#2 seconds may be too merciful perhaps 1 and a half

[stem-sloop]

imagine we do resume contact (which, has already been previously stated to be a possibility), what then? She's shown no interest in maintaining an active conversation with me during my time of shown, apparent interest---the period of time from which i started "our" conversations. It has been me the one to spark each and every interaction we've had and such has an issue which is the clear precedent i've set of interest towards her---and thus the lack thereby of hers towards mine how i wish not to be at the will of a woman who has all the power in the world to make me happy yet has decided to leave me in this desperate liminal space of loneliness rationally i fully accept the fact that i am not to talk to her in---at the least--- a brief brewing hot stew of time for the time being. I understand the very limited concept---that i daringly call strategy--- of cooldown that i've implemented---thing i've already stated was an inevitability either way--- with her. But I cannot accept it any other way. What is rationale without the uncopious mind of the being, controlled not by logic and arithmetic but the very heart and thought that dares him to grow closer to that person, that urges him to form a connection so deep and entrenched in this terrestrial sphere, so as to leave with more than he came to it with but is it so hurting that she is not of the desire to speak to me, and of rather ignoring whatever bridge ive tried to build in an attempt to have her cross through the river she so humbly walks on the other side of? Yes it is so hurting. And it burns. It is a burning cruelty that which has been done to me. What is being done to me. And this fire is one flame i cannot let go of. I hold it with both hands in an endearing effort of dumbfounded hope, one in which i may say i can't bring myself to fully believe on, but which i nonetheless second for myself to hang on to. life must not be a solitary confinement if it is this hard to feel without, and so easy to feel with. We have been created to be social, to love and to be loved, and we yearn for this very simple state of being; and yet, it is oh so hard and it has become oh so difficult to achieve it by normal means that now i succumb to the personal yet universal ascetic and ethereal ground that many so many of others have made a home of

[legends-live-in-memories]

“How Did All This Happen?”- A Memoire by one Marinette Dupain-Cheng 2

wow. okay. so first off i dont have an update schedule but im on winter break starting next monday so i just have a lot of time on my hands. if this progresses into next year updates wont be as frequent. hell updates probably wont be as frequent next week either. who knows not me. Also i have a few spots left open on the tag list for those who were wondering.

Part 1 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6

without further ado 

People Fucked Up and Now It’s All Marinette’s Mess to Clean Up II

Marinette knew how she ruined the eastern coastline, but for all that is magical she could not fathom how that team of hero proteges managed to completely decimate the western side. She knew they were capable of it though, Constantine had warned her that they had an interesting habit of bending, if not outright breaking, the rules and legislation of the UN. He had also warned her that the group of Justice League mini-me’s had a unique calling card. The symphony of everything going to total shit in the background was the declaration of their presence on the island. She hasn’t even seen them from her new cliffside perch but she knew they were there by the distinct sounds of explosions. God, she hoped that super son wasn’t there. And she really hoped he didn’t get his indestructible hands on the magical dagger and destroyed it. It was one thing to return from this mission empty handed. It was an entirely different kettle of fish to return and join her grandfather in having “Broken a magical artifact” added to her list of crimes against the universe. Adrien would never let her live it down. No, Chloe would never let her live that down. She probably would put it on her headstone or something. 

Deciding she has wasted enough time, Marinette began enacting one of her contingency plans in hopes of salvaging this night. She had brought the Tiger, the Horse and the Cat miraculouses for this mission, fearing that a Ladybug Cure would bring too much attention to her and her family. She was right in that fear because reconstructing two coastlines would not fly under international radar.

She called upon the magic of the Tiger, camouflaging with the scenery as she made her descent back to where Kobra himself hopefully still was. 

She found him making his escape from the hellfest that was once their base of operation, followed by two other members. Marinette begrudgingly gives her thanks for the intruding hero team who distracted the cult from her presence and created enough wreckage that forced the cult members into separating. Sneaking up from behind, she jumped on the shoulders of the one furthest back. A swift jab to his throat, and Marinette was using his falling body as a springboard to kick the second cultist. At this point Kobra was aware of her presence and tried to attack her. Keeping the magical dagger on his person, he moved to grab Marinette by her hair. Extending the claws from her panja bracelet, Marinette slashed Kobra by his outstretched hands and used her semi-sentient tiger’s tail to retrieve the dagger. Before Kobra could regain his bearings, Marinette merged the Tiger and the Horse and made a hasty escape to her hideout.

She was greeted to the sight of her grandfather who Marinette believed was entirely too relaxed, enjoying some mint tea as he watched the night sky be curtained by smoke mushrooms from the nearby island. He was reclined in one of the couches in their AirBnB back in Trinidad. She dropped her transformations, Roaar and Kaalki flying to the kitchenette. Plagg slowly came out of Marinette’s purse and pointedly avoided her gaze. So the hellcat did have a guilty conscience, she lamented. Who knew? Apparently accidentally sneezing from the sand on the beach of Santa Prisca, and leaving behind a new cliff, was not one of the Destruction god’s finer moments. If he had any. 

“Don’t tell Tikki,” he began. And look, actual names, he must have been really embarrassed if that’s how he’s referring to his counterpart. 

“Don’t tell me what?” The answering scream Plagg released was actually comical and Marinette decided to be merciful. “Don’t worry Tiks, just a hiccup in the mission but all is well now.” Plagg looked at Marinette like he was about to lay worship to her for not selling him out. He took it in stride and joined the other Kwamis on the counter, already with a cheese wedge in hand.

“You did well, Mei,” her grandfather began. “I will report to Constantine and we will discuss further in the morning. For now get some sleep.” That was a dismissal if Marinette ever heard one so she placed the panja bracelet and the glasses, the tiger and horse miraculouses, back in the box and retreated to her room. A quick shower and a call to her parents later, Marinette was left awake in her room. Bored.

Plagg soon joined her, and despite his earlier reservations, he was brimming with chaotic energy. He had an idea and nothing spelt trouble faster than Plagg’s ideas. Apparently Plagg was curious about what the other young heroes were even doing on the island and wanted to know more. Now Marinette had half a mind to tell him to go by himself and leave her out of it. But she was kind of curious too. They weren’t after the dagger, that much she figured, or else Constantine would have had them go for it instead. So why were they there? A voice that sounded painfully like Kagami in her head told her not to be bullheaded and leave well enough alone.

Ignoring that advice, Marinette went to the den to retrieve the Tiger and the Horse again, the two most suitable for reconnaissance missions. Plagg, of course, would still be accompanying her for it was his shitty idea anyways. 

“Going somewhere?”

The two turned to come face to face with Wayzz, Tikki and Master Fu, all wearing matching faces of disappointment but not surprise.

“We were just going to stake out the island again, figure out what the other hero team were up to.” Marinette was not going to quiver under their gazes. No. Nope. Her maman may not have been an assassin, but she still didn’t raise a weak bitch. Hell, she shadowed one of the most feared assassins for her more formative years. She. Would. Not. Break.

“Why?”

“It was Plagg’s idea.” She broke. 

“HEY!” No offense to Plagg, but he was the only one out of the two of them that was immortal, he could survive Tikki’s ire. 

“It’s not a bad idea, Master,” bless Kaalki and all their endeavors. “If the hero team were not after the dagger, but still after the Cult of the Kobra, investigating would provide valuable insight to what plans the cult had for the dagger in the first place. And perhaps, allow us to put in cautionary measures to prevent the cult from finding other magical means to meet their ends.”

“Yeah, what they said.” Marinette wasn’t all in favor of extending the mission if they did find anything concerning, but she committed to this idea and she’s going to see it through. Logical rational and self-preservation be damned. 

Taglist:

@deathwishy @neakco @ virtualreading @f-rget-lt @your-resident-chicken-nugget @nathleigh @toodaloo-kangaroo @irontimetravelflower @trippingovermyfeet @t1dwarrior-of-earth @tip-tap-tired @fidget-eep @thenillabean @officiallydarkgeek 

[primasveraas-writing]

And In Darkness, I Stand- Chapter 1

Kallus' leg is never quite the same after Bahryn. But then again, neither is he.

1 2 3 4 5

1. Bahryn

The cold is, perhaps, worse than the searing pain in Kallus’ leg. At this point, the numbness is a welcome sensation. Alexsandr cannot feel his fingers or his toes, and he hopes that the chill will spread to his leg soon enough.

He glances towards the transponder, still blinking faithfully, and exhales, watching the plume of air swirl in the wind before him.

It’s been- an hour- two? since the Ghost arrived to save Garazeb. Kallus looks to the spot in the snow where the ship had landed, but flurries have already covered the indentation. Good. Perhaps, then, the Empire will have no clue that he was trapped here with another, that he’s only made it this far because of the mercy of a rebel.

A traitorous thought sends a shiver down his spine- maybe if he were wiser, he would have taken Zeb’s offer to go with the Lasat and his crew.

No. Kallus wraps his arms tighter around himself, nesting the meteorite against his chest, pressing it against his pounding heart. He has no doubt that the rebels would treat their prisoners more kindly than the Empire- but Alexsandr is still their enemy. He has chased them across the galaxy promising their demise, has tortured one of them. The singular act of neglecting opportunities to murder Garazeb Orrelios when his back was turned is not enough to grant him forgiveness. Stars know that the Empire- that Kallus himself- would not show Zeb any mercy for saving Kallus were their positions reversed.

Kallus shudders involuntarily, leaning against the alcove. The tip of his nose is exposed to the wind, which is the most miserable part of this experience. He wonders how long it takes for frostbite to set in, then considers how he would move forward if his nose froze off. Or, even, if he lost his leg, first to the break then to the freezing cold.

Despite himself, he snorts. The ISB would likely give little concern to his injuries. Perhaps it would even be better if he were mechanically enhanced. He could be stronger, faster, less puny and breakable. This, of course, is more optimal than Agent Kallus with a limp, Agent Kallus who needs time to recover and heal. Just cut the damn thing off and move on. Maximum efficiency, minimal time and cost.

Maybe that’s why it’s taken so long for the Empire to rescue him. Maybe that’s why they may not come at all. One man isn’t worth the fuel, the effort it takes to track a foreign signal to some remote moon.

Would it be better to die here, a man so faithful to the Empire that he wastes away waiting for them to save him? Or to spend the rest of his life a prisoner of the Rebels, hated by his captors but at the very least, alive?

He seems to have made that decision long ago, when he was just a boy, not yet a man. A cadet, not an officer. He made the same choice again and again since then. To serve the Empire, to give his life to the cause long before it ever killed him.

This is what his loyalty has earned him. A broken leg and slow death, alone after rejecting the mercy of his sworn enemy.

There are worse ways to die. Less honorable ones, slower, more torturous ones. Lonelier ones, unkinder ones, because at least Zeb was there, in the beginning. He could have perished because of that beast in the cavern, he thinks, and chuckles at the memory of their near escape.

If the Empire does not come, Zeb will be the only one who understands Kallus’ fate. When Kallus disappears, when he is not there to try and foil the rebels again and again, Zeb will realize that the Empire never cared to pick up their agent, that the fool who rejected Zeb’s offer died alone on the ice moon. He doubts the Lasat would share this information with anyone else, and he dismisses the notion that Zeb would ever go back to check, to see if Kallus’ remains lay beneath the snow.

His mother would not be surprised, Kallus thinks dryly. Alexsandr Kallus, missing in action. Declared dead however many months later. It is the fate he knows she expected for him, ever since he announced his plans to serve Imperial Intelligence. His father extended approval with a small nod, but his mother had stared at him, lips pursed, and said nothing. Kallus doesn’t remember when he talked to her last. Perhaps her birthday or anniversary, half a cycle ago. He hadn’t answered her call on his own birthday. A new insurgent cell had popped up, and he spent the entire rotation arranging a task force to address the threat.

They are all going about their expected roles, then. Kallus, dying in service to the cause, the Empire, allowing his death as to not divert from more important matters, and his mother, mourning quietly and quickly because her only child was not strong enough to survive.

He hates surprises, so it is just as well. There’s nothing wrong with something steady and predictable, even if that includes a slow, stupid death alone on a moon nobody in the galaxy cares about.

Kallus sighs, closing his eyes and leaning back against the rock. The wind howls, louder than ever before, and another chill rips through him. He presses his eyes shut, but he cannot make himself any more compact, cannot shelter himself from the climate. He’s tired, aching- he will sleep, for now, he decides. Someone will rescue him and he will wake, or he will go quietly in his sleep.

The exhaustion fogs his mind, depriving him of sense and reason. As he nods off, he imagines a warmth next to him, the strong frame of a Lasat leaning against him. It is the only comfort he can fathom, but it brings him peace in his last seconds of consciousness.

-

The mechanical whir of a ship disturbs him. Kallus blinks his eyes open with some difficulty- there are snowflakes in his hair and on his eyelashes, sticking them together. He can’t feel anything, which is mostly a relief.

His first comprehensible thought is that the Ghost has come back for him. This conclusion makes the most sense, but as his vision focuses, he realizes that the ship is too large to be the little rebel freighter.

He straightens, suddenly at attention. The Empire is here for him. With some difficulty, he stands, staggering to his feet unsteadily. A fresh wave of pain spikes in his leg but he grits his teeth, tucking the meteorite under his arm, dragging himself forward and into sight.

Two Stormtroopers are making their way towards him- regular troopers, not Snowtroopers, their armor hardly discernible against the snow. They spot him quickly enough, but Kallus does little to acknowledge this, biting down hard on his lip and forcing a neutral expression.

“Sir,” one of them says. “Is there anyone else with you?”

“No,” Kallus bites out, trying not to let his teeth chatter. He pushes past the two troopers without looking at them, making his way up the ramp. Each step is agony, but he forces himself to put weight on the broken leg.

“Do you need medical treatment, sir?”

Damn. He must be limping. Kallus pauses for a fraction of a second, then continues as if he never heard anything. He finds a seat in a lonely corner of the shuttle and remains there in silence. He hears the pilot confirm they’ve made contact, that they’ve rescued Agent Kallus, and the shuttle takes off.

Thawing out is miserable. His leg sears with pain, his fingers throb, yet Kallus stares straight ahead, each second passing in silence. He’s the first to depart when the shuttle arrives on the cruiser, again without a word of thanks to his rescuers.

The trek back to his quarters is slow and agonizing. It’s as if he’s invisible, aside from the occasional bow of the head or sir muttered lowly as he passes his subordinates. Even Konstantine doesn’t care so much as to look up from his datapad. Nor should he. The detour is over; the inconvenience addressed.

He makes it back to his small room, unable to help his limp as he staggers through the door. Even when he’s alone, Kallus maintains his composure until he’s sitting, the meteorite placed safely on the shelf behind him. It’s then he lets out a short gasp of pain, reaching towards the splint on his leg.

His hands are shaking- the pain is blinding, and his vision wavers. Any numbness and adrenaline are gone, and he has lost all barriers between him and the pain. Kallus groans, ripping the splint off messily. It comes off in pieces, first the makeshift bandage unraveling, then the brace clatters to the floor. He chokes back a sob as he brushes against the broken bone and fresh hurt spikes through him.

He debates how to proceed- he cannot now go to the infirmary and be whispered about more. In his quarters, he has meager medical supplies, in addition to those he just arrived with. At beginning of the night shift, perhaps he will be able to retrieve more- get some bacta, make a neater splint.

Kallus starts now by ripping away his pants, grasping the fabric firmly, and tearing it in two. From there, he sheds his armor, casting it aside on the cot. He stands slowly, leaning heavily against the wall and staggers forward, but his leg gives after the first step.

On his hands and good knee, Kallus drags himself forward, pulling himself towards the refresher. It is arduous and subhuman, but there is no weight on his leg and this relief alone is worth the crawl.

It is in this position that he dry-swallows the pain medication, that he washes off the blood and grime. As the water pours over him, stinging the wound, he lets the shameful tears fall, disguised by the fall of the shower. He can think of little more than the agony erupting in every fiber of his being, and he is more tired than ever more.

But the medication- of which he took far more than the advised dose- does its job. Kallus can stand, mostly, an hour later, when the makeshift splint is redone under a fresh uniform. Scuffling in the hall signifies the change to night guard, and once the noise fades away, Kallus steals away to the medbay, taking the least populated route he can think of.

Only a few meddroids are there, all of which he dismisses. He rummages through the drawers of supplies on his own, grabbing what he can and stuffing it into pockets.

The bacta will bide him. The injury will heal, in time. And tomorrow, Agent Kallus will resume his duties, loyal and at the service of the Empire once more.

[nitewrighter]

Omg I loved the ASOIAF Gency post you wrote recently! Can you write more?

God this has been languishing in my drafts since... September?? Jesus...

Anyway, a continuation of these ficlets!: 1, 2, 3

-----

“I mislike this,” said Orisa as Efi carried her helmet over to her, “I am your sworn shield, I will not have my oaths or her family’s... undermined like this!”

“And I’m quite capable of traveling on my own!” said Angela but both Efi and Orisa gave her skeptical looks and her lips thinned and she glanced off. No woman in her right mind would travel the Stormlands alone, but then again, no woman in her right mind would flee her betrothal with the intent of lying her way into the Citadel at Oldtown, either.

“This isn’t just about her, Orisa,” said Efi, “I want to go to Oldtown when I’m old enough, too. And I don’t want to be married off, either.”

“Your dowry could be in the form of books?” Orisa said a little helplessly, “Perhaps even Valyrian manuscripts!”

Efi gave her a half-lidded look with one corner of her mouth tugged up.

“...the marriage is the problem,” said Orisa, glancing off.

“The marriage is the problem,” said Mercy in agreement.

“It would only be to get her to the Citadel!” Efi insisted, “Then you could come right back to Aurochs-ford!”

“Taking the marriage out of the equation might force the Storm lords to re-evaluate their little feud as well,” said Mercy, “Disrupt things enough so they cool their heads. Maybe buy enough time for the Iron Throne to step in.”

“See?” said Efi, “You could be saving the Storm Lands in the long run! This definitely falls under ‘Sworn Shield’ duties.” Efi gave a glance to Angela, “If we can give her a chance...then maybe when I’m old enough...”

“You can forge your own Maester’s chain?” said Orisa with a tilt of her head.

“Not a full chain,” said Efi, “…Gold, iron, and black iron links for sure, though...” she said, trailing off thoughtfully.

“I only need the one,” said Angela, “Silver.... though... lead might be useful as well...”

“If you’re still at the Citadel when I get there, we’ll get a Valyrian steel link together!” said Efi, her hands balling into fists with excitement.

Angela chuckled a little, “I think we’re getting ahead of ourselves.”

“Indeed. Neither of you are at Oldtown yet,” said Orisa, flatly. She looked back at Efi, “I will see her safely to Oldtown at your request, my lady,” she said with a bow of her head.

Efi touched a small hand to the side of Orisa’s face, her brown eyes bright.

“And then I am coming right back to Aurochs-Ford,” said Orisa, furrowing her brow.

Efi giggled and brought her skinny arms about Orisa’s neck. Orisa pulled herself up to her full height to embrace her, bringing Efi up off the floor.

Right back to Aurochs-Ford.

Right back to Aurochs-Ford.

Orisa’s eyes opened in a gray morning light and she quickly sat up in bed and gauged her surroundings. She was in a bare, wooden room, the foliage of a tree outside suggesting she was on the second floor of a building. Her own well-rested state quickly set her on high alert. She sat up in bed--Bed--right, they were in an inn. The mattress was stuffed with hay but it was still the finest sleeping conditions Orisa had since leaving Aurochs-Ford. She wondered if Lady Efi was doing all right. Probably still puzzling over those dusty old books of Valyrian alchemy and inventions, maybe even bogarting the castle blacksmith to forge her another obscure and specific little gear for her devices.

Orisa flinched in bed to see the door opening, her hand quickly going for the sword hanging on her bedpost, only to see Mercy in the doorframe, the very image of a pleasant septa with a tray of honeyed oatcakes, boiled eggs, and mugs of weak ale and goat’s milk.

“I overslept?” Orisa said looking out the window.

“No, I just woke up early to check on our lordling,” said Mercy, setting the tray on a table. She smiled a little. “He’s still alive---in remarkably better shape than last night, as well.” The relief in her voice gave Orisa pause.

“Do you still wish to go through with this?” said Orisa.

“What, I could bring books as a dowry?” said Mercy with a huff as she flaked shell off of her egg with her thumb, “I’m sure they’ll be perfectly wonderful reading when Lord Akande puts our houses to the torch.”

“You seemed to get on well with him,” said Orisa, frankly looking for any excuse to end this folly of a quest and get back to her young charge.

“Even if I did tell him--what would happen then? ‘Oh, by the way my lord, I’ve been lying to your face for the past three days because I’ve been desperately fleeing our marriage!’ That’s a wonderful start to things!” She huffed, “No,” she said, taking a bite out of her egg, “I said I would go to Oldtown, and I’m going to Oldtown, but if you wish to go back--”

“No one in their right mind would travel these lands alone,” said Orisa, flatly.

Mercy gave her a steady look, her mouth slightly tight at the corners in a not-quite smile. They were both highborn, but Orisa’s family had let her pursue knighthood while Mercy had seen more instruction in courtesy, embroidery, and the arts expected of ladyhood. There was admiration in Mercy’s eyes, maybe even a little envy. An idealist who longed to be practical, she gave off the air of someone who never quite fit the role set for her, and she had Orisa’s sympathy for that. Believing in the ideals of knighthood, that was a solid thing to believe in--but it definitely got more complicated being a woman.

“...I’m going to Oldtown because I--I don’t want to be a burden,” said Mercy, taking a bite out of her egg, “But I feel like a burden on you.”

Orisa glanced down, “I am doing this for Lady Efi,” she said, snapping an oatcake in half, “I want to believe in the world she believes in... but she is young and idealistic, and I know, being older, you have a greater understanding of just how much stands in your way.” She took a bite of her oatcake and chewed.

“I won’t let her down,” Mercy said, her eyes fierce, gulping down her own mug of goat’s milk.

“Intention and execution can be two very different things,” said Orisa.

“...well,” said Mercy, standing up, “We’ll set deeds to words, then. We’ll get out before our lordling wakes up. You finish breakfast and get your armor on, and I’ll saddle Dynast.” Her hands balled into fists with determination. “I’m already packed.”

Orisa gave a short huff through her nostrils. “That may be your most practical suggestion since this whole quest started.”

Mercy beamed before slipping out the door.

Mercy grabbed her satchel from her room and made her way to the stair leading down to the inn’s ground floor, humming. She froze at the sight of a dark haired figure on the stairs, his hand braced against the wall and his body tensed. Unthinkingly, her foot made contact with the first step and it creaked beneath her weight, and the figure on the stairs flinched at the sound and looked sharply over his shoulder at her.

Genji. He was awake. How was he awake already?! There was still a weary shine to his eyes, he still wasn’t back to full strength from his injuries, but there was an alertness in his stance that filled her with dread.

“My--?” she nearly started saying, ‘My Lord?’ but he put a finger to his lips and she quieted herself as she craned her neck to try and see what he was seeing.

“I’m only asking if you saw someone bearing a standard with two dragons on it,” A woman dressed in black and white with white hair--Lysene, perhaps--was addressing the innkeeper. Behind her were three men, of equal height, too lean to be highborn, the lower halves of their faces obscured by yellow cloth. Mercy would have tried to identify the sigils on their tunics but her own fear at being seen forced her to draw back behind Genji.

“I’m not at liberty to discuss who’s currently staying here,” said the innkeep.

There was the hard metallic ting of a dagger piercing wood and a long period of silence.

“...as innkeep it is my duty to assure my patrons safety so long as they are under my roof,” said the innkeeper, “You want to wait for them on the road, you can wait for them on the road. But there’ll be no bloodshed here.”

“A woman of business,” said the Lysene woman. There was the clink of coins in a sack hitting the wood next, and both Mercy and Genji tensed.

“...They’ve paid, too. And my service they’ll have,” said the innkeeper.

There was the sound of steel being drawn and Mercy’s breath caught in her throat.

“...leave her,” said the Lysene woman, “We’ll get what we need, with or without her.”

Silently, a bead of sweat quivering down his temple, Genji slowly backed up the stairs. Mercy tried to follow suit as silently as she could, but then one stair creaked loudly beneath her foot and the Lysene woman’s head swiveled sharply to the stairs.

“Go—Go!” Genji hissed under his breath as they both rushed back up the stairs.

“Septa—?” Orisa was stepping out of her room,  holding her sword in its scabbard, not yet belted to her hip, when alarm filled her face at the sight of Genji next to Mercy. “You’re—?” Orisa started but then cut herself off as the Lysene woman and her three compatriots rushed up behind them. Orisa read the situation in an instant and sidestepped in front of them.

“Find another exit,” said Orisa.

“What other exit?!” blurted out Mercy, but Genji hurried down the hall to an unglazed, shuttered window and threw it open, “Genji—I mean—My lord!” Mercy’s head jerked back to Orisa at the clash of steel on steel behind her. There were a few panicked seconds where Mercy was transfixed, watching as Orisa blocked the short sword of the Lysene woman before clocking one of the cloth-faced sellswords behind her with her buckler-bearing arm, dazing him before a hard kick in the stomach sent him tumbling backward and she once again clashed blades with the Lysene.

“Septa!” Genji’s voice sounded behind her. He had one leg out of the open shutters of the window, one arm braced on the frame, the other out toward her. She hiked up her skirts and rushed after him, hearing Orisa’s sword sing and gauntleted fists make contact with grunting flesh.

“It’s one knight!” The Lysene woman was barking behind them, “You fools can’t take out one knight?!” before there was another loud clang of steel.

Mercy felt Genji grab her forearm and she stumbled out the window after him onto wooden shingles that creaked with rot. Genji was already nervously sidestepping across the short row of shingles that formed an awning around the ground floor of the inn’s exterior, before Mercy saw he was moving towards the stables.

“We can’t just leave her!” said Mercy.

“She’s in full plate armor, she has a better chance if we get the horses and she’s not worried about us being in the crossfire,” said Genji, still edging forward.

“It’s four on one!” said Mercy, one hand against the side of the inn and the other bunching her skirts up for easier movements as she sidestepped after him. There was a sudden clatter behind her and her head swung around to see one of the brigands tumble out of another shuttered window, and roll backwards off the awning before landing with a grunt in the mud below.

“...three on one,” said Mercy, blinking incredulously.

“The skill of the Warrior and the strength of the Smith,” Genji said, impressed, “I guess the Seven really are with you two!”

“Genji, the stables!” Mercy said furiously, still sidestepping forward.

Genji gave her an odd look.

“My lord, the stables,” huffed Mercy, another prickle of stress burning on the back of her neck, wondering if her panic in the situation had given her away in other ways.

“...you can call me Genji,” he said, still sidestepping forward, “I rather like the way you say it, Septa.”

“That is not appropriate,” Mercy said, glancing down and blushing furiously.

“Well you’ve already seen me naked, I’d say we’re well past--” He reached the edge of the awning closest to the stables and sucked in a breath, “Oh this isn’t going to be pleasant.”

Mercy closed the distance behind him. “Do you need--?”

“You can barely move in those sept skirts as is--I’ve got this,” said Genji, dropping to a squat and positioning himself with his back to the edge, He braced his hands on the shingles and then pushed his legs out over the edge, grunting in pain as he dropped to a hanging position before grunting in pain again as he dropped to the ground, the length of his own body significantly reducing his fall. “Ah---” his hand went to his side as his feet hit the ground, but he shook his head, “Okay, your turn.”

“Right--okay--” Mercy started haltingly as she reached the edge and turned around but then she heard another groan and craned her neck over to look at the sound’s source. The sellsword Orisa had knocked out of the window was stumbling to his feet, muddy, shaking his head out of a daze, and he saw Genji. He drew a short dirk from his side and broke off in a stumbling run toward genji. Genji followed her line of sight but his injury slowed his reaction. Mercy wasn’t fully sure what compelled her to suddenly leap off the corner of the awning, but there was a half-beat where she felt the cold morning air rushing up her skirts and her arms flailing with nothing to grab before she dropped like a stone... right onto the sellsword with a grunt and a splatter of mud, her elbow slamming his face into the muck. She rolled off him and stumbled to her feet, panting. Genji looked from the unconscious sellsword in the mud, up to her.

“...don’t know which of the seven to thank for that,” he said, his eyes wide.

“Come on!” said Mercy seizing his arm and rushing to the stables.

“Ow--injured--ow!” said Genji as the muddy Septa pulled him into a run.

-----

The Lysene woman fought with both a short sword and a dirk, and her attacks were relentless. But her remaining fellow sellswords seemed to be more of a liability than a threat if they didn’t have the element of surprise. Orisa’s biggest disadvantage was the narrowness of the hallway they were in... if she could just find a way to get her opponents down stairs to the Inn’s dining area, maybe she could more properly maneuver... or maybe that would give them more space to flank her. Orisa had at least successfully backed them up to the point in the hallway so they couldn’t access another window to go after Genji and Mercy, but her brow furrowed as the Lysene woman and her two remaining compatriots kept their blades pointed at her.

“You were sent by Lord Akande, I take it?” said Orisa.

“I’m afraid the answer to that’s going to cost you,” said the Lysene woman.

“I’ll take that as a yes, then,” said Orisa.

“The Shimada lordling slipped from our grasp before... but we had expected him to die, I suppose we underestimated his house’s banner lords...” said the woman.

“I am under no banner but the Seven’s,” said Orisa, and she felt a surprising strength in what had previously been merely a cover story. To have a sword sworn to the Seven, to defend this grievously injured Lordling purely because he was attacked out of treachery rather than on the field of battle, it was thrilling, it was knightly.

The woman gave a derisive snort. “So I can’t expect you to counter Lord Akande’s offer with one of your own. No amount of piety will make a hedge knight anything more than a hedge knight.”

“...and I can’t expect you to hold to any word,” said Orisa, her eyes narrowing.

The woman grinned wolfishly before lunging forward, Orisa stood her ground, meeting the woman’s long blade with her own before glancing off the woman’s dirk with her buckler. Orisa’s shield and helmet were still back in her room, so she could count on the Lysene to go for the face. The woman kept up her assault and Orisa gave a bit of ground. Her attacks were aggressive, clearly she was trying to use the advantage of lighter armor lending greater stamina to keep up a relentless barrage of attacks, but Orisa remained calm. This was waves breaking on stone. One of her compatriots flanked Orisa only to get a hard buckler to the face, Orisa using the movement to pivot and yield space to back into her room where her helmet and broadshield were. The Lysene woman lunged forward with her short sword and Orisa tilted her torso in its movement to grab her shield. Orisa knew she wasn’t a small target, but the right movements could send virtually any blade scratching uselessly across the plate of her armor--and just in time, too. In seizing her shield, she yanked it up, her arm only looped in one strap, and used the weight of it to slam it hard into the shoulder and side of the Lysene woman sending her staggering to the side trying to regain her footing. Orisa kicked the other closest sellsword in the stomach, knocking him onto his back, only to see the third man in the doorway, pointing a crossbow at her. Orisa froze.

But then, there was a shattering sound and the crossbow-bearing sellsword’s eyes rolled back in his head, goat’s milk dripping down his piecemeal armor and he swayed and collapsed onto the floor. Mercy was standing behind him, the lower half of her skirts caked in mud, the broken top half of the jug from their breakfast in her hands. Orisa blinked in surprise, and even Mercy seemed a bit stunned at the collapsed sellsword drenched in goat’s milk at her feet before she seemed to snap out of it and shake her head.

“You--!” the Lysene woman scrambled to attack Orisa from the side, her attack panicked and messy, only to get cuffed hard in the face by Orisa’s buckler and get splayed out on the floor. The other sellsword, seeing the only two backing him up now unconscious, scrambled to the side of the Lysene woman, shaking her shoulder. “Lady Ashe?! Lady Ashe, get up!” but Orisa was already rushing to the door, properly strapping up her shield and grabbing her helmet as she and Mercy hurried down the hall and down the inn stairs.

“Genji’s gotten the horses,” said Mercy, as they darted across the tavern floor, tables groaning against the wood as Orisa’s armored frame shoved them aside, “Come on!”

They rushed out into bright, damp morning air to see Genji astride Dynast, holding the reins of a large honey-colored mare. 

“You made it!” said Genji, as Mercy scrambled up onto the saddle behind him and Orisa swept up onto the mare and they all took off into gallops down the road from the inn.

“Who’s horse is this?” said Orisa.

“Didn’t have time to ask! I imagine it’s one of the sellswords’!” said Genji, they were all half-yelling over the thundering hooves. 

“We’re stealing a horse?!” Orisa blurted out.

"Borrowing!” said Genji.

“IT IS NOT KNIGHTLY TO STEAL A HORSE!” said Orisa, her pauldroned shoulders bunching up.

“They attacked me,” said Genji, “Hardly good folk. You, on the other hand, have valiantly defended a grievously wounded storm lord and commandeered a mighty steed.”

Orisa blinked a few times. ‘Oh...I... I suppose I did.”

“It was like something out of a song!” said Mercy, her eyes bright.

“A song...?” Orisa started hesitantly. She tucked a stray braid of hair back, “...I suppose it will be a good story to tell Lady Efi when I return.”

“...Lady Efi?” said Genji, “I thought you said you were sworn to the Sev--”

“To Oldtown!” said Mercy, spurring their horse forward.

“To Oldtown!--Ow--ow..” Genji had punched a fist into the air with excitement, quite forgetting he was still injured. The dew seemed to make everything sparkle. Orisa wasn’t sure if it was the rush of adrenaline confusing the senses, making the light seem brighter, the sky bluer, the air cleaner, or perhaps it was the days of rain before. Orisa rolled the grip of her gauntlets on the reins of her own mare, a bright flare of thrill thumping with her heart in her chest. She looked over at Mercy, her arms gingerly wrapped around Genji’s waist, avoiding his injury as they rode, then Orisa scoffed a little, her own expression partially hidden by her own horned helmet, and her sound silenced by the thunder of galloping hooves, feeling the Inn shrink into the distance behind them. This was a terribly foolish thing they were doing, but at the same time, would anything but something terribly foolish give her the excitement she was feeling now? Were valor and stupidity two sides of the same coin? Perhaps theirs was a tale like Florian the Fool. 

Like a song, indeed, Orisa thought with some amusement. 

[damienthepious]

choo choo the tuesday train is off the fucking rails again. today we discuss a lizard kiss and alas, no one dances this time.

Even With Missteps (chapter 4)

[ch 1] [ch 2] [ch 3] [ao3] [?????]

Fandom: The Penumbra Podcast

Relationship: Sir Damien/Rilla, Lord Arum/Sir Damien/Rilla, Lord Arum/Sir Damien, Lord Arum/Rilla

Characters: Lord Arum, Sir Damien, Rilla, (other characters mentioned)

Additional Tags: Second Citadel, Lizard Kissin’ Tuesday, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Dancing, Costume Parties & Masquerades

Summary:  There is a masquerade ball in the Citadel tonight. Every knight and citizen has turned out, and all of them bear disguises of monstrosity. What better time could there be, for a monster who needs to find a way inside?

Chapter Summary They agreed to determine the terms of their "duel" outside. There is quite a lot to sort out, in that determination.

Chapter Notes: a) i don't know what the fuhuck is happening anymore and i continue to be terrified that this has yeeted itself WILDLY out of character but HWAT CAN YOU DO b) this feels like a messssssss c) i might come back and edit it when Better Brain? but for now this i guess d) oops! all dialogue, basically e) i'm so stressed out i hope anyone enjoys thiis lmao

~

The night air is cool and clear, and after the oppressive closeness of the ballroom it hits Arum's lungs like a knife, shocking and sobering.

"Well, Sir Damien?" he asks blankly, his gaze aimed carefully away from the pair of them. "Shall we discuss the terms of our duel, now?"

"Why are you not- running? I was certain that the moment we were free of the ballroom you would-"

"Present my back for you to plant your arrows in?" Arum hisses, wrinkling his snout beneath his mask. "Hardly."

"I-" Damien sputters, cheeks darkening. "I would never conduct myself so dishonorably-"

"If I attempted to run for my life in that ballroom, you are claiming that you would not have shot me?" Arum says with a sneer, crossing his unhidden arms over his chest.

"I- I-" the knight pauses, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he sighs. "I do not know what I would have done, in truth. I was terrified. Terrified to see-" he cuts himself off again, glancing towards Rilla.

"Sorry, am I a part of this conversation now?" she asks, frowning and raising an eyebrow.

"Rilla," Damien breathes, his voice achingly gentle, and Arum's stomach twists. "I am so glad that you are safe, oh, my flower-"

"We've talked about this, Damien, I can take care of myself, and jealousy is a nasty look on you-"

Arum barks a laugh he cannot help, and then he waves a hand in the air as if to banish the thought. "The pretty little knight is not jealous of me, little phoenix," he manages with a derisive snort. "He thought I would hurt you. A reasonable fear, considering."

"Considering what, exactly? It's not like I let one of the journeymen spin me around and step on my feet for a whole song or something. You aren't from around here, but what the hell does that matter? I'm the exiled fucking herbalist, I don't really care about ruining my reputation by dancing with a foreigner. You were a perfect gentleman until Damien decided to make an ass-"

Arum's spine stiffens, his hackles raising beneath his disguise as he compulsively hisses. Amaryllis seems to take this as a signal of some sort, because she lets her voice trail off, tilting her head in a question.

"We have an audience," Arum growls, and then he jerks his head subtly to the side, indicating the loudly whispering crowd hovering on the balcony above and behind him. "I would prefer not to hold a conversation this delicate under such absurd scrutiny."

"If we do not have this conversation now, I imagine that we never will," Damien says, sounding stiff and flat with one hand still clutched around his bow. "They are distant enough that they will only be able to hear us if we shout, so provided you can hold your tongue-"

Arum gives another short, helpless laugh.

"... we will not be overheard."

"This," Arum growls, "is absolutely ludicrous, in all aspects. What now, honeysuckle? Do we pretend to fight, or did you have some other brilliant excuse for our behavior all lined up?"

"Pretend?" Amaryllis asks with a raised brow. "So that was all acting, in there?"

"Not... all," Damien says, visibly uncomfortable.

"If I wanted to fight him, I would have done so upstairs," Arum spits irritably, and then he winces at his own words. "Rather-"

Amaryllis presses a hand over her mouth, then something between realization and delight crosses her face. "You- you were the intruder? Okay, alright, what the fuck." She shakes her head, waving both hands in front of herself as if to physically clear the air. "This is- a lot. Do either of you want to actually explain what the hell all that was? You went from actually furious to pretending to be furious in about four seconds and I still don't know why."

"No," Arum hisses, looking away, and he sees Damien look the opposite direction out of the corner of his eye.

"It- the situation- it is rather complicated, my flower-"

"It is not," Arum insists, scowling.

"Wow," she says, pursing her lips. "You are much more irritable when you aren't dancing."

"Imagine my utter shock to find that I miss your ridiculous human prancing, if this conversation is the alternative."

"Well, I wouldn't be opposed to more dancing, Arum. Especially since it seemed like you were having just as much fun with it as-" she pauses mid-word, blinks, and then she says, "... human?"

Arum flinches. If the motion at the edge of his vision is an indication, Damien does as well.

"You said that earlier, too- I thought it was just a bad joke, but-"

"Oh, you know perfectly well, little phoenix. You knew something was wrong with me, you were opening your mouth to question me about it when your knight began yelling for you." Arum stands straighter, taller, more stiffly, and hisses low enough that he knows that his words will not carry beyond their little circle. "I am not human."

Amaryllis looks at Damien, first, clearly concerned, and then her expression shifts to confusion when Damien does not react except to stare down miserably at his own feet. She scans Arum, her eyes raking over his body, stopping to study his hands, the shape of his feet, his "false" tail, and then she looks to Damien again.

"And you- Saints, you knew that. And you aren't- you aren't jumping to kill him?"

Damien presses his lips together very, very tightly, and looks away. "Well- I... I did, but-"

"But you stopped."

Damien bites his own lip hard, then nods. "I did."

"Don't pat yourself on the back too hard, honeysuckle."

"No, no," she says quickly, and her tone is theoretically light, but Arum can hear a stunned sort of vagueness beneath it. "That's- that's pretty fucking unexpected, actually. Back-patting probably justified."

The laugh chokes out of Arum, and Damien laughs as well, looking just as shocked about it as Arum feels.

"Why are you so unconcerned, then?" he grumbles. "I certainly don't understand him, either, but that doesn't mean I have the flimsiest idea why you are not screaming right now, little phoenix."

"What are you doing here?" she says instead, ignoring his concerns. "I can't think of a more dangerous place for a monster to be-"

Arum snorts, folding his arms over his chest. "I certainly wouldn't be if I had a choice. This entire evening has been teetering on the knife's edge of disaster and I would rather be safe at home working, but-"

"So," Amaryllis says insistently, "what are you doing here?"

"I already told you," he snarls, looking aside.

"A job?" she asks incredulously, and Damien's face splits into confusion. "I figured that was just-"

"A job I am regretting more and more by the moment. If I had any other choice-"

"You said something like that inside, too," she says, and Arum blinks. "Something you gotta do so you can go home and take care of your family. Right?"

"That," Arum says stiffly, "is none of your concern. My business, my lands, my home- my commitments are not yours to interrogate."

"Well," she says dryly, "if you didn't want to keep talking to us, nothing's stopping you from just bowing out now, Arum."

She pauses, pointed, staring at him with her arms crossed over her chest, imperious in her flame-shaded costume, and Arum clenches his jaw, because-

Yes, he may leave, now. He may retreat from the strange confluence of luck and disaster of this event, this evening. He may slink back to his Keep, but-

When he leaves the glow of the human Citadel, he will be left alone in the dark with only the knowledge of his encroaching doom to accompany him home. The Senate will not forgive his failure to bind his prototype to the Queen. Moreso, they will not forgive his survival of his failure.

Arum's refusal to destroy Sir Damien when he had the chance may have sealed his own death as surely as if Damien had loosed that arrow regardless. This middling path of mercy will careen into consequences, when the sun rises again, when light shines on Arum's choices. Arum should have killed Damien and claimed his prize, or Arum should have died.

(He tries not to think about the prize Damien claimed from him, instead.)

Arum drops Amaryllis' gaze.

"It does not matter," he says. "My business here is-" he meets Damien's eyes without meaning to, then lowers his eyes again. "It is over. Perhaps you are right. I- if the knight does not intend to destroy me the moment my back is turned-"

"I would not," Damien insists. "What are you?" he asks, and Arum blinks in confusion before he continues. "What manner of beast- what sort of creature are you, that you refuse to fight?"

"A pragmatic one," Arum snaps, half-believing it. "I do not fear a fight, but I will not throw myself upon the arrow."

"A pragmatic monster would have slit my throat when I was foolish enough to let you take me in your arms again! Would have killed me when there would be no one to see, no one to stop you! A monster- any sort of monster- what manner of beast are you that would spend such effort to- to seduce me, to charm me with clever words and gentle embrace and the murmur of song- what monstrous enchantment did you intend to work upon me?"

"Oh- my seduction?" Arum says, stunned to incredulousness again. "My enchantments? As if your conflict is my fault, of course- I can imagine well enough the sorts of excuses you wish to conjure, the fabricated idea of some sort of- of poison upon my lips, some curse I've passed to you-"

"You did not taste like poison," Damien whispers, and Arum's throat tightens too much for words.

Arum remembers Amaryllis beside them, and Damien seems to come to the same memory at the same moment, his eyes darting to his fiance, watching them both with her eyebrow raised.

"Taste, huh?"

"Fear not for your claim," Arum says quickly. "Certainly he would not have requested a kiss had he known what I am."

"Requested?" she asks, her tone baffled but not angry, and Damien's cheeks flush far too dark as he shakes his head furiously.

"I- I- regardless, regardless I simply don't understand why you did not leave," Damien says pleadingly. "You could have escaped, we need not have seen each other again-"

"He was leaving, Damien," Amaryllis says smoothly, though the look on her face makes it rather obvious that she's allowing him to shift the subject. "But I wanted to have a chat and a dance and I didn't really give him much of a choice in the matter."

Arum scowls, irritated by the implication that he could not have done as he pleased to leave on his own terms, but-

Well. He cannot exactly claim that her description of the events is inaccurate.

"We were heading for the exit when you saw us," she continues. "It probably wouldn't have done him any good to make a fuss at the door, considering. You did that, Damien."

"Alright," Damien says, shaking his head. "Very well, I- I know that... that my Rilla is rather... undeniable, when she decides upon a course of action."

Arum swallows, looking away, unwilling to agree with words.

"But that does not explain- you did not move when I- when I saw you. You knew I could kill you. You knew it was my duty to kill you." Damien stares up at him, his brow furrowed as his eyes dart between Arum's own. "Why did you not fight back? Why did you say- why did you call me- why did you ask me to-"

"Because I was certain I was about to die," Arum snaps, "and I wished for my final words to be honest ones."

"Why not defend yourself?"

Arum stares at Damien, a growl rising in his chest, holding his tail so carefully stiff so it does not thrash as it wishes to with the force of his frustration. "How many knights would you estimate were in that ballroom, Sir Damien?" he asks, his voice controlled despite the undercurrent of fury, and Damien's expression falls. "What good would it have done, if I had harmed her? Harmed you? There was only one creature in that room that could have saved my life in that moment, and that creature was not me. Could I have brought either of you down with me? Almost certainly. It would not have saved me. It would not have done anything but shatter more of this world for the sake of this ridiculous war." Arum sneers, breathless and flexing his claws. "What of you, knight? You knew what I am. You knew that I could kill her- kill you. Why did you not slay me?"

Damien swallows, his own hands flexing on his bow again, and then he-

He stows his bow away on his back, and he presses his hand over his heart.

"Because... because you asked me to forgive you," Damien says softly, and Arum winces, and then looks away. "An obfuscated apology, but... an apology nonetheless. An indication of guilt, or- acknowledgment of a mistake, at the very least, and- and-"

He lifts his eyes, catches Arum's helpless gaze with his own, and it feels like the pull of tides, both natural and undeniable.

"Honeysuckle..."

"You are unlike any monster I have ever known. There is something- something human in your eyes."

"You-" Arum's heart skips oddly, and he tries to laugh to obscure how pinned he feels. "You do not know me," he manages, his voice rough. "You- you have only convinced yourself of my humanity because that is what you believed me to be when we met."

Arum stalks stiffly around the pair of them, maneuvering so his back is to the slowly thinning crowd on the balcony.

"Do not fool yourself," he says, and then he raises his hands to lift his mask. "I am very much a monster, and when you are done pretending to be this little basilisk, when the monstrousness fades from your own eyes, I will still be myself."

"Oh," Amaryllis says, and when Arum flicks his eyes towards her she looks- unafraid. Her eyes are bright, curious, and Arum stiffens as she steps a little closer. "Damn, that's- that's so clever, though! And your horns- just sticking up through the back? Saints that's clever, I bet they didn't even look twice when you came in-"

Arum's frill shivers at his neck, the wash of confused smugness and embarrassment mixing in his guts. "Of course they didn't. Little fools believe they may make costume of my kind and yet they cannot recognize us in truth."

"And the tail," she says, her voice raising in delight, and when she leans to get a better look she reaches a hand to touch his elbow, and he hisses, skipping back a step. She pauses, her expression calm and- almost indulgent, and then she drops her hand. "You had me in your arms back inside the party, Arum. I'm not going to hurt you."

Arum exhales a stunned, incredulous laugh. "You- you hurt me? Of all the absurd-"

"Arum," she says, and now the indulgence is clear in her smile. "Why would I be afraid of you?"

"Because," Arum snarls, and then he remembers their audience in time to lower his voice again, "I am a monster, you reckless little fool. Because we are enemies. Because I could kill you as easily as this."

He moves, quicker than he should, perhaps, lifting a hand to grip her throat-

(He does not think about how he keeps his claws away from her skin, how he does not squeeze. He does not think about the heat of her pulse, the rhythm against his palm. He does not think about the way his stomach twists as Sir Damien tenses in his periphery.)

Amaryllis blinks, surprised by his speed if nothing else, but then her smile returns, undaunted.

"Sorry to burst your bubble," she says, lifting her own hand towards his own, "but I'm pretty used to hanging around dangerous people."

"I-" Arum exhales, almost a laugh. "I'm not-"

"The gloves are a nice touch," she says, and Arum shivers helplessly when she runs her palm down the back of his hand, still smiling. "Elegant and practical."

He pulls his hand back quickly, still careful of his claws, his scales tingling in the aftermath of her touch as he curls his fist against his own chest instead.

"Stop- stop looking at me like that."

"Like what?"

Like she wishes to take him apart, or eat him up. He swallows.

"Stop," he repeats. "This is nonsense. Madness. We are at war, you cannot pretend-"

"You apparently had the choice tonight to kill my fiance, or to not kill him," she says, her voice shedding the playfulness, going precise and pointed. "And apparently in that pretty binary choice you decided on the third option, which was to make out with him."

"That-" Arum sputters, and Damien beside them buries his face in his hands, making a pained noise. "That is not- accurate, you can hardly call one single-"

"And you still aren't running," she muses, tilting her head. "Why? Why stick around?"

"Because," he spits, "I have failed thoroughly enough that I cannot say what fate I will cast myself into when I return home. Because I do not know how to leave, knowing that this-" he gestures viciously towards Damien, who has only just unburied his face from his hands, and his eyes widen, "creature chose to defend me rather than destroy me twice and I do not know why. I refuse to take your pity if that is what it is, honeysuckle. I despise your mercy. Am I supposed to be content to walk away, owing you my life, burdened by that debt?"

"I- I simply could not- I could not kill you," Damien says weakly, his distress a nearly palpable crackle of electricity around him. "I could not kill you- I- I could not- it felt- all I could think was-"

"Your duty?" Arum sneers.

"Your mouth upon mine," Damien whispers, and Arum's next complaint dies on his tongue. "Your eyes in the dark. Your humor, your charm, your- your attitude, sharp as a blade, and- and the idea of snuffing that light- of killing you or revealing you and watching the room descend upon you, the violence of a mob- of destroying you before I understood- who you are, what you are- how you could be so different from- how you could be a monster, how you could speak to the heart of me like a man- and yet-"

"Breathe, Damien," Amaryllis says quietly, leaning to press a hand to Damien's arm, and he obeys, closing his eyes as he inhales sharply, and then his exhale comes more calm.

"I- I understand monsterkind, their threat, their evil-" he pauses, winces. "I thought- I thought that I did, but you- you are different. How could I kill you? How could I- how could I destroy a monster who is so unlike everything I have been taught? Who is so- so unlike every evil creature which lurks in shadow and despair? How could a monster hold me, charm me, warm me-"

"Nonsense," Arum hisses, his heart racing. "I've heard enough of this. I- your little phoenix is correct, there is no reason for me not to- to leave. Plant your arrows where you will, it makes no difference to me if I die by your hand or by-" that of the Senate. "By whatever other fate the Universe intends for me."

Arum pulls his mask back down, gives the slightest, stiffest of mocking little bows, and then he turns with his cape billowing in his wake to stalk back into the shadows of the city, where he can disappear back to his Keep and nurse his failure in privacy.

"Aw, coward!"

Arum freezes at the distant shouting voice, glancing over his shoulder just enough to see- yes, of course, the fools on the balcony haven't yet dispersed entirely. He had been hoping, when the three of them failed to provide entertainment-

"Knock him out, Sir Damien!"

Another voice, this time, followed by a series of encouraging jeers, and Amaryllis slaps an exasperated hand to her face as Sir Damien's cheeks darken. Arum considers them for another moment, considers the crowd of fools above them, and then turns away again.

The jeers redouble in volume and vehemence, and Arum's shoulders stiffen, though he attempts to ignore the lot of them until he feels a touch at his elbow.

He spins, and Sir Damien stands at his back, a wince twisting his face as Arum snarls down at him. "Now you mean to stop me?"

"No- no I only- here." He lifts another hand out, a gesture Arum has seen from humans before. "Shake my hand. Show we are parting peaceably and perhaps they will-"

"Perhaps they will be even more disappointed by the lack of bloodshed?" Arum says with a sneer. "They do not care that we are parting peaceably, little basilisk, they care that they are not getting a show."

Arum slaps Damien's hand away, a point of contact that is carefully gentle but deliberately loud, and the crowd hoots. Arum rolls his eyes, and then gives a small pointed gesture since Sir Damien cannot see his face any longer.

"That- but-"

"Tomorrow, Sir Damien," Arum lies, projecting his voice enough to carry to the balcony. "We will end this."

Damien's eyes widen, and then some calculation crosses his face. He- nods, and then with equal force he echoes, "Tomorrow."

Arum glares down at the knight, at the curious determination on his curious, striking face, and then he raises his eyes to Amaryllis for just long enough to give her a nod as well, acknowledgment as she raises an unimpressed eyebrow at him in turn.

Baffling creatures, he thinks again, but when he tries to turn away again Damien's hand on his elbow squeezes, and the human leans closer.

"At Saint Damien's Bells," he says quietly. "Outside the western gate. Midnight. Tomorrow."

"You-" Arum blinks, thinks baffling creatures again with more vehemence, and then says, "You wish to duel me in truth? After all that-"

"No," he says quickly. "No- I only- I still do not understand, Arum. I wish to- to speak with you again. I do not wish for this evening to end and be left only with the pale glow of my own memory to convince me- to haunt me-"

"I do not care what you understand, little basilisk," Arum hisses, and Damien releases his grip with an injured look. "Tomorrow you will not need to play the monster anymore. Tomorrow you will be a knight, and you and your fellow soldiers will return to slaying that which you play at being tonight. If your memory is so fragile a thing, then bury it. Break it. Forget whatever nonsense you think you see in my eyes and take up your bow again."

Damien's eyes are- oddly bright in the cool dark night, and as his shoulders slump Arum swallows uncomfortably and does not feel guilty.

"You said that you owed Damien a debt," Amaryllis says, pointedly. "Your life. Twice over, if I understand you correctly."

Arum clenches his jaw, ducking his head very slightly at the determination curving her painted lips beneath her beak. "What of it?" he mutters.

"Just- meet us again," she says, and the way Damien glances towards her hints that perhaps the knight did not anticipate that his fiance intended to join in his rendezvous. "It's a simple enough request, isn't it? Just- another conversation, where we won't need to worry about being watched, and then you won't be burdened by your debt anymore. Is that fair?"

More than fair. An utterly, wildly simple request to fulfill in exchange for his own life.

If it isn't a trap, that is.

"... very well," Arum says slowly. "If you would call us even for that... more the fool you are. Very well. Tomorrow."

He bows again as they echo him, Damien with a weak, wondering voice, and Amaryllis with a small snort of laughter, and this time when he straightens and spins to walk away, he does not allow his steps to falter.

Beneath the mask, no one can see the relief that crosses his face, that he will see them again.

[harryandmolly]

fear and loathing in mandeville canyon *1*

summary: Shawn & Lilly, derailed, detoured, but maybe not destroyed

warnings: language, big angst but with a purpose

wc: 5k

+

July 2019

Lilly’s fingers are sunk into the curls at the back of his head, perhaps subconsciously clinging to something already lost. Maybe something she never even had.

His kiss is so brief. It’s a flutter against her lips, followed by a jerk of his head that’s so certain in expressing his desire to be away from her that he may as well have already said it. He steps back, the corners of his lips lifting, soft and timid.

Lilly’s fingers fall. He doesn’t catch them.

“No,” she whispers. Her chin starts to go first. She’s like a cartoon character when she cries. Her chin begins to wobble, then her pillowy lips. Her round cheeks get rounder. Her blue eyes go an eerie sort of green.

She’s watched it happen before, in mirrors when she’s alone. He’s seen it, too. But never from so very, very far away.

“I don’t…” she begins, her voice a painful rake across its cords, “I didn’t know.”

He’s appropriately solemn in that horrible way that feels schooled, like he practiced, like he’s getting through it to get through it. He hunches his broad shoulders, bows his head a little like he’s sorry. God, is he even sorry?

“I’m so sorry,” he says, and holy fuck, no one’s voice has ever hurt so much. She wants to rip it away from him, maybe that would cause him as much pain.

Her numbing fingers cup her arms across her chest, guarding her explosive heart. She can’t even look at him now. She used to think he wanted her to look at him. Did he ever?

“I don’t really know what to say,” he confesses, scrubbing at the back of his neck, keeping his eyes down at his shoes, “I never wanted to hurt you. I didn’t think she was ever going to want me.”

Lilly’s back hits the wall and it gets his attention. He blinks up at her, startled, then snaps back into well-trodden guilt.

He doesn’t have to tell her who he means. Anyone who was half paying attention could do that. Because even though he’s the one breaking her heart, she still gets to be called the fool who let him.

“I trusted you,” she breathes, and it’s acid, “When you looked at me, when you held me, when you loved me, when you told me it was me, I fucking trusted you.”

He looks somehow hurt now, like she’s hitting below the belt. Because how dare she question the farce he strung her along for, for his own erstwhile entertainment?

“Don’t do this,” he scolds, shaking his head like he’s the one who’s disappointed.

She is all rage, and it’s bliss. It’s jet fuel and it won’t last her and somewhere buried below the molten spite she knows when she inevitably burns through it, she’ll be just whatever’s left, but it has to ignite, it has to go somewhere.

“All this time, it was always her,” she seethes, dropping her head back against the wall because if she doesn’t anchor herself, she might take a running start at him, “Was it ever, even for a second, was it ever me?”

His heavy eyes drift shut. He looks exhausted. Lying is fucking draining.

“I don’t know,” he murmurs, and Lilly believes him. She shakes her head.

“You stupid boy,” she spits, watching as his eyes slam open again, offended, “You stupid fucking child.”

“Stop,” he grunts, defensive again. It’s a red flag to a bull.

She lifts off the wall, fists in her hair. “You had me so fooled. I thought you were so mature. God, you wore it well. The way you talk about your music and your family and your future. I thought you were a goddamn adult. No. You’re not. You’re a child.”

“You sound insane!” he cries, squaring off his perfect jaw.

“You’ve been waiting around for years. What do you think? You get a Calvin Klein campaign,” He scoffs and takes off toward the door, but she follows, “And now she’s suddenly paying attention, but whatever, it must be real? This is it? She’s finally yours? So fucking naive.”

He slams a solid fist against the doorframe. “You don’t know! You don’t know shit about us. Stop talking like you know anything. You’re fucking jealous.”

“Jealous!” she screeches, clutching her chest with both hands, choking on every breath, “Of course I’m fucking jealous! Were you waiting to hear me say that? Of course I’m jealous. Because I’m in love with you! While you had one eye on her and one hand on me, I was in this. I was all in. I love you. I love you! And you love her!”

For no good reason at all, saying it out loud knocks out the ignition. She nearly crumples. With an almost theatrically shuddering breath, she steps back.

He stares at her, bewildered. What could he possibly have expected? Did he really think she wasn’t going to remind him? Worse, did he really think maybe she was lying, too?

Lilly shakes her head, slow and deliberate, pressing a rolled up sweaterpaw to one of her gushing eyes. She is cracking apart. Part of her wants him to go so she can do it alone. The spiteful part wants him to watch what he’s done.

Lilly wonders if she’s waiting for him. She wonders where. At her place? At a hotel? Maybe she’s in a Lyft outside Lilly’s house. She almost wants to check. She manages to keep her feet planted because Camila Cabello is not worth life in prison.

“I just want you to know,” Lilly begins, and her voice is as painful coming out as it is to hear it, “That I really want to hate you. And that should mean something to you. I can’t hate you yet, but I cannot wait for that to kick in. Until then, I’m stuck with loving you. But know when you’re falling asleep with her tonight, brushing your lips against her hair, playing with her fingers, know that I love you, but I want nothing more than to hate you.”

Finally, the guilt looks real. Finally, the shock has his own breath shaking. Finally, she managed to set one little fire from the sparks of her blaze.

He leaves without another word. And she’s left with the wreckage.

+

March 27, 2020

Lilly used to read creepy stories on the internet. It was one of her many fads. She’d hunt through Reddit and Buzzfeed and Tumblr, trolling for words that made her skin crawl. There was a post once somewhere about the world’s shortest scary stories. 

The last man on earth sat alone in a room. Then came a knock at the door.

She’s been preoccupied by that one lately, but she’s unsure why. Maybe it’s because she’d rather be alone right now instead of holed up with seven roommates. Maybe it’s because she’s grateful not to be alone.

The stay-at-home order in Los Angeles has been in place for eight days. Lilly’s been home for ten, when production on her series shut down. No production, no need for a freelance PA. That night, she held her breath and applied for unemployment just like six million other Americans.

She’s gone a bit nocturnal, staying up until 2 or 3am and waking up around noon. She does yoga, paints her nails, washes her hair every day, which makes it brittle and dull. She re-paints her nails, then bites them off while she checks Twitter.

She talks to her mom, who agonizes about the choice to keep Lilly in LA though she and Lilly’s dad would so much rather have her home and close. Lilly’s mom has a respiratory condition that makes her immunocompromised. If she goes home, she risks her mother’s health. She can’t bear the burden.

She talks to her friends and coworkers. Everyone is still in a state of shock for the first week -- scared, anxious, not yet angry. The anger will come later. Lilly understands in her own much smaller way the convoluted route anger takes through fear and numbness. That anger that’s taken a merciful backseat in her mind in recent months feels completely unimportant now, when it crosses her mind at all.

She talks to herself a little, too. It’s not unusual for her, exactly -- being an only child, sometimes it was the only way to make conversation growing up. But more and more as she attempts to self-isolate in her basement bedroom, avoiding her roommates with more fervor than usual, she worries about her growing dependence on it.

When the knock at her door comes, she’s mid-sentence, telling herself putting on the leggings is the hardest part of a workout, and she should just fucking do it and--

It’s two short raps at the door leading to the pool deck. The scary short story flashes behind her eyes as she blinks quickly, startled by interaction from the outside world.

She waits a few beats too long before she goes to the door, pausing with her fingers on the handle. She decides to believe it’s one of her roommates that got locked out upstairs, even if somewhere deeper she knows it’s not.

He had backed up off her little porch after knocking. Lilly’s not sure if it was out of a respect for social distancing or a concern that she might take a swipe at him. Either way, smart move.

Words seem superfluous. Lilly prides herself on a sharp, well-delivered line, but combing through the tangles of her brain, she has nothing. And she’s disappointed to discover the clawing in her throat and the increase in her heart rate that indicate if she tries to talk now, she might just start crying.

“I’m sorry. I know I should’ve called.”

He says it like he definitely thought about it and decided not to. She probably wouldn’t have answered. He once knew her well enough to know that.

She continues staring, wrapping her arms over her chest. He lifts a hand into his shaggy curls, longer than she’s seen on him before, but not totally unkempt. She can’t say the same about his facial hair.

“I needed to talk to you,” he continues. He’s doing the thing where he ducks his head and looks up through his lashes to be sweet and non-threatening.

Ever heard of a phone?

Funny, you haven’t needed to talk to me in nine fucking months.

Nothing feels right, so her jaw stays locked. She continues staring.

“I don’t want to come in, I just got off a plane--” he starts, and she finds her voice.

“Did it look like I was about to invite you in?”

He blinks hard and shifts on his feet. “N-no, I mean, I didn’t mean it like that, I just--”

“Shawn, I have no idea what you think you’re doing here, but you need to say it quickly before I walk straight into the deep end and sink like a rock just to get out of this conversation.”

His pretty lips part. He exhales sharply. After a moment, he squares his shoulders and jaw and she almost has to look away because he’s staring straight into her and it makes her squirm.

“I made a mistake, Lilly.”

Lilly gives him one long, wary glance. She turns away, steps inside, and shuts the door.

+

Shawn bounds up to the door and watches, confused, as she draws back the curtains and lifts the light filtering blinds. A pane of glass sits between them.

“What are you doing?” he calls through to her.

“Social distancing,” she snaps, cocking her head and pursing her lips. He rakes a hand through his hair.

“Please come out,” he requests, dropping a heavy hand to the wooden frame of the door. She jumps a little.

“I don’t need to, I can hear you from in here.”

He goes from warm and sheepish to annoyed quickly. “What, are you scared of me?”

“Yes,” she says immediately, so honestly. He flinches and stares at her.

“You just got off a plane from Miami, you’re probably one big walking coronavirus.”

Shawn wets his lips and lifts a shoulder. “I didn’t come from Miami, I came from Toronto.”

Lilly’s ire is interrupted by her confusion. She knows he was in Miami with her. The paparazzi were at her house the day after they got there. Lilly doesn’t avoid the pictures like the plague anymore. They don’t cause insane, uncontrollable crying jags anymore.

He no longer has that kind of power.

“You went home?” she asks.

“Last week,” he reports with a nod, propping himself up with his hands on either side of her door. She thinks maybe he got taller. It’s unimaginable.

Lilly will not ask. He seems to have come here to tell her, so she’s not sure how much point there is in her not asking but a scraping in her gut tells her to cling to her pride.

He drops his head. His hair looks greasy. He exhales in a huff.

“What, Shawn?” she prods, voice raspy but harsh.

He lifts his head like it’s extra heavy. “I ended it.”

Lilly shuts her eyes. She hates every piece of this feeling, even hates that she can name them all, sort them alphabetically, can imagine putting them in little baskets like she’s been doing since last summer. She thought she was done with that. Why is he doing this?

She drops her forehead to the glass door and then springs off it just as fast, fisting a hand in her hair. It’s too close.

“I don’t know what to do with this,” she hears herself pant, maybe more to herself than him, “Shawn, what the fuck?”

“I don’t know,” he pleads, eyes wide and lost, “I just really needed-- fuck, I wanted… Lilly, I missed you. I just… wanted to see you.”

She presses her hands together in front of her lips like she’s praying for patience. “You… Jesus Christ, you have to see how crazy this is. I… Shawn, it’s been nine months. And… and you left me.”

The wrinkle in his brow deepens. He was expecting that. He cocks his head slightly and looks pained. “I know. I’m… I still wanted to talk to you after. I just didn’t know how.”

Lilly’s eye roll is so epic she feels the tectonic plates beneath them shift. “It’s hard to be friends with the woman whose heart you broke, I guess.”

Again, he looks wounded. He plays it off better now than he did during the actual breakup. Or until her final parting words, at which he did look genuinely hurt. It was her only consolation.

“I’m so sorry. You have no idea--”

“I have no idea how sorry you are?!” she finishes for him, jerking back to life, her voice reaching a dangerous pitch. Shawn squares his jaw to take it.

“You know normal people get to just unfollow, block, whatever, and they can hide from the person that dumped them and their new relationship? There was no hiding from you two. Especially when you made fucking zero effort to be modest at all. Shawn, I could not escape it. So how sorry you are is nothing compared to how sorry I am.”

Shawn’s hands slide off the door. He takes a little step back, but refuses to drop his eyes. Lilly stares, swallows hard, and looks away when it becomes too much.

“I wanted…” he starts, clears his throat, “Wanted to see how you are. If you need anything. I know, I mean, I remembered your mom has that respiratory thing so you can’t go home.”

Somehow hearing it out loud, maybe hearing it from him, puts her over the edge. Two hot, fast tears trickle down her cheeks. Shawn looks startled, then stricken.

“Is she ok?”

Lilly, embarrassed and angry, goes magenta and swipes at her face with sweaterpaws. “She’s fine. It’s fine. I don’t know why I’m-- It’s ok.”

Shawn still looks concerned. He shoves his hands in his front pockets. “And your roommates? Is everyone ok?”

If she had any sense at all, any hope of self-preservation, she’d lie through her teeth. He wouldn’t know the goddamn difference. But he knocked out her ability to reason when he brought up her mom.

“Casey is sick,” she croaks, bringing her palms up over her eyes. She shakes her head, “We don’t-- I mean, she can’t get a fucking test. Mae is staying with us and living with her in her room, taking care of her.”

Shawn looks horrified and half ready to come through the glass at a run. “Lilly, you can’t stay here.”

“Where am I supposed to go?” she snaps.

He searches desperately for an answer in the cool, muggy air around him. It’ll rain again soon. Another thing for Lilly to cry about.

“With me!” he finally spits, his eyes lighting up, “My place in Toronto. You can, I mean, the guest bedroom--”

“Shawn, no,” she grunts, “I’m not doing that. That’s… what? No.”

The idea of holing up with Shawn in his lavish but small two-bedroom condo is the kind of vision that would’ve made her knees weak a year ago. She would’ve killed for this kind of time. Now, she honestly can’t believe she’s hearing him suggest it.

Shawn seems to go back to the mental drawing board. Lilly continues shaking her head and sniffling, ready to reject any idea he comes up with.

“What if we stayed here? Like at a hotel or something?”

“I’m not staying with you at a hotel for several reasons.”

He starts to look a little frustrated, and it’s oddly gratifying. Lilly crosses her arms.

“Ok, a house. I’ll rent a fucking house. Lill, please. I know you hate me. I totally don’t blame you. Please let me do something good for the first time in a fucking year. Please. Let me do this for you.”

Her teeth come together sharply when he uses her nickname. He doesn’t seem to notice.

She shakes her head for what feels like five minutes. “I really don’t know what to do. The fact that I’m even considering this doesn’t make any fucking sense.”

It’s the boost he needed to let the tension in his shoulders drop. He tilts his head and watches her tenderly as she roils inside.

“Are you as scared as I am?”

Lilly blinks and looks up at him. With a deep sigh, she releases the anger she grabbed onto, the anger she’d stowed months ago, the anger she picked back up as soon as she found him on her back porch. It’s not permanently gone. She knows better than to imagine that. It leaves exhaustion in its wake.

“Yeah. I am,” she admits, swallowing harshly. She drops to the tile floor and watches as he slowly, carefully lowers himself to prop against the other side of the glass door.

He looks different. There are new tattoos she knows about -- the stories behind them, she doesn’t. He’s wearing his hair longer on the back and sides. She thinks she likes it that way. He has a pimple, probably from stress, on the right side of his forehead. And he’s staring at her like he knows her inside and out. She shifts uncomfortably against her side of the glass.

“I replay that night over and over again in my head all the time,” he admits, squinting toward where the sun halos the banana trees at the far end of her yard, “I can’t fucking believe I treated you like that.”

Lilly sighs again, heavy-hearted. “Shawn, if this is something you think I need to hear, you should just go because I’ve dealt with it. It’s over. I’m… I’m not mad at you anymore. I don’t want to be. And if you’re here to deal with your guilt then honestly I think that’s selfish.”

Shawn sniffs and nods slowly. “It is selfish. I am selfish. I was selfish then and I’m probably being selfish now but all I want is to make sure you’re safe. I came here to apologize. I don’t know what I wanted out of that, I don’t know what I expected. But now I can’t leave without knowing you’re going to be safe.”

He looks as sincere as she’s ever seen him. It’s like an out-of-body experience. Just an hour ago she would’ve bet serious money on never seeing him in person again.

She shoves her head into her hands between her knees. She groans, “I’ve probably already been exposed to it. I could get you sick.”

“I’ve been on three planes in the last two and a half weeks, I’ve almost definitely been exposed, too. But at least in a big house with space we can really self-quarantine without you dealing with your roommates.”

He’s perked up a little, lifted his head off the door. He knows she’s considering it seriously. He seems afraid to breathe the wrong way and change her mind.

She chews thoughtfully at the inside of her lip and is silent for almost a full minute before she speaks again. “You could just go back to Toronto. You could go home and stay at the condo for a while, then be back with your parents in a week or two. You could just go home, Shawn.”

A piece of her hates him a little for having that option when she doesn’t.

He looks absolutely certain when he nods, wets his lips, and speaks.

“I could. But I don’t want to.”

+

It’s less than 36 hours later when Shawn texts her the address. It’s tucked up in Mandeville Canyon, gated and quiet, he assures her. He says it like he went out of his way to find them a place out of the public eye and the cynical piece of her says that’s less for her than for him. From what she can tell on social media and gossip sites, no one even knows he left Toronto. For Shawn to get in and out of LAX without the Army knowing about it, she figures he must be serious about keeping a low profile.

She waits two hours before letting him know that she has to pack, pick up groceries and prepare her roommates for the idea that she might be gone a while.

By the time she arrives, thumbing at the keypad with the code Shawn provided to open the driveway gate, it’s almost 9pm. Pavilions was a post-apocalyptic nightmare and made her feel more alone than she’s felt in weeks since the pandemic picked up media steam in the US. She dropped over $200 on whatever stable goods she could get her hands on and enough fresh stuff she hoped to be able to freeze. Exhausted, and a little traumatized, Lilly turns off the car and steps out to look around.

On the outside, the house is surrounded by tall white stucco walls and expertly trimmed hedges. The windows are wide for light but obscured tastefully by tall palms and sun-scorched banana trees. On the inside, beyond the stoic gates, it’s a little wilder, but in a relaxed, thoughtful way. The bases of trees and plants are illuminated by lights, giving the home a warm glow from the outside in, though Shawn seems to have turned on every light in the house. Wrapped in lush greenness, the house is classic prohibition-era LA -- stucco walls, adobe roof, some Mediterranean and Moroccan influences in the rounded archways and mosaic accents. The windows are all framed in hunter green. Lilly likes that.

There’s a balcony wrapped all the way around what looks to be one room on the second floor. Lilly stares up at it thoughtfully until the side door by the kitchen slams shut.

Shawn practically leaps off the tile steps to the stone pathway, his grin bashful as he tries to smooth it down. He jerks a hand through his hair, which looks cleaner than she last saw it. He’s barefoot in gray sweats and an old t-shirt. Lilly’s chest pulses with the sensation to walk right into him for a kiss. It’s a bizarre phantom instinct that she almost has to physically shake off. She tries to smile back, but it’s a grimace.

“Hey. How was it?” he asks.

Shawn stays a perfectly reasonable six feet away, but it feels further. Lilly swallows.

“It was fine. The lines were long.”

Sharing the vulnerability of telling him how grocery shopping in the midst of a global health crisis made her feel seems too much to handle. So she pops her trunk and looks around while he eagerly loads reusable bags into his very capable arms.

“This place is like something out of a Nancy Meyers movie,” she marvels.

Shawn grins again, that kind of smile it’s hard not to smile at.

“You like it?”

Lilly mashes her lips together and nods, forcing the corners of her mouth up. Again, it feels false. She drops it with a sigh. 

“Sorry, I’m… really tired.”

Shawn looks at her suspiciously for a moment before his face clears up. He nods and heads for the door.

“I get it. I can show you your room. How much do I owe you for these?”

He gestures to the herculean number of grocery bags in his hands. Lilly reaches for the last few and shrugs, following him inside.

“It’s fine. You rented the house, I can pick up groceries.”

Lilly knows better than to imagine she won this battle so easily. It’s one of Shawn’s great joys in life to pay for stuff. It’s part of the Leo in him. But he seems to sense she’s not in a place to be argued with right now, about anything.

“I brought antibacterial wipes,” Lilly suddenly announces as the center island of the all-white kitchen gets cluttered with boxes and bags and containers and jars.

“Oh,” Shawn says with a grateful nod, clearly confused.

“The store was totally out of them but I brought some from home. And there was no toilet paper, weirdly,” Lilly muses.

“Huh,” Shawn murmurs, loading a bag of bell peppers into the vegetable drawer of the oversized fridge. Lilly watches, drumming her fingers against the white granite countertop. Shawn glances up at her as he sniffs and inspects the cabinets, deciding where to put the canisters of oatmeal.

Lilly shakes her head and backs up against the edge of the sink, crossing her arms. “This is so weird.”

“What?”

“Stocking up for the apocalypse in a mansion with my ex-boyfriend.”

Shawn looks like he wants to protest, but he shifts tactics. “Yeah. I guess it is weird. The whole fucking world is… weird.”

From six feet or a hundred thousand miles away across a countertop, Shawn and Lilly face each other. As for what’s between them, beyond the space, it will remain there for tonight and probably nights to come.

Shawn gives Lilly a truncated version of a house tour on the way to her room. He talks nervously, explaining that he took the master because he thought she’d want this room more, anyway. With each step, suitcase hurtling along noisily behind her over the stone tile, Lilly’s sense of panic grows.

This was a mistake. You’re insane to have considered it. Pathetic, even. Ridiculous. Immature.

Shawn wishes her a good night a few feet from the door. She smiles shallowly. Mercifully, the master bedroom is on the other side of the sprawling house. She waits until his footsteps fade to release her stress tears and gasping, short breaths.

The room is gorgeous. Simple white walls like the rest of the house with clean, neutral furniture, comfortable but stylish, with pops of color and lots of plants. Old California. But the real selling point is the balcony. It wraps around the guest suite and is accessible through wide set French doors. 

Lilly sits on the end of the bed and attempts to reason with herself. She squeezes her eyes shut. She’s had an overwhelming couple of days. She needs to sleep. If she’s still miserable in the morning, she can leave, Shawn and his pretty house be damned.

+

Lilly wakes up fully clothed, half under the covers of the enormous bed. The curtains are still drawn open. The room is so bright it could be noon. In frantic confusion, Lilly flips over her dying phone to check the time. It’s 8am. She slept for almost 12 hours. She’s not entirely surprised.

She cranks herself up to sitting and assesses. The exhaustion-fueled panic that had her half-ready to stride back to her car to take herself home is gone. Her suitcase is where she left it in the middle of the room. Her face is tight and dry from salty tears.

And she can hear him.

She knows it’s not recorded music. She knows it’s him. She even knows which acoustic he’s playing. It’s his favorite. Hers too.

On crackling ankles and knees, she stands and shuffles to one of the balcony doors, pausing with her hand on the knob. She sighs and bites at her dry lips, pressing her forehead against the glass, looking over the balcony into the gardens below.

He’s barefoot again like he almost always is in LA. He used to complain that it’s too cold in Toronto to go barefoot even inside when the heat is on. She used to tell him he imagined it. He’s bobbing his head and strumming slowly like he does when he’s playing through a few chords to decide where he’s going next. He takes big, slow steps away from the house toward a bunch of lavender bushes near the edge of the property. Before he can pivot and turn to head back the other way, Lilly steps back.

She glances at her suitcase. She’ll think about it again after breakfast.

+

Taglist: @smallerinfinities​ @the-claire-bitch-project @achinglyshawn​ @infiniteshawn​ @mendesoft​ @singanddreamanyway​ @alone-in-madness​ @abigfatmess​ @shawnitsmutual​ @awkwardfangirl2014​ @september-lace​ @sinplisticshawn​ @rollingxstone​ @randi-eve​ @fallmoreinlove @heyits-claire​ @itrocksmysocks​ @parkerspicedlatte​ @simpledomain​ @abeautiful-and-cloudy-day​ @thecurlsofgod​ @magcon7280​ @bensbuttercup​ @shawnsmusical​ @paigeasourous​ @tell-me-when-ur-ready​ @softmendesss​ @searchingunderthestars​ @buggy-blogs​ @mendesficsxbombay​ @siennarossi​ @lostinshawnsmemory​ @umbreakablesoul​ @sleepybesson​ @shawnsheaven

[capricornus-rex]

Someone Left to Save (11)

Cal Kestis x Reader

Requested by Anon

Summary: The Mantis crew arrives to the capital of Ulfin, in the planet of Pevera, under siege. They meet the local rebel cell spearheaded by the former Republic admiral, Jax Beneb, who seeks to destroy the Empire’s occupation that was aggressively imposed upon while exploiting the planet of its natural resources. A plan is devised to destroy the Imperial’s main base of operations—as well as their influence—in the planet; however, it was a do-or-die mission that you and Cal had gotten yourselves caught in.

A/N: @glxy-otter​ Well, here’s a chapter where they meet but... I don’t think it’s not the way you expected it to be ;;;A;;;

Tags: Force-Sensitive! Reader, Inquisitor! Reader, Jedi! Reader, Fake Death, Jedi turned Inquisitor, Seduction to the Dark Side, Turn to the Dark Side, The Dark Side of the Force, Aftermath of Torture, Torture, Psychological Torture, Redemption Arc! Reader, Possible Redemption, Premonitions

Also in AO3

Chapters: 1 – 2 – 3 – 4 – 5 – 6 – 7 – 8 – 9 | Previous: Part 10 | Next: Part 12 | Masterlist

11 of ?

The TIE Fighter sits on the western ridge.

The transmitter is set to its maximum range of reception, in case you pick up something interesting; at the edge of the ridge, the lone city intrigued you a lot and you have the strongest feeling that Cal may or may not have been there a time or two.

Putting your new helmet to the test, your fingers search for a particular button. When you found it, the visor’s scanners zoomed in and a reticle bounces back and forth within the narrow frame, leaving a piece of information whether in writing or in images before ricocheting to the next corner.

So far, you’ve seen most of what you saw in your vision—the barren wasteland, the lone city. However, the statues you saw were nowhere in sight… yet. You hummed while reviewing the data flashed on the surface of your visor. To the ordinary eye, it may be just another stretch of mountains, but you heeded to your feelings. Your eagle eye caught something else.

“Hell-o,” you cooed in a curious, singsong tone. One press of the button and the jittery reticle visits your visor again. “What do we have here?”

At the end of the mountain range, a pair of boulders peek out of the rim, though these particular boulders seem to be a little too symmetrical and clearly round for it to be any ordinary rocks. Squinting your eyes, you had a feeling something was up, and decided to explore it.

Not even the Inquisitorius killed off your curiosity.

“Okay, let’s tick statues off the checklist,” you mused to yourself.

Your eyes wandered, searching for an optimum landing spot. When you pictured that one exact spot in front of the statues--or their feet at least—you took five paces back to give yourself momentum. One big breath to calm down the nerves in your shivering legs, you clench your fists hard until the skin over your knuckles have turned white. The balls of your feet propelled you, kicking up the dust as you bolted through, and just at the very split second—when your toes barely sat on the edge of the cliff—you sprang away from the rock and plummeted down.

The two hundred feet felt only like two the moment you landed. Light as a feather, the sand wafted just at the height of your ankles. You erected from your crouched position and faced the entrance—nothing much than a portal of darkness that leads to who-knows-what. The mouth of the cave was seething with so much of the Force that it’s overwhelming, not just for you, but perhaps for any Force-sensitive.

“It’s a temple…” you gasped.

You held your head high up to take a good long look of the statues, the unmoving and unwavering guards, perhaps a millennia old.

Taking the first steps into this grand structure, a wave of calm washed over you—it didn’t give you peace though, it only made you feel more suspicious and a bit spooked about this place. Little did you know that it was the Light Side if this temple—long dormant and untouched until you came along—and the Dark Side in your clashing against one another. You begin to explore the temple; finding yourself in what ought to be a lobby or foyer of sorts, you stopped in your tracks at the very center of it and attempt to concentrate.

You feel like you’re not alone in here…

Because Cal is in here too.

—

“Bee…?”

“I don’t know, BD, it’s a strange feeling—familiar but eerie,” Cal thought aloud. Surveying the high ceilings of the temple, adorned with a strip of ancient runes much like most Jedi temples. “I don’t think we’re alone here.”

“Triiiil!”

Cal chuckled, “Haha! No, not ghosts, little guy. Another person, maybe, or an animal. But not ghosts, they don’t exist.”

The boy’s smile melted, his anxiety and uneasiness returned. The farther he goes in, the more he uncovers. Limestone parapets meld together with the stone of the caves—it reminded him of the inner chambers of the Zeffo tomb—and the rustic chimes of all shapes and sizes dangle at the slightest draft.

“Sure is spooky in here, though,”

BD-1 cooed a soft, almost-quiet chirp in agreement, folding his legs in as he hides behind Cal’s shoulder. Not even his own flashlight could torch the way ahead. The boy and the boy have comes to what ought to be an open antechamber, the features reminded Cal of the gardens in the temple in Coruscant—except this one is smaller, possibly twice the size of the entrance at the Vault in Bogano.

The extravagance astonished the boy, BD-1 showed the same sentiments in the way he knows best—hop down from Cal’s shoulder, scamper left and right, forward and back to scan every imaginable thing present in the room.

“Don’t wander too far, BD!” called the young Jedi.

Cal follows BD’s general direction, all while gawking at the design of this hollow, ancient chamber. Despite his great fascination at the beauty of the ruins, the looming uneasiness that he’s been feeling all day finally took hold of him.

And it took form in the shape of you.

At the insidious roar of a saber’s ignition, a bloody red glow illuminated the shadows and highlighted your silhouette. The shadowy sight frightened the poor, tiny droid, leading him to skitter back to Cal for safety. You step into the light, out into the antechamber, holding your saber low—the tip hovering beside your ankle—a menacing stride carried you forward to your now-enemy.

“Figured I’d find you here,”

The distortion in your voice, thanks to the helmet, made for an excellent guise. The storm inside Cal’s heart aroused you. You smiled beneath the mask, satisfied. It’s hard to deny that you truly missed him, but seeing his face reminded you of the things that your brother and sisters fed you—lies born from poisonous clairvoyance, until those said lies became the truth in your mind, and it is what you have accepted as reality.

The faint, fluttering feeling that used to exist in your stomach—all from missing him so—was replaced with an aching rage in your heart; because in your eyes, all you could see of him is the corrupted truth. Your grip around your saber tightened so hard that the metal sleeve was almost crumpled.

“I don’t believe we’ve met,”

You chuckled sinisterly, though amused, it seems that his roguishness didn’t die off from his depression of grieving for you.

“Oh?” you bobbed your head. “Then why don’t you get to know me?”

You brandished your saber horizontally, at the press of a well-hidden button, the half of the halo became a whole and along with it a second blade emitting out of the other end. Cal ignited his own, his own response to taking on the challenge. You softly chuckled and made the first move—lunging towards him like a dart, saber over your head. Landing on his block felt off and different—it was sloppy, loose, and less lively. You sensed the weakness of his body reflecting on the strength of his deflect.

At this point, you’re still quite generous. You voluntarily pulled away to let him reset his stance—also for you to quickly scrutinize his disposition. Your eyes examined his entire person: flimsy grip, poor footwork, and a weak core. You squint with suspicion.

Hmm, something’s up with him.

Cal remains at the mercy of the new Inquisitor: as lethal as a dagger, fast as lightning, and quick-witted. Her speed was almost impossible to keep up with.

He blocks and deflects your every strike, but barely affords a moment to counterattack. For every landed block, you felt how feeble his handling was, almost as if he’s crippled in the arm. You exploited that weakness and sent out a hail of slashes in his way, when Cal finally manages to lunge forward, you denied him an opportunity—darting to the far side of the space and attacking him from behind, similar to what you did to the Inquisitors weeks ago in your initiation duel.

The boy blocks it in the last minutes and then dodge-rolls to the side. He tries to stiffen himself up, but you sense that this is a façade he’s trying so hard to maintain. You can practically see right through his bluff.

“Seems like you’ve lost your touch, Jedi,”

“That’s perceptive of you,”

“Thank you,” you squeaked. “I get that a lot!”

Again, you thrusted yourself towards the boy. He’s slowly catching on in terms of strength. Looks like his focus has gotten back to him. After an intense exchange of blades, you flipped away from the clash and literally swept him off his feet with a single kick. His body met the floor, but quickly scrambled back on his feet; making him feel like he had no chance of the upper hand infuriated him, and this reflected in the way he moves with the saber. His technique was easily countered with a dash of elusive acrobatics mixed in with your own fighting style. You can sense the growing anger and the hate in him, though it’s no surprise that he’d succumb to it.

“You mistake your rage with sadness!” you snarled and then continued. “That anger, hate, and suffering. You don’t use them at all. Pity.” You scoffed as your blades are locked together.

A kick to the abdomen staggered him away from you, another brief moment to recompose himself. You spun your saber, the swordpoint facing Cal a few inches away.

“You know, you were never really good in hiding your feelings.”

And at the moment, Cal’s heart skipped a beat. Surely, this was a taunt most Inquisitors do to Jedi to catch them off guard, right? But no, there’s something else lingering in that Inquisitor’s words. Cal could barely breathe when he was beginning to become familiar with his opponent’s voice and the answer was whispering itself in his ears—though he refused. He tightened his grip around the sleeve.

The uncertainty from the boy reached you, another emotion to exploit within your grasp. It was almost a guilty pleasure taunting him; the climax being his melting point. You decided to while away the time bantering instead of fighting, which proved to be more entertaining—at least, for you.

“Don’t talk like you know me!”

“Oh, I’d bet my entire fleet for that,” you sniggered.

“Who are you, really?”

There was a pause. You tilted your head pensively.

“Oh, they call me the Twelfth Sister, but…” with a push of a button on your helmet, the front plate that masks your face retracts into its frame. You greet him with a malicious grin. “I guess you can call me [Y/N].”

Cal felt his strength ebbing, whatever life essence residing in his body has now departed, the saber fell from his hand—the clattering filled the entire antechamber until the only noise filling the place was his rapid, shallow breathing. He could feel his heart about to fail and he’ll just drop dead.

“No…!” he gasped.

You were ironically thankful to see the look on his face with your own eyes, without the visor. O, that multi-million credit expression was simply divine! So divine, in fact, that your grin stretched wider than an Acklay’s jaws.

“No, no…” he panted, until the whining evolved into a bellow. “NO, NO!!! It can’t be true! You’re not real! I’m just in a-a-a… dream! Or a trance! Or something!”

You scoffed, “Is it so hard to believe, Cal?”

“It can’t be… [Y/N]…”

“You abandoned me, Cal, and in turn, they found me. Made me stronger… much stronger. Enough to make you atone!”

“But I didn’t abandon you! I was about to come and get you!”

“LIAR! Because if you were, you would’ve taken me out of the rubble soon.”

“But I looked for you… I looked everywhere for you. I even waited when they were telling me to leave.”

You shake your head solemnly, “That’s not the way I see it.”

“Who told you all these things?”

“Does it matter?!” you raise your voice and readied your sword arm. “I’m going to make you pay anyway!”

Your frenzy overwhelmed Cal, indeed, but he was able to regain his bearings in the split second you darted through the wind in his direction. Another exchange of blades, only this time, oozing with a wildness borne of rage and hate—regardless if the root was corrupted and false. It is what the Grand Inquisitor would have designed in the first place. It’s what he would’ve wanted.

“[Y/N]…!” Cal pleaded in the middle of attacking. “[Y/N], please, listen to me!”

“I’m done listening to anyone!! All I could ever hear are lies!”

Cal made a quick scan of the area and spotted two balconies connected by a bridge overhead. He withdrew from the fight, hopped from one parapet to another until his feet were planted on the limestone. Of course, you didn’t want to be outclassed by the Jedi—you practically wall-ran until you’re at the highest of highs, propelled yourself off your feet, somersaulting in the air and landed in a graceful cat-like crouch.

“[Y/N], look, I don’t want to hurt you!”

“Sweet of you, honey, but you’re gonna have to come with me!”

It has become a battle of balance, dexterity, and strength. The bridge was just as wide as the walkway of a Star Destroyer’s hyperdrive pillar. The flurry of saber attacks remained frenzied and intense, the red gleam of your saber highlighted Cal’s freckled yet sullen face as you bore your weight down on his blocking, shining over the gloss of his teeth, and mingling with his jade irises encircled by dark rings. Ignorant of the imperfections brought upon by grief, you looked past them and still see the Cal you clearly remember in your memories.

“Oh, how I missed that handsome face,” you cooed.

That took him off guard, but only for a short while, he pressed him in closer to you which gave him enough momentum to pull away and take you by surprise—pushing you to the farther end of the bridge with the Force, causing you to stumble and land on your back and into this smaller chamber.

“I said, I don’t want to hurt you!”

When he saw that you were inside the smaller chamber on the other end, he focused the Force on the middle of the bridge—practically breaking off a large piece of the walkway like some crumb of bread—and sent it flying to the open archway of the chamber! That wasn’t enough though, he looked for every conceivable object within his reach to block your way, though he knew that you can easily break through it, doing so would buy him enough time to escape.

The next thing he used to block of the archway was the spherical chandelier, large enough to fortify the chunk of the bridge he initially put there. He could feel the resistance from the other side, you were doing the same thing he’s doing except to push your way out; but he persisted and focused harder on the blockage. Finally, that large “crumb” of the bridge was lodged harder into the archway, locking it in place before the chandelier.

Cal felt sure that he’s closed you in, but he’s perfectly aware that you won’t stay there for long.

“Come on, BD!”

“Woooo!!”

He ran, although in no particular direction, he simply ran away.

Air filled his lungs for every step he took. He just couldn’t believe what he had just witnessed.

He’ll have a difficult time accepting this new reality. As a matter of fact, he will never accept this reality.

[whereisten]

The Wedding Singer - Part 4

The Wedding Singer (feat. Taeyong and Yuta)

Summary: You are an up-and-coming singer and songwriter who is thriving in the wedding singer business. When you find yourself singing for your former best friend Samantha Perez and not-so-former crush Yuta Nakamoto, shit really hits the fan.

Genre: fluff, drama, romance

Multi-part Series: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

Part 4

Word Count: 3.9k

To many people, Yuta Nakamoto was a shining star. Always happy, always collected, always blessed. He was studious and athletic. He gave off a happy-go-lucky aura while he mastered a physics lab in the first try or a mind-boggling task in PE. It was hard to detect any flaws on the surface.

Which he worked so hard to conserve for a long, long time. When he was fifteen, his parents divorced and his mother abandoned his family, leaving him, his sisters, and his father dumbfounded. The finances of the house were thrown off-balance, which meant Yuta would have to work harder to secure a basketball scholarship to a university. Ideally, somewhere close enough to home to look after his sisters. But he never told anyone the truths of his household. He told everyone that his mother was traveling the world for her job. It wasn’t a lie but it was better than admitting to the truth: she went to start anew back in Osaka, remarried, and had twins with her younger boyfriend.

Yuta and his older sister Akira both took on part-time jobs so their younger sister Haine could perfect her piano skills. Their dad made enough to keep their home and their utilities afloat. But the things that were once guaranteed for them became luxuries they had to strive for. Akira delayed her college applications to get a part-time job to support her younger siblings and Yuta felt helpless.

But once senior year came around for Yuta, he just couldn’t take it anymore. He may have gotten the college scholarship and scouts were very keen to be in contact with him for postgraduate opportunities. But he had his family at the forefront of his mind.

Then, came Samantha.

Samantha was never shy about how she felt about Yuta. Yuta denied her advances a few times throughout their high school career. He didn’t have time for a relationship. Hook-ups, sure. But those were fleeting. And that was what made them ideal. Samantha thought she could convince him to change his mind but he made it clear from the start that he was strictly casual, never anything more than that.

However, he carefully harbored a huge crush on you. You were innocent and kind, blowing everyone away with your poetry in AP English and your motivation to join every club on campus. You were so bubbly and adorable, he could almost scream. You’d blossomed so much since middle school, becoming more secure with yourself that you finally let people around see the real you. You were sassy and when you rolled your eyes at something that annoyed you, Yuta would chuckle to himself. You had a fire inside of you that Yuta couldn’t wait to see you let shine through. He admired you from time to time in high school but he didn’t act on it until it was too late.

And when you weren’t interested, he thought, he realized that he needed to get back to dealing with his own issues. He shouldn’t daydream so much. There was too much at stake. And time was running out.

Samantha came up to Yuta after graduation and he was prepared to run in the other direction until she said,

“I have a proposition for you, Yuta. And I think you’re gonna want to hear it,” she said.

Her proposition was that she would help alleviate all of his family’s troubles. She wouldn’t stop there, though. She would put him in touch with top basketball teams before they graduated. Originally, Yuta was going to go to his second choice, the University of Miami because of his scholarship and so he could be close to his family. However, Samantha pulled several strings to fund his tuition to the University of Florida, his dream school. And she scored him a basketball scholarship he thought he lost out on. Samantha’s family would fund Akira and Haine’s college tuitions, wherever they wished to go. Yuta’s father could retire early, if they played their cards right.

“What’s the catch?” Yuta gaped, finding it hard to believe that this girl he only casually knew could be so generous.

“You would be mine,” she proclaimed shamelessly.

Yuta didn’t want his family to struggle anymore. He wanted his family to have a new beginning. And Samantha was dangling right in front of him in a neat little bow. He could make everyone happy.

He wasn’t keen on falling in love, really. Seeing as how his mother up and left, he had a hard time believing that he could find something like that. With Samantha, there was a physical attraction but there was no warmth. It was a relationship in which both parties would benefit. Yuta’s family’s future would be secured and Samantha could have...him.

Yuta’s professional life was on the rise. He was in the Miami Heat, earning several titles and awards. He scored several sponsorships and was recently offered his first movie role. Samantha’s father was one of the heads of Miami: basically, royalty. He opened doors for Yuta. Mr. Perez was more than obliged when he realized how happy Yuta made Samantha. Yuta refused to be a total sell-out, though. He worked twice as hard to prove that he deserved the jobs he was given.

When Yuta was officially in the limelight, that’s when his mother came back.

She claimed to be remorseful for all of the heartache she caused and she wanted to be in her children’s lives again.

The Nakamoto children saw right through her charade. At least, Mariya Hirai (formerly Nakamoto) had the decency to leave her husband and his half-siblings at the hotel the first day she met up with her children from her first marriage.

Mariya only resurfaced because she thought she too could bask in the glow of her son’s success.

After all, she did raise him (up until the age of fifteen when she ditched him).

And Samantha helped Yuta, then, proving that he could rely on her as his partner. She and Yuta told Mariya and her family to leave because the rest of Yuta’s family refused to acknowledge her.

Mariya begged for mercy. Her new family was in financial struggles. Samantha was about to tell her to fuck off and remind her of the irony: how Mariya left her family broken and struggling while she thought she could start over without them. Yuta, swallowing his pride, told them that he would help Mirai and his family. The Hirai family just had to leave and never come back.

And that worked surprisingly well.

Samantha had seen Yuta through his ups and downs and she wished she’d only helped him sooner. Yuta confided in her more so it gave Samantha hope that one day, he could truly open his heart to her: only her. Her father nudged Yuta to propose to Samantha. He knew it was his duty to Sam, her family, and especially, to his own.

He had everyone convinced that he was truly happy. And most of him was. Professionally, he was at the top of his game. His family was happy. His father remarried and retired. Akira was a successful biochemist. Haine was composing for Pixar movies. His family was safe and healthy.

But he was not in love with Samantha. He didn’t think he ever would be.

And well, he would just have to suck it up.

The engagement was highly profiled in all of the tabloids and social media. The Nakamoto-Perez wedding was the most anticipated event of the year. The idea of being committed to Samantha wasn’t that scary. He’d already been with her for almost eight years. The marriage was inevitable.

And then came the wedding singer.

Yuta was right about you. You glowed with charisma, grace, and confidence. He had no idea you were shitting bricks at seeing her ex-friend and that you also had a crush on him. You two were utter fools. But you couldn’t turn back the past.

And when you sang, Yuta’s heart simultaneously soared and shattered.

Seeing you again reminded him of the fact that he was entering a loveless marriage. He guarded his heart for so long. He and Samantha were aware of their partnership. He denied true love because he didn’t want to suffer at the hands of it. Not after what happened with his parents.

But seeing you at the rehearsals, at the coffee shop, and at Holy Hell nightclub...he started getting ideas into his head.

About you. About what his life would’ve been like if you two had confessed to each other at the right time.

For his own happiness should’ve meant more to him.

But he knew better. You were spoken for by his good friend...His best man, Taeyong Lee. And he couldn’t hurt either of you. You didn’t deserve it.

So Yuta helped you in ways he could. He invited the Epic Records executive to come see you. It was the least he could after you helped him with his wedding vows.

And Samantha was so insistent on putting you down: it killed Yuta, honestly. And when Sam reminded him so pointedly that he had trapped himself with her for life...something inside him snapped.

For once, he released his inhibitions and didn’t think. He didn’t restrain himself. And then came his next regret.

Yuta drank at Sooyoung’s wedding reception. He drowned his sorrows as he watched you and Taeyong enjoy the night together on the dance floor. How Yuta wished he could turn back time.

Perhaps there could’ve been another way to save his family and their future: without having to surrender his own happiness.

Yuta saw that Taeyong left you alone in the photo booth. Why would he do that? He should never want to leave your side. He should treasure you and kiss you every chance he got. What made Taeyong think he deserved to be with you?

Stumbling, Yuta made his way over to the photobooth. The curtain was half open so he saw your gorgeous hair run down past your chest and he licked his lips. Your lips were so soft…He had to know what they felt like. Just this once.

He opened the curtain completely. Seeing you make eye contact with him drove him crazy and he ran his hands through his hair. He smiled fondly at you, “Hey.”

You looked so concerned he wanted to hold you tight. “Yuta, are you okay? I-”

He couldn’t hold back anymore. He moved in and held your face as he kissed you, his tongue begging for entrance into your mouth.

You two heard the flashes from the camera. You panicked and pushed him away. He saw you cower in fear.

“Get off of me,” you said, harshly. You pushed

past him out of the booth.

“Y/n, come back! I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” Yuta said, pathetically.

Yuta should’ve known better. He let you and Taeyong down. He let Sam down. Even if he didn’t love her, he owed her his honesty and fidelity, at the very least.

He left the photo booth, feeling more sober all of a sudden.

Taeyong surprised him when he scared him from behind. Yuta jumped. “You are wasted,” Taeyong said, laughing, “You alright?”

Yuta nodded, working as hard as possible to look Taeyong in the eye but it was hard to meet those eyes. Taeyong was the kind of person who was very easy to confide in. If Taeyong knew Yuta had stabbed him in the back and made a move on his girl in one fell swoop, Yuta’s days would be numbered.

And he never wanted to bring Taeyong into his mess.

Taeyong patted Yuta in the back. “Sam’s gotta take you home. Listen, have you seen y/n? She’s not in the photo booth.”

Yuta thought about telling him right then and there. Just rip the bandage off, he deliberated. “Taeyong, I-”

“She went to the ladies’ room,” Samantha piped in as she walked up, scrolling through her phone. “She looked a little ill. I think you should check up on her.”

Taeyong’s eyes grew in concern. “Thanks Sam.” He ran off to find his girl.

Poor y/n, Yuta realized, what have I done?

“Idiot,” Samantha said without looking up at you.

Yuta frowned. “What?”

She held up a photostrip. “You left this behind.”

Yuta was confused and he took the photostrip. It was of you and him. He turned pale.

“Sam, I-” Yuta began.

She sighed. “I knew this would happen one day. I just figured it would be with someone worth crying over. But her? Yuta, you’ve disappointed me.”

“I’m sorry. I am so sorry, Samantha. I...I will do anything. Please don’t-”

“All is forgiven, my prince…” Samantha said as she wrapped her arms around him. “You’re mine. Always. Mistakes happen. But we will always have each other.”

Sam’s words may have sounded comforting to anyone else but it unsettled Yuta to the core.

;;

You ran to the girls’ room after leaving Yuta in the photo booth. What the hell just happened? You rinsed your mouth out at the sink and wiped your mouth repeatedly. Tears welled up in your eyes.

Taeyong was all you could think about. How would you be able to tell him this? It wasn’t your fault. What was Yuta thinking? How-

You heard a knock outside of the room. “Y/n? Baby, are you okay?” Taeyong’s normally soft voice was alarmed.

You fought back a sob and cleared your throat. “Yeah, I’m okay. I’ll come out in a minute.”

“Sam said you looked sick. What do you need? What can I do?” He asked. You wouldn’t be surprised if he entered at any second.

The sound of his voice was so comforting but you were scared. What would he do when you told him?

You took a couple of breaths and cleared your nose up. “I’m coming out. Hold on.”

You walked out of the room slowly to see Taeyong at the door. He was so...There weren’t enough words to describe how this man made you feel.

“Hey…” He said carefully. “What’s wrong?” He saw how red your eyes were. You looked stunned.

You shook your head and tried so hard to meet his eyes. But you couldn’t. It wasn’t even your fault but you felt ashamed.

“Taeyong, the thing is-” you began as you met his eyes, knowing you had to suck it up, tell him, and prepare for the worst if it came down to it.

Samantha interrupted, “I may have been a little harsh with her, earlier…”

Taeyong looked at Samantha in confusion. “What?”

“Y/n and I used to be good friends...And I...was feeling incredibly envious of her tonight so I...insulted her deeply. I said that she didn’t deserve you and that if it weren’t for you, she would be nothing.”

“What the hell?” Taeyong glared at his step-sister. “How could you?”

You had no idea what was going on. Why was Sam saying these things? She thought Taeyong would be the last person to hear about the insults Samantha threw at you. It was almost as if…

She was covering for you.

But...why?

“I was fucking jealous, Taeyong. This girl comes into our lives only months ago and now she’s everywhere...I...miss spending time with you and Yuta. Just the three of us.” She glares at you. Finally, something real. “Without her.” Very convincing.

That was the most sincere she’s been. The most effective way to tell a lie is to feature a little of the truth in it.

“Sam...I can’t let you treat y/n like that. It needs to stop. I love y/n. You have to respect that,” Taeyong said as he wrapped an arm around you.

Samantha sighed as she rolled her eyes. “I know that. I’m sorry. To both of you.” She met your gaze, then. “I’m so sorry for giving you a hard time.”

Taeyong squeezed you tightly. You started, about to tell Taeyong the truth. “Wait a minute. I-”

“Taeyong, I need to speak to y/n about something urgent. It’s business-related,” Samantha requested.

Taeyong nodded, eyeing her. “Be nice.”

She sighed. “I’ll be perfectly pleasant.”

Taeyong whispered in your ear. “I’ll bring the car around to take you home.”

Samantha said immediately after. “Let’s go.” She grabbed your arm and pulled you to the lobby of the hotel.

You sat together on the loveseat. “Samantha, what’s going on?”

“I know you and Yuta kissed-”

“He kissed ME. I did not...What?!” You paled just like Yuta had.

She continued as she admired her nails. “It doesn’t matter. The wedding was almost jeopardized because of this. I don’t need you running your mouth to Taeyong about what happened.”

You gaped. “What?”

Samantha’s sharp eyes met yours, then. “Yuta and I are getting married. Nothing. No one. Not you. Not even Yuta is going to get in the way of our happiness.”

“Why would you want to marry Yuta when he just cheated on you?” You asked. Had Sam lost her mind?

“He was bound to cheat on me eventually...But he would still be mine,” she said, calmly. Not even a flinch.

“Sam…” You said, feeling a sudden ache in your chest.

“No. No. None of that ‘Sam’. Don’t give me that look of PITY.”

“You don’t have to do this. We may have our differences for God knows what reason but...I don’t want you to marry someone who would hurt you like this…”

“That’s none of your concern, y/n. Take your sympathy and shove it up your glorified asshole.”

You lifted your brows. “Fine. I won’t feel sorry for you. Now I’m wondering...You hate me. This is the perfect opportunity for you to get rid of me. Why not tell Taeyong about the kiss? You couldn’t have done it for me.” The last sentence was meant to get a laugh.

“Get real. I didn’t do it for you, y/n. I’m doing this for Yuta. You think my family would let me marry Yuta if they found out about his...indiscretion?” She asked you.

“Huh?”

Samantha explained her arrangement with Yuta that began at high school graduation. You knew what was at stake. Yuta’s future. Yuta’s family. It explained why Yuta was reluctant about marrying Sam but he wasn’t doing anything to stop it. Now, you were pinned up against a wall.

“If Taeyong finds out about this...not only will my entire family know….All of Yuta’s opportunities will go down the drain. His name will be dragged through the mud. His family’s name will be destroyed. His father’s livelihood will be compromised. My family is just that good, y/n.”

You couldn’t say anything.

“I have to protect him. I love him, y/n. I gave him everything. I would hate for all of that to get taken away from him because of one little mistake. Which is why I beg you to keep your mouth shut.”

You couldn’t imagine lying to Taeyong but you also didn’t expect the reality of Sam and Yuta’s relationship to come to light at this moment. If you say something, Yuta’s life could be ruined.

“I know Yuta doesn’t love me, y/n…”

Sam’s voice cracked. “But one day, he could...We owe it to ourselves to try.”

You remembered when you asked Yuta why he was marrying Samantha if he didn’t love her. He told you, “I think I could love her...someday.”

This was insane. You were stuck. But...part of you already knew what you had to do.

;;

Taeyong drove you home and you were mostly quiet, deliberating over how you were going to tell him.

“You sure you don’t want me to stay the night?” Taeyong asked as he turned into your driveway. “I can take care of you. I’ll even brush your teeth for you.” He pouted, knowing how much his facial expressions softened you up.

Damn it, he was making this so hard.

“Taeyong,” you started slowly.

“Yes?” He said as he ran his fingers through your hair.

“I’m so sorry,” you started, “I...can’t do this...anymore…”

He smiled in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

“We need to break up,” you said.

Taeyong felt his world crashing down. “y/n, stop messing with me. You’re being mean.”

You sighed, releasing the words you rehearsed in your mind before you met up with him to take you home and on the car ride over. “I..can’t leave Miami...My singing career is my priority and I owe so much to you. You’ve made me so happy...But I can’t take advantage of you anymore. It’s not right.”

He laughed humorlessly. “What are you saying? You have never taken advantage of me.”

“I need to figure out my next step on my own. And so do you. Your dreams are in LA. And for now, I’m meant to be here in Miami. I can’t hold you back.”

Taeyong’s eyes began to water at your dismissive tone. “You’re not holding me back. We can do long distance. I respect that you want to stay here but we can make it work. I travel all the time, anyway. We can still be together,” he pleaded, hopeful.

“No, Taeyong,” you said as you looked down at your lap.

He scoffed. “You can’t be serious. You love me. I love you. What happened, y/n? I don’t understand.”

You couldn’t help the tears that fell. You couldn’t tell Taeyong that Yuta kissed you to protect Yuta’s family. You couldn’t continue in a relationship with Taeyong if you had to keep this betrayal bottled up. And maybe Samantha was right all along. Even if you didn’t sign with any of the labels Taeyong invited that night, you would’ve relied on him one way or another. Taeyong would insist because he was so good to you. No matter how small the favor, it would have bothered you, though. You didn’t want to believe that you had taken advantage of him or that one day you would.

And to hide the fact that Yuta kissed you? Taeyong had every right to know the truth...Since your hands were tied, you couldn’t tell him. You couldn’t keep being with this incredible man if you couldn’t be honest with him. It would make you rot from the inside out. Taeyong deserved complete honesty. And you couldn’t even give that to him.

You had to let him go. And you had to push him away. You didn’t deserve him.

“Taeyong, music is the most important thing to me. And I will be forever thankful for everything you’ve done for me. But I can’t keep this up anymore. I’m not signing with any of the labels...It wouldn’t be fair to you. I have to work my way up on my own. And that means staying in Miami for now.”

“y/n, please look me in the eyes,” he took a hold of your hands. “I can wait for you.”

“Don’t,” you said, harshly. You were shaking.

“You can’t do this to me. To us. Please,” Taeyong begged.

You sobbed, then. “I’m sorry.” You said as you let go and left Taeyong in his car, shattered.

You unlocked the door to your apartment and slammed it shut. You couldn’t risk turning around and taking it all back. One look into Taeyong’s puppy dog eyes and you surely would’ve gone down on your knees and begged him to take you back. You’ve done enough damage. You hated yourself, then. You hurt him deeply. But it was the only way for him to let you go. You just hoped that he could find happiness when he left for LA. Meet a nice girl who didn’t take advantage of him and who could give him everything he deserves.

Someone Yuta wouldn’t kiss so she wouldn’t be at a crossroads.

Someone Samantha couldn’t blackmail.

To hope for Taeyong’s forgiveness would be selfish but you prayed for it.

And you prayed that the Nakamoto-Perez wedding would go by quickly so you can never see any of these people again.

-To Be Continued in Part 5-

[056crowshit6556]

Some thoughts on Dororo

Went back and watched Episode 8 of Dororo and noticed a small detail; turned into some thoughts on the anime and particularly of its protagonist Hyakkimaru. Contains spoilers in case you want to watch it but haven’t yet.

After Hyakkimaru faces the demon centipede, he, Dororo, and Saru go to Saru’s hideout where Dororo explains that Hyakkimaru may not be able to help them. 

Hyakkimaru is sitting down and throwing rocks repeatedly. At first I thought he was doing that out of frustration, and he probably was, since this was the first time his “sight” had been impaired.

Dororo and Saru agree to take down the monster together, and then the scene transitions into nighttime. 

Hyakkimaru is still out there throwing rocks (I laughed a little at this part because I thought, dude, give it a rest, it’s been hours and you’re still sulking lol), but then he hears Saru crying and stops.

He stands at the cave entrance, and even though he’s only had his hearing returned for a short amount of time, he’s already learned what the sound of crying is and what it signifies. And so he leaves, presumably to be alone again, perhaps to throw more pebbles at the rocks, not out of frustration but contemplation.

The following morning, Saru and Dororo fight the monster but are unable to defeat it. That’s when Hyakkimaru shows up just in time to inflict the first major wound and bring it down.

Hyakkimaru was able to figure out how to defeat the centipede because he realized that he could shoot arrows at it, creating sound, just like he had thrown pebbles at the rocks, causing sound to reverberate and signal the rock’s location. I think he realized this just as Dororo and Saru were facing the monster by themselves... which means he stayed up all night trying to figure out how to defeat it. And that makes me think that yes, at first he was just tossing rocks out of brooding frustration, but when he heard Saru crying, it made him more determined and focused to find a solution. There wasn’t a scene that explicitly showed Hyakkimaru figuring it out-- for example, a scene showing him throw a rock, it pings against another rock, the sound reverberates, Hyakkimaru’s body language shows that he suddenly knows what to do.

It’s one of the reasons why I’m convinced this anime is one of the most well-written, interesting stories I’ve seen in a long time. It’s hard to believe that a protagonist that barely talks or shows emotion for the first half of the entire series could be so captivating, but it’s small details like this that truly embody the old writer’s adage of “show, don’t tell.” And for such a quiet character like Hyakkimaru, he quite literally won’t tell, but certainly shows in subtle, somehow deeply heartfelt ways.

*Side note: [The narrator does explain what Hyakkimaru did, but it’s up to the audience to discern how he figured it out. It makes me wonder how many other details like this are in the anime. The most immediate example I can think of is in episode 4, after Hyakkimaru regains his sense of touch and pain. The samurai Tanosuke uses the demon sword Nihil to inflict a cut on Hyakkimaru’s cheek.

Hyakkimaru manages to dislodge the sword from Tanosuke by using his prosthetic leg, and then he does something that I think is very interesting: he attacks Tanosuke a second time, even though the demon sword is no longer in his possession.

Tanosuke falls down the cliff, and Hyakkimaru kneels down to the ground, touching the place where he was cut.

By this point, Hyakkimaru has already felt physical pain (he stomped his foot into the campfire at the end of episode 3). At first, I thought he stomped his foot into the campfire because he was experimenting with his newfound sense of touch, but now I think he did it because just moments before his foot brushed over it, startling him, causing him to think it was some kind of threat. That’s why he stomped on it.  

The fire made him feel pain, so in return, he tried to reciprocate that pain onto the fire.

But it’s like, he doesn’t get it, doesn’t truly understand it, until Tanosuke cuts his face with the demon sword. 

I think this is when Hyakkimaru realized that not only are people capable of hurting him, it means he’s also capable of hurting other people. He is cut by Tanosuke, feels the pain of that just like the fire that burned him, and he lashes out just like he had stomped on the fire. If Hyakkimaru hadn’t regained his sense of pain, I don’t think he would have attacked Tanosuke a second time after dislodging the demon sword from his grip. It’s how he makes the distinction between Tanosuke and Dororo’s souls. One is trying to hurt him, the other isn’t. Tanosuke cut him, while it shows between Dororo and Hyakkimaru’s confrontation that Dororo is on the defensive.

The infliction and reciprocation of pain means that he’s an active participant in the world and that his, and other’s, actions do have consequences. Before this, he would continue fighting despite an injury because he couldn’t feel the pain. Having his sense of pain returned to him not only makes him more aware of his vulnerability and limitations, but makes him understand that others are also vulnerable too. It makes him understand what others would feel if he were to hurt them. There’s a certain level of self-consciousness to that, knowing what pain is, and it plants the first seeds of both empathy and maliciousness in Hyakkimaru, which become more complex as the story progresses. It’s true that experiencing pain made him more empathetic, but it also made him understand how he could hurt someone if he really wanted to, and that ultimately, his actions have consequences. Pain has made him a more active participant in the world, and a more active participant in his own existence. I don’t know if at this point in the story (episode 4) he’s aware of mortality just yet, because I think he begins to understand what mortality is after the death of Mio.]

Regarding episode 8, I don’t think it was an accident that the animators chose to show Hyakkimaru’s face when he’s watching Saru-- his bangs are slightly parted, revealing both his eyes. It’s a visual cue that he’s “coming out of his cave” in small increments. One of the biggest problems Hyakkimaru’s character has to navigate throughout the story is essentially learning to join the world, and subsequently, realize his place among humanity. He cared enough to check on Saru, to be near the sound of crying. Every now and then I try to imagine what Hyakkimaru’s world was like before he regained any of his senses or body, and really, I can’t imagine it. It’s not suffering in the way I understand suffering; it’s devoid of suffering, devoid of everything, which somehow is even worse (and it’s why I think Hyakkimaru gets more aggressive about obtaining his complete body as the journey goes on, because 1) he has been shunned and exploited by his family, feeling especially hurt by his mother’s rejection, and 2) the more body parts he regains, the more he realizes just how much he’s been deprived of for his entire existence). It’s like realizing everything you thought to be true is a lie-- Hyakkimaru’s existence, his “truth” was total darkness, empty oblivion-- and for him to have the first 16 years of his existence proved null completely destroys him and causes him to lash out erratically.

The scene of him tossing rocks, basically from sunset until sunrise, is just really interesting regarding Hyakkimaru’s problem solving skills, and it does make me wonder how many of these small details may have been subtly placed throughout the story.

For instance, in episode 5, Hyakkimaru isn’t wearing his scarf or cloak. It’s to show that the seasons are changing. The earth is becoming warmer, and so is Hyakkimaru. It’s a visual cue to show him “opening” up-- as Biwamaru put it, he’s like a creature coming out of his dark cave for the first time. This is also the part of the story where Hyakkimaru meets Mio.

There’s alot about Hyakkimaru and Mio’s dynamic that’s relevant to Jungian psychology (concerning the Anima/Animus). The gist of it is that Mio awakens the feminine Anima within Hyakkimaru-- he wakes up in the early hours of morning, hears a song calling to him, he follows it, traveling through the dark unconscious towards the source. Hyakkimaru’s awakening is appropriate, given that the classic hero’s tale, if the hero is male, will be and should be faced with the anthropomorphic archetype of his unconscious feminine nature (it’s one of the reasons that Hyakkimaru accepts the Goddess of Mercy in the last episode. The final phase of Anima development is “Sophia”, or “wisdom”, and is best represented by Guanyin, a mother figure who knows self-sacrifice is necessary for self-actualization).

It’s why Hyakkimaru doesn’t choose the path of a demon, or inherits the corruption of his father’s tyranny. 

He chooses the path of compassion, and I think it’s possible to assume that those seeds of compassion were first planted by Mio.

At the end of episode 8, Hyakkimaru acknowledges Dororo by saying her name and handing her the flower. It’s a gesture of kindness, of compassion in wanting to share something sweet and pleasing to the senses.

The more senses and body parts Hyakkimaru regains, the more he becomes an active participant in the world. Things don’t just happen at random-- he can be a part of it. He can feel the rain on his skin, hear the song of a kind woman, feel the sharp sting of a cut on his face.

There’s still some observations about the story I want to write about (Daigo’s treatment of Hyakkimaru’s body as his property for instance, and why one of the major themes in the story is bodily autonomy and individual sovereignty), but I’ll probably save it for another day. One thing I do want to touch on is why the last body part Hyakkimaru regains is his vision, and why from a storytelling perspective this makes complete sense to the viewer. To put briefly, vision is the most complex and paramount sense a human has-- our brains are actually “programmed” for visual information. From a metaphorical perspective, Hyakkimaru truly “comes into being” when he sees for the first time. It’s like when someone experiences something profound and they say “my eyes were finally opened” or “I finally saw for the first time.” Vision is associated with self-actualization, which is the final step a character undergoes in his or her journey.

There’s a nice parallel in that the first sensation of pain Hyakkimaru feels is fire, and the first thing he sees with his own eyes is Jukai and his mother Nui surrounded by fire.

This is one of my favorite lines in the entire anime. “Watch it closely, with those eyes of yours.” Hyakkimaru regaining his sight means there’s essentially nothing blocking him from the truth anymore. He can discern observation and make his own judgements. And Biwamaru reminds Hyakkimaru that everything he has done to get his body back is his responsibility, and that it would essentially be dishonest to avert his eyes from the consequence of his actions.

Dororo is a really great anime. I’ve been giving it a re-watch and I’ve noticed a few things I didn’t the first time around, particularly of how apparent the archetypes are used as storytelling devices.

I definitely recommend it if you haven’t seen it yet.

[chibivesicle]

Golden Kamuy chapter 262 - an early version of a car chase . . .

I’m definitely slow with my meta for this chapter.  The end of the year exhaustion has caught up to me and I still have some things to do for work, but I’m waiting to discuss them with my supervisor so - yay, I guess?

The chapter 262 cover is a very horse-missing-brain-bits-buddies something in color.  Sadly a waste of a color chapter of you ask me, but I’m not Noda.

The chapter starts out with Hijikata’s group playing it safe, creating a way to hide Jack’s body and Kirawus is assisting a rough looking Kadokura.

Since Hijikata is no idiot, he quickly hops on a horse to pursue the beer car with Sugimoto, Shiraishi and Boutarou.

Interestingly, Sugimoto is the one who demands to slow down to talk to him.  Could it be that Sugimoto has developed a soft spot in his heart for Hijikata?  Pfffttt.  Likely not, but he recognizes he’s a competent individual and to rescue Asirpa he’s a worthwhile ally.

This shows since the first thing Hijikata asks is where Asirpa is, which allows the rest of them to clarify that Tsurumi’s group is hiding as firemen.

This gives us a nice view from the back of the fire engine, and also a concerned look back from Tsukishima.  It really tells us a lot about how aware Tsukishima is, he did travel to Karafuto and back with Sugimoto and Shiraishi, so he’s got a good idea who these men think and act.

Now, we don’t know where Asirpa and Usami’s body are placed.  When I saw this panel I saw two possible places and have pointed them out with the purple arrows. The beer car pursues them and as Shiraishi encourages Boutarou, we finally get an update on his overall status.   He’s feeling tired and Shiraishi asks him if he’s okay.

He’s bleeding a lot - he did get stabbed and shot at.  I’d like to point out he also regrew his cut off ear!  Perhaps, he’s part axolotl!  I think Noda was just tired when drew this or it got lost in the action.

I’m glad to see Shiraishi concerned about him, but we have hints these two men are friends.  Of course Boutarou proudly declares that he’s a man who is going to be a king and Shiraishi needs to witness this historic event. The 27th has been spotted and it is Koito who notices the car in pursuit of them.  Can we take a moment to appreciate how great this is for Koito?  Sure, he’s still working for Tsurumi, but he’s levelheaded and comes up with a quick solution.

Tsukishima then tells Tsurumi he can go ahead and they will stay behind to block the pursers.  They do their best to try to stop the car, but Boutarou has other plans and drives through some random guy’s house to avoid the gunfire.

Due to Boutarou’s creative driving (he would not pass his driver’s test at all!) his gamble allows them to catch up to the fire engine.  This gives a clearer view of the two tied bags of mystery on the engine.

Poor Shiraishi gets tossed all around and is half hanging out of the car and on Boutarou’s lap.   Tsurumi then gives the simple order of ‘Go!’  And with that order things become more complicated since the two men on horseback are also carrying more tied up bags!

Shiraishi, Boutarou and Sugimoto then shout at each other what is going on and who to pursue.  Sugimoto of course things Asirpa must be on the engine, but Hijikata makes the decision for them - he goes after the men on horseback so by default they have to pursue the fire engine. . .

Sugimoto is trying to shoot the driver, and he tells Boutarou to pull up closer.  Wow, Sugimoto and shooting . . .

Once almost even with them, Tsurumi ducks down and swings back to make a single shot with his pistol, hitting Boutarou in the right side of his torso.  Shiraishi takes control of driving and asks him if he is okay again.

Boutarou gets the comment of just ‘well, damn. . .’ as they drop back and we can see a figure on the back of the engine stand up.

Of course it is the very sexy, Kikuta.  He takes aim at Shiraishi with his double revolvers and Shiraishi has the look of complete terror.

This then leads to one of the best pages of GK for some time, Boutarou, pushing Shiraishi out of the way leaving him at the mercy of Kikuta’s aim.  Three shots land in this panel hitting him in the chest.

The action continues with more shots fired by Kikuta into Boutarou.  Shiraishi cries out in great concern after watching him be shot! Not all of the shots hit him as some instead hit the car.

The car then slams into the engine and Kikuta holds on by ducking down.

With Boutarou seriously injured and Shiraishi concerned, the car crashes and it seems the threat has been dealt with.  Kikuta tells Tsurumi that the car can’t follow them any more and we get to see that the second cloth bag is now gone.  It was Kikuta curled up under a cloth so that he could emerge undetected.  We can still see the other bag shoved under the seat on the engine under Tsurumi.

Of course, Sugimoto, somehow was able to grab onto the engine after the collision. Well damn, this was one hell of a chapter! First off, I want to yell, “Hang in there Boutarou!!!!”  It has not been a good day for him.  Since I’m a fan of Boutarou, I have to have a little faith that he’ll pull though.  I have several reasons to believe he’s still got a role to play.

1.) Boutarou is a good friend to Shiraishi.  He saved his life and he’s brought up the point that Sugimoto, may be his friend, but he doesn’t treat him like an equal.  Having another one of Shiraishi’s friends killed by the 27th just makes me feel sad. 

2.) Boutarou is like Sugimoto.  He’s an incredibly tough guy, who is physically able to handle a lot.  The more he’s around Sugimoto, the more uncomfortable he makes Sugimoto.  Both survived while their families died, and they are able to continue to survive by almost ‘willing’ themselves to keep going.  The only difference between them is one is a legal criminal while the other committed terrible acts as a member of the military and working for the government/law.

3.) Boutarou is working with Kikuta.  This is my crazy theory.  We know that Kikuta told Ariko he is a spy.  Therefore, they are working together on something . . . Ariko and Boutarou have spent a fair amount of time together and when Kikuta grabbed Asirpa and talked to her, Boutarou was hanging back.  This is a long shot, but I love to think about it . . . . come on Noda, give me the flashback I want to see with Kikuta, Ariko and Boutarou. . . .

The bullet proof vest was invented in 1893 and I recently watched the movie ‘The Sting’ so a good con is tickling my mind.  I want to see an excellent plot twist surrounding Boutarou . . . sure, Tsurumi shot him for sure, but if Kikuta was in a con with him to make it look like he got shot a lot - damn, I’d love that.  It would also be an excellent spy reference - I’m thinking of the James Bond movie ‘You only live twice’ which certainly has not aged well from a politically correct viewpoint, but is a great example of how to fake a death.

Where is Asirpa?  Seriously, someone is going to be disappointed when this all ends.  With Kikuta revealing that he was the second cloth bag on the fire engine, it still leaves the bag under Tsurumi to be Asirpa or she could be on either of the horses.  Hijikata is pursuing them, but he can only go after one at a time unless he’s able to shoot one of the men and catch the other. With the two horsemen, we also have the possibility of Ogata sniping them.  Or is he still tied up in his battle with Vasily?  We currently lack enough information to determine this.  TOO MANY VARIABLES NODA!  Damn you! Tsurumi is the type of person to keep Asirpa close to him, but at the same time he is next level when it comes to his planning and what he expects from others.  Plot wise, having Tsurumi successfully kidnap Asirpa makes a lot of sense to me at this point.  It would force everyone else to ‘regroup’ and have some frank conversations about what they want.  It would tie back nicely into the conversation about what they’d do with the gold from the boys’ night sleepover situation.

‘Cause I’m a ‘terrible person’ I really want to see the Sugimoto fight with Kikuta and Tsurumi end with him grabbing the bag somehow and to end up with Usami’s body instead.  I want Sugimoto to be disappointed and realize that Asirpa isn’t someone he has priority with.  He can care about her as a younger kid sister but she isn’t his and his alone. Honestly, despite the extreme excitement of this chapter, not a whole lot actually happened that allows for crazy in depth meta.  Well that is all for now and I’m waiting to see what happens next.  Hang in there Boutarou!  I sense you have much more to do in the plot.

[onaf]

Of Dogs and Children

Believers in Christ have their hang-ups, their own theological baggage when it comes to the faith. This doesn’t always come in the form of outright denial of the core tenets of the Christian religion. But it can mean there are teachings that are quick to be absorbed mentally, yet slow to penetrate the heart.

For me, one of the most difficult things to understand at heart about Christ is how He condescends to sinners like myself. When I read Matthew 11: 28-30, Christ’s character takes on a peculiar timbre:

“Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”

To some, this may be an inconsequential passage. But I wonder how one can think that! What is easier for me to understand is that Christ - the One through whom the universe was created - has authority to judge the living and the dead. It isn’t hard for me to accept how He performed miracles, for what is difficult for the Christ? Theophanies? Old Testament prophecies about Jesus? Awesome!

But a Christ that is lowly? A savior that is gentle when with but one word He could annihilate all that is unholy (namely myself)? A King to whom I am - by rights - condemned forever, but gave Himself as a ransom for me? More food for thought from Hebrews 4:14-16...

“Since then we have a great high priest who has passed through the heavens, Jesus, the Son of God, let us hold fast our confession. For we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but one who in every respect has been tempted as we are, yet without sin. Let us then with confidence draw near to the throne of grace, that we may receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need.”

I think many of us can understand that God would be a righteous judge against ungodliness, that He has wrath against sin, that He wields great power, and that He is holy. But I hope I’m not alone in finding His closeness to the downtrodden, the fallen, and the broken as being really hard to wrap my mind around!

This is a deeply practical problem. You can’t divorce theological conviction from how you live your daily life. Finding Christ’s meekness a difficult concept to absorb, I sometimes lean toward an imbalanced life. Without meditating enough on Christ’s mercy and sympathy to the struggles of a wicked man like myself, I gravitate more toward what I believe I do understand: my wretchedness.

What do you get when you have a believer who understands that he is a sinner deserving of eternal judgement but struggles to accept that he is a recipient of mercy? Though his heart yearns for Christ and His righteousness, a lie makes the honest truths seem beyond reach. The lie is: your redemption is insignificant.

A heart in this condition is divided. The honest hope of this man is truly in Christ, and his salvation has been secured already by the grace of God. But a pernicious untruth has craned the neck of this believer to look inward at the remaining filthiness of sin and to believe this to be the most accurate representation of his state. The Spirit-led part of his heart hopes for the Kingdom of God, but - since his focus has been on the irredeemable sin of his flesh - he has been convinced that the honest hopes of his heart are actually born of self-deception. It is a confusion of the highest order, one that prevents a Christian from living out his true calling with his undivided attention - and a confusion with which I am well-acquainted.

In short, instead of believing that I am a child of God by grace, a fallen part of me condemns me as if I was not. So, in my weaker moments, my heart resorts to an unholy compromise: that perhaps I am welcome in the house of God, but only as a dog. I may be in the dining room, but I only lay on the floor and eat the crumbs from the table while others more worthy garner God’s more rapt attention.

Matthew 15:24-28 says...

“He answered, ‘I was sent only to the lost sheep of the house of Israel.’ But she came and knelt before Him, saying, ‘Lord, help me.’ And He answered, ‘It is not right to take the children’s bread and throw it to the dogs.’ She said ‘Yes, Lord, yet even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their masters’ table.’ Then Jesus answered her, ‘O woman, great is your faith! Be it done for you as you desire.’ And her daughter was healed instantly.”

There’s a theme there that I grabbed onto a long time ago. I knew that I had been bought with a price, the Lord wouldn’t let me forget that. But my heart refused to unfocus from my sinful nature. It instead used this passage in Matthew and keep me where I didn’t belong. The mistake in my thinking was that Christ redeemed me who was dead in my trespasses and sins (Eph. 2:1) and made me a dog - a second rate, quasi-Christian. For the hopeless, going from being dead to being a dog isn’t that bad of a deal. Unless you know better, it’s a great deal. From being cast into outer darkness to at least being in your gracious masters’ dining room is a worthy trade! Everyone knows, however, a dog has no share in the inheritance of the master's children.

But this falls short of what the Bible teaches. To settle for being a dog is a tragedy when, in reality, you’ve been adopted as a son or daughter! The obsession with relegating oneself to the station of a cur is to, in reality, choose to disbelieve the promises of God. It is a tacit allegation of dishonesty on God’s part - saying that He is either not that mighty to save or that your sin makes you an exception to the redemptive rule. This is faithlessness hidden under the veil of fake piety.

Consider the following:

“For the Son of Man came to seek and to save the lost.”  Luke 19:10

“There is therefore now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus. For the law of the Spirit of life has set you free in Christ Jesus from the law of sin and death.”  Romans 8:1-2

But most importantly, this:

“What then shall we say to these things? If God is for us, who can be against us? He who did not spare His own Son but gave Him up for us all, how will He not also with Him graciously give us all things? Who shall bring any charge against God’s elect? It is God who justifies. Who is to condemn? Christ Jesus is the one who died - more than that, who was raised - who is at the right hand of God, who indeed is interceding for us. Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall tribulation or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or danger, or sword? As it is written, ‘For your sake we are being killed all the day long; we are regarded as sheep to be slaughtered.’ No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through Him who loved us. For I am sure that neither death nor life, nor angels nor rulers, nor things present nor things to come, nor powers, nor height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.”  Romans 8:31-39

To say to your own soul that the best God did for you was to bring you from death to a grudgingly-awarded spot on the floor in His general vicinity (with the unspoken threat of expulsion for the slightest mistake) is to do violence to His mighty ability to bring about your salvation (Zeph. 3:17). Why does my heart insist on its own harm by attempting to shackle God’s redemptive work?

One of the greatest resources I’ve encountered lately in dealing with this struggle is found in The Bruised Reed, by the Puritan Richard Sibbes. A great quote here:

“If Christ should not be merciful to our weaknesses, He should not have a people to serve Him. Suppose therefore we are very weak, yet so long as we are not found amongst malicious opposers and underminers of God’s truth, let us not give way to despairing thoughts; we have a merciful Saviour.” (pg. 58)

Even to those who are in Christ but find themselves in sin - as we do all too often - there is hope. Sibbes continues:

“What course shall such take to recover their peace? They must condemn themselves sharply, and yet cast themselves upon God’s mercy in Christ, as at their first conversion. And now they must embrace Christ the more firmly, as they see more need in themselves; and let them remember the mildness of Christ here, that He will not quench the smoking flax.” (pg. 60)

Through these struggles, I have learned some things:

Christ is indeed lowly enough in heart so as to understand our weakness and not despise it.

The redemption that true believers find in Him is no lie, it is not done by half measures - since it is with the death and resurrection of Christ’s whole body that we have been purchased. Thus, the redemption is total, to be fully seen in due time.

To doubt one’s standing with God after being redeemed by Christ is to accuse Him of being less than He is. Do you believe Him to be an effective Savior? Then you must trust that He is qualified to save!

When a sinner is saved by grace, it is to no small and insignificant station. Consider the following:

“For you did not receive the spirit of slavery to fall back into fear, but you have received the Spirit of adoption as sons, by whom we cry, ‘Abba! Father!’ The Spirit himself bears witness with our spirit that we are children of God, and if children, then heirs—heirs of God and fellow heirs with Christ, provided we suffer with him in order that we may also be glorified with him.”  Romans 8:15-17

Where, then, is there room for God’s children to act as though they are just dogs at the dining room table?

[dearophelia]

Lol duh. Gonna ask about Dropsonde.

I adore you. I’m gonna answer them all because I’m that person. Also includes 6-8 for @swaps55! Thank you both!! [dropsonde (singers in a lower choir remix)]

1: What inspired you to write the fic this way?

For the original? I think it was a half-baked scene that came to me while I was on vacation in Florida. I remember scribbling it down in a notebook and then going to town when I got back home. I threw a bunch of time-skips in there because, frankly, I didn’t want to write small children. I do not blame 2007 Sara for this. She was a wise human.

For the revamp? A cascading domino effect started in last October and resulted in my mental health going entirely sideways for eight solid months. Literally nothing was working to screw my head on straight again: not meds, not therapy, not yoga, not getting my sleep and food under control, literally nothing. I think it was around early June when I realized the hallucinations weren’t going away this time (and perhaps had never really left) and I hit the end of my rope. Luckily, my great pal Aly texted me out of the blue with the fact that she’d fallen face-first back down a Grey’s black hole. We got to talking about our various fics we’d both written, how nostalgic we were for them, and I re-opened the OneNote notebook I had for this. Started writing, didn’t look back.

I'm not gonna say that I’m stable again as a result (I’m really not), but I’ve written like 30k words in the last three weeks, which is the most I’ve written since August of last year, and it’s something to do and think about that isn’t pure doom and panic. It makes me happy, and makes me happy in a way that doesn’t include caveats or exceptions; there’s nothing else in my life right now that’s just happy. It’s helping.

2: What scene did you first put down?

For the original, it was the one at the beginning of (the original) chapter 2, where Addison’s finishing up Goodnight Moon for the nine-hundredth time. For the remix, it was the actual opener: where Addison finds someone else’s shoes in her apartment.

3: What’s your favorite line of narration?

Later, when the snow has turned into rain and they've even managed a round three, Addison curls up against his chest, tangling their legs together. She smiles. She'd been using dead reckoning to make it out of her storms her entire life. Now she has a lighthouse.

4: What’s your favorite line of dialogue?

"Your storm is a natural disaster. It's chaotic and wild and unpredictable and often the only thing I can do is hang on. But that storm brought me you. That storm brought me love and a future I didn't see a path to." His fingers coast across her bare shoulders, mapping constellations out of freckles. "And if I'm the lighthouse in your storm, then I promise you to stay standing and lit, because I need you to know the way home from your storm, Ads. To me."

5: What part was hardest to write?

I remember the original sort of effortlessly flying out of my fingertips. What’s been challenging about the rewrite is filling in all the little gaps the original left; writing the spaces between the facts. Don’t get me wrong - that has been fun as hell, but also challenging because I have to remember the voices of these characters I haven’t checked in on in over a decade.

6: What makes this fic special or different from all your other fics?

IT’S MY WARM COMFY BLANKET UNIVERSE. It also...it does not have a plot. There are pieces of plot to it, but there’s not an overarching plot or anything. It’s not a mission, it’s not a rescue, it’s not anything that has plot-based structure. It’s just life. I hate plot, I hate it, it’s the worst. This lets me write shit in a world I like and not care about what happens next because life just be like that sometimes.

7: Where did the title come from?

2007 Sara was an idiot and really liked formatting her chaptered fics by snagging an album and making each chapter title a track on the album. Even if the album didn’t remotely fit (even better if it didn’t, because she thought she was such a musical snob. she was not. she was full of crap). “dropsonde” is an album by the trance group Biosphere (and I hate it. I think I hated it back then, too). It’s also a hurricane tracking tool. So that’s a weird legacy to have to work with.

The revamp’s remix title comes from Leonard Cohen, because 2020 Sara is a pretentious asshole and owning it. Book of Mercy 1: In a transition so delicate it cannot be marked, the court is established on beams of golden symmetry, and once again I am a singer in the lower choirs, born fifty years ago to raise my voice this high and no higher.

That line gives me so much life and hope: I don’t have to try to sing higher. I don’t have to reach for other octaves, I don’t have to try to shove myself into a space that isn’t Sara-shaped, and in fact I should not. Because I was born to sing in this Sara-shaped choir and it would be insulting to myself and to the creators to insinuate that this Sara-shaped choir was not made for me. The space you inhabit is holy because it is yours. As much a reminder for me as it is for the characters.

8: Did any real people or events inspire any part of it?

I don’t think I grabbed anything from actual reality? I may have. Especially in the original prequel/second part/whatever we’re calling Shenzhou, when I was grasping at straws for ideas and wrote a few really random scenes just to fill up space.

9: Were there any alternate versions of this fic?

Not of the fic itself, but this Rachel Montgomery is definitely the same Rachel Montgomery in gonna set your flag on fire. 

10: Why did you choose this pairing for this particular story?

Because it was 2007, I was writing fic instead of doing homework, and Addison/Alex was very much about to become a thing after being teased for a whole fucking season. Missed opportunities: the goddamn ship. I’m still mad.

11: What do you like best about this fic?

It’s fun. It makes me happy. And I don’t care about what anyone thinks about it - there are no expectations, I’m not trying to live up to “oh god I hope it’s good enough for so-and-so” (which, yknow, is bullshit anyway, but is how my brain was working on gonna set your flag on fire). It’s completely free from strings. So I can do what I want. Who cares. 

12: What do you like least about this fic?

It’s real fuckin’ long and I’m real fuckin’ long-winded. I’m about 30k in and Rachel’s not even one yet. Hot yikes.

But, on the plus side, as part of the “who gives a shit, do what you want” mentality, I’ve broken out of the “oh god I have to write the other side of this, I have to keep x topic going.” No, no I really don’t. It’s an Addison story, it’s always been an Addison story, I just didn’t realize that 13 years ago. It’s an Addison story and everyone else is window dressing that can come and go as the sun requires it.

13: What music did you listen to, if any, to get in the mood for writing this story? Or if you didn’t listen to anything, what do you think readers should listen to to accompany us while reading?

oh boy, here have an eight-hour playlist

14: Is there anything you wanted readers to learn from reading this fic?

plot is overrated. write what you want.

15: What did you learn from writing this fic?

I learned how much I’ve improved as a writer in 13 years. Part of this experiment was to shut down the “you’re not a good writer, you suck, no one likes you, everyone’s just tolerating you” voice that has plagued me for my entire life and got a lot louder at the end of last year because of Reasons. That voice is still trying really hard, but it doesn’t have much of a leg to stand on when I can point to a scene I wrote in 2007 and then the exact same scene written in 2020 and see just how much better it is now.

[damienthepious]

oh boy. oh boy. oh fuck. oh boy. SCATTERED RETURNS????? y’know that reckoning chapter that tried to kill me? it happened again. also we ain’t done quite yet, darlins

Scattered On My Shore (Chapter 16)

[Ch 1] [Ch 2] [Ch 3] [Ch 4] [Ch 5] [Ch 6] [Ch 7] [Ch 8] [Ch 9] [Ch 10] [Ch 11] [Ch 12] [Ch 13] [Ch 14] [Ch 15] [ao3] [Ch 17] [Ch 18] [Ch 19]

Fandom: The Penumbra Podcast

Relationship: Lord Arum/Sir Damien/Rilla, Sir Damien/Rilla, Lord Arum & The Keep

Characters: Rilla, Lord Arum, Sir Damien, The Keep

Additional Tags: Second Citadel, Lizard Kissin’ Tuesday, Pre-Relationship, (for the three of them. it’s established r/d), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Injury, Injury Recovery, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn, (this will also be), Enemies to Lovers, (for damien and arum eventually lol), Mutual Pining, canon typical Arum ignoring feelings

Fic Summary: Strange things wash up out of the lake near Rilla’s hut, on occasion. But this monster… this monster is certainly the strangest.

Chapter Summary: A confrontation, of sorts.

Chapter Notes: This chapter took a long time, huh? I'd say I'm sorry but I don't want to make my friends sad by being overly critical of myself. It's rough right now, not gonna lie. We're all doing our best. I hope this chapter will do at least a little bit to make up a little bit of softness. Be safe. I love you.

~

On the balcony outside his workshop, Arum draws his claws through the air, plucking invisible threads, his intent aligning with that of his Keep to play the swamp beneath them like a harp.

Unweaving the new border surrounding his home is not a difficult task. In fact, it is of an appropriate delicacy that Arum can utilize it as a sort of test, as a way to measure how much he has fallen out of practice.

The boundary softens slowly beneath them, each branch and vine relaxing, relenting, returning to its former growth, and Arum can feel the Keep relaxing as well, as the reality of Arum's homecoming settles within them both.

When they have managed perhaps a third of the border, the Keep tugs at the edges of his mind, and Arum could argue, perhaps, could try to push the Keep to continue the work for a little while longer-

But he is tired, in truth. The journey, the quickened healing, the- the depth of emotion he felt to be reunited with his Keep, all have left him feeling shaky and faded. The borders have been like this for some time now, he reasons. He need not rush.

Besides, he thinks, his lip curling wryly, Amaryllis would surely give him that narrowed-eye look if she knew he tried to push himself so soon after coming home. He cannot risk the force of her stubbornness combining with that of the Keep. Arum buries a laugh at the thought, sighs instead, and steps back in from the balcony to his workshop.

The Keep sings softly as he reaches to pull down a familiar set of knives, as he straps the hilts on again, feeling them more as a talisman than a defense.

"I know," he murmurs, drawing his palms over the hilts by turns, sighing. "I would apologize, but-"

The Keep sings less softly, then. Arum laughs.

"Precisely. I did not think you would." He pauses, feeling the safety and familiarity surrounding him. "Keep," he says, very softly, and then he closes his eyes and tries to pour out the affection that is coiling within him, how deeply he missed his Keep, how warm and relieved his love. It is easier, this way, to let the Keep know how he feels. Words- between the two of them words do not always feel right. He is the Keep's Lord, its Creation, and he may brush their minds together as easily as reaching out to take a hand. He knows his Keep can feel it, his pulse of love, and he feels it brighten before he is twined again in vines, before the rush of love and contentment the Keep sends him in return nearly folds his legs with its fierceness.

It sings, closer to a lullaby than a message, cradling him close, and Arum pretends not to rub his eyes again, allowing himself to be held for a minute or so more before he squeezes one of the vines around him, silently signaling to be let back down.

"Yes, well," he mutters, tail flicking as the Keep gives a vague hum. "There is still much to be done, I imagine. Bring me down to the kitchens; I expect they will be hungry soon."

The Keep pauses, then, and lilts an alternative.

He chokes a laugh. "Oh, fine. Do as you will, then. I expect they will be grateful, anyway." He tilts his head, worrying the edge of his mended cape in one hand as the Keep hums an affirmative, slowly coiling a different doorway out of the floor. "I- yes. If they are waiting, then. Go ahead."

The Keep lets him out into the greenhouse, drifting its attention away to prepare a proper meal for its Lord and his guests, and Arum-

Arum sees them, Amaryllis and Damien seated close together on the mossy bark of a fallen tree, their hands clasped together in their laps, their heads ducked close together as they murmur something unknowable to each other, and when Amaryllis' jaw clenches, Damien lifts a hand, cups her cheek, and then gently brushes an errant curl back behind her ear as her expression softens again.

Arum's own hands tremble, but he shakes his head hard, ensuring that his footsteps are too loud to miss, even for their limited human hearing as he forces himself to approach.

The both of them startle as they hear him, leaning back to watch him, though they do not untangle their hands.

"I hope you have been amusing yourselves well enough in my absence," he says, feigning mildness, but his attempt at levity does not seem to work. Amaryllis glances to Damien, something silent passing between them before she stands, Damien standing a moment later.

"Arum," Amaryllis begins, gently, and Arum's scales shiver with nerves automatically. Her tone is… serious, which is both unusual and concerning.

He forces himself not to flinch in a visible way as he meets her eyes, noting the gentle curve of her frown, the tension in the way she is still holding one of Sir Damien's hands, and he narrows his eyes in concern, ducking his head slightly. "What… what is it, Amaryllis?"

He can feel it already. They've decided to leave tonight. Decided that staying in a monster's den is too much. He should have expected-

"I have a- a question, actually," she says, and then she bites her lip. "And I need to know- I wanna know that you're gonna be- that you'll answer honestly."

"What call would I have to lie to you?" Arum says, more surprised than insulted. "You have already seen me at my lowest, Amaryllis." He pauses, then snorts. "And Sir Damien has rather helpfully pointed out that he is perfectly able to discern when I attempt deception."

Damien's lip turns into a wry sort of frown, but he does not interrupt. Clearly, it is Amaryllis leading this charge. She worries her lip between her blunt white teeth for a moment, her frame radiating strange tension. More concerning still. He is unsure if he has ever seen Amaryllis display this sort of- nervousness, before.

"Well?" Arum says when the pause draws long. "Ask, doctor. You won't get your answer in silence, I can assure you of that. I have many talents, but reading human minds is not among them."

"How do you- feel about me," she blurts, her tone going breathless and weak on the latter half, and Arum chokes on his own breath in surprise.

"Wh-what?"

"I know we said- we talked about what happens after. And about trust and about- about we and- and how we're going to miss each other, but- but I still don't know if…" she sucks in a breath, wincing and glancing away, and Arum sees Sir Damien's hand squeeze her own, and after a moment her shoulders settle slightly from their tension, and she meets his terrified eyes again. "I don't know if you feel like I do. Mind reading isn't in my wheelhouse either, Arum, and- and I just want to know. Before we- before we leave. I need to know if we feel the same way about each other, or if-"

"Amaryllis, I- don't be absurd." Arum can feel himself panicking, can feel a distant buzz of confusion from the Keep as it feels his spiking distress, and he skips back an awkward half step as Amaryllis reaches a hand towards him. "You know that I am- am impossibly grateful for all you've done-"

She winces at that, too. She draws her hand back to cover her mouth for a moment, and then she shakes her head. "Is that- is it just that you feel- grateful? Just- still the same way it was when you tried to leave that last time- just- thank you for services rendered, such as they were? Is that all that it is? Is that all that you feel about me?"

Arum looks away. "I think you know perfectly well that that is not even remotely the extent of- of-" he breaks off, not knowing any safe way to complete that thought. "I think you know."

"That's-" her face splits into something that is not a smile, if only because of the way her eyes are wide and strange and sad. "I don't know, Arum. That's kind of the whole problem. I need to know how you feel about me because if I don't know then I can't do anything about it."

Arum goes still, panic easing into something calmer, more cruel.

"Do anything about it," he echoes. "You feel you would need to do something about it, were our feelings misaligned? If I do not feel as you hope I do? If I have- overstepped, if the depth of my emotion has infringed on his claim?"

Amaryllis blinks, and then she glances where Arum has pointed, towards a Damien who appears equally puzzled by Arum's words. "Wait, what?"

"Have no fear, little human," Arum growls, his tail coiling behind him in a threat. "I have no misapprehensions about what we are. I have no delusions about what has passed between us. A kindness and a mercy, both, but nothing more."

"What?" she says again, and then she releases Sir Damien's hand and tries, again, to step closer. "Wait, no, that's not-"

Arum snarls, and Rilla pauses, her hand outstretched in the air between them.

"I will be forever indebted to you, Amaryllis of Exile," he says, forcing his voice low and steady. "Indebted to your knight as well, as infuriating as that detail remains. But I will not be mocked in my own home. You have shown me kindness and mercy beyond what I deserve, certainly, but that does not free you to treat me cruelly in turn."

"Cruel-"

"In the morning, the both of you will leave, and if the Universe is kind we will never need see each other again. Do you not think it cruel, then, to draw that grief out? To force our focus upon it?"

"But if we just talk about it, we might not n-"

"I know I have made myself a fool," Arum spits, and then- he wilts, his shoulders sagging. "I would do so again, I think. But I will not abide you holding my foolishness to the light."

"Arum-"

He turns, the softness in her eyes too utterly unbearable. "I am… I am tired, Amaryllis. The Keep will bring the both of you food in short time. When you are tired, ask for a place to rest and it will provide one. In the morning it will open a way back to the edge of the swamp. Farewell."

"No- wait," Amaryllis says behind him, her tone sharp, almost scared. "No. Wait- I am not saying goodbye to you yet-"

"Keep," Arum says, voice flat and toneless. "Back to the workshop. Now."

There is a pause before the Keep obeys, but it is short. Arum relents to the pain behind his ribcage only barely, only enough to glance over his shoulder one more time. Amaryllis looks caught between misery and fury, looks half tempted to bolt after him, and Sir Damien- Sir Damien looks stiff, unreadable.

"Farewell," he says again, more quietly, and then he turns away.

He is only a step from the doorway when Sir Damien's voice rings out behind him.

"Lord Arum!"

Arum clenches his teeth. He should ignore the knight entirely. He has said his goodbyes. He has closed this chapter with his own hands. He has reshelved the book.

"Lord Arum, I demand you face me, now. I will not condone so cowardly a retreat."

Arum spins on his heel, exhaling a sharp shocked laugh. "Cowardly - how you dare is beyond-

"I see you are armed, now, Lord Arum," Damien says, his voice rather carefully even. "Armed, and healed, and there is still a duel you owe me. I would see that challenge fulfilled."

"The duel?" Arum wrinkles his snout, bares his teeth. "I should laugh. I am an artist with my blades, but even I could not best an archer with weapons meant for closer quarters than these."

"I still carry the weapon you sharpened for me; I imagine it should prove a reasonable match to your own steel. I would see our duel fulfilled," he says again, "blade to blade."

Arum scoffs. "A meager tool you use, but it would suffice. Do you wish to die, knight? Or have you finally remembered your duty?"

"You will you duel me, then?" Damien asks, insistent, ignoring Arum's questions.

"Oh," Arum says, something between a snarl and a bitter laugh in his tone. "Oh, so now the little honeysuckle means to kill me? Now you are amenable to-"

"I have no intentions of the sort," Damien says smoothly. "But you said yourself that you did not prefer to leave matters unsettled, and this matter remains so, between us. I believe you need be reminded of that."

"Ha," Arum snarls. "Unsettled. It would not be unsettled if you did your duty-"

"You conceded to my skill in wordplay, friend lizard," Damien says, his cheeks dark and his smile soft. "I am curious to see who will triumph in swordplay."

Arum narrows his eyes, and it is some combination of reckless despair and curiosity that compels him to draw his own blade, at last, in response.

"Very well, little fool. Keep," Arum snarls, though his eyes are still fixed on Damien. "Close the door, and then back as you were. I command that you do not interfere. This duel will be mine and mine alone, no matter which fate the Universe intends for me."

"Thank you," Damien says as the Keep closes the way again with visible reluctance, and Arum growls low, tail coiling as he brandishes the blade.

"Okay this is stupid," Amaryllis says, stern though her voice is still wavering, but Damien is smiling now, and he lifts a hand in her direction.

"Trust, my love. I will beg you to trust me. You know my heart, do you not?"

Rilla presses her lips together tight, her eyes meeting Damien's for a long, torturous moment, and then she gives a small grim smile and nods. "I do."

"How precious," Arum drawls, dancing his knife between his fingers. "You wanted this duel, Damien. Now fight me."

"As you say, Lord Arum," Damien says, closing his eyes for a with an utterly strange smile. "I am Tranquil, and I am ready. Face me as you will."

Arum coils, tense, for a long moment, feeling out Damien's steady, waiting stance, but the knight is more patient than he. Arum strikes first, a wild lunge meant to unsettle Damien's footing, but Damien in unmoved as their blades clash, and then he deftly steps sideways as Arum lunges again.

"A fine opening," the knight says mildly, as if they were discussing something so simple as the day's meal. "I was correct to think that your reverence for the blade would translate to a certain deftness with this sort of comba-"

Arum lashes out, interrupting with a snarl, but Damien's smile flashes brighter as he parries.

"Even in this you lilt, little songbird?" Arum complains. He is already beginning to feel warm, breathless- he has not exerted himself in this way in ages. Even with his body healing properly under the Keep's influence, Arum is stretching muscles he has not had cause to use in quite some time.

Arum struggles not to find the feeling exhilarating.

"I have a talent for prattling, Lord Arum, as I have been told again and again." Damien grins wide, flicking his wrist out to clash against Arum's next strike. "If you compel me to silence it will be a feat indeed."

"We shall see, little knight."

"So we shall," Damien murmurs, and they are- close, but Arum shoves and Damien spins away, stance defensive to await the next attack. "There is another matter still unsettled, however, more important than my own lilting tongue."

Arum struggles not to roll his eyes. "It is always something with you creatures, isn't it?"

"You failed to answer Rilla's question. Perhaps you thought your deflection sufficient-" he pauses to leap as Arum strikes with his tail, his footwork elegant enough to be repurposed for a dance. "Sufficient," he continues, "to distract from that fact, but I would have you answer, before you give your farewells."

"They have already been given, knight-"

"And yet," Damien says. His cheeks are dark, but Arum can hear that his breaths are still steady. He has barely begun to exert himself. "Prematurely removing yourself from us will not change how you feel, Lord Arum. Nor will it change how we feel."

Arum manages not to stumble, but only barely. He flicks his blade up just in time to keep the knight from pinning him, ducking low and rolling beneath Damien's arm. "I am- perfectly aware that I am incapable of changing your feelings, knight," he snarls, keeping low and defensive as Damien circles him.

Damien's expression softens, oddly. "You cannot change how we feel now," he says. "I am unsure if you understand, however, the degree to which you already have."

Arum leaps, nearly catching Damien's arm with the tip of his blade, but the knight sidesteps with a sliver of space between his skin and the edge.

"Arum, you cannot-"

Arum snarls, striking before Damien fully manages his footing again, but he cannot seem to unbalance the knight.

"Arum, you cannot conceal how you look at her, and I know you must- you must be able to see how she looks at you-"

Arum's scales shiver with a flash of cold, these words more than the risk to his life filling him with terror. "I see," he spits, tail thrashing and frill flared. "Of course. Insulted on behalf of your lover, of course, I remember- I remember quite early on I implied your Amaryllis might have grown some ill-placed fondness for me and you nearly killed me for that alone. Of course this- yes. Little knight, you must, of course, defend your Rilla's honor against so foul a beast as I."

Damien laughs, bright and oddly keening as he dodges another blow. "I should hate to contradict a Lord, but I am afraid you are as far from the mark as you could hope to be. She is radiant, Rilla is light and love herself, she is brilliance and glory and she is made to be adored, of course you would feel that glow, of course you would." He smiles, shocking and full of heat, and Arum hates himself for the way his ribs seem to clench around his heart like sharp cold fingers. "And you, Lord Arum, you-"

"And I am a monster," Arum hisses, and his next strike is sloppy with despair, and the edge of Damien's blade catches against the curved base of his own, and the knight flicks his wrist so deftly, so easily-

The knife flies aside, gleaming steel painting the air in flashes before it thuds to rest on the mossy floor of the greenhouse, and the blade Sir Damien wields is cool and close against Arum's throat in the same instant.

They pant, for a long moment, and Damien is so close that Arum can nearly taste the heat of him, his gentle eyes bright and focused on Arum's own.

"Well?" he breathes after the pause has drawn long. "Do it, then."

"Do you still believe, truly, that I have any desire to harm you?" Damien says, his tone lilting like song, and Arum's heart clenches again.

"Your knife certainly seems to say so," he growls.

"I told you, Arum. I only wished to remind you. Once, yes, I swore I would slay you, when we finally dueled. This I admit. But I am not the same man I was, so short a time ago."

Arum laughs, choking and desperate, the steel still tickling his neck.

"I have won this duel," Damien says gently. "I would have you answer me honestly, now."

Arum swallows, clenches his teeth. "Ask, then. Ask, and be done with it."

"Do you-" Damien pauses, a layer of his smooth confidence shifting aside, a hint of nerves showing through. "Would you- want us to stay? If we could, if- if we were not pressed by responsibility, would you have us stay?"

Arum would have expected nearly any other question, before the one Sir Damien has posed. He expected one particular question, first. He cannot remember how to breathe, for a moment, and the nervous tilt to Damien's smile makes him wish to lean forward, despite the knife, and-

And Arum's lips are parted, but there are no words upon his tongue.

Damien waits, though. In his periphery, Arum can see Amaryllis waiting as well, a hand pressed to her mouth.

"If-" Arum pauses, swallows, flicks his tongue. "If it were possible. If you could."

Damien's eyes are so bright they are nearly hypnotic, and his own lips are parted, now, though he does not interrupt.

"I only wish to see you gone," Arum admits, helpless and hopeless and keening, "because it feels like breaking again, to know you cannot stay. The faster the break-" he chokes, and looks away, and he knows his voice is breaking too, "the cleaner it will be."

"If we offered you anything you desired from us, what would you ask?" Damien asks, his voice low and steady, though Arum can feel his heart still thudding hard.

"I- I have answered one question already, honeysuckle, I do not-"

"You conceded to me in two contests, Lord Arum. I believe two questions is a fair exchange."

Arum snorts. "Fair-"

"What would you ask of us," Damien repeats, firm, "if we offered to grant you anything that was in our power to give?"

Arum presses his lips together tight, his throat thick and his eyes hot. "Anything?" he asks, his voice catching ragged, snarling, monstrous, but Damien only smiles even more gently.

"Anything."

"If… if I could have anything," Arum whispers, claws clenching, and then he closes his eyes. His pride is such a small thing to lose, in the end. "A place at your table," he says, soft and full of too much undeniable longing. "A place for me, seated at your sides, for as long as you would have me."

Damien's grip loosens, and when Arum blinks his eyes back open Damien's own eyes are wide and shocked, his cheeks darkening as his heart stumbles. Arum can hear that heart, can hear the way Damien swallows, then, as well.

"Oh," Damien says, too soft. "Oh, Saint Damien, your Tranquility, now when most I need-" he inhales, exhales with a smile, and then he drops the knife away from Arum's throat.

"Wh-what are you-"

Damien holds the blade out, hilt first, and presses it into Arum's palm.

"There is one more question before you," Damien murmurs as Arum's fingers curl around the metal, and though he is no longer pinning the monster against the trunk of the tree behind him, the poet is still close, is still crowding Arum with his heat and his scent and the rhythm of his heart. "I would hear your answer under no duress, if you choose to do so."

Damien seems so utterly unafraid of the blade that Arum now holds, the gleaming, newly sharpened edge that he holds close against Damien's collarbone. He is looking up into Arum's eyes, something in his expression nearly shy, and Arum-

Arum-

Arum drops his hand, slipping the knife back into the sheath at Sir Damien's hip. Damien's breath catches again, his dark cheeks going even darker, but Arum can only spare a hint of attention to that while he steels himself, while he clenches his teeth and inhales and lifts his head to look over Sir Damien's shoulder, to see Amaryllis where she stands.

Amaryllis stares both of them, her dark eyes wide, her hands clasped over her mouth, and-

Arum is not brave. He has never been. But Arum remembers every single time this creature before him has reached out her hand to him despite every reason not to.

... and Arum thinks that perhaps he can pretend to share even an ounce of the bravery she has shown him.

"I love you," he says, and there is a lightness that comes as the syllables escape him, a freedom that makes him feel reckless, and as Amaryllis' stares at him with something like awe shining on her face, he thinks he might have begun to smile. "I have for some time, now," he murmurs. "I love you, and meeting eyes with death was a small price to pay for the honor of knowing you."

Arum is certain he is smiling, now. He is just as certain that there are tears in his eyes.

He manages to pull his gaze from Amaryllis', after a moment, with no small degree of effort. "And you, little songbird," he says, glancing down, "as for you-"

Arum is interrupted.

Sir Damien's lips press to his own, muffling him to a humming gasp, and the poet's hands are upon him, one on his cheek and the other twisting in his cape, pulling him down. It arcs through him like magic, like- like poetry. Certain lines of which he cannot help but remember, just now.

"I love you," Damien breathes against him when he breaks the kiss, soft and sure as birdsong.

"Damien," Arum says, too shocked to say anything else, and the shyness slips back into Damien's eyes again.

"I understand if our former conflicts are- too much to move beyond, for you, if you do not feel about me as you do about Rilla, if-"

Arum pulls Damien closer, arms wrapping snug around him, slipping the claws of one hand into the poet's hair now that he can do away with pretense, now that he no longer needs to bury that temptation. Damien gasps against his mouth, and on instinct Arum catches his bottom lip with his teeth, careful and testing. "Ridiculous- ridiculous little bird-" he presses his lips against Damien's again, and his own words- they are insufficient. "So ascended I," he growls, pulling Damien closer, closer, "alight- and burning-"

Damien gasps again when he recognizes his own verse, something like a sob in his voice. "Arum-"

"I love you, honeysuckle," Arum whispers, and Damien chokes, folding against him, allowing Arum to hold him.

Just to hold him. So simple, and so much, all at once. Damien's hair is soft against the scales of Arum's palm, as soft as Arum imagined that it would be.

"Saints," Rilla breathes, and Arum blinks, glancing towards her again as she presses a hand against her chest and shakes her head. "I swear the two of you are trying to kill me."

"Amaryllis," he says softly, but he cannot think what to say beyond that.

She comes closer, her lip pulling like she's burying a laugh as Arum holds Damien more snugly against his chest, and when she is close enough he reaches out and she- she smiles wider, cupping his cheek and slotting herself in beside the poet.

"Amaryllis," he murmurs again, and she wraps her other arm around Damien, the palm on Arum's cheek slipping further to cup the back of his skull, making him shiver, making his chest rumble deeper.

"I love you too," she says, and Arum realizes- he realizes that he knew, already. Somewhere deep and hidden, somewhere he did not allow himself to look, before. "Can I kiss you?"

Arum chokes on a laugh. "I- of course you- ridiculous, Amaryllis-"

She rolls her eyes, and as the laugh bubbles from her lips he leans down, nuzzling against her lips and reveling in the brightness of her mirth.

"I love you," he says again, his scales tickling Amaryllis' skin, his hands holding Damien close. "I love you." He pauses, holds them both even closer for a moment. "I… I do not know what we are meant to do. What this will mean, for all of us-"

"Big questions, Arum," Amaryllis says gently. "Good questions, too, and we're gonna have to talk about them sooner rather than later, I think, but-" she wets her lips, giving him a cautious sort of smile. "But maybe that can wait until tomorrow? I- I just kind of- I just want to be like this, for a little while. Okay?"

Okay, as if he would possibly object. There is no possible way for him to hold her closer. Instead he presses his face into her neck, burying himself in the softness of her skin. "Of course," he whispers there. "It will keep, Amaryllis."

"It will keep," Damien echoes in his arms, and then his voice goes a little higher, a little more frightened as he fists his hands in Arum's cape. "I apologize for- I am sorry to have drawn upon you, I only-"

"Thank you," Arum says, before Damien can lose himself to the panic, "for making me stay."

Arum feels the tug in his mind only a moment before the Keep sings, bemused and uncertain, and and Arum reluctantly loosens his grip on the humans.

"Ah," he says. "Right. Er- I don't suppose… the pair of you are hungry?"

Amaryllis laughs, and Arum struggles against the desire to press their mouths together again. "Yeah, actually. Long, long day." She shakes her head as they disentangle from the embrace, still smiling, and then she- reaches out again, and tangles her fingers together with his own. Damien smiles, and on his other side the poet echoes her, slipping his warm palm against Arum's, and Arum's hands flex, his chest rumbling with something like joy. "Lead the way, then."

~

Dining together is familiar and strange and wonderful, all at once. He has shared so many meals with the both of them already, but never at this table, never with his Keep humming its additions to their conversation. Never with Amaryllis leaning against his side, the edges of the space between them softened to nothing at all. Never with Damien refusing to release his gentle grip on one of his hands for the entirety of the meal, his expression soft and adoring, his lips tumbling with new poetry, hopeful and loving verse. Never with the knowledge that he can reach for them, when he wishes to.

He spends most of the meal wishing to.

They do not seem to mind.

~

Eventually the meal is done, the conversation dripping off to quiet contentment. One human leans on each of Arum's shoulders, speaking slow and drowsy, Amaryllis playing with his hand, pressing the pads of her fingers against his palm, turning his wrist in her hands with fond curiosity as Damien murmurs something rhythmic and quiet against Arum's neck between kisses that are so gentle they make his scales feel electric. Eventually Rilla's grip upon him goes slack, her breaths evening out, and honeysuckle follows not long after.

When they have drifted into unconsciousness still beside the table, the Keep reaches out with vines, draping a blanket it has pulled from Arum's bedroom around all three of them, tucking it around their shoulders and then leaving soft new runners twining around Arum's shoulders, his horns, adding to the embrace.

Arum has never felt quite so warm, before. He has never felt quite so- so certain, so fierce.

He loves his Keep. He would go to war for it. He would fight and scrape and claw his way through anything for the sake of his home, his counterpart. He would die for the Keep. He would.

He would die for the creatures in his arms, now, too.

He shifts very slightly, brushing the backs of his knuckles down Amaryllis' arm, feeling Damien's heart beating soft against the hand that is pinned between his chest and Arum's side.

Yes. He would die for them.

But… Amaryllis wants him to live. She and Damien both. They want him to live. They want- they want more from him than that, even. They-

He cannot think it. His mind shies from it. He is not unsure, not at all, he knows, now, how they feel, but- it seems too fragile a thing, still. Too new and delicate to bear the scrutiny of his mind. He sets their words aside for the moment. He refocuses. They want him to live; that is enough. They, and the Keep, as well. It wishes him alive, it loves him, it is not mere duty that binds them.

“The Senate thinks I am replaceable,” he whispers above the sleeping humans, his memory of the attack still bright in his mind as he shares it with the Keep. The way the representative had shrugged and grinned with sharp white fangs and implied they had found someone better, to make use of the Hermit. “They think I am disposable.” The bright pain of the attack from behind, the further pain and rage that followed during his frantic attempt to defend himself, the bittersweet satisfaction of lifting the Hermit towards the light, the blow that cracked his horn and made his head spin, the choice in less than a breath of further claws or the fall, the water-

Not like his swamp. Not the familiar, still, life-filled water of his home. Water rushing and cool, the bite of sharp rocks until he whited out to almost blissful nothing for immeasurable time, and then the strange, strange stillness that came before the mud, before warm hands and voice and-

Amaryllis’ face, in the darkness. All concern and determination, framed by hair that looked as if the night sky were pouring down around her, before he lost himself to blissful nothing again.

The rest of it the Keep will learn in time. It knows the most important part, now. Arum feels the heat of affection bloom through his counterpart, sees the curling growth of small sprigs of white and orange flowers the Keep is blooming above his doctor.

“They think they can use me and discard me and I will simply die,” Arum murmurs. “Perhaps. Perhaps I may have simply accepted that, once. Perhaps.”

The Keep's vines around his shoulders tighten, secure, and when it sings of comfort and home and life life life, Arum feels it in his mind and in his bones.

“They were wrong,” Arum says, quite simply. “On all accounts.” He pauses, inhaling, feeling the strength he has been missing slowly returning to him, the gentle care of his doctor given new expediency by his home. “We will live, and we will not be used again.”

[->]

[crackimagines]

Sorry if this seems like spam, you're just the best and I keep getting ideas for you. Anyways, maybe one where Child!Blyeth gets sick, like bed-ridden, barely coherent sick, and Jeralt's out on a mission, so it's Big Sisters Mercedes and Annette to the rescue to help their tiny professor until he feels better?

child!Byleth Post Masterlist here!

Thanks for the compliment, I’m glad you enjoy the blog! And don’t you worry a thing! I love the prompts you guys send me, and I checked, and you’ve only sent in like 2 asks anyway.

plus you were there that night when I fucking axed these sweethearts, i gotta make it up somehow

I’m also going to be combining these 2 asks since they’re pretty much the same

Thanks for the ask,  merciful-chaos and anon, hope you enjoy!

—-

MEDIC! (FE: Three Houses Short Fic)

Child!Byleth Professor AU

Byleth becomes sick due to overworking himself. So, there’s naturally only two people who can help with this situation…

—-

The tiny professor sighed loudly as he finally left the Blue Lions classroom. Grading the papers had been exhausting for him. He had recruited so many students to the point of absurdity, and that meant way more extra work.

Then again, he couldn’t exactly say no, so this was mostly his fault of why he had to work so hard.

As he walked, Sothis materialized next to him.

“You look quite pale. Are you alright?”

Now that she mentioned it, he wasn’t exactly feeling his best as of late.

“I’m sure I’ll be fine. Nothing some sleep can’t fix up.”

He continued walking towards the offices, there was at least one more bit of work to do before the night got too late.

Right now it was about the dinner hour, so he could still finish at a reasonable hour.

The more he walked however, he began to feel lightheaded.

“Perhaps we should get back to the room. The work can continue at a later date, off to bed with you!”

As much as he hated leaving work half done, she was right. He sighed again, and started headed back to his room, until he felt his legs give out, and his face planted into the floor.

A squad of knights were patrolling by the entrance to the offices, and saw Byleth on the floor.

(Knight 1) “H-Hey! Professor! Go call for a healer!”

(Knight 2) “Yes sir!”

(Knight 3) “What happened to the kid?!”

(Knight 1) “No injuries, pulse is still good…He may just be exhausted. That said, search the area! I want every nook and cranny checked! Split into teams of two, and alert the other squads!”

…

…

…

When Byleth opened his eyes back up, he was in a bed, and slowly looked around, the room much too bright for his liking.

(Girl’s Voice) “Oh, professor, you’re awake!”

He could barely make out the voice as he started to gain back his sight.

After a few seconds of the world finally coming back to view, the entirety of the Blue Lions class was standing in his room.

(Dimitri) “There are better places to take a nap than on the ground, you know!”

(Byleth) “S-Sorry for worrying you all. What time is it? We need to-”

As he tried getting up, he felt a sharp pain in his head, to which he was gently pushed back to lying down by Dimitri.

(Dedue) “Professor, please get some rest. The healers said you have become sick through exhaustion.”

(Ingrid) “No need to worry about us sir, some other instructors are filling in for you.”

(Byleth) “…S-Should I even ask?”

Everyone awkwardly looked at each other. They knew if they said that Alois of all people had to be their substitute, he’d have a heart attack.

(Felix) “Don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to.”

(Sylvain) “Regardless, hope you feel better teach! We have some very capable people to take care of you while we’re off!”

Byleth felt his anxiety lessen when he heard Sylvain say that.

(Byleth) “Flayn?”

(Annette) “Even better!”

(Mercedes) “We’ll make sure to take good care of you!”

…Byleth’s anxiety then went through the roof.

(Ashe) “Professor, you’re starting to sweat up something fierce. Maybe we should let them take care of you-”

‘PLEASE DON’T LEAVE ME HERE WITH THEM’

…is what he wanted to say, but he started coughing, letting everyone leave the room.

(Bernadetta) “Get b-better soon, professor!”

(Marianne) “We’ll pray for your fast recovery.”

(Raphael) “Yeah, we’ll get a good dinner once you’re out!”

(Caspar) “You make it sound like he’s in prison…”

Caspar had no idea how right he was.

Once the doors closed, Annette nodded and took some soup out.

(Annette) “Here you go professor, I made this soup personally!”

AND NO ONE STOPPED YOU?!

…Is what he was going to say until he felt his throat finally give out. It was clear that he wasn’t going to speak anymore today.

Sothis materialized behind Mercedes and Annette, looking at the soup and shuddering.

That was NOT a good sign.

He was crossing his fingers under the blanket in hoping they weren’t going to do something as humiliating as spoon feed him like an infant.

Luckily, they gave him his own spoon, so he nodded as thanks and took a bite out of it.

He was also luckily that Sothis was the only ones who could hear his thoughts.

BY THE GODDESS THIS IS DISGUSTING!

(Sothis) “I have no concept of cooking but…I wish I said something earlier BEFORE you took a bite…Can you not speak to say that this is horrible?”

Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t do it. Take a look at their eyes.

Sothis did just that, and saw them sparkling. They finally had a chance to be the big sisters.

(Annette) “I-It’s okay? No spitting it out! OH MY GOSH, MERCIE I FINALLY DID IT!”

(Mercedes) “I’m so proud of you, Annie! Your cooking is finally improving!”

Like hell it was.

(Sothis) “…I…I suppose you’re right. What are you going to have to do with that slop?”

Well, considering it’s helping a bit with my illness I…I think I’m going to have to eat it all.

(Sothis) “…Just this once, I will allow you to turn back time outside of combat.”

He honestly considered it until he heard Annette speak up.

(Annette) “You know, I was so worried you wouldn’t like it! When I heard you were sick, I wanted to make sure we could help you get over it as fast as possible!”

(Mercedes) “Annie spent all night trying to get the soup to perfection, and it’s relieving to see its helping you!”

(Sothis & Byleth) “…”

(Sothis) “On second thought, I’d feel too bad.”

Same.

Byleth worked up a smile and nodded at them, which mad both of them smile even wider.

This was going to be the longest day in his life.

Later that night…

Mercedes and Annette did a fine job of taking care of their tiny professor, though it was quite a rough start. They constantly insisted he take naps, which he refused, trying to do paperwork instead.

They eventually had to convince him by saying that he’d get brownies if he cooperated, which was his breaking point.

He hated the fact it had so much power over him, but he had to comply.

Mercedes’ cooking WAS that good…Well, her baking anyway.

Though when Annette offered to sing him to sleep, he said no so fast she didn’t even finish her sentence.

On that note this was the first time he was ever given attention like this. Usually when he was sick, he didn’t make a fuss and just slept it off unless it was very bad in his mercenary days. 

Though, having a healer just do their job would’ve been sufficient he…didn’t entirely hate the fuss Mercedes and Annette caused for him.

Once he finally drifted off into sleep, Mercedes put a blanket over him, and both her and Annette quietly walked out, leaving their tiny professor to rest easy.

(Mercedes) “That was quite fun! There were so many things I didn’t know about Byleth until today!”

(Annette) “I know! We’re finally his big sisters!”

They began laughing, and chatting about how childish Byleth was on the inside. All the while, Sothis watched from outside his room, smiling to herself.

“Oh man, that child is NOT going to be happy once they begin spreading the news…”

Spoiler: HE WASN’T.

[tigerkirby215]

5e Kindred the Eternal Hunters build (League of Legends)

⚠️ WARNING: THE FOLLOWING BUILD USES CONTENT FROM THE MYTHIC ODYSSEYS OF THEROS SOURCEBOOK. DO NOT OPEN IF YOU WISH TO AVOID SPOILERS. ⚠️

(Artwork by Riot Games)

"Lamb, tell me a story."

"There was once a nerd with a D&D addiction who was very bored."

"Why was it bored?"

"All things were shut down because of Coronavirus, so they had nothing to do."

"Did he do something productive with his time?"

"He took a new D&D source book and opened it to a page right down the middle."

"So he'd have something to do?"

"So he'd have something to do.”

GOALS

Never one... without the other - Kindred is no longer grey, but a being of Black and White. But they’re still fully grey, and are intertwined together.

Every life... ends with us - The shadow of death chooses who lives... or rather who dies first.

Not here, not yet - But sometimes death needs a pause, and who better than death itself to choose when its time?

RACE

Lamb is the main character you control, and if you wish for cloven hooves then a Satyr is the best choice. Your Charisma increases by 2 and your Dexterity increases by 1. You can also Ram enemies to do bludgeoning damage equal to a d4 plus your strength.

You’re considered Fey which makes you immune to many spells that only target humanoids, and in addition you have Magic Resistance for advantage against all spells, making you highly resistant to magic!

Finally you have Mirthful Leaps, letting you add a d8 to the height or length of any jump you make. And you are a Reveler which gives you proficiency in Persuasion, Performance, and a musical instrument of your choice: your theme is heavy on the strings so I opted for a Viol personally.

If Satyr isn’t allowed: Shifter is probably your best replacement for an animalistic character. Wildhunt is the obvious pick but Swiftstride is much more in-character for Kindred’s kit.

ABILITY SCORES

15; WISDOM - You have hunted down thousands of marks. You know exactly what every animal or person thinks when they die.

14; DEXTERITY - Lamb’s grace is second only to her skill with a bow.

13; INTELLIGENCE - When you’re as old as time itself you know most things about the world.

12; CHARISMA - Perhaps not the most in-character, but the grey man is naturally intimidating.

10; CONSTITUTION - You have an ADC’s health bar even if you’re a jungler, but the fragile lamb isn’t as in character as...

8; STRENGTH - You wield a bow, not an axe. It’s on Wolf to fight the tough prey.

If you want a more optimized character then swap Constitution and Intelligence, but these stats are better oriented for roleplay.

BACKGROUND

Unfortunately there’s no “literal embodiment of death” background, but Sage is pretty good to mimic a being as old as time. You gain proficiency with Arcana and History along with two languages of your choice. As a Researcher you know where to find any information you can’t remember. That doesn’t mean it’ll be easy to access however...

(Artwork by Riot Games)

THE BUILD

LEVEL 1 - CLERIC 1

Considering that you’re literally a god (of sorts) naturally we’ll be starting as a Cleric. You get two skills from the Cleric list: Religion is the obvious pick, and Insight will help you tell if your target wants the mercy of an arrow... or the jaws of a wolf.

Clerics can also choose their domain at level 1 and naturally since you’re a god of death the Grave domain will help you usher your marks into the beyond. As you stand at the edge of the Circle of Mortality any healing you cast on someone at 0 health will heal for the maximum amount, in case it’s not yet time for your allies. And if all else fails you are also capable of casting Spare the Dying with a range of 30 feet, guaranteeing that your arrow will only find its mark when its time.

Speaking of right time: with Eyes of the Grave you are able to identify anyone who’s beyond their time. As an action you can magically detect any undead within 60 feet of you, as long as they aren’t behind total cover or are protected from divination magic. This sense lasts one round and doesn’t tell you anything about a creature’s capabilities or identity. You can use feature a number of times equal to your Wisdom modifier before needing to Long Rest.

And of course as a Cleric you are capable of Spellcasting. You learn three cantrips from the Cleric list: Toll the Dead is an obvious choice to lead your marks, and Guidance can be a gentle hand to lead them away. And finally Thaumaturgy will make sure that the people know when Kindred has made their mark.

Grave Clerics know the Bane and False Life spells innately, letting them either keep themselves on the battlefield or make sure their enemies have a harder time fighting against the jaws of death. For your prepared spells Healing Word will help you keep your allies away from Wolf, and Guiding Bolt will help you guide your arrow. Detect Magic will also let you see if anyone is trying to hold off your mark, if they wish for Wolf’s jaws.

LEVEL 2 - CLERIC 2

At level 2 Clerics gain access to their Channel Divinity. All Clerics can Turn Undead, forcing undead creatures to make a Wisdom save or flee from their hunter. In addition Grave Clerics can mark a target for a Path to the Grave. As an action you can mark a target and make them vulnerable to the next attack against them, so you can claim your mark quick.

You can also prepare another spell and Detect Evil and Good will let you find your mark, whoever... or whatever it may be.

LEVEL 3 - RANGER 1

You have your mark now you can get your bow. When you multiclass into Ranger you can choose one skill from their list: most of the options make sense but for ease of understanding I’d suggest Animal Handling to deal with Wolf. Speaking of Wolf you can now actually mark people with Favored Foe, giving you the ability to cast Hunter’s Mark without concentration a number of times equal to your Wisdom modifier.

If you’re worrying about your inability to jump you don’t need to since we’ll be using the Class Feature Variants for Ranger to get Deft Explorer, and from Deft Explorer we’ll get the Canny feature for Expertise in Athletics along with two additional languages. Yes rules-as-written jumping relies on flat strength instead of Athletics, but rules-as-written for jumping is dumb since you can technically high jump over 780 feet rules-as-written. So if you have a cool DM chances are they’ll let you jump with Athletics.

LEVEL 4 - RANGER 2

Level 2 Rangers get a Fighting Style and you may be surprised that we’re picking Archery for +2 to hit with ranged weapons, such a long bow. You also get access to Spellcasting. You get two spells from the Ranger list: Beast Bond will let you bond with Wolf so you can speak and work together to chase your prey, and Zephyr Strike will let you speed up with Ghostblade and to do more damage when you hit.

LEVEL 5 - RANGER 3

I’ve mentioned Wolf many times but we’ve yet to get our other half. Thankfully Beastmaster will make sure that you’re never one without the other. You get a Ranger’s Companion, and with the Class Feature Variants you get two universal options. Despite the fact that he’s a “wolf” Wolf flies, so a Beast of the Air would make the most sense. I’m not going to describe the stat block too much (you can see it for yourself) but I will mention the important things here:

Wolf has an AC of 13

Wolf has health equal to a number of d6s equal to your Ranger level plus your Wisdom modifier and 1 from his Constitution modifier. In short the calculation for Wolf’s health is (d6 + WIS mod + 1) * Ranger level.

As a bonus action you can either make Wolf hide or have him make a Shred attack. Shred has a +5 to hit and does a d6 + 3 damage on hit.

Wolf doesn’t provoke opportunity attacks

If Wolf “dies” you can spend a spell slot to bring him back him back after a minute. "Are you there, dear Wolf?" "I am, little Lamb."

With Class Feature Variants you also get Primal Awareness, giving you the ability to cast certain spells once per Long Rest. At third level you get Detect Magic and Speak with Animals. Yes you already have Detect Magic but you can prepare something else if you wish. Speaking of which you learn another spell but for now I’m going to hold off on it, so take whatever you wish.

LEVEL 6 - RANGER 4

4th level Rangers get another Ability Score Improvement, but you may notice that uneven Dexterity score so... Athlete feat! For once there’s actually a reason for this beyond the +1 to Dexterity, as you can make a running long jump or high jump with only 5 feet of run up instead of 10, so you can hop around as you please. Being able to climb and stand up fast is an added bonus.

LEVEL 7 - RANGER 5

5th level Rangers get an Extra Attack, allowing them to attack twice with the attack action on their turn, so you can shoot two arrows instead of one per turn.

You can also learn second level spells now, which means that you can now cast Beast Sense and Locate Animals or Plants once per long rest. You can also learn Healing Spirit to keep your allies from needing your arrow, and from the Class Feature Variants list Magic Weapon will help enhance your shots to guarantee that your arrow is swift and painless.

(Artwork by RinRinDaishi on DeviantArt)

LEVEL 8 - CLERIC 3

At level 3 you can prepare second level Cleric spells. Should probably mention that that spell progression between a full caster and a half caster is odd, so be sure to check the Player Handbook to understand how many spell slots you should have. Anyways as a Grave Cleric you have Gentle Repose and Ray of Enfeeblement innately prepared for further control of live and death, and Enhance Ability will let you guide those who would aid you with your marks.

LEVEL 9 - CLERIC 4

At level 4 you get another Ability Score Improvement, and even though we still have some odd Ability Scores Dexterity is far more important to aim our bow and dodge our enemies.

You can also learn another cantrip and Mending can help clean the area after Wolf is done. For your leveled spell Warding Bond will let you share some of the pain with Wolf, to make sure that you’re forever one.

LEVEL 10 - CLERIC 5

At level 5 Clerics can Destroy Undead of CR 1/2 or lower with their Turn Undead Channel Divinity. Does this ability scale very poorly in multiclass builds? Yes. Does it matter? No, because Turn Undead is rather situational as-is.

You know what isn’t situational? Revivify and Vampiric Touch to keep both yourself and your allies in the fight. Along with your innate spells you can prepare third level spells and Speak with Dead will allow you to give your marks their final words. Perhaps not always useful, but hey you can prepare whatever you want.

LEVEL 11 - CLERIC 6

6th level Grave Clerics are Sentinel at Death’s Door. If your enemies are trying to do your job you can spend a reaction to negate a critical hit. You can use this reaction a number of times equal to your Wisdom modifier, and regain all uses on a Long Rest.

You can also prepare another spell: if you can get in melee range Bestow Curse will allow you to make sure that your mark is effective. (But again you can prepare other spells if you don’t want to get into melee range.) And to top it off you can use your Channel Divinity twice for even more marks!

LEVEL 12 - CLERIC 7

7th level Clerics get access to 4th level spells which means that finally we can get our ultimate as a Grave Cleric with Death Ward. It’s not AoE not is it continuous but it will stop someone from dying. You do also get Blight as a Grave Cleric; seeing as Death Ward serves as Lamb’s mercy then Blight can serve as Wolf’s ferociousness? Regardless Locate Creature will let you find your mark however you wish to deal with them.

LEVEL 13 - CLERIC 8

Our final level is the 8th level in Cleric for Potent Spellcasting, but seeing as we aren’t casting spells I’m again going to suggest you take Blessed Strikes from the Class Feature Variants UA to do a d8 of damage with one of your arrows per turn. More ADC damage spikes!

You also get an Ability Score Improvement at this level and since we’re maxing out our divine influence I’d suggest increasing both your Intelligence and Wisdom by 1 to finally get rid of those odd numbers. This means that you can prepare two more spells from the Cleric list: Banish will help you deal with any creatures who aren’t in your jurisdiction, and Freedom of Movement will put a stop to anyone trying to stop you. But again you can prepare any spells you wish as a Cleric so pick and choose whatever you think will be useful.

(Artwork by merkerinn on DeviantArt)

LEVEL 14 - RANGER 6

Now that we are full Kindred it’s time to adapt Wolf further. Level 6 Rangers get Favored Enemy and Natural Explorer Improvements but since we’re using Class Feature Variants you instead get another feature from Deft Explorer: Tireless will make sure that no one can hold back the inevitable, as you gain the ability to temporarily shield yourself as well as decrease Exhaustion during short rests.

LEVEL 15 - RANGER 7

With 7 levels in Ranger Wolf now has Exceptional Training. You can now command Wolf to take the Dash, Disengage, or Help action on his turn if you command him with your bonus action. Additionally Wolf now count as magical for the purpose of overcoming resistance and immunity to nonmagical attacks and damage, because apparently the embodiment of death wasn’t magical?

Speaking of magic you can also learn another Ranger spell: Pass Without a Trace will allow you and all your allies to add +10 to their stealth roll, so that no one can see Kindred come.

LEVEL 16 - RANGER 8

8th level means an Ability Score Improvement, so it’s time to max out that Dexterity modifier for shots that always strike at the heart.

And to help you chase prey with Wolf Land’s Stride allows you to move through nonmagical difficult terrain without using extra movement. You can also pass through nonmagical plants without being slowed or taking damage because of them. In addition, you have advantage on saving throws against plants that are magically created or manipulated to impede movement, such those created by the entangle spell. The Shadow Isles are full of death; you won’t be held back by the warden.

LEVEL 17 - RANGER 9

9th level Rangers can cast third level Ranger spells. Thanks to Primal Awareness you can cast Speak with Plants once per day. If you want to use red buff however grab Flame Arrows to set your shots ablaze.

LEVEL 18 - RANGER 10

10th level Rangers get more Natural Explorer Improvements, which for us means we can take Roving from Deft Explorer. Your movement speed increases by 5 (on top of the 5 from being a Satyr, so 40 total) and you get a swim speed equal to your movement speed! You also get Hide in Plain Sight, allowing you to spend 1 minute to hide for +10 to stealth checks. Could you just cast Pass Without a Trace instead? Yeah probably.

While I like Fade Away from Class Feature Variants unfortunately Kindred can’t turn invisible.

LEVEL 19 - RANGER 11

Level 11 Beastmasters access Bestial Fury, letting Wolf attack twice instead of once! Is this extremely late to get what amounts to an extra d6 + 3 damage that probably won’t hit because of Wolf’s chance to hit? Yeah probably.

But at least you get another spell! Grab a late-game Adaptive Helm with Protection from Energy to keep you from taking too much from Volibear or Shyvana.

LEVEL 20 - RANGER 12

Our final level is the 12th level of Ranger for an Ability Score Improvement that’s going straight into Wisdom to buff all your spells as well as Wolf. This does mean that you get to prepare another Cleric spell but it’s so late now that pretty much anything would work.

FINAL BUILD

PROS

Your next treat, dear Wolf - While you perhaps don’t do the most damage with your shots it’s more than likely that your arrow will fly true, and you have many a mark and spell to make your shots pierce even the toughest of hides.

Hurry, Lamb. Faster! - Along with the obvious anti-magic benefits of playing a Satyr the mobility can’t be ignored, with long leaps despite your low strength and 40 feet of movement thanks to Roving.

Beauty fades; that is why it is beautiful - You have a positive score in every social stat and quite a few skill proficiencies, making you rather adept among those who revel you... or fear you.

CONS

I'm hungry, I'm hungry, I'm bored, chase chase chase! - Two reworks later and Beastmaster Ranger is still underwhelming. While this build does good at early levels it quickly falls off as Wolf’s jaws become less useful. Be sure to talk to your DM about how to make Beastmaster Ranger more playable. Or perhaps just play Artificer?

What do all stories have in common, dear Wolf? - Your spell slots are limited, meaning that eventually your resources will run out. What’s more is that while your slots go up to level 7 the level of your spells stop at 4, and while you can upcast your spells will never be as good as a spell that was meant to be cast at that level.

Is this what it feels like to end? - While you have a lot of ways to keep yourself in the fight your health and armor really leave something to be desired. You’ll probably only have a little over 100 health which means that a Power Word Kill can put a stop to you with ease.

But your mark is guaranteed to fall in time; it is merely up to them if they choose an arrow or teeth. Every life ends with you one way or another: just make sure that the life ending isn’t your own. A grey man sitting in a grey room leads to a very sad Wolf.

(Artwork by inkinesss on DeviantArt)

[zephyrthejester]

Sorry! Not quite sure how to write down the sound that’s in my head right now. Let’s say it’s a very intense feeling overall.

...........Wow, dude.

OKAY! Let’s take this BIT by BIT! One at a time! Starting with the least complex up to the most complex! This is gonna be a L O N G P O S T so click below to see the rest.

1: First up, Cactus Stevens. That’s very obviously a plant, namely, a Cactus, that Steven brought to life with his plant powers. You know, like the Watermelon Stevens? Except these/this malformed Cactus Steven/s are looking a fair bit demonic. Erm... Yeah, I guess that’s what this would have to be, right? Unless the bright glow from their eyes and mouths are telltale signs of some outside force making them evil. What I want to know is, what’s so special about this thing that it’s more than just enemy-of-the-day? What’s so special about it that it landed a spot in the show’s intro? Perhaps it is more representative of Steven’s own actions becoming problems. Out with Pink Diamond leaving behind problems, time for Steven to deal with his own mistakes?

2: More Lapis Lazulis. Both wearing Lapis’ old outfit, so I guess that really does prove the skirt was the standard homeworld uniform for Lapis’... Not that I even asked that question, heh. So! We have a Shoulder gem Lapis with a bob and upward curling bangs, with a steely sneer down at us, and then a Belly gem Lapis with relatively short, unkempt hair and what appears to be a tied ponytail in the back, with an expression that’s a bit softer, and more confused/surprised than anything.

Wow, so... Lapis Lazulis, huh? Comin’ in to be bad guys, huh? Wow, that’s pretty interesting, really. Who’d ever predict this? So... Here’s my take on how to explain them. Our Lapis Lazuli was sent to Earth to terraform it, right? Now, per Season 2 we know that Earth was destined to become a mega-colony, all but hollowed out. And, well, that just seems like a job too big for just one terraformer. I can’t believe I never thought of this, but... Yeah, our Lapis probably had some help. So... I guess that’d be a logical reason why these two would be antagonists. They have unsettled beef with our Lapis.

I guess water wings aren’t based on gemstone location, eh? Heh.

3: That’s unquestionably Aquamarine. The very same Aquamarine who hauled Steven and Lars to Homeworld. But... She’s very different. If that is a fusion, we don’t know for sure. Whatever the second Gem that Aquamarine is fused with isn’t visible here, and it looks more like a bizarre mix, like good ol’ “Cotton Candy Garnet.” Cotton Candy Garnet is the only thing this version of Aquamarine looks like, really... However, the extra set of legs is a big hint pointing towards it being a fusion. Hmm... So, yeah, I’d say this absolutely is a fusion featuring Aquamarine and not some weird half-Corrupted form.

That said, she looks to be the same size as default Aquamarine, so whoever she fused with must have been tiny... Maybe tinier than she was already!

Also, between the collared shirt and the tie, that makes me think of the whole “Dad” fiasco, where Aquamarine was looking for “her Dad” by mistake. So congratulations Aquamarine. You have become the Dad.

Finally... Why is Aquamarine an antagonist? This is a question we’ll have to wait and see for. Previously, Aquamarine was simply a stickler for the rules and her job, though she did show a moment of tender mercy by forgiving Topaz’s attempted mutiny.

Finally finally, her mouth is doin’ the cat thing. You know, the :3 thing. Oh boy.

4: We got giant spiky death beast over here. Yeah, um. Yeah, no, I dunno, dude.

Is it a corrupted Gem? Some manner of Fusion Experiment or Cluster off-shoot? A full fledged alien unrelated to Gems? Some sort of primordial Ur-Gem? Its spikes give the impression of being metallic, like steel, or they could just be reflective gemstone material. Whatever this thing is, it’s givin’ me the willies. Look at those sunken eyes with naught but pinpricks of light shining through...

Ah... *sigh* It’s pink colored, by the way. Its got pink skin and pink glowing eyes. Gee, I wonder if this thing has anything to do with Pink Diamond... I dunno, what do you all think?

....Is it just me, or does it have a human nose? That snout looks like Steven’s, frankly.

I have a trillion questions. WHAT ARE YOOOOOU.

5:  I think I know exactly what’s going on here. Now, it may be tempting for some to say that this is some sort of White Diamond clone or replica or what have you, I think the simple truth is that this IS White Diamond, just straight up. And she’s currently having some trouble controlling her emotions.

Think back to the ending of Change Your Mind. The moment Pink Diamond’s composure was broken, the moment her world was shattered around her, the moment she became inescapably affected by the words and actions of another... She began to glow pink all over her body. This, I strongly believe, was literally the emotions and overall world view of Steven bleeding over to her and directly affecting her.

And this? I think this here is White Diamond experiencing too much of a good thing. Look at how she’s grabbing at her head; A typical motion to represent someone struggling with pain in their head. This is a White Diamond who is losing herself to an overwhelming force from beyond herself.

The color White contains all colors, right? What happens when one of those colors takes over...?

6: It’s her. She’s baaaaack.

Jasper is endlessly fascinating to me. When I first liveblogged this show, I wasn’t particularly a fan. But the more I watched, and the more I rewatched, and the more I thought things through? Yeah, no, Jasper’s got all my attention, man.

Born a perfectly flawless Gem in a perfectly awful Kindergarten that produced nothing but Off Colors, born to fight in a war for a Diamond she never met, doomed to failure after a shattering she couldn’t prevent... She ardently clung to her “perfection,” the only thing she had left, which wasn’t even enough to defeat abominable fusions... Until she threw her morals away in a desperate bid for victory, becoming a fusion herself, which resulted in months of mutual mental torment, leaving her addicted to the suffering. She tamed the feral beasts her Diamonds reduced her former comrades to, she was beaten and broken without contest, she lost her mind as she stared down the one person she hated more than herself as he claimed not to know what he even did to her...

AND THEN WA-BAM! She returns to consciousness and suddenly the Diamonds are best buddies with Rose Quartz and Rose Quartz was actually Pink Diamond the entire time and the whole War that Jasper lived through her entire life was literally for nothing but the cruel selfish game of the person she was born for, and, and--

And that’s where we left her.

Jasper, oh, Jasper. What happened to you? Where did you go? What are you thinking?

I need to know.