#[ . self para ]

[freydis-freydat]

You will tell them your name is Freydis. This way, regardless of if they wish to sell you short or show you disrespect, they will have to address you with the honor you are due to garner your attention. If they wish to ridicule you, they must cut off their own noses just to spite their face. 

Freydis: from the Norse god Froya’s name and dis (meaning goddess). Noblewoman.

The words of her father played through her head as her tired eyes watched the flames of the fire lick the night sky not far enough yet from the mouth of the cave she and her peers had barely escaped their lives with. Freydis felt foolish as she considered just what she had done. Freely, she had told a fairy her name–or rather her noble title and her name. Both of her names. 

Tove: peaceful, beautiful Thor; God is good.

What would her father say of this, the man who had painstakingly taught her fables and folklore, who had taught her how to spot a fae and more importantly why never to trust one? Perhaps if she had simply said Tove, it would have spared her. Or, maybe Freydis was the false moniker. It was impossible to tell at times, which name meant more. Both had been given to her by her father, both in their appropriate time and space. At birth, simple but aspirational Tove–a name she lived up to in the most unpredictable of ways, a combination of the beauty of violence and the sudden unpredictable wrath of the gods, unassuming until provoked. It felt like lifetimes since she had walked the world as that simple miller’s daughter, as Tove. And then Freydis, a name so great it was never spoken within the bounds of their humble hamlet overlooking the looming mill and vast expanse of golden wheat before they moved into the great house meant for the jarl.

When word came that the king himself had sent for her to be delivered to appear in front of high royal highness, her father had held her face between her hands, cheeks still rounded with youth and head heavy under the weight of her own self doubt. He had peered at her seeing past those strange eyes of hers, in one light brown like the earth they worked and in another green as spring could bloom, and told her: “You will tell them your name is Freydis. This way, regardless of if they wish to sell you short or show you disrespect, they will have to address you with the honor you are due to garner your attention. If they wish to ridicule you, they must cut off their own noses just to spite their face.”

Freydis’ father would remind her of this from time to time, when the pressures mountained and her confidence waned. It was hard to be the first of her kind, to know her every move and expression existed under the lens of such extreme scrutiny, but only if she managed to walk off the battleground long enough to be left to govern, to decide on anything in the first place. They were brutalizing years that somehow both cracked her open and hardened her all at once. To become was painful, but to be begot by violence that revolted her senses yet invigorated her soma was a sort of metanoia in her formative years. Tove became less of a name and more of a sound that felt like home; a kind of prayer between she and those who held the truth of her at their core rather than the aggrandized icon of a female jarl she became. 

This was not the only prayer observed within their home. Fearsome as she was when challenged, the longevity of a highly objectionable jarl was a less than positive prospect. Each fight took from Tove and gave to Freydis, and she felt the fissure daily. No one recognized her fear of losing one entirely so keenly as her father, who was every ounce as realistic that the most highly likely relief from the burdens of a jarl’s work, of his daughter’s work, was a barbarous death at the hands of another. Tove, so gentle until pushed, would not survive many. Freydis would need to survive them all.  

And so, with each private gathering of their family before the spectacle of yet another holmgang, he would hold her face in his hands and remind her of who she was now–and that to live as Freydis was an honorable thing, but so too was to die as Tove. Both were one, and either was enough. He would hold her face in his hands, easily leveraging the weight of her self-doubt and fears as only a father can, and sing a song from the playwrights version of his favorite fable.

Inexplicably, and with no introduction, Freydis parted her lips after some hours of silence, and sang those same familiar words to her companions. The song was a sendoff of sorts, a ballad of hopes and fears and things left unsaid–but it had always felt lucky to her when she heard it in her father’s voice. 

I have a wife, I haven't seen Since lilacs bloomed in St. Hippolyte She always wears them, in her hair She lets them fall down everywhere

I can see her in the glowing light Dressing without a sound I promised I'd be home alright But I gotta lay this body down

So take this letter to my wife And tell her that I loved my life And tell my boys, the One God, He found me When I say their names out loud, they're all around me

And tell them not to cry at all Heaven, is wherever I fall

I have a girl, I think I love her I should've told her, instead I told her mother I gave her chocolates, I bought a ring But I never told her anything

But I can see her in every detail now Turning in my mind I barely knew that girl at all But I will love her 'til the end of time

So take this letter to my girl Tell her that I saw the whole world Say that right before I fell I said her name out loud, 'Isabelle'

Tell her not to cry at all Heaven is wherever I fall

I have a father, he isn't well Thinks he might be going to Hell He was a sinner, he liked to fight So I don't know, he might be right

I can see him every Sunday morning Diving into the fray He wasn't one of the best men But I loved him anyway

So take this letter to him, please And tell him I can't wait to see him I went in first, I rang the bell I called his name out loud and I gave them Hell

So tell him not to cry at all Heaven is wherever I fall

Tell 'em not to cry at all Heaven, is wherever I fall Tell 'em not to cry at all Heaven, is wherever I fall

Freydis was quiet when she finished her song, peering out at the great expanse of a world she never thought she would explore under any circumstances let alone those as hopeless as the ones she found herself in. The edges of her fingertips traced over the top of the red handprint on her heart–a sigil of bravery from a once-forgotten king. She felt unworthy to carry such a symbol, but her bottle lip quivered at the threat of tears of gratitude to know and understand she had been deemed worthy by that warrior of lore to so much as stand in his shadow. 

Exhausted mentally, physically, and emotionally, she pondered the horrors of the past days. One more holmgang–that was all the fight with Munin had been, just one drop in the bucket of the onslaught, the never ending war of living another day in limbo between the next battle, the next challenge. Tove, she was certain, whether in the form of her fae-shadow slain at he hands of the princess or just a long-silent past reflection of who she once was lingering the back of her mind, had died in that cave. The prayer of the name lost all of its power, no longer uplifting or grounding, but acrid and bitter in her mouth and her mind the second she had spoken it to the fae. And Tove would survive no impending wars.

Freydis, however, could. She lifted her eyes to the tapestry of stars still glittered above her. In several hours’ time the sun would hang high in a wide, open sky she had sorely missed; and until she was bested in a contest of might, Freydis, too, would rise.

[laurent--stpierre]

SPEAK OF THE DEVIL:

Follow up to someone having the audacity to interrupt Spencer's dinner. Date: Evening of 21/8/24. Warnings: Kate up to her usual ish. 

“It’s not a date. Please stop calling it a date, or I’m legitimately going to throw myself in front of the next bus to drive past. Look, there’s one right there—”

“Why are French women the most dramatic people on the planet?”

The words had been more than enough to draw an irritated frown from him, but when the miniature human—balanced on towering Versace heels, yet somehow still shorter than his pocket-sized ass—darted toward the road like a certified escapee, he grabbed the top of her arm and yanked her back beside him. The protest drew some attention from the crowded street, but both promptly ignored.

“Dramatic is rich coming from you.”

Laurent St. Pierre met her retort with a mock laugh.

“Pensioners deserve to get laid, too.”

“Nope. Don’t need to hear it,” the woman said, reaching her hands up to cover her ears.

“How about both of you shut up, because none of us want to hear it?”

Sylvie Lefebvre turned to look at the miserable Frenchman tailing behind them, her lips forming into a pout as though she’d just been scolded by a parent. Not quite, but he’d certainly become family enough over the past few years to earn an affectionate ‘uncle’ title he’d made no attempt shed.

“Sometimes I forget he speaks English,” she muttered to Laurent under her breath.

“He’s definitely been hitting up Duolingo.”

“You sound like a fucking American. You don’t get to judge anybody, St. Pierre,” Yves shot back.

After a moment of sniggering between the two in front, the looming figure of Varden re-entered the conversation, now free of the phone call he’d been unenthusiastically participating in. Somehow, though, he looked even less pleased to be a part of whatever was happening here.

“Who is she, anyway? You don’t usually dress up this nice,” Laurent said, remaining at Sylvie’s side, but taking their pace back just enough to be in step with the two leaders.

“Ayda Demir.”

Even though Varden’s mouth had opened to speak, it was his daughter’s voice who’d answered.

“Thank you, Sylvie.”

“Wait, what? The Turk?” Laurent couldn’t contain the scoff.

“The Turk,” Yves confirmed, his grimace speaking volumes in spite of his monotonous tone.

“Don’t be rude,” Sylvie cut in, “I’ve done my research, she seems nice enough. I just—”

“Don’t want to imagine your dad getting his dick wet?”

“Will you fucking stop?”

The woman went to shove him again, but he instead threw an arm around her shoulder, dragging her close enough to deny her the momentum.

“If it’s any consolation, Sylvie, it’s definitely not going to be a date. Because in the interest of full disclosure, you should just know that when Leyla and I got dragged to Haringey for that peasant party? She seemed pretty into shoving her tongue down Aviv’s throat.”

And whilst he was pretty openly with Adriana Amaro these days—assuming the number the Organization did on him hadn’t fucked that up—the fact she held any positive sentiments toward the scum at all was enough to seal the deal. Probably not in the way she was hoping for, though…

“It was never a date,” Varden said sternly. “And I’d appreciate if we talked about something else.”

“Anything else,” Yves pleaded.

Everyone present was wise enough to not push when Varden said enough.

“Why are you out with us, anyway? Isn’t it past your bedtime?”

“That’s very funny. I could ask you the same. Don’t retirement homes have curfews anymore?”

The two de facto London leaders slipped back into a hushed conversation of their own, leaving the duo ahead to squabble as they continued their way down the packed street. Knightsbridge was busy at the best of times, but tonight seemed impossibly so. People still damn sure cleared a path for the Versace princess and her entourage of suits, though. It was a few days shy of Sylvie’s twenty-third birthday, and as it turned out, she too was headed into South Kensington to meet some of her friends (ones her father didn’t seem to fond of, mind you) at Mistral’s. Laurent was stopping in for a meeting with Yves and a handful of the Hackney crew, Sylvie for her meal, and Varden for…whatever the fuck it was. Thus, along with a handful of security, a herd had formed.

None of them had any idea how poor a decision that would prove to be.

The traffic moved so slowly, it would’ve been impossible to tell they were being followed.

Maybe, had he not been looking right at the woman tucked beneath his arm, he wouldn’t have noticed the car doors abruptly opening on the vehicle beside them.

Three in unison; the same number of masked men soon spilling out into the road, halting traffic to a chorus of car horns and perturbed pedestrians.

“Gun!” Laurent shouted in just about the least useful way to alert the others of the impending disaster. Sure enough, the panicked words sent the crowds around them spiralling into frenzy just in time for said guns to start firing right in their direction.

There was no point trying to hit the deck when they were stood right there.

Sylvie seemed to take a moment to catch up. And then she was screaming, too.

The Frenchman felt a shove from behind as he attempted to manoeuvre her through the crowd, and toward the door of Mistral’s which was just close enough he could try to drag them inside. More gunfire, then... A quick glance back told him Yves and the few members of security present had ducked into a bus shelter, attempting to return the favour without hesitation. Varden on the other hand was the one shoving him forward.  

“Move. Get her inside!”

The man’s fear was evident and harrowing because Laurent had never really been sure Varden was capable of feeling it.

So he turned, putting himself between the direction of the gunmen and Sylvie, as best a shield as he could manage, before attempting to encourage Varden forward to take charge. The people didn’t know where to go. They didn’t know where to hide. Some had clearly already been hit, falling to the ground. Others fell for being shoved past by those whose only concern was getting the fuck out of there. Chaos was an understatement. Impossible to take in over the course of only a few seconds.

Sylvie tripped. Varden pulled her back up and pushed her onward.

Laurent went down right after and after a moment, they slipped out of view.

This wasn’t a few stray bullets. This was a fucking military grade assault where nobody was about to try and be a hero. And as the guns followed him, the white hot realisation he’d gotten hit was clear.

Why the fuck hadn’t he brought his own?

One of the attackers was furiously laying into the façade of the restaurant as though it was his only target. Another, showering anyone unfortunate enough to flee into his path, utterly indiscriminate, like he was in an old school fucking action movie. The third, though? Well he lowered his gun just long enough to shove through some screeching pedestrians and casually wander right over to the Commandant clutching at his bleeding thigh.

Though he attempted to get to his feet, it was a fruitless effort.

The man crouched down slightly. Just close enough that had he not been hiding like a coward behind his mask, Laurent would’ve known for sure, instead of just assuming…

As he stood back up calmly—short, stocky, dead fucking eyes—so too did his gun come back into sight.

There was no time to react. Just acknowledge.

One flash later, everything was gone.

[sebastianxwinters]

when i woke up the rain was pourin' down || self-para

i found the love that i knew i missed....

What would normally be steady hands turned into shaky quite quickly. The phone slowly hit the dresser as Sebastian was sitting at the edge of his bed. Tears were pouring from his eyes as he didn't make a sound. He couldn't catch his breath and worst of all, he couldn't comprehend what he had just heard from his father.

Sebastian was not informed that his mother was ill, and apparently none of his siblings were told either. Did they get to say goodbye? Did they get something that Sebastian was never going to have the opportunity to get? He wouldn't resent them, but it would be hard for him to look at them the same.

They were still in London and they were there so they must've known that something was going on. Maybe they didn't know but they must've because her condition would've made her decline quite fast.

Was it true?

Was this a dream?

Sebastian could've screamed for someone to wake him up but nobody was going to answer his prayer and deep down he knew that to be true. In this situation, most sons would be feeling a hundred different things but right now, Sebastian wasn't feeling anything. Numbness was overtaking his body to the point where he was unaware that he had fallen off the edge of the bed and he was sitting on the carpet that covered his floor.

People must've been notified about what happened because all he could hear was his phone vibrating with texts and missed calls coming and going for hours. Even though Sebastian didn't want to worry anyone about what was racing through his mind, he couldn't bring it to himself to answer anybody.

hold me darling just a little while

It must've been four or five hours since hanging up the phone that Sebastian was finally able to peel himself off the floor. He didn't make it far from the floor as he had to stop and take a deep breath on his bed. There was a whole new way of living that he wasn't sure he was going to be able to do.

Moping from the bedroom and into the kitchen, Sebastian peeled open the freezer and looked at all of the food that he knew his stomach would and should enjoy, but then his eyes landed on the bottle of patron.

One swig went down and it burned his throat. After being able to take a couple more swigs, Sebastian has become accustomed to the burn. He was actually surprised that this was something that he could feel and that brought him a sort of solace that he still had the ability to feel.... for now that is.

After finishing off the half the bottle that was left, Sebastian screamed and he threw it at the wall. It was three o'clock in the morning now and he didn't care about waking up neighbors. The noise and mess were something that he could deal with at another time. Sebastian grabbed the next bottle that wasn't cold and carried it to his bed with him where he took one more swig, put the top on and then plopped down on his stomach and passed out.

the lord took her away from me, she's gone to heaven so i got to be good.

[drrutherford]

May, 2024.

It starts like this; his father offers him a cigar. And Gideon declines.

"Now you're too good for my old cigars?"

It's a poisoned dart. His nerves begin to thrum. "That's not-... It has nothing to do with that." He defends, following Andrew into his office. "I'm just thinking if I win this case it'll mean that I'll have Felix around a lot more so I'm trying to- I probably shouldn't..."

There's a puff of smoke from the lit Cohiba Siglo, the bitter coffee scent singes his nostrils even at a distance. Andrew exhales sardonically. "Ah, yes. A model father."

Gideon looks at him. Really looks, and sees, perhaps for the first time, what he's failed to see these last few years. The flash of insecurity-resentment in his father's chestnut eyes, the wiry hair – more salt than pepper these days – frown lines about his mouth, the papery creases around the corners of his eyes... He's getting old. Older, perhaps frailer, too. Maybe it shouldn't come as a shock. But for someone who's always been more myth than man, as immortal and impervious to ageing as some demigod in the Greek Pantheon — it's a realization that occurs to him with a start. Gideon lashes his own retort back behind his teeth, letting the patriarch's bitterness pass as if unnoticed.

"You know I've been seeing Amélie."

"The schoolteacher, you mean? The one we had over for the holidays?"

"Journalist." The surgeon corrects a little tersely. He can't help the suspicion that it's an intentional slight, innocently dressed as a slip. Andrew has information at his fingertips and all the paranoia in the world to use it; knows everything Gideon wants to do almost before he does it. He would have found every piece of dirt on Amélie that he could find, traced her genealogy back to Eve and the Serpent before letting her so much as draw breath under the crystal chandeliers of his front foyer. He knows she's a journalist.

"Pleasant young lady," Andrew acknowledges charitably, "awfully well-mannered." But Gideon knows that it's about as much a compliment as he might throw to the runt of a litter. The mob boss has little use for well-mannered in his world and esteems it about the same amount. "What is it you wish to tell me about her, son?"

For all his years'-long stubbornness as his father's black sheep, Gideon feels a tendril of trepidation run through him at the question. The familial phrasing, the luring invitation. He wets his lips. "We've been together for almost a year now and known each other far before that. I know I didn't-... I haven't advertised that part, exactly," – he hadn't denied it, either, but had kept external opinions at bay as long as possible by avoiding the label of 'girlfriend' to shelter her – "but we've gotten to know each other in all that time."

"How wonderful."

Gideon struggles to continue. "And-... Well, the point is, I can't keep lying to her."

"Then don't."

"I mean about us. The family."

Andrew Rutherford's hawk-like gaze meets him over the thick frame of his reading glasses. "I fail to see how that's relevant to your girlfriend. Otherwise known as a girl who may be here today and gone tomorrow. With all due respect, of course."

"She won't be. That's my point." The stubborn streak is back as son and father stare at each other over the latter's desk, though Gideon feels his pulse beginning to hammer in his throat. "She's important to me... Special. I want to pursue something serious with her, but I can't do that in good conscience if I'm lying to her all the while. She deserves to know what she's signing up for, by being with me."

"Signing up for what, exactly?" A droll tone enters his father's voice. "You've made it ever so clear you have no part in this family's business endeavours, I hardly see how—"

"It's not good enough. I'm still lying by omission. It still affects her, my association to the family alone is enough to affect her. Reflect on her, it wouldn't be fai—"

"And how is it fair to this family that you would spoon-feed a journalist her next big break by telling her whatever drivel it is you believe about the work that we do?"

"Drivel?" He echoes. It's followed by a disbelieving scoff. There are so many things he could say to that in reply, write an entire bloody essay on exactly the sort of drivel his father has been responsible for in countless neighbourhoods across two continents an ocean apart. The fires he's ignited, the lives he has torn apart, the brainwashing of their mutual loved ones to bear the brunt of that blame alongside him. It makes him sick to the gills to think of all the drivel his father's allowed or actively incited, but it isn't why he's here today. He's fought that battle a million times already... He's always lost.

"She isn't like that. You don't know her at all." Gideon struggles to keep his voice even, rather than accusatory. Remembering that it has been just as much his choice to keep Amélie away from his father as it is Andrew's to be dismissive of everyone's potential to be more than lying, thieving opportunists.

"Whose fault is that?"

A muscle tenses in his jaw. His gaze stays fixed to the cabinet behind his father's desk, patience beginning to fray. "All I'm trying to say is that she wouldn't. She wouldn't want to bring harm to the people that I care about. Hell, she worked herself into a tizzy just thinking she might insult Lara by her choice of dress last time we met, or worried she hadn't complimented Yvonne enough on raising Maddie so well. She loves Damon as much as everyone loves Damon, and Adri she—"

"— And you're willing to change all that. By running your mouth off so that you can sleep better at night. What good will it do her, Gideon? Answer me that."

It's a wonder that Andrew doesn't see it. But is it so surprising? A man whose personal relationships are decomposing at various rates all around him. "If she is going to be a part of my life, a part of this family, she has a right to know what she's signing up for."

"If you're thinking about jumping into another marriage—"

"I'm not," He cuts in hastily, an embarrassed flush spreading along the back of his neck. "Or well, I don't know. It's too early to thi-... But it isn't about that, it's about clearing the air and giving her full disclosure before things get that point. Not just blindsiding her. Why is that so difficult for you to understand?"

Andrew strolls over to the long, arched window and grabs the tieback holding the silk curtains off to one side. He releases it with a snap, nursing his tobacco all the while. The room falls into shadows. "And what about Lara?"

"What about her?"

The father turns back on his son, moving towards his desk again, keeping it between them. "You love her — some say to a fault." A smile cuts cruelly on his mouth. "Because you think she's so different than me. What's to spare her my fate if your journalist runs prattling to the first newsstand that she can find?"

If he were a better man, he would tell his father that Lara's fate is her own. That she's neither a prisoner nor a child anymore; blindly following in her father's footsteps. That if she cleaves to the mob, one day her fate will be sealed either way; by a court or by a criminal, and that in either case there will be violence.

He would tell his taunting father that even in such a case the responsibility would be neither his, nor Amélie's, nor even some stranger's — but her own.

... But he isn't a better man.

The house of cards shudders with that warning and the surgeons croaks out; "She won't! I know she won't." Resting his argument on a plea. He hates begging, hasn't begged anything from his father since he was a child; but Amélie, he knows, is worth his pride. "You gave Rodriguez a chance. I just wish you'd do the same for Amélie."

In mentioning Lara, Andrew seems to know he's hit a nerve. His posture relaxes, he takes another puff from the Cohiba Siglo. It's almost gleeful. "They aren't quite the same though, are they?... Félix Rodriguez brings us prestige, a foothold into politics. What does your French girl bring us, exactly? What makes her worth the risk?"

Gideon doesn't offer any response. Once again, it's clear how much his father has grossly underestimated a person if he believes that Yvonne's fiancé is the sort of lapdog to roll over for a treat. But he says nothing. It isn't his job anymore to warn Andrew Rutherford of the consequences that come with devaluing human beings.

"You're going to do it anyway." The older man observes, after a beat of silence passes between them. He pulls out the office chair and eases himself into it. He rests his cigar on its wooden holder and looks up at his son expectantly.

"Yes."

He can't tell if it's respect or contempt in his father's eyes. These days, they tend to look the same. He steps away from the desk, as if testing the bounds of his freedom. He rounds the chair, turns his back on Andrew Rutherford and makes it almost to the door when the older man calls out to him. "— Gideon."

He turns, guarded grey eyes finding inscrutable brown.

"Not everyone will understand us. Not everyone should try." The mob boss reaches for his decanter, removing the top and pouring some of the liquid into a glass with careful, precise movements. "If you lose her, remember that it was not my doing."

— End.

Mentioned: @amescastaignede, @lararutherford, @yvonne-rutherford, @amaroadriana, @damonrutherford

[ikarosx]

Notes: Ikaros through the years. Little timestamps of visions, from his first to his most recent, and how he understands them. Mentions: @abelasx, @iskendcr, @faelortianyou, Titania, Yavanna, Oberon.

Timestamp: I was ten.

The sky was a mix of yellow and red. The light of the Laurelin was always bright, always mixing with what I could see.

“You were named after my grandmother,” Yavanna whispered in my ear, like it was some grand secret between the two of us. “Ikaria, she was called. Dark hair like yours, seemingly knowing everything and anything,” there was a lilt of amusement to her voice now, but still calming as the two of us sat within Mythal’s Glade.

I felt like there was a new piece to the puzzle of my history, to the idea that I could be named after a great queen of the past, someone I never would’ve met. “Was she a good queen?” I'm not sure why I wanted to know, it wasn't like I thought she possibly couldn't be, but my grandmother was always honest. I liked that.

Yavanna smiled down at me, “Yes, I like to think she was. She passed the crown to my father, her eldest.” The smile faded for a moment, and I wondered if I had said something wrong. I didn’t get to ask my other question, my father suddenly appearing and taking my short attention span away from my grandmother.

Oberon was tall, charming - the elvhen loved him. For what reason, I wouldn’t ask that question for decades. To me, he was larger than life. A brilliant warrior, one who held devotion to Titania, but there were flashes of imperfection, something I admired in secret. Things were done a certain way in Avalon, customs of the Elvhen, but I appreciated when things were messy. If only because it made me laugh.

It was that moment that Aravel appeared, and I was already moving to leave my grandmother’s lap. It was embarrassing, couldn't she see my friends were around? There was a group of children waiting, those who lived within Mythal’s Glade, “Can I go? Please? Aravel will start the game without me. He knows I hate it. He will-“ Yavanna’s hand stopped my complaints, but it didn’t stop my scowl.

“You may. But don’t be long,” it was her usual goodbye, though as she rose and she approached Oberon, the two falling in quiet conversation, she was the only one to glance back at me as I ran off with a wave.

“Ara!” I had to run to catch up, my best friend still slightly out of range. Everything looked wrong, however. One of the kids was towering, another looked unimpressed at Aravel. Only I was allowed to look at him like that. Aravel was weird, sure, but he was my only friend, taken into the palace two years ago when his father had died. It was a great sadness, to lose someone like that. I wasn't sure how to process it at first, but I'd tried my best to cheer up my friend.

Though time seemed to slow as I got closer. Like my legs were stuck in mud, and I couldn't move my arms. Panic would've overcome me if I could've felt my own emotions. I prayed for death to save me from the embarrassment of falling over, but the gods must've been busy because Aravel was talking to me. I couldn't hear him because everything felt red. Hot, red, red, red. "I was talking about you." Rage, an undercurrent of grey, of fear. A fist coming towards my face, and I was landing face first in the mud from the hit. Laughter. It was red, red, red. It was like an out of body experience, consuming me from the inside. I was watching, standing by, and then all of the sudden, it faded.

“What’s wrong with him?” Someone spoke, and I was pulled from my vision, Aravel holding on to my wrist like it would keep me from falling over. And it did, I was a scrawny thing anyway, that's what my father had said. Lanky, like one of those elk Aravel had mentioned once. Too big for my legs. Once I gathered myself, Aravel spoke.

“There are Owlbears we can talk to, Ikaros. It’s fine,” Aravel was the weird kid, and I loved him for it. I was about to answer him, but the words were dying on my tongue as the older kid that I'd just seen in my head stepped forward.

“Freak. Run home to mummy, she’ll fix it all.”

The tug from Aravel did nothing to stop me from turning back, some fierce streak of protectiveness running through me, “Don’t call him that.”

“I was talking about you.” The features on the other child’s face twisted, and in hindsight, it was all very dramatic for a few ten year olds. I knew it was coming, moving to watch as the older boy’s fist missed me and he slipped face first into the mud.

Laughter bubbled up from behind me, and I turned to see Aravel cover his mouth with his hand. His laugh was important to me, it had been so for two years now, though I stepped over the boy on the ground to follow my friend without a glance back. I was desperate to tell my mother, but for now, there were Owlbears to meet.

They'd hunted and brought us rabbits and gophers.

Aravel and I cooked the rabbits for them.

They were pleased.

We said we wouldn't touch the gophers.

They were less pleased.

It was only when it was time for me to sleep that I found my words again, my mother standing a few feet away. I didn't want to get in trouble, but what was the worse that could happen? The kid had tried to hit me, and I wasn't stupid. So I puffed out my chest, everything coming out at once as I continued my story. “I felt…red. Like it’s all I saw. And a little bit of pink. And grey, like I was mad and angry at the same time. And then he threw a punch and it hit me but then when he actually did it, it didn’t hit me. I moved. I was so good, you should’ve seen me. Aravel was there. He’d tell you the truth. He said I stared off like a cat-sith when they’re hunting. I don’t know what that means but it sounds pretty cool.”

Titania hushed me, and my chest deflated when she took my hands, only the two of us in her room. I idly wondered where my father was, but it was a distant thought as my mother met my gaze, “You’re upset with me," I couldn't tell what her expression was, and I was seconds from blaming the other kid. "Am I weird for seeing it?"

“I’m not, Ikaros. But what you’re seeing…it’s your gift.”

Timestamp: I was two hundred and fifty five.

It was blue. Of course it was. The ocean always was. It was vast and filled so deeply with melancholy that I thought I would choke on it.

That’s all I felt in my chest as a woman reached for my hand, the Moongate just a few steps away. She was Silver Elvhen, desperate to know what had happened to her child. I had told her it wasn’t like that, that I didn’t know what would come if I looked. Contact had almost come repulsive to me, and it had taken a while to understand what could possibly bring on a vision. It wasn't anything to do with objects, sometimes I could see something in the middle of the night, other times, I could attempt it with a little bit of contact. Maybe it was desperation, or something else, but she grabbed my hand to ask once again and it did exactly what I was hoping to avoid – it triggered me.

Blue, blue, blue.

Midnight blue.

The stars felt like ice along my skin, so deep was the ocean of her grief, like the expanse of dark midnight sky.

There was a body being lifted, a young man who looked no older than twenty, from the back of a horse. I saw the woman scream, her grief all encompassing as it passed through me. So blue. Always blue. Every vision was blue. Death and devastation, it was always Iskaldrik. Always taking from the Silverlands, all while the High Elvhen stayed hidden behind the Moongate offering support from behind a glass mirror. I wasn't a fool, but I also wasn't the King.

Our contact was broken, I felt a shudder run through me until I felt a strong hand on my chest. Grounding, always grounding – Tianyou. It steadied me, but I felt depressed and angry all at once. There was the beginning of a migraine, I could feel it, and I wasn't going to escape it this time. “He’s dead,” that was all I could get out, unable to really sugarcoat it like I would at another time. Her wail of grief followed me through the Moongate.

Echoing, blue, blue, blue.

Timestamp: I was almost four hundred.

It was yellow. It was orange. It was laughter, happiness, sunshine and grass and leaves.

It was love. It was what I felt, and I was sure that I hated it.

Not really, but it was close enough. I had to explain once that I wasn’t an empath, there were those that understood emotions way better than I did. They could manipulate them, understand them. For myself, the visions consumed me. I was never just a third party watching a scene play out, if anything, I wished I was. It was all encompassing. I could feel the anger in the air, red and red, or the sorrow of midnight blue. Or perhaps laughter, orange and yellow and sunshine. Other times, there was the blinding white light of peace.

This was different.

I was awake, for one, the Silver Elvhen laughing in front of me. For the longest time, I didn’t want to be touched. I didn’t think it would work out if I saw something in the future, immediate or not. But I could explain it to Abelas later, if I could even find my brother later. He was always off adventuring, and Deniz was unlike any I'd met. But there was always a catch. I'd come to expect that.

I'd also come to accept that some people, no matter how good their heart was, or how much love they had to give, they would always be alone. That was how I'd felt for so long. Some twisted isolation that was my fault, my prerogative, and I'd changed it to know Deniz. My mother had told me, not too soon after Oberon had been banished, that sometimes, you were able to choose the life you wanted. "And if you're lucky, sometimes that life chooses you back," she'd finished, and I'd only understood that she'd meant me. The rest would sting, but there was life to be lived, and she would continue on.

But all things ended, even myself and Deniz. My first great love, the one where I could put my hand on his and I could feel my own emotions. Deniz was that moment before a storm. Where the sky was grey and cloudy, where the electricity in the air made you shiver. All encompassing, and I was ready to wait it out.

Yet it was a horrible thing, to see the future and know that no matter what I did, what Deniz did, that I couldn't fix it no matter how much I wanted to. He'd said it before, how there wouldn't be a forever. Nothing lasted like that, I'd remind him, but there was that midnight blue sorrow I would feel. It would mix with the yellow and green of sunshine and grass, of rain and the sound the leaves made when the wind passed through them. But it wasn't enough.

I was like the sun, and he was the moon: always chasing.

Timestamp: Present Day

We all had monsters in our dreams. Some of us had just lived with them longer.

My head was pounding. I felt like I'd belonged at the bottom of one of those filthy gutters that I'd seen in Eterna, somewhere around the tower. The Tower itself was always pristine, as was Arvandoril, so it wasn't like it didn't feel more at home than usual.

I'd come a few days prior, Tianyou not far behind me, waiting for the healers of Ceres to once again give me something. It was magic, it was the mind, they'd remind me of that often.

One of the witches had looked at me the day before, saying it would be a shame if an oracle was to be lost. It'd taken me a moment to understand how far through the mud she was dragging me.

"I'm not depressed."

They'd looked me up and down, "You aren't? Why on earth not?"

That'd been the end of that conversatoin. I'd stormed off in a gloriously dramatic fashion, Tian laughing at me as I'd made it outside the door.

"I hate it here," I'd growled out, sounding more like my cat-sith every day. I'd even been accused of purring once, but when Saleba purred, it indicated devious plotting involving nefarious deeds. I didn't trust that cat, but I loved him. So there was that.

"You wanted to visit," Tianyou pointed out the obvious, and I had to refrain from being grouchy once more.

That was yesterday, and today, I'd only managed to drag myself out of bed after taking the herbs recommended to me. Magic couldn't fix everything. There were days where I felt lighter, this was not one of those days. It'd be nice if I could be paint on a wall, blending into the background, but I was always present. I had so many questions. To be a High Elvhen was to never be alone, but to see the future? It felt isolating. And time, it never stopped, but it often felt elastic.

I could feel another vision, edging at the back of my conscious. This one was dark again, relating to no one near me. My only contact was the desk I'd balanced myself against. Fear. Black, all consuming, darkness. A roar echoed in my head, but I was there. I could see it. Creatures of the blight, another blighted hand reaching forward. Was it mine? Flashes of yellow – deceit. I gasped as I was brought out of it by a banging on the door. A wave of desperation overtook me. I had to see more. I had to go back. But it never worked. Was it the future? Was it the current? It'd be someone I'd met before, had to be, but as I stumbled to the door, looking less like a prince with every stumbling step I took, I had little time to pull it open before I was looking into the eyes of one of the Queen's Court.

"Iskaldrik has fallen."

[ironlvngs]

— TASK 006

before, it was much more simple to be present for these interrogations; to answer their questions, play games to shift the blame on someone else (sorry, ex boyfriend), to paint the prettiest picture of himself... but that was before this was turned into a murder investigation, rather than locating a missing person. negativity has been sitting in link's chest since the day they announced it, and it hasn't gotten any better — day by day, it feels like it's been simmering in there, and now there's just this black sludge living inside him and turning everything upside down for him.

"— excuse me, mr. crawford? a drink?" the officer repeats themself, and link has to remind himself to act accordingly.

"uh, sorry... i'm good for now, thanks." they respond as they clear their throat, bringing themself back to the reality right in front of them.

"well, then, i suppose we can get started." the officer takes a look at their partner, giving them the lead on this. "mr. crawford, did you have any reason to suspect greer morrison was dead before this news came to light?" link's eyes land on the red blinking of the tape recorder in between them for a moment, and calculates exactly how he wanted to play this one. "well, i can't say that after months of her being gone, the morbid thought hadn't come to mind for a second. but it was just easier to choose to believe she ran off on her own."

"right. well, lincoln, i'd like to ask you a few questions about ida clarke." a lump forms in his throat. link was probably the worst person to question about ida, given their very public distaste for one another — fights and arguments and name calling that only increased when they began to live in the same place. "what was the nature of your relationship?" link had to think quick. he had to wonder if they had any information on the fact that they had slept with each other not long before she died, because if they believed that he was trying to hide that fact, link would instantly become a target. it shouldn't be an issue, if she hadn't told anyone else, either. but then again, he wasn't ever the most trusting of ida clarke. finally, he responds. "not much of a relationship, really. we, uh... we were roommates for a little while, and we weren't very close." it wasn't truthful but it wasn't a lie, either. "but still, it was not the best.. hearing that someone you used to see every day and practically lived alongside with had died like that. it was the same with penelope, even though we weren't close, either. it makes you worry, you know?" maybe playing the terrified and traumatized young student afraid for his life card would gain the cops' sympathy here, and he'd avoid getting grilled.

"right, of course. now i understand that you were hospitalized after the fire, is that correct?" link nods his head, and lifts his sleeve up a little to show them his burn scars from the fire. "fortunate enough to have made it to a hospital at all." he adds. and thank god for it, meaning that he had an automatic alibi for ida's death. link knows he's innocent, but in this world, it's clear to see that anyone can get thrown under the bus — speaking from experience, from being the one to throw others under the bus so easily. "where were you before that? before you managed to leave the building?" not alibi enough, so it seems. "gosh, honestly? my memory is all over the place with that. it's hard to remember any other part of the night." immediately, the cop responds with another question, "and what exactly were you and other students doing at the commons instead of the commencement gala?" this is where link thought that he might choke. was it a better idea to admit that he had gotten a text from g like everyone else? or was it better to lie about it? then again, if someone decides to admit it, then it seems like he an every other student who hides it is lying about something. "well, to be honest with you, officer, the gala was becoming a bit... boring for a few of us college students?" he responds with a small scoff, a playful look on his face. "a few people were talking about getting out of there, maybe meeting up at the commons.... and, well, i followed them out. you can see how at the time, i thought it would be harmless to do so."

"alright... and have you gotten any anonymous messages over the past year? any with leading information, perhaps? or threatening messages?" link wanted to remove himself from this entire chain of suspicion — just another regular student at ogden college. "thankfully, i haven't." but that meant link had to be even more careful about who he talks to about any texts he receives. "and is there any information about greer morrison that you've become aware of in the past year that you haven't shared with the police yet?" "not at all — not since i spoke with you guys about her ex boyfriend. if i do hear anything, i'd definitely make sure to immediately report it." why not add a sprinkle of the noble citizen on top of this?

"well, mr. crawford, just one last question before we let you go... have you witnessed anything suspicious on campus over the past year and a half?" and this was it, link's favorite question. how easy would it be to fuck over someone he sees as a threat in whatever answer he can make up or lead the cops down a certain path? it had worked so fucking well last time (maybe too well) and he could definitely do it again. monty? milo? sassa's stupid fucking boyfriend? that was a weapon he could yield at any moment, though, and this was not the time to use it. "personally, with my graduation approaching, i chose to keep to myself and focus on my academics. so no, i haven't witnessed anything."

"okay, and i think that concludes all the questions we have for you today. thank you for your cooperation, and please do report anything suspicious to us — whether it's text messages or otherwise." link starts promising that he will, thanks them for their wonderful, oh so amazing service to their community, and exits the interrogation room.

that went well enough. at the end of the day, there was nothing link could do better than wear a mask and twist the narrative in any way he wanted.

[morrisxn02]

IC TASK IV - INTERROGATIONS III

CHARACTERS Edward Morrison FBI AGENT#1 FBI AGENT#2 SCENE Traditional professor's office space. Wooden panels on all sides, a window directly opposite the audience, overlooking the Ogden campus and purple-pink, twilight skies. A large wooden table in the middle with three chairs, two on the left, and one on the right. On top of the desk is a laptop, a tape recorder, a lamp, and some stationary i.e. a notebook, some pens and pencils, et cetera.). Enter Edward, looking tired, with dark circles around the eyes. He greets the two FBI Agents with handshakes and hangs his trench coat on the chair.

FBI AGENT #1–

Good afternoon, Mr. Morrison.

EDWARD–

(taking the seat across from the agents, dropping his messenger bag on the floor) Good afternoon.

FBI AGENT #2–

Please note that this interview is being recorded.

EDWARD nods as though it is obvious.

FBI AGENT #2–

For the record, please state your full name, age, and relationship with the victim.

EDWARD–

With Greer.

FBI AGENT #1 looks at FBI AGENT #2 shooting him a knowing look as though she had advised him about something before the interrogation.

EDWARD–

Edward Rufus Morrison, twenty-one, brother.

FBI AGENT #1–

Mr. Morrison, I am sure you are aware that there have been developments to your sister’s case…

EDWARD–

(interrupting FBI AGENT #1) Which still haven’t been properly disclosed to either me or my sister.

FBI AGENT #1–

Mr. Morrison, at present, we are not allowed to disclose any information pertaining to the investigation of your sister’s potential murder.

EDWARD–

Yes, I've heard that a thousand times. And yet I still don’t know why the course of the investigation has been changed.

FBI AGENT #1–

Unfortunately, that is confidential information at the moment.

EDWARD–

So, you’ve just decided she was murdered? And didn’t tell anyone why?

FBI AGENT #1–

Mr. Morrison, your parents have been duly contacted by the FBI. Legally, they are the only people outside of the organization who are required to be informed of any news on the case. I’m going to ask you to calm down and stick to the questions.

EDWARD–

(raising his voice) Well, Greer was on seen. On campus. She’s alive.

FBI AGENTS stare at each other, confused. There is a short moment of tense silence, as Edward glares at them.  

FBI AGENT #1–

(uncertain) You saw her? When?

EDWARD–

(lowering his tone, voice still somewhat resigned) I didn’t see her. Jesse did. Jesse Hart and Milo Navarro.

FBI AGENT #1–

They told you this? When?

EDWARD–

Jesse told me a few days ago. It happened on the night of the power outage. October 1st, last year.

FBI AGENT #2–

That was over a year ago. Why did you not report it?

EDWARD–

(snaps) He just told me. Didn’t you hear what I said?

FBI AGENT #1–

Mr. Morrison, please lower your voice.

EDWARD–

(complying slightly) Greer was seen and you don’t even know about it.

FBI AGENT #1–

We will look into it.

EDWARD–

I’m sure you will.

FBI AGENT #1–

Mr. Morrison, this is new information to us, I’m sure you understand. It’s been over a year since she was last seen.  It is very unlikely this will change the course of the investigation… For now, this is the best we can do.

EDWARD rolls his eyes and shakes his head, heaving an annoyed sigh.

FBI AGENT #2–

Now, could you please detail your relationship with your sister.

EDWARD–

We were close.

FBI AGENT #1–

(annoyed) Can you elaborate further, please?

EDWARD–

We were close. We were together often. We were in the same social circles. Is that good enough?

FBI AGENT #1 nods, not bothering to disguise an eye roll.

FBI AGENT #2–

Mr. Morrison, did you have any reason to suspect Greer Morrison was dead before this news came to light?

EDWARD–

She. Isn’t. Dead.

FBI AGENT #2–

So, no…?

EDWARD–

No. Obviously not.

FBI AGENT #2–

And, besides the alleged sighting, are you aware of any information about Greer Morrison that has come to light in the past year that you haven’t shared?

EDWARD–

(pauses) (looks out the window) No. I don’t think so.

FBI AGENT  #2–

Have you witnessed anything suspicious on campus over the past year and a half?

EDWARD–

Aside from the two deaths, the mysterious fire, the campus-wide power-outage, and the arrest? Not that I can recall, no.

FBI AGENT #2 holds back a chuckle.

FBI AGENT #2–

You mentioned the fire at the Commons… Were you inside or near the building when the fire started?

EDWARD–

Yes. I was inside the building with everyone else.

FBI AGENT #2–

Do you know why some students were there when they should’ve been at the Commencement Gala?

EDWARD–

Maybe just to get away from our parents… I don’t know.

FBI AGENT #1–

Your colleague, Samantha Jiménez was arrested that night. I understand that you two shared a few classes. Can you detail your relationship with Miss Jiménez?

EDWARD–

We are– (he cleans his throat) were friends. We did a few of projects together every now and then.

FBI AGENT #1–

Ms. Jiménez’s attorneys work in a law firm managed by Mrs. Talia Rivera, your godmother’s wife. They are defending her pro-bono. Do you happen to know what led them to pick up Ms. Jiiménez’s case?

EDWARD–

(shaking his head) Media coverage, maybe. Everything surrounding Greer’s disappearance has been dealt with as much sensationalism as possible.

FBI AGENT #1–

(crossing his hands on the table) Right... So you have nothing to do with how they arrived at her case?

EDWARD–

I might have mentioned it to Talia in passing…

AGENTS exchange a glance.

FBI AGENT #2–

Another classmate of yours, Ms. Ida Clarke, sadly passed away the night of the fire. Were you two close?

EDWARD–

No. We talked, sometimes. In social gatherings, mostly. But I wouldn’t say we were friends.

FBI AGENT #2–

And where were you when her body was found?

EDWARD–

On the second floor of the Commons. Talking to Ollie Inoue. When someone yelled from the ground floor, we parted ways to see what it was.

FBI AGENT #2–

Very well. (nods and takes notes)

FBI AGENT #1–

Since you mentioned the deaths of Ms. Clarke and Ms. Klein, would you care to elaborate on your relationship with Penelope Klein, if there was any?

EDWARD–

There wasn't, I didn’t like her very much.

FBI AGENT #1–

Why?

EDWARD–

I don’t know. She was just... sort of a sycophant?

FBI AGENT #2–

And what about your sister… Was she close to her?

EDWARD–

(sighing) Not really. I think Penelope Klein always though she could be like Greer. She always had a sort of competitive aura when it came to Greer. (shifting in his seat) I mean, I don’t need to tell you that Greer has always been popular. Everyone loves her. Penny seemed to think that she could be like her… Like, after Greer disappeared I feel like she tried to become the next Greer. (pauses) I’m rambling. Forgive me.

FBI AGENT #2–

No, the more insight the better.

FBI AGENT #1–

Do you remember what you were doing when Penelope Klein was found at the chalet?

EDWARD–

I was asleep. There was a black-out and she started bossing everyone around to try and get the light back on. I didn’t want to help her because, again, I didn’t really like her and I hate being bossed around, so I just went back to the bedroom.

FBI AGENT #1 nods.

FBI AGENT #1–

Finally, Mr. Morrison, before we let you go… Over the past year, have you gotten any anonymous messages?

EDWARD–

(after a long, tense pause) Of course I have. My sister is missing… I get prank calls all the time.

FBI AGENT #2–

We mean threatening ones? Or with… leading information?

EDWARD–

(picking at his nails under the table) It’s hard to tell what is truth and what isn’t at this point, but nothing I would consider particularly relevant.

FBI AGENTS exchange a worried glance.

EDWARD–

(shaking his head hurriedly, stumbling over  words) I’ve deleted everything. I think someone’s just trying to tease me.

FBI AGENT #1–

(skeptically) Well, if you notice anything strange, don’t hesitate to report it.

EDWARD nods.

FBI AGENT #2–

(closing notebook, stopping the recording) This is everything. You’re free to go. Thank you for collaborating.

FBI AGENT #1–

And we’ll promise that we will look into this sighting you’ve mentioned.

EDWARD–

(gathering his things, getting up) Okay. Thank you.

Exit EDWARD.

End of scene.

[lararutherford]

EVERY ENDING HAS A BEGINNING:

Guess the kids are finally getting out of the basement, and now you all owe Lara for the rest of your lives I don't make the rules. xo Features: Kosta. Date: May 22nd, 2024. Warnings: It's shit. I haven't written in a while okay. Forgive me.

“My father is on his way to London. He intends to meet with Vorshevsky.” The silence at that particular revelation had been deafening. “I’ve informed him that I plan to do so first.” Parsons’ displeasure at that idea, far louder… “And Andrew agreed?” “Of course he didn’t.”

---

Minutes must have passed them by in cold, empty quiet.

When Lara Rutherford had stepped into the office of the head of the Vorshevsky family, she had done so knowing that immediate confrontation could have spelt a dire outcome for her. That those few she had told about her intentions tonight were not wrong for voicing concern about how she might handle herself. Konstantin didn’t much seem a man who entered these kinds of discussions under forced small talk, though. They were busy people, and both lacked patience.

So, as soon as she’d taken her seat opposite him, as well as the glass of vodka he’d extended her way like an almost suspiciously gracious host, she’d offered a gift of her own in return.

The photographs of his dead men.

The very same ones who’d hatched a plot to harm her sister.

Lara had always been good at reading people—nobody knew a liar better than a liar—but with him it was almost impossible. Something in his jaw seemed to tighten. He placed his own glass down in silence, but offered nothing else she might use to decipher what was running through his mind. The Russian had retained his experience as a politician, no doubt; silver-tongued and with an obvious penchant for deception. But she had proof, and more than enough bitterness to assume his guilt even if he had the most believable excuses in the world. The Rutherford hadn’t come here in search of confirmation of the part they’d played.

She’d come here for reparations.

“They were acting of their own accord. This was never ordered by me.”

Lara observed him in silence.

He sounded utterly convincing.

But Lara knew better than to take a man at his word.

Voice lowered to a whisper, she replied: “I don’t believe you.”

“What would I gain from attacking my allies? What would I gain from murdering her instead of you?”

Now, it was her turn to place her untouched glass down, hands folding neatly in her lap before she continued with her accusations. Impatient, perhaps, but she could take her time with this.

“We were never supposed to know it was you. They were masquerading as members of the French Organization. And I must say: the detail in that particular ruse was very impressive.”

The Rutherford was mocking him, and he bristled at her tone.

“I know you know Delphine and I are in talks to move toward a more civil relationship between our families. I also know you know that they wouldn’t assassinate me unless a better offer was to come their way. If we suddenly thought the French responsible for the murder of my sister, though? Well, that’d halt things immediately. And how convenient it’d be for your own interests…”

“If I had planned this,” he interjected in annoyance, “your sister would be dead, and you’d be warring with the French instead of having this conversation with me. I don’t make mistakes.”

“Mistakes are all you’ve made since you stepped foot in this city, Konstantin.”

The fact she was sat opposite him now, instead of tallied up as a death statistic from The Kingdom’s New Year’s Eve shootout, was proof of it. They both knew that he didn’t consider her getting hit by one of his men’s stray bullets a mistake. The fact she was still breathing was.

“Why are you here, Lara?”

The impatience in is tone caused a barely contained reaction. It was like something crawling up the back of her neck. Her spine straightened involuntarily as if her body was ready to depart the room ahead of time. The only thing that steeled her nerve was knowing she held all the cards here, and the only thing that stopped him from reaching across the desk and taking great joy in strangling the life out of her was his acknowledgement of the same.

A dangerous game with a dangerous opponent…

“You’re going to release the Italians.”

Half of her had expected him to scoff in disgust, but instead, she was greeted by eyes boring into her with such bitter hatred, she wondered if she had, indeed, signed her away her own life in favour of theirs. Perhaps she should have at least phrased it as a question instead of the demand it was.

Too late to walk back on it, now...

“You can have one.”

“That’s not what I said,” she countered, voice resolute.

“We didn’t know the soldier was affiliated with you. Consider her safe return a peace offering on my part for the insolence of my men, and ask no more.”

Insolence?

“You’ve misunderstand the purpose of my visit. This isn’t a negotiation.”

The Russian got to his feet slowly, a hand dropping to refasten the buttons of his jacket as if silently informing her he was readying to depart without further discussion of the matters at hand.

“You’re going to release the Italians, and you’re going to agree to exchange the St. Clair for Aviv, with my facilitation.”

Not once did her voice waver.

And that was when it finally clicked for him.

Konstantin slid his hands into his pockets, and she briefly wondered if he was reaching for a knife.

To her surprise, his handsome features twisted into amusement as opposed to the anger that had marred him up until this point in the conversation.

A humourless chuckle, then:

“You aren’t doing this for them,” he asserted, seemingly impressed by her fucking audacity. “You’re doing this for yourself.”

“I don’t do anything that doesn’t benefit me.”

The Rutherford reached out a delicate hand to his mahogany desk, index finger tracing a line across its polished top slowly.

“My father would never say this to you, but believe every word that I do. Don’t make the mistake of pushing us. Our influence has shielded you from much since your arrival here, but we’ve barely scratched the surface of how far it reaches. Understanding how much power my family truly has over this city because we decide to turn it against you isn’t wise.”

Oh, he had no fucking idea…

“Haringey would become more inhospitable than you could ever imagine. First, the families here come together to drive you out of London. Then, Porto Velho…” Lara was no longer looking at him, terrified of what she might see if she dared be so bold. Her movements were more purposeful now, as if she were moving soldiers into position on an invisible map of war. “With no need to focus on either, the Italians and French would be free to direct all of their attention toward Launceston.”

When she did look up, his expression still held. Either he didn’t believe she had the nerve to follow through with this scenario she was playing out before him, or he was a master at disguising the unfortunate realisation that he was over a fucking barrel.

That she was right.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he reiterated her earlier concern with vitriol so heavy in its contrast to the amusement he retained it was terrifying.

“I’d argue attempting to assassinate my sister means I could say the same about you.”

There was no denying that.

“What’s to stop you from doing all of this after I cede?”

“Nothing.”

This time it was Lara who got to her feet. Even in heels, the height difference was jarring enough to intimidate her into feeling smaller than she ever had in her life. But she’d held it together for this long, and she wasn’t about to lose her nerve at the final hurdle. Not after this. Carefully adjusting the arm of her Balmain blazer, she attempted to remain as aloof as she had done for the entirety of the conversation; a steely façade she had to learn to perfect over the years coming in clutch when she needed it the most.

The only words she offered in parting?

“You’d do well to remember that.”

[autumnshowell]

arguments

'You've been out so often lately.'

'You've been so hard to get ahold of.' 'I worry when you don't answer my texts.' 'I thought you said you didn't have to work.' 'I guess I just didn't realize you had better things to do.' She throws handfuls of what is essentially into the trash. Part of Autumn wants to scream as she turns her mother's words around in her head, every spin of it gouging an angry red barb into the figurative mental flesh of her hand as she considers just how angry she is right now. "I have a life outside of you, mom." She says, exasperated in tone but forcing herself to keep calm. Autumn ties the trash bag off and moves to set it next to the door that leads out of the kitchen to the driveway, lifting it to show her before she does so. "And by the way, you're allowed to actually throw stuff away without me here." Helpless and useless she thinks to herself. She'll feel awful for thinking it later, but right now she's so angry because she spent the whole of her last day off cleaning the filth out of this kitchen and it looks like she never even touched it. It's always something. Always some mess that needs cleaning or something that sits broken because she can't pick up a phone and call for a repair herself. It'd be one thing, Autumn gripes, if her mother were incapable. If she were unable to do the things that Autumn does. But she isn't. She just knows she can get away with it, because her daughter promised her late husband that she would take care of her. Because if she plays dumb and she plays useless, it keeps Autumn close, ensures that she'll never go far from home. Autumn knows it, because her mother's said so a dozen times in her drunken rants, even if she doesn't remember it, and she hates that she's right. Because who else does she have? Kevin is, at best, a work friend. Everyone she counted as a close friend in town growing up is too busy with life or has left town altogether. She hasn't had anybody better to be around. Hasn't had anything better to do. But now she does. And it's becoming apparent. And she knows her mother hates this. And she relishes in it. "You're gonna have to cook for yourself or order out this Saturday - I'm not gonna be around." That pries her mother's eyes from her wine glass. "Why?" "I've got a thing." Sharp. "What thing?" Pointed "Just a thing." Deflecting. "What kind of thing? I remember when my daughter didn't keep secrets." "Oh my fucking god, really?" She says, slapping a rag down on the counter top. "I'm going to a studio to look at tattoo stuff, okay?" "A tattoo? Why the hell do you want a tattoo?" "I don't even know if I want one - and what does it matter to you anyways. it's not for you it's for me." "That's so tacky Autumn Marie, when have you ever wanted a tattoo?" "Jesus, and you wonder why I didn't want to tell you." "Well if you can't even tell me about it, what are you going to tell people when they see it? You'll look trashy." It's the certitude and confidence with which her own mother calls her trashy. It makes her breath catch. She feels her nails digging so deeply into the palms of one hand that she's sure when she rubs her face in frustration, it's going to leave a trail of red behind. It doesn't but her hand hurts. "It's 2024, mom, maybe I want to look trashy." She hates how much she sounds like a fucking teenager. It's humiliating and demoralizing, despite the audience of nobody. "Well, mission accomplished if you go through with that." Leigh says, moving to pour more Moscato into her glass. "No wonder I don't have grandkids."

Silly enough, that's what gets her, what shuts her off, what rips her out of her own mind and sends her off to the broom closet eve though her mother's not done talking. She thinks of just how many times she's told her mother she's not interested in men, let alone starting a family with one. It's the closes she ever gets to telling her mother that she's never going to have grand children. That she's never going to have a son-in-law. But she never has the stone to say it outright.

The rest of the evening is quiet - quiet as the dead. Or at least it might as well be; her mother's voice is somewhere behind her, over her shoulder - quite and muffled every once in a while, like she's yelling through the deep ocean. She doesn't listen as she cleans up.

She's reminded of just why she does all this in the morning, while her mother is at work where she has to at least pretend to be sober and functional and can't inform her daughter of how wrong she is about everything she does. She wonders why she comes here at all anymore - but she knows why - no matter how awful it is, or how draining it is, it's less lonely this way. It's nice to be needed, even if she isn't necessarily wanted.

[valentina--ricci]

The Ricci Family Playbook | A Self-Para

Valentina had assumed she would have felt more emotional in this moment. Like the sight of her father being carted off in handcuffs would suddenly unleash this well of empathy for the man who had helped bring her into the world. She thought that the softness she had once felt for him would rise to the surface. Maybe she’d get flashbacks of her childhood, when he’d actually sit and read with her or take her for ice cream after a good grade. 

But all Valentina felt was relief as she sat in a car with her mother further down the block. 

It had happened fast for something that had taken her years to plan. She had thought several times about finding a way to kill him but that would just be using the same playbook he had. The man cared about nothing more than his reputation so killing his reputation seemed to be the only way for her at the moment. She knew she had to be smart. She had to build a case, she had to find things that were so severe, so sturdy, that not even his lawyers could talk their way out of this one. 

His targeting of Mikayla Beaumont had sent her over the edge, an urgency rising up in her chest as she watched him act like the Godfather once again. As she watched the town almost get swept away in sand and realized that maybe she cared about the people here. Maybe. But she had to draw the line somewhere. He was out of control and even worse, he was a likely winner for Mayor. She knew that if she didn’t stop him now, or at least deter him for some time, then they would never be able to turn back. 

So she set the wheels in motion. Left breadcrumbs for the ATF agents and local cops. Enough for them to take Mikki’s article to heart. And then came her final move. 

Valentina could feel the stress leaving her body as she got out of bed and pulled on her robe, glancing back at Roman on the bed before she let him know that she had invited him over for more than letting him attend to her beautiful body. She pulled a thick folder from her dresser and dropped it down on the bed next to him. She knew he’d ask questions and she was ready for them and clear that he needed to be as quick about this as possible. And with another kiss to his cheek, she sent him on his way before going to see her mother and brother to let them know what she had done. 

And Roman had of course delivered as she knew he would. Or else she wouldn’t have trusted him with it in the first place. 

So Valentina put the car in drive as they dipped her father’s head into the police car. She was slow until the car turned down a larger street and pressed her foot to the gas so they could pull up beside the police car. She kept her speed steady as she and her mother turned to look at Gio in the back seat. And as they set their eyes on him, they both smiled. Beatrice even blew him a kiss before they sped past them and turned down the next road,  in search of an appropriate celebration.

[arr0s]

PART ONE :: RUN 

Witcher. Poison beat through your veins like others had blood. The taint took time to grip you: more than anyone else but even you could not resist Mother’s song for long. She worked her way into your heart through your pox-marked skin and for the first time since your Gaze had been broken, you felt the sort of love that you thought was lost to you. Beautiful and sweet, you were happy to serve Mother, and happy to play the part of nurse at her side. Her gaze was beady and dark, but you matched it with unequivocal devotion. 

A werewolf, broken from Mother’s song, tore apart that beautiful bond - and your first response was to shriek as your Mother’s writhing, tentacular frame, fell into a dead heap. You stood at the side of the Princess, for your next reaction was unabashed rage. You could feel it now, dark though it was, magic permeated the lair and flowed through the veins of the volatile, raw Aetherite. Your weapons were gone, so you felled the first beast that attacked and wrenched their twisted blade from their dead limbs to use it as your own. Arros, witcher, set your gaze upon your escape, it's time to leave this place. TLDR; arros bonk a couple guys

The werewolf's maw tore through the Broodmother's flesh as if its teeth were sharpened blades slicing through soft butter. It happened in a matter of seconds,  before you could react, the Darkspawn descended upon the other captured women.You were frozen,  standing  in a daze like your mind was trying to come out of some sort of fog. 

What in the Hells just happened? Your hand, shaking as it clutched at your chest, the ache - it felt as though your heart was just ripped from your chest. Hands moved on their own looking for an opening, a tear, anything to prove that, that was exactly what had happened. When did you start to cry? Amid the cacophony of Darkspawn shrieks, you realized that you, too, were screaming.

Red hot pain pierced through your body where a darkspawns makeshift ax grazed your stomach - had you taken just a couple more seconds to come back to reality you would’ve been sliced in half. “You son of a bitch.” speaking felt as though you’ve been swallowing gravel, it felt unused and unfamiliar, but a new sort of anger awoke with your consciousness.

What claimed you then cannot wholly be a form of mania - because you were starkly aware of every one of your movements. Ripping the weapon from the beast's hands in a swift well trained movement; all the screaming and the wails that filled the cavern merely fuelled this anger. Your body moved slower than you were used to - being stuck in a trance for however many days - working yourself to the bone for these monsters took a toll on you. Enough so that she had miscalculated a step and was struck by one of the grotesque darkspawn. 

Red hot pain pierced through your body from where the wound was inflicted. Crying out in agony you kicked and pushed and used the rest of the will to stay alive that you had left to get the beast off of you. Its mouth was dripping with scarlet, your freshly drawn blood staining its chin while droplets fell, leaving an inky trail wherever it moved.

“You’re dead” You pulled your hand away, your palm coated in blood. It felt wet and hot.  You didn’t expect the sight of it to drive a new life through you. Reaching down, eyes never leaving the figure of the beast that now lifted its maw for another swipe, you grabbed a discarded weapon from a creature you previously slayed. 

You descend without mercy, hurtling forward, blade at the ready, driving it deep into the hollow beneath the beast’s jaw and wrenching up In a stuttering motion as rusted blade got stuck by flesh and bone, you watch its face split, tearing its final shrieks apart. And then all is silent, save for your gasping breaths and the blood in your ears, ringing and pounding.  Blood covered your hands and arms over the front of your chest, and you could feel some wetness that sprayed over your face.

But it was dead, and you were alive. Evident so with your heart still pounding under your chest and ragged breaths escaping your lips.Only once it was dead did you remember the others, remember the werewolf who awoke you from this hell.

Whipping your head around you spotted them - each of them fighting for their lives. The werewolf tearing apart the dark spawn while the others took part in their own battles. And you, left by the wayside to watch, horrified and bleeding from so many wounds you don't remember sustaining.  A nightmare, all of it, an inescapable reality as you tried to do just that. Escape. Impossible, you knew, but you’d be damned if you didn’t at least try.

Your own arms flare with bright, biting heat with each hack through darkspawn, being guided by the other makeshift troupe of maidens further down into the caverns and deeper into unknown and dangerous territory.

[erdogan-nevra]

Left Behind

Date: March 16th and beyond

Locations: London, Porto

Medea was silent in the chair next to her. Or as next to her as she could be as they were in separate pods across the aisle. She doubted the woman wanted to talk but even if she did, it would have been drowned out by the constant thrum of the airplane.

Nevra had never demanded anything from the Rutherfords in the entirety of her employment. They likely would have given her whatever she asked for, within reason, but she had never taken advantage of that. Advantage of their generosity and what giving it to people meant. Most would mistake it for loyalty or comradeship. A chance to tell the people who worked for them that they cared when really it was a chance to show the rest of the world how much fucking money they had. 

Fine, let them throw it around. The eleven hour flight would be more bearable in first class. 

~

“Wait, I’m coming. Wait, wait!” The knock had been soft at first but grew the longer she took to disentangle herself from her blanket cocoon on the couch. The hallways of her little cottage was already narrow and when Sabir zigged the same time she did, Nevra found her knees slamming to the carpet. She shook her head and nudged the dog away, talking loudly before she even opened the door. 

“I didn’t think you’d come thi-”

Ayaz. Not who she’d expected to see but Nevra smiled nonetheless. Maybe he’d remembered her birthday as well and was bored enough to come wish her so in person. She crossed her arms and put on a small pout. 

“I hope my present is hiding somewhere in your coat because I don’t see one and I’ll be honest, if you didn’t get me anything, I might just cry.”

It took her three more beats to understand that he wasn’t there to wish her a happy birthday. 

What was that look on his face? 

“Ayaz?”

“Nev, let’s go inside.” 

She didn’t know why but her heart started racing as he put a hand on her back and shut the door behind them. 

~

We will be landing in Porto Velho in twenty minutes. Please have your arrival card and any items to declare ready and in hand.  

She could feel Medea’s side eye and decided to ignore it. Neither were traveling as their namesake and both had only a carry on. A few changes of clothes was all that was needed for this trip. 

The plane rolled into port with a soft bump. Nevra was on her feet in seconds. 

“Easy there.” Medea’s voice snaked through her consciousness, squeezing uncomfortably, suffocating her with its very presence. 

Ayaz had suggested the woman come with her and when Nevra had told him she didn’t need a babysitter, he shrugged. Yet her arrival at Heathrow and the sight of his ex-wife told Nevra enough. They didn’t trust her, not right now. Not with-

Nevra smiled at the customs worker. When they’d gotten off the plane and ended up here was beyond her. Everything blurred together now. “No, nothing to declare. Just here for a business trip.” Her face remained calm and inviting. Learning to play different parts had been one of the main skills she’d learned as an assassin. She’d never imagined she’d be using it in her daily life just to reassure people she wasn’t going to throw herself off a bridge. 

Medea was next to her again. The Turk could feel her resisting the urge to take her elbow and guide her to the car that was waiting outside. Both women knew what would happen if she touched Nevra. She’d practically bit her head off at Heathrow to prove it. So unlike her. Then again, none of her actions had been like her the past few days. 

What would he think of it all?

~

“Nevra, did you hear what I said?”

Dead. 

Dead. 

Dead.

The snap of fingers echoed in the air. 

The person she’d chosen to love was dead. 

The person who had chosen to love her was dead. 

He was dead. 

Fingers wrapped around her wrists, pressure building each moment she kept silent. 

She had always been the one to leave when things came down to it. Her community, her friends, her fiancé. Nevra always made the choice. It never made it any easier but she had always been in control of who entered and left her life. That way she always knew who to blame when those horrible days eventually showed their faces. 

Who could she blame for this? 

Not herself. 

The drug dealer? Absolutely.

The women and men who joined him for god knows how long until he’d been the unfortunate victim of a bad batch? Sure.

Kerem and his anger, his unfuckingreasonable anger toward their situation? If she tried hard enough. 

Not herself though. 

But Berat…

“Nevra, come back.”

No, she would never, could never blame him. She had chosen him and she wouldn’t blame that person. Even if-

So now she was the one left behind and god did it fucking suck. A harsh laugh escaped her lips. She finally noticed Ayaz and saw the look of concern at her outburst.

~

Blood splattered her face as the assassin pulled the trigger of the gun resting at the base of the man’s skull. It was messier than normal but he hadn’t come quietly and she was pissed off enough not to care. Medea on the other hand looked less than pleased. Blood also splattered the toes of her shoes. She took one look at Nevra’s blood covered face and audibly exhaled through her nose. 

“At least you used a silencer.” She could barely hear the words over the roaring in her head and the sounds of passing cars on the street at the end of the alley.

A burner phone appeared in the older woman’s hand. A quick picture and a moment before confirmation before she tossed it into a barrel, followed by a lit match. A tiny part of Nevra wanted to burn the dead man as well but that wasn’t the job. This job was finished. 

She took out her own phone and pressed the name at the top. Three rings before it picked up. Time difference, right. He wouldn’t care though, not really. 

“Another one.” 

Ayaz sighed on the other line and he kept silent for a moment, no doubt debating how long he should indulge her desire to lose herself. 

“There’s a woman in Launceston…”

~

“You’re sure? No possibility you’re wrong?” Her throat felt like she’d eaten a handful of gravel. She felt her hands begin to shake in Ayaz’s grip. A shake of his head and a slight bow but he never averted her eyes. Never severed that last tether of support she needed. 

Nevra looked toward the front door and slowly allowed the realization that Berat would never walk through it again to wash over her. How was she supposed to get through everything without him? 

They’d talked for hours and nights on end of how it had been so simple to choose each other. How, once they’d said screw it and thrown caution to the wind, life had been so much happier. Their happiness had been a choice, her choice. 

This was not her choice. 

This is what it felt like to be left behind. 

If he was going to leave her behind, then she was going to leave everyone else behind too.

“Give me a job.” 

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t said in anger or sadness or despair. It wasn’t a want but a need.

It looked like he was going to refuse her so she shook her head. No, don’t stop me.

“Give me a job.” 

~

The second plane was just as comfortable as the first had been. First class again, only this time Medea had done something unexpected. She’d bought out the entire first class. Nevra knew she was standing at the back of the area talking to the hostesses. She didn’t care what she was telling them. No one bothered her though. 

As the woman settled in the back, the Turk settled in the front. Maybe her babysitter had gone through what Nevra was going through. Maybe she expected her to use the privacy to break down and cry or throw a tantrum or let all hell loose. Nevra intended on refraining from each one of those things. 

If she was going to cry it would be on her own terms. Her grief would be her choice. Everything from here on out would be controlled by her because fuck this feeling. A better person would have taken the opportunity to understand, this was how she’d made other people in her life feel. Before, she would have been that better person. 

Now she wasn’t and didn’t care to be. 

Berat Yalaz would be the last person who would make a choice for her and the last person to leave her behind. 

The thought made her sigh.

[magmahearts]

TIMING: current LOCATION: an abnormality viewing station SUMMARY: makaio tells cass a little more about their family history. CONTENT: implications of emotional manipulation, mentions of past parental death & sibling death

This was good, she told herself. Being out in the world with her father was exactly what she’d wanted since the very first day he found her in her cave, even if she’d imagined things a little differently back then. She’d wanted family dinners and movie nights, but it wasn’t fair to force her father into those kinds of boxes. It wasn’t right to want him to be more like her when she was the one who’d grown up all wrong. She should be striving to be like him. She knew that.

So, she took what she could get. She trailed along behind him as he walked, not asking where he was leading her. He’d never take her anywhere she didn’t want to go, because Cass wanted to be wherever he was. She belonged wherever he was. After everything… she was pretty sure it was the only place she belonged. It was probably the only place she ever had. 

He stopped walking so abruptly that Cass, following too close, nearly collided with his back. She stopped herself just in time, stumbling a little but not falling. Peering around his shoulder, she tried to make sense of where they were.

“Is this… one of those weird viewing stations?” She’d always found them a little distasteful, but her resentment towards them had grown as of late. The same way the man climbing rocks had been wrong, the people making a spectacle of something that only wanted to exist were disgusting. Cass felt an anger that didn’t entirely belong to her churn in her chest. She knew it was how she was supposed to feel, and so she clung to it. 

“Criminal, is it not?” Her father’s voice rumbled, the same low and constant timbre that it always was. She liked that it was a constant, steady thing. So much of her life felt up in the air right now; it was nice to know that she had a solid foundation on which to rebuild.

“Yes,” she agreed. “It’s disgusting.” It didn’t burn her tongue, so it must have been the truth. That was how she gauged things, these days. She thought it was a good system.

“I have… experience with things like this.” There was something in the way he spoke, something raw and honest. Cass felt her expression soften as she stared at the back of his head. She said nothing, because it was what was expected of her. She’d learned that when her father wanted to speak, he would speak. When he didn’t, he wouldn’t. There was something nice about it, in a way; he didn’t talk just to fill the silence. Cass wanted to be the same. “Our home used to be so beautiful.” She knew the home he meant. He always got the same quiet way about him when he spoke of Hawai’i.

“When you were a kid,” she said softly, prompting him. “Right?”

“Yes,” he confirmed. “Decades ago, before trampling feet made a mess of things. Nature ruled, then.”

She tried to imagine it. By the time she was born, her home was struggling to remain secluded. Even on the largest island in the Hawaiian archipelago, tourism was so rampant that there was scarcely an inch of the place not crawling with humans. Cass had been fascinated by them back then, and she hadn’t understood why this fascination scared the older fae as much as it did. She got it now, though. Her throat ached, the ghost of a warden’s hand never fully loosening its grip around it even months after Alex’s claws tore through him. Discovery was a scary thing.

Makaio paused for a moment, though Cass wasn’t sure if he was inviting her to speak or gathering his thoughts. After a moment, he began again and she thought it must have been the latter, commended herself for staying quiet the way she was supposed to. “It was slow at first,” he said quietly. “A few extra visitors to hide from. But then… It grew. It grew, and it kept growing. They stripped the land of its resources. Cut down trees to make room for hostels, inserted viewing stations like this one all over. It became… impossible to remain hidden.”

“What happened?” She whispered it, afraid of the answer. She’d long known that her father had things buried in his past that hurt him, and she’d been terrified of uncovering them for so long now. But… wouldn’t it be good to allow him to talk about it? It was her heritage, too. She ought to learn more.

“Different things,” he said quietly. “My mother — your grandmother — was an oread like we are. But your grandfather was a leshy. He was… the first. He was so strong when I was a child. It seemed impossible that anything could touch him. But they came. They came, and they plowed through the forest. They built things to attract more of them, and when more of them came, more of the forest was removed to make room. Your grandfather grew weak. He grew tired. I watched him wither away into something frail, and then I watched him die.”

Cass ached so much that it was impossible not to let out the smallest of whimpers. She hurt for her father, who had watched his own father die slowly. She ached for the grandfather she’d never known, who must have suffered so much as he went. For her grandmother, who’d lost someone she loved. It all hurt so much.

“My brother didn’t last much longer. He was a leshy, too. His wife was a nereid, and so were his children. But when the humans destroyed the reef they were a part of…” She knew how it must have ended. “So then, it was me and my mother and my sister. All oreads, all clinging to a volcano once beautifully alive but now fading. I thought, this is okay. I thought, they can take the forest and the sea, but they can’t touch the volcano. I thought, we’re safe now. But we never really are, are we?”

The dread was building. Her father was alone. Her father had been alone for a long time now. And Cass, breathless and pained, was about to learn why. 

“It was inevitable,” her father said slowly, “that trouble should arise. There were so many tourists, even then. The island was crawling with them. They came for every crevice, trampled every blade of grass. All it took was one of them catching sight of the wrong thing. Just one. They went back to town, they told stories. Word spread until it reached the wrong people. And then…”

He trailed off, and her face felt wet. And then. Did she need to ask? Couldn’t she guess? But she wanted to know for sure, wanted to be certain, so she prompted him a little more. “And then…?”

“Wardens.” He confirmed every fear she’d held, drove the nail into the coffin. Cass closed her eyes. Her throat felt tight, her shoulder ached with a blade that hadn’t touched it in months. “A whole slew of them. They came for us in the dead of night, like cowards. They broke my mother apart piece by piece while my sister screamed. They removed her head from her body. And I should have died with them. I know this. I should have died with them, but I ran. I ran as quickly as I could, and I got away. But… Where was there to go? The whole island was overcrowded, crawling with more people who would tell stories that more wardens would hear. I found another aos si, but it didn’t last. Nothing could. There were so many of them, Cassidy. Like ants swarming a hill.”

She understood. Hadn’t it been the same in the short years she’d spent there? Tourism tore their home into pieces, left them with only the smallest sliver of it to stand upon. As much as Cass ached for the island, she was probably safer away from it. Except…

“It’s been getting bigger here, too,” she said quietly. She thought of the leg, of the humans charging each other just to look at it. The tours of the ocean boasting a chance to spot eldritch beings that lurked beneath the waves, the ones that ran through the woods and promised a look at Bigfeet. Maybe this town wasn’t quite on the level as the island she’d been cast out from, but wasn’t it getting closer every day?

“It is,” her father confirmed both the spoken statement and the silent question. “These viewing stations… This is how it begins. It will snowball here, just as it did in our home. The ocean, the lakes, the trees… Even your cave won’t remain untouched if things continue at this rate.” Cass’s heart was pounding. She thought of Burrow’s parasites, of Teagan’s lake. And, selfishly, she thought of the Magmacave, of the place where her feeling of security had already been stolen away from her once by Rhett’s cruel hands. 

She wasn’t thinking, really. She was hardly aware of what she was doing at all. Her hand seemed to move of its own volition, reaching out to grip the viewing station and heating to something unsustainable by the cheap plastic, magma melting out from between her fingers. The viewing station creaked and popped, screws shooting loose from their slots as it shrunk beneath her grip, a horrid unnatural stench filling the air as the plastic melted and dripped. In moments, it was a puddle on the dirt. Cass stared at it for a moment, then looked at her father.

He was looking at it, too. But the look on his face…

It was hard to tell, sometimes, what expression lurked beneath Makaio’s rocky skin. But this one felt undeniable. His eyes were bright, and his mouth was curled up into a smile. He was proud. Her father was proud of her. Cass felt as though she could walk on air.

“You’re a smart girl, Cassidy,” he told her quietly, and she beamed. “And I think you’ve the right idea. These people, these humans… They love trying to take what’s rightfully ours. What we’re born to protect. Sometimes… You have to take it back by force.”

She thought of the man climbing the rocks, of how entitled he’d seemed. Her father was right. Wasn’t he? If they didn’t fight back, if they let themselves remain complacent, wouldn’t history repeat itself? She couldn’t stomach a world in which someone like Rhett did to her father what had been done to his family, what had almost been done to her. She couldn’t allow it. Her father was the only family she had now, maybe the only person who would ever really understand her. Shouldn’t she do whatever it took to protect him? He’d do the same for her, after all.

Chewing her lip, she nodded. “Come on,” she said, offering him a small smile. “There’s another one not far from here. I think… It’s about time we started taking things back.” Without another word, she took off towards the second viewing station. 

Behind her, watching carefully, Makaio smiled.

[berat-yalaz]

I MISSED YOU A LITTLE MORE TODAY:

I do not expect everybody to read this. If it's an issue, please just scroll on. It will be dealt with vaguely enough in follow up paragraphs and threads that the main points will be clear without it. This para, and the one that follows, are a bit depressing and deal with some very triggering topics that not everyone will want to read. That's completely okay and I understand if you scroll past. And whilst I know this is role play and it's supposed to be an escape where people don't have to deal with this shit, writing about it is important to me. But I do so fully understanding it's not for everyone's consumption. So please do what's best for you. I never intended to become this attached to Berat, but I also never intended him to be such a reflection of myself. The combination of depression and addiction that I put into his biography is devastating and life ruining and a difficult hurdle to overcome, and the reason it's the most personal and painful one I've ever written is because I understand how that feels. I also understand how the pain of loss compounds it day after day, and makes dealing with both almost impossible. I don't want to not write about this, because the struggle is so fundamental to his character that avoiding it would feel like a cop out. Not everything has a happy end. Not everybody makes it out the other side, because life isn't always as kind as it should be. That said, I want to make clear before the para, because the end is both vague and obviously foreshadowed: his upcoming death is not intentional on his part. The heroin is laced with fentanyl and he has no idea. But in a way, that seemed an even more fitting end than making it a purposeful choice. Still, proceed with caution for these two please. Next one will be from Ayaz later. Thank you. Date: March 16th, 2024. Warnings: Implied future drug use, severe depression, thoughts bordering on un-aliving oneself, precursor to overdose, precursor to character death. I tried to keep it vague, but it hints at a bad time.

How little would she think of him now?

It wouldn’t be unwarranted, of course, after all he’d done. After the pain he’d caused those he would so vehemently say meant the world to him.

Didn’t mean the idea hadn’t hurt, though.

“I missed you a little more today.”

It’d been a consistent routine; for those words, that admission, to be the last to leave him before he sought sleep. Survived one more day without her. This time, though, as Berat ventured further into the rundown and disorganised mess of a flat, he picked up the photograph of the woman in question from its home on the mantelpiece. Even the most beautiful smile in the world, the kindest eyes looking right back at him, couldn’t stop the hurt today. Neither were a match for the gnawing in his chest, and the guilt buried so deep in his gut he couldn’t even remember the last time he’d eaten…

It’d been three weeks since Kerem had found out about him and Nevra.

Three weeks since he’d dared leave his home.

Three weeks since even Nazli had stopped trying.

And he deserved that, you know. He deserved to lose the only person who’d stuck by him through his darkest moments, because eventually, everyone had to run out of chances. Berat didn’t know whether it was the personal betrayal of Kerem that’d pushed her over the edge, or the fact he’d chosen the woman who’d been indirectly responsible for his downfall in the first place—a Rutherford sympathiser, to twist the knife—but she’d drawn a line, and he’d heard it loud and clear.

This time, he wasn’t worth the struggle.

And that was okay. And Berat didn’t blame her. And maybe it would have saved them all a whole lot of pain if she’d just made that same realisation a few years earlier.

The man flipped the pristine wooden frame he now held in his hands, carefully turning the clasps at the back so he could remove the photograph held within. Berat wasn’t sure he’d ever been bold enough to do so since he’d put it there; so scared of damaging one of the few tangible reminders he had left that he could only ever want to observe from a distance. Maybe that was a lesson he should’ve carried through into life, too. To not risk irreparably marring precious and beautiful things he’d never fucking deserved in the first place.  

He was holding it, then. A piece of paper in his hands all he had left.

And he was glad today that she was gone so she didn’t have to see him like this.

They all told him they wanted him to be happy, but he’d never asked it to find him the way it had. Life was cruel like that, he supposed. With one hand it gave, and the other, it took away so much. So why didn’t happiness ever seem to be an ultimatum for anybody else? Berat had never sought out Nevra expecting to love her the way he did, and he’d sure never done so with the intention of hurting his best friend. But for a man whose life had been so devoid of meaning and good and anything worth trying to be a better fucking person for, how could he not want for it?

You won’t let yourself be happy. And for a long time, that was because he didn’t feel he deserved to feel happiness in a life without Ceren.

But now he wanted for that relief with the only person who’d made him feel worthy since, and the brutal reality was that it meant walking all over somebody else’s in the process.

Did Kerem have the same dilemma when he’d found Emine?

Ayda, when she’d left him?

The slow, year-long retreat he’d made from them hadn’t been an accident, and surely they must have realised that by now. It hadn’t been because he didn’t care, or because he was so scared one of them would pick up on the signs that they’d catch him in a lie. It wasn’t self-preservation, it wasn’t self-pity, and it wasn’t a choice to move on. It was because he couldn’t fucking stand himself anymore. The mere sight of what looked back at him in the mirror fucking repulsed him. So why should they have been forced to endure him, too?

Even his mother felt the sting of distance. Because where his conscience apparently lacked so far as Kerem was concerned, he couldn’t put her through the pain of witnessing her son descend into yet another downward spiral.

The woman had suffered his poor choices for long enough.

Berat removed his phone from his pocket. Replaced it, slowly and carefully so as not to damage the edges or risk a fold, with the photograph of Ceren.

Oh, she deserved so much better than where they were going.

But he didn’t want to do it without her.

Didn’t want to do any of this without her, really.

He finally glanced down at his phone. The lock screen was littered with messages from people he was too ashamed to respond to; friends, family, people who’d been waiting for him to fuck up again. Because they all were. Even the ones who’d never admit it aloud because they liked him just enough to pretend they had faith he could do better. Kerem was one of them. Whilst he might’ve loved his friend, Berat could always see it in his eyes; gaze somewhere between disappointed and pitying. But none of them had expected something like this.

But neither had he, and that seemed to be lost on them.

One name stood out from all the others, and for a brief moment, he smiled. He smiled in spite of all that’d happened, in spite of his nausea, in spite of the exhaustion, in spite of feeling so trapped that he still couldn’t see a light at the end of the tunnel he’d forced himself into.

Nevra.

Wondering where he was, no doubt.

‘I love you.’

And that message he carefully typed out with unsteady hands wasn’t a warning sign in itself when he told her as much every chance he got. Told her with the sincerity and gratitude of a man who’d never thought he’d say the words again and mean them like this.

Because Berat did love her.

Hadn’t meant to. Hadn’t wanted to. Couldn’t help it, though.

A part of him had known from the start that there was never going to be a happy ending for them. Never going to be a ‘them’ for the long haul at all and he’d tried to make her understand that before they got too deep. His reluctance to deal with their situation, to be open about what was happening, to speak with Kerem so they didn’t have to keep living a lie had been frustrating for a woman who deserved better. Certainly, deserved more than he could ever give. But his aversion to confronting his choices had less to do with cowardice and more to do with fear of losing the one person in his life who made breathing a little easier.

Fear of losing this beautiful and unexpected thing he didn’t deserve, but was too selfish to give up.

Yet now, he realised none of it mattered. He was going to lose it all, regardless.

Maybe that was okay, though. Maybe he’d just deal with it like he always did.

Maybe he’d just fucking suffocate under the weight.

Maybe he’d die.

Berat reached into a glass dish to grab a handful of fifties. The Turk could hardly be ashamed of stooping so low as to pawn a sentimental watch after all he’d done. It was too small a guilt to scratch the surface. A small mercy, he supposed.

He put out extra food for the dogs. Extra water, too.

Left the television on so they’d at least have the illusion of company until his mum showed up to take them for breakfast in the morning.

Berat didn’t know when he’d make it back, but he was hoping it’d be a while.

Long enough to take the edge off. Long enough to stop feeling.

“I’ll be there soon,” he reminded her out loud as his hand slipped in to feel for the photograph in his pocket.

If only someone would just let him.

[drrutherford]

New Year, 2024.

He stares blankly at Melissa's text-message as it flashes across his phone screen.

"Are you in Launceston?"

No, because he doesn't understand this business of toasting champagne with one's enemies, in a place teeming with them that his family had done well to abandon. Of course, toasting enemies is an occasional inevitability in London; at events they all have vested interest in attending, or else cede the limelight to an undesirable other.

But Launceston is not London. Why the Rutherfords would ever need chase French cul or any other into a foreign city, he cannot for the life of him understand.

It's sloppy, unnecessary. And too much potential for ill-advised liaisons.

The surgeon releases a sigh, leaning back in his chair. Maybe his family is right, and he is softhearted after all — unable to fathom the thought of shooting the same people you'd willingly toasted mere weeks ago.

Or — perhaps he's every bit as calculating as the eldest son of a mobster, who, in another lifetime, might've been forced to lead his father's people. Calculating enough to know that mingling in such ways would only make his own soldiers less willing to pull the trigger when asked of them. Less loyal.

He doesn't understand it, but he's glad that in this lifetime, it's not his conundrum to resolve. Setting aside his cellphone, Gideon turns his attention back to his work. He needs to reserve every bit of calculation for a problem of his own, anyhow. A priority. 

He's not exactly sure how his father caught wind of his intentions – Was it the frequent drop-ins to his lawyer's office in recent weeks? The indefatigable rumour mill that was London's press?... Or had his father specifically taxed some sorry pigeon with the job of gathering, every so often, intel on his wayward son? – but it's become abundantly clear that Andrew knows. Clear, by the gift that had come on Christmas Day, inside a card neatly scrawled in his father's own penmanship.

Gideon, A man may have the world, but if his child wants no part in it, what good does it do either of them? So saying, I trust even you won't turn your nose up at this humble offering... For my grandson's sake. Happy Christmas. — A.R.

Along with the card and an extravagantly-summed cheque, was a referral appointment to the exclusive services of a custody lawyer. Some internet hunting later had revealed the lawyer had made his name overseas and had now returned to London.

Though he'd kept the card, he'd had too much pride to take the money. Blood money. Not that Gideon didn't see the appeal; what was pocket money to Andrew Rutherford was a significant cut of his own annual paycheck, even as a neurosurgeon splitting his time between both public and private sectors in one of the most prestigious cities in the world. But he'd been stubborn since the day he'd earned his first payslip, and the way things were looking, he'd be stubborn until his last. So he'd sent the cheque back with a brief but polite Christmas note in return.

He may have been too proud to take the money, but that doesn't mean he's foolish enough to ignore the legal recommendation of a mobster who'd notoriously spent the last four decades of his life dodging the law and finagling his way out of the courtroom. Whatever else may be said of him, Andrew Rutherford knows how to win a case – or – the right people to employ to win it for him. 

And even if the lead proves to be a dead end, had not the last year given him repeated, painful reminder that he needs to refocus his attention on his own life? Maybe Nora's right, and he's spent too long shooting himself in the foot by fighting other people's battles or martyring himself for the wrong causes. Maybe Yvonne is also right, and he needs to quit falling on his sword in defense of everyone around him. Maybe he needs to keep the secret he'd shared with Leyla on his birthday, too.

And maybe, despite all that and every good intention along the way — the lead will fail.

Maybe it won't make an ounce of a difference in the end. He's squared up against his ex-wife in court once before already and had won nothing for his efforts but public humiliation. A second attempt over the years had been thwarted before the judge had even riffled through his painstakingly collected pile of evidence.

What good will a third trial do?...

But for all the cynicism in his heart, Gideon knows he owes Felix this much. Owes him a hundred attempts to pull him out from under the influence of a selfish, fame-spoilt, cocaine-fueled mother; who'd struggle to choose between their son and her next hit. At least, until such a time as his beloved, now-six-year-old boy comes of an age when he can choose such parental influences for himself.

Gideon glances at the clock. In half an hour, he's meant to meet his girlfriend to watch fireworks on a rooftop and ring in the New Year. Enough time to finish this email, the one addressed to the so-called 'Mr. Dalton, Q.C.' with regard to his plight. Besides, the Rutherford doesn't need any more time to think of his resolutions before 2023 fades into the annals of the past. He's made his one – and only one – resolution already.

... It's time to get his son back.

[laurent--stpierre]

LET'S ALL STOP ATTENDING THE AWARDS [2 of 2]:

Like seriously guys, let's just stop okay. Part one will be posted tomorrow.   Date: March 22nd, 2024. Warnings: None.

The basin was stained with blood, despite the steady stream of water.

No matter how much the Frenchman scrubbed, he couldn't wash it from his hands. Crimson seemed to creep into every line of his skin; stubborn and fucking vile, just like the animal it belonged to. Bloodshot blue eyes closed for a moment. A damp cloth met a nasty cut above his left eyebrow, but whilst the hand that held it was gentle in its approach, he could also feel it shaking.

"Hey, stop—" The man's words were soft instead of condemning as he turned slightly to face the woman beside him, reaching up to take her wrist. "Don't worry about me for a second. Let's get you cleaned up."

It was hard for him to tell if the words had even registered.

Laurent took the same cloth, flipping it to find a clean edge, and ran it once again under the lukewarm water. Though her only real injury beyond the tell-tale marks around her neck seemed to be a bleeding nose, her face was a harrowing picture. Stunned was a word, but it still seemed to come up short. The look in her eyes made him wonder if she was even present in the moment at all.

"Lara, look at me." It was sterner this time, and that seemed to work.

Because she did.

"You're okay..."

But somebody else wasn't, and that was likely a big part of the problem.

This time, it was him reaching out for her. Laurent tilted her head up slightly, looking for better light to see what he was fucking doing, and she quite clearly didn't have it in her to protest even if she did flinch. That was enough to give him pause. That for a moment, it seemed she thought he'd hurt her... The bleeding had stopped, but the mess on her face, and worse, the Dior, made it very clear she wasn't okay. Even if she didn't bruise, people would know something had happened.

Neither of them realised that was about to be the least of their worries.

It hadn't dawned on him she was crying until now. Silent, empty, but she was definitely fucking crying. Guilt twisted at his gut as he reached his other hand to brush away a tear with haste enough to say I didn't see anything. The hand remained against her skin—a barrier for her pride if it happened again—and he quickly got to work at cleaning up the blood drying around her mouth and nose.

"Is there something you—" But before he could finish, his attention was taken by the phone on the counter top coming to life. Not his, but hers.

At first he'd assumed it was somebody calling to see where she was.

Until he realised it wasn't.

'Not now,' he thought to himself, grimacing.

As she looked down, it was the first time the Rutherford's attention seemed to be anywhere but off into the distance. And that's where her eyes would stay, focused, attention unwavering, until the horrific video that'd been forced upon them all would come to an end. The two stood in silence. Even his hand had recoiled at some point; an unconscious movement on his part. What the fuck was he supposed to say?

They both understood what this would mean.

What the night was about to descend into.

And just like that, whatever part of her had put up a barrier of shock crumbled.

"Who?"

It was hard to tell whether her voice was strained from almost being choked to death fifteen minutes prior, or because she was fighting so hard against the masses of emotions she was being forced to come to terms with tonight. Both hurt him.

"A Russian," he answered honestly, even though he knew he shouldn't have.

The words seemed to trigger something in her, and even though Laurent knew there was no love lost between Lara and the Vorshevskys, she was overcome once more with tears. Only this time, she didn't have the control to keep them quiet. So few people had seen her this way, he knew. So few people understood what it was to witness a woman who spent every day trying to convince the world she wasn't, vulnerable. And suddenly, he was back in a hotel room...

"What the fuck is wrong with you people?" She choked out, her voice both dejected and subtly angry in a way only she could manage. "When is this going to stop? When is enough going to be enough? When are you going to realise this solves nothing?"

"Lara—"

"You're so fucking stupid. This cycle of violence has been going on for decades and causes nothing but pain. There's no resolution. Nothing gained. It's bad for business. What do you think this achieves except mending your fucking egos?"

"I had nothing to do with—"

"Are you really that delicate? Is Oliver?"

Laurent didn't have any fight in him, because he knew she wasn't wrong. But Lara seemed to have plenty. The tears were streaming, her body was shaking...

Then she shoved him.

Laurent stood in silence. Took it because it was deserved.

He waited for her to walk out, and yet...

It was hard to tell which one of them moved first. Maybe it was as simple as falling back into old habits, but the next thing he knew, his arms were wrapped around her; painful, given the state he was in, but not nearly enough for him to even consider letting go. Her head was buried in his shoulder, and she was breaking down. The whole night he'd wondered. How much seeing Amir must have hurt, how much seeing her name up on that screen for so many unforgivable awards must've chipped away, and now the two horrific scenes she had just witnessed in quick succession.

Even she could only take so much.

He could feel the Rutherford's hand clawing at his back, desperate to find purchase in his suit jacket as she clung to him as desperately as though she feared she might fall down otherwise. And he held her. Let his hand rub at her lower back in an attempt to calm. Laurent's eyes closed, mostly because hearing it was gutting enough without seeing her pain, too. And maybe he'd have apologised if he'd thought it'd matter.

"You need to call Henry," he said gently, his head pulling away from hers slightly. "You need him to get you out of here before this goes south."

Lara said nothing.

"Please."