#the way gale asks for artifacts I thought it was clear it was him wanting to work as a team like...........

[epiphyllous]

when morning comes (Astarion/Reader) [3]

Astarion understands Ketheric Thorm more than he realizes. For what are they both if not selfish, foolish men willing to do everything to keep what is theirs? (Astarion begins to think he does not deserve you.)

Word Count: ~9k Notes: Astarion/Reader, Paladin!Reader, AFAB, gender-neutral "you", following Astarion romance route in his POV + my hc/additional scenes, [switches to your POV], annoyance to lovers, fall first/fall harder, mutual pining, Wyll/Karlach, implied Wyll/Reader [Part 2]

[Act II: Moonrise Towers]

Getting into Moonrise was almost too easy. It is a relatively stressless trip if not for the grand introduction of Ketheric Thorm. The man truly is invulnerable, walking up the steps of the tower without care after being killed twice right before their eyes. It is no wonder Moonrise follows his command, convinced of his authority as the Absolute's chosen. 

It is equally as easy to convince Moonrise that they are all willing followers of the Absolute. Z'rell is the only person they truly had to demonstrate loyalty to, but Astarion watches you display just enough cruelty to the goblins to prove your place. 

“Your lust for the neck pricker is succulent,” she suddenly says, eyes turning to him. Astarion looks to you in question, only to see you glance away in mild embarrassment. “It almost makes me want to take a bite out of him myself.”

“Enough,” you say, clearing your throat. “Surely you know by now we're loyal to the cause?”

She does, or she says as much when she assigns them a mission to help Balthazar get the artifact responsible for Ketheric Thorm's immortality. Astarion doesn't really know the details, not caring much to pay attention when he already understands the gist of it involves killing someone. Besides, he is more interested in what exactly Z'rell saw in your thoughts. If only to tease you about your ‘succulent lust’ for him, he means to bring it up the first chance he gets. 

You must realize this, because you take your time exploring Moonrise Towers and keeping them all preoccupied. Gale manages to get blessed for the first time in what seems like forever by his goddess when he rids of the foul Netherese magic circle in Balthazar's chambers. Karlach gets her chance to pet the undead guard dog in Ketheric's private quarters, and you keep him preoccupied with all the chests they have to unlock.

Astarion gets an opportunity to talk after they find Melodia Thorm's room and the letters she gave to her husband, but he finds you solemn in thought at the discovery, so he decides (for once) to leave you be for now. 

Then they meet Araj Oblodra, and the thought completely leaves his head.

He barely resists the urge to cover his nose for how foul her blood smells. He manages to smile rather than grimace when they first greet her, though he finds his efforts wasted when she sets her eyes on him to be bitten. Astarion can't imagine something he would want to do less.

When the drow asks if he ‘belongs’ to you, Astarion watches as you frown. "Astarion can answer for himself just fine," you say. "He's his own person." 

It is almost adorable how disconcerted you look when the drow continues on, as if you can't quite understand why anyone would think you could own him. Astarion finds it annoyingly familiar though, the way he is viewed as something lesser without needs or preferences. Your easy agreement to his own autonomy is... refreshing. He has known your proclivity for all things good and fair, but to have you display it in full for his sake,  Astarion feels touched.

“I will have to decline,” he tells her with a stiff smile.

The blood dealer bristles, not expecting his response, and he begins to feel uneasy despite himself. “Excuse me? This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and you're squandering it.”

Astarion nearly bares his fangs in response. “I gave you my answer,” he hisses, and in the corner of his eyes, he sees you shift, stepping closer to him. The unease at refusing the offer dissipates knowing you are there to support him, even when the drow becomes increasingly displeased. 

“Can't you talk sense into your obstinate charge?” Araj demands, and you quip her with a short and sharp smile. That’s one he hasn’t seen in a while, Astarion thinks, forced civility wielded like a weapon against those who have found themselves on your bad side. Which you do have, to his past surprise. Astarion just never imagined that he would bear witness to someone landing themselves in it just because of the way they speak to him. 

Astarion would be lying if he said he was not pleased.

"I don't really see why he needs to say yes,” you drawl. “I'm surprised he said no, to be honest."

Ugh, you are honest even in the worst of times.

"Sorry, one moment..." Amusement and exasperation battles in equal strength as he pulls you away just enough to speak to you privately. "Are you actually asking me to do this? Trading me for some potion?" He asks, though when he sees genuine confusion flit back into your expression, he confirms your question is out of curiosity not persuasion. You seem almost panicked at the thought of his suggestion being true.

"What? No," you reply back to him, alarmed. "I would never!” You desperately scramble to explain yourself. “I just thought you'd jump at the opportunity to bite people. I was, you know, just a little surprised.”

Funnily enough, you may have a point. A point that need not happen in front of an annoyed drow, but a point nonetheless. He could never truly fault you for being right, however inconvenient it is sometimes. (In the past, he would never have imagined he would feel this way about you.) "Well, yes, you aren't wrong,” he says, “but something smells off about her blood. I don't need to taste it to know it's going to be awful."

He shudders for good measure, and he sees your lips quirk up at his dramatics. He thinks briefly about how he has only known the taste of your blood, besides the time he was compelled to take a bite out of Gale because of a cursed frog. The drow's blood smells worse than his netherese poisoned blood, and in comparison, yours is almost sweet. Astarion finds himself elaborating without prompting. "Nothing that will kill me, but I'd rather not go through it if I don't have to."

You nod. "Okay,” you say easily, “if you don't want to, you don't have to.”

"Alright," Astarion replies automatically before his surprise can stop him. Just like that, he thinks, and he can make choices for himself just by how it makes him feel. It's rather novel. The realization is quite overwhelming, despite how simple you make it seem. He pauses, shooting you a quick smile-- or what he hopes is a smile. "Uh, thank you." 

You only wave your hand at him and turn back to the drow with an unapologetic smile. He faces the drow with you and turns her down again, much to her immense displeasure. 

You manage to lift Araj's moods somewhat when you offer up your blood for experimentation. Astarion isn't happy about the exchange, for who knows what the drow will do with your blood, but you seem genuinely curious enough about the whole concept. You get a flask made from your blood in return, which you give to him almost immediately. 

“A gift,” you tell him. “Let me know what it does if you drink it.” A flicker of guilt comes and goes when he accepts it, and for a brief and endearing moment he thinks this may be a gesture made because of the misunderstanding earlier. He feels pleasantly surprised by how quickly you come to his defense and try to make amends when you think you have done him a disservice– as though his feelings mattered. 

You tilt your head curiously. “Can you still smell my blood in the potion?”

Astarion opens up the flask and takes a look. In the bouquet of herbal scents, yes, he can identify your blood mixed in it. He rather thinks he is quite familiar with it, and it is a taste he can never get tired of. 

He wants to thank you but finds that he has bigger things to be grateful for. He has never been shy of showing thanks, but what you've just done for him in front of Araj is too important to him for it to be said in passing.

At every chance you get, you make him feel... seen. Safe. He is his own person, vampirism be damned– a living being with his own thoughts and feelings, and you make it known to him and to everyone even if he himself cannot see it. Your goodness remains in the face of temptation, and you are unwavering in your beliefs when you believe it to be right. How does one even begin to thank you for not betraying his faith in you like that? 

(What a fragile thing trust is, to be put to the breaking point at a single moment in time. What if you had demanded him to bite the drow, regardless of how he felt? If you had placed more value in the potion's abilities than in his own free will? He suspects his relationship with you would be unsalvageable. For some things may be forgiven–and he feels as though he would forgive many things for you–but he cannot afford to lose himself again, even to you.)

Astarion doesn't get a chance with you alone for a while, the party having moved on to trying to break the prisoners from Moonrise Towers. The tieflings– Rolan will absolutely hate the fact they will have saved Lia and Cal for him--and dark gnomes alike all wait in the prisons for the right time to hatch their plan. They are lucky to have them show up when they do and guide them out without a single trace. Astarion is almost disappointed that there wasn’t a fight to be had. 

He waits until the freed gnomes and tieflings steer their way to Last Light Inn in the distance before he speaks with you. Water laps at the makeshift port the prisoners sailed from, and as Gale goes into the logistics of his mage hand magic to Karlach, he approaches you. 

You look into the distance, beyond the point of where the Moonrise Tower's light can reach. When you turn to him, as if feeling his gaze, he feels a moment of déja vu. 

"I wanted to thank you,” he tells you.

You look confused, glancing out into the dark before coming back to him, and he realizes perhaps you think he's somehow grateful for releasing the prisoners. Not a strange notion, but certainly what would be a first for him, considering who they saved. "For what?"

"For what you said whilst we were in front of that vile drow,” Astarion continues, finding himself more impassioned than he previously thought. “You could have asked me to throw myself at the drow, my feelings be damned.” He pauses for a moment to gather himself. “But you didn't, and I'm grateful."

Your response comes easily to you as it did before. "Of course.” You tell him, “I wouldn't want you to do something you don't want to.”

Your words are gentle, but they leave him feeling exposed. It's as though his chest has been opened and now you bear witness to what he has kept hidden for so long. He is by no means fragile, but it does not mean he is unaffected by how vulnerable he feels in the face of your unconditional acceptance.

"I admit it's a novel concept. A little intimidating.” Astarion stops again, musing over his words and willing for his voice to stop shaking. You wait patiently for him until he confesses, “For two hundred years, I used my body to lure pretty things back to my master. What I wanted, how I felt about what I was doing-- it never mattered. It would have been easy enough, honestly, to just bite her. Face a little disgust and move on from it like I did before."

“Astarion,” you begin softly, and he feels his neck prickle with an emotion unfamiliar to him: embarrassment. You pause then, finding the words you want to say. “I want you to keep telling me how you feel about things. I need to know what you're okay with and what you're not because,” and it is your turn to look abashed, “I don't always know what you want. I'm not the most observant person, and I would hate it if I accidentally made you do something you didn't want to do.” You breathe. “So, thank you, for telling me.”

“It's rather odd to hear you thank me,” he admits, and he unfurls fists he hadn't realized he was holding. He leaves it unsaid, how difficult it has been to be truthful to himself and to you. He isn't sure if he can remain so in the worst of times, but he knows this at least: he will continue to try.

He thinks it is the first time he has been given the chance to.

You make a face he would have laughed at if he were not so relieved. “I've said thank you to you before.”

“That is not what I mean, dear,” he replies dryly, and when he hears footsteps approach, he knows this conversation has reached its end. (An expert, Astarion carefully sews himself closed, though he leaves a stitch untethered so perhaps next time it will not be so hard to undo. The thought of being seen becomes less frightening when he knows it will be you.)

“Gale and I might've found something you might want to check out,” Karlach says, pointing behind her. “Looks rather nasty and sort of important.”

“Man, can we ever separate the importance from how disgusting it ends up being?” You bemoan, walking up to Karlach and easily accepting the arm she puts around your shoulder. “How gross?” 

“Quite nasty, even to our standards,” Gale replies, grimacing. “I think that's saying quite a lot, considering our adventures so far.”

Astarion hears you mutter a small ‘ew’ under your breath and he huffs in laughter. “Well, as long as it involves blood and violence, I'm sure it won't be too terrible of an encounter,” he says. 

Entering the adjacent bowels of an illithid colony threatens that viewpoint, but the rest of them are too preoccupied with their own thoughts to call Astarion out for it. All in good time, he thinks as he brushes off the organic bits off his clothes without drawing attention to himself.

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Shadowheart is beside herself when they enter the Gauntlet of Shar. As one of the only and largest places of worship of the dark goddess, it is impressive in its grandiosity and in how unwelcoming it makes itself to be with its dark corners and tall pillars. If Shadowheart finds rapture in the temple, Halsin and you find it unsettling with how cold it is, though you keep your opinions to yourself. 

For Astarion, he finds the temple rather homey; it is quiet and lonely, but it is still leagues better than the dreaded halls of Cazador's castle. When he tells the party just as much, he receives matching looks of incredulity. 

“Do you… happen to like tall ceilings, Astarion?” You ask, comically sincere about it. 

“Perhaps he sees the beauty in the silence,” Halsin offers. “It could be seen as…” He pauses. “Peaceful.”

Astarion sees Shadowheart turn her head a tad too late to hide her laughter. 

Peaceful is giving the Gauntlet too much credit. The silence of the temple is unsettling at best, abandoned by those who used to worship it. Abandoned, it makes for a lovely home for a devil– more specifically the orthon they are tasked to kill in order to fulfill Raphael's deal. 

Astarion could care less why Yurgur is here, but if the absence of living Dark Justiciars is of any indication, the orthon must have overstayed its welcome after the war. His ability to turn invisible is a tad irritating but he and his army are no match for them and their combined wit. You have quite the arm to throw his bombs back to him, and in the aftermath, there is nothing but dust. 

As though he were watching, Raphael appears to them soon after to uphold his end of the bargain. He seems a midge too satisfied to be revealing the truth about the devilish contract etched onto Astarion's back, but perhaps he is simply happy to have gotten rid of his enemy vicariously. Astarion pays no mind to the devil when he leaves, mind whirling with the implications of the truth. 

In short, it is overwhelming. (The feeling is quickly becoming familiar.) Two hundred years of questions finally answered. The reason for his pain all those nights ago, the horrors he has had to face all these years finally having meaning. It is a dreadful conclusion to result in, with more problems introduced than closure given. 

Astarion lets out a thoughtful hum, and the concern on your face would be funny if his thoughts weren't so preoccupied. "You okay?"

"It's a lot to take in." Astarion pauses, looking over to you as you wait patiently, though there is still a veneer of concern behind your eyes. He finds that in your patience, he realizes he is afraid–of what is to come, and what this revelation means for him. Another realization is the fact that he trusts you in full. It should scare him, the way he feels like he can turn to you for help, but it does not--not as much as it used to. "What do you think I should do?"

"Well," you begin placidly, "anything to do with devils and demons never ends well. And," you glance at him, "the sacrifice of all vampire spawn doesn't sound too good to me."

"There's only the seven of us," he says, though he knows one is already too many for you to leave dead. The thought both irritates and comforts him in equal measure, especially when you give him a practiced look of exasperation. "Though that does include me. Just when I was about to start enjoying life again."

"And about Cazador." You continue plainly, "I don't think you'll be free until he's dead."

His heart leaps, and then something settles. How quick you are to get to the heart of the problem, not that he will ever admit it to you. "I hate," he says, "how right you are. If I thought he'd stop at nothing to find me when I was just his plaything, he'd go to the ends of Faerûn to bring me back knowing this contract." He swallows inaudibly, preparing his next words. "We need to take the fight to him, but I can't do it alone."

"You won't be," you say so easily. It pulls at heartstrings he wasn't aware existed. "You'll have me."

"Yes, well." He clears his throat. "Let's not overestimate ourselves; the two of us will certainly not be enough to go against a true vampire lord. Though..." Astarion trails off, trying but failing to stave off from the warmth that courses through him. "For what it's worth, thank you." 

Your smile is beatific, and Astarion begins to think perhaps he doesn't deserve you. 

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As the umbral gems are collected, it begins to feel like the beginning of the end for the shadows that lurk. Everyone can feel it; it is the way hard conversations are beginning to be had, all loose ends tying up before the coming of a new chapter. Astarion sees you speak to Gale about his so-called destined fate to die against the Absolute, to Arabella about her future beyond her parents’ death, and to Karlach about hard decisions and an ending that seems all too close to come. You are busy with all matters of import that Astarion has not had a moment's time with you for the past few days.

He loathes to admit it but he finds himself missing your company. A ridiculous notion, he is sure. It's not as if he has not seen you around camp or not exchanged words with you at all. If anything, you still proactively seek out opportunities to see him when you are free, but all attempts to find the time to spend with him end up taken by someone else. 

Astarion remembers once upon a time when he had barely cared to recognize the effort you put into spending time with him. Now, when he is bereft of your presence, he cannot stand the fact that everyone seems determined to thwart your every attempt.

He says as much to Karlach– though he may have complained more about your busy-body schedule than admit the fact he finds himself in want of you. Much to his dismay, Karlach is similar to you in the worst of ways, seeing through him easier than most. Though it may be due to her straightforward manner more than anything. 

“Aw, Astarion, if you miss them that much, you can try to see if you can talk to them when they’re free too. Ooh!” She exclaims in excitement, “Do you want me to distract everyone for a little while? So the two of you lovebirds can have a moment together?”

Astarion is quick to turn her down. It embarrasses him to a degree that he misses you. He doesn’t think he is quite ready to admit it to himself, let alone to other people. It feels… final, like a turning point that Astarion isn’t sure he can take– should take. Surely, he thinks, you find other people’s company more enjoyable? “No, that won’t be necessary, darling,” he says airily. “It is hardly that important to warrant that much effort from either of us.”

He thinks Karlach’s look is much too sympathetic for his liking, so he excuses himself to read the Book of Thay again. At least then he won’t have to listen to his own thoughts.

That being said… Astarion's gaze follows you when you flit back and forth in camp. The book lay in his hands, opened but nearly forgotten, and he starts to take Karlach's words into consideration. Surely, initiating conversation with you should not be that hard? He has propositioned you twice already with no qualms and yet he doesn't know what to say to get your attention when it is not of sexual nature. He has never cared to, never been able to if he wanted to– and now when he has the chance, he stands rooted to his spot, unable to do a thing when Wyll asks you to dance with him as though it is second nature. 

And of course you would accept– why wouldn't you? 

He may have grown out of prince charmings and fairytale endings, but you? There could not possibly be a better match for you than Wyll, who is the epitome of everything you could ever dream of. Handsome, righteous, selfless– Wyll is the hero of every storybook, and Astarion would not be surprised if the heavens decided to make you for each other. Wyll twirls you in his arms, leading you with a gentle hand that is befitting of your nature. And you laugh, light and joyous, the two of you looking at each other with bright eyes.

Astarion would never doubt the fun that the two of you have together. But he knows you would want more than that. You dream of true love and world peace, dressing up in all white and walking down the aisle to swear yourself to another person for life. You bleed love with your every touch, and he has never tasted love until you. 

He doesn’t know if he will ever be capable of loving you the way you deserve. (After all, what has he ever given you but lies and deceit?)

Astarion watches as you take a deep bow, laughing all the while as Wyll claps at your performance, and something inside him churns with an unfamiliar bitterness. Jealousy? Envy, perhaps. (Of who– maybe Wyll, maybe you, maybe both.)

But then you bid Wyll farewell and turn to him, and your face lights up as bright as moonglow. Astarion hates the way his heart trembles at the sight of you. 

“Hey, you,” you say to him warmly, and a part of him wants to be spiteful– for invoking uncomfortable emotions he does not know how to deal with. The other half is simply glad that he has you at last. 

Bad habits are hard to break though. “I see Wyll has made you his latest dance partner,” he says, unable to remove his scathing tone. You are more surprised than upset at his sudden animosity, which is a boon in itself. You look at him curiously though, with eyes that see into him too well for his sake, before you reply.

“For practice.” You say carefully, “For somebody else.” Before Astarion can inquire on who, you change the subject. “Do you know how to dance?”

“I know enough.” He clears his throat, continuing, “Dancing is an easy way to proverbially and literally whisk someone off their feet after all.”

Your eyes brighten at his words, and Astarion begins to think your earlier joy was not because you were dancing with Wyll but because you love to dance in general. “You want to teach me how to dance?” Your smile reaches your eyes, as it always does for him. “I bet you know how to ballroom dance. That sounds dreamy enough for you.”

“Without music? Hardly a dance,” he tells you, but when he sees you deflate, he is quick to say more. “When there is a proper setting, you can be the first to witness my skills personally.” He finds it inconvenient that his mood shifts with yours, because when your countenance lifts with hopeful anticipation from his words, he finds himself pleased to have caused it. “For now, I think my words will suffice in charming you just fine, don't you think, darling?”

“Confident you still have more lines to give me?” You ask teasingly, and Astarion is nothing if not a proud performer.

“Every time I heard the tieflings cry, I remember how you sounded crying for me,” he recites sultrily. “And now all these accolades from the Harpers are nothing compared to the sound of my name uttered from your lips.”

There is that familiar look of embarrassment and delight again. You laugh in response, leaning your head into his shoulders bashfully. “You're too much,” you tell him, your arm pressed against his. He relaxes at the warmth from your touch. 

Guilt, envy, jealousy: he yearns for you despite everything he cannot be. In the end, he is but a selfish man at his core, and whatever he wants he will take. Until the moment you choose someone else to love and to hold, he will simply count down the hours till the sound of midnight chimes. But he will not let you go until then– and not a moment later. (Though perhaps if there is a person he can learn to love, it is you.)

Astarion goes on, line after line, if only to keep you here with him. “If you don't remember how much you enjoyed it last time, I would like to try again.” He lowers his voice to a whisper and watches as your eyes darken in response, “Until you can think of nothing else.”

“I hope,” Shadowheart interrupts with mirth, “you know he practices these lines when you're not here.” 

Astarion sputters, and he narrows his eyes in mild annoyance when he sees Shadowheart pass by with a knowing smile. “Excuse me-”

“If you wanted your practice to be a secret, you might want to be quieter next time.” Shadowheart pauses. “Or perhaps not set your tent next to mine?”

“I don't know, Shadowheart,” he croons, “perhaps you might benefit from learning a thing or two from my charms.”

“Rather doubtful–”

Astarion hears you laugh long and hard as the two of them bicker. It is difficult to come up with retorts when he cannot help but be besotted at the sound of your joy. He hopes it is not obvious to everyone else.

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His worries seem all the more unimportant when they complete Shar's Trial. It turns out that the Nightsong is not a relic but an aasimar--Selûne's own daughter. Astarion already knows a fight lies in wait the moment Balthazar stops talking. After Balthazar swiftly joins the land of the dead, it is Shadowheart's faith that is put to trial. When she refuses to kill the aasimar, Astarion isn't sure he should be impressed she would deny her goddess or by how spectacularly her goddess lost her trust in the course of the journey. 

It's one of the reasons why he has never subscribed to the words of any god. What have the gods done for those who believed in them? Queen Vlaakith, who now swears to destroy Lae'zel despite her intrepid loyalty. Selûne, who could not save Ketheric's wife and daughter or her own child from a hundred years of captivity. Shar, who took advantage of the grief in Ketheric and innocence in Shadowheart for her own means. Mystra, who plucked Gale from a young age and cultivated him into a man who never felt like he was enough. 

There is simply no use relying on them for anything. For what can they offer to him now when none has answered him once in the past two hundred years? 

Astarion thinks you feel similarly. You could have easily been a cleric, a healer of the people blessed by the gods. But instead, you walk the path of the paladin, an oath created not in servitude to a higher being but to the weak and vulnerable. (Even then Astarion thinks that is too restricting for him, bound to do good by others no matter the situation. Believe him, he's already been on his best behavior by not pointing the sharp end of his dagger at anyone who tries to trifle with them.)

He once believed that your heart could know no evil, so being a paladin was easy. But he has grown to know you like the curve of his bow, and you are no saint. You become angry at others, yell and curse, and gods, you had the attitude to match him from the very beginning so he should have known even then. 

But perhaps it is because you are like anyone else that your ability to keep your oath shines far brighter than any devotion to a god. It is a part of you that no one can take away, and it is a concept that both amazes and discomfits Astarion in equal measure.

Even now at the top of Moonrise Towers, you still hold mercy in your heart for a man like Ketheric. Of course you would sympathize with a heart like his, twisted and mangled beyond repair because of love and grief. Astarion wonders how long Ketheric Thorm has gone without anyone trying to understand him? A hundred years at least, since the death of his wife and child, and here comes a wayward paladin and their party of four, giving him a chance for redemption. 

Astarion watches as Ketheric Thorm, the human he was, falls without a fight, and in his place, rises the undead chosen of Myrkul.

They've gone from fighting goblins to living machinery to literal shadows. To think those pales in comparison to the avatar of necromancy before them, all bones and scent of death. It would be so easy to be afraid, but then Astarion looks at you, lips moving in a silent prayer for courage, and he finds it less daunting to know that you can continue to move on despite your fear.

You are quick to dispatch the party: a group to free Dame Aylin from her shackles and another to start the fight against Myrkul. As Astarion sees Wyll, Shadowheart, and Jahiera teleport themselves closer to the aasimar, he knows quickly what team he's on. (“We work well together, you know,” he told you once after knocking down the goblin camp. He finds it somewhat comforting to know that statement is still true today.) 

“Ready?” You ask him, a scroll of dimensional door in your hands. 

“Darling,” he drawls, long bow in hand, “I thought you'd never ask.”

It ends up being a hard battle: cold, grasping hands of death from the unliving attack from all sides, the avatar of Myrkul summoning horrors beyond comprehension when they get close enough. And still, Astarion's hands remain steady as they aim deadly arrows toward a deity until it falls just like anybody else. 

“It's over,” he hears you breathe out, eyes wide as Ketheric falls to his knees for the very last time. It is a horrible sight to see a man in his last minutes, soul broken by grief and the gods that took advantage of that, and body broken by the aasimar he deceived in turn. Still, when your hand finds his in the aftermath of such horrors, he understands two things: he has never cared for someone like you before in his life, and all things must come to an end. 

It is only a matter of when. 

(And a third thing– Astarion understands Ketheric Thorm more than he realizes. For what are they both if not selfish, foolish men willing to do everything to keep what is theirs?)

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They stay behind to help the Harpers rebuild the Last Light Inn. It's enough time to see where allegiances lie, who is to join them for the final act in Baldur's Gate, and to see the glimpse of the shadow-land curse ebbing away. Astarion doesn't know who, but someone suggests a celebration of victory as an ode to those who had fallen, and suddenly life is breathed into the land and its people. 

He's always loved a good party and he figures everybody feels the same. He can only hope the wine that's provided is even a smidgen better than the one in the druid grove. And he deserves a break– all of them do. Astarion watches as the Alfira and Lakrissa drag you away to some pre-celebratory hangout during the event's setup and cannot find it in himself to be anything but amused. 

As it turns out, in between the cobwebbed walls and doom-and-gloom, Moonrise Towers has plenty to offer for the celebration. The leftover rations– whatever is still good after the battle anyways– serve as the basis of a banquet. The old and dusty black and white robes and attires of the Selûnites that once occupied this place are still in good condition, if you discount the mothballs and eaten up bits. 

It makes for a nice change in pace for many at least, though Astarion thinks he'd rather wear something with embroidery than don a goddess’ servants outfit no matter how nice it is. It is a good thing Shadowheart is not quite Sharran or else there would be quite an upset. She is more preoccupied by her conversation with Dame Aylin than with the festivity preparations, but he knows she will join in due time if you have anything to say about it.

In the quiet bustle before the banquet, people flit back and forth, busy. Whether they are preparing the necessary things for the celebration, healing the wounded, making the burial grounds, or getting drunk ahead of the game, there is something to do. Astarion finds himself in the last category nursing a cup of wine and watching the processions, His Majesty curled up at his feet. 

The last person he expects to make time to speak with him is Wyll.

“Care for some company?” Wyll asks with a smile.

Astarion shrugs, hiding his surprise behind his nonchalance. “I suppose the wine can be shared.”

Wyll nods. “Much thanks,” he says, allowing Astarion to pour him half a glass before taking a cursory sip. Astarion follows after him, though he watches Wyll carefully in the corner of his eyes. 

“I've hunted demons,” Wyll begins, “orthons, devils, and monsters. When I met our leader, I never expected to eventually fight against a God. Did you?”

Astarion lets out an airy laugh. “Knowing who we're following, I can't say I'm too surprised.” He waves his hand flippantly before crossing his arms. “Goes to show even Gods can fall… and that paladins seek nothing but trouble.”

Wyll laughs at that, and Astarion tries to not make it seem like he's almost dropped the glass. “Makes you hopeful, doesn't it?” Wyll tells him, “That there's nothing that cannot be done at their side?”

And there it is, Astarion thinks wryly. Their single point of similarity lies in their affections for you. He was wondering why the righteous Blade of Frontiers was making conversation. But still, with the jealousy that swirls low in the pit of his stomach, he thinks of you and the miracles you have created from seemingly nothing and warmth spreads and overtakes any and all bitterness.

“Astarion,” Wyll starts, faltering for the first time. Astarion barely has enough time to turn to him when he continues to greater incredulity. “I was wrong about you. Truly wrong about you.”

What? Astarion stares at him for a moment before he realizes he's taking a moment too long. Being snarky comes like second nature. “Let me guess,” he drawls, “you thought I'd sucked blood, but instead I just suck. Was that your witty jab?”

“No! I mean it,” Wyll says. He is sincere as he always is, and Astarion wants to sneer at it, if only he wasn't reminded of you. (He's grown used to people saying what they mean, and part of him is scared of it.) “There's little between us we share, but you've fallen in love and stood by your lover. This is something this dreamer's heart can appreciate.” 

Wyll means you, he realizes. You and him: lovers. It seems to become less of a lie with each coming day if Karlach and now Wyll seem to see right through him. “I– thank you,” Astarion replies, bewildered, “I suppose.” 

“Pay it no mind,” Wyll tells him, clinking his glass to his. “After all the fighting we've done, it puts a lot of things in perspective. I don't want to leave things unsaid nor undone.”

Astarion snorts into his glass; hardly a charming gesture but he finds it easier to be less than such these days. “See, that's where you and I can agree on!” He says slyly, “Is that where all your night time dancing practices have been for? To woo your love at the first chance you get?”

Wyll coughs into his hand, and Astarion watches in glee as he grows embarrassed. “I hope you haven't seen me in the earlier nights; I was quite horrendous.” He sighs. “I can only pray that no one else has noticed besides you and our leader… I was hoping to keep it a secret until later.”

“Knowing our camp, it was never a secret to begin with,” Astarion says dryly.

“I just…” Wyll continues almost wistfully, “I want to give her something to look forward to. She deserves the world after everything she's been through– let alone a dance to truly and well whisk her away.”

Astarion can see the lovestruck gleam in Wyll's eyes as he talks, and he recognizes that look not when he looks at you but instead… “Karlach?” He asks, watching as the mighty Blade of Frontiers fidgets in place, “So you've been practicing your dances for Karlach?” His smile widens not unlike a cat who has captured a canary, both from the fact he has nothing to fear from Wyll and from the way he now has the ammunition to tease the man. So this is what it means to kill two kobolds with one stone. “I hope you haven't been practicing other things without her too.”

“Astarion, please.”

It's moments like these when Wyll is trying to sink into the floor from mortification that he is reminded how young the warlock is. He never imagined talking about love with him of all things, but here they are– it surely isn't the strangest situation he's been through. “I'm sure Karlach would be happy to have you ask her to dance, skills be damned.”

“I'm sure,” Wyll says warmly, “but I want to give her only the best, if I can.”

And if that wasn't another sentiment Astarion has grown familiar with.

Before guilt can sink his mood, Astarion clears his throat. “You wouldn't happen to have a few dancing lessons in store for your fellow companion, would you, darling?”

Wyll is kind enough to not say anything to his question, though the knowing looks he gives Astarion throughout his guidance is reminiscent of Karlach that he escapes as soon as he is able. With the party soon underway, more people come into the main floor with fresh attire. Alcohol is poured and music is played with Alfira leading the fray. Lakrissa, never far from her lady bard, meets his gaze and nods her head upward. 

“Upstairs,” Lakrissa tells him with a wide smile. “They're doing some finishing touches. I'm sure they won't mind if you get them.”

There is that damned knowing look again, he thinks, walking up the stairs. He pauses for a moment halfway up, gazing at the party quickly underway and at the people he has met thus far. He spots Dammon and Karlach talking near the door, Wyll across the room building his courage to ask her to dance. Shadowheart and Lae'zel sit at the bar drinking in surprising camaraderie next to Rolan and his siblings, still ribbing him in usual manner. Harpers are scattered in the room, Jaheira to the side watching on after having said her goodbyes prior; she will be joining their party to Baldur's Gate, after all. 

Halsin was preoccupied with Thaniel so he may or may not be joining them later on, though Astarion doubts he would disappoint you by not showing up. Not seeing Gale in the midst if the celebration is strange, considering how much more eager he is to converse with others. Astarion's pondering answers itself when he sees Gale exit your room.

“Ah, there you are,” Gale greets him cheerily. “They're about done with their preparations– they thought they'd ask me for my opinions on their appearance. And despite my admitted inexperience in the matter, I hope I did my due diligence in reassuring them they looked fine. The rest is up to you, I'm afraid.” He puts a hand on Astarion's shoulder and squeezes lightly, and the look in his eyes grows somber for just a moment. “Treat them well.”

If he had a heart still, it would pang with guilt. “Don't I always?” Astarion says airily, and Gale gives him another pat and a wide smile.

“That you do, my friend,” Gale says warmly. “I am ever glad to see my two good companions happy together. Best wishes to you both.”

Gale leaves him and Astarion stands outside your door, unsure what he is waiting for. He peeks inside, watching as you tinker with your jewelry in the mirror. In the reflection he sees you in all your glory. You are beautiful as ever in your evening attire, simultaneously dashing in your knightly way as you are beautiful and warm and real. You notice him in the mirror and turn to smile at him, and guilt settles into him like lead.

You deserve more, he thinks with finality, and Astarion knows then he can no longer delay the inevitable, despite himself. You must know the truth about his intentions for you, even if it pushes you away from him and renders your protection for him. You deserve nothing less but his honesty. He only wishes he were not so cowardly as to have done it sooner, if only to not ruin the rest of your night. 

(But the truth is, Astarion has a little hope that you will still love him despite it all– because he thinks he wants something real with you too.) 

“There you are,” you say warmly, walking up to him. “Are you ready to dance?” You take his hand in yours, and he holds onto you for dear life. 

"I was waiting for you,” he tells you weakly. He squeezes your hand as if asking for strength. “Do you have a moment? I think we need to talk."

Lovely as you are, you are nothing but concerned for him. "Yeah, sure! Are you okay?"

"Oh yes, I'm fine,” he tells you automatically. Deflection comes easily for him. “I just-- feel awful."

Your sympathy is almost too much to bear that Astarion musters up the will to push forward before your compassion weakens his resolve. He must confess now or he never will. He swallows painfully.

"Look, I had a plan,” he begins to explain, “a nice simple plan. Seduce you, sleep with you, manipulate your feelings so you'd never turn on me." He lets out a shaky laugh– entirely inappropriate and unreflective of his feelings, but what else is he to do? Does he even deserve to show you how much turmoil he has gone through to reach this point in telling you? 

"It was easy,” he continues, trying to ignore the way his chest twists painfully when he sees you flinch, hurt. “Instinctive.” He lets your hand fall from his as he gesticulates, weaving his story dramatically in the only way he knows how lest he feel too much. Your arms draw themselves in as if to brace yourself for a blow, and all Astarion can think is that he must– he must continue on for better or worse. He cannot bear doing this a second time. 

“Habits from 200 years of charming people kicked in. All you had to do was fall for it,” he tells you. Astarion feels his voice shake. “And all I had to do was not fall for you. That was where my nice, simple plan fell apart."

He sees a flicker of something in your eyes as he finishes. He can't quite place what it is– he can hardly begin to process how he's feeling at the moment. But the truth is finally out in the open, and the tension in his body is pulled taut like a bow string as he waits for your response. He wants so desperately to make excuses, to go on about anything that would salvage his relationship with you, but he won't. You have been patient with him time and time again, and it is only fair for him to do the same.

No one ever told him how hard it would be though. To wait. You stand only a foot away from him and yet the distance between the two of you feels vast.

"...So,” you begin quietly, “did the nights we spend together... did they mean anything then?"

You're ridiculous, he thinks, almost laughing in fond incredulity. He half expected you to storm out of the room, demanding he never speak to you again. The fact you are still talking it through with him is more than he could ever ask for. "Of course it did,” Astarion tells you fervently. “That's the problem. Or part of it. You–” His voice catches with emotion. “You're incredible. You deserve something real.” 

He watches as you blink in rapid succession, willing the tears that come easily to you away. Astarion thinks about the way you yearn for simple touches, sweet romances, and true love. And even if he does not yet know how to love you the way you want, he knows this: “I want us to be something real."

Astarion reaches his hands out to meet yours before he realizes it is happening. The utter relief he feels when you close the distance (so small yet so far) between the two of you is insurmountable. He thinks you can feel the way his hands shake when you hold onto them. Or is that you? He thinks, savoring the warmth seeping into his skin. No matter– nothing else matters but the way you are still here with him now.

"So do I,” you say wetly. “More than anything."

Astarion knows better than to look into a gift horse's mouth, but it is in his nature to question when good things happen to him. His question comes out quietly, disbelieving, "Really?" 

And he can see your expression soften-- not of pity or sympathy-- just affection as you huff good naturedly, as though he were just absolutely silly for doubting you. "Yes, of course," you say, cupping his face just as gently before you wrap your arms around him, pulling him close. 

You are warm in his arms with the sweet scent of lilac. 

When was the last time he has been held like this, he wonders. Without precontext for sex or expectations for something more. Like when he was helpless but to see you preoccupied with others, it is in times like these Astarion realizes he is inexperienced when it comes to affection in its purest form. It makes him… lost in a way, to know what he does not know. 

[Can he tell, you wonder, that you've been wanting to hold him like this from the very beginning? To make him feel safe. To let him know he has nothing to worry about, at least when it comes to you. You hold him tightly, and if love could be poured out from you to another, you would have it spill over and more.]

But you don't seem to care. You never have. Giving little bits of affection to him wherever he can accept it without expecting anything given back. He wants to learn how to be with you starting now.

Moving his arms around you to embrace you is unfamiliar, but his hands find purchase on your back, palms flat and firm. Your heart against his chest beats steadily, and Astarion finds that he doesn't want this moment to end. He feels vulnerable in a way he has not felt in a long time, if ever. Everything seems easier to say to you, now that you accept him, flawed as he is. 

"I just,” he begins quietly, “don't know what real looks like, not after two hundred years of playing the rake. Being close to someone, any kind of intimacy, was something I performed to lure people back for him.” 

He feels you pull away, but only for a moment before you are holding his hands gently. He continues, “Even though I know things between us are different, being with someone still feels tainted.” He feels his mouth twist at the word, and he looks down, shame burning his tongue despite himself. “Still brings up those feelings of disgust and loathing.”

“I don't know how else to be with someone,” he confesses, “no matter how much I'd like to.”

Silence fills the space the two of you take up. It would feel suffocating if not for the way you rub his hands with your thumbs, grounding him to this moment. It feels so easy to just run away, but he stands with you until you find the words to speak. You tell him finally, “You are important to me no matter what you're going through.” His breath catches. “And if that sort of intimacy makes you feel uncomfortable, we can be together without sleeping together for as long as you need.”

You are firm with your words, and Astarion blinks away wetness in his eyes and tries to reach for levity as he always does. “Why, that almost sounds like a challenge,” he says, and when you do a little laugh, he feels lighter. 

The two of you are by no means a perfect union. Far from it: who would ever imagine a vampire rogue and a devoted paladin to be a match for each other? And yet, you want to make the two of you work. He wants it to work, whatever it is they are. Rather than fear or apprehension, he finds himself in anticipation for an unknown destination with you by his side. 

(It feels a little bit like death, in a good way. To imagine this is how people feel all the time– excited and terrified all at once; how do they all do it?)

Astarion lets out a laugh of his own. "Honestly, I have no idea what we're doing. Or what comes next,” he says. He raises his hands where they are connected to you. "But I know that this? This is nice."

Your smile is wobbly with emotion, and your eyes shining with an affection that Astarion has grown familiar with. "Dance with me?”

Astarion responds by taking one of your hands and placing a kiss at your knuckle. The smile he receives from you is daylight and he basks in its presence. “Shall I take the lead this time, darling?”

“Only just this once,” you tease, and he is almost giddy at the banter. Oh, how quickly the two of you begin anew, as if no hurt has been done. Eyes wet with emotion now dry and upturned from mirth as Astarion dramatically presents your hand, walking down the stairs to join in the banquet.

How ridiculous mankind is, for celebrating while their fate looms over the horizon at Baldur's Gate. How incredulous people are for still holding onto hope even when hope seems all but lost. Astarion still thinks it unwise to trust others in a world where only the strongest survive, but perhaps he has changed just a bit if he thinks it is not quite so impossible to believe in it himself. 

He is not healed– and he feels he will not be for some time, not as long as Cazador still lives. But much like the shadow-cursed land, he feels as though he is healing. At your side, with his hand on your waist and the other entwined with yours to twirl you on a wooden dance floor as you laugh until you are breathless– he can finally try.

And perhaps that is all that matters.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

(Sleeping beneath the stars, a night before reaching Baldur's Gate, Astarion thinks about how you have given him precious, impossible moments of comfort. He had only expected to have a few more before an untimely death but after time and time again, the two of you live. 

But just how long will that luck last? 

With Cazador, the two avatars of death, and the elder brain looming over their fates, Astarion feels a fear unlike what he has ever faced, for he has far more to lose than just himself now. It suffocates him. Because he is not good enough- not strong enough. Not for you, not for Cazador, nor for the gods that never answered him. 

Unless…

If he takes Cazador's power for his own, if he can ascend and become a creature far beyond a true vampire… he can finally keep the two of you safe– for good. From all the evils of the world, from the Cazadors, from whoever dares to threaten the two of you.

Whoever must be sacrificed to make it happen be damned. Astarion will be selfish enough for the two of you. 

A part of him wonders if you will still love him then.)

[patheticlittlemen]

A Need Unsatisfied [Gale Dekarios x Tav]

Words: 1397

Warnings: NSFW

A/N: Posted this a little while ago on AO3 but I'm finally getting around to posting here. Inspired by @/JuLaiRun on twitter <3 I love the way your mind works :3

Summary: Gale and Tav were sent on a simple mission. But when things go wrong and Gale is left unable to heal, he finds himself needy and unable to relieve it.

It was supposed to be easy.

Tav and Gale were sent on a simple mission- retrieve a potion from a chest in a secluded village. There wasn’t supposed to be anybody there, let alone a horde of goblins.

It didn’t help that the chest was a trap. The second Tav managed to pick the lock, an explosion pushed them back. The goblins swarmed them, attacking before they could gain their bearings. They were lucky they even managed to get out alive.

And of course, Gale’s orb now decides to act up. Even in his half-asleep state, he can feel the pain of arcane hunger gnawing at him. How long until they can return to camp and Gale can absorb an artifact? Tav was just as injured as him, taking the brunt of the explosion. At least they still had their damned fingers.

Gale attempts to stretch his fingers, sharp pain coursing through him the second he moves them. He lets out an involuntary whine, tears pricking in his eyes. He would have been able to heal himself a thousand times over before this damned orb. Gale feels weak and helpless, frustrated at everything that has led him to this moment. He should have prepared better for this, should have been ready if the hunger struck, and should have brought someone else to heal them.

Tav shifts beside him in their makeshift bedrolls of leaves and dirt, making a quiet noise of pain. Guilt surges through him at the thought that he could have healed them if his cursed orb didn’t choose the worst time to cause trouble. Gale squeezes his eyes shut, trying to find comfort in their presence. At least he’s not alone right now.

The wizard glances at Tav as they sleep. They’re so calm, so peaceful. Chest rising and falling as they let out sleepy noises. Even covered in bruises and cuts, they’re so beautiful.

Gale feels a familiar stiffening in his trousers. It’s been so long since Gale had touched himself that it’s almost painful. Gods, how long has it been since he had a moment to himself?

His cock throbs, his body unhappy with his lack of reaction. Tav is still asleep, maybe he could just…

When Gale reaches down to graze his cock through his pants, he’s abruptly reminded of his injuries. White-hot pain shoots through his fingers and he lets out a stifled cry. He has to fight to keep whimpers in– whether from the pain or his arousal, he’s not sure. He uselessly ruts into the air, wishing there was anything there to give him relief.

Gale needs stimulation so bad it hurts. He tries to shift around to grind against the ground, but his bruised knees won’t allow it. There’s nothing he can do but whine and pray that it passes.

“Gale?” Tav murmurs, sitting up. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Gale whispers, heart hammering in his chest. “It’s alright, go back to sleep.”

Tav stretches as they sit up. “Gale, you’re whimpering like a needy dog.”

Those words send a wave of pleasure through Gale’s body. How pathetic is he, getting off to their innocent words?

“What can I do to help?” Tav murmurs, shifting to look at Gale. “We don’t have healing potions and I’m not a spellcaster, but I want to make it better any way I can.”

Gale’s jaw tightens as his cock throbs, hearing their husky voice. He could just ask for help. It’s either that or spending the rest of the night painfully hard.

“I- I need…” Gale clears his throat, avoiding Tav’s gaze. He spends a moment trying to think of the best way to word it. “Well, you know my fingers were injured.”

A smile plays at the corners of Tav’s mouth. “I could kiss it better.”

Gale pauses, caught off guard by the suggestion. “Ah- I mean, I suppose?”

Tav smiles, scooting in and gingerly grabbing his hand. It feels like there are sparks where their skin touches and Gale feels arousal pool in his belly. Tav leans forward, gently pressing their lips to his bruised knuckles. Pain flares, but with it comes a sense of pleasure. With each kiss, the wizard lets out a quiet gasp. He can’t help himself from shifting his hips, trying to find any friction from his cock sliding against his trousers.

Tav kisses each knuckle with a feather-light touch. They pull away, looking amused. “Gale, you’re humping the air.”

Gale feels his face flush and he stutters. “Oh- I… um, my apologies.”

“Are you hard right now?” Tav says, not hiding how much they’re enjoying this. Gale’s breath catches in his throat and he avoids their gaze.

“I.. am.” How shameful is this? So desperate that he can’t even hide his boner from them.

Tav’s hand brushes against Gale’s arm and he shudders. “You’re so sensitive.”

“I can’t help it.” The wizard gasps, his cock aching more than ever. This is so pathetic. He’s about to come just from some touching.

“Oh, you poor thing.” Tav smirks, voice barely above a whisper. “So needy and pent up, with no way to relieve it.”

Gale lets out a whimper, looking up at Tav. They grin, reaching out to touch his face.

“You need me to help you? Is that what you wanted?”

Gale is so embarrassed right now but his cock is throbbing too much for him to care. He nods, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. Normally he’d have a million witty remarks, but his mind is clouded with desperation.

Tav chuckles, reaching up to run their hand through his hair. “That’s cute.”

Gale whimpers and leans into the touch, arching his head into their hand. He waits patiently for their next move, overwhelmed with need.

“Beg for it,” Tav murmurs into his ear, kissing his jaw.

“W-what?” The wizard gasps, barely able to register their words with their lips on his face.

“Beg for me,” Tav repeats, grabbing his earring in their teeth and tugging gently.

Gale lets out an ungodly moan, arching towards them. Gale’s hips are shoved down by the other, pinning them to the ground. It’s clear they’re not giving him more until he complies. Shame courses through him, but he’s so painfully hard that he doesn’t care.

“Please?” Gale gasps.

“Not good enough. You can do better.”

Gale whines, trying to fight against Tav’s grasp on his hips. “Please, please, I need you.”

“Better,” Tav says, reaching up to run their nails along his scalp.

Whimpers escape Gale’s mouth and the shame leaves him. The words fall from his lips like a prayer.

“Please, Tav, please, I need you. I need you so bad it hurts. Please make me come, I’ll do anything, anything you want.” The wizard whines, so aroused he could burst any minute.

Tav runs their nails along his arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake. “You sound so pretty, Gale. So desperate.”

With that, Gale’s mind blanks as his orgasm suddenly washes over him. It’s so much, so overwhelming. He can vaguely feel Tav’s eyes on him as he shudders, ears ringing. It feels like he’ll never stop coming, rutting against the air.

Embarrassment flows through him as he starts to come down from his high, panting and flushed. He looks up at Tav, who is grinning at him.

“I’m- I’m sorry.” Gale whimpers, shivering as Tav runs their nails over his arm. “I didn’t mean…”

“It’s okay.” Tav murmurs, smiling softly. “It was hot.”

Gale feels another wave of arousal overwhelm him as they gaze at him hungrily. He can’t believe he just came from their words. Hells, they barely touched him.

“You made a mess of yourself.” Gale feels his face flush more, suddenly aware of the stickiness in his underwear.

Gale swallows thickly, nodding. “I did.”

“I would offer to clean it up, but you’re probably too sensitive.” Tav brushes their hand against Gale’s crotch, causing him to cry out and arch into their hand. They let out a satisfied hum at his reaction

“I guess you’ll just have to wait until we get back to camp.” Tav moves back to Gale’s side, lying down. There’s a twinkle in their eye as they smile at him.

“Goodnight, Gale.”

Despite the discomfort of the wetness in his pants and the hunger from his orb still gnawing at him, Gale hasn’t felt better.

[slusheeduck]

Fictober 2023 Day 23 - Prompt: "You lost it. Well, we lost it." Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3

Gale was, in actuality, far better at hiding just how bad his condition was than anyone likely thought. The ache in him was constant, maddening—he always hoped it would become something bearable, like background noise, but it never did. It only ever spiked, going from maddening to shatteringly bad with hardly any warning.

When he did quietly speak to Falerin about how he needed an item in the near future, please, he always did so with the first spike. That, he knew from experience, was usually the only warning he got, with anything from a few hours to a few days’ respite before things got truly unbearable, and it was always better to err on the side of caution. He’d pushed himself, early on, and that’s when things had been…decidedly not good.

But this time, he’d made a mistake. He’d felt the first warning stab as they explored Grymforge, but before he could tell Falerin, a wrong step on a trigger had sent the platform he and Karlach had been standing on sailing high up into the air to a scaffolding overhead. Below, Falerin tried stomping on it again, several times, before Astarion shooed him away to investigate it. They watched the vampire shake his head, then Falerin looked up.

“It’s jammed! We’re better off following the path down here!” he called up to them. “We’ll meet you down the way!”

“Unless you die!” Astarion added. “In which case, leave your bags where we can get them!”

“Astarion,” Falerin chided, giving his chest a little smack.

“What? They’ll be dead.”

“You know we can hear you, Fangs!” Karlach called down. She shook her head, hands going to her hips. “Well, looks like it’s you and me, Gale. Looks pretty clear up ahead, but we know better than that, don’t we?”

“Unfortunately, we do.” Gale grimaced, rubbing his chest. Beneath the skin, the orb pulsed painfully. Oh, this wasn’t going to be a wait-a-few-days instance, was it? “But, no choice but to press on. Lead the way.”

The scaffolding was much longer than anticipated, and they lost sight of Falerin and Astarion fairly quickly. Thankfully, it seemed clear of anything that was out to kill them, but there was no telling if their paths would actually meet.

They came to a halt over a large pool of magma, where there was a break in the scaffolding. For a moment, they stopped to assess their situation.

“I…might be able to clear that,” Karlach said, holding up two sets of blazing figures to try and figure out the angle. “Maybe if we’re quick, I could pick you up before there’s any damage done.”

“Too risky,” Gale said, shaking his head. “Not that I don’t trust you imminently, but either way looks like a fiery death. I could probably cast feather fa—” He grit his teeth at a wave of pain that clawed through his ribs, so blinding it took his breath away. It’s as though the orb was punishing him for just thinking about magic. He gripped the railing, a cold sweat dampening his skin despite the heat of the magma.

Karlach watched him with wide eyes. “Gale? You all right?” she asked.

He took a few sharp breaths, trying to swallow down the discomfort. “Just…I just need a…” An artifact, the thing in him hissed. You need an artifact. I need an artifact.

Karlach’s hands hovered for a moment, wanting to help but not wanting to burn him. “I…I’ve got one potion, if that…” She suddenly gasped. “No, it’s your…it’s your thing, isn’t it? The magic thing?” She blanched. “Are you gonna blow?”

Gale shook his head. “Not…immediately.” Probably.

Karlach fretted, looking about. “Fal’s the one that usually helps you, isn’t he? I don’t see him or Asti, and I…Oh!” She pulled off her pack, digging inside. “Hang on, just hang on a tick, Gale. Mama K’s gonna fix you right up. Found this a little while ago, just thought it was pretty, but…” She triumphantly held up a necklace. “This ought to do something, yeah?”

Gale’s entire world honed in on the necklace, magic pulsing toward him like a siren song. There was a rush in his ears, the orb in him roaring in victory at the sight of its prey, and he lunged at it with all the finesse of an addict getting their next hit.

Problem.

In his less-than-coherent state, Gale’s aim wasn’t as good as it could be. And Karlach, as everyone knew, was literally on fire. So has he went to snatch the necklace from her hand, he missed, and his hand instead slammed into her flaming hot skin. He snapped his hand back with a hiss, and in her immediate pulling back, Karlach lost her grip on the necklace. And down, down, down it went to the magma below.

Gale gaped, pain in his chest outweighing the pain in his hand, and before he could stop himself, he whirled around toward Karlach. “You lost it!” he snarled at her.

The words seemed to have been knocked right out of the tiefling, her eyes huge. She probably couldn’t make tears, not in this condition, but based on her expression, she was doing her best not to cry. Even with the orb’s threats, Gale felt his own anger subside, and he stepped back and took a shaky breath.

“Well…we lost it,” he amended quietly, cradling his burned hand.

“I-I’m so sorry, Gale,” Karlach said shakily, the full weight of what had happened in her voice. Gale shook his head, glancing over the edge of the scaffolding. If things got too bad—and maybe they would, he couldn’t say—perhaps the magma would be enough to muffle the blast. Just as he turned to tell Karlach to make the jump and run, he was met with a warhammer right in his face. Like the necklace, this pulsed with enough magic to make the thing in his chest leap in hungry anticipation.

“Take it,” Karlach said. “It’s got an enchantment.”

“Karlach, that’s your weapon,” Gale said, though he couldn’t pull his eyes from it. “I’m not going to leave you defenseless.”

“And I’m not gonna let you get…swallowed up by your orb,” she said, then nudged it toward him. She gave a weak little smile. “Besides, I’m not defenseless. I’ve got a weapon right here…” She flexed her free arm. “And another to match.”

Gale couldn’t demure anymore. He looked up at her with a whispered “Thank you,” then took the hammer and brought it up to his chest. The magic siphoned into him, and the roaring pain dulled back to its usual dull ache. The orb was sated—for now, at least.

Just as the hammer crumbled in his hands, the sound of footsteps on metal rang out. He looked up to see a figure running toward them, dark and wavy in the heat. He quickly stepped in front of Karlach.

“I’ll take care of this,” he said, then took a breath and lifted his arms. Just as he started his incantation, the figure waved its arms.

“Don’t! Don’t! Gale, it’s me!”

Gale’s arms dropped, and he nearly fell right off the scaffolding in relief as Falerin came to a halt on the other side of the gap.

“Did you find a way down?” Karlach asked, moving over to the edge.

“Yes, just a little farther down. There’s a lift—Astarion’s at the lever, so he can get us back down.”

“Aces.” Karlach grinned at Gale. “You feeling good enough to do feather fall on us?”

“Fully renewed and more than ready,” Gale said with a smile. “Still, be a little careful of your aim. I don’t want you falling slowly down below.”

“No worries there.” She waited for him to cast the spell, then started to back up to take a running leap. She paused beside him, giving him a smile.

“And thanks for being so ready to protect me,” she said, a little quieter. “Not many people think to do that for me.” She grinned. “All right, wizards first. One, two, three, go!”

After the most nerve-wracking jump of Gale’s life and the most dubious lift ride he’d ever been on (“Oh, damn, they survived,” Astarion had said with no small amount of disappointment once it came down with all three aboard. “I was hoping to get Gale’s pack.”), Falerin pulled him off to the side.

“It’s about time for you to have another item, isn’t it?” he whispered. “I have a few ready. You can…” He trailed off as Gale shook his head.

“All accounted for, but thank you.” He glanced over at Karlach, busy ribbing Astarion. “There’s a forge here, isn’t there? Let’s see if we can’t find something really nice for Karlach while we’re here.”

Fictober 2023 Drabble Master Post

[wild-surge]

If Valeria was another class, what would she be?

| Original prompt |

| CW: implied suicidal thoughts/ideation?

“If you weren’t who you are now... Who would you want to be?” she hesitates before adding “Would you want the option to choose a different life for yourself?”    The question is dropped one warm evening on the track out of Moonrise – they are resting high in the mountains and at this elevation Valeria thinks she can already see the lights of the Gate if she looks hard enough towards the sea.  

Just a few more days and... She will be home? 

They are sitting around the campfire, bellies full and wine coursing through their veins, happy and jovial despite the githyanki ambush at the edge of Reithwin Town. 

It is Shadowheart that asks the question; the half-elf had been pensive aver since she freed the Nightsong, risking the wrath of her goddess. The topic was clearly on her mind for some time now. Was she suffering a crisis of faith?  

Valeria struggled to feel any sort of empathy. 

The silence that falls after the question is difficult to name, is it pleasant? Awkward? Are they aware how stupid this question is when they have little chance of even walking out of this all alive? Gale is still ready to sacrifice himself with the Orb, Karlach refuses to voice her thoughts, but Valeria knows how terrified she is of the engine exploding. And Wyll... Wyll sacrificed so much already and to take a peek at his thoughts and see how farther he’s willing to go?    No, not everyone is walking out of this alive.    

Valeria takes another swig of the wine, something to occupy her as she feels the cleric’s eyes bore into the side of her face and refuses to acknowledge them. 

“You know... I always wanted to be a teacher.” bless his heart, Gale is the one to breach the topic. “Learning always came easy to me, and I think it a wonderful idea to share the knowledge I amassed.”  

“Well, you do like the sound of your voice.” Astarion pitches in, snarky as ever but even he is in a better mood and the jab packs less venom than usual.  

“Oh, please my friend. We all have our vices, as you surely know. I just think mine – if you consider them - could be put to good use,” they chuckle at the answer. Gale's change during their travels feels the most subtle but over the months of knowing each other the difference is clear, Astarion’s bullying is not getting to him as it did in the past and he feels calmer, more confident.  

Not to mention his own sharp tongue nowadays always seems to have a riposte ready.  

The gathered burst into laughter, a sense of comradery present and strong among the group and Valeria feels... displaced, as if the light of the fire was not reaching her the way it did others, the flames not as warm on her skin and she rubs her forearm to get rid of the goosebumps rising. 

They are together solely by chance – either the Guardian’s spell reaching them due to the proximity of the Artifact or the tadpole itself being too young to affect them before Shadowheart reached them.  

It’s the same reason why they follow her now, isn’t it? Because the Guardian has chosen her as the keeper or the Artifact, because he marked her as the leader of the little group back at the creche. For all that is worth it, had Shadowheart proved to be less brainwashed by the cult, they all would be following her and not Valeria.  

Hells, maybe she wouldn’t even been here, maybe she’d be lying somewhere on that beach, body rotting in the sun as birds picked at her corpse, or maybe she’d already be transformed. It would still be a death, painful and lonely. 

They are not friends. She likes them, of course she does – it's difficult not to like Gale or Wyll or Karlach – but they all have places to be and things to do. And if somehow, they survive, they will all go their separate ways.  

All but her of course. 

And once this is all over, she will be left alone again. She might pick herself up and try to find Moira and Annun... But will they even want to have anything to do with her after... 

After. 

She takes another swig; the heavy wine tastes more like vinegar and her belly squirms. 

 Why the fuck did the half-elf ask such a question, what point does it make? They are here, now, trying to free themselves from the tadpole changing them, attempting to... do what. Kill the Elder Brain? Stop the chosen of the Dead Three? 

Well... a third of the latter already done at least, the netherstone emanating a biting cold from where it’s stored in her pocket. So, at least this does not feel like some unattainable feat. If they killed an immortal general, what difficulty would two humans be? 

 “I think I’d be a ranger,” Wyll’s warm voice pitches in “Although... As a young boy I always wanted to join the Harpers.” from the corner od her eye Valeria sees Wyll duck his head as Jaheira smiles at him, says something about it never being too late. 

But what if it is? 

What if they don’t survive this? 

She bites her tongue, keeps her head from shaking, anything for them not to focus on her. But her mind still wanders. 

What would she be? She’s a sorcerer, magic is a part of her, how can she even imagine being someone else, learning different magic? 

Heh, as if Mother would allow it in the first place. 

That’s the point, isn’t it?     Had she been born without magic, she’d be stuck at the house still, married off to Samuel maybe.  

Locked behind heavy doors and rich draperies. A dirty secret, new Lady of the House being of such poor health she could not attend social gatherings, good Saer Veleilles taking in this pathetic, sickly maiden to ease her parents’ troubles.  

Even if he cared for her, Mother would never allow the shame of having a hellspawn to be out in the open. How long would it take for Samuel to start detesting her? Crazy woman locked up in the attic, or sent away to keep everyone safe from her magic. Or maybe a brooding mare, though Mother would hate if more tieflings would be brought to the world and Samuel’s parents would not allow him to take the blame – he would be the heir, the paladin. To even imply he was responsible for the fiendish children? Preposterous.    So what would be her life? Hidden by one family only to be passed on to another, a dirty little secret, walls closing in on her and silence being the only company? 

... 

She would not be able to live like this, would she?  

But is she was still human? She’d still be married off, but maybe not to Samuel. And even if by some luck he’d still be considered a suitor rather than some business partner?  

And then she would have to become a mother. Still locked in a cage of sorts.  

Mother was good at court games, but she was born into an old noble house. Valeria did not inherit her skills, an awkward child who did not like being looked at even before everything. She has no knack for intrigue, the patriars would eat her alive. 

Fuck. 

Of course, she could still try escaping. Maybe she’d even be able to meet Moira and Annun, but what is the chance they’d befriend her if she did not have the magic or was a regular human?  

She shakes her head. 

No, that’s wrong. Moira took interest in her because she was this weird kid that read all the time and did not play around with other children. Of course, they’d be friends. Right? 

But would she survive on the run?  

She’s not strong, isn’t fast. She’s nimble enough but that’s because how small she is, but squeezing into different holes and crevasses is hardly a combat ability. What if they would leave her if she could not fend for herself? She would be a liability. 

Shit. She feels cold as the question makes her think about her life, what would be of it – or rather – what wouldn’t. Because there really is only one answer, isn’t it? 

Were it not for her magic... she’d be dead. 

One way or another. 

And what should terrify her more of the realisation is the fact that... she’s so sure and... calm... about it.  

It would still be freedom of sorts, coming to Kelemvor’s embrace. 

....Would it really be so bad? 

“Soldier?” Karlach’s voice pulls her from the morbid thoughts “How about you?” and fuck, they all are looking at her, expectantly. Did she really miss the whole conversation? Why do they even need to know? It’s not like they would be friends in a different life. 

She forces a smirk and shrugs. 

“Dunno... Rogue maybe?”  

[libraryscarf]

happy (really late oh jesus oh god) birthday to @eerna i would move mountains and conquer nations for you but for now i’m settling for smashing through writer’s block like the kool-aid man to provide some NOT ANGSTY YATORI INSPIRED BY THIS FUCKING G I F T

petrichor ( ao3 / ff.net )

(n.) a pleasant smell that frequently accompanies the first rain after a long period of warm, dry weather.

“Oh, no.”

Hiyori stopped in her tracks, her eyes fixed on the horizon. The clouds were still little more than a morose shadow in the distance, but they were rushing fast toward her, and her walk home wasn’t exactly short.

Several minutes later, the sky was gray and spitting rain as Hiyori jogged miserably down the street. The wind was picking up too, raking cold fingers through her hair and whipping it into her eyes. She pulled her scarf up snugly over her ears and chin and soldiered forward, leaning into the gale. She took a small amount of comfort in the knowledge that even if she had remembered her umbrella, by now it would certainly be inside-out.

With the scarf covering her ears, Hiyori didn’t hear the wet slap of approaching footsteps until something grabbed her elbow. She shouted, the sound muffled within the scarf, and spun on a heel to face her attacker.

“Whoa! It’s me!”

Yato let go of her at once, nimbly avoiding the uppercut aimed straight at his chin. He took a step back, both hands raised innocently. One of them was holding an umbrella.

Hiyori slowly lowered her fists, heart pounding in her throat.

“I almost punched you!” She glared at him over her scarf, struggling to suppress a wave of guilty annoyance.

Yato grinned crookedly.

“No, you didn’t.”

Hiyori bit the inside of her lip, holding his gaze. Yato’s grin melted, and he cleared his throat.

“Kofuku mentioned rain, and then I remembered you had to walk home, so I…”

He gestured vaguely at the umbrella. The rain was still falling in sheets, but he had made no move to open it.

Hiyori’s lips twitched, and she almost laughed aloud—because of course Yato had followed her with an umbrella without even thinking to use it himself.

“Thank you,” she said, and smiled.

Yato stared at her, looking a bit lost.

“Yeah,” he said, quietly. The umbrella stayed in his hand, unopened.

Then his eyes flicked to her feet and widened.

“Oh,” he said. “You dropped something.”

: : :

Yato worked on propping her empty, snoring body up against the driest wall they could find. Hiyori paced nervously, her tail lashing like an offended housecat.

“Why now?” she groaned to herself.

As Yato finished resting her body against the wall, he folded her hands gently in her lap. She looked more like a collectible doll than an empty human shell.

Hiyori—justifiably preoccupied with the nastiness of having dropped her body into quite a lot of dirty rainwater—did not notice the way Yato arranged her limbs: reverently, like a collector handling a priceless artifact. She didn’t see when he smoothed the wet hair from her forehead, his fingers sweeping the quiet curve of her brow.

She didn’t see his face, or any of the things that passed across it: the adoration, or the yearning, or the sorrow.

“I really don’t mind carrying you back to Kofuku’s place,” he said.

Hiyori paused in her pacing, her cord still switching back and forth nervously.

“No,” she said, rubbing her temples. “No, it’s fine. I just need a minute to…to relax, and wake up again.”

Yato straightened, fruitlessly brushing his muddy knees. He shook the water off the umbrella and popped it open.

“It was me, wasn’t it?” he asked.

Hiyori froze. Her heart leapt between her teeth.

“What?”

Yato moved closer to her, only near enough to hold the open umbrella over her. His eyes drifted away from hers, landing somewhere past her left shoulder. His hair was plastered down against his face, and drops of rain clung to his long lashes. Hiyori was seized with a wild, horrifying urge to giggle as she thought half the girls at school would commit unspeakable crimes for those eyelashes.

“I sneaked up on you,” he explained, oblivious to her staring. “And the surprise made you drop out of your body. I’m sorry.”

Hiyori smelled the electricity of the storm. She sensed the raw, mighty weight of it bearing down on her.

“It’s fine!” she said quickly. “It was probably just a coincidence.”

It wasn’t.

“I don’t mind!”

She did.

“You can go back, if you want to.”

Hiyori swallowed. Her tongue felt hot and sticky.

“Thank you for the umbrella, Yato. I’m sure I’ll be back in my body in no time.”

Please, don’t. Don’t go.

Yato looked at her, then at the umbrella, which he was still holding. Hiyori told herself to take it from him, but her arms stayed firmly locked at her sides.

“I don’t feel great about leaving you like…this,” he said, nodding at the limp body propped against the wall. Hiyori winced as a strand of saliva dribbled from the corner of her sleeping mouth. He made a fair point.

But Yato did not know that she would much rather be stranded here alone—guarding her fragile body with her still more fragile soul—than drop her guard with him so near, and so ignorant of her feelings. It was even worse than she had anticipated to be around him like this: especially outside her body, stripped bare of the denials and distractions that shielded her from the truth.

Now, Yato was too close, and Hiyori’s soul alone could not lie well enough to protect her.

“Do you want me to leave?” he asked, misreading the panic in her face.

Did she?

Hiyori’s lips trembled. She heard Tenjin’s measured voice: small, but insistent at the back of her mind.

Yes. Send him away. Distance yourself. It will only get more difficult from here, so pull yourself out of the riptide, Hiyori. Remember how human you are, and how much you can hurt him.

Above all, remember that you will die. Remember that he will not.

Yato saw her hesitation, and something behind his eyes went flat.

“I’ll go back,” he said, a sad smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Will you let me know when you get home?”

He reached for her hand to give her the umbrella, and Hiyori at last shook off her stupor. Yato yelped as she slapped his hand away. He shot her a hurt look.

“Ow!? Hiyori! Why did you…?”

The words in his throat dried up. Hiyori’s eyes were bright and feverish, the color in her cheeks high.

“Don’t go,” she said, her voice much lower than either of them expected.

Yato’s eyes widened as she took a step toward him. He felt her warmth, the thrumming restlessness of her unfettered soul, and he could not move.

“Don’t go,” she repeated, louder.

Yato licked his lips, which were suddenly very dry, and for a split second Hiyori’s eyes flickered to his mouth. Blood was roaring in his ears.

“Okay.”

For a moment, the air around Hiyori seemed to ripple with intention. And then she was in his arms, kissing him, her lips eager and inexpert and so, so soft. The umbrella hit the ground with a soft clatter, and rolled away into the street.

Yato cradled her face in his hands, his fingers burning where they touched her skin. He tasted rainwater on her mouth, and warm salt. He pulled back, barely enough to put space between their lips.

“Hiyori?” he breathed.

She clung to his shoulders, and with a tiny sob closed the gap to kiss him again. She was crying, although she couldn’t quite understand why, much less stop. She was overfull with…something. Surprise, certainly, at herself for kissing him. Or frustration, because her heart was beating itself to death, and and because every second aged her, and because it had taken her so long—so long—to do this, and now she had to kiss him hard enough to make up for all that lost time.

But it was also possible that she cried simply because Yato was so good, and so gentle, even though he held her very tight. Almost to the point of discomfort, though she wished it were tighter still.

The soft whine that broke from Yato’s throat when she pulled away echoed through her like a gunshot. His eyes stayed shut, those impossible lashes resting against his cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

His eyes slowly fluttered open, pupils blown wide, surrounded by a thin, icy ring of blue. Hiyori saw her own face mirrored perfectly in them.

“Why?” he asked.

“I—”

Hiyori stopped herself, blinking. Was she sorry about kissing him?

No.

“I…don’t know,” she admitted, giggling.

“Then don’t apologize,” Yato said.

And then he laughed, and kissed her again. She was still crying, but it was impossible to tell the tears from the rain. And in a few minutes, the storm would break.

[wrightworthmakesmylifeworthwhile]

fantasy au preview

here’s that thing i said i would do

Dark green hills rolled along at a leisurely pace until they made met with a babbling crystal creek. The stream poured out of the mouth of a small bridge and leapt down from craggy rock to craggy rock until it pooled at the base of the stone outcropping. Running water laboriously turned a large wooden waterwheel that powered a secluded mill.

The mill was a clumsy little lean-to nestled on the border of a wild forest. Ivy crept up the sides and entangled itself around the rock all the way up to the thatched roof of the cheerful house. Despite its abandoned countenance, smoke plumed from the chimney.  Looking through the windows a fire could be seen crackling.

Inside, Phoenix Wright knelt by the fire. His hand was in the middle of the bright flames, but it didn’t seem to be causing him any pain. He frowned in concentration, turning something over. A moment later, his hands emerged from the fire completely unharmed, brandishing perfectly cooked loaf of bread.

The fire mage set the steaming loaf on a wooden table. Humming pleasantly, he dusted the bread off with sugar and cinnamon before deeming it finished.

She’s going to love it! Phoenix thought as he packed his still-burning-hot creation into a little basket. His hand went to the little blue bottle hanging around his neck. A shimmery, misty substance swam in the bottle that hung on a golden chain. Two golden arches met at the top of the bottle, forming a heart.

The pendant was a token of his true love. They had been courting for one month exactly, and Phoenix had to celebrate. He took the basket and left his house, taking the stairs down two at a time.

Dahlia lived on the far side of the forest. Phoenix took the time to enjoy his stroll through the woods, never tiring of its familiar sights. Sunlight shone through tree trunks, casting dappled patterns over the lush grass and dusky purple flowers.

Although the grove was beguilingly pretty, Phoenix knew better than to try and take any shortcuts. Potentially dangerous creatures lay in the depths of the forest. It was common knowledge to the area to stay on the enchanted main path for guaranteed safe travel.

That was why it was so strange when he spotted four people standing about twenty feet off the path ahead. Two among their company were quite small, likely children. The tiniest one looked no older than six, and she tightly clutched the older child’s hand. Like Phoenix, all four of them wore the hooded cloaks of mages. Unlike Phoenix, the strangers kept the hoods up, obscuring their faces.

The baker hoisted his basket closer. I should’ve remembered to bring my spellbook along with me…

Mages were generally cordial, if not exactly friendly towards each other, but it was unusual to come across them in groups. This could mean bad news.

One of the strangers, probably the leader, carried a tall, arched staff with a purple stone at the helm. They signaled for the rest of the company to approach Phoenix.

Well, too late now. They’d already spotted him.

They hovered a few feet away from the main path, frustratingly far enough that Phoenix still couldn’t discern any of their facial features.

“Enjoying your walk in the woods?” The leader said, her voice ringing clearly throughout the grove.

“Yeah! ...But, um, be careful, though. This place is pretty safe, but if you don’t want any trouble, you should stick to the path.”

“We want trouble, alright,” the other adult in the group piped up. Her voice sounded younger and more headstrong. “But not with you. Unless you’re going to give us reason.”

“Mia,” the leader shushed the younger woman. “No need for that.”

“I’m not going give you trouble!” Phoenix said, indignant.

“You’d better not! If you did...” A smaller mage with strange beads in her hair mimed throwing a punch.

Phoenix gulped. “Um, what kind of trouble are you even looking for, anyway?”

“That’s none of your busine-”

Mia was cut off by the leader, again.

“Perhaps you’ll recognize this?” The leader gestured at her cloak.

Her cloak, as well as the other three’s cloaks, were all pinned together with a large, smooth stone. Every one of them was a different color, but each were shaped into a crescent with a hole bore into the middle. It was unmistakably the Magatama, the marking of the Fey clan.

The Feys were very well known as some of the most powerful, mysterious mages all over the kingdom. Some regarded them as guardians of the Realm, celebrated fighters and Seers. Darker rumors abounded that they were terrible witches that practiced necromancy. Despite that suspicion, they seem to had won the trust of the King himself, for he frequently consorted with the clan.

Phoenix took a step back, awed and kind of afraid. He had never met a Fey, nor had he ever expected to. They were as elusive as most magical beasts, which only encouraged the many, many rumors about them.

“Wh-What’s the Fey clan doing here?”

This is more serious than I thought.

“We’re looking for someone,” Mia said gravelly. “We’ve tracked her here.”

“It’s probably nothing to worry about,” the leader soothed. “We’ll be in the area keeping an eye on things. But, as a request from one mage to another, please tell us if you witness any strange activity, alright?”

Phoenix’s heart fluttered nervously.

“...Of course.”

Phoenix arrived at Dahlia’s house a fair bit later than he desired.

From her porch, she spotted him and rushed over. Seeing her beautiful face, all his worries from the meeting the Feys melted away. Dollie was all that mattered, ever. Phoenix caught her in a hug.

“Dollie!” He greeted his lover eagerly. “I’m so glad to see you!”

“It’s so nice to see you too, Feenie,” Dahlia said, letting him twirl her around.

Phoenix beamed. He set her down and revealed his basket. “I brought something for you!”

“Did you?”

“Uh-huh,” the baker chirped. “It’s for our anniversary.”

Phoenix swore he saw her face scrunch into a frown, but it passed so fast that he must have imagined it.

“Anniversary?”

“We’ve been dating for a whole month now!”

“Oh, of course!” Dahlia’s laugh was like the tinkling of pretty bells. “How silly of me.”

“I baked you this,” he presented the basket proudly. “It took me ages to afford the sugar, but I did it for you, Dollie!”

“How sweet,” she cooed, accepting the basket. “Though, um, if it’s not too much trouble… can I ask you to do one more teensy-weensy little thing for me, Feenie?”

“Anything!”

Dahlia turned to face the him and suddenly Phoenix was faced with a world full of her pleading, lovely brown eyes. “I know I’ve asked before, but could I please, please have that pendant back? As a special gift for today?”

Phoenix faltered. His hand sought out the tiny bottle hanging around his neck. “Aww, but this is my token of affection from you. I could never give it up!”

“I can give you another token!” Dahlia said.

“I like it,” Phoenix protested.

Her head drooped. “Feenie, please. It’s what I want more than anything else in the world… You want this to be a good anniversary, don’t you?”

Phoenix couldn’t bear to see her looking so sad. “Um. You’d really give me another token?”

“Absolutely! I’ve been working on something for you much better than that old thing...”

“Well… if it’ll make you happy...”

Phoenix reluctantly fished out the pendant, and handed it over to Dahlia. In that moment, everything changed.

Kissh!

The misty substance violently ripped free of its confines, cracking the glass. It then soared into the air and plunged deep into Dahlia’s breast. A fierce wind whipped the trees around them into a frenzy. The howling gale was strong enough to send both of them flying.

On the far side of the clearing, Dahlia lay crumpled in a heap. Her red hair whirled wildly about her like a fiery storm.

Phoenix clambered to his feet and rushed towards her, “D-Dollie! Are you okay?”

Dahlia’s head jerked up, and suddenly she no longer seemed so fair. Her delicate features were contorted into a sneer and her pupils were blown dark. The baker faltered.

“...Dollie?”

She was up and on him in a flash. Startled, Phoenix fired sparks at her, not wanting to hurt her. Dahlia dodged his feeble attacks easily, countering his blows with a much more powerful stream of magic.

Wh-What? You can cast spells?

Terrified, Phoenix stumbled backwards, hurling miniature fireballs at Dahlia. The baker wished for the second time that day that he had thought to bring his spellbook with him. Without a magical artifact as a conduit for his spells, his attacks were scattered and weak.

The relentless maiden sent three more streaks of freezing blue sorcery that Phoenix dropped to the ground to avoid.

“Dollie, stop! Why are you doing this?” The baker begged.

Dahlia was gaining on him. In a last-ditch effort to win the duel, Phoenix waved his hands in front of him in an arc, creating a thick barrier of fire that careened out to meet her. She swooped left just in time, the attack singeing the sleeve of her dress. Nothing was enough.

The baker stood up and turned to flee. He was tackled and pinned by Dahlia. No amount of struggling would dislodge her. Phoenix stared helplessly up into the face of his lover.

“...You really are pathetic, you know,” Dahlia spat. “A promising fire mage like you, and you choose to become a baker instead? No wonder you can’t best me.”

Embarrassingly, Phoenix whimpered. Cheeks burning with shame, he tried to pull away, but Dahlia hooked a cruel finger under his jaw to keep him still.

“And what a worm.” Her voice raised jeeringly to imitate Phoenix. “Dollie, why are you doing this? Dollie, are you alright? Do you ever listen to how spineless you are? Do you seriously think anyone could ever love you?”

She paused to trace her finger along the underside of his chin in thought. “And yet, you did still help me in the end. I suppose I won’t kill you. No, I’ve got something much more amusing in mind...”

Finally, she let Phoenix’s chin drop. She closed her eyes and clutched the pendant, whispering some things in a language the baker didn’t recognize. When she opened her eyes, they glowed unnaturally bright.

Dahlia slammed the broken heart pendant into Phoenix’s chest to seal the spell. He screamed as he felt the metal, super-heated with magical energy, burn through his clothes and into his skin.

Phoenix’s consciousness fled.

[ernmark]

I would love a continuation of the au where juno thought peter was dead and then joined him in the brahma resistance! <3

A lot is going on in the world right now, and I sincerely don’t know what will and won’t be upsetting to read. Just because I think what I’ve written is fairly mild doesn’t mean anyone else will think so, so I advise you to proceed with caution. 

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 3.5 (Peter’s POV) | Part 4 

The station on Ketaki is a small one. It was only ever meant to house a few dozen scientists and their research equipment; now it’s full to bursting with a couple hundred rebels and refugees who have to maintain elaborate schedules just to be able to fit everyone into the tiny mess hall. The original science teams bunked in three large personnel chambers– those spaces are now crammed with beds and sleeping bags, the ceiling strung with hammocks, and still there’s people squeezing into the halls.

In short, it’s not a good place to go looking for privacy. But after all this time, Juno and Nureyev have an inconvenient amount of emotional baggage to unpack, and neither of them intends to do so in front of an audience. 

Fortunately, Nureyev’s already memorized the layout of the station, and he’s got a knack for disappearing. 

It’s a skill set they put to use often, carving out moments away from the crushing crowd and the pressure of the looming future. 

“What was it you told me in that relay?” he says with a grin that lights up the cramped little storage locker. “Say the word and you’re on your knees?”

It’s so good to see him smile.

Maybe melodrama is contagious, because Juno swears Rita’s movie nights are starting to rub off on him.

“I thought I lost you,” he blurts out in a moment of passion. “God, Nureyev. It felt like– it felt like a black hole opened up in my chest and–” That’s as far as he gets before he realizes how idiotic he sounds. He can only be humiliated by his own outburst for so long before Nureyev kisses him again and almost wipes it from his mind. He holds out hope that Nureyev forgets the little confession, too, at least until the kisses start moving lower.

Almost every time they’re intimate, Nureyev takes a moment to suck a mark onto Juno’s chest– just a little reminder that Nureyev is here and the gaping emptiness isn’t.

Juno does what he can to help the refugees track down friends and family back on the surface. The work isn’t easy, and more often than not all he can offer is conclusive evidence that the missing person is already dead. He prefers helping out in the kitchens– at least he can put to use a lifetime of producing solid meals out of an empty pantry. 

Some days Alessandra pulls him in to the makeshift barracks; Nureyev’s been pulling strings to arm the rebels, but weapons don’t mean much if they don’t know how to use them. Juno can’t teach the refined combat maneuvers that Alessandra and the other veterans are using, but he can still teach the fighters how to shoot straight. 

Rita is doing what Rita does best: tinkering with the security systems on Brahma, finding the cracks in their code and inserting bits and pieces of her own into the empty spaces. By the time the government of New Kinshasa starts catching up to her, she’s in too deep to get locked out. There’s something immensely satisfying about Rita’s cackle when they try.

The rebels are hijacking New Kinshasa’s broadcasts now, replacing the propaganda with footage of government abuses, interspersed with video of Nureyev. Now that Juno’s safe, there’s no more reason for him to hide in the shadows.

To the people of Brahma, he sends a message: You aren’t forgotten. Freedom is coming. Hold on, we’re almost there.

His message to New Kinshasa is far more direct.

It begins with a screaming wind and a blinding red flash of light.

The people in the square dive for cover. Parents cover their children. Musicians hug their instruments, everyone shrieking and shouting to be heard over the gale.

The light dims and the wind dies down as abruptly as they arrived, and the people look up for a few moments of stunned silence.

In the wake of what could only have been a flash of hellfire stands the Fallen Angel himself.

A constable runs at him. He doesn’t get far before he’s gunned down by a single precise blast of laser fire– only instead of the sky, the stunning strike comes from a shadowy man in a long coat, standing just a few paces behind Nureyev.

Half a dozen cameras turn their attention to the scene.

Nureyev, ever the performer, takes the stage.

“Arch Chancellor Rossignol,” he declares. She’s nowhere to be seen, but nobody in that square doubts she’ll receive this message. “The last time we met, I thought I made myself clear. It seems I was mistaken. I didn’t want to do this, but your actions have left me with no alternative.” 

He raises a box– the last artifact brought over in Juno’s crates from the Martian tomb.

“As I know you are aware, I recently spent some time on Mars. I’m sure that you’re already well on your way to contacting the government of Olympus Mons about what this is and what it does. Let’s make it a little faster, shall we?”

Another pair of constables run at them. They’re stunned before they can go three steps. Unperturbed, Nureyev opens the box and retrieves the thing inside it.

“It’s called the Egg of Purus– the final weapon forged by the Ancient Martians. Living under your rule is nothing short of a life sentence, Arch Chancellor, and this is the punctuation mark that ends it.”

That’s when the screams begin in earnest. The crowd erupts into panic, the civilians running for their lives while the constables try to rush the scene. They’re fast. Juno’s faster.

When the constables fail, soldiers are scrambled to the defense– but when they arrive on the scene, the Fallen Angel and his companion are long gone, leaving behind that demonic wind and the Martian bomb.

Fear catches and spreads. The public address system blares, directing the populace to evacuate the city while bomb technicians advance on the Egg. The bomb technicians have done their research: in short order they determine that it’s real– a complete match to the one stolen from the Utgard Express. It’s a confirmed planet killer, and they have no idea how to stop it.

They can’t, of course– and not just because it was built without an off switch. Without an Ancient Martian hand to activate it, the Egg is completely inert. And without Ancient Martians for it to annihilate, it’s harmless.

But that’s a rare bit of information, known to less than a dozen living people in all the galaxy. Rita and the highest ranking members of the resistance are orchestrating the rebellion from the safety of Ketaki, well outside Brahma’s atmosphere.

Of the remaining three, one is on the surface, emerging from howling winds and blood-red light into a government office. Before the wind has a chance to fade, the cowering governor finds himself staring up the barrel of a blaster and into the face of Alessandra Strong. The same scenario is repeated in offices around the planet.

The last two materialize in the heart of New Kinshasa, the brilliant red of the teleporter fading into the demonic glow of the reactor. 

Their feet barely touch the ground before Juno’s at the door, frying the panel and sealing it shut. 

Nureyev doesn’t watch him work. His eyes drift to a patch of empty floor across the room. It’s innocuous, completely indistinguishable from the rest of the space, but his gaze is haunted.

“You going to be alright?” Juno asks, testing the door one last time. 

Nureyev nods shakily. “There was considerably more blood the last time I was here.”

“I know,” Juno says. “I know. But there’s gonna be a whole lot less this time around. I promise.” 

Even now, New Kinshasa’s citizens are fleeing the city, packing into military and rebel ships that will ferry them to safety. 

People will still die– they knew that going into this. There will be someone who stays behind, someone who’s lost among the wreckage, someone who calls the bluff for what it is.

But the city has to come down. Nobody on Brahma is safe so long as New Kinshasa is in the air. 

In the heart of the city, illuminated by the reactor, Juno slides down the wall beside Nureyev. His hand twines with the thief’s, and they watch the reactor core spin on its axis.

Overhead, the rebels are sweeping the city, searching for anyone who might have been left behind. 

Higher still, on Ketaki, there’s talk of constitutions and finding a working system of government. 

Down here, though, it’s just the two of them. After all those weeks in too cramped quarters, the space seems disconcertingly vast.

But for Nureyev, the whole universe suddenly feels much too small. His anonymity is gone. There will be no escaping this. 

“Will you go back to Mars,” he asks quietly. “When all this is over?”

Juno looks down at their joined hands, short callused fingers laced with nimble long ones. “Will you?” 

The question goes unanswered as the comms comes to life. 

“This is Moon Goddess to Fallen Angel,” Rita says, because no coup is complete without code names. “Come in, Fallen Angel.”

“We’re here, Rita,” Juno sighs.

“The city’s empty,” she says. “Rossignol and the constables are in custody, the city is in position over the Cambric Sea, and the last ship is in position to pick you up. Go do your stuff.” 

“Thanks.” Juno turns off the comms and climbs to his feet, reaching out a hand. “You ready, Peter?” 

Peter lets himself be pulled upright and crosses the chamber to the core. The reactor comes out easily in his hands. An electronic voice booms what they already know: New Kinshasa will finally fall.

All those years. All those names. All that time spent running alone. 

It’s finally over. 

[rocklandhistoryblog]

Weathervane c. 1784 HSRC 2007.6.1ab Gift from the Collection of James Smith Haring, IV

___________________________________________________________

The Flight of the Rooster 

by Firth Haring Fabend 

 The Flight of the Rooster 

1. This is the Church. This is the Steeple 

In 1788, the Tappan Reformed Church consistory acknowledged the need for a larger building to house its growing congregation. That year, the old building (Figure 1), which had served for almost a century, since the late 1690s, was radically reconstructed. Its two-foot thick sandstone walls were retained, but the building was lengthened from a square to a rectangle, and a gambrel or hipped roof was substituted for the original four-sided roof.1 (See Figure 2.) 

Figure 1

Figure 2

David Cole, a Reformed minister whose father, Isaac D. Cole, was the pastor of the Tappan Reformed Church from 1829 to 1864, described the new steeple of the 1788 church as "of open work, exposing to view the great wheel to which the bell was attached."2 He did not mention it, but on the steeple was mounted an iron weathervane in the shape of a rooster, forged no doubt in one of the smithies in the neighborhood. 

 Why a rooster? A rooster weathervane was common on European churches, both Catholic and Protestant, to remind the faithful of the cock that crowed each of the three times that Peter denied Christ on the eve of his Crucifixion. For more than half a century, Tappan's rooster weathercock wheeled freely in the wind over the little community, indicating the direction and velocity of every gale and zephyr--and flaunting his own familiar, impudent profile for miles around. 

 By 1835, it was evident that an even larger church structure was needed to accommodate the still-burgeoning congregation. Besides, the current building was "decayed beyond repair," in Cole's words. This time, the 1788 building and its original sandstone walls from the 1690s were completely demolished. It was not an easy task. "The hipped roof, though so hopelessly decayed," Cole wrote, "was a marvel of tenacity as to its old shingles, and the heavy wrought nails with which they were secured to the lathing. The shingles were not ripped up, according to our present way of removing a roof," he continued, "but the roof was cut into large sections and hurled in masses to the ground. The strong stone walls, not less than two feet in thickness, were pulled down with chains to which several yokes of oxen were attached."3 In the commotion of the demolition, the church's steeple toppled over, and the old rooster weathervane "flew off and was caught in a poplar tree," according to an account published in the Nyack Evening Journal forty-five years later in 1880.4 

Figure 3

The new building on the site (Figure 3) was designed with a fashionable four-pointed crown steeple that offered no convenient roost for anything so plebeian as a weathervane. Nevertheless, one sentimental onlooker at the scene of the demolition believed he could offer the bird a home. John Perry, a parishioner, retrieved the rooster from its unaccustomed perch in the poplar tree and took it to Nyack, where he placed it on his premises.5 Not long after this, the rooster came into the possession of Jacob Demarest, when he acquired Perry's premises in Nyack and built the St. Nicholas Hotel. And soon after this, Jacob Demarest sold the bird to one James S. Haring (1820-1878), a young man with a penchant for things historical.6 Subsequently, the rooster disappeared from sight and was believed--by anyone who ever gave the old weathercock a thought, and for many years some oldtimers in the Tappan Reformed Church did, judging by the interest in it in 1880--to have flown forever. 

 Recently, to great surprise, however, the rooster weathervane resurfaced. Since 1997, it has been in the possession of the Historical Society of Rockland County. 

 2. The Roost Covert 

Where was the bird roosting for those 162 years between 1835 and 1997, and how did it come to reappear at 20 Zukor Road in New City, the home of the Historical Society of Rockland County? 

In September 1991, I received a phone call from a man who identified himself as James Smith Haring IV, a resident of Philadelphia. I knew of Mr. Haring by reputation as an eccentric collector of art and historical artifacts who had a strong affection for Rockland County's history and for his family's role in its original settlement in the 1680s and its affairs thereafter. He was calling to ask me how he could get a copy of my recently published book, A Dutch Family in the Middle Colonies, 1660-1800 (Rutgers University Press, 1991), which documents the history of the Haring family over its first five generations, first in New Amsterdam and then in New York and New Jersey. Seizing the opportunity to meet him--and to see his collections--I offered to hand carry a copy of the book to him in Philadelphia. At first, he was adamantly opposed to this idea. He never, he said, allowed anyone into his house. Disappointed, I agreed to mail him a copy of the book. But an hour or so later, he telephoned again. He had had a change of heart and invited me to visit him the next day. He made sure I knew that it was a very special and a very unusual occurrence for him to open his house to anyone. 

 The next morning I was on his doorstep. He opened the door, pulled me inside, and, much to my consternation, double bolted the door behind me. He saw my uneasiness and asked if I was nervous. I admitted that I was and asked him to leave the door unlocked, but he refused, saying that we were "safer" with the door locked, as the neighborhood was no longer what it had been. 

 Neither, clearly, was his once very elegant townhouse. I glanced around me. From where I stood in the front hall, every room that I could see was piled high with things: paintings, furniture, bibelots, books, artifacts of every description and clearly, even at a distance, of both good and of bad quality. A dog breeder, Jim had seven greyhounds in the house at the time, all of whom were yelping wildly from their quarters in the basement. Although I was exceedingly uneasy, I accompanied him upstairs anyway, to the one cleared space in the house, where in the center of a room on the second floor he lived. In this space, there were two chairs, a table, and a radio--which he never turned off, night or day, he told me--and there we sat. 

 3. Jim 

 I presented my book to Jim, and he began to tell me about himself and his life: Born in 1919, he had graduated from Ridgewood High School and then from the University of Pennsylvania. During World War II, he was put in charge of developing the famed Canine Corps, and after the War, while working as a sales representative for Dow Chemical, he owned and managed Sundridge House in Harriman, N.Y., breeding and showing champion greyhounds and English setters under the Sundridge name. 

 Later, picking our way along narrow pathways through towering piles of furnishings and objects, he showed me around the house. Much of what I saw was of fine quality. But much was junk, especially in the hundreds of paintings of recent vintage that were stacked against every wall. In one room, however, I was astonished to notice paintings that seemed to be by John Singer Sargent. I asked him if they were copies. He said they were not. He explained to me that his grandfather, James Smith Haring, Jr. (1855-1925), had been one of the civil engineers hired by the tobacco mogul Pierre Lorillard IV to lay out Tuxedo Park in the 1880s, and many of the paintings and much of the beautiful, and ornate, furniture that Jim possessed had been acquired by his grandfather at estate sales at this enclave of the rich and famous. (See Figure 4, a family tree.) Also, his maternal grandfather had belonged to the English baronetcy, and some of the objects and furniture in the house had come to Jim from that side of his family. 

 What caught my eye especially, however, were the humbler artifacts that had come down to Jim from his ancestors in eighteenth-century Bergen and Rockland counties: hand-painted miniatures of his great-great grandparents, daguerreotypes, albums, side chairs, a small desk, tables, a Bible--and more, all stacked haphazardly on top of one another in one corner of the upstairs hallway. Prominently displayed in the hall was a rose famille porcelain bowl in excellent condition and in an adjacent bedroom a charming set of framed watercolors of Piermont, dated 1906, by a skilled artist whose work was unfamiliar to me and whose name was tantalizingly just out of my eyeshot. 

 Naturally, I began to wonder what was to become of all these treasures, as Jim at the time was 72 years old and was suffering, he told me, from congestive heart disease. I asked him if he had made a will. He said he had not, but that he wanted to leave everything to Ridgewood High School and to the Historical Society of Rockland County. Gently, I tried to explain to him that a public high school was not a logical repository for antiques and priceless paintings, and that the mission of the Historical Society of Rockland County was to preserve not elaborate furnishings and artifacts of English or Continental origin, but strictly items related to Rockland County's history. 

 At this point, a gleam came into Jim's eye, and he asked me if I wanted to see something very special that related very notably to Rockland County. Of course, I said Yes. After swearing me to secrecy, he leaped out of his chair and, in the same room where we sat, scrambled up the side of a stack of furnishings and objects to the very top of the pile, where from just under the ceiling he pulled out from beneath a welter of musty, dusty rags, rugs, and old newspapers an iron rooster. 

 I had heard of the long-missing rooster weathervane that had once topped the steeple of the 1788 Tappan Reformed Church. Local historian George Budke had written of it in his articles about the church on its 250th anniversary in 1944, and as noted above, even earlier the Nyack Evening Journal had described the rooster's disappearance in an 1880 article preserved in the archives of the Tappantown Historical Society. 

 Jim confirmed what I had instantly suspected: This was the very same rooster. It had been in his family for four generations, ever since his great-grandfather, whose namesake he was, bought it (for five dollars) in the late 1830s. I tried to persuade Jim to make a gift of the weathervane to the church, but he became very agitated at the thought of parting with the object and reminded me of my promise not to reveal its whereabouts. 

 4. Curiouser and Curiouser 

 At this point, the saga of the missing rooster becomes even stranger. I remained true to my promise to Jim not to reveal the weathervane's whereabouts, but my guilty knowledge of it, and my uncertainties as to its future, preyed on my mind. 

In May 1993, I wrote to Jim to tell him that the Tappan Reformed Church was planning to celebrate its Tercentennial in 1994 and that, in honor of the occasion, the congregation had raised the enormous sum of $56,000 to replace the now-dilapidated crown tower that since 1835 had been such a beloved landmark in the area. What an appropriate gesture, I suggested, if he were to present the rooster weathervane to the church at this time, as a memorial to his Haring ancestors, founding members of the church three hundred years before. 

 He did not answer this letter, and six months later I learned that James Smith Haring IV had died, on November 2, 1993. With his obituary to guide me, I tracked down a sister who lived in Ramsey, N.J., and asked her about the circumstances of his death. She told me that, four days before dying, Jim had made a will, instructing that his house and possessions be sold--with the proceeds to be divided between Ridgewood High School and the Historical Society of Rockland County. She also told me that he had instructed his power of attorney, a Cynthia Williams, to go to his house in Philadelphia and remove from it two items: a rose famille porcelain bowl that had belonged to his mother, and the rooster weathervane. 

 Was I only wishfully thinking when it struck me that, on his deathbed, Jim had decided to return the rooster to the Tappan Reformed Church, as I had twice urged him to do? We will never know. Ms. Williams did not respond to my letter of inquiry to her, and in time it became known to me that (with or without Jim's treasures and precious antiques is not known) she had dropped, like the rooster 160 years before, out of sight. 

5. What To Do? 

 After learning of the existence of Jim's will, I decided to telephone Scott Vanderhoff, then President of the Historical Society of Rockland County, to acquaint him with its existence, in case he should not have heard of it. He had not heard of it. I described in detail to him, both then and later in writing, the marvelous treasures I had seen in the house in Philadelphia. 

 With little delay, the Society engaged the law firm of Doig, Cornell & Mandel in New City to look into the matter. Unfortunately, it was learned arduously--after much correspondence with the executors of the will and other parties--that Jim's house was ransacked soon after, or perhaps even before his death, of all that was valuable in it. All that was left was worthless. 

 Miraculously, the rooster turned up. One of the executors revealed that he had been holding it for "safekeeping." He conveyed it to the Historical Society, where it is today. Of all the possessions, of even the funds from the sale of the house, almost nothing was turned over to the Society except for the rooster, the rose famille porcelain bowl, a Civil War uniform belong to Colonel James Smith Haring, and seven disappointingly unimportant documents. 

6. Chanticleer Himself 

The rooster himself measures 16 and a half inches in height from his crest to his belly and 20 inches across, from the tips of his four flamboyant tail plumes to his cocky, swelling breast. The pole on which he stands adds another 9 and a half inches to his height, and he still turns on his perch today as smoothly as the day he was fashioned. 

 He is in excellent condition, considering that he is 211 years old. Forged of iron, he was at one time, perhaps originally, gilded or painted gold. A layer of black paint was subsequently applied. Both coats are peeling, and the peeling, which mimics the mottled or speckled effect of a real bird, adds to his verisimilitude. 

Will the Tappan Reformed Church weathercock ever return to his original roost in Tappan? The good news is Yes, if . . . . Pastor James Johnson has requested of the Historical Society that the bird be loaned to the Church for display, and the Board of Trustees of the Society has agreed to lend the old weathervane to the Tappan Reformed Church for exhibition, provided the Church can ensure its safety and security. 

 The downside is, this may not be so easy, given the weathervane's value as an outstanding example of eighteenth-century American folk art. So the rooster found still presents a problem. But what a wonderful problem for the Tappan Reformed Church, perhaps pooling resources and ideas with the Tappantown Historical Society and with the community at large, to solve together! 

 Notes 1. David Cole, D.D., History of the Reformed Church of Tappan, N.Y. (New York, 1894), pp. 76-77. Cole believed the first church building dated from 1716, but local historian George Budke subsequently found information in the church records and elsewhere to suggest the earlier date. For this information, and Budke's reasoning, see "Introductory Sketch of the Tappan Church," Budke Collection #48, New City Free Library. 

2. Cole, History, p. 77. 

3. Cole, History, pp. 93 and 95. 

4. Account in the Nyack Evening Journal, January 3, 1880, Tappantown Historical Society Archives. 

 5. Ibid. 

 6. Ibid.

[pixichi]

Stealth and Witchcraft Cp.10

Garrett ended up falling asleep at his work station that night, after carefully removing his metal prosthetic so as not to accidently crush the more delicate components. After the difficult day he'd had, the thief was hoping to enjoy a long and dreamless rest. But his slumber, was far from pleasant: *** A storm was imminent, though not the sort Garrett was expecting as he remained hunched atop that domed rooftop, surveying the expanse of that sullen midnight sky. It was almost numbing, having her so near. He could have reached out and touched her in that moment if he'd so chosen. But like the phantasmic specters of an impossible dream, the thief feared that such an attempt would shatter the precious veil between reality and fiction. For the moment, she was there. And she was speaking to him again, though far from the way he would have preferred. "Have you caught your breath yet, old man?" she asked with that mischievous, uninterested smirk of hers. An expression she'd long ago acquired from her mentor, and perfected over the course of her short lifetime. Garrett glowered up at her, his bi-colored stare far from amused by her little jest. "I wasn't catching my breath, Erin," he sneered. "I just happened to see something down below," he explained, bobbing his head in the direction of the intricate glass skylight. His accomplice  shot him an incredulous look. "Riiight..." she crossed her arms. "And I have a husband and twenty-seven kids waiting for me back home." "Don't be a smart ass," the older thief discouraged her sarcasm. Erin just rolled her eyes. "Come on Garrett. Basso told me you'd help out," she groused, taking a few moments more to survey the billowing smog as it snuffed out the moon. "Okay, first of all, yeah. And I am," he reassured her. "Second of all, take a peek down there yourself if you don't believe me." The thief pointed a thin and smudged index finger, encouraging the girl to peer down over the precipice of the stately manse. Erin did as she was bade, her cyan eyes narrowing as they began to make out the forms of several hooded figures below. Atop a mahogany pedestal towards the center of the room, was a silvery blue stone glinting with an almost otherworldly luster. "Cult activity?" Erin asked, turning back to her mentor. Garrett said nothing, as he continued to survey the suspicious gathering below with pensive eyes. "Perhaps," he muttered, "certainly seems like the sort of layout for that." As he had done countless times over the course of his time with Erin, Garrett was only telling half-truths. Keeping his apprentice--no, his daughter--blind to that which could potentially harm, or otherwise greatly upset her. After all, what sort of parent could possibly do less? Consequently, he knew full well that a ritual was indeed transpiring far below his piercing glare and stiff form. There were other artifacts resting upon similar pedestals, relics which had been used in a sinister ritual fifteen years before. And as he began to recognize each of the objects involved, a trill of primitive dread traversed Garrett's spine with a sinister shock. A gleaming heart of ruby red, impossible luster and impressive in size. A crown of twisted and savage design, its cold silver and aquamarine adornments visible even from this high up. A golden chalice, a mummified paw. The recognition of the four relics gave the master thief pause. He wondered, if it was down there too. The unshakable sensation of disquieted uncertainty which ravaged his person mere seconds after, gave Garrett his answer. As he leered further still down into the darkness of that place, the hooded criminal could see it leering up at him. Silent and frozen, but watching him all the same. The Eye had promised to return to the City one day. To return for that remaining coal-brown optic which now sat mismatched alongside a venin replica. And now, it was finally here. But it wasn't the presence of that sentient nightmare that gave the thief pause. It was the sacrificial podium which the hooded ones now encircled. More specifically, it was the masked soul strapped down atop it. Even from his present height, Garrett could see the victim writhing and trembling within their tight bonds. The green mask they wore was intricate, frightening. It reminded the thief of Pagans, although there was something almost mocking about the peculiar design. The lost eyes which seemed to stare directly into him from that painted smiling face. It genuinely chilled him. Garrett stood from the window, clasping his ward's shoulder in the process. "Nope. That's it. We're not doing this." Erin gawked up at the thief, as if he'd just revealed the impossible to her. And, in some sense of the word, he had. Garrett: The Master Thief, abandoning a job? It was beyond comprehensible for her. She had watched him take risks far greater, and come out even wealthier still. Her blue eyes darkened against the backdrop of gloomy sky and turbulent weather. "What?!" the word was but a breathless whisper. Garrett deigned to respond, having neither time nor interest for her blatant disapproval. As the thief turned around to leave, Erin jolted upright, stomping across the rooftop after him. "Hey!!" she hollered. That, at least gave him pause. A puff of dense mist exited the girl's dark lips, as she began to seethe. "What are you doing?!" Garrett looked over his shoulder at her, the blustery winds tearing at his cloak. "The job just fell through. I'm going home," he remarked. Erin acquired a stunned expression, her mouth wide open as she struggled to process what the thief had just told her. "You're BAILING on me?!" she gaped. "No way!" "Way," Garrett sneered. Erin gestured furiously with her arms, before throwing them up over her head in a blatant tantrum. "I don't get it!" she shouted, "Basso told me you'd be fine with this!" Garrett hesitated, a deep sigh leaving his lips as he massaged his throbbing temples. In his youth, the thief could recall his own mentor, Artemus, doing this quite regularly. Now, Garrett finally understood why. Turning around, the hooded misanthrope walked up to his child, and gave her a most unsettling glare. "Erin. Look, I'm sorry. But I didn't expect this. Not even the greatest of criminals can prepare for every contingency," he explained. But Garrett could tell by the headstrong look on her face, that the girl was far from convinced. Far from sated. "That's why you have skill. Aces up your sleeve," she retorted, "So what if the nobles are dabbling in the unspeakable down there? The stuff we're after is in the East Wing! Why in the hell are you letting what's happening down there bother you like this?!" "You don't get it," the thief growled. "This isn't about feelings, or blind fear, kid. This, is about past experiences. Mistakes that I don't want you getting tangled up in, Erin." Impossibly blue eyes surged through the darkness as the spry young huntress glowered up at her paternal guide. Garrett had been far from an astute role model to her. He'd disappointed at Christmas, and forgotten birthdays. But seldom had Erin been more disappointed in the man, as she was in that intransigent moment. "I don't care," she snarled, blue eyes vibrant in the dark. "I need what's in the East Wing. And I'm not leaving here without it." Erin's attempts to assert herself proved futile at best. Before her stood a man who'd seen much, and suffered so much more. His eyes served as bi-colored windows into that which an imperious child such as she could never hope to comprehend. A dismal, inescapable prison of his own design. One that he secretly aspired to safeguard her from at all costs. "You can always come back for it later," Garrett rebuked, as the midnight rain grew frigid. "Whatever it is, it isn't worth your life..." The young woman stared awestruck at him for several moments, before releasing a raucous, mocking chorale. "My LIFE?" Erin blinked, brushing a strand of jet black hair from her pallid face. "Okay, Garrett. I have time to play. I see...hmm, maybe six gaudy trinkets, a masked sacrifice, and some hooded freaks down there. No offence," the girl grinned up at him. Garrett refused to dignify her with a response. After a while of cold, awkward silence and raindrops, Erin cleared her throat. "Okay, so my point was, just what exactly do you suspect's down there anyway? Just what are you so afraid of?" The thief glared at her, his cloak billowing in the air behind him like an imposing black flag. Garrett could smell the trepidation laced upon those chilling gales as they stung his face. It was as though the nocturnal abyss that surrounded them, was preparing for war. He glanced down at his boots, memories of perilous encounters long since past racing through his head. They were mages, and they knew the baron. He didn't have to ask why--the situation spoke for itself. Something frightfully dubious, was happening down there. Something that involved that sinister winking relic. "It was the first real commission I ever took--and the last. An enthusiastic nobleman and his consort contacted me regarding the thing," Garrett explained. Erin raised an eyebrow. "You? Working for a noble?!" "I was young and stupid back then," Garrett grumbled. "All I could focus on, was the promise of wealth beyond my wildest dreams. What sorts of things I could have done with all that money..." The thief trailed off for a moment, closing his eyes in profound shame. Bitter lament. Thoughts of fine wines, a lavish manse by the sea. His own concubines, and enough treasure to make even a pirate king envious. Such worldly desires had corrupted and clouded his mind, much like Constantine's curious green wine had the eve of their first meeting. Garrett still chastised himself for never recognizing the obvious. The Trickster's façade had been only skin deep, that devilish grin prominently out of place upon the old man's face. And yet, the thief had taken the bait regardless. Erin's cold fingers tapped his hand, snapping Garrett from his disquieting stupor. "So, you stole this dude an artifact back when you were my age? So what?" she snorted," and what the taff does that story have to do with anything?" Her mentor glared at her. "The thing I stole for him--it's down there right now," Garrett responded in a distant, unsettled voice. Erin peered over the skylight again, watching as one of the hooded figures reached for a large and tattered tome. "Which one?" she asked, more curious and casual than the thief was comfortable with. Reluctantly, Garrett pointed out the object in question. Though he couldn't be certain, the thief thought he heard the thing emanate a gravelly chuckle as he did so. "That one. It's called The Eye." "The Eye?" his ward parroted, a derisive grin contorting across her face. "Stupid name. It doesn't look anything like an eye." "That's far from the point," Garrett sneered. "It has one. Two, actually. And it's looking to obtain a third..." The moonlighter fought to contain a hitched shudder, but Erin caught the troubled grimace upon his weathered face. "Garrett? You okay?" she asked, genuinely concerned but still grinning. The thief released a loud, shaken sigh. "No. I'm not," he replied, his gaze never leaving that horrible relic. It was watching him too, and the thief knew it. "Look, we need to leave now, Erin. That thing...it's..." Garrett's mouth went dry, rendering him momentarily speechless. Erin inched closer to where he sat hunched over the edge of the skylight. "It's what?" she inquired, trying her best to sound genuine, and helpful. Garrett shook his head, standing once again from the rooftop. "Never mind. We're leaving," he commanded, starting back towards the  edge of the building again. "Come on." Erin started off after him, nearly tripping herself in her haste. Somehow, she managed to reach and intercept Garrett before he could begin his decent back down the side of the building. "Wait a minute!" she panted, arms outstretched. "You're seriously abandoning this heist because you're afraid of a ROCK?!" Garrett scowled at that, his pupils gyrating in a deep, personal fury. He had always known better than to reveal too much of his past to the girl. But for whatever inexplicable reason, that night, he had. Perhaps it was the overwhelming elation he felt to see her again after nearly four years of alienation. Or perhaps, it was the thief's own distorted brand of paternal instinct, fighting against his aloof personality in order to keep her safe. "It's sentient, and it's very evil. Let's leave it at that," he snapped. But Erin, was far from satisfied. "So what?" she argued. "You're Garrett! You single-handedly blew up the Trickster. You broke up the entire Mechanist order by using their own prophet's weapon against him. Hell, you even destroyed that horrible hag who murdered my parents! You expect me to believe for even one second that you're THIS terrified over a 'very evil' sentient bauble?!" Lighting lit up the night sky, revealing the thief's innermost turmoil to the girl he'd raised since she was twelve. Erin wasn't prepared for what she beheld chiseled there upon his gaunt, grizzled features. The unspeakable stillness, the icy and detached expression of a man who had seen more than his fair share of evils. Garrett ground his teeth beneath stiff, compressed lips. His eyes closed, and as the thunder rocked the foundation beneath his feet, the criminal wrestled with an extremely delicate conundrum. He had never told Erin the specifics regarding the loss of his right eye. The details were far too preposterous for anyone to believe, far too agonizing for the thief to relive. But if he stood any chance to convincing her to abandon the mission that night, risks had to be taken. Sacrifices, had to be made. This reveal, would be his final attempt to try and illustrate the severity of peril to his headstrong charge. It was a moot decision, but one made out of desperation rather than practicality. A part of him knew Erin wouldn't listen. She never did, once the prize was in sight. But another part of him--a part only a handful of souls had ever been privy to--had made the attempt out of some improbable hope that tonight would be different. "It's also the reason I lost my eye..." he managed, his voice low and distant. For the briefest of moments, Garrett's heart surged with hope when he beheld the mortified expression upon the girl's pale features. There was not a hint of skepticism  locked away behind that lapis glare. Erin, believed him. But the thief's hopes were to be dashed just as quickly. Because although she did indeed believe his harrowing tale, Erin still possessed the same regrettable weaknesses that he did: Arrogance. Tenacity. Greed. After all, he had raised her that way. Children often inherit the traits of their guardians--both good, and bad. She did not understand. Why, after all this time, all of her personal sacrifices, should SHE admit defeat?!  Her eyes widened for a moment, before glazing over once more with those less-than-desirable traits. "Alright, I think I get it," she hissed, turning away in an exasperated motion. Again, Garrett assumed that he'd gotten through to her. But hope, often has a way of amplifying disappointment, and pain. Erin faced him, her blue eyes shimmering with brazen confidence. "But I'm not like you. This doesn't effect me," she hissed cruelly. Garrett's eyes grew wide beneath the shadowy confines of his hood, as the grueling ultimatum of the situation overtook him. Despite everything he'd just explained. Despite everything he'd risked and revealed at the sake of his own comfort, his ward would not be stopped. It was as though her mind was deadlocked, her body acting for the sake of another. Even at her most unruly, Erin had never been this blindingly foolish. It made Garrett wonder, with a sickening shift of his gut, just what she was truly after? And why? As the girl proceeded to head back across the rooftops in the direction of the Eastern Gallery, something rough grabbed her arm. Erin whirled around, dagger at the ready. Only to see Garrett, the most bothersome look of severity present upon his face. "Don't..." he snarled, though his features reflected far more concern than anger. Erin broke away from his grasp with a sharp, unexpected strength. She sneered up at her mentor, the midnight breeze ruffling her unkempt black bangs. "Cut it out, Garrett!" she shouted, shoving him backwards. "You know what? This, is beyond stupid. If your gonna be stuck on this roof having  little PTSD episode, then I'm going on without you." A sensation like cold electricity swelled within the thief's chest the moment those careless words left her mouth. He could accept her sassy attitude. He could endure her defiance. But when she dared to make light of the hell he'd suffered, after he'd just revealed a particularly terrible experience with her. That was the one thing Garrett couldn't tolerate. "What the hell do you know about it?!" he shouted, extending his hand and slapping her. "I'll tell you: You don't know shit! So keep your damned mouth shut, Erin!" His outburst was an instantly regrettable action. A last resort to try and get his heedless waif to listen to reason. As the Keepers would have put it, a lapse in judgement. Yet another loss of balance. The look of deep fear and pleading within his weathered face emphasized this, but the girl at his side felt only the burning in her face, and a vicious resentment budding within her chest. Erin grabbed her cheek, growling in frustration as she leered up at the man whom had practically raised her. "I won't. I'm not a child anymore Garrett! And YOU..." she snarled, hesitation holding her venomous tongue for but a moment, before her sinister reprisal bit through those conscientious bindings, "...you, will NEVER be my father..." Her words tore away at him, wounding the thief in a place his headstrong charge could never hope to see. A myriad of callous words flooded the thief's mind like briny water; murky and chilling. But in that conflicted moment, the wounded moonlighter could only bring himself to ask one simple question in response. "Erin, why is this damned gem so important to you?!" The girl's breath hitched in response to his unexpected quandary. It was as though she could once again feel the knife at her neck, smell the bile and whisky upon her captors. Erin's eyes flooded with hot tears, as she recalled what they had said to her at the start of the week: "You dare to defy us?! We lost Vanessa 'cause of you, bitch. Now, you're gonna get us that taffing gem, or I'll have your heart instead!" The Burrick's Soul. One of the largest diamonds in the world. A marvelous prize indeed. Her 'employers' had made their rather passionate request known, but despite all of her previous experience with both thieving and assassination, Erin knew that obtaining the gem would be difficult indeed. That's precisely why she'd contacted Basso, asking him to recruit Garrett onto this little excursion of hers. Despite her arrogance, Erin knew that she couldn't do it without him. But for his sake--and for hers--she couldn't tell him the truth about this job. Thunderclouds rolled overhead, and Erin released a loud, distressed sigh. "Listen Garrett...I-I can't tell you, okay?" she tried. The hooded rogue glowered down at her. "And why the hell not?" "I just can't, alright?" Erin snapped. "It's...complicated." It had been almost four years since they'd last spoken, and suffice to say, the evening hadn't been anywhere as hospitable as she'd hoped. When she first encountered her old mentor atop that roof beneath a vibrant sea of twilight and newly-birthed stars, Erin had expected a look of surprise to overtake his rough features. Perhaps even a smile. But instead, Garrett acted as though time itself had been absent for the last four years. She continued to eye the thief, how his face now displayed such shock. Though for a different reason entirely. In truth, Garrett had his own ways of expressing intense emotion. That was to say, he disliked doing it at all. Outwardly, he preferred his features to remain steadfast and stoic. However, what transpired within, was a different story entirely. He hadn't said a word, hadn't asked for even the slightest of details when he'd met her atop the shingles that evening. Garrett didn't bother, because he didn't care. Seeing his girl again after so many years. Seeing her back, not only alive but according to Basso, doing quite well for herself. It filled him with an indescribable joy, a pride which even an arrogant man such as Garrett had never experienced before. Garrett didn't question Erin's whereabouts, because simply having her back was more than enough to satisfy him. But now, how he wished that she'd stayed away. The truth can be a very damaging thing, regardless as to whether or not one choses to believe it. While Erin hadn't meant them, even now as she deeply regretted those words, the tragedy remained. They were still undeniably true. He was but a bereaved misanthrope, trying to pay homage to a dead man he'd never so much as thanked for saving his life. Erin, had simply tried to pickpocket the wrong man at the right time. As the malevolent ritual continued to commence beneath their feet, Erin looked up at her mentor again. Her eyes were large, pleading. Desperate to correct a disastrous slip of the tongue. "Look, I'm sorry for what I said. You...you're the one who saved me. That's more than my biological father could do. I owe you my life, and I don't tell you that enough. I--" Before she could conclude her apology, Garrett held up a hand to silence her. Rubbing his temples, the thief allowed his balance to slip for the second time that night. "--Erin. Just stop. You've been gone four years. You made your choice. You're an adult now. Why the taff should I care how you feel about me?" Upon receipt of those callous words, Erin's entire world crumbled. Her sapphire eyes shimmered with tears there against that rumbling leaden sky, as she stepped backwards. "Is...is that how you really feel?" she gasped, her hushed voice nearly drowned out by the vile storm. Garrett turned to face her, his movements stiff and constricted. Remorseful, yet far too proud to admit his guilt. Another clap of thunder echoed throughout the City, as veteran and apprentice made eye contact. The thief's tongue brushed the roof of his mouth, as though the act would ease the flow of words from his tight throat. But before he could even open his mouth, a shrill crackling sound disrupted the night. Both Garrett and Erin began to survey the area, seeking a culprit for the peculiar interruption. However, it was the blue-eyed girl who found it first when she looked down. A sickening twinge of dread overtook Erin's person, when she at last realized just where she was standing. Before Garrett could react, the skylight began to splinter outwards around her boots. He lurched forward, his instincts overtaking both reason and guile in that horrific moment. "Erin! Get back!" he barked. But his warning came far too late. The world around him faded to a inhospitable grey, as the thief felt the blood drain away from his face. His heart plummeted into his quivering stomach, and Garrett could only watch through his helpless stupor, as his entire world shattered beneath her. *** Garrett sprung from his mattress, panting and drenched with sweat. It ran like blood from his temples, the clammy chill of the clocktower tickling his face. Clutching at the sheets, he stared through one maddened eye at his lap. His body was a trembling mess, his perception hazy at best in lieu of the nightmare and lack of depth perception. But that was until he noticed her. Gwenevere was kneeling beside his bed, and as his vision gradually swam into focus, Garrett registered on just how concerned she actually was. Her cherubic face was riddled with an intense worry, her large green eyes almost luminous against a dismal backdrop of filthy shadows. "Are you okay, Garrett?" she asked, the moment he glowered up at her. "I'm fine!" Garrett barked, catching his breath with a shout. "Why wouldn't I be?" "Because," Gwenevere crooned, resisting the urge to rest a comforting hand upon the thief's quaking knee. "You were screaming." Garrett gawked up at her, the lack of symmetry within his features giving him a frightful appearance. Had he really been screaming? Considering what his nightmare had been about, the thief didn't doubt it. He clutched the bedsheets tighter beneath his thin fingers, chastising himself for allowing the brat to hear him in a moment of weakness. "Yeah, well even if that were true," he huffed, "I'm fine now." Gwenevere scooted away from him, her eyes narrowing in response to his cutting words. "Yes, I can see that you are," she snorted. "Back to your usual, jerky self..." "Then what are you still doing here Gwenevere?" Garrett stared pensively at her. Gwenevere looked up at him, focusing her two eyes into his one. The remaining dark optic seemed to take on an almost sinister tone in the dead of night. She could tell that this sort of prolonged eye contact made her mentor very uncomfortable, but all the same, she needed him to see the gratitude written within her eyes. Furthermore, she had to know why he'd done what he had. "Garrett?" she asked. The thief's brows furrowed at her bell-like voice. "Shouldn't you be getting back to bed?" he sneered. Gwenevere bit her bottom lip. "I-I haven't been able to sleep at all tonight, actually," she admitted. "I mean, I tried yes. But..." "But?" the thief raised a cautious eyebrow. Gwenevere looked down at her crossed legs, and began chewing on her hair again. "Garrett?" she mumbled through a mouthful of red. "What?!" he snapped, feeling beyond uncomfortable by this point. Gwenevere shot upwards, allowing the moistened strand to slip free from her mouth. Once again, she locked her gaze into Garrett's, though there was an glint of skeptisim and intrigue written within her face this time. "Garrett, why did you keep me from those men tonight?" Her question rattled him, causing Garrett's entire face to warp into a look of utmost perplexity. "What men?" he decided to play the fool, knowing full well just what scum Gwenevere was indeed referring to. "The bounty hunters outside of the tavern," she explained. Then, the young woman acquired a authentic bleakness within her features. "I may be ditzy. I may be clumsy and naïve. But I know that you despise me, Garrett. No doubt you've come to understand that there's a reward offered for my safe return, and--" "--considered," the thief corrected. Gwenevere blinked. "What?" "A reward is being considered. That's what your poster said anyway," Garrett grumbled. "Right," the girl nodded. "So, if you indeed hate me so much, why did you hide me back there? Why didn't you just hand me over to those men?" Garrett sighed hard, cracking his knuckles as he contemplated the esoteric reasoning behind that innocent question of hers, and the actions he had taken earlier that night. Truth be told, he'd been asking himself the same question. He did despise Gwenevere. More than anything, he wanted her out of his tower. Out of his life. So why had he allowed such a superb chance to be rid of her to slip from his grasp? "I just hate bounty hunters," he shrugged, perverting his response with both lies and truth. "So don't you go getting it into your senseless little head that I actually care about you, or anything like that." "I...never said you did..." the girl smiled. Feeling flustered, the thief's discontent intensified. Despite her best efforts, Gwenevere soon found herself captivated by the empty void on the right half of his face. It seemed to be pulling at her, dragging her down into the unsafe realms of his morose world. When he noticed her incessant staring, Garrett grimaced. "What is it now?" he barked. Without even thinking, Gwenevere blurted out exactly what was on her mind. "How did you lose your eye?" she asked. The question had been innocent, but it caused a surge of torment to seize Garrett by the chest. No one--not even directly after the incident--had ever possessed the bravery to ask the thief that question. But now, out of all the possible inquisitors he had come across, it was this insolent girl who had just unwittingly requested more than she could ever possibly understand. Her clumsy hands and wanting mouth had just ripped open those horrific scars which Garrett had tried so desperately to forget. The thief ground his teeth. She had no right. Initial chagrin, was soon replaced by a savage fury. "Don't you EVER ask me that question again! Keep your nose in your own affairs!" he bellowed, before abruptly jerking his face away from hers. Gwenevere remained motionless upon the floorboards, her mouth drawn open into an exasperated gape. The girl continued to watch him, feeling for him as he brooded there in the darkness. However he had lost his eye, one thing was now eminently clear to her:  It must have been beyond awful. "I'm so, so sorry Garrett..." she finally spoke up, holding back tears as a lump began to form within her frail throat. "I never wanted to hurt you like this. I-I just--" "--Go. Away," he snarled, his slouched posture heaving with every breath he drew inward. Gwenevere stood, tears shimmering at the edge of her remorseful eyes. "Thank you, for today," she curtsied, before returning to her place atop the stairs. Garrett remained motionless for a time, perched within the serene blackness of his tower like a statue. He shook his head, beyond baffled by the entire situation. Why did she waste those frilly manners on him like that? Why did she stare at him so? And quite possibly the question which haunted him most of all: Why did she--upper crust lady that she was-- want anything to do with a thief like him? When he was sure that she was indeed asleep this time, Garrett felt around the empty socket with the base of his thumb, and stood. Slinking past a now slumbering Gwenevere, Garrett ascended the stairway, and propped his elbows against the window ledge. With his remaining eye, the thief looked out over the slumbering city, lost in a sea of deep contemplation.