#but there's literally plague doctors in the back of the first artwork for his story | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

islareeveswriting · 6 years

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An apple a day keeps the doctor away.

Of course if that were true, Molly would never have been to see a doctor in her life. As a child Molly and her sister had all but lived off the apples from their grandparents orchard. They picked them in the late summer and ate them fresh from the tree, lying on a picnic blanket, and staring up at the hazy summer sun. It was bliss. When the months got colder, but the apples were still ripe for the picking, they stewed them to make crumbles or pies, baked them in pastry and ate them with the yellowest, fresh egg, custard. Nothing was better.

However, as Molly sat in the cold, hard chair of her GP’s office with a lollipop stick holding her tongue down it was clear, no amount of apples could keep the doctor away. Molly had been sat in that chair for a good five minutes, freezing slowly she was sure. The coat she’d worn was draped behind her so Dr Middleton could check the crackle in her chest that kept her coughing, and with just her flimsy t-shirt on, she felt the coldest she had all morning. The waiting room, where she’d sat in a vastly more comfortable chair, had been warm, heated by electric heaters that buzzed and whirred and filled the room with a stuffy, claustrophobic heat. Harry had sat beside her, and that had helped too, their arms pressed together, nothing like the closeness they’d shared the previous night, but out in the open, it felt like more of a statement to do anything more than sit as close together as possible.

Of course Harry had offered to go with her when her childhood doctor opened the door to the waiting room and called her name with a friendly smile. Molly had told him she’d be fine, with what she hoped was a reassuring grin, though Harry’s uneven eyebrows and straight lips told her she wasn’t quite as convincing as she’d hoped. Even so, she followed the doctor down the little hallway to his office alone. The doctor had aged, his dark blonde hair was flecked with grey patches and he had wrinkles around his eyes and mouth that had likely come from stress. The suit he was wearing wasn’t as smart as the ones she remembered him in, it was loose, not at all tailored to actually fit him, and it looked as worn as the man in it did.

Perhaps Molly wasn’t the only one in that room who loathed walking through the sliding doors, and being hit my the clinical smell behind it.

“Well Cecelia,” Dr Middleton started, rolling back on his chair towards his desk. “You’ve got a case of tonsillitis," He informed her, and Molly felt herself relax, she knew that well. As a child she’d been plagued with it, though not enough to have her tonsils removed it would appear. “I’ll write you up a prescription for penicillin, take two a day for a week, rest up and plenty of fluids ok?” Molly just nodded. “How’s uni going?” The doctor asked as he tapped away at his keyboard.

“Yeah, it’s fine thank you, really enjoying it," Molly told him with a smile. The doctor just nodded as his printer whirred to life and spat out a small, green piece of paper and he handed it to Molly. “Thank you," Molly murmured, flicking her eyes over it.

“No problem Cecelia, when are you heading back to uni?” Dr Middleton asked as Molly stood and began to pull her coat back on.

“Expect we’ll head back today,” Molly told him, shrugging her coat onto her shoulders and fastening the button.

“We?”

“My friend Harry drove me down,” Molly explained and picked up her piece of paper as the doctor just nodded and tried not to look confused. Trust me, Molly thought, it’s not as confusing as it seems. She thought she could feel that now, things felt a little clearer somehow, as if it all it took to fix the fog in her mind was to dive in and swim. “Well thanks doctor, have a good day," Molly smiled and headed for the door, happy, she supposed, to have a diagnosis as to why she’d been feeling so awful.

“And you Cecelia, and safe drive." Molly just nodded and pulled the door open heading back for the waiting room with her prescription clutched in her hand. It was strange how familiar the doctors surgery felt, another little piece of home wrapped up in the sterile scent and mass produced carpet tiles. Despite the ball of anxiety that knotted in her stomach, there was something comforting in the familiarity of it.

When Molly got back to the waiting room, Harry was sat where she’d left him. That morning he’d pulled a beanie on, and it had left his curls fluffy and frizzy when he’d pulled it off his head. Now he was playing with the fold of it in his lap, pulling the hem down and folding it up again repeatedly as if he’d lost something there. He’d relaxed right down in his chair, his shoulder blades surely pushing into the back of the seat as his head fell forward to stare in his lap. As Molly got closer he lifted his gaze to her, like he could feel her coming.

“Hey,” he smiled, sitting up and forward. “How’d it go?” He asked, a little nervous anticipation across his features.

“I have tonsillitis,” Molly grumbled. “Gotta grab this before we go," Molly told him, holding up the little rectangular piece of paper that everyone from John O Groats to Lands End would surely recognise.

“Ok," Harry stood then and joined Molly to leave the doctors surgery. They walked side by side, the back of Harry’s hand brushed against Molly’s, their knuckles knocking against one another like pebbles. Molly glanced up at Harry out of the corner of her eye to find him already looking back down at her, there was a soft, subtle, barely there smile on his lips, asking a silent question. The smile she offered back was the answer, and Harry didn’t hesitate to take her hand in his and wrap her fingers up with his own.

They’d held hands so many times before, Harry had put an arm around her shoulder as they walked on countless occasions, but somehow it felt different that morning. After their night, after waking up in bed together, a little drunk on being so unashamedly close, intertwined fingers seemed to hold a little more gravity than they had before.

It had been Molly who had woken up first, the curtains they’d left open the last thing on their minds the night before, letting in the bright winter morning light. The sky was perfectly blue, the kind of blue people wanted the sky to be everyday, a wash of blinding light and completely cloudless. It would be cold, Molly could tell from the slight frost in the corners of the Georgian bars across the bay window. Beside her though, Harry was delightfully warm, his body heat called her closer and she gave in, snuggling into his side and wrapping an arm around his bare middle. The movement obviously disturbed him a little, because the perfectly even, gentle puffs of air that were pushing past his slightly parted lips, hitched for a few moments, but then his arm moved behind Molly and rested around her arms, his breathing evening out again as he adjusted so they could get closer still.

Everytime Molly had felt Harry’s skin against her, she’d felt her own skin tingle. It was smooth and soft, like warm caramel, under her touch as they cosied up under the never-used duvet. Her fingers had traced over the birds on his chest, but left it there, not quite managing to pluck the courage up to outline the butterfly let alone the ferns that continued to catch her eye. Up close the artwork was much more intricate than she’d realised, up close there was far more to Harry entirely that she’d realised. There were spots of yellow in the green of his eyes, there was a freckle on his bottom lip, and a dusting of stubble on his chin, not to mention the line of hair on his stomach. Wrapped up in one another they inspected each other subtly, Harry’s strong arm holding her close and tight.

His lips. She’d kept coming back to them, and she did the same when he held the door of the pharmacy open for her, though never letting go of her hand, and let her in. When she thanked him they curved slightly, plump, pink cushions that she longed to feel under her own. The idea alone sent electricity speeding throughout her, from fingertips to toes to hair follicles. There wasn’t an inch of her that wasn’t alive with the thought of kissing him. Yet, even with his hand on her waist, toying, literally, with the idea of lifting her shirt a little to find her skin, she couldn’t find it in her to press her lips against his.

The pharmacy was virtually empty. Apart from a little old man, bent over himself slightly, a stick in one hand and a flat cap covering his head, it was just Molly, Harry and the pharmacist. As they got closer to the desk, the old man looked up at them through watery, pale blue eyes, and Molly offered a friendly smile. For all she knew, it might be the only one he got all week. Molly’s hand slipped out of Harry’s with ease as she got close enough to the desk, the pharmacist waiting for her expectantly. Molly handed the fresh prescription over and watched as the pharmacist checked over the paper.

“Give me a second," The pharmacist said, and Molly nodded, turning on her heel expecting to find Harry just behind her, but not at all surprised to see him sat on the chair next to the old man, chatting like they’d known each other for years. Harry was grinning and nodding, chuckling a little, as the little old man talked away with a humoured little smile on his face. Endeared wasn’t strong enough for how Molly felt watching the exchange, and a smile crept onto her own face completely without intention. “Sorry," The voice was a little impatient and Molly jumped back to life, looking over her shoulder to find the pharmacist returned before turning fully. “This will be a couple of hours, can you come back later?”

“Oh right, erm, ok, erm-”

“It’s ok we can come back later," Molly flicked her head back towards Harry’s voice, he’d sat forward a little and was looking straight at the blonde haired woman behind the counter, who nodded at Harry.

“Ok, great, we’ll see you in a few hours," The woman grinned, looking to Molly again. “Mr Jeffries, it won’t be long, sorry to keep you,"

“Oh no, don’t be silly Maddie, I’ve just had a wonderful chat with this young man," Harry chuckled as he stood. “Have a lovely weekend Harry, make the most of it," Molly didn’t miss the wink Mr Jeffries offered as Harry pulled at his jumper a little to cover the waistband of his jeans once again.

“And you sir," Harry smiled, offering the man his hand to shake before turning for Molly and reaching out for her hand with careless abandon, wrapping it up in his own and waiting for her to join his side before heading for the door.

“What was that about?” Molly chuckled once they were back outside.

“Just a chat," Harry told Molly with a slight smirk. ‘Fancy brunch?”

“Sure, but it’s on me," Molly insisted, shoving her free hand into the pocket of her oversized coat as the cold air began to bite almost immediately.

“No it’s-”

“On me, yes, like I said," Molly forced, glaring up at Harry through fluttery lashes. Harry just stared back at her, seemingly waiting for her to crumble and concede, but she didn’t. Molly held her ground, and just shrugged when Harry refused to look away, as if he thought they were going to have a staring contest over who would be paying for brunch. “There’s a cute place by the river?”

“Sounds good," Harry mumbled, clearly a little disappointed with himself. “Y’know Lol, I’d really like to-”

“Nope, no arguments,” Molly cut in. “You’ve driven me all the way here, you’ve taken me to the doctors, the least I can do is buy you brunch before we have to leave again."

“About that,” Harry started, lifting his free hand and scratching at his jaw a little. “What I was going to say,” He continued, giving Molly a pointed look, “was, why don’t we just stay here for the weekend?” Harry finished, though not really, he didn’t give Molly a chance to answer before he began explaining himself; “I mean, you can relax properly that way and, obviously as long as your parents don’t mind, there’s no rush to get home," Harry pointed out.

“Do you not have rugby tomorrow?” Molly asked with a slightly creased brow. It was ingrained in her mind, Saturday’s were rugby days, and they had been most weeks since they met. It was the one day of the week they hardly spoke.

“No game this week," Harry grinned, and Molly nodded. “Do you think your parents will mind?”

“Doubt it, they’re going away anyway for the weekend, leaving when Mum gets home and dropping Jeanie off on the way," Molly explained with a shrug. It was news to her when Penny had asked her if they’d see Molly again before they headed off, though Penny was certain she’d told Molly her and her father were off for a weekend away. Not that it really bothered Molly, it wasn’t like she’d intended to be home that weekend and if Harry hadn’t been so insistent on getting her to the doctors, she’d have never known her parents weren’t at home anyway. “Well I’m happy to stay for the weekend as long as you’re sure you want to?”

“Yeah, I like it here, you can show me round your stomping ground," Harry smiled to which Molly just chuckled. “In between resting and relaxing of course," Harry warned, and it was clear he was entirely serious.

“Of course," Molly giggled.

The cafe Molly had in mind was relatively new to the area. Once upon a time it had been an estate agents, but they’d since moved further into the town centre and the building had been empty and desperate to be used for sometime before the couple who owned it now had moved from London and transformed it into a modern, spacious, cafe. It seemed it was what the town was missing, and it was always pretty busy, despite the large quantities of tea rooms and other cafes it had to compete with. Town elders had grumbled, they didn’t need anymore cafes, there was enough, it would take business away from establishments that had been in the town for generations. Though once it was open, and serving up something a little more suited to younger people and those from out of town, no one minded so much.

It wasn’t heaving, though for a Friday morning in a small English town, it would have been considered busy. The young, maybe middle aged, woman behind the counter didn’t look flustered though, she looked cool, calm and collected. There was a healthy glow about her and her dark bobbed hair was glossy and thick. She was the antithesis of how Molly was feeling when she pushed the door open. It appeared she was the only one working, and dealing with two customers at the desk, handing over money, until a sprightly young, blonde girl appeared from around a doorway.

“Hi there,” She grinned, “eating in?”

“Please," Molly told her, and the girls smile only seemed to get bigger with that as she grabbed a couple of menus and directed Molly and Harry towards a table. “Thanks," Molly whispered as she pulled out a chair and sat down, a menu appearing before her a little too quickly to have come from human hands. Or at least it seemed that way.

“So we’ve got everything on the menu, obviously,” The waitress giggled, “and we’ve aslo got bubble and squeak that comes with eggs and mushrooms or bacon, a beans and chorizo breakfast bowl, and a variety of smoothie bowls that come with three fruits of your choice and granola,"

“Great thanks," Molly grinned, and the girl simply bobbed her head before turning to walk away. Molly looked back to Harry before Harry had finished watching the waitress walk away. “Don’t ogle her like that," Molly scalded tapping the paper menu against Harry’s arm.

“I wasn’t ogling her, I’m just not sure how someone can be so sprightly working in customer service," Harry chuckled, picking up his own menu and glancing down at it, though Molly just creased her brow a little.

“I work in customer service," Molly pointed out, wondering how Harry could have possibly forgotten considering the fuss he’d made about it.

“And do you grin like a loon through every word?” Harry asked her with one cocked eyebrow.

“Not exactly the vibe," Molly told him, and Harry just shrugged in a ‘like I said’ sort of way. “Do you think I could work somewhere like this?” Molly asked, pondering it herself as she looked across the white washed walls decorated with modern prints, girls with flowers for eyes, messy sketches of palm leaves, quotes in scrawly handwriting.

“You could work wherever you want, love," Harry told her with a soft smile that told Molly he truly believed what he was saying.

“Do you think I should work somewhere like this?” Molly went on, relaxing back and dropping her menu out of her line of sight a little. Harry’s forehead dropped, a tiny crease indenting the skin between his eyebrows as he pulled his bottom lip in with this teeth before resting his tongue on it a little.

“I think you should work wherever makes you happy," Harry settled on at last. “Coyote makes you happy, that’s all that matters," Harry promised, tilting his head to one side and chewing gently on his lip again.

“You’ve changed your tune,"

“No, I have not, I said if it makes you happy, if it makes me happy is something entirely different, and I don’t want you to ever compromise your happiness for mine," Harry told her, and Molly sunk a little, pouting her lips as his words settled in. “Don’t pout, you asked," He pointed out to her. “Anyway, progress, I can talk about it without curling my fists up now," Harry jested with a wink that made Molly chuckle. It didn’t matter how much he tried, it was always clear Molly working at Coyote didn’t sit favourably with Harry. Molly had resorted to just trying not to say too much about work, it bothered her a little, but the pros with Harry far outweighed the cons, and she couldn’t see that ever changing when he made her feel so good about herself despite his qualms about her job.

When the waitress came back to take their order, they both went for coffee, whilst Harry chose the eggs benedict and Molly went for scrambled eggs on toast. If worse came to worst, and she couldn’t stomach the eggs at least she could scrape them off and have buttered toast. Conversation between Harry and Molly never ceased, chat was easy to come by, it never felt forced or like either of them were trying too hard, and when silence did come creeping, neither seemed to feel the need to fill it to save awkwardness. If anything they savoured the quiet for a few moments, taking each other in with quiet contemplation rather than what the other was saying.

Whenever Molly remembered they hadn’t even known each other six months, it felt like she was lying to herself. There wasn’t a soul she could think of, even those she considered her best friends, that she’d felt so comfortable with in such a short space of time. In Harry’s presence she simply felt calm, even when things were heated, she didn’t find herself getting so riled up in the intricacies and her mind didn’t seem to hold onto the details that might normally keep her awake at night. Somehow he lit up the parts of her she loved, and quelled the bits she disliked without making her feel any less like herself. It wasn’t something she’d ever realised she was missing until she had it, staring her in the face with yellow-flecked green eyes.

The food was as delicious as Molly had anticipated it being, and Harry seemed just as satisfied with his brunch choice. Rather than breakfast that morning, they’d opted to lie in bed until the last possible minute and Molly’s doctors appointment forced them to get up. It had been nice to lie in the morning light streaming through the window and giggle and chat, easing into the day steadily. Harry’s arm didn’t retreat from around Molly, even when she rolled away in a giggling fit, his hand just curled to hold the top of her arm to stop her going too far. It had been the best way Molly had spent the first hours of the day in a long time, but it also meant her stomach had started to growl a little, and the eggs on toast went down a treat. Better than expected if she were honest.

They finished up and Harry rested back on his chair, hands resting on his tummy, which he blew out so Molly could see the roundness of it below his jumper.

“Stuffed as a Christmas turkey," Harry sighed, letting his tummy back down.

“Lovely analogy," Molly laughed, looking past Harry to catch the eye of the waitress, who grinned and nodded before trotting off quickly to fetch the bill.

“You’re one to talk," Harry pointed out, though Molly just shrugged and grinned at the approaching waitress, who just placed the bill onto the table and smiled before flitting off again with their empty plates. “Right, pass it here," Harry requested, stretching across the table for the small handwritten receipt.

“I’m paying," Molly reminded him, snatching the paper before Harry could get it.

“Lolly," Harry warned.

“Harry," Molly returned with the same tone of voice, and slightly widened eyes to enforce her point. “You drove to Bath for me, paid for a hotel that you still won’t take any money for, took me for breakfast, bought me flowers, brought me here, literally the least I can do is buy you brunch, so you can please stop trying to be a nineteenth century gentleman and let me fucking pay," Molly listed impatiently. Harry just chuckled and rolled his eyes.

“Can’t be nineteenth century, haven’t got a top hat," Harry announced, grabbing his beanie from the pocket of his coat that was rested over the back of his chair, shaking it out a little to prepare for pulling it back on.

“Wouldn’t suit you anyway," Molly shrugged, reaching down for her bag and pulling her purse from it.

“I can pull of anything, thank you very much," Harry corrected confidently.

“Apart from green beanie hats and top hats," Molly jested, biting the end of her tongue gently as she glanced into her purse for cash, awaiting the response eagerly.

“Hey!” Harry shot, the offence clear in his voice. “You said you liked the beanie this morning."

“It’s important to be nice," Molly told him with a gleeful glint in her eyes as she smirked across the table at him.

“You shouldn’t lie though," Harry pouted, and Molly giggled as she placed cash down on the little saucer alongside the receipt. “Does it really not suit me?” Harry asked quietly, a little mumbled.

“I was joking Harry, it looks good, and you’re probably right, there’s not much you couldn’t pull off," Molly mused, grumbling herself a little, because it continued to take her by surprise the ease with which Harry wore everything from a plain t-shirt to the gaudiest shirts she could imagine that flaunted him in all the best ways.

“Got it in one love,” Harry smirked, annoyingly smug from her compliment. Molly just rolled her eyes and got up from the table, leaving the cash and Harry behind, but checking over her shoulder to make sure there was no trickery in which he ended up paying the way she knew he still wanted to. Despite their conversation, he’d watched her every move as she took money from her purse and placed it on the table, and she could almost see him bite his tongue back from offering his own money again. Harry just grabbed his coat though, and hung it over his shoulder as he took long strides towards Molly who was pushing the door open. “Thanks for brunch," He grinned, finding her hand again, quickly and easily, like it was stranger not to be holding hands as they walked down the street.

“Any time," Molly assured, and meant it, squeezing Harry’s hand just a touch as she said it.

They strolled slowly through the town for a while. It was unlikely that Molly’s prescription would be ready yet, and so Molly took the chance to show Harry around her childhood home a little. As much as she was certain she was going to end up in a big city after university, mainly because she was sure she would have to, to get any kind of decent job in her field, Molly couldn’t deny how much she loved the quaint charm of the town she’d grown up in. All the narrow streets, cobbled pavements and slightly wonky buildings that she knew by heart, all had a little story for her, a memory that filled her with bubbles of joy.

They spent an hour or so strolling around before they headed back to the pharmacist to pick up Molly’s prescription and then onto Harry’s car to head back to the house. On Harry’s instruction, Molly gave him directions for the long way home, taking in as much scenery as they could between the town centre and the little lane of a road that led to Molly’s house. Molly reeled off little stories about the places they passed, each one a trigger to a memory from her childhood - the pub she’d had her first legal drink in, the large oak tree she’d stood behind and had her first a drag on a cigarette, her secondary school that was filled with more memories than Molly could even begin to list.

“Sounds like you had a pretty sweet time here growing up," Harry mused with a soft, happy, smile. Molly just nodded as she watched her world pass by outside the window.

“Yeah, it wasn’t bad," Molly told him. Of course there were parts of her youth that Molly would rather hadn’t happened, memories she would rather not share, who didn’t, but on the whole she had no complaints. It had been a breeze really, and full of love, always. “Well maybe one day you can drive me around Manchester and tell me all the things you got up to, bet you’ve got some stories?”

“Not really," Harry mumbled. “Can hardly remember it at all to be honest, moved down here pretty young," Harry explained, eyes fixed solely on the road, unblinking, his jaw bouncing as he bit his back teeth together quickly.

“How old were you?” Molly asked tentatively. There was an obvious feeling that Harry didn’t want to talk about his childhood, but a few hours previous they’d been curled up, skin on skin. It didn’t feel like too much to ask, to want to know just a little more about what made him, who he was beneath the layer of easy small-talk and award winning smiles perfectly kept and smudgeless. It didn’t feel like too much to want more of him, to want an invite inside.

“Seven," Harry answered quickly, a little too quickly, almost like a snap, like the words had been poised on his tongue ready for the question. Molly just nodded and turned to look out of the window again, her smile faltering, and trying to ignore the sinking feeling that she was being kept out of something she’d rather be let into.

The car ride following that was quiet. It seemed Harry’s mind was whirring as much as Molly’s, neither of them said a word. Molly was wondering what it was about her that made him not want to open up, was it something she’d done, or said, wondering if she’d come on too strong, if inviting herself into his bed was too much, and something made him think he couldn’t trust her. For the rest of the drive, Molly spent the time, watching the world go by in an unfocused blur, thinking back on every interaction with Harry she could remember, and looking at the details, trying to spot what it was that made him keep her locked out. Wondering if it was just her. In typical Molly form, her feelings felt bruised, and she looked for the fault in herself, unable to separate her self-worth from her feelings.

When they pulled up in the driveway, both Molly’s parents cars were there so Harry parked up beside them and turned the car off. Before getting out of the car Molly pulled her coat around herself a little more. As they approached evening any warmth the sun had offered in the middle of the day was dwindling, and Molly felt cold for it before even getting out of the car. She crunched across the gravel, and it was a minute later, when she was about to step up onto the front doorstep that she heard Harry’s car door slam. It shocked her out of her thoughts and she glared over her shoulder at Harry.

“That was aggressive," Molly scalded as Harry steamed towards her.

“Door slipped out my hand, didn’t mean to, sorry," Harry grumbled, though it was clearly a lie. At his sides Harry’s hands were curled into fists and his nostrils were flared wide as he joined Molly on the doorstep so she could let them in. Thankfully the house was warm, and Molly could tell the fire was lit by the smell that greeted them, it started to thaw Molly but not so much the icy atmosphere she thought she felt.

“We’re home," Molly called loudly, kicking her boots of and treading through the house with her coat still on. Harry followed suit though he carried his coat over his arms, the warmth hitting him immediately and not taking a second to heat him through.

“Oh hello, how was it?” Penny asked, fussing in the kitchen with a cloth in her hand and a bottle of antibacterial spray in the other.

“Tonsillitis," Molly told her dully.

“Ah well, good job you went then," Penny winked, looking past Molly to Harry stood behind her who smiled and nodded, hoping he was hiding the frustration underneath better externally than he was internally.

“Yeah,” Molly said, “We’re thinking we’re gonna stay here the weekend if that’s ok?” Molly asked leaning against the worktop, which Penny only batted her off from quickly.

“Yes that’s fine darling," Penny told her distractedly as she wiped over the counter where Molly had put her hands once more. “There’s plenty of food in the fridge, may as well tell Tanya not to bother picking Moseby up later then,"

“Yeah that’s fine, we’ll be here, til…” Molly hesitated, looking back at Harry.

“Sunday lunch time ish?” Harry guessed with a shrug and Molly looked back to Penny.

“Of course, not a problem at all," Penny smiled before getting back to the task at hand - making the house look spotless before they got in the car and drove away for a few days.

“Ok, we’re going upstairs, shout when you’re leaving," Molly told Penny, before turning again and smiling up at Harry nodding towards the hallway.

And shout they did. Jeanie hollered up the staircase letting the house, and probably the whole street thanks to the volume, know that they were off. Harry and Molly left her room where they were looking up cookie recipes to bake later, the conversation in the car, and the mood they’d both been in when they got out, seemingly forgotten entirely. Neither of them had mentioned it, neither planned on mentioning it, it wasn’t worth it, and honestly neither knew what to say because neither knew what exactly had happened.

At the bottom of the stairs Molly said goodbye to her family with hugs and kisses, whilst Harry thanked them for having him, and told them how nice it was to meet them. Penny and Jeanie leant forward to give him a polite kiss on the cheek, which he returned, whilst Terry offered his hand for Harry to shake. Molly just smiled on, the look on her father’s face told her he approved, he liked Harry, he would welcome Harry happily.

“So cookies?” Molly grinned excitedly, turning to look at Harry once the front door was shut behind her family and it was just the two of them.

“Cookies," Harry beamed back in reply. Molly just grinned wider and trotted away from the stairs towards the kitchen. Harry’s footsteps were quick behind her, getting closer until he was on top of her, and next thing she knew his arms were wrapped around her middle, pulling her back into him with squeals of giggles, their pace slowing with clumsy feet as they tried not to trip into the kitchen. Once their feet were secure on the tiled floor Harry turned Molly in his arms and let her step back “Christ, you’re stunning," Harry breathed, eyes flicking over Molly’s face, the features of which had his mind spinning. The blush on Molly’s cheeks was instant and loud even through the makeup she was wearing as she dropped her eyes to her feet. “No, don’t do that," Harry virtually whispered letting one of his index fingers rest under her chin to tip her face back to his.

“Sorry," Molly truly whispered, her eyes soft and heart beating wildly in her chest, so loud and fast surely Harry could hear it over their breathing. Harry just chuckled and raised an eyebrow at Molly’s apology, it had become a running joke how much Molly apologised, normally unnecessarily, and Harry’s subtle pointing out of it had Molly rolling her eyes.

“I mean it though Lolly, you are beautiful, I don’t…” Harry lost his words in Molly’s eyes, and without really thinking, he tipped her head a little more and leant his head forward to press his lips on hers at long last. It wasn’t perfect, not even close, it took Molly a second to register what was happening and it was hard to pull her lips together to kiss Harry back when he already had his lips on her. But it felt perfect. It felt right, it felt like everything slotted together just the way it had been designed to do, and set off exactly the right stirring of emotions inside Molly. It was slightly overwhelming, and a familiar feeling of being about to cry crept up in her stomach, but she bit it down, refusing to cry over their first kiss when Harry was being so gentle about encouraging her closer, and holding her jaw just right.

It didn’t last a huge amount of time, just long enough for them to work out each others lips, feel each other just enough that there was still something left to discover. When Harry let go, their mouths mirrored each other in the soft smile that pulled at the corners. Even under Harry’s golden skin there was a little blush, and Molly knew there would be one twice as obvious on her own cheeks.

“You’ll end up getting sick now," Molly told Harry, breaking the easy silence that blanketed them like a summer’s day cloud.

“Will be worth it," Harry told her, one side of his mouth lifting a little more so his dimple cratered into his cheek. Molly just pulled her bottom lip between her teeth and held the smile behind it as she gazed up at Harry slightly through her lashes. “I’m gonna want to do that again at some point," Harry told her, and Molly just nodded. She wanted to do it again as well, in fact she wanted to do it again right then, before either said another word or Harry’s arms fell from her middle or her hands dropped from his chest were they resting as if for support. So she did, she moved onto her toes and pressed one, lingering, soft kiss against his lips that were still plump and cushiony from the first. Under hers they were soft and supple and made her sure his lips were made to be kissed, and maybe hers were made to kiss them too.

“So cookies?” Molly asked quietly with that same shy, yet playful smirk. Harry just nodded, eyes a little wider than before and jaw hanging open as Molly’s hands slid down from his chest catching his stomach a little before they were at his side and slipped out of his arms.

Together they moved around the kitchen, weighing ingredients and mixing them together, both a little dazed and high on what had happened. Harry didn’t need an excuse to touch Molly or get close, but he found every single excuse he could, reaching around her for the butter and making sure his arm grazed against hers, standing behind her as she stirred things together, and reaching to hold the bowl with her, hand over hers. It was like every single fence had fallen down with just the sweetest of kisses, like there was nothing to hide behind, or from, anymore, and it felt like a whole tonne of bricks had lifted from them and their company for it.

At the back of Molly’s mind was still the look on Harry’s face when she’d asked him about his childhood. It lingered, but she ignored it, put it into a drawer with all the things she kept suppressed in her mind, all the things that might ruin something good, or tear down her happiness. There was something in the way he kissed her, in the way he looked at her like he could lose himself in her just as easily as she was losing herself in him, that made her sure that he would let her in. It wouldn’t be on invitation, he’d just open the door and welcome her in, like she belonged there too. It might take time, but she was sure it would be worth it, and she was sure all the time in the world wouldn’t be too much when it came to Harry.

The cookies baked perfectly and they enjoyed one or two whilst, between them, they rustled something up for dinner. Molly followed Harry’s instruction, happy to admit he was the vastly better cook and knew what he was doing when it came to food. Molly’s appetite wasn’t back to full strength so they settled on pasta with a tomato sauce and plenty of veggies to get some vitamins into her. Considering it was put together with an amalgamation of what had been left in the fridge, it was delicious and Molly managed the whole bowl ful and a little extra taken from the pan of leftovers on the hob.

With bellies full they reclined back on the sofa with the TV on, fire roaring and candles lit. It was sickeningly romantic, but Molly didn’t care, as she curled into Harry’s side and he wrapped an arm around her without even questioning it. It felt natural, but more than that, it felt like it was designed to happen that way, Molly had never known something to feel like that, like all the little things added up to the moment they were in now, so the moment they were in was perfect.

“Shall we put a movie on?” Harry suggested as Molly flicked through channel after channel only to find nothing that interesting on any of them.

“Sure," Molly agreed, groaning a little as she swung her legs from the sofa and got to her feet to check out the DVD shelf. “What do you fancy?” Molly asked scanning the shelves quickly.

“Hm,” Harry thought, watching Molly from behind as she looked over the DVD collection. When he didn’t say anything, too caught up in looking at her, Molly turned to look back over her shoulder at Harry. He lifted his eyes from the tight jeans that looked like they were made for her legs, to her face and smiled innocently. Molly just shook her head with a chuckle and turned back to the shelves.

“Apart from me," She smirked to herself as it rolled off her tongue with ease, she wasn’t really taking the movie collection in anymore, just hanging her tongue from her canine tooth and listening for Harry’s dark chuckle that came as expected along with a bit of movement. A quick glance and Molly found him sat up, sunken into the sofa a little large hands resting over his thighs as his curls spilt down over his firm chest. It was quite the sight, and it wasn’t just Harry whose words got caught in his throat in favour of physical attraction.

“How about we get changed into something a little more comfortable, and then we can make a decision?” Harry suggested, sitting forward a little and his hands brushing down his thighs until they were on his knees, arms bent at the elbow as if he was about to push himself up.

“Ok," Molly agreed turning on her heel as Harry got up from the sofa and followed him out to the stairs, like he was the one who had lived in the house as a child, and he was the one leading her through it.

Once behind her bedroom door, the light on, and the door shut, Molly finally le tout the little squeal that had been bubbling in her stomach ever since Harry laid his lips on hers. From the outside looking in, she was well aware she looked like a foolish teenager who had never been kissed before, but it wasn’t that really. It was more that nothing had ever filled her with so much delight. It felt entirely different to any kiss she’d ever had before. There weren’t any she regretted (well, maybe one, but she wasn’t even sure regret was quite the right word for what had happened with Niall), but she was suddenly aware ofwhat she’d been missing.

The kiss had felt exciting but it had also felt comfortable, like coming home to the best surprise she could imagine, perhaps literally.

Molly found herself something comfortable to put on. A pair of well worn leggings, they were black once, but now they were more of a dark grey from too much washing. The ankles were baggy and the elastic around the waist was almost gone, but she pulled them on over her underwear nonetheless and reached for the plain long sleeved top that was folded over her dressing table chair. It was clean, she’d worn it at Christmas and left it behind, but it hadn’t been put away yet. Lastly, she grabbed the blanket from the end of her bed, the one that had been handknitted with thick wool by her aunt when she was a child, and wrapped it around herself before heading back out of her room.

The light in Harry’s room was off, the door just open, so Molly headed straight downstairs. Harry was back on the sofa when Molly trudged into the lounge, drowned by the blanket she was wearing like a cape. He had the same shorts and faded t-shirt he’d pulled on for bed the previous night, clearly he didn’t feel the cold quite like Molly.

“Cold love?” Harry asked at the sight of her and Molly just shrugged, scooting to the sofa and throwing the blanket over where she’d later sit.

“Just gonna take my medicine, did you want anything from the kitchen? Drink? Snack?” Molly offered, backing out of the room slowly waiting for an answer from Harry.

“Erm, just a glass of water ta," Harry smiled, settling back into the sofa.

“Sure? You can have a beer, or a whiskey-”

“No, no,” Harry grinned. “Just water is fine," Molly nodded and turned out of the room for the kitchen to get Harry’s water and take the prescription they’d picked up earlier for the first time.

Once back in the living room, Molly giggled as Harry wiggled under the blanket he’d pulled up over himself.

“Cold?” She asked with a smile, placing his glass of water down on the table.

“No, just wanna get cosy," He told her with a half smirk, half childish grin. Molly felt butterflies set off in her, and her whole body seemed to tingle with them, as if an electric pulse was making its way around her nervous system.

“Gotta choose a movie first," Molly pointed out, hoping Harry didn’t see how on fire he set her.

“Taken," Harry blurted quickly.

“Taken?” She asked again with a slight dip of her eyebrows.

“Yeah, not seen it and been meaning to watch it," Harry explained. Molly just shrugged and found the DVD on the shelf that Harry had obviously picked out from where he was laid.

With the DVD on Molly tiptoed back to the sofa, and lingered casually, not sure whether to sit at the end of the sofa next to Harry’s feet or make herself comfortable curled up against him the way she really wanted to. Harry put an end to her internally dilemma, lifting the blanket and reaching for her wrist to pull her down to him. They didn’t say a word as Molly lifted her legs and shuffled back against Harry. His arm wrapped around her and draped over her waist, his hand feather light over her stomach.

They laid that way throughout the movie, shuffling around a little every now and again to accommodate for limbs that started to get uncomfortable, but it only made them closer. Harry’s hand stopped hovering so much and laid flat across Molly’s tummy, his fingers tickling her skin through the fabric of her shirt. It was gentle, and barely there, almost subconscious it seemed, but his touch was warm and comforting as they cuddled under Molly’s blanket.

As the movie played through Molly’s mind began to whir. The over protectiveness, the need to know where someone was, bought her mind back to Harry and his continuous insistence that he know when she was home. It repeated through her head and she lost interest in the movie she’d already seen enough times. All she wanted to know was why, if there was a reason. She thought there might be, and she thought it might open a door she wanted the key to, but the fear that Harry would freeze up like he had earlier was louder and clearer. It felt partly selfish to ask when it was glaring that Harry didn’t open up so easily for people, or maybe just her, Molly couldn’t be sure, but when things were suddenly taking bounds forwards, it didn’t feel entirely self-centred to ask about what made Harry the way he was.

“Harry?” Molly asked quietly as Liam Neeson began to negotiate with the men who had stolen his daughter. The movie was one Molly knew well, it was one of her father’s favourites, and she’d seen it enough times to know exactly what was going to happen next. Even if she didn’t know it so well though, she didn’t think she’d be entirely occupied by it considering the motions her mind was through.

“Mmm," Harry hummed, completely enthralled by the movie he’d not seen. Suddenly Molly felt a little guilty for disturbing him, like she should have kept her thoughts entirely in her head until the movie was finished. For a moment she thought about shrugging it off, telling him she was just checking whether he’d fallen asleep or not. It was plausible with how they were laid, her back against his chest, that she wouldn’t be able to tell if he was sleeping. “What’s up love?” Harry asked, his arm sneaking around her middle a little more until his hand was firmly over her belly and pulling her back into him a little more. Molly realised there was no getting away from it now, the clue that something was playing on her mind had obviously been hidden in her voice.

“Just want to ask you something," Molly mumbled quietly, and behind her Harry shifted around a little, giving her room to roll over and face him, which she did. Harry didn’t say a word, just crooked his neck to look down at her a little until Molly shuffled up so they were face to face. His eyes never left hers, waiting patiently and quietly for her to ask whatever it was that was playing on her mind, the way he always did. Harry never pushed, never urged her on and forced her closer to whatever she was tiptoeing around. He always waited for her, always waited until she got there herself, and Molly doubted he quite realised how much that meant. “You know how you always have to know when I get home and stuff?” Molly started, nibbling on her lip once she’d done so.

“Yeah," Harry nodded, but it was clear he had an idea of where he was going, and Molly swore she saw the cogs begin to turn.

“I was just, it’s just, erm…” Molly hesitated, the look in Harry’s eyes, the way his breath slowed and his jaw stiffened made her double guess herself.

“You wanna know why?” Harry finished for her, seeing the way she began to question herself and wishing she wouldn’t. Molly nodded softly, still chewing against her bottom lip, eyes darting over Harry’s face to gauge his reaction. There was a fear in her stomach that she was pushing too far, asking for too much, and he’d shut down like he had when he was in the car and she’d only feel more confused than she had before. At first Harry stiffened and looked past Molly to the wall behind her. It seemed he was fighting some sort of internal battle, like he was trying to figure something out. Eventually he swallowed and cast his eyes back to Molly. “Ok," Harry started taking a deep breath.

It was silent for less than a second, but it felt like it took Molly forever to take in all the things on Harry’s face, drowning in his eyes, as he let out the breath he’d apparently been holding. There were ghosts in irises, they were always there, and Molly had noticed them lingering before, making themselves more obvious from time to time. As they laid on her parents couch, chest to chest, one of his arms gently over her, his hand against her lower back as in case she were to roll back and fall, the ghosts were the most prominent they’d ever been. Molly could almost see the whites of their eyes, but not quite.

“It’s a long story,” Harry started with a sigh, “but basically,” Harry carried on, clearing his throat, clearly nervous, clearly unsure. “After my dad died, I erm, I came down to live with my nan,” finally Harry found Molly’s eyes again, as he started to explain, swallowing on nothing as Molly stared back at him, waiting as patiently as he ever did for her. “I lost contact with my mum, she erm, well I, the last I heard was she was going home, and I’ve not heard from her since, I don’t know if she ever even got home," Harry rambled his last words, spilling from his lips like water out of a knocked glass. It was as if once he started he just wanted to get it out. Molly heard it and inhaled deeply, holding her breath at the top and biting her jaw tight together.

When Harry had told her his father had died when he was a child, there had been a sadness in his eyes that crippled her, but it was a sadness she sort of knew. Death wasn’t a stranger, and all though she felt blessed to not have had anyone close to her pass away, she knew others who weren’t so lucky. However, the sadness, the heartbreak in Harry’s eyes when he told her about his mother, wasn’t one she could even pretend to be vaguely familiar with. It was dark and destructive, like a fire that had come from his core. It was in the way he dropped his eyes, tensed his jaw and his breath shook. More than that, it was in the way his hand seemed to get heavier on Molly’s back, his fingers trying to grip her through her shirt, as if scared he might run away. More than that still, it was the way he looked at her like the child he was when his mother walked away.

“I’m sorry Harry," Molly hardly even whispered, rolling her lips together. Any words she could have said got lost as Harry’s face slowly began to change. First he just swallowed, hard, the lump in his throat bobbing as he did so. He pinched his lips together, the raspberry pink cushions turning into one thin line as the corners started to turn downwards. There was a glisten in the ducts of his eyes that he tried to blink away quickly, thought that only met the wet travel, dampening his bottom lashes. Molly could see he was trying not to cry

“Sorry I,” Harry coughed roughly. “It plays on my mind a lot,” He carried on, his voice forcibly strong as he tried to hold his ground. “Just wanna know the people I care about are safe, sorry, I guess, I mean, I get that it’s a lot-”

“No,” Molly jumped in quietly, shaking her head. “It’s not,” She told him honestly. “I understand,” Molly promised, her hand sliding up his arm until it was resting gently on his shoulder. There was silence as Harry started to steady himself again in the sweet caress of Molly’s reassurance. Slowly he let out a long shaky breath and fluttered his eyelashes to get rid of the tears lingering in his eyes. It didn’t make any difference though, the unspilled tears just hung around, and so Molly moved her hand from his shoulder to his eyes to wipe them out of his lashes gently. For a few moments she’d wondered if he simply didn’t want her to see him cry, but as he let her wipe his tears away it was evident that wasn't the case. Harry sniffed back on nothing and nuzzled his face into the curve of her hand.

There weren’t any words left to say really. Molly couldn’t think of anything more to add, and she was sure Harry didn’t want to talk about it anymore, there was no need. He’d answered her question, he’d let her in, maybe not all the way, but at least she had an idea of what was inside now. Instead of filling the silence with empty words, Molly just moved her head forward and kissed him. His lips were damp from where he’d had them rolled into his mouth as he tried not to cry, and they felt plumper than normal, suggesting he’d been biting on them too. None of that really mattered though, when she felt him unpeg himself from the anxiety that had him tense on edge. He relaxed and encouraged her closer, pulling the blanket up over them both as they got to know one another just a little better.

AT LAAAAAAAASSSSTT! Am I right?!! Or am I right!?! Told you it would be worth it, I hope it is!? Let me know your thoughts, hopefully you’re as excited about this development as I am and for where it’s not heading eeee!

Thanks for the love and thanks to bae @harrysmeadow for being the bestest best friend ever/proof reader/life coach/everything else!

I hope you enjoy <3

#dive #eee #talk to me #im excited #ask box open #ARE YOU HAPPY NOW!?#harry styles #harry styles fic #harry styles au #harry fic #1dff #harry fluff

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cromulentbookreview · 5 years

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Orange Whip!

Who wants an Orange Whip?

Orange Whip?

Three Orange Whips!

The world misses you, John Candy.

And by that, I mean: The Priory of the Orange Tree by Samantha Shannon!

A world divided.

A queendom without an heir.

An ancient enemy awakens.

An orange with an impossibly soft rind.

Ok, so I added that last one. Only, the oranges in the world of The Priory of the Orange Tree seem to have these easy-to-chew-through rinds. Like, characters just take a bite right out of them, no problem. I mean, I can imagine doing that with a clementine, but with an orange? Like, an actual, gigantic and delicious navel orange? Not sure if I could do it. I mean, orange rind is not only tough, it’s really not that tasty. It’s all bitter and weird. You’ve got to candy orange peel before you eat it. Or, you know, just peel your orange and use the rind for zest like a regular person. Don’t get flavedo stuck in your teeth.

None of that really had anything to do with Samantha Shannon’s book. Sorry. I just really like oranges. And citrus fruit in general.

So, The Priory of the Orange Tree!

At well over 800 pages, the book is a figurative doorstop. And, if you’re in a pinch, a literal one, too.

I kid, I have an actual doorstop. Don’t use a book for a doorstop.

Anyway, if you’re not big into long reads, and you’re perfect novel is roughly 250-300 pages long, uh...you might have a hard time here. But if you’re willing to give it a go, there’s something oh-so-satisfying about a self-contained, one-volume fantasy epic. There’s a beginning, a middle, and an end. There’s no Game of Thrones-esque situation where you’re endlessly waiting for the next book which may or may not be over 1000 pages. The whole story is there, in one big volume, no waiting for sequels. I didn’t realize just how sequel-fatigued I’ve been until I sat down and made my way through this book. No mentally steeling myself for a cliffhanger followed by a two-year-wait. I haven’t felt this way about an epic fantasy novel since Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell. Who knew you can have an entire world confined to one volume! Hurray!

As a slow reader, it took me forever to make it through Priory (uh...like three weeks...) but holy crap was it worth it. It’s difficult to describe the plot, because, well, 800+ pages, four main POV characters spread throughout the world...the plot goes tons of different directions before coming together in the end. But the novel takes place in a world inspired by medieval Europe, Asia and Africa. Shannon’s East, like Japan until the 1850s when Commodore Perry waltzed in, guns blazing, is closed off to the nations of the West, mainly out of fear of the draconic plague, aka the “red sickness.” Foreigners are not welcome in the East and that’s the way it’s been for a good long while, to the point where there’s a huge gap in the understanding of Western dragons (similar to Western European portrayals of dragons, i.e. winged firebreathing murderous hellbeasts) and the dragons of the East (wingless, more serpent-like, think Haku from Spirited Away).

In the East, dragons are revered and considered gods. In the West, well, winged murderous firebreathing hellbeasts. The worst of these firebreathing hellbeasts is a massive dragon known as the Nameless One, who wreaked havoc a thousand years ago, before being wounded and left dormant under the sea. The way in which the Nameless One was bound up in the Abyss is the basis for an entire religion in the Western nation of Inys, and the backbone of the monarchy - Queen Sabran IX of Inys is said to be the direct descendant of the knight who defeated and bound the Nameless One, and so long as Sabran produces a daughter, Inys will be protected from the Nameless One. So Sabran needs to get married and have a kid, like, immediately.

Sounds great, but what do you do when it starts looking like that might not be true? What if Sabran’s existence has nothing to do with the return of the Nameless One? How do you keep the Nameless One at bay then?

That’s the main plot of Priory of the Orange Tree put very, very briefly. The story is told from four different perspectives, so...let’s meet our POV characters!

Tané: a young orphan from Seiiki who has spent her life training in hopes of becoming a dragon rider in the High Sea Guard. It is her actions that spark the events of the rest of the book.

Niclays Roos: an alchemist in exile in the East. He was banished from the West by Queen Sabran IX after failing to produce an elixir of life. He now lives in the teeny tiny Western trading post of Orisima in Seiiki.

Eadaz du Zala uq-Nara aka Ead Duryan: A Southern mage and initiate of the Priory of the Orange Tree currently embedded in the court of Queen Sabran IX, posing as a lady-in-waiting. Her mission is to protect Sabran, but she must keep her true identity hidden, as magic is super-duper forbidden in Inys.

Arteloth “Loth” Beck: A close friend of Queen Sabran IX and a member of Inys’s (Inys’?) nobility. He and his best friend Kit are forcibly exiled from court after Loth’s closeness to Sabran is viewed as an impediment to her marriage prospects.

The novel itself begins with Tané, hanging out on a beach in the East when, gasp! A foreigner shows up. By all rights, Tané should just kill him and be done with it, but, fearing that a dead foreigner might put a damper on her chances at being a dragon rider, what with all the questions and plague checks she’d have to go through, she decides to hide the foreigner instead. She recruits a friend to smuggle the foreigner over to Orisima, the only Western trading post in the East, to the home of one Niclays Roos, an embittered doctor/alchemist who once worked for Sabran. The foreigner, a kid from Inys called Triam Sulyard, has some crazy notions: East and West should unite because the Nameless One is coming back, whether or not Queen Sabran has a kid. Niclays, of course, is far more concerned with being caught with an unauthorized foreigner in his house.

Meanwhile, over in Inys, Ead Duryan witnesses first hand the pressure Queen Sabran is under from all sides to get married and pump out a daughter ASAP because she’s, gasp, 28 and still hasn’t had that kid yet. Ead is in a precarious position at Court as she’s a foreigner and a (supposed) convert to Inys’s religion, which worships the knight who bound the Nameless One. And she’s secretly a mage and Inys is super backward about that sort of thing. Ead just wants to stick to her mission - protect Sabran - and then hightail it back to the Priory of the Orange Tree. Only some chance encounters with Sabran herself lead to Ead being promoted into the Queen’s household, and next thing she knows, she and Sabran are forming a connection that’s causing Ead to question her loyalty to the Priory.

Meanwhile, Sabran’s childhood friend, Loth, has been banished because men and women can’t be friends without people starting to imply things. Loth and Sabran’s relationship is 100% platonic, but no one cares, least of all the Queen’s spymaster, who rounds Loth up in the middle of the night and ships him off to the nation of Yscalin, which has, very recently, turned to the dark side and began worshiping the Nameless One. It’s one of those “diplomatic missions” that is almost guaranteed to end in death.

And while all this is happening, both Tané and Niclays experience the blow back of letting a foreigner into the closed East.

Also, I should mention: yeah, the Nameless One is totally starting to wake up again. In fact, his buddies are starting to go around and wreak havoc. Better have that kid quick, Sabran!

So that is the basic plot of The Priory of the Orange Tree, in a nutshell. I really, really, really do not do it justice, but to do the plot some actual justice takes an 800 page novel. Priory is nothing less than epic. In one book, Shannon manages to create an entire world, complete with over a thousand years of history, various conflicting religions, generations upon generations of royalty, dozens of nations, and a sea full of pirates. Pirates! There is pirate action in this book! Are you not convinced? I mean, there’s dragons - and not just one sort of dragon, either. Also, did I mention the whole book has a very, very strong feminist bent to it? How much more convincing do you need? If you like dragons, if you like epics, if you can make it through 800 pages, then you need to read Priory of the Orange Tree.

Funny thing is, I was over 700 pages into the book when I realized that I’d mixed up East and West. See, right-left confusion is something that legit happens to people and definitely doesn’t mean that they’re dumb or anything - it happens more often in the left-handed and women, both of which I happen to be. I’m really good at reading maps, but when it comes to actually being in place and telling one direction from the other...uh...it doesn’t often end well. I’ve had people tell me to turn left and, without thinking, I turned right, thinking that I was definitely turning left. Yeah, it’s a thing. So, throughout Priory, which is divided into chapters characterized by East, West and South, South I was able to get pretty easily. South is easy. But I was roughly 80% into this book when I realized that I’d inverted the whole map of the book’s world - I’d pegged Inys in the East, and Seikii in the West. The whole time I was envisioning people heading East, I actually had them heading West. Derp. Derp. Derp.

It also doesn’t help that advanced copies don’t come with finished artwork, so I’ll have to wait til the book is actually out to see if there’s an actual map of the world of Priory. Having a map makes things much easier. I can refer back to a map to confirm which direction is which.

Fun fact: most of the time I can really only tell East from West based on whether or not I can see Mt. Hood. For me, it’s always been Mt. Hood = East, the Coast = West. One of the perks to living on the West Coast. I’ve had a hell of a time establishing East from West (and North from South) when I’ve traveled to places that don’t have a Mt. Hood to keep myself anchored, direction-wise. Sometimes I just had to pick a place and determine the directions.

How is it that Samantha Shannon is a year younger than me and has already written a series and an 800+ page fantasy epic? Meanwhile, I’m a year older than her, have finished no story I’ve actually started and have generally failed at everything I’ve ever attempted. Well, I did make some pretty good overnight oats. But it’s really hard to fail at making anything that contains both Nutella and peanut butter.

Bah, I says. Bah.

I need an Orange Whip.

Mmm...I should go get myself an orange.

Anyhoo! Priory of the Orange Tree. It’s good. You should read it.

RECOMMENDED FOR: Fans of one-volume feminist epic fantasies featuring more than one type of dragon. Also, there’s pirates!

NOT RECOMMENDED FOR: Anyone with no time or attention span. Or who dislike feminist fantasy for some reason.

RATING: 4.5/5 (half a point off for being 800 pages, also for some George R.R. Martin-esque descriptions of food which were not the best thing to read while recovering from a severe bout of food poisoning).

RELEASE DATE: February 26, 2019

DRAGON RATING:

#the priory of the orange tree #samantha shannon #dragons #here be dragons #fantasy #feminist fantasy #book review #2019 books #recommended books #oranges

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paperbackcat · 7 years

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Don’t fear the Reaper (Nygmobblepot)

From a writing prompt: After witnessing a death, the protagonist falls in love with the Grim Reaper. | Read on ao3

Word count: 5,109 words

Pairings: Edward/Oswald

Death comes to us sooner or later, so it only adds to your pain to fear it.

Edward knows it’s implausible.

He knows; humans rely on a tried-and-true method to make sense of dying and mortality – and in place, they give death a form they recognize, turning something abstract into something real and tangible. It’s all in their heads, the stories they conjured and the depictions of that invisible phenomenon called death.

The Greeks called him Thanatos, the god of death. Norse mythology described them as beautiful women, reminiscent of angels, called Valkyries. During the Middle Ages, the concept of the Angel of death embodied Death as a skeletal figure, something menacing, a sombre symbol of the inevitability of death.

Not surprising, Edward scoffs, considering the medieval-era plague that caused millions to die in outbreaks known as the black death. The Grim Reaper was then born from these post-plague visions, as a mascot of death. Artworks that hung upon the walls of museums watched the hooded figure playing off the deepest fears of the unknown.

It’s merely manifestation of the imagination to make sense impending mortality.

At least that’s what Edward tries to tell himself, after all, he’s a man of logic.

Therefore, logically, he can’t have seen the Grim Reaper.

Granted, he’s seen dead bodies, he’s a bloody forensics pathologist; but he’s never really seen anyone die in front of his eyes.

So, when Edward watched his father in bed, deep in ten shades of agony slowly ebbing away right in front of his eyes, he had never expected literal death to grace him with his presence. His imagination, Edward ultimately decides, was oddly not like how he expected the Grim Reaper to look like. No scythe. No hood. No skeletal figure. Instead, it, was dressed in a rather expensive looking suit and armed with what looked like an umbrella. It paid little attention to the inquisitive gaze of Edward, instead tapping his father’s shoulder lightly, movements astute, as if it were routine.

There was a ringing sound bouncing off the white walls of the hospital room as the heartbeat monitor stopped dead, the peculiarly long resounding bleep like an alarm going off in Edward’s ears.

Nurses entered the room without slowing their stride, one grabbing his father’s hand to take a pulse and another hurriedly checking the heartbeat monitor. The doctor walked in, seconds later, his face like a brick, movements sharp and with purpose – rapidly swooping up and down his father’s bedside, barking up orders but Edward knew it was too late, he was sure of it, his father was dead.

Instead of acknowledging the murmurs from the nurses that offered their apologies, Edward nodded nonchalantly, unable to tear his eyes away from the figure slowly exiting the room. It was odd, for during this exchange, none made eye contact or spoke to the opulently dressed feature in the room.

It was then Edward realized, quite in disbelief, that he had seen the Grim Reaper.

Edward’s day begins when someone dies.

It sounds positively morbid, but he’s mostly used to it.

As a forensic pathologist, he’s seen many things, worked with many cadavers. He’s not one to be bothered. In fact, he’s more intrigued than mortified. The whole shebang is a riddle to him, something he’s awfully good at: after all, he’s been able to solve a large quantity of unusual deaths: exsanguination caused by a stab wound or ligature strangulation – he’s uncovered it all.

The conundrums he has faced, nothing but a human scale puzzle piece to solve and he’s done it. Nothing is unexplainable.

Edward has done his morning routine report review from the deputy coroner’s investigators: poor old Mrs. Taggert found dead in her house hold sometime during the previous twenty-four hours. Mrs Taggert’s face was awfully discoloured when they found her in her bathroom, but she seemed strangely cleaned up as if she had been scrubbed off any evidence before the police had arrived.

Still, her husband had insisted that she succumbed to a sudden cardiac arrest after her bath and was questionably quick to abandon the idea of homicide.

Dubiously hasty at that.

So, as per normal, Edward’s left to figure it out.

The cold autopsy room reminds him faintly of it.

It’s been a week since Edward’s father died and he had taken that week off to let his life slowly falls back into place. Appreciatively, he had not caught a glimpse or the silhouette of the dark figure ever since, and silently elected to regard that night as something of his mind's eye. After all, it’s trivial to pursue something so illogical, right? It’s his imagination.

So, it’s a rude shock when Edward finds himself staring at the stainless-steel counter top and sees a pair of pale blue eyes staring back.

Against his logic, Edward clears his throat awkwardly.

“Excuse my manners; but this room is reserved for examining homicides and decomposed bodies, you are not supposed to be in here.”

He pauses for a moment or two, before directing his gaze towards the thing behind him.

It’s got a pair of befuddled blue orbs that unexpectedly accentuates that purple brocade tie on its neatly donned suit. Edward scoffs internally. Barely resembles anything menacing. It doesn’t reply Edward, instead gracing the pathologist a twitch of the brow.

Unsure whether to feel offended that his figment of imagination wasn’t offering any sort of conversation, Edward surmises to continue his examination, fixing his attention onto the rubbery-looking corpse on his autopsy table.

Heart attacks, Edward mutters under his breath, is the death of a segment of heart muscle caused by the loss of bloody supply.

He tucks his gloved hands underneath Mrs Taggert’s cold body, lifting her elbow up and examining bits and pieces, like a puzzle piece. Pensively, Edward recalls that the report states that poor old Mrs. Taggert had suffered from a heart disease, but nothing too severe.

Picking up a scalpel, he began cutting into flesh.

At the corner of his eye, he can see it silently watching. What is it waiting for?

He decides to ignore it. There’s no point trying to emit a response.

Normally, Edward concludes, as he carefully dissects the lady’s inside, if death is caused by a heart attack, the vessel of the heart will have a thick viscous substance that looks awfully like yellow nasal discharge forming a blockage in one or more of the cardiac arteries. Observing the strawberry-jam looking clots, it’s apparent that Mrs Taggert did die from a sudden cardiac arrest.

So, was her husband, right? Edward frowns, shaking his head. It’s not that unassuming. Maybe her husband was the trigger? An argument of some sort?

A verbal altercation has physiological consequence even without physical contact. Edward pokes around her neck, emotional stress provoked by criminal activity of another person could cause this homicide by heart attack. For some reason, it just didn’t fit, Edward taps his fingers on the stainless-steel table, deep in thought.

If so, the implications of death in such a circumstance is different to that of a physical assault, since it’s not necessarily illegal to argue with someone.

There is a rugged sniffle from the corner of the room.

Edward glowers at nothing in particular. The thing in the room transpires to be tremendously unnerving, so much so he wants so badly to pull at his hair.

Wait.

Speedily but cautiously, Edward lifts Mrs. Taggert’s head up and runs a hand down her scalp, grinning when he feels a tough bump at her head. Judging from the size of the bump, Edward identifies that there’s a high probability that the old lady’s head had collided with something hard – perhaps the wall, or most likely – he measures the size of the bump – a fist.

The presumed mechanism of death in the case was a cardiac dysrhythmia, related to underlying heart disease, but initiated by physical stress.

Edward realises he has said it out loud because there’s a soft clapping noise from behind. He twists around in time to see the figure walk casually over to Mrs. Taggert’s body, leaning across the stationary corpse and tapping her shoulder with his hand.

There’s a gentle sigh that echoes around the room and Edward swears he hears the voice of the old lady thanking him.

After Edward assures himself that he’s not obviously high from smelling the formalin, he turns to his left to inspect the strange humanoid creature, who seems unruffled by the fact that Edward can see him.

“Um.” Edward begins, silently wondering if he’s gone off his rocket. “Uh.” His throat is dry.

He’s not usually this incompetent at speaking.

“You beat me every day, yet I always win. I am first and last, and come for your kin. Before you came many, after comes more. You always leave when at my door.”

He splutters incoherently.

“Who am I?”

“Is that a riddle?” The thing actually speaks, strangled and mocking.

Edward manages to nod.

“Hilarious.” It looks far from amused. “Death.” It whispers, in throaty hum.

Edward gulps.

“As such,” It continues, drawling, “There’s usually death when humans do see me.”

“Guess I’m lucky.” He manages to stammer.

“Oh I doubt that.” And with that it disappears, leaving Edward to gawk, horrified at the empty space where it once stood.

About once or twice a month, Edward gets called to go out to a death scene to work with the police investigators in understanding what happened to the decedent, in determining whether the case could be classified as a homicide.

Today, Edward faces a victim found lying tattered in gritty muck. Ivory skin splattered and face half submerged in mud. He bends down to take a closer look at the body, wincing slightly in annoyance at the flashes of camera lights. It’s apparent that the victim had been psychically assaulted, a deep puncture to his neck.

The puncture is oddly square. Not done in by a knife, he infers. Possibly a thick cane or baton of some sort.

He steps back and immediately freezes.

From the glare of the flashing lights, he spots it once more.

Just like Edward a few moments ago, it’s bent forward, eyeing the body with a bizarre sort of enthusiasm.

“What are you doing?” He hisses before comprehending the fact that no one else can see it. A few odd looks were thrown his way and Edward hurries to find something else to do instead.

Hurriedly, he scouts the rest of the street alley.

“What are you doing?” The same surly voice he’s heard just a few days ago hovers at his side.

Edward visibly shudders before glancing furtively about, making sure that no one is directly in earshot before glaring hotly at the Grim Reaper (he’s decided to call it grim reaper, it’s easier that way, he’s not getting attached to it, not at all).

“Looking for something.” Edward mutters with clenched teeth. And after a moment of hesitation, “Aren’t you going to send his departed soul off or something and be on your merry way?”

The Grim Reaper blinks owlishly and merely shrugs.

He clicks his teeth, irritated. He doesn’t know why it’s presence feels contemptuous, as if it was here to mock his ineptitude.

Edward stops when he notices a small lump near the rubbish bin. He barely makes out what seemed to be a burgundy coloured shoe plastered in drying mud, the rubicund shade hardly noticeable in the muck. A short way off lay its pair, scarcely seen underneath the bin with its heel broken off.

A dawn of realisation hits him.

“The more you take, the more you leave behind. What am I?” He utters under his breath.

Swiftly, he goes back to the motionless victim’s body and inspects the ground beneath it. The body had been left out in the sun for a couple of hours, and he appreciates the fact that the ground underneath had dried, holding the shape of an imprint. To his delight, a shoe impression laid nearby and he let out a quiet hurray under his breath.

“Footprints.” The Grim Reaper ripostes, languidly at his side. “You seem to like your riddles.”

Edward snorts in agreement.

He deduces immediately that it belonged to the same buried high heeled shoes.

The puncture on the neck was done in by a heel!

Edward beams to himself and explains his rationale to the sergeant, who appraises him for his keen eye. He mentions something about a witness that saw a woman from the bar leave the alley without any shoes and Edward knows they are close to solving the case.

He’s about to head off to the forensics team to get them to pick up the evidence when he spots the Grim Reaper once more, bent over the victim’s body and its hand tapping gently upon the shoulder of the corpse. Even with the buzz of police officers interrogating witnesses, he can hear the sigh that escapes the victim soul, gratified and sated.

The Grim Reaper stands back upright and twists around to shoot a momentary gaze at Edward, before nodding in acknowledgment and dematerializing out of existence.

Edward, for the life of him, cannot decipher what’s going on anymore.

Edward sees it again, a few times this week.

It’s become this peculiar routine: it appears whenever he’s performing his autopsies, drops an occasional mordant remark, taps the shoulders of the deceased, who sighs, and it disappears.

It’s even more bizarre that Edward’s growing more accustomed to it.

They don’t talk much, save for the few scathing observations that it gives whenever Edward dissects his cadavers, or whenever he tries to start up a tête-à-tête with it. It’s preposterous to be talking with the Grim Reaper, and Edward has never once thought that he would be doing so – but here he is, exchanging occasional stares with this far-fetched idea.

Today, it lounges casually at the side of the autopsy table, side eyeing the petite sized corpse.

“Sad, isn’t it,” It intones, not sounding upset at all, “How a child should be on this table?”

Edward nods gravely.

“I had the impression that Grim Reapers do not feel sad.” He bounces a reply playfully.

It shrugs as a retort.

“And I had the impression that humans experience distress whenever they see me.” It hums after a moment.

Edward nods once more.

They lapse into comfortable silence before it taps the child’s shoulder and leaves.

“So, is there like a rule to sending off departed souls? Because I’ve been noticing a pattern.” Edward scrunches up his nose at the ruptured lung of his current corpse.

The Grim Reaper snorts.

It’s a pleasant sound, Edward thinks.

“Enlighten me.” It drones haughtily.

“Well,” Edward picks up the bullet lodged deep in muscle tissue with forceps, examining for a brief moment before placing it into a stainless-steel container. “You seem to take them away only after I’ve figured out how they died.”

It let out a hollow chortle.

“Astute, but unfortunately, wrong.” It watches Edward an unreadable expression on its face.

But it doesn’t provide anything else after that.

The next time they meet, Edward is trimming extra tissue off a large rotund cadaver, the excess tissue interfering with his procedure.

“Strangulation.” He asserts, matter of factly, pointing at the dark bruises on the victim’s throat. “His bones have been crushed, causing the discoloration at his throat.”

It nods in assessment.

“Aren’t you going to take his soul away?” Edward pipes up after a while. “We’ve figured out the cause of death.”

The Grim Reaper shoots him a scowl but does so anyway.

Before it leaves, it answers Edward’s burning question.

“I can take them anytime, but I always find it better to lead them away when they’ve come to terms with why they’ve died.”

He shudders.

It’s been a while since Edward last felt unnerved.

“The hammer is used with the chisel to separate the calvarium.” Edward explains slowly, gently extricating the upper part of the cranium from the lower part of the skull. “When you are finished locking it in place,” He uses the hook attached to the hammer, “This hook helps you pull the calvarium away, creating a skull cap.”

The Grim Reaper doesn’t usually bother with Edward’s ramblings but today it looks markedly invested.

It only takes Edward a moment to realise why.

“Eddie,” A concerned query enters the room. “Are you alright?”

Edward almost drops all his tools in horror.

“Miss K-Katherine!” He gasps in surprise, usually the forensics officers stayed away from the autopsy rooms which meant - the sudden intrusion conspires something ill-fated. “Yes, yes I am fine.” Edward pushes his glasses up nervously, offering a tight-lipped smile.

“Eddie.” The forensic officer’s voice is tense, “You’ve been talking to yourself.” That’s not a question. “Are you sure you are alright?” That’s a question.

Edward shakes his head.

The Grim Reaper stares pointedly at him.

Realising his mistake, he nods eagerly instead before shaking once more, trying to dispose of the disquiet.

Katherine sighs.

“Look Eddie, I know it’s been a rough few weeks for you, especially after your father’s untimely demise.” She looks genuinely worried, “Do you need to see a psychiatrist? Talk to someone, maybe?”

Edward shakes his head sternly.

“No, no, no.” He waves his hands, “I’m just going through the motions. I swear I’m fine.” He lets out a choked laugh to try to ease the tension in the room but fails to make it sound anything but distress.

Katherine isn’t convinced but she lets it go, and departs with a small smile of reassurance.

Edward wants to dig a hole and hide in it forever.

The Grim Reaper, thankfully, does not offer any sardonic quip after that.

Edward’s a little more cautious after that.

He locks the doors, makes sure that no one is around the corner and speaks diminutively softer.

“They think I’ve gone mental.” He mutters, glaring accusingly at the dead body in front of him. “Maybe I have gone mental.”

The figure flitting at the corner of the room lets out a mischievous guffaw.

“Maybe you have.” The Grim Reaper muses. “That’s a logical explanation to why you can see me.”

Edward laughs, maybe a little bit too loudly but he doesn’t care.

“Rationality be damned. I rather speak to you than any of them.” He scoffs.

It looks slightly puzzled now.

“Are you sure that’s a good thing?” It enquires.

“I don’t think so.” Edward admits after a moment’s pause.

He glances at the wide set eyes inspecting him meticulously.

“But I think I don’t care.”

There’s that comfortable silence that they lapse back into, Edward working on his report and the Grim Reaper watching, until he finally breaks the stillness.

“What costs nothing, but is worth everything. Weighs nothing but can last a lifetime, that one person can’t own, but two or more can share?” His voice trembles ever so slightly.

The Grim Reaper’s brows are raised.

“Love.” It offers, nonchalant.

Edward lets out a nervous giggle.

“Friendship.” He mutters, half amused. “I think,” Edward rests his gaze on it, a little bit too longingly, “I think – I hope we’re friends.”

Edward realizes he looks forward to work more and more, only because he gets to see the Grim Reaper.

He spends most of the days performing autopsies, even snagging someone else’s work so he can spend time with the ridiculously well-dressed concept of Death. It’s irrational, he knows, but he feels strangely comfortable with it around, even though they don’t talk much.

He knows he lost interest in the bodies piled up from crime scenes, that spark of curious and intent to solve the riddle slowly ebbing away. Instead, he’s more fascinated with the humanoid-like figure, constantly drawing questions and moving around like the enigma it is.

He’s concluded that it’s found his company as enjoyable as he did.

Their routine, however, comes to a halting stop when Edward’s forced to take a month’s leave off work. Everyone’s saying how concerned they are about his health but he’s sure that they’re more alarmed by his relentless mumbling.

“Get some rest please, Edward.” The commissioner tells him. “You look like you’ve seen death.”

Edward lets out a forlorn snuffle, unsure whether to laugh at the irony of it all.

It’s the first week of his ‘break’ and he’s found himself slowly deteriorating into a spiral of isolation. He’s found himself often shuffling around his cluttered apartment, bumping onto the mythology books strewn around the living room. Every day draws out so long and thin that he’s surprised when the sun finally sets.

The bond he had shared with the Grim Reaper had been like a bridge out of his fortressed mind, allowing him to step foot outside it’s protective compound, exploring the sun-warmed grass on the other side. Now, severed from the bridge, he felt terribly alone.

He tried calling out for it, but to no avail.

But there’s something else he can try.

It appears, ethereal yet almost tangible to feel. It’s pale paper looking skin and noticeably bright blue eyes a respite from the skinny man he’s been looking at from his mirror. The Grim Reaper looks no different from before, it’s jet hair styled and messily plastered on his head, dressed in a suit adorned with an amethyst-coloured neck wear.

At first it looks mystified, then it shakes its head in amusement.

“Very well, Ed.” It chortles, and Edward tingles at the way it murmurs his name.

“How did she die?”

On the third day, it finally asks the question.

“Where are you getting these bodies?” It looks impassive, lounging on Edward’s large armchair.

Edward blanches slightly, going rosy in embarrassment.

“I’ve been stealing them from morgues.” He confesses, stumbling a little as he shows off the dead corpse on his living room table. “Head trauma,” he speaks casually as if it they were chatting about something like the weather, “Blunt force with a sledgehammer. He bled out rather quickly.”

The Grim Reaper nods, stands up and taps the body.

It doesn’t leave this time, instead, it stays and watches Edward clean up the mess. They exchange a few words, Edward passing a snide remark about how it’s dressed, before it finally dematerializes into the dark.

Peculiar. He thinks. It’s like it’s waiting for something.

His co-workers almost caught him off-guard a week ago.

Edward was doing his daily inspecting of an immobile corpse when there’s a rap on his door. He’s not used to visitors generally, so when he realised that – of all people – his colleagues from the forensics department opted to drop by for a visit, he panicked.

Flustered, he threw the cadaver underneath his bed, hurriedly wiping the stains off his living room table whilst gasping “Give me a moment, I’m not decent!”

He was taken by surprise when they came in bringing in small baskets of gifts, from wine bottles to cupcakes. They weren’t usually this pleasant to him, he noted mutely as they gathered in his living room, awkwardly telling him about how business was going as usual. Face blotchy, he had insistently declined a house tour when one of the officers had suggested that to clear up the uneasy atmosphere.

Edward found himself inept and tongue-tied, unable to wield a conversation with anyone, even as grateful as he felt towards them. It was strange, out of his depth – but it was probably because they felt some sort of worry for him, he guessed, for Katherine had even passed him a name card for a psychiatrist whilst he sat on his sofa, twiddling his thumbs nervously.

He noticed that the Grim Reaper had disappeared and couldn’t help but feel terribly abandoned.

This isn’t that awful, he tried to convince himself.

He managed a throaty gurgle when someone mentioned how his house smelt like the dead and lied through his teeth as he pretended to wholeheartedly agree.

“I need to go out more often.” He offered, smiling with teeth clenched.

They laughed, one of them telling him to be wary about walking alone by himself since there were a few recent reports of kidnapping and murder, bringing Edward up to date on a few killings that happened.

He was sure he only started to breath when they all left his house, wishing him a speedy recovery (whatever that meant) and telling him to cheer up.

He fibbed about hoping for the best.

What he hoped for, was that they didn’t see the leftover blood stains on the rug.

Edward knows what he’s doing isn’t right.

He faced the mirror this Tuesday morning and the blood-shot eyes that fixated him back with a stare was no longer the same man named Edward. Bleary eyed and unshaven, he had looked like a zombie, gaunt and pallid. He watched himself walk around the house daily, almost soulless, exhausted from dragging dead bodies up to his apartment. The only good thing that comes out of that is the Grim Reaper.

He’s infatuated with the idea of Death.

“There’s something strange,” Edward mentions that very evening, “That I’ve realised.”

The Grim Reaper is watching Edward with bright blue pools, and tilts its head inquisitively, almost like a curious puppy.

“Back in the autopsy room, or outside during our investigations with the bodies,” He taps his chin thoughtfully, “They sigh every time you tap their shoulder. Why?”

It shrugs.

“Is it because they’ve come to terms with their death? Why they died and how they died?” Edward continues, hoping to get an answer.

He does.

It nods ever so slightly before gazing expectantly at him.

“My father did not sigh.” Edward states briskly. “Was he not gratified?”

The Grim Reaper lets out a loud scoff that reverberates through Edward’s small living room space, and for the first time, cracks a sickeningly anomalous smile. It takes its place next to him, hands resting on its cheek with a mischievous twinkle in its eyes.

Edward shivers at how close it is to him.

“Oh Ed.” It purrs. “I think you know the answer.”

The blue and red lights are little more than smudgy illuminations in the slanting rain.

Edward watches the white bodywork of the police cars zip past his window, it’s yellow-white headlights spotlighting the dense dark streets of the town. Behind him, the television blares deafeningly, a report on 19 missing people, each with absolutely no connection to the next – no one knows what happened or who did it and the cops are on constant vigilance.

The report states that there’s no factual motive or connection behind the missing people, but Edward knows better.

After all, during all 19 days of his break, the bodies on the living room table don’t sigh anymore.

Your father’s autopsy shows an over dosage of potassium chloride, which can stop a person’s heart. Katherine is saying over the phone, worried. Did you know?

Edward does not reply.

Eddie. Katherine’s voice is shaky. Your father was murdered.

He remembers slamming the phone and leaving his house in a hurry.

Edward knows his affair with Death is about to expire.

He’s standing in the middle of the rows of tombstones, standing erect in silence, like a sea of the dead. Some crumbled with the weathering of centuries, overgrown and unkempt. His father’s was of smooth marble, inked with black writing and laid with floral tributes.

The cops are at his place now, possibly finding evidence of the brutal murders of the 19 unfortunate people that he had crossed pathways with. It was necessary, Edward tells himself. He made sure it was quick and painless, and that they were never tortured.

There’s a blaring sound of the police siren far off in the city.

Sooner or later, they will find him.

Dead or alive, Edward doesn’t know.

Either way, he does not care.

He waits.

And sure enough, it appears.

“I stabbed him in the gut and watched him bleed out.” Edward admits, nudging the still body beside him, unconcerned. So I could see you. He wants to add but stops himself eventually, feeling bone weary; he knows when he’s defeated.

The Grim Reaper, for once, looks mildly troubled.

“Ed.” It’s voice is cold and calculating. “I know.”

Edward blinks, taken aback.

“You knew?”

It shrugs.

“Why follow me around then?” Edward is confused now, wiping his bloodied knife down his trousers. “I thought the reason you shadowed me was because I figured out how these,” He motions helplessly at the dead body on the floor, “People died. So, it’s easier for you to help their souls depart.”

The Grim Reaper nods.

“Indeed.” It taps its black umbrella on the soil. “But I never said it was for them.”

Edward frowns, perturbed.

“So, you were following me around.” He begins sluggishly, the pieces of the puzzle slowly fitting in his head. “For me?”

It nods grandly, not offering an answer.

He knows because it wants an answer from him.

“Because,” Edward continues, an unpleasant impending sense of dread creeping up his throat, “Because like the bodies in the autopsy room, the victims out on the streets,” He takes a deep breath.

“I need to comprehend why I am going to die.”

The Grim Reaper nods.

“I killed all those people so I could see you.” Edward states flatly, it sounds awfully asinine so he laughs, neck reddening in embarrassment.

“I’m going to die because of you.”

The Grim Reaper laughs alongside him.

“No, Ed.” It murmurs fondly, “As sweet as that is, it’s not the answer to this riddle.”

It tilts its head.

“Try again.”

It looks bemused as the sirens howled through the evening sky, coming closer.

Edward knows his time is running out.

“We are back where we started, Ed.” It drones, pointing at his father’s head stone.

And it hits Edward like a deer in headlights.

“Oh.” He blurts out. “Oh.”

So that’s why he can see it.

He’s been marked for death ever his father died. By his own hands.

“How am I going to die?” Edward utters after a moment’s pause.

He cannot believe his eyes when it reaches out to pat him on the shoulder, and he gasps - it feels tangible.

He can feel the gaze of death on him, the shouts of the police now audible behind, telling him to stand his ground and to not move - it feels unreal.

“A certain crime is punishable if attempted, not punishable if committed. What is it?” Edward’s voice is hollow and he thinks his eyes are watering.

“Oh Ed.” It purrs, tapping his shoulder lightly, a gentle tender stroke.

19 notes · View notes

evelynsmusings · 6 years

Text

SAVH Library Storywriting Competition

“Death comes to us sooner or later, so it only adds to your pain to fear it.

Edward knows it’s implausible.

2017, Storywriting Competition

It’s merely manifestation of the imagination to make sense impending mortality.

At least that’s what Edward tries to tell himself, after all, he’s a man of logic.

Therefore, logically, he can’t have seen the Grim Reaper.

Granted, he’s seen dead bodies, he’s a bloody forensics pathologist; but he’s never really seen anyone die in front of his eyes.

There was a ringing sound bouncing off the white walls of the hospital room as the heartbeat monitor stopped dead, the peculiarly long resounding bleep like an alarm going off in Edward’s ears.

It was then Edward realized, quite in disbelief, that he had seen the Grim Reaper.

Edward’s day begins when someone dies.

It sounds positively morbid, but he’s mostly used to it.

The conundrums he has faced, nothing but a human scale puzzle piece to solve and he’s done it. Nothing is unexplainable.

Still, her husband had insisted that she succumbed to a sudden cardiac arrest after her bath and was questionably quick to abandon the idea of homicide.

Dubiously hasty at that.

So, as per normal, Edward’s left to figure it out.

The cold autopsy room reminds him faintly of it.

So, it’s a rude shock when Edward finds himself staring at the stainless-steel counter top and sees a pair of pale blue eyes staring back.

Against his logic, Edward clears his throat awkwardly.

“Excuse my manners; but this room is reserved for examining homicides and decomposed bodies, you are not supposed to be in here.”

He pauses for a moment or two, before directing his gaze towards the thing behind him.

Heart attacks, Edward mutters under his breath, is the death of a segment of heart muscle caused by the loss of bloody supply.

Picking up a scalpel, he began cutting into flesh.

At the corner of his eye, he can see it silently watching. What is it waiting for?

He decides to ignore it. There’s no point trying to emit a response.

So, was her husband, right? Edward frowns, shaking his head. It’s not that unassuming. Maybe her husband was the trigger? An argument of some sort?

If so, the implications of death in such a circumstance is different to that of a physical assault, since it’s not necessarily illegal to argue with someone.

There is a rugged sniffle from the corner of the room.

Edward glowers at nothing in particular. The thing in the room transpires to be tremendously unnerving, so much so he wants so badly to pull at his hair.

Wait.

The presumed mechanism of death in the case was a cardiac dysrhythmia, related to underlying heart disease, but initiated by physical stress.

There’s a gentle sigh that echoes around the room and Edward swears he hears the voice of the old lady thanking him.

“Um.” Edward begins, silently wondering if he’s gone off his rocket. “Uh.” His throat is dry.

He’s not usually this incompetent at speaking.

“You beat me every day, yet I always win. I am first and last, and come for your kin. Before you came many, after comes more. You always leave when at my door.”

He splutters incoherently.

“Who am I?”

“Is that a riddle?” The thing actually speaks, strangled and mocking.

Edward manages to nod.

“Hilarious.” It looks far from amused. “Death.” It whispers, in throaty hum.

Edward gulps.

“As such,” It continues, drawling, “There’s usually death when humans do see me.”

“Guess I’m lucky.” He manages to stammer.

“Oh I doubt that.” And with that it disappears, leaving Edward to gawk, horrified at the empty space where it once stood.

The puncture is oddly square. Not done in by a knife, he infers. Possibly a thick cane or baton of some sort.

He steps back and immediately freezes.

From the glare of the flashing lights, he spots it once more.

Just like Edward a few moments ago, it’s bent forward, eyeing the body with a bizarre sort of enthusiasm.

“What are you doing?” He hisses before comprehending the fact that no one else can see it. A few odd looks were thrown his way and Edward hurries to find something else to do instead.

Hurriedly, he scouts the rest of the street alley.

“What are you doing?” The same surly voice he’s heard just a few days ago hovers at his side.

“Looking for something.” Edward mutters with clenched teeth. And after a moment of hesitation, “Aren’t you going to send his departed soul off or something and be on your merry way?”

The Grim Reaper blinks owlishly and merely shrugs.

He clicks his teeth, irritated. He doesn’t know why it’s presence feels contemptuous, as if it was here to mock his ineptitude.

A dawn of realisation hits him.

“The more you take, the more you leave behind. What am I?” He utters under his breath.

“Footprints.” The Grim Reaper ripostes, languidly at his side. “You seem to like your riddles.”

Edward snorts in agreement.

He deduces immediately that it belonged to the same buried high heeled shoes.

The puncture on the neck was done in by a heel!

The Grim Reaper stands back upright and twists around to shoot a momentary gaze at Edward, before nodding in acknowledgment and dematerializing out of existence.

Edward, for the life of him, cannot decipher what’s going on anymore.

Edward sees it again, a few times this week.

It’s become this peculiar routine: it appears whenever he’s performing his autopsies, drops an occasional mordant remark, taps the shoulders of the deceased, who sighs, and it disappears.

It’s even more bizarre that Edward’s growing more accustomed to it.

Today, it lounges casually at the side of the autopsy table, side eyeing the petite sized corpse.

“Sad, isn’t it,” It intones, not sounding upset at all, “How a child should be on this table?”

Edward nods gravely.

“I had the impression that Grim Reapers do not feel sad.” He bounces a reply playfully.

It shrugs as a retort.

“And I had the impression that humans experience distress whenever they see me.” It hums after a moment.

Edward nods once more.

They lapse into comfortable silence before it taps the child’s shoulder and leaves.

“So, is there like a rule to sending off departed souls? Because I’ve been noticing a pattern.” Edward scrunches up his nose at the ruptured lung of his current corpse.

The Grim Reaper snorts.

It’s a pleasant sound, Edward thinks.

“Enlighten me.” It drones haughtily.

It let out a hollow chortle.

“Astute, but unfortunately, wrong.” It watches Edward an unreadable expression on its face.

But it doesn’t provide anything else after that.

The next time they meet, Edward is trimming extra tissue off a large rotund cadaver, the excess tissue interfering with his procedure.

“Strangulation.” He asserts, matter of factly, pointing at the dark bruises on the victim’s throat. “His bones have been crushed, causing the discoloration at his throat.”

It nods in assessment.

“Aren’t you going to take his soul away?” Edward pipes up after a while. “We’ve figured out the cause of death.”

The Grim Reaper shoots him a scowl but does so anyway.

Before it leaves, it answers Edward’s burning question.

“I can take them anytime, but I always find it better to lead them away when they’ve come to terms with why they’ve died.”

He shudders.

It’s been a while since Edward last felt unnerved.

The Grim Reaper doesn’t usually bother with Edward’s ramblings but today it looks markedly invested.

It only takes Edward a moment to realise why.

“Eddie,” A concerned query enters the room. “Are you alright?”

Edward almost drops all his tools in horror.

“Eddie.” The forensic officer’s voice is tense, “You’ve been talking to yourself.” That’s not a question. “Are you sure you are alright?” That’s a question.

Edward shakes his head.

The Grim Reaper stares pointedly at him.

Realising his mistake, he nods eagerly instead before shaking once more, trying to dispose of the disquiet.

Katherine sighs.

Edward shakes his head sternly.

Katherine isn’t convinced but she lets it go, and departs with a small smile of reassurance.

Edward wants to dig a hole and hide in it forever.

The Grim Reaper, thankfully, does not offer any sardonic quip after that.

Edward’s a little more cautious after that.

He locks the doors, makes sure that no one is around the corner and speaks diminutively softer.

“They think I’ve gone mental.” He mutters, glaring accusingly at the dead body in front of him. “Maybe I have gone mental.”

The figure flitting at the corner of the room lets out a mischievous guffaw.

“Maybe you have.” The Grim Reaper muses. “That’s a logical explanation to why you can see me.”

Edward laughs, maybe a little bit too loudly but he doesn’t care.

“Rationality be damned. I rather speak to you than any of them.” He scoffs.

It looks slightly puzzled now.

“Are you sure that’s a good thing?” It enquires.

“I don’t think so.” Edward admits after a moment’s pause.

He glances at the wide set eyes inspecting him meticulously.

“But I think I don’t care.”

There’s that comfortable silence that they lapse back into, Edward working on his report and the Grim Reaper watching, until he finally breaks the stillness.

“What costs nothing, but is worth everything. Weighs nothing but can last a lifetime, that one person can’t own, but two or more can share?” His voice trembles ever so slightly.

The Grim Reaper’s brows are raised.

“Love.” It offers, nonchalant.

Edward lets out a nervous giggle.

“Friendship.” He mutters, half amused. “I think,” Edward rests his gaze on it, a little bit too longingly, “I think – I hope we’re friends.”

Edward realises he looks forward to work more and more, only because he gets to see the Grim Reaper.

He’s concluded that it’s found his company as enjoyable as he did.

“Get some rest please, Edward.” The commissioner tells him. “You look like you’ve seen death.”

Edward lets out a forlorn snuffle, unsure whether to laugh at the irony of it all.

He tried calling out for it, but to no avail.

But there’s something else he can try.

At first it looks mystified, then it shakes its head in amusement.

“Very well, Ed.” It chortles, and Edward tingles at the way it murmurs his name.

“How did she die?”

On the third day, it finally asks the question.

“Where are you getting these bodies?” It looks impassive, lounging on Edward’s large armchair.

Edward blanches slightly, going rosy in embarrassment.

The Grim Reaper nods, stands up and taps the body.

Peculiar. He thinks. It’s like it’s waiting for something.

His co-workers almost caught him off-guard a week ago.

Flustered, he threw the cadaver underneath his bed, hurriedly wiping the stains off his living room table whilst gasping “Give me a moment, I’m not decent!”

He noticed that the Grim Reaper had disappeared and couldn’t help but feel terribly abandoned.

This isn’t that awful, he tried to convince himself.

He managed a throaty gurgle when someone mentioned how his house smelt like the dead and lied through his teeth as he pretended to wholeheartedly agree.

“I need to go out more often.” He offered, smiling with teeth clenched.

He was sure he only started to breath when they all left his house, wishing him a speedy recovery (whatever that meant) and telling him to cheer up.

He fibbed about hoping for the best.

What he hoped for, was that they didn’t see the leftover blood stains on the rug.

Edward knows what he’s doing isn’t right.

He’s infatuated with the idea of Death.

“There’s something strange,” Edward mentions that very evening, “That I’ve realised.”

The Grim Reaper is watching Edward with bright blue pools, and tilts its head inquisitively, almost like a curious puppy.

“Back in the autopsy room, or outside during our investigations with the bodies,” He taps his chin thoughtfully, “They sigh every time you tap their shoulder. Why?”

It shrugs.

“Is it because they’ve come to terms with their death? Why they died and how they died?” Edward continues, hoping to get an answer.

He does.

It nods ever so slightly before gazing expectantly at him.

“My father did not sigh.” Edward states briskly. “Was he not gratified?”

Edward shivers at how close it is to him.

“Oh Ed.” It purrs. “I think you know the answer.”

The blue and red lights are little more than smudgy illuminations in the slanting rain.

The report states that there’s no factual motive or connection behind the missing people, but Edward knows better.

After all, during all 19 days of his break, the bodies on the living room table don’t sigh anymore.

Your father’s autopsy shows an over dosage of potassium chloride, which can stop a person’s heart. Katherine is saying over the phone, worried. Did you know?

Edward does not reply.

Eddie. Katherine’s voice is shaky. Your father was murdered.

He remembers slamming the phone and leaving his house in a hurry.

Edward knows his affair with Death is about to expire.

There’s a blaring sound of the police siren far off in the city.

Sooner or later, they will find him.

Dead or alive, Edward doesn’t know.

Either way, he does not care.

He waits.

And sure enough, it appears.

The Grim Reaper, for once, looks mildly troubled.

“Ed.” It’s voice is cold and calculating. “I know.”

Edward blinks, taken aback.

“You knew?”

It shrugs.

The Grim Reaper nods.

“Indeed.” It taps its black umbrella on the soil. “But I never said it was for them.”

Edward frowns, perturbed.

“So, you were following me around.” He begins sluggishly, the pieces of the puzzle slowly fitting in his head. “For me?”

It nods grandly, not offering an answer.

He knows because it wants an answer from him.

“I need to comprehend why I am going to die.”

The Grim Reaper nods.

“I killed all those people so I could see you.” Edward states flatly, it sounds awfully asinine so he laughs, neck reddening in embarrassment.

“I’m going to die because of you.”

The Grim Reaper laughs alongside him.

“No, Ed.” It murmurs fondly, “As sweet as that is, it’s not the answer to this riddle.

It tilts its head.

“Try again.”

It looks bemused as the sirens howled through the evening sky, coming closer.

Edward knows his time is running out.

“We are back where we started, Ed.” It drones, pointing at his father’s head stone.

And it hits Edward like a deer in headlights.

“Oh.” He blurts out. “Oh.”

So that’s why he can see it.

He’s been marked for death ever his father died. By his own hands.

“How am I going to die?” Edward utters after a moment’s pause.

He cannot believe his eyes when it reaches out to pat him on the shoulder, and he gasps - it feels tangible.

He can feel the gaze of death on him, the shouts of the police now audible behind, telling him to stand his ground and to not move - it feels unreal.

“A certain crime is punishable if attempted, not punishable if committed. What is it?” Edward’s voice is hollow and he thinks his eyes are watering.

“Oh Edd.” It purrs, tapping his shoulder lightly, a gentle tender stroke.

“I think you know the answer.”

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doctorwhonews · 6 years

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Doctor Who - The Eleventh Doctor Adventures - Vol 6: The Malignant Truth

Latest Review: Written by Si Spurrier & Rob Williams Illustrated by Simon Fraser, INJ Culbard, Gary Caldwell & Marcio Menys Titan Books, 2016 HB ISBN: 9781785857300 SB ISBN: 9781785860935 Previously ... The Squire is dead. Alice Obiefune is lost in the Time War, having piloted the Master's wounded TARDIS back through the Time Lock. River Song's life hangs in the balance. And infamous Dalek Killer and bounty hunter Abslom Daak is almost certainly going to kill the Doctor for letting Alice go. Now it's time for the Time War to give up its answers. How was the Malignant created? Who killed the Overcaste? What great crime was the Doctor responsible for? But will they be the answers that Alice - and the Doctor - want to hear? The Malignant Truth is the concluding book which collects issues 11 through 15 of Titan Comics' Second-year story arc for the Eleventh Doctor (as formerly played on TV by Matt Smith). The Doctor has been blamed for killing the gods - or at least hyper-dimensional beings worshipped as gods - of an entire species during the chaos of the Time War. It's a "crime" the Doctor doesn't even recall but that's no excuse for the godless Overcaste who send bounty hunters after the Doctor, Alice and the TARDIS, including an anomalous being known only as the Then and Now and notorious Dalek Killer Abslom Daak. With an extended TARDIS crew in tow - comprising an unwilling Daak (whose dead, trophy wife Taiyin is being held hostage within the bowels of the Doctor's erratic time machine), a mysterious elderly woman who claims she was the Doctor's squire in the Time War, River Song (who has yet again escaped the sanctity of the Stormcage), and an Alice plagued by a string of "future memories" of the Time War - the Eleventh Doctor establishes that he, and not the Master, may indeed have committed the atrocity of which he is accused. This prompts Alice to steal the Master's TARDIS in a desperate bid to break through the Time Lock and seek to prove the Doctor's innocence or stop his wartime incarnation from committing a heinous crime. By far the most interesting aspect of this storyline is the comic's interpretation of the Time War. The war itself was glimpsed only briefly on TV (The Day of the Doctor) but has been portrayed in Big Finish's War Doctor saga, in prose such as George Mann's Engines of War, and in Titan's own Four Doctorsmini-series in 2015. Alice meets the War Doctor (as portrayed by the late, great Sir John Hurt on TV), the younger Squire and an unexpected, dare I say "impish", version of the Master that will astonish many readers (but could plausibly tie into Professor Yana's origins back in the 2007 episode Utopia). A few other tropes from the Time War are also adopted within the story, including the application of a Gallifreyan Psilent song box, another weapon from the Time Lords' arsenal, which is very reminiscent in shape and size to the infamous Moment of The Day of the Doctor. Alice also becomes a prisoner of the Volatix Cabal, a hitherto unknown faction of the Daleks that was hinted at in the chapter Downtime in Volume 5 (originally issue 8 of the Eleventh Doctor Year Two run) and are revealed in all their infamy here. In the Master's own words at the beginning of this volume, the Volatix Cabal are a "Dalek death cult of abominations, deliberately bred for disorder. Reviled by their own kind, tolerated only for the talent that no pure Dalek could possess. Creativity." Certainly, in terms of style, the Cabal seemingly combine the concept of "spider Daleks" from the 1990s abortive US TV series with the covert zombified human agents that were glimpsed on TV in Asylum of the Daleks and The Time of the Doctor. But it is the Cabal's eerie, melodramatic and almost poetic dialogue and their proclivity for cannibalising the organic parts of other species (which is anathema to their regular counterparts) that makes this breed of Dalek quite sinister and creepy. Indeed, they encapsulate more of the body horror of the Tenth Planet-style Cybermen than the regular Daleks do. In addition to the Volatix Cabal, Alice, along with the War Doctor and his colleagues, also encounters the Cyclors, the so-called "gods" of the Overcaste. Intriguingly, these "dimensional nomads" are recruited by the Volatix Cabal in a very similar fashion to the way that the enigmatic beings in Big Finish's War Doctor audio drama The Enigma Dimension are solicited by the regular Daleks. While visually the Cyclors are well realised in the artwork, conceptually they are a disappointment. There is an implication that like the Enigma of the Big Finish drama, the Cyclors are almost naïve and immature, unskilled in the ways of the plane they are visiting. Yet unlike the Enigma, there also seems to be a malevolence and bloodthirst to the Cyclors (based on the new "sensation" the Volatix Cabal has offered them) that the book's scribes Si Spurrier and Rob Williams don't really elaborate on, aside from a throwaway line. Indeed, any threat they may pose to the War and Eleventh Doctors and their companions has all but vanished by the conclusion of the tale In timey-wimey fashion, the story eventually returns to the "present day" as the Eleventh Doctor, with Alice's help, realises the awful truth and is virtually helpless to avert the triumphant return of the Volatix Cabal. Again, in a manner that is all too frequently criticised about the modern program by fans (especially during the Matt Smith era), key pieces seem to fall into place which enables the Doctor to seize a last-gasp victory from the almost certain jaws of defeat. At any rate, the tension and excitement that ought to be felt at this juncture in the story is lost because there is far too much exposition between the Doctor, Alice, the Squire and River Song about how they have managed to pull off the supposedly impossible victory. For the most part, the characterisation and dialogue in this volume is consistent with the TV series.The Eleventh and War Doctors and, to a lesser extent, River Song (as portrayed by Alex Kingston on TV) are true to their on-screen personas, although River spends much of this book in stasis as she was infected by the Malignant entity in Vol 5. The "pint-sized" version of the Master is as Machiavellian as his predecessors and successors, delighting in the moral dilemmas that the War Doctor encounters in the Time War (as it clearly makes them more alike, to the Doctor's disgust). Indeed, he's probably creepier than usual because physically and mentally he could easily be mistaken for an urchin. What's particularly interesting about this portrayal is how much Spurrier and Williams reference Roger Delgado's Master throughout the whole Year Two story arc (rather than Anthony Ainley's version), even down to the interior of the renegade's TARDIS (which is the version first seen in The Time Monster, not the later black décor of Geoffrey Beevers' and Ainley's time machines). Perhaps this is just the authors' bias towards Delgado's incarnation, or perhaps the idea is to reinforce that despite his stature, this version of the Master still houses the sharp wit and intellect of the original (especially hinted at when Alice's time-sensitive imagination in one panel depicts the Master's original Delgado-esque features on his rascally form). Abslom Daak's portrayal is true to the original one-dimensional character envisaged by the late Steve Moore and Steve Dillon, and is entirely predictable in his actions and motivations ("I got to smash a Dalek! I got to smash a Dalek!"). Daak's fate in this tale is entirely fitting - it gives him renewed purpose (after it seemed in Volume 5 that the disappearance of Daleks from the universe had made him redundant). Aside from inviting chuckles from the reader, the closing panel also raises the potential of a War Doctor mini-series. I suspect the pairing of the Doctor's wartime incarnation with the Dalek Killer - chalk and cheese multiplied by a factor of 10! - would be short-lived but it could make for great storytelling over five or six issues. The true hero of the story is undoubtedly Alice who literally leaps through hell and back to prove the Doctor's innocence, little realising that she has been manipulated by the Doctor himself. ("You proved you weren't a manipulative, reckless abomination by being manipulative and reckless?" she asks him angrily when she learns the truth.) Nevertheless, Alice proves herself to be a compassionate, faithful, selfless and courageous companion, someone worthy of the Doctor's company, even if he makes her feel otherwise. There is no reason why she couldn't become one of the Doctor's most memorable comic strip companions (after the legendary Frobisher, of course!). The artwork in this volume is shared between INJ Culbard and Simon Fraser, with Marcio Menys and Gary Caldwel providing the colours. Comic artwork is, of course, a form of shorthand, so it's no surprise that established characters like the War Doctor seem more caricatured than some of the original characters. The artists, though, seem to struggle with capturing Matt Smith's youthful appearance; the Eleventh Doctor, particularly in the climactic scenes in the Overcaste's arena, lacks the defined features that made Matt Smith's appearance (eg the high forehead, the chin) seem so outlandish and extra-terrestrial. Fortunately, the artists provide a good rendering of Smith's features in close-up panels of the Eleventh Doctor. The placement of Menys and Caldwel's colours are also interesting. Predominantly they use darker shades in the background with splashes of colour in the foreground. This is arguably most visible in the Time War scenes, whereby Alice's purple ensemble adds colour to the grey, drab features of the War Doctor and some of the other characters. Similarly, in the final showdown in the arena, the Doctor and his companions are of a brighter palette than their drab, grey surroundings and the Overcaste that are trying to convict them. Overall, The Malignant Truth is an example of Doctor Who comics at their best - at least certainly within the Titan stable. Not only this volume but the entire 15-part Eleventh Doctor Year Two arc overall has been highly entertaining, creative and intriguing. Aspects of the story aren't perfect, to be sure (and some of it will no doubt be redundant after the release of BF's War Master boxset this month). It's a bold move for any comic book publisher to run an arc that is effectively 15 months long and could effectively lose readers and deter others. Yet Titan, through a great writing team and some talented artists and colourists, makes it work almost effortlessly. Now, Titan, about that War Doctor/Dalek Killer Time War team-up ... In memory of the late Steve Moore, let's make it happen! :) My thanks to Martin Hudecek for the opportunity to review this volume. http://reviews.doctorwhonews.net/2017/12/doctor_who_the_eleventh_doctor_adventures_vol_6_the.html?utm_source=dlvr.it&utm_medium=tumblr

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