In dreams you transform
A nightmare before meâtwisted and a horror.
But hereâin this light all is made clear
Truth illuminates the monster, showing that all there ever was
was a broken man.
âtonight, may I not check under the bed for a boogieman.
The break didnât last. It was a respite that Dick couldnât feel. So back in the room, he watched Leoniâs lawyer standâpapers in handâ crossing to the podium. Â
âOfficer Grayson, you are still under oath, and are required to answer questions as such.â The Judge looked down at him not unkindly.
âYes, your honor." Dick nodded and took a steadying breath. Â
âYou may proceed, Mrs. Hawkens.â Â
âThank you, your honor.â She smiled and tilted her head towards Dick. Â
Dick had the unnerving impression of a panther looking at her prey.
âMr. Grayson, you testified that you were friends with my client Aaron Leoni. Is that correct?â
âI thought we were. Yes.â Dick frowned.
âAre you often friends with your supervising officers?âÂ
âNot particularly.â Dick said slowly. âI spend a lot of time with them, but I wasâ was closest with Leoni.â
âDid you feel it was a betrayal when your friend, your supervising officer wrote you up for reckless behavior on the job, and removed you from cases?â
Dick shifted in his seat. âNo, he is allowed his opinion on my performance. Being in training, that is kinda the point of a training officer.â
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Word Count: 1,130
Summary: âSometimes starting over seemed impossible. Felt impossible. At times perhaps it really was impossible, but this was a different time, and although parts of them still appeared very similar or even the same, there was no denying that there were also parts of them that had been irrevocably reshaped, damaged, or entirely destroyed.â
Authorâs Note: Happy New Year! To everyone who made it to see todayâs sunrise Iâm proud of you, and Iâm proud of me, too. If Iâm being honest Iâve really lost the spirit of writing these past couple years, and I never thought Iâd say something so heart wrenching, or have it leave me feeling like a part of my soul has been shattered. But those parts arenât gone, theyâre just lost and neglected, and Iâm determined to pull myself out of this stupor if itâs the last thing I ever do.
And it very well may be the last, so I guess I better make some of these final pieces as good as I can! Kicking off the new year with a bit of an experimental piece, I more just used it as an excuse to delve into what my idea of Zhongli and Neuvilletteâs half-human, half-dragon appearances tend to look like when the trio is in their most natural states. All three of them also have complete human forms and complete creature forms, Zhongli and Neuvillette being dragons that I tend to envision with a combination of furry and scaly traits, while Nova has an alternate Suanni form she was granted as a gift by Lingyuan.
Preface aside, please check out @monthlywritingchallenges for exactly what it says on the label, they consistently update from all subjects and fandoms, even original work, and their prompts are plentiful and varied! I hope I can keep up with this challenge for the month alongside some of my other projects, but if I donât at least I managed to get one prompt done!
Thank you so much for reading and I hope you enjoy!
Reblogs appreciated!
*****
The chill-touched fog that blanketed the dew dipped vale roamed from the slopes of its vast mountains to the dips of its verdant valleys, greeting the tender tea leaves and gentle river currents of the new year as it surveyed the freshly stirring land. From the quaint private abodes that lined the riverbanks and tea fields to the renowned compound for the tea workshop that served as both a point of pride and a powerhouse of trade and innovation for the secluded settlement, there was a swell of silent serenity that seemed to suffuse the air itself. Amplified by the hint of warmth cast by the rays of the rising sun, the babble of the scattered brooks and streams and softly lapping waves that joined the chorus of the riverâs flow, the scuff of miscellaneous soles on both smooth stone and soft grass that formed the majority of the walkways around the village, it was truly a picturesque sight to behold.
The feline featured Adeptus known as Nova was seated at one of the round stone tables that had been installed at various points along the villageâs central pavilion. Just south of Chunming Teaworks and under the boughs of the grand tree that had grown up around the pedestals and main fixture of Qiaoyingâs cherished Adeptal tea cauldron, she was sampling some of the very same tea that sacred vessel had produced. With a satisfied purr her twilight tail swished in contentment under her Liyue style skirts, which were likewise dusted with a subtly shimmering accent along their dark edge, and she massaged the warm basin of the cup between her gloved palms as the fabric slowly absorbed the heat just as sheâd intended.
Zhongli was seated to her right, a square cup as his goblet of preference but containing the same substance balanced in his own elegantly gloved grasp. Heâd opted to don one of his more traditional robes rather than his typical suit this morning, likely because he knew heâd be spending the day in leisure with his partners rather than turning up in the harbor for work. After the joint New Years and birthday celebration from the night before he didnât mind the reprieve, and Director Hu had been quite insistent when sheâd sent them all home with plenty of goodies and an additional warning to not even bother trying to make some attempt to circumvent her orders, because it would all only prove to be in vain. The retired Archon of Geo sipped his tea with a smile, reveling in the peace and potential this bright new day was already brimming with.
To Novaâs left the esteemed Iudex of Fontaine, Neuvillette, adjusted his gloves as well before raising the silver chalice before him to his eager lips. While his companions were partial to a bit of additional flavor in their morning beverage, Neuvillette enjoyed the simple and refined flavors of an untainted drink of warm water instead. Something about the way the natural taste of the water was affected by and transformed with the heat, and even over the cooling process, convinced him that nothing could ever turn him against the majesty of water in its purest form. He was as contented by the calm nature of their shared morning as his partners seemed to be, appreciating the warmth wafting off his drink as he focused on the stillness of the moment, and the soothing ambiance of nature that only enhanced the sensation.
Here in Qioaying Village where the unlikely trio made their home they could be as authentic as they wished, safe in the lowlands of the remote rural mountains that formed Chenyu Vale, accepted and welcomed even in their less than human presentation. The star dyed and lovesick feline situated between her beloved dragons just couldnât seem to help admiring the way Zhongliâs dark brown and gold draconic traits contrasted with the white, iridescent, frilled quality of Neuvilletteâs. Despite the largely aquatic nature of his features, Neuvilletteâs ears were still white, fluffy, and pointed in a manner not dissimilar to Zhongliâs, and not dissimilar to the otters with whom he shared a large part of his humanoid color scheme. Whether it turned out to be a true coincidence or not was anyoneâs guess. But the frills and fins that accented the edges of his hydro-resistant fur and the dark blue scale lined tail that ended in a flourish of dazzling iridescent fins were indicative of his Leviathan nature; they were as much a part of him as anything else. And he was learning how to embrace that, especially now that he had Nova and Zhongli to help.
Nova sipped her drink in an attempt to keep her hands to herself, fighting the alluring enticement of Zhongliâs grand horns that parted his long, dark locks with branches of gleaming gold as they curved up into the sky, contrasting beautifully with the way Neuvilletteâs smooth dark blue fins followed the downward flow of his cascading cloud white locks. She reached out to impulsively give both of their silky maneâs a long stroke, from the crown of their heads to the ends, which she found to be impressively and carefully groomed. Sheâd come to expect nothing less of her sophisticated husbands, and she only hoped she could project even a mote of the kind of poise and grace they managed to conduct themselves with.
Theyâd come a long way since the existence theyâd known only as ancient dragons; life had become about more than just survival and strength. Than rules and conquering. Even as harrowing memories of the past crept out when they least expected, seizing their hearts and minds in the most inopportune moments when all they really wanted was to move on. To heal. To accept the terrifying reality of change. And here, now, seated at this modest table set in a scene straight out of a fairy tale, or perhaps just a pleasant dream, they all had hope that maybe such seemingly insurmountable hurdles werenât so out of reach if they reached for them together.
Sometimes starting over seemed impossible. Felt impossible. At times perhaps it really was impossible, but this was a different time, and although parts of them still appeared very similar or even the same, there was no denying that there were also parts of them that had been irrevocably reshaped, damaged, or entirely destroyed. Picking up the pieces, deciding what to keep, deciding what new parts to add, or if the whole thing should be scrapped altogetherâŠthere was no more time for such questions. Theyâd already started over by getting up today, together. And theyâd do it again and again and again, every day from now on, for as long as their hearts and hands found purchase in one another.
tagged by @inquisimer <33 have some illarook hockey au on me!! (more vibes than plot but we'll get there)
"Illaâ" They're cut off by two fingers scissoring them open, curling in and out with curious, persistent strokes. "Ahângh. We can't..."
Illario doesn't listen, of course. He never does. Has to keep pushing, always.
Aru gives up. They flop back on the pillow, hips jerking reflexively as his fingers pump in and out of them. The noise is wet and loud, only half masked by the aircon.
In another life this would have been their room. Theirs and Lucanis'. The thought hurts, like a punch to the sternum.
Illario's fingers push against something deep inside and they gasp, a small punched-out noise. "Ah!"
That, of course, only encourages him. He does it again, and again, and all Aru can do is cling onto the sheets, mind emptied out of everything but feeling.
very very very late and idk who to tag but no pressure: @rosella-writes @wishforhome (ignore me if you've already done this)
I didn't want to hijack that post I just reblogged (partly because it was first posted 12 years ago) but this is kinda what I'm talking about when people post writing "rules" to follow.
Writers homogenize their writing, readers lose reading comprehension, and writers homogenize their writing even more.
Many years ago, some genius decided that readers just don't see the word "said" and so writers should ONLY use "said" so that the word disappeared in the writer's mind.
This isn't based on any data I can find. There was no study done on this. Some writer said it, and other writers picked it up, and now apps that help you write highlight any dialogue tag that isn't "said" and tell you your a demon for using it, if you don't change it RIGHT NOW you'll spend your life torturing hatchling tortoises in hell, and no one will ever read your book.
I see the word "said." I see it a lot. In fact, I see it so much that the book itself starts to seem repetitive. Because "said" is a fucking word, and if you use the same word over and over, people fucking notice.
But unfortunately what happened is that because a whole lot of high profile social media "experts" told all writers to only use "said," they started doing that and then readers forgot what other descriptive dialogue tags meant.
So you get randos like the OP of that 12-year-old post saying that they just DON'T UNDERSTAND. where is the "SAID." you can't HISS. You aren't a SNAKE.
My whole writing career, I have soon SO many people try to post or propagate writing "rules" that just make writing so bland. And the weird thing is, sometimes they contradict each other. For example, even though you always have to use the word "said," you're not permitted to use an adverb to describe the verb (because adverbs are sins, don't you know?) and so you get things like:
"You'll never get away with this! As long as I live, I WILL HUNT YOU DOWN," Villain McVillain said.
To me, that's boring. That's not creative. That's just one step up from reading an instruction manual.
You have to strike a balance between "said," unique dialogue tags, and no dialogue tags at all. You have to mix it up to help the flow of the story. You also have to do what's right for your story. There is no hard and fast rule in writing.
Except one: Never use the word "ejaculated" as a dialogue tag. That one's on the books, people.
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Shadow Academy Interpretations -- Intro and White Whale
Iâve decided to write a series of essays on the lyrics of Shadow Academyâs first album. Theyâre very abstract, and deriving meaning from the music is extremely important to me.
If you havenât listened to Shadow Academy yet, please check out their album, which is available in full on YouTube. You can also grab some merch to support them if you like the music!
---
I don't know why Shadow Academy affected me so strongly.
Initially, I couldn't connect with the lyrics. I didn't understand them. They weren't presented to me in the way normal pop music feeds me meaning, but I still craved interpretation. I needed to know.
That became an obsession for a couple days: Why wasn't the meaning pinned up on a bulletin board for me to consume? Why couldn't I have the artist's heart without any work on my part? Why couldn't I shut my mind down and just enjoy the music without its core laid bare?
It took me hours of listening to the music and experiencing the near-painful urgency for some sort of translation before my brain finally turned on.
It's been years since any poetry has done that. In that moment, I found myself back in high school English, an open book in front of me to my left, and a blank sheet of paper to my right. Interpret this. What does it mean? What was the author trying to say?
What resonates with you?
The music stuck. Even though I didn't understand the meaning, each verse was carried on a genius score--which was both used by the lyrics and which lent itself to the lyrics. Punctuations within the music itself actually supplemented the interpretation to the point where one can't be separated from the other. It's impossible to read the words of each song without also listening to the song.
And I realized I'd find my meaning in the analysis. The desperation ebbed, and I sat down to work.
Overall, the album has a melancholy tone. This isn't positive. It carries themes of falling, invisibility, darkness, and pain. It's strange to see this side of Avidan, who presents himself to the world as a generally upbeat person. It's also a little strange to run an interpretation of the lyrics on someone who has essentially talked about himself on an internet show for the last ten years of his life. It's an advantage that seems almost ill-gotten, like I know too much. I shouldn't have this window into someone's life.
But overall... It seems like that's where a lot of his writing comes from. Basically, that he's exposed, and he has to deal with that.
Autobiographical lyrics sometimes fall short of making a connection with their intended audience, especially those whose writers live on a completely different social strata. I can't entirely understand what Avidan has been through, because I'm not known by millions of people. However, he's done his best to make each song relatable, so I feel it's only fair for me to provide my interpretation of his writing, then attempt to relate the meaning to my own experiences.
Part One: White Whale
This may be the most obvious when it comes to inspiration, with the source material evolving from Moby Dick by Herman Melville.
I had a hate-hate relationship with this book from a young age, because I accidentally committed myself to reading it in sixth grade. I'd read Black Beauty and Watership Down, The Call of the Wild, and White Fang, among other animal-related books, and so I thought that Moby Dick would be a fun romp about a whale. I selected it for a semester-long book report to be turned in three months later.
Anyone who's read Moby Dick knows that it is not a fun romp about a whale, but is instead a near-biographical account of whale hunting in the 1800s, which deals mostly with the types and consistencies of whale blubber.
I don't remember if that's really what the book was about, but my ten-year-old brain just hooked onto that and wouldn't let go. My concentration ebbed, I struggled to find the story amidst dozens of chapters that varied between 30 pages and half a page, then I tried to give up after reading eight whole pages.
I say I tried to give up, because apparently I was committed. I'd chosen my 400-page white whale, and my teacher said I just had to live with that.
So of course I said, "fine, okay, that's rational," and set right to work on reading it.
Except that's not what I did at all. I put it off until just a few days before it was due, and with eight pages read and the wrath of God waiting to descend on me if I didn't turn in a book report, I read the whole thing in two nights, then turned in my first ever scathing literary review. I cannot for the life of me remember the grade I got on it, but it must have been decent. I got an A in the class.
The point is: Shadow Academy's "White Whale" almost makes me want to try reading it again. Maybe I will. Did you know there's a chapter in Moby Dick titled "The Crotch?" There's also one called "The Nut." And if I recall correctly, the entire story takes place in the last three chapters.
It's important to note that the term white whale has entered the English lexicon with a meaning most people understand, even if they haven't read the book. It's an obsession. A goal that might be impossible to attain, despite one's earnest efforts. Maybe even one that seems pointless to other people.
Avidan's white whale is laid out in the first verse of the song.
So, silent tide / Tell me which face do I show the world and which one do I hide?
All well-known personalities are essentially two different people: Their private, real self, and one self they present to the world. Avidan has talked about this before when it comes to the Sexbang persona he created for Ninja Sex Party and how it differs from his actual personality. He's also discussed how the two have begun to blend together.
It should be obvious who he is. The song goes on to state that he, of course, has intimate knowledge of his real self, but it's important that he uses the term demon eyes. More about that later.
The entire song seems to be a dive (pun intended, I guess) about how he's interpreted, versus his real self, versus how much he actually knows of himself. And therein is the eponymous "white whale" itself: When you present as two different people, which one actually is the real you?
There's lines in the song that suggest this may be an internal battle against how he's perceived, as well, although this could be pure interpretation on my part. Endless waters and the loss of the "trail" may suggest the entirety of the internet, with which Avidan has expressed an adversarial relationship in the past. This is reinforced by the lines:
Dive, vicious dance / Tell me poison pouring from my heart / Can burn into the lance
Finding a balance between one persona and the other--or even deciding which is "real" and which is "invented" may be affected by criticism. I won't get too far into some of those trials, but to summarize, there was a lot of postulating that the Sexbang persona was real, and that was who Avidan was becoming.
How can one not pour poison from their heart when seeing something like that? It hurts when people you barely know judge you for something untrue. You want to strike back. You want that anger and anxiety to crystalize into a lance that can silence your critics. But when there are so many and you're only one person, tactical strikes become impossible. You're overwhelmed. And you realized your white whale is an insurmountable hurdle.
I do know how that feels.
Probably not on the same scale, but as someone with a personality disorder, I'm often judged for split second actions and poor decisions. I've therefore cultivated a near-lifetime of adversaries who can't separate my real self from the beast of mental illness. People I don't even know or whom I've never spoken to make sure to judge me--anonymously, of course. If the Internet gives us nothing else, it gives us anonymity. So while I'm busy laying myself bare, others are hiding in the shadows to snipe at me. Some of that is deserved.
But on a compounding scale, I sometimes find myself buried under those criticisms. Everyone has an opinion, and everyone feels like they have the right to voice it. Even if it's been said before. It's like a single axe strike against the trunk of a tree compared to a thousand: one single cut doesn't hurt the tree, but those strikes add up, and eventually the tree falls.
A coffin with no nail.
You eventually become numb to these things. You've been killed, but you're not dead. The coffin is still open and you still see these interpretations of your actions. But you've already been felled. You can't fall again.
The other day I received a half dozen comments on my mental health blog calling me a terrible person because of a misinterpretation of something I wrote. Leaving aside the fact that willful misinterpretation plus anonymity is a staple of internet interaction, the scathing words didn't hurt. They can't anymore. I've heard it all.
Is this where Avidan is? Becoming numb to those emotions isn't a great way to exist.
I have no way to know / Unless you've seen a ghost.
I find these lines to be the most telling in the song. It seems to speak of searching for the truth, but being unable to discern it by his own power. Either both personas have so thoroughly blended together that it's impossible to separate the two (the slightly more positive interpretation) or he can't tell one from the other. The line Unless you mean it may be asking if the negative interpretations are real or simply meant to hurt. IE: Do you mean what you said, or have you seen the opportunity to do harm and embraced it?
Sometimes it seems like I've had a persona created for me, with labels attached to it without my permission. And this is the persona people have chosen to see--rather than the real me, or the one I've cultivated for myself.
Avidan sees himself with demon eyes, which he doesn't know if he can trust. And: If I am interpreted, is that my real self? Or is my real self the one I feel at the center of my being? Do I have a right to judge myself, or is the judgement of other people more accurate? Should I place credence into how I'm perceived, or should I rely on my own--possibly flawed--intimate knowledge?
Trying to figure this out is an endless struggle. I can't help but to pursue it, but at times it's definitely Hanging my own rope. I can't win.
A lot of what makes writing and music important to me is being able to connect with the writer. Of course that means I'm going to interpret lyrics in a way that makes sense to me personally, and as Avidan himself said (and I'm paraphrasing here), it's more interesting for the audience to be able to take these lyrics and make them their own.
At the same time, as a fan of Game Grumps and NSP, it's hard to remove the writer from the writing entirely. The aforementioned personality disorder comes with more faults than one, but among the more interesting symptoms is the desire to constantly pursue empathic connections with other people. Those with this particular disorder find parasocial relationships harder to navigate than most, although I've struck a healthy balance in the past couple years.
The point is, I'm always going to see these as Danny's lyrics. Even while putting my own interpretation to them, I'm always going to wonder about--and worry over--his thought process while writing. I think that's the kernel of internal beauty that comes from this longing for empathic connection. It's usually painful, frustrating, misconstrued, discarded, and brushed off.
But I feel like I understand people, and sometimes that brings me comfort.
There were many things James Herondale wasnât. Brave, for once. Strong. A competent warrior. A shadowhunter worthy of the old and respected âat least three or so generations agoâ name of Herondale. A good son to his great parents.
But if there was one thing James was; that he prided himself in being, that was an excellent listener. Even to the ever-the-more excitedly unintelligible Lucie Herondale: Jamesâs brave, strong, warrior-perfect, worthy, and good younger sister.
âOh, James I wish you couldâve seen Mr. Bridgestockâs face when I was announced the best student of the Shadowhunter Academy, and then when I gave a speech on how our home had instilled in me the perfect mindset for becoming myself,â Lucieâs Herondale-blue eyes glinted with satisfaction, a wicked grin curved her lips upwards âI believe I must write a scene in the Beautiful Cordelia inspired on the event. Ha! That will teach Mr. Pathetic Inquisitor how he should never behave in an ill manner towards us Herondales,â rather abruptly, Lucie rose from her seat, upsetting Jamesâs tea cup and causing her upholstered chair to propel to the floor with a loud thud! she paid no heed to âOh, James, I must retire to my writing desk this very instant. Inspiration has just struck, and she must not be made to wait âotherwise sheâll flee in utter indignation!â Lucie all but gripped Jamesâs neck and briefly kissed the top of his head âGoodbye, dear brother.â
And without further ado, she lifted her tulle skirts in a rather unladylike manner, and exited the drawing room she and James had been having tea on.
James looked around the aftermaths of his baby sisterâs nonsensical haste with a sigh. He truly loved Lucie, but her energetic self was so very at odds with the life of tranquility that reigned over the London Institute.
Not only was Jamesâs tea spilt onto the small table theyâd been onâs tablecloth, and Lucieâs chair on the plush carpet that covered the floor: Lucie had also foregone the slipper sheâd been balancing on her foot, her embellished stele, and her silver hand mirror. All, James supposed, left for him to return to their owner.
James kneeled down to right Lucieâs chair and take her shoe, then picked her mirror. It was a shadowhunterâs mirror, if that made sense. Itâs silver was engraved in protection runes, and the Herondale family motto as well as emblem of flying herons. For a brief moment, Jamesâs twin stared at him on the mirror. His black hair curled up around his ears and reached almost to his shoulders; it did a good job of shielding his grey eyes, but it wasnât perfect. James disliked his eyes terribly: Lucie had their fatherâs eye colour âthe eye colour which had characterised the Herondales for centuriesâ but James had inherited his motherâs eyes. A warlockâs eye colour on a seemingly shadowhunter boy.
Not wanting to dwell on such depressing thoughts, as Barbara had told him he shouldnât, James slipped the hand mirror into his pantâs back pocket. He turned to the table.
He ought to take off the tablecloth so that not that much of his tea seeped through the fabric and stained the wood underneath, yet he hesitated. His eyes were fixed on Lucieâs stele with a grimace. JamesâŠ
Wasnât the fondest of steles. Of anything nephilim, if he were honest. But he especially disliked steles. Lucieâs.
A long time ago, before Lucie had gone off to the Shadowhunter Academy, she and James had been gifted twin steles by Charlotte Fairchild; who, James believed, had once been Willâs adoptive mother of sorts. The steles were a magnificent work of art, there were no words to describe them nor how wonderfully theyâd slid across Jamesâs arm as he marked himself (therefore James had been unwilling to so much as think of their price).
But the steles had coincided with the arrival of Augustus Pounceby and his gang of pre-pubescent minions. James had been equal parts excited and nervous to showcase their steles to Augustus, but then it all had turned to dread when the boy had snided at Lucie and him because they âwerenât real shadowhuntersâ given how their mother was a warlock. James had been devastated, and in his devastation, he had silently drifted away from the ideals of divine warrior-hood of the nephilim.
In her fury, Lucie had taken her stele, announced to all that she was a better shadowhunter than any of them, and challenged Augustus to a duel to proof her words. Lucie had broken that bullyâs nose and hauled him down a set of stairs.
From that day onwards, it was made clear who Lucie Ella Herondale was. And who James could never be.
Jamesâs fingers twitched, and he quickly shot to grab the stele and get it with the hand mirror.
âEasy there,â a feminine voice said, amused âDid you burn yourself?â
âLeave it be, Jessamine.â James protested.
He pivoted on his heels and almost crashed against Jessamine. Well, he wouldnât be able to crash against her, per se, since Jessamine Lovelace was the London Instituteâs residential âguardianâ ghost. Semantics.
Jessamineâs eyes widened at their close proximity âas if scandalised that Jamesâs face would pass through her immaterial formâ and she promptly traveled to the other corner of the drawing room; the top of her head nearly grazing the ceiling and a gloved hand to her chest. âGoodness gracious, James!â she exclaimed, scandalised âA proper lady does not stand so close to a gentleman, itâs unseemly unless heâs declared his intentions to wed her beforehand,â she huffed, her small nose crunching up âWhich you have not, I shall remind you.â
James rolled his eyes. âAnd I shall remind you that it is unseemly for so-called proper ladies to go frolicking around with their hair unbound at four in the afternoon. In the presence of a gentleman and only a gentleman, at that,â James bit back.
Jessamine gasped indignantly; she hastened to gather her flowing blonde strands of hair in a poor attempt at a braided-curled-plaited proto-coiffure monstrosity from her times, the 1870s. To no avail, naturally: the moment she retired her hands âshooting James a winning smirk and a ha!â the whole arrangement crumbled down, and once again, her hair continued floating in the air.
Jamesâs relationship, acquaintanceship, with Jessamine was tempestuous at best. Jessamine was always chiding James for staying âlocked upâ in his bedroom enjoying the company of a good book, she thought it unacceptable that Jamesâs only friends were his parents and Barbara, and was deeply saddened that James was neither a âhandsome gentleman like Willâ or a âpretty lady with whose hair she could let her fashionista nature run rampantâ at the very least twice a day.
Lucie was in much better terms with Jessamine, and not only because of Lucieâs affinity for ghosts nor because she was a pretty lady with whose hair Jessamine could while away her lifeless life. Lucie was also Lucie: she was likeable, unlike James. Alas, Lucie was also in Idris most of the time.
Although now that James pondered on the matter, it didnât make sense that Jessamine was with him and not his sister. Unless, that is, Jessamine was running an errand.
âIs Lucie asking for her stele? Or her hand mirror? Or,â James waved the discarded slipper âThis?â
Jessamine flew to James; her face getting alarmingly close to Lucieâs smelly shoe while her feet swung down and up in a childish manner on the air onto which she floated horizontally.
âLucie didnât ask for any of that,â Jessamine murmured. Then, she looked up at James âHowever she did ask for your presence at her bedroom after supper. Make sure to be on time.â
âBut wonât Lucieâ Jessamine, I beg you to wait for a moment,â James belaboured when Jessamine began disappearing âDear Raziel, wonât you wait for a moment?â
Jessamine sighed, and girlishly âsatâ on a settee. âWhat?â she deadpanned.
James suppressed the urge to roll his eyes.
âWonât Lucie be at supper to request my presence herself?â James asked.
âOh, no she wonât. Now, if youâll excuse meâŠâ
And with that and a âremember not to be late!â Jessamine disappeared in a cloud of petticoats and blonde curls. To Lucieâs room, he guessed.
James plopped down, sighing, on the settee Jessamine had vacated. He sighed rather a lot when Lucie and Jessamine where nearby, especially when they were together. He propped his feet up âheedless of his shoesâ on the backrest, and fished his reading glasses out of his waistcoat. Then, he proceeded to carry out the activity that brought him the most joy: reading.
Presently, it was The Regent by some ClarĂn bloke what was entertaining James. Barbara had personally translated the manuscript from Spanish to English for his seventeenth birthday. The Regent was entertaining.
James didnât wonder why Lucie wouldnât be at supper. Lucie was a free spirit who did whatever she wanted because she could, and was also not to be questioned. Besides, Will and Tessa doted on her too much to forbid her from doing anything during the brief months she returned to her family in London. She was the pride of the Herondales.
So James, simply, got comfortable and read.
As Jessamine had said, Lucie had, indeed, not been present at supper. Therefore supper had been a quiet affair not unlike the ones usually had when the Herondaleâs youngest member was in the Shadowhunter Academy.
However the sheer ruckus coming from within her bedroom, that was very dissimilar from the London Institute James knew and loved.
âLucie?â James asked, raising his fist to knock on her door.
But before he could do so, Lucie jerked the door open. âJames, oh James. Come inside, come inside,â she urged âMake haste, most agonisingly slow brother.â
James obeyed, though he didnât move more than a step from the threshold. The sight of Lucie was simply too bizarre. âWhatever are you wearing?â
Lucie kicked the door closed and whirled around to face him. âA suit.â
Well, James could see that.
Lucie was clad in fashionable dark menswear. Pants that clung to her legs, a white, pristine shirt, a marvellous velvet waistcoat, and a jacket smartly embellished with rune embroidery. She looked fashionable, she looked like their cousin Anna Lightwood, who was not like Lucie. Or perhaps�
âIt was a gift from Matthew,â Lucie added, going to her bed and picking a matching black bowler hat âAnd this as well. Do you like it?â
James gulped down once. In spite of being close to Anna, of being the closest to Barbara, he was oddly nervous. His palms sweated and he had to clean them on his pants.
âLucie,â he began, rather gingerly âIs this your way of telling me you fancy ladies? Because you know I support you; by the Angel, I fancy ladies and it would be awfully ungentlemanly of me to claim I can have that attraction by sole virtue of my being aââ
Jamesâs speech was cut short by Lucie bursting into a dreadful bout of laughter. She had to hug her stomach, and support herself on the wall to keep from stumbling to the floor.
James guessed he was not the most inspirational speaker.
âI do not fancy ladies,â Lucie eventually said, when her laughter had subsided and she could then wipe her tears away with a black-gloved finger âAs far as it concerns me, the only thing I feel for women is companionship of the platonic sort. Iâm wearing this to sneak out. To meet a boy,â she beamed at James âYou know, Jessamine used to rendezvous with her husband dressed like this.â
âJessamine was married?â for some reason, James had latched onto the most inconsequential fact. And it was only after Lucie nodded, that the rest of her sentence sunk in âYouâre meeting with a boy?â he exclaimed in alarm.
âShh, donât be too loud,â Lucie clamped a palm on Jamesâs mouth âIâd loath it if Papa and Mama found out by you belting out my departure from the bachelorette status.â
James circled his hand around Lucieâs wrist. âYou have an understanding with this boy?â he whispered.
âYes, his existence is quite the particular matter,â Lucie stepped back, to the open window.
Jamesâs eyes widened. Lucie could summon and control ghosts; see and touch those who didnât want to be seen and touched. But this⊠James had to ask whether Lucie had an understanding with a ghost. He was going to, when Lucie opened her mouth.
âHowever, just for future reference, James bach, me meeting with a boy does not necessarily carry romantic implications. Look at Matthew, and Thomas, for instance. Theyâre my friends, and only my friends,â she swung her legs over the windowsill âMundane novels have got into your brain and made you think opposite sex friendships an impossible feat. But despair not! When Matthew, Thomas, and Christopher arrive tomorrow, youâll have plenty of instances to be proven wrong.â
âWait, whatââ
âI bid you my farewells and adieu, brother!â
âLucie, wait!â
James ran to the windowsill, but Lucie jumped off it too fast. She was lost into the night, and James could not afford to choose to search for her over his debilitating panic.
Matthew Fairchild, Thomas Lightwood, and Christopher Lightwood were Lucieâs friends; James knew of them, but knew them only as residents of Idris. Why hadnât he been informed of their imminent arrival sooner? Hadnât Will and Tessa thought James would like to know?
They probably thought this could be a surprise for James, something that would, somehow, make him happy. Matthew and Christopher were his age (Christopher was his cousin), and Thomas Tessaâs best friendâs son; Barbaraâs youngest sibling. And still.
This was horrible. James would have to socialise. And the last time he had socialised, Augustus Pounceby had happened.
âI mustââ James went for the door in two long strides âI must speak to Barbara.â
Barbara Lightwood lived in a lavish flat at Soho, all things considered, quite far from her cousin Annaâs own abode, also in Soho. The two loved each other dearly, James knew, but happened to live diametrically opposed lives.
Anna was a ladies gentlewoman; her nights were spent in downworlder gatherings with a lovely girl on her lap, and later on, surely, on her bed. Barbara was different. Jamesâs mentor had the odd pastime of having midnight strolls around the darkest nooks of London to do Angel knew what; if Barbara lived in Soho, it was only because her lover, the warlock Hypatia Vex, hadnât been very different from Anna before meeting Barbara.
James hid within the shadows of the street to ward off unwanted stares âhe hadnât marked himself, he hardly ever did. He couldâve reached Barbaraâs flat blindsided, and so he got to the buildingâs facade in under ten minutes; thereupon he employed his keys to grant himself entrance.
Barbara and Hypatia lived in the attic, in a juxtaposition of the four flats once divided by the elderly landlord. James took the stairs two at a time, his heartbeat increasing by the second, and promptly accessed the entrance.
Once again, he took his keys and let himself in.
âMy love, youâre playing a dangerous game.â
James stopped dead in his tracks. That had been Hypatiaâs voice, he didnât know why he was so surprised by the warlock being in her own home. Perhaps it was Hypatiaâs tone; she normally was as collected as it got, nowâŠ
âThis has always been a dangerous game,â someone, Barbara, protested. She sounded exasperated, exhausted beyond description âYou know that very well Hypatia. And still you chose to be with me.â
The voices were coming from the kitchen. Slowly, agonisingly so, James took a step forwards.
âAllow me to rephrase my wording, then,â Hypatia retorted âBarbara Charlotte Lightwood, my love, the light that shines upon my darkness, continue this, and you will die,â her voice broke slightly âHe will murder you.â
A deep, shaky breath. âI have to.â
Now James was close enough to see the womenâs silhouettes. Hypatia was in Barbaraâs arms, their lips very close together. James thought theyâd kiss, but then Barbara tensed.
âJames,â she said. Not a question, not an acknowledgment: an order to make himself visible.
James stepped into the kitchen looking downwards; in shame, in embarrassment. In fear over what he had overheard.
âHalf blood,â Hypatia said, swiftly wiping any traces of vulnerability off her expression; squaring her shoulders, building a wall of burning fire between them âYou could have interrupted something much more intimate.â
Hypatia might have loved Barbara, but she was disgusted by the sight of James. If anything, she consented to his existence because of his connection to Barbara. James didnât know quite where Hypatiaâs dislike stemmed from.
âDo stop that,â Barbara walked to James, and tilted his head just so to meet his eyes. Her hands were warm, sisterly, on Jamesâs chin, yet her eyes shone with concern âWhatâs the matter, Jamie?â
Suddenly James felt ashamed of his social insecurities. Barbara clearly had more pressing matters to attend to, and here he was, distracting her from them because he was terrified of socialising with Lucieâs friends. âItâs nothing,â he mumbled.
Barbara quirked a perfectly-groomed eyebrow at him.
âLucie has invited her friends to London and they arrive tomorrow. I was nervous, thatâs it.â he blurted out.
Hypatia snorted, but Barbara led him to a settee and sat next to him. âMy Tommy is one of your sisterâs friends, heâs a good boy. Nothing like Augustus,â she patted his hand âI havenât seen him in six long years, though we write often. I wonder if heâs finally shaken off that sickness of his.â
James knew they were approaching dangerous territory. Barbara didnât consent to speak of her reasons for leaving Idris âand her familyâ behind to reside in London. James shut up.
He should be grateful for Barbaraâs decision; whichever motives it had been fuelled by. Barbara was his mentor, the one person other than his parents and Uncle Jem whoâd looked at him and seen something good. Something worthy of a shadowhunter.
Sheâd trained James, had gifted him a stele and throwing knives and done her hardest to instil on him the notion of him being worthy of the Shadow World, of nephilim society. Barbara hadnât fully succeeded in her mission, but James didnât want to think what wouldâve happened to him had she not been there.
After a while, Barbara spoke again. âThis will be good for you, James,â she murmured âYou donât have to be a social butterfly, but having friends of your age range is healthy.â
James bit his lips. âIâve never had a friend, and the one time I triedââ he flailed his hands around in lieu of an Augustus Pounceby âEven if your brother and his friends are kind, they ought to see me as the social outcast that I am. No one wants to befriend a social outcast.â
Barbara rolled her eyes. âTrust me. Please, Jamie,â she requested âSee, Tommy is a very slight young boy; an avid language enthusiast, kind yet strong, and quiet and caring. Christopher is a science devotee with the purest heart Iâve seen,â Barbara knew what she was talking about âAnd Matthew may be unlike yourself, but I am of the opinion that different people make the better pairings, romantic or otherwise. Like Hypatia and myself. Theyââ
James wiggled closer to her. He was hesitant to ask this, butâŠ
âBarbara, what were you talking to Hypatia about? Back when I arrived,â
Barbaraâs face darkened. For a moment, an imposing shadow clouded her expression, and her knuckles tightened and her jaw hardened. She stood up hastily.
âStay the night,â Barbara simply said âThe guest room is yours at this point.â
Before James could say anything, Barbara had already left the room to the bedroom she shared with Hypatia, to which James naturally didnât have access.
A knot of uneasiness set deep in Jamesâs stomach. Hypatia had been talking about a dangerous mission that could cause Barbaraâs demise. James could not allow that. He couldnât lose Barbara.
Decidedly, he stood up in search of Barbara, but the door to her bedroom was locked âand soundproofedâ by Hypatiaâs magic. There was nothing that James could do but walk to the guest room, and heed Barbaraâs advice of staying the night.
âNothing will happen to you,â James promised, thinking that maybe the air could carry along his promise to Barbara âUpon my name, I, James Herondale, will not let harm come your way.â
When no one replied, James took a step back.
He took a deep breath, and sat on the bed, not even caring to change into his nightwear. It was futile: mattresses in Hypatiaâs flat were enchanted into giving way to instant sleep.