Frith Rest Ye Merry Rabbitfolk - A Holiday Tale

CLASSIFIED "CONFIDENTIAL": Excerpts from the Therapy Journal of Queen Sable Aradia Addressed to Her Therapist, Dr. Velma Price

CONTENT WARNINGS: coarse language, PTSD, C-PTSD, discussion of tobacco use and drug use, discussion of child abuse, mental illness, depression, eating disorders, and suicidal thoughts.

December 17, 2023

Well, it's the holidays again. I just can't get into it this year. I suppose people probably think I'm even more of a lunatic than usual, especially after I went so Mad March Hare about it last year. I mean, I was just so relieved we were all alive, I wanted my family around me and I wanted to celebrate that. And everyone was still at The Warren then. But that's not happening this year because The Willows and the Warren have so many filking Frithdamned repairs to do... at least The Nite Qween didn't get past the wards that sectioned off the family quarters, so all my shit was still here when I got back. And Luna and Uri's shit, too, which is more important.

But this year... I mean, the holidays are always difficult for me anyway. Always kind of have been, and after The First Word War it just got worse. And this year... the halls are empty, nobody's here, and Tempest... Tempest is still gone.

All those childhood memories that came back didn't help, either. I do have some good memories of the Christmas season from my childhood, don't get me wrong, but a lot of it was just one filking fight after another, y'know? My brother and I got into an argument damn near every year, which would set Mom off. Then there was the first Christmas on my own after I moved out, and the one when hydro turned off the power and I got pneumonia... heh. I want to like the holiday season. I mean, I love the idea of it. But it's always — sorry, often, we've talked about absolute statements — often such a disappointment.

After the breakdown, I just lack interest and concentration in a lot of things. And the war sure didn't help. I've been feeling... disconnected? Yeah, disconnected is a good word. I know that's pretty normal for people with PTSD. I did all the research for my novel series, never mind looking into it for my own sake — although I have to say, it's been about a decade since I did a deep dive, and a lot has been discovered in that time that wasn't known before. Useful stuff.

But it's a different thing experiencing it for yourself. I still make sure to surround myself with friends and family when I can, but I don't feel connected to them at all. Like I'm watching through a window, looking in. Everyone seems so happy and I'm just... not. Mostly I haven't been unhappy, exactly. Just... all the colours are muted? If that makes sense?

I still don't know how I feel about this exercise. I never was much on writing anything real. Even in grade 1, when we were supposed to journal daily, I would write songs, stories, or poetry instead. That's how I got the attention of the music teacher, Mrs. Scott... And the rest is history, as the saying goes. I never would have gotten into goth rock or metal or filking without that. I was lucky to have professional voice instruction so young, and effectively for free, since I was just learning it as part of the school music program. I guess not everything in my life goes badly?

Sometimes it's hard to remember that, though. Lately, I've been overwhelmed with a sense of futility. I feel like everything I do is destined to be torn to shit. Look what happened to the Warren, despite all my careful planning. One person who knew too much about the defenses going bad and BOOM! Everything went to hell. Maybe we managed to keep my children alive this year — well, except for Gala of course — but then we lost all the Owsla. I'm really sick and tired of my friends and family getting torn to pieces, y'know?

And I'm not gonna lie... I really miss Tempest. When I had something I felt I couldn't talk to anyone else about? I talked to them. You know how it's so hard for me to show weakness? Confide my deepest fears, my secret hopes, the stupid shit my brain thinks at 3 am? I could tell them. Hell, I was willing to get wrecked on Void shrooms in front of them, because I wanted to clean out all that subconscious gunk in my brain. I knew I was coming apart even then, and I was trying to circumvent it. I laughed and I cried and I turned into a completely useless pile of shit, like people do when they're really high, and after, I felt so much better. I had so much trust in them.

We'd just started lighting a menorah together every night during Hanukkah last year. So we could get in touch with the practices of our ancestors. Connect with the life we might have had if our grandmother hadn't fled Poland ahead of the Nazis, come to Canada and lied about being Jewish so she could get into the country, since nobody wanted Jews at the time.

I tried to do it by myself this year, and the first night was great. I found there is a traditional prayer that Jews are supposed to say at the beginning of each year, which starts with Hanukkah, and then I found a traditional prayer that you say when you've survived a traumatic experience. Gotta love that about the Jewish liturgy; there's a prayer for everything, every major landmark of the human experience. Here, let me share them:

The first one is called Shehechayanu. You're supposed to recite this blessing the first time you do something each Jewish calendar year (e.g., the first night of Hanukkah when you light the menorah), and to mark joyous occasions.

HEBREW TEXT
בָּרוּךְ אַתָּה, יְיָ אֱלֹהֵינוּ, מֶלֶךְ הָעוֹלָם, שֶׁהֶחֱיָנוּ וְקִיְּמָנוּ וְהִגִּיעָנוּ לַזְּמַן הַזֶּה.
TRANSLITERATION
Baruch atah, Adonai Eloheinu, Melech haolam, shehecheyanu, v'kiy'manu, v'higiyanu laz'man hazeh.
TRANSLATION
Blessed are You, Adonai our God, Sovereign of all, who has kept us alive, sustained us, and brought us to this season.

The second one is Birkat HaGomeil, a prayer of gratitude recited after overcoming a life-threatening illness or other dangerous event, including surviving childbirth. Apparently, it's frequently recited during the Torah service.

The person who has been through the trauma says:

TRANSLITERATION
Baruch atah Adonai Eloheinu melech haolam, sheg'malanu kol tov.
TRANSLATION
Blessed are You, Adonai our God, Sovereign of the universe, who has bestowed every goodness upon us.

The congregation responds:

TRANSLITERATION
Amen. Mi sheg'malchem kol tov, hu yigmolchem kol tov selah.
TRANSLATION
Amen. May the One who has bestowed goodness upon us continue to bestow every goodness upon us forever.

So I recited these, and Ru kindly served in the role of the congregation and gave me the response. And we both wept a little, and she gave me a hug, and it was a beautiful moment.

For a few days, I felt great. But then the disconnection set in, and I found it impossible to continue lighting the menorah without Tempest there. As a matter of fact, it completely slipped my mind after the first couple of nights, almost like I was subconsciously avoiding it or something.

But honestly, I don't know that for sure. It could just be that my concentration is still shot. PTSD breakdowns and ADHD are not a good combination for brain power. I still can't seem to actually write. I'm smoking too much. I have no direction, and all my projects and duties feel like they're taking six times as long as they ought to be.

I know I'm supposed to be gentle with myself. I know that healing takes time. But filk me, is it frustrating to not be able to call upon the powers that I think make me myself.

But what do I know about that, really? Who am I, anyhow? Bard says that a person shouldn't be defined by their traumas. In a lot of ways, though, I am defined by my traumas. There's been so much that I sometimes feel everything I am is a reaction to all of it.

I'm strong-willed because I had no choice if I wanted to have an identity, since so much of my childhood centered around trying to keep my mom functional for my own survival. And that meant trying not to spark her anger when she was manic — so I had to guess at what was least likely to do that and do whatever it was that fit the need. And it also meant being my own parent, and my brother's parent, when she was depressed.

Not to mention that my mom's sense of what was real, and my sense of what was real, were completely different. I would remember, for example, that a conversation had happened in a particular way. But in her psychosis, she would remember it a different way. We would argue and... yeah, that generally didn't end well, we know that, why dwell on it? Then I would wonder if maybe I'd been mistaken about the nature of the reality I remembered. She was so convinced of her reality, after all, and got so angry when I questioned it... maybe I was just crazy. No wonder she was hitting me.

I can't tell you how long it took, or how difficult it was, to get over that. I didn't even try until it had almost killed me, until I'd become a prisoner of The Void and was being eaten alive by its darkness. I can't describe to you the screaming fights that happened after that, when I was finally big enough and strong enough to start hitting back... Understanding that it wasn't me that was crazy, it was my mom... That made developing a sense of self so much easier, and that means I don't think I effectively accomplished that until I was already an adult. So should I take any credit or pride in being strong-willed? Am I really strong-willed, or is that just as reflexive as the kick your foot gives when someone whacks that nerve cluster in your knee?

I'm creative because I needed an escape. I've likened my childhood experience to being a hostage before. I was trapped. There was nowhere for me to run, often literally. I used to think I would be so much better off if I were just allowed to take care of myself, but the world had no space or support for children who wanted to do that. I even had to fight the system just to survive when I left home, just before my senior year started.

Nowadays, you can get what they call a "youth agreement" with social services, in which they agree to provide your basic income and you agree to go to school, or keep a job, or whatever. But not back then, and I was too old for foster care and too young for the system to want to support me on my own. Some woman I talked to when looking for an apartment literally suggested I become a whore, because then social services would actually help me. Or that I drop out of school and get a job.

But like filk was I gonna do that. I was an Honours student. I had a 3.85 grade point average, even in the depths of my depression and anorexia and suicidal thoughts. I knew I needed to finish school. I finally ended up lying to the authorities and telling them I was getting room and board, which they'd finally agreed to.

What I was actually doing was living with a (male) friend in a one room apartment with a bathroom. He had a bedroom; I slept on the couch in the living room. My furniture was milk crates and a lap desk. And the only school I missed was the week before the holidays when I called myself in sick for school — a very surreal experience — because I had the flu so bad I literally could not leave the bathroom. I spent that Solstice and Christmas sick, and alone, since my roommate went to see his family for a week.

One of the many reasons I struggle with the holidays, I guess.

Anyway, this has become really maudlin. I'm trying to do that 20 minutes of mindfulness about my feelings like you told me, Velma, and then journal my feelings. I think I've spent long enough on that for one day. Maybe there's some mindless paperwork I can bury myself in, or something.

December 18, 2023

Quiet day. I mostly hung out in The Bunnycomb while people talked about their Tomesmas plans around me. I was glad to see them so excited; I just didn't feel connected to it at all. It isn't helping that Rowean's off at Castle Thyme again and Sunny's still sick. I wish I had the spoons to just call her up and ask her to come back to the Warren for the holidays, but I guess some part of me figures that if she doesn't want to be here, I don't want to force her? I know people do what I ask because I am the Queen — of course they do. I don't want her to hang around because I'm the Queen and she feels she has a duty. I want her to hang around because she wants to hang around. Damned if I'm gonna phone her and beg her not to leave me alone for Tomesmas. I tried that with my brother already and it never filking worked. I don't think I want years of getting my heart spat on again. Filk her if she doesn't want my company.

Not that I'm good company anyway. I know this, because the other day I giggled at a joke and Flubb said, "It's really nice to hear you laugh again." I guess I've stopped laughing. I suppose that shouldn't surprise me. All the jokes and goofiness were with Tempest, or sometimes Gala, and it's not like Gala's been around either. I know that's mostly due to responsibilities at the Willows, and he's a grown-up now, and it shouldn't bother me. But, well, it does.

Same with Myko. She's overwhelmed dealing with all the 1337 Speak refugees in Penwall, making sure they've all got housing and food, because winter in the Pacific Northwest is wet and kind of miserable. And that's on top of a dip in her health, too. She needs to be doing it, and I can't blame her. I still miss her, though. Gala too.

Senna's been there for me, though. She's been in and out as much as she can be, but she's pretty busy with Penwall too. And I don't want to keep making demands on her time; she's already given me so much of it. Nor do I want the conversation to constantly be centered around my unhappiness. People are probably getting pretty sick of my bullshit. I'm getting sick of my bullshit. I'm tired of myself, so why would I want to inflict myself on anyone else?

You know what might be worse? I don't wanna make new friends, either. JaySeaBoom reached out to me the other day. She told me she thought it would be good for Little Boom to see Luna and Uri again because there's not a lot of Literomancer families with children his age — and let's face it; as House Leaders, the security of our families is a thing and we can't just let our kids jump in anywhere to play. Too much risk.

I saw her point, and I like JaySea, but I said I'd get back to her because there were some things I had to check into. I was lying. If I told everyone the Molluscan royals were coming for the holidays, they'd jump for joy and go out of their way to make them welcome. I'm just... not sure I have the spoons to play diplomat, or make a new friend, especially after my spew at the end of the war. And I'm not sure I even want to have the spoons. Because... who's next? Who's next to die? Or become the Night Monarch and suddenly decide they should go after me with all the hatred in their heart?

Filk having friends. There's a part of me that just wants to keep everyone and everything at a distance, part of me that thinks this feeling of disconnection is a good thing.

I know better, at least intellectually. But when someone makes overtures or reaches out, I freeze. Answering seems like too much work. And where would it go anyway? Who wants to listen to me whine unless they've got some kind of hidden agenda?

I was doing well, once upon a time... Erin and I had a great relationship, full of absolute faith. I still try. I still love him with my whole heart, y'know? But trust... ah, trust and love together, that's difficult. It's better now that The Nite Qing is gone, but still... I keep reminding myself, because I teach it to others and I know it intellectually, that you can't have one without the other. But it's not like those two ever went together when I was growing up, right?

I try every now and then to communicate what this was like, but I guess you have to experience it to understand it. I couldn't trust my parents. Dad was just unavailable, both emotionally and physically. Mom would listen to my deepest fears and questions and vulnerabilities and be all sympathy and love and hot cups of milky tea on one hand... and then she'd go into a rage, and all those vulnerabilities became daggers, and she would use them to stab me in the heart. This is what I've learned trying to have that sort of trust gets me... it happened when Erin was the Night Monarch too, didn't it? Hell, I was just starting to build those kinds of friendships with AuthorGoddess and with Ru, and look what happened there.

I wish I could just get over it. Get over it and get on with it, y'know? Life's too short to waste it on feeling sorry for myself. I really want to embrace joy again. Be the symbol of hope that people look to. Just "write happy stuff," as some of my fellow Tome Knights have urged.

But it's really hard to do that when all the colours are still muted, and everything is different, and a big piece of it is missing. It's almost like a spouse having died. I still don't wanna give up on Tempest, either, but it's been months, nothing has changed... My hope dwindles with each passing day. And there's no pretending that shit isn't shit. It's shit. It doesn't smell like anything else.

Maybe if I just got a filking break. The past couple of years have one blow after another. And that's just the stuff that's publicly known, never mind when my brother died and how much having my reputation dragged through the mud affected me and the breakdown itself. I gotta admit, it's hard to try not to dwell on it. Sometimes it really does feel like Frith must hate me, and Lois McMaster Bujold's wisdom, in which she says, "Great tests are also great gifts," begins to ring a bit hollow. How many "gifts" can a person get and stay sane, y'know?

And I suppose I didn't stay sane, did I? Sane people don't have the screaming horrors for three days or turn into a sobbing pile of goo for a full week.

Filk me, I am so tired.

I'm not sure this 20 minutes of mindfulness stuff is doing me any favours, Velma. Maybe I'll skip it tomorrow. Just do my yoga and my 10 minutes of meditation instead.

This article is a work in progress, and may be subject to changes.

This article is part of a series related to streaming the Game of Tomes. For more information, see Streaming Game of Tomes.

THIS DOCUMENT IS CLASSIFIED AS "CONFIDENTIAL" BY THE LAPIN PROTECTORATE FOR SECURITY REASONS BY ORDER OF THE OWSLA.

Tomesmas Parchment by Pleniluna

Type

Journal, Personal

Medium

Digital Recording, Text

Authoring Date

December 17, 2023 to December 22, 2023

Authors

• Sable Aradia

Light by Anshadpk

---

Purpose

Queen Sable entered therapy for her PTSD sometime in the middle of 2022, following The Second Word War. While she has been public about her PTSD diagnosis, the details of her therapy, and even the fact that she is in therapy, remain protected secrets under the Lapin Official Secrets Act.
As part of her therapy following The Fourth Word War, the Bunny Queen's therapist, Dr. Velma Price, instructed her to keep a journal of her thoughts and feelings.
This is an excerpt from the Mother of Bunnies' therapy journal, dating from December 17, 2023 to December 22, 2023.

Wreath and Candle by Ksenia Yakovleva

Tree of Life Menorah by Ri Ya

Magical Rabbit by Sable Aradia with Artbreeder

Frith Rest Ye Merry Rabbitfolk

Frith rest ye merry rabbitfolk
Let nothing you dismay
Remember El-ahrairah’s tricks
Upon this Tomesmas Day
For he helps us to stay alive
When we go to silflay
Oh tidings of writing and joy
Writing and joy
Oh tidings of writing and joy
From Frith our Heavenly Father
A blessed and cursed Tome came;
And unto literomancers
Brought tidings of the same,
For words have pow’r and magic too
And thus began the Game.
O tidings of writing and joy,
Writing and joy
O tidings of writing and joy
The Tome Knights at these tidings
Rejoiced much in mind,
And went into the world to write
In tempest, storm and wind,
And to libraries straightway
All books they came to find.
O tidings of writing and joy,
Writing and joy
O tidings of writing and joy
But when to Game of Tomes they came,
To seek the Iron Tome,
They found the Night Monarch instead,
And Undead in their homes;
And El-ahrairah said to us,
“Write for the Carrot Throne.”
O tidings of writing and joy,
Writing and joy
O tidings of writing and joy
Now to Lord Frith sing praises,
All you within this place,
With creativity and love
Each other now embrace;
This holy tide of Tomesmas
All other doth efface.
O tidings of writing and joy,
Writing and joy
O tidings of writing and joy.

Candle by Moodywalk

Belthap Candle by BCC Creative

Royal Cypher of Queen Sable by Sable Aradia

December 19, 2023

Okay, I lied. Be proud of me!

I got pissed off today at all of this. Then JaySea scurried me to see if I'd managed to check into the things I said I was going to check into and I could tell she was upset. Why is it that it's so easy for me listen to other people and their pains and struggles, but I have no patience for my own? I asked her if she wanted to chat, and she took me up on it.

So a trip through the portal later and three quarters of the way through a bottle of that unique Molluscan kelp wine — I still have no idea how they make the shit ferment, kelp has no sugar and is one of the world's best sources of salt — and we were pouring out our hearts. She was lamenting the loneliness and isolation she fears Little Boom is being raised in. I guess she was a street kid? Seems weird to be thinking of street kids in The Zafforza Trench when it seems like such a magical and exotic location to me and Molluscans seem so dedicated to the collective good. But I believe her...

I've often wondered which is worse? Not having parents at all, or having toxic parents like mine... Not that this is the Trauma Olympics or anything. Everybody's got their own damage, especially in this day and age, which is one of the reasons I feel like I shouldn't waste bandwidth.

But, yeah. Back to the point. I think we may have connected, y'know? And I invited her to come and bring Little Boom for Tomesmas. Apparently the Molluscans don't celebrate Tomesmas like the rest of us do, which doesn't surprise me. Actually, I was surprised they celebrated Tomesmas at all, considering seasonal fluctuations likely have much less immediacy for them. But JaySea expressed excitement about experiencing Tomesmas the way the "land-dwellers" do it. I share her curiosity and kind of want to find out what they do as well? Maybe we'll go there next year.

So... I reached back, anyway. Maybe I could only do it when I felt I could also be of help, rather than being the one dominating the conversation with my concerns, but I did, in fact, reach back to someone trying to be a new friend. That's a good sign, right?

Later

That's the trouble with being the Queen, there's always some duty that requires your immediate attention. I'm not begrudging it, I knew something of what I was signing up for anyway, it's just that it can make taking the necessary time for therapy and introspection difficult. If I'm being honest — and if the whole point of this isn't to be honest, then what am I doing here? — I think I deliberately make my days busy. Then I don't have to have introspection. Just keep going, keep swinging, "always look on the bright side of life" (cheerful whistling,) and then I don't have to think about all the shit I've been through. And that gets rewarded. That's what everybody wants of me. And if I'm doing what everybody wants of me, I'm doing it right, aren't I?

Would it surprise you to know, since I have such a reputation for being so strong and decisive and maybe even a little hard, that I still react to that? I made the conscious decision to reject that bullshit as I was recovering from my sojourn to the Void, many years ago, but... my happiness and more importantly, my safety, depended on pleasing my mother when I was growing up. Combine that with a history of being bullied and the rejection sensitivity dysphoria of ADHD, and it's still a powerful instinct that stabs me in the ass off and on.

I rejected it because I had despaired of ever pleasing anybody. What was wonderful to my mom one week was a cardinal sin the next, so by about the age of 14 or 15 I'd learned just to ignore her and do whatever I wanted, since I could never tell what would get me in trouble or not. I suppose my saving grace was that period when I had to parent my brother. I'd already learned an adult sense of responsibility, I guess. I used to think it was just a good thing I'm pretty smart. Both are probably true.

And I couldn't seem to figure out what would make the bullies stop bullying me, either, other than getting aggressive — just like with my mom. I decided I was just a filking weirdo and I was going to be a flag-carrier for other weirdos. I would fight the bullies of the world for those who could not fight for themselves. I would put myself in harm's way.

And so, here we are.

That "keep going" attitude isn't entirely wrong, either. I don't just do it because other people want me to; I do it for myself, too. Keep moving, keep pulling forward, and maybe you can dodge the threat. At the very least you get a little bit of breathing room, and then you get a moment to snatch a bite to eat or a nap or a quick roll in the hay to keep you going.

I mean... I'm almost 50 years old, and when have I ever really been safe? There was my childhood and then abject poverty and almost right away, a son and then more children that needed caring for. There was Erin's job and then his accident and then I was the Queen. Two assassination attempts, one character assassination and four wars. What the hell is safety, anyway?

I guess that's why I resonated so strongly with Watership Down. "All the world will be your enemy, Prince with a Thousand Enemies, and when they catch you, they will kill you. But first, they must catch you; digger, listener, runner, prince with the swift warning. Be cunning, and full of tricks, and your people shall never be destroyed."

I was going to say I should stop chasing tangents off into Lapin holes, but I suppose I'm not, really, am I? The point of all this is to vomit out my feelings so they stop making me sick, right? I suppose I just feel like nobody wants to hear any of this, even in writing. Does it make you tired, Velma, to listen to other peoples' problems all the time? I know they teach you ways to disconnect from that when they train you to be a clinical therapist, but you know I know enough about PTSD from an intellectual perspective to know that secondary trauma and compassion fatigue are both things. Stop me or take a break if I ever get to be too much, okay?

Oh, before I quit for the night, I should let you know that the meditation is working much better for me. I realize that mindfulness meditation is necessary to build the new neural pathways that actively combat and heal the damage of PTSD — I mean, there's reams of studies on that, now, and I know both the Canadian and American militaries incorporated mindfulness meditation into their veteran recovery programs; and so do we. But I hate it, Velma! My ADHD brain gets so bored! I know that the boredom is part of the necessary steps, though, and that's why mindfulness meditation is important, rather than all the other variants of meditation I've learned.

I used to think I was a bit of a failure as a witch and literomancer not being able to do basic mindfulness meditation, but I actually managed to achieve nothingness for a few moments, rather than just counting my breath yesterday. I felt a little better afterwards, too, which I didn't expect, because I'm sure the new neural pathways haven't had any chance to build up, not yet. Maybe I've already built them up because of my years of magical study, so maybe it's not that hard for me to find them again? I'm familiar with meditation, mindfulness, intention, and cognitive behavioural therapy already. These seem to be the heart of trauma therapy, don't they? Hell, you just gave me the same Five Senses Meditation my Wiccan tradition taught me as one of our basic exercises, with some minor differences. Did the practice of witchcraft and literomancy literally save my sanity?

The irony, the irony.

December 20, 2023

Well, the Warren is all a-buzz with the coming of the Molluscans! You should see the staff scurrying around, cleaning things they'd been content enough to ignore until after the rebuilding before this. This is why I insist we pay them like we do. They take their job seriously. They recognize their importance to the Protectorate. Without them, none of this runs, and Frith knows, I'm no good at the work they do. Always was a terrible housekeeper. I even worked as a housekeeper at a ski resort for a few years, did I tell you? I did that well enough, but it sure didn't come naturally, nor did it do my allergies any favours. I have to admit that one of the perks of being the Queen is that I don't have to clean the house anymore.

We finally got the Tomesmas decorations up, too. Nobody was really focused on that before. I guess I haven't given anyone much incentive. Hell, I've been struggling with my traditional Tomesmas address, too. It's a variation of the Christmas address tradition of the Windsors, only everyone knows my holiday is Tomesmas, so I feel I should do it then. And this year, all I've got is, "Hey, we didn't die! Good for us!" Hardly words of inspiration, right? Ah hell, I'll think of something. I always do, somehow. Rank panic is a wonderful incentive.

I'm really fond of the Yule tree in the Bunnycomb. It reaches to the ceiling and it's covered in homemade ornaments created by a bunch of 1337Speak orphans this year; not the usual fancy commercialized shit that companies send us, mostly so that they can advertise their work. I can't tell you how much I love it! There's all kinds of no-bake clay cut with cookie cutters and painted, cheap plastic balls coated in beautiful fabric ribbons, hand-drawn crayon art framed by popsicle sticks, little pipe cleaner wreaths made of pony beads, a thousand little metal bells on strings, a million bows and ribbons, origami birds in metallic paper... just beautiful. I don't know who organized this project but I think it's wonderful.

We've decided there won't be a single manufactured ornament on the big tree this year, not even that bejeweled egg from Tiffany & Co. that I know is probably worth more than the hybrid I like to drive. I'd rather have a popcorn garland or a construction paper chain or a bunch of craft foam glued into a sphere.

Maybe we should wrangle the babies into making ornaments with us this year. Not all my memories of childhood were shit; there was good there, too. One of those goods was the year my brother and I got chicken pox right before the holidays. I don't even remember what the chicken pox felt like, although I do remember having a bath in calamine lotion at one point. No, what I remember was how much fun I had with my mom and my brother making homemade ornaments. Hell, I still had some of those right up to the First Word War... I lost it all then, even the beat up Disney figures my mom gave me when I left home... guess the Zombies busted open the Rubbermaid tote when they trashed the little hole in the ground that was the Warren back then, and then mice and weather got into them...

Well, anyway. I think it might be fun to share a similar experience with the babies, y'know? I did something similar with the Forgelings one year... Gala still talks about it. Maybe I'll send someone out for craft supplies. Or, y'know... maybe I'll do a literomantic disguise and go get some myself. Hit the dollar store, ha! All my damn Owsla are so conspicuous, though. Maybe I can get James to shift into his full human form for a change and ditch the Lapin uniform. People who pay attention might recognize him then, but maybe not. It's amazing what people don't notice when things are out of context, and who expects the Queen to be buying craft supplies in a dollar store?

Later

So, I did it. I hit the dollar store. I had such a good time! Dollarama had everything I wanted, from the popsicle sticks to the pom poms to the craft foam, to some really cool fillable plastic ornaments, to a whole pack of something like 36 different glitters in little glass bottles. The Owsla are gonna lose their minds, because they've banned glitter from the Warren since the corrupted glitter incident during the war, but I just grinned at James with my patented shiteating grin when he protested.

This led to some good-natured bickering as he complained about how it would get everywhere, and I told him that was at least part of the point, because then when you're vacuuming up the glitter in April, you think about how you and the kids made Tomesmas ornaments and how much fun you had and you smile. And then a woman with greying blond hair laid a hand on my shoulder as she squeezed by in the tight quarters and murmured, "You and your husband are so cute."

I just grinned from ear to ear and said thank you. She gave me a long look so I guess the grin was too big, but I mean, it's just too funny. In addition to all the other reasons why that's hilarious, James is gay, so... I think I snorted, though, which could be another reason why she gave me a weird look.

So I came home with two reusable bags stuffed with craft supplies, and I told the kiddos what they were for. They clapped their hands and jumped up and down, even Little Boom. JaySea is looking forward to sitting down with the kiddos with me and making things. I told everyone they had to make at least one ornament, so we could remember them in the future.

I have to admit, I'm excited about having our own decorations again, not stuff that belongs to the Protectorate. Is that selfish of me? I mean, the people of Protectorate do mean well... I don't think they know the family ornaments got destroyed, and I know that many people wonder why I prefer poorer things when I now could literally have almost anything I wanted. Except what I really want, of course. (Safety, peace, my family being left alone to live our lives in creativity and love, like the song goes.)

It's because I don't ever want to forget where we came from. Wealthy people are often separated from the majority of the populace, kept in their own little silo. I never wanted that, but the assassination attempts have made it necessary and I hate it. So I don't want us to ever forget that there but for the grace of Frith go we. I never want that sense of superiority that the wealthy sometimes get, and that's hard when everyone is literally bowing to your presence.

It often feels like I'm cosplaying this whole Queen business, though I think I'm pretty good at faking it until I make it. It's starting to feel a bit more natural now. But at heart, I know I'm just a working class writer who suddenly had a skill that was in high demand and a useful Library to teach it to me. Suppose I get my wish, and the Zombies go away permanently or we figure out the secret of The Iron Tome? I doubt the Protectorate would keep us in the style to which we've become accustomed. So I have no intention of becoming accustomed to it. What separates us from the houseless panhandler in the street? Luck, nothing more. And that luck has come with a price.

My brother died of a drug overdose in a shelter on Vancouver's East Side. I'm poor working trash, nothing more.

Being a soldier feels much more natural. Stretch gets it. He can put on the formalities when they're required, but when the two of us are sitting around shooting the shit, we pass a bottle back and forth and talk about strategy. Maybe play some cards. And we tell jokes of the gallows humour variety. I guess that's only natural, after all the shit we've been through together. I hope he's right about where to find a useable clone so he can be resurrected I also hope we can be assured that the clones are empty shells, like he promised. I'm not willing to murder someone to save him. I hope he can understand that.

Well, anyway. I have to admit that having all the Tomesmas decorations up, and the prospect of the crafting, has me genuinely looking forward to Tomesmas. I'm starting to get some real enthusiasm, not just putting on a front for the kiddos. The lights are so cheerful! We put up those great big wicker and lights bunnies the city got for us, too, right at the top of the Warren so they overlook Okanagan City. Those, I like. We've got a mamma bun and a daddy badger and each of my living siblings and all the kiddos are represented, and we're all looking up at a great big star and crescent moon. It feels like us, despite the overt symbolism there.

Looks like the present wrapping is about to start, and I insist on doing that myself, so I'll touch base here again sometime tomorrow.

December 21, 2023

Oh my gods! Oh my Frith! It's a genuine Tomesmas miracle!

Becca just walked in the door of the Warren! Becca is alive!

It's really late, might even be closer to the 22nd now, but so much has happened... Becca and her husband (his name is Connor and he's a darling, I just love him!) stayed up talking with me for hours while Connor and Flubb helped me bake cookies — I'll get there. Anyway, it turns out that she somehow got transported to the 1337 Speak Reality in the First Word War. Apparently she didn't even realize she'd shifted realities at first, until she tried to look something up on Wikipedia. I find myself wondering... maybe it was some kind of give-and-take thing from The Overflow? The Tome brought Tempest back, forcibly, to this reality... did the Overflow take Becca in their place?

Becca is also a literomancer and a Wererabbit. Her rabbit form looks more like her Aunt Sunny's than anything; she's a black rabbit with silver-tipped fur. Note, too, a rabbit, not a hare like me. A fluffy rabbit, like her aunt as well. I'm not sure how I ended up a little muscly thing, but most of the AFABs in the family are beautifully curvy and round, which I suppose makes sense, considering our epigenetics.

At any rate, I haven't even told you the best news yet. Time moves faster in the 1337Speak; we knew that, and we also knew it doesn't — didn't — move at a consistent rate. But I have GRANDBUNNIES! There are three of them! Liam is the oldest, Michael is the middle child, and little Elizabeth — Lizzi — is the youngest.

Oh El-Ahrairah's grace, they're so beautiful! Liam is a quiet, thoughtful child who like strategy games and war stuff and writing; I suppose that'll serve him well when he gets older. Michael seems like he might be slightly autistic, and hey, neurodiversity is a family trait. And Lizzi... Lizzi is who I used to be, who I might have been if the world and my life weren't so filked up. I'll have to watch myself not to expect her to do the things I would do because of course they're their own people... good kids, too. They were shy at first, and I can't blame them, but they warmed up as the day went on. I have no idea if they're shapeshifters or not, and I doubt they know either, since they've been in the 1337Speak Reality.

I can't tell you how happy I am! I'm so glad I went a little crazy on the craft supplies. There's plenty for everyone! So much happened last night that we didn't get there, but we're gonna do it all today.

Grandbunnies! Grandbunnies! I mean, I suppose technically Uri is a grandbunny, but now I have four of them! And my little daughter too, and my oldest daughter is alive and she's back with a whole family! She met her husband there. He's not a literomancer, not even a technomancer; he's just a working class stiff with an interest in tactics, firearms, and war gaming, which is definitely going to help when communicating with the troops.

I'm just so happy I can't even tell you. She's fine. She was never hurt. She heard about The Great Migration, decided she wasn't going to take any chances, and showed up for the training. She was in the migration camp the whole time! Talk about being so close you can touch each other and not even know it.

She saw my 1337Speak Address but she just didn't equate "Queen Sable" with her working class poor mother. And who could blame her? Remember what I said about people not really being able to picture things out of context? I wasn't wearing glasses when I last saw her, either, and let's face it, I've lost some weight and aged a bit over the past few years. She said she wondered but couldn't be sure, and didn't want to presume anything. And just to create more confusion, she didn't remember me having a sibling named Tempest, either — and hey, I didn't. At least, we didn't know we were siblings yet in the First Word War...

When they went through the portal, they were on the bottom middle row, so they didn't get a good look at us. Becca said she looked up, but all she saw was bright pink and gold and orange light. And they went through at about three in the morning, so I would have just been a bright shape against a dark background. Makes perfect sense to me.

Then they got here and went through the refugee resettlement process; ended up in Aerdrie, Alberta. They and Liam worked the fields over the summer, as everyone over the age of 10 was required to do, and then Connor got a job in construction, because he's a journeyman carpenter. He hates it because it's camp work, but hey, all our lives we've been working class slobs, and beggars can't be choosers, and he had three little mouths to feed, along with Becca, who took up some day care work to supplement their income. It took some time for them to get settled. And of course, I was out of the public eye most of that time because I was recovering from the magic drain and my breakdown.

Then it was the war and they were involved in war prep and defense. They elected to stay in Aerdrie, rather than head into Edmonton and stay at the public bunker we had built there. Mostly, the war didn't touch them much. Connor was called out to militia duty once or twice when squads of zombies hit the town, but Lapinites have gotten pretty good at putting them down quickly. The Protectorate is a big place, and the Night Monarch knows to concentrate their efforts in our literomantic capitols and then our major cities, so it stayed mostly quiet in the likes of Aerdrie. Thank Frith, my defense doctrine is working.

But when they started seeing me more on the news, Becca began to wonder. She said she knew for sure it was me when she saw, or rather heard, footage of me barking orders at the Warren's fall. Connor interrupted her at that point to tell me she jumped up off the couch and pointed at the TV and slapped a hand to her face and cried, "That's Mom! That's Mom! I'd know that angry mom-voice anywhere!"

Damn near laughed myself out of my chair! I wonder if my hardcore soldiers know I talk to them in my angry mom-voice. Perhaps the "Bunny Mom" isn't just a cute sobriquet. Maybe that's what they call me instead of "the Old Lady," like most soldiers call their commanders.

It wasn't all roses. Becca's still got some trauma from the First Word War. She saw Jean get taken by the Horde and the fall of the Warren after all. I guess she hasn't been to therapy either, because who would have believed her in the 1337Speak until a few months ago?  So I need that recommendation list again, Velma, if you don't mind.

I asked why they hadn't come to the Warren right away, or at least, once the war was over. Brain nuggies and Connor's job were the answer. Becca hummed and hawed about it, because what was she going to do, just walk up to the front door and announce she was the dead daughter of the Queen? And I mean, I get that. Besides, Connor had to get time off for the holiday break first.

But they decided that instead of spending a bunch of money on the Solstice and Christmas, they would all get plane tickets to Okanagan City and do a three night stay at the Silver Star Ski Resort. That way, if things didn't work out with their trip to the Warren, they could at least enjoy the holiday. Kinda ironic, because that's one of the places I used to work as a housekeeper.

Becca still hesitated when she got to town, but Connor found out about our annual feast that we hold in the Bunnycomb for the general public. He rightly pointed out that anybody could just walk right in, so nobody was going to stop them, so they might as well go, especially since they didn't have stuff for a traditional dinner of their own.

And they walked in with the crowd, and helped themselves to Tomesmas snacks, and then finally, Becca got up the courage to go ask someone if she could see me. Of all the people in the world, she picked Sparkles — Major Barbarossa the Wayfinder of the Ferals. She said she chose him because he had a friendly, puppy-like manner to him; and yeah, I can see it, he's a Weredog and he's just like that...

Connor started laughing when they got to this part in the story. "She said, 'Excuse me; I need to see the Queen. I'm Becca Lapin and I'm her daughter and she thinks I'm dead?'"

Sparkles just blinked at her and said, "I don't know what to do with this information," and he called James over.

Erin looked up from the smoking nook when he saw James move over thataway, and then he was across the room and he put an arm around her shoulders and said simply, "Your mom is gonna want to see you." And then they had a big hug.

Where was I at this time? Hiding. Hiding because I was feeling overwhelmed with the big feast and all the people, and wasn't sure if I was up to playing the consummate hostess and lady-of-the-manor. Rowean would have recognized her right away too, but she was supervising the arrival of the presents for the children in attendance, seeing that the stack of gifts was taken from the storerooms and brought to the ready room for distribution from Santa Claws.

Stretch and Kit intervened before I got a chance to see them myself, of course. They swooped in immediately after that and took the lot of them to a security room. First they scanned them for electronic devices and nanobots; then they drew blood to make sure that Becca and the grandbunnies really were who they said they were; then they asked Becca a bunch of security-oriented questions that Erin confirmed. I understand Becca was starting to get really nervous and was near tears by the time they were done.

But, having satisfied themselves that this was, indeed, my "dead" daughter returned, they apologized, bowed respectfully, addressed her as "Your Highness," and promised to show the family to me at once — which they and James did, Erin trailing behind with little Lizzi in his arms.

By that time I'd managed to convince myself to go out into the feast, Flubb and Cheetya at my side and JaySea and Little Boom on the other; so I'm sure there will be photos of me crying and hugging everyone on the front page of every newspaper in the Protectorate tomorrow. And footage on the 6 o'clock news tonight, not that I was watching the news. I told the Owsla to keep the media the hell away from them until they've had a chance to settle in. Maybe I'll let Perdita Mane from OneWorld come interview them in a few days.

I sent someone for their things at the ski lodge and to pay their tab — like hell am I letting them out of my sight any time soon!

Flubb was just delighted! She cried almost as much as I did! So did Ru, and damned if I didn't see that Cheetya's eyes were more than a little wet, too. James was all smiles. He turned into his tiger form and romped around with the kiddos like a big housecat. I found him one of Foxx's industrial strength balls of yarn to chase, and Foxx better not complain, after all the chaos they've caused around the Warren. Lizzi ended up riding around on his back with Luna and Uri, all of them giggling like fools. I have the photographic evidence. I'll save that for their weddings, should they choose to marry.

Jean was so happy to see Becca again. He even gave her a hug right away, big step for him because of his autism, and he shook Connor's hand. But the babies and the grandbunnies and Little Boom had already decided they were friends for life by then, so I suppose that broke the ice considerably.

Senna was kind of hilarious. She came over, muttered, "Hi, niceta meetya, I'll-be-back," pulled Connor aside to whisper a question in his ear, and yeeted herself off to Wal Mart (still open on Tomesmas, grrrrr) and came back with a stack of pre-wrapped gifts she literally couldn't see over.

Sunny and Rowean were all hugs. And Myko and Becca were literally all hugs and all tears.

And damned if I didn't raise my little girl right. The minute I told her that I had to get to the tables, because it's tradition for the royal family to serve up the populace at the feast, she wrangled the grandbunnies and she and Connor and the whole family were standing right next to me, dishing food onto plates as people came up to receive it. Well, Lizzi, Luna and Uri were doing their best, though I think they got more mashed potatoes and stuffing on the tables than on the plates. Nobody seemed to mind, though.

Then we stayed up late helping Flubb with the Tomesmas cookies. I know, me in the kitchen, right? A recipe for disaster? But I insisted. It's a law that grandmothers must make cookies for their grandchildren for the holidays; I'm sure I've read that somewhere, and if I haven't, then I should have. It was a bit of an adventure; I haven't done any baking since I realized I needed to go gluten free, mostly because gluten free baking is both a chemistry project and a shitshow. But I used to really love baking. I wasn't much good at it, but I was a fair hand with cookies.

The shortbread didn't turn out a thing like the recipe said it was supposed to look. Maybe that was something to do with the lactose free butter? I don't know how, it's just regular butter with the lactose screened out, but who knows? It said the dough would be ready when it started pulling away from the sides of the bowl with the mixer, but we never made it there. It was more like drying playdough. So we mashed it into the silicone muffin cups and cake pans with our hands, since we were out of parchment paper, and we're still baking it now.

As to the gingerbread, the sugar was too granulated, I think, since we used brown sugar, and it didn't cream worth a shit. Connor operated a mixer and then the flat of a wooden spoon for about an hour. Also, we'd run out of nutmeg and ground cloves somewhere along the line and no one noticed. So I took a look at the ingredients of the garam masala spice: black pepper (which I always add anyway, which I got from an old friend's pfeffernusse recipe, it's my sekret ingredient,) coriander, ginger, nutmeg, cumin, and ground cloves. I let out my best Mad March Hare cackle and dumped it into the mix before Flubb could argue. So we'll see how that goes! We're gonna freeze it and try making cookies out of it in the morning.

I'm going to bed now. I'm exhausted but so happy I can't believe it. I think I'll sleep really well tonight.

December 22, 2023

Up early with the grandbunnies. Not complaining, not in the least. Someone got a roaring fire going in the Bunnycomb and the whole family gathered around the big tree and handed out presents. What a great joy! Senna, as usual, was on point, with a Rapunzel doll for Lizzi and art supplies for Michael and a ukulele for Liam, which apparently was just what they wanted. It was so fun to watch them ripping into the presents with abandon, tossing paper everywhere (with my heartfelt encouragement).

Then we finished the cookies. I didn't even know we still had them, but Flubb dug out the antique cookie cutters my mom gave me when I first moved out. I didn't think they'd survived the trashing of the Warren in the first war, but she somehow produced the giant, old cookie tin they were in and everything. We had to wash moth webbing out of them, but they were there!

So then I had grandbunnies and a little daughter pushing forward on a stepstool as they came up to the counter, rolling gingerbread and cutting them into cookies. The old leaping hare cookie cutter was very popular, as were the plastic helicopter and ghost — I think those were from my childhood, not my mother's, but I guess they're still antiques now, aren't they? At least 40 years old...

Eventually we had to get out of the way so Flubb could start the family's Tomesmas dinner, so Connor finished it all up. Damned if that gingerbread isn't the best I've ever made. It was a bit spicy for Lizzi and Michael, but Luna, Uri and Liam were shoving it in their faces by the handful if we let them. So were all the adults, come to think of it. And the shortbread is also disappearing rapidly.

We started into the ornament crafting next, and that was just as big a success as I hoped it would be! The kiddos were gloriously occupied for about four or five hours, putting crystal chips or glitter or pony beads or all of the above into the fillable ornaments, covering them with stick-on rhinestones or snowflakes or little gingerbread guys or elves or metal roses or yes. Lizzi used one of the empty crystal chip bottles and made me a little desk ornament; it's full of pink paint, glitter and beads, and it's been "corked" with a white and silver pom pom. Michael made me a pony bead and pipe cleaner bracelet to wear, and they also made me a Christmas tree desk ornament, with one of the fillable ornaments shaped like a giant Christmas light. This, they filled with green glitter, stones and beads, along with a single jingly bell, and they covered it with sparkly stick-on rhinestone strings, like baubles or garlands.

Yes, you're catching the "they" correctly. Entie Tempest would be proud; my middle grandbunny identifies as enby, which has been welcomed and supported by their parents. Another sign I raised my little girl right. Oh, and she also identifies as she/they, like me and like her Aunts Rowean and Sunny, and like Myko and Senna, and Xantos too. Go figure! So yeah, Michael's not gonna get any bullshit about that from our family.

About teatime, Flubb pulled out some of what would be called charcuterie in most of the circles I travel in these days, but which would be called a cheese-and-meat plate in the home I grew up in. Gluten free pepperoni, salami and beer sausage, pickles, smoked oysters with siracha and siracha mayo, and lactose free cheddar cheese, again with just the lactose removed and otherwise it's real cheese. All on gluten free crackers that actually don't taste like rice hardtack and even have some buttery crispness and yield. I don't know where she found them but I hope she finds more.

I told everyone in the family they had to make at least one ornament for the tree, and they did. But like I figured, Becca was right in there with me, making multiple ornaments and enjoying herself completely. She told me it was really great to not have to monitor her kids to make sure they weren't making a mess, rather than working on her own craft projects. "Don't worry, you'll be helping to clean it up!" Erin said with a grin. And yeah, I'm not going to force my poor staff to clean up this mess that I'm responsible for; I'm gonna clean up most of it, with help from the family.

Speaking of which... tee hee hee, the glitter mess was worse than I anticipated! Lizzi and Luna were making ornaments by creating layers of glitter like sand. They poured almost as much glitter on the big dining room table as they did into the ornaments, and it got everywhere. And I do mean everywhere. It was in the food, in my hair, all over the floor in the dining room. It was tracked into the kitchen and down the hallway and I've even seen a bunch of it sparkling on the carpet in the Bunnycomb. Foxx is delighted and I am making no apologies. El-Ahrairah would be proud; my chaos-causing sense of mischief has been satisfied, and my work here is done.

So yeah, huge success!

Dinner was just as spectacular. Flubb outdid herself. She made us a couple of gigantic turkeys in the North American tradition, but then she stuffed them with an amazing classically English goose stuffing, featuring celery and salt pork, using all gluten free ingredients; and it was damn tasty, I can tell you. Add some roast potatoes that had been boiled some and then roasted, to make a perfect crispy exterior and chewy interior; brussels sprouts in soy sauce and butter; candied carrots according to my mother's recipe, a nostalgic favourite from my childhood; a fantastic cornstarch gravy dripping with turkey fat and salt pork flavouring; and a touch of cranberry sauce, and you have all the elements for a legendary holiday feast. She then treated us to an English classic I've never actually tried; Christmas pudding. Really fantastic. I think I shoveled more food into my face over the past couple of days than I have in the past week.

The royal jet was dispatched to Aerdrie to pick up the family's belongings, and it arrived this evening. I didn't ask them, I just had some of the Lapin Guard pack up everything they owned. I also sent them with a writ, a letter of apology to the landlord, and a cheque to pay their rent up to the end of their rental agreement.

Okay, so I didn't do my emotional mindfulness, or the Five Senses, or my mindfulness meditation or even my yoga once over the past couple of days. I think you can understand that, eh, Velma? But you know... I don't have that feeling of disconnection anymore. Not in the least. Every moment over the past few days, I was fully in the present and deeply invested and engaged, and felt intimately connected to each and every person at the table, this clan that has somehow grown up around me. Not for one second did I think about the past except as pleasant nostalgia. Instead, I looked at my legacy unfolding before me, all these wonderfully strong and creative and giving people, and thought only of the future. And for the first time in a long time, that future isn't just about surviving. It's about thriving, too.

I looked into the Paths of Possibility and saw genuine hope.

Happy holidays, Velma. I hope yours turn out to be even a fraction as amazing as mine have been.