you're the fiercest calm i've been in - asher stanton

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Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. But as we let our own light shine, we give permission for others to do the same. That is why we are, each of us, a child of God.


--Marianne Williamson

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The two bronzed blondes sat lazily on the stone steps of the massive library, one dangling a cigarette and the other sipping soda through a straw, the remnants of lunch left behind in white paper-wrapping and a bag of potato chips. Asher sat staring out at the people whizzing by, some walking, some rollerblading, joggers and lovers. It was a lazy July afternoon, and his first encounter with Lucy since she was home again. The only reminder of the entire ordeal was the white sweatband bracelet worn around her left wrist to hide a jagged strip of embarassment.

"So you're finally meeting her dad." She snickered to herself, smoke expelling in plumes from mouth and nose, a trick Asher always wondered how to perform. He nodded, chewing a final bite before he spoke, always the polite one between the two. "It's about fucking time."

"That's wot Lani said, just.. not in those words." He snickered at her, leaning back as he propped feet a few stairs down, sprawling over them as light eyes squinted in the harsh sun. "I'm nervous."

"That's normal." She shrugged bare, bonestricken shoulders at him. "It's an essential step if you want to.."

"I know. And if yew would kindly keep your big, gossiping mouth closed in regards to that issue, it would be much appreciated on my part." He leaned to peck her cheek sweetly, as if to repent for his uncharacteristically harsh words. Lucy scowled at him, leaning back before mouth curved into a teasing smile.

"Someone's fresh today. No sex last night?"

"Oh shut up."

"You dog!"

"Shhh!" He hissed at her, the narrow set of his eyes forcing Lucy to close her mouth with a smug grin. Mission accomplished. "My goal today is to act as chaste as bloody possible. The last thing I want is her father thinking I'm some heathen that his daughter shacked up with.."

"Because that's what everyone thinks upon first meeting you, Asher. You're a goddamn saint."

The words rang in his ears a moment before he shook his head, altering the subject. "I'm just a wreck of nerves. About everything. Not just today."

Lucy nodded knowingly, bare knees pulled up so that she could rest arms on the knobs of her knees, sunglasses sheilding her from the harsh sun. "You shouldn't be. What's the worst that could happen?"

His look said everything. Almost. There were subtle changes in his expression that only one other person could understand. Lucy read all she could into it, and formulated her response.

"She won't."

"How do yew know?"

"I know her. She's my best friend." Cigarette was stubbed out on the stone steps, leaving her empty handed and attentive. Asher couldn't help but sigh and nod, despite the other things that rattled in the back of his brain. Part of him wished that everyone understood, and the other part was thankful that some people were kept sheilded from the deeper parts. Visible wounds were difficult to explain, but not as hard as the subtle knowledge of what difficulties were to come. It was a burden to know his coming trials and tribulations, but it was a punishment to know hers.

"If I'm reported missing tomorrow, I leave yew my CD collection."

"Her dad won't kill you. He's nice. And British! Talk about British things with him, you'll get along fine."

"That's like me telling yew that if yew talk about blonde things with Pamela Anderson, yew two will be the best of friends."

Lucy's nose wrinkled in sudden distaste. Silence fell for a moment, or at least between the two of them. The rest of their surroundings thrashed and churned with metal and movement, tires rolling, people laughing and chattering on and on.

"You're going to be fine. Don't worry yourself sick, okay? It's just a dinner. It's just Lani's father." A hand ruffled already unruly hair, Asher shying away a moment, before he sighed and nodded in compliance.

It was so much more than that. It was accepting all of what was coming. It was the first step in a new and unexpected direction. It was a confirmation of everything he had been waiting for. It was the rest of his life.

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<center>So long, so long
Front foot leads to back one.
Go on, and it won't be too soon.
You're gone, you're gone
Are you waiting for something?
So long, and you won't be back soon.</center>

The calendar on his wall didn't speak as loud as the one in his body. Everyone moved in cycles and fluctuations, days, weeks, months, circadian rhythms and the time ticking on and on. Asher could feel his years in increments and pieces, rolling on without hope or change. He was used to them coming and going, sticking in some places and slipping through in others.

His head had been swimming with hopes of the future, decorated with imaginative ideas and defined plans that stuck out in his mind like landmarks along the way. He didn't seem to have much weighing on him until morning came in the middle of a summer week. His stomach was a sunken stone and his legs were too heavy to tread through the waters that he swam in every day. Today was a day for mournful regret. Today was a day for drowning.

He hadn't asked for the day off, but he had been sent home from it around lunch time when a co-worker found him in the bathroom, hunched over the sink in a cold sweat, pale and shivering. Asher blamed it on the flu, or something he had eaten the day before. He laughed it off, agreeing to take the rest of the day at home in bed.

Instead, the rest of his day was spent sitting on the edge of the bed he promised to sprawl and sleep in, playing dumb and watching mental movies like they were being premiered. He had seen this six times and lived through it once. It was hardly anything new to watch, though each grotesque image was new and sharp, flickering with clipped sound and bright technicolor. The blonde of her hair. The red smears. The sickly shade of blue she turned.

Closing his eyes had always made it worse, so he stared straight ahead at the blank wall. Images were hypothetically projected there as he sat in the silence he was somewhat thankful for.

Silence was broken, and from there the chaos set in. A swirling storm of bubbling anger that had settled in his chest started to rise, blurted out and falling on ears that should have allowed to remain deaf to it. When all was over, he was left in the debris: matching coppery-red streaks down his face and the contents of his dresser tossed at his feet. Promises were whispered and all actions forgiven. He hadn't asked to be left alone again, but he was thankful that she did excuse herself with apologies and a blotted kiss, leaving him in the middle of a battleground once more.

The mess was slowly tidied, everything in its place, nothing left turned over or out of order. Rather than risk ruining the pristine landscape of the bedroom, he found himself disappearing into the bathroom, the door closed and locked behind him. Just for now. Just for this.

Green-blue eyes searched over the plane of his face in the mirror, the streaks of the inexplicable smeared red and dry down his face. Nervous hands cranked on the water to a tepid temperature and the stopper was plugged in the sink, letting it fill until it was high enough for his liking. Lungs filled deeply and his face submerged. Breath was held until lungs burned and he was forced to lift his head. When he inhaled, the sound was a blossoming rebirth. It was the sound of something dead coming to life.

He never had trouble keeping past and present separated. Nothing blended together for him there, the present was always distinguishable from both. It was the past and future that wound up mixing together and planting seeds of instability in the back of his brain. The what-if's and fears of repetition were easily coaxed along.

Eyes closed, hands bracing themselves against the edges of the porcelain sink. Slowly, he allowed himself to examine features again, this time cleared of streaks and smears.

It is time to admit what it is that you need to survive, Asher.

The voice was timid, familiar, and nothing more than a quiet whisper in his ear. It was the only voice that he could rely on to respond when he spoke back.

"I know."

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<center>Endlessly in search of an ending that's feasible.
Endlessly in search of a love that is tangible.
Endlessly in search of a sign that's believeable.
Oh, Lord, why the urge to daydream?
Why the urge to hide?</center>

It was the only real time that he felt at all confused. It wasn't the panicked disorientation he was used to, where he was flooded with words and meanings to be deciphered. This was a pleasant, muddled feeling. It was like swimming in slow motion, in something much thicker than water.

His anxiety was the first step, of course, the nervous flop of his stomach, the unsure, wavering of his thought pattern. He overanalyzed at first, he scrutinized every detail. He had said no in London. He had refused the words that he was positive were required to make it real. He had to be the one to wait, and now he wished he had let it all happen then so he didn't have to be so terrified now. He begged for darkness, for concealment, for a corner to hide in until it was over. It wasn't fear of the ordeal itself. It was fear of the reactions that would come without his control. He feared himself. He feared his hands. He feared his head. He feared the morning after.

He worried things happened too quickly, that he had started running without a real idea of where the end was. It didn't take him long to lose himself in everything. He had to rely on sensation over intuition, on reaction over impulse. It was only when eyes closed that he felt the strange flush of vertigo. There was no direction. He couldn't tell what was above or beneath, if anything. It took him longer than it should have to realize that the low rumble he heard and felt in his chest was his own voice itching to be released.

Closing his eyes didn't seem to remedy or steady anything. Things still spun and swirled, his head light and floating. He felt like inhaling would force him to lift, and the more he breathed out, the further back into reality he'd sink. Sounds were watery and barely deciphered. He could make out few things: Cotton sheets. Skin. Dark. Simple. Slowly. Steady. He had to stay grounded. He had to stay here. That was the most important thing, to stay here, to not drift away into somewhere he couldn't return from. What if something terrible happened? What if neither were prepared? What if something inopportune..

Concentration broke. The seal he had wrapped himself in, cellophane hazy, had snapped. Eyes were open. He was altogether positive that he had opened them as wide as they would go, and yet this was not where he was supposed to be. No. He wasn't anywhere new. He could just see something that he was sure wasn't there.

Green. Bright, lush, healthy green. White blossoms. Red fruit. The smell of everything alive and living. Sky, ground, growth. He was breathless, here and there, fumbling for the correct amount of air to fill his lungs. There was a name on the tip of his tongue that leaked out. He sounded like he wanted her to join him, to come look. That was impossible, but he called anyway, fulfilling some dreary, dumb hope inside of him.

Time slowed. He could feel it lagging along, in the movements he made, in his reactions, in everything. It dragged and dragged until it stopped altogether, and then, in one slamming, gasping rush it sped into the present. Everything faded into nothingness again, all color gone and replaced by the black of an unlit room and the welcomed smother of a body and white sheets.

It made no sense for him to shake, but he did so anyway.

Sleep came with some struggling. It was a chore to keep everything from replaying, the shreds of reality and the long film-stretches of not-quite-fantasy. With sun creaking over the horizon, he finally let himself drift into dream. Even in sleep his head was wrapped in images. Green leaves wilted, white blossoms turned yellow and brown, red fruit rotted through. Trees toppled and plants withered. A bright and lovely sky turned black and angry.

When he woke, it was in a sea of warm red and with a sharp, screaming pain that ran the length of a sturdy spine. Even while he was crawling on hands and knees to safety, he was positive that for all that this was worth (every last moment of wide-eyed staring and nervous breath) six mysterious lashes were a punishment well-served.

<font color="#A7A49B" size="1">[ July 27, 2004 05:59 AM: Message edited by: everything static ]</font>

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The open air of an answered phone line and solemn salutations left for a broad and gaping silence across the Atlantic. Two voices both pristine and charming, both well-trained and well-bred, clashed against electric wiring. In America, Asher Stanton sat on the edge of his bed, taking advantage of Lani's late working hours and his own attempts at scrounging for solitude in a world where he never managed to find a time where he was voluntarily alone.

"I'll put your mother on."

"Thank you." All formality and precision. His breath was drawn in as the shuffling of plastic and exchanging hands sounded over the receiver.

"Asher, darling?" His mother's voice was melodic and lullaby-sweet, touched with only a dash of what most perceived to be outright insanity. Asher wasn't so sure that he could disagree. As hypocritical as it was for him to deny his own lunacy, his mother's was written on her like script in invisible ink. Revealed only under the correct circumstances.

"Hello, Mum." Instinctively, the boy smiled. His mother would sense it if he didn't, and assuredly inquire about his mood. Something he didn't particularly want to address. Not right now.

"You're calling quite early this week! It's only Wednesday. Are you going somewhere this weekend?"

"No no. I needed to talk to you, actually. When do the two of you start up your semesters again?" He shifted on the plane of the well-made bed, the covers scrunching under his weight.

"Late August, as usual. Why is that?" Immediately, Elizabeth Stanton sounded second-guessing and nervous. She could sense what was coming in her bones like how a trick knee acted up in bad weather.

"I want you two to fly in for a visit. We'll cover your flights and everything.." He assured her, trying to continue speaking before she could edge in a protest. "I want you two to meet Lani. And.. and to see New York, Mum, you've never seen anything outside of London, it'll be brilliant. You can come here, Lani will take you shopping. You'll love her, I promise.."

"Asher, your father won't want.."

"Let's cross that bridge when we come to it, shall we?" The boy's fingers lifted, pressing to the space between slowly closing eyes. Tension aches were starting to stretch into a dull throb and he rubbed at them with the edges of fingertips, willing them away.

"He won't want to be away from work long."

"A weekend. Will that really kill him?"

"You know your father. You know how he feels about those things. You know how he feels about.."

"Well then.. bloody, forget him! You come! Just you, you don't need him to lead you about anyway, do you? You can make a flight by yourself. I'll be there to meet you at the airport, and you can stay with us. As long as you want."

"Asher.." Her voice was delicate and warning, the tone that always snapped him out of his wishful thinking and back into reality. "I can't leave your father here by himself."

"That's bollocks and you know it." He froze on the spot, his outburst uncalled for and unnerving. He could almost feel his mother on the other end drooping and ready to break. "I'm sorry, Mum. I didn't mean that."

"Please don't be angry with me, Asher. Please. I do what I can, you know I do. All I ever tried to do was to tell you the truth." His mother's emotional and nervous words immediately made his heart sink like stone in his chest.

"Tell me the truth about what?"

Her silence gave way to a nervous inhale, frail and wavering. She sighed again and composed herself, the subject dismissed and twisted back on path.

"I'll convince him to come. But.. I'll need some dates. When were you thinking?"

"August twentieth? You can fly in that day and leave Sunday night. The twenty-second." Asher glanced aimlessly at the calendar on the wall, littered with pictures of puppies, of course.

"We'll come." She assured him of that in a way that restrained him from second guessing. His head nodded, even if she couldn't see it.

"I'll call you later this week, then. We'll look up flight times and things for you two. Don't let Dad get you upset, alright?"

Silence.

"Promise me."

"Alright."

"Say it, Mum."

"I promise."

"I'll talk to you later, then. I love you."

"I love you too, Asher." The low click of the dead line left Asher smearing a hand over his face in an attempt to wash away the knowledge of what would occur an ocean away.

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<center>christmas. manchester. age seventeen.</center>

White was a good color.? This was something he had decided long ago.? Asher loved snow because it was always so white and reflective, untouched on mountains and walkways, fresh from the first fall of the season.? It was a signal of holidays and togetherness.? It was mixed with vibrant reds and greens to celebrate the coming of Christmas.

Here, in the pristine white of the hospital room, Asher was slowly learning to detest the color.? It was matched with ugly mint greens and light blues.? The blue specks of his hospital top, the blue of the pitcher of water by his bed, the green of the bustling nurses all clashing with the white labcoats of doctors.? Staring down at the swab-like wraps around his hands and wrists he drew in breath that ached in his chest and tore at his side as ribs expanded.

He had stumbled downstairs Christmas morning like some half-drunk invalid.? Falling over feet and down onto sticky hands and knees, bare feet slipping in the pool of red that he left in the wake of scrambling to stand.? The gash in his left side screamed for some sort of attention, and for once, Asher had found himself screaming in lunatic protest.? There was no control.? There was no calm and methodical reaction to the opening of skin.? This time it was all just too much.

Through hysterical rantings and physical protest, his father had managed to wrestle him into some sort of submission until help arrived.? He had been sedated, he could only assume.? That was why his head now felt so heavy, why his mouth was dry.? When he tried to hum a low note, it came out cracked and sandy.?

If he was strong enough, he could have stood and walked around the room.? Outside his window, a handful of people gathered like relics in the snow, standing strong and tall, their candles shielded from the snow and cold with palms. When flames blew out, they were simply relit. It was a symbol of vigilance. Faith. Dedication. The rosaries were clutched in trembling fists, frozen bodies mumbling prayers.

The story had spread quickly considering Asher's arrival had been witnessed by so many in the large Manchester hospital. A bleeding boy had been carried in, ranting and bellowing in some language that no one could decipher, bleeding from hands, feet and forehead, not to mention the wound on his side that doctors could only identify as some sort of stab. The next morning, devout Catholics began crossing themselves at the hospital doors as they passed.

With his head swimming and aching, he arched to drag himself into an upright position. Laying down sprawled and helpless was a painful thing. Wincing, his side ached as muscles contracted, a hand smearing up over his hairline which was still raw and in pain in the tiniest pinpoints.

Glancing sideways, he watched as the door creaked open, the nurse sweeping inside to grin down at him in slight surprise.

"You're awake, Mr. Stanton." Well, yes, he had gathered that. The young woman smiled, snagging a clipboard from the end of his bed.

"Where am I?"

"You're in Mercy Hospi--"

"No, no. What wing?"

The youthful nurse glanced down at his chart with a nervous sigh, flipping through pages and then rehooking it on the edge of the bed. "You're in Rogers, room four-twenty seven."

"Rogers. What's Rogers?" His voice was a low, nervous and groggy tone, his back arching forward slightly.

"The psychiatric wing."

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<center>three days following.</center>

With the window cracked open slightly, Asher could hear the hymns from below and the low mumuring of indistinguishable prayer. As the days pressed on the crowd grew, the vigils withstanded all snow and wind, the songs expanded in harmony and sound. Reaching, he pressed the window closed, not out of a desire to block out the sound that he found comforting, but with a need to kill the winter chill that crept in like a creeping demon, slithering into his bones and through his blood.

"I'm not supposed to be here.."

A female voice spoke the words that had been ringing in his head for days, and he sat up startled. Head turned towards the door and he noted a young nurse he hadn't seen in the past three days, green scrubs and white sneakers, her dark hair pulled back into a plain ponytail. She stood in front of the door with hands clutched together nervously across her stomach. It took Asher a few moments to discern among the loose cotton she wore, but the signs were modestly clear. She was pregnant.

"I'm not supposed to be here, but I just had to come and see you."

Asher pulled his legs close, folding them beneath him. He was shaded in neutral colors, blue drawstring pants and a gray t-shirt they had let him wear once there was no real medical reason for him to be here. Curiously, he tipped his head towards her. Timid. He was nothing like she had imagined him to look. He was young. Thin, but not sickly, handsome, boyish. He looked tired. She was drawn to him, feet skittering across the floor in a few rushed steps. She sat primly at the edge of the bed, close enough for her to speak candidly but far enough away to demonstrate some level of cautious, nervous fear of the boy. She couldn't quite place it, but it was there, humming in her head, tugging at the strings of her heart.

"I need you to tell me, I need to know. I need to know if you did this to yourself." She reached out to turn over the boys palms, the square wounds driven through his hands still patched up and healing with time.

"Why are you here?" Asher gently drew his hand back, like an animal who didn't want to be touched or gawked at. Hands fell face down in his lap, fingers twitching nervously against the patch of blanket he was covered in.

It took her a moment to speak, but the tone of sorrow in her voice and the static that hummed off of her skin was a screaming volume. "I think something is wrong."

"I can't.." There was no real way to explain this to someone you had just met. He wasn't some relic, he wasn't a weeping statue, he wasn't a blessed crucifix or a saint. He was a person. He was seventeen.

"You have to." It was a plea more than the demand it sounded like. She leaned in, her hands still strapped against her in some sort of prayer. In the silence between their words they could still both hear the low sounds of voices picked up in the wind. "They all believe because you have given them something to believe in. I need something to believe in, you have to understand what that feels like. Especially now, especially when everything is stacked against you." Her voice was quiet and melodic, an almost childish chirp in contrast to Asher's low, crisp dialect. A hand drifted from its counterpart and reached to press against the small bulge of her stomach. "We need miracles like you to happen more often. It restores us. It makes us whole again."

"How far along?" It was an absent question out of curiosity, glancing from where her hand rested back up to the begging expression on her face.

"Almost five months."

"Is it a boy or a girl?"

"We don't know yet."

"Yes, but what do you think?"

She flushed a moment, her awe stretching into a shy smile. "A boy."

Together, they sat like that, the nurse smiling nervously, Asher with folded hands and a busily working brain. After a moment or two of silence he drew in a breath, his eyes creasing gently at their corners, his head tipping as he began to speak. "Have you heard the.. the story of the woman who bled?"

Sheepishly, she shook her head. "No.."

His mouth opened slightly, a nervous breath exhaled before he began to speak. "Well, there was this woman who was afflicted with some unknown condition. She bled constantly, she hemorrhaged. No doctors knew what it was that was wrong, so she spent twelve years and all of her means trying to stop this bleeding. After this, she was a peasant, an outcast from her town. And one day, Jesus came through to preach. As he was walking through with the disciples, she pushed through the crowd of hecklers and disbelievers to the very front, and reached out to touch his sleeve. Jesus, seeing she was one of the only believers, turned to her and touched her face. Immediately, the blood stopped. Her health restored. She was well again. He said to her, 'Be of good comfort. Thy faith has made you whole.'"

As Asher recounted the story to her, his eyes widened to mirror her, to watch as red spread to her cheeks and the roundness of her brown eyes turned to glazed, quivering bodies, independent from the rest of her. Reaching tentatively, he pressed a cotton-wrapped palm against the side of her stomach.

"You were right."

She seemed startled at the sound of his voice, or maybe it was at what information he was going to give her. "About what?"

"It's a boy."

<font color="#A7A49B" size="1">[ August 17, 2004 05:00 AM: Message edited by: everything static ]</font>

[star studded]

<center>Pressed between Vuitton leather and a checkbook.</center>

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Asher Stanton had become used to the idea of lucid dreaming.? It was a common practice for him.? He was an active participant in dreams, he was aware when he was awake and experiencing things, or asleep and experiencing the same things and rarely did the two intermingle.? Lids fluttered in the realm of REM sleep, his eyes darting back and forth in search of more than darkness.

Upon opening them, he found it.? The bedroom had gone from blue-lit by moon and city neon to bright with morning sun.? Stretching to sit up, his initial panic was that he had overslept.? Work called for him to be up with the sun, not after it.? Lani slept soundly beside him, but the compulsion to wake her was overridden by the compulsion to leave her alone.? For whatever reason.? Turning to stare at the clock, he found it blinking twelve.? Power outage.? Wonderful.? In a flurry of panicked movement, he sprang from the bed, barefeet hitting hardwood as he fumbled to rush downstairs in search of a clock that worked.

The kitchen, however, was left in darkness. No sunlight to stream through the windows. No sounds of morning traffic. Not like he had heard up in his bedroom. Quickly, he rushed back up the stairs to the bedroom, nearly skidding across the floor as he threw one of the windows open. Sticking his head out, he peered out along the blue autumn morning sky and then looked down. It was like oil on water. Day had settled on top of night, the two refusing to mix. Immediately, the window was slammed shut. Lani failed to stir. Back downstairs it was.

His footsteps thudded with each stair they hit heavily, heel crashing down until he was once again in the kitchen. The green numbers on the microwave were missing and the clock in the living room had stopped moving at twelve. Lovely.

His memory jogged. This had to be a dream. If it was a dream, he wouldn't be able to move his toes. A fair enough assessment, and sure enough, he was nowhere near mobile from the ankle down. Lifting a palm, he smeared his hand over his face in some sort of relief that mixed with a need to figure out what to do next. It took him a moment to realize that the living room wasn't as vacant as he would have wished it to be. There was a tall, thin man on his couch, staring forward at his reflection in the blank television screen. Asher reacted the best way he knew how. Reaching over above the stove, he snagged a spatula and held it in front of him as some sort of brandishing weapon.

"Who are yew!?"

The British accent was enough to snap the man from his daze, his head whipping to stare at the pajama-clad man whose house he had invaded. Brown eyes went wide and he clapped hands together, his mouth open wide in a rather casual laugh.

"What're you gonna do, flip me over with that thing?"

"Wot are yew doing in my dream!?" He asked, slicing the spatula through the air.

"Like hell if I know. Hey.. what are you doing in my prophecy?"

"Your wot?"

"Prophecy, p-r-o-p-h.."

"I can spell it, thank yew."

"Can you put the spatula down? You're kinda freakin' me out." The so-far nameless man leaned forward, stretching himself into a stand. He too wore simple pajamas, brown hair a little mop-messy from sleep. "Oh... wait!"

"Wot?" The spatula was hung neatly and sheepishly back on the wall.

"You're him! You're the guy! You're.. him!"

"I'm who?"

"Asher Stanton! You're.. you're Asher Stanton!"

"Last time I checked, that was the general consensus." Seagreen eyes were wandering suspiciously over the man, even as he rushed forward to grapple Asher into a hug he wasn't quite expecting.

"Oh, I've been waiting so long for this, you don't even know! It's been.. years! Christ! I mean.. shit, that was a little ironic, wasn't it? Ha! So.. so you're.. so what's it like?"

"Wot's... wot like?" Standing stiff in the other man's embrace, Asher exhaled when he was released, shoulders slumping again. "Wait, who are yew?"

"Who am.. oh! You don't know yet. Right, I keep forgetting. Sometimes my future gets all mixed up with my present and I ... right. Harlen. I'm Harlen Prior."

"Prior?"

"Right. Like .. the Harlen before the next. It's a family thing. I'm technically the thirty second person in my family to have the name Harlen Prior."

"You're... Harlen Prior the thirty-second?"

"Technically, but I think we stopped adding on the numbers after the name somewhere around like.. the eigth or ninth. It just gets too.. Tudor Englandy."

Asher stopped a moment, hands lifting to shake in demonstration. "We're off track here. How do yew know who I am?"

"Hello, prophet." Harlen pointed proudly to himself, as though Asher was blind to some neon blinking sign he had held over his head. "Are you sure you've never heard of me? Not even once? In passing?"

"Not a very modest prophet, are we.."

"No, not like that. I just mean. Well. You're him, you're supposed to know these things."

"Wot things!? And who is him, who am I?"

"You're Asher Stan--"

"I know that!"

"Okay!" Harlen's hands flew up in defense and he took a step back. "Alright, alright! You mean.. you don't know that you're.. here, let's try an analogy, see if that jogs your memory. Kitten is to cat as puppy is to.."

"Are yew kidding me?"

"Just roll with me here, amigo, we don't have much time. As puppy is to..."

Asher stared at him a moment, giving a deep sigh before continuing. "Dog."

"Good! Harlen Prior is to The Prophet, as Asher Stanton is to.."

"The bewildered man who just wants to wake up, have his breakfast and go to work!"

"Wrong!" Harlen ran his hands through his hair angrily. He hadn't anticipated this. "Okay. We're going to be .. you .. we have to start from the beginning."

"Sounds like a good bloody idea. Now wot are yew trying to tell me!?"

Inhaling, Harlen leaned back to take a seat on the arm of the couch, hands folded primly in his lap. "You're The Messenger."

There was silence.

"The wot?"

"Messenger. The Messenger. I've been having visions of you since we were kids."

"You're full of it." Asher quirked a brow at him a moment, turning to angle himself towards the stairs in case of emergency. He desperately wanted to flee.

"Are you serious? You.. you can accept that you bleed from your hands, feet and forehead, that you have your own form of prophecy built into you like another sense, that you.. that if I go upstairs and flick your girlfriend in the face, you'll feel it down here, and yet.. you can't accept that maybe, just maybe there is a job for you in this whole grand scheme of things!? What happened to your faith? What happened to your trust in God?"

"Wot does this have to do with God?"

"This has everything to do with God, the bastard!"

Asher's jaw nearly dropped. "Not here, please!"

"Oh come on, spare me. The fucker walked out on us centuries ago. You think He's running things now? Please. If He dared to show his face to any one, they'd be fucking idiots not to hire a lawyer to sue Him for abandonment. Breach of contract. Something. Take the bastard for all He has."

"Wot the.. who the fuck are yew!?"

"There it is! I knew you had it in you to swear. And I already told you, I'm Harlen Prior, The Prophet. You are Asher Stanton, The Messenger. Somehow, my prophecy and your dream got smooshed together and here we are."

Silence once more. "Yew.. have prophecies?"

"Are you not quick on the uptake at this hour, is that the problem? Yes. I have prophecies. Some of them come quickly, like little flashes. The bigger, more important ones, The Visitations, kinda like this one, take a little longer. I do this weird thing, people think I'm having a seizure. I start gasping and wheezing and my eyes roll back into my head. It's a little freaky at first. Usually only lasts about a minute, but The Visitations can take hours."

"Is this a.. visitation?"

"I don't think so? It might be. Depends on whether or not she shows up."

"She?"

"She. You know.. her. She."

Asher suddenly felt like he had a terrible headache. "I.. I have no idea wot you're talking about."

Sighing again, Harlen leaned back, flopping to the cushions of the couch, feet in the air. "You've been doing this for.. at least five years longer than I have, and I somehow have to teach you everything. You know those voices you hear sometimes? The ones that have been coming less and less, and you can't really understand them when you hear them, but later on, you figure it all out?"

"... yes."

"That's her. That's she. Her. You hear her. I see her. The Messenger, The Prophet."

"I think I'm going to be sick."

"I know I'm going to be sick. It's almost time for me to snap out of it, and then I get all.. nauseous and shaky. It sucks to be us. You bleed, I puke. What is it with Ecstasies and Revalations and the need to dispell something from your body either during or afterward?"

"Purification. Cleansing."

"So.. I did wind up learning something from you."

"Fancy that."

"Look.. I'm going to be waking up in a minute, and so are you. You have to find me. We have a lot more to talk about.. there's.. we have.. you'll understand when I see you. Remember my name, it won't be hard to find me. Harlen Prior. Say it."

"I'll remember it."

"Hurry! Say it!"

Jolting from sleep at the sound of the beeping alarm, Asher found himself sitting straight up in bed, mumbling two words over and over for a reason he couldn't quite remember. The dream had grown foggy already, but the name still stuck out.

"Harlen Prior."

[star studded]

"Tell me, Asher. Do you know why Lucifer was cast out of heaven?"

The vaguely familiar voice stirred the sleeping man from his spot. Stretched out on the couch downstairs, he pried open his eyes and leaned up on aching elbows, stiff from being trapped beneath him while he slept. Groggy, confused, he peeked up to see the lanky, tall frame of Harlen Prior perched in the easy chair on the other side of the room. Reclined, comfortable in his charcoal black suit jacket, the wide white cuffs of his button-down shirt sticking out and folded over the sleeves, Harlen watched Asher expectantly for his answer.

"Wot are yew doing here again?" Asher asked, his voice stuck low in the basement of his tone from its lack of use all evening.

"I don't really know, exactly. Somewhere in Amsterdam I'm having a seizure on the sidewalk while Moira tries to convince everyone around me that it's not a big deal. Most of the time we can pass my visions off as epilepsy."

"Who's Moira?"

"That's for some other time."

"Yew seize when yew have a vision?"

"Do you remember nothing from our last visit? I asked you a question." In a swift, fluid movement, he sat up straight, propping forearms on his knees, hands clasped together. His fingers were woven tighter than clothing threads.

"Oh.. right. Wot was the question again?"

"Why was the Morning Star cast out of heaven?"

Years of Sunday School and Catechism had taught Asher plenty about God and the Devil.

"Because Satan--"

"Ah ah ah. Careful. You're confusing your concepts."

"Wot?" Asher's head tipped to the side. "Yew mean Lucifer, yes? The Devil, The Morning Star, Satan.."

"No no no!" Standing, Harlen smeared a hand over his forehead. "I didn't sign on for this, Asher, you're supposed to fucking know these things!"

Sitting up, alert and awake after that outburst, Asher looked shocked. "I beg your pardon?"

"Satan is not Lucifer. The Morning Star, the Devil, Lucifer.. those are all the same thing, yes. But not Satan. Satan is a concept. Do you even know where the word 'Satan' comes from?"

Sheepishly, Asher failed to respond.

"It comes from an old Hebrew word Shai'tan. In its original meaning, Shai'tan is the evil in all of us. Our personal vices, our personal shortcomings. If Satan gets a hold of you, it's not Lucifer tempting you to do evil things, it's yourself."

"Wot does this have to do with why Lucifer fell from heaven?"

"Answer the question first."

"God cast Lucifer out because he disobeyed him. He became too proud, too controlling. Lucifer didn't want God to be so forgiving of mankind, he didn't want God to give them.. free will, or any of that." Confident with his answer, he cleared his throat and waited. Watching Harlen's expression change from hopeful to disheartened was unexpected.

"Oh, Asher. How. How did you get to become The Messenger when there's so fucking much you don't know?" Harlen became quiet, taking a seat beside Asher on the couch. "Lucifer was God's favorite of the angels. Because of this, God demanded that Lucifer bow to no one but God. He wanted Lucifer's allegiance all to himself, and the angel agreed. Some time later, God created man, and ultimately, the angels were jealous. God demanded that all the angels bow before Adam, this pinnacle of perfection, this divine creation he had put on Earth. The angels bowed. Lucifer refused."

"Because God loved men more. He was jealous." Asher interjected. Harlen hushed him without a sound.

"Because he was obeying God. Bow before no one but Him."

Between the two men, there was a brief, heavy silence.

"Tell me, Asher. When is your God going to start making sense to you?"