organized knowledge in story and picture || trolls and humans have lived with each other for centuries. so it’s nothing out of the ordinary when barbara lake, md swings by trollmarket to treat her friend blinkous to lunch—she’s got a patient whose symptoms are getting exacerbated by what looks like a nasty curse, and blinky, after all, is the curator of one of the largest non-human libraries in the hemisphere.

what she isn’t expecting is his new, criminally handsome assistant. blinky’s never had one before, jealous of his library as he rightly is; pseudolus, as he introduces himself, seems a little surprised to see her in the stacks, but he must know nearly everything about magic. she’s gotten pretty familiar with blinky’s library over the years, but if she just so happens to ‘forget’ where he keeps his annotated summa paracelsiana, just this once…well, who’s gonna tell?

// humans and trolls have hated changelings for centuries. so the stealth and secrecy and dissembling is nothing new. but this time, it’s absolutely imperative that the changeling stricklander maintain his cover: blinkous might be petty (and pedantic), smug, the quintessential galadrigal, but his library rivals the order’s own. 

angst? did i hear someone say…angst?? (1609 words)

She's been looking at Walt's message for—a while, now. She hasn't really been keeping track of the time, seeing as it took a good twenty minutes or so to feel anything past blind, incoherent anger when she saw the notification. But she knows, in the abstract, she still hasn't really absorbed it.

dear barbara. i know it's been a while. and—frankly, i'm not even sure if you'll read this message—

It's a long text, long enough she has to scroll a little to see it goes on for a couple of messages. Which, honestly—how dare he. She still hasn't read the whole thing; she keeps tripping up over the first couple words. I know it's been a while—like he didn't leave her heartbroken and aching and without any fucking idea what had happened.

It's not like she hadn't thought about what this would be like. It's just—she'd mainly thought of getting texted by her ex in the same vein she'd thought of, say, a zombie apocalypse: an unlikely possibility, unpleasant to think on, and completely disastrous.

She takes a sip of her beer and stretches out over the rest of her couch. She knows responding would be a stupid decision. She knows. She's been down this road twice now; she knows there's no good outcome to it, especially when said ex ghosted you, especially when you'd've given anything, once, to finally know what happened, especially when you've never actually been able to tell anyone how said ghosting left you a mess for months.

But she also knows, after earlier, that Pseudolus is never going to be interested. She's pretty sure, at this point, even if it still hurts miserably to think it. The look on his face earlier that afternoon—sitting too close for just friends, too far for his expression not to turn soft and awful and completely transparent—it'd said everything he hadn't needed to. 

So she thinks: well.

Maybe tonight is a night for stupid fucking decisions.

[read the rest on ao3]

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