#and of course Light cannot show his hand so easily in this tale of lies deception and keeping up appearances

[starlightshadowsworld]

The Apology Scene redone (V8 C11) Part 1

(Finally reworking this WIP)

(*listens to Oz apologise and waits for RWBY+JNR to apologise back.... Waits*... You know what, fine I'll do if myself! Here's the apology...Orrrr everyone bonds, cries and Ozpin has another story to tell. 

Because I wanted this scene to be so much more than it was and hey its Oz and if the OPPS sever has taught me anything... There can always be more angst with Oz. I did try to make this as in character as I could.)

Ruby rose her head from Yang’s shoulder as the group walked in. Weiss and Blake sat beside the sisters, silently comforting the two making them smile a little. Ruby faced Oscar who was hanging back beside Jaune and Emerald, steadying herself. “Hey Oscar, is it okay if we speak to him?” Oscar blinked in surprise, pausing for a few seconds with concern flashing on his face before nodding slowly. Ruby frowned, she was tempted to ask what Ozpin has said but knew it was best not to ask. 

Something she wished hadn’t taken her so long to learn.

Oscar met Ruby’s gaze, he tried for a smile but it didn’t reach his eyes. How could he, not when Oscar could feel him. The fear that pulsed within him like a second heart, the only upside was it was no longer shut behind a door leaving him empty. ‘Oz...you don’t have to do this. I can just tell them what you want to say.” Reaching out for the others presence and being unable to stop the wave of relief when Ozpin reached back. ‘I appreciate the thought Oscar, but I cannot hide forever. This is something we must face together, that’s what you taught me.’ Oscar grumbled about annoying old wizards using his words against him and felt the others amusement run through him. 

Even if both were tense. 

“Hey guys...please don’t start fighting. Not just because I’m healing just...talk, okay.” Oscar did feel bad when he saw everyone’s mood dip, but not enough that make him apologise. They had deeply hurt Ozpin, done what thousands of years under Salem’s abuse had failed to do. He had grown incredibly fond of Ozpin’s company, and feeling him shut off from the world had left him pained. That did not erase the guilt Oscar himself had felt for giving them the tools to do it, only serving as further determination to help him heal. 

Yang nodded seriously “"no ones going to fight” she agreed. Oscar nodded, taking a deep breathe and gave the group one more look, a silent beg to please don’t mess this up before getting up. He walked to the chair Jaune had bought in, taking a seat as his eyes shone gold.

There was a silence, as they all looked for the right words to say before Ruby simply addressed him, “Hi, Professor Ozpin” she said. Just saying his name was enough to bring everyone back to the present, she hadn’t intended to call him professor. It wasn’t something she had done since he left...but it felt right. 

Ozpin met her gaze, if he was surprised to hear that title he didn’t say it. A smile, ever so small it was almost shy bloomed on his face “Hello, Miss Rose.” He turned his head, meeting team RWBY’s gaze in turn. “Miss Schnee, Miss Belladonna, Miss Xiao Long.” Weiss smiled softly, her hands clasped together “professor Ozpin” she echoed Ruby’s words finding that they came to her easily. Blake did the same, one of her ears twitched as she greeted him. Yang found that she couldn’t meet his gaze, nor speak but nodded in acknowledgement.

“Mr Arc, Miss Valkyrie, Mr Ren.” Greeted Ozpin, turning his gaze from Yang to JNR who were sat nearby. Jaune, much like Yang struggled to meet Ozpin’s gaze but managed a quiet “hey, Professor Ozpin”, Nora smiled and waved while Ren gave a distracted wave.

He’d seen purple petals floating around Emerald, her guilt for her previous actions, around Ozpin was a storm. That combined with the swirl of amber, fear around him gave Ren a sinking feeling. 

None of the others could see the petals of course, and Ozpin’s voice gave nothing away. But while he looked up to address them he was hunched over with his ever-present cane in his hands and not on his belt. And unlike the feather light touch he’d previously wielded it with, now it was held it in a vice grip. It was almost as if...

'Does he... Think we're going to attack?' Wondered Ruby, guilt blooming in her heart. She wanted to believe otherwise, but there last meeting had ended so terribly that she shouldn’t have been surprised. Ozpin, oblivious to the groups collective guilt greeted Emerald who nodded politely and Penny who shyly waved and was overjoyed when Ozpin smiled softly and waved back at her. 

Those two were completely at ease, Yang envied them a little. 

"I was recently reminded of an old fairy tale” said Ozpin, lowering his head as he did so. And even just hearing that familiar phrase, made everyone feel a certain warmth. That despite it all, this was still Ozpin “A young girl flees the consequences of a choice to a magical place... But having never learned from her initial failure, she only succeeds in spreading it..." No one needed to ask who that girl was. "I failed you all.” The words echoed throughout the manor, resigned and raw. “I hid, I lied.  I left you to deal with everything you weren’t ready for when you were scared and confused... And so much more."

There had always been a weight to Ozpin’s words, they group realised that from the moment they’d met him. Everything was said with an underlying meaning or message. But here...they knew at once that these words weren’t meant for just them. Yang thought of a photograph, of anger and feathers flying into the breeze. 

“It’s not your fault” began Ruby, pausing at his disbelieving gaze and instead followed with “we failed you too. We kept telling you to trust us, kept pushing you around and than...I’m sorry.”  The wizard before her shook his head, “you have nothing to be sorry about Miss Rose, you were all confused and afraid. You were left to navigate this war, a war I drew you into...you wanted answers I would not give, you did the right thing.” Said Ozpin, Ruby shook her head ready to continue... but someone beat her to the punch. 

“We did the right thing....” Said Yang, her voice barely above a whisper but the rage was almost tangible. Although she did try to keep herself calm, her eyes remaining there bright lavender. “I won’t say you didn’t lie to us...but exposing someone's trauma and kicking an already downed man after saying you wouldn’t...threating you and Uncle Qrow for the truth...none of that is right.”

That was not what Ozpin had been expecting. Especially not from her, she who he had expected anger, red eyes that reminded him tearfully of others and words to cut his heart the way so many had. It took him completely by surprise, Yang ignored the sinking feeling as she caught on. 

“You were angry, confused what other choice did you have? I would not have divulged such information so easily and how were you to know that’s what Jinn would show you?” Said Ozpin, he truly did not understand this. “That doesn’t make how we treated you afterwards any better, I mean seriously, what’s the difference between us and her.” 

That made Ozpin stop, wide eyed that they would even compare themselves to Salem. His demeanour hardened “You acted out of fear, not out of outright malice or hatred. Nothing was said that wasn’t correct, and if I know Qrow he’s already forgiven you all.” There was a finality in his tone, that that was the end of all this. He turned to Ruby “we have far more important matters to discuss.”

Yang was about to say otherwise but stopped, this was what caused there fight in the first place. They would drop it for now, but this conversation was far from over.  Ruby shifted uncomfortably, she wasn’t sure she wished to know.

“Right...Professor Ozpin have you ever seen a grimm like the hound before?”

[intangibly-here]

don't say it's too late (to say i need you)

zhongli x gn!reader

- scenario; 2.9k words - fluff & angst - sad ending - alternate universe; canon-divergent - warning: implied/past character death; self-deprecation; descriptions of asphyxiation, blood, and injury; please take note.

————————————————————

a single red dahlia blooms inside your heart.

(a field inside your lungs.)

title from milet - inside you.

————————————————————

soft sunlight falls on your face as you slowly wake up, a soothing voice lulling you to the realm of the awakened. zhongli, pristine as always, peers over your blanket covered form, smiling gently at your face as you give him a quiet whine.

“good morning, love.”

“morning zhongli...” you clear your throat to respond without mumbling, but give up halfway through, instead reaching your arms up to loop around his back and pull him into a hug. zhongli complies all too easily, breathing an exasperated sigh and tugging you to sit upright as he takes you into his arms. his skin is warm, still clothed in moderately casual clothes - by his standards - and the sun-kissed edges of his eyes drown you in his being.

(zhongli is such a warm being. encompassing yet not suffocating, sweet but not unnaturally so; the way he can twist words, spin tales so enamoring that you can’t help but stay. his presence grounds you, a constant in this ever-changing universe that surrounds you, and you let yourself fall, deeper and deeper, into the sanctuary that is zhongli.)

his hands rub soothing circles into your back, fingers working to trace shapes onto your skin and brush over a swipe of gold all too tenderly. his long hair, still untied from where he had instead moved to wake you up, drapes like embellished curtains around you two, hidden safely from the world.

as you’re about to fall back into slumber, zhongli sighs, gripping your shoulders to admonishingly shake your sleep-softened form.

“we should begin the preparations for a meal,” he chides, or in other words, i’m hungry, get up so we can eat. it’s probably the closest he’ll ever get to pouting, and you chuckle at the thought.

“alright, alright, ‘m getting up.”

pulling away the puffy blankets and taking your hand, zhongli gracefully helps you to stand up from the bed and stumble to the bathroom.

it’s halfway through your morning routine that you hear the rapping of several knocks on the door. you look up from the white towel your face is buried in.

“zhongli?”

he clears his throat, and before you have the chance to wonder why, he responds:

“i’ve heated the pan, however-“

his voice trails off into an embarrassed silence. you can see the sullen look on his face, the dip of his brows and the tiniest push of his lip, even from behind the door. your mouth lilts up into a smile.

“-however you would like some help with the rest?”

zhongli huffs, just loud enough to reach your ears.

“..yes, that— if you would.”

your hands resume their motions, if not a little quicker, the damp towel set down and a string bracelet slid over your hand, fastened to rest on your wrist. the singular charm dangles freely, cool against the heat of your skin. it was fashioned to look like a larger dragon curled around a smaller one. your heels shift against the ground as you turn to the accessory cabinet, opening the drawer in search of a comb.

“of course, a-li. i’ll be finished in a moment.”

a sheepish hum is all you receive before you hear his footsteps trail away back to the kitchen, take the chance to exit the bathroom in search of your outfit for today.

while zhongli is an expert in all recipes complex, his slow-cooked bamboo shoot soup being one of those, he by some odd chance of nature cannot cook simple meals. how you’d discovered this, it would be unwise to mention (for the sake of zhongli’s pride and your own skin), but ever since then, it’d been you cooking the simpler meals and zhongli taking charge of the more elaborate ones, per say.

it makes up just another part of how your relationship has bloomed over time.

finally properly dressed, you hurry to the kitchen to make breakfast. zhongli shuffles to the left to make room for you, helping you to fasten a simple apron for cooking. you find your peace in the spot nestled by his side, dropping cubed radish cakes on hot metal and stirring congee in the pot. your shoulders brush and hips bump as you prepare the meal together, hands fumbling to arrange the array of dumplings. the sizzling of the pan and billows of steam from the steamer basket draw you closer into the moment.

(it is the gentlest picture of home.)

the subtle clink of cutlery fills the air as zhongli sets the table, moving from setting down appropriate tableware to helping you plate the food. two cups of tea find their way to the table, “the tea is hot love, don’t burn yourself.”, and you enjoy the sole, blissful feeling of a morning with zhongli. the meal is delicious as always, the seasonings flavorful and food warm in your stomach, but the serenity of your slow morning together is all too easily interrupted by voices from outside your front door. they chatter for a moment, then pause and a few knocks on the door sound out.

zhongli’s expression lights up just a tad from where it had sunken into soft contentment, and he nods at you in silent confirmation of who they are, setting down his chopsticks. at that, you smile as well, unlocking the door to let havria and guizhong inside.

(havria? guizhong..?)

“good morning you two! ready to head out to the market?” guizhong, ever cheerful and energetic, shifts restlessly by the door. havria modestly stands beside her, nodding along in unsaid agreement.

“allow us to tidy up first?” zhongli looks over at you, and you pick up the empty bowls and plates, moving the dishes to the sink in response.

when the dishes have been washed and lain out on the rack to dry, you reconvene at the doorway, straightening out your coat and putting on your shoes to head outside.

out of the corner of your eye, you spot zhongli’s tie slipping out of his coat just the slightest. unthinkingly, you turn around, deftly slipping the cloth back into place. zhongli’s eyes widen, then smile at you, lifting your hand to press a kiss to the back of it. if your cheeks heat up in the telltale sign of a blush, no one mentions it.

the moment you open the door and step outside into the sunlight, your senses are filled with the sight and sounds of the bustling harbor.

you can hear the shouts of merchants handling hawker stalls even from just outside your doorway, and that’s the direction you immediately tug zhongli in, havria and guizhong trailing with smiles behind you.

(when you first met him, but a brief glance given as you walked down this very street, you’d thought of him as particular. particularly royal, particularly formal, particularly- well, interesting. dressed finer than anyone else around, yet lacking the common sense of anyone surrounding him, he was an enigma in himself.)

zhongli stumbles for a moment, shaken by your sudden enthusiasm, and gives a low chuckle, shaking his head. his footsteps follow yours nonetheless, hand tucked into your own. the string of his bracelet sways in the breeze, as if chasing the end of your own flowing string.

(it was only with time that he was willing to show you more behind that distracting facade. the micro-expressions that danced across his face whenever you made a joke he didn’t quite understand, the slump of his shoulders when he realized he had yet again forgotten to bring mora, the draining weight of century-lain exhaustion that plagued his soul.)

(it was all... zhongli.)

you’re strolling by the various stalls, each and every one selling different specialties, when you spy a certain stand by chance. letting go of zhongli’s hand with a squeeze for a moment, you step closer to the stall’s spread of items.

to the side of a flower-pressed piece of pottery lays a pendant of cor lapis. you pick it up to inspect it further, and are only increasingly surprised by the fine details and remarkable craftsmanship.

“zhongli! come over and look at this!” you call, flipping the locket over in your hands. the more you look, the more stunning it seems to get. a single dahlia head is perfectly encased in molten amber, fine pattern displayed beautifully and strung masterfully on a delicate metal chain.

“zhongli?” when he doesn’t respond, you turn around, mildly confused. there, he stands unnervingly still, eyes wide and shocked. you tilt your head, looking around you to see what he could be so uncharacteristically surprised about. nothing is out of the ordinary. chefs are strolling around, shopping for groceries, and construction workers are still repairing the damages to a house nearby. it’s alright nearby the cliffs, no mishaps or accidents, and the sun shines as brightly as ever.

you look down— and all at once everything seems to make sense as blood-red petals spill out of your lips onto the ground.

the pendant slips out of your grasp, and the world stops for a moment.

(you know what this means.)

then, an ear-piercing scream rings out, echoing inside your head, breaking the silence, and suddenly everything is shattering, golden shards flying across the floor, and try as you might, you just can’t, can’t— can’t pick up the pieces fast enough.

(not again, not again, not again—)

you clutch at your neck, vines climbing up your throat and petals forcing themselves from your gaping mouth. it burns. the pain sends you reeling, licking white hot from your veins and into your flesh, and you collapse onto the floor, curled up and clawing at the gaping emptiness growing inside you. it’s choking, suffocating, and the claws of your ribs dig into your lungs. the splintered pendant shards cut at your knees.

(rightful punishment for what you’ve done.)

your head throbs with freezing realization as you remember once more, contrary to the flames singing your nerves. the stinging pain stabbing your skin only worsens, your breaths becoming shorter and shorter.

keep telling yourself lies,

the voice in your head whispers,

because zhongli is dead anyway.

it screams—

this is what you deserve.

(he was so, so beautiful.

kind in all the right ways, wise in all the best.

and then you just had to strangle him with your own hands.

lying traitor.

withholding one side, then murdering the other.

—should just disappear.)

now, it is your eyes that burn, when did you even close them?, and you force your heavy eyelids to open. you chest heaves, and your mouth struggles to do anything other than choke on flowers. you can’t breathe. in your hazy vision, zhongli crouches in front of you, all regal bearing discarded. he’s blurry all around the edges, but you can make out the sad expression on his face. your head throbs again.

pitiful.

you choke out another mouthful of bloodied petals. the wind blows harder, as if mocking your suffering. zhongli’s thread bracelet, the matching ones you two had gotten together in hopes of brighter future, swings even harder as the draft pulls it towards the sky.

your bracelet stays placid.

zhongli lifts his hands to you, almost hesitantly, as if you would disappear any moment now. his mouth opens, as if to say something, but then it closes, and he murmurs, “shhh... it’ll be okay.”

miraculously, your lungs expand, and you take a deep breath.

his palms, soft and untelling of his long-lived history, cup your face, and he gingerly wipes away your tears. it’s too gentle, too caring for, for— for someone like you. how can he still—? he knows what you’ve done; he has to know now. of the blood on your hands.

(you- you don’t deserve him. didn’t ever deserve him. and now all that’s left for you is your pathetic being. alive instead of him. alive instead of zhongli.)

he smiles softly at you, out of place within your shaken head.

he knows.

but he still cares.

he loves you.

it’s warm, warm, warm.

tears slide across your skin once more.

and just as you’re sinking back into this haze, this dream, his smile drops—

he backs away.

the air that had just made it’s way back into your lungs vanishes, the overgrowth in your heart and soul surging forth tenfold.

please stay—

the stems that branch from bloodied dahlias grasp your windpipe, constricting it with baleful strength. your words die in your throat, and you desperately gasp for air. your heart aches, longing for something right in front of you, yet ungraspable, intangible. it eats away at the small part of you deeply hidden, tucked far inside, the part that just wants and wants and wants— wants to be happy. wants to be loved. wants.. zhongli. “—y child.”

he must see something in your eyes, because he purses his lips and turns his head away. it’s a stark contrast to all his earlier behavior, and it has your heart freezing over, heavy and cold and wrong.

unwanted.

then again, this illusion is over now isn’t it? of course it’s your fault once more, these stupid stupid flowers killing you; both your ignorance and your bliss.

he’s still so, so beautiful.

“—ke up, m-“

the last kiss he presses to your forehead goes unnoticed, as does his tears, your eyes trained solely on his back as he stands up and walks away calmly, steadily.

forgotten.

in the distance, even with your increasingly darkening vision, you can make out the forms of guizhong and havria smiling, welcoming him.

(you love him, love, love— is that not enough? not enough for you to stay? here? please, why whywhywhywhywhy—)

so that’s why they were here.

you wish you could follow them.

the piercing pain of asphyxiation slices through your chest as if in reminder of your betrayal, throbbing with every shaky breath you take as you watch zhongli fade away. your hands claw futilely at the ground, nails dirtied and fingers sore. the first loud sob escapes your throat.

“wake up—“

useless.

(no, no no nonono, please come back love, please, don’t leave, don’t leave don’t leave, pleasepleaseplease—)

your battered, bloodied form shrinks into itself, seeking lost comfort and amber eyes, hands clutching your once shared bracelet. the light in your eyes dim and your body falls numb, hand twitching and you lose your thoughts in a daze.

thump.

stay, stay, stay—

thump.

you want to stay.

thump.

why can’t you stay?

thump.

zhongli...

thum—

“wake up, my child.”

—and then your eyes are snapping open, the tsaritsa’s shadow looming over your huddled form. in your sleep-muddled daze, you recognize her instantly, mechanically performing an informal kneel to her majesty. your legs stutter beneath you and your hands tremble underneath your sleeves. your hands curl into themselves like a lifeline as you attempt to cease your rapid breathing.

“i see you’re having dreams again,” she mildly remarks, gaze flicking to you then back at the arch of her wrist. her eyes shine in the dark of the room. you can’t tell what she’s implying, but it sends a chill down your spine nonetheless.

you don’t reply.

“there’s a new mission awaiting you, my dear.” the drawl of her voice is too languid for the emotions running through your head, much too cold and nonchalant; you barely process her words to give a shaky nod. even from where you face the floor, still kneeling, you can feel the smile she adorns.

“make haste.”

with that, she saunters out of the room, heels clicking against the tiled floor. you can hear the tinkle of the chain wrapped around her waist, and with it, a glimpse of a familiar hourglass shaped ornament. the door shuts.

you wish you hadn’t looked.

standing up unsteadily, you turn to your wardrobe to redress properly, discarding your resting top and pulling a clean one over your scar-marred form. you don’t make an expression acknowledging it, but your fingertips trace over the dull gold of a dragon tattoo that sprawls across your torso, scales spiraling in a show of fierceness.

(you don’t let the tears fall until you’re sure she’s far, far away.)

duty waits for no one. you follow in the tsaritsa’s footsteps as quickly as you can after dressing, exiting the room with grace into the cold sunlight of snezhnaya.

(...you can’t do this any longer, zhongli.)

if only the warm fog of your imagination would keep you there, safe in his arms and tucked into his chest, kisses pressed to your face and warm meals shared between warm souls. you can feel the phantom hold of his palms on your face, thumbing your cheeks and pressing the softest kiss to your lips as you trudge through the freezing snow.

after all, in your imagination, you wouldn’t be lethal poison to him.

(“a-li?”)

if only you hadn’t selfishly kept that warmth all for yourself, tightly grasping it and binding it to a being that would never be free.

maybe then it wouldn’t have died out so soon.

(“yes, my love.”)

if only you hadn’t ever loved—

(...the one thing you will not allow yourself to regret is loving him.)

his hair clip weighs a little heavier in the pocket of your uniform today.

[tales-unique]

FAULTS OF THE HEART  III

The tension doesn’t dissipate entirely over the coming days, but you find that it doesn’t get any worse either. It merely stagnates and that bothers you more than anything. You’ve both fallen into a routine wordlessly as though it was always there, something you didn’t realize until you’d been doing it over and over. “Not hungry?” Alucard's question breaks your train of thought, bringing you back to the real world. “What?” You ask, blinking down at your practically untouched plate of fresh fish and vegetables, “oh, no, it’s just,” you sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. Alucard frowns over at you from the other end of the table, setting down his knife and fork.

“What is it?” He asks, his voice gentle, which makes your tumultuous emotions fester even more. “I don’t know,” you shake your head, frustrated with yourself, “I just feel so, so stuck . My arm isn’t healing fast enough, I can’t do anything, I just feel so useless right now!” Alucard opens his mouth to speak, but you cut him off with a vicious snarl. “And you aren’t helping!” That swiftly shuts him up and you regret it the instant the words have left your mouth. He sees it in your expression, the way your eyes widen and your lip twitches, and merely lets out a weary breath. He knows the routine of your moods as of late, only because he’s been subject to them already, but it’s still not easy to deal with. “I-I’m sorry,” you whisper, slumping in your chair. You were just so tired of everything . “I didn’t mean to snap at you,” you breathe, wincing at the tightness in your shoulder. It’s healing but when he cauterized the wound to stop the bleeding it made it difficult to move your arm without discomfort. “I know,” he replies, but his tired expression doesn’t quite match the softness in his voice, “it’s alright.” “No, no it’s not alright,” you rebuke, your hand tightening to a fist atop the table, “I do this every time and I always take it out on you.” There’s a sense of peace that briefly washes over you when you admit your shortcomings to Alucard before the numbness takes over. You push your chair back and stand, not wanting the moment to turn to pity like it always did. Alucard doesn’t stop you as you leave, no doubt going to sequester yourself in your room. He’s learnt that leaving you be is the best way to get you to calm down and view the situation objectively. It’s the only way that he can bring you around to the idea that he understands the way you feel.

It’s just after dusk when he finally hears you stir. He’s sitting in the old drawing room, reading one of the many books still salvageable from the library. Though your footfalls are light he can still hear them over the crackling of the fire in the fireplace and he places his book down upon the arm of the chair with a small smile. You’re not wearing shoes again, something he could never quite understand. You loved being barefoot. Especially outside, on rainy days and sunny days alike. He found you one early morning following a frog through the dew-covered grass and it was the first time he had truly seen you laugh since you came to the castle. Tiptoeing to the door, you gently knock on the old wood before peeking inside. You knew he was inside because of the firelight emanating from the ajar door. "Can I come in?" "Yes, of course." You nod, slipping inside. The room is warm and inviting and it helps ease some of the tension you have. It settles like lead in your stomach, but you try to push it away as you take a seat in the high-backed chair next to him. Alucard watches you as you get comfortable in your seat, pulling your legs up to your chest, leaning back. Yet you still look stiff and it betrays your nerves. He tries to give you a comforting smile but it's wasted since your eyes are firmly fixed upon the flames. "I'm sorry about earlier," you murmur, picking at a loose thread in the seat cushion. "It was understandable," he hums, "I know you meant no real harm." When you finally meet his gaze you see an understanding there that envelops you and you feel some of the tension lift. It's still there but you don't feel as though you're anchored by it anymore. It's a shame that it’s gone all too soon when Alucard quickly looks away from you. "It still wasn't fair on you though," you huff, stretching out in the chair and wiggling your toes. Alucard remains quiet. It's his turn to stare into the fire now, purposely avoiding your gaze. He tends to retreat within himself when you present him with human kindness, catching himself before he falls for it. The trauma he had endured throughout his life wasn't so easily erased, no matter how approachable you made yourself, and he would never allow himself to fall into that trap ever again if he could help it. "Are you okay?" The question throws him, forcing his gaze away from the flames and back to you. Your brow is creased with worry, your eyes glistening, and for a moment he truly believes that you are genuine. Defeated, he cannot take the weight of your concern upon him, nor accept that he finds you as captivating in the firelight as you had been in the moonlight. All he sees in you is another chance to be hurt again and he refuses to willingly be a victim. "I am," he replied smoothly, a practiced lie, tilting his head in curiosity, "what makes you think I'm not?" Your mouth opens but the words wilt and die on your tongue. There's no real answer you can give that doesn't sound stupid in your mind, and it shows. Alucard's expression softens as you struggle to answer, allowing you to compose yourself. "I don't know," hesitant, you resume picking at that loose thread again, "you look so tired, and so sad sometimes. I just want to help .” Even after considering what to say the words are still awkward and you inwardly cringe at how pathetic they sound out in the open. Under Alucard’s unreadable, silent stare you begin to fidget, wishing that the ground would open and you could fall into the abyss to spare yourself the embarrassment. You notice that he, too, seems to be considering his response, much to your dismay. You just want him to get it over with and tell you what a fool you are and move on. “You needn’t concern yourself with me,” he sighs, melancholy marring his angelic features, “really, I’m fine.” “Says the man with people on spikes outside his front door.” Alucard is stunned; it could have been a biting jab, or a sarcastic barb, each of which he would have expected and been prepared for, but instead the words are tender and the look upon your face even more so. He’s unprepared, there is no deceit he can muster in the face of such honest care, so he speaks the only words that seem appropriate. “They deserved it.” You nod, having expected as much. Even though you’re eager to know the tale that goes along with them you can’t bring yourself to ask. It’s too morbid, even if they were, as Alucard states, deserving. “I know it doesn’t really mean anything, but I’m sorry for whatever they did to you, Alucard,” you murmur softly. It doesn’t take away the pain that was inflicted, or the scars that are left behind, but you hope that it will show him that you are not like those people. And he knows it. You’re nothing like Sumi or Taka. You haven’t lied, you haven’t tried to hurt him, nor have you given him any indication that you will do so. Wherever you’ve lashed out you’re quick to apologize once you’ve simmered down and not once have you asked anything from him since begging to live. You are real, and that scares him more than anything. “Thank you,” he answers after a long moment of silence, his eyes distant, “truly, I...Thank you.” “You’re welcome.” You nod, taking this as your cue to leave him to his solitude. No doubt he has much to contemplate and sleep is beginning to tug at you like a petulant child. With a barely concealed yawn you bid him goodnight, leaving Alucard to curiously await what will happen next.

[alyssaallyrion]

Title: the course of true love (never did run smooth)

Rating: M

Summary: A soulmate AU in which Itachi and Shisui aren’t soulmates, but love, as usual, finds a way. 

Written for ShisuIta Week 2021 Day 4 Prompt: Soulmate AU

ao3 link 

Chapter 1

Itachi feels the ground under his back – a sudden pain of fall resonating through his body, knocking the air out of his lungs. Wincing, he opens his eyes and draws in a sharp breath. Shisui is over him, the red of his eyes slowly fading to black.

“Looks like I win again,” Shisui says, “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” Itachi lies – he’s still a little dizzy from the fall, “One more match?”

“I don’t know about you,” Shisui smiles brightly, “But I most certainly need a break. Not all of us can be as relentless as you.”

Shisui leans forward, offering Itachi a hand to help him up. With a sigh, Itachi grips Shisui’s forearm firmly, letting Shisui heave him to his feet.

“Let’s get some water,” Shisui offers.

Itachi hums absent-mindedly, distracted by the way Shisui’s hot skin feels under his palm. Suddenly coming to his senses, Itachi realizes that his hand has lingered longer than it should and instantly releases his grip on Shisui’s arm, feeling the heat rise in his cheeks.

In truth, Itachi too could use a break – they’ve been sparring for hours now, since the early morning – but Itachi has always felt an almost painful need to show Shisui that he can keep up with him.

Itachi wipes his forehead with the backside of his hand, wicking away the sweat. Summer has finally come to Konoha, filling the air with warmth and light. Training on the hot days was harder but necessary – years of serving in the ANBU have taught Itachi that being prepared for any conditions is essential to the survival and the success of the mission.

Itachi and Shisui walk to the posts on the edge of the training fields, where they left their belongings. Picking up his water flask, Itachi takes a large sip. The water is warm, having sat out in the sun all day, but it still feels refreshing.

“Your last move was excellent,” Shisui smiles, wiping his mouth with his hand, “I barely dodged it. Who knows, maybe with a little more practice, you’ll be able to get me one of these days.”

“Are you afraid?” Itachi chuckles, taking another sip of water.

“I should be, shouldn’t I?” Shisui laughs softly, “You are a genius after all.”

Itachi rolls his eyes and brings the flask to his lips again.

“Itachi, hold still for a moment,” Shisui says suddenly, “You have leaves in your hair.”

Itachi hardly needs Shisui’s help, but he likes Shisui’s touch, so he does as he’s told. Shisui runs his fingers deftly through Itachi’s hair, making a quick work of the offending leaves. Itachi almost regrets that there aren’t more of them so that he could feel Shisui’s touch for longer.

“There you go,” Shisui smiles, pulling his hand away.

“Thank you,” Itachi murmurs softly.

“Oh, I’ve almost forgotten,” Shisui says, closing his water flask. Reaching into his bag that rests on the ground, Shisui produces a small, rectangular box, “I’ve got you these.”

A smile blooms on Itachi’s lips as he realizes that Shisui has gotten him sweets from his favorite dessert shop in the village.

“Why did you get me sweets?” Itachi frowns, accepting the gift.

“It’s almost your birthday,” Shisui grins widely.

“My birthday isn’t for another week,” Itachi protests as he unwraps the ribbon.

“That’s true,” Shisui shrugs, then meets Itachi’s gaze, “Maybe I just like to see you smile.”

Itachi hopes that the color brought to his face by hours of sparring is bright enough to hide the blush rising in his cheeks. As he opens the box, he’s almost overwhelmed with the lovely smell. He wants to try the sweets so bad, but he knows he can’t just yet – the hour’s getting late, and Itachi had promised his mother that he and Shisui will be home in time for dinner.

“It’s too bad it’s almost dinner time,” Itachi sighs, looking wistfully at the sweets.

“I won’t tell if you won’t,” Shisui smiles mischievously.

Itachi glances between his best friend and the sweets in the box. The temptation is too much to resist.

“You’ll have to eat some too then,” Itachi says, “Just so you’re also implicated.”

“You really thought this through,” Shisui laughs as Itachi offers him the sweets.

Itachi cannot help but smile as he tries the candies – they are delicious and taste of sweet cherry and vanilla. Itachi has always had quite the sweet tooth – if it were up to him, he could likely eat his weight in sweets. Itachi wants to thank Shisui for getting him the candies, but when he glances up at him, the words die on his lips as his breath hitches in his throat.

Shisui’s mouth is sticky sweet from the sugary glaze coating the candies. Itachi watches, mesmerized, as his tongue darts out to collect the sweetness, unfamiliar yearning rising in his chest.

Then Shisui shifts and the spell is broken. Itachi shakes his head, chasing away the strange feeling. <em>What has come over him?</em>

The sun is setting slowly over the village, painting the sky red and orange. Itachi doesn’t want to walk home – the exhaustion from having spent the day sparring finally catching up with him – but he knows that his mother will be cross with them if they are late.

“We should go,” Itachi says, “It’s almost time for dinner.”

Shisui doesn’t argue.

They collect their belongings, then take the short way to Itachi’s house. The Uchiha compound is quiet in the early evening hours – most people are at home having dinner with their families before bursting back out onto the streets to enjoy a warm summer night.

They walk side by side through the streets of the compound, and Itachi feels at ease – as he usually does when Shisui is by his side. When Shisui looks at him, he doesn’t see the clan heir or the ANBU captain or a genius shinobi – he only sees him, Itachi.  

“I wonder what your mother has made,” Shisui says, distracting Itachi from his thoughts, “But then again, all her cooking is amazing.”

“You know,” Itachi looks over to Shisui, “You might be my mother’s favorite dinner guest – I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone as enthusiastic about her food.”

“Well then they must not understand anything about good food,” Shisui replies easily, “Homemade meals prepared with love are always the best!”

There is a wistful expression on Shisui’s face, and Itachi’s heart clenches. Shisui is an orphan – both his parents died when he was really young. <em>He must miss them so…</em> For all Itachi’s issues with his father, he is really grateful to have a family.

To distract Shisui from his thoughts, Itachi nudges him lightly.

“Maybe you should get married then,” he says, teasingly, “If you pick right, you could get all the homecooked meals you want.”

“And devastate half of Konoha?” Shisui laughs, glancing at him, “Such a cruel suggestion, Itachi.”

He knows that Shisui’s joking, and, yet, Itachi’s heart drops at his words – with Shisui’s good looks and charming personality, it was little wonder that so many were smitten with him. He knows he has no right to feel this way, and still, he cannot help it – he hates the thought of Shisui with someone else.

They turn the corner and find themselves outside of Itachi’s home.

“Itachi, is that you?” his mother calls from the kitchen as soon as they enter the house.

“Yes, mother,” Itachi responds as he and Shisui take off their shoes and head to the kitchen.

Mikoto’s standing by the stove, somehow tending to three different pots at the same time.

“Hello Shisui,” his mother smiles, glancing over her shoulder, “You two came just in time – the dinner is almost ready. You better be hungry – I’ve made way too much food or three people.”

“Very are famished and very excited for the food,” Shisui replies easily, earning an even brighter smile from Mikoto.

While Itachi’s father has always been somewhat apprehensive around Shisui, realizing, perhaps, that his primary loyalty was to the village rather than to the clan, his mother has always adored him.

“Is Sasuke not here tonight?” Itachi asks, frowning.

“He’s over at Kushina’s house,” Mikoto shrugs, “With Naruto.”

Itachi smiles – it’s good that Sasuke has friends his age.

“Do you need help with anything?” Shisui asks Mikoto.

“Just carry these to the table,” Mikoto nods at the few platters resting on the counter next to her.

They do as they are told.

The dinner goes well, and, as his mother recounts a story from her days as a kunoichi in response to Shisui’s amusing tale from the recent mission, Itachi finds himself wishing they’d have evenings like this more often.

“Itachi,” his mother says softly, distracting him from his thoughts, “You are unusually quiet today.”

“I’m just a little tired,” Itachi shrugs.

“I can only imagine,” Mikoto frowns, “You have been out training since the early morning without any rest. Training is important – but you two should take better care of yourself!”

Shisui shoots him a glance that can only mean, “I tell you that all the time.” Itachi rolls his eyes at him, saying without words, “Look who’s talking.”

They help Mikoto clear the table after dinner. Itachi lingers in the kitchen with his mother for a moment as Shisui heads back to the dining room to get more plates. Once Itachi puts cups into the cupboard, he turns around and notices his mother look at him intently.

“Mother, is something wrong?” Itachi asks, confused.

“No,” Mikoto shakes her head, “Not at all. It’s just that time flies so fast. I feel like only yesterday you were a tiny child in my arms, but not you are almost a man grown. To think that you are turning sixteen in a week – old enough to get your soulmate mark…”

“Mother,” Itachi interrupts her instantly.

Smile leaves Mikoto’s features, replaced by a concerned expression.

“Right,” she says, “I’m sorry.”

Itachi doesn’t want to talk about soulmates – especially not around Shisui. Everyone in the village had their soulmate mark appear on their sixteenth birthday, but, somehow, in a cruel twist of fate, Shisui never got one. Itachi always thought this unfair – Shisui was an incredible person and deserved to be loved.

Itachi remembers the day of Shisui’s sixteenth birthday all too well. Shisui was supposed to return from the mission late that night, but Itachi’s heart was fluttering with nervous anticipation, and he realized that he could not wait till the morning to see him. Instead, he got Shisui’s favorite cake and went to his apartment to wait for him there.

Time stretched slowly, and it was well past midnight when he’d finally heard the front door open. When he saw Shisui, Itachi felt a lump in his throat – his friend looked utterly exhausted, and there was a strange sadness in his gaze. Itachi’s never seen him look like that.

The instant Shisui’s eyes fell upon Itachi, his face lit up.

“Itachi!” he exclaimed, “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to be the first one to wish you happy birthday,” Itachi smiled at him.

It wasn’t technically Shisui’s birthday anymore since it was well past midnight, but Itachi thought it was close enough.

“Thank you,” Shisui breathed out, walking over to Itachi and pulling him in for a hug. Itachi’s heart fluttered in his throat as he buried his face in Shisui’s chest. Only one question was burning in his mind, but somehow, Itachi couldn’t find the courage to ask.

The thought of Shisui having someone else’s name on his skin burned his heart. Back then, he thought it was because they were close friends – after all, it was not uncommon for people who have just found their soulmates to spend time with them and neglect other people in their lives, at least for a while. Itachi always loved spending time with Shisui, so the thought of being apart from him was painful. It took too long for Itachi to realize that this wasn’t mere jealousy of a friend – that he’d been in love with Shisui all those years.

Once he had let Itachi go, Shisui headed to the shower, as he usually did after the mission. Afterward, they settled at his kitchen table and ate the cake Itachi brought. Itachi noticed a deep, fresh scar running up Shisui’s forearm, and his breath hitched in his throat – so close to the artery, it’s good that they had a medic on their team.

Itachi looked Shisui in the face, the question burning on the tip of his tongue. Finally, he could not handle the uncertainty any longer.

“So…” Itachi started slowly, “Have you…?”

Shisui met his gaze calmly, then smiled.

“No,” he shrugged, “I didn’t. Looks like I don’t have one.”

Itachi looked at him in stunned silence. Shisui’s tone was so casual that it seemed he was talking about the weather and not about not having a soulmate. Itachi felt conflicted – a part of him was overcome with sadness for his friend, but another, selfish part, was almost relieved. There was another feeling niggling at Itachi’s heart that he could not yet– now he knows it was the anguish of not being Shisui’s soulmate.  

The next few days passed in a strange haze – Itachi was both terrified and hopeful that the mark could still appear. But days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into months, then years, and Shisui still never got a soulmate mark.

People were, of course, surprised and sympathetic – it was almost unheard of for someone to never receive their soulmate mark. Shisui was the pride and joy of their clan, and everyone was waiting with bated breath to find out who his soulmate was, and, when it turned out he didn’t have one…People haven’t looked at him the same.

It always angered Itachi – to him, Shisui was the most incredible person. What did it matter if there was no soulmate mark on his skin?

Dread rises in Itachi’s chest at the thought of his own fast-approaching birthday. Ever since he learned that Shisui didn’t have a soulmate, he has hoped that he, too, won’t get a soulmate mark. He didn’t need a soulmate mark to tell him who to love – for so many years, he’s only loved Shisui, only wanted Shisui. And Itachi would never let some stupid mark change the way he feels.

The thought of someone else’s name on his skin makes bile rise in Itachi’s throat. He wants to be with Shisui - or no one at all. He knows that Shisui – his selfless Shisui – will never be with him if he got someone else’s name, all in a misguided attempt to make Itachi happy. But what if being with Shisui is all Itachi ever wanted?

Itachi pushes the thoughts away – there is nothing he can do now, with his birthday still a week away. His exhaustion finally catches up with him, making him dizzy. His mother notices immediately and shoos Shisui and him upstairs to sleep.

They part at the top of the stairs – Itachi heads to his own room and Shisui to the guest quarters. When they were younger, they used to sleep in the same room whenever Shisui stayed over, but with time Itachi’s parents thought it more proper that each had their own space.

In his room, Itachi switches into his sleeping clothes and crawls into his bed. He’s exhausted, yet somehow, sleep doesn’t come. Despite the warm day, his bed feels cold, and he keeps twisting and turning, trying to find a comfortable position. Itachi gives up with a sigh, then gets out of bed and heads out of his room.

He knows he shouldn’t do this – not now that he’s realized that he has feelings for Shisui, but he cannot stop himself. Not when sleeping in Shisui’s arms always felt so safe and comfortable. He wonders briefly if it’s improper but pushes the thoughts away – when he and Shisui are together, nothing ever feels wrong.

Itachi finally reaches the guestroom and opens the door quietly. Shisui is lying on the futon, fast asleep, his curls strewn across the pillow, his mouth slightly open.

“Shisui,” Itachi murmurs, stepping into the room.

Shisui shifts slightly then opens his eyes.

“Itachi,” he whispers, voice hoarse, “Can’t sleep?”

“Yeah,” Itachi nods, then gestures at the futon, “Can I…?”

“Of course,” Shisui smiles, moving to the side, “Just don’t poke me with your elbow again.”

Itachi scoffs, crawling into the bed next to Shisui. They’ve grown quite a bit in the recent years – once upon a time, this futon was big enough for both of them to sprawl out without touching, but now they end up pressed close together. The warmth radiating from Shisui makes Itachi’s skin tingle as he shifts closer, leaning against Shisui’s side.

As soon as Itachi’s head touches the pillow, he starts to drift off.

“Comfortable?” he hears Shisui whisper against the crown of his head.

“Yes,” Itachi mumbles sleepily, “I wish it was always just the two of us.”

“Well, I’m not going anywhere,” Shisui replies softly.

With that, Itachi finally falls asleep.

[pomegranates-and-blood]

νοσταλγία (Chapter 3)

(Gif credit to @whenimaunicorn​)

νοσταλγία Masterlist

Pairing: Ivar/Reader (eventual)

Summary: This is a retelling/romantization of the Greek myth of Persephone’s abduction with Ivar as Hades and you as Persephone. The Reader character is a Byzantine woman, follower of the Greek Pantheon/Religion, and a devoted follower of Persephone. This takes place after 5A, but the universe of this is a little changed in relation with the series, of course. Thank you for giving it a chance, hope you enjoy!

Word Count: 3.5k

Warnings: The usual :)

A/N: Words cannot express how much it means to hear back and to know people actually like this mess I’m writing. Thank you so so so much! I hope you all enjoy, and again, thank you.

Taglist: @youbloodymadgenius​ (Thank you so fucking much for your support and your comments btw, it means the world. You’re amazing!)

“So, Priestess.” You hear behind you, jumping back with a yelp and almost dropping the scroll you held in your hands.

You turn around to find the Viking King standing by your doorway, leaning heavily on his crutch and looking at you with a small smug smile on his face.

“A gentleman would knock.” You say around a small smile of your own, and leave the rolled-up map on a nearby end table before motioning for a chair and sitting in one nearby. It shouldn’t be so easy, so familiar, letting him into your space.

“You should know better.”

“I didn’t expect to see you again.” You confess without hesitation, looking into his pale eyes that reflect the stubborn light of the candles in the room around you.

“I have nothing but my brother and Christians to talk to in this city,” He dismisses easily, a gesture of his hand as he takes a seat near you. Your eyes, curious, follow the agile movements of his left hand as he maneuvers the crutch on his side to rest nearby. “You are far better company.”

“Thank you, I think,” You say, biting your lip to keep your stupid mouth from smiling and the foolish bashfulness from showing on your expression. Apparently, it does regardless, judging by the pleased look on the Viking’s face. Clearing your throat, you steal a glance to the closed door and state, “You do know you are scandalizing half a city right now, don’t you?”

“I am?” Based on his smug look, he knows, but you speak anyways.

“I am already called a witch,” You explain, “Do you know what it will do to my reputation if they are to see a Viking enter my home?”

“And you care for your reputation?”

“Any lady would care about her reputation!” You pretend to be scandalized, before rolling your eyes at yourself. You delight yourself in the small huff that leaves the man’s lips, what could be a laugh if given just enough room to breathe.

“The Saxons,” He starts, leaning the side of his body on the table, “You said they call you a witch.”

“A woman that worships the Gods of the Dead is usually labeled such a thing,” You offer with a small shrug. After a breath of hesitation, you dare tease, “Are you one to believe Stithulf’s tales that I can bewitch men to their deaths? Blind them and have them follow my every whim?”

He keeps pale eyes on you, studying you quietly for a few moments before rescinding, closing his eyes in a slow blink and murmuring,  

"Not through magic,” Before you have a chance to ask what he means by that, he motions for a place behind you and asks, “What is that?”

You twist on your seat to where he points and see he means the scroll you…borrowed from Leofric. Stretching on your seat, you grab onto the old paper and open it on the table.

The colors are faded, and to what you understand is not very accurate, but you have been growing restless here and you wanted to at least learn something other than defeat here.

“What do you need a map for?” The Viking frowns, rough fingers placed over the edges of the map you cannot hold and helping you smooth it over the table.

You know if he were to think of you as a Greek Anassa before anything else, he would be on his guard about you by now, because after all, it is a foreign leader looking to know the outline of his homeland. But he isn’t.

Because that’s what you agreed upon, right? No names and no identities past this door, no future or present outside of this disgusting little hut. But your people need to leave this village, they need to be away from Stithulf’s ambitious hands, from Leofric’s egotistical God.

Stealing a hand back to put a lock of hair behind your ear, you offer, “Knowing where on this earth the Gods have taken us?” You grimace at your own words. As if the Gods would want this. Regardless, you swallow past the bitterness of the soft lie and continue explaining, “I…don’t know where I am. I mean, I know there’s no point in knowing, but I don’t…”

He silences you with a point of his finger, eyes inquisitive and always demanding when they look over your face but still quiet, offering you the location and name of the city with a point of his finger.

Your eyes look over the seas and rivers drawn there, and even if it all feels so fucking foreign and strange and unforgiving, at least knowing where in this world the last of the Attics have perished, what hills and what rivers bury their unfortunate bodies; brings you a little peace.

For a moment there’s a flare of a thought, an errant idea, of how maybe, just maybe, this strange man turned King, in all his faults and fame; could be easily played with. You lured a Greek Strategus into laying an army at your feet, surely you could get something out of the Viking before your life reached its untimely end.

The few Attics that have survived the hell of these last weeks could benefit from whatever aid you can get the King to-…

No.

You shake those thoughts off quickly enough. You have regretted your lies before, you have promise to be honest and be true because you cannot stomach the mere possibility that one day you will look at your reflection and not recognize who you are past all the lies and the masks.

So, you look into the Varangian’s pale blue eyes, and offer sincerely, “Thank you.”

He ignores your words, you don’t know whether because he has no interest in your gratitude or because he does not know how to answer to it.

Instead, he asks, “How do you know how to read a map?”

“You ask me that and not how I speak your language? Or know of your Gods?” You reply, eyebrows raised. The Viking shrugs, conceding, but his eyes remain with the same inquisitive glint, demanding his answers. With a sigh, you offer, “There’s…Varangians where I am from. When my mother was killed, what you call a shieldmaiden took me in and raised me as her own.”

“What was her name?”

“Is,” You correct with a small frown, “Sieghild is very much alive.”

“Would I know of her?” He asks, and you narrow your eyes at him. The Viking explains, “A shieldmaiden that lived all the way in the Mediterranean, surely she has her own share of fame.”

“That’s her story to tell, not mine.”

And the candles burn on, and you two continue talking about whatever comes to mind. You don’t ask about what happens in this city, he doesn’t ask -much- about what brought you and your people here. He doesn’t ask your name again, and you make a point of avoiding saying his.

Somehow, you made the mistake of telling him about Keres, and their fame as angels of violent deaths that scour the battlefields; and now the Viking won’t stop insisting that they are just Valkyries with different names.

“But you know of the Valkyries.” He insists, a frown in his brow and his nose.

“I do.”

“Then why do you call them with a different name?”

“Keres are not Valkyries.”

“They sound very alike, Priestess,” His mouth curves downwards in an exaggerated gesture and he shrugs his shoulders. “It sounds to me that you Greeks just like changing the names of things.”

Even if you should be offended all you do is smile, “What?”

“Barangoi,” He offers, a tilt of his head. “You could just say Viking.”

“And you could just say Keres instead of Valkyries.”

“Ah!” He points a finger at you, “So you admit they are one and the same.”

“I don’t follow your Gods, Barangoi,” You remind him, but he just tilts his head to the side and looks away. Before you can help yourself, you point out, “Your Greek is horrible, by the way.”

“Well, I haven’t had time to find a teacher.”

____

“I will leave this sad excuse for a city, just for a few days,” Sieghild promises that night, her eyes on the fire but you can see her soul reaching for her shield.

“Do you think it is safe?”

“Who should I fear? The few Saxons smart enough to train like Arabs? The last remnants of the once mighty Great Heathen Army?” She scoffs, her words intending to dismiss your fear even if she has just listed the reasons you worry for her life when she leaves.

“Neither would have any qualms about killing you.” You point out dryly.

The shieldmaiden rolls her shoulders, something akin to bloodthirst in her smile, “Let them try.”

“And I’m the foolish one.” You mutter around a roll of your eyes.

The woman chuckles quietly, “I told you I have some questions I need answered. You are not the only one with ties to the Gods, little one.”

“Never said that I was. Based on your tales, the sons of one of the most famous Völvas are at the gates, mother.” You quip dryly, reaching for the goblet of water and wishing you could call upon the Christian God and turn it into wine.

“The gates, little one?” Sieghild muses, and you frown at her in confusion over the rim of your cup. With a shrug, she explains, “I have seen a son of Aslaug going in and out of your little hut multiple times now.”

Shit. You cough abruptly when the water goes the wrong way, but play it off and look again at the flames.

“I have no idea who you are talking about.”

“Of course you don’t,” She teases, a strange weight in her voice. She stands up, reaching for her trusted shield and putting it at her back as she grabs one of the fur cloaks by you. You keep your eyes ahead, but feel her presence at your back, and hear her lighthearted voice, “Sometimes, I sit by myself and think how your mother must be screaming her head off at me from her Elysium.”

You laugh, and it feels light and free, craning your head back to look at the shieldmaiden. She places a heavy hand on your hair, rough fingers attempting to run through it; the gesture so reminiscent of your childhood.

“Why?”

“She had this beautiful little girl, blessed by the Gods, noble in blood and in heart,” She recalls, “And I turned that child into the mad woman that likes spending her evenings with Ivar the Boneless.”

You shake your head at her words, closing your eyes and resting the back of your head on her stomach.

“Of all the things I have done, you truly believe talking to a Varangian King would be what my mother would take issue with?” You ask her, and the shieldmaiden grumbles an agreement, remaining silent for a short while.

“I will be back soon. Be careful, yes?” You nod. Sieghild traces around the wound in your forehead and sighs, “Your Gods and mine keep you, little one.”

“Your Gods and mine, mother.” You answer with a small smile, the exchange as old as goodbye.

She leaves you to your thoughts with a firm kiss pressed to the crown of your head, and you stay there, by the fire, wondering what will happen when the Varangians leave.

But turns out you don’t have to think much about what will happen when the Vikings collect their prizes, when the Saxons retreat back to England, when you will be left with three hundred Greeks and nowhere to go and nothing to do but wait for death; for the talks are exceedingly long, and almost a week has passed and still the Vikings make camp in this city, still Stithulf meets with Varangians daily, still the Viking King makes his way with his crutch and his uneven steps to your door.

The King himself is a vexing contradiction. Cruel, arrogant, and explosive; like seldom you have seen, even if most of the time his vitriol is not directed at you. Yet dedicated, intelligent, and, at least sometimes, hinting at someone that wants to give but does not know how to.

He manages to make you despise him as easily as he makes you admire him, hate presence in your mind and find yourself missing his voice or his expressive eyes when he’s not there.

You were never one to bite your tongue, and even if pain clogs your throat your memories leave your lips with ease, but Ivar…Ivar gives pieces of himself away like crumbs that fall from his so tightly-clasped hands. It is as if he couldn’t stop himself from giving away those little pieces, but at the same time dismisses the truths and cracks in the armor as soon as you make a slight mention of them.

He tells you about his mother, of her love and because happiness cannot be remembered without the biting sting of pain, of her absence. He tells you of his vow to kill his mother’s killer, and the look in his Greek Fire-like eyes when he does gives you a more certain prophecy than the Gods’ at to what destiny holds for the shieldmaiden. He tells you of the boatbuilder, of the man that did so much to make him who he is today, and if nostalgia paints the tales he weaves you say nothing.

Ivar now knows a lot about you as well, because when you meet daily with a stubborn man with no restrictions in his questions, you are bound to give away a lot of yourself. You tell him about the Christians of Attica, of their flames lapping at your legs and back, and if he understands a little more of your darkness then so be it. You tell him of Sieghild and her ways, of years at her side, of being taught how to wage and stop war, of her tales of this land so far away from where you were it seemed like a different realm. You tell him of life under the sigil of Persephone, you tell him secrets you have not dared tell a soul before, of the woman in the red veil and her warm darkness.

When you see him wince for the third time since he has sat down today, and hear the barely-there grunt of pain, you hope he doesn’t take this as offense -your times near Kiev when you were growing up reminds you strikingly of how particular Varangians are when it comes to pain- and reach for a marked leather pouch in one of your bags.

Grabbing onto a reasonable piece of willow bark, you turn back to the Viking and extend your hand. His eyes go from your hand to your face, but surprisingly enough you are not that bothered by the cold distrust as you thought you should be.

“Chewing on it helps with pain.” Is all you tell him in answer to his silent question.

He takes it with the mistrust, the annoyed hesitation, that are in such a way his that you fear you would never be able to see the somewhat-narrowed eyes, the movement of the head, the piercing glare, without thinking of him any longer.

It takes a moment, and an exasperated lift of your eyebrows for the warrior to finally bite into the softened bark. After a moment, because of course he would, the Viking asks, “How did you know?”

“I have to be attuned to others’ pain to be a healer, Viking,” You answer simply, settling back in your seat and draping the cloak over your legs. “You have healers where you are from.”

“Usually they are Völur.”

You shake your head with a small chuckle, “I am not a seeress.”

“But your Gods speak to you.”

You frown, “Scarcely of the future. The sight I have is regarding…the past, or sometimes present. Related to death, as per my Gods’ realm.”

In all his stubbornness, there’s a hint of fearlessness, more than a hint of courage; that almost whisper to you what he will ask for way before the words are to leave his lips.

The Viking stands up with a small grimace, and leaning on his crutch stands before you, “Prove it.”

“Are you certain?” You ask, again already aware of the answer he will give. When he nods, you take a deep breath and toe off your simple sandals. If the Viking takes note of the strange choice to have your bare feet on the cold ground, he does not mention it.

You stand as well, for a moment feeling Eleusis’ warm grasslands underneath your feet instead of the cold wood of a Scandinavian home, and face the Viking.

He holds himself still, so much so that you may for a moment confuse him with a marble statue. One that you can choose to admire or to break with a single push.

With the closeness, looking up at the cruel and handsome visage of Kattegat’s King, you realize what the pull of darkness you noticed surrounding him when you first saw him was.

Past the bloodthirst, past the cruelty and the vitriol; you catch a glimpse of something else.

A whisper not unlike the one that so long ago, when Sieghild offered to take you to the Danes, told you to await a few days in Sicily. That same night the news on the Saracen warriors threatening Athens with an onslaught of raids reached your ears, and instead of sailing North you returned to Greece.

Your eyes meet his, and a strange familiarity reaches you like a memory, like the phantom caress of a worn piece of silk over cold skin.

“You died, not long ago. You crossed into the realm of death and came back, and not only then, even in the womb the Gods debated your survival. Chosen by Hades.” The last words leave your lips in Greek, realization settling within you as you speak. You force your tongue back to his language when you continue, “You survived all those times because the Gods were not done with you and you know this, but you are not certain what the purpose they spared your life for is.

Without thinking, you move even closer, your head tilted back to stare at his pale eyes.

Your voice is a whisper in itself when you promise, “Your Gods have heard you beg to know the reason behind your pain, Ivar.”

There’s a flare of anger in his eyes, a snarl forming in his lips and they are the only warnings you have before the Viking’s hand closes around your throat.

You are dragged closer, rough fingers clawing at your neck and you cannot keep your mouth from opening in a gasp, your hand uselessly tugging at the King’s arm.

But you can still breathe, you notice past your panicked breaths. You feel your mouth dry, your heart quicken, but you do not fight back, even if your scared mind begs you to.

“Sieghild.” You whisper. You are not certain why you speak so lowly, but something tells you that you should.

The woman turns to you, and when her footsteps stop as she realizes what you wanted her to see, it seems the whole forest freezes. The wind doesn’t rustle the leaves, the birds do not sing, the distant stream stops its course.

It all seems to hold its breath alongside you, waiting for the injured beast’s move.

“Do not move,” Sieghild advises, “Do not cower or it will attack.”

You tighten your hand around the bow and stare back at the lynx’s wild eyes with a courage you do not have.

When the King leans even closer, you feel like a young girl holding a bow and praying the beast does not attack. Praying it mistakes your relentlessness with ruthlessness, and thinks twice about harming you.

“You will keep your visions to yourself, Priestess.”

And it’s the arrogance, the pride, the command, what gets the blood under your skin to a boil. You may not be able to overpower him, but the very Underworld may welcome you home before you bow down to a brute.

Your hand finds his wrist, nails digging lightly at the skin as you meet his gaze with the defiance not even the constricting rules of Attica could extinguish.

You reply to his threat with narrowed eyes. “You will get your hand off me, Viking.”

Surprisingly enough, he does, but keeps his burning eyes on yours and still towers above you.

“You asked.” You remind him. Because you have to swallow down other words, other reminders. You obeyed.

“How are you so sure it’s not the Norns telling you this? How does this not make you a Völva?” He asks, and past the venom and the volatility there’s a genuine question, you like to think.

“Maybe they are, maybe both our Gods are one and the same, but take different names,” You offer, “But I am not one of your seeresses, Viking. I am Hiereia.”

___

Hi! Thank you so much for reading! I’m sorry I wasn’t very regular, but now I’m gonna be. Probably Saturdays or Sundays are gonna be the days I post, btw.

I know I’m taking my sweet ass time getting to the abduction part of the abduction myth lol, but I hav my reasons. Or maybe I just like to ramble, and my stories do the same, who knows.

Anyways, just wanted to say I appreciate you all so much for reading! It really means a lot to know that people are reading this and liking it.

[fatefulfaerie]

Courage: A Hylia’s Day Carol

Happy Holidays everyone! I hope you are having a wonderful time, even if you don’t celebrate any of the winter holidays. I know sometimes this time of year can be hard and a lot of you may be feeling lonely, but things can always get better, I promise. I love you all and I am always here for you!!

There echoes a legend around these parts, betwixt these trees and within these dark woods. Yet it wasn’t one of those legends of heroes, stories meant to inspire courage into youths of this village distant from any kingdom.

It was meant to breed cowardice, warn children of the dangers that may befall them should their curiosity lead them into the dark woods.

There was said to be a dark cabin, enshrouded in the shadows of the trees whether it was day or night. No one had ever seen someone living there, but yet feared what sort of person would keep to themselves in such a sinister manner. Often referred to as the “Prince of the Shadows” or the “Harbinger of Demise”, the stories often told of the resident murdering stray children and decorating the cabin with their remains or robbing people blind and leaving them with nothing. 

There were some who figured that a lonely man lived there, and some who even claimed to have seen what he looked like. Yet most stayed away, out of pure fear of what they figured he must have been, an animal on the prowl, a Venus flytrap disguised as a homely cabin.

But those were stories only echoed by the nearby village. Travellers heard no such warnings, nor were influenced by such fear.

In fact, a little boy ran to the dark cabin as soon as he saw it, thinking it his salvation from a dark, unwelcome forest.

He knocked on the door and specks of dirt fell from it, as if it hadn’t been opened in a very long time. The innocent boy, however thought nothing of the anomaly as crows cawed above him.

“Hello?” The boy asked. “Is anyone there? My name is Timm.”

“Go away, boy,” a gruff and deep voice said. “You know the tales. I’ll eat you alive. Go before I get too hungry.”

“But I can’t go,” the boy replied. “I can’t find my parents. We were travelling through these woods and the next thing I know, I’ve lost track of them. I’m real scared of these woods.”

The door opened so quickly that the boy staggered backwards. His heart pounded as he looked up at a man, features shrouded in a brown cloak.

“Good,” was all the figure said before slamming the door in the little boy’s face, who was only slightly taken aback. Timm bowed his head as he thought of what to do next, fear running so rampant in his heart he wished he could make it stop. He looked at the dark woods behind him, the dark woods that seemed to cave into him, move him, belittle him into the tiny, helpless child he was. His eyes teased tears, not because of the threats of the man behind door, in fact he didn’t believe those. He cried at the forest he looked out at, his parents lost somewhere within it.

The man on the other side of the door, however, felt satisfied at the thought that the annoying boy must have left by now and readied himself for one of his favorite past-times, which was sleep.

He sat by the fire, eating his meal with very little spark in his own eyes. He sauntered over to his bed, careful not to let his brown cloak slip, to keep his identity shrouded in mystery. He checked for likely the millionth time the security of the overly boarded up windows, the door locked with so many locks that it was no wonder it took him so long to open the door, and, of course the fireplace that must be extinguished. Hearths were warm and inviting and, although he needed the heat to survive, he wasn’t eager to let anyone else share it.

Crowned prince of the shadows and heralded harbinger of demise by the fear of the others who lived at the nearby village, this mysterious man slept in his cabin, on edge and terrified of the day to come.

He woke what seemed like seconds later to a bright white light, so blinding that it was hard for him to open his eyes, and thus he did so very hesitantly and slowly, sitting up.

The light seemed to emanate from a small, angelic figure, somehow all at once as youthful as a newborn and yet as old and wrinkled as someone who had lived a thousand years.

“Who are you?” The man practically barked. “How did you get in here?”

“There is no need to fret,” the angel said. “Link.”

The man grabbed the sword resting by his bed and charged forward, holding the sword to her gauzy neck

“How do you know my name?” Link growled, his voice rough with anger.

The angel gave a smile, slowly floated forward into the sword and yet, Link felt nothing and saw nothing, no pierced skin, no blood. She was just like a breeze. Link’s sword clattered to the floor.

“Do you know what day it is in Hyrule?” The angel asked.

Link furrowed his brow.

“I left that place a long time ago,” Link said, his voice coarse and his brow tense. “Why should I care what day it is there?”

“It is Hylia’s Day,” the angel said in reply, “and I am the ghost of Hylia’s Day past,” the ghost said, offering her hand. “By the command of Hylia, I am meant to show you what you have lost.”

“Hylia isn’t real,” Link said darkly. “Besides, I know very well what I have lost, what does showing it to me now do?”

“Perhaps you don’t know what you lost,” the ghost said calmly as Link narrowed his eyes. He tipped his head daringly and, in a stroke of courage he had not used in years, he touched the tiny hand.

Immediately, he was transported somewhere else entirely, with a gust of wind that knocked off the hood of his cloak, revealing his blue eyes and blonde hair.

But the marvel was where he found himself, a bright forest dotted with fireflies and forest fairies, eclectic with life and joy that instilled Link with nostalgia he had not felt in decades.

“Do you know where we are?” The ghost asked.

“Yes,” Link said weakly. “Yes, I…”

He couldn’t quite finish as he looked all around himself, speechless with parted lips to find himself in Kokiri Forest.

Link’s eyes lit up like they hadn’t before.

“There’s Mido!” He exclaimed, excited at the recollection, how things flooded back to him so easily. “And Saria! Saria, hey! It’s me, Link!”

“She cannot hear you,” the ghost said to Link, who had taken a couple steps forward. He looked back at the ghost. “These are only visions of the past.” Her gaze lingered on Link before she voiced a command.

“Come,” she said, leading Link away from the center of the small forest to a particular hut with a ladder. Link stopped in his tracks as soon as she saw it.

“This…this was my home, I…I lived here.”

Link and the ghost watched a small boy crawl down the ladder with boundless energy, before running with a smile right through Link. He couldn’t keep his gaze off this boy, turning his head to follow him with his eyes with parted lips.

“This is before, isn’t it? Before I got a fairy. Before I left the forest…I look so happy.”

“You do,” the ghost agreed.

“I was a child,” Link argued, turning his head to his shoulder. “I didn’t know any better.”

“Perhaps,” the ghost said. “Or perhaps not.”

“What is the point of showing me this?” Link asked as he turned around.

“To show what you’ve lost.”

“What, my youth? My…happiness? Yeah great, thanks.”

“Try courage,” the ghost stated simply.

That seemed to trigger Link, to press a button he did not approve of. His head had popped and his eyes fumed with anger.

“Courage ruined me!” Link yelled. “Do you understand?! It destroyed me! What I went through killed me!”

The angel seemed to be unphased by Link’s harsh words, even replying in a soft voice.

“You were only a child,” she said, with an underlying sadness. “But yes, you did go through a lot. I wager you now believe cowardice and caution is better for you…for everyone…but perhaps there are some parts of your courage that you have forgotten, important parts.”

“Like what?”

“Compassion,” the ghost said. “Love.”

Link felt all the blood in his body flee from it at that word, his face pale and his heart panicking. He began to shake his head. 

“Please,” he begged. “Don’t…don’t show me that, I…”

But the world around him had already began to change.

Link plopped to sit on his heels when he faced him and Zelda in the clouds, saying their last goodbye.

He felt tears in his eyes and he felt the ghost beside him.

“Everyday I wished I would have spoken up,” Link said as he watched the interaction with sad eyes. “I loved her and…I just let it happen.”

Link gazed at her beauty with longing eyes, the way her golden hair dangled around her waist, the way her silhouette curved, her elegance, the way she shone, the blue hue of her eyes, the lovely way she held herself.

“So you curse your cowardice then?” The spirit asked, poking and prodding at Link’s fragility.

“No,” Link said defensively, turning his head. “No, I…”

Link couldn’t keep his tears restrained any longer, placing his weight on his hands as his tears dropped into the illusion of clouds, soon dropping onto the wooden floor of his cabin.

“Why did you show me that?” Link asked as he continued to cry. “I had almost forgotten…why did you show me that?”

“Oh ho! Why so glum!” A booming voice asked. Link looked up slowly to see a burly, stout man sitting on his bed.

“You another ghost?” Link asked as he stood up and faced the man.

“Why I am!” The ghost said excitedly. “How astute you are.” He placed his hand on his chest proudly. “I am the ghost of Hylia’s Day present, but you can call me Pres.”

“All right, Pres,” Link said, fully convinced that this was but a dream. “What do you have to show me next?”

“Ho ho, the present of course, ah ha!” The ghost said with a jolly laugh as he stood up, bringing an arm around Link.

The ghost led him through the front door and yet, it opened to a bustling town instead of a dark forest.

“Hyrule Castle Town,” Link said as he stepped forward, the ghost beside him sporting a permanent smile. “This must be what the Hylia’s Day celebrations look like.”

“Have you never been?” The ghost asked.

“No,” Link replied. “I didn’t leave the forest until I was nine, and then…well I had a lot of things to do.”

“Courageous things,” the ghost prompted.

“You could say that.”

“Well,” the ghost said, offering his bent arm. “Why don’t we have a look around?”

Link was surprised at how much he enjoyed the festivities, even if he couldn’t partake of any of the food. He found himself smiling, genuinely smiling at the joy surrounding him, the music, the dancing, the games, the laughter, the peace of Hyrule he had never quite reveled in.

After what seemed a short hour, Link and the ghost sat on a bench observing the festivities, enjoying from a distance the exuberance.

“Do you know who made all this possible?” The ghost asked.

“You?” Link guessed.

“No. You,” the spirit said as he poked Link’s chest. “You saved Hyrule from Ganondorf. You fought countless battles against his forces and then went back in time to warn Hyrule of his malfeasance in the first place. Technically you saved Hyrule twice. And of course Termina. You’re a hero three times over. You caused this enjoyment on three separate occasions! All because of your courage, your compassion, your love!”

“Maybe, but…I’m not that same hero anymore. I’ve changed…alienated myself into cowardice.”

“Why?”

Link shrugged.

“No one has ever seemed to want anything to do with me afterwards,” Link said. “Zelda sent me back in time, Navi left without a word, Tatl couldn’t wait to say goodbye to me…I’ve always been left alone.”

“Besides,” Link continued. “if you ask anyone that lives near me they would tell you I’m a monster. Maybe I believe them, everything I’ve done.”

“Like what?”

Link shrugged.

“They say I kill children, kidnap them, steal from people,” Link said. “I’ve never done any of that but I let them believe it because they will stay away, and…well that’s for the best. I don’t even want anything to do with me. You all say I need my courage back but, for what? I’m not an innocent hero anymore, it was too damaging, battle after battle after battle. I mean what you expect me to say? I’m glad I saved Hyrule but I can’t live my life constantly fighting. Every day I’m so tired of me, of my past. Forgetting my courage is the best thing for me…until I die of course.”

Link thought the following silence was odd for such a boisterous spirit. Link thought perhaps he had depressed the spirit, yet he looked over and saw him gone.

Link sighed, hunching over so that his forearms hung off his knees.

“And neither did you.”

The people bustling in castle town had gone as well, Link sitting on his bed thinking over all he had seen and heard and said and done.

It wasn’t long before he saw a pair of feet standing right before him.

“I suppose you are the ghost of Hylia’s Days to come, huh?”

The ghost did not respond, Link looking up to see a tall, hooded figure, yet with no body. The cavern in the hood which should have had some sort of head was pitch black, empty and unyielding to Link.

Link stood up slowly, eyes swimming in fear. He attempted to chuckle away his anxiety, but it didn’t work.

“Are…are you going to show me something?”

The ghost didn’t budge at first, and when he did move it was slow and purposeful. All the ghost did was step back and gesture towards a mirror, as if inviting Link to look in the mirror.

“You…want me to look in the mirror?” Link asked, thinking it quite simple. The ghost gave link no affirmation nor discouragement, standing as if he’d always been a statue, chiseled into that position.

“Okay,” Link said as he paced his way to stare into the mirror, seeing nothing but his own reflection.

Link looked back at the spirit for clarification, and, as it hadn’t moved at all, Link wondered if it really was a statue.

Link returned his blue gaze to the mirror, this time truly staring intently at the way his nose bridged, the way his eyes were shaped, the freckles across his cheeks, the age in the dark circles under his eyes, his messy blonde hair and scruffy inklings of hair around the bottom of his face.

And yet, somehow, he was watching himself age, watching his hair grow and his skin wrinkle until his hair fell out and his skin was no more. He was just bones and he was continuously more horrified. At the sight of himself as an armored stalfos, one eye red and one eye blue, Link started breathing heavily, shaking his head, what was left of it anyway.

“No,” he said. “No…I…this isn’t possible, I…I’m becoming what I used to fight against, but...I’m not that empty, really I’m not, I...” Link stopped himself, breathing heavier as tears collected at his eyes. “This apathy it...it’s eroding at me…worse than my courage did, I…I don’t know who I am anymore.”

Link turned around to the ghost.

“Ghost I want to live, I want to help people like I did. I was forgetting the value of compassion, I was being selfish and self-serving and…please let me change my life. I traded courage for apathy. I thought it was the right thing to do but I’ve been hurting the people around me. Please give me a chance to make up for it. I can still be someone people want around. I want to try again.” 

The ghost said and did nothing.

“Please,” Link said, on his knees. “Please. I was wrong to wish my life away. There’s so much I can do with it. Let me live past my trauma, please…”

Link woke up to an empty cabin, no angel, no spirit, no ghost, not even the mirror. Link breathed a sigh of relief and yet this was the place were he reveled in his cowardice. He looked around ashamed.

“Zelda didn’t want this for me,” he said, before suddenly remembering something.

He shot out of bed and ran outside.

“Timm!” He exclaimed to every corner of the dark woods, circling around himself. “Timm!”

He faced his cabin again and the little boy was still there, hugging his knees against the wall, shaking with fear.

Link breathed a sigh of relief before running to kneel before Timm. Link offered his hand.

“I thought you wanted nothing to do with me,” the boy said in a small voice.

Link smiled.

“There are things far more valuable than self-pity,” Link said. “Like helping others. Like looking to the future. I can’t believe I forgot that.”

And so little Timm took Link’s hand. Link guided the boy through the forest to his parents, who were more than relieved that their son was safe. They thanked Link for returning him safely and when they offered something in return, Link refused. Although changed from who he used to be, Link felt more like himself than he had in a long time.

And Link never returned to that old cabin in the woods.

[aion-rsa]

In the Heights Review: Lin-Manuel Miranda Musical Still Lights Up

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Romance permeates Jon M. Chu’s big screen adaptation of In the Heights, like the aroma of charcoal on a summer day. Perhaps this should be obvious since the central conflict of the Lin-Manuel Miranda musical remains its two star-crossed couples working things out at the northern, tip-top peak of Manhattan. Yet that’s not where the movie’s true passion lies; like the source material before it, the In the Heights film’s real ardor is for the neighborhood of Washington Heights itself. How else could a picture so endear you to what is otherwise a cup of bodega coffee?

As a jubilant and kaleidoscopic love letter to the handful of city blocks which run adjacent to the George Washington Bridge, In the Heights bursts with a life and creativity that is often blinding, and always intoxicating. It lives in a postcard Neverland version of the usually overlooked and marginalized sides of New York City, yet that does not make it fanciful. Rather this is a movie head over heels in love with its street corners above 181st Street, and the largely Latinx community which lives there. And if you go into it with an open mind, you’ll fall, too. 

Ostensibly the story of Usnavi de la Vega (Anthony Ramos) and his quest to leave New York City behind in favor of his parents’ Dominican homeland, In the Heights opens after he’s already achieved his dream. He’s older now and recounting to his daughter on a Caribbean beach his memories of a community that is obviously still his real home. For back in the day, he was the young guy who owned the corner’s favorite bodega, and he knew everyone on the block.

There’s Benny (Corey Hawkins), Usnavi’s bestie and an ambitious dispatch caller at the local taxi cab service; Kevin (Jimmy Smits), the overachieving first generation immigrant who owns said taxi service; and Sonny (Gregory Diaz IV),  Usnavi’s teenage cousin who helps out at the store. But perhaps most importantly there’s Vanessa (Melissa Barrera), the aspiring fashion designer who also has plans of getting out of the hood—if only to West 4th Street—and who’s the apple of Usnavi’s eye.

Theirs is just one of the mildly complex romances at the heart of a film, which also focuses on the return of Nina (Leslie Grace), Kevin’s daughter who is home for the summer after her first year at Stanford. She is the golden child to both her father and all of Washington Heights—one of the “good ones” who made it out. It makes telling them all she dropped out that much harder, including Benny. Because, like Usnavi and Vanessa, theirs is an entire history of everything being left unsaid. Each couple, and all the familiar faces in their lives, is about to have a whirlwind summer filled with music, heartbreak, a rolling blackout, and just maybe a winning lottery ticket.

As with many stage-to-screen transfers, Chu’s adaptation of In the Heights struggles at times with its new format. The Broadway’s musical’s creators, Lin-Manuel Miranda of Hamilton fame and Quiara Alegría Hudes, the latter of whom wrote the book for the show and has here penned the screenplay, are intimately involved in the film. And they’ve made a series of smart, savvy concessions to their new medium. Some songs have been moved around, others have been excised completely, and the wrap-around story with modern day Usnavi in his dream beach bar on a Dominican shoreline attempts to add more narrative structure for a film which is, at heart, a series of musical vignettes.

Still, In the Heights cannot wholly avoid the most familiar obstacles which have tripped up other Hollywood adaptations: the need to maintain as much of the musical material as possible from the show gives the film an occasionally shaggy quality as it meanders its way around every major set piece in its 143-minute running time, and ultimately overstays its welcome with maybe one too many toe-tappers.

With that said, it would take a real curmudgeon to focus on the minor narrative stumbles when there is so much exuberance emanating from Chu’s production and the kinetic ensemble. With its fusion of freestyle rap, salsa rhythms, and other blended Caribbean musical styles, this film erupts with an irresistible vitality every time its ensemble hits the asphalt.

Chu, who before Crazy Rich Asians cut his teeth by directing the best Step Up films, brings a familiar eye for propulsive choreography and joyful movement that made the dance sequences in those films into spectacles greater than most modern action movies. In the Heights is similarly ready to try on almost any creative hat for at least one musical number, such as when Usnavi, Benny, and Sonny break the fourth wall to sketch on the screen their wistful daydreams of what they’d do with a winning lottery ticket, or in the way Vanessa’s song about getting out leaves her entire block covered in the fabric she thinks will carry her off on a downtown train.

In lesser hands, these flourishes could fall into music video glibness, but they’re balanced by an entirely authentic ensemble and a beating heart beneath the razzle dazzle. Ramos particularly seems to be a talent on the make, trading in John Laurens’ blue coat and starched collar from Hamilton for a more laid back and movie star-ready affability. His Usnavi is charmingly big-hearted yet hints at deep waters beneath his calm surface. And, with all respect to Mr. Miranda, Ramos can sing “It Won’t Be Long Now” in a much fuller range.

Barrera’s Vanessa and Grace’s Nina also both have showstopping ballads that are sure to amass each an influx of fans. However, the solo number that lingers best belongs to Olga Merediz, whose Abuela Claudia is the surrogate grandmother to both Usnavi and the neighborhood. On paper, the part could easily be reduced to an archetype, but Merediz’s one major scene where she sings only to herself about a lifetime’s worth of regrets and slights after immigrating to the U.S. from Cuba 70 years ago elevates the films and adds texture to the Latino-American experience that In the Heights so celebrates.

More than its romantic will-they-or-won’t-they rendezvouses, it is the movie’s affection for the ties which bind first, second, and third generation Americans that becomes the picture’s real emotional resonance. The film version of In the Heights also updates that pride and anxiety with a new subplot involving Dreamers—undocumented young people who grew up and lived their entire lives in America—and the dread of being deported from the only home they’ve ever known.

Of course with a gushing heart on its sleeve, In the Heights is still a fairy tale in search of magic, not sorrow. Instead of ice castles or ancient kingdoms, however, its alchemy resides in salons with broken air conditioners and the sugar flavored ice shavings found in a Piragua guy’s cart (which, by the by, provides Miranda with a movie-stealing cameo). I’m not sure if it has the same complexity of music and narrative that propelled Miranda’s Hamilton into a phenomenon twice over, including last year’s Disney+ streaming event. But it won’t really matter to the countless new fans who will surely watch In the Heights on repeat—and hopefully on the biggest screen they can find.

In the Heights opens in theaters and on HBO Max on Friday, June 11.

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The post In the Heights Review: Lin-Manuel Miranda Musical Still Lights Up appeared first on Den of Geek.

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[only-by-the-stars]

the annotated Tome of the Wild

Part 7: The Wild!

- Link didn't open his eyes. A twist on the beginning of BOTW, where you hear Zelda telling Link to open his eyes. I couldn’t resist.

- Hestu’s cameo was a lot of fun to write too. I always found him adorable, first in BOTW and then in AOC as well, and the idea of him waking up Link with his maracas was too amusing not to do. I also had to include his “shimmy shimmy” battle cry from AOC because I always laugh my head off whenever I hear it.

- This also reveals that Midna brought Link to the Great Deku Tree, a character that debuted in OOT and made further appearances in WW and BOTW.

- Something tickled her arm, breaking her out of her gloomy thoughts. Midna lifted her head and looked down. New growth was sprouting from the branch she was sitting on, wriggling its way up onto her. Nothing like this happens to Beatrice in the show, but I had to put in this chilling little moment of Midna nearly succumbing to the dekuwood. It provides a way later to introduce Rhoam’s presence in his scene, as well as some horror at what could’ve happened to her here.

- Note to self: never visit Tabantha if you can help it... Tabantha, of course, being a very cold region in BOTW’s Hyrule. Link’s newfound hatred of snow mirrors my own, and now he’s going to associate it with this horrible experience.

- “It's a bad habit, I guess.” He laughed softly. He’s referring, of course, to how he casually greeted Riju and Medli back at the school pool and they gave him a bit of a hard time about it.

- “You...” Midna stared at him for several seconds, stunned. “You...” She slapped his hand away and starting swinging her tiny fists at him, which he easily dodged. “You oaf! You idiot! What the hell—what the hell is wrong with you? How can you forgive me so easily, when you're still in a shit situation because of me? Neither one of us would be out here groping around blindly in the fucking snow if not for what I did!” I set up Midna and Link to be parallels of each other in a couple ways. One of which is that while Link has isolated himself from Mipha, hurting and confusing her, Midna is on the other end of something similar with Zelda. And here we see something they both struggle with: forgiving themselves. Midna can’t understand how Link can so easily forgive her actions towards him, while Link utterly despises himself for his actions towards Mipha and cannot forgive himself for causing her pain. He’ll later struggle with the fact that Mipha forgives him easily, just as Midna is having trouble understanding his forgiveness of her here. All of them find it easier to forgive their loved ones than to grant that same grace to themselves.

- “She told me that while she appreciated how much I cared, I should think a little more and be less reckless. I know she'd never call me stupid, but...” Link shrugged. “Honestly, I kind of am.” Another reference to Mipha calling Link reckless, and how she hates seeing him get hurt. He is indeed not the smartest guy around, but she does describe him as being very kind and determined to help those in need, so I tried to emphasize that aspect of his personality in this story. Although the “I kind of am” line is also intended to be a subtle red flag. We’ve already seen that Link thinks very little of himself and his abilities, even when it’s clear from the words of others that he’s very talented. And we’re about to soon see him use a bit of intelligence he very much does have, in order to save the day. He would never believe himself capable of such a thing, but he does it anyway.

- “Even just a few branches could be processed... enough to get us through this storm...” Note the use of the plural here. This is leading up to the revelation about his belief that Zelda is in the lantern. His desperation to find more oil anywhere is because, of course, he believes that if the light goes out she will die. And he wouldn’t be in this scarcity if not for what happened back in chapter one, with Link and Aryll and the dog accidentally wrecking the mill and his oil supply.

- He was soon rewarded with a most welcome sight: a single dekuwood branch, growing out of that of a normal tree. It seemed sickly, withered, and it waved feebly in the air, but he rushed forward and hacked it off anyway. The very same branch that tried to attach itself to Midna, sickly and withered precisely because of that failure.

- And now we come to the confirmation that the dekuwood is made from the people who succumb to despair and exhaustion in the woods, right as we see it growing all around Aryll. Rhoam has been unaware this entire time of all the souls he’s sacrificed over the past several months, and now that he knows, he refuses to do it any longer. For he, like Midna, recognizes that Zelda would never want anyone to be harmed for her sake.

He’s also right that Link would never leave Aryll to such a fate, recognizing Link’s love and protectiveness towards his little sister. This is a point where my characterization of Link wildly diverges from that of Wirt, the protagonist of OTGW. I pulled some things from Wirt for Link and his arc, but one thing I didn’t keep was the resentment and initial callousness that Wirt displays for Greg, who is revealed in the tavern sequence to be his half-brother thanks to his mother remarrying, something Greg frowns at when Wirt mentions it. Aryll is also technically Link’s half-sister, as I revealed in the letters that his mother remarried some years after his father’s death and had Aryll with her new husband, but I could not for the life of me see him being resentful or unkind to his little sister. Whatever his faults, I’ve written him as being, at his core, an incredibly kind and deeply loving person, and his adoration of his sister is a part of that. He doesn’t view her as a “half” anything, she’s just his sister and he’ll do anything to protect her. Which of course is a big part of what led to his breakdown: his feelings of guilt over not doing as good a job of that as he thinks he should be doing.

- “Link, I don't... I don't think that's natural light. It looks more like...” This has a double meaning. The fire in the lantern is not the “natural light” of the sun, and it is also deeply unnatural, given that it’s the Beast’s soul in there.

- Speaking of that! The confrontation with the Beast plays out a bit differently here than it does in the show, thanks to Midna’s personal connection to all this. Rhoam’s mention of Zelda gets her attention, and the Beast uses her love for Zelda as a way to try and turn her and Link against each other with his attempt to make them choose which soul will go into the lantern. He’ll get fuel and kill Aryll either way, but why not pit these two against each other as a way to manipulate them into doing what he wants? Except it backfires, because Midna won’t harm anyone for Zelda’s sake, and Link figures out what’s going on anyway, thanks to remembering the words of Rhoam and Telma.

- Link stood up, his mind racing. It was like when the solution to a puzzle finally presented itself in a moment of stunning clarity. For all that he’s not that bright in so many ways, it’s important to remember that he’s canonically able to solve all those tricky puzzles we do, without benefit of a guide, just using his wits and the tools he has at hand. And so too does he solve this particular puzzle, by remembering what he’s been told and piecing it together with what he sees here, thinking about the fact that the Beast’s story doesn’t add up. Which saves the day, in the end.

- “Am I wrong?” Link repeated, his voice shaking with barely suppressed fury; he took a few more steps, forcing the Beast to retreat further. “No more lies. Tell the truth for once, Beast.” Referencing, of course, the fact that Telma told him the Beast lies. He’s absolutely furious right now because of the attempt on Aryll’s life; you do not mess with Link’s loved ones. The Beast, too, fucked around and found out the hard way.

- In the show, Wirt gives the lantern back to the Woodsman to blow out after the delivery of the “Are you?” line that I kept (and had Link nail the delivery of on his first try, unlike Wirt, because that’s what makes sense for both their characters). Here, I chose to let Link kill the Beast, because he is, after all, the legendary hero who slays the villain. But even more importantly, I felt he deserved and had earned such a moment with his growing courage over the course of the tale.

- “See you later, Link.” Hey, remember how Midna broke all our hearts by saying a similar line to Link in TP as she broke the mirror and went back to her world? I sure do!

- “Sleepers wake, dreams will fade... although we cling fast..." This, and the lyrics that close out this section, are the first few lines of the vocal version of Ballad of the Wind Fish that was done for the LA remake.

- There were lights and shadowy figures coming closer, and voices—was someone calling his name? As I would later reveal in the prologue of a place to start, Mipha was screaming his name as she ran down the hill towards him.

- The words he wanted so badly to say to her hung on the tip of his tongue And it shows on his face, that desire to express the love for her that is all but bursting out of him in this moment, and Mipha sees it. She sees that love shining in his eyes as they stare at each other, giving her her hope back and then some. In a way, Link was right: if he hadn’t hidden from her, she would’ve realized what his real feelings for her are. He just didn’t know how happy it would’ve made her. But he will soon.

- “—and that's how we got away from the evil possessed lady!” Out of the corner of his eye Link saw Aryll shake the frog triumphantly, and Mipha, distracted by the sudden commotion, looked away from him. A small, muffled chime sounded, and the amphibian's stomach glowed. “The ringing of the bell commanded her! Though she wasn't really evil, just...” The series is never clear on just what the otherworld the brothers enter is, but it is clear that it really happened to them, and I preserved that ambiguity in the same way, by showing the bell as still being in the frog’s stomach.

- Link nodded. “Yes.” It didn't matter anymore how it'd gotten into her pocket; he'd made it, and brought it with him tonight, with the intention of giving it to her. There was no more question of taking it back or denying it. Courage has been achieved; he’s no longer going to hide or pretend, or try to take back the gift he worked on so hard. Midna is right: he’s been so brave in the Wild, and it’s time to apply that bravery to confessing his feelings to Mipha and letting her know that he loves her. The words will have to wait till the next day, but for now he’s doing all he can to face his fears and stop running, by hugging her and holding her hand and wiping her tears away, letting his love show in his expression as he looks at her without avoiding her eyes. Plus, of course, admitting to his intentions with the tape and inviting her over to listen to it together. They’re finally getting a breakthrough after two months of separation and pain.

- The doctor, Syrup, is a recurring NPC throughout the series, a witch who brews up helpful healing potions for Link to use on his adventures.

- I'm home, Mipha. Calling back, of course, to Midna’s line about there being someone waiting for him and to go home to her. Not only that, but in Mipha’s letters, I had her mention wanting him to “come back to her”. And now he finally has.

and that wraps this up, as the epilogue is composed strictly of Miphlink fluff and sweet, sweet payoff. if you took the time to read the fic and these write ups, thank you, I hope you enjoyed them! ❤

[swanslieutenant]

caught in irons (1/1)

Summary: Cursed to become a monster at the rising of the full moon, Emma enlists Hook’s help to venture across the sea to find the only one who can cure her. But with the secret held tight to her chest and the full moon edging closer, sometimes secrecy and lies can be worse than the darkest curse. 

Rating: M, for violence and blood.

Note: Here it is, my contribution to the @csrolereversal with @clockadile‘s amazing art! I’ve loved writing this and collaborating with @clockadile, and I hope everyone enjoys! Also tagging @cshalloweek since it’s a spooky time of year and this fits in perfectly. 

Read on AO3 and see the full art here.

Emma tugs the heavy woolen cloak closer to herself as she hurries down towards the docks, tucking her face into the shadows of the robe. It’s early morning, the dew fresh and cool, a faint salty breeze rising up from the sea. She’s sore and stiff today, her muscles and bones re-adjusting to this human body, and her walk towards the harbour is more of a shuffle, a wince with each step.

She nearly turns around several times before reaching the tall, wide brig ship. She’s putting everyone at risk by stepping one foot onto its decks, but it’s her only choice. Since being cursed one year ago by a vengeful witch, each month has been tortuous, a mess of blurred memories and agonizing pain, and Emma can’t bear it anymore.

Her family had been supportive for the first few months, vowing to find a cure for the curse, but soon the frightened looks and wide-eyed stares started sticking around longer and longer, and Emma couldn’t stay there, not anymore. 

The first month on her own was the worst. She’d disappeared into the thick forest, away from as many people as she could manage, and curled up in a thicket of branches, shaking against the pain in her bones as she lost her mind, lost her body, lost her sense of humanity all together.

Once she’d woken, shivering and bloody in the snow, crying and scared, a dead deer nearby, Emma had pulled herself together. There was no time to weep for her circumstances – not anymore. She’d found her shredded clothing, put on what remained, and set about to learn more about this curse and how to break it.

It was a fruitless few months, full of frustration and painful transformations that she was helpless against, but finally Emma learned of a witch across the sea rumoured to be able to break any curse. This witch has been legend and myth for years at this point; Emma’s not sure she’s even real, but she’s the best lead she’s had.

The next step was to figure out a way to get across the massive, kingdom-separating sea. She couldn’t take a naval ship, lest her parents have put out a search for her, and so had set out for the most notorious pirate port in the country.

Hence her appearance at the harbour this morning, standing before the large white-sailed ship. She’d met its captain two days ago – the day before the full moon – in a nearby tavern. She had pushed half of her gold towards him, begging for passage on the ship to the land across the sea. He’d taken it easily, his smile growing at the sight of the gold, his deep blue eyes glittering with the reflection of the coins. 

“For this, darling, I’ll take you anywhere.”

“Just to the closest port across the sea,” she’d insisted. “As quickly as possible.”

“It will take us nearly a month,” he’d said, tossing one of the coins into the air. The gold had flashed against the tavern’s dim lighting, a golden orb against the black backdrop, and Emma had flinched.

“I have to be there before the next full moon,” she’d said, her heart thudding against her chest. “It’s – it’s critical. I – I have an appointment I cannot miss.”

The captain – Hook – had seemed unconcerned, tossing the gold coin back up into the air before catching it swiftly. That coin and the rest disappeared into the depths of his thick black leather jacket as if by magic, and he’d shrugged, unbothered. 

“Certainly. We depart in two days’ time.”

And so, here she is, two days later, her muscles sore and aching, the after-effects of the moon’s curse a sharp reminder of just what she’s risking. But she has no other choice.

“There you are.”

Hook drops down from the gangplank, striding towards Emma. His hair is windswept, coat flaring out dramatically behind him. He extends a hand towards her to lead her towards the ship, and Emma accepts it, if only to stop herself from turning and running.  

“Ready for an adventure?”

He says it grinning, and Emma manages a smile back. “As ready as I can be,” she replies, and lets Hook lead her onto the ship.

He introduces her to the crew, who seem pleased to meet their rich new benefactor, and they set sail from the port a few hours later. The first few days pass easily in calm waters and clear skies, and against herself, Emma finds herself drawn to this pirate captain. It’s perhaps because she’s been so alone the past few months, starved of any real human connection, but there’s something more to it too. She feels like she’s known Hook a lot longer than just the few days they’ve been on the ship. He’s courteous and polite, nothing like the tales she grew up hearing of the pirates who ransacked her parents’ coast and naval ships. While she’s not dissuaded entirely from those stories, for a pirate, Hook has been nothing but lovely to her. She is given his cabin to sleep in for the duration of the trip, and when she ventures out of it during the long days at sea, he’s warm and kind, showing her the ropes of ship life, so to speak. How to tie the numerous knots needed for the rigging, how to steer the ship at the helm, how to raise the sails high and strong to catch the wind. 

The first few days, Emma eats alone in the cabin, but a week into the journey, Hook has joined her for meals too. He tells her about his life at sea, how he came to be the captain of this ship, of the many exotic and faraway lands he’s visited. Emma has heard of these many lands, been to a few herself, but it’s far more interesting to hear his stories. He tells them from the perspective of a pirate captain, of the sidestreets and dark underbellies, versus hers on the cosseted, well-planned royal tours. 

She talks about her life in return, but leaves out the main details of who her family is and what has happened to her for being a part of that family. Emma doesn’t say what her appointment is across the sea, not even sure where to begin with a lie that could cover the importance of it. It’s obvious Hook senses the subject is difficult, and she’s grateful that he doesn’t ask any details. 

One day, Hook brings out his sword, the sharp edge gleaming in the hot sun. He gives her one of his own to practice with, and Emma holds it evenly in her hand, balancing its weight. She thinks about telling him that she’s known how to fight since she could walk, taught by her father and mother personally, but she doesn’t get the chance before he’s lunged at her, and the swordfight commences. 

Though, it doesn’t last too long. 

“You’d make a hell of pirate,” he says with a laugh, as she reaches down to pull him to his feet, his hand curling tightly around hers. “Who taught you to fight?”

Emma smiles, even though her heart twinges in her chest at the thought. “My parents.”

He catches her expression, and he tightens his grip on her hand, his thumb running comfortingly across the back of it. “What happened to them?”

“I had to leave,” she replies honestly, because that at least is true. “But I hope to see them again one day.”

He’s watching her closely, eyes warm and knowing, and it takes a good deal of willpower for Emma to drop his hand and turn away, handing his sword back and then retreating back below deck to gather her thoughts. For the rest of the afternoon, Emma paces back and forth in the cabin, at war in her mind. 

She needs to get a grip on herself; she hasn’t allowed herself to get close to anyone since leaving her family, and Hook is making it hard to keep that up. But, it’s for his own protection, she tells herself. The further away she keeps people, the less chance there is of Emma hurting them. 

But … Emma knows that’s not really the truth – she’s not sure she could face the thought of another person learning the truth about her and backing away in fear. Of looking at her as though she’s a monster, something to be feared and hated. Though this curse has broken her beyond belief already, she doesn’t think she could handle that again.

As the days tick closer and closer to the next full moon, the apprehension and worry that always accompanies this time of the month starts to fill Emma with dread. Hook has said they’re making good time, but several days before the full moon, out in the middle of the sea, threatening storm clouds appear over the horizon.

“That doesn’t look good,” Emma comments to Hook, standing at the helm with him as the first winds begin to reach them, whipping their hair into tangles.

“No,” he replies, brow furrowed heavily. “No, it does not.”

Hook calls for the crew to secure the sails against the coming storm, and they manage to do it just in time before the first lashing of rain reaches them. Emma and Hook are soaked within moments, the calm ocean stirring into dangerous waves that rise high enough to drench the deck with icy seawater. 

She hurries back down below decks, and settles herself in dry clothes as she watches the flashes of lightning and pounding rain from the windows of the captain’s cabin. It seems never-ending, this storm, and it’s a full two days before the winds and rain break, the ship flooded and groaning from its lashing. There’s minor damage all over the ship, and the crew spends several hours doing repairs as best they can with their limited supplies before the ship is sailing again. 

They’re still on course, as far as Hook can tell, and when Emma rises late on the morning of the full moon, a sense of peace has settled over her. If all goes well, this will be her last transformation. They’ll make port this afternoon, she’ll disappear into the woods for the night, and then resume her search for the witch in the morning.  

Emma spends most of the day sleeping on and off, trying to prepare herself for the night. The transformation is always exhausting, and she needs as much as sleep as she can manage. She’s not paying too much attention to the world outside the cabin, wrapped up in her thoughts about what’s going to happen, but when she awakes from one of her naps, thinking it must be late afternoon now, she glances outside the windows of the cabin and realizes there’s no land in sight.

A bubble of concern starts to grow in her chest, and Emma ventures up to the deck, joining Hook at the helm. He’s frowning at his star charts and navigation books, muttering to himself, and Emma’s sense of concern only deepens.

“What’s the matter?”

“The storm,” he replies, not looking up. “I thought we’d be mooring today, but … well, the storm sent us further west than I thought. It will be a few more days until we can make port.”

Her stomach drops, and Emma reaches out to the helm, gripping it tightly to stop herself from collapsing into a heap on the ground.

“We … what?”

“It’ll be a few more days,” Hook repeats absently. “Hopefully your appointment can be delayed.” When she doesn’t answer, he glances up to her. His expression, which had been twisted into a grimace of annoyance, changes swiftly to one of honest concern. “Emma, what’s wrong?”

“We need to get to shore today,” she says, gasping against the mounting pressure threatening to send her into a full-blown panic. “Anywhere, any place.”

He frowns. “We’re miles away from any land.”

The world is starting to turn black at the edges of her vision. No, no, no … this will be worse than her first transformation, when no one knew what was happening, when she’d – when she’d hurt so many innocent people who were only trying to help her. 

This time, Emma knows what is going to happen to herself, to the crew, to Hook.

She turns sharply away from him, darting back to the cabin below. She doesn’t know what to do, but she starts throwing her few meagre belongings into a bag, wanting nothing more than to get off this ship, needing to get off the ship.

“Emma, what’s going on?”

Hook has followed her, shutting the door to his cabin firmly behind him, and he crosses to join her at the small table, a comforting hand at her shoulder. But she pulls away from his grasp, and holds her hand out, warning him to stay back.

“I need to get off this ship,” she says, her voice barely a sound as her throat closes up in fear. “Now, before night falls. Can you help me lower the lifeboat to the sea?”

“The – the lifeboat?” He shakes his head. “No, Emma. I can’t let you take that, what if the storm returns? That would be a death sentence. Whoever – whoever you’re meeting for your appointment, surely they will understand a few days delay. They’d rather you show up late than not at all, which is what will happen if you go out into these waters in that little boat, which, mind, I’m not even sure if it survived the storm in fair conditions, we haven’t checked it yet –”

“I don’t have an appointment!” Emma shouts, interrupting his rambling, making him go wide-eyed. “I need to get off this ship now!”

She makes to move past him, to go up to the deck to search for the lifeboat, damn his considerations, but he blocks the exit, crossing his arms over his chest. “Not until you tell me what’s going on.”

She takes a deep breath; there’s no time to deny or hide it now, not when every minute she remains on this ship is dangerous. The longer she fights Hook about this, the less time she’ll have to figure out a solution.

“Several months ago, I was cursed to – to become a monster. Every full moon. I can’t stop it; I can’t control it. I was trying to get to someone to cure me before the next moon, but – but now that we’re off course … Hook, I – I’m dangerous. I’m a killer and I can’t help it. I need to get off this ship.”

She explains further: how a witch cursed her over a year ago, how she’s been on her own for months searching for a cure, how she found out about the witch across the sea who could help her. How she loses all sense of her humanity when the full moon rises, her memories from the next morning only of blood and pain, how her bones ache for days afterwards, how she cannot stop herself no matter how much she wishes she could.

When she finishes, her voice trailing off into a miserable expression, Hook is staring at her now, speechless for the first time since she met him. His eyes are wide and alarmed, and Emma’s heart breaks. It’s the expression she’s been dreading for weeks, the expression of fear, of suspicion, of danger. 

Of realization that she’s a monster.

She swallows back a sob, forcing her emotions aside, turning her voice to steel. She has to be strong, she must be – otherwise, they’re all doomed. 

“If I can’t get off this ship, you have to lock me up. In the brig, or somewhere where I can’t hurt anyone. Now, before – before it’s too late.”

He regards her silently for a long moment before nodding once, his face now oddly expressionless. It’s nearly worse than the alarmed expression from before; Emma’s not sure which makes her heart break more. 

“Alright. Follow me.”

He leads the way down into the depths of the ship, into an area used as a mixture of storage and sleeping quarters. It’s pitch black down here until he lights a lantern. The piled crates and the hanging hammocks cast eerie shadows, making it look like there are long, snaky hands reaching out from behind every nook and cranny. 

At the far end of the storage area, there is a large wooden door that Hook pushes open with an aching creak. A handful of jail cells are in this room, with iron bars on three sides against the old hull. They appear strong enough to hold a pirate’s prisoner, Emma thinks, as Hook swings open a squeaky door to one of the cells, but certainly not strong enough to hold her.

She inspects the iron bars, her heart sinking, and she turns to Hook, standing outside the cell. He’s watching her closely, his expression still unreadable, and Emma tries not to flinch.

“Do you have any chains?” she asks, her voice as steady as she can make it. “This – this won’t be enough.”

He inclines his head in a brief nod, and disappears back the way they came, returning a few minutes later with four iron shackles in his hand and hook. They rattle and drag across the floor as he returns to her, and he looks at them and then her dubiously. 

“Are you sure you’ll need these?” he asks, and Emma nods.

“Trust me. You all will be better off if I do.”

He remains doubtful, but helps her get the chains onto both of her wrists and ankles. They’re heavy iron manacles that are icily cold, sending a chill down Emma’s spine as they’re locked around her limbs. Hook links the chains through the iron bars, locking her in place in the cell, stepping back to observe her.  

“Emma,” he begins, reaching out to her, but she leans back, as far as the chains allow. He drops his hand to his side, staring at her in concern, and he shakes his head once, distractedly. “Listen, it’s going to be okay,” he says, earnestly. “You’ll be safe here, and tomorrow, we’ll figure something out, okay? I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

Emma laughs, half-strangled and hysterical. The thought of tomorrow, once so hopeful and promising, now seems very, very far away. She drops down to the floor, curling her legs up to hug them, the chains rattling heavily on the floor as she moves. 

“It’s not me that I’m worried about. It’s all of you.”

He remains silent for a few more moments before, to her surprise, he takes a seat across from her, on the floor outside of the cell. They don’t speak for a long while, Hook leaning against the wall and fiddling with the edge of his hook, Emma hugging her knees and trying not to cry. 

“You know,”  he begins, his voice slow and tinged with reassurance. “I’ve dealt with my fair share of monsters. Vengeful gods, sea creatures, mermaids, even cursed demons.” He gestures with his hook vaguely at the last point, a wry grimace across his face. “I know you’re worried about what’s going to happen, but it will be okay, love. I’ve faced monsters before.” 

Emma appreciates what he’s trying to do, but there’s no consoling or comforting her, not now. “You don’t know me, Hook,” she says flatly. “You don’t know what I’m capable of.” 

After that, he doesn’t try to argue the point anymore, and they descend into silence again. Time passes immeasurably, anxiety and dread filling the small brig as each moment brings them closer and closer to the full moon rising. And then, as it does every month, the start of the transformation begins with pain. 

It’s agonizing, this pain. Her bones begin to fracture and re-form as another being, her muscles twisting and stretching to accommodate the changes, as her organs shift from one part of her body to another. Emma doubles over as the first wave of pain hits her, clenching her teeth and letting out a weak moan, unable to stop herself. 

“Emma?” 

“You’d best go,” she grinds out, her voice a hoarse whisper. “It’s – it’s starting.”  

He hesitates, watching her helplessly, but at her glare of urgency, he rises. But before he gets too far, Emma’s hand shoots out from behind the bars, grabbing at his leg to stop him. 

“Barricade the door to this room,” she pleads, half-gasping from agony already, “and don’t let anyone down here. No matter what you hear. Tell everyone to sleep up on the deck tonight. Promise me.”

He regards her seriously, before crouching down to her level, covering her hand with his own and holding her gaze steady. “I promise.”

And then he’s gone, taking the lantern with him and shutting the heavy wooden door and plunging Emma into darkness. He locks it, and she can hear him drag heavy barrels and crates towards the door, stacking them as a barricade as she asked. And then, when he’s done and his footsteps have faded, a heavy silence descends.

Now she’s truly alone, awaiting what she knows will be a night of agony and terror. The pain of the transformation grows and grows, her muscles and bones reshaping themselves into a monster’s, and she’s only able to conjure up a desperate prayer that the measures they’ve taken will work before she fades into darkness, lost to the curse once more. 

xxxxxx 

The smell of the humans linger in the sheets, in the discarded clothing, in the very air.  

So hungry, always so hungry. 

They’re near, the humans. So near she can almost taste them. 

The moon’s blessing is not enough time, never enough time to satisfy the hunger. 

The hunger needs more, more, always more. 

The irons are cold, the bars are weak, and the barricade is nothing.

The hunger will not be stopped. 

xxxxxx

After leaving Emma barricaded and chained in the brig, Hook gathers his crew and tells them of what he’s learned. They’re horrified and terrified, as they should be, but set about readying the deck for a night out under the moon, instead of down below. Night fell in the time he spent with Emma, and a heavy fog has rolled in, casting the ship in faint, grey light from the clear, full moon above. 

It’s eerily silent for a long time; Hook and the crew sit nervously about the ship, all of them on edge, holding their breath. None of them, including Hook, really know what is going to happen to Emma, but from her fears and her tears, Hook knows it's something they should all be afraid of too. 

A loud crash breaks through the silence, sending several crew members jumping to their feet in surprise. Several more crashes and bangs follow that, until it’s a near constant thundering of noise emerging from below deck. Howls and growls echo up through the wooden planks, and loud crashes and bangs startle everyone each time they happen. All of them turn to stare at the closed door leading below decks, as if at any moment it will burst open, which, Hook thinks, is starting to become more and more of a possibility. 

“What kind of monster is she?” Smee mutters. 

An ear-shattering crash booms from down below before anyone can answer Smee, the loudest of the cacophony by far. Hook is on his feet instantly, marching towards the door and announcing without thinking twice, “I’m going down there.” 

His crew cry out in alarm, a few even rising to stop his path, and Smee shouts, “Captain, don’t be a fool!”

Hook shakes them away; he’s made up his mind. He can’t spend all night up here, listening to the chaos below. Emma made him promise to stay away, but he can’t let this go on without knowing that she’s alright. 

The crew send prayers to any god they believe in and worried cries after him, but Hook ignores them. He shuts the door to the upper decks tightly behind him, ensconcing him in the darkness of the lower decks. And though the sounds of whatever chaos was going on down here above deck had been loud, as he moves deeper into the ship, there’s a heavy silence growing now, as heavy as the fog outside. Hook crouches down low as he maneuvers his way through the ship, to the area where Emma was locked up, on high alert for any sign of her.

Hook rounds a corner that leads into the storage and crew sleeping quarters, and immediately skids to a stop. Even though it’s pitch black down here, he can see the damage already done : the barrels and crates he’d barricaded against the door leading to the brig are scattered around, broken shards of wood and iron nails even reaching him at the other side of the room. Hammocks have been torn from their hooks, shredded into thin strip that hang limply from the ceiling. The cannons have claw marks dragged down their iron surfaces, scratches as long as the sword at Hook’s belt. 

And there, half-obscured by a large crate and a row of the cannons, is what he assumes must be Emma. But there is nothing of the pretty young woman in this beast’s features. The eyes are a gleaming emerald, glowing out from the darkness, set against shimmery blonde fur. Though its wearing the same blue tunic as Emma had been, its seams stretched and bulging, that’s where the similarities end.

All traces of her are gone, and only a monster remains.

The beast hasn’t noticed him yet, and Hook drops to the ground, scooting up against a crate and out of the line of sight. His heart is hammering out of his chest, fear and adrenaline coursing through his veins. Emma hadn’t been kidding when she said she turned into a monster; she was able to escape from the cell and chains easily, the barricade nothing more than an irritant in her way. 

He chances a look over the top of the crate. The beast is growling to itself, breaths heavy and strong, as it smashes into nearby barrels and crates, meandering its way towards him. It walks upright, towering at least two feet above his own height, its head scraping the ceiling. 

He holds his breath as the beast stalks closer and closer.  The heavy chains he’d put around Emma’s legs and arms earlier that evening are gone, except for one around the wolf’s left upper arm. The chain drags heavily behind the wolf, a thud, thud, thud with each step it takes. 

When it is about three feet from him, the beast suddenly pauses, lifting its head into the air and sniffing. Hook is frozen in place, and the wolf whirls its head around to his direction, eyes locking directly on his. 

The wolf acts before he can even think. It lunges forward, swiping out with a large, clawed paw. He just manages to lean back and away from its reach, scrambling backwards as quickly as he can. The wolf advances in turn, stalking towards him, rage and hunger burning in its eyes.

He shuffles backwards, slamming hard into the side of the ship. There’s nowhere else to go – the wolf looms over him now, baring its teeth. They’re as sharp as a sword, and the wolf’s breath is hot as it bears down over him.

“Captain!”

He chances a glance; two of his crew had followed him, and are standing in the doorway, gaping. The wolf turns its attention from him, distracted by the newcomers, and Hook takes the chance to jump to his feet, running and leaping over a crate in the process to get away. 

“Run!” he shouts to the crew, and they don’t need telling twice. 

The three of them race through the pitch black underbelly of the ship. Hook knows this ship like the back of his hand, but it has never seemed more threatening – each shadow makes his heart skip a beat and each creak of the vessel makes him nearly jump back in terror. It doesn’t help that the wolf thunders along behind them, smashing into the walls and crates as it comes. Its lack of familiarity slows it down enough for Hook and the crew-members to escape up to the deck, running for their lives. 

Outside, amongst the fog now coating the ship like a fresh coat of paint, the crew have assembled themselves with weapons. As Hook and the two crew members run onto the deck, several crew heave a barrel into the door frame. It rolls and strikes the wolf in its front legs just as it was about to emerge, making it lose its balance and crash to the floor with a heavy thud. 

The crew scatter after that – to the helm, to the bow, to the crow’s nest. Hook himself heads for the rigging, hauling himself up and away from the deck, as the wolf regains itself, now nothing but fury. 

It tips its head back and lets out a long howl at the moon, just barely visible through the thick fog. The howl ricochets out over the ocean, cold and hollow, and sends chills down Hook’s spine. 

The wolf surveys the ship as the howl echoes loudly around them all. It sets its sight on the nearest crew, and launches itself towards them. They scream and scatter, and a few fight it off as best they can. Their clubs are no hindrance to the beast, and their swords bounce uselessly off the thick hide, and they only succeed in making it angrier and angrier. The wolf lashes out with its claws, cutting and maiming as it goes, snapping with its jaw and making his crew scream in agony. 

Hook watches from the rigging, frozen. A part of him is still struggling to believe what’s happening, that the young woman he’s come to know over the past month is this beast, attacking and injuring his crew, but another part of him, the fiercely protective and loyal captain part of him, is emerging too. If he doesn’t act, and act soon, this beast will kill everyone aboard this ship. 

And he can’t let that happen. 

“Hey!” he shouts, trying to draw the wolf’s attention away from his bloody and hurt crew. “Over here!” 

The wolf turns, eyes focusing on him, barely flickering in interest. He throws a bundle of knotted rope down at the wolf; rope he and Emma had been using to practice earlier, he thinks faintly, as it soars through the air and strikes the wolf hard in the snout. 

It does no damage, but the wolf abandons the crew and stalks towards the base of the mast, haunches raised. Hook pulls himself higher into the rigging, clutching at whatever he can with his hand and hook, as the wolf snaps up at the edges of his coat. Years of experience make it easy for him to scramble onto the large crossbeam of the mast, walking across it like a balance beam, but it’s not enough. With strength and agility he hadn’t thought the monster could have, the wolf scales the rigging like a well-seasoned sailor, advancing towards him as easily as if it was on solid ground. 

He draws his sword, but he’s faced with an impossible duel – a murderous monster against a man who has no desire to kill in return. The wolf slinks towards him, bloody saliva dripping from its fangs, its eyes glowing through the fog. He takes a step back, nearly tripping in the loose ropes, and the wolf seems to almost grin in triumph.

A clawed arm lunges at him, ripping into his jacket and tearing it to shreds. It doesn’t draw blood from his skin – thankfully – but makes him lose his balance. He falls backwards, hitting the beam hard; the ropes on either side of the beam, holding up the mast and sails, act like a net, catching him before he falls to his death.

Though now he’s trapped as the wolf advances on him, opening its jaw wide for the kill, so he’s not sure the rope netting did him any favours. He squeezes his eyes shut as the wolf hovers over him, drawing up his hooked arm in a last attempt to protect himself.

But instead of the attack he braced himself for, it lets out another howl, so loud it nearly deafens him. This time, however, it’s a howl of pain, and he opens his eyes to see a jewelled hilt of a dagger sticking out from its lower back.  

“Silver,” Smee calls out from the deck below, his face ashen and hollow. “They hate it.” 

Forgetting Hook entirely now, the wolf drops from the rigging, landing hard on its feet on the deck. The beast rips out the dagger, stalking towards Smee, hitting out at him with its arm and knocking him backwards. The claws draw across his chest, his shirt blooming with blood, and he cries out in pain, clutching at his chest. The wolf roars and jumps up to the railing of the ship, as if searching for a better launching point to throw itself at the first mate, and at that, Hook sees his chance. 

He’s managed to return to his feet, and from this angle he can see exactly what he needs to do. He and the crew can’t go back and forth distracting the wolf until morning; it’s too vicious and dangerous for that, and will only leave them all dead in the end. So instead, bracing himself for what he has to do, he reaches up for a loose rope, and wraps it tightly around his arm.

“I’m sorry, love,” he says, hoping that somewhere within the beast, Emma can hear him. “But I can’t let you kill my crew.”

The wolf isn’t paying him any attention now, stalking towards Smee and a few other members of the crew, all clustered at the base of the helm. Hook pushes off the mast, swinging out over the deck, the rope tugging painfully at his arm as it propels him right to the wolf. He kicks out his legs, and thuds into the side of the wolf, punting it off balance.

And right off the edge of the ship.

The wolf howls in rage as it plummets into the black waters below, its howl swallowed by the sea as it hits with an enormous splash that sends seawater nearly back up to the deck itself. 

Hook, who’d nearly swung out over the edge of the ship himself with the momentum, lands back on the deck and disentangles himself from the ropes before hurrying over to the edge of the ship. The waters are dark and choppy below, but the wolf is easy to see, green eyes glaring up at him as it battles against the raging waves, struggling to keep its head above water. 

The look in the wolf’s eyes are cold and animalistic, and though he still sees nothing of Emma in the beast, there’s something in that look, something human, something that cuts him to his core. 

Betrayal. 

He wrenches himself away from the sight, and turns to his crew. From what he’s seen of this wolf, choppy waves won’t cause it any harm, and his crew need his attention. They’re a sorry bunch, bloody and moaning, and Hook orders the uninjured to help the others, setting about doing the same himself, fetching clean cloth from down below to wrap injuries and bandage bleeding wounds.

“We should sail away,” Smee pants, pressing a wad of cloth to the wound on his chest, blood soaking through it instantly. “Lest it tries to climb back up.”

The others mumble in agreement, but Hook shakes his head. “No. We’re staying here. She’s cursed in this form when the moon rises,” he explains, looking up to the sky, to the glowing orb amongst the stars and black, inky sky. “If we leave, we’re condemning her to Davey Jones’ Locker when she returns to herself.” 

The crew mutter to themselves, apparently perfectly fine to leave this beast to the depths of the ocean, but Hook is not. They don’t know Emma like he does; they didn’t spend the day earlier with her where she cried and warned him about what was going to happen, where she made him promise not to come down there. If he had listened to her … 

After tending to the injured, the crew set about cleaning up what they can, or curling up to rest and recover from their injuries. Hook perches on the stairs leading to the helm, where he has a view off the starboard side. 

The wolf is close by, snapping its jaws and butting its head against the hull. It claws at the ship’s side, looking for something to grab onto to haul itself up, as per Smee’s concerns, but unlike in the rigging, this time it’s unsuccessful. The wolf only succeeds in exhausting itself in its efforts, so it changes tactics, becoming something of a shark, stalking and circling, waiting for its prey.

The rest of the night passes slowly. Each minute is filled with another growl or headbutt from the wolf, assessing the damage to the ship, or tending to the wounded. He checks on the wolf in the water frequently, each time hoping against hope that even though the moon is still high in the sky, he’ll look down and see Emma again. 

But it’s a good long while before that is going to happen. After a while, his body and mind numb and drained, Hook drifts off to a fitful sleep. He’s not sure how long he is out before he is awoken by Smee, but the sun has just begun to rise, the sky brightening with faint pinks and purples over the eastern horizon. 

“Captain, it’s over! She’s human again!” 

He’s up and at the side of the ship at once, but he can’t spot her immediately. It’s not until he sees a flash of blonde hair against the dark waves, glimmering slightly in the faint light of the rising sun, that he realizes she’s sinking. The remaining chain around her arm is pulling her down, and as he watches, her blonde hair slips below the surface and doesn’t re-emerge.

Without a second thought, Hook strips off the heavy leather overcoat, dropping his weapons to the deck, and he jumps up on the railing and over the side. 

The water is icy, sending the air shooting out of his lungs, and he gasps as he re-surfaces, taking in his surroundings. There’s no time to waste, and he takes a deep breath, diving under the waves, into the stillness beneath the surface. It’s inky black below the waves, but he can still see Emma, sinking further and further away from him with every moment. 

He dives for her, his lungs straining against the depths of the cold water. It feels like forever before he reaches her, grasping her tightly around the waist and swimming them back to the surface. The chain is heavy and pulling them down, even against his efforts. When they break the surface, his lungs filling with air again, he slashes at the chain at her wrist, breaking it free and sending it sinking back to the bottom of the sea. 

Emma is unconscious, and doesn’t react when he taps her face or calls her name. Her clothing has been reduced to rags, and even amongst the thrashing waves, he can see the ugly wound in her back from where Smee had thrown the silver dagger. Dark purple bruises are peppered all over her body, but thankfully he can see her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths, and he tightens his grip around her waist.

“Come on, love. Let’s get you back to the ship.” 

The ship has drifted away from them, and the swim back is long and hard. Finally, when they reach it, the crew help them up with ropes, though they are rightfully frightened and wary of Emma now, and stay far back from her. Both of them dripping wet, Hook carries her down to his cabin himself. She’s still unconscious, and he bandages her back injury as best he can before covering her with blankets. 

Then he drops into a chair, entirely exhausted, and just as he waited for the night to first arrive with her and then waited for the night to be over, now he waits again, for when she wakes once more. 

xxxxxx

When Emma comes to, it’s the worst awakening from a transformation that she’s ever had. Her bones and muscles are in agony, and she’s cold, oh so cold, even amidst the pile of blankets someone has placed on her. 

Emma sits straight up at that, and realizes she’s in the captain’s cabin again. Hook is sitting in the chair beside the bed, his head in his hand. 

“Hook?” she asks, her voice croaky and hoarse. “What – what happened?” 

He looks up, startled by her voice, and he edges his chair closer to the bed. He looks unharmed, though his shirt is ripped, and he’s pale and shaken. 

“You’re awake! Are you alright?”

“What happened?” she asks again, ignoring his question. She needs to know what happened, what she did. “Did – did I get out?” 

He nods slowly, watching her carefully for her reaction. “Guess you were right about the chains and the brig.” 

Emma’s heart sinks, and she leans back against the pillows, as if the wind itself was knocked out of her with his words. “Did I hurt anyone?” she whispers. 

“Not fatally,” he says simply, and Emma closes her eyes tightly, several fat tears escaping and rolling down her cheeks. 

She knew the risks, and yet she still gambled with them. 

“I’m so sorry. I should – I should have never come aboard. I should have told you, right away. Because you would never have let me come aboard, and none of this would have happened.” 

“I should have listened to you,” he counters, and when Emma raises an eyebrow, he continues, “When you said to not come down no matter what I heard. If I had listened, perhaps … perhaps things would have been different.” 

“That might not have even worked,” Emma says miserably. “You never know with me. My – my family tried a lot, and they … well, they ran out of ideas after a while.” 

He’s quiet for a while, and then asks, “You said you need to find a witch to cure you?” 

Emma nods, scrubbing at her eyes. “It’s the only hope I’ve found.” 

Hook reaches forward, intertwining his hand into hers, and tilts her head up with his hook, the metal cool and welcoming on the bruise underneath her chin, so he can look into her eyes. “Then let’s find her and end this curse.”

xxxxxx

Emma spends the next few days drifting in and out of sleep. The moon’s events always leave her exhausted, but this time, it’s infinitely more, and she is hardly aware of night and day as time passes. The only passing of time she can make out is the fading of the bruises on her body, and the healing of the wound in her back. The silver dagger had done its damage to her as the monster, burning and scorching the wound from the inside out, and it takes Hook’s best healing potions for it to start to scab and recover. 

But the hardest part of her recovery is facing the crew. Their injuries are far worse than any of her own, and though she manages to keep herself calm while she apologizes for lying and hurting them, when she’s alone in the cabin again, Emma cries and cries. 

She doesn’t leave the cabin again, not until they finally make port a few days later. She’s cried herself dry of tears, and now, her resolve has returned. She needs to find this witch and find the cure, if it’s the last thing she does.

And thankfully, she now has Hook at her side too. He schmoozes or threatens as need be, and they soon learn the whereabouts of the witch. She is a recluse, residing in a small hut in the middle of the forest, and though the locals warn them of her tricky deals and getting in over their heads by seeking her out, there are no other choices. 

They leave the Jolly Roger in the harbour with the crew, with a promise to return within the next month. They have repairs from the storm to attend to, not to mention the damage to the ship from Emma’s claws and the chaos she’d left behind below deck. The crew are happy to see the back of Emma, still traumatized by what she did and what she became, and Emma has already sworn a silent oath to herself that she will never sail again unless she is free of this curse. 

Hook and Emma trek through the dark woods, following the directions they obtained from the locals, until they reach a small stone cottage nestled in the middle of tall evergreens, a thin plume of smoke rising from its thatched roof.  

Hook knocks, and after a few moments, the door creaks open a few inches, the witch peering through the small crack. She is an old crone, coddled up in layers of raggedy clothing and a thick scarf obscuring her face, but she smiles crookedly at the sight of them. 

“Ah,” she says, her voice hoarse and deep. “I’ve been expecting you.” 

She swings the door open further, beckoning Hook and Emma in with a gnarled finger. They exchange a look before crossing her threshold. The hut is what Emma imagined a witch’s lair to be: hanging herbs, tables cluttered with bottles and jars of the strangest and grossest items she’s ever seen, a dusty broom by the corner, a blackened cauldron over a roaring fire.

The witch settles herself into an old rocking chair by the fire, picking up a twisted ball of yarn and knobbly knitting needles. She’s silent, focused on her knitting, and Hook nudges Emma, raising his eyebrows encouragingly towards the witch.

Emma clears her throat. “Um, I – I came here to ask you –”

“I know what you want,” the witch replies in a dreamy, singsong-y voice. “And I have what you need.” 

Emma swallows, trying to suppress her bubbling relief until she has the cure in her hand. She’s had hope before, and she’s not going to risk losing it again. 

“What – how much is it?” she asks, searching in her pocket for her bag of coins. “I have –”

“No money,” the witch replies sharply, pointing one of the knitting needles at Emma like a dagger. 

“What, then?” Hook asks, narrowing his eyes at her.

The witch continues knitting, smiling dreamily off into the distance. “For something far more valuable than money,” she whispers. “For something infinitely rarer, seen only in a few special individuals. Something I have been searching for for a long, long time.” 

Hook and Emma exchange a look; goosebumps are starting to rise on the back of Emma’s neck and Hook looks increasingly suspicious. 

“What do you mean?” 

“I will give you the cure,” the witch continues. “The cure for the beast you become every month for an exchange.” She sets her needles down on her lap, leaning forward towards Hook and Emma, one liver-spotted hand reaching out to them. “A lock of each of your hair.”

“What?” Hook and Emma say in unison, and the witch repeats herself, a wide smile growing on her face. She rises to her feet as she says her demand again, and Emma and Hook take a step backwards, out of her grasp. 

“Why?” Hook asks suspiciously, his hand drifting to the sword at his belt. 

“That is none of your concern,” the witch snaps, her voice no longer ethereal, but hard as a block of ice. “You either agree to my deal, or let your lady remain cursed forever.”

Hook glares at her, and after a long, angry staring contest, he finally nods curtly. “Fine.” 

The witch grins, and raises her hand as she advances toward Hook and Emma again. A dagger has replaced the knitting needle in her hand, and before Hook can even flinch away from her, the witch has reached up and grabbed a handful of his hair, cutting away the ends and clutching them tightly in her gnarled fist. 

His glare now is downright murderous, but the witch happily ignores him, turning to Emma. The witch does the same to Emma, and then picks up a clear glass bottle from one of her cluttered tables. She slides the hair into the bottle, shaking it so that the golden and black strands mix. A strange white glow envelops the bottle as they do so, making both Hook and Emma stare in surprise, while the witch’s eyes shine with delight. She snatches the bottle up from the table, slipping it into her heavy cloak, patting it securely, and grins widely. 

“Just what I was looking for.” 

Still disgruntled, Hook clears his throat pointedly, and the witch sends him a withering look as she shuffles to another table. This one is similarly cluttered, and she picks up a thin flask, as gleaming as the full moon.

“You must drink a mouthful every day,” she commands, pressing the flask into Emma’s hand. “It will replenish itself as needed. If you drink it faithfully, then you will no longer be cursed. If you miss a dose, the next moon will see you transform once again. Understand?”

Emma clutches the flask tightly in both hands, her sense of hope and relief finally crashing over her, as strong as the waves from the sea she’d been in on the way here. This – this is it. An answer to her curse, to her prayers, to the monster she’s become. A potion a day and a lock of her hair is a small price to pay, and she can feel her eyes welling with tears, of relief, of gratitude, of freedom.

“Thank you. Thank you so much.”

Emma moves to leave, ready to get out of this place and take a swig of the flask, but Hook holds out his arm, stopping Emma’s path. 

“How do we know it will work? What if this is a trick?”

The witch giggles, high pitched and cold. “Guess you’ll have to trust me, Captain,” she replies, and waves her hand. The front door swings open behind them, and she ushers them towards it. Hook, still glaring at her, steps out ahead of Emma, shrugging as if to shake off the air of the witch’s hut, but Emma pauses, turning back one more time. 

“Thank you,” she says again. “This means a lot to me.” 

The witch smiles, a twinkle in her eye, and says, “Have a safe trip back to your family, dearie.”

A drop of icy realization settles over her like a bucket of cold water, and Emma freezes on the threshold as the witch swings the door shut behind her. 

The witch who had cursed her had used the same pet name of dearie. 

Emma turns around, ready to pound on the door for an explanation, but the hut is gone. There is only a thick forest wall behind her, a thin plume of smoke fading into the trees any evidence that the hut and the witch had existed at all. 

xxxxxx

The next month, when the full moon rises, clear and bright in the night sky above the Jolly Roger as it cruises silently through the calm waters back toward Emma’s kingdom, her home, her family, there is no pain, no terror, no horror. 

Only peace.

[fortey]

Kyoku’s Dance

The sun hadn’t risen yet, and most of the other guards were snoring loudly.  A noise that turned out to be Senya talking in his sleep woke me.  I almost cut his head off before I realized what it was.  I’m starting to think maybe I shouldn’t sleep with a murasame in my hands anymore.  Better safe than sorry, I suppose.

           Leaving the guard quarters silently I notice that Maki, the night watch, is also sleeping.  He boasts more about being a great warrior than the greenest rookie, yet here he is, sleeping.  Probably thinks as the others do; the enemy is all but defeated, they will not attack. That is fool talk.  My last count had three enemy ninja unaccounted for within the Nuriko Mountains, and they may have more garrisons I have not seen.  It only took one to eliminate the Shogun and his entire honor guard.  Thirty-five men slain.  These fools don’t even care.  None of them have even seen the enemy face to face.  They fight the Nagaaki clan, from the north, allies of our enemy.  I have seen the enemy.  I have killed the enemy.  When they come, they will come for me, and I will dance with them again.

           Using a shuriken, I cut Maki’s belt without disturbing him.  Lord Akobe will wake him in the morning.  Maki will gather himself quickly to bow and lose his breeches.  I hope I don’t give myself away by laughing too hard.

           Leaving Maki behind I exit the guard barracks through the rear door and breathe in the crisp, salty air.  I had never seen the ocean before this, in all my years.  Part of me was actually glad to be transferred here, despite the stories I had heard.  The scenery was beautiful, my old teacher told me, but the men here were lazy and the enemy had a major outpost under construction just beyond the mountains. He was right, except about the outpost. It wasn’t under construction; it was already built.  I am the only person that I know of who has been there and escaped.  That is why the enemy presses on with such force against us. They do not let anyone escape. They will return for me, despite what the others say.  I know it.

           The men here, even Lord Akobe, look at me strangely because of it.  I have seen them, was captured by them, and lived to tell the tale.  A woman doing this, when so many men could not.  That is not the way it is supposed to be. They do not say it to me, but they think I should be dead.  If no one else escapes, why did I?  I tell them I was lucky, which is untrue.  Luck had little to do with it.  I am not one who dies easily.

           Several times I have tried to train the men here, teach them the ways of my clan, the Shiori Dok, but they do not listen. Senya tries, but he does not truly understand.  He is too rambunctious and undisciplined, too young.  I think he is only trying to impress me, as so many here have tried. I was some kind of legend before I even arrived.  People told me stories about myself when I got here, about many fantastic feats that no human could do but somehow I did. When I deny the rumors, it only breeds more.  They follow me around because they think I have the gods’ luck. The enemy will not harm them with me around. I think the opposite.  I know the enemy wants me back and they will go through anyone to get me.  I have told Lord Akobe this; he dismisses it.  I almost pity him.  He is the Lord here, the enemy will make a point of having his head when they show.

           “Kyoku?  Is something wrong?”  I recognize the voice and stop any outward reaction of being surprised.  Turning, I see Senya rubbing his eyes with one hand and scratching his backside with the other.  He doesn’t even have his sword belt on.  My clansmen would be disgusted.  Most would have drawn their sword by now and given Senya a token scar to remind him of his foolishness.  I must be getting soft.

           “I am waiting,”  I say.  Senya gives me that look that says he doesn’t believe.  I have seen it many times and it no longer bothers me.

           “Lord Akobe assured us that the demons will not return.  All the southern clans have closed in on them.  You should take this time to relax before your clan finds another war to send you to.”  I try not laugh at him.  He speaks to me as though I were one of the Craven, a coward who runs from war.  My clan is the clan of war; our purpose is the dance of battle.  I fear the boredom of Senya’s life more than any battle.

           “All bodies are not accounted for.  The enemy will return.  They want me back.”

           “Are you really so valuable?”  he asks, mocking but in jest.

           “You don’t understand.  I didn’t understand until I saw them.”

           “Then explain it, why don’t you?”  he says, approaching me.  I shake my head and look back at the ocean.  Vibrant colors light the horizon as the sun slowly rises.  I hope I get to see this again sometime. My people reserve little time for simple pleasures.  The pleasure of war is usually enough, but sometimes I wish for more. Perhaps someday, if there is no war left for me to fight.

           “Lord Akobe will be coming soon from Shido city. Make yourself presentable.”  He hears the command in my voice and leaves quickly.  Lord Akobe had warned me twice against ordering his soldiers. It is not my place, but he warns gently.  He fears me. I could have this whole clan under my control if I wanted to, and he knows it.  Lucky for him I have no use for them.

           Turning my head, I notice a shift in the wind, bringing a new smell to my nose, something sour and old.  Decayed.  The smell the demons bring with them.  They are not human, not anymore.  And they are close by.

           My hand twitches at my side, toward the exposed hilt in my scabbard, and a movement catches my eye from the barracks entrance. I parry left and catch a glimpse of the thing standing there, grinning at me from behind its blade. The eyes are dead and unmoving, one of them is off kilter, looking down and to the right.  I recognize the gold and grey flecks of color throughout the dark iris. I see the same eyes reflected in my own blade, my eyes.  The eyes of my brother.  I did not think I would ever have to dance with him; he was my first teacher, but he is one of them now.  This should be interesting.

           He lunges at me in a hasty manner, quite unlike the brother I knew.  He would never be so clumsy.  Of course, in those days, he was still alive.  This thing has been dead a long while.  Its flesh is a strange shade of pale purple, and I can see a hole in its chest.  My brother was killed by the enemy and brought back by them, to fight at their side.  That is why their numbers do not decrease, the dead are added to their ranks.

           I sidestep his feeble attack easily, lashing out with my own sword and removing his left arm.  It doesn’t seem to phase him.  He simply turns on me and attacks again.  Whatever evil force drives him, it aims to take my life at any cost. I cannot let that happen.  This time, I remove his head.

             Distantly, I hear the alarm gong.  It must have been sounding for some time now, I just did not notice. The enemy must have attacked the rest of the base as well.  They may have been entirely comprised of my clansmen.  If they were, I suspect I am the only survivor.  Even if the rest were as sluggish as my brother, these men cannot compete.

           I enter the barracks quickly, running through the corridors looking for a fight.  I hear distant sounds of battle, but none close.  The gong has stopped.  I approach the guard quarters and slow.  A figure in the hall stops me.  It is Maki, lying against the wall.  He never even unleashed his blade from the look of him.  Blood flows from the wound in his chest.

           The door to the quarters is open.  Bodies are scattered about, piled on top of one another, some with weapons drawn, but not many.  Senya lies next to the open door, his throat slit, a surprised look on his face. There is dark blood on his sword blade. At least he wounded his attackers.

           A sound draws my attention and I turn.  One of the devils stands at the end of the hall behind me, one of my clansmen.  He is not as rotted as my brother had been.  I take a step forward and the devil is joined by another, then another.  Soon the hall is full of them, at least fifty, all smiling their dead smiles, glassy eyes focused solely on me. I was their target from the beginning.  None of them utters as word as they approach me.  They will not have me without a fight.

           I run to meet them, my sword dances its own dance as I avoid the attacking blades, slicing and piercing dead flesh. The first dozen fall quickly, but not quick enough.  More devils come, forcing me back.  I cannot fight them all, I know, but I will not submit.

           Suddenly my father is before me, the greatest warrior I have ever known, his katana blade flashing like lightning as he attacks. I dishonor myself by letting out a cry of despair as he strips the murasame from my grip, ending my fight. His dead mouth pulls back into a wider smile as I lower my head, ready for the death blow.  It does not come.

           Dead hands take hold of my arms and legs.  A rope is tied about me, binding me tightly and a soiled cloth is tied over my eyes.  More cold hands take hold of me and lift me up.  I struggle briefly, then something crunches into my skull and all goes black.

           “Wake up, my dear.  You are needed.”  My head is pounding and I am not sure if the voice I hear is real or not.  Whichever it is, neither is good.  “Wake or you will die now.”  The voice is not one I recognize, it is female, and she speaks strangely.  Her accent suggests one who is used to the old tongue.  I lift my head and open my eyes, light and shadow swarms before me in dizzying patterns.  I take a deep breath and my eyes manage to adjust.

           I do not recognize my surroundings.  It is a dungeon, that much is obvious.  Cold stone, dripping water, torch light. Shackles line the walls, I am fixed in a pair at the wrists, hanging nearly a foot from the ground.  I have been stripped of my clothes.  I see the one who addresses me standing not far off. She is young and has very pale skin, contrasting her night black hair and eyes.  Two of the devils stand with her, one was my father, the other was Senya. The woman smiles at me.  

           “Glad to see you listen well.  My name is Ky-Lin.  I believe I know you, but not your name,” she says, tilting her head curiously.

           “Kyoku, of the Shiori Dok,” I say.  The woman’s full lips part into an ecstatic smile and she claps her hands like a child.

           “How glorious! You are the very last of your kind you know.  The Shiori Dok put up a fight the likes of which I have never seen, they were magnificent. And you, Kyoku, the last of your kind, the only to have ever escaped my stronghold, you are the most magnificent of all.  You will be my prize, the greatest of my warriors, if only you will join my army.” Her smile becomes curious again, asking the question.  I consider spitting in her face, but decide against it.

           “You have killed my clan and my family.  I have failed in my duty.  I am a warrior no longer, least of all for you.  It is better to die,” I say.  There is no doubt in my mind that my wish will be granted. Ky-Lin smiles at me and takes the dagger from Senya’s blood stained belt.  A thought occurs to me.  I have no choices.  Her army is the dead.  When she kills me, I will surely be stripped of my soul, and my will.  I will be one of them.  An abomination.  I begin screaming long before the dagger slices my throat.  With my dying breath I curse her and she laughs.  Slowly, everything becomes black again.

              The road is quiet.  The woods are quiet.  Everyone must die.  A twig snaps, a guard at the barracks lifts his head and walks around the side of Lord Akobe’s carriage.  He sees nothing.  There is a swish, a flash of metal, his head falls to the dirt road.  Everyone must die.

           Two more guards are dead before an alarm is sounded, then the others come.  They all die. Everyone must die.  The last is Lord Akobe.  In my mind, I see his face.  I have known him before.  I will kill him.  The murasame in my hand moves swiftly.  He gasps something, a word perhaps.  “Kyo” it sounded like.  It does not matter.  His head hits a wall, then my foot as I walk by.  Outside to the silence, to the road.  There are others waiting for me.  I lead them.  I point with my sword, towards the human city.  Shido.   Everyone must die.                                                          

[stvlti]

see i was going to watch the first film only and base my assessment of film!Light’s character on that but... the film actually did a pretty poor job of introducing him and the rest as characters beyond the immediate perimeters of each scene? i’m not even getting a hint of Light’s genius or personality until late into the film we see him maneuvering Raye and others to make discreet kills? we are literally being told that he is arrogant by L announcing his observations from afar?? nothing Light is doing shows his actual thoughts? mediocre writing.

[edennohebi]

after only 12 days of suffering, one would figure that the snakes would leave you to adjust to your surroundings. they had offered you promise of freedom from not only your impediment, but from the hell around you -- all for the price. you were instructed to commit a murder; to stain your hands in red & get away with it, as if they had been pure & cleansed all along, your sins washed away without ever coming to true light. that was their “bargain” -- philosophies whispered themselves on the wind’s trail, only uttered in the hissing of snakes that ‘grand wishes had come at a grand price.’ it appeared that your captors were stubborn on the matter: there would be no flexibility, no loophole for you to worm your way through in an attempt to be rid of this binding, constricting world.

yet even then, no one had stepped up to the plate. why, you had wondered? were they waiting? planning?

whatever the reason may have been, you wouldn’t be gifted the time to think it over: clearing eyes himself had demanded that you all find your ways to the castle grounds. though he was not the Queen, it was within your best interest to listen; the cries of snakes that filled even the deaf’s minds had insisted so & his violent nature had suggested it even further. of course, he had threatened: when you were ordered to come, you would obey it no better than a dog would. if you had refused ( or perhaps if you had no idea of it due to your disability; but that mattered not to him. whether it was your choice or not, you would be forced just as anyone else ), then his snakes would drag you there themselves: they cared little for the livelihood of pawns on his chessboard. snakes would wrap themselves around your limbs & sink their teeth in, & your body would skid through dirt, mud & stone until you were where you so needed to be. whatever state you’re in at the end of it matters not to him, but simply that you are there at all, even if it was against your will.

it seems that the courtyard is packed with your fellow players, the sea of bystanders bustling & drowning out any audible conversation pieces to pick up on. not that it was necessary -- not with how clearing rises from the ledge he’d seated himself upon, & the way he stalks forward so effortlessly; even to the blind, every step he took still carried his presence through vibrations on the ground.

( was he to relieve you of your burdens for this? the answer was clearly no -- those who could not see, could not hear, would receive a different telling of this foreboding story. were the best tales not ones you were forced to interpret? the serpent promised wisdom -- & so he would deliver upon those who were fortune, & those who weren’t would need to grasp at straws. )

❝   have you finally decided to surrender yourselves? ❞ it’s a sick joke -- he knows more than well that he left no options of refusal. his boots scuff against the ground as he stops. ❝  how kind of you.to showcase your miserable forms at last -- honestly, how long had i waited for this? ❞ a self-satisfied hum rumbles out of his chest, eyelids lowering. ❝  decidedly, far too much. still, i welcome you & that curiosity of yours. ❞

❝  though, ❞ his eyes graze among the crowd, as if counting heads, ❝  i’m certain some of you haven’t the faintest of idea of what’s going on -- tragic, is it not? to be so robbed of your senses, unaware of your surroundings -- so i can’t help but to wonder, what’s stopped you from regaining them? ❞ his eyes narrow, pupils sharpening in acid-shaded hues. ❝  could it be fear? are you all too cowardly to butcher those around you, like mice? or is it a misguided belief that you may all survive on a pacifist’s agenda, & we will grow bored & set you free in due time? ❞ the words tumble out in between laughter, cruel entirely as he heaves out a sigh of, ❝  such stupid things. ❞

❝  perhaps you need a farther push -- an example of how this is not a waiting game. ❞ as the words hiss off of his tongue like poison, snakes emerge from the darkness once more. their beady eyes lock onto one soul in particular; one that saeru had handpicked from the very start of it all. 

“ --- huh ?”

in an instant, they move -- their speed is beyond comprehension in itself, striking out & wrapping around HIYORI’S ankles & wrists tight enough to bruise & break blood vessels. 

“ NO -- ! s--stop, it hurts! what are you doing? stop it, let me go! ”

as quickly as they come, they pull back with their grip entirely vice -- her body is forced forward, pathetically so, chin knocked into the harsh, unforgiving earth & her body dragged towards him. as he glowers down at her, those who would have attempted to stop him, to object, are found to be bound by snakes as well -- they constrict themselves around the crowd’s ankles to root them in place. interference is far from preferred.

a hand reaches down, & fingers knot in her hair to yank her up onto her knees & face the crowd. this is a show -- they will bear witness to this event whether they want to or not.

❝  the thought has crossed your minds once before, has it not? this game promises you freedom -- but is death not an ‘out’ of this world? perhaps, you’ve wondered, what will become of the dead’s bodies? ❞ the smile he wears is sick & twisted, teeth bared for all to see his fangs. ❝  i wonder, i wonder! ❞ though his tone had remained on a manic, gradually raising high, it soon drops into a whisper: 

❝  have you ever watched a child die? ❞

( he knows well of the mothers here, of those with weak hearts for children -- their suffering will be delicious. )

“ stop it !!! ”

she’s sobbing now, trembling within his hold -- incessantly begging a variety of ‘please stop’ and ‘don’t do it’ born from the lies she was prior fed. why was this happening ? she wasn’t a part of the game , right ? kagerou wouldn’t lie to her about that, he wouldn’t of done this --- and hibiya! oh god, hibiya -- he’s here, he’s right there in the crowd. she’s sorry, she’s so sorry, she hadn’t even had the nerve to approach you and apologize for FAILING . 

but here she is, letting him down yet again. with vision blurred by tears and a frightened gaze -- his name wants to leave her lips, but it hangs dry in her throat. she’s sorry -- for once in her last moments she can’t force a smile nor mouth her final words for only hibiya to witness -- only succumb to what very well may be her millionth demise.

the moment he dares to release her hair, serpents rise above to wrap around her, lacing & lacing time & time again, squeezing & crushing bone as they further harshen their hold. fangs rip through her skin & suffocate her in complete darkness as they gather, one after another. it becomes apparent then, that they are mere entities: ones that use their shadows to consume her whole, shrouding her figure in complete, utter darkness. it’s a disgusting sight in its own right, to see one’s body outlined by nothing but scales & hungry reptiles; & oh, how clearing laughs & laughs, looking so pleased with himself. he even sighs.

❝  a shame, truly, that those of you without hearing, ❞ a hand raises & a finger taps to his headphones. ❝  cannot bare witness to these magnificent screams of agony! wonderful, truly wonderful! ❞

clearing allows himself to laugh -- his moment of pleasure as the snakes slowly begin to disperse & melt off of her very form like nothing more than ink. they drip & drop onto the ground around her like a blackened puddle, staining her now whitened skin. 

what was once a girl by the name of hiyori now stood something far different -- though structurally the same, her hair had been singed, & her skin had been dyed a white & icy blue hue. whatever life radiated in her eyes is long gone, dead with her very soul; instead blank, lifeless eyes & an even more lost expression remained. if you were to stand too close to her, perhaps you would feel a chill. 

dying down from his laughing fit, the snake sneers & draws closer once more -- hands resting upon her shoulders far too casually. ❝   ahh -- i can see it in your face! surely, you must all be wondering what’s happened to this child, hm? simple: when an ego dies, the corpse is useless -- & “we”, ❞ he drawls the word with specific emphasis, as if he wishes to hold no direction association, but is making a point, ❝  desire bodies -- what better than those with life torn from them?  ❞

his fingers drum against clothed shoulders, & his head falls to the side. ❝  this must be a relief to some of you, yes? my, how unfortunate in your case -- as their memories & selves has been wiped. they are nothing more than husks -- but please, be at ease. at least you’ll still see them, you know? ❞

he leans forward somewhat, smile still intact. ❝  of course, this brat is a special case -- she has been gifted a snake that contains a world, whereas your measly lives will not be so lucky, only left with the bottom of the barrel. really, it is quite funny, ❞ his nails dig into her shoulders. ❝  those of you who believe so blindly in your faith -- did you believe that this was Hell? a child like this, bearing your proclaimed innocence -- she is your “Heaven” that you so desire. but she-- ❞ his hands slither upward, fingers knotting over her throat & his palms squeezing against her neck, 

❝  --can die just as easily once more. ‘Heaven’ is a concept here, one that can be crushed. ❞

but his hands drop once again, & his body pulls back, curling into himself. his mouth opens, & then it hesitates -- a tremor can be felt in the ground, & the air suddenly spikes up in heat. you can feel the sky becoming foggier, more blurred as the temperature rises & haze scorches at your skin. clearing, however, seems anything but startled -- his brow furrows as he glances into the distance, but his temporary scowl twists into a satisfied smirk.

❝  do with that information as you all will -- if you value your lives so much, i’d advise you kill before you turn into nothing more than a shell. such a fate would be worse than dying in itself, don’t you think? but if you continue dragging this out,” his eyes flick back sharply, pupils mere slits, ❝  one by one, will you be slaughtered by my hand & turned into nothing but tools for the Queen. understood? ❞

the silence in the crowd, the lack of your voice -- he takes it as confirmation.

❝  delightful. now disappear. ❞

slowly do the serpents that kept you locked in place vanish, & clearing turns sharply to take his leave, heading towards the castle. 

> CONTINUE?

UPDATES:

✘ for better or for worse, the kogoeru daze has been born from hiyori’s unwilling sacrifice. ✘ hiyori is now considered dead as the white haze holds no memories or recollection of hiyori’s personality. you can now access the OBITUARIES PAGE. ✘ HOWEVER, the white haze is now an NPC you can interact with through the ENH askbox as well as through hiyori’s blog. she will not be permitted to commit murders and you cannot kill her, but she can participate in trials if she wishes.  ✘ depressing as it is, hiyori had left behind a will. all of her items and coins have been split between @heathazetired , @raginxtempestas and @harukanosekaijiju. you can find the list here: [ GOOGLE DOC ] . ✘ the haze is unstable with a constantly fluctuating temperature now. something must be wrong with the queen’s son. if not careful with where they stay, players can suffer from sunburn or heat stroke.

[sicklylittlesnowflake]

HI!!! so i noticed a little star next to T'Challa and I saw Black Panther tonight and guess who's craving so black panther sickfic? I so bad at prompts so here's me hoping you already have some or make one up because I'm sure anything you come up with will be better than mine so consider this an if you find yourself deciding between some prompts, choose a Black Panther! lol i hope this made sense aha

(Okay so I do have another T'Challa prompt which I will 100% write in the not so distant future; but I’ve had this idea in my head since I watched the film and I really want to write it, so due to the free nature of this prompt I’ve used it as an excuse that write this fic! Hope that’s ok!!)

T'Challa sees him every night.

He is not a monster. He is not a storm that will ravage Wakanda.

He is a boy.

He’s seen those eyes. So heavy. He’s seen the anger, the fire. Tell tale signs that he is not completely broken. That there’s still something in him that hasn’t been demolished by the sins of his nation. He’s angry because he has been belittled far too long. He has been outcasted too long, left in the cold. So he craves flame, and for that flame to destroy them. Bask in their warmth. It’s not right, T'Challa knows, but deep within him he understands. And in a sad, twisted way, he is right.

Because he’s seen the fear. He’s seen the flickering remnants of a boy who once was. T'Challa’s seen the innocent delight of a boy watching an astonishing sunset. He’s seen the glee of a father’s promise fulfilled. Just a boy.

T'Challa’s seen that sadness. That somber mourning for a life that could’ve been. He sees in his eyes that twinkle of regret, or the twinkle of nostalgia for a home he’s never had. T'Challa feels it too. In his dreams he stands next to him in battle. He is strong. He is brave. He is mighty.

And then the paradise ends and he sees him again as he is. He sees him crumbling. Trembling. Dying.

T'Challa sees hope in him but he doesn’t. He would much rather die right now. When he bleeds out he is free. And to him it is a better fate than bondage, better than the life he had been living. He didn’t see the hope. He’s been broken too much.

And that’s what keeps T'Challa awake at night. A boy with so much light and destiny stripped away of his grace and shunned. A product of the darkest side of his nation. A boy dead because they refused to let him in.

T'Challa is tired. He’s drained. Too much has happened all at once and everything he once knew has been unravelled before him. He doesn’t sleep. So much so he’s gotten weak. Sick. Fevered.

But he cannot rest. T'Challa cannot rest because every time he closes his eyes the haunting picture of Erik jolts him from sleep. T'Challa cannot rest with the thought that there are so many little boys and girls who may be on the same road. A road so easily diverted if Wakanda emerged from the shadows.

T'Challa is the king. And as king he has no time to rest. He must work. He must please his people. Wakanda must stand strong. And he must show them the way. T'Challa cannot be weak.

And as trained as he is, as educated as he is, as molded as he is to be perfect, he cannot get past Shuri.

She knows him best. She knows when he is not well. She knows the tired glaze over his eyes, and the slightly ashy sheen that paints his face. She knows the slight slouch in his stature. Shuri knows where he would be if he were to stall his own personal welfare.

Shuri finds T'Challa hunched over a collection of documents.

His body is shaking, he feels hot and cold waves pulsate through him in antithetical directions so he feels like he is burning and freezing at the same time. As he tremors his leg rattles against the chair, and his penmanship is wobbling as he signs the document he had just been reading.

“Brother,” She calls out quietly, but apparently not quiet enough as it is loud enough to cause her brother to jolt, and wince slightly as his headache intensifies.

“Sister,” He replies calmly, his voice low and raspy, on the verge of fading away completely. It makes him sound small. And her brother is not small, he is mightier than he will ever know or believe, so she knows something is awry.

“You’re not well,” She comments, approaching him from behind his chair and resting warm hands on his shoulders, circling them in a reassuring manner that is prompting him to rest.

“I’m fine,” He replies hastily, reaching for the next document on his pile and he begins to read. But the words cross fade and it is incomprehensible. His senses seem to heighten in the worst possible way, and there is too much. T'Challa cannot handle it.

Shuri sighs softly, knowing full well what is ailing her brother. It puzzles everyone, but the two of them have this bond that cannot be explained, not even through science, and science is Shuri’s bread and butter. And if she cannot explain it herself, then it is an intangible mystery.

“You should rest now,” Shuri presses further, a little more firm this time.

T'Challa shakes his head adamantly, “I cannot.”

“And why not?”

“Because I am king, I must serve my country,” He proclaims confidently, but Shuri can detect the wavering, the weariness, the fear laced in between his words.

“You cannot do so if you’re incarcerated by illness. You are not at your maximum potential, so therefore you are not performing to your maximum potential,” She argues, although her tone is still sweet and gentle, and very clearly stemming from a place of love.

T'Challa sighs heavily, deflated, stifling a short series of coughs against the cuff of his sleeve, “I must push through. I cannot abandon Wakanda for even a second. They need me.”

Shuri raises an eyebrow, “That is exactly my point.”

T'Challa can’t help the small chuckle that manages to escape him. She had always been smart. She’s always been one step ahead of him, and he could not be prouder.

“You’re good.”

“I know.”

He sighs softly, “I will rest later. You should be on your way.”

Shuri knows when his promises are empty. She is his sibling, after all. But she also knows when it is useless to fight (she can’t waste time, she’s got better things to do) so she just nods and walks away, and goes to seek someone she knows T'Challa cannot resist.

When Nakia finds out that T'Challa is sick she drops everything she’s doing and heads straight for him. She knows him. She knows he’s difficult, that he likes to shut himself away and lock himself behind these high walls he’s built around himself. She would know, any person who had loved him at some point would know.

And she still loves him. T'Challa has built these walls around himself to hide the part of him he doesn’t want the world to see; but that part he hides, she loves very dearly. She loves him, so she would drop anything she was doing for him.

He is difficult. He’s hard to find. But she has known him so long. She finds him.

She finds him watching the sunset. A glorious sunset that sweeps across the country, its warm blaze glowing upon the evergreen grass of their nation. She knows he loves the sunset. Every citizen of Wakanda does. It reminds them of their strength. It is the symbol of their nation.

“T'Challa,” She starts softly, her steps towards him nimble and gentle. She assumes a seat next to him, and she gazes out to the horizon with him.

“Nakia,” He replies tiredly, his eyes glazed. He seems distant.

Before she can speak he chuckles softly, “Shuri sent you, didn’t she?”

“Of course she did, I wouldn’t come after you if I had the choice,” She jokes lightly. But they both know they’re lies. She would stand by his side for as long as she possibly could.

There is a short silence that ensues. But it’s not uncomfortable. It’s sweet.

“You haven’t been sleeping. You’re not well,” She says, breaking the silence. She is not accusing.

He exhales, “I see him every night.”

“Killmonger?”

“No, Erik.”

Nakia tenses a little and sighs, “I think about him all the time too.”

“He was a child,” T'Challa breathes, “And he was abandoned.”

“We outcasted him. He had no home. He was alone,” He whispered.

She nodded, “He was not a good person. But..if we had never left him alone..I like to think he would’ve been different.”

“I saw his eyes, Nakia. There was still a little bit of light. But he wanted to be free. He could’ve been free, Nakia. He needed us. We’ve spent so long hiding in the shadows. When we have so much. How many other kids are out there suffering? How many more Eriks?”

“I am so ashamed, Nakia. When I looked at him, there was so much pain. He was so broken. He thought there was nothing left inside of him. He crumbled and we watched. We didn’t do anything.”

“We can now,” Nakia says suddenly.

“But my father–”

“You are not your father. You are king of Wakanda. You have spent your whole life training to make sure Wakanda is alive. But is Wakanda really alive if we hide? Stay in the shadows? What if Wakanda were to emerge into the light and glow just like this sunset before us? Wouldn’t we then be alive?”

“We cannot reverse what has been done. The dead have been laid to rest. You cannot bring him back, T'Challa. But you can make sure that nobody else breaks like that ever again.”

“Wakanda is mighty. But we are not the only mighty ones. United we must be. We cannot sit and watch as the world falls into barbarian ways, we must stand together. It is the only way we as a human race can truly progress. It is our  responsibility, T'Challa. It is now we must stand. You must lead us. I know you can.”

A silence falls between them.

“Wakanda has spent too long in the shadows,” T'Challa says quietly, but not weakly. He is strong. He looks off into the sunset and a smile creeps onto his face.

“It is time we step into the light.”

Nakia smiles. She knows they will. She believes in her leader.

But it is then when she realises how unwell he is.

She quickly places a hand on his forehead, and the surface her hand lies overtop sizzles, “T'Challa, you’re burning up!”

He merely grunts before she’s yanking him up to his feet, slinging his arm over her shoulder and drags him away, “You need rest.”

The next minutes go in a flurry, she is dragging him to his bed and is rushing for a cloth. She dampens it with cold water and places it over his forehead, trying to get his fever down.

“T'Challa, you are an idiot,” She hisses, but there is a fondness to her voice.

“Your idiot,” He grins cheekily. She rolls her eyes at him.

“Unfortunately so.”

He looks at her with such a loving gaze she wants to melt, but she holds herself together. He is so ridiculously goofy in the most endearing way, and the next second he is her stoic and mighty king. She likes both versions.

“What?” She asks, unable to disguise the fondness in her voice, unable to disguise her smile.

“You’re just so wonderful.”

She scoffs.

“You inspire me every day. You inspire me to be a better king, better person. Your work has opened my eyes. Our country will be better because of you. The world will be better because of you.”

She tries to hide her smile, “Your fever is talking.”

“No, my heart is.”

She whacks him playfully on the arm, “Shut up!”

“We’re ready to stop hiding. We’re going to reveal ourselves at last,” T'Challa says softly, but surely.

“I am ready,” She says with a smile so bright.

“You need to get better first. Rest, then you can show the world how much we kick ass.”

“We’ll show the world what Wakanda really is.”

And after they do, T'Challa can rest again. He still sees Erik every night. But every night Erik’s eyes seem to get a little bit lighter.

[anneway-nitheliniel]

The Past Retold, Part 2

The forest ground vanishes beneath their feet, the distance eaten by their fleeting steps. Springy moss is exchanged by beds of soft fallen needles, followed by loamy sand. Their steps do not falter, their is no consideration of the best point to propel themselves forwards from, nor of where to best land on the other side of the shallow but wide brook; there is only exhilaration and the glorious feeling of being weightless, before the chase continues. They have no aim, nothing to be chased but the joy brought to them by running, touching the ground but lightly, flying past trees whose trunks blur into a shady greyish brown as their eyes are unable to focus on anything but what lies directly ahead. Their minds are set on less substantial objects – on the flickers of sunshine, on the coolness beneath the canopy of trees, on the fresh air on their burning cheeks, on the rapid and exuberant beating of their hearts, and of the freedom it all proclaims.

The blur of trees grows lighter, gaps appearing in the so far brown wall, golden light streaming through. Their feet slow from racing to a light trot when the narrow path before them widens and eventually disperses into a grass covered meadow bathed in sunlight. Eventually, they slow to walking altogether. Through the thrumming of their own heartbeat, the songs of birds register for the first time. Eyes close briefly, then open in wonder, taking in surroundings that seem meant to compliment their joy. Their pace quickens again, but their steps lose their straight line, feet straying sideways, turning, twisting and their body just follows along in a slow and graceful dance, arms spread like supporting wings, palms greeting the sun, hair flying. When their breath has calmed sufficiently, their lips open, tasting the fresh air filled with the smell of grass in the sun, and their voice joins the birds in their singing.

The light sandals are shed first, a small heap of leather straps soon to be forgotten, allowing the now fully bare feet to enjoy the tickle of blades of grass and the occasional wet spot where the sun has not yet been able to kiss last night’s rain and the morning’s dew from the green. The dreamy dance is only interrupted, when their feet suddenly stumble into water. Their eyes take in the small but deep pond, dark water covered by water lilies, and shortly after the rest of their clothes meet the same fate as the sandals. A splash, a sharp inhale of breath as their skin is enveloped by cold water and they dive into it, head first, arms parting the waves they themselves created. Strong, slender legs kick against the pond’s surface and they dive deeper until their hands touch the ground. Another kick and they face upwards, arms keeping them floating steady. The birdsong is replaced by a soft low gurgling, bubbles of their breath streaming past their ears. The sunlight flickers at the surface but only occasionally a long shaft of diluted gold breaches the leaves of the water lilies and reaches down towards them. Oblivious to the chill, they remain until their lungs begin to burn and they let themselves be carried upwards by the natural draft. They breach the surface with a gasp for air, laughing at the same time. The laugh slows into softer chuckling when they lie in the grass next to the pond and let the sun and the gentle breeze dry their skin. Goosebumps disappear alongside the drops of water and even the chuckling subsides, eventually leaving behind nothing but the glorious feeling of being warm, fresh, whole, and so very alive!

Sebille was leaning against the Lady Vengeance’s figure head, her own head resting in a wooden depression between two rings of scales. Her eyes, though opened wide, were staring at nothing this night had to offer. It was another day and another place she was seeing. And she had taken him there, too. Never had Ifan imagined Sebille so enticing a tale-teller. She had given small indications of this hidden talent of hers before, that was true, but always had she laced her words with sarcasm and spite, effectively assuring that her listeners remained at the distance assigned to them. This time had been different. Her voice had drawn him into her story, had even made her memories seem like his own. He felt breathless and overwhelmed. His own heartbeat was racing as the two of them had been through the forest of her past. A broad grin was decorating his face and he felt giddy beyond description.

Throughout her tale he had always watched her with the strange sensation of beholding her twice: the pensive Sebille right now and right here as well as the dancing Sebille, who seemed so much younger and so free of care. Fortunately, he knew that careless she had not been, so that the change in her voice, denoting the downward turn of her story, did not come with much of a surprise.

With light slumber the voice returns, as it always does when the diversion has found its end and the mind is coming to rest. It matters not were and when: dancing slowly in the rain, falling asleep in the sun, losing herself in poetry, cuddling with bear cubs – rest her mind cannot for long, since the voice always finds her and it is persistent. It calls out to her – luring whispers, soft spoken and gentle, and so frightening she snaps wide awake instantly. But once the voice has taken hold, it cannot be driven away so easily. Not by so simple  a thing as waking anyway. The sun still shines, basking her skin in its wondrously warm light, but she starts freezing over from the inside, darkness clouding her thoughts far faster than it has taken her to drive it away. Eventually, she will get up, gather her clothes, even find her sandals and then her way back – home, as they say – into the embraces of warm arms, to the greetings of radiant smiles, to the voices calling her name reverently. Until that name is detached from her self, is no longer her own, but that of a person she shall and must be, but is not.

“Can you imagine? Countless voices incanting my name and I was not even sure it was mine at all? Isn’t that silly?” Sebille met his gaze with a rueful smile. Never had he seen her like this: timid, almost shy, the depth of her uncertainty showing plainly.

“Only when I met our mutual friend,” she stroked the Lady Vengeance's scaly neck almost lovingly, “did I learn that I am not alone in my doubts concerning the Mother Tree’s motives. Power always strives for more power. Death and domination is all it ever gives birth to.” The pain in her voice made Ifan open his lips to sooth her, but she cut his words off before he was even able to think of the proper ones to say. An almost harsh gesture bisected the air in front of him, but he could see that the harshness resulted not from anger but from Sebille’s need to continue talking. She looked at him imploringly and he settled for a reassuring nod instead.

“Go on, dearest.”

“It seems that this is the prime lecture we are to learn from this journey, does it not? That power cannot be trusted.” She heaved a deep sigh. “We are but used as pawns in other’s games.” Her words mirrored Ifan’s own thoughts far too closely for his own comfort. Sharing in his sentiments, Sebille made them seem real. A reality he had pushed from his mind time and time again.

“Who explores their champion’s weaknesses to make them compliant instead of bolstering their strengths? Only those that fear for their own position. I am but a slave, you are but a soldier. And the Mother Tree still finds its ways to call for me. - But that does bring me back to my story. I apologise that it will not end as cheerful as it begun.”  

Ifan only nodded again. Her story’s course had hardly let him invest into hopes for a happy ending. Had her words initially invited him to share, even to participate in her joyful memories, they had grown more distant with every step the Sebille of old had taken to retract her path from imagined freedom – until at last he was resigned to stand by. It made him think of an earlier conversation, when he had first chanced upon Sebille’s unique mixture of bitterness, resignation or acceptance, and hope. She had talked about the woman she had been, the woman she was, and the woman she wanted to be, and ever since had he wondered which one he was encountering. Unable to solve this mystery in the current situation, Ifan extended his hands towards the Sebille that was here with him, hoping he could help her to be whoever she wanted. To his immense relieve, she accepted the gesture and fitted her hands neatly into his.

The darkness is no longer a comforting blanket, draped around her shoulders warmly and velvety to the touch. Where once the night has held no terror, it has now become every bit as terrifying as stories, whispered among elflings from under the protective cover of their beds, describe it to be. The darkness clings to the air she is breathing. Clammy and moist, it invades her lungs, her bloodstream, and from there floods through her body and mind. The sounds of night have stopped weaving into natural lullabies and turned to the voices of hidden monstrosities. She no longer runs through the once friendly forest, but creeps through it on high alert, ready to turn and flee at any real or imagined movement in the dark.

It is not the first night she spends in trepidation, nor will it be the last, she fears. The days, however, only serve to show her plainly, that what she fears at night – the growls of animals, roots she stumbles over, vines that grab at her tattered gowns with unseen but relentless fingers – is not the imagination of a fear-ridden mind, but truly to be feared. She can see the sharp teeth snarling at her, the claws lashing out, the brambles ensnaring her ankles.

She is so desolate and tired that when she first hears the voices, her heart rejoices. Her home treats her like an alien being, a festering limb that cannot heal but must be removed, so it seems time to seek the company of others and make a new home. It is too late, when she realises her mistake. The shouts of the men, finally in comprehensible words, cheer each other to find and catch her. She bolts, but her flight is only short. She is too exhausted to run or to fight. A snare glides over her head, loops around her neck and then cuts deep, effectively suffocating her cries. From there, the days become as dark as the nights.

[...]

Since this is a little longer than the others, continue reading here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12843270/chapters/29887134

[delicrieux]

amortentia [young!tom riddle x reader]

premise: two students start developing feelings for one another despite having too many secrets to count. tws for this chapter: implied childhood trauma word count: 2.8k

amortentia masterpost | masterlist | music

1. the boy from the train

A light breeze caressed the back of your neck as your fingers dug into the hard red cushion of the train seat. Ever so slightly, you leaned forward to stare at the blurring scenery behind the window.

Echoes of chatter and muggle songs reached your ears from outside the compartment, muted and muddled by the shut door. In the swaying autumn flowers, the last notes of summer already fading, you saw the delicate arch of your mother's hand as she waved you goodbye.

There was something haunting about that memory, new as it was. Just as August gave away to September, so had you traded childish slacks for a prestigious uniform. So young, yet slowly coming with the grips of tweenhood. Realizations boiled there, somewhere in your mind, along with your mother's strange smile -- neither kind nor forceful, it was a perfectly imperfect, bearing an uncanny resemblance to the still and waxen medieval portraits created by muggles.

It was an honest goodbye made by a dishonest person. So young, barely eleven, and yet you knew as much. Without her shadow looming above you, the possibilities were endless. The prospect both frightened and excited you.

Finally, London houses blew by and nothing but plains of dewy green vistas greeted the window. You pulled away and shifted, hitting the back of the seat and feeling the whole train pleasantly rumble down your spine. Lonely but not alone, you sat with three other soon-to-be Hogwarts students - housemates even, perhaps? - that were just as round-faced and doe eyed and joyful as any kid at the prospect of learning magic.

All but one.

The boy beside you, reserved and appearing somewhat cold, was excluded from the buzz of shared happiness, from the forming sense of camaraderie that would fall apart as soon as the Sorting Hat dispersed the fresh crop among the four Houses. Was it a conscious, self-excommunication you could not yet phantom, nor the strange swirl of feelings the boy inspired within you. Somewhat restless, somewhat uncertain of your balance on the seat, you pressed yourself close to that cold window, as if to shy away from the boy and the sense of something that lingered in the air around him. As if inhaling it would be poisonous.

If you could return to that moment, you would recognize those feelings as trepidation. But in 1938, it was just confusion with a clumsily racing heart.

You tried acting graceful with your subtle retreat, not too obvious lest he notices and thinks ill of you somehow. Mother always said that manners were most important and distancing yourself completely would surely displease her. Even if her watchful eye evaded you then, she would know. She always knew. It is a mother's horrible burden to know the failures of her child.

The first quiet snicker between the two boys in front of you grew louder - their hushed whispers no longer hushed nor whispers - and their heads, previously drawn close together conspiratorially, then faced you and the boy by your side without hiding wicked grins that implied nothing but trouble.

Your heart stood still for a moment, rendered useless by overwhelming fear. A thought sprung to you that they knew, that they had noticed somehow, and instantly you reeled onto what could have betrayed you: your eyes, your nose, the way you carry yourself? Where had the resemblance between you and your mother manifested so strongly to earn their ire?

Shall they hate you without so much as a word exchanged?

'We are not very much alike.' You wanted to inform them, soothe their anger with you, 'Father says so, too, and my father has never lied. No, we are not very much alike at all, I assure you.'

But their eyes never strayed in your direction, rather narrowed down on the pale-faced child sharing a seat with you. There was relief when you realized they meant you no harm, that your secret laid hidden behind a linen shirt and a cashmere sweater. And then there was a sickly uncomfortable feeling rooted deep within you, one that made your mouth dry and cower in your little corner. Later, this feeling would be given a name and easily recognized: shame.

"We were just talking," One of the shorter boys spoke up, accent thick and freckled cheeks red with mischief. Scottish, you thought, warily glancing between the two, "about who might be the strongest wizard here."

"'S me, of course." The other piped up, beady eyes gleaming with pride, "Mum said I started reading runes at three. Said I got that talent from my father. He works at the Ministry."

"Sounds like a big fat lie to me, else my father would know yours." The first replied with a playful nudge, "I cast my first spell when I was two. Nearly set the house on fire."

"Nearly? Nothing to brag about if only nearly." The second chimed. With the agility and poise of a poor actor, he suddenly asked, "Oi, you." Not in reference to you, no, you were blissfully excluded from this equation, "What of you, then? Which do you think is stronger?"

There was a slight, tense pause. It was obvious from their demeanor and their harshly sculpted words that the boys did not care for your companion's opinion; that they only spoke to him to tease him; that they, somehow, figured he is less than.

"Neither."

Words could be cruel, yes, but just how cold they could be always surprised you. A single word, uttered in that rasp, unimpressed tone chilled you. It was the first time you had heard him speak, confined to his indifferent silence as he was. You glanced at him on instinct.

And when you saw him, you could not look away.

He was pale, somewhat ill, missing the golden sheen children had when playing outside in sunlight for hours. Not even a blush or a hint of rose anywhere on his sharp features--cold and unfriendly, just like his voice, just like his whole presence. It was slightly off putting, but not enough to deter your inspection. You trailed the outline of his clothing, catching a few loose seams and fried fabric around the shoulders – they were not new, presentable, but hardly fashionable. You understood why he would come under scrutiny by the two.

Perhaps he felt your probing stare because his eyes flickered in your direction, evergreen and glimmering, the only remotely lively thing about him. Instantly you were transported to the dark forests surrounding fortresses you had seen in fairy tales of moving pictures -- how dark they were in the shade until first sunlight warmed them, making them appear almost inviting. They grew in mazes, spirals, uncanny shapes to lure the unsuspecting into deadly adventure.

You were the lost traveler and he the omnipotent nature basking in its private secrets. How terribly your heart tumbled when those eyes connected with yours. You could only look away so quick.

"What did you say?" One of the boys leaned closer, pretending to have misheard, "Couldn't quite catch that."

"No, I think we heard him right," the other said, "see, I think he thinks he's so clever. Probably thinks he's stronger, too."

A fake gasp, "He wouldn't! Scrawny thing like that, can barely cast a spell I recon."

"Can't cast spells if you're almost mute, too, now, can you? Oi! Know any other words, or just one?"

A shared laugh between the two and taut silence from your end. If this affected your companion at all was impossible to tell. He revealed nothing, sat silent with a bored expression, and it was that expression that seemed to egg the boys on to continue their jeering.

Perhaps he really did not care. But you did. You were uncomfortable with listening to insults and even more uncomfortable being invisible. The sight of this verbal violence wounded you. Could they not shed their daggers and wait for the Sorting to end at the very least? Must they begin their tyranny now?

"Leave him be." You finally snapped, surprising even yourself: where had such strength come from? "I am the strongest here, obviously, for I had to listen to this nonsense and not say a word. Now what I think is that you should go ask someone else's opinion, from a different compartment, of course. I am sure there you will meet an insufferable match." A pause, "Well? Go!"

Perhaps it was your harsh tone that prompted them into action, perhaps it was the stomach-churning embarrassment they felt that showed so evidently on their faces, but with one last deadly glare directed at the boy - as if he was the problem, not them - the two slid the compartment's door open and left in a cloud of incomprehensible angry huffs and whispers. The door clicked shut. Silence engulfed the two of you again.

"...That was not necessary."

His voice was unmasked, yet when you looked at him you saw no change in his elusive expression. Despite the hint of relief, a little promise of 'thank you' hidden somewhere in his dismissal, something was still not quite right.

But you were content with a slow yet rocky start, and gave him a shy smile, not meeting his eyes in fear of another delirious tumble of your heart.

"It was," You insisted, though not unkindly, "...they fancy causing a ruckus, I can tell... I am (Name) (Lastname), by the way." You introduced, daring a glance into that evergreen forest that stories are made of, "...Pleasure." You extended your hand for him to shake, hoping he would ignore the slight quiver of your fingers. For a moment all he did was examine it, as if contemplating should he touch it or not. Lastly, he hooked his fingers around yours.

"Tom. Tom Riddle."

1943

The windows are tinted dark with black clouds. The small room is drowning in hot, white fumes that smell like lavender and incense and coffee grounds; an occasional rosy flash of colour makes the classroom swim, as if it is going vertigo. Light drumming of cold rain reaches your ears, but what melody it sings you cannot tell – no one can bear to keep their mouth shut in Divination.

A hard nudge on your shoulder and your head slips from your hand, "Did you see?"

Sleepy from the heat and with a mild headache from overlapping scents, you throw a lazy glance at your friend sitting on the other side of the small round table. Briefly you wonder how can Katherine be so chipper on such drowsy weather. Judging by the twinkle in her eyes, the question was repeated, and possibly not once.

Wordless, you sweep the classroom to find what she is referring to. Seeing you at a loss, Katherine leans in, crossing her arms over her chest, her clever features illuminated by the bleak pink glow of the crystal ball, "Over there, by the fire..." She trails off quietly, urging you to observe your housemates closer lest you miss out on something inconsequential yet scandalous.

The Slytherin House is seated among piled books, haphazardly thrown about colorful shawls, Indian rugs, and potted greenery. Closest to the fireplace and entirely drenched in sweat, some of your housemates sit on plush pillows by coffee tables. Only those that were never late to class managed to find a spare table with proper seats.

By the windows, on the other side of the classroom, Hufflepuff made its home. Hardly an interesting topic, even less worthy of your sleepy attention.

You scan your surroundings, not particularly caring if anyone was to notice your stare through the tangle of smoke. Nothing out the ordinary, "Who?"

Katherine gives a whine, half annoyed half excited to deliver the news, "Who else if not Tom?"

"...Tom?" You question, turning to her. "Tom Riddle?"

Katherine nods, her dark brown curls bouncing around her sun kissed face. She leans closer and whispers, "He was looking at you again. In that wistful way he does...Oh, you are so lucky, (Name). I'd curse you if I was any more jealous." She add in a playful jest, "Me and, well, the rest of the school, I suppose. You're most lucky we are such good friends." She finishes with a wink.

She was always a character: playful, snobbish, a bit mean but in a harmless way. Coming from a rich family from Austria, Katherine is familiar with expensive views and handsome boys attending her family's annual balls. A feast of grotesque grandeur and posh personalities, or so you were informed.

Someone as Tom Riddle fits beautifully into Katherine's polished life, like a lost puzzle piece returned to create a magnificent paysage. She is a pretty girl, if not a tad dense. Her delusions often spark terrible rumors that shake the whole castle for months. She revels in all of it, that notoriety. As fitting for a Slytherin.

This is why Katherine's insistence on Tom's secretly harbored affection for you feels more like a joke rather than an actual possibility; a glass bubble that was always meant to shatter. How happily she snickers at the absurdity at the thought, and how she craves for you to buy into it, if only for a moment.

But you never do. And today, you are too tired to even humor her, "He was not." comes your dry reply, yet your eyes stray in his direction anyway. It is not difficult to locate him in the crowd of students. You always possess a vague idea of where he is, as absurd as that sounds. It is like a six sense you had acquired that chilly morning years ago, on the train, sparked by a handshake and eyes that kept wandering back to one another.

Over the years you spoke with him little, confined to your world as he was crafting a whole new one around himself. By the time any meaningful friendships could form, he was already out of reach.

You can feel Katherine roll her eyes, and with a curt sigh the shorter girl leans out and crosses her legs behind the table, softly hitting you in the process.

"Oh come now, don't be so glum. I would never lie to you, now, would I?" The lopsided smile she gives you informs otherwise, "Well, perhaps..." She says with a heavy sigh, as if divulging some terrible secret, "Perhaps he was looking at me, and I was mistaken. If so, my (Name)," Her hand snatches yours and squeezes gently, "I am terribly sorry."

Her gaze on you is short lived as she tilts her head to the side, keen on admiring him, "He is most dreamy though, isn't he?"

"Dreamy? Yes, but..." You murmur, "Can you not feel it?"

"Feel what? The discontent glares of my rivals?"

You crack a smile, "No, not that...It is just...something about him...something different." You glance at him, sat with his dearest friend, laughing quietly about one thing or another, "Would you not agree?" Katherine's expression turns thoughtful and after a brief pause she nods.

"Oh yes, completely different..." She says, "He's so perfect it's hardly fair." Then, she, releasing her hold on you and leaning back in her seat, smiles in a ditzy, love-sick way; the same way you used to grin as a kid dreaming of Prince Charming, "Tom...Tom Riddle...Katherine Carlotte Riddle? How does it sound, (Name)?"

"Sounds like a symptom of hysteria. Inform your mother, or shall I send her an owl instead?" Your playful words are met with a scoff and a good natured chuckle.

But curiosity quipped, you cannot help but sneak a glance at him, only to find him staring right back. There is a barely notable smile on his lips, head dipped downwards listening intently to a tale weaved by his seatmate. Perhaps Katherine had been right about him looking – your eyes connect, the only thing truly clear through the curtain of fumes being his magnificent green irises that halt all thoughts you had had prior. You offer him a shy smile before pulling away.

"Just you wait, though." Katherine mumbles, missing this small exchange as she flips through her coursebook,  "I'll have him confessing his love to me in no time."

"Are you certain it will not be the other way around?" You ask with a raised brow. You can tell it takes everything she has in her to not smack your arm or throw her teacup in your direction.

"You are terrible, (Lastname). "

"Yet you love me still."

"Merlin, that I do. The most, in fact, well-...After our dearest Tom, of course."

"Certainly," You answer, gazing down into the depths of your teacup where your impending future lays written in tea leaves. Somehow, even if their meaning is lost on you, you know it is intertwined with him, "would not want it any other way."

onto the next part?

[preserving-ferretbrain]

Book Review: The Lies of Locke Lamora

by Wardog

Wednesday, 14 November 2007

Wardog actually likes something - possibly because she didn't have to pay for it.~

Father Chains sat on the roof of the House of Perelandro, staring down at the astonishingly arrogant fourteen-year-old that he little orphan he'd purchased so many years before from the Thiefmaker of Shades' Hill had become. "Some day, Locke Lamora," he said, "some day, you're going to fuck up so magnificently, so ambitiously, so overwhelmingly that the sky will light up and the moons will spin and the gods themselves will shit comets with glee. And I just hope I'm still around to see it." "Oh, please," said Locke. "It'll never happen."

The Lies of Locke Lamora is basically a fantasy-heist novel, but it's also a pleasant breeze through a stale genre (yes, I'm bitter), shorter than the typical eighty million pages and a surprisingly assured and competent debut. I picked it up in Hay on Wye for a sum so ludicrously trifling (a mere one of my English pounds) that it almost felt as if Scott Lynch had come up to me in the street and asked me nicely to read his novel, the consequence of which is that my critical objectivity is shot to buggery but I think I'd still be recommending this if I'd forked out the

requisite 7.99.

Locke Lamora - otherwise known as the Thorn of Camorr - is the leader of a tightly knit group of conmen-thieves known as the Gentleman Bastards. As the novel kicks off, they are in the process of scamming a couple of aristocrats out of a portion of their fortune, coincidentally violating the long-standing Secret Peace that has been negotiated between the criminal underworld and the upper echelons of society. Meanwhile a mysterious personage known as the Grey King is preying upon the thieves of Camorr and forces Locke to participate in his personal vendetta against the city's crimelord Capa Barsavi. Needless to say, events soon spiral massively out of Locke's control and he finds himself caught up in something that threatens not only the people he cares for but the entire stability of the city. The first third of the book is a rompish heist, complete with all the usual twists and turns, but then it twists on its axis becoming a much darker and more serious story, although it never loses the edge of gallows-humour that makes it such a pleasure to read.

The Lies of Locke Lamora is a truly a rootless, bastard child of the genre: there's a fair mixing of Feist, Gavriel Kay, Brust, Miville, Pratchett and Dickens to be found within, to say nothing of the more than passing nods to movies like The Godfather, The Sting, Oceans 11, Scar Face and Goodfellas. It's not flawless, but it's still damn good: a fast-paced, page-turning adventure story set in a complex and intriguing world that doesn't drown you in detail (although I expect the author will soon forget this and commence the deluge). Camorr provides an excellent backdrop for Lamora's exploits: an island city built of Elderglass by a race nobody remembers, it seems to be inspired by 16th century Venice, with all the attendant squalor and decadence. There's definitely world-building going on but its of the subtle kind that successfully creates the impression of a living and very real city without racking up a page count hefty enough to kill a walrus (*cough* Miville *cough*). Lynch's imagination encompasses both beauty and brutality, dancing easily from the banal to the opulent, from frivolity to genuine threat. One of my favourite chapters introduces the fencing master, Don Maranzella in his House of Glass Roses:

"Here was an entire rose garden, wall after all, of perfect petals and stems and thorns, silent and scentless and alive with reflected fire, for it was all carved from Elderglass, a hundred thousand blossoms, perfect down to the tiniest thorn ... ... each wall of roses was actually transparent .... Yet there were patches of genuine colour here and there in the hearts of the sculptures, swirled masses of reddish-brown transulence like clouds of rust-coloured smoke frozen in ice. These clouds were human blood.

I can forgive Lynch for lingering in his fairytale garden of blood-thirsty roses and his farmer-turned-fencing master is a wonderful antidote to all those artistic gentlemanly types with their flourishing rapiers. This chapter seems to illustrate Lynch at his very best - the strange, sculpted roses and the introduction of the fencing master, the shift from pretension to pragmatism, from description to dialogue, from fantastical lyricism to dark humour and the sudden stripped-down truth about what Jean Tannen has really come to learn:

"Jean, you misunderstand." Maranzella kicked idly at the toy rapier and it clattered across the tiles of the roof top. "Those prancing little pants-wetters come here to learn the colourful and gentlemanly art of fencing, with its many sporting limitations and its proscriptions against dishonourable engagements. You, on the other hand," he said, as he turned to give Jean a firm but friendly poke in the centre of his forehead, "you are going to learn how to kill men with a sword."

The book itself is interestingly structured - it reminds me rather of Heroes, in fact. It consists of a succession of short chapters building to a mini-climax, followed by a brief interlude, either a tale of the City and its Gods, or a flashback to the early years and training of Locke and his gang. This actually works really well. The interludes are generally absorbing enough that, even though I was eager to find out what was going to happen next, I didn't skip them or resent reading them ... at least not very much. Furthermore, most of the interludes, although not precisely relevant, often offer an illumination on future events, thus rewarding the alert reader. And it does solve the perennial fantasy book problem of how to introduce the hero to the reader and show his gradual development from child to adult without spending the first five hundred pages of the novel narrating every little moment of the hero's childhood in agonisingly tedious detail. Part of me, however, couldn't quite shake the conviction that it was a cheap trick. It's a very obvious way to build tension and create anxiety and uncertainty in the reader and occasionally interferes with the pacing at critical moments.

Lynch's is a self-consciously "dark" world; there's an awful lot of swearing and torture, and the central characters are, of course, thieves and murderers. But since we only ever see them stealing from the rich and murdering those who thoroughly deserve it and their loyalty to each other is unswerving, there's never really any question of their being admirable characters deep down. This is not a problem per se; but the book is about as morally ambiguous as my Grandmother:

"I only steal because my dear old family needs the money to live!" Locke Lamora made this proclamation with his wine glass held high ... ... the others began to jeer. "Liar!" they chorused "I only steal because this wicked world won't let me work an honest trade!" Calo cried, hoisting his own glass. "LIAR!" "I only steal," said Jean, "because I've temporarily fallen in with bad company." "LIAR!" At last the ritual came to Bug; the boy raised his glass a bit shakily and yelled, "I only steal because it's heaps of fucking fun!" "BASTARD!"

Stealing may be wrong but it's also big and clever and all the cool kids are doing it. The exuberance and loyalty of the Gentleman Bastards is charming and it's impossible not to root for them. On the other hand, I am conscious of a vague dissatisfaction with Locke. The book is careful to assert that he is skinny and unremarkable and a poor fighter but he is also a consummate conman with incredible reserves of tenacity and courage, he is cunning, daring and quick-thinking, and there is no sacrifice he will not consider to preserve the safety of his friends and loved ones. He can be ruthless when necessary, he has the survival instincts of a rat, he's reckless occasionally but only in a way we're meant to think is cool and, on top of all this, he has a conscience and listens to it. Needless to say his origins are shrouded in mystery (I'm sure this will be Very Important later) and his creator is head over heels in love with him. I came dangerously close to finding the character annoying and if Lynch isn't careful he's going to be unbearable a couple of books down the line.

Speaking of the dreaded "couple of books down the line" The Lies of Locke Lamora does a reasonable job of offering a coherent and contained plot arc, but there are several dangling threads (the most irritating of which is Locke's love interest, a woman occasionally mentioned but never introduced) presumably left there to wet the appetite for future books. The mighty internet tells me there will be seven of these, which triggers all my cringe mechanisms. This cannot end well. Has nobody learned anything from JK Rowling?

The second book of the septad, Red Seas Under Red Skies, has recently been released - having enjoyed the first book has much as I did, I'm now terrified to read the second in case it sucks. I guess I'll have to wait until it's available for 1 again. But, in the meantime, you could do worse than taking a look at The Lies of Locke Lamora. It's not perfect - Mary Sue-ish main character, a plot necessitated, damn near omnipotent bondsmage - and I understand it has received some criticism for its modern-sounding speech but, quite frankly, I found that contributed to the lively, irreverent tone of the book. But it is a fun, fast-paced read in a ponderous genre and I thoroughly enjoyed it.

PS - This is really childish (and has nothing to do with the review at all) but I think I also need to point out that Scott Lynch looks like this --->: 

Arthur B

at 17:09 on 2007-11-14I was toying with doing a Reading Canary for this one, and might still do if I get around to picking up

Red Seas

, but you seem to have covered most of the bases. I agree that criticising the book for modern-sounding speech is reaching a little - if an author's simply more comfortable writing dialogue in a modern style then I'd rather they did that than attempt to try Ye Olde Speeche and fail horribly. I also agree that Lynch is a little too in love with Lamora, and indeed most of the book's fans are a little too much in love with Lamora; the fun of the book comes when Locke screws up horribly, and if you look at it objectively he isn't actually as nice a guy as Lynch thinks he is. That's why the book works, of course: the big central conflict is about accepting a rotten compromise which causes suffering for a few but provides peace and security for many, or rejecting that compromise knowing full well that rejection means no peace or security for anyone, and it's good that the representatives of both sides have their good and bad points.

The big criticism I'd have is that all the flashback bits to their childhood simply weren't as interesting to me as the main story: I'd much rather have a book half the length without the flashbacks. It doesn't matter whether Jean was taught swordplay by a farmer-turned-toff in a blood garden or by a toff-turned-farmer in a turnip patch: I can't think of any instance in the main storyline where it becomes at all relevant. There is one flashback which nicely foreshadows the final conflict, but it does so by basically explaining what Locke's tactic is going to be, so the ending is a bit obvious. Also, yes, big smirking long-haired Scott Lynch wants to kiss big smirking long-haired Locke, a meeting of shit-eating grins which thankfully cannot actually occur in real life.

Thing is, I'm not sure whether I'll ever actually get around to picking up

Red Seas

. I picked up

Lies

second-hand too, and while it's a fun and consistently not-crap read it isn't quite good enough to force me to go buy the new one. I'm not convinced that the character merits more than one book about him.

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empink

at 00:01 on 2007-11-15@ Arthur

For now, I'd say not to bother with Red Seas. It's also a fairly consitently not-crap read, but imho the author's love for his character really burns strong in the sequel. I don't know why I couldn't put my finger on it when I read it, but Kyra hits the nail on the head here. He really, really loves this character of his, and it means he gets to do all kinds of improbably cool stuff.

Now, while that was fun in the first book, it starts to wear on you in the second one. The dialogue needs to be beaten with the boring stick (I swear, everything everyone says is so witty that you WISH someone would say something dumb at some point. Which they don't. ARGH), and the plot is just...stretchy, in terms of suspension of disbelief.

All I know to say is that, having read Red Seas, I'm not going to jones for the rest of the series anywhere as near as I am jonesing for one or two others, because it probably won't be worth it.

PS, Kyra, the mysterious woman never actually shows up in Red Seas. But she does get mentioned. A LOT. *facepalm*

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Wardog

at 09:22 on 2007-11-15ACtually my copy of Lies was brand, spanking new and still one pound - that's why I'm so smug about it. I LOVE you Hay on Wye!

Ahem, anyway. I actually found Locke irritatingly virtuous. Even when he's trying to get a suit of clothes, and he drops an innocent waiter into the shit, he still takes time extract said waiter *and* give him a purse containing more money he's ever held in his life. Until that point I was actually impressed that he'd completely fucked up the waiter's life - it made him less sympathetic but I think, perhaps, more interesting?

I genuinely didn't mind the flashbacks and interludes; they weren't *quite* as interesting as the main plot but I didn't find them sufficiently tedious that they detracted from it too badly. And I was oddly into Jean Tannen (even though he's basically just a side-kick protector for Locke)so I really loved the stuff in the House of Glass Roses; also it is relevant because it "explains" why Jean can take out the two shark-baiting sisters without getting completely mullered.

And thanks for the warnings, Empink, I very very nearly bought a full-price copy of Red Seas the other day and I'm now *so glad* I didn't. I'm not sure I can stand another book of love-interest build-up because you just *know* she won't live up to it. And I don't wish to see Lynch consummating his relationship with Locke in an orgy of cool stunts.

I did find Lies genuinely witty but mainly because the characters tended to say something deeply pragmatic or macabre or just plain inappropriate at what would otherwise be very serious moments. It helped me get through the nasty bits (becuase I'm a wimp) and it also tended to have a nice edge of desperation to it - whereas I don't think I *want* a dazzling virtuoso wit-fest from the Book II.

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Arthur B

at 12:19 on 2007-11-15Empink:

I'd been wondering what I'd found weird about the dialogue in

Lies

, but you've put your finger on it: everybody's a smartarse. I can remember a couple of times where I was having trouble following conversations, because everyone's dialogue is so similar in tone and delivery that there's little differentiating them. It feels less like a bunch of different people are having a conversation and more like Lynch has a bunch of sockpuppets that he's using to tell a story - you never forget that it's Lynch behind all of them. (Still, at least it is monotonous in a clever and witty and entertaining way as opposed to monotonous in a consistently dumb and boring way.)

Kyra:

You're right about the overvirtuousness. I was remembering the bit where he wrecks the waiter's life, but not the part where he makes it all better. I think the worst thing he does in the entire book is play a practical joke on the secret police (you know, the one with the boats full of shit).

I like Jean too, but I worry that I only like him because he's a floating bit of driftwood in an ocean of Locke; he's the only other interesting character we spend an extended amount of time with (though I also liked the Capa's daughter and the Grey King and the head of the secret police), so he's a welcome relief from an unending shower of Lamora-love. As far as the Glass Roses stuff explaining the shark sisters fight, I consider "Jean is a rock-hard son of a bitch" to be a more than adequate explanation for why he beat them. Jean being a rock-hard son of a bitch is neatly demonstrated in the main story by, well, Jean beating the shark sisters...

Both of ye:

I think it's fairly obvious at this point that the Mysterious Love Interest is, in fact, Scott Lynch in a dress.

Either that, or she'll be the big bad at the end of the series.

Possibly the big bad will be Scott Lynch in a dress.

The intersection of Lynchsmirk and Lamoracock providing the cure to the world's ills.

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Wardog

at 14:18 on 2007-11-15I actually thought the dialogue in Lies was just about cope-able with - it's true that everyone sounds nearly the same but that genuinely didn't bother me except occasionally when Locke was conversing with arisocrats and then it grated somewhat. Dona Sofia, for example, is clearly meant to have a distinct and feisty personality with her alchemy and everything - but I never really got much from her. I think I was just glad to have snappy, modern-sounding dialogue for a change, instead of ponderous faux-medieval stuff.

But Jean was a fat, weepy merchant's son - he had to go from that to RHSOFAB somehow; sure, you didn't need to really know how but since these two sisters were meant to be *all that* it wouldn't have made sense for some thiefly-brawler to be able to take them out.

I still feel positive about Lies, despite its flaws. You were obviously considerably more irritated by the Locke-Lovin' than I was. And Lynch isn't the most talented ventriloquist but I didn't feel him in the background as much as you did either. I shouldn't have put up the picture, I think I've just generated undue hostility by drawing attention to the fact he looks like the sort of person we know.

But I genuinely think Lies stands as a good fantasy read; future books, well, we'll see...

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Wardog

at 14:21 on 2007-11-15Also, I think Arthur is just being discriminating because Lynch isn't a hottie like

Gene Wolfe

;)

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Arthur B

at 14:57 on 2007-11-15

But Jean was a fat, weepy merchant's son - he had to go from that to RHSOFAB somehow; sure, you didn't need to really know how but since these two sisters were meant to be *all that* it wouldn't have made sense for some thiefly-brawler to be able to take them out.

Yeah, but we only know that because of the flashbacks, so Lynch ends up setting up a problem which he then feels that he needs to solve with more flashbacks. It'd be more interesting, to me, if he'd established the sonofabitchness of Jean early on, and then dropped hints through the main action that Jean actually comes from a softer, more pudding-like background. I honestly don't think it matters at all, to

Lies

, how Jean got hard - I think most readers can happily accept that a life on the streets as a criminal will tend to make people either sneaky or fighty, regardless of their background.

My worry is that Lynch felt the need to dump all the backstory with Chains and the farmer-turned-toff and the farmer-who-ended-up-a-farmer-again because he's got this big backstory he wants to hint at which is suddenly going to becoming very relevant in the later novels, in a kind of "James Potter was mean to Snape at school" kind of way. And who's willing to bet that this is going to tie in with Long Lost Bint somehow?

Don't worry about the photo, I'd probably be saying the same sort of things about the novel even if Lynch looked like my beloved Wolfe - although it's a lot funnier knowing that Lynch looks like that. I do think it's a fun, likeable novel and worth reading for entertainment; most of my problems stem from my impression that Lynch wants us to think it's something more than that. Then again, maybe I've been spoiled by

Vlad Taltos

, who pushes similar buttons and whose writer looks like

the bastard son of Terry Pratchett and Frank Zappa

.

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Wardog

at 15:12 on 2007-11-15Jesus CHRIST! *faints*

Yeah, I think you might be right about Jean; I guess it depends how much we care that this stuff is going to become Meaningful later. JKR has soured me on that sort of thing forever.

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Arthur B

at 15:38 on 2007-11-15Is that you swooning before the dreamy gaze of Brust?

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Alice

at 22:21 on 2013-08-28Necro-ing this post, since I've finally gotten round to reading the book after finding the post via the random button.

I mostly more or less enjoyed it, in an "oh, must you really, Scott Lynch?" sort of way - I actually enjoyed the backstory parts more than the main plot, perhaps because while Lynch SUPER-UNSUBTLY wrote out Locke's love interest right from the beginning, at least he didn't have her murdered and delivered to her father in a barrel of horse urine in order to kick off the main plot.

(That was the bit that really made me roll my eyes and give up on enjoying the book in anything other than a superficial way. Lynch slightly redeems himself by having the head of the secret police be a badass old lady with a cane, but I really liked Nazca, I thought she was cool, so I was extra annoyed when she got fridged.)

I really like Jean Tannen, though, so part of me is tempted to at least give book 2 a go.

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Robinson L

at 15:30 on 2016-10-05Listened to this one on audiobook several months back, and enjoyed it as a fantasy heist/adventure yarn; it was quite fun. I hope it wasn't Lynch's intention for me to read any deeper meaning into it, because I really doubt it would hold up to that kind of scrutiny, and it would raise a bunch of awkward questions I don't think he's prepared to answer.

I was a bit disappointed by the ending, because the best bits of the book are generally when somebody is executing a masterful con: whereas Locke spends the last few chapters of

Lies

alternately pleading, cajoling, and punching his way to victory.

I guess I didn't mind too much Locke being both an authorial darling and a hyper-competent master criminal, because, as Arthur pointed out in his original comment, he regularly screws up, finds himself outsmarted or outmaneuvered, and generally gets the everloving shit kicked out of him and/or reduced to a blubbering wreck. For me, this was enough to make the balance tip over into “enjoyable” protagonist rather than “insufferable,” though I realize folks' mileage will vary.

I also really liked the character of Father Chains. The samey-ness of all the characters' dialogue has been brought up already, and I just kind of shrugged it off—however, even with that, I feel like Chains got in an inordinate amount of memorable lines. Also, for some reason, the character of a hard-cussin' scoundrel priest really appeals to me. (Technically, Locke is one, too, but his priestliness is kept mostly to the background.)

I was also disappointed they didn't wind up causing the death of the Bonds Mage (perhaps by accident). As arc plots go, “high class thieves on the run from an immensely powerful and vindictive wizards' guild” sounds pretty solid, and could justify the seven book length to show how our heroes go from fleecing the city's upper class to taking on said wizards' guild and winning.

Like Alice, I disliked that the book fridges Nazca in such an ignominious fashion to kick off the main plot, although I was somewhat mollified that the villain then proceeded to wipe out the rest of the Clan Barsavi in similarly brutal fashion, meaning she wasn't the One Big Death, she was just the first major casualty (plus, three quarters of Locke's chums, also all male, go down shortly thereafter). Again, though, I recognize not everyone is going to be satisfied with this, nor am I arguing they should be.

For whatever it means, in the third book, Nazca is the only member of the Barsavi family who Jean deems worthy of mentioning among the list of people they've lost when he's reeling it off to Locke.

Speaking of deaths, I was extremely relieved that Jean Tannen survived the Grey King's betrayal: Locke really needed a sidekick for the story to work, and Jean was easily the best of the lot. His friendship with Locke is great, and one of my favorite parts of the book was actually the flashback to when he first joined the crew, after Locke's initial attack of sibling rivalry, where Jean asks Locke to help him steal stuff he can use as a death offering for his deceased parents, and Locke asks Jean to help him learn how to use an abacus*. So cute.

*This after Father Chains uses Jean's superiority with an abacus to humiliate Locke and demonstrate why Jean is a useful addition to the crew.

So that part was good, and I didn't mind the other flashbacks so much, though I might have if I'd read through the book instead of listening to it on audio. What I did mind was Lynch dropping a chapter about the Spider tumbling to Locke's latest scheme and setting a trap for him right after the cliffhanger chapter where he's been thrown into the river in a barrel of horse urine and left for dead. First and most obviously because it's a transparently artificial way to hold off resolving said cliffhanger (unlike the flashbacks, which happen in every chapter); but second and also perniciously, because it sucked so much of the tension out of later scenes with Locke trying to reestablish his Lucas Fehrwight scam—the main source of tension was now “will Locke fall into the Spider's trap, and if so, how will he escape it?” so all the stuff with him stealing an appropriate set of clothes felt like so much wasted time before we got back to the next big story question. And that's also unfortunate because I think the clothing scam was actually one of the strongest parts of the book.

Speaking of which, I see what you mean about Locke being “irritatingly virtuous,” though I didn't mind it much, either. The only part which really got me was the way he immediately opted for saving all the high-bread toffs of Camorr at the risk of missing his chance for revenge against the Grey King. I get that he's supposed to be a noble rogue character, but that part struck me as too altruistic to fit his personality. I would expect him at least to be seriously tempted to leave the aristocrats to their fate while he goes and settles the score with the guy who murdered all but one of his best friends. But no, in his mind, it isn't even a choice, and I don't understand why.

I think it should be noted, though, that Locke also does some really screwed up shit which he's never really called on (a major reason I resist taking the books at all seriously). This is a case in point:

he drops an innocent waiter into the shit, he still takes time extract said waiter *and* give him a purse containing more money he's ever held in his life.

Well, yeah, but he *also* gets the poor sod permanently exiled from the only home he's ever had, presumably cut off from friends, family, everyone and everything he knows. Now, for some people, I suppose this could be the best opportunity of their lives—for others, it would be a kind of hell. For all we know, that waiter might well have committed suicide a couple years later, unable to cope with his life's circumstances.

Other crimes of Master Lamora which go unaddressed: murdering the Grey King's assassin after getting information out of him by shutting him up in a cellar and setting fire to it. True, the man had just killed one of his and Jean's best friends and was complicit the conspiracy to kill them all, but that's an incredibly cruel way to dispatch him.

And biggest of all, he manipulates the Camorri top brass into demolishing the Grey King's escape ship and consigning the ~15 person crew to what I also recall being described as a particularly horrible death. True, they were all the Grey King's lackeys, but they were just there to help him get away with the loot (and not to infect half the city with awful plague, as Locke claims), which hardly seems to make them deserving of such a grisly execution.

I let all this pass because I take the books in a “fun adventure” mindset; if I took them seriously, I'd be forced to conclude that Locke Lamora is a terrible person in ways the books themselves aren't prepared to explore.

A final note on the audiobook version: Michael Page is a great narrator, his voice nicely capturing the story's narrative style, and bringing the characters vividly to life. He also does a wonderful job with the various accents which come into play (mostly as one or another of Locke's characters for a heist), making them very distinct and memorable. Perhaps too memorable, for I'm sure I've caught him recycling a number of secondary voices and accents—he's no Jim Dale—but still an impressive accomplishment which I think utterly nails the tone of the series.