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#abandoned by the empire for a month in the middle of the ocean
inky-for-a-bit · 1 year
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The Bad Batch creators making Crosshair suffer more every time he appears:
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goodvibesprompttime · 3 years
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New Princess[Au] Just Dropped
Princess Dream is here to fuck shit up and take names
Step aside knights, he’s speedrunning to save your ass instead
Animals? Best friends
Singing? Sirens who-
Animal sidekick? PARROT
Curse? He’s forced to wear a mask. Whoever sees his face instantly forgets who Dream is and every memory associated with him (Helps when running from authority, honestly)
Love interest? He has 3 (A knight born from fire and demons, a mushroom prince who sleeps a lot, and a sentient kitsune fox who sells berries as dr*gs to humans)
The Villain? uuuuuuuuh - the knight’s shadow demon dad who’s apart of a cult, a god that is in love with the mushroom prince, this giant cat for some reason, a sentient humanoid creeper who came to bring the princess Dream back to his kingdom(he keeps saying “Dream was taken” when people ask, cause people will help find a kidnapped princess instead of a runaway)
The BBEG - The Ender Dragon, who gave the Princess the curse (however, the princess cannot reach the End cause someone stole the eyes of ender, and, unfortunately, the only one who knows how to make these eyes still is the Angel of Death, who's left wandering through the bedrock dust until his children are released from their own prisons, since they hold the key to escape
Princess Dream’s task: Find the three sons and one child of the Angel of Death, release them, have them complete the prophecy to find their father, have their father craft nine eyes of ender, and slay the dragon - all while having 3 love interests trying to help, and the villains/antagonists try to stop him
The Prophecy gives hints/riddles about where each of the children are [below the cut]
The Eldest: “Trapped in a perpetual state of battle, where his crown is forged from blood, his bloodlust continuously fueled by a forever audience, find the Eldest Son where even the gods refuse to go”
[Techno is basically trapped in the remains of the Antarctic Empire, chained up in the dungeons by an army of butchers who left him to freeze and deteriorate, stuck in his mind where he is constantly fighting without rest. The only way to release him is to break the chains - literally and metaphorically]
                                                            -  
The Older Middle Child: “O’harty song, and o’harty sea, may my lady and my son find their way to me. When the heart forgives, may my own be set free”
[Wilbur was turned into a statue of stone, thrown into the bottom of the ocean, where his song is only echoed in the dead of night, only faintly heard on the shore of the beach where he raised his kitsune son with his wife. To release him, Fundy and Sally must feel true forgivenness for him and embrace his statue - with a hug or with a kiss. Wilbur abandoned them to advance his music career, is what they tell Dream. However, in actuality, Wilbur was found by people from his younger years, when he, himself, was a dr*g dealer, and ran to protect them] 
                                                             -
The Younger Middle Child: “A life source for a faux god, the child with golden hair became, accompanied by a crown of red vines - be naught fooled, for recovery is a battle of its own.”
[Tommy was kidnapped by Bad and the Egg cult, and the Egg keeps Tommy alive and feeds off him and his lifeforce. He is frail, broken, and that mischievous child is now just a legend. When Dream saves him, its not over. Tommy is traumatized, terrified of everything[especially of the color red, the color he once loved], and refuses to go anywhere near bedrock - Tommy says its like leaving a prison just to enter another. Dream has to learn to be patient, take things slow, help Tommy with recovery - and that takes time. He wanted to just go find the last kid, but knows that Tommy isn’t going to do anything for him unless he helps. Eventually, Dream eventually warms up to Tommy]
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The Youngest Child: “Of black and white, day and night, the last child lost themselves to an eternal sleep, walking farther and farther from their family.”
[Ranboo is in a constant state of sleepwalking. Dream is outraged about how stupidly vague the hint is, and none of his love interests or the sons know where to go with it. Then, Techno suggests that “maybe Tubbo knows something”. Dream asks who Tubbo is, and Wilbur explains that he’s Tommy’s best friend and was pretty close to Ranboo too. Tommy refuses to visit Tubbo, because he and Tubbo had gotten into a fight before Tommy’s kidnapping, and it was pretty bad. When asked, Tommy says that the fight was about Ranboo, but he couldn’t remember why. Eventually, they convince him *cough* or Techno just carries him *cough* and find Tubbo, with a child named Michael - his and Ranboo’s adopted child. Its revealed that Tubbo and Ranboo got[platonically] married behind everyone’s backs and adopted a child. Tommy found out and he and Tubbo fought because Tommy was pissed that Tubbo married Ranboo a few months after the Angel of Death disappeared, but Tubbo countered it by saying that he and Ranboo were planning on getting married anyways, and they waited until Ranboo was ready. Then, Tommy got kidnapped, Ranboo left, and Tubbo has been trying to find him, but is focused on raising Michael. After arguing, reconciliation, a bit of healing, Tubbo helps everyone find Ranboo, but its Michael who finds Ranboo - cause he snuck away to help. They guide Ranboo back, but its Tommy telling Ranboo that he genuinely approves of their marriage, and wants Ranboo to be happy, that allows Ranboo to come out of his sleepwalking]
                                                             -
They find the Angel of Death - with Techno’s strength, Wilbur’s determination, Tommy’s curiosity, and Ranboo’s judgement/powers (because Bedrock is a tricky dusty bitch who refuses to let go of Philza, all apart of the prophecy)
Obviously, Philza is rescued, the Eyes of Ender are made, Dream goes to fight the Ender Dragon.
However, before Dream enters the portal, he makes a decision. He does this alone.
He manages to break an eye of ender just as he enters the portal, trapping the others on the otherside, unable to help
After a long and grueling battle, Dream is victorious and his curse is broken. 
By the time the others manage to get another eye of ender, Dream won.
They see the mask on the ground behind Dream, and he turns to face them.
“My name is Clay, by the way.”
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volturiwolf · 3 years
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The Volturi Princess - A Felix Volturi x fem!Reader Story (part 3)
No of Words: about 5313
Mentions of: Abandonment, Abortion, Anxiety, Blood, Bruises, Coma/Comatosed State, Death Emotional Abuse, Emotional and Physical Pain, Gaslighting, Greece/Greek Language - with translation, Heartbreak, Italian Language - with translation, Manipulation, Murder, Pain, Panic Attacks, Pregnancy, Suffering, Suicide/Suicidal Thoughts, Swear Language, Throwing Up/Puking, Witches/Wizards/Witchcraft
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part 1 part 2
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"The Volturi Princess " Tag List (reply if you want to be tagged or removed):
@felixvolturisprincess @singerj2002 @mrtony-stank1 @ikissedthescarsonherskin @alecvolturiswifeforever @hshehdyhd
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Felix’s POV:
We have been traveling for over a year now, Demetri tracking Carlisle and us following behind him. Demetri located him across the Atlantic, so we swam across the ocean to reach him. Almost a year and a half after leaving Volterra, we tracked Carlisle while he was working as a doctor somewhere in the northern United States. He was surprised to see us, but we kept our austere facade to maintain our sovereignty towards him. He welcomed us gladly in his small house.
It was a two-story building, and it smelled of old wood and mold, but I guess that was the best he could do for now. The living conditions around here did not seem to be ideal. Apart from the Volturi and the Egyptian coven, no other vampire lived comfortably, in castles, mansions, or even big houses; most vampires were nomads, traveling around and living by hunting whenever they could. So, Carlisle actually living in a house, even if it looked like this, was way better than living the nomad life.
“Jane, Alec, Demetri, Felix. To what do I owe this pleasure? Can I offer you anything?” Carlisle had always been one of the kindest of our kind, too compassionate for a vampire.
“No, Carlisle, thank you, we’re good. We are on a mission, and we have a few questions for you.” Jane took it up to herself to start the conversation.
“Please, sit down so we can talk.” Carlisle offered us to sit around the table that was in the middle of the ground floor. We each took a seat at the table. “So, may I ask what it is all about? I don’t think I have personally acted in a way to upset the Volturi.”
“No, indirectly, you haven’t.” Jane continued. “We wanted to ask you a few questions regarding (Y/N). We think that you may have heard by now that she has left Volterra.”
“Yes, word came around. I met a few nomads from Europe some time ago, and they told me that (Y/N) left Volterra, probably permanently.”
I tried to suppress a sob that was fighting to leave my throat. Carlisle knew that (Y/N) left, everyone knew that (Y/N) left. They didn’t know she left her mate behind, and they shall never find out that she was my mate. I didn’t even want to think about the possibility of (Y/N) being in danger if anyone found out that we were mates. I had too many targets on my back to risk anything happening to her.
It was my turn to intervene. “Have you seen her? Has she ever come around here?”
Carlisle turned to face me. “I did. Once. She stayed with me for about a year; that was about 6 or 7 years ago. She tracked me through her memories. She has become quite skilled at that.” Demetri and I looked at each other confused. (Y/N) could track as skillfully as Demetri now?
Carlisle continued. “Anyway, she seemed concerned. She told me she had been traveling for quite some time, but she felt like she was missing a piece of herself, of her past. For a few months, she wanted to learn more about me, my job, how I was doing with the whole “animal blood” diet, simple curiosity really. She had been training herself to abstain from human blood, so it was easier for her to go hunt with me. She told me..”
Carlisle turned to look at me now. “She told me about your bond, Felix.” So, she has felt our bond, too! “She told me that she was scared for you, for your safety within the Volturi. She was worried about all of you, but particularly you, Felix. Being her mate means you are basically a target for anyone who wishes to harm (Y/N). She told me she ran away to protect you. As long as no one knew of your bond, you were safe. The traveling and meeting the world was just an extra benefit for her and her gift.”
“Her gift?!” We all exclaimed in unison. (Y/N) never claimed a “gift”, so how could this be possible? Did she lie? Did she even know about her gift?
“Before you say anything, she didn’t even know what her gift was. It is way more complicated than you think. I guess she’d appreciate it if I gave you an idea about it.” Carlisle paused for a few moments. If my heart was beating, I swear it would have stopped by now.
“You know how, for example, Jane, you can induce mental pain, or you, Alec, can restrict anyone’s senses?” The Twins nodded at Carlisle. “Well, (Y/N) can do both, and so much more.” We were kind of shocked. No one has ever had a gift similar to the Twins; that’s why they were in the Volturi. Because they were unique.
“(Y/N)’s gift is copying others’ gifts. That’s why she could also track me; she had copied Demetri’s gift.” Carlisle pointed at Demetri, who looked utterly shocked now.
I would lie if I said I didn’t feel the same way or scared even. I was not scared because of (Y/N); I was scared for (Y/N). This newly-found discovery meant she would be way more important to Aro than we ever thought. He wouldn’t just let her go - not that this was his intention before, but now, she would be even more precious to him and his cause; she would now be the perfect weapon for him to use against other vampires. I had to find her and warn her.
“Do you know where she is now?” My voice came out more stern than I intended it to be.
Carlisle nodded his head slightly. “I may know where she is now. Before she left, she was trying to find out as much as she could about her parents. I assume that was the “missing piece” she was referring to? Anyway, she may be after her parents. I mean they do know her nature better than any of us does. Don’t forget that (Y/N) is half-witch. No one could ever teach her how to be one; only her father could be the one to do so. So, if I stand corrected, she is looking for them. And there’s only one place that (Y/N) has ever linked to her parents.”
“Greece.” Demetri stepped in. Demetri was the only one who could understand (Y/N)’s connection with Greece; it was their birthplace, their origin, their true home.
“Exactly. If you find her parents, you’ll most likely find her. Even if she’s not with them, it will be easier to track her if you have her parents’ assistance.”
We nodded and we stood up. “Thank you for your help, Carlisle. You were most helpful.” Jane spoke for all of us.
“It was my pleasure.” Carlisle led us to the door, but before we left, Jane turned to him one last time. “We think we can trust you that this conversation stays between us.”
“Of course, Jane. Have a safe trip and take care of yourselves.”
“You too.” Alec smiled at Carlisle.
What Carlisle said at the end had me worried for (Y/N). “I hope you find her soon. Her parents never had the best reputation around.” What kind of people was (Y/N)’s family anyway?
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Tracking (Y/N) proved to be way more complicated and debilitating than we thought it would be. We assumed that the closer we were to Greece, the easier it would be for Demetri to pick up her tenor. We were wrong; we were going around blindly, not a clue about (Y/N)’s whereabouts. Even when we finally set our feet on Greek ground, we still didn’t know where to start looking for her. Nobody had a clue where she could be; we didn’t even know her birthplace.
Demetri took it upon him to start his research in a place he knew well enough: Athens. Athens was the capital of Greece’s civilization for many centuries, but, at the time of Demetri’s birth, during the Byzantine times, Constantinople emerged as the center of the Eastern Byzantine Empire, while Rome remained the center of the Western Byzantine Empire.
Athens was not regarded as highly as it used to, during Pericles’ “Golden Century”, as the 5th century BC was known. It still was an important and historical city, but it has lost its title as the “capital” eons ago. The city was taken advantage of by both “allies” and Ottomans and seemed to have lost part of its previous glory. Still, it was beautiful; I may have been quite “old” myself, but I could still admire the history around me.
It reminded of (Y/N)’s stories and books; knowing Ancient Greek history was one of the first things she took an interest in. The fact that she was able to travel to Athens, with or without Aro, quite a few times also developed her fascination regarding the Ancient Greek arts, philosophy, and overall way of living. Of course, it wasn’t easy being a woman then, or ever really, but she was more financially privileged than the average Athenian - vampire wealth had always been an actual thing, and Aro always prided himself to be a “collector” of wealth (and talented vampires for the matter).
We arrived in Greece at a transitional stage; the country has been experiencing a war against the Ottomans for a few years now, and it was evident around the city of Athens. There were many casualties during the war, many damages around the streets, the houses, and there seemed to be a climate of misery and decline.
Yet, the country had recently elected a prime minister, who declared Nafplio, a city in Peloponnese, as Greece’s capital. That was our next stop, as we couldn’t find anything in particular that could indicate (Y/N) being in Athens. Apart from the poor living conditions, the country was experiencing a plague pandemic wave, which killed even more people, but authorities worked hard on containing the cases, and it seemed to have been working.
Still, without a single clue about (Y/N)’s location, the only thing we could do is go around searching for any possible information. We could only travel at night, and hide during the day; Greece, just like Italy, had always been blessed with sunny days, for the majority of a calendar year.
It wasn’t ideal with us being vampires, but Volterra was an ideal strategic location for the Volturi to travel across the vampire and human world, rule, and impose their laws whenever it was needed. Just like always, we now also had to be secretive about our existence.
I thought about how lucky (Y/N) was in that situation; being a non-fully vampire, she didn’t “glow” in the sun like us. She had a more healthy-skin-like glow, a healthy and subtle glow that made me even more attracted to her - if that was even possible. That basically meant that she could technically go anywhere and everywhere; the weather did not affect her, the sun did not affect her.
I started getting frustrated and disappointed. It wasn’t only (Y/N) I had in my mind; apparently, during the years of the Greek Revolution, many vampires, Greek or non-Greek, started secretly fighting to claim territories for themselves.
We knew that it wasn’t part of our duty, but it wouldn’t hurt if we could actually claim Greek land for the Volturi. Having both Italy and Greece under our control could mean more power, more resources, more blood. It only seemed natural; the three Volturi kings were born in Greece, all three of their wives were born in Greece, Demetri and Chelsea were born in Greece. (Y/N) was born in Greece.
Greece could easily become an extension of our territory - Italy was already ours in its entirety - and it would only be the start. It would be easier to control and deal with any possible riots from other covens - the Egyptians and the Romanians in particular. We didn’t fear either of them, but the Romanians have been holding resentment towards the Volturi for a couple thousand years, so anything could be expected from their side at any moment.
I shared my thoughts with the Twins and Demetri. They all agreed that it was a plausible plan; it would show others that the Volturi are still as powerful as they have ever been, and should be feared. Besides, we knew that just the four of us would be able to subjugate any vampire that crossed our paths. With the Twins’ powers, Demetri’s tracking skills, and my strength, it would be impossible for others to resist or challenge us.
We started interrogating any vampire we found wandering or hunting at night; none of them worthy enough to fight us or even gifted enough to join the Volturi. It was quite easy to find the leaders of these “newly-made” covens, or alliances, as they seemed. Because none of them inspired loyalty to each other; none of them was a coven in the sense the Volturi were. They were more like vampires who came together to fight for territory control; I doubt if they would even manage to stay together for one more day. They did not only lack loyalty towards their "leaders", but also discipline, principles, and basic rules of survival and solidarity towards the other members.
It was quite easy to take over any “coven” in Southern Greece, including the island of Crete. We started moving north, taking over the territories of Thessaly and Epirus, something which the Greek humans did not manage to acquire from the Ottomans yet. We were to take over Macedonia and Thrace next, but we were met with an unexpected obstacle.
Every vampire we would interrogate regarding these two territories would say the same thing: none of them knew who owned them, but whoever tried to claim the territories never returned back, dead or alive. The mystery that surrounded the person or people behind the leadership of these areas made their skin crawl; they all refused to “help” us any further, no matter how much Jane, Alec, and I tried, which made me kind of worried, or more like curious, but I didn’t want to show any weakness or let them question my effectiveness.
Every one of them was just a “normal” vampire; we were better, stronger, gifted, and we have proved that we can bring results every single time. No other vampire has ever dared go against us; we wouldn’t allow them to question us now either.
We continued traveling up north, determined to face whoever it was behind the territories there. I didn’t pay attention to the slight pain in my guts as we were traveling through the country, but it was becoming more and more intense as we continued going north.
We didn’t know how we would find the vampires behind this “operation”, so our plan would be to act in any way possible to provoke them into coming out of their “hiding spot”. For a few days, we were rummaging any small village we could find, killing the villagers and draining them of their blood - not a very “Volturi tactic" may I say. We were supposed to hide our existence, not challenge our luck by killing so many people; yet, this was the only way we thought that could possibly lurk the vampires out of their “comfort zone”.
As we were traveling through Macedonia, we came across a rather developed town, compared to the villages we have seen before. The city was surrounded by tall stone walls. There were a few rivers on its western side, forests and mountains on its northeastern side, and swamps and marshes on its southern side. We couldn’t hunt freely here, at least not during daylight; there was no way we would go unnoticed if we started hunting anywhere in the area. We decided to run through the forests, see if there was a place we could stay for a while; if there was a human or more we could feed off of; if there was a sign of the vampires or (Y/N).
During the last few weeks, I’ve been thinking that our mission has been more about expanding our power and influence, and not as much about locating (Y/N). Actually, it felt more like locating (Y/N) was more of an afterthought now. We lost the purpose of our mission; the reason we came together all along.
It wasn’t as if we would actually be directly benefiting by the territories we claimed; we were still working on behalf of the Volturi. We didn’t ask the kings to claim Greek territories; yet, we did, because we felt obliged to consider their own good once again, this time at the expense of finding (Y/N). Once again, we became the victims of the influence they had on us, and we played their game.
“Why are we even doing this?” I yelled frustratedly. My friends turned to look at me.
“What do you mean, Felix?” Jane seemed slightly annoyed. “We’ve come here to claim the territories, to show these savages who the boss is here.”
“No, Jane, they are not savages, we didn’t come here to claim territories, and we don’t have to show them “who is the boss”. They already know that the Volturi rule the vampire world. No. No. We came here to search for (Y/N). Not to “claim territories”. Not to “show them”. We came here for (Y/N). We..We lost our purpose. We lost the true meaning of our mission. We just started claiming the land for the Volturi, for Aro. We..We forgot about her.”
My eyes were stinking with venom. I felt weak, I felt as if I betrayed her. I promised to myself that I would bring her back home, that I would protect her. It’s been so long and we still haven’t found her. We just kept wasting time on things that shouldn’t matter to us. We should not care about expanding our influence, our territory, our power. We should care about bringing the Princess back.
Jane lowered her head apologetically. “I’m sorry, Felix. I didn’t know you felt this way. I have to admit it though; we did lose track of time and we forgot about the actual purpose of this mission. We once again forgot that (Y/N) has always been way more important than any power in the world. I’m sorry. We all are. I promised you we’ll start searching for her right away, okay?”
I nodded affirmatively. We had to find (Y/N) as soon as possible. We were not only running out of time but also out of hope that (Y/N) was in Greece or anywhere else, that she was alive. We got so distracted by our conversation that we didn’t notice we were being watched until we all started screaming in pain. I fell on my knees, the pain on the back of my head unbearable, and that’s when I blacked out.
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I didn’t know how much time passed being unconscious. It felt like a new sensation to me; being a bit over 2000 years old, I haven’t lost my senses once - except for the times Alec liked to play games on me. I didn’t feel like myself; it didn’t feel right. I didn’t like being restricted of my senses, especially now, especially here, in an unknown place. My mind was blurry and I couldn’t see anything distinct around me; I couldn’t see almost anything. I tried to move my hands around but I couldn’t as if the tightest rope in the world was holding me in place.
“No need to fight, sweetheart.” I heard a woman’s voice. “There is no way to escape.”
“Who are you? Why am I here? Where are the others?”
“Felix? Is that you?” I heard Demetri’s voice on my right.
“Demetri? Is that you? Where are Jane and Alec?”
“I am here.” I heard Alec’s voice on my left.
“Me too." Jane replied.
“Alexandre, please, I cannot start with this again.”
Suddenly, I could see again. I was still physically restricted, but my eyes could see them crystal clear and my mind was in order once again. The woman in front of me was very imposing, though of average size. Her long, curly hair framed her face beautifully and her piercing red eyes were piercing through my soul. The man standing next to her was only a few centimeters taller; he had short, straight hair, and his eyes were looking between the four of us sternly. Who were they even? Why were we even here? Why us? As if she read my mind, a woman spoke to me.
“Oh, deary. We’re not going to tell you who we are. But you are going to tell us what you, Volturi guards, are doing in our territory!”
“How do you know who we are?” I exclaimed. Of course, everyone knew the Volturi as the authority of the vampire world, but not all vampires around here have ever met us specifically, or any other member of the coven for the matter.
“Your crest, dear. I have known that crest for far too long. Way before you were even born. I see that dear Aro never changed it. He does like to remain in his same, old ways after all. Never changing, never moving forward, still imposing his “laws”, I’m assuming?” The woman seemed to know way far about the Volturi and Aro. She became a danger for our coven, from the moment she and the man abducted us. She should have never done that; they both would be punished for their actions.
“Dear, I won’t get punished..for anything. You, on the other hand, are in a pretty difficult situation. You see, my husband and I are not going to let you get away until you tell us why you are here.”
“Pain.” I heard Jane saying. The woman turned to look at her but she didn’t even flinch. I heard Jane screaming in return.
“Oh, sweetheart. Your powers won’t work on either of us. You see, I am a shield, so don’t even try to hurt us. On the contrary, WE can hurt you just as much, if not more.” The woman smiled evilly, while Jane was writhing in pain.
“Please, stop hurting my sister.” Alec pleaded, unable to use his gift against the couple.
“So, you are the “Terror Twins”. Alec and Jane, I see.” The woman knew their nickname? “Oh, yes, I do, dear.” She turned to look at me. “You see, I was once part of the Volturi. Technically, still am. However, I left, way before any of you joined the coven. To put it into perspective, I was there when Didyme lived but I left way before she was killed. Dear Marcus has never been the same ever since. I still feel somewhat of a connection to the coven, though I am able to make my own decisions because I managed to escape them. We were actually passing by Volterra a few times. I wonder how you never noticed us, though our powers would practically make us mentally invisible from Demetri, over here, or any other vampire, really.”
She knew Demetri, too?
“Felix, dear, I know all of you and about you. You see, my dear daughter has a special connection with all of you, a kind of friendship neither my husband, nor I quite understand. It wasn’t easy for her to keep her memories secret; though she is an amazing shield - which makes me so proud, she is kind of “vulnerable” when she is sleeping. And my husband’s magic is quite strong and easy to penetrate her mind and memories when she does eventually sleep.”
Her daughter? Could that be…?
“WHERE IS SHE?” The question slipped out of my mouth without even thinking about it first.
My anger could not be controlled right now. I was pushing myself to my limits to break my fetters, to no avail. Were that woman and that man (Y/N)’s parents? I started making some connections here and there; they looked similar to (Y/N), though so different at the same time. Their immortality, their red eyes, their confidence, and their aggression did not remind me of (Y/N). She had a pure face, a face of kindness, she was not like them.
“You think so? Alexandre, can you please call (Y/N), agapi mou?” The woman turned to the man, and the man started moving his fingers in front of him, creating some sort of a wave around him.
Within a few seconds, the door burst open and the first thing I saw was a red silky fabric flowing around the air. When the fabric settled down slowly, I saw her for the first time after so long. She has changed..a lot. Her (Y/E/C) eyes were replaced by piercing red ones, with a slight hint of (Y/E/C) around the pupils. Her eyes apathetic and stern; her facial features more defined; her hair reached a little below her shoulders, straight and shiny, like her father’s. She still looked as beautiful as ever.
She stared at us, focusing her eyes mostly on me. Her heartbeat sounded steady and strong. I was relieved; she was still human, they had not turned her fully vampire yet. She took a few steps farther into the house, her feet bare but surprisingly clean, no dirt, no grass had stained them. She stood right beside the woman, who I now knew was her mother and Aro’s daughter.
“What are they doing here?” Her voice came out stern, yet it was music to my ears.
I missed her voice so much. I missed her so much. Our mate bond, weakened by the distance and time spent apart, slowly started forming again. I felt it; I felt my existence becoming meaningful again. I felt my breath hitching in my throat, her presence provoking so many different feelings and emotions inside me. However, she still seemed cold and distant, and I couldn’t quite read her face. Did she not feel the same? Has she forgotten me? Does she hate me now?
I saw her gaze getting softer, even compassionate? She approached me and bent down slightly, placing her left hand carefully on my right cheek. She stared deeply into my eyes and I closed mine, leaning on her touch. It was the purest moment I have experienced in my 2000 years of life.
I opened my eyes and stared at her. I saw golden flakes scattered in between the red in her eyes. Once again, she took my breath away. It felt as if I fell in love with her all over again, a unique feeling of refreshment. We were lost in our own little world. She smiled slightly at me, the first time she did after such a long time.
“Enough! (Y/N) get away from him, now!” (Y/N) was forcefully removed away from me by her mother. She was looking at me pleadingly and then turned to look at her parents with such hatred. I’ve never seen her like this ever again, not even with Aro.
“YOU. WILL. NOT. TELL. ME. WHAT. TO. DO!” If looks could kill, (Y/N)’s parents would be dead by now. Her hands started lighting up, bright purple flames rising up. She was trying to intimidate her parents, but neither of them looked concerned in the slightest. She turned to us and with a dance-like move of her hand, we were finally freed of our fetters.
It was her father’s turn to speak. “(Y/N), let’s take this outside.” With a jerking motion of his hand, we all found ourselves, outside, in their house’s front yard.
“They’ve come to take you back to Volterra, back to Aro! Don’t you see it? They don’t care about you! They just want to please their master.” The words came bitter out of her mouth. She had a clear resentment towards the Volturi. “I will not let them take you away from me! Not again!”
“I know, mother, I’ve read their minds, too. Yet, I don’t see why YOU seem to think that you can make the decisions for me. I am my own self. I can make decisions for myself. And I get to choose what I do with my life.” (Y/N)’s voice was certain, powerful, in control. “They are not bad people, mother. They just have to follow orders, just like you followed Aro’s orders, just like I followed yours. That’s not going to happen anymore. I am taking control of my life!”
The sweet, little girl I got to see my whole life was becoming a strong, powerful woman right in front of my eyes. She was radiating power; she was taking control of her life. She was..my everything. She was becoming independent, her own self. To say I was proud of her, would be an understatement. She has always been special, but this newly-found power has clearly given her way more confidence and trust in herself.
She would finally be able to rule the Volturi. If she decided to come back to Volterra, she could definitely take over the coven. No one would be able to resist her or her gift. My thoughts were quickly interrupted when her dad started shouting in Greek.
Demetri, who was standing right next to me, saw the look of total confusion in my eyes. “I’ll translate for you.” I nodded at him. “So, her father says: Enough with this nonsense, (Y/N). Your place is here, with us. You owe us; we taught you what you needed to know about your magic. We taught you how to use it, how to develop it. You didn’t know enough to defend yourself back then.”
“Now, (Y/N) says: I don’t owe you anything. Yes, you did teach me how to use my magic, which I inherited from you. But, you gave me away to Aro. You couldn’t defend me or yourselves against him. You just offered me to him, as if I was a present for his birthday or something.”
“Now, her mother says: You, at least, owe it to yourself to get away from these tyrants. You know they don’t deserve you, so why are you still defending him? It’s that man, isn’t it? Now, (Y/N) says: That man has a name. Now, her mom says: You know, his name means “lucky”, "happy" in Greek. Yet, he hasn’t been that lucky or happy at all, has he? We read his mind, (Y/N), he’s not worthy of you.”
“Now, (Y/N) says: Guess what? I have also read his mind, and I have also read the two of you, as well. Don’t you think that it is only you who can read my mind while I’m sleeping! I’ve been reading your minds any chance I get! I know how you’ve been planning to use me, as a weapon against the Volturi! Guess again! I’m not going to let you manipulate me anymore! And that man deserves EVERYTHING in this world!”
“ENOUGH!” Her father shouted and threw a dark red glowing sphere, hitting (Y/N) and knocking her on the ground. My heart dropped at the sight, but she quickly stood up and gathered so much energy in her own hands, attacking her father with a powerful hit.
He got wounded, his face slightly cracked from his forehead to his jaw, yet he didn’t give up. He was about to attack her once again when his wife stopped him. She was looking at me and nodded to her husband. I heard (Y/N) screaming, but I didn’t make out what she was saying, as I started screaming myself and felt myself getting tossed in the air. Then, everything went black once again.
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Star Wars Alien Species - Besalisk
Ojom was a frozen ocean planet located within the Deep Core and the homeworld of the Besalisk.
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Isolated in the hard-to-navigate Deep Core, Besalisks never sought representation in the Senate of the Galactic Republic, and were content to let galactic affairs continue without their involvement. Ojom avoided Imperial occupation and enslavement by calling in favors with various influential underworld connections—though many Besalisks spent years working off this debt, especially those foolish or desperate enough to seek aid from the Hutts.
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After his defeat during the Post-Zsinj campaign, High Admiral Treuten Teradoc fled in the Deep Core where he created his small empire. Ojom was one of the planets controlled by the warlord. Like other Deep Core systems, the Ojom system was probably abandoned after the Imperial Reunification in 12 ABY.
Because of Ojom's harsh environment, large cities were never developed on the world; instead small communes of about a thousand families claimed territories around the world and were each led by an elected leader. The communes had a strict policy of keeping the size of their groupings equal to avoid conflict. When too many families grew in one area, the leader would ask certain families to break away and start a new community on another glacier.
While not involved in galactic politics and because they did not produce any of their own technology, the Besalisks established large orbital space stations where offworlders could come to do business. Trading and making deals, any violence on these stations was committed by offworlders as Besalisks avoid confrontation.
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Male Besalisks' heads sported prominent crests and four arms hung at their sides; females of the species could have as many as eight arms, but like Humans had a primary hand and a limited range of functionality with the others. The addition of the extra appendages required a hearty metabolism, and these bulky beings were able to store food and water for many days, and if the need arose, they could survive for long periods without either. Scruffy sensory whiskers lined the area below their noses, just above the robust wattle most adult Besalisks possessed.
A monogamous species, Besalisks chose a mate for life and often bore one or two eggs. Mating rituals were violent and highly competitive, taking place during the warmer months at specified conclaves. Besalisks were hatched from eggs, carried by the females which laid their young during warm seasons. Before the eggs hatched, a male Besalisk would store the egg close to their body under a large brood patch in his abdominal skin. Because of the chill of Ojom, Besaliks were equipped to survive in harsh conditions, causing them to sweat profusely when on planets with a warmer climate.
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Chatty, quick to form lasting friendships and lovers of adventure, Besalisks often were fearless and sought thrills without care for themselves. This often caused trouble amongst their employers; Besalisks were known to walk off the job when bored with it and never return. When Besalisks did take jobs in the underworld, they were prone to gossiping and being loose-lipped. This unfortunate habit led to members of the species attracting more bounties than any other.
The average Besalisk stands about 1.8 meters or 5.9 feet tall.
Besalisks age at the following stages:
1 - 8 Child
9 - 12 Young Adult
13 - 48 Adult
49 - 60 Middle Age
61 - 74 Old
Examples of Names: Lexia Trexor, Taster Dannex, Dexter Jettster, Rysken Mokksi, Henk Zessek.
Languages: Besalisk, or Ojom, was the language used by the Besalisk species on their native world Ojom. Spoken Besalisk included barks, growls and grunts as their main features. There was a written form of Besalisk, that used a simple phonological transcription of their phonemes. Words on written form tended to be short. Besalisks learned to speak but not write Basic from a young age.
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anchanted-one · 4 years
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"it’s okay to be afraid. fear can be good. use it." - I feel Lana in this :D
Thank you so much for the ask!
"Khehehehehe" the eerie, spitting laughter was all he could make out through the smoke, at first. It roiled around him, swirling in thick fumes of black and grey, and soon it filled his nostrills with the acrid smell of ash and gore. The smoke began to clear, and he realized that the mindless laughter was his own. There was a lightsaber hilt in his right hand, but he was holstering it, instead pulling out a dagger from its sheath on his boot. It was a cruel thing, it's hilt made of human bone, the jagged black blade thick but short. He made his way to the last person left standing in the room; a tall, stocky man in his middle years. He knew, somehow, that they two were the only ones left alive in the building. Everyone who he hadn't massacred had fled. Part of him felt a mad delight at the fact, and another part deep within him felt horrified and cried out in horror. His victim trembled before him. "Please!" he whimpered. "You don't understand! I am Moff Rogerick Pyrites, and I am loyal to the Emperor! The man you were after was my brother Frederick! He was the traitor you were sent to kill, and he's already dead!" His words had no effect on the approaching monster, and he faltered. "Alright, fine, I admit it, I tried to save my brother from His purge of the Revanites, but that was my only crime! Please, have mercy! I am His humble servant, his loyal dog! I —AAAAARGHHHH!!!!!" The Moff's pleas ended in screams as the knife plunged deep within his gut. His assailant, still shaking with his incoherent laughter, began to draw his knife diagonally across the man's torso with a sawing motion. The Moff's screams rang out shrilly through the empty fortress, echoed by the muted shrieks inside his own head, which began to grow louder and louder, as the scene grew more and more distant as though he was being dragged away from it. Arro, Jedi Knight, woke up screaming, all but swimming in his own sweat and tears. 
 He did not notice the arms holding him tightly for quite some time. They held him desperately, as though hoping to protect him from the aftershocks of his own nightmares, and when he finally became aware of his surroundings again, he found that he was sobbing disconsolately into a woman's shoulder. Lana Beniko, Sith Lord from the Empire, an institution that had threatened his Republic with extinction. And the woman he loved more than the galaxy itself. He returned her embrace at last, and his sobs began to subside. From the raw soreness of his throat, he had been screaming for some time. When his weeping had at last faded to soft gasps, he heard her whisper "I'm hear, my Darling. It's alright. I'm here. You're safe. You are yourself again." Her voice trembled as well, and her own cheek felt wet; she had no doubt felt his anguish through their newborn link. It had been a source of great delight to them both at the beginning, as though it was a child they had just had. But then had begun the resurfacing of long-forgotten memories, and Arro had seen Lana struggle to cope with his emotions. This kind of thing was foreign to her; and they were just as overwhelming for him as they were for her. But she had stayed with him, hadn't even shown the ghost of any inclination to sever their bond. She stayed with him, night after night, waking every time he suffered from his demon—forgotten for years but not gone. She stayed with him during the days when fear and anxiety locked the gears from turning in his head, and left him a silent, almost bedridden shadow. She had decided to stick it out together with him, to be there for him and he was more grateful than he could express—even through their link, which usually sufficed for conveying the strongest and most complicated of emotions. "You don't have to do this to yourself," he whispered back. "You don't have to suffer..." He said this everyday, or something to the effect, and her response was just the same as it had been for the past three months. "Don't say that my Love. You have shown me joy and love like I never expected to experience, you are more precious to me than air or water, and I'll be damned if I abandon you. Especially not to the Emperor's petty revenge!" Their embrace lasted much longer, until she broke off and heavily kissed every inch of his face. Then her lips locked on his and they shared a fierce kiss, sinking back into the bed. It ended and they both lay panting in their embrace. "It was worse this time," Arro gasped. "I felt... more immersed in his head. I felt like I was becoming him, being swallowed whole." "I know," Lana said quietly into his chest. "I had to pull you out. I thought he was going to consume you too." Her voice sounded like she had a cold. She had wept just as hard as he had. He Felt her fear echoing in her head. He understood that... pulling sensation at the end of his dream. "That was you pulling me out?" He felt her nod, and he Felt her fear build up in her heart. His own pulse began to race, and his arms tightened around his Love. If she wasn't here... He would have been... he would have been... "You broke free once, my Knave!" Lana said. "That thing, that moster—it can't hold you. You are a Knight, the greatest Knight! And Knights always slay the monster. It won't have you." "But..." he stammerd. "But... What if you're wrong? What if I'm not strong?" "You are strong, my Love," she reassured him. "Stronger than you can know right now, for your strength is depleted in your ongoing struggle. But you are winning. Even if it is only just. Every day he tries to swallow you whole, and every day you fight him off. He must be so furious inside his prison!" Arro's breathing grew labored as he suddenly found it difficult to breath. His vision swam and his hearing felt muted again. "I'm so afraid, Lana," he whimpered into her hair. "Afraid to sleep, afraid to get up, afraid to even move in case he wakes up again." "Shhh, shhh!" she comforted him. "Watch your breathing, my Love! Slow it down. Concentrate on the sound of my voice. Relax your muscles... that's right. Good. Good..." Half an hour later he felt calmer again. When Lana spoke, she also offered him her own strength to steady his nerves. "It’s okay to be afraid. Fear can be good. Use it." "But..." Lana sighed with fond exasperation. "The Jedi shite getting in your way again? It's a creed meant for automatons, not sentient beings! We are just people, my love. We may have the strength to fight the overcome the most harrowing obstacles sometimes, but we cannot escape all of them. For better or worse, we feel. Pain, fear, and anger, but also love, joy. And I for one think it's a good bargain, for without love, we would not have each other. To reject one is to reject them all. Accept them. Embrace them. For they are all parts of you, that make you what you are. And I do not exaggerate when I say: I love every little piece that makes up the whole of you. I love you to the moon and back." In the silence that followed, they could hear the oceans of Rishi whispering to them as their waves washed onto the not-too-distant shore. It was a beautiful sound, and it soothed them both into eventually falling asleep again. This time, into a fitful, energizing sleep.
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actualfarless · 3 years
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The Dragon Oath
The Dragon is just as much of a prisoner as the Princess is.
Story below or read on Wattpad.
For centuries, Alamor was a hidden jewel, protected by mountains to the north, a vast ocean to the south, and, of course, the great hunting grounds on the borderlands that belonged exclusively to dragons. Rumors of a mystical kingdom eventually reached the outside world. As years passed and empires rose, Alamor became the envy of greedy kings. They set their armies on the kingdom, but none ever made it past the mighty dragons and so Alamor lived in peace.
Then a great Alamoran king discovered the Dragon Oaths.
The king bound dragons into his service and turned the fierce predators into tools of war. Corrupted by power and spurred by vengeance, the king launched a campaign against his neighbors. Three kingdoms fell before the new Alamor and, if not for a stray arrow, the entire continent would have. The king of the dragons perished. The Oaths were broken.
Many of the dragons fled from the land, retreating to unknown lands, swearing to never be bound again. A few foolishly stayed, believing that the Oaths died with the king.
They were wrong.
The king had passed his knowledge to his son who passed it to his daughter and so forth. The Oaths became a sacred rite. Though none of the great king’s lineage succumbed to corruption, each invoked an Oath, swearing in not an army, but a single dragon to service. As generations passed, the dragon’s resentment faded and, eventually, the Oath became a tradition and an honor for both monarch and dragon.
Princess Marianne knew she would, one day, invoke her own Dragon Oath. Alamor worked closely with dragons and she knew that none would dare hurt a monarch or heir, if only because the Oath prevented them. She knew that she was perfectly safe.
That did not stop her from screaming when the flying beast scooped her from her bedroom balcony in the middle of the night. She had never seen a dragon up close, but she knew immediately that her captor was not her father’s dragon. Scars carved gaps between her dull green scales and a crest ran between her two curved horns. The dragon’s mighty talons gripped Marianne loosely, but no matter how she pushed, she could not make a gap wide enough to escape.
“Stop squirming, Princess,” the dragon hissed. “You do not want to fall at this height.”
Marianne didn’t listen and the dragon released a heavy sigh, tightening her grip on the young princess until they reached their destination. Marianne couldn’t tell how long she rode in the dragon’s hand but she was very sore and tired once released.
The dragon placed her in a courtyard of an abandoned castle. She couldn’t see beyond the great walls from the ground, but the cold suggested she was somewhere in the mountains. If that was right, she was too far from her home to walk. Perhaps guessing her intent, the dragon placed one massive claw on either side of the princess, blocking her escape from any direction but back into the great hall. 
Marianne glared down the dragon, meeting its yellow eyes with her own. She knew some animals could sense fear. She hoped the dragon could not. “Once my father learns of this, he will have you killed. Just because you’re a dragon doesn’t mean you’re safe. He’s a king.”
“I am here on your father’s orders.”
Marianne opened her mouth to retort but confusion replaced anger so rapidly, all that came out was a series of sputtering sounds.
“You’re not Rynwyld,” she said after a moment.
“I am not.”
“Rynwyld is my father’s dragon.”
“Dragons belong to no one, child.” The dragon’s tone remained the same, but her frills on her neck rose and she moved her head very close to Marianne, reminding the princess of her many sharp teeth.
“But-”
“No one.”
“Are you not bound by an Oath, then?”
The dragon moved her head away. “I am.”
“How is that any different?”
“You would not understand.”
“Well, how long are you going to keep me here?”
“As long as I must. I am bound to keep you here until a worthy knight claims you. Food will be provided for some time and the library has a vast selection of books.”
“What’s to stop me from escaping?”
“I am.”
Marianne did her best to keep a brave face, but the dragon’s unwavering stare unnerved her. She didn’t think the dragon would eat her if it was bound by an Oath, but she wasn’t sure if she should test that theory. “You have to sleep sometime.”
“I have gone entire years without rest. I can do so again.”
“Oh.”
“Oh, indeed.”
Marianne and the dragon spent the first night both wide awake, watching each other. Marianne was not convinced entirely by the dragon’s story - her father would have told her about this plan so she could at least pack - but it seemed like a lot of work if the dragon was going to eat her. Perhaps fear marinated humans.
She did not try to escape that night, but over the course of the month, she tried no fewer than five separate occasions. The first few times, the dragon caught her before she had even made it to the front gate. The last time, however, Marianne waited until the dragon went on one of her daily hunts.
Once outside the gate, she confirmed she was in the mountains. The castle was built on a wide stretch of land that turned to steep cliffs on every side, with only a single wooded road up and down. Marianne couldn’t be sure where she was, but surely once she escaped the dragon’s clutches, she could find someone to guide her home. Maybe even one of the brave knights supposedly searching for her.
The princess had barely made it to the woods when the bloody carcass of a deer fell out of the sky and blocked her path. The dragon landed a second later, red blood dripping from her jaws. She flexed her wings, relaxing them from the flight before folding them tight against her side. She stared at the princess as though expecting Marianne to speak. The princess did not.
“You are persistent,” the dragon said after a moment.
“You can’t keep me here forever.”
“I most certainly can. I would prefer if I did not need to keep an eye on you. Will you continue to run away?”
“Obviously.”
“Then I should warn you, the nearest town is more than a day’s walk away.” The dragon considered Marianne for a moment. “You have short legs. Maybe two. The mountains are filled with wolves and bears and many things I know to be dangerous to humans. Are you prepared to deal with those?”
“You’re just saying that to scare me.”
“If I wanted to scare you, Princess, I would not need to devise stories.”
Marianne contemplated running again, but she knew it was useless. She would get mere steps before the great green dragon grabbed her and brought her back to the castle anyway. She scowled at the beast, turned on her heels, and marched back to the castle. The dragon followed, carrying the dead deer in her jaw.
That was not Marianne’s last escape attempt, but she never got further. As the weeks stretched into months, her attempts became infrequent and by the time frost covered the ground daily, she didn’t try at all. She struggled to sleep yet found herself awake well after the day was half over and often she stayed in bed until she woke again, having never willingly gone to bed.
The castle was well stocked with books and games, the latter of which Marianne thought was a waste. Her only companion was the dragon. After Marianne stopped trying to escape, she and the dragon lived in a strained and quiet peace. The green beast left for hunts almost daily. Occasionally she would return with her meals. Sometimes only with wounds. When she was not on a hunt, the dragon stretched lazily in the courtyard. A depression formed in the ground where she made her bed.
Marianne made her peace with a dull life, accepting the dragon’s first conversation as truth. Eventually, a worthy knight would come and slay the beast and she would be free.
Then one night in the deep of winter, she heard a terrible sound.
Marianne awoke with her heart pounding in her chest, unsure if she had dreamed it until the sound echoed through the castle walls once more. She felt it penetrate and rattle her bones and no matter how she covered her ears, the noise found its way into her soul. She felt her heart grow heavy with a grief she didn’t understand. A momentary silence brought relief that left Marianne determined.
She slipped out of bed, appreciating the chill touch of the stone floor on her feet if only to feel something else. There was a dearth of weapons in the castle not that Marianne had any need. Anything that could overpower a dragon would best her in any contest of strength. She had once considered killing the dragon herself, but she decided the risk was too great. Still, the princess stopped by the kitchen to grab a large knife. Perhaps luck would be on her side for once.
Following the noise, Marianne found herself at the edge of the courtyard, hiding in the shadows where the overgrown bushes met the castle wall. A thick layer of white snow covered the ground everywhere but where her captor lay. The dragon was alone and undisturbed by the wailing noise. She curled in a ball with her tail curled under her neck, shielding herself from the gently falling snow with her wings. The flakes melted as they fell upon her scales. Her face especially was wet from the snow.
Alone in the courtyard, the dragon looked peaceful. Marianne could almost forget the long claws and sharp teeth and fire. Then Marianne heard the noise again and she understood.
Marianne had never heard a dragon cry. No one had ever heard a dragon cry. As far as she knew, dragons couldn’t cry.
Yet the great green dragon wept.
Marianne jolted at the sound, having forgotten for a moment how horrible it was. She dropped the knife in the snow and collapsed to her knees. Now, unshielded by the walls, she felt the full weight of the dragon’s sorrow weigh on her. Her face felt wet. From ice or snow or her own tears, she could not tell. The princess never expected to feel any sympathy for the dragon but the pain swallowed her whole, leaving her in darkness.
“Did I wake you?”
The princess snapped her attention to the dragon. The dragon had not moved. She remained curled, facing away from Marianne and the abandoned keep. Maybe the dragon meant to hide her own tears.
“I am sorry, Princess. I did not mean to disturb you. Tonight, I find myself filled with a great sadness -” the dragon lingered on this word for a moment, moving her gaze to the moon above - “and regret. It is not your responsibility. I will control myself.”
Again, Marianne felt a stabbing pain in her heart. Part of her mind told her it was silly to care so deeply about the dragon’s despair and that the beast had weaponized her emotions. The dragon kept her trapped within the castle. She deserved no sympathy. Yet Marianne didn’t care. She felt the dragon hurt. It compounded her own. Jailer or no, she was sorry for the great beast.
“Go back to bed,” the dragon said softly. “I will not wake you again.”
Marianne nodded. Before she could stop herself, she whispered, “goodnight, Dragon.”
Silence filled the air. The dragon settled back down.
“Goodnight, Princess.”
<<>>
Marianne had to make a decision.
She considered the question carefully throughout the winter and by the time the first layer of snow began to melt, she knew her answer. However, knowing what to do and actually doing it were two separate things, the latter significantly more complicated. Spring arrived in the mountains by the time she had the courage to approach the dragon.
The dragon stretched in the courtyard, wings splayed to absorb the unfiltered sun. She watched Marianne with an indeterminable stare, waiting for the princess to make her request. Marianne could not get the mental image of the dragon growing bored and deciding to eat her out of her head. But she had seen the dragon at her weakest. She probably wouldn’t eat Marianne.
Probably. 
“What is your name?” The princess finally asked.
The dragon’s inscrutable gaze changed, but Marianne understood it no better. “I am surprised you ask. Surprised but… thankful. You would find my true name difficult to pronounce, but you may call me Maeryl.”
“Maeryl,” Marianne repeated, her voice a hushed whisper that barely escaped her lips.
“I know it is polite to ask in return, but I do already know yours.”
“Marianne,” the princess said.
“Yes.”
A silence filled the courtyard unlike any the pair had shared before. Not caused by fear or disdain, but the awkward realization that, after nearly a year, they had never had a real conversation. Marianne had many questions for the dragon, but none felt like an appropriate follow-up. The dragon - Maeryl - seemed to have nothing to say. She studied Marianne, narrow eyes never moving off the girl, but remained quiet.
"How, uh, how old are you?" Marianne said quietly.
"Older than you would believe, I imagine."
"How old is that?" 
"Hundreds of years. I forget the number. Alamor was little more than a town on a riverbank when I was in my youth."
"Were you part of the original Dragon Oaths?" Marianne asked before she knew what she was saying. The dragon's face changed again and the princess worried she erred, but Maeryl did not eat her.
"I was. I served the king until the end."
The courtyard had a small fountain. It broke early in the winter and was little more than a pond at this point. Marianne settled on the edge, an eager grin taking her face. "What was it like?" 
“I felt no different, but my mind was not my own. I could speak my mind, think my own thoughts, act of my own free will, until doing so violated the Oath. Then I was bound. It did not feel as if the Oath denied my freedom, not until I was rid of it. It corrupts the mind. I believed the choices I made to be my own. Only when I was unbound did I realize the truth.”
“Oh.”
“The nature of the Oaths have changed since then. Do not fret.”
“What about the war? That must have been exciting.”
"War is always terrible, Princess. I had hoped to never see another one.*
“Oh,” Marianne said again. "Why didn't you flee?"
"Excuse me?"
“The stories say that many of the originally bound dragons fled across the ocean. Only those that were too old or too weak stayed. If the Oaths were bad and the war was terrible, why didn’t you flee?”
“Do I seem weak?”
“Not at all! That’s why I ask.” Marianne spoke so rapidly she tripped over her own words. She heard stories of the pride of dragons. True or not, insulting Maeryl seemed not worth the risk.
“If I told you I stayed because this is my home, would that be enough?”
Marianne shrugged. “I guess.”
Every expression the dragon made was terrifying and alien to Marianne, but she swore the dragon smiled. Maeryl nodded. “It would not. I understand. I can tell you someday, Princess, but I ask a favor in exchange.”
On impulse, Marianne nearly accepted without question, but she held her tongue. Stories never claimed dragons excelled at subterfuge, but they were clever.
“What’s the favor?” she asked cautiously.
“Conversations. This has been nice, even if the topic is a bitter one for me. In truth, I do not care which topic you choose; I only wish for the conversation. I would like it if we could have more.”
“Is that all? Of course, Maeryl!”
The two beamed at each other for a moment that stretched on too long. Slowly, Marianne’s smile faded into a concerned frown. She patted her legs and swung them awkwardly from her fountain seat, waiting for the dragon to speak, but Maeryl never did.
“Did… did you mean now?” Marianne asked finally.
“Only if you would like. I do not expect it.”
“Oh, okay.” Marianne rose to her feet. “I think I am going to go for now.”
“That is fine.”
“But I will be back.”
“Okay.”
“And we will talk again.”
“Good.”
“Uh, goodbye, Dra- um, Maeryl.”
“Goodbye, Princess.”
The next few conversations Marianne had with the dragon were as uncomfortable as the first, but the princess intended to keep her promise. Spring turned to summer to fall to winter and back to spring once more. Marianne’s visits with the dragon became more frequent. More comfortable. She slowly forgot the bitter circumstances of their relationship.
On the good days, she caught herself thinking of the dragon as her friend.
Marianne would ask Maeryl about her life, the nature of dragons, the history of alamor, or any topic that interested her. Maeryl readily answered the princess’ questions, no matter how stupid or embarrassing she felt they were. And when it was Marianne’s turn to speak, Maeryl listened patiently, prodding gently with questions when silence filled the air. Marianne once mentioned a book she read in the castle library. At Maeryl’s request, she spent the following week reading it to the dragon. Once she turned the final page, she found another and another after that. The library was vast enough that it would take her years to get through it all.
The second and third years passed easier than the first now that both princess and dragon had an outlet for conversation. Some days, Marianne even forgot she was a prisoner. But always, she was quickly reminded.
Maeryl continued her hunts, as she called them. She would disappear for hours at a time and return bloody. Maeryl did not make excuses, choosing instead to say nothing at all, perhaps because she understood Marianne knew the truth. No creature could harm a dragon or would dare to do so if it could. The scars Maeryl earned were caused by knights. Each one a failed attempt at rescue. Marianne tried not to think about it when she noticed the dragon pulling arrows from her side. Maeryl was polite and kind to the princess. Marianne hated to think of what she did to the brave knights. She hated herself for caring more about the dragon's injuries than the gate of her rescuers.
So well into the third year, when self-loathing and guilt became too much, she waited in the courtyard for the dragon's return, intent on hearing the truth from Maeryl's mouth. She had rehearsed the arguments in her head, mocking thought-Maeryl's voice when the dragon in her mind won. But when she saw the dragon land, she reconsidered her tone.
A large gash ran from her shoulder to her claw, worse than anything Marianne had seen before. Her arm was wet with blood and the wound was deep enough that her natural healing had not begun to turn the cut into a scar. It was so bad, in fact, that Maeryl groaned when she landed and immediately lifted the wounded limb off the ground as to avoid putting weight on it. If Marianne didn't know better, she might have thought the dragon looked afraid.
Maeryl curled around herself, cleaning the wound with her tongue. She stopped licking herself when she locked eyes with the princess and though her scales hid her blush, the way she awkwardly hid her leg and widened her eyes revealed enough. Marianne struggled with dragon expressions, but she knew Maeryl well enough to know when she was embarrassed.
“Why do you fight them?” Marianne asked.
"Fight who?"
"The knights. I know that's what you're doing when you say you're hunting."
“That is the agreement.”
“I know that is the agreement,” Marianne said, not hiding her annoyance, though weary of the dragon’s responding glare, “but why is it the agreement?”
The dragon’s stare softened. She considered the question for a moment. “Your father wants you to find a husband who is pure of heart. The fight is a test.”
“You’re testing their hearts in a duel? How do you know who is good or bad?”
"No man is good. Your kind corrupts too easily," she replied bitterly. "I suppose the same is true for all creatures. I would consider the first that chooses not to fight."
"None of them have tried that?"
"It is a reflex, I wager. They see a large dragon, remember that I can breathe fire if I wish, and charge me before I decide to do so. They forget I can also speak."
"Do they always strike first?"
"Of course. There is no point to the test if I force a decision on them." Maeryl looked at the bloody wound. "I must be getting old."
Marianne pondered the dragon's words for a moment. Pain struck her heart. Maeryl's words were pessimistic but she spoke them as plainly as the truth. Marianne studied the scars of her captor and protector and she struggled to convince herself Maeryl was wrong. No man is good.
She blamed the dragon for her imprisonment, but it was the king's words that kept her there. She knew him as a confidant and a friend and, at times, her father. She did not know him as a warden. As a slaver.
No man is good.
The princess moved closer to the dragon, lifting - or trying to lift - Maeryl's mighty claw from over the wound. "Let me help."
“Oh, Princess, no-”
Maeryl’s stare met Marianne’s and the dragon fell silent. Tears formed at the corner of the princess’ eyes. Her lips quivered as she strained a smile. Maeryl found human expressions difficult but she understood her ward’s stare well: the unbearable sadness of guilt and shame for things far beyond her control and the determination to right the world. Maeryl had felt it once herself.
“Please,” Marianne whispered.
Slowly, Maeryl moved her arm so the princess could see the wound in all its gruesome detail. She had suffered worse before.
Still, it was nice to have someone care.
<<>>
The season turned to winter - the fourth of her imprisonment - and brought a bitter cold that even chilled Maeryl’s scales. The stream of gallant knights waned months prior, before the first snow even fell from the sky, and now several weeks had passed without the dragon leaving for a 'hunt.' Several long nights alone in the library left Marianne with too many thoughts to work through, so she sought Maeryl’s company, asking the dragon to light a fire.
Early in winter, Marianne suggested the dragon come inside and sleep in the great hall, but Maeryl sheepishly pointed out she would not fit through the door. Marianne told her to knock out the wall. Maeryl refused. Marianne found a sledgehammer and started the work herself, but after two full days of work, she realized that summer would arrive before she finished. So when she wished to speak with Maeryl, she met the dragon in the frozen courtyard, wearing layers upon layers of clothes.
“I’m not sure I even want a husband,” Marianne said after the silence had lingered too long. Dragons understood time differently and Maeryl would be content to let her sit with no question asked.
“Oh?”
"I thought I did, when I was younger. I read so many stories of young princesses who met a handsome knight and married and lived happily ever after. I wanted that for so long. When I stopped trying to flee, I accepted that a knight would come for me. I thought I wanted it."
“That’s changed, has it?”
“Maybe. Yes. Well…” Marianne paused, organizing the thoughts in her head. They were so many and so scattered she worried she would forget the important ones. “I don’t think that’s ever what I wanted. A husband, that is. When I read those stories, it was never the men I cared about. I wanted the ever after. I wanted to be happy and if I had to marry a handsome knight, so be it. I figured happiness would be worth it.”
“I see.”
“But now I worry that I won’t be happy, even if I marry some man who is ‘pure of heart.’” Marianne hesitated. “Especially if I marry a man.”
“Oh.”
Marianne turned from the fire to the dragon with an earnest, worried stare. "That's not strange, is it? Does that make me strange?"
"Oh, Princess, no, never. Many feel the way you do. I am among them." Maeryl shifted so her head was on level with Marianne and her body blocked the wind. "The love in books often fails to reflect reality. It takes many forms, waxes and wanes with time, and only you can decide who you love. When you do, I am sure she will bring you happiness."
“Many things bring me happiness, Maeryl. That’s not the same as being happy.”
“I know. One does not live as long as I without learning this.” Maeryl rested her head on the ground. “I am sad you’ve learned this so young.”
"I don't know if I deserve to be happy."
The dragon was silent for a moment and Marianne panicked that she had somehow overstepped. Before she could tell the dragon to forget what she said, Maeryl spoke. "I know that feeling too. For what it is worth, I think you do."
"Why? What have I done to earn it? Nothing!"
"You do not earn the right to be happy, Princess. There is no great quest that makes you worthy. What makes you deserving is that you have done nothing to lose that right. You have done no terrible deeds."
Marianne disagreed. She had once told Maeryl that a book was lost when she simply got bored of reading it. But before she could vocalize her thoughts, Maeryl continued, "I know that merely hearing those words will not rid the darkness in your mind, but that does not make them any less true. You deserve to be happy if only because you do not deserve to be unhappy. If you need more, I will provide.
"Nearly two years ago, you made me a promise. You did not have to keep it, and yet you did. You read to me when I asked. You learned chess to sate my boredom. You have tended to my wounds. Marianne, you have shown me kindness I have not received in hundreds of years. You may think these are simple things, but to me, they mean the world. If these actions do not make you a worthy person, I do not know what could."
"Thank you," Marianne said quietly.
"I should be the one saying that. Thank you, Princess."
Marianne fell silent. Maeryl's words did not eliminate all the thoughts that poisoned her brain, but now she felt like she could breathe at least. Knowing that Maeryl understood her, perhaps more than she could ever anticipate, helped too. When the darkness returned, they could fend it off together once more.
“Do you think I could be happy?” she asked after a moment.
For a long time, Maeryl said nothing. The question hung in the winter air as dangerous as any arrow and the longer Maeryl went without reply, the surer Marianne was of her answer. Finally, the dragon did speak. "I hope so."
For the moment, that was enough. Marianne settled against the dragon’s neck, staring up at the stars. With the turmoil in her mind quieted, she could appreciate the beauty of the night sky. 
“Have you ever been in love,” Marianne asked after a while.
“Once, long ago. Your kingdom was small then and I much younger.”
“Tell me about them.”
“She was… kind.”
Marianne waited for Maeryl to continue. The dragon did not. “Kind? That’s it?”
“I have not spoken of her for quite some time. I don’t know what to say.”
“Do you still think about her?”
“Every day.”
“Then tell me what you’re thinking.”
“I think of the way she smiled. How her eyes would light up with all the joy in the world when she laughed. How I felt when I saw her. I think of her despair. When she would cry, my heart grew heavy. I think of her wit. The jokes she would tell and the many games of chess I lost.” Maeryl sighed. “I knew no one greater. I gave my heart to her.”
“Was she beautiful?”
“Like a jewel.”
 “What happened?” Marianne asked, then added, “you’re talking about her in past tense. Are you no longer together?”
“She died.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It was centuries ago.”
“Still, Maeryl, I am sorry."
"It was inevitable."
"That does not make it any easier."
The dragon considered this for a moment. "It does not."
"I am sad I did not know her.”
“I think you would have liked her. She would have liked you. You are very similar.” Maeryl rested her head on the ground once more. "Could we change topics? If you have not more questions, Princess."
Marianne did have more questions, but she held them. The dragon had been kind. She could be kind as well. "Maybe we could just stare at the stars together."
"I think we could."
"Wake me if I fall asleep. I don't want to wake up frozen."
"Of course, Princess."
<<>>
Maeryl felt the change days before he came. It was otherwise a day like any other. Winter limped forward on dying legs. Snow still covered the ground and the wind still howled in the night. But when Maeryl awoke in the morning, shaking the snow from her shoulder and stretching the aches out of her legs, she knew the day was different.
Maeryl met him at the field far below the castle, far out of sight of Marianne if the princess woke. She watched the red dragon as he descended in lazy circles from the sky. Like her, his body was covered in scars and spines and frills, but he was much larger. The ground shook when he landed and his claws dug deep into the earth. Shaking the weariness of the flight off his wings, the red dragon glared at Maeryl with his one good eye.
He had two when she saw him last.
She knew Rynwyld. She knew him by his true name. She knew he would not let her say it.
“Greetings, Brother,” Maeryl said.
“I would call you Sister, but you deserve no such kinship.”
Maeryl ignored the slight. “It is done then?”
“I considered leaving without telling you. I still think I should.”
“Yet here you are,” Maeryl said. Her princess often struggled to understand the subtle emotions of dragons and Maeryl had grown used to her obliviousness. Rynwyld did not. He seemed pleased by her frustration. That only frustrated Maeryl more. “So it is done. One way or another.”
“It is done. The Oaths are finally broken.”
“Oh.”
Rynwyld grinned devilishly. “What? Was that not the answer you hoped? You would prefer we remain bound forever.”
“It was not the answer I expected. What will you do now?”
“Sleep. I have not done so for decades. After that, whatever I wish.” Rynwyld stared past Maeryl to the mountains, no doubt searching for the castle within. “Is the daughter still here?”
“Why?”
“You know why.” Rynwyld bared his fangs. “She is born of that cursed line. If she learns the rites, we could be bound once more.”
“I am bound to protect her.”
“You are not any more.”
Maeryl flared her neck frills, an instinct more than an intent, but the message was clear. “I am bound to protect her.”
“And I am bound to end the Oaths.”
Maeryl prepared for him to strike, but that did not protect her. She lunged forward like a viper, closing the distance between them in a blink, wrapping her jaws around his neck. But even as she sank her teeth into his neck, she felt his claws dig into her side. Rynwyld tore into Maeryl. He shredded her wing and ripped at her scales and flesh, cutting deeper than any knight’s sword.  The pain blurred her vision. Every thought in her mind told her to flee, but Maeryl did not let go. Even as Rynwyld clawed and shook, she kept her jaw locked on his neck, squeezing tighter and tighter as the red dragon’s strength waned.
Eventually, Maeryl stood over Rynwyld’s corpse, red blood dripping from her jaws and the gouges on her chest and stomach. One wing hung limply at her side, now little more than scraps of bloodsoaked skin around bone.. Every breath sent a new wave of pain through her body. Her thoughts were sluggish. Maeryl knew she was not far from joining Rynwyld in death.
But she still had one promise to fulfill.
Night settled in the mountains by the time Maeryl crawled back to the castle. Without her wings, the journey took longer than she expected, and she had to stop and rest often. When she finally crawled over the castle walls, she found  Marianne waiting for her in the courtyard, pacing impatiently. The princess turned to her with anger in her eyes, but on seeing Maeryl’s fragile state, her face softened and tears she struggled to contain flooded out.
“Maeryl, what happened?” Marianne exclaimed. “Are you alright?”
The dragon collapsed to the ground, closing her eyes and releasing a long sigh. She felt the princess wrap her arms around her neck. Normally the embrace would be comforting, but Maeryl felt a sharp pain shoot through her neck. The dragon said nothing.
“I will be fine, Princess,” Maeryl said. “I only need a little rest. But first, I must fulfill our agreement. I promised I told you why I stayed in Alamor. I will warn you, it is not a happy story.”
“Maeryl, you don’t need to.”
“I do. When I was a young dragon, there was a beautiful woman, the daughter of a powerful king. My kind lived on the outskirts of Alamor, content to hunt on the borders between empires, never concerning ourselves with human affairs. Yet when I saw the princess, I could not resist. I ventured down from my mountain. It was short-sighted. The kingdom knights nearly killed me.
“I was saved by the princess. She trusted me when I said I meant no harm and listened to me. She was kind to me. I will not bore you with the details, Princess, but I fell in love.” Maeryl fell silent for a moment, taking a deep breath. “I wish this could be a happy story. I failed her. I failed her father. Her brother was crowned king. In my grief, I betrayed my own kind to him and bound us to servitude. I failed him too. You know the rest from there.”
Maeryl did not open her eyes, but she felt the princess pull away. She could visualize how Marianne’s face scrunched as she pieced together the information with dawning realization. “So the Dragon Oaths-”
“Are my fault,” Maerfyl finished. “When the Oath King died, I was truly alone for the first time. Many of my kin fled and those who stayed would not speak to me. I would have lived the rest of my life in isolation had I not sworn allegiance to your family. That is the only promise I have not not broken. And here, now, I must confess I lied to you.”
Maeryl forced herself to open her eyes. Painful needles pricked her mind as she tried to focus, meeting the princess confused stare with her own sorrowful gaze.
“I was not asked to bring you here by your father. Nor was I bound to keep you here until a worthy knight rescued you. That was a story I devised. You were so young then, I thought you would believe it.”
A flurry of emotions crossed Marianne’s face, but she settled on one, distancing herself from the dragon with narrowed eyes. As much as she struggled to read human emotions, Maeryl recognized the quiet anger.
“Who?” the princess asked.
“There was a war. Alamor was losing.”
“Who bound you to the Oath?”
Maeryl let out a sigh. “No one.”
“No one?” Marianne repeated. “You chose to keep me prisoner here?”
“I was not bound by a Dragon Oath, but I was bound - I am bound by loyalty. An oath of my own making. Your parents knew the war would eventually reach the heart of the kingdom. Your mother asked me to keep you safe. I took you here. We didn’t want to frighten you, so I created the story.”
“You hid the truth and let me believe my father abandoned me to a dragon? Kept me here alone.” Marianne’s anger suddenly faded. Her voice softened. “That’s not completely untrue, is it? If my father cared, he would have sent Rynwyld after me. You let me believe I was nothing more than a prize to be won by some knight. Maybe that is what you thought of me afterall.”
“That was not the intent.”
“Intent or not, Maeryl, that is what it felt like. We grew so close. If you weren’t bound into deception, why didn’t you tell me the truth?”
“You must believe I never meant to hurt you.”
“Believe you?” Marianne spat. “You lied to me for years! You could have told me at any point what you were doing. About the war? You… Oh God, why tell me now? Why after all this time?”
The dragon averted her gaze. She spoke softly. “I am sorry, Marianne.”
The princess burst into tears. Grief took her and she collapsed to the floor. She didn’t need Maeryl to clarify and the dragon felt no need to expand the point. Alamor was no more. Her parents were no more. She had been isolated in the mountains for years but now, for the first time, she was truly alone.
Marianne couldn’t tell how long she cried. Her body ran out of tears before she finished and her heart hadn’t stopped hurting. Maeryl had not moved from her spot. Marianne could hear the dragon’s laboured breaths and realized her wounds still bled. Worse, a thin layer of snow covered the dragon. The warmth that protected her was gone.
Marianne felt a second wave of sadness surge through her. She could no longer cry, but the darkness that always lingered in her mind overtook her in full force. Her resentment did not fade, but neither did her grief. Slowly, Marianne moved closer to Maeryl, leaning her head on the great dragon’s chest, listening to her gently beating heart.
“Maeryl,” she whispered, “are you dying?”
The dragon ignored the question. “Princess, you owe me nothing, not after all I’ve done, but may I make a request?”
“Anything.”
“Would you read to me? Any book would do, I just want to hear your voice.”
“Of course.”
“Thank you, Princess.”
Maeryl curled around Marianne as she had often done. She could not understand the words - she was far too tired - but she found comfort in the princess’ voice. The great green dragon closed her eyes. Her wounds no longer hurt. The cold wind no longer stung her flesh. When she woke in the morning, she would take the princess to another shore, leaving behind a kingdom that no longer existed. She had bound her life to Alamor. Now she was free. 
Marianne left the castle when morning came. As she descended the mountain, she expected to see the dragon descend from the sky, barring her escape from her prison. She hoped to see her friend. But Maeryl never came. She never would.
The princess was alone.
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kshitij1997 · 4 years
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Hi everyone!
Hmm, so I have introduced a lot of the main characters already in my fanfic. Here’s a short summary of what defines each character, if people don’t fancy reading the whole story, or are confused by who’s what. Also added some characters not introduced yet, titbits and many future plot points.
 
Runeard:- Ruthless, oppressive tyrant whose destructive actions against the Northurldra are the lynchpin of the epic, and will affect Elsa, Olva(Original Character) and Anna decades down the line as they effect Agnarr and Iduna presently.
Agnarr and Iduna:- The present king and queen of Arendelle(Stand-in for Norway and Sweden). They are presently in marital and familial bliss as they have just welcomed Olva in the family, just 14 and a half months after Elsa was born. They’ll be put to the ultimate test of their lives soon enough.
Reginald and Sophia:- The present king and queen of Corona(Stand-in for Prussia) and close friends of Agnarr and Iduna. Princess Sophia hails from Austria-Hungary, from the Habsburg clan. Their union has made them the dominant power couple in Central Europe. Alas their child, princess Eva Rapunzel has been kidnapped. They have spent a massive amount of their personal wealth on finding their daughter, building the kingdom’s strength through alliances throughout Europe, but to no avail.
Princess Eva Rapunzel:- Feared dead. There have been rumours of sightings in the small islands near Northern Cyprus in the present-day Ottoman empire, however the ships sent to navigate the region seldom come back, and the Ottomans are not too keen on helping Corona, ever since relations soured between the two when the Monarchs of Serbia were brutally assassinated. There are some disputable stories that claim that she may have the ability to grant life. (May have a fascination with the human body and healing and treating people.)
Flynn:- Some very murky details on this one. An orphaned street rat who at one point supposedly ran the most profitable dodge racket criminal empire in the Rhinelands with fellow partner in crime, Markus. With Markus gone, Flynn is on the run, a warrant out against him where he has been charged with the burning of the Mansion, a very important monument to Corona.
Princess Elsa:- The heir apparent to the throne of Arendelle, and the first-born daughter of Agnarr and Iduna. Blessed with powers over Ice, she may be destined for greatness, or great pain, whatever makes the mythical hero’s sacrifice count. May have problems with self-worth, self-pity, anxiety, depression and emotional distance from her loved ones.
Princess Olva:- The second-in-line for the throne, a feisty kid with an academic bent, cares deeply for her family. May experience trauma from an accident, in order to recover from said trauma, she may take the supernatural path destined for her. Unlike Elsa, she tries to live in the real world. She may not suffer from anxiety issues, but there may be problems with rage, bitterness, pain and obsessive tendencies.
Princess Anna:- Soon to be youngest child of the Arendellian Monarchs, she is happy go lucky, loves her family and is outdoorsy. Which does not mean that she doesn’t have dark secrets of her own. She may struggle with abandonment, trying to reconnect with those she lost. She wears her heart on her sleeve. Her innocence may be endearing to some, but the same quality renders her a target for the world. Despite all that, she tries to be courageous for those she cares for the most.
Prince Hans/Janus:- The fated prince thirteenth in line for the throne, he may have an enormous responsibility entrusted upon him by his imposing mother. Is trying to find peace, may be a people pleaser but values freedom and joy over everything. May go to any length to achieve his desires. If not freedom, then power for sure. His heart may be driven towards the ocean.
The Northurldra:- The largest minority in the kingdom of Arendelle. The Northurldra and southern Arendelle have been at loggerheads since the middle ages, but in recent history, the divide has been deepened when Runeard waged war against them. With the mist splitting the north from the south, the Northurldra have fallen on desperate times and must resort to piracy and smuggling. Growing resentment against the crown of Arendelle may lead to assassination attempts or might even lead to all-out war.
Kristoff:- Not yet introduced in the story, but he is from a family of commoners with a trusty reindeer friend he calls Sven. His family cuts and sells ice for a living. After a nasty incident with some border bandits from the north, he’s left alone in the wilderness where the clan of the rock hermits find him and take him in.
Grand Pabbie:- The patriarch of the rock hermit clan, he is a being of half rock and half human flesh and blood, with vines and moss in place of hair. A supernatural being possessing great ancient powers, he is the curator and guardian of the Arendellian wilderness. Every winter, he goes deep into meditation in order to appease the gods to keep the winters forgiving. Knows past, present and future, but sternly believes in letting things take their course and not intervening with fate and destiny.
Queen Paulina Karazmov:- The sixth and present wife of the king of the Southern Isles, she is bitter about the loss of the kingdom of Poland, which was her ancestral homeland. She hopes to see Poland rise from the ashes, even if she must sacrifice her son Janus, also known as Hans by his father, the king.
King Christian the eighth of the Southern Isles (stand-in for Denmark):- The present king of the Southern Isles, the king is in his late middle age, father to thirteen children. He is confident that his large family could help gain control in Europe and wrest the supremacy from the Habsburgs.  Little does he fathom or know; he might be nursing a succession crisis in his wake.
Tsar Alexander the first of Russia:- The sovereign of the Russian empire, the Tsar conquered Napoleon, but is in his twilight years. Seen as a respectable presence in Europe, he has often played the peacemaker. Alas, he is childless & on his way out and his two brothers are not very keen on succeeding him. One due to the huge responsibility, and the other due to fear, even though the fear is disguised as military discipline.
The Duke of Weselton (Stand-in for Belgium):- Considered a gangster among royals, he rules with an iron fist, forever subjugating and trying to weasel out a deal that makes him prosperous. At one point a staunch ally of Arendelle, he has had a falling out with Iduna and Agnarr over a dispute of sovereignty. Now he lies in wait, akin to a viper in the grass, whilst indulging himself with Opium and Marijuana, ready to strike and sink the treacherous kingdom of Arendelle.
The British and the French:- The two great powers who sit and watch the whole drama play out, eager to switch sides on a whim, wherever their interests were better served. Bitter rivals throughout history, they have now come to a strained, mutual understanding of peace.
What do you guys think?
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moonfox281 · 5 years
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Hi I was wondering if you can write a one-shot or anything with mob wife au where Dick didnt realize he had a kink for Jason's scent until Jason went on a business trip and Dick is missing his husband but can only cling on the smell of Jason that still lingers on their bed. Then when Jason came back from the trip, they had some smoking hot scene together. That's all, thank you so much and I just want to say I really love your writing, your fics especially mob boss au. Keep up the good work.
Hehe, I love the way your mind works.
(Click here for AO3 link)
“I have business trip next week.”
Dick rolled on the bed and looked at Jason, brows quirked up. “Excuse me?”
Jason, in only his pants that hung loosely on his sculpted hips, switched on his legs and looked down like a kicked puppy. He had always looked good half naked. Dick enjoyed watching the way his ripped muscles buddle up, coiling like powerful waves of tropical ocean at the time of July.
“Honey,” Jason started, stopped, bit his lip, then tried again. “It’s only for 2 days, 3 at top.”
“I don’t care if it’s a whole damn month, you’ll miss John’s first day at school.”
“I know, and I don’t want that. Trust me, you and I, we’ve planned this for months. It’s just… job.”
Dick rolled his eyes, looking outside the window of their penthouse bedroom. To say he was disappointed was an understatement, but he knew Jason’s job. He remembered nights of the early years when Bruce skipped dinner or not even going home at all, leaving the 9 years old him alone wondering to himself if he was being abandoned again. In the end, had Jason’s illegal empire ever been different from a business enterprise?
They were all the same, just different customers, and different needs.
Jason crawled over on the bed, looming over him. His hand went up, sliding the hem of Dick’s robe open. “I’ll make it up to you. I swear.”
“Oh, and how are you going to do that, Mr. Todd?”
Dick looked at him, tried to not let the way Jason’s eyes glowed get to him. He caught his hand, stopped it from sliding further on his skin, but Jason, the damn superhuman human he married, pushed him down the mattress and caged his wrists on the headboard.
“I can think of a few things, Mr. Todd.”
Dick had gotten used to being alone. Not lonely, but alone. His husband was an international crime organizer, and he went then and there every month. Trips to the airport were a casual thing to Dick by now, to the point he remembered every possible route and shortcut they could ever take. There was an alley right in the corner of Bull street that led to a secret underground way that went all the way to the airport fly gate, built and used only by the Red Hood elite gang members. Or there was this huge International Delivery Service facility right next to the airport, that was actually a front of the gang’s medical and tactical emergency response forces. It was very hard to forget that one time Dick was traveling to Washington and the whole airport went in alarm because a kid forgot his backpack with a special toy in it. The moment the announcement hit the speaker system, Jason’s men marched in from practically everywhere and whisked Dick away while he was still in the middle of processing what the hell was going on.
Marrying Jason meant everything to Dick, but sometimes, the things that came along could be a little bit too much, like the heavy ring on Dick’s finger that kept making him think how terrible it would be if he punched somebody, or like right now, sitting in a bulletproof SUV with two guards in tactical vests with three assault rifles, and … well, Jason. The thing was like a damn fortress, both inside and out. Ahead of them, a normal looking Forb was actually driven by Jefferson, the head of Jason’s security and tactical director, carrying three other guards all in disguise, and behind, an old minivan with one of Jason’s many task forces inside.
It felt like they were going to war sometimes. Worse, Dick knew Jason only went this extra mile when Dick was with him. Normally if he was going alone, Jason would even drive himself.
“You want anything when I get back?” Jason squeezed his hand, smiling like a dork.
“As if I even need anything anymore.”
“You sure? Russia has quite good chocolate.”
Dick huffed. “Are you trying to make me fat?”
“Oh we all know your body has that special system, making all the fat go in one particular place.”
He swatted Jason’s head, and heard him laugh out loud. Dick glanced around and looked at the guards, watching the corners of their mouths quirk up, and blushed heavily. God, if embarrassing Dick was Jason’s way of making his guards stay loyal, he was doing a fantastic job.
They arrived at the airport peacefully, as if Jason would ever let anything happen. Dick could bet his money that his husband even had snipers crawling somewhere on the nearby rooftops to cover for them.
The jet was already waiting by the time their cars made to the place. Jefferson went out to talk with the pilots, guards wandered around to do a recheck on everything. They got off the car, Jason kissed his hand, a duffle bag over his shoulder. His vest, well ironed and matt black, did things to the blue in his eyes and that cocky smirk he always wore like a damn badge. Usually when he dressed well, it meant some people were going to get killed. After years of marriage, Dick knew it would be the best to not talk about it. “I’ll be back by Wednesday, if not, you know the drill.”
“Oh you better be back by Wednesday. You owe John a day out.”
“I did say it may take up to 3 days, didn’t I?”
“Oh yes, but if you can make it back sooner…” Dick licked his lip, biting it while watching the way Jason gulped.
“Wednesday it is then.”
When waving his goodbye, Hank, another of Jason’s boy, stood next to him and shook his head.
“You do know how to walk him around.”
Dick just smiled, and watched the jet take off.
On the first night, things went on like usual. Jason called right away once he landed, and he talked with John for almost half an hour before homework whisked the boy away. He talked about how terrible the cold was at this time of the year in Russia, how empty his huge hotel room was without his family, and how much he wished he could be there with them eating Dick’s homemade steaks and mash sweet potato.
International crime organization meant international movement every now and then. There were nights when Jason woke up at 4 in the morning, barely an hour back from patrol to get ready for a flight overseas.
Most of the times Dick stayed at home and waited, on some occasions he would go with Jason to watch his back. Dick had got used to it, had got used to rubbing his nose on the empty bed sheet at night when his husband was away, or curling on the couch of his favorite reading area by the window to fell asleep more easily.
Patrol had been strikingly easy since marriage, with Jason’s growing power in the underworld, and Bruce’s widening crime fighting community. And tonight, just like every time Jason went away, the streets were even quieter than ever.
Dick always knew Jason got something to do with this.
“Did you get home safe?”
Dick huffed and rolled his eyes when taking off his Nightwing suit. Safe used to be a foreign conception of his life, applying more for the people around him rather than Dick himself.
“With 5 of your men and the amount of firearms they carry? You’re lucky we didn’t get pulled over by the cops, they’d probably think we were on our way to rob the National Bank.”
Jason chuckled. “You’ll be fine. The cops on duty tonight were all my men.”
Dick dropped his shirt. Thinking about all the routes they had passed today and suddenly lost his words. He knew Jason had insight in the law enforcement, knew how usual this happened for most big crime organizers. Still, it was a bit of a shock.
“All of them?” Dick asked, slightly wished Jason was just joking.
“All of them.” Jason wasn’t joking.
Dick enjoyed the way Jason chuckle. He had always loved his deep voice, the roughness of it, it made his sweet man sounded edgy, manly, with a hint of mysterious, just like the classic novels he read.
“What are you doing?”
“Having breakfast. Just got up actually, last night kept me up a little too late.” Jason’s sigh sounded tired, and Dick caught the sound of him moving on the bed. “What are you doing?”
“Getting change. Tonight was surprisingly easy, thanks to you.”
Jason yawned and hummed a soft sound. Dick could imagine the face he was making, could vision the hand he rubbed on the back of his neck, moving it up to comb through the short locks, a soft smile he had on his dozy face, teeth white and even showing through the crack of his lips.
“What are you wearing?” He spoke, after a beat of silence.
“What?”
Jason chuckled again. “What do you have left on your body?”
“Right now? Nothing but a robe.”
“Good. Where are you now?”
“In our bedroom.” Dick bit his lips, getting a glimpse of what Jason was having in mind.
“Why don’t you put me on speaker, baby?”
Dick thought about it for a second, then left to peak out at the living room. Hank was lurking near the elevator, and no sign of Jefferson. The man had probably gone upstairs. Dick swallowed then got back to the room, locking the door carefully.
“Okay.” He said, putting the phone on the speaker on top of the office desk by the window.
“Now, why don’t you strip for me?”
Dick shivered when Jason’s voice came out as loud and clear as if he was right here in the room with him. He closed his eyes, slid his fingers tips down the thick fabric, tugging at the belt before pulling it off completely. The hems ran off his shoulders, the whole robe felt down, puddling behind his feet. His skin revealed to the space, uncovered and still steaming after the hot shower.
“Is it cold?”
Dick shifted, switching on his legs, and swallowed. “A little.”
Jason chuckled, the sound of the sheet moving under his weight came clearer. “Touch yourself.”
Dick thought about it, thought about the three of Jason’s men lurking around inside his house just a door away, thought about John sleeping upstairs, but then about Jason on his hotel bed, more or less naked too with a hand sliding down near his member.
He bit on his lip, then did what he was told. His fingers slid on naked skin, lightly shaken and cold. His breaths were getting louder, and Jason was getting responsive by it.
“That’s it,” He breathed. “That’s it, baby. Imagine I was there.”
Dick did. He thought of the way Jason always touched him, of his big hands, his patchy knuckles, his calloused fingers rubbing against his scars. He would toy with his belly button, caress his nipples until they hardened. Meanwhile, his lips would land down the side of Dick’s neck, peppering kisses, sucking skin while his hands had their game on Dick’s body.
Dick’s hands traced down to his cock, shivering when the first touch landed but soon, it felt like nothing was enough.
“You sound good, baby.” Jason’s voice came out low, rumbling like an animal. It did things to Dick. “Climb on the bed. Keep touching yourself.”
Dick followed his every word, crawling on the mattress with a hand between his thighs.
“Play with your back too.”
Dick bit on the sheet when his fingers made their way further to the back. He felt his rim there, twitching like expecting something.
“Do you feel yourself there?”
Dick nodded to himself, shakily answered. “I do.”
When the first finger went in, he gasped. His inside felt hot and soft, and the feel of it brought all sort of a new experience to Dick. He wondered to himself if this was how the inside of him had always felt like.
When the second finger made its way in, Dick moaned. And Jason must have reacted to it, because briefly through his closed lids and heaving, Dick caught on the sound of his husband’s choked out laugh.
For a few seconds, Dick couldn’t do anything but stayed still and relaxed. This was too much, this felt too much. It amazed him thinking about how his body usually took in Jason’s fingers and then his thing because it sure felt a lot harder doing this all by himself.
“Breathe, baby. Breathe.” Jason cooed, softly.
Dick inhaled, exhaled. Three times, then by the fourth, he felt much better and eager to move.
It felt good. God, it felt so good he actually cried out.
Jason’s chuckles got louder, his breathing got heavier, his bed creaked a little, the sheet moved around. Dick didn’t need to see to know his husband was enjoying the hell out of this phone call.  
“Can you take in three?”
This time, he was sure he would get even louder so he bit on the sheet even harder and muffled it all. In the background, Jason was cursing, laughing, then heaving. He was breathing through his mouth and groaning. Dick could tell he was jerking himself by the sound and mental image of Dick spreading out and fingering himself on their bed.    
“Baby I’m so close.”
Dick was close too, but he couldn’t get off like this, couldn’t get off like this if it wasn’t Jason. So he rubbed his face on the sheet, and wormed the other hand down to touch his rock hard cock. Even the slightest touch sent electric to his spine, and the bed smelt like Jason, his woody smelt, thick, heavy, musky like the wood at fall after a good rain.
Dick missed his touch, missed his warmth, the way he always whispered the sweetest things to his ear while making love.
His nose rubbed on the sheet, and the thing was coated was Jason’s scent.
He came, hard, with Jason name on his tongue. The orgasm struck him with full force that made his knees weak and shake, Dick himself felt shamelessly blessed that their place was well soundproof enough so the guards wouldn’t think he wasn’t being butchered and barge in.  
He must have passed out, Dick was sure of it. Because for a minute he just laid there, heaving, ass in the air and knees down and legs too numb too feel anything, feeling the cool sweat coating his back and running on his heated skin.
Jason must have climaxed when Dick’s head was still somewhere around cloud nine, because when he laughed, the sound came calmly relaxed and satisfied.
“I love you.”
Dick laughed, blowing the hair that had felt down his face. He would need a shower again, and change the sheet.
“Jason,” He called, stopping for a beat to catch on his own breath, swallowing for the sake of his dry throat. “Wednesday?”
Jason chuckled, moving on the bed again. This time, his voice got louder, but odd enough, wispier too, as if he had pressed his lips so close to the speaker like sending the words straight to Dick’s core.
“Wednesday.”
“You big fucking liar.”
Jason went silent, but even through the phone, Dick could understand that was his way of admitting defeat. The whole house turned back to look at him, even Beast hopped his head up from where he was lying. Jefferson peaked through Hank’s shoulder to look at Dick’s reaction before turning to look at each other.
His guards had been staying over his place since Jason went off. Jason’s order, of course, even when most of what they did were carrying his bags and reaching for items on the top shelves while grocery shopping.
“You said Wednesday. Tomorrow is Wednesday already. I expected you to drive John to school because you’ve already missed two of his first days. But now you’re telling me you’ll be stuck there for another 3 days?”
“Ba‒Baby,” Jason shuttered. Jason never shuttered, only to Dick. “It just came out of nowhere. I swore, I didn’t have this coming.”
“You didn’t have it coming? Right, who messed up this bad that you have to stay this long?”
“If I tell you, death would be a mercy for them. No, honey, no. I’ll call John later, tell him I’m sorry‒”
“You’ll miss his first football test!” Dick screamed. Literally screamed.
“Dickie, baby, I know. But‒” There was sound of door opening, and then next was Jason’s faraway voice cursing and groaning. “Fuck what? No, I’m talking to my husband, tell them to fucking wait… What? Now?! Tell them the last goddamn person said that to me was strangled alive.”
“Jason, are you in trouble?” Dick growled. He slammed his smoothie down the marble counter so hard Bob — the same grumpy sarcastic Viking vibe Bob who had a man bun and a bazooka on his back five days out of seven — literally jumped.
“Jason Peter Todd.”
“Yes, Dickie? No, I’m not in trouble, more like some people are gonna be in serious trouble because of me. But no need to worry, I have to go, but I’ll be back soon, I swear.”
“I hold little faith to your promises right now, Jay. Whatever, just don’t cause a national crisis, and don’t.get.in.any.trouble.”
From the way the whole three of Jason’s men widely looked at him when he grunted out every word, Dick was confident Jason got the message crystal clear.
“Ye‒Yes sir.” Dick was right. “I really have to go now. I’ll call back when I can, I love you.”
“Love you too.” Dick mumbled back then shut the phone, throwing it down the counter with a sigh.
He needed to kill Jason, and get some tea. John was still asleep by this hour, and the penthouse felt too big without most of his family present.
“Annie, can you make me some tea?”
His butler, Anastasia smiled at him. On the stove, the kettle was already screaming. “I kinda figured you would say that.” She hushed Jefferson outside of the kitchen so she could reach toward the drawer, pulling out Dick’s favorite cup set. “I have to admit, before working for you, I had in mind the Red Hood was a more fearless man.”
“Oh you have no idea.” Dick rolled his eyes and got over the counter for his tea selection. Jason always left the coffee bags scattered around in this particular drawer despite how many time Dick had told him not to.
“I guess you’re just special enough to bring out that side of him.”
Dick turned back to look at the back of Anna and her strawberry blonde hair when she slid the lemongrass to put into the teapot. Anna was Mac’s wife, one of Jason’s gang head members, and one of the few Jason truly trusted to let be around his family. Mac was a busy man so that Jason wouldn’t be busy himself, for that, Anna, without a job and three kids always at school, was usually left lonely at home until one day, Jason offered he might need a butler for their penthouse in Diamond District.
She loved the job. She loved it too much she wouldn’t let Dick cook sometimes.
“Are those boys going to join you for lunch?” Anna asked with a specific smirk, and Dick knew what she was talking about.
Hank waved back at her with his gun, his very very big gun, next to him, Jefferson was pointing at something on the tablet for Bob, who looked like he was armed for a zombie apocalypse rather than guarding a 20 years experience vigilante.
Three elite guards from his very own personal protection team, tagging along to anywhere at any time, assigned directly by the Red Hood himself.
One week ago Dick had got back to the Manor and had a little tea talk with Damian. The boy had asked him if Jason was treating him well. Dick could only have laughed.
Jason was treating him too well it was hard to watch sometimes.
“Blue,” Hank smirked, coming over and pulling a chair out next to Dick. “You like the Turkish Delights I made last time?”
Dick huffed, thanking God secretly that all these men were wise enough to not talk about their Boss when Dick was still mad at him. Behind him, Anna chuckled while watching Hank look eager for his answer.
“I do, very much. Who would have thought these big hands can make such lovely sweets.”
He wriggled his brows at Hank, and pulled the gun out of his hand, disabled it at ease. “No guns on the counter.”
Hank looked back at him, dumbfounded. Jefferson, who seemed to have enough talking with Bob about the things on the tablet, went over and snapped a finger at the man.
“Blue,” He turned to Dick, eyes looking everywhere on his face before meeting his eyes. Dick never took Jefferson in as a shy man, but he acted like he had choked on his tongue sometimes. “Technically I’m not allowed to do this, but if you want to know Boss’s schedule, please ask me, I can make some calls, ask Trevor around. Do not do any research by yourself.”
Dick twirled on his chair and tried to act normal in front of Jefferson’s serious face and Anna’s big fat smile when handling over his tea. Anna even put a slice of lemon into his cup, what a lovely butler she was.
“Blue, are you listening to me?”
“I am, I am.”
“So you remember the routines, right?”
Dick rolled his eyes. These men, they were treating Dick as a child.
“No patrol over 6 hours. No going out without a team. No new cases without backup. No traveling overseas or out of the gang’s territory. No skipping meals during the days. And get back home before 3 AM.”
Dick was seriously getting a headache listening to Bob covering all the things Jason had repeated to him over and over again every time he went on a business trip.
“Guys, you are all aware that I’m perfectly capable of winning a 10 men SWAT team in exactly 7 minutes and a half, right? You must be, you’ve seen me do that before.”
Hank rubbed a hand over his face, and his beard, biting on his cheek as if trying to find the right words to say. “Blue, you wear spandex, literal spandex that gets cut and burnt and not bulletproof.”
“Yeah, and spandex that helps me fly.”
Jefferson put his tablet down the marble counter, sighed, and squeezed Dick’s hand. “Blue, I know you fly, and you fly beautifully. We just want to keep you safe, as safe as possible, and Boss not killing us for not trying.”
“Oh he won’t kill any of you, not if I tell him so.”
Jefferson sighed, seemingly exhausted. “Blue.”
“Okay, okay. Jesus.” Dick actually laughed. He could play this game, besides, it was nice to have someone around running errand for him.
Jefferson knelt down, head leveled with Dick’s stomach. He put his hand on Dick’s knee, a harmless gesture but Dick got a feeling it carried something more than just what it seemed.
“If I ever have to watch you in a 3 weeks coma again, I think I’ll actually die.”
Dick barked out a laugh, sipped on his tea, and patted Jefferson’s on the head.
Dick didn’t know he had fallen asleep, until his body reacted out of instinct.
A hand caught his wrist, blocking his blow fully and strong. Jefferson’s face came clear in the dark, closer than Dick had expected. His forearm planted on the head of the couch, and his beard had a strange grey color under the moonlight when looming over Dick like this.
Dick let out the breath he had been holding, hands tugged at the wool blanket on his shoulder. He didn’t know why he did that, suddenly, he just felt naked in front of the man’s eyes.
“You’ll catch a cold if you sleep here.” Jefferson said so, but right after that, he left to fire up the fireplace.
Dick watched the way his back flex when hunching down. His thick muscle bundled up, barely hidden underneath the thin cover of his shirt. Dick had seen him naked a few times, knew well how bulky this man actually was underneath all the layers of armor he carried most of the time. The gun holster hugged tight to his arms and shoulders. You could always know how fit a man was by the way the shoulder holster hugged on them.
Jefferson walked back after setting the fire. Dick watched the fireplace light the room up, painting dancing shadows on the walls as Jefferson made his way back to the couch he was curling on, knelt down one knee, one arm planted down the cushion right next to Dick’s legs.
He stared at Dick in silence, so serious and focused as if analyzing him.
Dick rubbed the edge of the blanket on his nose, tearing his gaze away and laying his head down his knees. “Don’t ask.” He whispered.
“It’s okay to miss him.”
“I know.”
Dick knew. But if felt like a joke, showing this side of him to someone. Jason was only away for four days, back then, they used to avoid each other for months, but now, Dick felt torturous waiting for the sun to come up and down without a body pressed next to him.
Jason’s scent still lingered on the sheet, in the first two days, it shooed Dick to sleep like coating him in his husband’s warm embrace. Now, his scent only reminded Dick of his absence in the room.
Jefferson looked down his feet, then up at Dick. He pushed his lips into a thin line, the hand he had on the couch lightly rubbed on Dick’s blanket-covered legs.
“This is the first time he goes on a business trip this long without you by his side.”
Dick smiled, hopping Jefferson didn’t catch the way his lips was weighing down. “Yeah. He’s never gone this long.”
Dick could feel Jefferson’s eyes on him, he just didn’t care anymore. The fire reminded him of a night when they got back from an undercover mission, too pent up by leftover energy and adrenaline of jumping off a 20 stories building, they had sex countless times by the fireplace, and then danced naked in the dark, with only the red and orange light as music and guidance to their steps.
“Why don’t you call him?”
Jefferson’s words brought surprise to Dick, half because how they broke the peaceful silence between them, and half of the meaning they carried.
Dick tugged himself in tighter, had this major urge to curl himself into a ball and hide away from just everyone’ eyes.
“I don’t think I have any right to say I miss him.”
Jefferson frowned, hunched over even closer. “What makes you think so?”
“Because I’ve made him wait much longer.”
Dick had expected Jefferson to just leave him be like that. To his surprise, the man pulled out his phone, and dialed Jason’s contact.
Dick caught on his wrist, half amazed, half panicked. “What are you doing?”
“Calling him for you.” Jefferson deadpanned.
“He could be working. He could be busy.”
Jefferson only stared back, smiling.
“For you? He won’t be.”
Dick was cleaning their dressing room when the stack of shirts he was folding fell off where he had laid them on the wardrobe.
“Oh for Christ sake.” He mumbled and went over to pick it up and fold them again.
Jason’s side was always on the left. Most of his clothes were shirts, jackets (a lot of them), coats, and suits. He had a few hoodies, and a few tanks, but overall, his tastes ran short in just a few styles. Unlike him, Dick liked to test things out on his right side, with oversized tees (mostly stolen from Jason’s), cotton shirts, polos, blazers, sweaters, turtlenecks, sweatshirts. Even Babs choked when she saw his side of the wardrobe. Dick remembered when they first moved in, Jason had joked, Dick’s side had to be right, because he was always right.
Picking up a jacket of Jason that he had planned to hang up the hanger, Dick took a decent look at it, and tried to recall the last time Jason had worn it.
Driven by curiosity, he lifted the collar up, and smelt it.
A satisfied sigh was drawn out. The thing smelt clean, a whip of worn leather even though looking new, and just like Jason. Jason, who smelt like old wood, burnt charcoal, and home.
“You really miss me that much?”
Dick yelped, whole body jointed up when caught by Jason’s voice. He turned back, and his husband was standing right there, leaning on the doorway, smirking devilishly.
“You are… home?” Dick tried to catch on his breath, a hand smoothed on his chest. He threw the jacket right back to the stack of clothes so quick like the thing had offended him.
Jason chuckled and walked over, invading Dick’s personally space in the speed of light.
“You’re not happy?”
“No, I just… I thought you’d be back tomorrow.”
“Well, I decided to wrap things up sooner than scheduled, because a certain someone was missing me so badly he had to listen to my voice to fall asleep last night.”
Dick blushed when taken over by the memory of last night. Jefferson had called Jason for him, and they had talked for what felt like hours, to the point Dick couldn’t recall when he had passed out, only to wake up in a bed with Beast staring at him in the morning.
Jason caught his chin, lifted it up with his fingers so they could face each other. Dick could mirror himself on the intense blue of Jason’s eyes.
“Tell me, how bad did you miss me?”
Dick swallowed, breathing through his mouth when Jason’s lips brushed over his.
“You already know.” He whispered back, shivered when felt a hand wormed its way underneath his shirt and palm on the small of his back.
In his head, Dick had expected the hand Jason had on him to travel down a little lower, or his lips to trace the side of his neck so his teeth could lightly gaze his skin like how he always did. To his surprise, Jason only pulled him closer, drowning him in his warmth and familiar scent of his. His arms, his big arms, wrapped around Dick as if promising to never let go of him.
“5 days,” He whispered in the crook of Dick’s neck. “5 damn days. I missed you and John like crazy.”
Dick chuckled, rubbing his face on Jason’s shoulder because he could.
“Tell me, how bad did you miss me?”
Jason barked out a laugh, arms still squeezing Dick into his chest. He kissed his hair, and their legs were swaying on their own.
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meditativeyoga · 5 years
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10 Things We Didn`t Know About Yoga Until This Must-Read Dropped
Forget whatever you assumed you found out about yoga exercise history. Author Matthew Remski evaluates the new publication Roots of Yoga and also (spoiler alert) shares 10 of its greatest surprises.
Imagine you're a guppy in a fishbowl. Simply swimming around among the phony algae and also little plastic castle. If you're precocious you'll have an unclear hunch that there's something small or counterfeit regarding your little world. As well as recently, the waves have actually chosen up. Your water is sloshing as well as swirling. What's going on?
This is just what being an English-speaking yoga nerd has resembled over the past years. The waves originate from yoga scientists like Norman Sjoman, Suzanne Newcombe, Elizabeth de Michelis, David Gordon White as well as others, carrying your aquarium along the winding course of yoga exercise history as well as anthropology. You could have heard features of yoga exercise's relationship to Indian fumbling, the innovation of the modern-day master, and also just how some yogis just weren't exactly known for non-violence. In 2010 they handed it off to Mark Singleton, whose magazine of Yoga Body: The Beginnings of Modern Position Practice caused a small bedlam, sucking you down into the opportunity that every little thing you 'd pertain to believe regarding yoga exercise through its modern-day advertising and marketing may be a misconception. While you were down there you additionally heard something concerning social appropriation, yet you were wheezing for breath and also could not rather make it out.
Now, 2017 will certainly be referred to as the year when Oxford Sanskritist Sir Jim Mallinson grabbed hold too. With the publication of Roots of Yoga (Penguin, 2017), he and also Dr. Singleton have actually unloaded your aquarium into the sea, releasing you to the wilds. However not without navigating devices. With brand-new important translations of over 100 obscure yoga texts dating from 1000 BCE to the 19th century, threaded with each other with clear as well as steady-as-she-goes discourse, these authors have charted the deep.
Their constantly varied sources-- equated from Sanskrit (naturally) but additionally Tibetan, Arabic, Persian, Bengali, Tamil, Pali, Kashmiri, as well as very early kinds of Marathi and Hindi-- explode the readily available sources for everyday professionals. They sink the ideas that yoga exercise is any solitary point that anybody has ever set or that it brings every person to the very same location. Currently, there's nothing to do but swim. As you do, right here are 10 deep-sea explorations (as well as a few monsters) you'll run into:
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1. Shock horror! The Yoga exercise Sutras are not widely approved ...
... or perhaps respected among yoga exercise adepts. Composing in his 18th century Haṃsavilāsa, Haṃsamiṭṭhu tells his spouse and also fellow visitor Haṃsi: "Precious woman, Patañjali's training is nonsense, since there is absolutely nothing reasonable in anything attained forcibly."
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2. Historically, if ladies practiced yoga, they were primarily unnoticeable or sexually objectified.
Domestic tête-à-têtes apart, "texts on yoga are written from the perspective of male professionals," confirm the writers. "There are no pre-modern depictions of females practising yogic poses ... Sanskrit as well as vernacular poems of ... north Indian ascetic traditions are highly misogynistic ... Ladies are never clearly restricted from practising yoga exercise, although [medieval] haṭha messages generally urge that male yogis need to avoid the business of women." Other than, naturally, when they have to procure menstrual fluid to get superpowers. (You'll need to read the book for that a person.) The sexism at play here relates to the anxiety that ladies are the key thieves of "bindu," or seminal fluid, which numerous middle ages yogis looked for to sublimate into overjoyed understanding. Clearly, all of this things has to be revisited and also revised by a worldwide society that now contains 80% women.
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3. The social appropriation as well as religious identity disputes in yoga are even muddier than we understood.
Mallinson as well as Singleton effectively show that Buddhists (Indian and Tibetan), Jains, or even atheists all lay claim to yoga exercise strategies. And that knew? Muslims also exercised a whole lot of yoga, and created outstanding books concerning it.
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4. Middle ages yogis recognized that asana-- and pranayama-- can be harmful.
“In the Gorakṣaśataka, as an example, we reviewed, 'Through practising yoga I have actually come to be sick'." Then there were several yogis who assumed postures as well as breathwork were whack. "There is no factor in spending a lengthy time cultivating the breaths [or] practicing hundreds of breath-retentions," states the 12th century Amanaska writing, "which trigger illness as well as are tough, [or] great deals of agonizing as well as tough to understand seals. When [the no-mind state] has actually developed, the magnificent breath spontaneously and also right away vanishes."
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5. "Vinyāsa" didn't constantly imply a "series of postures."
Mallinson and Singleton create: "The Sanskrit word vinyāsa made use of ... by Krishnamacharya as well as his students to represent a phase in among these connected sequences is not found with this meaning in pre-modern messages on yoga exercise ... Vinyāsa and also relevant words are more usual in tantric messages, where they generally refer to the setup of mantras on the body ... The modern use of vinyāsa is therefore a reassignment of the significance of a typical Sanskrit word ..." This does not make vinyāsa any less effective, obviously, unless its results come partly from faith.
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6. Body image isn't really simply a contemporary yoga exercise trouble.
Medieval yogis were stressed with slimness. The primary cleaning methods focused solely on losing weight are defined in most of the haṭha texts. Maybe today's yoga exercise feminism, which is gradually steering the culture toward body positivity, is likewise recovering an ancient fatphobia.
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7. The chakras are as a lot a spiritual dream as a really felt reality.
Different yoga exercise sects mention 4, 5, 6, or twelve chakras. So that's right? One says that if you can't situate the chakras within you, that's okay-- doing a fire ceremony is equally as excellent. The chakras "are not a result of the yogi's empirical observation," compose the writers, "however instead components of a visualized setup on the body of tradition-specific metaphysics and ritual schemata." To puts it simply: they are ways of "clothing" the body in spiritual imagery proprietary to various method teams. This holds an important message for practitioners who recognize that language remains to affect physical experience. "The goals of a certain system," compose our authors, "establish the means the body is visualized as well as used within its yoga exercise methods. The yogic body was-- and remains to be in conventional specialist circles-- one that is built or 'written' on as well as in the body of the specialist by the custom itself."
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8. "Yogic suicide" is a thing.
But is it actually suicide? In many communities, samādhi was considered as a joyous meditation where the yogi, intentionally as well as happily, never ever emerged. Yet instead of leaving the world, the 11th century Amṛtasiddhi suggests it's even more concerning combining the body with the serenity of the world, while solving the unknowability of the moment of fatality. "When the sun, in line with Meru, stops carrying on the left, know that to be the equinox, an auspicious time in the body. By acknowledging the equinox in their own bodies, yogis, packed with the vigour [created by] their technique, conveniently abandon their bodies in yogic self-destruction at the correct time."
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9. A dominant motif of middle ages pranayama was complete self-sufficiency.
Muslim yogis give the example of the embryo, breathing its very own liquids, within a womb. This lines up with 19th century records of yogis burying themselves in underground caverns for months on end, stopping their breath in suspended computer animation. This might sound appealing for the modern-day specialist determined to conceal from the 24-hour information cycle.
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10. If you read this book, you are distinct in yoga background.
No one has had such broad accessibility to the variety of traditions as we have now. We used to be offered techniques. Currently we are given choices.
So this is simply a couple of decrease in a whole lot of ocean. It's a vast and maybe frightening region. Guppies, besides, can easily obtain lost, or ingested by bigger fish. However after that-- so was old Matsyendranath, the orphan young boy who, legend states, founded haṭha yoga. He was deserted at the shore by his parents and gobbled up entire by a whale, which then took a deep dive. By chance or fate, this provided him the opportunity to eavesdrop on Siva as well as Parvati as they rested on the sea floor, murmuring concerning the mysteries of yoga. He listened for 12 years, which is regarding for how long it will take this reviewer to completely soak up Roots of Yoga. And, probably-- for it to come to be the leading book on every yoga exercise teacher training analysis list in the English-speaking world.
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exalok · 5 years
Text
Prince!Daud AU, part 14 (repost)
Air dragged into and back out of his lungs. Molasses-slow, numbing his mouth. His fingers pricked like he had stuck his hands into a sack full of pins.
He inhaled. Exhaled. Inhaled again.
“What about–” His throat clicked with an involuntary swallow. “– Emily?”
Daud watched him, uncomprehending, the letter loose in his grip.
“J... Jess's daughter?” he tried again. “Is she–?” It was so cold in here. Had someone left the window open? He couldn't take his eyes off the Prince to check.
Daud shook his head, gaze flickering to the letter and back. “– It doesn't say.”
Corvo moved forward. The Prince stayed stuck in place, feet planted. Something burning spreading across Corvo's shoulder – Right. Sunlight through the window. He snatched the letter from the Prince's hands.
It was short, concise: a string of words across the center of the page. The Empress is dead. Port blockaded. Nothing from CR. Ty. The part of him still occupied with understanding rather than reacting filed away the knowledge that the Prince had had spies all the way in Dunwall. Daud watched him, arms useless and open, backed against the desk. Outside the window lay the sea and the shining carcass of the city; beyond that, mountain and hill and tilled field torn through by the great canal; and beyond that, gray cloud, rain, the breathing of an empire. The letter fell to the ground.
“Corvo,” said that thin pale mouth.
“I need to get to Dunwall,” Corvo said, and walked back through the door.
Burrows should have kept her safe. He had dozens of people scattered across the Isles, whispering in his ear about a chess piece moving here, another there, and informants in every corner of the city – yet he had missed this one. Someone had gotten through. Something had gone wrong.
Corvo's heels rattled down the stairs, one then two at a time, servants dodging out of his way to hug the walls. Burrows was a snake, smarmy and split-tongued and unrepentantly disdainful towards anyone from outside the borders of his precious Gristol, but he was mostly competent; if this had happened, it must have been betrayal – a double agent keeping back information – someone turned from the inside – or skill and forethought beyond even what the Spymaster could prevent.
Corvo stopped, abrupt, in the middle of the courtyard. What if– No. He hadn't been gone so long. Surely Sokolov and the rest of the natural philosophers had made progress. Surely they were still laying off whoever came in with a fever or a persistent cough, despite what– what she'd said about the cruelty of it, how she hated, hated seeing them go, and she gave them enough pay to last them a few months – no. She hadn't gone the slow, withering way of those he had seen with raw-red wrists and ankles chained to their beds, lined up in the hospitals, before the madness spread too far for the Empress to consider visiting the sick.
Footsteps on stone, and a voice, “Attano,” and a strong hand holding his upper arm. “What do you think you're doing,” said those gray eyes.
Corvo jerked out of his grasp. “I need to get to Dunwall.” He started forward again.
The footsteps followed him.
“And what will you do once you arrive?” The path from the courtyard to the dock was laid with slabs of smooth white stone; they clacked under the strike of his heels. He still couldn't see the pier, hidden by the rise of land before the beach.
The Prince's boots followed alongside him. “Attano.” The path became wide steps, lodged in the side of the cliff, curving down to the gray line of the shore. Corvo kept moving: the solid wood of the steps, then shifting sand and rock, then creaking pier, sea water sucking at the posts, salt wind and empty bay. Of course. There was no–
Usually the dockmaster would send a message by radio, and the warehouses in Karnaca would send a ship, and aside from Reda's Corvo hadn't seen any remain for more than a couple of days –
There was no boat.
“Attano.”
He turned. “I'll swim across.”
“Don't be fucking stupid,” the Prince retorted. Corvo snarled, bristling, but that sharp face was unmoved, pinprick pupils in the midday sun.
He wasn't supposed to be here, in still-hot weather, with the smell of the sea and silver dust. He wasn't supposed to be guarding this man in his stark finery.
(He had crossed miles and miles of ocean for her. She had bade him go for the sake of her city, and he had obeyed, and he had abandoned her.)
He should never have left.
“I'm going to Dunwall,” he said, lip curling. She had needed him. She had needed him.
“You'll be a target for every noble-blooded rat in that city.” The Prince didn't shift, but the intent to do so was loud in the tension of his shoulders under the jacket, in the stiffness of his arms held at his sides. His gray eyes stared Corvo in the face. “They'll take you for a threat. Your... relationship with the Empress is common knowledge among the aristocrats –”
“You think that matters?” His teeth were bared, the funnel of his lungs only barely holding back a howl, and Daud flinched back as though whipped. “That what they think of me – of her – matters?”
The Prince's teeth gritted. “Yes,” he hissed, “it does. I've been fighting with politics much longer than you have.” His hand was at the sleeve of Corvo's coat, clenched like a vise; Corvo went to lever his wrist away – and at the first touch to his glove the Prince let go, staring at his own hand then stepping back, turned away, but still his eyes met Corvo's when he looked up again.
There was a moment where Corvo wanted to shout, to vomit the rage clattering in the trap of his ribs. Wanted to excoriate, strip skin to fit raw singing nerves, to shatter every confident bone in the political body before him. To raise his fists and invite a terrible violence into them.
(The light in those gray eyes was different. Hard, yes, but not with scorn. Brittle. Corvo thought he had never met the like, couldn't know what it was– and then, he felt he must – that he knew it with a peculiar kind of intimacy.
It was despair. It was fear.)
The moment passed. His spine felt stiff as a strung bow. Where there had been a scouring tangle Corvo was left with nothing but the cold hollow of its passing, taking up all the space from gut to sternum. He hardly knew how he could breathe around it.
“Then tell me,” he said, voice weak and harsh through the lock of his jaw. “Tell me what I must do.”
Anything. Anything – take the first boat to Dunwall and find out for himself what had happened, find his Empress and find Emily, send word to Burrows for permission to return, publicly renounce his old title, beg on his knees before Parliament – wait for news from the city, wait for the Regent to call the Isles to the funeral, wait for– for the next Empress– for Emily to take the throne, wait –
Wait here. Forever.
(Emily. Where was Emily. Emily. Emily. Emily.)
The look on the Prince's face was unfamiliar. Corvo wanted to call it calculating, but the corners of his mouth were too soft – and if it had been pity, it would have stirred the brutal depths of his anger. Instead he breathed. Listened. The stillness of a man asking for a mission.
“In Imperial matters, there is usually a smaller, private ceremony before the grand official one,” the Prince said, his aimless hands conspicuous. They hovered, uncertain; the left rested absently on the grip of his sword. Corvo watched them, and didn't look at his face. “You wouldn't be welcome, but... you served her for eleven years. You have a stake in this.”
Yes. Anything to get him in Dunwall. “When.”
“I'll have a ship readied.” There was nothing in his eyes, now. Had it been Corvo's own shaking heart reflected in their iris, like a silver-backed mirror? (What could make a Prince afraid?) “When word comes through the proper channels, we'll leave.”
“Fine.” He did not ask how many days it would take; didn't ask whether it would be weeks, or months, or what the proper channels were. He was the bodyguard, and he would follow the orders given to him. Corvo turned, empty. Dry salt spray scraped away under his soles as he walked. “When word comes.”
The Prince didn't try to hold him back.
The sky was cloudless, and white with sunlight. From the cliffs behind the palace, he watched the spread of the ocean, his mind as empty as his palms.
Dodge came to see him while the sun was still high. Corvo stood in the middle of the wide open terrace by the gallery, his sword hanging loose and unsheathed in his hand. He had considered practicing, to burn away the trembling in his nerves; instead he looked out to the cliffside, to the wind-twisted trees, and remembered the slope of Jessamine's shoulders in gray Dunwall sunlight as they walked the Tower gardens, the fall of her hair after her father's funeral, the delicate tilt of her neck at thirteen when she demanded he help her climb the only flowering tree in the courtyard. Emily would be about a month old by now. He had to brace against the desperate, surging need to believe she would one day turn thirteen and want to climb a tree.
“Corvo,” Dodge called, and Corvo turned to face him, his sword dragging a half-circle into the earth. There was hesitation clear on the bodyguard's face: tense hands, stance switching to flight-ready.
Corvo did nothing to calm that fear. He had no energy for kindness.
Yet Dodge hung back and watched him for no more than a couple of seconds before coming slowly forward, drawing to a stop a meter away.
“Thomas and Kay are with Daud,” he said. “You can... take your time.”
The words barely registered past that edge of wariness, Dodge's voice soothing and flat, like talking to a spooked horse. Corvo's teeth clenched. He stared Dodge in the eye, expressionless, until the bodyguard turned and left.
Watching his retreating back, the sound of waves crashing against cliff stone washed in and out of him. The smell of salt and soft rotting things. He couldn't remember why it had felt so familiar: in Batista everything had smelled of metal and dirt first and foremost, or old congealed blood and the sloughed insides of hundreds of fish when you got down near the docks. The sea had only been an afterthought.
As the afternoon strung out into evening, he sheathed his sword and faced the tall facade of the dining hall. It was about time he went back. He couldn't spend the whole day staring out to sea like some heartsick fishwife.
The inside of the palace was cold and quiet – though perhaps that was the loss of the sun, despite how he hadn't felt it while standing outside. Marble halls, trapping the coolness of the wind, heat sucked into the ground. It had looked riotous with color when he first arrived. None of that had gone – but he looked only at the black tips of his boots as he ascended, and the dark wood of the stair steps, and thought of every inch of the palace stripped bare to brick and mortar.
The Prince's doors were closed. Thomas stood to the side. They looked at each other across the hall, Corvo blank-faced, the bodyguard stiff and impassive.
“You're taking over?” Thomas asked, inflectionless. There was an unusual tilt to his head that Corvo couldn't interpret.
“Yes.”
Thomas opened the door and Corvo stepped through.
The Prince wasn't in sight, but the sound of running water filtered through the door to the bathroom. Corvo tried not to feel relieved that he would have a few more minutes to himself. He stood at the window first, looking through to the empty dock, though even from this vantage point a spine of land hid the shore. Beyond the mountains, the sun was setting. It stained the ocean in orange and red.
The desk was still littered with ongoing correspondence, and a new pack of letters had been left at the edge. Corvo picked up the handful, started leafing through them, checking off names from the list he had begun building in his time here – he knew a surprising amount of the ones in this stack – and only realized he'd been looking for something when he found the letter near the back. The ink was blue, the writing steady. The wax seal held the outline of a swan.
The envelope shook. The rest of the letters dropped back to the desk.
He couldn't– If he– Reading it now was a bad idea. He needed focus. He needed– He needed to breathe. His throat felt narrow as a reed. He folded the letter in two, and once more, careful, and tucked it into the pocket of his coat, careful, careful. He sat in the chair by the window.
The Prince came out of the bathroom. It was like the air had thickened, clear and dense; like time had forgotten the workings of its own gears. The Prince came out of the bathroom, and Corvo followed the gradual tread of his feet; he said something; Corvo looked at him, answered; and then the Prince was at his desk, reality stuttering. He wrote; annotated; said something else. Corvo watched nothing, and said nothing. The quiet congealed.
Night fell, at some point. The Prince slept. He must have gotten up; he must have undressed, and slipped under the covers. Corvo listened to his quiet breathing; his silence.
He brought out the letter.
His hands were clumsy, awkward. Like his skin was an ill-fitting glove.
Corvo dearest, and he held on for control of his breathing, the air shaking wildly in his lungs.
The moon is full outside my window and I wonder what you must be doing, in this moment, halfway across my empire. How much colder has it gotten in the weeks since you arrived? I have only ever heard of Karnaca as a land of warmth and sunlight, but surely you must feel the seasons as we do. Here the rain is like ice, and the roads sometimes freeze overnight, though we have not yet seen snow. I know it happens every year – but part of it, this cold, feels due to your not being here. I miss you terribly.
Despite winter coming on only one of my staff has begged off work for sickness, a secretary, though I hear one of the Tower Guard was sent home for coming in with a cough as well. I am safe, my dear. You will continue to worry anyway, because that is how you are; do what you must, but know I will still be here when you visi
His teeth were going to crack apart he was biting down so hard. He gently lowered the letter in his lap and dropped his head into one hand, fingers digging at the inner corners of his eyes, and let himself inhale a deep and shuddering breath. Held it in. Let the buzzing pain of the pressure ease the knot from his throat. His eyes stung when he drew his hand away, but because of his nails cutting in or something else he couldn't tell.
when you visit.
I see you are having no trouble getting attached. (And any other time he would smile and try to hide it, imagining the sly curve of her mouth, the inescapably expressive movement of her brow – but now he was afraid to imagine her face at all; afraid her eyes would belie the softness of the thought, and look at him hollow and dark.) Only terrible aside from the silence and the disapproving glares? I would ask when you mean to propose, dear friend, but I suppose you are already married. My heart is gladdened to hear the two of you get along. I know I rarely show it, but for a long time I doubted I had chosen the right course, even if you were the first to agree to it. Tell me, are you truly happy? I need you to be honest.
The thought of Sokolov ordering a child (my child) to sit still for a portrait made me laugh to no end, so I asked him. It took some convincing. I will be sending along the result as soon as he stops grumbling about domineering young women.
Every servant in the Tower marvels at her. She is hardly a month old, and doesn't do much besides look beautiful and stare endlessly at anything that moves, but still they go out of their way to spend a few minutes with her, speak a few words, touch her small hands. She will be loved. She is loved. Sometimes I think I hardly need more than that thought to sustain me through long days and longer nights.
I hope to see you soon.
Your Empress,
Jessamine Kaldwin
The room was quiet and still; the kind of stillness that might be struck, like a chord, and ring out with a deeper silence. Moonlight turned the paper a pale and glowing blue. He felt dizzy. Out of breath, head swimming – like her words had been an ocean and he had only now surfaced. The ink still shone, curls and loops, a thin scrawling thread.
He folded the letter back up into his coat. Across the bedroom, the Prince slept, his shape indistinct under the blanket. So defenseless it almost felt intimate. The bedroom window was too high up the building to aim through properly, and the sheer wall below would be unscalable to most – but Corvo could climb it. If he could, others must. How many nights had the Prince sunk into unconsciousness in this room, unprotected by his resting guards? He had survived through all of them.
And still, Corvo was here. In this chair grown familiar with use. Breathing air that smelled of brine rather than burned oil and rain. Was Dunwall saved at all? Did he care? The world had lost a gentle influence, a southern wind of change, and the ache of her passing was a bruise that wouldn't fade – would only deepen, and darken, and rot. In a moment of bilious bitterness, Corvo thought: better that the plague swallowed the city whole. Better that every eye in Gristol ran red than have her lowered in the ground.
All he could see of the Prince was a tuft of black hair, and the vulnerable slope from shoulder to waist. The line of his sword burned at his hip.
He did not sleep.
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sian22redux · 6 years
Text
Entanglements
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by sian22redux
For @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan  ‘s Angsty writing challenge: Star’s Marvel Mayhem
Prompt:  ‘He was acting like our kiss had broken him, and his reaction was breaking me.’
Bucky x reader
Rating: M
Summary:  The fight for love is sometimes harder than the mission.  
How Bucky and Y/N of Private Party came to be together.
Timeline:  After Wakanda of Black Panther end scenes, but assumes IW is over and he’s safe.
Tags:  oral sex-mentioned, het, canon-compliant mayhem, hurt/comfort, angst, angst, angst
Thank you so so much to the heroic @wheelrider for expert beta’ing, even in a fandom that is not hers!!  And to awesome @theycallmebecca for checking it worked!  
—————————————-
The first time it happens, it is just a drunken hookup.
The party at Avengers Tower is star-spangled, loud, and pulsing fun; rare vodka fueled and graced by the hottest DJ in New York.  You’ve left your uniform and new medal of valour in the hospitality suite Miss Potts has thoughtfully laid on.  Donned a slinky black cocktail dress and four-inch heels and walked into the space on Mr Stark’s arm,  blushing at his gushing praise.  
Thank heaven this evening event is more relaxed than the White House’s lavish ballroom. Your knees had knocked so loud you were sure that the President had heard. Visibility is not your thing.  Or speeches.  But your few heartfelt words had tumbled out, applauded by brass and dough-faced senators and Bucky had stood, smiling, looking oh so perfectly edible in a charcoal suit.  He’d winked at you, a shining in his eyes that was almost as bright as in the moment your marksmanship had saved his life.  
 Perhaps you hadn’t imagined his yearning after all.
Tony plies you with whiskey sours, and sometime after the fourth (or fifth?)  Steve Rogers and Sam Wilson coax you out onto the dance floor.  Time for some fun.   Bucky stands and stares and takes it in: Steve’s hilariously sloppy groove, Sam’s easy sway. He’s frowning adorably, critiquing every move until he’s had enough of watching amateurs.  He sets down his beer, absolutely murder struts out onto the dance floor, and with a ‘my turn punk’ rips you from their arms.  The music settles into something smooth and slow (has Steve’s had a hand it that?) but then suddenly Bucky leans in.  Cheek to cheek and hip to hip.  There’s a fire blazing up inside that takes the pair of you by surprise, and when Bucky whispers, voice molasses dark and slow, “Doll, let’s escape,” you go.  
Oh god.  
You wake up so hung over it feels like you need to shave your tongue.  Your dress is nowhere in sight and Bucky is sprawled out on his stomach.  The bedclothes are mostly on the floor, his evening tux makes a trail of black and white against cream carpet and your (only) lacy underthings dangle off the lamp.  
Fuck, what were you thinking?  
Weren’t, obviously.  You’d let the heady abandon of the evening, the crackling electricity between you both mess with your hard-earned self control, but it just can’t be.  This man is your assignment, the one you are set to guard from the tentacles of a wounded, dying global empire that is trying to grab hold.  
Best not to stick around.  You lever upright, stagger to the washroom, run a wet hand through your tangled hair and try not to notice the lurid hickey on your collarbone.  
Your dress is underneath the dresser (?), you slip it on without a sound, but ugh, the shoes are a pain: your feet are swollen from dancing for so long and so you fumble, trying to do up the flimsy straps.  Finally, the prong slots through the tiny hole.  All set.   
Just as you find your purse and reach across the bedside table for your thong, a silver hand shoots out and clasps your wrist.  
Gently.   
But not planning on letting go. 
“Doll, where ya going?”  Bucky cracks one eye open and the corner of his mouth quirks up.  “No one’s on this morning.  Tony promised.”  
“Got a briefing,” you lie, wincing internally, hating yourself for doing it, but this is a one-time thing and you do not plan on speaking of it.   
Again.  
Or ever.  
The disappointment that clouds the lazy sparkle in his eyes is something to avoid.  You hastily turn away, but at the door you pause guiltily for far too long.  At last, you speak to the quiet resignation from the bed.   
“Thank… thank you.”   
Safe. Or almost.  Steve Rogers wakes up early.  He’s showered after an early run, set up in the kitchen; got french toast frying and washed wineglasses in the drain tray.  He’s grinning.  Wide and hopeful just like an excited Labrador.  
“Breakfast will be ready in a jif.”  
You blink in the too=bright space and think, Fuck my life.  
“Captain… uhh.”  
What the ever lovin’ hell should you say??  
Sorry, can’t stay after banging your best friend. Can’t eat cuz I might just puke.  Or better yet…yes I have read DAOD 5019-1 but this does not constitute inappropriate fraternization across the ranks. 
“Not hungry, Corporal?”  Steve shrugs those massive shoulders and flips a tea towel across his arm, peeking at the toast’s browning underside.  “Suit yourself.”   
You do.
But no regrets.  
It had been too wonderful for that.
—————-
The second time it happens, you tell yourself it is just the frantic release of relief.  
It’s been another too-close-for-comfort call.  Six months past cryo in Wakanda and the insanity that was the Infinity War, and you’d think in the aftermath the remnants of Hydra would no longer care.  But they do, and can’t help but see he’s back, and if they can’t control the Asset, they want him gone.  
There is a careful balance between keeping Bucky safely whole and actually giving him a life.
You’re walking up out of the subway into Battery Park’s wintery sun, a hologram cover hiding your M24 because you just can’t saunter past New York’s Sunday shoppers and happy families pushing strollers openly armed to the teeth.  
Bucky’s a block in front, sunglasses on and hood of his dark puffy jacket pulled right up because camouflage is necessary and the stiff southwesterly off the Hudson is cutting through the naked trees.  He’s heading for the SeaGlass carousel where he will stand and smile, hands sunk deep in pockets, remembering the original aquarium he and Steve delighted in another lifetime ago. 
After two months of tracking him on every outing, you know him well. 
James Barnes loves plums and granola bars.  Extra whip at Starbucks and hunting for old comic books.  The Hayden planetarium and giant, hairy, slobbery dogs.  A fresh trim means things are good because Nat can get close to him with shears.  A fringe of days-old stubble means he’s having harder nights.  The triggers are gone, but not the memory of what he’s done.  When he stops, stock-still in the middle of the sidewalk, lips moving and new hand clenched into a fist, you know he’s centering.  Running through a routine in whatever language comes to his head.  
At least he is a better subject than most.  Always watching.  Baseball cap or hood pulled down, changing his route each day, not making it easy on the goons who might dog his steps.   Or you.
It’s part of what makes this detail fun. This day he’s slid into an empty booth at Gigino, near enough the front for light but not so near he hasn’t a good view of the door.  The notebook’s out, bristling with sticky tabs like a multicolour hedgehog.  You are sitting diametrically across, scanning everything around but him, cuz hit men don’t all look like Brock Rumlow after all and folks carrying things in bags make a prickle at your nape.  Your unobstructed view down the gravel walks is good, but somehow, a figure by the Liberty dock sets the hairs rising on your arm.  Hunched. Looking back too often to the restaurant.  Arm akimbo and hiding something.  
You whisper urgently into the comms, hustle out of the doors and fire on the run.  It’s a challenge but not long range, nothing like the shot before, but precision is the thing.   You have no intention of damaging any of the good folk around.  
The subject drops.  Bystanders freak, scattering in all directions, and even as two agents materialize to cluster around Bucky as a precaution, he looks unerringly across at you, recognition and open longing on his face.  
Yeah. Well.  Me too, pal.
You melt away into the shadows, and after the NYPD have it all locked down, you find yourselves thrown together back at the Tower for a hastily convened debrief.
Coulson’s reviewing footage and Fury’s frowning, tapping impatient fingers on the tabletop, talking about the need for better eyes, but you’re having trouble focusing.  
There’s a thirst in Bucky’s eyes that matches the one making your nether regions throb.  God, how good would it be to strip off the Stark body armour underneath his vest.  Press your skin along the length of him and feel every hot, hard inch.  Too good. To be avoided, but beside you the metal hand flexes back and forth.  As if he’s read your mind.
“Soldier?”  Fury’s question drops like a bomb into your awareness.  Neither of you are listening, too aware of each other to focus on mundane things like strategy.    
“Umm, yeah…”  Buck licks his lips and starts again.  “I mean, no, I don’t know any more about that sleeper cell. 
Fury turns to rake you both with his good eye.  After one eternal minute, he shakes his head, looking more bemused than mad.  
“Get outta here.  Both of you.”
You don’t need to be told a second time.  
Buck stalks out into the hall and you follow, thinking how it was too close a call and you are pissed Hydra’s not backing down and goddammit why are the other agents letting these shitballs get so very close and it’s almost like you are vibrating 
Fuck.  Wrong choice of word.  
Your skin is positively alive with how aware of him you are, nerves jangled, sparking white hot arcs of lust, and then he has to make it worse.   He turns and devours you with those ocean eyes as he slams the button for the elevator.
Hard.  
With his prosthetic hand.
The thought of it on you again makes your bones almost liquefy.
“Steve’s off doing PR.”
The few spare words are said with a crooked grin, eyes challenging, and like lightening you are both struck on.  Somehow, your legs are wound about his waist, lips locked, your back up against the cool mirror of the elevator wall, so engrossed you don’t notice when the motion stops.  His metal arm bangs through the apartment and bedroom doors, makes the hinges scream in protest, and then without warning the axis of your world flips over.  You are both horizontal.  On the bed, frantically shedding clothes until his cock sinks into your molten core.  You arch your back with the utter bliss of it, strokes hard and fast and frenzied, rising higher and then, inexplicably, he stills; drags his lips off your nipple to stare intently at your face.  
“Y/N I ain’t gonna last.  I…”  
You open your eyes and catch his gaze.  His eyes are dark and wide and filled with wonder.  As caught off guard as you by the pure fury of the need– but oh you are not going there.  Not thinking about how right this feels, how close and perfectly in tune you are.  Nope. Nuh unh.  This is sex, not making love.  Scratching an itch.  Purely mechanical.    
“Bucky, move!”  
You flip up your hips just so, knowing instinctively what it will do to him, and pull his hip bones closer, tighter, until you’re both grinning and he’s moaning, long and low, shuddering as he spills and you come apart, shining in the afterglow.
This time you deliberately stay the night.  
You curl up into the crook of his flesh arm because you’re weak.  Just can’t pull yourself away.  It’s warm.  And easy. And some part of you wants the peace—for him and you.
When you eventually awaken, stiff and achy, smelling of sweat and musk and the haute perfume of the disguise you never bothered to wash off, the sun hasn’t risen yet. Bucky’s dead to the world, face soft and slack in sleep, so beautiful and vulnerable it almost hurts.
For a moment, breakfasting together flits across your brain, but no.  Way too risky.  Too much like normal couple life.
You slide out from under a heavy bicep and set your feet soundlessly on the chill of the floor, ignoring a lazy snuffle, but, by the time your shrug back on your (ridiculous) Dolce coat, the worry line has settled on his brow again.  
Damn. For a few precious hours, the perennial mark of his mistreatment had erased.  You want to run a finger down it, smooth away the shadowed ridge with a soft caress, but you do not dare.  That is exactly how another bonfire could ignite.
Instead, you gather up your rifle, activate the hologram and tip-toe away.  Like a thief in the night or a spy who’s set a honey trap.  
You text him ‘sweet dreams’ because this is not the bitch you want to be…  
————————-
The third time it happens—well, it’s just pure weakness…
You are, of necessity, an expert at disguise.  Part of a scout-sniper’s training is advanced stalking skills, keeping yourself hidden from a target just five feet away in rough open bush;  you’ve done that and mastered alternate camouflage for  downtown New York.  Four changes of outfit a day if Bucky’s going far.  Rocker grunge in ripped jeans and blue streaked hair.  Finance exec in Burberry trench and heels.  Thank heaven platform sneakers with lace and skirts are a thing; easier to run in those.  
Bucky may not pick you out, doesn’t know exactly where you are, but he knows you’re there.  Today, your hair is brown, next week redhead, after that could be pink: anything but your natural, and naturally noticeable, pale blonde.  It’s like a game—you hiding and him guessing where you might be.  He shows it (and how he’s memorized every conversation that you’ve had) in little actions meant just for you.
One morning, he ‘just happens’ to be forgetful and leaves a cup of mocha/hold-the-whip on the bench where he just sat.  Another scorching afternoon, he buys your favourite Oddfellows miso cherry cup and leaves it safely in the shade of a blue postbox.  Once, he spends two hours stalking every exhibit at the Met’s armory museum because you’d admitted you’ve never been.  (You like old rifles.  What can you say?)  
How can you not fall for this man?  He’s sweet and kind and deadly.  Wants the best thing for everybody if not for himself, and will soon become impossible to resist.  
Scratch that.  Is.  Is impossible to resist.  
Damn his super hearing.  One lunch strolling past Agent Provocateur, he catches your quiet sigh at something flirty but way, waaay out of your snack bracket and, the next thing you know, he’s marching into Victoria’s Secret.  Cruising the racks in exactly your right size.  Leaving the pink bag wedged behind a subway seat.  
Collecting it is just not wasting money, right?  
It goes on like this for weeks, until the day the teasing shit walks into Narcisse, buys chocolate body paint and leads you straight back in the direction of the Tower.
Oh god.  
This necessitates yet another reconnoiter with wardrobe at the safe house.  No one thinks twice about a well-groomed Chanel-suited woman visiting Tony Stark. 
When the morning comes and you crouch, hand poised above the new skimpy scrap of lace, silently agonizing whether to bring or leave, Bucky sits up in bed.  Confused. Dark hair temptingly messy and fingers reaching out.
“Y/N? Where’s the fire.  It’s early yet.”  
Fuck, he makes this so very hard.  Bucky wants something for himself and you want to give it, but this is, if not exactly wrong, so far from right.  
“Ah…” You don’t know what to say.  The sheets are rumpled low about his hips and the comforter sprawls across the floor.  He’d shoved it off.  Kneeling between your legs to plunder you mercilessly with his tongue.
Oh, Christ, Y/N, don’t think of that.
“I want to get in a run.”  The lie comes easily.  You hate running, but he doesn’t know that yet.
“Gonna hafta change those heels,” he chuckles, stretching languidly.  “You’ll need your coffee first.   Steve said he’d put some on first thing.”  
You pretend to relent, smile and plant the softest of kisses on the knotted scars of his shoulder.  
“See you later,” you murmur, intending to go straight on home, but Steve Rogers has other plans.  Ever the gentleman and always up with the birds, he’s made pancakes. And sausage.  And fruit salad with blueberries.
The table is already set for three.
In the awkward silence, he misunderstands why your mouth is open.  
“Syrup or sugar and lemon juice?  Buck’s mom was British.”  
The assumption you don’t understand the condiments is just too much.  Turning him down again would be far too rude.  
You sit, wrinkled disguise and all, and take a bite of bacon, realizing you have slept with the subject eight times over three different nights and you had no clue what his mother’s background was.  
The fact you want to know is somewhat startling.
From down the hall, you hear the whoosh of water beating down and an adorably off-tune whistle.  Your faithless libido says if you’d played your cards just right you’d be in there too. Soaping up his six pack and the dimples in his butt cheeks.  Going yet another round.  
Desperately, you hide your flaming cheeks in a perfectly foamy cappuccino, but Steve isn’t fooled.  
“You know,” he remarks, casually forking up the detritus of an entire fluffy stack.  “Buck never has nightmares when you are here.”
It’s a hard lesson, but one you obviously have to learn.   
Again.  
Never, never underestimate Captain America’s mastery of tactics.  
———————————–
A week, a month, and you fall into a routine. Bucky’s shadow in the day and his teddy bear at night.  A watcher on his six.  Fire when he needs it and softness when he does not. That he’s let down his guard and become intimate with someone shows just how far he’s come. A growing part of you wants to do this, cheer on every little bit of taking back himself; but another part says stop.
You pride yourself on your skill and professional approach.  Dispassionate execution.  It is part of the reason you are so very good.  You do not get distracted.  At all. You’ve got no baggage. No serious exes clutter up your past. You have not spoken to your folks in years (their commune frowns on ‘making war’).
It comes as something of a shock to need your daily dose of Buck.  Sarcastic jokes.  Lips like silk.  Muscles rippling underneath your touch.  
It shouldn’t matter but it does.  The mission is to protect him.  
Even if it means from yourself.  
———————————-
It is the shot, just a few centimeters stray, that settles things in your mind.  
Sure, everyone has rougher days. Aim a little off.  Skin jumpy and so tight it messes with your zen. But not you.  Never you.  Your concentration is absolute.  You just can’t miss and that is exactly why Coulson first brought you in.  Ms. Hill, in charge of Stark’s security, wants the best of the very best and you are it.  
Next to the man you are sworn to protect.
Barton’s grinning and looking at the minor spread on the target sheet, leaning casually on his bow. “What are you thinking of, Y/N?“ he laughs, blue eyes sliding up to your face.  “Sure ain’t your work.”  
Your cheeks flame up.  He doesn’t mean it.  This is Clint never passing up a chance to take the piss but still it gets your brain cells firing.  What were you thinking of?   Slim hips in black tac pants.  A stubbled, chiseled jaw.  Silver fingers cradling the barrel of a gun.
Shit.
Bucky’s standing not ten feet away in the next corral and, fuck, you can’t help yourself.  It’s the first time you’ve seen him all that day and the need flares up; wild and feral and messing with your head.  You want to know how he’s doing.  Ask about his bout with Steve, see if he wants to grab some lunch, make sure he’s eating right because he’s looking a little hollow in the cheeks and…  
Stop.  
You’re shocked and frankly terrified.  Is this love?  Infatuation? A school-girl crush?  Your heart is raw but what is this for him?  A diversion?  Something steady?  You have no idea, you don’t get much time to talk but you know what it shouldn’t be: too serious.  He is still recovering. You’re his rebound and it isn’t healthy.  Buck needs to date casually, get a better sense of himself and Jesus fucking Christ he is your job.
If Coulson or Fury find out, they’re entitled to put you on report.  A black mark on your copybook.   Though that isn’t what’s got you truly rattled.
You have to be a perfect shot.
For him.
His life depends upon it.
When you finally find the courage to rip the bandage off, you learn first hand that bullshit in Russian has an awfully familiar tone.
Bucky’s a solid wall of disagreement, arms crossed over his chest.  “Babe, it doesn’t have to be this way.”
“It does.”  You raise your chin.  “I am here to protect you.  I can’t do that when my focus is…distracted.”  
“It’s not that way for Nat and Clint.”
Really?  You file that new tidbit of gossip away for more analysis, but still have to regretfully shake your head.  “Not the same. They’re a team, trained to work in tandem.  This is different.”
“It’s not.”  
“It is.”
“Not true.”  
His certainty that you’ll relent begins to melt away. “Y/N, don’t do this.  I thought we had something. Were working on it.  Can be something more.”  
“Please.”
He falls silent in the face of your hard bitten stare.  Lost eyes dark and pleading.  More like a kicked puppy than a famous murderbot, but still you hold.    
You can’t.  You wish you could, but no.  
“It has to be this way for me.”  
To blunt the hurt, you stretch up on tip-toe to press a delicate apology to his lips.  
Bucky flinches, acting like your kiss has broken him and his reaction is breaking you.
‘I thought we had something?’
The accusation rings in your ears all the days to come, but even tears don’t put the heart fires out.
——————————-
You do your job.  Break down and reassemble your gun for the soothing repetition.  Keep well away.  Do exactly what you need to do and not one iota more, but watching him all day is torture.  
Both of you are miserable.
You hide it.  Bucky not so much.  His blue eyes lose their spark;  become haggard and bloodshot.  You know you’ve put the dark bags there, but at least they’re there, you tell yourself when another hit gets foiled.
Everybody notices.  On those rare times you have to be in the Tower, Steve remains so professionally polite and clipped it’s just like being shot.  Next to him, no one knows.  You sit, mute and hurting, inconveniently placed beside Pepper and Maria at a SHIELD event, taking in Natasha’s blistering attack on ‘the gold dipped bitch’ who’s hurt her friend.  They know Bucky, too.  How much the silent, morose Soldier is a capitulation; how working through hurt makes it harder for him to keep the last dregs of Hydra programming at bay.  You hate yourself for it. But there really is no other way and now you realize, it’s getting harder.  Your concentration’s worse if anything and it would be kinder to stop torturing you both.    
The sick reality falls like lead into your stomach. 
You can’t be there at all.  
————————-
You never planned to work for SHIELD.  
You’d enlisted at age eighteen because with no formal schooling and no degree, Uncle Sam was the only outfit that would promise you a job. Your long-honed hunting skills were evident in basic; refined in sniper school until you were something of a legend. You’d set your heart on Special Ops, did every extra ribbon and rotation but still were not sent to the front. Women were not then given combat roles. It sucked.  And if your superiors were sympathetic, they still attached you to endless close protection details. Sent you to the AMU competitions.  Ignored your increasingly strident, respectful pleas for reassignment until you’d thrown your resignation papers down and marched straight off the base.
Seemed like just minutes passed before a bland, grey-suited man tapped you on the shoulder.
“Miss Y/N?” said Philip Coulson with a smile. “Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”
Nick Fury is the best boss you’ve never officially had, because sometimes your Army cover is somewhat helpful and Phil swiftly arranged for your resignation papers disappear.  
The rest is history.
——————————
“You want to be reassigned.”
“Yes, Sir.”
You will not squirm, but the Director, away from prying ears in his secure coordination room, is fixing you with his patented thousand-metre stare.  “You really want to go back to Fort Bragg and do paperwork?  Get trotted out when they need an affirmative action photo shoot?”
You groan. Ugh. They will and you know it, but anywhere than SHIELD is the objective.  Better a clean break, you think, but Fury’s not done with you yet.  
“I hear the First Daughter had some death threats.  FBI’s asked us if we can spare a gun. We could reassign you to Sparrow’s detail.”  
Oh fuck no.  The President’s petulant and self-absorbed teenager burns through agents faster than she raids Bloomingdales.  
It takes everything in you to do that nod.
Fury’s one visible eyebrow nearly hits the roof.  “You are serious.”
“Sir. I am.”  You’ve called his bluff.  You stand to attention and wait for it.  The serious suggestion you know is coming.  
“Thing is, Y/N, we were going to recommend you for a new assignment,” Fury paces, hands behind his back and shoulders to the view.  “It involves training.  As hard as anything you’ve done.”
Really?  You’re skeptical. You’ve done the Rangers even if they didn’t let you in the field. Toughed it out with the toughest the Army had.  
What he says next, nearly has your jaw upon the floor.
“We want you permanently cross-posted to the Advanced Threat Containment Unit.  Watch Sergeant Barnes full time.  Close in as he transitions to his next new role.”  
Surprise makes you blurt out the first thing in your head.  “You can’t mean on combat missions?!”
“Mhmm.”  
But that means…  “You’re sending Bucky back into the field!”
“Got a problem with that, Corporal?”  
Your mouth is hanging open.  “But you can’t…”
‘I don’t do that anymore’ rings in your ears.
“You’re going to let him…”
Fury looks, not mad, but entirely amused. “Not do assassinations, no. But let him train and participate.” 
“You can’t,” you stubbornly repeat.  He’s stupidly reckless.  Prone to throwing himself headlong into everything. Not completely healed.  “Not ready,” you finish lamely. 
“You disagree with the psych eval?” 
You shuffle your feet.  This is thin ground. SHIELD does not employ folks with fake degrees.   “No, Sir.” 
The Director smiles, as warmly as you’ll get.  Which is to say, about as a warm as a melting icecube.  “Good. Sergeant Barnes needs someone who has his back and Captain Rogers can’t do that leading from the front.”  
So true.   But also why Bucky shouldn’t be out at all.  “Sir, he forgets…”  To care about himself enough.  
“Precisely why I’ve suggested you be assigned.  You are the best markswoman we have got.  Look, I’m not entirely happy with this either, but he can’t sit and knit forever.  Stark says he’s ready.  The -ologists say he’s ready.  And he’s spending his days moping around the compound too much.”  You wince inside, knowing the cause of that.   “Getting some of his own back might even help.”  
It might.  
And someone will try to take Bucky out again.
And he will be focused on everything but himself.
Shit.  
There is no choice.  
You know you can keep him safe.
Fury, the bastard, just stands and cracks his deaths-head grin.
 ———————————
Training with the Avengers is more brutal than anything you’ve done.
Steve’s in charge, and Nat.  Both merciless.  Both focused on honing you into something more than a gun.  It’s brutal and physical but that isn’t the hardest part.
Bucky is there training, too.  
It feels like being a cat on a hot tin roof.  Circling each other.  Carefully.  Two negative terminals on a magnet—repelling as far away as they can get.  
“Corporal.”
“Sergeant.”  
You’ve said no and Bucky is bending over backwards to be polite and perfectly correct.  No physical contact outside sparring.  No first names unless you can help it.  No interaction at all, outside missions, to be honest.  Tony, oblivious (at least you think he is), organizes movie nights and BBQs that you mostly miss.  You follow Buck’s lead, keep yourself more closed than usual.  Socialize with your old SHIELD squad when you can, haunt your room when there is no time.  
It takes a toll.  
You are not, by nature, a recluse but this is how it has to be. You can’t stand the brief flashes of disappointment in Bucky’s eyes, the wariness with which he interacts.  They cut at your resolve. Shred it, until you’re forced to shut out everything but mission goals. 
They come and go.  Days. Weeks.  The strain coils higher, but you tell yourself you are doing it for him: the man whose eyes haunt your waking moments. You become a shell, sapped of life and desiccated, but each shot is crisp and clean.  This makes it right, but not natural. Eventually, you switch roles like understudies in a play.  He is the pro, silent and efficient as he does his job, while you are the damaged one, snapping at every little thing, recklessly taking risks, heedless of your own safety.  
It all seems worthwhile until the day you walk silently up the empty ramp for the Quinjet and find Steve and Sam huddled by the cockpit.
They don’t hear you slide like a shadow into your berth.
“His nightmares are getting worse.”  
Sam whistles low. “Worse? Man, they were bad before.”
Steve slowly shakes his head. “It’s like Wakanda before he went in cryo.  I honestly don’t know how he is even functioning.”    
“Yeah.  But the shit truth is there nothing you or I can do about it.”  Sam sounds resigned.  “Unless he comes clean on what it is that’s eating at him, and you know he won’t do that easily. Dude’s too stubborn.”
“He’s not the only one.”  
Steve, you realize later, says this for you.  His eyes bore like a laser into your forehead when he comes over to sit down, shrugging his five-point harness on.  
“Corporal.” 
“Captain.”  
“You good?”
“Yes, Sir.”
You fiddle unnecessarily with the heat shield on your stock.  Out of the corner of one eye, you can see him frown, loop his fingers into his belt and sigh, but you know he won’t call you out, won’t give away your private business to anyone.  Still, the optimist in him can’t help but hope.  Steve Rogers is really like a giant collie dog that shepherds a whole flock of misfits—he isn’t happy unless everyone’s set right; and you and Buck are waay out on the fringe.  It feels as if the solid, brooding bulk of his suit is willing you to change your mind. But you are stubborn.
(A trait that you and Bucky share, along with snark and an obsession with perfect lattes.) 
While you wait for everyone to load, you keep your head down and bite your lip, worrying about what you’ve heard.  Fuck, if Buck’s not sleeping that makes both of you, and to do this job you need to be on. You’re good.  You’re fine, you can tolerate a little sleep deprivation, but Bucky—that’s not right. Years of cryo and mind-wipes have messed with the circuitry.  He needs sleep to heal, more than most, and you shake your head, knee vibrating like Clint’s bowstring, dreading but anxiously awaiting for him to load.  
You don’t have long to wait.  Nat and Clint clatter past and take the pilot seats, Tony swans through and starts briefing Steve with last-minute intel and then Bucky’s there. Stowing his gun and hiding behind a fall of dark, lank hair.  You’re shocked.  It’s been a week since you saw him last, in the common room, but oh god he is worse. Clearly.  He barely responds when Clint does a system check. Grunts at Steve’s chirpy welcome. Falls into his seat across from you and that’s when it starts.  The sense of failure.  The hurt that the brutal truth is you are making this all worse; doing exactly what you had wanted to avoid.
Bucky’s not safer with you there.  He’s more in danger and the knowledge of it sucks out all the oxygen.
You spend the three-hour trip and first half hour of the ensuing firefight under water, surfacing for precious gulps of air between the mounting pressure in your chest; like your harness is strapped down way too tight.  
You thought that you’d be helping him, but oh, Y/N, you are really not.  
You need to leave.
Entirely.
Goddamn it hurts, but you have no time.  The heinous bastards who have grabbed a SHIELD tracking station have their dander up, are resisting with all they’ve got and you need to be on your game following as Bucky’s cover.  You leap and sight, neutralize another target still feeling like you can’t get air, watching his lithe form duck and roll, mercilessly slamming a terrorist to the ground.  
His face is all dark angles and unhappy shadows.  Lined and smudged, a ghost of the man who’d smiled, run his fingers through your hair, gently nuzzling at your neck  
“Babe, I could stay this way forever.”
The flash of memory is like a sucker punch to the gut.  
You’ve screwed this whole thing up.  
Can’t do your fucking job cuz you gave in and slept with the man who is your mission and now you’re… what?  
Miserable in his company.  Miserable without.
In love.
Fuck.
This is not how things should be.…  
You’re drowning in the unhappiness, but even with a red haze of doomed understanding filtering across your gaze, you can’t not see it.
The motherfucker three hundred yards away taking aim at Bucky’s head 
You need to pot the asshat now–but your view is obstructed by the base’s cell tower and, so, you leap out, aim and squeeze, heedless of your own back.  The concrete behind the man’s dead eyes neatly disintegrates in a spray of elegant debris and your world dissolves in a rain of stabbing hurt, like a whole river of gravel is fired from the sky.  
You fall.  
There’s a roaring in your ears and the breathlessness is getting worse.  Iron and smoke tinge the soup of dust and rock and gas that your lungs don’t want to breathe. Concussion grenade, must be: and, at first, you struggle, but the twisted beam that roofs your little world won’t even shift.  It’s close, pressing on your chest and you will yourself to fight the panic down.  Don’t disturb it.  Don’t make the situation worse.  You want to laugh at that—fuck no—all you do is make situations worse— but the breath in hurts like full-on hell.  
That has to be good, doesn’t it?  It’s when you don’t feel anything you’re going down…
Ok.. just…lie.  Breathe… take inventory. There’s a trickle of blood running from your hair down through your eyes: you can taste it upon your tongue.  Your left hand stings, but your right is just lying here. Numb. Not moving. Broken probably, but that is the least of your concerns.
The pressure of the beam bears down steadily.
And with it your space to get some air.  
“Y/N!”
From somewhere to your left there comes a voice.  Faint and muffled.  As if someone is shouting way way far away and you realize—this is it.  You are going to die.  No ones gonna arrive in time but weirdly you are ok.  Bucky is allright.  You saw him flip and roll away.  That’s good…that’s everything.  You cough on the settling dust and steel and try to take shallower breaths.  Your heart’s too fast and the air’s too thin and you close your eyes.  Float, indistinct at the edges.  Nothing hurts too much right now.  It’s good. You can close your eyes and drift away.  
“Y/N!”
This time the call is muffled but louder: anguished, as if everything in the world is wrong.
A chunk of steel is wrenched away and for the first time a patch of light shines through the dim.  
“Y/N, are you hurt?!”
You blink through the blood that gums your lashes.  Bucky’s there.  Shoulders wedged into the impossibly tiny space, eyes wide with something you are sure you have never seen.
Fear.
You want to ease his mind, but words are a little hard.  “I’m ok,” comes out more wheeze than whisper.
“Hang on, we’re gonna get you out.”  Bucky barks into the comms for Sam, and help, and oxygen.  He turns and gingerly shoves aside the loose jagged chunks of steel to make a little space.  When there’s a hand’span of pavement clear, he dips down on his left, grimacing and flexing up against the beam.  
There’s a slow metallic groan, an endless pause, but eventually it lifts just barely. 
But sadly not enough.  
The fuzzy world is whiting out, dissolving in a ring of sparks.
“Y/N!”  He frees a hand, shakes you roughly and sends a lance of agony through your chest.  “Stay with me, babe, stay with me.  Cavalry is coming.”  
But we don’t have any horses…  
The wry smile on his face is blurry.  You must have whispered this out loud.  He closes his eyes, resets his metal hand down against the pavement.  Flexes up again.  “Aiighhh!”
The monumental effort gains another precious millimeter and the sparkly whiteness starts to fade to the indigo of his vest.
“What? Can’t you hear the hoofbeats?”  Bucky is shaking, sweat beading on his brow but above there is a whoosh and the carbon ion smell of repulsor jets.
“Got it, Barnes!”
“Took you long enough!”  Bucky sags just slightly, protecting you in case something shifts, but mercifully the metal does not move.  
Sam is crouched behind.  You dimly hear his coolly calm instructions. “Barnes, don’t let her move. Pretty sure those ribs are broken.  Can’t risk a pneumothorax.”  Bucky squeezes out, disappears through the gap but is quickly back again, metal fingers softly pressing a cannula to your nose.  The dizziness fades some more.
“Better?”  His Brooklyn accent aches with hopefulness.  
You nod, warily taking a deeper breath, feeling clean, cool air rush in. Fuck its good but lord it hurts.  At least the world does not swim.  Bucky reaches to brush some damp strands from off your brow and Sam passes a pad into the gap.  You hiss as he presses the treated gauze over the worst of the cut.  “Sorry.  Sorry.”
He glances around the narrow space.  You’re basically in a coffin.  Just wide enough for your hips and long enough for your feet.  When you flex your foot, your toes touch something that feels smooth.  A dish? A beam?  The girders of the tower have toppled like a marionette’s arms and legs when the control strings have been cut.  “Gonna take a bit to cut this mess.  Properly, so it doesn’t shift.”
Bucky’s right, but you’re worrying about the waste of time.  “Is it safe? The cell?”
You mean the rogue Hydra group, the reason why you’re here, because if it’s not, Jesus, you are going to thump him hard.  You’re useless pinned.  But if there’s shooting still going on…
“Relax, babe, we got ‘em.  That grenade was their hail mary pass and it’s failed.  Steve and Clint and Nat are mopping up.”
Thank God.  Some of the tension bleeds away, like steam from a radiator.  You shiver, shock starting to set in, and, tenderly, he drapes you with a silver thermal blanket.  It’s better, but now it’s time to wait.  Bright arcs of light shine through the cracks and you know Tony is working as fast as he can, but still it’s hard.  You’ve been strong forever, but the fear you’ve held a bay is now too much with Bucky near.  
A whimper escapes your lips.
“Shushhh, baby,” he croons, leaning near to cup your cheek with a warm hand. “I’m not going anywhere.   It’s all gonna be ok.”  But it really isn’t.  His other one, metal reflecting Tony’s blazing work, keeps stroking your tangled hair.  This close you can see a forest of tiny scrapes and nicks and cuts upon his dusty skin.
And the ever present smudges of tired grey below his eyes.
“I’m sorry.  I’m so sorry.”  You’re stammering.  You’ve been selfish, you see that now. Doing what you thought right and best for him. Totally certain you had to be the one to help and all the time the ache of want has never stopped.  
It doesn’t matter.  You need to be strong for him.  Move on and let someone else have the watch.  
“I can’t do this anymore.”    
You’re not sure what you are speaking of: holding yourself together while he kneels and strokes your face, or staying at his side.  Both make sense.  The sounds of working are getting louder.  “Barnes, I’m almost through,” crackles through the link.  
A cool metal finger strokes your brow.  “Hey, not much longer now.”
You turn your head, catch the light in his worried eyes. “No..us, side by side.”  
There, you’ve said it.  SHIELD med will patch you up. Ship you out to base where you can crumble into dust somewhere on your own.
It’s brutal but better than being an irritant.  Scratching endlessly at the scab of him.  
“Goddammit, Y/N. You don’t have to go.”  
His growl is not hurt but sheer frustration.  There’s a storm in his eyes and in the flat set of his frown.  Bucky wriggles a little closer in, cradles you like the most precious thing in all the world.   “Fuck, it takes this battered brain a while, but, babe, you gotta hear me out.  I get it now.  You’re terrified that serving alongside someone who means too much makes you vulnerable.  Messes with your skills–but it doesn’t have to be that way.  There’s a shakedown sure, for a little while, but Clint and Nat–they manage.  Wanda manages with Viz.  Steve works alongside me and we may not be lovers but our bond is just as strong.” His lips pull into the saddest smile. “I fucking need you. You. Y/N. Not the Corporal with the medals.  I need you everywhere.  At night, when the monsters in my head crowd close and, in the day, when I need a snarky smile.  You are best thing I have had in my life and I can’t let that go.”  
Bucky’s face is almost pressed against your cheek.  It’s that smile, soft and warm, and just for you.  
Fire in the night and a watcher on your six.  
“I’ve tried, Doll, I really have, but it just doesn’t work. I need you, complicated as it is. And I won’t let you give up on us. Not without trying, anyway.”  
His whisper is rough with meaning.  He huffs out a little sigh and presses an achingly gentle kiss across your bloodied lips.
This time his kiss breaks you….
——————–
tags:  @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan  @theycallmebecca @mewsiex @emilyevanston @mycapt-ohcapt  @pegasusdragontiger  @winters-beauty
@badassbaker @heather-lynn @saffreelove @loricameback @nomadicpixel @missfirstavenger @prplprincez @marvel-lucy
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Chapter 8. New Encounters, my GWTW fanfiction
Read all the chapters edited of The Robillard Boutique, my fanfiction of Gone With the Wind, what happened next ? , on my blog : https://alarecherchedutempsperdu.over-blog.com/tag/the%20robillard%20boutique/
********************** New York, March 21, 1875
The three French girls were enjoying the crisp ocean air on the promenade deck. In a few minutes, they would set foot on the New World. And that would be the beginning of the adventure. The trip had lasted eight days. It was Roger Dax who, at the request of his partner, had gone to the offices of the Compagnie Générale Transatlantique, the French Line, at 6 rue Auber in Paris, to reserve tickets for Blanche Augustine Bonsart Ratier and her daughters Marguerite and Georgette Ratier. The transatlantic crossing was made on the ship SS Amérique*, which had left the port of Le Havre on March 13, 1875. During the journey, the young woman had met an American passenger, a shipowner by profession, who explained the history of this ship, the first French transatlantic. When it was built in 1864, it was named "Impératrice Eugénie", after the wife of Emperor Napoleon III. At that time, it served Central America, from Saint-Nazaire to Vera Cruz. "Do you realize, my young lady? On this bridge traveled, before you, the Empress of Mexico, Charlotte of Belgium. » "In 1870, after the fall of the Empire, the ship was renamed "Atlantique". For the past thirty years, the number of emigrants like you has been increasing. And the shipping companies have "sniffed" the good business. So, all the ships were progressively transformed to increase their capacity in passengers and in speed. Our boat here was completely remodeled in 1873 to be lengthened to 396 feet. The paddle wheel was removed and replaced by a propeller, and a mast was added. It's true that it looks good! The name was changed again to "America". Even if I am a regular on transatlantic journeyses, I am still amazed by the speed records, eight days instead of three weeks twenty years ago! ». Flattered by the interest that the pretty young lady seemed to have in his story, Mr. Watts continued to tell the story of their ship. "She returned to service in January 1874, heading from Le Havre to New York. But it was a close call, because three months later, on the return trip to Le Havre, the ship had to face a great storm. Imagine the fear of the 83 passengers and 152 crew members*! Fortunately, everyone was transferred to small ships that came to help. But the "America" was abandoned. An English ship came to tow it from Plymouth and then it had to return, as best it could, to the port of Le Havre to be repaired. » Blanche breathed a great sigh of relief at the retrospective apprehension of having been confronted with such a catastrophe. The American gentleman added, very happy with this conclusion: "And we have the pleasure to be part of this first Le Havre - New York* crossing since its modernization! This christening deserves to be celebrated. What do you think? "Smiling, he got up to get hot drinks for the young mother and her two little girls. Blanche Augustine Bonsart was once again delighted that the owner of "La Mode Duncan" had bought them a first class ticket in "cabin passage" instead of "steerage class". What a luxury to have a personal cabin! Her mother Augustine had replied that it was quite normal. The rich American was going to deprive her of her only daughter, not to mention little Germain, who would remain under her grandmother's protection. So, at least she was reassured that the trip would go well. The cabins were located in the middle of the boat so that one was not disturbed by the vibrations of the engines. The small room was luxurious, equipped with sheets, water basin, storage space, etc... Blanche was aware that she was one of the privileged few. Everything had been thought of so that the rich passengers would be comfortable. Even the door, with its slatted shutters, allowed for ventilation. The first class had one main living room where one could eat and chat with the other passengers. The room where these wealthy people gathered had two bays separated by a balustrade, furnished with long tables, chairs and upholstered armchairs. There were even bells to call the steward*. "When I think that I ate last night with the captain of the ship! How I wish Germain had been there too. My little boy would have been wide-eyed at the Captain's presence. And Papa would have been proud as a peacock to receive such a character in our estaminet in Lille!" The pretty girl Blanche attracted the eyes of the gentlemen gathered there. But she did not belong to their world. She was in solidarity with the emigrants of the steerage. These were middle-class or working-class people who had to make do with a place in the steerage. The common dormitories were overcrowded, with bunk beds. There was often a struggle to cook in the small stove the food that had been distributed by the shipping company in small portions before departure: oatmeal, cookies, flour, rice, sugar, molasses and a little tea. The single women with children could not defend themselves sufficiently and could only manage to prepare a hot meal from time to time. Everyone ate, slept and talked in the same room. Blanche was pleased that the weather had not been too bad during the crossing, allowing the occupants of the steerage (or "tween deck"), installed above the hold, to get some fresh air on the deck. Continuing his conversation with the Frenchwoman, the friendly shipowner recalled his experience as a passenger on the British ship "Oceanic" leaving from Liverpool. In 1870, this ship had at least 143 crew members, 166 privileged passengers in first class and, above all, a thousand people crammed into the "steerage". Fortunately, the legislation concerning the transatlantic crossing of emigrants had improved since the laws of 1840 and 1850. Before these more protective rules, the consequences of the crossing for the poor migrants could be dramatic, as the hygiene conditions were deplorable and epidemics were frequent. But they all left the Old Continent with hope in their hearts. They had fled famine, misery, religious discrimination and revolutions. So what did this painful journey matter? At the arrival, the hope of a new life in this mythical America was waiting for them. A small, frail hand tugged at the sleeve of her cape. "Maman, when are we arriving?" Blanche looked lovingly at Marguerite, "Soon, my dear. "Reassured, the child hugged her, and her twin sister followed suit. They were dressed warmly: their grandmother Augustine had knitted them large vests and bonnets of the same color. With the money from Roger Dax, her boss, Blanche had bought warm, durable coats for herself and her two daughters from the tailor on Boulevard de la Liberté in Lille. Since the day she received Duncan Vayton's telegram, the young woman had felt as if she were being swept away in a whirlwind. The faces of those she was leaving behind in France appeared to her as a regret: her parents, her brother Georges and especially her eldest child, Germain. Victor Ratier, her husband, had been dead for nearly five years. As for her own heart, it had been buried for a long time in a small village in the North of France, in Erny Saint-Julien. Like hundreds of passengers on deck, Blanche could see the American coastline getting closer and closer. In a few minutes, she would disembark, like all emigrants, at the Emigration Center in Castle Garden**, Manhattan. Her suitcase was ready. Mr. Vayton had insisted that she only pack a few clothes. It was complicated enough to travel with two little girls as young as five. When they arrived in Charleston, she could buy what she and her twins needed, at her boss's expense. Finally, it was time to disembark! With Marguerite and Georgette pressed up against her, Blanche followed the crowd of emigrants, sharing the feeling of being thrown into the unknown. "Maman! Is this America? " Georgette pouted in disappointment as she looked at the austere-looking, circular-shaped fort, which looked menacing. "Don't worry, my little ones. Soon we'll arrive at a nice house. But we have to be good in the meantime. » First, it was necessary to pass the customs formalities. The Captain of the "America" had previously established the list of passengers destined for American customs**. Here again, Blanche Bonsart had an exceptional privilege: in order to prevent her employee from being drowned among the hundreds of asylum seekers gathered in the large amphitheater, the powerful Charleston industrialist had asked his agent to come and greet her upon arrival, carrying a sign so that she would recognize him. As expected, he was there! Blanche breathed a sigh of relief. Duncan Vayton's man of trust guided her into a private office of U.S. Customs. All the documents were ready, including the employment contract with Vayton & Son Limited, her place of residence and, of course, the name of her contact in Charleston. Soon, the little Bonsart Ratier family was officially declared an emigrant of the United States of America. Duncan's employee made sure they had something to eat. He was now in charge of accompanying them to Charleston by train. A little more patience and Blanche Augustine Bonsart would arrive in Charleston! *****************
Charleston, March 21, 1875
The clock was ticking now. Duncan had set his priorities for the day: select the building that would be the headquarters and workshop for "La Mode Duncan," arrange for accommodations for his French employee and her children who would be arriving, and then entertain himself with Rebecca. In reviewing the Vayton & Son Ltd. property list, Duncan noted that there were three buildings in Charleston that had been renovated by his company that would fit his needs. The first house was quickly eliminated. It was a classic Charlestonian single house, but the showrooms would have been too small. The second visit was also disappointing: the colonial-style house was suited to the prestige of "La Mode Duncan" with its high ceilings and large windows. On the other hand, the state rooms would be too close to the sewing room, so the noise of the sewing machines would be disturbing. Tomorrow, his notary will put these buildings up for sale. His last possibility was on the south side of the Battery, near the Magniolas' Mansion! "What a beauty! "Duncan exclaimed as he admired the white building. This venerable antebellum palace was Italianate. It was primarily its asymmetrical "L" shape that set it apart from the others, with its front gable and a two-story, molded-vaulted loggia occupying three-quarters of the facade at the broken-angle end. Instantly, the designer of "La Mode Duncan" had the vision of his models walking around the piazza that encircled three quarters of the building, under the gaze of the invited clients admiring the show from both sides through the French doors in the impressive showroom. What a great show this will be! Because Duncan had already made up his mind, even before he entered the house: Duncan's Fashion USA had its permanent home at 26 South Battery. He passed through the door with sanded windows. An impressive spiral staircase faced him. The vast showrooms, with arches around the windows and room entrances, the waxed parquet floor bringing an authentic warmth to the place, the ceiling moldings reminiscent of Italian architectural motifs, all this ensemble would perfectly embody the luxury and elegance of the "La Mode Duncan" label. An octagonal skylight decorated with stained glass overhung the top of the stairs. Upstairs, smaller, well-lit rooms would be perfect for use as fitting rooms. Other narrower rooms would be used to store accessories and the most beautiful models visible to the privileged clients. His office was already chosen next door. The key architectural element in Duncan's choice of building was the famous "L" shape, which had a building alongside it that would allow the sewing room to operate in large spaces without the noise of the machines interfering with visitors to the showroom. An outbuilding had been added as a continuation. Duncan was pleased to see that these rooms had clearly been converted into separate living quarters. A kitchen, a bathroom, a dining room, and three bedrooms upstairs were perfect. Duncan would ask one of his Magniolas' Mansion housekeepers to freshen up the place. The butler would go in today to stock the little house with food, cleaning supplies and linens. When Blanche and the twins arrive, their beds will be ready!
Satisfied, Duncan headed back to the Magniolas' Mansion. He still had to select from a catalog the latest model of Wheeler and Wilson Sewing Machine Company, which would be shipped from Bridgeport, Connecticut. As for raw materials, and before the Duncan & Harvey mill was operational, the best fabrics from a northern mill would do. He would make the trip this week. He had already placed an order with his partner in France to send him the finest lace, embroidery, silk and organdy. ******************
The young man sighed with satisfaction. Everything was going as he had imagined. Tonight he could finally relax. He walked to a residential street near the Battery. The Widow Mansfield's house was well kept. No sooner had he signaled his presence with the door knocker than a smiling young woman greeted him. Rebecca, her brother John and Duncan had been childhood friends. They spent all their free time at each other's family homes. They were from the same social background, and the plantations of both families were close. As they grew up, the clan was still very close. It was a race to see who could do the most mischief between the two boys of the same age. Rebecca, two years younger than they were, followed them faithfully and shared their games. Later, John and Duncan went to school together. Then time separated them. A fortnight ago, Duncan stumbled across John Paxton on the street. The two old friends hugged loudly, happy to be reunited after all this time. Over a drink, sitting in a tavern, the two men recalled the years they had spent without seeing each other. John had become a shipowner, owning cargo vessels docked at the Battery's port. "Always wanting to be on the high seas! "Duncan commented, tapping his friend on the back of his shoulder. "I could say the same about you, the Parisian! ». John laughed. He was always cheerful. That was one of the qualities Duncan loved about him, a great optimist. Naturally, Duncan asked about his former childhood friend, Rebecca. "My dear sister is well. Should I even confess? She's fine! She is a widow, mind you! » Duncan looked surprised and was about to offer his condolences. But John Paxton stopped him with a wave of his hand. "Frankly, there's nothing to be sorry about. I'm not sad that he died of a heart attack. It was probably a fit of nastiness that took him! "John added wryly. Noting Duncan's raised eyebrows, the young man said, "He put my sister through hell. Jealousy, greed, and violence. In short, he had all the faults. It made my heart ache to see how unhappy Rebecca was under him. When he died four years ago, no one mourned him. Especially not his wife! » So Rebecca was free now... Duncan stared at his friend, smiling. They knew each other so well. I'd love to see her again. Did she go back to live with your parents? » "No, she kept her late husband's house. Let it at least serve her for something. » Duncan laughed under his breath. Good John, generous to everyone, had made an exception for his brother-in-law. "I was just about to go see her. Do you want to go with me? » And that's how he had found Rebecca. With the same pleasure as when they were teenagers. In fact, more pleasure because Rebecca was even more attractive than he remembered. The clan of the three had reformed. Then Duncan twice invited Rebecca to the restaurant and the theater. Their exchanges were full of gaiety and connivance. On the evening of March 21, 1875, his childhood friend invited him home for dinner. The young woman jumped on Duncan's neck in a natural way, recapturing the closeness of their teenage years. After a light meal, they enjoyed coffee in the living room. Duncan simply poured himself a glass of whiskey. "How good we are together! Don't you think so? " Rebecca relaxed in a shepherdess, and looked at her childhood friend with laughing eyes. "Sure, you know you're even prettier than you were at fifteen? "Duncan's blue eyes played with his young friend's gray ones. She made a small modest moue. The widow knew she was pretty and had never lacked for admirers. She had only made one mistake in her life, marrying Henry Mansfield. He was rich, of course, and she had inherited a substantial sum from him. Since his death, she felt like she could breathe again. She was enjoying life. And the admiring glances of the men in her world. After having been so constrained by a tyrannical husband, and recluse without being able to visit her friends, Rebecca had decided to enjoy her widow status as a free woman. Oh, very elegantly and discreetly, of course! Her birth and education as a lady of Charleston's good society did not allow her to display too much misbehavior. But one also knew how to be discreet in her world. She had had two affairs in the last four years. "In fact, nothing very captivating! " thought internally the young woman. "A stunt to pass the time. » But it would be different with Duncan Vayton if.... "Duncan, you know, I've never forgotten the afternoons we spent by the lake. How carefree the three of us were. Do you remember that? "She looked wistfully at her guest. Duncan felt like he was floating. The whiskey, of course, was working. But not only that. With Rebecca, golden years flashed before his eyes. And early teenage emotions... "Becca, I haven't forgotten anything. "He used the nickname from their childhood. "Especially not a certain stormy day when you and I had to take shelter in the lean-to by the riverbank. "Duncan's voice became more and more caressing. The blond curls of Rebecca had released from its bun. One of her had rested on her breast. With amusement, he compared it with the small breasts which he had caressed that day, under the rain. They had exchanged a real kiss for the first time. There had been many others before, behind a bush, in a corridor, but all that remained quite childish, like a slightly more demonstrative embrace. But, the fury of the storm had brutally stimulated their nascent envy. The caresses had become lascivious. Who knows what would have happened if John had not come to join them at that moment? Rebecca's cheeks reddened at this mention. Not because of embarrassment, but because she remembered her emotion, as if it was yesterday. An emotion which has just reappeared, even more violent. "How handsome he is! " thought she. Even as a child, she admired him. She adored him. Duncan, with his blonde hair, was her sunshine. As she grew up, she didn't even mind the other male friends who wanted to play with her. There was only Duncan. Then there was that first unsettling kiss in the lean-to. And then there were many more which followed. John was not fooled and had well understood the maneuver of his two companions. My goodness! He could see himself becoming Duncan Vayton's brother-in-law. And then the visits between the two teenagers became more and more frequent, as they were received by one family or another. So much so that the Vaytons and Paxtons began to dream.... It would be a beautiful alliance, that was certain. When Duncan and John went off to boarding school to study, it was a heartbreaker for Rebecca. As soon as the vacations rolled around, the sun came back out with Duncan's blond hair. The caresses between the two youngs became more precise and insistent. With a glass in his hand, sitting in the widow Mansfield's living room, Duncan mused as he moistened his lips, "I'd like to compare your little breasts from before with those of today..." It was at that precise moment that their eyes met. Duncan stood up, and without a word, walked up to his hostess, brushing against her. Rebecca shivered. "How is it possible to feel the same attraction as sixteen years ago? As if we had left each other yesterday? "She hadn't realized she'd spoken aloud. Duncan's azure eyes grew deeper. "Becca, you're more gorgeousl as ever. When I thought of Charleston, back in Paris, I saw your beautiful gray eyes again. "With one hand, he wrapped his arms around her shoulder. With the other, he lifted her chin and kissed her gently. With ardor, Rebecca answered his kiss. She had the impression to live a dream. After some languid embracing, Duncan stopped and bowed his head. "What is it? "the young woman asked. Her lifelong friend looked her squarely in the eye: "I have never lied to you, you know that. When we were young, I felt an immense tenderness for you. But I left because I didn't want to get married. I was too young. I even confessed to you that I didn't imagine one day committing myself. » "I know, I remember," Rebecca had lowered her head before Duncan caught her expression of sadness. "Unfortunately, I haven't changed my mind on that. I can even tell you that I will never marry. I am too used to my independence. And yet, you know that, as before, I am attracted to you. But you deserve the truth. I care about you too much. » Then, Rebecca looked him in the eyes. She clasped her hands around his neck and kissed him fiercely. When they caught their breath, she confidently stated: "My darling, I too love my freedom. I have been deprived of it too much. No more marital constraints, that's fine with me. We get along so well, Duncan. And... I betrayed myself earlier by speaking out loud. So you know how I feel. Why don't we both take advantage of our physical attraction and our immense closeness to enjoy life? No one would need to know. What do you think? "Her voice had softened a bit, for fear that Duncan wouldn't believe her detachment. In response, Duncan lifted her in his arms and laid her back on the couch. The friend-lovers had just rekindled the flame of adolescence. ****************
In the morning, after a cheerful breakfast, Duncan Vayton kissed Rebecca tenderly and left the Mansfield’s house. He had many things to do, including contacting his business agent in Charleston to let him know that Vayton's fashion house was hiring, and that they were looking for serious, experienced, motivated workers. It was only in the evening that James drove Duncan to the train station to greet the French woman and her two children. When he appeared on the platform, two little girls rushed towards him. "Tonton Duncan, Tonton Duncan! "(uncle), and they took turns kissing him. Blanche looked at them with a tender look. A great breath of happiness came over her. Then Duncan stood up and kissed the young woman on both cheeks. "At last, Blanche, you're here! I've been waiting for you because we have work to do! And I need my best seamstress to take over the sewing room. Welcome to America, Miss Blanche! » Duncan gave her his best smile. He was sure now that "La Mode Duncan" was well on its way, with the help of his loyal assistant.
***************** Notes on chapter 8 :
The Compagnie Générale Transatlantique was created in 1855 by the brothers Emile and Isaac Péreire. Transatlantic ship: first called Empress Eugenie PSS (1865~1871) America SS (until 1895) Built by the Chantier de l'Atlantique de Penhoët in Saint Nazaire. Inaugurated on April 23, 1864. Originally, she was 105.63 meters long, 13.41 meters wide, with a tonnage of 3,200 tons. Iron hull, two masts, with a speed of 12 knots. On February 16, 1865, it made its first crossing from Saint-Nazaire to Vera Cruz. In 1873, it was extended to 121.91 meters, with a tonnage of 4,585 tons. The first voyage from Le Havre to New York was resumed on 13 March 1875. No luck! In December 1875, she broke her propeller shaft while leaving, and had to be towed again to Ireland. In 1876, it was equipped with a lighthouse and electric light on the outside. She ran aground again on January 7, 1877 at Seabright, New Jersey, and was refloated on April 10. She resumed her transatlantic crossing on August 11, 1877. On May 1, 1886, she made her last trip from Le Havre to New York, and then moved on to the Le Havre - Panama route. In 1888, electric light was installed inside the ship. Finally, on January 28, 1895, it ran aground in Savanilla to be transformed into a wreck. Sources: Noel Reginald Pixell, wrecksite. Castle Garden, New York: the first emigration center, originally a military fort. This reception center was created in 1855 in order to prevent unscrupulous employees or swindlers from accosting emigrants upon their arrival in this unknown country in order to offer them lodging, shelter, and, ultimately, to swindle them. Custom passenger list.
Author : Arlette Dambron
**********
Disclaimers : I do not own the story and characters of Gone with the Wind, which belong to Margaret Mitchell. I have created the "world" of Duncan Vayton and Blanche Bonsart.
#fanfiction, #GWTW fanfiction, #GWTW fantic, #Gone with the Wind fanfiction, #end of Gone with the Wind, #migrants, #migration USA, #migration from Europe, #French roots, #french ancestors, #transatlantic trips, #transatlantic boats, #Castle Garden, #Charleston, #Battery house, #steerage class, #french boats
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isobelcannonfmpyr2 · 3 years
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COACHELLA
The reason why I chose to research Coachella is because it links well to my trend, context and fashion. Each year I see on social media, huge A list celebrities getting ready and showing off their outfits. It is a huge deal to have a show stopping outfit at Coachella and many big Youtubers film videos around their outfit and other small Youtubers react and rate them. I find this interesting as it is made to be such a big deal and probably its pressure on people to dress to impress. The main reason I wanted to research into Coachella is because my main concept of the project I to focus on the impact COVID has had on the music industry. As Coachella has missed out this year, I want to see what effort people will put into it next year. People could be more humbled or might come back bigger and better. Some peoples outfits I have seen at Coachella link to many of the sub-trend to my chosen trend, Euphoric. This can help me to develop my work as I can take inspiration from celebrities outfits and use this for new research.
The Coachella Valley Music and Arts Festival (commonly called Coachella or the Coachella Festival) is an annual music and arts festival held at the Empire Polo Club in Indio, California, in the Coachella Valley in the Colorado Desert. It was co-founded by Paul Tollett and Rick Van Santen in 1999, and is organised by Goldenvoice, a subsidiary of AEG Presents. The event features musical artists from many genres of music, including rock, pop, indie, hip hop and electronic dance music, as well as art installations and sculptures. Across the grounds, several stages continuously host live music. The festival's origins trace back to a 1993 concert that Pearl Jam performed at the Empire Polo Club while boycotting venues controlled by Ticketmaster. The show validated the site's viability for hosting large events, leading to the inaugural Coachella Festival being held over the course of two days in October 1999, three months after Woodstock '99. After no event was held in 2000, Coachella returned on an annual basis beginning in April 2001 as a single-day event. In 2002, the festival reverted to a two-day format. Coachella was expanded to a third day in 2007 and eventually a second weekend in 2012; it is now held on consecutive three-day weekends in April, with the same lineup each weekend. Organisers began permitting spectators to camp on the grounds in 2003, one of several expansions and additions in the festival's history. Coachella showcases popular and established musical artists as well as emerging artists and reunited groups. It is one of the largest, most famous, and most profitable music festivals in the United States and the world. Each Coachella staged from 2013 to 2015 set new records for festival attendance and gross revenues. The 2017 festival was attended by 250,000 people and grossed $114.6 million. Coachella's success led to Goldenvoice establishing additional music festivals at the site, including the annual Stagecoach country music festival beginning in 2007, the Big 4 thrash metal festival in 2011, and the classic rock-oriented Desert Trip in 2016. 
The 2018 festival featured headlining performances from The Weeknd, Beyoncé, and Eminem. Making up for her cancellation the previous year, Beyoncé became the first African-American woman to headline the festival. Her performances paid tribute to the culture of historically black colleges and universities, featuring a full marching band and majorette dancers, while incorporating various aspects of black Greek life, such as a step show along with strolling by pledges. The performances were also influenced by black feminism, sampling black authors and featuring on-stage appearances by fellow Destiny's Child members Kelly Rowland and Michelle Williams as well as sister Solange Knowles. Beyoncé's performances received immediate, widespread praise, and were described by many media outlets as historic. The New York Times music critic Jon Caramanica wrote, "There's not likely to be a more meaningful, absorbing, forceful and radical performance by an American musician this year, or any year soon, than Beyoncé's headlining set". Her performance garnered 458,000 simultaneous viewers on YouTube to become the festival's most viewed performance to date, and the entire festival had 41 million total viewers, making it the most livestreamed event ever. A report in Teen Vogue described "rampant" sexual harassment and assault at the 2018 festival, and the author said she was groped 22 times in 10 hours. In response, Goldenvoice announced a new initiative in January 2019 called "Every One", which comprises "fan resources and policies" to combat sexual misconduct and improve the festival's responses to such behavior. "Safety ambassadors" were made available to direct attendees to professional counselors, and specially marked locations were added for attendees to seek services or report incidents of sexual misconduct. One of the program's goals stated, "We are taking deliberate steps to develop a festival culture that is safe and inclusive for everyone". Coachella celebrated its 20th anniversary in 2019. Taking place from April 12–14 and 19–21, the festival was headlined by Childish Gambino, Tame Impala, and Ariana Grande. At 25 years old, Grande became the youngest artist to headline the festival and just its fourth female headliner. The festival was beset with several challenges. Justin Timberlake was reportedly slated to headline but had to cancel after bruising his vocal cords. Goldenvoice was also forced to abandon plans for Kanye West to headline, as they could not accommodate his request to build a giant dome for his performance in the middle of the festival grounds. West was instead allowed to hold the first public "Sunday Service" performance on Easter on April 21 at the venue's campgrounds. West and a gospel choir performed an approximately 33-song set list of his songs as well as classic R&B and gospel covers. The first weekend of the festival suffered audio technical difficulties with several high-profile performances. The following weekend, The Daily Beast published a report of the alleged "inhumane treatment" of the festival's security guards. The workers cited poor tent conditions, insufficient food and water, long hours in the harsh sun, minimum wages, and poor communication and coordination between the organizers and the subcontracting security firms. The 2020 festival was originally scheduled to take place on April 10–12 and April 17–19 with Rage Against the Machine, Travis Scott, and Frank Ocean as the headlining acts. Due to the COVID-19 pandemic, the festival was initially postponed until October 9–11 and October 16–18, but in June, Riverside County public health officers announced it and Stagecoach had been cancelled altogether. On April 10, a documentary profiling the festival's 20-year history, Coachella: 20 Years in the Desert, was released on YouTube to coincide with the original start date of the 2020 event. The pandemic has further resulted in the cancellation of the festival's planned April 2021 dates.
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tessabltheorist · 6 years
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The narrative as it seems and the problems it creates.
This is a response to  @blacklister214​ that got too long and when I first posted it as a re-blog the grammar was so atrocious so I took it down.
Red has a wife, and a daughter or stepdaughter.  And he has a love child with a KGB spy. 
Red only sees Liz occasionally, possibly at Dom since he and Red know each other.  Liz is called Masha by her stepfather who believes to be his daughter, by her mother, nanny and by her grandfather.
In 1989 Red steals her, and Katarina follows. The fire ensues as Katarina brings people to get the fulcrum as well as Liz back.  Liz shoots her father.  Katarina tells her is fine, he was a bad man.  Red is calling Liz Elizabeth to assert that she is his.  
After the fire Katarina believes the man she loved is dead, and walks into the water, never to be seen again. This is January to march of 1990.
Red, however continues in his regular life, a miserable man with a miserable housewife, until in December of 1990 when he disappears.  His wife is interrogated and eventually relocated all in 1990.
Red hires Kate and continues to build his crime empire. Since there is no mystery man, Kate must know that Red is Liz’s father.
Problems?
1985-1989 Liz lives as Masha Rosotva, only going to visit Dom occasionally.  Red goes to see her there, and since he is seeing her at Dom’s who calls her Masha, he cannot very well start calling her Elizabeth.  If he does is only a few weeks a year.  Liz develops a strong bond with him in those few weeks a year.
This presumes Liz is not Bubble Girl, the growth chart is not Liz’s and the Takoma Park House is one in which he lives with his wife Carla and his daughter Jennifer, as his official records only mention one daughter for Red.  This makes Bubble Girl, Ballerina Girl, Swing Girl and Blond Toddler one and the same: the girl who lived in the Takoma Park House with her mother, Carla Reddington, known as Jennifer Reddignton.  Same girl he has a home movie of. 
Jennifer, whom he makes no real effort to find, inquiring only twice of Carla and once of Liz about her, yet he procures a yearly performance of a ballet so that he can remember her dancing as a child.  And he tells Vassila Patinka that he could not recover from what she did, namely losing a child and presuming her dead, something we saw when Liz did the fake death.  So he loves Jennifer enough to order a ballet to remember her, yet not enough to try to find her and ascertain she is okay.  
1989 Fall. Red takes Liz from the Summer Palace. According to the way things appear he takes her and he re-names her Elizabeth.  Keeps her in a house.
He has a wife and child, and a job that takes him frequently out of the country,  and now a stashed child somewhere, unless he took her to Carla and Jennifer, but that would make it so easy for Katarina to find her.
Masha who has gone by Lizzy for 2 months,  is super happy in the tree lot playing around, even though she is not with her mother, her nanny, her father Constantin, her grandfather Dom, but simply with this man she sees a few weeks a year and who is calling her by a name she is not used to. 
She is with someone buying a tree and Red appears, calls her Lizzy, she runs to him with a big smile.  He then leaves.   Or a perfect stranger appears and calls her Lizzy and she runs to him, even though she has been Elizabeth for less than 2 months.
1899 Winter: Katarina goes to get Liz back.  It had taken her nearly 2 months to find Liz (we know because there is a Christmas tree in the house), and when she does she goes there to find her. Maybe follows Red?
Red opens the door in a coat, hat and gloves.  Maybe he has hired someone to keep Liz in a separate house.  This would be Blond Man and/or Plaid Man work for Red then being the only other people who have no coat, hats or gloves, thus being in the house when Katarina arrives.
Liz is in a nightgown.   Red insists that her name is Elizabeth, despite the fact that he knows is Masha, and Katarina ignores him, looking in places arguably for Masha where she cannot possibly be, prompting Red to tell her that Katarina is not there for the child” “You’re not here for her. “ 
Red is physically pushing Katarina out, as she says to take his hands off her. 
 Then Red is surprised that Katarina, a KGB agent, is spying on him, a Naval Intelligence counterintelligence officer, even though he has been seeing this woman in secret for all of Liz’s life in cars in the Summer Palace, and in Dom’s house, who accepts Red as the father, and never berates Red ever for getting involved with a married woman, a spy for the opposite camp.  
Then some people appear, which must be Katarina’s goons, Middle Man also in a coat and gloves, who is looking for the fulcrum under Katarina’s orders and one of the other guys without a coat must come with him too, as Red asks who they are.
Red then proceeds to fight with Blond Man and Middle Man when a shot rings.
 Red has been shot from the back, as he walks away from the fight.  Middle man then finds Liz as the fire is raging, walks her through the house on fire, only to abandon her, right in front of the door, and leaves with his man and Red’s guy who are just OK with leaving a 4 year old in a raging fire with a man who has been shot and a woman who is hurt to die.  
They leave, closing the door behind them.
Katarina gets up and takes Liz out, drops her with Kate, and  then tells Liz in the motel that is fine, Red was a bad man, and disappears because the KGB and the Americans knew about her affair, even though Reddington was a target for her.
Nobody thinks of going to the husband of record, Billionaire Russian Constantin Rostov to learn what the heck happened.
The KGB  (because as far as I know I am the only one who thinks Rostov was not a Soviet Citizen)  cannot find one of his own citizens, and Rostov thinks it necessary to change his name to Alexander Kirk but continues to operate in Russia, buying more oil companies as soon as the Soviet Union ends in 1991.
Nobody goes to find Carla and Jennifer, Red’s wife of record to find him, or see what the heck happened.  They continue to live their miserable lives for an entire year until December of 1990.
February-March 1990: Katarina commits suicide, thinking Red  (there is no alternative for Liz’s father, it is Rostov or Red) was dead, and persecuted by the KGB in the form of Velov and the Americans too, while Red goes about his business, undercover somewhere, unconcerned about Katarina’s suicide. 
January/March 1990-December 1990  Red meanwhile, calmly gets up with 3rd degree burns and continues his life as usual, while the Americans are after Katarina for the affair, and the KGB who is doing he same, having dispatched Velov to find Katarina. 
Nobody questions where he was while he recovers, and he just go about his business, stationed abroad, and scheduled to go see his wife and daughter for Christmas in December of 1990.  
Katarina cannot find him after the fire, and thinks him dead, even though she had had no problem in the past finding him, for over 4 years, and his wife apparently is not concerned about him at all. 
So Katarina walks into the ocean, thinking Red dead, even though Red is somewhere in his normal life, the Navy not concerned about him, nor his wife. 
The cabal had done nothing to find the fulcrum, missing since the man stole it, the man who is Red, while Red continues to function normally in counterintelligence, and Fitch tells him that Red stole something of value when he left. 
Now Red, who had stolen the fulcrum, and whose survival and that of Liz depends on it, is unconcerned where it is all this time.
Even though he must have given it to Liz to hide or hid it himself in the bunny, he then  proceeds to erase her memory without finding the fulcrum first.
December 1990: Red, going home for Christmas, disappears in route.  
His wife is interrogated, even though Red has done nothing wrong anyone knows about it yet, in fact the biggest possibility is that he was taken as it had happen before, with Seaduke.  Instead, his wife is taken, interrogated, assets frozen, and then relocated to Philadelphia with a different name.
Questions in additions to the things above:
he  shoots Diane Fowler before she can tell him hat happened to his family “that night” yet he says he has not lost a child. His wife is alive, and he seems unconcerned with Jennifer.
He stages a ballet to remember a girl that is not dead, and watches home movies of Bubble girl, who is not Liz because Liz was not in the Takoma Park house, so she must be Jennifer, who is not dead because we find her later, 
Red does not try to find while he goes broke and almost dies to protect Liz, but he is unable to tell her everything for reasons he cannot explain to Dembe, saying he does not know why.
Did Carla recognized Liz, a child she could have then only known for a couple of months as the love child of her husband?  And remember and identified her under a different name?  Why did she not save herself by giving Berlin Liz, who is an FBIA agent and capable of protecting herself.  What was she not concerned Berlin would have found Jennifer and do the same to her?
The intelligence nod giving Masha as the only living survivor:
the 3 men leave, before any firefighters are around.  
Katarina is hurt, covered in soot and Liz has a serious burn in a wrist, and neither is treated.  
If Liz had been accounted as a survivor, the whole point of her disappearing and Constantin never finding her again after she disappears from Canada is moot.  Only thing that makes sense is thatLiz and Katarina got out before the firefighters arrived. Or she escaped afterwards, giving them a fake name.
Red is not reported missing or dead, and is normally returning home for Christmas in 1990 after the fire in 1989.  He is not among those reported in the fire if any. As a survivor or a victim.  Katarina thinks he is dead, but Naval Intelligence does not.  Even if Red is said to have been killed then the records pos him being there would be in his file from the CIA, FBI, NI, etc.
There was nobody at the house who is unaccounted for. Alive or dead.  If Red was there, he was unaccounted for.  
Red got out
How did Red get out, where he was after the fire, is another one of those huge mysteries.  Why did he think Katarina had committed suicide and why did she believe he was dead?  
That points to Red being in a place where he could not be reached, unable to communicate with anyone.
when he is able to get out is after the drowning, and before he erases Liz’s memories. He thinks Katarina is dead, and goes for vengeance, leaving Liz with Sam.  The suicide speech in Cape May.  He did what he did because he thought she was dead. She did what she did because she thought he was dead.
Katarina was out and about, but where was Red?  Who took Red in while he healed?  Was he with Carla?  With Sam? With an unknown person?  Where was Rostov? Was he looking for his wife and daughter?  He knew about Reddington, did he contacted Carla to find him?  Did he go to the US Navy?  US Authorities?   Did he tell Velov about Reddington if he was a soviet citizen? A wealthy apparatchik? Did Velov tell him about following a trail to Prague?
There are so many holes that are superbly covered by our emotions by the performances that is hard to tell the smoke, the mirrors and the reality.
I do not know if anyone can build a theory that accounts for all of that, but to me, the things as they appear make no sense. It does not explain much, and int creates more problems than it solves.  I am to see one theory that takes all those facts and constructs them into something with no holes.
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LAW 8 : MAKE OTHER PEOPLE COME TO YOU—USE BAIT IF NECESSARY
JUDGEMENT
When you force the other person to act, you are the one in control. It is always better to make your opponent come to you, abandoning his own plans in the process. Lure him with fabulous gains—then attack. You hold the cards.
OBSERVANCE OF THE LAW
At the Congress of Vienna in 1814, the major powers of Europe gathered to carve up the remains of Napoleon’s fallen Empire. The city was full of gaiety and the balls were the most splendid in memory. Hovering over the proceedings, however, was the shadow of Napoleon himself. Instead of being executed or exiled far away, he had been sent to the island of Elba, not far from the coast of Italy.
Even imprisoned on an island, a man as bold and creative as Napoleon Bonaparte made everyone nervous. The Austrians plotted to kill him on Elba, but decided it was too risky. Alexander I, Russia’s temperamental czar, heightened the anxiety by throwing a fit during the congress when a part of Poland was denied him: “Beware, I shall loose the monster!” he threatened. Everyone knew he meant Napoleon. Of all the statesmen gathered in Vienna, only Talleyrand, Napoleon’s former foreign minister, seemed calm and unconcerned. It was as if he knew something the others did not.
Meanwhile, on the island of Elba, Napoleon’s life was a mockery of his previous glory. As Elba’s “king,” he had been allowed to form a court—there was a cook, a wardrobe mistress, an official pianist, and a handful of courtiers. All this was designed to humiliate Napoleon, and it seemed to work.
That winter, however, there occurred a series of events so strange and dramatic they might have been scripted in a play. Elba was surrounded by British ships, their cannons covering all possible exit points. Yet somehow, in broad daylight on 26 February 1815, a ship with nine hundred men on board picked up Napoleon and put to sea. The English gave chase but the ship got away. This almost impossible escape astonished the public throughout Europe, and terrified the statesmen at the Congress of Vienna.
Although it would have been safer to leave Europe, Napoleon not only chose to return to France, he raised the odds by marching on Paris with a tiny army, in hopes of recapturing the throne. His strategy worked—people of all classes threw themselves at his feet. An army under Marshal Ney sped from Paris to arrest him, but when the soldiers saw their beloved former leader, they changed sides. Napoleon was declared emperor again. Volunteers swelled the ranks of his new army. Delirium swept the country. In Paris, crowds went wild. The king who had replaced Napoleon fled the country.
For the next hundred days, Napoleon ruled France. Soon, however, the giddiness subsided. France was bankrupt, its resources nearly exhausted, and there was little Napoleon could do about this. At the Battle of Waterloo, in June of that year, he was finally defeated for good. This time his enemies had learned their lesson: They exiled him to the barren island of Saint Helena, off the west coast of Africa. There he had no more hope of escape.
Interpretation
Only years later did the facts of Napoleon’s dramatic escape from Elba come to light. Before he decided to attempt this bold move, visitors to his court had told him that he was more popular in France than ever, and that the country would embrace him again. One of these visitors was Austria’s General Roller, who convinced Napoleon that if he escaped, the European powers, England included, would welcome him back into power. Napoleon was tipped off that the English would let him go, and indeed his escape occurred in the middle of the afternoon, in full view of English spyglasses.
What Napoleon did not know was that there was a man behind it all, pulling the strings, and that this man was his former minister, Talleyrand. And Talleyrand was doing all this not to bring back the glory days but to crush Napoleon once and for all. Considering the emperor’s ambition unsettling to Europe’s stability, he had turned against him long ago. When Napoleon was exiled to Elba, Talleyrand had protested. Napoleon should be sent farther away, he argued, or Europe would never have peace. But no one listened.
Instead of pushing his opinion, Talleyrand bided his time. Working quietly, he eventually won over Castlereagh and Metternich, the foreign ministers of England and Austria.
Together these men baited Napoleon into escaping. Even Koller’s visit, to whisper the promise of glory in the exile’s ear, was part of the plan. Like a master cardplayer, Talleyrand figured everything out in advance. He knew Napoleon would fall into the trap he had set. He also foresaw that Napoleon would lead the country into a war, which, given France’s weakened condition, could only last a few months. One diplomat in Vienna, who understood that Talleyrand was behind it all, said, “He has set the house ablaze in order to save it from the plague.”
When I have laid bait for deer, I don’t shoot at the first doe that comes to sniff, but wait until the whole herd has gathered round.
Otto von Bismarck, 1815-1898
KEYS TO POWER
How many times has this scenario played itself out in history: An aggressive leader initiates a series of bold moves that begin by bringing him much power. Slowly, however, his power reaches a peak, and soon everything turns against him. His numerous enemies band together; trying to maintain his power, he exhausts himself going in this direction and that, and inevitably he collapses. The reason for this pattern is that the aggressive person is rarely in full control. He cannot see more than a couple of moves ahead, cannot see the consequences of this bold move or that one. Because he is constantly being forced to react to the moves of his ever-growing host of enemies, and to the unforeseen consequences of his own rash actions, his aggressive energy is turned against him.
In the realm of power, you must ask yourself, what is the point of chasing here and there, trying to solve problems and defeat my enemies, if I never feel in control? Why am I always having to react to events instead of directing them? The answer is simple: Your idea of power is wrong. You have mistaken aggressive action for effective action. And most often the most effective action is to stay back, keep calm, and let others be frustrated by the traps you lay for them, playing for long-term power rather than quick victory.
Remember: The essence of power is the ability to keep the initiative, to get others to react to your moves, to keep your opponent and those around you on the defensive. When you make other people come to you, you suddenly become the one controlling the situation. And the one who has control has power. Two things must happen to place you in this position: You yourself must learn to master your emotions, and never to be influenced by anger; meanwhile, however, you must play on people’s natural tendency to react angrily when pushed and baited. In the long run, the ability to make others come to you is a weapon far more powerful than any tool of aggression.
Study how Talleyrand, the master of the art, performed this delicate trick. First, he overcame the urge to try to convince his fellow statesmen that they needed to banish Napoleon far away. It is only natural to want to persuade people by pleading your case, imposing your will with words. But this often turns against you. Few of Talleyrand’s contemporaries believed Napoleon was still a threat, so that if he had spent a lot of energy trying to convince them, he would only have made himself look foolish. Instead, he held his tongue and his emotions in check. Most important of all, he laid Napoleon a sweet and irresistible trap. He knew the man’s weakness, his impetuosity, his need for glory and the love of the masses, and he played all this to perfection. When Napoleon went for the bait, there was no danger that he might succeed and turn the tables on Talleyrand, who better than anyone knew France’s depleted state. And even had Napoleon been able to overcome these difficulties, the likelihood of his success would have been greater were he able to choose his time and place of action. By setting the proper trap, Talleyrand took the time and place into his own hands.
All of us have only so much energy, and there is a moment when our energies are at their peak. When you make the other person come to you, he wears himself out, wasting his energy on the trip. In the year 1905, Russia and Japan were at war. The Japanese had only recently begun to modernize their warships, so that the Russians had a stronger navy, but by spreading false information the Japanese marshal Togo Heihachiro baited the Russians into leaving their docks in the Baltic Sea, making them believe they could wipe out the Japanese fleet in one swift attack. The Russian fleet could not reach Japan by the quickest route—through the Strait of Gibraltar and then the Suez Canal into the Indian Ocean—because these were controlled by the British, and Japan was an ally of Great Britain. They had to go around the Cape of Good Hope, at the southern tip of Africa, adding over more than six thousand miles to the voyage. Once the fleet passed the Cape, the Japanese spread another false story: They were sailing to launch a counterattack. So the Russians made the entire journey to Japan on combat alert. By the time they arrived, their seamen were tense, exhausted, and overworked, while the Japanese had been waiting at their ease. Despite the odds and their lack of experience in modern naval warfare, the Japanese crushed the Russians.
One added benefit of making the opponent come to you, as the Japanese discovered with the Russians, is that it forces him to operate in your territory. Being on hostile ground will make him nervous and often he will rush his actions and make mistakes. For negotiations or meetings, it is always wise to lure others into your territory, or the territory of your choice. You have your bearings, while they see nothing familiar and are subtly placed on the defensive.
Manipulation is a dangerous game. Once someone suspects he is being manipulated, it becomes harder and harder to control him. But when you make your opponent come to you, you create the illusion that he is controlling the situation. He does not feel the strings that pull him, just as Napoleon imagined that he himself was the master of his daring escape and return to power.
Everything depends on the sweetness of your bait. If your trap is attractive enough, the turbulence of your enemies’ emotions and desires will blind them to reality. The greedier they become, the more they can be led around.
The great nineteenth-century robber baron Daniel Drew was a master at playing the stock market. When he wanted a particular stock to be bought or sold, driving prices up or down, he rarely resorted to the direct approach. One of his tricks was to hurry through an exclusive club near Wall Street, obviously on his way to the stock exchange, and to pull out his customary red bandanna to wipe his perspiring brow. A slip of paper would fall from this bandanna that he would pretend not to notice. The club’s members were always trying to foresee Drew’s moves, and they would pounce on the paper, which invariably seemed to contain an inside tip on a stock. Word would spread, and members would buy or sell the stock in droves, playing perfectly into Drew’s hands.
If you can get other people to dig their own graves, why sweat yourself? Pickpockets work this to perfection. The key to picking a pocket is knowing which pocket contains the wallet. Experienced pickpockets often ply their trade in train stations and other places where there is a clearly marked sign reading BEWARE OF PICKPOCKETS. Passersby seeing the sign invariably feel for their wallet to make sure it is still there. For the watching pickpockets, this is like shooting fish in a barrel. Pickpockets have even been known to place their own BEWARE OF PICKPOCKETS signs to ensure their success.
When you are making people come to you, it is sometimes better to let them know you are forcing their hand. You give up deception for overt manipulation. The psychological ramifications are profound: The person who makes others come to him appears powerful, and demands respect.
Filippo Brunelleschi, the great Renaissance artist and architect, was a great practitioner of the art of making others come to him as a sign of his power. On one occasion he had been engaged to repair the dome of the Santa Maria del Fiore cathedral in Florence. The commission was important and prestigious. But when the city officials hired a second man, Lorenzo Ghiberti, to work with Brunelleschi, the great artist brooded in secret. He knew that Ghiberti had gotten the job through his connections, and that he would do none of the work and get half the credit. At a critical moment of the construction, then, Brunelleschi suddenly developed a mysterious illness. He had to stop work, but pointed out to city officials that they had hired Ghiberti, who should have been able to continue the work on his own. Soon it became clear that Ghiberti was useless and the officials came begging to Brunelleschi. He ignored them, insisting that Ghiberti should finish the project, until finally they realized the problem: They fired Ghiberti.
By some miracle, Brunelleschi recovered within days. He did not have to throw a tantrum or make a fool of himself; he simply practiced the art of “making others come to you.”
If on one occasion you make it a point of dignity that others must come to you and you succeed, they will continue to do so even after you stop trying.
Image: The Honeyed Bear Trap. The bear hunter does not chase his prey; a bear that knows it is hunted is nearly impossible to catch and is fero cious if cornered. Instead, the hunter lays traps baited with honey. He does not exhaust himself and risk his life in pursuit. He baits, then waits.
Authority: Good warriors make others come to them, and do not go to others. This is the principle of emptiness and fullness of others and self. When you induce opponents to come to you, then their force is always empty; as long as you do not go to them, your force is always full. Attacking emptiness with fullness is like throwing stones on eggs. (Zhang Yu, eleventh-century commentator on The Art of War)
REVERSAL
Although it is generally the wiser policy to make others exhaust themselves chasing you, there are opposite cases where striking suddenly and aggressively at the enemy so demoralizes him that his energies sink. Instead of making others come to you, you go to them, force the issue, take the lead. Fast attack can be an awesome weapon, for it forces the other person to react without the time to think or plan. With no time to think, people make errors of judgment, and are thrown on the defensive. This tactic is the obverse of waiting and baiting, but it serves the same function: You make your enemy respond on your terms.
Men like Cesare Borgia and Napoleon used the element of speed to intimidate and control. A rapid and unforeseen move is terrifying and demoralizing. You must choose your tactics depending on the situation. If you have time on your side, and know that you and your enemies are at least at equal strength, then deplete their strength by making them come to you. If time is against you—your enemies are weaker, and waiting will only give them the chance to recover—give them no such chance. Strike quickly and they have nowhere to go. As the boxer Joe Louis put it, “He can run, but he can’t hide.”
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Under Shadow: Chapter 74
Maru was hunched over her laptop once more, analyzing data from the drone that Marlon and Gil brought back to her after using it to scout out the area over the sewers. The data confirmed that the survivors had indeed foiled the plans of the Shadow People, blowing up their progress in their under ground tunnels leading towards Stardew Valley and sealing them shut. At the rate Maru had calculated, it should by them a couple months worth of time before the tunnels reached the valley. And who knew if there would be a valley left by then.
Marlon, Gil, John, and Lewis continued to argue in front of her from across the table. Their hands waved wildly in their air, just as loud as their voices as their conversation grew heated.
“I’m telling ya,” John said, glaring at Marlon and Gil. His hands were balled into fists at his side. “They never said a word to us. We didn’t even know they were gone.”
“They just up and left?” Gil said. “In the middle of the night?”
“We were ambushed,” Marlon added. “They were ready to shoot us on the spot. Orders from Michaels.”
“They knew our plan,” Gil hissed. “They knew exactly where we’d be.”
“No one said a thing to those soldiers,” Lewis barked at them.
“Michaels is not on our side,” Marlon said. “And now he knows that we know.”
“Are you accusing us?” John’s voice was a low, fierce and threatening growl.
“Not everyone can be trusted,” Gil said through gritted teeth.
“There are no traitors in this valley,” Lewis said. “How dare you accuse any of us.”
“Like Morris?” Gil spat.
“You can’t blame us for that,” John said. “I welcomed you people into the safety of this valley with open arms. You’re the one that brought him here.”
Lewis looked around the room quickly, then lowered his voice. “He could be behind this whole mess. Planted some kinda spy equipment. We’re not safe anywhere.”
“Then maybe we should leave the valley,” Gil muttered.
“Good riddance,” John said. “It was nothing but trouble since the day you people got here.”
Najia stood abruptly at the table. The four men had completely forgotten that she was still there, sitting beside Maru, who hid her face behind her laptop.
“Najia,” John said quickly. “You know that’s not what I meant.”
Najia narrowed her eyes at the men before her. “Look,” she hissed. “This is getting us no where. The Gotoro soldiers are gone. For whatever reason, they’re gone. There’s no sense trying to point fingers and divide the group. We’re all we have left. Now shut the fuck up and figure out what we’re going to do about it.”
“Why don’t we just go ask him?” Alex said, his heels up on the table as he leaned back in his chair. “I mean, that worked so well last time.”
“We don’t have time to deal with the Gotoro,” Shane said, his arms crossed. “Especially if they’re working with the Shadow People. We need to finish this once and for all.”
“We’re seven fucking people who shoot blindly and pray they hit something,” Sebastian hissed. “We don’t stand a chance against two damn armies. We don’t have the Gotoro any more. It’s us against them. We’re fucked. We’re not going to win this war. We chose the wrong side.”
“Did someone call for an army?”
Their heads turned to the doorway where Willy stood. He stepped aside as a man in uniform entered from behind him.
“You bring us one guy?” Sam said, narrowing his eyes at the soldier.
“Lieutenant General Nathan Malone,” the man said. “Do you really think this man would be dumb enough to bring one guy?”
They exchanged silent glances, more questions raised than answered.
“I met Nathan before I found Stardew Valley,” Willy said.
“We were stranded in the Gotoro Empire,” Malone said. “Just before the invasion. Many of my men were POWs of the Shadow People. Over the last six months, we managed to escape and, thanks to Willy here, make it back home.”
“You’re the Ferngil army?” Sam asked. “My father told me there was nothing left. He was a soldier.”
“We thought so, too,” Malone said. “But more of us survived than we realized. And now we’re here to finish this.”
“A little late,” Alex muttered. “We’re kind of losing here if you hadn’t noticed.”
“Better late than never, hm?” Malone said.
“Did you say we?” Sebastian said. “How many soldiers are there?”
“Would a couple thousand suffice?”
“Thousands?” Sam echoed.
“That’s hardly an impressive number,” Malone said. “But considering the circumstances, I think it should be enough to turn this thing around.”
“Where are they?” Sam asked.
“Making their way across the ocean as we speak, but I brought a few with me. They’re at the beach now.” He turned to Willy. “I have to thank you again for the boats.”
“I just happen to know where I could get my hands on a couple big, abandoned ships. No need to thank me.”
Malone smiled as he turned back to the survivors before him. “I may be a Lieutenant General, but I’m a little behind on the war efforts,” he said. “Care to fill me in?”
“Do you want the short version, or the long version?” Najia asked.
“The short version is still long,” Shane muttered.
“The Gotoros were hunting us down,” Najia said in her best attempt to summarize the war. “Along with the Shadow People. They wanted some magic sword that they believe is here in the valley. We made a deal with the Gotoro in exchange for their help, but found out they were working with the Shadow People. There were soldiers in the valley, defending us from the Shadow People, but they just up and left, probably after they realized we knew that they were working with the Shadow People. The Shadow People were attempting to tunnel their way into the valley, we blew up their tunnels. Now we’re here with two enemies and no clue what do do about it.”
“You blew up their tunnels?” Malone asked.
“Thanks to Maru’s spy drones,” Sebastian said.
“Spy drones?”
“We were chased through a canyon and blew that up, too,” Alex said. “Crushed some Gotoro bastards.”
“Rescue missions,” Sam added.
“Don’t forget when the valley was invaded,” Maru said.
“I’d say you’ve had your fair share of war, then,” Malone said, only slightly impressed with the rag tag bunch of survivors. “Tell me about this valley.”
Their eyes turned to Najia.
“What do you want to know?” she asked, narrowing her eyes at him.
Malone smiled. “What’s so special about this place?”
“You mean besides that big bright ball of fire in the sky?” Alex muttered.
“They believe there is a magical sword hidden in the valley,” Najia said. “The Sword of Light. The Gotoro want it to end the war. The Shadow People want it so no one else can use it.”
“And is such a sword here?”
“No,” Najia said simply.
“You seem pretty sure of that,” Malone said.
“We’ve been here for six months and never came across it.”
Malone nodded. “So, our fight is against the Gotoro and the Shadow People, then?”
They each nodded to Malone.
He cracked his knuckles. “Looks like we’ve got quite a fight on our hands. My boys will be eager to hear this.”
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