you know those sensory deprivation tanks where they lie you down in a pool of salt water and turn out the lights, and everything is so quiet and dark and warm that you are left with only your thoughts in the place of your physical senses? this is depression to me: floating in the dark without an anchor, a lifeline, or any tangible thing while I remain, so aware of my flaws and desires and fears and, yes, even my apathy; and in that floating place the world I knew—a world made of color and light and motion; of heat and texture and gravity; of sugar and salt, stench and sweet scent—it fades. Fades beyond memory, beyond experience, until I question its existence at all. Was there ever such a place, or am I all there is—a ghost which thought itself human, purposeless, drifting between realities while it mourns the life it wishes it had.
arms that hold my brokenness together
laughter that makes me less alone
smiles that banish darkness, hands which proffer gifts
and carry all the things that I cannot
feet that come running when I call
eyes who see beyond the mask I weave
a safe place, a warm space,
this human turned a haven for my soul
anticipation
the waiting game we play
as I lean on the counter
and my brother pulls up a stool
and both of us cram our mouths with handfuls
of m&ms and peanuts
unable to stop
not because we are hungry but
because they are there for the taking
and the recessed lights
turn my mother into some sort of angel
as she carries the dish to the oven
the door opens and I shiver
escaping heat warming my cheeks
and my heart
as I dream of all
the tastiness to come
and how one simple dish
can feel like home
when I like a surgeon
a sculptor, a prospector
sift through the silt
carve away the outer layers
extract the pieces that
shine, shimmer, shapely
in my hands
shifting, rearranging until
the perfected piece
polished to that brilliant
state of being just shy of perfection
which I call ‘good enough’
and none but me can
see its flaws
what the world tries to be rid of
are the things that I treasure:
strands of silver in stark contrast
softened middles and weakening eyes
scars and stubborn spots and
thinning skin upon our hands;
for not so long ago
the future was a whispered prayer
an endpoint unfathomable
a hope unreached for out of fear
and now we’re here
now we’re here
now we’re here
hands trace the soft
sweeping planes of your skin
and I note the places you have been
following your journey along
birthmarks and scars and fingertip bruises
like navigator’s marks and
lines of charcoal and
thumbtack pins
that mark each milestone
until your hands find mine
and soft lips caress weary fingertips
inviting me to rest
here, now, always
in the present we share
directionless, I go through
the same motions
again and again
the same motions
that dull my mind
the same motions
that make me believe
the same motions
that I am nothing
the same motions
that this is all there is
the same motions
forever and ever
the same motions
as I hold my breath
the same motions
and wait for something more
the same motions
as more never comes
then, something different;
a new cadence
at last, I can breathe again
the freshness of hope and light
fills me up and makes me
move to a new beat
and I revel
for in stagnation there is death
and to take even the
smallest
step
forward
brings
life
I feel your presence like a specter
lingering at the edges of
time and
space and
memory
and though you move
in and out of focus
I know it is you
even in the dimmest light
the vaguest recollection
the line between comfort
and haunting regret
even more indistinct than
the sound of your voice
which I have already
begun to
forget
I don’t know why it is
so hard
to make decisions;
why the most
trivial of choices
weighs me down
with finality.
as if I can’t take it back
as if I cannot change my mind
as if I cannot be changed
and maybe that
is the thing I fear the most.
I peer into the darkness
try to make sense of the world beyond
my window
but my face stares back—
dull, flat, blurry, bleak,
hollowed eyes and fractured silhouette
a figure from another plane
a silent watcher guarding lesser shadows
staring in as I stare out
I wonder what she sees
and if the glow from the kitchen light
seems inviting and warm
a fluorescent halo round my unkempt hair,
or if it casts my face in shadow
and makes me monster
and if she feels relief
that she is out there in the night
while I remain behind the glass
Was doing some thinking about the Hawke brothers’ parents in their new universe... They’re basically the same, but here’s what I’ve got:
Zeke:
Ethan looks just like him, but Gil acts just like him-- when he’s behaved, anyway
Was an officer in the Levantine army; the two older boys followed in his footsteps
Zeke is pretty self-assured: loud, the center of attention, generally likable and charming, and really good at what he does. He’s the perfect officer. At least when the higher-ups are looking.
Not so much a lady’s man as generally, well... he’s always surrounded by hopefuls (of all genders); he’s actually fairly clueless about it all, unless he himself is interested
Norah:
Neal is DEFINITELY her kid: passionate, fiery, bit of a know-it-all
Actually, she couldn’t stand to be around Zeke at first; she thought he was too arrogant, when he’s really just himself (it’s all a bit Pride and Prejudice, really-- but more on that later)
She’s also the daughter of Zeke’s SO-- ruh roh!
Loves dancing-- it’s one of the few things that bring her true joy. In fact, her dream was to be a performer, which she accomplishes with relative ease
She winds up going on the road for a while. She and Zeke exchange letters while she’s away. (Z’s teased mercilessly for it. He gives no figs.)
Eventually, she starts an arts school in Levant; she is still headmaster, although she dances less every year.
Their Story:
Zeke and Norah met at a military ball-- and by met, I mean watched each other from a distance. It was love at first sight for Zeke. There was no lack of interest on Norah’s part, either, but neither had a chance to talk. Mostly, they exchanged glances and comically missed each other at every turn. Zeke was always surrounded by a crowd but turned down every dance partner; it made him seem standoffish and conceited in Norah’s mind, when really he just has two left feet and hates dancing. He couldn’t quite get up the courage to ask her to have her feet stepped on, and by the end of the night neither had made a move.
Months pass. They don’t see each other again until one day Norah visits her father (Zeke’s superior officer) at work. Undeterred, Zeke determines right then and there to ask her out at the next ball. His friends try to discourage him. Zeke decides to take dancing lessons.
At the next ball, he makes his move. Norah is surprised and a little reluctant but she eventually agrees. It gives her a chance to confront him:
“Why don’t you dance with anyone else?”
“I’m not interested in anyone else. ...And also I can’t dance.”
“You’re doing fine, now.”
“I, uh, I took lessons, actually. I didn’t want to step on your toes.”
He’s clearly embarrassed and seems to be telling the truth, and Norah decides to give him a chance.
The next few weeks are a whirlwind for them both. Norah is always pulling him along, showing him new and colorful things and opening up his world. Later, when they were older, he’d admit, “I used to think I’d seen it all. Then I met your mother, and the floor opened up beneath me and dropped me into a whole new world.”
For Norah, Zeke became a foundation. He was a steady rock, a ground for her wild electric heart. Being a traveling performer is never easy, but Zeke was her confidence, her reassurance, her biggest fan. He encouraged her at every step and held her hand during the hardest times. “He was and always will be my heart’s defender.”
They were married hardly a year later, with everyone’s blessing. Zeke continued to serve, a career military man well into his later years. Norah followed her dreams and joined a dance troupe; she performed well into her 30s (even after three boys!) and only quit after an injury forced her hand. After that, she began teaching out of a little rented building in Levant. This was the start of the Levantine School for the Arts which she still runs to this day.
The Hawkes have seen their share of hardship and celebrated nearly 30 years of triumphs, but their greatest joy has been to do so together.
Eden Tellain descended the stairs with a wary, careful stride. To her surprise, Eden had no need of a torch; though there were no windows (the staircase being hidden inside the heart of the castle), orbs of bright light cast a faint orange glow from their positions along the wall. Magic, but a spell she did not recognize. So long as she had their light, she didn’t much care how they worked. Despite her draconic heritage, magic was still something she struggled with.
The castle of Vayen was large and held many secrets, and she had found this place completely by happenstance. She had dropped her quill beneath the throne that day, and while she scrabbled after it on hands and knees Eden had discovered a curious knot on carved on the underside of one leg. It had taken some prodding (and no small amount of sneaking about, just to get away from her usual entourage of guards and attendants), but finally, finally her determination had paid off—for the knot, she discovered, was a small button, and that button opened a panel in the floor behind the throne; and that, in turn, had led her here.
She ought to have told someone where she was going in case this turned out to be some sort of trap, or she found herself lost in a labyrinth that no one living remembered. Or brought someone with her, since it wasn’t likely that Ilia or Fohley would stay behind willingly when there were adventures to be had. But it thrilled her to know something no one else knew, and even during a growing war she reveled in the diversion. This was a secret she wanted to herself.
She descended two floors, perhaps three, before the stairs came to an end. They leveled out at a short stone-walled hall, which in turn ended at a pair of large doors. The doors were tall, pieced from hardwood planks and carved in simple scrollwork, the painted over in rich, velvety black. Metal bands, likely steeled reinforced both top and bottom; a large chain, nearly as thick as Eden’s wrist, wound through the handles, looping round and secured by an equally-large padlock.
Eden eyed the doors with apprehension. Great things lay beyond doors like that. The true question was whether it was a good sort of great, like a hidden shrine or ancient treasure, or if whatever was locked behind those doors was the great and terrible sort.
She was still weighing her options when a sound startled her—a voice from behind, familiar and smooth.
“Well, are we going in or not?”
Eden forced herself to turn slowly instead of pouncing on the intruder. The glare, however, she didn’t hold back.
“Ilia Andel, how the hell did you get down here?”
Ilia—fair, freckled, sure of himself in a way she’d come to find endearing—took it all in stride. “The same way you did,” he answered, gesturing with one hand toward the stairs. His tone was all casual evenness, but the slight upturn at the corners of his mouth gave away his amusement.
“Don’t smirk at me. What are you doing, following me around?”
“I was curious—which is much the same reason I’m sure you’re here.” He stepped past her, his eyes scanning the doors in swift appraisal. “Is this why you’ve been avoiding me all day?”
Eden flinched. “I’ve been avoiding everyone,” she said softly. It wasn’t personal. “I just—I never have a moment’s peace anymore. So I thought…”
“You wanted this to yourself.” He smiled at her, then, the expression carefully neutral. “Very well. If that is what you wish, I’ll take my leave.”
Ilia tried to escape up the stairs, but Eden sighed and caught his arm. “Why are you always so dramatic?” Ilia gave her a quizzical look but remained silent, yelping only when she started to pull him after her and only then because he was still facing the opposite direction.
“Excuse me—”
“No, you’re stuck with me, now come on. Let’s see what we’ve found.”
Ilia wriggled from her grasp and turned, trying unsuccessfully to hide his smile. “As my lady commands.”
They approached the double doors together, Eden staring at the padlock in dismay. “Don’t suppose you brought a key with you?”
Ilia shook his head and laid his hands up on it, instead. When the touch didn’t burn him, the dragon nearly sagged with relief. Not iron, then; that made things easier. “I could attempt to melt it,” he offered, running his slender fingers along the chain. Eden blinked.
“You can do that?”
He chuckled. “Well, it’s your castle, now. You can do whatever you—”
“Not what I meant.” She hunched forward slightly, her face a mask of disinterest as she ignored the dragon’s irritated huff. Ilia hated being interrupted. He also couldn’t resist showing off. “Show me?”
Ilia hmphed again but pressed a palm flat against the chain. Then he too leaned forward, so close that at first Eden thought he was going for a kiss. Instead, the dragon pressed his lips and blew on the links cupped in his hand. Eden stared, relaxing her eyes just enough to see the magic working.
Dragons did breathe fire, she had learned, but in their human form it looked a little different. What Ilia did now was literally breathing; it was warm, laced with soft amber magics and heating everything around it—including the chain. Ilia breathed again, blowing on the now-glowing chain as if encouraging a spark to catch. And catch it did, for a moment later the links burned white hot—so much so that Eden was forced to take a step back—and fell apart, melting like wax before an open flame.
Eden eyed his work appreciatively. “One day you’re going to show me how to do that.”
Ilia stood, wiping his hands on his thighs as if the metal had somehow sullied him, and smiled. “Shall we?” Together, they pulled the broken pieces from the great door handles and, with a mutual reassuring nod, pushed them open.
“I… I can’t see a thing,” Eden huffed. It was pitch black inside; even with the light from the entrance, she could only see a few yards into the room beyond. She took a few steps inside, willing her eyes to adjust faster. Ilia fell in beside her, squinting into the dark.
The doors shut behind them.
Eden growled. “Light above…!” Of course it was a trap. Of course! She shouldn’t have expected it. Now they were trapped in the dark with gods only knew what—
A blue flash beside her made Eden jump, momentarily blind. Then she punched her companion with a curse.
“Ow! What did I do?”
“Warn me next time!” she hissed, raising her fist for another blow. Ilia shrank back with a laugh, one hand raised in surrender while the other held his little flame aloft.
“Milady asked for a light!” she protested. “I thought it best to comply with the swiftest—alright, alright, don’t hit me again!” For Eden was advancing on him, arm drawn back. She let it fall, then, satisfied, and chose to look around instead. What she saw made her breath hitch.
The entire room was filled with treasure. Mounds and mounds of it. Even in the dim light of Ilia’s flame, all was shine and sparkle.
“Where are we?”
“The treasury?”
“No, I’ve seen the treasury. This is…” Eden halted. Ilia sounded breathless, his breathing quick and ragged. Eden, concerned, turned toward him. But he didn’t seem to be in pain. On the contrary, the man was flushed with excitement, eyes wide, blue freckles nearly glowing with covetous glee. He was trying, quite ineffectually, not to grin.
Dragons.
“Easy there, king of the hoard,” she said. “We don’t even know what this is. Or who it belongs to.”
“Your castle, remember?” His eyes took on a regretful look, but it was gone so quickly it could have been a trick of the flickering light. “Come, let’s see what else is here. Who knows what could be buried beneath all this gold.” His excitement was back; Ilia offered his hand with a grin, and Eden took it, returning her own. Either his enthusiasm was catching, or she was more of a dragon than she thought.
The two of them picked their way through the piles of coins and jewels, wading, digging, climbing, and sliding about as if the heaped treasure were great dunes of sand. Buried beneath, they found all manner of things: jeweled swords, statuettes of rulers long gone, even a clockwork frog that hopped unsteadily down the golden slope after Eden set it loose. It was like digging up the past, each new find bringing her closer to the kinship she had lost with this place so long ago. She longed to find something of her mother, form her time in the castle, or perhaps of her aunt and uncle, the late king and queen.
“Do you suppose this was a private collection?” Eden asked suddenly.
Ilia, picking through a pile at the bottom of the mound she stood upon, didn’t look up. He’d set the flame to floating beside him to free both of his hands. “It’s possible,” he answered, letting the small coins sift through his fingers with a satisfying clink. “There were rumors, of course, that the dragon rulers of Vayen kept a personal hoard somewhere in the castle. No one could ever find it, of course, so it was never proven. But I think, given the—”
Ilia stopped digging, his shoulders hitching as if he’d been struck.
“Ilia?” Setting down the jeweled hair comb she’d been admiring, Eden half walked, half-surfed down the hill to meet him. She approached him softly, hand already reaching for him. “Ilia, are you alright?” She blinked. “You’re shaking.”
The redhead was indeed trembling, eyes staring wide at whatever he had uncovered. A hundred different emotions fought for dominance in those eyes, and they sparkled in the flame’s blue glow. Tears, she realized.
Eden peered around him, desperate to know what had shaken him so. At his feet lay a painting, framed in cherry and in fair condition despite having been buried for so long. It was a portrait of two figures, a man and a woman; husband and wife, she guessed. They were young, not much older than herself, and though they were barely touching she had the overwhelming impression that they were very much in love.
The woman, seated, was a redhead, pale and freckled with a slender face and smiling green eyes. The man, who stood behind her with his hand upon one shoulder, was blonde, darker skinned, and stared out of the canvas with piercing bright blue eyes.
Ilia’s eyes.
“I thought everything was destroyed,” Ilia murmured, his voice quaking with emotion. “How did this…?”
Eden rested a hand on his shoulder, and the dragon leaned into her touch. It seemed to anchor him, for the shaking ceased; Ilia took a deep breath, two, then turned to face her. He was smiling, but his eyes still held a pool of unshed tears.
“Eden Tellain,” he said, bowing slightly, “I would like to introduce Lord Alartus and Lady Esfir Andel. My parents.”
She studied the portrait again. He was so like them both—her short nose, high cheekbones, dancing eyes; his thin playful lips and piercing gaze; the arc of his father’s brows. Ilia favored his mother, both in color and feature, but there was no doubt he was this man’s son.
“May I?” she asked, and Ilia waved his assent. Eden stooped to pick up the portrait, shaking a few loose coins from the creases in the frame. She brushed the canvas with her fingertips, the barest touch tracing Lady Andel’s face. “She’s beautiful,” she whispered. “You look just like her.”
Ilia hummed and sat down on a cask of gold; he ran a hand through his hair (a nervous tick she’d only lately begun to truly notice) and shook his head. “Boy never wants to hear he looks like his mother,” he chuckled darkly, “but what I wouldn’t give now…”
He sighed, giving his head a rueful shake, then patted the gold beside him. Eden took the offered seat and passed him the portrait without a word. They studied it in silence for a time. She was content to let him be; she, too, had lost family in this war. She, too, was a lone survivor. So she let him pore over the picture, praying that this small token would ease some of the burden he still carried.
It was Ilia who broke the silence.
“This used to hang in my father’s study,” he said finally. He didn’t look at her as he spoke, nor did he look at the painting; his eyes had taken on a glassy, far-away quality. Recalling a memory. “He was so proud of it. Had it commissioned after he found out my brother Nic was on the way. Said he’d never been so happy.” Ilia sighed. “They would have liked you, you know,” he said, smiling finally. “My parents. Well, all of them really. Raisa—my sister—she’d have adored you. I’d have been forced to fight Nic for your hand, of course, but—” His voice grew thick with unexpected emotion, and Ilia stopped to clear his throat. “Sorry, I…” He halted again, unsure.
Eden rested her hand on his shoulder, smiling gently. “You miss them. It’s alright.”
Ilia stared at his hands. For a moment, Eden thought he might not answer at all. That would have been fine, of course; Ilia was rarely forthcoming with his feelings, but she knew that the subject of his family was one he guarded closely. But, after the moment passed, he spoke—voice high, strangled, and weak.
“It’s been nearly twenty years,” he said. “Why does this never heal? Why do they—” A single gasping sob escaped, and Ilia lifted a shaky hand to his mouth to prevent more from escaping. Eyes tightly shut he sat just like that: immobile, terrified to breathe; Eden’s hand still on his shoulder but for the occasional reassuring squeeze.
Time passed, its pace leisurely in the face of his grief. Then, slowly, as if he’d been frozen, Ilia came back to life. He breathed again, chest heaving as he fought for control. His shoulders relaxed, fists unclenched. Cerulean blue eyes blinked furiously, unseeing, rimmed with red and unshed tears.
Ilia picked up the painting. “Can I keep this?” he asked softly. The question surprised her.
“By all rights, it belongs to you, hoard or no,” she answered. Her hand slipped to his back, rubbing gentle circles between his shoulder blades. “Of course you can.”
“I don’t deserve you.” He spoke so casually that Eden wondered at it.
“Ilia, they’re your parents. How cruel would I be to—”
“I don’t just mean the painting,” and Eden, once again, had to stare at him in surprise. He looked… angry. “I mean, well I’m—I have—” He gestured rudely at himself, as if that cleared things up.
“You don’t deserve me because you’re sad?”
“Because I’m still petrified to let you in.” She blinked, not understanding. “Because you’re the best thing to happen to me since this mess of a war began, and if I lose you too, I—”
This time he bit his lip, the temporary pain distracting him from the growing ache in his chest. A single bead of red welled up where teeth met skin.
“Stop that!” Eden snapped, appalled. She took his face in his hands and used her thumb to clear away the blood. “If you need to cry, just cry and get it done with! I won’t think any less of you.”
Something warm and wet trickled over her fingertips, and Eden met his eyes with a start. Ilia was staring at her, mouth slightly agape, eyes wide, cheeks awash with silent tears. She stared back, stunned to silence; then, when the seconds had stretched into minutes, Ilia laughed. Laughed through his tears, through the pain in his lip, his chest, his back; through the much deeper pain that always skulked about in the corners of his heart.
And Eden smiled.
“Feel better?” The dragon nodded with a chuckle.
“A bit. Aah…” He scrubbed at his eyes with the back of his sleeve; a very uncharacteristic sort of thing for him to do, as particular about his appearance as he was. “Why do you put up with me?”
“Because you won’t leave me alone.” But he laughed again, and so did she. “And because I would never have made it here without you.”
He placed a hand on hers, pressing it against his flushed cheek. “I’m beginning to think that goes for both of us,” he said softly. Then the dragon sighed. “I really don’t deserve you, do I?”
“No,” she said, her smile warm, “probably not. But I, for one, am glad we don’t always get what we deserve.” And then she kissed him.
All around her was dark, a blackness so absolute it weighed her down, limbs heavy and heart feeling crushed beneath her own lungs. Kalysta knew this darkness, was familiar with it like her own skin, because it was her. This was a place of her own making.
But familiarity did not make it any less frightening. Instead, knowing made it worse. She knew what happened here, what she would have to face before it was over. Knew it wasn’t real.
Not true—the pain was real. The dagger this place would drive into her soul cut like any blade the waking would could conceive. Still, she would try to be brave. Maybe this time she could endure it. Maybe this time wouldn’t be so bad.
The faces began to appear before her, and Kalysta steeled herself with a deep breath. She wouldn’t let the win. Not this time.
The figures appeared slowly at first, fading into existence from the feet upwards. She didn’t have to guess, though; these people she knew like breathing. They were always the same: first, her mother, not thin and shriveled and broken as she’d been at the end but young, beautiful, raven-haired and fresh-faced and smiling. Next her father, whom Kalysta had never actually met. She’d always imagined him, what he must have been like, and that was the form his specter took now. Tall, strong, well-dressed but plain, a laborer with large hands, callused but gentle. His was the only figure without a face, a blurred shape where his head should be, the features shifting their form and color just before they came into focus.
The next figure had been a surprise the first time she had come here, but now she merely sighed as Victor faded in. The man had been her first and only love, back when Kalysta had been young enough to fall for such childish things. He was exactly how she remembered, considering it had been nearly seven years: slender and charming, the grin of a boy seventeen and self-assured permanently affixed to his face. Kalysta had long left him behind, yet here he was, ready to torment her all over again.
The next two, the final two, were the worst by far. The other ghosts were of the past, and when this was over they would stay in the past, locked deep and away. But these two, the final figures Kalysta always hoped would not be there yet always were, she saw every day.
Kennan Knightley and Lysander Everstar were as alike as oil and water and about as compatible, but they were also the closest thing Kalysta had to friends. They were her lovers, her partners, business and pleasure rolled into two perfectly imperfect human beings. Kennan was her protector, her strength, and as much as he claimed not to care one lick about either of them, Kalysta knew better. She trusted him; her mistake, but she could hardly take it back now. He was a man of simple needs, simple desires, but he wasn’t stupid. Wasn’t soft. Kalysta liked that about him. It made him easy to work with; reliable. As much as muscle-for-hire could be, anyway.
And then there was Sand. The mastermind behind all their schemes, the one who kept them moving up and on even when it felt like there was nowhere to go. Lysander was… complex. She knew him better than anyone, and yet some days (most days?) she hardly knew him at all. Oh, he had his habits, his vices—she was one of them—but for every facet of his she saw there were three more she never would. Yet, Kalysta knew she’d follow him into hell itself if he promised the right payout. What Lysander Everstar promised, he always delivered.
She loved them—both of them. It was safe to admit that here, in the quiet and the dark. The only ones who could use it against her were the ghosts. Kalysta studied their faces as if she didn’t see them every day; as if this was the last time. She followed the curve of Lysander’s lips as they curled around his cigarette; the frown lines etched into Kennan’s stubbled skin. Her eyes devoured every detail, committing them to memory before the figures could fade away.
“Worthless.”
The word rang through the silence like a gunshot, consonants echoing sharply off walls that were not there and rattling inside her skull. Kalysta flinched and looked up. It was her mother who had spoken, her once easy smile twisted into a sneer.
“Life ruiner,” she spat, and Kalysta pushed back at the sudden sting of tears.
Something cold and unyielding snaked its way around her ankle, and despite herself Kalysta jumped. A black chain, thick as her wrist and gleaming in the light that did not exist, had twisted itself around her. The other end led off into the dark. As many times as she had been here, Kalysta had no idea what lied at the end of the chain—only that she didn’t want to go.
Dread began to seep into her bones. She’d forgotten this part.
“Unwanted,” said her father, and another chain looped around her other foot.
“Second-rate,” Victor laughed—laughed, and Kalysta felt like screaming. More chains wrapped around her body, one for each word as the ghosts tore her apart.
“Common,” Victor added, and she wondered how she’d ever loved him.
Kennan stared at her in disgust. “Whore.”
“Pawn,” and Lysander smiled as he flicked his cigarette butt at her face. “Gullible. Plain.”
“Weak.”
“Easy.”
“Low-brow.”
“Bitch.”
“Mistake.”
Kalysta fell to her knees, the weight of their accusations heavier than even the chains strangling her. She trembled under the onslaught, tried not to listen, tried to cover her ears and block them out, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t move. The chains were everywhere, a tangle of constricting black metal that kept her immobile. They dragged her down until she was face down on the floor, but just because she couldn’t see the figures didn’t mean she couldn’t hear them. Kalysta stared into the black nothingness and wept.
“No.” The word was a sob strangled and raw. “No, I’m not—I’m not—”
“Disgusting.”
“Good-for-nothing.”
“Unlovable.”
“Unworthy.”
“Garbage.”
“Not worth our time.” That last was in unison, and Kalysta lifted her head in horror.
“No,” she cried, “don’t leave me here!” But the figures were already beginning to fade. Kalysta felt the loops tighten around her; panic set in, and she struggled wildly. All for naught. She still couldn’t move.
“Please!” She begged. Her parents were already half gone, and Victor had faded out below the knees. Kalysta turned her eyes on Kennan and Lysander instead. Surely, they wouldn’t leave her in this place.
“Kennan, darling— Lysander, Sand my love. Please. Please don’t do this. Don’t leave me here. I can’t be alone, don’t leave me alone like this, please—”
They had already begun to fade by the time she’d said their names, but the words wouldn’t stop. Kalysta begged as she cried, great heaving sobs stealing her breath away and making the words unintelligible. She’d have doubled over in pain if the chains had allowed it.
Something moved in the darkness. Panic gave way to paralyzing terror; the chains were pulling at her, dragging her back, away from the fading ghosts and into the darkness beyond. No—gods no—this wasn’t happening—
“Mom!” Her mother was little more than a Cheshire smile. “Sand, Kennan! Don’t let them do this!” It took all her strength, but she lifted a hand and reached out to them, stretched as far as her bonds would allow. They were still dragging her, still pulling her into the dark unknown. Desperation set every nerve on fire, and she reached farther.
“Please! Please, I’ll do anything! Don’t let them take me! Don’t—”
They were gone. With them went any light in this place—and her hope.
Don’t abandon me.
Kalysta collapsed. As if sensing her surrender, the chains pulled her with eagerness, yanking her off into the gloom. She screamed.
And woke up screaming, sitting upright in a tangle of bedsheets. Beside her, Kennan jolted awake and reached for the knife he kept beside his bed.
“What, what is it?”
Kalysta took a deep trembling breath, passing her hands over her face. Gods, she’d been crying in her sleep. And she’d woken Kennan—how embarrassing.
At least it was dark. Maybe he wouldn’t notice the tears.
“Just a dream, darling,” she said, forcing her usual happy-flirty-dismissive tone and praying it was convincing. “Old nightmare. I’m fine. Sorry I woke you.”
Kennan didn’t answer. She could feel him staring at her in the darkness, but she ignored it; she was too busy trying to get her heartbeat under control.
“You’re shaking.”
Oh, damn it all.
“Really, it’s just nerves.” Which was technically true. “It’ll pass.”
Kennan hesitated for half a moment before he snorted and laid back down, rolling to face the wall. “Suit yourself.”
She could practically hear his eyes rolling, but for once she didn’t care. She was too relieved to be bothered with his usual antics. Of all the times for Kennan Knightley to grow a conscience… Kalysta laid down next to him with a sigh. She knew she’d never sleep now, but damn if she wasn’t going to try.
Kent almost didn’t hear the question. He blinked, late-night movie forgotten, and sat up a little straighter; Sain, leaning sleepily against his shoulder, grunted in quiet complaint, but otherwise he didn’t stir. His cheek was smashed against the curve of Kent’s arm, but he didn’t seem to mind. He didn’t look at Kent, either, although the redhead wasn’t sure if that was on purpose or if he really was half-asleep.
“What?”
“Can I kiss you?” Sain’s voice was louder now, steadier, confident. This time, he did look at Kent, sitting up and leaning back on the couch just enough to give his roommate space to breathe. He looked… sad, which wasn’t like Sain at all—nor was the way he dropped his eyes, letting his voice fall again. “Just… Just once,” he said, and Kent thought his heart might break at the sound. Shit. He was serious.
“Sain—”
“I know you don’t—that you’re not—you don’t like me like I like you,” he managed, “but I—I just thought—” Sain stopped. Scowled. “I’m not drunk enough for this. I’m sorry. Forget I said anything.”
Kent stared. He didn’t know to say. Sain flirted with everyone; Kent had never thought anything of it. But this…. He hadn’t expected this.
His heartbeat thrummed inside his skull like a motor; his head felt full. Dizzy. It was impossible to think.
Sain was lifting each of the open cans on their coffee table, giving them a shake and hoping to find one with even one more swig of beer inside. When that failed, he stood, muttering something about more booze and heading toward the kitchen.
Kent’s brain restarted with a jolt. Sain was leaving. Sain, who had been his friend from the moment they met. Sain, who cooked for him and made sure he didn’t starve when Kent’s studies threatened to bury him alive. Sain, who—on the rare occasions they clashed—always put his friend’s desires above his own. Who made him smile, made him laugh, made him feel more alive than he thought possible. More welcome and wanted than he deserved.
He had to say something.
Kent stood, his hand reaching for Sain’s arm of its own accord. The green-haired boy turned to face him with a smile—the one that fooled everyone into thinking he hadn’t a care in the world. It had fooled Kent for a while, too. Not anymore.
“Look, Kent—”
Kent kissed him.
He hadn’t kissed anyone in a while and he was sorely out of practice, but his body remembered the forms: one arm wrapped around Sain’s waist, the other hand pulling his face close. Lips pressed with firm gentleness against the surprised shape of his mouth.
It lasted a scattered handful of moments; then Kent pulled away, When he opened his eyes, Sain was staring at him. He looked stunned, and Kent couldn’t help the swell of dark satisfaction in his chest.
“Wow,” Sain said, after a moment. “You….”
Kent grinned.
“…You really don’t kiss a lot, do you?”
He nearly went as red as his hair.
“Is that all you have to say?” Kent demanded, his arms flailing in wide arcs in exasperation. “After all that just happened---”
“I’m sorry,” Sain laughed, throwing up his hands in surrender—or maybe it was please don’t hit me. “It was a reflex. I’m deflecting. My brain’s still… You know.” He wagged his finger in spirals around his temple to illustrate. Kent was hardly appeased—in fact, he was mortified-- but he’d give Sain the benefit of the doubt. It wouldn’t be the first (or last) time Sain had put his foot in his mouth.
“Fine,” said Kent. He crossed his arms and stared at his roommate. It was surprisingly hard to act stern when your ears were on fire. “Talk.”
Sain ran a hand through his hair and looked away, puffing out his cheeks as he blew out a sigh. “Yeah, okay. You deserve that. Sit down.” He took Kent’s elbow and pulled him back onto the couch. Then he took a deep breath and told him everything.
“Look, Kent, I’m just going to be candid as hell. I’ve had a crush on you for—oh, forever, I guess. About as long as we’ve known each other.” Kent blinked. That was news to him.
“Why didn’t you say anything before?”
Sain shrugged, threw up his hands. “How could I? You weren’t interested, you were head-over-heels for Lyn, you were straight—” He gave Kent a dubious look, just for a second, and continued. “—and you were my friend. My best friend. Sometimes the only one I’ve had in the world.” Sain smiled, but the smile was sad. “How could I turn all that on its head? How could I compete with someone like Lyn, or Fiora, or—or anyone else?”
“Sain—”
“Let me finish?” Kent nodded. “I’m not trying to be dramatic—I know, I know, it’s me we’re talking about—I’m just telling you how I felt. It was easier that you didn’t know. I thought…. I thought if, maybe, you could find happiness with someone that wasn’t me, then I could find it with someone who wasn’t you.”
Kent let that process. He wanted to say he’d wished Sain had told him, that honesty was better than sitting on feelings—even those that couldn’t be returned. But would he have wanted to know? Would things have wound up the same? With one question, Sain had hit him with an emotional sucker-punch and he’d reacted in kind. Now they had to deal with the consequences.
“But,” Sain said suddenly, “you kissed me.” He leaned back, slinging an arm over the back of the couch, and eyed Kent with barely-concealed amusement. “Anything you want to tell me, my darling roommate?”
“I…” Kent thought for a moment. “I am straight. Was? I don’t know that I can label it. I’ve never been attracted to men, but…”
But this was Sain. They’d known each other longer than they hadn’t, had been with each other through thick and thin. They were comrades, friends closer than brothers, and Kent had never considered taking it beyond that until now. Yet, presented the opportunity, he’d crossed the line with only a moment’s hesitation. It had just felt—
“Right.”
“I’m sorry?” said Sain.
“It just felt right,” Kent repeated, meeting his friend’s eyes. “It’s always been the two of us, Sain. I think it always will. We… fit,” he finished uncertainly. “I’ve always loved you, you know that, but this is a different sort of affection and I—” Kent cleared his throat. He could feel his cheeks warming again. “Well frankly I don’t know what to do with it, now that we’ve got it.”
Kent felt a hand on his and looked up. Sain was leaning forward, expression curiously guarded even as his eyes danced with the light of a hope rekindled. “Well, we can figure it out. If you’re okay with that?”
Kent nodded. “I think I should like that.”
“Great!” Unable to contain his enthusiasm anymore, Sain took both of Kent’s hands in his own and pressed them to his lips in turn, grinning like a fool. “We can go as slow as you need. Promise. I mean, I’ve waited for you this long, you beautiful freckled thing, I don’t mind waiting a little more.”
Kent flushed, stammered out some sort of response. Sain just laughed.
“Sorry. I’ll try to dial it back.”
“I-it’s fine,” Kent told him. It was only half a lie—he was used to Sain’s ridiculous overtures, but now he knew they were earnest and Kent wasn’t sure what to make of that, yet. It was embarrassing, to be sure, but some small part of him liked the attention.
He distracted himself from the paradox by turning back to the television and grabbing the remote. Sain settled in next to him without a word, resuming his cheek-on-shoulder position from before. If he nuzzled against Kent before he stilled, Kent pretended not to notice.
As the DVD skipped backwards at sixteen times the normal speed and the images flashed by, they sat in perfect silence. Kent glanced at his roommate—sort-of-lover, now?—and smiled. He’d never seen Sain look so…. so content.
“Yes,” he said suddenly. Sain looked up at him.
“What?”
Kent smiled. “I never answered your question: yes. As much as you like.”
Sain grinned and started to sit up, but Kent pulled him back down and hit the play button on the remote. “After the movie. I want to know how this ends.”
Sain half-groaned, half-laughed and laid back down, wrapping an arm around the redhead.
“What have I gotten myself into?”
Kent chuckled. “I’ve asked myself that same question every day since I met you.”
Elanor heard the footsteps approaching and nearly leapt from her vanity, her heart in her throat. It had been six hours—six! Her uncle had never kept him this long. Something must have happened, something dreadful, something—She couldn’t finish the thought. Instead she waited, ten paces from the double doors, hands clasped in plain sight and eyes on the floor. It was the same way she always waited when Symon was called on to make a public appearance. This time, she couldn’t keep her hands from trembling. When that door opened, what state would her brother be in? Would he be there at all?
Stop that, Elanor, she hissed. Symon is fine. You are fine. You still have time. You’re not dead ye—
“Away from the door, princess,” barked a voice, and Elanor bit back a smart reply. Haughtiness and sarcasm might be satisfying, but they’d earn her nothing but trouble. And she desperately needed to see her brother.
When sufficient time had passed, she heard the locks on the door click out of place. Then, much too slowly for her tastes, the doors swung open. Elanor kept her eyes on the floor.
The guards in the blue and silver of Estelos marched in, resting the butts of their halberds on the floor. Behind them, another two figures entered. Elanor, who could only see their shoes, dared to look up; for a moment she stared. Then she gasped, her mind finally making sense of the scene.
Two knights had escorted her brother into the room. One she didn’t recognize, but the other was Oksana Yurievsky, their guardian and fellow prisoner. Her hair was pinned back into a simple, elegant bun and she wore her dress uniform and no weapon. Elanor realized belatedly that the other knight held Oksana’s scabbard in his hands. Because, of course, Devenroe would never have allowed her a proper lance; not even for show. Still, a sword was dangerous. Though it was not her best weapon, Oksana could do a fair bit of damage with even the dullest blade. No doubt it was made of wood, or the sheath was altogether empty.
But the knight’s presence was not what surprised Elanor. Instead of a sword, Oksana bore another burden: namely, her brother the prince. Symon was draped across the knight’s arms, head lolling, eyes unfocused, skin pallid and sheened with sweat. He looked like he was dying, truly dying, and Elanor’s eyes filled with tears at the sight of him.
“Symon!” The princess managed two steps forward before the soldiers picked up their halberds, blades pointed straight at her.
“Not another step,” growled the unknown knight. Elanor halted, teeth grinding in rage.
“That’s your prince, your traitor—”
“Elanor.” Oksana’s voice was low, strained, but it cut through her outburst as if it were water. Elanor met her eyes, and the knight shook her head.
“He’s fine,” she assured the girl. She must have thought better of it, for a moment later she added softly, “He will be. Now is not the time for panic.”
Elanor swallowed and nodded, retreating with the knight as Oksana carried her brother to the bed farther in. There were two, actually, not counting the cot Oksana slept on in the main room. It was easier to keep them in check if they were altogether, and the bedroom, lavish as it was, was little more than a comfortable cell. Oksana crossed to Symon’s bed and laid the prince down with a gentle hand. Then she turned to the guards, fury flashing in her green eyes.
“Send someone with water,” she growled, “and some clean cloths. Now.” When neither thy not the knight made any reply, she strode toward them, fists clenched. The soldiers snatched up their halberds again at her approach, and even the other knight put hand to sword.
“We are not your—”
Oksana cut him off. “Get them, and get them now, or you’ll have the king’s own wrath upon your heads. If he dies, this little charade of his is over, and the king will have one less life to bargain with.” Her eyes narrowed, and Oksana’s lips curled into a small, predatory smile. “And if the thought of Devenroe’s ire doesn’t scare you, imagine having to deal with mine.”
That got their attention, and all three scurried out, shouting for the servants.
Elanor climbed up on the bed beside her brother, tucking her legs beneath her and resting his head in her lap. She ran her hands over his face—his cheeks, his forehead. Symon’s kin was hot to the touch, feverish and slick with a thin layer of sweat. His breathing labored, her brother faded in and out of consciousness, eyes unseeing even when they flickered open. He seemed to want to say something, perhaps to ask her a question, but all she could make out were soft whimpers of pain and the broken syllables of her name.
Voice breaking, she looked up at Oksana. “What happened?”
Oksana sighed, pulling a stool close to the bed and sitting next to them. She looked absolutely furious, and more than a little concerned.
“Made a sport of him is what he did, ,” she said finally. “Him and his damned dinner guests. It’s bad enough Symon goes through this every time! Bastard has no idea what it’s like, what mungroot does to a person, even in small doses…” Letting the thought die in a half-whisper, the knight laid an unsteady hand on Symon’s, stilling the prince’s own twitching fingers.
“I’m sorry,” she said after a time. Her gaze never left Symon’s face, but Elanor knew she was speaking to the princess as well. “I’m supposed to protect you, but I’m just as much a prisoner as the both of you. I can’t even keep this from happening.” Oksana sat back, letting go with a huff. “I may as well be drugging him, myself.”
“Oh Oks, that’s not true at all!” Elanor exclaimed. “What are you supposed to do, take on the whole Estellan army by yourself?”
The knight snorted. “I did that in Illyria. When I was fifteen.”
“Technically, you only fought one of them.”
“The others were too scared to fight a girl, and thus they all forfeit, to a man. That counts.”
Despite herself, Elanor smiled. It was a favorite story of Oksana’s, and one she knew well. “I don’t think Devenroe is going to forfeit anytime soon. Not when he’s holding all the cards.”
Oksana growled, a low, furious sound. “Mad prince, indeed!” she snapped. “What sort of king—what sort of man raises his own nephew only to steal his crown and poison him for sport?”
Beause that was exactly what had happened. Elanor’s parents, King Neithan and Queen Iridia, had died when she was only eight years old. Their ship, returning from a diplomatic mission in the south, had been caught in a great storm and never come out again. Symon, the oldest and thus heir to the throne, had been too young at eleven to wear the crown, and so Devenroe—their uncle and the king’s brother—had been named regent until Symon was old enough to rule.
It had been a sensible arrangement until late last year, when Devenroe had produced his own heir. With his new son came an idea, temptation too delicious to resist, and their uncle had locked them away and stolen the crown outright.
The ruse was elaborate but well done, and for all Estelos knew the prince had lost his mind. Symon’s supposed madness had set in rapidly. At first, it had been spiked wine at important dinner parties. The prince would act out, almost as if drunk, or see things that no one else could see. His episodes escalated quickly from a matter of moments to nearly an hour. Symon himself could not explain it, and Elanor nearly believed the lie himself. It wasn’t until Oksana had uncovered the mungroot in Symon’s food and nearly blown the scheme wide open that they learned the truth.
Mungroot. Elanor cringed at the name alone. It was a recreational drug, an her bthat grew in the highlands that separated Estelos from her northern neighbors, the Lachirim. “Recreational” was being generous in her estimation; people had died from the stuff, although in truth she didn’t know if it was from the herb itself or as a consequence of its hallucinogenic effects.
And Devenroe had been feeding it to her brother for weeks. He’d almost gotten away with it, too.
Actually, he was still getting away with it; the difference was that now, they were all complicit. Oksana’s discovery had bought them some time, and maybe a little mercy. These days Symon was mostly lucid: his reward for going along with Devenroe’s plot. Unless he was needed in the public eye, the prince was confined to their joint quarters and allowed to be himself, free of the herbs effects. When he did make an appearance, he ingested it willingly and allowed himself to become his uncle’s fool. In turn, Elanor went unmolested and unharmed, playing the role of the dutiful, grief-stricken sister; the princess too young and distracted to properly govern. Oksana remained as their personal guard, but even she was only useful to Devenroe as long as her imprisonment kept her father, the Estellan general, in check.
Sooner or later, their luck would run out. Her uncle would decide they were less trouble to him dead, and that would be the end of it. But for now, Symon’s compliance was buying them precious time. Elanor just wished there was some other way.
“W… wa…”
Symon, still barely lucid, lifted a limp hand. His sister took it in hers, entwining their fingers and giving them a squeeze. He looked up at her, then, eyes squinting against the low light.
“E-Elanor…?”
“Shh. Yes, it’s me,” she answered softly. With her free hand she brushed his bangs back, leaning forward to kiss his forehead. “It’s really me. I’m here. Oksana, too.”
“O-oh. Good. I’m… never… sure, anymore…” He lifted their joined hands as if to kiss hers, but Symon’s strength gave out and he settled for resting them on his chest. “…Our room?”
“Yes,” she said. “You’re back. You’re safe.” Her voice broke. Weren’t older brothers supposed to take care of their sisters? How had it come to this?
Symon relaxed against her, his breath coming easier now. The drug must have been working its way out of his system. Still, the fever hadn’t subsided, and his grey eyes were bloodshot and swollen.
“Could I… I’m so—”
“Water is coming,” Oksana told him, glowering over her shoulder at the door. The soldiers should have returned by now. “I’m so sorry, Symon. I’ll fetch it myself if they don’t return soon.”
Symon smiled, or tried to; it came out more a grimace than anything. “They forget to lock… the door?” he laugh-wheezed. “No, Oks. Stay. Please?”
The plaintive note in that please was the knight’s undoing. Her expression softened. “Of course, my prince,” she answered. “You’re right. My place is here.”
The answer appeased him, and Symon sighed. “…Hard to breathe,” he said after a moment. “Like a—a—an elephant on my chest. There’s not, is there?”
“No,” Elanor answered, “no elephant.” Normally the question would have made her laugh, but it was such an earnest one that she felt her heart breaking. Symon, oblivious to this, only nodded.
“Oh. Good. I… I didn’t think so.”
The locks on the door clicked once more, and Oksana was across the room before the last clicked into place. A servant girl, redhaired and quaking, entered the room with the two soldiers from before. She carried a tray with a pitcher of water, several small tin cups, and fresh white linens.
“F-for the prince,” she said, her eyes flicking nervously between the guards and Oksana. The knight smiled, taking the tray with genuine gratitude, and that seemed to ease the girl.
“Thank you,” said Oksana, and without sparing the soldiers another look she was at Symon’s side again. As the three left and the locks latched back into place, Elanor wondered if the girl had any idea what was really going on.
Probably not. Nearly everyone thought Symon was mad, these days.
“There, see?” Elanor said, smiling with such false cheer she thought her face might crack. “Water, just like Oks said.”
Symon only nodded. His eyes had drifted closed again, and he seemed to be drifting off. That, or he was focused on his breath, which (it seemed to Elanor, anyway) had become more rasping and shallow.
“Stay with me, Symon,” she whispered, stroking his hair with the hand he wasn’t clutching with all his meager strength. His eyes flickered open, his gaze on the ceiling unfocused.
“Are we… going somewhere?”
“Not yet,” was Oksana’s immediate reply. “Maybe not for a while; but soon.” She passed the princess a moistened cloth and poured him a drink. “When you’re well again.”
Symon’s face scrunched up in response. “Where will we go?” he asked. “Can we… Are we going home? Oh! Can we go see—go see the ships? I miss those…”
“Maybe someday,” answered Elanor. She wiped his face and neck with a gentle touch, wiping away the sweat and soothing the heat of his skin. The coolness seemed to bring him some relief, for he shivered once and relaxed; his breathing eased enough that he sighed, only coughing a little.
“Gods, that’s… so much better,” he murmured. “I’m so—my body is so…. Hot. Tingly.”
Elanor shushed him again. “We know, Syme. We’ll take care of you, I promise.” Taking the cup Oksana offered her, the princess shifted Symon gently and, with the knight’s assistance, sat him upright enough to give him a drink.
At first, her brother refused, and it took some coaxing to get him to drink. He kept murmuring not again under his breath as he shook his head, but finally Symon relented and allowed them to nurse him. After that, he drank greedily, and Elanor had to slow the flow lest he choke on it. The prince fell into an uneasy sleep after that, his head still in his sister’s lap. Elanor wished she could do the same. She felt fatigued as the adrenaline of panic finally left her body, as only exhaustion rushed to fill the void it left behind.
She felt something cool pressed into her free hand, and it took her a moment to realize Oksana had poured her a glass of water, as well.
“Drink,” advised the knight. “It’ll help.”
Elanor nodded, realizing for the first time that she was, in fact, parched. She drained the cup quickly, and Oksana poured her a second without pause.
“Thank you.”
The knight only nodded, and the two of them fell into pensive silence.
Symon was already looking better, Elanor decided. His skin had cooled since they had brought him in, and some of his color was returning. A wave of relief washed over her, and for the first time since her brother had returned, she found herself truly smiling.
After a moment, the princess lifted her head. “Did you mean that, Oksana?” When the knight looked at her quizzically, she said, “About going away soon.”
Oksana set her tin cup on the tray with a light metallic clink and leaned forward, resting her arms on her knees as she met the girl’s gaze.
“Every word,” she said. Her voice was like stone, cold and solid and steady. “I don’t know how, yet, and I may need your help, but I’m done being used as a pawn. We are not leverage, and we are not puppets made to dance at the false king’s every whim. I’m done playing on Devenroe’s stage. Symon may not survive the next time, and I cannot let that happen.” She met the princess’s gaze, and Elanor could see the cold determination in her eyes. “I swear to you, princess, we’ll get out of here if it kills me.”
Seeing the girl’s horrified expression, she added, “I’m your guardian, Elanor. Yours, and Symon’s. It is my job to keep you safe, to defend your very lives, even if it costs mine.” Here she smiled. “But that doesn’t mean I want to die. I plan to get us all out of here. All three of us.”
“Then we’ll put Syme on the throne and show Uncle how a true king of Estelos behaves,” Elanor added darkly. Oh, the thought of escape, of throwing Devenroe’s plot back in his face, was so satisfying that she almost displaced her sleeping brother in her excitement. “…Do you really think we can, Oks? Can we beat him?”
“Truthfully, I don’t know,” answered the knight. She sat back, staring out the barred windows at the castle grounds and her city beyond. “But we have to try. For the country’s sake.”
“For Symon,” said the princess. Oksana smiled, her eyes sad. She reached across the bed, hesitated; then she brushed her fingers along the sleeping prince’s jaw.
Pick any passage of 500 words or less from any fanfic I’ve written, and stick that selection in my ask/fan mail. I will then give you the equivalent of a DVD commentary on that snippet: what I was thinking when I wrote it, why I wrote it in the first place, what’s going on in the character’s heads, why I chose certain words, what this moment means in the context of the rest of the fic, lots of awful puns, and anything else that you’d expect to find on a DVD commentary track.
