a haunted man (silas, atticus shane fic)
title: a haunted man
summary: this is silas' story, or perhaps it's not his story at all.
characters/ships: atticus shane/silas, bonnie bennett, ketsia, general; silas/ketsia, silas/ketsia/unnamed woman, atticus/bonnie
rating: g to m, real m because who am i?
warnings: potential dubious sex given age differences but nothing illegal.
notes: this is the product of a feverish mind that spends too much time thinking about anything that involves bonnie bennett. i'm obsessed with the potential of this storyline and preemptively finding ways to deal with the disappointment i'll feel when the show wastes all the possibilities. this is just one scenario of many i've had floating in my head, figured i'd post before it all gets joss'd. in this story, atticus shane is actually silas, a witch cursed to live for eternity in a powerless human body. it's told entirely from his limited point of view, and let's just say that i've never had so much fun wallowing in a male character - because he (and thank you david alpay) is such a shady fellow. fyi: the story begins in eleusis, historic city situated in a region of greece called attica (five guesses as to where silas got his present day alias, and no, it has nothing to do with harper lee), also the site of the eleusinian mysteries and the birthplace of aeschylus - any references to religious practices are borrowed from a bunch of traditions, including loose references to mysteries of demeter and kore.
highly recommend: that you read this story outside of the journal or f-list format, i.e. click through on the main title.
on structure: i structured it this way because i really wanted it to feel like reading a grimoire in a sense, or some sort of hand-written chronicle of several intertwined lives. it shouldn't be that hard to follow but do let me know if it hurts the eyes. my pretentiousness knows no bounds so i probably won't change things. words: 4800+
bonus: fanmix, because i don't do anything halfway.
thanks:viennawaits for her brilliant beta reading, kind words and incisive suggestions. this story is dedicated to both you andangryzen, who tolerate my mad ramblings on skype, and also my raging libido when it comes to fictional characters. for your respective birthdays and/or christmas (because i am cheap like that).
feedback: is always a delight.
I.
The magick ripped through him like fire, he clutched at the burning in his chest, and a scream that didn’t sound like it could belong to him rang in his ears.
And there she was, her eyes rolling in the ecstasy of it, her lips curled back over her teeth so she resembled a snarling tigress, striped in livid black veins, vicious in her cruelty. He thought then (even then) that he had never seen anything in his life more beautiful-like a ravaging storm, the kind that lights the sky blinding white and tears at the roots of the earth and turns the air sulphur-yellow.
The wind quietened and the invisible hold she’d had on his person loosened like unspooling thread until he dropped to his knees, a supplicant before a wine-soaked altar. There was blood in the spot where his heart lay, thudding sluggishly beneath the skin, and already he could feel the change-the emptiness, the thing she had done to him.
Her hair flew wildly about her face, the black tiger-stripes on her cheeks had faded, and she was herself again, but the cruel twist to her mouth remained, glass-shards of hate in her eyes.
“Ketsia ... please, I-I-forgive me, I-beg....” the words tripped out of his mouth, shamed him-he had never begged for a single thing in his life. She spat into the ground, she didn't want to hear. But still, she moved close to him until he could smell her, the scent of ash and fire and hate. Her nails were sharp and sure on his chin, as she drew his face upwards. She didn’t speak-she had always been skilled at screaming with the crease of a brow, the snap of an eyelid, the tilt of her chin. She looked at him and he didn’t look away, couldn’t-those hands of hers grew incongruously soft as she touched his jaw, the curve of his ears, the hair that hung low across his nape, as though she were memorising every part of him. Then her mouth was on his, soft and full and wet, and even if he’d wanted to-he couldn’t have pulled away.
The memories flowed thick and fast as a river: the pebble-drawn streets of Eleusis, sharp stones digging into the heels of his bare feet, running and running, always running from his tutors and the ivory-robed hierophants of the order. The dark velvet of her eyes in the market and the snap of something between them, young as they’d been; a kind of knowledge that had been inexplicable, that had pulled at him, turned him inside out.
Forward through the years, exploring their shared gifts beneath a canopy of fragrant apple trees as they imbibed their lessons together, lying buried under late summer leaves and focusing on the texture of them until they floated above like a sun-dappled blanket.
She had been chosen from birth unlike him, there was moon-blood running through her veins and Sito’s hand upon her, born for greatness, they said. He, on the other hand, brought only the privileges coin proffered, a family name that mattered in the highest Eleusinian circles, and a snake’s ambition that writhed deep in the pit of his belly.
Rush onwards to the warmth of her hands on his chest the day he died, drowned in the Kifisos because of some foolish dare; the cold-dark-blankness of death and then the painful waking as she’d whispered into his mouth and breathed into him, breathed herself into him, filled him up until he thought he’d rupture with it. And then the lemon-and-honey taste of her tongue against his, her young, supple breasts; the way he’d trembled like a leaf as she’d sat astride him and moved his hands, taught him where to put them, pressed her mouth into the hollow of his knee, forced enough screams from his throat to wake a small village on each one of those lazy afternoons.
But with that first taste of godliness, the silver-tipped fingers of the moon and fragments of her lingering in his blood, came an insatiable appetite for more, to be more. And so, there was the first transgression, a second, and after that, a dozen small betrayals.
She bit down on his lower lip, hard enough to make him flinch and wrench him from his thoughts. He understood what this was-a goodbye. When she pulled away, she said against the skin at his cheek with a certain grim triumph, the kind that isn’t much of a triumph at all, “Now, you will know suffering as I’ve known it, loneliness, feel it deep in your bones-forever.” Her thumb pressed into his forehead, sealing the curse with an almost audible finality. The wind whispered a long note in accord.
(He hadn’t known the extent of her wrath, not fully).
She left him kneeling in the sand beside another woman's charred remains, with the taste of her blood in his mouth.
II.
It took just over half a century for him to begin to understand what she had done to him, the strength of her curse. By then, she was long-dead, and he had remained with his face unlined, his hair as dark as an ibex coat, and still powerless as a babe.
Another half-century (or more) spent wandering aimlessly in a stupor of anger, the kind of anger that paints the world in shades of deep, bloody red. Those years are a blur, even now, except for the taste of warm beer, the smell of piss and salt seas, and aching bitterness.
And then came the realisation that even his oldest habits couldn’t die with time. He may have despised his tutors as a child but he had always loved to study, to ponder, to learn. And there was power in it, he recognised that from the start-power in the knowing of things. There was at the edge of his pursuits, flitting like an agitated butterfly, the possibility of reversing the spell-of finding some esoteric tradition he hadn’t yet conquered, some incantation hidden in the folds of a scroll, in the practices of some savage tribe, the key to his freedom..
He learned that knowledge was not a static thing but ever-changing; that he could waste five hundred years measuring the length and breadth of the world, and find no answers with the surety of five hundred more to come. He often saw the faces of her, wraith-like and insistent no matter the passage of time, he grew to hate her and eventually to feel nothing. He also learned that he could immerse himself in magick, feel the pull of it deep inside without the ability to cast, like a crippled man who dreamed of the wind and of running only to wake to shrivelled legs that had forgotten how to move. And that no matter how many times he took a knife to his throat, slashed at his own eyes, immolated his own body in a rage-that even then, he would live on and on and on.
III.
Sheila Bennett was a skilled witch-of that, there was no doubt.
Her office smelled like cigarette smoke with a tang of whiskey and layers of flowery patchouli that wrapped him in a heady sweetness. She was a friend, a good woman. But it was the girl.
The thing was, he was tired-more than tired. He was something like an old, denuded pebble that had once been a boulder that had once been the firm, immutable chin of a rugged mountain. After all his years, more than he cared to count, the body grew insensible, inured to stimuli. All the things that mattered to humans and creatures alike: love, companionship, sex became... less-less necessary, less everything. Even the promise of his freedom had become vague and boring prospect. Every century-and-a-half, he might hear a whisper of something, a new form of magical knowledge, some cult claiming to hold the secrets to death and life-but even those he greeted with the desultory wave of a hand, like a dog swishing his tail at flies in the sun.
But then.
There was the girl.
Young, pretty in a piquant way, like the first burst of lemon on the tongue. In a picture of all things, her eyes bright, arms wrapped around Sheila.
And he had felt it-the impossible-to-define tug at the pit of his stomach, the echo of recognition, the-
He had picked up the frame gently, reverently almost, let his finger trace the smile on her face before he’d asked, his voice thick, the words clumsy, “This-who’s this-in the picture?”
Sheila had smiled fondly, “Oh, that’s my granddaughter, Bonnie.”
“She’s-” everything... “She looks a lot like you, it’s amazing,” he had said as easily as he could manage, putting the frame on the desk reluctantly and stepping away from it.
A few days later, Sheila complained that the picture of her and Bonnie had gone missing, mumbled suspicions about the janitor taking it or some such thing. A week after that, another photograph appeared, more incandescent than the last and more recent-but it remained on the desk. If he visited his advisor more often than was quite necessary, if his gaze lingered on the light bouncing off the glass and the glinting face beneath, she never said.
IV.
She was different from Ketsia.
When it comes down to it, individuality is a thoroughly modern concept, a conceit really, of an age of uncertainty, where the world shifts too quickly, where wars rip countries to shreds and nations rise and fall in the blink of an eye, humans multiply like rabbits and their cities strain at the seams to contain them, falter beneath the weight of it all. The idea of a tethered self, an original self that is different from all the other people is an enticing one.
Once you had lived more than ten centuries, however, the dull repetitiveness of life was irrefutable-people were born, they lived, they died; in between, they made foolish mistakes, they cut each other in pieces with a cruelty that had long since stopped surprising him, they fell in love and out of it at the drop of a coin, they ate and they shat with disturbing regularity, they accumulated wealth or languished in poverty, they cried. And that was that.
The romance of being slapped in the face with the specialness of another human being, the kind that you might want to hoard it in a dark room and paw at it until it consumed you was a notion he’d happily discarded.
So it wasn’t that she was extraordinary-this is what he told himself-but it was the same chemical formula that made up any old human, all specified measurements tweaked here and there to create a thing that cut a fissure in his smooth, unlined existence, managed to strike him anew, surprise him.
Her being different did not make it easier, he found quickly.
He couldn’t fold her neatly into a box; find himself in Ketsia again, complicated but familiar territory, ingrained in his bones. For a Ketsia two thousand years ago and a Ketsia in the present would still be the same creature, he’d have no doubts about how to handle her, execute plans he’d run over and over in his head so much that he knew them like the palm of his own hand. It would be child's play.
But Bonnie, with the crushed leaf colour of her eyes, the sad downturned bow of her mouth; the anger that simmered heavily within her, the power that vibrated in the air around her when she moved even when she wasn’t aware of it, the firm set to her chin that spoke of stubbornness and fear and youth, was different. And that made her dangerous.
V(i).
She tasted like fire. Her hands clutched at his hair and the kiss was clumsy and rushed, an impulse on her part, part-surprise and all-want on his, and her tongue licked against mouth, inside his mouth and burned all the way to his gut.
She pulled away quickly, a faint blush, mumbling something about mistletoe and bad luck.
He stood there on the porch, cold air whipping his cheeks red, reeling from the feel of her, a tinge of ash blooming on his tongue.
V(ii).
By present day standards of decorum, every part of this was wrong and he knew it.
He didn’t care-there were enough people who did. Her father, for one, and all his misplaced threats. She had expressed unease a time or two but he’d worked his way around that, allowed her to lead, to hold the slack on the leash of this thing between them so she felt that she was in control of the situation as much as it was possible to be. She initiated the first kiss, the first night they spent in his bed, every single first that was important. He echoed her sentiments with a furrowed brow and a dumb hesitance in his fingers that allowed her a certain measure of safety.
But the fact of it was he didn’t give a damn. He was more than a millennium-old, numbers didn’t matter when you reached that age. Appropriateness was a fluid thing, worthless.
V(iii).
She'd hold his mouth to the junction of her thighs, let out a sharp gasp when he scored his teeth against her cunt, ate her out, tonguing as far as he could reach until her hips arched above the tangled sheets with her release. She'd stamp her heel at the lowest point of his back and urge him on and on, ride his face with abandon, push him to do her will and moan when he did and did and did.
They were twins in this way, he thought rather poetically. Power, us versus them, defence and secrets and strategy-this was how they broke the world and the people in it down. Sure, they understood it differently but he’d recognised their kinship in that first moment at the front of his classroom, the blinding white light from the projector forcing them both to squint, the way his heart had stumbled at finally meeting her, at taking in the physical presence of her beyond an unmoving picture. He’d dug deep into the heart of her and pulled at the threads, weaving a story of her and him and the two of them together, tangling them up until there was no telling where she began and he ended.
A small part of him knew, of course, that he was well and truly on his way to being caught himself. But with his sweat seeping into her skin, his hands gripped around the fleshy part of her hips, his cock sinking deeper and deeper into her, his mouth buried in the hollow of her neck and her name on his mouth, “Bonnie-Bonnie, fuck,”-nothing else mattered.
Except getting his power back. He was so close.
(But even that mixed and melded with the fluttering pulse at her throat until he couldn’t separate one from the other. Until he even forgot that he wanted to.)
VI.
They say when a witch dreams, they dream true. Except the truth is never one single thing, discrete and whole unto itself, measurable. It’s like a mirror, an imperfect reflection, a doubled self or many selves refracted into the semblance of a whole.
So the nights when he dreamed of Bonnie (or parts of her) were unsettling. There were times when she loomed above his prone form, the bones of her knee digging a hole in his chest; fire spitting from her eyes and her sharp nails clawed about his neck until he choked. The stifling weight of her magick bearing down on him as she said in an acid whisper, “I’m just doing everything you taught me-do you remember?”
And then she would smile. And her mouth, tart lemons and wet cinders, would bite down on his, “I’m not afraid anymore, not even of you.”
And his dream self would feel the certainty of the moment, a farewell, before she sliced him through and severed his head from his own body.
When he awoke from those dreams, bathed in a pool of his own sweat and breathless, he would take some comfort in the sleeping warmth of her beside him on the nights she was there. He would press his fingers into her waist and sink into the solid presence of the real her if there was such a thing.
But he couldn’t dismiss the dreams because even in the most intricate trickster’s lie lay a truth, a crushed petal, incense-sweet. And he couldn’t hide from it and her.
VII.He cracked his knuckles and the answering screams tearing through the air from every vampire and hybrid in the vicinity made him chuckle, baring his own teeth in the parody of a hungry wolf. It was like working a muscle that should have atrophied with time but with a single burst of magical energy flexed and throbbed as if it had never forgotten its true gifts.
The original hybrid hurled abuse at him, the veins in his neck standing lividly out as he writhed in pain. He brought his fingers into a stone-like fist and felt the answering crack of bones beneath Klaus’ skin, like dried twigs.
God he loved this. How many years had he dreamed of this very moment? Perhaps not with this specific cast of misfits but how fitting to be here and now. Finally putting these upstart abominations in their places, finally showing them that no matter how many necks they ripped to shreds, no matter how big their body count-they were still little better than carrion, dumb animals of the supernatural world and slaves to blood and a grief-stricken witch’s curse.
They didn’t hold the power of creation in their fingertips, the ability to mould universes and prop up the scaffolding of the skies, to blink and feel the blood-full pop of veins in a person’s body, to literally turn the darkest filth into alchemical wonders.
He could hear them all, the Petrova doppelganger and her present-day twin, the blond girl, Caroline, he recalled; the brothers Salvatore who, despite their youth, had both managed to make names for themselves in the secret histories; the new-made hunter with the oily tattoo shimmering against his skin as he lay unconscious and her-
She was the only other person standing upright or rather she was striding towards him, fists clenched, and within seconds she was in front of him and her palm cracked hard against his cheek, “What are you doing? Stop it-you’re hurting them.” Her voice shook with rage and he let himself watch her as if he was out of his own body, the emotions rolling off of her were destabilising her magic, like cell phone static near a radio, she might explode at any second.
He brought his arms up and above his head in a circle, closing them within an invisible shield that blotted out sound and made the space between them and around them a world unto itself where they were the first and only.
“You want answers; I can give them to you. But not here and not now.”
He kissed her, slowly and deliberately, forcing her to remember and to feel. She pushed back, tried to press her teeth closed, tried to keep him out. He didn’t let her, held her head in place and forced her to come to the middle point, her tongue sliding up against his. “Meet me. You know where.”
And then he was gone.
VIII.
“You know what I am.” It wasn’t a question.
She nodded and he could see she was holding herself stiffly, the lines in her body caught in a strange angle between defensiveness and anger that could lash out in his direction without warning.
“And yet you still came here. To me.”
“I didn’t come here for you,” she spat.
He laughed then, a deep-throated chuckle, “Oh, I know you didn’t, Bonnie Bennett-you forget, I know you.” She flinched at the words as he’d meant her to and he couldn’t even find it in himself to feel guilty about the double entendre, he had spent months learning to know her inside and out, letting himself drink of every corner of her until her taste was as familiar as his own. Moving to stalk around her, filling up the space so that she’d have no recourse but to retreat, he said, “You see, you’re easy to read, Bonnie-it’s what I love so much about you. You put up a good front, sure, but I’ve learned to translate,” he lifted his finger to the skin of her shoulder and she jerked away from his touch as expected, “I’ve learned you-I’m inside you, just as much as you’re in me.”
She swivelled fast and her arm rushed around with her body, and a gust of wind flung him into the wall. Shaking his head, he clambered up from the floor and barely kept from smiling again.
“You lied to me.” She was breathing heavily, crowding air into her lungs as if preparing for her next assault.
“Did I?” He let himself lean back against the walls, casual, knowing instinctively that his ease would infuriate her even more.
“You know you did.”
“Hm, but there was a part of you that knew, wasn’t there? A small, tiny crevice that had some inkling. You heard my story the first time and I saw how you watched me, how careful you were. Every time you asked me how I knew what I knew; how I held an answer for every single question under the sun; the way I stiffened up when I told the story by heart and you showed me all the ways you could calm me down with those hands of yours, that mouth,” he let his voice drop to a lascivious whisper, “Make me forget. And you dreamed too, didn’t you? Just like I did. Don’t tell me that you never suspected or I’ll call you a liar.”
“So what? That makes it okay? That makes what you’ve done okay? You hurt my friends-my friends.”
He scoffed then. “Those cretins aren’t your friends, Bonnie. They’re nothing but parasites that suck you dry and you let them. They used you and made you feel as though your only reason for being was to help them in their inane little schemes-they treated you as if you don’t matter outside of being a little magical fix-it for them and threw you away like trash the minute you lost your powers.” When she didn’t deny his summation, he yanked harder at the threads. “You’re better than them, you know that.” His voice dropped to a low thrum and he stepped in behind her, breathed in the rose-and-lavender fragrance of her hair, “You and I-we’re better.”
He nudged her until she turned to face him and he could see the strange mix of hate and fury and moss-soft longing and want and recognition waging war in her eyes.
And then the coup de grace that he delivered with equal parts calculation and trepidation. “You don’t have to be afraid of anyone.”
IX.
It was a precarious truce at best.
He wouldn’t hurt her friends-much, unless they tried his patience. She would curb her desire to throw him into the nearest wall or set his house on fire. He would tell her the truth or parts of it. She would convince her friends that he was harmless, and that he didn’t want to ‘wreak havoc on the world’… mostly.
And they would fuck and fuck and fuck.
The summer between graduation and her first year at Whitmore went by in a haze of (wildly inappropriate as he was acting as her pre-freshman advisor) sweat-fuelled sex and fights.
He would remember that she was only eighteen, that she had too much of the world to see and live before she came even a little bit close to his kind of jadedness, the kind that made promises valueless and redemption devoid of meaning.
He threw it in her face sometimes. She was a child and he held two thousand years under his belt. She cared too much about the people she called her friends when she needed to understand that she could rule the world-they could rule it together, if she wanted, and answer to no one (not even those worthless witch spirits of hers). She had the power to take and take and take, yet there was too much of her that knew always and only how to give, and it irritated him, maybe even disgusted him a little-it was so human, so vulnerable, so damn childish.
It was stupid-he was stupid with it.
He didn’t want to call “it” love (speaking more than a hundred languages made ideas like that rather hollow). But there it was. Silas, the legend he’d created of himself, Atticus, the man he pretended to be-the most powerful witch yet living-was something of a fool. And she knew it. For someone who had never been sure of her place in the hearts of the people around her (he’d seen that the second time they’d met and made use of, “I’m in your corner, I’m your biggest ally.”), she was almost gratingly certain of where she stood with him. She used it, much the same way he’d once used his own sureness on Ketsia.
He would catch her sometimes, and see the knife-edge awareness in the way she looked at him, the deliberation with which she tested her boundaries, forced him to come to her, to open himself to her as she dug her way into him.
She would lower her head to his hard, hot length with cat-like eyes focused on his face; her mouth would wrap him in a wet glove, sinking until she’d swallowed as much as she could of him, working the throbbing vein of his cock with her tongue while the hand on his chest emitted waves of energy that brought every hair on his body to attention and pinned his arms to the mattress until he couldn’t help but beg for more, for an end, for anything. He would fly apart like a spinning top, watch her lap at remnants of his come on her chin, and look down at him with a sort of secret victory and an unspoken, “Just like you taught me-remember?” that taunted him, no longer confined to his dreams.
And he would forget then that she was so young. And remember instead, all the ways in which they were the same.
X.
It was always going to end like this.
Stories were as predictable as most other things, with their beginnings, middles and ends, their rising arcs and dénouements. Perhaps this hadn’t been his story all along. With the inevitable end, came the stark realisation that it wasn’t about him, that thousands of years didn’t add up to anything more than being the transient figure, the villain, the lover, the serpent, the blip in someone else’s chronicle-in hers.
The truth? She was never going to let him destroy her world, or any world for that matter.
And the ludicrous apprehension in those last breathless moments, with her face like shattered glass dipped in tears, all that naked sentiment (she called it “love”, of course) wrapped around him like warm skin, her fingers sopping with his own blood pressing into his chin and the steel-like resolve she possessed even then-that he was fine. He was half-ready for it to come to an end, to slink from the action like a bit-player in a grand tragedy. The parts of him that had fought so desperately for eternity were quite prepared to rest in the forever of her.
(It was stupid-he was stupid with it. But he knew that already.)
So he died, watched the body that had been his stiffen and cool to an ashen blue while he stood beside it-a bit at a loss for words. And she sat beside him until they dragged her away from his corpse.
When she lay down to sleep that night, she kept to her side: far left, curled towards the empty spot he had sometimes occupied. He sank down beside her, the consistency of mist on a cool winter morning. The warmth of her at this distance was as enticing as it was unreachable but he basked in it anyway, brought his face as close to hers as he could and let his cold lips brush invisibly against hers.
Her eyes shot open then as if she was waking from a sudden shock in a dream she would soon forget. But her eyes, evergreen, stared straight into his as though she could see him-not through him-but him. They softened then, and her lips widened into a knowing smile.
FIN
a haunted man tracklist (mediafire is being weird, so adding youtuble alt links and a slightly incomplete online streaming playlist of the songs i could find on playlist.com, so LISTEN, all measures until i can get download links sorted)
1. ritual. (alt link)
2. my body is a cage; arcade fire (i'm living in an age that calls darkness light / though my language is dead still the shapes fill my head.) (alt link)
3. sleep; azure ray (now these years locked in my drawer, i'll open to see just to be sure / but i can't sleep, i can't speak to you, i can't sleep / and so i'm reaching out for the one / and so i've learned the meaning of the sun / and all this like a message comes to shift my point of view / i'm watching through my own light as it tints the shade of you.) (alt link)
4. heels 2 heaven; mateo (there's a rhythm to your heart / there's a lyric on your tongue, i'll help you find it / yes we've heard this song before, just new arrangements / i've been where you are now, so deep inside the ground.) (alt link)
5. bulletproof ... i wish i was; radiohead (limb by limb and tooth by tooth / tearing up inside of me / every day every hour, i wish i was bullet proof / wax me, mould me, heat the pins and stab them in, you have turned me into this; just wish that it was bullet proof.) (alt link)
6. the haunted man; bat for lashes (i couldn't sleep last night 'cause i tried to forget you; in the suffocated air i resolved to let you go / twisted all our dreams 'til you became the nightmare / close it off or else the hurt is gonna rise.) (this link is working)
7. laughing with a mouth of blood; st. vincent (just like an amnesiac trying to get my senses back; oh where did they go / laughing with a mouth of blood from a little spill i took; oh what are you laughing at?) (alt link)
8. pagan poetry; bjork (he offers a handshake, crooked; five fingers, they form a pattern yet to be matched / on the surface simplicity but the darkest pit in me, it's pagan poetry, morsecoding signals, they pulsate and wake me from my hibernating.)*
9. time of the assassins; charlotte gainsbourg (i sift through the ash, i look for a sign, i open the wound that keeps me in line / the shoulder that turns, the flame that goes out, the chapter i close.) (alt link)
10. 0952; olafur arnalds. (alt link)
* this track is on youtube only, all other tracks should be downloadable. all songs now have alt youtube links while i'm figuring out mediafire issues, sorry about that.
