Apokalypsis:
Part one:
Egli era nato
Jewel Faulkner
jfaulkne@brynmawr.edu

         (long) Intro:  The title of this story is from the Willow Song in Verdi's Otello, from the line "Egli era nato per la sua gloria, io per amarlo e per morir"--He was born for his glory; I to love him and to die.
         This story started out *totally* different from how it ended up being.  This was going to be one story, where everyone ended up, shock of shocks, happily ever after!  Hell, it even originally had the title of "Mais si je t'aime" [But if I love you], which is from the Habanera in Carmen--a happy, cute, little song that once it gets in your head, it never goes away (<evil grin> so, of course, randomly singing it was my favorite way to torture my roommate last year).
         I eventually dropped "Mais si je t'aime," intending on sending it to the pile of rejects known as "good-ideas-that-fizzled-out-or-wouldn't-fit."  I had planned on stopping after the story "Good-bye, Love," and my only regret if I had would have been *not* that I was leaving everything hanging with Mark and Christine (it was all the same to me to leave it up to everybody's imagination as to what would happen in the end), but not exploring Hope and Christian.
         So I dusted off "Mais si je t'aime" and starting seeing what I could salvage, ruthlessly chucking much of it and many major plot points of the original story, eventually cutting all but the first scene and two major plot elements, all the others whittled away and a new story with a new name begun upon that base.  Why?  Because as I wrote, my Muse came and began to beat me upside the head; this story changed; metamorphosized into something harsher and darker.  This was going to be the last story in "Miserere mei Deus;" instead it became the first story in "Apokalypsis."
         Yes, folks, this time, it really *is* the last series for me, and we're going out with a bang.  For those of you who may have forgotten the...'random' line thrown into "Ante diem rationis," "the lifting of the veil" is an English translation of the Greek word Apokalypsis.  That's right, boys and girls, Apocalypse.
         It's the end of the world, baby--do you feel fine?

 This series is my most ambitious to date, way more that "Gli enigmi" ended up being.  That's why this is going to be a *long* series, more than twice as long as any of the others.  "Apokalypsis" is seven stories.  That's right, seven (possibly nine, if I split up Götterdämmerung into separate releases) of 'em:
         Egli era nato [He was born]
         Liebestod [Love-death]
         Nell'ora della morte [In the hour of our death]
         And I'll Never Need a Lie
         Revelations
         Lightning Crashes
         Götterdämmerung [The Twilight of the Gods]:
                 I-Dies Irae (dee-es ear-ray) [Day of Wrath]
                II-The Drawing of the Seven
                III-Coming into the Palace of the King

         This is *the* big thing that I write.  It's big, it's complex, it's been the most fun of anything to write despite being such a pressure cooker, and it's the end.  <g> I just hope I don't drop the ball with this--this series was what brought back the Muse and her club left after "Gli enigmi."  But I'll explain all of that in the intro to "Götterdämmerung."  Yeah, I already wrote that intro, and it's a doozy for length.  But anyway.  Like I said, this is my most ambitious series; the one where I have the most balls in the air.  So welcome to my juggling act; let's see if I end this with a bow or beaning myself on the head, shall we?

         ******And now, for the BIG warning for this story.  BIG HUGE HONKIN' NC-17 RATING  ALL *OVER* THIS MOFO.  This deals with some pretty messed up issues.  Like rape.  And insanity.  Lots of both.  There is a lot of bad language and some pretty detailed (OK, fine, graphic) scenes in here that are *not* for children.  MATURE READERS ONLY, and I damn well *mean* it.  Y'all know what I've written before (i.e., "Il Sangue" and "Turandot"), so y'all know I don't put warnings on stories unless I feel there has to be one.
 This one did.  I didn't whitewash over *anything* in this, like I did with both "Il Sangue" and "Turandot."  I had to turn off the internal censors for plot reasons. I don't like the internal censors; I've found that they're usually there for a reason.
         Yes, folks, I have again wandered into the realm of freaking out myself.  It's really bad when you creep yourself out, and I did for the second time (the first time was with "Gli enigmi").  Mainly because I couldn't believe my brain could come up with some of this stuff.  The dark side may be my forte, but I didn't really want to know how much.
         I know there will be some people who have a hard time reading this.  I know it because some of my friends turned kinda green when they read it (one, stammering, asked me if I didn't think it would be a good idea to tone it down; another couldn't read it all and resorted to skimming after making all *sorts* of faces when she was reading it).  If it bothers you, either skip the icky stuff or just quit reading it--there'll be a nice, neat, undetailed summary in the intro to the next story, "Liebestod."  And the fact that I'm doing *that* should say something.******

         Legal stuff: the gargoyles, the fey (aside from Thoth, Hecate, and the Fates--this conceptualization of them is mine), and Alexander belong to Buena Vista.  Mark Adam's is Scott Iskow's.  Everyone else is mine.
         Oh, and do I even need to list all the stories y'all need to have read before this one?  If you haven't read all of my stuff, you need to.  And all the stories by other people I list in those.  Otherwise, I promise you, you *will* be confused.

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Piangea cantando
nell'erma landa
piangea la mesta
O Salce, Salce, Salce!
Sedea chinando
sul sen la testa!
Salce, Salce, Salce!
Cantiamo!  Cantiamo!
Il Salce funebre
sarà la mia ghirlanda.
Egli era nato per la sua gloria,
Io per amarlo e per morir. 		[Singing, she wept,
On the lonely hearth,
The poor soul wept.
Oh, willow, willow, willow!
She sat,
Her head bent to her breast,
Willow, willow, willow!
Come sing!  Come sing!
The weeping willow
Will be my garland.
He was born for his glory,
I to love him, and to die.]
            -The Willow Song, Otello

  ***  ***  ***  ***

PROLOGUE: In the Cave of the Fates
TIME: before the dawning of memories

         It began with Clotho.  She always began.  She picked up the raw materials and under her fingers, began to transform it into thread.  Lachesis would measure it, and Atropos cut.  Then the three of them would weave the threads together and create a tapestry.
         "This shall be an important one, won't it?" Clotho said before she had even begun.
         "Yes." Atropos said to the girl.  "Very much so."
         "What shall we weave?" Lachesis asked.
         Atropos smiled.  "Now, you know the answer to that." the old woman chided.
         Lachesis nodded.  "Yes, I did.  But...I had to ask."
         Clotho giggled.  "Fated to ask?"
          All three chuckled for an instant, then fell into silence as Clotho began to work.

  ***  ***  ***  ***

Time:  September 10, 2047

         She had purposely stayed away from earth.  She had been banished there for a while, thanks to the upstart child of Elisa Maza and Goliath.  She had intended to keep her promise to Christine, and stay away from the child of Shiva and Belinda.  But...but while she had said she would not interfere, she had said nothing about not assessing his potential risk...
         Titania smiled.  "The rule that cannot be broken..." she whispered aloud.  Then she vanished.

  ***  ***  ***  ***
         It was night.  She found the boy quickly--after all, his magical signature was as strong as his mother's *had* been, before Titania cheerfully stripped her magic away.  There was no one on earth as powerful.
         She frowned.  The boy should be dead.  He was a threat.  She had tried once to find away to save someone so powerful--Belinda--because she owed her family.
         Perhaps she should not make the same mistake...
         Christine will get over it, Titania thought.  This was a logical decision--the boy was radiating power.  Her hand glowed and she raised it to blast him.  It would be quick and painless...
         Her breath caught abruptly in her throat.
         ~By the Fates!  He's beautiful!~
         Titania had never seen him until that instant.  He was sleeping, one arm slung across his chest, his head resting on long, straight, black hair.  He had a young face for his age; one that looked amazingly innocent.  Maybe it was the eyelashes that did it--she had never seen eyelashes that long or that dark or that thick on a man.   His lips were parted, revealing teeth that were a hair too long and sharp to be human.  He had facial hair; a neatly trimmed goatee, and facial hair that was likely to shaved the next morning on his cheeks.  His chest was bare.  Even his arms were hairless.  She smiled faintly--it did make sense; gargoyles did tend to have little to no body hair.  The light from her hand played over him.  He was muscular, and she wondered how much of that was genetic and how much planned. Looking back at his family, she filed it as genetic.  As was his size.  He was huge, easily as tall as any of the gargoyles she had ever met, including Goliath.  He mumbled in his sleep, and threw his arm over his eyes to shield them from her light.  She glanced at his hand.  Four fingers and a thumb.  But taloned, like his mother's.  Huge hands.   Her tongue touched the tip of her lip.  She felt her face reddening slightly; her breathing slightly irregular.
         Well, she thought to herself, raising an eyebrow.  This is an interesting development.  I come here to do something I should have done long ago; destroy the child of my enemies who's powerful enough to one day overthrow me, and what happens?
         "You are safe from me *killing* you, little Shiva." she whispered into his sleeping ear.  "But not safe *from* me." she finished, and laid a kiss on his slightly parted lips.  His eyes flew open and he sleepily saw her for a second before she vanished without a trace.
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Rendezvous then I'm through with you.
           -"Inside Out," Eve6

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Time: one year later

         Titania was waiting when Christian returned to his room.
         "Christian."
         He launched himself at the queen of the fey, lifting her off of her feet and holding him to her, kissing her neck.
         "I was waiting.  Do not keep me waiting again." she said, running her hands over his chest.
         "I had classes." he said.  "And I wasn't expecting you."
         "Regardless, mortal, I am the Queen of the Fey.  My interest in you is fleeting."
         "I know." he said, his hands running along her spine in the way he knew she liked.  "All the more reason for me to keep my life together.  I *do* have a life outside of this, you know."
         "You are your mother's child." Titania said, her hands pulling his shirt out of his pants.  "But enough talking.  I am not here for that."
         "I know."
         Titania thought to herself that there was a decided irony in this--in her being as enraptured as her husband had been, and with the son of the one he had had to have as a paramour.  While she had brought Belinda to Oberon's attention, she would never be so unwise as to make this boy anything other than the plaything he was to her now.  She would let this one grow up and die, trusting in his aunt's skill as a teacher--even though, if left up to her, he would die.  Not before she had tired of him, of course, but he would.  He was too powerful.  More so than his mother, she realized.  Far more.  But he controlled it.  Or rather, it was controlled--some--for him.  By her great-granddaughter, Hope.  There was something there, she realized vaguely.  Christian was tied to her, and likely would be for his entire life.  She wondered how Christine had missed such a thing, but didn't really care--had he been a true independent, she would have killed him, regardless of his beauty.  And he was beautiful.  And powerful.  Oh, God, was he powerful.  This boy was almost too much even for her when he let himself go, but there was an inherent gentleness--like a hairline fracture imperfection in a Ming vase--within him that tempered him.
         Titania knew that she had to destroy him.  Destroy him, or become trapped by him, as surely as her husband had been by the boy's mother.  If she allowed herself to let this boy live...
         She did not love him, but she would possess him, and do so forever or until she decided that he would exist no longer.  But her hands were tied; could she kill him?  No.  She had made an oath.  Yes, it was an oath that she was breaking even now, but she would not bring herself to so break it as killing the boy herself would do.  But his threat was too great; there was too much power within him and he was too much of a temptation...  She would learn from the past.  The boy's powers were already tempered, but there was a threat, still there, within this child of her enemies..
         He was of the same stock as Christine, the sensitive.  If he had even a *bit* of her own mental instability, the boy would break...could be broken.  Yes, if she could slowly drive him over the edge, he would destroy himself, as his aunt would have done if so allowed.  He feared his power, but she couldn't hope that the fear alone would be enough to keep it in check forever.  How to begin...could it be done in such a way as to make it so he would die, and not go power-mad?  After all, when his father had gone mad, he had tried to take over the world, and *had* helped take over Avalon.  And his mother, well...Belinda had always been a power-mad bitch.
         Wait.  Hope.  Titania's own ill-conceived great-grandchild.  She was his tie to sanity.  She protected him, weak though she was--her fey blood was so diluted that it was almost not there.  But the girl was his stability; his protector.  What could be done?  She would not wish her great-grandchild harmed, but if she could be used...there had to be a way...
         She decided she would think of it later.  Right now, there were more important things.  She would enjoy him for now, and when she was done with him, when she had tired of him...
         She smiled.

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Into your soul
Down you must come
Hope is not my name
Free your soul
I will take sex from love
I will break you alone
Free your soul.
Deep down you go
There you will know
Love is not my name
Damn your soul
   -"Deep," Danzig

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March 27, 2049:

         The hallucination began simply.  He had been sitting in front of a computer, working on his thesis--it was hard to believe that he was a senior in college now, and writing a *thesis*...
         Hope was laying on his bed, reading a book, alternately calling the writer an idiot and cursing out the prof who had assigned it in the first place.  She finally threw the book.
         "I hate history!" she screamed.  "Who gives a damn about a bunch of dead people!"
         Christian chuckled.  "I think it's fascinating, Hope--after all, we all have to learn from the past."
         "Yeah, OK, Mr. History major.  You have fun reading about people who are dead and rotting." she said, making a face.  "I don't know why I let you talk me into taking this class--I'm a science and math person, for God's sake!  Physics!  Chemistry!  Calculus!  I'll be graduating as a physics and math double major, not humanities!  This is boring!" she said emphatically.  Christine had chuckled--rather sadly, actually--when Hope had said what she was majoring in.  Without knowing it, Hope was doing the same track as her biological mother had planned for herself, even going on a pre-med track.  Hope wished that she had known her mother--she'd heard so much about Erika Belinda but knew little about who she had been.  Christine would often talk about things Erika had done, but very little about who she had been.  Belinda was the same way.  It was a gap Hope wished she could fill, somehow.
         Maybe it's boring to you." he said, flicking his eyes back to the screen.  "But you must admit, seeing how the past influences the society we have today is...is..."  His words trailed off abruptly and he sucked in a breath.
         "Christian...Christian?  Hello!  Earth to Christian!" Hope yelled, jumping to her feet and waving her hand in front of his face.  "Christian!"  He'd gone pale, and she began shaking him.  "Christian!"
         Her screaming jarred him out of the hallucination.  One minute, he'd been in front of the computer, the next...it was like he was seeing something in the screen, a vision.  A vision of blood, and he was...he was involved somehow, in all the death that he saw in the vision, but...but...  He'd done something....something...but, but what...?  Was this prophetic?  It felt like it.  But he hadn't seen things in years, and what he'd seen...the path, covered in blood, and the laughter--it was his laughter, but different, frightening, almost like...almost like the old video scenes he had made himself watch long ago, of...Shiva.  And he had felt the emotions of the vision, and he had *enjoyed* what he had wrought and the feeling of the power he'd contained within himself surging out and almost out of control.  And the fear on the faces of... Oh, god--was this a warning?  Was he doomed to become that?  Was he...
         "Christian!" Hope screamed, shaking him.  She was frightened by what she was seeing.  What was wrong?  What had happened?  Oh, she wished now that she was an empath; able to know what was wrong.  She only knew that something was wrong, and badly so.
         "I...I'm fine, Hope.  Really." he said, forcing a smile.  "Just...I just spaced out there, for a second."
         She frowned.  "All right, Christian.  If you say so." she said, her voice uncertain.  "All right."

  ***  ***  ***  ***
         Christine hummed to herself.  Rather strange what she hummed, but she did anyway.  It was from an operatic role she'd never sung onstage--Desdemona in Otello.  The Willow song.  She'd often sung it to Hope when she was little.  And to Christian--they'd both liked the song, Christian more than Hope.  Hope had sung it all of her life, and so Christine had often thought of the Willow Song as Hope's song.  She supposed she hummed it because she missed Hope--after all, she hadn't seen her in months...and also there was that whole "being pregnant" thing...
         "Mommy!"
         Christine turned suddenly.  "Angie!" she said, holding out her arms.  Her seven-year-old daughter, Angelica, ran over to her and hopped into her mother's arms, hugging her.  "Where's your father?"
         "He's coming.  I just ran in before him.  We saw lions at the zoo!" she said cheerfully, her mind jumping to the thing that had excited her before.
         "Really?" she said, smiling down at her daughter as she put her down.  Angelica was lucky in that the sun didn't affect her.  But she did look gargoyle--rather, a bit.  She had wings.  And her hands had only three fingers and a thumb.  But those were easily hidden, and she looked very human other than that.
         "Yeah!" she said grinning from ear to ear.  "We also saw flamingos and an elephant and a big lizard and crocodiles and can I have a glass of orange juice?"
         Christine smiled and got the child some orange juice, listening to her daughter continue to happily prattle on about the animals she had seen at the zoo that day.
         "Here you go, kiddo." she said, ruffling the girl's hair.  A minute later, Mark walked in, carry what had to be one of the biggest stuffed animal she'd seen.  Christine raised an eyebrow.  "I would ask how she talked you into that, but I know I don't even need to bother, do I?"
         He smiled sheepishly.  "Well, she did really like the lions..." he said as he handed it to her.  The girl grinned and hugged it.
         "I'm going to go put it on my bed with the other stuffed animals." she said cheerfully, running upstairs with it, her two brown braids flopping behind her, strands of wavy hair flying behind her as well.
         Christine looked at Mark, shaking her head.  "That girl has you wrapped around her little finger."
         He gave her another sheepish grin.  "Yeah, I know.  I know.  But when she gives me that smile, I just can't tell her no.  I'm a sucker and you know that." he said grinning.
         She snorted.  "It's very easy, Mark.  You let your mouth move like this, and let sound come out.  Nuh-oooo."
         He swatted at her and she stuck her tongue out at him.  He returned the favor.
  ***  ***  ***  ***
         He was dictating to the computer what he wanted written in the thesis, shuffling around for quotes as he did so.  He had programmed the computer to ignore his expletives, but he didn't doubt he was going to have to do a lot of proofing, or else in the middle of his thesis we was liable to end up with a sentence consisting of: "By the year 2010, the Quarrymen membership had grown to...where the is that mother number?!!?"
        "Oh fuck," he yelped, smacking his forehead.  He had left some of his notes upstairs in Hope's room.  "Computer, stop." he said to the machine, then headed up the flight of stairs in the dorm to get to Hope's room.
         He banged on her door.  "Hope!  Hope!  Open the door!"
         "What?" she yelled.  "I'm busy."
         "I left some of my notes in there!  Open the damned door!"
         The door opened.  Hope glared at him.  "Find 'em and fast.  I have to get dressed.  I have a date.  Do you know what that is, Christian?  You should try them.  They're a lot of fun."
         He ignored her and brushed past her as he starting rooting around her desk for some of his notes.  "So what joker are you going out with now?"
         She rolled her eyes.  "Peter Hughes.  I met him in one of my classes."
         "Where the hell are my notes?  Yes!  Wait... Peter Hughes?  Hope, he's a lech!"
         "Oh, he is not." she said.  "And stop giving me that look." she said, hands on her hips.  "Besides, I've been stressed as hell and have I *ever* turned down a free meal?"
         He laughed.  "Good point."
         "Exactly." she said with a grin.  "I know he's a lech.  Momma didn't raise no fool. If he tries anything, I'll tell him to lay off.  And if "no" isn't sufficient for him, then I'll break his face.  And are you all right?"
         "I...I..." he said, shaking his head suddenly, frowning.  His eyes unfocused and his face went pale.
         "Christian!" she yelled when his face had gone totally bloodless and he started shaking, a look of horror on his face.  He didn't answer.  He just stared out blankly, eyes wide, shaking, seeming...dissociated from the world.  It was almost as if he had gone into a trance, but hated what he was seeing, and was powerless to *not* see it.  "Christian!"
         She grabbed him and shook him, terrified.  Something was very, very wrong, and it frightened her.  When she grabbed him, he seemed to snap out of it, jumping, jolted back into himself.
         Christian was shaking, and hugged the girl tightly, needed her stability.  Her mind soothed him, brought him back to reality.  It had seemed like his mental world had suddenly begun to shift and shake beneath him; her own stability was a salve.  He thanked God for Hope; what would happen to him if she was gone?
         "I...I don't know." he whispered.  "I just saw...I just had a hallucination, it must've been, but...but oh, God, there was so much death...my hands, they were all covered with...their was so much *blood*..."  He trailed off, frightened.  Hope held on to him, trying not to be frightened herself.  What had just happened had terrified her...but most have scared him a hell of a lot more.  She knew he needed her to be stable and strong just then.  She went over to her phone and picked it up, dialing Peter's number.
         She got his answering machine.  She put on a fake smile and said, "Hiya, Pete.  Listen, something's come up and I can't go out tonight.  Hope this doesn't ruin your evening.  Bye."  She hung up then headed over to Christian.  She sat down on her bed and pulled him beside her, then he laid down with his head on her lap, still shaking.  She stroked his hair for him, trying to relax him.
         "It's all right, Christian, I promise, everything's all right." she said, trying to keep her voice even.
         "Sing for me, Hope." he asked, his voice sounding small.  "Please."
         "What do you want to hear?" she asked.  Whenever he had been like this, when they were younger, she would sing to him.  He had never gone to his mother or Christine when the bad patches hit, because he was afraid of worrying them.  He had never forgotten when he had once let his mother see him like this; her terror had been one that was marked forever on him.
         "The Willow Song.  Otello." he said tiredly, closing his eyes.  "End it with that line "Io per amarlo e per morir...I like that high note..."
         She nodded and drew a breath.  "Piangea cantando nell'erma landa la mesta..." she began singing gently for him.  It soothed her to sing, and it soothed him both to hear her sing and that she herself was calmed.  She had a beautiful voice; even Christine had said that.  He had often heard her say to Belinda that the girl could easily sing professionally if she so wished, but Hope had never seemed interested in anything like that.  Her voice was her own and private.  Christian listened to her sing, his head on her knees.  His eyes were closed, and he let the sound of her voice wash over him.  What would he do without her?  She hit the high note, a shining pianissimo, and he sighed to himself.
         What was wrong with him?  These flashes...he hadn't had them in years.  Why reoccur now?  Why?  Childish nightmares and hallucinations...why had they returned? And so powerfully?  What could he do?
         "Christian," Hope whispered gently, "Do you want to hear the Ave Maria, too?"  She wondered what he had seen, but she knew that now was not the time to question him.  Now, he had to be soothed and calmed, or he'd become more agitated than he was now.
         He nodded slightly, never opening his eyes.  Hope began to sing for him, knowing that it was all she could do for him.
  ***  ***  ***  ***
         Titania watched the two.  She smiled to herself.  Now she knew.  Now she *knew* how to drive the boy to suicide.  It was all very simple, really.
         To drive him to suicide, she only had to drive away his Hope.
  ***  ***  ***  ***
         He rested, closing his eyes and feeling her playing with his hair.  She'd always been jealous of his hair--it was everything hers wasn't--straight and glossy, black as midnight.  It was of a different shade than Belinda's; it was the pure black of his father, not the blue-black Belinda had.  But had Belinda's same glossy finish.  She'd loved his hair when she was little, and would braid it and comb or brush it whenever she got the chance--he never minded, as long as she undid whatever she did before his mother saw.  She loved how different it was from her hair, and still wished that the genes for it hadn't more or less vanished from her.  She smiled to herself--she just bet that if he'd gotten the curly mop she called hair and she'd gotten his hair, she'd be jealous because of that.  The grass was always greener, after all.
         She sighed and continued to stroke his dark hair, hoping that he would find some peace in sleep.
         "Prega per noi, prega per noi, prega..."
  ***  ***  ***  ***
         He could hear Hope singing, and he was laying with his head on her lap.  She was stroking his hair like she normally did, and singing gently.
         He settled himself against her, sighing as he listened to her delicate voice.  Her voice was higher pitched than Christine, beautiful in an entirely different way from Christine's darker, dramatic soprano voice.  Christine had once said that Hope sang almost exactly like her mother Erika, but Christian had no way to compare.  He only knew Hope's high voice that she often compared to Christine's and found herself lacking.  She wanted to sound like Christine, who could fill an opera house without even trying; with her dark lower notes and brilliant high ones.  But Christian preferred Hope's voice--it was softer and gentler, without the forceful power that Christine had.  It soothed him.  It was like a gentle touch to him, carrying him away.
         One instant, he was drowsing against her, listening to her, the next he had noticed the feel of her breast against him as she leaned over him.  It was something he had felt before, but never...*really* noticed.  Now, however...it jolted him and jarred him, making him think of her woman's body.
         He jerked awake, jumping up and blinking, shaking his head as if to clear it.
         "Christian?  Are you all right?" Hope said, jumping up.
         "Y-yeah." he said, discomforted.  He'd had the realizations before that Hope was a woman, and it *always* discomforted him.  But not like this had.  This...the way he had realized it disturbed him, because he didn't think of her as Hope just then.  Before, it was always a shock--she was Hope, and Hope didn't have breasts.  Or she wasn't supposed to.  So realizing that she did was always an uncomfortable shock.  Now, however...
         He shook off his bizarre feeling.  This was Hope, after all.
         "Christian, you're shaking."
         "Huh?" he said, blinking.  Everything seemed back to normal now, and he was glad.  "Sorry, Hope...I...I've just been so out of it lately."
         "Maybe it's stress." she said, patting his arm.  "You are writing a thesis, after all."
         He managed a smile.  "Yeah.  Maybe that's it." he said.
         Neither one of them bought it for a second.
  ***  ***  ***  ***
         "Shit!" Christian yelled, sitting up straight in bed.  He stared at his alarm clock.  Three AM.  "Oh, fuck." he mumbled, dropping back and covering his face with the pillow.  "Motherfucking son of a..." he mumbled.  Another nightmare.  He'd started having nightmares this last week, and it was driving him out of his skull.  "God damn it.  God damn it." he mumbled, smacking his head.  "Three AM...three god damn o'clock in the motherfucking morning."  He turned over on his back and looked at the ceiling.  He could hear crickets chirping.  "Why, why, *why*?!!?" he said, throwing his arm over his eyes.  "I just want to go to sleep..."
         Sleep just wasn't coming.  He knew it, and part of him was glad that sleep wasn't coming.  He was tired, and he wanted to sleep, but he did *not* want to sleep if it meant that he was going to have those nightmares.  Those nightmares were coming constantly, and trying to sleep was becoming more and more difficult.
         Nightmares of blood.  Nightmares of death.  Nightmares that left him afraid, not of the nightmares but of himself, afraid both that the nightmares all involved him killed and destroying, afraid because he woke up from the nightmares aroused. That mixed with the hallucinations he would have during the day, coming at anytime, and he was frightened.  He was afraid to sleep and afraid to be awake, but afraid to sleep more, because the nightmares were so real and in them, he never saw them as nightmares.  They felt more like prophecies, and that frightened him.  Frightened them because in the dreams, even though he knew they were never possible, seemed possible and felt right.
         Better to not sleep.  Better to not sleep and not face what he saw, better to not face himself through that dark mirror.
         Better.
         Another cricket chirped and he cursed once more.
  ***  ***  ***  ***
         "What's eating you, Christian?" Hope asked when they left the dining hall the next night after dinner.
         "Nothing.  Really.  I've just...I've just been in a weird mood lately."
         "Want some company?"
         He nodded.  "Would you?  I'm just going to study, but...but I've just felt so *out* of it lately..."
         Hope nodded.  "Sure.  I'll just run upstairs when we get back to the dorm and get some books--I need to study, too."  They got back to the dorm and Hope headed to her room to grab some books.  Christian settled down to wait, laying down on his bed and opening one of the books he was using for research.  His thesis was a comparison of the resistance within hate groups--the KKK to the Quarrymen, and doing the reading was tough.  He put the book down, trying to decide whether or not he'd interview Mark--the man had been in the inner circle of the Quarrymen.  He'd ask Hope about it, see what she said.  He sat up and started reading again, rolling a pencil in his mouth when he wasn't using it to underline passages.
         Hope bounced in, dropping her backpack on the floor.  She smiled at Christian, who went back to his books, and sat down on the floor, resting her head against his leg, like she'd pretty much always done.
         Christian looked down at Hope.  Her red hair was covering his leg and her head was a pleasant weight against him.  And it wasn't just her head, he realized after a moment.  Her breast was against his calf.  He patted her head, tangling his fingers in her hair.  She laughed gently under her breath, like she always would do if someone played with her hair.  That laugh made her body move against him, and he felt a jolt within him.  She leaned against his leg more, pressing her body against it affectionately, then went back to where she was before, turning pages in her book.  Her hair was soft, very soft, soft in such a different way from her body against his leg.  So soft...
         "Christian, are you OK?" she said, looking up at him.  Her eyes were huge and seemed so innocent...
         "Oh, I'm fine." he said, smiling harshly.  "You?"
         She frowned.  "Christian, are you sure you're...all...right..." she said, suddenly noticing his crotch.  "I...I...I should go." she said, jumping to her feet and blushing bright red.  He jumped up as well and grabbed her arm.
         "Oh, no, stay." he said, tightening his grip on her arm.
         She winced.  "Christian...Christian, what the hell?  Let me go!  Christian!" she said, trying to get her arm loose.
         God, the way she was trying to get herself free suddenly seemed so fascinating.  And exciting.  The way she was twisting and straining...how would that struggling body feel under him?
         He had that thought and that was it.  He threw her onto his bed and he held her down, enjoying her struggles and her cries.  It excited him in a way he never dreamed possible.  All he was aware of now was of the part of him that was hard, hot, throbbing, insistent.  He needed to see her, needed to drive himself into her, needed to feel her around him and needed to feel her crying underneath him, needed to hurt her as he fucked her.  He wanted to fuck her--no love involved in this, no distilling into a biological process--he wanted her to cry and scream, he wanted to overpower her and crush her beneath him.  He wanted to fuck her.
         He grabbed the waistband of her pants and pulled them, hearing them rip and enjoying the way she seemed to struggle more.  Her struggles were completely in vain, and that excited him.  She was so small and weak under him--he could break her in half if he so wished.  But that would be a waste.  Better to take her, to drive into her, to feel her trying in vain to keep him outside of her.
         "Christian!  Why are you...please, stop!  Please!" she yelled, tears of fear and confusion streaming down her red face.
         He undid his own pants, almost shaking in his lust.  She tried to shut her legs, but they were pathetically weak in comparison to him.  Her struggles were useless, there was no way she could keep him out and he knew it.  And it excited him more and more with each moment.
         "Christian!" she screamed.  "Please!"
         He slapped her.  The slap was so loud and strong that he knew he might very well have broken her cheek.  She stared at him, tears streaming down her face.  Her tearstained and pain-filled face causing another jolt of blood to his groin.  His hand started shaking when he forced his own clothes out of his way.  Her bare legs were long and tanned, perfectly formed, and all he wanted now was to drive in between them, to feel her tight and resisting body.  He clamped his hand down hard on one of her breasts, hearing her take in a sharp intake of breath at the sudden pain.
         It was a sweet sound.
         "Please...no..." she managed to whisper, limply trying to get away from him.  "Christian, please, *please*, don't!"
         He forced himself into her body with one harsh thrust, and her scream was like music.  Her nails raked him and she tried to clamp her entire body so tense that he wouldn't be able to move inside of her.  That only excited him more, and he pushed harder into that strained flesh, feeling blood begin to flow and make his thrusts into that unyielding body all the easier, forcing it to yield to him.  Oh, did she know how this felt?  How good her tight body felt?  Did she know her tears and her cries and her struggles only made this all the sweeter?  Did she have any clue how much he wanted this to last, to empathicly taste that mental pain and confusion and to know that as he was fucking her body he was destroying her?  He thrust all the harder, faster, his body weight holding her down and crushing her as he let her hit him with her weak fists, her blows only spurring him on faster and making him enjoy this all the more.
         "Christian!"
         He raked his talons down the sides of her body as he got closer and closer to his peak.  She screamed when he drew blood, her entire body tensing again in the sudden pain, and her cunt tightening around him.  That was it, that sudden tightening.  With a roar, he thrust into her again, as hard as he could, ejaculating into her when he heard her scream at the sudden increase in pain, pleasure washing over him, his talons tightening against her waist and drawing blood as he went limp on her, not caring that his weight was crushing her or that she was sobbing hysterically underneath him.
         The realization minutes later that she was sobbing and covered in blood, her mind a shattered wreck, made him want her again.  And he would have her.  He would.  Now.  What could she do to stop him?  To see her...Hope...like this...  He felt blood rushing back into his groin, and he laughed when Hope began to scream.
         "No!"
         Christian's eyes flew open and he shot out of bed like a shot, his entire body shaking and his breath catching, completely horrified.  Jesus.  Jesus Christ!  That had been so real.  So fucking real!
         There was no one in the room with him.  He was alone.  He looked at the clock--about twenty minutes had passed since he'd last looked at the clock.  He was supposed to meet Hope for dinner in ten minutes.
         He was shaking his head, trying desperately to get the hallucination out of his mind.  God, he could feel what she had felt like...he could hear her screams in his ear and feel her hitting him and struggling.
         Most disturbing was that his body remembered.  God help him, he was hard.  That horrified him.  He started pacing, shaking and terrified.  How?  What?  Dear Lord, he would never...Hope...how could he...was he as evil as he had feared his entire life?  Was the evil that he *knew* was always inside of him suddenly starting to come out?
 Jesus.  What did he do?  He was terrified.  He'd never had an hallucination like that, never one so vivid.  Holy God...
         He picked up the phone.  "Hope, I'm not eating dinner.  'Bye." he said the second she picked up the phone, and slammed it down on the hook.  There was no *way* he was meeting her for dinner--there was no way he was going to get anywhere near her!  Holy God, what the hell was happening?
         The phone rang.  He knew it was Hope, but he didn't answer it, he just let it ring.  He was pacing now, still feeling ready to be ill.  What the hell was wrong with him?  Why had he had that hallucination?  God.  He was terrified now--what was he turning into?  Did some part of him *want* to hurt Hope?  And hurt her like that?  He must be evil!  He had to be!  What was he going to do?
         "Christian!  Christian!" he heard, hearing Hope pounding on his door.  "I know you're in here, open up!  Why did you lock your door?  Christian, talk to me!  Please!  Christian!"
         He listened to her scream and pound on the door.
         "Christian, you're scaring me!  Christian!"  He could hear the desperation in her voice.  Dammit, he was frightening her.  She was worried about him.  But she had to get away from him!  He was torn, between wanting to open the door and tell her everything, sitting on the floor by her feet and hugging her leg, and to be reassured that he wasn't evil; and between fear over being overwhelmed by whatever the hell was inside of him, making him have those hallucinations.  What if he told her, and she saw how evil he was?  If she was so disgusted that she hated him?  How could he face this?  And how could he even *think* of risking her being near him?
         "CHRISTIAN!" Hope screamed shrilly.
         He sat down on the floor and wept.
  ***  ***  ***  ***
         "Why do you weep, boy?"
         He jumped in shock when he heard her voice.  "T-Titania." he whispered.  They had...not parted on the best of terms.  But here she was.  He didn't think he could deal with her right now. "I would prefer to be alone, please." he said, careful to keep his voice polite.  He had learned long before he'd even meet Titania that they fey were fickle, strange creatures, who would take things extremely seriously.  Words, oaths, actions...he was probably lucky that his relationship with her had ended when it did; before he risked getting himself into trouble.
         "You have not answered my question."
         "Nor will I." he said, bowing slightly.  "My Lady."
         "So formal!" she said, smiling as she looked down on him.  He was as attractive as ever, perhaps even moreso in his confusion, his internal torture highlighting the hairline fracture of compassion running through him.  So handsome.  She remembered his caresses, she remembered *him*.  Perhaps...perhaps...  "Tell me, what is haunting you?  For there is something there..."
         He sighed.  "Merely nightmares, Lady Titania, merely nightmares."
         "Truly?  You seem far more distressed than nightmares would cause.  Speak to me, sweet Christian.  Tell me what is wrong.  I am Queen of Avalon.  There is much that I could do."
         "I...I've been...seeing things.  They're...evil." he finally said, not looking at the Queen of Avalon.
         Titania was silent.  "I...I could make them go away." she whispered.
         He looked at her, hopeful.  "Could you?"
         "...Yes." she said, then smiled.  "As my gift to you."
         Christian did not smile.  "A gift, lady?"
         "Yes."  She smiled again.  He had only to accept...
         He did not smile.  "A faerie gift.  Lady, I thank you much, but I can not accept it."
         She frowned angrily.  "You...you would...you would refuse my aid?"
         "Yes.  Titania, I know full well what accepting a faerie 'gift' entails.  Not only do they *rarely* end up being good things, but you would want a gift in return.  You would demand it."
         "Yes." she said flatly.
         "So what would you ask of me?"
         "That you come to Avalon.  As *my* servant."
         Christian laughed.  He hadn't done that in a long time; it felt good.  "Titania, somehow, I doubt that Lord Oberon would take kindly to having his adulterous wife's ex-lover hanging around.  Especially if that ex-lover is the child of the ones who had once disposed him.  Besides, I have no desire to be your little sex toy again."
         "Do not mock me, boy."
         He stood up suddenly, towering over the faerie queen, his eyes glowing white, a small amount of all of his power suddenly becoming evident--he was far stronger than she had imagined.  He was more dangerous than she had imagined, far surpassing his mother's abilities.  Titania had thought Belinda the most powerful a mortal could possibly be...she realized now that Belinda's abilities had been a pittance in comparison to her son's.  "Do not call me 'boy' again, Titania."  His eyes flashed white and then faded as he turned away.
         "I make the offer only once." Titania said, her voice flinty.
         "The same with my refusal."
         "And if they grow worse?"
         He laughed harshly.  "That, they can *not* do."
         So he thought.  He would see.  He would see this very day.  He would see just how much *worse* they could get.  "Very well." the fey queen said.  "Fare thee well, Christian."
         "Lady."
         She was gone.
  ***  ***  ***  ***
         Hope came over with her books and dropped them on his bed.  "You made me take this class, you help me with this damned paper!"
         "Wha...?" Christian began, blinking.  He'd been working furiously on his thesis.  "Hope...thesis..." he said, turning away from his computer, hoping she would take the hint and go.  That last, frightening hallucination was still in his mind.
         "Yeah, well, this is my GPA!" she said, pacing.  "Not my fault my thesis is all but done, you slacker."
         "What paper is it?" he said, brushing his dark hair out of his eyes.  Hope started pacing.
         "That history class you told me to take.  On Early Modern Europe.  This god-awful thirty page paper is killing me!"
         "You picked the topic, not me.  No one told you to write about political pornography in eighteenth-century France."
         "Yeah, yeah, fine, rub it in.  No one else was doing it, and I didn't feel like competing for books.  Help me!" she said, flopping onto the bed and burying her face in her hands.
         He saved what he was doing on his thesis and went over to her on the bed.  "OK, what do you have so far?"
         "I was gonna talk about the politicization of pornography.  But I have no idea where to begin."
         "Well, let's look at what you've got." he said, stretching an arm across her to pick up her notebook.  His arm grazed her breast and he blinked at the strange jolt it caused in him.  For God's sake, this was *Hope*.  "De Sade?"
         "Yeah, de Sade."  She made a face.  "Man, this guy had a thing for sodomy.  I mean, *damn*.  This book," she said, tapping her copy of La philosophie dans le boudoir, "has got to be the sickest thing I've ever read in my life.  I mean, *damn*.  Have you read this?  What they did to Eugenie's mother is just plain *sick*.  I mean, I was ready to throw up.  For god's sake, they sewed her...!" she began, then stopped, turning green.  That had been a *fun* story to read.  When she hadn't been ready to throw up, she had been glad the good Marquis was dead because if he wasn't, she would have killed him for some of his ideas.  "This guy was *so* fucked in the head.  Look at this." she said, flipping through the pages.  "Look at this quote.  Well, let me find it first.  OK...past the incest...past the masturbation...past the sodomy...past the oral sex...damn, doesn't this guy's penis *ever* just stay down?...past the sodomy...past even more sodomy...OK.  Here we go...oh, wait...more oral sex..." she said, frowning in consternation as she flipped pages.  "Page and page after this crap, and just when you think you're past it all, and you find even *worse* crap--his ideas on 'natural law.'  Ahh, here we go." she said, fuming.  "Just listen to this happy horse shit."
         He was staring at her.  She was angry--her face was flushed and her chest was rising and falling angrily.  He found himself staring at her chest, then looked away, ashamed for having looked and even more ashamed for wanted to look again at her heaving chest.  Get a grip, Christian...
         "The 'good Marquis' at his best, here," she said sarcastically.  "It cannot be denied that we--read, men--have the right to decree laws that compel woman to yield to the flames of him who would have her; violence itself being one of that right's effect, if we can employ it lawfully.  Indeed! has Nature not proven that we had the that right, by bestowing upon us the strength needed to bend women to our will?  And then, A man who would like to enjoy whatever woman or girl will henceforth be able...she will surrender to him, humbly and with submission, all the fancies in which he will be pleased to indulge with her...oh, and it gets better, he starts advocating pedophilia, too...oh, and I almost skipped the section in favor of incest!" she said, fuming more.  "This little SOB thinks rape's just hunky-dory, since 'Nature' made men stronger, and so they can do whatever they want!"
         Her chest was rising and falling even faster now.  She stopped pacing at stared at him.  "Well?"
         "Well, I'm hearing this all out of context." he said blandly.  "I haven't read Philosophy in the Bedroom so I can't make snap judgments based on one or two passages.  If you look at the time period, though...the marquis was the product of his times.  The ultimate Enlightened thinker.  In his mind, he was right."
         "You can't be for real!"
         He stood up suddenly, towering over her.  "I'm bigger than you and stronger than you.  I could, therefore, do whatever I wanted to you, by that fact.  Nature made me larger and stronger, and dictates 'might makes right'.  De Sade is interpreting it that way."
         "Uh, Christian..."
         He continued to talk, almost unaware that he was backing her, slowly, into a corner.  "At the time, the 'law of Nature' was something that had captured the attention of the philosophes--the Enlightened philosophers.  Many of them wanted a return to the laws of Nature."
         "Christian, you're freaking me out." she said with a nervous smile.  "Back it up, will you?"
         He ignored her, simply continued to back her into a wall as he talked, his eyes unfocused, speaking and moving as one in a dream.  "The same brand of thinking gave us the American system of democratic government.  Different sides of the same coin, really, all that thinking of Nature's decrees.  Who," he said, staring down at her, her eyes wide and locked on his with an expression like one hypnotized on her face, "exactly is to say the Marquis is wrong?"
         With that, his hands wrapped around her upper arms, tightly.  She gasped in shock.  "Christian...Christian, please, let me go.  Please.  You made your point."
         "Really?" he said, staring down at her, his hands clamped around her arms, the backs of his thumbs pressed into her breasts, close enough to her so that if he took in a deep breath, his chest would brush her chin; if she took one, well...  "And what is my point?"
         He could sense her fear, almost hear her heart beating faster and her breathing become faster and shallower.  And sense her confusion.  "That...that...Christian, I can't think, let me go, please."
         "You don't know my point.  Allow me to make it for you." he said, suddenly letting go of one of her arms and grabbing her chin in his grip, his talons lightly digging into the soft flesh of her cheeks.  She winced slightly, still too uncertain of the situation to really know what was happening, confusion being the strongest thing she felt.  But fear was gaining.
         "The Enlightened thinking gave us the American system of government, and I think that's a pretty good thing.  So who's to say a different branch of that same thinking is wrong?"
         "It just is!"
         "No," he said, smiling a strange smile down at her, one that spoke of the way his mind was whirling, "it isn't."
         She tried to wrench herself free, and that won her her head slammed into the wall.  She stood, stunned, her head swimming, in shock at what he had done and part of her not comprehending that it had.
         "Might makes right.  That's the law of Nature." he said, his hands shaking slightly, but not from the fear and confusion that made hers shake.  His shook from the fact that he wanted her.  He wanted to taste her fear and know that he caused it.  He wanted her to feel as if her world was in a tailspin and not know why; not know what she had done to set everything crazily out of balance, wanted to rip her down from her ideals and show her she was like everyone else, weak.  She was small, she was weak, and she was at his mercy.  Did she know that?  No.  She didn't.  She didn't because she had tried to get free of him.  She didn't because she was trying now to get free.  She was struggling.
         He no longer felt as if he was in a dream; this was all real, real to a hyper degree, and her struggles--in vain--angered him.  It was the vanity of it all, that she didn't stop and accept her inherent position as weaker, subordinate.
         Well, he would fix that.  He would drag her into her place, prove to her that she was nothing, that she was weak, and that he did to her what he did because he so wished, and her wants had nothing to do with what he did.  After all, how was she to stop him?  He was stronger, larger, and far more powerful.  God, it was exciting.
         He grabbed her arms again and shook her until her head swam, then shoved her to the ground, so that she was on her knees, her eyes shut, trying to get her world to stop spinning; trying to get her bearings.
         "Christian, what are you doing?" she whispered, tears of confusion streaming down her face.
 Those tears were also her deceptive strength, he knew--usually, those tears would have power over him, power to make him do whatever she wanted.  But now, in a burst of clarity, he saw those tears for what they were, her desperate, manipulative power-play.  Her tears enraged and excited him, and he knew then that he would see her destroyed, weeping tears of futility, and he would do the destroying.
         He grabbed her hair and forced her head up, looking into her wide, tearstained, dark blue eyes.  "What am I doing?"  He smiled suddenly.  "Hope, you mean you honestly haven't figured it out yet?"
         Her eyes went huge as he spoke, as the hand in her hair, pulling at it painfully and ripping some of it out, very purposely went to the zipper of his pants.  That was when she began to understand, when understanding began to peak through the curtain of confusion in her mind, and the fear that had been expanding steadily like a glazier suddenly overwhelmed her.  She began to cry in earnest, shaking her head.  "No.  No, no, Christian, you can't...no..."
         Now his throbbing penis was her face.  She started crying even hard, shaking her head.  "No!  No."
         "Yes." he said, the strange smile still on his face.  "Yes, you will.  And you will now, before things really get painful." he said, ripping at her hair, strands tearing out of her head, blood beginning to flow.
         Tears streaming down her face, she took it into her mouth.  His grip on in her hair tightened and she winced in pain.  "You better do more than that, Hope...and if I even *think* you're going to bite me, I'll snap your neck." he said, his talons tightening against her to let her know it was no idle threat.  "And remember...'Indeed! has Nature not proven that we had the that right, by bestowing upon us the strength needed to bend women to our will?'" he said with a smile.
         Her large blue eyes stared up at him in confusion and pain.  That caused him to smile again, the smile that had often been described as angelic as he pulled her hair hard enough to rip out more hair and make her start.
         Oh, god.  That mouth felt sweet.  Her sobs were making her body shake and her mouth occasionally convulse around him.  It was warm, it was wet, and it was soft.  She was almost broken, little Hope--she was beginning to learn her place, that she was weak and he was strong, that he could do whatever he wanted to her, and she would be unable to stop him.  He could even...he could even kill her.
         But not yet.
         Not just yet.
         He shot into her, and she started choking.  He let go of her and she fell, coughing, choking on his semen, sobbing, curled into a fetal position.  Her back was to him, and he watched her entire body heave and shake.  He watched her cry, watched her for a long time, not moving, simply watched her, and felt her trying to make sense of everything, trying to understand what had happened, and not understanding that there was no why, there was no reason, other than he had wanted to.
         He reached for her again and she started, trying to get away.  No, she was still not understanding, still not realizing what had happened and what *was* happening, still confused and disbelieving.  Well, not for long.  Besides, it was better if she fought.  Made it all the better.
         He slapped her.  Her head whirled and her cheek reddened almost instantly.  He let her go and she collapsed, still coughing and shaking, her eyes very wide.  He fell to his knees, his hands on her, roughly pushing her on her back, roughly on her breasts.  She began to struggle as it began to register with her numbed brain and he slapped her again, harder, and her head connected with the floor, enough to knock her unconscious.  He took her clothes off of her while she was under but did nothing to her besides stare at her woman's body, controlling himself, for a while, before he spread her legs and rammed himself into her.  She woke when he was halfway finished, woke with a gasp and began to claw at him when she understood what was happening.  He simply grabbed her hands and held them over her head and continued as he was, though now he looked at her face, never taking them away from the eyes locked with his, the wide eyes full of pain and confusion and fear, the eyes that didn't and couldn't accept what her body was telling her was happening.
         He stopped abruptly and pulled himself out of her, then flipped her easily onto her back, deciding that since she wasn't comprehending what was happening one way, perhaps she would another.
         She let out a piercing scream that faded, and she went limp from shock of him raping her anally.  It was difficult for him, at first, but when she began to bleed, it became far easier and moving inside her became smoother.
         When he finished she didn't move, not even to curl up into a protective ball.  She was too shocked, too confused, and too frightened to cry anymore.  Yes, she knew now.  Almost.  She knew he had power over her body--but did she knew he had power of life and death?  He was the son of a god, after all.  It was only right he should hold her life in his hands.
         He reached for her and this time, she didn't move, only stared at him with wide and deadened eyes.  He reached for her and his hand landed on her long, delicate neck.  A tear beaded and ran from her left eye, down her swelling cheek, and landed on his wrist.  He lifted a talon and traced her cheek, then traced a line from her cheek to her neck.  When he reached her neck, in one quick motion he sliced it from ear to ear.
         The blood rushed out, warm and alive.  Her eyes were wide, her hands moving to cup her throat, blood pouring out.  Her eyes were wide.
         He stepped away from her, watching her die, his penis hard again.  Almost without thinking, he wrapped his bloodied hand over it and began to move his hand.  His eyes never left her wide ones, not even when he came on her, semen mixing with the blood, as she died.
         Christian gagged and he nearly fell out of his chair.  Running, he ran to the bathroom and threw up.  Repeatedly, and then began dry heaves.  He flushed the toilet and splashed water on his face.  When he looked in the mirror, he was surprised by how pale he was--his face was washed out; yellowed, bloodless.  Looking at himself made him feel nauseous.  What kind of monster was he?  For one god awful moment, after snapping out of his delirium, he thought what had happened *had* happened, seeing a ghost image of her blood and her body and semen on the floor before reality had firmly snapped back into place with a crash, leaving him unsure for a moment what was real and what was fake.  Vivid, it was all so vivid, entirely too vivid for his own good.
         His pants were stained, and sickly he knew what it was.
         He began to dry heave again.
  ***  ***  ***  ***
         The next morning, he made his way to the college health center.  He *knew* he was in dire straits to be doing that--there was a "six free counseling sessions per semester" thing that they offered.  He knew he was cracking up.  He knew it.  He had to talk to someone...anyone...
         "Hi.  Are you Christian Maza?"
         "Yessir." he said, looking up suddenly.  He had been waiting for quite a while now, staring off into space, half-terrified that at any moment he was going to have one of those god-awful hallucinations.  He stood up, and the counselor looked up at him, eyes widening at the sight of him.  It was a reaction that Christian was used to, but he took it as a bad sign, feeling it in the pit of his stomach.  But he ignored it.  He had thrown up a mild glamour--enough of one to hide his 'gargoyle' features, like his teeth, ears, and hands.  But that was all he hid--his height and build he saw no reason to hide.  And the man--short, balding, mild, and blandly grey--was in awe.
         This was a bad sign.
         "Well, um, come on into my office." he said with a nervous smile.  The young man had to be the *largest* he had ever seen in his life.  He nodded, and followed him into the office.  "Please, please, have a seat." he said, gesturing at one of the many chairs in his office.  Christian chose the largest chair and sat without a word.  The doctor sat down at his desk and turned to face him.  "I'm doctor Barrow.  So...what exactly seems to be the problem?"
         Christian rubbed his forehead.  "I...I've been seeing things."
         The man frowned slightly.  "Seeing things?"
         "Well...nightmares.  Bad ones."
         "I see.  What year are you, Christian?"
         "A senior.  History major."
         "Ahh.  And working on your thesis?"
         "Yessir.  On the resistance within hate groups in America, focusing on internal resistance within the KKK and Quarrymen."
         "I see.  Are you in any sports?"
         "No."
         "No?  Body-building, anything?"
         "The only thing I do is martial arts."
         "I see."
         Christian was getting definite 'this is bad' vibes, but he felt he shouldn't.  Something was wrong with him; he had to give this a chance.
         "So you say you've been having nightmares.  What kind?"
         "Well...I...I see myself...doing bad things.  Like...my hands are always covered with blood by the end.  And I'm *laughing*." he said, struggling to find the words.  It was harder to talk about than he had imagined that they would have been.
         "I see." the man said, frowning, nodding his head slightly, focusing on Christian.  "Anything else?"
         "I...I've had hallucinations, too.  They only just recently started."
         "And what are these of?"
         "Of...of me hurting the people I care about."
         "Anyone in particular?"
         He nodded.  "Yeah.  My...well, it's hard to say how we're related.  She's my...OK.  My aunt's granddaughter."
         "Ahh.  And how old is she?"
         "Same age as I am.  We both go to this school.  She lives the floor above me.  I've known her my entire life."
         "Anyone else?"
         He shook his head.  "No.  Just her."
         "Do you have any idea why?"
         "No.  God, no.  She's the last person in the world I would want to hurt."
         "Are the two of you close?"
         He held back a snort of laughter.  "Yeah.  It should say something that be both came here.  We were born only a few months apart from each other, and grew up together.  She's been around my entire life.  I almost don't know what I'm going to do when we go off to different grad schools.  She knows me better than anyone else in the world."
         "Is there a history of insanity in your family?"
         Christian's expression was strange.  "Well...my aunt had three personalities for a while, but that was cured by the time I was seven.  Mom went a little nuts for a while herself, but she was OK when I was born.  Same with my father.  He went a little nuts for a while, too."
         "What was your home life like?"
         Christian made a strange face.  "Well, my mom and aunt are very close to each other.  Hope's mother died when she was having Hope, so my aunt Christine raised her.  My mom was a single mother but I saw my dad pretty often."
         "How old where you when your parents broke up?"
         He snorted.  "They were never together.  I was the result of...an affair.  Mom never much liked my step-mother.  She was always, well, afraid that Athena would, like, start saying things to poison me against her."
         "Did your step-mother ever...?" he began.
         "No." he said, shaking my head.  "She...she treated me a lot like you would treat any child.  Yes, she wasn't happy about me.  But...she didn't see any reason to blame me for my father and mother's mistakes."
         "You say your mother went 'a little nuts'.  What happened?"
         "She..."  He struggled to find a way to explain but not open himself up to even more questions than before.  "She was held against her will for a while.  And when she got free, well, she wasn't quite right."
         "How did you get along with your mother?"
         "I adored Mom." he said flatly.  "I was a total momma's-boy when I was little.  Mom had no reason to worry about Athena 'poisoning' me against her.  As far as I was concerned, the sun rose and set on Mom." he said with a shrug.  "Well, her and Hope."
         "Ummm-hmmm.  Do you do any drugs of any sort?" Dr. Barrow said suddenly.
         "God, no!" Christian said, drawing back slightly.  Drugs were the last thing he ever needed.  He knew what could happen if he ever lost control, and the one thing that drugs did best was make you *lose* control.  The thought of what might happen if he was high--hell, even *drunk*--scared the shit out of him.
         "You have to tell me the truth, Christian." Barrow said, narrowing his eyes.
         "Excuse me?"
         "You heard me." the man said.  "Let's be honest, Mr. Maza.  You are abnormally...well, large.  Not simply your height.  But your build.  You obviously have a tendency towards violence--studying the martial arts, you're writing a thesis on resistance within violent groups.  And you're acting out the violence towards the person who is closest to you and would be the most likely to notice a drug problem."
         "Dr. Barrow, I don't even drink!" Christian finally yelled angrily.
         "There is a reason why you are fixating on Hope.  Have you ever been abused in any way?"
         "No!  Listen, I don't know what is happening.  I've started *hallucinating* about...about...about...about raping her." he said in a horrified whisper.
         "Have you ever done anything to her?"
         "No!"
         "There is a reason why you've fixated on her.  Before this, have you ever wanted to do anything to her?"
         "No!"
         "Why are you becoming so defensive, Christian?  I'm trying to get to the root of all of this.  Right now, I think that you've been repressing urges against your...I suppose your cousin, one that you were raised with, and to be blunt, it's not normal.  It screams out that you yourself have had *some* sort of abuse done to you, and it's coming out this way.  Obviously, you have not come from a normal family.  I think your hallucinations are either drug-induced or the result of repressed desires finally coming out.  And with the history of insanity in your family...there is obviously a lot that you aren't telling me.  There is a reason why your aunt had multiple personalities.  That's usually a result of severe childhood sexual abuse.  Your mother was likely in the same situation.  And the fact that you are fixating, sexually, on someone you shouldn't be, a relative, indicates to me that there are issues that you aren't telling me about.  I want to help you, Christian, but I can't without your help.  It is entirely possible that you are going insane."
         Christian's eyes were darting around as he fought off the urge to leave--to jump up onto his feet and get the hell out.  He felt trapped, caged in.  Being here was futile.  So futile it was insane.  So why was he?  This idiot couldn't help him...he only felt more overwhelmed, more frightened.  He just wanted to get up and run, but he couldn't; he simply *couldn't* run and he knew it.  Did this man have the first fucking clue that he was making things *worse*?  This man was making him feel far worse, wondering if this really did indicate that he was losing his mind like he had feared his entire life; that he was validating to Christian that he was nothing but a danger to *Hope*.  This was the last thing he had needed, and he *knew* this condescending bastard was only going to make things far worse if he came back.  Worse because he would tell Christian the truth--that he really *was* evil.  That he was a monster despite his best efforts, because you couldn't fight your nature; your genes.  You couldn't fight it.  You just couldn't.
         He felt something in his head seemed to switch out of place, and an image appeared, one of him jumping up, standing over this son of a bitch, strangling him, his talons digging into the man's neck, feeling the blood flowing over his hands.
         "Our time for today is up, Christian.  I'd like to reschedule you in for as soon as possible." Barrow said, raising his eyes, breaking the silence suddenly, snapping Christian back to reality.  "I'd like you to make an appointment.  And to stay away from your cousin.  I would also like you to encourage her to seek some sort of counseling as well, since she is likely having emotional issues as well."
         Christian smiled a tight, forced smile, the image of this man dying by his hands still in his mind, praying his face wasn't paling like he feared it was.  "Yessir."
         He left, and he was *not* coming back.
  ***  ***  ***  ***
ONE WEEK LATER

         Hope burst into his room, hands on her hips, her eyes glaring at him.  "I've had it, Christian.  Why are you avoiding me?"  The look on her face made it very clear that she was not leaving until she had here explanation.
         He didn't even bother to ask her how she had gotten in.  There was no point.  Ever since she had been a child, she had been able to psychokinetically unlock doors.  She herself didn't know the logistics of exactly how it worked; even electronically sealed doors that required codes, retinal scans, things that she knew nothing about the inner workings, she could open by simply envisioning the door open.  Normally, she respected other people's privacy.  But there were times...  He instead closed his eyes, having known that this was coming.
         He had to tell her.  He couldn't let this go on.  He couldn't.  But how could he tell her?   How?  How to tell of something like that?  He couldn't.  He couldn't bear to even imagine the look on her face that she would have when she heard...the idea of her, of all people, afraid of him, worse, *hating* him...no.
         "Hope, I...I haven't been avoiding you." he said, not looking at her.
         "Yeah, and I'm the queen of the fey." she said flatly.  He startled slightly at her choice of expression.  "Christian, I know you too well.  Don't lie to me." she said, crossing her arms, head tilted, standing with one hip to the side.  She raised her head, nostrils flaring.
         "Get away from me, Hope." he said, clinching his hands into fists, breath heaving.  "*Please* get away from me!"
         "I'm sick of it, Christian.  Did I do something wrong, and just not have the first clue about it?  There has to be something.  This isn't like you."
         "Yeah?  And how would you know what is like me?" he snapped angrily.  Hope's eyes widened and she faltered slightly.  Christian never snapped at her.  *Never*.
         "Christian, what's happened to you?" she asked, eyes wide.  "What?  Why won’t you talk to me?  Why won't you let me talk to you?  Why are you barricading yourself away from *everyone*?  From *me*?"  She felt her eyes filling with tears.  She blinked, trying her hardest to keep them back.  "What's happening to you?"
         "What's *happening to me?" he said, staring at her, shaking his head slightly.  "You want to know what's happening?"  He shook his head harder.  "Nothing.  Nothing.  Just me realizing what I am.  What I always was.  What I fought against so hard.  And now...what's the point?  What the hell is the point!" he roared.  He realized control was slipping out of his hands and he just didn't care anymore.  He was at his breaking point.
         He grabbed her by the arms, shaking her.  "I told you to leave!  I told you to get out and to leave me alone!  But you couldn't, couldn't you?" he roared.  "You just couldn't!"  He threw her, almost literally. She slammed, hard, into the wall, crumpling to the ground.  He went over her, kneeling over her stunned body, grabbing her by her shoulders, shaking her again.  "What do you want, Hope?  To make me feel better?  To make me all better?" he yelled.  He dropped her shoulders.  Her head hit the ground.
         "Christian...please..." she began.
         "Please what?  Let you go?" he yelled.  He jumped to his feet, hauling her to her own.  He ran to the door and kicked it open.  "Go then.  Get the hell out.  Go on.  Get out of here and save yourself."
         She stood unsteadily on her feet.  There were tears in her eyes.  "I can't." she whispered.
         He wasn't surprised.  No, she couldn't leave.  He had known it as sure as she had.  She could no more leave him then than she could have changed the color of the sky.  She simply couldn't leave him.
         "No, you can't, can you?" he said, slamming the door shut.  "No matter what I do, you could never leave."
         She shook her head no.  He came steadily closer to her, but she stood her ground, tears in her eyes, staring at him.  He hit her again and she slammed into the bed, crashing onto it.
         "Face it, Hope.  You just made your damn choice." he hissed.  "You were always nothing more than my stability.  That was why Thoth pushed so much for you to be born.  Just because you had to be here for *me*.  And you know it, don't you?  As long as I'm alive, you are nothing."
         She nodded, eyes wide.  She was frightened of him, but could not leave. no matter what he did to her.  He hit her again, and it felt freeing, felt as if everything weight on him was lifting, vanishing, fading away into nothing, making him realize that hurting was all right, because it was who he was.  And hurting her was all right because it was who she was.  She knew it.  They both knew it.  She was bleeding now, blood from her mouth.
         "So say it!" he roared, pulling her up, shaking her.
         Choking, mouth filled with blood, she managed to say, "I can't...I can't and I won't leave you, no matter what you do.  Because you need me.  And I've always known that that was why I'm here at all."  Her words were whispered, choked, halting through her sobs.  "And as long as you're alive, I can't ever be free."
         "Christian, you're hurting me!"
         Hope's scream made jerk out of it suddenly, eyes wide, realizing that he had been hallucinating again.  He had her by the arms, his hands digging into her arms.  God, she was *bleeding*!
         He threw himself onto the floor, shaking for all he was worth.
         "Christian!" Hope screamed, dropping down beside him.  "Christian, what's wrong?  Christian!" she screamed again, shaking him.  He jerked away from her, giving her a look of horror.
         "Get out!" he roared, shaking.  "Get out!"
         "Christian, what?  What's wrong? I don't understand..." she began.  Something was god-awful wrong.  "What did you see?  What scared you so much?'
         He paled.  "Get out!" he roared again, putting his face in his hands, shaking more.  Oh, God...it wasn't possible, was it?  There was no *way* that he could...but the vision, it was like the ones he had when he was younger, the way his brain had seemed to kick into a different gear and the world grow hazy before refocusing itself. But, dear Lord, what he had *done*...he didn't know where the hallucination had begun.  Had the evil he'd been conceived under carry a stain on him--the sins of the fathers visited upon the sins of the children?  He'd tried so hard his entire life to avoid evil--was it indelible on him?  And focused against *Hope*?  No.  *No*.  "Hope, get out!" he roared again.
         Hope started to shake.  He was scaring her.  She had never been so afraid for him in her life.  "I won't until you tell me what you saw!" she yelled.  "Is *that*, whatever you're seeing, why you're pushing me away?  Tell me what's wrong!  Let me help you.  Please."
         He paled even more.  Tell her?  *Tell* her?  And have her see the monster that he must be for such a thing to even appear in his mind?   "Good-bye, Hope." he said softly, and teleported her away.
         He collapsed onto his bed, ghost flashback images of the last hallucination burning into his eyes.  He covered his eyes with his arm, hoping to make them go away, but they were still there, still in his mind, tearing at him, sickening him, exciting him.
         God, he was so tired...

  ***  ***  ***  ***
trním to bodá do duše,
trním to bodá do duše.
...Uz je vecer
Všude tma, všude tma 		[pricking my heart with thorns,
pricking my heart with thorns.
...It's night-time now
Dark everywhere, dark everywhere]

-"Mamicko, mám tezkou hlavu," Jenufa

  ***  ***  ***  ***

         He stared at the wall, fighting sleep.  He was too exhausted to move, but he couldn't let himself sleep.  He couldn't...
         He stood up and walked over to his drawer, unaware of doing it.  It was as if he was on autopilot.  He sat down in front of the drawer, opening it.  He took out a box mechanically.  It was a beautiful box.  His aunt had given it to him when he was younger.  The inside was lined with red velvet, to cushion what was inside.  He reached in and took out what was inside.
         It was a knife.
         It was Japanese, a katana dagger.  Christine had had it for years, and he'd always admired it for it's beauty.  Christine had used it to show him what made a knife a good one.  And then she had given it to him, with a note.  The note was still there:

 Even a thing conceived for violence can be beautiful.
   -Christine

         Conceived for violence...  He often wondered about his aunt, how she seemed to know his fears about himself.  He put the knife down and read the note again, his eyes wandering over his aunt's handwriting--she had strangely pretty handwriting, even though unless she was trying to be neat, it was completely illegible.  But her script was beautiful, in spite of itself.  He sighed and put it down, picking up the katana.  He ran his finger along the flat side of the knife, thinking to himself.
         He wondered what it would be like, to die, to plunge the knife into himself.  He hated himself and who he was; hated being afraid of hurting the one person he cared about more than any other; hated that he could be capable of even *thinking* of harming her.
         He was so tired...

  ***  ***  ***  ***
         The phone rang.  He dragged himself over to it, even though all he wanted to do was let it ring, to ignore it as he held the knife, turning it over in his hands and letting the weariness overtake him.
         "Christian?" Christine said when he picked  up the phone.
         "Aunt Christine..." Christian began, feeling like he was at the end of his rope, a strange happiness taking over that she, of all people, had called.
         "Christian!" the hybrid said the second she saw the boy.  "What's wrong; are you OK?"
         He rubbed his temples tiredly.  He hadn't been sleeping.  He'd been afraid to sleep; afraid the dreams would come again.  He had felt so unhinged, as if his internal balance within his head was gone.  It frightened him.  Desperation had driven him to where he was now--if anyone would know how to help him, it was Christine.
         "Christian...are you OK?" she asked again, leaning forward to stare at him through the screen.
         "No." he said tiredly.  "Aunt Christine, I think I'm...I think I'm going insane."
         She looked at her nephew.  She'd never seen the boy look so tired or so worn out.  "What do you mean, Christian?"
         He looked up at her, his eyes bloodshot and bleary.  "How do you know if you're going insane, Christine?"
         "Christian, why the hell do you think you're..."
         "Please." he said, his bass voice a whisper.  Christine could remember when he was a small boy--when had he developed into this broken man before her?
         She frowned as she searched for words to describe something that was thoroughly indescribable.  "Part of you knows, I suppose.  And is frightened. But the rest of you just doesn't care.  Then...then you just don't care.  And it seems like...strangely...that everything suddenly makes sense; like you suddenly understand *everything*.  But at the same time, everything is out of control and spinning like mad around you.
         "Christian, please, tell me what's wrong."
         "I can't." he said, shaking his head.
         "Christian...you can tell me.  You can."
         "No, Christine, I can't!" he said desperately.  He was at the breaking point, he knew.
         "You have to tell someone." she said gently.  "Have you talked to Hope?"
         The instant look of horror on his face scared Christine.  Something was wrong.  Desperately wrong.  "I can't." he finally whispered.  He closed his eyes again.  Finally, eyes closed, he began to talk.  "Nightmares.  I'm having these god-awful nightmares.  About...about...hurting...Hope." he phrased carefully.  "They...and I've started hallucinating.  About the same things as the dreams."  He looked at her desperately.  "Am I going crazy?  Or is the evil that I just *know* is somewhere in me coming out?  Oh, God, Christine, what do I do?" he said, shaking.
         "Christian, you're not evil!"
         "You don't know what these dreams are, Christine..." he said in a hushed, tired whisper, the bags under his eyes seeming to grow.  "I'm afraid to sleep at night.  I have to be evil, for something like that these dreams to be happening."  He rubbed his temples again.  He had always curbed himself in, his entire life, terrified of getting out of control, for fear he would end up like his mother and his father had been.  His middle name was a reminder of the potential that lurked within him and terrified him.  He'd controlled everything because he'd had to.  But when Titania had come...for once, he'd let go for a while.  Had that brief letting go allowed the evil he'd always feared was inside him come out?  Had it found that little crack made by him allowing himself to sleep with the queen of the fey--he'd always contained himself, always, because he feared if he lost the self-control he'd always had, even for a split instant, then he'd never be able to gain it again.  And it seemed that that was what had happened.  The darkness that was inherent within had evidently come out, taking the form that he had allowed himself to let his guard down in--sex.  And it was focusing on the one person who had always helped to keep him grounded and sane--Hope.
         He was so tired.  So tired.  He wanted the nightmares to stop.  He wanted the fear that he would...to Hope...to stop.  He wanted it all to stop; he wanted to just sleep.
         "You're not evil, Christian." his aunt said, trying to convince him.  God, he had never looked so much like a lost little boy--this giant man, who looked so frightened and tired.  She suddenly wanted nothing more than to hug him and sing him to sleep.  "You aren't.  Tell me what the nightmares are, Christian."
         "I can't." he whispered hoarsely, covering his mouth with his hand.  His hand was shaking.  "I just can't."  He closed his eyes.  "I just want the nightmares to stop. And...and the hallucinations."  Tears of exhaustion began to well up from his eyes and run down his cheeks.  "I'm so tired, Christine.  But I can't sleep.  I close my eyes, and all I see is...I'm so tired." he whispered.  "So tired..."
         She wished she knew what to tell him, but she didn't.  If only he would talk to her; tell her what he was seeing...he wasn't evil, that much she knew.  But what if he was going crazy?  Christian had always been too sensitive for his own good, and she knew she should have never allowed he to grow as dependent on Hope as she had.  But how could she have known?  One day they were children, the next...
         "Christian...you have to tell me.  You have to."
         "I can't." he whispered again.  All of a sudden, the days of not sleeping caught up with him, and he began shaking more.
         "Sleep, Christian." she whispered gently.  He nodded flatly.  He had to sleep.  He hung up and stumbled to his bed.  When he laid down, he found he couldn't sleep, terrified of closing his eyes.  So he lay there, fighting sleep, and wishing for it all to end.
  ***  ***  ***  ***
         "Hope, get your butt over to Christian." Christine said flatly, staring straight at her grandchild.
         "He won't let me near him, Mom!  He screams at me to get out whenever he sees me.  Last time I was there...Mom, I'm so scared!" Hope yelled, bursting into tears.  "I don't know what's wrong with him!  I just don't!"  She was shaking, tears running down her face.  She just didn't know what to do for him.  She was on ground she had never been before, not able to take care of him, not able to make him stable and all right.  If he would just let her near him, she could try, but he wouldn't.  She could see him falling apart but he wouldn't let her help him, and it tore at her, frightening her, making her feel as if she was failing the most important thing that there was for her.
 Christine sighed.  "He's afraid he's going crazy.  And afraid he'll hurt you...but now he needs you more than he ever has in his entire life.  He hasn't been sleeping, afraid of nightmares.  And he says he's been hallucinating..."
         Hope nodded, wiping away her uncharacteristic tears.  "Yeah.  He had one last time I was there.  And when he came out of it...it was so scary!  I thought he was going to kill me, he was so desperate to make me leave.  He...he's *never* yelled at me like that before.  Never..."
         Tentatively, Christine spoke.  "Hope, do you think that maybe he's...?" she began.
         Hope closed her eyes.  "I don't know, Mom.  I don't know.  I wish I could say "no," but...but I just don't know."
  ***  ***  ***  ***
         Hope wandered off alone.  She needed the think.
         She needed to pray.
         Neither of the people she considered her parents were highly religious--Christine would never say much on the subject, but Mark...well, he believed in God.  His own brand of faith was important to him, and he had passed that on to the girl who had all but worshipped him.  It had been strange for her at times--belief compared to disbelief.  She had often tried to figure it out for herself.  For her, it was simply a mater of doing back what Christine, the great cynic, had told her.  When Christine had often taught them magic, she had also taught them about listening to yourself; to the internal voice that spoke of what was right and what was wrong.  And when Mark had told her of "the still, small voice," she had known, somehow, that they were the same.  And when she realized that, it had all clicked into place, reconciled and whole.  She went outside and found herself a tree to sit beneath--she always felt more in touch with God, with the internal peace, with whatever name it was, when she was outside.  That was when she felt that the most inside her, when the belief that there was something, was the strongest and the most secure.
         She sighed.  What do I do?  What do I do to help him?  How can I?  I'm so scared...what do I do?  What?
         The branches of the tree she sat under blew in the wind.  She looked up, watching the way the branches swayed in the wind, and the way the leaves seemed to blow around her.  And the way the wind seemed to cry in the branches of the willow tree.
         "Il Salce..." she whispered to herself, thinking of the words in Italian for willow tree before the English came to her.  "Salce..." she whispered again.  She closed her eyes and smiled, feeling tears burning in her eyes before she looked heavenward.  "Il Salce funebre...  Thank You." she whispered once, then stood up as she knew what she had to do.
  ***  ***  ***  ***
         Thoth watched.  And sighed.  Titania had broken her word to Ma'at.  He shook his head.  He had thought the curse was over.  And so it should have been.  But the sins of the father were truly revisited upon the sons.  Titania had tipped the scales, in her attempt to destroy the son of Shiva.  He had orchestrated events so carefully, and now...
         He sighed.  Titania would claim credit for this, and see it as a good thing.  Of that, he was certain.  She would even make it seems as though she had planned this from the beginning.  But Thoth knew better, and knew that there was nothing that he could do to undo the gross damage that Titania had wrought.  But perhaps this would be in the long run for the best.  Avalon had seemed to do enough damage to this familial line, all in their attempts to control it.  They had paid; Avalon had paid.  No one was left undamaged by the viscous circle that had been created, and no one but him truly knew yet what was in store for all of them.  Thoth felt a great sadness weigh in on him.  The Götterdämmerung was assured.  The Götterdämmerung that Thoth had prepared for and shaped events for, all the while leaving outs that could be taken to avoid it.  But now, Fate had aligned itself with the Ragnarok.
         He furrowed his brow suddenly.  There was a chance.  There was.  But would he do as Titania had done?  Would he break the vow he was bound by; a vow not of his own making?  Or should he allow the coming conflagration to come?
         Thoth was suddenly tired.  Tired of the weight that was his as the Scribe and Watcher.  Perhaps, he thought, perhaps it is time for the Twilight.
  ***  ***  ***  ***
         "Piangea cantando nell'erma landa la mesta..."  He vaguely heard someone singing.
         "Hope?" he whispered tiredly.  No, no, it couldn't be her, he couldn't risk...
         "O Salce, Salce, Salce..."  Hope sat down on the bed, still singing to him.  God, he looked so tired...
         He was too tired to make her leave; to try even the most basic of attempts.  Hope ran her hand over his brow and he cracked, suddenly weeping with exhaustion and fear over what was happening to him and not knowing what to do.  He put his head on her lap and cried, torn between needing her and needing to drive her away because he was afraid of what he might do to her.
         "Cantiamo!  Cantiamo!  Il Salce funebre sarà la mia ghirlanda." she sang gently, putting her arms around his shoulders and bowing her head, letting her hair fall around him.  She continued to sing, even after he had finally fallen into a fitful sleep, feeling tears in her eyes.  She started to get up, when his arms tightened around her waist.  In his sleep, he held onto her, able to give into needing her.  She closed her eyes and rested her head on his shoulder.  She would stay with him, now, because she had to.  He needed her.  He always had, and she would not go.  She resolved it to herself, feeling something in her strengthen.  He would not drive her away.  She would not let whatever was happening win and destroy him.  He needed her.
         She extracted herself from him and laid down next to him on the bed.  She would sleep next to him, now, and later she would drag whatever was wrong from him.  For now, he needed sleep, and he needed her next to him, to quiet his fears and be his stability.  He curled around her like a child in his sleep, and rested his head on her breast.  She stroked his hair and sang again to him, staring out into space and knowing with the certainty she had her entire life that she had been born for him; to keep him safe.
         "Egli era nato per la sua gloria, io per amarlo e per morir..."
  ***  ***  ***  ***
         Titania watched.  And wondered.  What had Christine allowed to happen?  What was the bond between these two?  She didn't understand.  And that bothered the fey queen.  She had underestimated these two...and she would leave it at that.  She smiled to herself faintly.  These two, they would destroy each other, somehow.  They...or rather, he needed the girl too much.  And Titania herself had planted fears of this into the boy.   And if they did not destroy each other...their bond was so close as to allow them never to part from each other.  Titania would wait.  And watch.  Soon enough, she knew.
         Soon enough.
         Titania smiled.
  ***  ***  ***  ***
         ~Ma'at.~
         Christine knew she was dreaming, but also knew that there was an element of truth to her dreams.  "Thoth?"
         ~Ma'at...I must ask your aid.~
         "What?" she asked carefully.
         ~To aid your grandchild and nephew.~
         "What?  Anything.  Tell me!" she yelled in her dream, knowing that whatever was wrong with Christian was far more serious than she had feared.  When Thoth had noticed...
         ~Free me of the bond you so made Titania take.  Allow me to interfere in their lives, to undo a great wrong that has been done.~
         "What wrong is that, Thoth?" she asked, warning lights going off.  She trusted Thoth, but she knew that even the best of intentions sometimes meant that things would go to hell.
         The bird sighed.  ~Christine, you must not question this.  Only know that there is an outside influence at work, and damage control must be done.  Or else both children are lost.  I do not bluff, Christine.  You know this.~
         She closed her eyes.  "I can't." she whispered.  "If I allow you...who is to stop any of the other fey from taking that loophole?  Tell me what's happened...perhaps I...?"
         Thoth knew then that the inevitable had to happen.  The woman had to be told.  Not all of the truth, but told what she needed so she would act in the way that she must.  And the result of that...Ahh, Titania, he thought to himself, what you have done for yourself by making an enemy of this one...I fear for you now, Titania--for as surely as her sister hated Oberon, so shall she hate you, and her sister's wrath was nothing in comparison to this living weapon's...You have brought the Götterdämmerung upon yourself....
         And so he began to speak.
  ***  ***  ***  ***
         Christian awoke, disoriented.  Where...what...?  It took him a moment to realize what was happening; where he was.  Hope.  Hope was here, sleeping next to him, his head on her breast and her arms around his shoulders.  He started to jump away, but sighed and closed his eyes.  Hope woke moments after he did; he knew.  He felt her run her hand through his hair, and he sighed again.
         "Hope...you shouldn't be here." he said tiredly.  He was still too tired to care.  His sleep had finally been peaceful, with her beside him.  That would have frightened him, had he cared any longer. He only wanted to go back to sleep, into that sleep where there were no more dreams.  But he fought sleep, jumped to his feet, out of the bed, away from her.
         "Yes, I should." she said firmly.  "Christian, you have to tell me what's wrong.  Something is tearing you up, and I can't stand it.  I can't stand watching you go insane like this...I just can't." she said, feeling tears in her eyes.  She went to hug him and he forcibly pushed her away.  How could he let her hug him?  How, when he was now aware of that woman's body, and now couldn't, no matter how hard he tried, see her just as Hope?  How, when now he knew how he could be capable of those things he had dreamed, because all he could notice was that she was a woman, not the child-image that he'd always retained?  Because now he could connect her and sex, and because now he did want her, because of this knowledge?  How could he risk hurting her?
         Hope looked at him, her hands on her hips, her head raised.  "No, Christian.  I won't run away from you.  This isn't you, and we both know it.  I trust you, Christian Shiva Maza, and I always will.  You know that." she said, putting her hand on his arm.  Jesus, he thought--she was so tiny.  She was tall for a woman, but she was still tiny compared to him--she was a foot shorter than he was and was as fine-boned as her grandmother.  If something snapped, she'd be powerless against him.  He couldn't risk that.
         He jerked away.  "Hope, please...*please*..." he said, shaking.
         Hope marched over and planted herself in front of him.  "Don't you "Hope, please" me!" she yelled.  "You need me, Christian, and you know it!  I'm not about to let you go flying off the deep end!" she yelled, feeling ready to cry.
         "Hope...Hope, I don't trust myself around you anymore!" he screamed, feeling at the end of his rope.
         "Well, too fucking bad!" Hope screamed at him.  "Because *I* trust you, you son of a bitch, and I'm not about to let you chase me away without you telling me a why!  A real why!  Not dancing around the issue like you have been!  I need answers!"
         "Well, I can't give them to you!" he roared in her face.  She held her ground, unafraid of his rage or his blazing white eyes.
         "Well, I'm not moving until you do!" she roared back, her hands on her hips and her head raised imperially.
         "Damn you, Hope...why can't you just go?" he finally whispered when he realized she wasn't going to move.  And all he could think of was the last vision, when she had stood much like that.  "Please...please, for both our sakes...*please* go."
         Her face softened and she put her hand on his arm.  "I can't, Christian.  You know it and so do I."
         "If you knew...if you saw what I had seen, you'd run and never look back" he whispered, bowing his head.
         Hope took Christian's face in her two hands, forcing him to look at her.  "I can't run, Christian.  I can't leave you.  And you know that as well as I do." she said, looking him straight in the eyes.
         "I'm so afraid, Hope." he whispered, standing next to her and afraid to move, feeling her warm hands against his cheeks.  Finally he acted.  He vanished.
  ***  ***  ***  ***
         Christine knew then what an enemy she had in Titania.  Thoth told her the truth, and now she knew it was to her to deal with it.  She had trusted the fey queen once, and that was a mistake she would never make again.  She set her jaw and began to pace, trying to decide on a course of action.  She had told Thoth that she would handle this herself; she would not ask him to break Titania's oath.
         Christine focused herself on the Feather.  She knew the power it had, and what she could do with it.  Still, it frightened her--it frightened her how easy it was to create a portal to Avalon.  She simply opened it, knowing that walking through it, and into the skewed time of the skewed place, would result in everything happening before she could effect it.  So she opened it, and waited.  Oberon would come on his own to her...
         "What mortal dares to attempt to enter Avalon?"
         "Ahh, one of the sisters, the lesser."
         "Yet not so lesser, as we see."
         Christine's gaze met the ones of the watchmistresses of Avalon.  "I must speak with Oberon.  Now."
         "She commands like a queen."
         "She thinks herself such."
         "Perhaps she is...or wants to be."
         "Stop your whining and get me the bastard king who rules that damnable place!" Christine roared.  The Feather burst into life, flaming pure white for an instant, matching the sudden green-blue blaze in Christine's eyes.
         "She wears the Feather of Judgment!"
         "Is she Ma'at, the one foretold?"
         "The Ma'at of Ma'ats?"
         "I am Ma'at." Christine said imperially, her jaw raising.  She had no idea what the hell they were babbling about, but it worked.
         "The Judge of Götterdämmerung?"
         "The Ma'at of Ma'ats?"
         "The Twilight comes!"
         They vanished suddenly.  Christine, put her hands on her hips and started counting to ten before she decided that she was just going to walk through the portal and drag Oberon's sorry ass back to earth when the Weird Sisters appeared.
         "All hail, Ma'at of Ma'ats."
         "The goddess mortal, immortal."
         "Ma'at of Ma'ats, predestined judge."
         "Cut the crap.  Where the hell is Oberon?"
         The Weird Sisters blinked, and moved out of the way when O