#Could we at the very least sort by skin color and continent???

[these-detestable-hands]

Your first mistake was lumping all white people into one group. Your second mistake was lumping all people that are not white into one group. Your third mistake was assuming that only white people are racist. Your fourth mistake

[teenageauthor1]

Questions to Ask When Worldbuilding

Worldbuilding can be difficult. Coming up with a whole new world in your head and having to think of every little detail? Couldn’t be me.

Okay, so maybe it is me, but for those of you who don’t necessarily think this way on your own, here are a few questions I like to ask myself to make sure that my worlds are as close to perfect as they can get.

1. How is the land in your world divided? 

In real life, our world is divided by many things. We have continents, countries, counties, cities . . . You get the point. Just because your world is made up doesn’t mean it isn’t going to need things like this too. You may need to research different divisions and how they work (if you don’t already know) to see which ones would be best for your world. Is your land divided by countries? Is it divided into several courts? That’s up to you, but make sure whatever you pick fits with your story.

2. What kind of people live in your land? 

This is very important when it comes to making a new world. Not everyone can be exactly the same, just as they aren’t in real life. To make your story interesting, you’re going to need some ethnically diverse people, or at least people who come with a lot of different backstories. Life would be pretty boring if we were all copy and pasted from each other, don’t you think? Don’t make your characters like that.

Ask yourself: What color skin do people in certain regions have? What kind of gene combinations are common? How do people from different areas dress? Are there any diseases that are common in a specific type of people?

3. What are the “norms” in this new society?

There are always going to be things that are considered normal and things that are considered strange, no matter where you are, fictional world or not. What actions are common in your world? What type of laws would be considered normal, and which ones would the people of this new land consider absurd? How are different types of people accepted in this society, and is it common for them to be viewed that way?

Bonus: What do your characters think of these things individually? Does any of it get in the way of their personal views?

4. What type of architecture is used?

All over the world, architecture is different. This could be simply for style, or it might be for practicality depending on where you live. How do the buildings in your towns (or whatever else the people in your world call the area where they live) look? What makes them different from other areas, and what makes them the same? What kind of materials are used when building these things? Is it something that’s specific to your world, or is it something that we have in real life too?

This also goes for things like roads, piers, bridges . . . You get the point. Anything that is built, pretty much. The reader may not always need to know these things, but you should, at least.

5. Do the people in your world speak different languages?

If the people in your world speak different languages, what do they sound like? Are they all able to understand each other? (This is highly unlikely, so if there’s a language barrier, don’t be afraid to play around with how they deal with it a bit.) Now, this isn’t a post about creating new languages, so I won’t really get into that, but make sure that you know what you want your language to sound like. Does it come out sounding harsh? Do certain words need to be spoken in different areas of the mouth to get them to sound right?

6. What do the people in your land eat and drink?

There are many different types of food and drink all throughout the world. Sometimes what people eat and drink depends on what they’re able to get their hands on easily, other times it simply depends on what they’re in the mood for. How do the people in your world deal with that? Do people from different regions eat different types of food/drink different things? Are the different types of food and drink in your world unique to it, or do they exist in real life too? It’s okay to create your own types of foods/drinks.

7. What type of creatures live in your land?

Are they new creatures, or do they already exist? What are they called, and how do you imagine your characters pronouncing it? Are the creatures there friendly or hostile? Perhaps a mix of both? What are they used for? Do they even have a purpose, or are they just sort of there?

All right, that was a lot, but honestly that’s just the basics. There’s probably so much more that I could have gotten into there, but this is just to help you get started. It’s just the foundation of your world, really. Sometimes your story might depend more on your characters figuring out what’s going on in the world than you building it from the ground up and placing them in it. Remember that. Let your characters discover things so your readers can discover it along with them.

But don’t info dump. Just a pet peeve of mine.

[dwellordream]

“...First, let’s talk about materials. We can rule out a Steppe Nomad inspiration for any of this right off. The Eurasian Steppe is very large and covers a range of arid climates (that is to say, parts of it are colder, parts of it are warmer), but they all have spinning and weaving technology, by which the supple hairs of woolly animals, or plant fibers like linen, or cotton, or even natural protein fibers like silk can be fashioned into fabric which is more flexible, comfortable, breathable and temperature controlled than the raw leather we see in the show.

...there is a distinct lack here of lots of leather, except in the sort of things that lots of cultures use leather for (boots, fittings, saddles, bags, tents). Instead, clothing is mostly made out of nice, comfortable, breathable textiles, because of course it is. That is not to say, to be clear, that leather or hides or fur were never used – fur especially was used; merely that they were generally used to supplement clothing primarily made out of textile.

...Now Plains Native American clothing does make much greater use of animal skin as a clothing material, but there is an important distinction to be made here. The problem here is with the plasticity of the term ‘leather’ which can technically include a wide range of products, but in practice is understood to mean exactly what the Game of Thrones costume department and literally every piece of official artwork of the Dothraki understand it to mean, which is the product of tanning processes.

I am not an expert, but as far as I can tell, Native American clothing was not made in the same way; animal products were used in a process I have seen described as ‘brain tanning’ (rather than using chemical tannins) and the final product was then smoked. The result – which is often called ‘buckskin’ regardless of the animal source for the hide – is very different from the leather we see in the show.

This is, in terms of material, very clearly not what the ‘vests’ the Dothraki in the show are wearing. Buckskin would also be used to make trousers, as opposed to the “horsehair leggings” of Martin’s wording, which also strike me as deeply improbable. Haircloth – fabric made from horsehair (or camel hair) – is durable, but typically stiff, unsupple and terribly itchy; not something you want in direct contact with your skin (especially not between your rear end and a saddle), unless you just really like skin irritation. It is also a difficult material to get in any kind of significant quantity – and you would need a significant quantity if you intended to make most of your trousers out of it.

...Well that’s for materials, what about patterns? Once again, we can quite easily rule out anything steppe inspired. Again, the Eurasian Steppe is big and has lots of variety, but relatively long robes are generally the norm in terms of dress; where long robes were not worn (see our Scythian above), the common pattern was heavy sleeved garments and trousers with very complete coverage. A common example of the type of long robe-like garments is the Mongolian deel, a long sleeved robe or tunic which provides a lot of protection against the elements. In the case of elites – and Daenerys is, initially, mostly around elites – these could be made of expensive silk or brocade – but poorer versions might be made of wool.

...And there is good reason for these relatively high-coverage garments. Plains or Steppe peoples naturally tend to live on, well, plains and steppes – that is large expanses of semi-arid grasslands. The very nature of that terrain configuration produces fairly extreme seasonal temperature variations (that is, very hot summers and very cold winters) as well as extreme daily temperature variations (that is, hot days and cold nights) because such places are far from large bodies of water and also don’t have tree-cover, both of which serve to moderate rapid temperature changes.

Consequently, as anyone who has lived in a plains state in the USA (or on the Eurasian Steppe, though that is fewer of my readers, but for my brave handful of hits from that part of the world, hello and welcome!) can tell you, you need clothes that can be layered and which can be both warm in the winter and cool in the summer. For us moderns, we mostly do this by owning multiple season-specific wardrobes, but clothing is expensive in pre-modern societies, so multi-purpose garments, or garments that be layered, to turn a warm-weather outfit into a cold-weather outfit are important!

There’s no reason to suppose the Dothraki Sea would be any different: it sits at about the same latitude as King’s Landing so there is little reason to assume it would be warm all-year-round. Parts of the Eurasian Steppe stretch decently far south, sharing a latitude with northern Italy and Spain; nevertheless they do not enjoy the same Mediterranean climate because they don’t have the same exposure to the weather patterns created by the sea. The southern end of the Great Plains stretches down all the way into Texas, but still gets properly cold in the winter with temperatures regularly dipping below freezing in the winter despite the latitude. For a people who are camping and working outside all of the time, warm clothing is going to be a must.

...There is tremendous variety here, but I don’t think any of it could be aptly described simply as “Men and women alike wore painted leather vests over bare chests and horsehair leggings.” Now, if you looked hard enough could you find something that resembled Martin’s leather vests, bare chests and horsehair leggings somewhere in the clothing of Native Americans across two continents? Probably, but among the specific Native peoples that Martin cites as inspiration, it does not seem to be at all common. And if that description was wholly unconnected to anything in the real world, we might well stop there and conclude that, well this is just the ‘dash of pure fantasy’ that Martin was talking about (although as we’ll see, it is going to be quite a bit more than just a dash). But I don’t think we can stop there, because (removing the medallion belts) Martin’s description does adequately describe something that exists in the real world: Halloween costumes purporting to depict Native Americans.

...The vest-and-pants style of Native American Halloween costume seems to be rather rare now, but it was, at least to my memory, much more common in the 1990s, when A Game of Thrones was written (initial publication date of 1996). You can see them, for instance, on many of the background extras in the famous Thanksgiving scene from Addams Family Values (1993) and that vest style was also a part of the outfit for the also-quite-unfortunately-branded YMCA Indian Guides/Indian Princesses program (rebranded as the ‘Adventure Guides’ in 2003 after decades of Native Americans complaining about it) which was also fairly popular in the 1990s.

Now, I am not saying that Martin planned to construct his Dothraki out of Native American stereotypes and bad Halloween costumes. In fact, I am fairly confident he intended nothing of the sort. But in the absence of doing some effective research (and it is going to become increasingly apparent that at least effective research was not done) there was quite possibly nothing else to inform the effort other than what was ‘in the air’ of the popular consciousness. Of course the danger of those often simplistic public stereotypes is that people often do not know that they have them, assuming instead that the vague impression they have is essentially accurate (or at least, close enough for a regular person). And that’s a real problem because it reinforces the popular stereotype, especially given Martin’s reputation for writing more ‘historically grounded’ fiction. And that is a problem because…

The clothing that the Dothraki are described and visually shown wearing is clearly intended to convey things about their society. Returning to our visual comparison above, it is easy to see that the actual clothing of both Eurasian and American ‘horse cultures’ was often bright, highly decorated and generally eye-catching, featuring complex patterns and shapes. It was both nice looking, but also spoke to the humanity of the people that made it and their very human desire to look nice and have nice looking things. By contrast, the clothing of the Dothraki is presented as simple, rugged and unadorned.

...I want to stress this to make the point clear: people in the past liked to look nice! Much of the popular perception of pre-modern clothing assumes lots of dull, drab colors, undecorated or merely adorned with rough pelts, but this is almost entirely a Hollywood construction. The Romans didn’t exclusively dress in white (indeed, the toga candida, the white toga, was an unusually formal thing to wear, like a politician’s suit-with-flag-pin), medieval peasants didn’t wear drab brown (they dressed in bright primary colors mostly), and as I hope the historical pictures for this essay show, both steppe nomads and Plains Native Americans wore nice clothing with lots of patterns, color and decoration. These men next to Khal Drogo are his elite guard of ‘bloodriders,’ the companions of a ruler who wields tremendous power and wealth! And yet they have opted to wear mostly undecorated bland brown leather.

Just to underline this point, think about what a fine set of clothing communicates to an observer (for instance, one of Khal Drogo’s thousands of mounted warrior retainers who are present at this event). Imported goods, like metalwares (which nomads won’t generally be able to make themselves) or fine imported fabrics demonstrate not only trade contacts but also often that the leader has useful ties to foreign leaders (since such things were often gifts or tribute from foreign courts). Garments whose production, due to fine patterns, complex weaves, intricate beading or quillwork, would take many, many hours of production demonstrate that the leader has a lot of subordinate people in their household (in many cases, that would mean women), which both implies the ability to give these people as gifts (either in marriage or because of their non-free status) and also the access to resources (in this case herds of animals) needed to sustain so many people – in short, the sort of leader who can reward faithful warriors richly.

And of course a leader who outfits his closest retainers – his bloodriders, in this case – with such wares (especially expensive foreign metal military equipment) demonstrates both access to military capital and also the ability to reward his trusted lieutenants. In short, the Khal whose person and immediate retainers are decked out in finery looks like backing the winning side, which is a very important thing to assess as one of his warriors. So even if not one of Drogo’s men cares about their personal appearance at all, it is still politically important for them to dress for success.

Which then demands the question, looking at the very fine clothing of historical horse cultures that supposedly provided the inspiration for these Dothraki fellows: Where is the exquisite bead work? The fine quillwork? Where are the carefully made fringes? Where is the silk brocade? Where are the detailed, complex patterns?”

- Bret Devereaux, “That Dothraki Horde, Part I: Barbarian Couture.”

[sagasofazeria]

Stranger In A Strange Land

Song of the Seven Suns, Part 1

Taglist (ask to be added/removed!): @hellishhin

Faulkron Rhodes was a long way from home. He stood on the deck of a small sailing ship, the golden light of the late afternoon sun glinting off of the sapphire waters, searing his eyes even as he shaded them with his arm. Looking past the glaring reflections of the sun, he could see the shoreline ahead, and a port city bustling with all kinds of ships. He was relieved to see land again, after being on the open water for so long. He had almost begun to regret his somewhat on-a-whim decision to cross an ocean and leave the land he’d grown up in. However, with a new land in sight, his faith was reaffirmed. Readjusting his leather armor and his greatsword on his back, he couldn’t help but be eager to see the new land ahead. As he stated at the port, he heard the captain of the ship called out to him from somewhere to his right.

“Hey, adventurer! We’re about to dock in Corias! Welcome to Leinos!”

From what the crew had told him along their journey, Leinos was a young country. Corias was just one of many ports along the coasts of a massive continent, and trade thrived there. Leinos had access to seas that connected it and every country Faulkron had heard of thus far, and more. An up-and-coming mercenary like Faulkron would do well there, he hoped. Supposedly, they were a peaceful nation since the end of the war between Leinos and the peoples further inland, so Faulkron hoped to have luck fighting problems they might not want to solve with their personal swords.

Eventually, the ship had docked, and as the sailors began to unload their cargo, Faulkron took his leave. He walked from the docks through the town, taking stock of the city. He could see tiled colorful roofs, and lots of hanging colorful cloths around the streets, partially shading the many people walking around, going about their business. Clay pots, cloths, art, all sorts of things in a variety of styles were being sold all along the streets, by people who looked to be from all over. He recognized very little of what was being sold here, and realized growing up on a small farm in the middle of the hills back across the ocean in Unterras probably wasn’t the best environment to meet new people. Regardless, he walked on through the city, taking in what he could. He saw numerous guards as well, dressed in silver-painted, hardened leather armor, with blue crests of dyed horse-hair adorning the helmets. An amount of guards he wasn’t expecting for a supposedly peaceful nation. In addition to the guards, he also thought he could make out some sort of fortress further inland, situated on a hill that overlooked the port, hanging banners depicting a blue flag with silver bordering, a stylized crest of some sort emblazoned on it.

He eventually found himself in a town center, with even more market stalls than by the docks. He could see storefronts of buildings on the edges of the square, as well as some sort of pavilion with what appeared to be people drinking and talking. He also noted a statue in the center of the square of a sitting man. He was well dressed, in long flowing robes. He had a thick beard, and curly hair down to his shoulders, his head adorned by a crown. Faulkron, in a remarkable display of intelligence, deduced this guy was probably important. He couldn’t read the plaque beneath it through all the people, but as he got closer he realized he wouldn’t have recognized the language anyways. He looked at it for a little longer, looking for some translation in Common, but was startled out of his search by a voice.

“Hey there. Noticed you looking at the statue, and I haven’t seen you around before. Who are you?”

Faulkron turned to the voice, looking for its owner. In front of him, standing significantly shorter than him (most people did, at his nearly 6 foot height), was a human woman. She was wearing simple light cloths and leather bracers. She had a lyre on her hip and a wooden violin case that appeared to double as a scabbard for the sword on her back. She had wavy brown hair in an undercut swept to one side that was dyed a vibrant purple at the ends, and tanned skin, like many of the Leinai he’d seen so far. He stared for a moment, still slightly confused as to who she was talking to, but she kept looking at him, and there was no one behind him but the statue.

“I’m Faulkron, Faulkron Rhodes. Who are you?”

“Well met, Faulkron. I’m Jetra, I’m a storyteller of sorts. This guy right here—“ she pointed at the statue “—is King Akeron II. He was the last king of Leinos. His son is Akeron III, the current king.”

“Oh. Didn’t know... Wait. Why’d you say you hadn’t seen me before? Isn’t this a trade city? Wouldn’t most people be unfamiliar?” Faulkron took a step back. He couldn’t help but be a little suspicious of the ‘storyteller’. She seemed overly friendly, and he wasn’t exactly used to just being approached and talked to like this. In response, the woman just laughed.

“You got me. I just thought you looked interesting. Plus, most of the people here are selling something, so that limits our conversational opportunities, know what I mean?”

Faulkron nodded hesitantly. Was everyone like this is Leinos? It would definitely take getting used to. He thought about leaving, but she began talking again.

“Well, what brings you to Corias? You look like the adventuring type, you going somewhere?”

“Not yet. I only just got here. I was thinking of finding some sort of job board, or maybe some other mercenaries?”

Jetra nodded. “Well, I can get you to either of those. I know a mercenary group that is based here in Corias you might wanna talk to, the Icaon mercenaries. And there’s a job board over by the tavern, near that pavilion there.”

Faulkron weighed the options, but decided a fully fledged mercenary company would probably pay better. “Let’s go to the mercenaries.”

“Alright then, come on.” Jetra began to weave through the crowds, heading further into the city. With a small shrug to himself, he walked off after her.

•••

Jetra was very interested in the adventurer she’d met in the marketplace. He looked to be extremely capable, judging by his extremely strong build. She’d quickly noticed he held himself with strength, and she knew she’d need it if she wanted to deal with her problem. She lead him to the Icaon mercenaries, walking toward their complex by the docks, where they trained and did most of their business. She turned back to her new companion.

“Okay, I’ve worked with some of the Icaon before, they’re generally pretty up-front. You shouldn’t have any issues. So, where are you planning on going? Thinking about heading inland?”

Faulkron thought for a moment, before nodding. “I guess. I just sailed here, so I figure that’s where I should head. Why, what’s that way?”

“Well, there’s the capital city, Anikora, to the east a ways, along the coast. Corias is actually the westernmost point in Leinos, other than the Ceana region down south, but it’s pretty far away. Between here and there is a massive rainforest, and you’d have to cross most of Azeria to get there. It’s a remnant of the war, seperated but technically still a part of Leinos. As far Leinai cities in this region, especially looking inland, there’s not much. Some farming villages, and I know there’s Kuretion in the hills before you get to Great Rainforest. We might find something near there. There’s a lot of land to explore, my new friend. I can help guide you, if you like. I’ve traveled quite a lot, gathering my stories. I’d be willing to help you get where you’re going, if you help me. You seem friendly enough.”

Faulkron took in what she’d told him. This new world was bigger than he’d expected. He figured it’d be smart to have a guide. Plus, if she betrayed him or something, he was sure he could easily take care of her. “Deal. We can travel together, at least for now.”

She grinned. “Great! Traveling is always more fun with someone to sing to, in my opinion. Well, before we set off, let’s see if we can get paid for it, huh?”

“Yeah, let’s do that.”

Well, that was at least the first step done. And he looked like he had a somewhat solid idea of his own path forward, even if he was a bit closed off right now. She needed people who knew what they were doing if she was going to succeed.

As they approached the wooden archway that served as the entrance to the Icaon camp, Jetra raised a hand in greeting, and started to speak.

•••

Faulkron, walking behind Jetra, nearly stopped in his tracks. There were two guards standing watch at the gate, both human. One of them was leaning against the wall, barely paying attention to them at all, her eyes gazing vaguely into the distance. The other one, however, was a sight to behold. He had longer dark brown hair, tied into a small loose ponytail, skin that looked forged from bronze, and a sharp jaw with a fine dark stubble all across it. His chest was bare, save the leather strap that held on his shoulder armor. He was well muscled, and on his hips were two shortswords, and all of his gear looked like it had seen lots of use.

Maybe it was the fact that he’d been out to sea for so long, maybe it was the fact that the sun sinking in the west definitely complemented this man’s looks. Maybe it was the fact that his green eyes were so vibrant. Faulkron didn’t know, but he had forgotten for the moment about mercenary work and traveling inland. He was caught, in a cruel irony of words, entirely off-guard.

The man stepped forward, before they could enter. When he spoke, his voice had a rich accent.

“Hola. Why do you approach?”

Faulkron stood silently, still regaining his composure.

Seeing this, Jetra quickly responded, “Just to see if there might be any opportunities for me and my friend here. Figured this was a good a place to start as any.”

The man nodded. “Sí, you would be right. This is one of the few organized mercenary companies based in Leinos that hasn’t been assimilated into the military. We operate all along the northern coast. You can enter. Talk to Elikon, he’ll get you familiar. I’m off my shift at sundown if you need me, ask for Alejandro. I know my way around, if you need help.”

It was at this point that Alejandro’s eyes met Faulkron’s. They both paused, and Faulkron stumbled over his words before blurting, “Off your shift? Cool cool. I will definitely do that.” Mentally, he scolded himself. First hot guy you talk to in 3 years, and you’re making yourself look like a fool, he thought.

•••

Jetra turned around, surprised by how sheepish the massive warrior behind her sounded suddenly. She followed his eyes to the guard, and back to him, and realization dawned on her. She couldn’t help but crack a grin. “Faulkron, when you’re done talking to Alejandro here, come meet me inside?”

Faulkron nodded, still locked in some sort of awkward homosexual staring match with Alejandro. Chuckling, Jetra slipped into the compound.

•••

“Do you have something you’d like to say?” Alejandro smiled, watching as the elf in front of him quickly looked away, obviously flustered.

“I. So... yeah. What do you do? For a living. Wait no-“

Alejandro just laughed. You could always tell which ones had been stuck on a ship for just a little too long. He had to admit, the awkwardness of such an imposing warrior was quite cute. He was tempted to just walk inside, but he couldn’t skip out on another shift, he’d get thrown out of the company. And he was really trying to settle into a rhythm in his life, despite it not working at all.

“Listen, why don’t we talk after my shift? I need to do my job, boring as it may be. And I’ll give you a little time to collect yourself, maybe?”

The warrior just nodded, averting his eyes from Alejandro’s smirk. “Yeah. I’m gonna- Yeah.”

Alejandro stopped him before he went inside. “Wait. I never got your name.”

“It’s Faulkron.”

“Hasta luego, Faulkron.”

Prologue | Part 2

[seadeepywrites]

Stormborn

Character: Fathom Tidechaser Words: 2345 tw: drowning, death of a parent, graphic depiction of blood

In Fathom’s scattered memories of that night, it begins with the railing. It tears like wet parchment, giving way with a shriek. Lia and Fathom tumble after it into the raging sea.

A single bright flash of lightning illuminates the tableau: Lia’s tangled hair around her head as she struggles to stay afloat. The tattered ship tossing and heaving above them, its sails rattling, hissing. Splintered chunks of wood around them in the darkness, and his mom’s hand reaching out to him, pale against the night-black waves.

Fathom’s chest clenches with fear that isn’t for himself. Even amid the howling power of the storm, he knows the roll and pitch of the waves. He is plunged beneath the surface, and it doesn't matter — he can breathe in saltwater like air — but Lia can’t, and she is floundering.

Fathom strikes out toward her, desperate strokes with trembling arms through frigid water that is whipped into spray by the gusts of wind. He knows better than to cry out — saves all his breath for swimming — and he is the fastest swimmer onboard — and it is still not enough. The waves are as tall as the ship’s prow, throwing him up and plummeting him down, and even when he knows where Lia is, he can’t seem to get any closer.

The wind screams in his ears and the thunder rumbles and between one moment and the next, his mother is gone.

Fathom ducks underwater, taking in heaving lungfuls of the sea, wriggling downward away from the seething chaos above him. It is quieter here, but dark as sin, and the relentless currents are far too powerful for his small body. And Fathom’s heart calls to his goddess, begging Melora for her aid, but part of him already knows — Melora takes away as much as she gives. One boy’s hopes are nothing, when compared to the furious power of her storms.

Fathom swims through the darkness, straining his eyes and his muscles until he’s lost track of which way is up. Dizzy with fear and exhaustion, he isn’t even sure what he’d do if he saw his mother. If he could do anything except embrace her and sink to the ocean floor by her side. 

At some point, he collides hard with the side of the ship, knocking himself half-senseless. His limp body spins away from the hull, only to meet in the next wave trough with a jagged spar of wood that rips through his neck and shoulder with an all-consuming pain that Fathom is almost too numb to feel. It is excruciating, but his mind has drifted away from the part of him that still swirls bonelessly in the sea. Lia is gone. He has already lost. What else can the water take from him?

When Fathom finally loses consciousness, it is a sweet and alluring relief.

***

Fathom feels like he’s been cast in iron, every limb too leaden to move. He can’t even open his eyes far enough to focus them. He is lying on a deck — that much he knows. Flatter and steadier than the abyss of the ocean. Beyond that, everything seems — hazy.

So Fathom just lies there like a stranded jellyfish, unable to string together a complete thought. There are hands. They grab and prod at him roughly.

“Kid’s alive!” someone shouts from far, far above him. The first half of their next sentence is snatched by the wind. “...very long if we don’t get that cut closed up.”

Oh. Right. The blood, swirling dark in the puddles around him. It’s from the gash in his neck. The stains spilling over his chest are— bad. Something will happen. Something like that last glimpse of Lia between one wave and the next. 

Fathom lifts one shaking hand to the wound, his fingers slipping in his own slick blood. He can feel the way his shoulder is separated, the muscle and bone in ridges and valleys. He explores the terrain with his fingers, and some dull instinct reminds him it shouldn’t feel this way. It should be smoother. Connected. Whole. 

More sounds from above him. Exclamations. His eyelids flutter, and all around him he can see light. A teal the color of his skin, bright as the sun-sparkle on the water at dawn.

As Fathom’s eyes roll back in his head, his hand drops away from his shoulder to flop on the deck at his side. A warmth swells up from everywhere and nowhere, surrounding him. His shoulder wound burns even hotter, scalding through his fragmented consciousness. The pain and the heat intensify.

Fathom passes out again.

***

The next time Fathom wakes, it is quiet. As quiet as things ever get at sea, which is to say that the waves shush softly against the hull and the ship groans. But the rocking movement of the waves is gentle, and there is warm sunlight on his face.

Fathom rolls toward the light, cracking his eyelids open. The grimy porthole shows a gem-blue sky, unmarred by clouds.

“You’re awake,” comes a gruff voice from the other side of him.

“Hearugh,” Fathom says. His voice is an indistinct rasp. He swallows against a parched throat and tries again. “Harry?”

A grunt of acknowledgement.

Fathom tries to roll back over, twisting his head to look for the sailor, but a crushing pain grips him like a giant fist. He gasps, seeing stars. Breathing shallowly, he waits for the agony to subside before trying again.

“Careful there,” says Harry. The rugged face he was expecting materializes above him. Calloused hands help Fathom turn onto his right side, facing away from the porthole.

Fathom lies there for a bit, awareness of his surroundings spreading slowly outward from him like widening ripples in still water. He is swaddled in rough gray blankets on a padded bench, in a cabin on the ship that he only recognizes from a few brief trips. An enormous chest bound with brass locks is shoved in the corner, dried bunches of herbs hang with twine from the rafters, and Harry is chewing on the end of a pipe as he squats on a nearby stool, staring back at Fathom with a contemplative expression.

“Lia,” Fathom whispers, squeezing his eyes shut as another bolt of pain lances through his head. He keeps his eyes closed, afraid of what he’ll see on Harry’s face.

Harry’s hand rests heavily on Fathom’s shoulder, rubbing small circles. Fathom can feel the edges of his wound pulling against each other, an agony sharper and brighter than his throbbing headache, but he doesn’t object. 

“She’s gone,” Harry says, voice rumbling low in his chest. He doesn’t say it tentatively, or softly, but there’s a blunt kindness to it. He doesn’t apologize, and Fathom doesn’t ask him to explain. They both already know the way these things go.

Fathom just lies there. He doesn’t say anything in return, but Harry doesn’t pressure him to. After a few minutes, Harry stands, clomping over to the chest. Fathom hears its lid creak open, and the clinking of glass bottles.

“If you can,” Harry says, returning to Fathom’s side, “drink this.” He nests the potion bottle in the crook of Fathom’s elbow, and returns to his stool.

There might be tears slipping sideways down Fathom’s face to dampen the pillow, but then again — it might just be his always-damp skin. Wherever the seawater comes from, it never stops flowing, no matter how thirsty or tired or cold he gets. Just another one of the questionable gifts from his birthright as a genasi. And what fucking good did that do him, if he couldn’t save her?

Fathom cries himself to sleep, and when he wakes up he does it all over again. He eats the food Harry brings him and pisses in the lidded bucket under the bed and shambles around the cabin like an undead creature. Days pass, and sometimes Fathom’s wound shimmers with teal light and knits itself together a little further, and Fathom doesn’t care in the slightest.

***

Eventually, Fathom leaves Harry’s cabin. He doesn’t return to the bunk he shared with his mother, preferring to sit at the prow of the ship for hours at a stretch. The wound at the base of his neck is healing much more quickly than should be possible, leaving behind only the faintest traces of irregular scar tissue.

On deck, he can hear the crew whisper to each other, some in tones of compassionate concern and others in superstitious fear. Fathom can’t explain it to himself, much less speak to any of them — he has no words inside him in those days. Just a quiet, boundless grief, as all-encompassing as the horizon he stares out towards in the same way his mother does — the same way she did.

At the prow, wedged in the narrow triangle of boards, Fathom can feel every rise and dip of the waves like he weighs nothing at all. Like a bird riding the long currents of wind, traveling between continents. He falls asleep there most nights, rocking up and down, hearing the familiar symphony of sails snapping and wood creaking. 

When his aimless thoughts do coalesce, he finds himself thinking of religion. Some sailors on board scorn clerics and organizations of that sort, while others use their precious time during shore leave to donate money and make offerings at even the shoddiest of local temples. When thunderclouds gather on the horizon, however, there is not a man among them who will not murmur at least a word or two to the goddess of wilderness and the sea.

Fathom himself believes as his mother believed — without question and without any particular reverence. It’s not a crisis of faith that fills him, as he watches the wake trailing endlessly outward and backward from the ship’s prow. It’s simple truth that Melora exists, that she lives inside him, that he was created a genasi by her strange providence. The only thing Fathom wonders is why. 

It doesn’t take long after that to recognize that the teal light which heals him at odd intervals is connected in some intimate way to the parts of him that thrum with the song of the sea. As a water genasi, Fathom has always been able to perform some simple magic, no more exceptional than the tiefling cook who can make his voice boom over the clatter of the galley or their elven captain who lights campfires on shore with an incantation and a gesture. Fathom might be young, but he can already tell: this is different.

Is it prayer that he offers to Melora over those long weeks sailing toward the old continent? Fathom has recovered a few words, mostly to refuse offers of comfort or company from his crewmates, but he does not use them for this. He holds the shell his mother kept inside her pillow — Harry retrieved it for him, since he has not entered their bunk since the storm — in his palms like he’s cradling a wounded animal, like he’s safeguarding pirate treasure, like it will whisper answers.

Fathom learns to concentrate when his shoulder throbs and aches, to call forth light from the depths inside him. He traces the spiral painted on the shell from scalloped edges to swirled center, over and over and over, until he is lost in a trance where thought escapes him entirely. By the time the crow’s nest spies land, Fathom can rotate his shoulder without any pain. He can also cause a coin to shine as brightly as a lantern for up to an hour, and stitch together tiny rips in his clothing simply by concentrating. Keeping the shell in his clammy hands at all times, even when he sleeps, he shares none of this with another soul onboard.

When the ship docks in Aranth, Fathom talks briefly to Harry, and then to the first mate. He slips down the gangway on the second night of their stay, carrying nothing but a heavy satchel in one hand and the shell in the other. He knows he won’t leave the sea for long. He also knows he can’t stay on board with a ship full of people that know him as Lia’s funny-colored son.

Fathom works for three weeks on the docks, hands as calloused and quick with sailing knots as those of creatures twice his size and age. The most exceptional event during that time is when he swears at another kid in fear and fury, after the kid’s stupid mistake almost capsizes a small rowboat holding a mother and her infant twins. As Fathom clenches his fist and grips the shell in his pocket for reassurance, ghostly flames lick across the other kid’s skin. At first, Fathom is just as confused as everyone else — the flames look like the strange luminescent glow that sometimes flickers upward from ships’ masts during a storm, but the night sky is clear and this kid is less than five feet tall. And then he recognizes the cold shock of power in his gut for what it is, and he runs.

When the fuss dies down, the cleric at the temple tells him to travel to Talok and swear himself to a life of service there. That actually sounds boring and terrible, but Fathom nods and packs his bags and boards the next ship that plans to make the crossing — well, the next ship that will sail there and will also accept a small teal-skinned boy with white curls who is clearly lying about his age. Fathom proves himself quickly, and none of his shipmates ask any questions, and when he stays on board after they reach Talok, nobody cares one way or the other.

It is the beginning of nearly a decade that Fathom spends on the water without his mother, but most of the time he doesn’t feel lonely in the slightest. Beneath his feet and all around him, there is always the sea.

[thecleverdame]

The Oath - 6

Parings: Dark!Alpha!Sam x Omega!Reader

Story Master List

Summary: After an unsuccessful escape attempt, the reader finds herself taken as a spoil of war. She ends up in the bed of a ruthless Alpha, the son of John Winchester, leader of the kingdom of Gilead. She struggles to conceal her true identity and navigate a society where being an Omega means nothing more than serving at the pleasure of powerful men.

Warnings: non-con, sexual assault, rape, attempted suicide, sexual slavery, branding, torture, ownership, voyeurism, anal play, smut, violence, and murder.

Sam is dark in this story. If any of the warnings are triggers for you, I would suggest skipping this one. Please read and heed all the warnings.

Beta: ilikaicalie

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-

Days turn into weeks, and weeks into a month. Time passes and you fall into a rhythm that’s at the very least predictable. Your situation is not as terrifying when you know what’s coming next. Days are spent on the trail, the entire regiment moving south toward the border of Gilead and Argos. It’s slow-moving. You’re not sure how far you travel each day but it can’t be more than a dozen miles, give or take. The snow slows everything, the men freeze and the carts and carriages are continually stuck, having to be dug out again and again. 

The nights are just as routine. Sam’s expectations are clear and you find it’s easier and easier to give yourself to him. Opening your legs and closing your eyes as he takes pleasure for himself, forcing that same pleasure onto you even when you beg him to stop. 

You’ve grown emotionally numb to all of it. Compartmentalizing feelings is a coping skill you learned as a child, and you put this skillset to use as your time with the Winchesters goes on.  

Being with Sam brings an innate sense of safety. You’re his, everyone knows it, there’s not a man in the regiment that would entertain the thought of laying a hand on you. While he’s certainly not gentle, he does seem to take pride in making sure you always get what you need, before and after he’s had his way with you. His main concern is keeping you in pristine condition.

You’ve become accustomed to a certain level of care as this mighty caravan moves through the countryside. 

It’s the same routine each night. As soon as the tents are erected, the servants pour you a bath, wash your skin and hair. You’re served sweet fruits before dinner and there’s always plenty of wine and other libations at the ready. By the time the Winchester brothers arrive for the evening meal, you’re typically well into this choreographed nightly ritual. 

Tonight they’re nowhere to be found. You’re alone as the night wears on. Dinner is served and you eat alone, then sit by the fire looking around at the vast array of belongings. They carry a whole life with them on the road. 

There’s a map spread out over the table that is reset daily by the cartographer, whose sole job is to ensure the troop’s movements are accurately represented. You study the markers, sorting out who’s who. John Winchester's men are everywhere, spread far and wide across the entire continent. You didn’t realize they had conquered so extensively. News from distant lands had stopped coming in nearly a year ago. You knew it was bad but you had no clue the scope of their domination. 

Half the map is swathed in red, indicating they’ve successfully overtaken each area. You search from top to bottom until you find your family’s colors, the blue and red of the all too familiar crest. Your father is still fighting, and it looks as if he’s joined up with several different kingdoms. They’re amassing to the south, it must be where Sam and Dean are headed. 

Your heart skips a beat. Up until this point you’ve done a good job keeping thoughts of your family at bay. You do everything within your power to avoid letting the memories of your former home whirl to life, it’s too painful. But this sparks something, an inkling stirring in the back of your brain. A meager seed of hope. 

Sam, Dean and the soldiers are heading right for your father’s army. Your hands shake, trembling with a surging anxiety. What this means, you have no idea. You know the chance of ever seeing your father, uncle or sisters again is nearly nonexistent. And even if by some miracle you were able to get to him, it’s unlikely you’d be welcomed back into the fold. You’ve been defiled by a Winchester. How could anyone overlook the shame you would bring on every member of the royal family? 

Turning attention back to the map, you trail a finger up the winding blue line of the Longtree River, moving further and further north until you find your current location. 

A solid blue marker is labeled as Sam and Dean and to the west is a massive legion of men under their father’s crest. John Winchester. It looks like you may get the chance to meet the man who started all this death and destruction. There are smaller pockets of resistance outlying around the edges and you lean in closer to get a better look. 

“What are you doing?” Sam booms, standing just inside the tent. 

“I was just,” you back away from the table as the Alpha makes a beeline for you. “I’m sorry I was just looking. I-” Your voice is cut off as his hand wraps around your neck, squeezing tight. 

“What were you looking for?” he hisses, pushing you backward, his gripping tightening. You sputter, gasping for air and pulling at his hand with your one working arm. 

“P-please,” you rasp, mouth gaping open like a fish on dry land. “I-I-”

“What?” His jaw is tight, anger brimming in his eyes. You’ve yet to see this side of him, but now you understand the rumors. Another minute of this and he’ll squeeze the very life right out of you. 

“Huhh,” you make a strangled sound, eyes rolling back in your skull as he lets go, gripping your jaw instead, forcing you to look at him. “I-I was just l-looking at the figures. I watched the man set them up,” you whisper. “I wondered what they were.” Tears fall down your cheeks as you shake in terror. 

You’ve become complacent. Perhaps this is the reminder you needed. Sam Winchester is a murderer and a tyrant. And he’ll kill you just as easily as fuck you. 

“What are they?” he asks, face inches away, his nose scrunching in anger. “Tell me, what did you find Omega?”

“I don’t know!” You cry out the first of many lies in hopes of abating his wrath. You search your brain, a simple village girl wouldn’t know how to read the labels on the map, much less battle markers. “I was just looking at the figurines and the drawings on the paper. I’m sorry if I saw something I shouldn’t have!” 

“This is not for you!” He turns your head toward the table, pointing with his other hand. “You need to know your place. You don’t see. You don’t hear. You just are. Do you understand me?”

“Yes,” you nod frantically. 

His anger is logical. This information is invaluable. If a person wanted to subvert the Winchester cause this map would do the most damage. If you were in fact a spy, this would be the holy grail of information. You should have been more careful. 

“I didn’t know. I’ll do better, Alpha.” He lets you go and you slink backward, holding your throat. 

“I don’t give second warnings. Tread carefully, Omega.”

“I will, I promise.” You watch as he pours himself a drink and takes a seat at the table as if the whole encounter has drained him. Legs give way as you sink to the floor. Tomorrow there will likely be a handprint in black and blue across your throat. You’ve felt his strength before, but this is a wake-up call. You can’t become comfortable. Sam would snap your neck without a second thought if you gave him a reason. 

When you look up he’s watching you, his face now indifferent. He sighs, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his legs. What rage overtook him is gone just as fast as it came. 

“You are not allowed to look at the maps,” he explains calmly. “No maps, no books, no letters you may come across. And you never repeat a word you hear between Dean and me.”

“I understand...but I can’t read.” Books have been one of the great loves of your life, but Sam doesn’t need to know that. 

“Good, less temptation to be curious.” He stares at you a moment longer before downing the rest of his wine and pouring more. There’s a shout in the distance and Sam smiles, pointing at you. “Get yourself up. We have a guest.”

You manage to get to your feet just in time for Dean and the woman trailing him. There’s a clanking of metal and you look at the chain around her left ankle. She’s an Omega, you can smell her instantly. She’s a few years younger than you, but old enough that her scent is sickeningly strong. She looks around wildly from both Alphas to you. 

Dean’s brought back women before. Always Betas, never for more than an hour and definitely not in chains. 

“Brought you a friend,” Dean chuckles, winking at you. He takes the end of the chain and secures it around one of the thick poles holding up the tent, before clicking the heavy lock shut. “Gotta be careful with this one. She’s a runner.” 

“So was she.” Sam grunts in your direction as you stand frozen, still reeling from his assault. 

“You see what happens?” Dean places a hand at the back of the girl’s neck, both of them looking at you. She looks more angry than scared, an indication she doesn’t understand where she is. She should be pissing herself. “Don’t make me break your arm like hers.”

You’re the cautionary tale. The example to keep her in check. 

“One of your countrymen.” Dean goes on, appraising her from head to toe. 

You suck in a breath at the thought. She doesn’t know who you are. Few commoners had the occasion to see you for more than a few minutes during a parade through town and even less would recognize you now. But there’s no sense in tempting fate. Nothing good can come of familiarity. The moment you open your mouth you could say something that might cast doubt on the backstory you’ve created. 

You look from her to Sam, taking a step closer to your Alpha. 

“You see how good she is?” Dean explains. “You’d do well to follow her example.” 

“I thought you were riding ahead to the scout camp?” Sam asks, picking a hunk of bread off the table.

“I am. I’ll be back in a few hours. I can’t take her with me, can I?” Dean cocks his head, checking his flash before nodding to the new Omega. “Make sure she doesn’t go anywhere.”

Sam is about to protest, but before he has the chance Dean is gone. Sam moves on as if this is nothing out of the ordinary. 

“You’re there.” Sam points to Dean’s bed. “Stay quiet. No talking. I don’t want to know you’re here.”

“Let me go,” she grits out, anger seeping from her pores. You snap to attention waiting for his reaction. 

“You’re not going anywhere.” Sam snuffs out one torch after the next until the fire is the only light in the tent. “Lay down, shut your mouth and be quiet. You’ll sleep if you’re smart.”

“I’ll kill you both!” She yanks at the chain attached to her leg, glaring at Sam. 

“You should do what he says.” You speak up, offering advice you hope will keep her alive. “Stop talking and lay down.” 

Her eyes go wild, staring at you in surprise. 

Sam tugs at the back of your dress, pulling at the ties until you’re able to step out. You can feel her watching from across the room. Hidden in the shadows of Dean’s bed, she’s about to understand exactly what’s expected from her. 

Sam is already stark naked, the muscles of his back flexing as he pulls back the cover on the bed. 

“In,” he gestures. 

You lay down on your back as he slides in beside you. A hand comes down on your belly and you flinch, looking up at him in horror at your reaction. 

“I scared you, little bird.” He rubs his palm over your naked hip. His eyes fall to your neck, bruises already forming. 

“You hurt me,” you whisper back. “I didn’t know I wasn’t allowed to look. You could have just told me. I always follow your rules.”

“Yes, you do.” His hand moves upward, tracing the underside of your breast. “And now you’ll know next time. Do you know what the penalty for an Omega caught reading is?”

“No,” you whisper, scared of the answer. “What?”

“Your eyes. Both of them plucked out.” His thumb brushes over your nipple, feeling it harden under his touch. 

“But I couldn’t even read it,” you reiterate, yet again. 

“It doesn’t matter. If anyone else found you inspecting that map, you’d be blind for the rest of your life. I wouldn’t have any say in it.”

“Oh,” you’re silent as he rubs the pad of his thumb over the hard peak of your nipple, swirling in small circles. 

“Lucky for you, I believe in my own brand of discipline. Don’t let me catch you again. Are we clear?” He waits for you to nod in confirmation. “Good. Now turn onto your stomach.” 

[gayllamafromspace]

Embrace Your Chaos

(Tissaia De Vries/Reader)

Chapter 7: It's HIGH Time We Made A Friend

It's been weeks since I had last spoken to Tissaia, or rather, since she had spoken to me. I can't say I expected any less. It had become apparent that after our 4 days together, she wanted nothing to do with me. Nothing can be done about that, and nothing will be. She has chosen to still resent me for my mistake, and I don't blame her. So, I avoided her too, as I am now… sitting alone in the dining hall. When I say I'm avoiding her, what I really mean is that I am sitting alone at the table closest to the hall's door. And watching her, can't forget that detail. Not in a creepy way! I'm just occasionally observing what's going on with the other 7 girls. Which, I'd learned their names, through a very embarrassing lesson from the Rectoress. The lesson itself was meant to have been taught on the first day, but the rectoress decided to postpone. The Rectoress's decision to do so made the other girls very irritated with me. To say the least.

There is of course Tissaia, who I am all too familiar with. She was one of the 4 that was actually capable of lifting the rock, while using the flower as a conduit. I had been tempted to make a snarky comment about our time together not being entirely useless, but I decided against it. She hates me enough as it is, I don't think damaging her precious ego would do much good. One of the other girls, who took longer, but was quick to follow mine and Tissaia's lead, is named Margarita. She has lovely blonde hair, and strikingly blue eyes, almost the same shade as Tissaia's, but not nearly as beautiful… is what I would say, if me and said blue eyed brunette weren't currently at odds. Have I made my point? I'm pretty sure I have. Anyways, Margarita - or as she prefers to be called - Rita, is a very interesting character. She clearly has no shame, and somehow she's managed not to make all of the girls hate her. Despite her garish and quite childish behavior. She is actually one of the only girls that hasn't decided that I am a bane of the earth, which I am grateful for.

Roan, with her pale yellowish skin and who's hair is straighter than the stick up Tissaia's ass, has a very unfortunate case of air headedness. She cannot take hints for the life of her, and it is almost intriguing the amount of idiotic blabbering that can come from her before Annita (another one of the girls) covers her mouth. Annita, as previously mentioned, is the sound control of the group over yonder. Her skin is a lovely shade of chocolatey brown, and I would find her effortlessly attractive if it wasn't for her tendency to make the most overly expressive and revolving faces on the continent. Her smile is too wide and very clearly forced, her lips peel back from her teeth a horrifying amount when she does. She has some semblance of intelligence, but her constant need to sneer and wrinkle her nose at the mere sight of me is ridiculous. She does have pretty eyes though, a nice hazel color, leaning more toward brown than green. Her hair is short, nearly to her scalp, and it's black like Roan's.

Then there's Sanota and Veblen. Sanota has auburn hair and brown eyes, her features are soft and round, but her personality is the complete opposite. She's a bitch, from the way she walks to the way she talks, it just screams, "I thrive off of the tears of children." I had attempted to help her during the rock lifting lesson, but she was having none of it. As a result, a few of her fingers withered and died on her left hand. It was truly horrifying. Her once pale skin had turned a disgusting murky gray and black, and I don't think she'll ever be able to use those fingers again. The point is though, she is so rude and unaccepting of help from anyone, that it's self-destructive. Quite literally. I would almost feel bad for her, if she wasn't so cruel to me, and poor Veblen.

She is younger than me by about 2 years, being around 14. She is actually a very sweet girl, she's quiet and respectful. But she worships the ground that Sanota walks on. Sanota is very rude to her, calls her names, pushes her around. Veblen had actually tried to talk to me once and Sonata was quick to grab her by her light brown hair and drag her away. The girl was on the verge of tears. But with Sanota's cruelty, she also gets protection. From what? Well, that would be from Tissaia's annoyance, Rita's bad habits, Roan's idiotic choices of coversation, and Annita's terrifying facial expressions. To Veblen, Sonata is a new older sister and guardian angel - obviously - to literally anybody else, Sanota is using her for menial tasks and as a servant. It's infuriating, but I can understand why. The Rectoress gives us a LOT of pointless work and stuff that really could be avoided, but the rest of us suck it up and just do it. Not push it on a weaker, easily manipulated, child. Well… she's not a child, but my point still stands!

Finally, there's Lida. Lida is huge, I mean, HUGE. She's around five foot ten and her body is just muscle. If it weren't for her shoulder length blonde hair and shockingly feminine voice, I would think she was some sort of unisex goddess. She has been surprisingly open about her life, she was raised on a farm and her mother died before she could bear any sons. Her father was so in love with his deceased wife that he couldn't remarry and try for one, so he raised his daughter like he would have raised his son. The result is mouth wateringly delicious, but she's not really my type. Very attractive in her own right, but just not for me. Maybe if I get on her good side, she could help me get a little more fit? Highly unlikely. She's a follower, and as a follower, she's going to follow the rest of the girls in hating me. Which, I don't really care anymore, I've got me.

It's lonely, I can pretend all I like, but it sucks. The only person who's actually bothered to spend the faintest bit of time on me since the situation Tissaia ended was Gwendolyn. The servant woman. She's very sweet, and has been very supportive. A part of me wants to wish and hope that she is secretly my aunt and that she can whisk me away from this place forever. That is impossible, so outrageously optimistic that it almost makes me want to cry in frustration. Despite this though, she has been a beacon of light over the past few weeks, and I couldn't be more thankful. It's actually because of her, that what I lack in friends my age, I have gained friends her age. Much of the staff knows me by name, and occasionally I'll be visited by the odd maid who was passing by, or a cook who wanted me to try a new recipe of theirs. The company has been tremendous, but lacking. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy talking to them all and learning about their lives and stories of adventure from the few that have actually been out on the world to explore. But I want to bond with someone my age, and not for diplomatic reasons like I had before coming to Aretuza. So that I can genuinely enjoy the time I spend with another person, so we can cause trouble and talk about the people we like. Someone I could come out too if I trust them enough.

I thought I could get that from Tissaia, but she clearly has other plans. I'm hoping she forgets about my sexuality, I should have lied. I would have lied, if I'd known this is how we would end up. Me sitting at a table as far away from her, her new friends, and everyone else in the Hal as possible. While I watch her laugh from afar, and Margarita gets out of her seat with her tray and leaves the table, walking over towards me. Wait a minute! Why is she coming over here? Did she see me starring, am I about to get yelled at? I wasn't trying to stare, I was just… yes I was staring, but it wasn't in a bad way. I'm an idiot, what should I do? She's almost here. Fuck, damn it. I'm looking down, I'm going to look down at my tray and pick at my food while I wait for the ensuing lecture.

But it never comes. I see her place her tray down right in front of me and plop downright there. Timidly, I look up. Never being this close to her before, I suddenly notice so much. Her eyes are nothing like Tissaia's, actually, they're so much brighter and filled with mischief. Tissaia's eyes are more gray in comparison, not like it matters. Margarita's nose is ever so slightly crooked toward the left, and her lips are full. She is very attractive, shockingly so. On her plump lips, is a grin riddled with trouble and, surprisingly, friendliness. She doesn't seem all too abashed by my observation of her, she actually seems to be thriving off the attention, which is interesting. She, obviously, had no problem sizing me up too, and it's when her grin widens that our akward and strange silence is finally interrupted.

"So, (Y/N), are you having fun over here by yourself?" She says, taking a bite of the food on her plate. I hesitate, suspicious of her reasons for being over here.

"No, actually. It's quite boring." I say, looking around the hall. The girls at Margarita's former table are all looking over at us with confused faces, and I must say, I am just as confused. My confusion of course is dissipated when she speaks again.

"It can't be more boring than over there. They keep yapping about how the Rectoress is so powerful and assignments blah blah blah." She says emphasizing her words by waving her fork around. "You though," She points the fork at me.

"You seem like much more entertaining company to keep." She finishes her sentence by stabbing a piece of her pork and bringing it to her mouth to chew slowly. I had long since finished my food, but my glass was still half full, so I took a sip before answering. The juice inside is tart and dries my mouth some once I've swallowed it. Very disappointing.

"And what makes you think that, Margarita Laux-Antille." I say, opting to use her full name for formal and intimidation purposes. She swallows her bite of pork before giving me a devilish smirk. She places down her fork and puts her elbows on the table, folding her hands together under her chin.

"I know a fellow troublemaker when I see one, and seeing as how Tissaia has expressed a LOT about how much of one you are, I think you and I will get along perfectly." She says. Well… guess there's no arguing against that. I was about to try, but before I could open my mouth, she reached her hand out for me to shake.

"Just call me Rita, there's no need for all that fancy shit, especially since we're now friends." She says as I take her hand and shake it. I look her in the eye with my brows furrowed.

"I never said we were friends." I said, a bit of amusement playing on her face and mine. She stands up, smiling down at me.

"Maybe not yet…" she says cryptidly, "meet me in my room in 2 hours. It's the room at the end of your hall." And with that, she leaves the dinning hall and leaves me alone to my thoughts. I'm smiling, I know I am. Have I really just made a friend? Perhaps. She showed no intention of hurting me, so meeting her later shouldn't be too bad of a plan right? I will of course tell Gwen, for safety reasons, if she doesn't see me in the morning to help with breakfast she'll need to come looking. I know she will, she cares about me. If things do go wrong and it is a trap, then I can just run out and hide in my room for the rest of the night.otherwise, things should be nice and calm.

 

•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•

Things were certainly NOT calm. Not in the slightest. Upon arriving at her room, I was very quickly greeted with smoke and the undeniable scent of alcohol. Why? Well because miss Margarita Laux-Antille was smoking a blunt of unknown origin and had a bottle of wine held firm in her hand. She clearly had just begun… whatever this is. But, I at least knew that she wasn't trying to kill me. On purpose. I lasted maybe 2 minutes before the temptation to join her was too much, she was incredibly adamant about me joining her in her little party, and who am I to decline. So, the night went from confusing to so irrevocably clear that I feel like an idiot for questioning her intentions before. The other girls, teacher's pets and people pleasers that they are, had refused to join Rita in her fun multiple times. That's ridiculous! Who in their right mind would give up the chance to get high out of your mind and three sheets to the wind with this complete wack job? Rita is a riot. She is completely unabashed by literally everything, she doesn't give a damn, and her sense of humor is absolutely filthy. She is the BEST person you could ever get into trouble with.

So much so, that maybe one joint and four swigs of wine in, and I'm agreeing to steal a frog from one of the many classrooms and put the little fucker in Roan's room. That task was not so horrible. Finding out where the frogs were was a problem, me and Rita had to drunkenly wonder about for hours trying to find out which room they were in. Everything was moving and all the rooms started to look the same. By some miracle, no one was patrolling this hall, for now anyway. Being drunk and completely dumbasses at the moment, we'd forgotten to close all of the doors that we opened. We don't care, we have a goal. At one point Rita had tugged on my dress and drug me into one of the rooms. It was decidedly NOT a classroom. It was a winery, how did we find it? We shall never know, but, it's location is now burned within our brains and we shall forever find it from this day forth.

The room in itself is massive, wall to wall are shelves of unopened bottles of wine and other random alcohols that are placed in some sort of order. That order does not matter to us intoxicated teenagers, because we are drunk… and teenagers. It's not rocket science the point is, we have been introduced to a treasure trove of liquid courage, and the first thing we're going to do is steal as much as we possibly can and hide it everywhere. So, our side quest begins. Take as much rum, brandy, wine, jack, scotch, vodka, and whatever else is in there and carry it in our skirts like kangaroo pouches. Our legs are indecently exposed, and we do not care, we have loot. Said loot is loud, which of course means that we should shush it. Shushing is actually more loud and pointless, but we do it anyway. Why? Because our new babies are being loud and they need to shut up. They do not shut up, not until we have all but one bottle each of it. Out of maybe 20 bottles, 2 are unhidden.

It is at this point that we have finally found the classrooms. So, after deciding to hide the last two bottles in my room tomorrow, we go and save a frog from it's doom. A very magical doom. Said frog is a grayish brown color and very cute. It's eyes are gold. He has been dictated a boy by Rita dearest, and his name is now Fredrick. Fredrick the frog, who will soon be acquainted with Roan. Roan, with her black hair and eyes. Roan, who talks too much and gets on Rita's nerves. Roan, who has insulted Tissaia on multiple occasions unknowingly.

"Roan did what!?" I whisper-yell at Rita. Rita, is amused, her face cracking into a manic and almost teasing grin.

"Yeah (Y/N)," she says smoothly, wrapping an arm around me and leaning against my shoulder, my already imparted balance worsening with her added weight and swaying. I asked her what Roan said, ignoring the slight tremor of anger I feel. It's nothing, I'm just mad that I wasn't the one who did it.

"Oh, Roan told her that she was an…. Uptight hormonal mess, " Rita hesitates, trying to remember through her haze. "With a serious neatness problem?" She is clearly unsure of her answer, but I have to laugh. The insult itself was funny, but clearly not meant as an insult. It was an observation that Roan, being her, couldn't keep to herself. My laughter is quickly joined by Rita's, both of us covering each other's mouths and shushing one another.We are nearly to Roan's room, the familiar hall with all of our rooms just around the next corner.

"Tissaia must have been mad," I said, chuckling lightly. Rita looks at me like I'm an idiot, I probably am.

"Mad? She wasn't just mad. She was livid, she stormed out of the hall without a word to anyone, it was fantastic…. But disappointing, Roan needs to shut up." She says, round the corner with me and starting to lead the way to Roan's room.

"Well, maybe sir Fredrick the fierce can teach her some manners?" I offer, looking down at Fredrick and letting him softly on his head. Rita shakes her head and stops in front of a door, slowly opening it. I frown, knowing that now I must let my dear friend Fredrick the frog go. Telling him goodbye, I hand him reluctantly to Rita. She goes into the room, leaving me to do a horrible job to keep a lookout.

Roan was fast asleep of course, because no one is supposed to be awake. Me and Rita giggle as quietly as possible while leaving Roan's room. The deed has been done, and what a wonderful morning it is. It's maybe…. Two in the morning? It's hard to keep track of time. They get caught of course, but by one of my servant friends, they look at the two of us, smile, wink, and carry on their way. The rest of the short trek to Rita's room is excruciatingly difficult because of the swaying, leaning, stumbling, and quiet chuckling we're doing.

When we have finally made it back to Rita's room, it's like the floodgates have been busted open, because the second that door closed we were on the floor laughing like buffoons. Rita, who has decided the night is not yet over, takes yet another swig of wine and passes it to me. It's warm, and grape flavored. I can understand why people would drink wine all the time at dinner parties, it's a delight! The way it makes you feel is amazing. I'm happy and everything is so funny, my eyes are kind of tired, but I'm not sleepy. I crawl over to Rita and grab her hand, grinning like an idiot.

"You are… my best friend…" I say, slurring slightly and shaking my head. Rita rolls over on top of me and hugs me, nuzzling into my chest. Her hair tickles my nose, so I blow it outta my face and wrap my arms around her.

"Besties… let's give those girls hell… hm?" She says drowsily, looking up at me and blinking slowly. With an unreasonably loud laugh and a dopey grin, I nod in agreement. She lays her head back down, sprawled on top of me. She's not exactly light, but I don't feel like moving her, so I let her lie there. Eventually she starts to snore, it's annoying, but I'm too drunk to care. So, not so long after her, I slowly begin to drift off… so begins the most chaotic and troublesome friendship in all of Aretuza. The Rectoress wanted chaos… well, here it is.

[daughterofposeidon25]

DaughterOfPoseidon Favorites

My hero academia-Kiribaku

🔴 = NSFW

Please read at your own risk. Carefully read tags and enjoy!

A Name That You'll Remember by Heronfem

Kirishima Eijirou is a Hero. Bakugou Katsuki... is not. Trapped in his toxic workplace and increasingly desperate to get out, Red Riot's days are only brightened by a new villain known as Caution, who's not exactly villainous and keeps accidentally doing good deeds. But when a real villain appears, a threat from the past that demands that Red Riot make the ultimate sacrifice to keep the public safe, Bakugou is forced into saving the day... and eventually, Red Riot himself.

Part 1 of Won't Go Quietly

Freshly Ground Coffee by arxaris

Bakugou had been going to BeansPot Coffe for a long time. A hole-in-the-wall coffee shop in the middle of the city, the place was a wonderfully well-kept secret – at least in Bakugou’s opinion. And that’s exactly how he liked it. Coffee with a side of quiet, blissful anonymity had become his favorite way to start his work day. Which was why he was instantly on guard when he walked in one morning to see a new face standing behind the counter. Well, actually, first he saw his hair.

Stop-sign red and styled up into spikes, it looked ridiculous against the cream-colored walls of the shop. Between that and the way-too-wide smile that stretched across his face, he was almost hard to look at directly.

Too goddamn bright for this early in the morning.

Or, pro-hero Ground Zero had a morning routine that he liked perfectly fine, thank you very much. That is, until a bright-eyed new barista showed up to throw a wrench in it, one caramel latte at a time.

sparks by helwolves 🔴

“I’m just really happy,” Eijirou says. He sighs shakily and then all but collapses onto Katsuki, burying his face against the vulnerable spot at the base of his throat. “Ah, you smell so good,” he says, trailing off into a soft growl. “They say that means you’ll be really compatible with your rider, you know... Is it the same for men?”

Alternately: "they can't show us Bakugou riding a dragon that might be Kirishima and NOT expect me to want him to fuck it."

Part 1 of sparks, etc.

Blood of my Hand by PurplePersnickety

Eijirou is a half dragon, stuck in a cage, unable to shift from his human form. Then a bad-tempered barbarian arrives on the scene, Eijirou makes a blood pact he'll probably regret, and he learns that finding a missing friend of his might just tie into the fate of the world.

Katsuki is a mountain clan outcast, and if he ever wants to return then he must meet the demands of the Queen and bring back the head of a dragon. Then Katsuki meets the most irritating lizard, makes a blood pact he'll probably regret, and learns that- wait? The world? Oh fuck.

quote love unquote by newamsterdam

Sero nods. “It’s the chance of a lifetime, really,” he says. “We want you to date Bakugou, for the sake of his reputation with the press. Some public appearances, a few ‘candid’ photos. For at least a couple of months.”

“Bakugou sent you to ask me to date him?” Kirishima asks, baffled.

“Of course not. We, his people, are asking you to date him. He’s going to have to get on board, if he wants his career to survive. And in the bargain, Riot will get all sorts of publicity, because their lyricist will be dating one of the industry’s hottest stars. A win for everyone.”

When Kirishima Eijirou's band hits the big time, he's not prepared for his newfound fame. He's even less prepared to meet the actor he's been crushing on for years, or to start dating him as a publicity stunt. The closer Kirishima gets to Bakugou Katsuki, the more he realizes he's in over his head. But it's hard to stop, once his heart is in it.

A Dragon's Hoard by chezka

There was a lizard in Kirishima’s room.

A scaley, clawed, fanged lizard. A fifty centimeters long, red, winged lizard.

A dragon, there was a dragon in the middle of the floor of Kirishima’s room.

Bakugou blinked slowly, a hand curled around the door’s handle and one foot still out in the hallways. He looked at the dragon, the dragon looked back at him.

“What the fuck,” Bakugou whispered.

take your broken wings and fly by bwyn

Rifts—man, he hates these things. They look misty, but are dry; they look hot, but feel cold as a winter chill. They’re the exact opposite of what his eyes assume. It’s like some sort of sensory illusion. To top it all off, if he thinks about them too long, the space behind his eyes starts to throb. Not worth it.

The hawk takes off without prompting the closer Eijirou gets. Goosebumps prickle across his skin at the waft of cool air.

“Let’s get this over with, shall we?” grunts Eijirou as his skin goes hard around his hands.

Part 1 of Tales from the Rift

The Beauty of a Beast by starofjems

Once upon a time a lonely beast lived in a manor deep in the forest. He dreamed of the day his true love appeared to break his curse... When a beauty finally appears in his life, it is not quite as he imagined. For who could have thought a beauty would be more of a beast.

Or

The beauty and the beast AU nobody asked for but here it is.

Broomsticks by ComiclzWrites 🔴

Local witch Bakugo Katsuki doesn't have many friends and he'd like to keep it that way but the shop that he gets all his ingredients from has a new delivery boy that might just work his way into Bakugo's fiery little heart.

AKA: Bakugo Katuski is a witch, Kirishima Eijirou is his delivery boy, and this is the story of how they fell in love.

Broken Bridges by DeathBelle 🔴

After years of working abroad, Kirishima moves back to Japan to open his own agency, and things seem to be going well. There’s plenty of work, he gains popularity quickly, and it’s a relief to be back in his home country. Everything is perfect, until he runs into Bakugou on the scene of a villain attack.

Bakugou had been his best friend at U.A., but the two of them haven’t spoken for years. That had been Bakugou’s decision, not Kirishima’s, and he's still a little hurt by it. Regardless, it’s easy to put that aside in favor of rekindling his friendship with Bakugou. They fall back into a routine and it’s as if nothing has changed; including Kirishima’s old feelings for his best friend. When a new pair of villains starts picking off heroes one by one, Kirishima feels that he and Bakugou are the best heroes to take the case. All the extra time they spend together hunting villains is great, except Kirishima feels like his heart is being ripped out every time Bakugou looks at him.

Kneel by deviance 🔴

“Bakugou?”

Bakugou shuffled on his feet, hovering over Kirishima and looking at the ground with stormy eyes. He glanced up to glare at Kirishima, a silent dare to call him out on his odd behavior no doubt. Kirishima forced himself not to tense. Whatever Bakugou wanted, he was about to show him and Kirishima had to get this right. Bakugou was all about showing and not telling.

Kirishima nearly bit his tongue to keep in a squawk of surprise when Bakugou suddenly dropped to his knees next to him, shuffling forward until he could press his forehead to his thigh and hide his face against Kirishima's leg. Kirishima opened his mouth, questions on the tip of his tongue, and he barely managed to catch them before they could be given voice. Bakugou was trembling minutely, his entire frame so tense his muscles were twitching under Kirishima's gaze.

“Just. Don't say anything,” Bakugou muttered, hands clenching in his lap tightly. “Please,” he whispered, a short choked sound.

The Lost Continent by cattchi, paglykos 🔴

Kirishima Eijirou is from a noble family of pirate exterminators. Bakugou Katsuki is rising as one of the most fearsome pirates on the seas.

When a trade goes awry, Kirishima finds himself cast among Bakugou's crew, having to learn the ropes and the sea as they chase after All Might's infamous hidden treasure.

Of Ghosts and other Inaccurate Things by chezka

A week before the sports festival found Bakugou walking back home in the late afternoon, sunset light making his scowl even more menacing and drawing a long shadow right in front of him.

Someone was walking by his side.

There was no second shadow on the floor beside his own to confirm this, but if he kept his focus on the street ahead and carefully avoided trying to look to his left, he could consistently make out black hair swishing in the wind and strong arms leading to hands sunk in pants’ pockets. The edges were blurry, but there was definitely someone at his side.

Tell Me I'm Yours by arxaris 🔴

Bakugou was going a little crazy. He could grudgingly admit that it was at least in part his own fault; moving in with his best friend maybe hadn’t been the best idea. At first, it sounded great. The rent would be cheaper, grocery shopping and cooking for two would be way more convenient, and it would be easier for the two of them to hang out. The only thing was, Bakugou forgot to consider how the joys of moving in with his aforementioned best friend might be dampened by the fact that he was madly in love with him.

Alternatively: Kirishima Eijirou is a goddamn tease and there's no way he doesn't know what he's doing.

Part 1 of tell me i'm yours

Fire in the Storm by Vagabond for Shippeh 🔴

Bakugo Katsuki is a stubborn bastard and does what you should never do: splits the party. He gets caught in a rainstorm and seeks shelter in a cave which yields an interesting discovery in the form of a shape-changing stranger.

Or: Kirishima is a dragon, and Bakugo seeks shelter in his lair.

i'm going to the forest to kick my own ass by WannabeMarySue

“What the fuck,” he mutters, quietly but with feeling.

He stomps over and picks it up. Emotional Intelligence for Dummies glares up at him in garish yellow font.

“What the fuck,” he repeats, louder and with more feeling.

(or, todoroki tries to play a prank, but jokes on him, because bakugou is fueled by complex emotions like Anger and Winning).

Kitsune Bakugo and Oni Kiri (Inu x Boku SS AU) by ComiclzWrites 🔴

The Maison de Ayakashi is a high security apartment building where humans with demon or yōkai ancestors reside, each guarded by their own Secret Service bodyguard. Bakugo stuck with the ancestor of the Kitsune has been moved into the apartment as his parents last ditch effort to fix his aggressive personality; his hired bodyguard Kirishima the ancestor of the Oni seems determined to turn his world upside-down.

Everglow by Maplefudge

Eijirou and Katsuki are known to be a formidable duo, one being a dragon shifter, the other a powerful human with explosive magic. They work together as if it's second nature, and the nations know their names. However, it hasn’t always been like that.

aka

The story of how Eijirou and Katsuki accidentally formed a life bond with each other and ended up as reluctant partners.

'Cause the Dark's Not Taking Prisoners Tonight by imatrisarahtops

“Are those soba noodles?” Kirishima asked.

Again Bakugou’s only reply was a grunt. He offered no further explanation—not that Kirishima honestly expected one—as though making soba noodles from scratch at half past four in the morning wasn’t at all a bizarre occurrence and made complete and total sense. For a fleeting moment, Kirishima even wondered if maybe he was the odd one here. Besides, he’d already decided it was generally not in his best interest to question these types of things with Bakugou, especially when it was something essentially harmless.

When Kirishima has a nightmare and is unable to fall back asleep, he accepts defeat and decides to study in the common area of the dorms. What he doesn't expect to find is Bakugou, also very much awake, and Kirishima can't help but think that maybe they're both having the same problems with sleeping. If he's worried, it's just because they're friends. (Right?)

Cranky-rishima by PurplePersnickety

"Oh, I just fell out of bed," Kirishima said, almost airily. He put one hand to the back of his neck. "But I'm good."

Katsuki squinted at him. "No you're not."

Kirishima's expression fell, and he looked down at the hand not on his neck. His fingers were trembling and he closed his hand up into a fist. "No, I'm not. Fuck it."

Part 1 of Nightmares Aren't Explodable

Engraved in your Mind by Hejter

Bakugou Katsuki lost his ability to recognize faces, so he didn’t know any of the people who stared at him, but he knew what dread looks like when he sees it, and as he looked around the crowd, every single person had exactly that written all over their face.

He looked down at the guy who was still on the ground, part of his uniform’s shirt burnt, his wounded face covered by his hands and his hair smoking slightly.

Katsuki glanced at his hands and finally realized something.

or

Kacchan is still a stubborn prick while suffering from face blindness. Also, quirk discrimination is a thing.

alternatively-

New quirk, who dis

The Weight of Your Hand by kamin

That night, to the citizens, the explosions were a jolt of fear at every blast, but to the heroes and the students of UA, they were punches and swings, fierce fighting and loud strength. The explosions were the pulse of the battle, and the power of a boy that would never back down.

One after another, explosions set a chorus through the shuddering city.

And then, suddenly—the explosions stopped.

(In which Bakugou’s kidnapping goes a little differently, and just a few seconds could change so much.)

Obsidian by PullingAllMighters

Bakugou Katsuki's a dangerous guy, even without his unnatural, fae-given magic. Used and scorned as evil everywhere he goes for having powers he didn't ask for, Bakugou wanders the world as a rogue nova, hunting beasts and criminals for survival. It's too bad that the real villains didn't take it well that he's not joining their side. But now they've framed it so he's a mass murderer, making all the other magicked humans like him look bad. Hunted and ever the loner, Bakugou meets Kirishima, a dragon who's also alone and outcast, who vows to protect him until they can either clear his name, or get far enough away that it doesn't matter.

Not that Bakugou needs him. Bakugou Katsuki doesn't need anyone, especially not some broken dragon who can't even fly.

You Got Me Bewitched, I Am Under Your Spell by 🔴 Obsessed_As_A_Coping_Mechanism

“Uh… hello?” Kirishima calls, his deep voice echoing in the room.

The witch doesn’t answer.

Not one to be discouraged by silence, even if that silence is scary as hell, Kirishima steels his nerves and steps over the threshold.

THAT the male notices. He immediately stops grinding, his head tilting to an almost forty five degree angle. It’s almost cat like. It’s absolutely eerie. He hmphs, before he calls out, “Leave.” He grabs a fistful of sour smelling leaves off the plant in front of him and drops them into his bowl.

What?! No way! Kirishima advances further, the doorway creaking under his feet. He won’t take that for an answer. “I need your help?” Frick. Why did that sound like a question when it should have been a statement?

The witch doesn’t look up again, but he swears the male rolls his eyes. “Leave. Now.”

The witch is gorgeous.

I'll Save You Myself by Obsessed_As_A_Coping_Mechanism

After Kirishima saves Bakugou from the League of Villains he can't let go of his hand. He's been holding it for hours, but his fingers are cement. Unbreakable.

Otherwise called: Fuck Eijirou, I'm The One Who Got Kidnapped, Why The Hell Are You Leaking All Over Me? And... Why Does My Heart Feel Like Its Going To Throw-up? By: Bakugou Katsuki

The Extra's Club by Sonamae

Toru is a bright ray of sunshine! At least she pretends to be. Right up until Bakugo Katsuki catches her crying in the kitchen.

Life's a Drag(on) by PurplePersnickety

"Sparky," Katsuki turned and laid a hand on Kaminari's shoulder. "I need you to know that the position of Best Man at our wedding is between you and a fucking dragon, so start psyching yourself up to fight for it."

"A what?" Kaminari repeated faintly.

Bakugou Katsuki currently experiences three major problems with his life:

1. He helped a dragon with a broken leg once and now it keeps showing up outside his house all the time. 2. He has a huge hopeless crush on the guy with the red hair and the freaky teeth who just moved into the village. 3. He has no idea what to do about either of the above.

Burden of Proof by kytrin, Mslead 🔴

All it took was one bad day. Eijiro Kirishima was slotted to be one of UA's finest detectives before he was framed for a crime he didn't commit. Now he was used to people keeping him at arms length even after he scraped the remains of his reputation back together as a private investigator. When an old serial killer returns from the past, he finds himself in the center of a case darker and more dangerous than he could have ever anticipated. Teaming up with an angry homicide detective with ties to the killer, together they are forced to rely on one another as they face old and new enemies alike rising from the shadows.

All That Glitters Is Gold by Obsessed_As_A_Coping_Mechanism 🔴

Kirishima has been enamoured with the boy next door since he met him deep in the woods by his house as a kid.

Other than the fact that Bakugou never leaves the forest, won't voice his name, is nimble like a cat, and sometimes disappears into thin air, he's a normal kid just like Kiri!

Oh... and he's goregous.

And he just keeps getting prettier as time goes on.

No Secrets to Success by kingdoms

“Hey!” Kirishima says brightly, stepping sideways to be directly in the guy’s path. “I know you!”

“Fuck off,” the guy snarls, pushing past him and barely slowing down.

Kirishima is forced to start his first semester at UA two months late. Somehow he still meets Bakugou Katsuki, makes the most of those two months, and gains a tutor, a best friend, and an exciting way to scandalize his new peers. Canon AU where Kirishima and Bakugou become friends before Kirishima meets the rest of Class 1-A.

Smoke, Spice, and Everything Nice by let_me_wander 🔴

Bakugou Katsuki is a half-incubus and knows how to play the game: to find the perfect target, enchant them, and finally feed off of them. As long as certain conditions are met, no one can refuse him. Until Kirishima Eijirou.

Looks like Bakugou will have to seduce him the old fashioned way. Unless, of course, Kirishima wins him over first.

Oh My Gods by Synnie 🔴

Kirishima is overjoyed when he learns his fields have been blessed by the Harvest God, Crimson. When Bakugo, God of War, helps himself to the Harvest God's offerings, Kirishima learns a blessing from a god is also an open invitation for other gods to wreak havoc in his otherwise quiet life.

But when the gods are betrayed by one of their own, Kirishima finds himself caught up in the intrigue. All he wanted was to go back to the life he knew. But will that be enough for him now that he's tasted so much more?

Fire and the Flood by Maplefudge 🔴

Kirishima's good at massages and Bakugou's bad at feelings (they both are).

You Feel Like God Inside That Gold by Sacramental_Wine 🔴

When Kirishima figured out he was gay, he’d been pretty sure that the obsession his fellow male classmates had with boobs would not be an issue in his life.

He could get distracted by nice muscles or a great smile or many other things. He was an easily distracted guy! But those things were easy to keep blinders on for, he could keep from getting too distracted.

He hadn’t exactly planned on Bakugou.

Built to Fall by bigstupidjellyfish 🔴

nothing like an aftermath of a bad break up years later 

let me love you by arxaris 🔴

Kirishima’s liked Bakugou for years and years and never thought he’d even have a chance. Bakugou could easily become a runway model if he ever decided that’s what he wanted, while Kirishima is... well, just Kirishima.

There’s no denying he’s strong, but not in the graceful and beautiful way that Bakugou is. He’s got rolls no matter what he does, more body hair than he could ever hope to manage, and thighs that seem to constantly stretch his jeans at the seams no matter how big he buys them.

Yet, somehow within the span of the last hour, Kirishima’s gone from calling Bakugou ‘bro’ in their shared kitchen to lying underneath him in bed with Bakugou’s lean thigh pressed confidently between his thick ones.

So, yeah, forgive Kirishima if he’s freaking out a bit.

beautiful creatures by gothgirlclub 🔴

Caught in the middle of a morning accident, provisionally licensed Bakugou and Kirishima help take down the villain, only to fall victim to it’s quirk after taking it down.

So it’s really not their fault when they decide to play around with their new body parts, figuring out that scratching beneath the ears really was nice and that knots were annoying if your boyfriend got especially sleepy after sex.

alpha x alpha by Nutella0Mutt 🔴

If they had one dollar every time someone said it wasn’t possible, and to give it up, they'd be fucking billionaires.

Nobody thinks they'll work. It's unnatural, illogical, and against biology. Bakugou and Kirishima have one motto: fuck the haters.

It Will Find You Here by arxaris 🔴

Katsuki’s life was falling apart. He had always known what he wanted. He had his life and career completely planned out. He’d accounted for every detail and every potential obstacle. Except for one. He was not prepared in the slightest to be six years into his carefully constructed life plan, extremely successful, and suddenly so goddamned miserable that he couldn’t make it through a day of work.

He was fine. He really just needed some fucking time, space, and air to breathe. So, he loaded up his backpack and left Japan, hoping that a bit of time off and travel might help him get over this bullshit and on with the plan. However, a few weeks into his trip he met a meddlesome redhead in the Thai islands who threatened to disrupt his universe in the worst ways imaginable: by making him fall in love, and by breaking the news that Katsuki couldn’t outrun himself.

Burger Kings by plantegg

Bakugou does something illegal. Kirishima finds out and makes him take him out to dinner to keep him quiet.

That's All You Ever Have to Say by arxaris 🔴

Maybe a sane person wouldn’t put up with it. They’d probably call the whole thing unhealthy, say that Bakugou should learn to express his feelings. People have suggested to Kirishima in the past that he put his foot down and demand they talk about things. They’ve gritted their teeth as they told him Bakugou was playing games with him, looked at him with pity as if they were cluing him into something everyone knew but him, something truly awful. But of course Kirishima knew. How could he not? Katsuki wasn’t just playing games with him. They were playing games together.

And Kirishima was positively addicted to them.

Rutting For You by FoolishFortuna 🔴

Kirishima’s scent washed over him as the redhead moved to slide into bed and Katsuki found his mouth watering. For fuck sake, why was his body being such an asshole all of a sudden? He swallowed.

“Uh, Bakugou?” Eijirou's voice was quiet, almost rough, “You're putting out a pretty strong scent.” There was a tone to his best friend's voice that he'd never heard before, and it sent a shiver through Katsuki as he fisted the duvet in his hand tighter and ground his teeth.

His gums ached.

“Its nothing, shut up.” He focused on getting his pheromones under control quickly. Fuck, he really wanted to bite something. Something that smelled like Eijirou. He swallowed another mouthful of saliva.

“Do you-” Kiri swallowed as well, “d’you wanna just sleep up here?”

Why Don't We Dance a While? by Sacramental_Wine 🔴

They were supposed to be directly fighting each other but with one of them playing a villain, encouraged to fight dirty and think on their feet to fight against an unlikely team-up. It was supposed to test the solo “villain’s” ability to think on their feet and anticipate while the team was being evaluated on their ability to adapt to on the fly quirk combinations and unlikely situations. Some of them, like Momo and Sato and Aoyama, struggled a bit more than others with the villain role.

Others were shockingly good at it. Ochako had been having a blast the entire time, Iida continued to excel, and Tokoyami had played up his own more spooky allure.

Kirishima was among one of the good ones.

Something Warm by let_me_wander

When an annoying customer with ridiculous hair starts frequenting the coffee shop Bakugou works at in the weeks before Christmas, he doesn't think much of it. Until it becomes all he can think about.

Awkward flirting, the first snow, a rock show, and probably way too much coffee.

[writemoment]

Sort Things Out

Writer: Ellie-Mae (Pen Name)

Part: 1/1

Summary: Y/n's nervous about transferring to Hogwarts from Ilvermorny. What house will she be sorted into and will she make any friends? Soon she meets the Baudelaire siblings and things begin to sort themselves out.

Pairing: Ravenclaw Klaus Baudelaire x Ravenclaw!Reader

Warnings/Rated:  WWoHP x ASOUE crossover, fluff and a little bit of anxiety. Overall wholesome fluff

Word Count: 3,128

A/N: Ah, It’s been such a long time!! Glad to be back and having internet! This is something I worked on eight (plus) months ago. Hope you enjoy! - Ellie-Mae

( Reader ) P.O.V.

Everything is so different.

Back at Ilvermorny, I at least knew people to help me settle my nerves. Now I'm on my own, searching the compartments on the Hogwarts Express for a spot to settle. It would be different if it were my first year, but it's my fourth. Not only that but I didn't even live on this continent until two months ago. I had been so upset at the prospect of halting my magical studies because of a big move. Then my professor mentioned Hogwarts and helped me transfer over. Though I know it's irrational, I'm still so shaken by the new experience of it all.

Finally finding an empty car, I sink down into the plush cushions with a sigh of relief. My nerves are still boiling beneath the surface, worries persistent. I push it to the back of my mind as I rummage through my book-bag to pull out the history of Hogwarts and read.

I must have gotten sucked into the material because I almost jump out of my skin when the door slides open. Clutching the hardback to my chest, as if that would protect my beating heart, I must look frantic and wide eyed.

"Sorry to startle you," the girl apologizes. Her hair is long and brown. I notice her locks are pushed back with a red and gold headband. Standing behind her is a boy with wire-rim glasses. His expression is of a curious gaze that I don't quite understand. I also spot his blue and silver tie, stripped in the same way as the girl's head accessory.

Shaking my head, I attempt to speak without stumbling. "No- don't be sorry! I just...wasn't paying attention." They both shuffle to the seats across from me after closing the door.

"I'm Violet Baudelaire," the girl introduces, "and this is my brother Klaus." The boy smiles at me shyly and I catch myself mirroring his actions. After introducing myself, Violet asks, "I haven't seen you around before. What house do you belong to?"

"I'm not sorted into a house at Hogwarts yet. I just moved here from America. Back at Ilvermorny I was a Pukwudgie, but I'm sure that doesn't mean anything here." I explain with a gentle, awkward smile. "What houses do you reside in?"

"violet is a Gryffindor and I'm a Ravenclaw," Klaus tells me, speaking up for the first time. "I've heard of Pukwudgies in my studies of magical creatures," he says with fascination. "They're said to be fiercely independent."

Nodding, I say, "That they are. The house best represents the hearts of wizards and witches. It also favors a lot of wonderful healers." The Baudelaire's seem intrigued by this. "What do your houses represent at Hogwarts?"

Klaus explains that Ravenclaw are eager to learn and expand their wisdom. Violet tells of daring, brave witches and wizards from Gryffindor filled with chivalry and bravery alike. There's also the loyal and kind Hufflepuff. "The last is Slytherin, the cunning lads they are." Klaus finishes.

The three of us speak and share a few laughs on our journey to the school. However, the closer we were to arriving, the quieter I became. "It's okay to be anxious, Y/n. You're going to fit in just fine, I can tell."

"I know you're right, Violet. I keep trying to remind myself that worrying means you suffer twice. It's always been a comforting thought." I tell them, inhaling deeply.

"Wise words from professor Scamander," Klaus says with admiration in his tone. It brings a smile to my face with an ease I was grateful for. "Besides, you've successfully made friends with us and we will help you through this."

There kindness relieves some of the pressure that has built up inside my stomach. As we pull up to the platform outside of Hogwarts, I say goodbye to my new friends as I join the first years- like instructed. I'm tall over their heads, which makes me stick out like sore thumb. There's a throb in my shoulder from a dull ache caused by being so tense. My lips are pulled taut as I force a smile at the younger curious eyes that linger on me.

Suddenly, a large man appears and gestures us to follow him on his way toward the castle. He says his name is Rubius Hagrid. His dark brown eyes peek at me through thick brows and he smiles kindly. With all first years gaze now focused on him, I no longer feel so different or alone.

The school grounds are extraordinary and it's difficult to take it all in. Finally, we are lead to the great hall where we patiently wait for Professor McGonagall to explain what's to come next. After the houses are explained, we crowed together as we await our names to be called from a long scroll of parchment.

One by one, all the first years get the sorting hat placed atop their heads before joining their proper tables. Then, last but not least, my turn arrives.

"We have a rarity with us tonight. A fourth year witch from America will now be sorted into her Hogwarts house." McGonagall's voice roams across the great hall, effectively silencing the whispers.

The professor steps forward, placing the old tattered hat upon my head. The sorting hat speaks through my different qualities, a simple voice in my head, as my eyes scan the tables of students. All eyes are watching me with anticipation...

Ah, you're a courageous one I see. Very good at standing up for what you believe to be right. You're also intelligent, very knowledgeable. Though, you do have a streak for mischief and adventure. Loyalty is a virtue that you seek in all you meet, indeed.

My eyes land on Klaus sitting in the middle-right of the Ravenclaw table. He watches me with bright eyes and a corner of his mouth is pulled in between his teeth as if he were nervous.

What a gift it is to find and observe. I know just where to put you....

"RAVENCLAW!"

Cheers erupt from the table as I make my way over. I sit a little ways away from Klaus as I'm greeted with smiles and congratulations. I look up at him and grin excitedly. I'm relieved to see him doing the same. This- yes, this is my new home.

*****

I didn't get much time to speak with Klaus after dinner. Violet came over to give me an excited squeeze before rushing away with her friends on their way to the Gryffindor common room. Then the prefect led the new students, which included me, to the astronomy tower. That's where the Ravenclaw common room resided.

After the anxious excitement of the day, I was more than happy to climb underneath the comforter and melt into the mattress. My eyes wandered over to my new school robes and blue/silver striped scarf at the end of my bed. I felt warm and content as I drifted to sleep.

The morning leaked through the windows as I dressed for the day. My clothes are accented with my house colors and my robes adorned with the Ravenclaw crest- matching the rest of my housemates. Some of the other students were already out of bed and roaming the common room while interacting with the other mates. With a final glance at my appearance, I descended the stairs.

The room is bursting with excited chatter and bustling students getting ready for the first day of classes. I scan the area and find Klaus entering from the boys staircase. "Good morning, Klaus!" I greet with enthusiasm.

"Morning, Y/n! How are you?" He asks, glancing at my new robes.

I tell him I'm doing just fine before launching into a discussion about classes. He tells me about the ones we share and says I even have a few in common with Violet. My excitement is basically bursting out of me at this point. How could it not be? Even as the day progresses and I make acquaintances with my fellow classmates, I remain with the Baudelaires. Though, in the end, Klaus and I spend the most time together.

I can't say for sure what it is but the interaction between us has become comfortable, although at times shy. It differs from our first encounter and I'm not quite certain as to why. The very idea of it makes my pulse race and my mind tick with curiosity. By the second week, I seem to catch myself seeking him out and finding relief at his witty smirks. As much as I adore my studies, I spend my free time letting Violet and Klaus entertain my interest with more knowledge about their lives. I especially love stories of their youngest sister, Sunny.

"I can tell she would like you, Y/n. As would our parents." Violet says with certainty. It fills my chest with an unexpected warmth, sending a toothy grin to stretch my cheeks. I was never really close to many, if anyone, at Ilvermorny. I never expected to feel such emotions or experience these things when coming to Hogwarts...

I glance up at Klaus and catch his gaze already trained on me. A light pink highlights his cheeks as he quickly adverts his eyes. All of this combined sends flutters through my abdomen and tingles across my skin. My involuntary reaction leaves my hands clammy and my mind racing.

Trust me, I've liked guys before but it was always a one-sided infatuation. An unrequited interest. I'm not sure how one would go about sharing that adoration, nevertheless if Klaus' behavior should be perceived as such. But if I can be certain of one thing it's that feelings change. They're unreliable and that, to be painfully honest, scares the life out of me.

I'm knocked back to reality as Hagrid approaches us with a greeting,"Hello there- Violet, Y/n and Klaus. What is it you're up to?" He towers over us and I've come to really adore the gatekeeper over the past weeks.

"Hello, Hagrid. We're just sharing memories and stories. And yourself?" I say, welcoming the interruption. Hopefully my thoughts don't leak out of me and plaster themselves across my face, tone or body language.

Hagrid bursts with a throaty chuckle, shrugging. "I was doing an errand for McGonagall when I spotted you lot. You all remind me of a group of three that used to roam these halls...Done a lot of good, they have."

His words have the feeling of dozens of memories flooding through them. Despite any explanation, I felt proud to be in the resemblance. By the way Violet straightens her back and Klaus pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, I can tell I'm not the only one.

"Say... I have some business to attend to in Diagon Alley this weekend, if you all would like to accompany me." Hagrid offers, seeming pleased with his idea.

Klaus and I accept but Violet declines. "I made other plans but you go enjoy yourselves." She says with a smile and a sly wink at her brother. I roll my eyes with a smirk before looking away, but not before I see a crimson blush dust Klaus' face. He's ridiculously cute when he's flustered. It's so different from his poised and logical side.

"Very well. I'll see you both at the front gates tomorrow." With our plans set and ready, Hagrid hurries away to finish his tasks. Left behind is our small gang of two flushed faces and a knowing look.

***

My fingers rake through the front of my hair, parting the strands to rest more on one side. The early rays of sun reflect off the mirror and illuminates my face, causing the corners of my eyes to wrinkle. Am I overthinking? I don't want to look like a fool. Maybe I'm trying too hard...

Shaking my head, I attempt to silence my sporadic thoughts. The Baudelaires have yet to see me in any casual clothing since we spend our days in uniforms. I want to be comfortable while looking nice. My pointless worries seem endless.

Finally deciding to just go with it, I make my way to the common room. Standing in the almost-vacant room is Klaus with a collared sweater and dark jeans. He must hear me approaching because his eyes snap to me before widening.

Klaus stands there for a moment, looking me over. His gaze leave goosebumps rising on my flesh and I shift at the sensation. I'm suddenly so very nervous and feeling self-conscious. "How do I look?" I ask, breaking the silence and his trance.

His mouth falls open and closed, struggling to find words. I've never seen him at a loss for conversation. "Different. Which is good. Not that you didn't look good before- I mean, you do! You did..." As his voice trails off and he nervously fidgets, I smile at him kindly.

"Thank you, Klaus."

Together we walk to meet Hagrid with an almost palpable nervousness between us. My feelings are pounding in my ears and I faintly recall trading a greeting with Hagrid before we're on our way to London. Once we arrive, things become a bit more relaxed as we wonder around with the gatekeeper. He and Klaus even begin an in-depth conversation on the studies of magical creatures. I watch the enthusiasm take over Klaus, animating his entire being. It makes me appreciate the raw form of him and I adore that.

Eventually, Hagrid has some strict Hogwarts matters to attend to and leaves after agreeing to meet up in a few hours. I smile at Klaus and he returns the gesture. "Do you want to, perhaps, grab some butterbeer?" Klaus asks.

Nodding in agreement, we weave our way through the crowds. However, the alley is thick with bodies rushing past and I lose my companion. "Klaus?" I call but I can't hear over the busy mixed with chatter. Panic starts to set in as I blindly push through with my arms out in front of me.

I don't know this area. I don't even know how to go about getting back to the castle if I were to lose them! Bodies slip past my fingers and I begin to feel sick. That's when I feel the warmth of another’s hand encasing mine. My instinct is to pull away but the grip is firm. Looking up, I see the familiar glasses protruding behind equally familiar ears. I tighten my fingers as I hold onto Klaus. He pulls me through and into the Leaky Cauldron.

The establishment isn't too crowded, which I'm immediately thankful for. Klaus is standing in front of me, hand still in my own and the other placed where my neck meets my shoulder. "Are you okay? Are you hurt?" His voice is slightly high as I can hear the worry drenching every word. Seeing him here, in front of me, brings a wave of relief and I feel the emotions crash over me.

I shake my head because I can't breathe to use words. "Hey-come here," I lean into his embrace as he tells me to breathe. If the scare wasn't enough to trip the anxiety inside me, the embarrassment is what had pushed me over the edge. His warmth is soothing against my skin and I focus on the sound of his beating heart. "I'm here. You won't lose me."

My breathing slows to a steady pace but my heart continues to quickly thump in my chest. Once I've calmed, Klaus pulls back and looks at me. I feel awkward as I realize we're standing in the middle of the floor in an embrace. It must show on my face because I'm lead to an empty table. I remain quiet as he orders two butterbeers. All I can think about are his words and the fact that he continues to hold my hand, even now.

"I'm...I'm sorry for freaking out. I just got so overwhelmed- and I'm not quite familiar with these areas." I explain, feeling foolish for my behavior.

Klaus' brows furrow and he appears confused. "There is no reason to apologize. I understand and you were completely valid in your actions." I nod in a kind of thank-you motion before we fall silent.

We sit there in our own thoughts as two pints of creamy, brown liquid are placed between us. "Why are you so nice to me?" I blurt the question, completely baffled by his actions and what they may mean.

He seems to ponder this for a moment before looking into my eyes. With a deep inhale, he admits, "Because I like you, Y/n. A lot."

"Why?" I ask, astonished. I need to know what he saw in me.

Shaking his head with a smile, he says, "You're caring and smart. You accept what life has to offer. You throw your head back when you laugh and your nose crinkles when you smile. You tuck your bottom lip between your teeth when you're trying to hide how you're feeling...Above all, these things put together makes you who you are. I adore that person and it completely captivates me. It also puzzles me. There's so much to know about you and It's the greatest adventure I've come to learn."

I hadn't realized I was holding my breath until I released it. What he confessed, the way he's looking at me- everything. I realize that I feel the same. That I couldn't have said it more beautifully than he just has in that moment. "I like you, Klaus. I think I have for a while now." Admitting this feels as if I were filled with helium and I'm afraid I'll float away with this light feeling.

Klaus' eyes soften and a shy smile plays on his lips. Our butterbeer slowly dwindles as we speak of our lives in much more detail. It feels familiar and comfortable with added excitement of our new found emotions. It feels safe- like taking on the world with your best friend at your side. Because that's exactly what it is.

Before we know it, the time to meet back up with Hagid arrives. We pay for our drinks and stroll through the crowds. Our hands are intertwined and we exchange happy glances on the way, albeit shy. Hagrid comes into view and he flags us down. "You're a cheery bunch." He comments with a pointed look at our hands.

I feel my face flush but I'm not disappointed when I scan Klaus' features to see the light pink resting there. He squeezes my hand reassuringly and it washes a sense of calm over me. Underneath the pink of his face, he wears a proud and relaxed expression. It makes my stomach flip in a wonderful way.

There's so much that could happen as we head together, hand-in-hand, into the unknown future. Klaus promises that we will sort things out as they arise and I believe- I trust him. Hogwarts is my home in so many ways I hadn't known before. It will forever be the place where I found my family.

Me and the Baudelaires against the world.

Masterlist Here

A/N: Over a year ago I finished A Series Of Unfortunate Events and wrote these stories. I hope it’s not too bad...eh heh. Thank you to my 300+ followers that have remained during my absence! Xx - Ellie-Mae

[flowerflamestars]

Destined and Dreamt

PART ONE  PART TWO  PART THREE  PART FOUR  PART FIVE  PART SIX  PART SEVEN

Nesta Archeron wasn’t sleeping.   Wrapped in a quilted silk robe, she paced the length of her bedroom, once, twice, before giving into the urge to throw back the curtains from her windows. It was the darkest part of the night. Thick clouds had long shrouded the stars, the only light the reflection back from the fire burning in the grate across the room.

But still, it felt a little easier to breathe.

Her life had felt like cage for a long, long time. Like any other creature of clipped wings, when Nesta slept, she dreamt of the sky.

There were so many places she hadn’t seen and longed for: the impossible high mountain gardens in the Sky kingdom, the sharp gold eyed fairies of Hesperia;, that Blooming Country, under their lavender sky. The horrible beauty over the Wall, wilder and more dangerous than the fae of the continent she worked with. Fifteen thousand year old trade routes that crossed between the sacred spaces of the Great Desert, books written by the hands of gods in the Weeping City.

The mountain peaks in her dreams, so vast their summits turned the very wind to song.

Tonight, however, it was the nightmares that kept her awake.

Some were nearly as old as she was: Feyre devoured by magic, Elain with cold metallic eyes, Nesta alone- Nesta a monster, without her sisters.

Newer, were what was haunting her now: humans turning on them. Elain in chains, Nesta made ready for a pyre, the horror Lucien would unleash trying to get to Elain before the sheer number of mortals brought him down.

It should have been a comfort- if everything went to hell, they were going to burn too.

But hell was coming for them in worse, different ways. It wouldn’t be their neighbors condemning them- if Feyre got her wish, took that gamble on all their lives, it might be the Queens to whom their tiny human world was personal property who ordered all their deaths for consorting with faeries.

Or Hybern, bringing their brutality to bleed all of Prythian dry.

In the very back of her mind, Nesta heard again, soft and fathoms deep, the voice that had responded to Elain’s charm. We’re called Illyrians, born hearing the song of the wind.

Behind her eyes, the mountains sang the icy air to shape. Not words, but feelings that bubbled up beneath her breastbone and completed a longing so desperate tears ached in Nesta’s throat.

She had nightmares, and then nightmares.

Nesta had bargained and cheated, lied and bought her freedom. She might not have been able to save her baby sister- a failure she could never, ever take back- but Nesta would be damned if she failed their vassals too. Failed Elain or Lucien, besides.

The cold wind in her mind was a wilder thing than the chill of this snowy night, she could almost feel it if she tried. Ice and power and freedom, the air twisting around her like an embrace.

There had to be a way to keep them safe.

Beauty would not distract her. It was the oldest human story, wasn’t it? The innocent maiden and the wicked faery. The lost kingdom and it’s chosen heir, a quest, a sacrifice.  Destiny. The trick at the end- the pure of heart is worthy, but faeries always lie.

This wasn’t a tale and Nesta couldn’t freefall through the very sky into the arms of her true love.

She’d find those mountains someday, climb them until Nesta touched the clouds herself. Cross the dangerous, fathomless enchantment of an ocean to follow the path of her families old compacts in blood. Her mothers homeland, the faery smith who’d bound gold on steel for the first Archeron Lord, maybe even Lucien’s lost and savage Autumn.

She would live, and she would see it all.

Nesta just had to find a safe route through a war first, and nothing- no one- was going to stop her. 

— Lucien was a liar. It was possible it was in his blood- learned over the cradle, crooned by his mother the deceptions that would keep him safe.   He’d let himself believe the lie he could survive Beron intact in youthful fury. Shed his colors and lied through centuries of brittle, false Spring Court charm. He would lie now- lie and burn and bleed if it meant he could protect the Acheron sisters from what was coming.   Sleep had never arrived.

When Elain finally gave into the overwhelming exhaustion of magic and conflict a few hours before dawn, he’s stayed still. Felt the soft sigh against his shoulder as her eyes tipped shut, halfway through the litany of what he knew of the Day Court, the exchange for a cheekily retold explanation of the ties between the Archerons and the north’s fell High Lord.   “We’re not his subjects,” Elain had all but growled, face pressed to his arm. That several hours into that tangled space between them, curled together on her floor, she’d cajoled him out of his coat and most of the asinine human layers Lucien wore these days, was not something Lucien would let himself dwell on.   How infinitely pale she was in comparison, the smooth curve of a freckled cheek pillowed on his bicep.   “The original oath ensures it,” Elain went on, “Prythian’s courts don’t allow humans to belong to them in legal truth, but for us it’s a protection. Not under Rhysand’s rule, but we can enter the protected city- carry things from it on our ships to countries who don’t know it exists.”   Adamant to his gold, but that wasn’t right either- aspen, ash to his birch bark maple, the trees that cut paths through Autumns heart.   “Velaris,” Lucien crooned back at her glee, the syllables smoke in his throat.   “The City of Starlight,” Elain’s laugh had no sound, the amusement a twist in her voice as it swept over his bare skin.   In an urge he’d been turning over and ignoring for the better part of an hour, Lucien risked reaching out to brush the curls from her face where they’d fallen into bright, half-lidded eyes.   “Wherever a High Lord is,” Lucien found himself saying, as the silence stretched a beat too long, as he looked into those dark, dark eyes, “is their court. Rhysand has more power than any of them- wherever he is, Night lives.”   His hand was still in her hair when sleep took Elain.   The trust of it- asleep against him, like Lucien wasn’t High Fae, magical and monstrous as they came- froze him in place.   It was a longer while than he’d ever admit before he carried Elain the scant step to her bed, left her wrapped in warm down- the temptation to stay so huge- and insane- that Lucien started walking and hadn’t stopped until he was here; deep in the snowy woods.   Dawn was only now cresting through the clouds, the light silvered pink and slow to reach him.   It was too damned much.   His mother- not just alive, or miraculously unhurt as he only hoped and dreamt of- but apparently seizing her own fate with a surety Lucien hadn’t known existed in his entire lifetime. His mother’s freedom.  They’d both be safe, at least as much as was possible, from Beron and Lucien’s brother’s wrath. For the first time in his life.  How had she broken a bond of blood? Stolen a High Lords crown?And why, after untold centuries of it’s wildness trapped in Beron’s hands, would it accept being wielded by one human girl? And what- he was truly afraid of the answer- what waited in the Day Court for them?   Lucien had only one guess, and it made it hard to breathe.   While he was already damned and ceding oxygen, Lucien let himself think of Elain. A Court’s crown should have had an effect- magic, in it’s truest, oldest aspect, shone on the skin of mortals- but Elain remained herself.   An utterly human, utterly feminine beauty. Bottomless clever eyes and a vicious, brilliant mind only countered by that kind unforgetting heart- everything in the world Lucien wished to hold.   It wasn’t fair, but he blamed Feyre.   He’d had it locked away. Bound in so much red ribbon behind his ribs to call enchantment down- and then Feyre in her pointed frustration had spent an entire day making asides about how ridiculous it was, how unnecessary it was, for Lucien to marry her sister.   While he’d been braced for the condemnation, for Nesta to brush away Feyre’s fears in that cool way of hers, that wasn’t his first impulse. Like a madness- like the High fae that he was- Lucien wanted to get in a fight.   This was where he belonged. In pace with Nesta, forever at Elain’s side.   He wanted to tear apart anyone who’d try to take that away. His home, his family, his-   Love was not a word Lucien allowed himself to think. It hadn’t lived in his vocabulary for enough centuries it had been easy to bury. Passing fondness of course existed, friendship- though his last lover had in fact been killed by Feyre’s hand, in these very snowy woods.   Andras hadn’t even been allowed to die wearing his own face.   There was nothing Lucien wouldn’t do to keep the eldest Archeron sisters alive.   He’d forgiven Feyre- been as close to her as he had anyone in decades, a friend- but Feyre had protectors too powerful and numerous to name now.   Before the sunlight reached the forest shadows Lucien’s body had melted through the snowdrift, burned so hot he was settled in summer warm soil instead of mud. A few red plumes of leaves had tried to unfurled out of their time on the oak behind him, scattered down at his displeasure between racing thoughts.   He’d never burned Elain. Lucien wasn’t actually sure it was physically possible for him- and that thought, at least, was a balm.   Lucien needed to bury it all.   Needed the lying diplomats face he’d perfected, the utter and complete act he, Elain, and Nesta pulled off in concert- Lucien needed the lie. Not to escape what he was feeling- it wasn’t possible, and he didn’t want to lose all the insane hope and fear he carried- but to face this day as the clever fox he’d been and find a path through.

  If Rhysand planned on endangering them, he had another thing coming, Nightmare Lord or no. — Elain woke up alone.   It shouldn’t have been a surprise- much less an imposition that filled her with the sort of blinding frustration a less keen observer associated only with her elder sister- Elain was the maiden daughter of Lord.   Not just a Lord, so far as the gentry were concerned, but Flatha, scion of a distant crown across the ocean, given their noble lands in totality from the personal property of the Council of Queens, their dangerous wayward relations contained within their own tiny kingdoms. Six centuries ago, Elain would have been gormflaith;  a princess named for the blue of her blood, just for being born Archeron.   For her purity.   The reality was, of course, that her father was an absent, worthless wastrel at best and Elain very clearly remembered falling asleep in Lucien’s arms.   Brown skin warm on her face, the air around them sparking- with Lucien’s laugh it ignited, a hundred little shining flecks to mix with the deep sound.   In the darkest part of the night, it had seemed like a whole other world. Effortless magic everywhere, that she looked on with such enormous fondness it was impossible to hide, a wreath of flower and bone- where exactly in the Autumn Court had the bone of a dragon come from?- tucked in her hair and humming with a power that lit along Elain’s muscles like adrenaline, easy as breathing.   Tumbling into Lucien’s embrace to bask in the predator-intent, faery savage way he watched her face.   His hand in her hair. Gentle, so impossibly gentle as curls rasped over knife callouses, the gesture completely separate from the wickedness in his molten eyes.   Waking up alone, under no less than three layers.   Elain bit the inside of her cheek and rolled over, kicking off suffocating blankets two and three as she went. The one left tucked around her with the precision of rolled pastry was rabbit fur- warm, soft, and usually housed across the room on a divan near exclusively used by Nesta.   The perfect repose of a noble heiress- but most women of Elain’s outsize standing were not hiding a house full of dangerous faeries. Did not turn every bit of glittering charm and very real companionship on their fake- but not quite- fiancé to get them out of their eminently fashionable great coat, all the way down to a silken tunic that left perfect, near obscenely sculpted arms bare, only for fire to paint the air with happiness. The average daughter of Flatha weren't able to summon the crown of Court of Prythian out of thin air, or possess a High Fae sister, and a triplicate strand of pearls that lived on her wrist to hide a scar whose sensitivity felt like- felt like-   Elain rolled back over and groaned.   There were a thousand things to do. Nesta needed to know that Sorcha had passed them off impossible power, offered refuge that could reshape their plans. Lucien needed to sign off their shipping manifests, go to port and glamour smuggled faerie cargo.   Their farms needed the roads cleared, the staff accounted for in the blizzard, extra supplies taken to the orphanage to begin the winter holiday celebrations. A ball to finish planning, ash wood to burn and hide, Feyre’s arrival to stage so that she could move freely at home.   Elain was busy. But instead of moving she was staring out the diamond paned window that showed her pink sky and blinding white snow; thinking about Lucien’s hands. She wanted to hold those hands and let their matching rings clank together. Let him feel the pulse in her wrist and see how pleasure arced over her skin from that silvered mark.   She wanted Lucien at her side for everything. — Back in fighting form, at least on the surface, Lucien was more intrigued than alarmed when halfway back home he ran into Feyre, coming out of the woods.   It was that old friendship- Feyre the huntress, Feyre the human unafraid of magic tempered spring green groves, Feyre newly changed and desperate to be outside- that kept him from the immediate warning sign.   She was alone, for one thing.   Smiled that cocky, antagonistic smile he hadn’t seen since she was a human. “Vanserra,” She called, and Lucien heard cauldron damned Rhysand in the syllables.   It was not like when Nesta called him by his surname.   Because being pricks to each other was the friendly foundation for them, Lucien squashed his shoulder into hers in reply, the snow liberally sprinkled in her hair sliding over his still bare arms. “Where’s your crown, little Fey? Thought Night Court fashion had rubbed off on you.”   With a half smiling snarl, Feyre used both hands to send him careening, before hiding them away in the deep pockets of a gigantic leather coat he could smell Illyrian blood on. Hair in a simple braid, she was leagues closer to the woman he’d known.   “Rhys is dramatic,” She said, unbearably fondly.   Rhysand was setting her up as an equal, and the ruler of the most populous court in Prythian, but Lucien was not going to be the person to tell her that.   “Dramatic,” Lucien repeated with a grimace, melting the snow in his path. He didn’t miss that Feyre watched impossibly fast motion- ice to slush to water, soaking deep into the soil at his behest- with rapt attention. “What are you doing out here?”   He was going to make a joke about her hunting pheasant with unfair fey advantage, perhaps extol the virtues of the terrifying, wonderful woman Nesta had employed as a cook and really grind in the fact of his life here, when Feyre blinked. 

And then again.   High Fae tells were dangerous, subtle things. Control was a mark of age, and power, with the rush of instincts that ran thick in their blood with adulthood. High Lords were volatile, courtiers deadly.   Feyre, for all her obvious immortal grace and power, still feigned like the nineteen year old mortal she was in many ways.   And lied like one.   “Practicing,” Feyre recited, face normal and eyelashes fluttering. Untruth changed the entire tone of her voice. For someone who looked so damn much like Nesta, sounded so much like Elain, the lack of ease felt bizarre. “Rhys is training me, but I can’t control all the courts power yet.”   The woods led to both the main road out to the farms and the local village, in the other direction, apple orchards and the shattered Spring Court border. Lucien decided to play along.   “No more accidental fires?” He teased.   Feyre laughed, almost genuine. “Autumn is easy,” She insisted, which told Lucien enough to know that whatever drop of Beron she possessed, its depths had not been reached. “Darkness is obvious, but I’m still finding out what came from who.”   Before he could reply, Feyre twisted, fluid as a Dawn Court assassin, to pose before Lucien. “Spar with me?”   He’d fought her as a human. Fought Tamlin for the chance for her to learn to master her new body, retrain in old skills. Even if Feyre had been fighting with Illyrian’s every day for the last year, Lucien had three centuries and an impossibly savage upbringing on his side- there was no danger.   But still, his pulse said look closer.   “You should know,” Lucien teased, mirroring her wide stance, “I did already fight the ceremonial duel with Nesta for Elain’s hand.”   Feyre stopped mid motion darting forward lightening fast to laugh. “Nesta held a sword?”   Something utterly indignant, blood red and fey, twisted in Lucien’s chest. He caught the hand that had been about to slap into him and sent Feyre flying back, her knees hitting the snow bank his melted path had created. “Hand to hand? No weapons or magic?”   Feyre grinned, shoulders aligning. “Just one round, fight me for real.”   Lucien didn’t immediately realize what a mistake it was. — Elain’s first sign something was off was Nesta’s pale face, crashing through her bedroom door.   It was early enough- the house empty enough- that much like much like Elain pulling Lucien into her bedroom the night before, Nesta looked like herself. Ink already visible on both hands, her wine colored dress without the sleeves laced on, carrying both books and letters balanced under one arm, the Archeron seal clutched golden in the other- this was the real Nesta.   Who tossed herself down on a chaise, catlike, to glare at Elain.   Not at Elain- not really, no true malice could live between the eldest Archerons- at the world. “Feyre didn’t sleep in her room last night.”   The fur blanket tucked around Elain’s shoulders slid to the floor as she turned, taking the comforting smell of Lucien’s hair with it. “Did she stay with Rhysand?”   She’d thought, not yet. Feyre might speak to him like a lover, invade the High Lords space in that half casual way Elain assumed faeries would take very seriously, but they didn’t seem there yet. There was a restraint, hunger in those ancient purple eyes.   Starvation.   Nesta sighed, began to shuffle the books she’d set down into a perfectly straight pile. “No, she took one of the guest rooms. It wasn’t even made up.” It wasn’t even- Feyre had come home, crossed the continent back to the land of their childhoods, and pointedly slept in a room without fresh linen? Or candles, or water brought in?   Elain joined Nesta on the chaise, silk magic warm beneath her.   Feyre’s rooms were exactly where they had been when they were children. The eastern wing, where she could see the sunrise over the gardens from her bedroom. Before the house had been plundered straight to the ground to pay debt- the very beams and rooftiles sold- the room next to it had been a tiny childrens library, just for her.

They’d rebuild it three times the size with more windows than walls. Elain had spent an obscene amount on fine glass, Nesta filled it with supplies from four countries- a studio, for their sister who’d always wanted to make beautiful things.   Elain swallowed the hurt, shared a look with Nesta that said all that needed to be said.   With it went the thoughts she kept thinking seeing Feyre’s face, both utterly young and preternaturally frozen, beautiful. Mortal freckles but no smile lines left. That same unrestrained laugh, but their mother’s blue eyes looked at Rhysand for answers. She was back, she was alive, she was- “Why do you think she came home?”   Nesta handed her the largest envelope.   It contained not one letter, or map, but more than a half dozen missives on blue paper, written by equally many hands. Elain dumped them on the cushions between them and began to read.   Humans in business with faeries had unique tactics to stay ahead. For one thing, compacts bound to bloodline meant most of the immortals didn’t care to know their business partners, after all, by their standard, they’d be dead soon.   But mortals stuck together. Many of their ancestors had been the same once, royal blooded and wild with nothing to loose. Explorers, who’d gone looking for whole new lands to gift their children, bereft of a crowns direct privilege.   Their descendants learned care in the cradle, and the power of passing knowledge.   Blue paper for the secret city’s Court, incendiary powder ink for High Fae information, moon silk ribbons, for Sangravah, the weaving capital of the world.   Elain compared the words, reiterating the same thing again and again, before meeting Nesta’s blazing eyes. “The Night Court has been invaded?”   Of course it had come from a dozen people; merchants made money in conflict. Human worlds changed, when those conflicts were fae. The danger was near suicidal for mortals in magical wars- but those rare survivors ended up rich beyond promise.   “No one knows who it was.” Nesta said lowly, frustrated, “They infilitrated the civilian population, took something, and burnt half the city to the ground once it was found.”   A valuable something, if they needed that much chaos to dissuade pursuit. What did Sangravah have? The best rugs and tapestries in the world. The only port where Dawn Court silk could be bought. Libraries and temples, pink light and poetry.   “Isn’t Sangravah a stone city?”   Nesta’s pale bitten lips said yes without the words. Elain swore.   For something to do with her hands she tipped the book pile closer and read down the spines: Alchemic Fire: A Compendium, Mother’s Moon: The Priestess Orders, and White Stone, Silver Blood, The Complete History of Northern Conquest. That Nesta hadn’t slept wasn’t a question Elain needed to ask, anymore than she knew that she’d find colored coded annotations if she started reading along. Completely illegal tomes, of course, Nesta’s favourite import.   She tried not to picture centuries old stone made molten, leveled to the ground. The heat, the chaos- the magic it would take for that kind of destruction.   “Hybern?” Elain asked, her own doubt clear.   The shake of Nesta’s head knocked loose her hasty updo, wooden pins catching in the freed waves of her dark hair. Recognizing the sheen and sharp points, Elain tried and failed to sympathize with the storm Rhysand had coming.   Nesta was walking around with ash wood in her hair.   “Hybern,” Nesta repeated with equal dubiousness, “Or Night Court rebels, or another Court or the Queen’s Council. Rhysand has more enemies than the thrice damned Plague Lord.” A High Lord who had specialized in bloodline curses- a single faery who’d brought the continent to it’s knees, a thousand years before. Elain wondered if they were of any relation. The male Feyre called Rhys and laughed with seemed to have an equal notoriety with his own people.   And possibly worse power running in his veins.   “Prythian,” Elain began carefully, “Might be even less stable than we know.”   Whispering despite the warding, echoed adrenaline making her awake, awake, awake, Elain managed in a steady voice to tell Nesta about Sorcha. Crowns and the Autumn Lords crimes, asylum waiting in the most foreign of places. — Feyre cheated immediately.   Lucien, who’d once had nightmares about that exact look of mischief on a human face, like a Suriel waiting in the dark, knew it was coming.   So when the youngest Archeron sister rolled out of the snowbank he’d neatly tossed her into with a laugh, Lucien was able to smartly dodge the ice that came railing toward him. Not sharp, but a barrage like giant hail that cracked against tree trunks, sent snow flying.   Feyre had never actually seen how fast Lucien could move.   And he wasn’t trying terribly hard now. If she’d been training with Illyrians all along, she’d be used to superior ungodly strength, but not the speed of High Fae. Even if she hadn’t been given the opportunity, Lucien thought Feyre would have sought it- Nesta’s infuriated face that those were Illyrians, childhood legends made real was evidence enough.   Rather than reengage, half a kind thought to the looming oak behind Feyre had the tree shaking every bit of wet snow off its drooping branches.   The weight of the snow knocked her back down with a groan. “You talk to trees now?”   Lucien straightened from the trunk he’d been leaning against and tried not to sound full of the vague insult he felt, “I always talked to trees.”   Feyre didn’t bother to get back up, shaking the slush from the hugely oversized shoulders of her coat. Narrow eyed, she tilted her head in question. It was still bizarre to see Feyre so- the mix of her human mannerisms and the instincts of a faery body muddled, indistinct. It was even more confusing now that he knew her sisters. When Nesta had the same posture, with her utterly similar and painfully different face, it was all fae- aggression, focus, the shape of a hunt.   Feyre looked baffled. And angry? “How’d you learn that from Spring?”   He waited a beat too long for the quicksilver teasing smile, for the punchline. It was long enough for the temperature to drop several degrees, for her brow to furrow completely. Lucien swore. “You’re joking.”   Incised, Feyre tossed an impressively articulate fireball at him, straight autumnal gold. “Of course I’m not joking. Spring controls plants.” Spring controlled plants. Gods and immortal honey.   “What,” Lucien growled, pausing to dodge Feyre’s barrage of fire, “In the Crones darkest mercies is Rhysand teaching you?”   It was an obvious mistake to snarl Rhysand’s name like that in her hearing. Like he hated the bastard- which in some ways he did. The High Lord, even if it had been Feyre’s idea as Lucien feared, had brought death and danger to the Archeron’s doorstep.   Was, after a sole year of what was clearly painfully basic training, touting her as the greatest magical force in Prythian.   Feyre’s eyes visibly flashed and Lucien braced himself.   But what he was met with was a wall of fire. Not warding, not bloodmagic, not sunfire, but only Autumn’s burning grace.   He could have parted it like a curtain. Eaten it up with hotter flames, pulled back until it belonged to him. It was exactly the sort of magical pageantry Beron insisted upon- no one raised in the Forest House wanted to be the weaker end of that pull.   Disallowed, Lucien’s thoughts still managed to flicker to the crown that fit his head. Day’s gold and Autumn bone, a missing piece, a-   Lucien stepped into the fire.   He could tell she was angry just from its depth, roil. Like stepping into the titanic baths of a Winter chalet, like the Summer court sea; Lucien had forgotten how good it felt. Living heat coiled up his arms, caressed his face.   Swore he could taste just a hint of bonfire on the back of his tongue. The ritual kind that burned and burned under a full moon, hawthorne and rowan, violets and rose. It was, he thought, painfully near the scent of Elain’s rage, protection that littered the air like embers.   Lucien was only aware he’d closed his eyes when it all went away. The world was blinding white, and Feyre was talking so fast her words bled together.   -“why the hell would you do that,” She was saying, “Do you think I actually want to hurt you? Shit, shit shit.” Lucien tried not to smirk, but the action was ruined by his recoil when Feyre grabbed his bare arm with both hands. Not that it stopped her- she kept swearing right up to the moment she actually managed to trace up his arm, staring at his unblemished skin with giant eyes.   Friendly, afraid, and awed; but still Feyre’s touch crawled over his skin with wrongness.   It had a name, a very specific reason, but Lucien wasn’t about to use the word, even in the privacy of his own mind.   Finally he snarled, discomfiture actually real enough for Feyre to drop his arm in sheepish apology. Clearly, some fae things she had learned.   “I don’t understand,” She said, “What just happened? Are you okay?”   It had been easy, Under the Mountain, to forget the savior of Prythian was a teenage girl. “Of course I’m fine. You didn’t hurt me, Feyre.”   Forcefully, Lucien made himself remember that he’d once wanted to be her teacher. Trapped under Tamlin’s rule, less than a shadow of himself, he’d wanted to make sure the world leveling power in her veins didn’t destroy her. Now, he wondered what in Cauldron’s name Feyre had been doing for the last year.   And wished, wished, he’d thought to take a real shirt with him leaving Elain’s rooms.   Feyre was still staring at him in that half hollowed out way that spoke of something like human shock. Lucien made himself smile through the grimace. 

“Fey, you know who I am now? My history?”   Feyre nodded, pulse visible in her throat. “Heir to the Autumn Court.”   He didn’t let himself blink, but it was a near thing. The North still called him heir? How that must burn in Beron’s gut, infuriate Eris.   It wasn’t the right time to explain his banishment, the price on his head. Much less grin over it. “Could you drown Rhysand in darkness?”   Caught between the human impossibility of Lucien’s utter lack of injury and what she had been taught was a fearsome faery weapon, it was a long moment in the frozen morning before Feyre smiled again.   “He’d like to see me try,” She drawled, giving much more information that Lucien really wanted but- “You’re flame retardant? “   Lucien laughed, but the warning bells hadn’t stopped. There was no one in their history who’d ever had the power Feyre did. Some things were universal to High Fae; instinct and strength, winnowing and healing, longevity and vengeance. But even a faery child born whose parents had mixed two court bloodlines, or grandparents, or great grandparents- it could happen for generations down, still the result would be the same. A favoring of one, maybe two Court’s vital skills.   There were theories about how it worked. That the solar courts had more malleable, airy skill, but the elementals blood was more physically shaping.   Lucien himself was not a good example.   He’d taken the name Vanserra the second he could for a reason- he’d favored completely Sorcha’s skills from the cradle. There had always been talk along with it- Lucien who burned a little too bright, whose very name was light like his mothers.   Remarks about his deeper skin, the shape of his mouth, and the height he grew into- so unlike his siblings.   The last Vanserra heir. It was the savagery that saved him long enough to grow; had the Lady of Autumn’s whole family not been slaughtered? The male heirs had disappeared centuries before, the loss of all the rest to Hybern was a tragedy that bore the mark of Beron’s fingerprints.   Of course Lucien would be unloved- hated. So different than Beron, than his brothers- yet still the most powerful son of all. A walking reminder of crimes and bloodshed, it made a very Autumn sort of sense.   Lucien was a very Autumn-blessed faery.   But that didn’t mean he didn’t receive a basic education on other courts before his banishment. He was not fire retardant- like calls to like. Too much an Autumn blaze to ever feel anything but it’s embrace; but sunfire would burn him. A ward twinged with Summer’s roaring heat could wound.   He wasn’t the child of every Court like her- but he knew the difference.   Lucien kept right on smiling, despite the peaked horror. How could she be ready for war?   “Not inflammable,” He drawled right back, laid on an eye-roll whose familiarity brightened her smile, “Just Autumn born.”   Liquid fast, Feyre reached out to tug on a long red tied braid in his hair, “I would have never guessed.”   Could she smell Elain on the ribbon?   Not letting the thought show, Lucien swatted at her playfully. He loved her- not like he loved Nesta, but affection all the same. Her youth scared him. “So fires so easy,” He asked, “Are you getting all the elements now?”   Feyre started walking again, meandering toward the house as she talked. Fire and water, darkness and wind. Was it actually possible a drop of each court wasn’t enough to obtain their more esoteric skills?   Or had she simply not learnt to access them?   “-the hardened wind shielding is dead useful, not sure if it’s Day or Summer. The same with the light show, but I don’t know what it does”-   “Light show?” Lucien interrupted.   Feyre raised her eyebrows. “Sometimes when fire won’t come I get light instead, this kind of glow?”   Summer Court light was weapon, she’d have known if she conjured it accidentally. But if it went along with flame-   Lucien summoned a ball of flame. He didn’t need to hold it over his hand like a showman, but it would be better for his point. “Is all your fire red?”   Feyre only made a face in response.   He started slow, relying on the old adage that instinct would catch up once possibilities were realized. Red to orange, orange to gold, gold to peach and pink. Pink to the burning, seething white he carried around in his chest, the natural color of Lucien’s flames.   Delight and determination shaped Feyre’s face, before she mimicked it perfectly.   The white of the snowing, pristine world before had nothing, nothing, on the gleam and glow. It was identical. But, but- Lucien realized, flames gutting out, it wasn’t fire.   Pure magic, the rise of the sun that fed the world. Feyre couldn’t tell what the light did, because she hadn’t let it loose on darkness. It was cleansing, hungry as his own flames. Daylight.   Enchantment had always been Lucien’s specialty.   Now that he let himself think it, the prospect that he’d never questioned was insane. His mother was a creature of blood and the Bone Forest- her spells were binding, clever. Had he ever seen her break one?   Had her flames ever eaten magic, destruction tempering in a whole new shape?   The fire of High Fae is not always, simply, fire.

@breath-of-sindragosa

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@ladyvanserra

@illyrianinterrasen

@missanniewhimsy

@tntwme

@ourbooksuniverse

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 @donnarosemary

[rosepetals-flyingbirds]

Wings.(1/3)

Pairing: Ivar Ragnarson x Reader.

Warning: Language, family drama, men being assholes.

Word Count: 7,630.

Note: I wrote it overlooking all the drama that it’s happening in the show. Let’s pretend everybody is happy and all the Ragnarsons are safe and at peace. In that story, they will seek to get Ireland and they need the help of two other Earl’s. Earl Sven and Earl Y/N.

(Gifs go to their rightful owners.)

The appetite for new lands made the younger son of Ragnar thirsty. Bjørn had left to the Mediterranean and Ivar as his older brother and father wanted to discover and claim new lands himself.

His army was named the Great Heathen Army and he craved to be famous and even greater than his own father. His brothers agreed with his desire and even required the same. 

Ubbe wasn’t as ambitious, he was curious but wanted to find good lands for him and his people settle down. Hvitserk had the desire to be one famous warrior king, Sigurd was a great warrior as well and shared his desire of the throne with Hvitserk.

Ivar wasn’t attracted to the throne or the intention of settling down. He wanted to travel and claims new lands, his fearless and ruthless reputation had reached the whole continent, and he loved the thought of it, he ached for the whole world acknowledges the name of Ivar The Boneless.

Bjørn came back with Halfdan and they embarked on the adventure of new lands aside from the Heathen Army and his brothers. While traveling Ubbe told his younger brother that it would be better to improve his army to make sure of the success. So he sailed to the kingdom of Earl Sven.

Sven was a famous man and a greater warrior, he won his throne the same way Ragnar Loðbrók had, and his name was well-known and sung in several regions. Ivar met the man and Sven was happy to receive the sons of Ragnar at his land. Bjørn offered an alliance with the help of the new land. Sven agreed but told they must have to call another Earl to help and make the alliance even more powerful.

Ivar complained saying it would take even longer to sail, but Ubbe put a sense on his mind. They sent a messenger to take the message to the next realm. It took at least four days for the messenger to get back, when he did so he said that the Earl agreed and soon enough he would travel to Sven’s land. When the boats appeared on the following days it was a sight to see, big boats and countless warriors and shieldmaidens on board.

When it landed on the docks Sven has received a young lady wearing a long V dress with the wine color which made her skin almost sparkle in contrast to the fabric. Sven hugged her and said a few words neither of Ragnarsons got. When she walked being escorted by two of her warriors she smiled to the people, including the boys. She entered the great hall and met with the residents there.

Hvitserk was drooling at her appearance, her hair looked like the best silk he had ever seen in his life. Sigurd was already thinking about how their children would look. Ubbe and Bjørn tried to keep the composure and keep the appearances up. Ivar wasn’t much impressed with her appearance, she was probably the wife of the Earl that Sven had the alliance too, his brothers were stupid to drool on someone that was already taken.

“My friends,” Sven announced getting all the attention. “This is Earl Y/N, she accepted to go with us in battle and her warriors and shieldmaiden will be thrilled in helping the sons of the great Ragnar Loðbrók.” He announced and all the mouths got open in pure surprise.

She knew about the shook, she didn’t like to be stated as queen, she was an Earl and a famous one for the matter. A few random warriors and the sons of Ragnar were shocked by the news, she clearly wasn’t what they were expecting, at all. Ubbe cleared his throat. “Well Earl Y/N. I can say for me and my brothers that we are happy with our alliance and shall Odin bless us in battle.” Ubbe stated.

She smiled. “Please call me Y/N. And I’m pleased with our alliance and I’m more than delighted to meet all of you.” She looked at all the boys and their warriors.

Even her voice was pretty. Sven told her to get comfortable in one of his rooms and solicited her illustrious presence for the feast later on. The other men and women left the place to, leaving the place only with Sven, the sons of Ragnar and Floki.

Sven looked her walking away to her room and looked at the men in the hall, he laughed and smirked. “I guess I didn’t say Earl Y/N was a woman.”

Hvitserk licked his lips unconsciously. “You didn’t even say her name for the matter,” Bjørn said.

Sven sat on his throne and got mead to drink. “That is the best part of our alliance. Men always drool over her. My apologies but I couldn’t avoid the possibility to see the look on your faces.” Floki erupts in laughter, Ubbe shook his head with a smile, Floki did that sometimes.

“You said the Earl was great in battle,” Sigurd stated. Ubbe sat at the table in the middle of the hall.

Sven drank the last drop of mead on his horn. “And I said the truth, she is great in battle. I had witnessed her killing innumerable men without getting even a scratch. A few people like to call her Y/N PrettySword.”

Ivar scoffed. “Why?”

Sven wasn’t pleased with Ivar's tone of voice, but he avoided the issue for the sake of the new alliance. “Since she is very pretty and her sword had taken off hundreds of lives. Some people call her DeathKiss too, but she hates that one.”

Bjørn pondered about the title and the nickname. “I can only suppose with that name she had a case with an Earl and killed him to get the throne or she had used her beauty as some sort of advantage in battles.” Ivar heard his eldest brother’s words and bowed his head believing it was the case, he looked up at Sven awaiting his response.

“Actually not. She received the role of Earl after she killed the last Earl, his name was Loki and as the God of Mischief himself, Earl Loki wasn’t the best Earl. Y/N challenged him in a battle and killed him receiving the land after so, she is pretty smart actually. Her improvements got famous and she’d made strong alliances.” The Earl explained.

Sigurd sat in the chair close to the table and filled the horn with mead. “She is not married?”

Sven shook his head. “She received a lot of requests but she declined all of them.”

Ubbe eyes sparkled, the chance of claiming her could be great not only for himself but for Kattegat as well. Ivar saw the look on his older brother. “Why? She doesn’t like men?” Ivar said with pure debauchery on his jovial voice.

The king wasn’t entertained by the childish behavior. “Not the ones where ignorance it’s a noticeable feature.” The man answered and Ivar understood that he used the words towards him. Floki laughed again and walked out of the room saying he needed to have a talk with the gods.

Sigurd rolled his eyes, mad at his brother's behavior. “Apologize our brother's behavior, Sven. He isn’t acquainted with the female sex, so he tends to act like a stupid goat when a good-looking lady visits.” He darted his eyes to Ivar and got satisfied with his little brother's face of pure hatred.

“And how could you know that dear brother, since occurs rumors of you offering your butt to other men.” Ivar responded and middle-raised his eyebrows, a grin plastered on his lips.

Sigurd's face got red in rage, but before he could answer his little brother, Bjørn intervened. “Enough.” Ivar looked at Bjørn with his angry face. “You two want to keep arguing as younglings or want to get ready for the feast? I know you all, so if you aspire to impress Earl Y/N you will need to behave as genuine Vikings.”

Ivar smiled and glanced at the floor before returning it to Sigurd’s face. “As if Sigurd knew what that meant.” He answered and received a punch of Ubbe in the arm. Ivar’s laughter spread to the place.

                                  …

The feast was with sufficient food and drinks and very stylish in the best Viking way possible. Flowers and decorations ornate the whole place.

Hvitserk ate his food and his eyes almost jumped out of his orbs when he saw her entering the place. Ubbe was in front of him and darted his eyes over Hvitserk’s gaze. Then she walked using normal tunic, pants, and some jewels, yet she was the most pretty lady there. Ivar was arguing with Sigurd and Bjørn talking with Floki. Sven smiled when he saw she was there.

Halfdan was actually taken aback, he didn’t recognize the last time he had seen someone so pretty in his life, he surely felt like it was a vision for Valhalla to give him a glimpse of what was waiting for him there.

Ubbe got to his feet and extended his hand waiting for her. “Y/N please join us in the feast and let’s enjoy.”

Ivar heard his older brother voice and rolled his eyes at the scene and questioned how stupid his brother was. “You are staring at her.” Floki’s voice appeared and Ivar looked at his uncle. “Ubbe and Sigurd are already wondering how to ask her in marriage.”

Ivar hummed, Sigurd walked away approaching her presence. “Hvitserk isn’t even eating, this is new,” Ivar answered looking at his brother’s ear to ear smile. Y/N was sat with Hvitserk, Ubbe in the table. She was smiling and Hvitserk kissed her hand.

“She looks like she likes him too.” Ivar frowned. Floki saw how she managed to get under his skin even by far. “But you won’t care, right?”

Ivar scoffed and stared at his uncle. “Of course not. She is an alliance. It doesn’t matter that she is pretty.” He pointed and keep staring at his brothers so close to her, even Bjørn was staring at her.

“So,  you think she is pretty?” Floki smirked.

“What that has to do with anything, uh? We’ll fight, I want to see if she is as good as everyone around here likes to praise.” He answered bothered at his uncle’s assumptions, he wasn’t blind as his brothers. He won’t let some random woman’s attraction blindfold him of the greater propose of an authentic Viking.

Floki chewed his cheek. “Something tells me she is.” He said in a low voice, maybe the gods have spoken with him.

The feast goes on and everyone enjoyed their times, the slaves didn’t look so happy as every powerful man wasn’t paying them attention, all of it was centered on her. Sigurd called Y/N and asked her to dance with him, she politely smiled and got on her feet, the songs went on and both danced around happily, the mead and ale had got their senses reduced and they were dancing as has no tomorrow, a lot of people were dancing too making the number of people sat low. Ivar looked at her legs moving so graciously around the hall, how her legs made her stand up so perfectly without the need of crutches like him.

When the fifth song ended she moved closer to Ivar and sit in the chair beside his own. He got confused by her act. She smiled at him and filled his horn with ale and start to drink it. “This is more tiring than it looks.” She meant the dancing, it was the first time she talked directly to Ivar and he wondered why.

“You looked like you were having fun, my brother surely looked like a bear ready to catch a fish.” He said annoyed about Sigurd. Ivar swore the mere existence of his brother disturbs him.

She started to laugh and looked at him, her laugh was as sweet as her voice. “You are funny Ivar The Boneless.”

Ivar never was praised before, especially by his humor. “And I think you got too much ale on your head.” He looked at her hands that promptly raise the horn against her pinky lips again. “And that is my horn by the way. I thought Earl’s were rich.”

She sipped the liquid and bite her lower lip carelessly. “Well. I’m a Viking. Don’t we take everything we may desire?” She asked and he nodded his head. “Besides I thought you would need a company. You seemed lonely.”

He scoffed. “Well, princess. I can’t be dancing around like drunks savages. Can I?” He asked pissed at her.

She smiled, even with the bad temperament she was still fascinated by him. “Don’t you worry. I seek a conversation more than any random man that may wish to ravish me.” She said in a low voice, but loud enough for him be able to hear even with the loud songs around the room.

Ivar's throat got dry and his blushing gave him away. She smiled and got to her feet giving Ivar’s horn back on his hand. She walked going to talk with Halfdan and Bjørn. Ivar looked at her walking away, her steps weren’t so firm but she got there.

Two of Sven’s men sat in front of Ivar to grab some drinks, Ivar was smart and always paid attention to his surrounds. Both men looked at Y/N up and down, undressing her with their eyes. 

“She surely fights like a man, and with all the drinks she had I’m surprised she is still standing.” The redhead said and the words made Ivar roll his eyes at his stupid male chauvinist phrase. “I would let her ride me like a crazy horse the whole night.” He laughed and Ivar's eyebrows frowned and his face started to become red. 

The other man nodded his head. “I don’t know if she would like that, I guess she likes women instead of men.” His ignorance hurt Ivar’s feeling, of course, he had said almost the same things hours ago, but his words weren’t so stupid. “Still. If she and another hot woman wanted to fuck in my bed. I won’t complain about it.” Then both started laughing.

“That is a dream it won’t come true,” Ivar said casually.

Both men turned around and faced the younger Ragnarson. “What did you said?”

Ivar made a face of surprise, joking with them. “What? About your absurd dream. You two look at her as you stand any chance. But we all know it won’t happen.” He licked his lips.

The redhead one scoffed and looked at Ivar’s legs on the heavy metal he had to use to manage to stand up before glancing at the crutches nearby. “Yeah? And who she would choose? The cripple?” The man answered with dark irony.

Ivar laughed. “I stand more chance than you.” He made a quick smile before starting a staring contest.

“Your dick doesn't even work.” The brunette said and then both started to laugh.

Normally Ivar would get mad at those statements but he learned how to control his temper and let them use whatever words they may want. “So it won’t be a problem then.” He put the empty horn to his lips, making sure it was the precise spot Y/N’s lips had touched minutes ago. “I mean since you both idiots assumed she doesn’t like it.”

The redhead got to his feet. “Did you call us idiots?”

“Yeah. Why are you deaf too? And here I was believing I were the only cripple.” He said teasingly.

The blood in both men's veins boiled with wrath, they walked closer to Ivar’s reach and Ivar’s felt uncertain since he didn’t have his axe or anything nearby. “Hoark, Stoico stop!” Sven shouted making the musicians stopped playing their music, the place was tense. Ubbe looked at Hvitserk and both walked to help their little brother.

Sven walked in front of both men and lost the entire relaxed atmosphere he had minutes ago while he enjoyed his feast. “I don’t want problems with my new allies. I want you two to apology to Ivar The Boneless and if I hear of any other problem with you two, you’ll be banished from my lands.” The Earl spoke and both men lowered their head and nodded.

Hvitserk felt it weird, he had never witnessed so much respect before, especially around these violent lands. Ivar smirked and Ubbe shook his head feeling ashamed of how much Ivar was enjoying this. Stoico and Hoark looked at Ivar and cleared their throat. “We are sorry for our behavior, Ragnarson,” Stoico answered. 

Hoark nodded. “It won’t happy again, we are glad your family made an alliance with our Earl.” Hoak stated.

Ivar smiled and licked his lower lip. “I forgive you two, idiots.” He used the name that made the whole circumstances so complicated, Hvitserk glared at his childish brother.

Sven nodded his head and both men walked away from the feast. Sven looked at Ubbe and Ivar. “And I expect respect with my people, I appreciate our new alliance but I won’t tolerate this treatment with my people or guests.” Ivar shook his head and kept silent.

“It won’t happen again, I guarantee you.” Bjørn’s voice said, he was propped against the wall watching his younger brother's behavior. “We value our alliance as well, I’m truly sorry.” Bjørn walked closer to his brothers and new ally and shook his head. A silent agreement.

Sven nodded and moved his hand in the air making the musicians starting playing again. Bjørn glared at Ivar. “If this happens again I’ll send you back to Kattegat, I don’t care if you had success in the last two battles! You act like a fool doing those things. Sven and Y/N are probably the bigger alliance we will manage to conquer, so if you screw this for us,” Bjørn moved his hand mentioning him and his brothers. “You will be left alone, good luck without us helping you out on your dreams.” Then he walked away.

Ivar tasted the metallic taste of blood in his mouth, he was biting his cheek so harshly that it bleeds, he might have acted foolishly but Bjørn had no right to say those words. He glanced up and Hvisterk walked away to start talking with Y/N and Halfdan. Ubbe looked at him and shook his head as he seems to do every time his younger brother made something that troubled him, it sort of happened often.

                                   …

The party ended and everyone walked apart to sleep and prepare for the next day. The great hall was big and had a lot of rooms. Sven offered them to the Ragnarsons and to Y/N and her most trustworthy warrior/shieldmaiden. Ivar thought about Bjørn’s words the whole night, it hunts him making him extremely irritated.

Y/N went to her room and was laid there using a few silk clothes she only used to sleep. As an important person, she had two other people there to fight if any opposition happens. The warrior Hagalaz that swore his life to protect her and her best shieldmaiden Zina. 

But even like that, with the extra protection, she was a light sleeper. She was dreaming and heard some grunts approaching her dreams, her eyes opened and she adjusted her body in the bed, the grunts and moans keep coming out of her bedroom. At first, she rolled her eyes and tried to go back to her sleep, it was probably someone having sex. But the sound was very suffered to be a sex sound and she kept hearing them.

She placed a tunic on her body and left the silk small dress she was wearing above her bed. She grabbed a sharp knife above the small table and walked to reach the noise. 

The great hall was silent and the fireplace was without fire on it leaving the place dark and cold. The sounds kept coming and it drew her attention and she heard a cry, she looked at the door and knocked on it twice. The pained sound stopped and was replaced with deepen inhales and exhales of breaths. “Hey. It’s Y/N. Are you alright?” She asked and waited for the answer.

A suck of air was heard. “I’m fine, go back to your room.” That voice belonged to Ivar, she couldn’t mistake that one.

She gazed at the floor she had walked in and at the wooden door. “Please, can I come in? I won’t be able to sleep knowing you are aching for any reason.”

Ivar frowned his eyebrows, could she be serious? Why would it matter to her if he was suffering or not? He was nothing to her. He kept silent and prayed to the gods send her away. He was the ruthless and cruel Viking, he didn’t need a woman to look at him in pure pain. He didn’t want anyone to look at him vulnerable for the matter.

She bit her lower lip and pushed the door opening it. 

Ivar grabbed the furs tightly in his fists covering his legs completely. She didn’t have to see the hideous crooked bones and cartilage that made its place on his legs. “Sorry but I’m really worried.” He wanted to yell at her but a sharp pain hit his lower back and he shut his eyes biting his lips tightly to suppress a groan of pure agony.

She walked to his bed and sat on his side, both of his hands were clutching the furs, she placed her hand on his. “Why are you in pain? Where does it hurt?” She asked in a quiet voice, she doesn’t want anyone to wake up and come here. Ivar definitely would hate pity glances.

He opened his eyes and stared at her hand above his. He looked at her and saw the genuine concern over her features. The pain subsided for a few seconds, it would come back surely. “My retarded legs, apparently I am not only cursed without them working but I’m also cursed to feel pain.” His breath was ragged. 

He breathed really slowly when the pain comes, so when it stops he needs to recover the oxygen in his lungs. “Go back to your room, we are allies I do not need you seeing me weak like that.”

She smiled at his blindness. “You are not weak Ivar. If anything you’re the strongest here.” He scoffed not believing in her words. “I’m serious, you can’t use your legs but in either way, you became famous and won battles. And apparently, that pain that steals your sleep isn’t something new.”

Another sharp pain hit him again, it was in his left knee this time. He tried to control his breath. She kept quiet knowing it was annoying when someone kept rambling when the pain was present. “Is not.” He said and sucked a long breath.

“Then I’m right. You are the strongest. I don’t think the others or myself would be strong to face and overcome that pain daily.” She said assuredly. He looked into her eyes and saw the moonlight reflecting in her eyes, her angelical face was unmistakably something that conquered several hearts. “Can you tell me where is the pain? Have anything I can do to help you?”

He shook his head, and let his head relax against the headboard. “Is, uh,” He cleared his throat feeling it dry, she recognized it and stood up grabbing a cup of water that was nearby the door returning it to him. He took some sips and tried to explain precisely how the pain felt. “It’s in every part of my legs, everywhere on it. But also at my lower back. It feels like a blade whacking me, a cold pain that spread on it and… and it’s terrible.” He shook his head and stared at the furs that covered his useless legs.

Y/N sucked her bottom lip questioning what she could do to help him. “I take a tea to help me when my ‘woman days’ come, if I prepare it for you would you drink?”

Ivar looked at her confused. “Woman days?”

She rolled her eyes at his naiveness, men tend to avoid it as it was some sort of sin, the Christians certainly do. “The bleeding Ivar, you are smart you know women bleed every month.”

He made an ‘oh’ face. “Sorry, but I won’t drink tea made for woman’s womb problems.” He said ignorantly.

“What if I compel you?”

He chuckled. “How could you-” He started to retort but the pain came again making him tight his teeth against each other, he knew it would make his jaw sore soon.

“Like that!” She pointed. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.” She didn’t wait for his response.

Ivar stood there agonizing, but without her in the room he let go of the furs and let some air flow to his legs, the suffering was making him warm inside and he could feel some sweat forming above his eyebrows.

Y/N walked to her room in her tiptoes and took a small wooden box filled with some herbs she used at least four times a month every month to help her cramps. The big fireplace wasn’t on but she needed to boil some water. 

She walked out of the hall and placed the knife on her footwear. She grabbed a small earthenware kettle and walked outside seeking the water and some firewood. It was cold outside but she stood at her feet doing whatever she could to aid the Ivar.

The woodpile was easy to find since Sven always ask for an extra amount of it. She filled the kettle with water and grabbed five small wood. She got in her knees and used a wood against another trying to make friction with it to find the fire, in the third attempt it finally worked making a small fire burn on it, the cool wind helped and it speedily spread through the other woods. She held the kettle and waited for it to warm up. When it did she wipe off the small fire and walked inside. She saw a fabric placed on the long table and grabbed it as well.

She entered Ivar’s room and saw him the same way she had when she left the place, but a few droplets of sweat adorned his forehead. “I can’t believe you came back.” He said holding the furs and pulling it up on his body. Her hands were shaking slightly. “Why are you trembling?”

She placed the kettle on the small table and took his cup.“It is cold outside.” She replied carelessly.

Ivar widened his eyes in shock. “Did you go outside?” How could she go to before-mentioned affliction solely to assist him?

“How do you think I was going to boil some water? I couldn’t just put the fire in the large fireplace in the middle of the great hall. It would wake everybody up.” She said with a valid point.

He was confused by her actions. “You hadn’t to do it.”

“I know, but I wanted to.” She walked closer to his bed and grinned at him. He adjusted his body and looked at her placing a big amount of herbs in the cup he had drunk water earlier on. “Here, the taste isn’t the best but I swear it will work.” He looked unsurely, after all, it was something she drank to help her woman’s issue not legs pain of a cripple. “Ivar, its better than nothing! And I swear I’m not poisoning you.” He nodded and made sure the furs was firm around his torso. He took the cup and looked at her before drinking it. The taste surely wasn’t the greatest but somehow the hot feeling in his throat made him less disturbed. “I also brought this.” She raised the big cloth on her palms. “It’s good to put something warm in the area where it’s sore inside.”

He shook his head. “It won’t work.”

She rolled her eyes. “You didn’t even try.” He drank another amount of the tea and shook his head trying to make the taste less disgusting. She got up and placed the cloth inside the kettle warming the fabric with heated water, hot enough to alleviate the pain but not enough that could be unable to hold it in her palms. “Here, try it.” She held it in the air expecting him to take.

“I can’t move without feeling pain in my back, Y/N.” He answered and drank the rest of the tea in a large gulp.

She shrugged her shoulders. “I can place it for you. I’m not tired anyway.” He hooded his eyes. He surely won’t let her see his horrendous legs. “What? Are you getting sick?” By his pale expression, she thought the tea had made the wrong effect on his body.

“No, it’s not that. The feeling is sort of soothing. I’ll see if it will help and let you know tomorrow. Goodnight.” He said trying to get her out of his room, he didn’t know her much but she certainly looked stubborn.

“I’m not leaving Ivar! Not till you fell asleep.”

“But I don’t want you here, then leave me alone.” He said in a serious tone. His answer was a solid punch in the arm. “What was that for?”

“For your stubbornness, I am trying to help, the tea isn’t a magical elixir which will make your pain go away in seconds, it will be better to help the pain outside too.”

“Okay,” He grabbed the cloth. “Are you happy? Now go away.”

She looked at him. “You won’t use it.” Ivar took a deep breath at her actions. Is that feeling Ubbe feels every single time Ivar does something stupid?

Another pain got the best of him, he grunted and almost broke the cup on his hand. She grabbed it and placed it on the floor. “Please.” She said softly searching for his eyes.

It had crossed his mind that possibility. But she was an unfamiliar person, and he can’t just let people see the part of himself that he hated the most. He looked at her and saw serenity at her features, after all, she had gone outside in the cold just to boil him some water and gave him her herbs to soothe his pain. 

So, he agreed, insecurely.

She knew it was personal to him, he didn’t allow people to see it and had rumors about what happened when people fooled them. He was cold, he was cruel, he was definitely everything people tells about him. But he was just a human boy that was suffering. “Just if you are comfortable, I don’t want to be to forward.” He chuckled and nodded.

She stood up and got the kettle bringing it closer to his body. She grabbed the furs that were on his waist and looked at him silently asking permission, he nodded and she took the furs softly. “Wait!” He said in a loud whisper she froze and looked at him. He grabbed the small part of extra fur it had on the pillows and placed it on his lap, he was naked.

He shook his head and she started to pull the thick furs out of his body, his legs were completely exposed to her eyes. He looked down at his legs and up to her eyes looking for any sign of repugnance as the slave had done on the terrible day he decided to have his first fuck. Y/N smiled softly trying to calm his nerves down and sat beside him. Gladly the kettle was made of earthenware so it managed to keep the warmth inside of it.

“Anywhere specifically hurts now?” She asked calmly, squeezing the excess of water out of the cloth. He took a deep breath trying to ignore the mere fact that someone was looking at his ugly parts, and slowed down his heartbeat and paid attention to where the pain was focused at the moment. 

He pointed to his mid-thigh, Y/N nodded and bit her lower lip, she didn’t want to hurt him in any way. “Tell me if it hurts.”

He nodded, the cloth was softly placed on his pale skin. He kept calm and didn’t shiver as she expects him to, she looked up and he had his eyes closed.

She kept doing so in every part he would point letting her now it was the place the sharp pain was occurring until the water became cold and his eyes got heavier in each second. She placed the kettle and cloth on the floor and covered his body again. “Do you need any help to move?” He was a bit shocked but Y/N didn’t know why. 

He shook his head in a silently no. She gave him a good night and walked back to her room.

She thought it was awkward, of course, his legs weren’t normal but he got well with her help, and then, in the end, he became so flustered. She let the thought go and got back to her room, laying in the warm bed, neither Hagalaz nor Zina had sensed her absence.

In the other room, Ivar was completely shocked. The pain had subsided and he will surely ask about those herbs later on. 

The warmth helped his muscles and cartilage relax and he didn’t know how sensitive his legs were since he spent the majority of time avoiding even looking at them. 

He could also feel the tiring come to him. But then he felt some awkward “feeling” on his low abdomen area and on his useless prick. 

It was throbbing. When he realized it he closed his eyes and tried to pretend rudeness, Y/N must have realized since she excused and left his room. When she did so he uncovered his legs and saw something he hadn’t witnessed before, not even when he hit puberty, he was with an erection.

She did what he thought was impossible.

The following hours Ivar didn’t know what to do, would he stroke it up and down? But what if his pain appeared again after he does so? But what if he did cum and it would make a mess in the whole bed. 

It was because of his legs? Of how sensitive they are, what if it was Y/N’s appearance that managed to? She was clearly more attractive than the slave the boys had shared.

He was going crazy because of it, his prick did work. Now people can’t say he couldn’t satisfy a woman. Ivar smiled thinking about Sigurd’s trials to make him ashamed of his useless prick. Evidently it wasn’t so useless after all. Ivar started to think if he would be able to have kids, but what if his curse goes to his poor babies? Ivar surely didn’t sleep that night.

                                   …

The next morning Sven woke up and ordered the slaves to make a huge brunch. Bjørn and Halfdan were talking about Ivar’s behavior and if he deserved to go in the next battle. Bjørn was a smart man, he tried to use his life knowledge in every aspect, but his younger brother surely didn’t help him.

“He needs to go, I mean he is your brother Bjørn. Try to talk to him later.” Halfdan said and walked to sit at the extensive full table.

Later minutes after all of the important warriors were gathered around the room eating. Sven stood up and raised his horn. “May the gods bless us and make the next adventure full of luck and victories. I hope our new alliance remains strong and it keeps following into the next generations. Skål.” Everyone raised their cups/horns and said ‘skål’ as well.

Y/N went to training with a Zina and since Hvitserk invited her for a small duel she agreed and went for it, they passed by Ivar whose acted like he had never seen her before, she smiled at him but he avoided her eyes. 

She thought it was odd, last night was an error? She helped the man and he acted like she wasn’t even there.

The training with Hvitty took longer than she expected, they tried all the movements they knew and taught each other some personal things to do in battle. 

Ubbe and Siggurd joined them and it became a big contest of who would win. The training took even longer and they just stopped when they realized they were hungry, at her presence, Hvitserk had forgotten to eat, what a miracle.

They ate and Bjørn asked to talk with Y/N, she agreed and they talked about a few ideas here and there. Bjørn tried the hardest and kept it cool but her appearance, fighting skills, and politeness will always get him shocked.

Y/N liked the Ragnarsons, she really did. Even with their flirting here and there it wasn’t so annoying, she had avoided too many men in her life. 

Gladly the boys didn’t grab her arm and said awful things, they acted like friends and the flirts were almost soft. But she required a time to think, to only herself. She walked out of the woods with her sword in a holster just in case. She had been there before so she knew a waterfall was close by.

She had never witnessed anyone in the water so in every opportunity she was in Sven’s land, she jumped on it. She started to take her clothes off and placed her sword on it above them. The pile was behind a rock nearby the water, just in case, some threat appeared.

Y/N walked through the riverside and stood under the water falling, the water hit the rocks and it made it cascade over her form. The water was cold, but she wanted so to clean her sweat away and refresh her body and mind.

                                   …

Ubbe was sat at the small barn warriors used to sharpen their weapons. “When we will leave? Tomorrow?” Ubbe asked, Hvitserk looked at Bjørn since he was chatting with Sven earlier.

Bjørn bit his apple. “Tomorrow when the sun rises,”

“We will arrive attacking?” Sigurd asked. Ivar was sharpening his axe and stared at Bjørn, even after all the happenings in the night prior, he was still mad at Bjørn’s words.

“No, Sven wants to talk with their king, of course, we will attack some villages just to send him a message.”

“Then we will try to discuss it politically?” Sigurd shrugged his shoulders.

Hvitserk liked to fight, he surely felt alive in the battlefield killings his enemies, but maybe trying to take a few lands using policy would save time and lives. “I think it can work.” He answered and nodded his head.

Ivar scoffed. “You are all too soft, what we craved to do? Come here make an alliance and sail to Ireland and take whatever we want. We are Vikings, we need to use our force, not discuss something as a Christian.” He answered and spat on the floor after the ‘Christian’ name mentioned.

“I want to talk Ivar, alone,” Bjørn said and Ubbe looked at Ivar, who nodded and all of them left. “Listen,” Bjørn scratched the back of his neck. “You are my brother. We don’t have the same mother and I know the majority of your life I wasn’t always near, but I do love and care about you. You’re my blood and your blood is mine.” Ivar watched him. “Together we can make the impossible possible, I want to keep what our father started, and outset fights randomly won’t help. We need that agreement and whatever other we may go after. So I’m asking you to try to behave. We all will go to Ireland but you need to listen. Because this isn’t your army only, are ours! And whoever dies in there will be on our back.” Bjørn said, Ivar was quiet and didn’t say any funny remark. 

Bjørn threw the rest of the apple outside the barn and elevated his hand going to Ivar’s reach. “Brothers?” Ivar looked at his hand and lifted his own shaking it.

“Brothers.” He said.

                                  …

In the night Ivar didn’t feel pain, maybe it was because his body got used to the new weather, or maybe the tea was still in his organism preventing any further pain. 

He wondered that night about Bjørn’s words and how Y/N had helped him in the night prior, he liked the feeling of being cared for, he knew his brothers liked him, but someone outside helping him made him feel significant. 

But then he began to recall about Sven’s words, of how smart and strategic she is, Y/N PrettySword or Y/N DeathKiss, she probably had vanquished powerful men in that way, she probably sees people’s weak points and takes advantage of them.

Ivar shook his head in rage, he thought she had played with his intelligence, she likely had thought he was as stupid as his brothers that would do anything for a “dress tail”.

That’s why he had ignored her the whole day, and he will keep doing so. It doesn’t matter if she had seen his hideous legs or had witnessed him weakly, he wouldn’t let her take residence inside his mind nor heart. If he did, he surely would end up hurt and would be described dumb as all the other men that had proposed to her. Ivar shook his head and sent a pray to Odin, without any pain he slept fine that night.

                                  …

The day after everyone woke up before the sun rose, the ships were filled with food and water and they got ready for the sail. The people mixed with each other so in a few boats were Y/N’s warriors mixed with the Ragnarson’s and Sven’s ones. In the ship ahead it was Y/N, Sven, Bjørn, Hvitserk, and Ivar. In the one behind it were Ubbe, Siggurd, Floki and Halfdan.

Ivar was using a long coat since the weather was chilly, and he had his hood on, he always hated to sail, it made him nauseous and he always had flashbacks of the night his father’s boat sunk and he spent minutes under the ferocity salt water while he was being held by the ropes in the mast -that he father had placed to protect him since his legs don’t work so he couldn’t be able to swim and he surely would drown-. He knew the gods had saved him, it was the only reason.

The younger Ragnarson face was almost green, Y/N was with her mouth full and was sat in the poop part of ship aside Hvitserk that was telling stories about his childhood, it happened to her glance at Bjørn and saw how Ivar was looking sick behind him, she shifted her body so she could spit the water out of her mouth in the sea. Hvitserk looked at her bewildered.

She grabbed the small bottle it had close to the main deck and walked to Ivar’s reach, he was sat on the floor gazing at the horizon trying to make things less nauseated. “Take a long sip and leave it in your mouth.” Y/N said and he looked at her. 

He sucked a breath and darted his eyes to the sea avoiding her existence.

She propped on her knees. “I hate sailing too, it makes me nauseous. But whenever I put water in my mouth and leave it there it makes it less bad.” She said, he overlooked her words. She scoffed at how stupid he was ignoring her in that way. “Okay. But if you vomit everyone will laugh at you.” She placed the bottle to her lips and placed a few of the water inside her mouth, she capped it and left it close to his feet.

Ivar glance up and saw her walking back to Hvtiserk. He didn’t want to do so, it was foolish and it wouldn’t work. But she was right, the title of a prince doesn’t matter when you are the weak one that would throw up on a boat/ship. 

Especially as Vikings. 

He took a few gups to help his thirsty and placed a small amount inside his mouth, he looked at Y/N and she was listening Hvisterk, her mouth was closed and he could see by her cheeks that she did actually have water inside. He just didn’t know why she was helping him, if she deems she will be capable to make Ivar The Boneless another name on her list, she was wrong.

He will make sure of that.

              ...

>>

@salimahbicharara-comun​ @therealcalicali​ @waiting4inspiration​ @flowers-in-your-hayr​ @lisinfleur​

[dennou-translations]

Violet Evergarden Gaiden: Chapter 3

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We’d held hands in the darkness. The only proof that we were alive had been our body temperature. Whenever she’d say that she was scared, I’d reply with, “It’s all right”. “Your Big Bro will do something about this,” I’d tell her.

The one who’d affirmed my existence was my little sister. I’d managed to get courage from the fact that I could be relied on. That, yeah, I was an older brother. That she was no good without me, so I had to keep on living.

But I didn’t remember. I didn’t know.

Had someone broken me? Had I broken on my own? I didn’t know.

Still, she definitely existed. If I met her someday, I’d know it was her for sure. Even if I had forgotten, even if I couldn’t remember her, I’d recognize her if I saw her. I wished the same to be valid for her.

That feeling alone stayed inside me like a bonfire.

Whether the continents scattered around the world were big or small made no particular difference for the people living in them. Any place was the same should there be humans living in it. They would plow and grow. Harvest, build and color. Create and fail. Hide, interact, destroy, starve, succeed. Become depressed. Shed tears, coerce. Sparkle, act immoral. Repent, depart, worship. Acclaim, breed, mourn. Become idle. Become nostalgic. They would love each other and kill each other.

And so would he.

Back when a certain continent put an end for once to a war that had extended for a long time, the “Continental War”, battles continued happening in another continent as if it were natural. On the topic of occupations that had deep ties with so-called “wars”, there were mercenaries.

Although there existed different types of them, the mercenaries who wandered that continent were in majority freely warriors who would join any faction depending on the pay. They would head east today and west tomorrow. It did not matter if, for instance, a fellow mercenary with who they had drank together turned into an enemy. They would also not care for whatever happened to the head of the lord whose favor they had earned, or to the village of the woman they had slept with, depending on the money.

And right now, too, a single mercenary was being led to the death that would certainly come to many others.

“So cold.”

Sandy blond hair swayed in the wind mixed with ashen dust. A man with looks that would be a waste should he perish in such a place lay collapsed the way he had been born. His ivory skin, in which golden hair stood on end, was exposed mercilessly to natural threats. The man groaned amidst his clouded memories, asking himself how on Earth things had turned out as such.

——Three days ago, I was killing. Two days ago, also killing.

He recalled several battles that he had surrendered his body to joining in a spur of the moment.

——Yesterday... that’s right, I was in the bar of a small highway town dancing with women, drinking...

The man could more or less understand what had happened. He had extravagantly squandered to his heart’s contentment the reward he received for surviving wartime fire and spent the night with an absurdly fine woman, who had taken notice of his lavish feasting. His lodging and the drinks he had consumed were arranged by said woman. She had most likely administrated some sort of drug into them.

“I feel sick... oeh...”

The fact that all of his belongings had been stripped off him, that the bounty he had earned at the cost of his life had been snatched away, and that he had been left to chance in such a place without anyone bothering to finish him off could not be called anything other than misfortune. Only that his body was not tied up was good luck, but even if it were, he would not have moved. It seemed he had by no means the energy to stand up.

“Some...” he attempted to say, but closed his mouth.

——Even if I call for somebody, there ain’t anyone around. Who even is “somebody” to me, anyway?

The man did not have comrades or family to aid him in such a time.

That was what it meant to live as one pleased. He would make his baggage as light as possible and simply move forward to wherever he saw fit. If he had some sort of grandiose goal, it might lead him to good results. A lukewarm existence would sometimes turn into a hindrance for life decisions. Those who had nothing could probably see a world far broader than those who had everything. However, having no one to grieve for them when tasting such final moments was lonesome.

A pain ran through somewhere in the depths of his chest – the spot that was called “heart”.

“Nope, I ain’t dying.”

The pain ran through, but the man did not have the spirit of someone who obediently perceived fate as fate. He balled his fists, exhorting his body and attempting to stand up somehow.

“As if I’d die... As if I’d die; as if I’d die!”

Perhaps because that roar had been the last of the strength he had left, from head down, the man collapsed onto his back once again after just yelling. Buried by sand, he lost consciousness. In his primary circumstances, he would have died there. Nevertheless, there was a certain number of individuals beloved by the Goddess of Fortune to the point of it twisting their destinies. The fact that a motorcycle was transiting the road-less way and that he met a passerby with a good heart who stopped upon finding him were all the work of the Goddess of Fortune.

The man opened his eyes again after few hours had gone by.

“Who... are you, seriously?” Due to the surprise, but also because he was sitting up, his voice was hoarse.

“I’m Hodgins, a veteran in the middle of a trip. I’m the one you owe your life to for picking up your butt-naked self from the desert.”

He was a bit of a rich man, an easy-going one who could easily chime in with others, extremely calculating and intrigue-loving, who scored a large profit in war gambles and had an upstart. He was an entrepreneur currently in the middle of stablishing his business. That was the man’s first encounter with Hodgins, his lifesaver.

“Why’d you help me, Old Man?!” his harsh voice echoed throughout the interior of the shop.

The two were in an open-terrace restaurant located at the first floor of an inn to which the man had been heading. It was too late for breakfast and too early for lunch. The man was conspicuous. After all, no matter how one looked at it, he was dressed in baggy, obviously borrowed shirt and trousers.

“Ah, I’m sorry. This kid is a bit ill-mannered. Yes, he’ll quiet down... Hm? Wait a minute. ‘Old man’...!? Me...?” Hodgins opened his eyes wide and leaned closer to the man.

That was what he was going to react to?

The youth and the overly cheerful man were a mismatched combination inside the refined inn. It was inevitable that the gazes of the customers would gather upon them in a natural manner, but at a growl of, “We ain’t for display!” from the young man, everyone looked away.

“Old Man, listen to me.”

“No, no, more importantly, how about we clear up the issue of whether or not I look like an old man? I’m indeed past my twenties already, but I’m younger than the people from my generation who are married, my stomach doesn’t stick out yet, and more than anything, I’m a fine man, right? Do I really seem like an old man? Not a big bro? How about you try thinking it over? Ready, set—”

“OLD. MAN!”

As if stabbed in the heart by his words, Hodgins clutched his chest and moaned. “What is it... young man...?” Even his voice was pained.

“Why’d you help me? You’re even treating me to food... What’cha after? I’m telling you I’ve got no money.”

It was true. If the man were billed for a meal in that place now, it would be the end of the line for him.

In contraposition, Hodgins waved his hand to the side. “Nah, I’m not after anything.”

“Then you want my body?”

“You’ve... got too much confidence in yourself. Well, when I first saw you, your body was buried in sand and I couldn’t properly see anything other than your face... so, I thought you were a naked pretty girl who had passed out.” After glancing fleetingly at the man, he turned his head to a different direction, eyes far-off. “When I lifted you in my arms, I noticed you had something extra there... but you were still alive, so I brought you back to the inn with me, stroked your body since you were with hypothermia... and when I realized, it was morning. I knew you had no money just by looking. You had nothing with you.”

This time, the one with an aching chest was the man. “My bad. For... not having anything.” As his voice tone changed quite a bit, perhaps what had been rubbed was a very sore spot.

“Young man, why were you asleep in that place?”

“‘Why,’ you ask...?”

Albeit hesitating to discuss his misfortune, he talked about his situation in a summarized way. Hodgins had listened seriously at the beginning, but from the middle onward, he turned his face to the side and his shoulders trembled as if he were holding back laughter.

“If you wanna laugh, just do it...!”

“Eh, can I? Ahah! Ahahahah! You’d finally earned some and lost all of it?! That’s too pitiful! My stomach hurts... Ah, hold o—hold o—wait up. How about you stop lifting that chair? Let’s calm down? It was terrible, wasn’t it? You’re hungry too, right? Eat up, eat up. Speaking of which, I didn’t ask your name either. Young man, what’s your name?”

Silence.

“Hey, hey, no matter how badly behaved you are, you should at least give your name.”

Pouting, the man muttered curtly, “Ain’t got it.” Seeming to have been made from the colors of the summer sky and blown into a glass ball, his remarkable eyes clouded over, and he defiantly spoke one more time. Crossing his arms, he rested his feet on the table. “I ain’t got a name. I might’ve been given one, but I don’t have any. Call me whatever you want. My registration name from when I used to be a mercenary was ‘Blue’. Since I dunno my name... I went with my eye color.”

Hodgins showed agitation for the first time in front of the man, who had turned into a lump of displeasure. “‘Don’t have any’... What do you mean?”

“Amnesia. My memory’s got nothing but what happened starting from a few years back. I dunno where I was, what I was doing, where I’m from or who I was before this. When I came to, I was lying on a riverbank at the borders of this continent. Back then, I was wearing an armor and a cape... If I hadn’t been picked by a woman gypsy, I’d have died just like that.”

Hodgins at last realized his own words to have been a verbal gaffe.

“You don’t remember anything? Not a single thing?”

Silence.

“Is there something you do?”

That might have been important to the man enough to make him falter even at putting it into words. After showing an expression of hesitation, he finally opened his mouth. “I probably... had a... little sister.” His attitude was almost that of confessing a sin. “Still, I don’t remember her. I just have the memory that she existed, and I dunno what kinda person she was. But she was definitely there. I remember that.”

Hodgins wound up gripping his own shirt at the chest area.

“I tagged along with the gypsies for a while, learning from them how to sing, dance and stuff. Then, in the end, I changed jobs to mercenary. Looked like fighting fit my nature better, y’see. ‘Battle-Hungry Freak’ is my nickname. I’m famous in the mercenary world.” Upon saying so, the man shrugged. “Well, that ain’t a name, though...”

He did not know who he was. Just how worrisome was that for him? The man did not seem to have a commendable personality at all, yet he was apparently concerned about not having a name.

“Hu~n... that so? So, you... were a mercenary, yeah?”

“That’s right. Is it bad?”

“I’m not saying that it’s bad per se. But even so, you got no money, no name or anything at all?”

“No”, “no”, “no”. The man’s rage towards his own life was present at the many sorts of “no”.

“You wanna get killed, Old Man? Just saying it, but I don’t have any sense of moral obligation, so if I don’t like someone, I’m fine with beating them up.”

“Yep, you’re like that. Not a single ‘thank you’. But I... don’t hate insincere guys like you.”

“What’s with that?”

“Also, you see, I have an acquaintance... it’s a girl who resembles you... Even though I’m her legal guardian, I left her with other people and went on a journey as if running away. I sort of got the feeling I couldn’t leave her by herself.”

——Someone who resembles me?

Was there any such person in the world?

“What kinda fella is she?”

Not answering the man’s question, Hodgins gave breadcrumbs to a dove that lay in waiting at his feet for his meal’s leftovers to fall down. Whatever he was thinking, he stayed quiet for a while and suddenly rose from his seat, chasing after the dove. The other doves could not stand his imposing action, batting their wings and fleeing into the sky.

“Hey, what kinda fella is she!?” his angry shout overlapped with Hodgins’s innocent laughter and the sound of bird feathers.

With the town that the doves had flown toward at his back, Hodgins turned around. His eyes seemed to be looking at the man, but were not.

“The strongest and weakest in the world.” As expected, Hodgins was smiling, but his eyes did not form an arc. Regardless of whether the person he referred to was evil or good, the air around him transmitted the fact that she was someone important.

The man frowned.

——What’s that...? A riddle...?

He became even less able to understand the lifesaver in front of him.

“I also have to just go and face her already.” Hodgins had said he was in his thirties, but he seemed older than that as he talked about the “strongest and weakest in the world”. “I can’t tell her... that it’s hard for me to look at her face when she seems sad.”

Eyes crinkling, the man thought:

——This dude... he pretends to be decent but something’s up with him.

He sensed a twist from the laughing other man. The latter spoke a lot at first, but he had seemed to be giving vent to his thoughts rather than having a conversation. Was he not burdened with some sort of enormous problem? One that he truly could do nothing about, no less.

“It’s settled.” Hodgins pointed an index finger at the man and snapped one of his eyelids closed. “If you aren’t anything, won’t you tag along with me?”

“Meaning... you’re gonna hire me?”

“That’s right. You lack too much of everything. Come to my place earn money. You need cash to search for your sister and to get revenge from the guys that threw you naked into the desert, don’t you? In exchange, can you lend me your life for a bit?”

“Hah?”

“Right now, you only have your life, yeah? I’ll buy that.”

At those words, the man’s heart started making astir sounds. He was supposedly used to having his life bought with money, but when asked for it face-to-face, his breathing felt as if it would stop.

“How much is it?”

Upon being asked so, the man was at loss for an answer.

Afterward, the man acquired a name.

“Benedict Blue”.

He also secured a profession and a place to sleep.

The CH Postal Company.

He had a lifesaver who was dear to him.

Claudia Hodgins.

He obtained comrades as well.

He had treaded a long prologue, but that was his story.

Benedict Blue

“The rough explanation ends here. The client who made this request just wants the letter sent definitively. Little Violet will do the ghostwriting. Benedict will do the delivery. It’s a sudden commission, but it’s good that you two were going to work in the same place. I can also count with Benedict for seeing off and meeting on return with Little Violet. I’ll give you a few days’ break when you’re done, so do your best. How’s that? Does it seem okay?”

Benedict observed the golden-haired girl who immediately answered, “Yes” with blue eyes similar to hers. They sat next to each other on a sofa in Hodgins’s room. It was a languid early morning. Work was about to begin that day as well.

The climate, atmosphere and food of Leidenschaftlich, which Benedict was once not used to due to having come from a different continent, now penetrated his body without any sense of displacement.

“Fine.”

He had no reason and was not in the position to refuse. The one in front of him was his lifesaver and superior. He did not show respect for the latter, but felt familiarity from him. Most likely, of the highest degree.

“V, don’t make your luggage too heavy. It’ll weaken my beloved bike’s movements.”

The girl beside the amnesiac Benedict was an individual who had only just appeared into his short life. From the time they had first met, to Benedict, she had rooted herself in the classification of people whom he “somehow could not leave on their own”. She was a stunning Auto-Memories Doll. Her impudence aside, she was an ignorant child unknowing of the ways of society. In the beginning, he had doubted that such a machine-like person come from the military would manage working in the service business, but she was currently the most popular figure of the CH Postal Company.

“That is true. I shall reduce the firearms to the minimum equipment. My body weight is also heavy due to the prosthetics, so it will increase the burden on Benedict’s motorcycle.”

Her fine appearance had always stolen the eyes of whoever looked at her, but lately, he had the feeling that her charm had increased. It was as if spring had been born from within her cold beauty.

“Even if the equipment is scarce, if I am with Benedict, I will probably not struggle in case of emergencies.”

She had become able to smile faintly on occasion.

The biggest incident amongst the ones that they had just recently experienced in person – the Intercontinental Train’s hijacking – crossed Benedict’s mind. And so did a man with an eyepatch, who had showed up embracing Violet sideways as she had lost an arm, and taken his leave.

He had not heard everything about the past of the two, but Hodgins had told him the general story afterward. They were in love with each other. There was no room for anyone to come in-between. Their colleague, Cattleya, had said that the two apparently started seeing each other on off days. “I’m glad,” Cattleya had laughed.

Benedict did not deem it as good.

That was probably the reason why looking at Violet felt somewhat unamusing as of late. He suspected that she was being deceived by a much older man who had conveniently vanished and come about once again.

Putting it positively, he was worried.

Benedict tautly flicked Violet, who had no idea about his feelings, on the forehead with his fingertips. “Not really; you’re light. It’s just that your bag’s heavy. Old Man, you ever lifted V’s luggage? Swing that thing around and it’s like a normal blunt weapon; a blunt weapon. There’s a ton of weapons in it under her clothes.”

Hodgins made an all but deplorable face. “Little Violet... you buy guns with your salary, right...?”

“They were distributed to us back when we were in the military, but now I have no option except purchase them myself. I can only take Witchcraft when President Hodgins grants me permission, after all. I have recently purchased a long-range shotgun. My hands are actually more accustomed to wide-swing maces, however...” Perhaps due to having a desire to acquire large weaponry, Violet moved as though wielding the real thing, staring fixedly at the imaginary weapon.

“No can do, no can do. I’ve gone through the trouble of getting you a cute look, so don’t take stuff like that with you aside from emergency cases.”

“Stop, stop. Giving you a ride would get even heavier.”

Completely shut down by the two men, Violet put on a disappointed expression, as if disheartened. “I am prepared to explain the advantage points of the mace, though...”

Without her having the opportunity to give said explanation, the two were set to depart in haste. Seen off by Hodgins and after Lux, who was on phone duty, waved at them, Benedict and Violet left the agency.

The blond duo swayed on the motorcycle towards wherever.

Autumn had ended, the seasons changing into winter. Leidenschaftlich usually did not witness snowfall, yet icy winds were blowing. Gloves, scarves, hooded coats – even if the protection measures against low temperatures were appropriate, cold was cold. As the one driving, Benedict had no choice but simply endure the chilly gusts head-on. Violet’s artificial arms around his torso were gelid as well. The heat from the part of her actual body that was in contact with his back was the only warmth. He could feel the hold of her arms more firmly than when giving her rides back in summer. Was it because of the coolness or because of her trust in him?

Feeling an itch, Benedict sneezed, “Achoo!” While vigorously speeding up the motorcycle over the vast land, he initiated a conversation for no particular reason, “It’s cold!”

“Yes.”

“V, your prosthetics okay? Ain’t there any downsides or something if they get too chilled?”

“It is bad if the joints freeze, but that will not happen as long as the coldness is not extreme.”

“Hu~n.”

“We mostly roamed around northern lands during the Continental War, so I am knowledgeable of the protections against cold.”

“Well, the place we’re going to – Lontano – is inside Leidenschaftlich, so for starters, it won’t be snowing there this time of the year. As long as the weather isn’t abnormal, that is. There’ll also be no obstacles to my delivery duties.”

“Yes. This is reassuring.”

“Hey, don’t say that.”

“Why not? The climate is stable. The one who said that there would be no obstacles to the delivery duties was you, Benedict.”

“That’s not it; it’s ‘cause you’re with me. When you say stuff of the sort, it feels like something will happen instead.”

“So the weather will become abnormal because of what I said?”

Benedict knew that Violet’s eyebrows were furrowing even without looking at her. He laughed aloud. “Stu~pid. You’ve got it wrong. I’m saying that ‘cause it’s easy for some kinda problem to happen when I’m with you. To make up for your luggage being lighter, we got ready to manage at least an interception if anything in general goes down, but... Lontano is a pretty big city, so there’s lots of thugs. Flashy towns also got many dark sides.”

“What an issue...”

“You got picked by some weirdo and it was fight on; you were attacked by a bandit and it was fight on; the motorcycle broke and we got stuck in some field. Also, what else...? You raise one small thing and there’s no end to it.”

As if to protest, Violet alleged, “I cannot agree with this. Benedict, the fights that you started one-sidedly are also included.”

“That so? Might be bad for me to get teamed up with you.”

After a short pause, Violet objected again – to the part about teaming up with Benedict being a “bad” thing, “I cannot agree with this either... Indeed, I can assume there is a factor in us that makes it easy to bring about some sort of conflict. However, we were able to deal with them. We, the two of us... can deal with it if something happens again.”

It was difficult to tell what she was thinking, and she might well have been merely protesting against the negative reputation of her own abilities. Still, Benedict somehow heard it as something other than that.

“Heheh,” laughter leaked from him in a natural manner.

Her breath coming out in white puffs behind him, Violet added as if just recalling it, “This applies to times of war and not to times of peace, but... we would have even less enemies if Cattleya were included,” she whispered intermittently and Benedict smiled.

“If that happened, there’d really be no match for us,” he chuckled.

From that point onward, the way to their destination took a couple of hours.

The place that the Auto-Memories Doll and postman from CH Postal Company headed to was Lontano. Small in comparison with the capital Leiden, it was the most prosperous city amongst the neighboring ones. The houses formed circles as if to surround an old castle sitting on top of a slightly elevated hill that extended itself for about a hundred meters, a river with the same name as the country flowing nearby.

Enshrined within a solemn atmosphere, said old castle was a famous attraction of the city. While holding the rights to it themselves, the clan that formerly owned it had handed its management over to the city, and the city allowed people to tour inside of it for cheap admission fees. The old castle had become a grandiose touristic spot, for the one who had built it was a well-known architect.

Places with renowned attractions that had cultural value were easy to turn into the aspired cities of young artists. Not an exception to this, Lontano had art and history museums, theatre venues and a market of ancient books, making the urban area into one where lovers of such things would be unable to help themselves just from strolling through it. Before entering the city gates, one could overhear music as young people played instruments by the road, and walking a little into the city, one would find bookstore after bookstore. The vicinities of statues and fountains were packed with people drawing sketches. It was city of gorgeous structure, yet gloomy and easy to get lost in if one wandered into an alley. Albeit a small ward, there was also a red-light district, which was more popular amongst those who had no interest in arts.

“Now...”

Benedict dropped Violet off at the city’s entrance. She would then rush over to the customer who lived in that city and ghostwrite for them. Benedict himself had several packages to deliver around the city. Once the work there ended, they would return to Leiden, where the submission of reports and delivery of more letters would be waiting for them. That was why Hodgins had ordered the two of them to go to that city. It was more efficient than going through the trouble of having Violet use public transportation, as it there was no fare and took less time.

The current time was right before noon, the tourists gradually forming a lively crowd.

“Where. Should. It. Be?”

Benedict’s sky-blue eyes traveled about in search for a good meeting spot. There was a bank, a bakery, a souvenir store, and a statue of a naked woman carrying a child. The bakery also seemed to have a café, and people could be seen enjoying the apparently warm interior and freshly baked bread from the glass windows.

“It’s settled. V, let’s make the bakery our meeting spot. No matter who arrives first, we wait inside.”

Violet nodded curtly. “You want to eat bread, right?”

“I do. That bakery’s bread is tasty. I never went inside to eat it, though. But it’s delicious enough that making sure to buy something there and bring it over if we have deliveries to do in Lontano is almost common sense among fellow postmen. That one with melted cheese on it... let’s make it a souvenir for Old Man.”

Hearing Benedict talk about purchasing a souvenir, Violet blinked. “I comply. But Benedict, did something happen?” Her reaction all but asked if he had gone crazy.

“You’re being the rudest possible to me with that, y’know?”

“I apologize... Well, did anything happen?” Benedict’s act of buying souvenirs for Hodgins purely out of goodwill seemed unbelievable for Violet. Therefore, she uttered her concern for a malfunction in either his body or mind.

Benedict struck the top of her head with a light knife-hand in an expression of sympathy. “Nothing’s up! You just don’t know it, but I sometimes give the Old Man souvenirs! Even Auto-Memories Dolls buy souvenirs to the agency if they go to some exotic place, right? It’s the same as that. The Old Man treats me to food and stuff before payday too... Like lunch, well, pretty often...”

“President Hodgins tends to give Benedict a special treatment.”

——Don’t wanna hear that from you who he treats like a daughter, Benedict thought.

He spoke while turning to the other side, “Welp, he went as far as taking in an amnesiac like me and giving me a name... He might be special to me, and I to him.”

He accidentally, unintentionally voiced it.

“Is that so?” Violet threw in an interjection quite like normal and Benedict was taken aback.

It was not as if he were hiding the fact he had amnesia or that the name “Benedict” had been given to him by Hodgins, but he had never talked about it to his work colleagues. That was because he had until now no trials of explaining he had amnesia in which he had received a decent response. He would either earn uncalled-for looks or have condolence-like words of pity spat at him. Whichever it was, Benedict was the kind of person who would end up irritated at the other party.

He already had a name and social position. No longer was he the “Blue” who had nothing. He did not want to feel ashamed of back when he had lived by his eye color’s name.

——I wonder...

He was not proud of it either.

——I wonder how she’ll react.

She would certainly not make a big scandal, but would probably say something annoyingly depressing. While embracing uncomfortable feelings, Benedict waited for her response.

However, no matter how long he waited, there was no reaction after that.

Their blue eyes repeatedly exchanged stares. A prolonged silence ensued between them.

Finally, Violet tilted her head slightly as if to ask, “Is something the matter?”

Benedict wound up delving into it without thinking. “Hey, anything to say on me having amnesia?”

Violet’s golden eyelashes batted. “‘Anything’...?”

“There is, right? It’s amnesia we’re talking about. That’s rare, ain’t it?” Saying it himself was somewhat embarrassing and pathetic.

Did that mean she was not too interested in his past? He felt a little let-down.

“That is not true.”

The next words he heard changed his feelings.

“It is indeed uncommon, but in my personal subjectivity, this is not odd.” Violet susurrated with a tone that sounded somehow happy, “I also do not have any memories from before a certain point in time. I did not know how to speak, either. Major bestowed me with the name of a flower goddess. Benedict, what meaning was yours given with?”

——That’s right.

It seemed that Benedict having amnesia was not a big issue for Violet.

——That was it.

The girl so-called Violet Evergarden also used to be not even a person, but a weapon, during the time she had no name. And she spoke of it without any pretension. She did not think of it as a shame.

“This is President Hodgins who we are talking about, so he must have given it with some sort of meaning. The two of us can be said to be very fortunate, right? If I had been used by anyone other than Major, I do not know what would be of me as of now.”

If anything, she thought of it as merely a process for until meeting the person she loved most.

“Oh.”

Violet, who was innocent and indeed lacked something somewhere, felt sorrowful and precious.

“So, what is the meaning of your name?”

“I forgot!”

“Then, let’s ask President Hodgins when we return. I want to know.”

“No, no, no! Don’t ask! Well, I’ll go do the deliveries, so you go to your client too! See ya later!” Benedict mounted the motorcycle once again and waved a hand at Violet.

“Understood. I shall leave the name matter for later as well.”

“You’re stubborn.”

Thus, the two headed to work, each on a different direction.

Benedict’s deliveries did not take too long. One house received a package with an assortment of supplies from a mother living in Leiden to her son working in Lontano. Three buildings received documents exchanged between offices. Five residences received letters. In case of absences, he would have a little bit of work either taking the delivery back with him or asking the person’s neighbors about where they had gone to, yet he finished earlier than he had presumed without the need for such things.

He soon entered the meeting-spot bakery, taking a seat from where he could see the situation outside through the glass and drinking coffee. It seemed Violet’s ghostwriting job would still take some time.

——Guess I’ll pick the souvenir first, then.

He was not able to imagine Violet enjoyably choosing a gift, so picking one by himself was probably more efficient. Thinking so, Benedict selected a few items that he had deemed savory from his own experience eating them. As per a request to the clerk, he had Hodgins’s part of the bread wrapped.

“Is this all?”

Sensing the plainness in color of the goods that he had chosen, Benedict tilted his neck. “Hn~, anything else you recommend?”

“How about a pie or tart? Also, these aren’t bread, but I recommend our cookies as well. There are people who come here just to buy them.”

“Ah~...”

“They’re popular among girls. The ribbons are cute, too.”

One woman surfaced in Benedict’s head.

“I’ve got someone who’d like them, but she’s far away now. All right. Just add this pie.”

In the end, he had an apple pie as addition. He then returned to his seat and calmly savored the coffee.

While observing the packet in which he had requested it to be wrapped, he faintly wondered if the person on the receiving end would be pleased with it. He was soon able to imagine Hodgins smiling broadly and taking into his hands the souvenir offered by his brusque self. He could picture the other being a little surprised, and then slowly breaking into a smile after being told what it was. Even the other saying, “Thanks, Benedict”, and himself turning to the side while replying, “It’s nothing”. He would have also been glad to take money out of his deserted wallet for the cookies if there were anybody to receive them, yet...

——She’s hella far away right now, huh.

The one who came to his mind was a girl of dark hair and purple eyes, Cattleya Baudelaire. Much like Benedict, she has been a colleague from since CH Postal Company’s foundation day. She liked sweets, was bad at dealing with hardships, was a scaredy-cat despite looking daring and fearless, and had a childish side as opposed to her appearance.

——Well, guess she wouldn’t be too happy if she got them from me.

They would quarrel as soon as they saw each other. Enough to turn it into a common occurrence within the CH Postal Company. It was easy to tell just by looking that they did not actually do it due to truly detesting one another, however...

——I wonder if she hates me.

...they could not tell it so easily themselves. Although they were in the same agency, they had different occupations, therefore missed each other often. Theirs was a repetition in which dawn would break after the previous time they had fought, and they would forget that the fight had happened and start another fight yet again. Regardless, they would end up talking to one another on sight, unable to ignore each other, and so he thought of pleasing her with something.

——I don’t hate her, though.

For Benedict, the sense of distance between himself and she, who was worthy of being considered a new breed of human being, was something complicated.

——Things just kinda don’t go well with us. I can’t treat her like other women.

As he had never experienced a proper romance, he had no way of knowing what that meant.

After he reflected on all sorts of things, a big yawn left his mouth. He stretched both arms towards the sky with a jerk and arched his body like a cat. And then relaxed once more. Thinking of taking a break from work had all of his strained feelings and body slackening up.

——I’m getting kinda sleepy.

As he had to work since early in the morning and his daily duties had overlapped, the sense of satisfaction from having a full stomach and the gently warm room caused his eyelids to naturally lower. His body was slowly, slowly stolen by drowsiness and he wound up unable to keep his eyes open. The scent of the shop’s interior was fragrant, people’s conversations sounding fun. The elements composing an atmosphere that could be understood from one’s heart loosened Benedict’s caution.

——Even though... V’s coming...

A golden-haired girl surfaced in Benedict’s head.

——If it’s her, well, guess she’ll soon find me.

The café inside the shop was crowded. Still, he believed that, since it was her, she would come to that place at full speed.

——She’ll... look for me.

After he became amnesic, no matter whom he asked, there was no one who knew him.

——It’s okay if I nap, right?

No one had looked for him.

——It’s okay, right?

However, Violet Evergarden probably would. Thinking so, Benedict closed his eyes. He yawned sudden and widely, falling asleep altogether as if he were dead. Consciousness distant, his line of thought floated into the air. He forgot what he was thinking about midway, invited into the realm of dreams.

Calling them “dreams” might be a faulty form of expression. In his case, they were reproductions of memory fragments that he had ended up shutting down. Once released from the real world, the past would come chasing after him and softly tap on his back.

A film that felt like an old friend returning from far away played in his mind. “Why, welcome back, my mate who no longer remembers his own name,” it said. The film would repeat itself over and over inside Benedict’s head.

His reunion with his friend named past would begin with a night sky.

It was a beautiful nighttime, in which a full moon had appeared. His memory version crawled out of an extremely, extremely dark place, and so he was startled at the bright light of said moon for an instant and shuddered.

There was a sandy beach under his feet. Stomping onto it, his shoes were blemished with mud and bloodstains. The dull ache in his entire body was agonizing. He might have earned himself a serious injury. Nevertheless, his legs moved without him being able to mind the pain.

His hand was holding onto something. Something smooth and small that had body temperature.

He looked back. A little girl came into sight. The girl had blond hair much like Benedict, but of a slightly different shade. Her hair was bundled up in a black velvet ribbon.

As their eyes met, she nodded as if to say, “I’m fine”. After confirming so, Benedict ran faster. He trusted the girl following him.

Eventually, his gaze moved ahead. A single boat was fluctuating on the surface of the sea.

——There, we can escape with that, he thought.

He did not know what they were fleeing from. However, if it was something frightening enough to scare him, whether it was someone horrifyingly strong or a large-numbers-against-small-numbers situation, their circumstances were that they had to run away. But that was not the issue.

Benedict turned around and said, “We’re escaping on that thing,     ”

As if having erased it, he was unable to hear her name.

“     , you’re coming too?”

He also could not hear his own name as spoken by the other.

“That’s right. I won’t abandon you. We’ll end up ————. ‘Cause that’s ————’s way of doing things. Without that drug, you ————.”

The color of her hair, eyes and lips – he could see those splintered things.

“But... But even if you ————, even I stop recognizing you as my little sister, even if you stop recognizing me as your big brother, it’s fine. We’re siblings, after all.”

But he could not see her face.

“Even if we forget, I’m sure we’ll recognize each other on sight.”

He could not tell how her face looked. The hues of her ribbon and orbs were fragmented.

“Isn’t that right? If we’re together, even if we forget, we can remember each other as many times as we need. If you find a man that you like or something, you can forget and throw me away. But until then...”

The shades of her hair, her voice and intonation – he could only tell those kinds of things apart.

“...don’t let go of this hand no matter what. If you do that, we’ll really end up forgetting everything,” the past Benedict said as if making a threat.

“I understand,     .”

The two boarded the boat and started rowing toward the open sea.

At last, things would always end at a point where he was looking up at the boat from the bottom of the ocean. And so, he would think that, aah, they had failed.

His body convulsed with a start. The film reproduced inside his head did not go for more than a few minutes, yet Benedict awoke accompanied by a sense of fatigue, almost as if he had gone on a long journey.

Eyes half-open, he looked about the surroundings. Violet was nowhere to be seen. He checked the shop’s clock. Not even ten minutes had passed since he had begun drinking his coffee.

Poising himself calmly, he took the only slightly cold coffee into his mouth. Upon drinking a mouthful of it, he became unable to settle with just a little and downed it in gulps as if it were water.

“One more,” he asked for another of the same thing, raising his hand to one of the shop’s waiters. He had wanted the bitterness of reality, enough for him not to be invited by sleepiness anymore.

——You’ve seen this so many times, yet you’re still scared of it?

Although he had been thinking until just a moment before that she did not have to come, he now wished to see that blunt girl very much.

——It’s fine.

Not even he knew what was fine exactly, but he told himself so.

——It’s fine.

He needed those words.

——I’m... fine. Ain’t that right?

He himself did not give an answer to the question asked.

Benedict wound up sneering. He did not use to be so agitated even back when he worked as a mercenary for the first time.

He looked around again. Nobody was a target of dread. Nothing was currently happening. It was not as if he were rushing through a battlefield in order to earn money either, nor had he been abandoned in a desert completely naked. He could tell as much even without sorting out the situation. He was blessed now and nothing was terrifying. Things were finally peaceful. Too peaceful.

However, Benedict did not know that, the more peaceful times were, the more often would the pain of the scars marking him end up coming back.

——Ever since he took me in, haven’t I grown weak?

Oddly enough, be it mental or physically, wounds were not curable. Their visible parts would heal. However, even if they healed on the surface, just by the atmosphere and the people and things involved when the injury happened overlapping with one another, the truth that “a wound was earned” would return. The figurative scars would chase after people forever like the Moon floating in the sky. And they would ache.

Even if the injury took but an instant, the truth that one had been wounded was eternal.

——When... will I get to remember everything?

The scar from forgetting the one person that he absolutely should not have forgotten was causing Benedict’s heart to self-mutilate without him realizing. If the replaying of his memories had already happened thousands of times, then for those thousands of times, Benedict had been attacking himself.

Without knowing why he would become so flustered, he reproduced his recollections again. They were a repetition of the previous ones. As seen from the sidelines, things were obvious to those who knew of his circumstances.

A new coffee was brought over, but he did not feel like drinking it in that warm place. It was Benedict who had come up with the arrangement, saying that one should wait for the other inside, yet he had decided to wait in front of the shop mounted on his motorcycle. Breathing in amidst the coldness, he calmed down a little. The perfectly clean, icy air within his body cooled down his head. Even if his body shook, it was because of the chilliness.

Suddenly, Benedict looked straight to the side. It was due to him feeling a stare for some reason.

A short-haired blonde girl was standing there. Hers was an unnatural shade of blond, so it was most likely a wig. She was dressed in a milky white satin dress similar to the tone of her skin under a black trench coat. She seemed like the kind of woman who led a life of having her praises sung by men in that city of artists. With a cigarette between her fingers, she blew tobacco smoke out of her bright red lips. Being in a bar surrounded by men all around and laughing elegantly would suit her. The front of a bakery was not fitting of her...

“Y-You—” the woman mustered out at Benedict, with an aspect that seemed to say she had done so unwittingly. Her voice was husky.

Benedict returned her gaze. The woman gave him an odd feeling of déjà vu. Had they not met somewhere before, his sixth sense whispered.

Subconsciously, his eyes went to her hair. If that sister of his had grown up, was a woman with such appearance too old to be her? Still, women could change the age suggested by their looks however they wanted with make-up and clothes. Benedict knew the morning-to-night faces of the women he had spent time with until now. Should he not discard the possibility that she was his younger sister?

Perhaps because the glint in Benedict’s eyes had sharpened, the woman took a step backward, and then threw the cigarette away, leaving the spot. At first, she walked slowly, gradually going in small trots.

“Hey,” when he realized it, Benedict had hopped off his motorcycle and was calling out to her. “Hey, wait.”

He pursued the woman as she ran, grabbing her arm by force. Not liking it, the woman attempted to shake free from him, but Benedict bound her arms behind her back. As she smelled of sickly sweet perfume, it felt as if he was about to suffocate.

“Let me go!”

“You know me, right?!”

“I don’t!”

“You definitely do, don’t you?! No, I... I...!”

——I feel like I know you.

“You... Are you...”

He might have been jumping to conclusions. He was fine with it being a misunderstanding. However, if that was not the case, then he certainly did not want to lose such information by mistake.

“Are you... my little... sister?”

Upon being asked so, the woman covered her mouth with her two hands.

The way back was extremely quiet on that day.

Having finished the ghostwriting for her client, Violet called over to Benedict, who was exhaling white puffs outside. It took him a few seconds to react back, and his face looked almost as if he had seen a ghost. She noticed he had nothing in hands despite having said that he would buy Hodgins a souvenir, and as they went back into the shop, the clerk was looking after it. As Benedict said nothing, Violet was the one to thank her.

Even as she told him, “Well, then, let us go home,” while mounting on the backseat, he was out of it and did not take off.  And even as the motorcycle finally moved, he stopped driving without as much as one minute passing.

“V, my bad. I’m... feeling awful right now. I might cause an accident and get you hurt.”

Violet did not ask if something had happened. As he was certainly pale-faced, Violet changed seats with a, “Then, I will do the driving”, adapting to the necessities of the moment. She had learned how to ride horses and vehicles to an extent during her soldier days. Even as it had been a while since then, she had confidence that she could do it.

“Benedict. You will fall like this, so please hold tighter.”

“My bad...”

“No, if you feel sick from the swaying, I will stop. Please say it.”

“Aah. My head’s kinda hurting a lot. Can I... close my eyes for a bit?”

“That is all right.”

After saying so, Violet looked up at the sky. As dusk approached, the sky was shrouded in clouds, but it did not seem as if rain, snow or abnormalities in the weather would occur.

It was awfully rare of Benedict to candidly bask on people’s goodwill and apologize. Since he was feeling unwell, it was impressive that he had not yet lost only his judgement of having her replace him as the driver. However, the fact that Benedict, who normally had but a big attitude, stayed silent the whole trip, clung onto a girl younger than him and sat on the backseat would be considered a state of emergency by the staff of the CH Postal Company if they saw him.

Of course, Violet Evergarden also understood that it was an emergency.

Somewhat tired as he might be, drowsy as he might be, that man would never let someone else drive his beloved bike. It was a personal vehicle given to him by Claudia Hodgins when the latter was starting his business.

Violet merely spoke to him dispassionately, “Benedict, were you talking to anyone before I had arrived?”

“Yeah.”

“I have good ears.”

“Yeah, you’re like a wild animal.”

“‘I want to run away from here’. ‘I want you to buy me time’. ‘I want you to help me’ – things like that?”

Rather than being a poor talker, Violet was not as proficient at conversational skills as most people, and so she did not know the right way to speak to him at such a time.

“It’s got nothing to do with you,” Benedict replied coldly in a low voice that sounded as if he were repelling her.

As the talk ended there, a curtain of silence descended upon them once more.

Violet was deep in thought. She almost never put effort into conversations. If she was told not to speak, she would not speak. When asked a question, she would answer. She would inquire what was necessary. That was what conversations used to be about. For her, at least.

However, the grown-up Violet now understood things could not be that way.

She spoke to Benedict again, “That lady called you her brother, Benedict, but you have amnesia, right? Is that person your younger sister? Rather... did you really have a younger sister?”

“Where’d you hear that?”

“I was observing from nearby as you were binding that woman’s arms behind her back. I learned from President Hodgins that no one should intervene on male-female relationships. Therefore, I stood in waiting on the spot and watched over you, so as to mediate if it were necessary.”

“What’s the Old Man doing...? Speaking of that, this kinda thing’s called ‘eavesdropping’.”

“Was that person your younger sister? Your appearances when you were side by side did not strike me as...”

The motorcycle passed over a rock while she was speaking, and so the vehicle’s frame floated buoyantly for an instant. It landed roughly and started running once more.

“She did not seem to be your younger sister to me. This is but my assumption, but I believe she is older than you are. To begin with, you have amnesia, so even if you did have a younger sister living separately from you, is there no need for further investigation since you do not remember her?” Violet was much too indifferent. Without any compassion or curiosity regarding whatever was happening to Benedict, she levelly stated her conclusions. Even if should it rub Benedict’s nerves the wrong way.

“Shut up! You don’t know that! She might be the one!” Benedict hit Violet’s back with his fists. “I have a little sister! I have memories of her! That’s the only thing I’m definitely, definitely, definitely, definitely, definitely, definitely, definitely, definitely, definitely, definitely, definitely, definitely, definitely, definitely, definitely, definitely, definitely, definitely sure of!”

“How come? You don’t have memories.”

“I can tell!”

“How?”

When asked so, he had no choice but speak sentimentally.

“‘Cause I feel love for her!”

Violet dry-swallowed curtly at the word “love”.

“It stayed in me! Even if I don’t have my memories, I have this!”

It was embarrassing and foolish.

“It’s the only thing that’s definitely, definitely not a lie!”

He normally never spoke of love, yet he desperately resorted to it only for now.

——I mean, we held hands in the darkness. The only proof that we were alive was our body temperature. Whenever she’d say that she was scared, I’d reply with, “It’s all right”. “Your Big Bro will do something about this,” I’d tell her. The one who’d affirmed my existence was my little sister. I’d managed to get courage from the fact that I could be relied on. That, yeah, I was an older brother. That she was no good without me, so I had to keep on living. Still...

“I had a sister, and I don’t really get it, but I was protecting her! I was thinking about protecting her no matter what, no matter what...! I don’t know why I’m living by myself like this...! Memory—I don’t have memory!”

——I don’t remember.

“Protect her from what...?”

——I don’t know. Did someone break me? Did I break on my own?

“I don’t know! Could be anything... That’s—That’s not what’s important to me! I don’t care about how I used to live when I was a brat... I supposedly used to have a sister, and the fact she’s not here is a problem for me! I’m amnesiac, and when I woke up, my sister wasn’t by my side; I’d turned into an idiot who didn’t know anything about myself or my sister! I have nothing! But...!”

——I don’t know. But...

“But, I definitely... have a little sister.”

——She definitely existed. If I meet her someday, I’ll know it’s her for sure. Even if I forgot, even if I can’t remember her, I’ll recognize her if I see her. I want the same to be valid for her.

With that thought, all along, he had lived on as if praying.

“That woman said she knows me... I’ve also—I’ve also seen her before somehow. I don’t know whether she’s my sister or not. But even if she isn’t... when that time comes, I don’t wanna have regrets!”

After saying so, Benedict had his face slammed against Violet’s back. That was because the motorcycle came to a sudden, abrupt stop. Benedict’s nose, neither too high nor too low, was smashed, and he anguished for a brief moment.

Violet, the driver and the cause of his pain, turned backward and reached a hand out to Benedict. Their faces were close enough that her golden hair, burning against the madder red sky, brushed the tip of his nose. Violet gripped Benedict’s shoulder as if to tell him, “Don’t run away”.

“Benedict.”

Her eyes – her blue orbs – pierced him like a blade.

“Please listen. I have told you before that I am also an orphan, was taken in and raised, and do not know who my parents are, right? From my experience, individuals who ‘tend to presume on their memories’ will come in contact with vagabonds attempting to do inexcusable things. Those who invited me into the dark by claiming to know me and proposing to discuss it in detail were neither one nor two people.”

Violet Evergarden desperately trying to convey her own words to the other party was just as unusual as Benedict entrusting his beloved bike to someone.

“During my days as a soldier, Major always bore the full brunt of it and protected me.”

That was precisely why, with her rapid-fire speech, Benedict could not seal her lips using stern persuasion.

“After growing up, I was almost murdered by a cultist organization that claimed I was not a human being but a demigod. I know nothing of my past, so even if I am told such things, I find myself thinking that they might be true. Benedict, are you not the same as me in this aspect? There are probably many women who know you. The women that you have dated, the people you have spent the night with until now – do you recall every one of them? You and President Hodgins are similar. In the past, President Hodgins came to the hospital room where I was hospitalized in a state of having drunk his regrets away and talked torrentially. Have you never done something like this? Even if you leave out the likelihood of being deceived by that person... if you are still thinking about doing something...”

Violet’s words were not gentle in the slightest.

“Benedict.”

However, within her own possibilities, she was thinking, thinking and thinking.

“Benedict, do you need back-up fire?”

Currently, she was attempting to do whatever she could to the maximum degree.

“I do not... know whether or not I am your friend. Lux seems all right with being my friend. Cattleya called me a friend too. Benedict, I do not know about you. We spend a large amount of time together, but even now, I still cannot say for sure what definition I should give to others. To me, the people who have told me that I am their friend are my friends as of late.”

What lay between the two of them was their time spent together. From the moment they had first met until now, they had built a relationship of trust.

“That is why, for me, even if you are not my friend, in case there is anything troubling you...”

Just as the forgotten nurturing between Benedict and his sister, it was something precious.

“No, regardless of what the definition of our relationship is, I... I... if there is something causing you to be like this... and if... it is an enemy that I must fight...”

Even if he did not have a past, Benedict had a present.

“...then I will attack it with everything I have.”

He had an ally named Violet Evergarden.

Under the dusky sky, the still young duo lay themselves bare to each other and made one decision.

“Hoo, hoo, hoo,” the low whispering of birds staged the night as something somewhat eerie.

The evenings at Lontano were like those of night-less cities, in which the lights of bars did not turn off even in the dead of the night. What a place so resplendent needed were attention-grabbing buildings, high-grade alcohol and beautiful women. Until the men went to sleep, the women hired to entertain them could not sleep either.

At present, a lone woman was coming out of a bar that still had its lights on, clad in a black trench coat that could as much as melt into the nightly darkness. She was a captivating blonde beauty.

“Where you going?” asked a man who stood by the entrance of the bar with a fierce look.

The woman showed him an empty box of tobacco that belonged to a regular costumer of the bar. “Cigarettes.”

The women who worked in bars had to report everything they did. Their bodies themselves were the merchandize. Unlike normal goods, bodies could walk on their own will.

Should they disappear somewhere, there would be no business.

“Linda’s store is still open. I was told to go buy more. If you don’t hurry and let me go, you’ll get scolded for stopping me.”

She had intended to speak nonchalantly, yet her frame trembled underneath the trench coat. The man eyed her body from head to toe.

“It’s nighttime. That’s not like the middle of the day. I’ll go. Can’t let you go by yourself.”

“I want to smoke outside for a bit.”

“You, it can’t be that you’re planning to run away again, right? You were almost killed before, weren’t you? If you haven’t learned the hard way after that, you’re an idiot. Until you pay your debts, you’re the same as livestock.”

The woman’s lips trembled at being called “livestock”. “It’s not my debt.”

“It’s your man’s, right? He’s the worst kind of bastard who sells women from a continent he never even walked on.”

“I don’t care about him anymore.”

“Even if he no longer comes to see you, you brought this upon yourself. Got no choice but make up for it. Don’t go thinking of stupid stuff... Hitting women ain’t our thing either.”

The woman thrust the empty tobacco box at him as if to hand it over. “I really was asked to get the cigarettes. If you think it’s a lie, go ask about it inside. If you believe me, you can come along. Then I can breathe the air outside a little, and you don’t have to worry about me running away. We’re settled with that, right?”

The man clicked his tongue at the provocative wording, yet seemed to have complied. He asked another employee to take over his post and made an agreement.

“If you take too long...”

The woman waited stiffly as the men talked. Eventually, the two started walking down the stone-paved road illuminated by streetlights.

The woman observed the man. She was there due to being sold by the person she used to be in love with, but she suspected that the man was also being made to work in that shop because of some reason. She might be wrong.

Even if that were the case, in her present condition, she did not have the compassion of others. If she wanted to break free from her current state, which, as the man said, had unfolded from something that she herself had done...

“It’s cold... Aren’t you chilly?”

...she had to act on her own. Even if she was counting with the assistance of a savior, since she had devised the plan by herself, it was her own power.

The lights of the tobacco store became visible. Just a bit more and they would reach it.

——Please, please, please, help me, God.

“You can smoke one cigarette, but we’re going back as soon as you’re done.”

——Help me, help me, help me!

The reason why the woman firmly squeezed her eyes shut was to deliver her wish to the God that resided somewhere out there, but even if she were not doing so, she surely would have closed her eyes either way.

That was because someone had abruptly come running from an alley and whispered, “Yo, the meeting spot was here, right?”

Since the one who had spoken was of a much shorter stature than the man, the kick lunged at him crushed his nether regions, and so the former immediately put a hand over his mouth. As she recognized the face of the person applying force so that the man would not let out a single scream, the woman said, “P-Please! Stop! He’s not a bad person!”

Until a while before, she had not cared for the other, but upon actually seeing something terrible happen to him, that feeling flew off the nest. Perhaps listening to her plea, the lout who had appeared so suddenly took her hand and vanished into the alley from which he had come.

The golden hair of the man running in front of her shone glisteningly even at night, within an alley that did not have illumination. Unlike her wig, it was a natural sandy-blond.

“B-Big Brother,” the woman called the man going ahead with a tone mixed in rapture.

However, what she received in return was gunfire, “Drop it; that’s gross.” While running, the lout – Benedict Blue – clicked his tongue. As the woman was slow at running, he pulled her forward roughly.

A shoe came off the woman’s foot. It was a high-heel one. She wore it because it made the shape of her legs seem bewitching and pleased men. It was not suited for running.

“My shoe came off!”

“Take off the other!”

Being yelled at, the woman did as told and took off the other pair while crying. They were shoes that gleamed silver of which she was fond. However, at the moment, she did not need beauty. She resumed running with all her might.

“H-Hey. W-Why... are you being so cold? You’re going to help me, right? I’m your sister, after all.”

At the question asked with restraint, Benedict answered with a disappointed voice, “Ah, about that: it was my misunderstanding.”

After taking off her shoe, she was fast at running. The woman increased her speed, as to be side-by-side with the one pulling her arm. “Eh?” Her voice reversed to her original one in lieu of the extreme course of events.

“I kinda thought I’d seen you before... but my colleague told me to trace back the few memories I have of my life, and when I tried doing that, you were there. I did know you. But you ain’t my sister.”

Silence.

“You’re the one who ripped off everything I had on me and threw me away in the Inkar-usi desert, aren’t you?”

Still silence.

“I remember until the point where I slept with a fine woman. I don’t recall her face. But, this... blond hair that looks fake... tangled in my fingers big time when I stroked it; that’s the only thing that stayed in my memory. I was mad drunk, wasn’t I? I’d earned the biggest amount of reward money until then, so I guess I got cocky.”

The woman tried to halt on the spot. However, Benedict forcefully pulled her along.

“Don’t stop! Run!”

“I don’t want to! You’re telling me you’ll make me yours next!? I won’t be anyone’s any longer! I hate men! I don’t want to live through being used by someone anymore! I want to go back to me homeland!”

There were tears surfacing in the woman’s eyes, but Benedict was not the type of man to falter at such a thing. He grabbed the woman’s dress by the collar, and after snapping his head backward at once, he followed the momentum and head-butted her.

The two writhed in pain.

“That’s why I said I’m taking you back! Who needs someone like you, shithead!? It’s not like I’ve forgiven you! If I hadn’t been picked up by one hell of a good guy after that, I would’ve killed you a long time ago!”

“If you’ve found out about my lie, then why...!? I pretended to be your sister and asked you to break me out, y’know!?”

“I just told you, didn’t I!? Thanks to you abandoning me in a desert, I’m the most blessed ever now! If I hadn’t met that guy back there, I wouldn’t even have a name and would be sleeping with women somewhere and waking up completely broke! All because I ended up scoring a fate good enough to rewind my life until that point from a shitty goddess like you! It only so happens that you almost tricked me, but I felt like saving you! Okay?! I hate you, so keep just that in mind! Once I help you out, be careful of the roads at night!”

After spitting out abusive language again with another “shithead”, Benedict made the woman run. The woman could not believe it. Up until now, she had told countless men who had slipped into her body about her personal history and attempted to earn their help. However, she had no one.

“You’ve got a terrible look in your eyes, huh. Mine’s pretty terrible too.”

She had no one.

“I have amnesia. I used to have a little sister... but I can’t remember her.”

She had no one.

“Hey, your hair reminds me of my sister’s; can I stroke it?”

She had no one.

“I’ll raise your pay if you stay until morning, so be here. It’s been a while since the last time I wasn’t alone.”

She had no one, and so, she had thought it would be all right to deceive somebody.

Her tears poured incessantly. They flowed down as if to block her mouth and nose. It was hard to breathe. Even so, she had to say it.

“I’m sorry!” while sobbing, the woman apologized to Benedict.

“Aah!?”

“I’m sorry for lying to you! I’m sorry for those two times!”

“Shut up! I told you I wouldn’t forgive you, didn’t I!? Those two times! I won’t forgive for the rest of my life!”

“But—But, I’m sorry! Sorry for pretending to be your sister!”

In the middle of passing through the alley, they heard gunshots from behind for some reason. The ones who monitored her – a merchandize – had probably come chasing the two. Benedict took a peek backwards, but continued running without minding it.

“They’ve come after us!”

Benedict was already replying to the woman’s shouts with a, “Shut up!” as easily as breathing.

Bullets went past their feet and sides. However, the gunning that was intense at first gradually diminished as the two rushed through the alley. Benedict shot back behind his shoulder as a diversionary action, but did not attempt to hit the other party at all.

Once they reached the end of the alley, Benedict kicked off the half-open lid of a skewer route and opened it fully. “Now, fall!” He kicked the woman into it. He did hear her scream, but having climbed the way up, he was aware that it was not too great a descent. Before going down as well himself, he looked at a certain direction. “V...”

Beyond his gaze was a comrade of his, who had promised to hit his enemies with all of her power as an interceptor.

She was on the top of a tree far away from the current position of Benedict and the woman. Violet Evergarden, who was sniping the group that chased after them, had taken aim upon confirming that gunshots were coming from said group. She targeted the firearm in their hands and pulled the trigger. The perfect trajectory of her bullets passed by Benedict and the woman’s sides, hindering the people that obstructed their way.

Realizing that his own gun had been flicked away by someone, the man who had fired the first shot raised his voice in astonishment, “You’re kidding me, right!?”

While he was in shock, the unseen sniper continued attacking. One of them attempted to target and shoot at the back of the woman, who was falling behind as she ran, but also had his weapon destroyed before he fired, and although he was attacked, he was easily able to defend himself against it.

“Don’t shoot without thinking! We’re under aim!” another yelled, but on such a dark night in an alley like that, the panic of having someone snipe only their weapons so precisely caused the men to lose their normal nature.

“STAY AWAAAAY!”

A legend of the battlefields, unknown to those who lived in cities through making women into food, was making them insane. They blindly faced the sky and shot at random. Bullets came flying to Violet’s direction as well, but did not as much as touch her body.

Guns had something called “effective range distance”. The guns used by the men were not suited for long-range shooting. Things also depended on the skills of the person using it, so differences in distance occurred even with that type of gun.

With a long-range rifle adopted by the military, Violet was taking aim from her position on a tree that the men absolutely could not see. “Target seized... Fire.”

The sounds of shooting echoed.

From far away, she could see someone’s gun falling down from his hand. “Fire, hit.” She moved mute and quickly, as if carrying out a simple job. “Fire, hit, fire.”

It would be fine if her face distorted in pain from the impact of shooting.

“Fire.”

However, Violet’s facial expression bore no emotion.

“Fire.”

Eventually, as everything became quiet, while exhaling a deep breath, Violet ceased to shoot and descended to the root of the tree. It would seem that the long-range shotgun she had bought just recently with her own salary had done a satisfactory work for her.

As she succeeded at the “back-up fire” in the literal sense of the term, she immediately left the spot.

The shooting battle that took place in the city of Lontano over the night turned into a much bigger occurrence than Benedict and the others had imagined, and the situation got to the point of the military police being dispatched. It so happened that people other than the woman behind the scandal had blended with the confusion of the turmoil and fled the city from the shadows, but those were stories unknown to Benedict and Violet.

A few hours had passed since the troublesome escape feat.

“Ouch!”

“Shut up! Hurry and put them on!” In a world wherein flowed the light of dawn, Benedict threw the shoes he had been wearing on the woman’s face.

While muttering complaints about him flinging the shoes at her, the woman tied them on. She had been running around the whole night and shaking off their chasers with Benedict, so her feet were injured and wet with blood. The pain was severe, but the exhilaration of managing to escape allowed her to feel as if it did not matter. Moreover, as she put on Benedict’s shoes, although they were too big, it became easier for her to walk in comparison to when she was not wearing anything on her feet.

Benedict was shoeless instead. He had cut wounds in his entire body. His clothes were ripped everywhere as well.

“Hey, why?”

“Shut up... Don’t ask so many times.”

“But, it’s just... I keep wondering why. Until now, nobody had helped me out, so it’s very strange to me.”

At those words, the face of Claudia Hodgins crossed Benedict’s mind. His good-natured employer and lifesaver. He, too, had bestowed Benedict with clothes and shoes when the latter was naked.

——I also kept asking why, I guess.

People who had never been treated kindly would think of unconditional love as the beginning of something terrifying. They firmly believed that everything others would bring them was either reprimanding or abuse.

“I told you, didn’t I? It’s ‘cause I was picked up by a good guy. That’s why.” A small smile escaped him.

“Benedict.”

His name called from behind, Benedict turned around.

With leaves on her head, their accomplice of the day, Violet Evergarden, was holding out tickets for the first train of the morning, which would now depart. “Also, take this as well.” Together with the ticket, she left in the woman’s hands a bag of freshly baked bread presumably bought in a nearby shop.

The woman eyed the bread and Violet alternately, tears forming in her eyes. “Thank you.”

“No problem. Be careful on your way...”

“You’re the one that had least to do with this... Thank you, really.”

“No. It has to do with me. I was his ‘back-up fire’, after all.”

Hearing that, Benedict laughed loudly. When she had talked about being his back-up fire, the connotation was simply of lending a hand, and he had not thought she would actually put it to practice.

As Violet and Benedict were the only ones who knew the meaning of that, the woman tilted her neck. “Benedict... you too.”

“Use ‘Mister’.”

“Mr. Benedict, you too, thank you very much...!”

“Again, be careful on the roads at night,” Benedict replied with a threat incorporated to it.

The time of depart had still not come. The duo, having decided to leave her there and disperse, finished their farewells with a “see ya” and started walking away.

“H-Hum! Mr. Benedict.” Perhaps still having something to say, once Benedict turned around, the woman was smiling, her blond hair fluttering in the morning wind. “You see, I had an older brother... I haven’t seen him for years now, so I can’t remember him, but when I was a child, I used to call him ‘Big Bro’... I really did have those feelings in mind when I called you that.”

“So what?”

“If I were your little sister, I’d definitely search the whole world for a big brother like you!”

“You ain’t her, though.”

“I’m not! But one day, for sure—!”

One day, you will find her, the woman smiled faintly.

At that moment, Benedict’s sky-blue orbs opened wide. An indescribable, strange feeling rushed throughout his body. If so-called memories were provided to people by traveling across not only their souls but also the particulars of their bodies, and if they could be remembered through a small trigger in case something was forgotten, it might turn out as that sort of feeling, like a tingle from an electric shock.

The woman waved, still smiling. He did not tell her to shut up.

“Stu~pid.” His voice trembled. Turning roundly on his heels, Benedict started walking.

Violet followed him from behind.

——Aah, I…

His vision was shaky.

——Why? Why did I think she was my little sister?

He could now clearly tell. She was not at all like his sister. Firstly, although both were blonde, the shades of their hair were completely different, and although his sister was also fine-looking, she and that woman had different characteristics.

“Benedict?”

Yes, his sister was not such a lustful beauty, but instead had more of a fickle appearance. She had a well-behaved voice tone and demeanor, and was not the kind of person who would refer to others as “you”.

“Benedict, please wait.”

To begin with, she rarely ever called him “Big Bro” and mostly called him by his name. He did not remember that name, but he remembered her calling it.

“Benedict, you will trip if you walk like this.”

——Aah, out of all things... out of all things...

“Benedict, why are you crying?”

Out of all things, he just had to remember his little sister because of a smile from the woman who had knocked him off into hell.

“My, welcome back, my friend who no longer knows his own name.”

——She was a crybaby and a scaredy-cat. She’d always hide behind my back and follow me in trots. I liked the most when she’d come running at my direction after spotting me. That’s why I’d make her look for me on purpose sometimes. The times when we were together were happy, and he rest was hell.

I did have a little sister. She was there all the time. That’s for sure.

In my oldest memory, she was by my side. It was really cold when we woke up. We were in a place that was like a stone tower. She was the closest to me, and was shivering too. The adults hadn’t given us any blankets, so I called her over and the two of us clung to each other. When I asked, “Who are you again?”, her face looked like she was about to cry and she said, “Don’t forget me”.

I was told afterward that she was my little sister, so I thought, “That’s right”. She said I was in a pretty bad condition. That I’d almost died because of a head injury that apparently I myself had earned. That I was quick to want to die when my ego blew off. I’d get disposed of if I went crazy just one more time. That’s why she cried to me, begging me to stay sane.

My sister remembered a lot more than I did. We actually didn’t live in that place and we did have a family. But people would forget things little by little in that place. When I asked if she was certain that I was her older brother, she replied that she was. “You’re forgetting stuff too, right? How do you know?” I asked. When I pressed with a, “That’s right, how can you know?”, she cried even more that, “I have the feeling of love left in me, so we’re family”. She had a weird personality, but after those words, I thought I just had to protect my sister.

The adults called the tower “home”. At “home”, small children were recruited to do adult works. There were all kinds of jobs. Like delivering things, or retrieving them. Jobs in which someone would die when I performed that sorta labor. Those who were good at work were also ordered more direct stuff. It seems I’d gone nuts when they piled up. If you failed your duties, your little brother, little sister, older brother or older sister – the smallest numbers of each of our family members – would get killed. The people that knew and loved us were hostages. Well, that does make people go mad.

“Home” was like a tiny military unit. We always went to different places. From what the adults would say, “home” was a temporary employee placement livelihood. They were preparing human resources able to endure any type of battle mission from scratch. Come to think of it now, they’d give me medicines and incense without a break every day for some reason.

My sister, myself and the others, who were forgetting a lot of things, were apparently human resource pupils. From what my sister told me, in that jumble of children, I was the most apt for those jobs. It seemed I was the one who took the biggest amount of medicine, so my forgetfulness was pretty bad.

Could humans be created from scratch after being made to forget everything? On top of that, could they be raised into the strongest human resources? The answers were “yes” and “no” – you could say both.

We’d end up going crazy at just one cogitation. We were quick to become suicidal. There was no meaning in soldiers who couldn’t be used for long. I was probably insane but pretended to be normal for my sister’s sake.

The adults would say that they’d hire us once we grew up. That, for the moment, we were livestock.

It seemed that the adults monitoring us had lived like us in the past. “Aren’t there only idiots here?” I thought. They hadn’t learned anything even after those horrible things were done to them.

I decided that, if we had to become adults in that hell, we’d better run away. My sister was crying. If we tried to escape, the adults would come to kill us for sure.

The feeling of wanting to die had always been in me. If I was gonna die anyway, I’d wanted to die for my sister. Whoever did something to her that she didn’t want to was shit. I wanted to kill them.

She was the only pretty thing in that pathetic world. I don’t know if she was really my sister. But even if we just happened to have the same hair and eye color, she was my everything. She was the girl I’d wanted to protect the most in the world. Even though she was all I had...

“Your Big Bro will protect you,     , okay?”

Even though she was all I had... I’d surely failed to set my sister free.

Tears poured from Benedict’s eyes.

“Shit…”

The tears that poured from them flowed continuously, eventually penetrating the earth and disappearing without fulfilling any purpose. They would nevermore return. Never would they go back to the eyes that had produced them. Similarly, the important person who had poured out of Benedict’s life would surely not return.

——Life... is shit.

In his memory of taking her by the hand amidst the night, running away and, lastly, watching the boat from the bottom of the sea, if his sister was on that boat, just how would her young self have survived afterward? Had she drifted and been picked up by some kindhearted person? Had his overprescribed sibling survived just fine after forgetting about him and about herself? Was she living well somewhere under that same sky even as they were unable to see each other?

That was but a dream story.

The world seemed filled with happy stories, but they were actually very few. Stories and real life were...

——I didn’t need a life like that.

At the very least, Benedict’s life tasted of the sea. It was too salty and undrinkable. Such was it even now. The tear droplets that spilled down his cheeks, passed by his lips and dripped from his chin had the flavor of the ocean. Benedict’s past was chasing him and strangling his neck, so as to kill him from sadness. He wanted to scream and break into wails, asking, “Why?”.

——End it right now. God, why’re you doing this? End it right now. God, there’s no salvation for me. Please help me. End it right now. God, I can’t breathe because of the pain in my chest brought by this sadness. Hurry, as soon as possible, right now, bring this life…

“Don’t go crazy; don’t die,” she had asked of him.

——...to an end...!

Yet he chose death. After all, surely, his sister had already died long before.

He had always fled from such truth. He had merely forgotten about it. Things such as wishing that he would not die in a desert and thinking about eating bread with someone had stemmed from his made-up other self. He was simply a fake that had pretended to be sane and survived somehow. Even if he was in the past, his original self had yearned to die for a long time. It was false of him to be currently living and showing gratitude to somebody. He certainly had forgotten what should not have been forgotten because it was easier that way.

The painful and the easy. When sorting them out, he had picked the easy. There was no mistaking that he had wanted to try forgetting everything and live freely.

He was cursed for it.

“Was it fun?” If he were asked so, he could answer that it was great fun.

——Yeah, all of it was fun.

In his new life, after meeting that man, the humidity and temperature of the of the continent he was brought to upon being picked up were different, and everything was fresh. The motorcycle that he was granted in place of holding onto a gun or sword had showed him many worlds.

He merely delivered things. He had thought it was only that, but upon seeing it for the first time, being a postman was difficult. Every day, he was at loss from being scolded by the clients or receiving excessive gratitude. It was strange for someone like him, who had never gotten a letter, to be delivering them.

Oddly enough, whenever he saw the smiles of the people on the receiving end, he would feel as if he were doing an extremely good deed. He had found it weird that a postal agency had been chosen for starting a business and was unused to it, but he had come to understand that the reason for being of such job was to perform labor.

It was simply delivery. If one was able to walk or to ride a motorcycle, be it a woman, man, child or elder – anyone could do it. It did not have to be him. It was not a work that only he could do. However, he thought that this mere delivery was not bad. He deemed it as fun. Deliveries in which he was able to please others were enjoyable.

No matter what he did, the sights he would see were unlike the ones from when he was a mercenary. The small discoveries that he would find during a delivery – minor things such as there being a delicious bakery or going faster by taking a certain road – were fun. But more enjoyable than anything else was that he had a place to go back to, no matter to what part of the world he went. Even as he returned in tatters, once he opened the office’s door, there was someone who would say, “Aah, welcome back, Benedict. Good work”.

In the world where he had started walking as if he had suddenly been born, ever since he had met that man, yes, it did seem foolish, but the world had gained colors as though he had met his fated woman.

——It was fun, it was fun, it was fun, it was fun, it was fun. I shouldn’t have enjoyed himself, and yet, I had so much fun. What have you been doing? Why were you enjoying it? You weren’t in position to. You’re a person who should’ve died without knowing what “fun” was. Be over, be over, be over, be over. Everything should come to an end. Let’s end this version of me now. Ain’t that better for everyone? There’d be no harm for anybody if there was one less person like me, with no family or lover, in the world. I’ve had enough fun. As for the people who’ll be sad for me, it’s enough if I can count them with one hand. I’ll erase myself and make this dirty world clean in the end. You shouldn’t be having fun. What you gotta do is just one thing: go face your sister, who’s smiling inside your head.

That was why Benedict impulsively searched for his gun with one of his hands.

Surely, people died that way. Sorrow would seal their throats and they would die unable to breathe. They would die from having more sad moments than happy moments.

He felt that he would not be able to live even if for another second. It was not that he wished to die. Rather, he was taking a decision for himself that he had to die.

Was there any living being that wanted to die as soon as it was born? Most of them supposedly wanted to live. Yes, they wanted to live. Live a wonderful life, if possible. A life that would make being born worthwhile.

However, it by no means went well all the time. Life was not something that one would prepare beforehand.

“Ugh... uuugh...”

As a result of choices made, there were countless changes. There were times in which only grievous things would happen. A series of things such as regretting being born.

Hardships were like gelid rain that God would pour over anyone. It would be great there was a place to take shelter from it or an umbrella, but there were times when one could not find them. The prolonged rain would cause one’s body to grow cold and the roots of their teeth to shake. For people, it was something difficult to endure. When it became impossible to withstand, people...

“Sto... p.”

...would crave death.

“St... o...”

When living became hard, they tended to look for what was easier. It was nothing strange. What was wrong with running away? The least amount of pain was better. The shortest suffering was better.

The purpose of living creatures was something that they decided on themselves.

“Sto... p.”

Still, yes...

“Stop.”

...the same had happened when he was in that desert.

“Stop it; why...?”

A certain number of people, beloved by the Goddess of Fortune, were able to filter out of such instance. If one thoroughly prodded into it, they would find it was but the result of something that had been piling up.

The work of the Goddess happened in a vivid way. If one were to ask what exactly that was...

“V...”

...it would be somebody showing up to hold whoever’s hand when they attempted to die.

At the cliff of his life, the one who had acted as his back-up fire appeared.

What the Goddess brought about was different for each person. For Benedict Blue, in the present moment...

“Benedict.”

...it was Violet Evergarden.

——Why’re you holding my hand, out of all things?

Just as the older brother who had grabbed onto his younger sister’s hand in the darkness, Violet gripped Benedict’s. Upon squeezing it once, she changed her hold into that of lacing fingers together and walked on, guiding him. “Benedict, let’s go home.”

Even though he had been unable to take a single step, he wound up walking.

“That is no good.”

He could not take his gun while she was holding his hand.

“If you are crying, you cannot see what lies ahead.”

Although he wanted to shoot a bullet into his head, he could not.

“I will pull you by the hand, yes?”

Upon being told by that girl, who resembled his sister, to return home…

“Let’s go home.”

...he wound up thinking that, aah, he had to live.

“V...”

The reason why he had not been able to leave her on her own one way or another from the first time he had seen her was that their appearances were similar. Both had golden hair and blue eyes, and were somewhat lonely. He felt as if he had always, always made of her something like a substitute for his sister.

“V... I...”

He was unable to take his eyes off her and even referred to her by a nickname.

“I... probably... killed... my little sister... I’ve remembered it...”

Although he had forgotten his sister, some part of him ended up thinking that, if she were alive, she would have turned out that way. His tears became unstoppable at his own idiocy. He would wonder, “Why did my past self fail if she was so important to me?”

“We abated halfway, and I got separated from her... U-Uugh... It’s... It’s like I killed her...”

Violet clasped his hand even tighter. “You do not know that yet, right?” Rather than like a younger sister, she was like an older one. “Just as that person said, you might meet her again one day,” she whispered as if to admonish him, as if to soothe him.

“Impossible... Impossible... I was definitely the only one... the only one who survived... I... I was...” He shed too many tears, the words cut off by his weeping. It was suffocating. He wanted that suffocation to end.

“Benedict, nothing is definite. My Major was alive too. Who can 'definitely’ say that your sister is dead?”

The hand that she had joined fingers with throbbed. However, were it not for that pain, it felt as if he would soon let go and kill himself.

“But... But y'know...”

“We have dealt with quite a lot today. We can deal with it from now on too. Is that not right?”

“I was... I was... better off dead...!”

Crying that way, just like a child, was foolish, Benedict thought. There was no turning back anything anymore.

“I was better off dead!”

Even if he cried, he had already lost her. He had no idea where in the world to look for her either. Should joined hands let go, if the other party was not nearby, they could not be joined again.

“Benedict.”

Violet’s legs stopped completely. Did the crying Benedict look like a little boy to her? She came closer, forcing his head over her shoulder. “Let’s go back, Benedict.”

“Where to?”

“To the company. You and I only have that place.”

Silence.

Indeed, they did not have anywhere else. The people who would wait for them and hold their ground without going insane were indeed nowhere but there.

——But is it okay for me to go back?

“I’ve... done horrible things in the past. It’s just nobody knows that I... when I was mercenary...”

“Yes.”

“I did a lot of stupid stuff. It’s not forgivable just ‘cause I was a kid.”

“Yes.”

“I... But...”

The face of Claudia Hodgins crossed his mind.

——I shouldn’t... go back.

The sense of exhilaration as he walked for the first time with the loose-fitting shoes that man gave him. The jokes the other would tell while spewing complaints when hanging out with him. The laughter from when they would drink and make a ruckus together.

——But...

His eyebrows lowering whenever he was troubled. His back arching whenever Lux was angry with him. The sweet voice he used only for women. The strength he showed to him. He was the only good-natured person in the world that could become attached to an amnesiac man who had nothing.

——I do wanna go back.

He wanted to return to that good-natured person so, so keenly that it filled him with tears.

“But even so, you will live, right?”

Benedict dry-swallowed. Those words almost felt like a bullet shot into his chest. He was so surprised that he became wordless. She was normally a taciturn and did not use decorated words. But she would sometimes boldly bring the truth to light.

“You will live, right?” A little bit of pleading was mixed in Violet’s voice.

The hand that Violet had joined with his. Her artificial fingers.

“Let’s count the things you have done and the things you will do from now on, so that you shall not forget.”

They were proof of the things she had lost and the things she had broken. As well as a symbol of regeneration. Such fingers delicately laced him in place.

“Until you die someday.”

The girl in front of him had accepted that agony much sooner than he had, without running away or averting her eyes from it, and simply stayed amidst the sadness.

“Today... For today, let’s go home.”

That was Violet Evergarden.

“Now, let’s walk. Do you recall that our shift was only until morning and that our day off would start at noon?” Gradually, but still by pulling his hand, she guided Benedict. “Yesterday, we wound up going back to Lontano without finishing our reports. We had promised Lux that we would submit them today without fail. We are too tattered to go to work looking like nothing happened. Surely, if we show up to work like this, there might be a huge scandal, right?”

As Benedict was told so, they surfaced in his head – his quarreling comrade from the founding day, Cattleya; Lux, who had been picked up from an isolated island; their colleagues from CH Postal Company; the city of Leidenschaftlich; his own past; his current occupation; his new name and the man who had given it to him.

“I wonder if Old Man will be mad...”

Claudia Hodgins. The man who gave him everything he had now. He wanted to see the other very much. As he reminisced to the other’s voice and face, his chest seemed about to burst.

In Benedict’s life, his past included, Hodgins had been the only adult to provide for and protect him.

“You were able to meet President Hodgins because you were alive. You can find your sister as well. Surely... People like us are no good if we do not believe so, Benedict.”

He had enough strength to live by himself, no matter where.

“Today was very tiring, right? Let’s go home.”

However, the warmth of having a guardian changed Benedict, who used to loathe ties of obligation. The CH Postal Company, which Violet said to go back to, had already become his place of return.

Benedict looked at the sky. The Sun was rising. Behind him, the shadow that the night had melted into was now reflected richly. The road ahead was brightly illuminated. Just like the past and the present.

“Hey, V.” As Violet asked what the matter was, he muttered while wiping his tears with the sleeve of his shirt, “The thing about me crying is a secret between us two.”

The figures of the two as they walked on holding hands probably looked like that of siblings who got along well.

   “Right now, your life is all you have, isn’t it? I’ll buy that.”

At those words, the man’s heart started making loud noises. He was supposedly used to exchanging his life for money, but he seemed about to stop breathing at being asked for it face-to-face.

“How much?”

Upon being asked, the man was at loss. “Dunno.”

As he answered seriously, Hodgins laughed, “What a fool; give a high price.”

“Why?”

“You could give a sum that I can’t pay for, so that I’d have to hire you for the rest of my life.”

For an instant, he had not understood what was said, and so he answered after a moment, “Don’t wanna! Whatcha saying!?”

“I mean, you have nothing, right?”

“Don’t keep saying 'nothing’!”

“We’d be like a family if we’re together, even if we aren’t related by blood. Just give a price that I can’t pay.”

“Hah?”

“Like I said, we could be like a family. Well, that’s fine. More importantly, your name.”

“No, no, hey, you’re definitely a weirdo, right?”

“It’s come to me!”

“Old Man! It’s like you’re not listening to what I say, ain’t it!?”

“All right. Listen ve~ry well.”

“You listen well!”

With an extremely happy-looking face and little shyly, Hodgins said, “It might be a bit pretentious. I understand his feelings now. Ah, no, y’see, it’s my own feelings, so to say. I’m putting into it my wish of wanting a young one like you to be this way.”

At that second, the only one in the world who witnessed the shine in those blue eyes was Claudia Hodgins.

“It means ‘blessed’; how about ‘Benedict’?”

He knew for the first time the joy of having his life blessed by someone at that moment.

“Let’s take it after the god that administers divine protection. Leave ‘Blue’ to be your surname. The name you gave yourself plus my ‘Benedict’. ‘Benedict Blue’. Yup, it’s a good name. Nice to meet ya, Benedict.”

Even as he became hurt when replaying his memories, he would be blessed whenever someone called his name.

“Stu~pid.”

 He did not want to let go of that blessing ever again.

“Aah, Benedict and Little Violet. Welcome ba... Hey, this isn’t okay! What happened...!? You two come here! Little Lux, the first-aid kit!”

Albeit a little long, that was the story of Benedict Blue.

[per-ineptia-ad-astra]

Star Trek Gold Key #31: The Final Truth

Our story begins with Kirk and his crew in the midst of yet another armed conflict with an alien government, which as usual is not going very well for them. Meanwhile, the narration box is going on about seeking answers to the mysteries of the universe, such as the mystery of “what does all this have to do with the shooty robots?” Like most great mysteries of the universe, answering this one will require delving into terrible and forbidden realms where we risk encountering sights we should never have seen, and knowledge we are unequipped to handle. Which is to say, we’ll have to read this comic.

[ID: A comic book splash page titled “Star Trek—The Final Truth—Part 1.” The page shows Kirk, Chapel, two goldshirts, and an orange-skinned alien wearing a purple leotard, all standing in the middle of a futuristic city while white and blue robots point guns at them. A figure in a hooded gold and brown cloak is standing in the foreground, pointing toward the Enterprise crew and saying, “You can see your weapons are useless! You are prisoners of the Ministry—and you shall remain so for the rest of your natural lives!” In the top left corner, a narration box reads, “The universe—laboratory of life! Countless mysteries, keys to creation itself, lie suspended in solution against a backdrop of stars. And the races that inhabit these stars, human or alien, will always seek the answers to these mysteries...although some answers may only come at great cost!”]

The issue begins with a ship’s log from Spock as he beams down with a small landing party onto a planet called Quodar, which is about to be admitted into the Federation. According to Spock’s Pepto Bismol-colored narration boxes, Quodar not only “[forms] a strong cornerstone against the Klingons,” it’s also rich in both dilithium and “triolium-L, a dilithium preservative.” How one goes about preserving dilithium I don’t know, but the point is that Quodar’s chock full of some important minerals, so the Federation has a lot of motivation to stay friendly with them. And yet, they sent these guys to conduct diplomacy. I mean, that’d be a sensible enough decision if this was the real TOS crew, but at this point I wouldn’t trust the Gold Key crew to attend a birthday party without blowing up a planet in the process.

Anyway, Spock’s group is greeted by T’oell, a bald dude in a bright pink jumpsuit who’s the Quodarian Secretary of Affairs. Spock informs us that T’oell is “always in the spotlight [and] sharply contrasts the queen, Arama, who chooses to be reclusive,” and indeed it would certainly be hard to miss T’oell in that outfit. T’oell says he’s sorry to see that Kirk isn’t with them, and Spock tells him that Kirk was “detained escorting Starfleet Admiral Tailen Kahn from Starbase in the shuttlecraft.” Apparently he did bring McCoy along, though; everyone else is too tiny to make out, but we know McCoy’s there because he’s chosen to helpfully stick his face right up against the front of the panel.

[ID: A comic book panel showing Spock walking next to a bald man wearing a pink jumpsuit open to the waist with a wide-collared pink shirt under it. Two more crewmembers are walking behind Spock, while in front of him are a male blueshirt with blond hair and McCoy, whose face is shown in extreme close-up. Spock is saying, “He has been regretably [sic] detained escorting Starfleet Admiral Tailen Kahn from Starbase in the shuttlecraft!” while the man beside him is saying, “Ah, then come. We shall make you as comfortable as possible!”]

Speaking of Kirk, he soon chimes in with his own captain’s log from over in the shuttle he’s currently sharing with Admiral Kahn, an orange-skinned alien of some sort wearing some kind of plastic leotard-looking thing; Chapel, who’s apparently decided to try out being a redhead; some random guy with brown hair; and Chekov. I only know that’s Chekov because Kirk addresses him by name a couple panels later. Before that I thought he was Sulu. It really shouldn’t be possible to draw Chekov in such a way that he can be confused with Sulu, but here we are.

[ID: A panel showing five people inside a shuttlecraft: Admiral Kahn, an alien with mottled orange skin, a tail, and short orange hair, wearing what appears to be a plastic purple leotard with abs modeled into it and a purple headband; Chekov, or at least a man with short dark hair in a green uniform shirt; Kirk; Chapel, who has orange hair for some reason; and a nondescript male greenshirt with brown hair. A narration box from Kirk reads, “Captain’s Log: supplemental! Spock has been sent ahead with the Enterprise to Quodar! The Vulcans long ago established diplomatic exchange with Quodar and Spock already is familiar with their customs!”]

Kirk says that Spock’s been sent ahead because the Vulcans already established diplomatic relationships with Quodar, so he’s familiar with their customs. Yeah, just like how I’m familiar with the customs of every country America has diplomatic relations with. But never mind that, there’s more pressing matters at hand. Chekov suddenly reports that “a freak cosmic storm” has come up on them, knocking out their guidance system. The admiral yells at him to compensate, but Chekov can’t because a planetary magnetic field is already pulling them in. No way around it, they’re going to crash. But when they do, it’s with a sound not typically associated with high-speed spacecraft impacts.

[ID: A narration box reads, “But, when the ship hits...” while the shuttlecraft impacts with a blobby green substance, making a “Glooomphh!” sound. A single question mark in a thought bubble emerges from the craft.]

is that question mark coming from inside the shuttle or is the shuttle itself just that confused about what’s happening

It seems their fall has been cushioned by something soft on the planet’s surface, leaving the shuttlecraft mostly useless but everyone unhurt. The crew clambers out to take a look. They’ve been saved by...moss?

[ID: The five members of the shuttle crew stand on a mossy green plain while the shuttlecraft sticks up at an angle behind them, covered in blobs of moss. Kirk is saying, “Look at it! This stuff is everywhere—deep and bonded enough to cushion the impact of a plummeting shuttlecraft!” Chapel is saying, “Readings show it’s parasitic—a moss! It’s uniformly about 30 miles thick, seemingly around the whole planet like a cocoon!”]

Yep, this planet is covered with thirty-mile-deep moss. For reference, thirty miles is the average depth of the Earth’s continental crust. That’s a lot of moss. Chapel says that her sensor readings indicate that the moss “lives off high energy levels” but she can’t yet determine the source. Chekov then points out some local wildlife, which “seem to be birds, except they burrow into the moss!” which I guess disqualifies them from being birds. According to Chapel the birds are also parasites, because they live off the moss.

So we’ve got moss as thick as a continent, which is somehow soft enough to cushion a spacecraft crashing from orbit, something water isn’t soft enough to do without the aid of some parachutes, and some birds that aren’t birds but are parasites even though that’s not what the word ‘parasite’ means. Confused? Don’t worry, it gets worse.

Admiral Kahn (yes, his name really is Kahn; presumably either the writer just plain forgot that there was already a Star Trek character named Khan or else placed an incredibly unlucky bet on which one-off TOS character would go on to become a household name by starring in one of the most famous sci-fi films of all time) isn’t interested in birds or moss, though. He’s interested in “matters at hand” such as them being stranded in the middle of a moss field. Kahn orders the spare greenshirt, Manning, to stand guard outside while the rest of them get back inside the shuttle with their distress beacon on until help arrives. This seems like a decent enough plan, but Kirk immediately vetoes it, on the grounds that “A beacon could just as easily summon trouble here! Sensors indicate a concentration of living beings close by!”

Fulfilling his sworn duty as a high-ranking Starfleet officer to be overly obstructive and hot-tempered at all times, Kahn immediately tries to pick a rank fight with Kirk. Kirk is unconcerned, pointing out that while Kahn might be an admiral, he’s in administration, without much field experience, and Kirk can’t let Kahn’s inexperience endanger his crewmembers’ lives. It’s Kirk’s job to endanger his crewmembers’ lives. Then he just starts walking off while Kahn splutters uselessly behind him.

Meanwhile on Quodar (no, they haven’t been on Quodar this whole time; why would you think that the planet they crashed into was the planet they were traveling toward? that would be silly), Spock’s getting concerned about Kirk and the shuttlecraft failing to appear. He’s contacted Starfleet, who apparently have some tracking information about the shuttle. T’oell is concerned about what that info indicates. “If Starfleet’s trackings are accurate, your shuttle crashed on our neighbor planet Tristas!” he tells Spock. “Your friends may be in serious danger!”

T’oell goes on to explain that the two planets used to have good relations, with Tristas allowing scholars from Quodar to study in their halls of learning. The Tristians were peaceful and “a race advanced beyond any society we have encountered! Theirs was an endless quest for knowledge—an entire culture directed at but one goal! They sought the secret of life itself!” Whether the Tristians wound up building an enormous computer to answer the question for them, though, we don’t know, because one day Tristas suddenly and without explanation sent all the visiting scholars home and blocked communications. When the Quodarians tried to go visit to see what was up, they were told to turn back or be destroyed, and later received a message that anyone who did get through the Tristian defenses would become permanent prisoners of the military. Apparently those defenses aren’t that great, though, considering how easy it is to crash into the planet completely by accident.

Back on Tristas, the shuttlecraft crew seem to have turned something up.

[ID: One large panel with a smaller panel inset into the top left corner. The top panel shows a narration box reading, “Meanwhile, on Tristas, a discovery has been made...” while below Chapel, Kahn and Kirk look surprised. Chapel is saying, “Captain…?” In the lower panel, the crew are looking out through a gap in the mossy hills at a city of elaborate white buildings standing against a pink sky. Chapel is saying, “Tri-corder indicates all materials here—metals, glass—they’re all synthesized from compounds in the moss!” Kirk is saying, “Phasers set on stun—stay alert!” Kahn is saying, “We’re walking right into the hands of aliens! This is suicide, Kirk!”]

man, that is some seriously impressive moss

Before they can check out the moss-city, though, someone yells at the group to stop. Judging by the outfit of the person in question, I’m gonna say it’s a Jedi?

[ID: The shuttlecraft crew stands about in surprise, except for Kahn, who has dropped to his knees in a defensive crouch with an angry hiss. In the foreground stands a figure in a hooded brown robe with their hands on their hips, saying, “You are hereby in the custody of the Ministry! Your vehicle has already been secured! Remove your weapons immediately and follow me!”]

Kirk protests that they come in peace and only landed here by accident, but the Jedi Master and his accompanying robot minions are unmoved. Kahn, naturally, thinks the best solution to all this is to shoot first and ask questions later, while Kirk, who thinks that’s kind of a stupid idea, tries to hold him back. Meanwhile Manning, thinking that their would-be captor is distracted by watching Kirk and Kahn bicker, tries to take the chance to shoot the dude himself. The only thing that this accomplishes is promptly getting Manning shot by one of the robots.

On Quodar, Spock narrates that they’ve finally gotten T’oell, with much reluctance, to go directly to the queen with a request for her to help the crashed shuttle crew. While T’oell is gone, Spock tells McCoy that he’s positive he can get through the planetary defenses on Tristas (what, like it’s hard), if they can only convince Arama to help. McCoy is skeptical about Arama, questioning how a leader who never shows herself can inspire trust in her people, but Spock says that the Quodarians do trust her all the same and that she’s never let them down. Unfortunately the Enterprise crew aren’t quite so lucky, because T’oell comes back and reports that Arama has regretfully refused to grant them an audience because “it would be illogical to take action which could result in war!” Seems the Quodarians have picked up a few vocabulary words from all that diplomacy with the Vulcans.

Meanwhile, the shuttle crew find themselves being chivied into a strange form of confinement.

[ID: A large panel with a smaller panel inset into the bottom right corner. In the larger panel, the  crew are standing in a room covered with a glass dome, which is set into a larger room where several large and indeterminate pieces of machinery stand about. Some men with white hair, wearing long pink smocks over green shirts and boots, are looking down at the crew through the dome. Chapel is looking up at them and saying, “A laboratory specimen observation theatre!” One of the observers is saying, “Curious—the way they arrived on our world without activating the early warning defense systems!” Another one says, “There was that storm—a cosmic energy displacement—within our parsect! Several city-states reported malfunctions!” In the lower panel, Chapel is using her tricorder to scan Manning, who is sitting on the floor with a hand to his head. She says, “Manning is coming around, Captain! He’ll be a bit stiff, but he’s all right!” Manning replies, “Uhhh...that’s your story, Lieutenant!”]

Kirk demands to know who these people are and what’s going on. One of the pink-smocked observers says that they are the Ministry of Science and that he personally is “Science Lord for the city-state Chantil!” Yes, really, SCIENCE LORD. I don’t know what that entails, but what an amazing title. Oh, and also they’re keeping the crew prisoners. When Kirk asks “By what right?” the SCIENCE LORD says that “This is not a question of rights but imperatives! We must do this for the security of our people!” Oh yeah, sure, that’s what they all say.

The captives then have some kind of collars beamed directly onto them, although apparently not before the Science Ministers take the time to change from pink smocks to white in-between panels.

[ID: Two tall panels side by side. In the first, the scientists, their hair now blonde and their smocks white, look down at the captives while large white collars appear around the necks of Kahn and Kirk. One of the scientists says, “We have just beamed those collars on you—a regretably [sic] necessary disciplinary precaution, but only until you adjust to your situation!” Kirk is saying, “Wha...?” and Kahn is saying, “Hsssss....!” In the second panel, Kahn is leaping into the air with the aid of a little propeller built into the back of his leotard, while Kirk looks up at him from below. Kahn is yelling,”Humanoids! We will not be prisoners of your like! Do you hear me…?” Kirk is yelling, “Admiral!”]

Predictably, Kahn’s attempt to...actually, I don’t really know what he was attempting to do there, but whatever it was, it only results in him getting zapped by his e-collar and crashing to the floor. The SCIENCE LORD then tells the crew that they “are to become tenders of the divine life until such time as we no longer need you! This audience is now ended!”

Back to Quodar, where night has fallen on the capital, a couple of guards are patrolling the topiary when suddenly they come under attack. The narrator takes a moment to indulge in some purple prose while the armed guards somehow completely fail to defend themselves against three unarmed people in robes.

[ID: A panel with a narration box reading, “Out of night-darkness, as if birthed by the shadows they emerge from, three silhouettes attack with unrestrained fury...” The panel shows two guards dressed in yellow helmets, yellow vests, brown and white shirts and white pants, being assaulted by a figure in a hooded gray robe and exposes Starfleet uniform boots and the sleeves of a uniform red shirt. In the background, two other hooded figures are punching and kicking more guards. One of the guards is yelling, “Stop them—don’t let them get to Arama!”]

gee I wonder who these mysterious figures under robes that don’t fully conceal their Starfleet uniforms could be

One of the guards tries to escape to warn somebody, but before he can get away Spock steps out of the darkness and clocks him across the jaw. Just given up on the nerve pinch thing, I guess. McCoy and Uhura gather up the guards and McCoy gives them some sleepy hypos to keep them out for an hour. Spock then tells the others to go back to their quarters while he goes ahead to make his way to Arama alone. In perhaps the most out-of-character moment we’ve seen in these comics yet—and I don’t need to tell you that that is really saying something—McCoy agrees with him.

[ID: McCoy and Uhura standing in front of a gray building, while Spock walks away from them. McCoy is saying, “He’s right—whatever must be done from here on, is his to do!” Uhura is saying, “He’ll make it, Leonard! It would be too illogical from him not to succeed!”]

So Spock heads inside to see Arama on his own, knocking out another guard or two in the process. Why exactly Spock thinks that beating up the security and breaking into Arama’s quarters personally is going to make her more likely to listen to him I don’t know. In any case, with the guards out of the way Spock opens the door to Arama’s chamber, which apparently has something quite surprising behind it.

[ID: A narration box reads, “But, when Spock enters the chamber...” while Spock opens a large wooden door and exclaims, “You! It can’t be...But it is! We never suspected!”]

What’s behind door number one? Place your bets now! I guarantee you pretty much anything you guess is gonna be way more interesting than the actual answer.

We begin Part 2 back on Tristas, where Kirk and Co. are being introduced to what life as prisoners of the Science Ministry entails. Apparently wearing dorky jumpsuits is a large part of it.

[ID: A large panel titled “Star Trek—Part 2—The Final Truth.” A narration box at the top reads, “Captain’s Log: Supplemental! As a result of a cosmic storm, our shuttlecraft has been stranded on Tristas! We have been made virtual slaves, enforced by punisher collars!” The panel shows a wide shot of a moss field cut through by a river, with several people walking around carrying sacks. On the far side of the river is a large orange machine, with the white buildings of the city visible in the distance. On the near side, Kirk, Chapel, Chekov, and Manning are standing, wearing sleeveless white jumpsuits open almost to the waist, with yellow and orange shirts on underneath. Admiral Kahn, still wearing his purple leotard, is crouching nearby looking surprised. Kirk is saying, “What do you make of that housing, Lieutenant?” Chapel is saying, “Seems to be some sort of transformer! It might possibly be the source of energy feeding the moss, but it doesn’t seem powerful enough!”]

do you think it’s hard to get those jumpsuits on over the shock collars

A robot warden tells the newcomers that their job is to pick moss, and one of the other moss-pickers on duty approaches to show them the ropes. Kirk asks her why they’re all prisoners here. “Not prisoners—privileged!” she says. “We serve the life within! It is within us and we are within it!” A statement that would be a bit more believable if she were not also wearing a shock collar. But hey, maybe that’s part of the privilege, who am I judge.

Kirk wants her to tell him more about this “life within,” but the woman draws back, telling him that “If you cannot link with it, then it is not for you to know! Please, ask me no more! Be happy that you are allowed to serve the presence!” Of course, Kirk’s not about to be satisfied with that, and demands answers, grabbing her arm as she tries to get away. The only thing this accomplishes is to get him zapped.

[ID: Two panels side by side. In the left panel, Kirk is falling to the ground and yelling, “YAAAAHHH!” as his collar shocks him with a “PZZZZZZZZAAATTTT!” sound, while two more people in jumpsuits stand nearby looking surprised and a red robot runs closer. In the right panel, Kahn watches while crouched above the scene on an outcropping while the robot says, “Stop! Humans have violated alien control dictum! They will be segregated!” A woman in a white jumpsuit and blue shirt with a black bowl cut replies, “They will be no such thing! Return to your post, machine! We can act upon our own directives!”]

Admiral Kahn promptly jumps into the middle of this mess, declaring that actually, they’d rather obey the robot’s order, because “We have no interest in your lot and you obviously have none in ours!” Another one of the moss-pickers tells the woman that there’s no point in arguing. “There is nothing we can do!” he says. “They cannot understand as we do! That is why they cannot be told!”

Later—presumably after a hard day of moss-picking—the crew reconvenes in some remarkably lush-looking quarters.

[ID: A tall panel with a narration box reading, “Later, as night falls..” In a room with elaborately decorated white walls, Kahn is sitting on what appears to be a green mattress placed on top of a larger blue mattress, while Kirk stands in front of a pink table with some indeterminate objects on top of it, and Chekov sits nearby in a pink and blue armchair. Kirk is saying, “At least they’ve made us comfortable! I think it was a good idea to segregate ourselves. We need to plan!” Kahn is pointing at Kirk and saying, “I don’t need your patronizing, Kirk! It was easily observed that your peculiar manner of questioning was getting little result!”]

Dang, this must be the white-collar prison.

Chapel wonders if this ‘life within’ everyone keeps talking about is something theological. Kirk doesn’t think it’s that simple. “They aren’t worshippers [sic]...they’re protectors! I have a hunch, though! I think the answer is tied to whatever the source of the energy that feeds the moss is!”

At that very moment (I recommend you don’t try to work out the timeline here) Spock is entering Queen Arama’s quarters, where we were promised something truly unexpected and game-changing. What could it be?

[ID: A long panel with a narration box reading, “At the moment, on Quodar...” Spock is standing in the foreground of a room with decorated pink walls. In front of him, a woman is standing on a dais with a large chair behind her, wearing a green dress with a white top and a headdress made of several green ribbons pointing different directions. Spock is saying, “Live long...and prosper, Queen Arama! I find it most unexpected that you are a...” Arama is saying, “A Vulcan? I’m not, except by heredity. I am a Quodarian daughter of Vulcan’s last ambassador here. As to why you’re here, my answer is still no!”]

Turns out Arama’s a Vulcan, a twist that McCoy saw coming back in part one:

[ID: A panel showing Uhura and McCoy watching T’oell walk toward a doorway. Uhura is saying, “B-but you can’t just leave the captain and the others stranded!” T’oell is saying, “I-I’m sorry…!” McCoy is saying, “Illogical? Bah! It wouldn’t surprise me if Arama turned out to be Vulcan!”]

“Finally, my tactic of calling everyone who uses the word ‘logic’ a Vulcan has paid off!”

You might naturally be wondering what significance this is going to have for the rest of the story, so let me just save you some time here: absolutely none whatsoever. It has nothing to do with anything and will never be elaborated on.

Spock protests Arama’s decision to not change her first decision, but she takes him to task, pointing out that what he’s asking would risk war with Tristas, something that would not end well for Quodar. Spock is remarkably chastened by this.

[ID: Arama standing before Spock and saying, “I know their capabilities—such a war would hardly last a day! Do you wish that on my people? Does the Federation?” Spock is bowing his head a bit and saying, “I-I’m sorry, Arama—I don’t know what came over me! You are correct...and logical!”]

Chastened but not deterred, apparently, because early the next morning, the Quodarian FAA spot one of their miniature ‘starscout’ spaceships taking off unauthorized. Arama doesn’t have any trouble figuring out who the culprit is, but apparently she’s not much bothered about it either.

[ID: A panel labeled, “Inside the starscout...” Spock is inside a spacecraft looking down at a small screen which shows an image of Arama’s face. Through the screen Arama is saying, “I presume I am speaking to Mr. Spock! We have broadcast to Tristas that one of our starscouts has been stolen! Your human half is very predictable...good luck, Spock!”]

On Tristas, Kirk and Friends are back at it in the moss mines, trying to figure out a way to deal with their robot guards. Chapel suggests she could “knock out” the two of them (how one knocks out a robot I don’t know) but Kirk doesn’t think she could take both of them down fast enough. Admiral Kahn, naturally, is once again unsatisfied with Kirk’s approach and takes it upon himself to take action.

[ID: A panel with a narration box reading, “Kahn approaches cautiously, as if to empty his shoulder bag! But...” Kahn is shown punching one robot into a bush, while his tail is wrapped around the leg of another robot that is otherwise offscreen, making “SPA-TAAANNG!” “KRAAMM!” and “ZZZRAACCKK!” sounds.]

spa-taaanng

He then heads off by himself to find their shuttlecraft, although not before delivering this little speech:

[ID: Kirk, Sulu and Manning stand together taking off their collars and jumpsuits, while Kahn stands nearby on a ledge, saying, “So tell me, Kirk, how do you find my performance in the field now...or had it never occurred to you that I was never given the chance for such experience! I hope I can trust you to find someplace to hide...”]

I’ve been sitting here for five minutes trying to parse that first sentence and it’s just not happening.

Oh, and he also tells Kirk that he wants Kirk “alive and well when I come back! Well enough for a court martial!” Kirk is pretty unperturbed by this, though he does tell Chekov and Manning to shadow Kahn in case he gets into trouble, because of course he’s going to get in trouble. In the meantime, he and Chapel head back into the city. On their way to the Science Ministry, another robot tries to apprehend them, so Chapel promptly kicks it to death.

[ID: A tall panel showing a green robot being kicked by Chapel’s boot with a “SPAAANNNGGG!” sound while the robot says, “SQUEEEEE-EEE!” From offscreen, Chapel is saying, “For all the trouble these robots are causing, we should have tried breaking out earlier!” Kirk, standing in the foreground at the bottom of the panel, is saying, “The people here aren’t used to agression [sic] or violence...without those collars they can’t do much!”]

After taking the robot’s weapon, Chapel says that if they can get to the main computers in the observation lab she might be able to work them, since she’s “been trained in advance computronics.” Man, Chapel’s really been holding out on us, apparently.

They break into the Science Ministry and confront Minister Tonar. And if you’re thinking “wait, who’s Minister Tonar?” that’s because no such character has been named in the story so far. Presumably that’s the name of the SCIENCE LORD (with this art it’s pretty much impossible to identify him by appearance alone) but how exactly Kirk came to learn his name is a mystery. At any rate, Kirk doesn’t waste any time getting right to the threats.

[ID: Kirk pointing a gold-colored blaster at Tonar, an old man with white hair wearing a pink smock over a green shirt. Kirk is saying, “I’ve seen enough here to realize that all your threats and defenses are bluff! Well I can show you violence that would turn this city-state inside out before you could even organize yourselves! Talk!”]

you know the thing I really love about Star Trek is how it portrays such a wonderfully enlightened and peace-loving future for humanity

“You fool!” Tonar says. “You don’t know what you are doing! It’s your very violence that I’m protecting our secret from” and so outraged by this is he that his dialogue runs right into the edge of the speech bubble without room for a punctuation mark. Chapel interrupts to say that she’s getting strange readouts from the computer she’s been messing with. “I asked for a catalogue readout on anything pertaining to “the life within,”” she says, “but I’m getting data on psychosociological experimentation and interplanetary insect surveys!”

[ID: Chapel standing in the background next to some machinery, while Kirk looks towards Tonar and says, “It’s all beginning to make a crazy sort of sense now! This city—it’s like a bee-hive! Workers! Robot drones! And you...” Tonar says, “Very well, Captain Kirk, you will have your answers! Now!”]

well I’m glad this is all making sense to somebody

“Our race embraced the secrets and sciences of the universe, yet we did not know our own planet!” Tomar begins to explain, and I use the term ‘explain’ loosely. “Beneath the moss there is a layer that defies analysis but we finally managed to penetrate that layer...It was discovered that our planet was actually hollow, like a great egg! In that “egg” were energies that were life in its most fundamental form—a link to creation itself!” He then says that the Science Ministry started to devise an experiment in the hopes of unlocking the secrets of this egg energy, an experiment which they neglected to tell the rest of the planet about. Evidently this troubled Tomar, as he says that he embarked on his own experiment, “one to save our race from destruction! The people were merely told that the forces of creation itself had been discovered! They were told only that we had become tenders of an egg that would hatch the ultimate living creation!” Which is a hell of a thing to get told by your government. Imagine waking up one morning and seeing “forces of creation discovered” trending on twitter.

Anyway, then this happens:

[ID: Three panels, two small ones on the top and one large one below that. The top left is labeled, “At that very moment, beneath the city-state...” and shows Kahn in a corridor, looking at a door with a sun symbol on it, as he says, “I don’t know what all this is leading to—but I think the answer lies just beyond that door up there! Maybe it’s the shuttlecraft!” The next panel shows Kahn’s hands reaching to open the door as he says, “Suddenly have feeling...like premonition...like I shouldn’t enter! And yet, on the other hand, I feel I am compelled to—as if my fate were tied up here!” In the third panel, Kahn is suddenly falling through a green-walled tunnel that ends in a black void filled with pink orbs and swirls of light, as he yells, “YAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!”]

you guys maybe should have put a lock on that door or something

Things get even weirder from there:

[ID: Three panels, two side by side on top and one long one below. In the first, Kahn is kneeling on the floor, eyes wide, saying, “I am the universe...I am alone...somebody help meeee!” Around him, two disembodied speech bubbles are saying, “Is this Tonar’s doing?” and “No! Let us hope that what he saw didn’t permanently damage his brain!” In the second panel, pink and white fog begins to surround Kahn as the voices say, “If Tonar only realized that in small doses, the “Eye” could expand the mind of any thinking creature!” and “But that is for them to reconcile—when everyone is ready to accept us, we shall reveal ourselves!” In the bottom panel, Kirk and Chapel are watching Tonar gesturing in front of a screen that shows a blob of beige-colored slime. Tonar is saying, “We created the Eye—a shape your mind conjures for identification since the mass of energy has no form—from the unstable forces contained in our planet! Mental energy is the required tool...Kirk, that thing you see on the screen is the six scientists that were sent to study that energy! All six of them!”]

“A collective intelligence—pure unsiphoned mental energy!” Kirk says, somehow discerning a heck of a lot more from that image than I am. “More than you know!” Tonar replies. “The Eye has increased their energies a hundredfold! The eye’s emanations reach to the furthest reaches of this galaxy—and they can now travel with it!”

So let me try to sum this up. These people were living on a planet covered with a continent-thick layer of moss, and then one day they discovered that under that moss was magical mystery energy that had something to do with the forces of creation. They tried to study this energy by creating the Eye, and we don’t actually know what the Eye is because it’s undefinable, but the scientists who looked at it got turned into a blob of super-intelligent scientist goo, and now both the Eye and the scientist goo are being kept in a completely unlocked and unguarded room in the Science Ministry building. Got all that? If you do, please explain it to me, because I’m lost.

Tonar explains-- ‘explains’--why he hasn’t told anyone about the scientist goo. “Don’t you see...we were a civilization at its very pinnacle! We would have nothing more to live for if the secrets of the Eye were revealed. Our knowledge would have killed us!” So I guess he just told everyone that they had to pick moss for the rest of their lives instead. Cool. While he’s rambling on about this, Kahn somehow gets transported into the room, but no one pays him much attention.

Kirk is skeptical of Tonar’s motives. “I see a man who is either short-sighted or vain enough to believe the universe is finite!” he says. “Or is your real motive that you fear the idea that your race’s entire lifestyle will be totally changed?” Keep in mind that said “lifestyle” currently consists of “everyone picks moss every day forever” and listen, I know change is hard, but I feel like most people would be pretty happy to move on from that one.

Tonar assumes that now Kirk has learned about...whatever it is Kirk has learned about here...he will “either control it or destroy it!” Kirk assures him that they won’t, and not only because seriously, where would they even start. “There are those who will try,” he says. “The Federation can protect you, allow you to share your knowledge with a united scientific collective! We are not exploiters, Tonar—and we’re not conquerors!”

Oh, and also Spock is here.

[ID: Tonar walking away towards the foreground, saying, “Please excuse me, Captain Kirk...I have something to tell my people!” Spock and Kirk are standing behind him, Spock saying, “It would seem I was not needed after all, Captain! I found Chekov and Manning looking for Admiral Kahn! They brought me here!”]

wow, you were so helpful in this issue Spock. really got a lot done.

Everyone heads back to Quodar, where Kirk tries to reconcile with Kahn, but apparently his encounter with the Eye has changed his priorities somewhat, and their differences now seem “pitifully insignificant.” Instead he’s been thinking about transferring to work with “the Tristas project” despite said project not yet being a thing that exists.

With that, everyone goes off to celebrate Quodar’s induction to the Federation, complete with some guys playing instruments that I initially mistook to be one double-barreled vuvuzela, which is a terrifying concept.

[ID: A large panel showing a crowd of people in front of a large building, while T’oell, Chapel, Arama, Spock, Kirk, Manning, Chekov and Kahn stand on a parapet under a green awning watching the celebration. In the foreground is a bald man in a blue shirt, green tabard and blue headband, playing a long silver horn, with another man standing behind him playing another such horn. Narration boxes at the top read, “Captain’s Log: Personal. Admiral Kahn admits his mind has pushed into his subconscious most of what he saw when he stumbled into the Eye, but I observe he is indeed a changed person! Other than that, the universe seems frustratingly unchanged in view of making what could be humanity’s greatest discovery! I don’t know what Khan saw in the “Eye”--but I envy him for having seen it!”]

And that’s the end! Well, that seems to sum everything up satisfyingly. I sure can’t think of any loose ends that might need tying up here, can you? Nah, I think we’re good.

[ladyatthecrossroads]

prompt list 40.“You’re sweeter than cake.” with Caduceus if its not too much trouble?

Sorry this took so long to complete, anon. It’s a bit longer than I expected it to be. I hope you enjoy!Title: Sweeter Than CakePairing: Caduceus x readerWord Count: 2435

It feels good to be back in Zadash. Your adventuring party had dragged you all across the continent of Wildemount and beyond, to the shores of the Menagerie Coast and the waves of the Lucidian Ocean. Finally back in the Empire, you were more than happy to put the relatively lawless ways of the ocean and pirating aside. You had missed this, just walking along the cobbled streets, passing the various vendors out and about with their wares in the Pentamarket. The city was a hectic place, bustling with activity, but it definitely was preferable to struggling to survive on a boat in the middle of the ocean. This was downright relaxing, comparatively.

“Man, I can’t believe Caduceus has never had a birthday party,” comes the trilling voice of Jester as the two of you stroll along the boulevard. The easily excitable tiefling skips along beside you, occasionally linking arms with you for the briefest of moments before rushing off towards whatever stall or tent catches her eye. You, however, have a goal in mind, a very specific goal.

Leaving the rest of your party back at the Leaky Tap, you recall the conversation that brought you here, snooping about the Pentamarket in search of the best variety of baked goods you could find. The subject of birthdays had arisen, and Jester had been very eager to share the details of the various past parties her mama had thrown for her as a little girl. This had led to each of you throwing in your two copper on the matter and your own personal experiences.

Of course, you hadn’t missed the far off look on the firbolg cleric’s face that spoke of fond memories. He had lazily scrubbed at his brilliant pink beard with that thoughtful expression he always wore, commenting plainly on how many seasons it had been since he last celebrated a birthday with his family. And when you had questioned him further on the subject, he appeared to grow sheepish and told you about how his family never really threw “parties,” per se. Birthdays seemed more a day to ponder your personal growth and reflect inwardly on how best to serve the Wildmother. Seeing that this answer didn’t exactly satisfy you, he then made mention that his parents would always cook his favorite food, at least.

You can understand; Caduceus is an incredibly humble individual, after all, and humble celebrations seem enough to please him. Still, you can’t quite shake the odd lingering disquiet you feel. You care for all of your comrades, but the firbolg cleric is very dear to you.

From the first time you had laid eyes on him, he had exuded such a calming aura and had been a paramount force in overcoming your grief and coming to terms with the losses you all had sustained on the road thus far. He always made time to listen when you came to him with a problem, offering helpful advice. He was so insightful, even if he was a bit naïve to the outside world. You’d both promised to lean on each other for support whenever the need arose. It was for your mutual benefit, and ultimately the good of the group, you’d told yourself.

It seemed to just come naturally that you had then fallen for him.

You want to do this for him. He deserves it after everything Caduceus has done for you. For all of you. He deserves to know that he is irrevocably and undeniably a beloved member of the Mighty Nein.

“Oh, what about this one?” Jester’s attention is caught by a baker placing hot fruit pies out to cool in a store window. The aroma seeping out the front door smells nice; the sweetness of candied fruits and the savory scent of freshly baked breads combine and you find yourself leaning forward in that direction to catch more of the delicious fragrance. Your feet move almost of their own accord, drawn in by the promise of tasty treats within. The tiefling cleric is very eager to bound to your side, linking arms with you once again as the two of you enter the shop.

The tinkling of bells announce your arrival, even though the front door is already wide open. Magic almost seems to permeate the air; there’s a palpable buzz of arcane energy, intertwined in the heady scents of the pastries. A young woman wipes her hands on her apron and looks at you, and you can see she is of some sort of Elvish descent; half-elf, you wager. Her blue eyes twinkle at you and though she is fair of face, you can see shining silver strands among her ashen brown hair. It seems impossible to determine her age, as you know that half-elves generally live longer than a human yet not as long as a full-blooded elf.

She regards you with friendly curiosity and a warm smile. “Welcome,” she says, a lilt to her voice that reminds you of a certain lavender-skinned tiefling, and you smile in fond remembrance, “Can I help you find anything today?”

A brief, but detailed conversation ensues, occasionally interrupted by one of many of Jester’s seemingly endless lines of random questions. The clerk seems to have infinite patience. You describe the occasion and general idea of what you’re looking to buy, and she is very helpful in selecting a treat of appropriate taste and size. You leave with a cake box of a medium size and a sense of accomplishment and anticipation. You hope Caduceus will like it.

When you reach the Leaky Tap, your eyes search for your ragtag group. You find them quite easily; even in the dim lighting, Caduceus’s tall frame and pink hair are not difficult to spot. The firbolg’s back is to you as he converses with Fjord and Beau, but Caleb is the one to meet your gaze. A quick assessment of you and the package you hold and he gives you a knowing look when you silently plea for him not to spoil the surprise. He puts his head back down to the book he’s reading but you catch a small glimpse of a smile he tries to hide.

You glance at Jester and the tiefling is practically vibrating in excitement beside you. Her hands go to press upon your shoulders and urge you closer. You can feel your heart beating faster. Together, the two of you cross the room as inconspicuous as you can. Fjord and Beau glance up and over Caduceus’s shoulder, eyes widening and eyebrows cocking, and that gives him the clue to turn around; and that’s when the two of you begin to sing.

It’s entirely worth it. You inhale deeply as Jester and you belt out a somewhat harmonious rendition of Happy Birthday. Your arms present the wrapped confection, held out before you as you circle the table to set it down. Caduceus’s expression is filled with mild surprise and wonderment, his light pink eyes travelling over the expanse of your face before trailing down to the cake box you hold and then back up to meet your eyes. His smile is warm and gentle and you think you can see a faint warming of color bloom across his cheeks. It might just be a trick of the light; you aren’t certain.

“Well,” he says, in that low, rolling rumble of his, “This was unexpected. How nice.” He retracts his hands from where they were folded together on the table before him, and you set down the box. He sits there, eyes glued to you and your face, still smiling, lazy and content.

You puff your chest up in pride and gesture to the box before him. “Well, go on. Open it.” And, watching as those large hands of his move to the simply-tied string holding the container closed, your own fumble together, twisting and wringing as you bite your lip in earnest. “I hope you like it.”

What he reveals is the modestly decorated cake you had picked out. Instead of icing, you had asked for powdered confectioners sugar to be sprinkled liberally about the sponge. The cake itself was actually a dome of a lovely muted shade of green tinted with brown from the baking process. It is a simple design, nothing too fancy, as you had chosen it for flavor rather than looks.

Despite the outward humbleness of the cake’s appearance, Caduceus looks pleased. “Oh, wow. Look at that. That looks…” He closes his eyes and inhales the sweet scent, and you can practically see his eyes roll back in his head beneath his fluttering lids. His smile grows. “I know this smell. It’s wonderful.”

“I thought you would. It’s a tea cake… or, rather, it’s a cake made with tea. Green tea,” you correct yourself.

His head turns and a hand goes to wrap gently around your shoulder and pull you down to him into a hug. “You got me a green tea cake. That’s so nice. You didn’t have to get me a cake.” There’s a light note of bashfulness to his voice and you smile, returning the hug.

“I know I didn’t have to, but I wanted to do something nice for you,” you admit, heat rising to your face and you silently thank the gods that there is very low light in the tavern. “You’re always doing things for us, healing us, you know.”

“Yeah, Caduceus,” the other cleric chimes in, that teasing note in her voice as she pops up over on the other side of him, “And you know we wouldn’t do this for just anybody, you know? We really like you. And, I mean, some of us really, really like you. Like, a lot. Like, just so much, you know, so—“

Dear gods, she really did have to just ham it up, didn’t she. You shoot her a glare from behind Caduceus’s back before Fjord pipes up.

“I think the man gets it, Jester,” he says, clearing his throat and trying to inconspicuously glance between the two of you with a look. The air has gotten noticeably warmer, or maybe that’s just you. Either way, you’re grateful for the interference.

The tiefling has the audacity to shoot you an innocent look, despite the mischievous smile clear behind her eyes. When Caduceus turns to look up at you, she makes a rather inappropriate gesture in your line of sight. You want to smack her, but Caduceus grabs your hand and your attention.

“Thank you so much. This is more than anyone’s ever done for me in a long time. Really, thank you.” His eyes are squinted with delight as he looks up at you and his long ears do a happy little flick, and it is the most adorable thing you think you’ve ever seen; a seven-foot-tall, pink-haired firbolg being absolutely giddy at being able to celebrate his birthday so far from his home. He tugs gently on your hand. “Come sit. Let’s eat.”

From his pack, Caduceus produces a set of cutlery to start cutting the cake and you take them gently from his grasp to divvy up the slices yourself. You reserve him the first and biggest piece after sizing up just how much to give to everyone else, after which you all eagerly dig in.

The flavoring is subtle and not overly sweet and you can tell from the expressions of your compatriots that it had been a good while since they had indulged in something to satisfy their sweet tooth. Beau, Jester, Fjord and Nott all seem to devour their shares within mere seconds, whilst Yasha, Caleb and Caduceus each take their time and savor the experience.

You’re focusing so intently on Caduceus’s reaction, taking in every minute shift in expression with each bite he takes, how he seems to chew so methodically and ensure he gets everything out of it; the taste, the texture, every little nuance and flavor he can possibly experience. It’s downright mesmerizing how one man can be so thorough and savor each little bite.

Jester’s foot connects lightly with your shin under the table, snapping you out of your reverie. Maybe you’d been staring for a bit too long. You snap to attention, bashfully returning you your slice and finishing it off. It was delicious and so worth the cost.

A quick prestidigitation spell cleans off the plates and utensils and you help Caduceus gather and sort them all and put them away while the rest of your crew begin to go about their own independent business. Caleb sticks his nose back into his spell books; Nott has slipped into the crowd and disappeared; Fjord and Jester have gotten into some conversation about what plans to make for the coming day; Yasha is brooding in a corner; and you think you see Beau wandering over to the bar, practically itching to start a tavern brawl.

You, meanwhile, are pointedly not looking at Caduceus, fixating yourself on cleaning up the remnants of dessert and simply enjoying the relative silence before things get too rowdy. After a moment, you steel your nerve, asking, hopefully, “Did you like it?”

You don’t know how he does it, how he’s always so content all the time, how easily he grins like the cat that ate the canary, slowly, languorously. Somehow the world just melts away and it’s only you and him. “I did, thank you.”

“And it wasn’t too sweet?”

“Mm-mm,” he shakes his head, pink eyes warming over your face, “The cake was sweet, but…” He lifts one large hand, fingers outstretched, and you are powerless to move away as he gently swipes them down your cheek. As he pulls them away, you see a small smudge of powdered sugar that he brushes his thumb over. You lift your hands to your face, semi-self-conscious now of having any more sugar there, feeling the blush rapidly rise to the surface; you pray the light is low enough that the firbolg doesn’t notice.

But then he looks earnestly into your eyes and you catch your breath. His face is so close now that his breath fans across your lips. His thumb catches your chin and he leans in to peck gently at your lips, and you’re melting all over again.

Caduceus pulls away from you, and you see his tongue flicker out to pan over his bottom lip just briefly. Honestly, you feel a little woozy. Did Caduceus just… kiss you? Did that really just happen? You could die happy. He smiles.

“Just as I thought,” he rumbles, “You’re sweeter than cake.”

[blankdblank]

Dragons, Spiders, Dwarves, Oh My

@deepestfirefun​ Pt 1 of 2   :D

Color, the legend, the myth, the unattainable. It was said that when you met your soulmate you could see it, the most vivid colors giving life and vibrancy to the world unable to be described being a sure fire way of knowing just who your Mate was. Yet halfway through your twenties there was no Mate to be seen. Taken from your families upon adulthood to enforce your pairing off with your Mates, as if something sinister would occur to be content in waiting for fate. Travel was enforced, Mates were usually born within miles of their Mates.

Unless they had marks like yours, a supposedly golden compass star on the back of your hand between the bones of your thumb and index finger aimed at what looked to be an opal colored jellybean above it. There was no mark like yours, you would know nation wide travel programs sent you to various continents and at the entrance gates you were told you could stay the night but your mark did not register a match to any of their citizens. So off alone you went to the Lonely Lands, lands where those told they have no hopes go and not long after vanish from the lives of the loving. You didn’t mind vanishing, not after how you had been treated. So packed up, you closed up your delivery designer jewelry shop causing quite an uproar at the loss to the vibrant rare gems you could craft none other could find buried in the earth anywhere or metal so sturdy or pristine.

.

It was a lovely home, the one you were literally dropped at from a parachute, since no plane would dare touch down on those lands as if to contaminate their shores upon returning, quite picturesque, like out of a movie. A nice farmhouse double storied just for you with tons of land. None around for miles it seemed you settled in and focused on decorating with what you had packed away. It was just barely three days, and then the twisters came. The very earth seemed to swallow you whole and in the boarded up home you held tight to the walls of your closet in the heart skipping moment of what felt like the house being torn off it’s supports. Slamming your eyes shut you hyperventilated your way to safety.

.

Slamming hard into the ground wherever you had been dropped to jolted you awake, and open mouthed your eye caught the bright red coat you pulled off your head. Under that an orange one and three white leopard spotted jackets in fake fur under those. Wobbling your way onto your feet you felt for the handle as the push light tacked to the wall died. A timid turn later and your breath staggered at the luxuriously colored dwelling you were in. No longer shades of varying grades of grey black and white your mind still registered to the colors they belonged but explosions of color. Room to room you went until you froze looking yourself over in the mirror hanging on the wall.

Your bright purple eyes scanned over your shimmering silver curls that swung over your back and shoulder in the turn of your head at the deep voices on the other side of your front door.

“What path have you chosen Gandalf?! Raining carriages?! What next anvils?!”

Supposedly this Gandalf replied just as curtly, “Well of course it does not rain carriages!! If it has fallen in our path it was unintentional on my part! All we can do now is to knock and see if anyone is home!”

A loud knock sounded and your knees nearly gave way, “co-“ your soft reply ended in your clearing your throat in a second duo of knocks, “Coming!” Wetting your lips you looked yourself over straightening your mint green sundress you righted the strap that dropped off your shoulder hiding the portion of your cleavage formerly revealed in the droop. Barefoot you tentatively got to the door and shook your hands to get the feeling back in them to unlock and open your door confidently.

The wood between you was swung back breaking your heart. And at the group of men shorter than you and the taller man blowing confused smoke rings your way all you could say was, “If any of you start singing about yellow brick roads I’m gonna throw punches.”

.

“Excuse me?” Lowly in the sea of grey the outer world was playing out to be your eyes landed on the heartbreakingly blue eyes of the sun cast seemingly honey coated raven haired man in front of all the others in a brown cloak hanging over silver and blue layers done to his black fur lined boots. “Just what do you mean by falling here in our path?”

Your shrug seemed to knit his brows together and plainly you stated, “I didn’t land here on purpose, I got picked up in a storm and as for why I was dropped here how the fuck should I know, you’re my Soul Mate aren’t you supposed to have the answers?!”

The man’s mouth fell open and the Gandalf person beside him asked, “Soul Mate? Just what do you mean by that term?”

“Soul Mate! Just how it sounds, the one person you’re destined to be with.”

The man asked, “How are you certain this Mate is me?!” He asked almost offended by the notion of being paired off with you.

“Because grumpy and precarious one, your eyes are blue!”

He pointed to the men behind him, “Most of their eyes are blue.”

“No! The world is grey! That’s how it is when you’re born, you see grey to black until you meet your Mate and you, Mr Smart Ass, are all sunkissed and blue eyed while they are still grey!”

His brows furrowed along with Gandalf’s as you said, “Don’t you look at me like I’m-!”

Gandalf shook his head, “Forgive me, Miss-?”

Your arms crossed and the man’s eyes fell to the mark on your hand parting his lips and making his hands join to stroke his hidden beneath his glove, “Pear.”

Gandalf nodded, “Miss Pear, now I take it you’ve traveled a long way, and in your world that is how meeting your, Mate, works, here however, children are born with marks. Now, since you are obviously unknowing if this world we might hitch our ponies to your carriage and bring you along with us so we might sort this all out along the way.”

“Carriage?” It was your turn to furrow your brows and through the men you darted out the porch and down the steps into the tall grass to squeak in the middle of ponies looking you over as you saw the house you were in appearing as a traveling home carriage making you squeak again and drop into a cross legged position staring at the grass.

The bald dwarf to the side of your Mate said, “Great, Gandalf! You broke the lass! Perfectly good Lass and you made her all anxious! Thorin broke our Burglar-.”

Bilbo, “I am not broken!”

Dwalin, “And now you’ve broken her!”

Gandalf looked down at him with a huff and steadily in your hands smithing over your face through calming breaths you heard the men growing closer. All eyeing your hair shimmering like the finest mithril they’d ever seen matching your eyes like the rarest of purple gems they’d imagined only to be from myths.

.

Bilbo, “Are you alright Miss Pear?”

Your head popped up and you pointed at the carriage, “No, it’s my house inside and a carriage outside”

“What?” The group asked.

You popped up suddenly making them step back and follow you back up the porch and into the jaw dropping two story home inside the carriage, “Look inside! See?!”

Gandalf, “You’re not a wizard, are you?”

“Wizard?! No! I mean I can create gems and metal but that’s it.”

Thorin, “You can what?!”

In a wave of your hand a band circled your finger sprouting seemingly through your skin to do so forming a sapphire filled band around cuts of diamond formed daisies set in a white gold band they gawked at in your easing it off your finger to pass around, “Family trait.”

Gandalf, “Very rare.”

Dwalin, “Can all your kin do this?”

“No, my dad’s family stems from King Midas…everything he touched turned to gold.”

Kili, “What a gift! He must have been very well loved.”

Your brow inched up dimming their grins, “Clearly you’ve never heard the story.”

Thorin, “You are very talented.”

“Doubt it will do much to dim your disappointment at being paired with me.”

“I am not disappointed.”

“Didn’t seem like it. Seemed down right offended when I said it.”

“I was not-. Merely, I always pictured being paired with a Dam.”

“A concrete construction used to control water flow? That was your dream match? What are you part beaver?”

His brows furrowed, “Dam! A female Dwarf!”

You nodded and wet your lips, “So you’d all be-.”

Thorin, “Dwarves!”

Bilbo, “I’m a Hobbit though.”

You nodded, “Were not allowed to use that word back home.”

Bilbo, “Hobbit?”

“No, Dwarf, considered rude.”

“What?!”

You shrug, “I don’t make the rules.”

Fili, “Are Dwarves illegal?!”

“Um, they’re not, preferred, depending where you’re from. It’s really hard to say we don’t see them much.”

“Are you disappointed then?! To be stuck with a Dwarf?!” Thorin growled at you.

“Well you didn’t shout to light me on fire for making the ring, and you have a good taste in jackets-,”

Thorin, “WHAT?! Who threatened to burn you?!”

“Um, everyone. Hello, ‘burn the witch’ is the go to saying.”

Gandalf, “You are not a witch.”

“Tell that to the ones with pitchforks grabbing their torches to chase my family to the gallows for the past couple hundred generations.”

.

Jeans, boots and a jacket were added over the shirt you swapped for your dress and the journey began with you riding on your porch watching the men lead the way. Barely taking a week for you to see everything in full color after a stolen good morning hug to your grumpy Mate testing how soft his coat really was. Along the way Thorin did try to spend a bit of time each day getting to know you, but after the long days of traveling there was little energy to spend in making you feel fully welcomed it seemed.

But in Rivendell was where it all changed, a single comment from the Elves to you on your beauty and your waist was grabbed tugging you half a foot to your right straight into Thorin’s side. From then you were almost glued together. Day and night, at least for a week until a bit too much wine led to a lonely naked wake up for you to the sound of Thorin locked in a hushed debate with the others in the courtyard outside.

Clearly it wasn’t to be spoken of as for whatever reason Thorin was always being drug away from you when the sun set, and dinners had you eating far away from him only leading to your trying to explore the Elven kingdom and the possible friends inside.

Nearly a month and a half you had stayed feeling the Dwarves watch you just as they had since your first bout of cramps just a few days after arrival and each month since. Small tokens of aid, teas and spare blankets were left with you as you spent the days sprawled across the sun lit porch using the heat to help aid in your painful cramps you no longer had medicines for. But the Elves seemed to help in the first morning you didn’t arrive at breakfast and were found in the fetal position on your bed groaning into your mattress. Giving you their own supplements for the issue when it struck them that seemed to alleviate the problem greatly.

You supposed that was the issue because by dinner the Dwarves were gone triggering a sleep inducing bout of tears for being abandoned. And when you had gone to bed another crash found you in your bed inside the carriage scowling out the window at the Dwarves who had left you behind. Weeks they were ignored by you having to face the weather sleeping on the porch for their only shelter from the next waves of rain until you let them in and locked yourself in your room upstairs. Even without hooking the carriage up it followed their ponies and careened down into the Goblin Tunnels with the Dwarves.

A single glimpse of you in your fall through the front door drew a shriek from you at the Goblin latching onto your ankle dragging you across it screeching about your hair. “Looks at its hair!! How it shines!”

The Goblin King boomed through the halls, “Scalp the wench, bring me a fine mane!”

Knives were drawn and at the bruise forming grips dragging you across the stony ground in your struggle and cries to be freed drowned out by the shouting and fighting Dwarves. At the first knife nearing your skin the Goblins froze at the sudden flash of your eyes to resemble glimmering opals stirring gasps that stopped in the trickle of diamonds falling from the ceiling. Awed at the sight their grips paused only to look up open mouthed at the goblins above erupting into pools of diamonds. All around more and more exploded filling the tunnels with the stones until Gandalf appeared suddenly, his cloak was torn off and spun around covering you in your balled up stance he lifted you in to place you back inside your house shouting, “Run! Run you fools!”

Turning with the door closed after reciting something to you to help calm your panicked state, he leapt from the porch to guide the Dwarves and the self manned carriage careening through the city eventually being their battering ram out of it while Bilbo eyed and pocketed a curious trinket, when atop the porch that bounced right for him. Only to find onyx stones in its place later that night.

.

Days you had remained with glowing eyes and mithril skin shimmering brightly, unbreathing and frozen since the attack until the light of the full moon hit you and a sudden gasp was followed by your whimpering stagger away from what they took as your being mentally thrown back into that fight. Tightly they held you, apologizing for all that had happened until you calmed enough to sleep against Dwalin’s chest, the only Dwarf able to sit still long enough to allow you sleep and not be considered a threat to Thorin for trying anything in their silent conference.

Northern Greenwood brought on waves of emeralds from the spiders, gentle waves of emeralds throughout the kingdom turned your arms silver from shoulder to wrist you covered with your sleeves you gripped in your palms trying to reign your powers back. Though between the nearing of a band of Elves behind a Great Elk all stood open mouthed when your eyes shot open at the earth trembling roar of Smaug, who had caught the fresh scent of rare freshly formed emeralds. Down through the leaves above rained scales of pure mithril between a sea of shimmering Lasgalen stones both cut and uncut flooding into the pathway making the Dwarves scramble up the roots of the trees after Bilbo while your body steadily went rigid, staring straight ahead with a hand risen halfway stuck on its way to cover your mouth. The expression almost as if you had something to say yet were lost as to when to say it.

Jumping down from his Elk Thranduil felt the stones and scales shifting around his feet in his stroll to you, though a foot away Bilbo shouted, “Gandalf said we’re not to touch her when she turns silver. He had to wrap her in a cloak, to carry her back onto her carriage until she wakes up again.”

Thranduil looked at him, “Wakes up?”

Bilbo nodded and Dwalin said in gripping Bilbo tighter in his slide lower at a group of emeralds sliding down the tree over them, “Sort of a trance or something of the sort.”

Thranduil nodded reaching back to unhook his cloak he wrapped around your body to lift the stunningly light body for the walk to the carriage approaching him unassisted. Once you were on the porch Thranduil gasped and lowered to sit avoiding the sea of gems flying through the now open door into the chest that flew open sucking all the loose stones into it in a near endless stream until it slammed shut. Once out of the trees the Dwarves and Bilbo eyed the blooming forest while Thranduil hesitantly left the cloak around you then turned to walk to his Elk again, “Follow us to the Palace. No doubt you are in need of food, as is the Lady, when she awakens.”

Thorin, “We need to go to Erebor! The beast will have left it open for the taking!”

Thranduil turned to face him in his lifting his foot to climb onto his saddle, “Smaug seals the gates each time he leaves, how he enters again is a mystery, though he always does.”

Thorin, “Still-,”

Thranduil, “You will not get far without food, but wander until you drop if you wish. My kin will not stop you on your death errand.” He mounted his saddle and turned to head back to the Palace then glanced behind hearing the carriage following him, the loyalty of the structure made Thorin huff in his determined path not to leave you alone when trapped in this state and he hopped down from his tree and trudged after you. Already feeling his heart pulling him towards the abandoned peak full of gold and treasures hoarded for decades by the greedy beast.

Inside the gates again Bilbo found the King’s attention by saying, “Miss Pear, she has to be where the moonlight can hit her.” Thranduil looked him over, “Last time, in the Goblin Tunnels after Rivendell it took a week and when the full moon hit her she woke up.”

Thranduil nodded then glanced at his son, “Guide them to their apartments, I will carry, Miss Pear to the Royal Gardens. It gets the most moonlight.” Climbing the steps again he made sure to hold only to cape and lifted you in his arms for the stroll alongside the others to the last corner where he entered the gardens and carefully set you down and uncovered you. His head tilting in his inspecting your features, a chance shared by the other guards noting the fear trapped in your expression making him mumble, “Fear, such a powerful emotion.” Without looking at the guards he stated firmly, “Set up a patrol of Lady Pear, no one touches her until she awakes, no guard is left alone. Mithrandir gave the warning for a reason, the creatures triggering her fear are turned to gems and mithril, there is no telling what one who accidentally has contact with her in this state might face.”

Heads bowed and he turned away with a soft sincere wish for you to find peace in these halls followed by a bow of his head to you when he turned away to ready for the meal and to hear from your Hobbit friend more about your journey since he seemed the most apt to speak. Dinner bled into bathing, and bed soon after with a string of Elves flowing around your garden, swapping out on the hour, guards and servants of all stations with those feeling drawn to you being removed and sent to their former stations. Thranduil kept watch of the rotations with his back to you even through your wavering hums under the light of the moon as if to calm yourself.

.

Days you continued your panicked hum worrying the Elves as to what you were seeing while Thorin became more and more agitated, he would neither leave without you or go an hour without pacing by your garden. Barely to the end of the week and a clatter allowed just a moment’s sprint past one of the distracted guards, another shouted for Thorin to be grabbed only to hear his shouts, “I am taking my One!” He flung his cloak over you yet in the angle of your arm his grip missed the moment of your arm being covered to have him folding his hand around your arm instantly turning him to mithril with glowing blue eyes.

Around you both in the fall of his cloak to the ground the Dwarves came to a stop sharing their statements they tried to stop him only for Bilbo to peer up at the Elf King in his inspection of you both in sitting on the bench near you both. In his silence the Dwarves gave Fili gentle pats on the back marking him as their next chosen leader in Thorin’s stead until he had woken.

**

“Midas!! Midas!!!” Shouts of the name echoed through the streets and panting Thorin eyed the torch lit kingdom he suddenly found himself in. Burning wood and oils filled the air along with sweat and an overpowering aura of fear filled these streets.

A familiar hissing voice echoed through the streets, Smaug, “The Witch is hiding the gold!” Fire lighting a pair of reflective eyes in the pitch black sky reflecting sparse glints of fire across his scales in his shifting and coiling to smirk at the villagers racing through the streets. “Find the Witch! Get the gold!”

On his feet Thorin inhaled sharply and looked around seeing torches appearing in the hands of those racing by him lit by licks of flames in the warm exhales of the hissing beast hiding above in the darkness like some puppet master.

Peering down at his burning mark he saw the Northern point spinning on his skin making him lowly mumble, “Jaqi.” Racing after the mark through the streets the shouts only grew louder.

“MIDAS! MIDAS!”

“Give us the gold Witch!”

Turn after turn his heart pounded until he spotted you biting your lip curling up in a dip under an archway built into a half wall in its shadow in the passing of another set of villagers racing by. A turn of your head had your wide eyes landing on the King, still glowing in bright opal shades granting one passer by a glimpse of you. His grip on your ankle brought Thorin out of his alley to knock the man out with a heavy blow before reaching down to help you up and guide you away. “Come on. This way.”

Hours it seemed you ran and fought through the city until all at once people poured down the sides of the alley you were in. Ropes drawn and tightly burned into your wrists and ankles in the sudden slam of your back into the wooden stake you were both being tied to with no luck in fighting the hands shoving you back into the stake with more trying to shove a gag in Thorin’s mouth. A hard bite later and those hands retracted and he shouted, “LET HER GO!” Harder he was slammed back into the stake in Smaug’s roar, “GIVE ME THE GOLD WITCH!”

Weakly in the hard shove all but breaking your ribs you replied, “I am no Witch.”

Smaug roared back, “YOU LIE, MIDAS!!”

Torches were raised and Thorin began to pant in concern seeing the first of them being hurled at the pile of oil soaked wood at your feet. Weakly he said, “Let her go!”

Smaug, “THE GOLD, OR YOU DIE!”

Weakly you replied, “I don’t have any-,”

Loudly he roared in your face making you clamp your eyes shut and flinch your face away until he fell silent again, “DIE THEN MIDAS!”

Thorin, “She’s telling the truth!” His shouts muffled by the crowds went unheard and he tugged at his bindings as hard as he could shouting again and again in Smaug’s repeated orders to give him the gold.

His shouts stoked the flames now licking your legs in your repeated statements of the same sentence, “I am not Midas..” The words stinging in Thorin’s chest worse than the flames could grow hot enough to reach, again you repeated in a pant at Smaug’s next roar as the city around you now warped into Erebor with Dwarves racing by for their lives in Smaug’s next roar triggering Thorin’s body to quake at the familiar shout, “GIVE ME THE GOLD!”

Another wave of flames erupted in the screams of the Dwarves made Thorin tug harder at the binds making his wrists start to bleed as Thror chased after the Arkenstone. In a snarl he spat out tauntingly, “You will fall! You always fall, Midas!”

Sharply you pulled at your own binds shouting with tears in your eyes while Thorin stole a glance at the bouncing stone, feeling his heart egging him after the stone, and back to you feeling the pull to the stone snapping off in your shout, “I AM NOT MIDAS!” in a weak whisper you added, “Coward.”

Tears poured down your cheeks at the snap of Thorin’s binds sliding off his hand he contorted to slip free with the use of his blood trickling out onto his palms. Lowering he tore at the ropes around his ankles freeing them to leap from his burning steak to yours. Again down in the flames in Smaug’s next roar he freed your legs. Inching up his hands patted your legs feeling the metal skin under your pants protecting you from burns, up again he leaned around the stake fumbling his fingers around the rope trying to untie you in another of Smaug’s roars. The prickling on the back of his neck let him know another burst of flames was coming making him turn again to fold around you. Whispering to him you said, “Thorin, let go.”

Flames burned and crackled only to fall deaf at his whisper, “You burn, I burn.” Wrapping around you his body tried to act as your shield, fisting your hair and sweater to keep you behind him in his pitifully withheld groans of pain making him push his forehead into the stake closing his eyes at the excruciating pain.

“Let go, Thorin.”

Muffled around you Smaug said, “You..fall! …always…” his voice died at the sudden death of the flames in a white blinding light when your shared marks glowed and burned in a sudden pull through what felt like miles of water.

“This is all my fault…”

Struggling against the pain of suffocation he heard your whisper again, “Let go, Thorin.” His fists at his sides unclenched in realizing you were no longer in his arms. A sharp gasp from him brought you back into his sights in his blink back into focusing on the garden.

Staggering backwards he fell into the arms of his stunned nephew Kili, who had shouted for the others in the first sight of his skin changing back again. “Uncle!” his arms folded over Thorin’s heaving chest, “You’re back! What was it like?”

Thorin’s eyes peered up at you and he mumbled, not seeing Thranduil entering the garden to listen, “We were in a kingdom, Smaug was telling the villagers to catch us. Demanding gold. They tied us to steaks,” his eyes tracing the retraction of your mithril form, “And they lit us on fire.” The words sunk in through the Company and the Elves listening in when you gasped and raised your hands to grip at your wrists free of any injury glancing around the growing group of people in the darkening of your eyes back to purple.

.

A single worried glance from you over the group gathering around you ended at Thorin’s standing and coming closer to you asking, “You see that? Every time you turn mithril?”

You nod, “Every time.”

Thranduil came into view and you looked him over, “I take it you’re the Elf King? I mean, you seem like the most, official guy here with that, crown?” Wetting your lips you asked as he moved closer taking in the difference in your eyes and hair, “I didn’t hurt your trees, did I? Dragons are pretty big.”

Shaking his head a smile ghosted across his lips, “No, Miss Pear, you did not damage our trees, and yes, it was quite a wave of gems and mithril scales Smaug turned into.” Extending his hand he asked, “Are you hungry?”

Nodding tentatively you replied laying your hand in his, “Little bit.”

.

Fully your experience was shared and over a full dinner everything delving into a full celebration growing as Elrond and Celeborn gathered for the Feast of Starlight. A knock on your door brought Thorin into your gifted apartment.

“About Rivendell, I understand why you must not trust me. Abandoning you like that, but please let me explain.”

You shook your head, “No, it’s fine, no need. I get it. We were drunk, it didn’t mean-,”

His hands extended and cradled yours you were trying to smooth across your middle, “Not in the least! It meant everything! Means everything! You are my One and we solidified our bond, we became intimate.” Wetting his lips he said, “I love you, my only issue with our sharing a bed was how thoughtless it was as far as your being able to conceive on the way to facing a Dragon. I wished to protect you, from me.” Inching closer he said, “You see, I have such a difficult time controlling myself around you. I, with Dwarves, when we meet our Ones, we have this unending urge to be with them, each and every way possible. I find you irresistible, and no doubt you would have gotten cold, or tired and I would have rushed to you and never let go rushing into a full heat over you, please forgive my wording, but bedding you as often as possible until a child was confirmed. I wished to do this right, when you were safe and we were home in Erebor.”

“So, it wasn’t something I did?” The tears in your eyes and tremble in your voice had him inching closer shaking his head, releasing one hand of yours to cup your cheek as you whimpered, “Because I waited, so long, and then we, got so close,” your lip began to quiver at a tear rolling down your cheek, “And you just wouldn’t come close to me.”

“I am, I can never forgive myself for doing that to you, and I will wait as long as possible until you trust me and wish to finalize our marriage.”

Softly you whispered, “Marriage?”

“We do not bed women at random, quite the opposite, it is rather, impossible to garner physical intimacy from a Dwarf unless you are to be bound.” Firmly his hand rested on your hip and already you could feel his pulse spiking at feeling the thin silk nightgown you had been given in Rivendell sliding against your skin leaving little hindrance at the very flimsy layers keeping his skin from yours.

Lowering your gaze over his chest his eyes trailed your lips as his fingers shifted to brush your hair behind your ear, tracing your jaw line as your fingers rose to pinch the tie holding the neck of his shirt together. “So, it’s been what? Two months?” Lowly a growl left him in a hungry exhale as you pulled the knot loose to trail fingertips between the strings into his dark chest hair and warm skin. “You have your mountain, your home-,”

“Our home. If you’ll have me still.”

“Thing is, it’ll take some time to clean, it is a mountain after all,” the trail of your fingers down his chest had his other hand gripping your other hip in the darkening of his eyes, “If you wanted to wait-,”

On his toes to close the few inches between you his lips were on yours and against the wall he pinned you to tangling himself with you as much as possible until you mumbled about the bed. Well into the morning he loved every inch of you and kept hold of you the rest of it, tracing his fingertips across your skin and through your hair singing to you adoringly while you slept soundly across his chest.

Pt 2

[alexsmitposts]

It is All about Race, Awful Hypocrisy Hypocrisy to Say it’s Not! While I am following closely various discussions on Western mass media and social media, simultaneously engaging in several direct exchanges, one overwhelming leitmotif that I see is clearly emerging: “What is happening in the United States (and the UK, France and other parts of Western Empire) is not really about the race. Let us protest peacefully, let us not allow ‘rioting’ to continue, and above all, please let us not single out the white race, Western culture as a sole villain. Let us have peace, love each other… Then things will miraculously improve; terrible occurrences will soon go away.” I have worked and lived on all continents, from far away island nations of South Pacific (Oceania), to Africa, the Middle East, Latin America, and Asia. Of course, I lived in Europe and North America, too. Colonialism, neo-colonialism, imperialism – these are all my topics. Seriously! I have been studying them, investigating them; I wrote and made various documentary films about them. On several occasions I came very close to losing my life, confronting them. My conclusion after all that I saw and experienced and survived? You can probably guess it: “To claim that the race is not what has been, for centuries, dividing our Planet, is outrageous hypocrisy. Or deranged wishful thinking. Or something much worse: it is calculated blindness that serves only the ruling, white group of people.” To make it blunt: Our Planet has been reduced to only two races: White and “the other”! On top of it, the color of one’s skin is not always identical to what the West, in general, perceives as the Caucasian/white race. To be “white” is the state of mind. It means: belonging to the culture which perceives itself as “superior”. The culture which sees itself as ‘exceptional’, and somehow ‘chosen’ to judge and advice the entire humanity. It also means ‘a state of indoctrination and obedience, as well as lack of intellectual courage’. All this, in exchange for the privileges; fabulous privileges! “Plunder the world, and live well above your means; live grotesquely plush life! And while you are living it, do not forget to whine, demand more, and keep repeating that ‘you are also exploited and, actually, a very poor victim’”. Denying the privileges is part of racism, too, as it demonstrates unexpectable spite for the real victims! Or, perhaps, self-imposed blindness. Citizens of some countries, such as Russia, Cuba, and Turkey, may look mainly ‘white’, but they are actually not. They are not invited to the ‘club’, because their mindset is different because they are not submissive because they think on their own. *** Such conclusions may not be popular in New York, London, Paris, or Berlin. Especially not now, when the United States and the entire West are in turmoil. The culture which was built on blood, bones, rape, and theft, ‘culture’ shaped by more than 500 years of colonialist terror, is now turning, twisting, and trying to justify itself. It tries to survive while staying in a driving seat. Countless editorials penned by both ‘conservative’ and so-called ‘liberal’ scribes are carpet-bombing the pages of newspapers at both sides of the Atlantic Ocean. Fear of perhaps mortally injured beast – Western regime and its citizens – is delectable by its repulsive stench, and it stinks for miles. Suddenly, most of the so-called ‘progressive’ publications do not want to hear from those writers and thinkers who are shooting powerful projectiles in the form of highly uncomfortable truth. Actually, in the West, there are hardly any true “left-wing” sites or magazines left, of course with some shining exceptions. What is really progressive these days? I don’t want to name the sites or publications here, but you are most likely aware of which ones I am talking about: they almost exclusively carry the stuff written by the Western/white men, for other white men’s consumption! They never cross the line: their criticism of the Western white-dominated world is half-hearted, “peaceful”; in short cowardly. A white man is an individual who has been brought up and indoctrinated in a certain way, who thinks, speaks, and writes in a manner that is expected from him or her by the Western regime. And all these ‘non-whites’, all over the world, including the minorities in the Western countries, are expected to sit on their asses, shut up and listen to him or her, but mostly him. And of course, to obey. Or else! Or else: they will be verbally attacked and humiliated, eventually, they will get sanctioned, their governments were overthrown, countries invaded. There will be corpses all over, the stench of burning flesh, overflowing mass graves. And ‘at home’, in the West? Bullets shot at their eyes, or necks squashed by military or police boots. So, what actually happened a few weeks ago to Mr. George Floyd, has been constantly happening to non-white people all over the world, to the entire communities and countries. Then, suddenly, people, all over the world, had enough! Almost everywhere, not just in China, Russia, Venezuela, Cuba, Iran, Libya, Syria, Iraq, and Afghanistan. Enough of being treated as some lower, subservient races. Enough of being treated like a scum; brutalized, killed like Mr. Floyd! *** Now, in the West, both liberal and conservative media is making noises, claiming that Mr. Floyd was “not a saint”, that he used to serve some time in prison. What can I say? People, in general, are not saints. People and countries. Very often, circumstances make them behave in a very nasty matter. But if you are raised as a second-class citizen, if you are beaten, day and night, by your own regime, are you expected to turn out to be a romantic poet? Get real! Our countries, non-Western ones, are not always behaving like saints, either. But they are still better, much better, than those that have been murdering hundreds of millions in their colonies! Don’t they understand, in Washington, London, and Paris, why those millions of people, from Tokyo to Buenos Aires, from Africa to Asia, are now marching in support for the African-American people? It is because all of us, outside Europe, North America, Australia, and New Zealand, are somehow related to Mr. Floyd! Yes, we read those phony essays. We observe those cynical little smiles on the faces of the people who are denying racial and racist division of the world. Individuals who are defending the status quo, the rule of that tiny minority over the planet, so they could maintain their advantages. Some defenders of status quo are now going as far as claiming that the rebellion against the white rulers is actually some sort of dark conspiracy theatre, triggered by the well-concealed business elites, or that it is connected to COVID-19; but above all, that it is not spontaneous at all. It is clear, where they really stand and what they want to achieve. It is never “them”. It is always somebody else. They keep pointing fingers at some invisible bankers, or the minorities in their own countries. You know precisely what I mean. As long as it is not them! But it is all much simpler: most of Europe and North America are constructed on white racism. And so is imperialism, colonialism. Citizens in the West are voting right-wing scum, voluntarily, and consistently. Can you imagine a genuine North American or European “internationalist”? Maybe a few. Perhaps 1%. Not more! So, the proverbial gold keeps flowing in. And billions of non-whites are rotting alive, in all corners of the globe. My friends, my comrades, all over the world, are now opening their eyes, realizing what is happening in the United States and its colonialist daddy: Europe. Many of them, of course, already knew. At least they knew something. But those who did not, are now wide awake, getting well aware of the brutality of the Western regime, as well as of the racist nature of the “global arrangement”. Those who were, for centuries, manufacturing consent, justifying and glorifying colonialism, imperialism, racial discrimination, as well as Western supremacy, can suddenly do nothing to stop the avalanche of awareness. This may be the beginning of the end of segregation, of global apartheid. Just the beginning of the true struggle for equality. A knee of a beefy white racist cop in Minneapolis, which had cut the supply of air, killing an African-American person, somehow managed to trigger that avalanche. Nobody wants to live like this. Oppressed nations do not want to be threatened this way by those white Western cynics and nihilists: like Clinton and Trump, Navarro, Pompeo, and others. What a hellish troop of third-rate violent people! Oppressed minorities inside the empire, be they of African descent, Hispanics or Chinese, are sick of the vicious and repulsive racism. Mostly, they are frightened to speak. But now, day by day, they are gaining courage. *** The United States of America has been built on the genocide of the non-white people. The great majority of native folks had been slaughtered so the small number of the first and brutal European settlers could thrive. This is “to some extend” known fact, but learning in-depth what really happened to the original inhabitants of ‘America’ has been thoroughly discouraged. Word ‘genocide’ is hardly ever uttered, in connection with the first chapters of U.S. history. Actually, it is taboo. Slavery has been turned into folklore. Millions, tens of millions of broken, methodically destroyed human lives, is hardly ever presented in its real, nightmarish authenticity. People in Africa were hunted down like animals, tortured, raped, killed, and shipped like cattle to the so-called ‘free’ and ‘democratic’ “New World”. Does a country constructed on such macabre foundations have really any moral right to call itself ‘free’? Can it be allowed to police the world? It is as if you would allow that murder cob who killed Mr. Floyd, to run a nation! And those states which are now forming Europe? Their citizens are the descendants of those who were hunting down millions of human beings. Offspring of those who perpetrated and then got rich on such mass-slaughters as those of the Namibians, or people who used to inhabit what is now known as Congo. When dragged to the broad daylight, it is all very, very uncomfortable, isn’t it? Better to sweep the truth under the carpet, and talk about “love”, “goodwill”. And then keep robbing and murdering as before, far away from the cameras! This way, nothing would ever change. Repeating over and over again: “race does not matter; it is actually all about class”, could make those who are in control of the world feel good about themselves, even sometimes sorry for themselves, which is actually their favorite state of mind. But it is a terribly hypocritical and deceptive position. And it has to be unveiled if there is ever to be justice! *** On 3 June 2020, UN News, published an essay condemning the situation in the United States: “Voices calling for an end to “the endemic and structural racism that blights US society” must be heard and understood, for the country to move past its “tragic history of racism and violence”, the UN Human Rights chief said on Wednesday. “The voices calling for an end to the killings of unarmed African Americans need to be heard”, UN High Commissioner for Human Rights Michelle Bachelet said in a statement. “The voices calling for an end to police violence need to be heard”.” Ms. Bachelet, a Chilean, knows precisely what she is talking about! She knows what it is to have someone’s knee choking your aorta. Her father, an army General during the socialist era of President Salvador Allende, was murdered after the US-sponsored coup led by Augusto Pinochet. Ms. Bachelet herself was kidnapped and tortured. She looked ‘white’, but obviously not ‘white enough’ for Washington and its local assassins. What is truly significant is that even the United Nations (usually subservient to the US) is now unwilling to remain silent. *** Race ‘issues’ have to be addressed. Racism, inside the national boundaries, as well as on the global scale, has to be fought against, by all means. The depressing state of our planet is a result of racism. Look at the map of the world at the beginning of the 20th century, and you will see: a great majority of the nations were colonized by the West. Colonialism is one of the most evident forms of racism. It humiliates victims, it robs them of everything: of culture, dignity, land. To a great extent, most of the world is still being colonized. Even right now, as this is being written. Almost the entire Planet is brutally controlled by the racist West-centric education system, and by the mass media which is controlled by the White boy’s Western narrative. Things have been arranged, so that the people in non-Western countries have been ‘learning’ and ‘getting informed’ about themselves from the Western curriculums and the fraudulent sources disseminated by the US and British media outlets. That is grotesquely racist, isn’t it? Close to 10 million people have died in the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC), in just a quarter of a century. It is because they have coltan, uranium, and other essential raw materials, desired by the West. But also, because to the West, their black lives matter close to nothing. My film, “Rwanda Gambit”, is clearly addressing the issue. But who cares? In the West, they rather watch porn, instead of learning the greatest genocide of the 20th Century, which they helped to trigger! And who cares about the West Papuans, who are murdered with almost the same intensity by the Indonesians, on behalf of their Western masters? After all, the West Papuans are blacks, therefore matter nothing. On those millions, mountains of corpses, huge companies, and even entire countries are thriving, prosper. While their CEOs and Presidents are talking rubbish about some ‘corporate responsibility’ and love for democracy. And most of the white Europeans, Canadians, Australians, have to sacrifice very little, in order to live their obnoxiously luxurious lives. Isn’t this racist? The entire arrangement of the world is! Soon, it will be impossible to hide behind all those lies. I work at the frontlines. Where human bodies are crushed by all that “love” of the white colonialism and racism, directly but also indirectly. Racist violence is the most repulsive and the creepiest thing on Earth. I want it to end; once and for all. I don’t care if some shops get looted or trashed in the process. Peaceniks who are crying over them are mostly sitting in their plush living rooms, watching censored news. They do not see those tens of millions of victims of racism rotting in tropical heat, floating on the surfaces of polluted rivers, thousands of kilometers away! Images of Mr. Floyd being murdered, slowly and sadistically, is as close as they ever got to reality. For centuries, they did all they could in order not to see. Now they are running out of excuses. Not to see, not to fight against the endemic global racism is a terrible crime. A crime that has been taking place for more than 500 years. The crime against humanity.