#ocappreciationtag

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Ron was the last to wake up. He yawned widely, like a lion, and stretched his arms over his head. He'd found sleep an elusive beast; his mind wandering to, by his consideration, their unwelcome house guest.

“You still here, Harry? Didn't get snatched up by Death Eaters, then?”

Harry, after putting on his glasses so that Ron didn't look like a smudged water color painting, shot Ron an unreadable look. He had conflicting feelings about the night before. He wanted to reply sardonically, but his mind was blank. All he could think of was the blood, and the indescribable feeling of seeing the girl who'd joined in on bullying himself and his friends looking to be on the verge of death. He was worried about her, yet angry that she were there at all. “No, no snatching. Unless we're both dreaming right now.”

After wasting as much time as they could, they all trudged lazily downstairs. Molly, her hair in a tangled mess, looked to the twins. “Boys, go ahead and get breakfast going.”

Fred and George, looking the most neat of all, acquiesced and went together into the kitchen. The clanking sound of pots and pans ensued, following by the two jabbering at each other about who would do what.

Meanwhile, Arthur prepared himself to meet with Dumbledore. He changed quickly into a pair of faded gray slacks and an old blue pullover. He had a warm wool jacket around himself, and brown shoes that didn't quite match anything else he had on. His spectacles were neatly on his nose, and he went into the fireplace. “Back by breakfast,” he said cheerfully before he disappeared in a swirl of green smoke.

“Ron, I want you to write to Bill to let him know not to come until Monday.” said Molly.

Ron murmured to himself and marched over to a cabinet, withdrawing a quill, ink bottle, and parchment, then drug himself to the table at the center of the room, plopping down on the floor with his legs spread out far and his shoulders slumped over.

“I'm done,” Ron called after a suspiciously brief time of scribbling. Molly picked up his letter and examined it.

'Bill,

Mum says to come Monday. There's a bloody Death Eater in the house.

Cheers,

Ron'

Molly frowned and looked down at her son. “Ron.”

“What?” he asked grumpily.

“Write it again.”

In a state of dramatics, Ron grabbed a new piece of parchment with fervor and set it down roughly. When he reached for the ink, he did so with too much effort, knocking the bottle over. It lolled back and forth on the table, spilling its contents into a pool that slowly made its way to the edge. It dripped onto Ron's pants, sure to stain both them and his skin.

“Ron, clean it up!” cried Molly.

Ron rolled his head back, staring miserably at the ceiling as he pushed himself off of the ground. He went to the pantry the room over to find a towel. He drug his feet with slouched shoulders, his slippers scratching against the floor. He did the table first, swirling the towel around lazily until it was mostly clean, then knelt down to the floor. He twirled the rag, putting as little effort into the action as possible. It dyed the wood, but he thought it looked good enough. When he was satisfied with his work, Ron went back into the other room, using his backside to open the door, and tossed the rag in the waste basket. After that, he squished himself between the twins to wash the stains from his hands.

“I'm going to change.” said Ron, not to anyone in particular.

He marched pathetically up the stairs and into the room he and Harry shared. He rifled through his drawers to try and find a clean pair of pants, but found nothing. All of his had been wadded up into a corner the day before, and taken down to the laundry bin. He let his head hit the top of the dresser with a thud. “Come on.”

He looked for an alternative, and decided he only had one option; Harry's pajamas. He'd wear them until his were clean. The pair he found were dark plaid and about four inches too short. He felt like Neville, with his matching pants and shirt that were both just a touch too small. Ron hardly even bothered to put all of Harry's things back into his bag. He'd drug everything out to find the garment and laid it all messily onto his friend's bed. He used force shoving everything back in. 'I hate today.' he thought to himself, dropping the bag onto the floor.

As he made his way back to the living room, Ron paused at Ginny's room to take a peak inside. He could see her on Ginny's bed – the witch was still sleeping. He stared at the unmoving lump for a moment. He didn't know what he was waiting for – what he was watching. Maybe for a sign of life? Perhaps he wanted her to attack. He wanted it to be a ruse – an excuse to hex her for the nasty things she'd said and done. No, he knew that wasn't true. He didn't want to harm her. Not right now, anyway. He couldn't bare to think on it any longer, and quickly closed the door. He looked around for something to place in front of it. An alarm system, if you will. He found it in a brown vase covered in flowers of different colors that was held on the wall by a shelf, and placed it as close to the door as he could get it.

When he came back down, Ginny snickered at him. “Nice pajamas.”

Ron glared at her, then went to retrieve a new ink bottle. He plopped down beside Harry and started working on his new letter. The quill scratched the parchment roughly, as if he were in a hurry to send an S.O.S. overseas.

“I'm done!” he called to his mother.

She came and lifted it up from the table, looking down at Ron and shaking her head.

'Bill,

Mum asked me to tell you to wait until Monday to come over. We got a surprise last night. You'll see when you get here.

Cheers,

Ron'

“Better?”

“It'll do.”

Ron sealed up the letter and gave it to Pig, not trusting the older Errol. Bill wasn't set to arrive until late afternoon, so it would most likely reach him in time. Ron stretched his arms over his head and could feel the draft on his lower calves. He tried pulling the borrowed pants down as much as possible, but it didn't help much. They were so low it was almost offensive, and still the skin over his ankles was exposed.

“Are those my pajamas?” asked Harry.

Ron didn't answer, and Harry couldn't stop himself from chuckling.

Satisfied that what was taken care of could be, Molly headed upstairs to check on the girl. She kicked the vase when she opened the door, staring down at it in confusion. “What on earth?” She returned it to its spot on the shelf and headed inside.

Molly didn't want to disturb her too much. She knew that her body would likely need a lot of rest. She was alive, and breathing steadily. Her brow was furrowed in her sleep, and she clutched onto the covers as if they'd float away if she didn't. Molly placed a gentle hand on her head, lightly running it back and forth to soothe her as she'd done so many times with her own children. “There, there. It's only dreams.” Molly watched as her face settled and her grip loosened before she left, closing the door feather-light.

After some time, a call came from the kitchen. “Breakfast is done.”

The children all scurried to grab a plate. The smell inside was... overwhelming, to say the least. Spices, herbs, cooking oil, something burnt, and the sickly sweet scent of something rotten all blended together and assaulted their nostrils.

When Molly got in, they all moved aside to let her get the first serving. Toast, eggs, bacon, and beans were at their disposal and they were all in need of the nourishment. In the sink, there were pans and plates piled high. The things that had been made and discarded, it seemed.

“Should we wait for dad to get back?” asked Ginny.

“No, dear. I don't know when that'll be.”

After their plates were prepared, they sat themselves down at the table and dove in. The only sound that filled the room was the scraping of utensils and the gulping of juice.

When they were done, the dishes washed themselves in the sink while the others covered the remaining foods to keep them fresh until Arthur's return.

While they waited, Molly sat down to knit and listen to the radio, Ginny, Fred, and George went outside so that Ginny could practice some Quidditch moves, and the boys went into their room to have a discussion about the girl sleeping close by.

“Dahlia Archdaen....” began Ron. “I can't believe Ginny slept in the same room as her.”

“I know. She's the one that offered it, too.” said Harry.

“I mean, has she forgotten everything Dahlia's done? Might as well let Malfoy in there.”

Harry was reminded of something he'd been meaning to talk to Ron about. Actually, he meant to speak with a lot of people over the subject. “Speaking of Malfoy....”

“You're sure you heard Snape talking to Malfoy?” asked Ron after Harry had recounted the conversation he'd overheard after Slughorn's party.

“If you ask me that again, Ron, I'll-”

“I'm only checking!”

“Yes, Snape was offering to help Malfoy.” said Harry, dully. “He said he'd promised Malfoy's mother, made an Unbreakable Oath or something.”

“D'you mean an Unbreakable Vow?” asked Ron, stunned. “Nah, it couldn't be.”

“Yes, I'm sure. Why, what's it do?”

“It's just... you can't break an Unbreakable Vow.” said Ron.

“Funnily enough, I'd worked that part out on my own. What happens if you do break it?”

“You die.” Ron said flatly. He then went into a story about how Fred and George had tried to get him to make one when he was very small, and when Arthur had caught them, he'd been “as angry as Mum,” according to Ron.

“Do you think she knows? Dahlia, I mean - what Malfoy's up to?” asked Ron.

“Maybe. I think I need to ask her, anyway.” said Harry.

“Yeah that'll go over smoothly.”

“It's worth trying. She does owe us a lot. I'm going to talk to your dad first and see what he thinks.” Of course, Harry knew that it was likely Arthur would defend Snape, saying that he was offering help as a ruse to get information. But he still had to try.

“Either way, I've got your back, Harry. I'll ask her with you.”

“I don't think that'd be a good idea, Ron.”

“Why not?” asked Ron, offended.

Harry sighed and picked that moment to bathe himself and get dressed, leaving Ron to yell at him as he left the room, “Oh so now you're not gonna answer me, are you?”

Around eleven thirty, Arthur emerged from the fireplace tailed by Dumbeldore, and to Molly's surprise, Snape as well. He carried with him a handsome black leather case that clanked lightly when he walked.

From upstairs, Harry and Ron could hear the arrival of their headmaster and quickly jogged down. Everyone that remained inside throughout the morning had gotten themselves ready for the day; bathing, dressing, brushing their teeth and hair. But when the twins and Ginny came inside, they were dirty and breathing heavily. They'd been outside all morning.

“Good morning, Molly, Harry, Ginny, Ron, Fred, George. Good to see you all.” said Dumbledore, taking a moment to look at each of them, smiling happily.

“Good morning, Professor.” They said in unison, completely on accident.

Harry caught sight of Snape and furrowed his brow. He'd have to wait for him to leave before he could say anything to Arthur; and if he and Dumbledore left at the same time, he'd have no chance of speaking to the Headmaster until he returned to school.

“Professor Snape has brought with him a few potions that should help to coax the young lady awake. Molly, would you take him to see her?”

“Yes, of course.” she sat down her knitting and gestured for Severus to follow her. He kept his eyes forward and marched with straight posture up the stairs.

“While we wait, I hope you don't mind if I have a seat.”

“Of course not. Go ahead.” said Arthur.

“Dad, there's some breakfast in the kitchen.”

“Thank you, Fred.”

“Would you like a cup of tea, Professor?” asked Ginny.

“Why, yes. That'd be delightful. And some sugar, if you please.”

“Do you know what happened to her, Severus?” asked Molly.

“No.”

Snape had sat himself down on the bed and with Molly's help, turned Dahlia onto her back. He worked more gently than Molly expected to ease the potions down her bruised throat. One to restore her blood loss, one for pain, and one to assist the healing.

“Is that it, then?”

“For now.”

“She had... well, she had some wounds on her back and I'm worried she might have some internal issues.”

Severus bent down to dig through his wares, plucking an orange looking vial from the case. He guided that one down, then replaced it back with the others.

“If she isn't internally wounded, she's going to have cotton mouth for the rest of the day.” said Snape blandly. “Anything else will have to wait until she's awake.” Severus was not going to perform a full examination on a sleeping girl. If anything were broken, it would be evident soon enough. He stood, and the two went back downstairs.

“She'll be awake within the hour.” said Snape as they entered the living room.

“What'll we do until then?” asked Arthur.

“You'll have to wait.”

And wait they did. The entire party sat awkwardly quiet together. If it weren't for the radio, they'd be able to hear the grass grow.

After a while, Molly went into the kitchen to make lunch. She even prepared enough for Snape, Dumbeldore, and Dahlia for when she woke. The eating silence was almost worse than the sitting silence, and all except for Snape crowded into the dining room.

“How is your business going, Fred?” asked Dumbledore. “I hope with our recent outbreak of boils, your sales don't suffer, George.” He looked through his glasses at the two, his eyes twinkling knowingly.

The twins grinned. “Yeah, it's going alright.” said Fred.

“And that's too bad about the boils. It's a good thing our dear Ron hasn't suffered form them.”

“Yeah, we don't know anything about them.”

“Nothing at all.

“We sell party gags mostly. Punching telescopes,”

“Spell checking quills,”

“Love potions,”

“Pygmy puffs,”

“Puking pastilles,” added Dumbledore.

“Puking pastilles,” They each went silent, and their cheeks flushed.

“Actually, I've quite enjoyed them. The taste is superb, although the after effect is less than desirable.”

After they were done, Molly set aside two plates of food; one for Dahlia and one for Snape, too, if he happened to change his mind. The mess was cleaned, and they went back to waiting; Molly to her knitting, Fred, George, and Ginny upstairs to clean up, and Harry and Ron to the floor, where they played a game of chess.

Upstairs, Dahlia slowly drifted back into the world. She kept her eyes shut, but she was awake. Somewhere soft, warm, and nice smelling; orchids or lilac - very light but pleasant nonetheless. She knew it wasn't where she'd left the night before. She could see the sun shining through her lids and wondered how long she'd been asleep. Was it through an entire day? Or had she really woken up the next morning? That would only be possible if they'd used strong potions. But that meant she was inside a magical household. If that were true, she'd be incredibly thankful. She was worried she might've ended up with Muggles, and they would discard her wand thinking that it was just a stick.

She opened her eyes slowly, allowing herself time to adjust to the light; and time between being so comfortable to the questions that were soon to come. She stretched her limbs a little at a time so as not to cause herself distress, and sat up slowly while moving the covers aside. Every part of her ached, though it wasn't nearly as bad as she might've thought.

Dahlia looked around the room. Posters hung on the walls, one of the Hollyhead Harpies. She smiled to herself. This was definitely a magical household. But whose was it? By the look of it, the room belonged to a young girl. Possibly around her age. A dark wood dresser with a mirror over it was settled nearly directly across from her, a matching side table beside a bed that sat to her left with a lovely white candelabra resting atop it, knickknacks and jewelry were scattered here and there, and on the dresser was a fluffy pink ball rolling around of its own accord. It was a cute room, much different from her own. She could see the door to a closet to her right. Leaning against it was a broomstick. It was tidy, organized, easy to move around in. Much different from her own room at home; a large and opulent space, filled with sterile elegance. Everything had a place; nothing mismatched. Even her clothing was placed evenly spaced in her closet. This room looked lived in. Though it was clean, it was full of personality.

She turned to the side and set her feet on the floor, resting her hands on the bed and hunching her shoulders forward. They'd changed her clothing. Gone was her navy gown – replaced by a cotton night dress. It was loose enough to be comfortable, but it didn't seem like it were the right size.

Dahlia stood and wobbled uneasily. She waved her arms out to catch herself, took a deep breath, then started to walk. She found that she had a limp to her left leg which didn't come as a surprise. She went to the dresser and the mirror that sat above it. She looked herself over with a grimace. At least she'd been cleaned off a bit. There was still makeup smudged beneath her eyes but she decided to leave it. It wouldn't matter to the darkened skin on the right side, and the left would grow red if she applied pressure and scrubbed the stains off. Her hair was a ratty mess, and she did her best to rake her fingers through to smooth it down.

The fluff ball rolled in front of her, squealing happily. She looked down and studied it, beady eyes meeting her own. A pygmy puff. She couldn't help but smile. It really was cute. And then it rolled too far and fell onto the floor with a squeak.

She took that moment to make her way out. She stopped at the door and held the knob, shutting her eyes. With one last squeal from the pink fluff at her feet, she opened it, slowly, and stuck her head out to get a look. She didn't see anyone coming down the hall, and could plainly hear a radio from the floor below. She tiptoed around the door and shut it even slower than she'd opened it.

She ignored the pictures on the wall. She wanted to see the person, or people, who'd saved her in person first. She walked slowly down the stairs, holding onto the railing firmly for support. Going down the steps hurt much more than walking. Although she'd been bandaged, the skin on her back was burning uncomfortably, and all around the wounded flesh was sore and throbbing. Not to mention the ache at her side that she'd felt from the moment she sat up. But she didn't slow, or turn. She stayed exactly how she was.

Closer she drew, and heard a voice talking. A man, by the sound of it; old and speaking gently. It sounded incredibly familiar and she stopped to listen in. He was telling a story, but it was hard for her to catch. She walked further and heard another voice, a boy, less familiar than the one before but still her mind attempted recognition.

'Is that... Dumbledore? Couldn't be.'

She was a little worried over who she'd face at the bottom. Would it be someone she knew? Someone she went to school with and their family? Her stomach flopped, making her nauseous.

Down to the bottom she went, then turned to see those that had helped her.

“Hey, she's up.” said Fred.

“Hello missus,” said George.

“Ah, hello Miss Archdaen.” It was Dumbledore. And the Weasley family, Harry, Potter and Professor Snape. She tried to hide it, but seeing him immediately caused her to panic.

Harry and Ron looked up and instantly had daggers for her while on the other side of the room Arthur and Molly looked both worried and frightened while the twins and Ginny met her gaze. She kept her face passive and tried to focus solely on the Headmaster.

'Oh, good. A house full of people who hate me, and a man who will likely give my location away. No reason to fret.'

Tagging: @ocappreciationtag

There’s a tension in the silence between John and his son as they sit on opposite sides of the diner booth. It’s this endless loop of quiet understanding: Dean isn’t happy to learn about his father’s dalliance. John knows he’s not happy. Dean knows John knows he’s not happy, and John knows Dean knows that John knows that he’s not happy. And nothing is said about it. 

The diner they’ve found themselves in is crowded with the breakfast rush, and Dean is pensive as he stares out the window. John can’t fault him; he’s just found out he may or may not have another sibling who may or may not be in danger.

If John wasn’t as good at compartmentalizing as he is, he’d be consumed with the same topic of thought. He is that good at compartmentalizing, though, and he flips through the newspaper as they wait for the waitress to take their order.

John’s mind is always on alert, always making connections, and he often has to scan his own thoughts for paranoia, to discern whether the alarms going off in his mind are a real sign of a case or just the result of living the way he has for fifteen years. The obituary section has the alarm ringing. Multiple mysterious deaths from the last few months, all young. A few cops, an FBI agent, a reporter or two. All died of hypothermia. 

One thing at a time, he tells himself. 

The diner is in Carolina, Oregon. It’s the same place he met Melisa Candan almost fifteen years ago. He chose a booth on the opposite side of the diner. It’s the paranoia again. Part of him thinks something about that case must have been cursed. 

The waitress arrives, middle-aged but energetic. “Good morning, boys, what can I get you?” Two black coffees, two classic breakfasts, burn the bacon for John’s. She leaves. The coffees come a few minutes later, and within minutes John’s mind is awake and thinking clearly. 

The obituary observation was not paranoia, he feels, and then sets it aside. One thing at a time.

“Woodscross,” he says without preamble. “What did she mean by Woodscross?”

“Maybe she was wrong about what state she’s in. Is there a Woodscross in Washington, maybe?”

John shakes his head. He’s actually not sure that there’s not; he just knows that he never met a woman named Melisa in Washington. It has to be near Carolina. Too much of a coincidence otherwise.

“Maybe there’s a street called Woodscross,” John muses. 

“What’s this about Woodscross?” the waitress asks as she sets their food down. John doesn’t get snuck up on easily. Maybe he’s not as good at compartmentalizing as he thought, at least when it comes to this. 

Dean looks up at her, smiling charmingly. “We got a call from a friend asking us to meet him there,” he lies easily. John wishes, not for the first time, that he could’ve given his son a life where he didn’t have to learn to lie so well. “Do you happen to know where it is?”

“The only Woodscross around here is the Gibborim community that lives out in the woods.”

“Gibborim?” Dean repeats incredulously. “That new-age cult?” And then John remembers the Gibborim bible on Melisa’s nightstand. Of course. How could he not realize? 

Well…he knows why. Over the past fourteen years, on the rare occasion that Melisa Candan has crossed his mind, he’s always assumed–hoped–that she’d made it out of Gibborim. The cult had reached its peak in the mid-nineties, and most sects had died out by the new millenia. 

Apparently not all of them, though.

The waitress shakes her head. “This is an offshoot. They’re more old-fashioned. And I wouldn’t call it a cult around them, but…”

“Where can we find Woodscross?” John asks her, trying not to sound as urgent as he feels. 

“It’s about ten miles north into the woods by Clinton street,” the waitress replies. “You have to go off the trail about five miles in. But between you and me? I’d call your friend and ask to meet somewhere else.”

John and Dean look at each other. 

“Can you bring us the check?” John asks. 

The ground is surprisingly level even off-trail, and they find Woodscross late that afternoon. It’s almost militaristic looking, surrounded by tall fences with barbed wire at the top, a stark contrast to the wood cabins, gardens, and farmland inside. 

When they reach the gates, the guards ask their names. They’re dressed in handmaid clothes, but John can tell they’re carrying guns. 

Dean opens his mouth to give them their current aliases, but John’s instincts advise otherwise, and he gets in before Dean can speak. “John and Dean Winchester,” he says, ignoring the look his son shoots him. “We were hiking. New to the area, got lost a few hours ago.”

He expects them to give his directions back to the road, to have to push back on that and ask for more help. Instead, one of the guards runs into the compound to “ask for guidance.” When he returns, he’s not alone. 

John knows he’s the man in charge even before he identifies himself as such. He’s tall and thin, with gray hair and military posture and an unsettling calm about him. 

“Hello,” he says, in a voice that feels smoother than it should be. “I’m David Elwood. I hear you’ve had trouble navigating the woods?” He holds out a hand. John shakes it, and then Dean does the same. 

“You heard right. Would it be an imposition if we stayed and rested awhile? It’s been a long day.” John smiles in a sort of apologetic aw-shucks way. 

“A long and hot day. I imagine you must be hungry, too. We have a church service starting soon, you’re welcome to attend; after that, you can join us for dinner, and then we’ll drop you off back in town, if you’d like.”

Cars, guns, phones–they’re not averse to using technology when it suits them. John files it away for future reference. 

“That’s mighty kind of you,” he says. 

The church is another log cabin, but this one with a steepled roof covered in solar panels. The service is strange and Dean understands, now, why they call Gibborim a cult. David’s sermon is vague and emotionally charged all at once, emphasizing obedience without specifying what that entails. It’s about Jesus, and about David himself–their prophet, their leader, God’s servant–and sometimes it seems like David might be hinting at aliens. 

There’s a girl in a chair behind the pulpit, scribbling something in a book. She’s got dark, curly hair and olive skin, with two beauty marks, one above and one below the side of her mouth. She’s clearly young, fourteen at the absolute most. Too young to be as pregnant as she is. And as hard as Dean tries to pay attention to everything else going on, trying to file away as much information as possible for later, his attention keeps coming back to her. There are angry red marks on her wrists, barely visible below the sleeve of her shirt. 

Dean doesn’t realize the service has ended until people around him start standing up. John stands, too, and then Dean follows his lead, but his eyes don’t move from the girl behind the pulpit. David goes over to her, takes her hand and guides her to her feet, and kisses her on the forehead. Then he gestures towards Dean and his father, and the girl turns wide, curious brown eyes onto them. 

David leads her over to them. “Gentlemen, this is Esther Elwood. She’s my wife and helpmeet.” He has this smile on his face–calm, small, casual, but it feels like he’s daring them to object to their marriage, to her pregnancy, to her age. 

Dean can tell John is seething with as much rage as he is. He stays calm. Dean follows his lead. But he could swear that David can tell they’re angry, that he’s delighting in it. 

John smiles and extends a hand. “It’s very nice to meet you, Esther,” he says. “I’m John Winchester. This is Dean.”

Something clicks in Esther’s dark eyes. Recognition, and something like hope. This is the girl.

“I’m sorry, women aren’t allowed physical contact with men outside of their families,” David says apologetically. “You understand.”

That’s not a woman, that’s a child. 

“Entirely. My apologies, I didn’t mean to offend.”

“Not at all,” David says. Then he looks down at the girl. “Go ahead.”

Esther smiles a little. “This is for you,” she says quietly, and holds out the book she was writing in to John. The marks around her wrist are more marked close up, and they look like rope burns to Dean. It doesn’t escape his notice, either, that this is the first sentence Esther has said to them directly. He wonders if that’s how it always is, David speaking for her, or if David is creating a wall between his “wife” and the outsiders. 

John takes the book, careful not to let their fingers brush. It’s a Gibborim bible. 

“Thank you, Esther,” John says politely. “That’s very kind of you.”

“You’re welcome,” she says, again in that soft, hesitant voice. 

David looks down at her. “Go and study with the other women,” he says. Esther nods and looks at John and Dean. “It was very nice to meet you both,” she says politely, and then leaves. 

“You’re welcome to join us for the Patriarch’s class,” David tells them. “We usually have dinner after that.” It doesn’t escape Dean’s notice that this isn’t the original plan he’d invited them into. 

“That sounds just fine,” John says, and Dean nods, following his lead. 

David leaves to go talk to the other church-goers, and Dean finds himself watching him. Something about him feels sinister, like at any moment he could pull the rug from under their feet in a way they’d never see coming.

“Dean,” John says, and Dean’s attention snaps back to his father. “Look.”

John is holding the Gibborim bible open casually, like he’s just curious about it, but Dean can tell that he’s seething again. He looks down at the book.

And now she had summoned a god like man here.

K’uk’ulkan was not the God K’uk’ulkan. He was named after him and had the usual origin story of a god, but apparently that does not make him a god.

Strange thing to learn.

“I am flattered, K’uk’ulkan, to know my meager looks were able to summon a man out of the depths of the ocean.” Eva offers him nuts and he offered her the bottle of Balché as a trade.

She had prepared with some Mayan delicacies and drinks, had she known she would be entertaining a man born some fifty years before the Spanish conquered Mexico, she would have had a traditional Mayan feast laid out.

She shouldn’t be drinking, Doctor Pereira said it was imperative that she avoid a relapse now that she’s sober.

Eva has been sober for the past six months, and yet she drinks straight from the bottle just like he did.

If she were feeling poetic, she’d say something about sharing a bottle being almost like kissing.

But the witch is still embarrassed about failing her own fucking ritual.

It wasn’t her fault, her mother was supposed to train her, but she was dead. Shot in the back by some cowardly American soldiers who panicked when mother's hands started glowing.

“What did you want Quetzalcoatl for?” he asks putting the glass bowl between them.

“To kill my enemies, hence the small feast and the clothes I am wearing. I’m not above bribery, just so you know.” She likes him. Therefore, something was deeply wrong with him.

Eva has a thing for cursed things, but he wasn’t cursed. She’d know if he were.

“You’d give yourself to a god to see a man dead?” he asks looking almost surprised.

“You see the man by the window?” she gestures slightly to the man dozing off by the hammock.

Eva had drugged him, she could have killed him, but she is not that desperate yet.

“What about him?” he asks intrigued.

“He just got orders to strangle me before the week is up.” Eva answered in a whisper. “His superiors decided that instead of giving me a fair trial, it is better if the world thinks I committed suicide.”

“Why don’t you kill him yourself?” he asks leaning closer to her.

“I will, but I need to cut off the head of the snake or they won’t stop sending people to kill me. He is the third or fourth person the president and his cronies have put in my household to do their dirty work.” Eva takes one last drink of the bottle promising herself it will be the last thing she drinks tonight. “Need Venustiano Carranza dead and unfortunately, I cannot do that myself. Even the assassins my family employs for these sorts of things have refused me.”

“I won’t kill him, surface-dweller.” He takes back Balché and drinks the rest of it.

“I think I preferred Chilan, Kukul,” she shortened his name and he bristled. Eva supposed he is not the type to like nicknames.

Plumed, feathered, she calls him and he is annoyed at how comfortable she finds herself with him.

He doesn’t scare her, takes more than that to do the trick now.

“My enemies call me Namor.” there is something about him that strikes her like lightning striking a tree.

Sparks that will burn a forest to ash, but what great fire it will be.

“Enemies don’t drink together while watching the ocean, so I will use the name your mother gave you.” She reminded him. Eva doesn’t care, she only has four days to live, if is offended than fuck him. “Besides if you meant to kill me, you would have used that thing you and your people do and have me walk into the water and never be seen again.”

She’s heard the tales, heard about sailors dying or survivors who could not do more than speak nonsense about blue skinned Mayan ghosts and their deadly siren song.

“It’s bad luck to kill a priestess, even a surface-dwelling one with the blood of those who hunted and enslaved our people.” He points out and wrinkles his nose as he mentions her mixed blood.

It makes sense that a god king would be racist, a shame it had to be this one.

“My great great grandfather liberated our country from Spain, my great grandmother descends from Moctezuma himself, my grandfather’s country was invaded like ours was and my father came from a nomadic tribe of people who aren’t exactly accepted everywhere.

They are white, but not like the white people you encountered.” She said defending her family from his cruel assumptions. “Besides, it doesn’t matter if my father was a white man, or that my mother had the blood of the last Mexica Emperor and the first President of Mexico, my family is all dead.”

“I am sorry for your loss, wàay.” He said offering her the last of the Balché.

Sorcerer, he calls her and yet it doesn’t sound insulting like surface-dweller does.

“Thanks.” And she feels a spark when their fingers brush against each other on the bottle. “But I shouldn’t be drinking, last time I drank I ended up trying to fling myself from a balcony in my melancholy.”

“I was a boy when I lost my mother and stepfather. I age slowly, you see. They died of old age by the time I turned twelve.” He intimates and both find common ground: grief.

“Hmm, you cursed with immortality, and I cursed with luck.” The witch reaches out for one of the crystal glasses with water on the table.

“I think we are the only two people who think of it that way.” K’uk’ulkan hides his pain well, but she can feel it still, makes her shiver even.

“No one else has lived the lives we have. How would they know how it feels to outlive everyone you love?” Eva pointed out as she brought her knees up to her chest and hugged them for warmth.

He was warm, but he got a little angry at her using the nickname his mother gave him and was prejudiced against people of mixed races, so she wouldn’t try leaning against him for warmth. He would feel nice, she thinks. His hands were warm when he helped her to her feet.

“To curses then.” He lifts the bottle in a toast and she clinks her glass with a quirk in her lips.