#I am not asking for apparel I cannot believe that was a hot take

[batfossil-fr]

had a dream they gave ancients flowerfalls in this update PLEASE god please give them something floaty

[grangerdangerfics]

Unicorns

Written as part of a Terrible Tropes drunk drabble with @provocative-envy, @scullymurphy, and @pacific-rimbaud Pairing: Sirius/Luna Rating: M, probably? Tags: Muggle AU, Terrible Tropes, Funeral Home Meet-Cute Warnings: Age Difference (both over 18), verrry light bondage, I wrote this while I was drunk so keep that in mind, I am calling this a drabble but it is ?? 1600+ words It’s Sirius’s second Thursday back at the family business when he first sees her.

Fuck, East L.A. is hot. Hot in a different way than Thailand was hot or Aruba was hot or even than Mexico was hot. Those were all a lounge on the beach with your sixth mai tai kind of hot. A fresh white linens in a king resort suite with mosquito netting around the bed kind of hot. This is a depressing, sizzling pavement in front of a strip mall funeral home next to a dubious-looking mattress store kind of hot.

And of course his pride will not allow him business apparel less formal than these black slacks, this pressed black button down, this insufferable gray and purple paisley silk tie, usually beloved but now cursed and damp with his neck sweat. Even without the suit coat his ensemble is murder in this weather.

Lovegood Funeral Services has a sort of dingy and disappointing feeling to it, the same general vibe as if you were leaving your beloved dead to rest at a Greyhound bus station, but at least it is air conditioned. As soon as Sirius steps through the door, he’s blasted with a wave of blissfully cold air so forceful that his sweat-slick black curls, down to his shoulders now, are tossed back like he is in a shampoo commercial.

The girl at the desk is texting furiously, her blond ponytail bobbing. Perky, even in avoidance. A little chime announces his entrance, the same four notes an old clock might make on a quarter of the hour, but she doesn’t look up. Sirius plasters on his best sales smile and glances at the silver magnetic name tag fastened precariously close to the cleavage-heavy bust line of what can only be described as an LBD.

“Lavender,” he says, with his trademark easy charm. “How are you today? Hot one, huh?”

Lavender, presumably, does nothing to acknowledge his existence. Her brow furrows as she stabs at her smartphone.

“Listen, Lavender, I’m sure you’re busy, but I’m out here with Black Family Caskets. We had a contract with you all in the past, and I’d like to talk to you about your renewal options…”

The hairs on Sirius’s neck rise, and he has the curious, prickling, discomfiting sensation that he is being watched. It is definitely not by Lavender, who has merged entirely with her rose gold iPhone 11.

He looks up.

“Jesus fucking Christ!”

At the top landing of the Gothic staircase rising behind the front desk, a woman in her mid-twenties with flowing white blonde hair down to her waist is standing silently in a white linen shift dress, staring at him with somewhat vacant clear blue eyes.

She’s pretty. Kind of disturbing, but definitely pretty.

Lavender finally looks up, and seeing the horror on his face, glances over her shoulder. “Oh,” she says with a shrug. “Yeah. That’s Luna.”

“Luna?” Sirius swallows as Luna, apparently, floats down the stairs and comes to stand directly between him and Lavender, approximately six inches closer to him than social etiquette would deem appropriate.

She peers right into his eyes, and he falls into the blue sea of her gaze, transfixed.

“The dead are … quiet today.” She speaks softly, directly into the deepest realest part of him, then turns abruptly and drifts back up the stairs, sing-songing a nursery rhyme in a minor key.

Sirius stares after her, blinking hard.

“She’s the owner’s daughter,” Lavender says, tossing her hands up noncommittally. “You get used to it.”

“Oh.” Usually Sirius would be able to snap back, offer some friendly retort. Make Lavender like him. But he feels … strangely shaken. Strangely taken with this strange funeral home’s strange daughter.

“If you give me your card,” — Lavender pops her gum and resumes texting, not looking up as she speaks to him — “I’ll give it to Xeno. I know he likes your caskets.” She suddenly beams, a dazzling smile, which is puzzling because she isn’t looking at Sirius at all. Then he hears a digital click and realizes that she is taking a selfie.

Sirius slides his business card across the counter. For the rest of the day, he contemplates Luna’s blue eyes, ponders the silence of the dead.

—

The second time he sees her is on his third Friday back on the job. He’s popped by Lovegood Funeral Services to make sure the caskets were delivered as planned. To make sure they are properly arranged in the display room as befits the Black Family name, under Regulus’s orders.

Lavender, communing with her phone again, and in another black dress that is about four inches too short for the situation, leads him wordlessly to the showroom and gestures him in, then leaves him there under the roar of the air conditioner.

It’s cool and quiet in the showroom. Refreshingly still, the only noise the white noise of the AC. Sirius runs one hand over the Joshua Natural Grained Solid Oak Casket with gray silk lining, admires the Homestead Teak Casket with a tasteful black interior.

And then his neck tingles again. He senses her before he sees her.

Luna Lovegood sits bolt upright from where she has seemingly ensconced herself in the Orion Mahogany Deluxe casket with vermilion satin cushioning. Her smile is jarring, ever so slightly unhinged. Sirius feels his pulse throb in his throat. He isn’t sure if it is fear or desire. He isn’t sure he cares.

“Oh, hello Sirius. I’ve just had the loveliest nap.”

Sirius, who cannot recall ever telling her his name, freezes. Until she beckons him with one milky white hand.

He goes to her as though pulled by invisible magnetic forces.

She grabs hold of his tie. Crimson today, peppered with little gold fleur de lis. She waves her other pale hand in a spiral around his right temple. “You have so many nargles,” she says dreamily. “You do know the best cure for nargles?”

“Nargles?” he asks blankly. She’s wearing another white dress, this one with long lace bell sleeves, and she smells like patchouli, sandalwood, something else he can’t quite place. Her earrings appear to be … a pair of French radishes? Relatively fresh. But he barely registers this before he falls again, transfixed, into her fathomless eyes. “The best cure?”

“Sex of course, silly,” Luna says with a girlish giggle, passing one velvet soft thumb down his jawline.

Sirius swallows and tries, wistfully, to recall the last time he fucked someone. Amy, probably, that swimwear model, in Tahiti. That was three months gone now, before Regulus had called him back.

“I could help you with that, you know.” Luna has wrapped his tie around her hand twice, and she pulls him closer, closer, until their faces are only inches apart. She is still making uncomfortably intense eye contact, still sitting inside the model casket. Sirius’s favorite casket, if he had to choose.

“LUUUU-NA!” Lavender bellows from the other room. “YOUR DAD WANTS YOU!”

She hops out of the casket, steadying herself on his shoulder.

“Come see me,” Luna croons over her shoulder as she skips off with a childish giggle.

At the desk, Sirius passes another of his business cards to Lavender. “Would you give this to Luna for me?”

Lavender rolls her eyes, unceasing in the tapping of her thumb against her phone. “Fine.”

On the forty-five minute commute back to his soulless marble-encrusted bachelor pad, Sirius wonders about nargles.

—

The third time he sees her is on his fourth Saturday back.

This time, he is not here on business.

He parks his Lexus on the street behind the funeral home, looking towards the back door, where she’s asked him to meet her.

While he waits, he scrolls through her texts again. Seven crystal balls. Something apocryphal and indecipherable about nargles. Three sparkle emojis on either side of “you are beautiful.”

What is he even doing?

And then Luna emerges from the battered backdoor of Lovegood Funeral Services, moving past the enormous blue dumpster with so much grace that she almost appears to be hovering off the ground. Her dress is white, of course, but strappy, tighter than he has come to expect. 

It’s so hot that even from thirty feet away, she looks hazy to him through the heat waves rising from the blacktop.

Feeling as though he has left his body, he slams the car door behind him, locks it with the fob. He crosses towards her, and she meets him halfway. Her hand, when it clutches his, is improbably cool.

She leads him next door to the fleabag motel. He does not ask any questions when she produces a key card. He does not ask any questions when she pushes him down on the bed and wraps his tie — a delicate floral in yellow, gray, and black — around his wrists and knots it. He does not ask any questions as she sinks down onto him, moaning more sincerely, more earnestly than anyone he has been with has in at least a decade.

“You have to say my name — mmm —  when you come,” she whispers, bobbing above him. “To — oh — dispell — mmm — the nargles.”

He ejaculates so hard that he almost cries. He comes, of course, shouting her name.

“There,” she whispers after, draping herself over him very thoroughly, and even if it is a bit cloying, she kisses his nose with endearing tenderness. “Your nargles are gone now.”

It is the best sex of his life, and that is saying something.

On the long drive home through the slow crawl of traffic, Sirius considers Luna.

He is ready to believe in nargles, unicorns, ley lines, Tantric orgasms, the various stutterings and silences of the dead. He is ready to buy a dozen dead roses and have them delivered to her door.

Because, you know, she would get it.

Sirius is pretty sure that Luna is magic.

[nasfera2]

VOODOO's liner notes, written by Saul Williams.

To be the son of a preacher man was once African American cultural royalty. As traditional churches have grown empty many of us have been left to wander these haunted castles like that displaced Prince of Denmark, contemplating the paths of our mothers: that electric lady that landed us here in the first place. The Aquarian Age is a matriarchal age, and if we are to exist as men in this new world many of us must learn to embrace and nuture that which is feminine with all of our hearts (he-arts). But is there any room for artistry in hip hop’s decadent man-sion? Have we walked our Timberlands soleless…soul-less? When you pour that wine on the ground in that video shoot that has become your life will you be ready to hear the voice that pours from the bottle to inebriate the very ground on which we walk? It is libations such as these that are the start of every voodoo ceremony. And let us not forget that that is why we have come.

We have come in the name of Jimi, Sly, Marvin, Stevie, all artists formerly known as spirits and all spirits formerly known as stars. We have come in the tradition of burning bushes, burning ghettos, burning splifs, and the ever-burning candles of our bedrooms and silent chambers. We have come bearing instruments and our voices: Falsetto and baritone, percussion and horns. We have come adorned in the apparel of the anointed: leather and feathers, jeans and t-shirts, linen and cashmere, and even polyester. We have come to seduce and serenade the night and the powers of darkness. We speak of darkness, not as ignorance, but as the unknown and the mysterious of the unseen.

Envision this: a lone man in a haunted room surrounded by glowing instructments. What sounds are evoked from a room where Jimi once slept? What are the rewards of those who tend to their God-given talents as they would have the Creator tend to their spirits and daily lives? What happens when the artist becomes the conjur man? These are questions that seem to be null and void in the face of all the glitter and glamour that has dominated most successful Black artistry of recent years. We seem to be more preoccupied with cultivating our bank accounts than cultivating our crafts. Nowadays, I find my peers more inspired by an artist’s business tactics than their artistry. In fact, we do not seem to mind an artistry that suffers in the face of seemingly good business. More artists seem to yearn to own their own labels, etc., than they seem to yearn to master their crafts. No, we cannot allow any more Bessie Smiths to occur, but once an artist owns their own publishing the question then becomes, what are you going to publish? Of course, I am using the word “artist” loosely. I, personally, believe in an art as it exists in the context of the phrase “thou art God”. In this phrase, art is the word that connects the individual (thou) to their higher self (God) or to that which is universal. Using such a standard, most emcees might become embarrassed.

Whoa! Why am I attacking hip hop? ‘Cause I’m a lyricist, son, a lyricist that has had to serve as his own inspiration when most of my peers seem to idolize Donald Trump more than Sly Stone, when they don’t seem to realize that Jimi Hendrix was and is a sonic Bill gates. Oh shit, don’t make me call no names.

Now, you may ask, “Well what does this have to do with D’Angelo?” My answer: Inspiration. Here is a peer that is focused wholly on his craft and has given himself the challenge of bettering himself. I mean really, D could have come out with any ol’ follow-up album after Brown Sugar dropped so that he could double his sales “While he’s still hot.” You know, an album that sounds just like Brown Sugar, uses all the same formulas, so that audiences don’t have to think ….or grown, they just keep liking the same shit. He could even sample songs that you’re already familiar with so that you don’t have to go through the “hard work” of getting used to a new melody or bass line. Y’all don’t hear me.

You might respond, “Lyrics? Yo, I can’t even understand half the shit that D’Angelo be saying. That nigga sounds like Bobby McFerrin on opium.” And I’d say, “You’re right. Neither can I. But I am drawn to figure out what it is that he’s saying. His vocal collaging intrigues me.” Or you might say, “But his shit don’t sound all that original, he just sounds like he’s trying to be Prince or some shit.” And I’d say, maybe you’re right. At times he does. We often study the breathing techniques of our inspirations (inspire means to breathe in or to make breath, inhale). And that’s also true for most of you, emcees. I mean, don’t ¾ of y’all niggas sound like NAS? The difference is that D’Angelo has allowed influence to simply take its place among his own intuitive artistry. He works to find his own voice within his many influences. I’d pay to see Prince’s face as he listens to this album (Ahmir, ? of The Roots, said that the Artist lets Black people call him Prince). Do you think he’d feel robbed or inspired? My opinion, over the years as I’ve sat in countless conversations about why it is that the Artist puts out half the shit he does (you know the half I’m talking about) is because he lacks any new inspiration. Once again an artist is faced with the reality of having to serve as their own inspiration after they have worn out all their Sly, Jimi, Marvin, Stevie ( I do not mean to ignore the many inspirational female singers, I’m just making a point as regards this male vocalist)…

Damn, is there any way to speak of that which is feminine without having masculinity right in the middle of it? Female. Woman. Unless, of course, these words came first and we later dervied male and man from them. Somehow, I doubt that. We need a new language to go along with this new age. And a new music.

Thus, we have come. As we prepare to journey, we must decide which elements of our sonic past we are going to pack to carry with us into this new day this new sound. The distilled ambiance of an Al Green song, the ambiguous sexual majesty of a Prince song, the creative genius of Stevie Wonder…D’Angelo has made his choices, carefully weaving them into his character, and has courageously stepped into the void bearing these sonic offerings to be delivered to the beckoning goddess of the new age. I do not wish to overly dissect this album. It’s true dissection occurs in how it seeps into your life shapes your moments. What you were doing when you realized he was saying this or that? How it played softly in the back ground when you first saw him or her. How you kept it on repeat on that special night. You’ll see. These songs are incantations, testaments of artistry, confessions of an Aquarius as he steps into his own. ---text written by Saul Williams

[dorianfiftyshadesof-gray]

Illusion in the Dream

Chapter IV

Summary: Loki has a choice: a lifetime imprisonment or a marriage to an enemy princess for an alliance. He chooses the latter. The Princess Sigyn is forced into an arranged marriage by her father, Surt of Muspelheim, to a stranger Asgardian Prince. Fire and Ice; the two could not be more different yet both can cause destruction.

Pairing: Loki x Sigyn

Word Count: 1097

Rating: M

Warnings: None

Previous Chapter...

Am I sure I’m in Asgard and not Jotunheim? How is this “summer” for the Aesir? Sigyn tries to gather more blanket to wrap around herself. To no avail, she lets out a loud huff and turns around. Through her balcony, the night sky illuminates her room with a soft glow. Sigyn slips out of her bed and begins to walk about the room, wrapping her arms around herself. To her left is an enormous, white-marble bathing room, with a sizeable claw-foot tub in the middle.

Opening the doors of her bedchamber, Sigyn strolls into the antechamber, her bare feet slapping against the tiled flooring. She blows on a rococo candelabra, setting each wick aflame with her magic. The flickering light irradiates the room, sending a surging feeling of homesickness through Sigyn. She cannot help it, the sentiment clinging to her like a blister on skin. She should feel relieved to leave a home that has betrayed her; chewed her, and spat her back out again. Yet, it is her home anyhow.

Sigyn settles herself on one of the settee sofas, gazing at the candles. Tomorrow, she shall meet with the Allfather and discuss the negotiations of the treaty. Her father has sent a diplomatic party along, so she will not be completely alone in the lion's den. Sigyn's eyelids begin dropping, tiredness wracking her body into a fitful slumber. The firelight extinguishing alongside with her.

***

"Your Highness," a feminine voice awkwardly coughs.

Sigyn rouses awake, nose pressing into the couch. Turning around, she finds herself face-to-face with one of her handmaids, eyes disconcerted.

"What is it?" Sigyn grumbles.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, Your Highness, but the negotiations shall convene within the next hour."

Sigyn dismisses the handmaid with the wave of her hand. Once alone, she drags herself up with a groan, her limbs stiff from the uncomfortable position she slept in. Ambling to the bathing room, she is met with a hot bath. Sigyn strips off her nightgown, the material pooling at her feet, and hops into the tub. The heated water soothes her aching body, washing away the tension. When clean, she dries herself off with a towel and examines her appearance in the large mirror. Dark circles encompass her steely-black eyes as she stares at herself. She runs a brush through her bed-head hair then braids it back. She applies a lotion on her face then a charcoal liner upon her eyelids. This is as presentable as I'm going to get, it seems.

Wrapping a robe around her body, she finds her bed made and her handmaid awaiting her attendance.

"Shall I assist you in getting dressed, Your Highness?" the woman asks.

"That won't be necessary," Sigyn declines, loathing the idea of a stranger assisting her for such personal matters.

The handmaid gives her a confused and slightly judgemental look before leaving with a curtsey. Sigyn presumes her new handmaids and she won't be chums. She recalls how well she and her attendants in Muspelheim got along, drinking and gossiping till the late hours of the night. She dresses herself in a high-collar black gown, embroidered with gold with a fitted bodice and a flared skirt. Respectable, dignified, spartan. Sigyn finishes off the look with an aureate headpiece, a symbol of her stature. She will show these Asgardians that she is not some little girl held captive, she is the daughter of a king, forged with iron; a warrior at heart. She will settle for nothing less.

---

Why is my presence even expected at the negotiations? In what way do they think I excel at diplomacy? Does no one remember that time I started a war? Or that other time when I started a war?

When dressed in his formal armour, something glinting in the sunlight catches Loki's eye. A wry chuckle of derision escapes his lips at the sight of the golden crown. Though it is expected he wears his most dignified apparel for the best possible impressions, the pang of personal depletion stings no less. The antlered headdress reminding him of his failures on Midgard. Loki settles crown upon his ebony-locked head, heavy with weight and shame. The feeling of it is familiar but nevertheless painful.

He gazes at himself in the full-length mirror, beholding the God he used to be. The one who had power dripping from his teeth, who made every pathetic mortal kneel before him, an embodiment of divinity. Now, he is a hollow ghost of that figure, dressing in make-believe. He detests this feeling; like a ragged tempest trapped inside a puddle.

Loki appraises himself one last time before leaving his rooms, not wanting to give Odin the pleasure of chiding his tardiness. The guards positioned outside his door follow him a few paces behind, hands readily grasping the hilts of their swords. How wonderful, I have my own babysitters. Loki makes his way to one of the smaller halls where the meeting is to commence. As he reaches the entrance, he turns to the guards.

"Relax men, I just managed to elude the dungeons. It is fairly unlikely I will do something to only end up back in that predicament."

The guards warily eye each other before standing to attention.

"Good call," Loki snickers.

The Allfather sits at the head of the table, and his ministers in a row across one end. They look up at him, expressions indifferent, then returning to discussing their strategies before the Muspelheimian counterparts arrive. Odin offers Loki a curt nod as he takes his place, leaning against a pillar. He notes Thor's absence. He's probably off hitting something with that hammer, the only way he knows how to solve an issue.

The visiting delegates soon pool into the chamber, all dressed in the traditional black robes of their realm, and bow at the Allfather. As the envoys stand behind their designated seats, the Asgardian ministers and Odin rise. Sigyn enters, head high. Loki only now realises how small she is, at least more than a foot shorter than he; even in the heeled boots she is wearing. Despite her practically dwarfish stature, she poses a rather intimidating silhouette, holding a commanding gaze to the men surrounding her.

Sigyn positions herself on the other head of the table and curtsies towards Odin. "Allfather, it is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance."

Odin returns the gesture with a bow and an affable smile. "Princess Sigyn, so good of you to join us."

As Sigyn sits, the rest of the congregation follows.

The Allfather clasps his hands on the table. "Let us begin."

A/N: Yikes, I haven't updated this in more than a year. If you're still interested I'll be resuming this story on a more regular basis. Feel free to give some feedback (especially on grammar and such because I know there are probably some errors on this). I'd love to have an editor if anyone is interested!!

[deans-baby-momma]

Mainstreet

Y/N: Part 5 of my Hiatus Story. Eight more weeks until the premiere of Season 14. Who’s excited? I know I am. But while we wait, here is another installment; the prompt was Bob Seger’s song, Mainstreet. Mostly just the name. LOL ENJOY!!! With all the extra people now living in the Bunker, our food and rations depleted much more quicker than usual. It was swiftly decided that since we were the most known in the community, having lived here for 5 years, Cas and I would venture out on a supply run to replenish the provisions.                                   The angel lingered in the war room while I went to mine and Dean’s room to clean up a bit and look presentable. Since Dean had saved me from myself and my soul-draining lifestyle, I had started caring more about my appearance. Once I was dressed and looked decent, I met Cas and headed to the garage.Although the garage housed almost every type of classic car imaginable, I walk over to my 1988 Chevrolet Silverado. 

The red and white truck is my prized possession. I cherish it as much as Dean did Baby. The truck’s only moniker, though, is Mine; as in, it belonged to me. The only time anyone else was allowed behind it’s wheel was when Dean gave regular tune-ups. I hop into the driver’s seat as Cas slides into the passenger’s. “Buckle up for safety,” I singsong as I click my seatbelt into place. The confused look of the seraph’s face makes me laugh loudly.

“I do not need a harness for my safety,” Cas deadpans, causing me to laugh harder as I turn the key.Lebanon, Kansas is a quaint little town with a population of less than 300 people; well, now with the apocalyptic world people the Winchesters and I brought back through the rift, it’s probably closer to that 300, but no one is aware of their presence. Known as the center of the United States, Lebanon revels in that fact. As I drive down Mainstreet, I look at the charming city that dotes on tourism and travelers who journey through.

I drop Cas off at the municipal library to peruse their books and publications for information about the battle between Michael and Lucifer. We make plans to meet at Ladow’s Market afterwards.  As soon as he shuts the door, I press the gas and head off to run my errands.The post office is my first stop. Sam had been awaiting a package from a fellow hunter before he disappeared with Jack and Lucifer. Since taking up residence in the Bunker, the younger Winchester has assumed the task of updating the lore books and tomes. With the box addressed to him safely secured behind the seat of my truck, I take off toward my next destination, the hardware store.As soon as I step over the threshold of Lebanon Home & Garden Mr. Davis, the store’s only cashier welcomes me with a smile. “So good to see you today. Shopping alone?”

“Hello, Mr. Davis. Yea, I’m by myself,” I answer as I grab a cart. “Well just yell if you need help. Since you don’t have the two strong young men with you.”           I take the bags filled with ammunition, rope, sacks of rock salt, spray paint, and a new first aid kit and load them into the bed of my truck, silently thanking Chuck that Mr. Davis has never inquired about our abundant need for many of the items we purchase in his store. The sun is shining, not a cloud in the sky causing me to sweat. It’s hot but there is still a slight chill in the air. I wipe my brow with the sleeve of my flannel. 

The dry cleaner’s, where I pick up the fed suits we all owned, always freaks me out. I’m just waiting for the day that the owners, Mr. and Mrs. Kwan, to mention the amount of blood and apparent bodily fluids they must clean from the garments we bring in. But once again, the couple are all smiles as they hand me the clean outfits in apparel bags. I breathe a sigh of relief as I leave the business.

Cas is patiently waiting for me at the door to Ladow’s. He asks if I was able to procure all our needs and I nod my head before pulling the grocery list from my pocket and rip it in half. Cas grabs two carts and hands me one and I hand him his half of the paper. I follow him through the aisles of food and grab what is needed. I watch as Cas meticulously selects fruits and vegetables, laughing when an overly ripe tomato splatters him as he checks it for firmness. Cas looks over at me with a bitch face that would rival Sams.                                           And that causes me to begin missing the tall hunter and the nephilim. I turn my cart and head to the dry goods section.It’s only been a few days since the confrontation with Lucifer and his subsequently disappearing from the Bunker with his son and Sam. We are still no closer to finding them than we were then. We have no idea where Lucifer would’ve run off to and none of the myths and legends, lore and knowledge in the Bunker is giving any guidance. I hen begin to think about Dean. Dean, the bold but sensitive and caring, cocky yet still humble, courageous but cautious hunter; the love of my life; father of my child. Once he said yes and allowed Michael to use him, he also vanished. Off the fight his brother and to fight for his brother. I pray that he/they succeed in his/their endeavors./ I hang on to the hope and belief that Dean will keep his promise to me, to never leave or abandon me since rescuing me all those years ago. Now I need him more than ever. I need his beside me, with me as he child grows within me. 

Cas loads the groceries into the truck bed while I return the emptied carts. I smile as I catch a glimpse of Mrs. Ladow watching us through the window.    

“How are you today?” Mrs. Ladow asks as she begins scanning items.      “Good. And you?”She looks up as soon as she recognizes my voice. Mrs. Ladow and I were somewhat acquaintances, friends even. She is an older lady who treats everyone like one of her grandchildren. Always making sure they are happy and well taken care of; telling them that if there is ever anything she could do just to let her know. She and I had gotten close since I was the one who mostly did the shopping in her store. Her eyes rake over me and she smiles brightly. “Child you are glowing! Are you in the family way?”                                  I grin as I chuckle at her old-fashioned terminology. “Yes, I’m going to have a baby,” I happily tell her.                                                                                     “And that man of yours is allowing you to do all this shopping by yourself?” she asks, looking abhorred.                                                                                    “He’s away on business. But I didn’t come alone,” I explain to her as Cas comes into her line of sight. “Oh yes. The young man who speaks so eloquently. How are you today?”                                                                                           “Cannot complain,” Cas tells her as he finishes emptying his cart.Mrs. Ladow finishes cashing us out and comes around the machine to hug me. She smells distinctly of apples and cinnamon and wintergreen from the muscle rub I knew she used religiously. “You stay safe, child. You are not only responsible for yourself anymore but that tiny one too!”

I walk across the parking lot, placing a hand on my still flat stomach, knowing that a part of Dean is there. 

Back at the Bunker, Bobby directs the young men to unload the truck as I take the package for Sam to his room. In the kitchen, amongst a flurry of activity, Mary instructs the young females and girls of where everything goes. I smile as I watch them all. If Dean accomplishes his mission by defeating Lucifer and saving Sam and Jack, I do believe everything may be okay, finally!

PLEASE LET ME KNOW YOUR THOUGHTS HERE

@xxdragonagequeenxx @carryonmywaywardcaptain @sunskittlex @wayward-gypsy @darlingpeanut @sea040561

[mazurah]

Lost in Time Ch. 42: Paranoia - An Elder Scrolls Fanfic

Chapter Summary: Ma’zurah and Fayrl plan a murder and visit Morvunskar.

Cross posted from Ao3. Chapter Rating: T for canon typical violence.

First Chapter - Previous Chapter - Next Chapter

Lost in Time Chapter 42: Paranoia

They appeared behind the Bannered Mare in Whiterun. Ma'zurah blinked, adjusting her eyes to the sudden bright sunlight; it was a startling change from the deep cloudy shade of Witchmist Grove.

Fayrl shaded his eyes. “I don't know if I'll ever get used to that sensation.”

He turned and kissed Ma'zurah softly, then with more force. “It would be best if we cleaned the rings before we returned them. The stench and dried blood may raise some suspicions.”

Ma'zurah nodded in acknowledgement and closed her eyes, biting her lip and leaning forward in Fayrl’s arms, begging him with her body language for more kisses. It was barely midday and she was already so tired. Injuries and healing would both do that to a person, but his arms felt so nice around her.

Fayrl stroked Ma’zurah’s back, noting the look of fatigue upon her features. “Perhaps it is best if we find a place to rest first.”

He picked her up in his arms with a grin. “Let me transport you this time.”

“Ai! Fayrl! Ma'zurah can walk just fine on her own!” She rolled out of his arms with tail flailing and fished in her pack for a waterskin. “Here, wash the rings.”

Fayrl pouted. “You never let me have any fun.” He retrieved the rings and held them out to her.

Ma'zurah grinned at him and poured water over the gold bands in his hand. “Ma'zurah lets Fayrl have plenty of fun,” she told him in a suggestive tone.

“Well, we could always have more.” Fayrl glanced down and noticed the blood drying on the fabric of his velvet tunic. “By Azura’s arse! Can I not have a single garment free of blood for more than a day? Why, this tunic is absolutely ruined. I am going to have to purchase yet another outfit!”

He had bought new clothing in Windhelm, but he was trying to hold onto the newer outfits for a couple of days before dirtying them. Now he would have no choice but to wear them. Life with Ma’zurah in the fourth era was terribly hard on apparel. He grumbled under his breath and pulled his tunic over his head.

Ma'zurah burst out laughing. “Fayrl should wear his armor or start using that bow, and maybe Fayrl’s clothes would last longer!”

Fayrl frowned. “The armor is ridiculously hideous! I do not wish to be seen in it. I can make a fool of myself perfectly fine without looking like a jester.”

He folded his tunic neatly, setting it atop a water barrel against the side of the inn, and giving it a sorry look. “A shame. I think it was a good color on me.”

“Fayrl!” Ma'zurah huffed in exasperation. “Just wash the clothes! If Fayrl does not like the armor he can modify it to his taste! It has a resist frost enchantment on it. Fayrl should really wear it more. Does Fayrl really wish to die for fashion?”

“If one cannot live beautifully, is it really worth it?” Fayrl asked stubbornly. “I don’t think there is any way to modify that ugly pile of carcasses to ‘suit my tastes’. I really should trade it in and get something more decent looking. I’d rather be seen in a sack than that fur trimmed monstrosity!”

“Well if Fayrl dislikes fur so much,” Ma’zurah snipped, “Ma’zurah will just cover herself up completely for Fayrl, so he does not have to be seen with her tacky fur!”

Fayrl gave her a confused stare. “What would give you the ridiculous impression I do not like fur? The fur is the best part of that pile of shit! It is the only flair it could ever hope to achieve. It is the construction and overall appearance all together that is so terrible.”

Ma’zurah snickered. “Sometime Fayrl should get Ma’zurah to tell the story of the Spotted Dreugh and the most hideous set of armor that Ma’zurah has ever seen!” She began walking around to the front of the inn, gesturing for Fayrl to follow her.

Fayrl picked up his pack and walked after her. “You mean there is armor more hideous than that Nordic pile of buffoonery?” He laughed. “I should very much like to hear that story. Perhaps over a drink and a hot meal.”

“Ma’zurah thinks that sounds lovely. But perhaps Fayrl should trade a story of his own for Ma’zurah’s stories. One true tale for one true tale, fair?”

Fayrl laughed again. “I promise you the tall tales are far more entertaining and believable than the true stories.”

They rounded the corner into the market square. Ysolda spotted them immediately and began walking towards them with determination in her step.

As soon as he saw Ysolda, Fayrl smiled widely. He really did not want to deal with the woman again so soon.

“Well, have you got my coin or rings back?” asked Ysolda in a voice only vaguely masking her anxiety. “I think I have been more than fair in my patience. But I have a trade deal I wish to make with a caravan that’s due to come through soon and I cannot afford loose ends.”

“Yes, we just returned from retrieving the rings,” Ma’zurah replied. She gestured to Fayrl to give them to Ysolda.

Fayrl handed Ysolda the two gold bands, placing them in her hands.

Ysolda lifted them up and inspected them in turn, scrutinizing each ring carefully. “They appear to be as they were given to you.” She produced the ring Fayrl had given her as collateral. “I can see you appear to be in need of some clothes. Perhaps you would care to sell this heirloom so you might afford a shirt?”

Fayrl smiled at her, taking his ring back gently. “It is a very kind offer, but I am afraid that the ring is priceless to me. I have felt its absence deeply and do not wish to be parted again so soon after getting it back.”

Ysolda nodded. “Very well. Your loss.” She paused. “Look, for what it’s worth, I am sorry it didn't work out with you and your ladies. I know how excited you were for the wedding. You kept saying it would be a huge ceremony at Morvunskar. You said you even had some magic staff there that would handle all the guests. Maybe you two should think about one another instead of other people?"

Fayrl looked to Ma’zurah. “Perhaps,” he said.

Ma’zurah turned to Fayrl and fluttered her eyelashes at him. “Ma’zurah does not know, does Fayrl think Ma’zurah is pretty?”

Fayrl turned his head, acting bashful. “I have always thought that,” he said. “Have I not said?”

Ysolda smiled. “I’ll leave you two to talk then.” She walked off with a soft giggle and a pleased expression.

Ma’zurah smiled after Ysolda then took a step closer to Fayrl. “No, Fayrl has not actually said,” she teased, “But Ma’zurah thinks Fayrl is very pretty.”

“How very careless of me then,” Fayrl said, turning back to her. “I think you are more than just pretty. You are beautiful, radiant as the moons and stars combined, dazzling as the sun’s glint off the ocean. What can mere words do to describe a beauty such as yours? They fall short in mastering the proper depth.”

Ma’zurah gave him an unimpressed stare. “Fayrl is teasing Ma’zurah.” She turned away to head for the inn, but paused upon hearing a distressed voice from the other end of the market.

“Mikael, I have told you for the last time! Leave! Me! Alone!”

Ma’zurah turned to look and spotted Mikael the bard leaning into a dark haired woman’s personal space next to a stall of vegetables. “You can’t fool me, Carlotta. I know you love the chase just as much as I love pursuing you. Your fiery temperament just makes the flames of my passion burn all the brighter for you.” He leaned forward as though to kiss the woman.

The woman slapped him across the face and stormed to the other side of her stall. The bard bit his lip with a devious expression, and turned to go back to the inn. “Mark my words, lovely Carlotta!” he called over his shoulder. “I will conquer you as a true Nord conquers any harsh beast!”

Fayrl’s eyes narrowed. He could not stand seeing that sort of behavior. He was not going to tolerate it. He still had the man’s lute--a perfect bargaining chip, and perhaps a way to win the man’s trust.

Warmth radiated from the Ebony Blade strapped to his side. He looked down at it. It felt as though it was smiling at him. “Are you thirsty?” he asked the blade.

The blade seemed to pulsate with energy like an excited child promised scrib jelly or a sweetroll.

“I will prepare the perfect meal for you then,” he promised it. He turned to Ma’zurah. “I have a new friend I should like to make before we leave.”

Ma’zurah nodded firmly, a look of disgust on her face as she watched the retreating bard’s form. “How can Ma’zurah help?” she asked in Dunmeris.

“How much would you like to lead a fool towards justice?” Fayrl asked in the same language, his hand lingering on the hilt of the Ebony Blade.

Ma’zurah glanced at the blade, then up at Fayrl’s face. “Ma’zurah will help however Fayrl thinks is best.”

Fayrl’s face lit up. “You will? Truly?” He felt himself growing excited at the prospect of them working together to dispatch the foul man.

“That man,” Ma’zurah nodded in the direction of the closing inn door, “is disgusting. Ma’zurah thinks Fayrl has picked a perfect target for the Lady’s task.” She pressed her lips together in anger.

“Well, I think the easiest way to get him to do as we wish is through seduction. Though, that may be asking a lot from you, my dear.”

Ma’zurah hesitated. “Is there another way that will also work?”

“If you allow me use of one of your dresses, I can take the lead. But a man like that has one very glaring weakness and I have every intention of using it to bring him to his knees and regret only too late the mistake he has made.” Fayrl did not wish to ask anything of Ma’zurah she was not willing to do. If need be, he would take care of it on his own.

Ma’zurah nodded. “Fayrl is free to use any of Ma’zurah’s belongings he pleases, even the Moon and Star if he is careful and explains why first.”

Fayrl was surprised by her offer. It was far more generous than he had expected. “I hope you will use my things as you need as well, though I would caution you against using anything in my hip satchel without asking. There are many purposefully mislabeled items in there and it can be a deadly game to simply use things without knowing exactly what they truly are.”

“Shall we get a room and find out where this Morvunskar place is first?”

Fayrl walked toward the door of the inn. “Oh, the fort? I know exactly where that is. Just south-west of Windhelm. Two, maybe three hours walk? But as for the bard, if we should be seen to retire for the evening and then be seen as other people entering the inn, I think it will keep us from being caught so long as we lure the fetcher away. But we can discuss that once we have a room.”

“Oh? Fayrl knows where this Morvunskar is?” Ma’zurah glanced at the sky. “It is only just midday now, we could go check it out and teleport back this evening. What does Fayrl think?”

Fayrl sighed dramatically. “And I so had my heart set on our very first act of treachery together. Alas, I suppose business before pleasure.”

Ma’zurah giggled. “Come along then, silly ketriit!” She held out her hand and led him back behind the inn to where they could teleport without being observed. She paused to allow him to put a shirt on, then held him close and cast the spell to take them to Windhelm.

---

They appeared a little ways down the road from the Windhelm stables and Ma’zurah took Fayrl’s hand and started down the road heading to the west.

Fayrl shook his head. He felt a slight chill and tightened the lacing on the front of his tunic. “I’m never going to get used to that.”

The silk tunic felt particularly thin for some reason. He must have been cheated on the quality. It had looked like it was fine, but perhaps after a millennium it was easier to make something cheaper look like it was nicer.

“So how shall we avoid the suspicion of the guards for this task of Fayrl’s?” Ma’zurah asked as they walked. “Ma’zurah would rather be able to return to Whiterun unimpeded, and she is not sure she is comfortable getting into any sexual situations with anyone not Fayrl.”

“Oh, well all of that is quite easy to accomplish,” said Fayrl, brightening at the discussion of murder. “So long as it is not us who are seen entering the tavern, there is no record of us not still being in our rooms. We may wish to refresh people’s memories on that point closer to the time of the murder, best to establish a proper alibi.”

Ma’zurah thought for a moment. “Well, we could teleport in already disguised. Nobody will know we are in the city to begin with, and we could teleport away before any suspicion arises.”

“Yes, perfect. We should.” Fayrl laughed and slipped his hands behind his back, rubbing them together, they felt cold. Fetching teleportation.

“So we enter in disguise,” he continued. “I shall be dressed as a lady of some means. We can use a veil and cloak for you not to be so readily spotted. You can simply remain mostly silent, laugh or whisper Dunmeris to me if you wish to speak. I will say you know little Cyrodillic. I can translate for you and make you seem all the more alluring for your mystery. A man like that does love himself exotic beauties and mysteries.” He gestured to himself.

Ma’zurah looked skeptical. “Unless Fayrl plans to dress Ma’zurah as a veiled Velothi Wise Woman with the thick cloth veils, it will be very difficult to disguise Ma’zurah’s Khajiiti nature.”

“Oh, you worry too much. There are plenty of ways to disguise someone. Why, I once passed as Ohmes for two months. I mean, it did involve having my skin dyed and my face painted daily, but if I can pass as Khajiit, you can pass as not.”

“Fayrl once disguised himself as Ohmes?” Ma’zurah’s face lit up. “Fayrl will have to tell Ma’zurah about it! But after we finish these plans. Please continue.”

“And I shall. Later. So, as soon as this so-called bard seems the most interested, I, your humble handmaiden, shall invite him to follow us out to where we are staying for a more… intimate gathering. We lure him away from where any might find us. Perhaps to the hall of the dead. A fitting place, don’t you think? I am sure a dirty minded fool like him will enjoy such things. And then we dispatch of him properly. I will do any of the work that is sexually required. I need to prepare him for my Lady after all, don’t I?” He laughed.

Ma’zurah looked concerned. “Fayrl really wants to touch such a despicable person? We could take him down before it becomes necessary. Perhaps Ma’zurah can teleport Fayrl someplace, and return and teleport the wafiit to Fayrl.”

Fayrl raised his hand. “No, I would prefer to refrain from teleporting when it is not necessary. Besides, I am well suited to such work. They may be disgusting scars upon the face of Nirn, but I do so love absorbing their essence. It makes the entire experience worth it. Plus, it is all the sweeter gift unto my Prince if it is in the middle of their reaching their pinnacle of desire.”

Ma’zurah cocked her head. “Absorbing their essence? Is this a ritual of Mafala?”

Fayrl looked surprised. “Do you not know? Have you not learned of the exchange of essence?”

“Khajiiti culture is very different from House Dunmer, and Ma’zurah was not with the Velothi long enough to learn all the secrets.” She cast him an apologetic look.

He waved a hand dismissively. “My apologies, I should not have assumed. You see, traditionally the fluids one exchanges during sex are imbued with your energy, your unique essence. They are a part of yourself that you offer to your partner. And by sleeping with these foul creatures, you can absorb their energy and make it your own. You can take their power and make it yours.”

Ma’zurah nodded. “That makes sense. It is not the Khajiiti way, but it makes sense. So for something like this, taking their fluids is stealing their essence, and for partners like us, it is sharing?”

Fayrl smiled. “Precisely!”

“Alright, but if we are to fulfil this task of Mafala’s to the fullest, we should get him to trust us completely before we take him down. Is it not true that the more he trusts you, the more the betrayal will energize the blade? Perhaps we can make him become indebted to us.” Ma’zurah gave Fayrl a devious smile.

Fayrl licked his lips at the look on Ma’zurah’s face. He was instantly turned on at the prospect of them sharing this task so thoroughly. “That is always the best and most fun way, yes. I did not expect you to be so excited to share in this revelry though. My apologies for underestimating your appetites.”

Ma’zurah gave a self deprecating smile and glanced down. “Ma’zurah has only ever killed in self defense or honorable duels. She never had a good reason to be an assassin. It is not a task Ma’zurah has a taste for. Anger is not a good reason to kill. Money is hardly a good reason either. She would not do it for anything less than the will of a god. Fayrl is the one that makes it exciting. Fayrl excites Ma’zurah.”

Fayrl took Ma’zurah’s hand in his and pulled her towards him. “If you keep up that sort of thing I am going to need to make a stop before we arrive at the fort.”

Ma’zurah grinned and groped Fayrl through his trousers. “Ma’zurah did say she would assist Fayrl in his prayers,” she whispered in his ear. Her tongue flicked out and caught the edge of his ear. “Why not now?”

---

Fayrl had thought the fort looked different from how he had remembered it when it first came into view in the distance. Yet the closer and closer they got to Morvunskar, the more it did not look like the fort he had been to so many times before.

Where were all of the tall walls? What had happened to all the buildings? It was not even half the size it had once been. Of course he had not expected to see Pact soldiers anymore, but he had assumed it would still have been in use. What had happened? There weren’t even sentries up.

They had said they were getting married here, were they not? What had happened to all the attendees?

“Hail and well met!” he called, in case anyone was around. Then immediately regretted it. What if they had been killed by bandits? He was being careless, unthinking.

Ma’zurah took in the crumbling walls of the fort, and glanced at Fayrl doubtfully. “This is it? It looks like a ruin. Why would we choose this place?”

A figure came in sight on the walls and a fireball flew in their direction. Ma’zurah hastily pulled Fayrl back down the path.

“Shit, sorry,” Fayrl whispered as they pulled back out of the line of fire. “Let me go around and take them out. I’ll be right back.” He made himself invisible and crept forward.

“Wait, Fayrl! Ma’zurah is coming too!” She cast a detect life spell, then cast invisibility on herself, following Fayrl back toward the ruined fort.

By the time they had come within a stone’s throw of the fort’s walls, two mages in dark robes had appeared to investigate their arrival. One had a significant lead on the other and had moved out of direct line of sight of the second behind a boulder as he searched the fort’s perimeter. The second was only just emerging from the gate. Fayrl smiled. He teleported forward, intent on appearing behind the first mage, only, something went wrong. Halfway between the mage and where he had been standing his teleportation failed, and his body turned visible again.

He didn’t have time to think. He rolled to the side and threw a dagger at the man’s face. It caught him in the cheek and he flailed, screaming, trying to get the blade out.

Fayrl dashed forward, drawing his sword. He slit the man’s throat in an attempt to silence him quickly, but it was too late. A swirling cloud of snow and ice came barreling towards him from the second mage. He jumped out of the way, pain stabbing into his head as he went. He cursed whatever had happened to prevent him from using his skills properly.

Ma’zurah gasped and ran forward, grabbing Fayrl’s shoulder and casting invisibility on him again to pull him into the shelter of the fort’s walls. “Shh! Do not move!” she hissed in his ear. More mages had appeared, and she didn't think it was wise to try to take them all on.

Fayrl nodded, and then regretted that too. His head was pounding. What could have caused such a reaction in him that did not also affect Ma’zurah?

As far as he could tell, the only thing they had done recently that he seemed to be feeling the effects of worse than she did was the teleportation. Perhaps it was not fully doing… well, something. He didn’t understand exactly how this magic worked--or any magic, really. He waited for Ma’zurah to signal the all-clear, giving himself the time to try and suppress the pain. It was temporary. He could control it, mind over matter.

The mages fired spells in the general vicinity of where Fayrl had disappeared and prowled the walls, searching for sign of them. Four of them retreated into a huddle in front of the gate into the fort. Ma’zurah took the opportunity to pull Fayrl back down the road to regroup. She stopped behind a large boulder, well out of earshot of the fort. “What happened back there?”

“It’s your fetching teleportation spell!” Fayrl snapped, more out of pain than true anger. “I got cold after the last one and it’s only gotten worse.”

Ma’zurah shook her head. “The teleportation spell Ma’zurah was performing has a safety mechanism built into the casting,” she explained. “The spell either works completely, or it fails completely. There is no in between, or else the spell would be too dangerous to attempt. It cannot be the teleportation. Was Fayrl poisoned?”

“Oh, great, poisoned again!” Fayrl huffed. “What is the fetching point of taking daily doses of poison if they aren’t going to fetching work? Probably some new-fangled poison from this era.” He grumbled and pawed through his satchel for a cure poison potion.

Ma’zurah cast a spell to cure the poison for him. “Any better?”

Fayrl did not truly feel any different. “Well… I think so.” He stood up, ignoring the headache that had not faded. It did not matter, they were here now and there was little that could be done. Best to push through for now. “I should be fine now to keep going.”

Ma’zurah cast a worried glance at Fayrl. “Shall we sneak up there and try again?”

“I think that’s for the best.” Fayrl started down the path. As soon as they drew near to the front gate, he called the shadows to him.

Immediately a splitting pain ran through his head as if someone was trying to cleave it in two with a dull and rusty axe. He ceased being invisible nearly as soon as he had managed to disappear. “B’vek!”

Ma’zurah glanced up at the walls warily and cast invisibility on both of them. She drew Fayrl back down the path. “What happened?” she asked again.

Fayrl growled. His head had not stopped hurting. “I don’t fetching know!” He was growing increasingly frustrated. He had never had any issue with his abilities before. Why should they be a problem now? And why so suddenly? “Are you feeling anything?”

Ma’zurah shook her head. “No, Ma’zurah feels fine… Is Fayrl in pain?”

“Of course you’re fetching fine,” he grumbled. “It’s always my place to be getting hurt and poisoned and the like. Cursed blood, cursed race. As if I don’t already bloody well know. Fetching Almsivi.”

“Ma'zurah is cursed too,” she reminded him. “Is Fayrl in pain?” She was not going to let this go.

Fayrl began creeping back toward the gate, not even appearing to have heard her.

Ma’zurah grabbed his hand. “Fayrl?”

Fayrl turned back. “Hmm?”

“Ma’zurah tried talking to you three times! What are you doing?”

“What?” Fayrl did not understand. “When?”

“Just now. Ma’zurah asked if you were in pain twice, and said your name a third time.”

“Are you jesting? I swear I did not hear a word. Are you sure you spoke aloud?” If she had spoken he would have heard her. His hearing was pretty good.

“Yes…” Ma’zurah said slowly. “Ma’zurah is worried. Are you sure you want to keep going right now? We can teleport back to a city and get some rest if you like.”

“No teleporting!” Fayrl roared. “I refuse to be party to that haphazard magic any further! I am in enough pain as it is!”

Four mages came running out the front gate in response to the sound of Fayrl’s shouting, all preparing spells in their hands. Ma’zurah shoved Fayrl behind her and cast a bubble ward around herself, stepping forward and beginning to cast a whirling ice storm between her hands. The mages were close together, she could use that. She snapped off the ice storm in their direction just as four fireballs ricocheted off her shield, knocking her backwards.

Fayrl watched as two of the mages took the full brunt of the spell and froze solid. The two on the outside managed to get out of the way. One of them ducked back behind the gate, while the other rushed towards Ma’zurah, volleying more fireballs towards her.

Fayrl ran forward, summoning thorns to subdue the oncoming mage. The thorns appeared then vanished, and the searing pain shot through his head again. Adrenaline took over and he pushed through the pain, brandishing his sword and dagger. He ran full force into the mage’s side.

A wave of fire slammed into him as he struck the mage. It actually hurt. He was Dunmer. Fire wasn't supposed to hurt. The two of them stumbled back, and Fayrl swept his blades sideways, lodging them into the chest and abdomen of his foe. He landed atop the mage, and staggered back to his feet. His body seemed to be lacking much of its usual strength. He tugged to remove his sword from his foe’s ribs, but it was stuck fast.

The final mage peeked out from behind the gate and shot a huge fireball at Ma’zurah just as she regained her feet. Her bubble shield blinked out of existence as the fireball bounced off of it, knocking Ma’zurah onto her tail again. She bared her teeth and hissed at her assailant, and sent a handful of ice razors in his direction, lacerating his face and chest. One razor caught him in the neck and he frantically started trying to heal himself. Ma’zurah rolled to her feet again.

Fayrl pulled out another dagger. He could swear it looked like his opponent was reaching out towards him, ready to cast another fireball. Fayrl stabbed him through the hand pinning it down into the ground with the most force he could muster. He took another couple of smaller daggers and started stabbing the man in the chest. “I won’t let you, fetcher!”

Ma’zurah regained her balance and began crystallizing an ice spike between her hands. She shot it towards the mage, catching him in the chest just as he finished healing himself and turned his attention back to her. The mage fell.

Ma’zurah shot a rapid glance at Fayrl. He seemed to have his assailant under control. She ran forward and examined the mage she had downed, ensuring he was dead before turning back to help Fayrl. She blinked in bewilderment at him. He was stabbing the dead mage under him repeatedly with a pair of small daggers. “Fayrl!” she called.

Fayrl did not stop. Every time he stabbed, the mage’s hands seemed to rise up again. Fayrl couldn’t allow the mage to get away with this, he wouldn’t let him hurt Ma’zurah. He refused to.

Ma’zurah cautiously approached Fayrl. “Fayrl, stop! He is dead!”

Fayrl turned at the sound of a voice, his daggers raised towards the approaching figure. “Stay back!”

Ma’zurah froze, startled. She had the creeping suspicion that something was very, very wrong; he did not even seem to recognize her. “Fayrl, it is just Ma’zurah.”

“Ma’zurah?” She came into focus. Fayrl breathed a sigh of relief. “Let’s question this guy. He’s been fighting hard, but he might be useful.”

“Fayrl, he is dead.” Ma’zurah’s tail twitched nervously behind her.

“Dead?” Fayrl turned back to his opponent. He did not appear to be moving. “Damn! Looks like he finally went down. Ah well, let’s get going, shall we? You’re not hurt, are you?”

“No… is Fayrl hurt?” Ma’zurah took a step forward cautiously, still unsure of the situation.

“Oh, you know me, a couple of scrapes and bruises perhaps, but I am perfectly fine, my dear.” He smiled and wiped his blades off before putting them away. “I could use some help getting my sword out of this s’wit’s chest though. I managed to get it in a bit deep to the bone.” He tugged on the hilt to demonstrate.

Ma’zurah nodded. She was still a bit nervous about his behavior, but at least he did not seem to be in danger of failing to recognize her anymore. She moved forward and pulled Fayrl’s sword from the mage’s chest with ease, handing it back gingerly. “How is Fayrl feeling? Is he still in pain like before?”

“Thank you, my dear.” Fayrl cleaned and sheathed his sword. “It’s nothing I can’t handle. A little pain’s good for the mind anyhow, right?” He checked that all his weapons were accounted for then began walking cautiously to the gate of the fort.

“Hold on!” Ma’zurah called. She rifled through the mage’s pockets and discovered a pair of petty soul gems and a small coinpurse. She tucked them into her own pockets and moved on to the other mages, discovering a total of three more small coinpurses, a minor magicka potion, and a lesser soul gem. She caught up to Fayrl.

“Is Fayrl sure he wants to keep going? Ma’zurah is very worried about Fayrl…”

Fayrl laughed. “Of course I am, my dear.” He gave her a chaste kiss on the lips. “Come on, I am sure there are plenty more vermin to exterminate inside as well.”

“Ai! Fayrl, wait!” Ma’zurah caught his wrist. “What are we doing here exactly? We were supposed to have a wedding ceremony here, right? And we wanted to find more information about Sam and that staff Fayrl won, but we do not know why there are mages here who attack us on sight. Those,” Ma’zurah gestured behind her at the dead mages, “were self defense, but barging in and killing them… what does that achieve?”

“They are hostile! Anyone who we may have brought here for our wedding must be inside. I am sure we will find ourselves with either guests or their captors. Or… perhaps worse. If there were five guarding outside, there are likely to be at least as many inside. We will just have to kill them all.” Fayrl’s tone was easy, as though he was talking about a preference regarding how he liked his meat cooked.

Ma’zurah’s brow furrowed and she shook her head. “Ma'zurah does not know who these guests might be, but better to try to sneak past and see if there are any hostages first before we try to take on an entire fort ourselves. Ma’zurah will cast invisibility and muffling on the both of us. Ma’zurah’s best invisibility spell lasts a long time, so it should not be a problem. Alright?” She squeezed his hand.

Fayrl squeezed back. “You worry far too much. We are unstoppable together. We’re blessed by the Three and you are the fetching Nerevarine! What can some puny mages do against all that? No, it will be easy. We shall paint the floor in their blood, retrieve our staff and go home. Well, we’ll help anyone who was captured. Though that hardly seems likely.”

Ma’zurah pressed her lips together. After Fayrl’s earlier display, she couldn’t afford to trust his ability to fight at the moment. She was not going to take any risks, or put him in any situations in which he might fail to recognize her. She was frustrated that he seemed insistent on continuing forward. “Ma’zurah did not stay alive as long as she has by being reckless. We will scout the place with invisibility first. Fayrl will not use any of his abilities; he will use blades only, and he will allow Ma’zurah to lead any attacks. He will not break the invisibility unless Ma’zurah breaks it first, and he will not let go of Ma’zurah’s hand. Does Fayrl understand?”

“Yes, yes, of course, of course,” Fayrl agreed. Ma’zurah was not giving him enough trust. What happened to all that guarshit about them being equal? Maybe she was trying to take advantage of him. What a perfect spot, out here where no one knew where they were. He would have to keep an eye on her.

Ma’zurah’s face softened. “Ma’zurah is just worried about Fayrl. He should not be in any pain at all. We will do this the smart way, and then we can get some rest.” She leaned in and kissed him, squeezing his hand again.

He smiled at her. “Alright, let’s go murder some evil mages.”

Ma’zurah gripped Fayrl’s hand tighter. “Fayrl… scouting first. No breaking invisibility.”

“Yes, yes, of course, my dear.”

Ma'zurah cast muffling on their feet, then cast invisibility, first on Fayrl, then on herself, and led him forward towards the front door of the keep.

Fayrl held onto her hand. As soon as he saw one of those fetchers, he didn’t care what Ma’zurah said, he was going to take them down. No one was going to keep their wedding party from their revenge.

Ma’zurah ducked into the front door. There was one mage in the entry hall, yawning and scratching his side, back toward them. Ma’zurah began leading Fayrl around the mage toward a door in the far wall on the left.

Fayrl dropped Ma’zurah’s hand and slipped around behind the mage. He covered the man’s mouth and slit his throat. The only noise escaping his lips sounded like a single sigh.

Fayrl smiled as he lay the body gently on the floor.

Ma’zurah cast a life detection spell as soon as Fayrl slipped out of her grip. She couldn’t prevent him from killing the mage without alerting anyone nearby, but as soon as he straightened, she slammed him against the far wall. “Fayrl! What! The! Fuck!” she hissed in his ear. “You just agreed not to break invisibility!”

Fayrl smiled as he was thrown against the wall. “So you show your true colors at last. Are you going to kill me now too?”

“ NO! ” she hissed emphatically. “What the fuck is wrong with you, Fayrl?! Did you lie to Ma’zurah when you agreed not to break invisibility?!”

Fayrl laughed. “I didn’t lie exactly… just, think of it as misleading the leader. Asserting your individuality from within the mass.”

“Fayrl, that was a blatant lie! Ma’zurah cannot believe what she is hearing! You promised!” She fished Fayrl’s amulet of Azura out from under her collar. “You promised to trust Ma’zurah’s judgement and always tell her the truth! You gave Ma’zurah this as a token of your sincerity! Was that a lie as well?!” Ma’zurah was furious and hurt and close to tears. She bared her teeth at Fayrl and shoved the amulet in front of his face.

Fayrl continued laughing. “It wasn’t. But it might as well be.” The pain in his head kept growing into a huge pressure that spread outward, searing the corners of his vision. “Goodbye, Ma’zurah.” He forced the shadows to come to him and pushed past Ma'zurah.

This time the invisibility stuck, though it felt like it took the entirety of his being to maintain it. Every step he took hurt like stepping in lava. His vision started to fade, but he kept willing it to stay. He was going to slip away from her and… and… his brain wouldn’t finish the thought. He had to concentrate on staying invisible. He could feel the shadows trying to abandon him.

Just a little further. Just a few more steps.

Everything went black.

End Notes:

Fayrl’s tumblr: @talldarkandroguesome

Screenshot of Fayrl Screenshot of Ma’zurah Check out my art tag for more pictures of Fayrl and Ma’zurah.

Constructive criticism is welcome. We also really like it if you leave comments on Ao3.

[ladyborel]

Pillars to Pendants

It seemed that so long spent in the bliss of Aymeric’s company came at a price.

Happy as she was, Etien knew that she couldn’t just stay in Ishgard. Her friends needed her, absolutely depended on her in this case especially. She’d recovered, she’d recharged, it was time to do her job.

It was going to hurt to leave after having been gone so long, and after the harrowing brief separation they’d just experienced. She knew that. However, she also knew it would be better to rip the bandage off and let out one scream rather than whine at the prospect, whimper through the act, and ache afterwards.

Well, the ache was inevitable, as well as incurable. How, in a matter of moons, Etien had gone from fiercely, dangerously independent in the wake of leaving home to feeling like she was missing an arm when she wasn’t in the same town as Aymeric baffled her.

But neither the why nor the details of how mattered. Work came first. She’d distracted him long enough, and she had a job to do, lives to save.

She just had to do it without an arm.

The rest of the day passed as usual—Etien occupied herself, night came, and Aymeric home with it, they ate, they took tea and chatted while she knitted, and then they got ready for bed.

Etien took a sharp breath in as she finished buttoning her nightgown, then slid under the covers, cuddling extra-close to Aymeric, leaving an excess of covers on the mattress behind her.

Her voice was low and a little rough when she finally managed to get out “Aymeric, I have a confession.”

He kissed her forehead. “What weighs on your heart so, my dearest?”

“The Scions–” she stopped, feeling her throat drying and knowing her voice would crack– “The Scions need me to go, so I can get everyone back from wherever they went. I want to stay here, but I can’t.” A hiss of air was making its way into her every word, but ‘can’t’ had been especially breathy, like Etien was being drained by even speaking it.

“I had a feeling this day was coming,” Aymeric admitted. “Is this why you were so quiet today?”

Etien blinked away tears. “Yes. I knew I had to tell you, but I- I didn’t want to. I want to stay here, happy and safe and warm, forever.”

“Would you really be happy without the other Scions? I may resent them parting us so often, and I know you dislike it yourself, but I know you love them, as well. As it ever is, they depend on you to put it all right. Your sense of duty is something I love about you, so I cannot fault you for needing to do this sooner rather than later.”

Etien sighed. “I’m glad you understand. But… I’m still scared. I don’t know when I’ll be back. If I’ll be back.”

“We never know what journey will be our last. I promise you, Etien, I will wait right here for you to return when all of it is finished, and if I receive word of your final act of heroism or our extended separation, then I would want you to know that even as your widower, you will have made me the happiest man on the star.” He pulled her closer, now actively holding her to him. “And I believe that wherever our souls go, mine will find yours, to reunite eventually.”

Etien was crying in earnest now, but only shedding tears, not quite sobbing. “I love you,” she whispered, tears sliding over her cheeks.

Aymeric stroked her hair, shushing her softly. “I know. I love you, too. More than tongue can tell and more than mortal minds comprehend.”

She laughed just a little. “We should sleep.”

“I assume you mean to leave in the morning?”

“Something in that vein, yes.”

“I see. While you could absolutely use some rest in that case, if sleep evades you… I’ll be here, holding onto you until you insist I let you go.”

Etien relaxed into his arms, draping hers over him so that they held each other, rather than just being cradled by him. Soon enough, Aymeric would be without her, too.

He did love her, and he was going to miss her, even if that still stunned her. It was almost better if she didn’t believe it, because then she didn’t feel like she was about to hurt him.

“I suppose the time has come to dust off the wind-ups,” Aymeric mumbled, making Etien giggle wetly.

“Please take the wedding dress off her, though. I would hate for you to be distressed looking at her, still regaled for so joyful a moment.”

“It would remind me how happy we have been, and how much I love you. The wedding dress brings me only pleasant memories, Etien.”

She let her eyes shut, a small, wan smile lifting her lips. “I know I just said it, but I love you, Aymeric. I love you, I love you, I love you.”

He kissed her. “Get some sleep. I have you.”

Slowly, her body relaxed as she fell asleep.

Aymeric watched sheets of freezing rain come down outside the window as Etien slept against him.

He had thought this day was coming. He’d known he wasn’t going to be ready.

Blessedly, Aymeric had gotten a little bit of sleep himself, lulled by the rhythm of the rain and Etien’s breathing. He was still going to be sluggish, from sadness and lack of sleep both, for the rest of the day. But he had slept a little, holding onto the soft, warm star he called a wife.

He was still the first to wake, holding Etien a little tighter as wakefulness washed over him. He’d promised to hold her until she told him to stop, and he was a man of his word.

Even if he hadn’t been in any other respect, he would never break a promise to Etien.

When she woke, coming to consciousness with a little gasp, he kissed her cheek.

“Good morning,” she warbled, fingers trailing over any part of him she could reach. “Glad to see you’re still here.”

“Of course I am. I shall continue to be.” He buried his nose in her hair, taking in the scent of lavender and honey that was just Etien. “But I do have a few questions.”

Etien took a deep breath, hoping she had answers for him. “And those are?”

“Firstly, do you want something to eat? I know it can be hard to eat if your nerves are wound tight, but I would see you well-fed before you leave me on another journey.”

“For you, I can try to eat,” she replied. “What else?”

“Will you come to the Congregation with me so I can say goodbye there, before you head for the Aetheryte?” Aymeric ran his tongue over his teeth after asking, unsure why he felt nervous making such a request.

Etien nodded. “Absolutely.”

Aymeric felt a strange sense of pride and preemptive longing, seeing Etien sit at the table dressed in her well-worn battle apparel. Pride, because look at the compact powerhouse at his table, the savior of nations thanking him for a cup of hot tea. But the longing… that was self-explanatory. Look at her, powerful, beautiful, beloved, and off to save the world again.

Alone.

She was picking at her omelet, her tea only partially-drunk.

“Is… is it going down all right, dearest? I have confidence in my culinary abilities, but it could be off.”

Etien shook her head. “It tastes fine, Aymeric. I’m just sad. Here.” She took heartier bites, chewing for a long time before swallowing, washing each down with a huge gulp of her tea. She gave him a tense smile. “Thank you. I really…” her eyes welled. “I appreciate you taking care of me.”

“I made it my responsibility because I am honored to,” he said, kissing her hand. “Are you ready to go?”

She nodded.

Walking through the streets of Ishgard felt more like treading to the gallows this time, for both of them, but neither let it show. Etien clung to Aymeric’s arm as usual, and he nodded greetings to everyone, same as always.

It was fine. They were going to be fine.

They went right to Aymeric’s office as soon as they got inside the Congregation, and there they said their goodbyes.

Etien ran her hand over the wind-up Aymeric’s hair, then her fingers through the soft locks of the real thing.

“If I can, I’ll write,” she said, watching Aymeric set up the miniature version of herself. “Funny, we split up, so they do, too.”

“Well, no version of us gets to be happy,” he said, but there was no bitterness in his voice. “I await the first correspondence eagerly.”

Etien smiled, a little less sadly. “Can I have a kiss before I go?”

“You can have a thousand,” Aymeric replied, rising and pulling her close.

When they parted, Etien blinked slowly. “Be safe.”

“Gods keep you,” he breathed. “If not, I will let them hear about it.”

Etien laughed. “That’s my line. Goodbye for now, Aymeric. Though it leaves in my chest, my heart is yours.”

“And you take mine with you for the same reason. Go, bring the Scions home so I can have you back.”

“I will!”

And she was gone. Aymeric sat down, sighing hard. He let himself cry for a moment, sniffling and wiping his eyes when he heard a knock.

“Yes?”

Lucia came in. “My lord… are you all right?”

“Ye—no. I am not. But I have to be. They need her, and you need me.”

Lucia patted his hand. “If I know one thing about Etien Mellifer, it’s that she can and will do anything to come back to you.”

_

Etien’s first thought when she exited the pool of water she’d woken up in was “I wish Aymeric could see this.”

She would have liked to see him in this, such bright blues, pure blacks, and shiny metals against the blazing purple surrounding her on all sides.

She sighed, making her way to town.

The Crystal Exarch was making for an excellent host, but that didn’t take away the shock. Time stretched and warped between the Source and the First, making the time her friends had been gone much longer here than there, though the reverse could just as well be so.

It made her wonder how much time had already passed for Aymeric. Or why he’d never gotten scooped  from there and brought here, since their fates were so tightly tied.

She shook her head at the thought. It would have shattered her if he had been. She could see herself now, weeping at his bedside if it had been so. Better this way, despite the sting.

But she was making her away around nicely now, at least. And thank the gods for Feo Ul, as well.

When she had been prompted, Etien did take the chance to send a message from the First, a hasty “Dear Tataru, I heard your words as I fell. We’re searching for the solution now, but we have a variety of circumstances to consider, I’ve found. Over all, I’m safe and will explain when I can. -Etien. P.S. Please tell Aymeric I’m all right, and that I will write.”

And away it went. Praise be that letters were still feasible. She would have lost her mind otherwise.

And so it was that Etien had gone from wandering the Pillars to staying in the Pendants.

She wanted to be optimistic, but these adventures were never easy, and as much as she could put aside the pain for the moment…

She slid her finger into her wedding ring, letting its weight rest on her finger. It was nothing compared to the weight of the knowledge she’d just gained. Dying in another calamity.

Better she did this. It hurt now, it would keep hurting, but hurting meant she still lived.

Still had something to live for.

[felixluis]

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What has—and hasn’t—changed, 5 years since the Rana Plaza disaster

The 24th April 2013 started like any other day. I buzzed around the house getting ready to head into Eco-Age’s London headquarters, when I made out the word ‘Dhaka’ in a radio news report in the background. Anybody who has campaigned for a cleaner, safer fashion industry is alert to hearing the Bangladesh capital—the country is one of the world’s largest exporters of fast fashion, second only to China.

Details were still patchy—a building had collapsed, over 150 people were believed to be dead. Although Rana Plaza was reported as a multi-use complex, when I phoned my friend and fellow campaigner, British journalist Lucy Siegle, we instinctively knew it was a fashion factory. Workers interviewed from banks and shops said they noticed a crack in the building the day before and their companies sent them home. But one group was forced back into the building to continue working—the garment workers.

As the true horror emerged, our worst fears were realised. When the complex folded like a house of cards, killing 1,334 people, it exposed the true cost of our fast fashion habit. How to make sense of that terrible tragedy and the aftermath? I’ve found it almost impossible to reconcile. Rana Plaza cannot be shelved as an ‘act of god’ and, of course. neither was it deliberate. Technically the disaster qualifies as an accident, but to me and the many campaigners who challenge the fast fashion system, it was avoidable. Greed, speed, corporate irresponsibility and a business model built on exploiting the most vulnerable—lowly paid garment workers—were the root cause of the Rana Plaza collapse.

In Los Angeles, when film director Andrew Morgan saw the front page of The New York Times featuring a photo of two young boys—the same age as his own sons—desperately searching through the Rana Plaza rubble for their mother’s body, he was hit by the true cost of today’s apparel industry. “Why would two young kids be looking for their mother amid this chaos? No bomb had gone off, no earthquake…[Behind its] aspirational, fun, carefree aesthetic there was obviously some terrible hidden danger in the [fashion] industry. Immediately I needed to find out what was going on.”

Determined to unravel the $3 trillion global fashion industry, Morgan spent the next three years travelling to 30 countries collecting footage from factories, workshops, sometimes even homes, in garment industry hot spots. His 2015 documentary, The True Cost (available on Netflix) exposes the dark side of an industry that we all contribute to.

Around the crater that Rana Plaza left behind, as international news crews departed the scene, the relentless cycle of fashion clicked back into gear. Orders that couldn’t be completed at Rana Plaza were quietly transferred to one of Dhaka’s many other factories. The manufacturing army of predominantly young women reassembled. Survivors of Rana Plaza, who’d been pulled from the rubble, queued up at the gates of a new factory, traumatised but in desperate need of work.

On visits to Bangladesh I have been privileged enough to meet garment workers. More often than not, these encounters happen late in the evening as the workers stream out of the garment factories at a time when I’d be thinking about going to bed. This is all the spare time they have. At around 10pm I sit on the floor in a circle, with a dozen or so women who have been working since 7am. I learn about their lives—their migration from villages in the north where their kids are being looked after by relatives. I hear of their frustration that even after the Rana Plaza disaster, their hours remain unremittingly harsh, and their low wages and poor living conditions remain unchanged. And that’s before we even get onto the subject of whether or not they feel safe at work. They are quick to laugh despite all the hardship and very frank. “I am bored,” says a young woman. “This is a boring existence.” When I see them at work the next day, they avoid eye contact.

Those with life-changing injuries, who number over 2,500, began the fight for compensation, but in many cases progress was glacial. Over 700 orphans or at-risk children were created by Rana Plaza. The industry’s response was split into two main tracks: The Rana Plaza Arrangement—a compensation fund which brands pay into—and The Accord on Fire and Building Safety in Bangladesh—a five-year, legally-binding agreement between 200 brands and trade unions intended to promote a safer and healthier garment industry in Bangladesh. Some US brands decided to develop their own response known as the Alliance.

On the fifth anniversary of Rana Plaza, expect a flood of hefty self-congratulatory announcements coming from these bodies. In fact, it has already begun. “We are extremely proud of the progress we have made in just five short years,” a spokesman for the Alliance announced last month. “With all of the investments we have made in the training and empowerment of the workers themselves, factory remediation remains on schedule,” he continued. “If these gains are going to be sustained over the long-term, however, they must be owned and led locally, from within Bangladesh.” To me, this sounds like they are passing the buck.

The Accord meanwhile has been extended to run until 2021, but it’s alarming that only 60 brands have signed up for round two, down from 200. Still the message broadcast is that lessons have been learned and that factories in Dhaka are safer. But by how much? And what does less bad really mean? These are questions that have vexed the whole process and it makes me wonder—is it even possible to reform the fashion production system?

According to Siegle, the current approach simply isn’t working. “Progress has been painfully slow,” she tells me. “Research in Bangladesh by Dhaka University academics has flagged up delays and gaps in implementation from the outset.”

Siegle is also concerned that some brands have had to be taken to court to pay up. In January, $2.3 million was finally extracted from a global fashion brand (name redacted by the terms of the settlement) at The Hague to fund overdue remediation to factories. “When Rana Plaza happened it was clear a clock was ticking, but the timescale appears to have been lost and the next generation of garment workers has again been subjected to unsafe, unacceptable and in many cases illegal conditions,” she says. “It’s really hard to [communicate] that to the shopper when the Accord or Alliance says your jeans are made in a factory that could be 84 per cent safer than it was five years ago.” We should, she rightly believes, be aiming for something better.

In my own pursuit for something better, over the past year I’ve worked closely with lawyers affiliated with The Circle,Annie Lennox’s NGO dedicated to championing women’s rights, to compile a report reviewing the minimum and living wages, and the protection of workers’ rights in 14 major garment-producing countries. Our objective? To show brands they have a responsibility to treat garment workers fairly. We are now using trade law to try and implement this.

In the five years since the Rana Plaza tragedy, the industry has often claimed it’s spearheading change to ensure fashion changes forever. In reality, the required overhaul of this unsustainable and corrupt business model has in no way been achieved. While some factories provide safer working environments, they haven’t considered the fundamental right to a living wage, and vice versa.

To see the real engine of change, we need to take an outside perspective. I ask Andrew Morgan if he thinks any progress has been made five years on from the disaster that compelled him to make The True Cost. “In an industry increasingly fixated on profit at all cost, Rana Plaza was an undeniable warning that people ultimately and always pay the price for our careless consumption,” he says, “This warning, while ignored by most major fashion corporations, has ignited a new wave of activists and entrepreneurs dedicating themselves to the belief that we can and must create a more just, humane and sustainable future.” This is the true change ignited by that tragic, fateful day.

1/7 Livia Firth at the Green Carpet Fashion Awards, Italia

Image: Getty

Image: Reza Shahriar Rahman

Image: Reza Shahriar Rahman

Image: Reza Shahriar Rahman

Image: Reza Shahriar Rahman

Film still from The True Cost

Image: The True Cost

Film still from The True Cost

Image: The True Cost

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