The story is, amazingly, not only in progress, but getting somewhere.  I thought it might be done, but apparently I/we need to expand it out a bit more.  But it's underway and going well, and I thought folks would like to know.

I don't *believe* he did that!

I *hate* dying, and no, I didn't need the reminder that drowning *sucks*, thanks a lot, Connor, and-- Come to think of it, if I was home, Mama'd still be scrubbing my mouth out with soap.

Connor did apologize, at least -- twice, the second time after Aidan finished yelling at him (none of which I understood, but he sure as hell did), which was after she'd fussed over me. Then *I* yelled at him, and Alex and Xan taught me some new (well, to me) insults when I ran short. Bad thing is, some of the insults made me *and* Connor laugh. At the same time, damn it. A perfectly good, completely justified explosion -- ruined.

At least I got a really *good* hot dinner out of it. Alex's lasagna is almost worth drowning for, and Aidan's garlic bread... I need to send Nona that recipe. She'll love it. Anyway, hot bath, hot meal, really good chianti that Connor brought along specifically as an apology for this -- he's almost forgiven. Almost.

I have to say: if I hadn't seen Connor practicing katas completely underwater, I'd have never believed his story about he just wanted to see if I could breathe water. Connor let me half-drown -- he *thought* -- to find out. His idea of half.... About my only consolation is that it turns out Ramirez (Connor's teacher, and man, he sounds like he was a complete blast, when he wasn't a complete bastard or lech) tried this on Connor *and* all three of the others, too: Alex, Xan, and Aidan. Seems it worked on Connor and on Teach's sister, Rihana. I'd have loved to have seen that. Connor promised he'd tell me the full story of his first time, too. He sounded like parts of it were pretty embarrassing, so I'm looking forward to it.

Wonder if it was half as embarrassing as explaining to Teach how he 'accidentally' drowned me?

For that matter, I wonder what other stories I can get out of him? He does owe me after all. And we brought plenty of alcohol, "to encourage family history," Teach said. Right. I think I'm caught up on this for the night. I'm cooled down, or warmed up, anyway.

( Storm Crow )

More... later. Yeah, that's it *g*

Rafferty Conlan
Paris, France - Dec. 28, 1999

I wake up like this a lot. Heart pounding, skin soaked, and the small hairs at the back of my neck standing on end. It's not the only part of me that is. Hairs on my arms up, and my cock hard as hell, and at the same time my hands already reaching for my blade. Eyes wide open, looking for something I can't see. I keep a light on when I sleep now, and it's not just to make sure I see where the sword might be coming from.

It's never a dream, or if it is, I don't remember it. That's really terrifying. The dreams I do remember are bad enough, but this isn't those. I don't know what the dream or dreams is, but it's just not the same. Like not knowing leather from denim with my fingers in the dark. That different. Unmistakable. But if my usual dreams are acid wash denim, and sometimes the acid's burned all the way through, this dream is leather from something that's not alive anymore. Sharkskin, maybe. T Rex. Or those fucking raptors from Jurassic Park. Yeah. Like that. Old and fast and sleek and smart. Cooperating to make you scream your throat raw while they peel the flesh off bones.... No wonder I wake up like that, if that's what I can remember.

The regular dreams... they're not the reasons I'm afraid. They should be, though. Most of my line's gone. Wiped out, dead, ex-line, feet up or at least heads flown off their shoulders. Forgot the last syllable and opened the book anyway? Fuck, I don't know! What I do know is that someone managed to kill Owain. And Johannes, and my teacher, Enrique. It left me rich -- Enrique made me his heir -- but it scares me. A lot. Who could do that? How? I fought Owain twice. Both times I ended up on the ground with a sword at my throat. I never had a chance, although the second time I lasted longer. Long enough, I guess. Oh, I know what happened to Henslowe's student. Mark, I think his name was. We only talked twice. My age, about. Nice guy. I think that was the problem, as they saw it. I hope it was at least quick.

Enrique thought the Game was an invention of the devil some days. Other days he saw it as God's will, us against Satan's agents. Those were the bad days, when he raved about 'giants among men' and 'nephilim' and 'daughters of man' and 'sluts, destroyed by the pure light of the angels.' Enrique was scary enough when he was praying. When he was raving, I kept my damn head down, all 'yes, sir' and 'no, sir' and studied the Bible so he'd leave me alone. I can recite it cover to cover. In Latin. Only Latin I know, but it's plenty.

Enrique's gone, though. He never showed up after the line war. I didn't keep in contact with many of the line, but I know a few things. I knew where they were based. I know how to hire investigators, what explanations to offer. Lim waited half a year, but he showed back up in Hong Kong, shut down his businesses there, and vanished again, taking his money with him. He didn't leave any information for the rest of us anywhere on the Web, either. At least, none of the usual word combinations struck gold on Google.

Farrell shut down his place in Lausanne by phone. I'd think he was dead and someone got tricky except his gallery ran a new exhibit of his photographs nine months later. He's somewhere in the Deep South, or was. I don't know if he's still there, but I know Savannah when I see it. It was a really good exhibition. I was scared he'd show up, the entire time, but the photographs were gorgeous anyway. Anyway, I'll stay out of the South anytime soon. I never could figure Farrell out. I think he liked me, in a distant, pitying sort of way, but I'm not going to bet my head on it. He didn't put out word either, after all.

But... that's it. No sign of the others. I'm going to quit paying the investigators after this week. Just no point. There were never many of us -- no great loss, honestly. I mean, Damita watching me that time could have inspired the Raimis to one more Ash movie, just to watch her completely screw up his life. Why did I just shiver? Not just Damita. And I love Army of Darkness, but wondering what kind of undead.... God. I hate those shudders. Hate anything that pulls my shoulders back like that, rustles down my arms in goose bumps and leaves me sure I couldn't block or strike fast enough for just a moment.

I loved horror movies. Vincent Price, Christopher Lee, Vampirella, Bruce Campbell, Boris Karloff, Wesley Snipes -- all of them. Good, bad, trashy, classic. I'm shuddering again? And why did I only list the vampires?

How long 'til sunrise? And how much coffee do I have in the kitchen?

Enrique gone. Damita. Bianca, and Jirina. Will and Johannes. Someone killed Erik, too. During the truce. So, maybe line Ramirez. Maybe not. 6' 4" and solid muscle and... how? Henslowe's gone, vanished before the war began and hasn't shown back up and he was a cold, calculating son of a bitch. Second only to Owain. Who the hell could do that? What did Owain expect me to do if I ran up against people who could destroy them? Good thing there was no one at that bar, but... Christ on a crutch. I'd have been easy meat.

I keep thinking I'm going to be doomed. I mean, I practice. I stay in shape. But... I don't sleep for shit a lot of nights. It'll kill me one day at this rate. I thought it had today. But... they only nodded at me. Traveling together, arm in arm like they were lovers or something. How can you sleep with someone who knows how to take your head? Does it add a major adrenaline edge to the sex? Or were they just staying in character? Hell of a security blanket, to have someone else to watch the door occasionally, I guess. Not worry about taking a shower, or getting caught sitting on the john, pants around your ankles...? Might be worth the risk.

God, I'm tired. I've watched the moon across the sky the last three nights. Wonder if sleeping in the daylight would be easier? Hope the estate agent's been able to find some old churches for sale. Daylight, or holy ground, I've got to sleep soon.

If they were wrong about immortals getting along, does that mean they were wrong about us not needing shrinks? Wonder if I could trust one to help me find out what I'm so scared of?

No. One slip about 'swords' and 'duels' and I'd be in a soft, padded cell while they fed me blue and purple pills. I don't think so. God. I need some help from somewhere, though!

I never thought I'd miss Enrique.

There's something I just don't get. Well. Where immortality is concerned, there's a lot I don't get, but this one just boggles me.

We all start out-- Well. So far as I know, we all think we're human when we grow up. Which means you get the full spread of humanity with us: good, bad, lazy, hyper, every religion (and lack thereof) and race on the planet. But we grow up with people. Taken in by families, or institutions, or what have you, but we grow up thinking we're people. How in hell do we ever get to the point of thinking we're 'better' or something?

I know some mortals do it too. (Weird. 'People' doesn't have the distinction I need, or 'humans'. Hmm. Are we human? I suppose I'll consider that one day, too. Not now.) Hitler thought the Aryans were better than the Semitics. Duncan told me once that he met an immortal named Kronos who claimed to be the end of time. (Might have been bravado, but Duncan said he was preparing to wipe mortals off the planet if they didn't give him what he wanted.) Owain and Christopher sure as hell thought they were better than everyone else. Was that because they were immortal? Or just their own arrogance?

How can we not think we're as human as anyone else? We eat, drink, defecate, urinate, bleed, need hugs, want sex or comfort, get bored or inspired or a little nutty... We're human in every way I can think of that counts. We can go as mad as anyone else, or do as much good for as little reason. We think, and pray, and curse, and love... What kind of idiot can think we're not human?

We live longer. I'm not sure we live better. Hmm. Some of us, maybe? Shamil, and Portia, and Aidan -- the ones who seize the day and live in the moment, maybe. I think maybe we learn to enjoy it more, if we pay attention. But 'better'? I don't think I know how to define that. I'm not sure any of us do.

We're not smarter as a species. I mean, we're still killing each other for no readily apparent reason. We tend to be tall, and good looking, but that's not all of us, and we can't reproduce, so what's the damn point anyway? We live longer, but don't have any built in instinct to guard or guide or be a good example. So... not brains. Not looks. Not children. (Not everyone does students/family the way my line does, so that doesn't count, clearly.) No widespread gift for invention or anything other than survival... and we don't teach it to mortals or, half the time, each other, so that doesn't count. There are more than enough mortal athletes who have us beat at speed, or strength, or agility, or endurance -- despite our best efforts in training to survive -- that it's not that, either.

How in hell are we 'better' than humans, then?

Me, I don't think we are. And I don't think that pretending we are will lead me anywhere I want to go. It's arrogance. It's hubris. And it's stupidity.

One of the mysteries Aidan loaned me had a historian commenting that it's not just the facts themselves that are important, but the relationship of the facts and the proportions of the facts to each other as well. Everything has to be seen both as it is and in its proper setting before we can understand it.

Well, immortals are different from mortals in healing, but not necessarily in lifespan. We have no guarantee we'll live longer. Or better. Or more happily. What's more, we're outnumbered. By a vast majority. We have to live with and among these people. We're probably going to love some of them and hate others and disregard the vast majority, just as we do with other immortals, and just as mortals do in their lives. Any immortal who forgets that he came from mortals, and lives among mortals, has forgotten his proper setting.

As my martial arts lessons keep teaching me: focus too much on your opponent's hand and she'll drop you with the other hand, or a foot. Focus too much on what we are, and not where we are, and the universe will trip us up, too. Always assuming, of course, that the idiot in question doesn't make so much of a disturbance that someone like Connor or Matthew comes along and cleans them up before they bring the world down around the rest of our heads. Arrogance. Hubris. Karma rolling down like a U-Haul full of books with the brakes out.

'Better than everyone else.' Sure, Owain. You're dead, too.

Friday, December 17, 1999

I think I understand my parents better now. Which is a really odd feeling at... what am I, now? One hundred thirty-... four? Almost thirty-five?

It's just that I remember watching my parents together, the way Mum and Dad looked more complete next to each other. They weren't incomplete without each other, God knows, but when they were together it was so obviously where they both wanted to be.... They fit in so many ways that, looking back, it's almost scary, because now that I'm older, I can wonder what would have happened if they'd never met each other and the very idea feels wrong. Growing up with them, though, it was just the way they were. It would have been reassuring, I guess, if it had been anything other than my idea of normal.

It was all in the little things, honestly. The way pies never came out right unless Dad made the filling and Mum made the crust, but you couldn't let them trade out on that. The way Mum made such a quick job of shearing and Dad was an expert at tying the fleece and fitting it into the smallest possible space for shipping. The unthinking acceptance that Mum would make breakfast while Dad tidied the bedroom and got me moving, and Dad would make lunch while Mum was finishing any records from the morning for fleeces sheared, or grain to be bought, or groceries.... All the parts of daily life where they knew who did which part best and that was just the way it was.

They leaned on each other, took up weight or shared it, trading back and forth so casually. Not entirely effortlessly those first years, I don't think. But they didn't mind learning, either. And they didn't *care* who was better at things. If anything, Mum was always so proud of Dad's skill with rope, or wire, or tools. Dad thought it was great that Mum could talk a kid out of a tree, or fuss us into doing what we knew was right and didn't want to do anyway. By the time I was really old enough to notice, though, that balance of theirs was just about automatic. I thought that was just the way everyone's parents were.

Later, I figured out that marriages were supposed to result in that kind of partnership and, too often, didn't. I always hoped I'd get lucky enough to find someone I could work with that easily, be that happy for, and proud of. Someone I'd love that much, and who'd love me the same way, want the same things for me.

God, I'm glad the twins called me to come to London with them. I think I'll go tell Zhenya so, too.

Again.

Friday, December 17th, 1999

Whatever went wrong six years ago, it's being fixed, now. The shadows are going from my Tolya's eyes, although not the worry; so it's not entirely right, yet. There's been a tension there that's changing shape and form of a sudden. An easing in the pain in Papa's heart, and Mama's eyes. There are strange people at my in-laws, however helpful and pleasant they are -- and Shamil's hands are worth gold, indeed, especially with this lump that is my daughter inside of me -- still they are very strange. I'm happy for Zhenya; but Farrell came out of nowhere, and while 'photographer' makes a very handy excuse, he did not come to London to work at *that*. It's certainly a good thing that Masha has at last found a good man to love; but she didn't meet Salim in any ordinary passing, either. And it's more than the normal brotherly concerns that has Tolya scowling so fiercely when his name comes up. There've been family meetings I've missed, and strangers coming to the house, and upset amongst my siblings-in-law. Not to mention that 'research' trip Dedushka took on no notice. Or the teddy-bears out of the blue "from Ilya and Sharra", much as I appreciate the fudge and the bear to cuddle when Tolya's not here; and Tolya is genuinely hilarious with that cub of his they sent "to practice on". He'll be a great father, when our daughter is born; as good a father as he is a husband, and that's saying something.

But coincidence only stretches so far. There can only be so many strange people visiting, and odd trips, and furtive whispers before suspicion rises. Something's changing, or coming well, or finally beginning to heal, and this time.... this time, he's going to have to tell me what it's all about.

Ilya's coming home again. He's no more been working in Budapest or Bangalore or Durban than I have. He *might* be studying in America, now -- although what he studies, they're so very carefully not saying. I've seen the letters and the postcards they say are from him -- fiction, all of them, 'til now. A fiction, so that no one would be able to prove Ilya was *not* travelling and working in Berlin or Petersburg or Sydney; but a fiction nonetheless.

Things haven't been right since the night Jamie was caught in that pub-bomb, and Ilya vanished. They said he'd taken the ferry over to Ireland a day gone past, planning a summer back-packing trip from Dublin up to Belfast and then the ferry over into Europe, and wherever the mood took him after that. That's what they told the police; and when the inspectors asked me, I answered the same thing. I hadn't seen him for a couple of days, I suppose it *might* have been true, technically -- except they were lying, to a man, his family were. And Jamie, in the hospital and half out of his mind on fever and drugs, he was lying too. I don't know why he had to run; but there's no way in hell my brother-in-law was involved with that bomb, with *any* bomb, whatever they were trying to imply. So... I lied, too. And, again, when Ilya didn't return to take up his place in the PhD programme at the end of the summer. He'd decided to take a year off, they said; travel and work about a bit, see some of the world. One year turned into two, turned into three; and one by one his siblings claimed to have met him in some far-away city, holidayed with him before returning home, while he travelled on. And the postcards came, and the letters; coincidentally always from cities they'd just visited, or places along the route of a business trip, or where friends lived; and still Ilya didn't return to England.

The police lost interest, after a while; in the case, and in Ilya, and Tolya relaxed his wariness, but never lost that grief. It never changed, nor lessened; not until strange men came to visit his parents, and Dedushka left for a fortnight in america.

Wherever he's been, whyever he was lost -- they've found him again. Or someone's found them, for him. He's hurt, I gather; but how, or why, and what happened... when it was just me, that was one thing. I could hold Tolya, and soothe him, and not push to find out why when I knew he could not tell me. Ilya's safety was tied up in it somehow, and he would not betray that. None of them would. I didn't push, not much; because I love him, and he hurt. And because they'd do the same for me, and for our daughter when she's born, God forbid it's ever needed. They'd protect us with that same ferocity, that same strength of will and love.

But now there *is* my child to consider. And I cannot protect her from dangers I know nothing of. At Christmas, when the others have returned from New York, I'll have to ask.

This time, they will answer.

Thursday, December 2nd, 1999. 11:50pm

Farrell's first teacher was a right goddamned bastard, and I hope he rots in the hell he deserves.

More about that later, though.

They spotted her ring. Farrell, and Zhenya; and I didn't think the Kutarovs would mind me being an official addition to the family; but I'm glad I was right about it, nonetheless.

They started talking about the wedding. Oh, God. The wedding. There's going to be a wedding. Soon. With, with food, and a hall, and clothes, and, and *things*.

There's gotta be a way to get married without a wedding, right? And without Mama and Masha and Tolya and Dedushka killing me for skipping it... doesn't there?

Oh. My. God. A *wedding*.

::whimper:: Help.

Thursday, December 2nd, 1999. 3:05am

I think I took her by surprise. I've been carrying this damned thing about for a year and a half, now, and it's never quite seemed the right time to give it to her. Neither of us quite ready for it. Until tonight, and she was laughing in the candlelight, and...

She said yes!

December 17, 1999 - 1:07 am

The point is, I’ve never denied I’m greedy. I’ve got the most incredible wife I could have ever hoped for. Ish, my favorite brother, has finally dug himself out of the war he was fighting in Morocco to help against Owain. Better still, he came back to Charleston with me and Stormy afterwards. So did Farrell, thank God. We haven't been in the same place, for any length of time, in ages. It’s like having the Three Musketeers back together. Actually, Stormy’d make a great D’Artagnan, come to think of it.

We needed Farrell here, though, if only for his field of calmness during the wedding plans and preparations. And Farrell needed *us* while he dealt with Owain’s death, and all the rest of his former line. Yeah, he hated the bastard, but Owain’s shadow lay over most of his life, from first death to that last broken oath in New Mexico. He has nightmares some nights, and then refuses to talk about it even when we can tell he hasn’t slept for shit. He’s been easing up, though. Less nightmares. More mischief. Usually he’s the one keeping us out of trouble. Now he’s starting to suggest some of it. Wish Missy’d quit chasing him, though. I wouldn’t wish my sister-in-law on my enemies, much less Farrell. Artemis, chaste mistress of the hunt, wouldn’t want a thing to do with the little slut who’s named after her.

Anyway. Farrell. He’s moving back across the Atlantic -- to London, rather than Lausanne, so he’s a little closer, but... I’m going to miss him, damn it. Miss having someone to take sides with and against me, or to come over and spar in the mornings. Stormy’s going to miss being able to call him to pick up something for dinner or for the company at movies I won’t admit I kind of like.

He’s getting married. For the first time in his life. The most serious I’ve ever seen him about a relationship, but the happiest, too. The first time I’ve seen him with a man, for that matter. Completely wrapped up in each other, and even if I didn’t like Zhenya -- although I do -- I’d have to like the changes in Farrell. Farrell’s more mischievous than he was when he went to London. Happier. Thoroughly loved, by Zhenya and his family, and he’s relaxing. He’s talking to them, and listening to them, and the only thing I really hate is that he couldn’t talk to us, apparently. But he’s healing, which is good, and he’s happy, which is better, and I think he’s acting more like his pre-Owain self every day, which is wonderful.

But I’m going to miss him.

I never said I was nice, either, though. I’ll take it out on the Watchers. They’ve gone too far, too often. Bad enough Farrell’s Watcher was taking photos of him and Zhenya when they were making out, in the alley or on the dance floor. But the bastard sent the pictures to *me*. ‘Anonymously.’ How many people in London could manage to follow Farrell, photograph him, and know to send the pictures to me?

What did he think I’d do, beat the shit out of Zhenya for loving Farrell? That’s just good taste. I’m Alex and Xan’s nephew: homophobe won’t fit with that symbol set. But the Watchers need a reminder that they’re not perfect, and an example of what ‘interference’ can cost. ‘Never interfere,’ my ass. So. Time I gave them some honest research to do, rather than spying. As for Farrell’s Watcher... if I see him when I stop in London on the way back, I’m going to explain to him in small words and even less visible bruises that he doesn’t get to judge Farrell’s happiness by some narrow-minded standard. It’s not his business. Farrell doesn’t have to be ‘perfect’ for him, or straight, or anything else. And if he can’t observe without interfering with the observed-- Time he got out of the business. One way or another.

December 4, 1999

I always liked construction projects. Planning what you wanted, getting the materials together, assembling them as they should go - usually with profanity when something went in upside down, backwards or in the wrong place and had to be fixed.... I liked the burn of aching muscles and the feel of cold water on overheated skin when I cleaned up at the end of the day. What I really liked, though, was seeing what I'd gotten done that day, being able to see the changes, the new parts, the progress towards completion.

But that's construction. What they're doing with me... is reconstruction. It's not that I'm not strong enough for life, or the Game. That was never in question; I'd be dead at my own hands if I weren't strong. No. The problem is that my foundation was damaged, cracked in places and washed out in others, and I was fine as long as I had projects to finish and goals to achieve and people to protect. Put enough weight on me, and it held all the beams down, forced them down so that everything held... for as long as the weight was there.

It's not a good way to live. I know that. I knew it at the time. It's a hard thing to fix, though. Physical wounds are simpler. Set the bone if it's broken and splint it while it heals. Clean out the wounds and stitch them if they're bad, bandage them if they're not, and let them heal. Minds, though... things twist in minds. You fix it one day and the next day force of habit has started pulling you back to the old position. It's hard to splint a train of thought. Even harder to dig down through layers of rationalizations and justifications and assumed motives that made the pains easier to handle. Even with help it's much more difficult than I'd have ever expected. More tiring than putting up walls or training with swords some days. Without help... you start wondering what you look like from the outside, and can't see it. Like parting your hair without a mirror; even with a comb, and checking it with your hands, it may not be quite straight. But an angled nail bends when the hammer comes down. I can't afford that.

So... I have help. Whether I wanted it or not, honestly. But I'm grateful. Well. Most days I'm grateful. Some days I just want to bite and snap until they leave me alone. Instead I make myself sit there and talk, or write, or answer, or listen. Even when I hate it. Some days, I do. But it's got to be done, and well, if I stop one day, it's too easy to just not start back up. And I'm tired of living like this. It hurts. So... I let them help, in their different ways.

Marc slices. Comes in from some angle you never knew was vulnerable and cuts down to the heart of the matter (and the Achilles' heel of your defenses). And they're straight, razor-sharp strikes that I never anticipate... or avoid. It's not that they hurt, at first. It's like that first moment of an injury - the shocky, electrical feel of 'oh, that's going to be bad' but it doesn't hurt yet. The pain comes later, but first there's that painless investigation of 'that shouldn't be open like that' and 'wow, should it look like that' and the slow well of blood along the edges.

Later, they tend to hurt. A lot. But Marc gets in and burns out the festering parts and leaves words in the wounds to clean out the gangrene. Words that keep echoing through your thoughts for days at odd moments, things like 'Children can't stop adults from leaving' and 'Was it really your relationship to patch up?' and 'You can love them; you can't make them love you. And you wouldn't want to if you could.'

Marc's dangerous, honestly, but when he cleans injuries, there's no infection left. Lingering pain, yeah. It's surgery, after all. But... it's bearable. Kind of. It gets better, anyway.

Alex, though -- my teacher's lover, the relative I seem to remind people of, although I look more like Xan -- Alex doesn't cut. He deconstructs. He starts at the outside and strips layers off, sorting through as he goes to see what's salvageable and what isn't, and just keeps going. It takes longer than Marc's method, but he looks at everything as he goes, and he doesn't let me up 'til he's done. Which takes forever and leaves me shaking and defenseless for a while after. All the walls and shields and layers I've got up, the ones that let you get through a day without thinking that a careless phrase was really directed at you, or that the slight was unintentional rather than intentional... they're all gone when Alex is done. And I'm open and exposed and feeling as raw and thin-skinned as my mother used to say I was. Everything's too intense, too vivid and violent and painful until I can pull some of my shields back up, or until Alex, or Xan, or Connor takes over and shields me, so that I can watch them and not the world. I hate it.

It's a really good thing I love Alex, basically. Well. It's not just that. Alex really is only hurting me because he loves me. Which sounds all wrong, but it's true. He doesn't like hurting me, but if he hurts me now, I'll hurt less at the end of it. So... he does. No matter how much we both loathe the pain and the process. The end result should be worth it. I hope.

And Connor. My teacher has this gift for sitting and listening. For watching me while I hunt for words, and somehow letting me know without any need for words on his part that he's there, and he's not leaving, and he's listening. Comfortable silence and stillness, the kind you can drop words and ideas into and not feel they're foolish, or you are.... Strong and calm and clear-eyed. He's always seen me, no matter what fronts I tried to put up, and accepted me, no matter how damaged or bent or worn. Even when he's showing me a different point of view on something, or telling me, as gently as he can, that something may be what I'm used to but it's not what most would consider normal, or reasonable, or healthy -- Connor's comfort, and safety, and home. I get the feeling that's what teachers are supposed to feel like, in this line/family anyway.

In the meantime, though, I feel like an old building that's being rebuilt. Like I've been turned into piles of 'useful timber' (ethics?) and 'these slates are still good' (memories? relationships?) and 'weathered brick' (accomplishments? skills?) and 'trash' (relationships that are really examples of what not to do, and memories of how not to act and what not to accept, and old pains from burdens I should never have tried to lift?). It's scary, watching my life get sorted through, and resettled. Watching them examine the foundation, and appraise the cracks, and study the sinkholes and look for ways to fill them. I don't know that we can really fill all of them. Connor's basically adopted me. Sol thinks I'm an extra granddaughter, which is... wonderful, actually. Mama and Dedushka -- all of Ilya's family seem to have decided I'm family, and that's scary. Half of them haven't even met me, really, just talked to me on the phone and taken Dedushka and Ilya's word for things.

And Matthew.... Matthew's never loved some image of me, that much I'm sure of. He just loves me, as I am.

But they're not my first family. They're not the voices in the back of my mind, the voices everyone has. The ones that tell you to sit up straight, or fuss that you're not good enough, or strong enough, or you'll never amount to anything.... I don't know if I can get rid of those voices. I don't know if there's any way to refill holes they dug and died before anyone could fill them. Looking back, I don't know if my parents ever loved me... or if they loved showing me off. Well. The traits they approved of. Pretty was fine. Blond was great. Smart, well, it carried bragging rights. Strong? Physically or mentally? Girls weren't supposed to do that. Not where I grew up.

I know where some of the injuries lie is what I'm trying to say. I know where some of the sinkholes are. Not all of them. Some of them surprise me, ambush me, drop me off-balance and bleeding-- But I don't know how to fill them. I don't know if they can be filled. That's the part that scares me. I can't stop trying. I know that. I can't stay injured, can't bleed out forever without dying some way. And if I don't get well, if I hold Ilya back with me... I can't live with that. But some days I don't see a way to just... live. Killing is easy. The Game is simple. Living I seem to be completely unprepared for. I never thought I'd make forty. What in hell do I do now that I could make four hundred?

All things considered, I think I'm going for a walk, maybe see if Connor or the twins will spar. That... that I can do. Surviving, I'm an expert at. Healing, and living, I'm not nearly as sure about.

Wednesday, 15th December, 1999

I've loved a lot of people, I suppose, in my life. Slept with more. The love... most of them snuck up on me, standing quietly by my shoulder until the day I turned round just that touch too fast, and caught sight of it. A warm, filling, comfortable sort of love, that. Solid, and dependable, and always there when I needed it; the kind of love that may or may not grow in pleasure or encompass sex, and occasionally, in the best of cases, transmutes into a deep and abiding friendship.

But I've only been *in* love a few times. Jenny, when I was young and callow and fifteen, and love was equal parts terror, lust, and need. Marik, where love was talking way too late into the night eating cold pizza and beer, and sweet, slow sex in the dawn hours. Cathy and Pete, together, where love wrapped warm and comforting in a tangle of limbs. Sveta, a hot passion that burned too brightly to survive for long, but while it did -- so wild, and sweet, and tempestuous.

And I've only wanted forever twice. Karen -- or at least who I thought she was, when I was still seeing filtered through the ache and the horror and the grief and anger of Ilya's loss, and Jamie's pain. And now...

Farrell. Where love wears every facet it ever has before, and several I haven't 'til now encountered. Comfortable, and sweet, and solid; threaded through with passion and need and wild fire, and if it snuck up and mugged me in an alleyway, rifled through my pockets and made off with my heart, he's more than welcome to it: I'd only have given it to him anyway. True love, and now the Princess Bride is runny wacky through my head, Westley and Buttercup and Miracle Max; and thank God for Ilya, indirectly engineering this miracle. Wile E. Coyote and anvils into the desert... we never stood a chance, Farrell. Miles deep before we knew it; and that bone deep contentment really should have given it away sooner. Your ring weights down my finger even now. With you so far across the ocean, it's a comfort. One of these days, we should probably thank Gina for pointing it out to me.... Paris really was a good idea of yours, lyubov. Or was it mine? Ours, most likely; for all that it matters.

The priest was strange. Well, or he wasn't a priest exactly, was he, your Darius? However those orders work... I was hoping he'd be there, for your sake; but I truly didn't expect to find a ghost. A remnant, perhaps; a... certain feel, to the Holy Ground, maybe. Some indication that he wasn't lost, after all. Certainly I didn't expect to *see* a ghost; let alone feel his touch. A blessing, you said. It felt like one, I'll admit. I think he approves, lyubov; and for your sake I'm glad. Wish I could have met him in life, though. Wonder how many visitors to St. Julien's find themselves helped by a priest who isn't there? The father seemed used to it; people visiting Darius, I mean. Holding vigil in the back of his church, talking about a man who hasn't been alive there in years, remembering... what they come to remember. Very calm eyes. I liked him.

I miss you.