Do you think it's possible to fake being plural even to yourself?
One or two genuine questions to you, anon, before I give my usual spiel on "I think I'm somehow faking it unconsciously and I think I should be ashamed because the fact that I can't stop faking it makes me morally bad":
What would it actually mean to fake plurality?
What does it mean to fake anything, in plain language (and ideally without moral weight attached)?
What makes a thing fake?
The usual spiel on secretly faking it:
First, if this is about you: try to turn it off for one week. Or a day, whichever feels better. All of it. I don't mean pretend that it doesn't exist, I mean stop doing it altogether. Just stop. Snap of the fingers, cold turkey, stop.
You are actively doing it, aren't you? Like, intentionally? You know you absolutely do not identify with the plural label or any plural experiences, that none of this has any possible application or interest to you, that plurality is completely and utterly irrelevant to your life... but you're putting in a large amount of intentional effort to appear as though you're plural for reasons that you don't understand whatsoever? Even if you really want to stop sometimes?
Why are you faking that instead of, I don't know, faking your way into a massive celebrity party or something? You must be talented, and this sounds like it would be exhausting to juggle. Compared to seeing the inside of a nuclear reactor or getting into a festival for free, this is pretty boring as far as pretending goes. Why keep it up? What are you gaining for all that work, especially when you'd be socially fucked if someone called it out?
It's not intentional? You keep trying to stop and you can't? It's not going away no matter how hard you try to change it?
You're probably not faking It. Sorry.
"fake", verb:
- tamper, with the purpose of deception (source)
- "counterfeit", to imitate or feign especially with intent to deceive (source, source)
- one does not fake without intent.
If someone is faking something, then by definition, they know. It's an active and intentional effort, something that they have to put energy and work into sustaining, something that's a relief to turn off. They can turn it off, and they know this because they are intentionally choosing to pretend to have an experience they do not actually, "objectively" have.
And here are the two important points:
Faking is an intentional act. If someone is faking something, then they know for absolute certain that they are faking something. Intent is required to fake something.
The concept of "fake" plurality relies on the idea of an objective state of the self/selves: some existential, absolute truth about whether someone is plural or not.
On point two:
We have no metrics to determine an absolute reality of the self for absolute certain. There are some physical characteristics that have been noticed in brain scans comparing DID systems against controls, but regardless of whether you believe in inherent differences in brain structure, most of us can't get a brain scan on a whim, and we don't have much of this kind of data yet for most other plural experiences. (Tulpamancy brain scan study when? Has that come out yet?)
We also have no idea why consciousness exists or where it's located, if anywhere. It's enough of a slippery issue for the concept of the philosophical zombie to exist: how do we know that anyone else is conscious? We don't. How do we know that plurality is an inherent or objective property of a body? We don't.
Do I believe that faking plurality is possible at all?
Sure. I think it could be done and I've seen it confessed to. I don't think that hunting for "fakes" or accusing strangers of faking their experiences is going to help anyone, though.
I do think sometimes that if someone were to fake this in the long run, then they would have to be very careful that none of it took on a life of its own. I've met a few accidental tulpamancers. It happens.
Do I think it's common to fake plurality?
No. It's a lot of effort for fairly little reward given that some people still think Split is basically a documentary.
Do I think that faking plurality can be done without knowing it?
No. A person might later find that another framework or explanation works better for them, but that doesn't mean they were secretly faking plurality. It means that they have an experience, and they found a different explanation for that experience that worked better for them. Good for them.
Based off of the prompt: someone losing their memories and instantly clinging to someone. Problem is, it’s the wrong person. It’s actually their enemy
Warnings: enemies to lovers, angst with a happy ending, Madja calling you dear, insecurities, missing memories, mentions of blood and sprained ankle, Az’s horrible brothers (in a memory), scars, reader and Az being really mean to each other sometimes
Word Count: 3.8k
“No, wait… please… stay.”
“What?”
Azriel didn’t know what to do. It had been three days since Cassian had found you in the forest, unconscious. An open wound had dripped blood into the grass. You were a valued member of the Inner Circle, so it was ludicrous that someone would willingly target you. They had to know the consequences Rhys would rain down. When Mor had finally deduced it was only a matter of a sprained ankle that had led to a fall onto a rock, the Circle had breathed a sigh of relief. That breath was quickly stolen, however, when you woke up and had almost no memory of anything.
Azriel had never been fond of you. You were too hot-headed, too stubborn, too much like him. He wasn’t used to someone putting their foot down. Especially not when it came from a much younger and smaller fae like you. It was appalling and frankly, he found it incredibly rude.
So when you had woken up and immediately attached yourself to Azriel, claiming trust in him, he was not the only one to be surprised.
“Please, stay,” you begged again, voice hoarse from your place on your bed. Was it really your bed, though? You had no recollection of sleeping on it. It was odd the things you decided to remember; you could vaguely place names to faces and you knew everything about yourself — favourite food, book, song, how old you were, where you grew up, your family — but you could hardly fathom the corridors of the Town House.
Azriel’s stare flicked to Cassian, who shrugged. Very helpful. “Yes,” the Illyrian finally agreed, taking a step back into the room. Cass had willed Azriel to visit you on the preface that you were as close as family. What neither of them expected was this.
Your shoulders visibly relaxed as he moved closer to you. “Az-Azriel, right?” you asked, swallowing thickly. Your mouth felt dry and pasty and you reached over, trying to grasp at the pitcher of water that Madja had added some healing powder to. The man nodded and hurried to take the pitcher. You watched, seemingly fascinated, as he poured the water into a glass for you to drink. Even after a day of consciousness on your part, the potions and pills Madja had given you hadn’t worn off. You still felt a little fuzzy and out of it, the pills diminishing not only the throbbing in your ankle, but the logic in your brain.
“Yes, I’m Azriel,” he muttered awkwardly. Azriel shifted his weight from one foot to the other and stepped back. After you greedily drank the water, both hands circling the glass, he cleared his throat to get your attention. “So you truly don’t remember anything?”
You were sick of being asked that question, but something within you felt the secure and trust that came from a dear friend as you looked up at Azriel. “No,” you whispered out, shaking your head. “Well, some things. I know almost everything about myself, but nothing about anyone else. Have- how much do I know about you? How much am I missing?” Guilt settled in your stomach like an anvil. You wanted to tell him that you could rattle off everything you had ever learned about him, but anywhere you looked in your empty mind, you couldn’t conjure anything.
Meanwhile, Azriel stared down at you with his own commiseration. How could he tell you that the last interaction you two had was when he berated you for an argument you stirred up with one of Keir’s men? He couldn’t tell you that he had called you immature and brash. You had then shouted that Azriel was an old, circumspect male who thought he was too good to listen to your ideas. And then, after you stormed out of the room, how could Azriel tell you that Cassian burst out laughing and Rhys smothered his smirk as Azriel fumed. But the thing he really didn’t want to tell you is how, moments later, his shadows anxiously reported back that you were in your room, trying to hold back tears. “You’re not missing much,” he finally admitted lamely. “We haven’t had too many life-changing conversations…”
“Oh.” You sounded almost disappointed and for some reason, Azriel wanted to remedy that. You looked so meek, so unlike yourself, that he would readily take back the sassy woman he knew.
“Um, I recently found a bakery,” he heard himself say. “It’s owned by this old couple. They’re very nice. It’s quite good. The pastries, I mean.”
A smile cracked your face for the first time since you had woken. “That sounds lovely,” you commented.
“It is.” The words tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop them, “I’ll take you there sometime.”
Your eyes went back to the glass in your hand and — was that a blush? Azriel frowned and tried to get a better look at your face, but couldn’t. Were you blushing over him? What parallel universe had he stumbled into? “I can’t wait,” you replied.
The next few days brought no signs of improvement to your condition. Your head wound and ankle had healed, but everyone was still treating you like glass. It felt unnatural, like you knew you were something more, but couldn’t put your finger on it.
Another thing that had changed was the attention you gave to Azriel.
The entire Night Court could see it; it wasn’t a secret, but it did come as a shock. Azriel found himself looking over his shoulder, just to see you, trailing a few steps behind. You followed him around like one of his own shadows. You were always looking around in a mixture of confusion and awe, like you were seeing the Court for the first time — which, he guessed you were.
His shadows had become more protective of you, which Azriel found odd, though he supposed if any of his family members had been injured, his shadows would be equally concerned. But it was you. The person who hated his guts.
Eventually, he stood inside Rhys’ study, arms crossed over his chest. “I don’t know what to do with her!” he exclaimed. He felt free to speak in such a way, knowing you were taking a nap in your room. Earlier that day, he had walked out in the gardens to give you (who still followed him everywhere after four days) some fresh air. Afterwards, you had reached out to him and touched his forearm, telling him quietly that you needed a rest. His arm was still tingling from where you had touched him.
“What do you mean?” Rhys asked, a twinkle in his eye.
“It is quite unusual,” Cassian grinned. “Though terribly amusing. Seems like you have a new admirer, Az.”
Azriel shook his head vehemently. “We detest each other. But she’s been a completely different person ever since the accident! It’s concerning, Rhys. Tell me there’s something else we haven’t tried to retrieve her memories.”
“Why are you in such a rush?” Cass asked, fishing for the answer he already knew. “You said it yourself: you two get along much better now.”
“Cassian, it’s not fair to her. This isn’t who she is,” Azriel argued.
Rhys raised his head from where it was propped on his fist. “Do you not enjoy her company?”
“I—“ Azriel cut himself off before something detrimental could be said. His jaw set and his brothers could see him reverting back to the Shadowsinger. “Rhysand. Just tell me Madja is still working on this.”
“She is,” the High Lord confirmed. “And we’ll keep you updated. We mean not to have you act as Y/n’s babysitter, brother, but she seems to enjoy your company, as of now. I would suggest you capitalise it.”
Cassian couldn’t keep the smirk off his lips. “She’s quite a lovely person if you don’t argue with her every second of each day.”
“Yes, I’m aware,” the Illyrian growled before stalking out of the room.
Once again, you were trailing behind Azriel. In the busy market, he found himself continuously looking over his shoulder to make sure you were still with him. Azriel didn’t know why he cared so much. Let her get lost in the market, he thought bitterly. I’m not her babysitter like Rhys wants me to be. However, after he had travelled a block without realising you had paused to peruse some books displayed outside a store, he made sure to keep a close eye on you. He, with his imposing wings and constant glare, easily cleared a path. Other fae parted for him, making ample space for you to look around while still staying close.
After the second time when something else caught your eye, Azriel had taken your arm and looped it through his. You didn’t stray from him after that and were unusually quiet.
As was Azriel, but that was because his mind was running rampant. Before the incident, you had never touched him. In fact, you had scorned the idea. “And why would I want to touch a decrepit male?” you had said. But now, your arm was resting on his and your fingers were brushing along the scars on his hands.
How had he spent centuries not knowing your touch? How had he survived? His neurons felt as if they were all on fire and he swallowed thickly, though his throat suddenly felt tight.
“Where did you get these?” Your voice snapped him out of his conundrum. He looked down to see you staring up at him, absolute pain in your eyes. A flood of anxiety rushed through him for a moment, fearing you were hurt, but then he realised you were referring to the burn scars on his hands.
Oh.
“Uh, I… I don’t know if you want to know,” he said. Azriel forced himself to look away from the brutal reminders of his past. The scars didn't remind him only of his so-called “brothers” and the agonising fire, but now they also reminded him of how you had never cared to ask before. In the past, he had figured it was because he was simply unlovable. But now, with you looking so concerned up at him, looking as if you wanted to take away all of his scars and pain, he didn’t know what to think.
Azriel had to remind himself that this wasn’t you. You were the brash woman that frustrated him. You were the stubborn woman that made him want to rip his hair out. You weren’t this kind, empathetic soul. It confused him to no end.
Cassian’s words replayed in his head: “She’s quite a lovely person if you don’t argue with her every second of each day.” But Azriel couldn’t afford to dwell on all the times he saw you joking around with Feyre or sparring with Cassian — either verbally or physically — your laughter worming its way into Azriel’s head as he passed by. He shouldn’t think of all the times when your words made him shrink back into that little boy, so afraid and alone in that cage his father tossed him into. Because if he thought of those things, he would remember the way he lashed out back at you, often escalating things. If he thought of those things, he would remember how his shadows trailed sadly after you, reporting back insecurities and despair, when all they wanted was to hear your laughter again.
Shit. How had he gotten himself into this mess? Why did it have to be him that you clung to as Madja worked to repair your memories? What would life be like after you could remember everything? Would you shrink back away from him? Would you curse him out? How could he live without knowing your touch again?
That thought brought him back to the present and to how the pads of your fingers were gently tracing over his scars. That brought a whole new whirlwind of emotions crashing into him, but he focused on elaborating his response. “It’s- it’s just not a particularly heroic story,” he muttered as he led you through the market. “Quite depressing, in fact.”
Your brows came together and you asked slowly, “did I know about it before?”
“Um, no,” he admitted. “But like I said earlier, we… we weren’t really close before.”
“Are we closer now?”
You smiled up at him and Azriel almost had a panic attack, but he managed to nod. “Yes. Yes, we’re closer now, I suppose.”
“That’s good,” you commented, completely free and unaware of the mental strife going on in Azriel’s mind.
He cleared his throat and then directed you to your destination. “This is what I wanted to show you. It’s the bakery I told you about.” He saw your eyes light up and while he wanted so desperately to focus on the warmth filling his chest, he couldn’t help but dread: what would happen when you got your memories back?
Madja, being the excellent practitioner she was, managed to take only a few more days before finding the cure for short-term amnesia in one of the old dusty books in the library. After Cassian collected the plant that held the secrets, she had quickly mixed it up into a little brew.
You were utterly relieved when you heard the news, a weight finally being lifted off of you. Agitation had plagued you ever since you had woken up surrounded by people you didn’t know. They had all called you their friend, but could you be sure? Now, with your memories certain to come back, you could breathe again. Knowing something had been missing, just out of your reach, was the most frustrating thing you could remember – not that you could remember much, however. You couldn’t wait to return to your routine and your normal life, whatever that used to be.
Azriel, on the other hand, wasn’t sure if he wanted to return to normal life. But he always felt immense guilt threaten to crush him whenever he thought that. How could he be so selfish? How could he wish to take all those old memories and lock them up in a tiny box where no one would find them anymore, just for the chance to spend more time with you?
You really were a lovely person when he didn’t argue with you.
That thought only brought a whole new slew of questions. Was it his fault for arguing with you constantly? Was he the problem? Even if you didn’t get your memories back, would you eventually see him for the problem he was and begin to pull away?
Throughout the days before Madja’s discovery, Azriel’s brothers could see the way his mind chewed away at him, conjuring new problems and hardships with every turn. Rhys could hardly even decipher all the chaos swirling in Azriel’s head, but one look at the way his shadows clung to him was all the High Lord needed to see. Cassian tried to reassure Azriel that everything would be okay, but when that didn’t work, he turned to sparring, which ended up with a bloody nose for the general.
Finally, Madja found you in the library one day, reading a book with wide eyes. Azriel sat next to you on the couch, tension seeping along his back because the way you sat had your toes just touching his thigh. By the Cauldron, even that little touch rendered him useless. Yet he couldn’t look away from your face. You were rereading one of your favourite books (not that you knew that of course), but if you had known you had the chance to read it for the first time again and didn’t take it, you would’ve punctured Azriel with a spear when you got your memories back.
Your eyes were blown wide, almost to the climax of the story, and you held the book close to you like you wanted it to swallow you whole. Azriel couldn't help but think that maybe the expression on your face was worth all the arguments you had ever had with him.
“Y/n,” Madja’s voice interrupted your reverie. She had a proud smile on her older face. “We did it.”
It took only a second for you to understand what she meant and you jumped up, hurrying towards her and taking the little bottle in your hands. It looked so small and you wondered if that little brew could really cure all the irritation and troubles you had gone through.
You turned around to share your excitement with Azriel, but you couldn’t find him. He had slipped away into his shadows. “Where did he go?”
Madja pressed her lips together, looking disappointed. “Perhaps it’s time you had a talk with him.” Seeing your confusion, she added, “things haven't always been this peaceful, dear.”
The Shadowsinger ended up in Rhys’ office. Rhysand looked up from his paperwork, unsurprised that his brother was in a panic. “Madja figured it out, yes?” he asked. Azriel nodded, posture stiffening. He didn’t know why he had run to Rhys in his moment of indecision, but perhaps it had something to do with him needing guidance from his older brother.
“I don’t know what to do,” he admitted. “Rhys, I feel so selfish. It’s unfair and downright cruel for me to wish she never got her memories back.”
“Then perhaps you should tell her that.”
Az continued as if he hadn’t heard his High Lord. “I never expected to enjoy her company. She was just so… brash and rude and unforgiving. And it’s not that I want for her to completely change for me,” he said, “but I rather liked taking her to the market. We had a… a nice conversation over some baked goods.” His voice trailed off and he wasn’t looking at Rhysand anymore. Azriel’s lips twitched up into a rare smile and his gaze softened. Rhys doubted that the Shadowsinger even knew he was doing it.
It was rare for Azriel to smile, yes, but even then it was rarer to see genuine affection and care in his eyes. They all knew that Azriel would protect his family fiercely, but he hardly let any emotion ever show. The fact that it was happening as he thought of you… well, that certainly intrigued Rhysand. “Perhaps you should tell her that,” he repeated.
Before Azriel could reply, you knocked on the door. “Hey, Azriel,” you greeted quietly. “Uh, can we talk?” The little vial that would restore everything was still in your hand. You hadn’t drank it yet.
He nodded and followed you out. Rhysand sat back in his chair. “Yes, you’re welcome for all the help,” he said to the empty room.
It wasn’t long until Azriel stopped you in the hall. His shadows kept going, slipping along the ground to wind gently around your ankles. One slinked up to your hand.
A muscle in the Shadowsinger’s jaw clenched and you looked up at him, worried. “I miss you,” he said suddenly. Your brows raised, but he simply continued on. “I don’t know how to act around you now. I had figured you out, but now it’s all falling apart. I knew how to act around you with the arguments and the bitterness. But now it’s all so different now and I’m not used to it. I don’t know how to— how to love you.” He bowed his head and muttered, “I’m sorry.” Even though you couldn’t remember, you felt it odd to see the imposing Illyrian nervous.
But something inside you felt a little giddy that it was you who made him feel that way. You took a breath and told him, “Madja told me about how we used to be… mean to each other. Now it makes sense why you were so surprised when I asked you to stay.” You continued, “I need my memories back, obviously, and they would’ve probably come back with time. But I’ve found that I really like you— spending time with you, I mean. So maybe we could put all the bad memories behind us?”
“I’d like that, yeah,” he agreed. He didn’t notice his shadows twine themselves around and up your legs, almost in a caress. He didn’t notice, but you certainly did.
“Um, is this normal?” you asked, smiling down at the shadows. One eagerly shot up to your hand when you acknowledged them. It formed itself into a little blob, snuggling down into your palm. You couldn’t help but laugh, eyes lighting up.
Azriel cleared his throat and the shadow seemed to turn to look at him. “No, this is not normal,” he grumbled as the shadow turned back away from him defiantly and scooted up your arm and curled on your shoulder. “They usually listen to me.”
You laughed again and Azriel’s gaze flicked from his disobedient shadow to the way your eyes crinkled and the curve of your lips. He couldn’t look away. A consuming warm feeling grew in his chest and he knew then and there that everything would be okay.
The moment you had gotten your memories back, the bond had snapped for him. But not for you. It was torture, knowing you were just out of reach, but still acclimating to everything rushing back. It took a couple of days for you to get everything straightened out, reworking your mind to think straight again. It took a week for you to approach Azriel and quietly thank him for all that he did. It was incredibly embarrassing for you, as you could remember all the past arguments, but also how you had clung to him like a child. Meanwhile, Azriel was sweating because his mate was right there in front of him and he couldn’t sweep you into his arms, proclaiming his love.
He had been waiting centuries for a mate and had given up on the notion of love. Why would the Cauldron be kind enough to grant him one? Initially, he had thought it a joke. This couldn’t be what a bond feels like. Especially not with the woman he used to despise. But he didn’t despise you anymore, no. Quite the opposite, in fact. And the bond was just proof of that.
He had to wait a month for the bond to snap for you. But he didn’t mind waiting, certainly not when he could now hug you fiercely. Not when he could lay his head on your chest and feel your fingers brush through his hair. Not when he could enter the bakery owned by the old couple and they would already have your favourite sweet treats ready for him. Not when he could kiss you whenever he wished just because he felt like it. And certainly not when you continued to put him in his place, mate or not.
You truly were a lovely — no, an enchanting person, whether he argued with you or not. Cassian would never let him live it down.
