#pseudologoi

"Don't tell me you're honestly surprised you're here." Nega-Derek sneered. "You always talk about how unfair it is to be dragged into all the shit that happens to you, about how you're always the first to be taken or hospitalized or the one to lose the most friends. Oh, boo-hoo. Always the victim, aren't you Stiles? Never stopping to wonder why so many things happen to you when you can never leave anything well enough alone. It's never your fault Scott follows all of your whims, right? That's on him for getting himself left out in the woods. You weren't the one who released the Nogitsune, so why would it be your fault poor Allison and all those people died? Letting the Nogitsune in had nothing to do with what happened, right?"

"Please…" The 'don't' died on his lips as the thing circled around Stiles, those colorless eyes piercing deeply into his own.

The spirit tutted in mock disappointment. "And what about me, Stiles? You've found a way to manipulate me into loving you just like you did Lydia. Now here I am, willing to die for you in your ridiculous ocean of lies and secrets. Are you going to get bored and leave me too? When is that trophy of catching the most sought-after specimen going to lose its charm and have you kicking me out on the street, broken and empty? Do I deserve it too, just like Lydia? She ignored you for years and used you to get at someone who hurt her. Apparently, that's all the reason in the world to get back at her, make her suffer for making you feel this way. She was your claim, your property, to treat however you wanted because her actions displeased you. It made you want to watch her cry. It made you want to insert yourself into her life and to make her yours even if you had to drag her in, kicking and screaming. Am I just another Lydia to you? Am I here because you like me or am I here for you to punish for bullying you? Is that what you want? To see me cry over you? Does it make you feel powerful having so much control over me? Does it flatter your ego to know that the big, bad, strong, former-Alpha Derek Hale, the Derek Hale, is so helpless to your charm that he can't even go a single day without thinking about you? Do you even know what I am to you?"

Stiles had nowhere else to back up. His feet were frozen. The words kept gnawing at his brain, twisting in his chest like a noose around his heart. Covering his ears hadn't helped. The sound of that too-familiar, but too-wrong voice was infesting his ears in a way that rang in his mind rather than his ears, starting inward and echoing out like the words were coming from his very soul. There was nothing he could say. He couldn't fight the words.

Especially since he knew they were all true.

"Ha! You don't even know!" Nega-Derek practically squealed delightedly. "Chatty Cathy Stiles suddenly with nothing to say. Well, isn't that just a rare sight! Finally ran out of bullshit to spew from that poisonous little goblin mouth, I see. That's fine. I have enough to talk about for the both of us," the thing chirped happily.

So, I guess here's one of mine, not that anyone was asking 😅 (with more snippets to come soon, after some polishing).

A snippet from "Pseudology"

Understandably, Derek hadn't even thought twice about how Stiles had known, at the time, that Jennifer was the 'second psychotic, mass-murdering girlfriend Derek had ever dated'.

Because of course Stiles had found out about his relationship with Kate. That wasn't a surprise. He was Stiles. The boy was as curious as they came.

Derek had always just assumed Stiles had snooped through his records or something else highly invasive.

If that had been the case, Derek didn't think he would've even been that upset at Stiles for prying where he had no business prying.

If that had been the case, he would've just been grateful Stiles was able to keep his secret to himself for as long as he had.

If only that had been the case.

As promised, two more, separate, but related, snippets from my wip "Pseudology" (that I have no idea how to connect).

*

"So, let me get this straight. You know that I like you?"

"Yes."

"And I now know that you like me?"

"Yes."

"But you and I aren't ever going to do anything about it?"

"Mm-hmm."

(As told from a snippet from my Sterek WIP, "Pseudology")

------

"Back in the old, old, old days, werewolf parents used to wrap their children in pelts and fur blankets when they felt threatened. It worked a lot like how weighted blankets nowadays provide a number of mental health benefits, like reducing stress or promoting better sleep. The heaviness simulates a feeling of being held, which can subconsciously ease your mind.

"Pelts, however, also had the addition of smelling like animal hide and the fur would feel almost like curling up against a mother wolf's body, back when fully shifted wolves were a more common occurrence. The combination of warmth and weight and softness and the smell of food, the smell of being provided for, helped to create a sense of safety for them.

"Nowadays, a werewolf can't just walk through the streets wrapped in a big, fur pelt unless he wants to draw a lot of attention. So, a leather jacket is the modern interpretation of that. Leather is one of the few clothing materials made of animal hide. Under all of the smells of bleaches and dyes and preserving chemicals, the faint smell of prey can still be picked up. Especially if the coat is old and the protective layer is chaffed off, releasing the hide smell. And the heavy weight of the jacket on a wolf's shoulders subconsciously feels like being wrapped in someone's arms. A leather jacket to a werewolf is like a weighted blanket to a human. It comforts them when they feel vulnerable and helps them feel safe." Derek paused for a bit to allow Stiles to fully comprehend all of the information laid before him. He had considered adding in an example of how there were compression vests out there meant to keep dogs calm during thunderstorms, but ultimately decided against it. It wouldn't do to give Stiles anymore ammunition to make dog jokes.

Once the spark of understanding was clear in those whiskey eyes, Derek continued. "Stiles...do you remember what had been going on in my life the first time you saw me in my coat?"

"Your...your sister had just been murdered."

"Mm," Derek hummed in agreement. It had taken a long time for him to finally talk about what had happened to Laura without sounding horribly broken up about it anymore. Not indifferent or uncaring, just more accepting. "I had lost the last person I had ever felt close to in this world. I hadn't known about Cora yet and I didn't have any other friends or family. The jacket was a coping mechanism."

Stiles nodded, digesting the information in stride as the conversation began filling in all of the burning knowledge gaps that had probably been haunting him for years by now. "And the jackets on Erica, Isaac, and Boyd?" The boy wasted no time moving through what was undoubtedly a checklist of questions in his head, almost as if he were afraid he might forget something if he didn't get through them fast enough.

"Becoming a werewolf for the first time can be stressful," Derek said, easily indulging Stiles' curiosity, "All of your senses are heightened to a point bordering on pain, sounds that used to be imperceptible can sound as loud as gunshots, all your bones ache, and your skin feels like it's on fire. At times, it can literally feel like you're dying. I bought them those jackets because I figured it would help to ease their transitions. I never explained the reasoning behind the jackets to any of them and I never forced anyone to wear them. They never seemed to want to take them off, though, so I think it soothed them, even if they didn't actually understand why."

"That's...that's actually really sweet of you, big guy. I didn't know you were such a softie. You're like some kind of-of...you're like a cuddly Teddywolf!" Stiles was absolutely tickled pink at the name.

Shit. This was worse than Sourwolf. Way worse.

"Wait, hold on. Back at the hospital, when we were trying to find the alpha," oh, thank god for Stiles' short attention span, "wasn't Peter also wearing a leather coat?" Goddamn Stiles' attention to detail! "No, it wasn't a coat. I mean, okay, it was a coat, but it wasn't a jacket, if that makes sense? It was longer than a jacket. Like, it was closer to the floor. It was more like a leather, um, like-like a, uh... a leather…" Stiles' hand was waving insistently by his face as he struggled to find the description he was looking for.

Derek sighed heavily in defeat.

"A duster," he murmured reluctantly, taking pity on the stuttering mess Stiles had become. If he had let this go any further, Stiles was going to have a conniption.

"Yes, a duster! Exactly! Thank you! Peter was wearing a leather duster that time at the hospital. But he had been comatose for years before then, hadn't he? Since the fire? It wouldn't have made sense for him to have the coat with him before he even knew the fire was going to happen."

Well, it couldn't be helped.

And Derek had actually been hoping that he could've gotten away with his misplaced good deed after all this time, too. "I was the one who got it for him. I thought it would help him heal. Maybe give him a little bit of comfort after suffering something so traumatic."

Stiles' whirling mind seemed to hit the brakes a little at that. Derek couldn't really blame him. As far as he knew, the only impression Stiles had ever gotten about the relationship between Peter and Derek had been tumultuous at best. For Derek to get Peter a coat, now knowing the significance of what wearing a leather coat meant to a werewolf, it was easy to see how that might be unusual.

"I had gotten it for him right before Laura and I left for New York. Before I knew he was a murderous psychopath, willing to kill his own family and innocent kids for power and revenge. If I had known back then what he would become, I would have lined the seams with wolfsbane and filled all the pockets with mountain ash."

Stiles let out a sudden bark of laughter, quickly covering his mouth to stifle his outburst. The laugh managed to take Derek by surprise.

"Sorry, sorry! I didn’t mean to laugh! I just would have loved to have seen that."

That sweet little smile at Peter's expense made his heart thump heavily in his chest. Was it normal to be so fond of someone for also wanting to see his uncle suffer?

Derek couldn't help the small, affectionate quirk to the side of his mouth at Stiles' enjoyment. The cute mole just at the corner of the boy's upper lip danced as he laughed, the sound carrying high and airy like wind chimes.

Derek made sure Stiles could only catch the briefest glimpse of his grin, just enough to know that Derek was fine with him laughing, before quickly turning away. Derek couldn't risk maintaining eye contact for too long. No, Stiles was too damn perceptive for that.

"So, why did you stop wearing it?"

"One day, I realized I didn't need it anymore. I think it was around the time I tried making my own pack. I think it was maybe because I didn't feel weak and vulnerable when I was surrounded by them. I found myself only needing my jacket when they were at school and I was left on my own. I was still making really bad decisions after that, getting into unhealthy relationships, and what had happened to Boyd and Erica weighed on me a lot, but it didn't feel like I could break at any moment anymore. For the first time in years, I felt like I had people I could turn to. Even when I pushed Isaac away, when I ran away to South America, when it became so hard to trust anyone anymore, I never felt truly alone. There would always be someone I could turn to if I ever got in any trouble. The more people I connected with, the less I needed it to make me feel safe. I felt protected. Over time, as I started to get my life back together, I found that I no longer needed other people to feel strong."

Stiles' eyes softened fondly at that as he said lightly, "I'm glad, big guy." There was so much sincerity and conviction in those four words that the werewolf could feel radiating rays of sunlight blooming beneath his ribcage.

Before the warmth in Derek's chest could truly settle in, the other's inquisitive, mile-a-minute brain was already pulling at the next thread within reach, his thirst for knowledge truly unquenchable.

"But isn't it, I don't know, bad for a werewolf to show other werewolves when they're vulnerable? Isn't that kinda like a sign of weakness or something?"

"That's a very good question." Derek felt impressed by just how astute Stiles could be. "Think of it like this. Most people know that smoking can be a sign of stress, right? A person will sometimes smoke when they feel nervous or when they're upset. You see it in movies all the time: detectives working on cases through a long night, someone whose hands are too shaky to light their cigarette after they've seen a murder, that sort of thing. Everyone knows that people smoke cigarettes at their low points. But, if you were to see a stranger smoking on the street, would you automatically assume it was because they were feeling vulnerable?"

"No."

"No, you wouldn't. Maybe they started smoking at a young age and now the habit is too strong for them to break as an adult. They may have started smoking during a stressful time in their lives and couldn't stop even after the stress was gone. Maybe they saw someone they looked up to smoke and wanted to emulate them. Maybe they think it makes them look cool. There are so many other unseen factors at play that people won't even think twice about seeing someone smoking. The same logic applies to werewolves and leather jackets. Just because they wear it when they feel vulnerable, that doesn't necessarily mean that's the only time they wear it. You never know. Maybe it's just cold outside."

"Whoa…that's intense. I never could have imagined so much lore from something like a leather jacket. Who would have thought that a coat could be the crutch of werewolf society?"

"Any more questions?"

"Oh, uh, no! That's all I've got."

Derek and Stiles are trapped in a mental prison, forced to live out each other's secrets/memories in order to escape. Stiles witnesses Derek's unhealthy coping mechanisms after the fire.

(Just a short scrap of writing that explains why Derek suddenly had chest hair from s4 onward but was hairless before then.)

***

It was like watching someone methodically cleaning a gun. There was a set, practiced schedule that moved robotically through the man's supernaturally smooth hands like a well-oiled machine. At some point, the grooming had become muscle memory. The wincing had stopped. No little flinch under the eyes, jaw loose and unclenched. All the while, the glazed over, thousand-yard stare into the mirror never broke. There was no longer any pause to 'ready for the pain' in between applying the strips and ripping them off. It was now immediate and efficient. The scary part was Stiles wasn't sure if Derek had simply gotten used to the pain or if he had stopped feeling it at all.

Clip, pluck, scrub, snip, file, scrape, rip, rinse, repeat. Clip, pluck, scrub, snip, file, scrape, rip, rinse, repeat. And repeat. And repeat.

And repeat.

And repeat.

Stiles watched as snippets flitted one after the next through the passage of time, montaging through years in no more than the time it took to run a commercial break. Well, four years to be exact.

For four whole years, day after day, Stiles got to see as Derek's excessive grooming habits continued to evolve and become more methodical.

He watched as it grew more obsessive.

It would always start off small. Maybe plucking a stray hair that had grown slightly off the beaten path of his happy trail. Maybe clipping a corner of a nail that had gotten too sharp. Tiny, micro-adjustments here or there. Nothing crazy. But as the boy slowly grew into a man, the few minutes in front of the mirror every morning stretched to hours of hunting down every single hair on every inch of his body every night. Shaving had long been deemed 'inefficient'. Sometime during year two, Derek had switched to waxing strips. Getting it all out at the root made for a smoother, longer-lasting result. Hair gel and hairspray quickly made way for pomade as it achieved the lift he needed while still keeping the softness. There always had to be at least two tubes of ChapStick on him at all times. There were nail clippers attached to his apartment keys.

Stiles watched as the man would continue scraping under and around each nail for some imaginary dirt that was no longer there. There would be some days when the cleaning would go on until blood would start pooling around the cuticles. Only then would the freshly scraped nail tips be clipped off anyway. Hours of work gone and buffed just like that.

The most interesting year had to be the year in which the young wolf had learned to cut his own hair. Now, it shouldn't have surprised Stiles as much as it did to learn that all of Derek's neat and tight cuts were by his own hand. The guy was a fugitive for over two years. It wasn't like he could just walk into a Fantastic Sam's and ask for the $8 special. It made the most sense. That being said, logically piecing this all out still didn't make the sight of the grumpwolf, himself, carefully edging his hair clippers to make the cleanest napeline Stiles had ever fucking seen in his entire life (and solely by feel alone, he might add) any less surreal.

Outside of haircuts, it was a routine that usually ended in blood in some way or another. Bloody gums, bloody nails, sometimes even little dots of blood would show up on Derek's chest when he got too rough with the waxing.

----

"Alright, let's go." For Derek's sake, Stiles wasn't going to loiter around what was possibly a vulnerable point in the man's life. He could already feel his own face warming a little the longer they stood at the edge of the memory-room. He could only imagine how hot Derek's face was getting at his intimate waxing habits being peered at under a microscope.

"Wait!" he could hear urgently behind him as he briskly made his way out the open door. "Damn it, Stiles, wait!"

Yeah, no. He wasn't staying to hash out what Derek did to himself behind closed doors. There wasn't anything that Stiles was going to give him shit for, sure, but it was much too private of a moment for two bros to have and still be able to look each other in the eyes.

"Stiles! What you saw back there—it's not like what you're thinking! I wasn't—!" Desperation and embarrassment flooded Derek's voice, making it too loud as he quickly jogged to catch up to Stiles' power walk.

"Look, I get it, okay? You don't need to explain." He couldn't get why the other was so adamant about dwelling on this! Stiles was giving him an out so they could drop it!

A hand shot out to turn him around to face a furrowed brow and harshly reddened ears and cheeks. "You don't understand! I'm not some-some kind of—."

Alright, that was it. With maybe not as red a face as the other, he twisted out of the werewolf's grip to stare him down. I guess we're doing this now, he thought with a huff.

"No, you don't understand. I watched your secret, the room released us, we walked out, I get what I freakin' saw, that's what that means, Derek."

"But-."

"No, listen! Did you know that 80% of men have the ability to lactate if they used a breast pump for eight hours a day for up to two weeks?"

That certainly threw the man enough for him to almost forget his own embarrassment. "Wai-what? What does that have to do with-?"

"And did you know circumcision was first invented to stop masturbation?"

"I-what?"

"You see, I know this stuff because I research. Your whole thing is looking attractive? Cool. My thing is knowing gross, embarrassing shit that no one ever asked for. I know this stuff because I don't have muscles or coordinated limbs to fix my body or make first seat at lacrosse. I research because it's the one thing that I can do really, really well. I get to choose what goes in my brain, I can choose what my grades are. I can choose what college I go to or don't. Me. Just me. Growing up in a world where my mom was dying, my home was empty, and I was too much of a spaz to be the cool kid at school, I decided to read up on medical journals. I read up on anything and everything, because my grades, my vast knowledge of random shit, it was something I could control. When my world was falling apart and everything was slipping away from me slowly, controlling what I took in, what memories I kept, it was something only I could do for me. I understand the need to want control over at least one thing in your life and I get why you chose grooming. I mean, birds do it all the time. When parrots get stressed, they groom themselves until their feathers fall out. Even monkeys will lick themselves until they get bare patches. So, trust me. I. Get. It." He felt like he had been talking for forever. He was actually panting by the end. Stiles hoped that his long winded explanation hadn't embarrassed Derek too much. The guy hadn't really given him a choice. Stiles hadn't meant to get so heavy and personal about his mom and he definitely hadn't meant to compare Derek to a monkey, but now it was all out there. He could feel his face heating up the longer he stood there waiting for the man to say something.

The wolf looked absolutely speechless, a mix between shock and maybe a little bit of something else Stiles couldn't name.

Once he realized the man wasn't going to say anything back, Stiles had to turn away, trying to look at anything else but Derek's face. "So, are we getting outta this twisted mind-maze or what?" he muttered, bumping into the man's shoulder as he brushed past him.

Daimones of lies and falsehoods. sons of Eris, or created by Dolos.

The sons of Eris are many, and most are personifications of troubles that we each encounter in our lives. In this case, lies. The Pseudologoi have no father, springing forth from Discord Herself, according to Hesiod. Aesop tells us that Dolos, the daimon of treachery created the Pseudologoi when Prometheus was creating Aletheia, Truth. By the 2nd century CE, they are understood to be the children of Air and Earth themselves.

Whatever their origin, lies are with us. They trip off the tongues of politicians and lovers. They dance between acquaintances and around the workplace. And wherever they are, they cause trouble, even if not immediately.

Strabo used the term pseudologoi to describe various authors from India, as a means of besmirching them. Of course, we have little opportunity to determine how accurate his perspective might be.

Right now, we are seeing politicians using lies to shape an expedient version of events that paints a picture that serves their own purposes. Lies can serve in the short term, but they also eat at us. Sometimes they protect us from things worse than deception. And yet, too often they cause us pain in the process.

In witchcraft (and I know I don’t usually talk magic on these posts but…) pseudologoi are dangerous. They misdirect our meditations, and make us misread situations. Witchcraft requires a certain brutal honesty with one’s self, and overwhelming our personal lies is an important step forward on the path. Without honesty, one cannot embrace the injunction To Know.

Pseudologoi are not something one worships. They range around the world in the company of Apate (Deception) and Dolos.

Virtue lies in embracing their twin, Aletheia, the Truth. This is no simple feat, of course. Particularly when we are faced with the very real harms that can be done to us in response to our truths.

Sources:

Theoi.com

Gialoures, Nikolaos. Ancient Elis: Cradle of the Olympic Games, Adam editions, 1996.

Gill, Christopher and Timothy Peter Wiseman, eds. Lies and Fiction in the Ancient World, UT, 1993.

Grant, Michael. Greek and Roman Historians: Information and Misinformation, Routledge, 2004.

Levine, Timothy R. Encyclopedia of Deception, Sage, 2014.

Pigon, Jakub. The Children of Herodotus: Greek and Roman Historiography and Related Genres, Cambridge, 2008.

Images:

me