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So I am reading cc3 (first time reader) and I just got done with some major Prythian and Midgard history lesson chapters. But there are still some gaps in the history and missing knowledge on who some of the characters who helped build this history outside of Theia and Fionn are. I have been saying for a while that we need to get out of Night Court, not only to discover what the other courts have to offer in Magic and Strength, but also now to learn what roles the High-Lords ancestors also played in overthrowing the Daglen and creating Prythian into 7 Courts. I know the 7 Courts came about during the years or decades that Queen Theia was in Midgard and king Fionn was dead. And that the magic of the land picked the High Lords of these 7 courts. But how were they chosen. What connection did they have to Fionn and Theia and their Daglen masters that the Magic chose them to rule these lands.
I truly think Day Court libraries have more information on the creation of the courts in their many libraries. And possibly even an accurate history on ALL the High Lords Bloodlines and any branches that came from those bloodlines. I also think Autumn Court is hiding secrets about who the Daglen are and their own involvement in overthrowing them. I also think Autumn Court is hiding the knowledge of who is from the true Royal bloodline.
But to get to my theory of Elain is a time walker. So I think to find the true answers to the history of Prythian, not the second hand history Queen Theia wanted her daughter to know, we need to walk back in time and see it with our own eyes. And we have a character who has been blessed by the cauldron with Time Magic.
And I think the way Elain will be able to walk through time is with sharing her magic with her mate, Lucien, and him sharing his magic with her, as Carranam. Elain’s seer ability is tied to Lucien’s presence. And it also currently seems Lucien’s ability to spell cleave is tied to Elain. And I think Lucien has untold magic tied to his biological father, Helion, that we hopefully get to see in their journey.
Helion has a vast array of magic abilities under his belt. The most prominent being Sunfire, Spell Cleaving and Weaving, and Healing. But he also uses a touch based magic in Silver Flames. He touched the Autumn Court soldiers to not only assess their health but also to tap into their mind and look at what is affecting them. And he also used this same Touch Telepathy to communicate with Rhys about how to disable the wards. He is not Daemati, but he has an ability to touch and connect mentally to people and maybe even possibly items.
So if Lucien has the same ability to perform Touch Telepathy and he shares that ability, that magic with Elain they could potentially Time Walk together. So with Lucien’s touch telepathy magic and Elain’s time magic they could tap into prior owners of ancient magical items memories and essentially be transported to the moments these items were used or created and see how they were used in battle or see how these ancestors help shape/build Prythian. Together they can find the answers that Prythian needs to fight and kill these Daglen, these Asteri, these Valg.
I think it’s imperative to get answer for the future of Prythian and even the history of Prythian.
any fellow voyager fans wanna jump in and answer this question cause i’m a bit confused. I thought vulcans were specifically touch telepaths, in that they can only see what others are thinking if they touch them (as in mind melds for example) and could only communicate telepathically with others without this touch if they were already mentally bonded in some way (as in marital bonds or parent child relationships - like with michael and sarek) but in “Random Thoughts” Tuvok was able to easily telepathically communicate with one of the telepathic aliens they meet without any touch. I doubt Tuvok bonded with her so i’m just wondering... what’s going on with that? Am i like completely off here, granted i haven’t watched any other series except disco and tos so those might expand on the topic. But yeah, if anyone has some insight that’d be great! thanks!
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Fern jerks a little, pulling their attention back to the present. "Sorry," they say automatically. "Was just thinking."
"I could see that," their handler says drily. "What about?"
Fern tangles their fingers together anxiously. They don't like this, they don't like conversing with their handler, not even on a normal day, but today it's harder; today they have to lie. They can't say that they were thinking about an airplane hangar scuffing across their hands, or boots colliding with their ribs. They can't say they were thinking about hands pushing and pulling at them in the middle of the night, and they can't, they can't say they were thinking about a knife-blade against their throat, pouring a torrent of fear and pain into them through the millimeter line of its edge.
"...ey, hey. Snap out of it."
Their handler has them by the shoulders, his grip a firm, blank pressure through the double barriers of gloves and Fern's agency-issued scrubs.
"You're shaking, what's the matter with you?"
"Nothing, nothing," Fern answers automatically, then cringes a little. Stupid, stupid, that wasn't very convincing. "I, I mean, I don't - um. 'm not, I'm not thinking," - about a knife splitting skin, digging tenderly through flesh in search of screams -
"-cking Paths-" Fern jolts and yelps as a slap stings across their face, knocking them to one side so they have to grab onto the table to stay in the chair their handler put them in. They cower closer to the table, ducking away from their handler's anger.
"Sorry, sorry," they gasp, holding a hand to their throbbing cheek. "'m sorry, wasn't thinking, wasn't thinking about anything."
"Great. C'mon, get up. You're not fit to do any reading today, clearly."
Their handler takes their arm and pulls them to their feet, not ungently. Fern sniffs, reluctant to leave the reading room. This was supposed to be a good day, they were on the schedule to help with the agency's pro bono work today, and they had been looking forward to doing some nice readings for people who couldn't afford the agency's regular fees, but now they've messed up and the agency probably won't pull one of the other readers to cover their slot. It's cheaper just to cancel it and make the people who had signed up come back another day.
"Sorry," they say miserably as their handler leads them out and they turn up a hall, away from their cubby.
"Yeah, yeah."
Their handler lapses into gruff silence, and Fern counts steps. Twelve, right turn, twenty-three, left - "I'm not sick," they blurt as they realize where they're headed. They don't want to go to the infirmary, they don't like it anyway, and right now they're all bruised, they'll get asked questions if those are found, questions they can't answer.
"Fucking Paths," they hear their handler breathe, before he stops and they feel his grip on their arm shift as he turns to look at them. "You're shaking like a leaf. Your breathing's all hitchy and short. You're fucking white as a sheet, and you got lost in your head twice in the last ten minutes. You got an explanation for that which doesn't involve sickness?"
"I'm just, I'm just - just tired, can't I go, go back to my cubby, I just need to rest some, that's all."
Their handler sighs. "Yeah, that's called being sick. Come on, let's go get you a prescription or something."
Fern's shoulders creep up towards their ears as fear tingles down their spine. This is bad, this is bad, they messed up, they messed up so bad. The bruises are gonna get found, and they're gonna get asked about them, and they can't say anything, but if he - if he finds out, if he finds out he'll think that maybe Fern did say something, and then, and then - he'll, he'll, he'll come for them, he'll get his knife and he'll find them in the middle of the night and nobody will be awake, nobody will hear, nobody will know -
Fern doesn't remember passing out, doesn't remember hitting the floor, doesn't remember their handler carrying them into the infirmary and demanding that a doctor see them now.
The next thing they do remember is waking up in a bed. There's a scratchy blanket draped over them, muttering about frequent washings and industrial-strength laundry detergent and many many other sick people's quiet misery and boredom. Fern twitches their hands up and away from it, onto their shirt. There's an IV line in their hand, sending pulses of fluids and the dull, uncomfortable fear that most people feel around needles. They can't take it out, they suppose, so they push the sensations down and try to make them quiet. Something's beeping, nearby.
"Hey," their handler says from somewhere to their left. Fern flinches, their fear ramping up again as they remember why they're here and why they didn't want to be here. The beeping speeds up, and they realize it's a heart monitor - their heart monitor. The beeping speeds up again. They can't lie, now, they'll get asked a question and right away their handler will know -
"Oh my god, not again - nurse! Doctor! Someone get in here and give it a sedative or something!"
"No, no, s'okay, I'm okay," Fern protests. They take a deep breath, listening to the beeping go down as they wrestle more air into their lungs.
Their handler sighs, a weary, impatient huff of air. "What's got you so worked up, then? You'd better spit it out right now."
Fern takes a careful breath, trying to put their words in order so they'll come out right. "Don't wanna be here," they start. "Don't like the - the blanket, the IV, the infirmary." They resist picking at the tape stuck over the IV needle, and push the blanket back with one elbow to give their hands a little more room.
Their handler sighs again, and his feet rustle a little, and then he's pulling the blanket down off of them. "There. You have to leave the IV in, the nurse said your fluids are low. Why aren't you drinking?"
They drank yesterday, at their midday meal - Fern frowns. No, wait, they didn't; they couldn't handle it, not food yesterday either, nor breakfast this morning, couldn't make themselves even drink, they were still too nauseous from the fear that trickled off of that knife.
The heartbeat monitor is speeding up.
"I, I just, I'm," what can they say? "I didn't feel good." There, that's true, that's safe.
"Not drinking isn't gonna help with that - you've gotta know that, you can't be that stupid."
Fern tips their head away from their handler's voice, jutting their chin out a little. They're not stupid.
Their handler sighs again, and Fern hears him get to his feet. "Alright, the doc's gonna come check on you, see if we can get out of here. Be good; I'll be right outside."
The door clicks open, and someone passes in as their handler steps out. Shoes tap across the floor, and gloved fingers lift Fern's hand, checking the IV port.
"How are those fluids settling?" The doctor asks. "Looks like your levels are almost back to normal. Were you feeling sick, before? Any vomiting, nausea, dizziness?"
Fern quails under the onslaught of questions, sinking a little further down the mattress. "No, nope, none of that," they shake their head. "'m not sick, haven't been. Was just, just tired." They cross their arms, folding them protectively across their ribs, even though they know that their shirt's on, that the doctor can't see through it.
"Hm. Did you read something upsetting, is that what started all this?"
"Yeah, yes, that's it," Fern snatches onto the excuse. "That's all, just, just let a reading stick in my head. Can't, can I just go rest?"
The doctor hums noncommittally, and Fern flinches as the round, blank weight of a stethoscope taps on to their chest. "Breathe in," the doctor directs, and Fern obeys. "And out. Any pain? Difficulty getting enough air?"
Yes. "No."
"Alright. You don't seem to have any viruses or signs of the flu. I'll recommend no readings for the rest of today and tomorrow, but then you'll have to get back in rotation. And you need to practice letting go of readings; if this happens again I'll have to talk to your handler about getting a Class-A in for some recognitive therapy."
Fern jolts. "No, n-no, I, I can, I, I'll be- I, I-"
"Hey, hey," the doctor interrupts, pulling the heartbeat monitor off of Fern's finger so that the panicked beeping stops filling the room. "I'm not recommending that yet, calm down. As long as you can keep doing your job, you've got nothing to worry about." She pauses, then presses two fingers gently against Fern's ribs, right over a boot-shaped bruise. Fern flinches, and the doctor sighs through her nose. "Try to do better for your handler, okay?" she says. "But if this gets worse, let me know at your next check-up. There are ways to get you a new handler - quietly, without him knowing you had anything to do with it."
Fern takes a couple breaths before they feel up to answering. Their handler isn't the problem; he's better than their last one, and they'd rather stay with him than risk someone worse. But the doctor doesn't know that their handler isn't the only one who has access to them. "O-okay, okay," they manage after a minute. "Please, please can I just go?"
"Almost," the doctor soothes. "I'll send a nurse in to take your exit vitals, and then your handler will take you back to your cubby."
"Okay," Fern breathes. They can handle that, they can take one more person touching and asking and poking, if they can go back to their cubby afterwards. They're close, they've almost made it. It's almost over.
The door clicks open and closed again, and different footsteps approach. Fern's eyebrows twitch under the blindfold. They... know that tread, don't they? They push their elbows under themselves, so they can sit up for the nurse. A gloved hand spreads across their chest, pushing them back down into the bed.
"Don't get up," a voice says, and Fern cringes away from the hand, jerking to one side until their shoulder knocks against the bedrail. They know that voice, they know it, it's Him - a knife, The Knife, taps against their throat, sending lightning-quick flashes of fearterrorpain jolting through their brain, and Fern whimpers, humming high and soft as every inch of them feels like a live-wire waiting for the next touch.
"I told you not to tell anyone what happened," He says, and the bed dips as He sits beside Fern's hip, keeping one hand quellingly atop their sternum.
"Didn't, I didn't, promise, I, I didn't," Fern clamps their mouth shut and breathes quick and fast through their nose as the tip of the knife drags down their arm, teasing hints of pain through the thin fabric of their under-shirt's sleeve.
"You didn't? How am I supposed to believe you, hm? You made quite a scene, collapsing like that, how do I know it wasn't just a ploy to get someplace where you thought I couldn't get to you?"
Fern hums a little, shaking their head back and forth with quick, jerky movements. They didn't, they didn't. The doctor doesn't even think it was Him, she thinks it was their handler - not that He'd believe them if they tried to say so.
"Open your mouth," He commands.
They don't want to, they don't want to - they part shaking lips, just a little, and freeze, quelling even their breath as the flat of the knife blade slides gently across their tongue, chiming crystalline death against their teeth until the tip just barely touches the roof of their mouth. Sense-memories tumble across their tongue, words babbled in terror and useless, frantic pleading, screams, choked-off whimpers, more. The taste of blood pours down their throat, so thick they don't know if it's real, if it's theirs, or just part of the reading, or maybe both. Tears dampen Fern's blindfold, their own fear and the fear of everyone who's come before them leaking out of the corners of their scrunched-up eyes.
"Do you understand," He says, and they can feel His breath ghosting across their cheek, "how important it is that you say nothing, to anyone, ever, about this?"
Fern whines and scrabbles their fingers against the bed beneath them in lieu of trying to speak or nod.
The knife is removed, and Fern clamps their mouth shut, dragging in a shuddering breath.
"Here's what you're going to do," He says, and Fern listens hard. "You're going to go back with your handler. You're going to be the perfect little Path. You're going to eat your veggies and drink your fluids, you're going to read whatever's put in front of you, and you're not going to make any more scenes like this."
Fern nods franticly. "Will, I will, I promise, I won't tell, I didn't-"
"Shut up, I'm not done. When I come for you, sometime soon, you're going to keep your mouth shut and do exactly as I tell you. I've got a plan for you, but if you fuck up I'll just have to amuse myself some other way, got it?"
Fern nods again. His hand fists in their shirt and drags them to their feet, then across the room.
"Alright," He says loudly, opening the door, "you're good to go." He passes Fern off to their handler. "All yours, sir," He says cheerfully. "Have a good day, now."
"You too." Fern's handler guides them out of the infirmary before he speaks beyond the requisite check-out pleasantries to the medical staff. Fern hugs their free arm across their stomach, hunched and miserable as they follow meekly along the route back to their cubby.
The door hishes open, but their handler doesn't let go. "Get some rest," he says instead, gruff overtones atop weariness betraying his own desire for sleep. "And if you're having a problem, tell me next time, before you collapse again, got it?"
"Got it," Fern says, the lie falling small and apologetic to the ground between them.
Their handler sighs and lets go, and Fern steps into their cubby. The door is barely closed behind them before their hands come up to their mouth, shaking fingers pressed against it, covering clamped-closed, trembling lips as the fading sense-memories pouring across their tongue clamor for their attention. They fold themselves into a corner and pull the blindfold off, and watch the door with dry, scratchy eyes.
