#yet she cannot understand your mind; cannot see the contours of your heart

[pink-november]

Thinking about Shifty during the Oblivion Ending… how she declares herself to be our only salvation during denial… how she then emphasizes us to become our only salvation during bargaining… how she then claims we are each other's salvation when abandoning oblivion after bargaining…

Thinking about how Oblivion can be seen as mutual annihilation… both our infinities shrinking, becoming lesser… we starve her of perspectives while she breaks our glass soul to smaller pieces, shattering us for each new loop without us having the chance to even reflect, the chance to know and see ourselves…

Thinking about Shifty asking us a reason for why we're doing this in depression and the narration merely following with, "Long silence. A hollow heart."… thinking about the implications of this and how devastating it must be for Shifty to speak to us and hear nothing back…

Thinking about how in Oblivion, we can never speak or respond to Shifty... having no voice to use... abandoning ourselves just as we abandon Her in a place where a fragment of a concept can't exist.

[exactlyenoughglitter]

Glastonbury

Pairings: Avallac’h/Ciri/Eredin Warnings: NSFW, elves, reality manipulation + unreliable narrator AO3 Link

The bells are ringing.

‘Galahad?’

Sometime in the night, the rain had stopped. Instead, a thick white fog had rolled out across the marshland. In such fog sounds travel far.

Where am I? the girl wonders. Everywhere. Nowhere.

Ciri treads along the soggy ground, unable to find her way either to the Roman road or the chapel. For there must be a chapel at Glastonbury – a chapel, where they toll the bells at dawn, midday, and sundown.

Why would anyone toll the bells at night?

Somewhere high above a wolf moon hangs above the marshes – glowing eerie red.

‘Galahad?’

She bounds against the echo of her own voice. The witcher-girl leans against a crooked tree, her warm breath melding with the fog. It is damp. The darkness rustles – everywhere, nowhere. There is a strange smell in the air... something putrefying and sickly sweet, or...

 ... apple blossoms?

She blinks.

Water touches her boots. Mist rises above the lake.

Faintly, Ciri mouths names; they belong to those she has given away to the cold, wet fog – a fog beyond which there is nothing more.

In the eldritch glow of the moon the mist swirls, milky white, like in a witch’s cauldron. She looks around for a boat. There is no boat. No unicorn. There is only the mist and the bells. And she cannot find the way.

Morgana said it depends on who seeks what the mists show. As man sees reality thus it becomes.

Looking down, the girl gasps.

The restless lake water slides underneath her boots like a fine dance floor. Her entire form freezes in incomprehension before a niggling thought occurs to her: people in this world say that fairies can walk on water. Fairies and unicorns. Finally forcing her foot to move, despite a quaint sense of foreboding that overcomes her, Ciri exhales like she has held her breath for an eternity; the dark swirling ground under her feet holds. It holds! With that, however, a tremendous gushing resounds in her ears and she realises that the lake water is pushing further in-land; the marshlands here flood periodically.

 ‘Ciri?’

It echoes in her mind quietly but clearly – like the ringing of icicles.

Through the mists, across the waters, the witcher-girl runs in the night until the echo of bells becomes more distinct and the putrid-sweet smell of apple blossoms strengthens. Until mussel shells crunch under her feet, until she finds herself on an alley of trees that are closing in on the entrance of the chapel under a bright red moon. Her mind though, is made up.

With the name of the knight on her lips and the images of the witcher and the sorceress in her head, she draws her sword. And bare hazel and alder branches crackle mournfully, giving way under her blade. Their remains rip at her clothes, but she cares not. She notices naught and can say naught, for her lungs are full of the smell of rot and the lake water clings to her footsteps like a smelly, dark ooze.

Yet in the mists, across the threshold to somewhere, Ciri’s voice dies a white death in her throat.

In the cold stone chapel under the Spiral Hill of Ynys Gwydrin, a knight lies in his soft white cloak, his skin snow white and his lips bright red as summer apples. You would think a kiss might wake him, but the ashen-haired girl knows it does not. She knows. She knows too that his lips taste of wine and not the blood of Christ, but it does not matter.

They stay like this before the altar while the bells ring in the fog – somewhere, everywhere, nowhere.

It’s because of that cup! It’s that stupid Grail, this stupid land and these stupid priests, and these stupid people who believe them. There is no justice, no salvation, and no grace given in the universe!

‘For once you understand, little butterfly.’

The soft, lambent hair on the back of her neck can barely rise, touched as if by the breath of a ghoul, before strong fingers crawl across her scalp and her scream pierces the air under stone-vaulted ceilings. He steps unceremoniously across the corpse of the knight, pushing her stooping form in front of him into the bright shaft of moonlight illuminating the altar. If not for the height from where his arm draws her upward, she would kiss her teeth against the stone.

She twists, grinds her teeth against the pain. The putrid aroma of sweet apple blossoms overwhelms her and she looks: at the height of her eyes, a locket of rubies glows on his chest.

A heart – everyone has a heart.

She reaches for a weapon.

Even corpses.

Yet in the looking glass image of enchanted gemstones a different world altogether unravels in a torrent of liquid fire, inside which the sword of the witcher-girl – the blade that does not discriminate – submerges back into the Lake.

‘Did I not tell you,’ the elf says, tightening his grip around her face, around her neck, at which her own arms shoot up, ‘we would meet again.’

Ciri’s heart races in her constricting throat to the fading echo of bells in the night in which small, even teeth smile at her before the altar stone of Ynys Gwydrin – the faeries’ glass castle, the Spiral Hill.

It depends on who seeks what the mists show.

Fey light plays in his green eyes, stirring its poison, making it drip on her lips as he watches from above – with indifferent curiosity – over her struggles. Red, red across his shoulders, red around his neck, red on his... red, red, red... Air rushes back into her lungs, sweeter than ever somehow despite the rot of the hunter in it.

She stumbles. For a moment it goes dark in front of Ciri’s eyes as the whistling in her ears grows to an unbearable level, but oblivion does not take her. That would be too graceful in a graceless universe. Instead, she feels the contours of the warrior’s arm brush hers, dragging slowly around her, back again. She shudders at the strange, new sensation his touch, now benevolently bestowed, instils and tries to move – only to have a solid thigh restrict her. It makes her realise. It makes her flush. Ciri opens her eyes.

Eredin Bréacc Glas is observing her over the edge of an elegant golden kylix.

The Grail...

She watches how the elf dips the chalice against his lips, how the prominent Adam’s apple in his neck jounces once, twice; she watches how the penetrating eyes of the Sparrowhawk close briefly in what looks like genuine bliss. He drinks. She cannot tear her eyes away from him even if she still tastes the faint notes of wine off of Galahad’s lips on hers. She is expecting for whatever is meant to happen to happen.

It never happens.

Her hopes never happen.

Only a grim, mocking smile visits the elf’s glistening lips. ‘Your turn, butterfly.’

‘What did you do to him?’ she growls. ‘Why don’t you die? Die! Why don’t you, damn you!?’

‘Do not talk nonsense. Drink.’

He pushes the kylix under her chin and some of its content sloshes onto her breast. Suddenly, Ciri notices herself: she is in an elaborate deep cut dress of dark red – finer even than what she had worn in the world of the elves – adorned with jewels. Royal is too soft a word for it. With horror she realises that she does not remember how she got to be this way.

‘Drink,’ he repeats.

And Ciri almost screams for the second time: refusing to confront the predatory gaze in front of her she witnesses instead how a faint smile spreads on Galahad’s blue lips. The knight’s lifeless eyes, previously full of inexplicable peace, stay glued on the ashen-haired girl while the blackening, algal waters of the lake begin to swallow him. With bubbling, as in a witch’s cauldron, the lake draws the Grail knight into its fathomless embrace.

‘Is our hospitality too good for you?’ the elf asks. She almost does not hear. She is trying to get away from the water.

Eredin lifts his hand, knowing she will not do anything to rebuke him, and stills her like one would a frightened animal. She almost does not notice. Almost. He traces a meandering line from Ciri’s jawline to her breastbone, to sternum, to the exposed curve of the girl’s chest where he lets his fingers toy with the lace trimming. Slowly, Ciri returns to the elf.

‘What more could you possibly want?’

With a rough movement the elf plunges his hand underneath the expensive fabric, his large palm spreading over the rounded out curve of the girl’s breast. She wonders if he likes it better this way. She wonders why she asks herself something like this. She will not escape his watchful gaze as he pursues the heavy intake of breath, the way her eyes fill with panic, desire, shame. The way she shifts away from her nightmare onto the altar stone – onto the ancient sacrificial stone of the Druids – unable to really do more than part her knees before his large form and allow him everything anyway.

Eredin knows. And she knows that he knows.

Ciri shuts her eyes and thinks, desperately, of a place – but all places are as one place and only place. Here is her place, the only place, and elsewhere there is nothing but fog, nothing but water which washes up against her bare calves, cold as the phantasmal hunter’s scornful laughter against the side of her inflamed neck. Cold as the frost left in the wake of the Sparrowhawk’s lips closing over the girl’s heated pulse, claiming the rapid thrills of her heart.

She moans. Cool metal touches her lips. She accepts.

She drinks and knows at once it is blood and not wine that coats her tongue, before tasting the precious nectar again when Eredin claims her mouth, washing away all false sacraments of humanity.

‘You belong to us.’

It echoes inside her skull like the ringing of icicles.

‘Turn around,’ the elf orders, placing the chalice in-between her shaking hands. ‘He wants to watch your face.’

Freezing stone greets her belly where his hand pushes down on the small of her back, leaning her small form over under the strange moonlight that shines from nowhere. Her mind fixates on his words and she looks curiously. By a fireplace that opens in-between the statues of two mother-of-pearl unicorns Ciri thinks she sees the Alder King lounging in a tall chair, legs spread wide apart. The darkness is rustling around itself, making it difficult to recognise things for what they are, but the girl remembers.

Eredin dips his fingers in the kylix in front of her nose. Some of it lands on her brow.

Ciri feels what these fingers do: how one firm hand traces up and down the back of her thighs, spreading her open until the fabric of the royal dress must tear, while the other dives in-between her legs; how a pair of demanding lips suck onto the side of her neck as her small frame is being subjected to a series of trembling pulsations at the merciless pace of his fingers over her clit; how she sounds like – how wet! – absolutely laving at the presence of the predator, at the feel of his solid weight against her rear.

‘What a prized prey you are, Zireael,’ he breathes.

Her eyes open and close against her will. She feels her lithe form being pried open for sensations, but her mind does not entirely comprehend everything. Firelight soaks the light hair of the Old King with its glow and in a daze she watches how a shadowy shape of a giant python winds its way around his broad shoulders, lazing about his neck in a slow, perpetual movement. The elf looks entirely undisturbed, perhaps even unaware. Something in her clamours to warn Auberon, to speak out in time – this time – against the danger in order to avert the course of such Fate as has already run its course.

Has it... run its course?

The girl hears cloth and leather rustling behind her. The red in the chalice, in the fires, in her – it joins in filling up her pupils with the desire pushing upon her from the mists. In a short moment her stomach floods with writhing warmth at the weight of Eredin’s cock in-between her buttocks. She doesn’t want to think, she wants... she wants. And bucks against one of his powerful thighs leaning on the stone beside her hip as he grinds himself lazily against her. The slap, when it comes, tears a genuine cry from her throat. It firms her up. Again! It disperses all traitorous thoughts in her head. Except one: she discovers she wishes to be embraced as suffocatingly as the elf who wishes to look at Ciri’s face as she is taken by his rival.

He can hear me, Ciri thinks. He can hear me whining like a bitch in heat for somebody young and strong, somebody who would steal away all from him – his throne, his power, that child...

The mild chuckle that reaches her ears pours over the girl like cold water over a stray kitten – unsurprising, and yet absolutely petrifying. The fair-haired elf by the fireplace cocks his head slightly to the side; it is not the Old King who wants to look at her so. Why how could it be? The flame-kissed aquamarines glow rather, like icicles.

Ciri is really quite comically shocked.

A furious blush dyes her cheeks. Quickly averting her eyes, the girl’s breath nevertheless hitches in her throat, because unexpectedly she finds herself staring into an abyss opening up below in the depths of swirling black water. It is everywhere: bare, pathless, infinite. Starless. Shrouded in the mists. It is impossible to find one’s way in such a place.

Where am I?

She makes out a slow procession of shadows, curving like old bones as they tread their way toward eternity in the bowels of the lake. There are people she knows there; people she has killed and people she has loved.

‘You are where you belong, Loc’hlaith.’

Avallac’h’s voice rings familiar this time, and somewhere – perhaps only deep within this mirror realm – a seagull’s shriek carries through the thick white mists. Is it welcoming her? Or is the borrowed time leased with its life simply running out?

It is the elf from her nightmares who yanks Ciri out of the sorcerous whirlpool of illusions, though. By a leather noose, formed, it seems, of Eredin’s own belt. Simultaneously, the girl feels him withdraw his fingers from in-between her buttocks.

Like a mare. He will take me like a disobedient mare.

‘Drink,’ he says shortly. ‘Trust me when I say it’s for your own good, little butterfly.’

‘Go on,’ she hears in her head. ‘You know what the right thing to do is, don’t you, Zireael? I may wonder why others must die for your selfishness, but in the end, the choice is always yours.’

As she lifts the sacred chalice to her lips for the second time under the eyes of elves, Ciri almost does not feel how the dark-haired one sinks forward and inside her. Almost. She is shielded, she later realises, by the bright aquamarines burning into hers, feeling like a blissful caress against their dark brother’s bruising attentions.

Red trickles down from the side of her mouth at the first languid thrust. Her back arches, but Eredin keeps it incurved. Neither are his fluent fingers leaving her unattended, slipping ever so often inside her sopping entrance, but it is altogether more difficult this way around. And she cannot look away from the other one – from the fair one she had offered herself willingly to. As he pushes forward for the second time Ciri senses a strange spell snap around her and squirms, finally allowed to fall entirely back inside her body, into the hungering depravity of sensation.

‘Such funny thoughts guide you, Swallow,’ Crevan says quietly.

He has stood up, approaches, and Ciri shudders, feeling the commander move deeper inside of her and covering her small form entirely with his for a moment.

‘Behave,’ he whispers, drawing his lips along her ear. ‘And we shall reward you.’

As he pulls away and focuses on his own pleasure, Ciri faintly wishes to clench her eyes at the discomfort but can only groan softly. The surface underneath her is cool and smooth. The air smells differently too – of formalin. Through a haze of pleasure she glances up and sees Avallac’h standing over them, looking at her quite calmly.

‘Where am I?’

‘Does it really make a difference?’ the dark-haired elf threads his free hand softly through her hair. ‘Crevan designs such things on the fly. Or, “as Fate chooses”.’

Though sarcastic, for a moment he sounds almost like he could be pitying her. Almost. But instead of a heart in his chest, the King of the Wild Hunt carries a locket of precious stones.

She swallows. ‘It makes a difference to me.’

The girl’s head feels increasingly like full of cotton wool – like something or someone is calling to her from beyond the haze – and her eyes dart around wildly as she supports herself on her elbows. What had looked like a small stone chapel shrouded in the mists on an island of priests, in a world of the Knights of the Round Table, seems so no longer.

‘Has anything ever been as it first appeared?’

Crevan crouches before her. At first, he lifts his hand, curling his long fingers as if to stroke the girl’s cheek, but decides against it in the end and reaches for the golden chalice instead.

‘Do you like my magic, luned?’ he asks.

Ciri recoils: snakes crawl off the kylix and around Crevan’s forearms where they wind in an infinite green spiral, eating themselves. Aen Saevherne smiles gently, smelling what’s inside the chalice, and pours it away. For some reason his move makes her irrationally worried. As if it was all an illusion and a trick. As if Galahad had really died for nothing.

She also realises that the Sage is reading her like an open book.

‘Is this how you must be handled?’ Avallac’h looks at her from close up. ‘Like he thinks.’ He nods toward the other elf and Ciri hears a quiet chuckle among sounds of the flesh she is too ashamed to admit make her heady with want, even as her swallow heart rips in her throat with fear. ‘With a leash and a stick and a carrot?’

Ciri wonders how Avallac’h can stand this – to so calmly look upon her, who bears the eyes of his Lara, while she is like this.

Go ahead, look! Look and may you choke on it! Both of you.

A myriad of emotions seems to flash behind the sorcerer’s bright, pale eyes. He puts his palm under her chin, drags his thumb slowly across her lower lip. Then he stands up.

‘I wish I had met your ancestor who put this burden on you,’ he says, easing aside the robe under his belt. ‘In fact, I wish I had met him much like this.’

Ciri feels the touch of his hard flesh against her cheek. She looks up at him. She doesn’t... but the elf caresses her head insistently, looking at her reassuringly, and soon Ciri understands why people subject themselves to this. He feeds her his cock slowly and suddenly she feels so very small. And embraced on all sides – suffocatingly.

Avallac’h’s head falls back.

‘Beautiful.’

It passes in a flurry from then on.

He fucks into her mouth in a manner that does not allow her – not once – to interrupt the nestling of the weight of his flesh in her throat. What he has done to make it possible she does not know, but it does not hurt as much as she expects. He talks to her, too. She groans around him repeatedly, enjoying the caresses of his hands in her hair and along her bulging neck, and is tempted to simply close her eyes and yield entirely to the tight fullness, the pleasure in her belly. But he wants her to keep her eyes on him and the straining belt around her neck guarantees it in its own way. Thus, she behaves, and while taking both of them at once discovers that there is something comfortable in having something put in your mouth; right before Crevan’s hands tighten in her ashen hair and he leaves copious amounts of creamy cum under her tongue, on her lips, dribbling down her chin – he wipes it with his cock – and streaking against her rosy cheeks.

Avallac’h kisses her before she has swallowed, and she swallows. Drinking in him, as she has drank from the cup of god. And he laughs softly in-between rapid breaths as she writhes through her own orgasm, deaf and blind to the world.

‘Do you have anything at all in this laboratory, Crevan,’ she hears a familiar voice uttering once the buzzing in her head has subsided, ‘which does not scour the living daylights out of you, nor turn you into a mindless sycophant? To drink, I mean.’

‘Of course,’ the Sage replies lightly. ‘Many things. Who would I be if I did not know how to obtain and create things of which even you might not have heard of?’

The girl does not understand how Eredin responds, but she hears the Sage of the Alder Elves snort – quite good-naturedly.

Exactly so Ciri’s eyes flicker open, the press of the metal table against her cheek considerably warmer than usual from the presence of her own person on it. Avallac’h is beside her, cleaning his hands inside a small purple cloth. Noticing her staring, he offers Ciri a clean one for her own use, but the girl can do nothing but stare.

A crimson mage light hangs high above in the darkness, glowing with strange fey light as if it was the hour of wolf’s moon. Small milky-white mist is rolling out of several cucurbits at the edge of her line of sight. She smells formalin and apple blossoms. Fresh, sweet blossoms.

‘There is vodka in the disinfectants cabinet,’ the sorcerer says offhandedly to his collaborator, his attention entirely preoccupied by the girl whose emerald eyes have never looked quite as big and beautiful as in that very moment.

Perhaps it is the misty wetness of them that so makes them resemble infinitely deep and green lakes upon which white fog spreads like on top of a witch’s cauldron.

‘My darling girl,’ the elf coos fondly, taking her in his arms without much effort and seating them both where it feels more comfortable. ‘Did we frighten you?’

For a time that drags on into the infinite Ciri wonders if she has forgotten how to speak.

‘You are blushing,’ Crevan notes with a smile, caressing her face, her cheeks and scar, unbothered by the ugliness. Touching slightly upon her swollen lips. ‘That’s very good. Very healthy.’

Silently, Eredin appears by their side, swooping out of the darkness with a sought-after bottle in one hand and two glasses in another, one of them filled.

‘A drink for the Lady,’ he says with a small bow to Ciri.

Avallac’h accepts the glass for the girl, since Ciri sits on his lap as if frozen like a small marble doll in the most glorious ruined red dress. The commander shrugs and pours himself one, downs it, and flops down on a crimson couch.

‘Is this –’ she begins, too silently even for herself to hear. ‘Is this all about power for you?’

‘Of course it is about power, Zireael. Everything is. Even love.’ The elven sorcerer looks at her thoughtfully. ‘Though humans often like to mistake one for the other – and more often, I think, power for love – what you witnessed here, on your own skin, were different kinds of power and how power can be wielded. I am sure if you think about it a little longer you will also come up with some answers for the most important question of all – why is power wielded as it is? I will gladly answer all of your questions in this regard once you do so.’

‘You may think you can be more than you are because of your exceptional ancestry,’ Eredin’s voice cuts in from the couch. ‘But you are what you are, my butterfly. Do not ever mistake yourself as more to any of us.’

She doesn’t see Crevan’s almost imperceptible annoyance. Her thoughts flood with the Sparrowhawk’s rasping voice by her ear moments before he had spilled himself across her back. It is too real to be a dream. It is too close to skin. Too present... as if she is back in those moments again and again...

‘A dh’oine whore, whose little life cannot sustain much more than the one thing you know so little how to care for. Yet you crave it all the same, like a natural. You want life put inside of you. You want the Young King not the Old King. Fortunate little butterfly – you will never have to live long with the after-effects of all these beautifully intense first experiences.’

Avallac’h is scrutinizing her closely.

Her fingers are clutching painfully at the front of his robes, she realises. It seems she has nestled closer to him unconsciously in the middle of her thoughts. She can tell the elf likes it, though his expression betrays little.

‘Do you know what will happen now, Ciri?’ Crevan asks her quietly.

She looks into his clear aquamarines.

‘Now we will make a child with you,’ he whispers against her lips. ‘A beautiful fairy child who will make you and me very happy.’

He begins to lift her but she puts her hands on his chest, clinging to that shred of long-forgotten love that she has seen in his eyes – something that has twisted and snapped too many times to be quite right again.

‘But I am not –’

‘I know you are not,’ he cuts her off. ‘That is alright. My blood is very good too, you see. And those genes in you which truly matter will be more than enough.’

‘Please. Please, Avallac'h!'

‘Please?’ he looks at her kindly, at her hands clutching his bigger one. ‘What is it, Ciri? This is good, very-very good. It is good you came here to us of your own free will. I will be patient with you; gentle. Kiss you... here? Or do you wish me to put you on that table, over there,’ he nods with his head into the darkness from whence they came. ‘I don’t want to do that, luned. It will hurt us both very much this way and you and I have been hurt enough, don’t you think?’

He strokes her hands.

‘Can we not wait? Do we have to – right now...’

‘Right now is a very good time.’

‘Right here, with him –’

‘Who?’

She blinks and looks around. There is no one else.

Where am I? Everywhere. Nowhere.

The fair elf lord kisses her hand, his laughter ringing like icicles or tiny bells. A locket of rubies glows on his chest.

A heart. Everyone has a heart.

‘Oh, Ciri, you are so very adorable,’ his hands lift her easily as he positions himself at her entrance. ‘You’ll soon forget all about him. Now, relax.’

Ciri awakes.

Mist swims before her eyes.

Somewhere, in the mists, the bells of Glastonbury are ringing.

[elsanna-shenanigans]

April Contest Submission #21: Sea of time

Words: ca. 6,000 Setting: post-canon/mAU Lemon: No CW: Angst, tragedy, MCD, drowning

-ooo-

1844

“So you’re leaving…”

There was a certain calmness around the great stones that marked the Forest’s entrance. There was a great sense of longing in the sight of the falling leaves that swirled around their feet, and great beauty in the silvery locks of hair that framed her sister’s delicate face.

“I’m not. I’m staying here.” Elsa’s smile was fake, of course. Anna could see it, the broken thread between her words and her feelings. “There is a difference.”

“Will you at least tell me why…?” She pleaded, even if the rest of her didn’t budge. She kept her arms crossed, her posture strong and defiant. Did she expect her to just bid her farewell?

Her sister’s brow creased.

“You know why…”

Enough, Anna thought. Enough of the shy stares. Enough of the guilt, enough of the imagined barriers between both; without warning, she closed the distance, grabbing Elsa by her shoulders. The young Queen stared deeply at those blue orbs, wide-opened.

“Then stay.” She half-demanded, half-asked.

Firmly, the blonde took her hands in her own, pushing her away.

“It can’t be.” The treasonous smile resurfaced, renewing the growing ache in Anna’s chest. Was this it, then? How their budding love ended: a few words, and a last goodbye? She wanted to shake her head, to hug her and kiss her and convince her it was worth it but she knew it futile; they had been down this path before, and only heartache had come.

“If I stay…” A pale thumb caressed her cheek, and Anna leaned into the touch. “If I stay… we would end up falling deeper…”

Anna hung her head, but refused to let her tears fall. Over the few years that followed their return, Fate’s turns had shown their cruelty, for her heart’s calling lay always in reach, yet unreachable all the same. She had been ready to leave everything behind: her husband, her life and everyone she knew, if only Elsa had agreed, but she hadn’t. Duty came first: hers, as the ruler of her people, and Elsa’s, as the Fifth Spirit.

“Just once…” Anna uttered, her hands bravely cupping her sister’s perfect jaw. “Say it out loud.”

Elsa’s mask finally broke. It all rushed into her gaze, into the contours of her eyes and the sudden tightness of her gestures.

She didn’t say it; instead, she kissed Anna’s lips gently, only once, a small glimpse of what could’ve been, had they been born in other circumstances, in other lives. An instant suspended in time, made of untold confessions and love never-shared. Anna could taste her own tears, and a whimpering sob finally pulled them apart. Elsa turned away, wiping her cheeks.

Before she returned to the Forest, Elsa looked back, and that memory would forever haunt Anna’s dreams.

Five years later, the letter came.

-ooo-

1848

She had raced towards the Enchanted Forest through the cold rains, forcing her mount to sprint through the days-long journey. Her hammering heart urged her. She had to arrive in time. With Gale’s help – showing her the shortest path through the mountains – she managed to reach the main camp of the Northuldra just before twilight broke.

—

Dear Anna:

I know it’s been a while since my last letter. I had hoped to talk to you in person, to explain the things that will happen, but I don’t think it would be a good idea anymore.

There is one thing, a single thing I have kept from you over the last years. Ahtohallan’s truth…

—

Yelana, her golden eyes wide as platers, came to greet her. She looked at her up and down, making Anna picture herself, with her clothes wet and muddy and her hair disheveled and roughed. Nevertheless, she couldn’t waste time; she just bluntly asked for a boat and some food, which they gave her, even if she refused to explain. She couldn’t stop, not knowing how much time she had left. She sailed up the river, the one that, according to the Northuldra’s tradition, fed from Ahtohallan’s heart itself, its flow restored by her and Elsa’s efforts after her grandfather’s heinous betrayal.

—

It all comes at a price. Once I took Ahtohallan’s soul within me, once I became one with its essence… it gave me more than I could’ve ever imagined. After four years, I can feel it, see it. My body won’t change. Now I live outside of time’s flow. It is the spirit’s greatest gift, but one I cannot accept.

I’m sorry, but I can’t stand this feeling, knowing… knowing you will die someday, and that I’ll have to live on without you. Knowing I’ll live on, a thousand lifetimes, without the chance of seeing you again.

That’s why I must reject the gift, and the only way to do it… is to give it to you.

I’m giving you everything that I am. There are no words that can make up for what I’ll do, but I certainly hope you’ll find it in your heart to forgive me, in time. I understand the injustice, the unfairness of what I’m doing, but you’ve always been stronger than me. I trust you, and I know you will take care of the river’s soul.

Only thing I can promise you, with the certainty of the heart, is that by offering my soul to Ahtohallan, we will meet again. I’m sorry I didn’t say those words the last time we saw each other, but I promise I will, someday. Our bond won’t die; we’re bound to one another, in this life… or the next.

I have never been good with goodbyes. Till we meet again… Yours always.

Elsa.

—

The biting winds carried the taste of salt water, and their sharp cold warned her: she was not welcomed here. No one was. The Black Sea raged, its turbulent waters splashing loudly against the rocky beach as Anna prepared, taking off the looped rope crossed over her chest. She dragged her boat all the way down the cliff to the waves’ edge.

Exhausted, Anna now stood alone at the dark beach, pulling against the boat’s ropes, tightening the lone sail as hard as she could, even through her hurting palms. She worked hard and fast, making sure the knots were strong enough, driven by the desperation that threatened to spill at any moment; yet, she kept it all inside, for despair wouldn’t do her any good now. Only one thing mattered: to reach Ahtohallan in time.

Gale whistled and circled her, and when she tried to jump into the boat, the spirit pushed her back gently.

“I won’t stop. I have to find her before…” Anna choked the last words. The wind’s spirit whined, and she felt the soft breeze pushing again, trying to communicate with her.

“I have to. Help me, please.”

The spirit’s dance slowed around her, but after a brief instant, it complied. Exhaling heavily, Anna prepared herself, stepping into the small boat while begging to whatever deity would hear her. Let me be on time to stop her…

Once Gale pushed hard against the sail, the boat swayed violently from side to side as it began to brave the angry waves. Cold water splashed against her, and in an instant, the redhead was already soaked, a crippling chill taking hold of her limbs. Fighting against her chattering teeth and the growing fear on her chest, she hung on to the mast as the relentless tides bashed against her vessel; twice it almost tipped, and twice the wind spirit barely saved her.

The sea roared, each crashing wave deafening, and water spilled into the boat a plenty. The darkened skies occasionally thundered, and during one of those brief glimpses of light, her eyes widened. As the upcoming wave rose in front of her – tall as a tower – her mind blanked, terror’s white frost squeezing her heart. Anna cried out for Gale, but she only felt the rumbling of her throat, her voice lost against the storm.

She only had an instant to brace herself as her boat flung into the air.

There was a brief moment of weightlessness before her back hit the freezing waters, knocking the air out of her lungs. She spun, the cold pushing against her from every direction; her nose and mouth stung as water entered her mouth.

An unbearable pressure rang on her ears as she slowly sank. A piercing ache took hold of her limbs and chest as Anna tried to swim upwards, but her strength had already vanished. Her final, panicked thoughts, strung together by the barest of threads, echoed inside her, but silence quickly followed.

She had failed.

Her body jerked; burning pain filled her lungs, and the need for air overwrote any other instinct, driving her mad. She attempted one last, defiant push with her cramped legs, but her last effort proved futile. Her own weight dragged her deeper into the uncaring darkness.

Through the pulsing silence of the last beats of her heart, she felt it, growing: a white, soothing feeling, spreading all throughout her body, radiating in waves. For the briefest of instants, she wondered… if that was what dying felt like. Her body spasmed again, and Anna closed her eyes, finally surrendering to the glacial waters.

…

The feeling remained. Warmth continued spreading, repelling the cold that surrounded her.

Then, it sparked inside her. An ancient presence, a fractal made from a thousand voices, echoing in her very soul. A gentle call, a connection being made… The voice cradled her, urging her at the same time…

Anna…

Teal eyes shot open. Her heart thumped; her pulse grew stronger. The cold had receded, leaving only a tingling numbness on her skin. She grew warmer, and as the pain vanished, her thought’s rekindled in a burst of emotion and clarity.

It was there, at hand’s reach, having lain dormant her whole life. For the first time, she could grasp it: a freeing bond, a blossoming certainty. She drew strength from its depths, reaching her hand upwards and calling on its ancient power, as naturally as if she had done it her whole life, for she wasn’t surprised when the elements answered her call. A small current swirled at the tip of her index, then around her extended arm only to continue descending, whirling around her body. It felt as if meeting an old, forgotten friend anew, and it told her, assured her: the Black Sea would not be her tomb.

The current carried her upwards, and Anna broke the sea’s surface, gasping for air desperately, breathing in the harsh, salty winds. She only had a few seconds of respite before she ducked again, avoiding the upcoming waves. Anna resurfaced and gasped again, slowly but surely regaining her wits. Once she recovered a bit of breath she used Gale’s full might, splashing out the water, sliding and ducking over the dark waters in a frenzy of movement, leaving a ripple trail behind her. Soon, the sea’s rage settled as she reached the first small glaciers.

Soon, she saw them for the first time, Ahtohallan’s entrance, even though it felt as if she had seen them before. With one last push, she stumbled upon its shore.

She slowly walked up the frozen beach; her soaked clothes weighed her down heavily. A few steps away from the entrance, Anna collapsed onto the ground. Under the watchful, ancient presence of the white cliffs, her fist slammed against the hard, white surface as she shut her eyes tight, trying to tame the wild, growing pain that threatened to swallow her whole.

She knew it.

She knew what had happened the moment she felt the spirits awaken within; lingering at her mind’s edges was Ahtohallan’s voice, its quiet flow coursing through her. If she fully embodied the Fifth spirit now…

A grey storm clouded her tired thoughts, but Ahtohallan called for her; its soft, familiar voice resonated just ahead, hidden underneath its great ice walls. Fighting against her growing grief, Anna got up, determined to see her journey to the bitter end, even if she had failed already.

—

She found her deep into Ahtohallan’s cavernous heart.

Anna passed through mesmerizing halls of memory, made of ice so pure they reflected the edges of her mind. Her past was mirrored underneath the frozen surface; her happy childhood, her strained, lonely teenage years… it all appeared like a mosaic, each corner of the gleaming ice containing another piece of her life. And all of them revolved around Elsa. Her sweet sister, the cornerstone of her life. She saw her everywhere she looked: she saw them both as children, fumbling around in the snow; their nights together, their silly adventures and their make-believe playing, Anna a shining knight, Elsa a beautiful princess.

Elsa at her coronation. Elsa at her ice castle, clad in her blue, sparkling dress. Elsa after she came back from Ahtohallan, glowing like never before, finally free.

Aided by the wind’s grace she now wielded, she kept going, descending deeper into the river’s core, sliding down its irregular, shining hallways.

Finally, she reached her, sitting with her back turned and her legs crossed at the center of a great chamber of glass and snow. Underneath her, a great fractal had formed on the ice’s surface, an intricate four-pointed pattern that reached the walls and rose until it reached the dark ceiling. The river’s voice sang, its sound coming not from the hall but from inside her. The call was soothing, gentle, like a mother’s lullaby, preparing her.

Anna stepped closer, suddenly conscious of her beating heart. She knelt in front of Elsa, but her eyes and head fell to the ground, unable to keep her gaze steady. Even if she tried to contain them, her sobs and small whimpers began to weakly echo in the lone chamber.

Her sister’s expression was calm and pure, with only the ghost of a smile – filled with melancholy – captured in the frozen surface of her face. Her body lay still; every inch exactly the same as it had been before, yet undeniable different, lifeless and cold.

“Why…” Anna uttered, the tears finally falling, each one a frozen droplet by the time they reached the ground. With a trembling hand, she touched Elsa’s cheek, but the hardness under her fingertips shattered whatever hope she had left. Even with her powers, in life, her sister had always been warm, always bright and lively in her own, reserved way.

Now, Elsa’s eyes – cold and unmoving – stared at nothingness.

Anna hugged her frozen figure and wept, wishing for a miracle, begging to Ahtohallan’s spirit to bring her back. The river’s song wavered, it’s great, ancient voice murmuring its farewell, a slow lament that merged with her desperate cries.

This time, no act of true love could save them.

—

It did not get easier as the years passed.

Time’s flow never stopped, withering everything in its path. It all changed and morphed under its heavy, unavoidable touch: the people she loved, the shape and customs of her kingdom as she looked from the sidelines. It took her quite a while to arrange the means of her succession. Unable to bear an heir, unable to tell Kristoff the truth, she separated from him a few years into her reign; as it became more and more evident how fruitless were her efforts to mask her youth, she pushed for reform, abolishing the monarchy, entrusting her people’s future into their own hands.

Once done, she vanished from public life, retreating into herself. The small life in the countryside brought her no peace. The world’s beauty, its color and warm, had lost its glow. No joy remained. Only the inexorable passing of days, the slow crawling of years that soon became barren decades.

In the worst of times, bitterness waged war in her heart, tearing her apart. In the wake of her lonesome, grey days, she had wanted to hate Elsa; to despise her for cursing her with her own fate… but the feeling was passing as the stations, for she could never deny the deeper truth: a lasting, final act of love. Yet, the sorrow remained; forced to watch from afar, one by one, every thread of her former life fell under time’s cruel, unforgiving weight.

After Kristoff’s passing – the last bond to her fading world – she bid the kingdom farewell from the stern of the ship that would take her to the continental grounds. Hidden under her cloak, Anna peered one last time at Arendelle’s fjord, taking in the proud profile of the castle against the clear blue skies. It had already been a whole lifetime since anyone had lived there.

-ooo-

1966

Anna… The voice whispered.

She ached. She knew that voice. How could she ever forget?

A great rift of turbulent mists – dark as ink – separated them. The fabric of reality felt feeble around her, as if the simplest of gestures could gash and rip it apart.  If only she could reach out… would the world crumble?

Her voice cried, hollered, but it wasn’t enough. Words could not pierce the veil.

No matter her efforts, her essence escaped each time, and yet…

“Señorita.”

Each time, it became a little bit clearer. Her heart spun wildly as the mists began to part; just as she caught a glimpse of silver… was she waiting for her…?

“Señorita.”

…

Anna’s eyes opened wide, blinking away the drowsiness and the sun’s glare before looking around.

A toothy grin and a pair of bright brown eyes looked up at her, small hands holding up a worker’s cap. At the center of the plaza, she could see an old couple singing and playing in a deep, rumbling voice, circled by tourists and passerby’s, their clear words mixing with the shouts of vendors and another half a dozen musicians spread around, most of them sitting under the trees’ shade.

The redhead smiled kindly at the girl, taking a handful of coins from her pocket and dropping them in the cap. The child’s smile widened.

“¡Muchas gracias!” the girl cheered before running to the next table, repeating the gesture on another unsuspecting spectator.

Yawning, Anna got up her chair, grabbing her purse and jacket, quickly mounting up her bicycle. As every Sunday, the Alameda bustled with life and noise under the heavy Spanish’s sun. With ease, she scurried away in between the tourists and the townsfolk, quickly traversing the narrow cobble streets – with its rows of yellow and white houses, all squeezed together – until she reached the tall seawall, from where she gazed upon the Mediterranean, the capricious, old sea greeting her as usual with its salty breeze and its blinding shine. From the beach came adrift the mellow sound of melodies and laughter as people splashed and swam into the clear waters.

Her hair – cut short because of the summer’s heat – flew freely as she pedaled, following the coastal road that led north, away from Valencia. After a few minutes, she abandoned it, venturing into the dry slopes that preceded the soft hills ahead; a few miles up the dirt track the first few houses emerged from behind rows of fruit trees and wooden fences. The small village had fallen in the deep slumber of the siesta hour; only the wind chimes and the occasional barks poked the silence.

She made her way to the wooden door of a small store, unrecognizable as such unless you knew beforehand; a bell rang softly as she entered. It was a humble place, with rows of wooden planks that served as shelfs, with a variety of fresh fruits and cans precariously stacked over them. In the background, she could hear the monotonous droning of an old radio.

She quickly gathered the few groceries she needed, stopping in consideration in front of the small wine rack that stood in one of the corners. Shrugging to herself, she took one. After the first decades of her travels, she had to admit she had grown a soft spot for the Valencian wines; not even the French ones could compare to its sweetness and texture.

The slow whine of another door broke the evening’s silence, followed by heavy footsteps.

“Oh, ¡Anita querida!” A clear voice called. “Lo juro, os veo igualita que el día que te conocí.”  (Little Anna, dear! I swear, you look the exact same as the day I met you.)

“Carmelita,” Anna turned to greet her, “¿Cómo os encontráis?”  (How are you?)

She walked towards the room’s other end and began to put her groceries on the counter, and she received a gentle pat on her hand and a full smile back after she handed the woman a couple dozen pesetas.

“Como siempre, hija. No puedo quejarme…” (As always, daughter. I can’t complain…) Old, grey eyes glanced at the framed portraits on the wall next to her. The picture captured three men, grinning from ear to ear, the two youngest wearing peasant wool shirts and suspenders, both with rifles on their hands. The eldest in the middle, don Gustavo – short-haired as well as short in stature – she had met almost a decade earlier, Carmela’s late husband.

Both her sons, lost in the aftermath of the civil war. A broken family, like countless others; the aftermath of a failed dream.

“Que rápido se va la vida…” (How fast life goes by…) Carmela muttered, her smile showing the melancholy of better times long gone.

Anna looked back at the old lady. The woman’s brown hair had greyed over the last years; her posture had hunched, and her body, bit by bit, had begun to give up: the long creases around her eyes attested to that. Yet, her energy remained, the joviality of a hard-working, plentiful life by the Mediterranean’s side.

Off in the distance, the church’s bells tolled, calling for the evening mass. The lady sighed.

“Voy a cerrar, querida. ¿Necesitáis algo más?” (I’m about to close, darling. Do you need anything else?) Carmela asked, jingling her keys as she circled the counter. Anna shook her head, taking in her groceries and saying her goodbyes, both of them exiting the store.

She mounted up again, pedaling up the dirt street until she cleared the last of the buildings, and after a couple more minutes, she finally arrived home.

Her house – a small, one-bedroom chalet – overlooked the sea from the hillside. All around the path were long trims of dry bushes and yellow brooms; the sound of gravel followed her every step until she reached the door.

No one came to greet her.

Once inside, she stored her groceries and sat down on her sofa, pouring herself a small glass of wine. The sunset had begun its farewell, the reddening light sneaking in from every window. Decorating the southern wall of her living room hung a handful of paintings. The most important one – center to them all – was a faithful recreation of her sister’s likeness.

She had lost Elsa’s pocket portrait – as most of her belongings – in the chaos that followed the beginning of the Great War as she fled Vienna. To her, it didn’t really matter: hers was the face she would never forget, so she painted her from memory, every detail deeply rooted in her memory’s chambers. Her image remained alive, and Anna clung to it. Every remembrance from her long, eventful life had remained clear as water, thanks to Ahtohallan’s spirit, living inside her.

She had wanted to leave bleeding, crushed Europe and the horrors of its endless wars and industrial wastes; of its growing cities and its growing crowds. After two decades living near Marseille, she crossed the Spanish frontier through the Pyrenees during the early 30’s, only to have the nightmares follow her. Caught in the changing winds of the civil war, as a foreigner she had fled the north of Spain – quickly fallen under fascist hands – and slowly made her way south, spending the bulk of the war trying to help as many people as she could in the long stretches of no-man’s land that formed in between each side.

In this new world, there was no place for magic, and after three years, it became clear the Republic would fall, and so she continued to move, most of the time forced to travel light.

Painting helped her, to record some of the places she had visited over the years that followed the century’s beginning.

As she looked at the various canvases, she went back to her first years in France, during the time she spent in Marseille, where she had learned how to paint.

“Who’s her?” her instructor had asked the last evening of their course, pointing to her finished portrait. Even through her courteous tone, her posture betrayed the flirty nature of her question as the tall woman leaned forward, her curious, green eyes going back and forth in between her own and the painting.

She had only managed a weak smile.

“My love…” she had said, hoping her dejection was subtle enough. Her instructor had nodded once and left, her soft smile vanished.

After that brief exchange, Anna had wondered…

Perhaps – the thought wormed its way recurrently during her lonely nights – she could give herself a chance… perhaps it was time, to be with someone again… Nonetheless, she didn’t. What else would it bring, if not heartbreak? Most of the time, she convinced herself of that.

The rest of her small paintings depicted places she had visited: the twisting alleyways of Turin, the sorrowful streets of Paris and the rich meadows of southern France. The only places that had managed to brighten her days, even if only for a while. There had been so much beauty hidden in the simplest of places, and still… nothing could mend her heart.

The truth was, she still waited.

Outside, the grasshoppers and the wild birds began their solemn, rhythmic song. Night’s mantle fell around the hills, the last tint of orange in the sky turning into the deep violet of the late dusk.

Anna sighed, pinching her nose while reclining her head over the top of the couch, looking at the ceiling.

Carmelita’s comment had been a grim reminder. She had perhaps three or four more years before she had to move again. A new surname, a new life. Over the last summers, she had been considering the possibility of going beyond the great plains and cordilleras of the Spanish soil: to visit Marruecos and perhaps even Tripoli, to dive deeper into the great world. She even had thought of going back to her birthplace, to reach out into the rich tapestry of Arendelle’s history and reconnect with her roots, to see her old home one more time…

For over a century now, she had been a pilgrim of the world, a person without roots nor a past. In this new world, she was no longer Anna of Arendelle; could never be, again, same as her heart, never whole.

Now, she was only Anna, her name pronounced uniquely and differently in every new nation she had visited.

She had wandered far. She had taken hobbies, learned new languages, all for her own sanity’s sake, yet she never settled. She couldn’t, for she still waited.

She would wait whole centuries for her.

-ooo-

1968

Her cerulean eyes hadn’t lost their lively glimmer. They gazed at her, two bright stars underneath the still waters. The black skies reflected on the endless sea; the depths mirrored the world below, and the calm surface separated both their worlds.

It torn her asunder, to feel her, see her so close… and so impossibly far.

Anna swam, and as she got deeper, the sea’s surface grew closer. She was underwater; and yet, she floated above the endless sea. Two halves of a broken whole, separated by the thinnest of lines; the stars shone above, and they sparkled in the depths of the other side as well. She looked down – or up, she couldn’t tell – and she extended her arm.

Elsa smiled, and their bodies came closer.

The faint echo of her voice reached her as the tip of their fingers broke the surface.

…

Slowly, Anna sat on her bed. Wide-awake, she looked out the window. The fading darkness of the early morning had yet to leave the hills and the twig trees outside, the world submerged in the deep slumber that preceded the sunrise; a fragile peace meant not to last, but to soothe an old soul.

An irrevocable certainty had been born that day.

As surely as the sun would rise over the mountain’s top in a few minutes, she sensed it. The river’s voice, its call, renewed, whole again, and its ancient flow – alive inside her – spoke of what she had longed for, all this time…

She clutched her chest, sighing brokenly, for the river’s soul had delivered, finally; inside her chest, she felt the beating of two hearts, her own and another, somewhere in the world. It was, as with everything pertaining fate, just a matter of time before she found her.

—

During the first dim hours of the morning, before she had to leave for work – teaching painting and French back in a small college in Valencia –, she rode down to the coast. The small, lonesome beach was isolated from view: a small haven that not even the villagers used too often. In there, even the crashing of the waves was quiet, even shy.

Taking off her shoes, she walked barefoot until she reached the waves’ edge, careful to keep her gig bag dry as she settled. A cold breeze – not yet warmed by the sun’s light – passed every now and then.

Sitting on the warm sand, she stroke the guitar’s strings, testing them and tuning the instrument a few times before she played the first chords; her now calloused fingertips didn’t hurt anymore, and her hand moved along the guitar’s neck, striking each note with precision.

After a few minutes of practice, she began to intone a simple song she had composed for her, her mournful voice drifting at the winds’ mercy.

Alma mia… / Soul of mine ¿A donde has ido? / Where have you gone? Oh, alma mia… / Oh, soul of mine ¿Dónde te podre encontrar? /Where can I find you?

Notas carmesíes, ensayo sin fin / Crimson notes, endless try Esperando que mi voz / Hoping that my voice Pueda llegar hasta ti / Can reach you at last

Anna gazed into the Mediterranean, exhaling heavily as she let go for just a moment. Around her, the sand and the wind began to move, tiny spirals forming around as a strong gale circled her, dancing happily for a few minutes in unison to the notes before Anna loosened her grasp on the elements, returning them to their slumber.

Playing the final chords, she sang again.

Notas de otoño, testigos de esta condena / Autumn’s notes, witnesses to this sentence ¿Dónde te podre encontrar? / Where can I find you? Oh, alma mía, responde / Oh, soul of mine, answer me Antes de que llegue la tempestad… / Before the storm arrives

-ooo-

1987

Closer to winter, Castilla’s gales barreled down on the outer ring of Madrid, lifting and sweeping around the leaves that covered and sneaked around its every corner. In the streets, long gone were the scars of the war, but the memory of their struggle remained, in the shape of their monuments, and in the eyes of its aging, but gentle people. Skyscrapers and tall buildings now dominated the horizon, but the city’s old heart – in its cathedrals and its humble neighborhoods – remained alive, its stout charm mixing perfectly with the fall’s sadness.

As Anna stood in the middle of the shedding trees of the park, her mind travelled far, going back to a life that now seemed foreign. It had been the first one of many, but it was the one she cherished the most. The last time she had seen her, it had been autumn as well.

During the last months, she had heard the call grow stronger, guiding her. She had followed it, and now the voice had quieted at last, having delivered her. After all – she thought shakily as she gazed ahead – their souls were bonded, and not even time could shatter their link.

Only a few steps separated them, but each one felt decades-long. She braved them, walking forward.

She sat on a stone bench, looking straight at her, as if she knew Anna was coming. Perhaps she did, the redhead wondered. Long platinum locks swayed in the breeze, and her expression was gentle, welcoming. The young woman stood up, closing the remaining distance between them.

The winds picked up, and Anna couldn’t tell if it was her doing.

What if this was all a feverish dream? But the coldness in the air, her drumming heart were real. They had to be, she hoped.

“Elsa…” She muttered.

The woman’s lips turned into a small, regal smile, and Anna’s heart ached.

“Casi,” she corrected her, “me llamo Elisa.” (Almost. My name’s Elisa.)

As she looked at Elsa, it dawned on her. Of course there would be differences. Nothing could stay the same. The tone of her eyes was darker, more close to indigo than her previous crystal-blue one. Her skin was tanned and not so pale, and for the first time, Anna was the taller of the two. Those were details of a life she knew nothing about, a whole side of Elsa that she couldn’t wait to discover. She was no longer her sister, and yet she was the same. She was no longer her Elsa, and yet, she was.

A confident hand rose and gently caressed her cheek, making Anna’s breath hitch. The touch felt familiar, so painfully intimate. That moment – full of the shifting tones of autumn, framed by the falling leaves and the dying sun – it did not feel unreal nor dreamlike. It felt as if the world was about to shift whole under her feet.

How long had she longed for this very instant?

“Te he visto antes, en mis sueños… no puedo creer que seas real…” The young woman uttered, her keen, blue eyes studying her. (I have seen you before, in my dreams… I can’t believe you’re real…)

“Te he esperado…” (I have waited for you…) Anna began, barely able to force the words past the tightness on her throat.

“Lo se…” The blonde said. “No tengo idea cómo, pero lo se…” (I know… I have no idea how, but I know.)

Anna’s arms rose, opening invitingly. Elisa leaned forward, her arms circling the redhead’s hips as Anna’s clutched the back of the woman’s long coat.

“Ana…” She whispered, nuzzling into the crook of Anna’s neck.

Finally, it all fell into place. Every instant, every waking moment had led them here.

“Lo siento tanto…” (I’m so sorry…) Elisa said, the roughness of her voice betraying her falling tears. The redhead shook her head and chuckled, sniffling loudly, never wanting to let go. Anna buried her head in her hair, re-acquainting herself with the feeling of her smell, of her terse skin and her shuddering breath.

Their hug tightened. Their embrace spoke from an era long gone, of a kept promise, through the inevitable marching of a dozen generations, through a sea of time. In her heart of hearts, Anna knew: how it would all end.

It didn’t matter, she realized.

They now had a whole, new lifetime together, and even if in the grand scheme of things, it would be brief as a star’s blink, it was theirs alone.

[anhed-nia]

BLOGTOBER 10/30-10/31 (IT AIN’T OVER YET!): DISCONNECTED (1984) + PERSONAL SHOPPER

One night on a double date at a local night club, sweet, shy Alicia (Frances Raines) tries to tell the foursome about a strange experience she has had that day: She let an old man into her apartment to use her telephone, but he mysteriously vanished before she could let him back out. Her friends are not interested. Her boyfriend Mark (director Gorman Bechard), a smug radio DJ, dismisses her story as some sort of misunderstanding, and her vivacious twin Barbara Ann (Raines) cuts her off entirely by flirting openly with Mark, insinuating that she was with him that afternoon. This is the last straw in what appears to be an ongoing problem for Alicia. Outside in Mark's car, she refuses to accept his denial of sleeping with Barbara Ann, beginning an agonizing breakup process that drags out for days. Even at her job, Alicia can't seem to establish any personal boundaries; an awkward young stranger called Franklin (Mark Walker) visits during her shift at the video store, and reveals that he doesn't even own a tape player--he just found out who she was and where she worked from other club patrons the previous evening. Alicia rebuffs his unseemly advances at first, but with the insulting drama still festering between Mark and her manipulative sister, loneliness sets in. She could use some company to help insulate her anyway, since their town is plagued by a killer of young women...and stranger still, Alicia's telephone has taken on a mind of its own, broadcasting otherworldly sounds into her apartment, slowly driving her mad. She has a difficult decision to make about who or what she can trust, but it may be that there is no correct choice.

Gorman Bechard's atmospheric 1984 oddity DISCONNECTED follows in the footsteps of CARNIVAL OF LOST SOULS, joining a subset of subdued psychological thrillers about women alone. In Herk Harvey's 1962 classic, Candace Hilligoss plays Mary Henry, a withdrawn young woman who moves far from home after a traumatic accident. Where she hoped to find peace, she is stalked by a spectral male figure, and receives no help from the locals, who are all suspicious or covetous of her. The boundary between the living and the dead begins to dissolve, mirroring her increasingly ambivalent relationships with other human beings. Mary is torn between her longing for solitude and her fear of impending doom, having to choose between an intrusive suitor, and being left alone with her cadaverous stalker. Mary's unforgettable journey through her desolate surroundings, her isolation interrupted only by enemies both open and hidden, describes an experience that many female viewers have found familiar. Social life portends various threats--judgmental elders who pick at your morals and appearance, jealous females, emotionally and physically violent males--while solitude offers obliterating blankness, like a desert whose expansive monotony renders meaningless the defining lines of past, future, and self. In modern times, this distinctly female experience is complicated by the evolution of personal communication media. The telephone in particular--which has been historically and rather demeaningly associated with girls--is both a channel through which to reach out and touch someone, and an opening through which unwanted attention can insinuate itself into our lives. Two years ago, I saw DISCONNECTED--a loopy microbudget slasher movie from Waterbury, Connecticut--and one of my first thoughts was that it was somehow just like PERSONAL SHOPPER, Olivier Assayas' heady cyberpunk-flavored thriller from 2016, in which a servant to the stars receives threatening text messages from someone who may or may not be among the living. I've been trying to put the two together in writing ever since.

In PERSONAL SHOPPER, Kristen Stewart plays introverted American Maureen, the virtual slave of supermodel Kyra (Nora von Waldstatten). Maureen is a stranger in a strange land, travelling relentlessly around Europe to procure garments and jewels for her boss in Paris, and on her personal time, conducting a psychic survey of her late brother Lewis's mansion. Twin mediums Maureen and Lewis promised one another that whoever died first would send the other a sign from across the divide; Maureen has been waiting since his untimely heart attack for him to hold up his end of the bargain. So far she has only witnessed some scattered poltergeitic activity, along with the manifestation of a ferocious, unknown female specter, but the clock is ticking, as the manse is mid-sale to Lewis’ friends. Furthermore, it is her employment with the tyrannical Kyra that allows her to stay in Paris and wait for a sign from Lewis, so Maureen’s freedom also is dependent on the resolution of this situation. When she meets Kyra's arrogant lover Ingo (Lars Eidinger), he inappropriately insists that he can get her a better job elsewhere, but she explains that she can't change her life until she has closure with her brother. Shortly after this unpleasant encounter, Maureen begins to receive intrusive texts from an unknown caller. Due to her unusual relationship to the dead, she can't be sure if her new stalker is a part of her world, or not.

PERSONAL SHOPPER has very much the flavor of William Gibson’s speculative fiction novel Pattern Recognition, in "cool hunter” Cayce Pollard has the extra-sensory ability to detect what new designs will become popular next. Cayce’s special power manifests as a crippling allergy, and so she tries to remain in timeless, fashion-neutral clothes and settings whenever possible. Psychic Maureen feels a similar kind of existential ambivalence toward the super luxe materials she excels at curating for her client.

Maureen spends much of her screen time alone. Most of her personal contacts are with salespeople; she virtually never sees Kyra in person, and her boyfriend Gary (Ty Olwin) lives in Oman, which may as well be another world. Her chief relationship is to her dead brother, who is literally in another world, and who responds with frustrating ambiguity to her pleas for a clear message, even as his mansion rumbles with unexplainable activity. This void of connection seems somehow related to Maureen's tenuous sense of personal identity. With no close connections, she cannot accurately detect her own contours. Maureen is totally sublimated into Kyra's life, simply an extremity that grasps for whatever Kyra needs. At the same time, she is subject to Lewis's will, unable to make any moves--even to protect herself--until her late brother deigns to give her peace. Maureen's identity is entirely determined by other people, including the mystery caller who lures her into a confessional conversation with him. Although this third figure is the most predatory of them all, he is also the one who teases out the threads of Maureen's fraying individuality. When she admits to trying on Kyra's clothing, just because she's not allowed to, he entices her to stay in Kyra's bed while she's away, further feeling out her own limits. This is the only way Maureen can establish a self that is independent of the context of others: by violating the taboos established by those others. The rule-breaking method of finding oneself is an integral part of the human condition, as explained by media theorist Marshall McLuhan in a discussion of the self in the age of social media:

"Yes, all forms of violence are quests for identity. When you live out on the frontier, you have no identity. You are a nobody. Therefore, you get very tough. You have to prove that you are somebody. So you become very violent. Identity is always accompanied by violence. This seems paradoxical to you? Ordinary people find the need for violence as they lose their identities. It is only the threat to people’s identity that makes them violent. Terrorists, hijackers - these are people minus identity. They are determined to make it somehow, to get coverage, to get noticed."     

By breaking Kyra's rules just on principle, Maureen moves toward self-actualization. Unfortunately, this comes at a cost, as the mystery caller who encourages this process wants to possess her just as much as Kyra and Lewis already do.

Maureen's phone has become a ouija board-like portal to another plane, through which alien forces can cross over and affect our fate. In DISCONNECTED, Alicia suffers from a similar problem. Alicia's social isolation, and the increasingly meaningless division between life and death for her, is underlined by the fact that she lives on the edge of a cemetery. Her phone is her connection to the world--to the ambiguous Franklin, to her sister who she can neither accept nor reject, to Mark who she can't quite leave behind. She can't get rid of this device, even when it starts to ring almost constantly, with a horrifying, vaguely vocal-sounding barrage of electronic noise on the other end. As in PERSONAL SHOPPER, Alicia is largely seen alone, pacing in her apartment, wandering teary-eyed in the depopulated streets of Waterbury, and eyeing her phone with nervous anticipation. She finds herself living out an appalling version of the classic Twilight Zone episode "Night Call," in which Elva, an old widow longing for her late husband, is harassed by increasingly disturbing phone calls from beyond the grave. Like Elva and Maureen, Alicia also suffers from the conflation of companionship and otherworldly threat: Just as she doesn't understand the source of the distorted calls, she also doesn't know that Franklin--her potential savior from this dark chapter of her life--is a serial murderer, planning to have her for his next victim. When Barbara Ann makes a move on him, perpetuating the cycle of sororal abuse that started with Mark, Franklin kills her instead, removing one of Alicia’s few contacts with the rest of humanity.

BTW, even though Alicia eventually takes a liking to Franklin (center), her experience at the video store--here, trapped between an aggressive suitor and a similarly aggressive porn consumer--forms the most realistic portrait of retail hell for girls that I have ever seen in my life. When Franklin first arrives, announcing that a) the movies there aren’t good enough for his refined tastes, b) he doesn’t even own a video player, and c) he’s only there because he’s stalked Alicia from her local watering hole, his intensely condescending attitude and presupposing come-ons gave me a hardcore PTSD reaction from the many years I spent behind the counter of a comic book store. Yuck.

While Alicia doesn't understand what is happening until it's almost too late, Maureen's situation escalates horrifically when her latest jewelry delivery brings her face to face with Kyra's mutilated corpse. As she reels from this gruesome sight, she also detects a malevolent presence vibrating deeper in the apartment that sends her fleeing in terror. When she goes to the police, her mystery caller suddenly becomes more sinister, demanding to know whether she has told the cops about him. In short order, the caller tries to blackmail her into meeting him in a hotel room, but this climactic union is circumvented by the police: It was Ingo guiding Maureen's journey of self-discovery, and Ingo who killed Kyra. The revelation is enormously painful, not because Ingo is so important, but because he managed to victimize Maureen using her most uniquely personal characteristic: her relationship to the supernatural. She believed that something personally significant was happening to her, according to her special understanding of the world, but she was merely being preyed upon by a violent narcissist. Her profound belief in her own paranormal sensitivity--the one thing she is sure of, that distinguishes her from others--is what made her vulnerable to the insistent texts begin with: She wondered if it was Lewis texting her. Ingo exploits Maureen's convictions about herself to perpetrate a deadly fraud, leaving her violated and humiliated. Even though we witness the presence of an unseen entity (Lewis? Kyra?) moving through the hotel, perhaps influencing Ingo's capture, Maureen is left to suffer for being gullible and vulnerable, to mourn her own privacy.

Of course, Maureen's journey is not over yet, and Alicia receives a similar shock with a full half an hour to go in DISCONNECTED. She is rescued by her own screams on her last date with Franklin, as the sounds of their skirmish draw the police to his apartment where they summarily execute Alicia's would-be killer. Now she is left with almost no worldly connections at all--save for the malign presence that keeps calling her phone, blasting her with waves of mind-melting noise. To make matters worse, there seems to be a new victim in the rash of murders previously tied to the late Franklin. Alicia plunges into a spiral of nihilistic despair, in which her closest relationship is with her conniving ex--mediated by the phone, and by his radio show where he dedicates songs to her--second only to the mystery caller who dials her number several times an hour. Craving a human connection, Alicia eventually relents and lets Mark take her out again, and things seem to be on the upswing...until Alicia returns home to find that something worse than electronic fuzz has entered her home, to put an end to her misery. We don't share her final vision, but we do see the mysterious old man (William Roberts) from the beginning of the movie, the fellow she let in to use her telephone, strolling into the cemetery--presumably, from whence he came.

Like Alicia in the aftermath of Franklin’s death, Maureen also has to find a new way to survive after an episode of shocking violence. For Maureen, the only way through is out. As she prepares to leave Lewis' mansion, she encounters his widow's new beau, Erwin (Anders Danielsen Lie). This encounter crystalizes the movie's themes regarding time. Early in PERSONAL SHOPPER, Maureen is turned on to the visionary paintings of Hilma af Klint, a 19th century painter who claimed that she made her art at the behest of ghosts. She mandated that her work only be revealed to the public after her death, creating a communication channel between the deep past and the distant future. Maureen argues with her doctor about the future; he insists that her brother's heart attack was purely anomalous, but Maureen sees no reason why the same thing couldn't happen to her. She sees no future for herself, and is chained to the past by the ghost of her brother, who withholds the spiritual message that would allow her to move on. Lewis thought a lot about the future, Maureen remarks cynically to her doctor, despite the fact that he was ultimately deprived of one. Later, Lewis' widow Lara (Sigrid Bouaziz) explains that she feels the future is in flux and unknowable--a desirable quality, in her book--and so she is moving on to be with Erwin. So, when Maureen encounters Erwin on her final night in Paris, they have a pointed conversation about the shackles of the past and the fossilizing force of guilt on one's life. Lewis's ghost cruelly teases Maureen at the end of the scene, demanding attention but refusing to reveal himself. With nothing to show for her devotion to her brother, she flees Europe.

In both DISCONNECTED and PERSONAL SHOPPER, the archetype of the twins is used to describe opposing states of being, and the threat of having one’s life usurped by another version of oneself. Alicia's sister Barbara Ann is lively, sensuous, and self-serving: everything that Alicia is unable to be, and the consumer of everything Alicia wants for herself. With her unrealistic desires for honesty and compassion, Alicia is the more death-oriented twin: cut off from social life, deprived of pleasure by more ambitious people, and vulnerable to parasitic attacks from both sides of the mortal veil. Alicia even dreams of Barbara Ann murdering her, and literally taking her place in bed with Mark. Maureen's twin Lewis is described by his survivors as passionate and living on the strength of his own convictions; Although Maureen still lives, she is inert, somehow chained to him, slavishly waiting for him to grant her release, though he is content to torment and manipulate her. The protagonists of both films are subjugated to these duplicates who refuse to stay on their side.

Maureen flees to Oman to reunite with her boyfriend Gary--heretofore only a pixelated image in a video chat who begs her to give up her commitment to the kingdom of death, insisting that only the material world exists and is waiting to embrace her. Of course, when Maureen arrives in Gary's placid and spartan world at what may as well be the end of the universe, her problems have followed her. We will never see Gary in the flesh; he has left a written note of welcome for Maureen, which she reads just as she detects a supernatural presence in his dwelling. Hoping against hope that Lewis is finally reaching out to her, she asks out loud: “Is it you? Are you at peace? Are you not at peace? ...Or is it just me?” And, hauntingly, she hears a ghostly knock in the affirmative for every question.

The ambiguity of this ending has troubled some viewers, although multiple interpretations present themselves which are not mutually exclusive. In the most literal sense, Maureen can be seen as a terminally frustrated Carrie White-like figure who causes material disturbances with the power of her own inner turmoil. The paranormal phenomena she perceives are, indeed, “just her”. On a more metaphorical level, we can see that Maureen is haunted by her own grief, over her brother, and also over her failure to forge a life of her own. In her mind, her brother was a superior life force to which she remains subservient; she identified herself entirely as a receiver for his message, and without his active participation in her life, she loses all sense of purpose. She scrutinizes ghostly disturbances and the spiritual conduit of the telephone to inform her place in the world. Without an internal, independent reason for being, people like herself, and like Alicia, are forever haunted.

[sereisstuff]

𝙿𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝙳𝚊𝚛𝚔𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝟿

Demon!Taehyung x chubby reader

Summary of the tale - Taehyung has banter with his mother and Jungkook finds his way of friendship with you. How will Taehyung react? Warnings - none

(It’s been like what? two, three months? I’m not gonna lie and say I’ve been busy cause I haven’t I’m just gonna say I lost slight hope for this series and many of my others. I may stick to request and one shots now but I still have a passion for this particular one)

“How are you holding up, my dear” lunar spoke with the utmost care, her soft hands gripping the mug you gifted her. “I understand that my presence may come as a shock to you but I assure you I’m not here to be causing any ruckus” she proceeded with caution, you watched her smile. Gleaming in assurance.

“Did I do something wrong?” was your first question, from the information you were able to witness she was a witch, a woman of many talents and although it may not be the best to assume peoples talents you guessed she had somewhat a visionary mind. Lunar giggled wholeheartedly “No, I was just making sure you were doing fine with the potion, I have another gift for your journey. I was going to come much earlier but my partner made sure I knew your young demon was coming to bring you a gift of his own” she explained wafting the air with the trinkle of her finger.

“Oh, he’s not mine” you blushed profusely, grimacing towards your choice of words. Maybe she didn’t mean it in that way and you were skipping to conclusions. Lunar release yet another strong laugh, her curls bouncing with every long hearty giggle she took, her obsidian orbs rested on your face with her laughter halting with an air of exasperation “That’s where your utterly wrong my dear, I’ve known the young demon for many years. He may claim you as his own but he was yours long before that” 

You gulped hearing those words, your mind filling with quizzical questions hoisting off from your chair to sit closer towards the edge “what do you mean?” you questioned curiously, the grip you held on the chair contoured your fingers. Lunar coughed taking a sip of her drink elegantly and your gaze fell to the floor in question “Jimin prophesied something similar when he came over, do you think it could be true. I know you have the answers” I spoke clearly.

Luna's bright gleam dropped, her eyes narrowing as you rambled. She did in fact have the answers to even your deepest questions “The son of Aphrodite was here?” her tone seemed oddly venomous as if she ridiculed his very presence with a burning hatred. Her question was yet to be confirmed making her release a heavy sigh.

You nodded your head warily “he was” came your short response watching the witches reaction “I’m sorry dear, I just don’t have much of a liking for the young demigod. To answer your question I cannot say, my ability to answer such a question is a curse of mine I should forever live with” she informed sadly and you empathized with her feeling oddly placed in this entire situation. 

“I’m sorry” you apologized.

“No need my dear, I wanted to gift you this-” she held out a majestic necklace with a heart locket. Her hands held it gently as you frowned but smiled at the gift “that looks expensive, why me” She seemed to know the answer but kept her mouth closed “I hope this brings your young demon his own answers” she mumbled before patting your head as she placed the mug on the small coffee table resting neatly.

“Was this Taehyungs?” you shouted as she started leaving the home, her long strides took her to the end of the drive as she turned around “it was and is yours, young one” she shouted back before dispersing through thin air making you grumble incoherent words under your breath “it was? Am I just meant to guess that” 

You walked around the home with small steps, carelessly caressing the edges of the home with an intensive stare residing within your eyes before a certain gleam caught your sight. It was a small crack in the ground. The same hole Taehyung created when Jungkook dimwittedly marked you with his own mark of Poseidon, his anger could still be felt and he was never going to be pleased with his cousin.

The entire space felt different, noticing days even weeks had gone past which you’d spent with the young demon hand in hand. That not even your home felt the embrace of you yet still cold and lacking the homely comfort it once had, so you grabbed the remote and choose a movie on Netflix while you began cleaning.

………………………………

“Your father seems to be interested in this girl” Taehyungs mother spoke venomously, her seducing figure coated with a tight corseted dress. The glimmering crown resting upon her thick locks of luscious hair could catch the attention of people standing miles away. “But I’m not” she ended with a rippling growl, Taehyung looked at his mother boredly.

“So tell me son, what god dare’s to have such a child?” she asked softly, her long manicured fingers caressing his clothed shoulder. Taehyung could feel a sense of anger pooling in his stomach as he adjusted his spot, “is that your business?” he retaliated with a daring glance, his mother’s slim slits narrowed towards him. 

“You’re my son, I have somewhat a right to know your future wife. See if she’s eligible for my title” His mother gripped his shoulder with an intense rub, rolling his shoulders as she dug her sharp venomous nails into him. Taehyung stood abruptly, glancing down at his spilt wine as he hissed out his answer “She’s much more eligible then you ever were” 

His mother laughed in mockery, hands resting on her filtered hips with a saddened pout “Don’t be such a bully son, I’m sure she’s a wonderful girl. If I find out that she isn’t how you portray her then Cerberus it is for her” his mother claimed awfully, Cerberus was their hell hound. They often fed it the spirits of the dead and this claim brought an relinquished fire to his mind.

Taehyungs hands fired up in rage and his breathing leveled in anger “I’m sure she will be a good meal, I recall you saying she had a plump figure to your father. Maybe it’ll take two of our hell hounds to down such a being” she pressed further with a hysteric laugh, her leisured steps clanked against the polished floor of the castle’s ballroom.

“If you ever touch her in a way that harms a single hair on her body, I’ll feed you to Cerberus myself” Taehyungs demon fired in rage as his height grew and his black horns stretch through his messy locks. His black wings snapped harshly from his toned back with a ridiculing pair of sharp canines growing “Now, now little one. I was just messing around with you” She giggled confidently, rolling her eyes framed with heavy thick lashes and a set of black shadow “Taehyung! What are you doing?” His father shouted, slicking his hair back with his dirty hands.

Taehyungs mother desperately released tears, her hands clamming together “He was going to hurt me” she cried, Hades looked to his woman boredly already growing tired with her antics once more “Yoon, leave him alone.” he demanded deeply, Yoon halted her steps with a slight tsk in her tone as she stomped the other way stealing a drink from one of the maids standing nearby as she witnessed the overprotective sense of the young demon.

“Did you give her the dress? How did she react?” his father asked excitedly, his canines showing slightly as his smile widened with a slight hopeful gleam in his wide eyes, Taehyung bit his lip peering down at his father “She loved it” came his reply. Taehyung ran a hand through his shining hair with a sigh “Listen, yoon will not touch her. I understand her past reactions to threats but I assure you I want to make this as good as I can. It’s not every day I meet someone my son fancies”

Hades wasn’t all too bad. He was a rather kind man with devilish traits, most worried more for the woman at his side for she was the threatening one and dare you ever pass her. Death is your only answer to her petty tantrums “I’ll kill her before she even gets the chance” Taehyung growled, Hades was taken aback with his son’s tone.

A smile graced his lips as he pets his son’s shoulders “We’ll see, now. Clear out so the maids can shimmer this place up, you have deals to attend.”

………………………………………………………

“You have got to be shitting me, you don’t like banana milk” Jungkook gasped dramatically, you thought since he was the only demigod you knew you paid him a small visit, although it was hard to reach him you polled your legs into the scary tides of his ocean, hands shaking in fear before you were pulled back by a pair of strong hands.

“You’re such a dumb ass” He growled sincerely, and that’s how you found yourself at a food shack. Jungkook was lying on one of the chairs, he knew the owners and surprisingly they knew of his title being of that world themselves “No, I’m sorry but it’s too sweet” you laughed upon his disgusted glare.

“I can’t believe you, come on. Try it” You shook your head a bit, Jungkook was laughing at your reaction. Noticing the necklace resting on your chest “Did Tae give that to you?” he asked, leaning forward to inspect the silvery chain and pendant, his hot breath meeting your chest as you jolted away accidentally grabbing his head on your way from the chair.

“Oh, my gosh, I’m so sorry” you apologized, Jungkook rubbed his head sorely, the owners giggled pointing your way “first your try drowning yourself then you smack me against the table, way to say thank you” He grumbled sassily under his breath.

Your over sized jacket was stained by his banana milk, “I still hate it though” I grumbled back glaring up at him with a restrained smile “It’s okay banana milk, don’t listen to her” he cooed dreamily towards the small carton of yellow substance. You snarled at him with a hiss “why do you think he gave it to me?” you asked, you seemed to be asking people a lot these days and if this was how it was going to be every minute you wanted out.

“He has one similar to that” Jungkook replied staring intensively behind you, his reply caught you off guard taking a quick glance to your necklace. It was old fashioned but big enough to fit a photo in there. Shaking off the obvious curiosity you followed his gaze “who’s that?” you voiced a little too loudly earning a hiss of disappointment and a callous smack from Jungkook.

The woman he rested his eyes on was beautiful, a little older then most here but she had youthful skin “My mom” He muttered sadly, you snapped your head his way watching his saddened face “we don’t speak of her, she has amnesia. My father always told me she hit her head on a rock and it was for the best but we all know he made her forget” Jungkook expressed taking a long sip from his drink.

“I see where you get your looks from” Jungkook rolled his eyes “Yeah, well at least I don’t look like a fish” you burst out into laughter taking one last look at the woman, her long brunette hair reached her bottom with a pair of brown flashy eyes. She was short and petite so he obviously inherited his height from his father and strength must just be a plus for all the demigods.

She seemed familiar in a sense of comfort, but you shook it off as interest.

“A fish?” you piqued in curiosity, Jungkook replied “It’s not unfamiliar to anyone but my dad has had many children I’m still not aware of but one of them I do is. Well, she kinda turned out like a fish” He seemed to hate the girl but he was content with his suppressed answer.

“You would still be cute with a fin and tail, admit it. You secretly want one” I snapped, barking in laughter “me, never” He sarcastically replied, “You should get going, one thing I know about my uncle is that he doesn’t like people who aren’t punctual.” Jungkook expressed, you nodded standing from your place as you gave him a tight hug “Thanks, I needed your company.” I said Jungkook was wide in shock hearing that. His hands slowly making their way around my shoulders with a hesitant embrace.

“Wait” He shouted, I stopped in my tracks pivoting to face him. He pulled out a spray from his bag before coating me in the toxic substance “if my cousin smells me on you then your in for one hell of a shit storm and that won’t even be the worst. Even though he can’t cross the water he’ll surely find a way to strangle me” Jungkook expressed with worry laced in his tone.

“C’mon he can’t be that bad” you laughed only for Jungkook to peek at you from beneath his brown locks with a disaster look in his eyes “oh” you muttered letting his toxicities embrace every inch of your body.

“Now, so long” he pushed you towards the door with a sarcastic wave, you flipped him off only to receive a strong push of his lips.

You just hoped the perfume worked…..

.................................

@sugarrimajins​

@bluemooncnblue​

@fivesecondsofsarang​

@nabo39​

@camilaxpolanco​

@sununicorn

@alex--awesome--22​

@thealexalcala​

@damnedandbroken​

@aylinstrash​

@bookoffracturedescapes​

@queen-pharaoh-hatshepsut​

@xcharlottemikaelsonx​

[drakewalkerfantasy]

Consequences: Chapter 11

Synopsis: Two people from two different worlds, two complete strangers come together for a night of solace from their moment of anger and hurt. By consequence, they were brought together and their fates intertwined. What will happen when the reality of the one night’s actions filled with lust and anger will hit them both? What will happen with two complete strangers who seem to have nothing in common? Or do they have more in common than they thought?

Words: 2596

Authors notes: Some chapters maybe NSFW or have a mature content. Also English isn'’ my native language so sorry for any mistakes I make.

Thank you for ready, please let me know, if you want to be removed from the tag list.

Beckett x TE MC (Maeve)

**Warnings: unplanned pregnancy**

Later that day, Maeve was lying on the bed, the tears slowly caught her. But her mind worked overload, making it difficult to fall asleep.

PREGNANT! PREGNANT! PREGNANT!  The thought was in her mind on repeat as if trying to imprint itself in her brain. Hot, salty tears rolled down her face, while she laid curled up on the edge of the bed. The test Maeve took earlier was hidden safely inside the bedside table after she had checked it for the hundredth time as if hoping that the second line would disappear. Same as the ten others that Maeve bought later after the first two came back positive, hoping to no avail, that this was a false alarm. But the faint line remained next to the bright one, becoming a little clearer when the test dried out. She was pregnant, and there was no way of denying this.

Her heart ached, and her eyes got red and swollen after several hours of crying when the first pregnancy test came back positive. Praying to wake up from the nightmare she had landed herself into. Maeve couldn't believe that she was so reckless and drunk; that she had sex with the guy she just met, with the guy who didn't bother to use protection, with the guy who accused her of using him to get pregnant. Her heart and throat clenched from the memory of all accusations Beckett thrown at her the day after they had sex. His words loud and clear, and his eyes cold as steel, flashed in front of hers.

“How much did she paid you?” “Did my mother paid you to sleep with me?”   Beckett's words, harsh and cold, broke through the veil of memory, one after another, making her heart clench even stronger. She didn't--- no-one did. Maeve thought. The single tear rolled down her face onto the pillow.

“Tell me, what the fuck did you slip into my drink to get me into your bed? What did my mother want from this… from us sleeping together? For you to get pregnant?”

Another harsh word and she could feel the pain almost physically, the hurt shooting through her, settling in the pit of her stomach rising with the feeling of nausea before reaching her throat. The loud, pained sob left her throat. I didn't plan it. I--- I don't want that. She cried quietly, muffling the sounds of her sobs into the pillow, making it soaking wet from her tears. I didn't even want this pregnancy. And now. After all these accusations, how will I be able to tell him about that? I--- I cannot tell him. At least not now--- at least not until I will know what to do.

She sighed heavily, feeling how her eyes became heavy, and the exhaustion finally took over. Her eyes dropped closed, and she fell into a deep uneasy sleep.

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

Hours later, after they came back from the morgue, Beckett lay on his bed, his hands folded under his head, and his eyes directed at the ceiling. The uneasy feeling settled in him, but he couldn't understand what it was yet, the only thing he knew for sure was that he was worried about Maeve. He couldn't understand that feeling still believing that the best thing that he could do for her was to keep his distance. But no matter how hard he tried to convince himself of this, he still was worried. Still somehow feeling responsible for the way she felt as if this was his fault for her getting sick. The moment they entered the house she ran to their shared bathroom and emptied the content of her stomach into the toilet. The second time that day. Beckett thought, his brows furrowed. He didn't know what was wrong with her, assuming that this probably were consequences of visiting the morgue, combined with the emotional state she was into for the last couple of days. Feeling a pang of guilt for the way he acted toward her and what his actions put her through. He sighed heavily, hearing how the door downstairs opened and closed.

After some time passed, he rose from his bed and headed for the door, opening it slightly, just in time to see Maeve disappearing back in her bedroom, catching a glimpse of her tear-stained face and a sound of her muffled sob before she disappeared behind the closed door.

Quietly he left his bedroom heading toward Maeve's door, not sure if this is his place to check on her. Once at her door, he raised his hand almost ready to knock before he heard her muffled cries coming from the inside, feeling how his heart dropped from the sounds of her sobs. Hesitating for a moment, he finally lowered his hand, standing still in front of her door, listening to her quiet sobs. He could feel that something was wrong, not knowing what to do in those situations until the memory of his grandma and her soothing herbal tea popped in his mind. The one she gave Katrina the day she found out about the pregnancy. The decision came to his mind instantly, and without hesitation, he went to the kitchen, hoping that this will make her feel better.

When in the kitchen, he started to look through cupboards, looking for required ingredients that his grandma used for her famous herbal nausea tea and the one that would calm the nerves in case that the issue was Maeve's emotions. He felt guilty for the way he acted with her, for the words he told her the previous day. Feeling like it was him responsible for everything that went wrong with her today.

After all the ingredients were finally found, and the kettle was set, Beckett leaned on the kitchen island, allowing himself to think about Maeve and why he felt like he must push her away, every time they became closer. Beckett was so lost in his thoughts, that he didn't notice when the water started to boil. Startled by the kettle's insisting beeping, breaking through the silence of the house.

Taking the kettle, he poured the boiled water over the herbs, waiting for another fifteen minutes before the tea was ready. Quietly, Beckett went upstairs, tapping Maeve's door and waiting for her to answer, hearing no more sobs sounding from her room. Beckett could feel how concern started to rise inside him, and he knocked again. Still not hearing any answer, he quietly opened the door looking inside. His eyes landed on Maeve's body curled up on the side of the bed, heavily asleep. Her chest rising and falling, while her brows were furrowed, and her hand was clenched on the top of her belly.

Quietly Beckett entered the room, moving to Maeve's bedside table, to place a hot teacup on top of it before turning to look at Maeve. The soft rueful smile touched his lips, and he took a step closer to her not able to resist the urge to touch her face. His hand gently grazing the side of her wet cheek, brushing off drops of tears that were gathered in the corners of her closed eyes. He could feel the tingling sensation that shot through him when his fingers ran slowly against her soft skin, drawing a contour of her beautiful face as if under the spell. Not able to fight the pull, he lowered his head toward Maeve, his lips softly brushing her temple. His hand rested on hers that was placed above her belly, intertwining their fingers. His lips lingered just above her pulse point for a moment longer, inhaling her sweet scent before straightening up. Turning to her chair he took a soft throw-blanket and covered Maeve, trying his best not to wake her up. His heart skipped a bit when he heard a soft meowing sound escaping her lips, and it took him all his strength to turn around and leave the room, closing the door behind him.

Standing outside her room, he leaned against the door, letting out a heavy sigh, rubbing his hands tiredly over his face. He closed his eyes for a moment, thinking about what he had seen in Maeve's room, how small and hurt she looked even in her sleep. Thinking of how strongly he wanted to cradle her in his arms, protecting her from anyone who would want to hurt her. The thought surprised him, but he knew without doubts that it was the feeling he truly felt, not the mask of emotions he used to be wearing. The mask he wore every day to protect himself from getting hurt.

Since being a small child he knew that everything had its own price, and the price for not getting hurt was to stay lonely. So he stayed away from every person he met on his path, not letting anyone get close to him, knowing from a young age, that most of that so-called friends needed something from him, and they used him for their own good. Except for Zeph... In fact, Zeph was the only person who was friends with him, not his family's name or money. The only person who could see him for who he truly was, ignoring the mask he was wearing. Always here for Beckett even if he didn’t ask for it. But even with him, he tried to keep his distance not for himself but for his friend's sake, trying to protect him from his mother.

All these years, he persistently pushed everyone who got close to him away, getting emotionally unavailable to anyone. His true feelings hidden securely behind the mask of indifference, keeping them safely behind his hardening heart. Feeling how his soul was getting callous with every betrayal and manipulation, with every fake friend and fake girlfriend, whom his mother threw at him as a way to control him. And in time the mask he was wearing became more real, while everything that was behind it became more elusive. He got cold and distant, despising people who were weak and naive, who wore their emotions on the sleeve and who still believed in love. The feeling that he believed ceased to exist in that harsh world where money could buy you anything and power meant more than your own children. And now suddenly, after so many years of loneliness and pretense, after so many years of guarding his heart, he felt something--- something real--- something that made his heart beat faster. For the first time in years, he allowed his true feelings, not a mask to guide him, allowing himself to care for someone who wasn’t his best friend or his sister. Suddenly, a feeling of shame washed over him for every word he said, and for every accusation, which he threw Maeve’s way without even knowing her. Blinded by the hatred toward his mother, the one who made his life a living hell, finally seeing what he could have seen all this time if not for that anger. Finally realizing that Maeve was the only other person who he met on his path, except for Zeph and his sister, who has seen him for him, not for his family’s name or their money, but him, ignoring all these facts and challenging him, making him feel something, making him feel alive. And it seemed that every time they were close, he couldn’t control himself feeling an irresistible pull toward the girl, the pull he couldn’t explain, the pull he never wanted to happen. It scared him, making him think that it was the plot to lower his guards, but the reality was that it wasn’t and he knew it— deep down he knew. And no matter how many times he tried to convince himself that he felt nothing or would push her away, he knew that he still will be drawn to her days later, not able to resist the sparks of electricity flying between them, not able to stay away. Knowing deep down that all the assumptions he made were false, but only now realizing that Maeve never even did give him a reason to think that she wanted anything from him--- even more, she did make it clear that she wanted nothing to do with him or his family. He sighed wearily, running a hand over his face, the words she said ringing in his ears clear as day.

“I have no idea who you are or what stick up your ass to even think that you are SO important for someone to drug your drink. And I have no idea what happened with your sister, but IF your mother did something like this with her, she is a sick woman, and I definitely would want nothing to do with her or your family. NOTHING. And I’d rather starve to death than even thought of taking any money to sleep with you.”

NOTHING... She wants to have NOTHING to do with me... NOTHING, simple and clear. Thought he, pushing off the door of Maeve’s bedroom, moving toward the bathroom. He hoped that the cold shower will help him take his thoughts off the girl, who suddenly broke into his mind like a whirlwind, not leaving a place for anything else. He turned around, throwing a fleeting glance toward Maeve's bedroom before picking up the pace, feeling the necessity to put as much distance as possible between himself and her. He opened the door with a rush before shutting it behind and leaning against it to catch his breath. Switching on the shower he started to take off his shirt, throwing it in the corner, not bothering to fold it neatly as he would normally do. He could see how it fell on an object that fleetingly caught Beckett's gaze hiding it the by his carelessly thrown shirt. He bent down, taking a small thing that attracted his attention. His brows furrowed for a moment in concentration, looking at the plastic stick in his hand before his eyes widened when the realization hit him what he was holding. The memory of his sister surfaced before his eyes, and he took a shuddery breath.

"Kat, what is it?" Beckett asked hesitantly, kneeling in front of his sister, not able to understand why she was crying. Without saying a word, she gave him the object she was clutching in her shaking hands, rising at him her red puffy eyes, the soft sob escaping her lips.

"What--- what is it, Kat? Are--- are you sick or something?" Beckett checked, furrowing his brows. The worry lines crossing his young face, watching Katrina laugh bitterly, her eyes filling with tears once again.

"If only... Beckett, I-- I'm pregnant..." she breathed out, starting to cry again, feeling how Beckett's arms wrapped around her, pulling her closer to him. His heart filling with sudden rage toward the person who got his sister in to that position and made her cry. Not knowing yet that this was their own mother.

He could feel how his hands started to shake slightly, while his eyes were focused on two pink lines on the pregnancy test, the same lines he saw on Katrina's test eleven years ago. The memory he would hardly be able to forget. His heart was beating so loud that it seemed that everything around him died out. His mind still trying to process his accidental discovery, not able to believe his own eyes. The single thought whirling in his mind before he leaned against the wall of the bathroom, breathing heavily. Everything finally fall into place.

Pregnant... She is... pregnant?

Tags:  

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[sasorikigai]

tender touches /for Hanzo!

send me ‘ tender touches ‘  and i’ll   generate a number   for my muse’s reaction to yours…  || @soarae || accepting

5. tucking mine under blankets.

▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 || Effervescent light shines down and basks him with the eternal beauty of existence. Hanzo can only preserve what understanding is grown in those times of halcyon light; everything else may wither to dust, to say it’s safe to forget the ones he failed. Akin to the radiance of the sun setting him free, how Hanzo Hasashi would feel it dance across his skin. The ocean’s caress contouring each curvature of his musculature falls gracefully on top of the blades of grass, and bushes surrounding are being rustled by the wind, gently, carefully. Their dance reminds him of those tribal dances, that barely anyone on the planet remembers. A few steps forward, and he would see the battlefield; peace and quiet for now, but every couple of minutes, a flurry of blades would fade into his conscious, and soon, the rapid surge of sanguine spectacle would erupt, without end; slow, monotonous, and unvarying. The gray sky slowly turning darker and darker, and the intervals between the overbrimming eruption increasing. Such high hopes that pity him more than they love him consumes him, overtaking his heart at this sight. 

The dusk likes to haunt him; for it makes friends with the demonic voices in his head. They exchange secrets and all Hanzo Hasashi can do is to eavesdrop. They like to talk about him, and he cannot defend himself or do a single thing about it. All he can do is to listen and digest. It has seemingly been eons, since they started their night banters, and in utter futility, Scorpion’s blood would emit a curdled howl, seeking desperately to be knowable and discernible from the anguished cries and fevered moans he has dotted this familiar plane with. 

How could his immortality become mortal? Perhaps it is the first rays of dawn signaling the sight of his poignant, visceral humanity at work, for it serves as the hearth of his blueprint and home, as the embers and flames commit their existence to him. Perhaps now Evangelique can hear it, in his crunching bones, in his rumbling chest, as they feast on the light within him. Even the ones that are not within him. For his demons are eternal, insatiable, and ravenous. And they are hungry, desperately attempting to devour him whole. Yet - Hanzo Hasashi’s perseverance remains stronger than any of them. For the firestorm within him becomes the splitting blades whirling through his psyche, and his deepest desire carries him to his final destination. The destination where phlegmatic solemnity of his being retains peace without scorching rage. For rage is long behind him, and no longer, his trauma and tribulations will strip his spirit, mind, and heart of inextinguishable hope. 

Beneath the world threatening to cave down around him, Evangelique’s draped warmth keeps him warm in the abysmal cold of his affliction and makes the air around him breathable. How she becomes the conscious creator of his reality; the cashmere warmth amidst the forest, and no longer, he is the alight candle amidst a rainstorm. For his eternally burning embers will light up a conflagration with a solidified cause and new resolution. Hanzo Hasashi yearns to take more joy in protecting people, to share more moments of triumph and victories, to hold nothing sacred, but of tranquil existence even when the world itself causes him to grasp, as his body, mind, and soul would slip through the rigid hurricane of the capricious world, straying him to go off the road towards freedom. ▬▬ι═══════ﺤ 🔥 || 

[amememightywarrior]

The Echo mini-echoes

Short stories that I could probably shoehorn into the actual story but won’t because they’re short. btw the story itself can be found here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16151819/chapters/37739003

Below the cut are 3 short stories/drabbles.

Battleship

“Ye sank me battleship again, ye swivin' whoreson!” Skaetswys shrieked. “'ow're ye doin' it? Out wivvit!” She shook a finger in the direction of her opponent, and then swung around to glare at me with betrayal in her eyes. “Ameme! Ye set me up! I thought we were friends!!”

“I didn't think you were that cheap,” I replied. “Come on. It's only for some food and I know you guys have plenty to spare.”

“Aye, well, I didn't think the little rat bastard'd 'ave the balls to cheat me in the middle o' camp,” she replied.

Ga Bu, my tiny kobold buddy, only twitched his whiskers and tapped another point on his side of the board. “A5!”

“YAAARGH!” went Skaetswys, marking the end of yet another battleship. “Fine! Fine, I give. Anythin's better than this.”

I gave Ga Bu a gentle pat on the helmet. “Good job, kid,” I said. “That's enough for your whole Order for the night.”

Ga Bu, pleased, wiggled his big, sensitive ears, which he'd used to pinpoint every single spot Skaetswys had placed her battleships with disturbing accuracy. Victory was ours.

~*~

Good Communication Is Everything

There was only one person in the store room of the Waking Sands. One person should not be intimidating. I could take on basically anything at this point, so what was one robed Elezen man who seemed emotionally attached to his goggles? And yet here I was, frozen stiff and watching him like I would've watched a wild predator.

“Prithee doth speak thy mind,” said Urianger. “What bringeth thee to this place?”

“Uh,” I said. “Um.”

No part of his bearing changed. He simply stood there in his hood and his goggles and his weird sandals and waited.

“I need pen and paper,” I said. “I'm gonna write a letter. To a friend. You know.”

“Housed within the desk,” he said, waving at the desk next to him. I scooted slowly around the room, giving him as much berth as I could manage. He turned away to browse the bookshelf again, though I could see his ears twitching beneath the hood as I eased a drawer open.

All seemed well. I found my pen and paper without getting too close. Still, my heart hammered in my chest and I could not help but watch him the entire time. Just as I thought I was about to get away, Urianger broke the silence.

“Wherefore art thou so taken with fear of me?” he asked, turning his head slightly.

I turned red. “Me? Afraid? I'm not afraid.”

Urianger looked at me (I think). Then he sighed and went back to browsing, content to ignore what must have been a tooth-gratingly obvious lie.

“Okay, maybe I'm a little nervous,” I said.

“'Tis clear as the light that shines forth from thy soul,” he said, which I actually understood for once. “Thou art as a kitten confronting a flight of stairs...”

“Thanks,” I muttered. “Look, I just...have a problem with people who only wear goggles and hoods and...sometimes I don't really understand what you're saying but I don't wanna admit it. So yeah. Oh, and you've got like no body language. But that's my problem, not yours, so...I'll just get out of your hair. Robes. Yeah.”

Urianger moved to get between me and the door. “Prithee stay your flight,” he said, and twitched down his hood to reveal dove-grey hair that matched his beard. “That which you describe is easily fixed...though mayhap my speech less so than the rest.” He pulled his goggles off, too. His silver eyes gleamed even in the low light of the storage room.

I blinked. “Oh,” I said. Other than the honking big tattoo on his face, he was a perfectly normal Elezen man. That was kind of a let-down. I went over to see what he was reading. He tilted the book to show me the spine. “'Constructing An Optical Aetherometer'? Wuzzat? Are you measuring something?”

“'Tis of great import that we Scions measure and track aetherial currents in Eorzea,” he said. “As the life force of this star ebbs and flows, so too doth—or rather, does the fate of the Spoken. I would create a more accurate instrument with which to measure these currents, to better understand the nature of them and better foresee our fates so we may prepare ourselves.”

Sounded interesting and also completely beyond me. “Well, I guess let me know if you need help with anything,” I said. “As in killing things or putting meters in dangerous places.”

Urianger wasn't the type to smile, but I thought I spotted the barest hint of one in his eyes. “I am capable of completing such menial tasks myself, but I will keep your offer in mind,” he said. “Ever doth thy kindness resonate, heedless of light or shadow.”

Whatever that meant. I retreated and he put his goggles and hood back on, ending our very first proper conversation. What a weirdo.

~*~

Little Mage Lost, pt 1

Edda was, she admitted to herself, completely lost. Oh, not location-wise—she knew she was in the Carline Canopy—but just...on the journey of life. It was as though without Avere she had no purpose, no goals, not even a smidgen of direction. Even with Ameme, she had...

Well. Ameme dragged everyone along with her with the force of an Ul'dahn freight train. Edda envied her conviction, her drive to move forward despite everything. Meanwhile, here Edda sat at her usual table, watching people come and go as she had done for the past week. Thinking...if it hadn't been for Avere, would she have ever left her village? Without Avere, what should she do now? Avere, Avere, Avere...

It made her sick to think of how everything had ended.

The doors to the Canopy opened and an Elezen man strode in. Edda idly wondered which type he was. There were three to choose from and they all looked alike to her. She was actually rather scared of them, if she had to admit it. They were always so friendly to Hyur women and her first encounter with one had caused Avere to shout at her for flirting—

She had stayed away from them until Gridania, where they were everywhere and remarkably unfriendly because she was an outsider. And for the record, she had not been flirting. She didn't even know how to flirt. She barely knew how to talk to people.

The Elezen man turned and she realized she knew him, maybe, if one could know Elezen around here. Their gazes met and he decided that gave him permission to stalk over to her even though she quickly looked at her hands instead. In broad daylight she could see how rangy he was, how thin and starved-looking were his cheeks. Tendons stood out in his neck as he moved and his armor, once well-fitted, sagged in places as though he'd begun to shrink away from his former contours.

“It's you,” he said in a voice as rough as gravel, nothing like the mellifluous voice of Mother Miounne. “Where's your bloodthirsty friend, hmm?”

Edda peeked at him from under the brim of her hat. He was horribly dirty but alive. Now, with him looking right at her, she discovered he had glowing pinkish-red eyes. “Um, Ameme? She's gone.”

“Gone? As in dead, or just elsewhere?”

“Not dead...she had to go to Coerthas,” Edda said, although in actual fact she had no idea where Ameme would be now, given how fast the warrior traveled. Her eyes drifted to his side. “Did you find a healer?”

The man snorted. “And what healer would go near a Duskwight and a criminal, hmm? No one. Your healing job was enough. I'm too strong to be taken out by such a little wound, anyway.”

She peeked at him again. He hadn't sat down, so his face seemed a malm away. “It was a deep wound. You're lucky you healed, although you're awfully dirty and thin. Have you been eating?”

The man's lip curled to show off-white, slightly pointy teeth. “No inn would give me the time of day, never mind a room. I've no money, either. That's how it is to be a Duskwight in Gridania. I've had my fill of playing servant to Wildwoods and Hyurs.” He tched and finally lowered himself into a chair, the knuckles of one hand pressed against the table for support. The water in her glass rippled in response to hidden tremors. He was shaking.

Edda pushed the remains of her meal towards him. “You should eat,” she said.

He gave her an offended look. “Think me a pity case?” he demanded. “That I am so pathetic that you have to feed me your scraps?”

Edda wanted to hide from his anger. At the same time, the voice inside of her that had stirred once before cried out in indignation that he would protest stupidly for the sake of pride. She took a deep breath. “I think,” she said, in a voice that trembled as much as the man, “that you've no money for food, and I've money for this much but cannot finish, so I will give you the rest because you are starving.”

That gave him pause, his eyes on the food. But he was still suspicious and glanced at her again. “These meals are not large,” he said.

Edda bit her lip. “I haven't had much appetite,” she said, hoping he wouldn't ask more.

“Are you ill?” he asked.

She studied her hands once more. Small, thin fingers...no longer any sign of her engagement band on her finger, for it had been pulled off by Liavinne before... “I am heartbroken because my fiancé and his lover tried to get me killed so they could be together,” she said.

There. She had said it out loud. Mechanically, certainly, but perhaps by saying it she could come to accept what had happened.

“What a coward,” said the man, sounding so thoroughly disgusted that her heart clenched. “Who was this? You should get revenge.”

Edda shook her head. “No. He—he's not worth my time. As they say, the best revenge is living well.”

“Eh? What fool said that? I say the best revenge is showing them how wrong they were and watching them suffer for it,” said the man. He snagged the bowl and tipped the contents into his mouth. What was a decent amount for her was hardly a mouthful for someone his size. “Listen,” he said around the greens. “Listen, you—what's your name?”

“Edda.”

“Edda. Mine's Foulques. Look, you need to show this idiot you're better than him,” Foulques said. “He's utter rubbish. You ought to find him and the cheating whore and leave them for dead.”

Edda shook her head again. “No,” she said. “That won't do me any good. What I need is...a purpose, I suppose.” She pushed her glass towards him as well. He snatched it up and downed it in one gulp. “I left my village because...because he wanted to go see the world. So we became adventurers, only it wasn't so wonderful.”

Foulques grunted, now occupied with getting a small stem from between his teeth with a dirty nail.

“I wasn't very good, or so I thought,” she said. “Avere kept leaving me behind. I always thought it was me. I need to try harder...I need to be better...but I had to rely on potions because my healing is so slow. I can't do it in battle.”

“Most can't even do it outside of battle,” said Foulques. “Being slow, though, that's your problem.”

“I know. I—well, I think I kept up with Ameme all right, but she moves so fast all the time. Faster than Avere. I know I was holding her back but she never got mad.”

He licked his chapped lips and rubbed his chin, thinking. “So you want to get stronger?”

“I—I think I'd like to be able to keep up and heal,” she said.

“Same thing,” he said. “Living well...getting stronger...” He gazed at one of the many stained glass windows, his mind far away.

“Ameme told me this before she left,” said Edda. “'If you really want to live well, get so strong you don't even need to think about them anymore.'”

“Huh! That's not a bad idea,” said Foulques. “Then they are as vilekin beneath one's boot...hah!” He started to say something, but froze at something behind Edda. She twisted to look but only found a mild-faced Hyur man coming up the stairs to the airship landing. Hardly cause for alarm, in her opinion. He wasn't even armed.

She turned back, saying, “What's wrong?” only to discover she was now alone at the table. Foulques had bolted.

[veridium]

“A Lover’s Vigil”

Olivia x Cassandra 

Category: Fluff

Summary: Another night of sleep at Skyhold wherein Olivia busies her mind and Cassandra attempts to find some semblance of rest. Some Grade A Fluff, Enjoy!

Ko-Fi    //    Ao3

--

There had never been a more comfortable rest than the way it felt to lay with her back against Olivia’s waist and chest, her thighs snuggly fit around her. The way it calmed her heart and made her feel untouchable when she thought it long impossible for her to feel such a way. The way she could just close her eyes and listen to Olivia’s methodical humming in her throat as she perused a textbook in one hand and rested the other on her lover’s shoulder.

They hadn’t yet stripped down out of their resting clothes -- but the fabric and the warmth may as well have been skin-on-skin with the way they had melted into one another.

As the Seeker had began to doze off, images that awaited her in her dreams began to take shape. It was not a good dream -- the first sight was of redness, of blood seeping from bodies never to gain the vitality of it again. Then, the clashing metal of bodies and weapons. At last it was audible: screaming, a roaring war cry. The sharpness of it jolted her awake.

She inhaled sharply, looking up at the ceiling as one of her legs jerked up into the air.

The next sensation, though, was the feeling of Olivia’s resting hand sliding to the middle of Cassandra’s chest, pressing down gently.

“Steady, my Love,” she said softly, “‘tis only a dream.”

Cassandra collapsed back into her hold without much argument. Rubbing her eyes and forehead roughly, she let a groan escape her throat. “Does that fact make it any easier?”

Olivia closed her book and set it on the pillow beside her. Carefully, she put her lips to the side of her head, kissing her head of bristled black hair. “No, I am afraid not.”

“I understand more by the day why you elect not to sleep most nights,” Cassandra sighed, tilting her head back more against her lover’s shoulder. “I fear it is an eventuality all of us must face.”

Olivia reached a hand down and intertwined its fingers with Cassandra’s without a word, a soft and sympathetic grin across her face. Indeed, most nights she felt as if she were a ghost lingering in spaces she was not supposed to be -- everyone else rests, sleeps, and recuperates like they should, but she had long since given up on believing in sleep as a sanctuary of the mind and soul. She had tried to study, to understand why her dreaming was so terrifying and violent. She could only assume that her entanglement with the Fade had co-opted and capitalized off of her internalized trauma, and she had yet to find a solution for its mania.

Still, watching people she cared about be robbed of rest affected her compassion.

“You owe it to yourself to rest.”

Cassandra sighed again, her arms resting looped around Olivia’s thighs and knees. “I cannot get the image of Lord Seeker Lucius’s detestable face out of my head. It has been a month, and I can still feel my blood seethe at the memory of his voice.”

Olivia pursed her lips, feeling sorry for her as she was still tormented by the conflict in Caer Oswin.  At the time, they were still just friends with a penchant for sleeping together or partaking in certain exchanges of affection, but even then Olivia could tell the ordeal had worn on Cassandra’s fortitude. It was difficult not to develop rancor and spite from such things. It was difficult not to develop rancor and spite from such things. Cassandra was encouraged by those closest to her not to lose hope on the Seekers, and to commit to their recovery. Only Olivia got to see just how conflicted Cassandra was about such a suggestion, whilst she showed the world a most unequivocal decisiveness.

“When we apprentices were first starting to harness our abilities, we were told that a good trick was to imagine sights that evoke certain emotions from our subconsciousness. Dreaming and encountering the Fade can be a frightening experience, but if we can ground our emotions, it helps us maintain some semblance of control.”

Cassandra grasped her lover’s thigh a bit tighter as she tilted her chin up. “What did you envision, then?”

Olivia smirked, filing some of her tousled bed hair behind her ear. “I thought of the way the gardens back home are in spring time. The budding roses and the hummingbirds playing in the air. It was one of the good parts of home, and all-too-fleeting. Father, laughing as he cleaned his hunting weapons in the courtyard after a long winter.”

Cassandra grinned, gazing off towards the wall directly across from them. Imagining the way Olivia looked when she was younger, though encapsulated in the duties of a daughter and heir. Her untouched face and frizzy, youthful hair framing her face. It made her wonder.

“Do you still think of it now when you are feeling overwhelmed?”

“Ha! No, certainly not,” Olivia smiled. “I would sooner prick my finger and stick it in lemon juice.”

“Why the change of heart? Does it not make you happy to recall such times?” Cassandra furrowed a brow as she felt the stifled laughter in Olivia’s chest.

“Because, Cassandra. The Fade is manipulative of good things. It learns from our experiences and our exposures. After time, you must find new joys and new sources to keep one step ahead of its grasp.”

Cassandra scoffed a bit. “How is it you have the energies and willpower to fend off such complexities? I find the existence of being a human singularly exhausting.”

“Good thing you were not imbued with magic, then. You would lose that sterling, cheerful disposition of yours,” Olivia smiled as she teased, her hand running through Cassandra’s hair playfully. Feeling spurred, Cassandra tilted her head sharply and gazed up at her with a discerning look.

“Then what is it you envision now, if you are so masterful and essentially gifted beyond the understanding of us who are not so graciously inclined?”

Olivia raised a brow, eyeing her back in return. Her lightheartedness in the face of Cassandra’s impatience always prevailed.

“For your information, Seeker, I imagine you.”

At her admonition, Cassandra’s stern gaze softened and melted as if it were honey poured into a cup of hot tea. She blinked then, feeling Olivia’s hand in hers tighten its grip.

“Oh,” she said simply, feeling like she had jumped to conclusions yet again in a delicate situation.

Olivia chuckled and shook her head. “You, among many things. The girls out in a field somewhere safe, happy, laughing even. Theia before the role of Inquisitor hardened her soul, Naomi when she felt she had a purpose. Veronica, before she allowed herself to become men’s nightmares.”

Olivia took a breath, her gaze drifting off into space as she envisioned a reality where being on the road with her friends did not mean being constantly chased by death. A life where adventure was not sordid.

“But then, I think of you. I think of all the memories I have of you that are not marred in sadness or uncertainty. But, I cannot think of anything too euphoric, or else it becomes harder to control. Things that are blissful, and not excitable.”

Cassandra chuckled, the breathiness of her tone alluding to her sleepiness. But this conversation had become far too interesting to simply go back into slumber’s hold. Interesting and lovely. As she contemplated all the possibilities of good memories they had formed together up until that point, she found the effect Olivia alluded to was potent: her heartbeat started to calm, and her tensed muscles began to unhinge. All the while, the sensation of Olivia lightly playing with her hair proved influential as well.

Her eyes began to narrow, anticipating the restful darkness.

“I wish you were not so tormented by the effects of your abilities,” Cassandra said, her candor bleeding through the more tired she felt.

In return, Olivia tilted her head, a crooked grin on her lips. “‘What would you do, then, my Love? Battle my Mage’s soul with sword and shield until it relented in giving me a restful night of sleep?”

“If you would be amiable to it, I could certainly make arrangements,” Cassandra smirked, leaning her head onto one side to rest her cheek on Olivia’s shoulder.

Olivia anchored the side of her chin against Cassandra’s head, eyes pondering thoughts and consequences of the love she had found in this life. It was a most sickly sweet thing to have in such uncertain times, and she had never known something so shocking in its purity. For years, she believed she had disproven the veneer of authentic goodness in the world, but every day with Cassandra was giving new meaning to the truth of good and bad that she used to take for granted.

She reached and took hold of Cassandra’s hand that had cusped her knee, and gently placed it to her lips. Kissing her coarse, calloused knuckles, she only felt the softening capacity for devotion in it.

Feeling her lips, Cassandra then extended their feel and took hold of Olivia’s cheek, letting it linger there.

“It is alright, Cassandra. I quite like this duty of mine, keeping watch over the Seeker of the Inquisition whilst she sleeps,” Olivia cooed, placing her hand to the back of her lover’s, encasing it between her palm and her face.

Cassandra’s breathing had quieted into a rhythmic pace, but she managed to maintain coherence just long enough.

“If anyone is to be burdened with a task, I am fortunate that the Maker imparted it on you.”

The Seeker then relaxed her arm that had been reaching to Olivia’s face, letting it rest in its position on her chest and shoulder whilst Olivia’s fingers tangled with hers. Olivia grinned broadly, not wishing to disturb the fragile rest that Cassandra had managed to be seduced by once more. She gazed at the partially lit contours of her jaw line, the side of her face sloping like the dimensions of a carved gemstone. Her skin glowed in the candlelight like nothing else.

As she admired her, Olivia noticed the winding chain of her necklace, peeking out Cassandra’s tunic shirt collar. She felt her face become slightly warm -- it never got old to be faced with the fact that Cassandra’s loyalty was so definite.

She stole one last soft kiss to the side of her head. “Rest well, my warrior woman,” she whispered with a grin, before reaching and taking hold of her book once more. Finding the page she had left off on, she returned to her most dedicated vigil.

[diveronarpg]

Congratulations, KIERSTEN! You’ve been accepted for the role of IMOGEN with a faceclaim change to Brittany O’Grady. Admin Kaitlin: Oh Kiersten... It’s no secret to anyone who asks how much I am in love with Isabella Gagliano. They are such a fascinating character. They bring this vibrancy, this sheer tour de force with them around every bend, carry their thirst for justice with them around every corner--their pen as their sword and paper as their shield. And you, Kiersten, my sunshine angel you brought them to us full throttle. I am particularly in love with the plots you’ve laid out for them, all the ways they seek to raze Verona to ash for the sake of the truth, no matter how bloodied it may be. I absolutely cannot wait for them to bless our dash. Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.

WELCOME TO THE MOB.

OUT OF CHARACTER:

Alias | Kiersten

Age | 20 (dub club, baby!)

Preferred Pronouns | she/her

Activity Level |  6.5/10, give or take a number depending on assignments, muse, mood, and all that jazz! I’m getting ready to go back to school; however, I think I’ve managed to keep activity up pretty well, in spite of that. Anyway, I have burning passion for writing (and pain)–and DiVerona! And along with my burning passion comes guilty pleasures–that is, prioritizing replies over not-so-important (but aren’t they all supposed to be important? c’est la vie!) assignments.

Also… I’m just gonna slide this here… https://catherinedaly.tumblr.com/ :)

Timezone |  EST

IN CHARACTER:

Character | Isabella Elena Gagliano (with a FC change to Brittany O’Grady, pleeeeease!)

ISABELLA

origin: Spain

meaning: pledged to God; God is bountiful

“Qué linda, qué hermosa–nuestro amor. Gracias a Dio.” These are some of the earliest phrases that she can remember coming from Candela and Emilio Gagliano throughout her childhood. Affectionately nicknamed Bella from an early age, the Gagliano child has never been a stranger to beloved adoration. Every morning, her parents would shower the beautiful babe with kisses; every night, they would get on their knees and pray at the side of the crib, thanking God for the gift He deigned to give them.

ELENA

origin: Greece

meaning: shining light; the bright one

Candela Gagliano knew what she was doing when she looked down at her darling baby and decided to gift her with a middle name full of light and brightness. That is what Isabella was to the Gagliano family: a bundle of light that, when cultivated as sweetly as she’d been, would one day righteously burn anyone who dared to try to snuff her out.

GAGLIANO

origin: Italy/Germany

meaning: joyous; brave

There’s bravery in looking the hurricane in the eye and now cowering, but winking. There’s bravery in relying on words and ink rather than guns and bullets–this ideology has been absorbed by the little canary who prefers to sing her truths rather than fight battles that she knows she’s unequipped for. She takes immense joy in dealing justice–a rarity, especially in a place such as Verona.

What drew you to this character? | Would you believe me if I said a bit of my heart has always belonged to Isabella Gagliano? I’m no better than Eros leaving Psyche to tend to her as she so rightfully deserves. When I began toying with the idea of applying for a second character (yes, I know I’m tardy to the party), I told myself that I would look for someone who pushed me out of my comfort zone of innately soft characters. By no means do I consider Isabella rough, but she’s brazen in a sort of “it’s better to ask for forgiveness rather than beg for permission” kind of way. There’s a fire inside of her that I’m dying to get ahold of. And, after going through the list over and over again, I realized that I couldn’t turn a blind eye to Isa anymore.

What is a future plot idea you have in mind for the character? | Where do you see this character developing, and what kind of actions would you have them take to get there? 3 future plot ideas would be preferable.

SEE, I’VE COME TO BURN YOUR KINGDOM DOWN: Isabella is no stranger to injustice or loss; she’s had more than enough of her fair share of both while living in Spain. Her move to Verona was meant to only be an escape, to rid herself of the plaguing thoughts of her mother and father, but the seasoned  man who took her underneath his aged wing implored her to write, she could not refuse. She wrote. The Verona Giornale took note of the little canary and offered her a place, promising her as much anonymity as they can give under the moniker of Imogen, and she greedily took them up on her offer, promising herself that she would EXPOSE THE MOBS FOR ALL THAT THEY’VE DONE.  And may God have mercy on the souls who find themselves immortalized in ink by Isabella Gagliano; for, if they want to live like gods, she will assure that they are crucified like them—painfully, magnificently, and publicly.

YOU HOLD MY HEART, YOU HOLD ME DOWN: Isa was the one to force her beloved to choose between her heart and her family, for she was under the guise that she meant more to Celeste than the family that left her with no choice but to marry and join the likes of the Montagues. But if there was  one thing her parents taught her, it was to never make assumptions; and yet, the Gagliano woman did and got burned in the end. Casting Celeste out of her house that night was the most painful thing she’d ever done, and I’d like to see how she could come to terms with it. Logically, of course, it makes sense–Isabella cannot afford to lose herself in a woman that can never fully be hers, but her bleeding heart cries for its stellina, cries to have the other sweetly nestled against the contours of Isabella’s body, even if only for a night. EXPLORING THE RELATIONSHIP WITH CELESTE is something I’m dying to do, especially since I see Isa as a rather possessive person; will she cave for Celeste, or will she go out of her way to try to make the Duval woman jealous? Will she seclude herself because of her battered heart  and work twice as hard to expose the evil doings of the mobs?

CORRUPT A MAN’S HEART WITH A GIFT–THAT’S HOW YOU FIND OUT WHO YOU DEALIN’ WITH: I’d like for Isa to LOOK FOR WEAK LINKS WITHIN THE MOBS’ ARMOR, for both her own sanity and her publications. Though Fate has been cruel to her in the past, she’s loathe to believe that it could continue to be; surely, Isabella believes, not everyone involved in the work of Damiano or Cosimo is there because of their own volition. Surely, she believes, there are some willing to sing their song for her, so long as she offers something in return. While neither of us are sure what will be offered, I’d love to get the chance to flesh it out and figure out just how far Isabella will go to get what she thinks she  needs.

Are you comfortable with killing of your character? | Only if it’ll cause the maximum amount of pain possible.

IN CHARACTER INTERVIEW:

What is your favorite place in Verona?

Wrapped under plush blankets, arm strewn lovingly across a frame she’s mapped dozens of times–that’s her favorite place in Verona. But, there’s power in a name and in the unfettered truth that she’s too selfish to give up; to remedy, Isa keeps the truth tucked close to her chest out of fear that, if she shares, she’ll lose it and Celeste. So, Isabella settles for something far more bland, but still honest: “My office– at home or at the Giornale.” The answer is far more bland, but it’s still honest. Both places scream Isabella Gagliano, for they’re littered with pads of paper marred by  her loop-filled handwriting and her walls and desk are decorated with pictures she’s taken in her down time (however, her office at home dons more intimate photos–candids, true moments of happiness–than the one at work). “There’s something liberating in sitting down in a space that’s wholeheartedly your own and and just… Being able to write and to be. It’s cathartic, really.”

      2. What does your typical day look like?

“I don’t really have a set pattern of what I do every day.” Isabella prefers to keep a healthy amount of change in her life, just in case someone starts to trail her. Writing under a moniker offers more protection than her given name, but it doesn’t offer invincibility; she wishes to follow in her parents footsteps, but in her own way: stealthily, creatively.  It’s not easy living in Verona without mob protection, but she makes do with what she has; besides, she’d rather die a martyr than a murderer. Languidly and cat-like, she places an elbow on the arm of the leather chair, lips jutting out in thought. “But, first and foremost,” the curly-haired brunette begins, “I wake up. The time varies, depending on what I have planned for the day. If I have a ridiculously light schedule, I’ll lounge in bed ‘til noon or I get hungry—whichever comes first.” Playfully, she chuckles at her own admission before continuing, “But on ‘normal’ days, I head to Giornale, I interview people, I write. Maybe I’ll find time to visit a few friends or just wander around the city. I’ve been here for a few months, sure, but every single day I feel like there’s something else–something new–that I learn. And that’s a journalist’s dream, no?”

      3. What has been your biggest mistake thus far?

“So what—this is it?” Disbelief colors her words and she’s grateful; without it, she knows without a doubt that Celeste would be able to hear the begging undertones, the wretched part of Isabella that wants nothing more than to love and be loved in return.

“Mi amore, what do you want from me?” Celeste’s voice is tired, worn. “You know me better than I do myself; you know—“

“What do I want? What do I want, Celeste?” Exasperated hands slam against her countertop, causing the other to jump in her perch on the couch. “You! All I want is you! How many languages do I have to say it in for you to understand it? How many times?” Isa rakes her hands through her curls to calm herself, but it’s no use; panic and vexation have settled deep within the marrows of her bones, for she knows deep down that this is the end.

“I can’t leave Tomas—“

“You don’t even love him.” Isabella’s voice cracks as it stumbles over the four letter word, the four letter word she’s breathed countless amounts of time  against the soft skin of Celeste’s neck, at the insides of her thighs. Isabella closes the distance between them, brown eyes imploring as she nestled beside her lover on the couch, fingertips reaching and finding purchase on the other’s hands. “You love me. Why—why am I not enough?”

For the first time since the conversation began, she swears she can see guilt in her lover’s alluring eyes. Celeste says nothing, and the silence is as loud as anguished screams. Because you can’t provide for me in the way that my family needs like he can, Isa supplies mentally, because you have no merit in Verona. Because you are neither Capulet nor Montague aligned.

Because you were too late.

“Then go.” She all but snatches her hand away from Celeste’s and she abruptly stands. “Get out. Get out.” Heavy footfalls thump against the hardwood floors as she disappears down the hall to their—no, her—bedroom. A few moments pass before Isabella rounds the corner, Celeste’s belongings carelessly bundled in her arms. “Leave,” Isa hisses, all but throwing the clothes at the redhead, “and stay gone. Stay with him in that big, grand house of yours.”

The Duval woman can only comply. With clothes in her hands and tears in her eyes, she casts her beloved a longing look before leaving. And as soon as the door slams shut, Isabella crumbles to a heap of bitterness, of brokenheartedness. She pulls her knees to her chest and raggedly sobs until her throat is raw.

———

“Signorina Gagliano?” the interviewer prompts, brows furrowing.

She blinks—once, twice, then murmurs, “Perdonami—my mind has been elsewhere as of late.” Then, to remedy her inappropriate silence, she flashes a grin and admits, “Honestly, it’s a bit unnerving being on the other side of this. I’m much more comfortable in your position, caro mio.” His chuckle reveals that he’s not upset, not even bothered. He just wants answers, Isa tells herself.

All anyone ever wants is an answer until it’s not quite that they want to hear. She swallows thickly.

“My biggest mistake would have to be giving people the benefit of the doubt.” Doing so with Celeste had left a gaping hole in her chest that she knows will never fully fill. “When somebody shows you who they are the first time, amico mio, you better believe them.”

What has been the most difficult task asked of you?

“To write,” she murmurs softly, brown eyes more vulnerable than she’d like to admit. It comes as easily as air to her, that writing, but it brings so much pain, so much misery. It dredges up memories that she has spent years trying to bury. “It’s a gift and a curse, you know.” To equally love and hate what you do, to know that it’s the best thing to do–even if not for your own gain. She knows this better than many at the Giornale, for they write from a distance with no ties to the mobs, but she writes from  unwanted connections: her lovesick heart, her bitter soul. “But, you know what they say: Nothing easy is worth having, or something along those lines.” And truly, deep down, Isabella knows this as well as she knows the sky is blue and the grass is green, but it doesn’t make it any easier to stomach.

      4. What are your thoughts on the war between the Capulets and the Montagues?

This is the one question that leaves a metallic tang in her mouth—the mention of the mobs in what she thought was lighthearted practice for one of the newer interns has driven her to lock her jaws until she bleeds. This is all they do: they kill, they steal, and they lie—for trivial, worldly possessions. Money. Fame. Power. Her fingertips twitch involuntarily, the minuscule movement born from irritation and disdain. And this is why I’m here—to strip them of it all, to remind them that the pen is far mightier than the sword.

Isabella clears her throat and her mind by extension; to blatantly admit something that bold, even in the face of a comrade, would be the final nail in a casket she’s not yet prepared to lie in. “I’m not sure if it’s fair for us to have a say on a world that we know nothing of,” she breezily lies, fingertips absentmindedly tugging at her dark brown curls. A brow arches, however, asking the question that she knows better than to voice and he knows better than to answer: Don’t you know better than to ask about the work of the Devil?

Nonetheless, glossed lips tick upward at the corners, just enough to indicate a smile. “My thoughts are based on facts and facts alone when it comes to things not prominent in my own life, so I’m sure that makes them rather bland.”

Extras: If you have anything else you’d like to include (further headcanons, an inspo tag, a mock blog, etc), feel free to share it here!

EXTRAS:

MBTI: ENTP - The Debater

ZODIAC: Libra - October 11, 1994

MOCK BLOG:

https://isabellagagliano.tumblr.com/

PLAYLIST:

https://open.spotify.com/user/r7z4vyhjr8g2jp2t30pkapvwf/playlist/6eVrYzXLiF281uOg3GeqI1?si=PPb1kT6lQp6ZTCDGgA3sqw

HEADCANONS:

Isabella has a tiny, scripted-font “C.” behind her left ear. One drunken escapade quickly led to another, and before either Celeste or Isabella knew it, they were in a hole-in-the-wall tattoo shop. Isa held Celeste’s hand as she got her tattoo—“I love you, stellina, I love you,” the brunette had slurred with a lazy grin throughout the process.

The Gagliano woman is possessive, to say the least; but who can blame her—the child who lost what was most important to her at the time to outside forces, to greedy hands that only sought to take?

Along with journalism, Isa enjoys photography in her free time.

She’s fluent in Spanish, Italian, English, and she knows conversational Russian.

The man that took her in and encouraged her to write recently passed; she visits his grave at least once every two weeks.

[littlebitofeverythingphff]

Chapter 33

A/N: HAPPY ONE YEAR OF HARRY AND ADDY!! I cannot thank you all enough for your support in this story! It means so much to me to have such amazing readers that share the love of these two with me. A huge shot out to all my friends on here that have supported me and read the chapters before I post and provided me with encouragement to post! Without them you wouldn’t be seeing these chapters! I cannot wait to see where the next year leads with this story and I am not going to be done anytime soon!

As a celebration of one year I wanted to give you a surprise chapter!! It is not as long as others but I hope you will enjoy it! **WARNING** PLEASE READ WITH CAUTION AS SOME PARTS MAY REQUIRE A TISSUE OR MAY CAUSE A TRIGGER FOR SOME PEOPLE**

This is the story about Adalyn’s brother Alexander Mackenzie....

His eyes fluttered open seeing the light breaching through the curtains assaulting his tired eyes rays of sun. A warmth radiated from a figure lying next to him. Her naked body was pressed against his, her head resting on his shoulder sleeping peacefully. Harry watched her chest rise and fall in a steady manner; her quiet breathed whispering across his chest.

His hand ran down the side of her arm feeling the cool skin beneath his touch that radiated a shiver up his own arm. Grabbing the blanket he pulled it higher to cover her exposed body. Sharing a bottle of champagne once they returned home from Harry’s birthday, they stayed up well into the night being intimate with each other.

A smile was brought to his lips at the memory of his surprise birthday, a small private one that Adalyn had planned. His eyes darted to the watch that still remained on his wrist, his birthday gift from the brunette lying beside him. He could not stop his mind from wondering, coming up with a cascade of questions for her about her brother Alexander.

A small part of him was happy that she divulged him in that part of her life, no matter how brief. Addy still remained a private person knowing that it was hard for her to trust people with such personal information that ultimately led her to be vulnerable with them. This was another step in their relationship, a talk that needed to be had now that their relationship was in the public eye.

It was only a matter of time until the press found out about all the intricacies of her past, which included her families as well. Harry had known briefly about her biological mother, but she rarely spoke of her which he could not push as he did the same about his own mother. Harry knew if he would open up more there was a chance Adalyn would tell him, but he could tell in the brief moments she did how her demeanor suddenly became closed off and guarded. He could only see the front page of a newspaper educating him on the Mackenzie family history he had not been privy to as of yet.

Her toes ran along side his leg making his thoughts fade away. Not realizing that Addy had woken up and was silently watching him. His eyes were met with concerned green ones staring back up at him, her brow slightly furrowed.

“What’s on your mind?” Adalyn reached up running her hand down his cheek back down to his chest trailing over the contours of his pecks.

He was reluctant to tell her his true thoughts. Harry released a deep sigh caused her to sit up in the bed pulling the covers around her body for warmth. Her green eyes bore into the depths of him trying to read into whatever he was attempting to hide from her. There was no point in trying to; she would eventually coax it out of him.

“Don’t look so worried Addy.” Harry tried to reassure her wanting to get her back to his side. Out stretching his hand she inched her way closer to him thinking that if he started to distract her with kisses, the matter would end up forgotten.

“I will worry until you tell me what was on your mind. You looked quite concerned….” Addy spoke between the gently placed kisses on her neck knowing it purely was a distraction technique by the prince.

Huffing out a breath Harry gave up, the prince shook his head lightly with a small smile. He could not get anything by her no matter how hard he tried. His eyes angled down again to the watch for a brief second too long giving Addy a silent answer of what plagued his mind.

“My brother.” She ended with a sigh while watching Harry glance down at the watch.

Turning his head back he caught her distant gaze as she looked off across the room as if she was encapsulated in a far-off memory. Addy knew that one day she would have to tell him and with giving him her brothers watch it was only fair to Harry to know what really happened to Alexander. It was conversations like this that made her more vulnerable to Harry, a fact that she welcomed yet disliked at the same time.

It was difficult for her to let her guard down no matter how close they had grown lately. A small piece of her always warned her not to, that in the end he would also betray her trust. Shaking her head she pushed the thought away, banishing out of her mind, as she knew Harry better than that.

If things were going to work with Harry she needed to tell him everything, no matter how painful the memories were he needed to know. Especially since he would be meeting her family in the next few days; Harry would need to understand the dynamics of it all. A small thought popped into her head, what would her family think if Harry had no idea about Alexander…?

“Addy you don’t need to tell me if you don’t – ”

“I do.” She interrupted Harry before he could finish. “No I do.” Addy forced a brief smile for him followed by a pleading glance. Before she could second-guess herself Addy started to speak.

“Alexander was my oldest brother and when my mother left he stepped up and helped my father raise us.” Adalyn starred up, giving Harry a quick flash of a glance before looking down to the balled up sheets in her hand. “He was in the army… special forces.” She paused to lock eyes with the prince again knowing that vital piece of information would cause a stir in Harry.

Holy shit. Harry thought to himself as everything started to make sense. Please don’t tell me he died over there… He silently thought, begging her quietly not to say so.

“Go on…” He softened his gaze to try and encourage Addy to continue while keeping his thoughts to himself

“After his third tour he started to change.” Addy dropped her head, unable to look at Harry while telling him this for she knew it would hit close to home for him. “He wasn’t the Alex I remembered. He drank a lot, slept for most of the day. He had so much anger that any small thing could set him off. Alexander stopped going out, he would just stay inside and we all tried to help him, but no one could convince him to get help.”

He had PTSD. Harry internally spoke with a lowered head. No wonder why she knew how to calm me down all the time. She has dealt with this before. In that moment his heart ached for her. He had no idea how difficult it must have been for her to go through this again with him. Harry could see the torture contort her expression as if she was reliving those moments again as she told him.

“I made him move in with me so I could look after him. After all he did for me as a child I knew I had to do something…” Addy furrowed her brow with pursed lips. “and we went together to talk to his commanding officer after he agreed to get help, which he did.” A brief smile graced her lips, bringing a weak on in reflecting one on Harry’s lips.

“He went to therapy, support groups and even joined a boxing club to help but he still had his moments. At my birthday someone had brought fireworks…” she shook her head lightly with regret. “It was like he was back there again. I learned his triggers and how to calm him when he was exposed to one.”

“One day we ran into this lady in the park who was walking some dogs. They all belonged to a rescue and she was fostering them in hopes that some would find adopting homes.” Addy released a small chuckle, “it was the first time he laughed and looked genuinely happy since he had been home. It gave me a small bit of hope and an idea.”

“We went to the rescue’s shelter just to look around and Alex of course found one that was so scared, backed away into the corner shaking. While I was talking to the workers there Alex was able to get the dog to come to him which shocked everyone cause no one could get within a few feet of the dog.” Adalyn loosened her grip on the sheets, taking a settling breath. “So we adopted Trigger and Alex seemed to start getting better. It was like there was a mutual understanding, an instant connection between the two. They were healing each other and all was well until Trigger got hit by a car and we had to put him down a year later.”

Her rescue… that’s why she does it. These small revelations kept popping up into Harry’s mind. It was if this part of her life brought the puzzle pieces together and formed a picture of it. The way she was so dedicated to the rescue working tirelessly even after her day job, the way she understood what he was going through, everything made perfect sense.

“That’s when everything started to go down hill again.” Addy took in a jagged breath, pursing her lips closed not wanting to continue talking anymore, but she knew she needed to. How was she supposed to tell Harry how he died?

“Addy, it’s ok.” Harry grabbed her hand seeing her visibly upset. “I’m right here.”

Addy squeezed his hand hard gripping it like a lifeline.

“One day I just knew. I couldn’t tell you how, but I just did.” Tears started to form in her eyes at the mere thought of it all. “I got home and when I walked inside I could feel this heavy weight on my chest… I couldn’t move my feet forward no matter how hard I tried. It was like a force was trying to keep me out, that someone didn’t want me to see what I was about too.”

Harry realized what Addy was about to tell him. He saw the tears trickling down her cheek in a flood, staining them with the grief that she still had within her. Instinctively Harry grabbed her and engulfed her body with his arms. She released a crushing sob indicating the exact moment she broke.

“You don’t need to say anything else Addy.” He held her trembling body as she cried into his chest. Showering her with a cascade of kisses he tried to stop her sobs while running his fingers soothingly through her hair.

“I tried to help him…” She sputtered out between gasps of breath. “He was just lying there cold Harry.”

“I know… I know you did.”

His heart broke for her. A stray tear trickled down his cheek landing on her soft brunette hair. Harry had never seen Adalyn break like this, not even the release of the article could surmount this pain that he witnessed her in. He only wished he had known sooner for he would not have allowed himself to put her through any more in her life. How she ended up the way she was amazed him after all she had been through.

“It’s ok… let it out.”

Her brother could not live with PTSD no matter what he did, a fact that brought a profound sense of fear within him. Alexander had eventually found his own peace like much service men and women had ultimately done, but in return it left Adalyn’s family severed.

“Harry I need you to be ok…” Addy begged him knowing exactly what she was referring to. Lately he found it tedious to go to his sessions, like it was a waste of time. He now had no choice after what Addy told him about her brother. Harry knew how bad it could get and he would be damned if he put her through it all again all because of his pride.

He continued to hold her body feeling the tears dampening his chest. Harry was still puzzled how she managed to hide this vital fact from him; even throughout his whole deployment she never mentioned a word. Shaking that thought on his mind he tried to be present in comforting her.

Glancing down at the watch that now served as a constant reminder to never stop fighting no matter how bad his PTSD got. Adalyn had entrusted him with Alexander’s watch and now Harry understood why. It meant more to her than anything in this world. It was a piece of her heart he would wear everyday as a reminder of her and what he was fighting for.

Harry felt her body move in his arms, the sobs gently subsiding. Her head lifting to reveal the aftermath of her crying uncontrollably in his arms; blood shot eyes with drenched eye lashes and tear stained cheeks which she eagerly wiped away. Harry brushed away stray pieces of her brunette hair off of her face while she sniffled.

Her reddened green eyes looked to him, locking in his gaze as they shared a silent moment. Addy’s features hardened, her eyes narrowed slightly at him.

“Don’t make me go through that again…” Addy half warned half pleaded with him as her green eyes filled with fear.

“I promise I won’t.” He swore to her, but she turned her face away from him as if she had heard it all before and didn’t believe his promising words.

Gently cupping her cheek Harry turned her head to look back at him. His blue eyes stared right into her being making her see that he meant it. He needed Addy to believe him.

“I promise I won’t… ever.” In that moment he vowed that he would not let her down. He would do anything in his power to not bring her to the same tears she had cried just now. If he didn’t have motivation before, he now did.

That motivation was Adalyn.

[puckiety]

A Tangled Thread So Divine

Courier Six goes to Zion looking for an escape from the war for Vegas; instead, she finds another war & a man who might be a monster.

Hope wants to hate him.

Joshua Graham, that is; his status as a former legionnaire does not sit well with her, not so soon after freeing her sister from slavery.  With the way Anita still struggles to look people in the eye or so much as speak her opinion, Hope’s opinion of Caesar’s Legion has fallen lower than ever.  And she knows that Joshua Graham – the Burned Man, the legend – used to be the Malpais Legate, used to stand for everything she’s come to loathe.

But she can’t hate him.

When he asks for her name, instead of giving a brusque Six or just call me Courier, she stands to her full height and spits out every syllable of the name her parents gave her.  She doesn’t know why; she feels compelled to do so by something in his blue gaze.

“Tuwiyah Hope Chavez,” she says, and then, “The tribe who raised me call me Hope.”

“But your parents named you Tuwiyah?” he asks, and Hope nods.  The Burned Man smiles.  “It means earth, does it not?  Do you mind if I use your given name, Tuwiyah?”

She doesn’t understand how he knows what her name means, or why he’s so polite, but she nods again. With that, the conversation turns to how he would like to help her leave, but he needs her help – and if that help were for any reason other than helping the Dead Horses, she likes to think that she’d refuse.  But she remembers tales of the White Legs, distant as they were to the Boot Riders, and she knows that they and their storm drums are dangerous foes – so she agrees to help.

(She’d be lying if she didn’t say that his being a man of God helped sway her decision; Benny’s mama taught her scraps of scripture and reminded her to pray to the Lord every night, and she’s held onto that faith through the years.)

--

O daughter of Babylon, who art to be destroyed…

It’s incredible, Hope thinks as Joshua recites the psalm, how quickly her view of him has changed. Where she was once wary she is now reverent; Joshua speaks the word of God as if it were simple knowledge, and not something divine.  He speaks of revenge – happy shall he be, that rewardeth thee as thou hath served us – and makes it seem holy.

“Do you know what it means?” he asks her, and there’s a fire in his eyes.

“You want to destroy the White Legs,” Hope says.  She’s not educated, not the way her brother is, but she’s clever.  She knows what he wants – and she can’t say that she doesn’t agree.  “I want to help.”

Joshua gives her a measured look, nods, and walks past, leaving her alone and knee deep in the waters of Zion.

--

“Joshua wants to fight because the White Legs stoked the naked flame inside him,” Daniel says. “You, you see the light, but do not yet feel the heat.”

Hope bristles at that, at the insinuation that she knows nothing of vengeance, nothing of the fires inside people – at the insinuation that she does not possess fire herself. But Daniel continues, ignorant of or ignoring the way she narrows her eyes.

“I can pray that you never will, Hope, but it isn’t up to me, and it isn’t up to God.  It’s up to Joshua.”

“Joshua is a righteous man,” Hope retorts, and she knows her tone is defensive.  She doesn’t care; Daniel doesn’t understand.  He doesn’t see that with people like the White Legs, there is no running.  The tribe will pursue the Sorrows and Dead Horses wherever they go, because it isn’t the land that they’re after.  Caesar has told them to prove themselves, and the only way to do that is with blood.  If Hope doesn’t aid Joshua in fighting the White Legs, the White Legs will kill them all.

“He doesn’t just want to fight the White Legs,” Daniel forges on, heedless of her protest, “He wants to annihilate them.”

“If we don’t annihilate them,” Hope snaps, hand twitching, “They’ll annihilate us.  I know their kind.  There is no hope for peace.”

Daniel sighs.  “I pray that you’ll come to see my way, Hope.”

But she’s already storming away.

--

She finds him sitting by a fire in the Sorrows’ camp, one leg bent to support a worn Bible as he reads from it.  The sun is just beginning to set, casting the canyon into shadow.  Hope is tired from her day, but she can’t help the smile which spreads across her face at the sight of him, his one hand pressed against the dirt for support, his blue eyes intent on the words before him – words she suspects he knows by heart.

“Joshua.”

He casts his gaze upward to her face, and there is something soft there, more hearth fire than inferno. After a moment he moves to stand, but she sits beside him instead, tossing off her heavy wool poncho and setting it on a nearby long.

“Tuwiyah,” he acknowledges, his voice measured.  “Was today fruitful?”

She is still not used to hearing her birth name; she has been Hope for so long that to be something else – someone else – to him feels strange.  The Boot Riders discarded her given name after her parents gave her away because to them she was not the ground; to them she was new blood, their chance for a healthier generation.  A hope that they would continue.

“I collapsed a cave full of Yao Guai,” she remarks.  “Daniel seems very thankful.”  It comes out bitter, but she’s too tired to hide the vitriol in her words.  

Joshua must hear it, because he asks: “Have you had any luck in convincing him to fight?”

She shakes her head. “He thinks fighting is an act of senseless violence, and that I’m too enamored by your legend to disagree with anything you say.”

Joshua arches an eyebrow – or, at least she thinks he does, it’s hard to tell with the bandages.  “He said that?”

“More or less,” she shrugs. “I’m too tired to fight with him more tonight.”

He chuckles, low and warm. Not for the first time, Hope struggles to reconcile the man before her with what she has seen of legionnaires. She knows that Joshua was once the worst of Caesar’s men, but now that she knows his story, now that she knows him, she sees only a repentant man of God – albeit one unafraid to bloody his hands.

It is one thing to forgive a slap to the cheek, he’d said to her, but an insult to the Lord – it demands retribution.

The memory of the words nearly sends a shiver through her; it’s the sort of thrill she always feels when he speaks of his plans, of Purpose and Vengeance and all of those things that have taken on such importance in her mind that they are more beings than simple ideas.

“You should rest,” he suggests.  “Our work is not done.”

“No,” she agrees, “It isn’t.”  But she doesn’t move, just stares into the fire.  “Joshua – ”

“Yes?”

She wants to set her hand atop his bandaged one, wants to wrap his fingers around his, wants wants wants in a way that feels wild and inexplicable – but she doesn’t do anything.

“Will you read to me?” she asks instead.  Her voice sounds hesitant and she hates it, hates this frailty he tugs from her, hates it almost as much as she loves the way he talks of God.  She is something else around him, not a farmer’s daughter or a Boot Rider or a Chairman but something refined, glorious.  Hesitant words are spoken with the fine grammar taught to her by House’s books and Joshua’s example and she wonders, briefly, if Benny would even recognize who she has become in the waters of Zion.

That, of course, makes her think of how she last saw him, bound and on his knees in Caesar’s tent, waiting for her to kill him or save him, waiting for her to build his legacy of a free Vegas.  Instead she’d come here, to Zion, searching for the correct path to take; and instead of that she’s found Joshua, and the Dead Horses, and something of a rebirth.

And with that she casts thoughts of Benny from her head, because he has no place in this moment.

If Joshua is surprised by her request, he doesn’t show it – merely nods.  Hope shifts in her seat on the ground.

“May I rest my head in your lap?”

Another nod, more hesitant this time, and slowly she lowers herself to the dry earth, turning to her side and laying her head on his thigh.  As he speaks, she looks up at him, tracing the outlines of his bandages with her eyes and watching the way the firelight contours his face.

“By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down, yea, we wept, when we remembered Zion…”

Hope loves this psalm, but she shakes her head.  “Something happier?” she requests, then, “Please.  I have had enough of revenge for one day.”

There’s a pause which she half-expects to end in a lecture, but instead it’s just Joshua paging through the scripture until he begins to read once more.  “Set me as a seal upon thine heart, as a seal upon thine arm: for love is strong as death; jealousy is cruel as the grave: the coals thereof are coals of fire, which hath a most vehement flame.”

The soothing cadence of his voice lulls her into near-sleep; her eyelids grow heavy.

“Many waters cannot quench love, neither can floods drown it: if a man would give all the substance of his house for love, it would utterly be contemned.”

Hope’s eyes fall closed and she feels a gentle weight upon her head; Joshua’s fingers card through her dark hair as he continues to read, but she is already asleep.

--

It is over.

Salt-Upon-Wounds lives, saved by Hope’s sudden burst of bravery which prompted her to recognize that Joshua’s anger was something unrighteous – the same bravery which allowed her to speak to him, get through the fire which was consuming him.

They retreat to the Dead Horses’ camp together, him carrying her in his arms.  She hurt her ankle in a bad fall – nothing she won’t recover from, but because she continued to use it after injuring it, she can’t put any weight on it.  Joshua seems physically unhurt, though she knows him well enough by now to see that he is suffering in a different way.  While she is treated for her wounds – nothing major besides the ankle, as Joshua’s request for her to stay behind him saved her life in more than one firefight – the Dead Horses name her a member of the tribe.  They call her Touches-Flames, and when she is well enough to stand on her injured leg without worry of making it worse, she receives a tattoo which marks her as one of theirs.  It decorates her shoulder blade, stylized flames surrounding clasped hands – one bandaged, and one not.  Joshua’s eyes crinkle when he sees it, though whether in amusement or displeasure she is not immediately sure.

Her question is answered later, as her new tribe celebrates their victory with dancing and singing – both hymns that recalls from her childhood and songs in their own languages. The hymns are Joshua’s doing, no doubt, but all of the songs are sung with the same infectious joy. Follows-Chalk pulls her into the dances, teaching her the steps as somebody beats a rhythm on a drum and they all sing this little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine –

Hope ends up leading them in When the Saints Go Marching In, and the response she gets is so overwhelming that next thing she knows, she’s got a guitar in her hands and she’s singing La Llorona.  And even though no one understands the words, more than one person is crying.

Finally, she retreats to the edge of the festivities, where Joshua sits and watches from just outside the firelight.  What little light reaches him sets his blue eyes glittering, makes them the color of Zion’s waters.  Hope can’t stop smiling as she sits beside him, close enough that they nearly touch.

“You seem to be enjoying yourself,” Joshua says.  He sounds amused.

“They call me Touches-Flames,” she tells him.  His eyes crinkle, and this time she’s pretty sure he’s smiling at her.

“So I heard.  Your tattoo is… unique.  They think highly of you, Tuwiyah.”

Said tattoo is uncovered, still too sore to put fabric over.  “They seem to think we are more than we are.”

His hand drops to her leg, resting on her thigh.  Her heart pounds in her chest; she shivers at his touch.  He isn’t saying anything, but he looks at her with brilliant eyes and suddenly every line and wall she though existed between them is wiped away, leaving her reeling with the possibilities of what might be.  Suddenly, she has no idea what they are to each other. Friends? Something less? Something more?

She hesitates, then, so quiet only he will have a chance to hear her, she asks: “What are we, Joshua?”

She knows what he is to her; not an angel but a man, imperfect and broken but still righteous, still a man of God, still everything her abuela had said salvation would be.  He isn’t Benny, is both better and worse than the man she loved since he dragged their tribe to Vegas; Joshua has none of the ambition that led to a bullet in Hope’s skull, but he’s ex-legion, the feared Malpais Legate, and he’s full of fire.  A monster, people call him.

Joshua’s not a monster. He’s a man.

He has burned for his sins, and now she burns for him; if he asked her to, she would be his right hand, his blade, the one to wreak his vengeance upon all who have wronged them. And that scares her; she was so very close to letting him kill Salt-Upon-Wounds.  Still she struggles to see past the way her heart has painted him. Still she struggles to see that he is not a messiah, not something divine; she struggles to remember the wrath which lives in his heart.

“What do you want us to be?” He asks.

What does she want? More than she should; more than she thinks he’s willing to give her.  Hope takes his hand, bringing it up to her lips and pressing a reverent kiss to his knuckles, the softest touch of her mouth against his bandages, and she confesses.

“I want to be yours.” Her voice is thick; it feels as though she is laying her soul bare.  Saying I love you to Benny was never like this. “However you’ll have me, whether friend or follower or…” she swallows, squeezes her eyes shut against the intensity of his blue gaze.  “…or lover.” She opens her eyes, doesn’t flinch away from how he stares, even though it feels like he’s burning through her. “Yours,” she repeats.  “I want them to know that I am yours.”

He frees his hand and brushes his burned fingertips across her shoulder; as he catches her tattoo with his touch she hisses out a breath, pain flaring across her skin.  She doesn’t dislike the way it feels.  “They seem to know already,” he remarks. Joshua’s voice is low and heady, accented by a chuckle that makes warmth curl within her.  Fingers slide up to her neck, shifting the soft hairs that cling to the nape, and he moves so that he sits behind her.  Hope is still, barely breathing, waiting for his next move; there is a rustle of bandages and then rough lips brush her skin.  The contact has her sighing, the gentle touch – so surprising from him – thrilling her.  He wants this; he wants her.

Oh, she has been wanted before, of course, but this is different.  Joshua is not some Freeside thug with eyes only for her curves, not some caravaner taken by her charm and her pretty eyes; he is not Benny, who has known her for ages and yet continues not to really know her at all.  He is not some simple fling; there is something holy about his mouth on her neck, the way her pulse picks up and the way she gasps when his teethe graze her just so.

“Joshua,” she breathes, carefully turning to face him, “Please.”

He has removed the bottom half of his bandages, revealing the way the fire marred his face, but she doesn’t flinch, doesn’t really care. “Kiss me,” she requests, though it sounds more like a question than an order.

In the end, he does much more than just kiss her.

--

But all things must come to an end.  When the celebration is over, Hope knows that she must go back to the Mojave, back to House and Caesar and the NCR.  She has a job to do, the fate of a city to decide.

When she leaves Zion, it feels final, like God is telling her she won’t be back.

--

Four months later, she’s back in Zion.

“You’re back,” says Joshua when she walks into the Dead Horses’ camp.  He sounds mildly surprised, but she can see in the widening of his blue eyes that he’s more shocked than he lets on.  “I didn’t expect to see you again, or at least not so soon.  Why have you returned?”

Hope doesn’t say anything, just pulls off her poncho to reveal the way her dingy tank top has stretched to accommodate the swell in her abdomen.  Joshua’s eyes widen further.

“Oh.” He stands, reaches out one bandaged hand towards her.  Hope steps forward, dropping the poncho and brushing her fingertips against his. “Is it mine?”

She attempts to stifle a snort, but doesn’t quite succeed.  “There’s about an equal chance it being you or Benny.”

Joshua drops his hand; it hovers near her stomach, like he wants to touch but doesn’t know if he’s allowed.  “You slept with the man who shot you in the head?”

He doesn’t sound exasperated, like Arcade or her brother did when they discovered the choice she’d made that night.  Just… curious.  It’s refreshing.  Hope shrugs.

“Bad decisions, I guess.” Then, after a pause: “You can touch me, Joshua.”

With her permission, he rests his palm against her stomach.  His eyes are focused there instead of her face, and there’s something almost gentle in what little she can see of his expression.  “You have interesting choices in lovers, Tuwiyah.”

That does get a laugh out of her, a brief bark of a thing. “You can see my dilemma.  I’m not sure which of you is the worse option to have as a father.”

Especially since she’s running a city, now; she has an independence to maintain, and tying herself to Benny or Joshua may make her appear weak.  Vegas comes first, or at least it always has before now – but this child she’s carrying deserves to know who its father is.  Or, as the case would appear to be, possible fathers.

“If you were looking for my opinion, Tuwiyah, I am the worse option.  No child deserves the shame that my legacy will carry.”

“Mm, and an overly ambitious murderer is better?”

Joshua chuckles.  “I see your point.”

The stand in silence for a moment, Hope’s chin tilted up just a little to look into his blue eyes. “Joshua,” she says finally, his name almost a sigh, “Will you come back with me?”

He removes his hand from her stomach.  “If Caesar finds out I’ve set foot in the Mojave, he will send assassins after me.”

“Caesar is dead.”

Joshua blinks at her. “He is?”

Hope nods.  “I put a bullet through his skull with the .45 you gave me, and stabbed him for good measure.”

“How strange,” Joshua murmurs.  “Even after all he has done… to know that he is gone is hard for me to understand.”

She knows that they were friends, once, or maybe something more, but she’s never questioned it before, and she doesn’t now.  “Joshua, please,” she says.  “If this child is yours, it deserves to know you.  And if it isn’t… I want it to know you, anyway.  Will you come to Vegas with me, or not?”

There’s a long pause. Finally, Joshua nods.

--

This time, when Hope leaves Zion, the Burned Man walks in her footsteps, and she has faith that she will return to the valley someday.

[altairattorney]

[OBLIVION] Quagmire

Dreams of this kind are either Daedric heresy, or written in the Scrolls. What are you hiding?

Trippy dream fics = yeah. In which Martin Septim, and not just him, is haunted throughout his life by a dream he doesn’t understand. Dedicated to @renmorris.

“Are you feeling better?” A worried father tucks his five-year-old in, anxious to get a positive answer. Despite his efforts, the small forehead isn’t smooth yet -- folds of fear remain, contour to his soft, shaken face. He brushes locks of chestnut hair with his fingers. It rarely fails to calm Martin down. However, his gaze is full of a primal, frightened wisdom; it bears the touch of some sort of revelation, of the kind children discover so many times each day.

A memory flashes across the father’s mind. A reed basket, oaths of secrecy, the echo of a weak, haunting wail. He trembles.

“Did... did your dream show you something you didn’t like?” The little brown head nods. May the Divines be with them. ”What was it, Martin?” The answer his son gives is unexpected; the tone of his voice, so overwhelmed and certain, even less so. “It was the end.” * “Fire, I say! Fire. From the open doors...” “Fire? Wow... haha...” “It is not a lie, you know...” Though Cyrodiilic brandy blurred his gaze hours ago, the memory shines clearer than spring water. So does the dream, identical, over the years.

“Little brother, we like your weird dream.” “It isn’t a dream,” he hazily protests. “It is the dream...” “Whatever you say. Tell us again... the doors, maybe?”

“I told you. Doors that aren’t there, but open. They pour liquid fire. People torn apart, eaten. And I see it all in flight... from above. Whooosh.” His brothers in worship roar with laughter, enraptured by his flailing arm.

“You wor-worship the wrong Prince, brother. You... a Vaermina type. Or, well... how dr... drunk were you when you had this dream?”

“Hey. I... I were not drunk... I told you,” he moans, offended. “I’ve always had it.”

* “What do you see then, son? Does the One...” “He... yes.” Swallowed pause. “He shows up. I never see Him clearly, but I know. The air is full of smoke. I feel His presence in every particle. And then... the claws of the Dragon lie right here, on my sternum. His hand -- it pierces a hole in my chest, all the way to the other side. It hurts so, I melt in the fire around me. The lines of the world blur. After that, I...” “Go on, Martin.” “I... can’t tell us apart anymore.”

Not the first sigh Martin hears that day, not the first severe gaze. None is more piercing.

“Young man. I... I hope you realize what you are asking of me. A future priest of Akatosh...”

The hammering of his heart fills the void between them.

“Your position -- it demands you to be aware of certain things. You come to the Chapel to tell me of your faith, and you speak of visions that... no, no. I won’t sweeten the pot. There’s but two ways, son. Dreams of this kind are either Daedric heresy, or written in the Scrolls. What are you hiding?”

Who knows? Does he? Is he even hiding anything?

“I couldn’t tell, Father Berard. I don’t know better. Please, let me in the Chapel. Whatever meaning this has lies in His hands. As for myself... I feel His breath in me.” Though he won’t say it, the old priest cannot hope to understand. His life was spent in a small town, holding the calloused hands of farmers. He opens his mouth to find he has as answer, but not of his own. “So be it, son,” his voice decrees. “It flows in us all.”

* “You know, I think I have seen all this happen before.”

Nothing around but the three of them -- Martin, the woman and the smell of blood. She is on the verge of death, gashes too wide to be knit by his magic. Unrelenting, he speaks.

“That must be it... what my recurring dream means. How the images twist after the wound in my chest closes. I dream of staying there, always in the Temple, but somehow gone. My pain dies with the fire, under a downpour... the waters of a rebirth. Fresh tears. And there, under the White Gold Tower, I watch the centuries pass, as if -- as if I remained there forever, paralyzed.”

She has eyes of glass, emptied of all life force. The Daedra, a bitter taste in his mouth reminds him. Their crushing power. How could they stand a chance?

“The calm doesn’t last long, though. War and disease sweep the city soon enough. I watch them die one by one, at my feet. The world rotates, constant, to its fate... a flawless machine of open jaws.” She has long stopped listening. From the outside, the ruins of Kvatch follow her in her silence. Martin’s head falls, in helpless shame. “I see it end like that, and I cannot move. I cannot do a thing. Useless, just as I am.”

* “But... why are you telling me?” “Because you are different.” Many are the signs this new champion has been given, but this one -- the shifting lines of Martin’s face, in tune with the stars, are the very grammar of fate. “You are the only one, my friend. There is no soul on this earth I trust more than yours. You live on a different level than us all... thus you can listen.”

The breath caught in his throat remains a secret. Martin is too far gone, lost in his destiny of dark forebodings, to perceive the sounds of this life. The champion lets it pass, heart muted, and does his best to follow.

“The point is, when I met you it all changed. After a lifetime of the same dream, you freed me from its repetition. The first night in Cloud Ruler... I fell in it again, to find there was something beyond -- something more to the jaws and the dark, to the world being swallowed. It wasn’t empty anymore. All over the land... on the corpses, on the ruins... flowers and butterflies sprouted everywhere. Hundreds of them.” They move in unison, eyes alight.

“And you... were you alone?”

“I am not, not anymore. In my immobility, I feel a presence within that outburst of colour. How to describe it, my friend? It is a strange feeling, even for the dream. Long after the world left me behind, something still calls my name. Just a light touch, a tug at my wrist... yet so greater than me. A benevolent god.” His fingers, unaware, rest tenderly on the champion’s wrist. Are they still in the dream? A closer look, full of enchanted curiosity. "Now, whenever the dream returns, he is my companion. Both of us are statues in that flower field; I watch his silhouette bend towards me, but motionless. I swear to you, my friend, I never wanted anything more than reaching back to him. I call him as he calls me, from the depths of my soul. He... I believe he wants to save me -- but parted we are, by such a small infinity. How can a dream be this full of anguish? Each night, I tell you, each night he is on the verge of turning around. He never does. And yet -- it’s almost like... it’s like...” *

It is the smell. 

Passwall sleepers get used to it, they say. He can’t. The putrid planks above his bed are maddening. He forces his mind to run around them in circles, and with each loop -- with each movement, inhale, exhale -- he leaves behind a sliver of his sanity.

It doesn’t help that there are other things. He still chooses to avoid the trap of sleep, even long after the nightmares ended. He sometimes wonders, against his will, whether he inherited the dream he once heard of.

And now that he lives here, in the land of the lost, the deepest folds of his sleep come undone; what his grief hid, layers and layers below, is now crystalline sunshine. It burns at the corners of his eyes, of his nostrils.

From there, forlorn laughter -- the god of the dream -- howls like a funeral bell. Such is the tune of his fragments of sleep, the rare few, scattered among the smell of moss. The voice of his new king, ringing at the back of his head, with his own mocking lament --

-- if only, o fool, you had turned around when you had the chance.

[krisrampersad]

LiTTribute Odyssey in the News again Next Stop Toronto and coming to a city near you

Dr Kris Rampersad, author, heritage educator and journalist, has urged the diverse populations of the Americas to build bridges through walls.

Rampersad is on a literary tour dubbed LiTTribute to the Americas 2018 across North America and Canada aimed to promote intercultural dialogue showcase the connections with literary heritage and other experiences of peoples of the Americas inspired by her commemorative book LiTTscapes – Landscapes of Fiction. LiTTscapes has been hailed for its efforts at bridging the gaps among the diverse cultures of the Caribbean.

The Canadian appearances begin as guest of the Zoomers’ Association annual Mothers’ Day celebrations at the Erin View Residence Hall, Mississauga, Ontario from 1 pm May 13, 2018 to autograph works and for interactive engagement on the theme Mothers, Motherlands and MotherCultures and from 3 pm May 20 2018 for A Roti and a Reading at Windies Restaurant, Scarborough Toronto.

Speaking at A Celebration of Arrivals in South Florida USA last week accompanied by steelpan music, calypso, and dances, Dr Rampersad told of how these cultural forms were the bedrock of the literary culture. Creating linkages between the two can encourage appreciation of literature and encourage reading that can foster greater appreciation of other peoples and cultures, she said.

A peace advocate, she observed a moment of remembrance for the victims of the recent school shooting that claimed the lives of 17 students in Florida and urged guests to harness their collective energies and knowledge of the strength of community gained from their villages of origin to counter the culture of violence and despair that seems to be crippling communities across the Americas.

Dr Rampersad recalled her early schooling, when “students did not have access to guns” and gave anecdotes of when “chalk was our only weapon!” in the presence of some of her early mentors, now resident in the diaspora including former Deacon of the Anglican Church Reverend Winston Joseph who said he attended as he has followed Dr Rampersad’s achievements since a student, and one of her early childhood teachers, Mrs Marion Karamath, a retired special education teacher of Canada who introduced her to the US audience.

Dr Rampersad said that laying a solid foundation for children through a culture of reading and exchange of experiences can bridge the generation gap and redirect the anxieties that lead to violence, as she shared successes of the children of LiTTscapes who showcased their talent during the initial launch of the book at Whitehall, one of the Magnificent Seven heritage landmarks in Trinidad and Tobago and other LiTTributes held in the Caribbean, UK and Europe.

“We are nurturing and building cultural confidence so they emerge from any sense of marginalization to  self-esteem,” she said, noting that “in the land of Walt Disney, that cannot be too lofty an ideal to consider, nor too much an impossibility to recreate!”

She recalled being tasked to recite before her entire school a poem which contained words that were “very bigly” and felt then the power of words to move apart the walls that also served as blackboards,  and to build bridges of understanding through knowledge.

“It did leave me with the notion that reading has the capacity to remove walls that divide us,” she said, identifying some of the ‘bigly’ words in the poem as indelibly, phenomenal and unfathomable and challenged herself to put them into a sentence.

“Scaling first the walls of unfathomable words that have remained indelibly imbedded in my mind, I graduated into a phenomenal obsession to see those walls pulled aside so that we can build bridges and all share in a common vision for unity and camaraderie,” she said, to applause.  She said she was connecting with people who share this vision to empower youth and to bring diverse communities together, not just those of who migrated from the Caribbean, and who came from other continents but also the indigeneous peoples of the Americas.

She said her research on many communities who have migrated show the journeys have bee

n long and treacherous and “there are still tectonic jostlings in adjusting to the aftershocks that are similar in small islands as continental spaces dealing with diversity - jostling for recognition, for access, for equality of treatment. Sometimes it takes over our young and not so young, and spill over in frustrated and violent and extremist behaviour.

“It is my belief that if we create tracks through the imagination for a journey beyond the weight of that history, beyond the erasures and distortions of historical records, there will be a different tone to our conversations about diversity,” she said. “It was my interest in the village space that grew from my focus on a rural spot on a small island the expanding contours of the global village, and my research grew to encompass a broad range of interests that now is described in those bigly words as sustainable development.”

Many eagerly shared their memories of growing up in villages, such as those represented in LiTTscapes, following the formal presentations of awards to diverse community members, as Gary Persad and Steven & Margaret Chang with an inscription from the Tao Te Ching - an ancient Chinese text - “The Heart that Gives, Gathers.”

Dr Rampersad’s will continue efforts at engagement through heritage in Toronto, Canada in May at the Erin View Residence Hall from 1 pm on May 13 2018 where she will speak on Mothers, Motherlands and MotherCultures, and at Windies Restaurant, Scarborough Toronto from 3 pm on May 20 2018. For details and bookings, partnerships and sponsorships email lolleaves@gmail.com.

We are viewing the world through mutlicultural lensesGlobal education statistics suggest that boys lag behind in reading in a campaign  #Don'tForgetTheBoys.The experiences of the boys of LiTTscapesare different.Our efforts look beyond the statistics and engage boys and girls of all ages to appreciate reading in  novel ways through culture-specific forms as we promote inclusive societies.We are redefining multiculturalism to bridge the gaps between generations, between cultures, between genders and scaling walls that create inequity and discrimination through literacy and literary elderly and intergenerational appreciation.Our LiTTribute series re-tailor your events to suit your environment, inspired by LiTTscapes - Landscapes of Fiction by Kris Rampersad, in partnership with global diasporas.

Following our LiTTributes To The Americas, the Republic, To LondonTTown, To the Mainland and To the Antilles, in our next chapter we being our LiTTributes to Toronto, in association with Zoomers Association and the Independent Newspaper of Canada on May 13, 2018 at the Erin View Residence Hall in Mississauga Toronto from 1 pm and at Windies Restaurant from 1 pm on May 20 2018 in association with the Independent Newspaper - voted the best digital newspaper by the Media Council of Canada and the National Ethnic Press. See images this page and contact our partners for bookings.Since our launch many mothers, fathers, guardians and community organisations who have come into contact with our initiative have commended our efforts.Ours is an all encompassing journey of Exploration, Entertainment, Education and Empowerment.  .... find out more from our LiTTributes, LiTTscapes and LiTTours.Want to partner or sponsor an event, book a tour or purchase books for your schools or communities? Email lolleaves@gmail.com. Find us on social media: Twitte:r @lolleaves; Facebook: LiTTscapes Sharing some images of our engagement activities for your better understanding.Join us at LiTTributes 2018 to find out more ...Follow our Literary journeys:LiTTribute to the AmericasLiTTribute to LondonTTownLiTTribute to the AnTTilesLiTTribute to the MainlandLiTTribute to the Republic...and more

LiTTscapes

Landscapes of Fiction from Trinidad and Tobago by Kris Rampersad is….

LiTTscapes offer Novel Approach to Sustainable Cultural Heritage Development & Education 

LiTTscapes, a full colour compendium of Trinidad and Tobago as represented in its fictional literature against actual photographs of the landscapes, lifestyles and living heritage, has been acclaimed as a groundbreaking initiative to stimulate our nation “to heal our self-schisms”.

“No one book can set out to achieve everything that a text can do for its people and its nation; but whatever you say one book can’t do, this one almost does,” says head of the Guyana Prize for Literature and former Vice Chancellor of the University of Guyana of LiTTscapes. It has also been hailed as a ‘labour of love’ in the Commonwealth Journal and ‘like a good fete” by Soca News UK.

LiTTscapes was conceived as a mechanism for expanding appreciation of national heritage and engaging and connecting cultures, restoring self appreciation and esteem to peoples of all ages through creative synergies while focusing on sustainable development of the tourism, heritage and education sectors. LiTTscapes is a pictorial, yet encyclopaedic compendium of the lifestyles, landscapes, architecture, cultures, festivals and institutions of Trinidad and Tobago as represented in more than 100 fictional works by some 60 writers from earliest to modern times, including both award winning Nobel laureates as well as lesser known writers.

It has been ‘translated’ and transmitted through interactive interfaces, exposition and performance as LiTTributes and through tours that offer unique insights into public places called LiTTours – Journeys Through the Landscapes of Fiction.

LiTTributes have already been enacted at launches nationally and in the wider Caribbean and our diasporas, LiTTributes to the Republic in Trinidad and Tobago, LiTTributes to the Mainland in Guyana, LiTTribute to the Antilles staged in March in Antigua; LiTTribute to LondonTTown among others. Upcoming LiTTributes2018 will focus on the Americas.

Publication of LiTTscapes which is also associated with the LiTTours – Journeys Through the Landscapes of Fiction of Trinidad and Tobago, has been widely endorsed as an effective means of engaging the national and international communities in appreciating our built, natural and cultural heritage towards enhancing social and cultural development and diversification and all to promote literacy and heritage appreciation among  youths from ages 3 to 103.

Acclaimed as a groundbreaking encyclopaedic yet coffee-table style compendium of the lifestyles, landscapes, architecture, cultures, festivals and institutions of the Caribbean as represented in more than 100 fictional works by some 60 writers, LiTTscapes is geared to stimulate interest in reading, literacy and connect the Caribbean with other continents through synergies with the creative sectors.

Stating that LiTTscapes, though easy to read, is not easy to describe “given its multi-tasking nature and its wide reach,” Head of the Guyana Prize for Literature Professor Al Creighton has called it “a work of art…a documentary, a travelogue, a critical work with visual and literary power.”

He said, “It is a quite thorough artistic concept…a portrait and biography of the nation of Trinidad and…is attractively, neatly and effectively designed.” He noted that it reflects “a considerable volume of reading ranging from…the dawn of Caribbean literature” in such early writings as of Walter Raleigh, through the 1930s period of literary awakening with the Beacon group, Alfred Mendes, CLR James and others, to present. 

“It takes us on a tour of the country, giving some exposure to almost every aspect of life…no tourist guide can give a better, more comprehensive introduction to Trinidad. It entices and attracts just as the glossy tourist literature.

“Photographs of several sections of Port-of-Spain are accompanied by the descriptions and literary excerpts: this treatment is given to the capital city, other towns, streets, urban communities, villages, historic buildings and places, vegetation, animals, institutions, culture and landscape.  There is considerable visual beauty, what Derek Walcott calls “visual surprise” in his Nobel Lecture; an impressive coverage of social history, geography, and politics, but also a strong literary experience.  It is a survey of Trinidad’s landscape and of its literature.”

 Creighton noted Rampersad “has done the painstaking work analogous to that of a lexicographer, of sorting out their several hundred references to her subjects…. with memorable passages of real literary criticism” capturing the writings of VS Naipaul, Ian McDonald, Michael Anthony and others.

He said, “Rampersad’s Littscapes does achieve an innovative approach to literature in bringing it alive in the description of landscape, life, culture and people. It encourages people to take ownership of it, see themselves, their home or familiar places in it and accept it as a definer of identity.”

LiTTscapes is associated with customized LiTTours - Journeys Through the Landscapes of Fiction.

LiTTours  - bring these ‘scapes’ to reality through interactive engagement with the national landscape. LiTTours are available on request and along any subject, theme or location route related to user interest as entrepreneours, investors, industrialists or general cultural enthusiasts and have been held for Carifesta and the jubilee year of Independence through the capital and other cities and across the East, West, North, Central and South Trinidad and Tobago.

LiTTributes are events that blend holistic appreciation for Trinidad and Tobago in the many dimensions of built, natural and cultural heritage with literary and creative talents of its people, as well as to connect the Trinidad and Caribbean diasporas with our international communities.

The first LiTTribute to the Republic took place in Trinidad and Tobago in commemoration of the Jubilee year of Independence, hosted by the First Lady of Trinidad and Tobago, Dr Jean Ramjohn Richards and the author of LiTTscapes  at the 19th century Knowsley Building in Trinidad’s capital and the August 2012 launch of LiTTscapes at White Hall – one of Trinidad and Tobago’s Magnificent Seven buildings.

LiTTribute to the Mainland, Guyana – February 2013: in collaboration with Heritage building, Moray House and Guyana Drama Guild (dances & performances)

LiTTribute to the Antilles/ Antigua March 2013 (young poets, Antigua Museum)

LiTTribute to LondonTTown, 2013 (BBC, Commonwealth Foundation, filmmaker and writers)

LiTTribute to AuTThors, UNESCO, Paris 2015;

LiTTribute to Los Conquistadores, Barcelona Spain 2015

LiTTribute to the Americas, Florida, April 2018

LiTTribute to ToronTTo, Canada, May 2018

Dr Kris Rampersad is an international sustainable development, UNESCO facilitator, journalist and educator in Caribbean literature, culture and heritage. She is a founding member and director of the International Institute of Gastronomy, Culture, the Arts and Tourism and promotes literacy and literary appreciation through various endeavours as Leaves of Life.

For more than three decades she has been actively involved in interactive futuring, analysing, assessing, critiquing and defining the development agenda for Caribbean societies through its cultural forms, educating communities and leveraging the international community.

Related Links:

Bridging Cultural Gaps LiTTribute to ToronTTO. See link https://goo.gl/jLHTBE

Yo Ho Ho Piracy and Heritage: https://goo.gl/TvXOHU

A Diaspora Celebrates: LiTTribute to the Americas See linkhttps://goo.gl/brUkjH

Join us or commission your own reative Conversations: https://goo.gl/qPBzef

Arresting the Tears Hayti I’m Sorry https://goo.gl/6sy3y6

Noble Tears of a Nobel Bard https://goo.gl/WXbMpv

Towards State of the Art Museum: https://goo.gl/FfHfJL

Murder and the Museum: http//goo.gl/FHs3Fr

Celebrating Nationhood But Can new Save the Nation https://goo.gl/qSqJtT

my-discoverie-columbus-lost-and-found https://goo.gl/ixGu7y

Pat-bishops-last-struggle-killings https://goo.gl/tQUySt

Them-red-house-bones

A-tale-of-two-skeletonsJurisprudence An Ode https://goo.gl/Gmn7l0

Ah Drinking Babash https://goo.gl/GhMncz

Lagahoo-tribute-to-independent-spirits https://goo.gl/P6gP2Q

 Murder and the Museum  http//goo.gl/FHs3Fr

Woman in the mirror https://goo.gl/pvnX9d

The Triumph of Gollum in the Land of Shut Up Suicide of the Fellowship of Partnerships Book 11. A Sequel Futuring the Agenda Forward  https://goo.gl/HU3rp3

Celebrating Jamettry The Sacred and the Sacriligious

https://goo.gl/oCk1PB

Demokrissy https://goo.gl/FHs3Fr

The Human face of constitutional reform https://goo.gl/6escjj

Pat-bishops-last-struggle-killings https://goo.gl/tQUySt

Them-red-house-bones

A-tale-of-two-skeletons

Arresting-tears-for-us-and-haytian-globe:

Yo Ho ho and a bottle of rumhttps://goo.gl/TvXOHU

 Demokrissy https://goo.gl/FHs3Fr

Changing the World with Ideas  goo.gl/Pa6jAk

Lagahoo-tribute-to-independent-spirits Nationhood in contestation with globalisation: http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/2017/08/nationhood-in-contestation-with.html   https://goo.gl/KWdUtx

https://ift.tt/2vv44gW

http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/2015/08/a-world-inspired-littscapes-turns-3.html   https://goo.gl/J1EFn5

https://ift.tt/1vYaD4K /from-beirut-to-port-of-spain-how-west.html

The-price-of-passion-awards-and-rewards

 https://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/2017/07/the-price-of-passion-awards-and-rewards.html

Exploring a World Through MultiCultural Lenses https://ift.tt/2veR3ei

 Power Failure Media Blackout Brets Muffled Threats and Ransoming Father: https://goo.gl/YjbBgx

Jurisprudence-rip-obituary-walcott.html

my-date-with-narendra-modi-dat-merkel affair

Of-diasporas-migrations-arrivals.

Elixirs-of-entrepreneurship-The Emperor and I 

Ah-drinking-babash-in-this-fo-rum

Nobel-tears-of-and-for-nobel-bard

Things-that-make-me-go-steups-stars https://ift.tt/2haopDO

The Walcott Files LiTTscapes for Littribute to the Antilles  A LiTTribute at UNESCO  Inscription by UNESCO of Poems Small only in Size UNESCO Executive Board told World in a Fishbowl A Musical Heritage walk UNESCO Creative Cities

Breezes-of-tropical-arab-spring

In-war-and-peace-from-hiroshima-to-home.html

A-path-out-of-mayhem-and-murder

Turning-our-dreams-to-shame-rip-asami

Focus-resources on real crime

jus-call-me-cooligan

The world-in-fishbowl

The-other-magnificent-seven

Tribute-to-literary-mentor

The-human-face-of-constitutional-reform

The-ghost-of journalism past

OverCopulation - The Archbishop The Priest The Politician & The Journalist

Ask About LiTTscapes,

Ask about LiTTours and LiTTributes

Diplomats get stimulating LiTTour 

Murder She Wrote: Death Written in Stone in Dana Seetahal Assassination Creating Centres of Peace in Trinidad and Tobago The Price of Independence:#DanaSeetahalAssassinationConceive. Achieve. Believe Demokrissy: Wave a flag for a party rag...Choosing the Emperor's ... Oct 20, 2013 Choosing the Emperor's New Troops. The dilemma of choice. Voting is supposed to be an exercise in thoughtful, studied choice. Local government is the foundation for good governance so even if one wants to reform the ... http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Old Casked Rum: The Emperor's New Tools#1 - Demokrissy - Blogger Apr 07, 2013 Old Casked Rum: The Emperor's New Tools#1 - Towards Constitutional Reform in T&T. So we've had the rounds of consultations on Constitutional Reform? Are we any wiser? Do we have a sense of direction that will drive ...http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Demokrissy: Valuing Carnival The Emperor's New Tools#2 Apr 30, 2013 Valuing Carnival The Emperor's New Tools#2....http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ See Also: Demokrissy: Winds of Political Change - Dawn of T&T's Arab Spring Jul 30, 2013 Wherever these breezes have passed, they have left in their wake wide ranging social and political changes: one the one hand toppling long time leaders with rising decibels from previously suppressed peoples demanding a ...http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Demokrissy: Reform, Conform, Perform or None of the Above cross ... Oct 25, 2013 Some 50 percent did not vote. The local government elections results lends further proof of the discussion began in Clash of Political Cultures: Cultural Diversity and Minority Politics in Trinidad and Tobago in Through The ...http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Demokrissy: Sounds of a party - a political party Oct 14, 2013 They are announcing some political meeting or the other; and begging for my vote, and meh road still aint fix though I hear all parts getting box drains and thing, so I vex. So peeps, you know I am a sceptic so help me decide. http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Demokrissy: T&T Constitution the culprit | The Trinidad Guardian Jun 15, 2010 T&T Constitution the culprit | The Trinidad Guardian · T&T Constitution the culprit | The Trinidad Guardian. Posted by Kris Rampersad at 8:20 AM · Email ThisBlogThis!Share to TwitterShare to Facebook ...http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Related: Demokrissy: To vote, just how we party … Towards culturally ... Apr 30, 2010 'How we vote is not how we party.' At 'all inclusive' fetes and other forums, we nod in inebriated wisdom to calypsonian David Rudder's elucidation of the paradoxical political vs. social realities of Trinidad and Tobago. http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Demokrissy: DEADLOCK: Sign of things to come Oct 29, 2013 An indication that unless we devise innovative ways to address representation of our diversity, we will find ourselves in various forms of deadlock at the polls that throw us into a spiral of political tug of war albeit with not just ...http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Demokrissy: The human face of constitutional reform Oct 16, 2013 Sheilah was clearly and sharply articulating the deficiencies in governmesaw her: a tinymite elderly woman, gracefully wrinkled, deeply over with concerns about political and institutional stagnation but brimming over with ... http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Demokrissy: Trini politics is d best Oct 21, 2013 Ain't Trini politics d BEST! Nobody fighting because they lose. All parties claiming victory, all voting citizens won! That's what make we Carnival d best street party in the world. Everyone are winners because we all like ...http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ New Media, New Civil Society, and Politics in a New Age - Demokrissy Jan 09, 2012 New Media, New Civil Society, and Politics in a New Age | The Communication Initiative Network. New Media, New Civil Society, and Politics in a New Age | The Communication Initiative Network. Posted by Kris Rampersad ...http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Demokrissy: T&T politics: A new direction? - Caribbean360 Oct 01, 2010 http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Oct 20, 2013 Choosing the Emperor's New Troops. The dilemma of choice. Voting is supposed to be an exercise in thoughtful, studied choice. Local government is the foundation for good governance so even if one wants to reform the ... http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Old Casked Rum: The Emperor's New Tools#1 - Demokrissy - Blogger Apr 07, 2013 Old Casked Rum: The Emperor's New Tools#1 - Towards Constitutional Reform in T&T. So we've had the rounds of consultations on Constitutional Reform? Are we any wiser? Do we have a sense of direction that will drive ...http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Demokrissy: Valuing Carnival The Emperor's New Tools#2 Apr 30, 2013 Valuing Carnival The Emperor's New Tools#2....http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ See Also: Demokrissy: Winds of Political Change - Dawn of T&T's Arab Spring Jul 30, 2013 Wherever these breezes have passed, they have left in their wake wide ranging social and political changes: one the one hand toppling long time leaders with rising decibels from previously suppressed peoples demanding a ...http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Demokrissy: Reform, Conform, Perform or None of the Above cross ... Oct 25, 2013 Some 50 percent did not vote. The local government elections results lends further proof of the discussion began in Clash of Political Cultures: Cultural Diversity and Minority Politics in Trinidad and Tobago in Through The ...http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Demokrissy: Sounds of a party - a political party Oct 14, 2013 They are announcing some political meeting or the other; and begging for my vote, and meh road still aint fix though I hear all parts getting box drains and thing, so I vex. So peeps, you know I am a sceptic so help me decide. http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Demokrissy: T&T Constitution the culprit | The Trinidad Guardian Jun 15, 2010 T&T Constitution the culprit | The Trinidad Guardian · T&T Constitution the culprit | The Trinidad Guardian. Posted by Kris Rampersad at 8:20 AM · Email ThisBlogThis!Share to TwitterShare to Facebook ...http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Related: Demokrissy: To vote, just how we party … Towards culturally ... Apr 30, 2010 'How we vote is not how we party.' At 'all inclusive' fetes and other forums, we nod in inebriated wisdom to calypsonian David Rudder's elucidation of the paradoxical political vs. social realities of Trinidad and Tobago. http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Demokrissy: DEADLOCK: Sign of things to come Oct 29, 2013 An indication that unless we devise innovative ways to address representation of our diversity, we will find ourselves in various forms of deadlock at the polls that throw us into a spiral of political tug of war albeit with not just ...http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Demokrissy: The human face of constitutional reform Oct 16, 2013 Sheilah was clearly and sharply articulating the deficiencies in governmesaw her: a tinymite elderly woman, gracefully wrinkled, deeply over with concerns about political and institutional stagnation but brimming over with ... http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Demokrissy: Trini politics is d best Oct 21, 2013 Ain't Trini politics d BEST! Nobody fighting because they lose. All parties claiming victory, all voting citizens won! That's what make we Carnival d best street party in the world. Everyone are winners because we all like ...http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ New Media, New Civil Society, and Politics in a New Age - Demokrissy Jan 09, 2012 New Media, New Civil Society, and Politics in a New Age | The Communication Initiative Network. New Media, New Civil Society, and Politics in a New Age | The Communication Initiative Network. Posted by Kris Rampersad ...http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Demokrissy: T&T politics: A new direction? - Caribbean360 Oct 01, 2010 http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Others: Demokrissy: Old Casked Rum: The Emperor's New Tools#1 ... Apr 07, 2013 Old Casked Rum: The Emperor's New Tools#1 - Towards Constitutional Reform in T&T. So we've had the rounds of consultations on Constitutional Reform? Are we any wiser? Do we have a sense of direction that will drive ... http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Demokrissy: Valuing Carnival The Emperor's New Tools#2 Apr 30, 2013 Valuing Carnival The Emperor's New Tools#2.  http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Wave a flag for a party rag...Choosing the Emperor's New ... Oct 20, 2013 Choosing the Emperor's New Troops. The dilemma of choice. Voting is supposed to be an ... Old Casked Rum: The Emperor's New Tools#1 - Towards Constitutional Reform in T&T. Posted by Kris Rampersad at 10:36 AM ... http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Demokrissy: Carnivalising the Constitution People Power ... Feb 26, 2014 This Demokrissy series, The Emperor's New Tools, continues and builds on the analysis of evolution in our governance, begun in the introduction to my book, Through the Political Glass Ceiling (2010): The Clash of Political ... http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Envisioning outside-the-island-box ... - Demokrissy - Blogger Feb 10, 2014 This Demokrissy series, The Emperor's New Tools, continues and builds on the analysis of evolution in our governance, begun in the introduction to my book, Through the Political Glass Ceiling (2010): The Clash of Political ... http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Demokrissy: Futuring the Post-2015 UNESCO Agenda Apr 22, 2014 It is placing increasing pressure for erasure of barriers of geography, age, ethnicity, gender, cultures and other sectoral interests, and in utilising the tools placed at our disposal to access our accumulate knowledge and technologies towards eroding these superficial barriers. In this context, we believe that the work of UNESCO remains significant and relevant and that UNESCO is indeed the institution best positioned to consolidate the ..... The Emperor's New Tools ... http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/ Demokrissy: Cutting edge journalism Jun 15, 2010 The Emperor's New Tools. Loading... AddThis. Bookmark and Share. Loading... Follow by Email. About Me. My Photo · Kris Rampersad. Media, Cultural and Literary Consultant, Facilitator, Educator and Practitioner. View my ... http://kris-rampersad.blogspot.com/

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[imspardagus]

Talking about Depression : Part I - This will not do

{This two-part paper - and especially Part II - is a work in progress. The deeper in I go, the more precise I have to be, the less confident I feel that I am up to the task of writing it. But it is important, to me at least. So I have published it in this inchoate form in the hope that the help of others, challenging its ideas and offering suggestions, will help me to refine and strengthen it or else to see where it is misconceived.}

I had lived with depression for more than fifty years. It had wrecked my adolescence, my education, my ability to feel joy and my marriage. And I had appeased it.

But when I found it growing inside my children a wave of grief and anger coursed through me. And in its wake I am left with an insistent voice that says, “This will not do”.

   Depression hurts people. It wastes lives.

 It afflicts one in ten of us. That’s a conservative figure. Whether it is affecting more of our young than it used to, or whether we are just now able to accept that it can (my parents’ generation did not believe it could), the figures show that it does afflict them, in large numbers.

 This will not do.

 But what can I do about it? What can I do for my children? I can’t drive it away, as I hope I would do with any rabid beast that was threatening them. I can’t reason with it to leave. Some of the cleverest people in the world and in all history have been unable to break its hold on their minds, and I am so far from being clever by their standards, or my own. I can’t buy their freedom from it. If money was the answer, the rich and famous would not be among its victims. I can’t invent a cure for it. I’m no scientist. Must I content myself with “being there for them”? Can I do more than impotently watch?

 I can talk about it, about my experience of it, and about what I think I have learned. And if I do, perhaps someone else will add their thoughts, if only to correct my thinking. And if we pool what we know and what we think we know, each one adding her or his tiny beam of insight maybe  we can shed enough light on depression to see it for what it is. And maybe then we might be able to save our children and their children from some of the harm it does.

 Some of you will say, I am sure, that we already know all we need to know about depression and, brilliant creatures that we are, we have developed wonderful drugs and clever strategies to cure it. To that I can only shake my head. It is obvious to me that, far as we have come, we have yet to reach the point of understanding depression; and all our treatments so far are at best symptomatic.

 This will not do.

 If you disagree; if you think that there is nothing to consider, nothing to discuss, go in peace. If you are willing to indulge me for a while, please read on.

 A boy named depression

 I first learned that I had a condition known as clinical depression (or major depressive disorder as it is now often referred to) when I was in my mid-thirties. The diagnosis helped a lot. Which was odd because what it added, in terms of understanding, was very little. It simply meant that there was a name for what I now realised had been afflicting me, since I was eleven. Give something a name and you imbue it with substance, rather like when the once brilliant Maureen Lipman said “you’ve got an Ology”. You take away its deniability.

 No, that’s not quite right. It did more than that. It allowed me to see, for the first time, was that all the misery that had dogged my life up to then was not the visitation of occasional, inexplicable, unconnected downward mood swings. Depression, I could see now, was an entire landscape in which these were just the most treacherous ravines and canyons that I had stumbled into. It was a map of lowness where all the contour lines had negative values. Joy was only ever a hope without hope for what might be over in the next valley. Meanwhile the need to watch my feet continually robbed me of the ability to embrace the light-hearted pleasure that my friends carelessly enjoyed. Every day of travel was punctuated by frequent plunges into bogs of cloying despair.

 Less poetically, but more importantly  (because I had come to believe otherwise), I was now able to understand on an intellectual level that all this struggling with a constant sense of failure was not because I was weak, nor because I was a loser, an inept seeker after goals beyond my pathetic ability. It was because something powerful kept dragging me down.

 I delved back into memories. I wanted to know where this had come from. And like Scrooge transported to his past, I saw a boy who had been happy once and confident, a climber of trees and leader of wild, day-long summer games in Valentines Park, a reader of books, a good pupil doing well at school, well regarded, well-liked. Now, as he moved into his teens, suddenly painfully tired and frightened of being seen or heard. “Growing pains”, the doctor called it, “He’s outgrown his strength.” But I saw this boy at his grammar school desk unable to focus on the board or what his teacher was saying because a thick fog of bewildering sadness and unfathomable threat was around him. I saw him as a fifteen-year-old listening in on the weekend exploits of his peers but unable to imagine himself participating; looking at the pairings of strutting boys and achingly desirable girls and shuddering at the mere thought of bringing himself to the attention of any of them, humiliation seeming so much more likely than that someone might find his attentions welcome.

 I saw the lonely young man trying to study law with a brain that would not let him get beyond a paragraph or maybe two before shutting him out, whose evenings were not spent raucously propping up the student bar but alone in his room listening to the tirades of his own mind against his uselessness.

 I saw the young lawyer, taunted in his head by his poor exam results, living daily with the belief that he had no right to the job he had secured; soon everyone surely would see that he was a fraud, just as he already knew himself to be.

 I saw the same young man disabled from engaging intimately with anyone he found attractive by the mere fact of wanting to. I watched him eventually taken in hand by a kind friend but, even then, in the midst of what should have been blissful release into normality, only able to feel wracked with anxiety and guilt. In his mind, he had no business feeling good; in his mind he could only ever be a crap lover.

 I saw now that these were not isolated the one from the other. I saw that they were all connected and the connection was a thing of darkness.

 But I still had no answer to what this thing was, or why and how it was doing this to me.

 Seeing is the first step

 Just the naming of ills can be a great source of comfort. It can even be the key to despatching them. Cognitive behavioural therapy (CBT) rests pretty much on that premise: if you can see the problem, you can change your way of responding to it. Like Ry Cooder singing “Trouble, you can’t fool me, hiding behind that tree”.

 But there’s a problem with depression. It’s not like, say, “compound fracture of the fibula” “cystic fibrosis” or “flu”. The term “clinical depression” does not describe a physical condition such as an injury, organic malfunction or  growth. If only it did. I have known any number of fellow sufferers who have said how much they wished they had a “real” illness, meaning something visible that the rest of the world could recognise and therefore accept and sympathise with.

 Nor does it pin down the cause of a condition (such as “fell off a swing”, or “genetic disorder” or “bacterial invasion”). The diagnosis “depression” is simply the name associated with a collection of identifiers, or symptoms – how you are “presenting”. When a medical professional says you have “clinical depression” all she or he is reporting is no more than that you have scored positive on a set of indicators from which the existence of a state of mind to which the name “clinical depression” has been attached can be inferred. Except in the rare cases where there is a cyst pressing on some part of the brain or a physical dysfunction in the brain’s nerve cells and receptors causing either reduced production of serotonin or over-take-up of it, the diagnosis more properly describes a syndrome than a condition.

 It seems to do more. It seems to lend definition, substance, to the depression: it suggests that there is this entity, this depression. In reality, however, even though the chosen indicators may broadly and conveniently correlate it is has no form or substance. No pathological examination will find it in you. You can’t isolate it, photograph it or measure it except inferentially. And yet, to those afflicted by it, it could not be any more real if it were a massive cast iron ball and chain manacled to their lives.

 I will already be getting shakes of the head from some scientific quarters. No physiological presence? They will want to point me to a chemical imbalance in the brain: specifically too much re-capture of serotonin. But that seems to me to mistake the process for the processor, the messenger for the message. Serotonin in the brain, the presence of which and its take-up are associated with mood, and, in particular, with depression, is not invasive, nor toxic, nor faulty. Nor is it autonomous or self-activating. It is simply a chemical utilised by the brain to bring about a state on mind (and body). If you cannot reach a friend on your cellphone, you do not assume that the radio waves are faulty. You assume that the server is down, or the handset is broken, or something is blocking the signal, or perhaps that you have keyed in the wrong number. Blaming serotonin is like blaming radio waves.

 The question with depression is not whether serotonin is misbehaving: it is not. Nor is the question how your mood is being brought down, because we have evidence almost to the point of knowledge that mood change – specifically enhanced levels of low mood and anxiety (note, these go hand in hand) is because the brain is using the serotonin in a particular way – taking it out of circulation. The question is why your brain is using them to bring down your mood. And it has to be that question because, unless we interfere in the process with our own chemicals, which we call medicines, only the brain can perform this trick on us.

 The question why has two components: why is the brain doing this to us – to itself - and what, if anything, is provoking the brain to do it. They may look like the same question but they are not. Try this: Why am I chewing? Because I need to break down the food in my mouth. But why am I chewing? Because it’s mealtime.

 Let me count the ways

 The onset of depression can often be linked to things that you have been subjected to (this is the “what is provoking the brain” aspect of the question). Across my life, I have witnessed many of them and experienced some.

 I have seen dejection and defeat on the faces of Biafran, Bangladeshi, Rwandan, Kurdish and Syrian refugees. It is horribly consistent: the look of abject surrender to the onslaught of inhumane conflict which has wiped away what little gain that all the years of toiling in grinding poverty had brought them: home, family, security. Their eyes convey a terrifying acquiescent prayer – when you have finished with me, grant me release.

 I have seen unresolved grief born of loss, sometimes of a person, sometimes of health, wash a tsunami of cold, demotivating sadness over the lives of people who had thought themselves strong and contented. And I have felt that grief myself.

 And I have seen another form of grief when dreams finally fall apart and people have to admit that they will never be a ballet dancer, rock star, priest or prime minister, whatever it was that they had set their heart on being, the final surrender of hope turning all the wonder of what they actually are into something bitter and unacceptable; because the dream was their skyhook and its loss has seen them not simply thrown to the ground but broken by the fall.

 And I have seen the shadows of wariness behind the eyes of people whose relentless displays of happiness are a desperate bid to distance themselves from an awfulness haunting them from childhood. The act itself may have taken place a long time ago, the awfulness of it locked away in their mind. But its ghost hangs around them in the form of a cold, enveloping depression. I have seen grown women and men who, as children, were forced to submit to abominable treatment by someone they should have been able to trust. And I have watched as the worm planted inside them eats into their ability to accept joy or kindness unflinchingly, watched as they pick and pick at the gift of love in a compulsive belief that it will hurt them. I have seen them, those who time and again have sought destructive relationships that reinforce their conviction that to be mistreated over and over again is all they deserve.

 But even in all these instances, the descent into depression is not universal or consistent. It is a response that some people have and some people don’t. If you prick me do I not bleed? Yes, of course I do. But even when assaulted by these extreme emotional insults, not everyone becomes depressed.

 What does this tell us? To begin, it confirms that depression is not simply an automatic chemical reaction. Depression is what you experience as a consequence of the chemical imbalance but your brain has created that imbalance. The brains of some people in some way, and at some level, but certainly not at a conscious level, choose depression (which heralds the second aspect of the question why).

 It is significant if we stop to consider the treatment we presently favour for depression. If the drugs you are given to combat depression simply override the mechanism causing the chemical imbalance then whatever in your brain was creating the depression is not being addressed, only circumvented, whatever reason it had, ignored. That is dangerous.

 Here is a car analogy, if your car has an oil leak but when you take it to the garage the mechanic simply tops up the sump, you still have an oil leak. If he finds the hole but only plugs it with some chewing gum, you still have a hole.

 If you artificially “top up” the serotonin levels, you may feel less depressed: if you introduce a chemical that temporarily gums up the receptors draining the serotonin from your system, you may feel less depressed. But that is all.  The brain had a reason for creating what you are experiencing as depression. It had a reason for altering its uptake of serotonin. It was trying to bring about an outcome. Stay on the drugs and you will be distracted from dealing with it. Stop the drugs and, unless there was an external cause for your depression that has meantime resolved itself (as can happen with grief), the likelihood is that the depression will come back.

 Depressive by nature

 That last passage seems to imply that when the brain makes you feel depressed it is always reacting to a specific external threat or cause. But can there be depression without such a cause? Recalling that suggestion a few paragraphs back that “even when assaulted by these extreme emotional insults, not everyone becomes depressed”, is it possible that those who do have a propensity to do so? Do some brains exist in a continuing state of depression? Are these people “depressives” by nature?

 Once I had the name, depression, to hold on to, I tried to associate my recurring bouts depression with one or more of the forms I had identified. I wanted a reason. I wanted to be able to point to a cause. More than that, I wanted the cause to be “out there”. I was a victim. I wanted to know my attacker.

 But this, I came to see after years of painful interrogation, this depression was none of these. It was in a class of its own. I had not been oppressed by war. At 35, I had not yet suffered grief. I had not, to my knowledge, been abused as a child. I was, though I did not feel it, a tolerable success in my career and, though I could not see why, I was well-liked and even respected. I could find no extrinsic cause for how I was. This depression stood alone, with its own reality. It lived within me and had done at least since I was eleven years old. Not injury, not virus, not invasive parasite but a cancer, a thought cancer, the generation by my own mind of despondent feelings: inescapable feelings of emptiness, hopelessness and utter failure, and of being shut out from joy (anhedonia).

 It wasn’t caused by anything. It had been there all that time, directing the soundtrack to my life. Occasionally it was triggered into a heightened (or, more aptly, deepened) state by an event or a memory (these were the plunging valleys and ravines of its landscape). But it was predatory. It found things to hook itself on to; things that, without it, might have been mere setbacks, obstacles and worries. It attached itself to every negative aspect, and even some positive aspects, of my life and turned them into nightmares, gargoyles, monsters worthy of its pain. It was, as Professor Lewis Wolpert elegantly described it, malignant sadness.

 This was clinical depression.

 Like cancer, it seemed incurable. I dutifully tried all the versions of anti-depressants. Some of them brought a little temporary respite. Most made things worse. So much worse that to remain on them was unbearable. The drugs wrapped my brain up in dense cotton wool. They made sustained analytical thinking impossible. My job was sustained analytical thinking. To lose my clarity of thought was, so far from being a relief, a massive confirmation of my worst fears. Worse still. every bout of depression always brought its monstrous sister, anxiety, in tow anyway. And yet all the drugs for depression carried contra-indications of heightened anxiety, and they delivered on their promise. That I did not need and could not stand. Time on drugs was time when thoughts of ending my life were at their most insistent.

 I dutifully tried talking therapies. In theory they seemed to have much to commend them (though, as I will attempt to explain later, I now doubt that they can be of much more value than a crutch to a lame man.) But in practice, in the way they were practised, they seemed more akin to cruel and unusual punishment. Few, very few, of the practitioners I saw seemed to have any insight: into their trade or the humanity of the person before them. It seemed not to occur to them that you were in pain, that more than this, you were exhausted, and that their procedures were also exhausting. They probed with a rote inanity like mental hygienists, fixated upon finding examples of poor self-care with which to challenge you. And in all this, it seemed so cosmetic, gouging painfully into your fragile equilibrium but barely scratching the surface of cloying black ooze of the depression clogging your mind and making it difficult at times to breathe.

 Over time, I came to see that the best you could hope for was to recognise the early signs of resurgent depression and head them off or contain them. I was, for a long while, no closer to finding the answer to why my brain was doing this to me.

 And that was how I lived for years, and am still living now.

 Then, suddenly, it was what I was faced with watching as it attached itself to my children’s lives.

 Then it came for them

 For my daughter, who showed the signs first, though she was the younger of our children, it looked at first as if the break-up of the marriage, her mother and me, followed later by her mother’s decision to move to the US to be with someone she loved, had induced the kind of traumatic response typically found in such children.

 She had always been a bright child, with a strong will that, occasionally, got in her way (like when she refused to have music lessons, preferring to be self-taught to taking instruction). She was creative and popular, morally very sound but always full of fun and curiosity. All this survived the break-up of the marriage itself (which her mother and I handled as amicably as we could manage: we were friends, we loved each other but we could not live together); but not her mother’s departure, a few years later, to America.

 The change was dramatic. She became angry and self-destructive. Hardly a day went by without my having to go into school or talk on the phone to a teacher or deputy head. She dropped all of the good friends she had had and took up with others who would sanction and drive her dysfunctional, self-harming and anti-social behaviour. She would not be helped even though it was evident that she was deeply unhappy. It was agonising for both her mother and me to watch.

 It went on for three years. She refused all offers of help. All we could do was be there, take all the shit and offer occasional trite advice when she was sufficiently in despair to reach out. And I did. I told her, blithely trying to believe it myself, you can choose to be a victim, or you can choose to take back control; after years of experience I would not recommend being a victim. She appeared not to be listening. I blamed myself for not being a good enough parent. I am sure her mother did the same. But something inside our daughter was listening and, as she later confirmed, she knew that she was only hurting herself. She just could not stop herself. It was as if she had to live out all the hurt she was feeling inside.

When the turn-around came, which, mercifully, it did, it was even more astonishing than what had gone before. She ditched the destructive aspects of her life and rebuilt herself. She achieved three good A levels from a school that had wanted to chuck her out. She acquired new friendships that were positive and supportive and became that warm, loving, kind enthusiastic person that the child had been meant to be.

 But when the anger and the rest had melted away, and what had emerged was a thoughtful, mature and very able young woman, it was now impossible, for her and for me, not to be aware of what remained.  She had a black shadow.

 Self-doubt, strong enough to bring her down for days, worries that she will never find out what she wants to be, fears that she is purposeless and without direction and it will always be this way, finally manifesting themselves physically in anxiety-driven stomach disorders that cause her disabling cramps and nausea, these are some of what she has to live with. They are inhibiting her progress, hampering her development. They shut her down repeatedly. They are poisoning her happiness. And nothing that any of us can say or do by way of correction can displace them.

 Our son seemed to have got away without the affliction, surprising given that both his parents were long-term depressed and almost certainly both sets of grandparents too.

 He has had a passion for IT since he was three. By the time he went to secondary school, he knew, self-taught, far more than his teachers (a fact they sensibly realised and utilised after a few initial hiccups). That, I suppose, gave him somewhere to be, to retreat to: the boost that comes from ascendancy over problems. But though he was teased for being a nerd, a term he willingly and self-mockingly accepted until they gave up using it, I came to see that there was so much more to him. He was, and could be, annoyingly rational and clear headed. But he also had great insight into people and, from somewhere, a profound but practical kindness. So far from the classic introspective geek or nerd, he loved engaging with people – all people. Those same friends who taunted him for his logic, turned always to him for help when life knocked them back. There wasn’t, and isn’t, a malicious bone in his body.

 Unlike his sister, he appeared to accept his mother’s decision to move away and got on with life. He showed neither anger nor sadness. He continued to love her and to embrace her presence in his life. He spoke plainly to both of us, his honesty sometimes painful to receive. But he was usually right and I believe his mother and I both appreciated his insights. He also helped dissipate the antagonism between his sister and her and designed and built many of the bridges they needed to come back together.

 If ever emotional intelligence needed an exemplar, our son was it.

 Out in the big world, he proved a success of his own making, determinedly finding the right course at university, and from it the right employer, and he quickly came to be appreciated by his employer for his unusual ability to be the bridge between his IT colleagues and their clients. Everything seemed to be turning out for the best.

  So much so that I tried to believe it, and was glad. But the shadow was there too, waiting to be cast in some period of darkness by the glaring light of emotional pain.

 When his friends were “playing the field”, drifting easily in and out of simple, undemanding interactions that were more like try-outs than relationships, he wasn’t. When eventually he took up with someone it was, for him, deeply felt; and his treatment of her was protective and loving. He cared, he empathised, he resolved. I had already come to see myself as “Son of Lassie” – the sheepdog that is driven by an indefeasibly deep sense of duty to care for his flock. Here before me, I realised, was the son of Son of Lassie. And because of that I started to worry. Being a sheepdog is not something you choose for yourself and it comes at a price and the price is always waiting to be paid.

 His first serious relationship came to an abrupt end after two years. For him it came without warning. I am sure that, as she broke the news to him as they drove back to university to prepare for their first year exams, inside his head he was thinking “what did I do?” He refused to blame his friend. He accepted that she had made her decision. He showed no sign of resentment. Took it all on, and into, himself. The effect on him was devastating. He could not eat for days. Literally could not swallow (I remember having to coax him back, recommending plain soup and thin porridge). His almost hyperactive mind and body slowed dramatically. He seemed defeated.

 In time he recovered but now there was a hint of wariness, of holding back, like a dog that has been beaten and is afraid now of the affection it craves.

 But then along came a new friend. She was one of those people who can light a room just by entering it and we all fell in love with her. My son looked happier than I had ever seen him. The friendship seemed perfect. Watching them together brought me close to joy and tears.

 It lasted three years. Then he sensed that for all that he was happy, and though she was trying to be, she was not. A less emotionally intelligent person would have closed his eyes to the perception and hoped it would somehow just work itself out but he loved her too much to do that. And so, one night he invited her to tell him what was wrong and she did and they realised that, friends though they were, they could no longer be lovers.

 And friends they remained. Close friends. Though she found another man it was always to my son that she turned for help and he could not withhold it. And I watched it eating him up, being unable to cut the tie and walk away, persuading himself that it was his fault that he was alone. Worse, that it was only natural, that there was something wrong with him: “Two long term relationships, both failed. Says something.”

 His work became his consolation. His recreation became a crazed distraction. But when he was still, the shadow of deep sadness was on his face. Depression had made its move on him.

 This will not do.

Part 2 - The Alpha in your head

[paopuofhearts]

The Light Of Rain, or: Newt Scamander’s Adventures in Wonderland.

Part One. | Part Two. | Part Three. Part Four. | Part Five.

Close your eyes Breathe deeper Dance the pain With all your love Without fear of falling

Newt flew across the forest floor, steps barely touching the ground before pressing him further and further into the world. That's what this had to be, after all - a magical world, much like the one in his suitcase. It couldn't possibly be real. Entering into a garden, with its high hedges and contoured landscape, rather like the maze his parents had built behind their home - only to come out into a forest like this, with its dead leaves and spindly trees, splitting and crackling upward into a dense mist, rather like the northern woods where he had first laid eyes on the wraith of the Selma -

And now, his feet were squelching in the slippery slick of moss. He slowed himself, glancing at his surroundings. It was growing warmer, denser, the air thicker and greener and more stifling than before. The forest had closed in, solid dirt melting into sticky mud pooling into shallow wetland. Much like the swamplands of the southern states, where he had wandered to find the elusive leviathan moths -

He stopped, shoes splashing in the thin layer of water. The ripples curled out from him, across the still water, folding out in the center of a small clearing. Newt followed the rolling waves with his eyes, drawing toward the figure the stopped at.

Tina hovered above the still waters, gazing at him plainly. Her face was open, eyes open, arms open. She hung in the air like a doll, a puppet tied tight within its strings. Carefully, he ventured out upon a log, balancing over a deeper center of the murky water. Once his gaze locked upon hers, she tumbled down, feet resting upon the surface.

"You are searching."

Her mouth hadn't moved, yet he could hear her voice clearly. This blue butterfly of a woman wasn't Tina. She couldn't possibly be. Nothing here was as possible as it seemed.

"I'm always searching," he answered confidently. "Right now, I'm searching for what this place is. Where am I? Why am I here?"

"Where are you?" she repeated, neither mocking nor curious - simply imitating his own question. "Why are you here?"

He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, mind racing to hash out an answer. He was a scientist, after all - there was always a rational explanation for everything, be it nature or magic. Blood flooded across his cheeks as he grasped for any meaning at all, a static buzz blocking the sounds of the world around him as it rushed to his face. Intent was lost upon him.

"You run, but you know not what you run from. Are you running in freedom - or are you running away from something? Why do you run from yourself?"

He could see, reflected in the waters at his feet, flashes of his adventures. He saw himself climbing the cliffsides of Ireland in search of fae creatures, saw himself riding atop the steely gray of a Ukrainian Ironbelly, saw himself huddled in the small corner of a steamboat. He saw the macabre grins of otherworldly beings, the horrors of a brutal war, the desperation of hope that life was not relegated to such debase misery.

"You grow, yet you never plant your roots. You grow in breadth, but not in depth. How could you possibly, when you do not stay? Constantly moving, never here nor there - you share in the life of others, but you have no life of your own."

The reflections swirled, and he saw faces pass before him. His brother, Theseus, grinning foolishly up at him, cheeky smile and mischievous eyes alight in play. His first friend, Leta, her eyes never quite meeting his as she tilted her head at him, always leading one step ahead. He saw Jacob, the Goldstein's, their amazement as he introduced them to his creatures.

"You have seen great wildness, and possess a great wildness within you. But wildness for the sake of wildness cannot thrive. You are losing your heart. You are losing your purpose. You will be swallowed up in the wonders of the world if you do not ground yourself - you will drift along the currents, lost."

There had to be a reason he had been dropped in the middle of this desert oasis, that he had been led into this place of mystery and dreams. None of this was possible - it was likely none of this was real. But even if it was just a figment of his imagination, it had to be for a reason. There had to be a purpose his mind was conjuring a reflection of such things.

"You found the key to unlock yourself. But will you open the door?"

"Haven't I already? I'm here, aren't I?" he reasoned back, lifting his eyes from the waters.

"But who is to say this is your journey? You are not the only one who is trying to run."

If all of this were pulled from his own memories, he couldn't understand how it could be for the sake of another. After all, it didn’t make much sense for anyone else to have his memories to run off of. Did she mean Credence? Percival Graves?

Or was he, perhaps, intruding upon someone else’s nightmares - and building his own path deeper into their mind, using his own memories as a buffer against their own harrowing journey?

Beneath the waters, a body floated by, sinking slowly.

"Not all who run can escape from that which they run from. Some are swept away. Some are crushed beneath their own desperation. Even you cannot save everyone."

Newt huffed, tightening his grip around the handle of his case. He stared down into the water, taking in the depths that lie below. He watched the tendrils of the Obscurus snake through the green ferns below, caressing the broken rocks that dropped into the deep. He thought of a young girl, tears in her eyes, her tiny body tearing itself apart.

No. He couldn't save everyone.

"But what's the point if I don't even try?"

He smiled, stepping off the log and plunging into the water below.

---

Part Seven.