Crimson Rivers Quotes

These people have learned not from books, but in the fields, in the wood, on the river bank. Their teachers have been the birds themselves, when they sang to them, the sun when it left a glow of crimson behind it at setting, the very trees, and wild herbs.

If I cannot climb, I will grow.

Death does not erase the point of life. A dead flower does not mean it never bloomed. It did, and it was beautiful.

No one ever thinks to look up.

I love you more than the tides love the moon. I'm as temperamental as the ocean, and just the same, I'm at your mercy. Give me a ship, and I will wreck it at your command.

I'm tired of breaking your heart, you've been so gentle with mine.

I'd die for them, but I'd live for you.

But, when you love someone, it can feel like you'll never survive the loss of them, and then, somehow, you do.

That's what people don't tell you about grief, about loss; you do get farther away from it with time, and as much as you might wish not to, you forget the very things you want to cling to.

His little brother. Always his little brother.

You're crazy," Rodolphus states. "I like crazy." "I like women," Dorcas replies. "Only.

How do you kill what's already dead? You revive it just to watch it rot.

A Robin said: The Spring will never come, And I shall never care to build again. A Rosebush said: These frosts are wearisome, My sap will never stir for sun or rain. The half Moon said: These nights are fogged and slow, I neither care to wax nor care to wane. The Ocean said: I thirst from long ago, Because earth's rivers cannot fill the main. — When Springtime came, red Robin built a nest, And trilled a lover's song in sheer delight. Grey hoarfrost vanished, and the Rose with might Clothed her in leaves and buds of crimson core. The dim Moon brightened. Ocean sunned his crest, Dimpled his blue, yet thirsted evermore.

Putting off your own issues to be there for everyone else doesn't mean you're fine. If anything, that means you're less fine than everyone else, because you're not even letting yourself deal with your problems.

They got him. The Hallows got him. His big brother. Always his big brother.

Me and you," Regulus says. "Me and you," Sirius agrees.

I don't want to be a great big tragedy anymore," Regulus cokes out, looking at him almost desperately. "Me neither," James admits. "Maybe someday, we won't be. Maybe, one day, well look at each other and see that other life, and maybe we actually get to have it. I can find it in we to hope for that, even after everything. I've had so much practice these last ten years, so I'll just do it for us both.

You want me? I'm here. I'm right fucking here, love. Use me. Have me, then discard me. Hurt me. I don't care, Regulus. You can do anything to me, and I'll thank you for it every time.

The river split for the jump of a red-gilled silver salmon, then circled to mark the spot where it fell. Spoonbills shoveled at the crimson mud in the shallows, and dowitchers jumped from cattail to cattail, frantically crying "Kleek! Kleek!" as though the thin reeds were as hot as the pokers they resembled.

But, when you love someone, it can feel like you'll never survive the loss of them, and then, somehow, you do.

Regulus is Troy. He's always been Troy, because the real Trojan Horse, this whole time, was love.

Think about it, love. A slap across the face is just a hand cradling a cheek with too much force," James says, his mouth dry. "I can take it. I swear I can take it. I might even like the way it stings, so long as it's your hand that leaves the mark.

He's five, he's fifteen, he's twenty-five and Sirius' little brother. Always his little brother.

Maybe the storm that coats his skin should tarnish his return, but Regulus finds that it doesn't, that maybe nothing in this world can. There is just his brother, too excited to see them to dry off first.

You're my favorite hello

Roses are red, my dad is a prick, don't make me go to work, I'd rather die

Reflexively, he glances up to scan the trees. He always thinks to look up now. Evan is never there.

Five letters. A name. The word that starts the war. Poppy.

No one ever thinks to look up.

They're okay, because they have each other. Here they are, holding onto this moment: two comforted, two comforting, two brothers. Always brothers.

I've never had a friend before you," Evan croaks. "So, you know, thanks for that, I suppose. It—it was nice while it lasted." "You—" Regulus fumbles for Evan's hand, and their fingers clasp around each other, slipping from the blood. "I'm—Evan—" Evan hums, and he's slurring when he says, "Your turn, lover boy." "I miss my brother," Regulus confesses in a whisper

If there's one thing I've learned, though, impermanence only solidifies importance. You can learn through loss to better cherish what you have, and be thankful for what you got. It's awful, mostly, but you look back and there are glimpses that you can't bring yourself to regret. The inevitability of endings can't remove all that came before it. That still exists, and we get that, and we keep that. And that's—that's special. That's precious.

This myth he'd made out of intricate movements and imagination, out of moonlight and love, out of prayers older than Adam, and gray cliffs and crimson shadows, laments and rivers of martyrs - what had it come to at last? When the waves receded, the shores of Time would spread out there clean, empty, shining with infinite grains of memory and little else.

Wow," Sirius says in wonder, "look how far you've come." "These days, I climb and grow," Regulus tells him, which doesn't make much sense to Sirius, but it seems like something Regulus is proud of. So, Sirius nods and says, "Hell yeah you do.

Hallow is Hollow

Well, for you, I imagine it comes from a place of pettiness, because you're a raging bitch

they're a great, big, tragedy.

You want me? I'm here. I'm right fucking here, love,

A slap across the face is just a hand cradling a cheek with too much force. I can take it. I swear I can take it. I might even like the way it stings, so long as it's your hand that leaves the mark.

Being touched by you is being blessed by divinity. I know I'm not worthy, but I crave it ceaselessly all the same." "I thought I was the devil," James choked out. "You're that, too. You're everything to me, baby.

I hate you," James states, talking over Sirius as he looks at Regulus. "I didn't get it before, how anyone could ever hate someone they once claimed to love, but now I do. Isn't that ironic, Regulus? I understand now.

She sighed. “I wish I had their faith. Crimson is a Lannister color.” “That thing’s not crimson,” Ser Brynden said. “Nor Tully red, the mud red of the river. That’s blood up there, child, smeared across the sky.” “Our blood or theirs?” “Was there ever a war where only one side bled?

A stranger is just someone you haven't met yet. What do you call someone you knew better than yourself, but you no longer recognize? A ghost?

Can't steal the moon, can't keep the stars, but we're fortunate enough to know them anyways. Isn't that us?" "Yeah," Remus whispers. "Yeah, that's us.

I miss my brother," Regulus confesses in a whisper, his vision blurring as he feels Evan's grip get looser.

Lily is in bed, exhausted, and when she notices that he's awake, she takes one look at him and laughs. Remus gets up and finds his way right to her, because he always does, just like he always has.

October—with a gorgeous pageant of color around Mistawis into which Valancy plunged her soul. Never had she imagined anything so splendid. A great, tinted peace. Blue, wind-winnowed skies. Sunlight sleeping in the glades of that fairyland. Long dreamy purple days paddling idly in their canoe along shores and up the rivers of crimson and gold. A sleepy, red hunter’s moon. Enchanted tempests that stripped the leaves from the trees and heaped them along the shores. Flying shadows of clouds. What had all the smug, opulent lands out front to compare with this?

Sirius thinks of that fable of the scorpion and the frog. The one where, to cross the river, the scorpion rides on the frog's back. Halfway over, the scorpion stings the frog, despite the fact that it's going to drown as well, simply because that is its nature. Sirius thinks about it, and he can't figure out, between him and Regulus, who's the scorpion and who's the frog.

Either way, sometimes there are people that just—recognize each other. Like whatever you're made of, you might be lucky enough to find someone holding a little bit of you in them, and without even knowing it, you've been carrying around a little bit of them before you ever even met. So, when you do meet, it's like something inside of you starts wriggling around that says hey, that's me, that's ours, that's us. Recognition. Connection. Something really, truly special. Regulus has just watched that die.

Where the hell is my chair, Blue?

James is the one who saved eleven extra people, just to lose one friend.

I may be mental, but you're a mess, Sirius Black

I care about myself so much that I´m asking for you, because I need you, alright? I-I need you to be here. I need you to hold me. I need-I-Sirius-

What we are is something. We're something Sirius.

We are something, but we can't be everything. I-I do wish that we could be. Or I wish that we could at least try. If it's easier to be nothing, because we can't be everything, then I understand." Sirius breathes for a moment, then says, "I don't think I can be nothing with you.

I hope you trip on your way down the aisle," Narcissa tells Regulus. "I hope you have a baby, and I hope it's the ugliest, snottiest, brattiest little shit that ever graced this earth," Regulus snips. "Impossible," Narcissa retorts, hand to her chest. "I will be their mother, so they will be, at the very least, quite beautiful." "And the rest?" "Well, no one's perfect.

It is true I have not seen the earth nor men, but in your books I have drunk fragrant wine, I have sung songs, I have hunted stags and wild boars in the forests, have loved women ... Beauties as ethereal as clouds, created by the magic of your poets and geniuses, have visited me at night, and have whispered in my ears wonderful tales that have set my brain in a whirl. In your books I have climbed to the peaks of Elburz and Mont Blanc, and from there I have seen the sun rise and have watched it at evening flood the sky, the ocean, and the mountain-tops with gold and crimson. I have watched from there the lightning flashing over my head and cleaving the storm-clouds. I have seen green forests, fields, rivers, lakes, towns. I have heard the singing of the sirens, and the strains of the shepherds' pipes; I have touched the wings of comely devils who flew down to converse with me of God ... In your books I have flung myself into the bottomless pit, performed miracles, slain, burned towns, preached new religions, conquered whole kingdoms ...

From the outside, my life was rock solid. So why couldn’t I shake this unease? This feeling that I was missing something. This feeling that somehow, I’d failed. That I was marching in the wrong direction

Some people see it this way, and some people do not. Some are angry, and some are scared, and some are so hurt that they can't see the point of anything, let alone fighting. Some people give up. Some people try harder. They all grieve, though, all of them—and, for all the differences in the people who remain behind, one thing is the same about those who are gone. The world is a little more hollow without them in it.

Dante watched Tess eat the thick, caramel-laced brownie, feeling her pleasure radiate across the small space that separated them on the river-walk bench. She’d offered him a bite, and although his kind could not consume crude human food in anything more than a mouthful, he accepted a small taste of the sticky chocolate confection if only to share in Tess’s unabashed enjoyment. He swallowed the heavy, pretty much revolting bit of pasty sweetness with a tight smile. “Good, huh?” Tess licked her chocolate-coated fingers, slipping one after the other into her mouth and sucking them clean. “Delicious,” Dante said, watching her with his own brand of hunger. “You can have some more if you want it.” “No.” He drew back, shaking his head. “No, it’s all yours. Please. Enjoy it.

You'll stay, right?" James mumbles. "I'll stay," promises the angel, and James believes the promise, because James looks into the angel's eyes and knows the angel means the promise and isn't being a sneaky little liar. James smiles, pleased. "I'm going to keep you." The angel finally, finally, finally laughs, and it has special angel powers to make James' chest go warm. It sounds like a gentle jingle, a tinkling bell, and it's the last thing James hears before he happily falls off into dreams of a knitted hat with the angel's laughter trapped inside.

If your mind and spirit are seduced by images of windswept ridge tops, flutters of aspen leaves caressed by a canyon breeze and the crimson tendrils of dying sun…if your fingers feel the silken pulse of a lover and your lips taste the deep kisses of building passion…if nostrils flare with the conjured scents of gunpowder and perfume, sage brush and pine, and your ears delight in the murmur of river current…if your heart pounds at the clash of good and evil and with each twist and turn of interwoven lives you feel a primal throb, then I have accomplished my mission.

The slaughter was slow, every single act carried out with precision and care. Once he’d sheared her like a lamb, she was left on the cold floor, bleeding out in crimson rivers that followed the path of the cracks in the concrete.

It's different at night, when he's actively trying to rest, and he can't explain why. For some reason, when he knows he's trying to sleep, being next to someone, feeling them, is the only thing that helps. But when he's awake, it's not the same. He doesn't know what that says about him, that he can only accept comfort when he knows that he'll be oblivious to it.

Regulus swallows. "You're a good person, Evan Rosier." "That's the thing, though. I'm really not." Evan blinks at him slowly. "I just—like you. Isn't that mental?" "Certifiably insane," Regulus says, his chest feeling tight. Evan waves his free hand lazily. "I don't mean the way your boyfriend likes you. Just…person to person, I suppose. It's a shame, really. I think—well, I think you're my friend.

The man glares up at him, blood streaming down his nose, "No one is scared of you or your bitch of a boyfriend-" "Fiancé," Regulus corrects harshly, then bangs the man's face into the table again. "Yeah, careful with that. He's really touch about that," Barty calls out, sounding like he's having the time of his life. "Regulus, stop," Rabastan says firmly. "No, keep going, this shit is hilarious," Barty announces.

And then— "We have a bookshelf. Sirius built us a bookshelf, and you have the top shelves because you're taller, and I have the lower shelves because I keep all my journals on the very bottom." James feels a lump form in his throat. He can't help it, the rush of emotion that crashes through him. You know that other life? The one where we could have been happy together? Where we're not a great, big tragedy? James had said. Tell me something about it, James had said. Regulus did, Regulus told him about this, and so much more. All these things—all of them left to another life, not this one, because they didn't get it in this one. They were wrong. They were so fucking wrong. Regulus has drifted forward, eyes wide with child-like wonder, something so painfully innocent there in his expression. His fingers run across the wood tenderly, with care, and his voice is so soft when he whispers, "This is beautiful, Sirius. How long have you been working on this?

Oregon October, when the fields of timothy and rye-grass stubble are being burned, the sky itself catches fire. Flocks of wrens rush up from the red alder thickets like sparks kicked from a campfire, the salmon jumps again, and the river rolls molten and slow . . . Down river, from Andy’s Landing, a burned-off cedar snag held the sun spitted like an apple, hissing and dripping juices against a grill of Indian Summer clouds. All the hillside, all the drying Himalaya vine that lined the big river, and the sugar-maple trees farther up, burned a dark brick and over-lit red. The river split for the jump of a red-gilled silver salmon, then circled to mark the spot where it fell. Spoonbills shoveled at the crimson mud in the shallows, and dowitchers jumped from cattail to cattail, frantically crying “Kleek! Kleek!” as though the thin reeds were as hot as the pokers they resembled. Canvasback and brant flew south in small, fiery, faraway flocks. And in the shabby ruin of broken cornfields rooster ringnecks clashed together in battle so bright, so gleaming polished-copper bright, that the fields seemed to ring with their fighting. This is Hank’s bell.

Finally, Monty clears his throat and says, "Alright, well, I'm claiming Regulus. We'll take the back." Regulus looks oddly charmed by this. "Hey, be careful," Sirius and James announce at basically the same exact time, and Regulus rolls his eyes as Monty snorts. They're clearly thick as thieves, because Regulus' lips curl up when Monty knocks their shoulders together, and they slink off while whispering to each other, Monty chuckling quietly as they go. James and Sirius exchange an exasperated look.

Remus groans, his eyes sinking shut. He lifts his hands and scrubs them over his face before he drops them heavily, looking weary. "You are one the most unbelievably fucked up people I've ever met, you know that?" "Takes one to know one, I suppose," Regulus replies wryly, arching an eyebrow at him. Remus huffs out a weak laugh. "Yeah, can't argue that.

refused to be jealous of their happiness. Refused. It was harder to refuse the loneliness.

Of course she’d understand why I’d kept it to myself. There was something uniquely special about Lyla Eden. Her heart.

The war was over. So I stopped fighting. Instead, I buried my face in my hands and cried for the man who’d changed my life. The man I loved. The man who’d walked away.

For fifteen years I have been intently studying earthly life. It is true I have not seen the earth nor men, but in your books I have drunk fragrant wine, I have sung songs, I have hunted stags and wild boars in the forests, have loved women ... Beauties as ethereal as clouds, created by the magic of your poets and geniuses, have visited me at night, and have whispered in my ears wonderful tales that have set my brain in a whirl. In your books I have climbed to the peaks of Elburz and Mont Blanc, and from there I have seen the sun rise and have watched it at evening flood the sky, the ocean, and the mountain-tops with gold and crimson. I have watched from there the lightning flashing over my head and cleaving the storm-clouds. I have seen green forests, fields, rivers, lakes, towns. I have heard the singing of the sirens, and the strains of the shepherds' pipes; I have touched the wings of comely devils who flew down to converse with me of God ... In your books I have flung myself into the bottomless pit, performed miracles, slain, burned towns, preached new religions, conquered whole kingdoms ...

And I know that because you made it out, ans it´s one of the worst things I´ve ever felt, but I wish it had been Sirius. I´m sorry, because you´re my friend, and I´m-I am so fucking greatful that you´re here and you´re okay, but something in me wishes it was him. "Right, so that´s-that´s out of the way. We´re awful and we´re sorry. Good enough for me. Good enough for you?

They all knew this was coming. They all knew war would reach into the pools of kinship between countless people and gut the innards of it like emptying out a pumpkin. So many seeds torn away and crushed into nothing; seeds of friendship, seeds of romance, seeds of family. All of them planted and ruined in various stages, left with nothing but growing pains and, worse than that, the pain of absent growth altogether. War is cruel. It's cancerous. The end of the world is always tied to war, isn't it? Maybe this is why; because war is so much more than just war. It goes beyond bullets and blood and bodies. War comes in like a flood, like a disease, and it claims anyone who comes in contact with it. Even the living can't get free from it; they're as claimed as the dead are. Once war touches them, they're branded to their last breath. In this world, most people have been branded for a lot longer than they stepped on their first battlefield.

Don´t cry" Sirius coos, lips curling up as he leans in kisses under one eye. "your tears control the tides, you know." He kisses under the other eye. "Why don´t we have a calm ocean tonight? No shipwrecks. Nothing worse than a sunken ship" "But thats where all the treasures are" Remus teases, smiling along helplessly, and Sirius looks pleased instantly. "You´re a treasure, Remus Lupin" Sirius mumurs, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "My treasure, the treasure I found in this sunken ship of a city. You glinted in the dark like the moon lights in the sky, and I found you.

He paused a moment, gazing in awe at the huge mass of buildings composing the castle. It stood close to the river, on either side and to the rear stretched the extensive park and gardens, filled with splendid trees, fountains and beds of brilliant flowers in shades of pink, crimson, and scarlet. The castle itself was built of pink granite, and enclosed completely a smaller, older building which the present Duke's father had considered too insignificant for his town residence. The new castle had taken forty years to build; three architects and hundreds of men had worked day and night, and the old Duke had personally selected every block of sunset-colored stone that went to its construction. 'I want it to look like a great half-open rose,' he declared to the architects, who were fired with enthusiasm by this romantic fancy. It was begun as a wedding present to the Duke's wife, whose name was Rosamond, but unfortunately she died some nine years before it was completed. 'never mind, it will do for her memorial instead,' said the grief-stricken but practical widower. The work went on. At last the final block was laid in place. The Duke, by now very old, went out in his barouche and drove slowly along the opposite riverbank to consider the effect. He paused midway for a long time, then gave his opinion. 'It looks like a cod cutlet covered in shrimp sauce,' he said, drove home, took to his bed, and died.

I have to tell you a joke," James says, and the angel blinks at him, then arches an eyebrow. "I need you to laugh." "James—" "What did the big flower say to the little flower?" The angel glances over at the best friend, and the best friend is stifling laughter, and then the angel focuses on James again. The angel indulges him. "I don't know. What did the big flower say to the little flower?" "Hey there, bud," James tells him, and the mother laughs, and the father laughs, and the best friend laughs, but the angel does not laugh. No, the angel only reaches up to grab his hand, gently pressing a smile to his knuckles. It's a small smile. Lips of an angel. Sweet. James wants to put his mouth on it, and stick his fingers in it, but he's also sad because the angel didn't laugh. "You were supposed to laugh. I told a flower joke. It was funny, and you like flowers." "Mm." The angel's eyes drift shut. The angel is still smiling and cradling his hand. "Better luck next time." "I'll keep trying." "I know.

I believe you, man," Rabastan assures him, jerking his thumb at Rodolphus. "All he does is lie, so yeah, I believe you." "When do I lie?" Rodolphus sputters. "Name one time—" "You told me you didn't steal my pillow months ago, and I know it was you. I know it was." "It wasn't! I'm telling you, Bas, it was someone else!" "Who, then?" "Um. Well, okay, I don't know, but—" Rabastan gestures to Rodolphus, raising his eyebrows pointedly. "See? Liar." "I do see," Regulus replies with a straight face, looking completely neutral as he nods in agreement. Sirius stares at the side of Regulus' face until, finally, Regulus' gaze darts towards him very briefly before he quickly looks away, because he's a lying, sneaky little shit of a pillow thief and has no shame in it. Sirius shakes his head and looks away, reaching up to swipe a hand over his mouth to hide his grin. Rabastan and Rodolphus continue to argue about who the pillow thief is, and Sirius doesn't interrupt to inform them of the real culprit, because he knows it's his brother.

It's a long trek, and James is admittedly lost in his own little world, so he's not really paying attention when heading to his porch. That's why a yelp tumbles out of his mouth as he reaches for the door and, instead, feels a cold clump of snow collide directly into the back of his head. Immediately, from behind him, there's a roar of laughter James would know in his sleep, all belonging to his children. He swivels on the spot, swiping the snow out of his hair, and Regulus stands there with a smug little smile as he wipes his snow-dusted gloves together, surrounded by their kids that, apparently, find this to be absolutely hilarious. "You walked by like we weren't even here," Regulus calls out, eyebrows raised. "Don't ignore us." James just stares at him for a long moment, his breath caught in his chest, knowing the same thing he's known since the day Regulus turned fifteen—that he's absolutely, unequivocally beautiful. Helplessly, James breaks out into a grin, and he makes his way back to them, because apparently it's the perfect day to build a snowman. Well, James can't argue that one.

Regulus, who said I miss my brother. Sirius has been crying ever since. Regulus hasn't said that, or anything even close to that, in ten years. Something he doesn't tell anyone else—that's what Evan asked of him, and that's what Regulus went with. I miss you, too, Sirius had thought, and maybe he whispered it, maybe Remus heard him, or maybe not. He's been crying too incoherently to know. But it's true. He's been missing Regulus for the last ten years.

This is very important to me," Regulus says stiffly. "So, if you would please set aside your pride, along with your many other grievances with me and my brother, I'd appreciate it." "Do you realize how selfish it is to ask this of me?" "I don't care about that either. You know, some would see it as an honor. Do you know how many people would kill to get the chance?" "So, ask them," Aberforth grits out. "I don't want them," Regulus declares simply. "I want you.

Is it that bad, if that is what this is?" Evan asks. "If all I am is you, and no part of me is here, think about how long you've had hope for yourself. Think about how long you've believed in yourself. Think about how long you've been urging yourself to climb. Think about how far you've gotten, just as you." "Maybe," Regulus rasps, "but I really wish it was you." Evan sighs. "I'm dead, Regulus." "I know, Evan," Regulus says, and his voice cracks. "I know." "Everyone else, and you let them go," Evan whispers. "You learned to let them go, and learned to keep them even though you had. But not me." "You—you're—" Regulus shakes his head, feeling his face twitch and twist, trying so hard not to cry. You're the first person I learned to trust again, he doesn't say. You're the first person I really, truly lost; the first person I could never get back, he doesn't say. What he says, instead, makes his voice crack. "You're my best friend." And it's true. Even now, it's true, and Regulus knows it, so Evan does, too. "You were mine, too," Evan says, and then he tilts his head a bit. "After the arena, you dreamed of me because you couldn't let me go." "I know." "Why did you stop?" "Because I knew I needed to," Regulus chokes out.

Images surround us; cavorting broadcast in the minds of others, we wear the motley tailored by their bad digestions, the shame and failure, plague pandemics and private indecencies, unpaid bills, and animal ecstasies remembered in hospital beds, our worst deeds and best intentions will not stay still, scolding, mocking, or merely chattering they assail each other, shocked at recognition. Sometimes simplicity serves, though even the static image of Saint John Baptist received prenatal attentions (six months along, leaping for joy in his mother's womb when she met Mary who had conceived the day before): once delivered he stands steady in a camel's hair loincloth at a ford in the river, morose, ascetic on locusts and honey, molesting passers-by, upbraiding the flesh on those who wear it with pleasure. And the Nazarene whom he baptized? Three years pass, in a humility past understanding: and then death, disappointed? unsuspecting? and the body left on earth, the one which was to rule the twelve tribes of Israel, and on earth, left crying out - My God, why dost thou shame me? Hopelessly ascendent in resurrection, the image is pegged on the wind by an epileptic tentmaker, his strong hands stretch the canvas of faith into a gaudy caravanserai, shelter for travelers wearied of the burning sand, lured by forgetfulness striped crimson and gold, triple-tiered, visible from afar, redolent of the east, and level and wide the sun crashes the fist of reality into that desert where the truth still walks barefoot.

Thank you," Sirius says abruptly . Remus blinks. "You're welcome. Wait, for what?" "For taking care of me," Sirius murmurs as he washes a plate and passes it to Remus. He's not looking at him and there's a far-away look in his eyes. "You don't have to, and yet you are, and that- means something. That has meaning, like you said. I'd say I'd like to return the favor, but I'd never wish for you to be in a position where you need to be taken care of. But I hope you know that I would. And I hope that has meaning too.

When he reached the Neva he stood still for a minute and turned a keen glance up the river into the smoky frozen thickness of the distance, which was suddenly flushed crimson with the last purple and blood -red glow of sunset, still smouldering on the misty horizon... . Night lay over the city, and the

Regulus snorts weakly. "Not really. I'm not exactly…the easiest person to get on with." "What? No. You're a fucking delight, what are you on about?" Evan mocks through a shit-eating grin. "No one's ever—" Regulus exhales shakily. "I have a friend at home, just one, but that's…different. I think you two would have gotten on well. But he's—" Regulus stops, because he's not sure how to even begin explaining Barty, who is his friend, yes, but not the way Evan has been. "Well, I'm not the type to have a best friend, but if I were, it would have been you." "Pity we never met before this, eh?" Evan swallows harshly

THE STAGE: The stage is empty, and you watch as the figure of Medusa steps into the gas-light. Her body is dressed in a crimson traversed by the golden branches of willow trees, colour and light held into shape by sharp black borders. Lifting languidly her hands, she reaches towards you. Her emerald vipers, in the cohesive movements of unseen mechanisms, weave loops about her head. Music is beginning, and from the shadows off-stage the narrator speaks. “Medusa had a beautiful name and a lovely voice, though no one cared to listen; seeking only the gaze of those famous eyes.” Perseus walks onto the stage, cloaked as though he were the blazing sun. Now what you have to understand is his voice – it is like nothing you could tie down. It feels peaceful to hear it, to see him flow into the song with his fine, clear looks and his finer, clearer voice. Is the head quite forgotten? Not quite but the horror exists alongside the beauty and they flow like twin rivers, and neither is able to wash the other from you.

Fucking dammit. This kid. This rude, demanding, unrepentant boy. The mess of it is, Aberforth does like the boy, likes him a hell of a lot more than he likes most people, and hell of a lot more than ever liked his brother. Aberforth just might be one of the few people in this world—maybe the only one—who preferred Regulus to Sirius even when they were just dumb little shits building snow forts that blocked the sidewalks, which Aberforth had to shovel out the way, grunting and grumbling under his breath the whole time. Maybe it was because Regulus reminded him of Ariana, and himself; maybe it was because Sirius reminded him of Albus. He doesn't know what it was, but Aberforth has found himself thankful many times since Albus died that it was Sirius who gave the killing blow, not Regulus. It's easier to hate Sirius. For Aberforth, hating Regulus isn't quite working out. He doesn't particularly care that the boy is getting married, and Aberforth had no urge to even attend the damn wedding, but then the boy showed up to demand he officiate it. The impulse to do so now, just because it matters that much, just because he matters that much to someone, still, to someone alive…it's strong. The impulse is really strong, except Sirius will be there, and Aberforth swore to never go back to district six until he was a pile of ashes. He won't, not even for the boy, arguably the last person in this world Aberforth even cares about on a personal level, and that's a bit of a stretch as it is.

Four hours in, and Regulus is reading in the sitting room with Marcel on one side and Malcolm on the other. It's the only book in the house they have for kids, one that was James' when he was a child. Malcolm is very invested, his fingers twisting Regulus' sleeve as he leans on his arm, inhaling in palpable excitement every time Regulus turns a page. On the other side, meanwhile, Marcel is passed the fuck out, drooling on Regulus' other arm, head resting in the crook of his elbow. When Sirius shows back up, it's with apologies for taking so long, and gratitude for Regulus helping him out. He holds out his hands in offering, ready to go, and Marcel twists up to whisper in Malcolm's ear. Malcolm looks down at Marcel, then looks at Regulus, then looks at Sirius with his brave face on. Malcolm says, bluntly, "We want to stay here.

Shit," Sirius says, staring after Teddy, who has run off after flatout stating that they couldn't make him leave to go meet a family that might want him, not when he has a family here. He intends to stay forever, apparently. It's not the first time a child they've taken in has been wary to leave, but every kid they've taken in has known that they would go, so despite trepidation and tears and swearing they'd miss them, they did say goodbye. Teddy is the first who outright refuses to, because he has everything he wants right here. Dorcas clears her throat. "I…didn't see that coming, I won't lie." "Believe me," Remus mutters, "we didn't either." "It was touch-and-go there for a bit," Sirius murmurs, then heaves a sigh. "Right, well, that's that, then." "What's what?" Dorcas asks, blinking. Remus stares at her. "He's staying." "He…can't," Dorcas says slowly. "That's not how the process works, Remus. You're only fostering him." "Yeah, uh, Dorcas, I love you—I do, I really do, but you're not taking our kid," Sirius tells her.

I mean, I sort of went insane and treated everyone like shit after my girlfriend died, so…" "You weren't exactly the picture of sane before, and if I lost James, I would have needed to be locked away. I'd either kill everyone else, or kill myself, so if you ask me, you handled yourself quite well, all things considered." "You don't know how I handled myself at all." "I don't need to. You're here now, and you look good. That tells me all I need to know." "You know, I appreciate that," Dorcas muses. Regulus chuckles, and then he's smiling, a full smile that Dorcas has never seen on his face before. As if she didn't walk out of his life, and every life, including her own, for the last year, he says, "James and I recently agreed to get married, like planning the wedding and such. You'll be in my lineup. James can't have you, which he's been pouting about, but he's not the best at multitasking when it comes to fighting. He's throwing his whole lot in with claiming Sirius." "I'm—in the wedding?" Dorcas asks. "Obviously." "Oh, obviously. You couldn't have known I'd be back in time." "No," Regulus agrees with a shrug, "but I hoped." Dorcas' heart clenches. "Thank you, for hoping.

Alright, alright," Aberforth grunts, grimacing at the truly ridiculous amount of warm-and-fuzzies implied with all of that. The boy is usually better about keeping that shit to himself, unlike his over-emotional brother. Makes sense why Aberforth prefers him. "Fine, I'll—stop in to officiate your wedding, but I'm doing that and nothing else. I'm doing it on one condition, you hear me?" "Okay," Regulus says, eyes narrowing again. "I'm old. I'm probably gonna die in the next fifteen years or so, if I'm lucky," Aberforth announces with a grunt, and he appreciates that the boy doesn't protest, or try to deny it, or even seem to care very much. He only blinks and, after a moment of hesitation, nods. "I don't have kids, never cared to have a spouse, and all my family is dead. I don't much care what happens to my property or possessions after I'm gone, but I need someone to carry out my last wishes for my burial." "The tree," Regulus murmurs. Aberforth nods. "I want to be cremated, then buried with Albus and Ariana. Think you can handle that?" "You—me?" Regulus blinks again, this time with mild alarm, visibly startled. "Wait, you're putting me in your will? No, that's too much. I don't want your stuff, or to deal with all that shit. It's stressful. Pick someone else." "How bad do you want me to officiate your wedding?" Aberforth asks, eyebrows raised. Regulus holds his hand out immediately. "I'd be happy to bury you. You have yourself a deal." Aberforth chuckles, helplessly, and reaches out to shake his hand.

These are the forgeries of jealousy; And never, since the middle summer’s spring, Met we on hill, in dale, forest, or mead, By pavèd fountain or by rushy brook, Or in the beachèd margent of the sea, To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind, But with thy brawls thou hast disturbed our sport. Therefore the winds, piping to us in vain, As in revenge have sucked up from the sea Contagious fogs, which, falling in the land, Hath every pelting river made so proud That they have overborne their continents. The ox hath therefore stretched his yoke in vain, The plowman lost his sweat, and the green corn Hath rotted ere his youth attained a beard. The fold stands empty in the drownèd field, And crows are fatted with the murrain flock. The nine-men’s-morris is filled up with mud, And the quaint mazes in the wanton green, For lack of tread, are undistinguishable. The human mortals want their winter here. No night is now with hymn or carol blessed. Therefore the moon, the governess of floods, Pale in her anger, washes all the air, That rheumatic diseases do abound. And thorough this distemperature we see The seasons alter: hoary-headed frosts Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose, And on old Hiems’ thin and icy crown An odorous chaplet of sweet summer buds Is, as in mockery, set. The spring, the summer, The childing autumn, angry winter, change Their wonted liveries, and the mazèd world By their increase now knows not which is which. And this same progeny of evils comes From our debate, from our dissension; We are their parents and original.

Outside," Regulus replies. "They're making mud-pies, so prepare for the mess." "Mm, nothing we can't handle," James assures him. "We've certainly had worse." "Yes, that's true, but if either of those brats track mud into the kitchen, I'm shipping them off to Sirius and Remus without looking back," Regulus warns, eyes narrowing playfully. James snorts. "You'd miss them and go get them back after three hours, don't even try it." "At least four," Regulus counters, sliding his arms around James' shoulders, eyes sparkling with amusement. "I can entertain myself for four hours, surely." "Oh?" James raises his eyebrows. "Don't you mean I could entertain you for four hours?" Regulus' lips twitch. "No, because I'm shipping you off with them. I've earned the break. I'm done with you Potters." "You're a Potter," James reminds him, amused. "Baby, I'll always be a Black," Regulus tells him, reaching up to card his fingers through James' hair. He leans in and starts mouthing along James' jaw, which James is very pleased about, actually. "No matter my name, that doesn't change." "Dad! Dad, look, we found a frog!" comes the abrupt shriek from outside, along with more delighted screams. "Oh, for fuck's sake," Regulus groans, letting his head thunk down on James' shoulder. "Really, can't we just send them back from whence they came?" "And where is that?" "Hell." James laughs, turning his head to smack a kiss to Regulus' cheek, then down the side of his face, then the scar on the side of his neck. "It's a bit pointless to do that. You'd go through hell just to get them back, and you know it." "Dad, it peed on me!" "Shit, shit, shit," Regulus chants, jolting away from James to rush towards the door. "Put it down, you little demons! Step away from the frog right now!" He's still grumbling as he slips out the door. "Just like your father. Literal spawns of Satan himself. What did I say about staying out of tr…" James sighs softly and leans back against the bar, grabbing his cane again, eyes drifting shut as he listens to the sounds of his family, lips curled up. Then, from his pocket, there's a sudden cry that makes his eyes snap open. Ah, yes, the joys of parenthood. Frogs and squalling infants. James wouldn't change a damn thing.

Images surround us; cavorting broadcast in the minds of others, we wear the motley tailored by their bad digestions, the shame and failure, plague pandemics and private indecencies, unpaid bills, and animal ecstasies remembered in hospital beds, our worst deeds and best intentions will not stay still, scolding, mocking, or merely chattering they assail each other, shocked at recognition. Sometimes simplicity serves, though even the static image of Saint John Baptist received prenatal attentions (six months along, leaping for joy in his mother's womb when she met Mary who had conceived the day before): once delivered he stands steady in a camel's hair loincloth at a ford in the river, morose, ascetic on locusts and honey, molesting passers-by, upbraiding the flesh on those who wear it with pleasure. And the Nazarene whom he baptized? Three years pass, in a humility past understanding: and then death, disappointed? unsuspecting? and the body left on earth, the one which was to rule the twelve tribes of Israel, and on earth, left crying out—My God, why dost thou shame me? Hopelessly ascendant in resurrection, the image is pegged on the wind by an epileptic tentmaker, his strong hands stretch the canvas of faith into a gaudy caravanserai, shelter for travelers wearied of the burning sand, lured by forgetfulness striped crimson and gold, triple-tiered, visible from afar, redolent of the east, and level and wide the sun crashes the fist of reality into that desert where the truth still walks barefoot.

He eases himself down to die. He thinks, others can do it and so can I. He inhales something: sweet raw smell of sawdust; from some-where, the scent of the Frescobaldi kitchen, wild garlic and cloves. He sees the movement from the corner of his eye as the spectators kneel and avert their faces. His mouth is dry, but he thinks, while I breathe I pray. 'All my confidence hope and trust, is in thy most merciful goodness...’ In the sky he senses movement. A shadow falls across his view. His father Walter is here, voice in the air. 'So now get up.' He lies broken on the cobbles of the yard of the house where he was born. His whole body is shuddering. 'So now get up. So now get up.' The pain is acute, a raw stinging, a ripping, a throb. He can taste his death: slow, metallic, not come yet. In his terror he tries to obey his father, but his hands cannot get a purchase, nor can he crawl. He is an eel, he is a worm on a hook, his strength has ebbed and leaked away beneath him and it seems a long time ago now since he gave his permission to be dead; no one has told his heart, and he feels it writhe in his chest, trying to beat. His cheek rests on nothing, it rests on red. He thinks, follow. Walter says, ‘That's right, boy, spew everywhere, spew everywhere on my good cobbles. Come on, boy, get up. By the blood of creeping Christ, stand on your feet?' He is very cold. People imagine the cold comes after but it is now. He thinks, winter is here. I am at Launde. I have stumbled deep into the crisp white snow. I flail my arms in angel shape, but now I am crystal, I am ice and sinking deep: now I am water. Beneath him the ground upheaves. The river tugs him; he looks for the quick-moving Pattern, for the flitting, liquid scarlet. Between a pulse-beat and the next he shifts, going out on crimson with the tide of his inner sea. He is far from England now, far from these islands, from the waters salt and fresh. He has vanished; he is the slippery stones underfoot, he is the last faint ripple in the wake of himself. He feels for an opening, blinded, looking for a door: tracking the light along the wall.

The opulence of Bedford Square and the British Museum may be only a few hundred yards away, but New Oxford Street runs between there and here like a river too wide to swim, and you are on the wrong side.

Cincinnati, I thought, was the most beautiful of the inland cities of the Union. From the tower of its unsurpassed hotel the city spreads far and wide its pageant of crimson, purple and gold, laced by silver streams that are great rivers.