Works-in-Progress Round-up
I do these from time to time, mostly to get my head straight on exactly which pieces I have in-progress. So, a collection of excerpts from each work-in-progress, organized by fandom:
The Solitude Sessions
The day after he realized June was gone, possibly for good this time, Albus went to Jack’s grave, even though he knew Jack wasn’t really there. Jack wasn’t anywhere, his body burned to ash by Grindelwald, and just thinking about it made him want to slay that monster all over again. One death wasn’t good enough to wipe Grindelwald from the face of the earth, to get his voice out of Albus’ head.
You’re already dead, all of you. You were born to die, you were born for this. You were born to play your part, and then time and destiny will have no further use for you.
He could still taste opium in the back of his throat, smoke and honey and the sweet decay of creeping death. The worst of the withdrawal had passed, and he hadn’t been there that long in the first place, but he wasn’t sure it would ever leave him. Not completely.
He was sure the dreams never would.
*
Hayden eventually found her in Gibraltar. He was sitting at her regular table in the hotel dining room, looking very tanned and pleased with himself, with an open bottle of Bordeaux and a pair of wine glasses.
"I got tired of waiting," he said.
“You were waiting?”
He stood up and pulled out her chair for her. “Shocking, isn’t it?”
He sat back down and poured her a glass of wine. “I ordered a bottle. I hope that’s all right.”
“As though I would pick a fight with you over your choice of wine…” June shook her head. “What are you doing here?”
“As I said, I was tired of waiting. Two days ago I was sitting all alone at my club, and I realized how very, very dull things have been without you. So I went to see your mother, found out where you were staying and made my way here. Voila.” He spread his hands wide and smiled at her. “I love the hotel, by the way. Lots of local color.”
“It’s a British hotel. It’s not as though I’ve wandered off into the wilds of Morocco.”
“It’s a British hotel, but it’s also a Muggle one.” He winked at her. “You’ve gone native.”
“Like you’ve never.” The truth was, she wanted to be as far away from home, and anyone she might know, as possible.
“Drink your wine.” He nodded in the direction of her glass. “I want your opinion. I think it’s a little too earthy to go with the Chateaubriand.”
The wine, of course, was perfectly fine. But as she told him so, June realized how much she’d actually missed him.
*
The summer went slowly.
Albus burned his nose out on the river and wrote a well-received paper on the transfiguration of milk bottles into magnifying glasses. His hands shook less and he put weight back on. Most days he didn’t even think about Fier or the darkness under its streets. He stopped craving smoke and sleep, he stopped waking up with a start, he stopped expecting to see Jack around every corner.
He still walked around with a dull ache in his chest, though.
He’d failed. He’d failed Jack, he’d failed himself. He’d even failed Tom. He wasn’t sure what had happened to Tom or Metis, after. All he’d been told was that they hadn’t been found alongside him, though that’s where they ought to have been. He knew in his gut, though, that they were still alive.
All those concerns were secondary, though, just pressure on a wound that was already deep.
He missed June so acutely it felt dying a little bit, piece by piece, every day. After awhile, that dull ache turned into a kind of dull rage that settled behind his temples.
Percy Weasley: Rogue Demon Hunter
So Dumbledore was gone, and McGonagall had sent them all home the very next day, not looking at all happy about the decision.
Hermione had gone home to her parents, and Ron, to Ginny's ever-increasing suspicion, had actually gone with her. The adults (including both Tonks and Kingsley) had hardly even been around since she returned home two days ago, running to and fro on mysterious errands, and leaving Ginny all but alone in Number 12 with Harry.
Fan-freaking-tastic.
Though, to be fair, she had to give Harry some credit. She'd fully expected that the events of the past few weeks would have pushed him further into his particular (and LOUD) version of teen angst. In reality, he was actually dealing with it fairly well.
His angry outbursts and depression had been replaced by a kind of cold resolve that, while not any more comforting than the alternative, was at least quieter and slightly more polite.
*
Percy had sworn off babysitting the year he turned sixteen. This may or may not have had something to do with the fact that his last official babysitting charge had been brainwashed and ultimately abducted by the disembodied spirit of the most evil wizard ever -- and that all this happened quite literally under his nose, without him noticing so much as a hair out of place.
Yet, somehow, here he was, four years later, once again babysitting Ginny. Ginny and three of her friends, including Harry Potter, the Boy Who Mucked Everything Up and Got Percy Sacked in the First Place.
This did not put him in an especially patient or forgiving frame of mind. Neither did their impending attempt at breaking and entering his former place of employment. Added to that was the fact that, if Harry was to be believed, the last time they'd done this they'd walked straight into a Death Eater trap and managed to get several people very seriously cursed and at least one person very seriously dead.
Percy wasn't at all sure he actually believed Harry, but it worried him nonetheless.
*
Celia was having a very, very bad night.
Despite the fact that a very nice healer had fixed both her sprained wrist and her concussion, she kept coming over all dizzy -- something the healer had said might happen as they'd loaded her into a horseless carriage with Percy and Kingsley Shacklebolt, who seemed to be acting as their personal Auror escort. The movement of the carriage kept making her vision swim and her head ache vaguely. She also kept having to fight down the very inappropriate urge to fling herself at Percy and never let go.
She settled for reaching over and grabbing hold of his hand instead.
He looked down, as though surprised, but then looked up again and smiled at her, squeezing her fingers slightly as the carriage lurched to a stop.
Percy turned and looked out the window, then cursed softly. "What are you thinking, Kingsley? Bringing us here?"
"I thought someone should tell your parents that the twins are all right."
"And you couldn't just have sent a note?"
*
"This is The Burrow," he said, sighing. "This is where I grew up."
The house was in slight disrepair, though it looked welcoming enough.
"This is where your family lives?"
"Not at the moment, but they must be here tonight," he said, and refused to elaborate on the subject.
The Suicide Blondes Book Club
“Are you going to be boring again today?” Lilly asks, even though 'today' doesn't have a whole lot of meaning where they are.
“Who would've thought I would end up in heaven, huh?”
“Maybe it's just that I ended up in hell.”
Lilly makes a face, but doesn’t disagree exactly. “Maybe we're in Limbo, then.”
“The Pope doesn't believe in Limbo anymore.”
Lilly shrugs. “That doesn't mean it doesn't exist.”
*
“What? Like there might be some giant, cosmic reset button? Our lives sucked. Our deaths sucked even more. Why would we want to go back?”
“Manolos, Johnny Depp and Mocha Chip Frappuccinos -- and that's just off the top of my head.” Lilly's quiet for a moment. “Besides, if we did it all over again, maybe we wouldn't make the same mistakes.
Well, when she put it like that, she did kind of have a point.
“I liked being alive: the good stuff, the bad stuff, everything. I even miss getting my legs waxed. It's worth a try, Meg. What else are we gonna do until the end of time?”
*
“Who the hell are you?”
“I’m the Voice of God,” she says brightly. “Hi.”
She offers them a perky little wave.
“I think I liked it better when Alan Rickman played this role.”
“Oh, please. Meta-commentary is so two years ago. Besides, this isn’t what I actually look like. It’s completely for your benefit.” She leans in and says, conspiratorially, “What I actually look like would blow your minds.” She whispers in Meg’s ear, “It’s not about following rules. But you’ve always known that.”
“What is it about, then?”
“Grace,” she says and the word means a thousand different things all at once -- including the literal.
“Well, that's weird,” Lilly says in the half-heartbeat before the light takes them.
*
“Duh.” Lilly taps a worryingly solid finger dead center on Meg’s forehead. “Giant cosmic reset button, remember?”
And suddenly she does.
“You can’t keep messing with people’s lives like this…”
“God plays dice with the universe,” she shrugs, “so why can’t I?”
“God doesn't play dice with the universe, Lilly. That’s the quotation.”
“That’s why you get fair warning, Meggie. You and Veronica.”
“But not your brother?”
“Duncan will be just fine.” She sighs melodramatically. “He always is.”
The Geek Rock Series
May, 1992
The bed at the Motel 6 was lumpy and Langly, thanks to a combination of Amaretto sours and problematic sinuses, kept Frohike awake half the night with his snoring. Normally, they would have flipped a coin or played a quick round of Rock, Paper, Scissors to decide who had to share. But Byers was still frosty and distant, and Langly was sticking closer to Frohike than usual, so he decided to just dispense with the formalities.
Great, he thought, as he was settling into bed, shoving Langly’s hair out of the way as he tried to fluff one of the flat, bleach-worn pillows. The kids fight, so one runs to Daddy and the other locks himself in his room and turns up the music, metaphorically speaking… and since when am I old enough to be Dad, anyway?
He turned the t.v. on, the volume low, hoping the white noise would drown out Langly’s snores. In the opposite bed, Byers rolled over, muttering something in his sleep. It didn’t look like any of them was destined to have a restful night, Frohike thought, and turned his attention to the late movie on the Sci-Fi Channel.
The next thing he knew, someone was saying, “Wake up, or you won’t get any breakfast.”
“Wake up,” the voice said again, rudely pulling him out of a very nice dream about a summer night in Miami with an icy Cuba Libré and a Cohiba cigar.
“Come on, Frohike.” It was Byers and he was shaking Frohike by the arm. “We don’t want to miss our flight.”
The nicotine withdrawal was at its worst in the mornings, yowling in his head and clawing at his veins, demanding attention. Demanding to know why he was doing this to himself. He wondered that a lot, too, but nine times out of ten he was able to remember it was because the tobacco industry was the evil slavemaster of the twentieth century. His hand shook as he reached for his glasses, though.
With his glasses on, he could see that Byers had gone for coffee and doughnuts -- which from anyone else might have been a peace offering, but with Byers it was likely just sticking to standard ops.
Well, fine. If he couldn’t have a smoke, coffee was the next best thing. Langly, typically, had eaten two maple bars in quick succession and was eyeing the last glazed as he added a third packet of creamer to his already pale coffee.
Frohike had a powdered doughnut with raspberry jelly, two cups of black coffee and a quick, cold shower, since either Langly or Byers had used the last of the hot water.
Their flight into BWI didn’t leave until 11 a.m., but Byers (being Byers) insisted they arrive a full two hours beforehand. O’Hare still had smoking lounges scattered throughout its terminals. Frohike picked at the nicotine patch stuck to the inside of his left wrist. Much as he loved Chicago, it might just be the death of him.
*
She was waiting for them, sitting on the stairs that led up to the office and looking somewhere halfway between tearful and angry.
“Meg,” Byers said, stopping short.
Frohike had subconsciously created a mental image of the new Mrs. Byers that was tall, blonde and bore a more than passing resemblance to Susanne Modeski. The reality, however, was significantly different. She was a tiny little thing, fair-skinned and fragile, with dark hair halfway down her back. When she stood, her head barely came up past Byers’ chin.
“Where have you been?” she said, taking a step toward him.
“Chicago, remember?” Byers said, glancing at the two of them and then back to his wife.
“I called the hotel, John. You weren’t there.”
“I was there. We were there.”
They had been, just not registered under any of their actual names.
“I was-“
“You were what? Checking up on me?” Byers asked, managing to sound both guilty and defensive.
Talk about uncomfortable. Frohike eyed the door to the office, but Meg had planted herself firmly between it and them. Langly had his gaze fixed studiously on the metal tips of his Dr. Martens.
“No,” she said, “I wasn’t. I’ve never done anything like that before, because you’ve never given me any reason to.” The look she was giving him clearly said that he’d given her a reason now. “I called because your mother’s in the hospital.”
Byers abruptly paled.
“She had a heart attack three days ago, John, and I couldn’t find you to tell you.” The tears were beginning to win out over the anger and her voice shook slightly. “I didn’t know what to tell her; I still don’t.”
*
Byers came back late that night to pick up his things. He showed up sporting one hell of a shiner, too, courtesy of dear old dad.
“I don’t think I can go home yet,” he said, and sat down heavily at the table.
Frohike rummaged around in the fridge and handed him an ice-pack and a cold beer.
“How’s your mom?” he asked, opening a beer of his own.
“They had to operate, but she should be all right - for the short-term, anyway.” Byers pressed the ice-pack gingerly against his bruised face.
“Sorry, man.”
“How’re you doing?” Langly asked, sitting down as well.
“My mother had to have bypass surgery, my father hit me in front of a heart surgeon and my wife can’t look at me without starting to cry.”
“That good, huh?”
Apres Vie
"Hades," the girl at the bar says and turns to look at him.
“Excuse me?”
“He took me away under the earth in his golden chariot.” She turns when she says it, looking across to the wide windows where Rose is standing, watching the lights in the sky with a kind of half-horrified fascination on her face.
"Hades, from Homer's Hymn to Demeter. Or, if you favor the Romantics, there’s always Keats or Shelley." She pauses thoughtfully. "I personally prefer the later feminist interpretations, but then I suppose I would."
Her eyes are almond-shaped behind her glasses, diamond-hard lenses and wire frames the color of gunmetal. It's an affectation. He can tell she has both the technology and the money to have her vision corrected.
He tends to categorize people, compare them to others he's known before. It's a side effect, he supposes, of so many years and so many travels to so many different places. This girl looks like a cross between a Sumerian priestess and an earnest undergraduette he met at an Oxford sherry party in 1923.
"Pluto, god of death and time and the number of a man's days. The metaphor never occurred to you?"
It hadn't, and he’s not sure just how to respond.
It’s not often that someone strikes him speechless. He stares at her for a minute before he says, “I’m sorry. Have we met?”
“No, but your reputation precedes you.”
“What’s your name?”
"Apollinaria."
"Now, that's just mean."
She smiles, but doesn't laugh.
"My grandfather," she pauses, as though the next revelation is significant, "wanted to call me Nell." She shrugs. “Most people call me Polly. It’s less of a mouthful.”
*
“Species on the verge of extinction would do well not to be so picky.”
“Evolve or die,” the guy next to her says.
“That’s the spirit!” She spares him a smile.
*
The boy offers her his arm.
“Satisfied your curiosity, Polls?” he asks.
“Mostly.”
“I didn’t think you were going to talk to him.”
She shrugs. “I got carried away. No harm done.”
“You’d better hope not.”
“Well, we’re still here, aren’t we? We haven’t winked out of existence or swapped personalities or anything.”
“I suppose it’s all right to talk to him.” Art frowns.” Talking to her on the other hand…”
“Probably wouldn’t do anything, either.”
“Or it could cause the universe as we know it to cease to be. Are you really going to take that risk on a whim?”
“I didn’t say I was planning to talk to her. Just that, logically, it probably wouldn’t hurt anything.” She’s quiet a moment. “If you wanted to, that is.”
“I don’t.”
“Of course not.”
*
“I prefer the U.S. during this time period.”
“You do?”
“There’s less chance of running into anyone... familiar,” Polly answers for her.
Lucy gives him an appraising look, then turns to her sister. “I like this version, Polly.”
“You would.” Polly accepts a cappuccino, swinging her legs casually up onto the arm of the chair. “And I hope you realize how vaguely icky that is.”
“You’re one to talk.” Lucy doesn’t elaborate further, though, and for that he’s grateful.
*
"It's the best decision," he tells himself. Quite literally.
He comes face to face with his other self (one of his other selves) on fifty-first century Earth. His future form is dandyish, grey at the temples, distinguished. Paternal, parental. How fitting.
“It is really is,” Older-him says, lighting his pipe. “She isn’t going to be with you forever. This way you get to keep a little piece of her after she’s gone. You can’t tell me you haven’t thought about it.”
“It isn’t fair.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“I meant to her.”
*
Seeing them all together, in one place, is a bit overwhelming.
They’re beautiful, all of them, lithe and coolly confident, with intelligent eyes and wry mouths. They certainly don’t get that from him. Then again, he always did have an eye for beauty, and for beautiful women, in particular. He even sees features he recognizes in the crowd.
Martine, for example, is a clear-eyed girl with a hard mouth and a familiar voice. When she takes his hand, she calls him by name, his real name.
“I’ve outlived everyone I ever loved, until now,” she says. “I don’t know whether to hug you or hit you.”
Her English is accentless, flat, with the unremarkable precision of an American newscaster. There’s no hint of Paris or Versailles in her words. She’s a woman who’s taken great pains to forget where she came from.
Nonetheless, she somehow sounds exactly like her mother. He would have known her anywhere.
Mysteries
The lovers and offspring of Demeter have great significance in the goddess’s evolution, as Demeter is simultaneously an active part of her own journey and a body who is acted upon. Persephone was conceived, against Demeter’s will in most versions of the myth, with Zeus Euobouleus. Zeus's presence is interesting, considering that Zeus and Hades, the dark god of the Underworld who will later become Persephone’s husband, appear as interchangeable figures in many early myths. Zeus is depicted as both the god of heaven and of the underworld, making Hades simply Zeus’s mirror image, the dark aspect of one single god.
The most mysterious of all Demeter's lovers, however, is Iasion. Whether he is mortal or slightly more than mortal (perhaps the son of a god and a mortal woman) is the subject of much debate. What is clear is that Demeter desired him and that he was punished (possibly by Zeus) for pursuing her. Certain sources also infer that Iasion may have been her first initiate into the Eleusian Mysteries.
*
Tomin is the child’s father in every way that matters. And if she tells herself that enough times, it might even start to stick.
Tomin is a good man. The best, quite possibly, of all the men Vala has ever known. He loves her. This goes without saying, though he says it often anyway. She loves him, too, though she only allows herself to say it out loud the one time.
"I'm so blessed," he says, his eyes going soft in that way that makes her breath catch.
"Yes." She's suddenly angry, tearful. It must be the hormones. "Yes, and all they ask in return is your life. Isn't that a bargain?"
He just smiles and puts a hand to her cheek. He figured out weeks ago that her sudden penitence was just an act. He never brings it up, never challenges her about it, because he's good at pretending things are the ways he wants them to be. This is how he wants things, this way he can have them both, his gods and her.
"It's true. I've promised them my life," he leans his forehead against hers, "but you have my heart. I'll come back to you. We'll always be together."
"You could be killed." He will be; she feels it in her gut.
"Even then," he says, and she knows he believes it.
He only holds his daughter once before he leaves for battle. He goes to Sahal, bright and bold and handsome in his armor, and he never comes back.
Vala truly mourns him, both for herself and for her daughter who will never know him.
Of course, the child isn’t without a father for long.
*
“No. I’ll stay. He needs watching.”
The voice is familiar. He ought to have known it would be her.
"Hello, Daniel," Vala says, sometime later when his head has cleared and the ache in his gut has eased a little.
“Why didn’t they kill me?” He knows somehow, instinctively, that the others are all dead.
She shrugs, not looking directly at him. “Too cliché?”
It isn’t funny.
“You’d probably just come back anyway. Now that would be cliché.”
He reaches out like he wants to touch her.
“I had a hard time believing it, you know.”
The Solitude Sessions
The day after he realized June was gone, possibly for good this time, Albus went to Jack’s grave, even though he knew Jack wasn’t really there. Jack wasn’t anywhere, his body burned to ash by Grindelwald, and just thinking about it made him want to slay that monster all over again. One death wasn’t good enough to wipe Grindelwald from the face of the earth, to get his voice out of Albus’ head.
You’re already dead, all of you. You were born to die, you were born for this. You were born to play your part, and then time and destiny will have no further use for you.
He could still taste opium in the back of his throat, smoke and honey and the sweet decay of creeping death. The worst of the withdrawal had passed, and he hadn’t been there that long in the first place, but he wasn’t sure it would ever leave him. Not completely.
He was sure the dreams never would.
*
Hayden eventually found her in Gibraltar. He was sitting at her regular table in the hotel dining room, looking very tanned and pleased with himself, with an open bottle of Bordeaux and a pair of wine glasses.
"I got tired of waiting," he said.
“You were waiting?”
He stood up and pulled out her chair for her. “Shocking, isn’t it?”
He sat back down and poured her a glass of wine. “I ordered a bottle. I hope that’s all right.”
“As though I would pick a fight with you over your choice of wine…” June shook her head. “What are you doing here?”
“As I said, I was tired of waiting. Two days ago I was sitting all alone at my club, and I realized how very, very dull things have been without you. So I went to see your mother, found out where you were staying and made my way here. Voila.” He spread his hands wide and smiled at her. “I love the hotel, by the way. Lots of local color.”
“It’s a British hotel. It’s not as though I’ve wandered off into the wilds of Morocco.”
“It’s a British hotel, but it’s also a Muggle one.” He winked at her. “You’ve gone native.”
“Like you’ve never.” The truth was, she wanted to be as far away from home, and anyone she might know, as possible.
“Drink your wine.” He nodded in the direction of her glass. “I want your opinion. I think it’s a little too earthy to go with the Chateaubriand.”
The wine, of course, was perfectly fine. But as she told him so, June realized how much she’d actually missed him.
*
The summer went slowly.
Albus burned his nose out on the river and wrote a well-received paper on the transfiguration of milk bottles into magnifying glasses. His hands shook less and he put weight back on. Most days he didn’t even think about Fier or the darkness under its streets. He stopped craving smoke and sleep, he stopped waking up with a start, he stopped expecting to see Jack around every corner.
He still walked around with a dull ache in his chest, though.
He’d failed. He’d failed Jack, he’d failed himself. He’d even failed Tom. He wasn’t sure what had happened to Tom or Metis, after. All he’d been told was that they hadn’t been found alongside him, though that’s where they ought to have been. He knew in his gut, though, that they were still alive.
All those concerns were secondary, though, just pressure on a wound that was already deep.
He missed June so acutely it felt dying a little bit, piece by piece, every day. After awhile, that dull ache turned into a kind of dull rage that settled behind his temples.
Percy Weasley: Rogue Demon Hunter
So Dumbledore was gone, and McGonagall had sent them all home the very next day, not looking at all happy about the decision.
Hermione had gone home to her parents, and Ron, to Ginny's ever-increasing suspicion, had actually gone with her. The adults (including both Tonks and Kingsley) had hardly even been around since she returned home two days ago, running to and fro on mysterious errands, and leaving Ginny all but alone in Number 12 with Harry.
Fan-freaking-tastic.
Though, to be fair, she had to give Harry some credit. She'd fully expected that the events of the past few weeks would have pushed him further into his particular (and LOUD) version of teen angst. In reality, he was actually dealing with it fairly well.
His angry outbursts and depression had been replaced by a kind of cold resolve that, while not any more comforting than the alternative, was at least quieter and slightly more polite.
*
Percy had sworn off babysitting the year he turned sixteen. This may or may not have had something to do with the fact that his last official babysitting charge had been brainwashed and ultimately abducted by the disembodied spirit of the most evil wizard ever -- and that all this happened quite literally under his nose, without him noticing so much as a hair out of place.
Yet, somehow, here he was, four years later, once again babysitting Ginny. Ginny and three of her friends, including Harry Potter, the Boy Who Mucked Everything Up and Got Percy Sacked in the First Place.
This did not put him in an especially patient or forgiving frame of mind. Neither did their impending attempt at breaking and entering his former place of employment. Added to that was the fact that, if Harry was to be believed, the last time they'd done this they'd walked straight into a Death Eater trap and managed to get several people very seriously cursed and at least one person very seriously dead.
Percy wasn't at all sure he actually believed Harry, but it worried him nonetheless.
*
Celia was having a very, very bad night.
Despite the fact that a very nice healer had fixed both her sprained wrist and her concussion, she kept coming over all dizzy -- something the healer had said might happen as they'd loaded her into a horseless carriage with Percy and Kingsley Shacklebolt, who seemed to be acting as their personal Auror escort. The movement of the carriage kept making her vision swim and her head ache vaguely. She also kept having to fight down the very inappropriate urge to fling herself at Percy and never let go.
She settled for reaching over and grabbing hold of his hand instead.
He looked down, as though surprised, but then looked up again and smiled at her, squeezing her fingers slightly as the carriage lurched to a stop.
Percy turned and looked out the window, then cursed softly. "What are you thinking, Kingsley? Bringing us here?"
"I thought someone should tell your parents that the twins are all right."
"And you couldn't just have sent a note?"
*
"This is The Burrow," he said, sighing. "This is where I grew up."
The house was in slight disrepair, though it looked welcoming enough.
"This is where your family lives?"
"Not at the moment, but they must be here tonight," he said, and refused to elaborate on the subject.
The Suicide Blondes Book Club
“Are you going to be boring again today?” Lilly asks, even though 'today' doesn't have a whole lot of meaning where they are.
“Who would've thought I would end up in heaven, huh?”
“Maybe it's just that I ended up in hell.”
Lilly makes a face, but doesn’t disagree exactly. “Maybe we're in Limbo, then.”
“The Pope doesn't believe in Limbo anymore.”
Lilly shrugs. “That doesn't mean it doesn't exist.”
*
“What? Like there might be some giant, cosmic reset button? Our lives sucked. Our deaths sucked even more. Why would we want to go back?”
“Manolos, Johnny Depp and Mocha Chip Frappuccinos -- and that's just off the top of my head.” Lilly's quiet for a moment. “Besides, if we did it all over again, maybe we wouldn't make the same mistakes.
Well, when she put it like that, she did kind of have a point.
“I liked being alive: the good stuff, the bad stuff, everything. I even miss getting my legs waxed. It's worth a try, Meg. What else are we gonna do until the end of time?”
*
“Who the hell are you?”
“I’m the Voice of God,” she says brightly. “Hi.”
She offers them a perky little wave.
“I think I liked it better when Alan Rickman played this role.”
“Oh, please. Meta-commentary is so two years ago. Besides, this isn’t what I actually look like. It’s completely for your benefit.” She leans in and says, conspiratorially, “What I actually look like would blow your minds.” She whispers in Meg’s ear, “It’s not about following rules. But you’ve always known that.”
“What is it about, then?”
“Grace,” she says and the word means a thousand different things all at once -- including the literal.
“Well, that's weird,” Lilly says in the half-heartbeat before the light takes them.
*
“Duh.” Lilly taps a worryingly solid finger dead center on Meg’s forehead. “Giant cosmic reset button, remember?”
And suddenly she does.
“You can’t keep messing with people’s lives like this…”
“God plays dice with the universe,” she shrugs, “so why can’t I?”
“God doesn't play dice with the universe, Lilly. That’s the quotation.”
“That’s why you get fair warning, Meggie. You and Veronica.”
“But not your brother?”
“Duncan will be just fine.” She sighs melodramatically. “He always is.”
The Geek Rock Series
May, 1992
The bed at the Motel 6 was lumpy and Langly, thanks to a combination of Amaretto sours and problematic sinuses, kept Frohike awake half the night with his snoring. Normally, they would have flipped a coin or played a quick round of Rock, Paper, Scissors to decide who had to share. But Byers was still frosty and distant, and Langly was sticking closer to Frohike than usual, so he decided to just dispense with the formalities.
Great, he thought, as he was settling into bed, shoving Langly’s hair out of the way as he tried to fluff one of the flat, bleach-worn pillows. The kids fight, so one runs to Daddy and the other locks himself in his room and turns up the music, metaphorically speaking… and since when am I old enough to be Dad, anyway?
He turned the t.v. on, the volume low, hoping the white noise would drown out Langly’s snores. In the opposite bed, Byers rolled over, muttering something in his sleep. It didn’t look like any of them was destined to have a restful night, Frohike thought, and turned his attention to the late movie on the Sci-Fi Channel.
The next thing he knew, someone was saying, “Wake up, or you won’t get any breakfast.”
“Wake up,” the voice said again, rudely pulling him out of a very nice dream about a summer night in Miami with an icy Cuba Libré and a Cohiba cigar.
“Come on, Frohike.” It was Byers and he was shaking Frohike by the arm. “We don’t want to miss our flight.”
The nicotine withdrawal was at its worst in the mornings, yowling in his head and clawing at his veins, demanding attention. Demanding to know why he was doing this to himself. He wondered that a lot, too, but nine times out of ten he was able to remember it was because the tobacco industry was the evil slavemaster of the twentieth century. His hand shook as he reached for his glasses, though.
With his glasses on, he could see that Byers had gone for coffee and doughnuts -- which from anyone else might have been a peace offering, but with Byers it was likely just sticking to standard ops.
Well, fine. If he couldn’t have a smoke, coffee was the next best thing. Langly, typically, had eaten two maple bars in quick succession and was eyeing the last glazed as he added a third packet of creamer to his already pale coffee.
Frohike had a powdered doughnut with raspberry jelly, two cups of black coffee and a quick, cold shower, since either Langly or Byers had used the last of the hot water.
Their flight into BWI didn’t leave until 11 a.m., but Byers (being Byers) insisted they arrive a full two hours beforehand. O’Hare still had smoking lounges scattered throughout its terminals. Frohike picked at the nicotine patch stuck to the inside of his left wrist. Much as he loved Chicago, it might just be the death of him.
*
She was waiting for them, sitting on the stairs that led up to the office and looking somewhere halfway between tearful and angry.
“Meg,” Byers said, stopping short.
Frohike had subconsciously created a mental image of the new Mrs. Byers that was tall, blonde and bore a more than passing resemblance to Susanne Modeski. The reality, however, was significantly different. She was a tiny little thing, fair-skinned and fragile, with dark hair halfway down her back. When she stood, her head barely came up past Byers’ chin.
“Where have you been?” she said, taking a step toward him.
“Chicago, remember?” Byers said, glancing at the two of them and then back to his wife.
“I called the hotel, John. You weren’t there.”
“I was there. We were there.”
They had been, just not registered under any of their actual names.
“I was-“
“You were what? Checking up on me?” Byers asked, managing to sound both guilty and defensive.
Talk about uncomfortable. Frohike eyed the door to the office, but Meg had planted herself firmly between it and them. Langly had his gaze fixed studiously on the metal tips of his Dr. Martens.
“No,” she said, “I wasn’t. I’ve never done anything like that before, because you’ve never given me any reason to.” The look she was giving him clearly said that he’d given her a reason now. “I called because your mother’s in the hospital.”
Byers abruptly paled.
“She had a heart attack three days ago, John, and I couldn’t find you to tell you.” The tears were beginning to win out over the anger and her voice shook slightly. “I didn’t know what to tell her; I still don’t.”
*
Byers came back late that night to pick up his things. He showed up sporting one hell of a shiner, too, courtesy of dear old dad.
“I don’t think I can go home yet,” he said, and sat down heavily at the table.
Frohike rummaged around in the fridge and handed him an ice-pack and a cold beer.
“How’s your mom?” he asked, opening a beer of his own.
“They had to operate, but she should be all right - for the short-term, anyway.” Byers pressed the ice-pack gingerly against his bruised face.
“Sorry, man.”
“How’re you doing?” Langly asked, sitting down as well.
“My mother had to have bypass surgery, my father hit me in front of a heart surgeon and my wife can’t look at me without starting to cry.”
“That good, huh?”
Apres Vie
"Hades," the girl at the bar says and turns to look at him.
“Excuse me?”
“He took me away under the earth in his golden chariot.” She turns when she says it, looking across to the wide windows where Rose is standing, watching the lights in the sky with a kind of half-horrified fascination on her face.
"Hades, from Homer's Hymn to Demeter. Or, if you favor the Romantics, there’s always Keats or Shelley." She pauses thoughtfully. "I personally prefer the later feminist interpretations, but then I suppose I would."
Her eyes are almond-shaped behind her glasses, diamond-hard lenses and wire frames the color of gunmetal. It's an affectation. He can tell she has both the technology and the money to have her vision corrected.
He tends to categorize people, compare them to others he's known before. It's a side effect, he supposes, of so many years and so many travels to so many different places. This girl looks like a cross between a Sumerian priestess and an earnest undergraduette he met at an Oxford sherry party in 1923.
"Pluto, god of death and time and the number of a man's days. The metaphor never occurred to you?"
It hadn't, and he’s not sure just how to respond.
It’s not often that someone strikes him speechless. He stares at her for a minute before he says, “I’m sorry. Have we met?”
“No, but your reputation precedes you.”
“What’s your name?”
"Apollinaria."
"Now, that's just mean."
She smiles, but doesn't laugh.
"My grandfather," she pauses, as though the next revelation is significant, "wanted to call me Nell." She shrugs. “Most people call me Polly. It’s less of a mouthful.”
*
“Species on the verge of extinction would do well not to be so picky.”
“Evolve or die,” the guy next to her says.
“That’s the spirit!” She spares him a smile.
*
The boy offers her his arm.
“Satisfied your curiosity, Polls?” he asks.
“Mostly.”
“I didn’t think you were going to talk to him.”
She shrugs. “I got carried away. No harm done.”
“You’d better hope not.”
“Well, we’re still here, aren’t we? We haven’t winked out of existence or swapped personalities or anything.”
“I suppose it’s all right to talk to him.” Art frowns.” Talking to her on the other hand…”
“Probably wouldn’t do anything, either.”
“Or it could cause the universe as we know it to cease to be. Are you really going to take that risk on a whim?”
“I didn’t say I was planning to talk to her. Just that, logically, it probably wouldn’t hurt anything.” She’s quiet a moment. “If you wanted to, that is.”
“I don’t.”
“Of course not.”
*
“I prefer the U.S. during this time period.”
“You do?”
“There’s less chance of running into anyone... familiar,” Polly answers for her.
Lucy gives him an appraising look, then turns to her sister. “I like this version, Polly.”
“You would.” Polly accepts a cappuccino, swinging her legs casually up onto the arm of the chair. “And I hope you realize how vaguely icky that is.”
“You’re one to talk.” Lucy doesn’t elaborate further, though, and for that he’s grateful.
*
"It's the best decision," he tells himself. Quite literally.
He comes face to face with his other self (one of his other selves) on fifty-first century Earth. His future form is dandyish, grey at the temples, distinguished. Paternal, parental. How fitting.
“It is really is,” Older-him says, lighting his pipe. “She isn’t going to be with you forever. This way you get to keep a little piece of her after she’s gone. You can’t tell me you haven’t thought about it.”
“It isn’t fair.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“I meant to her.”
*
Seeing them all together, in one place, is a bit overwhelming.
They’re beautiful, all of them, lithe and coolly confident, with intelligent eyes and wry mouths. They certainly don’t get that from him. Then again, he always did have an eye for beauty, and for beautiful women, in particular. He even sees features he recognizes in the crowd.
Martine, for example, is a clear-eyed girl with a hard mouth and a familiar voice. When she takes his hand, she calls him by name, his real name.
“I’ve outlived everyone I ever loved, until now,” she says. “I don’t know whether to hug you or hit you.”
Her English is accentless, flat, with the unremarkable precision of an American newscaster. There’s no hint of Paris or Versailles in her words. She’s a woman who’s taken great pains to forget where she came from.
Nonetheless, she somehow sounds exactly like her mother. He would have known her anywhere.
Mysteries
The lovers and offspring of Demeter have great significance in the goddess’s evolution, as Demeter is simultaneously an active part of her own journey and a body who is acted upon. Persephone was conceived, against Demeter’s will in most versions of the myth, with Zeus Euobouleus. Zeus's presence is interesting, considering that Zeus and Hades, the dark god of the Underworld who will later become Persephone’s husband, appear as interchangeable figures in many early myths. Zeus is depicted as both the god of heaven and of the underworld, making Hades simply Zeus’s mirror image, the dark aspect of one single god.
The most mysterious of all Demeter's lovers, however, is Iasion. Whether he is mortal or slightly more than mortal (perhaps the son of a god and a mortal woman) is the subject of much debate. What is clear is that Demeter desired him and that he was punished (possibly by Zeus) for pursuing her. Certain sources also infer that Iasion may have been her first initiate into the Eleusian Mysteries.
*
Tomin is the child’s father in every way that matters. And if she tells herself that enough times, it might even start to stick.
Tomin is a good man. The best, quite possibly, of all the men Vala has ever known. He loves her. This goes without saying, though he says it often anyway. She loves him, too, though she only allows herself to say it out loud the one time.
"I'm so blessed," he says, his eyes going soft in that way that makes her breath catch.
"Yes." She's suddenly angry, tearful. It must be the hormones. "Yes, and all they ask in return is your life. Isn't that a bargain?"
He just smiles and puts a hand to her cheek. He figured out weeks ago that her sudden penitence was just an act. He never brings it up, never challenges her about it, because he's good at pretending things are the ways he wants them to be. This is how he wants things, this way he can have them both, his gods and her.
"It's true. I've promised them my life," he leans his forehead against hers, "but you have my heart. I'll come back to you. We'll always be together."
"You could be killed." He will be; she feels it in her gut.
"Even then," he says, and she knows he believes it.
He only holds his daughter once before he leaves for battle. He goes to Sahal, bright and bold and handsome in his armor, and he never comes back.
Vala truly mourns him, both for herself and for her daughter who will never know him.
Of course, the child isn’t without a father for long.
*
“No. I’ll stay. He needs watching.”
The voice is familiar. He ought to have known it would be her.
"Hello, Daniel," Vala says, sometime later when his head has cleared and the ache in his gut has eased a little.
“Why didn’t they kill me?” He knows somehow, instinctively, that the others are all dead.
She shrugs, not looking directly at him. “Too cliché?”
It isn’t funny.
“You’d probably just come back anyway. Now that would be cliché.”
He reaches out like he wants to touch her.
“I had a hard time believing it, you know.”