Three Twisted Knots

Not all those who wander are lost.

We talked. We argued. I cried. He held me.

We talked. We argued. I cried. He held me.

Yes, the title of this post alludes to a pop song that my mother caretaker loved when she was a kid. It’s sad; nobody here gets my music, except sometimes Nathaniel remembers things from the jukebox. And Tegan knew pop music, a little bit. I loved her for it. I hope she’s back in Africa, saving rhinos.

I was sneaking back into the sithen, really late at night, after Paasheeluu’s funeral, or not-funeral, or rebirthing, or whatever you want to call it. He was up on the hill, meditating. Of course he heard me; he’s a fucking Sidhe warrior Prince with probably thousands of years of battle experience behind him. Somebody walks up onto his rock, he hears it.

He said he wanted to explain some things to me. Great, like I need a father figure, I’m thinking. So I learned some things.

Sidhe don’t become sexually active ’til they’re a hundred years old. I was gobsmacked. In fact, I’m pretty sure I laughed at him.

He wanted me to know that sometimes, magic happens when sidhe have sex. I said I thought sex was magical to begin with, and he agreed with me, but then he was like, no, really, magic happens– Renata apparently kills wildlife with the force of her passion? Things I really did not want to know! Anyway, after scrubbing my head of that little titbit, I was given the examples of things like freak snowstorms, lightning strikes, etc. It was all a little tiresome, until I thought about Nathaniel’s heartbeat. We talked about that. I asked the stupidest question first, whether or not I could bring him back to life. Surprise surprise, he took it seriously and told me not even to try. That I would be messing with powers I didn’t understand and could never repay. That, I took to heart. If it’s that serious, well.

Then there was an argument, I guess. It was my fault. I don’t know why I push his buttons so. He told me about the sidhe custom of introducing young sidhe to sex with their own kind through a much older mentor who would teach them how to set up the right barriers and stuff. I … yeah. I sort of compared it to institutionalised rape– just academically, mind. And he got seventeen colours of pissed off. Except he just laughed at me. I fucking hate it when he laughs at me. Makes me feel small and stupid. And I am not small and stupid. Well, I’m not stupid.

So I went off on him like a going off thing. I was suddenly fifteen again, and he was my real dad, not my caretaker dad, and I was screaming that I hated him and nobody understood me — it’s too embarrassing to talk about. I was hysterical, I think.

I screamed and yelled and hiccoughed and cried, and Nualla just sat there licking my tears away, and then he just held out his arms.

He told me he loved me. And that I was smart. And special. And that he was my mentor. And I loved him back, really, really hard. Like the dad I never had. I’m crying just writing about it. It was amazing. And then we talked, for a long time, about stupid shit like our favourite colours and what we liked for breakfast.

And then we went back down to the sithen and I went to bed, and I don’t know what he did — he doesn’t seem to sleep a lot.


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