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searchsystem · 2 years
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David Rudnick / Tomb Index / Book / 2021
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mayasaura · 2 years
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I wonder if the only reason Palamedes and Camilla didn't become Paul sooner was Nona. Nona is happy—happier than they'd ever seen either Gideon or Harrow. It's easy to believe that Nona is made from love. But Nona is new, and somewhat helpless. Blank slate. If that's what happens when two souls merge, then, well, lucky them, but it's not a option. Too many people are counting on them.
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fantasy-scifi-art · 2 years
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Tomb Raider- Lara Croft by John Law Art
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sofipitch · 2 months
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Thinking about body horror in The Locked Tomb, specifically how the bodies of the dead are treated. Wake's skeleton tilling the fields, using her to feed an empire she hates even in death. Abigail's death not having anything to do with her but more just the inconvenience that she was there, evidenced by Cyth stashing the key in her as if she were a box. Protesilous is particularly good because you meet him as a person after you have seen his corpse used against his consent in the first book. After Cyth tells Palamedes she tossed his girlfriend and her bodyguard in the garbage she says "Don't look at me like I'm a monster". How ppl's remains are treated matter, when Crux threatened Gideon he threatened her with just that, being treated as parts.
I just have specific feelings about dead bodies and how they should be treated. I could never do anything involving cutting them without thinking this was someone's grandmother, or lover, or best friend. I distinctly remember what did this was going to see The Bodies Exhibit where you get to see a lot of preserved organs and such. I thought I would be fine, I was even super excited, I liked anatomy and physiology. But I remember looking at a sagittal cut of a head and torso meant to show off the brain and spinal cord and Idk why but I turned my head side ways and got level with the display and there was the man's face. That horrified me more than anything, his face mostly hidden so you don't remember this was a person. The ppl in this exhibit never consented to be a part of it, they are unidentified persons, no one came to get their body so it meant anyone could do what they wanted with it. Even worse popular myth for a while was that these were the bodies of prisoners, as if that made it okay to treat them with disrespect. There was writing on the wall as we left saying the bodies had been handled with respect but I would never want to be put on display in a museum, so how could we know they didn't feel the same? I also wouldn't want my index finger on display at the Vatican museum. I understand it's meant for worship but there also seems to be something rude in the piecemeal display of saints.
I feel strongly about respect for remains and idk how Muir does but there's something particularly good about Gideon being aware of her remains after death. The argument for a lot of bad treatment of corpses is "the person isn't going to know". So Muir created a character that becomes BOE's body farm experiment, until finally she has to go back into and haunt her corpse, embarrassed at her wounds and the way others can see her meat. Her first interaction is objecting to someone sticking her corpse with a needle, even though she can't feel
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So...hi
I may have decided on a whim to continue Your Scars Are Mine for no reason.
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No reason at all. Nope not me.
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Why's he gotta be so pretty how dare he
No need to read the previous fic, this one is still a oneshot.
Anyway here it is.
Ten Years
Hurt/Comfort and Smut
NSFW
Trigger Warnings: Trauma, Mentions of Self Harm, Depression
OPLA!Mihawk X AFAB!Reader
Wordcount: 5.2k
♫♬ Medusa in Chains — The Fratellis ♬♫
Before this whole thing began I had some sense of pride
Just one more night with your lips, your company is hard to eclipse
Four days.
Nearly four damned days had passed since you had last ate. Last bathed. Last done so much as dragged yourself out of bed to do more than half-stumble to the bathroom, and Mihawk was growing as impatient as he was concerned. It had been a few weeks since he had brought you to Kuraigana Island, and you had spent a fair amount of time flitting around the castle learning its halls and corridors front to back, dusting corners that even he had forgotten existed.
Then, a few mornings ago, you had simply refused to get out of bed.
Refused to speak as to why.
The warlord had told himself it was fine. That it wasn't as if he wasn't accustomed to having the sprawling stone castle to himself, that he could let whatever was ailing you play out, give you your space to work through it on your own.
But it was clearly doing no good, not to him or you. He had already grown too accustomed to your presence there, and seeing you in your present state was driving him completely mad.
He lingered in the doorway of the bedroom, arms crossed and leaning his shoulder into the doorframe, his eyes scanning slowly over you as you lay there with the sheets pulled up to the nape of your neck and your back to him. He had known you for nearly five months, had deemed to call you his lover for two of them. You did have a tendency toward the silent treatment when you argued, as much as that drove him mad, but this was different. This hadn't come on the crest of any argument, and it clearly ran far deeper than that.
You weren't doing this to get under his skin. That was clear to see, and Mihawk was at a complete loss on how to approach it.
He gave a small growl of annoyance at the sound of his transponder going off in his pocket, digging the thing out and shoving it into his ear as he turned the corner into the hallway outside the bedroom you had all but made your tomb.
"Little busy," he said impatiently. "Make it quick."
The last thing he wanted to deal with now was the goddamned government.
"Oof. That bad, huh?" Mihawk's eyes darted toward the transponder, the pad of his index finger pressed against it to hold it in place as Vice Admiral Garp's gruff brogue went on in his ear. "I figured. How's the kid holding up?"
Mihawk furrowed his eyebrows, and then lifted one if them as he glanced back toward the doorway of the bedroom.
"What are you talking about?" he said slowly. Garp knew something, and the old Marine had an irritating tendency to withhold information.
"Sounds like ya know damn well what I'm talking about, Hawk-Eyes." His jaw set at a rigid angle, gritting his teeth, Mihawk considered for perhaps the thousandth time just pulling the transponder from his ear and tossing it out a window. "Your associate. I'd be willing to bet your old bounty that she's not doing the best right now."
"Is this a business call or are you truly this insistent on wasting my time?"
Mihawk cringed at the sound of Garp's laughter in his ear.
"Little of both," he said, amused. "Word came down to me that my grandson may have formed an alliance with Fire Fist Ace in Arabasta a couple days ago. Around...the thirteenth, I believe. Something I asked you to keep an ear out for personally. And it's not really like you to not know what's going on around the Grand Line."
"As I said, I'm busy," he said through his teeth. Mihawk had no intention of standing around being insulted—particularly not with you in your current state. "My apologies if I haven't been babysitting your grandson closely enough for your liking."
"I can handle my own family affairs," said Garp. The amusement dropped from his tone as he went on. "This is more of a personal call. Your associate. I'm checking in. I imagine this hasn't been a good week for the girl." Mihawk remained silent, his eyes shifting to the open bedroom doorway once again, waiting for Garp to continue. He had no intention of letting on to anyone in a place of authority just how much he had come to care for you—not when they could very easily use it against him, threaten you to gain further control over him. "The sixteenth will mark ten years since the day she witnessed her home destroyed."
And today was the fifteenth.
That put quite a few things into perspective.
Mihawk leaned back against the wall behind him, pinching at the bridge of his nose as a slow sigh left his lungs.
"She's barely moved in three days," he said finally, quietly to ensure his voice didn'treach your ears—if you were even capable of listening right now. "Or spoken."
"Aye, I figured." Garp let out a heavy sigh himself. "I don't like to admit the failures of Marines any more than any other of my comrades, but...what Admiral Vesper did ten years ago was an insult to what we're supposed to stand for. I'd have seen the man executed a thousand times over for it if I could have. It was a goddamned massacre. All but, anyway, since he left her alive. I can't imagine how the poor girl even sleeps at night, honestly."
You didn't sleep well. Mihawk had noticed that from the start. Your hours of unconsciousness were frequently plagued with nightmares that you claimed not to remember, but he was sure you had to remember some of them. He was sure of it from the distance that lingered in your eyes some mornings as you sipped a cup of coffee or tea, from the way you spaced out and barely heard a word anyone spoke to you.
"I would like the coordinates of the island," Mihawk said after several long seconds, still rubbing at the bridge of his nose.
"There's nothing there. Her village was destroyed. It's just a rock in the water at this point."
"I don't care."
He rolled his eyes when Garp gave a snort of laughter—but the man did at least rattle off the coordinates without any hesitation, as if there were a map sitting right in front of him.
"N 22°6'5.3535" by W 159°33'55.7474". I'll give you a minute if you need to write it down."
Mihawk definitely hadn't expected the vice admiral to have the coordinates all but memorized. He sighed, ducking around the corner into the bedroom where you still lay motionless several feet away. He crossed to the desk, and leaned over it, lifting a pen and pressing it to a pad of paper.
"Again," he said shortly, and he quickly noted down the letters and numbers as Garp repeated them. And he added, just as shortly as he set the pen down, "Thank you."
Garp gave a short laugh. "White roses and blue orchids." Mihawk's brow furrowed as he crossed the room, glancing at you before slipping out the door again, ascertaining that you still hadn't moved an inch. "Those were her favorites."
"Sounds as if you were fairly familiar with this pirate."
"Oh, quite a few men were. She wasn't called The Siren for no reason." He sighed, and chuckled a little. "But yeah. I guess I was more familiar with Helena than most."
Mihawk barely had a moment to wrap his head around the connotations of that claim before Garp spoke up again.
"If you're at Kuraigana and you take that eyesore you call a boat, you'll have about a twelve hour trip due East," he went on. "Probably best get going if you plan to make it there tomorrow."
And with that and nothing else, the call ended.
Mihawk pulled the transponder from his ear, staring at it for a moment in mild alarm, before pocketing it again, glancing toward the bedroom door to his right.
Garp was familiar with your grandmother. He couldn't help but wonder whether you were aware of that.
Now wasn't precisely the best time to ask, however. He had to find some way to coax you out of bed, to get you dressed and—
And you had, at some point, rolled onto your other side, so when he entered the room again you were facing him. Your eyes locked onto his as you lay there on the four poster bed with your hand tucked between your cheek and a pillow, and Mihawk stopped abruptly in the doorway.
"We have a job, I take it?"
For a moment, Mihawk remained silent, standing at the threshhold and simply staring at you. This was the first you had spoken in days with the sole exception of the occasional single-word reply. His eyes passed quickly over you—and then he gave a brief nod.
"Yes," he said, crossing the room to the wardrobe at your side of the bed.
He wasn't sure how you would react to the truth of the matter, but he had a sneaking suspicion that you would resist, and he preferred not to even erect that bridge, much less cross it. Ten years had passed and you had gotten absolutely no closure—however much it would hurt, you needed this.
"You'll need to bathe and dress," he said, pulling clothes out for you and setting them across the foot of the bed. "We'll leave within the hour."
You nodded, your eyes shifting away from his as you sat up, letting the covers fall away from you and standing. You were wearing one of his shirts, unbuttoned with nothing but a pair of black panties underneath, and had it not been for your despondent state at the present he wouldn't have been able to resist tearing them off of you and pushing you right back into bed.
Instead, he watched you pick up the clothes he had set out, head into the adjoining bathroom, and close the door quietly behind you.
This wasn't like you. None of it was. Your proneness to dry remarks and comebacks, your snide little smirks that infuriated and enticed him in equal measure—there had been absolutely none of it for days now, and it was getting under his skin like nothing else had in years. He took a seat on the bed, kicking off his boots in mild frustration and reclining back against the headboard, staring at the closed door you had just disappeared through.
Folding his hands over his stomach and listening to the sound of running water at the other side.
Waiting.
Thinking.
It would be both unfair and unsafe, he decided as you emerged from the bathroom several minutes later, not to give you some hint, some clue of his intentions. You were already dressed—at least half dressed, your shirt hanging open over a lacy black bra, a towel hanging around your shoulders to catch the water still beading in your damp hair. You paused in buttoning your shorts, meeting his eyes as he pointed at the edge of the bed next to him.
"Sit," he said, his tone light but commanding—halfway for the sake of observing your reaction.
You would often snap that you weren't a dog, roll your eyes at him, intentionally try to aggitate him; but now you simply sighed a little and did as you were told, taking a seat at the edge of the mattress, your hands resting at either side and your head declined to stare down at your knees.
"Here."
You glanced at him briefly when he held out a hand, and you placed yours in it after a moment. He tugged you down to him, across his chest, curling his other hand in your hair, searching your eyes and your face for anything.
And finding nothing. Not sadness, not anger, just a blank numbness that gave the impression you weren't even there. Despite the weight of your body, despite your forehead resting lightly against his, you were as good as a ghost.
He moved a hand to your waist, and your breath hitched in alarm when he flipped you onto your back, moving both of his hands to yours at either side of your head, entwining his fingers with yours to keep you there—to keep you from bolting, as you were so prone to doing when anything about your past came up.
"Were you planning on telling me what's going on, little one..." said Mihawk, lowering himself to his elbows, his forehead to yours, giving you nowhere to look but his eyes. He moved one hand over, brushing a thumb lightly across your bottom lip, "or do you prefer me hearing it from our Marine friend?"
Your eyes widened just a little at that—and your breath hitched again when he moved his thumb to your cheek and pressed his lips to yours in a brief, deep kiss. It had been days since he had gotten a single taste of you, and your lips were much too tempting to resist.
He felt your grip briefly tighten on his hand before pulling away, close enough that he felt the warmth of your slow, trembling sigh brush across his own lips. "Ten years tomorrow, isn’t it?" he asked quietly.
Your gaze shifted away in an instant, your eyes slipping shut. "It's my problem," you said quietly. "Not yours."
"You wasting away in bed for three days straight makes it very much my problem." You bit your lip for a moment. Swallowed. "We've had this discussion before. And not very long ago." A small shudder crept through you when he released your hand, trailing his fingertips down the length of your left arm, where your white sleeve hid the marks you had put there over the years yourself, marks of defeat. The freshest wound there still had yet to heal fully, and he could feel the bandages wrapped around your arm just above your elbow through the thin material of your shirt. "Hiding things does neither of us any good."
You gave a short nod, your eyes remaining shut, your breathing the slightest bit uneven as his fingertips brushed across your cheek and returned to your hand, slipping between your fingers. "S...sorry," you forced out in a whisper. "It's just...not really..."
"Don't apologize." You opened your eyes at this, meeting his gaze. "But next time something of this magnitude comes up..." A slow sigh left your lips as his brushed at the edge of your jaw, near your ear. "You'll tell me."
You gave another small nod.
"Good girl."
His eyes drifted down your body, your smaller form pinned beneath his, his fingers drifting across the bare strip of skin between the folds of your unbuttoned shirt, brushing over the soft lace at the center of your bra, barely grazing the edge of your breast. In any other circumstance he wouldn't have hesitated for a moment to tear it away from you right that second—but now wasn't the time. As much as he detested not being in control, that had to be on your terms for now.
So he left you with one last slow, deep kiss, his hand moving to wrap around your waist under your shirt and pull you against him for a moment, for as long as he could stand to, before parting from you and standing from the bed.
"Finish getting yourself ready," he said, pulling his own half-buttoned shirt over his head and off and laying it at the edge ofnthe bed. "We'll be traveling for a little over twelve hours, with one stop on the way. The sooner we leave, the better."
You didn't say a word as he crossed the room, dropping the shirt into a hamper by the wardrobe, but he heard you shift on the bed behind him. Heard the matress creek as you rose and crossed the room slowly, your bare feet a whisper against the cold stone floor, stopping just behind him.
He paused in taking down his long overcoat as your arms wrapped around him, your cheek pressed against the back of his shoulder.
"I am sorry," you repeated quietly. "I...I didn't know it would be this..." Your breath shook a little as you took a step closer, as he looked over his shoulder and saw only the crown of your hair from the way your head was turned. "It's been almost ten years, I shouldn't be...."
Mihawk sighed, letting go of his coat as he felt you trembling against him. This was still something he was entirely unaccustomed to—he had seen you in this vulnerable a state only once before, only a few short weeks ago, when he had caught you pulling the blade of one of your daggers across your arm. When you admitted you had been doing so for the better part of ten years—a tally mark, a physical reminder for every mistake you made.
After a moment, he took your wrists in his hand, pulling your arms away.
He turned to face you, curling an arm around your waist and pulling you against him, resting a hand near the crown of your hair to cradle your head against his shoulder, leaning back against the wardrobe.
"Have you considered that that's what happens when you spend a decade blaming yourself for something that was beyond your control?" he said lightly.
Your breath hitched and stuttered, your shoulders shaking as you struggled against the torrent of emotion you had been fighting off for more than three days. Fighting within your own head, leaving you so exhausted that you could do little more than lay in bed and stare at the wall.
"I—if I had stayed hidden like she told me to, she—she'd have—"
"No." It was a hard truth, but it was one you needed to hear. "In all likelihood, you both would have been killed amid the destruction." A small whimper escaped you as he moved his hand down, cupping your jaw lightly to lift your head. Your eyes snapped shut immediately. "Don't do that," he sighed, shaking his head. He lowered his own, resting his forehead against yours. "Look at me."
You clearly hesitated, swallowing, before allowing your eyes to slowly open, meeting his. He brushed his thumb lightly across your cheek, his eyes shifting for a moment to your lips as they trembled a little.
"I can replace most of the things I have in my possession." His sharp yellow eyes moved back up to meet your gaze, keeping his voice quiet, as gentle as the caress of his thumb across your skin. "You, my little bird, are not one of them." Mihawk moved his other hand to your shoulder, slowly pulling your shirt down to expose your left arm, his fingers grazing over the bandage wrapped around your delicate skin, across the scars. "I won't stand to watch you hurt yourself, be it with your blades or by any other means."
He saw as well as heard your breath hitch in your chest, your brows furrowing as your gaze softened.
And then your hands slipped from his shoulders, meeting at the nape of his neck as you tilted your head up to press your lips firmly to his.
You were impossible to resist, your breath shaking amid the fierce kiss. He pulled his arm tighter around you, tugging your shirt down your other shoulder, tossing it away onto the floor. His hands wrapped around your arms as he pushed you back toward the bed, pressed you back into the mattress as he bent over you.
His lips drifted away from yours, curling his fingers in your hair and tugging at the roots to turn your head and give him better access to your soft skin.
"I thought—" You gasped, arching your back as he pushed his hand up your waist, under the soft fabric of your bra. "You said—we need to leave soon—"
"It can wait," he growed into the crook of your neck. The soft moan that left your lips as his thumb brushed across your nipple was like music to his ears. "You've made me wait nearly four days." Perhaps it wasn't fair to phrase it in such a way—but it was the truth of the matter. He turned your head, his eyes burning into yours as he murmured against your lips. "Do you have any idea how much I've craved you?"
It seemed with that you had no further protest, no further questions—you simply gripped a handful of hair at the nape of his neck and crushed your lips to his, arching your back and moaning breathily into the passionate kiss.
He curled his arm under your back, deftly unhooking your bra, and had it ripped away from your body in seconds, shifting you further back onto the bed and trailing his lips down the column of your throat. He had no intention of punishing you, of making you wait—not this time. No, his only focus now was purely your pleasure; making you forget, if only for a brief spell, everything that had been tormenting you.
He lifted you off of the bed to pull one of your nipples into his mouth, his eyes shifted up to watch your head fall back against the comforter, your soft moans filling the sprawling bedchamber as his tongue swirled around the sensitive protrusion. Shifting to your other, a slow sigh leaving him as you arched your hips to grind against his knee between your thighs.
If you wanted more, then, oh, you were going to get it.
He trailed his fingertips down your stomach, quickly unfastened the buttons at the high waist of your shorts, and pushed his hand into them, under the elastic waist of your panties, spreading apart your folds.
Once more he pressed his lips into the crook of your neck, then again just below your ear.
"Yes," Mihawk breathed against your delicate skin as a soft cry left your lips, reveling at the shiver that crept through you, the way your clit twitched and throbbed under his touch. "Break for me, my darling."
You turned your head and pressed your lips to his, drawing in a sharp breath as your hips rolled slowly under his touch, your nails digging into his shoulders. Your breath left you in a soft whimper as your tongues swirled together between your lips amid the deep kiss, his dragging across the roof of your mouth before drawing back, your eyes glazed over in lust as your gazes met.
"More." Your soft, breathless whisper against his lips was almost enough to drive him into a frenzy—your fingertips trailing down the hard lines of his abdominal muscles, stopping at the buckle of his belt. "Please."
And that was enough.
He hated losing control, but goddammit, you made it utterly impossible for him to retain it.
In an instant he slipped his belt loose, shoving his pants down his hips as you kicked your shorts away. His gaze drifted down your body slowly for a moment, admiring every inch of you as if you were the finest work of art lying beneath him, just waiting to be vandalized and ruined.
He shifted you a bit further back on the bed, grasping one of your thighs and pressing it down against your chest.
The way you arched your hips when he thrust into you—the way your eyes rolled back and a quivering moan passed through your lips as the warmth of your tight, slick channel wrapped around him—the way you clung to his neck as he thrust intonyou again and again, your eyes glued to his and your nails digging into bis skin—to say he had been craving this, craving *you* would have been a grievous understatement. It was more than that now, an intrinsic *need* that he couldn't shake, one that he had felt so deeply with no one but you. Without even being consciously aware you had become an addiction—your body, your touch, your moans and whimpers and sighs and gasps, you.
You were wound so tightly from the brief teasing that barely a minute passed before your hips arched high against his, a deep, breathy moan leaving your lips as your thighs clenched around his hips and shook, as your walls clenched tight around his cock. He pulled himself up onto his knees, pulling you up with him, holding you against his chest as he pressed a hard kiss to your lips, groaning quietly into your mouth.
One of his hands found your hip, grasping your soft flesh hard enough to bruise as he tore his mouth from yours, eyes brimming with lust as he growled one quiet word against your lips.
"Again." He pressed his lips to yours again briefly, gripping the nape of your neck. Pressed his lips to your neck, your chest, lowering his hand to push one of your breasts up, kneading at the soft flesh as he guided your hips to roll onto him again and again, before you had even recovered from your intense orgasm. "I."
And again and again, almost as if you were made for the sole purpose of coming undone under his touch. Every one of your wordless moans and breathless whimpers fueled him, drove him wild, his lips trailing across every inch of your skin he could reach—across your chest, the soft swell of your breasts, down your smooth neck and across your shoulders.
Until he couldn't the any more, until the tension building in the pit if his stomach was too much to bear—until he gripped a fistful of your hair and pulled you down hard by your hips, crushed his lips against yours in a hungry kiss and thrust into you hard, shoving you down onto your back and pinning your hands over your head as he completely lost himself within you, his breath shuddering into a low groan that was drowned out by your breathless moans.
Your hips rolled together slowly on the crest of your shared euphoria, your breath leaving you in soft whimpers as his grip on your hands loosened, allowing you to lower one to brush your fingers back through his dark hair. A deep sigh heaved from his chest as his lips parted from yours, and he rolled onto his back, pulling you with him to lay across his chest.
His fingers combed down through your hair as you lay your forehead in the crook of his neck, both of your catching your breath. Mihawk lowered his head enough to brush his lips to your temple, his voice a soft murmur in your ear. "You're going to be the death of me, little one."
You swallowed, laying your cheek against his shoulder, your eyes closed as your soft fingertips caressed the back of his neck, the light touch sending a slight shiver down his spine—as did your breathless, whispered reply.
"I love you."
It wasn't something either if you said often. It had remained more or less of an unspoken understanding between the two of you since he first said it himself a few weeks earlier—and maybe that was why it seemed to have so much of an impact when the words were spoken aloud.
He turned his head and brushed his lips to yours, pulling his thumb across your temple to brush your hair behind your ear.
"I...love you."
The words still felt strange rolling off his tongue—strange, unfamiliar, but not wrong by any means. He tilted his head until his forehead touched yours, closing his eyes. It was the truth, a truth that was difficult to admit after years of solitude, but one that couldn't be left unspoken.
If Mihawk was to expect truth from you, he couldn't withhold it himself.
For sometime he just held you there against him, his arm curled around your back, his thumb brushing slow circles against your waist...and then he spoke.
"We're not going on an assignment." Your eyes fluttered open, meeting his in question. "Twelve hours east of here," he said quietly, slowly, "is the island where you grew up—no," he interjected, when your eyes widened and you began to pull away. He pulled his arm tighter around your back, his other hand at the nape of your neck, curling in your hair to keep you from pulling away. "We're going. You need to." The pain that dawned in your eyes was almost enough to make him relent—but he wouldn't. He couldn't. He shook his head. "You know you need to."
You swallowed, your gaze falling away from his. "I...I don't know if I can..."
"You can." He brushed his lips against yours, fingers combing through your hair, and you lifted your gaze back to his. "You..." He brushed his thumb across your cheek, his eyes boring into yours, "...are the strongest woman I have ever met—don't do that," he added in a lightly chiding tone when you rolled your eyes. He curled his hand around your chin. "You'd have to be strong to have such a chokehold on me, little one."
You rolled your eyes back over to his at that...and you gave a small, quiet chuckle, nuzzling your cheek against hid shoulder. "Touché." Your eyes flickered away for a moment, but returned to his quickly. "I just..." You swallowed, and shook your head. "There's nothing there. Just...a rock in the water."
Your claim echoed Garp's eerily—but the claim echoed just as empty as his had. The mere thought of that rock made your eyes fill with emotion, made your voice break. That rock was the final resting place of one of the most infamous pirates that had ever sailed the Grand Line—the woman that had raised you. Your trainer, your caregiver, your role model.
Your grandmother, the Siren.
"There's a lot more there than just a rock. I think we both know that." You swallowed again...and, after several long seconds, you nodded. Your eyes slipped shut and your breath hitched, and he combed bis fingers slowly through your hair. "We'll rest for a bit, and then we'll leave."
"Y...yes." You gave a short nod, and a slow sigh, your eyes opening to meet his again, full of renewed resolve. "Okay."
His thumb brushed across your cheek, his eyes glued to yours. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt you, but pain was often a necessary catalyst in healing. He sighed slowly, his forehead touching yours.
"I love you."
Your eyes glued to his, you echoed his murmured words without a second thought.
"I love you."
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cellarspider · 22 days
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14/?? Gnosis, and lack thereof
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We return to the movie that could’ve been a contender, Prometheus. In this episode, a two-year-old poisons a man.
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I’m not alone in thinking David is the most well-realized character in this movie. Michael Fassbender was given the most space to act through expression and reaction to others and his environment, which helps create an android character that has much more inner life than his human castmates. He also gets what I’d call the Data bonus: android characters can more easily get away with screamingly clunky exposition or explicitly stating the meaning of a scene. You can give them absolute gibberish if you want to, and it sounds perfectly logical when they say it.
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[Video description: A small selection of technobabble from Star Trek: The Next Generation, mostly featuring Data.]
David is also the easiest to be sympathetic to, because people keep being assholes to him.
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Yes, David has received mysterious orders from a mysterious man who’s still in stasis. It’s Peter Weyland. It’s obviously Peter Weyland, this is why David has the dream-reading helmet thing that felt so out of place at the start of the movie. This is also why Guy Pierce, a 45-year-old, was hired to play an infinity-year-old man. Weyland was going to appear as his ideal self in one of these dream sequences, but it was cut from the movie. So instead, we just have Vickers demanding to know what “he” wants, and the answer is “Try harder”.
Peter Weyland, beginning a trend for the company bearing his name, has an obsession with this alien stuff. …This trend was actually begun by Charles Bishop Weyland in a completely different continuity that also featured ancient alien contact with Earth, but hey, details. This Weyland wants results, damn it, and David gets an excuse to kill one of the crew.
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Although it’s not quite that simple. The movie indicates that David can’t go against orders from the company, especially from Weyland. He has to “try harder”, and he’s brought back one of those alien urns that apparently nobody cares to examine but him. 
It’s got a goth lava lamp in it.
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While we don’t get much indication David knows why this stuff is dangerous to organic life, I’ll give the movie a very tiny pass: it’s implied that David has figured out how to read the Engineer’s cuneiform script. He decants a droplet of Menacing Black Goo onto his (Weyland-branded) fingertip, and sets off to find a test subject.
Thank god, he chooses Holloway.
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I don’t like not liking characters. I don’t generally anticipate seeing someone’s comeuppance, but this movie gets me damn close to that feeling. In the movie’s partial defense, some of this was probably intended. Mainstream American fiction sets a high bar for what a bigot looks like, and Holloway’s been clearing that. I’m less certain the movie knows everyone’s behaving like a bigot, but we’ll get to that eventually. But Holloway? Definitely. 
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This creates a fairly interesting scene. One that even reaches towards good. David has the means to kill Holloway. The audience knows this. And we get to watch when he makes the decision to commit to it, and why. And, blessedly, it actually ties into an intentional theme of this movie.
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Holloway’s still drunk and miserable–he’d previously muttered that the alien structure on the planet was “just another tomb.”
I, speaking hyperbolically, would consider that grounds enough to off him. He’s an archaeologist who can be sent into a drinking binge by finding a thing made by dead people. An archaeologist. That in itself is such a ridiculous indicator of how unfit this character is for his role.
But no, he wanted to meet his maker, “To get answers.” Sure, lots of people have existential questions they feel are important to them. That is understandable. Even clueless assholes can wonder about that. But it takes an especially hubristic asshole to decide they’re the one worthy of asking someone who might have the answer. 
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Did anybody notice they didn’t bring any diplomats or orators on this trip? They didn’t bring any cultural exchange gifts with them when they approached the alien structure? They weren’t treating the Engineers as people, just something to discover.
David, someone else they’re not treating like people, asks Holloway “Why do you think your people made me?”, and the answer he gets is “Because we could.” David is quietly but openly disappointed in that.
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This is the whiplash of this movie. We have the biggest bunch of shambolic assholes klutzing around, waiting to get killed off by the plot, and then we have David expressing the horror of Valentinian gnosticism.
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In brief, because even the wikipedia page says “The theology [...] is extremely complicated and difficult to follow”, the strain of Christian gnosticism expressed by the 2nd century theologian Valentinus believes that the world was created by an ignorant being. They believed there was a benevolent god out there which was/produced Jesus, but the “demiurge” (lit. “craftsman”) who created the world was not this deity. The demiurge was an imperfect, lesser being, that believed itself to be the supreme god of the universe. In Valentinianism, as with other gnostic schools, to be born into the world was to be trapped within a creation of a creature that was prone to fits of abusive behavior.
Gnostic christianity was, at the time, an attempt to square a number of contradictory ideas: the incredibly influential ideas of Plato on the formation of the universe, the growing theology of the new Christian movement, and the examples of divine wrath and jealousy in Jewish scripture, that were hard to square with what early Christians saw as a less violent deity they wanted to worship. There were probably also some anti-Jewish Egyptian myths thrown in as well, depicting their god as a donkey-headed incarnation of the malevolent deity Set. Some may recognize that particular slander from its deployment against early Christians, including our first-ever depiction of Jesus’ crucifixion: a rude bit of graffiti.
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In our time, there’s only one remaining gnostic (non-christian) religion with direct continuity to the period, the Mandaeans. Christian gnosticism was deemed heretical, when one of the many different gospels circulating at the time was selected as orthodox in the 4th century, along with an attendant theology. But it remains a fertile ground for philosophers, fiction-writers, and every once in a while someone reinvents bits of it when they hit upon contradictions in christian thought.
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The latter seems to be the case with Ridley Scott. He’s sometimes described as an atheist, but his actual statements on the matter show he’s either casually gnostic or a deist, very much influenced by christian doctrine: 
“If we looked at the whole thing practically speaking, the Big Bang occurred and then we go through this evolution of millions, billions of years where, by coincidence, all the right biological accidents came out the right way. To an extent, that doesn't make sense unless there was a controlling decider or mediator in all of that. So who was that? Or what was that? Are we one big grand experiment in the basic overall blink of the universe, or the galaxy? In which case, who is behind it?”
https://www.bbc.co.uk/films/callingtheshots/ridley_scott.shtml
Tangent: that question came right after he’s quoted as saying “I think there's no originality [in modern films]. I think everyone is stealing from everyone else and going back to the originals. I usually go in for 20 minutes and then get up and leave.” This interview was back in 2006. The next year he’d direct American Gangster (loosely based on a biography), then Body of Lies (Roger Ebert called it "a James Bond plot"), then Robin Hood (it’s Robin Hood), then Prometheus, the movie I only watched because it seemed to be in dialog with a film he directed in 1979. Buddy, if that was your problem, you were part of the problem.
But anyway. We have a director who had stated interest in a christian-influenced cosmogony: he seems to state a belief that we exist because we are supposed to exist, rather than being a random event. This is a movie where he does seem to be trying to do something with that. He is beginning with that premise, and using Alien as the shared language to express it. He doesn’t know why we exist, but he can imagine why we would make someone exist.
Placing that in amongst these characters is bleak to the point of puerility, frankly. Why would we create a being like us? Well, this one asshole doesn’t know.
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David, at this point in Prometheus, has already determined that humans are fallible creators. Hell, he’s decided the Engineers were also failable. He, y’know, witnessed how gooey one of their corpses was. But he’s yet to decide on whether humans are just ignorant, trying and failing to be good–as per Valentinus–or if they’re actively malevolent.
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The fact that David doesn’t poison Holloway’s drink until just before handing it over does neatly show that he was quietly given a chance to answer that question. Holloway continues to be a jackass and, when asked what he’d do to answer the existential question he wanted to pose to the Engineers, he says he’d do “anything and everything”.
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The movie eventually treats Peter Weyland as especially deluded in his self-serving quest to get the Engineers to answer his more selfish questions, but I don’t think his ego was unique in this movie.
On our journey into the movie this time, Prometheus has attempted to grapple with subjects its script hasn’t earned. Next time, it incorporates imagery it hasn’t earned. It’s worse than this scene, but in a far more subtle way.
If you want a neat look on european and middle eastern mysticism from an academic standpoint, Esoterica is a pretty damn good channel, put together by a self-described “dialectical materialist in the tradition of Structural Marxism”. I’ll happily take recommendations on other academic sources aimed at the general audience.
https://youtu.be/7EwRD6SzXws
https://st-takla.org/Feastes-&-Special-Events/Coptic-Nativity-of-Jesus-Christ-Milad-El-Masih/Coptic-Jesus-Incarnation-Christmas-03-Incarnation-of-the-Word-Book.html 
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Masbuta 
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Drabsha 
https://www.deviantart.com/pretty--kittie/art/Prometheus-Engineer-407322241 
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Archon_(Gnosticism) 
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sethianism
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moodymisty · 5 days
Text
Off The Beaten Path
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[ 𝕸𝖔𝖔𝖉𝖞𝕸𝖎𝖘𝖙𝖞'𝖘 𝕸𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙 | 𝕬𝖔3 ]
Author's Note: This is technically a reheated meal, but Ao3 seemed to like it and it deserved a revision since it was the first smut I ever posted. I hope at least one person here likes it as well.
Summary: “Death! We’re-” A neutral voice interrupts you, already knowing what you were going to say. “You seemed quite fine with the location when it was just your hand.”
Relationships: Death/Fem!Reader
Warnings: NSFW, it's like 20% porn if that, Porn with feeling, No use of y/n, Outdoor sex, Established relationship, Fluff
Word count: 7,392
Ao3 Mirror
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Your feet hurt. 
As in really hurt, more than you had ever thought they possibly could. Your boots have been through so much in such a short period of time they're on the verge of truly falling apart, even after numerous small repairs. But those small repairs were like putting a bandage on a gaping wound, largely failing to stop their slow descent into complete disaster. You were partly wondering why Death had still insisted you come with, even if you’d said straight up you were going to slow him down.
And while you did technically slow Death down, as he would never let you forget, apparently you were enough help- or entertainment- that he kept bringing you along. Even if he’d try and act like he was forcing the words out, he never complained beyond the first initial shows of inconvenience.
It also helps that you actually enjoy talking to the denizens of the other realms like the Makers, the undead of the Eternal Throne, even Vulgrim; Whom he had to deal with this time around. Death seemed to have a hatred for loose ends, and with only one Death Tomb left for him to seal up, it entailed having to wretch the final key from Vulgrim's grimy, greedy hands.
All but shoving the bound pages into your hands he forced you to do it, standing a good ten meters back down the path with his arms crossed as if the mere sight of the demon was too appalling for him to go any further.
He was still positioned so that you were clearly in line of sight however, just in case.
You just find it all hilarious, trading Vulgrim for the Tomb key with little fanfare and refusing yet another lowball offer for your soul as he takes the pages from your grubby little mitts, before walking back down the dirt path and tugging on the frayed edges of Death’s scarf. You know he's aware that you've returned, it's just fun to annoy him now that you know that his attitude towards you is mostly bark.
“Finished?” His eyes slowly open, looking down on you and hefting himself off of the hillock he’d been leaning against with his arms crossed.
You dangle the prize off of your index finger in front of your chest, the size and weight of it quite considerable for a key.
“One key; No strings attached.”
Long, pale fingers take the key from you and casually examine it, a jewel of a different color than the others embedded in the handle's side. He tucks it away in a pocket, looking down as you smile and speak:
“Vulgrim says hello, by the way. He told me to give you his greeting and I figured I’d pass on the message. He seemed upset he didn't get to talk to you face to face.”
Death’s prolonged sigh only serves to feed your snicker, as he denies amusing you with a real response. When he turns and starts walking not long after, the sound of your boots stumbling on the dirt as you struggle to catch up pricks his ears.
Something Death has frequently caught himself doing was listening to the sound of said footsteps; The consistent beat of them not too far behind him. When you were bored and kicked rocks, or if you started to jog trying to catch back up with his significantly longer stride. If you started to slow down, or were unable to keep up he would sometimes make as if occupied by something to let you catch his pace again.
Death largely has no need of breaks, apart from very few circumstances. Necromancies require a significant part of his energy, sure, but only a few could manage to make him weary enough for any rest. he can count on his hands the amount of times he's had to do so. Humans however need it constantly, wearing down and tiring after what he considers not much effort at all.
Though even if Death would complain about it, he’ll always keep a keen eye on you for reasons he won't admit.
“I truly wonder how the human race has survived as long as it has, if this is the length of your specie's stamina.” Even if Death plays it off, he isn't immune to the sugar of your satisfied smile, walking beside him and swaying your arms back and forth. “Because we learned how to work smarter, not harder.” You turn to look up more fully at him, still trying to keep pace. “Besides the point; Weren’t you the one who insisted I come along with you anyways? You could’ve just left me with the Makers again.”
Death goes largely unaffected by your attempt at catching him in a corner, keeping his eyes ahead while continuing forward. “Because I don’t trust the Makers as far as I can throw them.” You highly doubt that was the reason, raising your eyebrows. He’d no problem trying to force you with them when he’d gone to fight the Guardian... Or when he attempted to forbid you from following him to the Death Plains.
“You can throw them pretty far, at least last time I checked.” The glaring look in Death’s eyes is more than enough to cover you in an icy heat; But in the end he doesn't verbally chastise you for the snarky comment. “That pup can’t tell his own feet apart- and his teacher has had his head caved far too many times.” You start to raise a hand, but quickly lower it once that icy stare returns to beam down right at you. You speak anyways however, just to poke at him. “What about Alya and Valus?”
The resulting change in energy is enough to dislodge Dust into flight from his perch atop Harvester, who is formed as a single long scythe against the expanse of Death’s back.
“You're not a forge, so I imagine they would have a hard time keeping sight of you for more than a second without trouble.” While you find it amusing he cares so much, even if disguised as irritation, you cross your arms and huff anyways. “You really think I have such bad judgment that I need a babysitter constantly?” Death doesn't miss a beat in responding to you, almost as if he had the response pre-prepared. “You choose to be in the company of a Horsemen. As well as throw yourself at anything that doesn’t immediately attempt to split you in two pieces. Yes, I do doubt your judgment about your own safety. Immensely.”
Ignoring his own self jab, you roll your eyes and keep walking even through the ache of your sore feet. Leave it to Death to find a way to make the mere act of befriending someone sound so haphazard.
Sure befriending Draven hadn't been your smartest idea, but it turned out fine, hadn't it?
But while it hasn't been the first time you've traveled with Death since knowing him, it is the first time since he had returned from the Well of Souls.
Not much has changed in hindsight; apart a generally lighter mood on your part and a tiny bit of an attitude change on Death’s. Unnoticeable, if you hadn't spent so long with him before; Noticing every little tiny tell he has that gives him away. But it was nice now, not having the fate of Earth heavy on your mind. It was nicer to have Death back again however, head held high as he examined the freshly trodden path in front of him.
When spring arrived in the Maker’s realm, it hadn’t much arrived with a graceful and even entrance; More so with a slam, the snow melting and giving way to millions of leaves in what seemed like just overnight. The evenings still get chilly, but you’d much prefer it then the freezing winds and sleet you’d been dealing with not too long ago.
In your effort to keep pace with the Horsemen you notice patches of odd looking flowers along the tree line, and are unable to resist the temptation to pluck one. It’s stem is soft in your grip, covered in a peach fuzz, and smells delightful when you take a whiff. The color is a soft blue, yellow in the middle, reminding you of something you’d find in a valley of rolling hills.
Death notices you fawning over it, but doesn’t comment. It's not like he isn't used to you finding entertainment in seemingly menial things.
It was one of the things that actually made you pleasant to be around; He's been so numbed to everything over his long and unforgiving lifetime, seeing someone's eyes light up over something so uninteresting is, nice. Every now and again he wonders what the world looks like through your eyes.
Until you suddenly stumble forward, thankfully catching yourself before your tired feet manage to send you toppling into the dirt.
“Keep looking at the path instead of plants, and you might not fall.”
Holding the plant in your hand, you roll it gently in your fingers to feel the soft fuzz again while scowling at Death. It fades quickly though, taking another whiff of its familiar sweet scent. The soft petals tickle your skin with the softest touch.
“It just reminded me of something,” Your voice trails off, running through the rest of your sentence in your head instead of actually speaking it. It wasn’t until Death calls out to you, that you realize you hadn’t actually spoken aloud.
“Well?” His sharp tone startles you for a moment, seeing his eyes looking down at you.
“Are you going to finish speaking, or leave me in suspense?” Almost having forgotten what you were going to say, you twirl the flower between your fingers again.
“There’s this cute little plant on Earth called a Snap Dragon,” You can't resist the urge to pluck a different flower, smelling that one as well. “Comes in a ton of different colors. When it starts to wither though, the flower looks like a skull.”
Death let out a huff, and a mumbled: 'How charming', but you were unable fully tell if he was being sarcastic, or was just amused by the description of such an odd little plant. The sentence he speaks after however seems to lean towards that he was the ladder.
“Do tell me it doesn’t bite, will you? I’ve had my fill of violent plants.” You shake your head and smile, letting out a soft laugh.
“No, no biting. Just smells nice.”
Not moments after you finish speaking you twist on your ankle again, the uneven and partly detached sole of your boot sending you off balance and almost crashing into the dirt. You manage to save yourself again, but the flowers in your grip get partly crushed at the stems.
One of Death’s hands quickly darts out to catch you, prepared this time, but returns to his side in a flash once you right yourself. Since it's now been the second time you’ve almost fallen, Death decides it might be a good time for you to sit; Before you actually take a real fall.
“Go sit, before you topple over into the mud.”
Confused, you look up at him after tossing the flowers gently down. Death was normally quite the one for punctuality, and to simply sit for awhile wasn’t much his type. At least as far as you've known him.
And while you’d normally be correct, he wasn’t in much of any actual hurry to clear this last Death Tomb. Even if he’d never say it out loud.
A slight clearing between a few of the trees is where you decide to plop for a moment, just enough off the path. Slipping your pack off of your back with one hand, you plop it onto the ground with little effort, given how light it was.
The sack was yet another thing from the Makers- who you were beginning to think were coddling you- pulling a blanket from it and holding it in both hands. Death sighs but continues to watch.
“Do you truly intend on setting up a camp?” You brush out the blanket and sit on it with a huff, looking up at Death. “Well I was just laying down a blanket, but now I’m all self-conscious about it.” Even if his iris isn’t visible with the Nephilim glow of his eyes, you can tell Death was rolling them.
Letting out a soft grunt as you sit, the first thing you do is lean forward and try to re-tie the laces of your boots; Not that it would do much, but at least they’d be snug again. “Don’t get comfortable. We’re not staying for long.” Death notices the frayed and quite honestly sad state of your current footwear, as you tie them unaware.
Of course out of all the things the Makers chose to lavish you with, a pair of good boots wasn’t one of them.
“So, any reason in particular we're not just using Despair right now?”
Death, standing in front of the tree directly to your right, slides down it until he was leaning against the trunk in a sit just off your blanket. His one leg is bent, supporting an elbow.
“If I summoned Despair every time I needed to travel somewhere, I’m quite sure the beast would come to hate me.”
You're sure there's more to it than that, but he just takes the opportunity for more sarcasm; And you won't get much more out of him than that. Unbeknownst to you however Death would struggle not to crook a corner of his mouth upward as you laugh at his joke, moving to lay completely on your back.
It's nice to stare up at the tops of the trees, watching the light poke between them. They were so unbelievably tall compared to you that sometimes it was easy to forget they even had tops. But you continue to watch, spotting Dust circling through the leaves. He hasn’t landed since being disturbed off of Harvester, and must’ve found something at least somewhat entertaining in the skies. At least more entertaining than what was down here with you.
Death has since closed his eyes, opening one for a moment to see you silently looking upward. You have one arm in the air, a finger pointed as you follow where Dust was circling with a relaxed look. Why he had nary a guess, but it seems to keep you quite well occupied. ‘Thank the Creators.’ He doesn't find himself uttering that phrase very often That not only did you actually enjoy his presence, much to his apprehension; But that you actually knew the pleasure of a peaceful silence. You don't fill the air with constant whining or talking, much like a brother of his. It's something beyond rare to him, and he uses the moment to actually rest his eyes for once.
Death has no need for such a thing, but he can’t deny that it was a rare luxury he would like to partake in every once in awhile. Strife probably would’ve called him old, was he around to do so.
With your weight off of your feet for once they finally stop crying out, sighing as your muscles slowly loosen. What you’d give for a nice, soothing massage. That word perks a small part of your brain, wandering off as your eyes blur unfocused on the treetops. They were all starting to blend together, becoming one giant mass and no longer interesting.
Dust is no longer in view either, flown off somewhere far enough away that you can't even hear the distant echo of his caws; But even without it, the forest is just so, peaceful. With the Corruption gone, not a single thing other than the natural predators stalks these woods with ill intent.
Moving to adjust your top into a more comfortable position, which had bunched up into a wrinkled mess, it was the sudden jolt of feeling from the fabric of your bra against your chest that makes your thighs jerk together.
That wasn’t exactly the type of thing you had been thinking about moments ago, but once your mind starts to wander, you find it near impossible to get back on track.
Leaning up to look around there was not a creature in sight, the forest seeming empty. But it still always feels like it's alive; Watching. But if Death is able to sleep, you can say with absolute surety there isn't a soul in the leagues of forest around both of you.
Well, at least Death looked like he was sleeping- it's hard to tell for sure. His eyes are closed as he leans against the base of the tree, head tilted ever so slightly forward. He seems almost a statue, nearly frozen with his arms crossed over his chest. Maybe he's just thinking, but either way, his attention isn't on you.
The shoddy blanket you have laid out muffles the sounds of movement as you roll on your stomach. As long as you were slow, he wouldn’t hear a thing, and you were good at being quiet; When you had to.
Fair to say, it had been a trait you were forced to learn quite quickly.
Using the arm more obscured from Death’s point of view, you slowly slip a hand between the blanket covered ground and your body. A tight fit it squeezes between your stomach and the ground, slipping past the waist of your trousers. Quickly diving past the fabric of your underwear wetness quickly covers your fingers as they gently move, slow and deliberate as you try to keep your breathing quiet. You can't help but take a wayward glance over to Death, who is still unmoving. Good; Enough that your mind focuses more on your hand as it slides between your folds, teasing at your most sensitive areas that are still begging for more and more. Which you were quite intent to fulfill, as long as fortune continues in your way.
It's been awhile since, and now that you've paid attention to that inkling in the back of your mind, it's hungry; Borderline starving.
A harsh swallow makes your throat tense as you try to stay completely quiet, moving your mouth more against your forearm to muffle the sound of your breathing. It works enough to smooth your anxiety about it, fingers pushing harsher against yourself. It felt like you were making not a peep, surely you could go a little farther... Even the rustle of the trees was drowning out now as your mind focuses in on that tightening in the pit of your stomach, even if it hindsight wouldn’t be the most satisfying. But you were desperate for that little bit of paradise, letting out the tiniest of sighs against your arm, so close yet so far to- “You are far less quiet than you think you are.”
Gasping and almost letting out a shriek Death was suddenly close to you, body leaning partly over yours. When you attempt to wiggle away he pushes his right palm down onto your right shoulder blade, holding you in place. Even with such little effort he has you completely trapped you against the ground, the movement making your shirt rise a bit to show some of your lower back. “Death! I-I though you were-” “Asleep?” Trying to find the words to speak but also the power to pull your hand from your trousers, both were failures as Death holds you firmly in place. “Do you fail to remember the time I told you I have no need of sleep?”
You’d completely forgotten, to be honest. It was an offhand comment you’d made whilst in the middle of the whipping winds aboard the Eternal Throne, saying he had ‘bed head’. Death had said in response he couldn’t possibly, because he doesn’t sleep. Or at least his body didn't require it. That realization that he had heard everything combined with Death's almost scolding tone, sends a shiver down your spine.
No matter how many times you swore you’d snark back at him this time, take the leading role, Death always seemed to know how to completely end that line of thought before it could even begin.
“I-I, sorry I can,” His body weight shifts causing you to gasp for air a tiny bit, looking back as much as you could seeing his silhouette hover over you.
“Death, you’re,” You purse your lips tight together as you try to force the words out. But you only push out a breath of hot air through your tight lips, trying to gather enough of a coherent sentence to tell him off.
It seemed Death was trying to scold you for this, but…. “You’re, not exactly making this any easier.”
He's silent, feeling your thighs press together tightly and the tightness of your breathes, and when you turn your head, he can just barely see the colors of your eyes with how blown out your pupils were. It's always nerve-wracking to look at the Reaper; To stare into bright, unreadable eyes.
Granted, this isn't the first time; Your own personal room in the Tri-Forge, the halls of a now much more friendly Eternal Throne, a cave in the Dead Plains. Each time the Reaper had bared more to you than he probably had anyone else in an uncountable number of years. But Death’s lack of change in personality towards you had left you wondering if it was permanent, or merely a temporary indulgence.
When he’d gotten back from the Well of Souls however he’d said a few choice words that felt odd on his tongue, and you finally didn’t have to read between the lines; At least not as deeply. Death has never and probably will never be the most forthcoming.
Unless he wanted to be, shifting his body weight to better support himself as bony knees on either side of you dig into the dirt underneath your blanket.
It was a movement that seemed almost unintentional, except for the fact that it very much was.
It presses his groin harder against your ass, pulling the fabric of your trousers tighter over your hidden hand. Gasping as your body moves forward ever slightly from his weight, the Reaper’s body follows. You try your best to turn around and face him, but when it didn’t quite work, you look ahead with a sheepish expression. The woods hold nothing but trees for your eyes to focus on, a barren seeming wild.
“Death! We’re-” His deadpan voice interrupts you, already knowing what you're going to say.
“You seemed quite fine with the location moments ago when it was just your hand.” Death doesn't necessarily feel embarrassment- at least not nearly as often as others might. Living as long as he has weathers one down beyond such largely meaningless things. And while he has no issue teasing you- at least what he would consider teasing or as close as he could on the matter, it's only because the possibility of any matter of life seeing you effected by it was absolutely zero. Call Death greedy, but he would sooner slice himself width-wise at the gut than let any other see you even just flushed like this. Though maybe he had a reason to be that greedy when he had originally thought he was too far gone for love- let alone including the physical kind in the definition. “Well, I- that was a little different!”
Even if the forest was well empty, beyond the occasional wildlife, the situation seems to keep your voice barely above a whisper. “Oh really, is it? I fail to find a difference.”
You hate how often he could render you silent, pursing your lips tighter in an almost pout. He can hear, and see, the harsh exhale through your nose, almost shaking under his grasp. It had just been arousal at first, but now he’s succeeded in making you embarrassingly irritated as well. “You just love dangling things in peoples faces and then taking it away, huh?” He’s silent, body barely even fidgeting above you. It almost makes you nervous, your arm starting to fall asleep from where it’s still pinned underneath your torso. Death is always thinking, and not often could you guess what it was about. “Ask nicely.”
Death replays the abashed scoff you let out multiple times, a hot flush on your face. The pins and needles you feel in your arm almost seem to vanish as you get too distracted by the overwhelming heat on your cheeks. “You want me to beg?” Death hummed, faking some sort of contemplation. “That would work as well. Though I would prefer the former.”
Damn this reaper, damn him to hell. “You’re awful.” You’d never dare mean it of course, pursing your lips and trying to hold your knees from shaking. You have no problem with pleading to the Horsemen, but hearing your voice in the open like this, catching in the wind, it almost feels like someone would hear. Even if there wasn’t another living soul for an incredible distance. You take a deep sigh, the flushed heat all over your body only getting hotter, no amount of air able to snuff it.
“Please, Death.” He will never admit it to you, will never saddle you with the emotion that he had only wanted to hear those words; To actually hear someone wanted him. Let alone desired him. Those words bring him closer to your body, a hand of long, thin fingers coming to brush the stray hairs from your face. It was a completely silent gesture, but his uncharacteristic gentleness is more than enough to get it across. His knuckle brushes against your cheek for a moment and feels the inconsolable heat rushing across your face. He is as cold as the grave, and you are the first time in an uncountable number of years he’s felt the flush of heated skin.
He lifts off you enough that you could roll just enough and pull your hand from underneath you, moving to lay it in front of your chest.
Moving his own hand away from your face, it was a jolt to suddenly feel cool skin through your shirt. It was deliberately slow, trailing down the knocks of your spine and succeeding to send multiple shivers down with it. Slipping down the back of your trousers, he uses his wrist to push them downward until they, along with your underwear, lay like a cinch around your thighs. You won’t be able to get them off without much more effort, and it wasn’t something that you- nor Death it seemed- wanted to do.
You wouldn't have had the time anyways, as cold fingers quickly pressed against your folds and cause your thighs to tighten in surprise. Never would you say you hated the deathly chill to his skin, his body, but it always sent shivers up each time he’d surprise you with his touch.
They slide between your outer lips, back and forth pooling and drawing forth more slick wetness against your groin and thighs. It was a merciless tease, groaning from the horribly empty feeling you were now overtaken by as he kept just barely avoiding what you wanted.
It wasn’t like you hadn’t been indulging yourself not minutes ago on your own, but it felt different when it was Death. Leagues different.
“You’re being impatient.” 
The angered groan you let out couldn’t have done less to motivate Death; If anything, it only served as kindling for him to toy with you more. He scolded you only to then finally press ever so slightly, two fingers gently but consistently making their way inside. It was barely moments before they were deep enough that you were gritting your teeth, gasping as they curled and you tightened around them in response.
“And you’re the one being a tease.”
Death didn’t respond, having no need to, as your sentence had absolutely none of the bite you had clearly intended it to. Your voice wavers too much, affected by the feeling of cold, deft fingers being driven deep in the heat of your cunt.
Death had once made a largely passed over comment about how his skin felt like the dead- and while you couldn’t disagree, you’d never get over how intoxicating it felt against your own.
Especially in this context, his other fingers grazing over your other lips and collecting the myriad of wetness glistening against against you. It was the source of multiple egregious noises, only beaten by the sound of moans you were attempting to muffle. But Death never once falters, dragging each movement out with an infuriating level of patience. Infuriating for you at least, as you can just feel the smugness dripping off of him.
The silent kind, knowing with an absolute surety you were crumbling underneath him. He was always confident when the tables were like this, focused away from him. The times you had tried to turn those tables, he could so deftly change them right back before you had the chance to do a single thing.
You’ll still continue to try though, pushing your body against him as much as possible feeling his weight against your back. Stubbornness will win out eventually.
With the inner parts of your thighs slick as well as what seemed like a good portion of Death’s hand, you move to lay your forehead against your forearms, feeling the heat of your face against them. It was almost as hot as when you stood next to one of the forges for too long, just on the edge of beginning to sweat. The motion as well helped to cover the sound of your whines, thighs shaking as your cunt tightens around his moving fingers.
A pocket of hot air forms in the area around your face and arms, thick against your face. But you dare not leave it’s comfort, as Death’s stare would easily render an even tighter feeling in your chest.
“I would find it quite insulting, if you’ve fallen asleep.”
In about a day from now you’ll probably have a million different comebacks that would perfectly fit this exact scenario, to bite back at his snarky little comment. But at this moment, the most you can muster was a light throw of your body and spit a single insult:
“Jerk.”
You’d bet your soul right now he was smirking behind that mask, even if you can’t see it.
Fingers slipping from you they trailed upwards, over your thighs and leaving a sticky trail. You can just barely feel the back of his hand and wrist ghosting over your skin, removing whatever clothing was impeding himself. Only just enough it seemed, as you can still feel cloth against your lower legs.
It was obvious, but even as you suddenly feel him press against you, your thighs still tighten and hips jerked in shock.
It was something you’ll ever dare say aloud, but it wasn’t the first time you realized just how much larger of a person Death was compared to you- in multiple regards.
Your eyes were too big for your mouth, latching onto a Horsemen.
The same hand moving upwards, he grasps just under your ass, pulling outward and leaving yourself exposed enough that he can press against you; Ever so slowly slipping between your outer lips. Methodical, Death was what you'd assume to be the slowest he could possibly be; Pushing inward slowly, slowly, until his hips pressed against your ass.
Three, four, five, six.
Soft and deliberate Death was until he was dragging soft moans from you, your body unwound and no longer tense. It was only then he sped up, the slightest bit, your own hips attempting to reach up to meet him with what tiny amount of force you could muster. It wasn’t much, he had you caged so close to the ground it felt like you’d go through it- the forest but a backdrop to him surrounding you almost entirety.
It almost instills a sense of vertigo, surrounded by his shadow as Death’s body weight was overwhelming against your back, forcing you into the ground as he fucked you. It's all so overwhelming; Grasping at the dirt, the grass, your blanket. Your toes curl as moans turned into cut little gasps. “Breathe, girl.”
It's nigh impossible to, almost feeling like the Reaper was taking the air right from your lungs. If you raise your head any little bit you’d be able to feel his mask against the back of your head, looming just over top.
Deep down you’ve always wanted him to take it off; To see his face. Even if it was more so to kiss him, hold his face smoothly in your hands. But you know he won't- not now, and probably never. You’d never have the heart to demand it, either way. It doesn't matter that much to you.
Caged by both of his arms parallel to your shoulders, you can only keep your head upright for a moment before moving to lay your head against your forearms again. His body weight against yours was almost impossibly heavy, far more than any human. But it wasn’t uncomfortable, keeping off of you just enough. Death is always meticulous, the perfect amounts of everything. Especially with you.
But even if he tried to hide it infinitely deep within him, you knew he always held back. You're the most fragile thing he's been around in an uncountable number of years. “Death…” You say his name wrapped in a breathless whisper it trails off as if a question, pricking his ears. “Harder.”
Death always is as gentle as he could possibly be, as your human frame would often bruise or cut from things that wouldn’t be even noticeable on him. But you beckoning him to teeter you closer to edge of pain however, is tempting. His body becomes faster, rougher, heavier, hips pressing against your with an aggressive abandon. It would’ve kept sliding you forward along the blanketed ground, had Death not yanked your left arm from under your head- pressing his hand around your forearm to hold you steady underneath him.
Fingers stretching out struggling to find anything to grip, to keep yourself stable, the only thing was still just the ground underneath. But Death doesn’t buckle even a little; Almost stoic. It was frustrating how unaffected he always seems, compared to you being almost always a near total mess. Managing to lift your head up enough to turn it and look back at him, you can see his hair falling over his shoulders and around his mask, shadowing it.
But it was the expression behind the mask that surprised you; You hear him let out the smallest shaking breath of air while turning his head away from your gaze. Death is a very quiet, indomitable being. To hear him let out even the smallest reaction, showing the slightest chip in his armor- meant he was crushed under such emotion that even he couldn’t hold it back.
But it had faded just as quickly as you’d heard it, going back to silence other than the most quiet noises of movement from him. It had been a delight, and you’d love nothing more than to hear it again.
It could easily be said you were making enough noise for the both of you, your stomach in wonderful knots, about to snap. You were so, so close, trying to arch your back to push your hips against him more.
You’ve never felt anything to this degree before Death- an almost overwhelming about of pleasure that could send your mind reeling. Seeing stars wasn’t that far off an expression, gasping loud enough that you instantly try to cover your mouth as Death laid almost completely down on you; Hips grinding enough you swore they’d leave marks. But he is just as silent as ever, listening to the sounds of you coming undone beneath him.
He struggles to think of anything that could compare- to hear someone cry out for your everything pleading for more. It makes his chest tighten with a feeling he can’t quite place.
Your thighs press tight against each other as you cum, almost too tight for Death to even move. He slows to a crawl, you tight like a vice around him as you feel a delightful shiver run through your body. It almost overwhelms your entirety, hand clapped over your mouth to muffle what would’ve probably been quite a loud gasp, if you hadn’t stopped it. Had you been anywhere else, Death would’ve peeled your hand away to hear it.
Still grinding against you with an amount you’d say was almost too much, you had to peel your hand away from your mouth to support yourself. You try to wrap around and reach for him; Desperate for touch. But you can barely grab anything other than his scarf, feeling his cool skin just barely against your fingertips. Your hand falls back to the ground with a thump, grasping at almost nothing.
His hand on your bicep tightens, the skin underneath surely bruising, as he finally slows to a halt against your own still tense body. A breath of air pushed through his teeth as a soft hiss, being almost completely muffled by the mask to where even you didn’t hear it. You might’ve thought he’d be short of breath as well, as you had been after you came, but how could one be short of something they didn’t even technically need? Death always had an odd relationship with natural functions like breathing.
It also seems now he realized how tight of a grip he had on your arm in his distraction, fingers loosening around the soft skin. But red marks still remained, and would continue to do so.
It wasn’t like you minded, in all honesty.
Breath finally leveling out you still lay limp, only moving slightly to adjust into a more comfortable position as Death pulls away. You can feel movement, presumably him adjusting his trousers and gaining what minute fraction of decorum he’d lost. When finished, you've barely begun to try and tug at your own clothing to right it.
It takes you a few seconds to do so, before managing to wrangle back full control of your arms which had both at one point been asleep due to the unnatural positions, now tugging down your shirt to fix it. “Ahh, there you are. I thought you dead.”
Pulling your bottoms upward, you had loosened your belt to help lessen the pain as they brushed against areas that would surely soon, if not already, become sore. A nice warm shower to clean up and relax would surely be nice, but a bit of out reach at the moment. “So now of all times is when you finally decide to crack a joke?”
Death doesn’t hesitate to respond, voice sounding absolutely coated in mirth. The Reaper moves to sit in the same position he had before everything, only this time actually joining you on the blanket he’d originally found pointless. He still did, but humans and their constant pursuit of comforts was in a weird way also amusing; At least when he was watching you. “Oh, so now you disapprove? I thought you were the one who wished I would ‘lighten up’. ”
You attempt to roll over and sit on your bottom to join him, but the sudden ache makes it a slower, gradual transition to a sitting position. If you had intended on this whole break being to lessen the amount of general discomfort you were feeling, it seems to have been a complete failure. A lovely, incredible failure. “There’s a time and a place, Death.” “I could’ve said the same to you not long ago.”
You’d be more tempted to come up with some sort of snappy comeback, If his two note chuckle at your embarrassment hadn’t caught you so off guard.
You just smack his chest instead, before looking away and trying to avoid any sort of eye contact. Moments later and his teasing comment well past gone, you sigh and lean against his arm in an over-dramatic motion adding to what you were about to say. Your lips just barely graze against the skin of his shoulder in an almost-kiss; something you’ve gotten used to doing.
“I think I need a little bit more rest though.” Death turns and even with the mask, you can tell he had a decently mirthful expression; By his standards. He’d spotted the way you’d looked up at the sky and noticed a familiar bird, fingers flexing as if you waited to lovingly squeeze the carrion eating pest. “Are you actually going to rest, or use the time to coddle Dust?” Almost as if he heard his name called the crow descends through the treetops, and plops into the lap of his preferred affection giver. Which is you, of course. Death watches the bird puff up, a nearly shapeless mass of feathers as you scratch to rid him of any dirt and douse him with, at least what you thought was, deserved affections. “The blasted bird already never listens, the last thing he needs is your wily affections making him any lazier.”
Death then suddenly notices the way you’ve been leaning against his arm, laughing and smiling, fingers toying with a torn bit of his armor. Your face was still slightly flush, hair and clothing a bit of a mess, and he couldn’t help the hand that darted out to fix a stray piece of hair without you noticing. It all feels, nice. Like he isn’t Creation’s most reviled being. “Summon Despair, I’ll win him over too. Horsemen without a horse.”
Death wouldn’t comment on how you more than likely already had, with how much you scratched behind his ears and call him ‘A good boy, The smartest boy,' and 'The best undead horse in the universe.'  To think, Death could remember a time you’d been utterly scared out of your wits by the horse, and him by extension.
How you had changed tune about them so drastically in such a short amount of time continues to baffle him. He wonders sometimes if other humans would be as similarly forgiving.
“The realms surely tremble with excitement from the mere thought.”
The scowl that is being sent at Dust from his owner would’ve surely melted any other bird; But Dust is of a different breed, and simply sits content and continues preening.
“Quite the shame they don’t know then.” If Death had tried to contain his feeling of complete exasperation with you and all your antics, it didn’t work, letting out a sigh.
“Take it to the grave then, will you?”
You can only chuckle, extremely pleased at his exasperation. Dust joins in only in timing with a soft warble, overjoyed that you were scratching the puff of feathers behind one of his ears. How lucky Death thought he was, to have not one aggravating travel companion, but two.
Not that he would ever complain out loud. If anything, half of the reason he was out here was because you’d found the last Death Tomb so fascinating, even if for him it was just another monotonous journey.
You had been wide eyed looking at vases and murals, spinning around to see every little thing. So easily entertained humans were, as Death had watched you eye a variable mound of golden coins. It was part of the reason he insisted you accompany him, beyond an admittedly selfish desire to have you alone; And away from hovering Makers.
When was the last time something had caught Death’s interest so tightly? Besides you, he can’t quite remember.
“I could take it to the grave with me…” Death can feel the ‘but’ hanging just off the end of your sentence, waiting for whatever chaos you were going to concoct in the same way he prepared for the brunt of battle.
“Or you could introduce me to Strife, and I could joke about it with him.” You’ve said many a stupid thing before, both to and in earshot of Death, but none had gotten such a lightning quick response of:
“Absolutely not.”
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blooming-violets · 21 days
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CREATURE LIKE ME || CHAPTER EIGHT: PYRRIHIC VICTORY
[TASM Peter Parker!Werewolf AU]
Story Summary: Kraven and his guild of hunters have been tracking and quelling the werewolf population for centuries. The time has come for Aylin to complete her first solo hunt to prove herself to the guild. It was supposed to be simple. One wolf, one death, one victory. She never expected to end up with a secret hostage on her hands.
[link to chapter index]
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A woodchipper. 
That’s what her body felt like it had been shoved through. 
She had been wrapped up and pushed through the spinning blades until she was nothing more than bloody pulp. 
“Fuck me,” she groaned. 
Aylin forced her stiff, heavy lids to open. A layer of sleep crusted over her lashes, making it difficult to see. She rubbed at her eyes with the back of her hand to clear them. When they finally came into focus, she was nose to nose with wide, golden eyes staring expectantly back at her. Black, sleek fur rubbed against her forehead as her cat, Kedi, rammed face first into her head with a long, drawn out whine. 
“Yes, good morning to you, too,” she grumbled. 
“It’s actually evening. You slept almost 16 hours. Thought you might not ever wake up.” 
A familiar voice popped up from behind her. 
Aylin rolled over, wincing from the shooting pains electrifying her body, to find Peter sitting on the edge of her bed. Except this wasn’t her bed. She glanced around the small room and recognized it as the same motel she brought Peter on the night they met. She could tell because of how cheap and ugly the decor was; like it had been redecorated once in the early 70’s then never touched again. It had the same musty smell of mold and stale cigarette smoke that she remembered so well. The thick, avocado green curtains were drawn closed so the only source of light was the flashing colors from the television. He had kept it on silent, probably so as not to disturb her sleep, and he was sitting as far off the edge of the bed as he could without being on the floor. She noticed the only chair in the room was propped up under the door knob as an added line of defense to keep anyone out. 
Peter was wearing one of her brother’s old, navy blue sweatshirts and gray joggers she had brought him to try on a few days ago. A pair of run down work boots lay tossed against the back wall as if he had nonchalantly kicked them off his feet after he got settled. Her brother’s borrowed clothes seemed to fit well enough. It was strange seeing him wear Emir’s things. It had been over five years since anyone had donned them. It was about time they got put to use instead of collecting dust in his bedroom tomb. It was also strange to see Peter wearing a shirt, regardless of who it once belonged to. Since she met him, he had always been shirtless.  
She sort of missed the view. 
Aylin glanced down at her own self to see what sort of disheveled state she was in. She had been respectfully covered with the hideously floral bedspread but, underneath, she was still in the same attire she’d fled in. Underwear to cover her lower half and tightly wrapped bandages to cover her top half. Nearly naked and covered in blood, dirt, and sweat. Funny how their roles had been reversed since the last time they had taken refuge in this motel. 
“Why is Kedi here?” She croaked through dry lips. She was in desperate need of water. 
Peter looked between her and the cat perched at her shoulder, “I’m guessing that's Kedi?”
She nodded. 
“Before you passed out, you were really upset about not being able to find your mother. You didn’t want to leave anyone behind when we ran,” he gave a sheepish shrug. “I assumed that meant taking the cat, too.” 
She raised her brows in surprise, “He let you pick him up and put him in the car?” 
Peter gave a weary glance back at Kedi and shook his head, “It didn’t go as smoothly as you’re making it sound…” He raised his arms to show off a myriad of red scratches clawing down his skin and pointed bite marks sunk into his hand. The cat had put up a good fight but it seemed Peter came out victorious. 
Aylin gave a soft chuckle of amusement, “Yeah. That sounds more like it.”
She looked over her shoulder to smile fondly at her cat, happy that he was safe with them, then turned back to Peter. “How’d you pay for this room?”
He shrugged again, chewing on the hard bit of calloused skin next to his thumb nail, “You had your wallet in the car. You also had a bunch of stuff packed into the trunk. I brought some of it in after I got you settled in bed.” 
She struggled to prop herself up onto her elbows to get into a sitting position but the pain was too much. She collapsed back onto the stiff mattress with a muffled whine. 
Peter scooted closer over to her and held out his arm for her to take, “Here. Let me help you.” 
He heaved her up with ease and held her steady until she was sitting on her own. His eyes raked over the red stained bandages wrapped around her chest and covering her back. She could tell it wasn’t the first time he had taken in the sight of her injuries but it still made him uncomfortable. He quickly averted his eyes when he noticed her watching him. 
“I knew something was wrong,” he whispered, avoiding her gaze. “I don’t know how I knew it but I did. I kept telling myself to give you time to come back. You said it might take a while. But then it got to be past midnight. It’s almost a full moon, you know. In two nights. Everything feels stronger when it gets closer to a full moon. Maybe that’s how I knew. I felt some kind of intuition. It was like I was being pulled to find you. I still waited, though. I told myself it was just in my head. That I promised to wait for you at the camper.” He swallowed, sounding as culpable as she felt. “I should have looked for you sooner. I shouldn’t have let you go back there at all. I knew how dangerous Kraven was. I should have kept you safe. What happened when you went back? What did he do to you?”
Guilt rained down on her as the memories opened from the dark cloud above her head. Murderer. She had killed the Lycan girl. Stabbed her straight through the heart. Ripped her life from her without ever knowing her name. She was a murderous Silver Colt, born and raised, destined to be nothing more than an oven for her leader to stick his seed into. A plaything, perfectly groomed to his liking. Was any part of her real? Or was she entirely constructed to be the person he wanted her to be? 
She could feel Kraven’s hands all over her body. They lingered and clung to her skin like an unshakable memory. It made her feel sick. Dirty. She would have gladly taken Calypso with the whip over ever having to be in the same room with that man again. Calypso may have broken her body but Kraven had shattered her soul. Whatever dreamlike bliss she’d felt upon waking in the safety of this motel beside Peter had sizzled out faster than she could blink. He had become a beacon of hope for her to cling onto and a pleasant memory for her to dissociate to. 
But he wasn’t real. The Peter she dreamed of in that basement lived only in her labyrinth. The one sitting beside her was someone else. He was his own person. Not a perfect figment of her imagination. He felt liable for her safety only because she had saved him his captive fate. He was in her debt.  
She felt a vacant, numbness settle into the depths of her blackened mind as shadows crept around her sharp edges. Her escape from the basement was a pyrrhic victory. 
“Nothing happened,” she mumbled, her words sounding mechanical in her ears. “I’m fine.”
Aylin felt constricted in her every move. The dried blood, splattered over her, pinched at her skin. The wraps Calypso had done felt too tight. Her underwear was crusty and hard from the blood that dripped from her back and soaked through the fabric. Her hair was stiff and sticking to everything. She felt suffocated inside her own body. Not even the tall walls of her labyrinth were a safe place to linger for long. It had become polluted with the toxic chemicals Kraven had spilled over every part of her. She didn’t know who she was anymore. 
She needed to crawl out of her own skin. 
“I need a shower,” she stated. 
Peter’s eyes darted between her and the bed spread at his legs like he was afraid to keep her in his gaze for too long but equally afraid to have her out of it. She knew he didn’t believe a word she had said. She obviously wasn’t fine but he was either too shy, or too smart, to confront her on her claims. 
He nodded slowly as if every move he made was calculated to keep the peace between them, “What, uhm, what’s under the bandages?” He quickly added, trying to play it off like it was nothing more than a nonchalant question, “Just because it might hurt to put any wounds under running water. Are you sure you don’t want me to check on them first? Just to be safe?” 
Aylin ignored him and shoved herself to her unsteady feet with a grunt. Peter stood in sync with her, keeping a hand out to catch her should she fall, but not actually closing the gap to physically touch her. He kept his sights on his bare feet. He looked terrified to disrespect her by staring at her in just her underwear. He still didn’t know where he stood in her allegiance. The last time they spoke she had vacillated between being his friend and cursing him out with little warning. He wasn’t sure what wrong move he could make that would get him in trouble this time. 
She gave him a sad smile in the hopes to ease his concern. He didn’t need to be frightened of her. He had saved her life. He had done everything to erase his debt. She no longer considered herself a true Silver Colt. She would never be able to return to her home again which meant that she had no more use for him. No information he could give her would ever erase her knowledge that her entire life was a lie. He was free to leave whenever he wanted. 
“You don’t have to stay anymore, Peter,” she muttered under her breath, stopping halfway to the bathroom with him still hovering at her side. “I think we’re even now. I saved you. You saved me. You’re a free man. You’re not a prisoner. I don’t need you for information anymore. I’m not going to kill you. I refuse to. Our deal is over. Nothing matters, anyway. It was all for nothing. You can go.” 
Aylin leaned down to collect her duffle bag from the floor beside the television stand. It was sitting next to a case of water bottles and some camping food, her bucket of first aid supplies, and her crossbow. He had brought in everything that she could need for when she awoke, including a weapon to protect herself with if she felt the need too. When she tugged the strap of the bag over her sore shoulder, she straightened up to stare back, forcing herself to make eye contact with him.
Peter had a look that was hard for her to read. Apprehension. Dismay. Melancholy. Rejection. Confusion. They all flashed across his warm, brown eyes while he processed what she was saying. It hurt to see him like that but he deserved to be free. He didn’t need her. She was useless to him. 
“No,” his assertion was evident in his tone. “I’m staying.” 
Her heart sank with sorrow and an anger rose in her chest. She didn’t want him here. She didn’t want him to look at her with those pity filled eyes. She didn’t want to be responsible for another unnecessary death. Kraven would hunt her down and find her. He would slaughter anyone she was with. She would never be safe from his hold. People don’t get to leave the guild without consequences. She knew that now. Peter was better off on his own. 
“No, you aren’t. You’re leaving. Go,” she shot back. “I don’t want you here anymore. Thank you for getting me out and bringing me here but I no longer need you. You repaid your debt. You balanced the scales. You can go.”
He shook his head in defiance, “I don’t care. I’m not going anywhere.” His arms crossed over his chest and he planted his feet firmly against the worn out, red carpet as if daring her to try and move him.
Aylin stomped her foot with annoyance, “There’s no point in you sticking around! You’re only going to get hurt. I bring death wherever I go! I’m the reason they’re all dead.” Her voice cracked but she kept her chin held high. “My father, my brother, probably my mother and Leah and her family, Sierra…that wolf girl…I’m…cursed. I’m not a good person. I’m a murderer. A fraud. I’m not anything you should be around. I only bring pain. It’s not worth it. Just go. You’ll be better off. ‘M gonna go wash up and when I come out, I hope you’re far, far away from here.” 
She turned on her heels, refusing to look any longer at his perturbed face stinging with rejection, and slammed the bathroom door behind her. The bag fell from her shoulder to the tiles under foot. Aylin nearly collapsed onto the edge of the sink, holding herself up with the palms of her hands, and hanging her head. 
She didn’t want Peter to leave her. Not really. He was the only friend she had in this world. He was the only one who could ever even attempt to understand her but she still felt the need to push him away. She was toxic. Every bit of her was shriveled up and soured. When she lifted her head to stare back at her reflection in the mirror, she didn’t recognize the woman on the other end. A stranger. Dark bags encircled her barren eyes. Red stained up her cheeks and over her lips. She pulled back the corner of her mouth and tilted her head to see the gap in her teeth. The top, second molar from the back on her left side was now nothing more than a bloody hole. She poked her tongue up into the gap, feeling the smoothness of her gums, and pressed it in harder to feel the jolt of pain. 
Pain was starting to become the only feeling she could accurately recognize. Everything else couldn’t be trusted. 
Aylin pushed away from the sink to strip herself from her soiled underwear. She kicked them into the trash before turning on the shower to heat up and taking a tender seat on the toilet. With the sound of the water pounding against the tub, she could no longer hear Peter standing outside the door. He had been pacing back and forth only moments ago but now there was nothing but silence. 
A pang of anxiety settled into her stomach at the thought of him actually leaving. There would be a chance that when she left this bathroom, she would be alone. Truly alone. She wasn’t sure exactly what she was supposed to do then. Try to find her mother? Make sure she was safe? She couldn’t live in a motel forever. If she did end up finding her mom, they’d be homeless. It’s not like either of them had any work experience or life outside of the guild. She didn’t even think she had a social security number or was on any government records. Aylin didn’t exist outside of the Silver Colts. 
After she finished up on the toilet, she washed her hands the best she could. Her pinky and ring finger on her right hand were still tightly bound together and held straight by the splint. She was missing three finger nails on the same hand. The soft nail beds stung as she applied soap to them in an attempt to clean the blood. With her hands still dripping with water, she dug her toothbrush and toothpaste out from her bag to brush her teeth, careful to avoid the few in the back that ached with pain whenever the bristles got too close to the missing tooth. She desperately needed to rid the taste of Kraven from her mouth. She gulped down the water flowing from the sink to satiate her thirst and finally turned to the shower. 
Before stepping in, she wanted to remove her bandages. Everything needed to be cleaned. It wasn’t like Calypso washed her back before she threw the salve on it and bandaged her. Her body needed to be completely sanitized for her to feel human again. From looking behind her shoulder in the mirror, she could see where the end of the wrap was tucked into the middle of her back. She tried again and again to manipulate her arm around her back to grab at the end piece but it evaded her reach every time. Her shoulders were too sore from holding her body upright for hours. They ached with sharp stabs of pain each time she tried to reach the end of the bandage until tears pricked up in the corners of her eyes. 
All she wanted was to be clean. 
Aylin let out a frustrated yell and threw herself to the floor with the dramatics of a toddler throwing a tantrum. The tiles were dirty and cold under her bare bottom as she draped herself over the edge of the tub with her head cradled in her arms. She couldn’t do it. Everything she knew, her home, her people, her entire history, was ripped away from her. She had nowhere to go. Her mother was missing. She had no way of knowing if she got her note and escaped. There was no way to contact her. They didn’t have cell phones in the guild. They were cut off from society. Her mother could be anywhere. She could be in trouble and Aylin would never know. There was nothing left. 
She was an outcast. Banished from her people. A traitor. A pariah. 
She wasn’t part of the Silver Colts. She wasn’t part of the Lycans. She wasn’t part of the normal, human institution. She was no one. 
Loud, heavy sobs shook through her chest and blubbered out her mouth. Hot, fat tears poured down her cheeks and splashed to the floor. She had never cried like this before. She had never felt so vulnerable and lost. Even when her father and brother died, she had never been this broken. 
Adrift in the void of stray souls with no one to turn to. 
The bathroom door creaked open. Peter padded up softly behind her. She couldn’t move to look at him. His presence only made her cry harder. He should be gone. He should have run. His loyalty was misplaced. He was confused. 
She felt him quietly kneel down behind her and gently untuck the bandage from its hold. He carefully and silently unwrapped it around her until it lay in a bloody pile at her side. The tips of his warm fingers ghosted over the slashes from the whip as he took in the sight for the first time. She tried to gain back control of her sobs but it was useless. The flood gates had been released. 
Her wet eyes squeezed closed at his touch. So soft. So careful. He had no right to be this gentle with her. He should hate her for who she had been associated with. 
Peter’s hand landed on her shoulder, giving it a delicate squeeze. 
“Get up,” he whispered. “Let’s get you clean. You’ll feel more like yourself then. Trust me.”
Trust him. 
Aylin did. She trusted him more than anyone. She wiped the tears from her cheeks and allowed him to grip under her arms to help her stand. He guided her into the tub, keeping his eyes politely averted from her naked form, and waited until he felt she was stable enough before pulling his hands away. Slowly, he pushed the shower curtain closed to give her privacy. 
“You okay?” He asked. 
A fresh wave of tears hit her and she doubled over with more sobs under the weak stream of water, “Y-yeah.” When she heard him start to leave the bathroom, she called back out, letting the panic take over, “Wait! Peter…can you…can you stay with me? Don’t go…don’t leave me. I-I need you.” 
She could practically hear the smile in his voice.
“I was never going to leave. You can’t get rid of me that easily.” 
He flipped the toilet seat closed and settled down on top of it. His long legs extended out to perch his feet on the edge of the tub. She could see the shower curtain pull tighter where they rested and felt a sense of calm settle in her mind now that she knew he was with her. 
Maybe she didn’t have to be alone. Peter was alone. They could be alone together. 
The water cascaded down her chest. She placed her face into the stream to scrub at her cheeks with her hands. Brown, dark blood washed from her body and circled around the drain. She was afraid to turn her back to the shower, knowing how badly it would hurt when the water hit her wounds, but she needed to wash the blood from her hair. 
“Are you alright?” Peter asked when he heard her muffled wince of pain as she turned around. 
Aylin smiled woefully to herself, lathering her scalp with the cheap motel shampoo, “It just hurts. I’ll be okay.” A few more lingering tears slipped down her face to mix in with the steaming water. The water pressure was weak but at least it was hot. Her guilt clung to her tighter than the steam clouding around her face. “Peter?” 
“Hmm?” 
Her eyes gazed down at the sun seared into her thigh. It was blistering with angry, red lines outlining the rays of the sun. The mark of a Silver Colt, the mark of Kraven, festering with a growing infection. “I’m sorry. For everything. I’m sorry I was a bitch to you. I’m sorry I was a part of the group of people who hurt you. I’m sorry I kept you when I should have let you go the day I found you. I’m sorry for promising to kill you and refusing to go through with it. I’m sorry for being a Silver Colt.” 
He was silent for a long time. She tenderly washed her body with the soap provided to her as she waited for his response, grazing over her wounds the best she could, and letting the water carry away her filth. With each passing moment under the stream, she cleansed herself further from Kraven. 
“I don’t blame you,” Peter finally whispered. She could hardly hear him over the shower. “You acted within the parameters you knew. You saved my life. You showed me that things could be different. I didn’t have to live the way I was. There was still something more out there. Everything was hopeless until I met you.” 
Was it no longer hopeless? 
She felt hopeless. Directionless. She couldn’t see the same vision he did. They were moving in opposite directions. 
“I don’t want to die anymore,” he stated with finality to his tone. 
She did. 
Aylin turned the knob of the shower to shut it off. The water sputtered to a halt, leaving her wet, dripping, and quickly chilling as the warm droplets cooled on her skin. 
Peter shuffled behind the curtain and soon a white towel poked through the side. She gladly took it, gently wiping herself dry. 
“I’ll be in the other room,” he said. “I’m going to set up the first aid kit for when you come out. Take your time. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll just be on the other side of this door.”
She listened for the light click to indicate the closing door before she pulled back the shower curtain and stepped out. Condensation clung to the mirror. She whipped it away with the palm of her hand. She looked rough but there was a glimmer of Aylin staring back at her. Underneath all that blood and sweat, she was still human. Her red trimmed, puffy eyes stayed locked onto herself as she scrunched the water out of her long hair with the towel. 
There was still softness in the world despite what she had gone through. Peter was proof of that. He had stayed. He didn’t run the first chance he got. He wasn’t helping her because he felt like he was forced to. His compassion was able to extend further than his trauma. 
He didn’t want to die anymore. 
She wondered what caused that change.
Aylin knelt down to dig through her bag. She grabbed a pair of clean underwear and some loose fitting workout shorts. Anything else would rub against her brand. She was worried about the infection that was beginning to form around the edges and guessed her back was probably looking the same. After quickly getting into the clean bottoms, she held the towel against her bare chest to keep herself somewhat decent before stepping out of the bathroom. Putting on a shirt before she wrapped her back wounds would be pointless. 
Peter was standing at the edge of the bed with the bucket of first aid open in front of him. He had laid out some gauze and bandages on the bed spread and was reading the back label of a yellow tube. He casually glanced in her direction with raised brows, “Is Neosporin what you need? It says antibiotic ointment. That’s probably good, right?” 
She gave him a quiet nod. He was beautiful. Forgiving. Tender. She had the urge to be held by him, cradled in the safety of his arms, with her face nuzzled into the crook of his neck. There was a newly found desperation growing where all she wanted to was to feel loved by another person. By him. Anything to make the pain go away. 
His eyes wandered back over to her, slowly toying down her body then back up to her face. She didn’t mind and found herself blushing under his obvious ogling. He gave her a lopsided grin, “Who knew there was an actual person under all that grime?”  
A smile broke out across her face, cracking through her hardened exterior. Her first real smile since she left him at camp. Those were the same words she had spoken to him the night he shuffled out of the shower the last time they were here. Their roles had been completely reversed. 
For a fleeting second, they held onto each other’s eyes, finding a common place between them. An appreciation. A care. A yearning.
A love. 
He was the first one to break the moment, hoisting the bucket off the bed and patting his hand on the mattress, “Come lay down. Let me look at your back.” 
Aylin did as she was told, happy to let someone else, someone she trusted, take control for a little a while. Once she was face first on top of the bed, she pulled the towel out from under her chest and rolled it up to use as a pillow. It was wet and cooling on her cheek as she closed her eyes. Her hair was tossed over her shoulder, away from her back. She could feel Kedi pawing at the dripping ends before he flopped over and dozed off. 
She wasn’t alone. 
There was life in this room besides her own. Life that she cared about. Life that she wanted to protect. 
Peter leaned over to examine the damage then looked back to the small tube of ointment, “I don’t think this will be enough.” 
Aylin cracked her eyes open to stare at him through half closed slits, “Does my back look infected? If not then I’ll use it on my thigh instead. That definitely needs it more.” 
She watched him glance down to the back of her thighs which were parted in a wider stance to keep her skin from touching. He chewed on the inside of his cheek. 
“Yeah, about that,” he spoke with a timid inflection. “What exactly am I looking at? When I brought you in from the car, I could kind of see it. It was all blistered but it looked a bit like it was spider shape or something. I didn’t want to push your legs apart too much to get a better look, not that you’re not nice to look at or anything, you were just sleeping…and I was…I was just…trying to…see…and make sure you were okay…” 
Aylin rolled her eyes and cut off his anxious rambling, “It’s a sun. Half of one. Kraven burned it into me to prove I was still a Silver Colt. That I was still one of them. That I was his.” 
Peter took a delicate seat on the edge of the bed beside her. He raised one brow with a look of mild intrigue, “Kraven?”
She huffed, her voice dripping with sarcasm, “Yes? You remember him? The guy who ruined your life?”
“I know who you’re talking about.” A smile danced across his lips. “It’s just, well, you’ve always called him Sergei. The last time I brought up Kraven the Hunter you got all pissed off and had a look of death on your face like you’d kill me for disrespecting him by calling him that. Suddenly, he’s no longer Sergei. He’s Kraven. That’s what all the Lycan call him. You flipped sides.” 
Aylin let out a long breath, her eyes stared emotionless at the bare wall across from her, not finding the same amusement he clearly did, “That’s me. The traitor.”
Peter flopped down on his stomach next to her. His arms curled up to form a place for his head to rest as he stared, nose to nose, at her. He was becoming more comfortable around her by the second. She enjoyed the change. 
“I like Aylin the Traitor better than Aylin the Cult Member,” he muttered with a grin.
He was so close. She wanted to kiss him. She wanted to feel something besides guilt and shame. He was so delicately handsome. 
And he was still here despite everything. 
“My entire life was a lie,” she whispered back to him, needing to share the burden of her life with someone she trusted. “Everything. He wanted me before I was even born. He wanted me to be his perfect…” She didn’t know what. Wife? Baby mother? Side piece? “He wanted me to have his children.” 
Peter’s brow furrowed, his joy fading, “What do you mean?” 
“Him and his wife. They couldn’t have children. He wanted an heir. They decided that the best way to do that was to create the perfect person from scratch. Someone loyal and obedient. Someone they could manipulate. Someone who would do whatever they asked,” she felt the tears pressing back up. “Someone as pathetic and naive as me.”’ 
She let out a dark, humorless laugh, “And the crazy thing is, if I had never met you, I would have done it. Without a second thought. I would have willingly agreed to it because I trusted him. He would have known best. If that’s what he said I needed to do to help our people, then I would have done it. It’s only because of you, I knew better. I’m so fucking stupid.” 
Peter’s hand reached up to capture a stray tear rolling down her cheek with his thumb. He gently wiped it away, letting his fingers push back through her hair, and lacing them against her skull. 
“You’re not stupid,” he murmured. “You were manipulated by a very bad man. If your life is full of isolation, then how could you ever know anything else? You did what you had to do to survive in the environment you were given. It’s not your fault you were born into a life like that. It’s what you do once you find out the truths that show what kind of person you really are. Look at you, Aylin. You’re not dead. You’re still here. You escaped. There is still more life out there. Don’t be like me. Don’t give up yet. You have no idea what kind of person you’re capable of becoming. Your life is just beginning. Mine is, too. We can still start fresh. They don’t deserve you, anyway.” 
“I killed her,” Aylin breathed. If he wanted to start fresh with her then he needed to know the truth. There were already too many lies in her life for her to keep anymore. “Remember that night I came to the camper and you had heard a girl screaming? They had wheeled out a young girl, a Lycan girl, inside a cage. They wanted me to kill her. I couldn’t do it. I ran back to you. I thought…” She swallowed at the lump forming in her throat. “I thought they would have killed her themselves after I ran.”
She buried her face into the towel, breathing in the scent of the motel shampoo, and closing her eyes to block out the memories as she spoke, “When I went back, when Kraven found me, he locked me in his basement. A torture chamber. It was hidden underground behind a secret bookcase. I wasn’t alone. That Lycan girl was there. She was still alive. He-” She took a deep breath. “He made me kill her this time. She was so weak. They had tortured her so badly. It was horrible. Her body was already shutting down. I think she would have died on her own had I just held off a few more hours. But I did it. I killed her. I didn’t even know her name. She wouldn’t tell me. She was young. Couldn’t be any older than 19. It was me who killed her. No one else. Just me.”
He entangled his hand from her wet hair, much to her heartbreak, and went silent. She could feel him breathing softly next to her as he mulled over what she had said. He still had the choice to leave and walk out if he judged her to be too irredeemable. 
After a quiet minute ticked by, Peter finally spoke, “I killed Kateri Deseronto’s son. He was only little. Five years old. That’s why she had me locked up when you found me. I’m responsible for his death. She wanted me to give her a new child. It was some sick, fucked up power play fueled by her grief and resentment. She lost herself the night he died. It’s hard for me to hate her, despite everything she did to me, because I felt like I deserved it. Her child is dead because of me. You said earlier that you bring death wherever you go. That you were cursed. That everyone was dead because of you.” He shook his head in disagreement. “I thought that, too, about myself. But it’s not us. I didn’t murder Kat’s son with my own hands. It was Kraven’s men who killed him. They were there because they were hunting me but I didn’t kill her son. If you look close enough, every string of blame leads straight back to Kraven the Hunter. He’s the source of everything.” 
Aylin peaked a curious eye out from the safety of her cave. Peter had propped his head up onto his hand, leaning on his side, as he looked down at her with a quiet contemplation. Suddenly, another puzzle piece fell into place. 
“Wait,” she said with a realization. She had heard that story before. She quickly sat up, forgetting she was topless, then hastily threw the towel to her chest when she saw Peter’s eyes widen. “When was that? When did the thing with Kat’s son happen?”
Peter thought for a second, his ears reddening from embarrassment, not quite understanding the gravity of what he was about to say, “I don’t know. Five years ago-ish?” He could tell by the paling look of horror on her face that something wasn’t right. “Why?”
Aylin filled her lungs with a gulp of air to try and settle her nerves, “The night my father and brother died, the night Kraven left them to die, the three of them were hunting you. Kraven told me in the basement that they had found you along with a woman and a little boy. He said that you were trying to regrow your pack after he slaughtered your last one.” 
Peter’s jaw clenched at that statement but he remained quiet. 
“He told me that they found you, he said…oh god…he said Emir ran after the woman and her son while he fought with you. He said that after he stabbed you, he fought with my father. Then he shot Emir. Then he left them both to be killed by a wolf.” Her voice lingered down to nothing but a mere whisper. “By you.”
Peter sat in a stunned silence. His eyes slipped closed and he brought his hands up to massage at his temples. With one hand keeping the towel in place, Aylin reached out with the other to gently caress his knee and drag his attention back to her. 
“I don’t blame you, Peter. It’s not your fault,” she muttered. “They were Silver Colts. They attacked you first. Like you said, everything leads back to Kraven.” 
He frantically shook his head, “No. That’s not how it happened. I told you. I never killed your family. I didn’t know…I didn’t know that was them…but I didn’t kill them. It wasn’t me. I was bleeding out after Kraven attacked me. I could barely move. Kat killed them.” 
Aylin’s eyes widened as ice froze her veins. The memory of running from the pack of wolves with Peter bursts behind her vision. A large, towering black wolf. Hunched over in the middle of the dark, slick wet, rain covered road. Heavy, smokey breaths puffing from her saliva coated jaws. She didn’t chase the car speeding away with her captive. She only stood and watched. Waiting. Plotting. 
Kat was the wolf that had killed her family. 
“Because Emir killed her son,” Aylin stated. 
He gave a solemn nod. 
Her stomach sank. She loved her family. She thought the world of them but, in their death and her grief, she had memorialized them as saints. She had stopped seeing them as people with flaws. They were people who could do no wrong. Frozen forever in her mind as the perfect father and big brother. 
But, like everything else in her life, that wasn’t always the truth. 
The world wasn’t black and white. People were all shades of gray. The people she loved and admired were capable of doing bad things. They were capable of doing wonderful, nobel things, too. They were complex, layered people. Emir could stand up for his little sister and protect her honor down to his last breath and he could also murder someone else’s child because they were associated with a Lycan. He had grown up in the same cult as she did. Generation after generation, the cycle of violence and hate would continue. 
It stopped with her. 
“Why were you with Kat and her son?” She asked. 
Peter gave a small shrug, keeping his sights set to study her face, trying to read her emotions through each little detail he could find, “She found me. She was running from her husband. He was Lycan and had turned her when they got together before she even really knew what that meant. She was young and in love with him so she ignored all the warning signs of him being an abuser. After their son was born, he got worse. Finally she decided to run but she didn’t have the experience of being a Lycan around normal people. She didn’t know how to care for her son as he started going through changes. Her husband had kept them sheltered for years. She didn’t have friends or anyone to go to. I guess she heard that my people-” He cleared his throat, struggling to speak about his pack. “She heard that I was alone. She wanted help. I told her I could help her. I told her I would try to keep them safe. I shouldn’t have done that. I knew Kraven was hunting me. I shouldn’t have had them so close but…I suppose lonely people do stupid things.” 
“Were you in love with her?” She wasn’t sure why that was the first question she asked. A strange sting of jealousy poked at her heart at the thought of him loving someone like Kat. 
A small, sad smile tugged at his lips, “No. The woman I loved is dead. Her name was Gwen. She would have wanted me to help a lost mother and her child, though. Maybe that’s why I did it. Her voice was in my head begging me to do the right thing.” He gave another shrug. “It only served to get a kid killed and look where I ended up because of it.”
Aylin licked her drying lips, “I think the person I loved is dead, too. I think Kraven killed her and her family. I thought they just left in the middle of the night but…I don’t think anyone leaves the Silver Colts without consequences. I think Kraven did it to punish me. Her name was Leah and she was beautiful. She would have liked you. She was always a bit of a rebel while I was always straight laced. She’d be amazed to know I, of all people, befriended a Lycan.” 
Peter smiled at the thought, “We are two very fucked up people with freakishly similar backgrounds.” 
Her sweet chimes of laughter filled the space between them. It felt good to laugh. Healing. 
“I think I was meant to meet you,” she breathed. “I think-” 
She stopped herself from saying what she really wanted to and shook her head to brush away the thought. 
I think you were meant to be mine. 
She rolled back onto her stomach and balled up the towel into a pillow once more, “I think you should help me put as much Neosporin as you can onto my back and then wrap it back up.”
Peter stood up to stand at the foot of the bed and clapped his hands together, “I have a better idea! I know exactly what can heal you in no time. Forget about ointments and creams. I’ve got all the cure you need right here in these veins.” 
Aylin shook her head and grimaced, “Absolutely not. I’ve drunk enough Lycan blood for one lifetime, thank you very much.”
Peter’s head jerked over to stare at her with an incredulous look, “Drank? Why are you drinking blood?”
She frowned, “That’s how Kraven is getting his superior strength. He’s drinking Lycan blood. I got only a few drops in my mouth when I killed the Lycan girl and it almost gave me a heart attack. I’m not doing that again.” 
His nose scrunched up in disgust, “Nasty. You don’t need to drink it. It’s much more effective to go blood to blood. Like, I cut my wrist and let it drip directly into your wounds. Straight to the source. It heals so much faster. I assume drinking it would take more time for it to get absorbed and lose some of its potency. Not to mention, it’s also disgusting and wrong on so many levels.” 
A tiny smile crept onto her face.
“So you’re telling me that Kraven and Calypso are gulping down blood when they could actually just be injecting it straight into their veins for better and faster results?” 
He shrugged and nodded. 
Somehow the thought of their stupidity made it more humorous. The Silver Colts really didn’t know the first thing about Lycans. All that hatred for a species they never cared to research further. 
“I still don’t want your blood. I almost died last time and then I slept for 16 hours. It was horrible,” she said. The sleeping part wasn’t actually horrible. She needed it. It was all the other stuff before that, that she’d rather never experience again. 
“That’s because you were panicking.” He said this like it should have been obvious to her. When he saw no light bulb go off over her head, he explained further. “When a human is given Lycan blood, it enhances everything. Physically, it makes you heal faster, you’re stronger, you have better eyesight and hearing and smell, your endurance and agility heighten, faster reflexes…you get it. But it also enhances your emotions. Whatever you’re feeling when it’s in your system gets enhanced. Seeing as you were running for your life through the woods, half naked, and covered in blood, your heart was racing. It would have been racing without the blood and then, suddenly, it’s going twice as fast as it ever should. You were scared and panicked. Thus, the blood made those emotions worse, which made your heart beat faster, which made it almost explode.” 
Interesting. 
She remembered how frantic Kraven’s hands had felt as he lusted after her like he could scarcely control his desires for her. She remembered how each whip from Calypso was harder and more violent than the last, like she was feeding off her own hatred towards Aylin. She remembered how scared she felt when she tumbled into her mother’s bedroom to find her missing and how the panic had felt like it consuming her every pore. 
It would make perfect sense that Lycan blood was heighting more than just their physical abilities. 
Then she remembered something else. 
“Kraven said something strange when we were in the basement. When you were fighting all those years ago, he cut your throat, and your blood landed in his mouth. Once that happened, he felt like he could no longer kill you. He walked away from the fight and left you there. Then, when he was drinking the girl in the basement's blood, he told me that he nor Calypso were able to kill her themselves. They had to wait for me to do it. He said it was like a mental block that happened.” 
The Lycan had already been dead once Aylin got a taste of her blood so she hadn’t experienced anything Kraven had described. 
Peter nodded, “I’ve heard of that happening. Figured that’s why Kraven walked away that night. I don’t know how or why it happens. It’s not like there are books that study our anatomy. I think it’s probably a last line of defense. If someone is using our blood, we become a part of them while it’s in their system. Killing the wolf that’s living temperarely inside of you would be like suicide, I imagine. I doubt it would literally kill the person but that’s how it would probably feel. You have an instinctive need for self preservation, which now includes the wolf inside of you, so you can’t bring yourself to kill them.” 
Peter’s blood is what saved him the night Kraven attacked. 
She wouldn’t mind having a part of him flowing inside her veins for a little while. 
“Promise it won’t be as bad as last time?” She asked. 
He smiled, “We’re in a motel room. You have your cat. It’s just me and you here. There is no danger. No one knows we are here. We can put on the tv and watch something chill while it works its magic. You have no need to be scared or panicked. You’ll feel heightened senses but as long as you keep your emotions calm, you’ll be okay.” 
Aylin thought it over then gave a final nod, “Fine. Do it. Whatever can heal me faster, I'll take. You and I have a lot of planning to do.”
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[CHAPTER NINE]
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yoyomindloops · 1 year
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Hypnotic DnD: Roll for reprogramming
As much as Jen loved watching Sam and Bella go at it for dramatic roleplay and story, she really just wanted to dungeon crawl.
It was fun, her friends did get into it. Bella committed to the bit so well last session that Jen walked over and positioned her friend in funny poses as their DM went over where Sam had been banished to.
She really committed - it didn't matter if Jen stood her up or placed her in a funny pose. She didn't blink, and her expression didn't change. She might have taken pictures and posted them to her Instagram story.
Whatever the DM was telling Sam about her being sent to her demon daddy and what evil plans he was telling her to do - Jen hadn't listened that session. The truth was, she didn't have any intention of listening, it just played out better for her character to be oblivious. Not that she would rather drawer and goof around - never.
That was ok.
She was assured today that this session would be focused on what she wanted to do. Puzzles. Danger. Combat.
Stabbing all the things.
Jen was ready.
Bella and Sam had arrived, their clothes dressed for summer in the middle of this cold, december game.
"Bella," Their DM snapped his finger when Bella sat down, looking like he was remembering a thought. "Roll this dice for me between your fingers nice and slow for me."
Bella's gaze faded into herself, her back straightened as she accepted the dice she dropped in her hand, rolling it gently bet thumb and fingers. Sam seemed fixated on the dice, dropping her bag by her feet as she relaxed in the chair.
Jen just looked at the DM with arched brow.
"You remember a few sessions back, she failed her rolls so often the first snap is an automatic fail to suggestion. That first command requires no thought, no will, just that automatic response. It's the second where she has the option to do a wisdom save. I'm just priming for the session. I have a lot planned today."
"Right..." Jen wasn't sure she liked the dead eyed stare Bella had directly across the table. It was devoid of any sense of thought or emotion. Then, the DM got up from the table and placed a set of headphones over her ears. She didn't seem to react, just rolling the dice gently in her fingers.
"Noise cancelling," He said. "Bella's character is on her own journey this session. We're reprogramming the brain to associate holding dice in any capacity brings her right back here. Knowing the feel of it running across her fingers, just surrending to the sensations that come from just holding the dice. Where Bella's character was left last session was her mind being lost to the demon's influence.
"Guess this demon daddy really is the big bad. What do I gotta do to break her free from it?"
"That's the mission. You know the desert elves of this region imprisoned him into a book, you're going to explore their tomb for answers and a way to return your friend's mind to where it used to be."
Alright, she was down.
Dungeon crawls were her jam. There were so many different puzzles and challenges. The first room was deciphering a set of words in order to get out to the next room. Breathe. Relax. Focus. Those were the first three. How the dm made it more complicated was with each new word deciphered the room would blow dust and she would have to do a concentration save.
Or feel lightheaded and airy, with disadvantages to her wisdom saves.
Drift. Melt. Sleep.
With Bella just staring, drool dripping at the corner of her mouth, the dice just gently caressed with her thumb against her fingers. Not blinking once with each new word or puff of happy air.
SInk. Blank. Empty.
She failed quite a few times finding herself distracted from the game watching the dice move between index finger to pinky.
"It does make your curious, doesn't it?" he mused.
"Hmm?"
"If you might feel the same sensations take over. Think the same thoughts."
"How many words left to go to the next room?" Jen watched the dice while her words were trying to pull her focus on what mattered. Solving the puzzle.
"No reason to think."
Fall.
"No will of your own.
Drop.
He snapped his finger and Jen was turned off. Her head dropped down. All she remembered was coming to her senses and it was late, the session had concluded.
She did find the new picture of herself staring blankly right into the camera on instagram wearing the same headphones rolling the dice in her hand with a #Rollforreprogramming to boot.
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rainbowchewynuggets · 11 months
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TMA Encore #16
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Martin, Jon, Sasha, and Tim take in fresh air they never thought they’d breathe again and sunlight they never thought they’d feel again. They stare absently at the smoking hole where the Institute used to be. The persistent bustling of the town around them, totally unheeding of their presence, helps draw them out of their shock.
Both sets of Fears are still there. Distantly, but unmistakably. But the hold that the invading set had in the enigma has grown faint, like a droning noise suddenly absent. The world is still and quiet.
Jon feels half-blind–partially because his glasses are nowhere to be found.
The absence of hunger tells them that Not-Jon and Not-Martin are still out there.
After a long heavy silence, they begin to talk in low voices about what to do next. They did make it out, though no one can quite remember how. Their shaky progress has given them some tepid confidence. If they can get themselves away from here without incident, they could potentially rebuild some form of normalcy. The four of them could keep in touch, helping each other monitor their stability.
And they should hurry. There’s a rather uncomfortable feeling in the air.
The four of them do worry where the doubles could be, what they could be doing. But they can’t let themselves get distracted already. Maybe they can work on it later, if the two start making noticeable trouble.
Tim makes a Scooby-Doo joke. Everybody needed it.
They’ll definitely have to find new jobs too, they realize.
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The pair uncoil. Jon looks into Martin’s eyes.
NJ: How bad is it?
Martin tries his best to look placid, but the pain of the hunger is evident on his face.
NM: It’s… bad.
NJ: I’ll help you work through it. I know some tricks to take the edge off. And, maybe we can find some better ways now. Less self-punishing.
NM: Sounds manageable.
Jon smooths his partner’s hair back and brushes his cheek with a thumb.
NM:  How about you?
NJ: Better. So much better. I can’t believe I–
He swallows with difficulty.
NJ: Martin, I’m so sorry.
Martin nods.
NM: I am too.
Jon looks incredulous.
NJ: For what?
NM: For wasting time, I guess. We spent so long letting them make us miserable, and I didn’t even…I don’t feel like I was much better than you, in the end.
NJ: Well, they don’t get to tell us how to be miserable now.
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The wind rustles the grass as the clouds pass their shadows over the pair.
NM: What do we do now?
Jon curls his lip thoughtfully.
NJ: We should probably make ourselves scarce. The police might be sweeping for arson suspects. And… maybe we should let you get more used to the hunger before we go anywhere around people.
NM: Right.
They hesitate. Jon stares into the trees. Martin can’t help doing the same.
NM: There’s definitely one of them among the EMTs.
NJ: Yep.
She reeks of Spiral.
Section 31 is on its way, too.
The surviving archival staff should really get going if they want to make it out clean.
There are more. Others. Moving and agitating, attracted to the vacuum of power. Yet, they’re small. Vulnerable. Containable.
It would be easy.
Jon tears his eyes away and squeezes Martin’s hand.
NJ: You wanna go for a walk?
He gestures at the open field behind them with a thumb.
Martin brightens.
NM: Sure.
They get up and start walking through the brush, hand in hand.
NM: So, if a tomb is out… You think we could go for a house? Probably abandoned, but hopefully not too falling-apart.
NJ: That’d be nice. Maybe something in the country.
NM: ...Oh! And we still need to go let Gerry out of the book.
NJ: Oh, yeah. Definitely.
————
Next
Prev
First
(Epilogue next time!)
Index
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searchsystem · 2 years
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David Rudnick / Tomb Index / Book / 2021
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sixhours · 1 month
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Chapter 18 - The Ghosts of Babylon
Series Chapter Index | Read on AO3 | Complete
Rating: Explicit, 18+, here be smut and violence Series tags: Joel Miller x You, Joel Miller x Reader, Joel & Ellie, mostly follows canon, LGBTQ+ characters, y/n is bi/pan, y/n is ~45, violence, pregnancy, abortion, medical trauma, emotional trauma, panic attacks, sex work, suicide, smut, slow burn, angst with a happy ending, hurt/comfort, romance, no use of y/n, reader has longish hair, Joel can lift you, smallish age gap (~11 years), I've probably forgotten some so please let me know <3
~*~
The walk to the clinic from your house takes about five minutes, but today you take your time, drawing it out. It’s autumn in Wyoming. The oppressive heat of summer has passed and you finally feel like you can breathe.
With the promise of winter comes snow, making movement by the infected hordes more difficult. With any luck, patrols will get a little less nerve-wracking for Joel and Ellie…and by extension, for you.
You haven’t thought about the radio in a long time, which is why, when you come home to find your front door unlocked, you don’t give it a second thought.
“Joel? You here?”
There’s a scuffling from upstairs, footsteps. You see her familiar red Converse peek over the landing.
“Ellie? Hey, I’m just getting off work.”
You set your bag down by the door, waiting for her to come downstairs. She doesn’t; lingering for too long. You realize you can hear her ragged breathing, the snick of her switchblade.
“Ellie? What’s wrong?”
Her footsteps are slow and measured when she finally descends. One hand is clutching her knife, her eyes never leave yours.
Sleepwalking? Is this a panic attack?
She keeps her focus trained on you but stops on the second to last riser.
“Ellie–”
You take a tentative step forward but she jabs the knife at you, trembling. You realize with dawning horror that she’s terrified of…you.
“Don’t!” she gasps. “You’re…you’re–”
“What–”
She bolts, leaping off the steps and practically spinning you on your heels as she flies for the door, flinging it open, tearing out of the house at a full run.
You stand in limbo, wanting to go after her, needing to know what set her off…but some dark thing in the back of your mind wakes from a deep slumber and rears its ugly head.
…oh, no…
You know what you‘ll find before you make it to the upstairs landing. The attic door has been opened, the stairs pulled down.
She knows.
You stand at the entrance to the attic, blinking back tears, unable to swallow past the lump in your throat.
You imagine her looking for the comics, taking matters into her own curious hands. You kept forgetting to go up yourself and dig through the boxes, kept promising her you’d do it and then forgetting , but was it really forgetting? No. The attic is a tomb of shame, you couldn’t face it when things had been so good, so easy , for once in your goddamned life things were light and–
She knows. She knows everything. She knows, she knows, she knows, sheknows sheknowssheknows…
You climb the steps on heavy legs. The radio has been turned on; it crackles with static. There are papers–your papers, your notes, your maps–scattered across the work desk. You never hid them after the last time, you’d been so panicked, so stupid .
Fuck. Why did it have to be her?
The room tilts and you brace yourself on the table, breathing hard, digging your nails into the wood hard enough to leave a mark. You need to think, you need to…fuck, if you could just think for one goddamned second.
Joel. She’ll go to Joel.
The recorder is blinking. You press the button to rewind the tape with a trembling finger. The final message is old, from last spring…your extraction orders finally came, along with a warning.
Your stomach sinks, drops like a stone, and it’s all you can do to keep yourself upright, to bite back a sob as you realize what it means.
They’re sending the masses your way.
You dig deep, finding that kernel of hardness within, biting on it the way you bit on a leather strap when you were scraped raw and bleeding. You gather the notes, the maps, and the tape with the final transmission–everything you can carry in shaky hands. You don’t have much time.
~*~
Tommy answers the door, blinking in confusion as you hold out the evidence of your crimes.
“I need Maria. I need to speak to the council. It’s urgent.”
~*~
Hours later, an emergency assembly is gathered in the Jackson town hall. It used to be a gymnasium; you’re staring at the scuffed markings on the wood floor as you await your verdict.
You tell them everything you know. You give them everything–your notes, the maps. You tell them to search the clinic, your home, even your body. You come clean with the stoicism of a prisoner of war, inwardly amazed at how easy it is to slip back into the role of soldier.
They grill you for hours and you answer with everything you have. No excuses, no drama, no tears–just the facts.
Inside, your stomach has knotted itself so tight you can barely swallow, every muscle in your body burning and somehow not yours . You are just an empty vessel. You wonder if this is what the infection feels like as it takes hold, cold certainty and dread and…drifting…
There are guards at the doors, but you have no desire to run or fight. The council has sequestered themselves in another part of the building. Sometimes you think you hear raised voices, but mostly you’re left to the quiet of your thoughts, the place you’d least like to be.
You think about Ellie finding Joel, because you know that’s where she’s gone. She’s probably already told him, and he knows your dirty little secret, your shame–
Don’t go there.
The hard voice is back, saving you from yourself. 
Your heart lurches when you hear a door open at the other end of the gym and hear footsteps as the council shuffles in and takes their seats at the long folding table in front of you. Only Maria will meet your eyes.
She clears her throat, studying you for a long time. When she finally speaks, her voice is low and even, controlled.
“We’ve studied the evidence. We’ve searched your home and your office. You’ve given us a very difficult decision to make.”
You lower your head, waiting for the sentence. Waiting for hanging, jailing, expulsion. 
“I can’t think of a good reason for you to lie to us now…no more than you already have,” she frowns, visibly angry, before smoothing her face into an unreadable mask. “The information you’ve given us can be…put to use. And as much as I hate to admit it, you’ve been a valuable asset to our community.”
You blink, certain you’ve misheard.
“To be honest, we don’t know what to do with you. We considered putting it to a community-wide vote, but based on what you’ve told us…I don’t think we have time for that kind of red tape.”
Maria sighs and sits back. “I want to be clear that this is a probation. As long as you’re here, you’ll be under supervision by council-appointed guards. Your every waking move will be monitored. You won’t be–”
“I’m sorry,” you say, your mouth suddenly dry. “I…don’t understand. You’re not…”
…saying I can stay? you think but can’t finish the thought. There’s no possible way.
Your eyes flick to the other members’ faces; most are downcast. Some stare at you in stony silence. You get the impression there were negotiations, and not everyone is happy with the decision, but Maria’s voice is steady.
“You’re more valuable to us here than out there,” she says flatly. “If it were anyone else…we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
You’d expected to be hung; at the very least, banished, put outside the walls to fend for yourself. You don’t deserve anything more; what she’s telling you doesn’t make sense.
One of the lucky ones.
“If you agree to these terms–”
“I…can’t.”
“Excuse me? You don’t agree?”
“I can’t stay,” you say, willing your voice to be stronger. It comes out faint and hoarse.
Maria stares at you, incredulous.
“You won’t make it,” she says flatly. “The infected are everywhere. They’re driving hordes of them this way as we speak. And if they don’t get you, FEDRA will.”
“I know,” you say softly. “But I can’t.”
~*~
The doors swing wide into the night air and he’s standing before you, eyes wild with confusion. He opens his mouth to ask the question, but stops short, hands at his sides, fists clenching. 
It’s been eight hours since Ellie ran out your front door. You feel numb, twisted and wrung out like a wet rag. All you want to do is go back to the little green house, pack your shit, and leave. But he’s blocking your exit, studying your face, forcing you to watch the slow unraveling of his features from sadness to anger to rage.
“So it’s true,” he says thickly.
“The council doesn’t know about her,” you rasp, staring at a point beyond his shoulder, into the street. You need to make him understand that this is the one secret you didn’t give up. “I told them everything, but I didn’t tell them about her.”
He shakes his head, chest heaving, pacing like the leopard in its cage.
“I trusted you,” he hisses. “I trusted you with my kid, with my fucking life –”
You attempt to push past him, but he grabs your forearm, hard. The pain is fierce and tears finally come, spilling over, dripping silently down your cheeks.
“Joel–”
“Look at me!” he growls, hand grabbing your chin, tilting your face up to him, and the betrayal in his eyes is a wildfire waiting to consume you.
The door to the town hall opens behind you. Maria’s voice is soft but level.
“Joel.”
You wrench yourself from his grip and flee.
~*~
When the gates open for you for the last time, you’re carrying nothing but a backpack and your jacket, a knife tucked into the pocket. You think you can feel the entire community’s eyes on your back, but it’s just you, Maria, and the guards on the wall.
Joel isn’t there. Neither is Ellie. You’re thankful for small favors.
Maria clears her throat. “If I were you, I’d head north. If you make it past the border, things get pretty quiet. I’ve heard there’s a settlement in Alberta.” 
You nod, but you have no intention of heeding her advice. You doubt you’ll make it out of Wyoming, let alone across the border. You’ve packed a few clothes, but it’s mostly for show. Survival is not the intent. You’re operating in a space outside your body, watching yourself from afar with the detached nature of a physician examining a patient, and this one’s not going to make it.
The gates close behind you with a groan, sealing your fate. The pack on your shoulders feels heavy.
You take a deep breath, and you walk.
~*~
Each day becomes a simple matter of one foot in front of the other. Your legs and back ache mercilessly and you revel in it, letting the pain become your constant companion. When you get tired, you lie down in the grass and curl into a ball with your pack as a pillow, entering a nightmare-filled sleep.
When you wake up, you’re always cold and hungry. You drink from a small stream, hands going numb with the frigid water as you bring it to your mouth. You fill a water bottle and stash it in your pack, mutely wondering why you bother.
You don’t see many infected at first; sometimes they’re off in the distance, easy enough to avoid, though you wish you dared to just throw yourself at them.
Take me.
Your mind runs in circles, trying to drag you back to Jackson. Sometimes you wipe the salt water from your cheeks before you realize you’ve been crying, but most of the time you’re lost in the great void that has opened up in your chest.
You lose track of time. There are more steps, the endless invisible path ahead, the steady ache in your legs, and the hollow gnawing of your gut. The ground is uneven, and as you grow weaker, your strides become less certain, less sure.
On day four, you crest a hill and find a highway running through a valley, what looks like a small town, tiny cars littering the surrounding area in their vain attempts to escape the inevitable. You haven’t seen anyone yet, infected or otherwise, but the highway promises civilization of a kind.
The hike is further than it looks, and by the time you pass the first decayed skeleton in the tall grass, your breath comes in short, ragged gasps. You study the skeleton, consider laying down beside it…just for a minute. Or maybe longer.
Maybe you won’t wake up. Maybe that would be okay.
The road cuts a ravine through the landscape, leaving a jagged ledge of rock and loose soil between you and the town. You’re stumbling down the slope when the ground gives out beneath you, pebbles sliding underfoot, and before you can right yourself, you’re rolling over and over, landing hard on one shoulder and wrenching your ankle with a sickening twist.
Pain rips through you and the world goes gray.
~*~
You blink up into the too-bright sky, groaning. It comes back to you in the flash of a white-hot blade shoved deep into your left ankle. You moan, rolling over, trying to get to your feet, but that leg won’t hold you.
It’s broken.
You hear them before you see them, the ground underneath you pounding a faint staccato against your palms in the grass. The first one appears at the edge of the horizon in your blurred vision, staggering with that telltale lurch, and your bladder flushes with hot fear.
You curse that hard seed of survival within you, the one that urges you to get up, to go, now . Another staggering figure in the background, then another…
You scan the littered field of cars, looking for an escape. There’s no way you’ll be able to run. The ground underneath you reverberates with their footsteps, their screeches and moans sound in the distance.
Just stay. Lie down.
Fighting your inner dialogue, you get to your hands and knees, trying not to scream when your ankle flops at an impossible angle. Eyes fixed on the nearest car, you begin pulling yourself across the field, hands clutching at the earth until your palms are scraped and bloody.
You steal a glance behind you and see the full horde like a wave washing over the landscape.
Gritting your teeth, you dig your fingers into the grass and pull, arm over arm, until you’re panting next to the car’s rear door. You reach up, muffling a scream at the pressure on your ankle as you lift yourself enough to open the door. 
The knife in your pocket digs into your hip, reminding you, and you pull it out, fumbling to open it. You plunge the sharp blade into the back seat’s upholstery, giving yourself a lever on which to pull your broken body upright.
The screeching is on top of you now. You see a blurred shape streak by on the other side of the car’s muddy window, then another. The ground underneath you is thrumming.
You slide into the back seat and reach behind you to shut the door just as one of the infected slams into it, one mangled hand clawing its way inside. You scream and slash at it with the knife, slamming the door hard against the creature’s wet, angry growl. The flesh twitches and pulls back just enough for the door to latch.
The creature throws itself at the car, slamming its head into the window over and over as you scramble as far into the opposite corner of the seat as you can. Cold sweat stains your clothes, and there’s the unmistakable scent of urine as your bladder lets go.
A screech from over your shoulder startles you and you muffle a scream into your palms. The horde is surrounding the car now, fumbling and clawing blindly for purchase. There’s one on top of the car; when it sees you, it begins pounding against the rear windshield, leaving bloody, moldy smears.
You sob, a wretched sound in the confines of the stale, musty prison that will be your death. You curl into a ball and press your face to the upholstery, wishing you had the courage to open the door and let them have you. You curse that grit inside you that keeps you alive until the last waking moment.
But it will be over soon. The glass is cracking.
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iviarellereads · 6 months
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Nona the Ninth, Bonus Material: The Unwanted Guest
(Curious what I'm doing here? Read this post! For detail on The Locked Tomb coverage and the index, read this one!)
In which the fandom goes wild.
Laid out as a stageplay, surely setting us up (one might say, setting the scene) for impromptu fan performances, Tamsyn Muir gave us just one bonus in the Nona paperback, but it's a doozy. I am operating under the assumption that you have read (or listened to a fan assembled live or recorded performance of) the whole play in my comments.
Scene One
The stage is set: a funeral, with seven coffins, a row of six and one at the front distinguished from its fellows by its many gold and violet flowers(1) and wreaths, and being propped open at the top. A tray of meat sits on the closed bottom. Mourners(2) in gaudy masks take a piece of meat, then lean into the open head, though the view obscures whether they're kissing or feeding the presumed corpse.(3)
Palamedes Sextus is the final mourner in the line, his mask plain, wooden, shattered and pieced back together. He almost looks like he belongs. As the last mourners file out, he considers the meat, skips it,(4) and reaches into the coffin.
A hand grabs his arm and the corpse sits upright. It's IANTHE TRIDENTARIUS. Her face is covered in bloody kisses. Ianthe You're fucked, my lad. The lights go out.
Scene Two
The room is now empty, except for a fireplace with no fire, and the door at the back. Ianthe stands by the fireplace, dressed as a butler. Pal enters, in a ruined grey suit with a purple tie,(5) though his body isn't apparently injured at all.
Pal is calling upon "the lady of the house", for at least the second time. Ianthe-butler says "the master's answer"(6) won't have changed. Pal would still like to hear that for himself, and offers a whole skeletal hand(7) when Ianthe-butler asks for his card. Ianthe-butler says "If you'd be so good as to stay here", and steps out through the door.
Pal faces the audience at the front of the stage. He speaks of the grammar of "if", and how sometimes it's used for permission and sometimes used to command while pretending to acknowledge another person's agency.
In the background, Ianthe returns, now dressed in an "ooh-la-la" maid costume with "an enormous purple feather duster",(8) flicking it at the dead fireplace. Pal continues his monologue on "if", finishing with the assertion that the phrasing Ianthe-butler used is over-the-top in its politeness, so it circles back to being rude again.
Palamedes A pretty silk glove over a fist of iron. Or, in this case, gold. He turns to the maid for the first time. Palamedes Don't you think? Ianthe No, sir.
Ianthe-maid curtseys and leaves, stage right.(9) Pal is examining the dead fireplace when the butler returns through the door, and says the master will see him in "the Almond Room". (10) Pal doesn't move, but robed figures wheel the coffins from the first scene back in, now numbered 1 through 7, standing upright in a semicircle in the center of which is placed a chaise longue.(11) Pal pays no attention to the action.
The door opens again and Ianthe enters, this time in a rather daringly unbuttoned shirt and a pair of leather trousers, plus a Lyctoral rainbow robe draped over her shoulders.(12) The whole affect is louche;(13) she carries a small clutch bag. Ianthe walks over to the chaise longue and drapes herself across it artistically.
Having made her true entrance, Ianthe says it's so good of the "Inspector" to call so late.(14) He says it's not that late, she affirms that it is quite late, given how he's in tatters and can't last much longer. Pal says she's been saying that for the last three visits.
Ianthe asks what Pal wants. He says the same thing he's been asking for, the body of Naberius Tern. Ianthe finally agrees that he shall have it, if he can win a simple game. Pal is surprised, but goes along with it. She says he only has to guess which of the seven coffins, after asking her no more than five questions, none of which can be directly asking which coffin he's in or anything about the coffins themselves. He debates with her about how many questions it would take under those other circumstances, and she observes that he must have been great fun at parties.(15)
Palamedes asks his first question unintentionally: will Ianthe play fair? She says she never does, and he has four left.
Palamedes pinches the bridge of his nose with one hand, turns away, and walks downstage. The curtain falls behind him--leaving him alone with the audience. Palamedes Ianthe's sparkling personality aside . . . this doesn't really make much sense. A new VOICE answers from the back of the auditorium. We do not see the speaker.(16)
The voice asks why it doesn't make sense. Pal says logic questions depend on a set of rules, and Ianthe hasn't set any. The voice suggests thinking more broadly, because logic isn't the important piece here: psychology is.
Pal almost talks himself out of this, but then the voice asks what would happen if he asked Ianthe to pick a number from one to seven. Pal realizes she likely would pick that number, trying to outfox him.(17) The voice says it won't be quite that easy, but Pal can get Ianthe to open herself up unintentionally and expose herself so he can get the answer. Pal nods and turns back to the stage as the curtains rise.
Voice I mean, more than she's already exposing herself with that shirt. (Pause) I'm kind of into the trousers, though.(18)
Scene Three
The curtain rises on the same scene as before--seven upright coffins, chaise longue, Ianthe--except that a robed and masked figure is now standing beside each of the coffins. Palamedes walks upstage to stand next to the chaise longue.
Palamedes says he has his first question. Ianthe corrects him, second, but invites him to ask. Pal asks if Ianthe believes in "the permeability of the soul?" Ianthe is dismissive, as the robed figures move the coffins. They place coffins 2 and 6 on their backs on either side of the chaise. Pal sits on coffin 6 awkwardly, as an attendant crowns Ianthe with ivy and sprays her with perfume, and another puts a gold cup in her hand and fills it from a gold jug.(19)
Ianthe wanted Pal to ask something more fun, maybe something sexual in nature. The attendants offer Pal a cup, but he covers it with his hand before they pour anything in.
Ianthe (Despairingly) You don't even drink! Palamedes In my defence: I'm dead, and this wine doesn't exist.
Ianthe suggests this improves it, as the false can have a "piquancy"(20) that the real lacks. Pal asks if that's a quote from something, and Ianthe, acting increasingly drunk,(21) goes on about pétillance(22) and asks if Pal's "tingue" ever "toungle[d]" when he was alive. Pal says they're not here to talk about his tongue, and makes to repeat his question, but Ianthe remembers. She addresses the attendants to say there's nothing the Sixth won't turn into a seminar, and she "shudders to imagine their pillow talk." Pal says "pillow talk is a science" on the Sixth, and Ianthe responds that she's not interested.
Getting back to the matter at hand, Ianthe admits(23) she does not believe in permeability of the soul. Pal asks if that means she believes "that the soul is both indivisible and impermeable", which she does. He asks if Ianthe believes the soul is malleable, can be altered or deformed. Ianthe says it must be so, or a revenant wouldn't behave as it does. Pal asks then if the soul is only imperfectly elastic, able to return to its original shape. Ianthe agrees to this as well
Pal summarizes: one would expect that a revenant would act like a newborn child in its behaviour, but there are cases where revenants clearly act in ways informed by their adult lives.(24) Ianthe accepts this, and with no reference made to the query about being in agreement being Pal's last question.(25)
Thus, Pal comes back to his original question: if you accept that the soul can be changed, and never fully recover, does it not follow that it can be diminished as well? Ianthe says that's not at all given. Pal says that surprises him, because most objects that can be deformed can be diminished. He compares it to a stone and a sculptor shaping it, and the stone can't regrow what was chipped off, and indeed someone who works around stone work will wear a mask to avoid breathing in the stone dust and damaging himself.
Tried beyond her patience, Ianthe takes off her garland and flings it irritably across the stage.
Ianthe can't do it anymore(26) and says the soul cannot be diminished because it's the underpinning of Lyctorhood. If the soul could be diminished, it couldn't be the perpetual fuel for the Lyctor's power, and only a soul can be used without being consumed in the process. Pal says that they don't know it, but Ianthe says she's a Lyctor, and she studied under Augustine who was a Lyctor for ten thousand years, and Pal has no idea.
Pal suggests that the rate of decay might be infinitesimally small, a soul might last a hundred thousand years before anyone noticed a change. Ianthe dismisses this as lacking evidence. Pal keeps trying to argue, but Ianthe says she's eaten a soul, and he hasn't.
Palamedes So your best argument boils down to "I know more about this than you do." Ianthe It's a very strong argument. Unless we get into "what's it like to be weirdly codependent with your dead-eyed cousin," I'm more or less guaranteed to win. Minions! Clear all of this garbage away; my guest has to go and take some deep breaths for a while.
The attendants move forward, and Pal walks to the edge of stage so the curtain can come down once more, hiding the action behind him. He says that went well, but the voice says the argument went nowhere.
Palamedes Ouch. Voice Sorry, babe, I can't compliment-sandwich this.(27)
Pal says it wasn't nowhere, he has a better idea of Ianthe's philosophical stances, and he thinks he can exploit them. The voice asks if jumping into Ianthe's "pet body" was Camilla's idea.(28) It continues that the Third are very good at giving people what they think they want, and Pal's best bet might be to stop asking Palamedes-questions, which she expects, and start asking Ianthe-questions. Pal isn't good at those, but the voice encourages him: play to your own weakness, everything here is Ianthe. Pal protests, not the bit that's Naberius Tern, which the voice points out is the part Pal is trying to find.
Palamedes considers this. Palamedes Ianthe questions. Okay. He turns upstage as the curtain begins to rise. Voice I believe in you. Palamedes (Over his shoulder) You didn't always. I had to fight for that.
Scene Four
The curtain rises on the stage, reset, with Ianthe on her chaise once more. The order of the coffins is now changed to 7-2-3-4-5-6-1.(29) Ianthe asks if Pal is feeling better, Pal says he doesn't feel much of anything, being dead, but he has his next question.
Ianthe Oh, Lord. Something juicy about pneumatic apocope,(30) I expect. I feel like I'm playing strip poker with Harrow; shyly unbuttoning her baggy black robe to reveal a baggier, blacker robe(31) underneath . . . (Pause) Yuck. I hope that hasn't awakened anything in me.(32)
Instead, Pal asks if Ianthe regrets murdering Babs. All seven attendants strike the lids of their respective coffins, once, together, then pick up coffins 2-3 and 5-6 and form waist-high barriers on either side of the stage by stacking them. Pal stands behind the one on the left, Ianthe behind the right, facing center stage.(33)
Ianthe gets a little up in arms over calling it murder. Pal says if she has another word for killing "intentionally and with malice aforethought," he'd be glad to switch. Ianthe says there was no malice involved.
Palamedes slams both hands down flat on the lid of the upper coffin, then thrusts his arm out to point an accusing finger at Ianthe.(34)
Pal accuses Ianthe of avoiding the question.
Ianthe is somewhat taken aback. So, after a second, is Palamedes.(35)
Ianthe asks why Pal did that, but Pal doesn't know. Still, he gets back on topic, and asks if Ianthe really denies she murdered Babs. No, it's a fair enough accusation,(36) but society is really to blame.(37) The cavalier's whole purpose is to die for the necromancer, though Cam's got "an element of horse/stable door confusion".(38)
Pal counters that the cav's role is to protect their necromancer, so what did Tern die to protect, Ianthe's ambitions? Ianthe says she is the sum of her ambitions, and that's why she and "Harry" are Lyctors, and Pal is "a little bag of bones."(39) Pal suggests Ianthe must be a real catch for salespeople, because she never stops to look at the price tag. If she came into his shop, he'd triple the cost of everything, and Ianthe would be too careless to notice the label swap. Ianthe retorts that if Pal came into her shop, she'd have security throw him out when he tried to haggle.
Ianthe states outright: the cost is the cost, and if blood must be shed, you demean yourself by arguing over how much. Pal asks if that's her answer, then, that Tern had to die, so she regrets nothing? Ianthe pivots and says she was very fond of him, and she thinks he was fond of her.
Pal is surprised, and Ianthe says Babs had some good points. He was always a good source of drama, for example. His tragedy was that he looked like he should be very interesting, but he never was. He was loyal, though it was to Coronabeth. He was sworn to serve before Ianthe and Corona were even conceived,(40) but he never shirked his obligation to it. Not like Harrow's original cav, who couldn't come to Canaan House because he was too sad. Pal says he heard it was because he got blown up, and Ianthe says yes, blown up for being too sad. And look at Abigail Pent, bringing her husband, and where did she get?(41)
Pal is flabbergasted. He says, so Ianthe was raised with Babs, since before Pal even knew Cam, and she still doesn't regret killing him? Ianthe pauses, then says no, and claps her hands.
Ianthe (Brightly) That's all, folks!(42) Back after the break.
Pal wanders downstage, distracted, as the curtains descend behind him.
Palamedes Do you know the worst part? Voice Tell me. Palamedes From her point of view, it all makes sense. Tern was shaped over years to be nothing more than--than-- Voice A perfect tool? Palamedes --a resource.(43) Something to be saved up and then spent at just the right moment. [...] Voice (Reproachfully) Cam would have smiled at "perfect tool." Palamedes Yes--she would have.(44)
A long paragraph is spent describing Pal pulling out, lighting, and smoking a cigarette. The voice draws attention to it, which makes Pal stare, with no described emotion or expression, at the cigarette between his fingers.
The voice brings him back, asking if he has any ideas for his last two questions. Still distracted, he says he thinks he does. The voice warns, he needs to use these wisely. If he doesn't turn up something, he'll lose. At this, Pal comes back to himself, drops and stomps on the cigarette, wipes his hand on his jacket. He wishes he had more time to think. As he turns away, the voice says he "used to say that a lot."
Scene Five
The stage is back to neutral, but the coffins in order 3-2-7-4-1-6-5. Ianthe asks Pal if he's had any insight. Pal asks what Ianthe made of Gideon Nav, at Canaan House. Ianthe asks why the curveball, and Pal says he had a question to spare, and was curious. Ianthe is reluctantly kind of proud of Pal's sudden trash talk.
The attendants take coffins 3, 2, 7, and 4, making a rectangle of them on the stage, a dueling ring. Attendants bring two rapiers, offering the more ornate to Ianthe, who accepts, and the less ornate to Pal, who refuses politely. The attendant is confused but takes up a dueling stance with Ianthe in the ring.
Ianthe asks where she should begin on "sweet Gubbins."(45) Pal asks for first impressions. Ianthe and the attendant duel, the latter poorly. Another attendant takes the place. Ianthe says she was intrigued, because everyone else was exactly on script for their Houses. Harry playing her part to the hilt, but Gideon dawdling behind her? Not the Ninth brand.
Palamedes "Harry"? Ianthe It's my little name for her, you know. Palamedes I can't think of a single thing she'd hate more. Ianthe You lack imagination.
Another duel with an attendant, another win to Ianthe. Pal asks what was off. Ianthe says, well, everything! The sunglasses, the vow of silence she only barely kept, the way she handled her sword. She accuses Gideon of wandering around "like she was the protagonist and we were all there to give her something to look at."(46)
Another duel, another win. Pal asks when Ianthe knew she'd underestimated Gideon. Ianthe says she estimated Gideon Nav exactly right from the first moment she laid eyes on her: a hilarious moron. Pal suggests Gideon "was smarter than even she realised."(47) Ianthe is dismissive: Gideon lived and died a dope.
Another duel, another win. Ianthe says that's all Pal will get out of her on this one. Pal says it was "tremendously helpful" actually, and thanks her. Ianthe looks suspicious, but Pal is already walking downstage, his hands in his pockets, the curtain already falling.
Voice Poor Gideon. I think she sounded fun. Palamedes Mm. You'd have liked her, I suspect. I did, once I stopped being jealous.(48) Voice Can you do this with one more question?
Pal stares at the audience for a moment, and says he thinks so, though he'd have liked less... the voice supplies, psychology, and he agrees. The voice, addressing Pal as "my child", says "there's no shame in a bluff."
Pal, on the subject of shame, says he does feel ashamed of rooting around in a dead man's body like this. He didn't like Tern, but the man deserved better than this fate.
Voice "Use every man after his desert, and who should 'scape whipping?"(49) Palamedes (Surprised) I like that. Is it from something? Voice Yes. It's complicated.
Pal asks if she still thinks of him as a child. Her problem was always reminding herself that he was one, as she told him often. He apologizes for not saving or avenging her or Pro. She says she couldn't save Pal either, and Cytherea was so fast, Pro couldn't even touch her. And, at least "we both"(50) were killed by the same person. Pal isn't comforted. The voice says it'll work out "in the wash."
Pal says he wants to believe, so much, that she is who she says she is, but she can't possibly be here. He asks how she did it. She says she gambled on the truth,(51) then died.
Palamedes You died . . . again? Voice Truly, wonderful news for my haters.(52)
Pal asks if he can know what happened. The voice says yes, but she's not allowed to tell. It was awful, "in the old sense of the word."(53) Pal asks if she can give him something. She describes a letter Pal wrote that delighted her.
It convinces him, and he tells her, though she says he doesn't have to, that he loved her, still loves her, and would have loved to learn to love her better. She says it would have been beautiful, and "Camilla would have had to cook."(54) But she didn't just want beautiful, she wanted it to last, and knew it could never. She didn't want to steal Pal's youth and potential for love away from him.
Palamedes This again? From you and her both?(55) That merely by loving you, I added to your torments? Voice (Encouragingly) Yes, and also my agonies. Palamedes Dulcinea . . .
Dulcinea, finally named by the structure, says that Pal and Cam were her best friends, and she "loved real, ugly, unfinished things." There's a freedom in being incomplete. Now she's not in the River, and will never be again.(56) Pal says if she's on the shore, he can find her. She asks which shore. Pal asks her pardon. Dulcinea says a river has two shores(57) and he might find that out for himself if it ends well.(58)
Pal asks to see her. She asks if he's sure. He is.
Blackout on the stage. Then a light on Palamedes--a Palamedes who is completely dazzled, and staring blankly outward, at nothing in particular.
Pal recites a Bible verse(59), then the lights black out again, then return to normal. Behind him, the curtain starts to rise.
Dulcinea Was I cute? Palamedes turns and moves upstage. Palamedes You're perfect.(60)
Scene Six
The stage is back to neutral, the coffins replaced but reversed, leaving the order 4-7-2-3-1-6-5.
Ianthe says the tension is killing her, or really, killing Hect. Pal says he has a question left. Ianthe says it better be a whopper, because right now she estimates he has nothing upon which to base an answer. Pal asks if she's ready, and Ianthe makes fun of him for it.
Pal asks, if Babs had died at Canaan House, before completing the Eightfold Word, would Ianthe have eaten Corona instead?
The attendants all hit their coffin lids together, once, then pick up the last three coffins and set them in the middle of the stage, like two benches and a table. Pal sits on the left hand one, Ianthe on the right, where she gets a pack of cards from an attendant and starts shuffling slowly. Throughout the scene, they play and pick up cards.(61)
Ianthe says it would be "rather peculiar" to eat Corona, seeing as she's not a cavalier. Pal doesn't understand why. Ianthe explains that the cavalier's spirit is not just a power source, it's the Lyctor's body's defence system when their consciousness is elsewhere. Pal knew that much. Ianthe says her sister is not a swordwoman. She'd have lost to Magnus, not as a cavalier, but as he is now.
Pal says Corona's compatibility as a power source would have been even higher than Tern's, and surely you could train some more sword skill into the cav's spiritual remains. Ianthe says that no, the cavalier is essentially frozen at the moment of death. Pal wonders...
Ianthe Oh, no. We're not going through this again. The soul is a diamond, Sextus. You can leave it in a glass of wine for as long as you like, it's never going to soak anything up. Palamedes (Mildly) I thought you objected to analogies.(62)
Ianthe says the point is that she wouldn't have used Corona to finish the job. So, Pal asks what else she would have done, perhaps using someone else's cav. Ianthe says that would be terribly inefficient. Pal says, better than nothing, and she'd still be a Lyctor. And, Harrow's situation was "unorthodox" but she still has power on a scale her mortal self couldn't have dreamed of. Ianthe admits, alright, she might have used another cav, and starts going through the others available to her.
Pal pulls Ianthe out of that line of thought and back to the subject at hand. Now, he wishes Ianthe to imagine a situation where things at Canaan House went almost as wrong as they could have, Cytherea coming up the steps, and Ianthe and Corona the only survivors, the Eightfold Word on Ianthe's lips. Does she fold or raise?
Ianthe refuses. She says Pal couldn't understand the bond between twins. Pal, for his part, says that won't work on him this time, and demands to know why Ianthe's answer. Ianthe says nothing.
Pal continues that Ianthe has stated that the goal is always worth the cost, so either that was bravado, and there are costs Ianthe won't pay, or Corona is part of her goal. Will Ianthe tell him which it is?
Ianthe plays her last card. Softly, she says Pal can believe what he will, but she's won: he has no idea which coffin Babs's body is in. She stands, and an attendant clears the cards. Pal says she hasn't answered the question, but she insists she has: no, she wouldn't have killed Corona, and she doesn't have to justify that answer.
Pal stands, and the attendants put all the coffins back, again in reverse order, leaving 4-7-2-3-5-6-1, then all leave the stage, leaving Pal and Ianthe alone. Pal says he has one last question, it's yes-or-no and if Ianthe can answer it, he'll surrender immediately. Ianthe is suspicious, but Pal insists, all he needs is for her to be able to say yes or no. A question about Naberius.
Ianthe accuses Pal of trying to buy time, but Pal says if that were the case, he'd start another argument about how souls work.
Ianthe So, what--if I can't answer this question of yours, am I expected to do the decent thing? Applaud politely and retire? Palamedes Ianthe, I've been in your head for what feels like a week. I would never insult you by expecting you to do anything either decent or polite. Ianthe inclines her head in graceful acceptance of this point.
Pal says she has nothing to lose by answering, and she owes him a question from before.(63) Ianthe says she owes him nothing, but they look at each other, and she gives in, and tells him to ask. Pal's final question is whether Ianthe knows where Babs's body is.
The two move to stand at either end of the row of coffins. Pal starts explaining how the little signs, like the purple tie, started to tip him off, but he assumed it was Ianthe setting the rules. He opens coffin 4, which is empty.
Really, it was the cigarettes that did it. They don't exist on the Sixth, because of the fire hazards. He has never learned how to smoke, but he did it by reflex. Ianthe opens coffin 1, empty again.
Pal continues his exposition, that he wasn't sure until question four. He opens coffin 7, next one in, empty again. He asks how Ianthe knew that Gideon used her rapier like a racquet. Ianthe protests, she saw Gideon fight, but Pal got the full details from Cam, and by the time Ianthe showed up at the end, Gideon had her two-hander back.
Ianthe says she might have watched the duels. Pal says it's not possible, as Gideon only fought two duels, and Ianthe wasn't in the room for them, nor at any other time Gideon might have used her rapier. Ianthe says Babs and Corona both told her about it. Pal says that's unlikely, at least in such detail as about the racquet. It's not even a comparison Ianthe would make.
But it is the one Babs might.
Ianthe opens coffin 6, empty. Pal continues that Ianthe expresses little to no respect for rules, but in her ranting about Gideon, she said Gideon didn't know how to duel as a negative. But, Ianthe Tridentarius would have found that punch at the end of their fight funnier than anyone. He opens coffin 2, empty.
Palamedes You only got one question wrong, Ianthe, and it was the very first question. You can't admit what's happened here because you're fixated on this idea of the soul as inviolate and inviolable--this perfectly solid, impervious thing, the diamond sitting in the glass of wine. But souls are permeable. When they rub up against each other, they bleed--they mingle--they contaminate each other. Just from the handful of real-life seconds I've spent wrestling you for Naberius's body, I've picked up the knowledge of how to light a cigarette and a disturbing new enjoyment of trash talk. Ianthe opens the lid of coffin number 5. It's empty. She and Palamedes are now facing each other from a few feet apart, standing on either side of the last remaining closed coffin, number 3.
Pal says it's messier than he expected. He's started remembering things he never saw, from Cam's point of view, just from spending a few months in her body. Lyctorhood isn't swapping out a battery, it's a transplant. When she took Babs into herself, she ate a piece of meat, and that meat is digesting and its component parts mixing in with hers, to become indistinguishable. He knocks on the lid of coffin 3, and says if he's wrong, if Babs's body is inside, Pal will end his career "with a truly spectacular cock-up" and death will be welcome. If it isn't, then it's nowhere.
Palamedes turns downstage and starts to walk away from the coffins. Ianthe remains staring at coffin number 3. Palamedes There's no body left to find, Ianthe. Or, as I gather they call you now . . . Ianthe Naberius.(64) Palamedes keeps walking, away from the stage toward the back of the auditorium. Ianthe stands like a statue next to coffin number 3. She reaches out and places one hand against its closed lid as the curtain falls.
=====
(1) Our first hint at the occupant, really. Violet eyes, gold arm, and the gaudiness (affectionate) of the Third House in general. (2) Who are the mourners? The robed figures? For that matter, who are the audience? We have Ianthe, we have Palamedes, we have Dulcie in the audience from kind of across the River. Does that imply something about the audience versus the mourners as representing different things? Are they all just figments of Ianthe's imagination, background characters of her life, or is this something more? (Knowing what we do, probably both.) (3) What did you assume it is? I don't think the bloody kisses actually answer the question very satisfactorily, because, from whence cometh the blood? I do love the symbolism of the meat platter though, because that's all Babs ever was, and Ianthe is still eating him up. (4) Pal passing on Babs's meat is perfection, to me. He does consider it, maybe because of the desire not to stand out, maybe because of permeability starting to influence, maybe just because he's not yet aware of what it means. But he decides against it, because he's the last one there, because unconsciously he knows it's not his impulse to eat, because he recognizes on some level that Ianthe's meat platter is and has only ever been Babs. (5) Funny how much this stands out on immediate reread, eh? (6) The lady of the house, the master of the house, just another play on the gender fluidity that's easy for the eye to slip past. (7) I can't help but feel that this is related to Harrow's scene with Cam in HTN. See, Pal's soul was anchored to part of his skull. But if you recall, Harrow was spinning it out into a skeleton, starting with a hand. And I can't pinpoint right now, but I think I recall someone in the fandom wondering if the powder that caused Paul's transformation in the end derived from Pal's bones, even though he was at that point anchored fully to Cam. But, either way, the hand feels meaningful here. Hands so often are in this series.
(8) So, one reason I gesture at this is because the purple accents continue throughout, and it's impossible to ignore them with the Tridentarius natural eye colour being the most obvious parallel. The second reason is because Pal isn't the only one who picks up pieces of his companion in this sequence: Pal specifically said he finds the outfits nurses wear sexy, but those are so close to the stereotypical maid outfits as to justify a little eyebrow raising at Ianthe picking up a piece of Pal, I think. The final reason I gesture at the feather duster is because it's described as "enormous" specifically in the text. How big do you think it is? How big do you think you could make a prop for this performance? Grab a few purple feather boas at the Spirit Hallowe'en or something this autumn, fold them in half, tie them at the fold point to a sturdy stick. Just, you know, in case anyone's thinking about a cosplay, since this will be the defining feature. (9) I'd love to see a deeper examination from someone with theater experience as to what the stage directions might indicate, the comings and goings from each wall. (10) Why is it almonds? Is this a reference to a piece of media, a name of a nut as one or both go "nuts", or something else? I saw a compelling argument that it's related to the amygdala, two almond-shaped lobes in the brain that relate to memory, decision making, and emotion processing. (11) A note: not a lot of Americans in particular ever hear the original pronunciation of this word, so for the wise, it's "shayz", not "chase" or any of the other ways I've heard it. "Long" isn't quite the same as the French "longue" (it's got a sort of w in there, lowng, with the g a little more present) but it's close enough. It's "chaise" that really got the short end of loanwording. (I'm not saying anyone has to change how they do it, language is defined by use, not by origin, but a "chaise longue" comes from literally being a long chair in French, and if anyone DOES want to honour the original pronunciation over where it's gone, I want to help them.)
(12) I have no idea what this is referencing, but I feel sure that it is evoking something. An outfit of Augustine's that I can't find referenced in the text? Generally the male leads on historical romance novels, to play again with gender presentation? Some other specific thing? (13) Louche - indecent, disreputable. Think a neighbourhood of dive bars. (14) Flipping the script, keeping Pal off his guard as much as she can by jumping around a story and reassign the roles and the lines. (15) We know he actually probably was fun at parties, because according to the Cohort Intelligence Files, Judith met him at one once, and thought he wasn't serious enough about his role and title. Which, given that Judith has had a stick up her ass her entire life about duty (again, affectionate) I think we can take to mean that he was genuinely trying to be personable and fun at the party. (16) Dulcie is literally and figuratively separated from the stage, just as her spirit is now, apparently, if she's to be trusted, across the River. Does that mean beyond the stoma, or is there a more literal-figurative other bank? Is it that distance from the situation that gives her this insight, or was she always this good at reading people? (I'm asking here now to save myself another footnote later. Conservation of energy.) (17) Never go in against a Sicilian when death is on the line. This little sequence gives me very third-party Princess Bride vibes, though it's far from exclusive to that title. (18) Dulcinea, you naughty lady, I love this for you.
(19) I'm currently ignoring all symbolism that might be contained in the numerology of the doors because I don't understand it and I haven't seen anyone unravel it. However, I do feel like I'm right on the edge of recognizing what the ivy crown and perfume are supposed to represent. Ivy was often associated with Dionysus, the god of wine, fertility, ecstasy. The indulgence of the perfume and the further pouring of an ambiguous liquid into a goblet hints toward this end of things, but ivy was also a crown for Thalia, the muse of comedy, which would be perhaps even more apropos given the stage play of it all. But also, ivy was known outside Greek influence to be associated with fidelity and marriage, because it's green year-round and cleaves so sweetly and strongly to that upon which it grows. And all of these layers, every single one, comes back to permeability of the soul, and Ianthe's consumption of Babs, despite her skepticism. (20) Piquant - having a sharp or otherwise stimulating flavour. (21) I feel confident that this is what's intended by the tingue toungle bit, the implication that Ianthe might be getting drunk on her false wine, or at least is pretending she might. (22) Pétillance is much as Ianthe describes it, a light sparkle in a drink, or a sense of very mild fresh tingling from a very low carbon dioxide concentration. (23) OK I really haven't seen anyone mention this before but there's a fascinating thing going on with quotation marks as Ianthe replies here. Her direct responses to Pal, that she does not believe in permeability, all the way through to her aside, it's all in extra quotation marks, which Pal's statements don't have. (24) Pal was personally privy to one in the Doctor Sex story, after all. (25) Yes, I counted. Didn't you? It's very gracious of her to let all this stand as the one question for the sake of the narrative. (26) And here, indeed, is where the mysterious scare quotes end.
(27) I bet NONE of us guessed that this line belonged to Dulcinea when Tor did the pre-reveal puzzle. (28) Ah, but Dulcie, they've been slowly becoming Paul all this time. (29) I know I said I'm ignoring all the numerology, but I find it interesting that 7 and 1 are the only swap here, when Pal has just agreed to try to be more Ianthe. (30) This one's tricky. It's not an actual condition. In modern usage pneumatic just means engineering relating to air and air pressure, like pneumatic tires. But likely here it relates to the lungs (like pneumonia). And "apocope"… now that's a real puzzler, because it means the loss of the final sound or vowel in the pronunciation of a word. But, it comes from the Greek term for cutting off, like an amputation. So, I think Ianthe is referring to cutting out of the lungs. (31) I don't have the full context, and search engines are… really, really bad right now, but I do know that "a bigger, blacker dick" is a white response card in Cards Against Humanity, meant to outdo the card "a big black dick", and outdone itself only by the card "the biggest, blackest dick". This game was very popular a decade or so ago, because we were all edgelord jerks. (Yes, I have regrets.) At any rate, I assume they got the reference from somewhere, possibly a Chris Rock comedy routine title? But I can't find anything, er, definitive on the subject. (32) This, on the other hand, I can very much point at definitively. A scene in the TV show Community had the dean of the school hoping that watching a person in a dalmatian costume flex doesn't awaken anything in him. (33) Anyone who suspected the Phoenix Wright reference from this stage direction, job well done.
(34) OBJECTION! Alright, that's not the best video, but I couldn't find a simple one from the games that included both the slap and the pointing. There are compilations of the pointing animations of all the characters who ever object, but not the slap that comes first. (35) I do sort of love that they call attention to it to make sure you understand that it's a reference, but… Look, LOOK, look me in the eye and tell me a little of Jod isn't rubbing off on Ianthe already, that proximity to him isn't melting things across a little, and tell me you don't believe Jod absolutely played those games. Permeability of the soul need not be limited to literal contact with the soul: I think Muir is hinting that every time you let someone into your life, your souls are connecting, exchanging. And, isn't that true in real life? Can you say, for absolute certain, that your friends, your interactions, even your experience on social media, haven't changed you? I'm all about looking at the Watson and the Doyle, and I think this carries the weight of both. (36) What she says is "It's a fair cop, guv'nor." which has proven very difficult to run down as far as a specific reference, with guv'nor on the end, but generally is used to mean "I admit it, you caught me". (37) See, besides being a fairly common excuse given for committing crimes, I think this might be more evidence of Jod's influence. He's really good at blaming his problems on anyone but himself. I feel like I don't know as much about Ianthe, despite spending almost as much time with her. I could believe that she had a habit of it before… but given the whole point of this story, why not read more into it? For funsies. (This also makes the previous line a loose Monty Python reference, a skit of theirs included the line "All right, it's a fair cop, but society's to blame.") (38) Closing the stable door after the horse has already escaped. Ianthe sees the quest for a better Lyctorhood as pointless. If you recall, even she had the good sense to be awed when Paul emerged, but I like the context this gives to that.
(39) As a bonus question, when this scene takes place within the storyline of NtN, do we think that Ianthe still believes that Harrow's body is Harrow returned to the fold? Questions I have to ask myself the more I think about them… (40) Well, and left unsaid is that Corona was the older twin, the rightful heir, and Ianthe's jealousy has probably always been mixed evenly with her superiority because she got the power and Corona didn't. (41) Insert all the exaggerations here, because I'm fascinated at Ianthe's implications, as I see them. Abigail Pent ended up exactly where she wanted to be. Ianthe only seems to see the death, the wasted ambition and potential. She didn't know Pent at all. (42) I'm just glad Muir didn't try to write out Porky Pig's speech impediment to get this one across. (43) We joke a lot about Babs only ever being for consumption, never being a person, just an object. But it's also very much the truth. Ianthe never overestimated his worth to her. She just underestimated what he had done and would do to her. (44) Is this Dulcie hinting that Pal is already subject to his own permeability, even right before the cigarettes? (45) Gubbins - a collection of useless bits and bobs. Ianthe is so mean about Gideon, considering the friendship bracelets. Then again… Kiriona is the saddest girl in all the world, so she probably knows Ianthe doesn't really mean any of it. (46) Which is, of course, true. She was the protagonist of her story. But it's so interesting to see Ianthe, of the clever, quiet, observantness that still managed to miss so much, catch that behaviour. (47) Saw a post about how Pal makes this astonished face with Kiriona starts spouting necromancy facts, and how this line gives it new context. I just. Love. These books. I love Muir's brain. Every line can be looked at under a microscope and then the entire book totally recontextualized by ten words in a bonus story.
(48) Once he realized that Cytherea was not Dulcinea, and he had nothing to be jealous about, really. (49) The line from Hamlet is "Use every man according to his desert and who should 'scape whipping?" The short version of the context is Hamlet chastising Polonius for saying he'll give the guests what they deserve, because if we all only get what we deserve, who gets anything more than corporal punishment? So, where did Dulcinea get this line? Some force across the River? (50) This line is driving me feral. We both? Is that Dulcie and Pro, or Dulcie and Pal? Which we, Muir? (51) I want to believe this is a reference to Fullmetal Alchemist, but I have no supporting evidence for the case, just a suggestion that you go watch Fullmetal Alchemist Brotherhood or read the manga. (52) Another observation from a post I saw, but, what an incredible way to reframe a lack of success. "I missed the bus. Truly, wonderful news for my haters." It's a silly thing, but I bet if you tried, it would lighten the burden of a lot of everyday "failures" into a much more average sort of vibe. (53) Awful, as in awe-ful, as in filling one with awe. Incredible how THAT one twisted over the centuries, amirite? (54) I think this definitely confirms the part where both Pal and Cam were in some sort of polycule-y thing with Dulcinea. (No, I don't think Cam and Pal are in romance or sex with each other, but I do think that some relationships defy the simplicity of the labels we have access to.) (55) His conversation with Cam, earlier in Nona, that Nona heard on the tape. That Cam would rather carry his soul than live in a world that didn't contain him. They're such a mirror for Harrow and Gideon. (56) Does that mean she's beyond even a Resurrection? (57) I want to start singing that old, old song. Somewhere, beyond the sea, somewhere, waiting for me… It's a river, not a sea, but I must wonder if Muir ever smirked at the thought of it regarding Dulcie and Pal here. But, this recontextualizes a TON. One, Pal not telling Cam before the Paul-ification that he'd spoken to what he truly believed was Dulcie. Two, his saying "beyond the river" in that same final exchange. Three, everything we've ever been told about the River in the narrative... (58) If what ends well? What does "well" entain?
(59) Daniel 10:6, Douay-Rheims translation as Muir is so fond of it: "And his body was like the chrysolite, and his face as the appearance of lightning, and his eyes as a burning lamp: and his arms, and all downward even to the feet, like in appearance to glittering brass: and the voice of his word like the voice of a multitude." Daniel, speaking of having seen an angel. I got goosebumps when I realized. (60) Cute is insufficient to the moment, Dulcie. And you well know it. (61) Has anyone guessed at what game they're playing? It's not proper poker that I can tell, because you don't play that many cards down in it and they're not betting per se. Also, they play more cards than they're described being dealt or picking up. (62) Pal confirming his suspicions as we race to the end. (63) One assumes, her playing unfair up front and interpreting his first clarification as a question. (64) It was never just about her use of Babs as a puppet, adding his name to clarify to the readers of Nona that it wasn't Ianthe's body on the page, it was her somehow retrieved cav. It was always for this. She was always Naberius. Fuck.
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medieval-women · 2 years
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If you get an opportunity to go through the British Library digitised manuscripts, don’t miss this one! So many hilarious and bizarre images!
Harley MS 6563
Date c. 1320-c. 1330
Title: Book of Hours (fragmentary)
httpss://www.bl.uk/manuscripts/FullDisplay.aspx?index=4&ref=Harley_MS_6563
Here were my favourites:
1. I love her sassy face. They believe she represents the sin of avarice.
2. Woman playing the tambourine
3. Woman fighting with distaff
4. Woman fighting with sword
5 & 6. Nude warriors
7. Woman grieving at a tomb
8 & 9. Medieval killer bunnies, because they make me happy.
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I have no idea if anyone has ever asked you anything like this, so feel free to ignore if they have, Tumblr won't let me search anything on your blog 🥲
Anyways, to the question: I study microbiology, and have always had a huge interest in fungi. Mummies are known to sometimes have problems with fungal growths, and fungi can live for many years in spore form in places such as tombs, before being disturbed by archeologists. Do you think fungal illnesses could contribute to some of the happenings people tend to blame on "curses"?
I've thought on this a lot, because if a tomb contains fungal spores of some of the more dangerous/infectous species, kicking up dirt within the tomb and interacting closely with a mummified body could contribute to illness or death (especially in the past when we had less treatment and detection options). This could lead to people developing superstitions on what they believe to be mysterious deaths, that might actually have been the fault of a fungal pathogen. Of course, I have never been in a tomb myself nor studied Egyptian tombs in particular, so I thought your opinion would be valuable!
I do have a whole FAQ, and the search function is turned off on my blog because quite frankly it's never served any decent purpose and I'd rather not have my blog indexed by google.
Anyway, in short the answer is no not really.
While some people have died from microbial infections in tombs thanks to fungi, it's not the reason for the curse narrative. This is mostly because they discovered people had died from fungi long after the curse narrative was already in effect. Sure they add to it, but they're not the cause. I've said time and again that it is the Victorian obsession with the occult/racism/death that leads them down the 'oh no spooky black magic' and inventing stories where mummies come back to life. This is then coupled with the 'Tutankhamun's curse' narrative which was popularised after the tomb was opened because Carter gave the sole rights to talk about the tomb to the Times newspaper, leaving every other newspaper with nothing to publish. So they started a curse narrative, and when Lord Carnarvon died of an infection (he hadn't been well anyway) it was a free for all on 'THE DEAD ARE KILLING PEOPLE'. This then got baked into popular consciousness with films and tv shows reinforcing the narrative, and that brings us to today where it is reflexive to think anything from Ancient Egypt (or elsewhere) is cursed simply by opening it.
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tadpolejourney · 7 days
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Day 3
I found a lute. Not a great one, but it plays in tune. Good enough for me. I already miss my guitar. I found a letter between lovers (on a corpse, quite tragically) that mentioned traveling to Baldur's Gate. It must be nearby. City of my cruel upbringing, my sorrows, my ire, and my ghosts. I'd rather go back to the Hells.
I also found the apparently renowned “Gale of Waterdeep”. Yes, he introduced himself to me with a title rather than his simple name. Already encountering some serious characters, or rather characters taking themselves very seriously. He's very intelligent and charming, but likely prone to arrogance which other people would (naturally) find off-putting. Despite the fact that I discovered him, as a supposedly adept wizard, stuck inside his own portal, he still had the audacity to call his rescuer 'unlettered'. Why bother to use manners if you're just going to insult people anyway? Annoyingly, I think he's quite handsome. Of course I'd never tell him so. His ego clearly needs deflating, not inflating. He could be projecting all that bravado to mask deep insecurity though. I can't tell yet. He wasn't the least bit judgy about me picking through crates, barrels, and corpses for useful items. And out of everyone I've met thus far he seems to be the most trustworthy. We'll see.
We encountered the githyanki woman snared in a trap by a pair of tieflings. I had to convince them that she was intelligent and not some thing to be trapped and killed as you would a wild animal. They were easily swayed and I freed her. Her name is Lae'zel. She mentioned a githyanki creche would hold a cure for our infection. She's grumpy, callous, and impatient, but she's extremely dependable in a fight. She seems too literal in her speech and truly believes in what she promises, which tells me she is not being deceptive. However, convictions do not always hold actual truths. Gale seemed intrigued by her, though I suppose anyone would be in this realm. I know I am.
A pale elf named Astarion lured me into a trap and held a knife to my throat. I've heard it's a great way to make friends, but I've never tried it myself. He's gorgeous, but assuredly deadly. Eyes of a predator. What I saw when our minds collided confirmed what I suspected. He was hunting something or someone. He was predictably coy when I asked him about himself. Claimed to be a magistrate. Yeah, and I'm a fucking queen back home. He's hiding a hell of a lot. Another alliance which I shall be extraordinarily wary of. I suspect my other allies will be on their guard around him as well, at least they should be.
We happened upon an old crypt. According to Gale it used to be dedicated to Jergal, Scribe of the Dead. I found a button, which is to say I immediately pushed a button I found. Turned out to be a trap. We were ambushed by skeletons, which we promptly dispatched. They were guarding a tomb with a peaceful mummified undead inside. He seemed to have premonitions about my fate, and said he could revive me or any of my 'companions' should one of us perish. He refused to elaborate on anything. Okay, weird skelly boy.
We camped at the crypt and there was an ornamental piano, filthy but miraculously still in tune. I annoyed Lae'zel, who called my music 'hellish screeching and clanging'. Clearly uncultured. Astarion and Gale spent the evening separately brooding. I didn't feel like singing, but it was nice to play for a while. I played through bits and pieces of what I've been putting together for Act V, and it sounds just fine to me. I hope I'll get to finish it.
Get this, all of my newfound allies have their fucking stuff. Bags of holding with tents and all the creature comforts you'd want for camping. I'm the only one without. Fuck my life.
I haven't seen Shadowheart yet. I wonder if she made it. No sign of the creature called Us either.
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