drownedindreams | and then, it rolls on. (Dated Father's Day)

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and then, it rolls on. (Dated Father's Day)

It didn't matter that the kitchen was still covered in blood. It was streaked with her blood, and Jax was waiting for Scott - he'd made the phone call because he hadn't known who else to try, but it didn't matter - the dog still needed walked, and the fact that Macha's paws and tail were spotted a dark, rusty red and Tara's boots had left footprints on the stairs, the hem of her jeans was darkened. There was the smallest streak on her cheek that she didn't know about, and another one the back of one of her hands.

It was hers.

It was hers, in her kitchen; the fork, too - $4.99 at Macy's, two years ago, on clearance was her only thought - that was hers, hers from home.

Home. That was an odd concept now, because she knew. It wasn't just blood and the fork and thicker things that had come from 'Home', to her home, here. It was the file. It was the file with photographs and a coroner's report and police reports, it was the thing that said she died the day after she'd come here. Home - here - wasn't home -- and the home she remembered in California... that wasn't either. Home was where she was buried, where she was nothing but a memory and a crushing regret for some and her absence a triumph for others.

Her eyes were dead, red-rimmed and swollen from the tears she'd shed when she'd thrown up in the bathroom, when she'd stared at Jax and threw the tumbler against the wall where it'd shattered. Still, Macha needed to walk, and Tara wasn't thinking about where she was or where she'd been, or that they both had blood on them - she just let the dog lead the way.

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Frigga rarely spends the bulk of her time in the sparse quarters she has been granted by whatever power brings them here. She would rather be out, exploring the city, meeting new people, or reconnecting with those she has already met. Especially the ones she has taken under her protection - whether they are aware of it or not.

As queen of a warrior race and a skilled fighter herself, Frigga is not squeamish around blood, but there is stormy anger in her eyes when she sees Tara walking down the street smeared with it and obviously having suffered a shock.

"Tara?" The question is more to call for the young mother's attention, although if it gets more an answer of what happened, Frigga will not regret it, and Frigga's voice has a steady strength she hopes will help as she approaches.

The way that Tara just sort of blankly looks at Frigga, then after a moment - a long moment - there's a spark of recognition... it's then that she realises that it's somehow evening, and she has very little idea about how she got here.

And she should go home, she should go home because Jax is there, but there's a goddess standing in front of her and it makes just as much sense as the rest of it. "Hey," she says in greeting because she doesn't know what else she should say. Finally, she comes up with, ".... the dog- she needed... she wanted to go out, and..." She actually looks back over her shoulder, seeming confused as to how she got here. Macha looks up at Frigga and then Tara, the puppy not knowing what to do as she whines low in her throat.

She sits, eventually, by Tara's feet, her eyes soulful as she looks between the two women.

Frigga tucks a bloodied lock of hair away from Tara's face before resting a gentle hand on her shoulder. "You have had a shock. Come sit with me a moment." There is a bus stop just ahead, a good place for Frigga to discover what has happened, and if Tara herself is injured. Frigga can think of few things that would leave Tara in such a state, and none of them are good. Forcing the woman to face them directly too soon could be even more damaging.

In the meantime, she wraps them in a veil of magic, so none will pay them any attention. Her earlier time with Tara has shown a streak of pride and independence that doesn't need the blows of being seen like this by strangers.

She lets Frigga guide her because she doesn't have enough presence of mind to do anything else, and she sits because it's automatic, because that's what your brain does on autopilot. She swallows thickly, and she exhales, her brows furrowing. "I'm-" Alright, is the next word she'd been about to say, but Tara doesn't even know if that's true right now. All she can think is just how not alright she is, and she's dead, really. She's dead, so... so there's that.

"I should go home." But she doesn't move, and Macha lays her head on Tara's knee, still looking between her and Frigga like she'll somehow fix this.

Tara is not all right, no matter what she had been about to say. Touch can be grounding, and Tara needs something to bring her back from whatever has her so unfocused, so Frigga lays a hand on her back.

"Soon. When you are ready." She will be no good to her children in this state, and is, at best, likely to frighten them. "First, tell me what has happened. Are your sons well? Jax?"

She actually laughs, a stressed sound that was somewhere close to a sob, and Tara looks up at the ceiling. "I'm- They're fine, The boys are with a sitter, and J-Jax-" She pulls in a breath, and it just comes out. "There's- There was- We came home, and-" She swallows, and her eyes flick to Frigga. "Back- back where I came from, the day after I leave- I'm dead," she says simply, and her hands shake as she says it. "We came home and the kitchen- it's covered in blood, and there's- the file, with the pictures and the coroner's report and the-"

She starts to cry, burying her face in her hand.

The hand on Tara's back slides to her shoulder to tuck the woman against Frigga's as one would a child in need of comfort. "Oh, my dear one. I am sorry," Frigga says quietly, going back to slow and easy strokes along Tara's back.

For a time, she simply lets Tara cry. Tears can be healing of themselves, and holding them in helps no one. After a time, she speaks again, keeping her tone simple and calming, as though telling a story. In a way Frigga is. She is the final chapter to her own story, or what should have been the final chapter. "In the hours before I arrived here, my home was attacked by an army of creatures known as the Dark Elves. They sought a great power, which had somehow come to be inside a mortal woman, the beloved of my son. I took it upon myself to protect the woman, as my husband and son, and the other warriors met the army in battle.

"I succeeded, but at great price. I felt the killing blow that cut me down. Even my kind could not have survived such an injury. Yet I woke on the train coming into Darrow, whole again, except for the blood staining my gowns around the rip the blade cut in the fabric on its way into me. Blood can be cleaned, Tara. Here in Darrow, you and I still live. Your sons have not lost their mother."

She half listens, because she's wrapped in so much pain and hurt that it's hard, right now. It's so difficult and painful, and Tara shakes her head when Frigga tries to tell her it's not over because she's here. "You don't understand," she says thickly. "You don't- It's not here. I'm not worried for me, I knew. I knew that I was going to die, but my sons- It's my sons, and Jax."

She takes a deep breath. "The world doesn't stop, outside of here. I'll go back, and I'll die, and-" Her chin wobbles. "He needs me. They- They won't have a mother. Thomas- My baby-"

Her voice cracks, and she's shaking badly as she covers her mouth with her hand. "My baby won't remember me." Abel was her son, of course he was, but he'd never been her baby, and Thomas - Thomas wasn't even two years old, when she would have died.

The thought of a child separated from a mother who loves him cuts at Frigga in a way few things would, and yet Tara needs her strength as much as her understanding. There's something else Tara says that stands out, and Frigga rolls the words around her thoughts instead of answering right away.

I knew that I was going to die...

She would like to tell Tara her sons will remember her, will carry a part of her with them as they grow, and of her sacrifice too. She would like to say there are forces in the universe that watch over the young who have suffered such loss. But false hope is no hope at all, and Frigga is not cruel.

"So you grieve for the loss your boys must bear in that other world. But you cannot lose yourself in that grief and the guilt you are trying to shoulder. Cry, scream, rail, collapse... do what you need to do in the quiet moments, so you can be strong for Jax and your sons here, lest you deprive them of your presence as well. And when it gets to be too much, call on me. I will give what aid is within my power."

"What can you do?" Tara just sounds lost - not like she's challenging her, but that she doesn't understand that there's anything to be done but this, but this.... but keeping going, but knowing that somewhere else in this world, somewhere else, back home... she's dead, and her sons and Jax - they will be forever where she'd hoped for better, for them. Her sons will have a life like Jax's. The cycle will keep going, but they won't even have a mother - they'd have Gemma.

"They're- they're with friends, right now. Thank god, thank god they weren't home," she runs a hand over her face, knowing- knowing that she had to pull herself together. That she had to continue. There was no other option.

"Perhaps nothing more than I am doing now," Frigga admits, although she is uncertain Tara understands how much she needs this time where she need not be the strong one, so when it passes she has the strength she needs for her family. "Sheltering and protecting you when you are vulnerable and everything is too much."

What she says next is weightier, solid as the foundations of Asgard. "Yet I give you my promise, Tara, I will protect your sons as I would have my own when they were young." She does not know what it is about this family, but they are under her protection, and will remain so as long as she and they are in Darrow.

Allison's time as a werewolf had changed her. The late walks she took every few nights, dressed in black and carrying her bow, the more affectionate way she treated members of her pack...even her response to a threat was different.

Before the change, she was sharper, she was ready. Now, she was more than ready when she spotted Tara outside their building. On her way home from picking up milk and butter so she could bake (she had a really dangerous craving for her mother's chocolate blueberry muffins), when she saw her friend and the blood that stained her, and poor little Macha's paws, she didn't hesitate to let every black impulse in her nature rise to greet them...to shield them, to protect them.

"Tara?" she called out, jogging up to her and the dog. One of her folding knives was already tucked into her palm, body placed and angled to keep Tara and Macha against the building, with Allison's on the outside, safeguarding them.

Her free hand reached for Tara's, catching the one that held Macha's lead, ready to try and take it from her.

"Tara, there's blood. I need to know if you or Macha are hurt." she pressed, urgent but calm. Already, that dark stillness was filling her like a cup, the cold and vicious stillness that had been her anchor as a werewolf. It filled her, second by second, each one a drop of blood she would spill if Tara was hurt.

Each one a blow she would strike if even the dog had a scratch on her.

"Allison?" Confusion appears, overriding that odd emptiness that had been on her face when Tara hears her voice. She'd talked to her before, they'd been talking on the phone outside and she wonders absurdly if she hadn't gone out, if it would have still happened - if she'd be dead now, if the apartment would have gotten like that one way or another.

She makes that noise without meaning to, the noise that only Jax has heard; it's a noise like a wounded animal, and her face just falls when Allison asks if she'd hurt, and it's so ridiculous, it's ridiculous because she's not hurt, she's not hurt, she's dead. She's dead, and her sons and Jax are alone, and she's a dead woman walking and the sound - the sound turns into an odd mix of a laugh and a sob because what she said was just the wrong question or the right one.

"I'm dead," she says with no preamble, because that's the answer. She's dead, and there's no changing it.

Derek is on his way back from picking up some snacks when he sees Tara approaching. He hasn't seen much of her since they met, and he plans on just giving her a friendly nod as he passes, but she gets closer and the sharp tang of blood hits his nose just before he sees the streaks of it all over her, on the dog even. She looks a little shell-shocked, like she doesn't even know where she is, and Derek frowns.

"Whoa, Tara, hey." He steps in front of her to stop her path and inhales deeply as he looks her over. The blood isn't fresh and he doesn't smell any open wounds, but it's definitely hers. The dog whines, ears dropping back, and Derek turns to reach his fingers out, calming the dog before he looks back at Tara again.

"You don't look so hot. Are you hurt?" He doesn't think there's anything physically wrong with her, but the blood had to come from somewhere. "Hey, what happened?"

"Derek?" She seems confused to even see him - especially since she's almost run into him, and her brows furrowas she looks over her shoulder. It's clear that she's got no idea how the hell she even got here, that she's not been thinking about that as she walked. "I... The dog- She needed to go out for a walk-" Her hand is trembling as she lifts it to her lips, trying to gather herself. "I'm-" She doesn't even know how to answer his question, about if she's hurt, and all that slips from her lips is an odd sort of sound that's clearly not right.

Macha whines as she moves closer to Tara, leaning against her pantleg because she knows that there is something wrong, but obviously she doesn't understand what.

"Okay," Derek says slowly. She's acting like she's in shock, and Derek doesn't really know how to deal with this. Getting her off the street would probably be good. He takes the dog's leash and puts a hand on her lower back, gently steering her towards the park. "Come on."

He helps her sit down on a bench and then sits next to her, reaching out to pet the dog's head when it whines. He doesn't know if she wants to talk about it, but she's near catatonic and covered in blood, so Derek isn't going to leave her there. He sits next to her and presses their shoulders together, trying to be a comforting presence at her side.

She sits heavily, and then she just sort of ran her hand down her face. "I don't know what to say," that's all that comes when she finally speaks. "I went home and the kitchen was covered- there was blood everywhere, but it was mine. It was mine, and- I mean, there's a file. From the police department, it's got the coroner's report."

Her eyes finally find his. "I don't know what to do now," she says quietly. She has no idea what to do.

Derek listens to her intently, slowly reaching out to rest a hand on her lower back as she speaks. He inhales deeply, verifying that she's not currently injured, here and now. "Maybe it's just the city messing with your mind. It does that."

He doesn't really know what else to say, so he just rubs her back in slow circles as he bites his lower lip, brows furrowed. He wants to help, but he has no idea what to do.

There's blood on her cheek. On the dog's paws, too.

When I call out to her, I'm careful not to startle her, because she looks ready to crumble into pieces. Shit's been hard for her, for Jax, for weeks. I actually can't remember if I've ever seen her look relaxed.

"Tara?" I take a couple steps closer. "Hey, what's goin' on?"

"Neil?" Tara takes a breath, and absurdly she remembers that he was an angel; that he'd had wings, that he'd played with Thomas with the feathers, and she thinks about that, somehow, to try and make this better.

That somewhere, angels existed.

While Tara wasn't religious, she just sort of asks, out of the blue. "Do you think angels are really real? Like- like where home is, if there're angels there?"

She's alarmingly pale, but her question is insistant, her brows furrowed together.

"Yeah. I... I dunno, yeah. I think so," I say, taking another step toward her, though I'm still treading lightly. The question didn't do a damn thing to ease my worry.

"Tara, seriously, you're freakin' me the fuck out here. What happened?"

"I'm dead, back home." She didn't know if it'd ever make sense, if her saying those words - which she's only said to herself, to Jax, if they'd ever not feel like her soul's being torn out. "Because I walked in today and my kitchen's covered in my blood and there's the coroner's report, so-" She pressed her fingers to her lips for a second, her hand shaking as she closes her eyes and takes a breath.

"The day after I showed up here." It sits wrong, it sits all wrong, and she doesn't know what else to say. She doesn't know how else to say it, or if she even should. If saying it made it more... real.

"Shit..." I say, just standing there like an asshole, unsure of what to even do. Taking a step toward her, I say it again, "Shit," reaching out a hand and resting it on her arm.

Covered in blood. So it wasn't something quiet. She didn't get sick. She didn't drift off in her sleep. It was bloody and probably awful and-- Shit.

"You wanna... I dunno, find someplace to sit? You look like you need it."

She nods numbly, and they end up sitting without Tara even recalling how they got to the bench in the park, Macha laying by their feet, staring up at them both with worried eyes.

"I guess I made it just in time, right?" Her voice cracks on the last word, her brows furrowing together as she tries to figure out what the hell to say or do. What to even think, if there is anything at all that's left to think.

What the hell does she do now?

"Yeah, I guess so," I say, reaching out to rest a hand between her shoulder blades, just as unsure of what the fuck to say as she is.

"Do you even... Do you know what happened?"

She doesn't have the ability to self-censor it yet. She does know what happened, and she tells him, because the words come out oddly flat and simple.

"Blunt force trauma to the head, and then I was half-drowned, before I was stabbed nine times in the back of the head with a carving fork."

Her hands are shaking as she says it, and she can't stop the way her breath is forced, and she feels like right now, right now she can barely breathe. "Probably Jax's mother?" That's when her voice gets all weird, all high-pitched and half-panicked. "So now she has my sons and Jax the way she's always wanted, and I'm- I'm-" And she just stops, staring out ahead of them, and Macha whines, staring up at both of them.

"Hey, hey, Tara. You've got your sons, and you've got Jax, okay?" I remind her, because sure, the world back home didn't stop, but after nearly eight years of this shit, I've pretty much learned that what happens back home means fuck all to us, here. It's not like we can do anything about it.

Then it really hits me. Jax's mother. What in the fuck?

And she fought. She fought with everything she fuckin' had. Beaten, drowned, stabbed.

Reaching out to cover her trembling hands with my own, I say, "You're here. You're whole family's here, and you're okay."

"Tara," Abel says, the name dropping from his mouth heavy with startled surprise, edged with concern. He recognizes her. He isn't half-bad with faces, which is one of his better qualities. He recognizes Tara, remembers her name, but more important is the expression on her face, her eyes dull and fish-like. She doesn't look well at all.

When he comes closer, he notices the mess on her face and knows, without having to think on it too deeply, what it is that it smells like. He's dealt with too much blood in his life already. But not so much that he could even for a moment consider ignoring it.

Something is wrong. He doesn't know where he's coming in on the situation or how he can help, but he can't ignore it.

"Tara," he says again, moving to stop her in the sidewalk without concern about the dog. "It's Father Nightroad. What happened? What's wrong?"

"You're the priest." She almost breathes the words, blinking as her brows furrow together.

"I... I had to take out the dog, because the blood-" And she just sort of stopped, like she remembered what was happening, even though she looked over her shoulder like she didn't know how she got there. "I'm dead," she said half to herself and half to him, and she swallows thickly, looking down at the dog leash like she's got no idea how it got there. "She needed to go out for a walk."

"I am," Abel says slowly, studying Tara with cool, pale eyes. I'm dead could mean any number of things; in this context, he's sure that none of them are pleasant. Very probably, anyway, between her dazed state and her bloodied face.

"It's blood, isn't it? You've got it on you. Why in God's name are you out walking the dog right now? What happened at home? Are you safe?" He knows that he's full of questions, and he knows how unhelpful it probably is. He reaches out, gently as possible, to touch the crook of her arm. Maybe he can lead her somewhere to sit down while he gets a handle on her situation.

"Please talk to me. I'm worried."

It's when he says it's on her that she blinks, when she suddenly wipes at her cheek even though that's not where it'd been. "I went home, and Jax was there, and the kitchen was covered in blood. My- My blood. I'm dead back home, and- and apparently something thought the blood neefed to be here. The blood and the coroner's report, and- and Macha needed- What else can we do? Jax- He's got somebody. Somebody's going to help clean it up, I had- I had to leave, because- because it was mine." She looks up at him, impossibly tall, and she shakes her head. "I don't know how it happened. I don't know how any of this happened."

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and then, it rolls on. (Dated Father's Day)

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