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((Roll here, moved for continuity reasons))

He tried again, tried to do something useful--instinctively he tried, even, to summon Fiona to hand and of course failed. Instead a stomach-clenched guilt made him nearly buckle, and he inexplicably found himself in the thick of a memory of huddling into the confessional before he'd turned his back on the Church.

Dreamlike, Phoenix's red hair was a beacon in the dark, and he moved towards her unthinking and closed his hand around her arm to arrest her progress.

"I'm sorry," he told her, not sure why he'd seen her in the momentary guise of someone who could offer absolution. "I was--I was ********... terrified, when you got hurt; I was scared, I was scared when Peyton got hurt, but I was also so ******** don't hate me--please--I was glad. I need someone to take care of and I can't even ******** take care of myself because I forgot how to be--how to pretend to be normal. I slept on the floor for weeks, when I got to Deus, because I forgot how to use a bed. I don't know what to do with my hands. I haven't told anyone 'I love you' in over a year and I don't know how to touch anyone anymore. I'm scared I won't remember. Every day I wait for someone to call me out on faking it.

"I was glad," he repeatedly brokenly, "I was glad you got hurt because you came to me. I was glad Peyton got hurt because she came to me. I want to take care of--of someone. Anyone. I don't care why. I don't care what has to happen. And you terrify me. I am so ******** scared of you, America, I am scared every time I think you might--you might want to be around me, I'm scared because I want you to, and I needed to--to not be scared of you. So I was glad," he repeated, finally and with grief that was less about guilt and more about the shame of admitting that he'd forgotten how to interact on any level approaching normal, "I was glad you got hurt. And I'll ******** kill him if he does it again, I'll kill him, but I wish he would, I don't want you to get hurt but I wish someone would."

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She was a child with wide green eyes staring back at her mother as she bent down with a finger on her lips. “Shhh, honey, don’t say that,” she whispered with frantic eyes darting to the side. Her husband hadn’t heard that, right?

Both hands are placed on her daughter’s shoulder as she knelt down. Brows are knitted together as she rested an uneasy smile on her lips. “Monsters like that don’t exist. They’re all make believe, okay? They’re not real.” So badly she wanted to believe her words were true, but the nervously flickering eyes behind the child suggested something else altogether.

The child stared back. Adults are liars.

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She remembered loving to paint as a child. Even as the sun fell into the horizon and darkness took over, she still drew.

She hummed as she finished the final details on her latest sketch. "There."

His body felt heavy with every movement requiring twice as much effort on his part compared to before. It was as if someone had strapped invisible weights on his limbs thereby weighing him down - a mere inconvenience though it would take more than that to stop him from doing what he must in order to get back to where he belonged. He heard first his name. Not the username that he had chosen for himself in this game but his actual name that he had only given to those whom he knew to be his fellow Horsemen.

"Iyari..."

He looked at the other Gryphon, curious as to what had brought about this now but knew better than to question her so he gave a nod to let her continue with what she needed to tell him. As she spoke of her loss and why it made her the way she was at present, he nodded a few times, the emotional turmoil she had been through not entirely foreign to himself, having been through it as well with Kasja for his case until only recently.

"That is not a sign of weakness Iyari." He smiled wryly at her then stretched his hand out to give her upper arm a gentle squeeze. "Where words fail us, know that our intent is clear from our actions alone. Those who are family know us best after all." Those were the words that his younger sister told him on many an occasion and he chose to share them with the obviously distressed War mare who stood before him now. "Do not allow regret to consume you."

No sooner had he uttered those words however, he saw the nightmare that brought him to this game play out before him again. An Insanity inflicted Kasja waiting for him on the island that belonged to the Death Clan. The horror that overcame him when he realised too late her intention when her falcata was already embedded in his rib cage. No. That wasn't a future that would come to pass. He knew the future that awaited him after his encounter with a certain Death mare back at the Tavern. He would not allow this to defeat him, determined to survive till the end so that he could forge a future together with his fellow Horsemen.

And her.

Byakko once again moved to attack the White queen, ready to do some actual damage. But once again he was sucked into a memory instead.

~Tears ran down his chubby face as he watched Nana open the toilet bowl. "Now darling it's alright. Everything dies in the end and it was just Mr. Fishy's time." She soothed and patted his head before holding out the small bowl with the dead gold fish. "Come, put him to rest so he can go to that big fish bowl in the sky." He wasn't sure he believed her about the fish bowl but he did dump Mr. Fishy into the toilet like she asked. When they pulled the handle and flushed the fish down he stopped crying as a thought came to him. If everything died then he would hold on to those dear to him while they lived.~

At the hand on her arm, America tensed defensively as she turned, but swiftly relaxed into pleased relief. She was about to ask the man where Leslie was when the confessions began. It was painful to hear, not the part about her, not really, just the sheer vulnerability on display. More than naked, Taym seemed flayed by the Queen's compulsion. It was awful and explained so much, further painting in the odd picture of just who the hell the man before her was. But even so...

It was also a little sweet. There's something about seeing the cracks of the man and the tender, wounded bits beyond that made her want to reach out and simply hold him together. Instead, she repeated an earlier motion of his, removing his hand from her elbow in favour of gripping it in her own. Looking at Taym, she nodded solemnly, "You're a wreck of a man, Obadiah Thompson, and someone wiser wouldn't love you half so much." And maybe she was a fool in her own book, but America was strong enough to care about him. Strong enough to get hurt and not resent being cared for. Strong enough to try and raise a broken man up a bit without letting his issues and bullshit drag her down.

America looked toward the Queen and summoned her crossbow with her free hand. "I still get to touch your beard though, right?"

Taking aim, she tried to fire another shot and end things before the b***h could pull out her own vulnerabilities.

Her wings felt like lead, their fluttering having stopped as soon as the Red Queen had broken to pieces and the White taking on her changed form. Everything felt so weird and yet all around her memories shifted from one to another, a mess of states while only certain ones seemed to want to be noticed.

All she could do was watch as one flashed by her, unknowing if anyone else could really see them as she. She had seen the others, could they see her's? (At least those last few had made her smile).

Well, that certainly put a new light on the Professor that Olivia had seen at the Scarentine's booth (really, it was hard to miss). She found it kind of awesome, if not a little frightening. So many sides to Miss Selene; talking in funny voices and cuddling with minipets, shy introverted and hiding behind a desk and finally now going to eat you since she's a snake. This was fun.

America's Emperor

This time, as she raised her crossbow, the fiery bolt never left, washed away instead by the vision of a sunset washing over an orchard, heavy and lush with fruit.

Inhaling deeply, you close your eyes and get lost in the beauty of the moment.

"-ica."

You'd been afraid because this was a new place, and people kept warning you about what you shouldn't do, how careful you should be. Because you're a good girl but sometimes you get too excited. Sometimes you get too loud. But in a place like this, it should be okay, truly it should...

"America Theodorina Aldrina Georgia Jones!"

Your head whips up in alarm, small hands clutching hard at the battered little Barbie suitcase you insisted on carrying yourself. Hardly anybody says all that name, and the woman looking down at you had a tone when she spoke it. Like it was some nasty business in her mouth. Something to spit out. You feel a little sick at it, because nobody's ever said your name like that and it hurts. It makes you feel small and unwanted.

You look away but strong, knobbly fingers grip your chin and wrench it up, "You look at me when I talk to you, and pay attention besides. It is unbecoming to day dream while someone is talking to you. Stand up straight," the woman had a ramrod posture, firm and proud, it made her seem to tower over everything, even though she looked so tiny next to Uncle Frank when he'd dropped her off. The woman sniffed at the sight of you but didn't give any further commands other than a stern come along, girl.

You're led to a small room and it is tidy and nice. But most of the small rooms you have slept in were also tidy and nice. They weren't yours, not really. But they were nice. "You'll be staying her while you're with me. Has anybody explained your situation?" She didn't bother waiting for your answer, which is good because you don't understand the question. "You'll be staying here during your schooling, because the Lord knows the rest have let you run wild for too long."

She waits for your response this time, and finally you remember the advice you'd been given by your well-meaning uncle. Solemnly, you answer, "Yes, Aunt Prudence."

Another sniff, "You'll be sleeping here. You'll keep this room in the same condition it is now. I'll let you settle in tonight, but tomorrow I'll be giving you a list of chores. You may as well be an orphan for all your father is about, but this isn't a charity, do you understand America Jones?"

"Yes, Aunt Prudence."

You are six and in seven more years she will be dead. For seven years you will fear her, and her respect her, and you will hate her even as you seek her approval above all others. In seven years you will run truly wild to both flaunt the remnants of her authority over you and mourn the loss of the one strong, reliable figure in your life.