#blisters and pain and people died in it and very likely people were born in it. we talked for hours and i felt like

[faaun]

procrastination is starting to have its consequences finally

[mariacallous]

When Liebman’s Delicatessen opened on 235th Street in 1953, the Bronx was still sometimes called “the Jewish Borough.” More than half a million Jews lived between Mott Haven and Riverdale, and according to the 70-year-old deli’s website, they were served by 100 kosher delis. Today, Liebman’s is the last one standing. 

“I ask myself a lot: ‘why are we the one that survived?’” Yuval Dekel, who has owned the deli for 20 years, told The Nosher. “Certainly because we’re in Riverdale, which is still a Jewish community.” 

He surveys the restaurant, where nearly all 60 blue naugahyde seats are occupied by neighborhood regulars over 60, noshing on pastrami to the strains of ‘50s jukebox hits. “We’re a deli that has regular New York City resident customers. We’re not a tourist destination.”

Dekel, one of the youngest people in the room, took a circuitous route to becoming a deli man. Born in Haifa in 1978, he arrived in the Bronx two years later with his father, who immigrated with hopes of becoming an entrepreneur. A business broker helped the family find Liebman’s, which had foundered under a string of owners after Joseph Liebman sold it in the late ‘50s. 

Though Dekel’s father (also named Joseph) was of Romanian descent, he knew little about the Ashkenazi foodways of New York. “I don’t even think he knew about delis,” Dekel said. “In Israel, there’s no deli culture.” Joseph Dekel added Israeli dishes like falafel and hummus to the menu, but took pains to preserve the deli classics, too. 

For his part, Yuval Dekel was a metalhead. He was the drummer for Irate, a well-loved New York City thrash band, touring up and down the East Coast, throughout Europe and Japan, and playing at iconic downtown clubs like CBGB in the ‘90s. 

“It was pretty hardcore,” Dekel laughs. “Very serious moshing going on. Quite a different environment from this.” 

But during his entire stint as a metal drummer, Dekel also supported himself by working as a baker at Amy’s Bread and the original U.S. location of Le Pain Quotidien, developing a serious commitment to artisanal foods. When his father died in 2002 and Dekel took over Liebman’s, his first priority was the quality. He wanted to make sure that every dish on the menu, from sandwiches to stews, got its due.

“One thing that differentiates us from — let’s say Katz’s — is we pay a lot of attention to not just the pastrami,” Dekel said. “Don’t get me wrong, I spent years figuring out how to make our own. But there’s this whole other side to us, which is basically a full-service kosher diner.”

Liebman’s excels in the kinds of homey dishes that tend to be afterthoughts for the best-known pastrami pushers. Stuffed cabbage, stewed in a sweet-and-sour sauce and piled with melting onions and plump raisins, falls apart at the slightest pressure from a fork. On Fridays, Dekel serves cholent, the slow-cooked Shabbat stew. 

That’s not to say the deli classics can be missed. Dekel began curing his own pastrami several years ago, after the number of high-quality suppliers had dwindled. The deli slices it thin so that slivers of the smoked meat’s dark crust are evenly interspersed on a sandwich. On the Liebman’s Favorite platter, pastrami is piled high on an open-faced slice of rye, accompanied by fries — thick-cut, pleasantly greasy shards of potato — and kishke (stuffed derma) slathered with brown gravy. It’s an unbelievably hefty plate of food that reminds you the object of a Jewish deli is excess. 

Daintier deli classics abound. Liebman’s tender matzah balls float in a rich broth slicked with beads of schmaltz. Hebrew National franks sizzle and blister on a foil-lined griddle in the front window, ready to be garnished with sinus-clearing brown mustard, sauerkraut, coleslaw or — a Liebman’s favorite — a scoop of potato salad. Old timers pick at artfully arranged cold cut platters of sliced tongue, corned beef and kosher salami.

Homemade knishes are of the circular variety, bearing little resemblance to the squared-off “Coney Island” knishes provisioned by wholesalers to hot dog carts across the city. Like all knishes, they are dense starch-delivery systems. But a Liebman’s knish is well-seasoned, and its crust is flaky and pastry-like.

With all of his attention focused on food, Dekel says he struggled with the business side of the operation originally. But a loyal base of customers helped him through his mistakes, and the deli has hit its stride again, getting attention from critics and influencers, and even making an appearance on “Anthony Bourdain: Parts Unknown” in 2014. Dekel is planning to open a Westchester County location this year, marking the first expansion of Liebman’s in its seven-decade history.

It seems only right that Liebman’s should be the last deli in the Bronx. A mid-century time capsule, it was reinvigorated by Israeli cooking and by Dekel’s do-it-yourself spirit. 

“In some cases, being the last one standing doesn’t mean you were the best,” he says. “But I happen to think that we deserve it.”

[ashintheairlikesnow]

“I’m not telling you again.”

If you’re still doing the sentence prompts?

CW: Vampirism, blood drinking, minor whumpee (OC is 17), captivity, referenced dehydration and starvation, forced turning, wishing for death, religion

1905, somewhere outside New York City

-

"Come here, little one."

The boy presses himself back against the cold stone wall behind him. There's a cuff around one ankle, dull iron, and a chain that scrapes the floor when he moves. He swallows, shaking his head rapidly from side to side. Dirty hair falls dull over eyes that sparkle vibrant green in the near-total darkness.

He can't see her.

But she can see him.

"No." His voice is a whimper, a nearly-animal whine, pure fear. "Please, please, please no, not, not, not tonight, not... not tonight, please."

She sighs, chuckling fondly, and pulls a match across her palm to light the lamp that hangs on a hook down here. The wick catches flame, and now he sees the pale, pale skin, the deep red lips. The predator's gleam in glinting dark eyes.

She crooks a long, sharpened fingernail . He can see the hem of her dress, lace-edged, the skirt that sweeps up to curve her hips, the narrowed waist, the high neck. He's stared at illustrations of the Gibson girl put up in shop windows in stores that sell to richer women than he's ever known. She's an echo right down to the soft, upswept hair.

Like a man with an expensive coat hiding a knife, he thinks, that he means to slaughter you with. She's a monster who looks like an angel.

"I'm not telling you again. I'm hungry," She says, and gives a little pout. "I want you to feed me."

He pulls his arms in close, shaking his head again. Tears already threaten. He's so tired, all the time. There is never time enough to heal from one bite before the next and the next and the next-

"Come now, little pet. It's just one last time." Her voice is gentle, but he knows they lie. They all lie to get their fangs in you.

"What, what, what d'you mean?" The boy has a thick country Irish accent, still. Fresh off the boat, they call him when he tries to speak to the boys his age in his tenement. Half of them have accents like his, or thicker.

Not that he'll see any of them ever again.

Not since his parents-

Not since-

He chokes on a sob he can't quite hold back, turning at the waist to rub his fingers over the rough, cool stone. It helps. The motion, the texture, it helps. It calms him down, a little.

Everything here is wrong.

He misses home. He misses the green hills that were never so full of dirt ground in as the city streets are. He misses the air that didn't smell like offal day and night. He misses a world where it was all less overwhelming. He misses a world where his parents were alive to help him understand it.

"Oh, you're sad tonight," The monster wearing a woman's face says, taking the lamp off the hook and carrying it closer. The shadows dance off her cheekbones, they seem to give her a sneer rather than her soft smile. "Let Malorie be of aid to you. Tell me what you need, sweet boy."

"Can, can, can I have a-a drink? Miss?" His voice is hoarse from thirst, and he's parched. It has rained for two weeks and he's drunk the rainwater that leaks in through the walls, plus the few sips they give him each day. Food is a bit of moldy bread, cheese, maybe a thin soup. It isn't enough.

They don't seem to notice, or care.

But then food or water is something they left behind, isn't it?

"Hm." She steps forward, closer to him. Her eyes flash in the dark, reflect the bit of light, and he cringes back from her fangs as she smiles down at him. She moves to crouch before him, and sets the lamp down on the floor beside her. "Is it thirst that drives you, little one?"

"Please." His lips are chapped and cracked. He tastes blood, sometimes, and spits pink-tinged spit to blend with the soil beneath him. He tries to look pitiful - it's not hard to succeed. "Please. I'm, I'm so so so so... so thirsty, ma'am, just a cup, please-"

She looks down, unfastening the line of tiny pearl buttons on one sleeve, then rolling back the fabric to expose her wrist. A stray curl of dark hair falls down to brush her perfect cheekbone.

"Ma'am?" He can't understand what she's doing - none of them had ever started to undress in front of him before. "A drink, ma'am? Please?"

She looks up, and her eyes gleam like a cat's in the dark. Her teeth are very very white. He can see the venom shimmering on her fangs.

"A drink you want, you beautiful boy," She says, and he stares with uncomprehending horror as she moves her wrist towards her own mouth. "And a drink you shall have."

She tears her own wrist open with her teeth.

He gasps and tries to get up to run, but he's weak and dizzy and when she yanks at the chain that binds his ankle to the wall he goes down hard and lands with a thump, the breath knocked out of him.

While he wheezes air into lungs that won't take it, she pushes him onto his back and forces her wrist against his mouth, her other hand pinching his nose shut.

He cries out in horrified disgust against her cold skin and the thick brackish fluid that flows over his tongue. She stares down at him, avid, with huge eyes.

"Drink, sweet boy," She murmurs. "Quench your thirst."

He must drink or suffocate, and his body chooses for him. He swallows even as he gags, and swallows again, and she lets go of his nose so he can frantically pull in air, tears streaming to pool in the shells of his ears and soak into his grimy, dirty hair.

She is a blur through his terror, but her smile is written in stone in the yard beside a church.

"My turn," She says, and when she buries her fangs into his neck, the boy screams again.

And then goes limp as the venom takes hold, and the vampire begins to purr, her fingers gripped like claws into his shoulders.

There is no pain.

Only the fear.

I'm going to die, he thinks, and stares up into the darkness that wipes out even the lamplight. It seems like it's growing, within him and without.

His mouth is full of blood. It tastes better than it did when first she made him drink. The heaving of his stomach stops. He starts to swallow willingly, even eagerly. Nothing has ever quenched his thirst quite like this. It doesn't taste at all like he'd thought.

I'm going to die.

He wants to go home.

He wants more to drink.

He's so hungry.

He wants more blood.

When she pulls her wrist away, he whines and tries to grab at it, to pull it back. She laughs, swatting playfully at him.

"Not yet," She chides, wagging a finger. She licks her open wound and it closes. She laps at the remaining blood and he tries to sit up, to get some too, only for her to push him down again.

Then... pain.

Agony hits, a bright stripe straight up his spine, and he arches away from the ground, throwing his head back and screaming loud enough to bounce off all the walls. It recedes, and then comes again, through his stomach this time. The throb moves to his hips, thighs, into his calves and all the way to his toes.

He curls into a ball on his side, but the pain keeps growing. It takes over. He can't feel the floor he lays on, only the constant spark of nerves blaring alarm. He feels like he is being crushed under a rock, burned by the hottest fire, stabbed with a hundred knives.

"Wh, what, what's happening-... t'me?!" He coughs, and then sobs as the action hurts more than anything else ever has in his life.

"You're dying." She picks at her fingernails, already bored.

He turns to look up at her as she stands, licking her chops like a cat. Tears run down his face, and every time he blinks the air seems pink-tinged. "What...?"

"That's your body shutting down. You know, you're very fortunate." She wipes a droplet of the boy's own blood from the corner of her mouth and then sucks her finger clean. "Very few people get to be born twice. I'll see you tomorrow night. I would prefer if you didn't call me your mother."

Before he can even begin to form a question, she turns to walk away, hanging the lamp up on its hook as she goes, blowing out the flame.

The pain ripples again, he is broken like a brittle shell against the shore. His very bones feel as though they're tearing apart inside him.

He's going to die here.

And he won't stay dead. His parents will wait in Heaven for a demon son who will never be allowed to step foot into Paradise.

He gulps in air, lungs burning, and tries to remember the prayer through his panic. "Our Father, wh-who art in Heaven, hallowed be be be Thy Name-"

His throat blisters even saying the words, and when he tries to cross himself, his hand shakes too much, his joints crack and shatter. He can feel it, he can hear it. They crack and reform, break and bend.

He screams.

He screams until his throat is raw, until it bleeds, until his heart stops beating and blood runs from eyes and ears and from under his nails.

He whispers every prayer he's ever known when he can. He begs for salvation, he begs to be spared eternal bloodlust, he pleads for something other than damnation. He prays he'll see his parents in death and not become a monster like this.

His prayers are swallowed whole by darkness.

He dies, but he does not die for long.

-

Tag list:  @mylifeisonthebookshelf @insaneinthepaingame @keeper-of-all-the-random-things @burtlederp @finder-of-rings @newandfiguringitout @astrobly @endless-whump @pretty-face-breaker @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @doveotions @boxboysandotherwhump @oops-its-whump @cubeswhump @whump-tr0pes @downriver914 @whumptywhumpdump @whumpiary @orchidscript @nonsensical-whump @outofangband @what-a-whump

[lysissisyl]

A different world

This is the story I wrote for “The Goddess Messenger” zine.

___________________________________

The war had ended. Edelgard had only planned until then. Part of her probably didn’t even expect to survive it, at least not as Edelgard. Even if she won, even if she lived, the Emperor would have lived. She would have taken care of the reforms needed to truly reach her goals, she would have made sure no one ever faced what she had to face. She would have been the leader Fodlan needed, until she wasn’t needed anymore. Emperor and the justice they embodied. (She was born a rebel and she was now dealing with that herself, as ironic as it sounded.)

She was sitting in her study, a pile of unsigned documents to her right, the pile of the signed ones to her left definitely too high for the edge of dawn. According to her schedule, she was expected to sit there until lunch, reading letters, drafts of decrees and laws, spies reports, nobles’ complaints... She looked out of the window and sighed. It was such a nice day... In a different world, in a different life, she could have been having tea in the gardens with Byleth or seeing her laugh because she was putting too much effort choosing her outfit to go to the opera and wondering what flowers Dorothea would have liked the most. She shook her head. In another life she would have more probably been dead or in chains again. She shivered at the thought. Who knew, perhaps Dimitri would have ruled over Fodlan and people would have called her a tyrant. Byleth would have had a role in the church, under Rhea’s guidance. Another sigh. This wasn’t a different world, this wasn’t a different life. Luckily. She would have read and signed 3000 more boring papers to know she was going to see Byleth’s smile in the evening, the love in her eyes... She clenched her fists. What was wrong with her? She was prepared to walk that path alone, to fight alone, to sit in that study alone in the best scenario, to die alone in the worst. And now? Now she couldn’t stand an entire morning alone. No, she couldn’t stand an entire morning without Byleth. It wasn’t just about focusing. Of course her thoughts ran to her given the smallest chance. She was annoyed, but it was also comforting somehow. The problem was the tight knot in her stomach, the cold that made her shiver and shake sometimes, even with the fireplace just a few feet away. The problem was that painful feeling that made her crave for her voice, her smile, even just a moment of her presence. She felt like screaming. She signed another paper. Sure Ferdinand could call his school “the Von Aegir foundation for equal opportunities and enlightenment”. She took the paper back: maybe it would have been better to submit it to Hubert... Byleth would have found it funny. She laughed now. She wanted that laugh... She took the paper again, crumpled it in a ball and threw it in the fire. She could deal with one damn morning! But it was every morning. It had been every morning from the day she had realized Byleth had chosen to walk with her. And she rationally knew that didn’t mean they were going to be together all the time. She was totally fine with that. Each of them had things to take care of. She would have never asked anything like that. But...every time she wasn’t there, that feeling came back. And she hated herself for that. She could feel her eyes burning. Right, another thing that had changed. She remembered how to cry now. That didn’t mean she had any intention to. Luckily, because she heard the door opening a moment later. She hadn’t heard a knock, but she was...distracted. And Hubert didn’t always knock. Nor did Ferdinand. Or Caspar. Too many people didn’t fucking knock. But most of them weren’t up that early in the morning, except for Hubert, who could either be already up or not yet asleep. She sat straight on the chair, ready to discuss any urgency that had presented. To her surprise, it wasn’t Hubert coming in, but Byleth. “Weren’t you going to train? You love the training grounds at dawn, because they’re all yours. Did something happen?” But she was smiling. “Why are you here? We were supposed to meet for lunch.” Byleth slipped her weight on the other feet, pensive, then shrugged. “I missed you.” All the tears Edelgard had been holding came out, her solemn posture turned into stiffness, then breaking completely and letting her collapse on the chair and desk.

“El?” Byleth was confused. Emotions were still unfamiliar to her, something she struggled to unravel. She knew she had gotten better in those few months, but this reaction was something she couldn’t comprehend. Did she say anything wrong? Did she make Edelgard sad? She remembered crying when she was in pain, the day her father died and she remembered Edelgard crying when she thought she was dead. She moved carefully, sitting on the chair in front of her. “Did I cause you pain?” Edelgard’s eyes met hers, while she partially regained control. “No. No. You chase the pain away, my love. The pain and cold.” Byleth turned to the fireplace, already half standing, with the clear intention of starting a fire that was already going. Another small way to love her. But it wasn’t the sight of the fire that stopped her, it was Edelgard’s hand, grabbing hers. “Stay...” She was smiling, but there was a need in her eyes. She looked away an instant later and let go hesitantly. “Apologies.” “What for?” “I’m truly not myself today. Feel free to go back to your training and errands.” Byleth tilted her head in the way she often did when she was pondering something. “Why?” “Because it isn’t fair to as otherwise. It’s...selfish.” Byleth looked at her again, giving her another confused look. “But I want to stay.” Edelgard laughed, a small laugh, but her voice was clearly cracking again. No tears though, just her eyes sparkling for a moment. Then she looked at the papers and her attitude changed. Her posture stiffened, she grabbed the sheet on top and sighed. “Will you stay with me while I work then?” Byleth looked at her for a long moment. She was in control again, but she could see her lower lip tremble slightly from time to time, her grip on the paper a little too strong. In her mind she looked like an overzealous rookie who kept swinging their sword for days, until their hands were so in blisters they couldn’t even hold it anymore. “You need a break.” “I need to work.” “Is there anything urgent among those papers?” “If anything was urgent, Hubert would report it or bring the documents to me personally.” “Then you don’t need to work.” “I worked everyday from dawn to sunset since the war started. No, it’s been much, much longer.” “You definitely need a break.” “You’re not listening. I’m used to it. I know I can do it. I just need you here. I can’t waste an hour.” “I wasn’t thinking about an hour.” Edelgard smiled. “Then I suppose I can take a few more minutes.” “I was thinking about a day.” Edelgard froze. “A day?” Foolish. She couldn’t. She needed every minute to study and sign all those papers before the end of the day. She had responsibilities. She had...very intrusive thoughts of her and Byleth drinking tea in the gardens, eating cookies, chatting and smiling. It was such a nice day... Maybe it could be a different world, just for today... “El...?” It. Wasn’t. A. Different. World. “I wish it was...” “What?” “I wish it was a different world, a world I can spend the day with you, relaxing and having fun, drinking tea and laughing together. I wish, but I have to take care of it all, I must. I can do it now, so I must.” Another image came to Byleth’s mind. Edelgard dealing with reports during the war, messengers running back and forth, reports held by bloody hands, men and women and children risking their lives for words to reach her. She stayed up at night to read and study everything, send replies. Everyday she wasn’t fighting or studying strategies, she was reading and writing papers, the silent side of the war people always forget. Some days sleeping was a luxury she couldn’t afford, because someone else needed orders, because a new territory needed laws, because she had treaties and negotiations ongoing. She understood. “You can now, you can tomorrow. El, there won’t be a battle forcing you to postpone it, there won’t be an assassination interruption, a fire burning your documents down. “This is another world: the world you dreamed of, the world we fought for, the world we created together. The war has ended.” “The war has ended.” Edelgard repeated those words, as a reminder, as something to cling to. She felt lost. She had kept thinking, acting as it hadn’t, because she didn’t know what else to do. But the war had ended. “So...what now?” “Whatever we want.” Edelgard just stared back at her, the vastness in those words both beautiful and scary. Byleth could see it, she could feel it. “What do you want today, El?” An easier question. She still felt stupid answering. “I want to go to the gardens, enjoy the cool air, drinking tea and eating sweets with you.” Stupid. The first thing the mighty emperor could think of was tea and cookies, a child’s desire. “I’ll ask for everything to be prepared.” “Ask?” Edelgard raised her eyebrow. “This sure is a change. I was starting to worry a lot of people in the palace would have started complaining about not being able to do their job anymore.” Byleth giggled. “I usually prefer to do most things by myself, exactly like you do, but I told you, El: I want to stay.” She paused. “I’m still going to brew the tea myself, though. I have my limits.” Edelgard laughed.

Edelgard loved the way Byleth brewed her favorite bergamot tea. Ferdinand could go on rambling about times and temperatures as long as he wanted to (he sure did more than once), but Byleth had sort of a natural talent for making tea. If she wasn’t so rational, she would have said she could taste the love. She let her pour some in her cup, then watched her while she got some in her own. There was a calm, a comfortable calm in Byleth’s way of handling tea that had always fascinated her. There was a gentleness in her gestures so unusual for a mercenary... Now she knew that gentleness well. She smiled, a silent thank you, took a cautious sip. It was hot, but not enough to burn. She could feel the warmth spreading on her body, forcing her shoulders to relax. Byleth’s tea was the most similar thing to a hug she knew. Her voice was as gentle and warm now. It made her feel like purring.  “I understand, El.” Byleth leaning forward, fingers gently caressing her cheeks, another kind of warmth. Soothing... Edelgard closed her eyes for a moment, absorbed by that lingering feeling. Then a serious note joined the sweet kindness in Byleth’s voice and she focused on it again. “New beginnings aren’t easy. Even when they are nice, even when things change for the better, even when there is hope and happiness awaiting, when you reach them after a long fight...new beginnings aren’t easy. Your mind has to learn to believe, it has to learn to let go, to relax. There is a difference between knowing that things will be alright and feeling it. “You saw me running to you, sword in hand, because I heard a noise, even if I knew the palace was safe; the other day I almost hit a kid playing a prank on me in the streets, then I had go back to the market, because I hadn’t bought anything that wasn’t dry and easy to preserve while traveling. My brain momentarily forgot I have a home now. And...sometimes, when my emotions are stronger than usual, when you smile to me in the morning and I’m still half asleep and my heart races... I freeze for a moment, because I forgot it bites now. I do understand, El.” She did. She always did... “Can we do this every day?” Childish. “A free day?” Byleth teased her. She blushed and stuttered. “You know that’s not what I meant. The tea. A moment for tea. A break. Sharing.” “We can, El. This or anything you desire. You don’t need to plan. You can, but you don’t need to. You can think about what you want everyday. Tea, walking in the gardens, a game of chess, sitting in front of the fireplace, hand in hand. Just something you want, every day, small precious things.” “Small precious things...and days off when I need them...reaching out when I need you...” She bit her lip: she didn’t mean to say it out loud. Byleth smiled. “Good girl, El. And remember that when you fought for everyone’s future you fought for yours too.” Edelgard wanted to say ‘thank you’, but it didn’t seem enough. She moved slowly, resting her head against Byleth’s chest, listening to that beating heart... A new beginning. Together.

[blacklister214]

Blacklist Secret Santa Gift

@takadasaiko​ Here’s your Secret Santa Gift! Enjoy!

Consequences

Strange how easy it was to take as commonplace things that once would have been considered unattainable luxuries. The girl who would one day become Scottie Hargrave would have never dared to dream of the high-rise the woman would call home. Not the closet of couture, not the priceless art adorning the wall, and not even the Egyptian cotton sheets that currently wrapped around her body like a decadent cocoon. Even ten years ago, long after she’d accepted such possessions as her due, the deep slumber she’d been experiencing would have been an indulgence completely beyond her reach. A decade later she’d come to expect a peaceful night’s rest. That was why, when she jolted awake, she knew instantly something had to be wrong.

Instinctively her hand flew to her nightstand for her gun. It wasn’t there. Of course. Scottie had locked it away in preparation for her granddaughter’s extended visit. Her gaze swept the room for the presence she sensed there. Sure enough, sitting in a chair ten feet away was a still figure assessing her with icy consideration. Scottie's heart leapt in her chest as her mind flew back decades in time. Katarina. It couldn’t be.

The woman leaned forward and the moonlight from the window partly illuminated her face. Scottie released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Not Katarina. Masha, or rather Elizabeth, as she preferred to be called. Of course. That made far more sense than a ghost. Strange to have mistaken one for the other. Despite their relationship, mother and daughter looked very little alike. It was only now and then that something in Elizabeth’s posture or expression brought a flash of bittersweet recognition. 

“Elizabeth? What’s wrong?” It had been weeks since she’d last seen her daughter-in-law, since Elizabeth had elected to go to war with Raymond Reddington over the murder of her mother. Pain shot through Scottie as she remembered that phone call. Elizabeth had explained what had happened. Katarina Rostova had miraculously returned from the dead, only to be murdered by the concierge of crime. 

Scottie had been so shocked, she didn’t know how she’d managed to absorb the rest of the details. Why hadn’t Katarina reached out? Scottie would have helped. Katarina had to have known that. Elizabeth hadn’t realized the impact of the information she was imparting. She’d merely been explaining why she needed Scottie to care for Agnes for an extended period of time.     

“So many things.” Eyes finally adjusting to the dark room Scottie suddenly focused on the gun Elizabeth was casually resting on her thigh. Adrenaline flooded the older woman’s system.

“Elizabeth, why do you have that gun?” Elizabeth tilted her head to the side in an uncanny imitation of Raymond Reddington. 

“Family is a funny concept isn’t it? I share blood with Agnes. Agnes shares blood with you. Suddenly I’m willing to turn my child over to a woman who shot up a church on my wedding day. Who tried to have me kidnapped. Who had my husband tortured.” Scottie could hear the quiet rage unlaying every word. Sins that had been forgiven, if not forgotten now blistered in her ears. Still, Elizabeth couldn’t claim superiority on every front. People in glass houses, as the saying went, shouldn’t throw stones.

“I’m not the only person in this room to have done that, if I recall. Tom forgave both of us-” 

Elizabeth raised her weapon so that it was now pointing directly between Scottie’s eyes. If she squeezed the trigger, that was it. At this range there was no way Katarina’s daughter would miss.

“Don’t you say his name!” There was so much anger and grief Scottie felt, for a moment, a twinge of shame. It was a novel experience to say the least. Still, she wasn’t such a hypocrite that she would apologize. If she’d had the choice, she knew she’d do it all over again.   

“You know.” When Elizabeth had first awoken from her coma, Scottie had feared discovery. She imagined Elizabeth might refuse to accept that her husband was gone. That she might have gone digging and uncovered the truth. Elizabeth hadn’t, probably because Harold Cooper had been a witness to “Tom’s” corpse. Reddington, she might have disbelieved, but not the assistant director of the FBI. That the truth should surface now, after so much time had passed was surprising. 

“I found Dr. Selma Orchard.” That explained it. The war with Raymond had pushed Elizabeth to dig more fiercely that she had before. Of course she’d reach out to Orchard. Scottie kicked herself for not having anticipated it. 

“I see.” She’d hidden the good doctor well, but Elizabeth was an FBI agent with all the resources that entailed. Scottie could easily image Orchard slightly relaxing her guard after years had passed. It wouldn’t have taken much.

“How?” Scottie had expected this question. What she’d achieved under the noses of the FBI AND Raymond Reddington was quite remarkable. If it hadn’t caused her so much pain, she might even be proud of herself.

“Tom called me before he got home. My people arrived just after Reddington. They followed you to the hospital. Tom flat-lined on the table, but they were able to resuscitate. Once he stabilized, I got him out. A few bribes. Doctored surveillance footage. The body Cooper saw was a German arms dealer surgically altered to look like Tom down to every last scar and faded tattoo.” She’d gotten the idea from the Independence, USA mission Tom himself had been a part of. Without that body there was no way Reddington would have believed Tom was really dead.

Elizabeth shook her head angrily, not in the mood apparently to be impressed. Scottie couldn’t exactly blame her.

“Not ‘how did you pull it off?’. I don’t CARE how you pulled it off. I meant ‘How could you do this?’ To me. To Agnes! You stole MY HUSBAND! You stole HER FATHER!” Now Scottie felt herself becoming angry. She “stole” him?! As if Scottie didn’t have as much, if not more of a claim on Tom. As if it were Scottie’s fault that Tom had nearly died. As if it was for Scottie that Tom had put himself in mortal jeopardy.

“I SAVED your husband. I SAVED Agnes’ father. I SAVED MY SON!” Scottie took a deep breath. She didn’t blame Elizabeth. Not really. Not for being angry. Not for Tom’s nearly fatal wounds. She hadn’t chosen to be born into the web of danger and deceit any more than Tom had. “This wasn’t some maniacal plan I hatched to cause you pain. Tom was in a coma. You were in a coma. I didn’t know when or if either of you would wake up. When I faked his death, I was only thinking of protecting him from the people who came after him and from Reddington.

It was only after I’d had him that I realized the truth. Tom would never be safe with you, even without knowing Reddington’s secret. There is nowhere the two of you could run that he wouldn’t find you. The same with Agnes. Reddington would NEVER let either of you go.” As a mother, she had had no choice. She wouldn’t let her boy die. Not again. Not when she could save him.

“And so you decided to take him away from both of us.” Scottie sighed. Elizabeth still didn’t understand. She hadn’t been the only one who’d lost him.

“Tom Keen would never leave his wife and child not for any reason. But Jacob Phelps was a survivor. He could be reasoned with.” With Orchard’s help she had rolled her son back to an earlier version. Someone who could be trusted to act in his own self interest, rather than that of his family.

“What did you tell him?”

“The truth. I told him he’d had a violent falling out with Bill McCready a few years ago. That he’d recently started working for me. That Raymond Reddington wanted him dead and very nearly got his wish. That he had the funds to start over anywhere in the world he chose.” The memories were there, carefully edited by Orchard’s skill, and any gaps easily explained by the trauma he’d suffered.

“You didn’t tell him you’re his mother?” Scottie swallowed, recalling having to make that decision. There had been a time, a too brief time, when she’d seen a look in her son’s eyes. Love for her, for his mother. Quite the contrast to the wary expression the last time she’d seen them.

“No. I couldn’t risk it. He may have wanted to stay in contact. So you see, I didn’t do anything to you I didn’t do to myself.” If Scottie had expected sympathy, she was destined for disappointment. The look Elizabeth gave her now was pure contempt.

“Yes, you did. You let me think he was dead. You let me think Tom was dead because of me.” Scottie swallowed the retort about how that had very nearly been the case. That wouldn’t help the situation.

“Agnes was kidnapped when she was a baby. You went months without knowing if she was alive or dead. You have had a taste of what it feels like to lose your child. I had already buried my son once. I could not endure it again.” There it was, as much of an apology as she was capable of making. A plea, mother to mother, for Elizabeth understanding, if not forgiveness. She studied the FBI agent’s face and thought she detected, just for a moment, a softening of expression. It was gone as quickly as it had appeared.

“Where is he?” Scottie shook her head.

“I don’t know.” Elizabeth raised the gun in silent threat. “You can shoot me, but it won’t change my answer. I didn’t want to live with the temptation.” Would Elizabeth shoot her? Scottie was still Tom’s mother. Agnes was still down the hall. Elizabeth’s thoughts seemed to follow a similar path as she glanced to the door. Her lips tightened as she stood. A decision had been made.

“I’m going to find him.” Scottie briefly closed her eyes. Why had her son married such a stubborn woman? 

“He’s not the same man you knew.” It was a desperate bid, but it was also the truth. Elizabeth had only ever known a man who loved her. Who’d wanted her enough to risk death to be with her. 

“And I’m not the same woman. It doesn’t matter. He still deserves the truth. He deserves to be able to make his own choices. Something neither you, nor Reddington can seem to grasp.” The comparison stung especially in light of recent events.

“Then I hope you can live with the consequences.” She gazed after Elizabeth, eyes following her through the door and lingering there long after. There was no point in laying back down. Sleep would not come for her again tonight. Instead her mind raced with all the things she had done, and all the things she had yet to do to save her son. 

“I hope we both can.” 

[atlasfreak]

hell is hot from your mistakes

chapter one; Tumblr Edition

The afterlife is a mess of time and space. Dream got the brunt end of that mess, of time, and bad luck follows Tommy even in death. Dream is mere seconds too late reviving him.

Tommy wakes up in a familiar, unfamiliar world in a familiar, unfamiliar body that looks so much like an old friend of his, and yet he remembers everything when really, he shouldn't. His brother's voice guides him, the Nether is blistering heat and dust and his hands are hoofed.

ArchiveOfOurOwn link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30073104 or THIS.

Dream has the book and he's at work.

He's surrounded by blood, and corpses. Bodies. His hands are stained red and so is the face of the boy beside him and the fur of the cat in front of him. He's drawn a circle out of the red and the cat lays, set to look sleeping, in the center.

He's missing his mask - it's broken, shattered. The sharp porcelain edges are red, too, cut on the soft skin of his dead cat to draw his ring of blood. Cut on his fingers, too, as he had aligned the shards to smile up at him.

Dream stands and opens the book. It's akin to an inventory; incorporeal pages that the warden can't take away. He reads quietly and he checks his preparations and he double checks it and he triple checks it and then he glances over the translucent pages and-

And yet, the cat's corpse is still.

He waits longer. Waits for the cat to blink open its eyes, jump back to its feet. Waits for it to meow and rub against his legs.

But it stays limp and cold and lifeless.

The same as it has been for the past six tries.

Dream slams his fists on the ground, snarls. "Work! Fucking work! WORK! Bring it back!"

He's furious.

He did everything the book said, everything the book asked. He followed every step down to the letter, every drop of ink. And it didn't fucking work.

He didn't kill his protagonist for nothing. He needs to get out. He needs to get out. He needs it to work. He'll do it, he'll figure it out, he'll get it to go. He'll get the cat to come back and he'll get Tommy to come back and he'll get out, even if he has to tear through the obsidian with his bare hands.

He feels wet on his cheeks, he hears it drip onto cold fur. He's furious. He's furious.

"WORK!" he screams, and it listens.

There's no poof of smoke or swirl of magic. No glowing bodies, no floating corpses, no showy tricks.

But there is soft, shaking paws. They bat at his face, at his tears. Tender, haunted eyes bore into his.

"Oh," he murmurs, wiping at his eyes. He stares at the saltwater on his fingers as it turns mixes with red and turns polite pink, then looks up at the living, breathing cat with its front legs on his and head tilted worriedly. "Oh."

The cat meows gently, butting his hand. It has been through so much for just a little cat, so much. It bumps against his fingers again.

Longing for his kindness, his warm attention. The quiet compliments and pets from before the light faded from its eyes.

The sweet Dream who gave it his food, who showered it in affection.

He swipes an arm through the air, flinging it across the room. It screams death's scream as its tiny body is thrown to the starving lava and Dream watches it squeal and screech and burn away.

That Dream is dead. He died a very, very long time ago. The cat is living in the past.

Well... lived.

But he did it. He brought it back, he cracked the code. After so many attempts, he did it. Tears. Regret, remorse, grief - whatever. Pain.

Dream turns his eyes to the mangled body of TommyInnit.

Broken and beaten and bruised and bloody, he's not touched it. Not even to brush blonde hair out of gray eyes (they were blue once. They aren't anymore). Too afraid he'd mess something up, that he wouldn't be able to fulfill his promise.

He feels a smile stretch across his face. He grins, and he grins like a madman.

"Tommmmmy," he crows. "Ready for another round?"

The corpse is silent. Of course it is. It's dead! But Dream can fix that, yes.

"Oh, I sound like Wilbur," Dream whispers. "Wilbur! Oh, I'll get him, next!" He claps his hands, his eyes light up like a storm - a dangerous one. A very dangerous one. "And Schlatt, too, bring them all back, why don't we? Bring them all back!"

He doesn't need to draw still blood, no need to cut Tommy's pale skin on the glazed shards of his mask; the crimson already stains his hands. He draws a new circle - a big one.

Dream slams his fist into the wall. He hears a sick crunch and gasps, fire shooting up his arm. He laughs, he laughs. Tears pools from his eyes and he lets them fall onto limp blonde hair and he feels victory surge through his veins and fucking hell, his hand hurts like the devil, but he knows Tommy's eyes will flutter open and he knows Tommy will scream loud enough to be heard all the way from here to the Arctic.

Nevermind that- he did it. He's done it. He can bring people back.

He's a god.

He's a god, he's a god. He can bring people back to life! Nobody else can do that. An admin is nothing compared to a god. He's- he's the most powerful person on the server.

He brought the cat back. He brought Tommy back!

He brought Tommy back, and yet Tommy doesn't open his eyes.

"Go on," Dream mutters, kicking at the boy. "Get up."

Tommy doesn't move, he doesn't respond, doesn't shout curses or scream or swear. Dream frowns.

He leans down, studies the body. He grabs a cold hand and he holds his fingers to the wrist, checking.

No pulse.

It didn't work.

Dream sits back. Why didn't it work? "Why didn't it work?" he echoes aloud. "Can I not- why didn't it go? Why didn't it work?"

He wishes he hadn't killed his only company. Dull green eyes stare at the lava, at the molten bubbles. At the swirling heat that had mercilessly swallowed up the cat - Pussboy, he reminds himself bitterly - and Dream sits down and he tries again.

And again.

And again.

And Tommy stays dead.

Is this the afterlife?

It can't be. Tommy was there - he saw it. The afterlife is blank. It's a void, it's all light. This place is dark.

It's empty, too. No warm brown eyes, no surprised yellow. Wilbur is not waiting with open arms and a gaping wound, and Schlatt is not staring at him with cold shock and pale skin.

This place is not death. Tommy's seen death.

What is it then? If it's not death, what is it?

He opens his eyes.

It's not dark, he notes first. It's red. Very red. His first thought is blood, but it's very much not blood. He turns around, trying to find a hint of color - any color, any color but red - and he nearly jumps out of his skin.

There's a piglin there - a baby piglin is glaring at him. It has downy fur and no tusks or sword or crossbow. It's a child, barely days old.

"Hello?" Tommy tries, but it comes out odd. He looks around and he looks down at himself and all at once, he realises a few small things about his appearance, and then he realises one big thing. The big thing.

He isn't human.

He has hooves on his hands and feet, his ears are on the top of his head. A tail lays behind him and his skin is covered in soft, orange-ish pink fluff. Just like the piglin next to him.

He doesn't scream. He wants to, but he doesn't. He simply shuts his eyes and covers his mouth.

Ok, Wilbur, I'll play fuckin'- I'll play cards with you, just get me out of here. Get me out of here.

He could almost swear he hears his brother laughing at him.

Tommy opens his eyes- he's still here, in hell, with a piglin.

It squeaks at him. Tommy shuts his eyes again, so it squeaks again.

When Tommy doesn't respond, it hits him.

"Stop! Stop! Stop!" Tommy screeches- every blow feels like he's reliving his own death. His voice comes out a garbled piglin mess - is his throat not equipped for English? "Stoppit!

He feels the ground vanish from under his feet and he feels a brief panic surge through him - what a way to go, huh? Well, what a run. A short run, but a run regardless. Time, Tommy thinks, to go back to the white place, the Zone, because a baby piglin beat him to death. That's a couple steps down from Dream beating him to death, probably, and a couple steps up from dying to a baby zombie, Phil.

(When Phil dies, will he come to the Zone, with us?)

But Tommy's not even there himself, he realises, because he still feels the warm of the Nether on his face.

When he opens his eyes, Wilbur is not there, waiting. The piglin child is. He still sees red and he still sees the piglin child. He still is a piglin child. He's alive. He's not going back to the white.

Suddenly, Tommy can breathe again.

He finally looks up. He's dangling by the scruff, and there's a big piglin holding him with hooves like his. An adult piglin with blank white eyes. He can't tell if they're full of affection or scorn, but he doesn't want to find out.

And that must be mother! Tommy hears a voice mock.

"Shut up, Wil," he grumbles. The baby piglin crosses its arms as Tommy is lifted out of reach.

The adult piglin growls at him, sniffs at his head. Like she's making sure he's not dead. It kicks at the violent little baby, a warning, then places Tommy down again.

Tommy would flip the other child off, but he only has three fingers.

Don't be so mean, Tommy! Wilbur chastises, his voice echoing through Tommy's mind like Chat did. That's your brother!

"It's not my brother," Tommy spits.

He, Wilbur corrects.

Tommy growls. The big piglin growls back.

Tommy shuts his mouth.

"Wil, the hell is going on?" he decides to ask instead. The other two tilt their heads in confusion as he mutters what must be gibberish to them - and it sounds like gibberish to himself, really. But Wilbur seems to understand.

I mean, hell if I know, Wilbur's voice seems to move around, standing by his left now. Tommy glances over, but there's nobody there. Just his - he gags - brother, the piglin. Looks like you got reincarnated.

"Reincarnated? That's when you throw food back up, innit?"

That's regurgitated, Tommy. It's when you die and then are born again.

The big piglin stands up and oinks at them. Tommy know, deep down in his little piglin brain, that she wants him and the other to follow. She leads them through the underbrush as Tommy continues muttering to his real brother, the one who has taken the place of his old chorus.

"I'm a piglin," Tommy huffs as he stumbles through the roots. He takes pride in knowing he's not the only idiot, as the other baby pig trips and falls, too - neither of them are used to walking. Especially not on hooves.

You are a piglin, Wilbur's voice confirms. Tommy sighs.

"Like Technoblade," he says. "I'm a piglin, like Technoblade."

Wilbur pauses to think. Yes, that sounds about right.

"Did Techno die too? Was he a human once?"

I'm not omnipotent, Tommy. I don't know Technoblade's life story.

"Oh."

I don't think he's the same as you, though. Technoblade is really tall, and he has a mane. You don't have a mane. Nor does your mother.

"Think he's one of those axe pigs? In the bastions?"

A brute? Yes. He's a brute, I think.

"Damn right 'e is," Tommy growls. "Nasty fuck. Prick."

No, no, Tommy. A bastion piglin is called a piglin brute. Technoblade is literally a brute.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever." Tommy stares at the ceiling, blankly. Part of him worries a stalactite will come barreling down to crush him. "Life as a piglin is boring. I would like to come back to the DreamSMP."

Wilbur laughs. Tommy snorts, too- what a joke. Wanting to go back. But it's true. He misses it. He missed it in exile and he missed it while imprisoned. He misses it now.

No, no, this is interesting, Wilbur says. I'm stuck here with you, anyway. Even if I wan't to, I can't take you back. I don't want to though, I'm having fun.

"It's boring, is what it is!" Tommy drawls. "You're only having fun cos you get to watch, Disembodied-Voicebur!"

Big Piglin guides them to a nook- a small Netherrack cave yawning out from under a sheer cliff. She sniffs at their heads again as they follow her into the cavern, making sure they didn't up and zombify on the journey. When she's sure they're still alive, she grunts at them. Sleep time. You're young, so you need to sleep.

She lays almost like an Overworld pig, Tommy notes.

You'll probably never see Overworld mobs ever again.

It's not Wilbur's voice, it's his own. A quiet thought, a thought he made, and it shakes Tommy to his core.

Wilbur sighs, his voice practically drips with apprehension. Don't- don't lose hope, Tommy. Technoblade, remember? He got to the Overworld. You... you can do it too.

Tommy's piglin brother lays down, too. More humanlike than their mother, but still not quite human enough to comfort Tommy.

But regardless, he copies.

Goodnight, Tommy.

"Goodnight, Wilbur. It's.. good to have you back. I think."

Wilbur doesn't respond.

Tommy shuts his eyes. Sleep doesn't come easy as it should for a baby piglin, but he's not surprised - he's not really a baby piglin. He's TommyInnit in the form of a baby piglin.

He's an imposter - at least, he definitely feels like one.

When his eyelids finally grow too heavy and the sironsong of sleep finally lures him off the side of the ship, he dreams. He dreams of dark cells and a smiling mask.

And in that dark cell, Dream glares at it - the mask. He avoids the empty eyes of the body in the corner. He knows they're still empty, despite his efforts. His best efforts. He's so drained. So tired.

He hears potatoes splash into the water in the corner, turns to watch them bob. Sam has remembered that he is in there.

Dream drags himself to the water, tilts his head to glare up into the darkness. "Why not fucking kill me?!" he screams up the tunnel. "Why not just kill me, Sam? I killed him."

Sam does not respond.

"You can't, can you? You want my help. My book."

Sam does not respond.

Dream snarls and throws the spuds at the lava, they burn like his cat did. He hears a sigh echo from above him, but no more food falls.

"Don't starve yourself," Sam growls. "I'll bring more tomorrow."

Dream does not respond.

He turns to Tommy's body and despite it all, he keeps trying. He keeps trying. Tommy does not respond.

[stories-for-sell]

All Your Fault

Vylad stood in the center of the growing village and home of the Pheonix Alliance, staring down at the paved stone path under his worn and tattered boots. He should really try and get some new ones one day, he thought to himself, nudging a stray rock as a female voice cut through a silence so loud and suffocating that he felt like he was being crushed.

"What did you just say?" Aphmau questioned, her voice revealing how shocked she was over what Vylad had muttered, apparently not realizing she wasn't suppose to hear it.

"That's not your business, Aphmau."

"Yes, it is actually, Vylad. Tell me what you said!"

His left eye twitched a bit, hands balling into fists, knuckles turning white as Vylad raised his head, green orbs meeting golden ones, practically glowing with unspoken hatred and anger.

"I said." The Shadow Knight hissed out, not bothering to hide any of the venom in his voice, "That. All. Of. This. Is. Because. Of. You."

Aphmau drew herself up as much as she could, which didn't do much since she was only a few inches taller than the man permanently trapped in the physical appearance of a 15 year old boy, narrowing her eyes and speaking loudly. Asserting her dominance, Vylad realized, watching as Laurance, Garroth, and the rest of the island's inhabitants gathered to see what is going on.

"You, Vylad, do not have any right to talk to me like that. Unless you've forgotten, I'm the Lor-"

"YOU AREN'T MY LORD!" Vylad suddenly screamed, cutting her off as his eyes flashed red. He stepped towards her, the anger, pain, hatred.. all of it seeping off of him in waves as everyine couldn't help but cower away from the angry immortal.

"I do not serve anyone. Especially not you. Ever since you've come into existance, everything you've ever done has brought nothing but pain. Because of you, Zenix snapped and has killed MILLIONS of my kind!"

"Vylad..," Laurance began, taking a step forwards and reaching a hand out to touch his boyfriend's shoulder, only to be practically thrown backwards as Vylad shoved him off.

"DON'T TOUCH ME! Don't even speak! You should be mad at her too! She's the reason you went to the Nether in the first place. If she had just minded her own god damn business, then you would have never gone to the Nether and gotten trapped!" He screamed, face slowly turning a bright red from his anger. His eyes were pure red, and literal steam was wafting off his body, the air around him growing dangerously and uncomfortably hot.

Aphmau stared at him, her usual calm exterior turning to one of anger. "How dare you blame what happened to Laurance on me? Laurance told me YOU were the one who broke the portal and got him trapped! I-I can't even... Why would you ever think everything is my fault!?" She screamed right back, letting out a startled and pained yelp, her cheek flaring up in pain, heat shooting through the left side of her face. The skin of her cheek began to blister and turn red, in the shape of a hand mark.

Vylad's hand hovered in the air for a second, eyes narrowed at the Lord, waiting.. daring her to try and speak again. She didn't, and so he rewarded her with what had been on his mind for over 15 years.

"Because.. it is all your fault. If you never cane to Phoenix Drop, Zenix would still be there, still be somewhat sane. Zane would've never found the village, or Garroth, if you hadn't gotten that bitch Donna and her werewolf lover together. I wouldn't have had to shut the Nether portal to keep the Shadow Knoghts from going to the overworld, and Laurance wouldn't have gotten trapped. I wouldn't have had to spend over two-hundred-fourteen years trapped in a cell for closing the portal, not a single clue of what's happening in this realm. Then, I manage to finally fucking get free and lo-and-behold, you're the first person I fucking run into. And you know what? I was willibg to honestly put aside my disdain for you and try to be nice. And so I ask you what happened to garroth and Zane. YOU DON'T FUCKING TELL SOMEONE THAT THEY'RE BOTH DEAD, NO MATTER IF THEY'RE THEIR HALF-BROTHER OR NOT!"

"Baby brother, Aphmau didn't know.." Garroth told him, voice soothing as he trued to calm the enraged beast that practically towered above them, not showing that he was furious with Vylad for slapping Aphmau.

Vylad looked at him, fuming and steaming, and for a second it seemed like he might actually calm down, before he ran his finger over the engagement ring on his hand, and returned to fueling the flames with even more vigor.

"NO. BECAUSE OF THIS LAZY EXCUSE OF A LORD, OUR BROTHER IS DEAD GARROTH! OUR CHILDHOOD BEST FRIEND IS DEAD! JEOFFREY IS DEAD BECAUSE OF HER! UNGRTH, BRIAN, VISHER! SO MANY PEOPLE HAVE DIED BECAUSE OF HER CARELESS ACTIONS! SHE IS THE REASON MY OLDER BROTHER IS DEAD, THE REASON MY BEST FUCKING FRIEND SINCE I COULD WALK, IS DEAD! AND DON'T YOU DARE TRY AND SAVE THIS BY SAYING THAT SHE'S DONE SO MANY GOOD THING BECAUSE, YOU KNOW WHAT!?"

He stared at all of them, waiting for someone to pipe up, eyes scanning the crowd, watching everyone who he laid his gaze on flinch away, even Lucinda. Finally, a soft voice, belonging to a young blue haired giard in training was heard, asking the question they all know Vylad wanted to hear.

"Why?"

"Because.. every good fucking thing she has ever achieved, has been because I made sure of it. I've stayed in the background pulling strings for years to help her succeed and all I've gotten in return is nothing but pain, abandonment, and death of loved ones. I was the one who resurrected her, led her to Phoenix Drop, guided her in the right direction, gave her Levin. Small things that, if I hadn't done.. She would've never been where she is right now. So you can alls ay that Aphmau is this great, amazing Lord who has brought nothing but good, but I know the truth. Cause everytime something good happens for all of you.. something horrible happens to me."

"Why are you upset over Zane?! He killed you!" Laurance screamed at him, his own eyes flashing red.

Red meets red, before turning back to green as Vylad's voice becane dangerously calm, like the quiet peace before disaster. "No matter what my feeling towards Zane are, they don't erase the simple fact that my brother.. TWO of my brothers, are dead because of her. Laurance, don't you see everything that she's done? She's no hero.. no matron."

Vylad stared at Laurance, desperate to have someone at least seem like they're on his side. But his heart shattered as he watched red fade to blue, before Laurance turned his gaze away, a silent answer.

"Fine." He swallowes, throat closing up as the anger dissipitates, replaced by a familair aching loneliness. "Fine! I see that it appears I'm no longer wanted here. But keep this in mind, 'Lord' Aphmau.. making an enemy of a Ro'Meave is a very dangerous idea."

With that, he turned on his heel, storming off, leaving behind burtn footprints where he had just stood. Everyone watched Vykad storm away, disappearing into the forests, before turning to Aphmau and making sure she was ok.

"Give him some time.. he'll come around and realize he was in the wrong." Garroth assured his two friends, helping soothe Aphmau's burnt cheek.

But unkown to them, Vylad was unassembling his makeshift camp, gathering his items, and preparing to depart through the portal to Phoenix Drop, with the plan of returning to an old friend instead. His dark green eyes landed on his engagement ring that he wore on his middle finger, gently easing it off after years of never removing it. Looking at the small gold band, with a name carved into the inner rim, he felt hot, burning tears slide down his cheeks, blistering the skin that they touched. Anger flared in his chest, a new determination being born. He carefully replaced the ring, but instead of on his muddle finger, he put it where it belonged. Where it should've never been removed. Where he should've never left.

"I'm coming home... Zenix."

[fortune-fool02]

Took a lot of time and research and finally I was able to sketch out my OC's bio 😭👍🏼. Hope you like it @fortune-fool02

RE8 OC Goptri Biography

Early Life

Goptri was born to a middle class family in India. Growing up, she was a quiet kid and didn't speak much to anyone, but she was way more intelligent than her fellow peers. At the age of 5, her parents migrated to USA because her father had gotten a better job opportunity. She was very good in Academics and her creativity knew no bounds. She was also skilled at archery and took the sport as a hobby.

Everything was going well, until one day her mother succumbed to pneumonia and her father suddenly disappeared. She was 11 years old when both her parents left her alone and she was approached by Oswell E Spencer.

Adoption by Oswell E Spencer

Oswell E Spencer adopted 11 years old Goptri when she was orphaned and had no where to go. She had no idea who this man was or what he was here for. One second she was sitting outside her house entrance and the next second, a black limo parked itself in front of her house. She was too deep in grieving the death of her mother, that she didn't notice a man clad in fine suit approach her. He called out her name and she broke out of her trance. She looked up to find Oswell looking back at her with a warm smile on his face.

"Who are you?" Goptri asked, to which the man replied "I'm Lord Ozwell E Spencer, President and CEO of Umbrella Cooperation. I offer my condolences for what happened to your mother." With an annoyed look she asked "What do you want?". He explained to her that he's willing to help her get her life back in line. He promised her she'll be sent to the best institutes for her further education in exchange for her to agree to become his adoptive daughter.

She was sceptical about this at first but ultimately had to agree because as a young child she had nowhere else to go and not taking this one-time offer would be stupid on her part. With that, in the year 2001, Goptri Valli was officially adopted by Oswell E Spencer and renamed Goptri E Spencer.

Life in the Oswell Mansion

Goptri arrived at the Oswell's mansion in the Arklay Mountains where her new life began. Just as promised, Spencer sent her to the best institute he could find for her to continue her studies. She was good, very good. Always got straight A's which was a telltale sign that she had an higher IQ than the average person. For some unknown reasons, by the time she reached age 13 Oswell requested her to learn how to fight and hired professionals to teach her hand to hand combat. This somehow was the start where she started to doubt Oswell's intention of adopting her, but she dismissed the thought as soon as she thinked about it.

Little did she knew, that her gut intention was right. Oswell was a cold calculative elitist and him going out of his way to adopt some random kid was too hard to pass a judgement. She was nothing but another lab rat for him to test his viruses on. He always kept her away from the part of the mansion where he had a lab running. Due to this, Goptri never had any idea what was really going on under the beautiful architecture of the mansion. She was oblivious to the truth.

Capturing and Experimentations

Goptri thought her life was sorted out and she genuinely saw Oswell as her new father. Afterall, he took care of her when nobody else was there for her. Her life came crashing down real bad on her 15th birthday. On 24th of July in 2005, Oswell held a surprise party for her. Unbeknownst to her, it was a trap. He laced her dinner with a sedative and when she ate it, she blacked out.

She woke up few hours later with her body strapped down on a surgery table. Both her hands and legs restrained. She started to panic and tried to call out for her father but couldn't because her mouth was taped. When she tried to calm down, she realised she was in very different room than she had seen in the mansion. It looked like a operating room and it reaked of medical stench. This was the second time she was terrified so much, last time was when she was orphaned and left all alone. "No, no, no, no, NO!!! This is bad, where's papa!?" Is all she thought before a figure approached from the dark corner of the room. This is where she finally found out why being asked to be his daughter was always off setting. Oswell stared her in the eyes with no expressions whatsoever. He removed the tape from her mouth so she could speak, very well knowing that she's about to demand an answer. "Papa, please help me. What's going on?" She asked in a shaky voice but all she got was another dead stare from him. She started crying and wasn't able to figure out what is going to happen to her. Two people in lab coats approach Oswell and he orders them to proceed. Too distraught to even focus on the danger that was approaching her when one of the researcher grabbed her arm harshly pulling her out of her trance. "No.... NO!!!! STOP! WHAT ARE YOU DOING!? Papa, PAPA PLEASE HELP ME. PLEASE". "Goptri..... You're going to make a fine specimen." Is all he said with a sick smile on his face before he left her down there with her cries of help drowning in the darkness of the underground lab.

Discovery of mutation

Oswell experimented on Goptri a total of three times. Third experiment being the last one before he died and she managed to escape the container she was frozen in.

The first virus he tested on her was the Progenitor Virus, or better known as the Mother Virus. This virus gave Goptri her first mutated power, that was Regeneration of any lost tissues, cells, and even limbs. The virus was injected into her body through an injection which was so painful, she collapsed out of pain. Oswell would visit her sometimes just to see how the experiment is progressing. Not satisfied enough, he would order the researchers to increase the dosage of the virus and keep on testing her regenerative abilities to the point where she was time and again put up against the other BOW's held captive in the mansion to fight like some wild animals. It always resulted in her loosing her limbs in the most brutal way possible, only to be forced to regenerate the lost limb back. This heavily damaged her psychological health and also in a way made her stronger as her Regeneration got more and more better.

The second time Oswell ordered to experiment on her to "enhance" her further, he bought few samples of the snake "Yawn", an adder (he experimented on years ago and now is a 40ft tall BOW) and asked the researchers to infuse Goptri's cells with the BOW snake's cells and see how it would work out. Goptri, now 16 years old, had become so numb, she barely felt anything. Her bright smile and laughter long forgotten and replaced with a dead expression which was hard to read. Once again she was strapped to the surgery table and a huge injection as big as an arm was injected into her spine and this time, she didn't even flinch from the pain, just staring at the lights that hung above her with dead expression. This experiment granted her the ability to mutate into a giant scaley creature with accelerated regeneration and inhuman strength and speed. This new discovery caused Oswell a sick sense of excitement that finally an experiment wasn't failing like the others. This pissed her off, making her go berserk and killing half the staff in the lab before collapsing after using her new powers for the first time and reverting back to her normal self. She was quite healthy looking for a lab rat mainly because of how Oswell made sure she stayed healthy when she was still his adopted daughter. After few months, the researchers discovered a new development in her powers, where she had developed the ability to release venomous substance from blisters forming on her face when she's in her mutated form. Goptri, by far, was the only subject who had managed to show so much progress without even damaging her original body and didn't turn into some deformed human like the other subjects. The reason was unknown and Oswell wanted to find out what makes her her.

Goptri endured his tormenting experiments until he was finally killed by a BOW called Albert Wesker. But not before he infected her with an unknown virus as his last experiment and freezing her in cryogenic pod. That unknown virus is later revealed to be an another version of the T-Virus (aka Tyrant Virus). This last virus is what gave Goptri her final set of powers. This virus enhanced her already existing mutations, making her one of the most dangerous BOW ever created. The virus sped up her metabolism, heightening her existing strength, speed and regenerative abilities. This in turn also made her mutated form way more bigger and tougher than it was earlier. It also effected her oscular tissue, allowing her to view and process visual information at a speed allegedly equatable to raptors. Now her mutated form has increased to 70ft, has bulletproof scales and a layer of thick skin underneath the scales as extra armour. Blisters on her face can now release venomous substance way more dangerous than it was before and can burn into a person's skin and flesh.

Oswell knew very well about how much less time he has to live and how dangerous she'll become if she were to be released. So he managed to build a specialised Cryogenic Pod for her to be frozen in and sealed and moved it to the Spencer estate located somewhere in Europe. Only to be released once the time comes. He won't be there, but his associates will take care of it until then.

Spencer Estate raid and death of Oswell E Spencer

In 2006, there was a raid organized by the BSAA on Spencer Estate. Meanwhile the BOW Albert Wesker found out about Oswell hiding in the estate and came in before BSAA. While the BSAA were raiding the entire estate, some of its soldiers made there way to the underground lab in the estate, only to be faced by loose BOW subjects. In the following gun firing fight, one of the BSAA soldier threw a grenade towards the BOW near Goptri's pod and the impacting blast successfully broke her free out of the container. The whole room was covered in ice and freezing due to the cryogenic pod being literally blasted to pieces. What the soldiers didn't realise was what they had freed was far worse than the current monsters they were fighting. Goptri woke up from her slumber and went berserk. Killing all the BSAA soldiers in a blink of an eye and also taking out the other monsters (this time not even bothering to mutate into her other form, that's how strong she'd become).

When she was done with the soldiers, she headed towards Oswell with nothing but pure rage and thirst for Oswell's blood on her mind. She reached his quarters only to discover him already dead. She was both pissed and happy at the same time. Pissed because someone took out Oswell before she could and happy on the fact she doesn't have to endure anymore of Oswell's experiments. With nothing to fear for and loose, she set with a new objective on her mind, "Find the cure" to turn herself back to normal. And anyone who stands in her way will be dealt with in a brutal way.

Life thereupon

After the raid was done, Goptri tracked down the BSAA's Europe headquarters. She knew they had taken all the information, documents and files containing every detail on Oswell and his research and experiments. She knew if they were to analyse it all, they'll find out about her existence and will probably come after her next. "No! I can't let that happen. They'll use me for their own selfish gains just like he did." Her inner voice warned. With that, after a few days, she planned to infiltrate the headquarters and take away all the information about her. She was successful in reaching the maximum-security archives. She took a little time to skim through the files and documents and finally she found it. Unluckily, she got spotted by one of the security soldier and the siren went off. "Well, it's now or never." Was the last thing she said before she used her powers once again to escape but not before leaving mutilated dead bodies of BSAA soldiers in her wake.

She took on herself to create a vaccine to cure her mutations once and for all and become normal again. She thereupon spent years in hiding, trying to find a cure. But it always ended in a failed attempt. It wasn't until 2015, she discovered a new information that could possibly help her in her quest. Among all the other files, there was a single file with just one name written on it, a name Goptri never heard of from Oswell. "Miranda", she checked the file and was baffled by the discovery she'd made. This "Miranda" woman was the sole reason why Umbrella Cooperation existed. Oswell learnt everything about mutations and the viruses from this very woman and weaponized this knowledge to terrorise the world in a sick plan for becoming god. "If she taught, sure enough she'll have the cure." And with that, she set out to find Miranda and "The Village" where she resided. A big surprise waiting for Goptri in the village.

😮 ooh. Finally finished it. I hope you guys liked this. I thank you for actually reading the whole thing because I know it's very long but I gave my all to create it. So much love and appreciation to you all for your time and attention ❤️🥰

[korkisobsessions]

The Oath

XX. Fire

Nilah tried to wipe away salt from her eyes. But her face was still hot and wet and throat tight.

She heard voices of the villagers. Cheerful laughter and kids screaming and singing.

There was huge bonfire in the middle of the clearing. People sitting around on the logs, talking and eating food from big table that stood aside.

“Nilah! You came!” Miho and his pack run to her with colourful faces. They had flower wreaths they made with her that day, and their eyes sparkle in the light of the flames.

“you must eat this!” “And drink this!” they were shouting one over another “my mum baked this!” she was suddenly overwhelmed by their joy; she almost forgot her pain. “Where is Yeong shin? Will he come?”

Her smile froze on her lips. She really doesn’t know what to say.

“I... think...” She stuttered.

“Kids! Leave her alone for a one night. She deserves grown company for a while.” It was that older lady who met them, when they came to village for the first time. Whose son Yeong shin saved when plague broke. Plague he helped spread. She bites her tongue and blink away tears.

“How are you Nilah?” woman touch her forearm with concern.

“I’m good, thank you madam Bon-Hwa.” She bows her head. She had respect for older woman that helped them even though they were strangers.

“You cried, am I right?” older woman gave her cup with rice wine and wink “this will help.”

“Thank you. It’s, just...” what kind of words she should used? Nothing? How could it be!

“Leave it my dear. I don’t want to questioning you. Tonight, we should celebrate, sing and laugh. Let me paint your face.”

Bon-Hwa leads her to nearest log and kids brings colours. Some of them was like powder and some was thick. When older woman wet her fingertips in red colours and touch her face, Nilah felt chill running down her spine. She felt cold sweat on her palms and faster heartbeat.

“Why are you doing this?” she swallows hardly and try to calm down. She remembers painting faces from her homeland and every time she had colours on her skin, someone died. People in her land painted their faces when they were leaving to battle, to scared the enemies or when they sacrifice someone, to be closer to gods.

Nilah always hated it.

“It’s just for luck.” Bon-Hwa smiled calmly. “I draw symbols of luck on your temple. This is wisdom...and courage...” she wet her index finger in white colour and marked her forehead. “and protection.”

It feels like the chill turned into warmth. Her lips spread in a smile.

“You are very good girl Nilah.”

Something motherly sparkle in older woman’s eyes and she hug Nilah. “and now, drink!”

And Nilah drinks. And eat, but everything had sour aftertaste. It would be perfect night if there wasn’t terrible truth she knows. And the hardest part was that she missed Yeong shin. She wanted to be with him.

She finished her cup when people start to smile and turning to her. Like they were expecting something.

She was confused, but Bon-hwa patted her shoulder. “it’s your turn.”

“In what?”

“To perform something. Sing, dance, tell a story.”

Maybe it was because of wine or because it was the first time when her neighbours were smiling at her. It wasn’t usual. Or maybe it was that symbol for courage that Bon-hwa draw on her face.

She stood up and took a deep breath. There were a couple of men with string instruments and one of them looked almost like lyre she used to play. Musician gladly burrow it to her.

Nilah stood close to the fire and all eyes were on her.

“I must confess, I don’t know much songs from this land in your language. I will sing a song from the place I was born. It’s about sea and... endless love.”

From her spot it looks like the faces of villagers glow. Flames shine and she starts playing and singing.

Between the here, between the now

Between the North, between the South

Between the West, between the East

Between the time, between the place

 From the shell

The song of the sea

Neither quite nor calm

Searching for love again

 Mo ghrá

In the crowd she saw Yeongshin, watching her with sad face. He was standing behind, far from others, but he was there, hidden in shadows. She swallowed hard lump when she realised that no matter what he did...it was her Yeong shin. Man, who always protects others first. Man, who run to his last breath to save others.

What he did was wrong. But she knows him. He was just trying to save everyone, and it doesn’t matter if it cost him his soul.

Nilah finished her song and made her way through the crowd to him. He was standing there with head hung low like beat dog.

“Yeong shin...” she touches his face and can’t find right words. But then it slips through her lips so naturally that she can’t stop it. “...mo ghrá”

He raised his eyes to her with surprise. He probably wasn’t expecting kind words even though he can’t understand what that means. Her gentle face, glowing eyes and warm smile gave him feeling that it’s a good thing.

“My love.” she whispered again and this time he understands. Her lips found his with need. His arms sneaked around her waist and held her tight.

“I’m sorry Nilah, I should...” he whispered with urge. “Please stay. I always thought that I have only purpose. To be hunter and killer. But you give me hope that I can have more. You make me feel things I didn’t think were possible for me.” All around them was just like blur that doesn’t matter. All he cares about was his woman in his arms.

His warm embrace, sparkling eyes and hot lips were all she was focused. Until someone scream.

“Fire!” it was like hard blown into chest. “There is fire! Bring water! Quickly!”

Sky was suddenly illuminated by high flames. One of the houses was on fire and house right next to it starts to smoke.

Smoke and scream were everywhere. People were running around with buckets of water, shouting at each other looking for their families and friends.

“it’s Jae-Bong’s house!” Yeongshin was pulling her closer to house that were slowly eating by flames. Doors were wide open and two men were dragging Jae-Bong outside. Village leader was coughing and crying in pain. Nilah and Yeong shin run to them and help them lay big man to grass. Nilah’s stomach drops when she saw his leg. His ankle was in weird shape and skin was burned with nasty blisters.

“One of the burning beams fell right on him!”

Nilah kneeled to Jae-Bong, holding his hand and tried to calm him, but he was still out of his mind, crying and trying to get back to the house.

Then everything happens in blink of an eye.

She understands what was Jae-Bong whining. Her head spun and cold run down her spine when she heard it.

It was cry.

But not Jae-Bong’s.

It was Miho inside the burning house.

And Yeong shin heard him sooner. She didn’t have time to grab his hand.

“YEONG SHIN!”  all she could do was just scream, when her beloved man run and disappear in the smoke and flames. Her heart stops beating in fear.

She leaves crying Jae Bong and grabs nearest bucket and starts to carrying water. She can’t even get close enough to toss water in the flames because of the high heat.

She desperately cries when she can’t see any movement in the house. Just cruel dance of flames and swirling of smoke.

“My son! Miho!” Jae Bong’s cry was filling her ears and hard lump was forming in her throat. It can’t be like this. Yeongshin will survive this. He can’t leave her here. But he was nowhere to be seen and house was completely in flames.

“Yeong shin! Please! “she cried desperately and trying to see through the flames.

And suddenly, out of the fire jumped silhouette with little boy tangled in blanket. He was holding him tightly pressed to his chest and struggling to make another step.

Nilah run to him when someone took crying Miho from his arms. She panicked when Yeongshin collapsed into her arms with tired sign. She never saw him so devastated.

“I got you. Its all right!” his skin was so hot it was almost painful to touch him. Few spots on his shirt were smoking and burning. She quickly jerked it from his body to not to burn through and hurt his skin. His chest and backs were dirty of ash with angrily red spots where flames bite his flesh.

They both collapsed on their knees. Yeong shin pressed his face to her chest when she was trying to find someone with water. In the meantime, she wrapped his beat torso into her plaid.

“Miho?” he croaks with raspy voice.

“He is safe. He is with Jae Bong. You saved him.” Nilah saw little boy in arms of his father, crying loudly. He was probably little burned and scared, but alive. Only thanks to Yeong shin.

“Nilah...” his voice was weak and painful. His shaking palms squeeze her upper arms with urge. “...my eyes...I can’t see.”

Shock hit her body like a wave. She carefully touches his face and lift his chin. His face was lightly red but his eyes were glossy and swollen.

“Oh gods, no!” she was scared to touch him, not to hurt him. He was suddenly so vulnerable. “Let’s get you home.”

There was no one to help her. Everyone was trying to stops the fire and it was obvious that villagers were wining against the flames.

“Hold on.” She knew that it will be hard, but she needs to get him home. She helped him stood up and than turned her back on him and with clenched teeth lifted him on her back.

“No... Nilah, I can walk on my own.” He tried to protest, but his voice was terribly weak.

Her muscles were burning and shaking, but each step bring them closer to home.

“It will be good. You will rest and everything will be fine.” She tried to calm him. To calm herself, but her eyes were watering even though she was trying to be strong.

Yeong shin can’t be blind. That word makes her sick. His sharp eyes were his greatest power. No matter what happened, good or bad; she always remembered his look, how his eyes focused on target when he was trying to shoot Cho Hak Joo.

She remembered his eyes when he found her in Hanyang, tired and broken, how carefully he was examined her and how surprised his eyes were, when met hers.

She cannot lose his tender look he was watching her every morning. Eyes that were watching over her.

His head was resting on her shoulder when she made her way over the hill. It was low hill, but she felt rivulets of sweat running down her face. Yeong shin was heavy and when he lost consciousness his body became heavier.

“I will take care of you, just stay with me, please!”

His only response was slight movement of his thumb that caressed exposed skin on her arm. His breaths were shallow but it was sign that he is still with her.

Their house was absolute opposite of the village. It was quiet, dark and calm, and it was absolute opposite of Nilah’s feelings. She was desperate, scared and exhausted.

Yeong shin wasn’t huge man. He was just a little taler than Nilah, but still, after almost mile of dragging his barely consciousness body, she was on the edge of her powers.

Her sweat was mixed with tears when she put him down on their sleeping mattress. Just painful moan leaves his lips.

“We are home.” She tried to calm him and touch his forehead. His skin was burning with fewer.

All she could do was cool down his body. Quickly she brings bucket of fresh water and soaked towels and put them on his forehead and ankles. She wet clean cloth and carefully touch his dried lips to get at least some water into his body.

“Yeong shin. Please wake up.” Nilah cried holding his hand in her palms. His arm was so heavy and lifeless it scared her to the bone. She kissed his knuckles and lean her forehead on back of his hand. “I can’t be without you. You are my everything.”

And after long time she prayed. She prayed to her old gods and made a promise. She was willing to sacrifice everything just to save him.

Again, and again, she was changing cold towels and wet his lips until sun woke up and lit up the room with soft light.

Nilah’s look didn’t leave his face, until she falls asleep curled to his side.

It was short restless sleep full of nightmares. She woke up with fresh tears in her eyes and heavy heart.

“Nilah?” his voice was weak, tired and hoarse.

“Gods! Yeong shin. I’m here, you are safe.” She sobs and held his raised palm. “ How do you feel? Are you hot, or cold?”

“Sick.” He whispered and touch his face with his free hand. “My head...ache.”

“I know. You were in great heat.” She put fresh cloth on his forehead. Sigh of relief leaves his lips.

“Yes, I remember.” His fingertips examined skin around his eyes. They were still swollen and red. “I guess it’s not deep night.”

Fresh tears leave Nilah’s eyes and she bite her lip not to sob out loud. His eyes...

“You still can’t see? Anything?”

Yeong shin raised his hand at touch her cheek.

“I’m holding your face, I feel it. Your warm skin. I feel your tears on my fingertips. But all I can see is darkness.” His voice was rough probably from the smoke he inhaled inside the burning house.

“Are you in pain?” her voice broke and she lower her face with cry.

“Nilah...” he was gentle when his hands found her and pulled her to his chest. “I’m not. Just...maybe little. But I will live.”

She cried to his chest, heartbroken. Her brave chakho.

Quiet knock on the door interrupted their painful moment. Nilah cautiously open the door to find Bon-Hwa with her son. They both looked tired and sad. Dark circles under glossy eyes. They probably weren’t sleeping whole night.

“Good morning Nilah.” They both tried to smile but it was weak. “we brought soup and some treatments.”

Nilah heard their voices like from distance. She leans on the wall and closed her eyes, just for a moment. Her face was tingling and she can feel her fingers cold and legs light. Her body was too exhausted to stay awake.

“Catch her!”  she heard Bon-Hwa’s voice when dark surrounded her for a short moment. Her legs betrayed her and she was falling until young boy caught her under her arm. He helped her to sit on the porch and Bon-Hwa pressed flask with alcohol to her lips.

“Come on child. We must be strong for others.”

Strong spirit almost burned her throat but it helps. She coughs and felt heat flew through her body.

“How is Yeong shin?” Bon-Hwa sat next to her with worried face. Her son was unpacking bowls with food.

“I don’t know...” her voice was weak and tears sting in her eyes.

“Jae Bong and Miho are safe. Their house is burned to the ground, but they are safe. Thanks to Yeong shin.”

“His eyes...” Nilah sobbed and Bon-Hwa quickly hugged her. “He is blind.”

Older woman bites her lip and her eyes saddened. “Eyes are mysterious thing. Give it time. There is tea for pain and some aloe ointment for burns. Lot of people were hurt. We were visiting houses and bring food and medicines. That’s all I can do.”

“Where will Jae-Bong live?” she wiped her tears away and swallow hard lump in her throat.

One fire. How quickly it spread and how much pain and misery it makes.

“They will stay with us. Jae-Bong is my cousin. I must take care of my family. Yeong shin saved Miho’s life. If there is anything, I can do...”

“You are very kind. Thank you for food and medicine.”

Nilah found Yeong shin curled on his side with arms around his chest and deeply asleep. She at least covers his wounds with healing ointment. His breathing was calm and steady, but his eyebrows furrowed with pain.

Bon-hwa’s tea smelled awfully but Yeong shin drink it with almost one gulp and fall asleep again.

Later she made him eat a little bit of soup. It was strong chicken broth. It smells delicious and tastes even better.

“All of it tastes like ash.” Yeong shin grunted and put down the bowl carefully, but still spilling it.

“It will get better.” She wiped spilled soup. “In Hanyang, when I was burned, I smelled fire almost whole week.”

Yeong shin nods. Sun illuminates his face for a moment and he immediately jerked away with painful face.

“Does it hurt?”  She can’t stand his eyes painfully shut. It was tearing her heart. He was still desperately looking for her and all he could find was darkness. “You want me to cover your eyes? It could help. Let them rest for a while.”

Nilah found her best scarf that he bought for her in village. It was made from soft silk. She wants something not to hurt his face that was still little sensitive.

“I’m here.” She whispered and at first touch his shoulder, to let him know where she is.

Gently she covered his eyes with dark blue scarf and tied it on the back of his head. He touches his face and shift the scarf a little. His fingers were lightly trembling when he was examined the position of scarf.

“Is it comfortable? If you want to lose...” he just nods. His lips in tight line. “Yeong shin?”  her voice broke when she noticed his trembling chin.

He was crying.

He lifted his hand and she immediately caught him, pulling his head to her chest. He grips her upper arms like anchor and cried.

“I don’t want to be in darkness. I can’t stand it.”

Her heart ache and fresh tears wet her face. Nilah hated how helpless she suddenly felt. It was worse than be locked up in prison. It was worse than Sang-Ho pushing her down to the ground, violating her body. See Yeong shin suffer was the worst thing in her life.

See him suffer and can’t do anything.

“I’m blind for a day and I already miss your face.”

“please don’t...” she choked, biting her lip not to sob loudly. “I’m still here, still same. Still yours.”

[aboveallarescuer]

How Dany assesses the counsel she receives and makes her own choices - The way from the Red Waste to Vaes Tolorro

This will be a series of posts meant to show that Dany is open to receiving advice and criticism, but that she doesn’t act solely based on what other people tell her to do. On the opposite, GRRM makes great effort to write a Dany who most often merges different viewpoints and/or finds her own solutions to the problems she’s facing. I won’t include every single decision she ever made (e.g. her decisions at court are often made without counsel and her execution of the ritual to hatch the dragon eggs was already exhaustively and deftly analyzed by other people), but there will be plenty of instances in this series that will prove my point nonetheless. The metas will always have four items: in which chapters the events mentioned take place; what advice she receives and from whom; what were her actions; the verdict (whether she followed other people’s advice, ignored/rejected them or did both at the same time).

Chapter (s):

ACOK Daenerys I

The advice Dany receives:

Jorah and Rakharo advise Dany to avoid any route that any other khal took.

Jorah says that, while it's uncertain that they will survive by moving forward through the Red Waste, it's certain that they will die if they try to go back.

Jhiqui and Irri advise Dany to not enter the city because of the evil ghosts that inhabit it.

 Dany's actions:

As I said in my meta about the relationship between Dany and the prophecies, Dany thinks it's best to follow the comet both because it's her only viable alternative and because there would only be despair left if she didn't believe that it meant something. As she lays out, all the other paths would compromise her small group:

She dare not turn north onto the vast ocean of grass they called the Dothraki sea. The first khalasar they met would swallow up her ragged band, slaying the warriors and slaving the rest. The lands of the Lamb Men south of the river were likewise closed to them. They were too few to defend themselves even against that unwarlike folk, and the Lhazareen had small reason to love them. (ACOK Daenerys I)

By the way, it's noteworthy that Dany was able to assess her situation and think of all these implications on her own. And I do believe she did it on her own, considering that the author explicitly recognizes when the ideas come from other people:

She might have struck downriver for the ports at Meereen and Yunkai and Astapor, but Rakharo warned her that Pono’s khalasar had ridden that way, driving thousands of captives before them to sell in the flesh marts that festered like open sores on the shores of Slaver’s Bay.

“Why should I fear Pono?” Dany objected. “He was Drogo’s ko, and always spoke me gently.” 

“Ko Pono spoke you gently,” Ser Jorah Mormont said. “Khal Pono will kill you.[”] (ACOK Daenerys I)

And this leads us to an interesting exchange between Dany and Jorah. As I said before, there are lots of instances to infer that she says things she does not necessarily believe in to obtain his respect, and this is one of them. First, he says that she and her hundred warriors won't stand a chance against Pono's ten thousand warriors. In her mind, Dany is quite conscious of her vulnerabilities, for she knows she doesn't even have a hundred warriors:

No, Dany thought. I have four. The rest are women, old sick men and boys whose hair has never been braided.

But instead of revealing these insecurities, Dany declares:

“I have the dragons,” she pointed out.

Which then leads Jorah to reply that they won't help her that much, since they are still hatchlings; in fact, they may be liabilities at this point since everyone will want to possess them. Dany fiercely says that they are hers and no one will take them from her while she lives. She is putting on a facade here, and admirably so. As the last Targaryen, khaleesi and now Mother of Dragons (as they started to call her), she is their leader and the one who must organize them to work towards a single purpose. To be in that position means being firm and reliable when no one else could be:

“We follow the comet,” Dany told her khalasar. Once it was said, no word was raised against it. They had been Drogo’s people, but they were hers now. The Unburnt, they called her, and Mother of Dragons. Her word was their law.

~

They are not strong, she told herself, so I must be their strength. I must show no fear, no weakness, no doubt. However frightened my heart, when they look upon my face they must see only Drogo’s queen. She felt older than her fourteen years. If ever she had truly been a girl, that time was done. 

~

Dany kissed him lightly on the cheek. It heartened her to see him smile. I must be strong for him as well, she thought grimly. A knight he may be, but I am the blood of the dragon. 

Like I said before, while Viserys used the expression "the blood of the dragon" to be ostentatious and coerce others into doing whatever he wanted, Dany reclaims it to restrain her emotions so she can be the kind of leader who "belongs to her people, not herself". The use of that phrase is also reminiscent of her duty not being only towards the living, but also the dead, whom she doesn't fail to mention:

Her father had been slain before she was born, and her splendid brother Rhaegar as well. Her mother had died bringing her into the world while the storm screamed outside. Gentle Ser Willem Darry, who must have loved her after a fashion, had been taken by a wasting sickness when she was very young. Her brother Viserys, Khal Drogo who was her sun-and-stars, even her unborn son, the gods had claimed them all. They will not have my dragons, Dany vowed. They will not. (ACOK Daenerys II)

Dany is being very protective of her dragons for two reasons:

She loves them as she would love her human children and considers them family.

They are also the means for her to successfully claim her father's throne. Only then she will honor all of these people that the gods claimed. That is also why she won't admit defeat in Qarth when all hope seems lost - she has the dragons and a shot at doing justice for her ancestors and carrying out their legacy, so she will not look back and be lost.

Because Dany's leadership style is rooted in empathy and accountability, she never takes advantage of her position:

Dany hungered and thirsted with the rest of them. The milk in her breasts dried up, her nipples cracked and bled, and the flesh fell away from her day by day until she was lean and hard as a stick[.]

Another leader might have taken most of the food or water for themselves, but that's not what Dany chooses to do. She "must know the sufferings of her people", after all, even more so when she is unable to help them the way she wished she could. The trauma of seeing so many of her people perish will later inform her attempts to bring peace (untenable as it was) as quickly as possible to Meereen in ASOS and ADWD.

Wine gave out first, and soon thereafter the clotted mare’s milk the horselords loved better than mead. Then their stores of flatbread and dried meat were exhausted as well. Their hunters found no game, and only the flesh of their dead horses filled their bellies. Death followed death. Weak children, wrinkled old women, the sick and the stupid and the heedless, the cruel land claimed them all. Doreah grew gaunt and hollow-eyed, and her soft golden hair turned brittle as straw.

~

[H]er khalasar withered and died. Around them the land turned ever more desolate. Even devilgrass grew scant; horses dropped in their tracks, leaving so few that some of her people must trudge along on foot.

~

Dany looked at the horizon with despair. They had lost a third of their number, and still the waste stretched before them, bleak and red and endless.

Even here, Dany does the best she can to alleviate their pain. She respects and follows their customs:

Three days into the march, the first man died. A toothless oldster with cloudy blue eyes, he fell exhausted from his saddle and could not rise again. An hour later he was done. [...] Dany bid them kill the weakest of their dying horses, so the dead man might go mounted into the night lands.

~

Two nights later, it was an infant girl who perished. Her mother’s anguished wailing lasted all day, but there was nothing to be done. The child had been too young to ride, poor thing. Not for her the endless black grasses of the night lands; she must be born again. 

She also feels a lot of gratitude for Doreah and strives to make her death a little less agonizing:

Doreah took a fever and grew worse with every league they crossed. Her lips and hands broke with blood blisters, her hair came out in clumps, and one evenfall she lacked the strength to mount her horse. Jhogo said they must leave her or bind her to her saddle, but Dany remembered a night on the Dothraki sea, when the Lysene girl had taught her secrets so that Drogo might love her more. She gave Doreah water from her own skin, cooled her brow with a damp cloth, and held her hand until she died, shivering. Only then would she permit the khalasar to press on. 

Later in ADWD, during a feast where people start bringing up the names of the combatants in the upcoming duels at Daznak's Pit, Dany feels complicit in their imminent deaths. She remembers Doreah as an example of someone who died under her protection. More than that: in Dany's mind, Doreah is proof that "[n]o queen has clean hands" because that's how guilty Dany feels about what happened:

Much of the talk about the table was of the matches to be fought upon the morrow. Barsena Blackhair was going to face a boar, his tusks against her dagger. Khrazz was fighting, as was the Spotted Cat. And in the day's final pairing, Goghor the Giant would go against Belaquo Bonebreaker. One would be dead before the sun went down. No queen has clean hands, Dany told herself. She thought of Doreah, of Quaro, of Eroeh … of a little girl she had never met, whose name had been Hazzea. (ADWD Daenerys VIII)

I want to cry.

Also, even if in vain, Dany's proactive (though failed) efforts to find resources in the Red Waste should not be overlooked, for it's still admirable that she took them without anyone even suggesting:

Dany sent outriders ranging ahead of the column, but they found neither wells nor springs, only bitter pools, shallow and stagnant, shrinking in the hot sun.

And neither should Dany's discovery of how to feed the dragons. While Viserys gave her the knowledge, she was the one who retained it in her memory, guessed that it might work and applied it:

Such little things, she thought as she fed them by hand, or rather, tried to feed them, for the dragons would not eat. They would hiss and spit at each bloody morsel of horsemeat, steam rising from their nostrils, yet they would not take the food ... until Dany recalled something Viserys had told her when they were children. 

Only dragons and men eat cooked meat, he had said.

When she had her handmaids char the horsemeat black, the dragons ripped at it eagerly, their heads striking like snakes. 

Eventually, Dany and her khalasar arrive at the abandoned city that would later be named Vaes Tolorro. She is the one who takes precautions at first:

They made camp before the remnants of a gutted palace, on a windswept plaza where devilgrass grew between the paving stones. Dany sent out men to search the ruins. Some went reluctantly, yet they went ...

But then, after finding out that the place has figs, fruit trees, vines and water, she decides to enter it, stay, rest and be practical rather than leave it because of superstitions:

... and one scarred old man returned a brief time later, hopping and grinning, his hands overflowing with figs. Other searchers returned with tales of other fruit trees, hidden behind closed doors in secret gardens. Aggo showed her a courtyard overgrown with twisting vines and tiny green grapes, and Jhogo discovered a well where the water was pure and cold. Yet they found bones too, the skulls of the unburied dead, bleached and broken. “Ghosts,” Irri muttered. “Terrible ghosts. We must not stay here, Khaleesi, this is their place.”

“I fear no ghosts. Dragons are more powerful than ghosts.” And figs are more important.

She takes note of the resources available to her ("food and water here to sustain them, and enough grass for the horses to regain their strength") and gets her people to work on the different tasks she finds for them:

Dany gave him charge of a dozen of her strongest men, and set them to pulling up the plaza to get to the earth beneath. If devilgrass could grow between the paving stones, other grasses would grow when the stones were gone. They had wells enough, no lack of water. Given seed, they could make the plaza bloom.

~

Dany thanked him and told him to see to the repair of the gates. If enemies had crossed the waste to destroy these cities in ancient days, they might well come again. “If so, we must be ready,” she declared.

In these two cases, we have explicit cases of Dany concocting ideas to improve Vaes Tolorro's facility, namely by improving its lawn and fortifying it. Not only that, but we also find out that, under Dany's leadership, her whole khalasar is now taking action and making the place better in the ways they can help:

Women harvested fruit from the gardens of the dead. Men groomed their mounts and mended saddles, stirrups, and shoes. Children wandered the twisty alleys and found old bronze coins and bits of purple glass and stone flagons with handles carved like snakes. One woman was stung by a red scorpion, but hers was the only death. The horses began to put on some flesh. Dany tended Ser Jorah’s wound herself, and it began to heal.

This is all great setup for when Dany becomes Queen of Meereen and handles large-scale projects to improve the city's economy and infrastructure.

However, even though Dany thinks it "pleasant" to stay in Vaes Tolorro, she's aware that she must eventually leave, and she doesn't want to do so without being fairly sure of where she's going. With that in mind, she makes the clever decision to send her bloodriders in different directions so that, hopefully, one might find a path that's not as arduous as the one they had to face:

The next morn, she summoned her bloodriders. “Blood of my blood,” she told the three of them, “I have need of you. Each of you is to choose three horses, the hardiest and healthiest that remain to us. Load as much water and food as your mounts can bear, and ride forth for me. Aggo shall strike southwest, Rakharo due south. Jhogo, you are to follow shierak qiya on southeast.”

“What shall we seek, Khaleesi?” asked Jhogo.

“Whatever there is,” Dany answered. “Seek for other cities, living and dead. Seek for caravans and people. Seek for rivers and lakes and the great salt sea. Find how far this waste extends before us, and what lies on the other side. When I leave this place, I do not mean to strike out blind again. I will know where I am bound, and how best to get there.”

And this decision pays off when Jhogo returns with the three strangers who will guide Dany to Qarth.

Aside from the beginning when Dany ponders which direction to take, neither Ser Jorah nor her bloodriders are ever mentioned as part of Dany's decisionmaking. Instead, GRRM takes pain to make Dany's reasoning and actions her own, while also showcasing her selfless nature. ACOK Daenerys I is a chapter that highlights the authorial intent to portray Daenerys Targaryen as an intelligent, capable and principled leader.

 Verdict:

From the Red Waste to Vaes Tolorro, Jorah and Rakharo advise Dany about where not to go (though it must be said that she had already made most of the assessment on her own). Besides that, every single action that Dany takes is of her own volition and without the influence of anyone's help. She:

Exhibits emotional intelligence by acting as a leader who drives her group.

Tries to find resources in the Red Waste. 

Attempts to ease the khalasar's pain by taking part in their customs and giving Doreah a less painful death.

Decides to remain in Vaes Tolorro despite superstitions.

Takes note of the resources that she has in her disposal.

Gives her people several different tasks to improve the city; thanks to her guidance, some possibly started to do different activities on their own.

Sends her bloodriders in different directions to find one that isn't as taxing as the previous one.

[lynne-monstr]

where brave and restless dreams are won and lost

Written for the malec secret santa 2019, for the lovely @gaywoodandbine

Summary: Magnus is a witch. Alec is the witch-hunter tasked with bringing him in. (Two of these things are true, one is only half-true)

ao3 link

.

In the last remaining hours before first light, Alec crouches behind a precariously balanced pile of steel rebar and observes his target.

Magnus Bane stands in the middle of the gutted out building with his arms outstretched, a king of concrete and scrap metal. It should look ridiculous but even Alec, with his affinity for nature-based magic, can feel the power swirling in the air.

Blistering gusts of wind cut through Alec’s jacket like knives as he watches the ritual unfold. Though the building is sealed off by hanging sheets of tarp, it does little to ward off the winter chill. Alec’s fingers twitch in their gloves, aching to draw warmth from the earth deep below the concrete foundation.

He doesn’t so much as shift. He’s too close to his goal to surrender to something as trivial as discomfort. Not when there’s so much at stake. He sacrificed too much to get where he is now. The closeness of his family, his morals, his self-respect. One by one, they all fell to his ultimate goal.

If he concentrates, he can still see Jace’s face on that fateful day. His brother’s usual teasing and bravado was gone, replaced by grim determination as he shoved Alec aside and cast his last spell to keep Alec still. To keep him hidden and safe.

Jace’s parting whisper of, ‘It’s okay, Alec. It’s better this way,’ haunts him to this day.

‘It’s not,’ Alec had wanted to scream, but couldn’t. Not with the spell binding him. ‘I’m not worth it.’

The smooth tones of Bane’s voice snap Alec back to the present. He shakes off the memory, focusing instead on picking out the individual words of the ritual. When he does, he nearly gives away his position with a hastily muffled snort.

Bane is reciting the New York City building code.

An urban witch. Alec has never met one before. Growing up, he’d been taught that urban magic was rough and unrefined, a substandard form of witchcraft for those who couldn’t harness the raw power of nature. Looking at Magnus Bane, nothing could be further from the truth.

Alec refrains from rolling his eyes at himself. He can spend his time in frivolous debate on the merits of magic or he can focus on the mission, the first one he’s been trusted with since infiltrating the ranks of the witch-hunters.

No matter how beautiful this man and his magic are, it isn’t enough to save him.

“I’m sorry,” Alec whispers to the concrete ground. Perhaps it’s enough to give his apology by proxy, spoken to the medium of this witch’s magic rather to the man himself. Alec hopes so.

Drawing his bow, Alec readies an arrow tipped in magic-suppressing poison and fires.

.

Magnus is sunk deep in his own spell, electricity in his blood and the bustle of early morning traffic in his veins. The ebb and flow of a city that never truly stops. All of it rushing into his lungs and bringing fresh waves of power in its wake. And something else. Something that pings on the edge of his senses, a tang of vinegar in a freshly uncorked bottle of wine.

He doesn’t know what brings him out of the ritual, only that it does. He heeds the warning of his magic, the growing itch under his skin, and opens his eyes to the sight of an object flying straight for him. An arrow unerringly seeking his heart.

Not his heart, a distant part of him notes. His shoulder. Whoever is after him wants him alive.

Magnus’ eyes flash yellow. The hue of blinking neon. Double lines on dark asphalt. Taxis trailing a cacophony of horns as they weave through overcrowded streets. He throws himself to the ground just in time to hear the arrow soar past, his hands scraping open on the loose gravel. His blood seeps out and the city rushes in to fill the void.

Wild magic flickers at his hands, called by the spilling of blood. He twirls his wrist and the pile of steel beams on the other side of the building collapses in a ringing clatter. The sounds of cursing follow.

The shadow of a man stands to his full height amidst the strewn pile of steel rebar. Even in the dark, the swoop of his impressively large bow blooms from his body like wings. An avenging angel crashed down to earth.

Magnus has never put much stock in angels.

“You must be a new recruit, I’d remember a build like yours,” he taunts. An attack like this could only come from a witch-hunter, and if this one is arrogant enough to try and take Magnus on his own home turf, he’s about to learn a very painful lesson. “It’s been a long time since one of you people dared to come after me.”

He expects another arrow. What he doesn’t expect is a gust of clean wind that knocks him clear off his feet.

The world spins and he grasps for power that’s gone slippery in the face of such distilled natural magic. Magnus recoils even as he rolls to his feet. The witch-hunter is a witch. His mind races, trying to process the impossible. The witch-hunters hated their kind for the gifts they possessed, for the sacrifices they were willing to make to wield their magic. It was a hatred borne of fear, of the unknown. For a witch to join their ranks was unthinkable.

Magnus dodges another attack. ”Why are you doing this?” he shouts across the empty space. “You must know they’ll put you down the moment they learn what you are.”

He doesn’t get an answer.

Being in the heart of a city, Magnus should have the upper hand but this witch came prepared. The man reaches into a pocket and pulls out a pinch of dirt from a small pouch. Time seems to slow as he flings the earth to the ground.

The moment it lands, the building’s concrete foundation shakes apart, small cracks growing into larger ones.

Magnus dances out of the way to keep from being swallowed, and not in the fun way. The power from his interrupted ritual has run dry and so has the boost he’d gotten when he scraped his hand. He bounces lightly on his feet and prepares to fight the mundane way while he preps another spell. Looks like all his years of Tai Chi practice are going to pay off. Balance and flexibility aren’t just good skills for the bedroom.

Several large, thick vines snake up from the widening cracks, writhing in the air.

“Kinky,” Magnus calls out to his opponent, watching the vines come at him. “I like that in a man.”

He dodges on nimble feet, keeping one step ahead of the vines as he reaches for his athame. To be fair, calling it an athame is generous. On a shopping trip many years ago, Magnus had seen one of those tiny pocket knives disguised as a lipstick and became instantly enamored. But that’s the beauty of magic. It’s the perfect marriage of tradition and interpretation. And so Magnus gets to see the scandalized look on the faces of other witches when he pulls out his lipstick knife.

Correction. He got to see it. He won’t get to see it anymore if the witch-hunters get their hands on him.

He doesn’t know what their organization did to recruit a witch to their cause, but it can’t be anything good. Magnus needs to escape, if for no other reason than to let the rest of his people know how much danger they’re all in.

The first vine breaks through his defenses and winds tight around Magnus’ wrists, jerking them apart and sending the matte gray lipstick case flying. Another set of vines encircles Magnus’ chest and creeps up his legs, tethering him to the ground.

Once he’s fully ensnared, the witch-hunter steps forward into a dim pool of emergency lighting.

Magnus’ mouth runs on autopilot as he tests the strength of the vines. It’s a good distraction for the panic threatening to claw up his throat. “This is a bit much for a first date, don’t you think? I’m afraid I have to insist on dinner and a safeword, first.”

The man’s eyes widen before his expression shutters shut. “It has to be like this.”

What a crime for such a plush mouth to utter such garbage. Magnus scoffs, even as he continues to struggle. It’s a waste of effort but it makes him feel less useless. “No it doesn’t. Lie to yourself as much as you want but don’t give me that crap. You’re hunting your own people and that’s a choice.”

“I have to.” A wave of grief flits across the man’s face so quickly that Magnus nearly misses it.

The acerbic response dies on Magnus’ tongue and he kicks himself for being too caught up in his own emotions to see the truth. Because why would a witch betray their own people? This young man is either power hungry to the point of self-destruction or being blackmailed.

Magnus has his money on the latter. “What do they have on you?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“I’m the one who’s going to die for it. I’d say it matters a lot.”

The verbal blow lands perfectly and his attacker’s pretty face freezes. If Magnus was a better man, he might feel bad about the manipulation but if he learned anything from growing up on the streets and leaning witchcraft on his own, it was that if he didn’t fight for himself, no one else would.

“It’s my brother,” the man whispers, not meeting Magnus’ gaze. “They took my brother.”

“And you think they’ll give him back in exchange for me? You’re a fool.”

The man shakes his head. “I know they won’t. But wherever they take you, that’s where he’ll be, too. I have to find him.”

Dread lodges in a tight ball behind Magnus’ sternum. The fate in store for him isn’t a pleasant one. Even so, he can almost understand. There isn’t much he wouldn’t do for his own patchwork family. “I can help you if you let me. I’ve fought them before and I can do it again. We can find another way.”

Hope flares in the other man’s eyes but it’s extinguished just as quickly. Despair races through Magnus as his attacker pulls out another arrow. He can sense the poison on the tip, the way his magic tries to shrink away from the substance.

Magnus’ mind races, searching for anything he can use, anything that will stop what’s about to happen. The sharp point of the arrow descends towards Magnus’ unprotected neck just as a last-ditch idea forms too late.

The arrow stops in mid-air.

Magnus doesn’t waste the opportunity. Words spill from deep within his chest, echoing like the clanging of steel on steel. He throws the last dregs of his magic into the words and hopes it’s enough to work on a witch who isn’t bound by city rules. His voice booms in the dead of the night, echoing around the deserted site.

“Special authorization must be granted to work after hours. You must apply for an after-hours variance. If you do not have an after-hours variance, all work must cease immediately.”

It isn’t magic, not really. Magnus calls on the city and it comes to his aid.

As if from far away, Magnus can hear the sounds of traffic, the unceasing horns and the pounding rhythm of footsteps on concrete. The shouted cursing and the chatter of conversation. The music wafting out from bars and strip clubs. The thud of the subway snaking its way in all directions like living, metal tendrils of lifeblood. It builds from a roar into a deafening crescendo, pulsing in time with Magnus’ racing heart until it spills forth in a loud crack.

The witch-hunter is thrown backwards, crumbling to the group in an unmoving heap. His handsome features go slack and he doesn’t get up. The vines holding Magnus loosen their grip and wither, sinking back into the ground.

Magnus runs.

He takes the unconscious witch-hunter with him.

.

Alec wakes as he always does, to a familiar litany of failure. Jace is gone. Isabelle is in hiding. He’s alone and it’s up to him to bring his family back together. For a blissful moment, he can almost pretend that’s all there is to it.

One thought topples into the next like falling dominoes and the full sense of his failure comes crashing down. His family. Jace. Magnus Bane. He had one shot to fix things and he ruined it.

Alec bolts upright, the fight he lost settling into his mind like the first crisp fall of leaves. He takes in the unfamiliar room around him. The clean lines and large windows. Modern architecture and exposed brick. Not a plant in sight.

The urban witch. He’s in the home of his enemy.

“Alexander Lightwood.”

A lifetime living under his parents’ strict rules keeps Alec from doing anything as embarrassing as startling when Magnus Bane appears from nowhere. Not nowhere, he realizes, studying the layout of the living room. From some sort of hallway.

“How do you know my name?” Alec asks, playing along until he gets a better feel for the situation.

“Magic.” Bane’s smile would be flirty if not for the sharp curl of his lip. “Actually, no. I picked your pocket.”

Alec pats down his clothes, alarm replaced by confusion when he feels the familiar bulge of his wallet.

Bane responds without missing a beat. “I gave it back.”

Despite himself, Alec is a little bit charmed. And trying not to think about where Bane had to put his hands to get at his wallet. Which is when he realizes that it isn’t his money or identification he should be concerned about. He was carrying something far more important. Panic quickens his breath and he struggles not to let it show on his face.

He must fail, because Bane’s smile widens and from behind his back, he pulls out a familiar cloth pouch.

For witches like Alec and his family—natural witches, they liked to call themselves—being in the heart of a city is like trying to do magic with dampeners. There are small patches of tree lined streets, flocks of pigeons, small parks, weeds valiantly trying to grow even in the most developed of places, but using it is the magical equivalent of drawing well water from a dirty, shallow puddle.

Clutched in Bane’s manicured hand is the dirt from the Lightwood family estate, Alec’s conduit to the woodlands and lakes of his childhood home.

“Looking for this?” Bane asks.

Even his gloating is elegant. Alec hates him a little bit. “That’s mine.” Alec leans forward before he can stop himself.

“Not anymore. Perhaps you should have thought of that before you turned against your own kind.” Bane claps his hands once, “Let’s talk, shall we.” He settles himself into a disturbingly bright blue side chair and turns to face Alec on the couch.

In Alec’s experience, talk means something more along the lines of interrogation or execution. He doesn’t take the flashy witch in front of him as the type to soil his expensive furniture but it would hardly be the first time Alec’s wrong about someone. Cut off from his natural witchcraft, he feels exposed and vulnerable and very alone.

His hands clench into fists. Jace is counting on him and so is Isabelle. “What’s there to talk about? Are you going to kill me or not?”

“Not all of us are so cavalier about killing other witches.”

Denial is on the tip of Alec’s tongue, and it trails a bitter line down his throat as he swallows. It doesn’t matter that he didn’t intend to kill Bane or that he hesitated in the final moments, caught by an overwhelming sense of wrongness. He would have gotten over it, shoved down the sick feeling in his gut and done his duty.

His fingers flex against the throw blanket next to him. It’s a cotton blend, the soft material against his fingers soothing to his magic.

He could draw strength from it with the right incantation and a little spilled blood. Not for the first time, he’s grateful for the rigorous training his parents put him and his siblings through when they were children. Most natural witches specialize in a certain type of magic, and while Alec prefers the soil of the earth, he can draw power from nearly anything. He’s at a disadvantage here in his enemy’s lair but he’s far from helpless.

“Nothing to say?” Silence falls between them and then completely unexpectedly, Bane’s laughs. The force of it shakes his entire body, his chest and arm muscles straining against his tight Henley. “I suppose I should thank you. I had suspected your employers were after me for quite some time, and now I know for sure.”

Alec scrambles to adjust from potential impeding execution to unexpected humor. How many times was this urban witch going to surprise him? Alec should hate it in the same way he hates everything he can’t plan for, but he can’t deny the thrill that runs down his spine.

“What will you do?” Alec asks. It’s meant as an accusation and a challenge. What is Bane going to do with Alec? Instead, the words come out sounding like concern for Bane, as if the two of them are old friends rather than enemies.

For a strange moment, Alec wishes it were true, they they had met under different circumstances. What would it be like to combine their magic, opposite forces joining together into something new? Alec feels a pang of regret that he’ll never know.

Perhaps Bane hears it too because he squares his shoulders, a strange combination of fierce and resigned. “What I always do. Survive.”

A rush of shame beats against Alec’s chest at the part he played in tonight’s events. Another crests hot on its heels—because even if he had the chance to overpower Magnus Bane and bring him in, Alec’s not sure he could go through with it. Not now that the other man is more than words in a file.

He isn’t sure whether that makes him a good person or a terrible brother. Maybe both.

“I wasn’t going to go through with it,” Alec blurts out, and immediately regrets it. When Isabelle used to tell him to be more open about his feelings, he didn’t think she meant to his enemies. “I know it doesn’t mean much but it’s the truth.”

For the first time, the smile on Bane’s face is real. “I figured that much out. I don’t take just anyone home, you know.” The man honest-to-god winks before adding, “But I appreciate the sentiment, Alexander.”

Something flutters in Alec’s belly. Before he can think too hard on it, movement catches the corner of his eye. Never has he been more grateful for a distraction. He reacts without thinking, his hand reaching out to catch an object in mid-air. He looks down at it and blinks.

His earthen pouch is in his hand.

Power surges through his veins and he stifles a gasp. With effort, he tears his eyes away towards Magnus, slouched his chair like a king in a castle rather than a lone man in his modest apartment. There’s amusement in his eyes but beneath the arrogance is something else, something that softens the harsh planes of his face.

“Why?” Alec asks. His fingers curl protectively around the little pouch.

It doesn’t make sense. Why would Magnus give him this? Alec had been caught by surprise during their first fight but he wouldn’t make the same mistake twice if they came to blows again. Magnus has no real reason to trust his words; he could easily be signing his own death warrant with one act of kindness.

Except Alec knows he isn’t.

“A witch’s power is a precious thing,” is all Magnus says before getting up from his chair to show Alec to the door. It’s a clear dismissal but any reluctance Alec feels is overshadowed by the surprise of seeing his bow and quiver hanging in the entraceway. Alec shoulders them both, half expecting Magnus to protest but unsurprised when he doesn’t.

Magnus sends him off with a final parting shot. “You’re not the only one who’s lost someone to them. If you wanted my help, you could’ve just asked. Remember that in the future.”

Alec hears the echo of those words for a long time after he leaves the loft behind.

.

By some miracle, he isn’t punished by his superiors for his complete failure of a first mission. Instead of assuaging his fears, it puts him on high alert. What if someone figured out his connection to Jace and was silently tightening the net around him? What if they were biding their time in hopes he’d lead them to Isabelle?

An attack never comes and Alec eventually stops holding his breath. Right up until he overhears a conversation in the research lab.

“…taking another run at Magnus Bane. Not even he can fight off a dozen of us.”

Alec flattens himself against the wall as the pair leaves, too lost in their chatter to notice him. The pounding in his chest crescendos in his ears as the voices fade. He can pretend he never heard it. If he plays his cards right, he can arrange to be here when they bring Magnus in. Surely his conscience would be appeased if he isn’t the one to capture Magnus. His original plan to find Jace can proceed.

He knows before the thought finishes that it’s a lie.

In his mind’s eye he sees kind eyes and magic that gleams like fresh neon. A man whose response to being attacked was a soft, ‘If you wanted my help, you could have just asked.’

Alec doesn’t stop to put on his jacket. He walks to the nearest oasis of greenery and kneels in the dirt. His fingers sink into the freezing ground, pulling the familiar power of the earth into his hands. On a crisp breeze, his message drifts towards a loft in Brooklyn.

‘Whatever you’re doing tonight, cancel it. It’s an ambush.

PS – you said I could just ask for your help. This is me asking.’

The message should feel like the end of something. Like he’s giving up on his family, like he’s abandoning the only people he’s ever loved. But as Alec gets to his feet, he feels renewed hope spring to life in his chest, a tiny sapling pushing its way into the light.

He can’t save his family alone and he doesn’t have to.

With that thought, another piece falls into place. He isn’t doing his sister any favors by keeping her sheltered from the fight. Eventually she’ll lose patience and leave and when she does, Alec won’t be there to watch her back. Before he can change his mind, he sends off another message, this time to Isabelle.

A laugh bubbles up in his chest as he imagines introducing her to Magnus Bane. He has a feeling the two of them will get along a little too well. When he finally gets back to the Institute, he feels lighter than he has since this mess started.

This isn’t an end, it’s a beginning.

[malecsecretsanta]

Merry Christmas, @gaywoodandbine!

Mindy, I hope you have the best of holidays. Thanks so much for the wonderful ideas. I tried to incorporate several of them and then the story had a few ideas of its own that I ran with. I hope you enjoy, and that 2020 brings you only wonderful things.

Read on AO3

*****

where brave and restless dreams are won and lost

In the last remaining hours before first light, Alec crouches behind a precariously balanced pile of steel rebar and observes his target.

Magnus Bane stands in the middle of the gutted out building with his arms outstretched, a king of concrete and scrap metal. It should look ridiculous but even Alec, with his affinity for nature-based magic, can feel the power swirling in the air.

Blistering gusts of wind cut through Alec’s jacket like knives as he watches the ritual unfold. Though the building is sealed off by hanging sheets of tarp, it does little to ward off the winter chill. Alec’s fingers twitch in their gloves, aching to draw warmth from the earth deep below the concrete foundation.

He doesn’t so much as shift. He’s too close to his goal to surrender to something as trivial as discomfort. Not when there’s so much at stake.

If he concentrates, he can still see Jace’s face on that fateful day. His brother’s usual teasing and bravado was gone, replaced by grim determination as he shoved Alec aside and cast his last spell to keep Alec still. To keep him hidden and safe.

Jace’s parting whisper of, ‘It’s okay, Alec. It’s better this way,’ haunts him to this day.

‘It’s not,’ Alec had wanted to scream, but couldn’t. Not with the spell binding him. ‘I’m not worth it.’

The smooth tones of Bane’s voice snap Alec back to the present. He shakes off the memory, focusing instead on picking out the individual words of the ritual. When he does, he nearly gives away his position with a hastily muffled snort.

Bane is reciting the New York City building code.

An urban witch. Alec has never met one before. Growing up, he’d been taught that urban magic was rough and unrefined, a substandard form of witchcraft for those who couldn’t harness the raw power of nature. Looking at Magnus Bane, nothing could be further from the truth.

Alec sets his reservations aside, focusing on his mission. It’s the first he’s been trusted with since infiltrating the ranks of the witch-hunters. No matter how beautiful this man and his magic are, it isn’t enough to save him.

“I’m sorry,” Alec whispers to the concrete ground.

Perhaps it’s enough to give his apology by proxy, spoken to the medium of this witch’s magic rather to the man himself. Alec hopes so.

Drawing his bow, Alec readies an arrow tipped in magic-suppressing poison and fires.

Magnus is sunk deep in his own spell, electricity in his blood and the bustle of early morning traffic in his veins. The ebb and flow of a city that never truly stops. All of it rushing into his lungs and bringing fresh waves of power in its wake.

He doesn’t know what brings him out of the ritual, only that something isn’t right. His eyes open to the sight of an object flying straight for him. An arrow unerringly seeking his heart.

Not his heart, a distant part of him notes. His shoulder. Whoever is after him wants him alive.

Magnus’ eyes flash yellow. The hue of blinking neon. Double lines on dark asphalt. Taxi’s trailing a cacophony of horns as they weave through overcrowded streets. He throws himself to the ground just in time to hear the arrow soar past, hands scraping open on the loose gravel. His blood seeps out and the city rushes in to fill the void.

Wild magic flickers at his hands, called by the spilling of blood. He waves a hand and the pile of steel beams on the other side of the building collapses in a ringing clatter. The sounds of cursing follow. Magnus’ grin is full of teeth. An attack like this could only come from a witch-hunter, and if this one is arrogant enough to try and take Magnus on his own home turf, he’s about to learn a very painful lesson.

The shadow of a man stands to his full height amidst the strewn pile of steel rebar. Even in the dark, the silhouette of the impressively large bow in his hands stands out. He cuts a striking figure

“You must be a new recruit, I’d remember a build like yours,” Magnus taunts. “It’s been a long time since one of you people dared to come after me.”

He expects another arrow.

What he doesn’t expect is a gust of clean wind that knocks him clear off his feet. The world spins and he grasps for power that’s gone slippery in the face of such distilled natural magic.

Magnus recoils even as he rolls to his feet. The witch-hunter is a witch. His mind races, trying to process the impossible. The witch-hunters hated their kind for the gifts they possessed, for the sacrifices they were willing to make to wield their magic. It was a hatred borne of fear, of the unknown. For a witch to join their ranks was unthinkable.

“Why are you doing this?” Magnus calls out as he dodges another attack. “You must know they’ll put you down the moment they learn what you are.”

He doesn’t get an answer.

Being in the heart of a city, Magnus should have the upper hand but this witch came prepared. The man reaches into a pocket and pulls out a pinch of dirt from a small pouch. Time seems to slow as he flings the earth to the ground.

The moment it lands, the building’s concrete foundation shakes apart, small cracks growing into larger ones.

Magnus dances out of the way to keep from being swallowed, and not in the fun way. The power from his interrupted ritual has run dry and so has the boost he’d gotten when he scraped his hand. He bounces lightly on his feet and prepares to fight the mundane way while he preps another spell. Looks like all his years of Tai Chi practice are going to pay off. Balance and flexibility aren’t just good skills for the bedroom.

Several large, thick vines snake up from the widening cracks, writhing in the air.

“Kinky,” Magnus calls out to his opponent, watching the vines come at him. “I like that in a man.”

He dodges on nimble feet, keeping one step ahead of the vines as he reaches for his athame. To be fair, calling it an athame is generous. On a shopping trip many years ago, Magnus had seen one of those tiny pocket knives disguised as a lipstick and became instantly enamored. But that’s the beauty of magic. It’s the perfect marriage of tradition and interpretation. And so Magnus gets to see the scandalized look on the faces of other witches when he pulls out his lipstick knife.

Correction. He got to see it. He won’t get to see it anymore if the witch-hunters get their hands on him.

He doesn’t know what their organization did to recruit a witch to their cause, but it can’t be anything good. Magnus needs to escape, if for no other reason than to let the rest of his people know how much danger they’re all in.

The first vine breaks through his defenses and winds tight around Magnus’ wrists, jerking them apart and sending the matte gray lipstick case flying. Another set of vines encircles Magnus’ chest and creeps up his legs, tethering him to the ground.

Once he’s fully ensnared, the witch-hunter steps forward into a dim pool of emergency lighting.

Magnus’ mouth runs on autopilot as he tests the strength of the vines. “This is a bit much for a first date, don’t you think? I’m afraid I have to insist on dinner and a safeword, first.”

The man’s eyes widen before his expression shutters shut. “It has to be like this.”

What a crime for such a plush mouth to utter such garbage. Magnus scoffs, even as he continues to struggle. It’s a waste of effort but it makes him feel less useless. “No it doesn’t. Lie to yourself as much as you want but don’t give me that crap. You’re hunting your own people and that’s a choice.”

“I have to.” A wave of grief flits across the man’s face so quickly that Magnus nearly misses it.

The acerbic response dies on Magnus’ tongue and he kicks himself for not realizing it sooner. Because why would a witch betray their own people? This young man was either power hungry to the point of self-destruction or being blackmailed.

Magnus had his money on the latter. “What do they have on you?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“I’m the one who’s going to die for it. I’d say it matters a lot.”

The verbal blow lands perfectly and his attacker’s pretty face freezes. If Magnus was a better man, he might feel bad about the manipulation but if he learned anything from growing up on the streets and leaning witchcraft on his own, it was that if he didn’t fight for himself, no one else would.

“It’s my brother,” the man whispers, not meeting Magnus’ gaze. “They took my brother.”

“And you think they’ll give him back in exchange for me? You’re a fool.”

The man shakes his head. “I know they won’t. But wherever they take you, that’s where he’ll be, too. I have to find him.”

Dread lodges in a tight ball behind Magnus’ sternum. The fate in store for him isn’t a pleasant one. Even so, he can almost understand. There isn’t much he wouldn’t do for the people who have become his family. “I can help you if you let me. I’ve fought them before and I can do it again. We can find another way.”

Hope flares in the other man’s eyes but it’s extinguished just as quickly. Despair races through Magnus as his attacker pulls out another arrow. He can sense the poison on the tip, the way his magic tries to shrink away from the substance.

Magnus’ mind races, searching for anything he can use, anything that will stop what’s about to happen. The sharp point of the arrow descends towards Magnus’ unprotected neck just as a last-ditch idea forms too late.

The arrow stops in mid-air.

Magnus doesn’t waste the opportunity. Words spill from deep within his chest, echoing like the clanging of steel on steel. He throws the last dregs of his magic into the words and hopes it’s enough to work on a witch who isn’t bound by city rules. His voice booms in the dead of the night, echoing around the deserted site.

“Special authorization must be granted to work after hours. You must apply for an after-hours variance. If you do not have an after-hours variance, all work must cease immediately.”

It isn’t magic, not really. Magnus calls on the city and it comes to his aid.

As if from far away, Magnus can hear the sounds of traffic, the unceasing horns and the pounding rhythm of footsteps on concrete. The shouted cursing and the chatter of conversation. The music wafting out from bars and restaurants. The thud of the subway snaking its way in all directions like living, metal tendrils of lifeblood. It builds from a roar into a deafening crescendo, pulsing in time with Magnus’ racing heart until it spills forth in a loud crack.

The witch-hunter is thrown backwards, crumbling to the group in an unmoving heap. His handsome features go slack and he doesn’t get up. The vines holding Magnus loosen their grip and wither, sinking back into the ground.

Magnus runs.

He takes the unconscious witch-hunter with him.

Alec wakes as he always does, to a familiar litany of failure. Jace is gone. Isabelle is in hiding. He’s alone and it’s up to him to bring his family back together. For a blissful moment, he can almost pretend that’s all there is to it.

One thought topples into the next like falling dominoes and the full sense of his failure comes crashing down. His family. Jace. Magnus Bane.

Alec bolts upright, the fight he lost settling into his mind like the first crisp fall of leaves. He takes in the unfamiliar room around him. The clean lines and large windows. Modern architecture and exposed brick. Not a plant in sight.

The urban witch. He’s in the home of his enemy.

“Alexander Lightwood.”

A lifetime living under his parents’ strict rules keeps Alec from doing anything as embarrassing as startling when Magnus Bane appears from nowhere. Not nowhere, he realizes, studying the layout of the living room. From some sort of hallway.

“How do you know my name?” Alec asks, playing along until he gets a better feel for the situation.

“Magic.” Bane’s smile would be flirty if not for the sharp curl of his lip. “Actually, no. I picked your pocket.”

Alec pats down his clothes, alarm replaced by confusion when he feels the familiar bulge of his wallet.

Bane responds without missing a beat. “I gave it back.”

Despite himself, Alec is a little bit charmed. And trying not to think about where Bane had to put his hands to get at his wallet. Which is when he realizes that it isn’t his money or identification he should be concerned about. He was carrying something far more important. Panic quickens his breath and he struggles not to let it show on his face.

He must fail, because Bane’s smile widens and from behind his back, he pulls out a familiar cloth pouch.

For witches like Alec and his family—natural witches, they liked to call themselves—being in the heart of a city is like trying to do magic with dampeners. There are small patches of tree lined streets, flocks of pigeons, small parks, weeds valiantly trying to grow even in the most developed of places, but using it is the magical equivalent of drawing well water from a dirty, shallow puddle.

Clutched in Bane’s manicured hand is the dirt from the Lightwood family estate, Alec’s conduit to the woodlands and lakes of his childhood home.  “Looking for this?”

Even his gloating is elegant. Alec hates him a little bit.

“That’s mine.” Alec leans forward before he can stop himself.

“Not anymore. Perhaps you should have thought of that before you turned against your own kind.” Bane claps his hands once, “Let’s talk, shall we.” He settles himself into a disturbingly bright blue side chair and turns to face Alec on the couch.

In Alec’s experience, talk means something more along the lines of interrogation or execution. He doesn’t take the flashy witch in front of him as the type to soil his expensive furniture but it would hardly be the first time Alec’s wrong about someone. Cut off from his natural witchcraft, he feels exposed and vulnerable and very alone.

His hands clench into fists. Jace is counting on and so is Isabelle. “What’s there to talk about? Are you going to kill me or not?”

“Not all of us are so cavalier about killing other witches.”

Denial is on the tip of Alec’s tongue, and it trails a bitter line down his throat as he swallows. It doesn’t matter that he didn’t intend to kill Bane or that he hesitated in the final moments, caught by an overwhelming sense of wrongness. He would have gotten over it, shoved down the sick feeling in his gut and done his duty.

His fingers flex against the throw blanket next to him. It’s made of a cotton blend, the soft material against his fingers soothing to his magic.

He could draw strength from it with the right incantation and a little spilled blood. Not for the first time, he’s grateful for the rigorous training his parents put him and his siblings through when they were children. Most natural witches specialize in a certain type of magic, and while Alec prefers the soil of the earth, he can draw power from nearly anything. He’s at a disadvantage here in his enemy’s lair but he’s far from helpless.

“Nothing to say?” Silence falls between them and then completely unexpectedly, Bane’s laughs. The force of it shakes his entire body, his chest and arm muscles straining against his tight Henley. “I suppose I should thank you. I had suspected your employers were after me for quite some time, and now I know for sure.”

Alec scrambles to adjust from potential impeding execution to unexpected humor. How many times was this urban witch going to surprise him? Alec should hate it in the same way he hates everything he can’t plan for, but he can’t deny the thrill that runs down his spine.

“What will you do?” Alec asks. It’s meant as an accusation and a challenge. What is Bane going to do with Alec? Instead, the words come out sounding like concern for Bane, as if the two of them are old friends rather than enemies.

Perhaps Bane hears it too because he squares his shoulders, a strange combination of fierce and resigned. “What I always do. Survive.”

A rush of shame beats against Alec’s chest at the part he played in tonight’s events. Another crests hot its heels—because even if he had the chance to overpower Magnus Bane and bring him in, Alec’s not sure he could go through with it. Not now that the other man is more than words in a file.

He isn’t sure whether that makes him a good person or a terrible brother. Maybe both.

“I wasn’t going to go through with it,” Alec blurts out, and immediately regrets it. When Isabelle used to tell him to be more open about his feelings, he didn’t think she meant to his enemies. “I know it doesn’t mean much but it’s the truth.”

For the first time, the smile on Bane’s face is real. “I figured that much out. But I appreciate the sentiment, Alexander.”

Something flutters in Alec’s belly. Before he can think too hard on it, movement catches the corner of his eye. He reacts without thinking, his hand reaching out to catch an object in mid-air. He looks down at it and blinks.

His earthen pouch is in his hand.

Power surges through his veins and he stifles a gasp. With effort, he tears his eyes away towards Magnus, slouched his chair like a king in a castle rather than a lone man in his modest apartment. There’s amusement in his eyes but beneath the arrogance is something else, something that softens the harsh planes of his face.

“Why?” Alec asks. His fingers curl protectively around the little pouch.

It doesn’t make sense. Why would Magnus give him this? Alec had been caught by surprise during their first fight but he wouldn’t make the same mistake twice if they came to blows again. Magnus has no real reason to trust his words; he could easily be signing his own death warrant with one act of kindness.

Except Alec knows he isn’t.

Instead of answering, Magnus gets up from his chair to show Alec to the door. Hanging in the hallways is his bow and quiver. Alec shoulders them both, half expecting Magnus to protest but unsurprised when he doesn’t.

Magnus sends him off with a final parting shot. ““You’re not the only one who’s lost someone to them. If you wanted my help, you could’ve just asked. Remember that in the future.”

Alec hears the echo of those words for a long time after he leaves the lift behind.

By some miracle, he isn’t punished by his superiors for his complete failure of a first mission. Instead of assuaging his fears, it puts him on high alert. What if someone figured out his connection to Jace and was silently tightening the net around him? What if they were biding their time in hopes he’d lead them to Isabelle?

An attack never comes and Alec eventually stops holding his breath. Right up until he overhears a conversation in the research lab.

“…taking another run at Magnus Bane. Not even he can fight off a dozen of us.”

Alec flattens himself against the wall as the pair leaves, too lost in their chatter to notice him. The pounding in his chest crescendos in his ears as the voices fade. He can pretend he never heard it. If he plays his cards right, he can arrange to be here when they bring Magnus in. Surely his conscience would be appeased if he isn’t the one to capture Magnus. His original plan to find Jace can proceed.

He knows before the thought finishes that it’s a lie.

In his mind’s eye he sees kind eyes and magic that gleams like fresh neon. A man whose response to being attacked was a soft, ‘If you wanted my help, you could have just asked.’

Alec doesn’t stop to put on his jacket. He walks to the nearest oasis of greenery and kneels in the dirt. His fingers sink into the freezing ground, pulling the familiar power of the earth into his hands. On a crisp breeze, his message drifts towards a loft in Brooklyn.

‘Whatever you’re doing tonight, cancel it. It’s an ambush.

PS – you said I could just ask for your help. This is me asking.’

The message should feel like the end of something. Like he’s giving up on his family, like he’s abandoning the only people he’s ever loved. But as Alec gets to his feet, he feels renewed hope spring to life in his chest, a tiny sapling pushing its way into the light.

He can’t save his family alone and he doesn’t have to.

With that thought, another piece falls into place. He isn’t doing his sister any favors by keeping her sheltered from the fight. Eventually she’ll lose patience and leave and when she does, Alec won’t be there to watch her back. Before he can change his mind, he sends off another message, this time to Isabelle.

A laugh bubbles up in his chest as he imagines introducing her to Magnus Bane. He has a feeling the two of them will get along a little too well. When he finally gets back to the Institute, he feels lighter than he has since this mess started.

This isn’t an end, it’s a beginning

[far-off-flower-fields]

Weird Questions that say a lot

1. coffee mugs, teacups, wine glasses, water bottles, or soda cans? Teacups!

2. chocolate bars or lollipops? Lollipops

3. bubblegum or cotton candy? Cotton candy

4. how did your elementary school teachers describe you? We call elementary school primary school. It depended which teachers you asked, my favourites always said I was “conscientious, kind, and a pleasure to have in class”.

5. do you prefer to drink soda from soda cans, soda bottles, plastic cups or glass cups? Glass cups or bottles.

6. pastel, boho, tomboy, preppy, goth, grunge, formal or sportswear? I have like 4 looks, pastel, boho, and goth/witchy/grunge, also vintage-inspired which wasn’t mentioned but I love it.

7. earbuds or headphones? Depends on the shape, I love my Razr headset because it doesn’t squash my ears, and I like galaxy bud shaped earbuds, the ones with the little rubber doo-dads that fit actually in your ear. Apple or a lot of older flat earbuds cause me a lot of pain.

8. movies or tv shows? TV shows. Movies are getting longer and longer and my focus is getting shorter and shorter

9. favorite smell in the summer? Rainy days!

10. game you were best at in p.e.? The game of queue-ducking (where you go to the back of the queue to avoid your turn), or dance, or the less strength intensive parts of gymnastics. Or crying, always been great at that xD

11. what you have for breakfast on an average day? Muesli, or nothing.

12. name of your favorite playlist? I prefer to listen to full albums rather than playlists, but I have a few favourites on Spotify. Born to Run 150BPM, Infinite Indie Folk, Irish Folk: Jigs and Reels, All Out 80s/90s/00s. I also love scene/pop-punk playlists.

13. lanyard or key ring? Key Ring

14. favorite non-chocolate candy? Message Hearts (or anything with that texture), the red pack of starbursts (the UK version is vegan). Does Turkish Delight count because if so then that is my fave. I also like gummies if they’re vegan.

15. favorite book you read as a school assignment? To Kill a Mockingbird (high school), or The Bloody Chamber (uni), or Hamlet (uni)

16. most comfortable position to sit in? One foot under me, the other foot out to the other side, but both in the same position (if the surface is flat), or knees up.

17. most frequently worn pair of shoes? I own a lot of shoes so there isn’t really a single pair I wear the most. Recently my Air Force 1s, I’m trying to wear them in because the previous owner didn’t so the cause blisters.

18. ideal weather? Cold, overcast, rainy, still. Or without the rain. or snow (as long as I’m not going in the car and I can go crunch my shoes in it xD

19. sleeping position? Either side, but my body is kinda rotated towards the bed so it’s like half way between on my stomach and on my side. 

20. preferred place to write (i.e., in a note book, on your laptop, sketchpad, post-it notes, etc.)? Notebooks

21. obsession from childhood? Animals, dinosaurs, goddesses, magic, crystals, neopets, sims. I still love all of these things, I am a rotating door of obsessions, usually a bunch of the same obsessions on repeat.

22. role model? I don’t have one particular role model, I do have tons of people that I love and respect.

23. strange habits? I have so many strange habits that I have become one myself. Nothing actually stands out though because 99% of it is because of my brain.

24. favorite crystal? rose quartz or moonstone.

25. first song you remember hearing? Maybe Dancing Queen by ABBA, definitely the first I remember dancing to, but my dad loves music so I grew up with a constant stream of it.

26. favorite activity to do in warm weather? Suffer xD when I’m able to do so comfortably I’d love to go out looking for pretty stones, and nice sticks with my fiance, also would like to go on picnics with him, or a friend if I had one.

27. favorite activity to do in cold weather? Baking, drawing, crafts, standing in the rain. Everything.

28. five songs to describe you? 6/10 - Dodie Robert Frost - Mal Blum Caught in the Middle - Paramore Side Effects - Jade Bird Snitches Get Stitches - Onsind  Bonus track: The Seed - Aurora I wish I still had the playlist I made of songs I relate to, several of these were on it though.

29. best way to bond with you? Oversharing, or telling me about things you’re into.

30. places that you find sacred? Nature. My favourite spots are little creeks/rivers in wooded areas, but just like, all of it is special and should be treated as such. Also bedrooms.

31. what outfit do you wear to kick ass and take names? I think maybe I’m not gutsy or whatever enough, but also unpredictable. I wear whatever I like, and I’m just as likely to cry in all of them as I am to accidentally get in a fight.

32. top favorite vines? I feel so basic because I never really did the vine thing.  There was one that nearly killed me because I literally started to choke that was in some kind of office and the bit like can you run this past me again, and they just fucking legged it past them holding a folder up, Saw it once, never saw it again. Road work ahead. Why you can’t lift a house (might be a tok?) Brass dad and oven kid Look at this graaaaph Never learned how to read I can’t sit I have hemorrhoids The one with the people in blankets bobbing the nana nanana song Fr esh avo ca do Look at all these chickens

33. most used phrase in your phone? I love you - if I had to guess

34. advertisements you have stuck in your head? right now, nothing. I often get the old Super Liquor jingle lodged in there though.

35. average time you fall asleep? 6am?

36. what is the first meme you remember ever seeing? Charlie the unicorn or that one Noodles video by Cyanide and Happiness. Are those even memes?

37. suitcase or duffel bag? Depends. I mostly use a bag though since I never go anywhere for long.

38. lemonade or tea? Tea? Usually if you ask for lemonade here you get Sprite which is not lemonade.

39. lemon cake or lemon meringue pie? I had a vegan lemon meringue pie once, so good. Cake is easier to make though, and I can eat more in one sitting without getting sick xD

40. weirdest thing to ever happen at your school? Um, the principal in my last year of school got caught for being a peeping tom a few years after I left.

41. last person you texted? My Fiance.

42. jacket pockets or pants pockets? Jacket pockets

43. hoodie, leather jacket, cardigan, jean jacket or bomber jacket? Depends on the rest of the outfit and the weather. I wear Jean jackets most though.

44. favorite scent for soap? I love lavender, or vanilla/candy/fruity/baked goods type scents. I still have a bottle of Sugar Fairy spray from lush from a year ago and I love the smell of that.

45. which genre: sci-fi, fantasy or superhero? Fantasy I think.

46. most comfortable outfit to sleep in? Nekkid?

47. favorite type of cheese? As a kid it was feta. Now I only eat vegan cheese. I was never a huge cheese fan tbh.

48. if you were a fruit, what kind would you be? Rotten xD um probably a cranberry or something because I’m small, and I’m not a fan of cranberry.

49. what saying or quote do you live by? An it harm none do what you will. Or treat others as you wish to be treated.

50. what made you laugh the hardest you ever have? Probably one of the vines I listed above, either “run it past” or “can’t lift a house” because both of those resulted in crying and choking.

51. current stresses? My cat has been throwing up and having diarrhoea the past week or so, she’s been to the vet, it got better for a bit, but tonight suddenly got worse. Living with my parents who I have a very toxic relationship with. Living in a single very overfilled room. Trying to not spend money so that I can save up to move next year. Nightmares about my trauma. Either the house is haunted or there’s a build up of negative energy (probably that).

52. favorite font? I always liked the look of all of the script style fonts (freestyle, french, lucida, lucida calligraphy, Edwardian, Palace) but they’re not accessible so for anything people will actually see (which is literally nothing) I always go with arial.

53. what is the current state of your hands? Slight rash on one finger because I’m sensitive to what is in a lot of hand washing products apparently (never an issue until the pandemic), one broken finger nail that is a bit shorter than the rest. Not painted nails because energy. I always wear my engagement ring, usually I wear several other rings but with how my skin is being I thought I’d better not for a while.

54. what did you learn from your first job? Bakeries are hell, my circadian rhythm will not adjust to anything besides its natural state for longer than a couple of days at a time no matter how long or hard I try. I can absolutely fall asleep standing up.

55. favorite fairy tale? Ugly Duckling

56. favorite tradition? I don’t have anyway... Yet? Hopefully when I move this can become a thing.

57. the three biggest struggles you’ve overcome? I’m interpretting overcome loosely here, meaning “I have not died from this” - Suicide of my first love - Bullying - 3 different jobs that all nearly killed me

58. four talents you’re proud of having? Literally can’t think of one. I’m not talented. I’m passable at a couple of things, but I worked for those things and I’m still not good enough for anyone to confuse me for being talented xD Those things I care about that I’ve worked on a lot are singing, art, languages, crafts? I still struggled to come up with 4. My bad.

59. if you were a video game character, what would your catchphrase be? Aw jeez xD

60. if you were a character in an anime, what kind of anime would you want it to be? Magical Girl! This is an easy one, give me the powers and the clothes yessss.

61. favorite line you heard from a book/movie/tv show/etc.? Literally sitting here drawing a blank, so instead of favourite here is the first one that came into my head “eyes are the genitals of the head” (may have that wrong, I’m watching the Office for the first time rn)

62. seven characters you relate to? Clementine from Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind Amelie from Amelie Matilda from Matilda Quasimodo from the Hunchback of Notredame (also my favourite plush as a kid) Iris - The Holiday Jess - New Girl Amelia Shepherd - Grey’s Anatomy Struggled with this because suddenly I drew a blank and also couldn’t remember who my Fiance was talking about every time he’s watched a character and said “that’s you” repeatedly.

63. five songs that would play in your club? Starlight - Superman Lovers Pump It - Black Eyed Peas I Bet that You Look Good on the Dancefloor - Arctic Monkeys All the Things She Said - tATu Doctor Jones - Aqua Bonus: Push Up - Freestylers These are ones  I have memories of dancing to when I was younger so that’s how I picked, but I’d absolutely be a themed night club with different music on different nights.

64. favorite website from your childhood? Neopets, which I still play daily. The first I played was MaMaMedia, then Bubblegum Club.

65. any permanent scars? That’s a SORE subject heh get it heh

66. favorite flower(s)? Lavender, rose, peony

67. good luck charms? I usually carry gemstones if I’m needing to be particularly lucky, or sigils.

68. worst flavor of any food or drink you’ve ever tried? I hate anything spicy. I had rootbeer candy that tasted like literal dirt. I can’t eat banana stuff without gagging and getting a headache. I hate anything that is artificial blackberry or blackcurrant, tastes like shitty cough syrup.

69. a fun fact that you don’t know how you learned? Sea Monkeys breathe through their feet, but I remember where I learned that.

70. left or right handed? right

71. least favorite pattern? depends entirely on the colours, I like patterns. but certain stripes do make my eyes feel funny.

72. worst subject? If PE counts, then that. If not, math.

73. favorite weird flavor combo? I love pineapple on pizza but that’s not weird. Iused to eat cheese and jam sandwiches as a kid though.

74. at what pain level out of ten (1 through 10) do you have to be at before you take an advil or ibuprofen? I operate on how long it has lasted instead of how bad it is, essentially I get so desperate so I’ll try it even though it probably won’t help. I have the resistance of a rhino to most meds.

75. when did you lose your first tooth? No idea, like 4 I think? I did keep them in a weird little box for no reason though because they never got taken away from under my pillow.

76. what’s your favorite potato food (i.e. tater tots, baked potatoes, fries, chips, etc.)? I’m a fan of a good mash if it has lots of flavour (like gravy). Otherwise, crisps or fries.

77. best plant to grow on a windowsill? I grew a radish once! Something cat safe though these days, also maybe something heavy, and hard to knock over?

78. coffee from a gas station or sushi from a grocery store? Grocery Store sushi, if it’s just veg.

79. which looks better, your school id photo or your driver’s license photo? My only ID is my passport, and it is BAD.

80. earth tones or jewel tones? Both.

81. fireflies or lightning bugs? Fireflies (ten million of them to be precise)

82. pc or console? Grew up with PC. Now play my switch mostly.

83. writing or drawing? Both. Wrote more as a kid, draw more now.

84. podcasts or talk radio? Podcasts.

84. barbie or polly pocket? Both. But I prefered pollies as a kid

85. fairy tales or mythology? mythology

86. cookies or cupcakes? cupcakes

87. your greatest fear? Based on my nightmares, stairs.

88. your greatest wish? To live in a comfy house, in the country, with my Fiance, I have travelled the world, we have pets, I can function, we are free.

89. who would you put before everyone else? My Fiance and out animals.

90. luckiest mistake? Can’t think of any, most of my mistakes have been more like bad choices, also never turned out well for me.

91. boxes or bags? Depends what it’s for?

92. lamps, overhead lights, sunlight or fairy lights? lamps, or fairy lights. Unless I’m particularly anxious, then overheads.

93. nicknames? None.

94. favorite season? Winter

95. favorite app on your phone? LINE, it has my fiance, and animated stickers.

96. desktop background? Little Twin Stars

97. how many phone numbers do you have memorized? My own.

I never get asks and needed to distract myself so I’m going to just answer these anyway, like a survey or something. Original post by tr33-g1rl 

[nothing-i-can-do-now-i-guess]

Heyo! Kia, 21, female. Looking for another rp since most of mine seemed to have dried up. EST time zone, though my schedule is currently being weird, but I should be able to respond a few times a day. Sometimes just a few per week. I am a pretty detailed writer, focusing a lot on character introspection so I ask that you are at least similar in that regard. I write about 2-4 paragraphs on average and can write more. It really just depends on what’s happening in the rp. Dark themes, blood and violence may be present in the rp. I don’t write smut, I will only fade to black. Please be 18+. (On a side note, I’ve done all of this on my phone so I don’t know how the format looks. I apologize in advance if it’s too long and/or messy.)

Made a vampire oc for no reason. Now i have nothing to fo with her so I’m gonna see if I can get an rp going with her. If any of my plots involving her interest you or you have any plots of your own feel free to message me. Or interact with this post and I’ll contact you.

Name: Magdalena Cirila Kovac

Nickname: Mag, Lena, Maggie

Species: Vampire

Gender: Female

Sexual Orientation: Pansexual

Born: Sometime during the Middle Ages

Occupation: Depends on plot. Medieval times she’s a hired mercenary or hunter, Modern she’s the leader of her own vampire coven. She could be a monster hunter in any time period really.

Genres: Fantasy/Supernatural, Drama/Angst, Medieval, Romance, Adventure, Modern

Appearance:

Normal Form: 5’8, athletic build, pale skin, light freckles, long wavy dark red hair with even darker ends, bright green eyes. Beauty mark underneath the left corner of her mouth. Canines are only slightly elongated. Looks like a human in her mid to late 20s

Other Form: skin becomes deathly pale and black veins appear on her face and shoulders, scleras turn black and corneas turn bright red, all her teeth become razor sharp, nails turn into claws

Abilities:

Immortality: No longer has a lifespan. She can not age at all. Because she is undead she does not have to worry about any illness

Superhuman Physiology: Strength, Stamina, Agility, Senses, Durability

Accelerated Healing: Can heal from any normal injuries within seconds, larger wounds take a few minutes and may require her to feed to restore energy. Can come back from death from exposure to sunlight with blood

Metamorphosis: Can call upon a large swarm of bats to do her bidding. She can also transform into a swarm of bats and back at will. All of her clothes and weapons will transform along with her body. The bats can be used to charge her enemies in an attack.

Mesmerism: Possess the ability to coerce and control humans to do her bidding as long as she makes eye contact. However if someone has a strong enough will they may be able to break from her control or may not even be able to fall under her control.

Darkness Manipulation: Can generate and manipulate the darkness at will. As she ages the power grows stronger and can be used to cover larger and larger areas for longer periods of time.

Vampirism: She has the ability to turn others into vampires if they drink some of her blood. However it is not a guarantee that they will survive the transformation. Her blood is considered a poison to humans and will rapidly begin to kill someone once ingested. Some die in the process, if they survive then they will become a vampire. Anyone that she turns forms an attachment to her and cannot go against a direct order from her nor can they cause her physical harm. Any attempts to do either will result in an intense pain. She can however free them from her control at any time.

Swordsmanship: Mag is a very skilled swordsman, even before she became a vampire. Along with her powers she is a force to be reckoned with

Weaknesses:

Sunlight: Being exposed to sunlight can cause her skin to burn and blister, leaving her weak and unable to walk. If exposed for too long then she will begin to deteriorate into a charred corpse. However she can be brought back with some blood. She can go out during the day as long as she sticks to the shadows and will be fine to wander if it’s a cloudy day.

Wood: A sharp piece of wood to the heart can weaken and kill her. Sharp wood to the heart will cause her body and clothes to rapidly decay and disintegrate, ending up as a fossil like corpse with scraps of clothes left

Silver: Silver burns upon contact with her skin. If in the presence of a large amount of silver it will weaken her enough so that she is practically human. The very sight of silver can leave her vision blurred and dampened her hearing. As she ages it will become less of a problem.

Religious Items/Places: Religious items give off an intense light that burns enough for vampires to fear it. Though older vampires only see a bright light that causes slight discomfort at most. She is not able to enter holy grounds and if she does so it causes great pain. Holy water is like silver, burning a vampires skin upon contact

(Garlic: Not really a weakness, it’s more so like with lactose intolerance. She shouldn’t eat it since she won’t feel great later on but it tastes really good and is a risk she’s willing to take.)

Background:

Magdalena was born the only child of the King and Queen of Hungry during the Middle Ages. After one too many assassination attempts on her life during her teenage years, Magdalena was given a personal bodyguard who was training a younger, recently hired guard. The two would watch over her as she went about her days in the castle. Over time she grew close with the newer guard, eventually the pair fell in love but kept it a secret.

An attack on the castle one night led to the deaths of her father and the older guard assigned to her. Her lover was promoted to be her new head guard and worried for her safety, he began to teach her how to swordfight in secret. Rumors of another invasion reached the castle and it was decided not long after that Magdalena would marry sooner so that the people may have a king to lead them.

Not having much of an option, Magdalena finally revealed her feelings for her guard and demanded to be married to him or she would abdicat her rights to the throne and leave. Not wanting to lose her daughter, the Queen agreed to Magdalena’s terms. The pair were married and quickly crowned the new King and Queen. The King went off to fight in the war and returned home with a victory. Though a few more attempts at conquering them happened over the years, putting a strain of the kingdom as a whole. Not wanting to just sit idly by, Magdalena took on a vigilante persona early on in her time as Queen to help defend her people.

Years later she would give up vigilantism to raise her son along with her husband. They were allowed a few years of peace due to a treaty with neighboring kingdoms that did not last forever as their allies were being invaded and taken over with this new enemies eyes turning toward them.

In an attempt to save her family and kingdom, Magdalena did extensive research on any possible help and found a lead. In the middle of the night she disappeared to find help. The trail led her to a powerful vampire that agreed to give her power to save everyone she cared for only if she agreed to help them seek revenge against those that wronged them. This meant that she would have to leave her family behind forever, but also she could protect them. So with a heavy heart she agreed to their terms, sacrificing her own life to save those she cared for.

With her newfound power, Magdalena was able to kill the leader of the invading army, thus stopping the invasion of her kingdom but could not return home. So she allowed everyone to think she was dead. As per her agreement, she followed her new sire and helped him take revenge, learning about her new abilities as she did so. After spending long enough time by his side and no longer being needed, he finally freed her from his control, allowing Magdalena to leave and do as she wished. By now her family had long since died of old age and all she could do now was roam for the rest of eternity. With him being the only constant in her life she decided to stay for a while until she felt comfortable enough to strike out on her own.

Plot Ideas: These are all pretty vague ideas I had that can be expanded on. Of course if you have your own ideas I’m more than willing to listen to them. Or we could even combine them with one of my ideas. They can take place during anytime period except for Plot B.

Plot A: A VampirexWerewolf plot. It could be that one of our characters has recently moved their coven/pack onto the others territory and they’ve been having a lot of disputes between each other’s group. So in order to try and get some semblance of peace our characters agree to get together and discuss a shaky truce. The two start running into each other more and form an unexpected friendship that eventually leads to more. Slow burn, FxAny Gender

Plot B: Can explore an unlikely familial relationship between Magdalena and the person who turned her into a vampire. Explore how the two get along. Maybe also figure out who it was that wronged your character and why the two are hunting that person (or group of people) down. I literally know nothing about this character so you’re basically free to do whatever you want with them. Platonic, found family dynamics

Plot C: Fake Relationship plot. Your character is a pure blooded vampire royal that is being forced to marry someone in order to inherit the throne. Thankfully they get to choose who but they aren’t interested in anyone. Enter my character. The two agree to enter a fake relationship that allows your character to get the throne and my character gets a place she can unwind at. Could be that my character isn’t approved of by the council and they have to get around that. Slow burn FxAny Gender

Plot D: My character is a well known hunter and is hired to hunt down your character and arrest them. Finding your character is easy, getting them back to where they need to be is the hard part. Either because your character is very difficult or because someone else is hunting your character down to kill them. Could either be FxAny Gender romance or it could be platonic

Style: Depends on time period

Medieval

Modern

[placesthatchangedpeople]

Montana Academy testimony

This testimony was found on Reddit. All rights go to the author.

I’m not going to go into the hell that was SUWS Carolina [wilderness], as that is a whole different can of worms, and the boarding school was far more sinister. I arrived at Montana Academy a few weeks after turning 17. I was absolutely terrified after what I had been through spending 9 weeks living in the woods, but I was at least happy that I could use a toilet and sleep in a bed. [To get rid of any confusion later on, I was born male. At this point in my life I was still living as a boy, and trying very hard to convince myself I wanted to stay that way.] When I got to campus I was greeted by my team leaders and paraded through the lunch room as the entire student body looked at me [as all new students are]. I’m still convinced this is a power play devised by the creators of the school to subtly break your guard down. I said goodbye to my mom, grandmother, and my uncle, and began the worst period of my life.

So the Staff of our team was our team leader Dave, and boy, Dave was a piece of shit. He was the type of guy who would get a shit eating grin whenever he could punish you. You could fucking tell he got a semi off of it, and we would all talk about how much we hated him behind his back. I remember the ear to ear smile he got on his face as my eyes welled up with tears when he told me I couldn’t spend Christmas away from the ranch with my mom, because I was short by one signature on my checklist. That’s Dave in a nutshell. The weekend team leader was Sam and I think he was even worse, because he had the amazing ability to make you feel safe and loved one week, and then emotionally beat you to a pulp the next. For instance... There was one weekend where Sam and I had a long emotional talk where I opened up to him about how much my dad meant to me and how I would give anything to have him back. He gave me the biggest hug and told me he was here for me. The week after was rough and I was so excited to talk to him again, but when his shift started, he sat down and immediately screamed at me in front of everybody for not sitting down fast enough at the table, and put me on privilege freeze for a week. This would happen all the time. It was like he got off on building up our trust and hopes and then he would have a bad week at home and treat us like absolute shit.

I started with every intention of bettering myself. I had fully subscribed to the belief that I was broken as a result of “immaturity”, and the Founder of M.A.'s book was so fond of claiming. Despite coming from a broken home, childhood neglect, death of a parent, sexual abuse, trauma etc, it was MY fault that I ended up at M.A. I was ready to do my part. Unfortunately I wasn’t perfect as the staff expected me to be. I tried my ass off to do chores to the militaristic standards that they upheld, but I often fell short. Perhaps I missed a nearly microscopic hair in a bathtub. Sometimes, my sheets were a little crooked. And for each little transgression there was a severe consequence. If you made more than one mistake on your chores within a week, you could kiss all of your privileges goodbye. No phone call to your mom. No movie night. This may not seem like a big deal, but when you’re locked in an environment where you have maybe one tiny thing to look forward to a week, losing it because of something that is often not your fault is the most heart wrenching feeling in the world. Sometimes the punishments would go beyond cruel and just become abusive. About 5 weeks into my stay, I made the grave mistake of telling my team leader Dave that I had finished my assignment because I was having a really horrible day and just wanted to continue reading my book. Unfortunately he decided to double check. When he found out I wasn’t being honest, he assigned me to my first drudgery. That weekend I spent 6 hours outside in 20 degree weather scraping ice off of every single pathway on the entire ranch campus. I asked once if I could stop because my hands were rubbed raw and starting to bleed, and my weekend team leader Sam refused. I shouldn’t have lied, he insisted. By the end of the night, my hands were covered in blisters and I had learned my place. At this point I was broken, or so I thought. I didn’t know it could get worse.

As for therapy… My 1st therapist was useless. She was liable to cry about tragedies that had occurred during her own life. Ironically she was as cold as ice when it came to my issues. When it came to the issue of me being sexually assaulted in the 1st grade, she breezed right past it, and moved on to other issues. When I told her that I had always wished I had been been born a girl, she didn’t seem to give the slightest semblance of a fuck. When I would bring up the death of my father, or my mother’s alcoholism, she would go into how her brother died and start crying, and the next thing I knew I would be awkwardly wondering if I should console her. The biggest breakthrough in our therapy was when she came to the confident conclusion that the root of all my issues was that I was… wait for it… ADDICTED TO VIDEO GAMES… Every therapy session turned into her trying to convince me that I never wanted to play video games again, despite the fact I was drinking heavily and using substances before entering wilderness. After I finally promised her I would never touch another game again, we finally moved on to trying to process the loss of my father, and even that was a useless endeavor.

Group therapy was a clusterfuck. I don’t exactly know a better way to describe it than to call it “conflict therapy”. Seeing as how the entire M.A. operation was based around punishing students for their mistakes it was only natural to pit them against each other. The students of M.A. were each separated into 7 teams of roughly 10 students each. I spent 90% of my time with my team. They were your my friends, but I can guarantee they knew me fucking biblically. During group, it was common for one student on the team to be singled out and for every other student on the team to just fucking lay into them. It happened to everybody. We were all encouraged to tell on each other if we witnessed any rules being broken. I couldn’t trust my best friends with a secret at M.A. because the consequences were so dire. One tiny mistake could land me there for an extra year. Imagine the fucking paranoia that this causes. I was ALWAYS being watched. I began to question every single thing that I did. I began to believe the punishments I was being given were because I was useless, and because I couldn’t do anything right. After about a year I was 100% fucking brainwashed. I because some kind of M.A. Drone and I genuinely believed that I needed them to survive. It was like I was in a fucking cult, and if they had fucking cyanide in the punch I wouldn’t be writing this right now.

I think this next part was the most fucked up. This was the point where my red-pollyped festering cunt of a therapist decided to use me as an example, to teach a fucking seminar. My team was planning a father-son weekend trip. Doesn’t that sound lovely? Well, problem is, my dad’s fucking brain drowned in its own blood and so he’s in a box in my mom’s closet, so I can’t exactly take that out to Bowman lake with the boys. Luckily for me my therapist called me in and informed me that I was allowed to spend a weekend with my Uncle [who I love very much]. I was so happy, I was jumping for joy! A few weeks pass, and the father-son weekend is getting closer. My therapist calls me back in and tells me to sit down, and then informs me that she actually thinks it would be great for my “therapy” if I went with my team on the trip... I begged her to let me spend the weekend with my uncle, but she said it would also be good for the team’s therapy. So that weekend we all went to the lake. It was a really wonderful experience for everybody except for me. For the entire weekend I was alone. Some of my friends and their dads spent some time with me but I honestly wanted to be alone. Being the only kid without a fucking dad on a father-son trip is fucking humiliating beyond words. The worst part was on the last night of the weekend where the therapist held a group therapy session and the whole fucking thing was centered around me and my fucking dead dad, and all the issues that come with having a dead dad. My therapist had some really great and sensitive questions prepared... “Do you miss your dad?” “Do you feel guilty about anything?” “Why do you feel like it was your fault?” “Do you think your dad would be proud of you?” “Do you wish your dad was here?” “How did you deal with your mom falling apart?” “How do you feel that your mom is drinking again?” and the therapist just keeps pushing me and pushing me and pushing me until I’m inconsolable, and having a panic attack, and I just want her to shut the fuck up. I felt so broken, humiliated, and violated. How fucking dare this bitch of a therapist come at me with all of this heavy shit in front of people I've never met, when all she ever wants to talk about in our sessions is how much I like video games. They don’t care in these fucking places. They wanted to give these stupid fucking dads something powerful to witness so they could write a fucking Facebook post about the amazing work that's being done at MA. May they rot in hell.

Medical malpractice was also Rampant. While at M.A. I was struggling with weight and eating issues. My team “suggested” that I run a half marathon because our new team leader liked to run and they love to fucking push even the smallest beliefs and hobbies on their students. The shoes I was training in had literally no insoles. I asked for new shoes and was told to write a proposal. I wrote one and was never responded to by the treatment team [big fucking surprise]. After weeks of training we finally ran the half marathon. Halfway through, I felt a shooting pain in my foot. I told my team leader as he was not too far ahead. He didn’t give me much of a choice but to finish. For the next 6-8 weeks I asked the nurse every day if I could please go to the doctor as my foot was killing me, and nobody ever did anything about it. Finally after asking over what must have been 50 times, they agreed to let me go into town to get an x-ray. The x-ray found that I had snapped the middle metatarsal bone in my foot clean in half. So not only did M.A. make me run 6 miles with a broken foot, they made me do hard fucking labor on it for 6-8 weeks before allowing medical treatment. Care for Transgender students was disgustingly ignorant and based on lies and misinformation. Despite trying to come out as trans to my 1st M.A. therapist, it was just ignored. I tried multiple times to bring it up, but I’m now certain that my therapist didn’t know what a trans person was, and so she just thought it would be easier to switch the subject. When I moved on to the Sky House [the halfway house portion of the program] I said fuck it and just fully came out. This was met with backlash from the therapy team. Since I was at the Sky house now I had a new therapist and he had a lot of info about transitioning. Unfortunately, all of the info was fucking wrong, and he filled my head with misinformation, lies, and half-truths, in an attempt to make it sound like starting hormones was harder than getting a fucking doctorate from Harvard.

After Finally graduating M.A. I had been brainwashed into believing that getting a script for hormones was like a quest for the holy grail. I had no idea how fucking easy it actually was. I tried to live a normal life. I moved in with my aunt and uncle for a little while until I went off to college. I stayed sober for a few months, but as soon as I got to the university, things started fucking unraveling fast. I realized that I had been horribly abused and that the “therapy” I had been undergoing was nothing more than expensive babysitting. I fucking lost it I started drinking and taking any substance I could. I failed out of my school and moved back home. I drifted around for 3 years drinking, and being a disgusting and terrible person. I had to figure it all out on my own. I fucked with drugs I never should have and fell in with people I had no business being with. I drank too much, and made many regrettable decisions. But I still figured my fucking life out. I figured out that I needed to fucking get it together. I made a goal. I needed to transition. That was problem A. I got sober, went to my Nana [my hero] and found a therapist and within 2 weeks I was on hormones and began my transition, and by pure luck, I found love. It’s been a little over 4 years since I’ve gotten sober and things are far from perfect. I have severe PTSD from going to that hell of a school. I still dream about it multiple nights a week, and wake up in a fucking panic. I never leave the goddamn house because I start to panic, and I have serious trouble holding a job, so instead I work from home as a camgirl, inserting large objects into me for money. I’m lucky though that I now have my girlfriend to help me through it. Without her, I don’t know what I would do most days. Also, its really fucking great to not have to be a goddamn boy anymore. If anyone else had a similar experience [and I know others have] you’re not alone, and good luck.

[loretranscripts]

Lore Episode 33: A Dead End (Transcript) - 2nd May, 2016

tw: gore

Disclaimer: This transcript is entirely non-profit and fan-made. All credit for this content goes to Aaron Mahnke, creator of Lore podcast. It is by a fan, for fans, and meant to make the content of the podcast more accessible to all. Also, there may be mistakes, despite rigorous re-reading on my part. Feel free to point them out, but please be nice!

When the trucker pulled up to the toll booth on Route 895 in Virginia, it was the middle of the night, and the look on his face was one of confusion and fear. The toll booth attendant listened to the man’s story and then sent him on his way. The state highway there is referred to as the Pocahontas Parkway, so maybe the man’s story was just a play on the name’s motif, but when the highway department received more than few phone calls that night from distressed motorists, each telling essentially the same story, the authorities began to take notice. What the trucker saw, what all of them claimed to have seen, was a small group of Native Americans standing in the grass between the east- and west-bound lanes of traffic near Mill Road. The trucker described them as standing motionless in the grass, each one holding a burning torch. He assumed they were picketing, of course – after all, the parkway is rumoured to cut through land that’s sacred to local Native American tribes – but the middle of the night didn’t seem like the right time for a peaceful protest. So, it didn’t sit well with him, or the others who claimed to see the very same thing. The Times Dispatch caught wind of the story and soon people were flocking to the Mill Street overpass to see if they, too, could catch a glimpse of the ghosts. And that’s what it all comes down to, isn’t it? We all want to see the ghosts, to witness history press it’s face against the glass of the present, to cheat reality, in a sense. Each year, thousands of people around the world claim that they, too, have seen a ghost. They tell their stories and pass along their goose-bumps like some communicable disease. But the reality is that, for most of us, we never see a thing. History is often nothing more than a distant memory. In some places, though, that history floats a bit closer to the surface. I’m Aaron Mahnke, and this is Lore.

 When the English arrived in what is now Virginia way back in 1607, they found the land heavily populated by the original inhabitants of the region. The English called them the Powhatan, although that was just the name of their leader. If you don’t recognise his name that’s understandable, but everyone certainly remembers his daughter, Pocahontas. Before Richmond was… Richmond, the land where it now stands was an important Powhatan settlement. In 1607, a party from Jamestown travelled inland and claimed the location as their own. Possession of the land bounced back and forth between the Native Americans and the English for years, but it was finally in 1737 that the tribes lost, and Richmond was born.

Early on, Richmond played host to important figures in the American Revolution against England. Patrick Henry, the man who shouted: “Give me liberty, or give me death”, did so from St. John’s Church, right there in Richmond. And in the middle of the Revolutionary War, Thomas Jefferson served as the governor of Virginia out of the city. Less than a century later, Richmond became a key city in the Confederacy, as the American Civil War tore the country apart. From its munitions factory and railroad system to the seat of the new government under Jefferson Davis, it was a powerful city, and rightly so – and at the centre of it all is Belle Isle. It sits right there in the James River, between Hollywood Cemetery to the north and Forest Hill to the south. It’s easy to overlook on a map, but far from being an afterthought, Belle Isle is actually home to some of the most painful memories in the history of the city.

Before the English arrived and Captain John Smith stood atop the rocks there, Belle Isle belonged to the Powhatan. Shortly after the English took control of it late in the early 1700s it was a fishery, and then, in 1814, the Old Dominion Iron and Nail Company built a factory there. Positioned on the river with the strong current never tiring, it was the perfect location to harness the power of the water. As the ironworks grew, so did its footprint. The factory expanded, a village was built around it, and even a general store popped up to serve the hundreds of people who called the island home. But they wouldn’t be the only ones to live there. In 1862, Confederate forces moved onto the island and began to fortify it. Their plan was to use the isolated island as a prison camp and began to transport Union captives there by the thousands. Over the three years it was in operation, the prison played host to over 30,000 Union soldiers, sometimes over 10,000 at a time. The crowded space and resentful feelings between Confederate and Union ideals led to deplorable conditions.

In 1882, after living with memories of the prison camp for nearly two decades, New York cavalry officer William H. Wood wrote to the editor of the National Tribune with his observations. “Many froze to death during the winter,” he wrote, “others were tortured in the most barbarous manner. I’ve seen men put astride a wooden horse such as masons use, say, 5ft high, with their feet tied to stakes in the ground, and left there for an hour or more on a cold, winter morning. Often their feet would freeze and burst open.” He also wrote of their lack of food. “A lieutenant’s dog,” he wrote, “was once enticed over the bank and taken into an old tent, where it was killed and eaten raw. Your humble servant had a piece of it. For this act of hungry men, the entire camp was kept out of rations all day.” There were only a few wooden shacks to house the prisoners, so they lived out their days completely exposed to the elements – blistering heat, freezing cold, rain and frost, and all of it contributed to the suffering of the men who were held there. Estimates vary depending on the source, but it’s thought that nearly half of those that were brought to the camp – that’s close to 15,000 – never left alive.

Today, Belle Isle is a public park, but it’s haunted by a dark past, and by those who lived and died there long ago. You can’t see their ghosts, but you can certainly feel them. It’s a heavy place. Those who visit the island claim to have felt its dark past in the air like the stifling heat of an iron forge. But there are other places in Richmond that are said to be haunted. Unlike Belle Isle, though, these locations aren’t in ruins, or nearly forgotten by the living. They’re right in the middle of everyday life, and each one has a unique story to tell. They have their own past, and according to those who have been there, it can still be seen.

 Technically, Wrexham Hall is in Chesterfield County, just south of Richmond, but when you speak to people about the city’s deep, haunting past, it’s always brought up as a perfect example of local lore, and while it doesn’t have a large number of stories to tell, what it does offer is chilling enough. The house was built at the end of the 18th century by Archibald Walthall, who left the home to his daughters, Polly and Susannah. It was Susannah who later sold her childhood home, but because there was always risk that the property might be used for future construction, she required that the new owners at least preserve the family graveyard. Time and the elements, though, have allowed the site of the burial ground to slip from memory, and according to some, that’s why Susannah has returned to Wrexham Hall, perhaps in an effort to make sure some piece of the past is still remembered.

Many years after her death, the home was owned by a man named Stanley Hague. He and a handful of other men had been working in the field near the house when they looked up to see a woman in a red dress sitting on the front porch. They all saw her, and even commented to each other about it. It was hard to miss that bright red against the white home. Later, when Stanley headed home from work, he asked his wife if her mother had been on the porch that day. No, she told him, she’d been away all day in Richmond.

In Hollywood Cemetery, just north of Belle Isle, there are other stories afoot. The graveyard was established in 1849 and is the final resting place of a number of important figures – former US presidents James Monroe and John Tyler, along with Confederate president Jefferson Davis. There are also two Supreme Court Justices buried there, along with 22 confederate generals and over 18,000 troops. The soldiers are honoured with an enormous stone pyramid that reaches up beyond the tree tops, and even though no one is buried beneath it, there have been several reports of moans heard coming from the stones. Others have claimed to have felt cold spots near the base. But it’s really a grave nearby that’s the site of the most activity there. This grave belongs to a little girl who died at the age of three from a childhood illness, and standing beside her tombstone is a large, cast iron dog. According to the local legend, the dog once stood outside her father’s grocery store, but when she passed away in 1862, it was moved to her grave to look after her. That might not be completely accurate, though. In the early 1860s, many iron objects were melted down to be used for military purposes, so the dog was most likely moved to the cemetery as a way of protecting it, but that hasn’t stopped the stories – stories that include visions of a little girl playing near the grave, or the sound of barking in the middle of the night.

Nearby, on Cary Street, is the old, historic Byrd Theatre. It was built in 1928 and named after the founder of Richmond himself, William Byrd. The space inside is enormous – it can seat over 900 on the lower level and another 400 or so in the balcony, and it’s up there that some of the oddest experiences have taken place. When the theatre opened its doors in December of 1928, Robert Coulter was the manager, and he continued to serve in that role all the way up until 1971, when he passed away. For over four decades, he was a permanent fixture in the theatre, often found sitting in his favourite seat up to one side of the balcony, and if we believe the stories, Robert never left. The current manager has been told by a number of people that they’ve all seen a tall man in a suit, sitting in the balcony at times when no one else was up there. Others have physically felt someone pass by them while operating the projector. The former manager has even been seen on more than one occasion by employees locking the front doors at night, as if he were coming out to help them. The stories that are whispered about places like Byrd Theatre aren’t alone. There are dozens of locations across the city that claim unusual activity and equally eerie stories, but none can claim to have played host to a flesh and blood monster. None, that is, except for one.

 In 1875, the Chesapeake and Ohio Railway Company was looking to connect some track in Richmond to another spur 75 miles to the south. Newport News was down that way, and that meant ocean and shipping. It was a gamble to make their railroad more profitable in the wake of the Industrial Revolution and its increasing demand for things like coal, something mined in western Virginia. Part of the new railway line would cut through Richmond, near Jefferson Park, and it was decided that a tunnel would be constructed for the track to pass through. Trains would enter on 18th Street and then exit 4000ft later on the eastern end, near 31st Street. It was one of those ideas that sounded perfect on paper. Reality, though, had a few complications to throw at them. Richmond sits on a geological foundation of clay, as opposed to the bedrock found in other parts of the state. It’s the kind of soil that changes consistency depending on the season and weather. Rainy months lead to more ground water, and that swells the clay. Dry months cause the opposite. As you can imagine, it’s difficult to build on ground that constantly changes density. Even during construction, there were a number of cave-ins. Between the project’s inception in 1875 and its completion six years later, at least ten men died while working in the tunnel. Even after it was open, water had a tendency to seep in and cause problems, something that went on for decades.

Around 1901, though, alternative routes were created, and the Church Hill Tunnel was used less and less. But when the railroad wanted to increase capacity in 1925, they remembered the old tunnel, and began work to bring it up to modern standards. Maybe now, they thought, they could do it right. By the autumn of 1925, the tunnel was playing host to a crew of brave men, supported by a work train powered by steam. They were slowly making their way along the length of the tunnel, making repairs, improving the engineering and hopefully making the tunnel safe for future use. But even after claiming so many lives decades before, the tunnel didn’t seem to be done just yet.

On October 2nd, while doing what they’d been doing for weeks, dozens of men were working inside the tunnel when the ceiling collapsed. Most escaped, but five men were trapped inside, buried alive. And to make matters worse, the steam engine exploded from the weight of the debris pressed down on it, filling the tunnel with steam and dust, eventually contributing to even further collapse. According to the story as it’s told today, something did, in fact, walk out of the tunnel – but it wasn’t human. They say it was a hulking creature, covered in strips of decaying flesh, with sharp teeth and a crazed look in its eye. And because witnesses reported that blood was flowing from its mouth, many have since referred to it as the Richmond Vampire. No one could explain why the creature was there. Some suggested that it had been attracted to the carnage and had come to feed. They say that’s why the early rescue attempts only found one of the five missing men, still seated at the control of the work train. There was no other sign of the other victims of the tragedy, though, so some suggest that perhaps the vampire had something to do with that. Witnesses say that the creature fled out the eastern end of the tunnel, past the gathering crowd of workers, and then made its way south to Hollywood Cemetery. Some of the workmen who had managed to escape the collapse and witnessed the creature’s getaway were able to make chase, following it through the graveyard for a distance. Then, they claimed, it slipped into one of the tombs, the final resting place of a man named W. W. Pool.

Pool, it turns out, was a relatively unknown accountant who had died just three years prior. According to the local legend, this made sense – the blood on the mouth, the jagged teeth, the return to the mausoleum. All of it pointed to one, undeniable fact that quickly spread across the city as one of the premier legends of Richmond. Pool was, of course, a vampire. It’s said that people returned to the cemetery for many nights, each one eagerly waiting to see if the vampire would emerge from its hiding place once more, but there were no other stories to tell us what happened next. If the Richmond Vampire had been active before the Church Hill tunnel incident, it seems he had gone into retirement immediately after it. Like many tales of local lore, this story ends on an unsatisfying note. Just as the mysterious creature’s trail from the collapsed tunnel finally ended in the shadowy doorway of a cold mausoleum, the story of what happened seems to end in shadows as well. Much like the tunnel itself, it was now nothing more than a dead end.

 A funny thing happens somewhere between real life events in the past and the stories we tell each other around the campfire or dining room table. Much like the true and tried telephone game, where the message is passed from person to person through a long chain of possession, these old stories shift and change. The change is never visible. They adapt to a new culture, or take on elements that are only relevant to a particular generation, but after decades, sometimes even centuries, these stories stand before us transformed, which is the difference between history and folklore, after all. History, there’s a paper trail, a clear image of the original that time and distance has more difficult time eroding. Folklore is like water, forever shifting to fit the crevice as the rock breaks down. Richmond is an old city by the standards of most Americans. Yes, there are older places on the east coast, but it has a storied history that makes it feel almost timeless – Jamestown, the Revolutionary War, the Civil War and the Confederacy. American history would be lacking something essential without the role Richmond has played through it all. Some of that history is unchanged, but some, it seems, has undergone deep transformation over the years, and a prime example of that is the story of the Richmond Vampire.

The collapsed tunnel and the train inside are all fact. There have even been modern day efforts to rescue the train car inside and clear the rubble, but the tunnel is now flooded with the same ground water that made it unstable in the first place. The events that happened on that dark, October day in 1925 were real, though – at least to a degree. A lone survivor did crawl from the wreckage, as the story tells us. His teeth were sharp and his mouth was bloody. Even his skin, hanging from his body like wet linen bandages, is documented fact. But the survivor had a name – Benjamin Mosby. He was a 28-year-old employee of the railroad and was described as big and strong. At the moment of the accident, he’d been standing in front of the train’s open coal door, shirt off, covered in sweat, and shovelling fuel into the fire. When the tunnel collapsed, the boiler burst under the pressure, washing Mosby in a flood of scalding water. But he somehow survived, crawled free from the rock and twisted metal, and walked to safety. He died the following day at the local hospital, and it was his appearance, with bloody, broken teeth and skin boiled from his body in ribbons, that fuelled the story we still whisper today. It’s almost cliché to say it, but it’s true – sometimes the real-life events that birth the legend turn out to be more frightening and horrific than any folktale could ever be.

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