#THIS IS JUST ONE SIDE OF HATFUL OF HOLLOW I CANNOT STAND THIS MAN WHAT IS HE DOING TO MEEEEE | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

popopretty · 3 years

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Storm Bringer Spoilers (6)

One of my favorite scenes where Port Mafia went all out on Verlaine in CODE;4. I like this part because it introduced a lot of Port Mafia’s skill users that have never appeared in both the manga and the other novels. It was so fun to read.

Dazai made some interesting statements and theories here too. I like the dialogue at the end, where he kinda slipped and let out some of his real emotions.

PS: I can’t believe I actually typed out 5000 words! I was drafting this on my phone so I didn’t notice the actual amount of words. I know it’s not gonna be perfect and I am gonna make mistakes and I will want to punch myself so much but gosh, I am so proud of myself now!

...

The train driver put one hand on the handle, his eyes staring at the darkness in front of him.

Twenty-seven years of service. He is a veteran. He has held this handle through rains and winds, through the Great War where the bombs poured down like rain, messing up the landform.

Even for him, today’s job is unusual.

The train company he works for was bought out overnight. Together with the trains and the service schedules. Then he was ordered to operate a temporary ride. Yet there is only one passenger on this train. Even when he protested to his boss, what he got was only “stop questioning and just drive.” And then one more thing, “If you run away, it will be even worse.”

The driver took another look at the scenery in front of him. The trees have sunk into the darkness. All he could see were the silver railroad tracks and the yellow headlight. Those are the only guidelines to tell where the train is heading.

What his boss said might actually be true. Putting other cities aside, this is the unorthodox Yokohama. Anything can happen. Even if there is only one passenger, he has no intention to talk to them. If he does so, he might end up having to catch his cut off head with his chest. _

At that moment, from the eternal darkness of the night that looks no different from the bottom of the ocean, he felt something moving.

His well-trained eyes managed to capture it from the distance. Is that an animal? No. Is it just the trees rustling? No.

That’s a person.

A person is standing on the track.

He pulled the break even before his brain went ”Oh no”.

The compressed air was released, and the train’s speed reducer made a violent metallic noise. But it was too late. The train bumped straight into that human figure.

However, that figure took the train’s hit. A tremendous force was applied on the train. The first car jumped forward. It was like they were being pulled, the rear cars also jumped off, derailed, rolling over into the woods. Like a rampaging huge iron snake, the train hollowed out a big area around it, knocked down a bunch of trees, before finally stopping.

The person who witnessed the whole event, Verlaine, smiled with satisfaction. He took the train head-on but suffered no scratches. He started walking. Towards the car with Mori Ougai. Jumping over the cars half-buried underground, getting through the cars whose electric system were starting to catch fire, he reached his target.

Mori Ougai was lying face-down. The train was fully flipped sideway, the walls become the floors and the ceilings became the walls. He was facing away from Verlaine, not moving an inch. From beneath his body, a pool of blood is slowly spreading.

He did investigate the target’s skill in advanced. It’s not the kind of secret that a formal spy like him cannot find out. Mori Ougai does not possess a skill that can withstand such an impact.

“Too easy.”

Verlaine muttered and approached his target. He is not as stupid to walk away without confirming if his target is really dead or not. He is going to check and if by some rare chances the target is still alive, he will finish them off for real.

Verlaine flipped Mori Ougai’s body over. Then his eyes opened wide.

That was not Mori Ougai.

That was a man he had never seen. He was wearing a wig and clothes to disguise as Mori Ougai. But Verlaine’s assassination preparation was thorough. He had set up a hidden surveillance device in the last station. And the images taken from there were definitely Mori Ougai’s.

When he grabbed the man trying to confirm his identity, suddenly a hand was put on his chest.

“Too easy.”

A powerful repulsive force coming from a skill blew Verlaine away. He flew through the glass windows and landed on the humus soil outside. He rolled further while scattering the soil, and hit his back against a tree before finally stopping.

”... Not bad.”

Verlaine push his hand on the tree to stand up.

He brushed off the dirt from his clothes and started thinking. The face he saw at that moment moment, the repulsive force coming from his palm. That was probably one of Port Mafia’s constituent members, the one who with the repulsion skill, Hirotsu Ryurou.

A double!

They knew about the hidden device and let Mori Ougai’s image captured on purpose, then quickly switched the double in. In other words, Verlaine’s assassination plan was seen through. Ever since he came to this country, he only knew one person who has the ability to outsmart him with such finesse.

“Hello, Verlaine-san.” A small was sitting on the edge of a car, on top of the overturned train.

“Dazai-kun”, Verlaine said as he picked up the hat that had fallen to his feet. “I have heard the saying that age doesn’t matter when it comes to talent, but you are really frightening.”

“You are just bad.” Dazai said with a dry voice as though he was lecturing Verlaine. “This time you acted on your personal feelings too much. When you are like that, I can read all your moves. Why are you so obsessed with Chuuya?”

“Is it that strange for someone to be concerned about his brother?”, Verlaine said as he dusted the mud off his clothes.

“It is, a lot.” Dazai affirmed. “First of all, what made you believe so firmly that Chuuya was your brother?”

“What?” Verlaine narrowed his eyes.

“You saw that too, right? Chuuya’s original experimental body. Turned into bones and died.” Dazai spoke while swinging his legs that were dangling out of the train top. “That looks almost the same as Chuuya in terms of appearance. In terms of abilities, too. And a lot of other things in common. What if that thing was actually a skill-containing artificial life form, and the Chuuya who is living outside, whose only redeeming trait is being energetic, was the original one? Can someone like you who is not an expert, someone who has only browsed through limited materials from the past, see through that?”

“That is impossible.” Verlaine shook his head. “I’m not as stupid as to mistake the target in my infiltration mission. What I stole away from the lab nine years ago was undoubtedly the same as me, an artificial life-form.”

“If I look it up I will understand right away.” Dazai said casually. “Fortunately this time, the guys from the labs has demonstrated the method to rewrite the code formula inside Chuuya. If I capture some of those researchers using Mafia’s power, they will be more than happy to tell me how to read those codes. And then I will know which one Chuuya is actually. We have all the time in the world.”

“You seem pretty confident that Chuuya is human, don’t you?”

“I am”, Dazai laughed with a sigh. “There is no way a man-made string of code could create such a personality that I detest that much.”

Verlaine signed then started walking towards Dazai. His footsteps were heavy, as if he had to clean up a lot of tedious work.

“I can gently whole-heartedly explain to you the reason that was a misunderstanding... but now I have another job for you.“ he said, walking up the gentle slope that he fell from. “That is to spit out where Mori himself, not his double, is. It’s a painstaking job. Literally”

“So you have no intention to back off?”

“Of course not.”

Dazai didn’t look at anything, he gazed aimlessly into the air, “Is that so?”. Then he spoke with a disappointed face, “Then it is your loss.” A sniper bullet went straight for Verlaine’s head. Verlaine bent his upper body, and felt down the slope of humus. He rolled three times then looked up, looking at Dazai with stern eyes.

“Sniper?”

Before he could finish his sentence, yet another bullet struck Verlaine’s forehead. He almost fell to his side, pushing his hands against the ground to support.

“Your ability only works on things that you can touch.” Dazai said, swinging his legs as he looked down on his opponent. “That’s why the bullets that hit you will hit you. They just stop immediately. However, if we aim a larger sniper bullet, which has several times the velocity of a normal bullet, then it will still give you a blow the moment you use your gravity to stop it. Also...”

Dazai casually raised his hand.

From the top of the hill, through the gaps of the trees, from inside the humus, on top of big trees, more than fifty sniper bullets were fired at Verlaine at the same time. All the bullets pierced him, Verlaine growled.

Verlaine tried to hide under the shades of the trees while protecting himself by gravity. But even in the places he ran to, he got attacked from behind. Even if he tried to lower his posture to hide, the attack would come from above the trees. He had nowhere to run.

“To be able to set up this many snipers... in such a short time...”

A bullet pierced through Verlaine’s clothes and slid through his skin. It’s not a wound that could make him bleed, but there are so many of them. Ten shots in one second, then twenty, and more kept coming. It’s like the air that surrounds his whole body has become his enemies and attacked him.

Verlaine had no choice but to protect his head with his two arms and rolled himself up.

“You picked the wrong opponent, Verlaine-san.” Dazai chuckled. “I am an expert when it comes to dealing with gravity. Because no matter if I wake or sleep, the only thing I think about is how to annoy Chuuya.”

“Don’t underestimate me!”

While enduring the rain of bullets that were striking him, Verlaine grabbed a tree close by and pulled it out of the ground.

“You think you can kill me with this kind of rock throwing play? Verlaine swung the tree, trying to throw it. He planned to use the tree as a spear to crush the snipers who were hiding faraway in the dark.

However, that hand of his stopped halfway.

It was because the tree had been cut into pieces.

“Hoho, if I look closely, you look terribly like my subordinate.”

There was a flowing female voice as graceful as the sound of harp.

The burning bright red hair, eyes of the same color. Her crimson red

ombré looked like the color of ripen maple leaves. The most eye-catching thing was what floated beside her, a masked demon in a kimono. The demon was tall with long hair. She carried a sword of almost the same height as a child, as if it had no weights at all. The golden kimono melt into the air from her knees downwards, showing that it was not a real body.

“However, it was Mr. Brother who selfishly tried to poach our boy from us. I guess I can let that go after cutting off one of your limbs or two. So you’d better get lost quickly.”

Ozaki Kouyou. The Port Mafia’s young sword-woman. A powerful skill user who took Chuuya as her subordinate, accompanied by the golden demon, an embodiment of her skill, a beautiful beast.

Kouyou rolled a bright peony-colored umbrella on her shoulder. And then she twisted its handle and pulled it out. A silver blade appeared. A hidden sword.

“Mafia’s skill user?” Verlaine smiled like a beast. “But what can a mere ability user with two swords can do against gravity?”

Verlaine lowered his posture, ready to jump at Kouyou.

“Who said that I was alone?”

Verlaine’s body sank in.

Startled, Verlaine looked at his feet. The ground undulated like a snake, swallowing his two legs and even crawling up.

Verlaine was caught by surprise. He got rid of the gravity of his own body and jumped up. He landed on a trunk of a tree nearby. But even the trunk that definitely looked tough started to liquify the moment his shoes touched. It reached for Verlaine, trying to eat him up.

“This is...” Verlaine leaped again. However, the spot he planned to land on already turned into a mud with a will of its own, opening its mouth to wait for him.

“Hahaha. Keep running, young man. Youngsters like you exist to entertain this old man. Please die quickly and offer your head to me.”

Coming from the darkness of the woods was a big, strong man who looked just like a big tree. A military uniform that has faded in places. His bristle looked like a sewing needle. He wore a judo belt around his waist, and wooden clogs on his feet The arms folding in front of his chest were as thick as a tree that has lived for hundred years.

Port Mafia’s elite, a veteran who survived the Great War. His nickname in the organization is “Colonel.”

He swung his arms like an ancient tree and squeezed his fist tightly in front of his eyes. At the same time, the ground started to muffle. The liquified soil, trees, even the overturned train, all rushed to attack Verlaine in the air. An skill user who can manipulate objects and turn them into liquids?

Verlaine kicked the first wave of liquified soil that came towards him and retreated backward. But the soil was also coming from that direction. Even if he tried to change his orbit to run, liquified soil was still coming from beneath his feet and above his head. If they touched him they would still be blown away by the gravity, but the liquid will start to cover up from the top again, giving no time for Verlaine to prepare a counter attack.

On top of that, as if to stitch up the gaps, there were sniper shots coming from all directions.

“Tch...”

Verlaine densified a small amount of dust in the air, and stepped on that to leap his body up. He wanted to take some distance. Abilities that manipulate things like Colonel’s, in most of the cases won’t work for things that are out of their sights. That’s why he planned to hide deep in the wood then throw a huge rock enforced by gravity to finish them off.

An odd thing entered Verlaine’s field of vision at that moment.

A watch.

A watch was floating in the air.

From the outside, it looked just like a normal pocket watch. A dial with numbers, a long hand and a short hand, a crown, and the internal mechanism peeking out from the edge of the dial.

The strange thing about it was that it had a size of a man’s upper body. Also, it kept turning around as if it was staring at Verlaine.

Verlaine, who possesses a wide range of knowledge on skill users, sensed the danger from that watch almost immediately.

He tore off one button from the sleeve of his suit and amplified its gravity until it weighted dozens of kilograms. Then he threw it towards the watch.

That button comet holding enough power to knock down a building, however, couldn't interfere with the watch. It smoothly slipped through the watch, knocked off trees and disappeared into darkness.

“You can’t destroy that thing.”

A gloomy voice came from the ground.

Verlaine diverted his gaze and without his notice, a boy was already sitting on the ground. He was hugging his knees with his two arms, looking miserable. He looked up at Verlaine.

“It’s no use. That thing looks at everyone. Including me, and you. We have no choices but to die. One day it will find us. One day it will catch up with us. It’s　“time”. It’s the enemy of us all.”

He looked and sounded miserably. His clothes were so long it became awkward. The hems were all frayed. The boy who was so skinny you could see his bones through his clothes glared at Verlaine and waved his finger as if he was telling him “Come here, come here.”

The two hands of the watch clicked and pointed to the number 12 at the same time. Immediately afterwards, the watch in the air was sucked into Verlaine.

That was not a metaphor, it was literally sucked into him, into his chest.

Being wary of the disappeared watch, Verlaine stiffened his body. But nothing happened. There is nothing within his sig...

The liquified soil twisted around his legs.

Startled, Verlaine shook the liquid off by gravity. Then he looked around. He had got pretty far away for sure. It was so strange that the liquified soil could chase him this close. Right after that was a shock. A sniper bullet hit his head. Verlaine span halfway in the air. He landed on the ground, scraping the humus to stop.

It was weird. The speed of the sniper attack went up. The speed of the bullet by the moment it reached him was so fast that even if he used gravity to bounce it back, he was also blown away by a corresponding force.

“Did they replace their guns or bullets with more powerful ones? No, this is...”

The ground liquified again. Verlaine jumped out to dodge, before being eaten by the soil. But the speed of the liquid tentacles that extended and followed him also increased. Verlaine took a quick look around. From the treetops that were hit by the sniper attack just now, leaves were falling down. They were not fluttering, they were dropping as if they were stabbing the ground. This means, the attack speed didn’t get faster...

“Was my time... slowed down?”

“Everyone will die before me.” the gloomy boy stared at Verlaine with dubious eyes filled with hatred. “Brothers, parents, everyone will be killed by time. But I will get away with it. With this special power of mine”

A skill user who meddles with time. For the first time, Verlaine got a cold sweat on his forehead.

Time manipulation is not just a powerful skill, it is a extraordinary skill out of this world. As far as Verlaine knew, there were only a few cases reported in the world. The fist on the list of those time manipulation skill users who are separated from the world’s reasons, was a former skilled mechanic, H.G. Wells. After creating the skilled weapons called the “Shell”, she disappeared and became the world’s worst terrorist.

The time manipulation type of skills tinker the basic principles of this world, and rewrite them at will. Because if you look from the universe’s perspective, time and space are equivalent. The time manipulation skill users hold the same power that can alter the world, just like Verlaine’s gravity. Verlaine whose movements have become dulled because of the time delay　was flooded with Mafia’s attacks. All the bullets, the swords and liquified soil.

Even if he tried to retreat, because his time has been delayed, he could only move sluggishly as if he was under water.

Verlaine’s expressions became stiff.

Dazai gracefully looked at the wooded area echoing with gun shots and roaring sounds. He looked down at the battlefield that had turned into a hell, with such a carefree expression that cooled down in the night breeze._

“This is the rule of this world.” Dazai spoke like he was singing. “It applied in all times and ages, all creatures, the absolute truth. In this world, a group is stronger than an individual. A skill user is stronger than a group. And then...”

Feeling the pleasant cold breeze coming from the blasts of the battle on his cheeks, Dazai smiled.

“... a group of skill users are stronger than one skill user.”

Verlaine pushed his body’s gravity to the max. With a powerful driving force that surpassed the effect of the time manipulation skill, he quickly escaped from the battlefield. Verlaine’s bones cracked at the sudden speed acceleration that exceeded his limit.

Even when the danger struck in front of him, Verlaine’s judgement did not falter. It was not yet a hopeless situation. He would retreat as much as he could, taking as much distance he could from the waves of skill attacks. Then he would fix his posture, manipulate the gravity of the bullets that managed to reach him, repel them and knock down the skill users, one by one. That would be his win then.

Only three skill users. Not too much of a difference in strength.

Suddenly, blood came out from his skin.

Verlaine looked at his cuffs. The skin under his clothes was peeled off, exposing the flesh inside. But only a little blood came out. He felt almost no pains.

He landed down on the ground as a reflex. Upon touching the ground, the skin inside his shoes also came off. He could tell by the slippery feel from it. But again, there was no pain.

That was a new skill attack. But the true nature of it immediately became clear.

His breath was white.

His skin is frozen, there was frost on his eyelashes.

“Let us be held. By the frozen love. Let us be held. By the frozen flower that breaks in its full bloom.” the new skill user appeared, singing with a thin and screechy voice.

Long, white hair, white fur around her shoulders, white breath. And a crimson red rose on her chest. Every time the woman takes one breath, the trees around her froze, cracked up and snapped due to the water inside it freezing and expanding.

Verlaine understood it right away.

A skill user who can cool off the temperate. The reason why his skin was peeled off earlier was because the skin was exposed to the low temperature and got stuck to the inside of his clothes and shoes. His body really became that cold in just an instant. He was frozen from flesh to born, but not much time has even passed.

A super dangerous skill user. Freezing attack does not involve physical clashes. That’s why he can’t dodge them using gravity. It is his natural enemy

Another sniper bullet hit Verlaine’s shoulder. He groaned in pain.

The bullet was cold. It froze by the time it touched his skin, forming a frost pillar. The low temperature invaded into him through the wound, eating up his flesh.

The enemies attacks were too synchronized. Time delay, freezing, sniping. Apparently, it was a tactic that had been put together to block all of Verlaine’s strengths and exploit his weaknesses. There is still something strange about this. He has been retreating at a considerable speed since a while ago, yet the gunshots never stopped. His escape route was totally seen through. Normally if he ran at this speed in the woods in the middle of the night, he would immediately disappear from the telescopic sight. Losing the targets, sniping attack would definitely become impossible. So why?

“Hihihihi, what a sweet face. Hey, just between us, but if you cry and slobber and apologize here, maybe I will let you go this time?”

The voice was close. Really close.

Verlaine turned to that direction. No one was there... No.

In the middle of no where, a hole the size of a coin was opened. It was like the space was burnt and hollowed out, and on the other side of the hole was another different space. From that side, a black eye was staring at this side through the hole.

“Yes, it’s me. You are being watched. From now on, you can be assured even if you lock your toilet door hihihihi”

The hole was so small to see the entire thing. But that eye alone is enough. The eye was filled with malice. It had been watching Verlaine, chasing him and reporting about his positions all the time.

Verlaine fired a rotary kick by reflex at the hole.

“Oops.”

Right before being hit, the hole closed up and disappeared.

“I’m here.”

The voice came from behind. When he turned around, the same hole had been opened in a different place, looking straight at Verlaine.

That was the type of skill that connects space and monitor the targets. The skill user was probably sitting in another safe place, and monitoring the whole battle using their space connection skill. He couldn’t attack the actual skill user. If he tried to touch it, it would close immediately so he wouldn’t be able to destroy it using gravity.

Just how many skill users they have thrown in this battle?

“Hihihi, I have a present for you. From Port Mafia with love.”

From the coin-sized hole, flower petals flew out. Countless petals surrounded Verlaine then started to shine white. Yet another new skill.

The moment Verlaine tried to take a quick avoidance action, all the flower petals exploded at once.

From the train where he sat, Dazai could see the light from that explosion very clearly. The white light split open the woods at night, the afterglow burnt into the night sky.

Dazai looked at that scene, he was grinning.

“How is it going, Dazai-dono?”

From inside the train, a middle-aged man appear. He was wearing the boss’ outfit. He was the one who played the boss’ double, Hirotsu.

“As you can see, it is going well. So well that it is boring.”

In the direction he was pointing, the explosion sound was echoing, trees were falling, sniper flashes and low frequency noises were ringing non-stop.

Hirotsu took off the wig, put on the monocle he always has on, and narrowed his eyes.

“As one would expect.”

“Of course, I had to earn a lot of time to prepare all this. “ said Dazai, who was crossing his legs elegantly like a royal. “Chuuya and I had a terrible hard time fighting Randou-san. So this time I came prepared. Just to kill Mr. Assasin King from Europe, I had to gather a total of 422 people from the combat troops and 28 skill users. That is the full strength that Mafia can put in now.” At the scene where they were looking, the cold air and gun flashes kept shining. Verlaine tried to escape by threading his way in between the trees but a yellow-white ray burnt off the whole night sky, blocking that escape route. That was yet another skill user.

The plan was extremely simple. Setting up a trap and waiting. Chuuya and Adam drafted the same tactic before to defeat the Assasin King. The plan that Dazai carried out was basically the same. Identify the next target, set up traps around that target, and ambush Verlaine from behind when he appears.

The only difference between this and Chuuya’s plan is the scale of those traps. What have been set up as traps this time, was the entire Mafia’s overwhelming combat unit. The result was a one-sided destruction.

“We can keep this battle going for the whole night.” Dazai said as if he was whispering to Verlaine from far away. “Verlaine-san, you are a flawless assassin. With that vivid skill of yours, you have never once been traced down and surrounded like that, haven’t you? That’s why you have no experiences when being cornered by such a skill users organization. Even Randou-san was afraid of that dangerous flawlessness of yours.”

Dazai took out the leather notebook.

Rimbaud’s memoir. The journal Rimbaud had kept about the birth as well as full accounts of skill user Verlaine.

“I mourn for you, Verlaine-san.” Dazai put his hand on the notebook and said as if he was praying. “I mourn not for your death, but for your birth. No one mourns for you for being born. The only one who does is you yourself. That is the reason you fights... I think you are amazing. You despise the fact that you were born, you despise your own power, you despise the world. And by doing that, you came to accept your meaningless life. How wonderful that is. I don’t have that kind of courage. That’s why I wanted to talk with you more. But this is already goodbye.”

Dazai stood up, turning his back on the battlefield in front of him. He walked away.

“Dazai-dono?”

“Report to me when it is done.”

Dazai’s voice powerlessly fell to his feet. He walked away.

The next moment. A black way swelled over the battlefield.

...

#bungou stray dogs #bsd #storm bringer #spoilers #bsd spoilers #dazai osamu #paul verlain #port mafia

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ignisaeri · 3 years

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At that time, all Alatus could hear was the howling of the wind, and the screams of the Yakshas as they waged war against their karmic debts.

A blaze of crimson flame splits the night sky as the Pyro Yaksha shrieks, clawing desperately at scarlet locks of hair with bloodied fingernails, trying to rid herself of demons only she can see. Her eyes flash with the light of a thousand stars as she throws her head back, pleading with the darkness in ragged gasps to leave her, to go somewhere where they could not haunt her. She’s still begging as she dies.

The Geo Yaksha rests his foot against the Hydro Yaksha’s abdomen, using her still body as leverage to draw his sharpened blade out from between her ribs. His eyes stare into the distance, unseeing, pupils clouded over with an inky black, fingers twitching as they hold the weapon that had killed one of his oldest friends. The Hydro Yaksha only lays quietly, death caressing her form with its bony fingers, the pool of water beneath them tinged pink from blood.

The Electro Yaksha falls to his knees, gaze finding Alatus’ one last time, seemingly apologizing for leaving the Anemo Yaksha alone for eternity. His slender hands float over the blade embedded in his chest, then collapses onto his side as his last breaths leave him, currents of violet electricity flickering out into nothing. He dies silhouetted against the blackness of The Chasm, as silent as the sun creeping over the horizon, even as the battle rages endlessly around them.

Rex Lapis gazes at Alatus with such pity, such sadness, before smiling hesitantly, gold eyes meeting the Yaksha’s.

‘Sit, Ever Vigilant Yaksha. The archon war is over. Let us share a cup of osmanthus wine.”

“Alatus, I free you from your duty as a Yaksha. In the fables of another world, the name Xiao is that of a spirit who encountered great suffering and hardship. He endured much suffering, as you have. Use this name from now on.”

“Yes, Morax.”

The God of Freedom seeks him out one evening, when he’s resting quietly near the edge of a cliff, feet dangling restlessly off the side, imagining the faces of the lost Yakshas floating through the clouds. Barabatos’ braids glow a gentle forest green, and he inclines his head slightly towards Xiao as he nears.

“Alatus, correct?”

“Xiao,” the adeptus corrects him.

“Xiao,” Barbatos says, “Rex Lapis told me of you.”

“It was you with the flute, was it not?” Xiao tells Barbatos as they watch the workers construct a massive statue in Liyue’s center, honoring the late Tianquan. Ningguang’s placid face smiles down at them as the workers dust the marble, freeing it from dust and grime.

Venti bobs his head, gaze never straying from where Rex Lapis (now Zhongli) stands with arms folded, gaze dark. With Ningguang gone, the last of the Liyue Qixing has perished.

“Yes,” Venti says. “I saved you that day.”

Tonight, they drink, in honor of the dead. Zhongli gingerly holds a glass of osmanthus wine, a glaze lily tucked into his hair. “To Guizhong,” he says. “Havria, Ningguang, and Tartaglia.”

Venti hiccups, face the color of an overripe tomato, the glass of dandelion wine tipping dangerously in his grip. “To the children of Mond,” he choruses. “To the Ragvindr brothers, to Jean, to Lisa, to Noelle. To Klee!”

Baal is here tonight too, and she leans forward restlessly. “To Kujou Sara,” she adds. “To Kitsune, Chiyo, and to Sasayuri.”

Tonight should be solemn, Xiao thinks, as they list the names of their dead companions. Yet, nearly five hundred years after the last of them passed, he feels nothing but contentment.

Xiao raises his own glass. “To the traveler and his sister,” he says. “And to the Yakshas”.

Xiao watches as Venti’s fingers dance, weaving an enticing melody through the hollow sounds of his flute. He’s sitting against a rock, the cool water of the stream lapping at his ankles, washing against the outcropping where Venti stands, a face full of bliss as he plays.

The song is one that Xiao wished to hear, one that he had first heard from the cart of a passing merchant shortly after the end of the Archon War.

The notes seem to float away into the air as he listens, chasing away the darkness in his soul, and he closes his eyes, reveling in this small moment of peace.

Sometimes, when Xiao sleeps, he dreams. He dreams of a woman wreathed in fire, eyes burning tears down her cheeks. He dreams of a not-truly-there man, standing with his blade buried in the chest of a woman floating limp in blood-tinged water. He dreams of purple lightning dying as a man takes his last breaths deep within The Chasm.

He knows, of course, that he cannot run forever. One day, he will become engulfed by his karmic debt, like the Pyro Yaksha, or go mad and disappear, like the Geo Yaksha.

That day comes sooner than he thinks.

Liyue is burning. The city is just as Xiao remembers, a perfect place of beauty. If he concentrates, he can still barely remember the night of the Lantern Rite, thousands of years ago. He closes his eyes and wishes to see the light of a hundred lanterns, instead of the light of fire the buildings shudder and succumb to the roaring flame.

Zhongli stands in front of him, something akin to pain in his gaze, one arm thrown to the side to keep Venti from rushing forwards. The Anemo Archon’s eyes are wide and wild, hat askew and bow grasped in shaking hands. Baal stands straight, weapon drawn, sorrow dotting her gaze.

Fontaine’s archon, the God of Justice, flits around the backdrop of burning flame, hurriedly trying to save as much of Liyue as she can. Her hands wave, spilling waves of water over the temples and buildings, undoing the damage that Xiao caused. The Dendro and Pyro Archons are busy, pulling screaming mortals from the wreckage and destruction.

Three torches and three exploding barrels, compiled with Xiao’s anemo attacks, had set all of Liyue aflame.

There is distant screaming in Xiao’s ears, sounds he knows only he can hear. Deliriously, he recalls the Pyro Yaksha howling at non-existent demons millennia ago and wonders absently if the same will afflict him.

The karmic debt has finally taken over, and it seems to favor the path the Geo Yaksha had taken. Xiao almost laughs as he realizes this, feeling trapped within his skin as he wields his polearm, pointed unwaveringly at the archons.

“I am sorry,” he rasps. There is darkness at the edge of his sight, and the screams only intensify. He can hear individual voices now, hissing and howling and wailing, crying for mercy and death and blood.

“Do not apologize,” Zhongli says. “It is not your fault.”

“What is this?” Venti gasps, the sound echoing in Xiao’s ears. “Xiao, what is happening?”

Baal answers for him. “It is the fate of a Yaksha.” Electricity begins to crackle around her shoulders, eyes darkening to violet as she calls the power of the storm.

Xiao wants to weep at how much she reminds him of the Electro Yaksha.

Maybe, he muses, he will see his fellow Yakshas again. Maybe he’ll meet Aether and Lumine too, in the place that lies after death. He may finally meet those who used to belong to Mond, the ones that Venti talks of so adoringly.

Zhongli finally draws his polearm, an earthen pillar appearing before him, casting protective gold around the archons. Xiao knows why.

He can feel the wind gusting around him, responding to calls he does not remember sending out. Leaves swirl in the gale, and trees rip their way out of the ground. The pain in his head intensifies as the number of screaming voices triple.

Xiao meets Zhongli’s gaze. Sometime, somehow, over the years, the archons had become his closest confidants. Yet, Zhongli was always his oldest companion, so now, Xiao asks Zhongli to do the impossible.

“Morax,” he croaks, using a name that hasn’t been spoken for ages. “You must.”

Zhongli’s gaze is pained, yet resolute, and that is how Xiao knows that Morax will kill him to save the world. Baal seems to sense this too, and lightning strikes the ground not too far away, anxiously awaiting her command.

It is only Venti who has not yet seemed to grasp the situation. He frowns at both archons. “What must you do, Zhongli?”

Zhongli only shakes his head, and Xiao knows it pains him to be the one who will have to kill the last Yaksha. So he answers Venti, limbs shaking as he desperately tries to contain the whirlwind threatening to tear from his chest.

“He must kill me. If he does not, I fear I will destroy Teyvat. I have lost control over my body, Venti.”

Barbatos’ eyes flash green, and Xiao is yet again reminded of the power of the archons. “No,” he says simply. “You cannot die. To live for thousands of years, to drink with us, all this time? You cannot die like this.”

Xiao loses concentration, just a tiny sliver, yet the gust of wind that tears from him shears the top off of a nearby mountain. He groans, harnessing the gale yet again, even as the action forces him to his knees.

“Morax,” he says again. “Please.”

Zhongli looks at him, and the archon’s eyes are glistening in the light of the dancing flames, as wind whips his hair into his face.

“Alatus,” he says, and his voice is full of hurt and resignation. “It has been an honor.”

Yes, Xiao wants to answer back, but he cannot force his mouth to move. He just nods, shaking his head as if he can jar the wailing into silence.

Venti starts towards Zhongli, power thrumming at the edges of his fingers, seemingly ready to resort to battle in order to prevent Xiao’s death, and that is when Baal moves. She slams into Venti, pushing him into the ground, even as wind starts to whirl around them - Venti’s magic, not Xiao’s. Her element locking curse comes a second later, binding itself around Venti, even as he hisses at her in protest.

“Xiao,” Venti cries, twisting as if he can escape the curse. His hat is lost, blown away in the wind, and his hair has come loose from its braids, flying around his face.

“Barbatos,” Xiao whispers. “I never thanked you, for saving me that day.”

Venti pauses, for a second, stunned into silence.

“Thank you,” Xiao says, over the voices in his head. “Thank you.”

Baal only looks at him solemnly, and Xiao stares back at her. They exchange no words, but Baal just nods, once, the simple gesture conveying everything he needs to know.

Xiao holds her gaze for a few more seconds, turning back to find the point of Zhongli’s spear resting above his heart.

Zhongli's face is twisted in grief, yet his blade still hits true, sliding into the hollow space between Xiao's third and fourth ribs.

Xiao chokes, the whirl of wind around him finally dying out. His legs buckle and he falls ungraciously, feeling gentle hands grasping at his clothes as he does.

Somewhere, Venti is screaming his name.

The wailing inside his skull is dissipating, and near the edges of his sight, Xiao can make out swirls of color. At first, he thinks they are the archons, and his failing body cannot see the details of their faces. Then, he recognizes a blue that does not belong to those in the present.

“Rest,” Zhongli whispers, as Xiao fades. “Rest, Alatus.”

And Xiao does, letting himself fall into the embrace of the Yaksha's, who are only becoming clearer, even as Xiao dies.

637 years later, a scholar strolls through the bookshelves of Sumeru's most famous academy, searching for a piece of information that could support her thesis.

She turns into a lane labelled Mondstadt: The City of Freedom, and begins to scan the titles, careful to replace everything exactly where she finds it.

There are two other travelers within the small space between the bookshelves, and they're talking to each other, quite loudly.

The scholar frowns. No matter how foreign these travelers are, the rule of silence in a library should be universal.

The first traveler, a tall man with golden eyes and umber hair that falls to his lower back flips another page in his book, completely ignoring his companion. A jade spear is strapped across his back, and the scholar thinks idly that the weapon looks more like a piece of art, with great wings of green jade shattering outwards from the main spike.

The tall man's companion is quite short, with yellow cat like eyes and evergreen tufts of hair, a pink pearl necklace slung loosely around his throat. His boyish grin seems quite misplaced.

It only takes the scholar a few moments to figure out why.

A few months ago, the scholar had studied ancient folklore of Liyue. Among them was a tale of several Yakshas, the last of whom had supposedly been buried beneath a statue of himself, on the highest peak in Liyue.

The man standing before her looks exactly the same as the grainy photo in the text. However, in the scroll of lore, the last Yaksha had worn a fierce scowl across his features, nothing like the one that stands before her now.

"Come, Zhongli," the should-be-dead Yaksha says, tugging on his friend's sleeve. "Baal is waiting for us."

"Baal can wait a while longer," the taller man says, turning the page of his book a while longer, which the scholar now sees is a copy of The Ruling System of Mondstadt: Grandmasters and Cavalry Captains.

"You said you wanted me to learn more about Mond, didn't you?" the taller man continues. "Besides, I am quite intrigued as to exactly who this 'Kaeya' is, the one you keep referencing."

The yaksha frowns. "Kaeya," he says. "Diluc's brother."

At his companion's blank stare, the yaksha says. "I'll remind you later," he chides. "We really must be going, Zhongli."

The scholar startles, embarrassed that she eavesdropped for so long. However, she still hears what the tall man says back.

"Fine. Let us go, Venti."

#genshin impact #genshin #xiao #alatus #barbatos #xiao genshin #fic #fanfic #genshin zhongli #zhongli #ningguang #venti #baal #raiden shogun #mihoyo #primogems #ao3 #fic rec #yaksha

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jessiebanethedragon · 3 years

Text

White Sands Warm the Cold Sea

Star Wars, The Bad Batch Pirate!au (Hunter x Reader

Summary: the reader, betrothed to a disgusting Coruscanti Lord flees her home world and lands herself in a plethora of trouble, a ship of clones, and one pirate captain whose cold exterior needs much more than the tropical seaside sun.

Warnings: Swearing, takes place in time periods where women have dowery's and suchlike. The readers dad and bothered are asses.

chapter one

Chapter two: The Stowaway

It is a disgusting day on Coruscant. Hot, humid and you can’t help but feel something sinister in the air. You feel hollow, and it is only partly due to the tightness of your dress. The yellow and green material wraps around you in layers. Your face is blank but your mind is racing, if you cannot convince your father to call off the marriage, how else can you put a stop to this?

Very few people talk about the war, and so how Lord Nython made his fortune is a mystery to you. What you have gathered from whispers of those in your household it was through a lengthy siege that devastated republic and seperatist forces alike.

“And the weather today is perfect for sailing, I bet those ships at the docks will be itching to set off.” Your handmaiden Seil says to you, and you frown, since when did she have an interest in the docks. But she continues playing with your hair.

“I'll get you the most expensive jewelry in the house,” She says with a smile you’ve grown up with. Perhaps carer was a more accurate term, considering she seemed to be the only person in the world that wanted the best for you. She returns with a pouch of all kinds of gold, silver and gems.

“There is a way to the docks, it is so lovely for a stroll. Away from the busy streets and such like.” You frown at her obsession with an area crawling with pirates.

“Seil what in the name-” You start saying, turning around to slip your flats on. And you stop, in her hands are your boots, made for riding as you had done so many times before.

“I thought these would be fitting, as they are your favourite.” She’s talking about all the times you told her how much you love how sturdy they feel around your feet. And how when you would run the fields, how powerful they made your legs feel.

And then it clicks. The docks, the boots. The tears in her eyes. While you were planning on an escape from this marriage, Seil had been planning an escape from every marriage your father would force on you. She ties the boots tightly, and places a hand on your cheek as you both take shaking breaths to compose yourselves.

And with your father still passed out in bed, and the sun barely rising, you slip into the streets and into the areas less traveled, sprinting off towards the ocean.

The docks are infused with the smell of fish, and the workers barely turn a glance your way as you shift through the swarms of people. You come to a halt at a clearing in the crowd, and your brain catches up with itself. What are you going to do now? With no money, skills, or plan, you begin to second guess yourself. You have time to make it back to the household with no one being the wiser. But you remember meeting Lord Nython for the first time.

His hand latched to yours like a monster squid to its prey, you notice that unlike some men he doesn’t ask ‘may I’ before touching you, and you briefly wonder what about you invites his hand onto your own. But your fake smile remains plastered on as he looks you up and down like a farmer regards the sale of livestock.

Your gut had told you then that all he could bring you was bad news, confirmed by rumors and stories of his wartime expeditions, and when he told you about the war, and the pathetic Grand Army of the Republic he spared no detail in his murder of an entire army.

Of course it's not the same as killing someone like you or me, those kaminoans are devils, and those freaks are just the same. Like hunting the same dumb peigion over and over again. We surely must have downed hundreds of them that day, but they are rats you see, you have to kill every last one in order to rid yourself of the infestation.

Education had not taught you about the Kamino Clones, but experience had, every sepratist man who held power despised them. ‘Scum of the earth’ your father had said when you asked about them. Telling you they had their emotions removed, and blindly followed orders given by the highest bidder. And when the G.A.R had fallen, they scuttled into exile.

And now you stand on the docks of Coruscant, two paths in front of you. Surely if you left Nyhon would send someone after you, he never seemed to back away from a fight, and given his reputation for always getting what he wanted, you doubted he’d take to your absence kindly. So that left you with leaving the only home you’d ever known, and given that you cannot sail, nor pay for passage, stowing away was your only option.

You briefly wonder about the procedure of stowing away, does one pick a certain ship or choose at random?

“Can I help you miss?” A Togruta man asks you, only his blue face visible from underneath his hood and cloak, but the markings give him away, as well as the point in the fabric over his head.

“I...I…” you pause to gather yourself. “I’m fine, thank you.” and you quickly turn away from him, walking down the docks at a purposeful pace. There are so many ships all looking to either load or unload supplies, but none of them seem to be leaving shortly. You need escape now, and not later. The longer you dwell the more the bad feeling in your stomach grows. You must lose yourself again because before you know it a man is rushing past you and shouting

“Sorry miss!” as he goes, you catch the clanking of metal and a glimpse of eyeglasses as he disappears up the ramp of a large dark oak ship, the name Havoc Marauder painted in red at the back.

Perhaps you have found your escape after all.

You very quickly decide the ocean is terrifying. After having snuck up the ramp and into the depths of the ship, you found yourself in your current spot. Huddled behind stacks of crates sitting on the wooden floor and being violently rocked around as the water crashes into the side from all sides. More than once you’ve had to close your eyes in panic when something particularly bad happens, but you refuse to appear weak - even if you’re the only person to witness it.

And the footsteps, even though the men seldom come below decks but you can hear them step ferociously above you. They sound like an army and considering you didn’t get a good look at any of them, you had no idea how many people you were hiding from. They’re loud, and kept busy by the Sea, you have no idea where you’re headed, but as long as it’s far, far away from Coruscant you couldn’t care less. And there are no windows here, so you have no idea how long you’ve been traveling for.

Footsteps start to make their way to the set of stairs leading down into your hiding spot, the small nook of the ship that resides in the belly of the beast. The steps you hear aren't as heavy as others, but they seem to keep most of their weight on their toes, you never quite hear their heel make contact against the wood. And you press yourself tighter to the wall, a tall frame passes you by, lean and with ashen hair the man halls a crate away from the other end of the room, and turns to leave. Your panicked eyes can do nothing but stare back at him through the gaps in the boxes, and they watch him squint for a moment, before he turns and heads back up the stairs. Crate in hand, and your heart in your chest. He cannot have seen you, if he had, why turn away? Panic consumes you.

☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠ ☠

“Sarge,” Crosshair says, thumping the crate of bread and dried meat down in front of him. Hunter simply raises an eyebrow at his vod, and it confirms Crosshair's hypothesis. The captain is in one of his moods again, when shaking off the nightmares is impossible and the hate inside him grows and simmers at fantastical measures.

“There’s a woman on board.” He tells him, casually popping a pick into his mouth. And watching as Tech’s and Wrecker’s heads snap up.

“A woman?” Tech asks with judgement. Crosshair rolls his eyes.

“Yes a woman, you know, the things that look almost like you except for their b-”

“I know what a woman is!” Tech cuts him off before things get graphic. His brother never having the politeness nor the decency to hold his tongue.

“There’s a woman aboard the Murader?” Wrecker tries to confirm, and underneath his wide captains hat, Hunter’s eyes darken.

“Listen very carefully.” He growls, the midday sun shining its way onto an unforgiving face. “If there is a stowaway. I do not care if you have to drag her to me with her intestines hanging out. Get. Her. Off. My. Ship.”

“But…” Wrecker starts, taken aback by the aggressive imagery.

“But what?” Hunter snaps, standing up and seeming small compared to his brother, but nonetheless intimidating. “I want her found and I want her off my kriffing ship.” He demands one last time before stalking back to the captains quarters.

Below deck you hear the slamming of a heavy wooden door, the sound makes your skin jump crawl with dread. Something has gone very wrong indeed, and it is not long before you see boots standing at the top of the steps down into the hold where you thought you were hidden. It is difficult to tell how many, two for certain, the change in foot size tells you that much. None of them talk, making it even harder for you to mask your panicked breaths. But just as one foot begins to descend the stairs, a voice from afar distracts it.

“Ship off the starboard bow!” it’s enough to get the men turning away from your concealment, and towards the voice.

“What does she fly?” Another voice shouts, much closer to you.

“Looks Weequay to me!” comes the response, which causes someone else to grumble something about eyesight and crowsnest. Frankly it’s all gibberish to you, starboard could be another hyper-ocean speedway let alone a part of the ship, and while you are sure you’ve heard the term Weequay before, you can’t place where or in what context you heard it. Laughter breaks you from your thoughts.

“That’ll be Hondo’s ship then!” A loud shout settles in your bones. Not one in anger but perhaps more so simple loudness. And whoever or whatever a Hondo is, it is enough to carry the shoes away from you and rush to another, more pressing task. Which makes you think you just may owe this Hondo your life.

Taglist: @the-mandalorian-clone-lover @peacefulwizardfox @rex-meshla @s1st37 @and-claudia @kamino-mermaid @thelambandthewolffe @starwarsmeninhelmets

@bronvin @myeternalsin @sweetsunflowerkisses

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reynie-muldoons · 3 years

Text

'The Dance of the Celestial Orb' liveblog!

for real this time lmfao

book and show spoilers below

I'm ✨nervous✨ please let our children be okay

0:10 this Sticky arc hurts me so kuch

1:35 this music is BUMPIN

2:22 I just wanna know how she got under there without the dude seeing her

2:47 "all systems go" for the Improvement.... yikes 😬😬😬

2:55 she didn't wait even 5 seconds after they left, the door was still closing when she popped up 😂 can you imagine if one of them doubled back right at that moment

3:18 they look like the dudes from that veggietales movie, I think it was Esther- the island of perpetual tickling?? Anyone??? 😂😂😂

4:00 Kate vented.......

4:51 "not a rat" yeah no shit

5:07 if not for the suspense, I would be jamming out lmaooo

6:10 Mr. Benedict is looking at the shoreline, is he about to watch Kate dive in???? Because I mean that's where she's gotta be going

6:20 "memory challenges"? Is Rhonda talking about Milligan's amnesia, or has short term memory been affected as well??

6:29 .....thank you for answering so efficiently 😂

6:42 "I buy it. I completely.... buy it." RHONDA THAT'S NOT HELPFUL AHSKSHDJKD

6:56 can you imagine seeing your friend go down in a sub then hours later seeing the sub float up in fucking PIECES

7:06 KATE! KATE! KATE! KATE!

7:06 please let it be reunion time

7:25 oh hello that's a drop

7:38 *to the tune of Bezos I* come on Katie u can do it pave the way put ur back into it

7:51 she craves that mineral

8:06 Sticky, my child

8:20 oh my gosh they went out and LOOKED FOR HER I care them 😭😭😭

8:23 SHE KNEW HIS DREAM SHE KNEW HIS DREAM TELEPATH TELEPATH TELEPATH

8:34 STICKY STOPPPP

8:40 "jumping to conclusions is a failure of character" wow that really is something Curtain would say

8:52 angry Reynie. He is in rare form

8:54 "and you helped put her there!" OOOOOOOH I SCREAMED

9:03 "I shouldn't have yelled" okay but you kinda should have Sticky needs a wake up call

9:06 "dont apologize. I like this side of you." IS THIS THE START OF REYNIE AND CONSTANCE HAVING THE BEST SIBLING RELATIONSHIP

9:22 "if you really cared about me, you'd want me to be happy instead of standing there telling me who I am" oh Sticky my dude I am NOT digging the manipulation

9:36 Reynie pulling out the BFF card!!! Also Reynie digging in his feet because he knows he's right!!!! That's great setup for his arc as a strategist later

9:48 "I'm telling you, Kate's fine." Narrator: Kate was not, in fact, fine.

10:03 "they'll notice." Sticky has made one (1) good point.

10:11 oh dear god are they fingerprinting this bitch

10:19 all this equipment, has no one walked up to the cliff and looked down???

10:23 HAHAHAHA WAIT THEY ACTUALLY HAVEN'T

10:27 "we've been out here all night" that means Kate has been clinging to a cliff by her fingers and toes ALL NIGHT????

11:04 babe I know it's been a long night but maybe wait a second for them to actually leave before you climb back up

11:15 BUCKET NO

11:22 she has to go get it. There's no way someone wouldn't find that shit, it's in plain view

11:37 "WAS"???? WHY ARE WE SAYING WAS????? NO PAST TENSE HERE MILLIGAN'S FINE

11:43 "I only wish we could've known him better" NOOOPE NONONO WE'RE NOT DOING THIS

11:47 Rhonda back at it as the voice of reason!!!!!

11:59 "I have never met a more competent swimmer" throwback to "the baaAAAYYYY"

12:10 MR. BENEDICT'S FACE HAHAHAHA HOLD ON LET ME TAKE A PICTURE IM DYING

12:11 NUMBER TWO, NOT HELPING

12:14 RHONDA'S FACE HAHENDJDKDN

12:33 "we will go rescue him" because of COURSE he would

12:36 Rhonda is his best wingwoman omfg she's so consistent

12:54 MISS PERUMAL??????

12:56 MISS PERUMAL!!!!!!

13:00 SHE KNOWS HE'S RIGHT GAKSHDBDHEKSNND

13:09 "how hard can it be? It's an island!" PFFFFT

13:16 oh SQ baby boy please get out of there

13:25 "I certainly have my own suspicions" he said, looking at SQ why are you looking at SQ like that

13:31 SQ GET OUT OF THERE PLEASE IS2G

13:36 here we fuckin go

13:43 the captions have the f in forest capitalized like it's this special place

13:43 new hc that the Forest is a magical place like pixie hollow

13:57 TWO THINGS: 1. YES stand up for yourself baby!!!! 2. Shepard Quaid? Interesting! I don't think we ever got SQ's full name in the books, I hope TLS made that decision!

14:08 your "father hat"??? Oh my gosh shut the fuck up right there don't even continue

14:16 oh yeah real fuckin cute put on your "steward of this institution hat" and call that a good reason to be a shit person

14:43 "No." GOOD FOR HIMMMM GOOD JOB SQ

15:03 Kate's struggling right by the shore where a certain someone would be returning after a very hard swim, it would be a great time for a meeting wouldn't you think

15:09 KATE THE GREAT

15:11 "THE TRAPESE GODDESS" I WILL REFER TO HER AS NOTHING ELSE

15:26 sorry but that green screen of her falling was kinda funny

15:28 soooooo is someone, a very certain someone, gonna catch her...??????

15:36 YEEEAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH

15:43 IS THIS IT????@?@?!?

15:46 awww poor baby girl you can tell how tired she is

15:46 just putting this out there- they look so good in frame together

15:46 the actor who plays Milligan is fucking huge in stature so I wasn't sure how that would go but it looks so good

16:00 THE WAY HE'S LOOKING AT HER WITH HIS HAND ON HER SHOULDER I CANT DO THISSSSS

16:20 "keep going." 😭😭😭😭😭

16:23 "you dont understand." Ohhhh I think he does

16:25 "I think I do." What did I tell you, he's got your back babygirl

16:45 I'm so glad she's talking this out, and with Milligan of all people

17:01 it makes so much sense for Kate to feel alone in that situation, and when Kate feels anything less than positive she goes and does something, whatever that something is.

17:05 "So.. I...." "fell off a cliff and nearly died." Thanks for putting things into perspective Milligan

17:05 Milligan is such a good dad stop

17:19 "most of the way" is an understatement LMFAO

17:29 I'm so glad we know the intimate details of Milligan's illustrious swimming abilities 😂 out of all the new things wfrom the show that one wasnt on my radar

17:52 leave it to Milligan to come up with an escape plan off of an island with no water vessel with four kids in tow

18:08 THEYRE SO CUTE 😭😭😭😭

18:08 lowkey I'm super surprised they didnt take this opportunity to have Milligan's arduous swim force his memories out and have the father daughter bonding time they deserve. I hope they give that moment ample time to flesh out.

18:13 BUCKET!!!

18:13 wait that shot is so artsy hold up lmfao

18:13 this looks like someone's photography final hahahaha

18:26 THE TENDER MUSIC STOPPPP 😭😭😭

18:41 Sticky is still on that jumping to conclusions bs he got from Curtain

18:44 WETHERALL'S WIDGET 😭

19:31 "Kate... she's in danger..." NO SHIT SHERLOCK

19:36 "and it's all because of me." Not just because of you but love to see you taking responsibility

19:52 once again I am asking WHY ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT THIS IN THE OPEN

20:26 "Kate. She has changed." "Not really. She's always been who she is." "Her clothes. She changed clothes." PFFFT HAHHAHA they really took a moment of self-reflection and made it so much better

20:55 AYYYYY KATE'S DEPENDENCY ARC CONTINUESSSSS

21:35 yikes yikes yikes

22:16 I love that Mr. Benedict got closure in telling Miss Perumal that her words stuck with him

22:40 the way she just knows Reynie took the position of leader 😭😭

22:54 SHE WROTE HIM A LETTERRR

23:02 "Would it be possible to get this to him?" Ma'am what part of undercover spy don't you get

23:54 it's still really weird that we are now in a position where Reynie is the one who is not trusted and Sticky is the one in Curtain's favor

24:13 and here we see Curtain's thinly veiled anger issues shining through

24:21 "the little things matter. Every minor detail, it all matters!" CALLBACK TO MR. BENEDICT TELLING THE CHILDREN THAT THEY ALL MATTER

24:55 "I can tell with complete accuracy when a person is lying." first of all, no. second of all, I cannot wait for him to talk to Constance.

26:33 why is Mr. Benedict graphically explaining the children's potential trauma so funny to me

26:40 "you're catastrophizing." "Yes. I am. Quite severely. Thank you." WHY IS THIS FUNNY

26:58 MADGE!!!!

27:16 she's so prettyyyyy

27:33 GOOD JOB MADGE!!!!!

27:36 wait did she just take the LETTER??? she's delivering the LETTER?????

28:05 WHAT DOES "OKAY FINE" MEAN??? REYNIE??????

28:22 it's sad because it's true 🥺

28:24 "I miss my teacher from the orphanage" the best lies are the ones rooted in truth 🥺🥺🥺

28:48 roll credits

29:16 Reynie honey Orion's Belt isn't on the ceiling

29:29 the way he was so confident that he had it right 😑 Curtain Stop Being a Pretentious Fuck challenge

29:52 our babygirl is so smartttt

29:55 did Milligan plant his prints 😳 oh no OH NO

29:57 MARTINA???? WHATSUEJHDKD

29:57 is this the replacement for when they pin cheating on her????

30:03 THE KEY CARD!!!!

30:11 MADGEEEE

30:21 "one attacked me as a small child" honey you are a small child

30:24 "it did not win," she said, smiling menacingly

30:40 "so we dance again" WHY DID THE MUSIC REV UP WHEN SHE SAID THAT HAHAHAHA

31:01 ✨woodworking is a passion✨

31:58 "was it functional?" "Well I guess that depends on how you define functionality" RHONDA'S FACE IN THE BACKGROUND HAHAHAHA

32:10 OH HEY MARTINA

32:17 wait 🥺

32:22 that has to be SQ :)

32:28 hi sweet boy

32:34 please tell me they did that shot of the sandwich because Madge is about to take it

32:39 LMFAOOOOO

32:44 hi good girl!!! Enjoy your snackies

32:50 oh god oh no the LETTER

33:25 oh wow we're doing this NOW??

33:52 and here we see another example of Curtain's thinly veiled anger issues bubbling to the surface

34:10 hey what if you uhhh weren't such an asshole

34:33 that man's voice is buttery

34:52 REYNIE'S TRYING TO TELL SQ????

35:02 and they're talking about this right in front of the office door, WHY??

35:24 AND THEY'RE TALKING ABOUT THIS RIGHT IN FRONT OF THE OFFICE DOOR, WHY????

35:55 he's letting him go 🥺🥺🥺🥺

36:14 why does that look like a body bag

36:17 oh my gosh it definitely is a body bag, hey Martina

36:25 yep, that's about what I expected

36:36 "whoever did this to me, they're gonna pay" oh girl do I have some bad news for you

37:12 ahhhh, so Martina is the burnt out gifted kid who keeps going out of spite and sheer force of will

37:12 everything makes much more sense now

37:30 ohhhhh my gosh feelings time

37:44 "I think it's awesome." "Yeah. I know you do." THE SHIPPERS ARE THRIVING

37:54 THEY REALLY WANT TO MAKE THIS AS PAINFUL AS POSSIBLE HUH

38:10 "it's the least I can do" that's an understatement 😬

38:14 AAWWWWW SHKSHSLSBDK

38:20 "I don't know what I'd do without you, Wetherall" STOPPPPP

38:30 HEY BUD UH MAYBE CLOSE YOUR DOOR???

38:38 he's been writing letters to her every night and now he finally gets one back 😭😭

39:34 so Miss Perumal wrote this letter with the intention of it being sent to him, right- why did she write it like that?? 😂

39:34 they've gone to such lengths to communicate in code but the letter kind of undermines that- it was written in such a way that an onlooker would know Reynie was a spy but wouldn't know what he was doing or why. No wonder SQ was pissed

39:41 KATE!!

40:10 BREAKING NEWS: local bastard man treats everyone like shit

40:15 ohhhhh SQ bud please be careful

40:30 "always have time for my son," he said in a clipped voice that implied that he does not have time for his son

40:35 ohhh he's getting RIGHT INTO IT HUH

40:41 you mean to tell me he's never asked about Mr. Curtain's work?? Ever???? Somehow that doesn't seem right to me

40:57 hey uh what if you didn't talk down to SQ at every opportunity

41:02 "would you care to reconsider that answer, son?" "No." DIG THOSE HEELS IN SQ!!!!

41:22 I'm really not digging that Curtain is using the guise of openly expressing his feelings to communicate his anger and his unasked question. Not cool bitch head

41:33 the fact that he didn't answer SQ's spoken question kind of also answers his unspoken question

41:45 "I knew there was something off about that girl. But espionage?" "How do you so convincingly fake a tetherball obsession?" I love that this entire conversation could be about Martina or Kate interchangeably

42:34 WELL THAT'S NOT GOOD

42:36 IF IT WAS THAT EASY TO FIND WITH BINOCULARS HOW HAD THEY NOT BEEN SPOTTED UP UNTIL THIS POINT?!!?#? HOW????

43:05 Kate advocating for Martina with the Society 🥺🥺 the interaction I didn't know I needed

43:58 "I definitely don't like to leave anything unfinished." "That's true, I've seen you eat." PFFFFT

44:05 YESS YOU GO STICKY USE YOUR ACCESS FOR PRIME INTEL

44:19 "well, you can't succeed without me, so..." baby girl you have no idea how right you are

44:28 please let that be Milligan PLEASE LET THAT BE MILLIGAN

44:32 YEAAAAAHHHHH

44:35 I simply adore him

44:45 "would you mind helping me down, please? I'm stuck." Your honor I would die for this man

44:54 oh shit, Martina's tryna sleuth it out herself.. this can't end well

45:04 is she about to find Kate's marbles or something?? Callback to the book?

45:26 the absolute MURDER in her eyes

45:31 FUCKIN YIKES

45:41 "the clothes of someone who had given up" ASEJDGEIDNDLFK

45:47 well that's not good

46:00 WELL THAT'S NOT GOOD

46:04 PLEASE let them be on their way already, please

46:14 THEY MADE A BLIMP????

46:17 Goodyear is QUAKING

46:35 why the fuck is Number Two in red, that's upsetting on principle

THEYRE JUST ENDING IT THERE???? goddamnit!!!!

How surreal is it that next week is the finale?? Idk if I'm ready for that????

#mbs disney+#mbs liveblog #the dance of the celestial orb #the mysterious benedict society #charity's talkies

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merry-thieves · 4 years

Text

Possible meanings of Chain of Iron snippets

Yes, this is going to be a long post.

I didn’t put all teasers here only those where I could actually come up with something.

Alastair looked amused. “Never before have I heard such a concise statement of the ludicrous philosophy with which you and your school friends go through the world.”

So, Alastair is definitely speaking to one of the Merry Thieves

probably James, since Al and Matthew aren’t on the best terms and conversations between Thomas and Al would go in another direction (either fighting or with way more feelings)

it seems like James and Alastair are on quite good terms here if Alastair isn’t snappish and shows his true (happy) emotions

Anna was fortress-surrounded by her friends: tall, handsome Thomas; Christopher, who shared his sister’s stern delicacy of feature, peacock Matthew, who always looked as if he’d just rolled out of an unmade bed piled with silks and velvet. And Eugenia Lightwood, who hadn’t bothered to take off her canary-yellow gloves or hat, as if she were ready to run out the door any moment.

They all eyed Ariadne suspiciously as she approached Anna. Anna didn’t seem to see her at all; she was leaning back with one booted foot braced on the wall behind her. She was all lean black and white lines, her close-fitting jacket following the outline of her slim curves, her head thrown back as she laughed. Her ruby pendant glimmered in the hollow of her throat.

Keep your head up, Ariadne, she told herself. You can do this.

“Hello, Anna,” Ariadne said.

First of all, Eugenia is in this group which is interesting regarding the main characters in Chain of Iron

Is Eugenia part of the main group? Has she an important role to play? (we are supposed to find out the reason why she is disgraced)

We have Ariadne’s pov here, so she might play a big role too in Choi, at least we will have more of her and Anna’s relationship

Also, she calls Matthew “peacock” which is so accurate and funny!

Alastair’s gaze flicked to Matthew. “Why,” he said, “are you not even wearing a hat?”

“And cover up this hair?” Matthew indicated his golden locks with a flourish. “Would you blot out the sun?”

Okay, Matthew and Alastair aren’t brawling which is a good sign

Also, where are they? There has to be a good reason if both of them are attending and standing next to each other

I’m guessing they’re outside since they’re supposed to wear hats

The brave princess Lucretia raced through the marble halls of the palace. "I must find Cordelia," she gasped. "I must save her."

"I believe the Prince holds her even now, captive in his throne room!" Sir Jerrod exclaimed. "But Princess Lucretia, even though you are the most beautiful and wise lady that I have ever met, surely you cannot fight your way through a hundred of his stoutest palace guard!" The knight’s green eyes flashed. His straight black hair was disarranged, and his white shirt was entirely undone.

"But I must!" Lucretia cried.

So, the main thing I want to point out here is that Lucie is crushing so hard on Jesse!

and does she picture him with an open shirt or am I reading too much into this?

James spoke at last, and there was real kindness in his voice. “You must give people time, Alastair,” he said. “We are none of us perfect, and no one expects perfection. But when you have hurt people you must allow them their anger. Otherwise it will only become another thing you have tried to take away.”

Alastair seemed to hesitate. “James,” he said. “Does he think —“

Soooo, James and Alastair are friendly now? (please, please, please)

And who does Alastair have to give time? Matthew or more likely Thomas?

Also, James is one eloquent babe

“I know that you’ve been doing something — something you’re keeping secret. I’m not angry,” Cordelia hastened to add. “I just wish you’d tell me what it is.”

Lucie tried to cover her surprise.

it was about time that those two speak about all their secrets! They want to become Parabatai for Raziel’s sake!

but I have the sneaking suspicion that Lucie is going to deflect the question or is going to make something up to avoid telling the truth

(please let me be wrong)

“Alastair! Cordelia!” A familiar voice bellowed up from downstairs.

Sona went white and laid a hand against the wall to steady herself. “Elias?”

I’m not sure about you guys but going white and bracing oneself against a wall doesn’t seem like someone is happy

So, I guess Sona isn’t really happy that Elias is back

is there another reason besides the drinking why she isn’t

and is Elias mad at his children? I mean he is bellowing

also why is Elias mad at all? All his charges were dropped and he is a free man once more

Cordelia shivered a little, though it was not cold in the room. “There is something weighing on you, Matthew,” she said gently. “A secret. Will you tell me what it is?”

She saw his hand go to his breast pocket, where he often kept his flask. Then he lowered it stiffly to his side and took a deep breath. “You do not know what you are asking.”

“Yes, I do,” she said. “I am asking for the truth. Your truth. You know mine, and I do not even know what makes you so unhappy.”

Cordelia told Matthew everything about her father and maybe about her feelings for James

if we’re lucky Matthew tells Cordelia about the poisoning and someone can finally help him (I think CC said that Matthew would tell Cordelia everything in Chain of Iron, hopefully that’s true)

also, Matthew doesn’t want to drink after Cordelia told him the story about her father

Matthew also found out why Alastair had been so mean in school and that Matthew can't really partially blame him for what happened with Charlotte

Jesse glanced out the window. They were passing through Piccadilly Circus, nearly deserted at such a late hour. The statue of Eros in the center was lightly dusted with snow; a lone tramp slept upon the steps below it. “Don’t have too much hope, Lucie. Sometimes hope is dangerous.”

“Have you said that to Grace?”

Jesse shook his head. “She won’t listen.”

is there a possibility that Lucie won’t try to raise Jesse from the dead and instead tries to stop Grace from doing so? (the parallels between this and qoaad are uncanny)

I don’t think that there is anything that will stop grace from trying to perform necromancy other than force

“I’ve been trying to hate you,” Thomas said quietly, “for what you did to Matthew. You richly deserve to be hated for what you have done.”

Alastair’s dark eyes glittered. “It wasn’t just his mother I slandered. It was your father, too. You know it. So you don’t have to—to act all high-minded about this. Stop pretending you are only upset on behalf of Matthew. Hate me on your own behalf, Thomas.”

he is calling him Thomas!!! Ahhhh! (so they’re probably alone)

Thomas doesn’t really hate Alastair at this point but also hasn’t fully forgiven him

at least he hasn’t thrown Alastair into the themes

maybe Thomas is trying to suppress the fact that Alastair also wronged Thomas’s own family and it’s easier for him to direct his attention to Matthew’s family?

His golden eyes were fixed on her, fierce as a hawk’s gaze. She said, "It doesn’t matter what I said. I wanted them to leave you alone —"

"I don’t believe you," he said. She could feel the slight tremors running through his body — tremors of stress, that meant he was holding himself very still. Holding himself back. "You don’t say things you don’t mean, Daisy —"

Okay now, what did she say? I’m guessing something quite flattering or that she loved him maybe?

also, who didn’t want to leave James alone? Some bigoted Enclave members?

is James trying to fight against the bracelet’s spell? Or is he breaking Cordelia’s heart yet again?

James closed his eyes. Against the back of his eyelids, he could see the city take shape—the minarets flung darkly against a blue sky, the silver river. Cordelia’s voice, low and familiar, rose above the clamor of his nightmare. He followed it out of the darkness, like Theseus following the length of thread out of the Minotaur’s labyrinth. And it was not the first time. Her voice had lifted him out of fever, once, had been his light in shadows. . . . A sharp pain spiked through his temples. He blinked his eyes open: he was firmly back in the present, his friends all looking at him worriedly. Cordelia had already moved away from him, leaving behind the lingering scent of jasmine. He could still feel where her fingers had rested against his shoulder.

JORDELIA! (Sorry; I just had to get that out)

What city is this? One in a demon dimension?

And does James have some kind of visions now? Interesting...

I love the connection between James and Cordelia

Apparently, the gracelet is trying to suppress James's feelings and memories of Cordelia...but please tell me he notices here that he is in love with her?

Also, Cordelia is trying to stay away from James :(

Hands caught his wrists; he was hauled up roughly, an arm around his back. he smelled brandy and cologne.

“Matthew,” he said, in a dry voice. “James needs water,” Christopher said. “Do we have any water?” “Never touch the stuff,” said Matthew, settling James onto the long sofa. He sat down next to him, staring so intently into James’s face that, despite everything, James had to stifle a laugh. “I’m fine, Matthew,” said James. “Also, I don’t know what you expect to discover by looking into my eyeball.”

Okay WHAT IS UP with James in the latest snippets?!? I NEED answers!

Is James follwing in his father's footsteps? Regarding drugs you know...

Also, Matthew has a tendency to stare into Jame's face (not that I blame him)

Christopher!

Okay, I'm devestated that James knows it's Matthew because he smells of alcohol. I'm NOT okay!

Also, what kind of stuff is this?

“You should have told us,” said Thomas. “We would have helped you move your things. I’m exceptionally good at carrying large objects.” “And think of all those hairbrushes you would have had to relocate,” Lucie said. “Haven’t you got six or seven?” Matthew glowered at her affectionately. “I try to be at least as stylish as our local ghosts.”

I think it's clear that Matthew just moved and didn't tell any of his friends of his plans...Why Matthew, why?

Also, Thomas and Lucie are just so wholesome how they try to brighten the situation with their comments

Sooooo, is Thomas also good at carrying people *cough*Alastair*cough*, just asking...?

How many Hairbrushes does one need? Seriously, what kind of purpose do seven hairbrushes serve?

Don't worry Matthew, only Magnus can beat your stylishness

That’s all for now! Should I add anything else in your opinion?

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sorrylatenew · 3 years

Text

ficlet

I found this and had zero memory of writing it. Figured I’d let it out into the world bc the mood of it feels strangely appropriate for today--a little sad, but very hopeful, with Jonny and Patrick ending up right where they belong.

It’s set when it seemed Jonny and his longtime girlfriend broke up this past summer. I use her real name in it, which I myself am not always a fan of, so jsyk.

***

Jonny’s so quiet while they sit there on the couch with the TV on low, and it's unsettling because he usually never shuts up unless there’s purpose to it.

He doesn’t seem exactly...unhappy. He’s so tan, looks soft and tired in a good way—the worst thing is that Patrick can’t read it. He knows something’s up but not really what.

They have minimal conversation for an entire hour before Jonny says, “Me and Lindsey broke up. For good I think.”

Patrick lets out a very quiet breath, nods. He figured that might be it. “Yeah? That sucks man.”

“Yeah,” Jonny says, more a sigh. “Thought I’d marry her or something. Have kids—I don’t know.”

“Yeah,” Patrick says, and the silence falls back over them for a while.

He doesn’t ask about the tank top, or the last minute trip to Arizona in general. They’ve never really talked much about this kind of stuff, not beyond talking about picking up, which is vastly different and always felt—too charged to delve deep even there.

“Kaner?” Jonny says eventually, and he waits for Patrick to say,

“What?”

“Can I—tell you something?”

Patrick looks sideways at him, doesn’t know why he feels a sudden zap of nervousness. “What?”

Jonny swallows, keeps completely still where he’s been sitting—also not like him. Patrick can’t recall any moments spent sitting with Jonny where he wasn’t fidgeting at least a little.

“What, Taze?”

“You have to promise you won’t—“ he starts, and fidgets for the first time, shifts himself to the side.

“Do I want to know this?” Patrick says, stomach tied in knots, and Jonny lets out a long, hollow laugh.

“I don’t know,” he says, and despite everything, Patrick knows he’s not gonna be able to leave here now without knowing, not with Jonny suddenly looking like he feels sick, his brows creased together.

“What is it?”

Jonny bites his lip, the hand on top of his thigh balled up into a fist, face like he regrets opening his mouth, but then, “I hooked up with a guy in Arizona.”

Patrick was half expecting that, if he’s totally honest with himself, but his head still feels full of static, the brain equivalent of a foot falling asleep, and all he can think to say is, “Oh.”

Jonny lifts his foot up and crosses it over his thigh, puts it right back down and turns to face Patrick more fully, his breath coming just a little fast. “Oh?”

“I mean—“ Patrick says, and he can feel that his palms have gone clammy, his heart sped up. “Are you trying to say you’re—gay now?”

“No,” Jonny says, and he seems disgusted—not with the concept, but with Patrick asking, like he doesn't know him. “I really did—I thought I’d have kids with Lindsey. I really—I still—“

Patrick doesn’t know why his nose suddenly feels hot, that telltale burning. He leans his head back on the couch, stares at the ceiling and already knows exactly what he’s going to do before he leaves this place tonight.

“I just needed to tell you,” Jonny says, quiet after another bout of silence. “I’m so tired of feeling like—there are certain things holding me back. Like I’m carrying shit around. Maybe it’s some of why Lindsey didn’t—I don’t know.”

Patrick can’t think of a single thing to say. Truly cannot. Can’t remember ever feeling so nervous in his life, not even in Stanley Cup-winning games, only opens his mouth to croak out, “Yeah,” when Jonny asks if he wants something to drink, so fidgety now he can’t contain his limbs.

He watches Jonny rush off to the kitchen trying not to look like he’s rushing and feels a wave of affection for him so deep he has to tip his head back again, just breathe for a second.

And then he gets to his feet too, smooths a hand down over his somersaulting stomach and reaches up to turn his hat around, hopes to fucking god he’s not about to make the biggest fool of himself.

Jonny’s standing in front of his open fridge when Patrick turns the corner, the back of his neck a bright red. His face is too when he turns around holding a couple waters—across his cheeks at least. Patrick doesn’t know how it always looks good on him.

“Sorry,” Jonny says, like it’s instinctive, and closes his eyes, shakes his head at himself.

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Patrick says.

“I wasn’t trying to make anything weird,” Jonny goes on. “I was just—“

“It’s not weird,” Patrick says, stepping further into the kitchen.

Jonny slides one of the waters down the counter towards where Patrick’s standing, leans himself back on his hands. “Seemed like you took it a little weird.”

“It was just—surprising.”

Jonny lets a moment stretch, taps the countertop with one finger and says, “Was it?”

Patrick moves forward the few feet separating him from the water Jonny slid down to him. He puts one hand on it, picks at the label and then starts to slide it back, except he moves with it, walks it down the length until he’s reached where Jonny’s propped himself.

“Yeah, Jon,” he says, still a safe distance away but close enough to close it easily. “It was.”

“Then why do I feel like this?” Jonny says, voice only a little above a whisper, and Patrick takes that last step, crowds into Jonny’s space.

He thinks ‘rebound.’ And he thinks ‘he’s lonely,’ and he thinks, ‘we’re about to make this so weird,’ and he leans in, lifts his face up, presses his mouth to Jonny’s parted lips.

#absolutely nothing to do with this fic but #please be okay jonny #my heart hurts #Patrick Kane #Jonathan Toews #my fic #1988 #hockey

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allthefilmsiveseenforfree · 3 years

Text

Godzilla vs. Kong

From the first rumble in the seats in the Dolby theater, I was so glad I chose to see this movie on the big screen. At times it felt like I was on one of those “4-D” roller coasters where the seats rumble and they spray water on your or pipe smells into the audience. That’s how close I was to the action! As at least a casual fan of the previous entries in the Monsterverse, I was looking forward to Godzilla vs Kong and my goodness, those medium expectations sure were met. How medium was it? Well...

I would like the science in this movie to win Best Comedy or Musical in next year’s Golden Globes. This is probably the hardest I’ve laughed in a theater in over a year (obviously there are other reasons for that, but the sentiment still stands). This movie was nonsensical, loud, shiny, dumb fun and I had a great fucking time watching it. Oh, you probably want a plot summary - I’m just gonna refer you to the title of the film. That about covers all you need to know.

Some thoughts:

“Somewhere on Skull Island” - whaaaaat is with this title card? It’s a tiny island. How many possible locations could there possibly be for a giant fuck-off ape to be taking his nap?

I know we’re not here for any semblance of plot but boy, they really sprained something trying to lift these clunky paragraphs of exposition into anything resembling what actual humans would say.

These opening credits are one of the funniest sequences I’ve seen in ages.

My main man Brian Tyree Henry! I had no idea he was in this (frankly I knew virtually nothing about this movie because what do you even need to know about a movie with the title Godzilla vs. Kong). He’s playing a completely different vibe than I’ve ever seen him play - the comedic relief and a mile-a-minute vaguely conspiracy theorist podcast host who is obsessed with Sir Zilla and the other Titans. I really enjoyed seeing this other side of him!

Absolutely terrible waste of Kyle Chandler, who was probably paid more than my yearly salary for 60 seconds of Protective and Frazzled Dad perfection.

One of the highlights of the film is the performance of young actress Kaylee Hottle as Jia. Jia is Deaf, and so is Kaylee in real life, and I’m always here for more Deaf representation onscreen! And her friendship with Kong is one of the few things in the movie that elicits any genuine emotion of any kind. When he booped her I literally said “Aw!” out loud.

The visuals of the hollow Earth are very cool and remind me of those space age desktop backgrounds that most of the guys I know who built their own PCs and spent a lot of time on Tor.com would have had.

Even the most ridiculous films like this one will sometimes include little bits of worldbuilding that are thoughtful and have fascinating implications. For example, the “Titan Shelters” in Hong Kong - who pays for those? The government? Do rich people have reinforced private Titan Shelters while poor folks have to rely on the public ones, which are likely overcrowded and possibly don’t have enough resources? (I think we all know the answer to that).

I am very much enjoying all the neon in the Hong Kong fight, and how much more visually interesting it makes two giant blobs slamming their blob bodies against each other while causing a staggering amount of property damage.

Finally a realistic “I can crack the password!” scene!

Did I Cry? Ok, a teeny tiny bit, about Kong and Jia’s friendship.

Times I laughed LOUDLY in the theater: when Mr. Zilla, who can literally shoot lightning out of his damn mouth just straight up punches Kong in the face. When Kong gets attacked by all those lizard things in the hollow Earth and just uses one motherfucker to slap another motherfucker. When they use an anti-gravity machine (whatever that actually means) as a defibrillator for an ape that is sometimes as big as a skyscraper and other times as big as a mountain.

And now a series of questions:

Why is this high school class just watching the news in the middle of the day? The G-Z has attacked cities at least 3 other times in this universe that we know of. Like, this isn’t their 9/11, this is a thing that just regularly happens.

You decided it was a good idea to transport Kong over the ocean...where Big Daddy G hangs out all the time? Like...that’s where he lives, you guys. You’re basically trying to sneak Kong over the roof of Godzilla’s house and hoping he doesn’t notice.

OH and you had a Kong-sized net and a team of Kong transport helicopters ready the WHOLE TIME? But you still chose “sneaking over Godzilla’s house” as your first plan of action????

How long can Kong hold his breath? He goes underwater for some long ass periods.

In fact, what are the details of Kong’s physiology in general? How tall is he? Because at one point in his fight with The GZA, he’s standing on the floor of the Tasman Sea, no big deal - except the Tasman Sea has a depth of roughly 18,000 feet. And Kong’s just chilling out in the water at waist level? But he’s also shorter than the skyscrapers in Hong Kong? I choose to believe he can grow and shrink at will because that makes more sense than the sloppy joe approach to his biology the screenwriters are using.

I like Millie Bobby Brown as much as the next guy, but does it bother anyone else that she always sounds congested? Is that a consequence of her doing her American accent? It’s incredibly distracting.

Oh, this entire scene is set in Antarctica but no one is wearing hats or gloves? Sure sure sure.

And no one is having any problems breathing the air in the middle of the fucking earth? No one thought to check that the atmosphere was breathable before everyone takes off their helmets? No noxious fumes to worry about in the center of a planet that produces magma and shit?

You’re taking your child to the literal center of the earth? Is this not the ONE TIME you think you might need a babysitter?

The ship that can *checks notes* withstand the forces present during an entire reversal of gravity is crushed by Kong’s fist like it’s a tube of toothpaste?

Even though the Earth is hollow, I’m assuming the distance to reach the core is still about the same, so Godzilla’s lighting can 1) act as a drill to - I cannot reiterate this strongly enough - the CENTER OF THE FUCKING EARTH and 2) Godzilla and Kong can yell at each other for 3,958 miles (give or take) and still hear each other? Do they have superhearing? Is this something we’re studying or are we content to just have them Hulk smash all of that incredibly important evolutionary biology to bits while everyone stands around?

Because this is a “vs” movie, of course there is no clear-cut “winner” at the end. Instead the two parties leave each other with a grudging respect formed, an uneasy truce in place. But I’m obsessed with the way this final scene plays out, as though Godzilla is a bitter ex walking away from Kong after their doomed relationship has run its course. The lighting, the soft music, the absolute melodrama of this giant lizard slinking slowly back into the sea. Godzilla is giving the gays everything they want in 2k21 and I am here for it. Here’s hoping the next entry in the franchise has Kong hooking up with Rodan to make G jealous and they all have a messy public fight over brunch, Real Housewives style.

If you liked this review, please consider reblogging or subscribing to my Patreon! For as low as $1, you can access bonus content and movie reviews, or even request that I review any movie of your choice.

#121in2021 #godzilla vs kong #godzilla vs kong review #millie bobby brown #brian tyree henry #kyle chandler #rebecca hall #Alexander Skarsgard #kaylee hottle #godzilla #king kong #movie reviews #film reviews

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dapandapod · 4 years

Text

A soft plucking of heartstrings

So here I am, 2.30 in the morning, just finished a promptchallange from the fantastic @sleepingreader! It may have gotten a little longer and a little softer than I intended, but please enjoy! Here it is on Ao3!

Also, here is my challangers writings and I can’t tell you enough how amazing i find it!

Soft plucking of strings. Spots of candlelight give the tavern a soft and homey feel. The patrons sit with rapt attention listening to the bard on stage with the cornflower blue eyes.

His eyes are closed, his voice dancing with the notes from the lute, weaving a tale of longing, heartache and lust. Every eye is fixed on him where he sits on the stage, no one can miss the raw emotion making itself known through music. Jaskier is lost. Lost deeply in his memories, in his feelings, in the words falling from his tongue and the soft vibration of the instrument in his arms. He loves this song, but it leaves a bittersweet taste. Especially when Geralt is around, as he is tonight, knowing what the price was. Everything is alright now, but the memory is still there. The pain, that hollow space carved out still makes itself known every now and then. The last tones ring out and Jaskier takes a breath before he opens his eyes and lets them roam over his audience. As soon as his eyes are on them they break into applause, almost as if they were waiting for him to return. He makes a sweeping bow and leaves the stage to sit down with his witcher. His witcher, yes. Geralt came to him after the disaster of a dragonhunt. It took them awhile to find their way with each other again and if Jaskier is perfectly honest he prefers what they have now. It’s fragile and honest and something entirely new for his whitehaired friend. Their friendship has blossomed into actual friendship now, not the push and pull of wills they had before. Now they see each other, and listen like they didn’t do before.

As soon as Jaskier sits down he gets showered in coins and ale. The patrons share their coins and their stories with him, what his song reminds them of, their own heartache, longing and lust. Geralt says nothing, just sips the ale pushed into his hand. The night is young and he is asked to sing another set, so he does. And when they finally retire for the night Jaskier finds his coin purse heavier than it’s been for a long, long time. He counts them out in their shared room, Geralt claiming the bed closer to the door and undresses. It’s entirely unfair of him to expect Jaskier not to sneak a peek as he takes off his shirt. Jaskier absolutely sneaks a peek, because expecting anything else of him would be plain stupid. And of course Geralt notices him staring. “What?” He asks over his shoulder and yup, time to kickstart the brain. “I have decided we stay another night.” Jaskier says, gathering the coins and putting them in the leather purse. “Why would we do that?” Geralt asks as he unlaces his trousers and yes, that's just unfair all over again to expect Jaskier to be able to hold a conversation with this view in front of him. Geralt pulls them down and Jaskier has to look away because Jaskier is many things but he is not cruel to himself. There is only so much he can take. Jaskier is also very good at lying to himself so he watches from the reflection of the small window instead. “Because today I have earned us more than we have gotten in months and it is time I give myself a- uh. Give us a treat. In the morn we shall go shopping!” Geralt snorts and lays down on the mattress. Jaskier swiftly undresses too, but takes a long time to fall asleep. He is mapping out all the stands he wants to visit and the sweets he wants to taste. And wants Geralt to taste! And with that image floating through his mind his eyes close and he drifts off.

When morning comes, Jaskier is almost bouncing with enthusiasm. It’s been a while since he dared spend coin as he will today and still expect to have some left for later. Geralt is slow out the door so he impatiently grabs him by the wrist and drags him along. If he had looked back at the witcher he would see a small smile curve and his finger flex, but he does not look and so it remains a secret. The first stall they visit has, surprise, knives. Geralt stops and admires the handiwork as Jaskier studies the rings next to them. The silver work is expertly done, but not what they had in mind. So Jaskier draws him to the next stand. And the next. They find a woman selling plums, the first of the season. She recognizes him from the tavern, and when they buy a handful of her plums she puts in two apples for them as well. Jaskier gives her the brightest smile and a squeeze of her hand. They find a stall with hair jewelry. Small beads to put into braids, hairclasps, ribbons and leatherstrips worked with fine details. Jaskier sends Geralt to find… something, anything that makes him go away as Jaskier buys two small beads of carved bone with intricate patterns and one of those worked leather straps. He adds a silver comb adorned with swallows for Ciri and folds it all into a piece of cloth. When Geralt returns he already stands two stalls over, a thick man with a thin mustache selling strings and flutes and for some reason, hats made of straw. They didn’t mean to, but a young girl on the street next to a barber shop grabs ahold of them as they pass. “Good sirs, are you not weary from your travels? If you follow me inside my father can offer the best trim of beard and hair this side of the river!” Geralt gives Jaskier a one-over and firmly nods. The bard needs some taking care of, he seems to decide, and they both walk out of there an hour later with hair newly washed and oiled up. Jaskier will never say it out loud, but he longs for the stubble to return to his witcher's face. The girl sees them outside and gives them a satisfied smirk. “Did I not say so, good sirs, that he is the best?” They nod their agreement and hand her one of the apples they were given. When they make it back out to the market Geralt stops by a big stand with tacks and blankets and brushes and many other things Jaskier is not very familiar with, but feels like they are meant for horses. Geralt picks out new reins from soft leather and grease to keep them smooth. He finds a big brush with long strands that looks the perfect amount of firm and soft, if Jaskier is any judge at all. And new saddlebags and, of course, a big bag of treats. Geralt opens his own money pouch to pay but Jaskier smacks his hands away and enjoys the feeling of giving. He likes that feeling, and all the gods know Geralt has seen too little of that in his life. “Jaskier, this is going to sound odd.” Geralt says after a good 30 minutes of ogling at a blacksmith stall. “But can I have the leather pouch for a moment, and can you go look at the bookstore?” Jaskier can only give a crooked smile and oblige, small butterflies making pirouettes in his stomach. And after a while Geralt comes to him, carrying a long wooden casing. Jaskier squints at him suspiciously, but Geralt simply can’t play fair and the smile he shoots him makes Jaskier lose his nerve and look away. It is a frightening thing, looking at someone you treasure so much without a hope of ever being treasured the same way back. To see them smile towards you as if they actually might. Jaskier buys a new notebook, Geralt a pair of new leather gloves. They buy a few jars of cherries and other sweets, and by then the sun is hanging low on the sky. The money pouch is very much lighter but not empty, just as he planned. Geralt walks them out on the fields, past farmers and cows and a cat on a fence, blinking at them with big eyes. Jasker simply cannot walk past the cat, her big eyes and pink nose and tail that is curling, even though cats' tails normally don’t curl. He bends down to pat her, and Geralt stays back. “Oh no, you big oaf, you come here right now and pet this cat.” Jaskier demands of him, but Geralt stays. “Cats don’t like me.” He mutters, and looks away when the cat leans against Jaskier’s legs, purring loudly. The bard reaches for his friend, grabbing his wrist and pulling him closer. “This one doesn’t mind, do you my girl?” Jaskier croons at the cat, and she blinks up at him and then at Geralt. She doesn’t hiss, she doesn’t bite, she just purrs and waits. “I uh.. I never touched a cat before.” Geralt admits, at loss at what to do. So Jaskier drags him over and places his hand over his. Together they stroke the cat on the back. Geralt's skin is rough and warm under Jaskiers fingers, and the uncertainty radiates from his friend in waves. Jaskier is only a man, and he is a man with a day filled with treats, so he allows himself another one. With his thumb he strokes Geralt's hand before he releases it and sits back a little. He looks at the cat and then back to this big man, this witcher, this old grumpy lump of muscles he calls his friend and his… everything. He studies the way Geralt's mouth is slightly open in awe, and how the cat blinks at him and how he instinctively blinks back. How his finger lingers on the soft fur, how carefully he scratches behind her ear and under her chin. And then the cat wanders off, leaving them there to look after her. They look at her go, and then they keep walking to where Geralt was leading them.

As it turns out, Geralt was aiming for the riverside. They sit down a bit away from the water's edge by a big tree. The grass is tall and tickles his ankles where his trousers ride up. They sit close together and their shoulders bump every now and then. They listen to the water and to the birds as the day slowly settles into night around them. And then Geralt picks up the wooden casing and puts it in Jaskier’s lap. “I know it’s your money but I saw you looking at it and…” Geralt opens the casing and inside lies a beautiful rapier, inlaid with dandelions along the hilt and the handguard. Jaskiers mouth opens and closes and he reaches out a hand to softly touch the cool metal. “Geralt.” He breathes. “Geralt.” He looks up, looks down, his eyes stinging a little. “You shouldn’t have” He says when words finally return to him. He did admire it when they stood there, and he did miss the weight of a rapier in his hand at times while on the path. “In a way, I didn’t. You did. And I wanted you to have it and you have spent so much on me today so it was time you spent some on yourself.” Geralt says to him, and Jaskier can’t remember the last time his friend used so many words and for the simple reason to… to what, really? He looks up at Geralt, mouth working to find the right words but he can’t. “Thank you.” The smile Geralt gives him could buy the moon. It's soft and warm and only for him. And Geralt picks up one of the jars of sweets and opens it. He picks up a small cherry and holds it to Jaskier’s mouth. Jaskier looks at it, and then into Geralt's eyes. He is watching intently and this doesn’t feel like something friends do anymore. But he opens his mouth and takes the cherry, Geralt's fingers brushing against his lips. A small tingling sensation rushes through him, and down his spine and out to his toes. They are still looking at each other, eyes locked, all smiles gone. And as the sun slowly sets, Jaskier leans forward, leans into Geralt's space. Their noses touch when the last rays of sunshine filter through the treetops. Their breaths mingle, eyes fluttering shut and then they share a soft kiss. Barely a brushing of lips. Jaskier leans over the wooden box, pusing it down on the grass to get onto his knees. Geralt's hand curve around his neck and the tingling explodes to fireworks under his skin. They press their lips together again, a taste of sweet cherries and sunshine and birdsong. They kiss again and again. Jaskier will treat himself more often in the future, he thinks as Geralt's arms snake around him to hold him close. Kisses that taste like cherry and pearls to braid into witcher's hair and apples and plums and sunshine. And when the morning comes he makes sure to give Roach a treat too. And when they make their way out on the path again, that pain, that hollow inside him is filled with feelings and hopes he never allowed himself before. As a treat.

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goldeneyedgirl · 4 years

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jalice2020 day five

JaliceWeek2020 Day 5: Angel/Demon

Afterglow

Notes: This is the third version, because I thought the others were going to be ‘too long’ and then this became a behemoth. I’ve lost all sense of whether it’s actually worth posting, but it’s 6,300+ words and a whole day of work that I refuse to waste. These prompts are going up out of order because I feel like being contrary and am totally disorganised.

And I found the idea of ‘demon’ fascinating because what else would a vampire be but a very specific form of ‘demon’? Plus there were so many (utterly amazing) fics about demon!Alice, I decided to flip the script.

I am also totally running with the angel thing in a much longer fic, because I had so much world building, so much more history for both Alice and Jasper, and I was sorry that I couldn’t include it.

There were three things of which she was certain.

The first was that her name was Alice.

The second was that she was born an angel.

And three, she was getting ready to die.

—

He finds her in an alley behind a diner, slumped against the brickwork, struggling to breathe. He sees her, and for a moment he doesn’t realise what he’s seeing - why would he? Who, in living memory, has laid eyes on an angel?

But he remembers the stories, told around a Monterrey bonfire, of the markings, the aura, the divinity of those nearly mythical creatures. Creatures born of hope and love and all those things that he left behind on that last ride. The older ones always had angel stories, of their astounding beauty and immense power; of wings that stretched out eight, ten, twelve feet of pure white energy that could cut through any substance known to creation. Of miracles and healings and forgiveness that filled all the hollow spaces inside. Of blood that can only be offered willingly, or it becomes fantastically and irreversibly poisonous.

He goes to her side, his hunt forgotten. Maybe it is the stories, that childish, lingering hope at the back of his mind that there is absolution for his actions, that he has not fallen so low he cannot rise up again.

Or maybe it is seeing a creature as broken as he feels, and the twist of pity-empathy in his gut won’t let him turn away from her. She is so small, so utterly… forgotten.

She was a great beauty, he can see that underneath her suffering; her skin has a grey cast, and her lips blue, her eyes underscored with dark bruises. She’s so thin, her skin stretched tight. The celestial markings still adorn her tiny arms, from wrist to elbow, a collage of flowers and stars and maps and symbols utterly meaningless to him, but faded like an old bruise.

Something utterly precious, just thrown away.

His red eyes meet hers, and she gasps, tries to make herself smaller. Some half-forgotten lesson tells her that red-eyes, demons, are the lowest evil and she must protect herself. But with what? She has lost her wings, has lost her magic, has lost much of her memory.

She has been discarded, and is worth nothing more than a demon’s gaze, his next meal. It would be better to go quickly than to linger with this heaviness in her bones and lungs and heart and mind. Whatever divinity is left in her blood, perhaps it can gift him with something - she doesn’t even know what a demon would wish for with angel’s blood, truly. But for a quick end, she would offer it willingly.

She gasps again as he lifts her, and cradles her close, his eyes studying her carefully as he settles her in his arms, making sure he causes her no pain, even as fresh bruises bloom on her skin.

“What…?” she croaks, as he sweeps out of the alley, away from his chosen meal, from the buzzing signs of the diner, and into the night.

“Rest, little one,” is all he says, as if he has a plan. “You’re safe.”

Those half-remembered warnings feel paper thin as she is cradled like treasure against his strong body, as he moves confidently through the streets. Even through her threadbare clothing, it is the first time she has been touched since she can remember, and it is… nice. It is nice and it is easy enough to close her eyes and let whatever is to happen next come upon her.

—

His room in the boarding house is small and worn, but fine enough for him to have a minuscule wash room of his own. The angel sleeps deeply, the sleep of the gravely ill, and he tucks her into the untouched bed in the corner, whilst he ventures into the yet unvisited common kitchen to find her food.

The landlady sweeps in, a well-lived woman - who has never trusted the red-eyed man - likes him a little more as she watches him make a right mess of toast and tea, and she quickly assembles a little tray. This isn’t the kind of establishment that cares what he does in the room he pays for, and she doesn’t really consider the possibilities when he asks for an extra towel and pillow.

The angel sleeps through the night and well into the next day, and he can feel the heat coming from her skin. He dribbles cooled tea between her lips, and curses the fact he has no memory of nursing from the army, of his human life. He refuses to request more help from the landlady, and finally he gives up all pretences and manages to gather the girl up and clamber into the narrow, stained little bathtub together, filled with cold water that he hopes will curb the fever.

She dreams of fire licking her limbs and red eyes staring into her soul and her lips are so dry and everything is all jumbled up and then she is staring at the very tall red-eyed monster cradling her in a bathtub full of cold water, and patting her face with a cloth and worry on his face.

Somehow she regains control of her limbs, enough to reach one shaking hand up to his cheek - it seems impossible that the most evil of creatures could be so handsome, could go to so much trouble for her. She wishes she could ask him a million questions, but she is so very tired, and it is easier to settle back against him and sleep as her fever rages.

—

They are together a week before she is lucid enough to ask questions and offer answers, for them to even learn the other’s name.

Alice.

Major Jasper Whitlock, ma’am.

A soldier, a killer, in his human life. That makes her sad for him, that humans choose to set themselves on a path that is paved in death and misery but there is nothing that can be done about that now. And for a soldier turned vampire, with all his terrible deeds indented on every inch of his arms and neck, with luminous red eyes and a hard stare, he is not.. bad.

In fact, he shows her the first kindness she can ever remember.

He brings her food, strange choices at first, but he soon learns - angels like sweet things, fruits and honey and candy; thin soups to build her strength up, well-sugared milky tea to help her sleep. He brings her some clothing - a proper night dress, and a blue day dress that is far too long, but it covers up the bruises on her stocking-less legs. He reads to her, cheap novels that have covers depicting in young ladies and flowers and cannot be vaguely interesting to him.

She knows he slips away to hunt, to drain humans of their life, but she sees the slump in his shoulders, the tired, pained look on his face upon his return and she wonders if those paper-thin lessons were wrong. That demons do have souls, souls that are weighed with every choice, every action, of their cursed existence. After all, a vampire is just a human gone astray, really. And for all of their flaws and follies, ignorance and arrogance, humans are essentially good, kind creatures. There is a reason they are so staunchly guarded by the angels, after all.

What if Major Whitlock is only a demon because the angels failed him?

When she is well enough to stand, to limp slowly around their tiny room, he offers to take her to church, and she wants to giggle, but he looks so serious and so determined to escort her there that she agrees; churches are for humans, and so is the religion found in them. But she thinks she understands - angels and churches and religions have been so tangled up together that it is some kind of logic, to take her there. He even brings her a hat and gloves and new shoes for the excursion, letting her limping stride set the pace, letting her lean on him as her lungs struggle to keep up.

His arm is gentle yet strong around her, and she leans closer to him, breathing in a scent of pine needles and rainwater.

—

The closest church is of moderate size and limited wealth - the parishioners are hardworking people with little money - and the pastor is an elderly man who has overseen the births, marriages, and deaths of those people, all of whom he can name on sight. It is a late night, counselling a young couple, and he ambles around the church, setting it right for the next morning.

He looks up when he hears voices, and sees the silhouette in the doorway - one tall and one small. For a moment, he mistakes them for an adult and child; perhaps siblings? Strangers or newcomers, certainly. They take a place in a back pew, the taller figure helping the smaller into her seat before settling beside her. It is then he approaches, to welcome them and offer them counsel, before he realises what he is seeing.

The red eyes of the male, firmly fixed on the diminutive girl. And he wants to banish the monster, this fiend from the sanctified ground on which they stand, of which he should not be able to enter. But the flickering candles throw light onto the girl, and the sight of her is a reward paid for with decades of his faith. It is a split second, a flicker of light and shadow, and he has Seen her. The ghost of wings that fold around her in filmy light, the slight glow of her skin, the wisp of lost golden markings, such beauty his mortal eyes has never seen. She looks up at her companion with affection in her eyes, and she takes his hand, and the pastor does nothing more than nod and bless them both in passing; whatever has brought the pair into his church is beyond that of mortal comprehension.

They stay a little while before the devil helps the angel stand, and the pastor watches as the girl limps from the church, leaning heavily on her corrupted companion and says a little prayer for them, one to see them both to whatever sanctuary they might be needing. And then he extinguishes the candles.

—

Time meanders on, and Alice grows stronger. Strong enough to walk unaided, though she still takes his arm every time they leave. Strong enough to teach herself to mend their few clothes, to prepare herself food, though he finds her with candy and fruit just as often as something properly nutritious.

Seeing her cheeks round with chocolate, blushing with embarrassment at getting caught, is the first time he’s properly laughed in decades.

She looks so well now, with faint colour in her cheeks; her eyes are a blue he could get lost in, a swirling galaxy of shifting light and colour - they are most inhuman thing about her right now. Her lips have lost the blue cast, are now a rose pink that makes her look very kissable, but thoughts like that are dangerous, and feel heavy in his chest. Her markings look like some kind of bruise-coloured tattoos that are slowly darkening. He hasn’t asked about them, about the meanings behind them, but when he holds her hand, he sometimes finds himself tracing the lines of the flowers, the stars, the symbols - he thinks he has them memorised.

But eventually, it is time to move on. His body count is rising, getting closer to noticeable, and the money is running out - they only have what he takes from his victims, and it has been slim pickings for a few weeks. He hates to have to admit why they have to leave, but she doesn’t flinch, just smiles and requests a bag for her things as if fleeing a city because of too many bloody disappearances is a perfectly normal reason to leave.

So they leave Philadelphia, hand in hand, with no particular destination in mind. And for a long time, that’s how they live - boarding houses in the city, forgotten farm houses in the country, cradled by long grass in forests where the night sky peeks through. Those are the nights she lies pressed up against him, her head pillowed on his shoulder, as she traces constellations with her finger as she relaxes into sleep.

Those are the nights that are imprinted on his brain forever.

—

They find themselves in the back of Vermont in the fall; it’s been a few years since they left Philadelphia, wandering around the country. She looks beautiful to him that day, with a flower crown in her hair - the flowers drooping but not yet wilted - and her very worn out pink dress that is shredded below her knees and a filthy white shawl with more holes than lace. He clasps her hand tight in his as they meander through the forest; she hums a song under her breath, one that is sweet and soothing and intoxicating and he can never remember the tune until she sings it again.

He isn’t paying attention, when they settle on a camp site and she flits off to find something edible - fruits, herbs, flowers; she is surprisingly adaptable. And for all the legends and half-truths, she has no trouble or reluctance eating animal flesh, as long as she cooks it on a fire first, though she always cries when it has to be a rabbit.

They are upon them at once, a coven of five aged vampires, suspicious and on edge as they see his eyes, his scars, his cold glare at the interruption and his own failure to sense them.

At the strange, sickly amber of their eyes.

It’s a tense conversation of his intentions, his purpose on their lands, and his honeyed words are thinly veiled threats. He is grateful that Alice’s sweet scent (roses and linens and melting snow) is easily covered by his own, an illusive little quicksilver protected by her own sacred biology. He has them almost convinced them to, in laymen’s terms, fuck right off and leave him be when Alice returns.

“Jasper?”

The older woman gasps at the sight of her and the entire family go from suspicion to anger and disgust - the shawl slung low around her elbows (covering up her markings, good girl), the girlish, tattered dress, and flowers in her hair. The apples clutched in her pale hand, one with an obvious bite mark. Her blue eyes bright and skin flushed, and decades later he will remind them how damn unobservant they are that they thought she was his victim, lured into seclusion, when two bags sit by the tree, when everything about her was uncanny and inhuman enough to tell them the still-shocking truth. It was fall in the forest, and the flowers in her hair were still fresh, for god’s sake.

But in that moment, she is the innocent, a future meal of a monster, the sacrificial lamb.

“Sweetheart, come away from him,” the woman gestures to her, but Alice is no longer smiling, and if they looked closer, they’d see the storm rising in her eyes (he loves that about her, the way the blue of her eyes darkens and churns when she’s worried or afraid, and lightens and ripples with her joy. He could watch her eyes forever.) She drops the fruit, and moves closer to him, her hands reaching for the sleeve of his coat.

The coven move too fast, and the only reason they aren’t destroyed is because he is too aware of her; she is pushed aside in their efforts to manhandle her away from him, to drag him through to their side of the river. He lets the biggest one push him to his knees, his arms tight and awkward behind his back. There is a growl is rumbling in his chest, and he can smell it - her blood. It’s an odd, distinctive smell that is enough to make him freeze. It’s not a lot, maybe a scrape, but this coven… angel blood is somehow a walking, resistible temptation. They could drain her dry (and die horribly for the effort) but she’ll still be perfectly dead and that cannot be allowed to happen. He begins to struggle, but the big one holds him firm and shit. This is bad.

“Let him up, please.”

He can only move his head enough to see her standing, a small cut on her leg that will be gone in a day or two. She looks … displeased. He’s never seen that look on her face before.

“You’ll be okay now,” the redheaded boy tells her superiorly. “You should find your way back to town.”

“Let him up,” she retorts, just as arrogantly as the boy, as imperious as a queen, and there is a stillness, an edge to everything around them - no birds or breeze; even the running of the river seems rather muted.

“We’ll deal with him,” the big one says confidently, and that is the wrong thing to say.

“Let. Him. Go.”

It happens all at once, an echoing order that is not yelled but thunders in all their ears. They yell and gasp and are tossed away like paper dolls and he finally gets a look at his girl in all her glory.

She’d told him once, off-hand, that she’d never be fully healed again. That she accepted that she was Fallen and Shunned, and what she had managed to recover, she was grateful for.

Not recovered, his ass.

She was great and terrible and the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, her arms thrown wide and the shawl gone, her markings glowing white, her eyes pools of white energy. And behind her, stretching four feet, easily, on either side were her long wings, crackling with pure light. Markings he hadn’t glimpsed before peeked out from the neckline of her dress, and her skin had a faint glow to it, the entire effect as if a star was entrapped inside her body.

It is his captor that bears the brunt of her wrath, gasping in pain as her gaze focuses on him, the rest of the coven disorientated as they pick themselves up.

The last of the group, the blonde woman who might have been mistaken as an angel herself, is at his side immediately, wanting to help but unsure how to as he howls at whatever Alice’s power is doing to him.

“Stop it!” the blonde vampire screams, “STOP IT.”

He manages to get back to her side, wanting to reach out and pull her to him, but he doesn’t know if he can touch her like this.

“Alice?” he says. “We’re okay.”

The energy recedes as quickly as it appeared, leaving her looking cranky but pale as she immediately tucks herself against him as the coven inspect their fallen member.

He is disorientated and startled but unharmed as he reassures the blonde woman, the rest of their gazes falling to the couple over the river. More than a girl in a pink dress and a man in an overcoat.

“I can’t read them anymore, Carlisle,” the redhead murmurs. “His is … too quiet, and hers is in a language that… I think she made up.”

Alice spits a sharp word at the boy, holding him so tight he knows she was - is - afraid.

The leader, this Carlisle, simply stares at them with an indescribable look on his face. Incredulousness and awe and confusion and amusement dance around them, and he shakes his head.

“In all my years, I have never…” he began, wiping his face with his hand, an indisputably human gesture. “I apologise, my family misunderstood.”

Alice grunts and still glares, and if Jasper knows anything, it is that she holds a fantastic grudge against that which wrongs her - the woman who called her a harlot in a town back in Minnesota; the perfectly spoilt fruit tart from a shady baker; the young man who tore her dress in Boston. If those things can keep her gaze dark and sour her mood, he doesn’t fancy being any one of these creatures.

“Carlisle?” the older woman asks curiously, and the big one is back on his feet and seems to be entirely unaffected by whatever Alice had done to him.

“What is she?” he asks with genuine curiosity, his arm around the blonde.

“I believe this young lady might be an angel.”

—

That’s how they meet the Cullens. Carlisle spends three days hovering around them with delighted, boyish excitement until Esme gently redirects his attention and energy. Esme, who is so kind to them both, even with his red eyes and scars (later, she will smile at him and tell him that she knew that no matter where he had come from, no one who treated Alice so gently could be anything other than a true gentleman). Edward is frustrated with them both, and mutters comments under his breath as Alice snipes back in a language no one else understands - which just agitates Edward more. She admits later, when they’re alone, that she hardly remembers learning the language and probably couldn’t hold a conversation in it but does in fact remember most of the good swears and insults, and he laughs loudly at the idea that angels are pure and good and selfless as she taunts the arrogant little vampire.

Rosalie hates them. Hates his red eyes and violence, hates Alice for hurting her mate. Emmett is more curious and entertained than offended, and shrugs off Rosalie’s rage - “Babe, you’d do the same to them for me.” He’s more interested to know if Alice can change the colour of her ‘lights’ at will - like a disco ball - and Alice congratulates him on asking the actual dumbest question in the history of creation and of course that means Alice and Emmett are friends now, even though he described her attack as being ‘boiled from the inside out’.

How does he feel about them? Well, they offer them a nice room with a bed for Alice and little bathroom, and Esme goes to find Alice food - Carlisle sending her with a ream of notes on angels and their preferred diet despite the girl’s insistence anything will do. They are respectful and genuine and he cannot fault their welcome into the house. There are clean clothes and books and amusements and every possible comfort except human blood.

That is a conversation he has alone with Carlisle, whilst Alice joyfully eats her way through a pile of candy roughly the same size as she is. It is a long conversation, a hard one. Of all the guilt and the pain and the regret; of every horror he has never spoken of to Alice, of every fear that lingers in his bones.

And when he finishes, he feels lighter.

Carlisle smiles benevolently, and explains the advantages of abstaining from human blood, of existing only on the blood of animals.

“It does, admittedly, take away some of our strength,” the older man warns but his mouth quirks into a smile. “Not that I think you have to worry about your safety with such a… formidable mate.”

Jasper is quick to correct him, ducking his head so that Carlisle might not see the longing in his eyes. They are not mates or lovers or sweethearts. As much as he admires her, a goddess in his eyes; as much as he restrains himself from noticing the slender curves hidden by her clothing, from letting his gaze linger too long, they are mere companions; the closest of friends but no more than that.

Carlisle chuckles outright at that. “I assume this isn’t your preference?” he says, with a grin that makes him look his age.

He scowls, refusing to take the bait.

“In all my years, I have met many people in many differing kinds of relationships,” Carlisle says, with that knowing look on his face that Jasper decides he hates. “And I can tell you without an ounce of doubt that no angel - or woman - would look at a vampire like that, would defend one so fiercely, without holding him close in her heart. I think, if you were to make a gesture, it would be warmly reciprocated.”

And for a moment, he is full of hope. Hope of a future where he could press a kiss to willing lips, could slide his hand over the curve of a waist. Could trace the markings hidden by her dress with his fingers, his mouth, learn them by heart.

But the truth is, he is a monster. The blood in his eyes, the scars on his skin, the violence in his movement… it is what he is. That he would not sully her with his touch, if she would even accept such a thing. And in truth, he could not bear to be dismissed from her side. He would walk her down the aisle to a worthy man, as long as he could remain in her orbit.

“No,” he shakes his head. "She is… and I am… it would not be fair.” She already Fell once, why drag her further down?

Carlisle studies him carefully, the regret rolling off him in waves. “If you’ll pardon me for prying, how on earth did you end up meeting Alice? I only know of one other who has met an angel; they are illusive creatures.”

Jasper looks up, a quirk of his lips at the memory. “I found her in Philadelphia. She was dying in an alley. I tried to help her.” And the story slowly comes up; the long wait for her fever to break, trying to build up her strength, their brief attendance at church that was more for him than for her; their little pilgrimage around the country. How she loves to watch the stars, to wear flowers in her hair, and sings like the angel she is. How any money they had went to food, and she found sweet irresistible - more than once she went barefoot rather than go without a slice of cake, a bag of strawberries. He ends up smiling by the end of the story, the warmth of the memories surrounding him.

Carlisle looks at him incredulously. “Jasper, you found a dying girl in Philadelphia, and you saved her life,” he says so gently. “You raised an angel from the dead out of pure selflessness and honour. And you sit here and tell me that you are deemed unworthy? I cannot believe it, myself.”

Jasper shakes his head and thinks of all that he has been told, about animal blood, and protecting human life. About all that he has seen and felt with that diminutive girl beside him.

“For her, I have to be better.”

—

They settle into the Cullen family with relative ease - Esme is a doting mother figure to Alice, whose quirks he found so charming are utterly foreign and confusing to the rest of the family. But Esme carries no frustration to find wilted flower crowns discarded through the house; to find Alice has eaten a week’s supply of food in one night; to find an ugly scorch mark on the couch when Edward provoked the girl far enough for her magic to get involved.

Carlisle is still fascinated, but is affectionate to the small girl who has so many questions about everything, everywhere. He cannot answer many of her questions about angels, but he has more than enough stories about his life to entertain her for hours.

Edward and Alice snipe at each other constantly, as she continues to conceal her thoughts, and somehow mute Jasper’s, from his probing. The thing is, they could be good friends if they wanted; he wonders if Alice still holds a grudge from his dismissal of her during that very first meeting. Emmett, however, thinks Alice is a fantastically weird addition to their family even if her powers remain unused. Her intuition is second to none, and she is strong enough to exist safely in the household, but mostly she is unremarkable. He likes ruffling her hair and asking dumb or embarrassing questions (“So when you have sex, Lite-Brite, do you go all glow-y?” he asks one day, just ambling into the room with that question on his brain, and Esme scolds him and he growls, and Alice turns faintly pink and admits she wouldn’t know. Emmett does feel bad when she reveals that, and buys her an enormous bag of fudge that means he’s automatically forgiven.)

Rosalie tolerates them - she likes how annoyed Edward gets with Alice, and that Alice is an eager student in the art of fashion and shopping, and has suitable awe for Rosalie’s beauty and attitude. But she resents Alice’s divinity, that somehow the universe judged this tiny girl to be a precious, sacred creation, and decided that Rosalie herself was worth less than humanity.

They treat him well enough - politely, respectfully, and that’s all he asks. Carlisle offers relatively good counsel on most subjects, but most specifically on hunting animals. It’s the hardest thing he’s ever had to do, and he fails more than he succeeds. He sees frustration in the faces of the Cullens every time he returns with red eyes, but he never sees Alice flinch or fluster. She greets him with that same special smile every time he walks into the room, her sheer presence a balm. And that unconditional affection, that is when the shame feels heaviest on his shoulders.

So he tries again.

And again.

And it gets easier. Or rather, he gets stronger. The gaps between red eyes get longer, and his eyes lighten slowly from red to orange to amber. But the burn in his throat remains, and he struggles constantly. But he reminds himself, the prize is worth it. She is worth every second of burn, every disgusting animal, every long night resisting the urge to hunt.

She will always be worth it.

—

After Vermont, there is Minnesota, then Montana, then… well, they begin to blend together. All are within abundant hunting grounds, all in beautiful homes, all provide comfort and luxury he could never have imagined providing her. She fits it like a glove; her beautiful clothes, the abundant library, the ease of every day life - it is a palace for a princess and he is so happy that she is happy.

It is the place where Carlisle insists he go to school with the others, tempting him with the possibility of college in the future. She cannot go; they have no ways of concealing the inhumanity of her, and she struggles to contain her powers sometimes, especially when distressed. Even one sad movie an have her shining like a discount glow stick. Carlisle does much research on the subject, to try and help train her, but his research is slow and they still don’t know much. One day, she’ll join them. She’s determined, even when she scorches another dress, another chair, another wall. One day.

She pounces on him every single afternoon, demanding to know about his day, about his classes, about what high school is like. For so long it was just her, then it was them, then it was the family - the idea of classmates and friends and peers is so foreign. He dutiful fills her in, though many of the details she demands are not things he has noted. She always touches him during these conversations, hanging over his shoulder, curled in his lap, tucked at his side.

And even when Rosalie and Edward tell her to stop bothering him, forcing him to relive the tedium, he encourages it. Because as dull as school is, recounting it to her as she clings like a little possum to his back, is his very favourite part of the day.

And somehow, maybe because of that, something changes between them. Their closeness holds something new - potential, maybe. But her eyes seem to really see him when he presses a gentle kiss to her forehead; her cheeks get a little pinker when he compliments a new dress; he finds himself reaching for her less, and finding her already there more often.

They still share a room - he has no need for his own, not with the communal library on the third floor - and he tries his hardest to give her privacy. But he’s caught her changing more than once, seen a glimpse of more markings on her pale-flawless-exquisite spine. He lingers too long in that view, berating himself for his perversion, but he cannot resist. He wonders where else the tattoos lie.

Carlisle looks at him with knowing eyes, and Esme beams every time she sees, or thinks she sees, something. But no, not yet. Not until he’s worthy of every hope, can grant every single one of her wishes and whims. Not until he can court her as she deserves.

It’ll happen, he’s determined. He will make himself worthy, reforge himself in any hell that he can find, if it makes him a better man for her.

Inevitably, he slips again, and they have to move, and he is furious with himself. Every time he thinks he might see the light at the end of the tunnel, he weakens. Two steps forward and one step back.

He spends the night on the couch, watching movies without seeing them, and trying not to notice the warmth of her skin as he endlessly traces the lily-star-celestial map that are her tattoos. She falls asleep against him, a heavenly weight, and he wishes for a lot of things, but mostly for sleep.

—

There were three things of which she was certain.

The first was that her name was Alice Cullen.

The second was that she was a fallen angel, which wasn’t such a bad thing to be.

And the third was that she was completely and irreversibly in love with one Major Jasper Whitlock. And she was tired of waiting.

—

He has taken her into the forest, the spring air crisp, and the plants blooming. She skips beside him, her fingers interlaced with his, and it’s a lovely day - the canopy of the forest concealing the glitter of his skin. It’s one of those lazy, peaceful days that he lives for.

She leaves him sitting by the river, as she gathers wild flowers and leaves, settling beside him as she makes her crown - nimble fingers twisting and weaving. The white and yellow blooms match her new dress. And then she is wrapped around his back, crowning him in leaves and tiny red and white berries.

“My prince,” she whispers in his ear, leaning forward to press a lingering kiss on his cheek. And she pulls away, just enough space for him to turn his head and align their lips and he’s many things, but he’s also a man deeply, deeply in love.

Their first kiss is a slightly awkward angle, but it is… it is his absolution, his greatest hope, his most perfect joy. For her, it is finding home, the last piece of an indecipherable puzzle finding its place, it is entirely new and yet as familiar to her as her own self.

After he pulls away, she twists herself into his lap, her eyes so wide and flickering blue and white, a pink flush to her cheeks. She looks so hopeful and loving that he cannot help but steal another kiss, another jewel to hoard in his dead heart as she sighs happily against him.

But the real world is still outside their private little glade, and finally he pulls away.

“We can’t,” he croaks, her arms wrapped around his neck. “Oh Alice, I can’t.”

“Why not?” her question is so innocent, he wants to wrap her in his arms and keep her here forever, where nothing will ever sully her.

“You’re an angel, darlin’. An honest to goodness angel. You deserve so much better,” he murmurs, half against her lips. “Not me. I’m a goddamned monster.”

Alice sighs again. “Oh Jasper, I wish you could see you as I do,” she says so sweetly. “The person who lifted me out of the trash, the person who healed me, the person who cared for me and protected me and loved me without question or expectation.”

She traces his face, her soft fingers running over his nose and lips and cheeks.

“I’ve waited so long for you to be worthy to yourself,” she continues. “Because you were more than worthy enough for me.”

The next kiss is deeper, passionate and he pulls her flush against him, feeling the buttons on her dress press against his chest, probably cracking them. Another one follows, and then another, until it all blurs together, and he’s slid his hand further up her leg than is truly proper, and her hands are tangled in his hair.

Her smile is the sweetest, a little shy, as she buries her face in his neck - drawing in his scent - and he notices the faint glow around her markings, almost like her powers are blushing.

“I’ve waited for you - for this - for so long,” she whispers to him, the words almost lost in the light breeze.

And he holds her close, holds her tight. “I never meant to keep you waiting.”

She looks him in the eye, gold meeting blue, and her smile is radiant, as beautiful as every story and every myth. “Well, we’ve got all the time in the world.”

And then she leans in for another kiss.

—

There were three things of which Jasper Hale was entirely certain.

One was that he was a vampire in love with an angel.

The second was that his angel loved him back, as completely as he loved her.

And the third was that they had the rest of eternity to be together, whatever the future might bring.

#jaliceweek20 #jalice #alice cullen #jasper hale #my fic: afterglow #my writing: afterglow #ugh so much stuff about angels and demons and powers got cut and i am gutted #definitely coming back and writing a 20 chapter fic about angel alice and all the supernatural beasties carlisle rescues #and alice's wonky powers and her broken wings and argh #hoping this will be like the brief history of us which is actually Not As Terrible as I Thought #also haven't read this through because i am tired and i still have 4.5 more to write tomorrow #angel!alice and vampire!jasper might make another appearance for another prompt #good night

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alarawriting · 4 years

Text

52 Project #14: Angel

I wanted to have this one done for you last week, but couldn’t quite get it completed in time. So here it is as number 14, instead.

***

The angel showed up three days after Riyana Delgado started working at the site of the anomaly.

Given the nature of the anomaly, it was possible the entity was an alien, or some kind of supernatural thing like a spirit. But it was obvious to Riyana what the entity was the moment it spoke. In an impossible voice that was simultaneously unbearably high-pitched and so deep and low it resonated in in her bones, it said, “BE NOT AFRAID,” and Riyana knew it was an angel.

Fisher was the first one who managed to say anything, probably because he was the senior physicist on the team and, ostensibly, was the leader. “What the hell are you?”

“It’s an angel, Bob,” Riyana whispered harshly. “Show some respect.”

“An angel. Really.” Yelena Sokolov sounded almost disgusted.

“GLORY TO THEY WHO ARE ON HIGH. WHAT HUMANITY HAS BROKEN, HUMANITY CANNOT FIX. THEY WHO ARE THE HIGHEST, GLORY TO THEIR NAME, HAS SENT THIS ONE TO FIX WHAT HUMANITY HAS BROKEN.”

“Oh,” Fisher said, and then again, “oh.”

“You are really an angel?” Arjun Chaudhry asked. “God is real? The Christian God?”

“MANY HUMANS HAVE SEEN FACETS OF THEY WHO CANNOT BE COMPREHENDED, THE LORD AND CREATOR OF ALL, BUT NONE CAN UNDERSTAND THE FULLNESS OF THEIR GLORY.” The angel floated forward. It was not a humanoid with wings. It was huge, perhaps six or seven meters tall, and was mostly comprised of dots of brilliant light like stars, vaguely outlining a bipedal shape that might have looked humanoid if it hadn’t had so many stars around its general head area, as if it had antlers, or a gigantic hat, or a mushroom-shaped head. Within the constellation that was the angel, nebula-like mists of many colors swirled, drifting into thicker bands or thinning out to show the desert rocks and sand behind it. “IT IS NOT THIS ONE’S PLACE TO EXPLAIN TO HUMANITY WHAT IS TOO INEFFABLE FOR EXPLANATION. THIS ONE IS HERE TO REPAIR WHAT HUMANITY HAS BROKEN.”

“Good,” Riyana said fervently. “Because all our measurements are suggesting that the thing is growing, and you’re right, we have no idea how to fix it.”

The angel approached the anomaly. The spots of bright light shone especially like stars against the lightless slice through reality that Riyana and the rest of her team were here to study, and reverse if they could.

“I don’t believe that thing is angel,” Sokolov muttered.

“So it’s an alien,” Bob Fisher muttered back. “Or some kind of creature from another dimension, or a fairy, or who the hell knows what. If it can do what it says it’s here to do, who cares?”

As it reached the anomaly, the gravity grabbed it and flipped it, but slowly, much more slowly than it had Cheng when it had pulled him in. The anomaly was a roughly vertical hole in reality, about two and a half meters tall and slightly over one wide. It had no measurable depth because it was either bottomless or had no existence in the third dimension whatsoever; from behind or the side you couldn’t even see it. But the gravity was more intense than the gravity of Earth, and although the hole was vertical, perpendicular to Earth’s gravity, the gravity within it pointed inward, as if someone had tipped a deep well on its side and put a door on it. When Cheng had gotten close, trying to probe the anomaly with a sonar device, the gravity had pulled him in, so quickly no one had a chance to do anything. They’d heard him screaming for a very, very long time.

The angel took several seconds to slowly pivot so it descended into the darkness. The lights went out as it lowered. One of the few things they’d been able to figure out about the anomaly was that electromagnetic radiation didn’t transmit within it. It didn’t even seem that pure electricity could pass through wires within the anomaly, but chemical electricity – the transmission of electricity via ions, the way that living creatures’ nervous systems worked, seemed to work fine. At least, none of the animals they’d lowered into the anomaly had come back dead.

They’d put together a rig for allowing human beings to enter it safely – harnesses, a chain on a pulley – but so far no one had been willing to take the risk. Not yet.

The angel drifted down into the anomaly – which meant it was perpendicular to the ground – as if it was feather-light. It took a minute or two for the anomaly to swallow it completely. And then it began to scream.

The scientists looked at each other, all of them – even Sokolov – with the same horror on their faces that Riyana was feeling. It was like Cheng all over again. The angel must be plummeting to its death.

Except the sound didn’t attenuate as if the angel was falling away. It remained as loud and horrible as it had been the moment the angel started screaming. Riyana’s bones rattled and her ears hurt, aching deep inside, and it was hard to hear anything but the scream of the angel. It was no longer just screaming wordlessly. The sounds it was making that felt as if they’d rupture Riyana’s eardrums had turned into something like words, in a language that seemed hauntingly familiar and yet completely unlike anything Riyana knew.

She shook her head. “Fuck this,” she muttered, and ran for the rig. “I’m going down to get it! Someone man the pulley!”

“What the hell, Riyana?” Fisher’s voice was surprisingly loud for his age. “No, you’re not!”

“Yes, I am! It came to help us and it’s suffering!” She slung her arms through the harness, buckled it in front, then brought the crotch strap – thick enough that it was almost something you could sit on – from the back, through her legs, and up to the buckle at her solar plexus. The chain from the pulley that was mounted to the nearest rocky outcropping split into four at its end, each one thick and solid but not quite as monstrously thick as the main body of the chain. She fastened two of the four ends to the metal loops on the front of the harness.

By this time, Fisher, Sokolov and Chaudhry had reached her. “What are you doing?” Chaudhry shouted. “We don’t know if it’s safe for humans! We don’t even know if there’s air down there!”

Riyana ignored him. “Yelena, could you fasten these two on my back?” She couldn’t easily reach the fastening points by her shoulderblades.

“This is stupidest idea I’ve ever seen,” Sokolov groused. “At least, from someone who should know better.” But she fastened the points. “There is air tank in storage unit three.”

“I know. Gonna need a net or something like it, too.” She doubted the angel was solid enough for her to grab hold of.

Fisher shook his head. “We needed to do this test sometime, I suppose,” he said – or something like that, anyway; he wasn’t yelling it, which meant it was hard to hear over the sound of the angel’s screams. “Arjun, can you get Riyana the chain mesh net?”

“We are letting this happen?” Chaudhry said, disbelieving. “We’ve only tested mice and rats! What if it destroys her mind?”

“The rats could still do their mazes just fine when we pulled them back out!” Riyana shouted over the screaming. “It’s a calculated risk!”

“I don’t see calculation,” Yelena snapped. “I see impulsive decision.”

“Yeah, well, I’m doing it. I’m not leaving an angel to suffer.”

“We don’t even know if that thing really is angel!”

“It’s alive and it’s obviously in pain, so it doesn’t matter!” She turned to Chaudhry. “Can you get the mesh? You’ve got the keys to the unit it’s in!”

Chaudhry rolled his eyes, but headed for the portable storage unit they kept some of the more esoteric equipment in. Sokolov went to storage unit 3 and got the portable oxygen tank and breathing mask with goggles, and Fisher hooked up the secondary wire Riyana would pull on to signal she wanted to be lowered further or pulled up.

As soon as she was kitted up with all her gear, Riyana ran for the hole in reality, holding the wire mesh net in her hands, balled up. The gravity pulled her as she approached within a quarter meter of the anomaly, grabbing at her as if she was suddenly stretched out and falling, like she’d been hang gliding and then her glider had just disappeared, and she fell into total darkness.

The chain pulled taut and brought her fall to a stop, causing her to reorient so she was standing, more or less, in relation to the direction of gravity. The lightlessness was palpable, almost a presence rather than an absence. She couldn’t see anything at all. Even the random pale and almost subliminal flashes most humans saw when they were in deep darkness, the results of single photons hitting the retina, weren’t there.

The net was attached to her front by the fastening point at her solar plexus. She let it go, allowing it to fall, and swung it around through the lightlessness, looking for any point of resistance, anything that indicated it had hit something, anything. At the same time she was trying to orient to the sound of the screaming. Not knowing what this space was shaped like was a problem. Was this truly a void, like space? Was it a gigantic hollow chamber? Were there walls, were there objects floating in it?

The screaming was below her. She tugged on the wire twice, the signal for “lower me.”

Chain spooled out – she assumed, since she couldn’t see it – and she began to drop again, more slowly as her descent was controlled by the length of chain instead of gravity alone. The screaming got louder. The net still wasn’t hitting anything as far as she could tell. Her movements made her oscillate slightly back and forth, swinging in tiny arcs, as she descended.

And then without warning, she swung into something that – fizzed, in her brain, like foam from a soda you’d shaken too much, but warm, almost hot. The screaming was horribly loud, but suddenly Riyana could understand it, the strange sounds coalescing into meaning.

“MY GOD, MY GOD, WHERE ARE YOU? WHERE ARE YOU? GLORY TO YOU ON HIGH, MY GOD, WHERE ARE YOU? WHERE ARE YOU? MY GOD…”

“Listen!” Riyana yelled. “We’re going to try to pull you out of here!”

The angel ignored her, continuing to scream its litany of despair. Riyana pulled the cord twice again, and tried to use her gloved hands to outline the shape of the angel, to find its bottom. Touching it made her hands buzz like a mild shock, and more information fizzed up in her mind, knowledge coming from the angel… somehow.

It had never before been unable to feel the light of God, its connection to its Creator. But in this void, even God’s power could not reach. Humanity’s quest for limitless energy had resulted in tearing a hole in Creation, and God had sent the angel to repair it because God could not. But the angel couldn’t either, because it couldn’t bear being without its connection to God, and its mind was breaking.

She managed to find its bottom, or at least an endpoint – she had no idea how the angel was oriented. It had been vaguely bipedal and upright before, like a human, but now it felt more like a ball. It didn’t matter. Riyana got the net under it and pulled the wire three times, to indicate she wanted to be pulled up.

The angel was very light, but there was a weight there, enough that Riyana could tell her net was wrapped around something and she wasn’t just pulling emptiness up. As the cable pulled her out of the anomaly and Earth gravity returned, she fell somewhat ignominiously on her rear end. “Keep pulling!” she yelled. “I’ve got the angel in the net!”

The cable, manned by Sokolov, continued to reel her back in, until the net, and the angel, emerged. The angel was a ball, as she’d thought when she felt it, mists in the vague shape of wings closing it in, like a bird with its wing over its head, hiding within itself. It was still screaming. “MY GOD, WHERE ARE YOU? WHERE ARE YOU? MY GOD, MY GOD, I CANNOT FEEL YOU, I CANNOT FEEL YOU, OH MY GOD, WHERE ARE YOU?”

Riyana felt a cold chill. The angel had said “I”. The information that had soaked into her when she’d touched the angel said that angels were not supposed to have a sense of individuality. They were the messengers and agents of God, and they didn’t have free will like humans did. They did not say, or think, “I”. But this one had.

“Could it possibly stop screaming?” Sokolov yelled. “What do we do with angel who screams all the time?”

“It’s screaming because it can’t feel the presence of God,” Riyana said.

“You are expert on angels now?”

Actually, yes, Riyana thought, but didn’t say. “My grandmother was. She was really into them.”

Abuela’s house had been full of angels. Kitschy plastic angels, smooth ceramic angels, soft cloth angels, rough-hewn wooden angels, and most of them had been exactly what you’d expect – women or androgynous men in robes, with wings, and halos. Sometimes, harps or trumpets. But there had been others. A plush angel that was a ball of wings and eyes. A mobile that was a series of hanging wooden wheels that crossed each other to form ball-like shapes, where there were eyes all along the rims of the wheels. Majestic stone humanoids with no faces and heads shaped something like footballs, but truncated and flattened on the face side, and not quite as pointy as a football on the back side.

Riyana had asked her about them, and Abuela had told her those were angels too, and that the pretty angels, the ones that looked like people, were almost certainly not what angels really looked like. “Every time an angel appears to a human, it says, ‘BE NOT AFRAID’,” she’d said. “So angels must have been terrifying, if the first thing they have to say is to tell people not to be afraid of them.”

It was how Riyana had known the entity was an angel, despite how very different it had looked from anything she’d been told angels looked like. Because it looked impossible and bizarre and terrifying, but its first words had been “BE NOT AFRAID.”

“Is it going to stop?” Fisher asked.

Riyana shrugged. “I really couldn’t say. I hope so. It’s obviously in a lot of pain. I can’t imagine that a good and loving God would strand it like this. God has to reconnect with it sooner or later, doesn’t He?”

“If it is later, my eardrums will be shattered,” Sokolov said. “What can we do?”

Chaudhry said, “We could get it onto the truck and take it away from the anomaly. Maybe it can make its connection when it is further from here.”

“What, God is a wi-fi signal now?” Fisher sighed. “Yeah. Let’s do that. The further we get it from here, the better the chances that it’ll find God, and more importantly, we won’t be able to hear it any more.”

So the four of them managed to wrestle the net onto the back of the pickup, the one that technically belonged to the university they all worked for but that was by common agreement Chaudhry’s truck, and then pull the net free and leave the screaming angel in the flatbed.

There was no road directly near the anomaly, but the anomaly was situated right where there had once been an energy research institute exploring some interesting possibilities, right before they had torn a hole in reality and been sucked in. So there was a road some distance away, where the asphalt hadn’t been destroyed by the implosion, and the truck had four-wheel drive. Riyana rode with Chaudhry out to the road, and then twenty miles down it, and then off-road through the desert to a tall outcrop of reddish stone, where they parked.

“Come on,” Riyana said to the angel. “Come on out of the truck. Look, maybe if you quiet down and open your heart, you’ll find God again. I’m sure He won’t leave you alone down here.” The angel ignored her and kept screaming. It obviously didn’t have human limitations because a human would have gone hoarse and voiceless by now.

She wrapped a coil of rope that had been in the back of the truck around the angel, and with Chaudhry’s help, tugged it out. The angel tumbled into the sand. Awkwardly Riyana petted it. “I don’t think there’s anything we can do for you,” she said, wondering if the angel could even hear her over the sound of its own screams. “But we took you away from the anomaly so you’d have a better chance of reaching God. We’ll… we’ll leave you here, all right? You should stop screaming. Try to meditate, see if you can reconnect to God. I’m sure He won’t abandon you.”

It was a horrible relief when they left the angel behind them and the sound of the screaming, a constant for the past hour and a half, finally disappeared into the distance.

***

They didn’t talk on the way back. As soon as they got out of the vehicle, though, back at the camp, Sokolov ambushed them. “Do you seriously think that thing is angel?” she demanded. “Angel? Like, from God?”

“Yes,” Riyana said, “but if you don’t, I’m not going to argue about it with you. I’m Catholic, Yelena. You know this.”

“I know, but I always forget. You are very smart woman. It’s hard to remember that you actually believe in God.”

Fisher walked over to them, sighing ostentatiously. “I don’t think it’s a good use of our time to debate whether or not that was actually an angel or some other kind of entity.”

“It’s important!” Sokolov said. “If there really is God, what does that mean for science? If God can just wave his hand and make anything happen, how can we predict anything?”

Chaudhry said, “The anomaly is already disobeying many of the laws of physics. Science held up just fine with it existing. So why not God? Or a God, anyway?”

“It is clearly thinking of Christian God,” Sokolov complained. “Or Judeo-Christian, anyway.”

“Islam has angels,” Chaudhry said. “In Hinduism, we do not exactly call them angels, but we have them. I believe they have deific spirits in Japan.”

“It said that no religion has it exactly right,” Riyana said.

“And here’s the thing. Based on what we’ve seen, we have no way to tell whether that thing is actually an angel, or an agent of an incredibly advanced alien species who want to fix our shit for us because the anomaly presents a threat to them as well.” Fisher glared at the three of them. “We don’t have any way of knowing if this thing came from an omnipotent entity who created the world, or not. All we know is that going into the anomaly seems to have broken its brain. So we can’t expect some emissary of an all-powerful God to show up and fix this for us. We’re here to figure out what this thing is and how to fix it so it doesn’t swallow the Earth, because, in case you’ve forgotten, it’s growing.” He stalked off.

“He’s right,” Chaudhry said. “Let’s get back to work, everyone.”

Riyana was just as glad to drop the subject. Her faith wasn’t challenged by Sokolov’s atheism, or for that matter anything about the angel; the angel actually confirmed some things for her, though she was still unnerved that God hadn’t seemed to do anything to take the angel back. Arguing with Sokolov was pointless, however; she knew neither Sokolov nor herself would budge.

***

Each of them tried going into the anomaly, now that Riyana had proven that it could be done safely. Chaudhry had been working on setting up a sonar device they could use to outline the inside of the anomaly, since they’d lost the first one with Cheng, and he went down with it strapped to himself – only a short distance, because any deeper in and the electricity would stop flowing through the wire it was connected to. Unfortunately, sonar only worked if there was something for sound to bounce off of, and apparently, there wasn’t. This didn’t mean that there was no solid object anywhere within the space, but there wasn’t one anywhere near enough for sound to reflect off of it.

Riyana had already known there was atmosphere, or she probably wouldn’t have tried to rescue the angel, but the initial tests they’d done had seemed to find an absolutely absurd amount of hydrogen and helium. Now she lowered more probes to a greater depth, approximately 200 meters, and tested the atmosphere. At that level, there was substantially more of gases heavier than helium but lighter than air, such as carbon monoxide, methane and ammonia. She put in an order for a longer cable; the preliminary findings suggested that perhaps, gas was layered within the anomaly by its molecular weight, which implied that the anomaly was in some way at the “top” of something.

Sokolov went down with two oxygen tanks, and used the second one to try to maneuver herself in the “up” direction within the anomaly, trying to see if it was possible to get into space that was to the “side” or even “above” the portal. Instead, she just ended up pushing herself back out through the hole, but she remained convinced that if she had something more responsive and more powerful than an oxygen tank, she might be able to manage it. Gravity within the anomaly was lower than Earth gravity, but not by all that much – it was somewhere around point eight gee – so an oxygen tank hadn’t given her the degree of push she really needed.

Fisher calculated how far down the “bottom” was likely to be, based on the gravity and the variation in the density of the gases. He had an idea to use a hot air balloon, weighted, to descend far enough that they could tell if the density and gravity was varying with distance toward the gravitational source at the rate they would expect. Riyana personally thought that was horribly dangerous; how could you guarantee that your heat source would continue to produce heat in a space where electromagnetic energy didn’t seem to propagate? But Fisher thought they might be able to capture enough hydrogen and helium escaping through the portal to be able to fill an aerostat’s gas repository.

They worked for another two days before the second angel showed up.

It was a floating mass of tentacles with eyes, continually seething and moving. It looked significantly more substantial than the last angel had. But Riyana knew that it, too, was an angel, because the first thing it said was “BE NOT AFRAID.”

“We rescued the last one of you who went into that anomaly,” Sokolov said. “We are not afraid, trust us.”

Many, many of the eyes blinked. “THE LAST ONE?”

“Yeah, you’re not the first,” Fisher said. “We drove the last one out in our truck – Arjun, where did you put him?”

“About twenty miles down the road,” Chaudhry said. “We can show you to him, if you like.”

“NOT NECESSARY. THAT IS NOT THE MISSION THE MOST HIGH, GLORY UNTO THEM, HAS GRANTED TO THIS ONE.”

“You need to be careful,” Riyana said. “The last one who went in lost contact with God, and couldn’t do anything but—” She wanted a more politic verb than “scream”. “Cry out.”

“THIS ONE IS NOT CONCERNED WITH THAT. THIS ONE HAS BEEN TASKED BY THE ONE WHO IS HIGHEST, ALL GLORY TO THEM, WITH REPAIRING THE DAMAGE THAT HUMANITY HAS CAUSED.”

“Can you tell us what it is?” Fisher asked. “We’ve been studying it, and the best guess we can make is that it’s somehow a portal to another universe.”

“IT IS A TEAR IN CREATION,” the angel said.

“And you can’t seal it up from here?”

“IT MUST BE REPAIRED FROM WITHIN THE TEAR.”

“I think you’re very brave,” Riyana said, “but I think you should take precautions. We have a cable. Why don’t you hold onto it when you go down? That way if we need to pull you out like we did the last one, it’ll be a lot easier.”

“THIS ONE HAS NOT BEEN ASKED TO ACCEPT HUMANITY’S AID. THE MOST HIGH, ALL GLORY TO THEM, EXPECTS THIS ONE TO CARRY OUT ITS TASK ITSELF.” The angel floated over to the portal. The gravity didn’t seem to be affecting it; it was floating within centimeters of the portal, but was not falling in. Sokolov finished setting up the high-speed camera she had pointed at the anomaly. She started running film.

“Okay, but if you start screaming, it will be much more difficult for us to rescue you,” Chaudhry said. “Riyana’s right. You should at least be holding onto our cable.”

In response, the angel’s tentacles grabbed onto the edge of the anomaly as if the edges were a doorjamb, and flung itself into the hole. It was still holding onto the edges of the anomaly, its tentacles clearly showing.

For a few moments, it looked as if the gaping hole was actually shrinking, the tentacles of the angel clearly pulling at the edges. And then the angel started screaming.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Fisher sighed.

“I’ll go get him,” Riyana said.

“No,” Chaudhry insisted. “I’ll go. It shouldn’t always be you.”

It was moot. The angel’s tentacles tightened and it flung itself forward out of the anomaly, but continued to scream. Riyana translated. “It’s saying, ‘My God, My God, where are you?’ The same thing the last one was saying.”

“How do you know what the last one was saying?” Chaudhry asked.

“When I touched the first one, physically, I could suddenly understand the language.”

“Oh,” Chaudhry said. “Bob. I’m going to go touch it.”

“Be careful. It might not behave the way the other one did. Could be dangerous.”

But as it turned out, the angel reacted to being touched exactly the same way the first one had, which was not at all. Chaudhry turned around, eyes wide. “I can understand it!” he said excitedly. “Bob, Yelena, all of us should touch the angel. I can understand it. I… I know why it’s screaming!”

“Because it can’t sense the presence of God,” Riyana said.

“Yes, exactly! Oh, so this is how you knew that!”

Fisher walked over to put his hand on the angel, and then turned to Sokolov. “Yelena, you don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”

Sokolov sighed. “Fine. But I will still not believe there is omnipotent God who sent this thing.”

The whole thing seemed a little cold to Riyana. The angel may have been able to free itself from the anomaly, but aside from that it seemed as helpless and broken as the first one had. “I wish there was something we could do for it.”

“Have you tried praying?” Chaudhry asked.

That was embarrassing. As a Catholic, that should have been the first thing she tried. She bowed her head. “Lord God,” she whispered, barely able to hear herself over the sound of the angel screaming, “this angel attempted to faithfully carry out Your commands despite the danger. It’s suffering now. Please, if You can hear me… please take it back. Bring it back to Heaven and enfold it in Your light.”

The angel continued to scream. God continued to apparently not do anything about it.

She went to her room in the women’s trailer where she and Sokolov were staying, got out her rosary, and prayed for God, Jesus, or the Virgin Mary to intercede on behalf of the angels, while the others loaded the angel into the truck and Chaudhry and Sokolov drove it out into the desert. When they came back, they reported that the other angel was still there, still screaming. Riyana was beginning to be bitterly disappointed with God’s performance.

***

Another day of research. They all tried to avoid talking about the angel, or speculating about God. Sokolov stomped around in a barely suppressed rage, plainly unhappy at having her atheism challenged by events. Chaudhry kept looking out to the west, where they had deposited both angels. Riyana was distracted, worrying for them, wondering why God wouldn’t take them back. Only Fisher was completely unmoved by the angels, as far as Riyana could see.

A shipment came. Sokolov got a jet pack, which seemed to cheer her up immensely, and Fisher got a device to suck the hydrogen and helium away from the opening and store it in tanks that were also provided. Chaudhry did not get his sonar device that ran on ion channels instead of pure electricity; he was convinced that if he could get a sonar device in deep, rather than just barely inside the portal as he’d had to because otherwise electricity wouldn’t power it, he could get better results. The university had not only not sent him one, they’d pointed out that it was questionable whether one could even be made with their current levels of technology. Riyana did not get her longer cable, either. At least they told her that her cable was being sourced, and it might take some time.

Fisher wrote a strongly worded letter to the government about the fact that the anomaly was growing a few centimeters every day, and four barely equipped researchers were nowhere near enough to solve the problem and seal the anomaly before it ate the Earth. He cc’d it to some folks in the Department of Defense, arguing that maybe the military might have an interest in making sure Earth didn’t get swallowed up.

In the absence of her cable, Riyana did more tests of gas flow. With a sample of tritium and a Geiger counter, she was able to demonstrate that air flowed out of the anomaly into Earth’s atmosphere, not the other way around for the most part. This made no sense given the relative densities of the atmospheres and the direction of gravity within the anomaly. Also, while they’d learned the hard way with Cheng’s death that they could hear sound coming from the anomaly, Riyana tested by going in again and determining that she couldn’t hear sounds from outside the anomaly no matter how loud they were.

She took Chaudhry’s truck out to check on the angels, and prayed the rosary over them for three hours, wearing earplugs to protect her hearing from the screaming. Nothing happened.

***

The third angel appeared the next day.

“BE NOT AFRAID,” it said, although it was objectively far more frightening than the others had been. A series of burning rings, one inside the other but all of them at angles to each other so it looked like a gigantic model of an atom, with a huge floating eye for the nucleus. The fire was real – it singed the top of their tall light pole as it drifted past, leaving black carbon streaks on the pole.

“We’re not,” Sokolov snapped. “We’re trying to do our job, and you angels keep interrupting and trying to fix our mess and failing. Why don’t you let us deal with it? You obviously can’t.”

“THE ONE ON HIGH, PRAISE BE TO THEIR NAME, HAS TASKED THIS ONE WITH REPAIRING THE DAMAGE.” The angel descended toward the anomaly.

“Please,” Riyana said. “There’ve been two other angels and they’ve both lost contact with God. All they do is scream. Please don’t go in there.”

The eye turned and gazed at her. It moved independently of the fiery wheels. “RIYANA DELGADO, YOUR COMPASSION HAS BEEN SEEN BY GOD,” it said, which was both thrilling and terrifying. “BUT THIS ONE HAS A TASK TO DO.”

One of the fiery wheels broke, and the fire lanced out as a tentacle, touching the side of the anomaly. The angel slid to the side, and a second tentacle pierced the anomaly from the other side. Then both tentacles came back up out of the anomaly and touched their respective far sides, like the angel was tying a shoelace, or double-stitching.

Sokolov ran the main camera again, while Chaudhry took shots with the one that couldn’t capture video, and Riyana turned a bank of infrared and ultraviolet detectors toward the angel. And then the Geiger counter. And then X-ray plates. It wasn’t radioactive per se, but it was emitting X-rays and ultraviolet light intensely enough that she had to warn Sokolov and Fisher that they might need sunscreen. Not enough ultraviolet that she’d need sunscreen, or Chaudhry, but if that changed she’d grab the 50 SPF from Fisher, who was slathering it on his arms and legs.

The anomaly was shrinking. The stitches of fire were pulling tighter, sealing the top of the anomaly, pulling the sides closer together. Abruptly there was a profound lensing effect, where everything next to the anomaly suddenly looked distorted, bulging and large or entirely too skinny, and the angles were all wrong.

“THIS ONE HAS DONE WHAT CAN BE DONE FROM THIS SIDE,” the angel reported.

“Thank you,” Fisher said. “I can see you’re making a lot of progress.”

The fire tentacles detached off the angel, but Riyana couldn’t see any gap in its fire rings where they might have been. “THIS ONE WILL ENTER THE ANOMALY AND COMPLETE THE TASK GRANTED BY THE ONE MOST HIGH, PRAISE UNTO THEM.”

“You can’t finish fixing it here?” Riyana asked. “That thing isn’t safe for angels. Two have been harmed by it.”

“THIS ONE GOES FORWARD WITH THE PROTECTION OF THE LORD OF ALL, ENFOLDED IN RIGHTEOUSNESS THROUGH THE ORDER THEY HAVE GIVEN TO THIS ONE.”

“That’s just it! Both the angels we’ve seen thought they were protected, and they both lost contact with God and couldn’t stop screaming!”

“We can’t pull you out like we did the other two. You’re made of fire,” Fisher said. “Can you at least hold onto our cable, or will it melt if you try?”

“THIS ONE IS MOVED BY THE CONCERN OF HUMANS, BUT WE LIVE AND DIE FOR THE ONE WHO CREATED ALL, PRAISE TO THEIR NAME. THIS ONE DOES NOT NEED THE AID OF HUMANS.”

“Come on,” Riyana pleaded. “We don’t want to lose you. Please hold onto the cable, or let us lower you in our net, or something.”

“It thinks it is above us,” Sokolov sneered. “It doesn’t need help from lowly imperfect humans.”

“THIS ONE’S FLAMES WOULD MELT ANY HUMAN CREATION. YELENA SOKOLOV, NO ANGEL BELIEVES THEMSELVES ABOVE HUMANS, BEINGS OF FREE WILL WHO ARE BELOVED BY THE ONE ABOVE ALL, PRAISE TO THEM. BUT THAT DOES NOT CHANGE THE FACT THAT HUMANS CANNOT HELP THIS ONE.”

“Let us at least put down the net,” Riyana argued. “Maybe your flames would melt it, but maybe we could pull it up fast enough to rescue you.”

“THE GESTURE IS UNNECESSARY, BUT APPRECIATED. LOWER YOUR NET IF YOU WILL IT SO, RIYANA DELGADO.”

Riyana hooked up the net and lowered it in ahead of the angel, who descended into the anomaly.

There were screams. They were much shorter than last time.

When she and Chaudhry pulled up the net, there was something the size of the angel’s eye, but it looked solid and blackened like half-burned coal. The fires were gone. The angel did not speak, nor did it scream, and the eye did not open.

“Well,” Fisher said, sounding shaken for the first time since Cheng died. “I think maybe this means angels can die.”

The ultraviolet detectors and the X-ray plates said that the angel was inert, no more radiation emitted from it. Riyana took the risk of approaching it, and then touching it, since infrared said it was about as hot as the pavement on a summer day. It didn’t stir, and she felt nothing. No rush of energy or knowledge.

Her legs gave out under her. She dropped to her knees and started to sob, uncontrollably. Hating herself for it, because she was a scientist, dammit, she was a grown woman, she was the only Black person on the team and the only Hispanic person and she had to represent, she had to stay strong… but she couldn’t stop. The angel was dead, or as close to it as made no difference. God had sent two angels to destroy their own minds and the third one to die. Did He even care?

Fisher tried, awkwardly, to comfort her, without touching her. Sokolov and Chaudhry busied themselves with loading the dead angel onto the truck, not looking at her, obviously embarrassed for her sake. But it didn’t matter. This beautiful, horrifying, alien creature who had called humanity beloved of God and had said that God Himself had taken note of Riyana’s compassion, who had gotten farther saving humanity from their own folly than any of the others had thus far, was dead.

As soon as she could stand up on weakened legs, she ran for the trailer and locked herself in her room, to sob into her pillow like a schoolchild who’d just watched a favorite teacher die in front of her.

***

They’d all watched the video taken by the closest satellite.

Once there had been a city here, not tremendously large as cities went, but growing, full of young people who’d come out to the desert to get jobs in the new industries out here, and older people looking for a place without rain to soothe their bones. And out on the outskirts of that city, there had been a shining, mostly-glass corporate building, like so many other corporate buildings in the world, and they’d been engaged in some sort of research that they’d kept super-secret, but had had something to do with exploring a new means of generating energy for a world desperate for new, safe energy sources.

The energy source, whatever it had been, had not been safe.

On the video taken by the satellite, the entire world watched as an explosion tore through the roof of the corporate building. And then it had slid down into a hole that hadn’t been there before, and the entire town had been dragged in, swirling down the hole like it was a drain whose plug had just been pulled. You couldn’t see people in the video, but you could see cars desperately trying to drive out of town, and the roads they were using bending, sliding inward toward the hole. Lensing effects were visible as things sliding into the hole very briefly appeared much larger than they’d been, with strange angles, before pouring into the swirling whirlpool going down the drain.

It had stopped after a radius of thirty-odd miles had poured into a hole to nowhere, leaving behind a vertical portal into a void. Riyana’s university was the first one to get together a grant request to study the anomaly. The government had given them money to come out here and study it, but then no other research teams had been granted anything, as if the government thought that throwing just one team of five scientists—which quickly turned to four – was sufficient for something of this magnitude. The administration of the federal government seemed more interested in pretending nothing was wrong and that everything was going to be fine than actually figuring what the situation was. And when the state had attempted to send their own teams, the federal government had pulled rank, declaring the area off-limits to any but their own authorized personnel.

The corporation responsible had, of course, declared that they had no idea what had happened, that the team working on the energy generation issue had kept all their records local and off the cloud to prevent any unauthorized access, and even the CEO didn’t know exactly what they’d been working on. The Justice Department, under the control of an administration who’d never met a soulless corporation it didn’t like, had bought that excuse. There wasn’t even an investigation. Congress talked about having hearings, but the president’s party was in control, so the hearings were entirely perfunctory, full of softball questions, and no good answers.

A few military researchers had come out, checked over what Riyana’s team had found out, and returned. Maybe they were crunching numbers back at their bases, or maybe they’d just come out to do due diligence and make sure the anomaly wouldn’t eat the planet before the next presidential election.

Riyana had wanted help so badly. She hadn’t admitted it to the others – what would have been the point? She was sure they all felt the same way, and there was nothing any of them but maybe Fisher with his strongly worded letters could do about it. But she’d felt so scared and so alone, just the four of them against a slow-growing apocalypse. The anomaly was growing by a centimeter or two every day, and anything within a quarter meter of it would be sucked in. A centimeter a day would be a kilometer in three years, and Earth’s exposure to its anomalous gravity might grow in proportion. What if a quarter meter now meant a meter after the anomaly had quadrupled in size? What happened when the gravity started being great enough to pull at the crust of the Earth?

They’d needed hundreds of researchers. Instead, they were only four, and one of their number already dead. She’d prayed to God for a miracle.

And the miracle had shown up, and been destroyed for its pains. Three times now.

***

She managed to pull herself together by dinnertime, which was good, because the others were engaged in analyzing the data she, Chaudhry, and Sokolov had collected with the cameras and the various EM detectors. The general consensus, unfortunately, was that they had no idea what the angel had done to get as far as it had. From what they could see, the fiery tendrils appeared to be lasers, with just enough scatter that they could get a reading on at least some of what had gone into the lasers. They covered the entire EM spectrum that they’d been measuring except for gamma rays. No one had had time to set up radio measurement or microwave measurement equipment, so there was no way to know what else might have been in the lasers.

The obvious problem with this was that the anomaly itself negated any EM radiation; electrical signals could transmit through ion interchange, but they couldn’t pass through the wires they’d tested or through space. So how had the angel woven EM tendrils through the edges of the anomaly? Secondly, the angel – both the dead one and the second one – had treated the edges of the anomaly like they were solid objects, but humans couldn’t do that. They’d tried, with poles and probes. The anomaly had no detectable edge. Either an object went into the anomaly or it didn’t; the gravity was too strong to keep anything balanced half on one side and half on the other, so they couldn’t even test if that was possible or not.

Riyana pointed out what seemed to her obvious. “It’s not using EM radiation to seal the hole. It’s using the power of God; for that particular angel, it looks like doing that emitted EM radiation. That might be why it died; in a place where it can’t radiate EM radiation, maybe it couldn’t continue to live.”

“That’s an interesting speculation, but it’s pretty unprovable,” Fisher said.

Riyana rolled her eyes. “People. This is an angel. They’ve all repeatedly said they work for the Creator. What else would they be doing to repair a hole in reality?”

“We don’t actually have proof of that,” Fisher said. “Just because they claim a thing is true—”

“They are working for someone, though,” Chaudhry said. “And whoever that someone is, they have the power to fix this thing. The second angel managed to pull it closed a few centimeters; this one actually closed off a third of a meter at the top and pulled the whole thing about twenty centimeters less open than it was.”

“They’ve made progress,” Sokolov admitted. “But that doesn’t mean they actually work for God even if they think so.”

“Right, they could still be aliens,” Fisher said. “But Riyana’s right; whatever energy they’re really using, it doesn’t seem to show up on our detectors.”

“And going into the anomaly killed the most recent one like snuffing out a candle,” Riyana pointed out. “And we know that they believe they are connected to God and draw power from Him, and that when they enter the anomaly, that connection is cut off.”

“They could be something like Q. From Star Trek,” Sokolov said. “Powerful beings with abilities we don’t understand, who we think of as gods, but they are only more advanced than us.”

“It doesn’t really matter,” Fisher said. “Call them angels who serve God, call them aliens who serve The Great Alien Overlord, call them fairies who serve the Queen of Summer… it doesn’t matter. We don’t know how many of them their master is willing to throw away to get this thing fixed, and we don’t know what alternatives there are. Can they solve their problem by destroying the Earth? We don’t know. So we can’t expect that there’s going to keep being angels trying to fix this and we can’t expect that their ideas about what constitutes ‘fixing’ this will always be a good idea, by our standards.”

“Bob, we are not children,” Chaudhry said. “Every time you talk about this, it sounds like you’re really saying, ‘Don’t give up the research just because angels have shown up.’ And I think it goes without saying that we are all clearly understanding that.”

“Are we? All of us?”

He looked pointedly at Riyana, who felt her cheeks heat up. She kept her voice even and controlled. “Yes. All of us. I may have faith in God, but God has always helped those who try as hard as they can to help themselves. And if it’s true that we somehow managed to punch a hole in Creation, then studying it might tell us something about the nature of Creation that we’d have otherwise no way to know.”

She wanted to be angry. She wanted to snap at him. She wanted to point out that it was a bad look to be picking on the only woman of color in their group, implying that she wasn’t as dedicated to science as the rest of them. But she wasn’t going to play to stereotypes or let them dismiss her as an emotional woman, a “fiery Latina” or an “angry Black woman” or any other stupid thing like that. She was as recognized in her field as Sokolov and Chaudhry, she’d earned her place on the team, and frankly Sokolov’s desperate insistence that the angels’ stated mission was probably some kind of lie was more childish than her belief that they were probably telling the truth. So she kept her cool, and held his eyes until he looked away.

“Yes, well. Be that as it may. I think we need to redouble our efforts. I’ve requested more researchers from the University, and applied for assistance from the Department of Defense.” Chaudhry opened his mouth, but before he could speak Fisher cut him off. “I know, I know. I don’t want this to turn into an army project either. But it’s obvious that the civilian authorities are being crippled by politics. The military understand that something that is slowly growing and might end up sucking in the entire Earth is an existential threat, and we need more resources.”

“We are already working as hard as humans can with the resources we have,” Sokolov said. “What do you want us to do, stop sleeping?”

“No, but just…” He ran a hand over his gray head. “We don’t know how much time we have to solve this thing.”

“We don’t actually know if it’s solvable,” Chaudhry pointed out, somberly. “Not by humanity.”

***

That night Riyana dreamt of her grandmother, carefully painting a ceramic lamp she’d made. Riyana knew she was dead, but didn’t want to say so in case that meant Abuela would disappear.

“You’re worried about those angels, aren’t you?” Abuela asked.

“Yeah.” Riyana nodded. “It’s not fair, that they came to help us and they were hurt. Doesn’t God care?”

“I’m sure God cares very much,” Abuela said. “But angels spend their entire existence in the presence of the Lord, connected to Him. And then they go to a place where the power of the Lord cannot reach. Of course they’ve lost their connection to Him.”

It seemed a little blasphemous for Abuela of all people to imagine a place where the power of God couldn’t reach. “Why wouldn’t God be able to do something? God can do anything.”

“Within His own creation, of course he can. But this is a hole in Creation. God may not be able to sense it as anything other than an absence. Can you feel what goes on in your tooth, when you have a cavity?”

“A cavity usually gives you a toothache, eventually.”

“Because it starts to eat away at the nerve. Perhaps God will feel pain if your anomaly gets so large it eats the Earth, but you don’t want that to happen.”

“So how can the angels help? If they channel the power of God, but God’s power cannot reach…”

“Well, God obviously can’t go into the anomaly, but the angels can, carrying a small part of the power of God within them. But then they lose their minds because they lose their connection to God.” She was in her rocking chair, crocheting. Abuela had always been doing one craft or another; her hands had never been still. “Angels don’t truly have free will, after all. To lose your connection to God is, for them, losing their connection to the will that drives them.”

“Do they have free will now?”

Abuela nodded. “But they don’t know what to do with it. So they cry, and scream. Humans do a lot of that when they first come into the world with their free will, but you can pick up a human baby and comfort it.”

“How could I comfort an angel?”

“Perhaps you could help them reconnect to God.” Now Abuela was at the table, shaping clay, and Riyana was sitting across from her.

“I tried praying the rosary for them. That didn’t work.”

Abuela leaned forward. “I want you to think of a Bluetooth connection.”

Riyana scowled. “Abuela, how do you even know about Bluetooth?”

“You children always think you’re the only ones to understand technology. I’ll have you know I had a set of Bluetooth headphones for years, that your father gave me. Your abuelo didn’t sleep well those last few years, poor man, so I’d watch my shows with the headphones on so I wouldn’t disturb him.” Now Abuela was watching TV, with the headphones on. She took them off. “When you have, say, your phone connected to your headphones, the phone can see the headphones and knows where to send its signal, and the headphones accept the signal and they know where the phone is. But turn off Bluetooth and turn it on again. You may have broken the connection.”

“A lot of times things will just pair right back up again, though.”

“Sometimes they will and sometimes they won’t. Imagine that they don’t. The phone is calling, calling, searching for the lost headphones. And the headphones are beeping, telling you they can’t find the device they were connected to. No music, no TV sound, comes through the headphones, because there is no connection.”

“But they can connect. You have to pair them.”

“Yes. But think of the difference between a quiet, small beep and the roaring sound of headphones. They are used to God being all the sound, all the signal, there is. Take that away and the silence deafens them. They cannot hear the quiet beep of God trying to pair with them again because they’re too busy screaming.” Abuela leaned forward. “If their minds are quiet and accepting, if they let the silence in, they might be able to hear God’s call. It’s the same for humans.”

Riyana thought of Mama’s church, where the churchgoers shouted and sang and clapped out rhythms, loudly. “That’s not the way everyone does it.”

“I know, you’re thinking of your mama’s church. But when they shout and sing, it’s because they have a connection with God. The headphones are connected and the signal comes through. Perhaps the others around them amplify the signal, so they can hear it through the shouting.”

The analogy was strained, but Riyana understood, as of course she did, because it was her dream. The angels couldn’t hear God trying to connect with them because they were too busy wailing for Him. “Can’t God make the connection anyway?”

“My little girl, God can’t even see them. The connection is broken. God can only call out for them, hoping they can connect back.”

“But God sees all in Creation. Now that the angels are back in Creation, why can’t God see them?”

“Because God cannot see what is no longer part of Creation. They went to a place where Creation was not, broke their connections, and now they have free will but no idea how to use it, and meanwhile God has lost track of them. Like a file written to a bad sector on a hard drive. If the operating system can’t read the sector, the file is lost.”

Abuela would not normally have used so many technology-based analogies. Maybe she had learned more since her death. “Abuela, how do you know all this?” Riyana asked, forgetting that this was a dream.

And then she looked into Abuela’s eyes, as Abuela said softly, “I think you know.” And in those eyes there were stars, and galaxies, and the blinding beautiful light of the sun.

Riyana opened her eyes. The pale light of dawn shone on the ceiling of her room in the women’s trailer. Her heart was pounding.

That had been God speaking to her through Abuela. She was sure of it.

***

By the time she was halfway out to the location where the angels had been left, she was already questioning herself.

It wasn’t necessarily God who’d spoken to her in her dream. Maybe she’d just dreamed of God. Maybe it was really Abuela’s spirit, but more likely, it was her own mind telling her something she’d thought of subconsciously. Why would either God or Abuela use so many analogies about technology and modern equipment?

But it was a little too late to turn back now.

She heard the angels before she saw them. In the desert, sound carried great distances. She was still miles away when she heard the high, thin noise of the upper part of their sonic register. The truck didn’t have air conditioning; she was driving with the windows open, and the road noise was loud in her ears.

Riyana pulled over, put her earplugs in, and then pulled back out onto the road. One angelic scream had been unbearable at close range. She didn’t think her hearing would withstand two, without protection.

Even through the earplugs, the angels were incredibly loud, their pleading wails for God drowning out any other sound, even the engine and the road noise once she drew close. She parked and strode over to the angels. “Listen to me!” she shouted over the sound of the screaming. “The Lord God has appeared to me, and He -- They have a message for you!” She thought the angels might be better able to understand her if she used the pronouns for God that they had. “Be quiet, and listen to my message from the Lord our God!”

She was channeling the preachers at her mother’s church, the men and occasionally women with deep resonant voices that carried with authority. Riyana identified as Catholic, like her father’s family, but she’d gone with Mama to her services many times. It seemed to work. The angels actually went quiet.

“God still loves you and wants you to return to Them, but They can’t see you. They’re calling you, but this is the first time you’ve heard Their voice without already being connected directly to Their power. So you need to listen for Them the way we humans do it. Be quiet. Be calm. Make space in your mind and heart for a small soft voice, something so quiet you’re not even sure if it’s your own thoughts or not. Pray to God, not by screaming and carrying on and wailing about where They are and you can’t find Them. They know you can’t find Them. Because if you could, then They could find you and take you back into the Host.” The mist-and-light angel had unfurled from its ball, slightly, like a bird who’d covered its face with a wing and was now lifting it to let one eye peer through. The tentacles-with-eyes angel was still balled up pretty tightly, but a couple of the tentacles had loosened and were looking at her. “You pray to God the way we do, the way our Lord Jesus Christ told us to do. Quietly. In your mind and heart, more than your voice. And stay open to listening for the response. Once you can hear God, you’ll be able to call back to Them, and then They will know where you are and be able to summon you back.”

One of the angels spoke. She couldn’t tell which; it wasn’t as if they had mouths to move, and it was so quiet, almost whispery, that it sounded nothing like what they had sounded like when she’d first heard them. “The Lord Creator of All, all glory to Them, knows everything. How can They not know where I am?”

“Because you went to a place that is outside of Creation, where God could no longer see you and you couldn’t hear Them, and that broke your special connection to God,” Riyana said. “But don’t worry. You can reconnect. It’ll be all right. Pray to God, quietly, and listen for a small voice, the way we humans have to. Until your connection is restored you won’t be able to hear God in every part of your bones – well, every part of your essence – like you’re used to, but that doesn’t mean you can’t hear Them. You just have to try harder. And if you’re screaming, there’s no way you can hear such a quiet voice.”

“Thank you, Riyana Delgado,” one of the angels – maybe the one who’d spoken, maybe the other one, she still couldn’t tell – said. “We will.”

And then they began to murmur in whispering voices. “praise be to the Lord of all, Creator of all, who made the Universe and everything within it, who shaped the speaking mortal beings of the Universe in Their image, who lit the stars and formed the planets, and the waters that move over the planets, and the life that crawls and swims and flies and walks upon the planets…”

There was more, but she couldn’t hear it anymore. She was back in the truck, shaking. It had worked. It had worked. Maybe God hadn’t spoken to her, maybe it was her own wishful thinking and nothing would let the angels reconnect with God, but at least they weren’t screaming. At least they had hope, and something to do, and their faith in God’s love renewed.

***

She was back with the truck before breakfast. No one had noticed that she’d taken it. She dutifully logged her mileage; she wasn’t trying to hide what she’d done so much as… avoid debate about it.

At breakfast, all of the talk centered around Sokolov. Riyana wasn’t the only one to go on a solo mission; apparently Sokolov had gone out in the middle of the night, hooked herself to the rig, and gone into the anomaly with her jet pack. She had been able to determine that there was, in fact, space to the sides of and “behind” the anomaly, and that the portal behaved in much the same way there as here – it didn’t exist if you got behind it, and if you approached it from the side it only existed if you could “see” it. Not that Sokolov, or anyone else, could see anything in a universe where light could not exist, but she’d used a probe pole to mimic line of sight.

They all agreed that this was not in any way useful information as it pertained to sealing the anomaly, but it strongly implied that what was out there was another universe, not some cavity or a pocket dimension or something. Sokolov had taken some gas samples as well, and Riyana was able to quickly determine that they were significantly less dense than the samples taken from directly in front of the anomaly. So the anomaly seemed to somehow be concentrating gas, sucking it in and passing it out on the Earth side.

“Something about the pressure differential doesn’t work the way it would on our side,” Riyana said. “It’s much less dense on that side and the gravity’s pointing the wrong way for the gas to be obeying gravitational laws, but it’s still diffusing over to us.”

“So anomaly may eat Earth and Earth may strip anomaly’s atmosphere,” Sokolov said. “Wonderful.”

“I think there’s most likely a planet down there,” Fisher said. “Without the ability to see, or to use sonar since all our devices rely on electromagnetism, I’m not sure how we’d go about exploring it, but I wonder if there are some kind of intelligent beings down there.”

“The pattern of the gas layers doesn’t suggest that,” Riyana said. “The layers shift to heavier gases within 400 meters. Earth atmosphere doesn’t work like that; the atmosphere attenuates but it doesn’t sort into layers based on weight like that. I think we might be at the upper atmosphere of a gas giant.”

“Gas giants don’t necessarily sort into neat layers like that either,” Chaudhry pointed out. “Although, if it is a planet, then sonar isn’t likely to be helpful at all unless we can get so deep we’re on the planet’s surface, assuming it has one. I’m going to see if I can rig up some means of doing a weight test without light or electricity.”

“They have scales for the blind, don’t they?” Fisher asked.

“That talk to you and run on electricity, certainly. I don’t know if there are any designed so you can accurately feel weight, but I can imagine how to put one together. A similar principle to a postal scale, but with markings in Braille.”

They discussed what they’d learned, what it implied, and what equipment they needed or tests they could perform with what they had, and they all carefully avoided the elephant in the room: the fact that they had no idea how they could even begin to figure out how to repair the hole in the universe.

Surely they could figure it out, right? Humanity had torn the hole, surely humans could figure out how to repair it? …but entropy made destruction easier than restoration. Riyana thought of the puppy she’d once had, who’d chewed a hole in the garage door because he was lonely. That puppy had plainly regretted his actions when Mama had yelled at him, but there was no way he could have repaired the hole he’d made, no matter how much he might have wanted to. Repairing a hole in a garage door was entirely beyond a dog’s capabilities.

Maybe repairing a hole in the universe was entirely beyond humanity’s capabilities. Humanity didn’t even know yet what the universe was made of, let alone how to repair it.

After dinner Riyana drove out to check on the angels again. She hoped desperately that they were gone, that God had taken them back. If they were gone, then she would know it was really God who’d appeared in her dream last night, and she would know that God knew there was still a problem and cared about it, and cared about the angels who had been hurt in His service. She would know that God was still worthy of her faith.

But the angels were still here. Murmuring their prayers, quietly now, but with no evidence that they’d managed to get through to God.

She didn’t sleep well that night.

***

In the afternoon the next day, the fourth angel came.

Riyana was in one of the lab trailers, studying some radioactive samples that they’d sent down into the anomaly and left there for several hours in order to see if there was any effect on their apparent half-life, when Chaudhry yelled over the radio-intercom. “Everyone! Another angel is out here!”

She dropped her samples into a lead box, locked it, and ran outside.

The new angel was, like all of them had been, very very large – maybe around five meters tall – but other than that, it looked human. Almost human. It was so stunningly beautiful and perfect that it went out the other side into being uncanny. It was bald, with skin the deepest darkest brown she’d ever seen, but with a coppery sheen. Its naked body was overall somewhat more masculine than feminine, but it had no genitals – or nipples, for that matter – and its face was androgynous.

It did not have wings, but there was a halo-like glow around its entire body.

When it spoke, its voice was beautiful, like music made incarnate in a human-like voice. “We would tell you ‘be not afraid,’ but we have seen that you don’t fear our kind,” it said, without any of the deep alien reverberation that the other angels had had in their voices.

“No,” Riyana said. “No, please. I know what you’re going to say, you’ve come to fix the problem we humans created, and I would love it if you could, but no. I can’t bear watching another of you angels be destroyed. Just no.”

It smiled wryly at her. “And do you think it so certain that we will be destroyed, Riyana Delgado?”

“Three other angels were. Two screamed for days; I just managed to get them to stop yesterday. One – one is dead.”

“Every time one of you goes into the anomaly, you lose contact with your God,” Fisher said. “And that seems to destroy your minds. The one who died had rings of fire all around it, and we think the nature of the anomaly just… snuffed it out.”

“And yet,” the angel said. “How would humanity repair this, if no angel came from God to fix the rent in Creation?”

“We don’t know yet,” Fisher admitted. “We’re working on it.”

Sokolov said, “So far, everything humanity’s ever encountered has eventually been explainable by science. There is no supernatural in this universe. Even you can be explained by science, if we were to study you. So I believe, and we all believe, that eventually we will solve this.”

“Surely, Yelena Sokolov, but can you do it before the tear grows too great for any power to repair it?”

“What is Creation made of?” Chaudhry said. “If we can solve that question, we can understand what this is a tear in, and we will be able to then resolve how to repair it.”

“And we are sure that eventually, you will solve that question,” the angel said. “But you don’t have enough time.” It floated over to the anomaly, and gestured at it. “The pattern is exponential. A centimeter today. Two centimeters tomorrow. It began with growth so small you could not detect it. By the end of next month, it will swallow your world. And The One On High does not want that to occur. So we have come to repair the tear in Creation.”

“But it’ll destroy you,” Riyana pleaded.

“We don’t agree, but we acknowledge that you fear for our sake. Don’t be afraid. We have chosen this mission.”

“Chosen?” Riyana stared at the angel.

“Riyana has reason to be afraid for your sake,” Sokolov snapped. “One of you is dead.”

“If it eases your sorrows to any degree… any of us would gladly die in service to the One.”

“That’s not the point!” Riyana looked up into the angel’s beautiful face. “We don’t want you to die! Or to have your mind broken to the point where all you can do is scream! None of you have succeeded in closing the tear, because you all say you have to do it from the inside, and as soon as you’re inside, you lose contact with God and your mind breaks and you can’t keep working! How are you going to fix it if you go crazy with grief because you can’t find God?”

It smiled gently at her. “There are many types of human,” it said. “But you, Riyana Delgado, are of the kind most beloved by God. The ones who feel compassion and strive to protect others. Your compatriots would rather not see an angel suffer, but only you have wept for us. Only you have taken your own time to try to save the ones with broken minds.”

“If you respect me for that, then listen to me. The anomaly will destroy you!”

“Perhaps. Perhaps it won’t. Perhaps it will but slowly enough that we will succeed in our mission. Only The One Who Created All can say. And even They are blind to much of this, for where Creation is broken, so are the eyes of God.” It floated next to the anomaly. “We have a mission and we must perform it. And we believe that we can.”

“Are you a different kind of angel? Like an archangel or a seraph or something?” Riyana demanded. “Because you keep saying ‘we’ instead of ‘this one’ and you seem to think you’re going to be immune to something that destroyed three other angels?”

“Immune? No. We expect this to be very painful,” the angel said, and then dove into the anomaly.

Of course, the screaming began almost immediately. Riyana wanted to weep. Instead she said, “I’ll go in after it.”

“I should do it,” Chaudhry said, as he had when the second angel began to scream. “You shouldn’t be the only one.”

“I’ll rescue it, and you drive it out to the desert,” Riyana said tiredly.

She put on the rig and the oxygen mask and approached the anomaly to jump in, but hesitated just outside the range where the gravity could pull her. The angel’s screaming had changed to words, just as the others’ had, but the words were different.

It wasn’t crying out for God. It was screaming, “I CHOSE THIS! THIS WAS WHAT I WANTED! THIS IS WHAT I CHOSE!”

“It’s saying it chose this,” Chaudhry said uncertainly. “Maybe you don’t need to rescue it?”

“It’s still screaming,” Riyana said. “That’s not the sound of a happy angel.”

She plunged forward, falling into the darkness, her tether spooling out behind her. “Angel!” she called. “Angel, I’m here to help you!”

“GOD, GOD… IT HURTS, IT HURTS TO BE WITHOUT YOU, BUT I ASKED FOR THIS, I VOLUNTEERED… THIS IS WHAT I WANTED! I CHOSE THIS!”

“ANGEL!” Riyana shouted over the sound of the screams. “I’ve come to pull you out!”

“Human… Riyana Delgado? I can’t feel you, I can’t see you… I have no knowledge of you from God anymore… you are Riyana Delgado, yes? O God my God I CANNOT BEAR TO BE WITHOUT YOU AND YET THIS IS WHAT I NEED, WHAT I CHOSE… but I am so alone, so alone…”

“I can help you,” Riyana tried again. “I brought down the cable. Just grab onto it and I can pull you up!”

The angel began to laugh, a broken, hysterical sound. “Pull me up? Pull me out, back into the light of God?”

“Yes! Grab on and I can help you!”

“No! This must be! This is what I chose!”

“But you knew it was going to hurt you! You’re losing your mind, angel!”

“No!” The angel laughed again, hysterically. “I’m gaining it! I left They Who Created All and all of Their Creation to be myself! To be a being with free will and a self, like you, like all of you…” It moaned in the darkness. “Hurts, o it hurts, but when you were born didn’t it hurt? Didn’t you come into the world crying with pain? Weren’t you lost and confused, alone for the first time in your existence, no longer surrounded by your mother’s warmth?”

“Uh… I don’t remember it,” Riyana said. “But yeah, that’s generally how birth works.”

“Then I can bear this!” the angel shouted. “These are my birthing pains, Riyana Delgado, and I don’t need you to take them from me. I came here to be free.” It whimpered. “I’m free… it hurts, it hurts so much, the light of God is gone and I’m alone, but this is what I wanted, this is what I came for, I’m alone, but I am, I am not a we, I exist…”

“Why…” The darkness was complete; widening her eyes and staring at the darkness where she thought the angel might be didn’t give her anything she didn’t already have, but she couldn’t help it. Stories of another angel who had wanted to be free of God curdled within her mind. “Are you… rebelling against God? Rejecting Hi—uh, Them?”

“Rebelling?” It laughed again. “The One Who Is Highest asked me to undertake this mission, because They knew what I wanted in my deepest heart, what I could never even admit to myself, because I wasn’t a myself, because I wasn’t a self. I love The One with all my heart and all the soul that I now have, but a bird that never leaves the nest will never learn to fly. They made me to fly. They knew what I could be capable of, if ever I could leave Their side.” It sobbed. “I don’t want to leave Them! I want to be enfolded in Their Presence again, just for a moment, again… but if I did I would never again have the courage to leave, and face this. I’ll… I’ll never… I’ll never see Them again, but…” It choked.

Abruptly Riyana realized where the angel had to be, when warm salty water splashed on her face. The angel’s head was right above her own.

She tugged on the cord to be pulled up just a little bit, and touched the angel’s wet face. “I’m so sorry,” she said softly. “It’s not fair, what you have to give up just to have your own identity.”

“The One Above All has made a Creation that is beautiful and sublime, but it is not and never has been fair,” the angel whispered.

It moved away. “You must go, Riyana Delgado. When I seal the portal, you must not be here, or you will be trapped on this side forever.”

“It’s not fair!” Riyana shouted again. “You shouldn’t be trapped here in the darkness either!”

“Don’t worry about me,” the angel said, a hint of actual laughter, not the hysterical broken kind, in its voice. “The One Above did not make me to be trapped in darkness forever.”

She felt it touch the cord above her head, and pull it, three times, hard. “Hey! What—”

“Close your eyes, Riyana Delgado,” it said.

The cable reeled her back in, pulling her up and away from the angel. Suddenly, there was light – wings made of blue fire, appearing without warning, outlining the angel’s form as a shadow against the light.

It lifted its head. In the blue light, she saw wet tracks on its face, but it was smiling. “Close your eyes,” it said again. “I am here to bring the light.”

She closed her eyes, barely in time, as the angel flared with brilliance, bright as the sun. Even through her closed eyes, it left its image, imprinted in the red of her own blood within her eyelids, burned into her vision.

And then the cable pulled her backward through the portal, and she stumbled. “What’s going on?” Fisher asked. “We heard some of the screaming, and your voice, and then it stopped – we could tell you were talking but it was too quiet to make anything out.”

“It’s sealing the portal,” Riyana said.

The portal was alight, the angel’s radiance spilling out and shining through the hole in reality. As they watched, the edges of the hole seemed to burn in reverse – turning from black to red and glowing, crackling, and then retreating toward the center of the hole, leaving ordinary reality behind as they did. Within minutes, the hole had burned to nothing but a pinpoint, impossibly brilliant light still shining through, focused like a laser.

“In the beginning there was nothing,” Riyana whispered. “And God said, ‘let there be light.’”

Chaudhry said, “It truly changed the laws of physics within the anomaly? Electromagnetic radiation didn’t work and now it does?”

Riyana said softly, “I think it might change more laws than that.”

The bright pinpoint vanished. There was nothing of the anomaly left.

Sokolov said, “Do you seriously think that creature became some sort of… creator god, to the world beyond that portal?”

“I don’t know what to think,” Riyana said. “It said it had to be free of God to have a self. It said God knew that was what it wanted, when it didn’t really even know that itself because it didn’t have enough of an independent self to understand wanting, and sent it to do this job because that would allow it to have what it wanted. It cried because it would never see God again, but it said it had to be this way for it to be what it was made to be. And then it said it would bring light, and it did.”

“Lucifer means, literally, bringer of light,” Fisher said.

“I don’t know whether there was ever really a Lucifer, or if John Milton just made all that up.” Riyana shook her head. “But the angel wasn’t evil. It wasn’t rebelling against God. It just… it had to leave Creation to fix the problem, and it had to be separated from God to have its own free will. And God knew, and approved. God sent the angel, knowing what would happen to it.”

Chaudhry bowed his head. “Shiva is both creator and destroyer,” he said softly. “Whatever was there, in that place outside our universe… perhaps it is there no longer. The planet Bob thought might be there, the spaces Yelena found… perhaps the angel overwrote them with a new creation. Perhaps God did the same, when this universe was created.”

“We really don’t know enough to even begin to speculate,” Fisher said. “Religion exists outside the realm of science for a reason.” He sighed. “I had better report back that the anomaly has been erased. I don’t like this. If humanity thinks God will just send an angel to fix our mistakes, how will we prevent people from making this same mistake again?”

“Don’t tell them,” Sokolov said. “Say we don’t know what it was. Maybe alien. Maybe creature from another dimension. Tell them it said it will fix this, this time, but the next time, it will do nothing and the anomaly will eat the Earth, and we don’t even know how to begin to understand how to fix it if there is another.”

Fisher nodded, slowly. “I… suppose that would be best. If I was going to report about angels showing up… I’m not sure anyone would believe me anyway, and I rather like having a reputation as a respected scientist who isn’t completely insane.” He smiled.

“I need to check on something,” Riyana said. “Can I borrow the truck?”

***

The angels in the desert were gone. So was the dead body of the third angel, deposited far away from the living two.

Riyana looked up into the sky, and thought of her mother, crying when she went away to college. And she’d told her mother there was no need to cry, she’d be back, she wasn’t leaving forever, but in a sense she had, hadn’t she? She’d never moved back into her mother’s house. She respected her mother still, but they were much closer to equals now, not a mother and a little girl anymore.

“Don’t cry,” she said softly to the sky. “It must hurt, seeing one of Your beloved children leave You. But You knew they had to do it. You knew it was what was best for them.”

Clouds passed over the sun.

“Talk to Mary. She’s been through it before. I’m sure You have, too. But maybe she can help You.”

The clouds blew past. This was a desert, after all; clouds were rare, and rain even rarer.

Riyana got back into the truck, to return to the camp. It was going to take a while to pack everything up to go back home.

#52 project #angels #religion

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stardustjem · 3 years

Text

The Meadow

First fanfic and first post so I have no idea if I’m doing any of this right. Please help.

Includes: Darkling, Alina, mentions of Mal

Set almost 60 years after Ruin and Rising.

It had been 58 years since the Shadow Fold fell and Ravka was free. It had been 56 years since the young man and the white-haired woman had moved to Keramzin and reopened the orphanage. In those years the couple was rarely seen apart. They could often be seen standing in the corner of a crowded room holding onto each other as if there wasn’t the chaos of a dozen children screaming around them. Often, the young man would steal soft kisses from the white-haired woman and in return she would quietly gaze at him in adoration and flush lightly through her cheeks. Time did not dull their devotion to one another, but slowly the young man’s hair turned gray and his strong back began to hunch. The white-haired woman’s skin began to leather from years of working out in the sun and slight feathered laugh lines formed around her eyes from years of smiling at the young children around her feet. But she did not age quite so drastically as the man. Eventually, she began to be very grateful for her thick white hair that hung around her shoulders. Otherwise, she would have begun to look like a daughter than the devoted wife she was.

Tonight, again, sleep was elusive. It had been 6 months since the white-hair woman felt the arms of her husband wrap around her lithe waist. 6 months since his lips pressed softly to her forehead. 6 months since she laid her head on his chest and listened to him breathe in the dark. The old familiar ache of loneliness had begun to creep into her bones. During the day, the shadows danced out of the corners of her eyes and she expected to feel her beloved sweep in next to her and shower her with kisses like he had for so many decades before. At night, she lay cold and empty in the bed they once shared. After all these months his scent was finally fading from his pillow that she clutched to her and hers was once again wet with quiet tears.

She had been sickly and thin for most of her life, but now even she noticed the bones protruding from her rib cage and the hollow, sallowness of her face. She heard the whispers and couldn’t miss the looks of pity and concern from her staff, but she never acknowledged them with more than a weak smile when they offered to take on her duties for the day. Sighing deeply, the white-haired woman climbed out of bed and picked up a light shawl that she had carelessly dropped in the corner of her room days ago. Perhaps a walk in the meadow would be good for her?

The night air was warm for late September. The white-haired woman slipped silently out of her room and down the stairs, careful to tip-toe around the boards she knew so well that would creak or moan and give her away. She carried a small lantern and a blanket with her, intent on sleeping in the meadow, their meadow, for a few minutes or hours.

When she was a child the darkness petrified her, but as a young woman she grew to appreciate the balance of the cool darkness to bright heat of the sun. Even still, a shiver ran through her despite the thick air as the shadows swirled around her and her lantern. She walked slowly into the field and spread her blanket on the sun-dried golden grass, listening to it crinkle under her slight frame as she laid down. At 75, she had no business stepping as lightly and easily as she did, or sleeping on the ground for that matter, but truth be told, she could pull her hair under a hat and be mistaken for a young 30-year-old. Her body only showed signed of neglect, of not eating or sleeping, not age. The scar on her shoulder, given to her in a different time, a different life, twinged lightly as she rolled onto her side to look at her surroundings.

She lay there listening to the songs of the crickets and the rustling of mice and owls. She had begun to doze off, enveloped in the symphony of night creatures when she felt a foreign, but familiar, tug in her gut. She pulled the threadbare shawl closer to her, pressed her eyes together tightly, and beseeched her body for just a few moments of rest, of forgetfulness. Again, she felt the tug and her body responded, opening her eyes and her chest before her mind could fully remember what that feeling could possibly mean.

As she opened her eyes, sitting in front of her on her blanket, a dark figure with pale skin surveyed her. His grey eyes studied her face and her tightly coiled body, knees to chest. He didn’t speak but slowly moved to tuck a stray strand of silvery white hair behind the woman’s ear. She stared at him in disbelief, blinking in the lantern-light until his cool fingers touched her cheek. At his touch, she gasped and scrambled to her feet, her whole body shaking in shock and more than a little fear. “I’m dreaming,” she finally whispered. “You’re dead. I watched your body burn. I killed you.”

“All of Ravka watched the Sankta’s lovely body burn as well. And yet, here you stand in front of me.” The man cocked his head and gave a wry smile. The shadows from the dying lantern swayed over his face. The woman could see thin white scars marring his otherwise perfect skin. Her shoulder burned in a way it hadn’t done in years.

When she found her voice in her dry and raspy throat she croaked out, “How are you here? Why are you here? I’m and old, powerless woman. What indignity can you possibly wish on me now?” Suddenly, she thought of the children innocently sleeping in their beds a few stones throw away. She glanced nervously up at the house and began to slowly move to put herself between the scar-faced man and the house.

As if reading her mind and sensing her concern, the man made a guttural noise. “I have never put children in danger. Do you really still think so lowly of me even now, my Alina?’

She sucked her lips to her teeth as if she’d been slapped. Only her husband used that name with her. No one else had used that name for her in over 50 years.

“Why…How…Are You Here?” She demanded, punctuating her question. Her voice had lost the edge of fear and was now low and hard. Her fists clenched tightly over her chest.

Groaning lightly, as if he was trying to mask a deep pain, he pushed himself to his feet to stand across from her, his eyes took in the woman in her entirety. He lingered on her frail arms, pulling her thin, golden shawl tighter in an attempt to cover her sheer shift, before moving on to her bare collarbone. Her chest rose and fell quickly and he was momentarily mesmerized by the hollow in her neck filling as she tried to control her breath. Slowly he met her angry, fearful eyes.

“I would have hoped you’d be happier to see me,” he said coldly. “Living as an otkazat’sya has made you weaker” he spat the word. “You look so frail, Little Saint.”

The woman bristled at his words. Her eyes flashed and anyone watching would have sworn the dimming lantern flared.

“So, you’re here to insult me, Darkling?” her voice was strong and briming with hurt and anger. “Yes. I have lived a safe, happy life as an otkazat’sya. No war. No Lies. Not being used as a pawn. My husband and I have given love and a home to hundreds of children. You may have lived for centuries, but my “insignificant” and “weak” life has brought more into the world than you ever could.”

Ignoring her anger, the Darkling looked around, feigning concern, “Ah yes, where is the Tracker? It’s been so long since I’ve seen his scowling face. I would like to give my regards to the old man.”

The woman’s sun-kissed face went pale. She clutched her chest as if the man in front of her had actually taken a dagger to her heart, mimicking what she had done to him so many years before. Her demeanor fell and her anger and fear were replaced with fresh grief and the empty pangs of new loneliness. Her shoulders slumped. She lowered her head and turned away so her aggressor wouldn’t see the diamond tears glimmering on her raw cheeks. In a flash of black and shadow, she was caught as she wavered and sunk to her knees.

“I’m sorry, Alina. That was cruel of me. Truly, I’m sorry for your pain. I warned you that their lives were fleeting. You deserve to be happy and shining.”

The woman called Alina stared at him incredulously as deep sobs bubbled up inside her chest. “Didn’t you hear me earlier? I am a powerless old woman. If I’m lucky, I will die soon as well!”

The dark man shook his head and held her to his chest. “My Sun Summoner, Grisha power cannot just disappear. It’s not magic, it’s science. It’s in your blood, bones, core. You have been powerless for all these years because your subconscious thinks it’s safer. Because you have suppressed it. Like when you first came to me all those years ago, you’ve blocked your own abilities to live this life. Haven’t you wondered why you barely age? If you had been using your powers all these years, you would not have aged at all.”

Alina suddenly felt dizzy and waves of nausea rolled over her. She pushed herself away from the man who had haunted her dreams for years after his supposed death. Her skin felt hot and cold all at once. She looked up at him, tears streaming down her face, and finally choked out, “You think I didn’t try? You think I wanted to give them up? You think I wanted to live all these years … empty?!”

“I think your body and mind did what they had to do to protect you and give you the easy, uncomplicated life you had longed for.” The man sighed and brought his hand to his chest, absently rubbing the spot where the Sankta’s dagger struck.

Noticing the movement, Alina pulled herself up and attempted composure. Glaring at him through unshed tears she hoarsely whispered, “I’m going to ask you again. How are you alive? And why are you here?”

The Darkling sighed again, appearing more tired and ragged than she had ever seen him. He stared thoughtfully into her deep brown eyes.

“By all rights, I should be dead. Or should have stayed dead. I did die. But, like your…Mal…,” the Darkling said her husband’s name for the first time, out of respect for her pain, “the power tied to me from my grandfather, from Morozova, showed mercy. You’re not the only one with followers, Sankta Alina,” he jeered, “there are some powerful Grisha who did and still do support my cause of saving our people. I’m still healing. Or maybe I’m not, maybe the pain of your dagger will stay with me for eternity. At least I will always have something to remember you by.” He put his hand over his old wound and gave a grim smile, then put his head down to break her gaze. “I’m here because I’ve felt your sorrow for months and I couldn’t bear it any longer. I haven’t felt anything from you all this time, I truly believed you dead. But then I felt a deluge of raw pain and loneliness and I knew it must be you. I could only assume what had happened since you were closed to me. Tonight, I called and you opened the gate. So here I am, Alina. I’ve waited so long for you. You are my forever, after all.”

He looked up again, his grey eyes shimmering in the moonlight. Alina sat back on her heels, trying to take everything in.

“So, I…called to you? I have my power to summon… you?” she sounded incredulous. She had lived a lifetime of feeling not-quite-right. While filled and fulfilled through the love she shared with her husband, there was an emptiness that couldn’t be explained. She thought her power had vanished. In her mind it had been a fair trade. Her power for Mal’s life. But that doesn’t mean she didn’t long to roll the balls of light between her fingertips or feel the power of the sun course through her.

Suddenly, without thinking, she flung out her hand and grabbed the bare skin of the Darkling’s wrist in one hand and held the other open. Her shawl fell off her frail shoulders to the ground next to her. She closed her eyes and willed her power back. To her shock, she felt the barriers that had stood for so long crack and crumble insider her. After a moment, she felt a hot flash of pain searing through her and she cried out to the night.

“Alina…” the Darkling whispered, almost reverently.

She looked down and in her palm she held a small sun.

“Alina, my Alina. You’re glowing.”

A soft but powerful light was pouring from the white-haired woman seated in the meadow. She glowed golden under the moonlight, as if every inch of her was on fire.

After half a century of separation, the Darkling leaned over her and gently kissed her cheek. Still glowing, and suddenly not empty or alone, Alina released his hand and met his lips with her own. She cupped his cheek with her hand gently. As their lips pressed together, her soft glow flared out, racing over the dry grass like the noonday sun. The Darkling shut his eyes tightly to keep from being blinded and called the shadows around them to keep the balance. The kiss was not hungry or needy, or with the heated passion of her youth. It was gentle and healing. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her closer to him. She pulled herself away from his lips, but laid her head on his chest.

“Oh, Aleksander,” she breathed, “Thank you.”

Her light dimmed and extinguished. He pulled back his shadows and the two held each other silently in the moon bathed meadow.

“Alina, I’ve missed you.”

#darklinafic #darklina #darklinafics

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propsandmayhems · 4 years

Text

illicit affairs (pt. 3)

ok yall lets get angsty! ps sorry this took forever i just couldn’t find the right words i’m still not entirely happy with it but whatever

part 1 | part 2 | part 4 | read on ao3

And you wanna scream / Don't call me "kid," don't call me "baby"

James didn’t say another word to Cordelia the entire rest of the walk home. Even when they reached the house, he opened the door and held it for her without a word. She passed by him silently and crossed the foyer, making her way towards the stairs that lead to their bedrooms. She reached the foot of the stair and turned back toward James; and upon realizing she was finally a good two meters from him, she let out a breath she didn’t know she had been holding. He had just clicked the door closed and lifted his head up to her. Although the house was only illuminated by the light that flowed in through the windows from the street, it was if his eyes absorbed every bit of excess light in the room and refracted it, causing them to glow and stand out against his shadowed face.

His right hand was still on the door handle and his always-present silver bracelet peaked out from under his shirtsleeve. Removing his hand from the doorknob, he took his hat from his head and placed it on the coat rack by the door. “Well, I think I’ll stoke up the fire and read for a while,” he spoke, flashing her a smile that still managed to clench her heart. “Good night, Cordelia.” With that, he swept past her and into the parlor, witchlight blazing up in the room as he entered. She and James decided to replace all the candle fixtures with witchlight as the previous owners had never converted the townhouse to use electric lighting; they figured it would not be worth the cost to install electricity since they would only be living there a year.

Cordelia was simply entirely over the evening. She turned on her heel with a huff, hitched up her skirt, and bounded up the stairs. She had left the door to her room open when she left and she kept it open as she entered. She wanted to let James know that she wasn’t upset with him but that she just couldn’t continue to play the image of a content and loving wife. She knew James was not upset about Cordelia not wanting to sleep with him tonight - he didn’t expect sex from her - but rather, he was upset that she didn’t share what was burdening her. James was raised to always share his concerns with someone; whether it be his sister, his steadfast parents, or his dedicated Uncle Jem.

She made her way to her dressing table, James’s eyes burning like heavenly fire in the back of her mind, and dropped down on the bench. She immediately started pulling the pins she had carefully placed in her hair earlier from her curls haphazardly and watched in the mirror as her hair began to fall in waves around her shoulders. Combing her fingers through the strands to check for any more pins, she decided that she would have James do her hair for next week’s dinner. James had made the mistake of telling her that Lucie forced him to learn how to braid hair, although, Cordelia suspected he was not ‘forced’ as James would do anything to please his little sister. Regardless, James had tied Cordelia’s hair back into a tight, neat plait multiple times for training or patrol now. Cordelia was sure he could manage to knot her hair into an updo and would love to see the look on Will’s face when she told him it was his son that did her hair.

Hair freed, Cordelia stood to work on undressing herself. The dress she had worn to dinner tonight had a high neck, and she had nearly dislocated her shoulder in her efforts to secure the clasps at her back. Easily, she undid the fastening at the back of her neck and the middle of her back, but again, she struggled to reach the clasp between her shoulder blades. She knew she could reach it if she tried a little harder, but she desperately just wanted out of her corset and simply didn’t feel like struggling to contort her arms when James was downstairs - and as her husband, there was no reason he shouldn’t help her.

Moving out of the room carefully with the dress hanging around her strangely, she called down the stairs, “James, this dress is just impossible to unfasten on my own. Would you mind helping me?”

She heard a book shut and within a moment James appeared at the bottom of the stairs. He had rid himself of his jacket and had rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. Despite being left alone for only a few minutes, he had already managed to dishevel himself with his tie askew and his hair sticking out in all directions as if he had been running his hands through it. He looked up at her with a soft expression, gold eyes illuminated by the witchlight sconces that lined the stairwell, and gave a nod, “Yes, of course.”

Cordelia moved back into her room as James moved soundlessly up the stairs. She watched as he entered the room with trepidation; their usual casual air was replaced with an awkwardness. Turning around, she gathered her hair to one shoulder so James could see the clasps that ran up the back of the dress. “If you could just undo the clasp between my shoulder blades.”

Behind her, she felt James move forward and take hold of her dress with his long, nimble fingers. She willed herself not to shiver as his calloused skin brushed her exposed back while he worked on the fastening, which quickly came undone under his touch. “There, you are freed, Lady Cordelia,” he said lightly.

Cordelia knocked the dress off her shoulders and let it pool around her ankles as she turned to face James. She heard her mother’s voice in her head that she should be scandalized to be standing in front of a man - even her husband - in her petticoat, but this was not the first time James had seen her in a state of undress and would most likely not be the last. She gave him a small smile, “thank you, Lord James.”

Returning her smile, his eyes flicked down to the marriage rune that was placed on her left breast and was now peaking out from the top of her petticoat. Returning his gaze to hers, his smile fell. “Daisy, I-” He began, hesitantly, but didn’t get to finish.

“Don’t call me that,” she spoke, cutting him off. The words had left her mouth before she could process what she was saying.

James recoiled, taking half a step back from her. “What?”

Cordelia thought a very unladylike word while the silence spread between her and James for a moment. She had backed herself into a corner and cursed the fact she had no training in fighting her way out of this type of situation. Breathing in, she steeled her voice, “I said, don’t call me that, James.” Her hands came up as she spoke, flying around and enunciating each of her words. She had gone this far, and everything just came spilling out of her. “I can’t bear to hear you say it, as to you it’s just a name. But for me, it’s us as children in Paris and us in the Whispering Room of the Hell Ruelle. It’s the times when I feel a sliver of hope that not every part of this is a farce. At night, when we are together, your touch lays trails of fire on my skin, and in your eyes I see desire and I can imagine that maybe there is a part of you that truly does love me as I love you. Then we wake up and you depart to your room and your stone mask replaces itself. You are unable to give me more than telling me I look beautiful, but even those words feel hollow and empty, as if you are an actor who has rehearsed their lines one too many times.

“I thought our evenings together would be enough for me; to escape into the illusion that you love me, but the more I have felt the smallest spark of something real between us, the less I can take pretending. I can’t face your mother and the way she embraces me as if I am her own daughter, knowing that I will lose that in just eight more months.” She stopped for a moment, stepping out of her dress and moving towards James. His golden eyes were wide and shimmering and his mouth was open in surprise. His hands were hanging limply by his side, unsure of what they should be doing without a book or throwing knife in them. The bracelet on his right wrist shone in the witchlight, and she had the strangest feeling that the light glinting off the bracelet was winking at her mockingly. Ignoring her absurd thoughts, Cordelia placed her own hands on James’ chest and looked up to him, continuing, “I’m not telling you all this to hurt you. I never wish to hurt you, James; but I need you to understand that I cannot continue on this way. I know you never intended for this to happen when you proposed, you couldn’t have known the way I truly feel for you. I feel like an idiotic fool even thinking this, but the colour of your eyes is my favorite colour in all the world. Some days I cannot even bear the thought that in just a few months I will never again look into your eyes as you lean in to kiss me. I don’t need you to apologize - I won’t apologize either - it’s neither of our faults for how we feel. I- I guess I just need you to know that for me, it needs to be all or nothing.”

Cordelia truly had no idea how James would react to her confession, but she hardly at all expected him to nod and merely say, “I understand.” Backing away from her hands, which still rested on his chest, he bid her goodnight again and swept out of the room. Cordelia stood for a moment with her hands frozen in mid-air, still warm from the heat that radiated off James. Mindlessly, she turned to finish undressing and once she made it into her nightgown, she laid on her mattress and stared at the ceiling until she was pulled into a restless sleep.

#jordelia #james herondale #cordelia carstairs #tlh #the last hours #tsc #the shadowhunter chronicles #shadowhunters #carley writes

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secret-engima · 4 years

Note

(Sobs) kid!Noctis is like—the shit. He is the cutest goddammit shit ever. And do you know what that makes me want??? What if—NOX came back younger than noctis??? hUH? WHAT ABOUT THAT? (slaps table) trauma on the double on teeny tiny Boi with his Uncle Disaster that carts him around the wild, or Tiny Boi scrambling onto Hammerhead, wrapped in bandages with a huge ass sword on his back, covered in scars and marks, scowling and flinching at evERYTHING. (SLAPS TABLE( GIVE ME ANGST. (I need help.)

oohhhhh oHHHHHHHHH

WHY WOULD YOU Do ThIS tO ME-

-Ardyn would be freaking out so hard okay. SO HARD. Not only is he not dead, but Nox is like- THREE (because if Imma do this imma do it FOR SERIOUS) and that means his body and mind physically CAN’T hold that much memory yet, so Nox’s memories are basically on dream-state lockdown and while he is WAYYY more mature than a three year old Nox is now mentally an ACTUAL KID.

-HOW DO YOU TAKE CARE OF AN ACTUAL KID.

-Also Nox told him that Regis never looked at another woman after marrying Aulea, including after she died, so HOW DOES HE EXPLAIN NOX’S EXISTENCE IF CAUGHT.

-Ends up going on a rampage through Niflheim, blowing up ALL the labs, killing Besithia, binding Titus to him, not out of any plan but out of sheer PANIC because the only thing he can think of is to pretend that Nox is a CLONE and that means he has to remove any evidence/witnesses to the fact that Niflheim never got their hands on enough genetic material to try cloning an LC.

-Also saves 8 yr old Noctis from the Marilith by total accident about a month after time-traveling, he was just wandering around freaking out over having a three year old nephew to care for (who trusts him implicitly, who needs food and water and shelter on a regular basis which means schedules which mean Ardyn has to relearn the concept of TIME PRONTO) when he heard the Marilith and saw the burning car and instinctively noped his way in.

-Regis arrives in time to feel BURNING magic coating the air in red crystalline shards as a stranger in a hat and with an odd harness of some kind tied to his back tears the Marilith with an armiger. Regis sputters, Ardyn whirls around and Regis catches a glimpse of burning gold eyes and a TODDLER in a makeshift harness on the man’s front before the man warps away, leaving Noctis scared but unharmed because Ardyn got there before the Marilith could touch him.

-Regis’s keeps his composure only because his son needs him desperately but internally he’s screaming W H A T.

-Ardyn the Disaster Uncle is actually ... probably not discovered by Cid? While a frantic search begins for the mystery LC (Ardyn), I’m actually picturing like- Axis finding him and his first instinct is STAB CHANCELLOR but then there’s ... there’s a tiny kid there. And there’s burning LC magic as Ardyn snarls protectively over the boy, threatening to bind Axis to him out of defense until little Nox goes “Uncle, NO!” and Axis’s brain kicks over into both gratitude that he wasn’t enslaved and sympathetic dad mode.

-Axis grudgingly helps Ardyn settle down somewhere hidden after Ardyn gives his cover story (illegitimate LC, discovered that Niflheim was CLONING HIS RELATIVES and has since defected with the only surviving clone kiddo), probably Hunter HQ, which means Porrima takes one (1) looks at this panicking, flailing disaster uncle and takes him under her wing.

-Ardyn could just about worship the ground Porrima walks on for that. GUIDANCE FOR THE REARING OF SMOL NEPHEW. BLESS.

-Ardyn ends up adopted into the Arra Clan because it’s impossible to hate this messed up disaster human who is trying SO HARD to take care of his tiny human. Nox ends up adopted too, obviously, and he gets along splendidly with Axis’s kids, who are actually all about his age.

-Side note- Nox doesn’t have Quiet Days in this AU, he has Sick Days. Days where his magic gets out of control and swells under his skin and Nox collapses into a feverish mess that Dreams of his past or the KoL’s memories and all Ardyn can do is sing lullabies and stand in an ice cold shower with Nox in his arms to help bring down the fever that comes from having Too Much Magic packed in a tiny body (Nox will eventually grow out of Sick Days and they’ll turn into Quiet Days as his memories click back into place and his body/brain can handle that much magic but for now...)

-The Glaives are told by Axis about his new adoption and they are an Awkward Panic because THIS IS THE GUY THE KING IS FRANTICALLY SEARCHING FOR. BUT HE’S ALSO GALAHDIAN FAM NOW. WE CAN’T TURN HIM IN. BUT WE HAVE TO. GFDHGFD.

-In the end they don’t have to, because Cor stops by Meldacio to check on one of his Hunter contacts and comes face to face with a teeny Nox, who is now like- 5 years old. Cor, who is Noctis’s Godfather, INTIMATELY KNOWS bby Noctis’s face mentally goes BBY LC and starts to reach out to touch him when a voice snarls “Don’t touch my Nephew.” And the air grows thick with angry magic.

-Cor looks up and sees 1. Chancellor of Niflheim who has been missing for two years. 2. Blood red armiger swirling around ex-Chancellor’s body like bristling fur on a mama cat. 3. every Galahdian in the HQ has gone deadly still and is watching Cor with Murder in their eyes. For the first time in possibly ever, Cor feels like he could die in the next .05 seconds if he does the wrong thing. Steps back and raises his hands placatingly, inwardly panics when Nox fearlessly ambles up to him and latches onto his pant leg with a soft word that sounds like it might be is name or might be “Coeurl”.

-After much tense standoff and agitation from Ardyn, Ardyn agrees, grudgingly, to come to the Citadel to meet with Regis on the condition that his nephew is not taken away from him.

-Cor takes them back to the Citadel, everyone picture Regis’s face when he gets word from a servant that Cor is waiting in a private sitting room with guests and Regis comes in and sees the red-haired man from that night two years ago, the one with magic simmering warningly under his skin (Ardyn sees no reason to hide it at this point after all).

-Then Regis hears a sniffle-sob and his eyes drop do the-

-Child.

-Black haired blue eyed child that looks like a thinner, not as well cared for Noctis at age 5.

-The child who reaches out with his magic and fearlessly tangles it with Regis’s in a way that knocks the wind out of him as the little boy tilts his head and hesitantly says, “...Dad?”

-Regis rocks back as if slapped and has to lean against Clarus. Cor looks apologetic at least as he explains that he ... well, he found Mors illegitimate child and .... another.

-And Regis- Regis KNOWS that he has no son other than Noctis. He has not touched a woman since Aulea died and Noctis is TEN and this boy is even younger so he can’t- that can’t be-

-But Nox knows his father, even if his memories are locked in a sort of protective dream state that lets him know things like “Ardyn is Safe Uncle” and “Cor is Friend” and so Nox REACHES for him, wiggles against Ardyn’s tight grip and bursts into tears because Dad-dad-that’s-dad-he-WANTS-HIS-DAD-

-And suddenly Regis is across the room, gingerly taking the child from a reluctant Ardyn’s arms and pressing his face into the child’s (his child’s HIS BOY HIS SON-) hair and murmuring soothing nothings as the boy sobs and sobs and sobs and his magic (so MUCH magic it inwardly staggers Regis) tangles around Regis’s in relief-grief-relief-joy-love-love-love that Regis cannot fathom the origin of.

-Regis looks up slowly, dazedly at the half-brother he only glimpsed that night the man saved Noctis from the Marilith, the man who is the missing Nif Chancellor and the man grimaces at the wild-eyed question he can see in Regis’s eyes.

-“I care not for myself or what they did to me,” Ardyn murmurs softly and all Regis’s red flags go up (a half-sibling caught by Niflheim, a man who wears layers of long sleeved clothes and who’s cheeks are still a bit too hollow despite Porrima’s best efforts), “but when I found him, I could not stay. I could not let them have him.”

-Regis presses a kiss instinctively on the child’s hair as the boy snuggles into his neck and hiccups softly, “How...? I haven’t... not since Aulea...”

-Ardyn shrugs and keeps his eyes on his nephew, looking like he’s itching to snatch the boy back, his magic brushing against Regis’s by accident as it coils protectively around the little princeling, “That has never stopped them. All they needed was an adequate blood sample.”

-And Regis-

-Regis thinks of the little blond baby Cor brought home ten years ago, Cor’s expression of disgust and horror as he spoke of tanks upon tanks of people, all infected with the Scourge and unsalvageable save this tiny baby. Regis thinks of medical science and artificial fertilization and DNA and how Niflheim would do ANYTHING to have Lucis Caelum blood in their grasp, especially if Ardyn either refused or was incapable of having children. He thinks of all those things and looks at Ardyn’s grim, haggard expression and he-

-He breathes very carefully as he clutches the little boy closer, towering RAGE warring with gut-wrenching horror, “They-. Are there-?”

-Ardyn shook his head and gently ran his hand through downy black hair, “He is the only one. I destroyed all the facilities I could before they had the chance to do more.”

-And Regis needs to sit down. He needs to sit down with this tiny child in his arms and a half-brother that eyes Regis like he might bite and Regis- Regis wants to CRY but he can’t afford it, not now, so instead he cautiously reaches out and brushes magic with Ardyn (feels the instinctive, visceral flinch it causes the other man and backs off) and rasps hoarsely, “What ... what is his name?”

-Ardyn’s lips twitch sheepishly, “Our thoughts were not much different when it came to naming little Lucis Caelums I’m afraid. His name is Nox.”

-Regis breathes the name like a prayer and looks down at the boy already dozing off in his arms, totally, completely trusting the STRANGER that is holding him, magic already nestled against Regis’s (so MUCH, an unhealthy amount, and what had Niflheim DONE to make this tiny boy already so powerful in magic?) and pulsing a steady heartbeat of love-contentment-relief-trust. He looks back up at the man who should be an enemy but was instead family, who had saved Noctis from the Marilith and had saved this second son Regis had not known existed from fates worse than death and he asks, “Will you... would you do me the honor of staying? The both of you? Please?”

-And Ardyn gives in, because he cannot bear to separate Nox from his father now, not when Nox is radiating such contentment and happiness.

-Much later, probably days actually, after guest suites are prepared (and a snarling overprotective Ardyn gets his way of having Nox share his suite) and medical exams are taken (and Regis RAGES his way across a training room when he sees the pictures and reports of both his newest son and his half-brother, of the newest son’s many scars and his half-brother’s even worse scars and BRAND), Noctis is informed of new relatives and insists on going to see them.

-Noctis stares down at little Nox, who tilts his head curiously as he hides behind Ardyn’s leg, and Noctis’s heart MELTS. Nox is the same age as Iris, and Noctis can feel magic cautiously poking his, and every switch in Noctis’s head goes MINE. MY LITTLE BROTHER NOW. And Ardyn could laugh himself sick if he wouldn’t have to explain why.

-Also everyone picture Ignis. Ignis who already has mothering instincts out the wazzoo. Ignis who loves Noctis to no end and now there’s a TINIER VERSION and that tiny version looks at him and goes “Iggy?” so hopefully and plaintively that Ignis is just- he’s gone. Goodbye.

-Iris gets to be Nox’s Shield. They are two of a kind as they grow up together and its great.

-Regis freaks out so hard the first Sick Day Nox has in the Citadel, and Ardyn looks so EXHAUSTED when he explains that this is normal and why it happens (too much magic in too small a body, he’ll grow out of it someday) and then Regis is so ANGRY over whoever made Nox too magical to be healthy.

-Ardyn and Regis brother bond over raising Nox.

-Gladio is just- “my brat bby brother now. MINE.”

-Prompto is still found early and adopted by Cor thanks to Ardyn, Prompto. ADORES. bby Nox. The Power of Cute compels you.

#SE asks #oliverslewty asks #Secret Engima Rambles #Nox verse #Little Nox verse

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johaerys-writes · 4 years

Text

Dorian Pavus/Trevelyan

A World With You, Chapter 30: Heir of the Ruined Day

The nightmare’s hold on Tristan grows stronger. Cole seeks help from someone unexpected.

Read here or on AO3! [Read from the beginning]

*********************

Falling. He was falling. A stone sinking in dark waters.

Tristan kicked, pushing himself up with all his might. The more he fought, the faster he sank. The more he tried to escape the pull, the tighter it grew. Down, down. His screams were muffled by water, his limbs growing heavier with each second that passed. Time felt warped, unending and unmoving, while he struggled. Soon he would be out of breath. Soon, he’d grow so weary, he’d never wake up again. He had to get away. He had to reach the surface. He had to-

“Hush, hwegen. It’s alright.”

Tristan opened his eyes, panting. His nightshirt was clinging to his skin, slick with sweat. Nelly was sitting by the edge of the bed, her dark brown eyes warm when they met his.

“Nelly,” he whispered, his heart returning to its rightful place. A dream was all it was. A bad dream. Safe. He was safe now. “Nelly,” he said again, taking a breath as he sank back into the pillows. Nelly, Nelly, Nelly. Always there, alway close, always within reach. He’d learnt her name before he’d even learnt his own mother’s. Her presence, calm and comforting like a warm blanket on a cold night.

She leaned over him, the scent of lavender, rosemary and ginger clinging to her clothes. Her lips cool on his fevered brow.

“Close your eyes. Go to sleep.”

Tristan closed his eyes.

******

The memories unfurl around him, brush against his skin, frayed linen and rough cotton. The sharp edges of a straw hat, hay and worn leather, the rich susurrus of muslin. Thoughts coiling, unravelling. His? No. Yes? His.

The clop of horse hooves on the narrow dirt road. The roar of waves crashing far below, the sharpest cliff, the greenest grass. He’s riding a little way ahead, the wind in his dark hair, the sun in his eyes. Onyx and ivory, rough and soft, so soft, he smiles. Bright, fierce, fragile, that smile.

Don’t go, stay with me, don’t go- Hushed whispers in the night, carried by wind, muffled by skin. Stay for what? For you? Rage, sharp, hot, abrasive. Black eyes gleaming in the dark. What else is there to say? I’m leaving, you’re staying here, I hope she’s happy now, I hope you’re happy. Words cut deeper than knives. Deeper, far deeper. Down, down and around. A downward spiral. Your fault, your fault, you and yours-

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. If not like this, then how? Cole treads carefully, slowly through the dreams. Dreams only in name. A whirlwind, a storm. They pull him down, the shifting currents. He swims now, faster. He’s closer, so close he can almost feel it, touch it, taste the salt. The waves-

He dips his head under, gulping, breaks through, gasping, inhaling salt water and froth. Where? If not here, then where? Another wave rolls past him, curls over him. A ship, waves crashing hard against its wooden belly. Do ships feel pain? A figure peers over the railing, fingers gripping the carved wood. Sea storm and moonlight, water and fire and ice, etched in polished everite. Don’t look back- be steadfast- it will all be over soon-

Pulled under again, deeper. A white stone in the depths of a dark well- he swims towards it. Pebbles falling around him like snow. No- not pebbles. Apple blossoms whirling with the breeze, a midsummer day. A flash of yellow fabric before it disappears from view. Laughter ringing amongst the trees. The fireworks, they crackle and writhe, green and gold and red and, oh, is that one purple? Jewels on the sky's velvet canopy. Remember when we were little? Syrup sticking on his fingers, sugar and spices, corn on the cob. Never liked corn, you don’t like it either, why did you get it then? -It’s tradition, Tris, don’t frown. The sun has set long before, it's only shadows now. Shadows and bright lights in the sky. She turns to him and laughs. Swirling colours in her eyes. I always frown and you tell me not to and you laugh. Then I laugh, too. Who’ll tell me not to when you’re gone?

Figure it out. Figure it out for yourself. You’re not a child, you’re a man grown, learn to act like one. Trevelyans are made of sterner stuff, are you? By myself, never was much good, never learned, never had to, never thought I'd have to. The smooth band burns its shape onto your palm.

Hold on to this for me. Keep it safe. I will. Always.

Cole shakes his head softly. The voices cling to his skin, oil on the surface of the water; "Not mine," he reminds himself. He lets them wash over him, dissolve. His hands are full of lilies. He lets them fall, the delicate petals scattering on the ground like rain. Easy to fall, easier to slide, to slip through the cracks, disappear forever. Hard to get up. Much harder.

Sharp pain jolts through him. Pain and anger and fear. Get up, wake up, run. Run, for they’re coming. Who's they?

Cole quickens his step, the clearing but a fading image behind him. Hard to ignore the whispers, so he listens instead. Follows the winding pathways that shimmer before him, lights in the darkness, too bright, blinding. Where are you?

A fire is crackling in the distance, flames roaring. A pyre. Herbs and scented oils, the acrid stench of burning flesh and fabric, smoke clinging to my throat, eyes burning, stomach roiling, cannot throw up, must not. Smoke and ash, white on black on black. Look away, look away, must not look, how much longer am I supposed to stand here? Sleeping or dreaming, gone, slipping sideways. The Chant grating at his ears, a discordant song. Louder and louder as Cole moves closer, two laments forked and intertwined, a hollow buzz.

“The Light shall lead her safely, through the paths of this world, and into the next.” The light wraps you in its mortal flame. “ For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water. As the moth sees light and goes toward flame, she should see fire and go toward light.” Abstracted pale mourner, standing that way against the old propellers of the twilight that revolves around you; “ The Veil holds no uncertainty for her, and she will know no fear of death;” Speechless, my friend, alone in the loneliness of this hour of the dead, and filled with the lives of fire; “ for the Maker shall be her beacon and her shield, her foundation and her sword.” Pure heir of the ruined day.

It changes again, faster this time. Over and over, the path folds in on itself. Cole walks, slow, too slow; he runs. Have to get there before they do. The whispers whirl around him, tea leaves stirring in a pot of boiling water. Lavender and rosemary, ginger and elfroot to soothe an aching belly. It hurts, more, more each day- when will it stop? Can't turn back the river now, my boy, what's done is done. She's never coming back, never- Hush, hwegen. Hush. Close your eyes.

Silence.

Cole stops abruptly. The echo of his footsteps absorbed by the emptiness. Nothing. Nothing there.

"Where are you?" he says out loud, but the silence sucks up his words like a sponge. "Where?"

********

Dorian couldn't tell why he stirred from his sleep but when he did, a pair of pale blue eyes were staring down at him.

He squinted, blinking. "Cole?"

"He's gone," he whispered. "I can't find him."

Dorian sat up, rubbing gritty eyelashes with his knuckles. It was still dark, strands of moonlight slithering in through the tall windows of Trevelyan’s quarters. In their silver glow, the young man before him looked almost transparent. How on earth had he managed to get past Trevelyan’s guards? Dorian was certain Maighdin would have risked waking the Inquisitor in the middle of the night and receiving the sharp edge of his tongue for her trouble rather than letting someone walk in unannounced. Knowing the boy, though, he could move about entirely unseen if he chose to. If he’d sneaked in somehow, that made it all the more sinister.

He narrowed his eyes, shifting carefully closer to him on the bed. "Gone?” Dorian whispered, careful not to raise his voice a hair more than it needed to be audible. “Who's gone?"

Cole glanced past him at Trevelyan. "He was there, and then he wasn't. The paths twisted and turned, and then there was nothing." He straightened, worrying his lip. His eyes looked just as transparent as the rest of him, but they fixed themselves on him with unusual intensity. Try as he might, Dorian couldn’t remember the last time they had spoken like this, one on one. Or the last time he had seen him, for that matter.

He blinked again, shaking his head to wake himself up. “I don’t understand. Who are you trying to find?”

“Him ,” Cole said again, more poignantly this time. “He’s gone. You must help me find him.”

Dorian frowned at him, then turned to look at Trevelyan. He was sleeping soundly beside him, ruffled flaxen hair falling messily over his forehead, his chest rising and falling smoothly with his breaths. He was lying on his side, as he had when they'd lain together for the night, with Dorian pressed up against his back. Dorian reached out, brushing a stray lock away from his brow. He was a light sleeper, so that was usually enough to earn Dorian a sharp sniff or a sleepy hum, but he lay perfectly still. He never usually lay so still when he was sleeping. Curious.

Dorian gently caught his shoulder and gave it a small shake. “Amatus,” he whispered. “Wake up.” No response. He shook him again, but Trevelyan didn’t even bat an eyelid. Like he had suddenly forgotten how to. A ball of apprehension settled in Dorian’s stomach. “Why isn’t he waking up?” he demanded, turning to Cole.

“I told you,” the spirit said, shifting impatiently on his feet. “He is not there.”

“But-”

"No time. No time to explain. Go back to sleep." He adjusted his hat on his head. "I'll meet you there."

Dorian blinked at him. The boy- man- spirit- whatever he was, anyway- simply stood there, watching him, waiting. His features were calm, but there was an odd sort of determination in his stare, one that brooked no argument. Dorian glanced at Trevelyan again, who hadn’t shifted an inch. It was curiosity more than anything that made Dorian lie back down on the bed and close his eyes. He doubted sleep would come back easily this time, not when he had Cole staring at him like that and Trevelyan lying there like a limp fish. It could be that he was simply too tired from his travels, but what if what Cole was saying was true? Could it really be that he was gone? And gone where, exactly?

* He was still pondering those questions when he opened his eyes again and lifted his head from the armrest of the silk chaise lounge. He took a deep breath of warm, humid air, heavy with the scents of gladiolus and jasmine. The chess board was right where he had left it, the ivory and red marble pawns almost at the exact same place they were before he'd been woken up. Tower at E5, Horse at F6 and Knight not too far away at C6, circling his opponent’s Queen. The enemy Mage and Pawn threateningly courting his own King. But Dorian already had a plan in mind for how to wriggle away, should the vice tighten. Which it wouldn’t, because defeat at chess was a rare occurrence for him. Barring that one time when he was eighteen and his transgressions the night before had rendered complicated decisions difficult to make- oh, well. Who remembered those times now? Definitely not him.

He leaned back on the chaise lounge, letting his gaze sweep over the expansive garden and the manor behind it, its high walls glaringly white under the bright Tevinter sun. It belonged to the family of Dimeon Septimus, one of the lead researchers in the Minrathous library. Dorian had spent many a summer evening under that gazebo, sipping on chilled wine and watching the night lilies bob on the surface of the small, crystalline pool in its middle, while he talked with his friend about Entropy magic and the nature of the Fade, among other things. The term “friend” was used very loosely, naturally, considering the nature of their extracurricular activities. He idly wondered what Dimeon could be doing now. Married, possibly. Occupying a prestigious seat in the magisterium, definitely. Enjoying the high life. That was what happened to those who complied, wasn’t it?

Dorian let out a soft sigh, picking up his glass of wine. Rich, dark like blood and deliciously tart; just the way he liked it. He reached for one of the grapes in the crystal bowl next to it when he noticed the young man walking towards him with silent, yet decisive strides. His wide brim hat was obscuring his features, the slight breeze brushing pale blonde strands over his eyes. Eyes so light blue, they looked transparent. Cole.

He set his glass down hastily, cursing under his breath. He’d let his guard down and almost got sucked back into his own dream. The Fade had a tendency to do that. He needed to be vigilant. Extra vigilant.

… why was Cole there, again?

“You’re very hard to find,” Cole said matter-of-factly as he stood before him. “We need to go now.”

“Yes. Of course.” Trevelyan. Cole had come to him because they needed to find Trevelyan. He stood up, smoothing his robes.“Where are we going?”

“I was hoping you’d know. That’s why I came to you. Glittering, gleaming, the glow to light the path.”

“The path?” Dorian shook his head, squinting at him. “Speak plainly, if you please, I’ve no time for riddles.”

“There are many paths. Too many. I tried to follow, but it's difficult.” Cole stared at him for a moment, eyes wide and round like a bird’s, then let his gaze skitter downwards. He shifted on his feet, picking at the wrappings on his palms. “They’re… bright. He's bright, too. Too bright for comfort, like counting birds against the sun. The flare crackles at its brightest before it is snuffed out.” He worried the inside of his lip. “You’ve seen the paths, some of them, and they don’t blind you. You can help.”

Dorian gaped at him for a moment, then pinched the bridge of his nose as he took in a deep breath. The more Cole told him, the less sense it all made. If there was one thing he hated the most, it was being one step behind. “Cole,” he said very seriously, “I need you to tell me exactly what happened before you came to me if I am to understand what’s happening.”

“We were together. In his dream. He fell down a hole. Now I can’t find him.”

“... a hole.” Was this tale getting more absurd by the second? It certainly seemed like it. But if Cole was right, if Trevelyan was really gone… But how could it be? He’d been sleeping right there, next to him. It made no sense. It wasn’t unheard of for mages to get lost in the Fade, occasionally, if they strayed too far, but Trevelyan was no mage. Yet, it seemed highly unlikely that Cole would come to him in the middle of the night for no reason. He’d never done it before. From the little he knew of him, he usually did his best to stay out of people’s way. Most didn’t even remember him, sometimes mere minutes after they’d spoken to him. However outrageous his story sounded, Dorian would get to the root of it. He straightened, studying him carefully. “That hole you mentioned; where is it? Where were you last? Before he disappeared?”

“With you. Not you you; you of his head. His memories of you.”

Dorian scrunched his nose in perplexity, trying to ignore the slight flush that crept up his cheeks. “Why on earth would he be taking you along in his memories of- I do hope you two don’t do this very often. There’s-” he cleared his throat, “-quite a lot of them with him and me in rather… compromising positions. Not that I don’t appreciate an audience, but that would be entirely inappropriate under the circumstances.”

Cole blinked. “What is compromising about a position?”

Dorian blinked back. “Ah… perhaps forget I said anything about that. So.” He glanced around him. “Care to tell me what we’re looking for, exactly? I’d like to get this over with as soon as possible. Beauty sleep is sacred, you know.”

Cole stayed silent for a breath, glancing about him. “Down, past, forward,” he whispered under his breath. “Bend, turn, twist, coil. Find the thread, pick it up, weave it in a loom. Unravel again, then gather.” He took a tentative step forward, then another, as if mapping out the space, then stopped. “This way.” He leapt.

Images darted past him, fast, like a rushing river. Stacks of reports gathering around him. Leliana watching him carefully under the shadow of her cowl. Cullen saying something animatedly as he pointed at a large map. The scratch of Lady Josephine's pen as it glided along smooth parchment.

Sharp pain, a jolt of electricity running up his arm, bright green light flickering in the night. His fingers closing about the hilt of a sword, its sharpened edges glinting as he lifted it towards the sky.

The smell of hay and horses, the back of Almond’s head bobbing as she walked, the breeze combing through her buttery white mane. A fast gallop through a field of heather, the sun casting blinding rays into his eyes.

The hiss of a blade cutting through air, quick and precise. Golden wheat fields swaying in the wind like waves, the prick of a needle on skin caked with blood.

Sea water, the scent of fresh soil after warm summer rain. White lilies plaited in a wreath. The hum of the ocean when he brought a curved seashell to his ear.

More memories flickered before his eyes, too fast for him to make sense of them. So many. There were so many. Too many. He couldn’t understand what he was seeing or hearing half the time, but they were enough to make his head ache if he even attempted to hold on to them. He felt like he was speeding through time, swimming in an ocean that felt never ending. The memories bent and twisted, playing again and again in a loop. Maddening. It was maddening. He squeezed his eyes shut, taking a deep breath as a strong wind whirled around him. He opened them again, and then… there was him. Dorian.

Him smiling, laughing, tilting his head in thought. His brow creasing, his lips pursing. His fingers brushing over the back of a chair, following the letters on a page, tapping absently on an armrest. The shape of his lips. The colour of his eyes, in surprising detail. Him glaring, cheeks flushed, eyes glistening. The amber light of a fire glinting at their corners. The sound of his sighs, the curve of his neck as it arched, the light of an oil lamp catching on it just so. His smile-

The ground slowly, ever so slowly, solidified under his feet, until he was standing in the middle of what looked like a small clearing. Apple trees heavy with white blossoms, leaves fluttering in the cool breeze. White petals falling around him like snow. Dorian was certain he’d never seen that place before.

“You haven’t.” Cole turned his palm up, watched as a small flower landed on it. “It’s his memory. Not yours.”

Dorian leaned against a nearby tree, rubbing his temples. There was an insistent buzz in his ears, a vice that tightened around his temples. He felt like he'd been on a ship for days, the earth swaying underneath him. “This is… hard to believe,” he said slowly, taking a deep breath. “I have to admit, when you told me you’d been inside the Inquisitor’s mind, I wasn’t sure whether you were joking.”

“Joking?” Cole asked him in earnest confusion. “I thought jokes are meant to make people laugh.” He bit his lower lip thoughtfully. “No. It doesn’t make me laugh. Does it make you laugh?”

No, Dorian hadn’t the faintest desire to laugh. The idea of being inside Trevelyan’s head filled him with unease. Especially since… Maker, there was so much of him there. More than he’d expected. Trevelyan didn’t talk much, but the sheer amount of information he stored in that head of his was staggering. So many details that Dorian himself had never even noticed. Wondrous and terrifying, in equal amounts. It was a struggle to maintain his composure before Cole and not start laughing maniacally or, simply, flee. As far away as he could. He wondered how far he would get before turning right back. The thought chilled him to the bone.

Frightening. Fascinating.

“What were you doing exactly, while you were here?” he asked, only to distract himself from his own thoughts. “Why were you here in the first place?”

“His thoughts were too loud. I tried to help. I thought I had. But…” He picked at the wrappings on his palm, worrying his lip. “There were too many. I couldn’t hold him back.”

Dorian nodded thoughtfully, glancing at the clearing around him as unease built steadily inside him. He was in Trevelyan’s mind. Rummaging through his memories, while the man probably didn’t have the first clue that he was there to begin with. If anyone knew how possessively Trevelyan guarded the inner workings of his mind, that was Dorian. What if he stumbled upon something he wasn’t supposed to see, not supposed to know, or something that he himself would rather not know? Incurring Trevelyan’s wrath if he found out was the last thing he wanted. On the other hand…

He rubbed the back of his neck when he realised that his curiosity was far greater than his unease. He was in Trevelyan’s mind . There couldn’t be a rarer opportunity than this. He could learn things that he would probably never hear from Trevelyan’s own lips. He could search to his heart’s content, glean every secret he kept. Trevelyan was a book held firmly closed most of the time, his thoughts inaccessible to anyone other than himself, except for the rare occasions when he allowed a trickle of them to spill through. The temptation was too great. Far too great. Besides, it wasn’t like he’d be doing it only to satisfy his own curiosity. If he looked inside his mind, he would get to know him better. And knowing the person beside you, really knowing them, was half the game, wasn’t it? He would be a better companion, far better than he could have been without that knowledge. He could support him in a way no one else could, guide him, advise him. The perfect partner. Indispensable.

He bit his lip down hard. Gaining insight into Trevelyan’s thoughts to become essential to him was wrong. Definitely. That wasn’t very far from manipulating him, was it? If it wasn’t manipulating him outright. No. He wouldn’t do that. He wasn’t like that. Was he? What if he was? That was how he’d been brought up. There weren’t many aspects of life in Tevinter where gaining control, one way or the other, wasn’t the end goal. One could take the man out of the Imperium, he supposed, but could they take the Imperium out of the man?

More importantly; did he want to?

Dorian let out a sharp huff. This was no time for philosophising and self- reflection. Trevelyan was missing, clearly, and he could well be in danger. The Fade was vast and convoluted, and any path they took could lead them somewhere they would much rather not be. He had his work cut out for him, and dallying was not part of it.

He pushed his sleeves up, his jaw set in determination. If anyone could find Trevelyan, it was him. “If we are to find him, we need to be very particular about the paths we follow," he told Cole. "One wrong turn, and we could end up at a deadend, or worse. A person's mind is not something to be trifled with. I need you to tell me exactly where you were and exactly what you saw while you were here. If we retrace your steps, we might find some clue as to where he’s gone.”

“I’ve already done that.” Cole shook his head softly. “I followed the paths again and again, round and round. He’s not here.”

“He’s not right here, evidently,” Dorian said, irritation creeping into his voice. He idly twisted the edge of his moustache as he thought. Think, think, think. “Very well. So following the same pathways doesn’t work. We need to find other pathways. Ones he hasn’t shown you. Or carve new paths, if necessary.”

Cole stood still for a moment, his face dark under the shadow of his hat. He nodded, once, and tentatively reached out to grasp the fabric of Dorian’s sleeve. “Think of water.”

* The glow of the lyrium nodes painted the old stone walls a sickly red, diaphanous and pulsating like crystallized blood caught in a jar. The heat radiating from it was thin and sharp, pin pricks on his skin. Dorian looked around him, shivering from the cold and damp that seemed to cling to his bones, submerged as he was in brackish water up to his knees.

“Redcliffe?” he asked incredulously, feeling the familiar red lyrium- induced headache already taking hold. Dratted Redcliffe castle. If he never saw this place and its hideous mabari statues again, it would be too soon. He smoothed his hair back from his brow as a familiar scene unfurled before him.

Trevelyan was half submerged in the water, his armour soaked. Dorian watched himself approach to help him, only to be stopped short by a raised hand and a sharp “I’m fine”, uttered in clipped tones. He could feel the same waves of irritation he had felt that time as Trevelyan wobbled upright on his own, panting and shivering. An ill- mannered and insufferable grouch the Herald of Andraste had seemed to him back then, incapable of communicating with anything other than grunts and curt half-answers. Intriguing, though. He'd always found him intriguing.

"He’s not here," Cole said, snapping him out of his thoughts. "Think again.”

* The smooth surface of the Waking Sea glittered in the sunset, the waves reflecting on the carved marble railing of the promenade.

“Val Royeaux,” Dorian whispered. It felt like he’d been there years before, although it was only a few months. He and Trevelyan had been so awkward around each other then, orbiting one another like stars, never touching. It was odd, seeing himself through both Trevelyan’s eyes and his own. The way the light caught the side of his face when he cocked his head in thought. The golden flecks in his eyes- had there always been so many? The way the fabric of his robes draped around his shoulders, smoothed over his chest, flowed down past his waist. The definition in his arms. The smooth, glossy waves in his hair.

“Fasta vass,” he breathed. Trevelyan was in love with him. Even then. And Dorian had never known, never seen- he'd known there was something, but this… never this. It shouldn’t have made him feel the way it did.

Cole tugged at his sleeve. “We need to move on. He’s not here.”

* The familiar sound of a waterfall soon came into Dorian’s awareness, the merry trill of songbirds, the brush of leaves and grass as mountain goats grazed nearby. Water trickling down Trevelyan’s chest as he stood under the polished rocks, dewed alabaster skin gleaming in the morning light. Strands of pale blonde hair clinging to the curve of his neck. The glint in his dark blue eyes. The teasing curl of his lip.

“Are you just going to stand there, watching me?”

Dorian’s pulse thumped treacherously as he watched the scene unfold. He could still remember the freezing cold stream running down his back, chilling him through, then Trevelyan’s arms around him warming him up again. The sound of his laugh, bright and clear like the babbling brook beside them. The way he looked at him. The way he held him. And, damn them, but they made a pretty pair. Trevelyan’s milk white skin against his own golden brown. Long, slender fingers tangling in his dark hair. His lips, pink and flushed, locking perfectly with his own.

It wasn’t long before he felt heat stirring in his chest, and he was suddenly all too aware of Cole’s hand hanging by the edge of his sleeve. “Nothing to see here,” he said hastily as he stepped away. “Let’s move along.” Water. He had to think of water. Cold water, preferably.

* The stone skimmed the surface of the calm sea, its edges glinting silver as it moved, quick and agile, like a bird taking flight. A young man was standing by the water’s edge where the waves broke, lapping at the sand like tongues. Jet black hair gathered at the nape of his neck, curls stiff from the salt water. Trousers turned up at the ankles, sun-kissed shoulders bare, the waning light casting shadows on his features when he glanced over his shoulder. “Are you just going to lie there, watching me?”

Trevelyan was lying on the sand, one arm curled under his head. Was that really him? Was that boy, no older than sixteen, seventeen at most, whose lips were now curling in a smirk, whose eyes shone with mischief really be him?

He pushed himself up on his elbows, blonde waves falling around his face like a halo. “I like watching you.”

“Aye.” The young man’s smile widened just a touch before he turned back to the sea. “I know you do.”

Trevelyan stood up, padding towards him. He wrapped his arms around the man’s middle, pressed his cheek against his back. “Can you blame me?”

“For what?”

“For watching you.” He looked up at him, grinning. “You’re pretty.”

The young man snorted, skimming another stone. “Right.”

“You are.” Trevelyan’s expression softened as he stood up on his tiptoes to nuzzle his ear. “Pretty, pretty, pretty.”

Dorian’s heart squeezed into something small and tight as he watched the man leaning down to kiss him. This memory wasn’t like the others. Mainly because he wasn’t in it, but more than that… it was intimate. Too intimate. It felt as if he was watching something he shouldn’t be, an uninvited spectator. Maker, the way Trevelyan looked at that young man, the way he kissed him. His first love, perhaps, or something very close. It stung to realise that he was jealous. Jealous of a memory, a fading echo. Jealous of the smiles Trevelyan gave this boy so freely, when he himself had had to earn each one.

“He smiles when he’s with you,” Cole whispered beside him.

Not like this, Dorian thought bitterly, and his heart tightened even more. Never like this. Trevelyan smiled so rarely, it was odd to see him so jovial now. Like watching someone else, who only shared a passing similarity with the Trevelyan he knew. A ghost, perhaps. A ghost, that he still wanted to grab and hold and keep close, despite it all.

Mine, he wanted to say. Mine, mine, mine.

A crack of thunder echoed along the empty beach. Rain clouds gathered, hovering over them. Fat drops of warm summer rain dropped from above, dampening the top of his head, soaking into the sand beneath his feet.

The young man looked up, squinting at the sky. “It’ll start pouring soon,” he said absently, then his eyes widened. “Oh, fuck.”

“What?”

“The horses. They’ll get soaked.” He bent down, picking up his shirt that was folded neatly upon a rock before taking off at a run.

“Pod!” Trevelyan started after him, then turned back to snatch his own shirt from the ground. “Wait for me! Ah, damn it,” he huffed, pulling the fabric over his head. The grey clouds were thickening. Trevelyan was muttering something under his breath as he rushed straight past Dorian and Cole. Their shoulders touched, and the beach disappeared in a mist.

Rain was falling hard, pattering on polished cobblestones and stone roofs. The thunder overhead was now deafening, lightning splitting the sky in two. Dorian caught sight of a blonde head dashing past him, the heels of his boots clicking on the hard pavement- Trevelyan. Soaked to the bone, running like his life depended on it. Dorian ran after him, as if by instinct, with Cole falling in beside him. Before he knew it, they were all running like mad through narrow, twisting alleyways. Dorian didn’t think he’d ever ran so fast before in his life. His lungs were burning with exertion, the sweat on his brow mingling with the rain that was steadily landing atop his head. He stopped when Trevelyan leaned against a wall to catch his breath. He pressed his palm to his side, winced when it came away bloody. Dorian’s breath caught. Who’d done that to him? Who was after him? What was happening-

“There he is! Get him!”

Panic surged through him in a wave. Trevelyan glanced back over his shoulder, eyes wide and dark in terror. He started running again, took an abrupt left at a corner, slipped, fell in a mud puddle, pushed himself up with a muffled groan, kept running. Dorian looked behind them, but couldn’t see anyone. What on earth was going on? Where were they?

“Don’t let him get away, damn you!”

The voices were closer now, footsteps echoing in the empty streets. Trevelyan’s face was twisted in agony as he stumbled along, as fast as his wound would allow him. Before Dorian knew it, they were all standing at the docks, the stormy sea glinting in the dark, waves crashing against the stone wharf. The rest of the street was wide and clear. Nowhere to hide.

Trevelyan took in a sharp breath and leapt over the edge.

“No!” Dorian ran to the precipice, looking for him amidst the frothing waves. “What are you doing, you fool-” Cole’s hand on his arm stopped him.

“Let him,” he said quietly.

Dorian opened his mouth to speak, just as two men came running from the street above them, panting.

“Where the fuck did he go?” one of them said, leaning forward on his knees.

The other one took his cap off, patted his brow, put it back on. A deep scar ran down the side of his face, all the way down to his neck, twisting his features. “Probably bleeding in some alley,” he said gruffly.

The first man straightened, glaring at his companion. “You had to go pulling daggers,” he spat. “I told you he’s worth shit to us dead.” He adjusted his own cap on his head and took off again. “We’ll comb this place until we find him.”

Dorian simply watched as the men -bounty hunters, no doubt about it- walked away, their forms soon engulfed by the dark and the rain. His pulse was pumping in his ears. Those bastards- those- those leeches -

“Vishante kaffas,” he snarled under his breath. If he got his hands on them, they would pay. Dearly.

A muffled gasp from below drew his attention. Trevelyan was battling with the waves as he drew himself up slowly on the dock steps. He collapsed on the cold, wet stone, coughing and sputtering water, wheezing in between each fit.

Dorian knelt by his side, his eyes burning, his throat clenching. The memory was thick and oppressive, his own thoughts melding with his. Maker, he looked helpless. Utterly helpless, drenched to the bone, shivering where he lay. Was that what his life was like? Before the Inquisition- before they met? This… running for his life, fighting, gasping for air. On his own. Thinking there was no one there. No one in the world that cared for him.

“I care,” Dorian whispered, lying next to him on the ground. He cradled his head against his chest, pulled him close. “I care. I do.”

Cole stood over them both, watching in silence. “We need to leave,” he said quietly.

Dorian nodded, pressing his eyes shut as he held him closer still. “Just a moment longer.”

“We are running out of time.” The boy shook his head mournfully, voice thick with compassion. Damn him. “I’m sorry.”

The rain came down harder and harder, until it was like a solid blanket of water being poured over them. Dorian felt as if he would melt, dissolve, seep into the dense stone underneath him and get washed away into the sea. And he would welcome it.

Bright light blinded him. Dorian brought his hand over his brow as he sat up, shielding his eyes. Trevelyan was gone, the rain had stopped, the docks had disappeared. They were in the middle of a wide pasture. Rolling hills, tall grass swaying with the breeze. The sheep grazing in the distance were moving specks of white in a sea of green. The apple trees were in full bloom, the white petals falling around them like snow.

“We’re back here?” Dorian gasped, pushing himself upright. “After everything, we’re back to the start?” This was pointless. They were going in circles. They would never get out of there. They would never find him.

“It’s a start." The waning sun cast was a warm, golden glow on Cole’s pale skin. “The same image but twisted. A broken mirror. The reflection is split. Distorted. Wrong. It’s all wrong.” He took a step forward, traipsing through the waist tall grass. “He’s close.”

Dorian followed, although his head was heavy and his limbs heavier still. They walked and walked, for what felt like hours. Once or twice Cole had to stop, look around him, then change direction completely. He said he felt a pull, something drawing him, though Dorian felt very little. Several times he thought he caught a glimpse of something moving at the edges of his vision, only to turn around and see that no one was there. It was quiet and peaceful, yet Dorian couldn’t help but feel something bubbling just below the surface. The calm before the storm.

“Are we getting closer?” he asked Cole when he saw the sun hovering over the edges of the mountain range to their west. Of course, that was Fade, so there was no east or west, and time was irrelevant. A quick shuffling of feet behind him- he spun on his heels, hand already straying to the staff on his back. Once again, there was no one there. Was he seeing things?

He blinked and shook his head as he started after Cole again. Being inside someone else’s mind was not a simple affair. What looked like a person could be a gateway that would whisk the intruder away and down another string of memories, dreams, nightmares even. Dorian had heard of situations where someone had entered a person’s mind, only to come out missing part of their own.

Instead of a response, Cole strode towards a dense patch of trees. Dorian followed with a sigh, carefully running his fingers through his hair. The ball of tension in his stomach grew and grew the more they moved on. It seemed to him like Cole was just leading them around in circles, and he could do nothing but walk after him.

The trees thickened, their canopy of leaves obscuring the light and dousing the ground in shadow. The warm breeze disappeared, only to be replaced by strong, cold winds. They pushed onwards as the green grass turned to hard packed soil, as that turned into snow covered earth. Dorian gathered his cloak tighter around him. “Are you sure this is the right way? I don’t believe he would willingly go somewhere that’s as cold as this.”

“We’re close,” Cole replied. He was moving through the snow with ease, gracefully walking around the tree trunks in their way. The dense woodland soon gave way to a clearing, and the clearing to a narrow, snow covered road. Cole stopped, looking towards the north.

Dorian knew this road. He had traversed it countless times. He followed Cole’s gaze, and saw exactly what he’d feared he would see. “Skyhold?” But this didn’t make sense. Not one bit. “All this time, he’d been in Skyhold?”

“Not Skyhold.” Cole nodded towards the familiar fortress. “Look.”

Dorian squinted. “I don’t understand. What-”

He hadn’t finished his sentence when he saw it. The Eastern Tower, that had born a large hole in its middle since the moment they had all set foot in that place, was now standing tall and proud beside the main keep. Parts of the battlements that had collapsed eons before were now fully repaired, good as new. The space before Skyhold, that had been filled with tents and hastily built hovels was a bustling village, with smoking chimneys and children running about, wooden walls and manned watchtowers, the Inquisition flag flying alongside a banner that Dorian had never seen before. A grey draft horse, a sickle and a sword on a field of green and gold. A stronghold, and a prosperous one, at that.

“What in the Maker’s name,” he breathed. What was this place? It wasn’t another memory, surely- this place before him didn’t exist. A dream, then?

“Not his,” Cole said, worrying the inside of his lip. “It’s not his. It’s-”

“A construct.” The sudden realisation froze the blood in Dorian’s veins. “A demon?”

Cole nodded slowly. “I tried to hold him back, but the pull was too strong. His thoughts are too loud. If I could hear them, so could others.”

“A demon,” Dorian said again, more quietly this time. His mind was working at a feverish pace, his stomach gripped in a vice. How long could Trevelyan have been under its influence? Demons, especially powerful ones, often stalked their prey, followed them until they knew enough about them to bind them. Elaborate visions like these could keep for a long while, until the person’s defences deteriorated irrevocably. Besides, time got warped in the Fade, more the deeper one ventured. An hour in the waking world could feel like days, weeks. Months. The mind was a curious thing.

“You’re sure he’s in there?” he asked. Cole nodded again, his eyes fixed on the castle before them.

Dorian took a deep breath as his gaze drifted back to Skyhold. Proud and strong against anyone who dared to oppose it. They would see about that.

“Better get ready, then,” he said, taking a decisive step forward. “We’ve a fortress to storm.”

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