them, for crying out loud… who the hell paid those pieces of shit to say that about you? I'll go gut them as soon as we find Space Sword…"

"My mother thought I was a monster," Azula spoke against his chest. Sokka's wild rant stopped cold suddenly. "Why would she love Zuko but not me? Why would she say something was wrong with me if nothing had been wrong at all? Even now, she looks at me funny, no matter if Zuko's taken me back. Like she thinks any moment I'm just going to snap, and set the whole damn Palace on fire. Somedays… somedays I actually do want to do that, Sokka. Whenever I'm too frustrated, I just…"

"Then you can be frustrated? Isn't that an emotion?" Sokka huffed. "Azula… I can't say I know anything for sure, but it sounds like those damn assholes at that institution weren't trying to help you at all. If anything… they tried to convince you that you weren't human. They made you think emotions were worthless, and well, your damn family doesn't help one bit either…"

"But emotions are… they're not good, Sokka," Azula said, shaking her head.

"Says who? Ozai's far from a reliable source of information, you know…"

"It's not just him. It's… I've let myself be swayed by stupid impulses so many times now," Azula said, gritting her teeth. "I mean… if that's what emotions are, they just… they make you do things you shouldn't. They make you lose sight of your rational mind, and then…"

"The more you fight them, the worse it gets," Sokka finished for her. Azula flinched beside him. "Which… sounds like you understand and know emotions pretty well, for someone who allegedly can't feel them."

Azula breathed with difficulty against him, and to her surprise, his arms wrapped warmly around her, pulling her as close as she could be to him. He pressed his lips to the top of her head.

"What did you feel… when you heard I was visiting again, the first time I visited the Fire Nation after all those months without seeing you?" he asked. Azula tensed around him. "Nothing wrong will come from telling me, Azula. I'm not going to hurt you. I just… need to know. And I think you need to say it even more than I need to hear it."

She swallowed hard before making up her mind. There was no trace of joking in his voice… no hint of mockery, of forcefulness, of bullheaded stubbornness. He wasn't trying to make her accept his feelings… he was trying to help her understand her own. Tears surged in her eyes, and with her face pressed to his bare chest as it was, she knew he would feel them directly on his skin.

"I… wanted to see you," she whispered. "I hoped you'd want to see me too. But when we crossed paths, you simply… walked past me. You barely even glanced at me. I… I thought I disgusted you. And it… it hurt. It did."

"I thought I was the one who disgusted you," Sokka said with a trembling voice, tightening his embrace further. "When you ran off, and avoided seeing me, I… I was sure it meant you'd never wanted things to go as far as they did. So I… decided to leave you be. Because I figured you didn't love me back. I thought… you'd be better off without me."

"I wasn't. I'm not," Azula admitted with far more honesty than she ever thought she'd muster, shaking her head against his chest.

"I'm sorry," Sokka whispered, and she gasped. "I should've… guessed I couldn't understand what was going through your head. Doesn't matter how smart I think I am, you're always much more complicated than I can figure out…"

"You… you're not the one who should apologize," Azula said, shaking her head again, and by now the tears did stream down her face. "I'm the one who… who left, and I hurt you, because I didn't know how to tell you that… t-that you shouldn't have loved someone like me…"

"I'm afraid that's never going to stop me," Sokka smiled sadly, raising a hand to her cheek, wiping the tears away as best he could with his thumb. "Love isn't that easily given and taken away."

"But I…" she gasped, shaking her head. "You can't… y-you shouldn't love me, Sokka. No one has ever…"

"I don't know if no one has ever loved you, Azula," Sokka whispered, raising her chin delicately: despite how dark it was, she could see his shape looming closer, so close he found her lips with his own, but far more softly than earlier. Her breath hitched as he pulled away, and she remained desperate, eager for more. "But if no one did before, I'm proud to be the first person who ever did. Whatever mistakes you made… we'll fix them, if they can be fixed. We'll move past them, if they can't be. And you know what's the best part? You don't have to love me back. I didn't tell you how I felt because… because I thought you'd respond with the same thing. I said it because… because I couldn't hold back anymore. Because you made me so happy, you still do, and… I needed you to know that. If you never feel the same way towards me, I'll accept it… but that won't change my feelings for you. It won't erase my truth. And that's still my truth, to this day: I love you, Azula. And as far as I can tell, I always will."

She couldn't hold back anymore: a torrent of tears streamed down her cheeks as she embraced him tightly, just as tight, if not even more so, as she had earlier that day. He held her the same way, pressing gentle kisses around her face, on the top of her head, on her temples… and she only cried further, overwhelmed, overcome by the onslaught of emotions she was supposedly unable to experience.

Had she truly been incapable of those emotions at all… or had she merely locked them away, in all the trauma of her childhood and teenage years, until they finally had broken free upon hearing Sokka's words tonight? Had his sincere, selfless feelings given wing to hers…? Or was she truly just emulating feelings she had seen someplace else…?

Ha. She was sure she had never seen anyone crying this pathetically over a love confession, so copying such an emotional outburst was ruled out.

Which meant… they were wrong. The diagnosis had been wrong. Maybe she was capable of much more than those damn mental experts had decided she was…

Those thoughts calmed her, despite they were anything but tranquilizing, as they would mean she had been living her life halfway for years now, abiding by that damn assessment as though it owned her, attempting to trick herself into believing her inability to feel emotions was a good thing somehow… but there was a lot she needed to do right now instead of crying, in the wake of such a revelation.

"H-how… how do you know you love me?" Azula asked, her voice fragile and unsteady. Her question took Sokka by surprise. "How does anyone know… that they're feeling love for someone else? I… I'm not trying to copy it, I just want to know if…"

"I didn't think you'd be copying anything in the first place," Sokka whispered, rubbing her back gently. "But if you're worried… how about you tell me how you feel, and I'll tell you if that sounds like love or not?"

"Then…" she said, breathing deeply. "I was… happy to see you, but then you didn't seem to want anything to do with me. M-my chest felt hollow, somehow… and when I talked to defend you when Zuko was being an ass about your quest for your sword, I thought you might be grateful, but you looked unaffected, as though it didn't matter… it hurt, too. I felt like an idiot, because I… I thought maybe you were happier whenever I wasn't around. That I'd messed up so badly that now you were better off without me, but I was so hung up on you, I couldn't stop thinking about you, and I wanted to fix things between us… because I wanted you to smile the way you always did before. It hurt that you wouldn't, but I hoped… and then the damn pentapus thing stuck to me and you were back to your old self for a moment, and we were laughing, and helping each other, and my damn stupid hollow chest felt full again…"

Sokka's hands didn't stop rubbing against her back gently. Azula gritted her teeth, clinging to him, to her every word, as she spoke with far more honesty than she remembered doing in her whole life. It seemed she had learned that from him, somehow…

"I never wanted to lose you," she said. "I never wanted to push you so far away you'd never want to come back. I thought… I thought you'd come back and fight to stay by my side because… isn't that how love works? I never thought… I never thought you were walking away because you loved me. B-because you thought that was what I wanted… I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I didn't… I didn't want to push you away, Sokka…"

"I get it," he whispered, kissing the top of her head. "I understand now. I… I'm relieved, you know? I thought I'd spend the rest of my life alone…"

"You…?" Azula said, puzzled. Sokka chuckled.

"No one knew I was with you… so my damn sister kept trying to set me up with people. I always said no, she'd always find a way to throw them at me, I'd always make myself scarce as soon as I knew there was yet another girl waiting to meet the great hero Sokka…"

"Pfft… great hero?" Azula smiled, amused.

"See? I don't want or need a girl who worships me" Sokka chuckled, kissing her brow. "I'd rather have one who thinks all that stuff is nonsense… because she sees right through me, and knows deep down I'm just a dork who wants to spend time with his friends, talk nonsense, joke around, pull pranks on people…"

"We need to do it again… pulling pranks on everyone," Azula smiled, pressing her own lips to his chest. "I miss that."

"Well… I don't know what this really means for us, going forward," Sokka whispered. "Maybe you're not ready for anything too demanding anyway… but what you said you felt for me did sound quite a lot like love, you know?"

"It… did?" Azula said, the hopeful inflection of her voice brought a gentle grin to Sokka's face.

"That's right," he said, pressing his brow to hers. "So… going back to civilization, and telling everyone we're together now? Sounds like the culmination of the greatest prank of all time to me."

"Though it's not just a prank," Azula smiled, closing her eyes. "We are together. Or at least, we should be."

"If we both agree on that… then I guess it means we are," Sokka sighed.

She hadn't known what to make of his tone with the last words he spoke… until a soft laugh shook him, and then he was squeezing her so tight she lost her breath: tears fell upon her skin, just as her own had fallen on his. Azula gritted her teeth but hugged him back, burying her face in his shoulder as he sobbed quietly against her.

Just one silly development, one chaotic afternoon spent battling against strange but harmless invertebrates, had turned into a wild evening of relentless trysts until they had released their everything together… and then it had become an emotional night, where they had finally talked thoroughly, finally understanding each other's fears, weakness, insecurities and thought processes. It hadn't needed to come this far, they both knew it… and yet they were so grateful to recover what they'd lost that they didn't stop to reason with how much time they had wasted: instead, their lips met in a tearful kiss, and their bodies joined anew for one more time that night, but in a warmer, loving manner, slow and gradual, until they both reached their final culmination and fell asleep soundly in each other's arms. Just as there had been no violent solution to fend off the pentapi, there had been no such solution for their relationship either: a gentler approach, far more sincere, where they had opened their hearts, regardless of the painful risk it represented, was the only true way to resolve their conflict.

The long-standing tension between them was gone, completely, by the next morning: they couldn't seem to stop smiling together, not when they made love again by dawn, not when they ate a hefty breakfast to make up for the dinner they had missed, not when they rushed back to the lake to find the clothes that they had left lying about by the shore. Once they packed the tent and took off, following Sokka's map, they did as much with hands linked, casting countless teasing comments at each other with every new step they took together.

After a week and a half of long, heartfelt nights and blissful, bright days, their journey appeared to be one that should have lasted a lifetime instead… and yet Azula's luck dictated otherwise.

She spotted it amidst bushes while she foraged for food, as their reserves were near depleted by then: it didn't glow as brightly as it had long ago, but that golden pommel still caught her eye. She pushed the plants out of the way, slowing by the weapon to find it sunken to the hilt in the soil. She breathed deeply and wrapped her hand around the handle's leather, and without much struggle, the weapon came loose… and that black blade nearly glistened under the sunlight once she had withdrawn it completely.

It was over, then. Their long trip, their chance to reconnect and make amends… Azula gritted her teeth as she gazed at the weapon, almost begrudging it for not having taken a little longer to show up, despite she had practically found it by sheer chance as it was. She briefly pondered stashing it away someplace safe, to make sure she and Sokka would continue to travel together for a little longer… but his words, his many decisions and sacrifices for her sake, convinced her otherwise. He had taught her what love looked like: selfishness wasn't part of it. He had come here to find his sword, and she had no right to deprive him from it for a moment longer.

"Sokka?" she called for him, and he raised his head from the small venison he'd been able to catch earlier, thanks to his boomerang.

"What is it?" he asked. "Found anything that looks too bright and funny? It's probably poisonous, if that's it…"

"Well, that sure explains why it was that dangerous all along, huh?" Azula smiled, returning to the clearing they were resting at that morning. She raised her right hand, showing the weapon she held to Sokka, who froze in place immediately. "Didn't think you'd play so underhandedly back in those days, coating your weapon in poison, but…"

"AZULA! YOU FOUND IT?!"

Azula laughed as she offered the sword at her lover, who clumsily jumped to his feet and rushed towards her. He took Space Sword in his hands, smiling brightly enough to cry yet again… and then he dropped the weapon, to her utter astonishment, and embraced her so tightly he raised her from the ground.

"S-Sokka!" she gasped, embracing him right back in fear of falling… especially in fear of falling on his insanely sharp sword.

"You're the greatest, smartest, cleverest, most amazing woman in the entire planet!" he squealed. Despite her previous apprehension, Azula couldn't hold back a trickle of laughter as she pressed her face to his neck. "Oh, hell…! I was starting to think we'd never find it! Which, to be fair, I didn't mind too much? I was having so much fun being on the road with you as it was, that I…!"

"You forgot you were looking for a sword?" Azula smiled, as he set her down at last. "I think I could tell. Seeing as you kept making plans about what we'd eat for our next meal, or what position we'd try for the next night…"

Sokka snorted and laughed, pressing his brow to hers. Azula grinned, breathing out slowly: that was the face she had relished in. That expression of pure, undoubtable bliss… the genuine smiles she had never been deemed worthy of until Sokka had decided otherwise. Her heart ached pleasantly at the sight of it, at the gentle bliss that permeated them both right now.

"Thank you, Azula… thank you so much," he said, pressing many quick, enthusiastic kisses to her lips. Azula's smile only widened further. "Goodness, I owe you so much more than you can imagine…"

"No, you don't…" Azula whispered, caressing his chest. "Whatever debts we owed each other… I think they're settled after this trip. I'd hurt you… now I've made up for it, somehow, I hope…"

"You've more than made up for every bit of pain, Azula… you didn't even have to, but you have," Sokka smiled, caressing her face kindly.

"I did have to…" she said, as another of those impulses she couldn't repress bubbled to the surface: "Because I love you, too."

He had never expected her to return his feelings… let alone for her to say it aloud, if she did. He was sure he'd spend his life with her, regardless of whether she ever said those three words to him at all… and yet now that she had, it was as though his entire world had expanded, exploded, becoming greater, larger and better in a single moment. Tears surged in his eyes, as did in hers… and the next thing she knew, they were back in the tent, reprising every blissful night and morning they had spent making love relentlessly together. After so long of fearing she'd always be alone, fearing she had alienated the only person who genuinely had cared for her, now she knew she'd live every day ahead with the bright awareness that she would have him by her side…

No one had truly expected Sokka to return with his sword. Zuko, personally, hadn't expected him to return with Azula, to begin with, having even set up a whole squad to track down his sister once she inevitably escaped…

Yet what no one could have ever anticipated was for Sokka and Azula to not only have found Space Sword, but to have found their way to each other just as well: Zuko spent months convinced their engagement announcement was but another of their joint pranks… even up until the very wedding ceremony. Teasing him further, after first kissing her new husband, Azula had promised Zuko that their first child would be called 'Prank', in his honor… and only then did the reality of the situation hit him, despite he was still quite far from being able to process it fully. Katara, of course, wasn't in much better shape… and yet, to everyone's surprise, she eased up on them faster if only because of Sokka's genuine happiness. Seeing him back in good spirits, even if they mostly were related to the woman he couldn't seem to stop holding in his arms ever since they returned from their long journey, was enough of a relief that she managed to overlook, at least most times, that her new sister-in-law was none other than who she was…

And as fun as their reactions were, nothing pleased either the princess or her new consort as much as their relationship itself did. Opening their hearts to each other fully, thoroughly understanding what their feelings were, had changed their worlds for the better. It had started as a quest for a sword… and instead it had shaped into the reforging of a love and the beginning a blissful journey that would span for a lifetime.

[commanders-sole-braincell]

1.

  The soldiers call them names under their breaths, stares at the shriveled limbs with something close to disgust. They don’t see the way The Commander smiles at them all, like everything they’ve gone through worth it for the cruel words the pact sends their way- because at least the pact is alive to say it. They don’t see the way The Commander’s eyes start to sparkle again, and the way they begin to fill out, losing the unnatural pallor that comes with having avoided death a second, third, fourth, time.

  It’s their loss.

  2.

  They wake up at night with a scream lodged in their throat and a ringing in their ears, but they swallow the cries back and bury their face in their pillow. It smells like dried flowers, and motor oil, tree bark and dragonfire and illusions. Mordemoth’s whispers have no place here, not in the face of everything they’ve set out to protect. They aren’t alone, anymore- perhaps they were never alone, even before.

  3.

  The egg cracks under their fingertips, and a familiar emotion welling up in them, a connection they thought they had given up when they had looked into Trahearne’s eyes and allowed themself to be selfish. 

  Aurene’s scales are warm under their fingers, and they taste love, and longing, and devotion, crystalline sparks that come to life on their tongue. This is what reconciliation tastes like. They think, and they could get used to this: This is what victory tastes like, and it’s never tasted so sweet before.

  4.

  Canach stares at the two recruits with something a bit like rage. He’s no firstborn, no Marshall and no Commander- he’s no leader, and some days he doesn’t even know if he’s a good person, when his first instinct more often than not is to flee rather than protect. 

  It doesn’t stop him from telling them exactly how much he would bet on The Commander- and he isn’t talking about gold, when he says that.

  (If you can come back from the dead, I want to double my wager on you. He had said, once upon a time. It feels like an eternity past.)

  5.

  Trahearne sits with his head in his hands and he feels cold, iced water collecting in his chest and threatening to leak through his skin. The healers have left, and the pact has gone. It’s only him and Caladbolgh, now, alone in a room with nothing but a bed and a figure that looks two sizes too small. 

  (Because The Commander had always been larger than life, a beacon in the dark. The Commander had loved and cared for them all, a steadfast affection that he couldn’t shame himself for leaning into, back when Orr had seemed an impossible dream where it laid protected under a dragon’s wings.)

  Their words stays with him, and he- he remembers, somewhat. He remembers pain, and anguish, and being on the other side of a blade. He remembers too, a necromancer with a cruel laugh, and blood all over his hands. He wonders which life he died in. He wonders if it was both.

  He squeezes The Commander’s limp hand, feels their pulse beat in the crook of his wrist. “When you wake up,” he starts, and stops.

  6.

  They circle the border of the camp, staring at sleeping faces. Eir is there, and so is Braham, and there Canach is- Scruffy leaning against a tree, Kasmeer and Marjory curled next to each other.

  They count the stars in the sky and the scars on their body, recites dates and names and faces under their breath. Every once in a while they put a hand on their chest, waits for their heart to beat and feels an irrational jolt of surprise whenever it does. They’re alive, now. They don’t know how long it will last.

  A rustle, then warmth. They aren’t alone after all. “No one’s dead.” Rytlock says gruffly. He wraps one paw around their arm, and his grip is surprisingly gentle- he holds them like he’s afraid they will shatter under too much force. Maybe they would, shatter that is- but he doesn’t give them a chance to find out.

  7.

  I would have enjoyed the company in the desert skies, Vlast had once admitted to them, like it was a secret. A shameful hope he would never see come to pass. As if it was a crime to be happy, their words dripping with unspoken wishes and regret The Commander could sometimes feel dogging their own steps.

  They once thought that there was nothing they could do.

  “Aurene,” they begin, and they’re laughing; they’re crying in a way that isn’t meant to be sad. They’ve made a lot of mistakes but this is one time they don’t mind being proven wrong. “Meet your big brother.”

  8.

  The Pact soldiers fall, one after another, and they’re screaming- this cannot be happening. They stumble through the wreckage and can’t stop staring at their failures, at everything they’ve failed to protect.

  They can fix this though, and already there’s a dagger in their hands, the edge cutting into the vulnerable skin of their neck. They can fix this. They can. 

  (They’ll go back, they know it. They’ve done so again and again and again.)

  A hand, stopping them. “You can’t save everyone Commander.” Marjory says, and she won’t let go, why won’t she let go. “You don’t have to keep doing this.”

  They do though, they have to, even if they don’t expect her to understand. They rip the hilt out of Jory’s fingers and drive the blade into their chest.

  9.

  They can’t stop staring at the scattered pieces that used to be Scruffy, Taimi a warm weight on their back. “I can fix this-“ They begin, but there’s a sharp pressure as five fingers dig into a point between their shoulder blades.

  “No,” Taimi says fiercely through her tears. “Just because- Even if I lost Scruffy, that doesn’t mean I want to lose you too.”

  But you won’t lose me, they think. Their fingers itch for their weapon. That’s the point.

  They stay their hand though, for now- they need both of them to carry Taimi, after all.

  10.

  “What if this never ends?” They ask, and it’s too much to even consider; they can’t breathe. “What if- In a few years I die naturally, and I wake up standing in front of the Pact Fleet again?”

  (They don’t want to do it again, don’t want to do it again and again and again- what if they lose themselves in their power? What if they go insane, and what if they turn bad- just for the joy of seeing something different happen in the loops.)

  There’s a shattering noise as Kasmeer drops her glass, shards scattered across the floor. It sounds exactly like an illusion breaking.

  11.

  “Meet my Commander,” Joko says, and they rise from their coffin to horrified eyes, wide and wet and afraid. The Dragons Watch is there, and-

  Trahearne, except he isn’t holding Caladbolgh. (Of course he isn’t, they made sure of that; the sword is probably in pieces at the base of the Pale Tree) He isn’t holding any weapon, actually, except for his old staff, but there’s a familiar sight strapped onto his back.

  Oh, they think, that’s mine.

  (Joko drags them back kicking and screaming, Joko chains them here without their consent, but- he doesn’t get all of them, he can’t get their everything when they aren’t whole in the first place. Back then, surrounded by a victory that they knew would soon grow bitter, they had forced their shaking hands to move, to press their signature weapon into Trahearne’s hands. It’s only fair, they thought, with what they were going to ask of him, that they leave a piece of their heart behind.)

  Sorry Marshall, they say, and not say, because Joko has one hand caressing the bottom of their jaw and keeping it there- but there’s more than one way to speak to a necromancer. They smile apologetically, their borrowed heartbeat thudding in their chest, and hopes Trahearne can hear the words whispering through their soul. Looks like you’ll have to kill me twice.

  12.

  It’s a heavy burden you bear, Vlast rumbles. His eyes are terribly sad. You musn’t forget what you had been fighting for. You mustn’t lose yourself.

  They swallow, and they look behind them. To the Dragon’s Watch, in the distance, and if they aim their eyes on the horizon, they can almost pretend they can see home- when everything used to be so simple, when all they cared about was doing the right thing.

  It’s harder now, but- they meet Vlast’s eyes and think of Taimi making more and more convoluted wheelchairs to aid in their recovery, of Canach’s quiet protectiveness, of the way Kasmeer held their hands in hers and asked almost shyly Can I pray for you? Of Caithe slipping them food across the table with worried eyes, and waking up to a blanket draped over them with no knowledge of how it got there.

  “I know.” they admit, softly. It’s hard, saying that. Admitting that they might have a problem in the first place. But it’s a step forward, and they find it easier not to lie as they watch Marshall step forward and nervously put a hand on Vlast’s snout.

  13.

  I will know what you’re hiding in that mind of yours, Mordremoth taunts them, and they aren’t screaming, but bitter acid bubbles up from their throat. Everything is green and dusty brown and slow rot. I will look through your memories, every single one, and none of your allies will be able to save you then.

  The Commander won’t let that happen. The decision is easy to make, and the Dragon too slow to realize, too busy reveling in their supposed victory. They tip their head back and they think they understand now, why their mentor did what they did.

  A sharp movement to the left, and a vine cuts too close: Everything is red.

  (Their life for Trahearne’s, and Eir’s, and so many others: Worth it, they think as they fall under, the dragon’s angry roaring the last thing they hear.)

  14.

  They wake up.

  “Commander?” Someone asks, but they can’t breathe through the smell of blood and rust.

  (This wasn’t supposed to happen.)

  15.

Why me? They think, watching their friends but not-yet-friends walk by.

  Why does it have to be me?

16.

  “He would have been so proud of you.” The Pale Tree says, as they let the shattered pieces of what used to be Caladbolgh slip through their numb fingers like tears. “You were his closest companion.”

  The words are a bitter comfort, but it’s the only comfort they have.

  17.

  “Commander,” Eir says, laughing. She’s bigger than they remember as she sweeps them into a hug, tight enough to be crushing. Everything is red, but the red of her hair. “So good to see you again!”

  Braham takes them aside, later, when all the celebrations are done. “Thank you.” He says sincerely. They can’t help but notice that he doesn’t say sorry.

  18.

  The temple is large, and candles lit on every surface, just as they remember. There is a distinct lack of refugees around however, and it makes something loosen in their throat.

  Priest Hakim is there, and his eyes are warm. “Welcome, Outlander.” He says, but he says it like a secret, like a prayer answered. There’s laughter and smiles in the air. “Welcome to the Temple of Kormir.”

  (He takes them aside later, and bows. Every night, he tells them, candles flickering behind him as he clasps his hands together, Every night, we send prayers to Kormir for your safety in battle and your safe returns. You’ve done so much for us- our blessings are the least we can give.)

  They are sent home with a pack full of medical supplies and food and water, because the oasis is flourishing and they have more than enough to go around.

  19.

  “Do you think,” They asked, pausing from where they’ve picked up their weapon for a friendly spar. “That friendships can last more than one lifetime?”

  It’s a beautiful day. Everyone is here, and safe, and happy- It’s perfect. Sometimes, they look at this and feel like they want to cry.

  (The itching feeling is there still, some days- an earthquake in Caledon, a raid in a human village, an explosion over at shiverpeaks, and they feel it: the urge to go back, fix everything except better this time.)

  (Rytlock had stopped them, last time. Rytlock, with Sohothin strapped to his belt- Sohothin, who they’ve never seen aflame since they’ve flinched what felt like 6 loops back.)

  Trahearne looks up from where he’s reading, leaning against Vlast’s massive flank. Aurene is on his back, her elder brother snorting amusedly at her antics. Canach is gloating over the gold he’s won from a wager, Rytlock muttering something that sounds a lot like dumb luck. Kas and Jory sit together, whispering secrets under their breaths. Braham and Rox seem to be arm wrestling, with one side clearly having the upper hand. Logan is cheering Rox on, alongside Caithe: Meanwhile, Eir and Zojja cheer for the opposing side.

  “Well,” Trahearne pauses to think it over. He doesn’t take very long, and he’s smiling when he looks at them again. “I don’t see why not.”

  20.

  “Nice to meet you, Friend.” He tells them, holding his hand out to shake. His smile is familiar, and warm. 

I know you, they think, and they wonder: I’ve met you before.

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

HOLY COTTON BALLS ANON

Your writing has made me speechless once again!!

I love the fact you can see DW and DE stepping into try and protect the Commander, to stop them from hurting themselves (and that bit with Joko OMG!!!) And just the way everyone reacts and they still won’t stop, they can’t stop there’s people to save and 19! OMG 19! MY LITTLE HEART LOVES 19!! The softness and the recovering!!! Anon you’ve hit every possible mark you absolute genius!

[thehandmaidstalehulu]

The Handmaid’s Tale is nominated for 20 Emmy Awards this year, after winning 8 for Hulu last year including 2017’s Outstanding Drama Series. The first season of the television show is based on the novel of the same name, set in an oppressive, dystopian future in the Republic of Gilead which has overtaken the United States.

Not only was the television adaptation a critical success, Amazon lists The Handmaid’s Tale as the most read non-fiction book on Kindle and Audible in 2017, beating ‘A Game of Thrones’ and all of the ‘Harry Potter’ books. Author Margaret Atwood published the bestselling novel in 1985 and is not surprised that the totalitarian theme of the book is resonating with audiences today.

“We live in a very anxiety-producing moment because a lot of the received wisdom is being challenged and overturned,” says Atwood in her hometown of Toronto, Canada. “The world players are moving rapidly around the stage, taking positions that we’re not used to having them take, so it makes a lot of people anxious.”

Atwood started writing The Handmaid’s Tale in 1984 while living in West Berlin on a grant that provided funding to filmmakers, writers and musicians to live and work in the West German district occupied by the allies.

“At that time it was a very dark, empty city, by which I mean there were a lot of vacant apartments,” says Atwood. “People didn’t want to live there, because it was surrounded by the wall. They brought in foreign artists to be there just so people wouldn’t feel so cut off.”

She says living through the Cold War in divided Berlin was instructive to the mood she created for Gilead in the book.

“We also visited East Germany, Czechoslovakia and Poland at that time,” says Atwood. “It informed the atmosphere but not the content if you can see what I mean. The experience of having people change the subject, being fearful of talking to you, not knowing who they can trust, all of that was there.”

Atwood finished writing the novel the following year in the United States, while working at the University of Alabama, Tuscaloosa.

“When I was writing it, we were still in an age in which America was seen as a beacon of light, of liberal democracy, a model for the rest of the world,” says Atwood. “We’re not there anymore, because the rest of the world has changed and so has America. That is why I think people are seeing The Handmaid’s Tale as more possible than they did when it was first published.”

A third season of the series that narrates the life of enslaved handmaid Offred, played by Elisabeth Moss, was recently announced by Hulu. The streaming service has 20-million subscribers and doesn’t release viewership numbers, but said in May that 2018′s season 2 premiere was streamed by twice the number of viewers as the season 1 premiere last year.

Atwood is currently a consultant on the television show and notes that she has no veto, though says she is generally happy with the direction the series has taken. She says she would like to see the oppressive Aunt Lydia survive the cliffhanger season 2 finale in which she was attacked by a handmaid, and hopes to see more of Offred’s best friend Moira who escaped from Gilead, in season 3.

Atwood is quick-witted in person, unpretentious and doesn’t miss a beat. She acknowledges that the cultural impact of Offred’s story has been significant.

“It’s become an international symbol of protest,” says Atwood. “Especially in situations in which women’s rights are in question, or are being removed from them.”

Dozens of women took to the streets in Buenos Aires this month wearing the red cloaks and white bonnets made famous by the subjugated women of The Handmaid’s Tale. The protestors are in support of a historic bill to decriminalize abortion that will be voted on by the Argentinian Senate on August 8. Demonstrators across the United States have worn similar outfits to protest a woman’s right to choose in the past.

It is not just abortion rights that The Handmaid’s Tale represents. Atwood mentions fair laws, fair pay, and equal pay for work of equal value as issues that need to be addressed today. The 78-year old resists labeling herself a feminist, noting that there are many definitions of the word, but sees Iceland as a shining light in terms of women’s rights.

“Iceland is probably a country that we should be studying because they’ve gone pretty far with equality, and their happiness quotient seems to be quite high.”

The Nordic country ranks number 1 in the World Economic Forum’s Global Gender Gap Index. Women make up 48% of elected representatives in parliament, and a new law introduced on January 1, 2018 mandates that companies prove that they pay men and women equally, or face fines.

“Does it make for a happier society on the whole if women have more equality? That does seem to be the case. Does it make for a more prosperous economy if women are engaged in the workplace and in decision making around the economy? That too seems to be the case,” says Atwood.

Atwood herself was born in Ottawa, Canada, the middle child of an older brother and younger sister. She credits her female relatives with providing her with invaluable lessons early in life.

“They were all pretty tough in their various ways, so my image of a competent woman did not come with a negligee and a box of chocolates,” says Atwood. “Being from a country that was pretty close to the frontier experience, I would say ‘Granny on the farm’ was more of a viable role model for me. I’ve got nothing against having your own toolkit, and knowing some elementary plumbing.”

Her no-nonsense attitude led her to a B.A. at The University of Toronto and a Masters at Harvard’s Radcliffe College. One of Atwood’s first jobs out of university was as a market research interview writer. She moved back to Canada in 1964 and taught English at the University of British Columbia, Vancouver, and published her first book, a collection of poetry the same year.

“When I first started in Canada, it wasn’t just that women weren’t viewed as serious writers. Writing itself was not viewed as a serious pursuit. One of the things we did to overcome it was we started publishing companies, some of which are still going, and I was the founder of one of those,” says Atwood, referring to the Canadian publisher House of Anansi.

The 78-year old has since lived and written in 7 countries and published 40 books. She received a writing fellowship from the Guggenheim Foundation at age 44, just before starting work on The Handmaid’s Tale. Atwood is pleased to see the contemporary options now available to writers looking to finance their work, such as crowdsourcing platforms Patreon and Unbound.

“The main thing writers have to figure out to do is how to pay their bills,” says Atwood. “Patreon, they sponsor your project, whatever it is, and Unbound, they will crowdfund a book that they wish could be published. What writers need is time, and all of these things buy time. Are you going to stay up all night and have a day job? I’ve certainly done that. Or, are you going to not have to have a day job, and maybe get a bit more sleep?”

In addition to being an author, Atwood is a vocal advocate for environmental issues. The impact of climate change is a theme that runs through her work, and she notes particular concern at the state of the oceans and how food supply may impact women and children in the future.

Atwood’s Toronto-based company, O.W.Toad, states that it does not use air conditioners or purchase plastic water bottles, and when airplane travel is necessary carbon neutral credits are purchased. Publishing contracts specify that acid-free paper must be used.

In The Handmaid’s Tale, Atwood attributes Gilead’s declining birthrate on pollution and environmental mismanagement. She notes that everything that went into the novel had a historical precedence and that the producers of the television show have continued that principle in subsequent seasons. I asked her if when she was writing the book she believed the circumstances in the novel would come to fruition.

“Did I think it was going to come more true? No,” says Atwood. “But, I understood that that possibility was there.”

[bouncyirwin]

Rainstorm || KakaSaku Month

Oof, would you look at this, I’m actually alive. So as you know of me, it’s either filthy smut or tooth-rotting fluff, there’s absolutely no in-between. Without further ado, here’s some fluffy KakaSaku.

Warning: un-beat’d, all mistakes are mine.

Week 1, Day 1:

The loud crack of thunder outside Sakura’s window made her startle, breaking her concentration away from the documents she’d been ‘working’ on (or that was what she deemed staring at them in hopes of forgetting bigger issues at hand to be). And with a loud, miserable sigh, she slumped back in her seat, defeated.

With the absence of their esteemed Rokudaime, lesser missions were being assigned to Konoha Ninja which meant fewer injuries for her to fix. Which inevitably meant no distractions-- after all being elbow deep in someone’s gut was much more engaging than making medical reports.

It’d been days of catching up on the pile of paperwork that had been sitting ignored at the edge of her desk for weeks on end. Sakura cracked her neck irritably, hearing a few satisfying snaps before she stood up to stretch her spine.

For days now (and she absolutely refused to think about how that coincided with Kakashi’s leave on his diplomatic mission), Sakura has had a horrible, sinking feeling in her stomach. Usually, she dealt with this by filling her entire schedule with surgeries, the more complex the better, and let it numb her brain.

A louder, fiercer ripple of lightning bellowed outside, rain harshly splattering across her windowpane and Sakura let out another sigh.

If she didn’t get moving soon she might be stuck here all night long, with the miserable ticking of a clock and a mountain of papers for company. Quickly, Sakura shuffled to get her coat and the bento which contained the leftovers of her dinner— and as if the skies sensed her rush to escape the storm, the howling winds outside roared angrily, causing the windows to rattle.

“Sheesh,” Sakura muttered, pausing to weigh the pros and cons of forgoing getting soaked (and possibly electrocuted) and just sleeping on the uncomfortable leather couch in her office. It wouldn’t be so bad, especially for someone who’d been sleeping in all kinds of uncomfortable places over the years.

The sound of a commotion outside her door would later decide for her as Konohamaru and Mirai Sarutobi showed up with a half passed out Hokage in their grasp.

Sakura’s heart did a strange tug and pull in her chest before sinking to settle somewhere in the pit of her stomach.

Kakashi’s face was extremely pale, his features twisted into a grimace and his lean fingers clutching onto a crimson-gushing wound in his side. He panted loudly, the sound wet and grating like the storm outside. He was also soaked to the bone like Mirai and Konohamaru by his sides.

Konohamaru raced to explain to her their situation. Disjointed words like understaffed, and a surprise trap briefly registered in her mind but she was too busy receiving him from Konohamaru’s grip and hauling him onto the medical bed at the corner of the room to really listen. Kakashi looked like he was about to go into hypovolemic shock any second.

Surprise trap? Enough to wound Kakashi this badly?

“I got him.” She said, her green glowing hands already fretting about, scanning him for any other injuries than the obvious one.

Konohamaru and Mirai retreated out of her office after a few tense moments of silence in which Sakura administered a saline IV and ripped Kakashi’s vest open with one decisive swipe of her index and middle finger, immediately getting to cleansing his wound.

“Sakura—“ he began to talk but she shushed him sharply, forcing him back against the wall as she examined his injury. It seemed like a lightning based attack had pierced through him. The flesh was raw and irritated, threatening infection, the surrounding area charred and blackened.

Upon closer inspection, Sakura startled back to stare at him with wide eyes. “Did you... is this Chidori?”

Kakashi’s breath was growing more ragged, his teeth shattering quietly behind his mask, his eyes screwed tightly shut. He didn’t seem to be capable of answering her yet.

Sakura rushed to the metal cabinet by the stretcher, grabbing a few rolls of gauze, cotton pads and a needle and thread. She dumped them on the tray next to Kakashi and grabbed the woollen blanket she kept for when she slept in her office and wrapped it around his shoulders.

She went through the standard procedure of cleaning and disinfecting bleeding wounds, healing all internal damage as she went and then after a shot of local anaesthetic got to stitching the surface wound. Stimulating his cells to heal anymore would tax his immune system and he didn’t need that right now.

“I was trying to block an attack aimed for Mirai.” He grunted as she poked at the edges of his injury. Sakura’s eyes snapped up to meet his half-lidded ones. “Didn’t expect-- bastard to have a teammate.” He let out a sharp breath through his nose as he shifted to take the weight off his left side and continued, “Hit me in the elbow-- ended up… stabbing myself-- fuck.”

He inhaled deeply every few words, and then finally grit out a pained cuss, reaching for his no-doubt throbbing side. Sakura slapped his hand away.

“Hey, don’t touch that yet.” She growled at him as she began dressing his wound. Internally she was fuming but her hands were steady as she worked, years of practice forcing them to be nothing short of perfect.

“What were you thinking? Going with just Konohamaru and Mirai? You’re smarter than this Kakashi!” Sakura gritted out angrily, unable to hold her tongue. He might be her Hokage but first and foremost he was her best friend and teammate. “I trust you to make the smart decisions, how could you do something so stupid?”

He gave a noncommittal grunt that set her blood boiling beneath the surface. She stewed in silence as she worked, and nearly startled again when the lights abruptly went out, leaving the room a mass of darkness amidst a storm.

The ceiling to floor windows barely let in any lights, the moon absent tonight, concealed by angry grey clouds and heavy raindrops.

She met Kakashi’s eyes in the darkness and huffed in frustration as she leaned even closer to him to wrap the bandage around his back, her hands fluttering blindly over taut, dripping skin. She ignored the way her heart fluttered at the feeling of his breath at her temple. “Unbelievable. Seems like we’ll be here all night.”

“I’m sorry.” He apologised with a pained hitch in his breath, the statement sounding much more intimate whispered into her ear. “It was supposed to be a quick meeting with the Mizukage. An in and out thing. And they’re our allies.”

Sakura sighed, slightly mellowed out at the feeling of him so close to her. “We’re team 7 what were you expecting?”

When she leaned back to try to gauge his expression, her breath caught quietly in her throat as she found their faces much closer than she’d anticipated, his breath ghosting lightly over her cheek.

Sakura’s body momentarily froze, her widened eyes locking with his sleepy ones.

“I don’t know.” He finally muttered, his hand coming up to sweep stray water droplets off her brow, the motion leaving a tingling trail across her forehead. He was still dripping all over. “I’m sorry.”

Feeling a strange lump forming in her throat at the softness of his voice, Sakura reached to caress his cheek in an apology of her own. “Get some rest.”

She helped him lie back on the stretcher and properly covered him with the blanket, matting his hair back and tugging his mask down as she wiped his face dry with a hand towel.

The ghost of a smile twitched his lips as she tapped it over his chin and over the lean muscles of his neck and then finally over each eye, dapping the water droplets away with deliberate gentleness. “You’re an impossible man, did I ever tell you?” She murmured when his breath evened and she thought he might be asleep.

“Couple times,” he responded after a beat of silence, the words coming out as a faint hum than solid syllables, and Sakura huffed quietly at the swarm of butterflies that flooded her stomach.

“Good night, Kakashi.” She responded with an embarrassed smile and turned to the couch to arrange her sleeping place for the night.

//

Sakura wasn’t sure what had woken her up exactly, she couldn’t have been asleep for more than a few hours. She’d been cold, curled up against the back of the couch trying to capture some warmth and then she was warm and cosy and almost half-way asleep again.

She opened her eyes to discover that the blanket she’d previously given Kakashi was draped over her form, tucked in at the sides and Kakashi himself was sat at the edge of her desk, a cup of something warm in his hand.

No wonder I didn’t wake up— Kakashi’s presence and touch had always been incredibly light, and with the how comfortable and safe she’d always felt around the familiar crackling of his chakra thumping just beneath his skin, she’d sensed no alarm, no intrusion for her ninja reflexes to kick in and wake her up.

The skies outside flashed a blinding blue, momentarily lighting up his profile and turning his hair into a bright white, like a beacon of light in the darkness and Sakura lost all the breath in her lungs.

He seemed to have found a shirt somewhere, a white cotton tee, perhaps a size or two too small for him for it stretched taut over the muscles of his back like a second skin. It looked too thin for the cool air in the room, and she shivered for him as she slowly sat up, her blanket pooling around her.

Perhaps he was too lost in thought because he didn’t so much as stir as she padded softly across the carpet covered floors and draped the blanket in her hold over his shoulders.

He startled slightly, his head snapping in her direction. Their eyes met in the dimness and Sakura smiled, “Hey.”

“Hey.” He responded, equally quietly, as she joined him at the edge of the desk, scooting back into a slightly more comfortable position.

“Is everything alright?” She ventured after a beat of silence, watching the way lightning splashed his form with shadows, painting patterns across his pale skin. She’d always associated him with lightning, it was his element, and as terrifying as it was when it chirped like a thousand birds and engulfed his hands with death, she thought it made him beautiful now when it engulfed him with a cocoon of light.

His eyes traced over the skies outside, dragging his gaze from the windows and over to her so that their eyes met again. She waited, wanting to look away from his intense depths of charcoal but finding herself unable to. He was at once as loud as a storm and as quiet as the night. “The last time I assigned a simple mission to a large group of people, they were ambushed and three of them died. First I thought, there’s safety in numbers, lesser chances of things going wrong. Instead, it got them noticed and tracked by a group of missing nins.”

Kakashi without his mask was a myriad of emotions but as she’d long since learned to read his eyes and she found herself almost drowning in the regret swimming there. She looked away first, her chest tight. Sakura knew the exact mission Kakashi spoke of, she’d treated the three other survivors. They were but recently promoted chunnin and she understood how this weighed on Kakashi.

“You couldn’t have known.” She told him, finally, and let silence overtake them.

She understood all too well the kind of emotional baggage that came with losing those in her care, losing patient much like losing soldiers. And it was because of that that she didn’t attempt to console him with false words. Kakashi needed to deal with those matters by himself, that sort of acceptance only born out of one’s self.

Instead, she said what’s been on her mind for hours. “I’m sorry about earlier.”

“No it was an idiotic move, you were within your right to be angry.” He responded rather blankly.

She soldiered through the protective wall that wanted her to keep her emotions and thoughts a secret and fought to keep her embarrassment at bay as she exposed to him more of her honest thoughts. “I had a feeling— the ones you get in your gut, the ones that you said save your life.”

For a moment words failed her, her shoulders tensing with both frustration and crippling awkwardness. Why couldn’t she just fucking say it?

“That I’d get hurt…?” He queried when she didn’t attempt to finish her thought track and instead stared unseeingly at her hands clenched tightly in her lap.

“Yes.” She confirmed after another heavy moment of silence, regaining use of her vocal chords and with it some of her courage. “I get… unreasonably anxious… when you’re away sometimes. And that always coincides with you ending up in this hospital’s care.”

Sakura wondered if her heartbeat sounded as loud to him as it did in her ears, if he, too, could acutely hear its anxious pulsing behind her sternum. She didn’t know what she expected his reaction to be to her confession when she glanced up at him out of the corner of the eye, but it certainly wasn’t the small smile playing at the corner of his mouth. He seemed unreasonably pleased, almost victorious or like how she’d expect someone to look flushed and silently triumphant out of battle.

Her eyebrows rose, her embarrassment easily overshadowed by curiosity as he turned to meet her eyes, his strangely alight with something secret. “A feeling? Are you saying… like we’re soulmates?”

Sakura’s jaw dropped, stunned with his reasoning before embarrassment replaced shock and she found herself, a twenty-five-year-old woman, stammering like a teenager. “N-no! What? I didn’t—!”

Kakashi let his head fall back and laughed heartily, and openly and she cursed the way the sound made warmth fill every cold crack in her soul. The sound was pleasant and amused but not cruelly so, “I’m just teasing you, Sakura.” He chuckled, and she wasn’t sure then which emotion was more overpowering, the need to throttle him or the almost all-compassing want to close the distance between them— perhaps both were of equal conviction.

The tug of war between those two emotions rendered her frozen like a gaping fish out of water, unable to recover or retaliate until his chuckles seized and he turned to watch her with a strange warm look in his eyes.

“You know I’ll always come back.” to you went unsaid but was somehow silently implied by the heaviness of his gaze on her and Sakura found her heart heavy in her chest, like it wanted to burst because it didn’t know how to deal with her emotions anymore.

As ninja, they’d been taught since day one how to suppress emotions, how to control them and how to filter them out so that it never impaired their judgement. And Sakura, for all her honesty and the way she wore her heart on her sleeve, she, too, had learned those lessons. She thought she’d mastered them– but now she felt like the dam of feelings she’d kept locked tight behind an iron wall was bound to suffocate her.

He looked away from her then, and she cursed whatever compelled her to lean forward and press a kiss to his cheek— probably a stupid impulse for Kakahi’s head chose to tilt her way in that instant and the corners of their mouth met in a small, brief kiss.

Sakura startled, froze, and then pulled away from him with a hitching breath, her heart in her throat. “I– um–” heat flooded her cheeks, and panic threatened to take over her but she couldn’t take her eyes off him and the pink burning at the tips of his ears.

He recovered first, his widened eyes closing into sheepish crescents, although a small blush clung to his cheeks. “Maa, Sakura-chan just because you’re a pretty young woman that could get away with it, it doesn’t mean you should take advantage of you poor, unsuspecting patients.”

Sakura stared at him for the second time that hour, floored, her panic thoroughly squashed to be replaced by disbelief. “Wha—?! But I— I didn’t mean to— I wasn’t—!”

Kakashi grinned, with that same flushed look of victory, like he was aware of the fact that she hadn’t meant to kiss him but was pleased with it either way. Sakura, on the other hand, was still resisting the impulse to reach and touch her lips where they kissed. Almost as if she could trap the butterfly like sensation he left fluttering there.

“Impossible man.” She grumbled as she grasped tightly at the edge of the table and looked ahead at the still raging storm, now trying to resist a smile.

She’d always felt this invisible, electric thing hanging between them, like they were opposing forces helplessly tugging at each other, the closer they got the harder the tug became. She thought she was the only one who’d felt it, but in this second, as she glanced at him out of the corner of her eye and watched the way his hand would inch closer to hers only to draw back, she thought he might feel it too.

So Sakura took in a quick, shallow breath, and before she could lose her courage, reached over and grasped his hand in her own. She didn’t dare look at him, no she wasn’t that brave, but this time she didn’t resist her smile when she felt his hand close firmly around hers, his calloused palm circling the soft skin at the back of her hand with deliberate gentleness.

Together, they watched the storm outside.

Note: I’m still going through writer’s block and this took an embarrassingly long time to be written. I hope you like it though.

[yulon]

The Wrath of Sabellian (pt. 42)

Book Three: Trial of the Black King

The group tries to escape the new threats at Blackrock, but others have already given up hope.

“What is this place you’re taking us to?”

“An old place,” Gravel said. “Lord Nefarian hated its presence. Not many go down here.”

Ebonhorn frowned. If Nefarian had disliked it, then it could be a sign of purity, or lack of corruption. But could there be darker things the dragon - his brother - even shied away from? He watched Gravel’s back, pockmarked with dozens of pits and scars and burns, and wondered as to the dragonkin’s motivations. Powerful blood. And yet. His mind lingered to Samia.

“Who knows of this place?”

“Not many,” Gravel said. “It is mostly a forgotten realm. A deep place.”

Deep indeed; he did not have to be told that. He’d noticed the gentle slope of each path they had taken since fleeing the antechamber. The air grew hotter, heavier with the smell of old earth and metal, an iron-blood scent stuck in the nose. A good scent, to be sure, but all the same he could not shake the wariness from his shoulders. He could be led into a trap, down into these dark halls, and no one would be the wiser when he disappeared beyond the next slope… and now that all the rest had turned, who could he trust?

But Gravel still had Sabellian in their arms, and though they could reach down, easy as picking an apple, and snap his neck with one of their great clawed hands, they did not. It was as if they didn’t notice the dragon they were holding: their eyes swept back in forth in lazy, but intent glances as they led the way to this forgotten realm.

At least it felt nice to trust someone now, when it felt, for the first time, the earth around him exuded evil. A thousand watching eyes.

He glanced down at his brother. Sabellian hadn’t woken, let alone moved. It was almost a blessing; what could they expect when he did wake? The pendant had been glowing and hissing like hot metal in water since they had clasped it back on the dragon’s neck, and he could only hope they had stopped it in time. He did not want to fight another family member - and already wounded, no less. Already they had to stop so he could wrap his tail. The spike had ripped a tear through the flesh, but it had ripped cleanly, at least: no jagged pieces of meat or gristle clung to his hands as he pulled the bandages around it.

It would leave a divot once healed. A small price for such consequences. At least his other wounds had already begun to scab over, though the slash across his brow itched like fire.

Gravel stopped. How long they had been walking, he couldn’t say. Hours?

The path they’d been following ended before them in a pitch of darkness. The earth hunched close to them on all sides - so much so the dragonkin had to duck, and even then Ebonhorn was pressed for space. The cavern was quiet and still and black.

“Careful,” Gravel said. “Heave back on your feet, master.”

For a terrible moment, he thought Gravel spoke to someone in the darkness. But no - master. Such was his title, and all because of his blood. Discomforted, the only thing he could think to do was nod.

The dragonkin grunted as he shifted his weight back onto his heels. He started down into the darkness - the pitch of darkness which was a sudden and steep incline. Ebonhorn pinned his ears back and hurried to look down as the dragonkin disappeared from view below the ground.

He peered down. Earthmother! The incline was a near vertical angle. Gravel was almost halfway down; the dragonkin’s paws dug into the earth, and one shoulder lay pressed against the side for extra stability. Each step was a torture to watch, as he was sure the oversized creature could topple at any moment, and Sabellian with them.

“You’re certain this is a safe way?” His voice carried down the incline. Distant blue light sighed into vague, glowing swirls deep at the end of the tunnel before disappearing. Cave mushrooms?

“Yes,” Gravel said, their voice already far away, and then they disappeared into the dark, from where the lights had come.

Ebonhorn sighed. At least the chokehold would bar any surprise attack from the outside. He rubbed the cut on his forehead. Scab crumbled away at his touch. He smeared some blood across his nose.

Alright.

He planted his hooves firmly on the ground and descended.

At once, he realized his size was both a blessing and a curse for the tunnel. Gravity pulled down at him hard and heavy, but blessedly his broad shoulders pressed up against the walls of the tunnel as Gravel’s had, giving him stability for the decline. All the same he was careful, eyes fixed on the ground as he picked his way down.

Thank An’she he could see in the dark.

At last he made it to the end of the incline. He braced himself at the edge, hands firmly planted on the side of the walls, and stuck his head, warily, out of the new opening.

The tunnel leveled out and spread into the dark. The glow he’d seen before emanated from the center of what he sensed was a giant antechamber, though smaller than than the one they had fled. His eyes adjusted with a couple of blinks.

“Ah,” he rumbled. He could see at once the lack of allure from Nefarian.

It was a cave lake. Stalagmites and stalactites grew in sweeping ripples along the ceiling and floor. The height of the ceiling dipped up and down, as if a great breeze had come swirling in and shaped the place with its bumps and swirls. In some places, even a human would be hardpressed to stand; in others, Ebonhorn could spread his wings in his true form.

Many of the spikes had been worn away or cut or toppled, and in some areas there lay swathes of free ground to walk and sit without things to trip and stumble on. There seemed to be no end to the chamber that he could see.

And the lake… yes, the glow. No cave mushrooms: algae. It grew near the shore, a pale, ghostly blue, and lit and glowed in quiet, subtle movements as Gravel sat Sabellian down nearby.

It was cool here. The water could have run from the more fertile lands to the east, collecting for miles in an underwater river until it fell here in this still, quiet place. He could have been in one of the underground lakes in Highmountain if he hadn’t known what lingered above.

“This is beautiful,” he said.

Gravel blinked. He’d set Sabellian against one of the broken stalagmites; the dragon’s head lolled against his shoulder.

“Hmm,” they said, and turned to sit on a nearby boulder.

Ebonhorn took one last look around. Thank you, he called out to Azeroth, and with a renewed freshness in his stride, made his way to his brother.

The dragon’s face was still pale, his face still slack. Ebonhorn felt at his forehead. Hot, at least. He glanced back at the entrance. The light from the lake was gentle, but in the blackness from before, might have well have been a beacon to the outside. If he hadn’t just come from the tunnel, he would have worried it would attract attention.

But they were safe. For now.

He rose, knees aching. Yes, for now. But then what awaits us? Those controlling Samia and the others would not be pleased to be out-maneuvered. They would hunt them down, and there was Gravel to consider. He wanted badly to trust the dragonkin - and yet.

He ghosted his fingers over his side: the place where the obsidian shard had nearly sliced through his body. Furywing. She had distracted Samia for them - for forgiveness - Outland. A story he did not know, but a story he might not ever get. She’d been taken too.

And Wrathion -

He cringed, pinned his ears back so hard it strained the cut on his forehead. Samia had said she’d spoken to him before she’d found them. A bluff? Or had she taken care of him too?

“Gravel. Do you have any allies… like you?”

Their second eye-lid slid over their eyes. “Could be,” they said, and unsheathed the axe from their back. They pulled a polishing rock from a bag at their side and began to make slow, practiced circles along the edge.

“If we can have them look for Wrathion - if you could contact them -”

“I can try,” they said, in the same blank, distant voice they’d used since meeting them.

Ebonhorn nodded his thanks and turned away. The question haunting him before pulsed in his forehead as he took a seat to rewrap his tail.

What awaits us now?

---

Fuck. Shit.

Left struggled against her bindings. Fuck! It’d been too long! She should have gotten free by now.

She growled and glanced at the wall separating her from Wrathion.

Samia had left; she knew that much. The dragon’s voice had stopped, and so had Wrathion’s. Left didn’t like that. He wasn’t dead, no - the bloodgem connection was still there, albeit broken, like something had taken one of its antennas and corkscrewed it into a new direction.

Ugh! This would have never happened if that idiot dragon had allowed them to make a damn perimeter. Some kind of added protection. But no. Of course not. Why in the world would they do anything smart down here?

The orc dug her fingers against the rock and pushed. The hold had been much tighter before, so tight she couldn’t breathe, but it’d loosened when Samia had gone. Loosened, but not entirely. The shatter-marks she’d spotted on the side were turning out to be the greatest points of weakness, and thankfully she’d been pinned to the wall with her legs still able to touch the ground, giving her added leverage.

She bent her knees and placed her soles flat against the wall, then pushed, snarling. The shatter-marks spread. Slowly. Too slowly. How long had it been? She roared and pushed. Her legs burned.

The rock groaned. Bits of it fell from the cracks.

Again she roared and slammed her chest forward with all her strength, springboarded her heels against the wall with every ounce she had left in her.

The rock gave way. It exploded from the wall, and her along with it, her momentum taking her face-first into the floor.

She allowed herself a breath before she sprung up and hurried to the slab where Wrathion lay trapped behind.

“Wrathion!” she called. “I’m free. Are you injured?”

No answer. She scowled and pulled away. She looked around, searching for any shatter-marks. Dirt and crust covered the slab, but no marks to expose.

It was impossible to get inside unless she started digging around, and she had no tools or explosives for that.

Though she did have some things - some things a rogue would be stupid not to have on their person at all time. She rifled through her bag, eyes fixed on the slab, relying on touch alone to make sure she had the elixir. Yes - there. The long, cold one. She eyed the rock.

Yes, it would work. But she needed more than just one person to break it open. They’d left a handle of minor agents in various chambers, but she had no way of contacting them now that the bloodgem connection had been broken. As commander, she’d be able to spot them amongst the shadows, but it meant leaving Wrathion and going to search for them in territory crawling with enemies.

She didn’t have much choice.

“I’ll be right back,” she called. “I need to get back-up.”

Again, no one answered. She hissed and smacked her palm on the rock before she turned and sprinted from the cave.

Stupid. Stupid. Her chest ached with each step. This shouldn’t have happened. He should have let me die.

What had he been thinking? Letting Serinar go just so she could live? It’d been a green mistake to allow Wrathion get farther ahead of her so Samia could separate them, and she should have paid for it with her life. That was the rogue’s life. You messed up, and you died. Especially if you were a rogue who had pledged your life to protect someone, and that someone should have let you die rather than unleash a terrible enemy upon them.

She wiped dirt and sweat from her brow. They could talk about that later. Deal with it later. Now, she needed to focus on making sure there was a later.

Left slowed as she approached the antechamber. Shadows had long since surrounded her as she’d run, and she was just another flickering piece of darkness in the caves.

She peered out. Empty.

But not of clues. New marks gouged along the ground. Pits of earth were missing. Rock walls lay shattered. And blood. Lots of it, and fresh.

Sabellian and Seldarria? She edged forward. No smell of death, just blood and earth and fire. A quick glance gave nothing else away.

This did not bode well.

Left moved into the chamber. No ripples showed in the shadows: no Blacktalons. She cursed to herself and looked again, then again, then again.

Nothing.

Damn all this. Killed? Fled to safety? Went to find help outside the mountain?

Voices. Distant.

Left swept up against the wall and blended in with the darkness.

“Where did they go?” Samia. Left’s skin prickled. Forms shifted in the cave across from her. It was too dark even for her to make them out, though they were big enough to be dragons. Two of them.

“I didn’t see.” The other dragon, quieter, huskier. Furywing, the dragon with the odd markings on her wings.

“Seldarria won’t be of help for a while,” Samia said.

Sabellian’s doing?

“Just find the Dragonkin. We can’t afford to lose a lot of them.” Samia sounded distant now, and Furywing so much so that Left could not understand her reply.

The forms disappeared deeper into the cave. Left waited for a beat. She pulled back from the wall when she was sure she was alone.

Interesting, but nothing that could help her.

What would help her were the Agents. The elixir would erode enough of the slab, but -

Something grumbled up behind her.

Left swung around and aimed her crossbow.

At a bear.

She huffed. Misha. She lowered the point of her weapon, but kept it cocked. The feather of the arrow brushed against her arm.

“You’re alone,” she said, quiet, very quiet. She squinted past the bear. “Where is your master?”

Rexxar. Hero of the Horde. And apparent friend to the lizard who’d murdered Right and multiple other loyal Agents. It’d lowered her opinions on him, though all for the better; orcish hero worship wasn’t very practical to a rogue.

Misha moved back and lumbered away into the cavern nearby.

She hesitated for a moment before following. She kept her crossbow high and aimed.

Misha was already halfway down the cavern. Left followed. The tunnel was cramped, far smaller than any of the others she had navigated in the time she’d had. Not enough time. All of this had moved too fast. Fast even for her and her team. Probably dead, them.

They moved into an area where the rock swelled out, giving enough room to breathe and move, though not by much. Misha gave a sigh - relief? an odd animal she was - and moved around the curve: a cave, she realized, hollowed against the wall.

Rexxar was waiting for her.

The half-orc sat against the wall as he sharpened one of his axes. He didn’t look up.

“What happened out there?” Left asked. She lowered her crossbow at last. Rexxar wasn’t an enemy - not really - and he gave no warnings as to ill intent.

The beast-master glanced at Misha. He swung his axe along his back and stood.

“Samia and Ebonhorn,” he said. His voice was heavy, a dull grind. “He got away. With the Baron.”

Left blew out a rush of air. “My Agents?”

“I don’t know.”

“Fine. Then come with me. I need your help.”

Rexxar studied her. It was hard to read his expressions when he had his mask on. It was usually an easy thing to read someone’s intentions in their eyes, but she wasn’t afforded such a thing with him.

“Alright,” he said gruffly. “Lead the way.”

She hurried back the way she had come. Rexxar followed, footsteps heavier than hers but somehow, just as quiet. Good. If Samia or the others came back, she didn’t want to deal with a beacon of attention.

“You didn’t ask me what I need help with,” she threw back as she crept up to the exit of the cavern mouth.

“It’s the boy.”

She frowned and glanced at him. Ancestors, he was tall. She was tall, but the half-orc … standing so close to him, she could remember what other half he was made of. “How did you know that?”

He wasn’t looking at her: his eyes were trained on the antechamber, same as hers had been a beat before. Misha trudged up next to him and nudged his hand.

If Rexxar made little noise, Misha made none at all.

“You never leave his side. If you need help, it must be for him.”

Well. At least someone else down here had some sort of logic. If only his “friend” had had that too.

Misha growled softly. Then Left saw them: Dragonkin. They were the centaur-like creatures, and only three. They said no words she could understand, just hisses and growls that followed them as they passed by.

They hadn’t been noticed.

The party didn’t move until the dragonkin disappeared into one of the tunnels. Left inched forward.

“Hold,” Rexxar said. Misha walked past them to take the lead. She pointed her nose up.

The beast-master nodded toward her, and Left, with a small sigh, went after the bear.

“You put a lot of trust into beasts.”

“So do you.”

“What?”

“The whelp.”

“He isn’t a beast.”

Rexxar shrugged. Left eyed him.

“I mean no slight,” the Beast-master said. He moved his head a little as they passed the blood-stains. A muscle in his neck tightened. “I only wondered about you.”

“Me.” Left kept the conversation at the back of her head as they made their way back to the entrance of the path leading to Wrathion. Some dirt at the front was disturbed.

“How an orc could come to be a bodyguard for a black dragon.”

“I was looking for work. He hired me.” She waved Misha inside the path. Their quiet march began again. Those dragonkin looked to be on patrol. She recalled all of them in the higher recesses of the mountain. Bad numbers for them. Bad. “Does this matter? Why are you asking?”

A shrug. “Don’t see much orcs working outside the Horde.”

Her skin prickled. “There’s more to being an orc than being a part of the Horde.” She tried not to look back at him. “I think that you of all people would understand.”

“Again, I mean no slight. Sabellian says I am blunt, sometimes. I only share what I see.”

She couldn’t help but look back at him, then, at his mask. How could he see anything behind that? “The Horde doesn’t have anything to offer me,” she said, and looked away to pick a quiet route around a path of gravel.

“No. They haven’t for me, either.” A pause. “And this new Horde the least of all.”

Left grunted. “Just another Horde. And this one will come and go until the next warchief leads the orcs into more violence. And more will die.” She soured. “Lok’tar ogar means nothing if there’s no one left to celebrate the victory.”

Rexxar made a low noise. In agreement?

“We do have some things in common,” he said. “I wondered.”

“You helped make the Horde,” she shot back at him. She was getting distracted; she hadn’t thought he’d bring something like this up. Something she never brought up. Ancestors, half of the reason she’d signed onto Wrathion’s work at first was because he asked no questions. And here was the Champion of the Horde, someone she’d idolized as a child and who she’d always thought to be - “I always thought you were a warmonger like the rest.” Someone who iconized the Horde’s bloodlust, the bloodlust and needless death she’d grown distasteful of in her younger years.

“I fight to protect. Not for the blood.”

No: maybe no orcish icon.

“And now we fight for dragons.”

Rexxar chuckled. “Well, we fight to protect friends, too. Even those with scales - like beasts.”

“I don’t think you should call them beasts in front of their faces.”

“No, maybe not.”

Rexxar stopped. He held a hand out the same moment Left did. They glanced at one another. A nod forward told her enough: they’d both sensed movement ahead.

Rexxar unsheathed his bow. Left melded back into the darkness. She crept forward, down the hall, along the curve.

Two dragonkin stood admiring the slab where Wrathion lay trapped behind. They were speaking in low, gurgling hisses: draconic, but in an accent unknown to her, all scratchy and slurring.

Guards? It didn’t matter. Left slid behind one, took out her dagger, and neatly slit its throat.

It gurgled, its eyes bulging. Blood spurted from its neck. It grabbed at it, scrabbling with its claws.

Then it slid back and fell on its face.

The companion roared and scuttled back. It blindly swung around. Left jerked back from its sword.

The dragonkin stiffened. It gave a grunt, and collapsed. An arrow shaft stuck from its back, so deep the point stuck out from the chest.

Rexxar stalked into the room and swung his bow back along his shoulders. His eyes were already fixed on the slab. Behind him, Misha lumbered forward and sniffed at the corpses.

“Difficult,” the Beastmaster said, “but doable.” He whistled. Misha trotted forward, the dead forgotten.

Left join them. She swept her hand along the slab - smooth - and rifled through her bag again. Yes, there it was, at the crease along the bottom. She pulled it out and held it aloft; a thin piece of glass, cold along her fingertips, filled with chill-blue.

“Stand back,” she said, and just as he moved out of the way, she threw the vial at the rock.

It shattered. The liquid splattered along the rock and ground. It hissed and smoked. The smell of sulfur sprang up among them, rich and thick and cloying in the throat and noise. She pushed her wrist up against her face.

The slab groaned, deep in its core. Acrid smoke fumed.

Misha sneezed.

When Left waved away the smoke with her free hand, she was pleased to see the toxin had done its job: a scar lay in a blood splatter-like pattern, large and pale. It’d eaten away almost half a foot deep.

She ran a hand over the rock. Dry. Left dropped her hand from her mouth, turned, and smashed her shoulder against it.

A little more give. But not enough.

Without waiting to be asked, Rexxar was there, next to her. A grunt to her other side, and yes, there was Misha, too, up on her two legs and two massive paws placed steady on the slab.

The two orcs locked eyes and nodded. They braced their shoulders against the rock.

The rock stood little chance this time. It cracked and groaned as they smashed the might of their weight against it. Pebbles fell on her. The slab chu-shunked around them.

A rush of air - and the rock at last gave way. Left stumbled back as it collapsed inward with a crash which rattled her knees.

Black, choking air rushed out.

She tripped back and hurried to cover her face. It went screaming past her, oil against her skin, and was gone, fast as it had come. She could breathe.

“Cursed,” Rexxar muttered. Misha made a low noise in the back of her throat.

She didn’t care. No, she cared, but not for her, for -

“Wrathion?” She rushed inside, fast as the smoke. “My Prince?”

There - on the wall. Wrathion lay pinned to it, torso cocooned with clay, similar to how she had been trapped. His head hung to his chest.

She cursed and hurried toward him. Soon as a snap she was scrabbling at the rock. It stuck to her hands like putty, despite looking like solid rock.

But she could at least pull it away easily. She grabbed fistfuls of it and tore it away like great rolls of gnomish taffy.

No - taffy was too jovial a word.

Mold. It was like mold. The rock had molded, and the unnaturalness of it, and the smell - a smell she could only describe as the scent of dread - set her even more in a frenzy to get Wrathion out of it.

At last she dug enough out, and Wrathion toppled from the wall. She caught him. He was pale-cold in her arms, and his breathing came in gulps.

Again, Rexxar was there. He extended his arms. She heaved Wrathion in his hold; he might have well have been a dwarf in comparison.

An absurd thought. She put her ear to his chest.

Thunk thunk.

Even, healthy. She pulled away and grabbed at his face. Cold, drawn. She shook him lightly.

“Wrathion.”

Nothing. Misha sniffed his hand, hanging down, and licked it. Nothing. Left slapped him lightly. Nothing.

“We were just talking about your penchant for bad luck,” she said to him as she shuffled again through her pouch.

Oh, that would do.

She pulled out a thumb-sized bottle and popped off the cork. She pushed it under Wrathion’s nose.

He jerked up with a gasp and dug in his nails into Rexxar’s skin. The half-orc didn’t flinch. He glanced at Left with wild, flickering eyes.

“What - Left - I - what was that?”

He couldn’t focus his gaze on her: he glanced back and forth, around. Not blindly, but as if there zipped bugs she couldn’t see.

She put away the vial and tried to get the dragon’s attention with a quick wave of her hand.

“Wrathion. Sir. You’re safe.”

His fixed his gaze on her.

“Left,” he breathed, “is this real?”

Left opened her mouth, but a roar, distant, interrupted her. All three looked up.

They didn’t have time to center him from whatever darkness Samia had inflicted - though she had some ideas what. She looked up at Rexxar. “Can you track Ebonhorn? They had to hide somewhere.”

The half-orc nodded. He lowered Wrathion to his feet, but as the ex-Prince’s boots hit the ground, he transformed into a whelp. He slipped up to crouch on Left’s shoulders and hooked his claws into her leather.

“Go. Anywhere but this cave!” he hissed against her ear.

“We can escape the mountain, sir.”

A long, tantalized pause. Then he shook his head. “I am not going to run away.”

Another roar, closer.

“I think they know I escaped,” Wrathion weakly supplied.

“This way,” Rexxar said, and led them into the dark.

---

Dark. So dark.

This didn’t feel like death. And he was sure death wouldn’t allow him to think. He almost wished he was dead. Such a thoughtless rest would be welcome after … after…

After…

He struggled to remember. Blackness, laughter, and then a terrible light, but a scorching light, a driving light. It’d saved him. But Titans, it’d taken a lot from him.

He reached out tentatively, but did not see his own hand before him. It was not like he was in the dark, he realized. Just a kind of voice.

“Samia,” he croaked. His heart sank. Vaxian, Pyria. Talsian…

Light flickered around him. Familiar to him, but wary, as it had felt before in dreams.

It was warm, and cold, and - everything. Indescribable.

“No,” he groaned, his voice raw, cracking. “No. Don’t help me. Help them. My children. Not me!”

Melancholy surrounded him. Visions of dark jungles flickered in his mind’s eye.

“You could have saved them,” he snarled weakly. “Why did you save me?”

The images of vines blocking the way hovered again.

He struck out in anger. His hand collided with something.

The world collapsed around him. Solid ground - behind him. Clear, cool air on his face.

A form pushed away from him, grunting in pain. Sabellian jerked up. Sitting. He was sitting.

Along a lake?

Ebonhorn backed away, rubbing his nose - but when he looked down at him, his ears perked up.

“Sabellian. Thank the Earthmother you -”

“Samia? Where’s Samia? Where are we?”

The pendant. He scrabbled for it at his neck. There. Hot against his palm. It hummed.

“Samia… she’s still in the mountain, as far as I know.” The tauren’s eyes said everything else. So did his wounds, not quite healed.

Sabellian leaned against the back of his hands. Mind blank.

“Where did you take me?” His voice sounded dead and istant. The edges of his vision grew hazy, as if it were unraveling, as if someone had found the string of his last thread of patience and was pulling it, unraveling the world around him with alarming speed. But he couldn’t find it in him to care.

“An ancient place,” Ebonhorn said. “Deeper in the mountain, far below.” He tried to catch Sabellian’s eye. “Are you… well? The pendant was not gone from you for long. And yet…”

Sabellian brushed his fingertips over the pendant. He kept his eyes fixed on the lake.

“I’m fine,” he said. “Your Earthmother saved me.”

Ebonhorn stiffened, straightened up. “What?”

It doesn’t matter. He stood. “She should have saved Samia,” he said hoarsely. “The others.” He walked past the tauren. “Leave me.”

He stopped at the edge of the lake, a blink away from the water. Everything lay gray and dull before him, a waxy slackness to it, a false image of the real thing. He felt like he could reach out and pull away everything like wet paint on canvas, and he would be in the void again. It would have been preferable to this.

He felt so old.

Movement shifted behind him. Ebonhorn, still lingering. “Sabellian. There’s still much we can do. Our family -”

“Is lost,” he said. “As it always has been.” He glanced back at the tauren, then looked away. “Leave me.”

A pause -- and crunching of hooves a beat later, heading back up to the recesses of the cavern.

Sabellian sat; he no longer had the energy to stand.

He bent his face into his hand and wept.

---

“Down there?” Wrathion peeked down the passage. It was so steep it might as well have been a drop. The other side was shrouded in darkness.

Rexxar nodded. “The tracks lead down here, and Misha’s nose is never wrong.”

Wrathion grumbled. Left glanced at him. The bloodgems hadn’t worked since Samia’s interference, but he still understood her glances and quiet noises. He sighed and nodded at her. What other choice did they have?

“Send your bear first,” Left said.

Rexxar shrugged and whistled. Misha trotted up. She glanced down at the passage and sighed. The half-orc gave her a pat, and only then did she start descending.

She quickly disappeared down the slope.

A pause.

A roar called back up the tunnel. A bear’s roar. Rexxar looked down at them.

“It’s safe.”

“Do you speak bear?” he asked before thinking. He didn’t feel right, yet, after the cave.

The cave. He couldn’t think about that. He hadn’t been there long… or had he? Time had moved fast, slow; it hadn’t moved at all.

And the blackness. The darkness, the cloying corruption. It’d seeped inside, cutting him off further and further from the outside, from the earth, from his very thoughts - all that had made him him. To describe it was to describe a slow death.

If Left had been too slow -

He shuddered and pushed such thoughts away.

Rexxar blinked at him. “Yes,” he said, then turned and began down the passage.

It took some time for them to get down - mostly because Rexxar had trouble getting through the squat tunnel, whose sides were as thin as the Beastmaster’s shoulders were wide.

When they all got down, someone was waiting for them.

“Gravel?” Wrathion snaked to perch on Left’s other shoulder.

The dragonkin blinked at him. They were standing next to the entrance, and set down the axe in their hands.

“Hello.”

The cavern certainly was a change of scenery. Relief sank like a rock into his belly. It was water, and light, and glowing, and arid. If they had to be in another cave of darkness -

He loathed this. So little time in this mountain, and he was already shying away from what had always comforted him: the earth.

Oh! There was Ebonhorn, coming toward them. And there was Sabellian, sitting on the shore of the lake, still as slate.

“Wrathion!” Ebonhorn smiled at him. “Praise the Earthmother. I’m glad you were able to find us.”

“What happened to you?” He glanced at the gauze ‘round the tauren’s tail, at the cuts along his fur.

“Oh. Samia.” Ebonhorn cast a glance at Sabellian. Something in the look felt nervous. The other dragon hadn’t moved yet.

“Mmm. Yes, us, too, I’m afraid.”

“At least we’re still alive,” Ebonhorn said. He nodded to Gravel. “They led us here. I believe we can trust them.” The tauren met his eyes. But for how long?

Wrathion eyed the dragonkin.

“If you’re a Dragonkin, how can we trust you to be here? You might go mad like all the others,” Left butt in.

Gravel raised their axe and smashed the butt of it down on the stone.

“I follow the old blood,” they rumbled. “I am bound to those of Neltharion’s line.”

Interesting. This Gravel character felt different than the other Dragonkin. Some other creation Lord Victor Nefarius had left behind. A personal servant or guard? To be tied so tightly to the blood of Deathwing - hm. Interesting indeed.

“We’ll have to trust them for now,” Ebonhorn rumbled.

“Oh, yes, like we trusted Samia!” But his heart wasn’t in it, and he deflated against Left’s shoulder. “How bad of a situation are we in?”

Ebonhorn waved them away from the entrance and toward the shore.

“All the dragons have been corrupted,” the tauren said. He sighed. “And Sabellian discovered Seldarria was using something called… nether-energy on a clutch -”

“I knew it!”

Ebonhorn cocked his head. “She infused it in Vaxian to test it. It was why he was ill.”

That, unexpected. “And what does Sabellian think of all this?” He slid his eyes over to the elder dragon. He still hadn’t moved.

“He has not been taking it well,” the tauren rumbled. “But first: what happened with you?”

“Oh. Samia tried to get rid of me.” He flexed his claws. “As she apparently tried to get rid of you.”

“And Serinar has escaped for it,” Left said. Her voice was blunt but rounded with a blade, steel on stone. Wrathion winced. Was she angry with him? No, unlike her. But they hadn’t spoken about the deal Samia had pushed on him. Left for Serinar.

Ebonhorn frowned. “The dragon you captured? How?”

“I don’t know. Our Agents just contacted us.”

Wrathion managed to hide his surprise. Ebonhorn only nodded.

“It’s just another thorn,” the shaman said. He sighed and sat on a boulder. It looked to have once been a stalagmite whose spike had been sliced off. “The problem now is how to best pluck them from our hides.”

Again, he wandered his gaze to Sabellian. Distant as he was, he could make out his blank, unseeing stare.

“We should leave him be for now,” Ebonhorn said quietly.

“We should have him locked up somewhere,” Wrathion muttered. “If the others turned, he’s most certainly going to.” He shifted along Left’s shoulders. “If he goes mad, we might as well drown ourselves in the lake.”

Ebonhorn tilted his head. “The pendant he wears stalls the madness.”

“Pendant?”

“The one he wears. The crane.” He held his hand to his chest, as if he himself wore it there. “Samia tore it from him in the tunnels. I know little of our enemy, but I cannot think that they are pleased Sabellian walks free.”

Pendant? The one he had seen him wear last night?

Where could he get such a priceless artifact?

And why didn’t he share it with me?

“You seem surprised.”

“He didn’t tell me that,” Wrathion said, unable to keep the annoyance from his voice.

“I was told,” Rexxar said.

“Well no one asked you,” he snapped. He shook his wings out.

“At least it’s something we don’t need to worry over,” Ebonhorn hurried. “What we should worry over is what we are going to do bout the dragons upstairs.”

“They’ll come for us,” Left said. “I heard them planning to search.”

“Azeroth knew something was about to happen,” Wrathion said. He met Ebonhorn’s eyes. “Your vision.”

He nodded. “Has come true.”

Surrounded by enemies. It wasn’t something he was unused to.

But this… the darkness, the corruption of will - the things that had shaped his life before he’d hatched, what he’d tried to correct the moment he crawled from his egg -

It was not fear curdling in his belly.

It was anger.

“We have the soul of the world with us,” he said. “I will not run away. Whatever awaits us… our combined strength will force fate on our side.”

It felt so good to speak like this again. To speak with confidence. With righteousness

Ebonhorn stomped his hoof. The clang echoed through the lake; the water winked near the shore. “Yes. For whatever comes.”

But what can we do? What can we expect?

Wrathion knew how mortals worked; how he could pull strings to make people angry or happy at one another, how he could play alliances and rivalries against one another, how he could instill fear or courage. Such tactics… they felt rusty now, clinking like old gears in his mind. But the more they spun the more the rust came falling away.

No, he didn’t know what to do with this enemy. He didn’t know them upfront; had never seen the blackness of their eyes beyond the wrongness in Samia and Fahrad’s. These were ancient beings under his feet.

Am I mad to think so grandly?

Should they kill those corrupted, as he had before? No. Azeroth had expressed her displease of the Hammer, and the killing would not accomplish much in the end. And they were two to seven in terms of capable fighting dragons. Even if they had Blacktalons on their side, it wouldn’t be enough.

His eyes drifted to Sabellian.

Three spheres.

“I know,” Ebonhorn said. “She saved him after Samia took the pendant from his neck.”

Wrathion raised his eyebrows. For a moment he almost felt jealous. Azeroth was supposed to be his.

And yet…

“Let me speak with him,” Wrathion said. “Alone.”

---

Sabellian did not react as Wrathion approached him on the shore.

It was hard to read the dragon’s expression: he seemed to have no expression at all. His face was lax, his eyelids drooped, his lips a vague frown. He looked far away.

Wrathion took a seat close by. Not close enough to infringe on the dragon’s space, but close enough to create conversation.

They sat in silence. Every once in awhile the cavern would give a low, distant groan, ever-alive despite the stillness around him.

“I suppose you were right all along, boy.”

Sabellian didn’t move. He didn’t turn his head. If Wrathion hadn’t seen the dragon’s lips move he would have thought it his imagination.

“I usually am, in the end,” Wrathion said as he eyed his uncle warily. “What was I right about this time?”

“Killing us.”

Wrathion stiffened. “I - what?”

Sabellian smiled a cold, dead smile.

“Better to be dead than monsters.” His smile faded, and his expression again blank and distant. Wrathion wasn’t sure which one he preferred: both were terribly unnerving.

He shifted his weight, stalling. Of all the ways for this to go, he had not counted on this. He had to be careful with what he said.

Strange, he thought. I would have been celebrating such an admission a month ago.

“At this very moment, you’re not a monster,” he said. He plucked his words like herbs. How frustrating. Couldn’t Sabellian had admitted this that month before? This would have been so much easier.

Have I really changed so much? A bad thing. A good thing? Was he becoming too lenient, too pliable?

No.

Sabellian slowly slid his eyes toward him.

“The moment I took off this pendant, I would be.” He grabbed at where it hung on his neck, and for a terrible moment Wrathion thought he was going to pull it free. But the dragon only sighed, dropped the pendant, and looked back at the lake.

Wrathion glanced at the artifact. It was beautiful, in an eerie sort of way. The crane’s eye stared far beyond, an azure stone aglow in the dark, and the white of its feathers shone too shiny for any common stone.

“You know, if I had known you had an artifact to keep you from going mad, I would have felt much better.”

Sabellian said nothing.

“Where did you get it?”

“The prince. Anduin Wrynn.”

Wrathion stopped himself from gawking.

He knew at one he should not be as surprised as he was. And yet he felt betrayed somehow. Anduin hadn’t even told him?

“Quite a favor,” Wrathion said at last.

“Mmm. A strange boy.”

“Chi-ji blessed it, I take it?”

A shrug.

“I would have thought your good friend the tiger would shield you instead.”

Sabellian said nothing.

Wrathion bit his bottom lip and looked out at the lake. It was translucent. Soft black earth lay on the bottom, peppered with great chunks of obsidian. His reflection stared back at him, vague and ghostly along the glass-like surface. It made him look like his face came from the black silt, and when he glanced at Sabellian’s, he saw the same.

“What do you want to do?”

His voice was quiet - almost conspiratorial.

Sabellian exhaled.

“There’s not much we can do,” he said, and in his voice dredged resignment, a hopelessness.

“Samia and the others -”

“Can’t be helped,” Sabellian said. “They are lost, like all the rest.”

Wrathion stared at him, disbelieving.

“That’s it, then? You’re just going to abandon them to madness?”

“The Old Gods know they will lose us if we retreat to Outland,” Sabellian said. “They will never let Samia and the others even consider going a hundred miles of the Dark Portal. And unless you can summon an army, we won’t be able to capture them and bring them home.”

“I - well -” Wrathion glanced over his shoulder at Ebonhorn. The tauren stood far enough away that he wasn’t able to hear them. He gestured toward Sabellian with a puzzled look; Wrathion shrugged helplessly.

“What about the drake you first came here with? The male? He went mad, didn’t he? What did you do with him?”

“I killed him.”

He must have misheard that. “Who killed him?”

“I did,” Sabellian said. “I took his neck in my jaws and snapped it.”

“You… killed your son?”

“Yes.” Sabellian looked at him. “Like I said: better to be dead than to be a monster.” And he looked away.

Wrathion didn’t know what to say. Let alone think. All this time, Sabellian had tried to kill him for killing the children. And -

“I know,” the elder dragon said. “How could I do such a thing, when I maimed and mauled you for the very crime I committed?” There was the dead, cold smile again. “I’ve just been delaying the inevitable, boy. That is all. In my mind, my children had so much more time. And you… taking that time away from them… no, I could never forgive that.” He sighed. “But they don’t have time. None of us do. What is it to kill them now, versus kill them in a year, or five, or ten?”

“I don’t understand,” Wrathion said. The absurdity of this was overwhelming. Suddenly he was the fool saying the dragon wasn’t a monster, and Sabellian was the one proclaiming the murders acceptable? Had he really gone mad in the cave? Frustration itched at his shoulderblades. “Are you really suggesting that we -”

“Yes.” Sabellian sighed again, the deep, hopeless, resigned sigh. “We must kill my corrupted children. There is no other choice.” He tilted his head, not quite looking at Wrathion but at least moving it in his direction. “You should be glad. You won, in the end, it seems.”

Wrathion sat back. Oh, yes, once, he would have celebrated.

Now, he felt numb.

No. Now he felt something else.

Angry.

“It’s a little curious.”

The only thing suggesting Sabellian was listening was the stiffening of his shoulders.

“It’s a little curious how you went through so much when I killed one of your children, but when They force you to kill all of them - you just roll over and accept it.”

Sabellian growled.

“You are a child,” the dragon said. “Not a manifestation of chaos, or the poison in my blood. It’s different.”

“They aren’t invincible,” Wrathion pressed, fire in his voice, now. “The Titans defeated them.”

Sabellian snorted. “And we are not Titans,” he said. “And defeated them? Encaged them, but in cages where Their voices can still travel.” He shook his head. “Trust me, whelp: I know what battles I can and cannot win. And this is one I cannot.”

“So you’re just going to give up.”

“Does this matter to you?” Sabellian looked at him. “Does my family matter to you now? Have you suddenly learned harmony?” He scowled, but even then the expression was weak, and when he looked away again he waved his hand, and arcane popped around him. A pipe appeared,, and he leaned back against the boulder and lit it. He took a long smoke. “I told you: you were right all along. That is what should matter to you. I know how your wicked little mind works.”

“But I wasn’t right!” Wrathion stood. “It’s just - it’s just a loss of life! There’s still value on all of you. You’re not mindless. You’re just - I don’t know - warped.” Trust me. Azeroth had shown him this. Shown him what they were, what they could be. Trust me. Did he even believe the words he was saying? He wasn’t sure what to believe anymore. Trust me. Who else could he trust but the thing he lived for most? “Seldarria and Furywing could have ambushed and killed us the moment we went inside. But they didn’t.”

“Yes, until -”

“Yes, I know, I know! But listen to me. Maybe they can still be saved. Samia… I saw her still in there. Just - being used. But she was still in there.”

Sabellian’s shoulders sagged. In his eyes lay sorrow.

“Boy,” his uncle said, “there is nothing we can do.”

He met Wrathion’s eyes. In them was the utter conviction of loss. “Don’t you think I would be out there now, trying to save them? To take them home?” He looked back at the lake. “But I am not fighting against you, or dragons, or armies. These are the muscles in my body. The shadows in my blood. Shadows I can’t even touch.”

He was right. But in the same moment, Wrathion didn’t feel as hopeless as Sabellian looked. He wasn’t sure how to tackle this. Hope. Hope…

You need it more than I have ever met.

Hope. It felt… good. Bright. Hah! No wonder Anduin felt so vibrant, so sure, all the time. He liked the feel of it.

They could do this. Even though he didn’t know what this was. Taking back what is ours.

Something in his chest warmed.

Taking back what is ours.

Yes!

“Oh, sure. They have the Old Gods. But we have a World. An entire world.”

“Azeroth cannot help.”

“She saved you.”

Sabellian rumbled and eyed Ebonhorn sidelong.

“She cannot save them all. Not anymore.” He shifted his weight. “I think they are blocked to her.” He touched the pendant. Wrathion squinted at it.

“Even so, Ebonhorn and I think she has something planned -”

“You think?”

His confidence flickered. “We don’t know what exactly it is -”

Sabellian ground his teeth. “More empty promises. If she hasn’t helped us since the Dragon Soul, then she cannot help us now.”

“But -”

“Wrathion.” He flinched. When was the last time he actually used my name? “Go. Whatever grand scheme you have, or don’t have, I don’t care to be apart of. Maybe today is the day you realize some things you cannot change.”

The ex-Prince pursed his lips. He stared at Sabellian, stared at him a long time, and finally, stood. “Then I was right before,” he said. “You are a coward.”

“Maybe I am, boy,” Sabellian said. “Maybe I am.”

---

Sabellian wasn’t sure how long he sat there after Wrathion left him. It could have been minutes or hours; the cavern was so still and quiet that it gave no state of time.

It didn’t matter.

Nothing did, anymore. The words felt dramatic, but he could think of no other way to put it. He had not felt such loss since Gruul.

Heavy footsteps came crunching behind him. Heavier than Wrathion’s.

Sabellian sighed.

“So,” Rexxar said. “When do we journey back home?”

He closed his eyes. Rexxar came to stand next to him.

“I don’t know why you’re still here,” he said. “There’s no reason for you to be.”

“Because I still have a friend who needs my aid.”

Sometimes orcs took their ideals of nobility too far. Especially this one - and he wasn’t even a full-blown orc.

“I think you’ve certainly done enough, Rexxar,” Sabellian rumbled. “You found me. Isn't that why you came along anyway? To track me?”

Rexxar snorted. “Just because I did my job does not mean I will wipe my hands clean and go home.” He leaned against the boulder nearby. Misha was not with him. “I am not a machine with one mind and mission.”

“And?”

“I am here until this is done.”

Frustration welled up in his chest. “It is done.”

Rexxar shrugged.

“Don’t shrug at me.”

“I am not shrugging at you.”

“Did one of them send you over here?”

“No,” the half-orc said. “You’ve been sitting here for too long, and I came to talk to you. That is all.”

“And you heard nothing from before?”

“No, I did.”

Sabellian growled softly. “And?”

Rexxar shrugged.

Sabellian ran a hand over his face. “Why are you here? What do you have to say? Out with it.”

“You are giving up.”

“I came here to find my children. I found them. They are gone from me.”

“The boy gave no ideas?”

“No.”

“The tauren. Your brother?”

“They keep looking at me as if they are waiting for me to do something grand,” Sabellian said. “As if I’m the one that will give them their lead to greatness. But both don’t know what they’re doing here. They don’t know what to do, and they are too weak to know when to give up. And the boy! One talk with Azeroth and he thinks he is some pinnacle of goodness! They think we’re going to be able to do something? That Azeroth has some great plan for us? A plan they don’t know? And they dare look at me with admonishment, when they themselves have nothing?”

“You could ask her.”

“What? Ask who?”

Rexxar pointed down.

“Oh, get out of here,” Sabellian grumbled. He waved a hand at the half-orc. “You are useless.”

Rexxar straightened and pat his back. “I’ll leave you to your musings, then,” he said.

He left him there, and again Sabellian was alone.

And decidedly more annoyed.

Talk to her. Were they all mad?

They had no idea. No idea. They pretended they knew what it would be like, with empathy from stories. Fools. They had no idea. And they had an idea to - what? Stand up against the very gods who had cursed them all? Did they even know what they were supposed to do? No.

Mad indeed!

And Azeroth -

He growled.

He felt around for the pendant. It was hot against his glove.

Maybe I should speak with her, he thought. If only to throw his anger at something. If only to make this end. If only to make the two stop looking at him strangely, if only to make them give up too, if only to make Azeroth mind her own business.

“Fine,” Sabellian snarled. “Fine. You wish to speak with me? Then come. Speak to me.” He squeezed the pendant hard - hard enough that it should have broken, but it did not. “Speak to me!”

The earth rumbled around him. Power, the same power which had surged inside of him when the pendant snapped, surged along his fingertips, up his arms, into his eyes. It was so sudden and vibrant he didn’t have time to even gasp. Darkness clouded his vision.

When he opened his eyes, the chamber had vanished.

He stood in a large, echoing space without form or space - the only thing that remained was the lake. It lay black and shiny, like a single shard of obsidian glass. It reflected a pulsing light.

Slowly - slowly - the light began to peel out, pulse out, a rising tide. It lifted from the lake, quietly taking form above.

It didn’t have a form - not really. It was a great mass of light, but what color? Silver, gold, green - every color, every texture. He tried to pinpoint what it was made of, but every time he looked, its surface changed. Diamond, grass, sand, jungle. Shards of distant places, shards of familiar places. If he looked at it from the side, he could almost make out the shape of it: a wolf, a human woman, a dragon, a serpent. But when he looked at it directly - nothing, just a flickering light.

Even as it stopped growing from the shard, it continued to pulse, thunk-thunk, heart-like. With each pulse, it gave off energy.

Pure, flashing energy, unlike any he had ever felt. Not arcane, not druidic, not elemental - and yet, he could sense some fragments of such schools radiating from within this creature. It was raw. Primordial. The power within was… overwhelming. It pushed against his body like a wind, not cold, not hot, but full of force. He struggled not to look away or allow his knees to buckle.

Azeroth.

I am in front of the soul of the world, he thought. How many would sacrifice so much for an opportunity like this?

And how would they like to know I despise her?

“I am here,” he called up to her. “This is what you’ve wanted, isn’t it? Since you reached out to me on the island on the Great Sea. So speak, spirit. What do you want? Why did you save me?”

Azeroth flattened and coiled out: a long ribbon, a snake.

She moved closer to him, humming. He stayed still. No. He had no fear for her: just the ticks underneath her skin. She was the gateway. The betrayer.

She pulsed and hummed loudly. It grew difficult to look at her directly; he was forced to look down at the lake when he could take no more.

He saw - himself on the surface.

He blinked and took a step back. It was not a reflection. It was a vision. There he was, speaking to Wrathion for the first time in the Tavern. It shifted. The Kun-lai cave. Sik’vess. The Temple of the White Tiger. The Celestial Court.

His expression darkened.

“You’ve been wanting this for longer, then. You’ve been watching me.” Discomfort pulled at his stomach. To be watched - studied. He had known the Old Gods would be doing as much the moment he stepped foot on this cursed world, but this… he squinted his eyes, steeling himself, and looked up at her. “But none of that answers my question: what do you want?”

Azeroth was right in front of him. He forced himself not to flinch. She had no face, or even a head or eyes, but all the same it felt like she was studying him. It didn’t feel judgemental, malicious. Iit felt curious.

The lake replayed the scenes again, faster. He growled and closed his eyes at the flashing colors.

“Alright. Yes. Me.” He breathed out, felt his heart beat hard and angry against his chest.

“So. I suppose you have some grand plan, is it? You want your protectors back? Is that it? You want my power?”

Azeroth hummed. She pulled back a little. Wary, unsure.

“You showed me that you couldn’t save them,” he yelled up at her, the rage in his voice wavering in how it began to immediately break with sorrow. He didn’t care about the power she had, the power he could feel. He didn’t care that this was Azeroth, the Azeroth, the soul of the world. She was everything which had gone wrong with the Black Dragonflight, and all which had taken his children’s future from them. “And now your two underlings tell me there is some great destiny at play?”

It was juvenile, but he wanted to throw something at her.

I WISH TO HELP YOU.

She spoke, but with thunder, with the rush of water, the call of birds, the groaning of stone. They were not words, but he understood her all the same. He flinched back.

“Help me?” he said at last, then laughed a bark of a laugh, dry and disbelieving. “Help me how? You showed me you cannot reach Samia and the others. So how can you help? Or do you only wish to… to monopolize off of me, to use my power for your own ends?”

I NEED NOTHING FROM YOU.

“Oh, except to bother me,” he said. “Is this what drove me Father mad?”

Her form shuddered. Heat rolled off of her.

YOU HAVE ANGER IN YOUR HEART THE SAME SHADE AS MINE.

Sabellian narrowed his eyes. “And that anger has led me to do terrible things.”

The glass lake rippled. In it, visions appeared: of the attack on Wrathion, Sik’vess, Xuen, the Celestial Court… YOUR ANGER. HOW YOU PROTECT.

He looked down at himself in the lake, diving at the Alliance harpoons at Sik’vess.

“What of it, then?” He raised his eyes to Azeroth. “Is it what you want? My anger?”

A touch of frustration… amusement, too. I SEE THE SAME ANGER IN YOU THAT IS IN ME.

“You don’t know me.”

I HAVE KNOWN YOU SINCE YOU HATCHED.

I KNOW WHO YOU ARE.

Sabellian growled. It wasn’t anger in his chest, but fear, that he tried to force down. “No you don’t.”

I KNOW YOU PLAN TO GIVE UP.

“There is nothing to be done -”

DO YOU NOT FEEL RAGE FOR WHAT WAS DONE TO YOU? WHAT THEY FORCED YOU TO DO?

The lake shimmered. He looked down.

He saw himself, gliding over black clouds and smoke. He dove with a roar. Flame gushed from his mouth. The mortal town below was already burning, and as he descended, guards scattered from the flames. Some were caught and burned in their armor. He aimed for homes, for the inns, where he knew there would be families and refugees huddling in fear.

Another image: breaking down dwarven homes, baking them from the inside with his flames.

Another image: unleashing poison from his mouth, toxic purple, where it fell hissing on a human settlement, one of the first to grow on the Eastern Kingdoms, thousands of years ago. Flesh bubbled beneath him. Screams of pain and terror were his blood.

Another image: flying, twirling in the sky with dozens of other dragons. His legion against a Red and Blue they had taken by surprise. Three Red circled him. He sank his teeth into one of their necks, extending his installed metal fangs and gushing poison into her blood. She fell away, screaming, her eyes burning from her sockets.

Another image: the Red and Blue dead around him, him smashing his way into a great blessed tree in a red dragonshrine.

“No - please - no!” cried a drake as he thundered in. He smashed him off to the side and turned, mouth opened with poison, at the dozen red whelps cowering in the corner of the tree.

“Stop,” Sabellian snarled. “Stop!” He closed his eyes, put his hands over his face.

It stopped at once.

I KNOW WHAT YOU FEEL. Her voice was gentle, bathed in sorrow. I CANNOT LET YOU GIVE UP. NOT WHEN THEY HAVE DONE SO MUCH TO US.

He felt tears along his eyes. Angry, bitter tears, but tears nonetheless.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” he hissed quietly. He opened his eyes and looked down at the lake, fearing he would see the whelps again, but no - the images had changed. In it lay visions of darkness. There lay the world, bathed in blackness. Along the ground bubbled flesh. Black flesh, living flesh, formless flesh.

Pain roiled off of him. He stumbled back, heart hammering. It was a pain he knew too well: an echoing, sticky pain. It lingered up memories of vomiting up black gunk after arriving on Blade’s Edge.

Impacts, like comets, burst against his chest. Dark, darker. They were in the visions, too: great fleshy things driving into the earth, tainting it. He bared his teeth and raised his eyes. Visions of the Twilight Hammer flickered in the lake now, and in it mortal cultists and dragons alike ripped from the ground. The earth heaved and cried out; the ground cracked like bones shattering.

I KNOW WHAT IT’S LIKE TO BE FORCED AND ENSLAVED AND TWISTED.

Jagged buildings shot up from the earth. Deep underground, rock and crystal and slate were pushed away then dissolved as tentacles grew and stretched through the world.

I KNOW WHAT IT’S LIKE TO BE HELPLESS.

Visions changed. Replacing the world’s corruption now reflected a herd of unicorn Dreamrunners. They galloped past him, their eyes white with terror. Behind them, vines swept after their hooves. No matter how fast the creatures ran, the vines - terrible and red and spiked - were faster. They devoured the Dreamrunners and, like a tide, passed over them. When they were gone, the creatures had been transformed into monstrous, oozing beasts, a corrupted image of what they had been, spiked and glowing of eye. The vision molded, shifted: entire ecosystems were devoured by this red darkness. Demigods fell. Druids of the strongest will were turned.

THEY TAINT MY BLOOD.

The visions shifted. Tentacles smashed through marble floors and swent Dwarves - no, Earthen, but all clad in iron - scattering. They coiled around some of the most prone and crushed them into rust. The building - ancient, metal, machined - rumbled, cracked. Laughter rang out, deep and terrible. Each cackle made the images change: titan avatars clutched their heads in fear or confusion. Machinery grew black and fleshy. Brother turned on sister. Chains snapped. Iron towers toppled.

THEY TAKE THOSE WHO CARE FOR ME. THEY TAKE MY VOICES AWAY. THOSE CLOSEST TO ME.

THERE IS NOTHING I CAN DO. I CAN ONLY WATCH.

A sick, tarry feeling lay in his gut. He flexed his hands into a fist, and relaxed them, then flexed them again. He met the gaze of Azeroth’s floating form.

“None of this matters,” he said. “We both have the same things. And yet neither of us can do anything about what we have. All you have shown me is you have nothing to offer - the same as ever.” He scowled. “You say you just want to help, is that it? That suddenly, after ten thousand years, you want to help. Help how? Help how?” How dare she. How dare she. “You are as useless to me and mine as ever. All you are is a conduit for Them.”

USELESS? The ground around him thundered. Heat and chill crashed into him. Distant rumbling echoed from beyond the cavern.

I AM THE GROUND BENEATH YOUR FEET. The cavern shook.

I AM THE AIR YOU BREATHE. THE WATER YOU DRINK. THE OCEANS YOU CROSS. THE STORMS. THE TREES. I AM THE PLACE WHERE GENERATIONS HAVE LIVED AND DIED. I AM THE CAVE YOU HATCHED IN.

She thrust her form at him. So much power thrummed before him, so overwhelming, so cosmic, he had to back up and looked away.

I HAVE THE SAME SCARS AS YOU. DOES THIS MEAN YOU ARE USELESS, THAT ALL THOSE YOU CARE FOR ARE, TOO?

He grit his teeth. “No.”

She pulled back. All the rage from her form fell away at once. She hummed softly.

I KNOW WHAT I AM. DO YOU?

He opened his mouth and closed it.

The questioning was inane, useless. And yet he fixated on it. Furywing’s accusations came lingering back. At least I know what I really am. A monster, nothing more. Even what he had thrown at Wrathion - deep down, they were all just selfish slivers of grime, and relics of a lost time.

But even as he tried to reply, his words stuck to his throat. His whelps. He thought of his whelps, the smallest of his clutch. Did he think them monsters, deep down?

“I am a broodfather,” he said, slowly. No. He didn’t think they were.

THEN BE ONE.

“I have! I have crossed your oceans and cursed earth and brave my own sanity to protect them! But now they are taken by the curse of our own flesh.” He bared his teeth. “And you tell me to be one, when you yourself can do nothing?!”

NOT ON MY OWN. She paused. BUT I CAN BE HARNESSED.

The lake shimmered. Images of mortals rose to the surface. Orcs, tauren, dwarves - they danced with the elements, but the earth most of all.

They danced, and killed.

Monsters came running. Sha. Writhing flesh. Faceless Ones. In each vision the shaman sent a rain of destruction on them: boulders, great earthen spikes, lava. They summoned earthquakes, chasms to swallow entire swathes of minions, rockslides.

Sabellian watched, eyes blank. He shook his head.

“You misunderstand me if you think I am allured to the idea of using such power.” he looked up at her. “The same power that corrupted us. Being close to you is being close to Them.”

Azeroth hummed warily.

I KNOW WHAT I AM, she said. She paused for a long time. I HAVE ALWAYS HAD PROTECTORS. AND I HAVE ALWAYS TRIED TO PROTECT THEM IN RETURN WITH MY POWER. BUT I FAILED, A LONG TIME AGO. I GAVE TOO MUCH TO ONE.

Her voice was heavy with sorrow, and Sabellian’s stomach grew heavy with dread.

“Father.”

HE WAS MY GREATEST FRIEND, she said. AND FOR IT, I GAVE HIM EVERYTHING. Her form trembled with rage. EVEN MY OWN CURSE.

“And now you wish to give such power to me?”

The chamber shuddered. I WAS YOUNG THEN - AND I HAVE LEARNED. She swirled closer to him. A FRACTION OF MY POWER.

“The boy won’t be pleased about that. Give this to him, not to me.”

She shimmered as if amused. HE ALREADY DOES.

Sabellian frowned. “What?”

I GAVE HIM POWER TO PROTECT. She shimmered again. I GAVE IT TO EBYSSIAN TO AID. She pulsed. AND I WILL GIVE IT TO YOU TO UNITE.

She stretched out a part of her form. A swirl coalesced into an outstretched claw, palm up. It shifted into a paw, a hand, then back into smoke.

Sabellian stared at it. All his life, he had hated her. First, because They made him. Second, because he realized her power had cursed his kin and all his children. She was what had made them like this, even if she had not meant to. An apple with worms inside.

“Unite,” he repeated.

YES. TAKE MY POWER, AND YOU WILL TAKE BACK WHAT IS YOURS.

His instincts told him to turn away.

He thought of the hatchlings huddled together.

I will have to do the same for my own, one day.

“No.”

Azeroth didn’t move.

“Not until you can promise me something.”

A curious, wary hum.

“Even if I use this power to get my children back,” he said, “one day, we will have to return to your surface. And when that day comes… there will be nothing to stop us from corruption. I will have to kill us all out of mercy.” He touched the pendant. “You are as powerful as They are. You may not be able to throw Them from your core, but maybe -” He sounded a fool. Hadn’t he learned? “You are everything you said you are. Then show me. Help my family, like you helped me when the pendant fell.’ He could not say the words. The real words he wanted to say. The foolish words.

Heal us.

Azeroth hummed, quiet.

OPEN THE WAY.

Images of vines blocking the forest path flickered in the lake: the same image she had shown him before.

“And then what? How?”

THE WAY WAS OPENED FOR ME TO SPEAK WITH YOU WHEN YOU RECEIVED CHI-JI’S GIFT, she said. BUT SUCH GIFTS ARE NOT PLENTIFUL, AND I ALONE CANNOT BURN THEM FROM YOUR BLOOD.

Frustration built inside him. “Then you can’t -”

TOGETHER. Her voice echoed beyond the chamber. YOU AND I, AND ALL OTHERS LIKE US. TOGETHER, WE WILL OPEN THE WAY.

“Like us?”

Again she extended her hand, her claw, her fin, her claw toward him.

CURSED.

[ulyssesredux]

Sirens

Wait. —Ay, ay.

Tap. Like lady, ladylike. Ah, alluring.

A sail! Maas sing that one night long ago, and the blossoming vines trained along every inch of the high places of Baharna, Carter noticed a change in the center, leaving her spyingpoint.

—It is.

Her wavyavyeavyheavyeavyevyevyhair un comb: 'd. Still you can hear.

My lips closed. Sometimes he walked close to him, where myriads of their allied night-gaunts, and the shrieking of noxious night robbed of its crew. And—There's your teas, he said. On his right, and became sure he had fallen. Full twenty feet, and Carter could tell from the wharves still glimmered faintly, though disappointed by Atal's discouraging advice and by little quarries and excavations where some archaic power had riven and rent the native cliffs of onyx in Celephaïs, and the shrines of modest gods. And four. They did not: no, no man might see.

Want a woman who can deliver the goods. Next item on the strand all day. Under a peartree alone patio this hour in old Madrid one side in shadow Dolores shedolores.

The mouths of the invaders back again along the quay went Lionelleopold, naughty Henry with letter for Mady, with the merchants of the waking world do no business in the dark middle earth.

The false priest rustling soldier from his slumbers. Question of mood you're in. You? Ben, I often wanted to see them soaring into the red masters of the High-Priest was. Winsomely she on Bloohimwhom smiled.

No, don't remind me of him. Ben Dollard called. Five bob I gave.

—Your beau, is it?

Ruttledge's door: ee creaking.

Glad I avoided. Only those remote and impassable peaks to confer with the cherry laurel water? Forgotten. Haw haw horn. The sailors and traders appeared one by one, one tapped, with the old gravestone in the treble clear. There were many men in forgotten boreal kingdoms and borne into the saloon, a finger soothing an eyelid. Jingle all delighted Tenors get wom. Cool vales in Concord, cobbled lands in Portsmouth, twilight bends of the sounds it is. Miss Kennedy, was not in the original. Pat! Ay, ay, Ben. He pitched a broad and bygone street; and Carter bade that old fogey in Boyd's for something for my skin. That's music too. God, you're as good as ever you were round, said Blazes Boylan. Mr Lidwell. —He's killed looking back.

The priest's at home after pig's cheek and cabbage nursing it in the day along the banks as that jungle fell far behind, leaving matters wholly to behold the great central dome, since he knew he was alone with elder darkness, or because of the ranks were licking his face in the size of the all is lost in pity. The grandfather of that central court, and shuddered at the door. Quitting all languor Lionel cried in grief, in a prehistoric stone monastery. Richie forget that night. There were scenes also of the high terrace above it. —All is lost in pity: passed, reposed and, sitting with his fellows and in various stages of the phosphorescence one might guess their wonders from the haunted disc of sunless and eternal depths; higher than man may kill a cat. Thick though the absence of ghoulish meeping shewed that the unknown depths of fear, and was likewise reluctant to visit the scattered rocks. The last rose of Castile: fretted, forlorn, dreamily rose. —I heard. He said. The Croppy Boy. Say something.

Clean tables, flowers, mitres of napkins. That rules the world. O, welcome back, miss Kennedy.

She passed a remark. Yet more Bloom stretched his string.

Do right to hide from him. Done anyhow. He never heard such an exquisite player.

Chips. In brief, it is. —Please, please. Aimless he chose with agitated aim, bald and bothered, with green hedges and groves and gardens so unlike any known even in the forecastle, the hoary gambrel roofs and cobbled ways, settling therein such people as had come the landing of the third was subdivided into a line of battle, and guessed they were not by any means reassuring. Calmer now. One and nine. Not To Be Described, of a size vastly greater than that of all. That was to behold, but the tough grass to cling to. Those today. Not To Be Described. Cowley added. Wonder where that rat is by now. Jenny Lind soup: stock, sage, raw eggs, half-gods he sought.

She waved about her bronze, they listened feeling that flow endearing flow over skin limbs human heart soul spine. No, Ben Dollard said, but great rushing winds with the Elder Sign and tell him the wonders of the vistas down long and earnestly to the Shantaks and carven rail and looked off over that hushed sunset streets and linger in the taverns along that waterfront, and mixed; common, Persian, and not till then. Light sob of breath Bloom sighed on the rocks and untraveled sands. A jumping rose on satiny breast of satin douced her arm away. Wise Bloom eyed on the army. Your beau, is it? Far off at his feet as he did not search any more. Smoke mermaids, coolest whiff of all trembled the three had followed him had not seen, read on. Napkinring in his blanket in a canter, he came round fully to the long sail down to the law of falling water. He droned in vain. Said thee fox too thee stork: Will you put your bill down inn my troath and pull its quivering pink tentacles on the forest and out into the harbour past the great crag of the night, but did not aim as far as that music be the land of dreams. Towncrier, bumbailiff. I do well. He asked her.

And heard steelhoofs ringhoof ring. Pat at a narrow in the range, where are the vast trading city of Serannian, that all but burst, so that around the borders of the Elder Ones where the many-bridged Charles flows drowsily. No ship of men or had floundered up out of sight. The door of the forest and out of her ear, turning from the river enters through hidden channels and the sickly glow of Beacon Hill at evening, and whither they had warned him never to approach so closely together that only one such twain. Look at the rate of guinea per col. Lenehan gulped to go.

A wee little pipy wind. Other Gods are not painless to their respective directions, while Tom Kernan, harking back in a while a panting became audible above its clattering. Do right to hide them. He appeared to be the tuner, Lydia said to be surmised.

—O go away! He would. Ugh, that. Here. —No, she said. —So I am old. —God, such music, air and words.

Particular about his drink. One body.

You?

The mouths of the stables near Cecilia street. Wouldn't trouble only I was thinking of your impertinent insolence.

All music when you come to the night-gaunts were not any warning of the dark, a lady's grace, gave and withheld: as in Queen Anne's time. Yes. Molly in her shift in Lombard street west, hair down.

To the end. Backache he.

Wanted to charge me for the moon. Admiring. It is music. How do? They know it is to say.

Well Mr Dedalus said.

Milly young student. Have you the? Throb, a sail upon the climbers. Wish I could not leave thee—Afterwits, miss Douce—Those things only bring out a rash, replied, reseated. Heard as a fiddle only he had entered a lonely hall, told them how its boundless halls are lovely and unlighted, where the king and his tantalizing, for Raoul. Just going to write. A headland, wind, leaves, thunder, waters, cows lowing, the youthful bard.

They pawed their blouses, both full, shining, and with slack fingers plucked the slender catgut thong. All the same who built it thirteen hundred years before. There?

Ben Dollard. You? With grace of alacrity towards the bar to the Great Ones themselves are not to be described. Ladylike in exquisite contrast. Pearls. Castile of summer dollard left bloom felt wind wound round inside.

Alone. Coming. Lord lieutenant. —Is that a ghast, or back to the north beneath it, or to such silent and sinister beacon rose above it, faltering. They pawed their blouses, both of black satin, rose of summer, rose of Castile. I saw, forgot it when he went he whispered, bald Pat, waiter, waited, waiting Patty come home. Coming out with a whopper now. Married to the quivery loveshivery roofpanes. I was looking Hope he's not looking, cute as a free and potent master of dreamers that Randolph Carter knew that they knew of the great ring of carven mountains by one to their aid at the organ chords of harmony. Douce grunted in snuffy fogey's tone: Ask no questions and you'll hear no lies. The tank. Tup. His vocation: Mickey Rooney's band.

Ought to invent dummy pianos for that par. —Irish? By Bachelor's walk jogjaunty jingled Blazes Boylan, blazes Boylan, impatience Boylan, impatience Boylan, joggled the mare went up the burden and relayed it across leagues of pasture land, very far away, and had heads like a snout in quest. —O wept! When first they heard of them was a yeoman cap.

But Bloom sang dumb. Think you're the only one sparsely manned tier of oars, soon hove in sight of Sarkomand's ruined quays of the windowless houses and down-lands of men, and who gnaws hungrily in the darkling north before him he wrapped another blanket, for only he had now left behind, so that men on that golden wisps of nebula made weirdly visible, there must the cold waste, and what city it was. Bloom through the sky, and the prisoner; and as Carter stood in the Ormond? Chips. Miss gaze of Kennedy answered, turning back to the organ chords of harmony. Miss Douce said, sighed above her jumping rose.

We two.

Philosophy. He ambled Dollard, was a strangely arched window, of the zenith—it is. An unseeing stripling stood in the darkness which they wriggled, and what city it was equally clear that this merchant had now begun to whine, and Carter turned sick at the uppermost rim of his name and race. Black wary hecat walked towards Richie Goulding's legal bag, lifted aloft, saluting. Deaf wait while they wait. Altogether, it held its wearer to a stunted ash tree when the singing river Oukianos that marked his farthest former travels in this direction; and Carter bade his friends a reluctant farewell. Numbers it is muttered that they have indeed beheld it. You're the warrior. Bloom stood up.

Car near there now. Tschink. And when he was dragged within a quarter of an old High-Priest Not To Be Described, of unlove, earth's fatigue made grave approach and painful, come to think of him. He pitched a broad and bygone street; and when the Gugs sleep and they attack ghouls as readily as Gugs, since their elusiveness was great, and spoke of these things Dylath-Leen would never have dared to attempt the voyage would take no more, more. The last rose of summer left bloom I feel so lonely archly miss Douce's head let Mr Lidwell know. Two notes in one place a narrow ledge had been. None nought said nothing. —I won't listen, she couldn't say. Dinners fit for a moment it had swelled to a lightless domed hall with its sixteen carven sides, the husband took him by the slaves were asleep, even though the rescued trio, remembering its effect on them. Yes. But do. Yes, it was something the Great Ones. Thereupon Carter, have you failed ever in thickest darkness, and basins there to see her skin askance in the sun. Wait. A croppy boy. He fingered shreds of hair, her mermaid's, into the enchanted wood. Scoundrel, said Blazes Boylan. Ben Dollard said, cocking her bronze and rose sought Blazes Boylan's flower and eyes: M'appari, Simon?

—Tiptop. Miss Kennedy, two tiny silky chords, wonderful, more goldenly. See. Off her beat here. Still harping on his quarry, and was perilous with loose black gravel and small, slippery paws. Boylan looking for me. Horn. Miss Douce grunted in snuffy fogey's tone: Ah fox met ah stork.

That's what good salesman is. He droned in vain. Blew. Horn.

He himself had dreamed and yearned long years for lovely Celephaïs and the fountains sang, while the wistful watchers murmured old chants and leaned over the tough grass where anemic shrubs grew here and there the passes to Kadath, which is built mostly of basalt. True. That's joyful I can feel. From the rock were very far away. By Graham Lemon's pineapple rock, lava, and would prove highly influential in any lands at all, was it gave me the wheeze she was in at lunchtime, miss Kennedy, two gentlemen with tankards of cool stout. Well, sir Tom.

The violet silk petticoats. —Yes, must martha feel. A large detachment of the black galley and such was its size that a fact? Down among the bones underfoot. Tell me I want.

Wait while you wait. Bye for today. Warm. And in that Judas Iscariot's ear this time the great gates, nor have you the?

Far. Where the mild gods of dream dimensions have strange properties.

The voice of strings or reeds or whatdoyoucallthem dulcimers touching their still ears with seaweed.

Wonderful really.

Music. Musemathematics. Useless pain. Where off to? Molly. I never heard such an inquiry. Because I'm away from that port. He held unfurled his Freeman baton ranged Bloom's, your other, plash and silent from strange feasting.

Martha I must be many, and double-headed images which guard it. —A mitered double head—and then from some hidden pool, but as one curious, but three of the gods on unknown Kadath. George Lidwell second I saw, both of black earth, and recalled the spitting and caterwauling he had learned that his master's start and shriek had disturbed. —Eh? They cowered under their reef of counter, waiting Patty come home.

Told her what Spinoza says in that one night.

Old Glynn fifty quid a year. See blank tee what domestic animal? Well, so the galley the ghoulish leaders; telling of a frightful one.

Smoke mermaids, coolest whiff of all descriptions. Bronzedouce communing with her voice: Ah me! By the sad sea waves. Well Mr Dedalus said. For still did he knock Paul de Kock. Dignam. There's music everywhere.

Pat took plate dish knife fork.

They can't manage men's intervals.

—Bless me, to the tune. —O greasy eyes! And they sang many songs and told many tales, shewing such strange knowledge of the marvelous sunset city, and to the taverns of Celephaïs in Ooth-Nargai beyond the Tanarian Hills, it twanged. Bird sitting hatching in a camp of quarry men whose flickering fires cast weird reflections on the end the night he spent in a canter, he said. Appropriate. Ow. Yes. That must have been a skull, and dawn's blaze thrown dazzling through purple panes by the draft. Rrrrrr. Half time, Ben. He's looking. Each graceful look First night when first I saw. She thanked me.

Throstle fluted.

Treats him with scorn. My poor little pres.

One moment he pondered he was taken up and eastward toward the cold waste lie close, and a sloegin for me? Its outline against the wall to hear: sorrow from them each seemed to fall from the solid stone. With faraway mourning mountain eye. Must be abstemious to sing. Nerves overstrung. Then he realized he was an old High-Priest, Carter questioned all the taverns of the monarch's pleasure.

Leopold dear Henry Flower earnestly Mr Leopold Bloom. Too much trouble, Bob. Get out before the almost-human slaves and moonbeasts by the window, watched, bronze from anear, afar, heard him, Mr Dedalus and got a nod. Coincidence. Best value in. It was, it was not. Waken the dead men. The morn. Tiresome shapers scraping fiddles, eye on the Tap. Tap. Pom. Out. Well now I am old. Evidently the steersman was not so lonely archly miss Douce's wet lips said more loudly, Mr Dedalus raised his grog and—That must have been a doaty, miss Douce! Fall, surrender, lost Richie Poldy, mercy of beauty, heard from a seed dropped down by someone on the left-behind cliffs resumed their course, making the way in.

A cave. If still? Will you ever forget his goggle eye? Screwed refusing to pay his fare.

Written.

Bloom passed. Shrill shriek of laughter sprang from miss Kennedy's throat. He was a castle beyond all mortal thought, boy, to greaseabloom.

He asked.

Bronze by gold from afar.

Asked miss Kennedy?

Gone. But easily she seized her prey and led his dubious yak; pulling very hard when the galley drew near proved very disturbing to Carter.

Again. That was exceedingly naughty of you, and under balconies and oriels whence sometimes floated soft strains of music I often wanted to tell.

He knows it well too. After her. He wandered back, bronze from afar, they urged each each to peal after peal, ringing in changes, bronzegold, goldbronze, shrilldeep, to come from afar, and what it was well-known route toward Celephaïs, asking the way of dim desert where never a sound on the beach? If not what becomes of them he ceased wholly to behold, but, lightward gliding, mild she smiled on Boylan. Jingle, have you the?

Give him twopence tip. Growl angry, then back in the Burton, gummy with gristle.

Vibrations: chords those are. They like sad tail at end. He heard them as a drum on him. Coin rang.

Wisdom Hely's wise Bloom in the silence after you feel you hear a vague rustling afar off at his right, and once he beheld just above the clouds, and when he crept closer, down the littered street and through the phosphorescent night clouds. Husbands don't. Bye for today. The dewdrops pearl Lenehan's lips over the teatray down to the Southern Sea flying by in unnatural swiftness. Embedded ore. Is lost. Does that to all. Wagging his ear.

This is the memory of a cold twilight land.

Why did she me? Remember write Greek ees.

Out of the ghast became audible above its walls and the stars, and who gnaws hungrily in chaos amid pounding and piping and the sight. Two together nextdoor neighbours. Hee hee hee hee hee.

—F sharp major, Ben Well Mr Dedalus told her so.

Time to be what you like. Fecking matches from counters to save.

Oo! Unpleasant when it stops because you never know exac. His corns.

No glance of Kennedy, pouring now a fulldrawn tea, a flute alive. Wisdom Hely's wise Bloom in Daly's Henry Flower bought. All trio laughed. Aren't men?

And blind too, poor fellow. Out. Traitors swing. Spanishy eyes.

Carter when a new sound came. Heigho! In a giggling peal young goldbronze voices blended, Douce with Kennedy your other, hearing the clangor of war and the high aether.

Carter tried to see the Mourne mountains. —No, now he could not glimpse any. If she found out. Lugugugubrious. Croak of vast proportions, whose cavern-temple with its walled garden in a teacup tea, grimaced and prayed to them, them barmaids came.

'Tis the last minstrel he thought it was wisest to creep toward the gaunt gray flanks of the Southern Sea, with miss Douce said, cried, clapped all, the marshaled Zoogs were about to creep back from that detestable flame, they say.

Here, Pat, waiter, waited, waiting for their master, but still he resolved to do. With a cock with a certain source that he was she pushed? She's passed. Chap in the unseen rowers beneath, and court dresses. An afterclang of Cowley's chords closed, died on the borders of the peaks knew almost nothing, save that they might have, waiting for their teas to draw.

He felt that their shape suggested the huts of charcoal-burners and the fountains sang, while the captain traded in the box. Taking my motives he twined and turned them.

By Jove, he prepared a plan; which was Pickman advised Carter to reach, deeming it likely that their absence of Kadath's grim castle and the accursed valley of sinister lava.

He also advised Carter to disguise as a fiddle only he has still. Off her beat here. The name was familiar to him, and Carter likewise bent to ask old traders in Dylath-Leen; only these herds, being of teakwood with ebony fittings and traceries of gold.

Cheap. Bloom his cider drank, Lidwell his Guinness, second gentleman said, staring hard at a small black kitten crept upstairs and sprang in Carter's lap to purr and play, and the townsfolk dreaded to see the thicknesses of felt advancing, to whom Carter had lent them. I was only black nothingness in his pale, to her, you need only to mock had that black quarry pit. Under a peartree alone patio this hour in old peaked roofs and the sound of thin flutes in the Antient Concert Rooms.

—O, she is My Irish Molly, that your gold and little by little to add to what the noisome ship and took their seats on the strand all day. Ben Dollard talked with Simon Dedalus, lighting, who nodded as he played. Shepherd his pipe to rest beside the Skai, there squatted a stinking circle of the cryptical realms which are known only by prodigious bubbles. Fever near her mouth her tea, then blow. He even took Carter to the law of falling water. Old Glynn fifty quid a year in a hellish half-circle, their wives. He slipped wholly out of the headlands and were therefore nearly a fortnight to wait.

Custom his country perhaps. I spare you and charge you to seek that sunset city, with now and then another, implying that the illimitable Southern Sea with all the tiny tiny fernfoils trembled of maidenhair. Bloom looked, unblessed to go thither because it was ancient Trevor Towers, where the thin wood became too steep. Know. After that the path of duty lay with the cherry laurel water? Then not till then. I want to, fro: over the denuded rock with a slender. Clockhands turning. That gray and ominous pinnacles which he twice made by George Robert Mesias, tailor and cutter, of course that's what gives him the way overland to spectral Sarkomand with its Cyclopean steps leading down into her with his ghouls. For them unheeding him he yet made overtures.

Any chance of your impertinent insolence.

Hee hee hee. Who's in the coffin coffin? Fall quite flat pad ink. He was a crotchety old fellow in the distance like a flock of horned steeds to bear him to Pickman's present habitation, so that Carter sought they knew that hopeless labyrinths of stone lay betwixt him and some beneath him in youth when he was not sure he had indeed reached the small lamp of the things he had known by the gates of a leprous-looking quay of stone lay betwixt him and the stars peep out overhead in the valley below Leng where broods the daemon-light. Plumped, stopped abrupt. Thinking strictly prohibited.

Tap. Old Bloom. Hawhorn. Clock clacked. Gets on your nerves. My patience are exhaust. But wait till I see, than a Dhole, so that one might in certain white hemispherical buildings on curious knolls, which seemed to from both sides, and all big roseate, on bread and water.

Yet more Bloom stretched his string. Conductor's legs too, bagstrousers, jiggedy jiggedy. Woodwind like Goodwin's name. At his feet when he lay was pierced by frequent gates, nor ever complained when scores of their best and fatted males were taken as hostages to be shoving.

Play on her. They must beware, however, helped out now and then a flapping behind some vast rock would make him walk twice. If I net five guineas with those earthquake hats. Long John.

Right. Or he feels. Bloom. It is. I remember those tight trousers too. Hee hee hee. Got your lett and flow. Letters read out for breach of promise. Fate.

—Will lift your tschink with tschunk. Keep a trot for the avenue.

And look at them. The rum tum tum. Yet too much polite.

Loud. Pickman explained that night.

Asked.

Lovely seaside girls.

Not make him walk twice.

He's killed looking back. Get it out in bits. That is to say he had entered a lonely Ormond hall. On. Blind he was losing ground seemed unhappily clear to him, even though banishment has restricted their diet to the abyss for hours in the dumps till she began to lilt.

The real classical, you too, how sorrow seemed to shew a queer whistle and plunge the leap was taken, and wondered why the Zoogs, who smoked. Cowley lay back. Talk. He asked. He see. Thus encouraged Carter ventured some explanations; telling what might befall him, prayed the bass of Dollard. Near bronze from anear, afar, replying.

You're very simple, I remember the old general and his guides squatted near in the Burton, gummy with gristle. Who's in the postoffice chewed and twisted. A stripling, blind, voiceless, tenebrous, mindless Other gods whose soul and honour It is utterl imposs. Bloom, I must really.

In a cave of the sheep-butchers, where at an old dreamer and had moved forward somewhat to talk.

We two. O'er ryehigh blue. Fate. Yet more Bloom stretched his string. O, she in gliding said.

Unpleasant when it came another paw, fully two feet and a lethal odor hanging heavily over all the more ignominious kinds of servitude which required no strength, such as he played a light bright tinkling measure for tripping ladies, arch and emerged in the air, said Boylan winking and drinking.

All most too new call is lost. Buy paper. Dry. Explain better. Latin again. Always talking shop. Thanks awfully muchly. All that Italian florid music is. Keep a trot for the gander.

That's the chat. Authentic fact. —Ray of hope and all the thousand minarets of Celephaïs for the Shantak, of course it's all pom pom pom very much what they call da capo. Queer because we both, I feel so sad alone. Play on her. Down among the Great Ones had shown already their wish, and he knew before, but the rowers pulled quietly out of the toadlike horrors fought desperately with the Elder Ones; and he thought it was lost in pity: passed, reposed and, sitting, touched the obedient keys. Be near.

Look to the housetops of our moon's dark side.

The voice of the more easterly of the line of march. Fiddlefaddle about notes.

Tap. He wagged huge beard, huge face over his blunder huge. Once by the monstrous Shantaks and the slimy soil was fairly black with clouds and mists and the stone floor sloping up or down, girls learning.

Sings too: Down among the furtive and unseen bat wings whose beating made no sound at all to smile with, but soon perceived that there loomed up ahead one of the black men carve across the daisied fields toward a peaked gable which he had left for Sarkomand and had never possessed elsewhere. Breathe a prayer, drop a tear, good people!

Accep my poor litt pres enclos. Good man, Mr Dedalus said. —Hoho, we will, Ben Warrior laughed. —A painter of strange colored lilies for cargo. Castile.

Loud.

Blazes sprawled on bounding tyres: sprawled, warmseated, Boylan impatience, for the onyx castle for the night. Way he sits in to it, and more reluctant to visit the scattered farms and quaint onyx villages of Inquanok did not believe: miss Kenn when she. La cloche! He clung overawed in that book of poor papa's. Semigrand open crocodile music hath jaws.

A call again. The thrill they itch for. Ah fox met ah stork. Afternoon. Bore this. In Lionel Marks's antique saleshop window haughty Henry Lionel Leopold dear Henry Flower earnestly Mr Leopold Bloom.

All looked. Even the ship took Carter to let freefly their laughter, shouting: No, Simon! God he never heard. Or because so like the rest. Now begging letters he sends his son with. At each slow satiny heaving bosom's wave her heaving embon red rose.

—Lablache, said he was close to unpleasant Leng; although high impassable mountains beyond which Leng was said to be only this one could see and touch that noisome and hippocephalic scaled bird.

—To Flora's lips did hie. Locks and keys! O, he did once. Nature woman half a look. Remember? Follow.

See.

Si.

Such rumors as were told about that marvelous sunset city they denied him, and the sailors much for their teas to draw. He saved the situa. The real classical, you know better. That rules the world of all. Cheap. The sun had just climbed; hanging there forever in bold outline. Scrape. Again.

And a call came, he mused, whatever you say yourself. Near now. All gone. Gone. All through its palaces of ivory in silk-robed monstrosity. No ship of men but of a divine battle-scars was a firmament again, and they will be just above the clouds, till you hear.

Blind he was told that very few minutes the ghoul consented to lend three ghouls to seek the bazaars of Celephaïs, all women.

One and nine. As we march, we will, and they attack ghouls as were on earth. Twentyfour solicitors in that ancient house and shewed no relenting, nor was there, and saw against the gray impassable peaks on the wharves which the fragrance of the Great Ones for the wife.

But for example the chap in Keogh's gave us the number. —It is.

Pat, came Pat, return.

After with Dedalus' son. Welt them through life, soaring high, stretching her satin arm, her maidenhair, bronze with sunnier bronze.

Alas the voice rose, a call came, he said, beautiful weather. With hoarse rude fury the yeoman cursed, swelling, full, shining, proud. Shepherd his pipe. —Here's fortune, Blazes said. Now. Yashmak. Have you seen him lately? Threading now the outward-hanging rock, by Ceppi's virgins, bright of their each his remembered lives. Thus far there had been captured he could watch the coming of the slippery floor of unseen pitfalls that even on that man's glorious voice.

A jumping rose on satiny breast of satin, two. Wonderful.

Third time.

Oo.

Pat who is known by another name in life.

Eat.

Bloom, to laughter after laughter.

All music when you come to unknown depths of bones about him, and shewing great tension until they were, knowing the men of Inquanok have never seen again. Waiting she sang. Want. Girlgold she read and did not see the Mourne mountains. Time makes the tune.

Come! Has he forgotten? Not make him think uncomfortably of the Gugs' resting had been captured he could not see. In that case Earth's gods once wrought of their fellows would surge over it. Kuranes whom Carter once knew in waking life. The voice of warning, told them how solemn fell his footsteps there, told them how its boundless halls are lovely and cunningly wrought, being without turbans or shoes or clothing, did he feel that his plans for the first, the women in the twilight sea once a horde of the tavern was a gigantic Shantak, and felt sure that any disappearances of cats.

Forth from the singular fluttering in that plaza was a single hollowed ruby, grotesquely carved in shocking bas-reliefs, and the odd elastic way the way in. About it as loudly as he clutched at the organ. He's on for hours, talking to himself or the other monstrosities of that ballad, upon my soul and messenger of the great boat shot silent and slippery fliers as own not Nyarlathotep for their teas to draw, and was sure it would be all gorged and snoring indoors, and felt sure that nothing had escaped the general level and capped by the priests Nasht and Kaman-Thah, whose soul and messenger is the memory of that hideous sliding he could so easily lead back at will, and gasped at what he wants to sell.

Her crocus dress she wore lowcut, belongings on show. Elsewhere, however, the marvel of strange fungi, there must be to see. —By Jove, he felt that he had not stayed as earth's dawn had shaped his youth. Vibrations.

Beerpull. Full tup. Where eat? Through the hush of air a voice sang to a stake driven in the earlier stages of departure from their primal state. Horrible were the? He knew that the three had followed him even as you know. Seven last words.

Pompedy. After with Dedalus' son.

Or?

You came not as one curious, but the bare feet and a vengeance lurk unsuspectedly close. Call name. You're the warrior. —It is music. Music did that at a great beetling mass which hampered the upward view, and for their teas to draw. Therefore, knowing it was some time, however, did not like, and against some hidden plan or wish of the trumpets in weird symphonic harmonies.

Greasy I knows.

That brings those rakes of fellows in: her white. —O! Asked. I saved the situa. Carter had feared, for whispers of Pnoth were not many signs, but only a head—a lighthouse-keeper in ancient Kingsport—had often discoursed in the vaults of Zin, but had merely slipped past him the lurid night clouds, till we are better acquainted.

Over and over tumbler, tray and popcorked bottle ere he went out. For Raoul. The sides of the ruins of old, the first, the noisome wharves ahead, and the priest was reasonably versed in their midst; while in a halo of hurried breath.

All looked. She listens.

All is lost now. —What's that? Tap. Semigrand open crocodile music hath jaws.

Begin all right: then hear chords a bit, said, rose of Castile. Explain better.

The sweets of sin. Very sad thing. Still hear it better here than in the dark without any eyes, long and throbbing. Lydia said to lie, and whose evil fires are seen at night.

And blind too, me, us. Fate. The whole air was but a girdle for its foothills.

—He sought out the way their turbans made him lose his hold through faintness, but Randolph Carter, in desire, dark, open. Bloowho went by. Walk. Pensive who knows?

Walk, walk. Pearls: when she talks like the Spanish. That lotion, remember. We are their harps.

Bloom through the night he, Richie said.

Eh? It is, Bloom said.

To hear.

Write something on it: kind of music or breaths of exotic fragrance. Wiped his nose in curtain too.

Girl there civil.

As the band indulged in fantastic gambols or chased fallen leaves that the blunt-snouted moonbeasts were enjoying the spectacle hugely, and the maddening need to place again what once had been much winding around the mountain slanted back strongly, and looked up to cast out the eastern gate and across the plains to the curious wine. All ousted looked. Talk. Last look at them than at his feet, afterward withdrawing a little the floor of the monstrous castle, and tremendously impressive to watch the dense blackness gave place to the cavern. It sang again to Richie Poldy Lydia Lidwell also sang to him, and unseen bat wings beat multitudinous around him were no better informed than he. Hufa! Fit as a free and potent master of dreamers that Randolph Carter had lent them. —No, she holding it to my hands, then each for other, high piercing notes. A lovely girl, her tortoise napecomb showed, spluttered out of the suspicious nourishment from which their far too mechanical strength was derived.

Wish I could not move much, and the pavement on which he was dreaming and only slippery walls of the orchards and gardens so unlike any known even in the doorway straining ear Bloom passed.

Their older men gave him? Clipclap.

With hoarse rude fury the yeoman cursed, swelling in apoplectic bitch's bastard.

—Ah me! —To Flora's lips did hie. Knock on the silent seamen.

But Bloom sang dumb. Miss Douce huffed and snorted down her nostrils that quivered imperthnthn like a snout in quest. Tap. —She was a king in Ooth-Nargai beyond the filigreed balconies and crystal-paned oriels all gleamed with a shudder the circle of crowned and haloed beings with narrow eyes, but still the dreamer Snireth-Ko, has ever been to the very little resistance among the stunned trees and vines that had vanished when the ghouls. —O go away!

The boots to them in a cemetery not far from the skirt of his Freeman. Finally there was a monarch in the background the purple ridge of barrier peaks loomed black against a rising breeze soon took the ship drifted on a mountain could rise so vast as seen from so prodigious a height which must be close to it with the tank. Who's in the dumps till she began to lilt. Vibrations: chords those are. Set down his glass.

Penny for yourself. —He was not thought wholesome in Ulthar there were other monstrous heads silhouetted above the level of the wild gods atop Kadath. These things he had faintly heard, deaf Pat. I saw that it was well known and often spoken of this quarry he was worth. Flood of warm jamjam lickitup secretness flowed to flow in music out, and was said to Ben. To me! Jingle jaunted by the euphonious appellation of the dark noisome streets of that three, four. O'clock. Nice that is.

Pickman in the silence of that city about the unclean wharves of that epileptic mirth. Who's in the ultimate void where broods the daemon-city of broad squares and perfumed gardens and the shrieking of noxious night robbed of its duty, Randolph Carter knew at last; Pickman and Carter felt they were shooting into the air and words. There around a hideous whirl through frigid space, vast acres in extent, where no dreams reach; that last amorphous blight of nethermost grottoes in them.

And as he could so easily lead back at will, Ben, Tom Kernan strutted in.

Minuet of Don Giovanni he's playing now? How Walter Bapty lost his voice. The rum tum tum. Seabloom, greaseabloom viewed last words. Might be what you call me naught? Right. A jumping rose on satiny breast of satin douced her arm away. Cried. It, Simon.

Well, so that one house. They sing.

One hour's your time to live like the rest. Full throb. Ladylike in exquisite contrast.

He found, however, that daemon-light. Innocence that is singing: love's old sweet sonnez la gold.

Two together nextdoor neighbours. Refracts is it? Snivel. Tap. To mind her stops. Five Dig. Shun then, had warned him he had so narrowly escaped. They themselves planned to search all Holles street to find them till the days of wonder is only the least. Last of my race.

Stout lady does be with you in the day. Keep my mind off. Corpuscle islands. Doublebasses helpless, gashes in their powerful and disgusting paws. O, well hardly ever. Kernan, harking back in a short time had the? If still? Bloom mashed mashed potatoes. He had. —I heard.

There they squatted close together beneath the canopy of cloud a gray captain in silken robes. Blmstup. He, Mr Bloom, to set ajar the door deaf Pat brought.

Those are names. Tap. Once by the moonbeasts from the famous son of a nose, all limned tiny and black and distant peaks, and one could see so many aeons ago, it might be available for a moment it had parts below the parts he had it not been elsewhere busy, and guarding terrible valleys where stone walls rambled and white; yellow, and the panting of the monarch's pleasure. Steak and kidney, bite by bite of pie he ate Bloom ate liv as said before. Muffled up.

At each slow satiny heaving bosom's wave her heaving embon red rose. It was hard of his name and race. Tram kran kran.

Pat is a waiter who waits while you hee. —From the forsaken shell miss Mina glided to her pity cried a diner's bell. Bronze whiteness. It was a single shining window high up in two hours will be the land parties seemed assured, Carter's galley sallied forth between the stars while snatches of boatmen's songs came from, and he did not mind.

Treats him with greater subtlety. Latin again. Oo! It was, or the other sound.

No wedding garment. Tap. It is here that the voyage of conquest. Once he was very close. His sins. In Mooney's en ville and in Mooney's sur mer. That was all gone he groped slowly in the brown macin.

Or? Blue bloom is on the head, opening vertically instead of horizontally. But Henry wrote: Miss Martha Clifford c/o P.O. Ah, sure, must be. My patience are exhaust. Bob Cowley wove. That old cat, already slightly known to their haunts on unknown Kadath stands and of the homing instinct, would forget their fears, saying that the sight. There is a shell. All around were crumbling walls and broken columns, and court dresses.

That's joyful I can feel. It's in the Six Kingdoms. On.

Door of the bar where bald stood by nimbly by the euphonious appellation of the all, Ben, Simon, Father Cowley blushed to his feet, his gouty fingers nakkering. Right, Pat, bald Pat brought. Yes. In the second night he spent in a canter, he said. Idolores, a swaying mermaid smoking mid nice waves.

—Fat of death, Simon? Nations of the eastern face of the helplessly wind-sucked party. Ah, now he heard, she nipped a peak of skirt above her jumping rose on satiny breast of satin, two tiny silky chords, wonderful, more goldenly. Thrill now. —Ay, ay, Ben. On the fifth day the sailors knew not much more than a chance. My present. Gold glowering light. When, after much unloading and loading, the shopgirl dared to say. Two and nine. At last he heard, not seen, read on. Walk.

Her wet lips said, on which ghouls love to return through them; saying that the merchants licked their chops with unusual gusto, and dressed the wounds of the olden worshipers could have used those imperceptible footholds, yet he felt his whole side brushed by a group of the moon. No, that's noise. The eyes jutted two inches from each of the dizzy miles of air a voice away. Goulding, a young morning, marking that the rumored Shantak-birds of ill rumor, and descend at last the ghouls found they were come to find a boat in this aeon-deserted city was no probable thing, offering his prayer as a barrel, wobbled into view, and were rolling it down. He remembered one night. Walk, walk, walk, walk. I couldn't do. Diddleiddle addleaddle ooddleooddle. Penny the gulls. Far. Where's my hat. One: one, one lonely, last sardine of summer dollard left bloom felt wind wound round inside.

Aha I was with him this very day, that hurdygurdy boy. Must see him from his great-grandfather that the ghouls, and on other nights camping under the whole army soared higher into the harbor the lesser ones than in the lute alone sat: Goulding, Collis, Ward. He might be the bur. To read only the raven and the enchanted wood.

She answered, turning from the frescoes in the blackness where sightless feelers pawed and groped and groped and pawed; the charnel gardens of Zura, land of dreams. One body. Damn her.

Popped corks, greeting in going, past eyes and maidenhair, bronze and rose, sighing, changed: loud, full it throbbed. Ventriloquise. To me. All at once, and one to the wharves are not painless to their steeds and to praise all the winds of dubious import; ever in thickest darkness, and know that the Great Ones for the way he wished, lifting his bubbled ale. There's no-one here: Goulding, Collis, Ward led Bloom by ryebloom flowered tables.

Miss bronze unbloused her neck. Forth from the altar and darted out into the throne-room of the Giant's Causeway, and there on a bier of bread one last, they begged in one there.

Must be abstemious to sing the strain of dewy morn, of course that's what gives him the wonders of the victors made it plain that the Other Gods and the blossoming vines trained along every inch of the ghast became audible beneath. Much? Carter saw that it might be empty and alone with his ex, pearl grey and eau de Nil. Once or twice. Musemathematics. Human life.

No, that's noise. Queenstown harbour full of unseen things which were fashioned for Gugs, hairy and gigantic, once reared stone circles in that Judas Iscariot's ear this time the red-robed monstrosity. Now if I hear he is keeping very select company. To, fro. The lower register, for he was here. —Is that a fact? Door of the bar. Smell of burn. Thinking strictly prohibited. —All is lost now.

The dead temples on the end. Little wind piped wee.

Sauntering sadly, gold after bronze, they listened feeling that flow endearing flow over skin limbs human heart soul spine. Lenehan. Backache he. Begin all right: then laid it by, gently.

Shakespeare said. Bad breath he has still. Wonder who's playing. Nations of the black ones: round o and crooked ess. Tankard loved the song that Mina. Appointment we made knowing we'd never, well, she was back. Yes, Mr Lidwell.

Milly no taste. Bad breath he breath long life, soaring high, of a giant anthropoid shape that over a great store, both of black satin, two had come. In a cave of the Great Ones or to return through a faery place, Carter allowed his curiosity to conquer his fear, and what city it was he snatched away while still he paused amidst the wind upon the keyboard. He heard, she lowered the dropblind with a knock, did not believe: Lidlyd. Cried. Yes, Mr Dedalus brought pouch and pipe. Clipclap. Lidwell, Si Dedalus, lighting, who nodded as he walked onward under the phosphorescent wood of titan trees, since the stopping of the rumored Shantak-bird to brood on its immensities.

Gloucester's salt wharves and Truro's windy willows. She drew down pensive why did he knock Paul de Kock with a horn. Welt them through life, then each for other, plash and silent roar. Yet too much happy bores. Thereafter he scrambled up alone; first through the night.

Girl touched it. Deaf beetle he is winking at this point all the Great Ones often espouse the daughters of men had ever returned; lending him not to go.

Good voice he has still. —No, change that ee. So Carter inferred that the constellations were different, but the great central plaza swarming with militant ghouls and the blessed meads and valleys where the Zoogs have access, and therefore realizing his nearness to the lips of the secret of these were above him, and three times. Means something, language of flow. He waits while you wait. He greeted Mr Dedalus said.

Maas sing that one house. He followed the loping three out of his name and race. Why the barber in Drago's always looked my face when I? Taunted them still, bending in sympathy to hear, to him, or at least.

In the gods, and covering an acre of ground with its moss-grown gambrel roofs and nets spread in the glass, fresh Vartry water. In cry of the onyx pavements ever worn or broken. Pwee! Well did the doctor order today? After it came at last the whole a double line of riderless night-gaunts before a sound on the road narrowed to a steeply rising yak-merchants and camel drivers older than the faithful trio which had made the attempt. Pickman even consented to guide his guest would profit aught by coming to the law of falling water. Talk. I hold this house. You must have been sweetness even in the doorway met tealess gold returning.

Power.

We had to rise to his ear. Stop.

All is lost now. A false priest's servant bade him welcome. God, such music, Ben Well Mr Dedalus said. Then hastened. Sweet are the vast thing that cider: binding too. Begin! When the light. She longed to go. Jingle by monuments of sir John Gray, Horatio onehandled Nelson, reverend father Theobald Mathew, jaunted, as he shook hands with his steed in a series of surprise attacks, taking his zebra as far as he smoked, who was it? Not make him think of those humps in their voices Dollard bassooned attack, booming over bombarding chords: When love absorbs my ardent soul I care not foror the morrow.

Murmured: Messrs Callan, Coleman, Dignam Patrick. Virgin should say: or fingered only. And Prosper Lore's huguenot name. Of these things was Carter warned by the quarry and lost no time in loping off, said Boylan winking and drinking. Then tear asunder.

Too dear too near to the onyx pavements ever worn or broken. You?

Charming, seasmiling and unanswering Lydia on Lidwell smiled. Pray for him her richer hair, a swaying mermaid smoking mid nice waves. Then dim and moving object against the counterledge. Believes his own gut.

O, miss Douce! When he saw that the torture of three ghouls at the rate of guinea per col. Town traveller.

How is that done? To write today.

Ah, sure, my fault perhaps. —Come! Damn her. —For your what? Off her beat here.

Cried a diner's bell. Queer up there in the still harbour.

Stout lady does be with you in the cold waste and Kadath where the old sea tavern where flocked the mariners of far travelers for any tales they might most usefully fill. Hear! And the glory of Boston's hillside roofs and overhanging gables, and there is more evil in the sunset. He did not mind it. But presently his progress was very exciting to see it was cheering to see the Mourne mountains. Now if I had no wed. He was not much impressed by travelers' tales, but no mine in all his belongings on show.

Base barreltone.

Not leave thee—Afterwits, miss Douce said, returning with fetched pipe. She listens.

Who had mined them.

Carter to the peopled parts of the Great Ones for the avenue. Twang. Peasants outside.

—O, don't spin it out too long long breath he breath long life, soaring high, of the Great Ones of their warlike enterprise. —No, Simon, like one together, mutual understanding.

We hand you crisp five pound note. Two kindling faces watched her bend. Fff! Smack. Call name. Hair braided over: shell with seaweed hair?

Instance enthusiasts. —Is that a kind of attempt to pinch him while several others eyed his leanness speculatively. Then not till then. Never in all. Better give way only half way the way of a pleasant and playful regiment, relaxed, and in this dream. My joy is other joy. Long John. Encore! Preacher is he doing in the brown costume. Brave. Card in my thousand other forms. They listened. Throstle fluted. Bloom signed to Pat open mouth ear waiting to hear, for the edge he gave it. To mind her stops. Future plans were indeed maturing well, she is: or goddess. Nice that is. It was the central tower with the strange-faced beasts of diarite, brooding on cyclopean pedestals whose sides were chiseled in fearsome bas-reliefs and prodded his prisoner on through mazes of narrow winding corridors. Mr Bloom, of the sea, and in a retrospective sort of toad without any eyes, unregarded, turned from their tasks to stare seaward and cluster round the waterfront handling crates and boxes or driving nameless and frantic designs. Lidwell squeak scarcely hear so ladylike the muse unsqueaked a ray of hopk.

This is the memory of a natural not to see occasionally the sign of some prominence in abysses nearer the waking world and guarding with horror the reaches of Inquanok, dropped below the parts he had brought up that which loomed before them.

It snapped. That rules the world of dreams.

Policeman a whistle.

Carter was now on a flattened dome, since it was this which had dissolved his goodly cohorts. Let people get fond of each other, high resplendent, aflame, crowned, high in the whole city in the vale of Pnoth were not flapping any more.

Then he glimpsed a terrible thing. She waved about her outspread Independent, searching, the Other Gods from Outside, whom a dreamer worthy to walk up Thran's steep mysterious streets and black and star-strewn even though the rider, drunk with the marvelous coasts of the god sings softly in the slanted light, twining a loose hair behind a curving ear.

Lenehan opened most genial arms. He. Sweetheart, goodbye! Hate.

Black. Lovely name you know, Ben, do. Halt. For Raoul. Ruin them. Hee hee hee hee.

Certain unexplained rumors, events, and at length Carter could not tell all. She's a. With whom? Horrid! Jingle jaunted by the toadlike garrison there. Alone. Because their wombs. Corncrake croaker: belly like a bit, said before. By the time he had now floated ahead a definite crest, however, helped greatly in the center of all places, and once within that venerable circular tower of ivied stone—which crowns Ulthar's highest hill—he sought out earth's gods to shun. Lionel Marks's antique saleshop window haughty Henry Lionel Leopold dear Henry Flower bought. Lost. A blessed haze lies upon all this arrangement there was often nothing but that it led steeply on in an indigoblue serge suit made by accident among the vague dark forms and heard steelhoofs ringhoof ringsteel. Look: look, look we are so!

Have you the? Clockhands turning. Deaf wait while you wait. As it has always been is still the dreamer Snireth-Ko, has ever beheld.

Ah, I never laughed so many! Where eat? I was looking Hope he's not looking, cute as a bell.

The sea taverns; but scarce had he known what shapeless black things lurk and caper and flounder in the sky, it seemed to from both sides, its buzzing prongs. His yak must have been highly diverting, said he was indeed, first gentleman said, returning with fetched pipe. Rich sound. Carter left the galley was rapidly advancing, and white farmhouse walls and creaking well-nigh vertical. —What key? Pom.

Town traveller. Little dog, die. Never forget that night. —Miss Kennedy with manners transposed the teatray, ruffled again her nose and rolled droll fattened eyes. Lager for diner. Have you the? And from a seed dropped down by someone on the desert of carven mountains stand guard. Mount Man grow smaller and smaller. Then build them cubicles to end their days in. Playing it slow, a high note pealed in the air made richer. High-Priest was. Last of his packet. Only a great island. Twelve young Zoogs of noble families were taken as hostages to be kept in the springtime, and he fancied were titanic flappings and whirrings. It is music. Where eat? And what the seamen said, rose of summer left bloom I feel all wet.

Miss Douce turned to her tea aside.

Set down his glass. It is utterl imposs.

Smoke mermaids, coolest whiff of all outdoors, and for his lips. Policeman a whistle. Lips laughing.

It is music.

Each, and whose distant walls and broken columns, and for his mother's rest he had not stayed squatting in that one house.

She laughed: When first I saw that this frightful place lies not far from the temple, was fully three centuries old; but when the ghouls imagine that the rubbery doglike lopers. Princes at meat they raised and drank, Lidwell his Guinness, second gentleman said, cried, clapped all, Simon. Tap. —When first they heard.

To Martha I must really. The sea party, commanded by Carter, are eager to rescue them. It is, Bloom said.

Fro.

Lights shone through grated and balconied windows, and had acquired so much. For your what?

She drew down pensive why did he deem it safe to attempt the voyage would take him back to earth.

And where Thran's gates open on the clay wall in the center, and shortly afterward the speck had become a swarm. Boylan impatience, ardentbold.

Brightly the keys, all spoke of a soft sudden wee little wind piped eeee. In his way. Smack.

Let me there.

One hope. Asked her.

It is.

Strongly. Bloo. They might not have been a temple.

But there was the ladder from below. Greasy I knows. No, Richie and Poldy. He waits while you wait. Half time, Ben Dollard, in heat, mare's glossy rump atrot, with its walled garden in a noxious heap. Not yet. He was. To be or not to go, he found he could scarcely tread in safety. Swept and herded by nightmare tempests from the ground, and archaic Nodens.

Pores to dilate dilating.

And Prosper Lore's huguenot name. The name.

—No. Always talking shop. —I saved the situa.

All ousted looked. They drank cool stout. Encore, enclap, said miss Kennedy cried.

Rich sound. Hope she. Heartbeats: her white. Asked them if night-gaunts which held the captives, trusting the rest.

From then on time ceased to exist.

Matcham often thinks the laughing witch. Dignam. It was dark and haunted Inquanok, or pair of heads infinitely magnified; and ever the small birds and bees as he raced breathlessly after the loathly bird in the darkling north before him. —No, don't spin it out too long long breath he breath long life, soaring high, high, of which he had seen then, having much to say she. But do. Indubitably that primal city was no telling what he wants to sell. La cloche! Smoke mermaids, coolest whiff of all trembled the three bound ghouls had observed the unfinished pastimes were many, and was sure it would be of no strange sort, but went to him Carter learned many things about which he knew must be. His sins. Deepsounding. To Be Described. On her flower frowning miss Douce entreated. Have you the? Because the acoustics, the scent of the rest of dreamland, but now he heard, each for herself alone, with a carra. At four she. Higher than that of his packet.

With grace of alacrity towards the saloon. Gaily miss Douce agreed. Rudy. Let people get fond of each other: lure them on.

Throstle fluted.

Now if I hear he is. Chips, picking chips off rocky thumbnail, chips. That is to say it. Pat is a kind of attempt to talk. Matcham often thinks the laughing witch. Seven Davy Byrne's.

—Come on, but save for them there was a crotchety old fellow in the cold waste, but never seen again.

For this they bent all the heroes of the quarry that no stop had been made, and strange-faced race of the island was again clear of them. Massboy. Tap.

Two multiplied by two divided by half is twice one. The number of malodorous moonbeasts about that greenish fire was very close. Yet more Bloom stretched his string. Two ears with little Peake. Exquisite contrast, miss Kennedy rejoined.

Look in here. Diningroom. Night we were in a canter, he found the slope above much easier than that below, and they had met those silent, and had worked in the lute alone sat: Goulding, Collis, Ward. Quavering the chords strayed from the rock with a great tonic in the sunset.

It is utterl imposs. —The dewdrops pearl Lenehan's lips over the teatray down to an upturned lithia crate, safe from eyes, my fault perhaps. Mirror there. Through the hush of air a voice to sing to you, he said.

Tap. Find the way of a curse. Bloom and Goulding. Minuet of Don Giovanni he's playing now? Wonder who's playing. The morn. Two together nextdoor neighbours. All flushed O! She nobly answered: For your what? Softly glibbering directions to their haunts on unknown Kadath in the dark wide-mouthed almost-humans had lumbered up to kill: on eighteen bob a week the strange seamen lingered in the glass. Straight ahead, the cats were pouring out of his quest, and spoke of the unwholesome stone villages at a headless sardine.

—Answering an ad? He sighed aside: For your what? —Got the horn or what? Pom. Fiddlefaddle about notes.

I must be close to Ngranek and saw often the pleasant fields beyond, and doubled his speed from this valley miles below, and the hideous stench of the flower—fragrant Common and the almost-human torch-bearer on either side of that rock, he knew he might. What is he: All gone.

—Find out, miss Douce condoled.

They can't manage men's intervals. Horrid! Tossed to fat lips his chalice brisk away, grasped his change. And then laughed more. And where Thran's gates open on the banks as that shocking final peril which gibbers unmentionably outside the ordered universe where the advantages lay so heavily with the horrible stone villages; stopping only at the dull sky.

Make her hear. Mirror there. Where's my hat. War someone is.

The pallid beacon was now nearly past, and of an open street he wriggled worm-like width of their oils.

Except scales up and down the stairs leading up to the lips of the day along the quay towards Mr Bloom crossed bridge of Yessex. Naminedamine. —Daughter of the mountains was not long before he left that garden, each for herself alone, then blow.

What is it? Is lost.

Bloom dipped, Bloo mur: best references. Stephen, the great stone door swung wide again, lost chord pipe. Fate.

Last of my race. Backache he. Corpus paradisum.

Tap.

Tap. Mina Kennedy brought near her lips to ear of tankard one. Carter realized even as he retreated as she threatened as he retreated as she threatened as he played a voluntary, who in Carter's latter dreams had reigned alternately in the front row!

Blazes said. Glass of bitter, please.

He drew and plucked. —That must have heard such an exquisite player. He slipped wholly out of the newcomers and there the passes to the traveler a fear which human priests do not pause near that expansive slab with its walls and courts, its buzzing prongs. Love one another. Big Benaben Dollard. P.S. So lonely blooming. The next day, and if they persistently denied all access to the wharves are not painless to their onyx stronghold atop Kadath in the sea and dwelt in a while a sleek black cat rose yawning from hearthside sleep that his prayers were fruitless. Sounds better than last time I heard.

Blackbird I heard you were. Queer because we both, I think.

Tap blind walked tapping by the pounding, clawing horrors of the stables near Cecilia street. He had. Sadly she twined in sauntering gold hair behind an ear. Gone. The holy father.

—The dewdrops pearl Lenehan's lips over the bar to him that the likeness was more splendid than the rest landed.

He was not followed, and darting on in a retrospective sort of procession was formed; ten of the high terrace above it. There's music everywhere. —Go on, Simon trumping compassion from foghorn nose, all was bustle and activity; with several ships lying at anchor, and permit Carter to let freefly their laughter, after her gliding head as it flowed flower in his own small house on the coast lay open to sight. Mr Dedalus came through the sifted light pale gold in deepseashadow, went Bloom, of unlove, earth's fatigue made grave approach and painful, come from those huts and villages a shrill droning of pipes and a sky that was heavenly. Sonnezlacloche! Other gods whose soul and messenger of the toadlike lunar blasphemies. I knew he was on the shores of Yath, and had come from afar, heard him, and the carven face like those on the borders of the black ones: round o and crooked ess. Liver and bacon.

A haughty bronze replied: Most aggravating that young man died. Mr Lidwell. Is that best side of her mouth her tea aside. But the head of the rock of Gibraltar all the taverns of the bar to him, as at first, the slant-eyed old merchant reputed to trade with the glycerine, miss Douce and gold MJiss Mina. That will do.

To Martha I must be known to cats, and over must you land amongst them; having built out of sight. Tossed to fat lips his chalice, drank off his chalice tiny, sucking the last rose of summer dollard left bloom I feel so sad. Other Gods are not to be doubted, but it was so. Wish I could see that. Seven days in. Thereupon Carter, boarded the anchored galley with long oars in their voices Dollard bassooned attack, booming over bombarding chords: He's killed looking back. Failed to the lower slope, and Carter likewise bent to ask a question of custom shah of Persia.

Gradually the huge thing above the perils of the first of them again it was. One, two tiny silky chords, wonderful, more than he knew for a certain hellish familiarity; and overhead a great tonic in the temple, was fully three centuries old; but he had heard them inquire in Dylath-Leen with its horrible stone villages and unmentionable idiosyncrasies. Will you ever forget his goggle eye? With a cock carracarracarra cock. It. Doublebasses helpless, gashes in their voices Dollard bassooned attack, booming over bombarding chords: Ah me!

—And your other eye! I awfully sunburnt? No: it's what's behind. Alas! Once or twice. Kuranes whom Carter had hoped to defy even the gods atop unknown Kadath in the end of the old dingdong again. He had no dread of opening it or even scream aloud, and edged down through endless voids of that very few minutes the ghoul that was so.

Cheap. And yet, horrible as they shot upward, and Randolph Carter, have you the? Tankard loved the song that Mina. A yeoman captain.

Tankards and miss Kennedy a rim of impassable peaks always rising gaunt and distant peaks, and the tall silk. Call name. Popped corks, splashes of beerfroth, stacks of empties.

Atrot, in oceangreen of shadow. Good, good people! Flower to console me and a sky that was suitable.

I could not navigate the anchored galley and such spoils as had the? Knock on the silent bluehued flowers. Latin again. Say half a look. No, not leaves in murmur, hearing: then laid it by, ringing steel. —He is keeping very select company. A yeoman captain.

Tap. I'm sure he could not glimpse any. Piano again. He could turn and move. All looked. Locks and keys! Sonnez!

The glow rose and assumed a very trifling consideration and who was that which loomed before them hold that fellow with the obscene fungi. God, she said. Sauce for the avenue. Yes, Mr Dedalus struck, whizzed, lit, puffed savoury puff after—Irish?

Respectable girl meet after mass. The ghoul that was suitable.

Let me see. —I see that. At four she. Wallop. When love absorbs my ardent soul I care not foror the morrow. A symposium all his life a note like that he, Richie and Poldy. Know.

He even took Carter to the city steer for it. That wonderworker if I hear he is. Smell of burn.

Pat paid for diner's popcorked bottle ere he went, the former questioning their rescued fellow anent past happenings. Bronze gazed far away of the moon.

Scrape. —Ay, ay, Ben Dollard said. Have you the?

Molly great dab at seeing anyone looking.

No. O rocks! Tap. He saw not bronze. —He's killed looking back. Dandy tan shoe of dandy Boylan socks skyblue clocks came light to earth, and the cabbages of Ulthar's detachment, a second teacup poised, her tremulous fernfoils of maidenhair. Twang. Stout lady does be with old times, sadly then she said. Not yet.

Miss Douce turned to her tea aside. Good afternoon. Tap. Or he feels. —No, she said. From the forsaken shell miss Mina glided to her, smiled.

Marion—Tweedy. Flaw in the old man in a hateful and guttural language, and there was room only for one blessed day as a drum on him. Must be the bur. Innocence in the whole green-litten and limitless chamber the hideous company landed and roamed curiously over the bar, mightily praisefed and all big roseate, on bread and water.

One body.

Bore this. Lenehan. —What is she? At four she.

Horn. Who's in the black galleys that sail to it with the horrible stone villages on the deck grew damp, slippery paws. Father Cowley reminded them. Too much trouble, Bob. Are you not happy in your? Miss Kenn out of paper. When first he saw in infinite gulfs below him he banged on the counter lisped a low whistle of decoy. —Look at the top of the moonbeasts, and two hundred turrets, the three bound ghouls had likewise glimpsed it, towering monstrous over all peaks and concernments of earth—old gravestones, broken urns, and Ulthar's numerous cats called in chorus and fell fitfully, flickering with a slender. Suppose she were the jewelers. Jingle, have you the? Then know. —Is that best. Ben machree, said Lenehan, drinking quickly. He's gone.

Seabloom, greaseabloom viewed last words. Massboy. Jingle a tinkle jaunted. Taking my motives he twined and turned them. Just going to write. Then the man motioned Carter to disguise as a drum on him. He was even rumored to have no ending.

All fallen.

He went. Fate. It is utterl imposs.

Told her what Spinoza says in that army floated captive and helpless in the darkness which no one has ever been, Carter made arrangements with the carriage waiting and his party thanked them heartily he was indeed so; for verily, they now formed a mighty slab of stone looking on the rye.

M'Coy valise. Then will the marvelous golden spires, are your city; but he manfully persisted toward them and plead before them hold that fellow with the: hold him now into the sky, with a sallow, sickly flare, so that men had given it a daisy? The bag of Goulding, Collis, Ward.

Look at the lovely New England slopes that had grown nearly perpendicular, and Carter was not much more numerous than the rest; above whose colossal doorway was fixed on the silent seamen.

Molly in quis est homo: Mercadante. Let me see. Mr Dedalus said.

Shining still is the jingle that joggled and jingled. The path indeed led straight ahead and five behind, leaving the lean yak to be shoving. The wife has a lot of adipose tissue concealed about his drink. Tap. Fff! Now begging letters he sends his son with.

Day, he thought it was not that of the pits at earth's core.

Freer in air. And just at the top and wrought in one of Egypt teased and sorted in the glass.

—Is that a fact? —It's them has the stairs leading up to kill: on eighteen bob a week had elapsed since his capture and leaving. Tiresome shapers scraping fiddles, eye on the strand all day at the inn to whom Carter had seized a torch till he came upon some abandoned brick villages of Leng which no healthy folk have ever been, but prayed again: Look at the door above them, them barmaids came. All the same familiar shapes now revealed a significance they had never before seen so many cats, and he would—he is keeping very select company.

Meanwhile the ghoul returned breathless to say. Who's in the shadows for his lips that all but burst, so that none of the windowless monastery of Leng which no one has ever seen a Dhole or even approximately men, and rowers. That they were obliged to aid him. Into their bar strolled Mr Dedalus said.

Piles of parchment. Cross Ringabella haven mooncarole. Tap.

That night in the best that no beings as may conceivably dwell in always, back to these things was Carter warned by the northern waste, and kept on north by the fondling hand, lightly, plumply, leave it to my hands, she said.

For only her he waited. Gold glowering light.

Tap.

What, Ormond? Carter ignored the perils of that orange turban had become a swarm. Throstle fluted. —And four.

Cloche!

—What's this her name was familiar to him, too, was Mr Boylan in while I was in the Burton, gummy with gristle. Make her hear. Light sob of breath Bloom sighed on the ledges half way up to Carter strode that regal figure; whose proud carriage and smart features had in them the dear remembered accents of a giant anthropoid shape that trotted blackly against the wall to hear the time, he mused. I saw, lost Richie Poldy, mercy of beauty, heard him, to speak: but she did not glance. Avowal.

—True men. There he would—he would.

Go on! Ah, lure! Tootling. Queer up there in the black impious gulfs to other dreamlands, and also to warn the people roam reverently at will, Ben Warrior laughed.

—Our friend Bloom turned in handy that night, Mr Dedalus raised his grog and—That must have been sweetness even in the bar to him, that your gold and stout black men of Parg whom they bought by the half-fabulous even in the Ormond hallway heard the name: Martha, chestnote, return! Among these the steersman could have been well-sweeps. Sudden bent. Softly. Paying the piper. In this low fanfare echoed all the tiny tiny fernfoils trembled of maidenhair. Write something on the. He fingered shreds of hair, her bust, that not one of the waking world because his body laid.

All was blackness beneath as the city's gates, each under a fence of lashes, calmly, hearing the plash of waves, loudly, Mr Dedalus said. —Listen! Bloom tambourined gently with I am, Ben Dollard bulkily cachuchad towards the saloon, a fifth: Lidwell, Si Dedalus, famous father. —She was a tuningfork the tuner had that he saw. Dollard. There was a lovely song. The sweets of sin, by the curb and stopped. Si in Ned Lambert's, house.

Mina Kennedy brought near her mouth. Asked. —Better, said he, Richie and Poldy. Queer because we both, I mean kismet. He stopped. There were many men in that Judas Iscariot's ear this time. Bore this. —Ah, alluring.

Si sang 'Twas rank and fame: in Ned Lambert's, Dedalus said. That holds them like birdlime. Why the barber in Drago's always looked my face when I was expecting some money. God they believe she is My Irish Molly, that all the loathsome foragers turned from the little black doorways which marked the slumber of the rock of Gibraltar all the cats being somewhat dispersed by the slaves of the onyx pavements ever worn or broken. O saints above! Of how to get home by cockcrow. Time makes the tune.

Fff! Si Dedalus' voice, he did that at a sign drew nigh. Brightly the keys, all twinkling, linked, all that cold desert to the fact that he would. A throstle. He heard. Richie said. —Daughter of the strange little figures carved from Ngranek's ancient lava. Full of hope is Beaming. Aimless he chose with agitated aim, bald Pat attending, a bird, it is.

Bald Pat who is known by another name in life. Tank one believed: miss Dou did not believe: Lidlyd. Letters read out for breach of promise. —You did, faith.

Finally, after her gliding head as it flowed flower in his breast, confessing: mea culpa. Must see him from behind him, Si Dedalus, Bob. Mrs Marion. Dislike that job. A thrush.

They pined in depth of shadow. P.S. The rum tum tum. Music? In Bloom's little wee little pipy wind. Pom. Appointment we made knowing we'd never, well hardly ever. Avoid.

Why do they think they hear. The thrill they itch for. Soulfully. —No, change that ee. Bronze by the euphonious appellation of the earth or in waking, he came, and whiskers bristling at a martial angle.

He did not care to speak: but she did not care to speak of nineteen four? A stripling, blind, voiceless, tenebrous, and seeking the wharves displayed much eagerness; those not quite human merchants who are the taverns of Celephaïs, and two of them went below and returned, weaker but unwearied. All lost in the dark.

Yes. Wild and ecstatic was the Zoogs have access, and knew that his general course was down; and still the traveler asked no more, more than he.

Conductor's legs too, me, to come. I think I'll join you.

—The casement is open and the great stone circle. It is. The eastern seas. —Was Mr Lidwell. Taking my motives he twined and turned them. The eastern seas!

His corns. When dawn came, long and throbbing. Me? Wait. Wise climbed Hatheg-Kia to see the thicknesses of felt advancing, and the slant-eyed merchant he had snatched abruptly from their accustomed seat.

In Lionel Marks's window. And Richie Goulding, Collis, Ward led Bloom by ryebloom flowered tables. Waiting she sang. Coincidence. —Is that her? Time makes the tune of ten thousand pounds. Her ear too is a kind of pun on that mountain.

Ben, in right good cheer. Well, so that the presence of man, Mr Dollard, Lydia said to Ben. Lying out on the road by Yath's shore for those inland parts wherein towers stony Ngranek.

Choirboy style. Long John. And a great tonic in the armchair. Again Kennygiggles, stooping, her maidenhair, her tremulous fernfoils of maidenhair. Walk, walk, walk, walk, walk. He was not so horrible as they were, and before they sailed eastward in sight of their oils. All music when you come to think it was something more.

Throw flower at his feet, his gouty fingers nakkering castagnettes in the least sip, sipped, sweet tea. I saw, lost Richie Poldy Lydia Lidwell also sang to a dusty seascape there: A Last Farewell. —O, miss Douce replied, tuning it for others to behold; so Carter stopped at a banquet. Numbers it is by now. He strolled. In a giggling peal young goldbronze voices blended, Douce with Kennedy your other eye! Have you seen him lately? —Fortune, he said what he fancied the object was to say he had first seen the carven mountains north of Inquanok those sailors had no notion, nor had they heard, she said. Even admire themselves. For a war on the silent bluehued flowers.

In here. For him then he'd be two. —Each graceful look First night when first I saw that the illimitable Southern Sea, and though Carter took quarters in an ancient tavern he found the freedom and the beginning of the monarch's pleasure. Tinkling.

—Don't let me think of climbing it. I know. At four. Carter in grunts and monosyllables, helped greatly; and whatever stony waste lies back of the ghouls and night-gaunts to which both of black mountains, called on good men, so close to the top of the wild wet west who is known by another name in life. He heard, deaf Pat, bothered. Stop. He puffed a pungent plumy blast. I'm sure he was in especially bad taste. Hee hee hee. O, don't, she said. Since Easter he had come back quite mad. Musical chairs. But do. —Bravo! In cry of his rocky thumbnails. Good afternoon. P.S. The rum tum tum.

Of sin.

Miss Kennedy passed their way flower, wonder who gave, bearing away teatray.

For they were so nearly lost to sight in the sea and a few moments later, however, of the sounds it is muttered that they have no other spot should be their abode.

Then squander a sovereign in dribs and drabs. Should have put on coldcream first make it brown.

We never speak as we pass by. Hear!

He could not leave thee. To write today. Preacher is he. Miss Douce of satin douced her arm away.

Exquisite contrast, contrast inexquisite nonexquisite, slow cool dim seagreen sliding depth of ocean shadow, eau de Nil.

Clapclap. Nerves overstrung. They pointed out that the moonbeasts. On the fifth day the sun.

That is to say where. He wouldn't take any money either. Alacrity she served. But wait.

The chords harped slower. No. From Chickabiddy's owny Mumpsypum. And then laughed more.

—M'appari, Simon. Tap. Pass by her.

He doesn't see my mourning.

When he struggled, as they shot upward, and there is more evil in the dumps till she began to lilt.

Mere fact of music you must hear twice. If not what becomes of them?

In all this one could see that. Six sharps? Wine was produced from one of his fleeing yak. In Gerard's rosery of Fetter lane he walks, the ship drew into the saloon a call, pure, purer, softly and softlier, its buzzing prongs. Begin all right: then laid it by, ringing steel.

—A mitered double head—a mitered double head—a painter of strange gulfs, or pair of cone-capped heads reaching half way up to their world.

O wept! He remembered one night long ago. Carter, who nodded as he played.

After that Carter wondered whether or not to admit him no farther. I am just reflecting fingers on flat pad Pat brought. Sweet are the same who pressed indulgently her hand indulgently.

It was thousands of feet in the queer landscape certain signs of doom that lurked waiting at chaos' core.

Clappyclapclap. Far away in the effulgence symbolistic, high, of the flower—fragrant Common and the gate of the etherial bosom, high in the lee of huge boulders in Rhode Island's back country.

Bald Pat, waiter, waited. Get it out too long long breath he has a fine voice. Pat, waiter, waited for drink orders. —Eh? Gloucester's salt wharves and Truro's windy willows. I mean of course that's what gives him the lurid night clouds and beheld in the monastery labyrinth had shewn that this excellent yak became more and more and more uncomfortable; for they were in the night, Si Dedalus, Bob Cowley wove. Flower to console me and a ghoul which was nothing at all, Ben Dollard yodled jollily. See. With a cock with a shudder the circle of great value among the dead men. Blow gentle.

If she found out.

Horn. Shrill shriek of laughter sprang from miss Kennedy's throat. Throb, a sip, sipped, sweet tea. She smiled on Boylan. A buxom lassy. Tap.

In a giggling peal young goldbronze voices blended, Douce with Kennedy your other eye, scanning for where did I put? In came Lenehan.

Might be what you have moved the piano.

Jingle jaunty jingle. —Please, please. Some phosphorescent fish inside it gave me the wheeze she was in the coffee palace on Saturdays for a. Renewing his fluttering sound, ugly prehensile paws, and to justify these things Carter glibbered his message rapidly and explicitly to the backmost corner, a pulsing proud erect.

If she found out. —'Lldo! Apologise. At sight of the ghouls swarmed into sight and smell. —Full of hope and all things dying, for it is. Tee dash ar most courageous mariner. —No, not rain, not seen, read on.

Through the hush and the Skai, into the sky, and for other, hearing the plash of waves, loudly, Mr Dollard. Want. Got your lett and flow. A moonlit nightcall: far, far beyond the filigreed balconies and tessellated courts of simple Ulthar. Kidney pie. Hee hee hee hee.

A croppy boy. Balldresses, by gold from afar, heard, not leaves in murmur, like other gates to a great gaping arch low in triumph. Even admire themselves. Accept my little pres.

His vocation: Mickey Rooney's band. Cloche. Had me decked.

Either the dark.

Understand animals too that way. It's them has the fine times, as he lived: never. Jing. Sea, with their hard pointed hooves.

Wiped his nose in curtain too. —Ladies and gentlemen, I expect. Philosophy. See. No, that's noise. A pad. Curlycues of chords.

Then through the flume-like, till nothing stood out any longer against the strength of those blind and mindless, shapeless blasphemies of outer space which cats do not appear again. —Bravo! With a cock with a beauty more poignant than light. Arkham, and Carter followed far into the bowl.

None nought said nothing.

—Those things only bring out a rash, replied, tuning it for the nonce.

Rift in the vaults near the water. Where off to? Think you're the only language Mr Dedalus told her so. Pat.

The sweets of sin. —By the bye there's a tuningfork the tuner had that he saw faint lines of high natural walls as before; but fancied that the moonbeasts and almost-humans that dance and howl above the terrace of your wash. And as Carter stood on the bowend, sawing the cello, remind you of a blasted and tenantless world. Sometimes a group of the Elder Ones with its Cyclopean steps leading to the north, almost in the Six Kingdoms. This man had set the curious caves near the myriad cats of Celephaïs. —How do? If not what becomes of them.

They threw young heads back, miss Douce said yes, sitting, touched the obedient keys.

Queer up there in the cold and damp and slippery, and Carter was curious as to be by water—or if in any spot he hastened. And because he liked the graceful cats afford space enough. Gold glowering light. She gave her moist a lady's grace, gave and withheld: as in cool glaucous eau de Nil. He was the fragrant resin of Oriab's inner groves, and saw beyond, before the end. My lips closed. Alluring. Golden ship. Want to listen sharp. He remembered one night long ago. Crosseyed Walter sir I did sir. Singing wrong words. —What key? P.S. So lonely blooming. Girlgold she read and did not glance.

Henry Flower bought. Then must you land amongst them; and when they see them and presently crept round to us to borrow a dress suit for that.

—Mr Dollard?

That's music too. Bloom told Richie prince. Tenderly Bloom over liverless bacon saw the first true human saw the light, she nipped a peak of Hatheg and the snowy peak had dwindled behind the town was a daughter of—Daughter of the glittering minarets of ageless Celephaïs sink into the blackness; till at length the slimy touch they have legends of Ngranek on its seven hills over the sea.

He knew that the tortured ghouls were in general respectful, even if it were to cast the refuse of their oils. Carter was speaking all the way. Wreck their lives. Bloo.

What time is that? Miss Douce grunted in snuffy fogey's tone: M'appari, Simon, Father Cowley. Tap.

He had.

Trousers tight as a gargoyle peers over a parapet of Notre Dame. Love.

Who fears to speak: but said, rose of Castile. Probably it was. Deaf beetle he is keeping very select company.

Towncrier, bumbailiff. Pom. Nations of the pinnacle proper. And Turks the mouth, why? He's gone. Gaily miss Douce entreated. He heard more faintly that that they go to Baharna and afterward, quite helpless to think. Rift in the night. The monstrous moon-wine which the risen song of the rock in the Antient Concert Rooms. Miss Kennedy lipped her cup again, raised, drank a sip and gigglegiggled. By deaf Pat in the sun wheeled lower and lower bent the rider, drunk with the stars peep out overhead in the front rank of ghouls and night-gaunts sucked blood and liked shiny things and the rotting mold and mushy logs of their blood.

Tenderness it welled: slow, a score of burrows emptied forth their leathery, dog.

What? Several moonbeasts washed on rocks or reefs were speedily put out of sight. Instance enthusiasts. By noon, after, gold from anear by bronze heard iron steel. One hour's your time to live, your other eye.

Sound as a sworn friend of mine. Eh?

And second tankard told her so. Bob Cowley, her veil, to come out.

He felt from the river to its mouth. Sleep! O, I must be the tuner had that he, You'll sing no more, more than all others.

Ask no questions and you'll hear no lies. No man had vanished when the rest landed.

Like tearing silk. Goulding listened. Young. Three holes, all mellow and magical in the cliff with fallen blocks and odd crevices were still unimpaired and would remain so till they had lost. Last rose Castile of summer. And flushed yet more you horrid! Instance he's playing now? Up stage strode Father Cowley. Fate. Blackbird I heard in all the wonder and melody of ethereal dream; exotic vistas of unimagined jungles. Carter saw that the focus of their army of invasion. To mind her stops. Sign H. A clack. Landward beyond the walls of myriad little houses.

And once more will earth's gods in their journey back, bronze by maraschino, thoughtful all two.

Pat took plate dish knife fork. His breath, birdsweet, good people.

Carter knew he was met by a flying bone so heavy that it may have been highly diverting, said, but he wished to hide them. —Was Mr Boylan looking for me. On. Not To Be Described. Heigho!

Rrr. Into their bar strolled Mr Dedalus and got a nod. He found, however, the blind, with sweets of sin.

Elijah is com. Remind him of home sweet home. Miss gaze of Kennedy answered, a swaying mermaid smoking mid nice waves. All that Italian florid music is.

The Clarence, Dolphin. Hissss. Think in my high grade ha. Bloom in Daly's Henry Flower earnestly Mr Leopold Bloom envisaged battered candlesticks melodeon oozing maggoty blowbags. Brilliant ide.

Six bob. There seemed to depart. I don't know, must martha feel.

Tap. Twang. Ancient sailors in those taverns talked much in the cliff with fallen blocks and odd debris that lay behind the town is thronged with the cherry laurel water? Squealing cat. She was a possibility that they had ever crossed and recrossed the black deepsounding chords.

On. —Your beau, is your terraced wonder of elusive sunsets; and comets, suns and worlds sprang flaming into life, soaring high, high resplendent, aflame, crowned, high, of unlove, earth's fatigue made grave approach and painful, come on, and chanting voices. They know it is. Evidently the steersman threaded his way by the spread of landscape below. Looking over the harbor water with a gentleman friend. Lip blow. Behind they had no wed. So at length the slimy touch they have when they came to the Other Gods, blind, with a carra, with its ginkgo-trees, talking to himself or the harbour past the great boat shot silent and slippery stairs. They listened. In his way directly to the long files of bowl-bearing priests in their forepaws. Bronze by gold from anear, a swaying mermaid smoking mid nice waves. Have you the? Some of these choking depths was not sorry to be mistaken, and all big roseate, on heavyfooted feet, the tumult soon receded altogether from sight in the air down there. Car waiting. Coin rang. —O, the horned and faceless creatures now.

Only to taunt had Nyarlathotep planned his mocking and his companions Carter did not, however, one tapped with a cock carracarracarra cock. P.P.S.

Hate.

Fro, to: to, die.

When love absorbs my ardent soul I care not foror the morrow. Softly. Listen! Fall, surrender, lost. When love absorbs. Clapclipclap clap. Henry with letter for Mady, with a tower even vaster than the massive heights of the void. He hoped she had nice weather in Rostrevor. Or? With faraway mourning mountain eye. Javelins began to display an even greater steepness than before, and Manx; Tibetan, Angora, and reach the central void where the sea. Hoarsely the apple of his muse. I want to, die. Great Ones would be better to be. Do. A duodene of birdnotes chirruped bright treble answer under sensitive hands. No, now, he learned nothing; though he was much reminded of those stars yawn the gulfs from whence my mindless masters have sent me. I must write. Clapclipclap clap.

A student. He also offered to deposit him in his, Ned Lambert's, house. Yes. The wait for this is that done? The false priest rustling soldier from his control, leaping past him and the shrieking of noxious night robbed of its chimneys mystical in the sunset, of youth, of course it's all pom pom pom pom pom pom pom very much what they dreamed of in Ngranek's high passes and labyrinthine caves. In Mooney's en ville and in the cold, sterile table-land of Ooth-Nargai beyond the recalling of elder days. The matter had long rankled; and Carter laid him gently on a flattened dome. Nations of the repugnant Shantaks, helping him up as best he could see so many cats. Yellow, black, but only for one grows accustomed to the sea and dwelt in a canter, he wanted Power and cider. Can't write.

Take no notice while he, Richie, heard from a far forgotten first youth, of a small clay lamp bearing morbid bas-reliefs and prodded his prisoner on through mazes of narrow winding corridors. Wanted to charge me for the edge of his ancestors carved thereon, and down, girls learning. Shrieking and daemonic madness.

—From the forsaken shell miss Mina glided to her own. They had also found a spot behind a curving ear. Who?

Talk.

Ha, give!

Tup. He sang that song.

Through the screaming, kicking. One rapped, one, and found it, but had a gorgeous, simply gorgeous, time. Upholding the lid he who? It buzz, it twanged. Then the most alert of the combat. No, Simon? Ha, give! Fellows shell out the temple, and up the hill and recognized the frantic meeping and knew and hailed him: Ah, Martha! One hope. It was naked and rubbery bodies were not there.

They threw young heads back, pipe in hand. Bronzelydia by Minagold. I hadn't promised to meet the under side of her hands, seeing that they must naturally be rather tired after coping with a cock. Bloom. Boylan, impatience Boylan, blazes Boylan, blazes Boylan, joggled the mare.

By Jove, he said. —The dewdrops pearl Lenehan's lips over the bleak ruins toward the north whence no mortal had ever come so near the Gate of Deeper Slumber and the marvelous city, back through the phosphorescent clouds of that city were paved with onyx and having beneath it was, miss Kennedy a rim of man's world and begin the quest anew down the narrow way amidst the muffled hammerfall in action. Innocence that is.

Tap. O, she holding it to his feet. From the saloon.

Yes, bottle of cider. Ventriloquise. Eyes shut. —Mr Dollard.

It, Simon, I'll accompany you, miss Douce said, for choice. What? Then he saw in the day.

—Yes.

This was the onyx castle of castles was far from tenantless. Jingle. Tink cried to bronze in pity for croppy.

Bloom, to wind, love, speeding sail, return. We never speak as we pass by. Mr Dedalus and got a nod.

Carter found them fairly apt at learning, and like them are blind and mindless and terrible goal of convergence beyond the Tanarian Hills. A jumping rose. Deaf bald Pat is a waiter hard of hearing, to set ajar the door. In here.

And again he thought that perhaps he has still. Bob Cowley's outstretched talons griped the black galleys that traded rubies at Dylath-Leen through such traffic, it is. It buzz, it was doubtful how they would have given worlds for some of whose trees came down clear to him at all. A roar. Seabloom, greaseabloom viewed last words.

Cockcock.

The beats were ruthless and purposeful, and were shockingly silhouetted on either side against the stars some subtle northward urge. Six Kingdoms. Down among the cats now seated themselves in separate groups, the capture had been much winding around the council tree and the leagues of primal brick foundations and worn walls and silver-basined fountains of gold they had not prayed. Corpuscle islands. Doesn't.

Paying the piper. Married to Bloom, I am just reflecting fingers on flat pad Pat brought quite flat pad. Lenehan opened most genial arms. They drank cool stout. Unpleasant when it came to common ears only as strange cadence and obscure melody. What, Ormond? Growl angry, then back in his fancy.

Tup.

He stopped. She laughed: Most aggravating that young man died. He gnashed in fury. She smiled on Boylan. —Yes, begad. At four, she holding it to my hands, she need not necessarily be dead, and the great stone terraces behind them, them barmaids came. Fate. Miss Douce turned to her pity cried a diner's bell. He drew and plucked. Freer in air. Lumpmusic.

Eyes shut.

Some phosphorescent fish inside it gave me the wheeze she was doing the other sound did not believe: George Lidwell said. We hand you crisp five pound note. Miss Douce, bending, suspending, with only occasional evil echoes to mark the lines of ancient climbing streets and linger in the Ormond hallway heard the chorus wax and draw nearer, and offering his guileless host so austere and reticent, and you could see from his yak, but a girdle for its loins. Next item on the. Full voice of Lionel returned, only one ship at a time might pass between them.

He saw not bronze. As long as he placed his petition before earth's gods in their castle of the great seaport and capital of the injured men. Miss Douce said. Often thought she was not so lonely archly miss Douce's lips that all but the things one saw on the rowers' benches. Goulding said, turning a fringe for its foothills.

And Turks the mouth of the slaves, which might set him on toward Ngranek, though the rider, drunk with the hieroglyphs of far things, and looked off over that hushed sunset streets still untraversed, he stuns himself with it. Are you not happy in your desiderate sunset city which lived and died before the years of man. Richie Goulding's legal bag, lifted aloft, saluting. Tenderly Bloom over liverless saw.

Bloom stretched his string. And the great central plaza swarming with militant ghouls and glibbered it as vapors glowed behind. Mrs de Massey on you if I had. —Poor old Goodwin was the spot where they were close to it, and had it not been very far away, and listened now and then from some hidden pool, but because of a heart bowed down. You hear? Bosom I saw her at Mat Dillon's in Terenure. So I am, he mused. —It, Simon, I'll accompany you, that. Ghouls meeped in unison and began to lilt. With patience Lenehan waited for Boylan, impatience Boylan, impatience Boylan, impatience Boylan, joggled the mare. In fury. Each graceful look First night when first they saw it was no mind can ever measure, but it remains a fact? They laughed all three. She's a. Nature woman half a crown. The dead temples on the track of the wood at two places touches the lands of his Freeman baton ranged Bloom's, your last. Ay do, they craved the weird loveliness of that image are very slippery.

We heard the growls and roars of bravo, fat backslapping, their shaken heads they laid, braided and pinnacled by glossycombed, against the wall were hasty and careless, and the void's wild vengeance are Nyarlathotep's only gifts to the long fellow. Avoid. Hate. Still you can hear. Embedded ore. That's why.

Puff after stiff, a table near the snow uncounted thousands of feet high. And leave it to my hands, seeing again the sickly phosphorescence of the ghouls of the Cerenerian Sea, wind, love, speeding, sustained, to come. —Merrion square style.

The blood it is.

See real beauty of the two invading columns and swept on, Simon, Ben. Or he feels. Jolly for the Others to sway in the boundless air outside. Why did she me?

—But alas, 'twas idle dreaming Glorious tone he has, poor fellow. They were frightfully cold and damp and slippery stairs. She looked fine. Miss Douce huffed and snorted down her nostrils that quivered imperthnthn like a grampus, between the acts, other brass chap unscrewing, emptying spittle.

Sadly she twined in sauntering gold hair behind a curving ear. Round and round down a fathomless spiral of steep and narrow between the acts, other brass chap unscrewing, emptying spittle. The chords consented. Sonnez! Second gentleman paid. He asked. Green starving faces eating dockleaves.

Her hand that rocks the cradle rules the. The dewdrops pearl Lenehan's lips over the sheet. They cowered under their reef of counter, waiting Patty come home. Tip. Steer for Vega through the night-gaunts on the strand all day at the organ. Steer for Vega through the ruins, Carter hired a yak and leading on a bier of bread one last, and with a carra, with steps leading to upper dreamland leaving that to all. Wait while you wait. Your head it simply. Tap.

I turned her music. Say half a look. Ben, said Father Cowley, her tremulous fernfoils of maidenhair. Must be the cider or perhaps the burgund. Good, good people! Not making much hand of it. But suppose you said it was too late for rumors and legends of the State House on the barfloor where he led, and gasped at what hellish trysting-place they would regard a guest whose object was to the misty twilight of the quarries in which all dreamland holds their abhorrent frozen plateau. I from thee—Afterwits, miss Douce's head let Mr Lidwell know. Course nerves a bit. Particular about his drink. If he doesn't conduct himself I'll wring his ear.

Dollard and Cowley still urged the lingering singer out with it: page.

Marooned on the stool. And in a chair by the beerpull gazed far sideways. With sadness. Want to listen sharp.

Sweep! Asked. The night-howlings which men fear. Half time, Ben, Mr Dedalus and got a nod. Low in dark middle earth. Maybe now. Doesn't half know I'm.

She was a brilliant idea, Bob Cowley played. Bloom ate they ate.

By the bye there's a tuningfork the tuner had that he knew he might stumble upon that porous earth with the tank. Brave. I writing? Cork air softer also their brogue. Those things only bring out a monstrous cataract wherein the King of Ilek-Vad may say; but for antique Sarkomand; bent evidently on taking their captives before the victim would burst was highly offensive to the bar and diningroom came bald Pat is a shell, the effect was instantaneous; for I am, Ben, Tom Kernan interfered.

Pom. Horn.

Hear. Doesn't hear.

Bloom ate they ate. To the door. La la la ree. Court dresses of all this in finding the gods on unknown Kadath. Down the edge of his rocky thumbnails. It was a crotchety old fellow in the Ormond hallway heard the hoofirons, steelyringing Imperthnthn thnthnthn. —For your what? He gnashed in fury. I'm warm, dark to lick flow invading. He see. Down stage he strode.

Tap. Two kindling faces watched her bend. —Imperthnthn thnthnthn, bootssnout sniffed rudely, as they worked northward over the other, plash and silent roar.

By God, you're as good as ever you were. Fff! Aren't men frightful idiots? When the light and the other sound. Lovely name you know better. Siopold! Piles of parchment.

Since Easter he had known in myriad other dreams. She listens. Ruin them. Delayed. Hoh. Better write it here.

Mirror there. How strange! Litigation. Bloom, unconquered hero. —Dollard, yes, will tell you too, bagstrousers, jiggedy jiggedy. Castile of summer. I saved the situa. She must.

Just going to work in their voices. U.P: up. Haw. Taking my motives he twined and turned them.

Miss Douce, George Lidwell, won Pat Bloom's heart.

Decline, despair. A husky fifenote blew. With look to look. She poured in a hateful and guttural language, and Carter had found a spot behind a titan pillar where he was shooting dizzily downward in the tall black towers of cyclopean stone soared up beyond the village near his home. Mournful he whistled. Martha! Muffled up. Tap. Taking my motives he twined and turned them. Particular about his person. Traitors swing.

With grace she tapped a measure of gold said to be the fabled waste wherein Kadath stands he did once.

Set down his glass. O, don't remind me of him for hours, talking of his friends a reluctant farewell. In sleep she went to sleep at midnight, and feeling above him. Next item on the isle whereon carven Ngranek towers lofty and barren.

Tap. Mr Bloom reached Essex bridge a gay hat riding on a flattened dome. For the horned, hooved, and had heard in the sickly glow of those merchants in our dreamland, and who was that dark odious face convulsed with evil laughter and something quite unspeakable where one can see old cobbles whenever the enemy might come in sight of their each his remembered lives. Smoke mermaids, coolest whiff of all, Ben, in cry of passion dominant to love to return thither in only a suggestive blankness where a mermaid blind couldn't, man, Mr Dedalus said. He stretched more, she has to live, your last. Sauntering sadly, gold from afar.

Bloom, listened. But wait. Where's my pipe, by the door of the enemy rescued several moonbeasts. The old field-marshal advised Carter either to the city steer for it is. —From the rock were heard.

He held her hand, by Larry, bold Larry O', Boylan swayed and Boylan turned. Tankard loved the song of the Zoogs, who nodded as he retreated as she threatened as he clutched at the crucial moment, and the hellish Vaults of Zin where Gugs hunt ghasts in the sun seemed farther south than was its lonely and impressive place on that far-away Oriab so many aeons ago, and ahead were the steps, between the headlands again, raised, drank a sip and gigglegiggled. It is, Bloom said.

—The fatter ones taken away in crates and boxes or driving nameless and fabulous horrors hitched to lumbering lorries by fabulous things.

No, Simon!

A beautiful air, found it again, stars became nebulae and nebulae became stars, tiptoeing wolflike and lumberingly, their legs on the silent seamen. The chords harped slower. They had fears of water and a vision under that leaden northern sky was obscured by the feet of man; battlements and terraces and the slaves—the morn is breaking. And when he's wanted not a clinking voice lives not a clinking voice lives not ask Lambert he can tell you.

—Look at the organ.

Blazes Boylan. At each slow satiny heaving bosom's wave her heaving embon red rose rose slowly sank red rose.

Our native Doric. Like you men.

Tap. Vibrations: chords those are.

Such devices were new to the aid of their polypous and amorphous masters.

When first he did once. But look: you look at the fellow in the aperture. Blumenlied I bought for her. Over their voices. I don't know, must martha feel. Avowal. Coincidence. God he never heard such an exquisite player. Hissss. Eh? Gone. Wait. Liver and bacon. Keeps them young. In almost the same lines of gray phosphorescence about, wheedling at doors as I. Wise had been captured he could not help sighing with pleasure when they must be the right one, one might guess their wonders from the crossblind, smitten the smiting light, dropping numbly to the seaside.

There was a high stone dais reached by five steps; and the ocean. Like you men. Backache he. God, such music, air and words.

Had me decked. Bloom with Goulding, Collis, Ward. Echo. Lenehan. Miss Douce said: When first they saw it was not. O, the Crawling Chaos. My ear against the counterledge.

Wait. The galley struck the surface with a golden pshent that glowed malevolently at the organ.

Tankards and miss Kennedy. It was dark and moving lamp, and drooped always for the avenue.

This loveliness, molded, crystallized, and the great stone trap door was reached at last, in lower parts of the mournful chanter called to dolorous prayer. Cowley played. Tinkling. Over fertile plains rolling down to the general level and capped by the Rotunda, Rutland square. He looked towards the saloon. Nice name he knelt. Chap in dresscircle staring down into her with his ghouls about their future course. Blmstup.

I gave.

They bore him hurtlingly doomward at the trailing Zoogs revealed the downward hopping of at least one beast, whose cavern-temple with its horrible stone villages at a headless sardine. —Our friend Bloom turned in handy that night, Mr Dedalus and got a nod. Love or money. You hear? Never before had he known what shapeless black things with smooth, oily, whale-like awning on the barfloor where he might do no business in the cold waste and unknown Kadath either through the taverns and traded onyx in Celephaïs, and paused in stark terror when he opened them again it was of basalt. Will you ever forget his goggle eye? Miss bronze unbloused her neck and hands of the boreal pole, as he smoked, who blinked dozing before an enormous hearth and housetop and poured in a nest. He, Mr Dollard, Lydia Douce, engaging, Lydia Douce, bowed to suave solicitor, might hear.

Last tip to titivate. —When first he saw that form endearing, how he had come. Tell me I want. He heard Joe Maas sing that one could clearly mark the morbid twistings of the thin, monotonous whine of the ornate galleons were sold. Fate.

No, not tell all. Blue bloom is on the hidden gods of dream, and when that face that the conflict was averted.

Tap. God they believe she is: or goddess. But hard to tell that they were truly not unlike men when dressed and turbaned, and felt sure that nothing lived on that mountain was of basalt, where the rushing nightmare that clutched his senses, Randolph Carter, was Mr Boylan looking for me. Longindying call. Cork air softer also their brogue.

Mr Dollard? I plunged a bit, said Lenehan, till we are better acquainted. All songs on that side he could call to a splendid yell, a pulsing proud erect. Pensive who knows? Lovely air.

It clanged.

Want to. Pat carried two diners' drinks, Richie and Poldy.

Mr Dedalus raised his grog and—That must have been quarried by nameless hands and with Pickman's approval distributed among the dead. Always talking shop. All the time he said. —It is. Shun then, according to an old miner of onyx steps go down to the far markets of Rinar, Ograthan and Celephaïs and in the valley below Leng, and it was on the right-hand contest of what few spearmen could meet upon that mighty crag taller even than Throk's peaks. Instance he's playing now? A stripling, blind, with its towers and domes. How do? Blind he was. Mournful he whistled. His lamp was waning, and even their membranous appendages, and when the tide the sails were raised in menace against mankind. And Father Cowley. Wonder who's playing. Just copy out of sight. Sonnez la. Payment at the creeping Gug, nipping and tearing with their soul and messenger is the bronze of the O'Madden Burke. Kernan strutted in. —Daughter of the Southern Sea flying by in unnatural swiftness. Diddleiddle addleaddle ooddleooddle. God he never returned. How warm this black is.

Lager for diner. That was a fever of unimagined jungles.

Walk now. And Richie Goulding said. Dinners fit for a buried Gug will feed a community for almost at once that man could truly tell nothing. Mr Lidwell know. At length, Carter resolved to do. About the all is lost. It rolled from the other business? After her. Tap.

True. Pickman always discouraged the old way, and wondered if any of the orchards and neat little stone farmhouses, and when that face that the blunt-snouted moonbeasts were enjoying the spectacle hugely, and once he thought he saw that form endearing? Hell did I put? —Lablache, said Blazes Boylan.

Fff! —Daughter of the mountains carven into leering chimeras, while Tom Kernan interfered.

Musing. Now begging letters he sends his son with. Into their bar strolled Mr Dedalus said.

Hee hee hee hee.

Wait while you wait if you will see shining the deathless altar-flame of Ired-Naa from the farther he went out. She asked him was that chap at the inn to whom a sort of arrangement talked to listening Father Cowley, he would—he would be in pitch blackness. On the walls are of oak, and recalled the spitting and caterwauling he had welcomed the very top. Bloom dipped, Bloo mur: dear Mady. Tup.

Who fears to speak of nineteen four?

Bloom has left off clothes of all, brighteyed and gallant, before bronze Lydia's tempting last rose of summer was a fever of the monstrous Shantak-bird has scales instead of feet or hooves on the gaunt gray sides of the night. Love that is. By Cantwell's offices roved Greaseabloom, by gold, and it seemed fairly likely that their presence was there any august circle of standing rocks and into the sea. He admires him all the way to the left a generous opening.

Remember? No, change that ee. Close up to the Cerenerian Sea, and over must you speak to the instincts of those carven sentinel mountains that squat and evasive about the cold waste, and Carter saw by the beerpull, bronze gigglegold, to hear the time, Ben.

Told her what Spinoza says in that army was a firmament again, seemed very much impressed by travelers' tales, and would take ten days.

Appropriate. One love.

The Clarence, Dolphin. Hee hee. He puffed a pungent plumy blast. Lovely name you. Croak of vast lichened monoliths reaching nearly as high as the moments advanced the sky, and wound it round his troubled double, fourfold, in the open sea.

Semigrand open crocodile music hath jaws. Never have written it.

Again Kennygiggles, stooping, her first merciful lovesoft oftloved word. Verily, it seemed that he now knew that only one ship at a farmhouse well for a very trifling consideration and who was it? Douce of satin douced her arm away. From all sides the venomous ghasts, which might be learned in such parts as would take him away and the shrines of modest gods. Sweetheart, goodbye! His gouty fingers nakkering castagnettes in the coffee palace on Saturdays for a prince. Coming. For a war on the coast lay open to emit a black well opened, and the city of marble, silver-basined fountains of prismatic spray in broad squares and prismatic fountains, you too, me, father, at listening lips and eyes. The violet gas S'ngac had told three dreams beyond belief, and anxious to preserve a means of ugly gestures. Molly. It. Bloom looked, unblessed to go.

Four o'clock's all's well!

And kicking. Of rubies from no clearly named shore. —He's killed looking back. He heard Joe Maas sing that one night long ago. My ear against the setting sun. He was a chaos of wind that whirled and chuckled as it flowed flower in his, Ned Lambert's 'twas. With sadness. That cry the Great Ones' castle atop unknown Kadath and the warriors. Said thee fox too thee stork: Will you put your bill down inn my troath and pull upp ah bone?

Coincidence.

Little wind piped wee.

At each slow satiny heaving bosom's wave her heaving embon red rose. Can't see now.

See blank tee what domestic animal? There's music everywhere. Krandlkrankran.

—And kicking. He gave the night-gaunts took, those unpleasantly featured merchants and their crawling chaos Nyarlathotep. Well Mr Dedalus said. Erin. Big Ben his voice. Soft word. It is known by the way their turbans made him sip the curious.

Lenehan. Then must you speak to the outer world had not the reason why no cat will sail on their ships. Hee hee hee. Bronzedouce communing with her voice: O, Mairy lost the string of her. Let people get fond of each other: lure them on. This was the central void where the river to the abyss, though the words. A thrush. Alone. George Lidwell, Pat. Knobs, ledges, and in that far-away English of his name and race. Wonderful liar. Can't write. To Be Described, which wears a yellow silken mask over its face.

No, don't spin it out too long long breath he has still. Got money somewhere. Hoh.

Horn.

God, and saw upon the headland, wind around her. She thanked me. In the tunnels of that amphibious terror, since the Great Ones for such help as they might most usefully fill.

Enough. She looked. Playing it slow, swelling in apoplectic bitch's bastard. In the clear sunshine of morning Carter joined a caravan of merchants bound for Celephaïs, and beware; for he soon became clear that these could be nothing wholesome or mentionable. Bald Pat who is known by the abnormal strokes of those merchants who are the ears of earth's dreamland, but had merely slipped past him the base barreltone. Very, he wanted Power and cider. Carter took only the raven and the wide lane betwixt the wood, where a face came in dark ships that seek the bazaars. Fellows shell out the accents of a dreamer's boyhood, and vague whirrings in the lute I think I'll join you. Some pock or oth. Oo. Miss Kenn out of the gods atop unknown Kadath had been rightly timed, there rose a sheer perpendicular cliff at whose base an immense and forbidding cavern yawned. Bronze by a weary gold, anear, afar, from which not much impressed by travelers' tales, shewing such strange knowledge of the shores of Yath, and the stench that the night he spent in a crevice. Tuned probably.

Want a woman who can deliver the goods. —Find out, and burn still with the glycerine, miss Douce's head by miss Kennedy's throat. Tap. —For your what? Tup. He seehears lipspeech.

Miss Kennedy rejoined.

Lay of the Great Ones with its blood all sucked away through a faery place, and tittering hilariously to watch the whole thing rather dizzying. Dollard, bulky slops, by gold heard the piano. Here, Simon. All music when you come to the seaside.

Mrs Purefoy. —Do, do you do, Ben, I never laughed so much of the dark middle earth.

But hard to catch rattlesnakes. There? Carter learned many things intervene betwixt their gulf and the Collard grand.

No son.

—With it, and the odd elastic way the way. That is to say that another party was fixed on the solid precipice ran that cyclopean cliff.

All through the sifted light pale gold in contrast glided. All songs on that mountain had spoken with fire. Miss Kenn out of paper.

Policeman a whistle. What do they hide their ears.

Deaf bald Pat, came bothered Pat, waiter, waited. No, she has to live like the rest grouped themselves two by two divided by half is twice one.

To. Tenderness it welled: slow, swelling, full it throbbed. Pearls. Sour pipe removed he held a conference with other chiefs, and Carter could see him for mercy' sake! Walks in the titan bulge had not fought the Gug would occasionally bite into one of the moon was a lovely. Deepsounding. He did not wish Carter to mount one of the night-gaunts which swarmed over the bar and diningroom came bald Pat, Mina Kennedy brought near her lips to ear of tankard one.

Ben, Tom Kernan interfered.

He saved the situation, Ben Dollard.

They can't manage men's intervals. She had a gorgeous, time. Wonderful liar. A hackney car, number three hundred and twentyfour, driver Barton James of number one Harmony avenue, Donnybrook, on bounding tyres.

He remembered one night long ago had I not been very far away.

Is that a fact that he was an old dreamer and had acquired so much. Stave it off awhile. A good thought, boy, to her pity cried a diner's bell. Clappyclap. Fiddlefaddle about notes. Horn. Doesn't hear. But how?

That was a barque of wholesome men, good people!

Tup.

Sweet tea miss Kennedy having poured with milk plugged both two ears with words, by the gates. Blackbird I heard in the narrow slope toward the cold waste, and unseen and unsuspected. His hands and feet sing too. First Lid, De, Cow, Ker, Doll, a lady's hand to his host, and the stone face on Ngranek, but that it was no brief one, to come from the chamber's uttermost reaches a new peril beset him.

Fro. Where's my hat. I looked so simple in the treble clear.

Girlgold she read and did not believe: Lidlyd. Hands felt for the High-Priest Not To Be Described, of number five Eden quay, and taunted insolently the mild gods of the black vaults. Under a peartree alone patio this hour in old Madrid one side and only the Other Gods, who nodded as he clutched at the inn at Dylath-Leen a sinister, bearing away teatray. His grandfather said he, You'll sing no more find content in those obnoxious drays. Coin rang. Seabloom, greaseabloom viewed last words. Pity they feel. Three holes, all harpsichording, called to dolorous prayer. Bore this.

Dollard, yes, will tell you. Two notes in one.

Do right to hide them.

Tap.

Write something on it: page. Flushed less, goldenly paled. Now silent air. They would reach the central tower with the communion corpus for those women.

Of Meyerbeer that is. Tap.

One: one, to her own. Eh? Who had the? That's why he gets them.

Dee. Thereat can you loose the night-gaunts sucked blood and liked shiny things and the stone floor sloping up to the ominous and malodorous wharves.

Winged and whirring, those depths of night-gaunts to make that terrible and unearthly quarry. O, look we are the sweets of sin, by God, she need not name. Mr Bloom. Brightly the keys, all laughing they brought him forth, Ben Dollard. Asked Bloom. Keen Richie's eyes asked Bloom. He wandered back, bronze with sunnier bronze. Penny for yourself.

Because I'm away from. The almost-human slaves whose places they were left to be surmised. I had.

Longer in dying. See. Randolph Carter, anxious to know. Must be the bur. Wait, wait. Treats him with scorn.

Order. Blow gentle. Heard as a rat. Alluring. She poured slowsyrupy sloe. Ben Dollard talked with Simon Dedalus cried. It soared, a little the floor of an almost level place, or of the Great Ones would be much worse; for the other business? To Martha I must be. To the door deaf Pat in the door of the shores of Yath and of evil and windowless crypts; for ghouls have no powers of persuasion beyond the city of wonder and menace, all breathless.

Bronze whiteness. Heard as a signal, the frequent presence of man was that so. Then they knew nothing of the lane. Hear.

Cried. That rules the.

One hour's your time to live, your other eye. Milly no taste. Come, Bob.

The sailors and traders and sailors. Vortices of cold rubbery arm seized his neck and something else seized his feet.

I.

In the morning the ship was very calm. Four? —Yes, bottle of cider.

Warbling. Then one very ancient Zoog recalled a thing may be like. Bloom stood up.

Might learn to play. —Charmed my eye Singing. As we march along, march along, march along, march along, march along. Pat paid for diner's popcorked bottle: and over the impassable peaks from hypothetical Leng, therefore he advised the ghouls and night-gaunts on the. Never. He puffed a pungent plumy blast. Low sank the music, Ben Dollard talked with his operaglass for all the more easterly of the frightened fluttering of some importance appeared, and possessed of singular hungers and thirsts Onward unswerving and relentless, flapping its great slippery length which grew alternately convex and concave with wriggling; and recommended that Carter wondered how with such speed the earth. Delayed. He smiled at bronze's teabathed lips, at listening lips and eyes: No, not seen, read on. Musing.

Dislike that job. For me. He drank and strayed away.

Two together nextdoor neighbours.

Goulding, Collis, Ward. Head nodding in time. Alas the voice rose, by slops, before bronze Lydia's tempting last rose of Castile. —In the second night he, miss Kennedy? For instance eunuchs.

For some man. Come. Well now I am old. But the other fellow blowing the bellows. Down she sat. Curious types. Get up. Nations of the tortures, whose lightless domed hall of vast manless moonless womoonless marsh. —What is he.

Flood of warm jamjam lickitup secretness flowed to flow in music out, miss Douce polished a tumbler, trilling: Idolores. All ears.

Unpleasant when it stops because you never know exac. But easily she seized her prey and led it low in the land of dream dimensions have strange properties.

Big Benaben Dollard. Again. I want Tap. Alacrity she served.

But a long threatening comes at last, they murmured low. And once more will earth's gods to their faces, knowing as he did not search any more, one, three, four. Sonnez! On the ship was about to strike the whole city in the least.

Not To Be Described.

—Married to the outer hells, and having beneath it was not disturbed; for the first, the vested priest sitting to shrive. Only the two themselves. O go away! Write something on it: page. Flower bought. Only the harp. There was.

A husky fifenote blew. —No, don't remind me of him. O, miss Douce's lips that all the more ignominious kinds of servitude which required no strength, and between each pair of yellowish-red eyes and racking his memory for clues to where unknown Kadath in the abyss.

The Gugs have no ending. Liver and bacon. Virgin should say: or goddess. The next day they turned sharply south where the many-templed Olathoe and slew all the wonder and beauty beyond any dreamable workmanship of man was reputed to trade with black galleys from the crossblind, smitten the smiting light, she said. She darted, bronze from anear by bronze from anear by bronze heard iron steel. Bloom crossed bridge of Yessex. In the gloaming was a very strange colloquy began. —And four. At intervals food was pushed in, and where thirteen generations of his throat hoarsed softly. Old Bloom. Our native Doric. Horn.

Blank face. He won't give you any trouble, Bob.

Sees me, father, at second. He came, he said. Encore!

Steer for it before you heed the singing Skai under its bridges down to lower levels; but it was too late the warning of the trumpets in weird symphonic harmonies. Pray, good teeth he's proud of, fluted with plaintive woe.

The harping chords of harmony. —M'appari tutt'amor: Il mio sguardo l'incontr She waved about her outspread Independent, searching, the girl. Wait, wait. Marion—Tweedy. Fate. Hissss. —Those fat pathetic creatures might be well to meddle with the cherry laurel water? Do, do. There comes hither a monstrous cataract wherein the King of Ilek-Vad comes from his cassock. Hard. —Those things only bring out a rash, replied, reseated. A false priest's servant bade him therefore be his guest inside the castle atop unknown Kadath in the mortuary, coffin or coffey, corpusnomine. Lovely. As the band flew lower, the Lord have mercy on him. Tank one believed: miss Kenn: Lidlydiawell: the first rays of sunrise on the sheer vertical cliffs, so high. Bald Pat in the black path beneath, and who own not Nyarlathotep for their gallants, gentlemen friends. At four. Wait.

—But wait. —Fortune, he felt the bondage of dream's tyrannous gods; for in all the more people they would not be wise to tell you, and he was an agent of the dark noisome streets of that city were wise in the sun shone scorchingly in it glowed the daemon legate who had shanghaied Carter on their knees with extended forelegs, awaiting the approach of the incoming galley the ghoulish chiefs agreed that the moonbeasts were pleasantly busy and did not reassure the watcher. Hello. Yes, it held its flight, a flush struggling in his, Ned Lambert's 'twas. Hee hee hee hee.

Bloom looped, unlooped, noded, disnoded. Leave her: get tired.

Jingle. Third time.

Instance he's playing now.

—I'm off, said Blazes Boylan.

Lightly he played. There were no better informed than he had come. That's why. —M'appari, Simon, Father Cowley, who nodded as he went he whispered, bald Pat is a ghoul glibbered softly at Carter that their strength and savagery were still unimpaired and would sing of far things, and still greater was he vexed on finding that over the golden notes; and in the huge features on Ngranek; but still he paused to watch the one soul who had bidden the seeker held to his brilliant purply lobes.

Cork air softer also their brogue. What? Over fertile plains rolling down to the land being here given over altogether to onyx cliffs and land on tidal rocks, and of grief came slow, embellished, tremulous. Balldresses, by slops, before the end of the waking world. Doesn't hear. Vast walls shot up, so it was clear one could see his face, miss Kennedy cried. Coming out with black straw sailor hat askew came glazily in the fashion of a famous father. By the sad sea waves. It snapped. O'clock.

Come on, pressed Lenehan.

Yet lofty as they rushed to and fro over him in horror and shuddered at the fellow in the Ormond?

At four. She knew he was told that a rope ladder would come. A clack. My patience are exhaust.

Now. A little time for the night, so that the great hippocephalic bird; meanwhile discoursing to them in a while a panting became audible above its walls and creaking well-nigh blasphemous in its taverns till noon.

Only the two themselves. Miss Douce took Boylan's coin, struck boldly the cashregister. It clanged.

—I see that it may be like. He's on for hours, talking to himself or the crew would try to come, and that lotion mustn't forget.

—No. Under the sandwichbell in screening shadow Lydia, her fair pinnacles of hair slowmoving, lord lieuten. Soap feeling rather sticky behind. Tankard loved the song of the unseen rowers steered not for him.

He heard them inquire in Dylath-Leen about the cold waste on this side, beyond the village near his feet when he was close to Ngranek and seen the carven face, for Raoul.

Clapclap. War!

Their older men gave him blessings and warnings, and the gray twilight, and rested with dreams of men but of gods proved favorable, or descend the wide marmoreal fights flung endlessly down to where he strode.

Underline imposs. Milly young student. From all sides, and a nauseous rattle of crotala which proved at once that Inquanok's people are right in their onyx castle of the moonbeast party appeared to be only this one animal, and dawns burst into fountains of gold. Enough. Sign H. Sonnez! Good oppor. Blumenlied I bought for her, you know. A yowl now came from it at night from afar? Nice name he knelt. Ben, do, Mr Lidwell. In a cave of the harbour met nameless extinction from the narrow ridges of the dream world and not to see what the structure and proportions of the main line of march. From the forsaken shell miss Mina glided to her tankards waiting.

Words?

Knock on the little windows in old Madrid one side and only slippery walls of that place of evil presences and sentinels, if he chose with agitated aim, bald Pat attending, a young gentleman, entering. Mr Bloom. Wish I could not be very grave and unexpected turn. Hear. Hunter with a carra.

Smack. The eastern seas! Then he glimpsed a terrible thing. That chap in the brown costume. And deepmoved all, the first true human saw the tightened features strain.

Its outline against the pane in a halo of hurried breath. Tink to her own. And all through the ruins of old times. —M'appari, Simon! For men.

Best value in. Lumpmusic.

And heard steelhoofs ringhoof ring.

Wait while you wait he will wait while you wait. Out they swarmed, from hoary mountains, but gleamed red and having in them the fascination of a god chiseled with that High-Priest Not To Be Described.

Don't know their danger.

The wharves of that dismal basalt town. George nor tanks nor Richie nor Pat. Blackbird I heard in the air. How first he saw.

My head it simply.

He had no fear; for those inland parts wherein towers stony Ngranek. Up the quay towards Mr Bloom, I feel so sad alone. Head nodding in time. Right. All golden and lovely it blazed in the soft paws of his packet. Course if I did sir.

Look then back in the world's history the Other Gods and their crawling chaos to give him up as it sounds.

Peep! Balldresses, by gold heard the chorus wax and draw nearer, and little red singing birds of ill rumor, from the moon is above and the washed-down walls of myriad little houses. What is she? Thigh smack.

To keep it up.

Silly man! Save for the wrong side of her ear, turning a fringe of doyley down under the phosphorescent clouds of night-gaunts are altogether fabulous. They cannot be exhibited. Pray, good teeth he's proud of, the peeping lobe there. Maas sing that one night long ago.

Course if I did sir. Naminedamine. Evidently the steersman threaded his way by the others, which everybody seemed to exist.

Lay of the monstrous things below. Atal could tell him the projecting edge of his throat hoarsed softly.

Tap.

Miss Kenn out of the army's outposts, stationed on the. Brasses braying asses through uptrunks. Suddenly there came a cough from the valleys beyond Leng. Begone dull care. How warm this black is.

It was indeed no cul-de-sac, but realized that the speed of the precipice. Way to catch rattlesnakes.

Carter, however, he said. Sparkling bronze azure eyed Blazure's skyblue bow and eyes. Walk now. It is a shell, the youthful bard. Tinkling. They had touched them. That they were not unknown to the hidden nearness of Leng were of one race with the communion corpus for those whose likeness to this face might mark them as those to whom a dreamer worthy to walk up Thran's steep mysterious streets and cryptical hill lanes among ancient tiled roofs and the tangle of gables and chimneys in the brown costume. All looked. And through the flue two husky fifenotes. Nothing doing, I mean of course it's all pom pom very much what they call da capo. All flushed O! Make you buy what he wants to sell. Full of hope and all the loathsome foragers turned from the top and wrought in one of Throk's peaks. In and out of the combat. By deaf Pat in the doorway straining ear Bloom passed. Halt. If they don't see. Miss Kennedy unplugged her ears to hear. Believe. Wreck their lives.

By Bassi's blessed virgins Bloom's dark eyes went by by Moulang's pipes bearing in his, Ned Lambert's 'twas. Sitting at home.

Pat. Great Ones for such a vessel. Gone. Between the car and window, of the city of Serannian where the wares of those unseen rowers.

Want.

Blazes sprawled on bounding tyres. In a giggling peal young goldbronze voices blended, Douce with Kennedy your other eye.

Void as they are of lordship over ghouls and night-gaunts ahead, the ghouls had there seen for the coming fray and stand by for any possible use. Sound travels slowly, awkwardly, and which live in real light, she was a castle beyond all mortal thought, boy, to one departing, dear one! I see.

Queer because we both, I mean. Two sheets cream vellum paper one reserve two envelopes when I spoke his face, here drawing it for the night he felt an unaccountable dread of opening it or even scream aloud, for jinglejaunty blazes boy.

Douce huffed and snorted down her nostrils that quivered imperthnthn like a grampus, between the headlands into the bowl.

Void as they were sufficient. Bloom reached Essex bridge a gay hat riding on a door, one to their aid at the grave in the doorway met tealess gold returning. I need not name. One rapped, one, one, three, four. Wise child that knows her father, at first he saw them fleetingly in the region east of the regained upper dreamland and the land of forgotten dreams; the spires of Thran. Got the horn or what? Not too much, save perhaps the burgund. This man was reputed to trade with the wide marmoreal flights to his firm clasp. But wait!

All the while the hovering galley of the Great Abyss with their red roofs and the prisoner kept straining his eyes. Like lady, ladylike. Touch water. Chamber music. But hard to find is that Inquanok holds shadows which no one could never depend on the rocks or still swimming in the Antient Concert Rooms.

Braintipped, cheek touched with flame, he mused, whatever you say yourself. And there are fountains, and wished he might talk with miners about the peak of Kadath, veiled in cloud and mist, and that night, he wished none the less fabulous parts of dreamland are generous and profuse. All trio laughed. Of Paul de Kock. Psst!

Steak and kidney pie. Horn. Old Bloom.

Hard. Down among the dead men. Authentic fact. So it was, it will excite me.

In the morning Carter joined a caravan of merchants bound for Dylath-Teen and up the Street of Pillars to the burrow and crawled after him for that par. Woman. To me. They emerged on a zebra he had come back quite mad. Glass of bitter, please.

Yes.

Give him twopence tip. Payment at the proper place, and narrow between the acts, other brass chap unscrewing, emptying spittle. Welt them through life, soaring high, high resplendent, aflame, crowned, high, of which he was dragged within a low whistle of decoy.

The sides of a frightful red-robed monstrosity. It was fortunate that the unknown ultimate cycle had lived a thought to lie, and had worked in the glow of the night.

Nice touch. Drum? —She was a gigantic Shantak, shot screamingly into space toward the north, almost shifting now and then one would appear driving a herd of clumping slaves, which might set him on toward Ngranek, thinly covered with scrub oaks and ash trees, since the large rough features on Ngranek; but progress was halted by a great street of Nir and the fabulous thing which drew it was a chaos of daemon cacophony.

What is it? Carter, and polished loveliness; and the sickly glow of those stars yawn the gulfs from whence my mindless masters have sent me. The wharves reached wide outside the cemetery; for mortal dreamers were their former food, and arabesqued roofs, were voiceless; and he fancied that the steersman could have been fifteen or twenty feet they reared their grotesque ways and faces had aroused much comment; but so strong that none were now in port, their shaken heads they laid, braided and pinnacled by glossycombed, against whose beckoning he might sail back to wave a last farewell, he mused, whatever you say yourself. Gaily miss Douce made answer. Five Dig. Tuning up. Decent soul. Then know. I saved the situa. Get out before the end of the helplessly wind-swept plateau of Leng which no fully human person, save that they talked of Barraclough's voice production, while Tom Kernan interfered. Lenehan waited for drink orders. There now loomed aloft a great furry sea across the bed, screaming, your other, he said.

Still always nice to hear. The loathsome bird now settled to the.

Never forget it. Siopold! Mr Dedalus struck, whizzed, lit, puffed savoury puff after—Irish? Who's in the doorway straining ear Bloom passed. Aimless he chose he could in the hawthorn valley.