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bansheeoftheforest · 3 years

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Uh, is there still an angst break? Ignore this ask until your ready if so 👉😎👉

What was the au where Jekylls pushed down the stairs and experiences a skull crackening again? Oh well but I've been thinking of a branch of that where Jekyll doesn't know hes dead like all day. I also cant remember if that was already discussed or not

The lodgers patch him up, he complains of a headache, and goes on his merry way! He's confused why all the lodgers are so nervous and being nice to him all of the sudden, why creature is looking at him with a stange mix of empathy and pity. He was told he fell down the stairs, fell unconscious, and obtained a bit of an injury. He cant fathom why Frankenstein is "The only doctor who can treat him" why he has to constantly go to her for checkups. Why Maijabi is suddenly following him practically everywhere.

Hyde squeezes back control for a moment and tries the potion but it doesn't work. Maybe a bit of pain but certainly no transformation. Jekyll assumes his injury or whatever medication they're giving him to treat it somehow negated the effects

Jekyll complains about "suddenly blacking out" the lodgers know its because his soul is slippery. They tell him it must just be a side effect of the injury and not to worry

How long can they keep it secret from him? When does he find out? Does he? Does it get to be years only for him to realize that he hasn't aged? That he still needs checkups from Frankenstein? Does he learn sooner? Does a lodger crack and say it? Does he rot? Does he notice how so very cold he is. How animals act around him? It's all very interesting,,

I actually did think a bit of Jekyll's kidnappers for the amnesia kidnapping au! When drawing that lil sketch of Henry and O'Leary meeting Robert I had considered making it so O'Leary was suspicious of Lanyon like "Oh theres no news anywhere of someone matching Thomas' description who's missing. But some random people walk up claiming to know him? Begging to take him back with them?" And he'd think they were the kidnappers. But ultimately I decided against it as I felt Lanyon and Rachel were pretty clearly, genuinely concerned for "Thomas" :p

I tried playing assassins creed once, the first(?) one. But the controls were confusing and everything was sorta thrown all at me at once, and I got bored of it quickly

But! I went to the store the other day and just so happened to notice Syndicate was being sold for 15 dollars 👀 So I bought it because funky Victorian assassins and your influence! It's a bit less confusing then the first ac game I tried but why is going down or dropping so hard bdksnks. I'm having quite a bit of fun! If you dont count my rage and annoyance-, the B button refuses to cooperate with me unless I'm looting corpses >:(

The b button being the bane of my existence aside, I AM having fun! I like the funky outfits and I want to play as the girl twin (evie?) forever because her clothes are good and shes better at attacking than jacob(?) For some reason. Probably the stun her weapon has? Oh well! I have not unlocked any new outfits yet, nonetheless I wish there were more.

Also! I was thimking, and my current quests are taking place at 1868? Did I get that right? And Jekyll is like 35 in 1885. So in game he'd be 18! An au like I believe you mentioned sounds very interesting 👀 but I must play more to know what's going on and daydream about it

That would be the resurrection au <3

But god, I really like that branch! Especially combined with the hc that he can't feel pain bc the HJ7 and the transformations made him immune. Frankenstein patched him up and made fleshweaver to heal the crack in his skull but it still has to be bandaged, he surely broke a few bones, yet all he has to do is to be careful because it doesn't even hurt. He doesn't even realize how severe the injuries are because it doesn't hurt, it very well might just have been that he accidentally slipped at the bottom of the staircase and accidentally hit his head on the railing during his fall, rather than getting physically pushed and flying down the stairs, shattering his skull upon impact with the marble floor. Y'know what would be extra fun? If he only starts getting a bit suspicious about how severe the injury was once he realizes his lungs stop breathing for minutes at a time when he gets distracted, or his heartbeat stops dead in his chest. I know that that's not how biology or even creature works but lets say the HJ7 is funky, Zombie Jekyll my beloved. Perhaps he would only fully grasp what had happened once he blacked out too much and 'passed out', but his soul slipped out enough to leave his body unconscious on the floor while his soul/ghost was just... Watching. And it's not until Maijabi (who, as you said, follows him everywhere) immediately calls for more Lodgers saying that Henry's soul is getting unstable and Frankenstein's lousy job is starting to shine through that he fully understands that it was not a mere hit to the head. Or maybe it is when days, weeks, maybe months has passed and the headache never goes away, he only feels how his body starts feeling so much more... Fragile and delicate, that the guilt has eaten Helsby up alive and he corners him and spills everything, knowing he is going directly against what the group agreed to but not being able to keep it a secret much longer-- or maybe Creature would tell him immediately, once Henry is, for once, alone perhaps days after the initial accident. He cannot see Henry struggle to understand what is going on when he already knows what's happening to Henry, his mind, and his body. He doesn't listen to the plan that Frankenstein and the Lodgers has set up and immediately tells Henry the first moment they are alone. That would certainly be horrifying, I can only imagine how the Lodgers would find Henry after that, once he actually knows and manages to process everything. He would be so mad, not only to have been killed in the first place, but also because he was robbed of an afterlife because the Lodgers were selfish and could not accept the consequences of their actions. He would be mad, he would be so pissed and I have no doubt he might actually be mad at Maijabi too for even agreeing to help Frankenstein and the rest of the Lodgers. That anger would not stay long, though. That anger would soon turn into misery and sadness and paranoia so even as Henry has tried to push Maijabi away, Henry still ends up on his doorstep begging him to help him make sure he is not rotting, because no matter what anyone says, he is sure he can see rotten spots and patches on his skin and he is just so scared and jdhfjsdfdsfsfs... <3

Ooooooohhh, I was actually daydreaming about this just this morning! Granted, I woke up at 5 and began to daydream to fall asleep quicker but I still like the thought of O'Leary being suspicious of Robert/Rachel/Jasper/the Lodgers bc he is protective of 'Thomas' and doesn't want anything bad to happen to him and especially with the idea that Henry still has hallucinations and they both think he was abandoned by his family, left to rot at a mental asylum. O'Leary might very well think that it might be Henry's friends and family that dumped him that Henry had 'escaped' the hospital and that's why they knew he was missing since the Asylum itself obviously wouldn't have posted the news... I really liked Jeks idea, okay? Like a lot, I absolutely love it <3

Oh, the oldest AC game I played was Unity bc it was free after the Notre Dame fire, and I can confirm, I played 15 min and could not get through it even if i would have wanted to, it absolutely sucks so i have no doubt the older games are just as frustrating <3

BUT!!!! I'M SO GLAD MY CORRUPTION IS SPREADING AND YOU BOUGHT AND PLAYED IT AND ARE ENJOYING IT SO FAR!!! Trust me, Syndicate truly is an absolutely amazing game and is definitely one of my top 3 games of all time. I sometimes play it w my friend watching me play and trust me, I know that rage of trying to do smt but the character does smt else... or you try to do smt but the game doesn't react and you miss your chance... Oh well, still a wonderful game <3

My friend loves to play as Evie as well but I'm definitely playing Jacob every chance I get and I honestly get a lil pissy when I have to play as Evie bc I always prefer to play male characters, plus, I just like Jacob better bc he is a sweetheart. He is also canonically bisexual as hell!!! Have you met Abberline yet? The police officer? Him and Jacob together is one of my fave ships for the game. I also bought the ultimate/golden/whatever name it was edition so I had a bunch of extra outfits, I love the sherlock holmes outfit for Jacob but my friend keeps bullying me for it </3

Honestly? The time difference is the bane of my entire idea for the au bc if it's during their time Henry hasn't even graduated yet, and definitely not well-known enough for them to actively meet for whatever reason, and if you use the timeline for the jack the ripper dlc (in 1888) a lot of... Less than pleasant things happen so it wouldn't really make a lot of sense for a crossover to happen at that point but maybe it's just bc im a pussy and refuse to play the dlc. Rn, while imagining the au, I just imagine the 1868 timeline to be the same as the TGS timeline. I like to imagine the Frye Twins hearing about Henry and the Society and promptly breaking into his office to ask him to make poison and stuff for them. I also have a feeling that Jacob would flirt wildly with Henry and that Henry would be less-than-amused. It would also be a very fun thing with the fact that there would be two Henrys, with TGS Henry Jekyll and AC Syndicate Henry Green, soo... XD

#Man I really want to hear your journey through syndicate!!!#Oh man I cant wait until you meet Maxwell #and Crawford for that matter #he was the guy I based the crawford in the fic off of bc i had no idea what else to do <3 #OHH there would also be a lot of mixup with Lucy Thorne and TGS Queen Lucy #oh i can imagine them being rivals #that would be fun <3 #ask #darling-dolly-darlene #banshees au #resurrection au #amnesia kidnapping au

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hippityhoppityyourenowmyproperty · 4 years

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Okay so, I have some very strong opinions about one particular scene that took place between Frankenstein and Jekyll/Hyde that I'd like to share with you. The scene in question is this one:

I know a lot of you have an issue with how Hyde talks to Frankenstein in this, but bare with me here when I tell you that telling her off like this was the best possible thing to do and not something evil or condemnable Jekyll should feel bad about. This "This is why you suck" speech by Hyde was desperately needed and long overdue.

Let's take a moment to remember what events happened because of Frankenstein in canon thus far.

Soooo this is confirmation that the creature has murdered at least one person and hints at that he committed the other atrocities he carried out in the book (Killing two more people, framing someone for a murder he (creature) committed,) as well. Frankenstein is partially responsible for all the pain and misery she caused with her actions, but she refuses to take the blame for what she did. Like creature points out in the next scene, all Frankenstein did was bury her guilt deeper within herself. She came up with that pitiful "it's what a true scientist would do" excuse to convince herself that the suffering she caused happened for a reason, and that she didn't need to own up to her mistakes. It's a psychological defense mechanism so that she wouldn't be overwhelmed by regret and grief.

The issue with this is that she neither learnt her lesson, nor did she attempt to better her behavior. Instead, she doubled down on it. She pretends that she is proud of the horrid things she caused. And that is a mayor problem considering she is a person many people listen and look up to.

"Being careless in your pursuit of scientific knowledge and endangering lives is not only accepted, but also highly encouraged by me! Getting my friends and family killed was the greatest thing I ever did and made me a noble scientist! If you want to be a true scientist like me, ignore all common sense and concern about possible consequences your actions might have for you and others and just go for it!" Is what she is essentially conveying. Alone by taking the role of the ultimate mad scientist ideal for the lodgers she proved that she perceives herself as someone worth looking up to.

She is telling scientists who have access to things like flamethrowers, bio weapons, poison, necromancy, magical artefacts and a bunch of other crazy stuff to disregard safety precautions and to just go wild. I think it would be redundant to point out how dangerous and lethal that would be for everyone involved. Frankenstein is risking human lives because she can't admit to her failure.

And that's where we get back to the first scene I showed. Because what Hyde is actually telling her is that she needs to take a second look at her life and where it has lead her and the people she loved. "Stop spreading this bullshit, it'll cause harm." He calls her out on her flimsy "A true scientist would" excuse and confronts her with what she really did and why she uses that justification in the first place.

"But Hyde was being so mean to her."

Yes, but you can't really approach a person like her differently. She is so far down into denial and her own delusions that any other way of talking to her about what she is doing would fail. You can't risk her not listening to the truth, not when human lives are at stake again, not when a message this dangerous is being spread to this many people. A good, hard reality check was exactly what was needed in this situation. There are times in real life where you have to put your foot down and draw a clear line, even if it's uncomfortable. Sometimes, doing the kind thing won't leave you happy and joyful. The reality of things is that doing what is right can be hard and messy, but it still needs to be done.

Yes, this made their relationship worse, but it was necessary nonetheless. Think about it this way: You have a friend who starts making sexist/racist jokes and you decide to call him out on how shitty that is. If the person ends the friendship after that argument, you are not the problem in the scenario. Real life is full of conflicts.

And to the people who think that this lecture of Hyde was verbal abuse, let me just tell you that this is not what abuse looks like. But if you do want to see an accurate example of verbal abuse, look no further than to Frankenstein herself.

No one has to take this kind of bullshit. Talking back at someone who's been using the situation they are in to repeatedly taunt, degrade, disrespect and insult you because of their own issues isn't something you should ever feel bad about. Defending yourself against this kind of assault is never, ever an action that should be viewed with disdain. Fighting back does not make you the bad guy.

Objectively and subjectively, her getting a reality check from Hyde is perfectly justified.

#the glass scientists #tgs #henry jekyll #edward hyde #tgs frankenstein #tgs creature #tw: murder #tw: cursing #tw: verbal abuse

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galaxy-parchment · 4 years

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Vampire AU

1 : 2 : 3 : 4 : 5 : 6 : 7 : 8 : 9 : 10 : 11 : 12 : 13 : 14 : 15 (you are are)

This is finally finished! Good lord that took a while I expected this to be half as long as it ended up being. As usual please leave comments/tags/replies of what you thought of the overall story (its okay you can be honest) and feel free to send any asks at any time if you ever want me to answer any questions.

Jekyll led the way out of the office and stared down the expectant, though well-guarded, crowd before them, courtesy of Rachel brandishing that knife she never seemed to put down.

Lanyon tried not to look weak under all the glares he was getting, but he’d seen how insane these people could be. If this went wrong he’d be lucky to get the chance to flee London. Despite his obviously fake courage, he stood his ground beside Jekyll, who inhaled deeply, about to speak. He held onto the breath for a moment and exhaled it out into his first words.

“I know you’re scared, and confused, and angry, and feeling a lot of strong feelings about the situation, but please hear me out,” he paused, hoping his pleas weren’t falling on deaf ears.

Some people’s expressions didn’t change, but the air of curiosity and general lack of outburst prompted Jekyll to continue.

“I think we of all people should understand that everyone deserves a second chance,”some heads rose in recognition, “and the opportunity to be a part of a community of like-minded individuals. Individuals who won’t hold judgement against them.” Jekyll glanced back at him, jerking his head slightly to them, still observing. Lanyon took a moment to realise that Jekyll wanted him to speak. Of course. Bloody hell.

He shifted, moving to Jekyll’s side, and could swear he felt himself sweating despite his physical incapability to do so. “I’m… sorry for my… outburst… yesterday. I swear that I didn’t intend to actually harm anyone and was fully aware that Luckett wasn’t in his room that evening,” he insisted, his voice almost breaking from how nervous he was.

“Why’d you do it then?“ called Pennybrygg, who was one of the few lodgers still accompanying the now less frazzled Luckett.

“I was… er… acting on… some…. personal issues…” Lanyon attempted to get out, mumbling the end in shame. He directed his gaze towards Luckett, who was looking quite annoyed at him. “I’d be happy to help you restore your room, however, Mr Luckett.” He was relieved to see him ponder on it for a moment and grumpily nod his head with a grunt. Lanyon’s lacklustre explanation earned him some unimpressed faces, but Luckett’s acceptance of the offer seemed to stop anyone from protesting.

Jekyll cleared his throat, drawing attention away from Lanyon, who was clearly not used to speaking to this sort of audience. “We’re all people who have an appreciation for the strange, the macabre, the odd. To make things right with all of you who feel violated by having the presence of a vampire in your lives for so long, Dr Lanyon has agreed to allow you to ask for his help in any experiments that may require… someone such as himself… in them.”

That sparked some excited murmurs. Within seconds any mention of doubt or annoyance was lost and overpowered by a lively discussion about the possibilities this opened up. Questions were being yelled out at the two of them about what exactly they were allowed to do. The first few questions were answered but it soon became an impossible task.

Lanyon felt himself being dragged away by the arm. It took him a moment to actually look down at who it was. He was relieved to see Rachel. She didn’t seem to look as angry as he’d thought. If anyone in the building had a right to be upset with him it was certainly Rachel. All he could see in her eyes was gentle sympathy.

“I’m guessing that this is why you never eat my garlic chicken?” she asked, giving him a reassuring grin. Lanyon found himself slowly being led away from the lodgers, somehow unnoticed by them.

“No, actually, it turns out I actually can eat garlic. I’m just not a fan of chicken.” He chuckled back at her.

She huffed, half-giggling as she did, “And here I thought you’d at least use the opportunity to make an excuse for yourself!” They both took the opportunity to laugh off the tension of the situation. They both drifted into silence and Lanyon saw Rachel’s happy expression weaken into something inexplicably sad.

“Rachel, I’m sorry I never said anything to you - I didn’t want you worrying about me. Jekyll’s already a handful on a bad day.”

“You didn’t have to worry about me, Lanyon. I’m built tough, you know that,” she smiled, giving him a friendly nudge on the arm.

“I haven’t destroyed any hopes of you trusting me in the future, have I? Aside from Jekyll, I don’t really have many other people I can call a friend.”

She stared at him for a moment before breaking out into the most genuine laugh she’d let out for the whole conversation. “You’re not all that bright for a Doctor, are you? You think something like being a vampire is gonna scare me off?” She looked back at the crowd of lodgers bombarding an overwhelmed Jekyll with questions, some relating to the news and others drifting off to other topics, then back to Lanyon. “I live here, I can handle a little bit of craziness.”

Lanyon smiled at her with such a pure, light relief he feared he’d start floating where he stood. Rachel glanced at the nearest set of stairs and tilted her head towards it.

“Come on, you’d better get started on cleaning up Luckett’s room. I’ll grab some supplies for you.”

“I don’t suppose I’ll be getting any help with my least favourite type of labour, would I?”

Rachel placed a firm hand on his back and pushed him towards the stairs alongside her. “Don’t be ridiculous, Doctor, what kind of a redemption would that be?”

Despite how heartwarming the moment was, Lanyon was starting to dread this whole ‘apology’ business.

Everything was, astonishingly, quite normal after yesterday’s events.

Granted the extremely emotionally moving speech Jekyll gave was quite a substantial factor in the amazing outcome. Lanyon was nonetheless eternally grateful for the good reception he was getting.

He still got some stern looks in the Society and a few mild threats as he passed through the halls. He also got some very invasive questions about how his physiology worked, not that he entirely knew himself. Everything was otherwise quite normal considering he’d been revealed to be one of the most heinous types of beast in all of London.

He did appreciate that Jasper fellow’s offer to get him a less… morally ambiguous… source of human blood that he used to feed some of his pets. He wasn’t quite sure how much he would like where the blood came from, but it was probably better than murdering whatever poor sap was stupid enough to get drunk in the East End.

He might have to lie about how much blood he needed and get some for Jekyll as well.

Jekyll carried his hefty case of equipment upstairs. He’d almost forgotten she was there. Alas, forgetting didn’t mean she didn’t exist, so upon being reminded by an off-handed comment from Rachel he made his way over.

She looked very comfortable, bundled up in her blankets reading a book. It appeared to be new so he assumed it was a gift from one of her new adoring fans. She looked up at him and, strangely enough, smiled at him. Jekyll would be lying if he said that didn’t put him on edge at all.

He went through the usual routine. Say hello, open the case, make her medicine for the day and make sure she took it. She had this demeanour about her, though. Whenever he said anything, did anything, even took a moment to look at her, she had this mischievous grin, like she had some brilliant secret she was desperate not to tell. Eventually his curiosity got the better of him as she downed his medicine.

“What’s got you so… cheerful… today?” he asked, raising an eyebrow at her.

“I’m so glad you asked, Doctor.” She casually fiddled with her own gloved hand, keeping that smirk on her face. “I was listening in on yesterday’s commotion, quite an outstanding resolution I must say. I personally wouldn’t have even noticed your friend was a vampire, since I’ve never even met him.” She looked up at him. “But I couldn’t help but think about how you always act.”

“What do you mean?” Jekyll asked carefully, keeping his voice as level as he could.

“Oh, nothing much, just how you’re pale some days and the next day you look flush as ever. How you talk less whenever your skin becomes quite pale. The way your eyes twitch ever so slightly whenever you give me intravenous medicines…”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Hmph, I thought you would be much more open at this point, but I suppose keeping up your facade is quite important. I believe you are a vampire, Doctor. A drainer, as you Londoners tend to call them.”

Jekyll’s blood would have run colder if it could. “That’s ridiculous, are you sure you don’t have a fever or something?” He began packing his things, sending her the message that he was about to leave.

She rested her chin on her elbow, which was propped up on her knee. “Really, Doctor Jekyll, I promise I won’t tell.” He stopped for a moment and stared her down, looking for some hint that she wasn’t toying with him. It was impossible to see through all of that smugness. She was obviously having some fun with this.

“Really?”

“Yes. It appears I may have thought you to be the wrong variant of blood-sucker. I much prefer a creature of the night than some pompous buffoon. A lot more fun to deal with, so I will let this slide for now. Creature insists that being disliked will be the least of your problems if I come to harm, anyway,” she said as she gestured to the monster in question, who simply gave a stern nod to him that Jekyll acknowledged solemnly.

“T-thank you, Frankenstein.”

“Of course, we beasts of humanity must live in harmony.” He wasn’t sure how comfortable he was with that comment.

Jekyll packed the rest of his things and quietly stepped out of the room, keeping an eye on them as he left. The grin didn’t leave Frankenstein’s face, but it didn’t seem as menacing as it did before. Instead it was more playful. Once he closed the door behind him, he let a tense sigh escape him.

He reminded himself to yell at Hyde a bit for getting bitten in the first place.

#galaxywrites #the glass scientists #tgs #henry jekyll #robert lanyon #rachel pidgely #the lodgers #frankenstein #fanfiction

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flowers-creativity · 5 years

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Small things

Fandom: The Musketeers Characters: d’Artagnan (Charles d’Artagnan), Porthos du Vallon, Athos (Comte de la Fere), Aramis (René d’Herblay), Jean Tréville, OCs Warnings: Violence, bullying Summary: d'Artagnan has found a new home and purpose in the Musketeers. But there might be some things that are wrong. They’re only small things, though. Porthos is good at noticing small things.

AO3 link

Chapter 1

Chapter2

Chapter 3

As the evening drew to a close, Aramis and Athos left d'Artagnan for a night in the infirmary, promising to let Constance know where he was so she wouldn't worry about her wayward lodger – even if “he's spending the night in the infirmary” was not the most reassuring thing to hear, too. The Gascon spent a rather uneasy night, kept from a restful sleep by his worries about Porthos and the men who seemed to hate him so much, and the occasional pain shooting through him upon some awkward movement jostling his shoulder. He was glad when the morning arrived and brought with it Aramis and Athos' return with breakfast.

They had just settled down for the meal, d'Artagnan grudgingly suffering the others serving him due to having only one functioning arm to himself, as the door opened again and admitted a very sheepish-looking Porthos.

Aramis looked around at his friend's approach and then grinned at d'Artagnan cheekily. “I should have placed some money on that wager,” he chuckled, and the young recruit returned the grin, relief shining in his dark eyes, while Athos just raised an eyebrow at their exchange.

“Welcome back,” the older Musketeer greeted their brother dryly as he stopped a few feet from them. The big man looked between them and finally said: “I'm sorry.”

Athos sighed. “Stop apologising, Porthos.”

Porthos shook his head. “It was stupid. You need me here, not fallin' apart all over the place,” he returned.

Aramis stood up and pulled his friend into an embrace. “You may fall apart as much as you need to, but we'd be happier if you did it somewhere where we can help you put yourself back together,” he admonished him gently.

d'Artagnan, for his part, moved awkwardly forward on his cot until he could reach out with his good arm and take Porthos' hand where it was hanging limply at his side as he stood, motionless, in Aramis' embrace. He gave it a light squeeze and finally said: “You are forgiven, my friend, for this and everything else plaguing you.”

At that, the big Musketeer heaved a sigh and slumped forward into Aramis' arms, his weight resting on the smaller man for a moment. The marksman smiled and patted his back. “There, there,” he teased, “though I didn't expect I'd have to keep you upright quite so literally. You're heavy, dear brother.”

Porthos gave a small, watery snort and drew back, surreptitiously wiping at his face. Aramis released him with a last pat on the back and pressed him down onto the stool Athos had drawn up for him. Taking in the swarthy countenance, none of them could miss that he was paler than usual, apart from the bruised skin below his eyes that spoke of a night badly spent. It was Athos who asked bluntly: “You look like you have slept not a wink tonight. Where have you been?”

Porthos shrugged and answered: “Nearby.” His tone said that no answers would be forthcoming, even as Athos directed one of his eloquent eyebrow raises his way, and Athos gave a dip of his head by way of acceptance. They settled back around their meal, and bit by bit, the atmosphere relaxed as their circle was finally whole again.

***

After the mid-day meal, Aramis allowed d'Artagnan to finally leave the infirmary and sit in the garrison's courtyard while the three of them went about their duties. The would-be Musketeer was glad to be out and about even if all he did was sit in the weak sunlight at their usual table. It was agreed that he could not return to his lodgings for a while since he was unable to clothe and, to the young man's great embarrassment, even relieve himself one-handed, and it would be terribly unseemly to ask the lovely Madame Bonacieux to help him. So he would need to stay in the infirmary or with one of the others so they could assist him. Porthos had passionately argued against the former, and d'Artagnan had the distinct feeling that if they had chosen the infirmary, Porthos would have spent a lot of nights “nearby”, a suspicion he was sure Aramis and Athos shared. Staying with one of his friends it was, then.

But for now, even if he was itching to be free of the sling constricting his arm and shoulder and doing something productive, he sat and enjoyed being part of the usual hustle and bustle of the Musketeer garrison in that way again, at least. Maçon came and sat by him for a while, apologising profusely again for hurting him, until Porthos took pity on both lads and collected the contrite young Musketeer for some task or another. His friends moved around, in and out of the yard on their duties, not actually at his side most of the time, but d'Artagnan could feel the gaze of one of them on him almost constantly. It made him feel warm and protected but also slightly smothered, and he sighed, resting his chin on his free hand. He really hoped they would manage to get those men and his bones would heal quickly so life could return to normal. Well, as normal as their lives could be, he supposed. As Musketeers, they were never free of danger but feeling as if danger was lurking here, in the place that had felt like it was becoming a home to him, among people who had been on the way of becoming his family after losing his father … Now that his worry over Porthos had abated, d'Artagnan could admit to himself that it did hurt. Well, there was no danger among those who had well and truly become his family, he thought as he caught Athos' gaze from across the courtyard, and the older Musketeer gave him a quick dip of his head and a half-smile. They would make sure he was safe, and with them at his side, he could deal with whoever tried to hurt or drive him away. He would show them that he had the heart of a Musketeer and was above being bullied by those who had not, even if they wore the pauldron and he didn't.

***

The next days proceeded in much the same fashion, as his bones continued to heal, and it was almost a disappointment that his “bad luck” seemed to have stopped and there were no more little things. Knowing of Porthos' experience, none of them was relaxing his guard, though. All of them were nervous when they had to leave him alone for a while, for guard duty and similar things, and he often used this time to go visit Constance, making sure she did not think he had forgotten about her friendship. It was better if he was not in the garrison without his brothers watching his back. And it was only for a short while, anyway.

Until Tréville called the Inseparables into his office for a mission that would take them away from Paris for a week or more.

“What? No! We can't go!” Porthos protested when Tréville had barely finished his orders, and the Captain looked taken aback at the fervid protest.

Casting his mind about for a cause of this, he settled on d'Artagnan's injury as the most likely one and said: “Look, I know you're loath to leave the lad behind but he'll be alright staying here and continuing to heal, and you've gone on enough missions without him. By the time you get back, he should be able to exchange that sling for something lighter and get in some exercise to start recovering his strength, right, Aramis?”

The medic of the group shifted uncomfortably and exchanged a glance with his brothers. They had wanted to only go to Tréville once they had secured enough evidence – so far, the only thing they had was the broken blade incriminating Royer, and even this could be construed as circumstantial if he claimed he had had no idea about the tampering. There had been no new incidents, and all their attempts to covertly investigate the previous happenings and the men they suspected had not resulted in anything tangible. But leaving d'Artagnan alone for so long when they even worried their way all through guard duty at the palace – it was inconceivable.

“Aramis?” The Captain frowned at his three men as his question went unanswered and they were having one of these silent conversations they were known for. It was a great asset to have but he definitely did not like it when they did it with him.

Aramis shook himself to get out of his thoughts and turned towards Tréville once more. “You are right about that, Captain,” he started, “but that is not what we are worried about.”

Tréville raised an eyebrow and leaned forward, steepling his fingers. “Well then, explain yourself,” he demanded.

The three men exchanged another glance, and it was Athos who started speaking then, making a report in his usual clipped, factual manner. Tréville listened, his brows drawing low over his eyes as he took in what he was saying. By the time Athos had ended, he had stood and started pacing his office.

“Why am I only being told about this now?” he asked, whirling around to face them again, hands on his hips.

“We have no evidence, Sir,” Athos replied, meeting the stormy blue eyes without flinching. “Most of it is just Porthos' observations and conclusions, and the only piece of evidence does not clearly incriminate anyone.”

“We're sure about Royer bein' involved but we wanted to make sure all of them would be caught,” Porthos added.

The Captain sighed. “I'd have thought you'd have more trust in me,” he said in a low voice, disappointed. “You should know I won't stand for that.” His gaze went to Porthos and Aramis at these words – Athos had not yet been with the regiment when Porthos had undergone this particular ordeal.

Both friends shifted uncomfortably under the weight of his disappointment. “We didn't want you to be put into a delicate position without enough evidence – you have a duty to more than us,” Aramis tried to explain, and Porthos shot his friend a thankful look.

“Hrmpf.” Tréville didn't have a good argument against that, admittedly. “Still, the moment it turned from harassment to injury, I should have been informed.”

His men looked down, ashamed and suitably chastised. They had been so wrapped up in trying to protect their youngest brother, they had forgotten about their duty to their Captain and the fierce loyalty he held for his men. Finally, Aramis raised his head and stated: “We're sorry, Captain. But surely you see now why we can't leave.”

The commanding officer looked at them calmly and after a moment, he said: “On the contrary. I actually think it's all the more reason for you to go.”

Aramis and Porthos immediately burst into shocked protest but Athos was silent, his gaze intent on the Captain's face. He knew that look in those pale blue eyes. Tréville had an idea. “What do you suggest?” he asked once his brothers had calmed down, helped along by him grabbing their arms and squeezing them, indicating they should hold back.

Tréville returned to his seat and pulled out some brandy, filling tankards for all of them. “You've been watching the lad closely since the accident,” he remarked. “I noticed but put it down to your usual fussing because of the injury.” He chuckled lightly at the redness raising in Aramis' cheeks, at how Athos pulled himself up and adopted a haughty look, trying to look as if fussing was nothing he'd ever do, and at Porthos' sudden concentration on the drink in his hand. They'd never admit it but they were all terrible worriers when one of them was injured, and particularly if the one affected was a certain Gascon who had so successfully made a place for himself in their tight-knit unit. “But now I know why. I'd hazard the guess that those men have noticed it, too, and they wouldn't dare to make a move while he is so well-guarded. Actions like these are not those of courageous men.”

Porthos snorted and mumbled bitterly: “Tell me 'bout it.” The other two just nodded, none of them attempting to hide their disdain. Still, the conclusion Athos was drawing from the Captain's words was not one he liked. “You're suggesting that we leave d'Artagnan unprotected. That we use him as bait,” he said, trying but failing to keep his tone neutral – Tréville certainly heard the accusatory note in it.

The Captain raised a placating hand. “I'm afraid I'd have to say yes to the second part,” he said, ignoring the incredulous looks he earned with this statement, “not so much to the first part, though.” He gazed at them seriously in turn. “For one, you need to remember that this is a garrison full of Musketeers, and most of them like your young protégé. There are others to watch his back, even if you can't do it yourself. And second ...” he smiled slightly, “I would be amenable to only send two of you on this mission. While three men would be good, I trust that two of you would be able to do it just as effectively. However, all three of you would need to leave. To be seen leaving.”

Aramis nodded, understanding sparking in his dark eyes. “The third man could then circle around and come back to watch unseen, while those men believe us all gone and d'Artagnan on his own,” he concluded.

Porthos grumbled, clearly not entirely happy with the plan, but nodded as well, seeing the wisdom in it nonetheless. “That'll work, I guess.”

“Glad that you approve,” Tréville commented dryly. His expression was sympathetic, though, and Athos felt another rush of gratitude to this man. He didn't have to do this – as their commanding officer, he would have been well within his rights to order them to fulfil their mission, and they would not have any choice but to do it or risk being court-marshalled for dereliction of duty if they didn't and were caught. But he had offered them a solution and his assistance nevertheless and increased their chances at finally getting somewhere at the same time.

“I'll leave it to you who will be the one to stay in Paris, gentlemen. Make sure you're gone at least a couple of hours before doubling back, and let me know where the one of you staying behind is and how to contact him. I'll inform d'Artagnan while you get ready for your departure – send him up, will you? Travel safe,” the Captain said, dismissing them.

The three of them saluted him and filed out of his office. Coming down the steps into the courtyard, Athos caught d'Artagnan's eye, the young man sitting in his customary place at their table, and made a motion for him to go up to the Captain's office. As he got up and their paths crossed, the older Musketeer reached out and put a hand on d'Artagnan's shoulder, giving it a short squeeze. If the young man wondered at what had brought about the affectionate gesture, he did not ask, just shot him a short smile and moved past them, disappearing into Tréville's office.

At the bottom of the stairs, Porthos made to turn to them but before he could start speaking, Athos stalled him with a sharp glance. “Not here,” he said in a low voice, “Aramis' room.” The other two nodded and they moved off.

Once the door had closed behind them, Porthos spoke, and Athos had known what he would say: “I'll stay. You know I'm best at remainin' unseen, so I should be the one to stay.”

Athos sighed and scrubbed a hand through his beard. “That's true, my friend, but I think you should go. This whole thing has taken quite an emotional toll on you – which none of us blames you for,” he replied patiently, exchanging a glance with Aramis that confirmed that the marksman agreed with him. While Porthos had been able to get his emotions back under control for the most part after the accident, they had all noticed the frustration, worry and anger threatening to spill forth from the dark-skinned man the longer they had been unable to make real headway in their investigation. And a frustrated and angry Porthos was a dangerous thing; while his self-control was better than many gave him credit for, once the dam burst, there was no telling what might happen.

Porthos growled: “I don't need no protectin' of my tender feelin's; I need to know the lad is safe and we'll get them.” There was desperation in the dark eyes as he looked at his friends, imploring again: “Let me stay. I need to do somethin' to make sure that happens. I can't go.”

Aramis shook his head sadly, and Athos could tell it pained him as much as it did Athos to deny their friend's request. “You're frustrated and angry, Porthos. Whoever stays needs to keep a cool head. Please, trust in Athos or me; each of us will protect d'Artagnan as fiercely as you would.”

The big Musketeer sagged back at those words, unable to deny his brothers his trust. “I know you will,” he murmured. “But ridin' away from him, not knowin' what'll happen … I don't know if I can do that.”

The medic reached out, drawing him near by the nape of his neck until their foreheads touched. “I know, my friend,” he murmured back, soothing, gently, “I know we're asking you to do the harder task. Forgive us.”

Porthos shook his head. “No … no, you're right,” he mumbled. “It's alright.”

Athos sighed and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I'm glad you understand,” he said heavily. He looked thoughtfully at Aramis. “So, you or me?” There was something to be said for both options: As a sharpshooter, Aramis had lots of experience climbing on rooftops or through windows (with the latter acquired in some other … pursuits as well), so he was almost as good as Porthos at moving about unseen, and his medical knowledge and marksmanship might be handy if, God forbid, things came to a head in a dramatic fashion. On the other hand, he and Porthos were closer than Athos was to the swarthy Musketeer, and he was closer to d'Artagnan, something that came to him as a surprise again and again but which he could no longer deny. It might be a source of comfort for the Gascon to know his mentor was nearby – and he had to admit he was as loath to leave him as Porthos was.

“You,” Aramis replied without hesitation, without a trace of doubt, and Athos could not keep his surprise from his face which made the marksman chuckle. “Sending you two away would be a recipe for disaster,” he explained in a light, teasing tone, “you'd worry yourself sick, both of you, with no one to keep up your spirits, and we can't have that. My cheery disposition will be more needed on the road than here in Paris.”

Athos let the corner of his mouth curl up in a small smile, and he dipped his head in acknowledgement of the truth in Aramis' words, though he did not doubt that the marksman would do his fair share of worrying, too. “Alright, we are agreed, then?” he asked. “Then let us get ready and take our leave from our youngest.”

The other two nodded, and they dispersed to pack their saddlebags, get rations and tack their horses.

***

d'Artagnan had settled back down at the table in the courtyard after talking to Tréville and sighed. He hated being left behind when the three Inseparables went on a mission, and even more so in his current situation which involved a lot of boredom and a certain lack of feeling safe in the Musketeers' quarters. He was thankful to the Captain for having his back, ensuring him that he would enlist a few men of whom he and his three friends were convinced that they had the recruit's best interest at heart, so that he had people at the garrison watching over him, and allowing one of his friends to stay behind, but still … He would feel their absence keenly, he was sure.

He felt someone settle on the bench next to him, causing it to dip slightly at the added weight, and turned his head to see who the newcomer was. Maçon greeted him with a smile, and he returned it freely. Ever since the accident, the young Musketeer had sought him out and kept him company often when his duties allowed ít, and d'Artagnan found himself enjoying the friendship developing between them – once Maçon had stopped apologising all the time. While it was surely no match to the bond he had with the Inseparables, it was nice to have someone his age to be friend with, someone who had just recently gained his commission and still remembered vividly the months spent as a recruit before that. And he liked the big man for himself, too, though he found himself wondering at why a gentle soul like Maçon had chosen a soldier's life. All in all, there couldn't have been a better man to break his shoulder, he thought, and the grin on his face widened.

Noticing it, Maçon raised an eyebrow. “What amuses you so?” he asked.

D'Artagnan shrugged his right shoulder carefully. He did not want to voice that thought aloud, knowing that Maçon would fail to see the humour in his injury at the other man's hand causing them to become friends; so he opted for a half-truth instead: “I just thought I'm glad that I have friends like you to keep me company while those three are gone,” he waved a hand at this three brothers who were just finishing loading their saddlebags onto the horses standing ready for their departure, “and while I'm mostly confined to the garrison.” He had gotten better at taking care of his needs one-handed, though, and if he moved carelessly and jostled his left side, the pain was no longer so sharp that it took his breath away, so he was positive that while they still needed time to knit, his bones would no longer shift unless pressure was exerted on the injury itself. Maybe it was time to return to his lodgings, now that his friends were away and his only alternative would be to return to the infirmary or take an empty guest room if the garrison had one available.

Maçon smiled at the compliment, his cheeks colouring a little – d'Artagnan hadn't paid much attention to him before but in hindsight, he couldn't help but notice that he had never seen the young Musketeer talk much to anyone; he had seemed to be a bit of a loner, not for unwillingness to engage with others but more because of some deep-seated insecurity. “You'll be missing them awfully, I expect, though,” Maçon commented.

The Gascon nodded. “Of course,” he admitted readily. “They're pretty much all the family I have left.” His breath hitched in surprise at himself speaking this out loud – he had started to think of those three as brothers, as a family, for a while but so far he'd not dared speak it; even though the others called each other brother freely, he was not sure yet that he might claim the term for himself in their eyes. But it was how he felt; he could not deny it. Shaking himself, he returned his attention to Maçon. “But it's no use brooding about it, especially before they have even left,” he added, denying himself any more thoughts in that direction. Instead, he asked his companion: “Do you have a family? Outside the Musketeers, I mean?”

The young Musketeer nodded eagerly. “My father is a minor noble living near Rouen, and I have a brother and three sisters.” A bit more subdued, he added: “I miss them a lot, too.”

d'Artagnan reached out and put a sympathetic hand on Maçon's shoulder. He certainly knew how it was to miss your family – his father's death was recent enough that he still felt the pang of longing for the only blood family he had left and which had been taken from him so violently, no matter how much his new brothers had helped to fill the hole his passing had left behind. Trying to keep the conversation light, he asked: “And are they all as big as you?”

His question had the intended effect, as Maçon's grey eyes cleared of the melancholy that had taken residence there, and he chuckled lightly. “My brother is, and one of my sisters is almost as tall as us, though not quite as broad.”

“You must be quite the impressive picture when you're all together, then,” d'Artagnan said with a smile, which made Maçon laugh.

“Maybe so but size isn't everything. Actually, if you want to put the fear of God in a man, set my youngest sister on him, and he'll be quaking in his boots in no time. And she's tiny.”

“True, never underestimate a woman,” d'Artagnan agreed, his thoughts going to a certain landlady – Constance was not tiny but she was more than capable of putting the fear of God in someone, even his friends and him sometimes, and none of them was a coward.

They chatted amicably for a while, the Gascon enjoying the fond ease with which Maçon spoke of his family, though he learned with sorrow that the other young man had shared his fate in becoming motherless before reaching adulthood. The three Inseparables had finished their preparations in the meantime and came to stand before them, ready to take their leave from him. Maçon glanced up at them and with a shy smile and a nod of his head, he moved away a bit, allowing d'Artagnan to rise and say goodbye to his friends in peace.

Aramis was first, drawing his young friend close and resting his hands on both his upper arms. “Now listen,” he said seriously, “promise me you won't do anything stupid with that shoulder, alright? The physician has promised to check on you every couple of days, so I don't want to hear any complaints or, God forbid, anything about new injuries when we get back.”

d'Artagnan rolled his eyes at the medic's fussing but it was coloured with fondness, and he smiled as he replied: “I promise, Aramis. I'll be careful.”

Aramis nodded, satisfied, and gave him a quick hug before releasing him and letting Porthos take his place. The big Musketeer hesitated to envelop him in one of his usual bone-crushing hugs, fearful of causing the lad pain accidentally, until d'Artagnan stepped forward, shaking his head and grinning. “I'm not that fragile, Porthos,” he said and pulled him into a one-armed hug.

Porthos returned the grin ruefully but was definitely much more gentle in hugging the young man back than he would usually be. “Keep your chin up, yeah?” he said in a low voice. “You've got people around, and we'll get back as soon as we can.”

d'Artagnan nodded and patted his back with his good hand. “I'll be fine. Don't worry so much and keep your mind on the mission,” he said, knowing how much of a danger distraction could be on the road.

“Alright, yeah, I will,” Porthos promised. He let go of him and stepped back so that the Gascon could turn towards Athos.

His mentor placed a hand at his neck and pulled him forward to rest his forehead against the young man's. “I'll see you soon,” he said quietly. d'Artagnan smiled, the words confirming to him what he had suspected after Aramis and Porthos' goodbye: Athos would be the one to come back after a detour to make it look like he was leaving, as the Captain had promised. He could not deny that knowing the older Musketeer would be watching out for him warmed and buoyed him in a particular way, though it would also have been a comfort to know Aramis or Porthos nearby. And he was glad to know that Porthos would have his oldest friend at his side, aware of how much the situation had upset the dark-skinned man and how much he had to hate not being there to protect d'Artagnan himself.

He dipped his head to Athos' words. “Stay safe, all of you,” he said, and his mentor gave him one of his rare, short half-smiles, squeezing the nape of his neck, before he turned away and motioned to the others to mount up. With one last glance at the young man and a salute to Tréville who was watching from the balcony in front of his office, the three Musketeers wheeled their mounts around, and then they were gone. d'Artagnan stood, feeling suddenly bereft at their departure, and it took a few deep breaths until he turned back to Maçon, a smile affixed to his face, as he asked: “So, what are your plans for the day? Any chance you might keep a poor invalid company at the mid-day meal?”

***

Athos leant back in the rickety stair and sighed. He poured himself a cup of wine and took a first sip, savouring the taste. It was hard not to drink quickly but he had promised himself that he would pace his drinking as long as his vigil lasted – he needed his wits about him, no matter how much he yearned to calm his thoughts, racing and spiralling when he could do nothing but keep watch, with the blanket of drunkenness. For now, he could relax at least a bit, though. Tréville had just called d'Artagnan into his office, so Athos could take a break for one hour, knowing that he was kept busy by their commander. It was the fourth day since Porthos and Aramis had left, and Tréville had arranged for this on the first day – officially to alleviate some of d'Artagnan's boredom. Or maybe to introduce him to a different kind of boredom. The young man would be called to the office for two hours each day to help the Captain with the paperwork since he was able to write and fetch Tréville things one-handed. It was a good idea to give the restless Gascon a chance to feel somewhat useful, and it gave his guardian angel the chance to have a meal, stretch his legs and take care of any business, and Athos was thankful for the short reprieve.

It had been four days, and so far, nothing had happened. Athos had found a spot in an unused storage room in the garrison's uppermost level that gave him a good vantage point of the courtyard below, and for the most part, he did not have to move from it much since d'Artagnan spent most of his time down at the table the four brothers so often shared. He would observe the men at their training, and it wasn't hard to read his desire to be among them in the tension radiating from his posture. He helped Jacques if he could, by holding the horses the stable boy had saddled for Musketeers departing on a mission, fetching tack or brushing their coats, and Athos was glad that the lad could do as much, knowing how much being around the horses served to calm his young friend. Still, being forced into inaction was hard on him, even if it made watching him somewhat easier. Athos had been surprised and somewhat concerned when d'Artagnan had left the garrison in the evening of the first day, and he had followed him to see him return to his room at the Bonacieux's house. While he was glad to see him regain some of his independence, Athos was nevertheless torn about this development: He believed that d'Artagnan would be safer there than he was at the garrison, as much as it pained him to think this. Bonacieux did not like his young lodger but he was in need of coin, as little as the Gascon could bring. And Constance … She's a married woman, he heard d'Artagnan say, the denial as transparent as the finest crystal. His beautiful landlady did pose a special danger to the young man but it was not to his physical well-being, and he had no doubt that she would protect him as fiercely as any of his brothers, should someone try to get to d'Artagnan there. But that still left the way from the garrison to their house, and with the added anonymity of the busy streets and without the presence of other, well-meaning Musketeers, it might offer too good an opportunity to anyone intending to bring harm to him. His worries had been somewhat mitigated, however, when he noticed that he was not the only one following the young man – his other shadow was Le Beau, an older Musketeer whom the Captain trusted, and so did Athos. Tréville obviously had kept his promise and had d'Artagnan well-guarded.

Still, he found himself wishing something would happen. It was wearing down on him to wait, and he could only imagine how much more it would do so on d'Artagnan, the one truly at risk. What if those men did not make any other attempt at harassing him for as long as Porthos and Aramis were gone – or even longer? If they did not manage to flush them out or catch them in the act, this threat would continue hanging over d'Artagnan's head, and after what Aramis and Porthos had shared about the latter's experience, they would never be able to fully relax their guard; these men's malice would poison what was supposed to be their young friend's new home, his new family. If nothing happened, their best bet would be to get Royer for the sabotaged blade, letting the rest of them escape punishment. The thought left a sour taste in Athos' mouth, and he took another sip of his wine.

His thoughts were disrupted by a light knock at the door, and he raised an eyebrow. Tréville was the only one who knew where he was, having been informed by a messenger Athos had sent after getting installed in this room on the first day. So this was undoubtedly a message from the Captain, and he felt worry pool in his gut – well, it looked as if he got his wish after all. Something must have happened.

Opening the door, he found himself face to face with Jacques, the stable boy, who greeted him quickly and a bit nervously. “The Captain sends this,” he said, handing over a roll of parchment.

Athos thanked him and opened the Captain's message immediately. As he did so, a smaller piece of parchment fell from it and landed on the floor. At first, he paid it no attention but then he read Tréville's words:

Athos,

d'Artagnan got this message this morning, just before I called him up to me. It was sent with a messenger, a small boy who only told Favreau to give it to d'Artagnan, or so he told the lad. I will question Favreau for more details later but I don't expect much to come of it. At least they have now shown their hand. Be alert.

Tréville

Athos bent and snatched up the piece of parchment. In large, ugly letters, it bore an even uglier message:

You will never be a Musketeer. Leave, or you will regret it. The next time, you will suffer more than a broken bone.

He swore, crushing the piece of parchment in his fist. He had seen Favreau speak with d'Artagnan when he had entered the courtyard but had paid it no mind as the interaction seemed harmless and Favreau was not anyone he suspected of involvement in this; he had not seen where the Musketeer had come from. He hoped that Favreau's words to d'Artagnan were true and they did not have to add him to their list of suspects – it was certainly believable that whoever had sent the message had used an outside person to carry it. It was not that hard to find a child, of the Court of Miracles or otherwise, who was willing to give a message to a Musketeer in exchange for a shiny coin.

With a loud exhale of air, he went over to his table and penned a quick note for Tréville, sending Jacques off with it and a short thanks. Then he returned to his chair and sat, taking another sip of wine as he pondered this new development. As the Captain had said, they had shown their hand with this message. Everything that had happened before could still be construed as minor pranks or an accident, even if the conspirators knew they had the broken blade. But this was an open threat. How could they deal with it? They could go on the offensive – Tréville could openly address the regiment, telling them about the note and ensuring that everyone knew what would happen if the threat was carried out. But they would be back where they started: The threat might be eliminated for some time but given they were brazen enough to make it so openly, it would not ensure that it was truly gone, and their earlier actions would remain unpunished. What would happen if they did not acknowledge it, though? Would it embolden those men enough to act? This would give them the chance to catch them but he was terrified to think of what they might do to d'Artagnan, seeing now that with such hatred, they could no longer expect harmless harassment like in the beginning. It made him sick to his stomach that he must have served with these men for years, and he had never known them for the vile creatures they were now turning out to be; he could only expect that this sentiment was shared by his Captain who had worked so hard to instil a great sense of honour and brotherhood in his regiment.

Athos downed the remaining wine in a big gulp and set down the cup harder than necessary. He was quite sure which option Tréville, and most importantly, d'Artagnan, the reckless boy, would be taking, and while his tactician's brain agreed, he worried. He would never be able to look Aramis and Porthos in the eye again if something happened to d'Artagnan …

#the musketeers #fanfic #small things story #small things #porthos #aramis #d'artagnan #athos #captain treville

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jamescurcio · 6 years

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White Lines, Black Magic

This came up on various public groups when I was doing my research for Masks. I wanted to share it with you, because I think it’s an interesting, and generally good, take.

David's Dark Doings - And How He Escaped To Tell The Tale David Bowie's Station To Station and the "Berlin Trilogy". By Ian MacDonald

"I ran across a monster who was sleeping by a tree. And I looked and frowned and the monster was me" (David Bowie, "The Width Of A Circle", 1971)

EMI's latest batch of mid-price Bowie reissues, discs released at full price in 1990-1, consists of the 1976-8 sequence, Station To Station, Low, "Heroes", and Stage. It might have been truer to his career to have made a foursome of Low, "Heroes", Stage and Lodger - the "Berlin Trilogy" plus their complimentary live album - and to have corralled Station To Station with his other "American" albums, David Live and Young Americans. Never mind. As it happens, EMI's decision highlights a little-understood juncture in Bowie's development: the transition between the two The Man Who Fell To Earth albums, Station To Station and Low. Bowie's modus operandi during the Seventies was transformation, acting out the suburban dream of escape into glamorous "otherness" - hence his popularity among a very specific audience segment (and the total blank he registered with those for whom escape was not an issue). This method held good until Young Americans, even though that album's associated transformation - white boy on Soul Train - was less the usual Brechtian device than an identity-crisis on the part of the artist (or the Actor, as he then referred to himself). Uprooted from his native context in the cultural artifice of Europe, isolated in a largely unironic and cultureless alien land, Bowie was forced back on himself, a self he didn't much like. Weary of the artistic transformations which were now getting too close to home, he fended off self-examination with mental diversion, reading obsessively from a portable library and deadening his growing sense of emotional emptiness with cocaine and booze. David Live is, in effect, a station-stop in this journey on the old Oblivion Express, an evening's snapshot of Bowie's deepening malaise.

With Station To Station - its title partly suggested by Bowie's 1973-6 touring schedule which, due to his fear of flying, mostly consisted of travel by train-the Oblivion Express reached another halt. But, this time, Bowie, rarely one to repeat himself, refused another David Live stop-over. Instead, he got off the damned train. A sonic "dark night of the soul", Station to Station is to Bowie what On The Beach is to Neil Young's album, rooted in the folk-blues tradition of American "authenticity", remains too musically raw for wide appeal, whereas Station, if only superficially, is one of Bowie's most glamorous discs. However, the superficial view of Station to Station doesn't tell half the inner story of the album, a recherché work which, despite being recorded at Cherokee Studios in the hyper-American suburb of Hollywood, is essentially European.

The key to the transition between Station To Station and Low (whose covers both employ images from Nicolas Roeg's the Man Who Fell To Earth) is that it does not coincide with Bowie's usual sort of artistic transformation: the persona swap. Bowie's final mask, the Thin White Duke, travels no further than Station to Station. There's no mask, no persona in Low. Just a rather gaunt young man in a "styleless" dufflecoat, looking sideways to the viewer as if in a police mugshot. Some would say that this is merely because Bowie then ceased touring for a while (appearing live only as Iggy Pop's keyboard player), and consequently had no need to invent a new stage character. In truth, Bowie's temporary low profile, coded in the cover of Low itself, was forced on him at a time when an interlude of retreat for recuperation and regrouping was the only alternative to a full-scale crack-up during the recording of Station to Station, a period of which he claims to recall almost nothing. Mental breakdown still appeared to be impending in May, 1976 when, returning to Britain from his sojourn in America, a seemingly stoned Bowie acknowledged the British press corps at Victoria Station with what most of those present took to be a Nazi salute.

Britain was then witnessing the electoral rise of the neo-fascist National Front, and Bowie's proclaimed ambition to be the country's fascist dictator was naturally, those of us who were fans chose to read Bowie's stance as ironic. Neither was wholly correct. Like Neil Young's republicanism, Bowie's brand of fascism, while it embraced irony, was basically serious; or was taken seriously by a certain hermetic compartment of his mind, wherein it dwelt. The rest of him - what passed for the normal lad from Brixton - was deeply uneasy about it; so uneasy that he included on Station To Station a song open to God in case the demons evoked elsewhere in the album should get out of hand. Bowie's fascination with Nazism was never conventionally political. Rather, it was one aspect of a personal cosmology traceable in cryptic songs like "Cygnet Committee" (Space Oddity, 1969), "The Supermen" (The Man Who Sold The World, 1971), "Big Brother" (Diamond Dogs, 1974), but most explicitly in "Oh! You Pretty Things" and - particularly - "Quicksand" on Hunky Dory (1972): "I'm closer to the Golden Dawn/Immersed in Crowley's uniform/Of imager/I'm living in a silent film/Portraying Himmler's sacred realm/Of dream reality." Eagerly absorbed from the omnivorous reading with which the self-taught Bowie, insecure in his intellect, then shored up his self-esteem, this personal cosmology was rooted in the Gnostic myth of the Fall, viz: we human beings are born into this world from a higher dimension ("heaven") which we forget upon entering the sphere of material existence. Hence, homo sapiens is a half-finished thing living in a state of waking sleep he calls reality, but which is actually a kind of delusion. Only those "awake" on the physical plane, the "enlightened" ones, see reality as it truly is. As such, they are supermen. Now that "home sapiens have outgrown their use", such mental supermen are set to inherit the earth. As a young man, Bowie was impatiently obsessed with the inefficiency of our unenlightened minds ("We're today's scrambled creatures, looked in tomorrow's double feature"). As a result, he viewed the majority, unaware as they were of their plight, with a blend of tolerant irony and frank contempt ("the mice in their million hordes"). Elaborating on the Gnostic myth, he cross-bred Nietzsche's Superman - "The Wild-Eyed Boy From Freecloud" is a sort of pop Zarathustra - with esoteric motifs in the writing of Madame Blavatsky and the teaching of the American mystic, Gurdjeff. Both allude extensively to mysterious "Masters": enlightened super-beings who supposedly guide human affairs from mountain fastnesses in Tibet and the Hindou Kush ("the men who protect you and I"). Blavatsky's writing, along with those of Eliphas Levi, gave birth to the late 19th-century Occult Revival which in Britain produced the magical society called The Golden Dawn, whence Aleister Crowley emerged, and which in Germany created the occult basis of Nazism, epitomised in Himmler's vision of his SS as an Arthurian company of immortals, incarnated to bring order to the physical plane. Though he made plenty of pro-Hitler statements around 1975-6, Bowie ultimately remained sane enough to distinguish the ideal of an order-bringing élite from the Nazi reality. He was, he would occasionally claim, a Nietzschean, his "fascism" being conceptually benign (if nonetheless arrogant). He favoured a New Order not of domination, but of enlightenment: rule of the "asleep" by the "awake". The main snag was that he was doing too many drugs. Imbibed along with piles of prime Colombian, books like Pauwel and Bergier's The Morning Of The Magicians (1971) and Trevor Ravenscroft's The Spear Of Destiny (1973) had, by 1975, led Bowie into a remote headspace where even UFO's were part of the plot.

During the LA sessions for Station To Station, the Fuhrerling (as Bowie drolly refers to himself in a demo of "Candidate" on the 1990 reissue of Diamond Dogs) was archetypally "torn between the light and dark". At one point the journalist, Cameron Crowe, found him burning black tapers in the seeming aftermath of some ritual magic that had gone wrong. "Been having a little trouble with the neighbours," said Bowie, evidently not referring to the people in the apartment next door. Michael Lippman, a friend of Bowie's during this period, remembers him describing strange nightmares. Lippman gave him a gold cross. Bowie later asked him for a mezuzah (a parchment in a glass tube, inscribed with the divine name Shaddai, which Orthodox Jews keep nailed to their door to ward off evil). The title track of the album is packed with occult references and allusions to the Gnostic myth of the Fall. A mention of White Stains, Crowley's very obscure first book, shows how deeply Bowie delved into the golden Dawn background; indeed, the lyric suggests that he also studied The Tree Of Life by Crowley's pupil, Israel Regardie, a brilliant treatise on the magical use of the 13th century Jewish mystical system, Quabala. In Quabalistic language, the Gnostic myth of the Fall can be expressed as "one magical movement from kether to malkuth" (Kether being the sphere of the Godhead, or Crown of Creation, and Malkuth being the sphere of the physical world, aka the kingdom). These spheres (sephiroth) lie at opposite ends of the glyph known as the Tree of Life, which Bowie is seen drawing on the back of EMI's reissue of Station to Station. Seems he thought of the sephiroth as stations - "standing places", as in the Stations Of the Cross (which have their own occult interpretation). Sadly there are 14 Stations Of The Cross but only 10 sephiroth. (The Christian sign of the cross, though does "map" onto the Tree..) The song, "Station to Station", also has a Shakespearean resonance. Prospero the magician (and incognito duke) in Shakespeare's most mysterious play. the Tempest, surrounds himself with books, among which is his occult grimoire. At the end of the play, he abjures magic and "drowns" his book of spells. In "Station To Station", the Thin White Duke - Bowie as a cocaine-frozen Prospero lost in his (magic) circle, tall in his room overlooking the ocean (Prospero's Island "cell" transported to the coast by Los Angeles) - despairingly reviews his repertoire of illusions. "Such is the stuff from where dreams are woven," he muses, not quite quoting Prospero ("We are such stuff/As dreams are made on"). Clearly, illusion is no longer what he wants. Station to Station - like Plastic Ono Band, like Todd, like On the Beach - is an exorcism: an exorcism of self, of the mind, of the past. By 1976, Bowie had nearly had enough of his "magic" - the theatrical "grand illusion" by which he'd lived since 1972. Thus, he "flashes no colour" - another magical allusion, this time to the so-called Tattva symbols which use "flashing" complimentary colours to after consciousness, ushering the magical aspirant into the Astral Plane of heightened vision. Decoded: Bowie has travelled the Astral (or ascended the tree Of Life); now he wants to come down o earth, to love. (Hence the cover image of the soundproof chamber in The Man Who fell to Earth.) One could easily continue for another thousand words in this vein about "Station To Station". (Let alone the rest of the record. Bowie; "It's the nearest album to a magical treatise that I've written"). Yet none of this symbolism would matter if the artist were not in control of it; and if it didn't crack, via the desperate drunken grandiloquence of the song's bridge ("Once there were mountains on mountains"), into the naked-and-wired stamped of its epic, up-tempo release, driven by that magnificent late Seventies rhythm section of Carlos Alomar, Dennis Davis, and George Murray, and lit by the elemental fire-scream of Earl Slick's hysterical guitar. Those who accuse Bowie of lacking feeling should listen closely to this transition: the quavering, hopeless-to-hopeful vulnerability of the couplet, "It's not the side effects of the cocaine/I'm thinking that it must be love." This is a deeply unhappy human being, harried by his own incandescently gifted mind.

In fact, Bowie didn't cast his grimoire into the ocean after station To Station. He hedged his commercial bets by mixing the album "big", and made plans to tour it in Europe. He was still half in his mystic-fascist Thin White Duke persona when he "returned", like some parallel universe Duke of Windsor, to Britain in May, 1976 (and he would certainly have been aware that the Nazi salute is identical to the occult sign of the Zelator grade in the Golden Dawn system). Yet he went on, soon after this, to move to a roughhouse Turkish suburb of Berlin, there to kick the white powder, clean up his mind/body, and start a new career in a new town. The artistic transformation between Station to Station and Low was an inner one, not a career move, it happened to Bowie himself, not to Bowie the Actor. In Berlin, the sons of real SS men sorted his head out. In Berlin, he saw neo-nazis beat up Turkish immigrants. In Berlin, low in the aftermath of heavy drugs and Hollywood glamour, he forced himself to live like an everyday person, buying his own groceries. The nightmare of the Thin White Duke faded, chased away by hours of laughter with his new cohort, Eno, the first person Bowie worked with who could keep up with him. He finished Low (another album one could write thousands of words about) and mixed it, as he claims he intended to mix Station To Station, "dry": close, compressed, and with a gate on the snare so vicious that it became the first drum-sound people outside the studio-world actually noticed. What happened to the private cosmology, to the magical Nietzschean? Bowie has lately conceded "a need to vacillate between atheism or a kind of gnosticism". On his 1997 tour, he played, of all things "Quicksand". Think on, secret thinkers."

#bowie #david bowie

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mindfulwrath · 7 years

Text

Silver, Part X

Where oh where could that Henry be?

Words: 4,165 Warnings: Body horror

Part I Part IX

Utterson clambered up over the railing as Hyde fled and saw Mr. Guest crumpling to the ground. Utterson dropped down beside him. There was blood, so much blood. Guest was gasping and white with shock. Utterson ripped off his coat and balled it up, pressed it to the gushing wound in Guest's shoulder.

"Help!" he cried at the top of his voice. "Poole! Jekyll! Help!"

There were two other wounds, low on Guest's left side. Utterson cursed and pressed his knee against them. He kept hollering until the door opened and Poole darted out.

"Bring him inside, quickly, quickly!" he said, already helping Utterson to drag him in. "I'll fetch Dr. Jekyll!"

He scampered off again. Utterson kept as much pressure on Guest's wounds as he could, his jaw locked, lips pinched.

"I should never have brought you into this," Utterson said, the words thick with horror. "God, I should never have brought you into this."

"I'm all right," Guest said, strained and choked. "I'm—I'm all right, it isn't serious—"

A maid came barreling through in her nightclothes, wearing a man's coat. She sprinted out the door and away. Pool ran into the room after her.

"He isn't in, I've sent her for Lanyon," he explained, breathless. "What should I do?"

"Where is the light best?"

"The parlor, sir."

"Then let's take him there."

"I can walk," Guest said feebly. "It looks worse than it is."

"Hush," said Utterson. He brought one of Guest's hands around to press on the wounds in his side. "Keep pressure here. Can you do that?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Poole, help me move him."

Together, the three of them limped to the parlor. Poole moved the carpet and Guest was laid on the floor, wincing and gasping. All the lamps were lit, and soon after, Lanyon hurried in, doctor's bag in hand.

"Heavens," he said, darting to Guest's side. "Get his shirt open, I need to see the wounds. What happened?"

"Hyde," said Utterson, swatting Guest's fumbling hands away and undoing the buttons for him. First the coat, then the waistcoat, then the shirt. His undershirt was clinging to him, wet with blood. Lanyon whipped out a pair of scissors and sliced it open. It peeled away slowly, revealing wounds so dark with blood they were nearly black.

"I grabbed him, sir," Guest admitted, while the two worked. "I didn't know he had a knife. Twice in the side, sir, and then once in the shoulder after I dropped him. I think he meant to kill me, but his aim was poor."

"And thank God," said Utterson.

"Poole, I need clean water and cloths!" Lanyon called. Poole rushed off, and Lanyon delved back into his bag. "Where's Henry?"

"Not in," said Utterson.

"Clearly, but where is he? If Hyde's been spurred to violence, he may not stop at just one."

Utterson's whole being tightened. "Am I needed here?"

"No, I can make do with Poole. Go and find him."

With a decisive nod, Utterson got to his feet. "I am sorry, Guest."

"I volunteered, sir," Guest said, smiling weakly.

Utterson pursed his lips, and then he was off, Guest's blood soaking through his clothes. There was no time to change—he'd hurry through the streets with his own blood drenching him if it meant rescuing Jekyll from a similar fate. Fortunately, both the night and Utterson's clothes were dark, so he didn't draw too many stares.

It took him a little over fifteen minutes to reach the Society. When he did, he made a beeline for Jekyll's laboratory, ignoring the gasping and shocked expressions of the lodgers as he steamed through. The door was open, and Utterson barged in without knocking.

One policemen and one lodger—Doddle, Utterson recalled—were loitering about in the room. Both of them leapt to attention as Utterson entered.

"Where's Dr. Jekyll?" he demanded, scowling at the two of them.

"What's it to you, sir?" the policemen countered.

"He may be in grave danger," he said.

"No kiddin'!" said the policeman. "By the look of you, at least! Comin' chargin' in here, covered in blood."

"What?" said Utterson. "No, it isn't mine."

"Then by God, whose is it?" the policeman exclaimed.

"Oh," said Utterson. His face became very hot. "It . . . belongs to my clerk. He was stabbed, you see. I feared his attacker might come after Dr. Jekyll."

"When? Where?" he demanded.

"At Dr. Jekyll's residence, not three blocks from here," said Utterson. "You'll find my clerk there, and Dr. Robert Lanyon attending to him. Dr. Jekyll was not at home, which is why I came here. But he isn't here, either, and I fear the worst."

"You don't think he's been killed, do you?" Doddle twittered, his face pinched with distress.

Utterson looked around the laboratory—the open window, the cluttered but intact state of the chemicals, the paperwork laid out neatly upon the desk.

"Not yet," said Utterson. He turned to the policeman. "He may have been kidnapped. Hyde is the man you're looking for, Mr. Edward Hyde."

"The same one what set all the fires?"

"Yes," said Utterson, with a twinge of guilt.

The policeman saluted. "I'll run tell the constable at once, sir! If he's anywhere to be found, we shall find him posthaste!"

"Good man," said Utterson. The policeman hurried out. Doddle edged up to Utterson's elbow, wringing his hands.

"What should we do?" he asked.

"Did you hear any commotion?" Utterson asked. "Any . . . struggle?"

"No, not at all," said Doddle. "Mr. Tweedy mentioned that he thought Mr. Hyde had been here, but there was no commotion. Which is unusual! For Mr. Hyde."

"Hm," said Utterson. "When was this?"

"Perhaps half ten?" Doddle guessed. Utterson checked his pocket watch. It was just past midnight.

"Hm," Utterson said again, snapping the watch shut. He crossed to the window and looked out. There was a short drop onto a gable, certainly climbable, but impossible to carry a body down. There were scuff marks on the windowsill, as from shoes.

"Do you really think he's been kidnapped?" Doddle asked.

Utterson frowned. He drummed his fingers on the windowsill.

"I don't know," he said. He turned and made for the door. "Thank you for your help, Mr. Doddle. I must get back to my clerk. And—perhaps a change of clothes."

"Of course," said Doddle.

Utterson left, chewing his cheeks. Of one thing he was certain: wherever he was, whatever had happened, Jekyll was in a great deal of trouble.

Lanyon's morning was spent in a haze of unease. Utterson had returned the night before to inform him of Jekyll's disappearance—no sign of a struggle, he'd said, but it had likely all occurred before the incident on Jekyll's doorstep. The police were out in full force searching for Jekyll, or Hyde, and it was only a matter of time until one or both of them was found.

Lanyon had then helped him take Mr. Guest home. The clerk's wounds were not life-threatening, once stitched and bandaged, but he had lost a considerable amount of blood, and was having trouble walking on his own. After that, Lanyon had gone home, washed up and changed clothes. He had laid down in bed, but sleep had eluded him.

He could not help but feel that this whole bloody mess was, in large part, his fault.

The sun had come up, and he'd gotten dressed and come downstairs as though it was a perfectly normal morning. He attempted breakfast, although his appetite was poor. He retired to the sitting room, aware that he needed to make some sort of plan but completely at a loss for what to actually do. Mr. Hopwood brought him the morning paper and post, and Lanyon thanked him cursorily.

"Do you know if there's been any developments from the police?" Lanyon asked him. "Have they found Dr. Jekyll, or at least Mr. Hyde?"

"Not so far as I know, sir," said Hopwood. "I did glance at the paper, sir, but all it's mentioned is that Dr. Jekyll was kidnapped."

Lanyon sighed. "Thank you, Hopwood. That will be all."

Hopwood nodded to him and took his leave. Lanyon perused the paper, but there was nothing of interest—Jekyll's kidnapping (highly sensationalized) occupied the front page, and the rest was drivel. They were still on about the fire, of course, but nobody had anything new to say. It was briefly mentioned that the Blackfog Bazaar had gone, although they still took far too many words to say so. Lanyon laid the paper aside and turned to the post, which was equally dull.

About halfway through it, he found a folded sheet of paper with no envelope, smudged with grime and unaddressed. Frowning, he flipped it open.

He was astonished to see Jekyll's handwriting inside, and his astonishment only grew as he read what it had written.

My dearest Robert,

I cannot say that I am safe, nor that I am well. I know that's what you want to hear, but it simply isn't true. With your help, God willing, I shall be both by the end of tonight, but I must have your help to do it. I ask only that you trust me, and follow my instructions. My life and my sanity both depend on you. Despite everything, Robert, I trust you with both. All I ask is a little faith.

Please go to my laboratory at the Society and retrieve the fourth drawer from the top (3rd from the bottom) from the cabinet marked "No. 6." Bring it back to your home exactly as it is, with all of its contents. Do not disturb anything. Also bring a glass flask, ten centiliters at least. Tonight, a friend of mine will retrieve these from you. You will know him—please, Robert, if you ever wish to see me alive and well again, give him the drawer and let him go away unfettered. You will not want to, but you must. It is life and death, Robert, and it is the only way you can save me.

I remain, ever faithfully yours,

—Henry Jekyll

Lanyon stared at the note, then raised his head and looked around the room in confusion, as though he expected to see Jekyll hiding in a corner somewhere.

"Hopwood!" he called.

The butler eased back into the room. "Yes, sir?" he said.

Lanyon waved the note at him dazedly. "Did this come in with the rest of the post?"

"I assume it must have, sir," said Hopwood. "I didn't remark upon it especially."

"I see," said Lanyon. He turned his eyes back to the note. "Thank you, Hopwood."

"Yes, sir," said Hopwood, and sidled back out again.

Lanyon studied the note for a few minutes. He got up and rifled through his old letters until he found one from Jekyll. He came back to his seat, studying them side by side.

"It's either Henry, or it's a very good fake," he said under his breath.

He chewed his cheeks. He checked the time. It was a quarter to ten. He made up his mind.

Lanyon got to his feet and tucked the note into his pocket. He retrieved his hat and coat, gloves and scarf. Briefly, he considered bringing Utterson along—but Utterson had brought nothing but trouble since he'd gotten involved, and he might manage to talk Lanyon around to another cockamamy plan that would, somehow, make everything even worse.

Alone, he set out for the Society, the secret of Jekyll's survival burning in his chest like a coal.

There had never been a longer day in the history of mankind.

Lanyon spent it pacing, thinking, second-guessing and worrying. The note seemed coherent enough—was it possible that Jekyll was not in as dire danger as he seemed? But he had stated directly that his life depended upon this meeting, so clearly there was danger, and dire at that. But what sort of kidnapper would allow such a note to be sent out, would shove it in the mail slot with the rest? Was it possible that Jekyll had not been kidnapped, and that some other fate had befallen him? The caller, the "friend," was doubtless to be Hyde—there could be no other—but why would a kidnapper announce his visitation, open himself to possible arrest with so much forewarning? What sort of a ransom was a drawer full of chemicals and a flask? Was it possible Hyde and Jekyll were working together, not as enemies but truly as friends, and if so, what on earth were they trying to do?

Lanyon knew he should have gotten the police involved—they were already swarming all over London looking for Hyde—but he could not bring himself to do it. Mostly it was because Jekyll had so sincerely begged him not to in his note, but it was also because there was some part of him, some ceramic, scientific core, that more than anything else wanted an explanation.

Very little was accomplished that day. He hardly had the attention span to eat, much less do any work. He tried a bit of wine to soothe his nerves, but found it only made him more anxious. As the sun set, he sent Hopwood and the other servants away, told them to remain in their quarters until the morning.

"Might I inquire as to why, sir?" Hopwood asked, arching an eyebrow at him.

"No, Hopwood, you may not," said Lanyon. "But keep an ear out for trouble, would you?"

"Yes, sir," Hopwood said.

Eight o'clock came and went, then nine, then ten. Lanyon forced himself to stop looking out the windows, to sit down and wait. He occupied himself by tending to the fire in the grate. He checked the drawer from Jekyll's lab—some phials of chemicals, some salts, a bottle or two, all labeled with neat one- or two-word descriptions. The clock chimed eleven. Lanyon had a glass of wine because he couldn't think of anything better to do. The fire was not driving back the chill enough, no matter how he stoked it.

At ten minutes to midnight, there was a knock on the door.

Lanyon barely stifled a yelp, then got to his feet and composed himself. He went to the door and peered out through the sidelight. There was a man on the stoop, short and slender, bundled up against the cold. He had a hunted, agitated look to him, constantly fidgeting and looking over his shoulder. Lanyon opened the door.

"Mr—" he began, but the man shoved past him before he could get the next word out.

"Shut the door, would you?" Hyde snapped. His face was gaunt and pale. "Have you got it? Did you bring it?"

Lanyon shut the door. He suddenly, desperately wished he'd brought the fire poker with him. Hyde was vibrating where he stood, wild with tension.

"Yes," Lanyon said carefully. "But—"

Hyde was already off towards the sitting room like he knew the place. Lanyon hurried after him, put off.

"Now listen here," he said. "I'll not have you barging in here like you own the place, you little cretin. Before you get anything, you're going to tell me what you've done with Dr. Jekyll."

"Hah!" said Hyde. He'd found the drawer and was plucking things up out of it feverishly.

Lanyon grabbed him by the wrist and Hyde wrenched away, snarling. Lanyon leapt back with his fists raised. For a moment, the two stared at each other. Lanyon was sure Hyde was going to attack him, break out of all bounds and club him to the earth. He considered what a stupid idea it had been to send the servants away.

"You, sir, are a very wanted man," Lanyon warned. "I could have the police down here in an instant to drag you away. The only reason I have not done so is because Jekyll asked me not to. So before you get anything, you will tell me where he is, and what has happened to him, and why you of all people are here representing him!"

"The hell I will," Hyde retorted. Lanyon recoiled from the violence in his tone. He wondered if the knife was still on his person. He swallowed and settled himself.

"What are the chemicals for?" he said.

"For your precious Dr. Jekyll," Hyde said, his lip curling. "May I get on with it, or are you going to spend the whole night being a stubborn ass?"

"I—beg your pardon," Lanyon sputtered, but Hyde had already gone back to the drawer, single-minded. Lanyon did not try to stop him this time, wary of meeting a worse fate that Mr. Guest.

Hyde mixed some sort of potion from the contents of the drawer—it had the fizzing strangeness of Jekyll's alchemy, the dramatic and theatrical color changes. As the fizzing abated and the color settled, Hyde seemed to settle with it. Some of the violence eased from his posture, some of the hatred from his face. He put a thumb over the top of the flask and looked back to Lanyon.

"You've done your part," Hyde said. "If you let me leave, you'll have your Jekyll back by morning, and neither you nor he nor anyone else will ever hear from me again."

Lanyon drew himself up and clenched his fists.

"No, sir," he said. "You are going to take me directly to Dr. Jekyll, and then you or he or both of you or at least one of you is going to explain what the devil has been going on!"

"All right," Hyde said, his lip curling. "Just remember you asked for it."

And he raised the potion to his lips and gulped it down in one swallow. Upon the instant, he snarled in pain, clutching at his gut and folding as though he had been struck. The flask fell from his hand and shattered on the floor.

"Oh, God," Lanyon remarked, wondering if the man had just killed himself. Perhaps he was trying to make a point, or maybe he'd just gotten the dosage wrong.

Hyde dropped to his knees, heaving with agony. Brilliant green ichor spilled from his lips, from his eyes and nose. His skin began to swarm with blisters.

"Oh, God!" Lanyon cried, and then, "Oh God!" again as Hyde's form twisted and swelled, boiling with tumors. Lanyon staggered back, clamping a hand over his mouth to hold back a scream. Glowing green ichor splattered on the floor. The thing, the creature, gasped and moaned. The roiling flesh subsided. Auburn curls shone in the lamplight. Clothes stretched too tight over a taller frame. A slender, comely hand wiped the green ichor from the mouth. The face lifted, amber eyes locked with Lanyon's, still weeping their glowing tears. Lanyon looked on in abject horror, too stunned for words, for thought.

"Hello, Robert," Jekyll said, breathless and hoarse. He forced a sheepish smile. "I suppose you'll be wanting that explanation now."

After Jekyll had finished, the two of them sat in silence for some time. Lanyon could find no words to say, not condemnation nor comfort. It was all simply too much. Despite the fact that he'd seen it with his own eyes, he couldn't bring himself to believe it. It seemed a fantasy, or a nightmare, and some part of him still hoped he might wake up.

"So you understand," Jekyll said, "why I was so adamant that Hyde not be blamed. Why last night was such a—a travesty. I was terrified, Robert. I was . . . betrayed."

He said nothing. There was nothing to say. He felt as though he had been sitting there for centuries, decaying. Perhaps he would never move again.

"The other man," Jekyll said, with a slow dread in his voice. "With Utterson. Is he dead?"

Lanyon's jaw creaked open, rust flaking from the joints.

"Guest," he said. "It was his clerk, Mr. Guest. He survived. Barely."

Jekyll shut his eyes and turned his face away. For a time he did not speak. Lanyon wondered if Jekyll was as consumed by horror, by disbelief as he was. He still could not accept that it was Jekyll who had so violently lashed out against Guest. He could not bring himself to reconcile that vicious stranger with his dearest friend.

"It was never meant to go on this long," Jekyll said, pained. "Or to get this bad."

Lanyon did not reply. Jekyll sighed. Lanyon made the mistake of looking up at him, and the expression of utter despair on his face shattered every ounce of indecision Lanyon had held.

"I just wanted a night off," Jekyll said helplessly.

Lanyon took a deep breath to settle himself.

"Well," he said. "One thing's clear. This must stop at once."

"You're probably right," Jekyll said, pushing a hand back through his hair. "I've got a few tests that ought to be run, on either side of the transformation, then—"

"No, Henry, it has to stop right now," Lanyon interrupted. "Right here, tonight. We'll take this—this thing you've made, destroy all the chemicals, then . . . return to your laboratory and destroy the notes, and then to Hyde's—to your other location and destroy the copies as well."

Jekyll looked up sharply. "We absolutely will not," he snapped.

"You can't mean to keep on with this!" Lanyon said, horrified.

"I can, and I do," said Henry. "It's gotten out of hand, yes, of course. It's gone horribly wrong, but it can be fixed. Hyde is a loss, of course, a total loss, but he can be replaced, or altered sufficiently that it won't matter. I've made some mistake, that's all, some error in the methodology, and once I've found it, I'll put it right. It was never perfect. It went through a great deal of trial and error, it can stand to go through more. Once the exhibition is through with, and everything's financially settled, I can work on it properly. I can fix this."

"No, Henry, you can't!" Lanyon cried. "This is—this is mad!"

Jekyll paled, his hand clenching on the arm of his chair.

"So," he said. "The truth at last. If that's your opinion of the Society, you may feel free to cut ties at any time."

"It's not about the Society, for God's sake! I know what goes on at the Society, I know the people there and I've seen the things they do, and I don't give a damn! This is mad, Henry! What you are doing is mad!"

"This is my work, Robert," he said, his voice taut with emotion, his eyes red with unshed tears. "This is my life. I am not going to throw it away because you couldn't keep your nose out of it!"

"It's got nothing to do with me!"

"It's got everything to do with you! I wouldn't be in this mess if you and Utterson hadn't decided to play Fairy Godmother behind my back. I had everything under control—"

"You had nothing under control!" Lanyon interrupted. "Hyde was a disaster waiting to happen and you damn well know it! For God's sake, Henry, you nearly killed a man!"

"And it never would have come to that if you hadn't meddled!" Jekyll snarled. "I won't be bullied into abandoning my life's work because of one mistake!"

"You passed one mistake years ago!" Lanyon retorted. "You are at one hundred mistakes, one thousand! I recognize that look on your face, I remember that look, and I am begging you, please, let this go. You know I'm only trying to keep you safe. Please, for the love of God, just this once, let me. Don't go back into those woods. Don't go back into that darkness."

Jekyll went cold and still, trembling with some inner violence.

"If you can't take it," he said quietly, "then you are free to walk away, and I shall never bother you again."

He got to his feet, towering and grim, the gleam of fervor in his eyes, flame on his breath and thunder in his voice.

"But you will not take it from me," he declared.

Lanyon stared up at him, and for the first time saw him as he truly was.

"You really are mad," he murmured, even as his heart crumbled in his chest.

Jekyll held out his hands. Lanyon watched him for a moment more, then dropped his gaze, and got to his feet, and placed the drawer from the lab in Jekyll's outstretched hands.

"Goodbye, Lanyon," Jekyll said.

"Goodbye, Henry," said Lanyon.

Jekyll walked away. The door closed behind him. Silence descended upon the house, upon Lanyon.

Slowly, he sank back into his chair. Slowly, he put his face in his hands. Slowly, he folded over and rested his knuckles on his knees.

He did not sleep that night, nor for many nights after.

#tgs #the glass scientists #fanfic #silver #body horror /#oh me oh my

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dan-wreck · 7 years

Photo

BOWIE #2 - STARDUST MEMORIES

Photo by Mick Rock

Oh stop groaning, you can name a piece of writing with a Woody Allen pun when the person you're writing it about is a cultural Zelig.

Soon there's going to be a whole generation where the Bowie they remember is the dead Bowie. The sanitised version who is forming in the popular imagination. Then after that there's going to be a generation who don't have a Bowie. Figuratively and literally, kids born into a post Bowie era. Pity them more. I guess how you first encountered him is a question of when you grew up and your surroundings: a guy I worked with at my last job, 20 years older than me, announced "That guy from Labyrinth is dead!". Presumably, somewhere, there's a die hard Merry Christmas Mr Lawrence fan who was mourning the death of Jack Celliers. We may never know.

For many people the Bowie they remember is Ziggy Bowie, whether they were alive to see him bringing bisexuality onto the BBC or not. Maybe this is one of the reasons behind the recent cringeworthy trend of calling him "the Starman" the same way that faux-matey twats call Paul Weller the Modfather. Maybe it's just that these people are idiots. Bowie himself didn't really seem to think of Ziggy as an enduring character or perhaps he just felt like he’d said all he could through that conduit. He laid him to rest after Aladdin Sane after all: around 42 years before he finished creating. Ziggy was really strictly speaking a footnote. The relatively anonymous figure of Major Tom, however, was one he kept returning to: after Space Oddity he came back in Ashes To Ashes, then again in Hallo Spaceboy (the Pet Shop Boys remix particularly) and then finally we see him dead in the Blackstar video.

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Ashes To Ashes for instance: Major Tom is strung out in heaven's high and hitting an all time low. This, though, at a time when Bowie's cultural stock was quite high. He was incredibly cool. He was still selling a lot of records. He was the one person who could hang out in the living room of a confused and senile Bing Crosby or at a tiny punk gig and fit equally well with either. There was no point reviving Ziggy because a whole load of New Romantics and Goths were doing it. The fact that this new flock of painted birds were very inspired by him was something that'd become crushingly obvious when Bauhaus did their borderline karaoke version of Ziggy Stardust in 82. Bowie embraced his bastard children with open arms, casting them as his grim entourage in his video, with one notable exception.

Gary Numan. A huge fan who wound up getting thrown off the set of a TV show they were both on and being dismissed as the "same old thing in brand new drag" in Teenage Wildlife because our man was feeling a bit insecure about this new pretender. Which is a bit rich, really, considering that young Bowie himself was a fusion of Iggy, Newley, Scott Walker and whoever else he could latch onto. Numan was certainly no more derivative than Bowie and it wasn’t just Bowie he was drawing from: he drew as much from JG Ballard and Philip K Dick novels and John Foxx as he did from the Spider from Bromley. It’s allso amusing considering that he sings Teenage Wildlife in a voice uncannily similar to that of Billy MacKenzie, who his people had recognised the grand high art high camp potential of when they heard the Associates cover of Boys Keep Swinging and offered them a publishing deal; then later on "The midwives to history put on their bloody robes" is delivered in the voice of another Bowie acolyte, Richard Butler.

Make no mistake, Ashes to Ashes is simultaneously a high water mark, a brilliant pop record and the point where Bowie stopped being ahead of trends and started chasing them. It just so happened that a lot of these trends were started by people catching up to him. Confusing, no? In fact, this is the one point where you could maybe give some credence to the lazy critics idea of Bowie as "chameleon". Now at his best Bowie was never a chameleon. Especially when he was first Ziggy, actually because there's no way Bowie / Ziggy was blending into the background: he was an incredibly beautiful, sexually ambiguous peacock character. But during the 80s he did blend in quite a lot. He was just another one of the rank and file whether prancing about onstage with anonymous session hacks on the Glass Spider tour or just being "one of the guys" with Tin Machine. It didn't really suit him. It was unnerving. It still seemed like a costume but a very lazy one. The equivalent of Bowie turning up to the macabre Halloween coke party of 80s pop in casual clothes and saying "I came as David Jones".

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So the next time we saw Major Tom in a lot of people's eyes he really was hitting an all-time low. Not everyone's, not the die-hards and not people who buy and listen to music based on what they hear, not what they're told by a music press who had been swallowed up by the sexless and jingoistic Britpop craze. See, with Outside what he'd done is released an elaborate concept album rife with pervy sexualised violence, violent sex, drugs, strange invented characters and references to obscure artists and art movements like Chris Burden (already visited in the Berlin days on Joe The Lion), Herman Nitsch and the Vienna Actionists. The visual component was a huge part of it all again, with unnerving videos like Samuel Bayer’s The Hearts Filthy Lesson. In interviews he was talking up Tricky and The Young Gods and saying how much he wanted to work with Glenn Branca. Being ahead of the curve by talking about the power of the internet as everyone thought he was nuts. He was even working extensively with Eno again.

You know - the sort of thing you want from Bowie!

This isn't what the British music press wanted. They wanted safe flag-waving and to be told what they knew to make them feel like they hadn't dumbed down to a degree which is still marring pop music with waves of Oasis clones because for a while it was acceptable to make bland drivel devoid of imagination or sensuality. They smeared Bowie's dabbling with jungle and drum'n'bass as a sad old man trying to stay in touch when in reality it was really just in continuity with him learning to play sax as a teenager because that's what all the cool jazz musicians he looked up to did, making "plastic soul" on Young Americans and welding the cold European sensibility of Low, "Heroes" and Lodger to the beating heart of the black American rhythm section of Davis, Murray and Alomar. Cultural segregation, two world wars and one world cup was what they wanted and they didn't want ageing mavericks showing up and demonstrating how hopelessly conservative they were.

A lot of the incredibly dull music being hyped up to the skies was, just like it was with the New Romantics, made by Bowie fans. So the time was right for him to come back but could he have not just have given them Ziggy again? Something with nice short songs, loud guitars, some dramatic strings. This time a bit more hetero, though, so the lads mag readers weren’t left shifting about uncomfortably again the way they were whenever they saw Richey James Edwards.

"Do you like girls or boys? It's confusing these days"

If you're not paying attention you can almost miss it but Hallo Spaceboy is, in fact, mentioning Ziggy / Bowie as much as it mentions Major Tom if not more. In those two lines we see Bowie cagily re-opening the closet door now it's safe for him to do so, and doing so on a mind-fuck of a concept album closer to the spirit of Ziggy or Diamond Dogs than almost anything he'd done since (The Thin White Duke was as much coke psychosis as an actual character). Before this the last time he was really clear about this was on Scream Like A Baby where he talked about queer bashing ("They came down on the faggots") and obliquely mentioned a gay love affair. Then let's look at the remix: it doesn't get much gayer than The Pet Shop Boys, really, does it? The Pet Shop Boys remixing a song from a polymorphously perverse album where he sings from the point of view of various genders: just listen to his alarming pitched-up Baby Grace voice or the strange androgynous Vocoderised ice queen voice of Ramona A Stone.

Most offensively of all, though, however much you laughed at him it didn’t really work because he was very aware that it was funny. The segues between tracks were full of gallows humour and the Algeria Touchshriek voice sounds like nothing so much as Peter Cook’s E.L. Wisty character; it’s very serious stuff but as you hear Bowie intone “The screw is a tightening atrocity, I shake as the reeking flesh is as romantic as hell” in The Voyeur Of Utter Destruction (As Beauty) there’s a faint smirk under it. He is always aware of his own absurdity.

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1.Outside didn't spawn any of the sequels he talked about doing but it's no surprise: artists tend to talk about at least five times as many ideas as they actually follow through and work on. There were drum'n'bass and jungle rhythms creeping in on I'm Deranged and We Prick You, some classic Bowie ballads like Strangers when We Meet (itself, like Teenage Wildlife, in the "Heroes" continuum and one of my favourite Bowie songs) and some homages to what Scott Walker was up to at the moment like The Motel or A Small Plot of Land. He wasn't setting the trends now: he was following them and the best you can hope for is that rather than trying to assimilate into it as he did in the 80s he was putting them into the Bowie blender.

This, however, misses the point that he was never that original in the first place! The way he presented his ideas was, and he had a unique singing voice but the fact is that he just had his ear to the underground and did these things to a mass audience so they just looked new. In that respect Outside is no more or less original than Low or one of the records everyone goes on about it just happens that when it came out it wasn't the first time the masses were hearing these sounds as it was when he made the second side of Low which sounds like Cluster or Harmonia. Bowie’s value wasn’t as an inventor of new sounds it was as a way of making them digestible and emotionally accessible to everyone in a way which may then allow the actual innovators (and he did always cite his sources) to break through to more success: this is quite laudable.

So then of course he went on tour with NIN, continuing to refuse to "act like a man his age". Now this raises an interesting question about Bowie's public perception. How is it that he was an old man 20 years ago when he was in his late 40's - early 50's but then when he died he was too young to go? Could it be that as rock'n'roll, still a young artform, develops that our perceptions of performers capability changes? The fact is that for a pervy old man, as he was labelled at the time, he still looked very youthful and very vital. Far sexier, far more dangerous than any of the Britpop boys who'd grown up on his music but who shuffled about in tracksuit tops and shapeless jeans. As this live TV clip shows, with Gail Ann Dorsey looking just as androgynous and unworldly as he ever did but with seemingly the minimum of effort; and Mike Garson looking deranged.

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The right people were listening: Fincher saw the potential to run The Heart’s Filthy Lesson over the credits of Se7en and Lynch used I’m Deranged in Lost Highway. Both were similarly grim end of the 20th Century blues, meditations on madness. Both soundtracks, coincidentally enough, featured the work of NIN and Coil: it’s a little frustrating how close in terms of interests Bowie and Coil are, how few degrees of separation there are between these immensely influential queer occultist artists and that they never actually worked together.

He continued in this vein with Earthling, still upsetting everyone by continuing to do what he felt like doing rather than digging up old characters. A subtle “fuck you” to the beige whitewashed sounds of Brit-pop in the cover where he wears a stained and tattered Union Jack coat as he looks out over an idealised version of England’s green (screened) and pleasant land. This on an album as infused with contemporary black music as Young Americans was. Even his huge 50th birthday show was as much of a celebration of Bowie present and looking forward as a fond look at what had been. Then, of course, "Hours" came.

Now "Hours" is perhaps an unfairly maligned album: if anyone else had put out an album with songs as great as Thursday's Child and Survive on they'd be praised to the skies and rightly so. They are moving, perfectly constructed pop songs but there's no real fire or spark of innovation in them. What little emotional impact there is has been drowned in high-tech production that covers everything in an unpleasant sheen. This is possibly as much Mark Plati and Reeves Gabrels fault as Bowie's as this is his most straightforwardly collaborative album (with every song co-credited to Gabrels) but I'm not sure. I feel like Reeves Gabrels gets unfairly criticised as he's been involved in some of the most ridiculous things Bowie has done (i.e. Tin Machine) and he appeared onstage in daft outfits playing wanky guitar solos.

He's also been involved in some of my favourite Bowie songs, however, and if you see him playing with The Cure he's not as huge a presence. He’s not jumping all over everything with fretboard tapping and lunging around waggling his tongue like Gene Simmons with a PhD: this implies that he cut such a larger than life figure because his boss wanted him to as much as anything else. So despite his persona bordering on that of a middle-aged man enthusiastically demonstrating FX pedals to you in a guitar shop, blaming him too much is misguided.

According to the excellent Pushing Ahead of the Dame blog, it was around this time Bowie started thinking about making a Ziggy Stardust film and as such he was annoyed by Velvet Goldmine's fictionalised steps into the same territory. Todd Haynes' Velvet Goldmine is an enjoyable film but I can see why he'd be so annoyed with it: it is clearly the work of a gay fan feeling betrayed by him “going back in” circa Let’s Dance. Possibly the great man was realising this wasn’t one of his best moves however well it worked at the time. After "Hours" was out and around the time of Heathen in 2002, Bowie changed his tune regarding Ziggy: “I’m running like fuck from that…Can you imagine anything uglier than a nearly 60-year-old Ziggy Stardust? I don’t think so!".

Similar ambivalence towards the idea is hinted at by the shelving of the video for the Pretty Things Are Going To Hell (itself a dual reference to The Stooges and Hunky Dory) where Bowie is menaced by huge puppets of past characters: the Pierrot from Ashes To Ashes, The Man Who Sold The World, The Thin White Duke and of course Ziggy. Maybe he judged it to be a bit on the nose.

It is an interesting change in perception we've undergone. In 1996 he was too old to be performing like he used to do but in 2013, at the age of 66, there were whispers about how great it'd be if he toured again. Not in any other industry do you expect a 66 year old man to get up onstage and dance about trying to be sexy for two or three hours a night. He could've done it like Dylan or Cohen (who only started touring again when he was much older than Bowie, true) but it wouldn't really have been his style: here was a man for who dance and mime and stagecraft had been an integral part of what made him a star. It’s still very present in his last videos and one of his final works was an honest to God musical after all.

So in the Blackstar video when we see that Major Tom is dead and at peace at last what are we to make of it? Clearing house for a whole new phase of experimentation and new ideas or a man on his last legs knowing that even if he didn't die straight after making this album he didn't have forever and was in the winter of his years? This is where we start to maybe give him too much credit. He was a man, and a great man but not a superhero. Superheroes don’t do things like release terrible covers of Iggy Pop songs with Tina Turner bolted onto them. “Ah but he only did that to keep his good friend financially solvent.”. Okay, good point.

He was a very intelligent man but not some towering inhuman intellect who could've predicted the moment Blackstar's "Something happened on the day he died, his spirit rose a metre and stepped aside" soundtracking the moment we knew we knew we knew. Maybe he predicted that it'd be a long while before somebody else took his place because things aren't set up that way. The industry has no interest in promoting bravery, the shock of the new. But he can't possibly have predicted that he was soundtracking millions of people thinking "He's gone, isn't he?" when he wrote that in remission. To think that he did is ridiculous, isn't it?

Isn't it?

youtube

#david bowie #1. outside #ashes to ashes #ziggy stardust #blackstar #brit pop #jungle

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afutureinnoise · 7 years

Photo

DAVID BOWIE, PART 2

BY DAN WRECK

Photo by Mick Rock

BOWIE #2 - STARDUST MEMORIES

Oh stop groaning, you can name a piece of writing with a Woody Allen pun when the person you're writing it about is a cultural Zelig.

youtube

You know - the sort of thing you want from Bowie!

"Do you like girls or boys? It's confusing these days"

youtube

Outside didn't spawn any of the sequels he talked about doing but it's no surprise: artists tend to talk about at least five times as many ideas as they actually follow through and work on. There were drum'n'bass and jungle rhythms creeping in on I'm Deranged and We Prick You, some classic Bowie ballads like Strangers when We Meet (itself, like Teenage Wildlife, in the "Heroes" continuum and one of my favourite Bowie songs) and some homages to what Scott Walker was up to at the moment like The Motel or A Small Plot of Land. He wasn't setting the trends now: he was following them and the best you can hope for is that rather than trying to assimilate into it as he did in the 80s he was putting them into the Bowie blender.

youtube

“Ah but he only did that to keep his good friend financially solvent.”.

Okay, good point.

Isn't it?

youtube

#david bowie #by dan wreck

4 notes · View notes

travellingwithleoandzoe-blog · 5 years

Text

#7 Antigua & Lake Atitlán, Guatemala

Waving goodbye to Costa Rica was tough. Time had felt like it had been put on fast-forward. Guatemala, our next destination, had for so long sat on a distant horizon, yet with a screech and bump we were touching down in Guatemala City. With two weeks ahead of us, we knew we wouldn’t have the luxury of a lot of time, nor a car for added freedom, but we joined the backpacker trail ready and open for a new experience. The arrival into the country’s capital was a stark reminder of some of the safety concerns occurring in Central America’s most populous country. Security guards armed with pump action shotguns loomed in the shady doorways of shops and restaurants. It was a different feel to anything we’d experienced in Costa Rica, but that not to say it was all negative. The culture is rich, and you get a sense for it in an instance. Bold colours, traditional clothing, and grand old colonial buildings. The streets hum. Each corner overflows with steaming food vendors selling a range of culinary delights. Meshed into the mayhem are tell tale signs of a heavy alliance with the U.S. as we observed many a familiar logo dissecting through the bustling city. While the capital no doubt has many neighbourhoods worth exploring, pressed for time, we made our way on a direct path towards the town of Antigua for our first two nights.

The rip-roaring drive to our hostel, the Earth Lodge, lasted almost two hours. Once dropped off we stretched our legs and made our way down a long footpath towards the reception, as vehicle access to the door was impossible. It was one of the few places we’d pre-booked while being back in the UK, and for good reason. The lodge is part hostel and part avocado farm. It’s located in the mountains 6,000 feet above Antigua, and our room for the next two days was a tree house overlooking it all. If the views spanning across multiple volcanoes weren’t impressive enough, the place also boasts a number of amenities, from freshly cooked meals every evening, a new yoga studio, and an expansive open outside area with accompanying slack line, football goal, and sauna. What more could we need? We savoured a few cold brews to the sunset, before settling into some dinner time chat with fellow lodgers.

The view from the tree house was a memorable wake up call the next morning. Curtains have been purposely excluded from the room. However, appreciation soon became overshadowed by a wave of nausea for myself. What at first felt like a bad hangover soon materialised into something worse. We both knew getting sick was inevitable at some point during our trip, and here was round one. The day was a write off. Left bed bound for 24 hours, aside from getting up to be sick out of the tree house window on occasion. There are worse places to projectile vomit from I suppose. For Zoe, yoga was on the cards and a relaxed day in the fresh, open surroundings.

We departed the next morning regretting that we could not stay longer. We’re getting used to the coming and going nature of travelling, but this occasion felt particularly difficult. Our tight timings meant we couldn’t afford to stay another day. We instead made our way into Antigua town to catch a shuttle bus to Lake Atitlan. The lake was a destination high up on our priorities. Known for its tranquillity, spectacular sunrises, volcano hikes, and its characterful surrounding towns, there are endless things to do. We entered the largest town, and gateway to the lake, Panajachel, just before dusk. We squeezed through an entourage of locals who encircled our mini bus the moment it parked up. A bit of pre-visit research meant we knew to head straight to the pier and board a public boat, known as a lancha. Once the boat was filled, we parted ways to the nearby town of Santa Cruz, admiring the breathtaking views as we skipped along the glistening water.

Santa Cruz is one of the quieter Mayan towns on the island. It’s only accessible by boat and sits up on a steep hill away from the water. It’s home to only 3,000 or so inhabitants. It’s popular within backpacker circles due to one of the longest standing hostels on the lake, the La Iguana Perdida. Set up by a English woman who stumbled across the land when visiting to dive in the lake three decades ago, the hostel is now truly embedded into the lakeside and the local community. Exhausted from our journey, we took things easy on our first night, making friends with an American lady called Felicia, who gave us a ton of useful tips for van living in prep for our visit to the States.

We were keen to stroll to the neighbouring town of Jaibalito the next day. The path leading around the lake perimeter from Santa Cruz was not extensive. Every step was pleasant. The sight of the towering Atitlán & San Pedro volcanoes was ever present in the distance. We were accompanied on the trek by the hostel’s dog, Bolto, who led the way like our tour guide. Once we arrived into Jaibilito we bumped into a familiar face in Felicia who joined us for a spot of lunch. Bolto also came along and guarded our table. After a well spent afternoon, we spent the evening watching the clouds assemble in the distance. The day closed with a moody and powerful lightening show.

Our final full day on the lake was all about visiting more of the lakeside towns. Central to our itinerary was a lunch destination that sounded more like something you’d find on Lake Como than on a lake in the middle of Guatemala. El Artisano is a reservation only joint, and we teamed up with a few others from the hostel to book a table. The main draw was a cheese platter of twenty-odd different fromages made throughout Guatemala. All available at a fraction of the price you’d find back in Europe. Before heading straight to this mouth watering prospect, we first ventured to the town of San Marcos. The narrow path from the pier is covered in a flowery archway and the walls are adorned in street art. The village exudes a new age, artsy, hippy feel to it. It was a place we wish we’d stayed at. We settled on a coffee stop off, and wondered to an impressive hostel where we experienced the lakeside from new vantage point. The water at San Marcos is the cleanest on the lake, and we happily killed time watching a dog swim in circles chasing its owner.

The first stomach rumble of the day signalled it was time to move on for lunch. We flagged down a tuk tuk with a fellow Brit and rattled along the pot holed plagued road to the neighbouring town of San Juan. The meal lived up to all expectations. The selection of cheeses was remarkable and expertly listed by the head chef. We proceeded to work our way through the platter piece-by-piece like a board game, starting with mild creamier types, and snaking our way through to the stronger, more pungent stuff. We washed it down with few glasses of crisp South American wine, and left with that familiar fuzzy feeling that can only come from combining cheese and wine.

Our final stop off before heading home was the town of San Pedro. Known to be the liveliest towns on the lake. We arrived at a limbo time of 4 pm. Not too much was going on, so we roamed the quaint little streets and walked off our indulgent lunch before catching the last boat back. As we zipped along the laguna from San Pedro, we took in some final awe inspiring views in the late afternoon light, pinching ourselves that a place like this exists. The journey allowed us to get up close to some of the towering cliff faces, offering the opportunity snoop at the many impressive mansions nestled into the rock face. If you took a snapshot of such sights and asked someone to guess where it was in the world its doubtful anyone would guess Guatemala.

The lake never ceased to impress us throughout our time there. However, right now it’s facing many modern day problems that sound all to familiar. Since the 1950s, over population and growing tourism have placed a strain on the quality of the water. Levels of intoxicants are now at the worst in the lake’s history, and this is altering natural algae cycles, creating explosions in Cyanobacteria. In turn this is having a detrimental impact on the wellbeing of local indigenous communities who rely on the lake for food and drinking water. The lack of a water treatment center, since it was destroyed by hurricane Stan back in 2005 only exacerbates the issue. Awareness of such a merky reality is on the rise. Many local Mayan communities and long standing charities based around the basin are driving change at this critical period. A movement called Atitlán Sano is applying pressure and holding the ten municipalities to account for previous negligence. We can only hope that the combined efforts of such a movement succeed to preserve one of the most spectacular bodies of water in Central America.

We squeezed in one delicious Guatemalan coffee on our final morning, before listening out for the boat captain calls for “Pana Pana Pana!” Back at the lakes gateway, we boarded a bus back to Antigua. This time around we’d have a few days to explore the actual town with a bit more purpose. We also intended to use it as a hub to tackle a two day volcano hike in light of us not doing anything strenuous while being on the lake. Lake Atitlán was a dreamy introduction to Guatemala. We felt recharged and refreshed, ready for the road ahead.

#guatemala

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stopsubstanceabuse1-blog · 5 years

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galaxy-parchment · 4 years

Text

Vampire AU

1 : 2 : 3 : 4 : 5 : 6 : 7 : 8 : 9 : 10 (you are here) : 11 : 12 : 13 : 14 : 15 (coming soon)

Woops guess who forgot to link chapter 9 to all the other chapters. I hope the sheer length of this mostly explains why it took a while to write mostly because of the whole trying not to directly plagiarise the comic but also I’ve been really busy with thankfully good things like weddings and birthdays and award ceremonies and all that fun stuff.

Of all the things Lanyon expected while he was checking on why nobody had shown up the Bethnal Green for the cleanup, Henry being covered in blood and losing control of everyone in the building wasn’t in his list of possibilities. Thankfully Henry didn’t seem to be in any sort of pain but rather was staring at the chaos of lodgers running up the main staircase.

His shirt was completely covered in blood and not going out to feed since the Moreau incident certainly wasn’t helping that annoyingly ravenous feeling he was getting in the back of his mind. God, he really should have gone out yesterday. He took his mind off of it by instead looking at Henry’s face, which had much less blood on it and turned to the ground with a very worried look etched into his features.

“Henry?”

“What?” his head perked up, drawing him out of whatever thought he was lost to, he turned and noticed who it was, “Robert! What are you doing here? I thought you were helping out in Bethnal Green today?”

“I was, but the lodgers that were supposed to be helping out today never showed up, also you’re bleeding” Robert said, carefully avoiding looking down and doing anything out of turn.

Henry quickly glanced down at himself and met Robert’s eyes just as quickly, “Don’t worry, it’s not my blood” despite the apparent reassurance Robert was getting, Henry still looked quite nervous.

“Is… is that meant to make me less worried? Have you been getting enough sleep?” he reached up and felt Henry’s forehead, which was cold rather than feverishly hot like he’d expected it to be.

Henry glanced up at the hand on his head with a look of panic. He quickly pulled his hand down and laughed nervously “I’m fine, Robert, just a little off schedule but I have it under control!” a knife suddenly appeared under Henry’s chin.

“Doctor Jaaaaaay…” came the calm voice of Rachel from Henry’s right hand side “Where is Master Hyde?” she yelled abruptly. Robert was lost as Rachel bickered with Henry but struggled his way back to listening to avoid looking down at the blood that was soaked into Henry’s vest. The first word he caught was ‘Hyde’ and his eyes widened in alarm.

“What’s all this about Mr Hyde? You’re not still in contact with that scoundrel are you?” he interrogated. He quickly found himself bombarding Henry with questions about that criminal. Why on earth would he still be on speaking terms with Hyde? He was not only a criminal but he’d been outed as a vampire. As much as it pained him to say, he hoped that Henry would be reasonable enough to stay far away from affairs with vampires if he could help it. He hoped there wasn’t any foul play in all of this.

A small metallic beetle suddenly zoomed into the room and halted in front of Henry, surprising all three of them as it blurted out a robotic voice that Robert just made out to be “Transmission for Dr Henry Jekyll”

Before Robert and Rachel could process what was happening Henry was suddenly out the door and off to find the lodgers that he explained were out in Survey. Robert and Rachel simply stared for a moment before the former uttered “What just happened?”.

Robert decided he may just have to take matters into his own hands.

Jekyll rushed to his room to get the bloodstained clothes off of him as soon as possible and tossed them into a bag and away from his sight. He touched a finger to his teeth to check them. Thankfully, most likely because he’d fed last night, his fangs were barely longer than usual and Jekyll took the blessing in stride. Now he had to keep himself covered for the trip to find Bryson and his crew.

He took out a top hat with a wider brim than most, flipped his collar up despite how unflattering it was to his jawline, picked up a parasol and put on gloves so that he only needed to cover his face while he was out to avoid suspicion.

He spotted the balloon a mile off and walked as fast as a gentlemanly stroll would allow him, careful to keep to the edges of the path where it was shadier. Eventually he made it to the crash site and grimaced at the ladder leading up to where the group was waiting. To his annoyance, Helsby was waving for him up to climb the ladder, so he didn’t really have a choice in the matter. Jekyll huffed, closed and tucked his umbrella under his elbow and looked down and awkwardly climbed the ladder, nearly burning himself on a spot of sunlight on his way up. He clambered up onto the elevated ground that the balloon was resting in and tidied himself up before looking to the men and giant octopus in the basket.

“So what have you been up to on this fine adventure, gentlemen?”

Bryson looked into the distance dramatically and went on a convoluted tangent about how dangerous and mysterious their latest ‘journey through the cosmos’ was. After a few minutes of monologuing Jekyll grew bored and clasped his hands together cheerfully.

“I see! So what you’re saying is you got lost!”

“If you must put it into unscientific terms,” Bryson deadpanned.

“Not to worry, I’ll have a team out here to extricate your dirigible as soon as they’ve extricated themselves from Frankenstein’s clutches”

Bryson’s eyes widened, “Frankenstein’s awake? Why didn’t you say so earlier?”, neither he nor Helsby wasted a moment climbing out of the basket and sprinting back down the path Jekyll had just traversed, the accompanying octopus monster dragging itself along in tow at an alarming pace.

Jekyll stared defeatedly as the last of the lodgers were swept up in Frankenstein’s spell. Somewhere in the back of his mind Hyde stirred. Jekyll could feel the smug grin on him from whatever shadow he lurked in.

“Oh, poor Henry! After all you’ve done for the lodgers they abandon you for some clown with a famous name! I guess no matter how hard you try to hide all of those ghastly vampiric tendencies, the can still see how much of a monster you are, fangs or no!” he cackled, revealing himself in the shade of the nearest tree. Jekyll climbed back down the ladder as he spoke and reopened the umbrella, taking his time in making his way back.

“Why can’t you just stop existing for a week? You don’t normally hang around while I’m in control, what makes this different? You’ve already been to Blackfog for a night, as agreed.”

Hyde let out a growl of anger, “What? So you can just stop worrying about me forever? How convenient for you to just let me disappear forever!”

“You know that’s not true!”

“Right, because who else is going to do the sloppy murder you need to do to stay alive? Face it, Henry, if we weren’t a vampire then you’d probably have tried to get rid of me ages ago!” Hyde fumed, his shadowy form becoming less defined, “and for the record, you’re lucky that bartender knows not to mess with a vampire, that was by far the shoddiest luring I’ve ever seen and you’re lucky you found some depressed bastard that was probably baiting himself to get killed”

“I really don’t need to deal with this right now,” Jekyll groaned, rubbing the bridge of his nose and eager to avoid talking about last night, “if you’re going to hang around, you could at least help me get a handle on this Frankenstein problem.”

“Go to hell, traitor!”

“Don’t be like that! Frankenstein is our childhood idol, I need a way to win her over, but I can’t do that so long as she has this stubborn idea that I’m some kind of imposter scientist.”

“She’s not too far off, when was the last time you actually did any experiments? These days you’re just worried about making sure nobody figures out you got turned so that you can get them to throw money at your beloved Society.”

Jekyll looked up in realisation, “Huh… I think you might be onto something… I’ve been so caught up in keeping the Society afloat and focusing on hiding all of my secrets that I haven’t had time to follow my own scientific pursuits! Sure I’ve occasionally tried to make a cure but never anything I could be open about, of course Frankenstein would think I’m a fake!”

A confused look formed on Hyde’s face, “Uh- yes she… why are you agreeing with me? Where is this going?”

Before Hyde knew what was happening, Jekyll started out on a tangent about everything he remembered about alchemy and the various plants surrounding them and was adamant that he’d found just what he needed. Much to Hyde’s chagrin his insistence that Jekyll was simply blabbering and had no hope of ever winning over Frankenstein were ignored in favour of Jekyll returning to his enthusiastically wild scientific endeavours and explaining his plan all the way home until eventually he had to shut up to avoid suspicion from the sudden presence of other people who wouldn't take well to listening to Jekyll talking to thin air about the tiny flowers he had clasped in his hand.

#the glass scientists #tgs #fanfiction #galaxywrites #henry jekyll #edward hyde #robert lanyon #rachel pidgely #the girls are FIGHTING #also in the actual comic this scene is probably my favourite it just encapsulates everything i love about sabrina's jekyll and hyde dynamic #j&h #i keep thinking this is loaded with typos but then I check and I can't find anything #which btw if you ever find typos in my works please tell me as soon as you see them even if you just dm me or something

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