*screams Incoherently Into The Space*

*screams incoherently into the space*

ok i'm sleepy and having emotions and i'm not gonna grab my copy to pull the specific quotes but. you remember that scene in htn where mercy and augustine are arguing. i think it's the "you have rendered yourself unlovable" one. and augustine tells her that he could kill her if he wanted. he could do it without a second thought, could stub her out like a cigarette beneath his shoe, and john would forgive him? john would understand? augustine is his favorite, and they all know it, to such a degree that mercymorn ceases to matter in the slightest?

cool great. now remember that time when john killed mercy? without a second thought? stubbed her out beneath his shoe? and then he turned to augustine and he said, you understand why i did that, right? you know that you're my favorite? you know i love you? she doesn't matter. we can put this behind us. augustine, can't you forgive me?

and augustine says no, john. no, i can't.

cause i'm thinking about that and i'm tearing my hair out. i'm eating the drywall. her death was too far. it was too far and augustine couldn't forgive him. he was right about john, probably more right than he realized, but he could never have brought himself to do it. it was unforgiveable.

Back at it again at Krispy Kreme…. Aka the locked tomb.

Cytherea-as-Dulcinea sketch! Eventually I want to design a couple looks for everyone from the first book to match the busts I drew, so this is a start.

I headcannon Dulcie as an ambulatory wheelchair user, but sometimes uses a walker— she likes wheels, and after years of similar cancers her home is extremely accessible.

I also HC that the mythraeum isn’t accessible at all (like Canaan house) so Cyth uses forearm crutches, a cane, or bone constructs/beguiling corpses like Pro in trickier areas when she needs to move more quietly.

ok i'm sleepy and having emotions and i'm not gonna grab my copy to pull the specific quotes but. you remember that scene in htn where mercy and augustine are arguing. i think it's the "you have rendered yourself unlovable" one. and augustine tells her that he could kill her if he wanted. he could do it without a second thought, could stub her out like a cigarette beneath his shoe, and john would forgive him? john would understand? augustine is his favorite, and they all know it, to such a degree that mercymorn ceases to matter in the slightest?

cool great. now remember that time when john killed mercy? without a second thought? stubbed her out beneath his shoe? and then he turned to augustine and he said, you understand why i did that, right? you know that you're my favorite? you know i love you? she doesn't matter. we can put this behind us. augustine, can't you forgive me?

and augustine says no, john. no, i can't.

cause i'm thinking about that and i'm tearing my hair out. i'm eating the drywall. her death was too far. it was too far and augustine couldn't forgive him. he was right about john, probably more right than he realized, but he could never have brought himself to do it. it was unforgiveable.

The Last Bout

Over the past week, Loveday Heptane had taken to wearing her bladed gauntlets wherever she went. 

She understood that this was off-putting.

 She did not particularly care. 

After Anastasia had repaired her thirteenth phalangeal fracture in a fortnight, she realized she cared more for her gear than she did for herself. The presence of those knuckle knives was just enough to give her pause before she let loose and punched the wall. 

In those moments, she thought of Annabel with an envy that was greener than roses in the bud. She longed to rend flesh and scream. It was difficult to stay soft while wearing gauntlets. 

Her new habit meant that she was already armed when John strolled into their bed chamber with sickening nonchalance, clearing Cytherea’s saturated chest with a single, citrus-scented gesture. Prior to that moment, she had been frightened, boiling water and relying on base instincts. She was terrified that Cyth would drown in a dry ocean of whisper-soft sheets while she stood there like an incompetent idiot. And, because she’d grown up devout, she’d prayed. 

Why was she furious that God had answered? 

She hadn’t meant to punch him the first time, but the second time gauntlet met bone, it was on purpose. She’d launched herself bodily atop him, straddling his hips like a lover, tearing into his skin over and over to no avail. If Cyth hadn’t come to, she might have kept going for eternity like a starved, mad ouroboros. 

Instead, she bore down on his chest and pushed off, tearing down the hall, her anger like a torrid cloud of steam with nowhere to go. She peeled off the gauntlets, ashamed. They made an awful sound as they skidded against the stone, falling limp and bloody in a corner.

Violence didn’t feel good unless there was feedback—it had to be tangible, it had to take. And so, she found herself facing off against her old friend, the corridor wall. 

“Anastasia isn’t here,” came a calm voice from behind her, catching her off-guard before she could strike. 

“I know,” Loveday responded with a shuddering breath, still facing the wall, head bowed, vision spotty with rapidly dispersing rage. 

“Alright, then. If the wall’s offended you, by all means.” 

Loveday leaned forward, pressing her blood-hot forehead into the cool stone. She shut her eyes tight.

“Come here.”

“I’m fine here,” Loveday hissed.

“Then I’ll come to you.” 

Despite her pristine, all-white training ensemble, Cristabel sat on the ground, leaning up against the stone. She was the only person at Canaan House who’d never seemed to fear her. Everyone else was smart enough to back away when faced with a feral creature, but Cris took her chances—she was convinced she could tame anything. 

In their current configuration, they could have been two little girls playing hide and seek. Cris sat quietly as Loveday worked through her moment, sniffing and huffing like a distressed animal. 

When it was reasonably quiet, Cristabel reached up one hand and caught Loveday’s in her own, massaging the knuckles in a practiced gesture. Loveday had spotted her doing the same to her necromancer beneath the supper table when the dinnertime conversation became particularly contentious. 

“Pretty nails,” Cris remarked. Loveday merely produced a noncommittal hum. Cytherea had never been allowed to paint her nails. Her army of caretakers worried they’d miss out on the signs of cyanosis. The necromancer loved those tiny colorful bottles of varnish, however, and had been subjecting Loveday to weekly manicures from the age of nine. 

It took longer these days. Cyth’s hands were rarely steady, though neither of them commented on it. If Loveday’s nails went bare for too long, she began to feel naked. 

She wondered if she’d get used to it one day. 

She hated herself for wondering. 

“I punched Teacher,” she blurted out after a few moments of oppressive silence. In a rare turn of events, she found that she preferred existing in the present to dwelling in the abyss of endless anger—and anything was better than launching herself into the future. 

“How’d that go?”

“He liked it.”

Cristabel burst out into a whole-body laugh that echoed through the halls, floating and bouncing like chamber music, like bubbles. 

“It isn’t funny.” “It is, a bit. ‘He liked it,’ she said,” the eighth cavalier wheezed, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Why do you think he liked it?” 

“I don’t know. He took it. He leaned into it. When someone’s throwing a duel, you can tell.”

“I meant, what do you think would make him like it?”

The only thing to pop into Loveday’s mind in response was the image of Annabel. 

“That’s none of my business,” she replied drolly. She’d grown up with Cytherea, after all, and in fairer weather, they shared the same inoffensive brand of Rhodian wit. Cris grinned in return. 

“We all like things that aren’t good for us. I’ve fallen in love with plenty of things that scare me.” “I’m not interested in talking about Mercymorn.” Again, Cris laughed. “Other things,” she amended, “Will you sit?” Loveday acquiesced, plopping down on the ground beside the older cavalier, one knee propped up. She hugged it to her chest. 

“What do you need?” Cris asked, finding it easier to speak earnestly when she could look into her face. “If you need to hit something, we can spar. If you need to talk, I have nowhere else to be.” 

“Cytherea might need—” “John’s got her. What do you need?” 

“If she’s feeling better, she won’t want to be in bed.” 

“And she’s an adult and capable of expressing as much. Let him handle it. He can use the exercise.” 

“It’s my job,” Loveday shot back, a bit more aggressively than she’d intended. “You asked what I need? I need to do my job.” 

“What’s your job?” Cris asked. Loveday looked back at her like she’d produced a series of high-pitched squeaking noises rather than words. 

“We have the same job,” Loveday replied slowly, in case the incessant trepanning had finally taken its toll. 

“I don’t disagree,” Cris replied, her tone flip, “I only wonder why honoring God and His resurrection means obsessing over her, punching Him, and thoroughly ignoring yourself.” 

Loveday huffed incredulously, rising to her feet, her jaw set. She began stalking away, unsure that she wanted to go back to the bedroom. Teacher might still be there. He’d either mention her murder attempt casually or never bring it up again, and she wasn’t sure which would be worse.  

“Are you angry because I’m right?” Cristabel called after her, her voice filling the hall. 

On another day, Loveday might have kept right on walking—not pausing, not flinching. Today she turned around. 

“No,” she spat decisively. “I know what I need. And I’ve already asked for it.”

“Good,” Cristabel said. Loveday snorted as if to say, ‘not good.’ 

“Have you ever asked a question, not because you weren’t sure of the answer, but because you needed to hear what you already knew spoken aloud?”

“I’m sure I have.”

“I asked him, and he gave the wrong answer.”  Loveday's voice was too sharp and shrill in those desolate halls, desperate in a way that the kilted mountain of a woman rarely allowed. “I’ve asked for one thing. One thing, for her, not for me, and he said no.” 

Cristabel did not balk, and her voice remained true, even as the blue-eyed goliath fell apart before her. “You know he loves you. Both of you.” 

Loveday said nothing.  

“What did you ask?” Cristabel prompted tentatively. 

For a long moment, Loveday didn’t speak. She swallowed, working her throat.

“If we don’t finish the work before…” she paused, “...before Cytherea succumbs—” she struggled, hating each word as she said it, “I asked if he’d bring her back. I don’t see why he couldn’t. He resurrected humanity, all of humanity, and she’s so small. I’m not a necromancer, but shouldn’t that be easy? One soul? I don’t understand. He’s supposed to be God.” 

“Loveday, he resurrected humanity so that each of us could die on our own terms.” 

“These aren’t her terms.” 

“It’s a gift to die again.” “Do not say that to me.” 

“And to die for Him and His empire—” 

“She isn’t dying for him! She’s done enough for him! She’s just dying!” the cavalier roared, pacing as if caged, “She’s dying from a cancer that he resurrected, that our house believes was ordained. I could accept that the cancer was a mistake, but I cannot accept letting the mistake win.” 

“Do you think death and loss are the same?” 

“They are.” Loveday knew what it meant to lose, in every sense of the word. She was the Seventh’s show pony—a gifted swordswoman unaffiliated with a cavalier line, unlikely to ascend to any rank or title. Rather than wasting her, they sent her off to compete, so she could win trophies on behalf of Castle Rhodes. After some years, she’d grown bored of dueling and had begun training in new weapons, showing off her superlative skills in demonstration categories. She might’ve gone on like that forever, collecting big swords and measuring her life in wins and losses, if Cytherea hadn’t risen in the house’s esteem so rapidly. They’d promised Cyth a cavalier so she could focus on her work in the limited time she had—a nursemaid more than a sword hand. She’d asked for Loveday. 

From that day on, she’d measured her life in grins, in giggles, in long afternoons basking in the colorful stained-glass light of the orangery. 

At Canaan House, the rules were different. She didn’t want to play anymore. This time, win or lose, the outcome would be for good. 

“Have you considered—”

“I don’t want your advice. It means nothing. You’ve lost no one.” 

“Loveday.” 

“I assure you, whatever you were going to ask, I’ve considered it. I considered it when I lost my father. I considered it when I lost the woman who raised me. I consider it each time I think about my mother, who I’ve never met, and the child my house desperately wants to create using my genes and hers. I cannot close my eyes at night without considering it all over again.” “Then you’d look your necromancer in the eye, on her deathbed, and call her a loser?” 

“Did I say that? Would I ever say that? No.” 

“Then, forgive me, but who’s the loser in this scenario?”

Loveday took a deep breath in through her nose. She opened her rough-palmed hands. She closed them. She ran one over her hair and exhaled. “No one,” she said as she turned on her heel and walked down the hall. This time, when Cristabel called out, she did not turn around.

Instead, she walked straight past the bloody pile of abandoned gauntlets in the corner and straight into her necromancer’s rooms. 

She wrapped Cyth in blankets, grabbed her hat, and wheeled her into the conservatory. 

She adjusted the chair. She found the perfect patch of sunlight and the perfect strip of shade. She sat back and listened to the woman who was her world prattle on about nothing while touching up the chipped, sea-green varnish on her fingernails. She rested her unbroken fingers atop her knees as they dried. Somewhere, a bird sang. In cells, in bones, in hearts, the war raged on. 

Loveday Heptane knew what her duty was, and she’d win this bout if it killed her.

somebody’s daughter // griddlehark

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If Taylor Swift used her power for good she would be such a great stochastic terrorist. She would post on Instagram "Hey guys, Tay here. Just wanted to say that whoever delivers me the head of Ron DeSantis on a platter will get free Eras Tour tickets. #ShadeNeverMadeAnybodyLessGay." It would be at her doorstep in two hours.