▐ ⧽ 🏺 ──────── bringing to the table my hyperfixation on ancient history and the "immortality as punishment" trope in a James x reader fanfic. What. Was. That.
!! AH, for context because I'm going to end up repeating this a few times, Anathema is NOT a proper name and neither and OC. This fanfic does not feature an OC (exception of the deities, some backgrounders, and reader's family at first part). The word Anathema is a Greek term and means the same thing as "to be/that was expelled," it's a title and an indicator of the reader's condition in the context of the work. Apart from that, the reader is identified as "you" or "[name]" in the rest of the work. Some creatures from Greek mythology have been reinterpreted in a way that makes narrative sense here.
For those allergies: Contains a lot of historical and cultural context, not proofread and bad english, no word-count, non-linear timeline, sloooooow burning, angst, religious themes, PTSD (js mentioned), Greek gods pyo, "in another life, maybe?" aah plot.
© coral writes
──────── 2026, Paris, France.
The hotel lobby is spacious and brightly lit in an orange hue, despite the cloudy morning outside. "Can I help you?" the young woman at reception asks, with a rehearsed smile.
You returns a similar smile, "I came to see a friend, Martin Edwards Park, twelfth floor." Pretends to be checking something in your shoulder bag while peeking at the receptionist checking the guests on the computer, managing to get the exact room number. "1203," you say, to lend an air of legitimacy to the other woman. Hoping it works.
The woman returns to you slowly, in a restrained tone, "He's not here at the moment." Thank Olympus.
"Perfect." You reply, heading for the elevator and ignoring how her voice rises as she complains that "you can't do that!"
The elevator doors close before the receptionist could stop you, so she cames back the lobby, picking the phone to call the security guards.
You don't get rattled by that, you select the floor in the elevator. You know that before the guards answer, the woman will have already forgotten why she called in the first place. And then she'll apologize nervously, hanging up the phone and sinking into the leather chair.
It's not a lie that you know Martin; you talked to him yesterday afternoon at what had become your favorite bakery over the past few years, Jacque's.
You had done a little shoplifting earlier — or rather, explored the clothes, hidden in the fitting room, ripped off the tags, and left without caring about the traces. Whatever was left behind wouldn't serve much more than an echo for the imagination of the staff, who, exhausted from their own lives, wouldn't care. — And now you were skimming some tips from the tables before sneaking over to the pastry counter, ready to place your order with the waiter, a middle-aged man whose smile reminded you a little of your father, if he had smiled more in life.
"Where are you from, cherie?" the man, Vincent, asked in a flumbing english as he always did whenever he heard your accent.
You smiled, "De partout" From everywhere, you answered in a pretty good french, and he is now surprised as was in the first and in the twenty fifth time. He souldn't. Anything can be learned when you have time, and thats what you have enough. "But my parents are turkish."
"Turke? Ah, I would never guessed" A male voice emerges to your left, followed by a soft laugh. He is tall, but young. His hair is a light shade, somewhat curly, and his skin a bit tanned. He leans on the counter asking for a latte and some pastries to go with the help of Google Translate and a bit of miming, making you and Vincent laugh with him. Vincent leave you two, preparing your orders. You watch it, curious.
The other boy eyes keep following you. And you have to agree him, you don't look like someone from there. From nowhere, actually. It's not your fault, is just a consequence of your condition. In any case, well, like Constantinople, Anatolia no longer exist, neither the bizantines. You can't call yourself from this place anymore.
You decide look him back, he smiles "I'm Martin." waiting your turn, giving his last name to fill the silent between you two. You smirked "Anathema" is now leaving your mouth. While you wishing could give other name, even another fake one, just anything better than that. But it can't happend. Martin repeats, absorbing the name. And it doesn't sound so cruel in his voice. "Cool."
You really thought had gotten used to answering by that name, when there was no better one to describe your situation, but its just and awkward silent padrinho now.
Another wisp of laughter escapes his lips and you think there's something familiar about the boy next to you. But it might just be your projection: in the wrong light, attraction can pass for recognition.
He continues weaving the conversation while waiting for orders, asking if you're on vacation (in a way, yes. An eternal one.) or on business—business, what do you do? you're so young. Oh, actually, he laughed... He was some kind of relatively famous musician. So that's what was familiar to him.
You shrugged off the explanation, you'd never heard him before, he didn't seem offended, even if he had been, it wouldn't matter much. You've hung out with artists from all eras, you're not the type to be swayed by someone's status—you ask where he's staying and his face lights up when you lie that you're there too. "We should hang out sometime."
You agree, trying not to show the note of disappointment rising in your throat at that. It's been a long time, and yet, sometimes it hurts to hear about The Future. That thing everyone has, except you. It doesn't hurt deeply, just the constant discomfort, like touching a phantom limb.
Martin's phone rings twice during your conversation; you suggest he answer it, but he just grimaces at the number and says he can do it later. That it's not who he wants to hear from right now.
When he receives the orders, he thanks Vincent.
You pay with the stolen tips, but it must have made a mistake, or the price has gone up in recent weeks. In this economy, who's to say? Vincent seems hurt by your discomfort and says it's okay, but Martin intervenes, covering the small difference between the prices along with his order. You thank him, making him feel awkward.
The phone rings a fourth time, and he leaves cursing under his breath towards the door with some bags in his arms. He turns to you one last time, as if saying goodbye. You joke so that he doesn't forget your outing, more a kind of prayer than a joke, "I'll not" he swears.
But it's no use. You know that the moment the glass door closes between you, the second and he takes the phone to ear and momently turns away because of the furious tone on the other end of the line, something has abandoned his posture.
A kind of shadow passes over his face, taking away whatever he had in mind about you.
He's never coming back.
Sometimes, your mind wanders to an imagined future where the encounter happened. With Martin, or with anyone throughout the centuries, it's a unproductive habit, true, but you still can't shake it. You reach room 1203, forcing the lock open.
No need to worry about alarms or security; it snaps back into place as soon as you open the door.
A blessing, or just a reminder that when you became Anathema, you became forever incapable of destroying anything.
"To correct such a deviation, it's not enough to just kill her. It would be safer if she had never existed in the first place."
The room is pleasant and spacious in shades of beige, with more than one bed. Which means you were very lucky the other individual isn't here at the moment either. You don't care much, steal a bathrobe from the service cart, and disappear into the bathroom.
──────── 954 a.C, Anatolia, Bizantine Imperium (The Silk Route).
"Mom, tell [Name] she's being unbearable."
Tewem complained, limping around the kitchen. "Mom, tell Tewem he's being a machild," you retorted, abandoning your help with the food to shoo Tewem away with a flannel handkerchief.
"Tell each other," your mother complained, exhausted.
No one there but you approved of your trip. Honestly, not out of a lack of trust in you, but because of the context in which that trust needed to be applied. Your father and Tewem had always traveled together as importers of fabric to the capitals, trading silk and cashmere with other travelers. The trouble had started on their last trip; they were attacked by smugglers and almost lost all the purchased goods. Tewem now had a dislocated knee as a souvenir of the day and an incredibly consistent bad temper since his late heroism.
It wasn't the smart choice to throw your daughter into the merchant business, at least not at the time and given the risks. But the business was going from bad to worse, there were no more employees available, and the right-hand man was now throwing a tantrum against his older sister replacing him or not.
"I just said he should be more grateful to have someone to cover for him this time." You hissed, directing all your energy into pulling the ropes of the well. It was late afternoon, and Ramah, Silas's daughter, was with you. Ramah, who since you were girls, had never thought of leaving Trebizond, never dreamed of new villages or the port of Constantinople, or any place at all because she doesn't trust changes that go beyond the four seasons.
"Give him a break," is your friend's pearl of wisdom, with a sweet and genuine smile. "Working is the way he knows how to show he cares about you." You manage a tired smile, wanting to say that, well, he could start finding other ways. Starting with clearing the table and fetching the chickens when they escape. But she knows that arguing with Ramah won't help, not with her being as passionate about Tewem and as simply traditional as the rest of the community.
You shrug. "I just wanted someone to be a little happy about this." Ramah rests a water jug on her head and another on her arm. "But I am." She frowns. The young woman laughs. "Seriously! You're going to see places and tell me about the foreigners. I heard there are pirates in Cha'ang."
"I think pirates usually stay on the water," you pondered.
"Let me dream a little," Ramá retorted, feigning hurt. "Not everyone is a geographer like you." You begin reciting the places on the route according to your father's descriptions, since Tewem's are rarely helpful. You two return to the village still laughing at stories of what awaits you on the other continent.
Ramah doesn't dream of leaving the village, but around you, she tends to be an irresponsible listener to her words. Tewem meets you on the path, limping between you, hiding his face in the red scarf that wraps his hair, disguising a small smile when he asks what the girls are talking about.
Quite serious, he nods upon hearing about the Silk Road pirates and addresses you: "I believe you have a good chance against the pirates."
"Oh, really?"
He nods in a complimentary tone, and adds, "They'll see your ugly face and if you row back, they'll think you're a sea monster." You raise your fist to hit his shoulder, but he quickly hides behind Ramah, who lets out a small cry of surprise.
Years from now, you will revisit these moments under another name.
And you will lament them, searching for signs, wondering if you somehow cursed yourself that day when you decided to answer a calling that wasn't yours. You will wonder if, had Tewem insisted on going even injured, he would have suffered the same consequences as you or not. In even more time, you will conclude that no matter how much you delve into your past, you won't be able to decide what goes on in the minds of the gods. What is premeditated and what is a course correction, or if there is even a course to be corrected and the deities are not just sadists looking for mortals to torture as a pastime.
Centuries from now, but not today.
Today you just enjoy the ride home, the feeling of the setting sun's warmth on your back and the smell of burning wood entering your nostrils.
──────── 2026, Paris, France.
James wakes up with a date on the tip of his tongue, again.
May 18, 1916. What happened that day?
He doesn't know, or can't remember. It's become a habit that surprises him, and being surprised by it has also become a habit in itself.
When James was four or five years old, he watched a war movie on broadcast television for the first time and spent an entire week pointing out historical errors that a child shouldn't notice.
His parents were very surprised and proud, and then very worried.
The teachers swore they didn't know where he got it from, since it wasn't a subject taught in elementary school, and in general he didn't show interest in history classes. To make matters worse, his facts were never "verifiable"—they were routine things—for a class about Yuan Shikai, "Shikai wasn't that brave, you know? He was afraid of thunder. He'd tremble all over at the slightest drizzle."—too specific, too strange. He had a very strong imagination, probably ADHD too, but nothing a hobby couldn't fix. He liked attention. That's how they convinced themselves.
His parents said, "The busier you are, the less you'll think about these things," and he believed them. They presented him with a pile of hobbies.
They were all wrong. Hockey didn't stop James from seeing himself in the winter of 1754, crossing a frozen lake. Dancing didn't prevent him from hearing the orchestras of the last century resonating within him. Tiredness didn't rid him of his dreams.
He learned to stifle the impulse to correct others, to direct the arrow against himself. To force his brain to be silent, to steer it in another direction. Always busy with something trivial, instead of searching for answers that didn't exist.
He rests his head against the car window, watching the streets of Paris on his way back to the hotel after a tiring photoshoot for QG.
May 18, 1916. Something happened in Paris.
He resists the urge to Google the date, certain that, as he's given in so many times, he won't find anything to prove he's not crazy.
He pats his thigh, taking a deep breath, but his hands still tingle. Martin glances at him sideways, looking up from his phone. "You alright, man?" He nods, saying he's just tired. The car makes another turn.
May 18, 1916. May 18, 1916. May 18... "What do you know here?" James asks, feigning casualness.
"I know that bakery is a rip-off," Martin points to a pastry shop whose neon sign reads "Jacque's." "They ripped me off for a coffee and a chocolate croissant." James manages a smile, but it's so forced it looks like a sigh.
"No, like, about here before." He tries hard not to sound frantic. "Like, the history of this place... nothing?"
Martin looks thoughtful for about twelve seconds before making a face at him. "You know I dropped out of school, right?"
James gives up. The hotel entrance appears, two streets and a traffic light later.
He gets in the elevator before Martin, who wants to go find the other boys to go to the hotel pool or something.
He selects the floor with his head buzzing, thinking about ordering more whiskey from room service.
May 18, 1916.
The doors open, revealing a dark, dimly lit carpeted hallway, completely empty except for a woman in a red and black robe who is leaving her room to receive a tub of chocolate chip ice cream from one of the chambermaids.
He doesn't notice the room number until the employee walks away and approaches the elevator he leaves, apologizing softly and finally looking up at her.
The woman before his eyes, his intruder, who seems so, no, much more shocked than he is. On May 18, 1916, a very similar encounter took place, but it wasn't a fancy hotel. It was a dilapidated hovel, crumbling from the recent bombing of Vernum. A place where soldiers went to exchange information between spies and sex workers: which was a kind of espionage in itself. He wasn't one of the spies; he was an employee of the Chinese Labour Corps, taken from his homeland to serve as a pawn in a conflict that wasn't his, because the chinese governors wanted an alliance with France for the sake of territory.
Because he was, once again, a pawn in the power game of another god. The date rises all the way back up his throat, now full of memory and meaningless. It rises followed by something choked, twisted like a laugh.
But there's nothing funny about the situation, only disbelief. "God fucking damn." James can't tell which of the two is saying it.