#the universe would collapse if we broke the height rule

[thevagabondexpress]

listen. guys.

the answer is not to make ty taller than kit. it's to show that short and noticeably autistic people can be badasses and intimidating and sex gods too.

the answer is not to make ty taller than kit. it's to let ty be a gothic horror cryptid ninja who is very aware that his looks and his neurodivergence are things that get you infantilized because it's something he's experienced, people keep treating him like that, and so he claws back every small bit of control, of power, of ability to intimidate that he can in any way that he can whenever and wherever he can.

the answer is not to remove ways that ty can be infantilized. it's to have the people around him infantilize him and then let him cathartically take down everyone who approaches him with that mindset until nobody dares call him adorable or try ruffling his hair again. to make ty a study in how when you think someone's cute when they're spitting mad sometimes you become a lesson for anyone else who thinks they can get away with doing the same. to make him a representation of how hard it is to escape infantilization and a name to look up to for everyone trying to do it because somehow he did (and he did it with no help from his boyfriend, either).

and kit, poor kit, beloved big brother, personification of summer, tall sun-smiling goofball in a secondhand jacket, sure that he is more well-adjusted than he actually is, has no idea what is coming for him. not. at. all.

#ty blackthorn #twp #tsc #the wicked powers #the shadowhunter chronicles #we know our beloved author's not gonna do this #she'll mangle it like she's mangled every other infantilizable character that's come her way #but we have choices beyond “follow her” or “vent” #except we couldn't possibly break the height rule #that's the one trope which can never be subverted #the universe would collapse if we broke the height rule #oh no we can't have that #i hope you can hear the sarcasm dripping out of that last batch of tags

[rubbishrobots]

I wrote a Doctor Who story for Christmas

It's been a funny old year. High highs and low lows. My brain processes everything in terms of Doctor Who, so I thought I'd write a little story about a crap Christmas.

Doctor Who - “The Best Of it”

The drop in air pressure was first detected on December 24th. About 3% approximately every 5 hours, which might not seem like that big of a drop, but when you’re in a big research base right down at the bottom of the Mariana Trench, any air pressure escaping is a bit of a big deal.

And so I found myself, on Christmas Eve, in a big clunky OxySuit, lumbering around upon the sea floor at the deepest point in the Earth’s Ocean. I moved around the outer walls of Cameron Base One with great difficulty, pushing my limbs forward through the high-pressure water, the headlamps on either side of my helmet providing minimal light.

Reaching the West Wing of the base, the first thing I saw were the cracks in the floor. It began right where the wall of the base touched the ground, and then snaked out and broke off until the ground in front of me looked like a shatter pattern. This was an alarming sight, to say the least. It meant that the ground which Cameron Base One sat on, that the crew walked across, was unstable. I would have turned around immediately and gone to raise the alarm. But I didn’t.

Because the second thing I noticed was the tall, blue phone box. With a lamp on top and two square windows that sent wavy shimmers of light wafting through the ocean. It was right at the furthest reaches of the cracks in the floor. I wondered how the hell it had got there.

Of course, then I was plummeting through one of the cracks that opened up at my feet, so there wasn’t much else I could do except fall.

I only remember bits of my plummet, so it’s hard to describe now. But it was like being on a pitch black water slide that you fully expected to die at the end of. Something had struck the lights on my helmet almost immediately so I couldn’t see a darn thing, but my stomach twisted and turned, which told me I was being tossed to and fro. Then I remember a tiny bit of light approaching fast, and an impact. Then nothing.

Nothing until I was blinking awake in a dimly lit cave, and there was a woman peering down at me.

“What size shoe do you take?” she asked.

I stared at the fractured image of her through the cracked glass of my helmet. She had short yellow hair, a long pale blue coat, and a t shirt with a rainbow stripe across it. She waited expectantly for me to answer.

“I’m Ellie Tyson, Chief Engineer at Cameron Base One,” I said, unsure what else but name and rank was appropriate in this conversation.

“I’m the Doctor,” the woman replied. “I just knock about space, really. You alright?”

She helped me to my feet and out of my OxySuit. I was bumped and bruised, and the jumpsuit I wore beneath the suit was a bit scuffed, but I was otherwise okay and able to survey my surroundings. The cave was not spacious. There were small tea light candles dotted about, and a steady drip of water coming from the breach in the ceiling that I must have fallen through.

“Right! Welcome, welcome,” said the Doctor. “Let me show you around. I’d say this is the living area over here.” She gestured to the left side of the cave, where a fireplace had been drawn on the uneven rock wall. “But to be honest, it’s a bit of a studio apartment situation.”

“How long have you been here?” I asked, eyeing the crudely illustrated roaring fire and wondering if this was the sign of stir craziness.

“About a week. Been surviving on rations.” She held up a box of dried raisins. “And a few bits I had in my coat pockets to keep me busy.” On the floor of the cave, there was the aforementioned candles, a pack of crayons, a pair of knitting needles and some wool, and a tourist pamphlet for the Blue Man Group. “Don’t suppose you’ve got any food in that big clunky diving suit?”

I shook my head no. The only thing in the utility belt section of the suit was some bandages, medical tape, and a flare. None of which struck me as particularly edible.

“No hope of escape?” I asked, fearing the answer.

“Well, not until now.” She started walking to the mouth of the cave. “Come on, then.”

I followed. There were no candles in the long, narrow passageway she crept down, but the Doctor had a metallic remote thingy that was giving off an orange glow, and she rooted around her pockets until she found a small torch she could toss to me.

“So full disclosure,” said the Doctor, “I got knocked silly on the way down. Consequently, I was half unconscious for like the first 3 days, but as soon as I was able to, I did a bit of exploring. Didn’t get very far. There’s a massive wall just up ahead that proved to be a big fat dead end for me.”

I frowned. “So why are we bothering?”

The Doctor waved a hand impatiently. “You’ll see in a min. Anyway, I knew someone else was bound to fall down the same hole I did, it being next to a massive human science-y base thing.”

The word ‘human’ got caught on some filters in my head, but I moved past it. “Nobody else knows. They sent me out to see why we were having air pressure problems.”

“Exactly, so I knew it was only a matter of time till I had a mate. That reminds me, what size shoe did you say you took?”

“I didn’t, and we have much bigger problems. If the ground up there is this unstable, the whole crew of Cameron Base One could be in real danger.”

The Doctor pulled a face. “I’m working on that! Give us a chance.”

“Except you’re not working on it – you’ve been down here a week and you’re no closer to escaping. Now I’m stuck down here too. The whole base could collapse any second and there’s nothing we can do about it.”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“You literally just told me the only passageway leads to a dead end!”

“No,” the Doctor corrected. “I said it was a dead end for me.” We came to the huge wall she’d spoken off. It was about twice our height, but it did not reach the roof of the cave passage. There was a sizeable space at the top of the wall, and beyond that some source of light could be seen blinking on and off from out of view. In the torchlight, the Doctor grinned with great satisfaction. “See? All I needed was someone to give me a boost. I’ll go first and pull you up after. Don’t worry, I’m dead nimble in this body.”

The brain filter picked up that last weird comment too, but I didn’t have time to question. I laced my fingers and let the Doctor put her dirty boots in the palm of my hands, whereupon I heaved her high enough for her to grab something to hold onto and pull herself, and then me after, up onto the raised ground.

Wiping the muck off of my knees, I stood up and looked at where we’d ascended to. The sight before me made no sense. For at the top of this ledge, in this cavern deep down in the Earth’s crust, were a large pair of steel doors with a blinking control panel next to it.

“Oh, brilliant!” said the Doctor. She rushed towards it, aimed her metallic torch thingy at it, and I was amazed to see the doors rumble and draw themselves open. There was a great cloud of dust as they parted.

“These doors must have been sat closed for a good amount of time, then,” I coughed, as I followed the Doctor through the doorway.

On the other side, the Doctor stood dead still. “A very long time,” she said.

If the sight of steel doors had shocked me, it was nothing compared to the room of cryogenically frozen lizard people I was looking at now.

In this laboratory the length of a football pitch, there were rows and rows of pods, half metallic, half rock formations, and each of them contained a bipedal, human-sized lizard. There was frost on the glass of the pods, and they were cold to my touch. The creatures inside had not stirred a bit during our entrance or my examining of their containers. Astonished, I turned to the Doctor, hoping to gain some comfort in a shared vibe of ‘not knowing what the hell was going on.’

So imagine my surprise when I found her gazing at the cyro-pods in delight. “This works out perfectly.”

Silurians, she called them. I dropped to a seated position, probably going into some form of shock, while she paced around the room and ranted about the civilisation that walked the Earth eons before humans evolved (“Eons,” she paused to grin at me. “Love that word. Eons!”). Apparently they saw an asteroid approaching, and evacuated deep underground, putting themselves in stasis until such time as the damage from any impact would have passed. She’d moved over to a raised console built into a slab of rock and had been tinkering with the controls for a good minute before she realise I still hadn’t spoken.

“Soz, that was probably a bit of an overload, wasn’t it? Which bit did I lose you on?”

“The lizards who ruled the earth before humans,” I said softly.

The Doctor’s nose scrunched up in confusion. “Really? That bit makes sense, if you think about it.”

“In what universe does a secret society of Lizards frozen beneath the Mariana Trench make sense?!”

“Well that’s where all those daft stories about the Illuminati come from. It’s just people stumbling across all the different Silurian hibernation chambers and letting their imagination run wild.”  

That did actually make a little bit of sense, but I didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of saying so, so I just stayed silent.

“Anyway,” she said, turning back to the controls. “Cheer up, this means there’s probably a way out of here.” That got my attention. I leapt to my feet and came to her side, staring at the panel of strange, unlabelled controls. “The Silurians tunnelled all the way down here, and they were obviously planning to return at some point. So logic says there must be a way out. A lift, or a teleport, or something.” She gasped. “Could be a massive ladder!”

“I’m not climbing a ladder out of the Mariana Trench, Doctor.”

She looked about to respond, but then a shrill, angry bleeping noise erupted from the console. The Doctor stuck her tongue out thoughtfully, the pressed some other buttons, only to be greeted with the same angry bleeping noise. She then tried pointing her metallic object at the controls, but the bleeping noise sounded again. The Doctor glared at the console panel. “Well, now you’re just being difficult.”

“Doctor,” I said, pointing to a small indent in the bottom corner of the console, that looked something like a fingerprint scanner. “It must need, I dunno, authorisation or something.”

I should have noticed the Doctor’s falling expression as she stared at what I’d pointed out. “Oh,” she said, and I should have noticed it was without her usual pep. “That’s a blow.”

Maybe I didn’t want to notice any of it. I was already looking around at which of the Silurians was closest. “So will we need to fully wake them up, or can we just sort of drag one over and then put it back?”

The Doctor turned to me. Her expression was grave. I turned my back on her and marched quickly over to one of the pods so I could pretend to be having a look. “And can it be any old one or does it need to be, like, a Boss or a President or a Mayor? I don’t know what the Silurian political hierarchy was like, was it like ours?”

“Ellie…” said the Doctor. “We can’t. The Silurians wouldn’t understand. They’d want to come back to the surface with us, and they can’t. The Earth isn’t ready for them yet.”

The trip back to the cave was awkward. I walked ahead, in silence. I heard the scuff of the Doctor’s boots behind me, and I felt her worried gaze on my back. And when we got back to the cave, I sat in the corner and didn’t look at her.

I was going to die down here. At Christmas. And everyone in that base above us had no idea they were walking and working on ground that could crumble awake at any second.

And worst of all, the only company I had, the person with which I was to perish, was a buffoon. At a certain point I had to break my sulk and look up at the Doctor, because I could sense her constantly moving and wondered how the hell she could be finding so much to do in a tiny little cave at the bottom of the planet.

Watching her, I still didn’t know. She was rummaging inside her coat pocket for a while, eventually fishing out old Quality Street sweet wrappers of red, green and gold. At one point, I heard her squeak with delight and drop down to examine something in the dirt and soil of the cave floor. When she began to draw more cave paintings and hum merrily to herself, I could take no more. I briefly considered digging the medical tape out of my suit and using it to seal her mouth shut.

“What on earth are you doing?” I asked instead.

She glanced at me over her shoulder. “I’m making the best of it!” she said, and moved aside so that I could see. Next to her 2D fireplace, she had scrawled a Christmas Tree on the wall, with scribbled baubles and doodled tinsel. And now she was humming White Christmas. “We might be stuck down here with no hope of escape. But it’s still Christmas.”

I stared in disbelief. “Are you for real? It is not Christmas.”

She did that nose-scrunch thing again. “I mean, it sort of is.”

“It is Christmas on a technicality!” I yelled. “It is Christmas only in the sense that the date is December 24th. Our current predicament, that being our impending death, takes precedent. And, for that matter, negates all circumstantial Christmas-ness.” I realised that tirade had come off oddly formal, so I added: “So stop being a dope, you big blonde-haired nutter.”

The Doctor, annoyingly, did not look hurt. Or offended. She just shook her head, like I didn’t understand. “That’s not how it works. It doesn’t matter what’s happening. Could be right in the middle of wartime, could be disease and pestilence sweeping the globe, you could be separated from everyone you love. The Titanic could be falling out of the sky! But if any of those things are happening in December, you get to press pause on them for a little bit, and be happy. Because it’s Christmas, and Christmas is magic like that.”

Nice speech. It didn’t work. “You’re a child,” I said, turning back around.

We didn’t talk again for a while. I sat and sat and sat, and at some point I lay down, and at another point I fell asleep.

Hours later, I awoke to a veritable Winter Wonderland.

The Doctor had been busy through the night. She had gone all around the cave, drawing holly and garlands all over the walls. Three tiny knitted stockings were stuck to the hand drawn fireplace. She had carefully placed the different sweet wrappers around the candles, creating a fairylight-like effect of flickering red, green and gold all around. And as I sat up, she was in front of me, beaming.

“Happy Christmas!” she bellowed, and thrust a folded piece of kitchen roll in my face. I took it from her delicately, realising that it was only obscuring something folded within. “Sorry, no wrapping paper. Best I could do.”

I did my best attempt at a smile, given the still pretty awful circumstances, and opened the gift. I had expected to find some random object standing in as a gift. After all, there was hardly a Henrick’s or Magpie Electricals to pop to down here. So when I opened the paper and found two carefully knitted socks, I took me a second to put the pieces together. Finally though, I looked up at her in wonder.

“Is this why you kept asking for my shoe size?”

The Doctor grinned. “Got it in the end. Took a tape measure to your footprint.” She pointed at what I’d seen her messing with on the floor the previous night, an indentation in the mucky ground from my shoe.

That broke my Scrooge-ness. I could continue to be a misery no longer. I thanked the Doctor genuinely, pulled on my new socks, and allowed her to lead me around the cave and tell me in great detail how she had thrown together every single makeshift Christmas decoration. We played snap and charades, and then gathered around the illustrated roaring fireplace to tell ghost stories (the Doctor’s were better than mine).

“I wish I had a gift for you,” I lamented after our Christmas Dinner of raisins and half a Wham bar. The socks really were quite cosy.

The Doctor waved a hand and tried not to look bothered. “No worries. It’s not the getting at this time of year, it’s the giving. That’s what my Mam used to say.” She paused though, then added “But also, if you happened to pack a toothbrush in that suit, I’ll love you forever. It’s been a week.”

A thought struck me. I stood up and wandered over to my discarded OxySuit, and reached into the utility belt. “No toothbrush, sorry. But in the spirit of the season, I gift you the one thing in my possession and pray it brings you happiness and good fortune.” I produced the small roll of medical tape, and tossed it to her.

She did not catch it. She did not even make an attempt. The Doctor had gone dead still since the moment she saw me pull the tape out of the suit. The roll bounced off her tummy and then fell lamely to the floor. Here, she stared at it, eyes wide.

“Doctor?”

When she looked up, there was the biggest smile on her face. “Ellie Tyson, this might be the most important Christmas gift I’ve ever been given.” Then she rushed across the distance and flung her arms around me. “Do you even realise what you’ve done? You’ve saved our lives, you daft little human.”

I had no chance to question her further. The second she let me out of her death-clutch hug, she snatched up the roll of tape and went sprinting out of the cave. I followed her through the narrow passage as best I could, but she was faster than you’d think, and by the time I reached the wall at the end, she was bouncing up and down impatiently. “Come on, come on, come on,” she begged, and I quickly boosted her up onto the ledge and let her heave me up after her.

Back in the Silurian chamber, the Doctor rushed over to the nearest cryogenic pod and started messing with the controls.

“But you said we couldn’t wake them up!” I shouted.

“No time to explain,” she shouted back. “Try and find some sort of powder or talc, any type will do.”

As she pointed her metallic thingy at the pod, I searched all over until I found what was probably the lizard equivalent of baby powder in what was probably the lizard equivalent of a medicine cabinet. I came back to the Doctor to find one of the pod doors open. The Silurian was still completely unmoving, and the air coming from the pod was predictably ice cold.

“What are we doing?” I asked, handing her the bottle.

“Spy stuff,” was her reply. And then, teeth chattering from the cold, I watched her crouch down to be able to coat one of the Silurian’s finger tips in the powder. Then, taking my Christmas gift, she pressed the scale-covered finger into a piece of tape and applied pressure. “That should do it,” she said, and stood up straight again.

“Do what?” I said. Except, no. That wasn’t my voice who had said that. And it wasn’t the Doctor’s either.

It was the Silurian. He was blinking awake, groggy like he’d overslept. “What are we doing?” he asked, then squinted at what was surely a blurry sight of two strangers in front of him. “Who are you?”

“Nobody,” the Doctor squeaked, pressing a complicated sequence of buttons on the panel next to the pod. “We’re nobody. Go back to sleep. We’re just… ghosts. We’re the Ghosts of Christmas Yet To Come.”

The Silurian frowned. “…what’s Christmas?”

“Shush,” said the Doctor, and she quickly closed the door and zapped the controls with her metallic remote, and the Silurian was asleep again.

The Doctor pressed the borrowed fingerprint on the tape into the scanner on the console and it worked perfectly. We were directed to an area at the back of the chamber, where a steel compartment took us back to the surface with frightening speed. We emerged into sparkling daylight, finding ourselves on an island in the Philippines. Well, there are worse places to spend Christmas Day. The Doctor helped me find a phone, which I used to contact central command, who in turn got in touch with Cameron Base One and ordered a speedy evacuation. The Doctor made friends with an old man who had a submarine, and he said he would take her down to retrieve her Blue Box after he’d had his Christmas dinner.

While we waited for the old man to finish his afters, the Doctor and I sat on a beach overlooking the Pacific Ocean. I thought it to be the bluest blue I’d ever seen, but the Doctor said she’d seen blue-er.

“It’s going to be mental down there,” I said, thinking of Cameron Base One. “Everyone loading stuff into boxes, shutting down all the experiments. Must be chaos.”

The Doctor smiled, looking out at the point where, miles and miles below the water, there was a whole base of people packing up and heading home. “It won’t be that bad,” she said. “It will still be Christmas. They’ll make the best of it.”

#merry christmas ya filthy animals #doctor who #thirteenth doctor #jodie whittaker #revolution of the daleks

[writingonesdreams]

I have your girl

Grayson and Zeke meet after years again. Zeke has a special offer for Grayson, one he won't be able to refuse.

Shoutout for the Street Magic universe of @cirianne, where this is set and to @kosmosian-quills, whose character is referenced. Thanks to the RP we are doing, I have been so inspired writing this!

Content: kidnapping, angst, threats

Lilly is gone again. She has taken to strolling around the city at night sometimes. I’m not sure why, but it’s definitely better than going back to spy on her family’s house.

It always worries me to have her alone out of my sight, but I’m trying to give her some space. Just because we have been closer recently - we are practically together - doesn’t mean I have to push myself on her too much.

When I can’t sit around anymore after it gets dark, I start to circle around the neighbourhood. Taking a walk and lowkey hoping to spot Lilly on her way back.

Since the incident we have been much more open, much closer, much everything. And I love every second of it. I don’t like remembering what my life before has been like, that dark cold lonesome existence, but Lilly has lit my days and shown me the difference between survival and living. I wonder if this is what Zeke meant with finding your point. I didn’t have a thing like that, a goal or something to live for. Not the way I have now. And I can’t see the weakness in it, when it fills me with so much joy. And joy has to be good, right?

That’s when I notice a person. Tall blond guy leaning lazily on the wall next to me. And he looks just like...But that’s impossible. I haven’t seen him in years, it was another city, another time, another life. He is surely murdering kittens somewhere far far away from here. Whatever turned out from Zeke, I don’t want to know. So I keep walking. I have just been thinking about him, it’s probably why the first punk I see looks like him.

“Long time no see, Gray.” Speaks the voice behind me. No mistake. The depth might have changed, but the tone, the slick melodic and threatening quality to it is the same.

I turn around to get a good look at him. Tall, blond hair in this surfer style kinda longer way. He is dressed well, in a loose suit jacket and a shirt buttoned open just enough to reveal the intricate tattoos on his neck. His silver eyes, the colour of a dead fish, shine with sharpness, despite the inviting smile on his face.

“It’s been a while, Zeke.” I don’t try to hide the annoyance in my voice. Although seeing him kicks my old instincts awake. I right myself up to my full height, steel my face, my hands loosely in my pockets. Not to look tense, like he makes me nervous, but not to look weak either.

“I see you escaped. Maybe that magic of yours isn’t so useless after all. Your hand’s not giving you trouble?” He tilts his head like a snake, watching my every move.

I ball my hands into fists inside the pockets. Zeke was the first one to break my right hand. Badly. Cheated about it too, twisted it until it broke. I won that fight, but I carried that break around for long. Long enough for others to notice, when I was on the streets, and always focus their attacks there. Weak spots. The surest way to win. That’s why Dallas went as far as to throw a brick at it. Break my bones to the point they stuck out my arms like a crowfoot. The biggest scars on my hands are from that. I have been lucky to regain the full use of that arm. It still hurts sometimes, when I’m at my limit.

And he knows I’m a mage. Well, if the big branded M didn’t give me out, maybe the news did. Caught mages are always a good thing to print in papers.

“Nothing permanent. But I see you have been doing well.” He is the same as he has always been. Maybe even worse. I shouldn’t waste time with this.

“Oh yes, I can’t complain. I build quite the empire in the underworld. I told you that people with their points figured out could make it big.” His eyes twinkle gleefully. “Say Gray, now that you are out and free, what about joining up with me? I could use a skilled fighter and a mage in one.”

So this is what it’s about. I shake my head and turn around to leave.

“Thanks for the offer, Z, but I’m good. See you around.” Or better not.

“You absolutely sure? You know, we are very similar, you and I. If we worked together, you could get anything you want. There isn’t a treasure in this world I couldn’t get you. I got the right ressources, the right people on the right places… It’s a good deal.”

“Thanks, but no thanks. I got everything I need.” The hell I would go with you. Zeke is a sadistic psychopath. He loves pain and power and death, and it’s best to stay as far from him as possible. Whatever kingdom he has build for himself, it can’t be anything worth having. My mind flashes to Lilly, the hideout, the other members playing cards and talking tactics. The world is bleak right now, but something better awaits there - I have a purpose now, and a place to go back to. It’s enough.

“I’m glad you say it. Otherwise all my work would have been for nothing.” Zeke’s voice it too happy as he throws something on the sidewalk between us. I turn to look at it. It’s photograph with a person on it. My feet carry me closer before I can think about it.

A girl, lying limply in a suitcase. Her expression dizzy and confused, blood on the side of her face. Blond hair in a ponytail. My vision darkens for a second. 

Lilly.

I move before I can decide, before the thought even forms in my head. I have my hands on Zeke’s throat in an instant, pushing him against the concrete wall he was leaning on.

“Where - is - she?” My breathing is so fast I can barely get the sentence out. I have never felt such intense all consuming rage. I smack Zeke’s head against the wall, then pin him to it with all my might. My voice is not more than a whisper though, as I speak each word carefully and slowly.  “What - have - you - done - with - her?”

“Easy there, high horse,” Zeke is smiling despite having his throat in my grip. How does he dare to smile.

“I haven’t done anything to her. Yet. What you are doing right now. Is. Not. Helping.” Any humor disappears from his voice with the last word. We glare at each other for a while, eye to eye, faces just millimeters from each other. It’s a battle of wills, one we have played hundreds of times. One we have been always matched in.

But I’m the one to back down this time.

I let go of him as he slides on the wall, coughing and holding his neck, but a winning smirk on his face.

All I can think about is Lilly. In hands of this creep. Trapped in that suitcase. She looked drugged, and hurt and scared. Absolutely helpless. The whole world is spinning. I feel like I might throw up and collapse right then and there.

“See, Gray, this is not what I meant with a point. Not falling for a girl, not such an easy prey. Cause love, Gray, is a weakness for losers. By caring about her, you have made yourself vulnerable.” He stands up, dusting invisible filth of his clothes. Gaining ground again.

“If you ever want to see her again, you will have help me out with some work. A mission here, a job there. With you magic and your predatory skill, it will be easy for you. And who knows, maybe you will come around and see some reason with time.”

It’s all too loud in my head. I barely register what he says. He has Lilly. It doesn’t matter what he asks. I can’t refuse.

“You just have to follow the rules. Not saying a word to your buddies from the rebellion. You don’t contact anyone, you don’t cheat. You behave. Come with me and do exactly as I say. And she will live.”

“Don’t you dare touching her.” I grovel. It’s not enough. What this guy can take from a girl like Lilly she could never survive, even if she lived through it. I made a tactical mistake. I reacted too quickly, I let my emotions show. He knows now how much I care and how much control he has over me. Idiot, idiot, idiot!

“As I said, she will be just fine, if you,...”

I move with intent this time. Suppress my emotions, freeze myself as I did back then. When I grab him by the collar, it’s purposeful, careful, well-timed. He breaks the sentence off in surprise.

“Fine. Let’s have a deal. But you remember something, Zeke. Don’t you, or anyone under you, dare touch her. I want her in the same condition and mind as you caught her in. No scars. No abuse. No injuries. No permanent damage. Cause if you don’t,” I can’t think about that, I can’t bear that option, “I will destroy you. You said it yourself, we are similar. If I don’t get Lilly back, I will do everything to get back at you.” I glare at him unblinkingly then, pulling him closer by the collar, so he almost can’t breathe again.

“I will build my own empire, and burn yours to the ground. Kill everybody who has ever met you, followed you or bought anything from you. Until there is nothing left of you, no trace, no memory. And then, only then, when you realize you are the last piece of shit, will I kill you.”

I want him to know what a danger I can be. How serious I am about every word. I can’t do anything, when he has my Lilly. But if he isn’t at least a bit scared about losing that leverage, I will never get her back. Right now, I can’t bargain for anything. Not really. I only have this distant threat and the chance he will believe I can pull it off.

If I lose her...then it doesn’t matter, who I will become, who I have to kill. A man who has never had anything isn’t even half as deadly as a man who has nothing left to lose. The pain I feel now, that horrible, gnawing fear that squeezes my chest, that I almost can’t breathe, has taught me that. There is nothing I wouldn’t do.

“Alright,” Zeke croaks, apprehension in his eyes, “we have a deal.”

Zeke always wanted me in. He respects me, values me. We have been rivals after all. I can still make him scared.

I let him go and turn away, trying to get my breathing under control. The hurt, the fear, I can feel its depth, the pitfall it is in my mind. If I don’t control it, I will go insane.

So I stuff those feelings back, freeze them, tug them deep inside myself and lock them away. I can’t concentrate if I can feel all this. I can’t save her if I keep being the way I learned to be only after meeting her.

“Come on Grayson. Your princess is waiting.” Back to the baiting. Of course. He is quick to regain his composure.

I feel my right hand tremble. It didn’t happen in years, that I felt it shake like this. Reached a new limit for myself. It’s almost funny.

Pulling my resolve and pain close, I face Zeke and what will happen next.

#writeblr #creative writing #amwriting #fantasy #angst #violetvineyard #street magic spinoff #grayson #zeke #my ocs #not my universe #I loved writing this #and I'm very happy with it #so I thought I would share

[elisajdb]

Just the Two of Us: IV

GoChi Week 2019 - @gochi-week

GoChi Day (3/28)

Characters: Goku and Chichi 

Prompt:  Soulmates 

Title: Soulmates

AN: Slightly stronger T rating for this one. 

Goku knew this day would happen. He didn’t know when but he knew it would happen. He only had to wait. He didn’t know it would be seven years but it was here and he only had one day. It will have to count. When he thought of seeing Gohan and Chichi again, in his mind, he expected them to look the same. He knew he shouldn’t think that. After seven years, Gohan will have grown and he certainly did! Gohan had an inch or two over him in height. Chichi looked as pretty as he always saw her.

 Then there was Goten.

 He never thought when he died, when he left his family, Chichi was pregnant. He wasn’t sure he would’ve made the same decision to not return if he’d known about Goten. He had doubts about his decision. Seeing Gohan so tall made Goku realize how much he missed. He didn’t see his oldest son grow up. With Goten, he missed everything. All the firsts: steps, words, laughs and cries; he missed it all.

 Chichi had to burden all that alone. He knew how difficult it was for Chichi when she was in labor with Gohan. Did she go through the same thing with Goten? How difficult was it for her to care for Goten when he was a baby? Sure, Chichi had Gohan but Goku remembered how difficult it was during those first months with Gohan and adjusting their schedule. Maybe things were different. Chichi knew more now than then, and having raised Gohan, Chichi knew how to deal with a second baby that’s half Saiyan.

 “We have twenty minutes before we have to join the other competitors,” Gohan said. “Goten and I will wait with the others while you and Dad have a moment to talk.”

 Talk? Goku panicked. There was so much to say. Would twenty minutes be enough? What would Chichi say? He ran away from her when he couldn’t promise Gohan wouldn’t fight Cell. She could be angry that’s the last memory he left with for seven years. She could be angry with him for not contacting her after he died. He said goodbye to everyone on Kami’s Temple. Everyone except his wife. He left it to Gohan to break the news to Chichi. It had to be him. After the whole Raditz ordeal, Goku didn’t trust his friends to tell Chichi anything. Perhaps he should’ve tried harder giving Chichi a proper goodbye.

“Daddy,” Goten called to Goku. “Aren’t you gonna put me down?”

 What if Chichi was angry with him leaving her pregnant? Goten looked like him. Was Chichi tortured by his twin staring at her, day after day, year after year? Did that torture turn to anger and resentment?

 “Daddy,” Goten waved his hand in front of Goku’s face. “Did you hear me?”

 Since meeting Goten, Goku held Goten in his arms. He never let him go even while Gohan led the family to a private spot to talk.

 “Sorry….. Goten.” He lowered Goten to his feet. He had to get used to that name. The irony. Seven years and he’s learning the name of his second child. Goten ran to his brother and walked off with him leaving Goku and Chichi alone. Goku stared at his departing sons until they turned a corner and were no longer in view. One day. Twenty-four hours. Will he have enough time?

 I don’t wanna go back.

 “It’s nice to see you, Goku,” Chichi said after a long silence. Goku turned to face Chichi. She held her hands crossed over the other in front of her. She kept a respectful distance from him. Goku noticed as his family came to this spot, Gohan walked closed to him but Chichi didn’t. Was she really angry with him? “You haven’t changed. I guess….” she laughed mirthlessly, “that’s what happens when you’re dead.”

 “You haven’t either.” His eyes did a quick sweep over Chichi. “You’re still the same.”

 For several moments, both stared at each other. After seven years, what could they say? He would leave it to Chichi to speak. After leaving and letting her go through pregnancy and raising their second child alone, he wanted her to do the speaking. She probably had a lot to say. He needed to give her that. He owed it to her.

 Bravely, Chichi took a step toward him. She touched his face and her eyes immediately watered. “Warm. I wasn’t sure how you would feel. Since you’re dead, I thought your body would be cold. I’m glad it’s not.” Her fingers traveled to his hair, gently touching his dark locks. Goku’s eyes closed. He recalled Chichi doing this to him during a break at the 23rd World Martial Arts Tournament. Back then, they were so young and innocent. They had no idea how their lives will be turned upside in a few years; how he will die twice, how his alien past, the psychological and physical changes he will undergo will rock their relationship to its core. They’ve changed so much since then.

 Especially, Chichi. He put her through so much. Sometimes even he wondered how she stayed with him after all these years. Even now, it was clear Chichi hadn’t moved on as friends he made in the afterlife warned him. All these years Chichi remained faithful.

 Goku cupped her face. A tear fell from her eye and dropped on his thumb. “I’m sorry,” he apologized. “For everything.”

 Chichi pulled away and wiped her eyes. “Um, how are things in the afterlife? I imagine you’ve met a lot of people.” Her lips were turned up in a smile but her eyes were dull. “I bet you made a lot friends. Tell me about them.”

 She was holding back and avoiding the elephant in the room. Goku didn’t want that. He wanted Chichi to say what was on her mind and how she really feels about his absence. This was her only chance. When he left, it will be for good and Goku knew Chichi will later regret not saying anything.

 “I saw your reaction to the news of my death. You collapsed on the floor.” Chichi’s eyes grew wide at his confession. “I’m sorry for not contacting you when I died. I wanted to but King Kai said I couldn’t. It was breaking the rules but he allowed me to talk to Gohan to help him defeat Cell since the universe was at stake.”

 “And on Kami’s Temple?” her voice was emotionless. “There was no fight then.”

 He could hear the underlying anger in those last words. “I was only allowed because I had to tell everyone I didn’t wanna be wished back. I begged King Kai to let me talk to you but he wouldn’t. He said, ‘If I give in and did this for you now, you’ll bother me every time you want to check in on your family.’”

 Chichi reacted with silence and a long stare until…. “Well,” Chichi wryly agreed, “you would’ve.”

 “Yeah,” Goku forced a laugh. “I guess King Kai made the right decision on that.”

 Silence fell between them again. Goku didn’t know what to say and Chichi….. “We shouldn’t have this conversation,” Chichi told him. “You’re only here for twenty-four hours. What’s done is done. We can’t change what happened. We should focus on the time we have left and make happy memories for Goten and Gohan.”

 What about happy memories for you, Chichi?

 No. What Chichi wanted wasn’t enough for Goku. Goku didn’t like this unsettled tension hanging between them. “I won’t be happy if I left and you didn’t get a chance to say what you’ve kept inside all these years.” Goku reached out to hug Chichi but she stepped away before he could touch her. Her rejection felt like a crippling punch to his stomach. “I screwed up that badly, haven’t I? You hate me.”

 Again there was silence. If his heart could beat, it would be threatening to burst from his chest. “No. It’s…. I do wanna touch you.” With less than twenty-four hours, Chichi wasn’t going to draw this out. “If I let you put your arms around me, I’ll remember how it feels. I’m trying my best to not feel too much. If I touch you that way, it’ll be even harder on me after you’re gone.”

 “Oh.” At least she didn’t hate him but her words were painful to hear. Still, if that’s what Chichi wanted…..

 “Your decision wasn’t easy for me to handle,” Chichi spoke quietly. “I broke down. It was one thing having to wait a year for you but to know you wouldn’t come back…. that crushed my soul. I was in a dark spot for a while. I felt my soul was gone. I didn’t let Gohan see how much your death broke me. I cooked and cleaned. I even conjured up a yell every once in a while to make Gohan think I was fine but I was not. I was empty. It was only discovering I was pregnant with Goten that I begin to feel life in my soul again. He pulled me out of my dark place, Goku. When he was born and I held him for the first time, I saw you. I thought you came back to me. I noticed the effect Goten had on Gohan; on everyone. It was as if you came back to all of us.”

 “So,” he mulled over her words, “with Goten…….”

 “I began to heal. Not completely,” she admitted. “I don’t think my soul will be completely heal until I join you in the afterlife. You are my soulmate after all.”

 What Chichi confessed was very heavy to hear but he needed to hear it; Chichi needed to say it. “I’m sorry I put you through a rough time but I’m glad you’re better.” Above all else, he wanted Chichi happy. “I didn’t know about Goten.” He wanted her to know that. “If I had known…..

 “You still had a son that needed you.”

 “Not as much anymore,” Goku murmured. “I know my decision to stay dead was gonna be hard on you and Gohan, but I thought it was the best thing for you. I thought returning would be selfish. If I’m alive, then you and Gohan would be in danger of another threat. Maybe it will be a year from now. Maybe three or five years but it will happen.”

 Chichi shook her head, trying to make sense of Goku’s words. “Why would you think this?”

 “When I was a kid, Bulma once told me bad things seem to follow me wherever I go. I didn’t care and I didn’t believe her but when I discovered the creation of the Artificial Humans was a grudge against me by Dr. Gero; when I saw his hatred for me brought the world on the brink of destruction by Cell, I finally believed her.”

 “That’s ridiculous!” Chichi was outraged. How could he think that about himself? “You’re not a threat to our safety. This trouble that Bulma claimed about you led to a more peaceful world. You defeated the Red Ribbon Army. Not even King Furry’s army could stop them but you did. Do you know how many lives have been saved because you stopped the Red Ribbon Army? King Piccolo,” Chichi brought up. “You were not the one who freed him from his prison but you saved us. Do you know what a wasteland this planet would’ve been if you hadn’t stopped him? None of us, including our children, would be here if not for you.”

 Chichi’s defense for his childhood battles were valid. He wondered about his adulthood. “My brother came for me. He took Gohan. I died, everyone else died and an entire city was destroyed when I couldn’t make it back in time.”

 It was true the ending of the battle vs Vegeta and Nappa was bittersweet. “People died. That’s horrible but it would have been worse if you hadn’t shown up. No one on this planet would be here if not for you. You also saved the lives of many galaxies because you overthrew Freeza. Your mistake was not finishing him off,” Chichi admitted that flaw of Goku’s, “but you do have a knack for making friends out of enemies: Yamcha, Tien, Piccolo and even Vegeta. You changed so many lives for the better by being you.”

 Goku never considered that. All he could think leading to the Cell Games, everything was his fault. If he survived the battle against Cell, he knew it was a matter of time before another threat came. If he died, there will be peace at last for his family and Earth. Now he saw the mistake in his thinking. “You always know what to say, Chichi. Maybe I should’ve told you about this.”

 “You’re damn right you should’ve!” Chichi cupped his face. “You listen to me and you listen good. You are not a threat to our safety. Never have been. Never will be.” Startling him and herself, Chichi pulled his face to hers and kissed him. In it, she poured all her love for him. When she parted from the kiss, she was breathless. She pressed his forehead against hers. “My poor Goku. You’re always sacrificing your feelings, your wants and desires for us. It’s not fair. You gave up everything for us. I had my father, Gohan and Goten and you didn’t have anyone.” Chichi wrapped her arms around his neck. She held him close. “Oh, Goku. I hate you suffered alone.”

 Chichi’s words were soothing to his soul. He didn’t realize how much he needed to hear. However, there was something else more important that happened that warmed his soul.

 “You kissed me.” Goku was amazed. “You’re hugging me.” His arms wrapped around Chichi’s body. He needed this. He needed her. “I didn’t think you would touch me like this again.”

 She didn’t think she would either but this talk told her she was wrong on that matter. “You need this.” She kissed him. “And I need this, too.” She kissed him again. This time, Goku returned the kiss. Chichi’s mouth parted under his command and he slipped his tongue inside. It was seven years but he hadn’t forgotten this skill they learned together when they were so young and innocent. With a hand on her back, Goku molded Chichi to his body; felt her clothed breasts rubbed against his clothed chest. A hand gripped her backside and pressed her further against him. His ears flamed. Chichi wasn’t the only one moaning!

 This longing, this craving consumed them both. Chichi could feel her body reacting. She could feel Goku’s hardening body rubbed against hers. She could feel the moisture forming between her legs. Instead of squelching these feelings; instead of comparting her emotions, Chichi welcomed them. After seven years, a part of her she kept dormant, came alive. She’ll mourn later but she needed this today.

 Chichi broke the kiss but her hands remained on his face and in his hair. “I need you.” Her breathing was ragged. Her gaze met his. The need in his eyes. She hadn’t seen such a look in seven years; not since the night before the Cell Games; the night she knew Goten was conceived. She wanted him now but knew they had to wait. “I can’t wait for tonight.”

 “No,” Goku shook his head. “Not tonight. We ain’t waitin’ for tonight. We’re doing this now.”

 Chichi eyes blinked baffled. “What? We have to get back.” The entire twenty minutes weren’t over but they needed to return to the others. Goku took her hand and pulled her further down the corridor. “Someone could see us. We don’t have time.”

 “We’ve been here a while with Gohan and Goten and no one’s come this way.” He pushed Chichi against the brick wall. “I smell you. It won’t take long to get you ready.”

 Goku pressed his mouth against Chichi’s. They kissed as if they were starving and needed each other for substance. As she challenged Goku’s mouth for dominance, his hands were fast at work. She felt her purple obi come loose, her yellow cheongsam opened and bra pushed over her breasts in seconds.

 “Ah!” Chichi gasped feeling Goku suckled a breast while a hand disappeared in her turquoise pants. “Mmm!” she bit her lower lips so she wouldn’t scream so loud. Her cheeks were flushed as she panted at the rapid succession of Goku’s hand between her legs. She moved her hand to free Goku’s obi. She meant to slip her hand down Goku’s pants to return some of the pleasure treatment he was giving her. Instead, Goku grabbed her hand and slapped it against the wall while his mouth bit down on the nipple of her other breast and suckled deeply.

 Her breasts heaved, her breath came in heavy pants and her eyes nearly rolled back. This was in a public setting where they could be caught. Instead of being scared, Chichi was thrilled and her body pulsed with hot desire and excitement.  Chichi felt her pants slide further down her thighs and her open legs suddenly lift off the ground. Chichi bit Goku’s clothed shoulder as she felt Goku enter her.

 Goku groaned in Chichi’s neck as her tight and warm body wrapped around him. “You’re so tight.”

Chichi’s eyes were shut as she welcomed the intensity of Goku’s thrusting. Time was short so he smacked his body against hers rapidly. Her hands gripped his body, her lips bit into his neck to keep her screaming at bay at the quick pounding until she convulsed around him.

 She winced feeling Goku bite down on her neck as he pulsed in her. Goku’s hold on her relaxed. Chichi felt her legs touched the ground again. Goku’s face still buried in her neck but his teeth no longer pierced her skin. Instead, his heavy breathing fanned it.

 They held each other for several moments as their bodies relaxed from the quick, intense sex. “We need to head back,” Chichi told him. It was the last thing she wanted but she knew the others will come for them reminding her and Goku the competitors had to enter the tournament. Someone could come down the corridor now and see their state of undress. “Come on, Goku.” Chichi gently pushed Goku away. “We need to get dressed.”

 Wordlessly, Goku released her. Chichi adjusted her clothes, pushing her bra down, pulling up her pants and fastening her Cheongsam. She winced feeling the added moisture between her legs. She’ll have to excuse herself to the restroom when they get back. Saiyans she thought with a blush. She forgot about that.

 Chichi noticed Goku pulled his pants up but stared motionless at the ground. Chichi didn’t understand Goku’s behavior. She picked up his obi, tucked his shirt in his pants and secured his obi around his waist. Goku remained silent as Chichi finished dressing him.

 “Goku,” she tugged his hand. “We have to go back.”

 “I don’t wanna go back.”

 Chichi tried to decipher what he meant. “If you don’t want to compete, that’s fine.” In fact, Chichi hoped for this. She wanted her family to spend as much time together as possible. She didn’t want Goku sacrificing a few hours competing. They could use that prize money but she’ll find another way to deal with the family’s finances. “You, Gohan, Goten and I can go back to our home on Mount Paouz. I have a wonderful meal waiting for us. If you need to fight, you can do it with our sons.”

 “No.” Goku shook his head. “I don’t wanna go back to the afterlife. I wanna stay here. I wanna catch up with Gohan. I wanna get to know Goten. I’ll even get that job you wanted to me to get if I can stay.”

 Chichi wished she could grant Goku’s wish. She wanted to remove the ache in his heart. She couldn’t do either but she could try easing the pain. Chichi brought Goku’s head down so his forehead pressed against hers again. “I want that, too. More than anything I want that but we have to deal with the hand life gave us. You have to go back to the afterlife. You’ll miss us but you’ll be happy with your friends there. We’ll miss you but we’ll be happy, too. When we join you, nothing will take us from each other. We just have to wait.”

 It was gonna be a long wait Goku thought dully. He did make friends in the afterlife. He was happy but he was still lonely. He wanted to be with his family. “When you cross over, I’ll be there to welcome you,” Goku promised. “I’ll be there to make our souls whole again. I promise.”

 Chichi embraced him. She needed to hear that. His promise to be there when she crossed over ease the ache in her heart that she’ll feel once Goku leaves. “Thank you and I’ll bring with me memories of our children, stories of everything that happened.”

 With a final kiss, Goku and Chichi parted. “We can make some today.” They resume their walk down the corridor. It was time to leave their private spot and join the rest of the world again. “I only have one day. We better make the most of it, Chichi.”

 “We will,” Chichi promised. “It’ll be the best day ever.”

#gochiweek2019 #gochiweek #Day Four #Soulmates #Goku #Chichi #Gochi #fanfiction #Just the Two of Us #Dragonball #Dragon Ball Z

[sig-nifier]

fluffy jeremwood

“we met at a museum and now we’re trying to see who can touch the most ‘do not touch’ stuff”

because jeremwood owns my heart

-

Jeremy didn’t know why he had walked in. He hated museums. They were full of old crap that people pretended to be interested in because the atmosphere suggested that they should be interested. The place was too quiet, even a whisper seeming too loud to risk. Museums were made up of huge, spacey rooms, all lined with old artefacts that would break at the first touch. That was the worst part. You couldn’t touch anything. What’s the point of displaying armour from an ancient Greek war if nobody could try it on? The walls were littered with ‘do not touch’ signs and that just made Jeremy want to do it even more.

He was currently staring at a bunch of shiny gems all encased in glass, each one with it’s french name neatly labelled beneath. He was half tempted to smear his finger down the glass to at least somewhat ruin the exhibition. Jeremy moved on, releasing a small scoff at the cheesy tag line of the artwork beside it.

“It’s not very good, is it?”

Jeremy almost physically jumped at the loud voice which broke the silence of the room. He turned, coming to find a stranger standing beside him and looking at the same painting Jeremy was. He was tall, which wasn’t saying much compared to Jeremy’s small height. He was blonde, hair longer than average with eyes so blue they put the gems to shame. When Jeremy didn’t reply, the guy took it as his cue to continue. “The painting. I reckon I could paint something better than that.”

Jeremy took a quick glance around the room, noting the dirty looks everybody else was throwing the loud speaker. He smiled.

“Awful, isn’t it? I reckon I could scrape my nails down it and it would be an improvement.”

The guy sighed, shaking his head in mock despair. “You’re not allowed to touch it, though.”

Jeremy wasn’t sure why he did it, but he took one glance towards the stranger, smirked and reached a finger out towards the painting, pressing into the rough grooves of the paint. He’d never felt more alive.

He pulled his hand back quickly, stifling a laugh as he looked around the room again. Nobody had noticed. He heard loud, booming laughter beside him and turned his head to find crinkles around the bluest eyes he’d ever seen. The man recovered quickly, pretending to look unimpressed. “That the best you can do?”

Before Jeremy could reply the man was crossing the room and coming to stand in front of a Greek statue. The statue had its arm hanging by it’s side. Making dead eye contact with Jeremy the whole time, the stranger raised his hand and ran it down the length of the statues arm. He came back to Jeremy in a fit of giggles, wiping his hand on his jeans. “That was surprisingly dusty.”

It escalated from there.

Jeremy picked the nose of a wax figure, so the stranger, whose name Jeremy learnt was Ryan, kissed the same wax figures cheek. Jeremy placed on a soldiers helmet, Ryan juggled with replicas of prehistoric eggs. They were constantly trying to one up each other, both of them casting a glance around the room for security before committing their daring acts. Eventually, they moved onto the dinosaur section of the museum.

“I’ve got to say, I’ve never enjoyed a museum so much.” Jeremy spoke through his laughter as Ryan wondered aloud, ‘how many of these bones do you think I could remove before the thing collapses?’

Ryan turned from the velociraptors skeleton, a grin on his face. “Yeah? Well I’m glad I could provide such entertainment.”

“You’ve helped me achieve my lifelong goal of disobeying do not touch signs. Thank you.”

“What can I say? I’m a rebel at heart.”

Jeremy laughed, smile widening at the way Ryan’s grin mirrored his. After a while of just smiling at each other, Ryan lightly tapped the side of Jeremy’s arm. “Come on. They’ve got a space section up next and I want to rearrange the planets.”

The space exhibition was dark, the only light coming from the make shift stars that littered the floor, walls and ceilings. Each of the planets were suspended on strings. Jeremy liked the way Earth spun subtly. He came to stand next to Ryan, allowing his shoulder to lightly brush against the taller mans arm as they both stared up at the planets. “I guess we won’t be rearranging the planets anytime soon.”

He felt Ryan shrug beside him before he felt his gaze on him. “I’m not ruling it out just yet. Sure is nice to look at though.”

Jeremy turned, seeing Ryan’s eyes trained on him and he was suddenly thankful for the dark room that hid his reddening face. He was impressed by how steady his own voice sounded as he looked back up at the solar system. “Maybe we just need a good plan, could take a while to think of one though.”

“You’re right. We should probably take a few hours to think it over.”

“We’ll need supplies.”

“I know a good coffee shop.”

“Let’s get planning.”

Jeremy stopped watching the Earth spin, twisting his neck to look at Ryan. Ryan was looking up at the planets, a vein in his neck popping from the strain. His amused face was dotted with the reflection of the stars and when he looked down at Jeremy his smile could have knocked the shorter man off his feet.

With the stars in his eyes and the universe above him, Jeremy decided that museums weren’t so bad.

#jeremwood #jeremy dooley #ryan haywood #achievement hunter #ah #museum au

[encephalonfatigue]

radical eschatology and 1Q84

i wrote this as a goodreads review, but i couldn’t fit the whole text there so this is the review in its entirety.

“‘lunatic’ means to have your sanity temporarily seized by the luna, which is ‘moon’ in Latin. In nineteenth-century England, if you were a certified lunatic and you committed a crime, the severity of the crime would be reduced a notch. The idea was that the crime was not so much the responsibility of the person himself as that he was led astray by the moonlight. Believe it or not, laws like that actually existed… I learned it in an English literature course at Japan Women’s University, in a lecture on Dickens. We had an odd professor. He’d never talk about the story itself but go off on all sorts of tangents.”

I think a lot of my writing on this site consists of meandering tangents, only obliquely related to the book at hand — though less useful and interesting than this literature professor’s in 1Q84. Either way I will stick to what I’m comfortable with here. I will start with why I read this obscenely large book. My high school friend who was recently married, hosted a birthday party at a new place he moved into in Etobicoke. I arrived half-an-hour late from the time it was supposed to start (according to Facebook), and was the first one there — which is some indication of the sort of company I keep. As I awkwardly sat around after a brief house tour, he poured me a drink, and we chatted about life and my terrible job. He suddenly exclaimed, “Oh, I almost forgot. There’s something I want to lend to you.” He skips up the stairs and comes back down with a large phone book. On its front cover: a face hiding behind the characters “1Q84” — maybe embarrassed by its bloated constitution. This will help you on your daily commutes from hell, he encouraged me.

I’ve heard that your first Murakami book has a good chance of becoming your favourite Murakami book. That was probably the case for me with “Kafka on the Shore”. I think that book put me onto Kafka, before I would later encounter him in the work of Walter Benjamin, Judith Butler, and his late communist ‘wife’, Dora Diamant. But subsequent Murakami books were not as satisfying for me. After reading Norwegian Wood, I decided to try and take a break from Murakami. I had grown a little weary of the Oedipal themes, and Murakami’s recurring Manic Pixie Dream Girl tropes. Around this time, my fourth-year college roommate discovered Murakami for himself, and his first encounter was through 1Q84. He loved it, but what a book to start with, I had thought at the time. I was impressed that he ploughed right through such an enormous millstone of a novel. (I was very intimidated by its size when my friend handed it to me, but got through it in surprising time. Having now read 1Q84, I realize it was actually a very fun book to read, and often quite difficult to put down, so it now makes sense.) Anyways, I was discussing these things with my roommate and another law student who was camping with us at Sandbanks Provincial Park — she also shared similar thoughts as mine on Murakami. Conversation wandered on to Junot Diaz, who she was much more approving of — this of course was before the #MeToo revelations about Diaz. How quickly tides can turn. (Especially when there are two moons in the sky.)

So something about the structure of 1Q84. I am told the first two books are structured after the two books of Bach’s “Well-Tempered Clavier” — each chapter alternating between Aomame (major keys) and Tengo (minor keys). In each book of Clavier, Bach cycles through all twelve tones, a prelude and fugue for each tone’s major and minor keys. So each of Murakami’s chapters in Book 1 and 2 corresponds to a Prelude and Fugue in Bach’s collection of pieces — 48 chapters in all.

I admittedly have a thing for Bach. I have a copy of Gould’s “Well-Tempered Clavier” on compact disc at home. It came in a package of random shit the novelist Tao Lin gathered together from his bedroom and sold online for like $30 on eBay. That is the sort of stupid stuff I wasted my money on as an undergraduate student. Among the zines, postcard sized art prints, manuscript pages from his edits of Taipei, and a copy of “Shoplifting from American Apparel” was a disc of Gould’s “Well-Tempered Clavier”. In one of the preludes and fugues, the disc is scratched, and makes these heavenly wobbling sounds as it skips, and I have grown quite fond of these parts. I also particularly love hearing the infrequent muffled hums of Gould behind his gas mask.

Book 3 of 1Q84 is structured after Bach’s Goldberg Variations. In the past couple years, I’ve listened to this composition likely more than any other, simply because it’s one of the few albums I happened to have downloaded on my phone. It’s Igor Levit’s studio recording of the Goldberg Variations along with his recording of Beethoven’s Diabelli Variations and Rzewski’s “The People United Will Never Be Defeated”. I thought it was a clever trio to package in an album. I also recommend Lisa Moore’s performance of other Rzewski compositions put out by Cantaloupe.

I am particularly fond of Rzewski’s “People United” because it recalls for me my first May Day march, where I chanted the Chilean song (from which Rzewski’s title is derived and his piece alludes to) with other people on the street marching on the way to Queen’s Park, while students shouted ‘ftp’ at officers lined on the sidewalk. I was supposed to march with a small contingent from Student Christian Movement, but couldn’t find them at Allan Gardens, so I marched near some York OPIRG students, and in front of a communist who was debating random people the entire march, haha. I had never seen so many anarchists and communists in one place at a time. They sure do like their black and red flags, haha.

This brings me to the next comment I wanted to make. I was curious about Murakami’s politics and I had a difficult time finding a decent write-up that focuses on this, because Murakami can come across as fairly apolitical, which I think is what his ‘bourgeois individualism’ (I use that term in jest) requires of him. Anyways, I stumbled across a series of blog posts made by a Trotskyist grad student that discuss how Japanese student movement comes up in almost every single novel by Murakami, and he discusses how the student movement was a significant segment of the political left in Japan during that time.

“Some brief highlights of the student movement’s history in Japan will suffice. After the end of the war, university students oriented to the Japanese Communist Party (JCP) took advantage of the new liberal atmosphere to rally for university autonomy, for the appointment of progressive faculty and administrators, and for a student voice in administration… In 1948, students from all over Japan inaugurated the All-Japan Federation of Student Self-Government Organizations (known by its acronym, Zengakuren) with a leadership largely from the Japanese Young Communist League… However the honeymoon between the students and the JCP was short-lived… The JCP had seen the American occupation as an opportunity to complete the bourgeois-democratic revolution in Japan, which had been the Moscow-ordained task of Communist Parties the world over during the Popular Front (1936-39) and then again after the German invasion of the Soviet Union, when Communists were allied with all “liberal,” “democratic,” and “peace-loving” forces, meaning those of the ruling class.

…Student radicalism reached even greater heights as the movement entered the 1960s… In militant actions organized by Zengakuren, thousands of students broke into the Diet building twice in 1960, forcing the cancellation of a state visit by US President Eisenhower and the resignation of Prime Minister Nobusuke Kishi with his cabinet. During this period Zengakuren’s leadership was largely drawn from the “Mainstream Faction,” which had originated the federation’s opposition to the JCP, however during the late 50s the leadership was briefly taken over by students from the Revolutionary Communist League (RCL), a group formed from JCP exiles after the 1956 Soviet invasion of Hungary, which was influenced by Trotsky’s writings and would affiliate to the Fourth International. By 1964, there were three different organizations taking the name Zengakuren: the JCP supporters, the Revolutionary Marxists (a Tokyo-based split from the RCL) and a unity faction.”

There’s a lot more the Trotskyist grad student blogger (the official title I have designated to this person) goes into, but he essentially concludes that:

“I believe at this point that I have made a solid case for why Murakami, whose early books on the surface are completely apolitical, take their starting point as the destruction of the Japanese student movement, though at no point is the movement itself exactly foregrounded.”

An an earlier conclusion in his first post:

“Based on conjecture from his novels, we can assume he was around the anti-Stalinist left concentrated in the Zenkyoto groups, though he has insisted that he was never a member of any particular faction. “I enjoyed the campus riots as an individual,” he writes. “I’d throw rocks and fight with the cops, but I thought there was something ‘impure’ about erecting barricades and other organized activity, so I didn’t participate… The very thought of holding hands in a demonstration gave me the creeps.”

…Since this is all I have till I learn Japanese, I will have to take his word that he always had a rather superior, hipster attitude toward politics, which is believable enough considering his status as a graduate of one of Japan’s most elite private institutions. And yet, there is something I see in his early novels that undeniably regrets the collapse of the student movement, no matter how much he resented the factions for “impure” organizational work.”

I think Murakami’s disdain for this sort of leftist hypocrisy comes through in a particularly memorable dialogue in Norwegian Wood (which the Trotskyist grad student blogger never mentioned for some reason):

"Have you ever read Das Kapital?"

"Yeah. Not the whole thing, of course, but parts, like most people."

"You know, when I went to university I joined a folk-music club. I just wanted to sing songs. But the members were a load of frauds. I get goose-bumps just thinking about them. The first thing they tell you when you enter the club is you have to read Marx. "Read page so-and-so to such-and-such for next time.' Somebody gave a lecture on how folk songs have to be deeply involved with society and the radical movement. So, what the hell, I went home and tried as hard as I could to read it, but I didn't understand a thing. It was worse than the subjunctive. I gave up after three pages. So I went to the next week's meeting like a good little scout and said I had read it, but I couldn't understand it. From that point on they treated me like an idiot. I had no critical awareness of the class struggle, they said, I was a social cripple. I mean, this was serious. And all because I said I couldn't understand a piece of writing..."

“...And their so-called discussions were terrible, too. Everybody would use big words and pretend they knew what was going on. But I would ask questions whenever I didn't understand something. "What is this imperialist exploitation stuff you're talking about? Is it connected somehow to the East India Company?' "Does smashing the educational-industrial complex mean we're not supposed to work for a company after we graduate?' And stuff like that. But nobody was willing to explain anything to me. Far from it - they got really angry. Can you believe it?"

“...OK, so I'm not so smart. I'm working class. But it's the working class that keeps the world running, and it's the working classes that get exploited. What kind of revolution is it that just throws out big words that working-class people can't understand? What kind of crap social revolution is that? I mean, I'd like to make the world a better place, too. If somebody's really being exploited, we've got to put a stop to it. That's what I believe, and that's why I ask questions.”

"So that's when it hit me. These guys are fakes. All they've got on their minds is impressing the new girls with the big words they're so proud of, while sticking their hands up their skirts. And when they graduate, they cut their hair short and march off to work for Mitsubishi or IBM or Fuji Bank. They marry pretty wives who've never read Marx and have kids they give fancy new names to that are enough to make you puke. Smash what educational-industrial complex? Don't make me laugh!”

This passage actually reminds me of a Japanese exchange student I met as an undergraduate who was really into Murakami and used to perform folk music in her spare time. Even though she was an atheist or agnostic of some sort and really into gender studies, she used to attend an international students bible study that I used to go to at a friends’ house. She’s now doing a PhD at MIT in neuroscience, but that passage in Norwegian Wood always reminds me of her. Anyways, you can see how Murakami’s purity politics requires of him a rejection of fully embracing any comprehensive political or religious system. The individual is always of most importance to him, and I think that comes through in 1Q84 too.

Part of what gets to Murakami I suppose is the pretence involve with a lot of armchair leftists. It recalls for me a passage I read in a book about country music of all things called “The Nashville Sound” by Joli Jensen:

“Students rarely ventured into the Rose Bowl. When they did it was usually to be rowdy and to make fun of the rednecks. One night, as I was waiting tables, four fellow graduate students came in. They did not see me, and I watched in rising fury as they sneered and whispered and laughed among themselves at the people around them. These were my peers, who defined themselves as Marxists and had disdained me as a politically unsophisticated liberal humanist. They patronized me in class and were now in "my" world making fun of "my" friends. Shaking with rage, I went over to the table to take their drink order. Of course, they were stunned to find me working there, complete with sequined Rose Bowl vest, and they left immediately. I had caught them at an unseemly game. But I have come to wonder about the basis for my rage and about what it tells me about how we understand ourselves in relation to our perceptions of others.

At the time I felt superior to them, friends of the working class, indeed! and virtuous in my admiration of, and affection for, Rose Bowl patrons. Later, I began to wonder, was I really any better, turning the Rose Bowl into a mythical venue of "salt of the earth" authenticity? Is it really better to idealize and sentimentalize difference than to ridicule and disdain it? This is a poignant dilemma for the country music scholar and is becoming a topic of discussion among sociologists, anthropologists, museum curators, and social critics.”

Anyways, to move past this thoughtful navel-gazing, I want to get into a dimension of 1Q84 that I found extremely interesting. Probably my favourite part is Chapter 10 of Book 1 (A Real Revolution with Real Bloodshed), where Tengo talks to Fuka-Eri’s current guardian, a former anthropology professor and friend of Fuka-Eri’s father. Fuka-Eri’s father (Tamotsu Fukada) was an academic and Maoist revolutionary, enthusiastic about the Cultural Revolution, who gathered a number of students to start a commune in the mountains of Takao. There is a fascinating section on the splintering of the commune into a moderate faction and a more radical one:

“Under Fukada’s leadership, the operation of Sakigake farm remained on track, but eventually the commune split into two distinct factions. Such a split was inevitable as long as they kept Fukada’s flexible unit system. On one side was a militant faction, a revolutionary group based on the Red Guard unit that Fukada had originally organized. For them, the farming commune was strictly preparatory for the revolution. Farming was just a cover for them until the time came for them to take up arms. That was their unshakable stance.”

This paragraph reminds me of the case of the Tarnac Nine. It is within the realm of possibility Murakami had heard about this case, because their arrest was in 2008, shortly before 1Q84’s first books were published. There’s a commune in Tarnac that was involved in the operation of a nearby general store (Magasin General, Tarnac). Giorgio Agamben wrote a brief post on this affair describing it this way:

“On the morning of November 11, 150 police officers, most of which belonged to the anti-terrorist brigades, surrounded a village of 350 inhabitants on the Millevaches plateau, before raiding a farm in order to arrest nine young people (who ran the local grocery store and tried to revive the cultural life of the village). Four days later, these nine people were sent before an anti-terrorist judge and “accused of criminal association with terrorist intentions.””

The social theorist Alberto Toscano described the event in similar terms:

“On 11 November 2008, twenty French youths are arrested simultaneously in Paris, Rouen, and in the small village of Tarnac (located in the district of Corrèze, in France’s relatively impoverished Massif Central region). The Tarnac operation involves helicopters, one hundred and fifty balaclava-clad anti-terrorist policemen and studiously prearranged media coverage. The youths are accused of having participated in a number of sabotage attacks against the high-speed TGV train routes, involving the obstruction of the train’s power cables with horseshoe-shaped iron bars, causing material damage and a series of delays affecting some 160 trains. Eleven of the suspects are promptly freed. Those who remain in custody are soon termed the ‘Tarnac Nine’, after the village where a number of them had purchased a small farmhouse, reorganised the local grocery store as a cooperative, and taken up a number of civic activities from the running of a film club to the delivery of food to the elderly. In their parents’ words, ‘they planted carrots without bosses or leaders. They think that life, intelligence and decisions are more joyous when they are collective’.”

The Professor’s farming of Akebono (the radical offshoot of Sakigake) are framed in similar terms to the way anti-terrorist police in France portrayed the activities of the Tarnac co-op farm, as a front for revolutionary activity. Of course, if you read the Invisible Committee’s “Coming Insurrection”, allusions to such notions are elaborated on:

“Every commune seeks to be its own base. It seeks to dissolve the question of needs. It seeks to break all economic dependency and all political subjugation; it degenerates into a milieu the moment it loses contact with the truths on which it is founded. There are all kinds of communes that wait neither for the numbers nor the means to get organized, and even less for the “right moment” — which never arrives.”

But this excerpt follows a notion of the commune that is not so easily type-casted into the rural commune of Tarnac:

“Communes come into being when people find each other, get on with each other, and decide on a common path. The commune is perhaps what gets decided at the very moment when we would normally part ways. It’s the joy of an encounter that survives its expected end. It’s what makes us say “we,” and makes that an event. What’s strange isn’t that people who are attuned to each other form communes, but that they remain separated. Why shouldn’t communes proliferate everywhere? In every factory, every street, every village, every school. At long last, the reign of the base committees! Communes that accept being what they are, where they are. And if possible, a multiplicity of communes that will displace the institutions of society: family, school, union, sports club, etc. Communes that aren’t afraid, beyond their specifically political activities, to organize themselves for the material and moral survival of each of their members and of all those around them who remain adrift. Communes that would not define themselves — as collectives tend to do — by what’s inside and what’s outside them, but by the density of the ties at their core. Not by their membership, but by the spirit that animates them.”

There is a strong eschatological element in the writings of the Invisible Committee, that some radical political theologians have picked up on (e.g. see Ward Blanton’s lecture on the Invisible Committee ). Because of Julien Coupat’s arrest as one of the Tarnac Nine, the Invisible Committee has become associated with the journal Tiqqun. In “Theory of Bloom” Tiqqun is defined:

“The French rendering of the Hebrew word Tikkun, meaning to “perfect”, “repair”, “heal”, or “transform”. In rabbanical school, students study mystical texts that view tikkun as the process of restoring a complex divine unity. A tikkun kor’im (readers’ tikkun) is a study guide used when preparing to chant the Torah, or to read from the Torah in a Jewish synagogue. People who chant from the Torah must differs from that written (the Kethib) in the scroll.”

The Wikipedia article for Tiqqun says the word is derived from the “Hebrew term Tikkun olam, a concept issuing from Judaism, often used in the kabbalistic and messianic traditions.”

Murakami certainly alludes to this intersection of eschatology, theology, and politics, firstly in his narrative mechanism which has this Maoist commune turn into a secretive religious cult. He ties the religious and political in this way, but in a manner that I myself find unconvincing. Many of these co-operative farms are anti-hierarchical and I find it difficult to see, even for a commune of the authoritarian left to turn into something resembling Sakigake in the novel. Regardless, I think the intersection of radical religion and politics in 1Q84 to be a fascinating subject to explore, even if I found Murakami’s particular approach unsatisfying. There is of course an eschatological dimension that Murakami gestures towards in various chapters, often in amusing an humorous ways. One of my favourites is in the following chapter (Chapter 11):

As a woman, Aomame had no concrete idea how much it hurt to suffer a hard kick in the balls… “It hurts so much you think the end of the world is coming right now. I don’t know how else to put it. It’s different from ordinary pain,” said a man, after careful consideration, when Aomame asked him to explain it to her.

Aomame gave some thought to his analogy. The end of the world?

“Conversely, then,” she said, “would you say that when the end of the world is coming right now, it feels like a hard kick in the balls?”

Aomame was called in and instructed to rein in the ball-kicking practice. “Realistically speaking, though,” she protested, “it’s impossible for women to protect themselves against men without resorting to a kick in the testicles. Most men are bigger and stronger than women. A swift testicle attack is a woman’s only chance. Mao Zedong said it best. You find your opponent’s weak point and make the first move with a concentrated attack. It’s the only chance a guerrilla force has of defeating a regular army.”

The manager did not take well to her passionate defense. “…I don’t care what Mao Zedong said—or Genghis Khan, for that matter: a spectacle like that is going to make most men feel anxious and annoyed and upset.”

If there’s any guy crazy enough to attack me, I’m going to show him the end of the world—close up. I’m going to let him see the kingdom come with his own eyes.”

The Witnesses’ rendition of the Lord’s prayer is recurring theme that surfaces throughout the novel, and even if it is presented in a cynical manner by Murakami, I think it still evokes a particular mode of contemplation that I found interesting. The Jehovah’s Witnesses are the obvious allusion Murakami is making and their pacifism is even explicitly mentioned by Ushikawa: “They are well known to be pacifists, following the principle of nonresistance.”

Pacifism, of course, more associated with the radical Christians of the anabaptist tradition, although I have yet to encounter the connection between Jehovah’s Witnesses and Anabaptism, other than certain millenarian impulses they might share. Anyways, I think this an interesting node that Murakami marks, posing the question of violence and justice: revolutionary violence (of Akebono), assassination (Aomame’s side gig), and sexual violence (experienced by the women that the dowager tries to protect). What causes aversion to political and religious radicals, fundamentalists, etc?

Murakami’s answer is coercion and the denigration of the individual. This is epitomized in a dialogue Aomame has with the dowager, where the dowager asks:

“Are you a feminist, or a lesbian?” Aomame blushed slightly and shook her head. “I don’t think so. My thoughts on such matters are strictly my own. I’m not a doctrinaire feminist, and I’m not a lesbian.”

“That’s good,” the dowager said. As if relieved, she elegantly lifted a forkful of broccoli to her mouth, elegantly chewed it, and took one small sip of wine.

This is very similar to the sort of ideology that Jordan Petersen subscribes to. It is a ‘higher than thou’ purity politics that looks down on any sort of collective organization that betrays any sort of hypocrisy. Yet most religious traditions recognize that any sort of collective organizing is bound to live in contradiction with its ideals. Within the Christian tradition, thoughtful adherents recognize the Church as a ‘fallen’ institution composed of ‘sinners’. I think it is important to recognize and confess the short fallings of previous attempts to realize ideals while not abandoning the ideals because people that came before us have severely fucked it up. Another world is possible, and I think if we fall back into our silos of individualism we will not realize this other world. Murakami provides an almost Kierkegaardian framing of what is essentially ritual rape in the novel — and I found that disturbing, though in the realm of magical realism, I’m not qualified to make any meaningful commentary. What I will confess is that my own life betrays a certain sort of ‘bourgeois individualism’ but I have not yet reached a form of cynicism that celebrates it, and I hope I won’t anytime soon.

Anyhow, beyond these critiques, I enjoyed this novel a lot, and I think it brought up interesting questions to contemplate. I found the Proust jokes hilarious, some of the funniest moments in the book. Curiously, I have never finished reading Orwell’s 1984. I was supposed to have finished reading it for a Grade 12 literature class, but I recall that period of the semester as a tremendously busy one for me. I do intend to finish it one day soon, and Orwell’s democratic socialism is a fascinating lens through which to also examine many of the themes that Murakami explores, including those of agency and freedom. There are these strange lines in the book that I don’t quite know what to make of: 

“He leaned against the wall, in the shadows of the telephone pole and a sign advertising the Japanese Communist Party, and kept a sharp watch over the front door of Mugiatama.“

There are funnier allusions to this like:

“Have you heard about the final tests given to candidates to become interrogators for Stalin’s secret police?” “No, I haven’t.”

“A candidate would be put in a square room. The only thing in the room is an ordinary small wooden chair. And the interrogator’s boss gives him an order. He says, ‘Get this chair to confess and write up a report on it. Until you do this, you can’t leave this room.’ ”

“Sounds pretty surreal.”

“No, it isn’t. It’s not surreal at all. It’s a real story. Stalin actually did create that kind of paranoia, and some ten million people died on his watch—most of them his fellow countrymen. And we actually live in that kind of world. Don’t ever forget that.”

...“So what kind of confession did the interrogator candidates extract from the chairs?”

“That is a question definitely worth considering,” Tamaru said. “Sort of like a Zen koan.”

“Stalinist Zen,” Aomame said.

I have my own views on Murakami’s crypto-Calvinist sections, which is not unrelated to Murakami’s interwoven narrative technique, and in excerpts such as the one I opened with about the etymology of ‘lunatic’. Also, I actually quite enjoyed the way Murakami alluded to Dostoyevsky’s Grand Inquisitor passage from the Brothers Karamazov — where Satan frames miracles as a sort of spectacle when trying to tempt Christ in the wilderness. I’ve always thought that there’s certainly some Debordian comment that can be made with respect to that. In fact, the notion of spectacle, and this process of reducing agency such that we become mere spectators, is itself thematic in Murakami’s fiction, especially here. Again, it is this crypto-Calvinist notion of fate, that one’s future is already predetermined and no matter what one might try, it is inevitable. (This must be related to Murakami’s quoting of Carl Jung: “Called or not called, God is there”.) And so one becomes almost a spectator to one’s own life unfolding under the predetermined path of capital. Yet curiously, Tengo and Aomame do escape from Leader’s prophetic claim that was to befall Aomame, out from 1Q84, back up the stairwell back to the path of 1984. If only escaping from “late declining capitalism” (Murakami’s term) was that simple.

Though I had many reservations, 1Q84 was breezy read and I think that’s a testament to how fun Murakami’s writing can be, and this was one of those books where this was very much the case.

[angstbotfic]

Fic: Ak’tephari Prophecy Ch 53

Read at AO3

November 21st

The snow was so deep that they had to walk the horses now, trudging single file along the rocky mountain path. Emma was just glad it wasn’t too deep to travel at all, and that they’d start to come down from the heights in a few hours to meet the road to the sanctuary of the Rowan foresters, who held the next piece of the Orb according to the texts Merlin and Regina had consulted.

There was a startled cry from behind her, and Emma snapped her head around just in time to see the edge of the path giving way beneath Regina. At some parts, the ravine sloped away relatively gently from the path along its edge, but here the drop was abrupt and lengthy.

She couldn't cry out, couldn't even think words in the horror of watching Regina fall to her death, reaching out her hand impotently as if to pull her back.

Then a surge of magic rushed through her, more intense than she had ever felt, and Regina was standing beside her, eyes wild.

They stood there for a beat, trembling, drinking each other in, and then clung to one another fiercely.

"How did you do that?" Merlin demanded after a moment, getting over his shock enough to speak. He’d been right behind Regina.

Emma looked at him blankly over Regina's shoulder.

"That's far, far above your level," Maleficent explained from the other side. She’d been in front of Emma.

"I- I don't know," Emma croaked, her voice broken by her terror and the exhaustion that was now settling over her from using so much magic.

"Apparently you do," Maleficent said.

"That doesn't make sense," Emma said slowly, her eyes still unfocused.

"No, indeed,” Merlin agreed. “Novices with only a few years of training simply can’t move something the size of a person. It’s tremendously difficult.”

“Not to mention a living being. No beginner would even try!" Maleficent was clearly disturbed by the violation of the rules of her craft.

"What do you mean?" Regina asked distractedly, her face still tucked against Emma’s neck.

"That particular spell is used to put the tea kettle on, get a book. Small things. Simple things. Living beings are incredibly complex." Merlin stared at them for another long moment, shaking his head.

“But you-” Regina looked up at Maleficent as she searched for the word, “Poofed- yourself all the way here.”

“Moving oneself is one thing,” Maleficent clarified. “But moving other living beings is very easy to abuse. The balance of magic in the universe requires that it be difficult. I’ve been studying magic for decades. Emma spent, what, two years?” Merlin nodded confirmation. "And she did this thing that should be impossible for her. Without uttering a word, which should also be impossible for her.” She trailed off. “It’s remarkable. I'm- I'm very much at a loss."

Regina had stopped listening to her, instead staring into Emma's eyes intently. For her part, Emma was struggling to stay standing as echoes of magic rebounded in her body.

“Yes, it’s really quite startling,” Merlin agreed.

"Can we talk about this later?” Regina broke in. “Emma doesn't look well."

"What? I'm fine."

“No you look like you’ve bled half to death, you’re so pale,” Maleficent chided, having moved to her side as soon as Regina had noticed it.

“Then our magical mystery can wait,” Merlin said.

Regina nodded. "Let's keep moving and find a safe place to rest."

Emma wanted to object, but felt too faint, and anyway Regina's expression told her that wasn’t a fight she wanted.

Then Henry slipped up to them, weaving through the men and horses. He’d been way at the back of the group, not scouting now because breaking the path through the snow was too hard for him. "What's going on? I heard a yell."

"The path caved in, it- it fell," Merlin answered, pointing at the spot he’d just passed. It looked so innocent now, just a bit narrower than the rest.

Henry’s eyes widened slightly. "Everyone's all right, though?"

"Yeah," Emma said, not sounding convincing even to herself.

Henry looked at all of them suspiciously, then asked Emma, "You'll tell me the whole truth later, right?"

Emma nodded and gave him her best effort at a grin.

"Henry, can you go up and tell Robin to keep an eye out for a place to stop?" Regina asked. "He's on point. Oh, and pass the word back about the path." She paused, then added. "Be careful."

"Of course," Henry replied, and left to make it happen.

Emma realized Regina was taking charge in order to feel like she was in control of something, and she could respect that. But she still had a goofy smile as she watched.

"What?" Regina demanded.

"I think you're trying steal my stripes," Emma teased softly. She took Regina's hand, and Regina squeezed hard, then took a deep breath and very deliberately let go.

“Alright, let’s get going,” Regina called out. Emma watched her with a small smile.

**

It took nearly two hours for them to find a spot where the entire group could rest comfortably. They stopped and ate and drank, and Emma and Regina clung to each other as subtly as they possibly could while Maleficent and Merlin and Henry fussed over them both. Emma allowed it, because she was too focused on her need to keep reassuring herself that Regina was here, and alive, and real, and it seemed pretty clear Regina felt the same way.

After that, Emma felt much more like a person again, and advocated that they continue on and get down into gentler terrain before sunset. But she made sure that Regina was directly in front of her where she could keep an eye on her. Once they finally passed from the exposed mountainside into the a small valley that would lead them down from between the peaks, the trail widened and the forest canopy kept it clear of snow, and they could ride again. Henry, who had been right behind Emma for probably the same reason she’d put Regina in front of her, came to ride beside her.

“So what really happened back there?” he asked.

“Regina was on the part of the path that collapsed,” she said shortly, suppressing the urge to snap at him. He didn’t know.

He gasped. “What happened?”

“I don’t know. I just- saved her. With magic. That I shouldn’t have been able to do.”

“Isn’t love the most powerful magic? You know, like Princess Regina said about the elemental powers?"

“I don’t know what that has to do with anything,” Emma said, too quickly.

“Don't you love Princess Regina?" 

“I can’t,” she said quietly.

“Because of Maleficent?” he asked. Emma winced. She had wondered if people were drawing that conclusion.

“No, Maleficent is just a good friend.” She was silent for a moment, thinking. "Regina is very special to me, more than anyone else, but she also has a special destiny. Aside from this mysterious prophecy," she clarified wryly. "She's destined to marry someone else, to become a queen. Love is," she sighed, "not an option for us."

"It’s not, huh?" Henry said dryly, cocking his head at her. "Seems like it might be hard to tell."

#swan queen #sq ff #swanqueen fanfic #swan queen fan fiction #work: ak'tephari