#1924

Do you exist without each other? Do you exist in the time before you met, when you lead separate lives? You never let me see those years.

Who was Will before he found Hannibal?


…we don’t ever learn that, I guess. Not really.

And after?


We don’t know that either.

Then there you have it. Whether the teacup existed before it shattered or not doesn’t matter once it has broken.


But– …I hate when you speak in riddles.

No, you don’t.


Does that make me Abigail, then?

That’s a riddle you’ll have to solve for yourself.

#1907

In my dream, you take once more the forms that suit you so well, the wolf and stag in human flesh. In my dream, you take up the deathdance that must feel so familiar, so instinctive to spirits who have known nothing but love and war, rise and fall, for so many eternities. In my dream, you slay the dragon together and each heartpulse of blood, each twitch and cry, is the physical manifestation of your bond. See, you say through bloody mouths, see how I love you, my darling? See, you say through rending teeth, see how it could be, beloved, just the two of us? See, you say through the poetry of mutual destruction, over the body of your slain prey, see – this is our design.

#1849

“Well, well, well… isn’t this a surprise. Hello, Alice. How nice of you to visit my little prison in the sub-sub-sub basement. I hope it wasn’t too far of a walk for you.”

“I don’t have time to swap antagonism wrapped in false pleasantries, Mage.”

“Funny, because I have all the time in the worlds.”

“This was a terrible idea. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“You need my help, hmm?”

“…yes.”

“Things must be bad, then, very bad. Who is it? Or what?”

“We don’t know yet. It leaves no useful evidence at the… scene. Just remains.”

“Ooh, a mystery. I’m intrigued.”

“This isn’t a game! People are dying–”

“–boooring–”

“–and you might be able to help. As nauseous as it makes me to say it. So… will you?”

“Quid pro quo, ‘Ah-leese’. You haven’t said what’s in this for me.”

“I guess it’s too much to hope you just feel like doing something good for a change?”

“Aww. That’s cute. No. This place is boring.”

“I can see about getting you some books, maybe–”

“I want a shark. With legs. I want a crocodile shark.”

“No.”

“Just a regular shark?”

“No sharks!”

“What about just a crocodile, then, only it has a machine gun strapped to its–”

“Again, this was a terrible idea. What a waste of time. Have fun being alone in your prison.”

“Wait, wait. Fine, show me what you’ve got there and I’ll see if it’s interesting enough. We can talk trades later. I am pretty serious about the crocodile shark though.”

“I hate you so much.”

#1831

What was it like, in that last moment, after all those years of waiting, to finally hold him in your arms? So many paths, so many choices, so many what-ifs and coin flips drew you both inexorably to that edge – was the beauty of it almost unbearable? Was it worth all the effort and risk? Was it worth the betrayal on both sides? They will always debate what actually drove you, whether it was love or madness or boredom, but I know the truth. I know love takes many forms, and not all of them fit for the light. 

#1807

In my dreams you take the form of the wolf and stag, they who fell from that high clifftop, locked in the blood-dance of love and death. Do you simply take pleasure in wearing those skins (they must feel so familiar), or are you trying to tell me something about the nature of hunting and fishing, of devouring that which you love so it may remain caged behind your ribs? Are you trying to tell me the teacup is irreparably shattered, or that once the story swings full circle the shards will mend themselves again? There’s something here, nestled in the rocks of the riverbed; there’s something I must find, resting amid the slick blood and fine china. What are you trying to tell me? They fell – but the story isn’t over. The story’s never over, is it?

#1714

What meaning, these symbols, this strange play? The monster’s bride, as it were, though who knows what was ever truly in her heart, seeking sanctuary in a cathedral though surely she doesn’t believe. But she wants to right now and she mutters to herself to believe, believe, drawn in and hunched over with the weight of the darkness clinging to her back. Does she see it? Does she feel it? Or does she think the church doors can block out all evil? Perhaps they could, if only this shadow wasn’t so much a part of her that she carries it inside as easily as her bones and blood. She tries to sit on a pew but she’s too restless, she feels like she’s being followed, watched, hunted. So she paces, wandering near the priests as they light the great tall candles, and as she passes the shadow reaches out to snuff the flames and shatter the white wax into black smoke. One, two, three, four, it sends out its drifting tendrils to douse each candle and usher the shadows in the corners closer. She weeps, maybe, but she cannot or will not control the hungry thing she carries. Soon only the faintest, most remote tapers remain lit, for shadow does need a small bit of light for casting. The priests and worshippers huddle in fear. They watch as the darkness rises from her back like a cloak swept aloft by the wind, until with newfound strength it tears from her completely and drifts down to settle into its own autonomous form. A living thing draped in darkness, staring out at the fear and the panic with a smile on its hidden, or perhaps missing, face. It catches sight of itself, then, in mirrors hanging behind the crowd. I see you, sir, I think to the reflection, and bow my shadowed arms. Then I laugh, and the sound echoes through the cavernous halls. So thus darkness entered, came free, and took form. Thus the church was invaded and infected. But why? Why her, and why him? Who was I, in her body, in the shadows? Who was I in the mirror?

#1675

Muddled dreams; your fingers, the knife, the needle, fear and exhilaration; strange you’d choose these forms (yes, I know it’s you), suiting masks but so many meanings; lovers and enemies and one never without the other, by blood building a world to suit you both (or neither); so whose mask should I wear? the daughter, surrogate born in her own blood, so precious she should be sacrificed rather than set free (as if you allow a trinity); or the broken one reborn as avenging angel, she who managed to capture the Devil and would have held him until the end? (as if he can truly be held, ever); the dreams don’t tell me what role I should play; in them your masks are mine; in them the knife is dear to me, and I submit (you enjoy this, don’t you); but if I write about blood and feed you dark anthems the dreams recede for a time at least.