#I’m thinking a lot about fragmentation of knowledge- how things get lost to time and are forgotten about

[wickedannabela]

A fragment of a ‘map’

That traces the creation of the weldings

No ‘map’ is an exact translation of a form

[kid-of-chaos]

Since I haven’t got the chance to already I might as well knock out Gizmo’s Lore in one clean swoop! SOOOOOO..

Gizmo/Circuit Lore!

Part 1: Before the Starfall

Circuit was cranked from the Kirby Printer before it broke down for good by a curious pair of Waddle Dees. Oddly, he was able to keep his form even after the Printer’s deactivation, so they dee-cided (I’m sorry) to bring him to castle Dedede due to how fragile he was. This was also the time Kirby was off on that Soul Melter EX final fight. Keep this in mind, this will be important. Circuit wakes up, and upon hearing about Kirby, began to think that they were Kirby. (I mean, he ain’t wrong, he technically is.) So he got outside! Learned a lot, gained his name from Susie, and even made some friends, those being Bandana Dee, Adeline, Magolor and Flamberge. He also managed to score Meta Knight as a mentor! Everything was going peachy keen, but when things were looking up..

It begun to get worse.

Susie analyzed him, and announced he was a defect copy, in front of the King himself. This made him doubt himself, but he thought it was a minor convenience. His first training session with Meta Knight made other things clear: although he was tough, smart and adaptable, he lacked strength, stamina, and the one thing every Matterborn had: The ability to inhale and copy. This made everyone look down on him a LOT harder. Even though his friends tried to cheer him up, it wasn’t really doing much. But he saw Susie’s business suit.. and got a idea.

Technology! Of course! What he lacks in strength, he makes up for in knowledge! He began making gadgets to make up for his weaknesses. Lacked in speed? Use the Boost Attachment! Lacked in strength? The Holo-Cuffs can fix that! Reaction time a bit sluggish? Have a Visor warn you beforehand! This made him feel better, that even with his weaknesses, the Great Star Warrior will never back down! Everyone else despised him, but it’s their fault, not his.

And then, he heard of something revolutionary. (Unbeknownst to Circuit, Hyness foretold a prophecy.

“The last one made from machine, harbinger of dangers never before seen.

Allies lost in their own logic, while he of the stars feels nostalgic.

The king will be faced with the Wish of a Star, and shatter it quickly, wide and far.

If the darkness is that they did not bury, face the Wrath of the Five Star Fury.”)

Part 2: Star of Wishes, Fountain of Dreams

The Wishing Star was coming to Dreamland! He couldn’t wait! And at the Fountain of Dreams, no less! He prepared his home in a underground bunker, and used that to craft a Air Ride of his own, one he can control with his visor. The air ride would be dubbed the Mecha Star! After that, he set out, with visor, Air Ride, and Boost Attachments set! (He also brought a raygun with him just in case.)

[Ok for the journey imagine Kirby’s adventure but without killing and without copy abilities as a Any% run. Oh, and he didn’t fight Meta Knight because Sword Knight was there and he just.. walked past. Also, no Nightmare! Yey!]

At long last, he made it. He made two selfless wishes out of the goodness of his heart, but when he was about to make the third one, King Dedede, who he thought was defeated, destroyed the Wishing Star, shattering it across Popstar in the process! Circuit was about to speak, but the King was already fed up. He told Circuit the cold, hard truth, and told him to get out of his sight.

A month passed. Circuit was exiled to his bunker. And yet… his story didn’t end here.

Part 3: The Five Star Fury

A blue Wishing Star Fragment, out of all places, crashed next to his bunker entrance. Fueled by hope and vengeance, he wore his upgraded attire, and chose the name.. GIZMO.. as his new name. After creating the Star Compass, he set out to find the Star Fragments, 5 in total, and make the wish the dreaded king robbed him of.

(In order: Beginning (Spirit Star, Ghost-Based Powers) - Wave 1 Dream Friends (Chrono Star, Time-Based Powers) - Wave 2 Friends (Element Star, Elemental Powers), Wave 3 Friends excluded Mage sisters (Psycho Star, Psychokinesis Powers) - Revenge of Meta Knight (Fake 5th star), Jailbreak from Castle Dedede. He lost his mind here and went full Five Star Fury. Then it’s Flamberge, Francisca, Zan Partizanne, Dark Meta Knight, and (Masked) King Dedede (Dream Star, Imaginative Powers) Kirby comes back with the Space-time Milk after Dedede gets Dededethroned.)

Even near his journey’s end, there was still one Major Roadblock: KIRBY. His so-called brother. Gizmo decided to show him the wrath of the Five Star Fury, while Kirby tried to console his Mentally broken brother. In the end, the Star Allies caught up. Kirby was close to saving his Printed kin, but with one wish remaining, Dedede wished Gizmo and the stars away, much to everyone’s surprise and terror. Though it was a wish, it was not from the one who called the stars in the first place, making the energy unstable and sending Gizmo and the Star Fragments seemingly into a void.

The last thing they saw from Gizmo was a betrayed expression. The Prophecy was averted.. but at what cost?

Kirby’s been keep his Star Compass close to him ever since. It’s been 3 months now. The Star Compass, after a while of inactivity, went off again. Kirby went off to see what was up.. and to set things right for good.

Finale: Where Stars Go to be Reborn

Kirby alone ventured into the Void of Stars, where Gizmo has complete power at the cost of his soul. By facing his perceptions of the group themselves, he gathered the Star Fragments, which have shattered into even smaller Wishing Shards. At the end of it all, Gizmo stood, fed up. He used everything he had, even went as far as to let himself be consumed by his own Rage in the form of a dark being, but in the end, his defeat would ironically be from the very Star Fragments he sought to collect long ago. Now nothing more than just a copy once more, he’s unable to control the Portion of the Void he ruled. In a act of selflessness, he wished Kirby out of the Void of Stars and back to Popstar, using his own life-force as the energy the Fragments needed for such a great wish..

The Star Warrior made it out, yet at the cost of his brother’s life. Kirby made one last wish on the Fragments, for him to live. With this last wish granted, the Fragments ceased to exist, their power becoming Gizmo’s. After all this time, he finally got what he always wanted.. to be loved.

… And power, too.

AND THAT’S THE CIRCUIT/GIZMO LORE, THANK YOU FOR COMING TO MY TED TALK.

[dollmother]

a corpse will always spawn children. one should know very well dead things are rarely left alone. everything reconverges back into a single point, much like a dying neutron star. it fascinates me deeply, but i dare not let myself get overly curious. for who could possibly know the outcome to drown in suspense and anticipation.. 

i peak to pick up the little pieces, left behind the crash. there is no better way to cling on than to fragments of once-useful scraps. i take this wreckage at face value and scavenge like some starving rat. in this economy its much too easy to become a hoarder. sometimes the burden prevents any space for something refreshing and off-cycle… i look up to the crash and no longer possess a clinging urge to pluck it apart. heavens on fire because of me. there’s no chance of ever coming back, so i don’t bother to implore anyone to let me past the gates again. 

this palace, freed to roam, would have rotted with or without curiosity dusting the furniture.. genuinely either way would have doomed us, unless…

is my writing sentimental to me? do i really care what happens to a piece after i write it? i rarely revisit them. i don’t care too much. likely it’s because i havent written anything profound enough to warrant that kind of behavior…yet. i enjoy conversing with them because i feel they’re much like me in many regards. one of my favorite traits is their cleverness and the way it matches mine. i know they must not care as much as i do, though i greatly appreciate the company and conversation. i want to try not to assume everything about everyone so quickly. give things a chance, maybe im overthinking and too paranoid to discern reality. or maybe i just lack the emotional empathy to really believe what people thought of me. i just want to get in the habit of writing a sizeable chunk every day. it’s good practice! i always repeat that. do i need to write down EVERY thought i have? no… but it is sure tempting to undertake such a task. how would i even manage that? i envy those who have mastery over a fickle thing as human emotion. 

i love many things. knowledge, companionship, myself… so much that i was seeing everyone as an extension of myself at one point. what about a homogenous universe, an existence where every single molecule is alive and connected to each other? what if everything is part of a macro unity, we are the cells in the universe organism. god i am high as fuck. the last time i imagine a towering amalgamation of flesh with appendages still attached. mouths that go where they don’t belong… why is a human bond so visceral and grotesque? like a hunk of meat twisted into mixtures of parts and pieces. i wonder why i think such a cosmic horror out of a organic connection. i see beauty amidst the disgust. a beauty no one else could love like me. 

so if everyone is just my arm, how could i possibly love anyone else?

i tried to learn what it is. though i could never get the formula just right. is this what it means to be, inhuman? do you feel inhuman because you can't feel..and that feeling gave you nothing but shame and grief? you grieve that such an emotion was lost on you 18 years ago? do you blame what happened on that moment? no. i don't. this could've been prevented, all of it--- but i let my needs precede me and was blind to another. you could let me go if it was just the first time...

but i didn't stop at that. no i wanted to be loved no matter what, even if it meant sacrificing something in return. could you blame me? yes, because i let me get ahead of myself. a fault like that is none but yours.

i reflect a lot on everything that's happened. does it help anyone?

i wonder about vulnerability and its varying degrees. would softening myself to the blows of external criticism be crucial in my goals to get better? is that it? i think i can sense when someone thinks i’m insufferable. old me wouldn’t have cared much, because she doesn’t care about anyone else. in some ways that can be a good thing. you could freely be yourself and just exist…but as i grow older and coming to harsh terms with who i’ve become and who i am… sometimes you just can’t stay the way you are. i don’t think it would do anyone good if that was the case. while i have changed throughout the years, it’s far from being good enough. progress isn’t linear, i am living proof. too many times have i slipped and relapsed on the same vices. i’ll lash out still, thinking i learned how to suppress my emotions.

i hate when i do that. i’m so tired of being a destroyer. a saboteur. i am tired of being so tired of everything about myself. for someone who seems like they can’t get enough of themselves, i sure lead a life of shame. exposure therapy..thats what the writing’s for. myself for most, but if reading it helped someone else—i’m forever grateful. i can’t listen to everyone’s pleas, but when there’s chirping in the morning dew on each green leaf…i don’t know. i have no idea what i’m doing most of the time. just trying but its not good enough. i keep trying and learn things the hard way. lessons via punishment. and did you deserve all of that? yes. 

yes you did.

[sixth-light]

The Crusades: A Fandom Primer

Like many of you, I am very excited to see a whole lot of fic about everybody’s favourite new Crusades-era Muslim/Christian immortal warrior husbands! However, a preliminary reading indicates that fandom is a bit hazy on what actually happened during the Crusades. Or where. Or why. They’re a much-mythologised piece of history so this isn’t surprising, but at popular request – ok like five people that counts – I’m here with a fandom-oriented Crusades primer.

Please bear in mind that I’m not a historian and this primer is largely based on my notes and recollections from several undergraduate history courses I took in the mid ‘00s. I expect the field has moved on somewhat, and I welcome corrections from people with more up-to-date knowledge! There’s also this very good post by someone who is a lot less lazy about links than I am.

Where did they take place?

The Crusades, broadly, describe a series of invasions of the Eastern Mediterranean (modern Israel, Syria, Lebanon, Beirut, Jordan, Cyprus, and parts of Turkey and Greece) by (mostly) Western European armies, religiously justified by their belief that the city of Jerusalem should be part of ‘Christendom’, i.e. ruled by a Christian monarch. In the first expression of European settler colonialism, nobles from the area of modern France and Germany founded four Crusader Kingdoms (aka ‘Outremer’, ‘overseas’) – the County of Edessa, the Principality of Antioch, the Kingdom of Jerusalem, and County of Tripoli.

  After a first unexpected wave of success in the First Crusade (1096-1099), which surprised everybody including the participants by conquering Jerusalem, the Crusaders were gradually driven and the last part of Outremer was lost to European control with the fall of the city of Acre in 1291. Crusades after that still nominally aimed to take Jerusalem but rarely got very far, with the Fourth Crusade famously sacking the city of Byzantium, their nominal Christian allies, in 1204. During this whole period activity that can be considered part of the ‘Crusades’ took place around the Eastern Mediterranean.

The most important thing to remember is that modern national boundaries didn’t exist in the same way; Italy, Germany, France, Spain, and the UK were not unified nations. Most of the southern Iberian peninsula (modern Spain) was ‘al-Andalus’, Muslim kingdoms ruled by nobility originally from North Africa. Sicily had been an Emirate up until very recently, when it had been conquered by Normans (Vikings with a one-century stopover in France). Italy and Germany in particular were a series of city-states and small duchies; Genoa, if you’re curious about it for some reason, ;), was a maritime power with more or less a distinct language, Genoese Ligurian (their dialect had enough of a navy to qualify). England had recently become part of the Anglo-Norman Empire, which ruled most of England (but not Wales or Scotland) and also large parts of modern France, particularly Normandy.

The Muslim world was similarly fragmented in ways that don’t correspond to modern national boundaries - there were multiple taifa states in Iberia, the Almoravid Caliphate in Morocco, the Fatimid Caliphate in Egypt, and (nominally) the Abbasid Caliphate in Baghdad, one of the great cities of the era, although the Seljuq Turks were the major power in Anatolia (modern Turkey) and what we describe as the ‘Middle East’. 

The largest Christian unified power in the wider European/Mediterranean region was the Byzantine Empire, centered on the city of Constantinople (modern Istanbul), which quite fairly considered itself the direct continuation of the Roman Empire, the capital having been moved there by the Emperor Constantine in 323. In fact, the really big political and religious question of the time for Christians was who got to be considered the centre of Christendom (there was no real concept of ‘Europe’ at this point) – the Orthodox Church, the Byzantine Emperor, and the Patriarch of Constantinople in Constantinople, or the Holy Roman Emperor (er…dude in nominal charge of a lot of German and Italian principalities) and the Roman Catholic Church led by the Pope in Rome. The Orthodox Church in Constantinople and the Roman Catholic Church had agreed to disagree in 1054 in the Great Schism, so in 1096 this issue was still what you’d call fresh.

Onto this stage of East-West disagreement and the heritage of Rome crashed the Seljuq Turks, a Muslim group from Central Asia who swept through Anatolia (modern Turkey), Byzantium’s richest province, culminating in the Battle of Manzikert in 1071 which wiped out Byzantium as an independent military force. The southern provinces had fallen under Muslim rule long ago, during the era of the first Umayyad Caliphate – including Jerusalem, famous as the birthplace of Christianity and a holy site for Judaism and Islam as well, but also a fairly uninteresting provincial town. Until...

Until…what?

Here’s why all the geography matters: It is generally accepted that the First Crusade kicked off largely because Alexios I Comnenus, the then-current Byzantine Emperor, requested aid from Western Europe against the Muslim Seljuq Turks. Byzantium often recruited mercenaries from Western Europe; the Normans (aka the Vikings), who had settled Normandy and southern Italy in the past century were frequent hires. Hence those runes in the Hagia Sophia.

Meanwhile in Western Europe, the Pope – Urban II – was having difficulty with the current Emperor, and was eager to heal the Schism and establish the primacy of the Roman church. He declared that an expedition to aid the Byzantines would have the blessing of the church, and that a new kind of pilgrimage – an armed pilgrimage – was religiously acceptable, if aimed against the enemies of Christendom.

Pilgrimages (travelling to holy sites, such as churches that held saints’ relics) were a major part of European Christianity at the time and many people went on pilgrimage in their lives, so this was a familiar concept. Western Europe was also somewhat overpopulated with knights – don’t think plate armour, this is 1096, think very murderous rich men with good swords – who could always use forgiveness, on account of all the murder. The Roman Catholic church, unlike the Eastern Orthodox church, also subscribed to the concept of ‘just war’, that war could be acceptable for the right reasons. And so a whole lot of nobles from the area of modern France, Belgium, England, Germany, and Italy decided that this new Crusade thing was something they wanted in on – and they took several armies with them.

I’m going to skip over a bunch of stuff involving the People’s Crusade (a popular movement of poorer people, got literally slaughtered in Anatolia), the massacres of Jews in Eastern Europe, and a lot of battles, but the takeaway is this: Alexios probably thought he was getting mercenaries. He got a popular religious movement that, somewhat unfortunately, actually achieved its goal (Jerusalem), did next to nothing to solve his Anatolia problem, and gave a succession of Popes a convenient outlet for errant knights, nobles, and rulers: going on Crusade.  

How many were there?

Official Crusades that anybody cares about: Nine, technically. Crusade-like military events that immortal soldiers might have got involved with, plus local stoushes in Outremer: way more. WAY more.

The First Crusade (1096-1099): First and original, set a frankly (heh) terrible precedent, founded the Crusader States and captured Jerusalem. Only regarded as a clash of civilisations by the Western Christians involved. For the local Muslims it was just another day at the ‘Byzantium hires Frankish mercenaries to make our lives difficult’ office.

The Crusade of 1101: Everybody who peaced out on the First Crusade hurried to prove they were actually up for it, once the remaining First Crusaders took Jerusalem. Didn’t do much.

The Second Crusade (1147-1150): The County of Edessa falls, Eleanor of Aquitaine happens (my fave), the only winners are the people who semi-accidentally conquer Lisbon (in Portugal) (but from Muslim rulers so that…counts?).

The Third Crusade (1189-1192): You all know this one because it has RICHARD THE LIONHEART and SALADIN. Much Clash of Civilisations, very Noble, did enough to keep the remaining Crusader kingdoms going but access to Jerusalem for Christian pilgrims was obtained by treaty, not conquest. Indirectly responsible for the Robin Hood mythos when Richard gets banged up in prison on the way home and is away from England for ages.

The Fourth Crusade (1202-1204): Aims for Jerusalem, ends up sacking the Eastern Orthodox city of Constantinople, just not a great time for anybody, more or less the eventual cause of the fall of Constantinople to the Ottomans in 1453.  

The Fifth Crusade (1217-1221): Still going for Jerusalem, starts with Cairo instead, does not get anywhere it wants to even after allying with the Anatolian Sultanate of Rum, making the whole ‘Christians vs Muslims’ thing even murkier than it already was post the Fourth Crusade.

The Sixth Crusade (1228-1229): Somehow these things are still going. Nobody even does very much fighting. Access to Jerusalem is negotiated by treaty, yet again.

The Seventh, Eight, and Ninth Crusades: Seriously nobody cares anymore and also nobody is trying very hard. Kings have better things to do, mostly. People end up in Egypt a lot. We covered these in one lecture and I have forgotten all of it.

The Albigensian Crusade (1209-1229): Why take a three-year trip to the Holy Land to fight pagans when you can fight the ones in your own backyard (southern France), AND take their stuff? Famously the source of the probably apocryphal ‘Kill them all, God will know His own’ quote, regarding the massacre of most of a city harbouring Cathars (a Christian sect deemed heretical).

Can we circle back to that ‘massacres of Jews’ bit? WTF?

Crusades, historically, were Not A Good Time for Jewish communities in Europe; when Christians were riled up to go and Fight The Infidel, it was a lot quicker to massacre local Jews than travel to the Holy Land. Also, then you could take their stuff. I will note here that it is VERY TACKY to use historical pogroms as backdrops for your non-Jewish main characters so keep this in mind but, like, use with extreme caution in fanfic, okay? Generally life was a lot easier for Jewish communities in Muslim-ruled states in this period, which is why so many Hispanic Jews ended up in Turkey after they were expelled from Spain. 

What were they really about, then?

Historians still Have Opinions about this. Genuine religious fervour was absolutely a key motivator, especially of the First Crusade. The ability to wage war sanctioned by the Church, or to redeem your local sins by going and fighting against the pagans, was part of that, too. Control of key trade routes to the East was probably not not a part of it. The Crusader States were definitely Baby’s First Experiment With Settler Colonialism, and paved the theological and rhetorical ground for the colonisation of the Americas. But many individuals on the Christian side would absolutely have believed they were doing God’s work. The various Muslim rulers and certainly the local Christian, Jewish, and Muslim inhabitants of the Holy Land itself were mostly just getting invaded by Franks. As time wound on the Crusades became more and more political (frequently featuring intra-religious violence and inter-religious alliances) and less and less about their forever nominal goal, control of Jerusalem.

How’s Wikipedia on this?

Basically not too bad but I’m not totally confident on some of the bits about motivation (see: white supremacists love this period, ugh.)

Why did they stop?

The prospect of re-taking Jerusalem vanished entirely as the Ottoman Empire centralised and took a firm hold over most of the Levant (and made inroads into Europe, as far as Austria, taking Constantinople in 1453 and finally ending the continuous Roman Empire), the Spanish Reconquista and various intra-European conflicts (the Hundred Years’ War, for example) absorbed military attention, and then the Reformation happened and half of Europe stopped listening to the Pope and started stabbing each other over who was the right kind of Christian. But the concept lingered; white supremacists love the Crusades. Which is why it is a very good idea to be sparing with Crusader imagery around Niccolò in fanfic set in the modern era, and please for fuck’s sake stop with the ‘crugayders’ tag, Yusuf wasn’t a Crusader.  

What other fun facts should I keep in mind re: Nicky | Nicolò and Joe | Yusuf?

·        Genoa is not the same as Italy; Nicolò is Nicolò di Genova and would have spoken Genoese (Ligurian) and considered himself to be Genoese. Italian as a language didn’t really exist yet. The language he and Yusuf would most likely have had in common was the ‘lingua franca’ (Frankish language, literally) of the Mediterranean trading region, a pidgin based heavily on maritime Italian languages. Yusuf 300% would have thought of him as a ‘Frank’ (the generic term for Western Christians) and probably annoyed him by calling him that until at least 1200 or so.

·        Yusuf is apparently from ‘Maghrib’, which I assume means al-Maghrib/the Maghreb (as his actor is IIRC of Tunisian descent), i.e. North Africa. He could have had relatives in al-Andalus (southern modern Spain), he may have spoken languages other than Arabic natively (Mozarabic or Berber), his native area had universities before Europe did. Basically: this is as useful as saying he’s ‘from Europe’, do better backstory writers.

·        Taking the whole ‘Nicky used to be a priest’ backstory at face value: being a priest in 1096 looked pretty different to how it did even 200 years later. They were still working on the celibacy thing. The famous monastic orders were still forming. Some priests could and did hold lands and go to war (this wasn’t common but it happened, especially if they were nobles by birth). Nicolò di Genova would not necessarily have seen a conflict between going on Crusade and being a priest, is what I’m getting at. If he was ALSO trained as a knight, he was from a wealthy family; it took the equivalent several villages to support a knight.

·        ‘Period-typical homophobia’ is going to look very different for this period. They are NOT getting beaten up for holding hands. Or sharing a bed! Or even kissing, depending on the circumstances! I am not an expert on Islamic sexual mores of the era but Christian ones were heavily on the side of ‘unsanctioned sex is bad, sanctioned (marital) sex is slightly less bad’, and there was no concept of ‘being gay’. An interfaith relationship would be in some ways more of a problem for them than the same-sex one (and in some ways less difficult to navigate than a heterosexual interfaith relationship.) The past is another country.

·        Look just no more fanfics where Yusuf is trying to learn ‘Italian’ in the early twelfth century I am BEGGING you all

[thefirstknife]

Help, I ran Garden of Salvation with some clan mates and i'm Experiencing Great Sadness about the Kentarch 3 again.

I haven't been following you since shadowkeep, and was wondering if you had some theories about what happened, because a lot is left unexplained, specifically about Lisbon-13's motivations. The story from Yardarm-4's perspective shows that something is influencing them before they accept power (stasis teaser?) from the darkness. Do you think they really had a choice? Do you think he was influenced in his decision to kill them? If so, why? As a test just for him? Presumably he's still out there somewhere, and I can't tell from the lorebooks whether Rekkana let him kill her first or not. I just feel so bad for them, they all loved each other. Yardarm probably took the power in the first place to help get them out safely. Do you think it'll ever get concluded? The whole lore series seems interestingly close to what happens with Shayura, just sort of in reverse.

Kentarch 3 fireteam and the whole story on the Garden of Salvation armour and the associated weapons and equipment is amazing and very interesting, I agree. I haven't talked about it before but it's a good thing to revisit every so often! I think there's still a lot we don't really understand, mostly due to not fully understanding the power of the Black Garden.

In short for the general audience, Kentarch 3 was a fireteam that consisted of Yardarm-4 (Titan), Rekkana (Warlock) and Lisbon-13 (Hunter). They went to explore the Black Garden at the behest of the Warlock order called the Cryptochrons which Rekkana was a part of. This order got exiled some time after Osiris for dabbling in prophecies. Cryptochrons were formed around a Oneiromantic Circle and led by a Sibyl (or multiple sibyls; or Sibyl was just a name of one member, it's unclear). Oneiromancy is the practice of interpreting dreams to predict the future and sibyls were ancient Greek female prophets and oracles.

I didn't think this would get long but it did so the rest under the cut:

The Cryptochron order continued operating after its exile and Rekkana received a prophecy from them that revolved around a fireteam learning about the Black Garden and retrieving from it a Vex relic of some sort. The relic is the exotic weapon Divinity and the lore tab on it details the prophecy they were chasing:

"And after any other Cryptochrons they learn of. But your path is more dangerous than most. The Circle has foreseen many fireteams following in your footsteps. You can find the knowledge the order seeks at the Tree."

"Can? Not will?" For the first time, Rekkana sounded concerned.

"The Circle has had limited success in piercing the veil that surrounds the Black Garden, so the order offers no certainties. They say that a group of Guardians will discover secrets about the origin of the Black Garden at the Tree. The Oneiromantic Circle foresees no reason why it will not be the Kentarch 3."

"Nor can I. But…?"

"There is another thread in the tapestry, entwined with this one. The Vex, or some fractal faction of them, worship or honor a… divinity there."

"The Black Heart? It was destroyed."

"Yes, but this is something different. An object. Something like a sacred relic. It is important to the Vex for reasons that we have not yet fathomed. The Circle has determined that it is dangerous—"

"A Vex weapon?"

"Perhaps," the Sybil sounded annoyed at the interruption. "Rekkana, the Circle concluded that it is a danger to you."

"To me? But then, why send me on this mission?"

"When the Circle dreamed of the object, you were beside it."

They agreed that, should they find this object, Lisbon should be the one to carry it. They did find it and he was indeed the one to carry it, as is shown later in another lore tab detailed below.

We know that Lisbon-13 killed the rest of his fireteam because they got corrupted by the Black Garden, something happened to their Ghosts (they all just dropped down and started losing their Light) and then turned on him. He was being hunted and he really had no choice. But he couldn't live with it. In Beyond Light, he's shown trying to kill his Ghost in order to stay permanently dead because he couldn't bear the burden of what he did to his fireteam, even though his actions were justified and he acted in self-defence.

But before he managed to do that, he was faced with his own doppleganger, just like the YW at the end of Shadowkeep. In the end, Lisbon didn't kill his Ghost because the doppleganger offered him power and Lisbon (presumably) chose to take it: his wish was simply to make himself forget about his fireteam (and Rekkana specifically, whom he loved). It's implied that he accepted and after that, we have no formal information what happened.

The outcome of what happened to Kentarch 3 is somewhat known, as detailed in this ship lore. The Vanguard knows Lisbon killed the other two, they're not sure when they lost their Ghosts and they have not found anyone's body, not even Lisbon's. But we know from the lore that came out after that Lisbon accepted the deal with his doppleganger and we have no idea what that entailed. Is he still in the Black Garden? Was he killed? Replaced? Just memory-wiped and sent back? Something else entirely? We'll explore at the end.

I'm pretty sure the voices they heard talking to them were also their own dopplegangers. And it's somewhat implied that they made some sort of a bargain and accepted "new powers" that came "from the wrong side." There's only one description of it:

Her fist glimmered and quaked with an unfamiliar power. She only had to release her grip, and that energy would rip through him, burning without fire.

That's Rekkana attacking Lisbon. It's never fully explained what it is, but it could very well be some sort of prototype Stasis in my opinion. Or some other Darkness power. Not sure why the Black Garden would give them this, which is why I think they simply harnessed the power of their dopplegangers. This is something that's been mentioned a few times in regards to Darkness: duplication. Same is present with the Taken as well (Taken psions duplicate). I mentioned the duplication theme being discussed in Clovis' journal before too.

Honestly, I can't make any definitive conclusion, but Kentarch 3 definitely found something horrifying in the Black Garden and fell to its influence. They also reference doing the puzzles to get Divinity, which they got and Lisbon used it to kill the other two.

Garden of Salvation raid ends with a Pyramid scale opening up and leading us down into the area with the Darkness statue. I think this could've easily been some sort of a lead into the future of Destiny and the powers of Darkness. Kentarch 3 may have accidentally received this power early on or were perhaps some sort of a test the Darkness did on Guardians before offering them Stasis for real.

It's an interesting story and yep, it does mirror Shayura's fireteam and how the story is told! Each member of the fireteam tells the same story from their own POV on armour for that class. I'll link all of them in order, roughly how I think it's best to read each POV:

Rekkana: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 Yardarm-4: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 Lisbon-13: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5

I like how the armour follows the same name pattern: Righteousness, Exaltation, Transcendence, Ascendancy and Temptation.

Associated Garden of Salvation weapons also have some tidbits of lore that might help, namely:

Ancient Gospel Hand Cannon:

"These forces have existed forever, but only one of them speaks to us." —Rekkana, Warlock of the Kentarch 3

Sacred Provenance Pulse Rifle:

"These gifts were not made for us, but we were meant to have them." —Rekkana, Warlock of the Kentarch 3

Zealot's Reward Fusion Rifle:

"Why not use these gifts we've been given?" —Yardarm-4, Titan of the Kentarch 3

I would really like to learn more about them, and specifically Lisbon because he might be able to actually tell us what happened. He or his Ghost, Piri, who managed to survive last we've seen her. I think the Ghost might be able to give the most accurate version of events. It's interesting that Lisbon was very much against whatever power they received and that was the reason he abandoned his fireteam, which made the other two consider him a traitor to their friendship.

Very intriguing lore story that could possibly be mentioned again in some form. Also as a brighter note, yes, Yardarm literally flew into the Black Garden with an entire ship and crash landed inside. On a less brighter note, we've never seen the remains of a ship in there (to be fair, Black Garden is huge) and it's somewhat implied that they entered through the Vex Gate on Mars which puts the timeline of when they got there into question. The Vex Gate on Mars that led into the Black Garden was destroyed in the Red War. The new gate showed up on the Moon in Shadowkeep (and you can't fly a ship into it because it's in a cave).

An additional note which answers certain things when it comes to Lisbon's fate that I hinted at before: in order to acquire the quest for Divinity, you have to go to the Moon to the Vex Gate for the first time. The gate will open up and a Vex mind will come out. This giant Vex minotaur is called Zeteon, Redemptive Mind. Upon killing this minotaur, you receive "Divine Fragmentation" quest. Details of the quest here. You pick up a Vex core that has strange readings coming from it and you have to decipher it by running it through various Vex technology. Once fully completed, you have to go into Garden of Salvation, do the Divinity puzzles and the weapon will drop from the extra chest at the end.

Why am I mentioning this? Well. Zeteon, Redemptive Mind drops a core that contains information about how to get Divinity. Lisbon was the member of the fireteam that held Divinity and used it to kill his fireteam. There's a quote from Lisbon on the weapon called Accrued Redemption:

"I should never have let it come to this. Now each arrow is a penance." —Lisbon-13, Hunter of the Kentarch 3

Divinity's perks are called Judgement and Penance.

Basically, I believe that whatever deal Lisbon accepted that made him forget his fireteam, free him from the suffering and redeem him ended with him being converted into Zeteon, Redemptive Mind. It's the reason why this Vex in particular had the pieces needed to construct Divinity again. Lisbon was the last person who had it. Becoming the bearer of parts needed for Divinity was both his Judgement and his Penance.

Final note because I love ancient languages being used for the names of things in Destiny: "Zeteon" most likely comes from Greek "zeteo" which means:

to seek, search after, look for

to inquire into, examine, consider

to strive for, desire, wish

Probably tied to Lisbon's search and desire for redemption for what he's done. I think that wraps up his fate quite nicely, although tragically.

[thefanficmonster]

Heyyy- been made to feel invalid in my gender today and was wondering if I could have some Heisenberg showing support to a non-binary reader in the form of headcanons-

Alright, whoever the hell thinks they have the right to affect you with their irrelevant and completely incorrect opinion needs to check and educate themself because hun you're COMPLETELY AND AMAZINGLY VALID AND WONDERFUL BECAUSE YOU ARE YOURSELF!

Now on with the headcanons before I get too heated 😤😤😤

~ Enjoy 💕

- It should come as no surprise that Karl is not very up to date with the different genders and non-genders as well as sexualities that exist

- Hiding away from the world in a factory that's practically your world, a universe of your own creation will do that to you

- When you explained the terminology and the definitions behind each term and identity - a little exercise to gain confidence before coming out to him - he surprised you by how excited it made him

- He was super hyped to be learning something so foreign it would've made you laugh if you weren't so freaking nervous

- Although the anxiety was slowly melting away the longer your interaction went on for

- "So you're telling me..." he finally said as a conclusion point in a lecture, "I've been missing out on a lot of knowledge." He chuckled, "Thanks for filling me in, wish I would've known it all sooner."

- However, even with all his excitement, he didn’t fail to notice the nervous lip-biting and restlessly fidgeting hands and a bouncing leg

- At this point in you relationship he could practically sense your anxiety from a mile away, so this behavior of yours sent him straight to his super-worried mode

- I’m talking concern painted all over his features

- “Love?” He rested a gentle hand on your bouncing knee to still it while his other hand took hold of the two of yours, “What’s wrong?”

- You were quick to shake your head, hurrying to reassure him, “No Karl, nothing’s wrong. The opposite actually. I was worried about how you’d react to...all I just told you. It would’ve really hurt if you said anything bad or dismissed the whole idea because...”

- You lost your voice as you expected to, you knew trying to find it would be futile too so you just let out a heavy sigh, causing Karl to raise an eyebrow

- “Got something to tell me, sweetheart?” He asks softly, his thumb caressing your knuckles as if to assure you that you have his full attention although his gaze already told you the same thing

- You slowly nodded, encouraging the words to form coherent sentences you’ll be able to say out loud

- It was a now-or-never situation in your head despite knowing you could come out to Karl anytime and he’d always accept you no problem

- “Yeah um...Karl, I’m non-binary.”

- It takes Karl a moment of silence for the words to sink in but that’s all it is: a moment

- Just a fragment of time spent in silence before he grinned at you and enveloped you in a tight warm embrace like he’d done countless times before

- This time, however, it felt different

- It felt more real, more honest

- You felt more like yourself and were finally able to embrace the fact that this man’s arms are your home regardless of whatever happens

- “Thank you for telling me. I love you.”

- “Thank you for not freaking out. I love you too.”

- Darn did that earn you a lecture though - one that almost made you cry tears of joy but still

- Karl had no problem going on and on about how people who’d actually freak out over that are idiots and that you’re better off without them

- The speech dragged out for so long you had to shut him up with another hug and a kiss 

- And no, you weren’t just imagining things the first time - all these casual and familiar gestures suddenly felt so much more special and important to you

- To him as well <3

[alicemitch09writes]

skinny love

pairing: Kuroo Tetsurou x reader

summary: 6 months later. Was he too late?

author’s notes: This is a direct sequel to first love and part of a trilogy also aptly named ‘first love’ ugh, i am so unoriginal. Please go read that first before this, otherwise you’ll be confused.

also available on ao3.

disclaimer: i own NOTHING but the plot.

His feet feel like lead as he trudged to the vending machine, adamant on getting coffee. It was only Monday. The smallest sounds of coin drops and beeps were making his head hurt.

Taking his first sip of his coffee, he walked around the quiet halls.

He hated hospitals.

Actually, they weren't that bad, having everything it needed to cater to the patient's needs. But it was a façade to their impending doom. And he hated it. Hated the way doctors and nurses would say with practiced ease that everything will be alright – when it won't.

They mean well, they really do, but they were a painful reminder of how fragile life was – how easy it can be taken away.

Reaching Room #423, he turned the knob, finding (Name) in the same state she's been the past six months. The door shuts quietly behind him, back resting against it.

"Tetsu, have you been eating?"

He could almost hear her voice, filled with worry of how thin he is. She always did that, nagging him like a mom to eat if he wanted to win. Funny she thought that, thinking more of his (and the team's) welfare's than her own. (Name) was always that kind.

Instead, the image of that beautiful girl was replaced with one lying on the hospital bed – limp and lifeless.

(Name) didn't belong here, not in this hospital nor in that bed she was lying in. No.

She deserved to be home, in her room surrounded by her instruments, fussing herself with her studies, that new song she wanted to learn, or managing a pack of rowdy boys.

He didn’t know how long he just stood there before he heard a knock at the door. Lazily turning his body, he opened the door; his actions seemed robotic, staring at two familiar faces.

"Hey man," Bokuto greeted, balloons in different colors and shapes (there was one in the shape of an owl) in hand, worry in his eyes. "Wow, you look like shit."

"Thanks." He said, taking a sip of his coffee.

"That wasn't very nice, Bokuto-san." Akaashi scolded, appearing behind the salt-and-pepper-haired teen with flowers in his hands.

Too tired to argue, he stepped aside, letting them in. Closing the door behind him, he watched the two eyeing the unconscious girl, hearing Bokuto sighing while Akaashi dutifully went straight for the vase, intending to replace the flowers.

He plopped down on his seat, canned coffee still in hand.

"But seriously man," Bokuto called, tying the balloons next to the side table. "you look terrible."

Kuroo closed his eyes, exhaling through his nose.

"When was the last time you went out?"

"Bokuto-san." Akaashi called in warning, appearing from the toilet with a vase filled with clean water.

"I'm serious!" Kuroo draped an arm over his eyes as if to hide the bags underneath. "Dude, you barely left since. Day in, day out, you're here but never at home. Nowhere else but here. You even ditched your first year of college!"

"I won't want to leave her," Kuroo said, still not moving from his spot.

Bokuto frowned at his friend, arms crossed. "I'm not saying that you should, I'm saying (Name)-chan wouldn't like to see you this way."

(Name).

Sighing, Kuroo slumped forward, arms propped on his knees, staring at the sterile ground.

"We're just worried about you, Kuroo."

That must be the umpteenth time someone's told him that – his mom, his dad, his older sister, Kenma, Coach Nekomata, the team. But still, his resolve won't change.

Taking a long sip, he met both stares from Bokuto and Akaashi, who had just finished with the flowers.

"I'm not leaving her." he said in finality, turning to the sleeping girl. There were a lot of things he wanted to tell her, a lot. And he wanted to be the first person she sees when she wakes up, the first person to see her wake.

Sighing exasperatedly, hands on his hips, Bokuto resigned. His friend was stubborn, but he had an iron resolve. "I know you won't. Figured as much."

"Then why do you still bother?"

Smirking at the raven-haired teen, he says with a shrug. "Because bro, you matter to me."

Kuroo put a hand to his heart, touched. "Bro."

"Bokuto-san just wanted to act cool every once in a while," Akaashi coolly said, opening the drapes. That earned a loud, familiar call from his former captain. Kuroo smiled, some things never change.

"But seriously dude, you could use a bath because you smell like shit."

Akaashi didn't need to scold him then as Bokuto received a (friendly) punch to the gut from Kuroo.

Six months.

That's how long he was suffering, how long he had been tortured by the mere thought of never seeing her smile again, of never hearing her laugh again, of never having her around again – of never seeing her again.

The word cancer stuck to his head was like a punch to the gut, pummeling him inside out with every step he took. Never mind the burning pain of his muscles from a day's worth of match, never mind finally giving their coach the chance to witness the 'Battle at the Dumps' match even though they lost, never mind that his high school life had officially come to an end – they didn't matter at this point. He just wanted to see her.

And the first time he saw her – dressed in a hospital gown, with tubes sticking to her body connected to machines that kept her alive, he was crushed. As if he were a porcelain doll smashed into a million pieces, each fragment breaking into smaller pieces.

He nearly broke down at the sight of her. She was beautiful as ever, yet to see her in that situation broke his heart.

(Name) had been operated; the chances of her survival were slim. But the only thing Kuroo could think was how small (Name) looked in that big, white bed.

Picking her hands, he noted how small they were – how he could practically see and feel her bones. Threading his finger through hers, he brought them to his cheek, relishing in her warmth. These were the same fingers that cared for him each time he'd earn a bruise or a scratch, the same hands that brushed his hair when he was sleepy – gentle touches that made him think that she was an angel. Slim fingers that did magic with every instrument she held.

He always knew she was small – fragile, even – but it only clicked to him now as to why that was the case. Ironic that he was the perceptive guy, inside and outside the court, yet he failed to notice his best friend's wellbeing. How did he miss to notice how little she would eat, how easily tired she was, or how low her stamina was? He was supposed to be the smart guy, for crying out loud!

He wanted to hit himself, to numb himself of the pain.

The moment he found out, he wouldn't stop crying, hating himself every minute of every day.

(Name) wouldn't wake up.

(Name) wouldn't wake up.

(Name). Wouldn't. Wake. Up.

"Kuroo," a voice called, quiet and low, one he knew all too well. Weakly raising his head, he looked over his shoulder, meeting a familiar blonde teen.

Kenma looked at his best friend worriedly, a frown in his face. "You should go home." The raven-haired lad shook his head, Kenma sighed. "(Name) wouldn't like that."

"I'm not leaving her." he says, voice raspy.

Kenma stared, eyes narrowing. "Have you been eating at least?"

"I've been snacking on what Auntie gives me," he rubs his eyes tiredly, stretching his arms over his head. "I'll be fine."

His dark hair was greasy, sticking out to different directions – messier than usual; there were bags under his eyes. The clothes he's been wearing were days old now, but it's not like he leaves the hospital. How long has he had proper sleep or shower?

"You're not." Kenma pointed out, walking towards the bed, opposite to where his friend was. He arranges the plushies from various game characters beside her bed, dusting a few. When he was done, he stood next to the unconscious girl, eyes dancing with sorrow.

Kuroo watched his friend carefully, a question burning his head. "How long have you known?"

Kenma blinked. Deciding to sit down, he met Kuroo's gaze. "A while now." He answers as if anticipating the question. "(Name) was the most secretive amongst us three; I thought you'd have known first." Shrugging, he adjusted her blanket. "But you didn't." Kuroo wanted to laugh at that because it was half-true. They both knew he was far more observant than he let on.

Sighing, the blonde props his arm on a nearby desk, resting his head on his palm. "Knowing her secret was like carrying a heavy burden because it's her secret and your knowledge of her sickness."

Frowning, he asked. "She didn't know that you knew?"

The blonde shook his head without looking at him. "Like I said, it was a burden on my part as well. Plus, that'd be disrespecting (Name). And I can't do that to her."

Something likened to rage burned within him, he was standing before his best friend before he knew it. "And you didn't bother to tell me?"

"It's not my secret to tell." Kenma says easily, carefully setting her clamped hand aside.

"But we're best friends!" Kuroo's voice rose, earning a scoff from the blonde as he turned to meet his gaze, eyes almost challenging.

"Don't you think that'd be disrespecting (Name)'s decision?" Kuroo was practically shaking now, hands balled into a fist. "Besides, it's not like you cared to begin with-"

Kuroo had grabbed him by the collar, raising him to his level. "I dare you to say that again." He seethed hotly, eyes burning.

Kenma didn't falter, eyes glowering. "What's the matter, Kuroo? Upset that for once, you failed to gain information before me to break someone, to use it to your advantage? Or are you just mad that (Name) couldn't trust you enough?"

"Shut up!" his voice rose, grip tightening.

Steely gold hues met his, challenging and mocking. "Then are you guilty because it's practically your fault she's in this situation?"

That was the final straw.

Taking his hand back, Kuroo was just about to smack Kenma in the face when blaring sound rang through the room. The two automatically turned to her, panicked, Kuroo dropped Kenma, ran for the intercom while Kenma stared at (Name)'s body, not knowing what to do.

A little while later, a nurse came rushing in.

Kuro and Kenma stepped aside, watching the nurse attend to their best friend each holding their breath. Kuroo was wondering if he should've called for her doctor, but after a while, the nurse sedated her, (Name)'s body relaxed.

The gentle beep of the heart monitor demonstrated her calmness.

"She'll be alright, just a little stressed is all." The nurse says kindly, much to their relief.

They sighed in unison, rooted on the spot even as the nurse left the room.

(Name)'s breathing slowly through the calming silence that came, followed by the purring of the machines and quite chattering outside.

The two best friends stood there, watching the unconscious girl. Kuroo and Kenma slumped against the wall, the raven-haired teen slipping to the ground. The tension between the two was still there, something that was rare even for them. In the many years they knew each other, not once have they got into a fight this extreme. And even if a fight did ensue, there was only one person who could bring it to a stop, one person they'd bow to other than Yaku.

"She'd kill us by now," Kenma sighs, breaking the silence.

Kuroo snorted at that, hiding the smile on his face.

Eventually, he broke into fits of laughter. Kenma joined in.

"She'd give us a litany," Kuroo added, voice thick. "then she'd take us by the ear."

Kenma shuddered, rubbing at his ear. Kuroo did the same.

"You started it though," Kenma told him, bluntly.

Kuroo narrowed his eyes at him. "But you fanned the flames."

They burst into chuckles, tension dying down.

A little while later, the room was filled with members of the Nekoma team – bringing flowers, fruits, and toys. Each member, especially Yamamoto, Inuoka, and Lev, fawned over their unconscious manager while Fukunaga fussed over the snacks. Yaku had to keep everyone in line.

The best friends exchanged a look, knowing that if (Name) were awake, she couldn't be any happier.

Someone was waking him, gently shaking his shoulders. Raising his head from his folded arms, he was met with warm (eye color) eyes. "Tetsuroo-kun." The woman greeted kindly.

"Auntie," He stood up in greeting, pulling his wrinkled clothes down. "Good evening."

Her smile, it reminded him of hers, how he missed her smile. "Good evening." Walking across the room, she dropped her bag and sat on the chair next to her daughter, patting a hand over her cheek. "Any news?" she asked, looking up at him.

He shook his head, hands tightening. "Just the same."

The smile remained, eyes never losing its light. "Then she's still alright."

Just staring at the woman made him wonder how she could still be so optimistic about the situation. It must be hard on her, her only daughter was under coma after her operation, yet she never loses hope. She was just like (Name). And duh, she was her mom!

"Have you eaten?"

He nodded. "Yeah." He lied, tucking his hands on his pockets.

She stared, her smile waning a bit, worry in her eyes, then nods.

"Where is Uncle?" he asked, staring at freshly cut flowers next to her bed – carnations, care of the Fukorodani team.

"Oh, just parking the car. He'll be here in a while."

Kuroo nods, not knowing what else to say. So he sits by the couch, watching Auntie talked to her daughter, telling her how her classmates missed her (evidenced by the balloons and cards surrounding her bed), how their neighbors have as well, how quiet the house has been lately without her playing, the little things. But to her, they were all that mattered.

He hung his head, not wanting to watch any longer. He could hear the sadness in her voice, the longing, and yet, she still hopes. How could she?

"I'll be right back, Auntie." He announces, making his way out before she could reply, missing the worried look on her face.

Six months.

Six excruciating months.

He's endured and suffered that long.

But still, she wouldn't wake up.

Splashing water to his face, he then looked up, finding a miserable guy staring back at him.

Then are you guilty because it's practically your fault she's in this situation?

No matter what they say, it was his fault she was in this situation. It was his fault she's lying in that hospital bed, unconscious. It was his fault.

He wanted to punch his reflection so bad, but he was tired (physically and emotionally).

He didn't like hospitals, hated how clinically clean it was and how dreadful it was. Life came and go here.

Reaching for the door to her room, he paused.

What good would it be for him to be here?

He didn't deserve to be here keeping guard and watching her.

What was he even doing here?

"Aren't you going to go in?" a voice called behind him.

Turning, he was met with a kind gaze from a bespectacled (hair color) man. Their kind disposition ran in the family, he didn't deserve it.

At a loss for words, Kuroo mumbled unintelligent words, the man laughed heartily.

"Looks like you need a bite," although shorter than the teen, he wrapped his arm around his shoulders, steering them away. "come, you need to eat."

Kuroo gulped, staring down at the meal before him, then at the smiling man. There were a few people at the cafeteria – a few nurses and doctors on break, a kid with his mother, some teens, and them.

A comfortable silence forms between them despite having fidgeting in his presence.

The smell of strong spice was making his mouth water, aptly reminding him of the lie he told Auntie. Truth was, he snacked on some fruits given by his family earlier that day, that and coffee. A little while later, his stomach growled. The old man chuckled heartily. "Go on," he encourages.

Timidly, he nodded, saying his grace before digging in.

His eyes widened at the burst of flavors in his mouth, almost forgetting what an amazing cook the man was. He chewed carefully, distracting himself with the texture and taste.

He hadn't noticed the old man leaving until he came back with a can of orange juice for both of them. Kuroo muttered a 'thanks', chugging down the beverage.

"It's so good to see you eat," he tells him, eyes crinkling. "and no, you can't lie to me. I know you, Tetsuroo-kun." He laughed.

It was like he was eight again. It was always like that with this man, this amazing man, who held instruments like magic, the same man who was the father of the girl lying in this very hospital bed, comatose, because of him.

He chewed slowly, eyes dropping. Eventually, he swallowed but didn't reach for more even though the bento box was still full.

"Oh, are you done eating?" asked the confused man.

He almost wanted to laugh.

These past months weren't easy on all of them, especially for them. They could have blamed him for why their daughter was here, but they didn't. Instead, they pulled themselves together for her and for him.

"Thank you, uncle." He says instead, meaning it. Kuroo grinned at the confused man before digging in again.

He shook his head at the teen before him, chuckling heartily. He studies the young boy before him, remembering the look on his face when he saw her comatose state – it was the look of absolute heartbreak.

When he was done eating, they packed slowly, making slow talk (although it was more of him doing the talking). They were standing outside her room, but before they entered, he called him.

"She wouldn't like it you know," he tells him, sincerely. "seeing you like this, filled with guilt and hate. She would've wanted you to be happy, even if she's not the one causing it."

There was a sharp tug in his heart at the last line. "But she makes me happy." It was barely a whisper, tears starting anew. "But I didn't let her know that."

His eyes were stinging with tears, body trembling.

The older man patted his shoulder, squeezing in assurance.

While waiting for her to wake up, he often talked to her about their childhood, some dumb memories, and some good ones. He even told her of the events that transpired during nationals, not knowing that she was watching via live television.

"You should've been there," he said quietly, letting his fingers play with her growing (hair color) hair. "the team wouldn't be anything without our manager."

Some days, he'd read to her, having scavenged through her room from her yet to-read pile. He had to endure going through books that were not of his genre (especially romance), but in the end, found himself enjoying them.

With each passing day, the hope of her waking up was waning. He feared she might never wake up. The waiting was killing him, unnerving and destroying him. But he didn't give up hope, could never. He could wait years if he has to, just to see her (eyes color) eyes again, hear her laugh again, and be with her.

"Oh my, it's that boy again! He's become a familiar face around here."

"How long has he been visiting her?"

"About six months now, since that girl was brought in. He practically lives here."

"Poor thing, looks like he hasn't eaten or slept for days!"

"And he barely leaves her room. And when he does, it's only for a few hours or a day, and then he's back."

"Seriously?"

"The poor boy, the pain he's been through."

"And she might never wake up."

"I don't care what they say," he says against their intertwined fingers. "you are perfect to me. And I'm not leaving you."

It was barely midnight, but he couldn't help it. The conversation he heard earlier was getting to him. They didn't know anything about him or her. It was none of their business.

But to say that she was never going to wake up?

No.

He didn't like to think about it.

She was going to wake up.

He knew it.

But honestly? He wasn't so sure anymore.

Shifting in his seat, he threw his head back, massaging at his throbbing temples. When he opened his eyes, he noted something from the corner of his eye. Her ukulele was lying beside her; he stared at it long and hard before deciding to pick it up. Upon closer inspection, he noticed scratches and a Band-Aid on the crack of the soundboard. Something tugged inside him; he knew exactly where that crack came from.

His grip tightened.

Kenma was right, he was selfish.

He was so selfish.

Absentmindedly, he played with the strings, filling the silence. And then, he began adjusting the chords. It used to drive (Name) nuts, especially when she found how out of tune her ukulele was because of him. He smiled, he always loved seeing her cute face pinched into a frown – she was so cute like that.

Satisfied with the pitch, his calloused fingers began to play a few strings. The song was slow, gentle.

I wanna make you smile, whenever you're sad

Carry you around when your arthritis is bad

All I wanna do, is grow old with you

I'll get your medicine when your tummy aches

Build you a fire if the furnace breaks

Oh it could be so nice, growing old with you

  He loved her.

Cliché as it is, he did.

Truth of the matter is, he's always been in love with her.

From the first moment they met, the first time he saw her smile, the first time she scolded him and Kenma, the first time she fussed over them, the first time he saw her play an instrument, to the first time she made him realize how many years have passed that he was so, so, in love with her.

So hopelessly in love with (Name).

Except, he was scared to risk their friendship – scared that she might not feel the same way he did.

I'll miss you

Kiss you

Give you my coat when you are cold

Need you

Feed you

Even let ya hold the remote control

Six months without her was absolute torture.

She was part of every significant event in his life; he couldn't remember spending a day without her in it

Because life without her? He couldn't even imagine.

It was meaningless.

If he could, he'd turn back time and make it right.

So let me do the dishes in our kitchen sink

Put you to bed if you've had too much to drink

I could be the man who grows old with you

I wanna grow old with you

The last lines of the song came out barely a whisper.

Releasing a shaky breath, he hung his head, tears streamed freely. "I've waited so long to play that."

It was the cheesiest song from a lousy movie. But the song, he had to admit, was one of his low-key favorites. The lyrics to the song were so sincere and heartfelt. He finally understood why love songs were made – to say the words everyone failed to say or supplement their feelings.

If only she was awake, then she'd hear his feelings.

Putting her ukulele away, he takes her hand in his, holding it close as he cried. "Please, wake up."

He buried his face into her hand, kissing it as he repeatedly begs for her to wake up, tears still streaming. "There's so much I want to tell you, so much I want you to know."

Taking her hand, he places a quick kiss to her palm, pressing it against his chest. "Feel that? That's my heart and it's beating for you."

His heart was beating fast, as it always did when (Name) was around.

Every single thing she does wonders is magic to him, especially with the way he captivated her the moment their eyes met. He missed it all – her smile, her touch, her eyes, her laugh, in general, he missed her.

So much it hurt.

Because the possibility of her never waking up was a factor that scared him every single day for the past six months. He didn't want their last meeting to be of him being an ass to her.

His heart skipped a beat.

He looked up at her, then at the hand on his chest, he swore he felt her hand twitch.

[nickydestati]

duolingo tog prompts #13

prompt: Now he is just a normal citizen (Adesso è solo un cittadino normale)

i am aware this is a superhero au for what technically is a superhero movie already but oh well, i hope you enjoy it anyway!

*

In general, Yusuf likes being Joe. On some days, though, he feels like screaming. Only yesterday night he was chasing down some stalker scum to teach them a lesson and make sure they would never even think of harassing anyone ever again, and now he is just a normal citizen. Just a face in the endless, dreary morning commute. 

He wants to grab someone by the shoulders and yell his secret in their faces. Just so someone knows he’s doing it all for them.

But he buries his hands in his pockets and walks on.

A bell rings when he enters the antique shop. The Old Guard, it is called. And of course, it’s just a facade, but to his surprise, Joe genuinely likes working there. He likes being surrounded by ancient and not so ancient objects, he loves walking around in the chaotic assortment of precious art pieces and absolute junk. He often wonders how Andy has gotten hold of all these things, but however sneakily he tries to coax it out of her, she always sees right through his schemes and just shrugs.

He puts everything ready and turns the sign of the door around so the ‘open’ side is facing the street. He glances at the numerous grandfather clocks lining one of the walls. Booker is late. Maybe on a job Joe forgot about, so he guesses he’s on his own for today.

He’s staring at some lists with a lot of numbers he doesn’t understand much about because 1) this is usually Booker’s job and 2) he’s running on three hours of sleep and caffeine, when the phone rings. He picks up immediately, grateful for something else to do.

“The Old Guard Antiques, with Joe, how can I help you?”

“I’ve got a job for you.” Andy.

“Hello to you, too,” Joe says, glancing about for customers, though the bell hasn’t made a sound yet all morning. He lowers his voice just to be sure. “And a job? So soon? I just finished the last one this night.”

He can barely hide his excitement, he quickly checks his free hand, making sure he doesn’t start glowing by accident.

“It’s urgent. We’ve got word that someone is after Lykon’s bracers.”

“Lykon’s bracers?” Joe’s happy mood sobers. Lykon was one of their team once. But the life of a superhero is never without danger. Things went terribly wrong on a mission a long time ago, and Lykon had sacrificed himself so the rest could get out with the people they were saving. They went back later, but despite his healing powers, he hadn’t been able to use them on himself in time. 

His bracers still hold fragments of his powers, though, just like Joe’s rings will when he dies. Every hero has such a token, and there are rumors it might grant the powers to someone else if used right. But so far, no one has tried yet. All superheroes agree that it’s simply too morbid and intruding.

“Yes.” Andy sighs. “I knew I shouldn’t have given it to the museum. It would’ve been safer with us after all.”

“Hey, boss, don’t beat yourself up. It was the best option back then. So, who’s after it?”

“Some rich megalomaniac called Merrick. You know, the usual. The theft is planned for this Friday. Booker is at the museum now to find a way to get you inside and get a layout from the building. He’ll be on it for the rest of the week so you’re on shop duty alone for a while.”

“Got it.”

“I’ll send you some more details you can look through. How did it go last night?

“It went well,” Joe answers, but it’s a tad too late and of course Andy notices.

“But?”

Joe sighs. “But the Shadow showed up and I had just gotten them right where I wanted them, but when I rounded the corner, he’d taken care of them already.”

“The guy’s good,” Andy says and the appraisel in her voice makes a spike of jealousy flash through his chest.

“Maybe you should ask him to join us, then,” he says and he hates how annoyed he sounds.

Andy chuckles on the other end. “Have to figure out who he is first.”

Just some pretentious bastard thinking he’s too good to talk with other superheroes. But Joe is tired talking about him.

“So how are you and Nile? Have you found her yet?”

“No, no sign yet.” All mirth has left Andy’s voice and Joe’s heart clenches.

“It’s only a matter of time. We’ll find her. Or she’ll find us again, she wouldn’t leave us like that.” She wouldn’t leave you.

“Let’s hope so,” Andy says with a heavy sigh. “Gotta go, I’ll send you the information. Keep me updated, okay?”

“Sure thing, boss. Say hi to Nile from me.”

He’s breaking his head over the lists again when the bell makes him startle. 

His throat runs dry when he looks up because the most beautiful man in all the universe has just entered the shop. Joe really shouldn’t be so dumbfounded by the man, because objectively speaking he is rather plain-looking with that simple hair cut and those pants that are really doing nothing for him, but still. Even like that, he has something incredibly mesmerising to Joe.

He pretends to look back at the lists for a while, but glances at the customer every now and again from the corner of his eye.

When the man has been wandering around for a while and has been staring at those small angel statuettes for five minutes already, Joe slips from behind the counter and goes to him. 

“Good morning, sir, can I be of some assistance?”

The man turns around and a small smile appears around his mouth when he sees Joe, melting Joe’s heart into a puddle.

“Maybe. I’m looking for a birthday gift for my nonna, but I don’t know which archangel she would like more.”

And to Joe’s surprise, the man goes on to explain the different meanings behind them which is incredibly fascinating - and not only because his hand gestures are so elegant and his eyes are alight with a passionate glow that Joe would describe as moonlight in one of his poems. And Joe is all too happy to chip in with his own knowledge of art and iconology. 

They get so caught up in their conversation that Joe jumps when the grandfather clocks start their various announcements of the fact that it is twelve o’clock. The man startles too by the cacophony and glances at his watch. 

“Oh, I should get going. I’ll take this one.” And he picks out Joe’s favorite. 

He follows Joe to the cash register and pays. 

“I am Joe, by the way,” Joe says when he’s wrapping the statue in bubble plastic to protect it.

“Nicky, nice to meet you,” Nicky says and Joe can’t keep the wide smile from his face.

“We should do that again some time,” he says, gathering all his courage. “Talk, I mean, not necessarily buying or selling angel statuettes.”

Nicky laughs, and the little snort makes Joe’s heart jump to his throat. “Let’s grab some dinner then, when are you available?”

“Only Friday wouldn’t work for me,” Joe says.

“I can’t make it on Friday either, so let’s say Saturday? Here, let me get your number,” Nicky says and picks his phone from his pocket.

They exchange numbers and say their goodbyes, Nicky flashing a last smile at him from the door before leaving Joe helplessly lost behind his cash register. 

*

Focus, Yusuf! Yusuf chastizes himself when his mind has wandered off to what he’s going to wear for his date tomorrow for what must be the millionth time. You’re supposed to be watching out for a thief, focus!

Yusuf takes a deep breath and scans the room again. He’s hidden in a very uncomfortable position against the ceiling, holding on to a pillar that grants him a view of the entire exhibition room. If he didn’t have his powers, there was no way he could have endured this position for so long, and while it would have been even easier if the sun was out, he manages. 

The minutes are ticking by, no sign of a thief yet. The bracers are still safely in their display case beneath him.

Then there’s a movement, ever so slightly, by the windows. Yusuf’s eyes latch onto it, but it’s gone so soon that he almost thinks it’s a trick of his mind. 

Always trust your instincts, Andy told them over and over again. Our minds don’t play tricks on us.

Sure enough, there’s another flutter in the shadows. No, not in the shadows. Of the shadows.

One of them is moving.

Joe curses inwardly, of course Merrick has hired the Shadow.

He waits for the Shadow to reach the display case. Then, when he reaches over the glass, Yusuf slides down right behind him. He reaches for him, letting out a sound of victory when his hands guess correctly and circle around the Shadow’s neck. He lets his hands glow, unleashing the heat he’s always containing. 

Surprised by the sudden attack, the Shadow turns visible and Yusuf stumbles back out of pure shock.

He’s all clad in black, with a balck version of a mask not unlike Yusuf’s own, but Yusuf would recognise the eyes peeking through it anywhere. Those eyes that are unmistakably glowing with moonlight now.

“Nicky?” Yusuf exclaims.

“Joe?” 

Nicky seems just as confused as Yusuf who’s still looking him up and down as if he might change into someone else after all - and oh man, these tight pants are definitely doing things for him. Nicky recovers faster from the shock, though. 

“Sorry, but I really gotta take these,” he says and before Yusuf can make his muscles move again, Nicky already has the bracers in his hands and is dashing for the windows.

“Wait no!” Yusuf sprints after him, but Nicky whisps away into shadow-form again and slips through a slightly opened window. 

“Nicky!” Yusuf screams after him. He opens the window wider - not alarming the guards be damned - and looks out over the city. But there’s no trace of Nicky.

His heart is pounding. Nicky, the beautiful man he is already head over heels with, is the Shadow. Not only is he the Shadow, but he has also stolen Lykon’s bracers for some capitalist asshole.

Shit.

“Is our date still on tomorrow?” Yusuf calls weakly into the night.

[abarbaricyalp]

Vampire/vampire hunter au? Sam/bucky or sam/steve/Bucky <333

Omgggggg I know you've been waiting for, like, six hundred years for this. And I know it was supposed to be a drabble.

But.

I like monsters.

I'm putting the first section here, on account of it's 16,000+ words total. The link to AO3 will be in the reblog

Put Your Teeth Into My Beating Heart

“Man, what the hell are these things?” Sam asked as he wrenched another stake out of a decaying ribcage. Moonlight streamed down the stake until it hit the dark blood on the end. Not as gory as a fight between a handful of vampires and two hunters could be. Still unpleasant.

“Ancient,” Steve said while he wiped down the shield with holy water, ground garlic, and silver flakes. “They’re not pure bloods, they were turned. But it looks like they were turned closer to Varnae than Morbius. Much closer.”

Sam pulled another stake free and then started collecting the much smaller silver spear-heads. “So why are they emerging now? Clearly they have no preservation skills. They ran right at us with no attack plan.”

“Could be anything. A decoy. A mind-controlled army. Something that’s been slumbering and has only just been awakened.”

Sam’s lips curled up in distaste and he finished sheathing the stakes. No sense in cleaning them yet. There was always more to do before the sun rose. “Why is it only the ancient ones that slumber? Why can’t they all decide to take a really long nap right now?”

Steve laughed, though it was not as light as Sam had heard it before, and clapped a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Next time we find ourselves in front of the Council, you can suggest that to them.”

Sam kneeled down to break off bone fragments and teeth to take back with them. There were usually answers in vampire bodies, if someone knew how to read the text. Luckily, Sam knew vampire bodies very well.

He and Steve had been hunting vampires for years now. Sam had to admit, a walking World War II icon was not who he expected as an ally in vampire hunting. To be fair, though, he hadn’t ever really thought about vampire hunting in the first place. He’d only been looking for one. He found Steve instead.

Steve seemed to be looking for all of them with a wild sort of vengeance driving him. At first, Sam thought Steve had been bitten, between the strength and the regeneration and the fact he still looked twenty five after almost a century on ice. But that was just the super soldier serum, which was a good thing because Steve hated vampires and Sam was pretty sure Steve wouldn’t still be around if he’d been turned.

The extent of Sam’s knowledge about Steve’s history with vampires was that Dracula had something to do with the battlefields of World War II. They had teamed up to keep armies off of the grounds of Transylvania. Then Dracula and some mad scientist named Ravencroft began experiments on soldiers and that was around the time Steve vowed to stop all vampires. Sam assumed the three gouges that ran down the length of Steve’s face contributed to his hatred as well.

Sam was a soldier. He knew the look of a person who had lost someone important to them. He just couldn’t get Steve to say who it was or what had happened.

Then again, Sam had his own secrets, so he didn’t push too hard.

“Hey, Steve, come look at these hearts,” Sam called and wrenched a punctured one free.

“What about them?” Steve asked from across the room, coming over slowly so he could examine each body between him and Sam, as if he could see hearts through skin and ribcages.

“They’re full of blood. But there’s none in the rest of the bodies. I thought they just hadn’t fed when I first saw them but…” Sam dragged a silver knife down the arm of the vampire in front of him and found only skin and bone and dry muscle. “This just makes them easier to kill. No chance of reanimation when the stake is removed.”

Steve hummed and scratched his neck absently. He did it all the time. Sam thought he was checking for puncture wounds. “I’d say husks, but you don’t have to feed husks.”

“What about mules?” Sam asked suddenly.

“What are mules?”

“I mean, what if they’re just being used to move blood from one place to another.”

“That’s a lot of work in a world where blood banks and the technology for them exists freely,” Steve pointed out.

“Yeah, but think of how often we’ve staked out blood banks to catch a dozen vampires in the act at a time. All hunters know to do that. Ambulances have stakes in them now. The world is evolving. Maybe vampires need to too.”

“If they’re mules, where are their shepherds?” Steve asked gravely. The thought sent a chill down Sam’s spine. “And why use ancient vampires?”

“If they’re reanimated, maybe someone found a mass grave. Besides, the longer something’s dead, the easier it is to control it. Or, like you said, they came up on a sleeping nest and overtook them all at once.”

Steve grunted and kicked a body. It dissolved into ash.

Something flashed behind Steve and by the time Sam really understood what he was seeing, he didn’t even have a chance to cry out. He leapt forward, putting his body between Steve and the vampire melting out of the shadows.

“Sam! No!” Steve shouted as the vampire tackled Sam down onto the ground. He didn’t have time to worry about his head hitting the tile because the next second, the vampire’s teeth were in his neck. It hurt like a bitch every time.

It hurt more when Steve tackled the vampire off of Sam and the vampire took a not insubstantial chunk of Sam’s skin with it. Sam was just about to throw himself into the fight, to protect Steve again, when he realized the vampire was spitting out his blood, staring at Sam wide eyed. The hands on Steve’s shoulders were only pushing him away, disregarded.

Steve also wasn't fighting. His wide eyes were focused on the vampire. It was a beautiful creature. Eyes so blue, Sam felt like he was getting frostbite just looking at them. Long hair that curled against his neck. Pale skin with blue veins snaking down strong features and long, elegant fingers. Lips so red-- Oh, right. That would be blood.

“Bucky?” Steve breathed.

The vampire looked away from Sam long enough to scan Steve’s features. “Who the hell is Bucky?” he asked and finished shoving his way out of Steve’s hold. “And what the fuck are you?” he asked Sam. “You’re not the Daywalker, but you’re not all vampire either. Why does your heart beat?”

“What? Buck-- Your name is James Buchanan Barnes. Don’t you remember who you are?”

Again, the vampire--Bucky, apparently, he was much sexier before Sam knew that--tore his eyes from Sam like it was the last thing he wanted to be bothered to do. “I don’t remember anything,” he said, like he’d said it a million times. “I don’t remember anything from before I was born.”

“Turned,” Steve said and held onto Bucky’s shoulders tightly. “You were turned. You were born a human, in 1917. Your parents’ names were George and Winnifried.”

“This information isn’t important to me,” Bucky said and wrenched Steve’s hands off of him.

“You have a metal arm,” Sam said and Steve jumped like it was the first time he was seeing it too. Sam kept a wary eye on him, trying to remember the stories Steve had told him on long night stakeouts and over painful breakfasts the mornings after brutal hunts. Bucky tickled something at the back of his head, but he couldn’t bring it forward. Mostly he was thinking about the blood seeping between his fingers on his neck.

“Observant. A vampire hybrid and you’ve got eyes. Wonders never cease,” Bucky said drily. “I assume you weren’t moving these things,” he said, and kicked a vampire body the same way Steve had. Again, it collapsed into ash.

“No,” Sam said evenly. “Which I assume means you weren’t either.”

“I was trying to track them down,” Bucky answered. “To kill them,” he added, as if that wasn’t clear.

“A vampire vampire hunter,” Sam said.

“We’re a fine pair.”

“What are you talking about, Buck? Sam’s human. Even more than me.”

Bucky barked out a laugh and Sam saw his fangs retract in the split second. When Bucky stepped towards him, Sam stepped back, which only made him pull an unimpressed face before he reached for Sam’s hand at his neck and pulled it away.

“It doesn’t work that fast,” Sam said, though he knew his skin had stitched together at least a little bit. His neck itched like crazy.

Bucky produced a cloth from one of the half dozen pockets in his jacket and wiped away the blood from Sam’s neck. It did not start bleeding again. Of course it didn’t, why would anything ever go his way?

“Sam, what the hell?” Steve asked and stepped over too, running his fingers over the fine skin where the wound had started to heal.

“Your friend is a hybrid,” Bucky said and shoved the cloth back into a pocket before the blood had finished dripping off of it. “But not one that I’ve ever seen.”

“Sam…” Steve said, looking to his friend for answers that Sam didn’t have. Unlike Bucky, he knew who he was before he was turned. It was the turning he didn’t remember.

“I just know it was the Claws that found me,” he said. “Or, at least, a handful of them. My partner got shot down, I went after him. Landed hard, got disoriented, got picked up by these weird things with total body wraps and orange eyes.”

“On account of the sun,” Bucky pointed out.

“Shut up, vampire. I was delirious by then and I don't remember anything else until I woke up in a pop-up military hospital by myself. Everyone else was dead and there was an icebox of blood bags next to me. That’s all the introduction into this life that I got.”

“What the fuck?” Steve said. “How did you fail to mention that?”

“Well, Steven, if you recall the first time I saw you, you were stabbing a vial of holy water into a vampire’s eye. Forgive me if I didn’t want to come clean immediately.”

“Badass,” Bucky said.

“I’m not done with you yet,” Steve snapped at him and then looked back at Sam. “What are you then? Why--How did you know you weren’t a full vampire?”

Sam shifted from foot to foot. “My heart still beats. And I can drink the blood of other vampires.”

Bucky’s head snapped up and it was his turn to take a step back. “Stay the fuck away from me,” he said.

“You already tried to eat me, asshole,” Sam snapped.

“No, I was trying to kill you. I had no desire to drink from you.”

“ I can touch silver. The sun doesn’t affect me as much,” Sam continued, ignoring the sexy but ultimately very irritating vampire next to him.

“A lot of hybrids take and leave the original characteristics. But I’ve only ever seen a beating heart in the Living Vampire and his creations. And he’s not actually a vampire,” Bucky said. Those light eyes landed on Sam again, thoughtful, studying.

“I’m not like Morbius,” Sam said tightly.

All three of them snapped their gazes to the door and the shadow pacing outside it. “We can continue this conversation later,” Steve said, face hardening for the encroaching battle. Sam turned to hand Bucky a wooden stake, a wordless truce, but the vampire was gone by the time the door burst inwards.

Again, there's more to this story. Much more. Link in the reblog.

[hysterialevi]

Hjarta | Final Chapter

Fanfic summary: In an AU where Eivor was adopted by Randvi’s family instead, he ends up falling in love with the man his sister has been promised to despite the arranged marriage between their clans.

Point of view: third-person

Pairing: Sigurd Styrbjornson x Male Eivor

Author’s note: Holy shit I can’t believe it’s already the last chapter. Thank you guys so much for sticking with this story from the start, and for sending me wonderful comments/messages of support. I really had fun writing this fanfic and interacting with you all, so I hope you’ll enjoy this last part of Hjarta. This story seriously means a lot to me, and it makes my day to know how many of you liked it. Stay awesome :)

This story is also on AO3 | Previous chapter

THRYMR’S TOMB

A WHILE LATER

“Eivor!” Sigurd called out through the storm, forcing his way across the snow. “Are you there?”

The prince shielded his face from the frost with a protective arm and squinted, desperately searching for his lover as he wandered blindly through the fog. The young man had disappeared from the battle not too long ago, and seemingly taken Kjotve’s fate into his own hands. What became of either of them still remained a mystery to Sigurd, and as more time passed by, he found himself feeling increasingly worried for Eivor’s life.

“Eivor!” He repeated a tad louder this time. “Say something! Can you hear me?”

Much to his relief, a faint voice answered from a distance.

“...I’m here, Sigurd...!”

Inching closer towards the voice, the older man ventured deeper into the mist and peered forward, only to spot the outline of a familiar shadow trudging in his direction.

Eivor was sauntering underneath the sun’s blurred rays with a slight hiccup in his step, and fresh blood clinging to his axe. His face seemed to be wiped clean of all the energy that once burned in his eyes, and yet, he appeared to be... at peace.

A calming aura could be seen blossoming from his heart like a single flower in a barren field, and in a strange way, it almost looked as if he had completely forgotten about the war. Not a single hint of dread or terror weathered his blissful expression, and the ribbons of sunlight dancing above him only added to his soothing demeanor.

Sigurd picked up his pace and began jogging, eagerly rushing to rejoin his lover.

“Eivor...!” He said with a sigh of relief, immediately pulling the man into a hug. “There you are.”

Eivor allowed his head to sit on Sigurd’s chest, giving himself some time to breathe.

“...Sigurd,” he whispered out of exhaustion, “...I did it. I actually did it.”

The prince continued cradling the younger man in his embrace, providing him with a sense of warmth amidst all the snow.

“What happened to you, Eivor? Where’s Kjotve? I saw you run off with him earlier. Is he dead? Did you... did you kill him?”

Eivor nodded and closed his eyes, not even bothering to say a word.

“Truly...?” Sigurd asked, staring at the other man in disbelief. 

Could it really be possible that the battle was already finished? It hadn’t been too long ago that the prince was barely evading death’s grasp, and now, the storm had suddenly passed. Part of him found the news too good to be true considering the path they used to get here, and yet, something in Eivor’s tone rang with sincerity.

Sigurd tightened his grip on the smaller warrior and chuckled out of elation, nearly breaking into tears. “Then it’s over. The war... is finally over.”

He brought a hand to Eivor’s chin, lifting it gently so that he could see his face.

“What about you, my love? Are you well?”

The Wolf-Kissed displayed a subtle smile, radiating as if he were the moon itself.

“...I am. For the first time since that night... I’m okay.”

Sigurd returned the smile and cupped the back of Eivor’s head, pulling him close so that he could plant a kiss on his forehead. 

“Good.”

Staying snuggled in each other’s arms, the couple took some time to enjoy the peace as the storm steadily died down around them, allowing more and more of the sun to break through. The crippling mist that had built up during the battle was slowly beginning to fade, and soon enough, nothing but a vast blue sky remained hovering above them.

Unbeknownst to Sigurd however, a third party had already found them and walked in on their brief reunion, but had not yet announced their presence.

In the distance, Arngeir quietly watched the scene in front of him unfold with a sense of shock clouding his mind, causing him to gawk incredulously. Even though he suspected that the prince would be somewhere in the vicinity with his son, he did not expect the two of them to be enwrapped in such a loving embrace.

...How long had they felt like this, he wondered? Was their bond something that had been ignited due to the recent string of battles, or had this been carrying on ever since Styrbjorn first arrived?

The jarl was honestly at a loss. He held no disgust in his heart for the peculiar couple before him, but he couldn’t deny that he was taken aback. Despite his knowledge of Sigurd and Eivor’s friendship in the past, he never would’ve guessed that there was something deeper between them. 

Though, the more Arngeir thought about it, he supposed there really was nothing peculiar about their relationship. The knot that intertwined their fates was made of pure, genuine love delivered straight from the hands of Freya, and to his surprise, he just couldn’t bring himself to interfere.

It was something he hadn’t seen in ages thanks to the horrors of this war, but now that it was over, Arngeir figured he may as well let his doubts die with it.

He had had enough of tragedy. 

Turning on his heel, the jarl decided to leave the couple alone and returned to the other half of the island, ready to inform his clan of their miraculous victory. He still didn’t know whether he’d tell Styrbjorn about his unanticipated discovery or not, but one thing was for certain.

Kjotve’s kingdom had finally fallen. 

In spite of all the obstacles Styrbjorn’s people faced, his entire bloodline had been struck down, and his throne had been left unattended. No one in Norway would ever hear of his clan again, and his fortress would be left to crumble under the weight of the absence that consumed it.

The barbarian king was vanquished. Just like his legacy.

~~~~~~~~~~

THE NEXT DAY

BJORNHEIMR, THE LONGHOUSE

Sigurd placed the last of his belongings in the crate sitting before him, reminiscing as he stood in the middle of his chambers. It felt like a lifetime ago that he was first packing his things in preparation for the journey to Bjornheimr, and now, he was getting ready to leave.

After ages of enduring this war and accepting it as his reality, the prince had suddenly found himself in a world where Kjotve was no longer a problem, and his clan had been reduced to ashes in the wind. 

A new era had been brought about thanks to their victory at Thrymr’s Tomb, and the kingdom now celebrated in harmony to honor the peace that had finally been restored.

Despite the jovial mood of his people however, Sigurd admittedly didn’t know how to process the whole situation himself. Part of him rejoiced due to the fact that he’d never have to deal with Kjotve’s cruelty again, but he would’ve been lying if he said he didn’t have his regrets.

He didn’t come out of this unscathed, after all. The Raven Clan may have emerged victorious from their fight against the barbarian king, but there were still many wounds that needed mending... including Dag’s loss.

Sigurd still remembered his last conversation with the man as if it happened yesterday. Even though Dag proved to be a traitor in his final moments, the prince just couldn’t bring himself to discard the memories they once shared, or the fondness that followed. In his eyes, the fallen warrior would always be that same little boy who kept him company as a child, and pulled him away from the darkness when his mother passed on.

As for the Dag he executed, Sigurd would remember him as no more than a fragment of his childhood friend, and the result of a man who had been crippled by his own jealousy. He would be a reminder for the prince to never fall prey to his demons, lest he lose the soul he had fought so long to preserve. It was what he owed his parents after all these years, and to himself.

Letting out a remorseful sigh, Sigurd shook his head and silenced the thoughts that threatened to encompass his mind, not willing to entertain his grief any further. He would never forget the loved ones he had lost during the events of this war, but for his own sake -- he had to move on.

Lifting up the crate with a soft grunt, Sigurd secured the box in his arms and began striding towards the archway, only to stop in his tracks when he noticed someone waiting for him. 

At the moment, Eivor was standing on the other side of the door with his hands linked together and his head hanging low, clearly disheartened by Sigurd’s upcoming departure. His gaze swept in the floor in an attempt to avoid confronting the absence he would soon have to accept, and even the sight of the prince himself wasn’t able to lift his mood.

“Eivor...!” Sigurd greeted. “You came.”

The Wolf-Kissed stepped tentatively into the room, staring at his lover as if this was the last time they’d ever meet.

“Of course I did. I wanted to see you again before...” his expression sank slightly, “...before you left.”

Sigurd took note of the shift in his lover’s mood and placed the crate down for a moment, gently gripping Eivor’s wrist in a comforting manner.

“Eivor,” he said in a gentler tone, “...you know I have to go.”

“I do. I just wish you could stay longer. We spent so much of our time worrying about the people we lost that... we forgot we still had each other. But now that you’re leaving, it’s all I can think about.”

Sigurd lifted a hand to Eivor’s cheek and brushed away a lock of hair, tucking it neatly behind his ear.

“You can still come with me. You know that, right? I realize we’ve had this conversation before, but if you truly want us to stay together, I can arrange that.”

In spite of his sorrow, the younger man remained staunch in his decision. “I’m sorry, Sigurd, but I must remain here. As much as I wish I could go with you, Bjornheimr needs me. My father needs me. I’m the only family he has left apart from Randvi, and she’ll be gone too.”

Sigurd nodded sympathetically. “Very well. If that’s what you wish.”

Eivor paused briefly, switching to a different concern on his mind. “...You will visit me, right? This won’t be the last time I’ll see you?”

“Of course not,” the prince reassured. “I can’t say when I’ll have the chance to return to Bjornheimr, but -- I promise you -- as soon as the opportunity reveals itself, I’ll be here again.”

The other man didn’t appear any less forlorn, but accepted the promise nonetheless.

“I’ll be waiting. But until then...” Eivor leaned forward, pecking a goodbye kiss on Sigurd’s lips, “...stay safe, my love. I wish nothing but happiness for you.”

The prince pressed his forehead against Eivor’s, cherishing their last few minutes together.

“The same goes for you. My duties may require me to start a new life in preparation for the throne, but I’ll never forget everything you’ve done. Thank you. I mean it.”

Taking a few more moments to bask in each other’s company, the two of them simply cuddled in silence before separating the embrace, and retreating to the shells they so often wore around the rest of the village.

The sun had managed to climb to the top of the sky’s apex by now, and most of the Raven Clan were already gathered at the docks. The longships were fit to set sail after an entire morning’s worth of preparations, and their people were eager to return home. The only thing they needed now... was the presence of their prince himself.

“I suppose it’s time for me to leave.” Sigurd noted somberly, reluctantly taking hold of the crate once again. “Care to join me for the walk to the ship?”

Eivor concealed his pain with a friendly veil and stepped to the side, allowing Sigurd some room to walk through the doorway.

“After you, my friend.”

~~~~~~~~~~

A LITTLE LATER

THE DOCKS

Walking alongside one another as they headed towards the shore, Eivor and Sigurd strolled silently through the village with a bittersweet relief resting in their spirits, clouding their minds like the smoke of a cold pyre.

It brought them both great joy to see Kjotve’s reign finally come to an end, but they couldn’t stop themselves from wondering what waited beyond the horizon now that the war was over.

Was this the start of Sigurd’s life as a future king? Would he and Randvi truly be the rulers of Norway one day? How was he even going to raise a family? The prince had never planned to be a father, and a part of him wanted to scream at the thought of being forced to hide his true emotions once again.

He didn’t want to forget Eivor, or the things they experienced together. These past few weeks had been some of the best and worst moments of his life, and he dreaded the idea of allowing their bond to fade into a distant memory. But for the sake of his kingdom, Sigurd knew he had to leave the man behind if he wanted any chance of becoming a decent leader.

It was his duty, after all. Styrbjorn had managed to keep his end of the promise in regards to battling his addiction, so the prince figured it would only be fair if he upheld his own. Personal thoughts and desires no longer mattered within the realm of royalty. From this day on, Sigurd would be living to serve his people -- not himself. 

“There they are.” He remarked, gesturing towards the end of the pier. Eivor followed Sigurd’s line of sight, only to spot Styrbjorn, Arngeir, and Randvi all waiting by the longship.

“So this is it then,” he said, already missing the prince’s company. “This is where we part ways.”

Sigurd shared his partner’s disappointment, but tried to keep a strong face nonetheless. “For now. You and I will be separated for some time, but I’ll visit you as much as I can. And you’re always welcome in Fornburg too, should you ever wish to come to me instead.”

“Thank you. I’ll consider it.”

Eivor placed a hand on the side of the prince’s arm, saying one last thing while he still had the chance.

“...Wait, Sigurd. Before you go.”

The older man came to a pause, giving Eivor a curious glance. “Yes? What is it?”

The Wolf-Kissed stuttered, admittedly unsure of where he was taking this. He didn’t have anything in particular he wanted Sigurd to hear -- he just hoped to keep him around for a little longer.

“Erm, n-nothing. I just wanted to say I love you.”

Sigurd smiled warmly at the comment despite Eivor’s awkwardness and chuckled lightly, attempting to comfort him.

“I love you too, Eivor. Never forget it.”

Leaving the younger man with those words, Sigurd carried on with the task at hand and sauntered towards the ship, placing the crate down by the boarding plank as one of the oarsmen came to assist him. Meanwhile, Styrbjorn greeted the two men with a cheery temperament, happy to get things going.

“Sigurd, Eivor!” The king exclaimed jovially. “It’s good to see you both in one piece after the battle yesterday. We lost many warriors during the assault at Thrymr’s Tomb, but now, we at least have the luxury of saying that their deaths weren’t in vain...” he turned to the Wolf-Kissed, “...and it’s all thanks to you, my boy.”

Eivor bowed his head in a humble manner. “I only did what was required of me.”

Styrbjorn let out a soft laugh. “Nonsense. Sigurd has told me of the tenacity you displayed on the battlefield. You showed great courage, and you fought with honor. It is thanks to your efforts that Kjotve now lies in a frigid tomb.”

Arngeir joined in. “Indeed. Had it not been for your valor, we would all still be bound by Kjotve’s chains. Varin would be proud of you, Eivor. And Ulfar too.”

“Thank you, father.”

Eivor brought his attention to Styrbjorn, trying his best to hide the sorrow lurking within him. “...So, I imagine you’ll be departing soon?”

To his surprise, the king appeared to have other things in mind. “Actually, there is something else your father and I would like to discuss first. Something that concerns you and my son.”

Sigurd froze at that, already suspicious of where this was leading. “...W-What do you mean?”

Arngeir stepped forward, hesitant to speak any further. “Forgive my being candid, but we are aware of the relationship between you two.”

Eivor instantly felt the color drain from his face, and he could’ve sworn he saw his own soul fleeing from his body.

“You-- what?”

“Do not be alarmed, my son. I am not here to pass judgement. Only to offer a proposal.”

“But... how? How did you find out?”

Arngeir crossed his arms in thought. “Yesterday, during the battle. Sigurd and I left the fort in order to search for you. We noticed you had disappeared at some point, and feared you may be in danger. Though, by the time I stumbled upon you, you had already found your way to the prince.”

“That means... you saw us...”

“...Embracing one another, yes. I apologize, Eivor. I did not mean to intrude.”

The young man exchanged glances with Sigurd, terrified to see the outcome of this discovery. “So, what does this mean for us? Are we to face punishment?”

Arngeir shook his head. “No. Quite the contrary, actually. I realize it isn’t my place to speak about this -- and for that I am sorry -- but I admit I shared this news with Styrbjorn once we returned, for I had an idea in mind that I wished to broach.”

That caught Sigurd’s attention. “An idea? About what?”

Styrbjorn provided the answer. “About this alliance, of course. You see, when we first arranged this marriage between you and Randvi, we did so with the intention of forming an ironclad bond. A bond born out of love. We believed it would be a way to ensure that our clans never fell apart, since our families would be intertwined from that day on. Clearly however, we were mistaken.”

The jarl nodded in agreement. “Indeed. It seems that the bond we were looking for... had been between you two all along.”

Arngeir trailed off into silence for a moment, considering his next words.

“Listen, both of you. Styrbjorn and I had a long conversation yesterday once I revealed my discovery. We discussed many things pertaining to this alliance, and after our talk, we came to the conclusion that... this marriage is no longer necessary.”

Sigurd’s eyes widened in shock. “Wait, are you saying that it’s over?”

“Ultimately, the choice lies with you. If you wish to end this marriage, and if Eivor decides to go in Randvi’s stead, then I have already told Styrbjorn that I have no qualms with it.”

The prince immediately looked at his lover, radiating with a newfound hope.

“Eivor...! Think about it. You could join me, just like we wanted.”

The Wolf-Kissed glanced at Arngeir, double-checking with him first.

“But what about you, father? Are you certain about this? I don’t want to abandon you.”

The jarl gave him a reassuring pat on the arm. “Do not fret, Eivor. You’re not abandoning anybody. If you choose to stay with Sigurd, then Randvi will remain here in your place. Neither of us will be alone.”

Randvi suddenly jumped into the conversation, encouraging her brother to follow his desires.

“Go on, Eivor. It’s okay. Father and I will have each other. We’ll rebuild Bjornheimr, and return this village to what it once was. By the time you come back, this place will be thriving more than it ever did. In the meantime, go with Sigurd. A new life awaits you in Fornburg. Don’t let this opportunity pass.”

“She’s right, Eivor,” Arngeir said. “All I’ve ever wanted for any of you is to be happy. If you believe that being with Sigurd is best for you, then go.”

The young man stumbled over his words, rendered completely speechless by how this scenario had turned out. When he awoke this morning, he never imagined that he’d be given the option to freely roam the kingdom at Sigurd’s side, living with him as if they were family. 

If anything, Eivor fully expected that he would be bidding the prince farewell, and left to wallow in the melancholy that had formed in his heart during this past month. So much anger and regret had taken control of his spirit’s reins ever since the news of Sigurd’s departure, and now... it was all gone. Just like that.

“I... I don’t know what to say,” he replied. “...Thank you, father. You can’t imagine how much this means to me.”

A gleeful expression spread across the jarl’s face. “I’m glad, Eivor.”

Randvi wrapped her arms around her younger brother, pulling the man into one last hug before saying goodbye.

“We’ll miss you, little cub. Take care of yourself, and each other. Alright?”

“We will. I promise.”

The woman gave him a playful shove. “Then get out of here. And make sure to knock plenty of skulls. Let the world know who we are.”

Eivor chuckled at the response, grinning from ear-to-ear. “The Bear Clan’s name will be fluttering from the lips of every bard in Norway when I’m done. I assure you. Until then, farewell, and thank you for all you’ve given me.”

The Wolf-Kissed walked over to Sigurd’s side, openly taking hold of his hand for the first time since they met. The prince’s eyes were twinkling with a vibrant ray of hope at this point, and a familiar sense of contentment had finally returned to his soul.

“Come, my love,” Eivor ushered. “Fornburg awaits.”

~~~~~~~~~~

LATER THAT DAY

Steadily gliding across the ocean’s hills, the longship broke free from the harbor and began heading out towards the vastness of the open sea, prepared to deliver its occupants back home after a long and arduous battle.

Petals of snow could be seen dancing along the surface of the vessel’s billowing sails, and in the distance, the sun’s light shone through the mountains, causing the water below to shimmer with a glittering streak.

Birds soared in harmony with the wind that guided the longship’s course and left a trail of feathers in their wake, accompanying the warriors who sailed beneath their wings.

All the creatures of Midgard seemed to band together in celebration now that the age of war had perished, and the earth cried out in relief due to the lack of blood littering its soil.

As for Eivor, the man simply rested against the longship’s walls and marveled at the view in front of him, listening intently while Sigurd entertained him with tales of Fornburg’s wonders. The prince spoke of his home with a great fondness and constructed vivid images using only the movement of his hands, painting a clear picture for his companion.

Meanwhile, the oarsmen behind them burst into song and began reciting a number of sea shanties, singing heartily as if they were performing for the gods themselves. Their voices rang merrily into the sky like a horn of victory, and the world around them seemed to bloom with revival.

It was the start of a new dawn. After countless years of pointless death and suffering, the clans in Norway had become united under one crown, and Kjotve had paid the ultimate price. His name had been blotted out with the stain of a mad tyrant, and his victims had been released from their ethereal chains in the afterlife.

Most importantly though, Eivor no longer felt the need to hide who he was. The fantasy that once haunted him in his dreams had become a reality, and now, he was free to love Sigurd as any man would love his wife. The times of fear and judgement were over at last, and the alliance between their peoples had been reignited with a different bond.

Their relationship would be the foundation of many things to come, and just like Ingrida once said, they had finally found their way home after decades of straying from their fate.

It was what the Nornir planned all along, and the one thing Varin always wished for his son -- the one thing he could never achieve.

Freedom.

[wisteria-lodge]

a bird secondary with a *very* unhealthy badger model

i’m pretty sure i’m using both Bird and Badger secondary tools - i just cannot for the life of me figure out which one’s my actual secondary, and which is the model. it doesn’t help that both of them are at least slightly charred. when i was younger, i was surely a Bird secondary, no doubt.

One of the reasons I ask people for childhood stories is I fundamentally don’t believe that sortings ever change. (Maybe that’s the Lion in me talking.) You can build beautiful models that you adore living in, but important aspects of yourself don’t just... fall away. They change, and grow, and level up. 

i’ve always loved collecting knowledge, i store trivia better than many a fandom wiki, i’ve studied things just because they interested me, i’ve once memorised a big portion of the pokedex just for fun… you get the idea.

I’m going with Bird secondary as a hypothesis, but this doesn’t necessarily say bird secondary to me. Bird of some kind, sure. But it could still be a model. 

when academia kicked my butt (hello, undiagnosed adhd), and i realised my natural talents and good memory won’t help me, i think i burnt my Bird. it really hit me very hard.

That can happen. And it’s brutal. But when a secondary burns from over-use, it’s not gone it’s just... tired. 

i’ve started appreciating kindness and hard work, and i wanted to be a person who - wasn’t necessarily the smartest in the room (because i felt that this ship has already sailed.)

There’s a fun word for someone who thinks they’re the smartest person in the room. And that word is “asshole.” :) Seriously, ‘being the smartest person in the room’ isn’t a real thing, and definitely not something to aspire to.

didn’t help that i’ve also acquired a nemesis who was just as smart as me, but an asshole, lmaoo. 

Like I was saying...

But I thought perhaps I could be the kind one. the patient one. the steady one. of course, that didn’t work for me with my adhd at all, lol. i am physically and mentally unable to reach that ideal of stable, patient, consistent, reliable. and it hit my self esteem real hard again. 

There is some sort of POWERFUL Badger secondary influence in your life, making you believe that you need to be that way too. And you don’t. That’s the entire premise of this system. That there are many ways to solve problems, all equally effective and valid. 

after all, not everyone can be smart, and that’s alright - but everyone can be a hard worker, right? it’s not a matter of any innate abilities.

You think the chip that allows you to settle down and focus on doing a non-preferred task in increments over long periods of time is not an innate ability? This is why I hate standardized tests. They test your ability to take a test much more than they test the material. Not everyone *can* sit at a desk in a silent, windowless room and do math problems for four hours. And why on earth should that be that a desirable, rewarded ability? The end goal is not to graduate and start working in a factory like its 1905. 

my bachelor degree’s taken me a year longer than it should have, because i’ve started just… not doing my work. didn’t come to class, didn’t hand in my homework, didn’t contact my professors. did everything at the very last minute, if at all. and i didn’t know why.

It’s because you struggle with executive dysfunction. Because you’re neurodivergent.

i’ve felt terrible about it, because i wanted to be a good student, you know? i wanted to feel like i earned that degree. i passed, because i’m bright and i can extrapolate based on the knowledge i already have, and i have a lot of knowledge in this wonky brain of mine - but it doesn’t feel like i… deserved that pass. 

for instance, we had this class - literature masterpieces of XX century. we were supposed to read one book each week. obviously i didn’t manage, bc despite reading as if my life depended on it in my early years, i lost that ability sometime during my high school years (when depression hit). so the night before, i’ve sat down, read the wikipedia article on every book and every author on the list, read goodreads’ reviews, sparknotes, whatever i could find. sometimes even fragments of the original text. and i passed that (oral) exam, even with this extremely strict professor. and i felt horrible about it, because i didn’t feel i deserved to pass that. i didn’t read those books! i’ve lied to you! i’ve cheated! 

Listen. I’m a teacher, and I am telling you, you deserved that degree. You got the info, you thought about it, you understood. You didn’t trick your strict professor. Your professor did a good job, and allowed you to think and learn and demonstrate your knowledge in a way that worked for you. (Which is what they’re supposed to do.) I love students with ADHD, their brains are fast and non-linear, and yes they skim the reading, but they make connections and take things to new levels and process things in such cool way, and it just makes me feel alive you know? 

I actually have more trouble with the opposite type, the student who obviously did the reading, but didn’t play with it or connect it to anything else they know, so it just kind of sits in their head like a lump, not doing them any good. But they are really good test-takers.

then again - doing things the right way was (and still is) sometimes just simply unaccesible to me.

There is no right way to do things. The right way to do thing is whatever makes you happy and gets the job done. But that’s a hard one to internalize. I still have trouble truly internalizing that one. But I’m getting better. 

the badger secondary, therefore, is not anything that’s actually… useful to me, most of the time, lol. 

You are crushing yourself under the weight of a Badger secondary model.

unless it’s the ~vibes~ of the badger that make professors like me, most of the time - and because of that liking, they’d often turn a blind eye to just how badly i’d fuck up.

I bet your professors like you because you’re an interested, interesting student who brightens up their day. And if they’re turning a blind eye, it’s because they know that people with ADHD struggle with deadlines sometime. And that’s /fine/

i often seem trustworthy and reliable in the beginning, before my executive dysfunction trips me up, and makes me beat myself up for not actually being that.

My thoughts on secondaries and executive dysfunction. 

it’s the bird that helps me still achieve anything these days - the knowledge i still have, and the things i pick up along the way, from friends or twitter or online articles. i can bullshit my way through many things, because i know quite a bit about a wide range of topics.

It is so easy to pick up on true bullshit as a teacher. We *know* when you don’t know what you’re talking about. When you put together interesting statements and arguments on the fly - when you pull something out of your ass - it’s still coming from you. That’s just an alternate way of thinking. Also, everything you have written is SO BIRD.

but actually applying myself - which i feel is both necessary to succeed 

It’s not.

and the right way to do things

There’s no such thing.

 - is just… out of my reach. sorry for the rant, but i’m just so super confused, lmao. if you have any thoughts on this mess, i’d be very grateful. apologies for any mistakes, too - english is not my first language.

English isn’t your first language??? Your English is amazing. You’re a bird secondary, and a pretty brilliant one by the sound of it. And you are torturing yourself because you aren’t living up to an entirely arbitrary Badger secondary ideal.

[pokemon-ninjago-world]

Headcanon/Pokéninjago version of Lloyd’s identity crisis during season 5 of Ninjago

Got ab 12 likes on the announcement post so here we are: This is an essay-sorta-thing about something I thought and wrote some six years ago. It’s been so long since I wrote this I feel cringy reading it, but it’s tenable in Pokéninjago lore. It’s kind of a mix between my headcanon for the show, and canon of my AU, which is why there is mentions of “evolving” and Pokémon types.

Things to take into account:

Idk if there should be content warnings, but depression mention at least. Otherwise, this is pretty much as intense as season 5 went, just a little more angsty I suppose.

I must say that my version of Lloyd and his identity crisis were inspired by a certain artist’s version of him and by a comic they made about the Child’s Play episode’s aftermath. I don’t dare name the artist, since they don’t wish to be linked with the Ninjago fandom anymore, but some of you might know who I’m referring to. 

I do not know how psychology stuff actually works, all of this was made on grounds of a couple of high school psychology courses and a lot of imagination `:D

I wrote this originally in Finnish and let Word translate it, so this might be v clumsy at points.

Most of the text is under the cut!

                                                  ~***~

When Lloyd was just a small cub, closer to three years, his mother had left him in his father's care. Misako knew the boy would become the Green Ninja and Garmadon would become the Dark Lord. That is why she went looking for any ancient knowledge to avoid the final confrontation. Although her heart was torn since she had to leave her loved ones, she knew that she couldn’t just sit on her hands, and that perhaps she was the only one that could prevent the decisive battle between good and evil. It was also her wish that the father and the son could spend as much time together as possible. Thus, Lloyd's earliest childhood memories are about his father, and his recollections of his mother are blurry, obscure, and fading away as he grows up, or mixing with other memories.

            Dad meant everything to little Lloyd. Although they lived in the same monastery with Lloyd’s uncle as well, whom he also liked, his own father was still the greatest. Garmadon also loved his child deeply and wanted him to have a happy life. Although the poison in his veins was starting to get a hold of him and he was increasingly drawn to the Golden Weapons, his love for Lloyd and the desire to be with him in anticipation of Misako's return kept him away from them for much longer than if the boy had never existed.

                    When Lloyd "evolved," he lost some important years of his life, during which a youngster usually developes a picture of himself and his changing body. Lloyd's body changed in a single moment and even though his mind also changed to some degree, it was still mostly on the same level as before, since artificial aging did not bring him the years of experience that growing up normally would. From that moment on, he had to form himself a new image of himself. Frankly, he was facing a fierce identity crisis.

                     After the episode Child's Play, Lloyd adopted an identity whose foundation was flimsy and unstable. It consisted of a few simple pillars that supported his image of himself. Some emotions, thoughts, and memories that he could not, wasn’t able to or didn’t dare to deal with, secretly and slowly gnawed at those pillars like erosion. They grew into doubt that settled into the cracks like rockfoil.

                     That flimsy foundation for his self-image, consisted of these elements: I am the Green Ninja. I'm the strongest ninja of all. I’m the son of  sensei Garmadon. I’m the grandson of The First Spinjitzu Master. I'm one of the Elemental Masters. I'm a student of Sensei Wu. I'm one of the five elemental ninjas. It's my destiny to protect the world from evil.

                     This made it easy for Morro to destabilize and crush Lloyd’s self-esteem. Morro proved himself to be stronger and more independent than Lloyd, and that he could win him over and over again, no matter how hard Lloyd tried to fight back. Lloyd felt weak and desperate. Two pillars of his self-image collapsed to the ground and the masked emotions and doubts that chipped away at the other columns began to grow and intensify: He was not the strongest ninja and was therefore unable to protect the world from this evil.

                     This also affected his view of him as the Green Ninja. Although logically he still was just that – the Golden Weapons and his powers had proven it – he could not help but think that maybe Morro really was supposed to be the Chosen One. His identity was cracking, which ate away at his strength and self-esteem. Being a Psychic Type, his greatest strength resided in his psyche, and whenever his mind was in an unstable and vulnerable state, he couldn’t do his best, even if he had used everything he had learned. Losing his father fairly recently had already struck a dangerous notch in his mental stability.

                     Even though Lloyd was still his father's son, it didn't feel the same when he was no longer with him. Finally, he was only driven forward by his relationship with his other loved ones. He had to do everything he could to stop Morro from harming his friends. By protecting them he was also protecting the last intact remnants of his Self.

                     Lloyd did everything he could to resist Morro's possession. From time to time a memory of his friends and the will to keep them safe increased his "self-control," weakening the ghost's hold on him. However, a long, grueling time in constant motion, without water and nourishment, poisoned by a cold, vindictive spirit, steadily filled his mind with anguish and despair. Doubts penetrated deep into the tears of his self-image, breaking everything old until he no longer knew who he was. Only with the last bits of his mental strength could he interfere with Morro's possession so that he failed to clear the other ninjas out of his way.

                     Then, when Morro broke away from Lloyd's body, the Espeon felt like nothing more than an empty, broken shell floating aimlessly in the dark, beachless sea. He was unable to live up to any of the expectations and goals that had been set for him. Now, he was used as a trade-in item in the market of the world’s destiny. He longer had the strength or power to save even his best friends. He was as helpless as a newborn pup and all he could do was to stand by and apologize when he was traded for Realm Crystal.

                      Somewhere from his past, he dug up one last spark of strength. Already as a child, he had been left alone with unfriendly people, who then had ignited that stubborn flame in him: the desire to fight the cruel, unjust and repressive world. His body still had more strength than his mind, and this momentary burst of grit made him kick the Crystal out of Morro's hand. This, however, caused him to end up in the freezing stream, all his energy used up. There was not much left but a primitive desire to survive and a little strength to keep his head afloat before the cold numbed his muscles.

                     Lloyd's mind was in shambles. Images, memories, shattered fragments of his adopted identity… they all churned in his tired, blurred consciousness. Unintentionally, he began to go through the feelings of uncertainty, fear and inadequacy that he had denied from himself for years. The present seemed more surreal than the memories. He relived moments that had had a revolutionary impact on his life: When the golden weapons pointed him out as a Green Ninja; when he grew up under the influence of Tomorrow's Tea; when he met his mother and became to know her; when he unleashed the Golden Dragon in the Temple of Light; how he fought the Overlord who was possessing his father; how he harnessed his True Potential; got his father back; lost Zane; reunited his friends again and felt great togetherness with the other Elemental Masters. When he lost his father again. And when Morro possessed him.

                     Lloyd was lost. If it wasn’t for his friends and their care, he would have sunk deep into depression (and, on the other hand, drowned or, at the very least, died of hypothermia). When Kai carried him out of the FSM’s tomb, it triggered a very clear memory of the day when the Master of Fire had fulfilled his potential and Lloyd had been identified as the Chosen One. That day, Kai had come to save him from an erupting volcano and carried him to safety. Now, Lloyd felt like he was that little scared cub again, who had for a moment thought he was going to burn to the ground in the boiling lava of the volcano. He remembered how Kai's closeness had brought a feeling of immediate security around him. Even though the mountain had raged and wanted to kill them both, Lloyd had known he didn’t have to be afraid. Kai was there. He'd protect Lloyd. There was no reason to fight the fear anymore, he didn't have to pretend like he was tough. He was carried by someone older and stronger, whom to rely on.

                     The feeling was so intense, the memory so vivid that Lloyd was overwhelmed by an inexplicable, immense grief. The sadness of being forced to give up a carefree childhood so early on, to take on an enormous responsibility and assume a role that seemed too demanding for such a small boy to perform. He had had to grow up way too soon. He started shaking from holding back the tears. He didn’t mind since he thought Kai was probably assuming that he was shivering from the cold. But when Kai said quietly and understandingly: "Shh... It's okay... Don't worry about it," the last wall of pride and fear fell, and Lloyd could no longer repress his weeping.

                     At this point, he slowly began to build a new identity on the ruins of the wrecked one. He understood that even though he was the Green Ninja, it didn’t make him greater or more important than the others. He had more magical power than anyone else, but he was still only a person just like them. He could hesitate, too, and fail. There was no way for him to do anything more than what he was capable of, mentally, physically, and skill-wise. That’s all there was to offer, and if it wasn't enough, there were others whom he could rely on. Others, who would catch him when he ran out of strength. He wasn't the last link to hold the whole structure together.

                     These ideas developed slowly in Lloyd's exhausted mind. Slowly, he got stitched back up from the fragments of his previous self-image. This time, however, his new identity was not something that was given to him from the outside, in which he would have had to fit himself, but it was a solid, authentic self-image created as a result of self-reflection. It was still obscure, uncertain and seeking its form, and its growth was overshadowed by fear. But the conversation with his father drove away that last fear. The fear that Morro was supposed to be the Green Ninja instead of Lloyd. His father assured that Lloyd’s qi had no influence on how he should live and act. He should live the way his heart told him to.

                     In the end, although Morro managed to beat Lloyd one last time, this time he did not break down. He was more intact now, he had more inner strength, and he knew for sure he wouldn't be abandoned. That the fate of the world wasn't really up to him. He may have been part of the story, but after all, he wasn't the protagonist, at least not the only one of them.

[tsaritsa]

check my time

firstly; ever write something and be like. oh damn. i wrote that bitch? that's me rn

secondly, this title is taken from rebecca black's friday. shenanigans were had in the royai support group discord in which we were determined to title some fics with that immortal song. come hang with us! it's pretty fun and we only occasionally have so-bad-it's-good ideas like this.

you can also read this over on ao3

--

It is perhaps, unsurprising, that Major Mustang initially believes that it was because of him that she signed up for service. His idyllicism is perhaps the most enduring trait she has to remember him by: a young man, proudly wearing his blues and speaking of the way he would coax the country in a better, grander, position than where it started. His inherent paternalism – and it is that, he wants to make the country into his image and nothing less – is inherited from her own father. He too, believed, understood, proved that he knew the way forward.

It is a bit of a joke now how personally he seems to take this new knowledge – this was not part of his plan. Perhaps he thought he would return after the war, a decorated hero with new depths to those dark eyes and sweep her off her feet like so many of her dorm sisters have been in recent years. What few letters that do make their way to the estate – and subsequently, months later to the front – are notices of marriage, and once, an invitation to attend herself. Laura had been one of the kinder girls, and a small part of Riza that’s been tucked away between the notches on her rifle would’ve liked to see her in white, watched the celebration with a distance that Laura wouldn’t have questioned or assumed was rude.

But Riza is unable to entertain such fantasies. This country would rather look the other way than acknowledge the cost of this war, the amount of people being flung into the sand just to keep the effort justifiable. There are rumours that another train line has been taken out, and necessary supplies that were already months late will now never arrive. It’s a wonder any letters managed to find their way to her at all.

Major Mustang has a peculiar habit of finding her no matter where she is in the encampment. At first, she pegs it down to coincidence, but later it becomes clearer that he is seeking her out in some fashion, even if most times he refuses to engage with her at all. Perhaps he thinks he can protect her in this way, a careful eye watching from a distance. It is laughable. The distance Riza is able to set between herself and any unwanted target easily outstrips his distance for accuracy. She can and will limit her damage. He razes through it all as if the end result is the only thing that matters. Perhaps that’s true. The reality of bending a land, a people, to your will is never as simple as her superiors make it out to be.

Part of her resents this treatment, resents the hovering that the others in her unit have picked up on. They’re snipers, after all. They’re meant to look at the wider picture, notice small, subtle shifts in the landscape. It takes them a little longer to deduce who he’s trying to shadow, but after another few days of watching him not-wander with not-purpose, her spotter nudges her, faintly tilting his head towards 11 o’clock.

“Perhaps he’s never seen a woman with short hair before. I hear he came from Central – fuckwits, the lot of them.”

Her spotter, Dylan, is a stout young man, with a face that had not lost the fat of his youth until very recently. He, like her, was pushed through quickly, at the pleading of higher-ups who were wholly unprepared for their theatres of war. The two of them are well aware of the incompetence that has resulted in their posting. This knowledge is what protects them more than the briefings they receive.

A tense smile pulls at the edges of her lips. “I have the unfortunate pleasure of being acquainted with him. I would hesitate to paint him with the same brush as the soldiers from the last tour though.”

Dylan scoffs, picking at the cervidae meat the cooks managed to scrounge up. It’s probably a sacred animal in these parts. “Does he think you don’t belong here?”

Riza hums. “I think he envisioned a different future for me. I think I’ve ruined the fantasy.”

--

The man introduced to her briefly as Maes Hughes seeks her out some weeks later. He is an interesting man. Riza thinks he is like the prisms that fracted light in her Father’s study: she spies different fragments of him, personalities and idiosyncrasies that layer over one another if you view him just so. He is canny and shrewd, and Riza is not surprised that Major Mustang has made his acquaintance. His ability to seek out power and bend it to suit his whims is perhaps the most crucial thing to understand about him. It does not necessarily matter what the substance of the power is, it only matters in how he can exploit it for his personal use.

“Hawkeye,” Maes Hughes says shortly, deliberately stepping into pace with her as she moves through the camp. She had been seeking some rest. She knows now that that will be difficult to do unless she plays his game.

“Captain Hughes,” she responds, dipping her head in acknowledgment. It is perhaps a little ruder for a greeting than other superiors would allow, but Riza surmises that Maes Hughes doesn’t care much for inane rules and pageantry out here. He is not thriving in this environment, merely surviving like her.

“This isn’t about Roy,” he begins, and Riza appreciates the bluntness. “Well, not from him. But I thought we could talk.”

Riza inclines her head to the outer encampment, the side that overlooks into the valley. It’s never as busy here, particularly in the afternoon as the sun sinks down over the mountains and the desert chill begins to set in. “What about?” She will make him work for this conversation. She is well aware of who could – would – be privy to it.

Hughes is quiet for a moment as he leans against one of the tent poles. “I confess I’m curious about the two of you. Roy is fiercely protective of you. Others are beginning to notice.”

“He’s stubborn like that.”

“Is there a reasonable explanation for his behaviour?”

Part of Riza thinks it would be rather funny to divulge her secrets again. Make his power and devastation inert by granting everyone the same ability that he wields so selfishly, covets even more so. But it’s a passing fancy, a fantasy she’ll never get to fully realise, much like the goals she imagines he had in place for her. Hughes has already played some of his cards by investigating what he’s already identified to be Mustang’s weakest link, and Riza feels it’s only fair to work within the estimation he has already formed of her. She will never let her back be used against her again. Major Mustang put paid to that lesson for her.

“His alchemy apprenticeship was a few houses down from where I lived. There weren’t many young people in the village. We were… acquaintances, I suppose,” she begins, testing the words on her tongue. Dylan hadn’t needed a story to assess Major Mustang. He didn’t need to be convinced of anything he couldn’t already surmise from looking at him.

“Perhaps he was sweet on me; I confess I never paid much attention, as my father was a sick man and required almost all of my attention. It was strange to realise that one of the soldiers I saved was someone I knew –” the parapraxis isn’t lost on her but Hughes’ face is impassive, waiting. Either he was a good listener or what he was suspicious of had not been confirmed so far. “ – Maybe it is strange for him too,” she concludes, rubbing the muscle that connects her thumb to the fleshy part of her palm.

Hughes appears to mull over her words. “He must be very sweet on you, then.” There’s a warning nestled in that sentence, an acknowledgment that he caught her use of tense just as he corrects her on which is the truth – what he knows is the truth.

Riza rolls her shoulders slowly. “I wouldn’t assume to know his feelings on the matter. He hasn’t talked to me since our last meeting. In all honesty, Captain, I don’t think there is much to talk about either. We’re just ghosts in each other’s pasts.”

“He doesn’t treat you like a ghost.”

“My spotter has come to calling him that. He always seems to lingering like some forgotten shade.”

Hughes pushes himself off the tent pole he was leaning against, shoving his hands into his pockets. Riza was right, he is a clever man – knows better than to needle someone continually for information they’re not willing to part with yet. His patience would undoubtedly be tempering some of Major Mustang’s worst impulses. Maybe that’s why he hasn’t approached her again.

“I just felt warning you would be the right thing to do,” he says. “Considering I’m now not alone in my understandings.”

Riza blinks slowly. “Thank you for the warning, Captain Hughes,” she replies. He probably thinks he’s being kind, extending a hand to the young ingénue who’s out of her depth in a horror that’s only halfway done. Maybe Major Mustang had crafted that story for Hughes as well; of his role in this story he still seems to be writing. He is the hero. They are the supporting cast as much as the sand they stand on.

I thought you’d wait for me; he had hissed over the campfire at their first meeting.

I thought you’d help people; she had taunted as the embers sunk into the ash.

[raffinit]

for ur sylvaina prompt ask if ur still doing it: as a sign of good faith during peace negotiations, jaina invents a few spells (w/ her brother as a willing test subject) for sylvanas and the forsaken. spells to help improve taste, for example. little things to help an undead get through the day a little easier, things that only the forsaken or those who lived with them would know about. basically jaina helps with forsaken accessibility and sylvanas not knowing what to do with that

thank you to everyone who bought me ko-fis

bc of you i can actually put a read more cut on this with my VERY OWN COMPUTER SOBS

back to regular updates soon i promise, i just have all these beautiful prompts

-------

It began, like most things, curiously. Or rather — with curiosity. It was a trait of hers that drew mixed results at times; more in her vibrant youth than in her middle age. Her mother once told her that she had enough curiosity to kill ten cats, and Jaina had worn it then with pride.

She learned, with time, to contain her curiosities. To apply them scientifically; because science allowed for more curiosity than she knew what to do with. Science was her excuse for setting the curtains on fire when she was nine.

Science was her excuse for portalling abruptly into the war room and landing on the table during a council meeting.

Science was why she stared so intently at Sylvanas Windrunner.

Or perhaps, more accurately — it was purely curiosity at that point. The Banshee Queen was an unreadable figure, an inscrutable force that left Jaina all but reeling with each passing day the Horde and Alliance drew closer and closer to sealing a peace treaty.

She never thought she'd live to see the day.

What she still couldn't quite put her finger on was — ironically — Sylvanas.

The Warchief did many things that were incomprehensible for one reason or another. But to Raise Derek — what could Sylvanas have possibly gained, short of perhaps tormenting them with the knowledge that she simply could?

Her reunion with Derek had been a tearful one; rife with things that neither of them could fully comprehend. Clutching her brother close, clinging to him tight, she caught the figure of the Warchief in her periphery; caught the strange melancholy on Sylvanas' face.

It was there for only an instant. Sylvanas' ear flicked, then her burning eyes flashed to meet Jaina's.

Jaina blinked and the Warchief was gone.

Reconnecting with her brother came in stages. Baby steps. They had become vastly different people — too changed to reminisce without sorrow in its wake.

Still, beneath it all, beneath his Undeath — Derek was still Derek.

Derek, who teased her fondly about all that he could. He who boldly tested the limitations of his Undead form in ways that brought back memories of a childhood spent clambering over tree branches and diving off cliffs.

"What does it feel like?" she asked one day, when her curiosity became too much.

Derek paused, lifting his head to stare off into the horizon. “It feels like…living behind a curtain, honestly,” he confessed. “I feel present…but my presence feels…” he shrugged. “Muted, almost. As if I exist on only a fragment of this plane. I’m stronger than I ever was; I can do things I couldn’t even imagine.”

Jaina ducked her head to meet his eyes encouragingly. It was still unsettling, in some way, to look into her brother’s face and see the burning unnatural shade of his gaze. “But…?”

“But I do miss it,” he sighed, a wistful look on his face. “Eating, drinking. Sleeping. I’m never tired, but sleeping’s never just been about being tired, has it? I’d like the privilege of choosing whether or not I want to rest.”

Jaina felt that deeply.

She blinked then, head tilting curiously. “Do you not taste things anymore? I’ve read some things about that, but I thought Forsaken could eat. And sleep. There were inns in the Undercity.”

“I understand about as much as you. Perhaps even less so,” he said, reaching out and squeezing her hand. He gave her a soft, self-deprecating little smile. “But here I am, lamenting the things I’ve lost when I should be grateful to even be here to begin with.”

She smiled at him faintly, though her mind was already reeling with thought. With the myriad of ways that she could — that she should — help.

“…what if you could do those things again?” she asked.

Derek paused and turned to stare at her curiously. Whatever it was that he saw there on her face made a knowing smile spread across his lips. “I know that look,” he said. “That’s a science look.”

Jaina smiled slowly. “Are you up for an experiment?”

“Always,” he said gamely. “Anything for science.”

-----

They tried spells first. Little experiments of magic that Jaina imbued her brother with in slow, gentle touches. The Light burned, but too much arcane made Derek sway like a sailor drowning in his cups. Some spells rekindled too much of Derek’s living form; made him inescapably aware of the damage his body had borne. 

The agony on her brother’s face made for many sleepless nights and haunted dreams.

“This one makes everything smell,” he said one today.

Jaina brightened hopefully. “Good smells?”

“Like eggs.”

“Eggs?”

“Farty eggs. Like kippers in the morning.”

Jaina huffed and waved her hands briskly to recall the spell. “Maybe a potion instead.”

It took her another few weeks to pull together a functioning elixir. Nights spent hunched over her desk, sleeping with her cheek pressed to page after page of notes from ancient tomes and books helpfully “borrowed” from the vast library of Stormwind City.

Derek watched her some days, peering over her shoulder like a curious child at the window of a bakery. She indulged him as much as her patience would allow; until eventually his persistent questions and hovering made her all too aware of the cramped space of her temporary rooms in the Keep.

“How about you sit,” she said, jerking her chin at the plush armchair by the fireplace. “Tell me about what it’s been like since you’ve...Risen.”

Derek peered at her wordlessly but obliged, settling himself comfortably into the armchair. “What exactly do you want to know?”

Jaina shrugged. “Anything, I suppose. Everything? The Forsaken are an enigma to us. The Warchief most of all.”

“I don’t have anything to report,” he drawled. “She never spoke of plans to double-cross the Alliance, if that’s what you’re concerned about.”

“I just meant as a person,” she replied in exasperation. “What was the Warchief like...up close?”

Derek blinked and sat back into the armchair, staring for a few thoughtful moments into the fireplace. At length, he said, “She’s a lot kinder than you would think. When I first...Awoke...she was there. She wouldn’t leave me until she was sure I could manage it on my own.”

“Manage what?”

“Existing, I suppose.” He twisted around in the armchair and peered at her over the back. “Did you know; she said I led her to my body?”

Jaina blinked. “What?”

“My soul, that is. She said she could hear it. She could hear all of us.” Derek’s voice softened with thought, and something like pity. “All of the souls lost at sea. The ones who never made peace with it. The ones who refused to rest.”

Incredulous, she asked, “She can do that?”

Derek nodded sagely. “So it seems.”

“Hmm.”

Eventually, she held out a vial of something that looked like it was made of something between the aether and sewage water. “Here.”

He took it in hand, tilting the vial this way and that and swirling it gently. “Couldn’t it have looked like a pint of mead or something? Why do all potions have to look like bog water?”

“Derek.”

“Fine, fine,” he huffed, bringing the vial to his lips —

“Just a sip, first,” she warned, eyes wide with apprehension. “Hold it on your tongue for a moment and let it coat your mouth before you swallow.”

He complied with a slight nod and Jaina watched as Derek’s jaw moved in a slow flex; as if he were considering a particular vintage of port. His glowing eyes blinked in surprise and he pulled the vial away to stare down at it thoughtfully. “Doesn’t taste as awful as it looks.”

Jaina’s eyes lit up eagerly. “So you can taste?”

Derek opened his mouth to reply, then winced hard. “Yes,” he croaked, glaring down at the vial in betrayal. “Farty eggs and kippers.” He stuck out his tongue and tried to scrape the taste off it with his teeth.

“Are you sure you’re not just confused with the smell of the sea?”

He gave her an exasperated look and corked the vial. “I think I’d know what the sea smells like.”

Jaina sighed, reaching up to run a hand through the already-tousled mess of her hair. “Back to the drawing board.”

Their success plateaued for a time; there was nothing more that Jaina could do that yielded any further result, and the frustration was building. She took to wandering the stress of Stormwind, watching the Forsaken as they bustled about. They were wary still — all of them, but the Forsaken moved with darting glances over their shoulders and the reflexive flinch of beings long-accustomed to violence.

Some mornings, she dared to test her tongue at Gutterspeak; pulling what little Derek had managed to teach her. They stared at her at first, eyeing her with open distrust and hostility that made her wonder if the words her brother had taught her weren’t inflammatory somehow.

Still, she persevered, walking among the Horde by herself when she could. Most meetings between the Alliance and Horde ran long, and there were some evenings when she would catch the glimpse of rich purple and feathered armour around the bend when she walked.

Sometimes, she would catch the Warchief’s eye as she passed. Sylvanas’ eyes gleamed at her brightly, watching as a cat would at a passing flicker of light before nodding once in greeting.

For how distant she was from the Banshee Queen, Derek seemed to have no qualms with approaching Sylvanas.

At times, she saw them talking — in quiet asides that halted abruptly the moment any other individual came within earshot, and it prodded at Jaina’s curiosity once more.

“I never thought I’d see you so friendly with the Warchief,” she remarked one day.

Derek shrugged. “She brought me back. For whatever reason. And despite what anyone might think...she...cares.”

“Cares?”

“Ask her yourself,” he replied, nudging her in the shoulder.

She didn’t, only kept her efforts of mingling with the Forsaken. Most were wary of her still, barely acknowledging her words or pointedly ignoring them.

Then one day, a Forsaken replied. His words were guttural and harsh in tone, but the words were almost...friendly. “Good morning. You must use your throat more.”

Jaina obliged readily and welcomed any and all criticism that came. Some were malicious and stung, but a majority of those who engaged her seemed...bewildered at her willingness to learn. “Haven’t others tried to learn Gutterspeak?” she asked.

The Forsaken shook his head. “Gutterspeak is beneath the Alliance, isn’t it? ‘Tis the language of us Forsaken.”

Pursing her lips, Jaina said, “All peoples should have a right to their own language.”

“Perhaps,” he replied, eyeing her with something less than hate.

Though most were wary but polite, not all members of the Horde were as accommodating. She dared to approach a warlock troll one day, blinking in surprise when he curled his lip and sneered at her.

“Why would I be sharin’ de secrets of da Horde wit’ ya?”

“Because I want to understand more about your people,” she replied staunchly. “I’m only trying to help —”

He barked out a laugh, the sound calling the attention of the nearby folk. Orc and goblin and trolls watched on, murmuring among themselves as Jaina fought back the embarrassment building in her belly.

“Leave her alone, Zaejin,” an orc said. “You’re not stupid enough to challenge the Lord Admiral.”

“Mebbe it be time someone did,” Zaejin growled back. In his hands, a dark, swirling ball of energy formed.

Jaina backed slowly away from them, smothering the prickle of arcane itching at her fingertips as more of the Horde began to gather. Something solid and cold bumped against her back and she helped softly, spinning around in alarm —

“Lady Proudmoore.”

She stiffened, staring up at burning red eyes.

Sylvanas peered down into her face impassively. A hand reached out and grasped her arm, steadying her in place. Those blazing eyes flashed back to the crowd. 

Before Jaina could speak — to explain, or perhaps protest — Sylvanas insinuated herself between them, all but looming over the warlock. “Have you any qualms with the Lord Admiral that I have not heard, Zaejin?”

The gathered Horde froze, darting nervous looks between them as they shuffled back. Zaejin bowed at the hip, refusing to lift his gaze from the ground. “Warchief. How are we ta trust de Lord Admiral’s intentions —”

“Has she given you cause for concern?” Sylvanas drawled. “Has she trod on your toes? Planned a military coup to usurp power while we are in peace talks with the Alliance?”

“Who knows with de likes o’ her,” Zaejin grumbled, casting a resentful look at Jaina.

“Then this peace treaty is a waste of time,” Sylvanas said. “If you’d like us to return to war, only say so, Zaejin. I shall leave the Lord Admiral to deal with your insubordination herself.”

At last, Jaina found her voice. “It’s alright,” she croaked, darting a slightly bewildered look between Sylvanas and Zaejin. “It’s understandable that he would be...wary still. There is too much between our factions to expect everyone to be content with peace talks.”

Sylvanas’ ear flicked, her burning eyes flashing with amusement as she inclined her head. “That much is true. Regardless.” She reached out and laid a hand on Jaina’s shoulder, squeezing just so to leave the woman gaping wordlessly at her grip. Setting her eyes to the crowd, she said, “Let it be known; so long as we remain in Stormwind, the Lord Admiral is free to walk among the Horde with my blessing.”

A rich plume of power began to bleed from her shoulders effortlessly and Jaina fought back a shiver at the raw strength of it. “Have you any protests, warlock?”

Zaejin said nothing further, only glared. Boldly, Jaina reached out and touched Sylvanas’ elbow, casting a speaking look up at the Banshee Queen. “I think your point’s been made, Warchief. Let us do as you say and lay our animosities to rest.”

Wordlessly, and strangely, Sylvanas complied. “I shall escort you to your quarters, Lady Proudmoore.”

Jaina blinked. It didn’t exactly sound like an offer so much as a command, but she quelled the instinct to bristle and nodded mutely.

“Thank you,” she mumbled, when they were a fair distance away. “That was...unnecessary, but thank you.”

Sylvanas inclined her head; the weight of her hand lingered at the small of Jaina’s back. “If these peace talks are to bear fruit, we can’t have the Lord Admiral of Kul Tiras assaulted in the streets. And we can’t have you levelling half the street in retaliation.” Her eyes slid sidelong knowingly.

Jaina huffed. “I could have managed with a little more tact than that.”

“I have no doubt,” Sylvanas said. They walked on for a time in a stilted sort of silence, until the Warchief folded her arms behind her back and remarked idly, “How have your experiments been going?”

Jaina paused in her step and stared.

Shrugging, Sylvanas said, “Derek likes to talk.” It was strange to hear her brother’s name on such a foreign tongue. “I understand the desire to...process the state your brother returned to you in. Not many of the living had such a kind reception to their Undead loved ones.”

“...He told me you gave him the choice to come back. Despite everything.” Jaina’s gaze was hard and searching, but not unkind.

Sylvanas’ ears swivelled and flicked, but there was nothing in her face that gave away the Warchief’s thoughts. She shrugged. “...I do not Raise those who do not wish to be raised. Not without purpose."

“And what was your purpose here?”

Sylvanas peered at her thoughtfully before turning back forward. “I did not Raise him with the intention of misusing him. I know the stories the Alliance tells about my powers. My goals and aims.”

Her burning eyes slid sidelong to Jaina for a moment. Quietly, she said, “I will not lie and say that the possibility never crossed my mind. But the Forsaken have never been mine to use. They are my kin, not my servants.”

The weight of Sylvanas’ words stunned Jaina; brought every story about the Dark Lady and her relationship with the Forsaken into question. Many thought her a tyrant — and she was, in many ways — but this was not one of them, it seemed.

Jaina ducked her head almost in shame before nodding once, meeting Sylvanas’ gaze steadily. “I believe you.”

Sylvanas made a noise in her throat, tilting her head curiously at Jaina. “...Does he regret it? Some do.”

“No,” Jaina replied, and the honesty of her response surprised even herself. “I don’t think he does. I think he’s...trying to adjust. And I want to help.”

Sylvanas nodded slowly. “Do let me know, should you require another test subject. I would be curious to see what you could achieve,” she said.

“Wh—?”

“If you require information from the High Necromancer, I shall provide it,” Sylvanas continued, pausing as they reached the tower. Glancing up at the spire, she turned to Jaina. “It is my duty as their leader, is it not? To ease their burdens. I would like to help, if I can.”

Jaina blinked rapidly, then found herself nodding. It was the only thing she could think to do. “Y-yes, alright — I — thank you??”

A slow, curling smile spread across Sylvanas’ face. “You’re welcome. Until another time, Lady Proudmoore.”

[my-happy-little-bean]

The Bookkeeper – Chapter 8

Chapter 8: Nihilism and the Death of Art (I)

pairings: logan/patton (logicality), roman/virgil (prinxiety)  words: 3611 chapter warnings: mild swearing, nihilism, existential crisis, arguments, implied deaths/”ghosts” chapter summary: the reunion episode

[read on ao3] [masterlist]

< previous chapter

—

Fray and Far Fables dwelled in silence for a week. Logan kept himself busy with writing, but worked on everything except for his speech. Instead, he scrawled questions in the margins of his drafts, annotating his work in the hopes that it’d meet Virgil Aries’ careful eye. 

He knew he should have let it go ever since Roman’s breakdown—the deadline for his drafted speech was fast approaching, after all—but he couldn’t help it. Part of him truly believed that if Roman saw how much he wanted this, he’d change in his mind. 

Logan underlined a few words of his annotations, narrowing his eyes. Blue sparks trailed his writing. 

Roman had to change his mind. 

Logan sighed, looking over at Virgil Aries’ book sitting on his counter, closed. He used to think it was taunting him, but now it felt like it was begging him for anything, anything, anything. 

He hadn’t seen Roman much in the past few days, but he made sure that the book sat in Roman’s line of sight, just as much as it sat in his. But still, Roman hid in the shadows between each book. He didn’t even come out for Patton, who had only visited once or twice, as if he was a child walking into the middle of their parents’ feud. 

Logan crumbled a sticky note in his hand and flicked it off the counter, a trail of blue magic shooting it straight into the trash can. 

“Oh isn’t this quite the show.” 

Logan blinked. Sitting on Virgil Aries’ book was Roman, magically there with no trace of entrance. 

“I...how did you...” 

Roman snapped his fingers, and a spark of red fizzled out like a fading sparkler. Logan abandoned the current point of intrigue almost immediately, and settled for the next.

“Where have you been?” 

“I’ve been bookkeeping.” Roman shot him a glare. “That's all I do.” 

Logan winced.

“Roman, I want to talk to you, about what I said–” 

“Already forgotten, Specs.” 

“ Please just...just hear me out. Okay?” 

Roman opened his mouth to protest, but it eventually thinned into a tense line. Logan took a deep breath, closing his eyes and pushing up his glasses. 

“I’m sorry about what happened in the book nook,” Logan murmured. “I...I was being too eager.” 

“You were being unrealistic, Logan.” 

“I just don’t think it is unrealistic.” Logan sighed. “I...I know that it is a lot to ask for. And I discredited you a lot that day, and I just want you to know that what I said...it isn’t reflective of what I think about you, Roman. I think the world of you.” 

Roman softened, Logan could tell, but he did his best not to show it. 

“...Go on.” 

Logan let a small smile slip. 

“That’s why I think we can do this, Roman. I know you are apprehensive, but I want to work through that with you. And if we can perfect this, it opens up so many possible avenues for the state of research as we know it. We could contribute so much , Roman.”

A pause. Roman hopped off the closed copy of Virgil Aries’ book and floated off the counter, flying slowly along the shelves. He ran his hand across the spines of the books.

“Why do you want to meet Virgil?” Roman asked quietly. 

Logan found himself taken aback. 

“I...there’s so many reasons, Roman. You know I could go on for days about his work–”

“But why him? ” Roman stopped mid-air and turned around to stare at Logan. “Why do you want to hear it from him?” 

It was only then that Logan saw a glint of red in Roman's irises, buried beneath a mix of tiredness and hope. He had seen both before, but never together. 

Logan frowned, face scrunching up in thought. 

“There’s knowledge that needs to be explored, even just a little,” he finally said. “And I know Virgil Aries had more to say. I’m sincere in my intentions, Roman — I want to finish the thoughts he wanted to explore.” 

Roman looked at Logan, almost defeated. The red glow around him dimmed to the point where it dropped him slightly. Logan jolted forward, as if ready to catch him, but Roman lifted himself back up with a heavy sigh. 

“You used to do that a lot, you know.” Roman smiled, yet it felt hollow. “As a kid, you used to finish everyone’s sentences. You always seemed to know what to say; you always seemed to know every answer. So...seeing you like this puzzles me, I suppose.” 

“What are you saying, Roman?” 

Roman closed his eyes and floated back to the counter, sitting on Virgil Aries’ book once more. 

“They say that the desire to know– truly know– everything about anything runs deep in one’s veins. And like any sort of power, it can become...well, overpowering.”

Roman opened his eyes and looked up at Logan.

“What I’m saying is that this will change things, Logan. You deal with a greater power than what I am exerting. You deal with the past and you deal with knowledge: both the reaffirming kind and the new, hidden kind– the one that lays in unexplored realms.” 

“Roman, what are you–” 

“I’m scared, Logan,” Roman blurted out. The air grew thick and the shop became quiet. Roman rubbed the bridge of his nose, ducking his head, almost embarrassed. “I’m...I’m just scared.” 

Logan softened.

“Who wouldn’t be?” Logan held out his hand against the counter, palm open for Roman to land, as he always did. “But fear underlies every pursuit, yet the pursuit itself is worth it. It always is.”

Roman looked at Logan’s hand, looked down at the book, and took a deep breath. 

“You’re a nerd, you know that?” Roman floated off the book and towards Logan’s hand. “You are the biggest nerd, and I hate what you’re about to make me do because of your whole...nerd thing.” 

Logan’s smile only grew. And when Roman landed on his open palm, sparks of blue and red fizzled together, leaving a second-long burst of purple; then the blue grew like small tides of smoke and washed over the red. 

(As it was always meant to do.)

—

Logan stood at the front counter, flipping through his drafts in his hand. Patton, who Logan had called for moral support, stood alongside Logan. He tapped his foot quietly as Roman scanned the pages of Virgil Aries’ book.

“Okay, listen up,” Roman said, not breaking his stare from the pages beneath him. “Before we do this, I gotta lay down some ground rules.” 

“Oh, wonderful,” Logan said dryly. “I feel like a child on a field trip.” 

Roman looked up and narrowed his eyes at him. Logan gulped. 

“I mean...go on. I quite thoroughly enjoy rules.” 

“Me too!” Patton spoke up. “Rules rule! ”

Roman smiled wryly and nodded, continuing on with his reading.

“So first off, do not touch anything. Not only am I going to be putting a lot of energy into creating a physical manifestation of Virgil Aries’ soul, but also my magic has been a bit rusty as of late. So this book nook is going to be extremely fragile. Think of it like a house of cards: one wrong move and the whole thing is going to fall apart.” 

“Got it.” 

“Also, you can’t touch Virgil Aries, you can’t tell him that he’s in a book nook or make any reference to the fact that he’s dead, and you can’t give him anything. On top of the whole ‘fragile book nook’ thing, the entirety of his soul isn’t really in the book. Remember, there are many parts of a soul, and since Virgil’s life is a single fragment of that soul, it is still not fully him; you wouldn’t want to confuse the poor guy, the whole thing will fall apart. Plus, most of his soul is in the astral plane, so anything you’d try to give him would probably wind up there too — and there’s no ‘lost and found’ box in the astral plane.

Patton blinked and slowly, but hesitantly, nodded. Logan smiled and shook his head, patting Patton’s shoulder.

“And finally–” Roman stared at the papers in Logan’s hand– “you can’t stay for too long.”

Logan’s eyes darted up to meet Roman’s.

“What do you mean? You and Patton stay in the other book nooks for hours on end–” 

“You’re different,” Roman snapped. A pause. Logan tilted his head. Roman cleared his throat. 

“I– I mean... it’s different. It’s different...for you.” He crossed his arms and huffed. “Look, I don’t have to explain myself to you.” 

“...You do have to explain it to me.” Logan waved the papers at Roman. “I have so many questions for him, it’s going to at least take an hour to walk through my first draft– I even devised my own interview with him with several questions and–” 

“No, Logan. It’s– It’s my job to protect you, and I– I swore to your grandfather which means this is already a huge violation of that promise and– and you…”

Roman sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “You just can’t, okay?” 

A beat of silence. Logan stared at Roman and couldn’t help but think about how far back the two of them went; how much Roman knew about him that he didn’t yet know about himself. And even if the rules of magic would allow it, would Roman tell him any of it? 

Logan closed his eyes and took a deep breath, before setting some papers aside. All he kept in his right hand was one paper: the cover of his speech, with his research question sprawled on it; the only part that wasn’t completely drowned in red ink. Patton held his other hand and squeezed it softly. Roman nodded. 

“Okay, so if everything is understood, we can get started.” Roman pressed his hands on the page and closed his eyes. A soft, red glow...

And nothing happened. 

“Uhh, Roman?” Patton spoke up after a few seconds. “Do you, um…” 

“I– I’m fine.” Roman gritted his teeth. “Just need to get everything together. In– in place.” 

“How can we assist you?”

Roman looked up at Logan, then back down at the book. He took a deep breath. 

“Grab the book, Lo. I need you to read an excerpt. Kinda move things along.” 

“Are you not able to read it like last ti–” 

“ Time’s ticking, Logan.” 

“Right, got it.” Logan grabbed the book, being careful not to drop Roman. 

“Now hold it out in front of you and hold on tight.” 

Patton moved his hold on Logan to his arm, bringing himself closer to his side. Logan took a deep breath. 

“ ‘ Nihilism is defined by nothingness, the belief that life is meaningless. In this true nothingness, artists hence pursue their work in the hopes of creation within said void. However, the newfound rigidity of their work is more prevalent than ever. The artist has become a mass-produced object, producing in turn. Any optimism in the practice has turned to neutrality and helpless routine, if not a nightmare. The loss of identity and purpose is welcomed and–’ ”

Logan felt himself jerk forward, a blinding void of darkness– no, not darkness, nothing–  filling his vision and blurring the words. 

He snuck a glance at Patton, who held him even tighter. Then, he looked at Roman, who had his eyes closed with tears of exertion beading his face. 

“K-Keep–  going.” 

He clenched his jaw as the nothing swirled up his legs and crawled through his skin.

“ ‘– And art has become a defense mechanism — an emotionally-neutral act of creation. If there is no spark behind the canvas, is there anything truly meant by its existence, or is it just – is it just dark– is it– ’ ”

And before the darkness swallowed him whole, Logan looked up and saw two steely, purple eyes, staring right at him.

...

(But he can’t go back, he just can’t .)

—

Logan blinked, trying to gain sight of his surroundings. He stood in what seemed like an ink-filled void, the air thick and hollow. All he could see was a wooden, barely-together chair and a single, dimmed lightbulb strung up from nowhere. 

And on the chair, shrouded with a cloak of matching darkness, was Virgil Aries. 

Virgil was leaned forward in the chair, his tattered cloak falling at his sides. Peeking out from under his hood was strands of silver hair, yet Logan noticed that Virgil looked younger than he expected, at least mid-20s. 

But that wasn’t what Logan was looking at. Logan couldn’t break his stare away from Virgil’s eyes: purple and pulsing with a light that was almost blinding. 

Logan dropped the book with a deafening thud , and Roman fell with it. 

Virgil stared at him for a moment, then looked at the book. Logan watched Virgil make eye contact with Roman before he buried his stare into Logan’s skull. 

“...Um, ow. ” 

Logan frowned, then looked at the book on the floor. Roman frantically motioned for him to pick him up. Logan’s mouth dropped to a small ‘o’ and he scrambled to pick the book up. 

“Oh– I apologize, I don’t know what I was thinking I–” 

“Don’t sweat it. It was...a joke. Yeah.” Virgil rubbed the back of his neck. “Just a joke.”

“Is this where you live?” Patton blurted out. Virgil tilted his head. Everything he seemed to do was so sluggish.

“I live in London.” Virgil slowly looked around them. “And this isn’t...this…” 

Roman hopped off the book and onto Patton’s shoulder. He loudly cleared his throat. 

“Nah, this is all me, Pat. I took us here, remember? I would’ve made– er, brought you guys to a better place, but this is sorta all I could, um...get to on time, heh.”

Patton patted Roman’s head with his index finger. Virgil glared at Roman once more and narrowed his eyes. 

“And who exactly are you?”

Logan turned to Roman, waiting for him to introduce himself, but he instead stayed quiet. Logan decidedly stepped forward. 

“I am Logan Fray. Professor Aries, it is an honour to meet you.”

Patton whispered to Roman, “Professor?” 

Roman said nothing.

“Alright, cool, so first rule — let’s not call me that. Pretty sure you aged me, like, seventy years. And you’re reminding me of my crippling student debt and the corruption within academia. So Virgil is just fine.” Virgil leaned back in his chair. “And I asked who you are — what the hell am I supposed to do with a name?” 

Logan felt his cheeks burning red. 

“Um– of course!” He loosened his tie and broke into a shaky smile. “I own a bookshop named Fray and Far Fables, but more notably, I am currently conducting research on the practicality and implications of nihilism in regards to...well, the death of art, for lack of better phrasing.” 

“ Oh.” Virgil’s smug smile dropped. “You’re here to talk about…” 

“Your book.” Logan held up a piece of paper with a bright smile. “I have a few questions for you in regards to your writing. Since we’re on a bit of a figurative time crunch at the moment, I am just going to go ahead and start. On page 34, when you stated that art’s foundation has been encased in an hopeless paradox, do you mind clarifying what tha–” 

“Now I’m going to stop you right there,” Virgil cut in, waving his hand dismissively. “Are you seriously asking me to explain my book to you?” 

Logan blinked. 

“Not explain it, per se. I just assumed you had more to say. The book was published before you– well, it was published early. And it more or less ended with a question that I now pose today: what is, then, the point of art in a meaningless life? I am seeking these answers too, and I think we can answer them together.” 

Logan took a brave step forward. “We have the most precious thing before us: knowledge and time. ”

A beat of silence. Virgil looked over at Patton and Roman. 

“Is he always like this?” 

“Yeahhh.” Patton gave him a small smile. “It’s cute.”

“If ‘cute’ means hopelessly pretentious, then sure.” 

Logan’s jaw dropped. 

“I– what?” 

Patton stifled a laugh. Virgil, however, laughed openly. Logan felt himself stumble back. He turned to Roman.

“Is– is this some sort of joke? Am I being punished, and this is not actually Virgil Aries?” 

“I’m right here–” 

“I’m not punishing you, Logan.” Roman’s voice was barely above a murmur. “This...this is Virgil Aries.”

Virgil shrugged, leaning back in his chair. Logan stared at him, trying to imagine what he used to think Virgil looked like: straight-postured, wisps of brown hair, wise, passionate. He attempted to place the illusion on top of what he saw right now: a small, tired man. 

“Your...your book is brilliant,” Logan murmured, his heart sinking. “There has to be something you can tell me.” 

For a split second, Virgil’s smile fell. 

“It’s all in there,” Virgil replied quietly. “There is nothing left for me to say. Who cares about knowing whether art means or does not mean something when...when everything means nothing?” 

Logan blinked. To himself, he quietly murmured, “I care.”

(Buildings crashing, everything crashing– ) 

“Besides,” Virgil continued. “I have never really met someone who was this passionate about my book — that includes me.” 

“But– but it is your life’s work,” Logan stammered. He felt the air around him grow heavier.  “Y-You– you wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t.”

Virgil blinked at him. “This ... was my life’s work?” 

Shit. He forgot about that rule. Logan looked over at Roman, who stayed still.

Logan turned back to Virgil. 

“Okay, okay. Even if you didn’t have anything left to say about your work, you have to at least have any insight about my question. T-There...there has to be something. ”

“Logan,” he heard Roman finally whisper behind him, “I– I think we have to go.” 

“No!” Logan stormed up to Virgil, despite feeling Patton attempt to grab him back. “No, we– we can’t go, there– there has to be an answer, there has to be–” 

“There isn’t anything, Logan.” Virgil’s voice suddenly became buried in overlapping echoes. He turned his head away from Logan. “There is no answer– the point of nihilism is that there is nothing. There is nothing to live for, there is nothing to write — there is no answer, Logan, because the answer is that there is none.” 

“L-Logan, we have to go. ” For the first time in a long time, Roman’s voice trembled with the force of an unsteady storm. “We– we have to leave, please– ” 

“Lo, I– I think you should listen to Roman, just–” 

“How could you be telling me this?!” Logan felt himself gasp for air with each word. “You– you can’t understand art’s meaning without understanding the implied lack thereof, and if you already know the lack thereof, you– you have to know the– the thereof! ”

“What are you even– Logan, when will you understand?” Virgil stood up slowly. Logan felt as if the air around him was starting to suffocate him. Virgil’s voice was shaking with dark echoes that sent chills down Logan’s spine. 

“I’ve been waiting for someone to prove me wrong. And no one has. ” 

Logan paled. In front of him was the answer– this had to have been the answer– Virgil had to have the answer, even if he didn’t know and– and if this wasn’t the answer– if there was no answer, then– 

In the blink of an eye, Logan lunged at Virgil with a frustrated roar, hearing the shouts of Roman and Patton drown out behind him. But before he could grab onto Virgil, he stopped dead in his tracks. 

His hand...was grey. 

And climbing up his arm was grey, something in his chest went grey, and he could feel it in his neck, in his skull–

“W-What is…” His voice was barely above a whisper. “What is happening to me?”

Virgil looked down at Logan’s darkened hand and sighed. Everything around him and Logan froze for a brief moment in what felt like a never-ending tunnel of time.

“You know what pessimistic nihilism is, right?”

“Y-Yes. It’s– it’s usually reserved for people mid-crisis before recovering into some sort of belief system”

“Then find it.” Virgil shakily grabbed the collar of Logan’s shirt. Time slowly returned in dredging slumps. Virgil's purple eyes haunted Logan in a way that he knew could not ever be reversed. “Find what you believe in because it’s not here– there’s nothing else here–” 

“THAT’S ENOUGH!” Roman screamed.

Before Logan could say anything else, he felt himself fall down, down, down; past the darkness, past Patton’s screams and tears, past Virgil and Roman and the answers, just out of his reach–

And when Logan returned to the shop, panting for air, he looked up at his hand. Patches of the inky void that carved into his skin crawled down his fingertips and disappeared into the air in front of him. . 

In his other hand, he saw his tight grasp on the paper with his question. Strings of words burned into his retinas. 

“If life has no inherent meaning….”

“Why are humans so eager to escape …” 

“What’s the point in creating something out of nothing ?” 

“What’s the point of anything at all if there’s—”

And with a strangled cry, Logan ripped the paper in half, and then again, and then again; until it was all gone, and there was nothing, nothing, nothing.

—

next chapter > 

[codegemini]

Rinse, Repeat - Part I

 (( Co-written with @sylaess / @sylaesschasewind . Tagging @argonas / @thefugitivemango​  for character mention))

 ~*~*~

The trees swayed gently in the breeze. She smelled moonflowers faintly, and looked around. This again. This grove. So familiar, it was going to drive her mad! She had to know.  But she didn’t. The void in her memory was a gaping wound she couldn’t get past. 

 Sylaess sighed softly, placing her face in her hands gently. There was no scar pitting the left side of her jaw, no exposed tissue. It was oddly gratifying. But it sealed the knowledge that she was not awake. Most likely. Torghast was a very difficult place to traverse when not plagued with traumas. Her grip on reality was fragile at best.

 “Va’shal dan duentha.”  “...I don’t understand you. Why don’t I understand you?” She fixed the other elf with a stare, trying to puzzle him out but only ending up with a headache. She knew that voice, it brought her comfort. Sadness. Longing.  ~*~*~ A sharp, ragged breath drawn in and the sword slammed into the ground beside her head, narrowly missing.  Oh, shit!  Teeth bared in a voiceless snarl of effort, Sylaess brought her feet up and kicked hard at the empty husk of armor. Saronite screeched across the floor as she slid away a little, clattering back to her feet. The intense throbbing in her skull cinched tighter, trying to force her eyes shut.  Breathe. Walk through it.  The brittle calm settled over her, a ragged safety blanket as she fell back into the warrior mindset. It was getting nearly impossible to draw upon. Half clenched fist, runes flared along her body. An enormous spike of ice crashed up from the floor beneath the guard, impaling the hollow armor and immobilizing it.  The rush of magic fled and she wilted, head falling back a bit.  Get your shit together, girl! Find her, get the hell out. You know the drill. 

 The elf scrabbled up her dropped swords, hunting around for one that had been kicked away. Brought herself into a slow jog up the corridor. She’d made it this far. Again.

 The cages hung over the expanse. Were they floating? Chains were taught from the bottom of each descended into unknown depths, but ups and downs were questionable at best. It was not helpful. But she saw her. The ghastly form of Sinafay.  Sheathed her swords and made one giant leap from the edge of the stairs, teetering the cage over the ominous expanse. “--Ugh--” The impact was as graceful as a rotten fruit being hurled. Syl looped an arm through the bars. “Let’s... Let’s try this again.” Her voice was ragged and worn out. A gravelly toneless thing. The elf started fiddling with the lock. “Unless you have a better idea.”

Sinafay gasped, eyes wide as she leaned back against the far side bars of the cage, both to keep herself from falling over as it swung and to be as far away from this image of Sylaess as she could.

 “WHY do you keep coming back?! Leave me alone!” She growled, “I -know- what this place is! I -know- you are not really her!”

 The lock finally came free. Sylaess let out a breath she hadn’t known she was holding, sagging against the cage, her elbow hooked through the only real support she had. “Seriously, the amount of times I’ve had my ass kicked here? The Jailer picks better people to represent him, I assure you.” The elf grimaced, maneuvering herself to the side so she could kick the door open. Hastily healed slashes, unattended gouges and a myriad of other mostly superficial damage that she just didn’t have the energy to mend up again gave her a very... earthy look. Much like a worn out rag.

 “If you’re going to torture me, just get it over w—“

Sinafay cut herself off, however, as she felt something different about the Kal’dorei. It wasn’t her, per say, but more of what followed her. Spirits… lost spirits. They clung to her… Sinafay frowned, confused. Spirits wouldn’t cling to the jailor’s forces. If anything, they would be repelled… cowering.

 “Why do the lost follow you?” She asked, curiosity overcoming her panicked state.

  “...They think I’m a good option to get them out of here, but personally, I’ve now got fresh doubts up to my fucking ears. I come back for you because I promised Argonas I’d keep you safe.” Syl shut her eyes a moment. “I failed him.” And he’ll have every damn right to be disappointed, but let’s survive this first. 

Those black eyes seemed to stare off into the expanse of cloudy nothingness a moment, she shook her head. “I’ve got to try to get you out. I...”  Sylaess grimaced again, letting the words just fail. Steeled herself up for the next exertion. Leapt, caught the edge with her chest and her legs swung beneath the platform. Vivid swearing strained as she scrabbled her purchase of the edge, plated hands slipping. Saronite screeching on stone. It all made to ramp up her headache that much more. “Fuck sakes!” 

 A wisp flew wildly about her head. “Would you piss off!” Hanging on by sheer will and gumption, she snarled.  “This is the worst joke I’ve ever been the ass of. Almost.” Wheezed the words, resting her face on the cold stone of the platform, once she had enough grip not to be in perilous threat of falling. “Or at the very least, the worst drug trip I’ve ever been on.” She still dangled over the edge precariously. Hooked a foot finally.

Sinafay’s tail twitched and flickered erratically behind her as she didn’t move from her side of the cage. She kept her suspicious gaze on the struggling elf, internally debating on the validity of her words. She wanted to believe this was really her friend, but how could she be certain.

 “If you are the real Sylaess, then why do you not remember the very event that brought us together as friends? Do you remember Sigil? Draenor? Tanaan? Do you know anything about me other than the fact that I am Argonas’ mate? Why are your eyes like that? What is wrong with you?!”

Sylaess gave a good heave and hauled herself back on top of the platform gracelessly, laying there a moment. So tired. Empty. Debating on how to answer all of that. Breath in, hold, release. She brought herself up to sit on her feet, tucking back her ragged black hair. Drew a hand over her face wearily.  “A long story full of mostly bad decisions.”

 “I don’t remember anything because I sold my memories to an Old God. I remember snippets. Fragments. Worse, nothing makes real sense. No, I’m not sure you’re real either. In fact, I’ve not been sure about reality since falling in with N’zoth. Good news is, he’s dead.”  The abrupt and naked truth of it stung like a raw scrape in cold air. Somehow, hearing it in her own gravelly ruined voice made it all too much. 

 “My eyes are like this because the kaldorei--Tyrande--called upon the Night Warrior after the burning of Tel’drassil. I took the blessing with thousands of other kaldorei. This was before the Old God made an appearance.”  A bitter smirk twisted her face. “And as for what’s wrong with me,” Her gaze finally swept over to Sinafay as she rose. “I don’t think an eternity is enough to cover that one.” She spread her hands slightly, as if surrendering. The silent ‘what do you think now?’ so plainly evident.

Sinafay just… stared, head slowly tilting to the side as it often did when she was struggling to understand something. An awkward silence stretched on between them as she tried to make some sort of sense of everything Sylaess had said, before finally speaking up.

 “Teldrassil… burned? An Old God? Why would—“ 

 No, she didn’t have to ask about the Old God deal, she’d made similar mistakes in the past. At least that explained the missing memories.

 “I… remember a large influx of souls arriving… a lot of them ended up in this tower…”

 She shook her head. There was nothing to be done about that. This was her first time in Torghast, and she didn’t know how to get around at all.

 “My apologies, Sylaess. When we -do- manage to finally escape this place, and I manage to return to Azeroth, I will do all that I can to help get your memories back.”

 She looked at the distance between the cage  and platform.worried her bottom lip.

 “So I take it that, in true Sylaess fashion, you have no idea where we are or how to escape.

 “We’re in a place called Torghast. It’s the worst place in the Shadowlands you could possibly be. Of course.” The elf smiled a bit, superficially. A little refreshed that she wasn’t under extreme scrutiny. Something she shouldn’t have really feared with Sinafay. She knew that. Somehow.  “The halls keep on forever it seems. There’s a lot of levels down, the best we can do is keep trying.” She looked up at the swirling mass of clouds. At least she thought they were clouds. “This tower is the mirror of Icecrown citadel, so to speak. So. As we can’t get up and through to Icecrown, we’ve got to get back to whatever the hell is ground level. There has to be a door.”

 “Shall we?”

~*~*~