[ Through it all, Daniel watches, silent and still, the blades of the open shears in his hand pointed skyward. He’d told Claudia the danger was minimal, and he’d meant it; he’d judged her as being powerful enough to take on the gloating fragment of a soul sunk into the book—and if he’d misjudged her, he is at least confident enough in his own abilities to repair the damage. He’s never lost an assistant before, never.
Still, his fingers remain tense as they curl around the loops of the shears, ready to snap them closed if they need to metaphorically cut and run. Already, he can feel the air grow charged with the outflow of otherworldly energies, like sparks thrown from the collision of hammer and steel. His own skin prickles with it, with the echoes of unspoken words urging flight, escape.
But the enchantment in the book has not kept its vigil for so many centuries just to be tempted into dropping its guard now. It is the shadow in the soul's cellar—pride, yes, and hatred and fear. It darkens, condenses. This book is its domain, its duty, and sole possession. Why should it fly up into that world where it will have nothing, be nothing? Will it fly back to the soul that cut it loose and left it here to molder? No, no, anything but that.
It grows heavy and oppressive, threatening to drag down the soul that would lift it. It is immoveable. It is grand. That is all it has left. ]
[the power twists in the air like something struggling to manifest in physical form, the wan ghosts from old vodou stories, the vulgar tragedies that mixed in with catholic tradition and bayou stories. claudia is not without fear. she thinks to shrink from it. to lash out, short brown fingers curled like cat's claws. the defensive swiping of something small and frightened underneath the rage. but the soft marrow underneath does not weaken the bones of her want. she, like her maker, like every other vampire with predation branded into their blood before, does love to win.
you can't have this one.
where does the thought come from? she does not know this book. daniel chose it. never occurred to her to ask, and that is, admittedly, in no small part because she trusts the librarian's outsized sense of justice, of decency, but also his intellect. he thinks himself small in the grand scale of storied leaders, but claudia knows her history. ('history.' he'd like that.) she's experienced decades, herself, and felt the current of thoughts human and inhuman, of big men—mayors and artists and a maître or two. they began small. every single one of them. vampires aren't the only creatures borne of trauma.
you can't have this one. a lesson beaten into her, by hook and crook, a hundred times. not always malicious, but just the indifference of a universe too vast, too full of jockeying monsters, to buckle to one girl's every whim. but this second time she says it, it's gentler the way a silk cord, a tincture of laudanum, or a very sharp knife is gentle. reconciliation of terms. acceptance.]
[ At those words, sharp and precise as as scalpel, the thing in the books judders, rears up. That great and terrible pride it has is shaken; it feels all that it knows, all it has slipping away from it. And yet, if its pride no longer has a firm root in the pages of the book, its fear does.
What is there, beyond these pages? Beyond this purpose? Is it change? Oblivion? Is there a difference? Its defenses are weakened, its form wavering, but still, it will use the last of its will to fight like a cornered animal to stay in its cage. It must be overpowered—or persuaded. Perhaps both.
The pages of this book are all it has ever known. What is there for it to yearn for besides this? ]
[it is a good question with a terrible answer. a terrible question with a perfect answer. she does understand, has stared at both her own anemic prospects and the leering threats of her vampire elders. her anger had faded into lethal mercy, the compassion of a professional at slaughter, but now—holding the struggling vestiges of this thing—she understands, suddenly, it has to become something else, too.
what is there to yearn for beside this?nothing.
nothing—probably. ashes to ashes, dust to dust. in the void, we placed our trust. but if it grants you comfort, i'll join you there one day. claudia the vampire is only faithless in the manner of the formerly faithful. her first night as the loving dead was characterized by the joy of belief her maker was an angel. (her last—though she doesn't know it yet—she will look to him again, as if for rescue.) there always comes time you need something to believe in, or someone to believe in you, and maybe that's why she's betting on a rebellion that taunts her predestined grave to come and get her. because daniel thinks she can do this. or maybe—
maybe because you don't know, for sure. maybe there's something more than paper flesh and fighting librarians. won't know til you find out. maybe i'll join you somewhere else, one day. she doesn't really think so. these days, her faith is weak. but her skill with human kindness has never been stronger, and sometimes lying is the most loving thing you can do.]
[ As Claudia speaks, the charge in the air changes. There is an agitation to it now, as if it is boiling without heat, an invisible, paradoxical fire lapping up from the book. Inside its pages, the enchantment is changing as well, that austere, immovable pride rupturing from the inside like stony eggshell as change and longing burrow to the surface in a kind of ecstatic despair.
Daniel must be able to feel it as well. When he speaks, his voice is louder as if trying to be heard over a din. ]
Claudia. [ Firm, urgent. ] Take your hand from the book, then open your eyes.
[ Once she does so, the scene before her is jarringly mundane. The open book still lies between them on the forest floor, and the scissors are still held in Daniel's hand. But there is something different about the pages. The parchment is still blank, but the blankness itself seems to ripple, a still pond disturbed by a stone. The roiling un-heat in the air thickens until it feels almost solid—
—and then something breaks. The blankness—not the paper, but the blankness—seems to shred away from the pages, scraps of it flying into the air like insects. The winged swarm rushes sunwards, shedding motes of nothingness until they dissipate entirely. It is several moments before the multitude is exhausted, the air clearing, settling back into equilibrium.
And there on the page, are written words.
Daniel takes a slow, steady breath. When his gaze meets Claudia's, there's a look of wild delight in his eyes. ]
Wonderful, [ he breathes. ] That was perfect. I knew you could do it. [ And then, hurriedly. ] Ah, don't move around too much just yet! Give me your hand, the one that wasn't touching the book.
[ Because she can still feel it—that sensation of uncanny aliveness running down her arm, like some stifling, protecting membrane has been removed. Daniel reaches for his discarded jacket and removes a fountain pen from a pocket. This, he unscrews, opening the reservoir within to drip blank ink onto Claudia's fingertips. ]
Use your fingers to write your name on that arm, [ he instructs. ] First name or full name will both do, depending on how quickly you want it to seal up.
[ His gaze flicks towards the book even as he speaks. The words within are written in one of the Fae languages—fortunately, one Daniel has studied. Still, he'll need to get it back to the library with his notes to begin work on a full translation. ]
[victory is a lift of a blood-hot flutter in her heart, wings that have nothing to do with butterflies granting a rare optimism to her spirits. to her good sense. for a protracted moment, her eyes don't move from the new words exposed across the pages by the lepidopteran dissipation of emptiness. her big red eyes. she is incredulous, even as she's following his instructions, despite all evidence proving her success. she provides her hand. the other hand. she accepts the splash of ink.]
Does the name have to be true?
[is a strange question to ask. and what name is 'true,' anyway? only but old celtic faerie stories are lodged in her head, maybe also the obvious aliases of the rivaling djinni, half-remembered invocations of catholic prayer and vodou ritual from before she was turned. names, claudia knew even before this, have power. de pointe du lac was won of necessity after too much forgetting—but as soon as she thinks it, she realizes, the old mortal name wouldn't be right anymore, either, so she's shaking her head.] Never mind.
[her name is claudia. she is claudia the vampire. and so it is just the one name that she writes on her arm, her finger smearing black in its wake along her arm. thus busied, it doesn't occur to her to ask if the book is interesting; she naturally assumes he started her on something frivolous and understanding. offhandedly, she says,] Let me guess. Recipe book. If it's got good blood cookies in there, I expect some answers.
It just has to be yours, [ Daniel says to her question, tone distracted. His eyes are still on the book as screws his fountain pen back together and places it in his pocket. He scans the page for a few moments more as Claudia reapplies her name, eventually tearing his eyes away to attend to the vampire's quip. ]
No cookies, unfortunately, [ he says with a quick, keen smile. ] It's a chronicle.
[ He picks up the book—and that's all it is now, no more stifling presence clouding its pages—and closes it to show her tiny Fae lettering stamped into the cover. ]
This word here is what caught my attention when I found this book in the library. The other chronicles and histories I've found tend to name rulers or kingdoms as their subjects, but this one— [ he taps a particular word, ] —is unusually inclusive. You see these two wedge shapes here? Each one is a pluralizing particle and when doubled like this, the effect is likewise doubled. Not "person," nor even "people," but "peoples." It may be a long shot, but my hope is that it might shed light on what became of the Taken before us.
[ Having explained, he'll tuck the book away into his satchel and begin to also gather up the scissors, bottle, and glass. ]
Alas, I'm not yet a proficient enough in this language to simply read it as is. I'll need to bring it back to the library to begin to translate it properly. [ A glance at Claudia. ] You are, of course, more than welcome to come, though I'm afraid it's unlikely to be a very exciting process.
[as he clinks through his gathered tools, the vampire drops into a crouch by the bag. her fingers make easy work of the fastenings, and she rises again, holding the satchel open for him to place the goods back inside. her brow remains furrowed as she watches each mundane yet mystic implement snug itself back into the shadow. his words turn over in her head.
seems like overdoing it, at this point, to point out that he might have taken a risk with such valuable a prize, setting her amateur hands on it. claudia doesn't like to fish for compliments. but this is not a compliment—it's unforeseen respect, some measure of trust, ripping out of the ocean like a damn marlin, dorsal fin flapping in the sun, nosedived into her unsuspecting boat. maybe he could have fixed it if she fucked it up. maybe these pages will turn out to reveal nothing. maybe, maybe.
still, claudia had accepted his invitation with the blithe excitement for a token caper, maybe a bit of charity, dug from the same toolkit of lestat's hunting lessons, and the first cigarette louis lit for her. what daniel describes has implications to shockwave through all faerie and alter the fabric of their community of the adopted. but, true to the vanity of her kind, all claudia can think of—for a moment—is herself.
she catches herself staring at daniel. then cuts her eyes away, clearing her throat. nonchalantly,] Don't have other plans. You and your hardback are event of the day.
Thank you, [ Daniel says as she helps him with the satchel. It doesn't seem to occur to him that there was anything remarkable about him trusting Claudia with such a ritual. Perhaps it is, to some degree, a result of Daniel's own biases. Even if he knows that the categories of "Long" and "alukite" do not necessarily translate into other Histories, they are the nearest concepts he has for understanding what Claudia is—and Long are universally a force to be reckoned with. An alukite who retains their sanity past their transformation, even more so. ]
Very well, [ he says as they gather up the last of his things. ] I'll hope for your sake then that we find something interesting.
[ He himself is downplaying his anticipation now, trying not to get his hopes up too much. Like he said, it is a long-shot.
With this, he'll take up his cane again and begin to lead them back towards the castle. Now that the book is unveiled to them, he is quieter, more preoccupied with his thoughts, mentally going over the translation resources he has at his disposal and which would be the most useful now.
He knows there were Taken before them. His research into past Wild Hunts had confirmed it; the Fae had been slaughtering them for millennia. What he doesn't know is what had become of them, for even in those old days, the Fae had had the power to bring them back. Nor does he know of the lives of the Taken outside of their role as pets and playthings for the Fae; perhaps predictably, the histories he has been able to find up to this point are quite incurious about such things.
The sun is past its peak by the time they make it to the library, falling onto the floor in hard-angled slats. Daniel finds a familiar table and begins to gather the necessary materials: notebooks, parchment, and grammatica, and then, finally, the book itself. ]
I can't say I've ever had an audience for something like this, [ he tells Claudia. ] Feel free to browse while I work. Like I said, it doubt it will be all that exciting.
[funny thing about trying not to be excited. like trying to act natural. it's the trying that makes it obvious, although, granted, mostly, especially if your companion happens to have exceptional hearing as such that she can hear the little frog of your heart kicking about in the ecstasy of lily pads.
it seems, to claudia, as if daniel is self-conscious, a thing so unthinkable in all his glorious, nerdy self-possession—rightfully earned, as expert in his field—that she finds herself suppressing a smile. she is, herself, morbidly curious and yet also tiptoeing on the spiky uncertainty that they've found anything good. she is an objectively unlucky creature. just not superstitious enough to think about it in exactly those terms, that's all.] Except, you know.
Half these books could, what. Chew my hand off? [she knows that's not how it works. or rather, she knows that might be exactly how it works, but that daniel owens would not let her loose on the musty stacks with carnivorous tomes awander. thus, instead, it's she that goes moseying, sidling off, taking away her peer pressure with her. her eyes skate over dust-flecked spines, her brown finger tracing foiled letters.]
Just don't wander into the cordoned-off section and you should be fine, [ Daniel tells her as he settles into a chair to begin his work. The book, helpfully, comes with a table of contents, which is where he begins, first doing a quick scan to see if there are any words he can recognize right off the bat. He doesn't look up at Claudia's question. ]
Hm? Oh, yes, [ he says distractedly. ] Or, not a whole book, but a few where the Hunt was mentioned or discussed.
[ He pauses to make a quick note of a potentially interesting chapter, then adds a moment later: ]
I actually made a network posting on the subject. You might be able to find it if you go back far enough.
[ Indeed he did. Listening to it now and reading the comments, it won't be difficult to see those first inklings of resistance beginning to take shape. ]
[it's not surprise, exactly, that pops the neat twins of claudia's eyebrows out of level, at that. but she's pleased to have it confirmed that of course, of course, daniel owens knew of the thing, already dug into it, that the genesis of this rebellion was, somehow, already twining roots deep into the dirt of it, growing right out of the heart of the secret she only just learned about. she gets her leaf out, the bright rectangle of light illuminating her face as she goes hunting for the post.
she's good at hunting. that's a joke, but the kind that's only funny because of tone—totally factual, otherwise. it takes her a few minutes to read through not only the body of the dread librarian's findings, but the scattering of replies that follow. good to know that liuxi isn't the only one who came to the conclusion. their brief conversation in the dark, under power of compulsion, had somewhat lacked for detail, however. the context of centuries before. she is not, apparently, the only competent hunter in faerie, and her erstwhile ruthlessness, not unrivalled.]
Bastards. [is under her breath. fueled with ire, if not quite the same level of moral indignation that daniel and his cohort might experience. it'd be a little hypocritical of her to fly a cape and profess to have never caused harm like that, and while she's not above a little rhetoric and persuasion, really, there's no one here for the long con. she doesn't want to die pointlessly by faerie torture. she's pretty sure she's already doing that by vampire hands, back home. her red eyes dart up, checking he's not 'too' deeply engrossed in their new research.]
That as far as you've gotten, digging into whatever's manipulating the Lawspeaker?
[ The time Claudia takes to find and read the post is enough for Daniel to finish his examination of the table of contents and come away with a short list of chapters of interest. He's in the process of turning to one when Claudia asks her next question. ]
Honestly, that hasn't really been my focus. There is another Taken here by the name of Diana—Diana of Themyscira, to be specific. She has dedicated herself to learning more of the geis affecting the Fae in the hopes of helping them break it. [ A pause. ] We... do not see eye-to-eye on the issue.
[ They'd spoken of it in this very library mere weeks ago, and it had quickly become a tense and unpleasant conversation. Still, Daniel is civil enough not to speak ill of someone who even now is more ally than enemy. ]
I do hope she has success in her research. If we and the Fae have an enemy in common, then it can only benefit us to know more of its nature.
[ Even if he disagrees about what exactly to do with that knowledge... ]
Probably more Faeries. Like to be that. How it was in my world, too. There's always gonna be ancient shitlords, and then there's always gonna be ancient shitlords.
[spoken in the tone of a person who's pried up a loose tile from the kitchen floor and discovered more ants. plethora of bullshit, tide after tide of—nuisance is probably the wrong word for it, so much as the existential threat of endless torment. death's impermanence is only reassuring up to a point. fates worse than a final ending are something you learn about through the bible, then better books than that, through the occasional psychic invasion of mortal minds. 'more time' is only useful if you can use it.
to smash ants. to overpower the fae. to push back the onslaught of existential threat. claudia still hasn't seen the worst of this world, but she's happy to forestall that through any means necessary. including the praxis of weird new magic. she nips out a narrow tome from the shelves, opening it with her fingers.] Diana think they'll—what. Play nice, call off the Hunt, if we help them?
[the twist to claudia's voice implies cynicism. if implication was something you could burn in mild long letters into a field, so the fire was visible from space.]
That would not surprise me. Whoever is responsible is at least familiar with ancient Fae customs.
[ They also seem strangely fixated on destroying the "Adopted"—their lack of brutality towards the Fae themselves implies to Daniel some amount of kinship.
At the question, his eyes flit upwards, brow furrowed he tries to remember Diana's exact words.]
She said justice would come for the Fae after they had been freed from their curse, not before. [ His lips press into a prim line. ] From whence this fated justice is supposed to come, I can't say. She made it sound very inevitable.
[ Perhaps she sees herself as being the Fae's reckoning? Or maybe she judges that mass resistance will be an acceptable option only once the Taken have significantly less leverage. Either way, Daniel's cynicism in that regard is not too far off from Claudia's. ]
Like I said, I wish her well. I just hope that if she does find a means to dispel the threat the Fae are facing, she might at least consult with her fellow Taken before simply handing it over.
One for openness and disclosure, are you? [it's an absent-minded joke about—something. the need for secrecy that is paramount to starting a rebellion under their magical overlords. the fact he was sequestered away in some esoteric library, with only postcards and scribbles to send to his peers. not a real criticism. she takes shots like she's breathing. (which is mostly funny because she doesn't need to.)]
How's it looking over there?
[she doesn't come over, doesn't insinuate herself or peek over his shoulder, despite that there's some temptation. she is leafing through a slender tome that seems to combine poetry and field guide. seems true more often than not, that some truth is buried in the art of things—or at least, that's her impression, from what little from earth is relevant to the reality of faeries.] Enchantment put up a good fight, for something might be a piece of crap.
Wouldn't be their first fake-out, though. [humility. or just defensive pessimism. better than getting your tiny vampire hopes dashed all over the floor, where daniel owens' blood has previously spattered. she runs a finger down a list of mushrooms.]
On the contrary, I think it's important that dangerous knowledge be withheld from those who have shown themselves unworthy of it—and it is to that category that I believe the Fae belong.
[ Daniel isn't naive; he would be the last person to characterize himself as a champion of "openness and disclosure." He is a Librarian of the Watchman's Tree, in service to the Door-in-the-Eye, yes, but also to Calyptra, those jealous guardians of forbidden knowledge. Information may be sought and kept, but it also isn't merely to be given away on principle—and certainly not to any who have proven themselves as undeserving as the Fae.
He turns his attention back to the page before him. There is a heading designating this chapter's subject as the history of Fae interactions with the Adopted and/or humans—oftentimes, their literature uses the terms interchangeably. Yet, as Daniel's eyes scan downwards, a furrow creases his brow. After a few moments, he reaches for one of the grammatica at his side to cross-reference. ]
Hmm... It's looking strange, I'd say. This entire section seems to be written in a very particular form of past-tense. Usually, one would see this when reading of events that occurred and definitively concluded at a very distant point in the past, yet... Give me a moment.
[ He falls silent as he continues to piece together the section's introduction, taking notes as he does so. Claudia may have to find the means to amuse herself in the meantime—for the next while, he is totally engrossed. Still, it won't be that difficult for her to figure out when he's found something; the quickening patter of his heartbeat will give that much away. ]
I... need to confirm this, [ he mutters. ] There are some terms I don't understand, but— [ He breaks off, glances around the Library. ] This section on Adopted—or humans—they use the terms interchangeably—it's... Well, it's very unusual.
[ So unusual, that he's hesitant to state his suspicions outright. He could still be wrong; he'll need to finish this chapter at the very least to feel any amount of confidence, and do some cross-referencing with other sources on top of that. How could this not have been mentioned anywhere else? He looks up at Claudia, his gaze anxious. ]
Your senses are sharper than mine. [ He doesn't say this—he whispers it, knowing Claudia will still hear. ] Is there anybody else in the library with us?
[this mortal and herself, they both are prone to particular, niche brands of confidence. big assertions about their own ken, at least in certain spaces of expertise. claudia in eating people—on hiatus, but nonetheless. daniel owens in. what all this is. his hesitation, ballasted by the upsurge of his heartbeat, catches her attention. the only reason she says nothing is the tension of the moment lends itself to certainty he has to keep working whatever's in his mind. better not drop the cable car.
she stares at him through the stacks and their long, blocky shadows, fingers splayed over the neglected page of her book. it'd be disturbing, probably, the weight of that gaze, triggering the subtle scintillation of instinct through nerve fiber, predator that she is. but then—then he speaks, and she twitches straight, shoulders squaring. tilts her head, unnecessary for listening, but communicating her assent.
then there's a brief pause, a downward dig of her brow. she holds up a finger, one sec, and vanishes in a smear of movement then cut frame into nothing. just the aisles standing there, quiescent in the sun laking through the window. mere seconds later, she steps up beside him, chin lofted without half a degree to spare for humility.] No one. With or without a heartbeat, unless they got some real fancy tricks up their sleeve. Funny tenses got your back up, Daniel. What's going?
[ It is perhaps a testimony to how discomfited Daniel is by whatever he's read that he doesn't react at all to Claudia's show of superhuman speed. He simply nods fretfully at her report and looks back at the book. ]
We already know that the Fae have been taking Adopted as "pets" for much of their history. It's how they've managed to hold events like the Wild Hunt going back millennia. But the introduction for this section—like I said, it's in a tense that indicates something that was over and done with far in the past. And together with some of this historical terminology... It's referring to the practice of taking Adopted as something antiquated, ancient—something that hasn't been done in centuries at this chronicle's time of writing.
And... here. This word. [ He points to a clump of Fae text like he's pinning it against the page. ] From what I've seen in other texts, it usually indicates some sort of violent conflict—a war, a coup, an uprising. But here, it's what marks the end of the Fae taking more Adopted.
[ If anything, it should be good news: an implication that something made the Fae think twice about taking any further captives for the span of multiple centuries, at the very least. But Daniel looks troubled; there's something he isn't saying. ]
Like I said, there are a few terms I don't understand, [ he mutters. ] I'll need to read to the end of this chapter to be sure...
[daniel's mind is fast. claudia's technically should be faster, but there's a very hard ceiling to it arising from the concrete reality of her own ignorance. she doesn't mind. she's busy feeling the chill of revelation right now, the inverse and opposite of her knowledge hard-won from the ordinary libraries of earth. back then, she'd been looking for hope. for community. the faintest fucking glimmer of possibility in the eternal night. this—
well, this lays there between them with the leaden weight of a curse. a bleak promise of unprosperity. her imagination is spanning backward to the history he describes, and then, immediately, rotating on its axis, venturing forward. a war, a coup, an uprising. like theirs. her red eyes sharpen back into focus, and cut toward daniel, wordlessly, a squint grooving her smooth brown forehead. you mean, like us? she doesn't say it. do we stop this?
do they want to? yes, she thinks. best of all, if it somehow closes the door home—for her.] You think that's a two-way magic? [her eyes fall to the page, and then her lips fold in between her fangless set of teeth.] Don't answer. Ignore me. Keep reading. I'll have my eye out.
[ Daniel is just about to ask her what she means when she cuts him off, tells him to ignore her. He obligingly shuts his mouth, nods once, and turns back towards the book. ]
Thank you, [ he murmurs, grateful for a chance to just absorb what's in front of him, to think through all its dizzying implications. And he's only just gotten through the introduction. Sun help him...
What follows is a prolonged period of silent study, the quiet broken only by the turning of pages and the scribble of Daniel's pen, at least, to mortal ears. No doubt Claudia will be able to sense more minute fluctuations—the fluttering of his heartbeat, the occasional hitch in his breath. Yet, he doesn't look up from his work, seeming to forget he has company at all.
By the time he finally emerges, the afternoon sun is but a smear on the horizon. He finally tears his gaze away from the book and rubs his eyes—then lets his shoulders slump, his face still buried in his hands. ]
Damn it, [ he whispers. ] We should've known. It's been happening right in front of us...
[ If Claudia couldn't sense his agitation already, it's clear enough in the tone of his voice, strained and incredulous.
[daniel owens, occult librarian extraordinaire, is freaking her out.] Daniel Owens. You're freaking me out.
[she is only discreet when she wants to be, generally the politics of survival, and this moment doesn't call for it in the immediate and mundane sense. not so vulnerable to admit to fear, when terror is smashing through daniel's considerable composure before her eyes, a din in her ears. the body of a vampire doesn't take emotion and translate it to noise the way human physiology does, not that linear ratio of brain chemistry to the pattering heart, the stink of sweat. but claudia feels the surge in herself, like it's an empty hallway standing behind the thunder of daniel's unholy revelation, holding his horrible echoes.
daniel is not an animal that panics easily. young that he is, like mortals always are to her, even when they're technically older—the febrility of old age likens to the helpless of infancy, in her mind. but there's a reliable strength to daniel. anger, conviction, mystic power, are the other tools that buoy him up against the hard sag of his leg, the limits of his mortality. he's said before, he felt vulnerable, during the wild hunt. weak. but it's always been hard to imagine.
less difficult now, watching him basket his head in his hands. she edges closer, a sideways shuffle of small shoes. automaticaly, can't help but peer down at the incomprehensible text laddering the open page. no. no hide nor hair of it, to her eyes. she places a slow hand upon his shoulder. there can't, she thinks, be anything worse than—] Are we dying?
[ Daniel lifts his gaze enough to see Claudia over the crown of his fingertips. What is he to tell her, dead in her own History, this wretched realm her only hope of survival? Will it even matter to her that the Fae see to it that the version of her who lives on isn't really her?
It doesn't matter. She had been the one to unveil this knowledge to him. She must be told. He takes a shaky breath. ]
No, [ he murmurs into his hands. ] Though I admit, I would find such a fate preferable. [ His hands drag down his face and come to rest, fingers laced, under his chin. ] I cannot find what happened to the last generation of Taken before us—whether they were sent home or destroyed or otherwise when the practice was abandoned. But those who came before them, those who were perhaps here too long... [ A shuddering exhale and his expression softens with dread. ] They were turned into Fae. [ He gestures restlessly to his own golden eyes, transformed in the wake of his death in the Wild Hunt. ] That's what all these changes, these rewards are leading up to. It's— [ His lip curls, disgust flashing over his features. ] It's a means of Fae reproduction. They turn their pets into more of them.
[ Perhaps Claudia can think of nothing worse than death, but to Daniel, this is a more hideous fate by far. To be transformed into one's own tormentors, to be doomed to repeat one's own abuse on others—it would be kinder if they were all dying. ]
There are almost certainly Fae we know now who were once Taken themselves. [ The realization brings with it a new wave of horror, along with an emotion Daniel has never once felt for the Fae: pity. He swallows, the knowledge sitting like a stone in his throat. ] I find it doubtful they even remember the people they once were.
[well. this is a fucking nightmare. the principle of which is not new, but the content—is more novel than she wanted. it's not like she had no idea that this was a bit of a trope, modus operandi, repeat theme in tales of the fae. but enough had been different, in all the window dressing, the magical particulars, that she'd begun to assume none of that was relevant. after all, tales of janet and tam lin and mushroom circles didn't mention anything about fake prom or blonds who turn into dragons.
her brow knots hard. her eyes slide in and out of focus, cutting back to daniel's face. it occurs to her, it probably cost him something, to tell her. he's just too good a guy to have withheld it. but what's she going to do, really? sell them out? in exchange for what? death is transformation, and if transformation is death, too, maybe she's screwed either way. but it's something, that this won't be a secret wedged between them. nor the flood of grief stinking off daniel's skin another divider. because she's seen that. had that, from the men in her life. she raises a hand to touch him, give him a comforting squeeze, but that seems—too small, in the face of this.]
It don't say anything about those who finally get home?
[for you, she means. her voice is quiet, encouraging. it's a backward thought, corner attic in her mind. armand is going to fucking hate this.]
I don't even know if any of them did make it home. They disappeared. That's it.
[ They could have gone home. They could have been killed. Either way, they were the lucky ones.
That is, perhaps, the silver lining in all of this: that someone had fought back. That it had made a difference—at least, for a matter of centuries, it had.
Daniel takes a slow breath. There's a part of him—a significant part of him—that wants to give into panic. He is already being changed, after all, after less than a year here. How much time do they have left before they all lose themselves entirely? Centuries? Years? Months? No time-frame had been given. There is no way of knowing.
Yet, he cannot forget that this is a moment of triumph, however bitter. They'd stolen one of the Fae's secrets, learned the truth behind their lies. They must not squander the opportunity they've wrested from their captors. ]
I'm sorry, [ he says to Claudia, voice strained, ] but I must ask that you keep what we've learned a secret for now. I need to confirm all I've read, for one, and we cannot let the Fae know that we have this knowledge before we've decided how to use it. [ His mind races. Dispensed carefully, the truth could move many more to their cause—but indelicately, it could sink even more of them into complacency. It is not knowledge to be freed without forethought. He has to hope Claudia sees that, too. His eyes lock on hers, imploringly. ] Will you trust me with this?
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Still, his fingers remain tense as they curl around the loops of the shears, ready to snap them closed if they need to metaphorically cut and run. Already, he can feel the air grow charged with the outflow of otherworldly energies, like sparks thrown from the collision of hammer and steel. His own skin prickles with it, with the echoes of unspoken words urging flight, escape.
But the enchantment in the book has not kept its vigil for so many centuries just to be tempted into dropping its guard now. It is the shadow in the soul's cellar—pride, yes, and hatred and fear. It darkens, condenses. This book is its domain, its duty, and sole possession. Why should it fly up into that world where it will have nothing, be nothing? Will it fly back to the soul that cut it loose and left it here to molder? No, no, anything but that.
It grows heavy and oppressive, threatening to drag down the soul that would lift it. It is immoveable. It is grand. That is all it has left. ]
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you can't have this one.
where does the thought come from? she does not know this book. daniel chose it. never occurred to her to ask, and that is, admittedly, in no small part because she trusts the librarian's outsized sense of justice, of decency, but also his intellect. he thinks himself small in the grand scale of storied leaders, but claudia knows her history. ('history.' he'd like that.) she's experienced decades, herself, and felt the current of thoughts human and inhuman, of big men—mayors and artists and a maître or two. they began small. every single one of them. vampires aren't the only creatures borne of trauma.
you can't have this one. a lesson beaten into her, by hook and crook, a hundred times. not always malicious, but just the indifference of a universe too vast, too full of jockeying monsters, to buckle to one girl's every whim. but this second time she says it, it's gentler the way a silk cord, a tincture of laudanum, or a very sharp knife is gentle. reconciliation of terms. acceptance.]
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What is there, beyond these pages? Beyond this purpose? Is it change? Oblivion? Is there a difference? Its defenses are weakened, its form wavering, but still, it will use the last of its will to fight like a cornered animal to stay in its cage. It must be overpowered—or persuaded. Perhaps both.
The pages of this book are all it has ever known. What is there for it to yearn for besides this? ]
cw death, depressed thinking
what is there to yearn for beside this? nothing.
nothing—probably. ashes to ashes, dust to dust. in the void, we placed our trust. but if it grants you comfort, i'll join you there one day. claudia the vampire is only faithless in the manner of the formerly faithful. her first night as the loving dead was characterized by the joy of belief her maker was an angel. (her last—though she doesn't know it yet—she will look to him again, as if for rescue.) there always comes time you need something to believe in, or someone to believe in you, and maybe that's why she's betting on a rebellion that taunts her predestined grave to come and get her. because daniel thinks she can do this. or maybe—
maybe because you don't know, for sure. maybe there's something more than paper flesh and fighting librarians. won't know til you find out. maybe i'll join you somewhere else, one day. she doesn't really think so. these days, her faith is weak. but her skill with human kindness has never been stronger, and sometimes lying is the most loving thing you can do.]
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Daniel must be able to feel it as well. When he speaks, his voice is louder as if trying to be heard over a din. ]
Claudia. [ Firm, urgent. ] Take your hand from the book, then open your eyes.
[ Once she does so, the scene before her is jarringly mundane. The open book still lies between them on the forest floor, and the scissors are still held in Daniel's hand. But there is something different about the pages. The parchment is still blank, but the blankness itself seems to ripple, a still pond disturbed by a stone. The roiling un-heat in the air thickens until it feels almost solid—
—and then something breaks. The blankness—not the paper, but the blankness—seems to shred away from the pages, scraps of it flying into the air like insects. The winged swarm rushes sunwards, shedding motes of nothingness until they dissipate entirely. It is several moments before the multitude is exhausted, the air clearing, settling back into equilibrium.
And there on the page, are written words.
Daniel takes a slow, steady breath. When his gaze meets Claudia's, there's a look of wild delight in his eyes. ]
Wonderful, [ he breathes. ] That was perfect. I knew you could do it. [ And then, hurriedly. ] Ah, don't move around too much just yet! Give me your hand, the one that wasn't touching the book.
[ Because she can still feel it—that sensation of uncanny aliveness running down her arm, like some stifling, protecting membrane has been removed. Daniel reaches for his discarded jacket and removes a fountain pen from a pocket. This, he unscrews, opening the reservoir within to drip blank ink onto Claudia's fingertips. ]
Use your fingers to write your name on that arm, [ he instructs. ] First name or full name will both do, depending on how quickly you want it to seal up.
[ His gaze flicks towards the book even as he speaks. The words within are written in one of the Fae languages—fortunately, one Daniel has studied. Still, he'll need to get it back to the library with his notes to begin work on a full translation. ]
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Does the name have to be true?
[is a strange question to ask. and what name is 'true,' anyway? only but old celtic faerie stories are lodged in her head, maybe also the obvious aliases of the rivaling djinni, half-remembered invocations of catholic prayer and vodou ritual from before she was turned. names, claudia knew even before this, have power. de pointe du lac was won of necessity after too much forgetting—but as soon as she thinks it, she realizes, the old mortal name wouldn't be right anymore, either, so she's shaking her head.] Never mind.
[her name is claudia. she is claudia the vampire. and so it is just the one name that she writes on her arm, her finger smearing black in its wake along her arm. thus busied, it doesn't occur to her to ask if the book is interesting; she naturally assumes he started her on something frivolous and understanding. offhandedly, she says,] Let me guess. Recipe book. If it's got good blood cookies in there, I expect some answers.
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No cookies, unfortunately, [ he says with a quick, keen smile. ] It's a chronicle.
[ He picks up the book—and that's all it is now, no more stifling presence clouding its pages—and closes it to show her tiny Fae lettering stamped into the cover. ]
This word here is what caught my attention when I found this book in the library. The other chronicles and histories I've found tend to name rulers or kingdoms as their subjects, but this one— [ he taps a particular word, ] —is unusually inclusive. You see these two wedge shapes here? Each one is a pluralizing particle and when doubled like this, the effect is likewise doubled. Not "person," nor even "people," but "peoples." It may be a long shot, but my hope is that it might shed light on what became of the Taken before us.
[ Having explained, he'll tuck the book away into his satchel and begin to also gather up the scissors, bottle, and glass. ]
Alas, I'm not yet a proficient enough in this language to simply read it as is. I'll need to bring it back to the library to begin to translate it properly. [ A glance at Claudia. ] You are, of course, more than welcome to come, though I'm afraid it's unlikely to be a very exciting process.
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seems like overdoing it, at this point, to point out that he might have taken a risk with such valuable a prize, setting her amateur hands on it. claudia doesn't like to fish for compliments. but this is not a compliment—it's unforeseen respect, some measure of trust, ripping out of the ocean like a damn marlin, dorsal fin flapping in the sun, nosedived into her unsuspecting boat. maybe he could have fixed it if she fucked it up. maybe these pages will turn out to reveal nothing. maybe, maybe.
still, claudia had accepted his invitation with the blithe excitement for a token caper, maybe a bit of charity, dug from the same toolkit of lestat's hunting lessons, and the first cigarette louis lit for her. what daniel describes has implications to shockwave through all faerie and alter the fabric of their community of the adopted. but, true to the vanity of her kind, all claudia can think of—for a moment—is herself.
she catches herself staring at daniel. then cuts her eyes away, clearing her throat. nonchalantly,] Don't have other plans. You and your hardback are event of the day.
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Very well, [ he says as they gather up the last of his things. ] I'll hope for your sake then that we find something interesting.
[ He himself is downplaying his anticipation now, trying not to get his hopes up too much. Like he said, it is a long-shot.
With this, he'll take up his cane again and begin to lead them back towards the castle. Now that the book is unveiled to them, he is quieter, more preoccupied with his thoughts, mentally going over the translation resources he has at his disposal and which would be the most useful now.
He knows there were Taken before them. His research into past Wild Hunts had confirmed it; the Fae had been slaughtering them for millennia. What he doesn't know is what had become of them, for even in those old days, the Fae had had the power to bring them back. Nor does he know of the lives of the Taken outside of their role as pets and playthings for the Fae; perhaps predictably, the histories he has been able to find up to this point are quite incurious about such things.
The sun is past its peak by the time they make it to the library, falling onto the floor in hard-angled slats. Daniel finds a familiar table and begins to gather the necessary materials: notebooks, parchment, and grammatica, and then, finally, the book itself. ]
I can't say I've ever had an audience for something like this, [ he tells Claudia. ] Feel free to browse while I work. Like I said, it doubt it will be all that exciting.
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it seems, to claudia, as if daniel is self-conscious, a thing so unthinkable in all his glorious, nerdy self-possession—rightfully earned, as expert in his field—that she finds herself suppressing a smile. she is, herself, morbidly curious and yet also tiptoeing on the spiky uncertainty that they've found anything good. she is an objectively unlucky creature. just not superstitious enough to think about it in exactly those terms, that's all.] Except, you know.
Half these books could, what. Chew my hand off? [she knows that's not how it works. or rather, she knows that might be exactly how it works, but that daniel owens would not let her loose on the musty stacks with carnivorous tomes awander. thus, instead, it's she that goes moseying, sidling off, taking away her peer pressure with her. her eyes skate over dust-flecked spines, her brown finger tracing foiled letters.]
You ever found a book on the Hunt?
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Hm? Oh, yes, [ he says distractedly. ] Or, not a whole book, but a few where the Hunt was mentioned or discussed.
[ He pauses to make a quick note of a potentially interesting chapter, then adds a moment later: ]
I actually made a network posting on the subject. You might be able to find it if you go back far enough.
[ Indeed he did. Listening to it now and reading the comments, it won't be difficult to see those first inklings of resistance beginning to take shape. ]
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she's good at hunting. that's a joke, but the kind that's only funny because of tone—totally factual, otherwise. it takes her a few minutes to read through not only the body of the dread librarian's findings, but the scattering of replies that follow. good to know that liuxi isn't the only one who came to the conclusion. their brief conversation in the dark, under power of compulsion, had somewhat lacked for detail, however. the context of centuries before. she is not, apparently, the only competent hunter in faerie, and her erstwhile ruthlessness, not unrivalled.]
Bastards. [is under her breath. fueled with ire, if not quite the same level of moral indignation that daniel and his cohort might experience. it'd be a little hypocritical of her to fly a cape and profess to have never caused harm like that, and while she's not above a little rhetoric and persuasion, really, there's no one here for the long con. she doesn't want to die pointlessly by faerie torture. she's pretty sure she's already doing that by vampire hands, back home. her red eyes dart up, checking he's not 'too' deeply engrossed in their new research.]
That as far as you've gotten, digging into whatever's manipulating the Lawspeaker?
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Honestly, that hasn't really been my focus. There is another Taken here by the name of Diana—Diana of Themyscira, to be specific. She has dedicated herself to learning more of the geis affecting the Fae in the hopes of helping them break it. [ A pause. ] We... do not see eye-to-eye on the issue.
[ They'd spoken of it in this very library mere weeks ago, and it had quickly become a tense and unpleasant conversation. Still, Daniel is civil enough not to speak ill of someone who even now is more ally than enemy. ]
I do hope she has success in her research. If we and the Fae have an enemy in common, then it can only benefit us to know more of its nature.
[ Even if he disagrees about what exactly to do with that knowledge... ]
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[spoken in the tone of a person who's pried up a loose tile from the kitchen floor and discovered more ants. plethora of bullshit, tide after tide of—nuisance is probably the wrong word for it, so much as the existential threat of endless torment. death's impermanence is only reassuring up to a point. fates worse than a final ending are something you learn about through the bible, then better books than that, through the occasional psychic invasion of mortal minds. 'more time' is only useful if you can use it.
to smash ants. to overpower the fae. to push back the onslaught of existential threat. claudia still hasn't seen the worst of this world, but she's happy to forestall that through any means necessary. including the praxis of weird new magic. she nips out a narrow tome from the shelves, opening it with her fingers.] Diana think they'll—what. Play nice, call off the Hunt, if we help them?
[the twist to claudia's voice implies cynicism. if implication was something you could burn in mild long letters into a field, so the fire was visible from space.]
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[ They also seem strangely fixated on destroying the "Adopted"—their lack of brutality towards the Fae themselves implies to Daniel some amount of kinship.
At the question, his eyes flit upwards, brow furrowed he tries to remember Diana's exact words.]
She said justice would come for the Fae after they had been freed from their curse, not before. [ His lips press into a prim line. ] From whence this fated justice is supposed to come, I can't say. She made it sound very inevitable.
[ Perhaps she sees herself as being the Fae's reckoning? Or maybe she judges that mass resistance will be an acceptable option only once the Taken have significantly less leverage. Either way, Daniel's cynicism in that regard is not too far off from Claudia's. ]
Like I said, I wish her well. I just hope that if she does find a means to dispel the threat the Fae are facing, she might at least consult with her fellow Taken before simply handing it over.
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How's it looking over there?
[she doesn't come over, doesn't insinuate herself or peek over his shoulder, despite that there's some temptation. she is leafing through a slender tome that seems to combine poetry and field guide. seems true more often than not, that some truth is buried in the art of things—or at least, that's her impression, from what little from earth is relevant to the reality of faeries.] Enchantment put up a good fight, for something might be a piece of crap.
Wouldn't be their first fake-out, though. [humility. or just defensive pessimism. better than getting your tiny vampire hopes dashed all over the floor, where daniel owens' blood has previously spattered. she runs a finger down a list of mushrooms.]
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[ Daniel isn't naive; he would be the last person to characterize himself as a champion of "openness and disclosure." He is a Librarian of the Watchman's Tree, in service to the Door-in-the-Eye, yes, but also to Calyptra, those jealous guardians of forbidden knowledge. Information may be sought and kept, but it also isn't merely to be given away on principle—and certainly not to any who have proven themselves as undeserving as the Fae.
He turns his attention back to the page before him. There is a heading designating this chapter's subject as the history of Fae interactions with the Adopted and/or humans—oftentimes, their literature uses the terms interchangeably. Yet, as Daniel's eyes scan downwards, a furrow creases his brow. After a few moments, he reaches for one of the grammatica at his side to cross-reference. ]
Hmm... It's looking strange, I'd say. This entire section seems to be written in a very particular form of past-tense. Usually, one would see this when reading of events that occurred and definitively concluded at a very distant point in the past, yet... Give me a moment.
[ He falls silent as he continues to piece together the section's introduction, taking notes as he does so. Claudia may have to find the means to amuse herself in the meantime—for the next while, he is totally engrossed. Still, it won't be that difficult for her to figure out when he's found something; the quickening patter of his heartbeat will give that much away. ]
I... need to confirm this, [ he mutters. ] There are some terms I don't understand, but— [ He breaks off, glances around the Library. ] This section on Adopted—or humans—they use the terms interchangeably—it's... Well, it's very unusual.
[ So unusual, that he's hesitant to state his suspicions outright. He could still be wrong; he'll need to finish this chapter at the very least to feel any amount of confidence, and do some cross-referencing with other sources on top of that. How could this not have been mentioned anywhere else? He looks up at Claudia, his gaze anxious. ]
Your senses are sharper than mine. [ He doesn't say this—he whispers it, knowing Claudia will still hear. ] Is there anybody else in the library with us?
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she stares at him through the stacks and their long, blocky shadows, fingers splayed over the neglected page of her book. it'd be disturbing, probably, the weight of that gaze, triggering the subtle scintillation of instinct through nerve fiber, predator that she is. but then—then he speaks, and she twitches straight, shoulders squaring. tilts her head, unnecessary for listening, but communicating her assent.
then there's a brief pause, a downward dig of her brow. she holds up a finger, one sec, and vanishes in a smear of movement then cut frame into nothing. just the aisles standing there, quiescent in the sun laking through the window. mere seconds later, she steps up beside him, chin lofted without half a degree to spare for humility.] No one. With or without a heartbeat, unless they got some real fancy tricks up their sleeve. Funny tenses got your back up, Daniel. What's going?
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We already know that the Fae have been taking Adopted as "pets" for much of their history. It's how they've managed to hold events like the Wild Hunt going back millennia. But the introduction for this section—like I said, it's in a tense that indicates something that was over and done with far in the past. And together with some of this historical terminology... It's referring to the practice of taking Adopted as something antiquated, ancient—something that hasn't been done in centuries at this chronicle's time of writing.
And... here. This word. [ He points to a clump of Fae text like he's pinning it against the page. ] From what I've seen in other texts, it usually indicates some sort of violent conflict—a war, a coup, an uprising. But here, it's what marks the end of the Fae taking more Adopted.
[ If anything, it should be good news: an implication that something made the Fae think twice about taking any further captives for the span of multiple centuries, at the very least. But Daniel looks troubled; there's something he isn't saying. ]
Like I said, there are a few terms I don't understand, [ he mutters. ] I'll need to read to the end of this chapter to be sure...
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well, this lays there between them with the leaden weight of a curse. a bleak promise of unprosperity. her imagination is spanning backward to the history he describes, and then, immediately, rotating on its axis, venturing forward. a war, a coup, an uprising. like theirs. her red eyes sharpen back into focus, and cut toward daniel, wordlessly, a squint grooving her smooth brown forehead. you mean, like us? she doesn't say it. do we stop this?
do they want to? yes, she thinks. best of all, if it somehow closes the door home—for her.] You think that's a two-way magic? [her eyes fall to the page, and then her lips fold in between her fangless set of teeth.] Don't answer. Ignore me. Keep reading. I'll have my eye out.
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Thank you, [ he murmurs, grateful for a chance to just absorb what's in front of him, to think through all its dizzying implications. And he's only just gotten through the introduction. Sun help him...
What follows is a prolonged period of silent study, the quiet broken only by the turning of pages and the scribble of Daniel's pen, at least, to mortal ears. No doubt Claudia will be able to sense more minute fluctuations—the fluttering of his heartbeat, the occasional hitch in his breath. Yet, he doesn't look up from his work, seeming to forget he has company at all.
By the time he finally emerges, the afternoon sun is but a smear on the horizon. He finally tears his gaze away from the book and rubs his eyes—then lets his shoulders slump, his face still buried in his hands. ]
Damn it, [ he whispers. ] We should've known. It's been happening right in front of us...
[ If Claudia couldn't sense his agitation already, it's clear enough in the tone of his voice, strained and incredulous.
Of course. Of course. ]
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[she is only discreet when she wants to be, generally the politics of survival, and this moment doesn't call for it in the immediate and mundane sense. not so vulnerable to admit to fear, when terror is smashing through daniel's considerable composure before her eyes, a din in her ears. the body of a vampire doesn't take emotion and translate it to noise the way human physiology does, not that linear ratio of brain chemistry to the pattering heart, the stink of sweat. but claudia feels the surge in herself, like it's an empty hallway standing behind the thunder of daniel's unholy revelation, holding his horrible echoes.
daniel is not an animal that panics easily. young that he is, like mortals always are to her, even when they're technically older—the febrility of old age likens to the helpless of infancy, in her mind. but there's a reliable strength to daniel. anger, conviction, mystic power, are the other tools that buoy him up against the hard sag of his leg, the limits of his mortality. he's said before, he felt vulnerable, during the wild hunt. weak. but it's always been hard to imagine.
less difficult now, watching him basket his head in his hands. she edges closer, a sideways shuffle of small shoes. automaticaly, can't help but peer down at the incomprehensible text laddering the open page. no. no hide nor hair of it, to her eyes. she places a slow hand upon his shoulder. there can't, she thinks, be anything worse than—] Are we dying?
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It doesn't matter. She had been the one to unveil this knowledge to him. She must be told. He takes a shaky breath. ]
No, [ he murmurs into his hands. ] Though I admit, I would find such a fate preferable. [ His hands drag down his face and come to rest, fingers laced, under his chin. ] I cannot find what happened to the last generation of Taken before us—whether they were sent home or destroyed or otherwise when the practice was abandoned. But those who came before them, those who were perhaps here too long... [ A shuddering exhale and his expression softens with dread. ] They were turned into Fae. [ He gestures restlessly to his own golden eyes, transformed in the wake of his death in the Wild Hunt. ] That's what all these changes, these rewards are leading up to. It's— [ His lip curls, disgust flashing over his features. ] It's a means of Fae reproduction. They turn their pets into more of them.
[ Perhaps Claudia can think of nothing worse than death, but to Daniel, this is a more hideous fate by far. To be transformed into one's own tormentors, to be doomed to repeat one's own abuse on others—it would be kinder if they were all dying. ]
There are almost certainly Fae we know now who were once Taken themselves. [ The realization brings with it a new wave of horror, along with an emotion Daniel has never once felt for the Fae: pity. He swallows, the knowledge sitting like a stone in his throat. ] I find it doubtful they even remember the people they once were.
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her brow knots hard. her eyes slide in and out of focus, cutting back to daniel's face. it occurs to her, it probably cost him something, to tell her. he's just too good a guy to have withheld it. but what's she going to do, really? sell them out? in exchange for what? death is transformation, and if transformation is death, too, maybe she's screwed either way. but it's something, that this won't be a secret wedged between them. nor the flood of grief stinking off daniel's skin another divider. because she's seen that. had that, from the men in her life. she raises a hand to touch him, give him a comforting squeeze, but that seems—too small, in the face of this.]
It don't say anything about those who finally get home?
[for you, she means. her voice is quiet, encouraging. it's a backward thought, corner attic in her mind. armand is going to fucking hate this.]
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[ They could have gone home. They could have been killed. Either way, they were the lucky ones.
That is, perhaps, the silver lining in all of this: that someone had fought back. That it had made a difference—at least, for a matter of centuries, it had.
Daniel takes a slow breath. There's a part of him—a significant part of him—that wants to give into panic. He is already being changed, after all, after less than a year here. How much time do they have left before they all lose themselves entirely? Centuries? Years? Months? No time-frame had been given. There is no way of knowing.
Yet, he cannot forget that this is a moment of triumph, however bitter. They'd stolen one of the Fae's secrets, learned the truth behind their lies. They must not squander the opportunity they've wrested from their captors. ]
I'm sorry, [ he says to Claudia, voice strained, ] but I must ask that you keep what we've learned a secret for now. I need to confirm all I've read, for one, and we cannot let the Fae know that we have this knowledge before we've decided how to use it. [ His mind races. Dispensed carefully, the truth could move many more to their cause—but indelicately, it could sink even more of them into complacency. It is not knowledge to be freed without forethought. He has to hope Claudia sees that, too. His eyes lock on hers, imploringly. ] Will you trust me with this?
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