deercountry | shock-collared at the gates of heaven

[ If you find yourself in this memory, you've gotten fairly lucky! The bones have transported you to a small, almost run-down bar at the edge of nowhere. It's pretty full, and there's the sense that the people in here are waiting for something.

But good things come to those who wait: a woman in a green dress and fur coat strides boisterously through the door, tossing a bouquet of flowers to the other patrons as she enters. A skinny young man runs to take her coat -- some residents of Trench might recognize him as Orpheus. ]

Well, it's like he said, I'm an outdoor girl!

[ But this isn't Orpheus's memory. There's another woman, holding a single red flower. And after she accepts a flask from the woman in the green dress, she rises from her seat and comes to join you, a slight, almost hesitant smile on her face. ]

Looks like spring's here.

Edited 2021-12-18 03:36 (UTC)

[ It's so cold.

The sky is gray; the trees are bare. The wind whistles through the air, carrying dead leaves with it. The land is barren -- long ago, this field might have been woods, but any firewood has long since been harvested. It's just dirt and patches of dead grass, now. There is nothing around for miles, and no one coming for you. You are very nearly alone.

Except: there is a young woman ahead of you. Despite the chill, she has no coat, and it looks like she has no supplies to speak of. She's huddling for warmth, slowly making her way forward, shivering and desparate. For a moment, it looks like she's about to call out for someone, and then she stops dead in her tracks, and stares right at you.

Or, rather, right behind you. Because a man has just appeared there: tall, wearing dark shades and a leather coat. And he looks like he means business. ]

Edited 2021-12-18 03:52 (UTC)

[ The catacombs make up some of the lowest levels of Drearburh. Here, the electric lights here are weak, barely giving off any light to see by and buzzing faintly. Occasionally, there's the drip-drip-drip of dank, recycled moisture. Your footsteps may be the loudest sound in this place. Regardless, you are not alone.

Before you is a young girl, sporting bright red hair and some ratty, possibly hand-me-down clothes that don't fit right. She's crouching beside one of the catacombs, and you can hear her murmur softly to it, as if she's having a one-sided conversation. Occasionally, the young girl will stop, as if to give whatever is in that catacomb a chance to respond. (There is never a response.)

A few moments pass, and you might hear two sets of footsteps -- one that sounds fairly far away, and one that is very, very close.

Gideon Nav stands next to you. There is no easy smile on her face as she leans against the wall, looking like she's just trying to wait something out. ]

Mm. I don't think this one's gonna be that great, actually.

Edited 2022-01-21 22:17 (UTC)

[ By now Orpheus has been through this a couple of times, so he's expecting the shift in scenery to somewhere that clearly isn't Trench. Even seeing Eurydice here isn't too much of a surprise - like he said to Kassandra, his best guess is that there's some bigger reason why things like this are shown to them, that it can't be completely random, and here the connection is obvious.

All that said, though, his heart does sink very quickly as he realizes just when this must be. The storm, from all those many months ago. Swallowing hard, he follows Eurydice's gaze, taking an instinctive step back and straightening his posture in a mix of lingering respect and fear as Lord Hades stares right through him. ]

[ If Lord Hades sees Orpheus, he doesn't pay attention. (Does Hades know there's an audience? Does Hades know that we sing the song, again and again and again?) It's as if Orpheus isn't there -- an audience member in his own right, watching a story unfold.

Hades paces around the memory-Eurydice, like a cat stalking its prey. ] Hey, little songbird.

[ Memory-Eurydice does not sing him a song. She's too cold.

It's as this is happening that someone lays a small, cold hand on Orpheus' shoulder. It's Eurydice again, this time in her Trench robes, looking apologetic and a little sad. ]

You shouldn't have to see this. There wasn't anything you could have done.

[Now this is more like it. Rapunzel's been through a few of her own memories, and they'd been... unpleasant. It was starting to wear on her, but when reality shifts and suddenly she's here, in this place practically oozing with excited anticipation and the sparks of a party striking up, she can't help but break out into a bright and sunny smile.

A smile that doesn't fade one bit when this stranger approaches her - in fact, Rapunzel almost seems even happier that someone's approaching her. Yay, a chance to have some fun now!!]

No kidding! The whole mood shifted as soon as she walked in. [Now that lady seems like her kinda gal!] What's the party for?

[ Orpheus just closes his eyes, breathing a shaky breath. ]

It's - I'm sorry. [ He knows it isn't his fault he's here, but he feels compelled to apologize anyway. ] If you don't want me to see this, I can try to go, until it's over.

[ There's a small, selfish part of him that wants to know what it is Lord Hades said that was so convincing, that took her away from him. But he knows that's no one's business but Eurydice's, and knowing wouldn't change anything, would only make things worse. His hands ball into fists at his sides, and with lingering hesitation he glances sidelong at her, waiting for her response. ]

[ Truly, the party does not start until Persephone walks in. Eurydice nods. ] They've been waiting for her.

[ This stranger asking Eurydice what the party's for throws her off guard a bit. Isn't it obvious? But then again, the stranger obviously isn't from here. It's just a memory, after all. ]

The party's for spring. We hadn't had one in...years, I think. Just hot summers and cold winters. [ Eurydice gestures at Persephone, who is now instructing the bar staff to start pouring the wine -- on her, of course. ] She's spring. [ a beat. ] And who're you?

[Michael's not cold, though!

The figure he cuts against the gray sky isn't that different from Hades: tall, white-haired, plainly inhuman in his indifference towards the elements. But he's wearing burgundy, with a forest green cloak trimmed in gold thrown about his shoulders, because winter fashion is nice. You need a pop of color, when everything's so drab!

This isn't his first time in one of these memories. When Eurydice stares at him, he turns about naturally to see what she might be looking at. Upon seeing Hades, he rolls his eyes and clicks his tongue.]

Ugh, this guy.

I don't want to see it either.

[ Strange is the call of this strange man, sings the Eurydice in the memory. The Eurydice from Trench -- and they're different people, Eurydice wants to remember that, she's changed -- turns away, placing a hand on Orpheus's shoulder as she does so. Her head is bowed in shame. ]

Let's just go.

[ Eurydice doesn't even wait for him. She just starts walking, trusting that he'll follow, not looking back at the scene. She meant what she said: she doesn't want to see it. She walks, and walks, and --

-- there's Hades, again. ] Hey, little songbird, let me guess. He's some kind of poet, and he's penniless?

[ She's right back where she started. ]

Edited 2021-12-24 03:23 (UTC)

[ Eurydice startles at Michael's voice, as if she's just realized there are two immortals present. Hades, on the other hand, gives Michael a side-eye as he begins singing: ]

Hey, little songbird, sing me a song. I'm a busy man, and I can't stay long.

[ Eurydice doesn't sing, though. Instead, she keeps huddling, and whispers to Michael: ]

He's -- he's going to cut me a deal. [ She bows her head, not wanting to look Michael in the eye. ] I'm going to take it.

[ Orpheus is more than happy to follow - trails along after her, letting her lead the way. It's easier to do that, even if he doesn't consciously think of why every time anymore, why he hates letting her out of his sight when they're walking even after all these months. But in the end, a memory's a memory, and Eurydice didn't walk away then, so neither of them can walk away now.

Swallowing hard, Orpheus silently reaches out and wraps his arms around her, watching Hades and memory-Eurydice carefully as he huddles close. It's for his own comfort as much as it is a protective gesture, and his eyes are wide as he listens, mouth dry. He shouldn't be seeing this. He shouldn't be hearing this, but there's not much choice. ]

[Michael frowns at Hades first a moment. The last time he saw him, in the other memory, it had been like stepping into a movie. No one knew they were there. So was that coincidence? Or is this one different?

Either way, he turns his attention to Eurydice when she speaks.]

A deal? [She'll have to forgive his incredulity. He simply can't think of any reason to bargain with a living human.] What kind of deal? Hang on, are you actually cold, right now?

[He doesn't really know how this works? Even if it were properly cold, he knows he doesn't really register these things the way humans do. But she looks cold, so he unclasps his cloak and offers it to her instead. It's sized for his height, it'd be huge on her, but it isn't as though he needs it for any particular reason; he just likes how it's swishy.]

Oh, I'm Rapunzel!! But, um...

[Rapunzel knows flowery metaphors - she's read as much as she could, she's artistic in so many aspects of her life. Sh knows how people often compare others to the seasons, whether it's because they love them or respect them, or even fear them. But the way this woman speaks of the other is.... different.]

She's spring...? What do you mean by that?

[ This is, to put it delicately, pretty fucking bleak.

He'd thought they were through with these, but apparently the Pthumerians can't resist a chance to really hammer a lesson in. God watches the small, badly-dressed shape of his daughter crouch beside the resting place of a skeleton. Maybe it's her mom's; it's even sadder if it isn't. The memory doesn't give him enough to go on, so he's as blind to thanergy signatures as the little girl tucked up against hopefully-her-mother's coffin. ]

With this ambiance?

[ He does not look at his fellow audience, though he can read expectant tension in the lines of her body even from the corner of his eye. He watches the scene, instead. ]

I promised Harrow a renewal of Ninth House citizens. Should I ever have the opportunity, we're adding a better lighting budget.

[ Harrow never asked him how he knew the Ninth was dying off, and Gideon doesn't ask, either. She does think about it, though, mostly as a way to distract herself from what's about to happen. It might be more effective if she decided to look away, but who would she look at instead? God? Her father? That's worse. ]

You can tell her that directly, if you want.

[ Because those footsteps from far away are growing closer, and there's the sound of clinking bone, too. A young Reverend Daughter enters the scene, but she doesn't look at her God, or at adult Gideon. In all likelihood, she can't see them, but there's a small part of Gideon that's still satisfied about having Harrowhark's full attention.

Young Harrowhark says something that's difficult to make out -- the memory gets fuzzy, here, indistinct. And then it snaps back into focus when the younger Gideon howls something like fuck you and lunges at the other girl. Harrowhark was always so much smaller and weaker, and the younger Gideon uses that to her advantage to pin the smaller girl on her back, still shouting. My mother loved me a lot more than yours loved you! She reaches around Harrow's neck and presses and chokes and chokes and it's like the memory itself has gone red, everything indistinct but hate-grief-lonely.

Harrow, to her credit, fights back, clawing at her attacker's face until she bleeds, Gideon's skin carved up under her fingernails. Harrow's eyes are practically bulging out, and it's clear that if Gideon pushes much further, she'll kill her. And maybe Gideon knew that, too, because she stops. She lets go and slumps forward, still bleeding, curled in on herself like all the fight's gone out. Harrow heaves, barely able to crawl away.

It's done. This is how it happened. The older Gideon, the one standing before God, has no snappy one-liner for this, no irreverent joke. There's just silence, and the hum of electric lights, and the faint rattle of bones.

When Gideon finally looks at God, when she meets the abyss-black eyes with burning gold, it's with the stricken look of a challenge. Did my mother love me? Do you?

Gideon believes -- knows -- that there is no universe in which the answer is yes. But if her father cannot love her, then at least he will know her. That's better than nothing.

(No, it isn't.) ]

Edited 2022-01-24 18:32 (UTC)

[ He watches. Wearily, patiently, he watches. Quips come to mind, but there's a brittle quality to this hanging silence, and he knows it would not survive the attempt. Gideon is wound tight enough to snap, and he ought to see the full scene play out before he breaks the moment.

Harrow comes away with God's own blood under her nails, and something in his expression shifts: a tightening around the eyes, a faint exhalation. He presses fingertips to his temple like he wants to press away a headache. He'd already known; from the moment he realized the pieces in play, he'd known. Let the record show that God is not actually an idiot, some of the time.

He'll have to talk to Harrow about that later. ]

You'd think I'd be any good at this. [ God speaks soft and low, as though out of respect for the weighty silence of this place, the ringing aftermath of the violence. He exhales, drops his hands again, and for a moment he looks like no one in particular. Without the crown, the cloak, he's a tired middle-aged guy dressed in cheap blacks. ]

I seem to be making a lot of mistakes lately, Gideon. You've witnessed most of them. It has been an unusually messy couple of months.

[ When he turns to face her, the look in his eyes is difficult to read. He looks into hers, deep and long. It has been a long time since he's seen eyes like them. ]

One of the most embarrassing is how I've handled the appearance of, well, you. I think we're past the point where I can chalk it up to surprise. Mom might not be around to be a good role model, but that doesn't give me the excuse.

[ He does not shift towards her. She wouldn't let him. Instead, he chews his lip and looks pained, and the space between them is cold and empty and backed only by the dull buzz of Drearburh lights.

His voice is so very, very soft. ]

I wish I'd known.

[ Gideon doesn't actually expect the Emperor to be good at parenting -- because that's what he's talking about, surely. Not expecting is written into every taut muscle, in the way she stares him down like a challenge. One for her to overcome, and for him to meet.

His eyes are so terribly, horribly fucked up. Gideon does not even try to read them. What would even be the point? She'd just get it wrong. They barely know each other, after all.

When God starts going on about his mistakes, Gideon assumes it's the same old trick. He'll put himself down in order to project the illusion of safety, and then he'll strike. Gideon does not relent. She stays resolute through Mom, through excuse. Those are just words.

I wish I'd known.

He says it like he wants things to be different. He says it softly, and it doesn't even sound like a lie. It's music to Gideon's ears; it's a knife through her ribs. She wants it to be true so, so badly, and she finally understands why Harrow kept visiting him in his study. ]

Yeah? Would it have made any difference?

[ In other words: Would you have come back for me?

Even that is saying too much. Gideon's just grateful her voice didn't crack. ]

[ He shouldn't have the gall to look surprised. He does anyway, for the barest moment, before his expression sinks back to something more familiar: he looks merely tired. ]

Gideon. Meaning no disrespect to the Ninth, [ as though he isn't God and can't disrespect whichever bits of his kingdom he pleases, ] and full disrespect to my negligence, of which, yes, I'm ever-increasingly aware— Gideon, you are among the most interesting things to happen in a myriad. I wouldn't have left you there.

[ He says it like it's simple. He says it like it's true. It is, though he thinks they both know the underpinning logic: she is too important to let wander freely near locked doors.

Her very existence forces his hand. His options are kill her or claim her. It's not like he's above the former, but he hasn't written off the latter. There's a world in which he would have done it, out of curiosity or hubris or spite: she is the weapon forged against him; she is a betrayal. He would have taken her just to see what she could become.

He always would have stayed his hand when he saw her eyes. ]

Also, apparently, a hell of a kid. Genuinely would've killed to see you have the run of our flagships, it would have made dealing with the Admiralty a lot more bearable.

[ With the stab at levity in his tone, it sounds almost like a joke, not cousin to an apology. As though questing for twisty potatoes has wiped clean the world in which he decided she was never worth the risk. ]

[ Gideon's father calls her interesting, which she supposes is better than Crux calling her mush-brained inventory, although not by much. But then again, what does she know about what parents call their children? She didn't really know Magnus, and she never truly met the old Duke Atreides. The Emperor would have cared enough about her to come pick her up, and isn't that all she really wanted?

Who is she to say no?

So she swallows, nods, as if preparing to say something -- but then God keeps talking, and Gideon zips back up again. That levity is wrong. Doesn't he see what's happening here? It feels like a lie, and Gideon is so goddamned sick of his lies. ]

Bearable? This isn't -- I nearly killed her. [ But he wanted her on his ship. But, but, but. ] It's not a good thing. [ Gideon looks around for the weird white antlered creature, but nothing is coming. ] That was the easy part. It's only going to get worse from here.

[ She's only going to get worse from here.

The younger Gideon, who so far has been sitting on the ground, licking her wounds, gets up. She dusts off her knees, wipes some of the blood off her face, and heads down the hallway, in Harrow's direction. ]

[ He does not look at the younger Gideon, the one with Harrow's blood on her face. He only looks at the one who can see him, and the slant of his mouth is tired and sad. ]

Well, you didn't get a whole lot of positive structure. [ He says this like it's very reasonable. ] Also, you were ten, which in my opinion renders your sins not fully culpable. Harrow's, too, if that was in question.

[ They haven't gotten to that bit yet. They're about to. He doesn't pay it any mind; he watches his daughter, instead, and drops the levity. ]

However bad it gets will not manage to shock me. I will only be increasingly impressed at the people you and Harrow have grown into.

[ You don't know the person I've grown into, Gideon might have said, once. Now, she's not so sure. The Emperor knows that she likes swords and salty snacks. He knows that Palamedes and Paul are her friends, that Harrowhark is -- more than that, maybe. He gets the importance of shitty jokes and souvenirs.

That's not nothing. That's more than her mother ever knew, more than Crux or even Aiglamene bothered to learn. But he's still a liar, and Gideon clings to that fact like a lifeline.

Gideon doesn't say anything. She turns, instead, and follows her younger self. The memory shifts, like walking through smoke. When the smoke clears, Gideon stands before a room. Inside, her younger self approaches the Reverend Mother and Father -- two cold, joyless people, who look upon her as less than an insect, although no less nasty.

This isn't something Gideon wants to look at, or listen to. Instead, she turns back to God. ]

Do you mean that? [ If anyone knows about sins, it's him. ] Or are you just bullshitting me? Hold me responsible if you want, but not Harrow.

[ This is Gideon's memory. Gideon's fault. She's not asking for forgiveness, not from a man who doesn't believe in it. ]

[ The scene changes, and for this he does look up. He looks upon the Reverend Mother and Father, and sees them within the context of what he knows. Within the context of the world's worst fertility clinic. For a moment there is something in his face: a different set to the eyes and mouth, something cold and searching and remote.

It isn't quite anger. Or, if it is, an anger that burns too far away for anything to touch.

Then he turns his attention back to Gideon, and lets the memory be. ]

Gideon. [ He lets her name hang between them, for a beat, just that and the hum of the Dearburh lights. ] I am not going to punish Harrow for what she did. It would be appalling to punish you for being, frankly, in the wrong place at the wrong time.

[ He looks at her. The set of her jaw, which isn't his; the color of her hair, which isn't his. He says, so softly: ]

You were born to be a key to a lock.

[ And, before the blow has time to land: ]

Which is the most incredible waste of potential in ten thousand years, and I am frankly horrified that anyone I loved [ he says it just like that, so easily, ] would be party to such a crass idea. You're the daughter of God. Anyone with context could take one look at you and know you as holy.

[ There's no one left with context. ]

I am glad that Harrow has you, and you her. No one needs to be punished.

[ Gideon was born to be the key to a door, and Harrow was born to be its lock. Stands to reason that Harrow would want Gideon inside her. Ha-ha, very funny. If Gideon weren't feeling so phenomenally shitty, she'd say that out loud.

God talks about love like it's nothing, and Gideon feels a surge of anger at the fact that he doesn't talk about her this way, and then a surge of hope that he might, someday. Then anger again, for hoping. It's just as childish as saying I love you to the space where a skeleton used to be. Worse, even, because Gideon knows this guy is bad news. And yet.

The taller Gideon says nothing. The smaller Gideon talks about keys, and locks, and a door that should have never been opened. The Reverend Mother and Father listen to the smaller Gideon; the Kindly Prince gazes upon taller Gideon. It keeps happening. ]

Yeah, well. Guess I did what I was meant to do.

[ She may have detonated eleven years behind schedule, but she detonated.

God claims her as His daughter, and for the first time, Gideon does not disagree. She does not walk away, nor does she roll her eyes or tell him to get out. Gideon's acceptance is another weight, one she can pretend is the comforting weight of a blanket and not another thing for her to bear.

If she's going to argue about one thing, though, it's Harrow. She'll always argue about Harrow. ]

Are you, though? If Gideon had killed Harrow, like you told him, I wouldn't have her. If he fixed her, she wouldn't have me.

[ Golden eyes flash with rage, like a ten thousand year old echo. ]

Stop lying.

[ He says nothing, to that.

She does not brush away the weight of his attention. She just stands under it, taller than him but somehow very small, and he'd forgotten how fury looks in yellow eyes. Been a long time since he'd seen it in the mirror. His Annabel always wore it better: she made that shade of gold look properly incandescent, like magma at a million degrees.

She never made it look human. ]

It's all the worse for being true.

[ His voice is no less soft under the weight of her anger, but something in it has gone very far away. ]

If there is a lesson I've learned a thousand times over, one etched all the way down to my soul, it is this: when you love someone dearly, you will hurt them.

[ His mouth slants sideways. It can't be called a smile. Above this, his eyes are black glass and old ichor within a ring of burning white. ]

I don't think there's a way I can make you comprehend it. The best I've got is: you'll understand when you're older.

[ There is nothing Gideon wants more than for this to be easy. She wants to be like one of the heroes in her comic books, brave and true and able to say you're wrong. I know better.

But she has hurt Harrow, hasn't she? Gideon spent eighteen years in constant warfare with Harrow, hurting her. The proof is on the other side of that door. Gideon fell on a set of iron spikes, and it hurt Harrow so badly she had to cut open her brain to get away from the pain, and Gideon would do it again.

The younger Gideon is told to leave. Harrow is brought inside. There is a moment -- a terrible, sickening moment, a moment that makes Gideon want to throw up -- where her younger self gloats at Harrow, as if she's won. The door closes.

Gideon looks down at her younger self and nearly considers slapping her. She doesn't, though. Her younger self will understand soon enough. ]

You really think I don't know that?

[ Gideon does not look up. All that rage turns inward, as if Gideon's voice is a knife that could cut her own flesh. It takes her a moment to put together what he's saying, but when she does, her own voice goes distant, hollow. ]

You really do love her.

[ Her being Harrowhark, of course. Not Gideon -- she would never presume. There's no self-pity in Gideon's voice, just the cold acceptance of fact. ]

[ He sees the moment she folds, the moment she turns on herself. Something shifts in the set of God's jaw, in the set of his eyes. The line between pity and sympathy is a hard one to draw. He'd say it's the latter; that he knows what this feels like.

He doesn't have the grace to think it anything except inevitable. ]

I really do.

[ He doesn't say: I could love you, too, if you'd let me. That'd be too much, too soon; Harrow threw herself down on a bunch of broken glass about it. Gideon might throw a punch, which would only be embarrassing for both of them.

Anyway, she'd take it as a lie. He doesn't think it is one. ]

How could I not? After just a year living as family. [ But there's the hint. The open door. ] Watching her outshine the best of the Empire in necromantic theory and barely tolerate the concept of tea and biscuits. My mercy pales against hers, that she'll still give me the time of day. Don't think I don't know it.

[ Is that what they did? Was Harrow's soup bomb nothing more than a fine family dinner? Or is it more typical of a family dinner to dissolve into threesomes? It's not like Gideon has a whole lot to compare to. That being said: she's pretty sure the answer is no, on both counts.

What's important, though, is not the technicalities of what does or does not constitute a family dinner. It's that God thinks of Harrow as family. And if living together for a year is what does it - well. Gideon has a choice to make.

She looks at the closed door before her, thinking of God's open one. ]

You could always just give her water, you know.

[ There's still an edge to Gideon's voice, but it's tempered, now. It's the acknowledgement that Harrow is the best in the Empire, that God doesn't deserve her, that helps the Emperor, in the end. Gideon's anger has always been about Harrow, after all. So she offers this almost - but not quite - like a hot tip. A half an olive branch, but also a reminder that Gideon will know Harrow better than he ever will. ]

She'd like it better. [ Stop feeding her things you know she hates, asshole. ] And I think necromancy makes you people dehydrated, doesn't it?

[ Does God still get dehydrated? Now that's a Sixth-style theological question. ]

[ She takes his offer.

He sees the shift in her. The bite has all dropped out: he doesn't think she's one excuse from shouting at him, from drawing on him. He doesn't think she knows what to do with herself or where to go instead. But it's easy, from here. He can show her the way.

He quirks a faint smile, and there are shades of emotion in it, however distant: something tired, something wistful. ]

Fair point. And I've finally got someone to help eat the biscuits.

[ They're already a household, which is most of the way to being a family. They can stop treating it as inconvenient circumstance whenever she's willing. ]

Maybe you'll have to take on her share. I know it'll be a challenge.

[ God says that he has her, and Gideon hears trapped, and she hears family, and she doesn't know what to do with that, doesn't know if those two things are supposed to go together. This isn't like Paul and his father, or Isaac and Jeannemary and Magnus. But Gideon has to believe those fathers are rare.

Harrow had a father, once. He's on the other side of that door. Maybe that's what this is like. Maybe that's the baseline.

So Gideon snorts, as if this half-laugh will save her, as if it will fill in any of the gaps she's missing. ]

Yeah, right. Eating two, no, three biscuits? Hardest thing I've ever done.

[ The shitty joke doesn't have time to land before the smaller Gideon pushes open the door. On the other side is an image that Gideon does not need to look at to see. She will never forget the purple of their skin, the way the rafters buckled under their weight. Even as the elder Gideon turns away, she can still hear faint creaking, a noise that is fingernails scraped across her brain.

Harrow will be holding a rope, and Gideon will look at her, and she will never, ever forgive herself. Not ever.

Gideon cannot look at this, and, after a few moments later, realizes that she cannot breathe, that she cannot be here. Gideon killed two fathers, that day. Perhaps John Gaius is all that she deserves.

Gideon does not tremble. She does not say anything. She does not cover her eyes. Instead, she turns back in the direction she came, and she walks, and walks, and walks.

God can watch this memory. Gideon doesn't want it anymore. ]

shock-collared at the gates of heaven

living it up on top;

hey, little songbird; possible cw for themes of suicide

brawl; cw: violence, child abuse, parental death

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late january

cw: violence, violence to children, parental death, child abuse

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cw: references to child abuse, mild gore

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cw: references to suicide, unhealthy relationships, self-harm

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cw: suicide, hanging