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Relationship: Lucanis Dellamorte/Davrin/Neve Gallus
Rating: Explicit
Words: 110k (Chapter 19/?)
Tags: Real World Modern AU, Men's Gymnastics, Slow Burn, Sibling Rivalry, Rivals to Friends to Lovers, Mystery, Family Drama, Humor, Angst
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Chapter Nineteen
He is six years old the day his childhood ends.
Warm rays of summer sun beat into the backseat of the car where his head rests against the seatbelt, heavy eyelids drooping as the lull of the highway pulls him towards sleep.
His sister is already asleep in her car seat, her small mouth open beneath the brim of the sunhat she still wears. There is sand between his toes and the cuffs of his shorts are still damp from when he'd slipped his dad's grasp and run into the waves, but mostly he is warm and safe and happy in this pocket of the world that is only his.
Whispers drift back from the front seat where his parents speak in hushed tones. His dad's fingers twist the knob of the stereo and soft music plays at a low volume. Lucanis fights against his tired eyes to watch his parents, but when he catches his mom's gaze in the rear view mirror she only smiles.
"You can go to sleep, sweetie. It's a long drive."
Sometimes he wonders what would have happened if he'd gone to sleep. Would he remember what came next? The screams? That feeling of weightlessness? The crushing, terrifying silence of after?
But he was six years old. He doesn't really remember any of this, does he? This is the interpretation of a twenty-two year old event from the mind of a grown man who can look back on that day through the golden haze of reminiscence.
Chapter 19 is fully under way at this point (we've passed the 6,000 word mark so I guess I've given up on shorter chapters at this point) and I'm feeling more and more confident that I'll be able to finish either today or tomorrow, so you will all be out of cliffhanger purgatory very soon!
In the meantime, some feelings to tide you over.
"Thanks for doing this, by the way. Going to the store, I mean. Making the coffee. I appreciate it."
It is such a stilted performance of cordiality Lucanis almost wishes for silence instead. Where is the Davrin he knows who doesn't pull his punches, who should be using this private opportunity to interrogate every lie and half-truth Lucanis has told over the past four months? This Davrin seems more content than Lucanis would have thought to linger in this temporary truce. He is waiting for the reverie to break, the other shoe to drop, but they just stand there—hands shoved in their pockets—while the Mr. Coffee gurgles away like it's on life support.
That's when he remembers. The origin of the déjà vu.
In an apartment much like this, Davrin leans against the kitchen counter as Lucanis brews a second pot of piss-water coffee. One room over, their teammates laugh, the guise of the finals week study group tossed aside in favor of whatever game Chance has loaded up on the Xbox. Under the cover of the distant jeers and taunts, Lucanis inches closer, one hand drifting across the edge of the counter. An invitation.
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it doesn’t even have to be metrically sound it can literally just be vibes based. oh the locked tomb trends a lot so it shouldn’t be paired with arcane which also trends a lot. many people have seen and love avatar the last airbender so it would be a good first round match for this niche children’s cartoon that’s been out of syndication since the 80s. literally just feel it out and follow ur heart. it’s better than randomization and will save you a headache in the long run i promise. seed ur brackets!!!!
"‘What is that noise?’
The wind under the door.
‘What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?’
Nothing again nothing.
‘Do
You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember
‘Nothing?’
I remember
Those are pearls that were his eyes.
‘Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?’"
- T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land
She comes to him in dreams, both her and not her. She appears in the pantry, hair unbound, clothing already loose, already waiting for his hands to part her from it. In these dreams, there is no reason not to reach for her, not to draw her to him, her hips straddling his as he drowns in her proximity. He kisses her, mixing memory and desire, the feel of her hands in his hair, the sounds she makes, the rise and fall of her chest against his.
He has never kissed her in this room, never laid her down in his bed, but in these dreams it is as vivid as memory. She whispers his name, and she knows him, and it is easy, so easy to get lost in her. In every smooth expanse of skin revealed by questing hands. She touches him, fingers light and familiar as she smiles against his lips. He doesn't remember the joke, only that she's told one, only that he is forever wondering how she manages such humor when he is unraveling beneath her.
He always wakes before the dream drifts too far, awakes with his cock hard and aching. The desire is so unwelcome it makes him feel sick. He does not want to want that woman in the infirmary, the one who is her but isn't. His mind and his body have forever been at odds when it comes to desire. He cannot conjure it, though he has tried, but he has never found himself wanting in this way; he wishes he could tell his body it isn't her. Wishes the shame he feels upon waking was enough to stop the dreams altogether.
But it is not, so he retreats to the only place he can: the kitchen.
The food he makes for everyone is its own sort of apology. He remembers their favorites well, and it is a small relief to get lost in the tasks that were once so familiar to him. He hasn't cooked in months. Lucanis tells himself that it's because he hasn't had the time, but that's not quite true. He hasn't cooked because he hasn't been able to see the point.
Still, as the group filters into the dining hall, remarking on the fact that he's made all of their favorites, he does not disappear to the pantry or elsewhere. He pulls up a chair and sits down with them to eat. Something like approval radiates off Davrin even if Lucanis finds it impossible to ignore Camina's empty chair.
Willow is the last to join them, taking up Harding's place beside Emmrich. "Well, she's asleep for the evening, I think."
Dinner was already a quiet affair before Willow's arrival, but the comment adds further disquiet to the room. Sets them all back several moments until the familiarity of passing bowls and dishes creates in itself a certain order to things they can all sink more comfortably into.
"How is her healing coming along?" Neve asks, and it occurs to Lucanis that she is asking because she hasn't been to see her either. Lucanis doesn't know what to make of that.
"Good," Willow replies. "I think that tomorrow, she should be let out of the infirmary."
There's a pause. It endures horribly. Davrin is the one who leans back in his chair. "You really think that's a good idea?"
"She's not a prisoner," Willow replies, words tinged with righteous indignation.
Davrin shrugs. "Maybe she ought to be. Anyone else want to jump in here?"
Bellara chews at her bottom lip. "She seemed pretty normal to me."
Taash puts their elbows on the table. "I guess, yeah. Wasn't exactly getting murder vibes from her or destroy the world vibes or whatever. Seemed like Rook….minus remembering us. I don't know. Shit's weird."
Emmrich looks especially tired. "While we can perhaps argue for her to remain confined here to the Lighthouse, we can't very well lock her away in the infirmary or even her own room. It would expose too much of our hand, and Willow is right: she is not a prisoner."
"So you just want to give her free rein of Solas's hideout? What if that's exactly what he wants?" Davrin asks.
"Then at least we'll have more pieces of the puzzle," Willow insists. Lucanis gets the feeling that this is an argument they've already had in pieces.
It is Neve who wades in, cool and calm. "You've been the one to spend the most time with her, Will. What is your opinion of the danger?"
Willow seems to be considering her words carefully. "To be truthful, I don't know what to make of all of this. I haven't witnessed anything at all to give me pause. I keep watching for something to change, some clue she's not herself. And I've seen nothing to suggest otherwise."
"There's a but there," Taash says.
Willow shakes her head. "No 'but'. I don't like looking at my friend with suspicion. Paranoia. It feels wrong."
"It is weird," Bellara agrees. "Like….how even though she doesn't remember me…she says exactly what I'd think she'd say. And she was like…really patient with my rambling the way Rook always was. I don't know. I'm sorry, I don't think I'm very good at this being suspicious stuff either. It just felt like having my friend back."
Neve pats Bellara's hand. "You don't need to apologize for not enjoying subterfuge, Bel. I think it makes you a good person."
"She sort of remembered stuff, while we were talking?" Bellara says.
Unbidden, that cancerous hope rises in him. "What do you mean?"
Everyone's eyes dart to him, as though remembering for the first time that he is in the room. He supposes he only has himself to blame for that.
Bellara shakes her head. "Nothing specific, I guess. But it was more like she already guessed at something before I said it."
Davrin frowns. "Interesting."
Bellara's eyes immediately widen. "Do you think that's bad? I thought it might be a good sign. It didn't feel bad, just felt like…she was trying to put things together, figure stuff out…"
Willow shakes her head. "It makes sense she'd be trying to put things together. We haven't told her much, but she's talked with almost everyone. Even you, Davrin."
Davrin nods. "And her surprise at seeing Assan was damn genuine. I'm not arguing that she's not Rook. I'm just saying I don't think that's not all she is."
And there lies the crux of it all. It would be one thing if it was merely her memories missing, if all that stood between them was lost time. But there is this…suspicion, this paranoia they all must carry. That they have to watch her, and have to wonder if she is herself. It feels impossible to build anything upon such an ever-shifting foundation.
"So, what do we do?" Taash asks. "Will's right, she's not a prisoner, and we can't treat her like one either."
"I can lock the eluvian, like we used to when Spite borrowed your body, Lucanis," Bellara offers, words almost kind enough to outweigh his embarrassment at the memory.
"A fine idea, Bellara," Emmrich replies.
"She knows the world thinks she's dead, and she's overwhelmed by how much time she's missing. I don't think she wants to leave here any time soon, anyway," Willow adds.
"Well, that's convenient for us then," Neve replies with a tight smile.
"You can't avoid her forever," Willow says, looking pointedly at him. "You should talk to her."
The table is quiet. Neve and Davrin exchange a glance, and he can tell that they're debating jumping in to save him, but he doesn't want to be saved. He doesn't want that sort of pity.
"That's easy for you to say; she remembers you," Lucanis says. He doesn't mean for the words to take on the sharp edge of accusation, but they do.
Guilt curls in his stomach as Willow's gaze skitters away. "I'm sorry, but talking to her might help. You can't avoid her forever."
Certainly not if she's moving around the Lighthouse freely. "It's a bridge I'll cross when I get there."
That kills the discussion. Bellara and Emmrich do their best to revive conversation at the table with lighter topics, but it's very clear none of them are particularly in the mood. Taash and Davrin offer to take care of dishes, so Lucanis makes himself a cup of coffee and excuses himself. He's unsurprised to find Neve following him.
"Want to hide in my office?" she asks, tone light as though this is one of those old team meetings in the beginning where he and Harding or Davrin had traded tense barbs.
He'd stepped out of the dining hall without any particular destination in mind, and he knows Neve well enough to realize that even if he says no, she'll just follow. "Sure."
There is a comforting familiarity to Neve's office. It hasn't changed. Not the wisps or the evidence board or the untidiness of her desk. He sinks easily into the chair opposite her, tries to pretend nothing has changed, that no time has passed since they were last here.
"If I ask you how you're holding up, are you going to make some pathetic excuse and leave?"
He sips at his coffee to avoid immediately responding. Neve always has seen the whole of him, even the pieces he wished she didn't. "Probably."
She nods. "Fair enough."
He's never known what to make of Neve's silences, whether they are a tactic to get one to speak or simply that she does not wish to fill all spaces with empty chatter. Whatever the case, it works because he finds himself speaking, "I know why I haven't gone to see her, but I'm surprised you haven't."
Neve looks exceptionally tired, and then roots around in her desk drawers before she finds something: a bottle of whiskey. When he raises his eyebrows at the top-shelf label, she shrugs. "It was a gift."
She frowns a little at the dirty coffee cup on her desk, but pours into it anyway. She holds the bottle up to him in askance. It's borderline heresy to do this to a cup of coffee, but tonight, he's not sure he cares. He holds out his mug.
He waits her out as they both drink, and though he thinks the whiskey somewhat ruins the coffee, he can't deny the comforting warmth in his stomach, the way edges of reality soften just enough for him to feel as though he can face it.
"I worked a case once, in the early days. Petty stuff. A woman thought her husband was cheating on her, wanted proof so the divorce would go her way. He was a mage; she was not, as you can imagine, that's complicated in Tevinter. He was exceptionally easy to follow, like he wasn't even trying to cover up his tracks at all.
"Turns out, he wasn't cheating. He had a gambling problem, picked up another job. Didn't want his wife to know. He was embarrassed, not unfaithful. I debated giving her the information at all, thought maybe instead I should just let him know she'd hired me, encourage him to come clean. But he wasn't my client, she was. I was still trying to make a name for myself in Dock Town."
"What did you do?"
Neve picks up the bottle, refills her empty mug. "I told her everything, got paid, went on my way."
Lucanis waits because he knows that's not the end of the story.
"Two days later, their bodies were found in their home by a friend. She'd killed him and then herself. And I've always wondered if I'd approached that job differently if they'd still be alive."
"That wasn't your fault," Lucanis says, and he remembers Davrin's words. "And neither is this."
"I've got a bad feeling about it all, and if I'm honest, I'm afraid of getting it wrong again. Every time we deal directly with Solas, someone dies. Varric, Rook. Just because she's back doesn't mean the danger's passed."
He realizes in this moment that he is left entirely alone, the last one standing on the precipice of wariness. Davrin stands nearest him, but even he has admitted he believes Camina is herself if not entirely so. Neve is not afraid of Camina. No, her concern is, instead, Solas. Everyone in the Lighthouse wants Camina to be Rook so badly, they all overlook the danger. And where does that leave him?
Neve is the detective; she's supposed to have the answers. "Then, I guess you'll have to go see for yourself."
"And what about you?"
He shakes his head. "I can't."
Lucanis stands, desperate for retreat. Once again, he finds himself unmoored, adrift and floundering in the depths of this problem for which there are no easy answers. He's very nearly to the door when Neve speaks again.
"What if she remembers?" A too hopeful question for the friend he knows so well. To grasp at such straws, he knows she's been knocked down far.
He doesn't turn. "I almost hope she doesn't. Not until we can be sure that she's not being controlled."
"I hate this."
He doesn't know what to say to that, what more his quiet, heartbreaking agreement could add.
***
Neve wakes in Davrin's bed. The distance across the courtyard from her door to his hadn't been long enough to convince her it was a bad idea. She'd wanted to blame the decision on the whiskey, but knew damn well that she hadn't had enough to drink to not know exactly what she was doing. She'd asked if she could come inside to talk, half expecting him to call her bluff.
He hadn't.
They had ended up talking. After. And she hadn't intended to spend the night, but they'd fallen asleep in quiet whispers about Minrathous and Ferelden and the guilt of being here instead of somewhere else. Davrin is still deeply asleep, and she knows from experience that she'd have to make a real racket to rouse him. Still, she's quiet and careful as she lifts the arm banded around her middle and retrieves her clothes and her prosthetic, putting herself entirely to rights before checking the courtyard. When she finds it empty of the curious glances and prying eyes of her friends, she makes her way to her office.
Maybe it's a mistake to fall back into old habits, but being with Davrin feels less like a vice and more like a comfort — something they can both lean on for steadiness. Like their time together in Minrathous, maybe it is once again convenience and the desire to forget their situation for a little while bringing them together, but she'll take it. Especially because it works. She feels as though she can finally face Rook today.
She gives it a few hours, has breakfast, and spends time with Bellara in her workshop. Even shares a knowing smile with Davrin as they pass each other in the courtyard. But eventually, she does head into the Lighthouse proper, right to Rook's room. Outside the doors, she can hear laughter — Rook's and Willow's. She knocks lightly before entering.
"I can't believe you yelled at him in front of all those people!" Rook's face is pink with laughter, and the sound is bright and true.
Willow is also shaking with laughter. "I don't even know what came over me. I just saw him, and I was so mad, I just marched right over."
There is something uncomplicated about the two of them together, all their shared history. Neve worries, though, that Will refuses to look too closely, refuses to entertain any theories that are too troubling because of how much she sacrificed to get here. Her time, her work, her marriage, all placed upon the altar of her unrelenting faith in Rook, and if she is not herself, if she is dangerous…what then was it all for? She's not sure her friend could bear even the possibility.
Rook wipes a tear from her eyes. "I wish I could have seen it. I'm sure it was glorious." Her eyes cut to Neve at the door; there's an acknowledgement but not true recognition. And despite the cozy scene, Neve steels herself.
They are standing together at Rook's bookcase, as though she is surveying the space, the decorations, trying to find the familiar in the unfamiliar. Neve wonders what she made of this place, what she thought as she walked the halls that used to be her home. Did she feel anything at all?
Neve didn't trust the Lighthouse when they'd first arrived here, and perhaps, she still doesn't. But it feels less like the distrust of a seedy back alley and instead the sort of wariness that one might reserve for a cat that comes to the back door for scraps. Her feelings are complicated, but she can't imagine looking around this place and feeling nothing at all.
Will touches Rook's shoulder lightly. "I'll check in later."
Rook gives Will a nod and then turns more fully to Neve. "I guess….the chaise is really the only seating I've got in here. Must not have entertained much. Neve, right?"
She nods as she takes a seat with Rook on the green chaise. "You got it."
"I understand we met in Minrathous," Rook says. The words are careful, the uncertainty clear. Neve can't decide if it's genuine or not.
"Yeah. That's where I'm from. I gave you a lead on someone you were looking for."
Give vague details, but not specifics. Keep to the facts only. Emmrich had coached them all on this — well, except Lucanis, who was nowhere to be found.
"I've heard Minrathous is incredible. The floating Archon's palace, all that magic. I've never been," she falters, forcing a smile. "Well, I don't remember ever going anyway."
"I wouldn't recommend a visit right now," Neve says, trying to keep the bitterness out of her tone. If Solas is listening, she doesn't want him to hear it. He's partially to blame for the state of Minrathous after all, and it would only add insult to injury if he knew how much her heart still breaks for her unreal city.
"Why not?"
"Much of it was destroyed in a battle we all fought in."
Rook nods, as though remembering this. "Right. Blight and archdemons?"
Neve nods. "So Rook-"
Rook interjects with a strained smile. "Camina or Cam, please. I…I know you know me as Rook, but it's jarring every time."
Neve feels the slightest bit admonished. She knows better. She should have asked her preference. "I apologize."
She waves the apology off. "Unnecessary. Please, continue."
Neve feels strangely knocked off-center, here in this room with the woman she called friend treating her with all the politeness of a stranger. "You really don't remember any of it?"
Camina at least does her the courtesy of looking sorry. "No."
"What is that like?" Neve asks, the question already out before she can consider the wisdom of it. She understands now why Bellara said she found it so difficult to maintain suspicion or skepticism.
The woman beside her on the chaise seems younger than any Rook she ever knew. Less wary, certainly having seen less of the world and its suffering. She envies it a little bit.
"Like waking up in someone else's life. Even this room…these are my things…some of them anyway. I clearly brought them here from the Necropolis. And it makes sense, much of it. I understand why it's here…I just…" She shakes her head. "I wish I remembered. Something. Anything."
"Perhaps it will come back," Neve replies. She wants to believe it.
Camina's answering smile doesn't reach her eyes. "You sound like Bellara."
Neve manages a laugh. "Her optimism is oddly catching."
Camina nods. "We were friends, right? You and I?"
The question startles Neve. "We were. Why do you ask?"
Camina shakes her head. "I don't know. I can't shake this….uneasiness. Maybe that's the wrong word." Her eyebrows knit together, and she looks away from her. A lie? An obfuscation? Neve isn't sure. "I don't know. Maybe uneasy in the wrong word. More like…I'm worried about disappointing you. Does that make sense?"
Neve swallows her own guilt. Whatever tactic is being taken here, she doesn't like it. "Some things happened during our time here. I blamed you for them, and it was wrong of me."
"Emmrich says that emotions might come back quicker than actual memories. That would explain it."
Neve summons a smile. "Well, there you go."
"Will told me that everyone is a little nervous…that my time in the Fade has had some effect on me we can't see. What do you think?"
It is not the question Neve is expecting; she opts for honesty. "I'm not sure yet."
Camina's smile is gentle, but her words leave Neve feeling cold. "Well, let me know if I pass your test."
***
Though there is nothing to mark the late hour, Lucanis knows it is the middle of whatever passes for night here in the Lighthouse. He is, at least, accustomed to keeping odd hours in this place, but if there are other occupants of the Lighthouse awake at this hour, he has not seen nor heard them. In Villa Dellamorte there are always watchful eyes — servants and guards and Caterina, of course. The middle of the night is when the servants are at their busiest, cleaning the rooms used during the day, doing that invisible work that allows for the pretending that the villa is always pristine.
In his pocket, Caterina's latest note sits heavy with her displeasure and that all too familiar disappointment. She has not recalled him to Treviso, not yet, but he knows his time is limited. Caterina has made that much clear.
The Lighthouse has always been a liminal space. A place of unreality. For so much of his time here, even after Caterina had named him First Talon, that title had felt a world away. It never felt as though it could touch him here, in this place. Caterina's note — to call it a letter would assume it was more than three lines — reminds him that there is no escape from the jaws of destiny. Though why he needs to care about a peace summit between Tevinter and Orlais in Antiva City isn't clear.
And why does he remain here anyway?
For the days when she remained healing and resting, he had avoided that infirmary room. And now, he avoids her entirely. He is completely alone in this, as everyone's hearty skepticism has seemingly vanished. Camina is not the same woman they all knew and loved. But she is close enough for everyone else, apparently. She moves around the Lighthouse and takes meals in the dining room with their friends. For his part, he makes himself scarce. It's not hard. She no longer knows the secrets of this place anyway.
But the Lighthouse is not so vast or endless to avoid her forever, and so when she wanders into the dining room in the middle of the night, he finds himself at the sideboard making coffee, caught like an animal in a trap. He'd been so lost in his own thoughts he hadn't heard her coming, hadn't heard her footfalls. He freezes where he's at, as though not moving might mean he is below notice, but he cannot help but watch her.
She looks as though she's stepped out of one of his many dreams of this place. She's wearing the same tunic and pants she always favored here. He wishes he did not remember the exact texture of the fabric beneath his hands. He hates that he watches her every movement, looking for something wrong or off —some sign or clue that she isn't herself. Something so he can prove to his aching heart that she is not right here.
Rook, his demon calls, an unmistakable yearning in his voice.
He sees the moment she notices him, the way she schools her expression, the clear regret at having opened the door. He thinks he would have turned around and simply left, but she doesn't. She approaches slowly, pausing with the dining table still between them.
It takes all of his energy to turn away from her, to finish pouring the hot water over his coffee. "I'm leaving in just a moment," he murmurs.
"You don't have to go," she replies, but he can feel the forced lightness in her words. She doesn't want to be around him, that much is clear. And it hurts.
Rook. Wants us. To stay, Spite says, words soft. Less insisting and more pleading.
"It's fine." He finishes his coffee, too quickly, picking up his mug and hurrying to the pantry, debating all the way if he should just leave the building altogether.
"I'm sorry."
The words are like a hook beneath his skin, and he is stuck, unable to move further away. He glances back, looking at the spot she has not moved from. Looking at her feels like drowning, like opening his mouth in hopes of receiving a lungful of air only to feel water rushing in, filling his aching lungs. It is a dangerous indulgence. Just days ago he had sat at her bedside and recommitted her to memory, convinced that he would never allow time or distance to dull the reality of her again, and now he finds he cannot escape any of it. When he finally manages to meet her gaze, he finds trepidation instead of recognition — there is no air here.
Her hands grip the chair in front of her as though she needs strength for this conversation. "I'm sorry that I'm not her. That I don't remember…that…I don't know. I'm just….I'm sorry."
He stares at her, rooted to the spot. She both is and isn't her. The sound of her voice, the curve of her neck, the way that the first thing she'd do in this situation is apologize to him. That is his Camina down to all her disparate parts. It is everything else that is wrong. The situation, the way he cannot trust that it is only her behind those amethyst eyes.
"I don't….I don't want your apology. This…" It isn't her fault. He blames Solas. He blames himself. He should have been better; he should have stopped her, protected her. He should have never extracted that promise from her lips. Perhaps they should have allowed the Veil to come down — at least he would have still had her.
"I've been thinking…Emmrich says that if the memories are there…they might come back…with the right trigger, you know? We were…um….Will told me that we were…um…well. So maybe if we spent some time together? Talking?"
Talk! To Rook! Spite insists, appearing at her side, looking at her with all the devotion of a penitent.
There's an earnestness to the question, and no part of him wants to deny her. Here she is, dangling out hope to him, and he cannot take it. "I don't think that's a good idea."
He sees her disappointment in him, in this. "I can't imagine how difficult this must be for you."
"No, you can't." The words leave his mouth clipped and angry. Meaningless platitudes are all she has for him now?
She stares at him. "I didn't ask for this, you know. I want my memories back, too. I want to remember what happened to me so that everyone can stop looking at me like I'm a stranger. Like I'm dangerous. You seem to be the person best poised to help me figure this out, but you're avoiding me."
"Do you even know what you're asking? Who you are asking?" It is a fight to keep his voice even, to not let his own tumultuous emotions override all sense.
"No, and that's the Maker-taken problem, isn't it? I don't fucking know you, any of you. Even Will has become this person I barely recognize. I got dumped unceremoniously back into a life I'm not even sure is mine, and I'm just…trying to make sense of it all. Do you have any idea what that feels like?"
He knows exactly what it feels like, but she doesn't know that. She doesn't know the first thing about him. She doesn't know about Spite or the Ossuary. The woman standing before him has never traversed the contours of his mind, has not seen his deepest and darkest fears and still wanted him. She is not the hero from his memories of her — the woman who opens doors. No, this is not the woman he loves. And perhaps, she never will be. There is no air in this room.
"I can't do this."
And he walks out the door, leaving her alone in the dining hall.
"when people ask how you're doing, they don't really care." most of them do, actually, the amount they care is just directly proportional to how well they know you. you're just mad you can't be the main character of the Twice Daily.
if i am doing shitty and the check out girl asks me, "how are you?" i will say,"man, i've been better." we are strangers to each other. she doesn't need to know my whole life story. she doesn't need to know about my credit score and my hemorrhoids or my uncle in the hospital. she just needs enough to respond "been there, buddy. hey, at least the day is almost over?" and then we part ways. i have been on both sides of thousands of exchanges like this, the only one making you do a little song and dance is you, my friend
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I don’t think there’s anything inherently wrong with relating to characters, “they’re literally me” etc but if that’s the only way you engage with stories you’re kinda missing the whole point of Characters being vehicles through which we can see perspectives outside of our own. and also you’re going to get upset when the Character acts in a way that is not Personally Relatable to You
doubly for shipping. at risk if biting the hand that feeds me, a well written fictional relationship should ideally be more than a didactic template for how to have a nice relationship
this is all about fostering more connection and conversation, so let's chat!
...what I'm reading (books): Just finished The Glass Hotel by Emily St. John Mandel. I've been a fan of hers ever since I read Sea of Tranquility a few years back and then read Station Eleven. There's just something I find very satisfying about her writing. There's a simplistic way about the style that at the same time feels...stylistic? I never know quite how to describe it other than I find myself so engrossed in the way she builds these narratives. The Glass Hotel is definitely my least favorite of this not-trilogy (the ending in particular could have used a little work) but extremely enjoyable nonetheless.
...what I'm reading (fic): Back to being caught up on @genjyoandgojyoandhakkai's Three of Crows and once again hoping Illario's pillow is always warm and also that his dick shrivels up and falls off. Also working my way through The Watcher and the Crow an continually being charmed at a Rookanis that is so much healthier and less chaotic than my own lol. @slothquisitor and I are always Spiderman meme-ing in how we view this world and these characters.
...what I'm listening to: You know when you have that moment of suddenly remembering a song you haven't heard in ages and then next thing you know you're listening on repeat? That's been me the last couple days with Sister Golden Hair by America. There's something about this song that just feels so quintessentially August to me. I'm imagining California road trips in a dying summer.
...what I'm watching: Nothing, but my husband and I have been talking about starting Widow's Bay this week. (I know several people recommended this to me so to whoever rec'ed it, this is your notice that I'm about to join the party!)
...what I'm eating: Red beans and rice again which has quickly become one of my favorite meal preps. Last week I made these Levain chocolate chip and pecan copycat cookies that were delicious but also I have now had so many cookies in the last week that I kind of never want to look at a cookie again, y'know? Meanwhile I have a few very ripe bananas on my counter waiting to be turned into banana bread.
...what I'm working on: My DABB is finally to the point at which I can set it aside for a few days to catch up on EAN. I'm making good progress with chapter 19 and should have it up later this week. I've missed my gymnasts. Shoutout to @cimmanombagel who now messages me every time she watches men's gymnastics. I like that gymnastics has now become part of my brand despite the fact that I do not, in fact, watch men's gymnastics myself.
...what I'm doing to touch grass: I went to a cousin's baby shower over the weekend which was simultaneously an uncomfortable experience of social gender role performance but also a really nice time catching up with some family I haven't seen in a while. But fr why do we make baby showers so gendered? Are men not considered to be part of this experience? Is it not also their baby?
Speaking of gendered events, next weekend I'm going to a bachelorette party. On the plus side, that one has karaoke and alcohol. (Speaking of which - karaoke song suggestions?)
...what's making me laugh: Last night some friends and I played Big Walk for the first time (great game, would recommend) and so much of this game is just finding absurd ways to do simple tasks. It's so nice to just goof with your friends and remember that life can be hard, but it can also be extremely silly? It can be fun? So yeah, my friends are making me laugh.
...what's giving me hope: I might have a lead on a job?? I'm not going to put the cart before the horse because I don't even have an interview lined up, but a job opening came up with some old coworkers of mine who now work at another company in the same industry and I'm cautiously optimistic that this could maybe be my in? I don't want to get my hopes up but...hey, it's hope, right?
...what's so true to me right now: You've gotta find the whimsy in life where you can. My husband's coworker (who is also my cousin, but that's not strictly related) just put in her two weeks and given that company is basically the Titantic post-iceburg hit, this is definitely a morale blow. He's been very sad about this both because he likes working with her but also because without her the job is about to get a lot shittier. Still, he's been talking about how he's going to create a little fake memorial at her desk complete with fake flowers, a faded photo of her, and an electric tealight candle. It reminds me of when my old office stopped buying sparkling Perrier for the work fridge so me and some coworkers made a paper funeral wreath and put it in the fridge along with an "in memorium" sign. So yeah, find the whimsy even in bad situations. You've gotta find the joy to fight off the despair.
it is so funny when you realize that by drow standards, especially drow noble house and ESPECIALLY Baenre standards, Minthara is the woke liberal
She is willing to work with men in leadership positions even post-mind control and she will actually compliment and admire their tyrannical prowess
She will argue that the refugees in Baldur’s Gate should be enslaved because it’s practical and better for them that way, not because they’re weak lesser races that deserve to be subjugated
Like she probably gets called a libtard at Spider Thanksgiving every year while all her relatives are trying to poison each other
like. i'll leave this alone. but HOW are historical romance books not sexualizing the fall of breeches. literally a blowjob flap. not to mention the collars that open to the diaphragm. the décolletage with a wide neckline one swift tug from being revealed. the calves on display. the intimacy of finally seeing the real hair beneath the wig. cmon it's basic storytelling
i love making a post that attracts everyone with usernames like mozartswigsweat and bonnetenthusiast and foppishrake and petticoatsonpetticoatsonpetticoats and dandyismunlimited within 48 hours. blessed webbed site. merry christmas to us all.
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A few days late on this one, but thank you to @epiphany-jones @falonwithbenefits and @cimmanombagel for the tags!
I've been hard at work on my secret DABB project the last couple weeks, but I've made the progress I need to make at this point and can now happily report I am back to picking away at EAN chapter 19! Then again, when you see what I've been working on, maybe you won't be quite so happy.
He is six years old the day his childhood ends.
Warm rays of summer sun beat into the backseat of the car where his head rests against the seat belt, heavy eyelids drooping as the lull of the highway pulls him towards sleep.
His sister is already asleep in her car seat, her small mouth open beneath the brim of the sunhat she still wears. There is sand between his toes and his cuffs of his shorts are still damp from when he'd slipped his dad's grasp and run into the waves, but mostly he is warm and safe and happy in this pocket of the world that is only his.
Whispers drift back from the front seat where his parents speak in hushed tones, his dad's fingers twisting the knob of the stereo. Lucanis fights against his tired eyes to watch, but when he catches his mom's eyes in the rear view mirror she only smiles.
"You can go to sleep, sweetie. It's a long drive."
Sometimes he wonders what would have happened if he'd gone to sleep. Would he remember what came next? The screams? That feeling of weightlessness? The crushing, terrifying silence of after?
But he was six years old. He doesn't really remember any of this, does he?
The memory of a child is so malleable, so impermanent. What of that day is real and what is his own recreation, each pleasant recollection an airbag made to cushion the horror of loss? Were those even his mother's last words? Or were the real ones something so terrible he would rather forget?
Tagging @slothquisitor @genjyoandgojyoandhakkai @armoredinmoonlight @dags-over-caravans @blightwashed @adejareve @doc-notreally-salas @serialsforbellara @sorrygoldfish @thewyvernrising @skogrr if you have anything to share
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