As I Previously Stated Somewhere On This Site, I Would 100% Go Full-on Joaquin Phoenix's Joker If The

As I previously stated somewhere on this site, I would 100% go full-on Joaquin Phoenix's Joker if the love of my life called me as boring as a beige pillow

Overanalyzing my OCs' relationship at 2AM just because I can

I know no one you'll read this but I wanted so bad to make a character analysis of the characters of my latest book series, so I'll just do it and leave it here for anyone who might be interested,

So, one of the things I love about Khaos and Amalie's dynamics (and something that is vital to understand about their relationship) is that they don't fall in love with each other until the third book because the romance is not what their stories are about.

Of course, they feel attracted to each other but they really, really don't like each other in the first two books. The thing about Khaos and Amalie's relationship in the first book (Prison of Darkness) is that they are learning to trust each other as people who can do the job they are assigned to in their mission - the one thing they do share and are obliged to in the story, the thing that brings them together.

The first book (for them) is about establishing Amalie's trust in Khaos' ability to lead and to actually respect those who are below him in this group's hierarchy, and about Khaos' ability to actually trust that Amalie will go through with her promises and stay by their side even when she has such a strong set of morals. Once they recognize that the other has the capacity to be and do what they need them to be or do, they realize they can trust each other to be a reliable part of the same team.

That's the point of the first book in regards to their relationship - to establish trust, not between romantic partners, but as part of the same team.

Then, by the first book, once Khaos is forced to confront the worst demons of his childhood, Amalie is forced to see the humanity of Khaos. And it's in this context the base of their romantic feelings will be set later on in the third book, but I digress: the point of the second book is that Khaos is not a good person and that's not supposed to be ignored by the readers - Khaos is not a good person and he isn't a good person by choice.

Amalie sees that, and she despises him for it, and she is right to do so because Khaos is aware of the pain and suffering his actions as well as his inaction put people through, and he still chooses it every time. And unlike some dark romances would make us believe, it's not actually sexy, healthy, or even healing to not give a damn because of trauma. It's actually the opposite of it.

Of course, Khaos has his reasons, he has deep-rooted trauma to overcome on the path to becoming a better person than he chooses to be but what Amalie is forced to see in the second book (Crown of Death) is that, deep down, he's not cruel or vindictive or insensitive for the sake of it. What she is forced to recognize and accept throughout the second book is that Khaos is very much human just like she is, and he has the same complexity she has.

It happens with Amalie's perception of other characters as well but especially when talking about Khaos, the second book forces her to see him in a new light so that the pot twist in the ending lands more heavily on her. The story of the second book will reveal to Amalie that even through his cruelty, Khaos is capable of not only caring but also capable of choosing better options, choosing to do better by himself and the people around him.

And for Khaos, the second book is about showing him that he can do better without losing himself like he fears will happen because of his trauma. It's about his understanding that change can happen and as such, forcing him to recognize that his perception of Amalie is jaded, is tainted by his trauma's lenses. For him, the development of his character gives Khaos the chance to look at Amalie as someone who can not only rival his intelligence but also push him in the direction he not only needs to be pushed but also wants to be pushed to, just by her personality alone.

It's about him understanding that Amalie was right, and being humbled by it, and accepting that he was wrong in his choices - albeit justified - and thus opening a path for him to change in the ways he needs to.

And that's the point where we reach the third book (Treason of Blood) and I absolutely love that Amalie and Khaos just start to sincerely love each other in the last book because it's only then they actually become the people they would fall in love with.

I could never have written Amalie falling in love with Khaos before because I could never fathom loving a person who thinks so little of my principles and morals, so little of my capacity to understand the world around me, like Khaos does for her. And for Khaos, I could never convincingly write someone falling in love with a person who thinks so little of me, of the person I am, who judges me even though she knows nothing of my struggles or my past or the things I've been through.

So the third book is about change, it's about becoming better versions of ourselves, and more than that: doing right by the rest of the world because of it. The third book is about forgiving bad deeds but demanding change for them, accepting traumas but also holding themselves and others accountable for their own choices (even when guided by these same traumas), it's about falling in love with a person because they're trying to do better (not for you but just because they realized they had a shitty attitude) and falling in love because of their capacity to forgive, to be kind and amorous even when we can't forgive ourselves.

I just love their dynamic so much, I wish more people knew about them.

Summary - find more chapters, read the synopsis, and trigger warnings here!

And I'll tell thee: Love to understand'em 'Cause only those who loved could hear Could listen and understand stars. — Milky Way, Olavo Bilac

Oliver smiled from his house's window when he saw his father walking through the street, satisfied because Anton had come back home safe and sound. Not that he was afraid of the war, but he was afraid of what people could do to a German immigrant in the middle of it.

Of course, Oliver understood England's fear, but it didn't make him any less worried about his father, not even a little bit. The war had started six days ago and, on that day, especially, their memories of Germany were particularly hard on Anton and himself, but his father couldn't get out of work early to spend time with his son, especially because his dad's boss, the Terrible Mister Kurtz, as Oliver used to call him, didn't allowed it.

In general, the day had been good, something really surprising. Oliver had gone to school and had some fun with the colleagues he had, even if all those memories were there, pinching him every moment of the day and if it was hard to breathe sometimes. That was the reason why the sight of his dad entering through the door was such a relief for Oliver: he didn't know if he could go through the day without Anton's help.

The moment he heard the noise of the key scratching the door, Oliver left his bed and climbed down the stairs to the hall. Anton had just put his keys on the table when the boy hit the first floor and, when his eyes met, they stared at each other, motionless.

His dad looked like he had aged a lot more than the three years that had passed since Liora, Oliver's mom, had been taken from their house by the SS. That day, November 9th, 1936, would be marked in their memories forever. Anton tried to hide since then, but Oliver knew his dad was exhausted to the bone since they fled Germany to England.

The old man's blonde hair was grey and his eyes had dark circles and wrinkles. Anton walked increasingly more shrunken, trying not to drawn attention to himself in the middle of English society, because everyone knew that dark times would come to each one of the beings who lived under European skies.

“Let's go,” said Anton with his strong German accent in English, without a greeting, but stretching his hand to him with a sorry glow in his light-green eyes. “I'm going to make some dinner. Did you excuse Mrs. Mason, didn't you?”

Oliver swallowed hard and nodded, letting his father guide him by his dad's hand on his back, realizing how shaken they were by the touch. Anton didn't speak while making toast with jam for them, because the old man had no idea how to cook. Sometimes, Oliver thought that was the biggest mistake: how could someone leave to other such a basic necessity as food making?

Any other day, he'd have annoyed his dad with that, but not that day. Neither of them knew how to act normal even if they tried, Oliver knew that for sure. They had tried nine months ago on his mom's birthday and four months ago, on Hadrian's birthday.

Because of that, neither of them spoke while eating, facing the plaid white and red tablecloth they used for picnics in the countryside when his dad had to travel for work. Oliver had such sweet memories with his father and was grateful to Anton for all of them. He was a wonderful dad and had always been, Oliver just hadn't been capable of noticing it before they'd lost his mom.

When the boy got up after finishing up, aware that his every move was monitored by his dad, Anton caught his attention with a calm and tired tone of voice. He had been using this voice after the German soldiers had taken Liora, much weaker than his usual baritone voice, the voice his mother used to love echoing through the house in endless songs.

“Oliver,” he said, “sit down again, I want to talk to you about something.”

Slowly, the boy sat again, feeling the muscles on his back stiffening with the tension while Anton ran his hand through his face with a sigh full of exhaustion. That made Oliver’s heart miss a beat, sore for his dad’s pain, and he wanted to get up and hug him more than anything, but something in his father’s expression warned him not to.

“What about, dad?” he asked with caution, getting more worried when Anton stared at him with a shinier look than before.

“Do you remember me and mister Kurtz work for a Scottish man named Elijah Wood, right?” asked Anton and Oliver just nodded, frowning with the suspicion that he knew what way this was going. Anton had already tried to talk to him about it, but he thought his father had given up after a whole hour of fighting about the matter. “Mister Wood allowed you to stay with them in Scotland during the war.”

For a moment, both of them stared at each other, their eyes identical except for what they showed. Oliver was deeply mad at his dad even considering the thought of him leaving him alone in the middle of a goddamn war when they were the enemy there.

Anton, on the other hand, had decided that his son was going even if he had to force him to enter that train, the strong necessity of keeping Oliver safe was his everyday motivation and he wouldn’t give up on it that easily.

“You can’t be serious,” said Oliver after he processed the information his father had just given him. “I told you I didn’t want to go!”

“It’s not about what you want, it’s about your safety, Oliver,” Anton countered without raising his voice, his tone still calm as a windless night. “We’re talking about a war and London will be one of the most affected by it.”

“I’m not going,” Oliver declared, frowning. “You’ll be here, dad, you’re my only family.”

“And I’m going to be forever,” Anton said with a bit of soothing. “But I need you to be safe, Oliver, you know I need you to be safe.”

“Don’t use mom and Hadrian against me,” the cutting in Oliver’s tone made the older one recoil in his chair, shrinking even more and the boy hated that, he hated his father thought he had to hide from him, because of him. “You know as much as me this family would stay together if it was up to her.”

“And look how things turned out, Oliver!” Anton exclaimed and, even with the desperation in his voice, all the boy could do was resent it, because he was really trying to use his mother to make him change his mind. “You’ll go and I’m not going to discuss it further. I… can’t allow you to stay here.”

“You’d preferred if I had been taken last year,” Oliver said without looking at his dad, it seemed like such a horrible discussion he couldn’t do much to hold his tears. “It’s the reason why you want to send me away, right? Because you don’t wanna remember what you’ve lost.”

“Oliver...” Anton whispered upon hearing him, but his voice failed and he said nothing more, mainly because Oliver got up, dragging the chair on the floor and making the screeching noise echo in the house’s silence, and he left the cramped kitchen, leaving him alone.

The boy didn’t think of anything before climbing the stairs and entering his room, feeling the anger pump blood into his veins and making him hot. He threw himself on the bed, looking up at the painted stars in the white ceiling while they blurred with the unshed tears, and then focused again when they ran through his skin to the roots of his blonde hair.

Those stars reminded him of his mother and, when they’d arrived in England, to see them was like a self-inflicted punishment to compensate for the guilt Oliver carried around in his heart, but now they were just a painful sweet memory.

Liora Krause was the most wonderful person to ever exist, Oliver thought. His mom was the face of Life, always cheerful, always willing to drag the family men to a dance in the middle of the night or throw a party in the tiniest apartment in the world to close friends of their family, always willing to help old ladies cross the street and shelter and give food to shelterless boys even if one of them ended up robbing her every time.

She had a fiery spirit and carried words in her hands like her shield and sword, ready to defend the one she loved and be firm with those who needed firm words. It may have been because of that, and her harsh critique of Hitler and his hateful government, that she was marked as one of the Jewish women to be taken that night. It may have been just random. Oliver didn’t know and probably wouldn’t come a day when he’d find out.

His brother, Hadrian, was just six-year-old when he was killed by nazi soldiers. Oliver had seen it all. He saw it when the soldier pointed the gun at his brother’s head and shot, the blood and remaining brain matter spattering through the small apartment which had been his family’s, on the living room his parents used to dance and sing and play with him and Hadrian. Even after a year, Oliver could still hear in the silence the buzz the gun’s noise had caused in his ears.

Oliver heard when his father’s shuffled steps got closer and stopped by his room’s door. Hesitated. Anton carried on to his own room, closing the door quietly, so quietly Oliver barely heard it.

The things Oliver had said to his dad weren’t even close to the truth, he knew that. And knew he had broken Anton with his false accusation, but he was so mad the word just slipped out of his tongue, without any coherent thought. He knew that wasn’t a good excuse, that when he was angry, the best thing to do was take time, calm down, and think about it when he could, but the thought of leaving his father alone scared him more than anything.

After what happened that night, Oliver’s dad didn’t rest until he got his best friend, who was a soldier, to help them flee to English territory. Once they got to England, Anton was just a shadow of the man he was before, not even close to being the father Oliver remembered or needed.

Those first months were so hard sometimes that he didn’t even want to get up, knowing the day would find countless ways of making him melt down with the memory of his mom. Oliver could hardly breath in those times and now, they were a blur in his mind, so far away the seemed to have happened years ago, but still hurt like hours ago.

Oliver couldn’t sleep.

He couldn’t sleep, not yet, not when he knew he had hurt his dad, not when he knew the nightmares would torment him during sleep, hopeless and terrifying. When the clock struck eleven PM, he rolled over, took the book from his nightstand, and opened it to his most beloved page.

The paper was worn and yellowish, and curved slightly in the corners, but Oliver passed his fingers through the written words below one his mom’s favorite poems in life. Low-toned, he read to silence the buzz in his left ear:

“Well (you say) hear stars! Right Lost thy mind!” And I tell you, however, That, to listen’em, many times I wake up And open my windows, pale and baffled…

And we talk the whole night The Milky Way, as a pale openness, shines. And, coming the sun, wistful and morose, I still search for them in the desert sky.

You say now: “My mad friend! What do you talk about? What sense Can their words have, when with you?”

And I tell thee: “Love to understand’em! ‘Cause only those who love can hear Capable of listening and understanding the stars.

Oliver, then, read what was written below Olavo Bilac's poem with attention and felt his heart clenching as he saw the familiar handwriting:

I hear the stars because I love an easy-laughing boy and the smiling young man with a silver tongue to whom I gave birth and because I love the man who makes all the stars shine in his eyes.

He knew Anton was crying in his room and knew he should go to him and apologize for what he had said, especially after re-reading his mother’s words. He knew he’d been wrong, knew that Liora’s first priority in this situation would be ensuring that her kids and husband were safe. And he knew his dad couldn’t bear to lose him, knew he was the only thread of hope Anton had in his life because he was Oliver’s as well.

Dragging himself out of bed and through the corridor, Oliver didn’t knock before entering, finding his dad crying as he clutched to a portrait of Liora and Hadrian. In the picture, they were on a family trip to the countryside of Germany. It had been in the summer so they didn’t need to worry too much about coats and gloves. They were all smiling, having fun in the grass and, if he closed his eyes, Oliver could still hear the sound of his brother’s laughter and his mother’s arms around him.

At that moment, however, the broken, sad image of his dad crying over it broke his heart and ended up making Oliver realize the severity of his words and the effect they had had on Anton, as well as the fact he’d have to deal with it.

Oliver quickly closed the space between him and Anton, gently taking the portrait off his hands and sitting beside his dad on the bed before he could say anything. Anton didn’t look at him as he said, his voice hoarse from the crying:

“I’ve never, not in a single moment, wished you to have the same fate as your mom and brother, Oliver.”

“I know,” said the boy with a painful lump in his throat, stopping him from speaking anything he needed to. “I know you didn’t. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I said that. I’m... sorry.”

“I just want you to be safe,” murmured his father and Oliver couldn’t hold the tears back any longer.

He also started crying and hugged his dad with all his strength, as if he was never letting him go. Oliver was so completely terrified he wouldn’t mind sharing a bed with his dad just so that Anton could tuck him in like he did when Oliver was a kid — even if it wasn’t the same because of his age.

“I’m afraid, Dad,” said Oliver in a desperate whisper, “I don’t… I don’t believe anything I said to you in the kitchen, I’m just terrified of losing you too.”

Anton stayed quiet and didn’t promise anything. They knew some promises were Worth nothing in the face of war, knew Anton didn’t have a say whether he died or not in it. Instead, his dad said: “You’re a Krause, you’re Liora’s son. You carry part of her fire inside of you, Oliver, I could see that every day of my life. You’ll do it because if anyone could, it was your mom. And you are just like her”. Those words ensnared Oliver’s heart and consoled him enough that the perspective of going to the property of his dad’s boss didn’t seem so unbearable. When he nodded, consenting to the trip, Anton just said: “Let’s go down to the kitchen, I’ll make you come hot cocoa.”

Go to Chapter 3

To Decadent Poets - Chapter 3

Summary - find more chapters, read the synopsis, and trigger warnings here!

“Inside the night that covers me Black as the pit, from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be For my unconquerable soul.” — William E. Henley, Invictus

Christian didn’t want to talk but it seemed no one in this house knew how to understand the concepts of privacy and personal space. Maybe that was the reason why his father was almost knocking the door of his room down, demanding he open it, his voice grave and powerful.

And he would. Sometime after getting out of the shower and dressing up.

But he knew his mom would end up having to endure it if he didn’t open it soon, so Chris hurried up to change and opened up the damn door, facing Maxwell with stony eyes.

“What do you want?” he asked, hissing in anger while his father stared at him with a furious expression, the deep brown eyes they shared shining bright with his bad humor. Chris couldn’t care less about all of his drama.

“Why are you not having dinner?” asked Maxwell, clenching his teeth and Chris looked at him, incredulous.

“Oh... because I’m not hungry?” he asked in a sarcastic tone that made his father frown deeply, wrinkles appearing all across his forehead. It made him look old.

“You’re leaving tomorrow and you won’t even have dinner with your family?”

The question was loaded with accusations and it made Christian feel rage downing in his veins like lava flowing from a volcano. He passed through the door’s threshold, closing the door behind him to stand on the dark corridor of his house as Maxwell watched him.

“I already spent the day with my family,” Christian said, using the same tone Maxwell had, wishing more than ever that he could hurt him, wishing his father cared as much as Christ tried not to. “Mom and Nana had me the whole day, I don’t need to worry about me being an insensitive prat like you are.”

“Be careful of how you speak to me,” Maxwell stuck his finger in Chris’ face with a severe expression that would never intimidate him. “I’m your father”

Those words made everything inside Christian freeze. He looked Maxwell in the eyes, feeling nothing more than cold and ice cascading down his veins like a snowstorm. He had no will to get angry at that because as Much as it was true, it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter at all.

“A father is one of the things you never were to me,” was all Chris said before leaving, going downstairs silently, not wanting to be noticed by anyone.

Miraculously, Maxwell didn’t follow him to continue their argument, and at least that made Chris relax as he walked slowly to the living room, where he knew he’d find what he needed to push away the knot in his throat and the tightness in his chest from what would happen tomorrow and in the nearest future.

Chris couldn't help but ask his mother during breakfast that day who was his godfather whose property he’d be staying indefinitely and Jeane was helpful in giving him all the information she could remember about his godfather, Elijah, the owner of Taigh Hill, and Elliot Wood, his younger brother. As it was, they both seemed happy to accept him just like two other boys his age, children of his staff who had solicited the favor.

Chris couldn’t deny he was curious to know more about the other boys but he also couldn’t push away the feeling he was abandoning his mom, which made him reluctant to think about such matters and get even a bit excited with the prospect.

Chris sighed as he looked at the shelves beside the fireplace, the countless books bound by leather whispering their stories, dropping their honey to those who were thirsty for them. Filled with life and too attractive for Chris not to let his fingers dance over their spines, reading the familiar titles, books his hand had passed through thousands of times, that made him feel like he wasn’t so alone. He knew it was cliche to say that but books had saved him from so Much unnecessary suffering.

They had saved him.

Finally, his fingers stopped at the book he was looking for and he pulled it from the shelf, leafing through the pages until he found the one he’d already read thousands of other times, running his finger over the ink and the letters, murmuring the words he knew by heart:

         Out of the Night that covers me          Black as the pit, from pole to pole,          I thank whatever gods may be          For my unconquerable soul.          [...]          It matters not how strait the gate          How charged with punishments the scroll          I am the master of my fate          I am the captain of my soul.

Chris looked at those words of blurred ink, internalizing them with an involuntary shiver. They were so powerful he could almost feel them physically, caressing his cheeks, warming his heart, loosening the knot in his throat as he knew they would do.

“Chris, is everything okay?” the sweet voice of his mom entered his ears, taking him from the world of the words with a sudden push, making him raise his eyes to her, blinking away his surprise at seeing her there with Nana, both of them knitting.

Jeane seemed better with the afternoon while Nana still had that serious, sour expression on her face, no doubt remembering the Great War time when she lost her husband. He forced himself to smile at his mom, walking towards them calmly, not allowing himself to hesitate.

“Yeah, everything’s fine,” he answered while sitting on the armchair beside hers and watching the two most important women in his life. Chris waited for a while until he took a deep breath to gather the courage to ask Jeane: “You’re really not going?”

He didn’t know what he looked like then but Chris could hear the tremble in his voice, the vulnerability in it. And maybe Jeane had seen something in her child’s eyes because he put aside her knitting needles and turned completely to him, her baby blue eyes shining with all the worry she was fighting to hide from him.

When her fingers touched Chris’ face, he felt the same as when he’d read the poem. It was like the words were penetrating his soul as if his mother’s touch was something sacred and revered. He let his head roll down, closing his eyes to enjoy the caress. When Jeane spoke, her voice was melodious, a murmur full of emotion:

“Believe me, cariad, I wish I could go with you or that I had a way to keep you close to me but I can’t...” Her voice was taken by emotion, making Chris open his eyes to look at his mom’s baby blues. “I can’t abandon your dad because this will be Hell for him and it’s my duty as his wife and life partner to stay by his side. I couldn’t bear, though, if you were in danger.”

“While you’re free to choose the risk,” Chris shot back resignedly, leaving the armchair to sit on the wooden floor, by his mother’s leg as he embraced them like he did when he was a child and felt sad his dad wasn’t present to some special date or event.

He let his head rest on her lap and Jeane didn’t hesitate to run her fingers through his hair soothingly.

“We’re all free to do so, mi hijo,” said Nana with her Spanish accent getting thicker because of the emotion she was trying so hard to hide. “But you know your parents would never know peace if you stayed. Or even me, to be honest. War is hard and it takes a lot of people, but more importantly, it takes a lot from people. The young ones especially.

“I’m realizing that,” was all Chris said in a murmur, his eyes closed as his mom kept running her fingers through his hair.

He didn’t leave when Maxwell entered, although it wasn’t the same relaxed feeling he felt as he talked to both women before, but Chris tried to pretend he didn’t exist as his father did the same. Chris found out pretty quickly it wasn’t so relieving as he thought it would be.

——— ◘ ———

On the following morning, Chris and his family arrived early at the train station, which was already filled with people coming and going from their jobs, all of them carrying tired expressions but with arrogant, optimistic feelings on their straightened backs. He could hear his father’s assistant commenting that they already had won the war and that the Germans wouldn’t have a chance. Chris almost laughed at the poor fool.

As a diligent reader, Chris had begun to understand the world they lived in too early and he had always cared about the news, especially When it was about external affairs. He knew well that England was broke, as were many countries because of the Wall Street Crash of 1929 and the Great War at the beginning of the century; he knew it’d be a difficult war that would drag on for years before it was over.

Chris also knew about what Hitler had been doing to the Jews in Germany and to think of that kind of cruelty gave him shivers even if he tried not to think about it, as his mother had requested some time ago. It was hard to have hope when one knew everything there was to know around the world and something they quite needed was hope.

Chris took a deep breath, trying to ignore the push and shove of people around him as he tried to also protect Jeane from it. They were in front of the train, impatient because they knew they had no time left. Maxwell seemed as cold and distant as always, and he didn’t even look at his son or Jeane as they said their goodbyes, preferring to speak to his assistant instead.

When the final moment arrived, mother and son looked at each other with pain filling their eyes. Chris didn’t even try to resist the impulse of pulling his mom in to hug her with all the strength he had, holding on to her as if she was all that he had. For a long time, it had been true.

Jeane hugged him back, always armed with her infinite softness and didn’t let go of him until the train whistled, warning the passengers to get in soon. As they let go, Chris touched their foreheads together for a couple of seconds, his eyes still closed. Then he let go of her, looking at Jeane, then at Maxwell.

They exchanged an uncomfortable look, neither of them knowing what to do. At last, Chris turned with his back straightened. As he walked away from his parents, he had this latent sensation that he was losing a part of himself and the shadow of his dad’s goodbyes was tormenting him. It was like the phantoms of Maxwell’s arms were around him as he walked, pushing him back to them so that their place was finally occupied. The words he could’ve said also brushed his brain, circling his thoughts he couldn’t get in order.

Chris knew if he’d stayed even one second more in Maxwell’s company, he’d end up saying something he would regret and they’d end up fighting just like they had done yesterday and the day before. And the weeks prior. And the months.

And all those years since Chris had grown tired of waiting for him at his birthday parties. He was thirteen when he cried for the last time because of his father’s absence and he remembered that night very well. It was the night of the accident. The night he’d lost part of the movement on his hand and what made it impossible for him to join the Army.

A sigh escaped his lungs before he could suppress it and Chris ignored the bad look of the old lady in front of him because of it. It wasn’t like he cared what she thought of him — the woman meant nothing to him anyway.

While passing through the cabins, Chris saw some interesting people and others that seemed as boring as attending a trigonometry class. He kept himself far away from the latter until he found an almost empty cabin: the only passenger was alone in it. The blond boy seemed unhappy and uncomfortable as he stared at the window, lost in his thoughts.

“Excuse me,” Chris said, catching the boy’s attention. “Is there someone seated here?”

“No,” said the boy in response, clearly apprehensive and the reason was obvious: Christian could easily identify the German accent.

This is the reason, he thought as he stared at the boy for a couple of seconds, why the cabin was empty. The boy was German. In the minds of ridiculous people, he might have been an enemy, although Christian could hardly conceive that logic.

“Right, I’m gonna sit with you then,” he said as he got over his moment of shameful hesitation. Christian pulled his suitcase along, putting it on the luggage rack above with some hardship, and sat in front of the boy, looking at him in open curiosity. “I’m Christian. You?

“Oliver,” the boy said, looking back at him with equal curiosity. “You know you can sit anywhere on the train, don’t you?

“Here seems like as good of a place as any,” Christian responded as he felt his stubbornness grow. He smiled, raising his hand to the boy in front of him. “It’s nice to meet you, Oliver.”

There was only a second of hesitation before Oliver smiled back and shook his hand.

“I can say the same, Christian.”

“Call me Chris.”

Go to Chapter 4

The thing about Armand to me is that he strips us of any preconceived or prejudiced notion of what it means to be a manipulator or a narcissist. Most people who'll emotionally abuse you in your life won't be this evil character who is out to get you, they'll be people who actually feel and experience the emotions and feelings they manipulate you with.

To them, the reality of those feelings is there, raw and feeling like an exposed wire. That's why it's so hard to get out of toxic and/or abusive relationships — because you learn the way your abuser see and experience the world and it makes sense to you, even if it doesn't on a rational level. You get it. You empathize with it. And it becomes so much harder to leave.

So yes, Armand is this abused, traumatized man who regrets things and is so desperate to be loved he'll do anything to have it. But he also will do anything to have it.

It's why forgiveness is earned, not deserved. If forgiveness was about deserving, the whole world would be made of saints.

Being an adult while watching iwtv means that you really can't pick a character to hate on because of nuance - and they're all equally horrible lovable hateable complex beings, can't even be mad at armand because he's not some evil mastermind manipulator, while at the same time he is, but he has the cadence of doing all of that while being a shivering, quivering scared chihuahua and that's what makes it worse because 'evil' is not some big tough infallible guy. It's a 17 year old guy with glowing orange eyes with enough anxieties in him to melt a planet and he's always plotting in such a loser yet scaryy way. You get me ?

Taigh Hill Dedications - Chapter 1

Summary - find more chapters, read the synopsis, and trigger warnings here!

“In a Midnight dreary while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door ‘Tis some visitor’ I muttered ‘tapping at my chamber door Only this and nothing more’” — The Raven, Edgar Allan Poe

People could go fuck themselves, this was Christian Anthony Evans's motto for life.

From experience, the boy could say for sure that seeking people's approval was always something bad. And Christian had learned that in the worst way possible: through the suffering of being rejected by his own father. When he was a kid, Chris couldn't understand why Maxwell wouldn't behave like his friend's parents did, carrying him on his shoulders and laughing at silly jokes that made no sense.

“Your father doesn't know how to express his own love,” his mother Jeanne would say patiently while putting him to bed when his bedtime would come. “He feels too intensely, Chris, and tries to hide these feelings to protect himself.”

At seven, Chris could understand his dad, or at least, he tried to understand the man he admired the most in the whole world. At sixteen, after countless ignored anniversaries and conversations, he was tired of his mother's excuses for his father's behavior and simply decided not to care. Well, not about everything: Chris cared about his mom and his friends, but not about his father.

Never about Maxwell.

When Jeanne had something to say about Maxwell, he didn't want to hear. Ignore just how he was ignored, Chris thought, and he couldn't be happier after he started to really do it, occupying his time with entertaining his mother, since she suffered just like — or even more than — him with his father's absence. He would have fun with his friends until late — at least after his fourteenth birthday — so he could avoid his dad all day but the five minutes through breakfast.

It was for this reason that when Maxwell came into the house that cold September afternoon, Chris and Jeanne knew there was something wrong. 

At first, the day seemed like any other day: Chris woke up at the same hour to go to school, had breakfast in an uncomfortable silence between his parents, gave his mother a goodbye kiss, and left without looking at his dad. When he came back home at lunchtime, the employees served the food while Nana, the old housekeeper who had raised Jeanne, knit in her rocking chair with an amused smile to Chris. Both of them, like his mother and him, had been very close since he was a kid and she loved to curl her finger through Chris's hair, commenting on how she had only seen his deep shade of red hair in books.

Nana was the one who had awakened the boy's taste for literature, although he rarely mentioned he liked books. For some reason, his friends seemed to think reading was boring and Chris didn't know what to think about it. He thought books were so interesting and truthful, so full of emotions and adventures, capable of curing all his pain with their magic infinite stories. He loved them immediately.

“You're quiet today,” said the old housekeeper with her sweet husky voice, her white hair as soft as cotton.

“I'm eating, Nana,” said Chris in response with a sly smile to the older one while he leaned back and looked at her. “Weren't you the one to teach me it's impolite to eat with my mouth open?”

“Sassy boy,” she provoked, laughing, and got Chris to smile, too. Then, he returned to his food. The old lady, though, seemed restless and said: “I think something is happening.”

“What is it, Nana?” the boy asked, frowning when he looked up from his plate to look at the older woman carefully while she rocked herself and looked at the window, lost in thoughts.

Nana, though, just shook her head and strongly clipped her tongue, smiling a little, but her smile didn't reach her eyes.

“Nothing, son, just an old lady's silly feelings” she finally answered and Chris snorted, sarcastically.

Like his step-grandma could be considered anything near silly.

Knowing what he meant with that snorting, Nana just smiled and got back to her knitting. After some seconds of silence, which was broken just by the soft noise of the needles hitting each other, Chris gave up and continued to eat, aware he wouldn't get an answer from the old lady.

The rest of the afternoon also passed without any problem: after lunch, he got himself clean and went down, where he knew his mother would spend her whole afternoon, waiting for visits that wouldn't come and for a husband who wouldn't come home until late at night. Jeanne was the sweetest person Chris had ever met in his life and it wasn't rare for Nana to say he should always give thanks for having a mother like her, because not many people in the world were like his mother. In fact, there were too many insufferable ignorant people and Chris could even include some of his own friends on the bill. And his parents too.

As always, Jeanne was sitting on the burgundy patterned sofa, staring at the window in front of her, so lost inside herself that Chris laughed at the sight of her open-mouthed and starry-eyed, something anyone would find weird and still, his mother was beautiful.

Silently, he allowed Jeanne to compose herself after this moment of distraction when his arrival woke her up, and walked to the right bookshelf, at the back of the living room. There was two of them, each one in one side of the marble fireplace. The wood floor ran the vertical, from the window to the bookshelves and the cream-colored wall, smooth like his mother, who had decorated the room.

“How about a bit of Jane Eyre today?” the boy offered when his mother turned to him, holding the black vellum and golden words book for her to see it.

“No, I think I want some poetry today” was Jeanne's answer.

Her voice sounded to Chris's ears like a feeling symphony, he almost closed his eyes to hear it better. There were always so many tones printed on Jeanne's voice that it was almost impossible to understand all of it.

However, instead of closing his eyes, Chris just smiled jokingly and raised an eyebrow:

“You guess or you sure?” he raised his hands in peace when his mother gave him that look.

In Chris's opinion, every mother had a look capable of stopping their children from doing whatever they were doing. It was a warning mixed with a caring firmness, hard to explain, but he could feel he should stop what was annoying her at that moment.

“Right, lemme sit next to you then.”

He traded the books on the bookshelf and sat beside his mom, without caring about the fact that she continued to look out the window as she always did, still waiting for someone who would never come. Chris just looked at his mother's red hair and looked down, to the pages of his book. Edgar Allan Poe wasn't Jeanne's style, but Chris was sure she wouldn't hear a word he said, so he just took a deep breath and started:

“Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary…”

And just like that they spend the afternoon, with his mom looking through the window and Chris's voice, soft and sounding for the reading, filling up the room with the word master's words. He read poems and some tales to his mother and, at the end of the third tale — Berenice — Chris closed the book and supported it on his bent leg, looking to Jeanne with hesitation before asking softly:

“Why don't you try to paint for a while?”

That woke Jeanne up and she looked at him, speechless for a moment with her son's suggestion, then smiled, but there was something painful in her smile, something that made Chris's heart contort inside him.

“Why don't you read to me a little more, cariad? Or maybe I could. Your throat must be dry already” was all that Jeanne said as an answer.

Chris didn't say anything for a couple of seconds, just staring at his mom and trying to convince her silently to talk to him, but it was in vain. Jeanne could be twenty times more stubborn than her son and just looked back at him, that soft expression making keeping the discussion up impossible for Chris. The boy looked away and handed the book to Jeanne in silence, giving up after a few minutes, but before the delicate hands could hold the book, the front door pounded open with a wicked noise and Maxwell appeared in the opening that led to the living room. 

Different from the days he used to arrive early, his hair was a mess and his cravat really twisted. And his eyes, the one thing father and son shared, shone like crazy, wide. That expression in his usually stoic father made his wife move, standing from the sofa and going quickly to him with her preoccupation printed in her expression. Chris also got up, hesitant and unsure what to do, not linking a bit the change in his routine.

“Max, what happened?” asked Jeanne to her husband with a frown. Chris looked at his father, who was staring at him without even blinking, and put his hands in his pockets, rocking back and forth while trying to ignore the uncomfortable aura of the room. “Max, talk to me.”

“I'll… let you talk,” said Chris when he heard the urgency in his mom's voice.

He didn't want to see Jeanne like that, especially because of his dad, but when Chris motioned to the exit, Maxwell moved abruptly, as if he had just woken up from a dream, and said with a husky voice:

“No, I need to talk with you two.”

Chris felt his body go stiff, resisting Maxwell's authoritarian tone, but the boy forced himself to just nod, clearly uncomfortable, and sat back on the sofa, putting the book in his hand on the table beside it while his father held Jeanne by the shoulders, firmly gentle, and put her in one of the armchairs.

For a moment, all of the three stood there in silence, looking at each other as if they were strangers. Chris was impatient but just vibrated his own leg while massaging his right hand, which was sore. Maxwell's eyes fixated on his son's hand, who recoiled quietly under his stare, ignoring his pity expression.

When he was younger, Chris had an accident and broke his hand, which had never been cured quite right. Maxwell didn't even go to the hospital, although his mother told him he was worried. Not enough to go to a hospital, apparently. The older man didn't seem satisfied when he knew Chris could never be a part of the military like him because of his hand.

“Talk to us, Max,” said Jeanne, taking her husband's hand, while he was standing.

The older man looked at them and sat down, his face frozen in an angst expression made Chris's heart beat faster inside his chest.

"Today by afternoon, less than an hour ago, the prime minister decided we're at war against Germany,” said Maxwell, and Chris almost snorted his disdain if it wasn't the preoccupation he was feeling. 

Different from his friends, he didn't share their arrogant beliefs of England's superiority. Actually, he didn't even understand it, but maybe that was the result of his mother being Scottish, and Scotland, in general, was still sore about England. None of them spoke for a long time, then Maxwell cleared his throat and said, looking at his son:

“You and your mother will go to your godfather's estate at the north of Scotland in a week. It's already decided, Elijah has given his permission…”

“Hold on” Chris got up, his hand in the air, making his father stop. “How come, out of nowhere, I'll go to Scotland? What about school? My education? What the hell am I going to do in the middle of Scotland?”

“You'll be secure!” Maxwell yelled, closing his eyes as if asking for patience Chris also had to control his own temper, but just because of his mom's eyes on him. “And don't worry, Elijah was an Oxford professor, he will be able to take care of your education.”

The last words were said in an impatient tone that made Chris want to continue the discussion, but he was tired of all of this. He knew his father wasn't sending him to Scotland to free him from some responsibility: Chris wouldn't be able to fight in a war even if he wanted to. So that meant England was expecting violent attacks on the capital. Air Strikes, probably, but attacks nonetheless.

“I'll help Chris with his bags,” said Jeanne calmly, exchanging looks with her son before turning to her husband and adding: “But I'm staying here.”

“No, you won't!” Maxwell had an immediate reaction, turning to his wife with an expression nearly panicked. 

Even feeling himself shivering and his body freezing with fear, Chris turned to his mom and stood silent, waiting to hear what she had to say.

“Max, I'm not gonna argue with you. I'm staying and that's final” said Jeanne with a silent firmness, her eyes shining strong to her husband, who swallowed and tried to protest, but the woman was already exposing arguments: “You're gonna need me here to take care of everything. Wars last year, you know that, and we won't leave this house for anyone to enter, we won't leave Nana here alone and in danger, I won't abuse my friend's hospitality, we won't leave our things to thieves and mostly, I won't leave you here alone for the time you'll be in England, even if it is just a little.”

The two adults looked at each other in a silent argument and Chris took advantage of that to climb up the stairs in his room's direction. His mom knew how to take care of herself and, unfortunately, there was nothing he could do or say to convince her to go with him. With Jeanne's stubbornness, there wasn't a soul capable of making her go to Scotland with him and Chris knew it better than anyone.

Sighing, confused, he passed his finger through his hair, feeling the curls straightening in his hand. 

He had a lot to think about.

Go to Chapter 2