afraid to speak, to startle the other into remorseful flight, he pleads with his body instead don’t go, don’t leave me gripping at jagged shoulder blades, pulling the narrow waist down to his own please, can’t you see I’m yours? as he opens himself to be filled, to be completed, shivering at the hot mouth on his skin, the teeth digging in to leave their mark yes, please, claim me as hands move to hold him in place with an iron grip against which he writhes in pain and pleasure both, thrilling at the bondage of flesh and bone, his wordless moans speaking for him as he surrenders, submits, swearing I love you, I have always loved you with every exhalation


apology and supplication in the way his hands clench on muscle, fist around silken hair and yank back for a kiss that draws blood, every movement a wordless begging as he sinks his teeth into bare flesh to muffle the moan or choke back the howl, which will it be?, such terrible need in his trembling body and through it all the overwhelming hatred of that need, every thrust of his hips the punishment for staying, for loving, for embracing this madness with open arms and willing body, he leaves bruises in his wake as he presses, desperate to be closer, skin to skin, two bodies moving as one, and when release comes it brings no easing, no comfort, yet he allows himself to be held a moment before pulling away, the ice creeping back already


When the eternal winter descended upon the land, the Wanderer looked to the frozen sky and understood what tragedy had befallen the heavens, and what must be done to free the world from its prison of ice. So she set out across the white wasteland which had once been fields and meadows, rivers and lakes, and made her way to the distant mountains. At the base of their mighty peaks she began to climb, heedless of the driving wind, the razor sharp rock beneath her palms, the drop that would surely kill her should she slip just once. She climbed for days and days, never once glancing away from the summit so high it pierced the clouds.

On the seventh day the Wanderer reached the summit and stood upon its peak, the land a distant smear of white beneath her and the dark sky stretching out in all directions around her. It seemed she could go no farther, but the Wanderer knew magic older than the mountains themselves and with a wave of her hand the staircase revealed itself, an impossible thing of stone stretching into the darkness on nothing but air. She made her way up the steps, treading carefully for even here the ice covered every surface, and soon came to the pavilion at the top. “Lord,” she said, and placed one hand to her heart in greeting.

In the center of the frozen chamber stood the Moon, robes of silver and white stained with golden blood, his eyes a more dangerous darkness than the eternal night all around. In his arms lay the Lord Sun wrapped in the Moon’s dark cloak, serene in death despite the blood upon his lips and the tears still wet upon his cheeks no matter how much time had passed. So too the fateful blade still lay at their feet where the Moon had dropped it in horror at his own actions, its silver blade dripping gold.

“Who do you think you are, to trespass in this realm?” the Moon growled, but the Wanderer would not be cowed, no matter how fierce the threat in the Moon’s voice, and stepped forward. “You know me, Prince Moon,” she soothed. “You have watched me, once upon a time. But now you watch nothing but the stillness of your lover’s breast. Have you seen what desolation your grief unleashes upon the land? Do you realize you are not the only one who mourns the Lord Sun?”

“And what of it?” he snapped, angered at the intrusion on his sorrow. “Do you think yourself so truly powerful you come to undo my crime? Do you think you can resurrect a god?” The Wanderer shook her head and replied with patience, “I can no more resurrect the one in your arms than you can give me my name back. But I know one who can, and I will go to her on your behalf. She has the power to give you back your Lord Sun, though the price shall be high.”

The Moon narrowed his eyes as if trying to see through to the hidden truth. “Why would you trouble yourself to such an extent for us?” he asked, calmer now but no less suspicious. “Surely not for that world down there, that cast you out so long ago?” The Wanderer shook her head. “No. I would do it because we are kin, of a kind. And I have no kin left.”

“And what do you ask in return?” said the Moon, for he could not believe anything came without a price. “Only that you remember, for no other shall,” replied the Wanderer, for truly she wanted nothing else he could offer. The Moon thought on this, and then he nodded, resigned to the fate he had sealed yet willing to humor her quest. “You have a deal. Go, then.”

So the Wanderer climbed back down the frozen mountain and set back out across the wasteland, traveling through snow and ice for countless hundreds of miles before her journey brought her to the end of all land, to the shores of the roaring ocean where beyond lay only sea and sky as far as the horizon. There she found the little cottage in the dunes, and in the little cottage a little room in which the Dreamer slept, reaching out in her sleep to all the world around her. The Wanderer knelt down beside the bed and leaned over, whispering in the Dreamer’s ear, “Dreamer, awake and seek. You must find Them, the Sun and Moon. They are in dire need of your help; you are the only one who can complete the circle of fate and set Their destiny to spinning. Go now. Find Them.”
And as the Wanderer made her way out of the little cottage by the sea, the Dreamer turned over in her sleep and reached for the pen and notebook laying ready on her bedside table.

“And what do you ask in return?”

“Only that you remember, for no other shall,”

Daren glances over his shoulder and across the ship’s deck to where Mage stands tall and stiff at the railing, gazing out across the ocean to something only she can see. Even here she is still the Wanderer, still the Exile no matter that there is no home left from which to be exiled. She has a name now but it is not her name, not the one which was taken from her. That one can never be returned – and even if it were, she is not the same person who bore that name before, and it does not suit her now. She has become something else, immortal yet unbearably weary.


Over a glass of Angel’s Envy he breaks the settled evening silence, murmuring as if the thought has just crossed his mind, “You’re like a tiger.”

“A tiger?” I glance over but Tanim’s gaze rests in the hearth fire.

“Yes,” He nods once, sips his drink. “You’re like a tiger kept in some run down zoo, caged behind rusty iron bars and cold cement. You’ve been in there so long you’ve forgotten you ever knew anything else, felt the wind or rain or earth; yet still you pace your confines in endless circles, lashing out through the bars, starved and desperate. Instead of defeating you, the captivity only fuels your rage, makes you a feral, senseless beast. If someone were to open that cage for you, you’d leap at them and sink your teeth into their flesh before you even realized the door to freedom stood open.”

Tanim’s speech leaves a strange taste in my mouth, not bitter yet unpleasant nonetheless, and when I scoff, “I’m no tiger,” the denial feels false. He eyes me now, and replies with slow thoughtfulness, “No, you’re not. You’re far more dangerous. Even with that door wide open, you’d remain in the cage and wait for your prey to come to you.”

I have no reply to that.


The madness you sense caged within your hollowed breast is as real as your heartbeat, your blood, your breath. Do not be afraid of the beast, scribe, for I am that beast, myself and the cold-hearted Moon. We are the rising tide of rage, the monster’s bellow against captivity, the firestorm swallowing everything in its path. The world trembles before us and blackens in our wake. But you are not meant to fear those things. You are not meant to fear us. We are your strength; your armor; your weapon. Dress yourself in our names, become the Dark Queen, the Deceiver, the wild, wicked creature whose words are blades and whose heart is the great frozen ocean, deep and dark and untamed. Burn the rage like gasoline in your veins and feel your fingertips flare white-hot, ready to melt steel and carve stone. We are with you always. Embrace us. Become us.


You’re like the ocean, placid on the surface but a roiling current of riptides and whirlpools beneath, ceaseless churning no cliff nor seawall can abate as in your longing for the shore you wear away at the very thing you desire, love crumbling at your touch to be drawn down into the forces twisting within you and suffocating there, lost to the dark depths where lay forgotten all the burdens too heavy to bear up or toss to land.


You’re like the wildfire, ravenous and unstoppable, a thing of great and terrible beauty which punishes the lover’s outstretched hand with charred flesh and blackened bone, yet even as you rage on you destroy the very substance which makes your existence possible, devouring body and breath to fuel your murder-suicide, and you shall not cease until there is nothing left to burn and you shrink to flickering coals, curling ash, and finally cool to nothing.


They were saints, vessels of the gods, and so we buried them together, yet still the place remains cursed. The earth there recalls too readily the blood spilled in jealousy and betrayal, and the failure of those who witnessed the sacrilege yet were helpless to intervene. In our nightmares we still recall the phantom wailing heard when we entombed the lovers’ bones – they were not meant to be buried, we understand that now, but how could we have known our attempts at honor were torture instead? Sealed away from the light of Sun and Moon, their spirits remain trapped, and the retribution delivered to their murderer too little, too late to make amends. The White Saint avenged his slain lover, yes, but even as he plunged the blade into their Judas’ back we saw he too bled out and knew we would lose them both in the end. We have tried to bring their spirits peace, yet not even burning the traitor’s body eased their suffering. And so the place of their bloody burial remains haunted and barren, sacred to those who seek the restless saints’ blessing for a lover’s vengeance.


Tanim stands, gaze lowered, frowning at something. Daren stands at his side, eyes averted but attention clearly focused on Tanim anyway.

Tanim: You make the worst parts of my personality come out.

Daren (chuckles dryly): It’s the only way to know who you really are.

Tanim: I was honest from the start.  You know what I am.  What I’m capable of.

Daren: You’re not the villain here.

Tanim: I’m not?

Daren: That badge belongs to me.  (gestures to the crumpled woman on the concrete)  To her.

(Tanim swallows, silent. Daren reaches into the pocket of his coat and hands Tanim a silken handkerchief. Tanim accepts the proffered object and wipes carelessly at the blood on his lips and chin.)

Tanim: What makes you the villain, then?

Daren (folding the bloodied handkerchief and placing it back in his pocket): I already knew who you really are. I needed to know if you knew. If you recognized the truth amid the blood lust.

Tanim (nods to the unmoving body): And her?

(Daren looks down at her with obvious disdain.)

Daren: She deserved worse.

Tanim (defiantly): Who are you to say what one deserves and doesn’t deserve.

(The two men stare at each other.  Tanim’s chin trembles slightly, but he’s standing erect, just barely taller than Daren.  Daren’s eyes smolder blackly.)

Daren: I am your god.

(Tanim struggles to maintain the stare, to stand strong before the other, but with a visible shudder he lowers his eyes and tilts his head to the side, a wolf yielding to its alpha. Daren reaches out to take Tanim’s chin, not entirely unkindly.)

Daren (murmuring): Don’t bite the hand that feeds you, love. Would you rather be alone once more? A mad beast wandering the streets, waiting to be put out of its misery?

Tanim (weakly): You said you would help me…

Daren: And I have, haven’t I?

(Tanim looks up, a ghost of tears in each eye.)

Tanim: Yes.

Daren: And you repay me in such a manner?

Tanim: I… forgive me, Sire.  I… (he licks his lips)  Why the girl?

Daren (snorts with amusement and impatience): You know why.

(Tanim winces and seems as if about to speak, then think better of it. He nods instead and gestures halfheartedly at the cooling corpse.)

Tanim: Shall I throw her in the river like the others?

Daren: No. This one stays. (He smiles when Tanim casts him a questioning look) She’ll serve as a warning.

(Tanim bends down to close the girl’s eyes.  Daren smiles almost lovingly at the gesture.)

Daren: You still care too much.

Tanim (standing up and dabbing at his mouth with the kerchief again): Of course I care.  That’s why you chose me.

Daren takes the handkerchief from Tanim and refolds it, placing it in his back pocket.

Daren: I’ll not see regret in your eyes again.  Do you understand?

Tanim (bows his head): Yes, Sire.

(Smirking, Daren turns and starts back down the alley, not bothering to check if Tanim follows. He does, after a slight hesitation, careful not to glance again at the girl’s body as he catches up to his master.)

Daren: You know why I test you so, don’t you, Tanim?

Tanim (speaking as if by rote): So that you may know if I am worthy.

Daren (a sigh like a patient tutor): No, love. Not that.

(Tanim pauses briefly, struck with surprise, then hurries to keep up with Daren.)

Tanim: If not that, then… why?

Daren: Because your heart still beats.  (Tanim stops and raises a confused brow.  He places his hand over his chest as though to point out the lack of his heartbeat.  Daren caresses his cheek and then places his hand over Tanim’s.)  You feel as they do, Brother.  When you tear their flesh, so is yours torn.  That intimacy is vital.

Tanim: Then why kill them at all?  (Daren’s jaw clenches angrily.  Tanim immediately lowers his head.)  Sire, I-I simply ask be-because…. Because if it is intimacy that we seek, why take the life?  Why not share that moment together?

(A faint smile manages to pull at Daren’s mouth, though his expression remains impatient, on edge.)

Daren: There are many kinds of intimacy. Would you truly wish to share with them (the word spoken with unfeigned disgust) that which you share with myself? Or vice versa? (Moves in to stand face to face with Tanim, chin lifted to bare his pale neck.) Do you think you could do to me what you do to them, my beautiful beast? Would that bring you satisfaction? Fulfillment?

(Tanim offers a weak smile, more to veer from the threat and temptation of the dare than from amusement.)

Tanim: I doubt you would even let my teeth touch your skin, should I be foolish enough to attempt such a thing.

Daren: But it isn’t fear or logic which keep you from the act.

Tanim (ruefully, yet with a note of affection): No.

(A rustling, groaning noise can be heard behind them.  Tanim turns.)

Tanim: She’s…

Daren: Yes.

Tanim: Sire, she’s not completely—

Daren: —Take care of it.  (gently kisses Tanim’s forehead) And then come to me.

(Tanim swallows, nods, and turns away as Daren continues down the alley. Above the sound of Daren’s footsteps can be heard a high, trembling whimper and then the tear of cloth and flesh.)

[ Collab between myself and the girlfriend. ]


You are your own card, last in the deck, The Deceiver with no honest man to balance your influence. The chalice cupped in your outstretched hands could hold anything; blood or tears or semen, wine or poison. Drawn alone, are you friend or foe? Set beside another card, do you muddle its message, twist the meaning of the spread? Even inverted you pose a threat, your proffered cup empty and waiting to be filled. You’ve your allies – the veiled moon, the crumbling tower – but ultimately you stand alone. Your very presence in the deck causes a constant anxiety, as if even when not drawn your power seeps into the telling.


“Daren? You’re early.”

It’s easy to forget with this one, our ‘stray’, that he isn’t a child. He could be one right now, the way he’s hunched down in the hallway with his arms hugging his legs and forehead pressed to his knees. He looks frightened, lonely, lost. It’s hard not to kneel down and wrap my arms around him, comfort him like I would the true children I treat. I fight the urge, though; I must never forget that this fragile form unfolds into a man a head taller than me, one who if not strong is surprisingly agile and quick. No one touches him except the orderlies.

“Would you like to come in? We can start your session now.”

Yes, his age is easy to forget – at least until those black eyes flicker in my direction, hard and hating, hurting, and it seems this man has never been a child at all. It’s possible in this moment to imagine him wielding a knife, driving it over and over into the chest of a man who was his… what? Friend? Lover? Something darker? Until we can get the story from Daren – if we can get the story, if he ever speaks in more than broken sentences – he’ll remain here indefinitely. I won’t allow someone so traumatized to be put on trial.

“Why don’t you come into my office, Daren?”

His lips twitch; his gaze falls away. He mutters something almost inaudible, voice rusty and weak, but I’ve heard the phrase enough times to make it out anyway. “Need… need to find Tanim…” It’s all he’ll say in reference to his past, to the incident which led him to this involuntary committal. He doesn’t seem to remember his own part in Tanim’s death, nor even that the man is dead, no matter how often I break the news to him.

“Well… let’s talk about that, okay? Come inside and we’ll talk about Tanim.”

I’m determined to uncover the truth behind Daren’s instability, to help him face whatever horrors are so unbearable he’s locked them from his mind. But if he does remember, what will happen to him then? Will he stand trial for murder? Will he be locked away with no hope of rehabilitation, when chances are he had no true understanding of his crime?


You think about it too, don’t you?


How often?

Too often.

I feel helpless, like I came too late; like I failed her.

I’ve felt that guilt as well. It can be… weighty.

What did you do about it?

First I fed it to my sorrow. Then I fed it to my rage.

…how would you do it, if you could?


We’ll never get that chance.

No, most likely not. But for them the willingness counts as much as action. It’s a rage sparked by love, fueled by the urge to protect and avenge. They understand. There’s meaning enough in the desire.

It still haunts you, though, that you weren’t there to save him.

Just as it will always haunt you that you couldn’t keep her safe.

If I ever had the chance…

I know. So would I.


I don’t even see him draw the blade; one minute my mouth is on Daren’s collarbone, one hand tracing his hip while the other gently circles his wrist, and next I know his fingers are fisted in my hair, forcing my head back as he presses the honed blade to my throat. Oh, no, no, I think, oh love, what did I do? Where have you gone? What are you seeing? because when I glance up I don’t see my lover in those hard black eyes, nor any measure of sanity, only the feral snarl of a caged beast for its tormentor. The knife bites at my skin and I know I’m trembling, heart pounding in my chest, my temples, but I can’t stop. At one time in my life I might have found this exciting, even stimulating, but not now. Now it’s only heartbreaking and terrifying to look into Daren’s eyes and see nothing of the man I love. Now I truly can’t predict if Daren will draw the blade away or dig it into my flesh, he’s so far gone into the nightmare where I can’t follow. He utters a sound half a growl, half a hiss, inhuman and yet so clearly a warning he needs no words anyway. I lower my eyes, lay my hands at my sides; I am weak, I think to him, I am not your enemy, you could cut me to ribbons and I would bleed out for you, I won’t fight you, I won’t hurt you, you know me, I’m not that man, you know I’m not... Daren’s hand clenches, bright stars of pain blooming where he tears at my hair, but I don’t dare risk a glance. Instead I let him feel my shaking, smell my fear, a wolf exposing throat and stomach to his alpha. But this is a wolf who’s been caged before, who lashes out still at the hand which feeds in memory of the hand which hurt. I murmur his name, “Daren, Daren, come back,” and above me the ragged breathing becomes a whimper, a strangled moan, and when I chance to look up the grimace on his lips is a twist of misery and rage, but at least they are human expressions. The knife wrenches away as I meet his wide eyes, swear “Darling, I’m here,” and catch him, trembling, choking on the wail he refuses to release, as he collapses into my arms.


how strange and beautiful
our capacity to love
so many so deeply
for are you not sister and lover
swordsman and sun goddess
fierce wolf and, yes,
even that vulnerable
frightened girl
(whom I love most of all
did you know that?)
just as he is brother and lover
savior and sacrifice
tormentor and tormented
and the other
oh, oh
the other
the mad duke
the twisted king
the ice prince bound in pain
so precious and so wounded
each one loved as part of the whole
and again loved as whole in itself
such love so beautiful and strange
that any heart may contain it

(and yes, dear sister-lover
I know what you wish to ask:
what do I see, who do I see, in myself?
how many?
but that is for you to answer
those ones for you to love or leave
for they mean nothing to me
without you)


The more I bleed, the more he drinks. Do you suppose there’s an equation to predict which of us will drown first? Blood is thicker, but whiskey burns all the way down. I’ve let my body waste, but he actively tried to destroy his. I wonder: if we could predict the end somehow, would we use that knowledge to change the outcome? Would he, knowing I might leave him behind, hasten his own demise? Would I, fearing to be alone again, attempt to tip the scales? Maybe it’s best this way, this camaraderie of shared misery, this fellowship of blood and pain. Maybe if such an equation did exist, could give an accurate sum, we’d only spend the time remaining trying to equal out both sides.


Most men have moments of madness in the midst of their humanity – Daren has moments of humanity in the midst of his madness. Tanim has been fooled by this. Fooled into believing the fractured pieces of Daren’s sanity can be made whole; fooled into trusting the benevolence of the wasteland; fooled into promising his love to the bottomless pit. No mortal body could contain the wrath and ruin of a fallen god, nor mortal mind withstand such rage and deceit, hunger and abhorrence. No wonder the force of it drives Daren to the edge. His flesh and bones exist to cage a maelstrom which will one day rip him wide, which already tears at him from within until he chokes up blood. Yet still Tanim remains steadfast, clinging to the glimpse of awareness in the god’s death throes.


[ Another pseudo roleplay thing written by the girlfriend and I. ]

(Daren speaks to himself in the mirror.  He’s shaving with a folded razor.)

Daren: How am I going to forgive myself?

(A disembodied voice.) Tanim: For what?

Daren: For destroying you. (He lowers the razor, still staring into the mirror.) When all of this finally slides into madness, how will I ever be able to forgive myself for what will happen to you?

Tanim: It was my choice to follow you.

(Daren turns, the unfolded razor gripped in one hand at his side.)

Daren: Was it?

(The sound of footsteps on stone. Tanim approaches, stepping carefully around the rubble on the cathedral floor.)

Tanim: It’s always my choice.

Daren: You’ll die here, you know.

Tanim: What’s a life without you?

(Daren flexes the fingers of his other hand.  Tanim sees the razor in the other.)

Tanim: Beloved…

(Daren follows Tanim’s gaze down to the razor. His lips twitch in some semblance of a ghost smile. His wings tremble once, white feathers shifting against each other.)

Daren (turning the razor over so it catches the weak light): What will you do when I raze this world to the ground, when I level it to a wasteland?

Tanim: I will kneel at your feet in the wasteland.

Daren (staring at the razor pointedly): It would be so easy.  So quick.  That’s why I can’t do it. Because I need to feel it.

(Tanim takes a step closer, testing Daren’s comfort level.  Daren stands unmoving.)

Daren: They didn’t want me there.

Tanim: It was my good fortune that they didn’t.

Daren: Have you been turned away?  Have you been observed and inspected and then told to go?

(Tanim reaches out, cupping his hand around the razor. Not hard enough to wrest it from the other’s grasp; just enough to test its edges, draw a drop of blood.)

Tanim (smiling ruefully): Every time. (Looks up to Daren) But who wouldn’t want you?

Daren (voice a mix of scorn and longing): The Bright Ones.

Tanim (shaking his head): You were too bright even for them. What will you do now?

(Daren’s eyes narrow, his hand clenching subconsciously around the blade.)

Daren: Burn this world and send its ashes to Heaven.

Tanim: Go back.

Daren: What?

Tanim: Go back.  To Heaven.

Daren: Why?

Tanim: Show them what they cast out.

(Daren glances back down to the razor, considering.)

Daren (thoughtfully): It would be suicide.

Tanim: Not necessarily.

Daren (glancing back up to Tanim): And would you follow me even there?

(Tanim grips onto Daren’s hand, the same that holds the razor.  The blade cuts into both of them and drips down their grasp.  Daren inhales softly.  Tanim clenches his jaw and his eyes flutter at the momentary pain.)

Tanim: As you go, so do I.

Daren: They won’t expect me.

(Daren watches the blood snake down his thin forearm.)

Tanim: If they hurt you, I will end them.

Daren: And if I hurt you?

(Tanim watches the blood as well, angelic silver and mortal red mixing like twin rivers.)

Tanim: You can’t.

Daren: Do you understand what is necessary to bring you with me, into that realm?

Tanim swallows, hesitates, then nods resolutely.

Tanim: Yes. (Raises his head back up to meet Daren’s eyes, white throat bared.) It is a paltry sacrifice, to remain by your side.

(Daren tugs on Tanim’s bleeding hand.  The two men are nose to nose.  Daren tilts his head to the side and closes his eyes, inhaling Tanim’s scent.  Tanim shudders.  Daren brushes his lips against Tanim’s neck.  Both men’s eyes are closed.)

Daren: It’s unlike any pain you’ve ever felt.

Tanim (swallows): I’m not afraid.

Daren: You should be.

(Daren slides his lips over Tanim’s jaw and locks their mouths together, one hand gripping the back of Tanim’s neck to hold him in place. His other hand raises the blade, wet with their commingled blood, and in one quick, fluid motion slides the razor across Tanim’s neck. He drops the blade as the man begins to collapse, using both arms to lower him gently to the ground.)

Daren (smoothing Tanim’s hair as the other bleeds out): I can’t make you like myself, not completely. There’s only one with that ability. But there’s power in the sacrifice, more than they know. I know, though; I’ve made its kind. (Cups Tanim’s face in his hand) There is power on the other side of agony. You just have to reach it.


He spreads his hands, helpless, and asks What else do we have? Who else do we have? and he’s right, I know he’s right, but If he hurts her… to which he sighs, weary, the struggle clouding his pale eyes, and replies He is irreparably broken; he can’t be fixed, can’t ever be trusted not to destroy or self-destruct; all I can do – all we can do – is give him a safe space in which to be broken an excuse I’ve heard so many times before, yet when once I’d have gone willingly with this sacrifice I can’t now, not when there’s more than myself to lose, so He doesn’t want to be sheltered I counter he wants to be sane and before he can argue You do him no good treating him like he’s made of glass; give him room to flex his wings and we’ll see how broken they really are and for once he has no reply, just a grimace of disagreement and the unspoken knowledge that this road is long and painful for us all, yet as I turn away he mutters Can you blame me, for fearing to hurt him further? to which I reply Can you blame me for fearing the same?


I have always been the Ice Prince: stark, barren, unyielding. It is a vast and empty land over which I rule, shadow and nightmare in shades of silver. Yet now you the Ice Queen too bear the iron crown, I see. Welcome to the kingdom, dear sister. Yes, we are kin, of a kind. We’ve the same black ice blood sluicing through our veins, the same bleak winter in our lungs. Your inheritance is ice and indifference, stone and storm. Did you think otherwise, when the depths and dark places have always called to you? There are no promises or platitudes here; only cold, hard, cutting truths. We can never offer enough, never fill the cup of longing, never sate need nor want. We are inert, hollow, unfeeling things, and even when we give it is always inadequate. We are inadequate. Frozen hearts, wasteland souls, impenetrable and deceitful. Do not disagree, you have carried this shard of knowledge in your breast all your life. After all, are the stars not hard and distant, no matter how brightly they shine? Constant as the Moon is fickle, yet both shed the same cold light, dead light, false light, are unobtainable all the same. So you. So I. So we. Do not deny the crown, Lady, should it slip and become your noose.


[ Another semi-roleplay thingy written in chunks by the girlfriend and myself. ]


(Their bedroom.  Daren is sitting on Tanim’s side of the bed.  The drawer to the nightstand is open.  He holds something in his hands.)

[TANIM enters, pauses at the door frame; a picture of sorrow.]

Tanim: Daren, I asked you not to do that.

Daren (not looking up from what he’s holding): Why do you have this, Tan?

Tanim (softly): Does it matter?

Daren (still staring at the object): Yes. It matters.

Tanim: It’s only a reminder.

Daren glances up now, locking their eyes.

Daren: Of?

Tanim (holds his gaze for a moment and then looks down): Of what I used to be.

Daren: Why didn’t you tell me?

Tanim (sighs and leans the back of his head against the door frame): Because I knew you would react this way.

Daren: What way?

Tanim: As though it had no importance at all.  (gestures to the object) That was my life, Daren.

Daren’s gaze follows the gesture down to the thing in his hands. He sneers.

Daren: Yes, the life you strove to smother or starve from your body. Such importance.

Tanim: You wouldn’t understand. (Under his breath) Not that I expect you to try.

Daren rises, fingers clenched around the object, eyes narrowing.

Daren: Wouldn’t understand? Understand what? Desperation? Fear? The utter lack of control?

Tanim: I… I didn’t mean to imply that—

Daren: —that I don’t know what it’s like?  I have my own tokens, Tanim.  But I keep them here (places a hand over his heart).  I don’t store it in a box beside my bed and keep it hidden from my lover.

Tanim (getting defensive): You already hide enough from me.

Daren: What?

Tanim: You know what I mean.

Daren (sneering): Oh yes. I do. I know what you want. But what makes you think you have any right to it? Is there nothing so painful I may keep it to myself? (Takes a step forward) And remember, before you make such demands, what I could ask of you, and do not.

Tanim swallows, then raises his chin to meet the bluff with his own angered dare.

Tanim: Oh? And what would you ask?

Daren steps forward and walks Tanim back against the door frame.  Their faces are inches from one another.  Daren holds the object tightly in his fist and presses it roughly against Tanim’s chest.

Daren: Don’t.  Provoke.  Me.

Tanim raises to his full height, staring down into Daren’s eyes.

Tanim: Or what, love? You’ll strike me?

Daren (deadly calm): No. (Takes a step back.) I’ll leave.

Tanim goes completely still.

Tanim: You wouldn’t.

Daren: Don’t presume to know me so well.

Tanim: I’m the only one who knows you.

Daren holds up the small prescription bottle.  Emptied of pills long ago, the small shard of glass clangs against the sides of the bottle.

Daren: Get. Rid. Of this.

Tanim: I can’t.  You know I can’t.

Daren’s eyes narrow.

Daren (disgusted): Can’t? Is that your excuse for everything?

Daren snorts and tosses the bottle down, turning his back to Tanim.

Daren (softly): You refused to let me die, refused to let me sink into my own madness, and you dare say you can’t let go of this one piece of your past? Even this you cannot do for me? (Hand closes into a fist, as if still holding the bottle) …for us?

Tanim: The scars on your body.  (sneers) The… lattice work of abuse etched into your skin.

Daren (angrily): What of it?

Tanim: I let you have those.  I press my lips to them.  I see them every night and I can’t do a goddamn thing about them.

Daren (laughs bitterly): And am I to blame for those? Would you be better honored by my covering them up than by letting you, only you, see them? (Lower, now; threatening) You act as if you have no scars of your own. What do you think I see, when I look into your eyes? But I never ask. I never press, when you offer.

Tanim (trembling with anger, unable to steady his voice): Ask what?

Daren: Who they were. How many. How often. I know the why, yes, you’ll tell me that when you’re in your cups, but not when or how or where, and I have never asked!

Daren’s shout startles them both into silence.

Daren’s shout echoes through the loft.  Tanim kneels down and picks up the bottle.

Tanim: Why would you ever want to know?

Daren turns around to find Tanim kneeling.  He closes his eyes and breathes heavily, clenching his jaw.

Tanim (a whisper): You’re the only one that matters to me.  (Daren laughs harshly)  I… was a different man.  I only sought after things because I couldn’t bear the thought of sitting still and realizing I was surrounded by ruin.  Beloved…

Tanim reaches out a tentative hand towards Daren’s.  Daren’s eye twitches, but he doesn’t make any further movement.  His eyes are still closed.  A single tear leaks through the corner of his tightly shut eyes.

Daren: Don’t call me that.

Tanim (gently, voice shaking): It’s who you are.

Tanim rises slowly to his feet. Daren refuses to open his eyes. He is trembling now, visibly trying to hold himself still.

Tanim: Oh, love, no… (Tanim reaches up to wipe away the tear, thinks twice, and merely touches Daren’s cheek) Please. Darling. (He takes a small step forward, leaving enough distance between them to not threaten the other. Daren opens his eyes, stares at the floor.) You are my heart. My soul. Compared to you, this (he holds the bottle out) is nothing.

Tanim moves past Daren, opens the French door, and steps onto the dark balcony. Without another word he hurls the bottle over the side, turning so as not to watch its descent. He steps back inside, closes the door gently, and touches Daren’s shoulder. The man has his back to Tanim.

Tanim slowly wraps his arm around Daren’s thin waist.  At first, Daren doesn’t react, but then his body visibly shudders and he turns his head to the side.  He can see Tanim in his periphery.  Tanim speaks directly into his ear.

Tanim: I’ve always only ever been yours.

Daren (soft, voice hoarse and thick): If you can’t let go of your past, how do you expect me to ever let go of mine?

Tanim: You’re right. (nods)


[ Extremely short explanation: the girlfriend and I were discussing over email what it would be like to have dinner with Tanim and Daren. This semi roleplay ensued. Written by us both in chunks. Enjoy! ]

Me: If you’ve already won over Tanim and Daren, what’s there to be afraid of? …oh my god, can you imagine the four of us sitting down to dinner?

Her: How would that even go???

Me: Pretty sure it would be you and Tanim making awkward conversation. XD

[Absolute silence]

Daren fiddles with his steak knife.

Tanim (to Chriselle): Thank you for cooking dinner.

Chriselle: Oh.  You’re welcome.  It was my pleasure.

Daren snorts.

Elyssa concentrates on eating her squash.

Me: Oh my god, that’s exactly how it would go. And Daren wouldn’t eat anything, and Tanim would try to get him to without making a scene, which would just make everything worse.

Her: Yup.  Basically, that’s how it would go.  Daren would look like he was going to either stab himself in the eye with his steak knife, or reach over and stab Tanim in the chest.  Tanim would try to be cordial and engage in conversation.  I’d be reserved, but I’d be more talkative than you because whenever there’s food in front of you, nothing else exists. 

Me: Nooo. I’d be so nervous I’d have a stomach ache, and so I wouldn’t be eating much, and you’d lean over and say “Baby, you need to eat” and then realize you had said it to me at the exact same time that Tanim leaned over and said the exact same thing to Daren.

[Daren exits.]

Tanim: Ah…. Forgive him.  He’s… not particularly fond of people.

Chriselle (glances to Elyssa): I suppose you don’t take him grocery shopping.

Tanim: Oh god no. It would be a blood bath.

Chriselle: MmHMM.

Elyssa blushes.

Chriselle (after a moment): Should… should someone go get him?

Tanim (sipping his drink): Not unless that someone wants to be stabbed in the chest.

Elyssa coughs.

Tanim finishes his drink, moves to the sideboard to pour another.

Tanim: Would either of you like something?

Chriselle: Oh, no thank you; we don’t drink.

Tanim: You may want to tonight.

Chriselle: What doesn’t taste like alcohol at all?

Tanim: I can make you a mojito.

Chriselle: Sure.

Tanim (gesturing towards Elyssa): And her?

Chriselle: Um, do you have any medicine for stomach aches?

Tanim: I… have drugs.

Chriselle: Um.

Elyssa: …I, uh, think I’ll pass, but thanks.

A loud crashing sound can be heard from the direction of the bed room. All three politely ignore the sound.

Elyssa (after a moment of awkward silence): So… it’s, uh, been pretty rainy here, huh?

Tanim (mixing Chriselle’s drink, pauses and smiles to himself): It’s always rainy these days.

Both girls look over at each other, hands to their hearts, and swoon.

Tanim hands the drink to Chriselle.

Chriselle: Thank you, sir.

Tanim (laughs softly): Sir?

Chriselle (laughs to herself): Habit.

Tanim nods, smiling.

Another crashing noise from the bedroom. 

Tanim: Ah, please excuse his behavior.

Chriselle: Is he all right?

Elyssa (under her breath): Is he ever?

Tanim: Pardon me?

Elyssa: You have a lovely apartment.

Tanim winces at a third noise of destruction.

Tanim (sighing): Most of the time, yes.

Chriselle: That must be… (pauses, searching for a polite word) … interesting.

Tanim smiles wryly, but fondly.

Tanim: He keeps me on my toes.

Chriselle glances over at Elyssa and smiles.

Chriselle: Yeah, I know how that is.

Tanim: Oh?  Pray tell.

Chriselle: She’s quite… surprising.

Tanim (to Elyssa): Is that right?  Whom do you surprise more often?  Her?  Or yourself?

Elyssa/Chriselle: Both.

Tanim smiles.

During this first comfortable silence, a door down the hallway can be heard opening just a bit.

Daren (very soft and flat): Tan?

Tanim turns to the voice, then glances back to the girls, looking torn between playing the faithful lover and playing the good host.

Chriselle smirks and waves in the direction of the bedroom.

Chriselle: Oh, go on, go on. We wouldn’t want you to get in trouble, now would we?

Tanim returns the smirk, though there’s relief in his eyes.

Tanim: We wouldn’t want that, no. Excuse me.

Tanim gives a small bow and exits.

Elyssa: Well that went…

Chriselle: Just about how we thought it would.

Elyssa: Yep.


cruel as a virus
embedded deep as cancer
your infectious rage

Faithless specter, I have swallowed your blood and wept your tears yet still you ask for more, for flesh, for bone, for breath and heartbeat and dominion, and if I cannot give these things, if this mortal form’s too frail to contain a slain god’s rage, will your madness burn me to ashes from within until I too am naught but a restless spirit seeking a willing shell?


[ I know this isn't a piece of writing, but I wanted to post part of a discussion about writing my girlfriend and I had over email. I think it's interesting to see how two different writers view the same work, or the craft of writing in general. Also, if I haven't mentioned it (I have), my girlfriend is super talented and you should read her stuff. ]


Her: We write differently, don’t we. It seems that you stew for a while before writing anything. And I just grab the nearest writing utensil and scribble. There’s so much mastery in your writing. It’s like… It’s like honey dipped in strawberries.

Me: I like how desperate and passionate your words are, though. Sometimes lingering over a piece and picking it apart only harms it, not improves it.

Her: Is that how you feel about your writing? That you pick it apart? What do you think of your writing?

Me: Well, sometimes, but not always. It depends; some pieces come flowing out all in one sitting, while others lay fallow and unfinished for weeks, months, or years. I suppose you could compare my writing to… I don’t know, a sculpture or a carving or something, where at first glance you see just a finished product, but on closer inspection you see that every single little stroke or cut was a specific choice, that nothing was done without forethought and an eye for the whole. Which can be good, or bad, or useless – I know no one will notice if I use the word “but” twice in one monologue, but I will, and do, so I’ll change a sentence and use “yet” instead, or something else. The flow has to be just right.

Her: I’m sure you know that Tanim and Daren have different cadences. But I doubt you read your things aloud very often. Tanim’s speech has a staccato feel to it. Sharp. Strong consonants. Intentional rhythm, like a tap-tap-tap. And Daren’s speech, if I were to stick with the music analogy, is very legato. Long. Flowing. So where Tanim’s words stab at you, Daren’s slither in before you realize they’re there. When I read Tanim aloud, I think of a sleek dagger sliding between my ribs. And when I read Daren aloud, I think of a needle that’s already in my skin.

Her (later in the conversation): That’s exactly how it feels. With Tanim, I can sense something happening. I know he’s coming in. But Daren is just… there, suddenly, in the doorway, standing and staring.

Me: I had never thought of it that way, but you’re absolutely right. That’s not even ever how I mean to write any of it, but it comes out that way anyway. You know, I think you’re the only person who truly understands how little control I have over any of this.

Her: On the one hand, I see your part in it. It’s like if They were a painting, I’d recognize your style, your brush strokes, your color choices. But the painting itself is entirely Theirs.


If I once had wings, as you say, what have I done with them? None of us seems used to the burden; the one scorns while the other mourns. And I, for my part, cannot even remember their weight, nor the shifting of muscle and the rush of air. No, all I remember is the fall, the endless plunge of which I dream so often. So how are you so sure of the existence of that which left not even scars upon my shoulder blades? How can you name me such a thing of beauty, I who have always been mortal and fallible? I comfort myself by believing love has blinded you, or perhaps you simply see what you need after years of fruitless searching. You cannot see the truth, surely.

And yet…

And yet I must admit, to you if no one else, there are times when holding you I almost feel… almost recall… could almost swear that more than arms embrace us in this bed.


Achilles tore down an army in his blind red rage to avenge cherished Patroklos. Alexander hacked off his hair and built a golden pyre tall as the sky to give beloved Hephaestion his due. But what has Tanim for his own dearest Daren? In what form may his grief for the fallen companion find honor and release? There is no one to punish, to crucify, to slaughter; no one to share his mourning, bewail the dead, cover the city in black. There is no oracle from which to beg godhead or loyal followers to mix the lovers’ ashes and entomb them together. He is alone. Alone in his grief, alone in his anger, alone in his burden of memory and future. No monument to his mourning will last the ages, nor tales be told of a love so devoted that neither could bear the absence of the other. When Tanim dies he will take everything they were to his unmarked grave.


T’was the night before Christmas
The ground snowy soft
As Tanim sat drinking
Up in his loft
Alcohol bottles
Littered the bed
And nameless ghosts swirled
Through the man’s head
He felt so alone
And though he knew why
He cared not to live
But only to die
Vice after vice
He tried to find rest
To numb the hollow
Of the heart in his chest
When on the balcony
There arose such a clatter
Tanim sprang up
To see what was the matter
Away to the glass door
He flew like a flash
Tore open the curtains
And pulled down the sash
The moon on the breast
Of the new-fallen snow
Gave a lustre
To the grey world below
When what to his wondering
Eyes he beheld
A dagger-thin man
With silver hair, felled
Stumps on his shoulders
So jagged and red
Tanim opened the door
Knelt down and said
“Who are you, sir?
And what is your name?
Can you please tell me
From whence you came?”
“I only know death
And I only know pain”
The sorrow in his voice
The man could not feign
Before he could think
Tanim drew the man near
“Don’t be frightened, sir,
You’ll be safe here”
The man, with reluctance
Gave Tanim his trust
He was tired of running
And rest he must
The broken man leaned
Heavily on Tanim’s arm
Who moved very slowly
So as not to do harm
“Daren” he said
“Is how I am known
I have neither favor
Nor grace to loan
But I am indebted
To you and your own”
Tanim listened
To the man’s tale
Learned of his
Utter desire to fail
To leave the realm of angels
Where he was stuck
How he leapt from the sky
And landed with luck
On a loft in a city
Dreary and cold
But more stunning
Than his kin ever doled
Touched, Tanim leaned close
To give him a kiss
The fallen angel
Reared away with a hiss
“Don’t touch me!” he screamed
“You don’t know what I am!”
“You’re as shattered as me!”
“I don’t give a damn!”
Then from under his shirt
The angel drew steel
“Is this all a trick?
Are you even real?”
“Put down the knife
Come here and feel”
Daren stepped forward
To touch the man’s cheek
And found more
Than he intended to seek
The two men embraced
‘neath the moon’s silver light
And for the first time
Tanim’s Christmas
Was a beautiful night.

[ My wonderful girlfriend wrote this parody poem for me for Christmas. See how talented she is? Now go read her stuff! ]

#1339 – Winter Solstice

Do you know why the Moon first rose up to slay his lover the Sun? Some say it was sorrow or jealousy or fear that moved his hand, or that the Moon had gone mad in the darkness and did not know himself again until he knelt with the dying Sun in his arms. There may be a fragment of truth in all of these – does love not encompass all such emotions? – but I have glimpsed another sliver of truth. Perhaps the Moon raised his blade not to punish or sacrifice his lover the Sun, but to spare him. To save him. Perhaps the Moon wanted only a way for them to never be parted, to cease the chase which kept the lovers forever a horizon’s length away, and did what he must to change their fate. Can you deny that it is better to perish in your lover’s arms, rather than never feel their embrace at all? At least in death the Sun remained with the Moon, as the Moon would remain with the Sun when his turn came to embrace the blade and spill his silver blood. An ill fate, yes, but no worse than the agony of constant separation.

You must hold tight to the thing you love, for it can be taken from you without warning. Do you understand, now? I cannot allow you to be taken from me. It is better, this, than leaving our luck to fate. I spared you the blade, though, and I doubt you ever tasted the powder. (Though I wonder, darling, if even knowing, you would have drank anyway?) The Moon required suffering for his pact, but not I. You need not bleed, darling, only drift to sleep and fear neither pain nor loneliness; I am with you in this, as in all things, and I will hold you safe. You are mine, now, and only mine.


“God dammit.”

“I thought this would be easier.”

“The pictures are lies. Clearly.”

“This is the most frustrating experience of my life. Why would anyone put themselves through this?” 

“How does it get so hard? What the fuck is the point of that?”

“What do you mean? Mine’s so soft I can’t do anythi– dammit!”

“Yeah, that happened to me, too.”

“Do these even fit together?”

“According to the diagram.”

“This is fucking impossible. I give up. Nothing is worth this amount of effort and mess.”

“Hey, don’t look at me like that! I didn’t know it’d be this bad.”

“Well, it was your idea. I’d never think of something like this.”

“I just thought it would be fun to do together. Which it might be, if we weren’t so bad at it.”

“Oh yes, that’s the problem; our inexperience. Right. Darling, next time you want to do some bonding, why don’t we skip the making gingerbread houses part and go straight to the sex?”

“…I like that plan.”


[ Okay, so this scene isn't exactly canon - sue me. My girlfriend and I recently tried to make gingerbread houses from a kit and things... didn't go well. We couldn't resist wondering if Tanim and Daren would have fared any better. ]


He pushes, palms to slick, cool gold, shoulders weighted with a thousand judgments as the gates slowly part before him and he crosses the threshold, blade in hand, staring straight ahead in defiance and denial of the knowing gazes all around, let them test his devotion, head high and heart a wild thing in his chest he steps forward without hesitation, as if he has walked such holy ground before, without hesitation or fear or intimidation until… until… until, oh, the sea parts and he falters, forever unprepared to stand as if naked beneath that dark gaze so piercing, he falters and the blade falls from slack fingers, and as the other approaches so he follows the abandoned weapon, drops numb to his knees with mouth open but no words emerging, so focused on this impossibility, the black eyes, the willow body framed in wings so white they hurt to look upon, and all he can do is reach his hands out to this vanished vision and finally utter the barest whimper as familiar hands reach to close the distance between them, the sound a prayer pleading just one touch, begging to let them come away from this place, their fingertips are so close and if he could just feel those hands one last—

He wakes, the whimper still on his lips, and turns his head to press his cheek to the cold white marble, no fit resting place for the living nor the dead, and fingers denied always that last touch reach up to trace the carven letters, Beloved spelled in a braille he has always known and would give anything to forget.

I will break down the gates of heaven
A thousand angels stand waiting for me,
Oh, take my heart and I’ll lay down my weapons
Break my shackles to set me free…
I’ll run, I’ll run, I’ll run,
run to you.