the sky has opened up again: moira harding & natasha stowe

[star studded]

<center>Harlen Andrew Prior - The Prophet

You said the air was singing
It's calling you, you don't believe
These things you've never seen.

Good morning, how are you?
The weather's fine
The sky is blue
It's perfect for our seminar.

Close your eyes and start to breathe
Allow the noise to recede
You just stay


</center>

I'm not a story teller.? I never have been and I never will be.? Something about the progression of plot doesn't make sense to me because one thing comes after another.? There has always been the discrepancy between past, present and future with me.? Sometimes one overlaps into the next, or circles round and comes up behind the first.? I find myself constantly reorganizing and sifting out the pieces of dreamworld that float in my present day and for that reason only can I not find myself believing that I was meant to ever tell a story.?

I was born to a widowed mother who died shortly after and I still cannot tell that story.? I lived separated from reality, accelerated schooling from adoptive parents that started at the age of ten.? Even my reality was surrealistic and unbearable.? Things evened out when I left school, moved to New York and met her.? She started to tell me stories about him.? Only then did things start to make some sort of sense.?

And the rest?? Well.? That will hopefully write itself.

<font color="#000000" size="1">[ April 25, 2005 01:11 AM: Message edited by: pretty things ]</font>

[star studded]

<center>Moira Angela Harding - The Voice

a broken wrist
an accident
you know that something's wrong
you fold the leavings of your past
no one knows you've gone
the sunspot flares of the early
nineties light up your wings.
and scan the shortwave radio
it's tracking outer rings

</center>

Beautiful.? This world is amazing and so beautiful and so vast and no one understands it.? That's what I think bothers me most of all.? We wreck our historic ruins, we let Rome crumble, we let the Tower of Pisa lean and we watch as The Last Supper deteriorates despite our best efforts to restore it.? We rely too heavily on an absent God and on wishful thinking in order to keep our world in full flourish.

I understand that not all people have had the opportunities to meet the people that I've met.? Not everyone has visited the countries I've visited on a whim and fancy.? Not everyone has lived the life I have lived, and certainly no one has known the things I have known.?

There are pieces to this puzzle like there are to every one, however, and you can be assured that we have found our pieces.? Now it's just a manner of locking them all together.

<font color="#000000"><font size="1">[ January 13, 2005 10:25 PM: Message edited by: pretty things ]</font></font>

<font color="#000000" size="1">[ March 11, 2005 03:50 PM: Message edited by: pretty things ]</font>

[star studded]

<center>Asher Malachi Stanton - The Messenger

You want to trust religion
And you know it's allegory
But the people who are followers
Have written their own story
So you look up to the heavens
And you hope that it's a spaceship
And it's something from your childhood
You're thinking 'don't be frightened'

You want to climb the ladder
You want to see forever
You want to go out Friday
And you want to go forever

</center>

I have constantly asked for this cup to pass me by.? Every day it comes around and I find myself drinking from it because it is all I know how to do.? Despite the physical pain, the mental confusion, the sleep deprivation, the blood loss, the incoherence, the panic and the moments of lost reality.? I refuse to call it a blessing and a curse.? It is not a gift.? It is not a burden.? It is something extra.? It is an addition.? An afterword to the story of my body.?

It is a constant question with no real answer.? It is a story left unfinished.? It is a piece of something larger that I haven't found how to fit it into.? It is mine, and that, at the end of every day, is the only piece of knowledge that reminds me that I am awake.

<font color="#000000" size="1">[ October 20, 2004 01:29 PM: Message edited by: everything static ]</font>

[star studded]

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]

<center>Did you sweep us far from your feet,
Reset in stone this stark belief,
Salted eyes and a sordid dye,
Too many years.

Did you feed us tales of deceit,
Conceal the tongues who need to speak?
Subtle lies and a soiled coin,
The truth is sold, the deal is done.

Cowboys - Portishead </center>

"Do you know why you have such a good time getting me into trouble, Moira?"

"Enlighten me."

"Because you like watching me crawl out of it on hands and knees." Harlen stared across at the witchy redhead, draped in strange beadwork and mismatched linen layers. Green eyes lifted to the prophet eagerly, wide and wondering.

"You know, you might have a point there. Remind me again why we're in Paris and not enjoying a night on the town? Instead, we're.." She motioned to the interior of the flat, spacious, white and sun-streaming. A Parisian autumn always trumped spring in her opinion. Harlen sighed, leaning back against the wall with his arms folded across his unbuttoned suit jacket. "..standing around like social recluses on a Friday night. Let's go get drinks."

"We're in the middle of a crisis and you want a tequila shot. How did I know that all my time here was going to be wasted? Why did I ever think.."

Moira Harding held up her left hand in a sweeping motion of silence. "First of all. I want a shot of vodka, not tequila. Secondly, there's no crisis. Stop worrying your pretty little head over things that aren't going to happen yet."

"But I saw him, Moira, he's real. Real."

"Of course he's real, Harlen. We're all real. I'm real, you're real.. this whole thing has been real for quite some time now. We all exist. You and I are here. He's in America. Landon is in school.."

"Wait." Harlen stood straight now, leaning more towards the blonde than slouching away. "Landon is where?"

"Seminary school, the dumb fuck." Hands propped on her hips, she gave a heavy sigh, the rest of her slight frame rumbling. "Talk about the blind leading the blind."

Harlen had busied himself by slouching in a chair, folding his palms over his eyes and attempting to sleep. Moira sighed again, wandering over to sit on the arm of the chair, her hand sweeping over the back of his head. "Now.. it's not all that bad, really. You know what we need? We need a trip. A vacation."

"This is my vacation, Moira.." Muffled from behind his hands, he groaned in some sort of sullen despair.

"I mean a real vacation. A loud, trashy, touristy vacation."

His head perked up a moment. "West Hollywood?"

"Amsterdam."

<font color="#000000" size="1">[ January 13, 2005 10:27 PM: Message edited by: pretty things ]</font>

[star studded]

The lush, thick atmosphere of Amsterdam's red light district was a dangerous, suffocating blend of noise and visuals. Moira and Harlen walked arm in arm for the company more than the safety in numbers that it pretended to provide. Slow steps against pavement were muffled by the thrash of music and the sway of the windows that they nosily peered in, curious and blase all at once. Drawing in a breath of smoke, Harlen's free hang swung down and he flicked ash to flutter down to the pavement.
"Why are we here?"

"Vacation time and available drugs. Do you need any more reason?"

"You don't do drugs, Moira."

"No, but you do." The round-faced girl smiled, her mouth strangely animated in comparison to the rest of her expression. Fingers poked at Harlen's ribs and he squirmed.

"A valid point. We're here for a reason, aren't we? Or is this random jaunt from Paris to Amsterdam just some striking coincidence?" The curious prophet could figure plenty of things out for himself, or from what information he was given. Moira however, he had still neglected to discover the real inner workings of. She was the puzzle piece that fit awkwardly, faded in color or maybe not quite rounded enough at her edges.

"A coincidence is a rhyme ..." She pulled away, hands floating in a wave, fingers wriggling. "...within time. Oooo.." Brows lifted and she let out a brief laugh.

"You sound like The Voice."

"How many times do I have to tell you that I'm not the fucking Voice, Harlen. And if you ask me, you need to start taking meds to end that little problem. The Voice isn't real. And if it is real? It sure as hell isn't a woman." Sandal-footed, she took a few steps ahead of him to peek around a corner, her awkwardly cut skirt swishing as she took a sweeping turn. "Or.. at least by all logic, it shouldn't be."

"Now you're going to start preaching logic?"

"You said The Voice is an angel. Angels aren't women according to Catholic mythology."

Harlen reached up to hold his head, wincing as though a lightning bolt of pain had struck it. "You know, someone gets really pissed off whenever you call it that, and I get to hear about it."

"Don't be a drama queen. I'm just saying. Angels aren't women. They're men. Or.. at least, they're supposed to be. Without, the.. you know. Essential equipment." She made a flitting motion with her hand.

"She's not."

"Well then she's not a Catholic angel." Moira argued, turning to face her travel companion, heels wandering backward.

"How can you be so sure? You don't hear her, do you? Or see her? Or see anything for that matter." It was a challenge, pushing and prodding at her in an attempt to set things to flying. He was aware at how temperamental she could become with the right triggers. It was his goal to always push her past the patience she managed to practice for him.

"Oh, silly boy." Combing fingers down her hair, she pulled at a loose tangle. "When you need to know what I see, I'll tell you."

"You like taunting me, don't you?"

"It keeps you around, doesn't it?"

"Do you always answer questions with questions."

"Do I?"

Harlen's cigarette was flicked annoyedly away, left to burn out with the rest of the Amsterdam evening lights.

[star studded]

"What are you doing?"

Harlen's voice, as jarringly distinct as it was, didn't seem to disturb the properly poised Moira from her lotus-folded stance by the edge of the hotel pool. Drawing in a deep breath, her eyes remained closed, her voice a low, confident drone of sound.

"Zee prophet awakes." Her German accent left something to be desired, wrists and fingers limp, draping her hands over her knees as she began to slowly roll her head back on her neck. The slow slosh of chlorinated water through the filter was the only excess sound until Harlen found himself collapsing at pool's edge, feet dangling in the water that felt like a warm bath rather than a refreshing swim. "Have you any new news for me?"

"I didn't know I had to report to you. What the fuck are you doing? Channeling Yoko Ono?"

"I'm relaxing, you nitwit." Words were sharp, but her voice was calm and pleasantly toned. Unstretching her legs, she leaned back on concrete and found herself reaching to each wall with hands and feet. "So tell me. Vhat did you see, yes?"

"I saw our friend."

"Zee messenger?"

"Yes. Why the fuck are you talking like that?" Harlen sloshed his legs in the water, kicking lightly while Moira rolled carelessly onto her side, hair strewn everywhere, the pink linen of her skirt swishing around bare legs.

"I ask zee questions, prophet. You provide zee answers. Yes no?"

"I suppose?"

"Vhat did zee messenger have to say to us?"

Harlen inhaled, his thoughts still clouded and foggy from the twitch trip of crystal methamphetamines. There were colors and shapes and so many questions. He just had to remember them, that was the hard part. "We talked."

"About?"

"God."

"You boys and your one track minds. Fucking children of the Lord. I won't ever understand it." Moira had managed to twist herself into a pretzel position, her spine arching while her legs folded beneath her. "What did we say about God?"

"That he's a contradictory asshole."

"That's my boy. Anything else?"

"I don't think he knows."

Moira unfolded like crumpled paper, still embedded with lines and twists, but for the most part in her proper shape. "Knows what?"

"About us. I don't think he thinks this is real. When he was younger, he used to see these things.. he saw a few a little while ago. And now I think he thinks we're one of them. He doesn't get that we're one of him. Or that there's more to him than just the whole.. you know."

"Wounds of Christ shit."

"To put it lightly."

Inhaling, Moira propped herself up on the heels of her hands, legs still folded. Swinging them over, she dipped her feet into the water and was soon lowering herself in, skirt and all. Harlen was barely phased. Such was Moira, and so she would remain until the end of time. Predictably unpredictable, ambiguous, wise and entertaining to say the least. Treading in the shallow end, she watched in wonder as her skirt swam around the rest of her, independent and gracefully pink in the blue water.

"So.. what are we going to do?"

She shrugged her shoulders, hands propped on her hips as she walked back and forth in the shallow water, seemingly pacing as she thought. "We'll tell him."

"We?"

"You'll tell him."

"How do I do that?"

"I met an artist today. He had grotesque hands. You'd think artists would have gorgeously graceful fingers and features, but not this guy. His work was gorgeous, but his hands looked like they were decades older than--"

"Moira!"

"What!?"

Harlen lowered himself into the pool as well, the Amsterdam sun flickering off the water as he closed in on her. In order to get through to Moira, one had to fit themselves onto her level. "How am I going to tell him?"

Reaching forward, the woman placed palms on either side of Harlen's face, squeezing together. "This is why I am not the prophet."

"What do you mean?"

"You are zee one with zee answers, prophet. You seemplee must find zem."

<font color="#000000" size="1">[ January 13, 2005 10:34 PM: Message edited by: pretty things ]</font>

[star studded]

Painfully, Harlen rode the waves of the morning after, cotton-tongued and bone-heavy. Stretching himself out over the plane of sheets, he held palms at his aching temples. They throbbed with every beat of his pulse, a slow thumping sound. Beside him, the lithe woman churned delicately, a nude leg protruding from white sheets.

"Where are we..."

"Paris, mon petite prince."

"...fuck." Drawing in a deep breath, he felt waves of nausea start to rocket in his stomach, and he pulled back against the sheets. His spine arched in a daring sweep and his head thudded angrily. "Fuck.."

"You've expressed that."

"What did I take?"

"A few lines and enough crystal meth to kill a small horse."

"You fed me coke and speed? I don't even.. remember getting on a plane or a train or.."

"Of course I did, and of course you don't. Silly, that's the whole point, because the more reality you feel, the less.."

"Why!? Why would you do tha--ow, fuck!" The heel of his hand pressed into his forehead and he moaned.

"Because. It took some time, but I finally got what I wanted out of you." Moira sat up, pale skin matching the sheets with a strange, snowy contrast. Reaching over, she snagged a pad of paper from the bedside table, flipping through useless pages before she found the one she was looking for. "You're quite artistic when you're strung out and having visions. You know that? You draw beautifully with pastels."

Glancing down at his creation from the evening before, Harlen swallowed harshly and made a mad dash for the bathroom in an effort to beat the sickness that swelled within him.

<center></center>

<font color="#000000" size="1">[ October 25, 2004 01:57 AM: Message edited by: everything static ]</font>

[star studded]

He had taken this day to himself and now he found it invaded. Someone had knocked, someone strikingly familiar with strange and foreign features all at once. He knew her from somewhere that he couldn't put a finger on because it wasn't a place on a map. It wasn't a country, or a bar, or a state. Each time his finger reached to decipher who she was, he found it pointing back at him, insinuating and sure.

He had invited her in and there they sat, two opposite features facing one another in a silence that smothered rather than comforted. The tea he had offered her was being stirred idly by twig-fingers, the metal of the spoon clinking against the porcelain of the mug in that underwater muted sound. He knew what that felt like, being thrashed from one wall to the next while you were stuck underwater and unable to breathe.

"So. Ms. Harding, you.."

"Moira." There was no assertion in her voice, but it meant business in a motherly sort of way. That was what she reminded him of. His mother, sad-eyed and smiling, a casual eccentric timebomb just waiting to implode no matter how composed and calm they seemed.

"Moira. You know Harlen." He watched her curiously as she curled there, dripping linens and skirts drawn up around her legs, her shoes deposited to give way to anklets and silly painted toes.

"I know a lot of things."

"Why are you here? Where is he?"

"You know how to reach him if you need him, Asher. You are the Messenger after all. Getting information from one side to the next is what you specialize in." The mug of tea was lifted to her lips and she took a daring sip from it, steam blowing with the exhale of her breath.

"If I'm the Messenger, what are you? What is he? What is this whole.. Messenger business about?"

"I'm not here to answer questions, I'm just here to tell you that Harlen is waiting."

A hand lifted and splayed over his forehead like he wanted to press the headache away. He could feel it brewing at the very ledge of his brain, tempting and throbbing, just waiting for the right moment to strike. "Waiting for what, exactly?" His tone was sharper than he could remember making it, and with that being said, Moira was standing and sliding feet back into her boots.

"For me. I was supposed to meet him ten minutes ago. I'm late!"

"What? What are you talking about?"

"I'm late! I'm late, Asher, I have to go!"

"Moira!"

Sitting up on the couch, Asher found himself roused from sleep by the chime of the clock. It was nearing four. Reaching up to smear the back of his wrist against his eyes, he pulled his spine straight and sighed heavily.

He had a strange sensation of tumbling down the rabbit hole.

[star studded]

Fawning over herself, Moira, peered into the vanity mirror, fingers tangling in blonde to pull it upwards, the thick, studden pins used to hold it in place being pushed through curls. Harlen watched from the perch of the bed, the long slope of her pale arm lifting, the way a queen's robe draped off of her in layers and folds of silk. Hunching over, there was the sound of a long sniff, and he shot back upwards. His head tipped back, and he coughed, the back of his wrist smearing at his nose in an attempt to draw the desired effect. It tickled and burned, and he hated that part.

"Fuck. Rusty pipes.." Sniffing in long, angry bursts of breath, he sighed out and cleared his throat. Fingers pinched at the bridge of his nose and he pushed the mirror aside, cleaned of his dose for the day. Already the synapses clicked faster, sparking electric current that ran through him in jittering shocks.

"Feeling better?"

"I wasn't feeling bad in the first place."

"But are you feeling better?" Moira turned to glance over her shoulder at him, and he smirked back at her, sprawling out against the mattress, tapping fingers in an upbeat, choppy rhythm.

"Oh, Moira. Mirror mirror on the wall.." He chanted, his head lolling from side to side.

"Who's the fairest of them all." She turned to glance back at her reflection, the aristocratic slant of neck and shoulders. If ever there was an evil queen, it was she. "I don't have any poisoned apples for you, Snow White."

Harlen sat up, his smile stretched wide, leaning forearms over his knees as they bounced. He was all movement and she was as little movement as she could manage. "No worries. None at all. I get my poisoned apples elsewhere."

"Oh really? From who?" A stare was shot at Harlen with intent, brown eyes creased at their corners.

"No one. Poisoned apples don't work anymore. They're all resistant to temptation. I can't get connection. I can't get.. a link through. Paper doesn't work, and people don't understand that. They're all too loyal. Too stubborn. Too blind to the real purpose."

"Harlen. Qui tollis peccata mundi." She tsked at him in a dead tongue and he leaned back against the mattress again, frustrated and searching.

"I don't do any taking."

"You're understanding. And that's better than just wandering around lost."

"Like him?"

"Yes, Harlen. Like him."