a god’s weakness

novel excerpt, liked this conversation/dynamic

“Why does he care so much for the girl?” Rha asked me, his right eye studying me, then flicking past me to study Rha. Again I saw it—the flash of terror, mixed with suspicion and hatred. I recognized it then as a dangerous look. Like an ancient predator, who no longer knows how to identify threats properly, so he’d lunge at anything.

“They’re friends,” I said. It seemed the easiest way to dismiss the subject, and perhaps subdue the ancient predator look in the Black Pope’s eyes. He pulled back a little, the look fading somewhat from him.

“I do not wish to see him, any longer,” he said, frowning. “He is a scourge within my church.”

I lifted an eyebrow. “Till,” I said. “We shall take our leave. Please wait for me in the entryway.”

I did not immediately hear his footsteps retreating, so I turned to look at him. He stood right behind me, his arms crossed, his eyes defiant. I didn’t blame him. I also would not want to wait in the musty, dark, chilly space between the exterior doors and the massive, broken double doors leading inside. But I needed him to. My eyes narrowed and he glared a little sharper at me for a moment before turning on his heel and storming out, returning to his normal hunched posture in the process. I sighed, my breath manifesting in the freezing cathedral.

When I turned back, I found Rha staring at the ghouls where they had gathered behind the pulpit. They’d engaged themselves in some activity I couldn’t quite identify—picking through broken glass beneath the massive shattered stained glass piece at the head of the church. After a long period of silence, the Black Pope turned back to me, his gaze distant and distracted.

“Stormcrow,” he said after another interminable stretch of quiet. He spoke the word quietly and reverently, and in his smooth accented voice, it became a prayer. “When I was young, my mother would tell us stories of the Stormcrow. A great, dark bird that heralded the storm wherever he went. Mischievous but strong and noble at his heart. That is you.”

“Excuse me?”

He laughed his dry, humorless laugh. “You are the Stormcrow, Jack Immortal. You sweep in here and you bring your little knife-boy and I do not know if you come to help or harm.”

I lifted an eyebrow. “Little knife boy. Hm.” A cruel grin teased at the edges of my mouth.

“What other man seeks to begin a fight with no weapon visible in his hand? I notice these things, Stormcrow. I see the motion of a man’s hands toward a concealed weapon. I see the lines of an assassin because I must see them, if I wish to survive.”

I barked a mocking laugh. But the ancient predator look had drawn across Rha’s eyes again and now the look made me a little nervous. “Till is here because he travels with me. He has no other purpose. I promise you that.”

“So he tells you of all his contracted killings? He tells you of every man he must slay?”

I recognized the corner I had backed myself into, but that didn’t mean I had to like being there. When I did not respond to his goading, Rha smirked.

“You do not strike me as a man who enjoys having his weaknesses exposed, Stormcrow.”

“I imagine I would dislike that extremely, should I possess weaknesses to expose.”

“What is a man without his weakness? Boring things.” Rha made a dismissive gesture with his right hand. “So let me ask you this, Jack. What is your weakness? For you do not strike me as a boring man.”

I smiled a little. “I am not a man at all, but a god.”

His smirk slid into a wan, derisory expression. “No. Sathanus is a god. I am the vessel of a god. You are a man in the clothes of a god, Immortal. You have a weakness.”

My smile grew strained, my brow lowering dangerously over my golden eyes. Then I shook my head, waving my hand at him as though I couldn’t be bothered to be in his presence a moment longer.

“So find it, then, oh grand and glorious vessel of the one true god.” I rolled my eyes at him, before turning and walking away, shaking my head as I strode away from him. “Find my weakness, if I have one. I look forward to it.”

I stopped at the end of the pew, before taking one final step into the aisle between the rows and turning back to survey him, my face solemn and my eyes annoyed. He drew back and analyzed me.

“I will,” he said, before turning away and striding back to the small door in the side of the church. I watched him go with a smirk, knowing I would succeed in this. It wouldn’t be difficult. I had no weaknesses. And Rha seemed just paranoid and borderline stark, raving insane enough to be an easy crack. In turning toward the doors to collect my assassin, I noticed the ghouls with their eyes upon me. I paused to size them up, wondering what quarrel Rha had with them—and then I waved companionably at them and strode down the center aisle toward the doors. I threw them open and Till, waiting just beyond them, flinched so hard he almost fell over.

He regained his feet and glared at me in silence.

“He’s ruining her,” he said. “And you don’t even want to help.”

“Come on,” I said, grabbing him by the shoulder and pulling him out of the cathedral.

“Where?” he asked, but only after we’d gone a few footsteps out into the snow. I grinned back at him.

“What you need is a drink,” I said. He didn’t look convinced. But he also didn’t have a choice, and I think he knew that.

Jack and the Ghouls

Finishing this novel for NaNo so posting a few excerpts~

I had anticipated arriving at the grand cathedral for myriad reasons—the reason I had given Till couldn’t exactly be called a lie, but I’d describe it as a bit of a fib. Certainly the building cut an impressive figure, limned against the flawless white field surrounding it. Certainly, once we stepped inside, the immensity of the place humbled me. I can’t quite describe it—the true emptiness of the place. The spirit of pale grandeur that touched every surface inside. The ghouls and, I assume, the continual freezing wind blowing from without kept the place free of dust and cobwebs, aside from in the furthest darkest rafters. Upon entering, I almost heard the whisper of the past, lavishly adorning every corner, every wall, every facet of the cathedral. This church had been magnificent, once, in the truest sense. Voices filling it in song—exultant voices, raised in praise.

Now the cathedral echoed with their memory. It was the sort of building that you knew had a memory and a consciousness. I could feel pain radiating from the walls, where they had been cleft by the fallen pillar of stone. The snow that filtered down intermittently from the fractured roof felt like blood, trickling from a never-healed wound. The building reminded me of All Names—a strange, oblique connection, but one that remained fixed in the back of my mind, persistent and loud. It made me grave as we stood there, Rha having stormed into a side room, following Lily and followed by the woman we’d witnessed embattled against the ghouls.

That left us and the ghouls. Till proved himself fairly useless, preoccupied by the door where Rha and Lily had vanished in company. He hadn’t spoken a word to her when she’d darted into our midst—just stood there, mute and motionless, until she’d been called to heel. I, too, found this development rather disturbing, but unlike my emotionally complex friend, I didn’t allow it to interfere with my assessment of the current situation.

“Sorry to arrive at such a delicate moment,” I said, pleased in the way my voice rung out through the cathedral, as though it yearned to resound again with a strong voice such as my own. I stepped forward, walking between the rows of pews, my hands clasped behind my back. “We stumbled upon your church quite by accident. Funny, how coincidence will bring people together like this.”

I stopped a few feet away from them, in the open space between the pews and the steps leading to the pulpit. One ghoul—the one who’d been fighting the shepherd—stood at the front of their group, his arms crossed. At first, the guise of perfect blank infallibility fooled me—five ghouls, none of them emoting, all of them still and silent even following their battle.

And then I looked deeper. I narrowed my eyes and tilted my head at them, a slow smile curving my lips. The one in front—his chest moved beneath his crossed arms. Not deeply or overly fast, like any average plebeian member of society might exhibit while catching his breath. But his chest did move. And after that I began to pick out minute things amongst them. The slight flicker of a finger, the tiniest shift of a face, of the eyes. A slow blink. The realization proved almost overwhelming to me—they communicated. Constantly. The blank facade was just that—a facade. They held it in front of and around themselves. But I had glimpsed beyond the veil.

But they would not speak to me. I knew this much without having to test the theory. I’d heard the stories. I glanced back to Till and found him sitting down in one of the pews. I shrugged, and took two deliberate steps toward the ghouls, until I stared into the leader’s eyes from uncomfortable proximity. This close, I could see everything—the continuous, subconscious flicker of his iris as it took in every detail of my face. The way the brow of his mask curved downward to conceal everything aside from the eye itself. It shadowed what it could not outright conceal, so that I could not even discern the color of his eyebrows. Abruptly I found that I wanted to know the color of his eyebrows.

He had blood on the points of the horns that curved up from the top of his mask, and absent-mindedly I smoothed a finger over it, leaving the silver plaster shining beneath. Still his grey eyes did not leave me.

“I find myself immensely curious as to the quality of your lives,” I said, my voice soft and musing. I looked down to meet his eyes again—all of them stood a few inches shorter than I. “What must it be like, to live your entire existence behind a mask? They say you sleep in them, removing them only to eat, and then not even entirely.”

I moved my hand to the pointed chin of his mask and hooked a finger into the inside of the mask. At that point the ghoul broke his absolute calm—he flinched hard away from me, his hand moving so fast I never saw it. He smacked his wrist hard into mine, knocking my hand away. Numbness shot into my fingertips and I laughed.

“Sore point? My apologies.”

He studied me carefully, his eyes a little sharper now. Beginning to consider me a threat instead of a mere annoyance. Good. I stepped away from the gaggle of ghouls and walked toward the great rift torn in the side of the building—outside, the sun had begun to set, and I longed to experience the inside of the broken cathedral by night. Besides, it had become abundantly clear that something was amiss in the house of my nemesis, and I would not leave before discovering what this was.

Besides, I thought, frowning as I turned back to Till, still sitting on his pew and staring at his hands, Till would appreciate the chance to speak with Lily and discover what had happened.

“Will it be some great blasphemy if my friend and I were to spend the night, here?” I directed the question to the ghouls, although I spoke it loud enough to resound throughout the cathedral. I turned back to face them, and found that the lead ghoul’s eyes had not ever left me. I smiled at the thought, and dropped him a wink.

He tilted his head to the side, then shook it. I had the impression he exaggerated the gesture to make it more obvious to my myopic non-ghoul perception. I wanted to tell him not to worry, that I’d broken their precious code, that he could give me a tiny ghoul nod and I would perceive and understand. Instead I smiled at him, and conducted an ornate bow over arm and extended leg.

“My thanks to you,” I said.

the new Liam

A god and a trans serial killer walk into a bar…

At that point, I considered my course set: I would pursue Golshirazi into the wild mountains, I would find him, and I would kill him. I intended it all along to be Till and I who did the finding and the slaying. I wanted to spend every moment with him.

Hiking through the snow proved enough of a distraction. The trees thinned as we trekked higher into the mountains. Days passed, marked only by the markedly fast rising and setting of the sun. Most of our travel, it seemed, occurred in the dead of night, with the starlight gleaming across the fields of untarnished snow. And on one such night, we came across a marvel of marvels. We came across a tavern in the middle of the icebound mountains.

“Here it is,” I said with a grand gesture, following a lull in which both of us had stood staring in silence at the squat wooden building. “Just where I remembered. Now I can follow through on that drink I promised.”

Till gave me an unamused sideways look. “No way you knew this was here,” he said.

“When did your sense of wonder and gullibility die, Till?” I said, sounding wounded.

“Probably around the time I realized I was a boy in a girl’s body and needed to kill other people to feel okay.” He shrugged, but I sensed the beginnings of a smile at the corners of his mouth. “Can we just go inside? I’m freezing.”

And so with the moon reflecting off the snow, we approached the building—it had lights in the windows and smoke piling out of its chimney, and a companionable din ringing out from within. We pushed through the door and the atmosphere felt perfect: close and heavy and warm, redolent of alcohol and sweat and baking bread.

“Where the hell did they find this many people?” Till whispered as we pushed through the crowded tables and found one huddling in the back corner. Without any prompting whatsoever, a woman in coarse linens forced her way through the crowd to us, dropped two mugs onto the table with a resounding thud, then vanished before I could address her. I blinked after her, my hand half-raised.

“Wait a second,” Till said. “I think it’s midwinter, or—midsummer, or something.”

I raised an eyebrow at him. “Are you aware of the season?”

He lifted his shoulders in a long shrug. “Honestly? No. We’ve been in the snow long enough that it feels like winter. But I don’t know if it is.”

“So your point is—”

“—that it’s a celebration. Hence all the people. Hence the unexplained free drinks.”

A grin sprung across my face. “What fortune. Except I do not drink.”

Till mirrored my grin, a rare enough expression on his tight, drawn face. “Well, tonight you do. Hell if I’m going to drink alone.”

I looked dubiously at the mug on the table in front of me as Till lifted his own and took a long drink, polishing off an easy quarter of his own mug before lowering it and eying me expectantly. He folded his hands on the table and continued to smile patronizingly at me. I rolled my eyes and hefted the mug, and took a tiny sip off the top. It tasted about as revolting as I’d anticipated—like week old piss. I made a face.

“Do you want to drink like a maiden, or do you want to drink like a god?” Till hissed across the table at me. Lightweight he was, I could see it going to his head already. I narrowed my eyes at him.

“Perhaps you should demonstrate drinking like a god, so that I am not in the dark.”

He nodded, before downing another good portion of his drink, only lowering his mug once he’d begun to choke. I frowned and took another drink, and then another, and as I went I found a comfortable curtain of numbness drawing across my consciousness. As I went, I found that all of my elaborately crafted pretentiousness and pomp did not lapse, but rather grew yet more bloviating and dramatic. We sat and drank for the better part of an hour, with me regaling Till with every manner of story, making up songs and singing them to him, and with him for once not looking embarrassed by my very existence while all of this occurred.

“Do you know what I have just discovered? Do you know what has literally just popped into my mind and is the most amazing connection I have ever made?” I asked, leaning forward and staring conspiratorily at Till across the table.

“No,” he said. “I mean, no, Jack. I can’t read your mind, I’m not a mind reader.” A wide grin had appeared on his face and remained stuck there.

“I’m basically a ghoul.” I gestured broadly with my arms. “I mean, I am basically a ghoul, except the exact opposite.”

He nodded gravely, still grinning, put his hand to his chin and watched me carefully. “Do explain.”

“So I noticed when we were in the cathedral that the ghouls, they’re always still and silent, but it’s a mask. Just like their masks. You look past the mask, and poof. They have emotions and body language just like everyone else. So they’re all real people, just cloaked in this—masterful disguise.”

“Wait, then how are you opposite?”

Let me explain. I’m the same, you know? I’m a real person, Till. I have emotions and—and—anyway, I have a mask, too. I’m—eloquent, and nothing bothers me, and I’m elegant and pompous and all of that. But beneath it? I’m just like the ghouls, Till. Just like them.”

“Except the exact opposite,” he said.

“Yes. Except the exact opposite. I am an opposite ghoul.”

“You are so astute,” Till said. “It’s like—mind blowing to me sometimes. I mean. You are just so astute.”

The conversation continued along those lines for another hour, during which the silent woman brought us another round of drinks. This time I didn’t hesitate. I joined Till in drinking like a god. He crowed loudly at that, which might have been disruptive to the people sitting around us, except I suspected they had been drinking like gods for many long hours before we’d arrived. They didn’t appear to even notice us. We’d been sitting there for almost three hours, and I’d by this point lost track of how many mugs I’d drained, when the conversation took a turn.

“You’re my best friend,” Till said. It immediately reminded me of drunk Vandr, which chilled my blood. But then I looked at Till and I realized it didn’t remind me at all of Vandr, who had spoken the words casually and without real meaning. Till had gone abruptly silent, and now when he focused his eyes on me I saw they had gone bleary and weak. I wondered if mine looked the same. Till shifted forward and lay across the table, folding his arms and resting his chin atop them.

“I mean,” he continued, a blush rising in his cheeks. “Sorry if that’s weird. But I’m sitting here surrounded by people and I feel like if you weren’t here I would totally kill someone tonight. Probably shouldn’t say that so loud. Am I talking real loud right now?”

I smiled and nodded.

“Okay. I don’t care. My point is that I love you and I’m gonna say that now because in the morning I’m probably just going to hate everything, including you.”

I grinned and leaned back in my chair, although even that slight motion made the tavern begin to spin around me. I closed my eyes and it accentuated the spinning, so I opened my eyes and fixed them on Till.

“You’re like my new Liam,” I said. I hadn’t spoken the name in—I couldn’t even remember. It was a dead name, to me. It meant nothing and it meant everything.

“I don’t know what that means,” Till said.

“Well—see, I’m like an improved, more violent version of who I was, before, right?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I ignored him. “So if I’m improved, more violent Santiago, then you’re violent Liam.” Abruptly I laughed, loud and bitter. “You’re who I deserve, Till. I became a god and you became a serial killer. It’s perfect.”

He closed his eyes. “Okay. I’m probably going to throw up in three and a half seconds, now.”

I arched an eyebrow and sympathized with the notion.

“If I can get us outside, can you wait maybe three minutes instead?”


“Okay. Here we go.” I pushed my hands against the table and stood up, staring at a fixed point between my hands to try and stabilize myself and the spinning room. “Here we go.” I took a step forward, trying to ignore the lurching floor beneath my feet. Till pulled himself up from the table and stared at me with his bleary eyes. I stood in front of his chair and swayed, opened my mouth as if to speak, and instead just stood there for a long moment until my body regained some of its equilibrium and I felt confident that I could stay on my feet.

I lowered myself into a crouch, and patted my shoulders. Till nodded, groggy as a child, and put his arms on my shoulders. I felt his hands on the back of my neck and reached out, hooking an arm beneath his knees and picking him up.

“Okay,” I repeated. “Here we go.”

I staggered the few paces out into the night, and once the door had banged shut behind us, I dumped Till unceremoniously into the snow and pitched forward. I lay in the freezing wet and listened to him struggle a few paces away before throwing up.

Truly a perfect night.

the end

9/9: inspired by reaching the end of DA2 again, sob!! I can’t handle my life without this game

“What the fuck did you do?” Hawke shouted, shattering the stillness of the night-shrouded coast. Besides the low hush of the wind through the scrub, his voice was the only sound. He pivoted and stalked back a few paces towards Anders. They faced off for a moment before Hawke raised a hand as though to strike the other mage, forgetting for a second the scathing roil of magic beneath his surface. He wanted to feel the damage he dealt, for once—wanted to feel flesh give way.

But nothing came of it. The fury drained out of him in a sorry trickle, leaving him utterly void of—anything. Always the one to find sardonic humor in the midst of any situation, Hawke just felt vitiated. Anders had stolen the final vestige of stability he’d had, after the devastation of his entire family.

“What the fuck,” Hawke said, “Did you do.”

His fist dropped to his side but remained clenched. Anders, who’d shown no inclination to respond to the implicit threat, relaxed visibly nonetheless. His face tightened into an expression of sour indignation.

“I did what needed to be done, Hawke. You of all people should know that.”

This time when Hawke brought his fist up, it was to strike Anders across the face. A solid hit and one he stepped into. Anders stumbled backward and Hawke cried out—pain clutched his knuckles and thrummed up from his hand into his elbow.

“That hurt,” he said, looking aghast at Varric. The dwarf, ever beside him, gave him a baffled look. “You never told me punching someone hurt, Varric.”

“Well, if you’d asked, I would’ve told you,” Varric said. “As it stands, can’t say the subject ever came up.”

Anders touched a hand to his jaw and made no move to rejoin their group. He stood a few feet off, looking wild and wary as a wolf. Something about that made Hawke livid—Anders the hunted, Anders the secluded castaway who’d never needed to be. Hawke’s eyes narrowed to slits and he felt Varric’s hand on his arm. But the time for heeding reason had passed—Hawke had held everything in restraint for too long. He’d barely grieved the deaths of his family, one by one, first to keep the remaining family together and then to keep Kirkwall together.

No more. There couldn’t be more, because his reasons for stability had been steadily, almost thoughtfully, eradicated.

“I have nothing left,” he said, his voice low and rough with grief. “I have nothing left to fight for and nobody left to fight. Besides you.”

Anders said nothing but that glow, that hated glow, kindled behind his eyes. “You know not what you do,” he said, his voice an unearthly rumble.

“I know that I should’ve done it years ago,” Hawke said, his breath coming quicker as the magic in his blood boiled. “The moment you began lying to me I should’ve done it.”

The magic begged release and he let it go. It twisted out from him in a jolt of furious lightning, energy so unbound a tongue of it struck him, as well. Anders cried out and then fire roared loose from him—Hawke, consumed, didn’t even move. The fire struck him and the last of his restraints fell with the onslaught of pain.

He yelled and lightning showered down upon them. Energy crackled in the air and sparks struck fire from the brush. The night came alive in blinding white, and Hawke felt himself slipping, giving way, relenting…

Varric’s hand closed around his arm. Hawke screamed at the pain this caused him, but the dwarf held, brushing sparks off his coat with his other hand and swearing in a steady stream.

“Don’t fuck it up this badly, Hawke!” Varric shouted above the crackle of energy. “Fuck it up a little—you always do—but not like this!”

Hawke glanced down and met Varric’s eyes. Then he looked up and over at Anders, who stood braced beneath the shower of electricity. His eyes, illuminated in the flicker of magic, were the eyes of an exhausted man—they were also wild with fear and sorrow. The hail of lightning tapered off and ceased.

The two mages stood panting, squared off across a few feet of dusty path. Hawke shook his head, then turned to rejoin the group. He didn’t care whether or not Anders followed, though he knew he’d never forgive himself if he let the fugitive die like a hunted animal alone out here on the coast.

He passed Fenris and stopped, caught the elf’s green eyes and said nothing as they studied his own.

“You should have killed him,” Fenris said.

“I would have lost myself in doing so,” Hawke said. He felt—so empty.

hard bright wings

9/eh don’t remember when I wrote this, couple days ago

“Death is in his hard bright wings”

aka that moment where both your warriors die and your ranged rogue has to tank the dragon while your spirit healer mage uses his 0 offensive spells to kill it

Hawke knew how exaggeratedly Varric loathed the Deep Roads, and he’d honestly done everything in his power to meliorate the experience somewhat. Until now. Not everything could be avoided.

Well, the dragon definitely could’ve been avoided. And waking the dragon by weighing a chunk of stone in his hand and lobbing it before Carver could stop him. Hawke supposed if he’d been a bit quicker and more attentive with healing, perhaps Fenris and Carver wouldn’t have fallen so quickly in the battle that ensued. Then, maybe, they wouldn’t be pinioned against the back wall of a corridor with the dragon bearing down on them.

The familiar ache and surge of magic pooled and then poured out of him. It siphoned through his staff and a rush of lightning fulgurated across the dragon’s scales.

“Distract him!” Hawke yelled, a plan sitting nebulous and half-formed in the back of his head. Without bothering to complete it, he lunged around the dragon and up the corridor.

“Excuse me?” Varric yelled behind him, followed by the low ka-chunk of Bianca launching a bolt. “No! No! Mage! You son of a bitch, get your apostate as back here and cover me!”

Hawke laughed, sliding to a stop behind the dragon and dodging its tail when the thing lunged for Varric.

“What qualifies me as a distraction, anyway?”

“You’re loud and very irritating!” Hawke gritted his teeth, adrenaline hammering in the back of his skull. “And probably quite tasty, too!”

“Well thank you,” Varric said, ducking before raising Bianca and firing another salvo of bolts. The dragon twisted backward, shaking its head. Hawke felt the fire burgeoning in the dragon’s chest—behind the beast, even, the temperature rose a couple degrees. He couldn’t imagine how Varric felt.

Again the surge of magic from his flagging reserve. This time, he formed it into a glyph on the ground beneath the dragon. It flashed brilliant green and the dragon, fire glowing in its gullet, froze in place, a look of stricken rage in its eyes.

“Holy shit!” Varric yelled, firing a bolt into the beast’s throat. Hawke, sweat standing on his skin, whirled his staff around and electricity sizzled loose from the weapon to strike the dragon. Again and again, panic seizing up within him, until the wings crumpled inward and the dragon collapsed.

Hawke and Varric looked at one another across the folded corpse.

“What the hell were you thinking, ‘be a distraction’?” Varric said, shaking his head as he stowed Bianca against his back. He stepped gingerly around the dragon.

“Stand still,” Hawke said, his brow furrowing as he summoned his mana, feeling the usual tide of placating warmth as the healing magic left him and poured across Varric.

Finished, Hawke stood straight and glanced toward where Fenris and Carver lay. In time they would regain consciousness. For now, he thought, he could rest and regain his strength.


9/6: “People need stories to survive reality.”

I’m replaying Dragon Age 2 for the billionth time so please enjoy all the fanfic, i can’t help myself. also there are probably a lot of tense changes in this i can’t be bothered to pay attention to tense, jeez!!

Here’s a simple truth: People need stories to survive reality. It’s what keeps lowly serial writers such as myself in cheap Darktown ale. If my years have taught me anything, it’s that the kind of story doesn’t matter. Could be an in depth literary treatise on the state of mankind—could be Hard in Hightown. I think it’s the nature of being a story, the lure of escapism. That old story, recycled down through generations, that breathes life into the soul of a man.

Anyway. Feeling like I’m starting my own comprehensive treatise on the state of mankind, here.

I’m sitting on a cliff on the Wounded Coast and Hawke lays stretched out on the dirt beside me. It’s the sort of quintessential moment you’ll have with people that outlines that ineffable quality of your relationship. The breeze off the ocean blows cool and the sky is that perfect indecision between dusk and sunset, where the clouds are low and blue-violet and the horizon blushes pink. It smell exactly like the transition between summer and fall—you know it? I hope so, because I’ll be damned if I could describe it.

“What’re you writing?” Hawke asks somnolently, rolling over enough to bring his shoulder against my thigh. “Love stories?”

“Why yes, I’m composing several ballads devoted to the reflection of the sunlight off your biceps.”

He coughs with laughter, a sound that lets me know I startled him with my jest. It’s a sound that, through all the years we’ve known each other, never fails to make me smile. Hawke is a lot of things you’d never know from the stories, even the ones I wrote. He’s hilarious and sly and thrives on physical contact. He makes you feel like the funniest damn person in Thedas.

“Really though,” he says, and I look sideways at him. He looks just as bright and mischievous as always.

“Would it freak you out if I said I was writing about you?”

He smiles. “No. Does that make me terribly conceited?”

“Only if it doesn’t make me horrible that if you minded, I still wouldn’t stop.”


He rolls back over onto his back but keeps his arm slung companionably over my knee. I don’t mind. The way he carries on with Anders, I have my suspicions about Hawke—but he’s never given me any indication that he feels more than friendship toward me. Besides, even if he does, I’ve been propositioned by far uglier men.

I begin to write again but dusk has begun to melt into full sunset and I grow more and more preoccupied. Down the cliffs the ocean ripples, stirred by the indolent breeze, the stippled surface alight in shades of pink and orange. Across the tongue of the Waking Sea, the austere silhouette of Kirkwall rises, limned now by clouds shattered into a thousand shades of purple. I find it difficult to avert my eyes. Kirkwall isn’t a beautiful city by any means, but it has its moments.

“Mother was always telling us to enjoy beauty where you can find it,” Hawke says, voicing my thoughts. He has an eerie way of always doing that.

I look at him and he smiles.

“I don’t know what to do, now that she’s gone,” he says. “It’s like—my entire life has been this litany of protecting mother, making her proud. And now she’s gone. I don’t know what to do.”

“You know what I did when my mom died?” I say, and Hawke’s eyes flick up to find mine. “I read her the entire first novel I ever wrote, while she wasted away. And when she died, I destroyed it. Don’t be me, Hawke. Don’t tear apart everything you’ve worked for. She wouldn’t like that.”

He looks at me, and I watch the infinitesimal motion of his pupils for a long moment, both of us silent as the sun sets.

“I don’t know how,” he says. “All I know how to do is tear myself apart.”

I touch his wrist where it drapes across my knee. He twitches a little and then his fingers tighten against my calf and I notice he’s crying.

“Never fear, Serah Hawke,” I say as grandiosely as I can with my throat tightening around the words. “That’s what your gratuitously handsome dwarven friends are here for. To hold you together.”

“I have more than one gratuitously handsome dwarven friend?” he says, lifting an eyebrow.

I chuckle. “I hope not. You don’t want to make me jealous.”

chosen one

8/29: “I want to believe he’s the chosen one”

Jack likes to think that he’s the chosen one, but I’m not sure he knows the rest of the gods hope he is, as well. I can never discern how much of his pompous flair comes from deep vanity and how much comes from his natural jocosity. He says shit about how the world rests in his palm and he looks at you so knowingly, like he’s aware he’s being a total ass. But he never gives any indication of whether or not he’s joking.

I’m sitting with Kurki and watching this asshole twirl fire between his hands like it’s nothing. Oh, Jack knows we’re watching. He has a sense for that—for knowing how to attract attention and then how to exploit it. How to hold it and enhance it. So you go from one minute sitting outside with your bro casually watching this self-aggrandizing prick do something totally rad, and the next minute you’re leaning forward to watch him. Absolutely enthralled. Not gonna lie, I sort of hate him for it. Same reason I love him. Same reason I think we all want him to be a savior. He just seems like he’d have the knack for it.

“You find him fascinating, Kurki says. I glance over to him, the twin I always think of as the red one even though, being twins, he and Nosturi look exactly the same. There’s just something red about Kurki and something blue about Nosturi.

“Oh hell yeah,” I say. “Dude’s manipulating fire like it’s nothing. That’s like the most metal thing in existence. Shit, I wanna go over and offer him my title just based on principle.”

Behind the mask, Kurki’s ice-pale eyes are staid. He doesn’t blink. I’m pretty sure I like Kurki way more than he likes me, but that scenario has never bothered me in the past. I always call myself an extrovert and my mom always called me obnoxious. Maybe it’s a little of both.

“I believe he calls himself God of the Night Sky,” Kurki says. “So my brother has told me.”

“Shit, God of the Night Sky is the second most metal thing in existence. I’m ashamed.”

I hang my head, a grin spreading across my mouth. I peer conspiratorially at Kurki, pulling a strand of black hair up and around an antler, out of the way.

I’ve never seen Kurki smile. At this point I’m not certain it’s a shape his mouth makes. But this time I sense something a little pointed in his reserve.

“You really gotta tell me if I’ve got something in my teeth,” I say. “Otherwise I’ll never know.”

He tilts his head to the side, that focused gesture of confusion he and Nosturi share.

“You’re lookin’ at me like you want me to say something but I’ve got no idea what.”

“You expect something of him,” Kurki says.

It takes me aback. Hell, I’ve spent most of my leisure time (and let’s be honest, most of my time is leisure) with these assholes for years, and their uncanny percipience still manages to startle me. Kurki could look at you and tell you how you felt about the lunch you ate three weeks ago. He says these things without pity or emotion, too—not like Mr. Bleeding Heart Nosturi, who sounds like he’s about to cry from empathy if he has to discuss anything remotely unpleasant. Both of them give me this sense of searching—like they’re constantly trying to unravel the vagaries of human emotion.

Maybe that’s the only reason Kurki hangs around me. Like I said, pretty sure I like him way more than he likes me.

“I mean, I get the impression he’s kinda a pompous dick,” I say. “But I also get the impression that he’s gonna bust this world wide open.”

Kurki tilts his head the other way, looking exactly like some huge anthropomorphic bird.

“Don’t you get the feeling we’re all kinda—frozen?”

Kurk’s mouth turns into a delicate frown beneath his mask.

“Maybe I’m just looking for someone to remind me of a savior,” I say, spreading my hands. “But maybe he’s what we need.”

Kurki nods slowly.


the immortal and the witch

written a few days ago but hadn’t typed it up before today. i think the prompt for this was “the immortal fell//into this mortal hell” but it sort of took a dire twist from my image for that awesome prompt (from this song) so I’ll probably use it again.

“You call yourself the Immortal?” Huna hissed, her visage dark and terrible as she loomed over us. She seemed to grow as her rage mounted, stretching taller and taller, growing to obscene heights until the trees around her looked small by comparison. I had the distinct impression that seeing the witch flummoxed my brain—that she wasn’t a single entity but the sum total of the verdant forest around us. That her continual growing and changing mirrored my brain’s turmoil as it struggled to unify the image.

That, more than anything, terrified me.

A gale rose around us, screaming up the rock-studded slopes of the mountain. It tossed trees’ massive canopies about like trifles. Out on the thin spine of land where we stood, the wind caught against me as though enraged to find me there. I slapped a hand over my hat and then forfeited it in favor of securing my cloak. Still, I felt a pang of regret to see the hat winging its way down the mountain. Vanity has ever been one of my strongest suits.

I feared the witch—to claim otherwise would be folly. I imagined everyone, including Savriel, feared the witch in this state. Rha cringed and cowered behind me—him I ignored, content to relegate my vengeance to the nebulous later. I found Drex’s eyes and the demi-god shrugged, his dark eyes huge and staring.

I stepped forward. I’d only meant to slay Golshirazi and be on my way. This war between the Three meant less than nothing to me—at worst, I found it irritating that defunct gods were willing to drag the whole of Silesia into their conflict.

“Greeting and hello, my gigantic and terrifying friend,” I said with a grandiose outward sweep of my hands. I stepped forward and the gale slackened somewhat, the witch settling back into her less physically imposing form. She stood out from her home, cruel, twisted staff in hand, and stared at me without expression.

“I do indeed call myself the Immortal. Jack Immortal. God of the Night Sky.” I gestured impatiently at Drex until I heard his footsteps behind me on the rock.

“And I, Drexiphilious, demi-god of metal.”

Huna narrowed her eyes and moved forward, her steps easy and lithe. She had that peculiar feature of looking immensely old and immensely young in a moment, her eyes bright and alive, her face lined and unmoving. In a way I supposed she was beautiful, if ageless witches of limitless power were your type.

“One of you calls himself a god, the other a demi-god,” she said, those sagacious eyes passing from me to Drex.

Drex laughed a little too quickly, a little too loudly.

“Ol’ Jack says shit like that. You just gotta—”

I slapped a hand over his mouth and he licked me, but fell into obeisant silence nonetheless. I pulled my hand away, wiping drool onto my pants, giving him a dour look.

“Why this distinction between us, O Witch?” I asked, countering her step with one of my own, low and confident as a panther. “Are we not much the same?”

She didn’t react to my goading. Oh well. She simply drew her slender frame back, crossing her arms across her chest.

“You have brought the war here.” I sensed more than I saw her attention pass to Rha’s hunched figure behind me. The crumpled and defeated Pope fairly whimpered. Drex gave me a look uncharacteristic to him—I suppose I’d failed to enlighten him regarding our purpose here. He looked guarded, and beneath that he looked almost wounded. I sensed that Drex was not the sort you wanted to betray—because he could be dangerous, but also because of the deep pain that I’d always sensed shuttered away within him. You couldn’t look at Drex with his big, dark eyes and want to hurt him again.

“Why?” Huna said, looking back to me.

“Because I am an instrument of chaos,” I said, giving her a broad, manic grin. It faded quickly and again I stepped toward her, my step a little menacing this time.

tower pt 2

could i have waited until tomorrow to post the second part? i mean probably.

again, trigger warning for suicidal imagery/self harm etc

He returns at night, more and more exhausted and battered each time.

“What are you fighting?” I ask him one night when he climbs the stairs, unlocks the door (and then locks it behind him), and drops into the bed, his blood running out from myriad lacerations.

“You are safe,” he says. “You are finally safe.”

“Why did you wait for me here?” I push myself up in the bed and look down upon him. He lies flat on his back and his blood soaks into the sheets.

“I watched you,” he says. “You were not strong enough to fight. I needed you here, so that I could fight for you.”

“What are you fighting?” I repeat.

He studies me with a burden of fatigue so great I wonder that he has not perished.

“Demons,” he says.

“My demons?”

“You brought them here with you.”

“You wanted me to.”

He nods.

“What happens if I return?”

Every muscle in his body tightens, but his inscrutable expression does not change.

“You won’t,” he says. His voice possesses a taut drama that I have not previously heard from him. A low groan, not entirely of his own volition I think, escapes him as he sits up.

I know that I may return. I have known it since what I glimpsed in the field. I simply do not know to what I would be returning. That more than anything frightens me. But I grow lonelier by the day, locked in my room in the tower. I remember things my mother used to make, songs she sang to me when I was a child, and they comfort me. But I yearn to feel her embrace, to hear her voice again. Since I returned to the field, what I remember most about her is how she screamed when she found me.

Again the sorrow floods me, every corner of me. I have grown accustomed to it. It feels familiar, almost welcome. I recognize that it stands as the last remaining bond to the life I lived before the tower. I close my eyes and I weep, because this nauseating sorrow is my most potent memory of my life before I died.


            Day after day, I wake up alone in the tower. My protector fights a losing battle against the tide of darkness I have brought for him. One day, when the forest around the tower has completely sloughed away its color, I can almost hear my mother’s voice, singing the song I remember from my childhood.

Something within me knows that once the grey extends from the tower to the field, my doorway to return will close. The wind gusts through the trees and as the leaves blow I watch the color drain from them, my hands flat against the window. My mother’s voice reaches me again and I feel something else—a deep and abiding regret. I think of it, fix it steadfast in my mind—her scream when she found me.

I open the desk drawer and wrap bandages around my fist. I catch my breath in my throat and smack my fist into the window. Stupid. It hurts. I believe I have broken some knuckles. Next, I hoist the chair at the desk over my head. I shout as I swing it to bear and the window explodes outward. The dismal sunlight catches each individual shard for one heartstopping moment and then they are falling, falling.

Following them, I lift myself out the window and clamber down the tower, wedging my fingertips and toes into each space between the rocks. I squint my eyes closed and don’t look as I lower myself, inch by inch. Adrenaline fuels me at first, then desperation. By the time I reach the base of the tower, my muscles howl. I drop from about two feet and collapse onto the grass.

I allow myself to recover. My protector will not return until nightfall. But something growls from around the curve of the tower, and then the low sound turns into the sound of my mother singing.

My blood turns electric. I scramble to my feet and I flee. I hear a cacophony of them behind me now—I recognize conversations from family videos, voices reciting the voice of an ex telling me they didn’t love me anymore. The last whine of a dying dog. My own voice—

“Am I already dead? Is this hell?”

Screaming: “Do you know I can’t remember the last time I felt happiness?”

—and above and through it all, the sound of my mother singing. I run through the forest and they pursue me. Memories flood me—I didn’t want to be dead, I just hadn’t wanted to be alive. I’d wanted to sleep, to rest. The easiest way, after a bottle of sleeping pills, had been to cut myself open. I’d done one arm before passing out.

And then my mother’s scream. And then my mother holding me like a child and singing that song from my childhood while she waited for the ambulance. That part I hadn’t seen, but I know it all the same. I know it like I know the sorrow and the fear welling up inside me as I run.

I breach the edge of the forest and spill out into the field a heartbeat ahead of the voices and the grey.

“Tonight will show us,” a voice I don’t recognize says.

“Okay,” my mother says. She sounds tired.

My lungs burn but I hurl myself forward anyway. The grey sweeps toward the center of the field. A moment before my protector appears before me, I realize the voices have vanished. And then he stands before me, his clothes torn with great blood-stained rents. He stands hunched, breathing hard.

“You think you can handle it?” he says, his eyes dark and angry. “You think you can go back and be fine?”

The grey rushes beneath my feet and my mother’s voice goes silent.

“I love you,” she says.
“I’m sorry,” I say.

“You belong here,” says my protector. “Where you are safe.”

I close my eyes. I allow him to lead me back to the tower. I no longer feel pain, or warmth. It feels comfortable.


            My protector leaves our bed every morning and locks each door behind him. Where once I had windows, he has constructed new walls, citing my disobedience. My demons have left. Now, he returns each evening with baskets of apples and rabbits he’s caught in the grey forest. I feel his eyes upon me as I fall asleep.

I like the walls better than the windows. The sunlight feels too bright. I do not remember the pain or the fear. And I am fine.

tower pt 1

8/27: inspired by this song (Tower by Avatar). honestly that song makes me feel horrible and i’ve been feeling horrible lately anyway so this was sort of an emotion-purge of all the suffocating decay festering inside of me lately. turned out long so i’m breaking it up into two parts because i’m an adult who makes my own decisions

TRIGGER WARNING?? for suicidal ideation/imagery

I remember very little when I find myself in the field. I feel the caress of the wind against my body and I breathe in the crisp, autumnal air.

I remember it being late August. The desultory grey skies. The rumble of a storm approaching. A glitter of strained sunlight flashed down the length of a blade. And then—the field. And him.

His fingers brush my shoulder and I look at him, his face achingly familiar and strange. High cheekbones and dark, sunken eyes. I think—I had a dream about him, once.

“Hello,” he says, his voice a low rasp.

At first I did not feel afraid but now my heart races, a corybantic rhythm that echoes in the back of my head. Everything about him whispers of a trap, and suddenly I remember my mother telling me to trust my instincts.

I miss my mother but I don’t know why. How long has it been since I’ve seen her?

Trusting my instincts, I ride the lurch of fear to my feet and I run. The grass tangles around my ankles and the man chases me. Again and again when I look over my shoulder I glimpse his eyes.

I trip and my breath tears out of my chest. I hit the ground on my elbows and knees and a gash opens down my arm. In an instant the man is beside me, the wind blowing his black hair all around his face. He looks deranged, but he kneels down and puts his hand beneath my chin.

“Don’t be afraid,” he says.

“I don’t—” My voice catches. “I don’t know how to not be afraid.”

He smiles something that looks a little like a grimace. Overhead, the clouds darken. The wind grows frigid.

“You’ve hurt yourself,” he says, his eyes moving down my arm. He touches me just above the laceration and I manage to not pull away. “Come with me. I’ll take care of you.”

Now I do flinch. I pull into myself like a child, smearing blood on my skin and my clothes.

“I don’t know you,” I say. “I don’t know where I am.”

But to part of my mind, the answer is obvious. I am in the field. I remember the blade. Where else could I be? The man smiles a gentle, tentative smile.

“I’ll take care of you,” he repeats. “That’s all I’ve been waiting for, all this time.”


            The tower he takes me to stands in the middle of a valley, the hills sloping down to meet it, the trees dense and packed against its stone curve. It looks to me as though someone had cast it in greyscale—every surface covered in a grey dust so lifeless no other color touches it. The windows glint dully in the pale storm-light. The storm breaks overhead and within moments a torrential rain falls.

He opens the door with an iron key and stands there, poised and motionless. His eyes never leave me. I become aware that this entire time, his eyes have never left me. I do not find this comforting.

“What’s your name?” I ask, holding my injured arm and studying him with some trepidation.

“Whatever you need it to be,” he says.

The rain pours down upon me. Past the door he’s holding ajar, the tower looks dim, but dry. With my pulse still thudding in my throat, I walk through. The door closes and I hear the distinct click as he locks it. It does not unnerve me—instead I feel safe, with the shadow of the water on the windows painted across the stone walls within. I realize that being in the open had provoked a certain unease in me—that I’d existed with a monotonous drone of anxiety just beneath the level of my consciousness this entire time. The door shuts and I am at peace.

The man leads me up the stairs and into a room, this one locked as well. He stands beside the opened door as I enter, turning in a slow circle. An enormous bed occupies most of the room, but a desk rests in the corner as well. The walls are entirely comprised of windows. A flash of lightning illuminates the room, the light flickering down the panels of glass.

He approaches and motions toward the bed. I sit down and he opens a drawer of the desk, producing a roll of bandages. I hold myself stiffly as he seats himself beside me. He pulls my arm away from my own clutches and begins to wrap it. He says nothing. I hear nothing but the rumble of thunder, muffled by the layers of stone and glass.

“Are you a protector?” I ask.

His motions at my arm, mechanical and perfunctory, cease and then resume, slower. Quickly he nods, his hair falling over his face.

Unbidden, a profound sorrow wells within me. I cannot understand or control it. It spills out of me and I stare at the door he closed behind him, tears moving smoothly down my face. I begin to shake. The fear had dissipated but I cannot conceive of a world in which a sorrow like this exists.

He touches me, his fingers light and hesitating. Then I feel his arm around my shoulders and I crumble, allowing him to pull me in toward him. I wonder at the fact that he does not feel warm at all—not his arms, not his chest, not his breath on my hair.

I realize that I, too, feel cold.


            He sleeps beside me every night, and vanishes by morning. He locks each door every night and unlocks them deliberately each morning so that I will hear them and know I am free. The first morning when I awaken, ash lays across every surface in our bedroom. I brush a finger through the layer of ash on my skin and come further awake. That day, I remain inside, too afraid of what awaits me outside the tower. I watch the sun rise and fall through my windows.

The first week, I do not leave. I only become hungry when he returns, and then I am famished. We sit on the lavish bedspread and glut ourselves on the apples and rabbits he brings back to the tower. His eyes never stray. The moment he sees me to the moment I fall asleep, he watches over me.

When I am cold at night, he returns the following night with an abundance of blankets. When I mention the cinnamon strudel my mother makes—used to make? I cannot be sure—he finds a cinnamon strudel and delivers it to me without comment.

I venture out on the first day of the second week. I hear him unlock the doors as he leaves, I watch the sun hoist itself above the treeline, and then I leave the room. The stairs creak and groan beneath me as I descend. I open the front door and emerge, and the wind against my skin feels sharp and unwelcome. It whispers through the trees in a susurrous whir, the muted verdure of the forest less extravagant than I remember. The grey of the tower has leeched into the soil, I think, before laughing a little nervously at what sounds like utter lunacy. But the greyscale seems to have bled into the trees, the leaves green but diminishedly so, green but also grey.

I walk into the forest in the direction of the field where I first found myself. An inchoate sense of foreboding grows within the pit of my stomach. As I walk, my fingertips grow numb in what I soon recognize as the return of warmth to my flesh. I find the sensation irksome and uncomfortable, wringing my hands as I walk. So, too, do the colors return the further I stray. Blinking at the intrusive brilliance of my surroundings, I break the trees and find myself in the field.

The fear returns, but howling out overtop of it flies the sorrow. I stand paralyzed, stricken by the roaring cavalcade of emotion threatening to rip me asunder. I fall to my knees. The cut down my forearm tears itself open as I watch—flesh peels back in a vicious curl. Blood boils down my arm and washes over my clenched fist. I realize the screaming is mine—

“This is hell! I’m in hell!”

—and a moment later a hand claps over my mouth and drags me backward. The colors disappear as he drags me back through the greying woods and once again I find myself in the tower. Once again I sit on the bed and weep, and once again he wraps my arm.

“I shouldn’t have gone outside,” I say.

His dark eyes find mine. He nods once.

“You’re my protector,” I say.

“Yes,” he says.

“Protect me.”

“I will. I always will,” he says. “You are safe.”

I look down at my arm and he follows my gaze. Both his hands wrap around my wrist.

“Safe from what?” I ask. The question feels like a trap. I’m afraid of the answer.

He looks at me and says nothing.

I know the answer. My fear knows the answer. I can’t admit it to myself. When he leaves the following morning, he unlocks the doors and then locks them again.