The trees cast a shadow over everything, blocking out the sun as Adriaan moved amongst their trunks. As a halfling, at 3 feet 4 inches tall, all but the baby trees towered above him. He didn’t mind, however— it made him feel safer, protective by the thick wood that made up the bases. The smaller he was, the easier it was to go unseen, and the more protected from danger he was, despite the fact that he was drifting dangerously close to a camp of goblins.
Hunkering down against the dead leaves, Adriaan listened closely for a moment, before dismissing it as simply an animal. He continued on his path to the old ruin, wanting to investigate it. He’d heard from others in the camp that it was nearby, and couldn’t resist the chance to do some looting. The halfling had found his best sword in a ruin— it had only needed a good sharpening.
His green eyes brightened as he came upon the ruin, getting a small chill of excitement as he thought of all the things that hid in an old tomb such as this. He clambered up the steps, coming upon the doorway, but froze before he entered. He wanted to be sure there were no traps upon the doors.
A full examination revealed none, and he pushed the doors open to the musty interior. The air was strangely cold, and he tugged his dark cloak tighter around his shoulders. His sword thumped against his thigh once as he hopped down into the cracked floor, and he paused to light a torch with his flint and steel. The fire flared at first, and he waited for his eyes to adjust to the new light source in the dark.
The torch let him see the temple for what it was— beautiful, and remarkably well kept. The floor was polished, white, shining in the flickering flame, with a path proceeding forward up to the front. A dust-covered window allowed little light, so Adriaan edged closer to better see what lied ahead.
As he approached, he realized how lavishly this temple had once been decorated. The remains of silk lay across the rotting wood benches, and what might have once been velvet covered the floor at the front of the temple. This must be where the priest or priestess spoke, he mused as he looked over the stone table.
It was only very close, under close inspection in the light, that Adriaan saw the dark stains across the stone, and realized what they were. He stared in shock and horror at the dried blood that seemed to cover the whole of the stone, except for a small patch at the corner. Spotting that grey bit of stone confirmed that it was not merely the color of the table, and the halfling felt queasy. He stumbled backwards from the bloodstained table, and tripped on a fold in the fabric on the floor.
Adriaan fell backwards into an altar, covered in fresh donations of flowers and bones. The old wood of the altar cracked under even the light weight of the 13 year old halfling, and he fell further to the hard stone beneath it, the contents of the altar shattering around him and on top of his stomach. He groaned, shock from the fall overtaking him for a couple of moments.
After a few minutes of lying there, he pulled himself up and dusted the fragments of the altar off of his clothing. His cloak had torn on the corner of the wood, and Adriaan frowned slightly at the large rip in the fabric. With a sigh, he took it off, stuffed it in his pack, and set about leaving the old temple.
"This creepy old place wasn’t even worth the walk," he muttered under his breath, heading toward the light of the door. His torch had gone out in the rush of the fall, leaving him with only the sunlight shining through the open doorway to guide his feet. He made it back to the entrance, but found himself unable to pass through the doors. It was as though there were a wall there, but he could see nothing before him but air. His hand pressed flat against the air, stopped by the invisible force, and he kicked out recklessly.
While grumbling over his now-broken toe, a voice drifted from a dark corner, and Adriaan tensed. “You have desecrated this place, my house, my TEMPLE. For your senseless wreckage, you will pay.” He couldn’t see well enough in the temple to be sure, but it didn’t look like anyone was in the corner, and it only made the crawling under his skin worse.
Nervous, Adriaan found his voice, and replied, “I’m very sorry. I didn’t mean for it to happen— I just tripped! It was an accident!” He hoped that would appease whatever force spoke to him, lest it strike out in some horrible vengeance. He felt all of his childish naivete fade as fear overtook him, from head to toe, and he remembered all the tales his mother had told him of vengeful gods and evil sorcerers.
“Sorry? That does not repair the damage you have done, both physically and spiritually, to this place of my worship.” The voice grew louder until it sounded like there was someone next to him, shouting in his ears. Adriaan curled up, trying to cover his ears against the noise, but it only moved to speak inside of his mind.
For your blatant disrespect of my temple, your curse will be thus: you may never find solace or comfort in any temple, for you shall never pass through its doors. No matter the deity, you are forever barred from all temples you come across, at risk of great pain to your mind and body.
After the voice faded, he was thrust from the doorway, landing face down in the grass outside of the old temple. Adriaan didn’t want to get up, he felt so hopeless. How could he explain this to anyone? He was such a reckless fool.
In the beginning, there was nothing.
In the beginning; what a loaded statement that was. The slave knew it, knew it too well to tell. Not that he had anyone to tell, of course. Ha! Who would he talk to? His masters? They cared little for his mouth, except when it was servicing them, and as for the rest of his body, well…who cared what happened to a bodyslave, really?
A man passed the garden where he was standing, and the slave was certain that for just a moment, he stared him right in the eyes. He’d seen him around the city before, he knew that for certain. A man like that was not easy to miss. He walked like an emperor, and the slave knew in his heart that the man knew it.
There was something about him that made the slave want to chase him. He turned, glancing around to see if any of his masters could see, and took a shuddering breath when he realized they could not. He was alone, utterly alone but for that stare. It had only lasted a moment, but the slave felt somehow that it was still happening.
This was a moment he would remember all his life, and later, perhaps, he would come to regret it, but that was for the future to tell. Here and now, the slave ran.
Then came the gods, and they were alone in the darkness.
It took him several blocks to catch up with the man, and when he did, he was panting and out of breath. His sides burned, and he felt like he’d run a mile. He fell to his knees out of sheer exhaustion, and waited, one hand grasping the other man’s clothes. There was a laugh from above him, and a slender hand touched his cheek. “Rise, and look at me, little human.”
For a moment, all the slave felt was panic, and then it faded into joy and relief. This was no man- this was a god! Perhaps Pluto himself, come to free him from all this. Quickly, he staggered to his feet, and moved closer to the perceived god, bowing as gracefully as he could manage. “My lord. How may I serve you?”
He was granted a slow smirk, as the god pulled him closer, wrapping an arm around him. It occurred to the slave that perhaps this was not how it should happen, not here in a dimly lit alleyway, out of sight of anyone. Some part of him felt a slow terror building, and he almost pulled away from the god, but could not. His hope was too strong to be bested by good sense.
All his thought was stilled in a moment, when he felt a sharp, tearing pain at his throat, followed swiftly by a burning pleasure that flooeded his senses. He sagged against the god-emperor-monster, and tried to beg, though he wasn’t sure what for. Did he want more, or did he want freedom? Or did he simply want surcease of slavery? At this point, not even he knew. The world faded to black, and he felt the sensation of liquid being passed from the god’s mouth to his own, and instinctively swallowed.
Time passed, that much he was certain of, but he did not know how much. There were flashes of coherency and consciousness, but they faded, leaving only the vaguest impressions of change. Sometimes he felt as though he was becoming stronger, and others he only felt a hunger that seemed to come from his very being.
Slowly, the slave opened his eyes, and found that the light in the room was very bright indeed, considering there were only a few lamps lit. He sat up, stretching his back, and tried to make sense of what he remembered before everything faded away. There had been a man- no, a god- and he had done something to him, changed him somehow. He reached towards his ear, and found the gold earring that marked him as a slave still there. So. That too-beautiful god had not come to free him after all. He thought about tearing it out, but decided not to. He would keep it in remembrance.
And the gods considered the darkness, and found it lacking.
Regardless of whether the god had freed him or not, he was a slave no longer. He would not permit himself to be subjugated like an animal for the rest of his life, however long that may be. The first thing he would do as a free man would be to find the god, and beg of him to tell him what had happened. He needn’t have looked at all.
"You’re awake, finally. Come now, child, come to your Father." The sound of the god’s voice made him turn instantly, all his hope now centered on this one being. "My lord Pluto, what is happening? What have you done to me?" And all his hopes, and the the trust he’d always had in this god, the one he knew would claim him after all his years as a slave were over were dashed as the god began to laugh. It was not a kindly laugh, it was one full of mocking, and he could see a sneer on the god’s face.
"You think I am Pluto? Me? No, child, I am no god. I am the Undying, the heir to death himself. Though I must admit, your faith is amusing. Go now. You are above men, and you need not seek their blessing for what you would do. Only know that if you endanger our little secret, I will find you, and you will wish for your dead god before the end." Heart near to broken, the former slave fled from the man’s sight.
He ran, and ran, losing himself in the streets of the city, till he was down by the docks, by the sea he’d always loved from afar. He knelt in the foam, letting the water wash over his lap, and slowly, he began to pray. He didn’t know how long he was there before he heard Her, not a voice so much as a series of pictures and thoughts inside his head and heart.
They said, “You have called upon me, and I have come. You will be a light in the world, to guide men to me. And I will mark you for my own, so that all will know you belong to the sea. Go now, my Lucian, my Seer, my Light.”
And in the water, he saw his reflection. His eyes, once an ordinary brown, had turned the color of the sea.
And the gods said, let there be light.
I chose my name because it will serve as a reminder that the greatest trees weather terrible storms but remain standing tall.
Let the rains come. I’ll still be able to touch the sky after they’re gone.
A Child’s Unspoken Prayer
When they use ten, twenty, a hundred words to describe your mother, you know what they’re saying. They’re saying that she’s crazy, and you tell them that they’re wrong. They laugh at you without even the hint of a smile, couching their amusement at your presumption behind as many ways as they have of saying ‘it’s her word against his’. You understand. He is rich, and he is a man. He has pale skin. Your mother has none of these things, and so she is wrong, she is crazy, she is lying.
For a little while, it seems like your sister is angry, and then she starts to look more and more like your mother. She becomes sad, and then she seems to give up entirely. You know better. She’s just waiting for the time to wake up, when you can all be a family again, and the nightmares will go away. So far as you know, they still haven’t.
When the other students mimic his lisp, you get angry in your way. He stops you from putting spiders in their backpacks. They don’t understand him, and you slowly grow to believe it’s because they aren’t good enough for him anyway. You’re right. They’ve never had to work for things the way the two of you have; how could they understand that he doesn’t speak well because he’s too busy being brilliant. He doesn’t need to enunciate. All the words in the world are in his head.
Sometimes he is very sad, and sometimes it seems like he’ll never be sad again. You learn how to speak to him no matter where he is in his mountains and valleys, and it binds the two of you closer. His father invites you over more and more often; eventually, you all but live with him and his family. They become part of your family and you are happy. You gain not one, but two fathers and another mother as well.
When you hear police sirens, you do not understand. It is almost too late when you burst through the crowd into your own home. Your sister is handling your mother, and you feel guilty for leaving them alone. You promise yourself that you will never abandon them like that again.
To get you away from the hospital, and the lingering feeling of death, your friend takes you with him to the movies. You see Indiana Jones for the first time, and you fall in love. You save up your allotment of can money, and get yourself a hat like his. It becomes your favorite possession.
When teachers ask you what you want to be when you grow up, you now proudly exclaim that you will be an archeologist. They smile at you the way people who ask about your mother smile, and you learn that things like that are not for girls, especially poor girls. You vow to do it anyway.
You and your friend (your very best friend, now!) promise each other that you will both achieve everything you dream of, and you will never have to be poor again.
100 Themes for Ahren and Leo
"Shit, shit, shit. Why is it so dark in here?"
"Fuck if I know. The light switch won’t work."
"Did you pay the bill?"
"Then why doesn’t anything work?"
"Fine. I forgot, okay?"
"Then get your ass over here. Follow the lighter flame."
"Because I want cuddles, you dickweed."
I want an excuse to edit, so for everyone that reblogs this I will make a username graphic.
I’m terrible at this, but I want to do it.
There’s a song inside my heart that I forgot the words to before I was born,
Its melody is the tune I dance to throughout every day,
The ups and downs are the twists and turns of my life,
But I don’t know what to call the song.
How can you title something that’s not finished,
Or describe a verse whose words are not said, only felt?
It’s the ocean breaking against the shore,
The wind snapping a tree’s branches back and forth,
It’s in the soft, broken breaths of tears that dried years ago,
And the hum of a lover waking up beside you.
There’s a song inside my heart,
I forgot the words before I was even born,
But I remember them every day and every night.
It’s like, on any particular day, the part of me that hurts has always hurt that way. It feels like an old pain, like my arm or my leg has always hurt. It’s a fact of life. It isn’t new, it isn’t surprising. I don’t cry anymore. I can laugh at it. I hurt- that’s something that’s a fact. I hurt, and I will always hurt. It isn’t scary. The falling is scary. The seizures are scary. The pain isn’t scary anymore, because it’s an old pain- even if it’s not.
Several years ago, I broke my arm. It was awful, and I don’t think I’ve hurt like that before or since, because it was so scary. I was a kid, and I didn’t know if I’d even get my arm back the way it was ever again. So that pain was terrible and frightening and I cried, when I was alone with it. Sometimes, my elbow still hurts the way it hurt did, and I can shrug it off, because it’s just like this. This doesn’t make me cry, because it’s all in my nerves and it isn’t progressive. It won’t get worse, it’ll just be like this forever.
And I can deal with that. It isn’t fair, and I didn’t ask for this, and I don’t deserve this, but I can fight it.
Because this isn’t broken bones, or torn tendons, or depression. This is so much better than the depression, for me at least. I have no control over it, and I can’t change it or cure it, but that’s alright.
And even if I do cry, it’s okay. It’s okay to cry. That isn’t losing to it, and that isn’t being weak. It’s just letting go for a minute, and that’s alright.
Them = Us
I’m not like other girls,
That would be terrible.
They’re catty, and bitchy,
And stupid, of course,
Other girls are sluts,
But I’m not like them.
I’m glad I’m not like other girls,
I might totally kill myself,
But I’m not like them.
I’m me, and I’m special.
You still don’t love me, though.
I’d never be a slut like them,
Unless you wanted me to.
I don’t drink,
Unless you’re offering.
I’m saving myself for marriage,
But I know you really love me,
And you won’t run away afterwards.
Other girls just give it away,
But not me, I’m special.
Other girls do crazy things for attention,
I really enjoy drinking!
Even though I’m scared.
I wasn’t like other girls,
But they were just like me,
We’re all the same,
All repeating the same chorus,
Over and over.
We aren’t like other girls.
Broken But Whole
She is a broken thing.
They try to put her back,
To what they imagined she was,
But the pieces do not fit.
Some of them crumble,
While some of them are new,
And were never there before,
They do not fit.
She is a broken thing.
Her mother does not understand,
Grandmother is angry, and thinks that,
She is being selfish,
By being a broken thing.
There are cracks,
They will never go away.
She doesn’t mind,
Because she is a broken thing,
She doesn’t understand.
I am a broken thing, mother.
You do not need to fix me.
I cannot be fixed.
I am a broken thing,
But that doesn’t have to be bad.
The Beautiful Reprieve of Forgetting
I just really, really have a lot of emotion for the idea of Minsk as a whole, and so I came out with this drabble. It’s not exactly finished, but I’m not sure where to go with it. I have like fifteen pages open on the history of Minsk, but there are some bits I just cannot understand, so if someone wanted to help me with my history, or point out something I didn’t do right, or anything like that, I am more than happy to let them- please do, in fact! I want this to be as good, and accurate, and right as possible, without offending anyone whatsoever. That’s not my intention at all.
There were Cities she’d never forgive, and things she would never quit being bitter about.
She was tall and had the build of a working woman, a woman who’d worked and built and carried all her life. She was broad, and strong, with old scars running down her arms and her back, and her face. Minsk was nearly blind in one eye, from a burn that had never healed.
The title that she was given as a Hero City did nothing to ease the grief of her lost children. Over four hundred thousand of her people were dead- murdered and burned, and dragged away by the very Soviet police that should have protected them. Her buildings were torn down, her streets were wet with blood, both old and fresh and she grieved. Someday, this day would be celebrated, but not now. Not yet. Her people were liberated, but at such a terrible cost.
Later, although not so long to her, there came Communism, in all its red finery. They said it would solve everything, it would fix every problem. It did not. She worked so many jobs, at factories and dressmakers and all sorts of places- so many that she didn’t know the name of them all. It seemed all she did was work.
And yet, she was happy. It was a tentative happiness, the kind that came from being too tired to be sad, and tired of sadness anyway, but there it was. She worked, and she was proud of working. She smiled, and was proud of smiling, after all that had been and might be, and was yet to become even a thought of being.
1. the euphoria you experience when you are first falling in love.
2. in love, enamoured.
Grandfather in place of father,
It’s never bothered me.
Rough hands, soft voice,
Sad old eyes have a hint of blur,
The alcohol never really left you,
And age is creeping up.
Short, like me and round,
You don’t mind it.
There isn’t much laughing anymore,
Your humor is much more wry,
You are the only father I’ve ever known,
Subject 53: Emil Cabello. Spanish subject. Sent to counselor for preliminary interviews. Ten appointments scheduled for analysis of character, and suggested study programs. Subject is illiterate, so paperwork must be read to him. Fluent in English, Spanish, and German.
Warnings: Subject is prone to violence. Be cautious with physical contact.
Interview 1. Tape 1, Side A.
Note: The counselor’s voice has been edited out, for the benefit of brevity. Each interview is a week apart.
So, what was it you wanted to know again? Why I’m here, right? Alright, see, here’s the thing. I’m a streetrat, from a poor town, who got mixed up in a Spanish gang. And, since I’m not all Spaniard, I was their little bitch. They roughed me up a little, and a little too often. It wasn’t all that bad, seriously. Dude- don’t look at me like that, I’m fuckin’ fine.
-pause in speaking-
Why the fuck are you hugging me- is that a rabbit? Tch. Fag.
Right, so anyway, after that, my mom didn’t want me, right? Makes sense. Nobody wants a gang brat.
So I’m here. Shipped out with the rest of the rejects to this ass end of nowhere.
….what do you mean ‘why are really here’? What the holy fuck is that supposed to mean?
Hey, I’ve got friends!
-quiet murmuring from the other voice-
Who? Well…I guess Ahren and the rest of the Golden bunch. Y’know, Levi and Leo and the lot. Those guys are the best. And Blaike, he’s pretty cool.
Yeah, I’m a thief, you caught me. Everything going missing, I’ve stolen. Including a few cherries, hehe.
Interview 2. Tape 1, Side B.
So, there’s this guy here, and he really creeps me out. Like, seriously fucking creeps me out. I can’t tell if he’s just shy, or plotting all our deaths. It’s that kid, Aaron. The twitchy as fuck one.
…Tell me you did not just suggest I make friends with the twitchy bastard.
Uh-uh. No. Not happening. He looks like if I touch him, he’s gonna start crying like he’s been raped. Jesus fuck.
-after another long pause, an irritated sigh is heard-
Fine. God. I’ll go make friends- but I’m doing it my way.
Interview 3. Tape 2, Side A.
Note: The subject is noted to be battered, and slightly anxious.
So I made friends with the kid, I think. He cried at me a bit, for hugging him. And then I got in a fight with this other kid who wanted to be friends with him and we scuffled. Fuckin’ Hungarian bastard. Kicked me in the ribs.
He’s a nice kid, though, Aaron. Not as creepy as I thought. Something not quite right about him. Can’t figure out what. Hey, can I ask a question? Asking anyway. His uncle, is he…well, y’know. Like that with the kiddo? Just asking, cus it ain’t cool for anyone to go through that.
…and, hey, y’know, maybe I got a little crush or somethin’. He’s just so damned cute, y’know? It’s not like I really like him or anything- I just want in his pants. That’s all it is. ‘Course, he’s made it clear he’s an Ace, so that ain’t gonna happen. Fuckin’ hell.
Interview 4. Tape 2, Side B.
Hey, Io, you ever noticed how fuckin’ pretty Aaron’s eyes are? I mean, he’s in here all the time- right? So you must’ve seen ‘em. They’re like, grey, except not. Kind of a silvery blue. Yeah, that’s it. God, and that hair…ugh. This sucks, dude, seriously. I don’t even know what the fuck is wrong with me. All I know is he was telling me what happened with his uncle, kinda, and then I was an Emil puddle. This is not even cool. Fucking hell.
…Y’know, this bunny of yours is pretty cute. Ain’t ya, Peppermint?
So, yeah, he’s fucking adorable. I still want to just fuck him into his bed. And the floor. And the shower. And hold him afterwards, like a cheesy couple thing. I heard this song the other day, ‘Would you go with me’, and it makes me think of him. Fuckin’ hell. Cus there’s this one line, ‘If I set you free, would you go with me’ and I can’t help think that maybe he’d go out with me if I got him away from Richard.
…you’re giving me that look like you want to hug me again. Don’t you even fucking dare, Ioly- GOD DAMN IT, WHY.
Interview 5. Tape 3, Side A.
Note: Subject appears to be extremely anxious and guilty.
So, I like, found out what was going on, right? And I can’t just let Richard get away with that shit. It’s not fucking cool. So, I’m sick. I mean really sick. The ‘I could die’ kind of sick. And I can pass it on. I’m real responsible about it normally, tell everyone I’m gonna sleep with, and always wear a condom and make sure they shower afterwards, and all that shit. Cus, see, I’m Positive. And I know that’s some heavy shit to just drop, but I figure you know anyway. Whatever. So I go to Richard, and I seduce him. Not hard, since he likes the young ones, and I don’t wear a condom.
Io, I think I got him sick. I think I passed it on. And I’m freakin’ the fuck out right now, cus if I did, I may as well have signed Aaron’s death warrant myself. He won’t know what to do. I mighta just killed him, and I can’t say a damn thing about it, ‘cept to make sure he takes a shower afterwards, y’know? I can’t do this today. I can’t….I can’t be here. I gotta go.
Interview 6. Tape 3, Side B.
Note: Subject is observed to be weeping.
I told him. Not Aaron, but Richard. Busted in the room, in the middle of the bastard being all over him, and started shooting my mouth off. He fuckin’ shoved him. He shoved the poor kid, off the bed, into a wall, and it cracked his head real hard. There was blood everywhere, and Richard beat the hell out of me afterward, and he’s blind. He’s blind and it’s my fault, and what the fuck am I gonna do? Carried him to the infirmary, and all that, but he’ll never forgive me. I think I’m gonna drop out. I don’t wanna be around when he wakes up and figures out what happened.
I can’t. I just can’t look at him, and know it’s my fault and know he can’t even glare at me. I just can’t. I’m in love with him, and I know it. And everybody else knows it, and they pity us. They fuckin’ pity us. I can see it, all over their faces. Cus I’m a horny little mongrel, and he’s too fucked up to even be touched by anyone else, let alone have sex. We’re just this pair of kids nobody else wants, except that he’s fuckin’ beautiful and he can’t see it. God, he has eyes like wet silver. Like rain. He is beautiful, and what am I, but a little street rat. I don’t even deserve him.
-rustling sound, as Emil moves around on the couch-
Doc, this sucks. No one ever mentions that. Nobody ever tells you about how much it fucking sucks to be completely in love with someone, to the point of doing anything you can for them, just for a tiny little smile, and knowing they don’t even see anything about themselves worth wanting. Makes you want to go irritate Ahren or some shit, get him to beat the hell out of you.
This is stupid. I’m not coming back to these sessions anymore. I don’t need any fucking ‘record of my progress and emotions’ or whatever the hell this is.
Interview 7. Tape 4, Side A.
Note: This interview was not forthcoming with useful information. Subject avoided any subject pertaining to the previous week’s emotional exhibition.
So, apparently, if I don’t come to these meetings, I’ll lose your support for my continued presence here. The goddamn headmistress came down to tell me that herself. Fucking bitch. Meg is a mega-bitch, y’know that, right? And her boyfriend isn’t much better. Damn, that guy is handsier than me. Whatever. Doesn’t matter.
So, anyway, I got in a paint fight with Blaike today. Yup. Ended up with green hair. Made me look like a damn gourd. Tch.
Oh, and if Pervy-Kilt is missing any books, I didn’t do it. Fuckin’ swear. What do I need books for? I can’t even read. Uh, uh, don’t look at me like that. I see that look on your face. I been goin’ to my tutorin’. It just ain’t going nowhere, that’s all.
Interview 8. Tape 4, Side B.
I asked him out. I think I got a yes out of him. He seemed more mortified than anything, to me. I should be happy that he’s considering it, but….I dunno. I can’t help feeling like I should be setting him up with Lukas, or-God forbid-one of the other, bigger boys. You, maybe. Or that one Russian kid, Juliette. After what he went through, he deserves more than just a thief. A painting thief, but a thief.
-there is a pause of too-uncomfortable silence for a long moment, before Emil changes topics-
I noticed something about him today. He mumbles to himself. It isn’t a lot, just little things. A list, it seems like. ‘William’s gone. I’m not just his nephew. Not everyone is out to hurt me.’ Things like that. And I was wondering, maybe, you could tell me who William is? It’s not really my business, but I feel like I could help him.
Note: This interview was skipped. Tape 5, Side A is Interview 10, as noted by the labeling. The counselor regrets that he could not make the appointment, as he was called away to testify against a fellow faculty member. It may also be relevant to note that the subject has stolen the previously used tape recorder, and another had to be purchased. Subject appears to find this incredibly humorous. Subject is doing poorly, health-wise, and counselor feels it would benefit him greatly to remain on bed rest for the next two weeks. Appointments will continue once a week, on Friday, after that, as they have before.
Interview 10. Tape 5, Side A.
Dude, it has seriously been for-fucking-ever since I’ve seen you last. What the fuck is up? I mean, hell, I had a cold, but that doesn’t mean I have to be confined to my bed, away from Aaron for two weeks. Not cool. Not cool at all. Can’t go and separate me from my boyfriend that way. Fucker.
-another rustling sound heard-
Is there someone in your bedroom, dude? Cus I swear to God, I just saw someone-….oh. My. God. That’s Sam. You’re fucking Sam? Duuuude. And I thought I had masochistic taste. Jesus fucking Christ, man. That’s asking to get your ass beat by his crip brother.
-mocking laughter from the subject-
Note: This interview was ended early, as a scuffle ensued between subject and counselor’s guest.
End Interviews. Counselor’s last thoughts on the subject are as follows:
Histrionic in temperament, and a tendency to be very codependant. Seems very bitter about his illness, and grows unreasonably angry at the suggestion that he spends too much time with his lover. Mild kleptomania. Low moral standards.
Behavior suggests a history in prostitution and heavy drug use. Not a victim of abuse, but high protective instinct towards those who are.
Subject is known to have a high aptitude in artistic venues.
Counselor may pursue further appointments, if necessary.
Kings of War and Queens in Truth
He loved her too much to subject her to all of him. Roy was too much for Riza. Too broken, too angry. He’d only hurt her. That was why she remained his Queen, and his love stayed unspoken. Between them, no words were needed. He would succeed in his mission to overthrow the Fuhrer and set up a better government, not just for the country, but for her. She deserved to know that all her sacrifices were not in vain. For Riza, Roy would be anything she needed sans a lover. Even a king.
None of it was for Martel, or maybe it was. Somewhere deep down inside, Greed knew what it was he really wanted and he still couldn’t have it. That fact infuriated, invigorated and hurt him all at the same time. Surrounded by minions, and yet so alone, Greed sometimes felt like a statue. They admired him, feared him, and some even loved him, but he couldn’t bring himself to feel anything for them. Not even for his little serpentine queen. So, perhaps, it was all for her in the end, that she might see he was only a monster trying to be a king.
Havoc was dead, and it was his fault. Now Riza would die, too, all because of him. All of it was because Roy couldn’t keep out of things he had no business in. His mind swung around to Maes. “Oh god. I never meant for this.” He hadn’t wanted them to die, not any of them. Roy fought to stay conscious, and stood shakily. Slowly and painfully, he made his way to where Riza should be. At first he couldn’t see her, and then everything became worse. Tears were still drying on her cheeks, and her gun had fallen from her hand. Lust had really done a number on her- had he not known her so well, for so long, he might not have recognized the mangled corpse. Roy knelt beside Riza and cradled her body, closing his eyes. He died holding her that way, leaned against a wall. If he’d been a particularly religious person, he might have thought he heard a funeral bell pealing somewhere. He might also have felt as though someone walked across his grave. He felt none of these things, and saw no light, only a comforting blackness.
Greed might have laughed, if he’d been together enough to think about anything but the agony in his body. In all his long, long life, he’d never feared death, until now. He hadn’t even known his brother existed till this day. Father could never get over his abandonment, and he should have known that dear old dad would send an assassin eventually. In his pride, Greed had thought he’d been perfectly protected, and now look what had happened. His stone was broken, out of energy and could not save him. The only people he’d ever come close to caring about were dead, slaughtered wholesale. No, scratch that, he had cared for them. They weren’t just his underlings. Especially not Martel. For just a moment before he died, he was almost able to say what he had not ever voiced. The chimera were his…
The king was dead. Long live the king.
In some ways, Riza would always know she was Roy’s queen, and that it was why they would never be together. A king never sacrificed his queen by revealing her purpose. That’s why it never bothered her when he would flirt and tryst with the multitude of women he did- they meant nothing to him, not when it really mattered. At the end of it all, when judgement was called down on him, it would be her standing beside him. Riza Hawkeye would be with him until the very end and none of his women could say that. In truth, if not in fact, they were married. He was her king, her commander, and her husband.Roy would always be Riza’s everything.
Martel would always be Greed’s loyal second, and she could see the same in the other blonde woman. So different, and so very alike, they were the queen pieces of their respective superiors’ chessboards. It still made her jealous and angry to see the homunculus dally with other men and women, but that was just who he was. He acted out of his sin, and a desire to be as human as they were, a desire that contrasted sharply with his plans for domination and immortality. She couldn’t fight it, though. When you lived with Greed, you got used to such things. Besides, he was the Boss. He’d always be the Boss, no matter what lay unspoken between them.
Tears had not graced Hawkeye’s face in years, but today she wept openly. All that they had sacrificed, only to see Roy fall to some heartless homunculus. It was too much for her. She screamed out her rage and grief at the creature that called itself Lust, the same creature that had seduced and murdered Havoc. All of her pain, her guilt at her unfinished work showed on her face. When her gun was empty and her tears were done, Riza fell to Lust. Perhaps it was the homunculus that killed her, but more likely it was the weight of her broken promise. “I have someone to care for,” she whispered, her words breaking the silence. The cloying scent of blood and death hung heavy in the air above her. In the end, Roy’s queen failed him.
Martel did not weep. She did not cry, and she did not scream, only lay in the puddle of blood that wasn’t entirely hers and broke. Dorchette was dead, and so was Roa, -they lay only a few feet away from her- but that wasn’t the worst of it. Greed was gone, stolen from those who loved him. She’d still been conscious when that wretched bastard murdered him in front of them. There was no kindness from the Fuhrer’s government for them, not even in death, she realized. Even after they’d been tortured, set up, and experimented on, there was yet more pain in store for them. She resigned herself to her fate. It was her own fault, of course. She had not done what she was employed to do: protect Greed. He’d warned her that his family would come for him, and she had not listened out of pride. There had just been so many times it had seemed like he was dead for good and come back for her to believe he could really die. Now he was dead, and she lay dying beside him. For the first time in her life, Martel gave up. As her last breath was fading away, she muttered, “Long live the king.”