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let-it-raines · 3 years

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I Hope We Never See October (5/?)

When his personal life and football career go up in flames, Killian Jones escapes England for America, finding seclusion in Martha’s Vineyard in order to hide from his demons. It’s a fresh start, or at the very least a paused moment in his life, and all he needs is a few months alone to allow his heart to heal. He doesn’t count on meeting Emma Swan.

Emma’s life depends on tourists who come to the island every summer. It’s how she makes her money working in restaurants and clubs across the vineyard, but every year, she cannot wait until autumn comes and her life returns to normal. She especially cannot wait for Killian Jones to leave.

Rating: Mature

ao3 : beginning | current

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-/-

Emma likes seafood.

She likes seafood, but she mostly eats like a ten-year-old boy. Apparently, there’s a little place near her house called Granny’s where she devours grilled cheese and onion rings like arteries aren’t a thing. It makes him laugh when she tells him because she eats how he’s always dreamed of eating. The only time he ever gets the chance is when he’s with his nieces and they convince him to get them food Elsa and Liam never let them get.

She also likes 80’s music, has been working at the Blue Dog for over half a decade, prefers her kickboxing classes to cycling ones, and her favorite color is blue.

That last one was a bit of a throwaway question, but he asked it anyway. Then, of course, he made sure to let her know that his eyes were blue. He got an eye roll and a ‘shut up’ for that before she started rolling her hips again. It was damn distracting, but he didn’t stop laughing at how frustrated she was that he wasted his one personal question a day on that.

One personal question a day.

It’s childish, but he thinks it works. It keeps the line between them defined. He knows what this is, has done it enough times before to not be blind to it. They’re both visitors in each other’s lives. They have expiration dates, and when there’s an expiration date, there’s no harm in spending time together.

There’s no commitment, so there’s no hurt.

He’s not an expert on Emma Swan, no matter how much she fascinates him, but he gets the feeling she’s avoiding relationships just as much as he is. There is a past hurt there, a damned painful one, and if anyone gets that, it’s him.

But he doesn’t ask about that in his one question a day. He asks for her favorite color and food and if she’d rather hike uphill for 10 miles or swim for 20.

For the record, she’d rather hike because she could sit down and eat along the way.

“Would you look at that?” Emma says as she runs her hands under the water of the sink at the bar. “You, sitting at this bar, again.”

He slices his salmon with his knife and grins. “I tried that Granny’s place, but the food had too much grease. Met a rather charming waitress, though.”

“Let me guess. Red streak in her hair, boobs on full display, argued with the owner the entire time?”

“How’d you know?”

“Because that’s Ruby, my best friend.”

“Is she now?” he asks, already knowing the answer.

“Is that your personal question of the day?”

“Nope,” he says, taking a bite of his food. “I’m saving that for a later time.”

“A later time,” Emma repeats, like she’s considering the words. She crosses her arms over her chest and leans back against the bar. “What makes you think you’re going to be seeing me at a later time? This isn’t enough for you?”

He looks around them and leans closer to her. “Too many clothes.”

Emma laughs, legitimately, and that feels surprisingly good. “I’m literally in a tank top and shorts. That’s about as dressed down as you can get.”

“I was talking about myself, actually. There are too many clothes on me, but it’s nice to know you think so highly of yourself.”

That gets him another laugh and a shake of her head, and he likes that too. He may have no real inclination to become overly attached to her, but he can at least admit to himself that he enjoys her company.

“Shut up.” Someone calls Emma’s name from across the restaurant, and she holds her arm up, putting up one finger. “I get off at The Oaks at eleven. I’ll drop by your place if I’m not too tired.”

“Why the hell are you working there so much?”

“I like the money. And, Jones, that counts as your personal question of the day. I’ll see you later...maybe.”

She grins and winks before walking away, and he swears she puts a little extra sway in her hips. Killian shakes his head as he feels his own smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“What a bloody woman,” he whispers to himself before spearing another piece of his salmon.

-/-

“Right there,” she moans. “Like, seriously, right there. Don’t fucking change anything.”

Kilian smiles against her, but he’s quick to return to what he was doing. Emma’s legs tighten over his shoulders, her hands yank at the sheets, and as much as he is throbbing right now, it’s bloody glorious to have her like this. The filter is gone, so too are the reservations, and he gets a bit of satisfaction knowing this is him doing this to her.

His only skills aren’t on the football pitch after all.

He is definitely a bastard for thinking that right now, but he’s never claimed to be otherwise.

“Fuck,” Emma huffs after she comes down from her high. Her legs shiver over his shoulder, thighs tightening so all the sounds fade for a moment, but then her legs fall and all sounds come back in screaming color. “What did I do to deserve that so early in the morning?”

“It’s ten, love.”

“Yeah, that’s early on my day off.”

Killian laughs and kisses the inside of Emma’s thigh before making his way up her body, planting a final one underneath her collarbone before he collapses on his side of the bed and pulls the sheets above his waist.

“It’s not early for the rest of the world.” He smiles, which she doesn’t appreciate, and she sinks further into the bed, yanking the covers over her. He can still see her flushed cheeks and the slightest content smile on her face. “You should try it sometime. See the sunrise, dodge early morning joggers, eat breakfast at a normal time.”

“Trust me, I’m usually up early enough to want to drive into the early morning joggers while I have a Pop Tart hanging out of my mouth. My summer schedule is just...it’s different than usual.”

He has questions about that. It’s something she’s alluded to before, but he doesn’t know if she’ll count that as his question of a day.

He’s thirty-five years old, and he doesn’t know if he can ask the woman he’s sleeping with more than one question about her life. He knows he’s fucked up a lot, but this seems to be the culmination of several screw ups in his own life.

He doesn’t have time to dwell on that. Well, no, he has all the time in the world, but lately, the boredom has dissipated, the loneliness too.

Lately, he’s got a damn good distraction, and he’s not about to fuck that up.

Emma flips over on her side, her hair a wild, curly mess. She used his pool last night and didn’t wash her hair after. It’s made it even crazier than usual. He thinks he likes it. Makes her seem less reserved.

His phone rings on his bedside table, and he leans over to pick it up.

“Hello, darling.” Emma’s brow raises, but he ignores her. “How are you?”

“Good,” Elsa says. “We’re all good. The girls are in the garden right now, running around and getting all their energy out. I haven’t heard from you in a few days.”

“I’ve been...busy.”

Emma’s hand finds his thigh, and his leg jumps before steadying. She is not about to do what he thinks she’s about to do. Bloody hell.

“Busy?” Elsa asks, as Emma’s hand walks a little closer to his groin. “Doing what? Have you made friends?”

“Why do you always ask me that like I’m a child?”

“Because you’re basically my baby brother.” Killian laughs and then hisses as Emma’s hand wraps around him. She smirks, obviously satisfied with herself, and he knows she’s doing it for the reaction above anything else.

Tease.

He doesn’t mind.

Except this is a poor idea.

“I believe I’m actually older than you.”

“Semantics.”

He laughs again, and Emma’s hand starts working a little more. Fuck. He needs her to stop, and even though she’s doing delicious things to him, she is looking away, acting as bored as can be. And maybe she is, but then he sees one corner of her mouth tick up.

“Mum, is that Killian?” he hears Ally ask, echoed by a squeal from Sophia, who is obviously having the time of her life. There’s a bit of a shuffle, some muted voices, and then his niece’s voice comes through. “When are you coming home?”

“Hello, Ally,” he says, his voice going high when Emma moves her thumb. “How is one of my favorite nieces doing?”

Emma immediately stops and yanks her hand away, practically falling off the bed. She catches herself and kicks up, moving the comforter up and nearly pulling it off him.

“What the actual fuck?” she whispers hisses, slapping him.

He ignores her as Ally asks again when he’s coming home.

“At the end of September, sweetheart,” he promises. “I’ll come home, and then I am going to kiss you right on the cheek.”

“Ew,” she complains, and he can imagine her nose scrunching.

“I also might give you a present.”

“I like that better.”

“Good. I thought you would.” he watches Emma get up and pull a t-shirt out of a drawer. It’s an old Man. United shirt, and he pretends that doesn’t do a damn thing to him, especially since she was just working him up a minute ago. “Listen, Ally, darling, will you hand the phone to your mum? I - ”

“Sophia, that is my hat! Do not wear it!”

And then the line goes dead, and he wonders how long it’ll be before Elsa gets back to her phone and calls him back.

“You let me do that to you while you were on the phone with your niece?” Emma mumbles, pulling the shirt down then pulling her hair into a mess of a knot on the top of her head. He’s not sure if she’s annoyed or amused. “I hate you.”

“Technically, at first it was my sister-in-law,” he corrects, tapping his head.

“That doesn’t make it any better.” Emma gets back in the bed, pulling the comforter all the way up to her chin, and then she shuffles a little further into the bed before sitting up against the headboard and groaning into her hands. “I am mortified.”

“I did stop you when Ally took the phone,” he points out before pulling at the arm of her shirt. “Nice shirt.”

Killian stands from the bed and walks toward his bathroom, grabbing his briefs along the way. “It’s comfortable,” Emma says. “Is this the team you played for?”

Killian stops, the tile cool against his feet, and then keeps moving, leaving the door cracked as he gets half dressed and starts brushing his teeth. As good as it was a few minutes ago, the mood is gone.

Especially now.

How the hell does she know he used to play football? And how long has she known that? Is that why...no, that couldn’t be why, but he knows that’s why a lot of women have.

“A long time ago,” he says, spitting out toothpaste. “I was with Chelsea when I retired.”

“Is that another team?”

“Uh, yeah,” he laughs, continuing to brush his teeth but sticking his head out of his bathroom door. “You didn’t know that?”

Emma shrugs as she types on her phone. “I don’t know anything about soccer. I only know you played because Ruby internet stalked you a few weeks ago and showed me your Instagram. I literally thought you were just one of those adults who is really into his hobbies.”

Killian nearly lets out a sigh, but he stops himself and turns back around to the sink to spit again before rinsing his brush. He looks up at the mirror. His hair is disheveled, there are lines around his eyes and on his forehead, and his stubble is growing to the point where a beard is beginning to form. He’ll shave later.

So Emma doesn’t know anything about football then. Or him, for that matter. He’s not sure he entirely believes her, that she didn’t look up any more about him, and he doesn’t like that uncertainty. Usually, when he meets someone, they have the upper hand and know the surface layer of all the dirty details of his life.

They usually don’t care to find out the real stories. Not that most of them redeem him in any way.

“Not a hobby,” he says, taming his hair with his hands. “It was a damn good job.” He leaves the bathroom and leans against the doorframe. “You ever play?”

She laughs and puts her phone down. “No.”

“Not even as a kid? Come on. I hear every lass in America plays as a kid.”

“Is that your question of the day?”

Damn. “No.” Killian walks toward the bed and puts his hands on either side of Emma’s head on the headboard, leaning in close. He sees her chest rise, and he smirks. “My question is to ask you to stay in bed with me all day. What do you say, Swan?”

She sits up, and her lips lightly brush against his mouth when she talks. “You should have asked me about the soccer because I was already planning on staying here the entire day.”

“Really now?”

“If we can get crepes delivered from this place that’s, like, ten minutes from here.”

Killian kisses her, long and slow until there’s heat simmering low in his belly. “As you wish.”

-/-

Emma doesn’t come over every night. Nor does he go to her place. But it seems that way as July rolls by, full of hot days that seem to linger forever. Killian finds himself busy during the days. Emma usually has work early in the mornings, so if she’s staying over, she leaves before eight. He doesn’t know how she has time to breathe working at both the Tavern and The Oaks, but she makes it work. When she leaves, he gets up and uses the gym in the basement of the house, going through his tried and true routines before he laces up his trainers and either runs on the beach or on the sidewalks through his little area of the vineyard. He finds the sidewalks are better for his knees, so he tends to stick with that and leaves walking on the beach for his afternoon phone calls with Elsa and the girls or Ariel and Eric.

It’s a routine, one that changes during the day, but for the first time since he got here, he doesn’t hate every damn day. He doesn’t spend his time actively having to try not drink or thinking about Liam or football. He practically buys out a local bookstore and goes through the novels faster than he has in years. He visits different restaurants, museums, goes along with some tourist activities he finds online, and he explores any shop that strikes his fancy.

And while his routine changes, there is one constant: he eats a meal at the Blue Dog Tavern.

At first, he thought Emma would kick him out for it, but now, she often comes and sits with him for a few minutes or sends him a drink from her office. He always sits in Ashley’s section and lets her talk about her growing belly even if he knows little about pregnancy, and he spends at least an hour eating and watching all the people around him.

It’s a hell of a lot better than the twenty-four-hour diners with sticky floors and bad coffee.

Killian shoves his keys in his pocket and pushes open the door to the Blue Dog. Marina greets him, telling him to seat himself anywhere in Ashely’s section, so he goes to his favorite booth and settles down. He can’t see the television from it, so it’s the perfect spot to completely escape from the world with no risk of his past showing up right before his eyes.

He may be feeling better, may be able to have a drink or too at night without wanting to have five more, but he knows he’s possibly only one bad day from it all coming undone, the thread unraveling faster than he can wind it back up.

“Tea or coffee today, Killian?” Ashley asks, notepad in hand.

“Tea, I think, but not the blasted stuff you gave me last time.”

She laughs and writes down his drink order. “Do you know what you want to eat already or should I come back?”

He hands her the menu. “The daily special and a side salad.”

“Perfect. I’ll be back with that as soon as possible.”

“No need to rush,” he says, smiling. “Is - ”

“She’s filling out orders for next week, but I’ll let her know you’re here.”

Ashley winks before walking away, and Killian wonders what the hell everyone in this restaurant thinks of him and Emma. It must be peculiar, but if he’s picked up anything from Emma, it’s that she likely doesn’t share much about her personal life with her employees. She surely won’t tell him that he’s the man she’s sleeping with for the summer, but they might pick up on that on their own.

The food here is good, but it’s not every day good.

He’s finished his salad and half of his sandwich when she comes out from the back. Today, she’s already in the black dress she wears to The Oaks, and her hair is pushed back into a ponytail. She looks exhausted, and unfortunately, the reason has nothing to do with him.

“I only have a second to say hi,” she says, sliding into the booth and grabbing a roll from the basket, breaking off a piece and popping it into her mouth. “We are having an issue with our fish orders, and it’s an absolute nightmare.”

“That sounds like I won’t be ordering any fish this week.”

Emma takes another bite of her bread. “I wouldn’t if I were you. Do you want to come to my place tonight? I’m off at ten.”

“Sure.” He picks at the bread on his sandwich. “Though, the last time I was at your place, that damn crab pillow ended up in the bed, and I didn’t appreciate that.”

Her nose scrunches with her laugh. “I hate that thing too, but Ariel loves it.”

“You live in that house the entire year. Why don’t you redecorate it for your taste?”

Her shoulders tense, and she stops chewing before slowly starting again. He already knows this is going to be his personal question of the day. Sometimes she forgets about it and lets the conversation flow freely, but when he hits a nerve, she’s more on her guard.

He gets it. He can be the same way.

“Personal question,” she says, and he knows her better than he should. “And I’ve redone my bedroom and little bits in the kitchen and living room, but I don’t know. I guess I keep it how the Fishers have it because it’s their home. There are memories there, and I don’t want to take any of those away for when I do eventually get another place. It’s....it’s good to have a family home with memories.”

Killian arches his brow, but Emma looks away, picking at the roll again. He never really had a family home, not after his mum died and his dad became obsessed with using Killian’s football skills for his own fortune, but he likes that sentiment.

A family home with memories. Good ones. That would be the dream.

“What about you?” she asks, changing the subject before he can press further. “Aren’t you excited to get back to your place where all the stuff is yours? You’re living in a place that’s not your own, so I’m sure you’re ready to get back to your family.”

She doesn’t mean anything by it, but her words cut. He’s here because he lost the one person in his family who he was closest to, but he doesn’t want to talk about that, not now. This is supposed to be a good time. It isn’t supposed to be about dark histories.

“I’m enjoying my time here,” he answers honestly. “There’s this woman who is an absolute spitfire, and she’s been occupying most of my time. I’ve been, well, metaphorically tied up in bed too much to think of returning home.”

“Ha, ha,” she monotones with a roll of her eyes. “That’s not what I - ”

“Hi!”

They both turn, and Emma’s friend Mary Margaret is standing there, bouncing back and forth on her toes. “Hi, Marg,” Emma says. “You’re early.”

“I know. I got finished tutoring early, so I thought I’d drop by. I didn’t know you’d have...other company.”

“Nice to see you again,” Killian says, nodding at Mary Margaret.

“Yeah, nice to see you.” Mary Margaret seems hesitant, like she didn’t meet him weeks ago at dinner, and he wonders just how much she knows about his arrangement with Emma. From what he’s learned, they seem close, but he also knows Ruby is Emma’s more...accepting friend. “How are you?”

“I’m good, love. Just badgering Emma at work. I’m surprised she hasn’t kicked me out yet.”

“Annoy me a little too much, and I will.” Her ankle hooks with his under the table, and Killian bites his lip to keep from smiling too much. “So, what’s up, Marg? Why’d you want to drop by? Have you heard of this thing called phones?”

Mary Margaret chuckles before sliding into the booth next to Emma. Emma’s ankle unhooks from his, and he tucks his feet under the booth. “So, you know how David wants to have that big barbecue for all of our friends and neighbors?”

“Yeah, you guys do it every year because you’re insane.”

“Anyway,” she says, playfully rolling her eyes, “we were wondering if we could get the Blue Dog to cater some of the sides. I know you guys don’t cater, but we could pay extra. Please.”

“You do know there are restaurants who do cater who could handle this?”

“Yes, but we love the food here. Killian gets it, right?”

“Uh, yes,” he mumbles, not sure what he’s supposed to say. From Emma’s death glare, he knows he’s chosen incorrectly. Bloody hell. “I love it.”

“Exactly,” Mary Margaret says. “We’ll pay extra. Promise. In tips so the staff can get it instead of the owners.”

Emma sighs and sinks into the booth, crossing her arms over her chest. “I need to know the order at least two weeks ahead of time, and it’s going to take me some time to figure out how much you guys need to pay.”

“Ahhhh, perfect!” Mary Margaret hugs Emma before sliding out of the booth. “You’re the best! I can’t wait to call David! Oh, and Killian, you should come too. It’s on August 14th. We’d love to have you there.”

Killian scratches his ear and nods, flashing her a tight smile. He doesn’t think Emma would welcome him at a party full of her friends, so he doesn’t want to make her uncomfortable no matter how nice it might be to be in a large group of people.

“He’ll be there,” Emma says, surprising him, and he feels her toe tap his shin. “If he can make it, of course. You know, he has a very busy social calendar.”

“I wonder why that is, darling.” He winks, making Emma smile, and he taps his toes into hers right back. “I’ve heard you keep pretty busy as well.”

Emma’s mouth gapes before closing, and her green eyes widen, lashes nearly hitting against her brows. “Ass.”

“Well, I know you like - ”

“Okay.” Mary Margaret claps her hands together. “I’ve got to go. Emma, I’ll send you the menu after I talk to David tonight. And Killian, we really would love to have you there.”

“I’ll see,” he says as he fights to keep from smiling too widely. “May I recommend the cheddar bites for the menu. They’ll kill you, but you’ll enjoy it.”

“I have never once seen you get the cheddar bites,” Emma scoffs.

He leans over the table, pressing his chin in his hand and smirking the way he knows she likes. She tells him he’s obnoxious when he does it, but sometimes he can see past that hard shell exterior. “I’m full of surprises, darling.”

“That you are, Jones. That you are.”

-/-

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#I hope we never see october #cs fic #cs ff #cs fanfic #captain swan fic #captain swan ff #captain swan

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violethowler · 3 years

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More Machine Than Man: Using Character Parallels to Predict Echo’s Journey in The Bad Batch

Echo was one of the first fictional character deaths that genuinely moved me when I was a kid.

Sure, there were a lot of character deaths in my formative Disney movies that made me sad, but no death had ever gotten such an emotional “How dare they!” reaction as Star Wars: The Clone Wars did on Friday, March 4, 2011, when Echo got blown up at the climax of Season 3’s 19th episode.

So when Dave Filoni revealed concept sketches of what the production team had been planning for future seasons at the time of the show’s cancellation, finding out Echo was going to come back - that he was still alive after all - was a tremendous joy for me. Getting the story reels depicting his rescue was a gift enough, but actually getting to see his return as a fully animated episode in all it’s glory when Season 7 finally released on Disney+ last year was a dream come true.

While I wasn’t particularly invested enough in the Bad Batch as a group to be excited when their spinoff was announced, the fact that one of my favorite clones (second only to Rex and Fives) was now a co-star of a spinoff show was enough of a thrill to keep me invested.

And yet, despite being highlighted as one of the main characters, Echo has not gotten as much focus as Hunter, Tech, Omega, Crosshair, or Wrecker since the show began.

A lot of this can of course be put down to the fact that while audiences have already had years to get attached to Echo, the rest of the Bad Batch are still relatively new from an audience perspective. Only four of the eight episodes they were planned to appear in for Clone Wars were ever finished, and they were all presented there as stock action movie archetypes. So in a show where these relatively one-dimensional characters are supposed to be the main protagonists, the writers need to spend a lot of time early on fleshing these characters out, making them more rounded, and giving us a reason to care about them besides looking cool and being connected to Echo.

But just because they haven’t done anything outwardly obvious with Echo yet doesn’t mean the writers aren’t planting seeds now to lay the groundwork for his evolution later on.

And after thinking some more about “Aftermath” - plus a comment somewhere on twitter, tumblr, TVTropes, or Jedi Council Forums that I frustratingly cannot track down again - I think I might have a general idea of what the writers have in store for him.

In the first episode of The Bad Batch, Tech refers to Echo as “more machine than man.”

Now, I’ve seen a lot of people up in arms claiming that The Bad Batch treats Echo like a droid and other arguments, especially after the whole “sold as a droid” scam they pulled in Episode 04. But aside from that one elusive comment I mentioned, I have not seen anyone taking into account that line’s potential as a flag to mark a parallel that could be used to start predicting the direction of Echo’s character arc.

Because while I can’t speak for the novels or comics, but the only other time I have ever seen that specific phrase, “more machine than man” has been in a conversation about none other than Echo’s former General, Anakin Skywalker. Or as he now goes by in the time frame of The Bad Batch, Darth Vader.

It may not be obvious at first glance, but when you look closely at Echo’s designs from Season 7 and his story arc in The Clone Wars as a whole, you’ll find multiple visual and narrative similarities with the story of Darth Vader.

Both are extremely pale after a long period of time without sunlight: Echo was kept in a box for over a year, while after becoming Darth Vader, Anakin spends all his time in his suit and only takes it off to soak in a bacta chamber like the one at his castle on Mustafar in Rogue One.

But suffered severe injuries that resulted in parts of their body - including being replaced with cybernetics: Echo in the explosion of the shuttle at The Citadel, Anakin by the burning lava of Mustafar. Both of them even lost their right arm specifically. Both of these transformations are also visually associated with fire, and their primary color schemes following their transformations are black and red, along with some dark grey thrown into the mix.

Both are manipulated into aiding the enemy of their respective groups - The Separatists experiment on Echo in order to rip Republic military tactics directly from his mind against his will, while despite Palpatine’s grooming him to become a Sith Apprentice, Anakin still consciously chooses to turn to the Dark Side.

In both situations, Echo and Anakin return back to their original allegiance thanks to someone they care about. Rex saves Echo from his imprisonment on Skako Minor, after which he returns to Republic service. Meanwhile Luke’s love for Anakin eventually brings him back from the Dark Side in Return of The Jedi.

And in each case, their return coincides with them bringing about the defeat and death of the person who they had previously been “working” under. Echo is instrumental in securing Trench’s defeat at Anaxes, leading to his death at the hands of Anakin. Decades later, Anakin kills Palpatine in order to save his son, thereby resulting in the deterioration and downfall of the Empire.

As I discussed in my earlier Ventress meta, the major thematic core of Episodes I - VI of the Skywalker Saga is Anakins’ fall to the dark side and his eventual redemption. When a character is that central to the narrative, several other characters typically serve as mirrors that show how differently things could have gone under different circumstances.

Echo was first shown in his new armor in the animatics for the unfinished Kashyyyk arc shown at Celebration Anaheim’s “Untold Clone Wars Stories” panel in 2015. The production codes put this episode as having been near the end of Production Season 6 in between the first half of Dark Disciple and Son of Dathomir. Based on the dates listed for the concept art for those arcs in their respective galleries on Star Wars.com, this means that Echo’s new Bad Batch armor was originally designed between September 2012 and January 2013.

Meaning that these references and allusions to Vader were not something that was conceived recently just for his role in The Bad Batch, but something that has been in the works for years.

So I, for one, cannot wait to see what unfolds because of how many different possibilities there are for the directions that Echo’s character can be taken in with these parallels in mind.

There’s too many different possibilities to speculate on a single route for Echo’s character arc just yet, but I have a feeling that the more this new series goes on, the more similarities to Vader we’ll start to see.

#star wars the clone wars #star wars the bad batch #tcw echo #tbb echo #clone wars meta #bad batch meta #the bad batch spoilers #anakin skywalker #darth vader #bad batch spoilers

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jamiiviper · 3 years

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The Jamil Essay

this is a reupload of a post i made a couple of weeks ago - previously it was an external link to a google doc, so it never showed up in any of the twst tags, but i worked so hard on this and i would really love it if more people read it, so i’m reuploading directly to tumblr.

to put it simply, this is a 3.7k word character analysis purely about jamil. and even with a word count like that i wasn’t quite able to cover everything i wanted to say, so who knows, maybe there’ll be a part 2 one day. i’ve also decided i do want to write a kalim version, so i’ll probably start working on that sometime soon! stay tuned!

trigger warnings: mentions of child abuse

jamil is the vice dorm leader of scarabia, who’s been kalim’s caretaker practically since birth. he puts on a facade of not standing out, preferring to remain completely average, and plans his life around kalim’s antics. as we learned in chapter 4, however, his true feelings are that he bears a lot of resentment towards kalim, and that he wants to stand out - he just wasn’t allowed to, as he can never surpass kalim.

in this essay i want to cover not just my personal interpretation of jamil, but also some common misconceptions that people tend to have about him. twitter doesn’t have this problem as much, but with tumblr i’ve found that there are very few jamil stans, especially in the theory and writing communities - meaning it’s quite common for people to misunderstand his character. in the fandom as a whole, it’s common for people to only acknowledge him insofar as “gay for kalim”.

firstly, jamil’s character development in the main story - i would say he’s arguably the best-developed character in twst, since yana now has enough chapters available to flesh out characters after their main story arc ended. jamil holds very deep-seated resentment against kalim, to the point that he plotted to betray him for probably several years. he plotted to have kalim not just thrown out of nrc, but thoroughly ruin his reputation in the process. after his overblot, those feelings did not magically vanish - far from it. i think earlier twst chapters suffered from arcs being wrapped up a little too neatly post-overblot, but pomefiore’s arc has already proved itself to be the exception and thoroughly covers not just jamil’s continued dislike for kalim, but also the wider consequences for what he did.

since the twst school year begins in september, we know jamil is about 9 months older than kalim. from literally the day kalim was born, jamil’s life has been dedicated to kalim. possibly since the day jamil was born, and he was always fated to be kalim’s caretaker. it may even have been the reason he was born at all. either way, it’s not like he remembers those 9 months. all jamil has ever known is that his sole purpose must be to serve kalim. he must not have desires of his own, he must not do anything for himself - from childhood he was expected to be ready to give up his life for kalim at a moment’s notice. he can’t be good at anything - kalim must always be better (i’ll cover this in more depth in a later paragraph, this philosophy is key to his character). his own parents drilled this into him, even going to the extent of hitting him if he didn’t comply. it seems he has a normal relationship with his family despite this - he bickers with his sister like regular siblings, and pre-overblot he indicated that his desire to be free from servitude wasn’t just about him, he wanted to free his family. nonetheless, the psychological damage his childhood caused him is severe. is it any wonder his unique magic is mind control, when he’s never had an ounce of control over his own life?

moving onto his early teen years, we know both jamil and kalim were severely poisoned at one point, both falling into comas for around two weeks. although we don’t have a timeframe for jamil’s coma, we know kalim’s was when they were around 13 years old. if jamil’s was around this age too - probably a short while afterwards - i think it’s plain to see why jamil’s resentment began to build. he’d have been around the age where he first started to question why his life has to revolve around kalim. why should he be expected to die for someone he doesn’t even like, who’s spoiled and doesn’t realise how much jamil does for him? kalim takes everything for granted: status, friendships, freedom, and jamil is meanwhile left in the shadows with nothing. then one day kalim gets poisoned so badly he falls into a coma - how much do you want to bet jamil was blamed for that, at the age of 13? after that he’s expected to taste-test anything kalim eats beforehand, and eventually starts making all his meals for him because the risk of poison is so high otherwise. then one day he slips up, or it’s an undetectable poison, and jamil is the one to fall into a coma. is anyone blamed for that? does anyone pity jamil outside of his immediate family + kalim? no, probably not. after all, he’s just doing his duty, right? it’s truly… no wonder jamil’s resentment became so intense. he finally has proof that his life truly does not matter. although kalim certainly cares about him, he doesn’t understand jamil’s position. he sees jamil as a friend, an equal; jamil knows this can never be the case, and he also knows kalim is too privileged to ever hope to understand.

fast forward on a couple of years to jamil receiving his nrc acceptance letter. he thinks that finally, finally he’s going to be free. four years of freedom - and who knows, maybe after that he can be free forever! he can finally excel at his classes and be his true self, without fear of upstaging kalim!

and then kalim gets accepted a month late. for no reason other than his surname.

and then kalim gets sorted into his dorm.

it’s a miracle he didn’t just overblot on the spot - but that’s his nature as a scarabia student. careful foresight and planning. this moment was, undoubtedly, the moment he started planning his betrayal. he had his one month of freedom ripped away, just like that.

oh, don’t forget the fact that not long after, kalim was made dorm leader not because he notably embodies scarabia values at all, but because of nepotism. (side note: most scarabia stans agree kalim does actually reflect scarabia values, just not as obviously as jamil does, but either way jamil himself wouldn’t see it this way. this is a jamil essay so i won’t go in depth about this unless asked to!)

under kalim’s watch, scarabia - known for its intelligence and cunning - is turned into “the party dorm”. this seems to be the fandom’s perception of them too - i mean, just ask any non-scarabia stan what goes on in scarabia, that’s probably the answer they’ll give you. jamil would have probably loved the original scarabia; although we don’t know much about it, we know scarabia students are on a par with octavinelle when it comes to intelligence (paralleling azul’s constant interest in jamil). yet by winter break, scarabia is doing so badly in those same exams that they didn’t even place in the rankings…? without meaning to, kalim clearly harmed scarabia. instead of getting chance to study magic and show off, jamil is now essentially an unpaid, full-time party planner by the time his second year starts.

a few months later, winter break finally arrives, and jamil executes his plan to dethrone kalim. i may have just spent the last two pages defending jamil’s grudge, but his actions themselves are still indefensible. there’s evidence to suggest kalim knew what was occurring on some level - refusing to answer jade’s question about who was hypnotising him proved that 1) he probably had some idea deep down that jamil was betraying him 2) he doesn’t want jamil to get in trouble for it. nonetheless, this does not make what jamil did okay in the slightest, even if kalim allowed it to happen. jamil is, undoubtedly, the bad guy in this situation, no matter how sympathetic his childhood makes you feel. i could go into detail about why kalim acted the way he did, but again, this is jamil-focused.

i’ll skip talking about his overblot, because i covered his hatred for kalim in a lot of depth already and i want to talk about the general aspects of his personality like his desire for praise later on. so moving onto the end of chapter 4, we see jamil’s true self: a snarky, heavily opinionated boy who honestly just wants to be free to be himself.

but just like his freedom, that side of jamil once again only lasts for a brief moment. jamil almost loses everything after his overblot. practically every scarabia student hates him and wants him thrown out of the dorm - even kalim, his sole defender, can’t call him a good person. he’s a traitor. he says he trusts the scarabia students to work out that it’s better for them if he stays, but that day won’t come any time soon, and until then he’s keeping his distance from them all, because their hatred is that strong. if azul truly had been streaming to more people than just jade, his life would have been ruined beyond repair. so what does jamil do? he goes back to serving kalim. as a scarabia student, his foresight is good enough that he knows the option he hates the most is the only one that’ll be good for him in the end. for jamil, being himself is nothing short of a death sentence.

now i’ve talked for far too long about the timeline of his character arc, i can finally get to the good stuff: jamil’s personality, and how it’s changed throughout the stories we’ve seen so far.

the first thing that springs to mind when you think of jamil, other than “snake”, is probably “tired”. or “he’s going to snap”. something along those lines. which... yes, we know he is. he did snap. after chapter 4, this doesn’t seem to have changed too much, but i do get the impression that he’s somewhat less stressed out by kalim. his resentment has dissipated, for the most part (he does still openly insult him, though), so while he does grumble at kalim there’s no suppressed fury behind it. what replaced that fury?

guilt.

in 5-10, jamil tells azul that he intends to continue to obediently follow kalim around in order to restore his reputation, both inside and outside of scarabia. this does of course make him sound pretty selfish (as per usual), and in classic jamil fashion he doesn’t let his true emotions show, so it’s easy to take this at face value and assume he just doesn’t really care. i think in this case, we need to look more at his actions that we see throughout chapter 5. namely, the way it’s being emphasised how he’s silently watching kalim from afar - something he’s always done, yes, but yana seems to be really making a point of it in chapter 5. it’s not just kalim he’s distancing himself from, either. he’s staying away from the rest of the scarabia students too, as mentioned earlier. he never had any friends at all to rely on, even before his overblot. so by doing this, he’s effectively completely isolating himself. he clearly has a lot of thoughts about everything that he’s not sharing with anyone - just listen to the way he sighs at the end of the flashback in 5-10, how annoyed and frustrated he seems. if jamil was telling the truth about just wanting to restore his reputation, he’d probably appreciate kalim’s efforts, even if he dislikes kalim himself. he shouldn’t be upset by kalim persuading the scarabia students to give him another chance. not if he truly just wants to get back to normal. i think on some level, jamil feels incredibly guilty over his actions. he might not have even admitted to himself yet that he feels this way, and by saying things like “i just want to restore my reputation” he’s just trying to convince himself. after all, that’s something he has a history of doing.

ever since jamil’s first introduction, we’ve known jamil lives his life by the philosophy of “not standing out is the best way to succeed”. he hates standing out or receiving any kind of positive attention at all, because he thinks that it’ll only attract trouble. or so we thought, because as we learned from his overblot, jamil desperately wants to stand out. he’s powerful and intelligent, and he wants people to acknowledge that. he wants the praise and recognition he knows he deserves. this means that whenever he said he didn’t want to stand out, he was lying through his teeth - he probably constantly tried and failed to convince himself of this throughout his childhood. during his lab SR story, he even repeats it to himself in his thoughts, like a mantra - “I want to avoid standing out. I can’t be satisfied with this. I cannot be too good, nor fall behind, and neither should I get satisfactory grades or fail. This is the best shortcut to success.”. much like his feelings of guilt, jamil refused to acknowledge how much he truly wanted to show off, even in his own thoughts. he is awful at being honest to himself.

post-ch5, we find out that despite everything, jamil does still hold this philosophy, to some extent. he of course shows off his singing and dancing skills enough to be chosen as a main vocalist, and he says he wants to make a name for himself and show various people just how talented he truly is: kalim, his family, the asims and MC, to name a few. yet in the chapter before that, when kalim compliments his singing and dancing, he’s like “i don’t really want to stand out, but…”. which is honestly a little confusing at first because he does want to. i’d probably interpret it as something along the lines of he wants to show off to the people he cares about, but he still wants to keep his head down in general. so i think that to some extent, maybe he actually has internalised that philosophy now. the one time he truly expressed his desire to stand out, it ended in catastrophe for him. he has this tiny seed of doubt within him now, telling him his parents were right all along. but... he’s working past it, and applying himself as and when he’s comfortable doing so.

going back to him being bad at being honest, jamil’s a pretty big tsundere. there’s one person he does regularly receive praise from: kalim. yet despite desperately wanting to be praised, he often gets annoyed at kalim and tells him something like “this isn’t about me right now” or “what does that have to do with anything?”. plus when the praise is coming from kalim, it’s often in the context of kalim praising him to other people - as a servant, he can’t be seen accepting all these compliments, right? he can never be better than kalim. so he has to reject kalim’s praise. when it’s just the two of them alone, though, is when jamil gets embarrassed to the point he has to hide his blush under his hood. given his childhood, chances are that he doesn’t really know how to process being praised. he knows he wants people’s approval, but when he actually gets it, he just short-circuits. it was the same at his birthday celebration; although he wants to be the centre of attention, when it actually happens, he gets all embarrassed and tsun. i was trying not to let my own personal feelings spill in this but oh my god he’s so cute i can’t

next... this isn’t really linked to any previous topic, but i want to talk about jamil’s cooking! jamil cooks all of kalim’s meals, and regularly cooks entire feasts for kalim’s parties, too (as well as being in charge of getting any animals kalim wants to show off, decorating the dorm, making sure everything runs smoothly… you get the idea). his cooking is very good, and he has a lot of technical knowledge about cooking too - azul, whose parents run a restaurant, didn’t know about emulsification, but jamil was able to explain it to him. despite being so good, though, according to his dorm SSR homescreen lines he doesn’t actually like cooking very much. he says the fact that he cooks so much is “just how things turned out”. of course, he could just be being a tsun, but i do feel like he’s being honest with this - what reason does he have to seriously enjoy something he was forced into doing his entire life? However there is evidence that he might enjoy it after all; he’s particularly good at alchemy because of his cooking knowledge, and according to magical archives he’s completely neutral in motivation for both flying and history lessons, but has slightly higher motivation levels for alchemy, indicating that he can’t stop himself from putting a little bit extra effort into that class. i think it can be interpreted either way with the canon info we have currently, but regardless i would not say he’s the cooking fanatic people often depict him as.

also, when jamil cooks, although his cooking is good, visually it’s usually very boring, to the point he and his sister would bicker over it. he has the technical skills to cook good food, but no idea how to present it. similarly, in his fairy gala SR he was told that although he perfectly memorised the dance, it was boring to watch - it looked like he was just executing the routine without any passion behind it. jamil is so emotionally repressed that he has no idea how to express his individuality. even in his bedroom, the only truly personal items he owns are a first aid kit (related to his servant position, not him as a human being) and a stereo + headphones set for dancing. he doesn’t have any other hobbies or interests - he doesn’t even know what people his age do for fun, because he’s never been allowed to think about such things.

dancing is all jamil has that’s not directly related to serving kalim, really - but even that ties into his servant status. although he genuinely enjoys it nowadays and dances by himself for fun, he only picked it up as a hobby because kalim wanted to go to dance practice, and of course jamil had to accompany him. when his flashback after his overblot talks about him deliberately losing to kalim, the story focuses specifically on a dancing competition. which is why it’s honestly so important to jamil’s character that chapter 5 focuses on a singing and dancing competition. jamil finally has the chance not just to show off his skills in general, but his skills at the one thing he’s been allowed to love throughout his life. the one thing where losing to kalim at it hurt so much that it was such a prominent memory for him. when jamil was chosen as a main vocalist, he instinctively tries to say kalim would be better suited for the position, but stops himself and accepts it. it clearly means so much to him that he was chosen for this.

okay i started to scare people with how long this was getting when it was only 50% finished, i think if i write anymore people will actually be concerned for my health so i’ll leave it here. if you read all of this, thank you so much for putting up with my anime boy brainrot for over six full pages! i really.. really like jamil. again, i most certainly do not think his actions should be defended, but god if they’re not fascinating to read about. and i hope i covered the other sides to him well enough, the things that you’d never ordinarily pick up on because so few people talk about him outside of him and kalim as a pair (both platonic scarabia + romantic jamikali, i mean). he has so much depth to him that people don’t see and god i could easily have gone on for another few pages if i wasn’t forcing myself to stop. but please please talk to me if you want to hear more...

yana has treated him so well, jamil stans get too much food if anything but i’m absolutely thriving off it as you can see! thank you for allowing him to exist, yana-sensei!

having said that, i couldn’t stop myself from adding some extra facts about him below. please enjoy.

some fun jamil facts for your soul:

his sister used to bake him cookies on his birthday - specifically, these!

when jamil and kalim went to eat at the cafeteria with ruggie and leona, leona took one look at jamil and went “you look like you’d kill kalim in his sleep”

sebek and jamil find each other’s positions enviable. sebek wishes he could have been by malleus’ side from birth as jamil was with kalim, and jamil just… wishes he served someone he respected as deeply as sebek respects malleus (but he does think sebek is too enthusiastic)

jamil hates surprises with a burning passion, and despite being with kalim for 17 years is still not used to them. for his previous birthday, kalim held a huge surprise party, and i think he still hasn’t recovered from the shock

i think a lot of people already know that in his birthday SSR story he said he wanted a parrot after graduation so he could teach it to call him master, but it goes a bit further than that? it was actually first mentioned during his lesson chats, when kalim gets a parrot. jamil has to research how to care for it, and ended up wanting one of his own afterwards (but got too tsundere to admit it at the time).

also, he heard that the sorcerer of the sands’ parrot (iago) could speak as fluently as a human, and he got excited and watched a bunch of parrot videos on magicam, but was of course disappointed to find out that this was not the case.

he frequently uses flattery to try and get his way, like when he attempts to flatter vil during his SSR story - unfortunately he misjudged vil, as vil’s actually the type of person who hates meaningless flattery. because he does this so frequently, when he genuinely does give compliments people don’t always believe him.

according to the halloween event, jamil is surprisingly environmentally conscious, and insists on holding a sustainable halloween theme. after organising so many parties and seeing the waste they probably produce, i think there’s no wonder he’s so concerned about it.

#twisted wonderland #jamil viper #twst jamil #scarabia #twst #kalim al-asim #twst kalim #i'm a busy uni student so don't expect the kalim essay to be finished anytime soon #i procrastinated way too much writing the jamil one #and i would not do the same for kalim ajdfjshsjhs #also i know people have said they'd like to see my take on other charas but please consider:#the only reason i have this deep an insight into jamil's character is bc i never think about the others #there's only jamil in my head #so i don't think i'm the best person to go to for interesting analysis about anyone else #but again who knows #tw: abuse

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bubonickitten · 3 years

Text

Fic summary: Jon goes back to before the world ended and tries to forge a different path.

Previous chapter: AO3 // tumblr

Full chapter text & content warnings below the cut.

Content warnings for Chapter 29: discussion of Jon’s & Daisy’s restrictive diets & associated physical/mental deterioration (and potential parallels with disordered eating etc.); arguing & relationship disputes (that are not immediately resolved in-chapter); self-harm (burning oneself with a lit cigarette); cigarette smoking; discussion of suicidal ideation; panic & anxiety symptoms; discussions of grief & loss; cyclical mental health issues (post-traumatic anniversary reactions; related self-loathing, internalized victim blaming, & survivor’s guilt; generally speaking, Jon’s relapsing into self-isolating, worse-than-usual headspace, esp towards the end of the chapter); depiction of parental neglect/rejection (Martin's mother). SPOILERS through S5.

There’s also a Hunt-themed statement that contains descriptions of indiscriminate violence & unprovoked warfare against a civilian population. Oh, and a cliffhanger.

Let me know if I missed anything!

_________________

“Statements ends,” Jon says, somewhat breathless as he fumbles to stop the recording.

“You alright?” Daisy asks.

“Fine.” The word is punctuated by a click and a whirr as the recorder resumes spooling.

“Are you, though?”

“Yes.” Scowling, Jon jabs his finger at the stop button – only for it to keep recording.

“It’s the Hunt, isn’t it.” Daisy sighs, rubbing the back of her neck. “Sorry it’s been so prominent for the last few. I’m… not quite scraping the bottom of the barrel yet, but–”

“It’s fine, Daisy.”

“Still, I–”

“I said it’s fine–!” Jon winces at his sharp tone. “I’m sorry, that was… I’m just – on edge, I suppose.”

Which is an understatement, really.

Because it’s September. It’s September, and after September is October, and October is–

Well. These days, he can’t even look at a calendar – can’t even look at the time and date on his phone – without icy dread coursing through his veins.

Sporadic flashbacks have become an everyday occurrence, set off by the smallest of stimuli: a dropped glass shattering on the breakroom floor becomes a window bursting inward into shards; a thunderstorm heralds a fissuring sky, marred by hundreds upon thousands of greedy, unblinking voyeurs; his own voice is a doomsday harbinger, a key crammed into a lock he can’t keep from unbolting. The memories are too immediate, too vivid to feel past-tense.

It’s to be expected. Studies, common knowledge, and anecdotal evidence all point to the impact of anniversaries on mental health. He knows what a textbook post-traumatic stress response looks like. Monster or not, in this particular sense he remains overwhelmingly human. No matter how much he rationalizes it, though, intellectually understanding a psychological phenomenon does little to soften the lived experience of it.

And it does nothing to temper the chilling knowledge – bordering on conviction – that it may happen again.

“Would be worrisome if you weren’t stressed out, considering… you know. Everything.” Daisy leans back in her chair, stretches her legs out in front of her, and rolls her shoulders. “Speaking of the Hunt. Any new developments?”

“I mean… nothing since yesterday? Everything I know, Basira knows.”

“Basira… isn’t keeping me updated,” Daisy says, shifting uncomfortably in her seat.

“Ah,” Jon says, with tact to spare. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize.”

“It’s fine.”

“Is it?”

Daisy sighs. “She thinks that I think she’s wasting her time.”

“And do you?”

Daisy gives a jerky shrug. “Don’t you?”

“Not… necessarily,” Jon hedges. Truthfully, his answer to that question is as mercurial as his moods these days, shifting from hour to hour, sometimes minute to minute. Daisy gives him an unimpressed look. “I won’t lie and say I’m optimistic, but that doesn’t mean it’s not worth trying.”

“You sound like Martin.”

“Well, he spent ample time drilling it into me,” Jon says with a wry smile. “I don’t have the same capacity for hope as he does, but improbable doesn’t mean impossible. If I’d had it my way, I’d have lain down and died ages ago. I’m only here now because of him.”

“Mental health check,” Daisy says automatically.

“Not thinking of hurting myself,” Jon replies, just as rote. “You don’t have to do that, you know. I’ve told you, I’m physically incapable of killing myself even if I wanted to.”

“That doesn’t stop you brooding.”

“Anyway, I wasn’t referring to anything recent.”

“Weren’t you, though?” At his blank look, Daisy gives an impatient sigh. “It hasn’t even been a year since you woke up, Sims. Up until six months ago, you were wandering an apocalyptic wasteland–”

“…I found myself utterly alone. Facing down a room full of nothing eyes, willing myself to take action. I never did, though–”

“–I wanted to act, to help, to do something, but – my mind had all but seized up, and I felt helpless to do anything but watch as events progressed–”

“–there was nothing I could do to save him – he died – so did any hope I had of – doing good in the world–”

“–there’s a sort of numbness that you adopt after months or years of bombing–”

“–I did spend a lot of time just… slumped in despair – had no reason to think it would help, but I could see no choice but waiting for death–”

“–hoping against hope that – it wouldn’t be forever–”

“Hey!” Daisy’s voice finally breaks through the rush of static. Or perhaps it was the pressure: Jon looks down to see her bony fingers caging his own in a bruising grip.

“Sorry,” he says, catching himself as he starts to list woozily.

“Not to say ‘I told you so,’ but…” Daisy gives his hands another light squeeze. “You sort of just proved my point there.”

“I’m well aware that I’m – traumatized, or whatever–”

“Not ‘or whatever’–”

“–but I’m not a danger to myself, so could we please just move on?” Jon mumbles, averting his eyes. “You wanted a Hunt update.”

Daisy scrutinizes him for a long moment before she allows the conversational pivot to stand.

“Basira said you’ve heard back from that Head Librarian,” she says, “but she blew me off when I started prying.”

“Zhang Xiaoling,” Jon says, his shoulders relaxing. “She was able to confirm some of Jonah’s intel. They do have a statement about a book matching that description in their records, and she agreed to forward a copy once it’s been digitized. They’re further along in their digitization process than we are–”

Daisy snorts. “Probably because they’re actually working on it.”

“That, and they have the benefit of a Head Librarian who actually has a background in archival studies,” Jon says drily. “In any case, they have a large archive, so it’s a work in progress. She’s processed our inquiry, though, and she says she has someone on it. We should hear back by tomorrow at the latest.”

“Huh,” Daisy says. “Sounds…”

“Like a functioning archive?”

“I was going to say ‘streamlined,’ but sure.”

“The wonders of a hiring process that prioritizes job qualifications as opposed to a candidate’s apocalyptic potential.”

“What are the chances their institution is also led by a centuries-old corpse with a god complex?”

“Non-zero, I imagine.”

Daisy wrinkles her nose. “Ugh, don’t say that.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I don’t have evidence one way or the other.”

“It doesn’t. Does she know about…” Daisy waves her hand vaguely. “All of this? The Fears, Rituals… Jonah?”

The question gives Jon pause. He thinks back to his meeting with Xiaoling all those years ago – well, last June, from her perspective.

“Some of it, I think,” he says slowly. “She seemed familiar with some of the Archivist’s abilities. There were parts of my visit that struck me as odd at the time. I didn’t realize until later that she had been speaking both Chinese and English at different points in our conversation.”

Daisy frowns. “She didn’t clue you in?”

“She didn’t, no. But…”

Elias made a good choice, the Librarian’s voice echoes in Jon’s mind. I did offer him someone, but he thought the language might be too much for him.

It does tickle me, Jonah’s voice chimes in, that in this world of would-be occult dynasties and ageless monsters, the Chosen One is simply that – someone I chose.

“I don’t know if she’s aware of Elias’ true identity.” Jon swallows with some difficulty, his mouth suddenly dry. “Or his intentions.”

“So is it really smart to trust her?”

“If she’s in communication with him, there’s nothing she can tell him that he doesn’t already know. We’re just following up on information he gave us. And he’s likely spying on our correspondence whether she’s in contact with him or not. Not much we can do about that.”

“She could have her own ulterior motives,” Daisy says.

“True enough, but… I got the sense that her primary interest is curation. Studying phenomena, building a knowledge base–”

“In service to cosmic evil,” Daisy says pointedly.

“W-well, yes, but – I don’t think she has delusions of godhood herself, and I don’t think Jonah has tempted her with the idea.” Jon huffs to himself. “He wouldn’t want to share his throne.”

“Hm.”

“I’m not saying we trust her or the Research Centre as a whole. I had reservations about their motives then and I still do. It’s not unthinkable that they’re a front for something more sinister in the same way that the Institute is. But… I don’t think there’s any especial danger in utilizing their library.”

“Sims,” Daisy sighs, “your danger meter is broken beyond repair.”

“In my defense,” Jon says, bracing one arm on the desk to leverage himself to his feet, “at this point, everything is just differing degrees of dangerous.”

As the two of them leave the tunnels, Jon’s phone buzzes in his pocket. When he glances at the screen, he sees a text notification from Naomi – in addition to two missed calls. He frowns to himself. The two of them text regularly, but she rarely calls.

“What’s up?” Daisy asks, her brow furrowing in concern.

“Naomi,” Jon says distractedly, already returning the call. Naomi picks up on the first ring.

“Jon?” Naomi’s voice sounds thick and tear-clogged.

A cold weight settles in Jon’s stomach. “What’s wrong?”

“I j-just” – Naomi pauses to clear her throat – “just needed to hear a familiar voice.”

“What happened?” Jon asks – and realizes too late that in his urgency to discover the source of her distress, he’s poured too much of himself into the question.

“Nothing.” What starts out as a self-deprecating little laugh quickly deteriorates into a half-sob. “Nothing new, anyway. It’s always like this, this time of year. Evan and I didn’t have an exact date planned, but we’d talked about an autumn wedding. Thought it would be fitting, since we met in September, you know? Tomorrow is our anniversary, actually. Or – or it would’ve been. A-and then by the time I’ve picked myself back up, the holidays will have crept up on me, and that’s always hard, and – and then before I know it, it’s March, a-and that’s its own kind of anniversary, and it’s just… it’s a lot.”

“Oh, I – Naomi, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to–”

“It’s fine,” she says with a sniff. “Don’t think I would’ve been able to get it all out, otherwise.”

“S-still, I–”

“It’ll be three years this March. And it still feels like it was yesterday. I spend six months out of the year feeling like I’m still stumbling through that cemetery, and I just…”

This time last year, Jon thinks with a lurch, I was still the monster in her nightmares.

And even now, he still pulls her there whenever they’re both asleep.

“When does that stop?” Naomi laughs again, a desperate, pleading thing. “When does the healing come in?”

“I… I don’t know,” Jon says truthfully. “Anniversaries are… they’re hard enough on their own. It doesn’t help that… well, it’s difficult to heal from something when you’re still living it.”

“What do you mean? Evan’s dead,” Naomi says, her voice breaking on the word. “He’s not coming back. It’s… it’s over.”

“There are still the dreams. The narrative might have changed, but the stage dressing is still the same.” Jon draws his shoulders in, one arm pressed tight to his stomach. “Keeping the memory fresh.”

“It’s not so bad.” Naomi sniffles again. “Better than being alone.”

“‘Alone’ or ‘nightmares’ shouldn’t be your only options.”

“I have my own nightmares, you know,” Naomi counters, sounding slightly annoyed. “When I’m asleep and you’re not. And they’re worse, because in them, I actually am alone. Nothing supernatural about it. It’s just… me.” She sighs. “This time last year – and the year before – I didn’t have anyone. And I just… I didn’t – I don’t want to be alone.”

“You’re not,” Jon says. “Not anymore.”

“I – I know, but I…” Naomi takes a breath. “I was… I was thinking – maybe tomorrow I could come by.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon says gently, “truly I am – but it’s not safe. Especially for you, especially right now. Not with Peter here.”

Naomi is already the equivalent of an unfinished meal to the Lonely. That, together with her association with Jon, is more than enough to mark her as a potential target should Peter take notice of her.

“Feels safer than being alone,” Naomi says. “The Duchess helps – a lot – but I…” She lets out a fond but tearful chuckle. “I can’t expect her to grasp the nuances of… grief, or loneliness, or what have you.”

“How about this,” Jon says. “We tell Georgie what’s going on – as much or as little as you’d like, even if it’s as simple as ‘I don’t want to be alone right now.’ I doubt she’d be opposed to having you over.”

“I wouldn’t want to impose. I mean, I – I’ve not spent much time with her outside of just… spamming the group chat with cat photos. I like her, but she’s your friend. I’m just… a friend of a friend.”

Nestled between the words is a familiar sentiment, unarticulated and nonetheless resounding, echoing all of the earnest conviction it had when first she made such a confession: All my friends had been his friends, and once he was gone it didn’t feel right to see them. I know, I’m sure they wouldn’t have minded, they would have said they were my friends too, but I could never bring myself to try. It felt more comfortable, more familiar, to be alone…

“People can have more than one friend,” Jon says. “I can’t speak for Georgie, but she wouldn’t go out of her way to talk to you if she didn’t like you.”

Indeed, that might be the reason Jon was able to open up to Georgie in the first place. He observed early on that she had no qualms disengaging from people whom she had no interest in getting to know. Whatever Jon might have felt about himself on any given day, the simple fact of the matter was that Georgie would never have let him get so close if she hadn’t seen something redeeming in him.

And she likely wouldn’t be letting him stay close now if she didn’t still see something worth salvaging.

“It’s up to you, of course,” he says. “I won’t pressure you. But I think Georgie would be more receptive to friendship than you expect. And I think – I think you’d get along with Melanie, too.” Naomi is silent on the other end of the line. “At the risk of overstepping, I… I know being alone feels like the natural state of things, but it doesn’t have to be. If you want, I can talk to Georgie. Lay the groundwork. I won’t give her any of the details – it’s not my story to tell – I’ll just let her know that you’re feeling alone and could use some companionship.”

“Okay,” Naomi whispers. “Just… let her know she’s not obligated.”

“I will. On the extremely off chance she says no, or if she’s busy tomorrow, I can keep you company remotely. We can spend the whole day holding up the office landline if you want.”

“It’s a Friday.”

“And?”

“It’s a work day?”

“Naomi, my job is wholly comprised of monologuing to any tape recorder that manifests within a six-foot radius and doing my utmost to render my department as counterproductive to both the Institute’s professed and clandestine organizational objectives as humanly or inhumanly possible.” Naomi barks out a startled laugh. “I won’t be fired no matter what I do – which is a shame, seeing as it became my foremost professional development goal somewhere between finding out my boss murdered my predecessor and virtually dying in an explosion at a haunted wax museum. Barring a sudden and unexpected apocalyptic threat – which, admittedly, is unlikely but not unthinkable– I’ve already cleared my non-existent schedule for you.”

“Okay.” Naomi makes a sound somewhere between a sniffle and a chuckle. “Thanks. Really.”

“Any time.”

_________________

The statement is an unnerving, circuitous thing: a firsthand account from an unnamed member of the Drake-Norris expedition in 1589. In many ways, it’s eerily similar to the last statement Jon accessed from Pu Songling’s archives: Second Lieutenant Charles Fleming’s shellshocked, guilt-fueled confession of atrocities committed under orders.

The historical record is rife with accounts of Francis Drake’s cruelty, Jon knows: his role in the transatlantic slave trade, the unprovoked massacres committed in his name, the preemptive strikes that incited further bloodshed. The statement giver speaks in awestruck horror of the bloodlust lurking in the man’s eyes, the vitriolic fervor with which he undertook his campaign to seek out and destroy the remnants of the Spanish fleet – and the depths of his rage when his efforts ended in defeat. Humiliated, he turned his vengeful eye to the Galician estuaries.

The writer tells plainly of his own complicity in the sacking of Vigo, razing the town to the ground and slaughtering its inhabitants with indiscriminate zeal. For four days Drake’s men carried out their rampage, retreating only when reinforcements arrived to stem the tide.

“You may ask yourself,” the Archivist reads on, “how it is that a man born into the reign of Good Queen Bess sits before you today, some four centuries past his due?

“You see, as we left the shores of Galicia that day, I heard from behind us a vicious braying, as if someone had set loose a great host of hounds. They were close – close enough for me to sense their stinking breath hot on the back of my neck. Such a thing was impossible, for we were by that time far from shore, having already rowed half the distance between the beach and the waiting armada. That did not stop me dreading the dogs lunging and tearing into me at any moment.

“I am not ashamed to admit that I let out a whimper.

“As the seconds ticked by and the pack failed to descend upon us, my curiosity grew to outweigh my terror. I turned to look – and was thus ensnared. It was, I realize now, the instant at which I became beholden to the blood. My greatest folly.

“Perhaps I oughtn’t have been so surprised to see no hounds surging toward us atop the waves, but you must understand that the proximity of their snarling was far more convincing than their visual absence. In looking behind us, though, I was able to appreciate the havoc we left in our wake: the great plumes of ash rising from the smoldering rubble, backlit by a flickering orange glow, and wails of despair so profound as to combat the noise of the wind, the waves – even the discordant shrieking of the hounds.

“It was a scene of such devastation as I had never seen before or since. Looking back, I think upon the acrid stench of charred flesh on the breeze with horror and… indescribable remorse. It shames me now to admit that at that time, I had never felt such… rapture.

“That was when a motion caught my eye. Between the distance and the billowing smoke, it should have been impossible to discern such detail, yet there he was: quarry I had left for dead, emerging from the debris and staggering away from the ruins of his… wretched life. As he looked out to behold our retreat, I could see the grief playing on his face, the fury, the fear – but what most set my blood to boiling was the spark of relief I saw in his eyes.

“It awakened something in me – a famished and merciless thing, composed of tooth and claw and a mind beginning and ending and utterly encompassed by the call of the pack. With a roaring in my ears and a single-minded violence supplanting my sensibilities, I deserted the rowboat and swam to shore. A chorus of howls carried me forward, and I let them be my wings, steering me down the swiftest, straightest path to my target.

“I slowed for nothing, and I made certain my prey did not live through the night.

“As you can likely guess, the chase did not end there. Those baying devils who had so called me forth continued to hound my steps, nipping at my heels, spurring me ever onward to the next quarry. Those who once knew me would scarcely have recognized what I became. Whenever I dared look into a mirror, I would see in myself a dogged, seething violence so akin to that which had lived in the eyes of my former commander. A cruelty that once had frightened and repulsed me had become the blood and breath of me.

“For a time I sought to refrain from the chase. The longer I refused the call, the weaker I became. The hounds’ breath on my neck grew hotter; their braying swelled louder. I found myself wasting away: always hungry, never sated. Eventually my faculties began to slip. I would lose myself to such… bestialimpulses, and only the stain of blood on my teeth would return to me my reason. It pains me to confess to you now that it did not take long before I ceased my resistance entirely.

“It was at the turn of the sixteenth century that I happened upon the artefacts now in your possession. Their previous owner was a formidable adversary. I spent nearly a fortnight tracking him before I managed to run him down, and he fought like a tempest before he fell.

“Ordinarily I did not linger after a kill, instinct hastening me ever onward to the next great game. As I turned to leave, though, I was overcome by the sense that the hunt was… unfinished. Troubled, I reached down to check the man’s pulse. I was reassured to find him quite dead, but as I drew back, I noticed the brooch.

“It was a simple thing made of tarnished copper, fashioned into an incomplete ring, the ends of which resembled the heads of dogs. The moment my fingers brushed that ornament, I knew it was meant for me. It went into my pocket with nary a conscious thought.

“The itch of the hunt was still crawling down my spine, though; the frantic snuffling of phantom hounds yet filling the air all around me. I continued to search his person until I found what was calling out to me: a thin volume bound in leather. Curiosity ever my folly, I opened it.

“Up until that point, I had never learned to read nor write Latin with any degree of mastery. Yet I could understand the text within with perfect clarity. The script did not transform to English before my eyes, nor did the book render me proficient in the language. No, I simply… beheld the pages, and the meaning flowed into me.

“The story tells of Herla, legendary king of the Britons, who visits the dwarf king’s realm. Upon leaving, he is gifted a hound and warned not to dismount his horse until the dog leaps down. When Herla and his men return to the human world, they discover that not days but centuries have passed: all those they had known have long since perished, and the Saxons have taken possession of the land. In their distress, some of the men dismount, whereupon they turn to dust. Herla warns the survivors to stay in their saddles, to wait until the dog leaps down.

“‘The dog has not yet alighted,’ the author tells us, ‘and the story says that this King Herla still holds on his mad course with his band in eternal wanderings, without stop or stay.’

“The next several pages are unreadable. The language resembles none I have ever encountered, and I have yet to find a soul who can decipher it. I can however attest its hypnotic qualities. I have spent many hours mired in those words, but I could not for the life of me tell you what I saw there. Others to whom I presented the text found themselves either enthralled or agitated, though none could recall such episodes once lucidity returned to them. I expect you mean to unravel its secrets, but you may do well to let its mystery stand.

“The final passage – a single page, this written in English – tells of Herla’s escape: how, weary and driven to despair, he casts the dog from the saddle and into the River Wye. The instant the hound hits the water, Herla and his band crumble into dust, at last meeting the same fate they spent so many hundreds of years trying to outpace.

“I have had hundreds of years of my own since first reading the tale to digest its message, and that is why I come to you today. Although I have killed several times since these items came into my possession – it should come as no surprise that there are those who covet them – I have not sought out a single hunt since I vanquished the man who yielded me these trinkets. The hounds at my heel have not ceased their clamoring, but so long as the brooch is on my person, they cannot sink their teeth in me. I am always hungry, yes – but I am no longer starving.

“But I am also weary. I have come to understand that even as the hounds can never catch me, they will never leave me. In my four hundred years, I have played the role of both the hunter and the hunted, and have learned that they share the same ultimate plight. Whether I be predator or prey, I am trapped in the throes of an endless pursuit. So long as I should live, my blood shall never quiet.

“And that is the key: so long as I should live. Even now, the fervor in my blood insists that the hunt is eternal, but I know now that one cannot outrun one’s end forever. Much like my constant, howling companions, Death will always be nipping at my heels. In that sense, he is perhaps the ultimate hunter. Just as I have delivered to him so many souls, neither can I escape his judgment. If ever I am to rest, I must bow to his supremacy.

“And so, like Herla, I shall cast the dog away from the saddle. I leave it in your care now, and the book. I should be so lucky to exit this life with the dignity I denied so many others, though I fear I shall be found undeserving of such a swift end. I can only hope that, whatever my comeuppance should be, I shall have the grace to accept it without complaint.”

With a heavy exhale, Jon depresses the stop button on the recorder, then puts his head in his hands, putting pressure on his closed eyes.

“You alright?” Basira asks.

“More than I’d like,” Jon mutters.

“If I thought there was any chance this guy was still alive, I wouldn’t have given you the statement to read.”

“I know. Just…” Jon waves his hand vaguely.

“Unpleasant, yeah.”

And rejuvenating, Jon thinks bitterly. It’s only been a few days since his last statement from Daisy, and already he had begun to feel famished.

“They sent along some supplemental records,” Basira says, rifling through printouts. “The statement is cross-referenced with two objects in their Collections Storage – here.”

The document she slides across the desk contains two catalog listings:

Item No. 9820702-1

Description: Pennanular brooch, copper alloy. Geometric and interlace motifs. Confronted zoomorphic terminals (canine profile). Moderate surface oxidization and patination. Dimensions: 5.5cm x 4.5cm body; 12.5cm pin. Artefact dated ca. 500–700 CE.

Properties: Primary subject (Case No. 9820702) reports mediating effect on the Hunter’s affliction (unverified). Item implicated in subject’s alleged abnormal longevity (unverified). Further study suggests dormancy and/or lack of reactivity to unafflicted subjects (see associated Investigation Log).

Storage: Special Collections – Inorganic Storage, Container Unit No. 982-05. Acid-free board housing, etherfoam packing. Environmental parameters in brief: maintain stable temperature (16-20°C); relative humidity, 32-35%; light levels, <300 lux. Handling protocols as per Acquisitions & Collections Policies and Procedures §3.5.3: Artefact Preservation – Metals – Copper and Copper Alloys.

Access: Upon request. Curator approval required prior to initial visit. Applicants may submit statement of intent to Acquisitions & Collections Department Head Curator for clearance. Terms, procedures, and degree of supervision subject to Curator’s discretion.

Provenance: Surrendered 2nd July, 1982 upon receipt of accompanying statement (Case No. 9820702), subject name unknown. See also Item No. 9820702-2.

Appendices:

· Investigation Log No. 9820702-1;

· Supplemental Documents Nos. 9820702-1.01 through -1.03.

Cross-reference:

· Case No. 9820702;

· Item No. 9820702-2;

· Acquisitions & Collections Catalog §3.6.4: Antiquities – Adornments and Jewelry (Inert).

Item No. 9820702-2

Description: Bound manuscript. Front and back covers unembellished leather (source undetermined) stretched over wood board (source undetermined). Leather cord binding (calf, bovine). Paper and parchment leaves. Ink corrosion and paper degradation present but minimal (fair condition inconsistent with age and media). Dimensions: 8.8cm x 14.0cm x 2.5cm. Artefact dated ca. 1190–1450 CE.

Contents: Eighteen (18) pages total, one-sided.

· Title page (1) iron gall ink on parchment (sheepskin): Gualterius Mappus – De nugis curialium – xi. De Herla rege

· Pages two (2) through four (4) iron gall ink on paper (hemp pulp, linen fiber): Medieval Latin (ca. 12th century) script.

· Pages five (5) through sixteen (16) ink (chemical composition undetermined) on paper (cotton fiber): alphabetic script (unknown roots); refer to Supplemental Document No. 9820702-2.03 for comparative linguistic analysis (inconclusive).

· Page seventeen (17) ink (chemical composition undetermined) on paper (cotton fiber): Middle English (ca. 15th century) script.

· Page eighteen (18) parchment (sheepskin): blank.

Transcripts and translations (where possible) provided in Supplemental Document No. 9820702-2.01*.

Properties: Primary subject (Case No. 9820702) reports total comprehension of Latin portions of the text despite lack of proficiency. Text alleged to diverge from source material (De nugis curialium – Map, Walter, fl. 1200). Both claims verified upon further examination (see associated Investigation Log). Probable association with the Hunter’s affliction.

Storage: Special Collections – Secure Storage. Environmental parameters in brief: maintain temperature at 20-22°C; relative humidity, 32-36%; light levels, ≤50 lux. Housing and handling protocols as per Acquisitions & Collections Policies and Procedures §2.5.5: Document Preservation – Premodern Inks – Iron Gall and §9.2: Special Precautions – Occult and Esoteric Texts.

Access: Restricted.

Provenance: Surrendered 2nd July, 1982 upon receipt of accompanying statement (Case No. 9820702), subject name unknown. See also Item No. 9820702-1.

Appendices:

· Investigation Log No. 9820702-2;

· Supplemental Documents Nos. 9820702-2.01* through -2.07;

· Incident Report No. 9930214.

Cross-reference:

· Case No. 9820702;

· Item No. 9820702-1;

· Acquisitions & Collections Catalog §2.1.1: Archival Media – Occult Books (Active);

· Interdepartmental Bulletin No. 9941002, “The Library of Jurgen Leitner: Lessons Learned.”

*Addendum, 16th February, 1993:Supplemental Document No. 9820702-2.01 reclassified as Restricted Access. Direct all inquiries to Pu Songling Research Library Head Librarian or Acquisitions & Collections Department Head Curator.

“So?” Basira prods. “What do you make of it?”

“Well, assuming the statement is a reliable account, it seems…”

“Promising, right?” Basira says, her eagerness tinted with relief. “If we can–”

She stops abruptly as the tape recorder on the table clicks back on.

“I think that’s our cue to move this conversation elsewhere,” Jon says.

Not that it will stop the tape recorders from listening in, but he has no desire to make Jonah’s surveillance any easier for him.

_________________

It takes some hemming and hawing, but Jon manages to convince Basira that this really ought to be a group discussion. As she recaps the statement and shares her own remarks, Jon keeps a close eye on the other two people in the room. Martin is listening attentively, leaning forward slightly but otherwise at ease. Daisy, though… she’s all corded muscles and jittery legs, taut and precarious on the edge of her seat.

All the while, Basira appears impervious to the storm brewing in Daisy’s eyes, even as Martin catches on and begins chewing on the inside of his cheek, darting nervous glances between the two of them. By the time Basira finishes her overview, the tension in the air is palpable, nearly electric.

For several seconds, no one speaks.

“So,” Martin says, his voice a bit pitchy. He clears his throat before continuing. “Magical, Fear-resistant brooch, huh?”

“It wouldn’t be unheard of,” Jon says. “Remember what I told you about Mikaele Salesa?”

“The apocalypse-proof bubble? Yeah.”

“That camera of his didn’t just protect him from the Eye, it hid him from the Powers in general.”

“What was the catch?” Daisy asks pointedly. “Got to be a catch.”

“Does there?” Martin asks. His hesitant smile falls at Daisy’s blank stare, and he tilts his head back with a sigh. “Yeah, alright.”

“It’s… not entirely benign, no,” Jon says. “In Salesa’s statement, he called it a ‘battery’–”

“–charging itself on all the quiet worries that come from living in hiding, and then when the sanctuary collapses, all that fear flows out at once. No doubt, if my oasis breaks before I die, the Eye will get quite the feast from me, but in this new world–”

“That’s enough of that, I think,” Martin says, resting a hand on Jon’s arm.

Jon bites his tongue, shuts his eyes, and takes a deep breath in, only daring to speak once the tingling on his lips subsides. “Sorry.”

“Nothing to apologize for.” Martin offers him a reassuring smile. “Just didn’t want you getting bogged down.”

“That’s one term for it,” Jon says, not quite under his breath. It’s true enough, though. Sometimes it feels like the Archive is pressed up against the door, watching for the tiniest crack, waiting for any opportunity to surge through and drag him under. Lately, Martin has grown uncannily adept at sensing when to interrupt these lapses before they spiral out of control – likely because they’ve been growing more frequent.

“That’s what I thought,” Daisy says. Puzzled at the apparent non-sequitur, Jon glances at her, but she isn’t looking at him. All of her attention is focused on Basira. “This thing is probably the same. It’s not some… some harmless miracle solution. If we mess around with it, it’s bound to blow up in our faces sooner or later.”

“I’m… not sure about that, actually,” Jon says. “The brooch didn’t free the Hunter, it just made it so he couldn’t be caught. I think that’s what it was feeding on – the Hunter’s gradual awareness that he was no different from the hunted, that sensation of being perpetually stalked from the shadows by a greater predator. It spent centuries charging itself on that fear, and it culminated in the realization that he would never escape it. He would always be waiting for the axe to fall, and Hunt was happy to keep him as perpetual prey. If he wanted the chase to end, he had to give up the artefact – and once it was no longer keeping him in stasis, he had a choice to make.”

“Go back to hunting, or let it catch him.” Daisy breathes a humorless laugh. “The Hunt, or the End.”

“But it would keep you alive,” Basira says. “It would buy us time to find a way to free you for real.”

“What about the Leitner?” Martin asks. “That’s what Jonah sent us after in the first place.”

“Turns out it’s not actually from Leitner’s library,” Jon says. “No bookplate, and it seems the statement giver had it in his possession since the 1500s. It’s… difficult to tell from the statement whether it had any significant effect on him. He called it ‘hypnotic,’ but he was already a Hunter by the time he found it. I imagine it might have different effects on someone not already under the Hunt’s influence.”

“He sort of alluded to that.” Basira takes a moment to peruse the statement, running her finger along the page until she finds the relevant line. “Here – they ‘found themselves either enthralled or agitated.’ A bit obscure, but… he says it like it’s an afterthought. If it outright turned anyone into a Hunter, he probably would’ve said so.”

“That doesn’t mean it isn’t dangerous,” Daisy says.

“I never said it wasn’t,” Basira replies coolly. “The record references a transcript, so I assume they had someone read it at some point. And it also mentions an incident report.”

“What was the incident?” Martin asks.

“Don’t know,” Basira says. “They didn’t provide any of the supplemental documentation, just the catalogue listing and the statement itself. But they acquired the book in ‘82 and didn’t make the transcript restricted until ‘93, so… either it was dormant when they first studied it and became active later, or they didn’t study it closely enough to activate its effects, or it doesn’t affect everyone the same way, or – or maybe their workplace safety guidelines just changed and they decided not to risk studying it anymore.”

“Jonah did say something about its effects varying depending on how much of it a person reads, right?” Martin asks. “Though who knows where he got that from.”

“There might be some truth to that,” Basira says. “The catalogue entry does describe what’s on the title page, so I’m assuming that part at least is safe. I’m most curious about the untranslated chunk in the middle.”

And I’m a universal translator, Jon thinks, fidgeting with the drawstring of his hoodie. Basira’s eyes flick to him, as if reading his mind.

“I… suppose I could–”

“No,” Martin and Daisy say simultaneously.

Jon scowls. “You didn’t even let me finish the–”

“You threw yourself into the Buried – twice – to save me,” Daisy says severely. “You can’t keep sacrificing yourself at every opportunity.”

“I wouldn’t be–”

“What, re-traumatizing yourself by reading a Leitner?” Jon shuts his mouth, pressing his lips tightly together. “It’s not worth it, Sims.”

“Daisy,” Basira begins, but Daisy cuts her off.

“No. I’m not having him throw himself to the wolves just because you’re curious.”

Basira flinches, hurt momentarily crossing her face before her expression goes stony.

“You really think that’s what this is about?” she says, her voice shaking. “Knowledge for knowledge’s sake? Me being curious?”

“You can’t tell me you’re not,” Daisy says, and then her expression softens. “And I love that about you, I do – you’re brilliant, Basira – and driven, and passionate, and…” She sighs. “But sometimes… sometimes you need to let things go.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Jon notices Martin cross and uncross his legs, his lower lip captured between his teeth. When Jon catches his eye, Martin jerks his chin minutely at Basira and Daisy, a grimace on his face. All Jon can offer is a helpless, equally awkward shrug. Near as he can tell, Basira and Daisy seem to have momentarily forgotten that they have an audience, and judging from their locked eyes and thunderous expressions, he doubts either of them would appreciate a reminder right this second.

“Let you go, you mean,” Basira says tersely. “When you say ‘it’s not worth it,’ what you really mean is that you’re not worth it.”

“Well, I’m not.”

The cavalier tone is the last straw, it seems.

“Why won’t you just let me help you?” Basira slams her hand down on the rickety table, straining its wobbly legs. “You’re just so ready to–” She lets out a frustrated groan. “You never used to give up this easily.”

“Maybe should’ve done,” Daisy says flatly. “Might’ve lowered my body count.”

“Giving up Hunting doesn’t have to mean giving up on living,” Basira says. “I might have finally found an alternative, and you won’t even consider–”

“I’m not doing anything that’s going to hurt someone, and that includes exposing Jon to a fucking Leitner.”

“I’m right here, you know,” Jon mutters testily, the friction finally getting the better of his nerves. “Don’t I get a say?”

“No, you don’t,” Daisy says, rounding on him. Now that all of her brimming agitation is funneled in his direction, he regrets saying anything at all. “Because lately, whenever I ask you if you want to hurt yourself, the best you can give me is ‘it doesn’t matter because I can’t die anyway.’”

“Jon?” Martin says urgently, his eyebrows drawing together.

“Th-that’s not what I–”

“You’re not thinking rationally,” Daisy speaks over Jon’s stammering. “You’re thinking like a condemned man with a rope around his neck and something to prove, and I’m not going to be the noose you use to hang yourself with.”

“Will you listen to yourself?” Basira says heatedly. “You get on my case about double standards–”

“That’s enough!” Martin bursts out. “This isn’t helping. Daisy’s right, Jon. You’re not going anywhere near that book – I don’t want to hear it,” he adds before Jon can retort. “Not now, anyway. We’ll talk later. But Basira’s right, too,” Martin says, turning his attention to Daisy. “You can’t make amends by dying, and you can’t do better going forward if you’re not alive to try.”

“Who says I deserve a chance?” Daisy says.

“Whatever you think you ‘deserve’” – Martin gives Jon a meaningful glance as he says it – “you’ve got a chance, and people who want to help you through it, and you ought to consider that before you assume you’d do more good dead than alive.” He exhales a sharp breath. “Anyway, forget the Leitner, and forget what Jonah said about it. The brooch seems like the more promising option here.”

“I agree,” Jon says, cowed. “Between the book and the brooch, the statement giver credited the latter with keeping the Hunt at bay. And perhaps my bias is showing, but truthfully I – I’m not inclined to see those books as anything but tragedies waiting to happen.”

“What’s the difference?” Daisy says flatly. “It took a decade for something bad enough to happen for them to make the Leitner’s transcript restricted. The brooch could be just as much of a time bomb. Just because it doesn’t have any ‘incidents’ connected with it now doesn’t mean it never will.”

She isn’t wrong. Looking back, Jon had found it infuriating that Leitner would continue meddling with the books even after he witnessed the horror they wrought, all while claiming to have learned from his hubris. Just because this particular artefact isn’t a book doesn’t make it any less ominous.

And yet…

“I think it’s already shown its more sinister side,” Jon says slowly.

“You think,” Daisy scoffs.

“It doesn’t give a Hunter strength, it makes them perpetual prey. It… won’t be pleasant for you, I’m sure,” Jon admits, “but Basira’s right – it could keep you alive while we search for a better solution.”

“There might not be a better solution,” Daisy says stubbornly.

“Which is what I said before you browbeat me into taking statements from you,” Jon counters.

“I didn’t browbeat–” Jon raises his eyebrows. Daisy gives a flustered groan. “It’s just – it’s different, okay?”

Much as Jon wants to disagree, he knows better than to argue. They’d only end up talking in circles.

“I think it’s an avenue worth pursuing,” he says. “Given the alternatives.”

“Please, Daisy,” Basira says. “Just… consider it, at least.”

The for me remains unspoken, but Jon can hear it loud and clear. As can Daisy, it seems – the defiant set to her jaw falters for a moment before she tenses again.

“Fine,” she says grudgingly. “But if it starts to go south–”

“If it manifests any new properties, we’ll prioritize containing it over interacting with it,” Jon says.

“You promise?” Daisy asks, but she looks at Basira when she says it. It takes a moment, but Basira does nod.

“Do you think Pu Songling will let us have it?” Martin asks. “Seems like their protocols are…”

“Rigorous?” Jon supplies.

“You’d almost think they were running an academic institution or something,” Basira says drily.

“Yeah, but treating the artefacts like museum pieces, it’s… it’s weird, isn’t it?” Martin says. “It’s not as if they’re fragile, right? They’re held together by… nightmare alchemy, or whatever.”

“I suppose it’s to be expected,” Jon says. “I know the Librarian has a degree in information science. And I recall her telling me that the Curator is an historian with a background in museology. But you’re right – it would be nice if Leitners were as delicate as the average old manuscript.”

“At least they’re flammable,” Daisy mutters.

“We spoke with the Head Curator,” Basira says. “She’s willing to work out a trade.”

“A trade?” Martin asks.

“Knowledge for knowledge,” Jon says. “An artefact for an artefact. I get the impression that the Librarian and the Curator are both very… collections-oriented. True to their titles, I suppose.”

“Hold up,” Daisy says. “‘The Librarian,’ ‘the Curator’ – are those just job titles, or are they, like… Beholding Avatar titles?” Jon blinks at her, perplexed. “I mean – the way you keep saying them, it’s sort of like…”

“What, ‘Archivist’?” Jon gnaws on his thumbnail as he pauses to consider. “I… don’t know, actually. I wasn’t really doing it consciously? It just…” He shrugs helplessly. “It felt right.”

“Is it coming from the Eye, then?”

“I have no idea, Basira.” Jon leans forward, props his elbows on his knees, and digs the heels of his palms into his eyes. “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“Hm.”

“In any case…” Jon exhales slowly, forcing himself to sit up straight again. “They seem to take the research and curation aspects of their roles to heart. They aren’t reckless with their pursuits, they take ample precautions, but the scholars at Pu Songling do study the items that come into their possession. And from what I understand, the Curator takes avid interest in adding to their collection. Same as the Archivist’s role is to record stories. To what extent her efforts are driven by her connection to the Eye versus her own innate curiosity, I couldn’t tell you, no more than I can make that distinction in myself.”

“Sort of a chicken-or-egg situation, then,” Daisy says.

“From an evolutionary perspective, the egg came first,” Jon says automatically. “Amniotic eggs have been around for over three hundred million years. Birds originated in the Jurassic, true galliforms didn’t evolve until at least the Late Cretaceous, phasianids don’t appear in the fossil record until about thirty million years ago, and chickens as we know them were only domesticated about eight thousand years ago–”

“Oh my god,” Daisy groans, putting her head in her hands.

“What?” Jon says, heat rising in his cheeks as Martin muffles a snicker beneath his hand. “I’m not wrong.”

“Pu Songling’s Collections Department is larger than our Artefact Storage,” Basira interjects, “but the, uh… Curator has a shortlist of artefacts she’s been on the lookout for. I checked our records and found a match. A ring – probably belongs to the Vast, based on the reports surrounding it. Looks like the Institute purchased it from Salesa in 2014, shortly before his disappearance. The Curator considers it an ‘equitable exchange,’ but she still wants to assess the ring in person before making the trade.”

“And we still have to talk to Sonja,” Jon adds. “On the one hand, she likely wouldn’t object to being rid of an artefact, but on the other hand… I imagine she won’t be keen on letting it out into the world.”

“I think it would be a harder sell if you were just going to swap it out for another artefact – something unfamiliar that they’d have to develop all new protocols for,” Martin says. “But yeah, even if you won’t be making the brooch her problem, she’ll probably still want to know what we want with it. And I can see her pressing the Curator on why she wants the ring when she gets here.”

“The Curator won’t be coming here,” Basira says evenly, casting a surreptitious glance at Daisy to gauge her reaction. “Says she’s too busy to travel.”

“So you have to haul the ring up to her,” Daisy says.

“I mean” – Basira breathes an uneasy laugh – “it’s a ring. Not much hauling involved–”

“Oh, don’t start–”

“–and there are precautions I can take. Looks like Artefact Storage has relatively thorough documentation for this one.”

“‘Relatively’?” Daisy repeats, unimpressed. “You were just complaining about how sparse their records are. ‘Relatively’ isn’t saying much.”

“Well, it’s better than nothing.” Basira rubs at her face. “I have to do this. Just… trust me.”

“You know I do–”

“Then let me have your back,” Basira says, practically pleading. “Let me help you.”

“Fine,” Daisy mutters, her posture going slack. “Do what you want.”

It’s not exactly a resounding endorsement, but it’s as good as they’re likely to get.

_________________

Despite Daisy’s lack of enthusiasm, Basira immediately throws herself into making arrangements. The Curator at Pu Songling is more than accommodating, seemingly as eager as Basira to make the trade. The real challenge is the Head of Artefact Storage.

It takes over a week of cajoling, lengthy justifications, and a concerted, collaborative effort from Basira, Jon, and Martin before Sonja finally, albeit reluctantly, agrees to discuss the matter with the Curator. Over the following days, Basira and Jon facilitate negotiations between the two: mediating a fair amount of (professional, but nevertheless pointed) verbal sparring early on, and later arbitrating the terms and conditions of the trade.

“You’d think that in the course of dealing with literal supernatural evil on a daily basis,” Basira gripes at one point, “bureaucracy wouldn’t be the biggest priority.”

“I’ve found that the bureaucratic process gives me ample time to make assessments,” Sonja says, unruffled. “Red tape has a way of bringing out the worst in people. Sometimes that’s a procrastinating student who woke up this morning, realized their deadline is next week, and ‘needs access to our materials, like, yesterday,’” she says, complete with finger quotes and a mocking tone. “And sometimes it’s some shady rich snob who’s been consistently cagey about his motives, and eventually he starts to go from impatient and entitled to desperate and frustrated, and that’s when the red flags start popping up crimson. After a while, you learn to distinguish the mundane sort of desperation from the more sinister sort.”

“Huh,” Jon says, smiling to himself. He knew Sonja was clever, but he never knew she was so calculating. It seems Jonah made the same mistake with Sonja as he did with Gertrude – overestimating a person’s curiosity and malleability, underestimating their prudence and pragmatism, and then promoting them to a position where they were free to act in a decidedly un-Beholding-like manner.

Once Sonja is sufficiently assured that the Curator has no intentions of utilizing the artefact or allowing it to venture beyond the secure confines of Pu Songling’s Collections Storage, the process starts to go a bit more smoothly. As expected, Sonja is amenable to the prospect of having one less piece of malignant costume jewelry, as she puts it, provided the Archival staff take full responsibility – both for the ring once Basira signs it out and for the artefact they receive in exchange.

“The ring has a compulsion effect,” Sonja tells them. “Makes people want to put it on – and once it’s on your finger, it’s not coming off until you hit the ground. Luckily it’s not a particularly active artefact, at least not compared to some of the other things we have here. I wouldn’t call it safe, obviously, but” – she raps her knuckles on the wooden beads of the bracelet on her opposite wrist – “it’s never breached containment.”

The how and why become abundantly clear upon seeing the closed ring box, so caked in earth and grime that it’s impossible to make out the color or material underneath.

“Buried, I take it,” Basira murmurs, giving Jon a sidelong glance.

“Yeah.” Jon grimaces at the phantom taste of soil on his tongue. “An artefact to contain an artefact.”

“Looks like the Curator is getting a twofer,” Basira says.

“Fine by me,” Sonja says with a nonchalant shrug. “That’s the box it came in, actually. Don’t know why it works, but it does, and that’s all I care about. So long as you keep it closed, the worst you’ll get is vertigo. As far as we’ve observed, anyway. There’s always a chance that an artefact has more secrets than it lets on at first glance. Assuming you know everything there is to know is a good way to end up in a casket.”

“We’re well aware,” Jon says. “Believe me.”

“Seriously, though – if this goes tits up, I don’t want to hear it,” Sonja says sternly, all but wagging a finger. “And if you call up here a few months from now to tell me that you’ve got a rogue artefact wreaking havoc in the Archives, and I’ve got to put my people at risk to contain it, I will unleash unholy hell.”

The funny thing is, Jon believes her.

_________________

Despite the progress they’re making on obtaining the Hunter’s brooch, dissent continues to simmer within the group – particularly where Daisy is concerned. As the escalating tension in the Archives becomes ever more tangible, Martin begins to feel claustrophobic under the weight of all the things left unspoken.

Daisy is consistently ill-tempered: bellicose in one moment and taciturn in the next, frequently seeking out solitude whenever her agitation gets the best of her. Martin suspects that her volatile mood has as much to do with her deteriorating condition as it does to do with her lingering aversion to the rest of the group’s efforts. Although she and Basira haven’t had another row – so far as Martin is aware, anyway – there’s been an undeniable friction between them. On the worst days, Basira keeps to herself, burying her head in her research while Daisy slinks off to some dark corner of the Archives to brood until Jon comes to drag her away from her thoughts.

Not that Jon is much better. He’s been sullen lately, growing more withdrawn, sleeping less and jumping at shadows even more than usual. Martin often catches him in a trance, staring vacantly into space and droning horrors under his breath. More and more he lapses into statement clips mid-sentence, regardless of how recently he’s had a statement. Sometimes, all it takes is a momentary slip for Jon to lose his footing and devolve into a frenzied litany of back-to-back, fragmentary horror stories. On a few recent occasions he’s lost his voice entirely, though luckily it’s only been for an hour or two at a time.

(So far, Jon says morosely after each episode.)

Most unsettling, though, is the chronic faraway look in his eye, like he’s seeing something else. Like he’s somewhere else, lost across an unbridgeable divide.

Martin is well-acquainted with the sensation of feeling alone in the presence of others. That doesn’t make it any less distressing. It’s not that Jon intends to be distant. He might not even be aware of it; would likely be mortified if he knew just how much that detachment stirred Martin’s longstanding fears of isolation and abandonment. Jon’s still affectionate, after all. Although he seems reluctant to actively seek out comfort these days, he’s still prompt to take an outstretched hand, to lean into a kind touch, to accept a proffered embrace. Still makes a concerted effort to muster, however feebly, a soft smile whenever Martin enters a room. Still attempts to be present and attentive and open.

But sometimes it feels like Jon is out of reach, separated from the rest of the world, watching it pass him by through layers of frosted glass. Martin knows the feeling. What he doesn’t know is how to fix it.

Before long, Basira is set to leave for Beijing, an artefact of the Vast nestled away in her luggage amidst assurances to Sonja that, yes, under no circumstances will Basira attempt to take it on a plane or into the open ocean because, no, Basira does not have a death wish, thank you very much.

Martin half-expects another quarrel to break out on the eve of Basira’s departure, but Daisy is oddly subdued. Perhaps she just doesn’t want to part ways with angry words and unresolved arguments, or perhaps she’s simply come to accept the rest of the group’s decision to move forward with the plan. Considering the dark circles under her eyes, though, it’s just as likely that she’s simply too fatigued to start a fight.

A few days later, Martin descends the ladder into the tunnels to find Jon standing at his makeshift desk, staring down at the map unfurled across its surface – the product of the group’s ongoing efforts to survey the sprawling tunnel system of the former Millbank Prison. The blueprint-in-progress is an equally sprawling thing: sheets of mismatched paper layered one atop the next and taped together, its irregular borders comprised of haphazard angles and dog-eared edges.

The hand-drawn map on its surface is chaotic, reflecting the penmanship of four different authors. Jon’s contributions might be the messiest – the burn scar contracture on his dominant hand renders his lines shaky at best, and his handwriting has always been a tad chickenscratch. Daisy’s isn’t much better. Conversely, Basira’s additions are the neatest, her strokes as steady as the persona she tries to project to the world. Martin’s are passable, if only because, unlike Jon or Daisy, he actually has the patience to use rulers and book edges to trace straight paths.

To be fair, it would probably look a mess no matter how painstaking they were in constructing it. The tunnels are as labyrinthine as expected: a vast network of arterial corridors with offshoots along their lengths, branching into three- or four-way forks, most of which lead to dead ends. Occasionally, they find a path that loops back around and connects other parts of the maze, creating a series of meandering, convoluted closed circuits. It’s difficult to tell just by looking, but they are (Martin hopes) making progress. At the rate they’re going, they have to be on track to find the Panopticon before the winter solstice.

In any case, as Martin approaches the desk, he sees that familiar vacant look on Jon’s face, as if he isn’t actually seeing what’s in front of him. The effect is underscored by the cigarette burning away in his hand, hanging limp and forgotten at his side. Martin clears his throat lightly, in deference to Jon’s hair-trigger startle reflex. He doesn’t count the fact that Jon doesn’t jump at all as a success. If anything, it’s cause for concern.

“Jon?” Martin tries. There’s a slight delay before Jon glances over, giving Martin no acknowledgment aside from a sluggish blink before lowering his head again.

“I, uh…” Martin offers a weak smile, attempting to keep his tone light. He gestures at the cigarette. “I thought you quit?”

Jon shrugs, refusing to meet Martin’s eyes. “Not like it’ll kill me.”

“Might catch up with you later, though,” Martin says, scratching at his neck. “You know, once we find a way out of here.”

“There is no ‘out’ for me,” Jon says mulishly.

“You don’t know that. Or Know it.” Jon’s only reaction is to press his lips tightly together, like he’s biting back a retort. “Look, I’m not trying to nag you, I just wor– Jon!” Martin yelps as he watches Jon put his cigarette out on the back of his hand.

Martin lunges forward, grabbing Jon’s hand and yanking it close to inspect the damage. It’s the same hand that Jude shook, already textured and pitted with webs of hypertrophic scarring. Somehow, Jon managed to plant this newest burn on a patch of previously-undamaged skin, sandwiched between two bands of knotted tissue.

The contours of her fingers, Martin recognizes with a queasy lurch – followed by another when he thinks to wonder whether Jon sought out that scrap of healthy skin on purpose just now.

Jon barely reacts, staring into space with wide eyes and dilated pupils. Martin looks down again to see the circular singe mark already knitting itself back together, leaving only a small, shiny patch of discoloration ringed with a dusting of ash. In all likelihood, even that will be gone by morning.

If only all wounds would heal so easily.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Martin hisses, fighting to keep his voice even. He brushes a soothing thumb over the spot, as if to apologize to the abused skin on Jon’s behalf.

Jogged out of his reverie by Martin’s sharp tone, Jon stares daggers at him, his mouth open as if to unleash a scathing reprimand, the set of his jaw so reminiscent of those early days in the Archives. An instant later, though, he withers, cringing away and fixing his eyes on the floor.

“I wasn’t,” he mumbles, at least having the decency to sound contrite. “Wasn’t really paying attention.”

It’s not the first time Martin’s witnessed a self-inflicted injury. When pressed, Jon always claims that it’s not a deliberate, planned form of self-punishment, but rather a reflex reaction that kicks in when he starts feeling adrift in time. Somewhere along the line, it seems, he convinced himself that physical pain is as good a shortcut as any – a sort of panic button to bring him back to the present when he needs grounding.

Whatever his intentions, though, and no matter what rationalizations Jon wants to dole out, it’s not a healthy coping mechanism. And it’s difficult for Martin to believe that self-punishment doesn’t factor at all, considering Jon’s obsessive guilt spirals and his blasé attitude towards being hurt.

“‘S already healed,” Jon says with a spiritless shrug. He drops the snuffed-out remainder of his cigarette on the floor and unnecessarily grinds it under his heel.

“That’s not the point.” Martin doesn’t realize how tightly he’s grasping Jon’s hand until Jon winces. Although Martin relaxes his grip somewhat, he doesn’t let go. “It doesn’t matter how quickly your body heals, or that you’ve had worse, or whatever other justifications you want to make. You’re still getting hurt. That’s not okay, and – and if it were me in your shoes, you’d be telling me the same thing.”

“I’m sorry.” Jon’s hair falls to cover his face as he ducks his head.

It’s fine, Martin almost says – except it’s not, is it?

“Come on,” he says instead, guiding Jon to sit in the nearest chair before taking a seat next to him. Where before Jon was all stiff limbs and rigid spine, now he looks like he’s given up the ghost, drooping like a wilting flower.

Though he allows Martin to keep hold of his hand, Jon doesn’t return the pressure. And Jon’s skin is freezing – no doubt partly due to the damp chill of the tunnels, and partly because he has, by his own admission, always had shit circulation. Combined with his limp fingers and loose grip, though, the overall effect is far too reminiscent of those months spent keeping vigil over Jon’s hospital bed, his hand nothing but cold, dead weight in Martin’s.

It took too long for Martin to admit that he had been foolish to hope that Jon was still in there somewhere, aware of Martin’s presence, fighting to regain consciousness. The whole time, Martin was just keeping his own company. Jon wasn’t just unreachable – he wasn’t there at all.

(Martin had been wrong about that in the end. He doesn’t know that he’ll ever forgive himself for not being there when Jon woke up.)

Martin bites his lip as he formulates a response. He’s learned over the years that when Jon is like this, it’s best to strike a careful balance between docility and defiance. Push too hard too fast, and Jon will dig his heels in; approach him too tentatively, and he’s liable to interpret concern as pity; force him to talk about his feelings, and he’ll bolt; smother him with tenderness, and he’ll balk.

Granted, Jon has become much more receptive to tenderness over the years. Most of the time, anyway. When his skewed self-worth and convictions about what he does and doesn’t deserve don’t get in the way.

“At the risk of being a nag–”

“You’re not a nag,” Jon says softly.

“When’s the last time you had a statement?”

“A few days ago.” The response is too quick, too automatic.

“A few days ago,” Martin repeats, allowing a bit of disbelief to seep into his voice.

Jon nods stiffly. “Monday, I think.”

“Today is Tuesday.”

“I–” Jon cuts off his own retort, turning to blink owlishly at Martin. “Is it?”

“Yeah,” Martin says, his heart sinking. Jon must be losing time again. “So you had a statement yesterday?”

“No, I – I don’t…” Jon squints up at the ceiling, wracking his brain. “I don’t think so? It’s – I think I would recall if it had been shorter than one day.”

“So, last Monday?”

“I don’t – I don’t know,” Jon says, growing testy. “I suppose. Must’ve been.”

“Are you hungry?”

“I’m always hungry.” The admission is devoid of all the simmering agitation that had been there only moments before. Now, he just sounds tired.

“Well… I think you might be due for one.” Although Martin had been striving for gentle suggestion, there’s a harsh edge to the words. Rather than get Jon’s hackles up again, though, he seems to crumple under what he doubtless reads as an accusation.

“You’re right,” he says hoarsely. “And I’m sorry. I know lately I’ve been…”

“Tetchy,” Martin offers, just as Jon says, “a bit of a prick.”

“Your words, not mine,” Martin says with a tentative grin. Jon returns his own feeble half-smile, but it quickly falters.

“I’ve almost exhausted Daisy’s catalogue,” he confesses. “Only a handful left now. I’ve got to make them last until the solstice.”

An apprehensive chill runs down Martin’s spine at that. “And then what?”

“I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

There’s virtually no chance that Jon, prone to rumination as he is, hasn’t been dwelling on it.

“Basira said she has a few statements, right?” Martin asks. “Which… if you already have a statement about an encounter, can you still get nourishment from other statements about it, so long as it’s coming from someone else’s point of view?”

“Probably.” Jon shrugs one shoulder. “The factual details of the encounter are less important than the subject’s emotional response. Different perspective, different story, different lived experience of fear.”

“Then… you have my statement about the Flesh attack, but there’s still Basira’s. And – and maybe Melanie–”

“I’m not taking another statement from Melanie,” Jon says tersely. “She’s been tethered to me for too long without say, and I’m not dragging her back in.”

“But if it’s consensual–”

“It won’t be, because I don’t consent.”

“If the alternative is literally starving–”

“I’ll find another alternative. Or I won’t. But I’m not asking Melanie for a statement.” Jon keeps his head bowed, but he looks up at Martin through his lashes. “The first time she quit, I was worried that she might show up in my nightmares again, but she didn’t. I don’t know if her severance from the Eye will keepher out of my nightmares if she gives me a new statement, and… I can’t risk it. I can’t do that to her. Even if the nightmares weren’t an issue… I’m not going to ask her to relive yet another traumatic experience for my benefit–”

“–I shall choose to die rather than take part in such an unholy meal–”

Jon claps a hand over his mouth, a panicked look in his eye.

“…nor shall I take my own life, whatever extremity my suffering may reach,” he tacks on, too much of an afterthought for comfort.

“Which means we need to plan for the future,” Martin says, forcing calm into his voice despite the way his heart picks up its pace.

“But it can’t involve Melanie,” Jon says – gentler than before, but still firm.

“No, you’re – you’re right,” Martin relents. “It wouldn’t be fair to her. But we could still ask Basira.”

Jon makes a noncommittal noise, his expression rapidly going pinched and closed off again.

“Lately,” Martin says, licking his lips nervously, “lately it feels like you’ve been shutting everyone out again. It isn’t healthy–”

“Healthy?” Jon’s glare could burn a hole in the floor. “I don’t need to be healthy, I just need to be whatever it wants.”

Once, Martin might have been daunted by Jon’s scathing tone. By now, he knows that Jon is all bluster – and that the brunt of it is turned inward, against his own self.

“Please, Jon. Tell me what’s going on. You’re worrying me.”

Those, apparently, are the magic words, because Jon finally capitulates.

“It’s October,” he tells the floor.

“It… is October, yeah.” Bewildered, Martin waits for elaboration. When a minute passes with no response forthcoming, he prompts, “Is that… bad…?”

“Historically, yes, it has been,” Jon says with a tired, frayed-sounding chuckle.

“I… Jon, I need you to help me out here,” Martin says helplessly. “I can’t read your mind.”

“October is when it happens, Martin.” Jon glances at Martin once, quickly, before returning his gaze to the ground. He’s twisting one hand around the opposite wrist now, fingers curled tightly enough to blanch his knuckles. “The eighteenth. When everything goes wrong.”

“You mean…”

Jon’s sharp inhale becomes a choked exhale, which in turn abruptly cuts off as the Archive takes its cue.

“…what settled over me wasn’t dread; there wasn’t enough uncertainty for that. It was doom. I was certain that some sort of disaster was on the horizon–”

“–something bad. Something unspeakable. And I would have helped make it happen–”

“–the fear never really went away. I’ve heard that being exposed to the source of your terror over and over again can help break its power over you, numb you to it, but in my experience it just teaches you to hide from it. Sometimes that might mean hiding in a quiet corner of your mind, but–”

“–soon enough, I could no longer fool myself–”

“–the calm I had been getting accustomed to had been torn away completely, and where it had been was just this horrible, ice-cold terror–”

“–that – we can’t escape the ruins of our own future–”

“–a future where – humanity was violently and utterly supplanted, and wiped out by a new category of being–”

“–there are terrible things coming – things that, if we knew them, would leave us weak and trembling, with shuddering terror at the knowledge that they are coming for all of us–”

“–I think in my heart, I have been waiting for this moment. For the final axe to fall–”

“–we create the world in a lot of ways. I suppose it shouldn’t be surprising that, when we’re not being careful, we can change it–”

There’s a breathless pause before Jon continues, in a nearly inaudible whisper: “What could I have chosen to change? Would a different path have been possible?”

“It is,” Martin says firmly, “and we’re on it. What happened last time won’t happen again. We won’t let it.”

Jon doesn’t acknowledge the reassurance.

“I should’ve known,” he says with a quiet ferocity, in his own voice this time. “It was too peaceful. I should’ve known it wasn’t going to last. And – and on some level I did know – I knew it wasn’t over – but I just… I didn’t want to be the one to shatter the illusion, I suppose.” His expression goes taut. “Didn’t much matter what I wanted, in the end. But I still should’ve seen it coming. Can’t let my guard down again.”

“How could you have known?” Martin doesn’t intend for it to come out as exasperated. He tries to reel it back, to gentle his tone. “You’ve said yourself that you can’t predict the future–”

“No, but I knew Jonah had plans for me. And I knew nothing good could come of feeding the Eye, but I kept on anyway.”

“It’s not like you were doing it for fun, Jon! You needed it to survive, and Jonah took advantage of that. Or…” No – that makes it sound purely opportunistic, doesn’t it? In reality, it was all part of Jonah’s long game from the start. “He made you dependent on statements specifically becausehe wanted to take advantage of that.”

“I made choices,” Jon says tonelessly. “I can’t absolve myself of responsibility just because Jonah was nudging me in a particular direction.”

“You were manipulated,” Martin insists, “and I’m not having you apologize for surviving it. For not starving to death.”

“You don’t understand,” Jon says, growing more distressed, reaching up with both hands and tangling his fingers in his hair. “When that box of statements finally arrived, I… I couldn’t shoo you away fast enough. I was hungry, yes, but I wasn’t starving yet. I could’ve waited longer, but I just… I wanted one–”

“–should have fought harder against the temptation – but my curiosity was too strong–”

“You shouldn’t have to wait until you’re literally on death’s doorstep before you fulfill a basic need,” Martin interrupts.

“I should when that ‘basic need’ entails serving the Beholding,” Jon says heatedly. “And I – I should’ve known better – should’ve known not to jump headlong into the first statement that caught my eye. I’d known for a while that the Beholding leads me away from statements it doesn’t want me to know. It logically follows that it would lead me towards statements that would strengthen it. If I’d had any sense, I would’ve been suspicious of anything in that box that called out to me. It didn’t… it didn’t feel any different, but I – I suppose that somewhere along the line I just got used to… to wandering down whatever path I was led. I didn’t think, I never stop to think–”

“If anything, Jon, you overthink. You’re overthinking right now.”

Martin has known for a long time now that Jon will latch onto the smallest details, allow his thoughts to branch into an impossible number of routes and tangents, tie together loose threads in countless permutations in the interest of considering all possible conclusions, no matter how outlandish. He will apply Occam's razor in one moment before tossing it into the bin, only to fish it out again: lather, rinse, repeat. His mind is a noisy, cluttered conspiracy corkboard, and he’ll hang himself with red string if given half a chance, just to feel like he’s in control of something.

“It’s easy to look back and criticize your past self,” Martin says, “but he didn’t know what you do. If we knew the outcome to every action, maybe we wouldn’t make mistakes, but we’re only human–”

“Not all of us.”

“–so we just have to do the best with what we have in the moment,” Martin continues, paying no heed to Jon’s grumbled comment. No good will come of guiding him down that rabbit trail right now. Anyway, Martin has a more pressing concern–

“Why didn’t you tell me about any of this sooner?” he blurts out, immediately wincing at his lack of tact. “That came out wrong–”

“Why didn’t I tell you how quick I was to chase you out of the house and sink my teeth into a statement the moment temptation presented itself?” Jon scoffs. “Because I’m ashamed. Why else?”

“No, not–” Martin scrubs a hand over his face. It’s a struggle, sometimes, not to grab Jon by the shoulders and shake him until all of that stubborn self-loathing falls away. “About the fact that you’ve got a – a post-traumatic anniversary event coming up, I mean. You haven’t been well, and I thought I understood why – thought it was just… all of it, in general. But here I come to find you’ve been agonizing over the upcoming date of the single worse day of your life–”

“One of the worst,” Jon says quietly.

“What?”

“I didn’t lose you until much later.”

Martin’s breath catches in his throat at that, a sharp pang shooting through his chest.

“Well… you’ve got me now,” he says meekly. “So – so you don’t have to suffer in silence, is what I’m saying. What happened to you – no, what was done to you – it was horrible, and it wasn’t your fault. I know you don’t believe that, but it’s the truth.”

“Either I’ve always been caught up in someone else’s web, passively having things happen to me with no control over my life–”

“–the Mother got exactly the result she no doubt wanted, one that would lead to a fear – so acute that I could later have that horror focused and refined into a silk-spun apotheosis–”

Jon bites down on one knuckle, eyes shut tight as he waits for the compulsion to subside.

“Or,” he says after a minute, “or I do have control, and I can change the outcome, which makes me culpable. I don’t know which prospect I hate more. Which probably says some unflattering things about me.”

“It’s not that simple–”

“It is,” Jon says viciously. “If there is another path, then I should’ve found it last time!” He closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose, and takes a steadying breath. When he speaks again, he’s no longer bordering on shouting, but there’s a quaver in his voice, a fragility that Martin finds more disconcerting than any flash of anger. “The way I see it, there are two options. One, what happened in my future was inevitable and nothing I could’ve done would’ve changed it – which certainly doesn’t bode well for this timeline. Or, the outcome can be changed, in which case my choices matter, and had I just made better choices, maybe I could have prevented all of this from ever happening in the first place.”

“You’re not being fair,” Martin says, his hands clenching into fists – but Jon isn’t listening.

“Doesn’t make much difference, I suppose. The consequences are the same either way–”

“–billions of – people making their way through life who had no idea what was right above their heads–”

“–would-be occult dynasties and ageless monsters–”

“–minds so strange and colossal that we would never know they were minds at all–”

“–idiots who destroyed themselves chasing a secret that wasn’t worth knowing–”

“–there, caught up in a series of events that I didn’t understand but that terrified me – I did the stupidest thing I’ve ever done–”

“–running was pointless. To try to escape from my task would only serve to fulfill another. I finally understood what I needed to do–”

“–I don’t know if you have ever drowned, but it’s the most painful thing I have ever experienced–”

“–I do not suppose I need to dwell on the pain, but please know that I would sooner die than endure it again–”

“Would you?” Martin says abruptly. Jon won’t look at him. “Jon, I need to know if you’re feeling like hurting yourself.”

“What would it matter if I was?” Jon still won’t look at him. “I’m categorically incapable of hurting myself in any way that matters.”

Martin blinks in disbelief. “Okay, that’s blatantly untrue.”

Jon has been a glaring portrait of self-neglect for as long as Martin has known him. That simple lack of consideration for himself, together with compounding survivor’s guilt, was the perfect stepping stone to active self-endangerment. Now that Jon’s convinced himself he’s invulnerable to a normal human death, he’s all the more careless with himself.

“I don’t want to die,” Jon whispers. “That’s the problem.”

“What—?”

“Before, I was unknowingly putting the entire world at risk by – by waking up after the Unknowing, by crawling out of the Buried, by escaping the Hunters, by continuing to read statements like it was – like it was something routine, as unremarkable as – as taking tea. Now, though – now I know better. I know what Jonah is planning, I saw what I’m capable of, and still I… I don’t want to die.”

“Well… good,” Martin says. “You should want to live–”

“It doesn’t much matter what I want–”

“–I never wanted to weigh up the value of a life, to set it on the scales against my own, but that’s a choice that I am forced into–”

“–doesn’t get to die for that – gets to live, trapped and helpless, and entombed forever – powerless–”

“–a lynchpin for this new ritual – a record of fear–”

Shit, Martin thinks the instant he recognizes the statement. It’s the worst of them all, virtually guaranteed to send Jon spiraling.

“–both in mind as you walk the shuddering record of each statement, and in body as the Powers each leave their mark upon you – a living chronicle of terror – a conduit for the coming of this – nightmare kingdom–”

“Okay, okay, stay with me–”

“–the Chosen one is simply that: someone I chose. It’s not in your blood, or your soul, or your destiny. It’s just in your own, rotten luck–”

“Jon, can you hear me? Jon–”

“–I’ll admit, my options were somewhat limited, but my god, when you came to me already marked by the Web, I knew it had to be you. I even held out some small hope you had been sent by the Spider as some sort of implicit blessing on the whole project, and, do you know what, I think it was–”

Martin reaches over, taking both of Jon’s hands in his own and squeezing tightly. The pressure seems to do the trick: lucidity sparks in Jon’s eyes and he takes a deep, ragged breath, as if coming up for air.

“There you are. Are you okay?” Martin rubs both thumbs over the backs of Jon’s hands in rhythmic, soothing motions. “Hey, it’s–”

“I don’t want your kindness!” Jon snaps, jerking backwards and snatching his hands out from Martin’s grip.

Both of them lapse into a stunned silence. As mortification dawns on Jon’s face, Martin can feel the color rising in his cheeks. It only takes a few seconds for the blood rushing in his ears to be drowned out by another voice.

Martin can remember with cutting clarity the days prior to his mother’s departure to the nursing home. She had been in (somewhat) rare form, her already-short fuse dwindled down to nothing, sniping at him around the clock, full of caustic observations and spiteful accusations.

I don’t want your help, she had sneered as she entered the cab, swatting his hand away.

It was one of the last things she ever said to him.

“Well, tough,” Martin bites out, “because you deserve it, and you never should’ve had to go without it, and you’re not going to change my mind about that, so you may as well stop trying!”

“Martin, I – I – I’m sorry, I didn’t mean–”

He saw, Martin realizes all at once, his skin crawling with humiliation.

“I’m going to go make some tea,” Martin says, rising to his feet.

Jon reaches out a hand. “Martin–”

“I just need a breather, okay?” Martin says, a pleading note to his voice. His lungs are constricting, his chest is tightening, there’s a lump in his throat, and he really doesn’t want to have a panic attack in the tunnels – or in front of Jon. “I’m not – I’m not angry, okay, I just need some air.”

Jon opens his mouth, then immediately closes it, clutches his hands to his chest, and gives a tiny nod that Martin just barely glimpses before turning to flee.

_________________

“Stop crying,” Jon hisses at himself, furiously scrubbing at his face as the tears slide down his cheeks. “Stop it.”

He plasters the heels of his hands over his closed eyelids. It does nothing to stem the flow, only brings to mind images of pressing himself bodily against a door to hold it closed, only for the crack to continue widening, millimeter after millimeter, the flood on the other side trickling through the gap, rivulets swelling into rivers, frigid eddies biting at his ankles, a whitewater undertow threatening to drag him below the waves–

“Enjoying our own company, are we?”

Once, Jon might have been humiliated to be caught mid-breakdown, raw-voiced and puffy-eyed, especially by Peter Lukas of all people. Several lifetimes spent in thrall to cosmic horrors have a way of putting things in perspective.

“What do you want?” Jon says with as much ire as he can muster.

Peter hums to himself, starting a slow, back-and-forth pace in front of Jon. “It occurred to me that I’ve been derelict in my duties as far as the Archives are concerned–”

“That’s just now occurring to you?”

“–and, as such, I thought it was high time that I met the infamous Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute.”

“Well,” Jon scoffs, gesturing at himself, “you’ve met him.”

“I must admit, I was expecting something a bit more… hm.” Peter taps a finger against his lips. “Formidable.”

“Sorry to disappoint.” The scathing sarcasm is rendered pitiful by an ill-timed, involuntary sniffle. Jon can’t bring himself to care.

“The state you’re in, you hardly seem fit to work.” A pause. “Have you ever considered taking some time off?”

“A six-months hospital stay has a way of eating up your PTO, oddly enough. I’m told that payroll already has already had to make special exceptions for my ‘unprecedented’ circumstances.” Jon chuckles to himself. “On multiple occasions. Did you know the Institute considers a kidnapping in the line of duty to be an ‘unexcused absence?’”

“I think you’ll find that Elias and I have different management styles,” Peter says mildly. “I’m open to making allowances – particularly since your department can function so smoothly in your absence. Your assistants have proven themselves to be quite capable of working independently – and seeing as your approach to supervision borders on fraternization, I imagine they would be more productive without excess drama to distract them.”

“I’ll take that into consideration,” Jon says acerbically.

“No need.” Jon squints at him, and Peter stare him down. “It’s not a request, Archivist. It’s an order.”

There was a time, not long ago, that sneaking up on the Archivist would have been difficult. Only Helen had consistently managed to ambush him, and that was because she didn’t waste time sneaking – she manifested and launched the jump scare in the same instant, giving him no chance to See her approach. Readjusting to a binocular point of view had been a process, but rarely does he find himself yearning for the panoramic field of vision that had been foisted upon him during the apocalypse.

Occasionally, though, there are moments when 360° sight would come in handy. Too late, Jon realizes this is one of those moments.

By the time he notices the tendrils of encroaching fog, they’re already curling around from behind him, pooling at his feet, ghosting across the back of his neck, affixing themselves around his wrists.

“It’s alright,” Peter says placidly, almost soothingly. “You can let go now.”

Jon shivers as his heart pumps ice through his veins, fingers and toes going numb as he struggles for breath.

No. No, no, no, no, no–

“I am not Lonely anymore,” Jon gasps out through chattering teeth.

“No,” Peter says with an air of nonchalance. Then he smiles, sharp and cold and cruel and the only detail Jon can still discern through the fog. “But you will be.”

___

End Notes:

Daisy: hey siri, google what to do if i suspect my bff has been possessed by the ghost of a fussy paleornithologist Jon: why are you booing me????? i’m right

Pretty sure this is the longest chapter yet? Probably bc of the statement. I could’ve split it into two, but, uh. I like that cliffhanger where it is. >:3c (Sorry for that, btw.)

Quite a bit of Archive-speak this chapter. Citations as follows: Section 1: 122/124/011/007/047/155. The Xiaoling quote is from MAG 105; the Jonah quote is ofc from 160; the Naomi quote is from 013. Section 3: 181. Section 5: 058 x2; 144/130/086/143/121/149/134/144/143/069; 147; 017; 147; 057/160/106/111/067/121/129/098; 155/128/160; 160 x3. Section 6: 170, of course.

I’m taking wild liberties with Pu Songling Research Centre’s whole deal. I’m conceptualizing their spookier departments as being like… actually academia-oriented, instead of “local Victorian corpse with illusions of godhood throws a bunch of traumatized nerds with no relevant archival experience into a basement, what happens next will shock you”. Xiaoling is out here like “our digitization is still a work in progress, I’m sure you know how it is” and Jon Sims is like “digitization who? i don’t know her”. (Listen, he tried once. Tape recorder was haunted, he got kidnapped a bunch, there were worms and things, he died (he got better), his boss used him as a battering ram to open a door to Fearpocalypse Hell – it was a lot.)

Likewise, we didn’t get much info about Sonja in canon, so I’m having fun envisioning her as a certified Force To Be Reckoned With (and a bit of a Mama Bear wrt her assistants). Most of the Institute is leery of the Archives (& especially Jon) but Sonja’s seen a lot of shit and Jon Sims doesn’t even rank on her list of Top Spooky Scary Things.

re: the statement – it’s not clear in-text, but I want to clarify that I’m not conceptualizing Francis Drake as being influenced by the Hunt. Fictionalizing aspects of history is tricky, and I’d feel personally uncomfortable chalking up Drake’s real life atrocities to supernatural influence, even in fiction. In the case of this particular fictional member of his crew, he was (like Drake’s real-life crew) complicit in following Drake’s orders for entirely mundane reasons and was only marked by the Hunt at the point in his statement where he first recounts hearing the Hunt chasing after him.

At some point in writing this chapter, I had 137 tabs open in my browser for Research Purposes and like 20 of those were bc my dumb ass seriously considered writing that statement in Elizabethan English before going “what are you DOING, actually.” If I’d tried, it would have come off as inauthentic at best, if not ridiculous, bc I’m unfamiliar with English linguistic trends of the 1500s, and I’d basically be badly mimicking Shakespearean English, which isn’t necessarily indicative of how everyone spoke at the time, and I don’t know what colloquial speech would look like for this particular unnamed character I trotted out as exposition fodder, and it was probably unnecessary to formulate a whole-ass personal history for him for the sake of Historical Realism for a single section of a single chapter of a fanfic, and… In the end, I decided that this pseudo-immortal rando can tell his life story in modernized English, as a treat (to me) (and also to those of you who don’t think of slogging through bastardized Elizabethan prose as a fun endeavor).

Speaking of research – shoutout to this dissertation that had an English translation of the Herla story in Walter Map’s De nugis curialium, and if you want to read the whole story, you can find it on pages 16-18 of that paper. I feel it’s important for you all to know that IMMEDIATELY after Map dramatically proclaims, “the dog has not yet alighted, and the story says that this King Herla still holds on his mad course with his band in eternal wanderings, without stop or stay,” he goes on to say in the next breath “buuuut some people say they all jumped into the River Wye and died, so ymmv. ¯\_ (ツ)_/¯ anyways, can I interest you in more Fucked Up If True tales?” (Herla throwing the dog into the river wasn’t in the original story though. I made that part up.)

Thank you so much for reading! <3

#the magnus archives #tma #tma fic #long post #tma spoilers #magnuspod

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duskwood-legacies · 3 years

Text

Recap: Internship, Graduation, First days of Employment, Future

Hi sunshines!🌻🌿 I want to give you a short recap what I have been doing during my inactivity the past weeks:

(Cannot put "Read More" as I am on my phone, I'm sorry :( )

Internship:

From June to July I had an internship at a residence for adult and elderly people with disablilities. It was beautiful! Some of my tasks included:

-Assisting people in the shower (washing their backs, ect.)

-Preparing food

-Accompany my clients during their free time

-Assisting them during the day with various everyday-tasks

The internship was a lot of fun, especially seeing my clients laugh whole-heartedly from time to time!🥺 Nothing will ever be able to surpase the sound of their laugh and sight of their smile💕🌿

-----

Graduation:

2 days after my internship ended, I graduated, which meant: I officially finished my very first training with success and flying colors!😄😍 I've been in training to become a "social assistant" since 2019, closely after I graduated highschool💫🌻

-----

First days of employment:

At the beginning of this month I started working at the same residency I had my internship at🤭 It's quite exciting as it is my first time working with an actual employment contract and not only doing "small works"! Though, I am still a trainee, and will be for the next four years :)

-----

Future:

I will get the keys to my very own flat/apartment at the end of the month, thus the move will take place around the same time! I will also start packing the next days, thankfully I only work a 20 hour week😅

My school will start in September! After I graduated last month, my next training will fully start then🤭 It's a common thing where I live, you can work part-time while also attending training school twice a week. Of course, if you decide to be trained as kindergardener(?) you will need to work in a place with children.

I will be trained as a curative educator! The work with people with disablities is so enlightening and fun to me, the amount of love and gentleness and consideration those people have is insane🥺💕🌿

-----

As long as I can find time to spare, I will catch up on some things on Tumblr as well💕 I don't want to rush with responding to feedback, congratulating on achievments and other things; I want to give each individual here the amount of attention and appreciation and thankfulness they deserve🌿🌻 Apologies if I appeared "out of touch" or made someone feel like I was ghosting or ignoring them; it's far away from my intentions🙇🏼‍♀️ I am sure, though, you all understand and respect that I still follow/ed my need for rest :) <3

This got a bit longer than expected😅 Thanks to everyone who read until here, I incredibly appreciate you💙💫💕 Have a safe and comfortable week and nice sunsets, see you later!🌿💕

#legacy chats #personal

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inevitably-johnlocked · 4 years

Note

hi steph, I hope you enjoyed your break and are looking after yourself! if you’re back and feeling up to it, I was wondering if you knew of any affectionate sherlock fics or ones where john calls him pet names? just that lovey dovey vibe w a cuddly sherlock :) again, thank you for everything you do ❤️

HI LOVELY!!!

AHHHH You are in luck!!! I actually have a Pt Two list that I’ve been just WAITING for someone to ask for, LOL. I hope you enjoy what I have for you today!!!! And as always, add your own fics, my lovelies!! <3

PET NAMES Pt. 2

See also: Pet Names Pt 1

“My / His John” / “My / His Doctor”

New World, Old Words by thedeafwriter (G, 641 w., 1 Ch. || Deaf Sherlock, Sherlock Whump, Pining Sherlock, Marriage Proposal, Fluff, Always John) – It was disconcerting to experience. One second, he was laying on the table, breathing in the gas that would make him sleep, the next, he was dragging his eyes open to look around the bright room, trying to wake up.

Possessive by Fang323 (T, 850 w., 1 Ch. || John Whump, Hospitalization, Possessive / Protective Sherlock, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort) – His John did not belong. Not here. Not in this blasted hospital. It simply was not logical.

Concussions And Good Old Fashioned Awkwardness by Belldere (K+, 894 w., 1 Ch. || Humour, Hospitals, Mild John Whump, Misunderstandings, Platonic Relationship, Concussions, Not-Gay John, Possessive Sherlock) – When John lands himself in hospital... again, all he wants is to just get out of there as soon as possible, too bad his doctor has other ideas about where John may be getting his injuries. Good thing concussions make everything strangely funnier.

Burn Burn by Jenn1984 (K+, 925 w., 1 Ch. || Post-TGG, Angst, Worried / Panicked / Possessive Sherlock) – A week after the events of "The Great Game", Sherlock returns to 221B Baker Street to find it empty.

Loved. by inevitably_johnlocked (G, 1,231 w., 1 Ch. || First Sherlock POV, Slice of Life, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Nose Kisses, Morning After, Love Confessions, Morning Cuddles, Emotional Sherlock, Sentiment, Bed Sharing) – Sherlock reflects on his relationship with John. Part 5 of I-J's Tumblr Ficlet Collection

Lost and Found by jaradel (G, 1,750 w., 1 Ch. || Post-HLV, John Whump, Est. Rel., Hurt/Comfort) – He's honestly not sure what's worse, right now - being where he is, the beaten kidnap victim, or being where Sherlock is, trying to rescue him before it's too late. Unwillingly his mind offers up the image of Sherlock in a video message, tied to a chair, bruised and bloodied. John squeezes his eyes shut to hold back tears. No, he decides. That would be so much worse.

The Video Footage by bitchinblackframedglasses (K, 1,894 w., 1 Ch. || Humour, Friendship, Fluff, ASiB Missing Scene) – What exactly DID Lestrade film Sherlock doing in A Scandal in Belgravia? Sherlock wants to know, and John tells him.

Husband by jinglebell (E, 2,003 w., 1 Ch. || Est. Rel., PWP, Anal, Multiple Orgasms, Fluff) – Sherlock orgasms when John refers to him as 'husband'.

Sherlock Holmes and the Mysterious Piercing by Lorelei_Lee (E, 4,130 w., 1 Ch. || Travelling, Sherlock is Loud, Secrets, Genital Piercing, First Time, Licking, Coming Nearly Untouched) – John discovers by chance that Sherlock has a piercing. To his surprise John can't stop thinking about it...

The Oolong Disaster by unicornpoe (T, 4,151 w., 1 Ch. || John’s Beard, Fluff, Humour, Frustrated Sherlock, John Takes Care of Sherlock, Case Fic-ish, Pining Sherlock, First Kiss, Possessive Sherlock) – John has a beard. Sherlock has a panic attack.

The Haunting of 221B Baker Street by earlgreytea68 (M, 10,388 w., 2 Ch. || Post TRF, Halloween / Ghosts, Pining Sherlock, Ghost Sherlock, Stroppy Sherlock, Sherlock POV, First Kiss/Time, Angry Sex, Ghost Sex, Love Confessions, Open / Ambiguous Ending) – In which Sherlock Holmes is a ghost.

To be loved by Strange_johnlock (E, 12,436 w., 8 Ch. || Post S3, Established Relationship, First Person POV Sherlock, Pet Names, Soft Sherlock, Mild ADHD, Protective John, Captain Watson, Body Appreciation, Bottomlock, Rough Sex, Travelling for Holidays, Introspection, Sherlock Loves John So Much It Hurts) – John is so deeply integrated into the work, both as my conductor of light, and as a great shot with a vicious right hook who tackles men -and women- no matter their size all in my defense. He protects me with all he can without question, and this loyalty is surely more than I deserve. Or: Sherlock is counting his blessings.

The Palmyra Atoll by elwinglyre (E, 16,609 w., 3 Ch. || TSo3 Divergence / Episode Fix-It, Stockholm Syndrome, Kidnapped John Watson, John Whump, Evil Mary, Angst, Cuddling & Snuggling, Toplock, Limited 3rd John POV) – As John's preparing for the wedding, Sherlock is preparing to have his heart broken, and Mary is prepared to do the unthinkable. Intervention required. Enter Sherlock. Set before Sign of Three with a far different outcome. John is drugged, kidnapped, and left on an island, but not just any old island.

A Home for Us by sussexbound (M, 30,581 w., 12 Ch. || Scars, Bedsharing, Grief, Doctor John, Hurt/Comfort, Post-TRF, Implied/Referenced Torture, Sherlock POV, Pining Sherlock, Suicidal Ideation, Heavy Emotions, Clingy Sherlock, Hallucinations, Disassociation, Emotional Turmoil) – He has been on the road for two years, and he is exhausted. He’s almost accepted that he will never see London (John) again—almost. But then there are nights like tonight, where he is weak, and all he can think of is the warmth of the flat they once shared, the crackle of the fire in the hearth, the teasing smile playing at the corner of John’s lips, the boxes of half-eaten Chinese takeaway balanced precariously in their laps. He aches at the memory of it, at the realisation that it is something he may never experience again.

Turn Left at the Park by Glenmore (NR (E), 37,409 w., 28 Ch. || Alternate First Meeting / ASiP Divergence, Case Fic, Depression, Suicidal Ideation, Loneliness, No Mary, Possessive Sherlock, Fluff & Angst, Nightmares/PTSD, Sherlock Saves John, Sherlock Whump-ish, Doctor John) – So what would have happened if John hadn't walked through the park and met Stamford?What if, instead, he walked around the park and just went home?

Guidelines by WithLoweredVoices (M, 43,018 w., 15 Ch. || Winglock || Angels, Fantasy, Angst, BAMF! John, War, Jealous Sherlock, Possessive Sherlock, Jealous John, Falling in Various Ways, Needy Sherlock, Wings) – The Good Soldier, one of the oldest and strongest of the fallen, is offered a bargain: to live as John Watson and to Guide a fledgling archangel so that he will stay on the path of good. Of course, Sherlock Holmes has different ideas about his destiny. Fantasy AU. Warnings for violence, occasional gore, and a whole load of hurt and angst.

Repairing the Broken Things by BakerTumblings (M, 75,252 w., 15 Ch. || S4 Compliant, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Medical Trauma, Hospitals, Big Brother Mycroft, Misunderstandings, Realizations, Severe Accident, John Whump, Pneumonia, Medical Procedures, Bed Sharing, First Time, Healing, Happy Ending) – "I'm calling today to notify you that there's been an accident."

The Thing Is by TSylvestris (E, 56,743 w., 21 Ch. || Case Fic, Dev. Rel., Anal/Oral, Blow Jobs, Meddling Mycroft, Drama, Romance, Humour, Casual Encounters, Pining Idiots, Possessive Sherlock, Orgasm Delay, Rough / Alley Sex, Public Sex, John Whump, Drugged John, Emotional Love Making, Awkward Relationship, Marriage of Convenience, Switchlock) – The problem with living with Sherlock, John thought, was that you never, never, ever knew the significance of anything. Like your flatmate's nose buried in your hair. Whilst you're in bed. Part 1 of Nitroglycerine

One Little Change by jadztone (E, 58,312 w., 12 Ch. || ASiB Divergence, Fake Relationship, Bed Sharing, Mutual Pining, Friends to Lovers, First Kiss / Time, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bi John / Gay Demisexual Sherlock, Switchlock, Alternating POV, Jealousy, Misunderstandings, Case Fic, Angst with Happy Ending, Emotional Love Making, Butt Plugs, Cuddles) – Our story begins right after John and Sherlock's first meeting with Irene Adler in September. It splits off into an AU that imagines them taking a case where they act as bait to hook a killer targeting closeted gays in secret relationships. In the weeks leading up to Christmas, many things happen that have our boys wondering if maybe they have a chance with each other. Then Irene fakes her death on Christmas Eve, and things get a lot more complicated - especially since they still have a killer to catch.

Gold Rush by ShirleyCarlton (E, 71,783 w., 17 Ch. || Post S3 / No Mary, Friends to Lovers, Mentions of Past Sexual Abuse, First Kiss, Case Fic, Slow Burn, Alternating POV, Switchlock, Angst with Happy Ending, Marriage Proposal, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Abduction, Anxious/Insecure Sherlock, Miscommunication, Emotional Lovemaking) – John has divorced Mary and pops round to 221B one evening to find Sherlock in the middle of a case. As Sherlock tries to find the identity of a young woman’s stalker, John realises he can no longer deny his feelings for Sherlock – which then, to their befuddlement, turn out to be mutual. Shy kisses and tentative embraces ensue. But will Sherlock be able to cast off a shadow from his past that he thinks might prevent John from wanting to stay?

The Adventure of the Silver Scars by tangledblue (NR [M], 142,458 w., 41 Ch. || S3 Fix-It, Post-HLV/ Post-TAB / Canon Compliant, Case Fic, No Baby, Angst, Humour, UST, Slow Burn, Angry John, Reconciliation, Not Nice Mary / Leaving Mary, Dependent Sherlock, Pining Sherlock, Caretaker John, Fist Fights, It’s An Experiment, Virgin Sherlock, Dancing, Drugging, John Whump, Pet Names, Sherlock’s Mind Palace, Scars) – It’s been thirteen months since Mary shot Sherlock and John finds he’s still pissed off about it. Sherlock had thought everything was settled: John and Mary, domestic bliss. But when John turns up at Baker Street with suitcases, the world’s only consulting detective might not be prepared for the consequences. A new case. Some old scores to settle. Certain danger. Concertos, waltzes, and whisky.

Against the Rest of the World by SilentAuror (E, 151,714 w., 20 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Post-TRF, Hiatus Fic, POV First Person Sherlock, Present Tense, First Kiss/Time, Big Brother Mycroft, Escaping from Capture, Soft Sherlock, Toplock, Insecurity, Infidelity, Travelling, Introspection, Pining Sherlock, Depression, Fantasies, Yearning for the Past, PTSD Sherlock, Suicidal Ideation) – Sherlock has been away from London for nine hundred and twelve days and counting, and has no idea what sort of reception to expect when he finally returns.

“Love” / “My Sherlock”

I Knew You Loved Me by inevitably_johnlocked (T, 743 w., 1 Ch. || Morning Cuddles, Fluff, Clingy Sherlock, Idiots in Love, Slice of Life, Morning After, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Declarations of Love, Pet Name, Bed Sharing, Snuggles) – John and Sherlock share a lie-in the morning after their first time. So fluffy and gross your teeth will fall out. Part 4 of I-J's Tumblr Ficlet Collection

Hell or High water by bluefire301175 (E, 2,250 w. || PWP, Frottage, Alley Sex, First Person POV John, Case-ish Fic, Mutual Pining, Bed Sharing) – John wants. Sherlock wants. Plain and simple.

A Study in Lace by KarlyAnne (E, 2,320 w., 1 Ch. || Est. Rel., Crafty Sherlock, Tiny Lace Panties / Lingerie, Domestics, Experiments, Oral, Masturbation) – “Why do you suppose he was doing that?” “Why do I suppose who was doing what?” “The room. The lace. The secrecy. He was playing with fire in everything he did, and didn’t care one bit. But he had a secret chamber, carefully concealed, solely for the purpose of making lace lingerie. Obviously for personal use. Why?" Part 1 of The Unintentional Crafts of Sherlock Holmes

Tell Me a Secret, Sherlock Holmes. by DaringlyDomestic (NR, 3,880 w., 2 Ch. || Love Confessions, Truth or Dare, Smut, Gentle Explicit Love, Microscopic Angst) – John's voice is low and seductive, sending a shiver of want crackling through his stomach. Sherlock's heart beats frantically against his ribcage, and his breathing grows fast as he feels John's lips flutter against the sensitive skin of his neck. The kiss, if it could really be called that, is so quick and so light that Sherlock is almost convinced he had imagined it. Part 9 of Tumblr Drabble Challenge

Applied Linguistics by what_alchemy (M, 4,837 w., 1 Ch. || Possessive / Anxious Sherlock, Introspection, Bed Sharing, Past John Whump, Est. Rel., Marriage Proposal, Sherlock Loves John So Much, Word Play) – “He wants to shake John by the shoulders, wants to open his mouth and swallow John whole. Wants to marry him.” Sherlock searches for the right words.

My First, My Only, and My Forever by vintagelilacs (E, 6,220 w., 1 Ch. || Post-ASiB, Virgin Sherlock, Pining Sherlock, Sherlock’s Bum, John’s Scar, Sherlock POV, Body Worship, Fingering, Bottomlock, Promise of Forever / Proposals, Misunderstanding, First Kiss/Time, Loss of Virginity, Virginity Kink, Seduction) – Sherlock narrowed his eyes. He was missing a vital piece of data, he was sure. John had been looking at him oddly ever since they left Buckingham Palace, and the ensuing incident with Irene Adler had only exacerbated his erratic behaviour. What was it? Why would he care that Sherlock was a virgin? There was nothing reminiscent of mockery or pity in his gaze. And then it hit him. John Watson was aroused.

Talk by illwick (E, 6,364 w., 1 Ch. || Dirty Talk, John’s Giant Junk, PWP, Light BDSM, Size Kink, Oral / Anal, Rough Sex, Dirty Talk, Established Rel., John Calls Sherlock Love) – Sherlock was never much for dirty talk... until an unexpected visit yields unexpected results. Part 20 of Unwind

Survival Instinct by shirleyholmes (T, 7,162 w., 1 Ch. || Post-TRF, First Kiss, Schmoop, Nightmares, Fluff & Angst, Grief, Idiots in Love) – After Sherlock's "comeback" John starts obsessing with constantly making sure he's alive (checking his heartbeat etc.)

Of Razors, Pipes, Red Notebooks and Rugby Jerseys, Or: Sherlock Doesn't Like His Doctors Clean Shaven by allonsys_girl (E, 7,313 w., 1 Ch. || Est. Rel., PWP / Porn With Feelings, John’s Beard / Beard Kink, Roleplay, Love Declarations, Banter, Rimming, Anal, Domestic Fluff / Bliss, Idiots in Love, Emotional Lovemaking, Pet Names, Obsessive Sherlock, Sherlock POV, Bottomlock, Cranky Sherlock) – John grows a beard. Sherlock really likes it. Part 1 of Consulting Husbands

The Invocation of Saint Margaret by Ewebie (E, 15,831 w., 1 Ch. || POV John, Crossing Timelines, Light Angst, Fluff, Series 3 John / Series 1 Sherlock, The Matchbox, Mushy Romance, First Time, Bisexual John, Pining John, Bottomlock, Love Confessions, Sensuality, Emotional Love Making, Snippets of Time) – When Sherlock Holmes opens the matchbox from The Sign of Three and John finds himself years in the past, back to that first dinner at Angelo's with a much younger Sherlock Holmes. Is he dreaming?

The Burning of the Leaves by blueink3 (M, 15,915 w., 3 Ch. || Post S4, Angst, Reichenbach, Parentlock, Past Jolto, Idiot John, Sherlock’s a Mess, Puppies, Fluff, Possessive / Jealous Sherlock, Pining Sherlock, Sherlock POV, Matchmaker Sholto, Melancholic Feelings, Emotional Sherlock, Domesticity, Love Confessions in the Rain, Kissing in the Rain, Pet Names, Panic Attack) – After the events of series 4, Major Sholto invites John and Sherlock to lunch one day. It nearly proves to be too much for their tenuous relationship as the past haunts the present, putting the future that Sherlock so desperately wants at risk.

26 Pieces by Lanning (E, 28,236 w., 1 Ch. || H/C, Torture, First Time, Happy Ending, Schmoop) – Mycroft gives Sherlock the apparently simple task of solving a puzzle box containing a stolen microchip. It isn't simple.

The Winter Garden by Callie4180 (T, 31,213 w., 13 Ch. || Post-S4, Retirement, Christmas, Slow Burn, Grown-Up Rosie, Parenthood, Rosie’s Cat, Angst with Happy Ending, Holidays, Beekeeping, Magical Realism, Sherlock POV, Sherlock’s Violin, Future Fic, Sussex, Honey, Magical Healing Honey, Love Confessions, Sherlock’s Scar, First Kiss, Touching) – As Sherlock nears the end of his career, he's given the gift of a cottage in Sussex. The honey from the beehives out back is amazing. Almost...magical.

Anchor Point by trickybonmot (E, 49,856 w., 80 Ch. || Truman Show AU || Psychological Drama, Suspense, Slow Burn, Dark Characters / Fic, Alternating First/Third Person, Protective John, Anxious/Worried Sherlock, Tender Moments, Love Confessions, Hand/Blow Jobs, Cuddling, Jealous John, First Kiss/Time) – The world tunes in nightly for Sherlock, the ultimate in reality TV: Sherlock Holmes, a real person with a legendary name, unknowingly lives out his life in a staged setting contrived by his brother. Things get complicated when a retired army doctor joins the show to play the part of Sherlock's closest friend. This fic borrows its concept from the 1998 film, the Truman Show. However, you don't need to have any knowledge of the movie to enjoy this story.

The Summer Boy by khorazir (T, 94,706 w., 6 Ch. || Post S3/Post TAB/Alternate S4, Friends to Lovers, Flashbacks, Sussex, Bullying, 1980′s Kid Sherlock, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Inexperienced Sherlock, Grief/Mourning, Pining Sherlock, Background Case Fic) – About half a year after the fateful events at Appledore, Sherlock and John embark on a private case in Sussex. For Sherlock, it’s a journey into his past, bringing up memories both happy and sad that he has locked away for almost thirty years. For John, it means coming to terms with the present – and a potential future with Sherlock. Part 1 of the The Summer Boy series

Northwest Passage by Kryptaria (E, 95,157 w., 27 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Canadian AU || BAMF!John, Canadian John, PTSD, Anal / Oral Sex, Rimming, Emotional Hurt / Comfort, Drug Rehab, Falling in Love, Pining Sherlock, Love Confessions, Sherlock’s Violin, Panic Attacks, Switching, Anxious / Protective Sherlock, Hugs for Comfort, Suicide Mentions, Healing Each Other) – Seven years ago, Captain John Watson of the Canadian Forces Medical Service withdrew from society, seeking a simple, isolated life in the distant northern wilderness of Canada. Though he survives from one day to the next, he doesn't truly live until someone from his dark past calls in a favor and turns his world upside-down with the introduction of Sherlock Holmes." Part 1 of Tales from the Northwest

The Wedding Garments by cwb (E, 105,390 w., 36 Ch. || Alternate Future AU || , Alternate First Meeting, Dating / Arranged Marriages, Romance, First Kiss/Time, Heavy Petting, Cuddles, POV Sherlock, Virgin Sherlock, Idiots in Love, Slow Burn / Falling in Love / Dev. Rel., Nervous/Anxious Sherlock, Jealous/Cranky, Hiking, Vacation Homes / Honeymoon, Sherlock’s Family, Horny John/Sherlock, Patient John, Massages, Hand Jobs, Assassination Plots, Hand Jobs / Oral Sex) – This is the story of a young consulting detective who wants nothing to do with marriage and an army doctor who wants to find true love. It's 2020 post-Brexit England and the British government is encouraging arranged marriages. Candidates meet through state-run agencies and date in hopes of finding love (and tax benefits). Sherlock doesn't need or want a spouse, at least not until John Watson shows up. Hesitant to give in to his more carnal urges because of the way they derail his mind, how will Sherlock progress toward the more intimate aspects of a relationship? The answer lies in a very special wedding gift.

The Bang and the Clatter by earlgreytea68 (M, 137,049 w., 37 Ch. || PODFIC AVAILABLE || Baseball AU || Slow Burn / Dev. Rel., Possessive/Obsessive Sherlock, Jealous Sherlock, Mutual Pining, Body Appreciation, Depression, Closeted Sexuality, Family, Sherlock’s Mind Palace, Ogling Each Other, Anxious Sherlock, Panic Attack, Drunkenness, Talk of Forever, Big Feelings™) – Sherlock Holmes is a pitcher and John Watson is a catcher. No, no, no, it's a baseball AU. Part 1 of Baseball

OTHER PET NAMES

A Christmas Holiday by consultinggalpals (sansa_undergrind) (G, 1,076 w., 1 Ch. || Tooth Rotting Fluff, Christmas, Honeymoon) – "Come on, Sherlock. Just take the picture already.”

Unquantifiable by 221b_hound (M, 2,799 w. 1 Ch. || Est. Rel., Sherlock/Sally Friendship, Grumpy John, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Pet Names, Texting, Sweet Sherlock, Princess Bride References) – John remains a terrible and foul-tempered patient, but he does try to make up for it with pet names and text message silliness. In the meantime, Sally Donovan visits Baker Street for a hint about the Milverton case, and has to deal with a Sherlock Holmes who can't find words big enough to thank her for saving John's life at the warehouse. For afters, there's a viewing of The Princess Bride. Part 33 of the Unkissed series

Pillow Talk by scullyseviltwin (M, 5,183 w., 1 Ch. || Post-S3, Angsty Fluff, PIllow Talk, Bed Sharing, Worried John, First Time Morning After, Soft Sherlock, Sexuality Discussion, Love Confessions, Kisses and Cuddles) – John has been looking at Sherlock for ages, it feels like.

A Study in Winning by Jupiter_Ash (E, 106,658 w., 11 Ch. || Tennis AU || John POV, Dirty Talk, Mutual Pining, Misunderstandings, Happy Ending, Sherlock Speaks French, Switchlock, Wimbledon) – John and Sherlock are professional tennis players and it’s Wimbledon. One is a broken almost was at the end of his career, the other an arrogant rising star tipped for greatness. It should have been a straightforward tournament. It really should have been. How were they to know that a chance encounter would change everything? Part 1 of Tennis

#steph replies #johnlock fic recs #pet names #my fic recs #my john #effortlesslie #long post #e-rated fics

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bisexual-books · 4 years

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Dustin’ off the ole blog (or why I don’t feel bad for Becky Albertali)

Hey guys. Wow. Its been like two years since anybody posted here and three since I wrote anything of substance? In my defense I adopted a teen so life got super duper busy around that time, but now that I’ve (mostly) sorted out the day to day parenting stuff, I’m back. At least for today. Because whooo boy do I have A LOT thoughts and feelings about the situation with Becky Albertali.

So let’s jump right in : I don’t feel bad for Becky Albertali . Not at all. I think she is wrong and am not moved by her medium post. I think Gabby Dunn is on the right track to criticize her and I would like do so as well because I think she is wrong.

What Albertali (and her twitter fans) seem to willfully ignore in her medium piece is that readers don’t side-eye straight authors without good reason. We do it because over and over and over again, straight authors do a shit job of writing about queer issues, creating realistic queer characters, and discussing queer issues. How does an author earn the ability to avoid that side-eye? How do they avoid questions, comments, and concerns about their ability to do those things in their writing? By being an open and proud member of the queer community ie coming out. Coming out is important and difficult work in a fundamentally heterosexist society, and hence is rewarded as such by our community. If you don’t do that work, why exactly should I or any other queer person give you that cachet?

Fundamentally I see Becky Albertali wanting the socio-emotional bennies of queer author status, without doing the work of coming out. And I’m just not finding much sympathy for that. She is not owed the benefit of the doubt by readers, particularly queer readers. She has to earn it. Yes, it probably was difficult for her to be questioned about her orientation while questioning, but those questions are reasonable and legitimate.

Queer readers don’t just sit around like a dragon hording legitimacy and saying ‘mwhahaha’ to poor little straight authors. We do this as a self-protection mechanism with good reason. We’ve experienced characters that are just a grab bag of stereotypes. We’ve been gutted when straight authors we trusted as allies say horribly offensive things. We’ve read arguments about queer people that bear no resemblance to our real lives and we’ve literally cried ourselves to sleep over disappointing, nasty, rude, offensive, and heartbreaking books (at least I have).

If Becky Albertali and her defenders want to make life easier on queer authors, then instead of blaming queer readers for asking those questions, they need to interrogate why those questions need to be asked and how to reduce that need.

Instead I see Albertali in her medium piece blaming queer readers for needing to protect themselves, for needing to side-eye, for needing the explicit power of #ownvoices and support of out authors. I don’t see her piece putting rightful, blame on straight people and straight culture that created these situations in the first place. Blaming queer readers for daring to question her is a pernicious type of victim blaming, and I have no time or patience for that. We erect these walls to protect our own hearts and souls, not because we’re big meanies. If you don’t want to be on the wrong side of the wall, then help dismantle the need for it. Don’t blame us for its existence.

I’ve seen some people on twitter say this is somehow gatekeeping or cutting people off from exploring/discovering their queerness in art. And I think that argument is off base. No one was preventing Alberteli from making her art. She could have written in a notebook or on Smashwords for all the days of her life. People can make a dozen deviantart accounts or twitter accounts or AO3 accounts or tumblr accounts or discord servers and post their queer art creations all over the internet while they work out their queer feelings. It is easy and free and no one is stopping anyone else from doing so.

However I think when you cross the line from creating your queer art to profiting off your queer art, something fundamentally changes. The stakes go up. Queer readers need to know so they can decide who to trust with their hard earned cash. We live in capitalism, man. If you think that sucks, help dismantle that too.

Albertali looked back in her piece, so I also want to cast back to early 2015, when Albertali first published Simon vs the Homo Sapiens Agenda. Bi YA author Corrine Duyvis woudn’t coin the term/hastag #ownvoices until September of that year. And it was A LOT easier to get a YA book with LGBTQ characters published if you were straight. How do I know that? Because it was like pulling teeth to find queer authors writing queer characters outside of small queer presses. I was hardcore book blogging at that time. The mainstream publishing industry side-eyed YA/kidlit queer authors, especially those who were less polished due to poverty/educational attainment/systemic racism/disability, to favor straight white authors with post-graduate degrees along with a handful of token queer authors that were already a part of the publishing industry. This was slowly changing but it hadn’t changed that much. It was still easier to get a queer YA published as a straight person.

And Albertali knowingly entered into and profited off that system.

She literally has cash in the bank off the publication of the book Simon vs the Homo Sapiens Agenda, the subsequent film that became Love Simon, the subsequent book reprints and merchandise under the name Love Simon and the subsequent Love Victor show on Hulu. They sold Love Simon shirts at Hot Topic for $20 for crying out loud. She was able to obtain that money, prominence, and influence because she presented herself as a straight woman.

There is no comparable story in queer authorland because queer authors are simply not given the opportunity to turn their queer novels into multimedia cash cow franchises. The closest thing I can think of is Armistand Maupin’s ‘Tales of the City‘ and that took 20 years to be made into a tv miniseries with subsequent books. That was 27 years ago and to my knowledge, no one sold shirts. So for most of my/ Albertali’s lifetime, there has been no viable path to create a queer media empire as a queer author. None.

Until Albertali did it while pretending to be a straight girl.

She says that she legitimately did not know she was queer when Simon vs the Homo Sapiens Agenda was published or when Leah on the Offbeat was written. It does suck that she had to figure that out while living such a public life and I feel bad that it was hard. But honestly it sucks for everyone to figure that out. It sucks to figure that out as an isolated teen or a professional adult. Its just an emotionally grueling process. Wanna make it better for future people? Again work to disable heterosexism and heterocentrism in wider society. Blaming queer people for that heterosexism and heterocentrism, and chiding them for not giving you unearned benefits of the doubt doesn’t do anything to disable those systems. No one forced you to sign a movie deal or do a ton of interviews, you did that all on your own. Ignorance of the consequences of your own actions doesn’t exempt you from having to deal with them.

Only very very recently has the publishing landscape shifted so #ownvoices is a selling point instead of a liability. Only very very recently (and I would argue very minimally) has the publishing industry valued #ownvoices authors enough to nurture and polish their skills with open submissions and contests for people who don’t have grad degree levels of writing skills. And Albertali is upset at being excluded from this? When she literally has the educational privileges of a doctorate and significantly more money than the average queer author has made in my lifetime?

The closet sucks but no one forced Albertali to stay in it and queer people didn’t create it. She chose to publish and license her work to reap the benefits, and as such also reaps the consequences. Apparently one such consequence was that it was personally difficult for her to understand her sexuality and her mental health was poor. Well.... until we can disassemble heteropatriarchy that is the world we live in. Get your queer house in order before you go pro and open yourself up to real reactions from queer readers. But if like Albertali, you don’t do that while choosing more and more publicity and raking in wheelbarrows full of cash, well, don’t expect much sympathy from me.

- Sarah

#becky albertalli #coming out #the closet #queer readers #queer authors #gabby dunn #ownvoices #yes I'm still mad about Bermudez Triangle #84 years later #essays #bisexual authors

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seb-owns-these-tatas · 4 years

Text

Witcher of the Night (Chapter 23)

THIS IS MODERN ERA READER WHO WOKE UP IN THE DIMENSION OF THE WITCHER.

CHAPTER 22

WOTN MASTERLIST

Characters: Geralt of Rivia x small!Naive!Reader

Summary: You only needed a little push from the Druid to blurt out what is needed to be said out in the open. It was time to finally recognize such feelings you have for the witcher who is out to hunt for the witch that will set you free. Thus, making you yearn more for him when you're currently still in a fight with the man himself.

Warnings: I've customized Kolby in this story of mine. He talks a little. Heh. Derogatory attitudes and words. No Still, no Geralt yet. Full blown Geralt perspective on chapter 23.1! (Not 1st POV) It will be posted earlier in Wattpad. Hehehehe.

Words: 6k

A/N: Updates might be a lot slower than usual when September starts because it's the start of our online school. 😊 That's why I'm doing my effort in posting updates as much as possible. Feedbacks will be so nice to receive especially for an author. 😊 Also, CAN’T THEY JUST MAKE-UP ALREADY? I MISS WRITING FLUFF FOR THEM?!

TAGLIST IS STILL OPEN FOR THIS ONE! Heehee! Don’t forget to REBLOG, COMMENT OR GIVE FEEDBACK IF YOU DID LOVE THIS CHAPTER! IT’LL MAKE ME SMILE! Sorry for the grammatical errors and such because English isn’t my mother tongue! PLEASE LEAVE FEEDBACK AFTER READING, BB! I apologize for errors!

Disclaimer: PNG’s and pictures used in edits are not mine even the GIF’s too. Character development and personalities are based from my understanding and how I want them to be. I only own my original characters in this fanfic.

MY WORKS ARE NOT NOT NOT NOT NOOOOOOT TO BE POSTED ON ANY OTHER WEBSITES. My official username in Wattpad is “TATATHEPOTATO” and that’s the only other site I have for writing aside from Tumblr. Thank you, Tater tots!

(I know that ain't a Hirikka. Just looks like one. Hehe. It's a Madagascar Lemure to be specific. So cute. Literally looks like a Hirikka or Kolby but a smaller version! 😍)

By your sudden reckoning after days of physical torture, you deserve a reward for having your hypothesis correct. The palace guards has taken you all close to a stock still riverbed; stagnant and utterly too tranquil to begin with that it has given you doubts over how safe it is. Living with the witcher has made you more cautious over your surroundings, thinking that there would always be monsters hiding around or beneath the dark stream of water where minnows constantly waggled along your toes as you tried to test the temperature of the water.

The river curved gently through the forest, your eyes scanning all around and wary for any beasts to surprise you out of the blue. Every women began to grab onto a pile of dirt stained clothes scattered on the dry, rocky ground as you were calf deep within the rivers, looking through the trees while you stood on your place---seeing for any broken branches looking like it has been eaten or moved by a gigantic beast.

Remembering the witcher's knowledge about monsters, giving you some of the basics. He'd told you about foot prints seen on the ground as it could also be a hint that monsters may be wandering around the place.

You've felt a hand shoving your shoulders forward to disturb you out of your thoughts, the mild splashing of water coming from your stumbling body as you heard the voices of one, ill-bred castle guard, "It's safe. The servants have been washing clothes in ere' since before you even feckin' arrived," he curtly spat with no remorse. Drops of his saliva watering your face like rainfall which has made you scrunch your nose in disgust.

"We shouldn't be too sure," ambivalent of the whole place, you uttered in complete hesitance.

The castle guard boastfully crossed his arms in front of you, tilting his chin high to show how he was pressing on his dominance over a servant slash prisoner he believed you to be---his judgement being also based upon your connection with a witcher which has made him more repellant and hateful.

"Stop blathering, witcha's whore. Do your job."

There was no use to that especially that every man and woman surrounding you began to rudely stare---criticising your shilly-shallying and thinking that you were doing it to lessen your work time. All the tension was adding stones to your chest because you sincerely didn't want to do any of it at all.

One begrudging sigh and a glum frown was all it took for your feet to leave the rivers, carrying the heavyness of being trapped and controlled by people acting like they owned everything of you.

This was probably how peasants were back in history and it was humiliating to be under their jurisdiction when you have been used to freedom back in your dimension no matter how depressing it can be to be alone and a commoner.

You sat on a big pile of rock around the river bed, your knuckles turning beet red from how you have been scrubbing all clothing, under garments, any type of fabric that has got you feeling as if muscles would build up around your shoulders and arms from how thick and thin they can become. Minding your own business and wanting to finish the chores as soon as possible---being secluded from the group of chattering servants who were a few meters away from you that their abrupt jests and teases haven't been heard by you. One tall, slim maiden managed to stroll along your way, through the riverbed as she loudly called which has gotten giggles of mischievousness from the women.

"Oi! Witcher's tramp!" she loudly spoke whilst the cold wind passed by, "---I heard you're damned just like the butcher,"

Your movements have been ceased by her blatant pillory. But, you went on scrubbing the clothing on your hands while lowly murmuring a tired warning.

"Leave me alone."

Cold sweat began to drip on your temples and neck. The healing bruises on your back slightly feeling sore and you couldn't help but stretch your back upon sitting down on the rocks. Once the maiden was up close as you've seen her shadows nearby, giving her a plain gander; your memory washed through when you've seen her face.

Drishti. She was the woman who looked to be in a close relationship with the senior servants who seemed to also be mocking other women as a playful jest.

Though, you doubt yours have just been playful teases.

She swiftly turned away to crouch beside you, grabbing onto the finished fabrics that were already clean. The giggling woman dropped the wet bundle of clothes over your head that has made you breathless for too much frustrations going to your head, intentionally ruining your work and mockingly stating her apologies when some of it went straight down the waters, soiling them again.

"The queen wants it squeaky clean. No tarnishes. Leave er' out until your knuckles are bleedin'! I've seen dirt with your work---wouldn't want the queen to scold us now, don't we?"

Otker has just been watching the whole scene before him with a frown etched on his face. He didn't want to involve in such problems that women try to stir with each other especially that other knights and sentinels actually came with them. But, seeing you being bludgeoned for their entertainment was giving himself more guilt while hearing more of what they were saying.

The others began to saunter towards where you both were. Mischievous grins curling their lips as they prowled closer to where Drishti was and stopping beside her with their hands on their hips, wiping their wet hands on their aprons.

"I doubt you would be able to wash all these clothing by yourself," Drishti stated, proud of ruining your work and seeing you submissively peeling off the clothes covering your head one by one in a lethargic manner. No words spoken by the witcher's tramp that they have been calling you since the day you've seen them.

"You seem to be in a moribund by how pale ye' are! Definitely the witcher's bride!" the other maiden noticed as she crouched near you, her face closely in a few inches from yours. Yet, you didn't give her your attention and continued to ignore whatever they were doing. Fed up by all their oppression about being Geralt's whore. The label quite affecting you more and more each day as they try to make you realize that it was all your worth to him.

They weren't helping after the fight you had with him as it was still fresh inside your head, stressing you out with a want to claw anyone in your way.

"Your stupid witcher killed my knightly hombre for a floozie like ye'!" Drishti snarled, raising her foot to kick you on the side before seeing her in your peripheral vision and blocking her assaults with a shove of your hands, pushing her calf away from your body.

"---Not. My. Stomach. Bitch."

The bitchy maiden squinted her eyes, guessing as to why you seem to be in a flurry and protective state over the stomach you've suddenly held dear. She tilted her chin, comprehending what was keeping you all guarded rather than accepting their tyrannizes just like how you've been days before.

You were acting like a pregnant woman, she thought in the back of her mind. Now, Drishti knew you were basically fucking the witcher---and you were too naive to know that he was sterile.

Though, they never know anything at all besides that.

"Feisty and defensive, aye! Ye' growin' a cub down there? I doubt!" she scoffed from the idea and how you were avoiding her eyes, guilty from being caught, "---you've gone doolally if you ever think the witcher gots you pregnant, harlot!"

Drishti was about to tug onto your hair when your guarding has been on the low, choosing to ignore her. Like a shot, an uninvited whisk of a wind passed by. The gasps and yelps of people around started to begin again with buzzes of incoherent gossips. Their fingers pointing towards an undesirable visitor who can never be accepted by people in their land.

A familiar growl vibrated beside you, making you turn your head to see your Hirikka standing for safeguard. His fangs shown towards Drishti who was now sitting upon the riverbed, her bottom drenched in her own clothes from being shoved by the beast you call your own, looking like she has seen her own fears appear before her.

"Kolby?" sweetly called by you, gasping afterwards by feeling the relief wash over, "---Kolby! I thought you were gone,"

Upon the de trop invitation of the Hirikka, pandemonium started to arise for his presence. Wary of the sound of swords unsheathing from their covers and gallants suddenly coming forth towards the both of you.

It suddenly made you stand up in defense, hiding Kolby behind whilst you fought for his life.

"Kill it!" Roger, the head guard suddenly started his upheaval. Marching towards you with his sword on his side, paranoid over the monster that they're seeing.

"Stop! he's harmless! Just feral because you are using your swords on him!" Their actions made you shout at the top of your lungs, making them cease their steps when Kolby swiftly turned to change position and stood in front, safeguarding you from everyone he sees peril.

One sentinel huffed in abhorrence, his face shadowing outrage for the brute trying to protect another human. Disbelief written inside their eyes as Kolby continued to loudly howl in the middle of the forest and riverbed.

"That's a feckin' monster you gots there, you foolish woman!"

You reached for the Hirikka, softly petting his head which quickly have him calm down in the slightest, leaning his muzzle closer to your face as he purred. Noting his particular stench that he had from being away for days and out in the forest.

"Kolby is harmless! I can even pet him! He will prove you all that this Hirikka is harmless for anyone. Would you do the honors, Otker?"

The forest green eyed man suppressed all his opinions to himself as he observed what was happening. Reveling in his own silence, his name was abruptly called out of the blue, snapping from his own dwam as Otker surveyed the looks of everyone who were scattered around him, their defense up and alert whilst they hold their weapons.

"M-Must it be me?" he stuttered and tweeted, his weight shifting from one foot to the other while his foot tapped on the ground. Otker seeming to be reluctant from your suggestion when he'd given Kolby a scan of his eyes as the Hirikka barred his teeth dispassionately, distinguishing to be a smile that caught the chevalier in surprise.

"---He's harmless, lads. Unless you're keeping his master in danger then he'll bite,"

Nobody believed him. That wasn't new to a newly employed knight who hadn't reach years of working for the kingdom.

One Kaedweni scout yelled his hatred over your monster out in the open, "Slaughter the beast and behead!"

They've all taken one step forward. Their stance never capitulating no matter how much convincing was ever told. Kolby vehemently yowled and barked in the middle of their pussyfooting till they could reach you both. It sounded like a howl of a wolf who was calling for its kind. Their obstinacy made you squawk out of nowhere, rattling the quietude of the forest as you felt your heart pounding faster and louder against your chest. Your temples thumping in torment because your head was starting to ache from the stress they were trying to give and for also feeling your other half's current state.

Your screams made them jerk back, the maidens clearing their throat and subtly stepping back from your sudden outrage.

"I'd like to see you try before I tell him to rip your head first while I feed your balls off to fuckin' Ghouls!" you shrieked and panted, feeling another gist of a panic-attack about to happen. Your emotions were starting to be a squall before a hurricane, utterly ferocious and turbulent because of the pent-up aggression kept for days long.

"---Just leave me the fuck alone for this once! You're all insane for annoying the shit out of me since the moment I got here! I've been doing everything you wanted! Wasn't all the drubbing enough?! Call me the witcher's whore, tramp, harlot, his sex-doll for all I care! I know my face shows how I'm always thirsty for Geralt's dick but you don't need to know that! JUST LEAVE ME ALONE!" pause. "---FUCKING ASSHOLES IN THE MEDIEVAL ERA! YOU'RE STRESSING ME OUT!"

You were a towering rage set in a small body of a woman. Your face wild and vicious---in the verge of crying and wanting to bring back the time where you have never drowned in a lake you hardly remember; for it to have the power of never transporting into another dimension that was staring to take a toll on you, never wanting to have met Geralt along the way so you wouldn't have love him too much just like how you do now.

Thinking about his whereabouts every single day despite of being thoroughly upset over him, still caring for him even knowing that he didn't even loved you.

Tears were being squeezed from the eyes who have already cried all night and day. But, it seemed like it decided not to give the people in front---the taste of your desperation for peace and happiness especially without your anchorage who happened to be breaking the chains for you.

Roger took a step back, hearing growling from afar and not just from your Hirikka. His head snapped to where the noise where coming from when he was suddenly standing stiff from where he stood, eyeing a dozen of wild Hirikkas grouping themselves from the other side of the river. Grimy and nasty looking more than Kolby; taller, bigger and some were buffed like a bear. Their teeth barred for everyone to see as the monsters were scanning them one by one with their wild golden eyes.

The kaedweni sentinels seen it all, even the maidens who were silently panicking from seeing such monsters prowling away from them, standing to watch what was happening as if Kolby was their alpha. They all looked at Roger who begrudgingly sheathed his sword, ignoring your dispute with a single nod of his head for his men.

"They're everywhere. The beast must've called for reinforcements," he exhaled a breath of exasperation, taking a gander to give you a glare.

"---Stand down, lads."

All at once, they've yielded their weapons. Some shaking their heads at what they were witnessing. However, most were sending crude remarks over your relationship with a monster they believed and had profound repugnance over its kind.

"You're...You're a feckin' mutant too! Get your feckin' monster out of ere' before we kill ye' instead!"

Nevertheless, as each hour and days pass by. It seems like their ridicules sound like a normal thing to hear now after a ton of shameless monikers coming from them whenever they were seeing you. Becoming numb over what humans think of because you were simply associated with Geralt of Rivia. A witcher in their world. Catching more undisputed names that you hardly know as he seemed not to be the only witcher that people knew.

Hushed words were buzzing through the air whilst everyone tried hard to go back to their chores. The guards being more wary and defensive especially that the Hirikkas on the other end didn't leave the rivers after raising the white flag. Servants couldn't look you in the eye now after the commotion or particularly because Kolby was crouched beside while you went back to sit on the large stone.

He was breathing out large breaths through his snout while you scrubbed the dirty laundry again that Drishti has ruined, hearing a primal murmur of an animalistic whirr of his lungs.

"Ger...Ger...alt...Gwenn...bleid,"

Your eyes simply went wide at that, quickly understanding what words he was trying to form. Blood seeming to be pumping faster through your heart like you were hearing the first words of your child, excitement and curiosity rushing all around.

"You talk?! Are you curious as to where Geralt is?" Kolby gave a wince of his muzzle, snarling to himself like his sudden talking was making him hurt. You've quickly reached out and scratched the back of his long, wide, sharp ears that made him bark in felicity.

"He's not here though. Geralt is probably out in the woods hunting for the witch to get me out of this castle. Then, after that...I'm probably going back to where I came from because we had a fight,"

Kolby's doe eyes stared straight to your soul, whimpering as if he understood what you meant. The Hirikka subtly shook his head, making you furrow your brows from his peculiar gestures.

"You don't believe me?" only a loud sniff of his nose was given as an answer. He made a noise at the back of his throat that only he could do---sounding like a purr and a growl. Kolby sniffed another on your apron, across your stomach before promptly sitting up straight. His eyes as wide as the sun was shining above you whilst he suddenly screeched in a high-pitch tone for three times. Pausing in every yelp that got you covering your ears for how loud it was.

You were about to ask him what was wrong when he stood up on his paws, his teeth chattering like how cats are whenever they're on a hunt. The other Hirikkas loudly howling before Kolby sprinted beside you and paved away for the second time.

"Kolby! No! Come back! Not again!"

Your Hirikka was the only precious warmth you could remember like how a home can give. But, now; even Kolby was running away from you just like how Geralt chose to disregard the warmth you sincerely felt for him.

"Can't I have one day of rest?"

The exhausting day finally came to an end. Your chest feeling more and more heavier each day---probably having more weight than what you usually hold on to when you're upset. With Geralt's feelings overflowing yours and combining with the disappointment you had for him.

In the deepest part of your heart, there was still the obvious yearning to be in the arms of your witcher as days went on. The curse of the djinn being also somewhat a connection of souls you had with Geralt. Combination of feelings being stronger each day but never knowing what it truly was. Undisclosed secrets never been told to each other which heightened more of the weight on both of your shoulders.

With your back towards the door, the druid stood upon the threshold with stuff on his feeble arms.

"Wear this," Eanraig took several steps closer, placing the basket of womanly essentials on the side table of your bed. He slowly lowered the dress on the foot of the mattress before you rolled on your back with a whimper of your sore muscles.

"---The queen has set you a gown for a feast,"

"Is this the day I die?" you deadpanned, staring at the ceiling, "---this happens in the movies. They become good to me for one day because I'm dying the next. I'm naive, but not entirely stupid. Thanks, Eanraig."

Lifting yourself up on the bed, your back leaning against the headboard. You've maneuvered on all fours, crawling towards the lacy gown displayed along the golden sheets of the mattress. The color of the dress singing praises over the hues laid upon. Raising quite a heavy dress saluting back at you was a raven painted renaissance dress dangling over the bust part of a woman's body with a thin, see through fabric that fell along the arms like a sleeve to cover them up.

It was beautiful since black was a color you've always opted to wear back in earth. The color being basic and not difficult to match up with accessories. Yet, the whole gown seemed to be a planned outfit because of how gothic it looked, like the dress was meant to wear for something else.

Your mouth fell into a gloomy frown, realizing what this whole jet-black look was giving.

"A death dress. Wow. I'm impressed."

Eanraig couldn't help but scratch the nape of his neck, avoiding your callous guise and the idea of what you said, "If you still want to live or see the Witcher and give him his progeny then you must attend the feast that was planned for you---somehow, it is."

Dropping the dress back on the sheets, your mouth was set on a thin line as you speak, "---and pretend I'm happy like they didn't beat the shit out of me?"

There was a beat of silence that filled the chambers he was in. Eanraig unconsciously scratched his whitening beard, sitting on the side of the bed beside you, "Just remember to stay low and never create a scene,"

"Tell your knights to not touch me then,"

A long deafening pause lingered between you. Eanraig's grey eyes filled with dread from what he misunderstood over what was said, quickly thinking about your witcher when he knows you have been 'touched' without your consent. Geralt would never get to tranquilize his savagery regardless whether a sorceress, wizard or any of the royal family stood before him when you have been abused for more than what was expected.

They've promised not to touch you. The witcher wouldn't take such broken promises without having their heads sliced from his hands.

"Were you..." the druid uttered and was lost in his trepidation, suggesting that their assaults have been more to that.

You were quick to shake your head firmly, swallowing that uncomfortable feeling down your throat from even just thinking about it. Knights and guards never did touch you in that way because of how they've loathed your relationship by being the witcher's tramp---thinking that you were one disgusting human they can never tolerate to try and bed you. Somehow, you were thankful that they've found you disgusting rather than appealing because you didn't know what to do nor have the energy to live on their world knowing that they have paved their way to have you.

Your spine felt the cold prickle, making you shiver and grabbing a hold of yourself by placing both of your palms on either side of your arms, more hopeless without any comfort around you but yourself.

"No. Not in that kind, Eanraig." pause. You've quickly changed the topic, "---I've never had any sleep since the moment Geralt left."

It's definitely not comfortable to be sleeping in a huge castle where memories of men beating you up shadowed on the four corners of the room. Frigidness completing your night where you have done nothing but stare from a distance, waiting for the moment where it was finally time to leave. The jocular memories filling your evening with nothing but the smiles of Jaskier, Cirilla and Geralt, excruciating when it came to reminiscing in the exact moment where Geralt had you in his arms by night, shushing you to sleep when he wasn't out to kill actual monsters and he was just there to protect you from yours.

"Having no proper sleep may harm the baby."

A sardonic laugh filled the room. The baby inside you was giving more complications upon staying in the castle, knowing that Ingrith hated you for it and for what the child was capable of. If only she could slice your throat, she probably would have done it in your sleep. Yet, the sorceress seemed to be like a person who held a name where she couldn't do any obvious wicked schemes that will harm her status.

"It's not like this castle isn't dangerous 24/7. You think I can sleep knowing that Geralt would actually leave me alone and I raise this child all by myself in a world I hardly know about?"

Now, Eanraig had the chance to skip the topic to something else, trying not to stress you more because he knew that a pregnant woman shouldn't be in distress from any begrudging news or complications. In due course, he was finally understanding that you overthink about such things where it could be affecting your mental state no matter how sooner or later, you'll be muttering how Geralt could sip tea with his monsters then sobbing afterwards because you were mindlessly missing to stay at his home. All away from the troubles that everyone was giving.

"I am unaware of women's essentials. But, I have brought you what I have retrieved from Cynthia. She has adviced for you to doll up being pretty as a princess," he was caught up in his own thoughts, pointing at a basket laid beside the bed. An unfamiliar name of a woman that he hardly ever mentioned until tonight.

With the ends of your lips raising into a smile, you couldn't stop the teasing gaze given to the druid which made him throatily chuckle while crawling to take a peek inside the basket, "It's...make up. This Cynthia you call, is she your wife?" unconsciously, your brows wiggled to goad over how timorous he suddenly became.

Even the magical so called 'druid' had his own rocky relationship with a woman.

Love. What's in it for you between Geralt? was it the affection bound to be felt for him?

You were reading the signs---his signs as if he was being hot and cold. Push and pull. Jumping and then taking a step back whenever he was swimming too deep, hesitant over such that you may never know until he tells.

"I'm afraid so, Little woman. But hardly my betrothed." the scholar chuckled and shook his head, turning his head to see you shuffle under the sheets, slipping in and hugging the blanket over your body longing for a witcher's touch regardless of being in a fight with him.

"Not official then. Hmm."

"You are starting to be the same as your witcher,"

A brow was lifted as you heard him acknowledge the fact that you were catching onto Geralt's habits of humming, your mouth forming a tight thin line as if he was sharing that you were slowly becoming one with him.

"Thanks for the dress and make-up, Eanraig. I just want to leave this castle for good already." you sneered, promptly laying down on the bed. Your back away from the druid which got him raising his brows because of your never ending worries.

Well, if you weren't living in a world like theirs and accidentally transported to their dimension with the lore of monsters---he certainly would go crazy just like how you were deeply pondering over circumstances.

"Back where you came from? Or back in your home with Geralt?"

"I...don't know,"

The bed squeaked as Eanraig shifted against the mattress, scooting closer to prove the witcher's understandable logic, "You know he didn't mean to say that. If anyone knows more about him in this castle, it must be you, Little Woman." he stated as a matter of fact, leaving no arguments on the latter part of his sentence.

Though, feeling attacked over pointing the blame on you felt like wildfire.

"He called me pathetic and wanted me to shut up, Eanraig."

"He's been called more than just displeasing names if we were to talk about his experiences. Geralt has created barriers over people that sometimes slips in between moments like this," he paused for a beat of second, continuing to provide more assurance and knowledge over his perspectives.

"---Maybe, you must have upset him too---hurt him in such ways which made him defensively talk back,"

Your lower lip quivered from the horrid truth that Geralt's friend managed to let out for you to think through, saving the best reason for last about the motives why you were acting snappy and cranky from the start.

"He doesn't love me,"

The scholar couldn't help but lowly chuckle beneath his breath, sounding like a scorn or derision that made you curl up like a ball under the sheets that was thrown over your head.

"But, he's out there finding a witch that is difficult to find. Correct?" pause. "---Even had killed men for you that no other men could do in the continent. So, how sure are you to say that his feelings aren't love?"

Another dreading beat of silence came after. The constant pauses being a fear for receiving more hurtful truths that kept you whining throughout the night.

You kicked your foot inside the sheets, facing front against the bed like a plank. Your voice sounding muffled through the soft fabric, "He...was searching for his lost lover before I came around."

"Before you came around," he repeated in a sing-song tone, "---Is he still searching for her whereabouts?"

"I...don't know. People have been telling me that he isn't meant to love another,"

Eanraig smiled to himself, his palms slapping his knees whilst he stood with a persuasive tone, "Then, you don't have enough trust and faith for him when you are giving him doubts. You are just like other people who sees him as the mutant that they all tell---a witcher who has no emotions nor is capable of having,"

The latter turned his back away. Deciding to leave you alone after pushing your hesitance through the limits. You just needed a push over actually trying to be the matured one---a mind of a mother who would only care for her child or family than herself. He knew it was in there, the femininity after knowing from Tybalt that you have begged to be taken rather than for Geralt's child of surprise to be kidnapped, including the humble bard whom has received beatings from the army.

As he stood, Eanraig heard a quiet sob followed suit and a hiccup from keeping everything too long to yourself---even kept everything from the witcher because you didn't have it in you.

"I-I don't! I don't see him as that! You don't get to judge me!" another hiccup resonated in the room, your stuttering making the druid frown from how small and fragile you instantly seemed to be. Knowing that one of the reasons why Geralt has been protecting you with all the risks included.

You were certainly like a bread before it has even been baked. A dough that appeared and felt to be soft once touched, your characteristics needed to be molded to make you stronger in their world. Sensitiveness being a sole weakness and he knew Geralt would've seen it with one look. Unless, the witcher must've loved how vulnerable and helpless you are---your naivity and innocence over lots of things has Geralt keeping you closer to his side.

Maybe, the witcher doesn't want you to change at all.

The druid knew that because even with Cynthia, he loved all her attributes and personality with all his heart. Accepting her imperfections and weaknesses as a part of her that makes her...human.

"---I love him, Eanraig. I love Geralt. I genuinely fell for him before I even know it and this child we have isn't helping when I know he would only ever love me as a woman that will eventually fade when she comes back around!"

Sobbing under the sheets was better than bawling your eyes out for another man to see. You went on in sobbing and curling into a fetus position, hearing Eanraig sigh but never seeing the regret in his eyes by triggering you into becoming this sobbing woman who would cry the night away.

"I'm sure he knows how you feel for him, Little Woman. Tell him before it's too late," he scratched his beard with his thumb, seeing you shift under the blankets and turning half away but not actually seeing your face as you were still hiding inside the sheets.

"---No matter how deep he's fond of you or not because you both have created a bundle of joy who is bound to walk through the continent. I am sure she has been made with love," Pause.

"Regrets won't get you living in happiness because you'll always come back to the moment where you hope to have confessed," Eanraig gave a small smile you never saw as you continued to wail. The bond that the Djinn has cast you both in gradually making you suffer from its yearning it was having for the witcher who was not there for you to hold nor talk to. The scholar knew it has given you both such connection that won't be easy to break.

"---Geralt's not entirely inhuman. You both have shared a bond together that nobody can ever experience. Never fear for the witcher who has captured your fragile heart---who knows, you might have captured his since then.Yet, he doesn't give candor due to his brooding persona. Don't let fear conquer the love you have for him,"

Sorry for the typos and errors! I've edited this all in my phone. (via Wattpad) Spare me an error please? HAHAHAHAH! COMMENTS OR FEEDBACKS WILL MAKE MY HEART TWERK! GO DO IT, BB! Tell me your guesses as to what will happen when it's finally the night of the feast in the castle! 😉🙈

Taglist for WOTN: (Strikethrough means your blog can’t be tagged. Please check your settings, bb’s! Thank you.) @alyxkbrl @himarisolace @barkingbullfrog @ayamenimthiriel @hellodevilslittlesister @turkish276 @spookypeachx @grungelovebug @fangirl-inthe-us @nympeth @amirahiddleston @gabethelobster @dreaming-about-fanfictions @uncoolcloudyhead @melaninstylezz @psychosupernaturalhero @missjenniferb @dance-dreamer @marvelousell @kingniazx @angelias134 @tapismyforte @chook007 @butterpumpkinscotch @deadlydemon @cheesecakeisapie @angelofthor @carrieannewaywardson, @plantingmum, @stuckupstucky, @shesthelastjedi, @a–1–1–3, @gutfucks, @raynosaurus-rex, @britty443, @suhke3, @shadowclawstudio88, @ruthoakenshield, @just-a-sad-donut, @gxrdenr0se, @singeramg @friendlyneighbourhoodweirdo, @alexwinchester23, @naturalthrone22

Overall witcher taglist: @pizza-eater-i-ate-the-pizza, @crazybutconfidentaf

General taglist for any Henry Cavill fics: @agniavateira, @iloveyouyen, @rahdaleigh, @silverkitten547, @henrythickcavill, @kaatelyyynn, @marvelousell, @madelinelina, @summersong69, @raynosaurus-rex, @fckdeusername, @evansislife

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