#all that led him to become an empty shell of a man who died with only like. one person caring

[genderfluid-envy]

Idk which questions to ask that haven’t already been answered but I want to know more about Tang Shen 👀 so. 2, 3, 14, 38 and 73 for SheLL :)

THANK U TERRA

2. Do the turtles live in the sewers?

Venus and Jennika do for a while, but the main turtles don‘t! They live with Shen in the house she inherited from her deceased parents.

3. What is the lair like?

It‘s a pretty standard house. There‘s a ground floor with the living room, dining room, work room, kitchen and a small bathroom (plus one of those small storage room things) and then a second floor above that with what used to be 1) Shen‘s bedroom, 2) her parents‘ bedroom and 3) a guest bedroom, which are now 1) Shen‘s bedroom, but renovated 2) empty because Shen is totally over her parents‘ deaths, she‘s fine guys and 3) the turtles‘ room. Once it becomes clear that Jennika and Venus really don‘t have anywhere else to go and Shen feels too bad about letting them sleep on the couch, they renovate her parents‘ bedroom to make space for them.

There‘s also an attic and basement as additional storage space, the basement eventually gets turned into like, a hobby workshop thing + some sport equipment so everyone (Venus and Jen) can have healthier outlets than beating each other up. The attic ends up as sort of a second living room because with the addition of Casey and Mona it‘s starting to get crowded.

There‘s also a garden with high hedges surrounding it (plus, neighbours living pretty far away, Shen‘s place is in a pretty rural area) that gets turned into something much more habitable during the course of the story.

14. What is going on with the foot clan?

Saki has a midlife crisis and makes it everyone else‘s problem

The footclan was originally led by Saki and Yoshi together, but overall just bad decisions happened and Yoshi got fridged/Shredder‘ed, so now Saki is free to make all the mutants he wants. At this point Jen and Venus had already been created and escaped around a decade ago and Shen had just left with the main turtles.

Saki desperately wants to regain control over the situation, so he does the next logical step and goes from mutating random turtles to mutating members of the footclan (this is how Casey turns into a raccoon) in a desperate bit to gain more powers (because in his head Shen is going to do exactly what he was doing and use the turtles as nothing but weapons to further her goals - which he thinks are revenge on him).

Miwa is also caught up in all of this mess, convinced her mom abandoned her in favor of the turtles (a line of thinking that Saki encourages) and I‘m currently playing around with the idea of her mutating herself because obviously her mom cared more about mutants than her own kid and Saki also cares more about mutants than the humans following him.

The clan itself is getting pretty divided by this, some people are all for Saki‘s plans, others are like „maybe don‘t use the people who trust you as human test subjects??“. It‘s a whole mess, and Saki has no one to blame but himself

38. Is there a Tang Shen?

YES AND WE ALL LOVE HER VERY MUCH.

She‘s so. Her parents recently died, the father of her child turned into an ass and the man she called her best friend turned into an even bigger ass, she thinks her daughter died and also aquired four new children she wants to take care of that are also mutants who have been told they‘re nothing but weapons all their lives. She‘s tortured, she‘s marked by loss, she‘s a single mom and screw everything, she‘s gonna give these kids a life worth living.

She‘s trying so very hard to take care of her kids and then later also prevent Venus and Jennika from inventing new mental derangements, while also finding space somewhere to grief.

With Venus especially it‘s a pretty rough start, but the two turn into really, really close friends and Shen slowly learns to trust her in the same bone-deep way she‘d trusted Yoshi and Saki before getting her heart ripped out.

73. What interests does — have?

Gonna take this chance and answer it for all the SheLL girlies.

Shen: She really enjoys cooking and baking and is 100% a stress baker. She‘s also very into biology and puts all of that interest towards researching turtles after the child acquisition. She‘s also a bit of a music (metal specifically) nerd and WILL talk to you about obscrue bands

Venus: Violence and pain </3 It‘s gonna take her a bit, but she eventually discovers she likes making music, so she and Jen found their own little band (one that Shen hears about long before she even leaves with the turtles). Later, with Shen, she also gets really into video games and reading (specifically trashy romantasy books that she‘s only reading to complain about them <3)

Jen: Also making music, and also generally anything artsy. She‘s painting one day, then sculpting the next, then sewing, cross-stitching, origami, graffiti, woodworking anything she can get her hands on really (something that Shen helps her with a lot). Queen of expressing herself through art. She‘s also into viddy games and has a lot of fun trolling other players/getting gamer dudes to ragequit (something Venus encourages because she thinks it‘s funny as fuck)

Mona: She‘s really interested in anything technology, but also botany. And also just learning more in general, she‘s super curious. Voted most likely to defend public libraries despite never being in one before. She‘s the person who largely takes care of the garden and she takes great pride in it.

Casey: Into hockey in theory, in practice she can‘t exactly go out and play it with humans. She‘s still very into watching the games and cheering her favorite team on. She also quickly discovers her love for exploring abandoned buildings and Jen is her partner in crime whenever she goes out to do that. She‘s also very into puzzles and loves learning about like, encryption and and logic things like rubix cubes and all those others fidget-y puzzle things

Leo: He likes learning more about cooking with Shen <3 He‘s also really interested in etiquette (especially from eras long since over) because it helps with his anxiety to have these almost like scripts on how to respond in given situations. Most formal (though it‘s a mash of what‘s considered formal across multiple cultures and times) six year old you‘ll ever meet. He‘s fascinated by space and loves watching stage plays

Mikey: Gets obsessed with a new animal every other week. They‘re also very artistic and pick up whatever hobbies Jen dropped. He‘s easily interested in pretty much anything the people around her pick up, but they just as easily drop it again. He also loves learning about how things work/are made and is so definitely the kid who keeps asking "why" a billion times.

Donnie: She‘s always reading something. If she‘s not, she‘s taking notes on something she just read or observed. Donnie‘s really into books about (in the real world, not fiction about) magic and the supernatural and the occult and anything like that. This is fueled by her wanting to understand everyone‘s very real magic more and drawing on whatever sources she can get her grabby little hands on.

Raph: They‘re really into fashion. And also fighting. And wrestling. And watching teledramas. They also end up getting roped into whatever experiments Donnie wants to try the most often.

[i-love-susie]

i like the planet robobot novel for the most part but like. why did haltmann live at the end like. oh my god. oh my god i know i joked about "why can we save leon but not sectonia or haltmann 🙄" but like. why did he live sectonia is gone in the novels triple deluxe and planet robobot are two games that parallel each other so if sectonias gone then haltmann should be too but. haltmann lived. haltmann lived at the end and learned nothing from this terrible experience. how did he even live. he wouldve fallen from orbit and be immediately killed on impact WHY DID HE LIVE

[bougainvilea]

wait for me (part two)

a/n: hello i got excited about my hadestown au and there are a couple songs that i kept relating back to jily so I wrote more. i hope you like it! i used the live version's lyrics - sue me, i like it better lmao. also i don't know the stage direction so i made it up. HOPE U LIKE IT

part 1 here / song here

HERMES: (A deep sigh. A moment of emptiness - the world has stopped to watch the tragedy end.) (Spoken: ) Alright… Alright. (Somber silence, a moment to allow the shock to set in.) (Sung: )It’s an old song.

Lily’s eyes make contact with James’ as she sits in the wings. She can’t fault him - he’s a good actor. He has Orpheus all over him now - the self hatred of a man whose doubts led to his undoing, mixed in with the optimism of a poet who sang his way to hell.

HERMES: It’s an old tale from way back when. It’s an old song. (Pause) And we’re gonna sing it again and again.

The tragedy of the play always hits her in this moment - she always takes stock of herself, always feels a little vulnerable when this moment hits. There’s a real sadness in Orpheus’ failure - you see it coming from a mile away, it’s a sad song, it’s in the first song. But you keep coming back to it, as if… well, as if he succeeds this time. She always feels it in her lungs, taking up the space of air. She mourns for both of their loss.

HERMES: There was a railroad line on the road to hell, there was a young man down on a bended knee.

James is so right for this role. He sits there, still, looking at his mistakes, a mockery of the earlier proposal scene. His emotion shines out of him - for whatever else she can say about him, he definitely wears his heart on his sleeve, and he augments it well for Orpheus. His loneliness is reflected in the desolate set, even with the workers slowly coming onto the stage.

HERMES: And that is the ending of the tale of Orpheus and Eurydice. It’s a sad song, It’s a sad tale, it’s a tragedy. It’s a sad song, but we sing it anyway.

She imagines the world the cast and crew so desperately wish to present - the possibilities of real change. She feels an ache in her belly - it feels like a gut punch, every night, the idea that maybe there is real ache that reflects this one, that continues forever in this never-ending cycle, just like their show.

HERMES: (A sigh, spoken: ) Cause here’s the thing: to know how it ends, and still begin to sing it again, as if it might turn out this time. I learned that from a friend of mine.

The chorus has come in, and James looks up, and again they make brief eye contact before he turns to the audience. It’s these moments, towards the end of the show, that she feels the most kinship with him, like maybe they’re on the same page. She feels the hope in the voices of the chorus, in his walk across the stage, his guitar slung across his back, and she thinks maybe she could like this man. He is this figure on stage, more steadfast yet uncertain than he has been in the whole play. She sees past his performance, sees the bits that he puts on and the bits that he believes. She knows he puts as much into this as she does, and there’s a level of understanding there. His Orpheus is… well, dazzling.

HERMES: (spoken: ) Can you see it? Can you hear it? Can you feel it like a train?

She steps out on stage now, her mask falling into place as she once again becomes the hardened and hungry Eurydice, with a softer shell. She stays in the background, revolving around him as he takes centre stage. It feels… magnetic, being around him. She can feel a thread connecting them on stage, like they circle each other with intention and pull. As she circles, he makes eye contact with her, and there’s a moment, shared. She doesn’t know what it is yet.

HERMES: On a sunny day there was a railroad car and a lady stepping off a train. Everybody looked and everybody saw that spring had come again with a love song, with a tale of a love that never dies. With a love song for anyone who tries.

The song ends here, and she holds eye contact with James, and imagines a world where she could love him, not Orpheus. She imagines a little cottage with a fireplace, a warm lounge where they could read together. Maybe a backyard, where they can lay in the field like they do on stage, with different promises and different cares and different stars, but that same explicit, direct love that exists for Orpheus and Eurydice. Suddenly, the words of the song ring true, in a new way. Anyone who tries.

[bcbii]

Deception

(Leonardo x reader)

Warnings // angst, blood, character death mention.

———————————————————————————————————

          Ruins, all of it           Within what felt like only days but had progressed in months. The previous lively city of New York had fallen into a downward spiral at the hands of Shredder himself. Streets flooded with the black clothed soldiers patrolling them, looking for any reason to leave civilians scared or slaughtered on the open streets as toxic fumes blackening the previously blue or star filled sky. New York was becoming a waste land and Shredders playground, so everyone was under the impression of at least. All everyone knew as a fact is that normal life had been gone for good. Along with the previous fearless blue clad leader, Leonardo.           Once all hell began to break loose, the turtles had been the first to answer the call. The fight that called upon them was the hardest and came at the highest cost. The cost being their father Splinter’s life and to the brothers and your knowledge, their eldest brothers as well. Not all fights could be won, and they came to such a realization once they faced it themselves. All four entered confidently, planned and ready. After engaging, their hopes for victory began to diminish. They were out numbered and overwhelmed and were given no other choice but to retreat before they got themselves killed. when doing so they waited a bit of ways off for their fellow terrapin brother to follow up as he said he was going to do. Hours of waiting, hours of searching passed and he never did return to his brothers.            You hid in the lair from all the chaos, directives from you former blue clad lover and he basically begged you to stay hidden and out of harms way before they left. You had sat anxiously and in fear for hours, watching the chaos unfold in Donnie’s lab, the multiple monitors displaying multiple news channels, each one going off air into static with each attack, you were horrified, wanting nothing more than this to simply be a nightmare. The nightmare got even worse when only the three turtles returned to the lair, beaten and bruised severely, blood of both themselves and their enemies covering multiple parts of their body.            “W-what happened?! W-Wheres Leo?!”          The question left the youngest of the four eyes welling up with tears that you’re sure he’s been holding back since this all had begun. Their heads hang low before Donnie’s raised, his expression unreadable, “we...we don’t know..”. You felt numb, scared, so many emotions at once and you could barely describe any of them or understand them. You were sure the turtles were just as distraught as you were. “WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU DON’T KNOW?!”

That had been months ago, after failed attempts of attack and searching to no avail, adapting had been the only viable option left for them and yourself. Numbness had become a familiar feeling amongst all of you as you all attempted to find some normality in the new world. Some of this normality consisted of scavenging for any food or materials that you could find. And tonight was a scavenging night since you guys have been running low on materials. Getting ready, you dressed yourself in all black, baggy black pants, a black t shirt and mask to cover most of your face as you pull on your black leather boots. Throwing a backpack over your shoulder, you headed out.

After you finished getting ready for the trip you went to the brothers, ask if they’d want you to look for anything in specific. Raph hadn’t really requested much of anything, Mikey just wanted decent food and Donnie just wanted computer or any electronical parts. “Be careful, you have your phone if anything happens. Call us”, The large red clad turtle said in a rough stern tone as you started to leave the sewers. “I will”, you reassured him as you left. Since Leo’s disappearance, Raphael had stepped up, doing his best to protect and help his brothers as much as possible. The large terrapin didn’t realize how much Leo was doing until he began to do it himself.

Climbing out of the manhole, you glanced around the alley way quietly, making sure the coast had been clear. Once confirmed, you headed to the abandoned apartments a few blocks down the way, a fellow scavenger hiding out there in which you’d trade with for some pretty good items that would cost quiet a lot from anyone else. The cold breeze of the night nipped at your skin as your cheeks and tip of your nose stung with the cold, but you’d shrug it off.

Climbing the fire escape, you found the shattered window you would use as the entrance all the time. As you climbed through you were careful with the shards of glass that littered the floor. It was dark in the abandoned apartment, the only light being the faint glow of the moon through any openings from the outside in. “Max”, you whisper yelled for the man as you began to step around the apartment, getting no response. The sound of heavy foot steps made you freeze in place, the floor boards creaking loudly under the persons weight. Before you could move on to the next empty room you were halted by a large form as you stumbled back and looked up, it was to dark and you quickly stumbled back, falling back on your behind as you proceeded to scoot back. The large figure before you followed, closing the distance you tried to make each time.

“Who are yo!-“, you were frozen, sharp sapphire hues that glowed in the moon light staring down at you. The faint light from the moon outline his familiar large frame, accentuating the curves and indents of his large muscular form along with the scars that littered his thick skin. A lump in your throat left you breathless as you stared in horror and felt a sick sense of relief for some odd reason.

“L-Leo....”, the name that slipped past your lips felt foreign, it didn’t match the terrapin standing in front of you. That name belong to a fearless leader, wise, strong and caring with a calm exterior. Who stood before you was a stranger, a worn black bandana in place of the old signature bright blue, tired and emotionless eyes with what seemed like an almost permanent scowl. Scarred fist gripping large sharp katanas, the metal being a special kind with a sleek black color. The foot clan insignia etched into the metal that was now dirtied with the blood of her scavenger friend.

Hearing his name slip past your lips now made him freeze, his grip tightening on the handle of his katanas. That voice was all to familiar, your gentle voice sounded scared and broken as you said it. Beneath the shell he created around who he used to be, it broke him to hear. He stared and hard, almost to see if it had been a hallucination. “......(y/n).....”, his voice was rough and deeper than usual since the lack of using it so much, only to bark orders and the puny foot soldiers he led. When your name fell from his lips emotions rushed through you as memories hit you like a freight train, it was Leo but not your Leo. Overwhelming tears began to fill your eyes as you forced yourself up and stared into his eyes. “Where have you been?!” You snapped, he stayed silent and stoic and you despised it.

Stepping back you took in fully who he had become now, pulling down your mask you pressed your tongue against the inside of your cheek as a tear ran down, you stared at the branded insignia of the foot clan on the top left of his plastron. “You joined them didn’t you?.... you never disappeared or died...” you began as Leo’s lips parted to speak, “I can explain—“

“You just joined the foot and became a damn traitor!” You yelled as tears of disappointment, anger and sadness now spilled freely. The words hurt Leo to hear, especially coming from you, he cringed internally as he swallowed thickly and tried to step closer but you only backed up further. “(Y/n) please let me explain... I’m doing what needs to be done” he tried to explain. “Abandoning us? Joining the people who caused all of this?! THE ONES WHO KILLED SPLINTER! YOURE A TRAITOR LEONARDO!” You shouted ruthlessly as you stepped forward a bit and stood your ground. The now black clad turtle put himself in a position he knew would be unforgivable and he would never forgive himself either, but god how he wished he could grab you and let you know how sorry he was and how much he missed you and his brothers. Leo wanted to hold you, he wanted to break down too through all of this but he was the cold blooded assassin that led the foot clan, he couldn’t let himself break.

“I’m doing this for your guys saftey! It was either this or I lost you guys too!” Leo shouted back a bit, overwhelmed by his own feelings as well. The answer left you baffled as you stared at him in shock, “d-did you.... did you consider any of our feelings when you decided to leave us Leo?...when you left me?...”, you asked, searching for an answer as you stared into his dull eyes. You watched his gaze shift shamefully almost as if intimidated by yours. “Of course I did... and you know I did” Leo responded almost as if he seemed offended by the question, “it was the only way....”. Leo felt guilt wash over him as you scoffed and looked around in disbelief as if looking for someone to confirm it. Returning you attention back to him you were silent, somewhat silently remenising about who he used to be. You missed him, you missed the comfort, the smiles, the laughter and happiness your former lover brought you, his brave and protective ways, his arms around you and his lips on yours as comfort or in the most intimate moments. You missed Leo, but this wasn’t him.

Tears proceeded to roll down your cheeks, eyes becoming red “...how could you do this?...”, you said, voice quiet and shaky. Your tone left Leo wishing he could take you in his arms and hide you from all the bad that’s become of the world, that he helped cause which he hated himself for it.

“I’m sorry (y/n)...” Leo spoke, a bit choked up himself. You stepped back a bit as you shook your head quietly. “I-I have to go” you spoke quickly before rushing back to the window you entered through, “wait! (Y/n)-”. You didn't want to go, in fact you wanted to stay beside Leo and have him in your life again but right now, it was all too much, seeing him was only pain. 

Leo stood now in eerie silence as he stared at the window you exited, silently hoping you would come back through, come back to him. He knew you wouldn't though and he had to accept that. It was the price he paid for his decision and his families safety, but had it really be worth it?

// kind of out of the blue and for fun, hope you enjoy :) 

[furblrwurblr]

I suppose this is an improvement...

Douxie x reader, fluff with a side of that good kush crack

Sequel to Patience, Love and a part three on the way!

Warnings: Mild swears, a bit of an innuendo

You and Douxie had been talking the past couple of weeks, and he’d slowly broken your lingering wall of embarrassment from that little incident at the coffee shop. He was indescribably sweet and silly, sending you pictures of items from GDT Arcane books with silly captions. You’d long since met the one responsible for the pawprint signature, and absolutely fallen in love with him. The feeling seemed to be mutual, but you weren’t sure until Douxie brought up his magic to you, allowing Archie to speak with you. It was a loaded conversation for him, his only courage coming from the fact that your thoughts curled around his shoulders every morning and night, and that you knew how much time he spent when he woke up turning this way and that to read your thoughts through his blasted tattoos. He’d been surprised when you very calmly dissolved the ring on your finger, reforming it and twirling it in the air, its consistency like liquid. When he asked why he hadn’t sensed it in your aura, all you really knew was that it was one of the Old Magicks, before Light Conjurers like himself had become the predominant class. After that, he spoke with you far more, wanting to learn about your magic and excited his soulmate was like him. 

༓・༓・༓・༓・༓・༓・༓・༓

Warped Tour had seemed ages away then, but now it was the day of. You’d just picked up your phone when the intercom buzzed, alerting you that he was here. Hm, scarily punctual, you’d just watched the clock on your lock screen flash 7:00. You buzzed him in and waited by the door, his fast footsteps quickly being surpassed in speed by your heartbeat. 

He quickly rapped a knuckle on the door, a nervous smile spreading across his face as you opened the door a little too enthusiastically. He brought his hands from behind his back to reveal… a trollish artifact?

“It’s an Antramonstrum shell to protect your flat. I don’t like the idea of anything taking advantage of your limited offensive magic,” he explained, looking from it to you, trying to discern your reaction.

You were in shock. This man comes to your door promising a nice dinner before he whisks you across the country on a traveling band tour, and he brings you a gift? You’d been expecting flowers or a book but this… it was beautiful. Screw whatever protective capabilities it had, the thing was gorgeous. A beautiful dark base of textured, volcanic rock and ethereal spires of glowing, purple crystal. You gently took it from him, turning it in your hands.

“Where would be best to put it?” you finally asked, remembering its intended purpose.

Douxie unsuredly looked to you, the door, then into the flat causing you to remember something else: he’d been standing in the doorway this entire time. Outside. In the hall. Apologies poured out of you as you threw open the door the rest of the way and ushered him inside. He laughed before taking a quick look around the main area before settling on you. That laugh, every time you heard it was like the first, making your heart blossom. Hah, there’s that word again. First. 

You shook your head and pulled yourself out of the clouds to give him a quick tour. He placed the shell on the dresser in the front area and turned to you, hands fiddling against his pockets.

“You ready to go? Our reservation’s in half an hour, we’ve got time to walk before we head off. We can drop your bag off at the bookstore.”

You nodded and grabbed your hiking pack. He’d said you’d be camping together, just for the fun of it, so you packed everything. He chuckled when he saw you, the pack weighing you down almost comically. He tapped it as you passed, a flash of blue light instantly reducing the load.

Walking and talking for the next half hour came naturally, both of you playing off one another’s excitement. Animated conversation followed you both on the near-empty streets of Arcadia.

༓・༓・༓・༓・༓・༓・༓・༓

The dinner was pleasant, nothing extravagant but certainly among the nicer establishments of the area. He tried to tip the waiter after paying for it all, but you’d slapped his hand away and left $15, really the largest you could afford to.

༓・༓・༓・༓・༓・༓・༓・༓

After picking up both of your bags and saying farewell to Archie, who wasn’t a fan of any concert Douxie wasn’t a part of, he led you to the woods. Ominous, sure, but he assured you it was worth it. Finally, you two reached a clearing and he plopped his bag down, rummaging through it. He revealed a ball that barely fit comfortably in his hand, raised it, and smashed it against a root. You yelped, covering your face to prevent getting hit with any shards of glass, but there were none. Instead, there now stood a majestic gold and eggshell white boat before you, with a swirling mess of rings and green magic at the back. You stared, mouth agape as Douxie turned to you, hands on his hips and a smirk on his face.

“Let’s close that,” he said, gently placing two fingers under your chin and closing your mouth. He leaned in close, breath fanning over your ear. “Wouldn’t want to catch any flies,” he teased, before dancing backward and slinging his pack over his shoulder. He lifted yours in a sustained flash of blue, its contents rattling in protest when it landed in the boat. You followed him up the now-extended wing of the boat, feeling the metal and magic meld below your feet.

“I’ve got a couple questions,” you stated as he rummaged through a long compartment in the boat’s side.

“Go for it,” he responded, eyes lighting up in triumph as he pulled out a long, golden rod. 

“First off, how come you lifted my pack and not yours?”

“Magic isn’t a permissible shortcut to hard work,” he recited. It sounded practiced, so he must hear it often. “For you though, there’s a bit of wiggle room.” He sat across from you on the bench, rod laid in his lap.

Oh, so he got flirty as the night deepened. Good to know. You were curious where his little mantra came from, but you brushed it aside and stuck with the questions you already had. “Alright then, you tease, what’s the green thing in the back?”

His chest puffed a bit with pride. “One of my Master’s creations, he calls it a small Heart of Avalon. Runs on time.”

“It runs on time?”

“It runs on time,” he confirmed with a glint in his eye.

If you weren’t impressed before, you sure were now. “That’s all I’ve got for now,” you said, still processing the magical artifact meant to power this boat.

Douxie stood, twirling the rod in his hand. With his other, he summoned a microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, brace yourselves! What you’re about to witness is a magical feat like no other!” He tossed it, mic disappearing in a puff of bright blue smoke. He twirled the rod in the air a few times and slammed the end into the circular port between the benches. The lazy rings roared to life, spinning impossible fast. You looked at him, delighted. He winked at you and braced himself against the rod while you stumbled, the boat moving beneath you.

“You could have warned me!” you chided.

“Where’s the fun in that?” he laughed.

The boat soared into the sky, the forest already small. He pushed the rod into a tilt, the boat surging forward. The air tousled his hair, long sides whipping against his face. You two were euphoric, happy to be with one another. 

He shifted the rod a bit to stay in its current position before sitting next to you on the bench. You two were quiet for a moment until Douxie spoke up. You couldn’t see him properly, but you could tell he was fighting a smile. He lifted up his sleeve, your thoughts about his demeanor after-hours just beginning to fade. “I’m impressed you were able to wait until after dinner this time, little minx,” he said evenly, a snicker escaping him afterward. 

You nudged his arm with an indignant half-scoff, face burning at the nickname’s return.

Some time passed, conversation flowing gently. Douxie’s phone began vibrating, ringtone muffled. He pulled it out, the tune now all too clear, his lip between his teeth trying to suppress a shit-eating grin. Zoe’s smiling face mocked you from the screen to that wretched tune. 

“Saw this boy at the mall last week, got the kind of look to make me freak…”  the rest faded as you contemplated leaping off the side of the boat to become one with nature.

“Douxie! Why!” you scolded through a fit of giggles.

“Hey, Zo,” he laughed into the mic, putting her on speaker.

“Yes!!! She heard it! That was such a good decision, extraordinarily sexy of me for the suggestion. You guys getting close yet?”

“We’re about a quarter of the way, we’ll be there fairly soon.”

A quarter? It hadn’t been that long, just how fast were you going? The wind had died down, your hair no longer swirling violently. You looked over the side to try and glean any understanding of your speed to no avail.

You returned to Douxie’s side as he was finishing up on the phone. He handed it to you after saying his goodbyes, saying Zoe wanted to speak to you briefly. He’d taken it off speaker, so you held it to your ear.

“Hey, sweets. How you holdin’ up?”

You beamed at the term of endearment. “I’m doing alright, he hasn’t killed me yet.”

“I’m more worried about him after how you two met. Don’t jump his bones on the first night, love you, bye!” she snickered.

You barely stammered a farewell through your embarrassed smile before the line went dead. Douxie smirked at you, knowing exactly what was said despite not being able to hear it.

He stood and walked past you to tend to the steering mechanism, not before pausing, placing a hand on your shoulder and speaking into your ear again. His breath tickled your ear, his voice low.

“Patience, love.”

[starkerforlife6969]

Starker - Reward

It’s a world rife with magic and monsters. Full of fantasy and witches and fate.

Tony cares little for those. He’s an inventor. A mechanic. An artist. He hones his skill, his craft, every day for twenty years, and then another twenty years. Worn and scarred, fingers thick and nimble, tremble-less. He knows little of magic and monsters. Of fantasy and witches. Those things that change and shape the world.

He uses his craft and he earns his power.

He’s a court favourite. The King likes him well-enough. That’s as much as anyone really likes Tony. Well-enough.

“You’re too tough. Too sharp. People don’t like that.” His mother had warned, even as she smoothed her fingers through his hair.

He hadn’t heeded her advice. His eyes had been on her loom. “There must be a better way,” he had said, “for that to work. So you don’t have to weave the cloth yourself.”

There is little to be said of gallantry. Heroes who have slain monsters come into the golden halls. They show King Brock the latest head of some nymph, or some great, long lost treasure, but in the end they must go on other adventures.

Tony, a court favourite, has a place in the palace always. A little wing to call his own. When he asks for iron, he is given iron. When he asks for silence, people hush.

Of course, when Rumlow demands an invention, or a maze to house some monster, Tony has to stop the whirrings on his mind to tend to those whims. He does not fight that. HIs mother was right, he’s rough and sharp, but he is no fool.

So, when he’s summoned for the King, he sets down his welders tools and follows the guards. He chatters at them, trying to see them rile, but they only smile tightly. Something weighs on them.

“Stark,” Rumlow beams, too encouraging, “men, leave us.”

The guards disappear. Smoke in the wind.

“My lord.” Tony doesn’t get down on one knee. But he inclines his head and Rumlow lets him have it.

“I have a task for you.”

“Name it, sire.”

“Years ago, I was shipwrecked across the strait.”

Tony nods. A sea-farer, perhaps a boat, a new oar. He can design something. Plans start to form in his head.

“I was given refuge upon a tiny island. It housed a demi-goddess. I lay with her.”

Tony waits. It doesn’t click. He doesn’t understand.

“It has become apparent that she had a child. My son. His name is Peter. He is mortal, but his blood, I believe, carries some trace of the gods. Because of this, they give him favour. My heroes have not been able to slay him. The seas that should kill, full of sirens and monsters, give him way. I have sent assassins and witches, and they fall prey to his charms.”

“Magic?” Tony asks, intrigued and a little disgusted. The petty foulness, the ease of magic. The fact the King is trying to kill his own blood, that is of little consequence. There are at least a dozen princes and princesses that flit about the kingdom now. Bloodshed will come once Rumlow dies as they battle for the throne. One less contender should shorten the battle.

“I had hoped it was magic.” The King sighs. “I fear it is him. He is…” the King sneers. “Beloved. They fall to him. Pledge their allegiance as if he were already their King.”

“I don’t understand.” Tony confesses, a hardship. “What would you have me do?”

Here, Rumlow smiles. Like the monster that prowls beneath the palace. “I would have you kill him, Tony. Don’t you see? You’re the only one who could. Who would not fall for his doe-eyes or sweet words. You are hardened. Use your mind, that cunning tool, or any of your inventions, and slay him. I can promise you rewards.”

Tony nods, already exhausted. This is not his domain, but the sooner it is begun, the sooner it is done. “What about the ire of the gods? You said they have given him favour. Will this not beget their anger?”

“Gods are fickle.” The King waves him away. “I have a hundred lambs all ready to be slaughtered for them. Pilgrims ready to visit their temples. I have had a boat prepared for you to leave this evening. I have heard from Cleo that Peter dwells on an island off her shore. My men will guide you.”

Tony grits his teeth a little at the lack of control, but it is a familiar ache. “And what proof of his demise? His heart?”

The King laughs at that. “You speak like a solider, Stark. I do not need proof. I will trust your word and the darkening skies.”

It goes unsaid, of course, that failure means death.

***

Tony likes sea-travel. The allusion of freedom on that endless horizon. The rough work of rigging. The smell. He used to pour over his father’s atlases, used to dream of travelling the world.

He has made himself content with Rumlow’s palace. The golden walls. His inventions.

They reach the island swiftly. The seas are much calmer. It must be Peter’s presence.

“We can go with you no further.” The men say. “Rumlow forbids it. He believes Peter would affect our minds.”

Tony wades through the water to the craggy edges. Rocks black with wet, gulls screaming.

“Sailor, let me help.” Comes a voice, soft as a siren, and Tony looks up and sees- him.

For it must be. Gold eyes. Eyes of a god. Traces of that divine lineage, but so devastatingly mortal. And it’s devastating, because Tony knows he cannot kill such beauty.

There’s no magic, but it feels like it. Carved like one of Romanov’s marble statues. It’s hard to believe such a thing could be part Rumlow.

He takes the lily hand, bronzed with sun, and lets himself be pulled up.

It’s but a boy. Not old enough to command armies. Barely a man.

“Peter.”

Peter smiles at him. “It never fails to surprise how many know my name. Where do you travel from?”

“From your father.”

Peter nods. He helps Tony manoeuvre the slippery rocks onto the sandy beach. There, he stoops to collect perfect white shells. “He would see me dead.”

“Yes.”

“I do not desire his throne.”

Tony smiles a little at that. “I don’t think it much matters.”

“Maybe not.” Peter’s eyes appraise his form. Tony puffs like a bird. “You’re no sailor. What are you?”

“An inventor.”

“An inventor.” Peter breathes, looking up at him in awe. He says the word with sacrilegious reverence. “What a gift my father has given me. I have been searching for an inventor my whole life.”

Tony itches to touch him. His skin prickles with a strange desire to taste. He’s had lovers in the past, in the endless escapades of youth, but Peter would be the only one that Tony would remember. “Hardly twenty years then.”

Peter laughs like music. “Will you help me?”

“Do you command me?”

“Of course not.” Peter humms, his eyes sparkle. “The God’s command. King’s demand. I am neither.”

“You are both. Son of a king and a goddess.”

“Bastard son of a king, and of a demi goddess.” Peter bows his head. “For some reason people help me. I cannot say why. I appreciate it, but I do not expect it. Your king would have you kill me.” Peter looks up at him. Eyes glazed like honey. Lips like wildflowers. “Will you?”

Throat dry, Tony croaks: “No.”

“I would ask for your help. Will you?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you.” Peter whispers, genuine, artless. He is pure, an unwilted flower. He could command strangers. Unite enemies. “I need a boat that would withstand the river of the underworld.”

Tony recoils from this. Unnatural. “I deal with inventions, not magic.” He spits. 

“They are one.” Peter insists gently, but sees Tony’s face. “You build. I’ll do the magic.”

“You can command magic?”

“Barely. Basic charms. The ingredients are kind to me.”

“As is all of life, it seems.” Tony quips.

Peter’s smile is indulgent. “If that were true, I would need no ship.”

“Who are you collecting from the underworld?”

Peter’s eyes scan over the horizon. In the distance, the boat Tony came on bobs. Peter tilts his eyes to the sky: the countless, silent, watching Gods. “Later.” He vows.

Tony believes him.

…

He seems older than his face suggests. In the same way Gods that saw the beginning of the earth have scarce a mark of time upon their face.

Tony wonders if it is his divine blood.

A ship to withstand the underworld needs to be very slim indeed. The rivers below are narrow, sharply turning. Tony cuts and shapes the wood, methodical in his work.

Peter, meanwhile, gathers roots and strange plants, grinds them into paste, spreads them onto the wood planks and whispers. They glow under his touch, seep into the wood. “Protection,” Peter will say after one, “courage,” after another, “safety”, “resistance”, “resoluteness”, “fierceness”.

In the evenings, Tony is led to Peter’s home. It’s a small castle, grand in it’s own right, teeming with treasures but empty of attendants. They sit before the hearth and Peter brings out salves, and rubs Tony’s hands; eases out the splinters and sprains of the day’s work.

“There is no need.” Tony insists, though the sight of Peter on his knees before him is one that will haunt him.

“There is every need. You do me a great kindness.”

“This is my reward?”

“No.” Peter hums, “this is my reward.”

His fingers unfasten the belt of Tony’s britches, the hot, wet mouth tight and stomach-lurching. It’s all Tony can do to breathe, jerking in his chair, sparking with pleasure.

When he’s finished, Peter tucks Tony away. Cleans him up. “Is there a deity you worship?” He asks, and Tony wants to say you but knows the gods would scorn him for it.

“Hermes is well-travelled.” He says instead.

“I will ask him to give you favour.”

“There is no need-”

“You say a lot about need.” Peter laughs, airy, nymph-like. “I suspect you understand very little of it. Your own are so tightly bound within you. I do not need, but would very much like you in my bed tonight. How is that?”

Tony’s throat is dry, blood already hot. “That is well.” He whispers.

*

A smarter man would delay the building of the ship. Spend more seasons with Peter on this island.

But the only thing that can rival Tony’s passion for the boyy, is his desire to work and invent.

As he sands the boards, he notes the cove they take shelter in. The shadows that hide them from the gods of the sky. “Who,” he says quietly, the waves lapping at their toes, “do you seek to bring from the Underworld?” A parent, who has died? A dear friend lost in battle? Worse- a lover. Tony almost could not bear it.

“I will bring an army of the undead,” Peter says, and Tony drops the block of cinder from his hand. It clatters to the deck. Peter continues to hum, binding rope with moss for strength.

Tony must be deceived. But there is no lie anywhere in Peter’s body. Just slim, muscled, beauty.

“Do not look so shocked, mortal.”

“Mortal?” Tony croaks.

Peter laughs. Musical. “I confess to you then. My mother was no demi-god. She was Zeus’ first born. I am no human. I’m more powerful than that.”

“You are not a god.”

“And grateful for it. Gods cannot go into the underworld.”

“You want war. Against who?”

“Rumlow. I will take his city. I will rule Attica.”

Tony laughs in disbelief, trembling with fear. He has been taken here for a fool. This is no kindness. This boy is vicious and cruel, like any God. “Attica cannot be united-”

“An army of the undead will unite them. The fates have written it. Led by me.”

Tony turns from him, shaking, eyes stinging. “I thought you good. I loved-”

Peter is before him, hands gentle on his face, smoothing through the inventor’s beard. “You love me with your mortal heart, dear sweet, Tony,” Peter whispers, kissing him. Melting into him, seeping into him, taking him over. Tony feels the eagerness against his thigh. Wants to jerk away but cannot bring himself to. He clutches Peter tighter. “I will reward you for it.”

Peter’s hand slips into Tony’s trousers. Tony is hard. Throbbing. But he resists. “I want no reward from you who brings such bloodshed.”

The boy, not a boy at all, laughs. Even as his hand works at Tony, spreading wetness, teasing, touching all the right ways. “This is not your reward. Your reward is much greater,” his teeth find Tony’s ear, nipping. “I will make you a god.”

Tony moans, Peter works him harder, he’s shaking, closer, trying to resist. “M-mortals cannot be made-” he gasps for breath, “-into gods.” He knows little of magic, but he knows that. Peter is pressed flush against him, hand moving between them.

“It must be written in Fate. I chose you, Stark. I had Rumlow choose you. I orchestrated it all. You are fated to be a God. Inventor who trapped the Minotaur, it is your destiny. You will be powerful and eternal and you will be mine.”

“I will be a god, and you not- you will die.” The thought is arresting. “I will have to continue without you.”

“There are tricks,” Peter grins, “Goddess of beauty is charmed by me. She will keep me young and beautiful forever. I will do a favour for the Underworld harpies. They will not take my soul.”

“What is this favour?”

“Do not fret,” Peter coos, licking Tony’s lips, grip merciless, taunting, Tony’s so close. Hips thrusting. “I have taken care of you now, have I not? I will give you all you desire. Every invention to make, all the means. I will care for you and not ask much in return. Let me do so for eternity. You can release, god.”

Tony cries out, does as he’s commanded.

An eternity. Ruled by Peter. A mystery wrapped up like a kindness. He’s hungry for it. He is no fool, Peter will ask for few, but terrible, things in return. Inventions that will turn Tony’s stomach. Wings of wax to trick a father and a son. A sea-spider to eat good sailors. A poison sword and arrow to destroy demigods. And he’ll make them all. Just like he’s made this ship. He’ll obey.

And if he’s good, Peter will reward him.

[anakinisvaderisanakin]

When Conviction Fails - Darth Vader POV post ESB Fic

Vader was a man of conviction, as far as he saw it. As was expected of any successful Sith Lord; letting the emotions rule and take full control without ever truly allowing them to conquer you. Using fear to his advantage, using rage to gain power, and pain to enhance said power. It had taken two decades to come to this point. Wavering was expected early on; during the initiation towards the Rule of Two. Vader himself had started out with an unquenchable fury in his soul, and a fresh open wound where heart used to be.

When She died, She had taken his compassion with her. She had grasped at the hand of his spirit, and all that he stood for as The Jedi. As Her life withered away, so did all that was good inside him. Left was only an empty shell of suffering; of agony. What was left, he had deplored. In the remnants of the man that had once been; all that he loathed came to light.

And with the passing years, while the pain never faded completely; it had shifted. From a sharp, searing red hot poker constantly burrowing its way deeper into his side; to a dull, distant ache only there to make its presence known. To make sure it was never forgotten, as a cruel reminder. But no longer at the forefront of his mind.

Eventually, it became enough to numb any other emotion. The remorse over the way in which he had, directly or not, caused Her death was enough to daze and desensitize any other reprehensible act he may commit himself to. The slaughter of innocents, of civilians, of women, of children. All in the name of justice, all in the name of the Empire. It weighed little on his conscience. Why should the blood on his hands matter? If he could kill the person he loved the most, and still go on albeit as an empty shadow of his former self - what did it matter who else joined Her beyond the grave?

Except, he hadn't killed Her.

It had been the first thing Palpatine revealed to him; as his severely burnt and scorched flesh still stung and charred within the fresh confines of its haphazardly crafted life support system. As he was still confounded regarding what was real, and what was a waking nightmare. Trapped within the suit that would become the prison of his own making.

“You killed her,” Palpatine had rasped.

Those were his Master’s words. His only explanation. Insinuating that Vader had for one crucial moment lost control, lost his mind; and subsequently ended the one person he'd fallen so far from grace to save. The one soul he had been so desperate to salvage that he had willingly sacrificed his morals, and his very identity, if only to reach for that tiny sliver of hope Palpatine had dangled in front of his nose.

‘But I didn't kill Her.’

If he had killed Her, there would be no child. His son - their son - would have died with Her, still in the womb. Would have been buried alongside his mother in the Naberrie family tomb on Naboo. Would have never seen the light of day, never grown into the bright, promising young man who had destroyed the first Death Star. Would never have been named, never have been hidden away, never have been living life peacefully unaware of his heritage in the shadows of the Empire for nearly twenty years.

But he was alive.

Luke had changed everything.

The discovery of his existence had been like a slap to the face, like a stupefying wakeup call. Like Vader had found himself dunked beneath the icy cold waters of truth, forced to realize the bleak reality. Forced to realize that the one person he’d been blindly clinging to in this world, was even cruel than he could ever have anticipated.

Palpatine had lied to him.

Perhaps, Vader had indeed inadvertently caused Her demise - but She had lived long enough to birth their son. She had not died on Mustafar, She had not been strangled to death by the invisible hand of his Force choke. She had survived long enough to set their only child to the world. Long enough to name him Luke; granting him the name She had picked out for their child if it were a boy from the very beginning of Her pregnancy.

She had been right.

The Jedi had been convinced that their child would be a daughter, She had been adamant it was a son. Their son. Luke Skywalker. Named by his mother, bearing the stark reminder of who had fathered him.

‘Luke.’

Dark, shaggy blonde hair and deep blue eyes. The same hard, defiant conviction in his eyes as his mother’s hazel ones had carried. He'd inherited The Jedi's facial features; the same angular boyish face, the same dimpled chin; the same complex. But his spirit was that of his mother's. Burning like a furnace flame, fighting for what he believed was right with a conviction only death could steal away from him. Vader had hoped Luke would be more like himself; easier to break, easier to manipulate, easier to steer in the direction he'd have liked. He had wished he himself could mislead, and pull the strings as well as Palpatine had, some twenty years ago when The Jedi had become tangled in the Emperor's web of lies. Trapped like a fly, to be feasted upon by the ravenous spider.

But Luke was different.

Luke was sensitive, emotional, vulnerable and desperately searching for a way to bond with his long lost father. The Jedi would have recognized himself in those qualities; would have appreciated the similarities. Luke had been deluding himself into expecting a heroic fantasy, envisioning his absent father as one of the men who had singlehandedly led the opposition of what would become the Empire. A as beacon of hope. Instead, he had found himself saddled with the knowledge of what had truly become of The Jedi who had sired him.

Vader clenched his gloved hands into tight fists; the visual memory of Luke's hard set, intent expression as he let go of the ledge still etched into his mind. Blue eyes cold as ice; denying their familiar relations despite knowing very well how the Force did not lie. His Force signature bursting with mistrust, and contempt.

But Luke had lived.

For a short moment, as he watched Luke fall; Vader had been unexpectedly reliving the pain of that moment he came to his senses while still strapped to the operation table, as he broke free from his makeshift shackles.

Crippled; less than half the man he'd used to be. More cybernetics and machine, than flesh and blood. Reaching for Force powers he could no longer tap into; taunting him by remaining just out of reach. He was reminded of crumbling to the harsh floor, beneath the load of his own reconstructed body’s weight; of the searing pain as his respirator attempted to match his sobs with its own periodically synchronized breath cycles.

The physical torment, while a menace in its own right; bearing no likeness to the mental anguish of his breakdown. It had stabbed viciously at his already blackened heart, until nothing but a mangled piece of malformed meat remained; the pang in his chest as he watched the last link to Her fall to his doom bringing it back as a distant echo. He was choosing death over his own father, just as She had chosen death over him and the Empire.

But Luke had survived, by some miraculous whim of the fates. The will of the Force, perhaps. Still in denial; still battered, bruised and disabled. Doomed by his own father to experience the same loss of a limb that Count Dooku had once bestowed upon The Jedi.

The Jedi had been bereft of a right arm; Luke merely of his right hand. It had been a selfish, wicked way of attempting to have his son experience the same indescribable humiliation. Stripped of a part of himself; at the hand of an enemy he had been rushing unprepared to face. Overconfident; in over his head. With this, Luke had learnt never to throw himself head first into a battle he was not equipped to win.

But at what cost?

Vader found himself glaring out into the vast black void ahead of the Executor; clutching at the distant mental link humming between them for a brief moment - like a flicker of light before going out in an instant. Luke was too far away to read; as his signature disappeared along with his ragtag crew of rebels. The Princess no doubt on-board; Vader could tell. Ironic, how it had been her saving his skin this time around.

Still, he felt the frustration bubble up inside. Felt it mingle with the fury; with the disappointment. Despite the carefully calculated trap he'd set, the way it had played out all in his favour until that last moment where Luke broke protocol. His reaction had aligned with none of the scenarios Vader had prescribed beforehand. It had failed; he had failed - and Luke was gone. Just like his mother.

Vader knew he shouldn't be surprised.

Everyone had left him for dead. Whenever he’d dared to love, dared to trust, dared to open up and be vulnerable and sincere - it had been for naught.

Mother, watching with glassy dark eyes when he turned to peer at her over his shoulder one final time; ever the terrified little boy as he left Tatooine behind. The boy who believed the Jedi order would help him free her. Instead; it had kept him from saving her. The last time he’d seen her before her demise; he was only nine years old. She’d been all he knew. Albeit without intention of hurting him, and beyond her own control; Shmi Skywalker had passed away in his arms to leave him alone. Had torn the first hole in The Jedi's heart; had triggered the first act of rampant, blind revenge. His first step towards his dark fate.

“I’m so proud of you, Ani,” she had breathed; as the life left her eyes.

Ahsoka had followed; abandoning him for her own selfish reasons. Walking away from him, dismissing his importance in her life and the value of the lessons he had taught her; the value of their bond. She had made it clear he was never going to be enough; had turned him down despite his pleading, his admission that he understood her feelings better than anyone. The Jedi had failed his padawan, the only one to believe in her innocence and to what end? Ahsoka had still turned him down.

“..And without you,” she had whispered.

Obi Wan was next in line; siding with the maniacal teachings of the Jedi order. Fighting to avenge them - all the while outright lying to his face, trying to trick him into believing he could still return to him. Trying to make The Jedi believe that his former master had ever considered him a brother. That they were ever more than merely master and apprentice; that The Jedi was never the burden or a disappointment he’d felt he was. That he was important to Obi Wan, too, in a way he had never outwardly expressed. That Obi Wan, who never formed attachments after what happened to the Duchess of Mandalore; had been so overtly attached to him.

“I loved you,” he had sobbed.

And then Her; who had turned down his offer of keeping Her by his side. Turned down the offer to become untouchable, as his Empress. Betrayed him, in spite of all he had sacrificed for Her. He had killed younglings for her. His brothers and sisters; his entire life slaughtered in the crumbling ashes of the burning Jedi Temple. To learn the ways of the Dark Side, to join the Sith - to keep Her from dying. And She had thanked him by rejecting him; by claiming She could not follow him anymore.

“I love you,” she had cried; and for the first time in his life - he didn’t believe her.

Now, Luke had chosen to stride the same path. Selfish, like Ahsoka. He too believing in the lies Obi Wan had fed him. Believing himself too virtuous, too pure just like Her. Believing that any lives he had taken in the name of the Rebellion - and his misplaced sense of civil justice - to be easier to explain away, than those his father had claimed. But in a way, Vader supposed it was no surprise Luke took after his mother. His son’s intentions were fair, his sacrifices rational. She had been pure, and good; though She was not fully innocent in the wake of the war, either; she had known where She stood.

Luke had inherited the same sense of morality, the same hunch for standing up for the weak. Standing up against the Empire, as a way of breaking free; of fighting back against the leading elite. Although, his desperation to make a difference and be of importance mirrored that of The Jedi.

Vader had sworn before the battle at Bespin that Luke would be turned. But could he?

Luke was still but a youth; still naive and starry eyed - despite some of that innocence being ripped away in the very moment Vader had revealed to him the truth. But he was secure; he was so steadfast in himself and who he perceived himself to be. The Jedi had been going astray when he was the same age; his fears and insecurities eating him alive. Luke was already an adult; had already defeated his demons.

“I am your father,” Vader had said to him.

The response he’d received was that of Luke crying out in agony, in begrudging despair. All the while knowing that the grim revelation was nothing but the truth. Perhaps Luke would now see that the line between good and evil; right and wrong was not as straight as he had supposed. It was a blurry, tangled mess; the road to hell paved with good intentions. Vader's own road to hell surely had been. But Luke was paving his very own road elsewhere, it seemed.

Still, it stung Vader’s damaged eyes. The rage swelling in his chest; filling the empty void of broken, shredded pieces of what was once his heart. For a second, the shade of glowing amber that coloured his eyes a sickly, Sith yellow faded. Gave way for a pale, tired blue. Bleached by the scorching flames of Mustafar’s lava streams. The same blue eyes The Jedi had once sported. The same blue eyes his son now possessed. Vader shook his head in frustration, and in an instant the shift was reversed. The embers of his fiery stare bleeding through, devouring the remnants of The Jedi resurfacing.

Or, so he would have hoped.

But the pulsating ache inside; dull and sharp as a blade all at once, remained. Vader knew the feeling; recognized the emotion he’d thought long gone. One that had been numbed and buried deep for so many years; underneath the heaps and drones of twisted, lifeless bodies of his victims.

Remorse.

Regret.

Guilt.

Remorse, for the way in which he had handled his first meeting face to face with his son after he had learned the truth of their connection. Regret, for the way in which he had physically, and mentally, snuffed out some of the light of hope previously clear in Luke's bright blue eyes. Guilt, over the fact that he had purposely driven a wedge between them himself; much like he had done between himself and Her. He found he knew no other way.

Vader pursed what was left of his charred lips behind the face plate. He glared at the distant stars, sparkling like burning orbs against the inky sky behind them. Spanning eons of light years ahead. Filling the distance between himself and Luke, making it palpable. Tangible.

He despised Obi Wan for lying to his son. Despised the way in which he had deluded Luke into believing in a childish fairytale. Despised him for telling Luke that his father was dead, that his father was now unreachable.

‘But is that not what you tell yourself?’

Vader turned his head to the side, as if to deny the suggestion. Still, the quiet voice nagging at the back of his head would not be silenced.

‘Do you not constantly tell everybody that Anakin Skywalker is dead? That you destroyed him? Is that not what you tell yourself? Luke is not your son; he's The Jedi’s son.’

‘Luke is my son. My flesh and blood. Mine alone,’ Vader shot back silently; his inwardly projected diction a sharp hiss of a threat; angled towards the defiant part of his own psyche.

‘Then, you must also admit that you are Anakin Skywalker.’

‘His name means nothing to me.’

‘Then, Luke Skywalker cannot be your son.’

‘He is.’

‘Then, you are indeed Anakin, and you accept that as the only truth.’

‘I am not The Jedi; he was weak and foolish. I destroyed him and his pathetic legacy, he is nobody now. He is nothing.’

‘You cannot claim Skywalker as kin, if you do not acknowledge your own identity.’

‘Silence!’

‘Silence will accomplish nothing. It is too late to undo what you have revealed to yourself.’

Vader forcefully ignored his own intrusive thoughts; locking them back away inside the darkness of his past where they could not bother him.

But weren’t they right?

If Luke was indeed his son; did that not mean that The Jedi had never fully died? How could he be a different man, a separate entity, if he recognized The Jedi's son as his son?

‘And Luke is my son. My son, and he belongs to me. With me.’

He could feel it in his bones; could feel it as deeply as he felt the tendrils of the Dark Side surging through him. As deeply as he felt the connection to his own Force sensitivity, to his own memories of Her. Vader had loved Her - loved Her still - and She had been but the wife of The Jedi. If he thought of Her as his beloved, as his everything; did that not mean he must recognize himself as unchanged? A broken shell, a faded shadow of who he had once been. But the same nonetheless.

A fleeting image of Her passed before Vader’s inner vision. Her kind hazel eyes, full of mournful sorrow. Her silky brown hair, falling in springy curls over Her pale shoulders. His betrayal had destroyed Her; had ripped Her from him. How could he ever repent for that? His eyes prickling; Vader snarled silently to himself - deformed face contorting into a visage of hollow, yet overwhelming anguish.

The Jedi had known that what he had done was wrong; as soon as he stopped to think about it. Had known the lives he'd taken could never be accounted for, could never be justified. That, much as he liked to think killing the younglings had set them free from a cruel fate of being twisted by the unkind religion of the Jedi Order; he had been ridden with the burden of their murder. He had locked that knowledge away; had forced himself to deny its meaning.

Still, now, he was not as sure anymore. He found himself wavering; suddenly not as certain of his future as he had once been. Not as convinced of his purpose to suffer for eternity, while bringing upon others the same torment. Vader didn't even take note of the wetness pooling at the corners of his bloodshot yellow eyes until one lone tear broke free to trail down the grooves of his wretched face.

Only then, did the shock seep in.

When had he last cried? Had it been on Mustafar, after he had slayed the Separatists and the realization of what he had just committed himself to came crashing down on him? Had it been when he learnt of Her demise seconds hand after the brutal life saving ordeal, merging the bodily torture with the psychological agony? Had it been when Ahsoka swore to him that she would not leave his side this time, despite knowing what he had done as Vader? Had it been when he found Obi Wan's tattered robes were all that remained of the old man he had struck down, thinking it would bring him peace but finding himself stricken only by grief? Had it been the last time he was reminded that everything he felt, everything he stood for - everything he believed - came from The Jedi?

Luke knew who his father was.

Knew who he was; knew what he was. Despite having his world toppled over and turned on its head; despite trying to deny it. Vader had denied the same fact for so long, that he had almost forgotten where the line he'd forged between what he considered to be The Jedi and himself was drawn. All he knew for certain, was that Luke was his son. And if he wanted to cling to that one scrap of light; there were so many horrendous actions he needed to take responsibility for as well.

The Jedi had never truly died. The Jedi had only ever evolved, had only ever changed as life itself changed and formed him into a dark dealer of vengeance. Had been molded by the path he chose, and by the people he’d loved and lost. Had been hollowed out; until only the carcass remained.

It was The Jedi that had killed Her; he had stolen Her will to live, he had snuffed out Her longing for peace.

It was The Jedi that killed Ahsoka; having zero quells with beheading her as soon as she denied him what he wished for; denied him her allegiance.

It was The Jedi that had killed Obi Wan; striking him down after convincing himself that the blame was all on him, and that it would diminish with the death of his former Jedi Master.

Now, they remained lingering in his peripheral like translucent specters. Like a haunting reminder of how he may never escape. May never forget. May never be able to fully buy into his own lies. May never be forgiven.

The Jedi - Anakin - was still very much alive. Not thriving, but crumbled to the bare bones of a forsaken human being. Beaten down by life, enslaved by one person after the other. But he had a son.

As another tear trailed lazily down his cheek; Vader flinched. The sensation overwhelming him, a mixture of heavenly relief and excruciating devastation. It seemed one may never appear without the other in its tow. The name of The Jedi was supposed to mean nothing to him; was supposed to be an empty callback to a past long since abandoned and overcome. Was supposed to be a distant remnant of a man that no longer breathed. In itself, that was true from a certain point view.

But if it had truly meant nothing, it would never have stung the way it did whenever uttered for Vader to hear. When She said it. When Ahsoka said it. When Obi Wan said it. Whenever it was uttered, it would bring forth all the suffering The Jedi had caused. And all the contempt The Jedi harboured towards his own visage. Therein lay the answer.

‘I am Luke’s father. Luke is my son. I am Darth Vader.’

‘And Anakin Skywalker,’ the pestering murmur of his inner voice whispered.

Anakin no longer had the strength to suppress, or deny that statement.

--------------

Can be found on my Ao3 below, repost from my original acc.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/24048643

[docholligay]

An Overwatch Christmas Carol: Stave IV-- The Last of the Spirits

Creeping out of the shadows of the subway station, little bits of shadow began to move toward her, and even as Ana stepped back, they came into a pile on the ground, growing higher and higher. As it grew she heard voices overlapping, little snippets of conversations, things that could not be, in contradiction with each other, wave upon wave of idea, none real and all real, at once. 

The shadows became one. It was a tall, imposing figure, the face unable to be seen, its body barely formed, wavering in the air. The darknesses overlapped one another, shade upon shade, and Ana felt a chill knowledge come into her heart that she was looking at her very own future. Darkness upon darkness. Shade upon shade. Moving and whispering in every second. 

The future. 

“Are you,” her voice sounded so high and so fearful even to her, but she could not control it, “Are you the ghost--the spirit---that Jack and Reinhardt and Tra--my friends. Are you the ghost that my friends have sent to me?”

No face fell into view, just that same blue and grey and black in a muted palette, brushing up against each other, as the spirit nodded and whispers of a dozen different voices emanated from in it and around it. 

Nem. Ja. Tak. Of course. Ken. Oui. Yes. 

“You’re here,” she walked cautiously about the spirit as it towered over here, “to show me things that haven’t happened yet.” 

More nods, and more whispers, and more shadows. The shade of an arm outstretched, and pointed on toward the stairs that led up and out of that tube station, toward the future. No longer was Ana concerned with narrative structure, nor surprised at the spectre of a spectre itself, and yet, in a way that no spirit before it had managed, she felt herself tremble before the gliding shadows and barely audible whispers in some form of human shape before her. 

“Are you,” she thought of those that had come before, “A friend?” 

No. Nein. Nyet. Nej. La. Meiyou. 

She gave a low, shaking chuckle. “Not that you need to be. I’ve worn out my chances with that, I think.” 

The spirit did not respond but with the same hand, pointing up the stairs, out of the darkness into a far more terrifying morning gloom. Ana’s eyes followed the hand, knowing where she had to go, wishing she could go anywhere else. 

“I am afraid of you,” she steadied her voice, let herself like in that terrible, vulnerable truth, “In a way I have not been of any ghost before you. But I know they would not send you if you couldn’t help me. I will try to learn from you, more than I ever have have before, Spirit.” 

A shadowed finger to the stairs, the only response. 

“Yes.” Ana tightened her scarf and tied her robe tight, trying to crack a smile, “Come on, then, as Tracer would say.” 

They started up the stairs, but they did not so much climb them as the stairs fell down around them, revealing the city as they fell away, and suddenly Ana was on a snow-dusted street, and then the cafe with the black awning and the gingham tables, and then they were inside of it, the two women behind the counter, same as they were every morning. 

Ana looked around, not much about the place but a few pastries left here and there, the two women cleaning up tea pots and chatting amongst themselves. She knew this place well, had frequented it many times before, and yet she was nervous to enter it again. 

“You seen that old bat of ours lately?” One of them said to the other. 

“Oh, the one grumbling every morning, with the coffee? Naw, not for a week or better now.” She did not seem to give the matter any thought, but squeezed out a mop. 

“Wonder if she’s died.” From over a wiped off counter. 

“Think we might have heard?” 

The first burst into a peal of laughter. “From who exactly? Not as if she’s ever with anyone, right? And I’m more noticing than mourning, mind you.” 

The other chuckled appreciatively. “Maybe it’s only that she’s decided to grace someone else with her growling.” 

“We should be so lucky, I think!” 

The women collapsed into laughter as the sides of the cafe fell away, and then more walls began to be constructed in its place, newspapers on the walls falling away to clean, crisp white, the floor from wood to a highly polished stone, the counter becoming a front desk with pictures behind it, the plaque above them reading For Those Who Gave All In The Cause Of Good. 

“Well I don’t know anything about it, just that she couldn’t be reached. Commander Amari said to send someone over later, been two weeks since she checked in,” the little secretary laughed behind the desk, ‘She told me, the agent is either gone rouge or dead, and handed me plans for both, said not to worry till after the holiday. Commander Amari said I should go home to me and mine, it’s nearly Christmas.” 

“That was kind of her,” a dark haired man leaned against the edge of the desk, “I think it’s only a handful of us that don’t bother with it on today. You know,” he laughed, “I’d really rather her be rouge. More entertaining, and I don’t have the energy for an official Overwatch funeral.” 

“Oh,” she stood up and grabbed her coat, “I doubt there’d be any kind of funeral, even if the devil has taken his own at last. Or a cheap one, none of the trimmings.” 

“I mean,” He laughed, “I’ll go if there’s a tea at least. I heard when Commander Oxton died, there was a spread for the gods.” 

She slipped on her coat. “Not likely to be that. Maybe a bag of crisps, for the memory.” 

They laughed together, him wishing her a Happy Christmas with her family, and again the walls fell away as Ana turned to the spirit. These conversations were so small and could have been insignificant, and yet Ana felt something twisting around her heart, tighter and tighter. It came to her so fast, here with this cold and silent spirit, this lesson, and yet she cursed the Ana of the past, and the present, who had taken so long to see their own lessons. 

“I understand, Spirit.” She nodded slowly. “This woman could be me. My life--it does support that sort of treatment, right now. I won’t ever forget this lesson that you’ve taught me, but--what about...my Fareeha? She must--”

But before she could finish the thought, the walls fell away again, and constructed just as quickly, until they were on that same street she had seen with Tracer, in what had been earlier this evening, and so long ago. It was no more impressive than it had been, though certainly more built up, no longer many empty shells of what had been bombed and shot out in the Battle for London, but apartments and a market, a pub and a bakery, all the street looking so much more complete for all of it. 

Pharah and Mercy’s home was there, standing where it had before, in a row of newer apartments made to incorporate the old bits of what had been there before the unpleasantness of battle. 

The apartment was not at all decorated, a light in the upstairs window the only indication of anything at all. In the dim light it glowed like a candle, beckoning them on. The doors to apartments around them were covered in garland, trees lighting up the windows, but this one was quiet, and undecorated. 

“Fareeha.” The name escaped her lips before she could even finish the thought, “I know this part of the story. I mistook Tracer for Tiny Tim but--She must have---” she paused, and looked down at the snow made dull and muddy by the traffic that had already walked by. “She was so angry. And I never did anything. I encouraged it, in her. I told her to set it aside. I never helped her deal with it. And now--” 

She looked back to the spirit, who simply pointed to that grey door, a hole opening in it, darker grey still, overlapping colors of the night so much like the spirit itself. 

Kommen. Ma. Priyti. Come. 

“But, I have to see. Yes.” 

She walked into the house, and looked around. Still dark, thought it was fully eight am and if Pharah had been here there would have been a flurry of activity, certainly. She smelled a hint of cinnamon in the air, that must have been wafting over from one of the other close-knit apartments, but she stared and stared up those stairs, where she knew that bedroom sat, where she knew she would have to look and see what all her failures had wrought. 

The Spirit pointed up the stairs, not even whispers from its lips as it points, Ana looking up into the hallway that should have been cheerful and bright, but seemed so foreboding, so dull, so frightening. A step. She had to climb. 

“Poor Angela.” 

It surprised her even as she said it. She had spent so long thinking that Mercy was weak, that she wasn’t built for the work that she had chosen to do, that she would have been better off choosing a softer job, marrying into a softer family. Now, she felt a stirring in her, something that could remember Mercy had lost her parents young, Mercy had seen soldiers crying for their parents in their last moments, Mercy had plucked dead children out of rubble. And she refused to callous. She cried every time. 

Maybe she was braver than Ana had ever given her credit for. Maybe she was braver than Ana. 

She turned around, nearly up the stairs now, to the Spirit. “Are you going to tell me what happened to their child?” 

An outstretched hand, pointing. 

Another step. Another turn, another pause. 

“Pharah can’t be dead. I know this, because she was mentioned at Headquarters.” 

Nothing but that finger, those moving, shifting, shading darknesses. Ana turned around, and took those final steps. Staring down the hallway where the light circled the door, waiting to be opened, knowing she had to do it. 

“I can’t imagine Fareeha leaving…”she kept walking, even as she feared it, “Angela must have left her. I should have...This is all my fault. ” She stopped at the door. “Oh no. Angela can’t have died, Spirit, that would be the most unfair thing of all. I could have--I will stop it. I will.” 

She rested her hand on that cold, hard doorknob, and let the rage flash in her. Knowing that she would change Mercy’s death, knowing that she would heal Pharah, knowing that she would go back and fix it all. She twisted, and let it open. 

Pharah lay in bed, her arm not even on, reading a book in the dim light. The smell of coffee filled the air, and that cinnamon she had been so sure earlier was coming from another house was the cinnamon roll sitting by her side of the bed. 

And Mercy’s. Mercy was tucked in next to her, hair piled high on her head, in an oversized t-shirt and her glasses, paging through her own novel. Between them was a little blonde girl, sitting crosslegged and also determinedly reading her own book, a blanket drawn around her shoulders, a battered stuffed sloth tucked into her lap, helping her read. 

“Mama,” she turned to Pharah, “Can I have a bite?” 

“Of course.” Pharah smiled warmly, and the little girl crawled onto her, mouth open as Pharah chuckled and stuffed a piece in her mouth. 

“I love you, Mama.” She chewed on the bun. 

“I love you, too,” she swung over her arm and pulled the little girl onto herself, “Don’t talk with your mouth full. You could choke.” 

The little girl nodded, and carefully swallowed, then treated Pharah to a sticky kiss, Pharah smiling contently all the while, as Mercy looked on, licking her fingers from her own cinnamon roll. Pharah tucked her own blanket around the little girl, and patted her affectionately. 

“We’ll have to dig into the cookies, at this rate. And so early.” 

“Oh do we?” Mercy sat up and looked over at the both of them. 

“Avi’s stolen most of my cinnamon roll, you see.” 

“Nuh-uh!!” Avi protested. “You said I could have a bite, Mama!”

Pharah gave a deep laugh. “I should have made more.” 

Ana looked at her daughter as she leaned against the doorframe. She had told herself as she came up the stairs that now was the time when she would see all the mistakes that were made, that now was the dark part of this story, that there was nothing but sadness to be seen here. And yet. It was warmth and coziness and comfort, all. There were none of her fears, either of the old Ana or the new, in this family. 

“But I thought…” Ana stepped forward a few steps, staring at Pharah. 

There was no red about her at all, no halo about her spelling trouble, just, if anything, the gentle light of a contented love. 

The breath left her as she realized. 

“It has nothing to do with me.” She felt it catch in her throat. “Her anger...she didn’t need me. She, she let it go herself. Because I mean nothing to her.” 

The floor dropped out from beneath her, falling, falling, through all the grey and the darkness, like smoke surrounding her and clouding her, entering into her as she opened her mouth to scream. 

And then, as soon as the fall started, it stopped. 

She was on the floor of that same raggedy hallway in her apartment building, with that same flickering light, though it seemed somehow even dimmer than the last time. She struggled to her feet as the Spirit materialized beside her, extending that same arm, pointing to the door that she knew, oh, very well indeed. 

“Am I--going home?” she looked for a moment, confused, and then let the moment settle in. “No. This is the woman everyone was talking about. This is the woman no one was talking about.” 

She took a step. 

“I have a question. The future, I mean, these can only be the shadows of what might happen. Things could change, in any moment. This is true of the future, it always is.” 

There was no response, not even a whisper, just pointing, pointing. Ana looked at the door, and slowly inched forward, knowing she had to see the truth, knowing she could hardly bear it. She reached out her hand to the knob, and could feel the cold breeze coming from inside the room. She took a shaking breath, and tightened her grip. 

She lost her nerve, and pivoted, looking back at the Spirit, so close behind her she could smell those hundreds of smells, just like the whispers, one overlapped over the other. 

“I know what’s behind that door. What is the point of any of this? Why bother showing it to me if I can’t change!? It exists only to torment me!” 

Ana felt her hand on the doorknob, though she could not remember placing it there, and heard that horrid, dark click as the door creaked open, calling her inside. 

“No.” She whispered. 

But she looked, because she must look, and there it was, on the terrible, dank, threadbare carpet, but her own self, stone dead where she had fallen. There was a squeaking Ana realized could not longer be coming from the door, and she adjusted her vision a moment, saw two rats eating at the edge of her hand, their own Christmas feast offering the filling warmth Ana never had otherwise. 

She cried out, bent against the doorframe. How long had she been here? Days, and no one had noticed she was missing, more than a week, at least, and in that time not one person had reached out to see her, to check on her, to even know that she was dead. How much longer might her body lie there, eaten by rats in the cool of the evening? 

Ana looked up at the Spirit, hurt and angry, most of all with herself and her own thousand failures. 

“Tell me who you are! Let me at least know the face of my accuser!” 

The Spirit stepped back away from her, and slowly, slowly the shadows began to drift, two hands becoming many tiny hands as they ringed around the cowl that hid the face, the horrible face that Ana had asked to see and yet now wished to see no longer, and she took a step back as it pulled away the cowl, like a peel slowly retreating from the fruit. 

Pharah’s eyes glowered at her, and Ana shrank back, shaking her head, opening her mouth to apologize, to say something, and then the shades turned and moved and became Waldemar, and then again to Mercy, to Tracer, to Zeina, to Reinhardt, moving and shifting between all these people she had known, all their voices and whispers surrounding her and cutting her as she held back, and then, there it was, locked in and staring furiously: Ana herself. The whispers started, the accusations, everything she had learned and already known coalescing in her head, tying tight around her, and she felt that same chain, cold and hard. 

She fell to her knees, grasping at the Spirit. 

“Please! I can change! Jack must have sent you because he knew!” The words choked up in her throat and stuck there, tears coming to her eyes, “Tell me these things can be changed. Why show me if these things can’t be changed? A life CAN BE CHANGE--”

[anonniemousefics]

The Deal Is The Deal

Originally posted on AO3

Fandom: Six of Crows/Crooked Kingdom | Kaz + Inej

Word count: 7,774

***Rating: NSFW (aged-up characters) -- I’m gonna say this is a 7 on the smut scale***

This piece follows The Trouble With Wanting and is best read second.

Synopsis: Kaz Brekker is not a useless podge who mopes and stews over his personal problems. Kaz Brekker makes deals. Kaz Brekker enforces. Kaz Brekker stays twenty steps ahead. (Or that’s at least what he tells himself.)

Kaz Brekker didn’t need a reason, but the right reason made him damn near unstoppable. Or at least, that’s what he told himself. Part of crafting a persona your enemies feared involved a considerable amount of convincing yourself of your own fearlessness. And Kaz was very good at convincing. Kaz Brekker always got what he wanted. That’s what he told himself.

Because Inej Ghafa was his perfect reason. Ketterdam had tried to break her a thousand times more than it had broken him, and still she was a better person than he could ever hope to be. He’d always believed the world would be better off if Inej had her way in all things. Making that reality had now become his singular focus.

He had sat in this same spot many times before, at his desk chair in Per Haskell’s old office on the main floor of the Crow Club, considering the terms of their deal and how he would fulfill them. Kaz Brekker was not a useless podge who moped and stewed over his personal problems. Kaz Brekker made deals. Kaz Brekker enforced. Kaz Brekker stayed twenty steps ahead.

(That’s what he told himself.)

Inej had laughed at him when he’d framed it in this way – their deal. But he didn’t mind. If he ever became stranded on a desert island, he could have lived off her laugh alone.

“You can’t just call it something normal?” she had asked him, over a year ago.

They were sitting on the tiles of the roof of The Slat when Inej said this, a blanket of stars overhead. A half-empty bottle of kvas had sat between them, an unspoken boundary he wasn’t sure which one of them would attempt to cross first. Probably her, that’s what he was betting. She always had been braver than he.

“Is what we’re dealing with normal?” Kaz countered.

“A relationship where two people have problems?” said Inej, and she rolled her eyes. “No, you’re absolutely right. We’re revolutionaries.”

“You know what I mean.” Kaz shot her a sideways look. Inej sighed in reluctant acknowledgement. All Kaz had to do to know how the odds were stacked against them was to walk down the street. Men and women all over Ketterdam could hold hands, casually kiss on their way out of their front doors, fuck in dark alleys when they thought they were alone. Kaz and Inej were, as much as they hated it, different.

The only way forward, the only way Kaz knew, was to strike a deal.

“I’ll be the first to admit I don’t know anything about relationships, Inej,” he said, “but I do know deals. And I know how to con. And that’s what will save this.”

“Enlighten me,” Inej drawled. She was raising an eyebrow, her head propped up on her arms as she wrapped them around her knees. Guarded, Kaz noted, and with good reason. He wasn’t offering her romance, and for that, he felt a twinge of shame. Somewhere in him had to be a better man for her, and he hoped it wouldn’t take too long to unearth him. Damn it all, he would try.

“You want me.” He could say it now with more confidence, but it still sounded unbelievable. “And I want you. Mind, body, and soul.”

“Hm.” Inej hummed her approval, lifting her head just a bit. In the dim light from the streets below, he could see a tiny smile play on her lips.

“Those are the terms of the deal. Simple enough, really. Unfortunately,” he stretched out his bad leg, leaning back on his hands, “our bodies are not holding up their end of the bargain. And what do we do when cocky little sods won’t follow through on their deals?”

Inej unfurled her legs then, leaning back as he had. She wore a cheeky half smile as she clucked her tongue with a pitying sigh.

“Penalties,” she said.

“Exactly,” Kaz nodded. “We collect. We learn their histories, we learn their motives, we learn what they love, what they hate, what frightens them, what bores them. We learn all this so we can apply the perfect amount of pressure, combined with just the right leverage.”

“I can’t believe this is making sense.” Inej was shaking her head in disbelief as she took a swig from the bottle.

“The deal is the deal, Inej,” Kaz said. He shifted so he was looking at her face, the thick braid that fell over her slender shoulder. “And if our deal is to each other, and our bodies are violating our terms, then I swear to learn everything I can to give you the leverage you need to break this stupid sod.” And he thrust a hand against his chest to drive the point home.

“He is not a stupid sod,” Inej said, tenderly, her brown eyes sparkling, and slowly, she pressed her fingers over his on his chest. Kaz swallowed hard, feeling his heart in his throat. Alive. Alive. Alive, he told himself. Her flesh was warm, dry, living, her pulse in her palm. Different. Good. Deep breath. Alive.

When his heart rate slowed again, he wrapped her fingers in his and pressed a quick kiss to the back of her hand. Alive. Good. It was good. And her smile that followed, breathtaking.

Worth it.

“And I swear the same to you,” Inej promised. She leaned closer so that their shoulders brushed, and she looked up at him through oil-black lashes. He could smell her hair in the night breeze, the sweet coconut oil she used. Intoxicating. Thank her Saints this world isn’t a just one, he thought to himself. He was sure he’d done nothing to deserve such a face. “They say Kaz Brekker never met a safe he couldn’t crack,” she went on. “I suppose I shouldn’t doubt you can figure out my combination.”

His mouth felt dry and his slacks a little tighter as she leaned over and pressed a quick kiss on his lips. It was barely a peck, but for the first time, it wasn’t enough. He found himself leaning forward, eyes closed, even as she pulled away. From the smirk she wore when he opened his eyes to her, she had noticed.

“I might like your metaphor better,” he confessed, his voice hoarse. And Inej laughed.

That was their deal. Conduct reconnaissance. Apply pressure. Utilize leverage. Crack the safe.

Nina Zenik would have a field day with these innuendoes, he realized. If it had been an actual contract, he should have considered some kind of non-disclosure clause.

Getting sloppy, Brekker.

He had his black-trousered legs propped up on the desk, trying to quickly wolf down the sandwich Pim had brought in for him from a nearby street vendor. He knew he ought to have taken the walk himself. It helped to stretch out his bad leg a few times a day or taking the stairs up to The Slat would be nearly impossible. But he was up to his tie knot in paperwork, and he got distracted far too easily these days. There were reminders of her everywhere.

This chair, for example. He was torn between saving it forever, maybe casting in bronze, or replacing it completely for the sake of his work ethic. It was there, barely a month ago, that they’d somehow found themselves late one night while Inej was portside. He couldn’t even remember now why they hadn’t gone upstairs to The Slat. Maybe it had been the crowd in the Crow Club. Didn’t matter. He’d locked the door, and one thing had led to another, and somehow he’d ended up sitting in this exact chair, Inej straddling his lap.

He thought he’d died and gone to heaven. There were no waters lapping at his ankles. Jordie’s ghost was apparently growing disinterested in his little brother’s dalliance. And Inej showed no signs of vanishing. Rather the opposite. She was above him, running her hands from his chest to his hair, her lips desperate for his. He’d even forgotten to take off his gloves, but she didn’t seem to care as he traced the slope of her hips, the curves of her muscled thighs that gripped either side of his.

“I want you,” she gasped between heated kisses. She held his jaw in her hands, demanding.

“You have me,” he rasped. He slid his hands up the lithe curve of her waist, where the base of her ribs flared with every ragged breath.

“I want to touch you.” Kaz thought he was seeing stars as she worked her lips over his jawline to the shell of his ear. She nipped at his earlobe, and he shivered. “But I’m not ready for you to touch me yet,” she whispered there.

At that, Kaz pulled back from her a moment, hovering his hands over her body. He tried to be a quick student of her, of this maddening, irresistible lock of hers. He knew well enough that when the lock said stop, you damn well stopped.

“Are you ok?” He gave her a quick, concerned assessment. Her demons were cunning, but they were becoming easier for him to spot. But in that moment, Inej was rosy-cheeked and biting her lip, her dark, thick braid coming loose around her face and shoulders. She was breathless, her breasts rising and falling just inches from his body. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t lost sleep wondering when he was going to hold them again, but he wasn’t about to press the issue. Patience. Leverage. That was their deal.

Inej leaned into him, sliding her arms over his shoulders as her breasts pressed against his chest.

“I’m just gathering information,” she insisted, meeting his lips again, just once. “Leverage.” Another kiss to his jaw. He felt like a human stick of butter, sliding down a pan. “Pressure.” And she ground her hips against his, rubbing against his cock so that it throbbed. The sound that came up from his chest was not one he’d ever heard from his body before.

“You do not have to do this, Inej,” he said, in spite of himself, still wary of the last time they’d pushed into new territory.

Inej sat back so that he could see her full face, the streetlight from outside glowing orange behind her black hair like a halo. He searched her soft brown eyes, not understanding the look on her face.

“That’s exactly why I want to,” she said, softly.

It was moments like this Kaz could almost hear the sound of lock tumblers clicking into place.

He sat back, his gloved hands gripping on the arms of his chair.

“I’m all yours, Inej,” he said, his voice husky. He trusted her with his demons. He trusted her with his life.

She had her hands on his torso, raking her eyes over his body, and he felt like he might catch fire. These men who bought their pleasure in brothels could never know the thrill of being so desperately wanted, and, for a moment, he almost pitied them. Almost.

“It doesn’t bother you, when I sit on you like this?” Inej asked, flicking a glance up at him. Kaz could only shake his head, dumbly. If she only knew how incredible she looked up there. They built monuments to this kind of glory.

“And it doesn’t bother you when I do…this?” Inej palmed her hand against his cock, and Kaz drew in a sharp breath. Had she asked a question? Was he meant to answer?

“This,” he was stammering as she slowly stroked his cock through his trousers, “this is what you want?” He wasn’t entirely sure he wasn’t dreaming.

Over him, Inej nodded, her eyes dark and smoldering. The leather on his gloves creaked as he tightened his hands on the chair. He wouldn’t try to touch her, not without instruction. Those were her terms.

Outside the locked office door, the sounds of drunken laughter and broken glass bottles rose as Kaz’s head slipped back against the chair with a groan. Inej kept her eyes trained on him, like she was hungry, devouring his every movement as she applied pressure, slowly stroking him from hilt to head and back again. As his eyes slipped close, his breathing deepening, she leaned in against him again, her body hot and taut, planting kisses up his neck.

In that moment, he didn’t give a single fuck about anything else, not revenge, not profit, not the Dime Lions, not the ghosts of his past. There was only Inej. His Inej. The girl he was determined give the world to, just you wait.

“Inej,” he breathed, and he felt her smile against his face.

“It’s good?” she whispered, checking. Good? That was a pitiful word for what it was. And if he wasn’t currently losing all sense of time and space, he’d have offered a better word.

“This is good information, Brekker,” she crooned in his ear.

Kaz was sure he’d never been so hard in his life. He clenched his fists tighter, his breath quickening, and vowed to meet this offer in equal exchange as soon as he could.

“I’m going to be a better man for you, Inej,” he heard himself spout, maybe a little too loud. He was panting, shaking. There was a crest rising inside of him, a wave of energy stronger than any he’d felt before.

“You don’t need to--” Inej started to say when Kaz let out a moan.

“I’m going to love you the way you deserve,” he swore with a gasp.

“You do; you already do,” and Inej covered his mouth with hers as he broke apart beneath her, a low moan against her lips as the wave crashed over him, sending him out into the sky.

And he didn’t care so much in the moment how gross he felt in his slacks, as Inej leaned her forehead against his. His chest heaved while he caught his breath, still coming down from the clouds, and she whispered to him, “I say your name when I touch myself, too.”

So, the chair had to go. Or stay. Whatever. Either way, in its current state, the paperwork was mounding up, and she was due back any day now, and he had to get caught up. This was not how he wanted to be spending his time while she was back in Ketterdam.

“Kaz!” Jesper Fahey shoved open the office door with a shout, startling Kaz.

“Shit, Jes. Knock,” Kaz swore. “I could have been indisposed.”

“Sure,” Jesper rolled his eyes in disbelief. Kaz pressed back a smirk to himself, thinking of the chair. Maybe the chair stayed after all.

“So, it’s true, then.” Jesper strode to the middle of the office, folding his arms. “There is a mattress in your office.”

Kaz glanced at what Jesper now pointed at, accusingly. It was true. The mattress was pushed vertical up against the wall, to keep it out of the way while he worked during the day.

“Astute of you to notice,” Kaz grunted, pulling at the next piece of paperwork in the pile. Expense reports. This one was last month’s? Fuck.

“Pim and Anika are worried about the mattress in your office,” Jesper said. “So, Kaz, why is there a mattress in your office?”

“I’m having construction done on The Slat,” Kaz shrugged, which was true. “I can’t sleep up there until it’s done.”

“That’s it?” Jesper glared at him, incredulous, his eyes in slits.

“There is no mystery here, Jes.” Kaz spread his hands out wide. “There is construction upstairs, so I sleep down here.”

“This is weird. Even for you,” Jesper frowned. “Anika thought maybe your leg was getting worse. Like you couldn’t make it up the stairs.”

“I can still beat your ass up and down those stairs. Happy? I have work.”

“So, what are you having done to The Slat?” Jesper was leaning against the far wall, his arms still crossing, looking about as moveable as a mountain. Kaz chewed on the inside of his lip.

“I just wanted running hot water,” he lied. Well, it was true enough, anyway. There would be running hot water up in The Slat when all was said and done.

He wasn’t ready to tell Jesper the real reason, what had happened six months ago that had snowballed into him sleeping on a narrow mattress at night in his office. He didn’t want to admit why aloud, but deep down, he was always waiting for the day when Inej had had enough of this, their deal, enough of him. It would break him when that happened, he knew it would. And if he had to break the news of it to Jesper, too, broken and in shambles… he just couldn’t imagine doing it. It was safer for everyone, Kaz included, if no one knew.

He’d thought that day had come six months ago. Why it hadn’t was only a testament to Inej’s undying patience.

Sometimes, when Kaz’s bad leg hurt in the night, it helped to walk the streets. He liked to think it made him look unpredictable. You never knew at what hour Dirtyhands could appear. A short stroll around the block could get the blood flowing in his leg and send a message to the thugs and goons lurking about the dark alleys at night all in the same half hour. Efficiency at its finest.

He took a slow walk that night. He’d spent too many hours at his desk that day, and his leg was stiff and the ache was constant. It was when he’d paused past the glow of a street lamp that he sensed the shadows flit about behind him, and, without moving his weight from his cane, he began to reach for the revolver in his coat pocket.

“Kaz, it’s just me.” Inej’s whisper stopped him, and as he turned to the alleyway, his girl was leaping silently from a fire escape and his heart stuttered. She could land on her feet like a cat and throw back her braid when she stood, not a bead of sweat on her.

Kaz checked the streets, back and forth, but saw no one.

“You’re following me,” he observed, and was it weird he was flattered? “I wasn’t expecting you to dock until tomorrow.”

“We caught a strong current,” said Inej, who kept to the shadows and leaned against the side of the alley. “And it’s not that I don’t trust your new spider, but I don’t trust your new spider.”

Kaz huffed a laugh. Anika was learning, but it was true there would never be another Wraith.

“Find anything interesting?” he asked.

“Your reign of terror here is making these streets rather boring,” Inej shrugged. “No one’s tried to mug me or shank me all night.”

“I gave the muggers and the shankers the night off. Tuesday nights are strictly for public urination.”

“Is that what you’re doing out and about?”

“Change starts at the top, Inej. No one gets immunity in the Barrel.”

Inej stifled a laugh behind her fingerless gloves, and Kaz desperately wanted to kiss her.

“Were you going to stop by tonight?” he asked instead.

“Depended on what I found,” she replied.

“And?”

“If you’ll have me.”

If he would have her? Saints. Perhaps he hadn’t been clear enough. He would have her every day for the rest of his life if she wanted.

“I’ll meet you in The Slat,” he said instead.

He thought about kissing her all the way home, and he climbed the stairs as quickly as his throbbing leg would allow. But when he locked the door and turned to face her, Inej was sitting on the edge of his narrow bed, her slim body looking a little slouched, as she hid a yawn behind her hand. Of course, she was exhausted. And he offered her something he’d never offered before: a place in his bed for the night.

She’d looked both a little nervous and a little intrigued by the concept, and eventually gave in. He offered her one of his nightshirts to sleep in and couldn’t help himself from gazing over her bare legs, the way the thin fabric skimmed over the supple curve of her ass.

They decided the night was just for sleeping, and while Kaz waited for drowsiness to overtake the ache in his leg, he kept glancing over at her asleep on the pillow next to him, her thick black hair spilling over the cotton like ink, her soft lashes splayed against her golden brown skin. He thought he could die happy after this.

But then, in the dead of night, everything changed.

Kaz awoke with a start, his heart pounding, when Inej screamed, terrified, pummeling at him with closed fists. He recognized the signs instantly; nightmares plagued his sleep regularly, too. He snatched at one of her wrists, trying to stop her from hitting him in the face.

“Inej! Inej!” His voice was hoarse from sleep. “Inej, it’s Kaz. It’s Kaz.”

Her eyes weren’t even open, and, as he tried to restrain her, she pulled one of her knives from under her pillow and leapt atop of him, straddling his torso with Sankta Elizabeta at his jugular in an instant.

“Inej,” he tried again, but his own voice was starting to shake.

She was slick in cold sweat, and her thighs now pressed on either side of his bare abdomen, wet flesh trapping him, pressing in on him. He was having trouble drawing a breath. Nausea churned in his stomach. He forgot all about the knife at his throat. What did it matter when the sea waves were crashing in over him, filling his mouth, his nose, his lungs…

Inej was blinking her eyes and dropped her weapon with a horrified cry.

But all he saw were her vacant eyes, purple bruising blooming from their rims, bloat rotting at her jaw. And he was drowning under her.

“Kaz! Kaz!” Inej took his face in her shaking hands, as if she could pull him back from the darkness that was overtaking him.

“Stop,” he tried to rasp, but it was barely audible. Her hands were a corpse’s, pulling him under.

Without thinking and desperate for breath, he grabbed her waist and threw her to the side. He spilled out of the bed, his stomach lurching. The nightstand rattled, and the washbasin shattered when it fell. Shards of ceramic scattered across the wood floor. He would have vomited all over it had it not been for the wastebasket. He managed to grab its edges just in time, hurling his stomach’s contents into it.

He retched so hard, tears spilled from his eyes and snot ran from his nose, but when he finally sat back, shaking and spent, Inej was there. She had put on his leather gloves before handing him a towel and a glass of water. His strong, level-headed Inej. When he could finally look at her again, her cheeks were tearstained. He could never admit defeat to such a shattered face.

“Fuck.” He released a ragged sigh as he sat back, running the back of a shaking hand along his lips. Inej sat across from him on the floor, still breathing hard from adrenaline. He needed that laugh of hers. He said the first thing that came to mind. “I’d actually really enjoyed that dinner.”

But Inej was too shaken, her brows cinched together, her raven black hair disheveled over the shoulders of the white nightshirt.

“I’m so, so sorry, Kaz.” Her voice was strained against the threat of tears.

“Are you ok?” He reached out of her gloved hands, and she took his fingertips with a little sob.

“This was a spectacular disaster,” Inej said. But Kaz squeezed her fingers, hoping she’d look at him. Needing the reassurance that this wasn’t the final straw. That they were still fighting their way out together.

“This was just good reconnaissance,” he objected, though his throat still burned. “We learned some valuable information tonight. We just need separate beds. How many fat, rich mercher families have you spied on that sleep in separate beds?”

“Those same merchers attack women in brothels, Kaz.” Inej wiped at her cheek with her spare hand, clutching at Kaz’s tightly with her other. “Maybe we just need a bigger bed,” she said with a sigh.

We. She’d said We. She hadn’t given up, hadn’t even considered it, and she’d said We. He’d buy her whatever bed she wanted after that. But The Slat was only big enough for Kaz’s narrow bed. And before he knew it, Kaz was meeting with contractors, looking over blueprints, hiring a foreman, haggling over the cost of materials, picking out new plumbing, new fixtures, and now his home had been stripped down to the studs.

The important thing was, when it was all finished, Kaz was buying the biggest, widest, most luxurious bed in all of Ketterdam, and it was going to fit, damnit.

“This is sending a message I don’t think you want to be sending, Kaz,” Jesper was saying, gesturing to the narrow mattress propped up against the wall.

“Which is what?” Kaz was growing impatient.

“That the Bastard of the Barrel sleeps like a weird little hobo,” said Jesper.

“Hobos don’t have offices to sleep in, Jes. That’s why they’re hobos.”

“Just check into a hotel like every other normal rich bastard,” Jesper begged. “You have the money. Why are you being so weird?”

Because Inej was coming back and what kind of message would that send to her? Meeting him a hotel. After what they had done in the chair the last time she was here. That implied all kinds of things he didn’t want her worrying about.

But if Pim and Anika had wrangled Jesper into confronting him, then maybe he was worrying about the wrong message.

And for all the chaos of the Van Eck Affair, he had enjoyed their stay at the Geldrenner Hotel. Their penthouse suite had been exceptional. It was further from the Crow Club than he would have liked, but the hot running water...and the room service. And Inej could have her pick of beds if she came by. No midnight vomiting would occur there.

“I’ll take it under advisement,” he said to Jesper, dismissively. Jesper gave a sigh of defeat and turned to leave.

“You’re too rich for this weird ass behavior,” he shouted at Kaz over his shoulder.

“No one wants your financial advice,” Kaz shouted back.

But Jesper turned back in the doorway, one hand on the frame.

“Oh,” he added, “you’re still coming for drinks on Saturday? Wylan needs a final headcount.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, every damn time. Yes, Jes. Yes. I’ll always be there.”

“Where are you going?”

“I have to go book a hotel room, obviously. Tell Roeder to throw out the mattress.”

“Can I give it to Wylan? That thing looks like it needs to be incinerated.”

Wylan could have the mattress for whatever flammable experiments he was working on in his free time. Kaz was already looking forward to another stay at the Geldrenner.

He took a long walk to the Geldrenner Hotel, where he was pleased to find the penthouse suite unoccupied and currently available. He left the reservation under K. Rietveld. Inej would know.

“What does the R stand for?” she’d asked him months and months ago. Nobody would believe they were both naked when she brought it up. In his defense, it had been Inej’s idea, this new leverage. She’d suggested they undress completely and not touch each other. She had wanted to conquer her fear of being naked with a man, and she thought it was something to be done in steps.

Did she think he would say no to such a thing? He’d literally had dreams about this.

Kaz was holding a box of waffles when she suggested it. He’d brought them in for their dinner, a dinner he mistakenly assumed they would be clothed for, and his first moronic thought was that he ought to have picked a less messy food. Once it finally registered what was about to happen, he set the box down and began to slip off his tie.

“What does the R stand for?”

She was sitting across from him, completely bare, with her long black hair veiling her breasts. He looked up from his dinner. He’d been trying his best to focus on the food, to will his cock into not getting any ideas. She was gesturing to the tattoo on his bicep.

“My real surname starts with R,” he replied.

“As in Rietveld, isn’t that right?” Inej flicked him a glance, one that could set a fire smoldering deep in his guts.

“You knew?” he wondered, and then drew in a breath as Inej began to stand to her feet, leaning across the table toward him. He could see everything, from her dark, protruding nipples beneath her long hair, the smooth planes of her flat stomach, the tight curve of her brown waist. The folds where it all met. His cock throbbed, rebelliously.

“I’m the Wraith, Kaz,” she said, her voice husky. “I’m glad you finally told me.”

“This is cheating,” Kaz pointed out, as she pecked his lips.

She had tasted like apple syrup. What would the rest of her taste like?

So, he wasn’t the least bit surprised when, three days later, he was returning to his suite at the Geldrenner at the end of the day and found Inej waiting on the windowsill. She was the Wraith, always and forever. Kaz quickly unlocked the window to pull her inside.

“Please tell me you haven’t been sitting out there all day,” was his greeting.

“I wanted to watch a Ketterdam sunset again, and I don’t fall, Kaz,” Inej said. She was as brown as a nut from her days in the sun, and her cheeks were a rosy apple red. “And no,” she added, “I haven’t been waiting long. You’re not at least a little be impressed that I found you?”

“My dearest Inej, I am in a constant state of awe around you.”

She looked up at him with a brilliant, toothy grin and big, soft brown eyes, and he wrapped his arms around her waist while he kissed her, pulling her close to his chest. She smelled like salt and sea spray, and he could taste the sweat on her lips and he didn’t care. It had been over a month since he’d held her, tasted her, and his body was falling in line with the terms of their deal. He wanted her, however he could have her.

“I missed you,” she told him, as she curled her head against his chest. He drew long, slow circles up and down her back with his fingertips so that she hummed softly in approval.

“I missed you,” he said into her hair.

“I can smell myself,” Inej lamented, with a disgusted groan.

“You smell perfect.” Kaz didn’t care.

“I need a bath.”

“I’ll draw you one.”

And Kaz ordered up room service, too, while Inej bathed in the tub, filling up the bathroom with steam and lavender. She was still soaking when the food arrived, an elaborate spread, since Kaz had ordered one of everything, not knowing what she wanted, and he nudged his head into the bathroom to let her know.

The bubbles had mostly dissolved, and the water pooled just under her breasts, her brown knees bent up out of the water. She’d pulled her long, clean hair out of the tub, letting it trail over the edge to dry, while she leaned against the side of the tub with her eyes closed.

Kaz suddenly understood the myths about mermaids luring men to their deaths.

“You can come in,” she said, a soft, relaxed smile on her lips.

Kaz still wasn’t sure what to say, but wasn’t about to pass up an opportunity to look upon her. He leaned against the bathroom counter, trying not to ogle like a creep.

“This bathroom,” Inej remarked, looking all around them. Kaz drew in a deep breath. This bathroom, indeed. He’d kind of been avoiding it. This was where he’d first felt her skin, had tried to kiss her, and it had sent him reeling into nightmares of his past. He hadn’t thought of it as reconnaissance then. He had just been a boy, trying to be with the girl he liked, and instead only hopelessly embarrassing himself.

Inej seemed to sense how he withdrew at the memory and held out a soapy hand to him.

“Come here,” she said, tenderly. But Kaz hesitated. Wanting. Lusting. But knowing better.

“Wet skin is a non-starter for me,” he rasped, shifting uncomfortably.

“Of course it is.” Inej looked apologetic as she pulled her hand back. She shifted in the tub, pulling at the drain.

“Don’t get out on my account,” Kaz said.

“I need to be with you when you’re making that face,” Inej insisted, and she stepped out of the tub. He still couldn’t get enough of the sight of her wet body, glistening in the lamp light, beads of moisture running in rivulets down her rich golden legs as she toweled off.

“What face?” Kaz asked.

Inej wrapped the towel around herself, tucking it over her breasts, and stepped in front of him, resting her hands on his hips. She gave a playful tug at his belt.

“You get a look when you think something’s broken beyond repair,” she said, and looked up at him with her wide, adoring eyes. “And half the time, you prove yourself wrong within the next 24 hours anyway. I love to watch that part. But not the broken face. Broken face is heart-wrenching.”

Without armor. If he was to ever have her, to love her the way she deserved, she needed to see every ugly truth the armor hid. Every time he got close, that is what her lock demanded. Without armor. He swallowed hard as he rested his hands on the wet terrycloth on her hips, holding her close.

“I half-expected to die that night,” he confessed. How glad he was he hadn’t.

“I would never have let that happen.” Inej’s gaze was steely as flint, and he believed her. But there was something else.

“It would have been a relief,” he said, lowly.

Inej pulled back and held his dark gaze, as if to hold this new plate of armor with all the love she had.

“And now?” she asked, holding him tighter. He felt her intent in the pull of her embrace, the same intent he held in his chest in every battle against their demons. Stay with me. I can’t lose this.

“I was a kid then with nothing more to lose,” he told her, and let his forehead dip to touch hers. “But now I have everything.”

He could sense her smile even as he closed his eyes, reveling in her warmth and how it no longer called to his ghosts. But then she stepped back and turned, hoisting herself up onto the countertop, still holding her towel in place. Her hair spilled loose down her back as she reached to him, pulling him closer again between her knees, the same spot where they’d tried to get close those years ago and had each nearly keeled over from the other’s proximity.

“You know the best part about surviving, I’m sure,” she said, pulling him by his tie.

“Tell me,” he said with a crooked smile. He placed his hands on the counter either side of her hips, leaning in.

“When you survive, your story isn’t over,” said Inej, as she loosened the tie knot. She pulled it off through his collar and let it drop to the floor. “And sometimes, if you’re very lucky, you get the chance to write over parts you don’t like.”

She leaned back on her hands, extending her slender neck out ever so slightly with a pointed look in her eye. The smell of lavender and soap bubbles wafted from her clean hair, and Kaz drew in a breath. He would have to have been an idiot not to catch her meaning. Go on, she was saying. Write the story we wanted.

This time, when he pressed a soft kiss to her neck, he felt her soft pulse against his lips, her fresh scent all around him, and the desire coursing through his body. She gave a soft, contented sigh and slid her hands up his shoulders as he straightened his body to meet her lips again and again, rewriting and rewriting.  

“Better,” she whispered when he finally pulled back, and she brushed the tip of her nose against his. “Much better.”

His heart was pounding mercilessly in his chest, and when he reached up to cup her precious cheek in one hand, she leaned her head into his fingers, kissing his wrist, and it shattered him.

“I never want this to end,” he said, his voice husky. Much better, indeed.

“Then don’t stop,” Inej whispered, and he brought her lips back to his.

He could sense her urgency rising, the desperation with which she began to pull him to her body, to weave her fingers into his hair, and it would have been easy to break, to let her have her way with him again. But they had a deal. Kaz Brekker never made a deal he didn’t keep. So, this was no time to lose his head, to grab at everything he wanted. He’d been preparing for this moment. If he was going to make good and pay back what he owed, he was going to have to run this like breaking into Kerch bank vault.

She was already above him, propped up on the bathroom counter of her own volition. That was a good sign, good leverage. Inej did not like being prone with him or forced into anything, and no one could fault her for that.

He brought his hands to her face, running his fingertips from her cheeks to her hair as she sighed into his mouth. He felt her part her lips to him, felt the brush of her tongue, and, emboldened, he ran his hands down her bare shoulders, her skin prickling in goosebumps.

“I love what your hands can do,” she shivered. She was pulling at the buttons of his shirt, exposing his chest where he felt as hot as a furnace against her cool hands. Let her have some control; she thrived with it. She slipped her hands into his shirt, pushing it over his shoulders until it dropped to the tile below.

He held her waist in his hands as she clutched at his shoulders, her thighs tightening on his hips as their kiss deepened. It took every ounce of restraint Kaz had to not taste every inch of her mouth, not pull at the rest of his clothing and beg her to just fuck him already please. There was nothing but a towel separating her bare breasts from his skin, and, Saint fucking hell, he wanted this. He wanted her. Her exposed thighs felt like silk against his sides, and he could only imagine what the rest of her felt like. His hands dipped a little lower, exploring the slope of her ass.

“More,” Inej panted, and Kaz couldn’t hold back a groan. He gave her ass a little squeeze, and she chuckled against his mouth. Running his hands along the underside of her thighs, he pulled her closer, letting her hook her legs around him. Heat from her cunt radiated across his lower abdomen.

“Saints, Inej,” he rasped, breathless. His slacks were uncomfortably tight, and she had to notice. When she pulled back, he was sure she had and braced himself, but there was no look of terror in her eyes this time. No, she had something else in mind.

She held up one hand and, slowly, sucked on two of her fingers. And then, with Kaz’s jaw slack in lust and awe, she slipped her hand between her legs, beneath the towel. And with her eyes on him, she began to knead.

Kaz hardly dared to breathe. He’d imagined, but he’d never seen… he’d researched for advice, like any decent con artist, but he’d only hoped…

He watched the rise and fall of the tops of her breasts in rapture, waiting for any sign that he could approach without setting off alarms. When she let out a little moan and put a hand to his chest again, he gently leaned in, taking her lips once more. He tried to put as much love and admiration and passion into that kiss as he could muster, slowly slipping his hands back to the lithe curve of her waist.

Her breathing deepened as she worked herself, and she moaned softly, her eyes falling shut. Kaz ran his fingers lightly up and down her arm, knowing what he wanted, trying to work out a strategy.

It had to be like picking a pocket. Replacing a wallet with an exact weight, so quick, no one noticed.

He kissed her ear as her head fell to the side, and then, slowly, traced the silky soft length of her arm, slipping under the towel, before gently curling his fingers over hers. She stopped the movement, but didn’t open her eyes. She wasn’t running.

He paused, too, breathing heavily in spite of himself. She was wet, practically soaked, against their fingers, and, for a brief moment, he felt the lapping of water at his ankles. He fixed his eyes on the pulse in her neck. He focused on the sound of her breath, the labored breathing of her desire. He inhaled the soap and the lavender scent of her. She was alive. So very alive. And after a moment, the dread passed, and he was still there and so was she, and his longing for her hadn’t diminished.

“Show me,” he whispered against her ear, and she leaned her head against his.

He traced the movements of her fingers, delicate, like picking a lock in the dark, slow circles around her tender nub of skin.

“Kaz,” she whispered, in a tone he was sure he’d never heard before. Lock tumblers clicking into place.

He moved his fingers as she did, through the velvety skin of her folds, until her hand dropped away from his, her eyes still closed as she bit her lip.

“I’ve wanted this,” she confessed with a groan. Kaz was out of words. Locks didn’t usually talk back, and they were never this gorgeous.

And then when she leaned back further on the counter, the towel began to slip and she did nothing to stop it. It fell away behind her, leaving every bit of her exposed to him, the full swell of her breasts and the tense muscles of her core, and Kaz didn’t mean to, but he swore out loud.

“Don’t stop,” she begged him, her arms starting to shake as she leaned back against them. “Please, Kaz, more.”

His mind was a scramble of every touch he’d ever given, every encouraging sign she’d ever given him. More what? Where to start? With his spare hand, he traced her neck again, down her sternum between her breasts, watching the line of goosebumps spring along her skin.

“With your mouth,” she gasped, and he sprang at the chance to oblige. She quivered while he trailed a line of kisses from her neck down her chest, and, growing bolder, took one dark nipple tenderly in his mouth. When she didn’t object, he ran his tongue around its rim, tasting its foreign sweetness and feeling her gasps of pleasure swell through her chest.

She raked her fingers through his hair as he felt her breathing grow haggard beneath his lips, and her hips bucked restlessly against his long fingers. He had a moment of nerves that she was growing frustrated with his inexperience, and, with a silent prayer, he slipped a digit inside of her.

She let out an audible sigh, clenching at his hair, and he knew he’d hit the right combination. As soft as before, he stroked her ridges along her cunt, still carding his thumb through her folds as she had.

Her arms gave out altogether, and he found himself standing over her as she laid back on the countertop, her hair spilling into the sink, a flush spreading across her breasts. Her body arched; her pussy felt as taut as a bowstring. He’d never seen anything so glorious in his life.

Curses fell from her beautiful lips when she came, head tilted back as a shudder overtook her whole body, spasming on his fingers. She gripped his forearm to steady herself, leaving half-moon nail marks in his skin. And then she stilled, naked, spent and breathing hard, feet on the counter with her knees bent in the air.

Kaz leaned over and kissed her forehead while she gave a breathless hum of satisfaction.

“This bathroom,” she remarked again, heaving an exhausted sigh. Her cheeks were rosy as she smiled brightly up at him. Kaz grinned, crookedly, a victorious lockpick’s smile.

“This bathroom,” he agreed.

Much, much better.

Next work in this series: These Damn Crosswinds

[flowercrown-bard]

Birds Still Sing When They Fall From The Sky

part 1 /  part 2 /  part 3  /  part 4  / part 5  / part 6  / part 7/  part 8   /  part 9 /  part 10 /  part 11  /  part 12  / part 13 / part 14 / part 15 /  part 16 / part 17 / part 18 / part 19 belongs to this

content warnings: mourning, funeral, isolating oneself/ pushing people away despite needing support, mention of past character death, drowing used as a metaphor briefly, guilt about feeling happy, beginning of depression (I am not sure about this, but just to be safe), not a comforting ending, touching a dead person

This is still not the ending. I will write "final chapter" or something above the actual final chapter

also please tell me if I should put brief summaries of what happened at the beginning of the following chapters in case anything is too upsetting for you to read

Geralt didn’t cry. Not yet. Maybe he never would.

All he wanted to do was lie here and never open his eyes again. What was the point? The man he had dedicated decades of his life to was gone. By all accounts, there should be nothing left for him to do.

And yet, when the sun began to rise, so did Geralt.

He couldn’t tear his eyes away from Jaskier. He looked so peaceful, the smile he had fallen asleep with, still on his face, a lock of hair falling into his eyes.

Geralt brushed it away as tenderly as he could. His fingers touched cold skin. He knew it was nonsensical, but that didn’t stop him from pulling the blanket tighter around Jaskier. He couldn’t let him be cold. Not when the sun was rising and spring was just settling in, eager to warm Jaskier.

When the cries of the early birds shattered the crushing silence, Geralt got up as he had always done.

As impossible as it seemed, he still had things he needed to do. Things, Jaskier needed him to do.

His body moved on its own as he left Jaskier behind and sat himself down at the table, paper and quill ready.

His hands didn’t shake when he wrote the letters. To Yen, who through some sort of magic Geralt had never bothered to ask about would receive them within hours no matter where she was.

To his family, who was still had each other, probably sparring or making jokes around the breakfast table at the moment. Still all together at Kaer Morhen.

Lambert used to complain about the snow that kept him in the place he hated for longer than he wanted to, but Geralt couldn’t help but agree with what Jaskier had said yesterday. At least they were together. At least they didn’t have to be alone when they read Geralt’s message. Selfishly, he was thankful that it also meant he didn’t have to write more than one letter to them. He didn’t think he would be able to.

Writing it down was supposed to make it more real, but all he could think about was how Jaskier would good-naturedly criticise his plain phrasing.

Once more he wrote the words down. A name, a date, another date for the funeral.

His feet carried him to the town square where he hung the pamphlet on the notice board without ceremony. Barely anyone was up yet to wonder why Geralt was here so early and all alone.

Geralt left before anyone could read his note and pat his back in sympathy or offer him words that wouldn’t mean anything, because there had been only one person who had without fail found the right words to comfort him.

On his way back, guilt started to creep up in him. He should go to Kris, tell them what had happened. They deserved to hear it from him, but he couldn’t bring himself to go over to them. Doing so would mean having to say it out loud and nothing, not the deadliest monster or the thought of the trials, was more terrifying.

So he kept his eyes on the path that lead him back home, ignoring the gnawing feeling in his stomach as he passed by the road that led to Kris’ home without even sparing it a glance.

He only came to a halt when his eyes fell on something in front of the door of his cottage.

The blanket they had dropped when getting up to dance, forgotten as they had laughed and looked at each other as if the world didn’t exist.

He picked it up, letting the fabric glide over his fingers until his hands tightened around it. Jaskier’s scent still lingered on it.

With wooden movements that weren’t his own, Geralt entered the cottage, cleaning up the mess he had left. The emptied the day old cup he had held in his hands while waiting for Jaskier to join him, only to find something precious beyond imagination when Jaskier had finally awoken. He put the scarf he had flung across the bedroom back where it belonged; Jaskier’s teasing and mock outrage still hanging in the air.

Geralt tried to occupy himself with such tasks. Anything to keep his mind away from what he didn’t dare think about, even while knowing he couldn’t push it away for good.

He could only ignore it for so long.

It all came crashing down on him, when he caught himself thinking about looking over their garden as he had done every year at this time. But watering the flowers would be of no use now. The best thing he could probably do was getting rid of the plants, before they died on their own once Geralt left.

Because he would have to leave.

He couldn’t stay here. The cottage, the coast, this tiny town that had welcomed him with open arms had nothing left for him. He wasn’t the one who had come here to stay until the end of his days.

His heart turned to stone at the thought. This had been his home, something he had never thought he could have. But it wasn’t anymore. Anywhere would have been home as long as it was with you, Jaskier had said and Geralt found the truth of the words dragging him under, as he stood in the place that no longer felt like home.

He would have to get rid of the cottage somehow. Sell it or abandon it until it succumbed to time and weather.

For some unnameable reason, the thought hurt more than writing the letters had.

Home had been a beautiful dream that through some undeserved mercy had become reality. It was over now. Time to wake up. Time to go back to the real world, where the nights were cold and lonely and the path he wandered was bare of laughter and song.

And yet, Geralt found himself hesitating. The cottage was chockfull of proof that it had been more than an idle fantasy.

All around him were mementoes of a shared life. Trinkets Geralt had brought Jaskier back from his hunts, the numerous notebooks filled with Jaskier’s verses, feelings and thoughts. The myriad of sea shells Jaskier had collected on their window sills, just as he had dreamed of doing when they had started imagining what they could have.

Geralt knew those trinkets should hold no more meaning. Once he left, they would only be objects gathering dust.

And yet he couldn’t bring himself to even begin throwing them away. It was too much. It belonged to Jaskier, all of it. Geralt couldn’t take it away from him, even now.

Just like he couldn’t take Jaskier away from this place that had been so dear to him. Selling it and moving on would be the sensible thing, but even as Geralt considered it, he knew there was no way he would be able to do so.

Every part of this place breathed Jaskier’s name, evidence that he had been here, that his life had been meaningful. Notebooks desperate to tell the world that Jaskier existed.

Geralt couldn’t keep his hands from shaking, when he pulled the notebooks out, one by one until finally his breathing came to a stuttering halt, when he found what Jaskier had kept hidden from him for who knew how many years.

There, behind a book of poetry and one of silly children’s stories lay a stack of letters.

For what seemed like an eternity, Geralt could only stare at them until he ripped himself out of his frozen state with a jolt, grabbing the letters like a drowning man reached for an outstretched hand, desperate for the tiniest slither of hope, though knowing it was too late to save him.

One by one, he gathered the letters close. There were so many. Countless words Jaskier had wanted to share with him.

The overwhelming urge to rip each letter open this instant overcame Geralt, crashed into him like a wave during a storm. He needed to know what Jaskier had wanted to tell him, needed to read his writing as if it could replace his voice.

His fingers trembled, as he reached for the first envelope. The paper started to rip, the sound of it unbearably loud and sharp.

Geralt froze.

He couldn’t do it. Those were Jaskier’s last words to him, a last part of him that remained for Geralt to discover. Reading them, even opening the envelopes felt too final. He couldn’t –

A flash of light in his periphery made him flinch. A gust of wind tore the letters out of his grip and strew the letters through the room.

He turned around to see his family step out of a portal.

--

Of all the emotions, Geralt hadn’t expected to feel the tiniest bit of rightness as he stood before the hole he and his brothers had dug out, holding Jaskier’s body in his arms as if he had fallen asleep there. No word had been spoken while they had dug the grave, but the occasional touch - seemingly random brushes of hands against his shoulders or arms – had told him enough. His family was here with and for him.

Triss, who had come with Yennefer had hesitated to let them dig the grave themselves, but there had been something utterly impossible about the idea of doing this with magic.

It had felt wrong, just how the place for the grave had felt right. Here, in the garden Jaskier had so loved, amidst the flowers that would bloom in time, Jaskier would be able to rest. Here, where he had sat crying and desperate to get told that he was loved, he was now bid farewell, surrounded by people who loved him.

The sheer amount of people who attended the improvised funeral had almost made Geralt choke with unexpected emotion. He had known Jaskier was liked by many, that he had touched lives and made them brighter, but never had he dared to expect how many people would show their gratitude for Jaskier’s life once he was gone.

Neighbours, people who used to be strangers until Jaskier had befriended them; regulars who had bought their flowers; people who had flowers gifted to them with a smile and a kind word; parents of the children who used to listen to Jaskier’s stories. They all were here.

Even stranger and more wonderous was the fact that they didn’t spare even one distrustful look at the witchers and the sorceresses.

Geralt’s brothers, Vesemir, Yennefer and Triss all stood to the side, while the townsfolk held their rites and yet they didn’t seem like foreign bodies, more like guardians. There was no doubt that every single person here knew that they were who Jaskier had held closest to his heart.

For a long moment, Geralt didn’t move. No one said anything, no one pushed him to get on with it.

Still, Geralt knew he couldn’t prolong this any further.

His grip on Jaskier tightened, crumbling the fabric of the green jacket he had put on Jaskier. He didn’t know if such a thing was frowned upon by the townsfolk, but he didn’t care. Jaskier had loved that garment, had been so happy when Geralt had brought it back from Corvo Bianco.

Unbidden, images of Jaskier’s smile and the little twirl he had given to show off for Geralt, flashed through his mind.

Finding the jacket had almost felt like packing to go travelling together again. Except these were travels Jaskier was taking without him.

Geralt gathered Jaskier close, letting his hair tickle against his skin, as he whispered, “One last journey, Jaskier. One last adventure for you.”

His voice was quiet and broken. Not one of the humans would be able to hear him, but he knew that his words would not be hidden from his family. In a strange way it was comforting to know his words didn’t get lost in nothingness.

One last time he let his thumb brush over Jaskier’s skin, before lowering him in the ground and burying him in the soil that would soon bring forth new flowers.

He stood before the grave, staring down at Jaskier looking so small and wished that there was more he could do, more he could say.

Instead, he took a step to the side to where his family stood.

Eskel’s hand brushed against his and he felt Vesemir’s presence at his back as they watched the people who had gotten to know Jaskier step closer to the grave, one by one and laying sea shells onto it, each one accompanied by words describing a memory the people had of Jaskier, before they left the burial site with a promise to keep that memory in their hearts.

Without his permission an almost unnoticeable smile twisted Geralt’s lips. Jaskier would have been fascinated by the traditions of the sea-side town.

The last person to step forward was Kris. They lingered by the grave longer than anyone else had. Geralt did his best not to listen in as they quietly shared their memories of Jaskier.

Although Geralt understood little of the town’s rites, it felt like a private moment, too precious to intrude on.

Contrary to anyone else, Kris didn’t turn to go back home when they were done. Instead, they approached Geralt.

Geralt steeled himself for pity or words that wouldn’t be able to reach him, however well meant they might be. He tried coming up with possible responses, as Jaskier surely would have wanted him to.

But Kris didn’t offer him any such words.

“What will you do now?” They asked instead, their expression open and bare of judgement for any possible reply.

Still Geralt stiffened, when he forced the words out. “I am a witcher.”

The words weren’t supposed to hurt that much. Thought they were the truth, saying it out loud felt like betraying Jaskier, who had dedicated his life to making sure Geralt knew he was more than that.

But no time spent listening to encouraging and loving words could change the fact that Geralt was what he was.

His eyes drifted to the patch of dirt under which Jaskier lay.

He was a witcher. There was no choice in what he was going to do with the rest of his life.

And yet.

“I can’t leave him alone.” The words that slipped past Geralt’s lips without permission were little more than a breath, but Kris heard them nonetheless.

“I’ll be here.” They reached out to Geralt, touched his hands, almost briefly enough to be able to pretend it was a coincidence, and yet the gesture meant as much to him as the words that did reach him despite everything. “I will take care of him.”

There was no mistaken the wavering of Kris’ voice.

Geralt didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t comfort Kris; he didn’t have the words or the strength to do so. So he settled for a brusque nod that hopefully would be enough to make them understand.

Kris returned the gesture with a trembling smile, before turning their back on Jaskier’s family and leaving them to what they needed to do.

As the last rays of the sun disappeared beneath the horizon, the witchers took up their positions surrounding the grave.

In the light of day, the people of Oakwood had held their rites, but the night belonged to the witchers. They couldn’t deny Jaskier the traditions of his people, but neither were they willing to let him go without acknowledging what he was to them. Jaskier deserved both, just as he had made it his life’s work to live in both the humans’ and witchers’ worlds.

As the moon crept across the sky, the witchers held a vigil over the one they had lost, each one holding a small flame of igni in their hands – it was as close as they could get to the pyre they would normally light.

For anyone walking past, the sight would have been unsettling, but for Geralt the quiet comfort of his family protecting Jaskier in his first night truly away from them melted the sharp spike that had been struck into his chest.

The only movement to be seen came from the dancing flames that lit the way through the darkness for Jaskier until the morning came. The only sound to be heard was the beating of their hearts, the sound of family close by the most comforting sound a witcher could imagine.

They remained like this throughout the night, no sleep or meditation to rest their bodies, when their minds needed to remain sharp to watch over the fallen.

It was only when the night faded into grey once more that another sound was added.

Coën’s voice drifted through the night. A haunting but strangely soothing melody that Geralt had never heard before, matched to the rhythm of their hearts.

The song broke through the silence that the wolfs had built, but neither of them raised their voice to detain Coën. They wouldn’t deny the griffin his rites either, as they hadn’t denied him a welcome into their family, as Jaskier hadn’t denied him his heart.

As Coën sang, Geralt couldn’t help but think of the times that Jaskier had done his best to get the witchers to sing with him. His grin had been so bright when Coën had finally given in and his laugh when Lambert had joined in and completely butchered the song still remained in Geralt’s memory.

None of the wolfs accompanied Coën. Their rough voices would ruin what he was giving Jaskier, but Geralt felt Eskel shifted next to him, until they were touching. A quiet understanding.

When they finally left their vigil and rose with the sun, something in Geralt’s chest came lose.

He shouldn’t feel this way, but for the first time since they arrived through the portal, Geralt really saw his family.

What had been needed to be done was done.

Now, he got to hug Eskel again -  gods, how he had missed him – he got to watch Vesemir’s exasperation at whatever Lambert was doing. He could see the sunlight reflecting on the gemstone Coën wore in his beard, as Jaskier had suggested to him so long ago. He could see Yennefer and Triss talking quietly amongst themselves until Triss lifted her hand over the grave, letting the first buds of wildflowers sprout on it.

He couldn’t supress the smile when he saw a dandelion among them.

Geralt couldn’t remember a time when they all had met outside of Kaer Morhen, like this, like a family.

He wished Jaskier were here to see it. He would have been so happy. He would have deserved to see it.

But he never would get to again.

And here Geralt was, looking at his family and feeling warm inside, as if they hadn’t spent the night standing over the grave of the man he loved most. Happiness should be the farthest thing from his mind right now.

The guilt about it was eating him up, and still Geralt couldn’t push the feelings down that welled up any time he saw Lambert nudge his shoulder roughly against Eskel’s.

This was wrong. It was all so wrong.

So why did it feel right as if his life hadn’t shattered around him?

A hand found his, almost making him flinch. It was smooth and warm, so similar to how Jaskier’s had been decades ago, if it weren’t for the lack of lute-calluses.

Geralt looked up and met violet eyes.

A lump formed in his throat, but he couldn’t look away.

Yennefer gave him a tight smile. “Nothing selfish about being happy.”

She couldn’t know. She couldn’t understand. She had no right to be saying his own words that had been spoken when he hadn’t known any better back at him.

And yet as he looked at the tentative smiles of his brothers he couldn’t bring himself to disagree as much as his mind was telling him he had no right to feel this way.

“He mentioned you,” Geralt said, just to fill the silence with anything other than the voice inside his head. “Yesterday, not long before…before it happened.” Yennefer stiffened and sucked in a sharp breath.

“Nothing bad,” Geralt added quickly. “Not like the last time you saw him. It wasn’t… that time wasn’t the last memory he had of you.” Geralt shuffled uncomfortably, the spike of guilt rising into his throat with every passing second. “He told me not to tell you, but…you made his last hours less painful. You truly helped him.”

Yennefer nodded brusquely. “Of course he needed my help. He always was a walking disaster.” Her tone lacked the bite of her words and Geralt pretended not to notice the quiet sniffle that followed them. “Thank you for telling me.”

She looked away, as if she were unaffected, but Geralt could see her subtly reaching out for Triss’ hand for comfort.

Geralt was glad for it. It was good that Yennefer had someone there with her.

He was glad that he had all of them here with him, if only for today.

The day dragged on like quicksand pulling him under, slow at first until he was half sunk before he had even noticed it.

They sat in the cottage’s living room, as if it was the library at Kaer Morhen.

A shudder ran down Geralt’s spine and he couldn’t pretend it was a bad one. The relief at the sound of voices and scratching chairs in this place flooded him without warning.

This place was never meant to be silent.

The noise that filled it now was nothing like Jaskier’s singing, his rambling or the scratching of his quill on paper, but it was close enough.

At the very least, the voices drowned out the deafening silence left by Jaskier’s missing heartbeat.

With every passing second, the tension dissipated bit by bit, whether because they were all pushing the unavoidable thoughts into the back of their minds or because the others’ presence was easing them enough to laugh again.

Still, Geralt could feel the unspoken words hanging in the air. The others might pretend not to notice how Geralt grabbed the strewn about letters off the floor, but he could feel their eyes burning into his back.

Even worse was when he stood back up and found none of their eyes on him, as if looking at him would set off an explosion that would rip him apart.  

Something about it set Geralt on edge again, suffocated him.

A human wouldn’t have been able to see the tiny tremble that took hold of his hands, but it would be foolish to hope it could escape the notice of witchers or sorceresses.

Eskel was the only one who reacted, while the others kept talking among themselves, pretending they weren’t watching Geralt’s every move with concern.

“Let me,” Eskel said, making space on the table for Geralt to place the letters on.

Geralt swallowed as he watched Eskel put the vase and various meaningless knickknacks that had meant the world to Jaskier to the side.

“I didn’t have time to get rid of that yet.” The words sounded more defensive then they were meant to. Geralt almost wished they sounded more like the lie that they were. It had had nothing to do with time and everything with the memories that clung to them and that Geralt couldn’t let go of.

For a long moment, Eskel didn’t answer, but when Geralt looked up at him his eyes rested on the collection of sea shells in contemplation.

“What if you don’t?”

“What?”

Eskel shrugged, aiming for nonchalance but missing by a mile.

Coën dropped the pretence of not listening in and answered in Eskel’s stead.

“Why throw it away? I said it before and I’ll say it again: This place could be a safe haven for us in summer.”

Geralt furrowed his brows. “You had been joking.”

Coën shrugged. “Back then, of course. But being able to visit just for a day or two and have a place to go back to?” He threw a challenging glare at the wolfs. “I dare any of you to say it wasn’t the best summer any of us has had in decades.”

Sharply, Geralt sucked in his breath, his eyes darting over to Vesemir, waiting for the old sword master to lecture the griffin on what it meant to be on the Path.

But Vesemir remained quiet, the only one of them still pretending to be disinterested in the conversation.

It was as much of a blessing that they would get.

A soft touch from Eskel made Geralt release his breath again. “And when we come back, we can look after Jaskier.”

--

One by one his family left, off to live their own lives until one day they might meet again.

Lambert was the first to go, without so much as another glance at the grave, though Geralt couldn’t shake the feeling that he would be the first to return to it. He grunted his usually gruff goodbye as he left, grumbling about finally being alone again. He had none of them fooled. They didn’t need Lambert to say it to know that he would be looking for his cat witcher.

After a short moment of hesitation, Coën ran after him, not ready to be alone quite yet.

Vesemir patted Geralt on the shoulder as he had done when Geralt had only been a boy crying because he couldn’t find his mother in the woods. “Be safe out there, son.”

Geralt nodded and watched as Vesemir disappeared in a portal, shortly followed by Triss.

Yennefer hesitated before stepping in after them. Before doing so, she gave Geralt a hug.

“Remember what we talked about,” she said quietly, “allow yourself to be happy.”

With that, she pulled away, the portal closing behind her, leaving only him and Eskel.

Without wanting to, Geralt clenched his hands into fists at his side as he waited for Eskel to leave him as well. Instead, Eskel clasped a hand on his shoulder.

“Are you going to be alright?”

The question sounded so innocent, but Geralt knew Eskel too well to fall for it. It was all there in the way he kept touching him, grounding him. Geralt was grateful for it, he really was, but Eskel was looking at him like he was preparing for something. For Geralt to fall apart.

The truth was, Geralt didn’t think he could fall apart now. Not anymore. He had already gone through every possible reaction he could have.

He had raged and sobbed and broken down. He had done his best to deny the fact that Jaskier was going to leave him. He had been angry when it had become impossible to ignore anymore; he had yelled at Jaskier and stormed away. He had done whatever he could to keep Jaskier from slipping away; had thought that if he just tried hard enough, he wouldn’t have to lose Jaskier.

He had mourned him while he had been still alive.

What more was he supposed to do? What more could he do?

There was no point in going through all of it again. At the end of the day, it had all been useless. Jaskier was gone and Geralt didn’t even have it in him to be angry at the injustice or shed even a single tear about it.

All he had left was a hollowness inside him. He was empty, barren of all feelings.

A squeeze of his shoulder made him look up.

“I am fine,” Geralt said and as much as he knew how wrong it should have felt, it wasn’t a lie. “I am not going to break down.”

Not again.

But his words didn’t seem to reassure Eskel. If anything, the lines on his forehead deepened, the frown more prominent through the twisting of his scars.

“Geralt, you don’t have to do this. I know this is hard for you. You know I don’t blame or judge you for whatever it is that you feel.” When Geralt only answered by clenching his jaw, Eskel sighed. “How about you travel with me for a while? Scorpion passed away last autumn. We could find new horses and hunt together, just until you are good to be on your own again?”

Something in Geralt’s chest tightened, urging him to accept the offer.

The thought of being alone was terrifying. He wasn’t sure he could even still remember a time when he had been well and truly on his own. He knew for certain that he didn’t want to remember.

He had grown too soft, too weak.

Seeing everyone together had made emotions flare up that he hadn’t wanted to allow himself to feel.

Jaskier’s life had touched so many people, all of them now mourning for him.

Geralt couldn’t let anyone grief for him. There was a reason why witchers hunted alone.

With every farewell Geralt had given out today, the wave of unwanted emotion had grown smaller and smaller. One by one Geralt had watched those who meant most to him disappear and with every one of them a piece of himself had fallen away.

It was a relief.

His silence must have been answer enough for Eskel, for the weight of Eskel’s hand on his shoulder and the last thread of that crushing feeling that came with it, disappeared.

“Be safe,” Eskel said just as Vesemir had. “If you ever change your mind…I’ll keep my eyes open for you.”

Witchers didn’t feel. How often Geralt had wished the rumours to be true. Now that they finally were, it felt like a betrayal of everything Jaskier had stood for.

But Jaskier wasn’t here anymore to tell Geralt that he was wrong, that he should allow himself to feel.

Jaskier was gone and it had left Geralt broken enough that there was nothing left of him to shatter.

He turned his back on Eskel who was leaving him and Jaskier whom Geralt would be leaving.

Without looking back, Geralt went into the cottage that wasn’t his home anymore, for witchers were not allowed to have such a thing, to grab his swords and get back on the loneliness of the Path where he belonged.

[starstwinkleplanetsshine]

Dear Wormwood

Inspired by the song "Dear Wormwood" by The Oh Hellos, Darth Vader looks back on the last 20 years of his life and the events that led him to becoming Emperor Palpatine's apprentice and wishes he could take it all back. But just when all hope seemed lost, when Vader accepted he was doomed to live a shell of a man, every day filled with pain and regret, a glimmer of hope and Light appears to him in the form of his son, Luke Skywalker.

Luke believes there is still good in Vader, and deep down, he knows his son is right. But is it enough to make things right, or is the Light buried under too much darkness?

Read on AO3

“When I was a child

I didn't hear a single word you said

The things I was afraid of

They were all confined beneath my bed”

Vader awoke from his agonizing nightmare with a start, the same way he greeted every new day. As images of red rivers and blue blades and flowing brunette hair and bouncy lekku and burning suns faded away into the stark grey walls around him, he cursed his sleep for reminding him of a time long gone. In the early years when the weight of his losses still threatened to crush him, when the mere thought of the man who called him brother or the woman who called him husband or the girl who called him master threatened to crumple him into a ball on the floor with a single thought, he never allowed himself to sleep. He survived on hatred and anger alone, letting his suffering be his rest. It was the only way. 

But now, nearly 25 years later, those thoughts brought only a sharp sting. Vader didn’t know if he was becoming numb to the pain or if he wasn’t as affected by it anymore, and he didn’t know which answer frightened him more. And now, nearly two decades later, events had taken place that caused all those old feelings to rise to the surface, all the memories of his life before which he had forced into the darkness were being dragged out to the light, and they were too blinding. 

The first crack had appeared three years ago when he stared into the eyes of a man he thought was a ghost. The moment when the blade of his saber struck his old master for the last time, Vader felt a shattering deep within him, inside a dark and dusty corner of his heart that he hadn’t felt in decades. He felt a thin and decaying string, once golden and shining, finally snap. Vader didn’t even know his bond with Obi-Wan was still there until he felt it break forever. 

The next crack appeared one year ago when Vader had learned of the survival of his son. Being a father was a dream that died alongside the Republic, alongside Padme, alongside Anakin. Just another loss to add to the growing list. Learning that that was not true, that the child born of the only woman he had ever loved was living, breathing, moving with The Force, had awoken something deep within Vader that he thought would stay dormant forever. But Vader could only remember his son in times of absolute strength, for thoughts of Luke always led him back to his mother, and those thoughts led him back to the time when his days were filled with laughter and golden sunlight. A time of blue eyes, not yellow, of smooth skin and golden-honey hair, not black metal and machinery, a time where the world was shades of blues and greens and purples and golds, not red. 

A time of Padme Amidala. Ahsoka Tano. A time of Anakin Skywalker. Obi-Wan Kenobi. Names that all died with the Republic. 

Obi-Wan. 

Now that was a name that caused fire to burn inside Vader, a fire full of passion and hatred and love and regret. They say the line between love and hate is thin, that those two emotions were closer than any other, and since that day on Mustafar all those years ago, Vader knew why. He couldn’t think of the man he once called master without being filled with bitterness and regret, for his betrayal stung so because his love for him once ran so deep. Obi-Wan was the one person the man who had once been Anakin loved the most, trusted the most, the one who could always calm the storm swirling within him, the only one who could contain it when it threatened to erupt and destroy everything good and light. 

Now he was the man who Vader hated with every ounce of metal keeping him alive. 

He thought finally killing Obi-Wan would also kill the ache within him, the pain he blamed on his old master. But it turns out it was never Obi-Wan who caused the pain, it had truly been Vader all along. For twenty years after that dark night on Mustafar, the image of Obi-Wan that was frozen in Vader’s memory was the one who cut off all his limbs and left him for dead, burning and gasping for air beside an unforgiving torrent of fire. But ever since he had struck the fatal blow, his revenge upon Obi-Wan that Vader had dreamed about for nearly two decades, that was no longer the image he associated with Obi-Wan Kenobi. 

For the past few years, the thought of his old master brought back images of warm smiles and reassuring shoulder pats. It brought back fondness and memories of fighting alongside him during the Clone Wars, even memories from before that when Anakin was still a child. Their first sparring match. Sitting across from his old master meditating. The nights Obi-Wan would stay up late helping Anakin with his Temple assignments. All those nights Anakin sheepishly walked into Obi-Wan’s room after a particularly bad dream, his eyes still wet with tears. Remembering how he would let Anakin curl up next to him under his pillow and sing ancient lullabies to him until his breathing steadied and his heart slowed enough for him to finally drift back to sleep.

Only in his moments of strength could Vader remember the words Obi-Wan spoke to Anakin all those years ago, when his old master would remind him he no longer had anything to fear, that no matter what dangers or trials the young boy faced, he would always be by his side, guiding him and protecting him. 

Obi-Wan promised that he would always be there. 

But deep down, Anakin could never truly believe him. 

-----

“But the years have been long

And you have taught me well to hide away

The things that I believed in

You've taught me to call them all escapes”

One year since Vader found out his child survived. Four years since Vader struck down the man he labeled his greatest enemy. 23 years since Anakin Skywalker died on Mustafar. 24 years since Anakin failed his padawan and she walked away from him. 26 years since Anakin lost his mother on Tatooine. 36 years since Anakin first entered the Jedi Temple. 

If only Vader could go back and tell that little boy of nine years old all that was in store for him in the years ahead. All the fear and pain and heartbreak and suffering. But also the joy and laughter and bliss and growth. 

If only he could tell him that it would all be worth it, that he could survive the pain without using the help of the Darkside. That he could trust the people who loved him, who truly cared for him, and that being a Jedi was the greatest gift he had ever been given. 

If only he could say that that was true. 

But time didn’t work like that. 

Vader sat alone in his silent chambers on the very planet where the only thing more red than the lava flows beneath him was the glowing of his lightsaber and the hatred deep in his soul. He thought back on all the years, on all the moments that led him to becoming the empty shell of a man he was, and he wondered just where he went wrong. Looking back, he could see it all so clearly, his mistakes like a map leading him straight to the dark. He often wondered where it all started--if he had never left Tatooine would it still be like this? Was it his selfish choice of love over duty, or maybe it was his first violent outburst of revenge against the Tusken Raiders who murdered his mother? Or was it every soul he couldn't save during the Clone War? Or perhaps the way he failed his padawan and lost trust of the council forever? Or could it have been his outrage at not being granted the rank of Master? 

Or was he doomed to darkness from the moment he was born under the harsh cruelty of the Twin Suns? 

Vader tried to keep himself occupied with anything, everything--military strategies, saber techniques, even tinkering with droids--just as long as his mind was busy so he didn’t run the risk of remembering. He couldn’t let himself dwell on those thoughts for more than moments, for if he did, his strength threatened to fail him. 

No. 

He had to remember the way Obi-Wan failed him. The way Padme betrayed him. The way Ahsoka abandoned him. The fact that Anakin Skywalker was too weak. For if he remembered the truth, then he could never actually live with himself. 

-----

“I know who you are now

I know who you are

I know who you are now”

Vader could feel the shifting tides of the Force like a riptide surrounding him. Ever since he had learned that the young rebel who blew up 20 years of strenuous work with a single shot was his son, Vader hadn’t known peace. 

If he was truly honest with himself, though, Vader had never known peace. But the man Vader once was did, and its name was Obi-Wan Kenobi. Padme Amidala. Rex. Ahsoka Tano. 

He slowly walked to the large window in the side of his ship and gazed down to the Forest Moon below. His son was down there, he could feel his presence in the Force like a beacon of light in a dark tempest, guiding him to safety. 

Maybe, just maybe, could it be possible for Vader to know peace once again? 

No. 

Any hope of that was long gone. 

But perhaps…

Vader closed his eyes and opened himself up to the tides of the Force, just as his old master had taught him to do. For the first time in a long time he didn’t try to control it or channel it through his anger, pain, or passion, he simply let go and let the Force show him what she wanted him to see. He wasn’t surprised when the face of a man with sky-blue eyes and a kind, bearded smile swirled around his memory. 

For the last four years, the face of Obi-Wan had followed him like a shadow he could never run from. At first it only fueled his anger, but now it piqued Vader’s curiosity. Why now, years after his death, years after he killed him, did the face of his old master continue to haunt him? He was beginning to wonder if it was for a purpose, if maybe The Force was trying to tell him something, something he was refusing to hear. 

The Force used to sing to him, back when he was called Anakin, and she would wrap herself around him in golden light and carry him along her gentle current. 

But it had been years since he had unplugged his ears and let himself listen to her song, and Vader wondered if she could still sing. 

He also wondered if this feeling that he felt when he thought of Luke, the ache in his heart he felt when he gazed upon his son, if maybe that was the same feeling that Obi-Wan once felt when he looked upon him. He remembered a time long ago when he felt something similar when looking at a young Togruta with the kindest eyes and an even kinder heart. 

Vader thought he could almost name the feeling. 

Obi-Wan once said he had loved Anakin, and now Vader could admit that that must've been true. 

And Anakin knew he had once loved him too. 

-----

“There before the threshold

I saw a brighter world beyond myself

And in my hour of weakness”

You were there to see my courage fail”

All Anakin ever wanted was to protect the ones he loved. He believed in the hope of a world where he could keep pain away from all those he called his own, a world where everything was right and just and beautiful and safe, all because he had made it so. He was raised to stand up for those who couldn't, to use his gifts and power to help others, both by his mother and his master. He always knew he was special, but he never wanted to be great for his own sake. No, everything Anakin ever did was motivated by those he loved, and he just wanted to create a better, brighter world for the galaxy. 

Everything he did, he did for others. 

Or so he thought he did. 

He thought that by becoming a Jedi he would be able to spread goodness and light, justice and peace to the galaxy. So where did it all go so wrong? 

Looking back on it all now, Vader could see how blind he was. How blinded by fear and possessiveness, obsession and the inability to let go. Like a child who loves an injured bird too much and squeezes it between its fist, never realizing that it was its desire to help and protect that ultimately ended up killing it. He called it the need to protect the one he loved, but now he could name it for what it was: selfishness. And it was that selfishness that brought his whole world crumbling down around him. All that was left in the wake of that dark night on Mustafar were shattered dreams and dashed hopes crashing around the one who used to be Anakin like forsaken ashes, his old life going up in smoke along with the Jedi temple. 

And who was there to watch him burn it all to the ground but the one man he never wanted to let down. The one man he had striven to please since he was a small boy of nine, the one man who he had loved like a father, a brother, a best friend. 

Obi-Wan had sworn to always be by Anakin’s side, so it was only fitting that he would be there to witness his worst mistake. 

Anakin never wanted to fail anyone, especially Obi-Wan. 

And in the end, he failed everyone. 

You're breaking my heart…

You were my brother…

I won't leave you, not this time… 

Vader still couldn’t think of all that he lost without hearing the echoes of his past.

----- 

“For the years have been long

And you have taught me well to sit and wait

Planning without acting

Steadily becoming what I hate”

Vader could remember a time long ago when he confided in a man he thought of as a grandfather, a man who he trusted, who told him he could trust him. He couldn’t see it then, the years of careful manipulation and meticulous planning that Palpatine went through to gain Anakin’s trust. Like a serpent whispering in Anakin’s ears telling him he had to keep secrets from those who truly loved him, making the boy believe he was the only one who would understand. Feeding him the lie that if he ever truly opened up, everyone would hate what they saw. If he shared his fears with Obi-Wan he would be kicked out of the order and sent straight back to Tatooine, back into the chains to which he was born. 

So he kept it all inside. 

And he told his feelings to only one man, the one man who only ever saw him as a pawn, a means to an end. 

But by the time he saw the truth, it was too late. 

It wasn’t until Anakin was gone and Vader was clad in metal and machine, and he felt the first of many lightning bolts that Palpatine used to keep him in line. It wasn’t until he tried to speak of his fears, his losses, his hurt, to the now-Emperor only to receive nothing but punishment in return that he realized it was never real. 

So he retreated even further into himself, for now he was truly alone. 

He looked back in regret on all the years he thought he had no one to turn to, able to see now that that couldn't have been farther from the truth. How had he let himself feel so alone in the days where he was surrounded by those who loved and cared for him, immersed in a community of family bonded by The Force? 

It almost made him laugh to think of how wrong he was. 

For in Anakin’s emptiest moments he still had more than Vader ever would at his fullest. 

Vader stood in front of the Emperor, the man he had called master for the last 20 years but who never truly deserved the title, with his shields high and impenetrable. He couldn’t let Palpatine see the turmoil within him, and over the years Vader had gotten skilled at hiding his true feelings, even from himself at times. But especially now as his master told him of how he would have to either turn his son to the dark or destroy him, he was thankful that his thoughts were only his own. 

The path of the darkside or destruction. 

‘Those are the same thing’ Vader thought to himself. ‘And I will not see my son fall down the same path that I did.’

Vader stared forward, and the smallest part within him was grateful for the mask that hid his features from the prying eyes of Emperor Palpatine. For years Vader had suffered under his hand, doing his will without complaint or hesitation because he had nowhere else to turn. In his greatest moment of weakness he had burned everything good he had ever loved, and so there was nothing left to do but turn away from the light of the flames and follow the dark. It's what he deserved--torment and pain and suffering. 

But now there was the smallest glimmer of light, and it was burning inside Vader once again. Inside the shell which used to be as black as a bottomless cave there was now a long-forgotten ember, lit by the boy called Luke. Luke Skywalker. 

Skywalker. 

But even with the light beginning to glow within him, Vader knew it was too late for him. He was already doomed, and the man he once was had been destroyed. 

Palapatine had made sure of that. 

-----

“I know who you are now

I know who you are

I know who you are now”

Palpatine. 

How many years had Vader spent blaming Obi-Wan, blaming Anakin, blaming the Jedi, the council, the Republic, the war, anything but the one man who’s fault it truly was. 

And why had it taken so long for him to see the truth? 

Why was it not until Vader came face to face with his son, face to face with goodness and light and hope for the first time in decades, that he was able to see his master for who he truly was?

-----

“I have always known you

You have always been there in my mind

But now I understand you

And I will not be part of your designs”

For years Vader played his part, doing his master's terrible bidding without hesitation. Denying the parts of himself that refused to die, the soft spots in his crystalized heart which he could never turn completely to stone. In the beginning he had told himself that he was doing the right thing, that the Jedi were traitors and the reason the Republic fell. That the Empire would bring peace and security to the galaxy, that he was ushering in a new age of prosperity for all. That The Emperor saw things clearly and that he wanted the best for him and the people in the Empire. But eventually he could not be blind to those lies, so he traded his optimism for apathy, following orders out of a sense of duty and the feeling that he was in too deep to get out now. 

When Vader, no, Anakin, was a boy he had been a slave. His life was not his own, everything he did was controlled by another. When he ate, when he worked, when he played, when he slept. He could be beaten or even killed in an instant for something as insignificant as his master's poor temper. It was an exhausting existence, one without peace or rest. 

But he was given a new life when he was nine years old. For the first time in his life, Anakin was given freedom. But even then, even from his first moments of true happiness and liberation, Palpatine was there whispering lies in his ear. 

“You’re still calling someone master” he would hiss. 

“No, it's different. I’m a Jedi now. It’s an honor to call Obi-Wan master.” Anakin would counter, believing every word. 

“You're still being told when to eat, when to work, when to play, when to sleep.” Palpatine’s manipulations started from a very young age. 

“No, it’s different. I made a choice to be a Jedi, I’m not being forced to do anything.” Anakin’s new life as a Jedi was nothing like being a slave on Tatooine.

 Right? 

“But was it your choice? Is this really the life you want? I only want you to be happy, my boy.” 

Anakin never knew how to respond to that. 

Slowly, steadily, over time, Anakin began to wonder if there was truth to the venom Palpatine had been injecting into his brain. Maybe he was still a slave. A slave to duty. A slave to the Republic. A slave to the Jedi. 

Anakin never wanted to be a slave again. 

So he swore to put an end to it. To get out. To be free and the only one in control of his life. But the only thing he succeeded in doing was in tightening his chains, wrapping himself with ropes of metal and locking himself in a prison of hate. 

For Vader could now look back and see what he could not see then, that he was never a slave as a Jedi.

But he was one now. 

And now his master was requiring of him an impossible task, to hand over his son to endure the same fate he did. To doom Luke to serve the same dark master and force hatred and passion and anger to consume his soul and corrupt him into something unrecognizable, twisting him into a monster. 

Vader hadn’t failed his master in years, but he had a choice to make now. Should he continue to be faithful to a man who took everything from him, to an Empire that only left death and destruction in its wake? Or would he finally put an end to it all, finally turn back towards the light that used to be his home? 

Vader had been a mere pawn to Palpatine for as long as he could remember. 

A slave. 

He vowed when he left Tatooine he would never be a slave again. 

-----

“I know who I am now

And all that you've made of me

I know who you are now

And I name you my enemy”

Vader’s heart was a whirlwind of conflict as he stood in front of his son and his master. As much as he tried to fight it, to push it down, to keep his mind focused solely on the Dark, he couldn’t ignore the call to the Light that plagued him at the mere thought of his son. It was even stronger now as Luke stood before him, like a beacon of hope, and Vader didn’t know how much longer he could fight it. 

He couldn’t bear to listen to the words the Emperor was speaking to his son, the same lies and empty promises that were made to him so many years ago. He only hoped that, unlike himself, Luke was able to see through the falsehoods for what they truly were, and he hoped his son could resist. 

For even now the Dark had such a strong hold on Vader that he was still doing his master’s bidding, fighting his son and trying to turn him. But his mind was at war with itself, and his soul was being torn in two, his loyalty to his Dark master being ripped apart by his love for his son and his old connection to the Light. 

His unfocus betrayed him and he soon found himself on the ground at the mercy of his son, bested in combat as he felt anger and darkness swirl around Luke. No, he could not destroy his son, but it was not out of weakness. As he felt the Darkside grow like a rising tide around Luke, Vader’s heart tightened in his chest. He could not bear to see his son fall down the same path as he did, he didn’t want the same pain and torment to follow him and fill his days with nothing but agony and regret. And as he lay with Luke looming over him, hearing The Emperor urge Luke to finish him off, to take his place at his side, to join the darkness and rule the galaxy with fear and terror, Vader, for the first time in over two decades, could finally see it all for what it was. 

For now he knew. 

Vader wasn't born of Anakin, buried deep within the boy just waiting for the right moment to emerge. 

He was made. 

Forged by Palpatine and molded out of the hatred and desperation the Emperor had instilled in the boy, carefully crafted over years of subtlety. 

It had taken decades, but Vader finally saw through the lies. 

In an instant Vader had the Emperor in his hands lifted high above his head. He could feel the Force lightning coursing through his suit, singeing whatever flesh was left of him, overheating circuits and frying power couplings. He knew that this would be the last act he ever did, and yet Anakin felt a peace flow through him that was more powerful than the electricity. 

For the first time in a long time, Anakin was finally doing something right. 

-----

“I know who I am now

I know who I want to be…”

For years Vader had wanted nothing more than to turn back the hands of time and take it all back, take back every mistake he ever made that led to the destruction of everything he ever loved and held close. He wished through strangled sobs that he could hold his wife again, that he could see the smile of his old master with his shining blue eyes, hear the banter of his young padawan who always made him so proud. What he wouldn't do to feel the sunlight upon his skin as he strolled through the gardens of the Jedi temple, listening to the sounds of murmured conversations and ringing laughter as the Force flowed through him like a gentle river, carrying with it peace and love and Light. For twenty years he had cursed himself for his selfishness and greed, for his destruction of anything good and pure in the galaxy. If he could take it all back, he would. In an instant. Without hesitation. Even if it meant losing his life, he would give anything to go back to how it was, before the dark times, before the Empire. 

But he never could, he told himself it was impossible. 

But now, looking at his son, now he saw there was a way. 

He couldn’t turn back time, but he could make a better future, for his son had been right. There was still goodness in him, and Anakin was done leaving it in the darkness.

It was time to return to the light. 

For he finally understood. 

All of the mistakes he ever made he made because he couldn’t let go. He couldn’t let go of his fear of losing those he loved, he couldn’t let go of his pain, his grief, his losses, his doubts. He couldn’t let go of his need to control. And so this refusal of peace had led him to darkness, down a path where everything was gripped firmly in his hands, even if it burnt or cut him. 

But he had finally learned to let go, and in doing so, he could finally make things right. 

Luke saved Anakin, so it was only fair that he saved his son in return. 

Anakin could feel the Second Death Star rumbling around him and he fought the call of unconsciousness as his son dragged him towards a ship, but he knew what Luke did not, that it was too late for him.

No, not too late. It was just in time.

  “Help me take this mask off” Anakin struggled to speak as his life support began to fail.

“But you’ll die.” Luke was still holding onto hope. 

“Nothing can stop that now,” Anakin had accepted his fate, the death that seemed long overdue. “Just for once, let me look on you with my own eyes.” Vader was dead, he fell to his destruction alongside Emperor Palpatine, and that mask belonged to him. But those eyes, those blue eyes who longed to gaze at his son's face for the last time, those were Anakin’s. 

As the Force began to swirl around him, gently singing her ancient lullabies, songs Anakin used to hear but had been deaf to for so long now, he needed to say one final thing to his son, the one who saved him, who reminded him of who he truly was. 

“You were right. Tell your sister…” 

How Anakin wished he could look upon her in this moment, too. He regretted all the time he lost, he hated that his only times with his daughter were moments when he was hunting her, hurting her, causing her to fear and hate him. He thought of her resilience, her strength, her determination, her beauty. Her commitment to justice and goodness in the face of tyranny, how she never backed down from a fight. He remembered how she could command a room, how she knew her worth and she never let anyone diminish it. He thought of her love for her family, her people, her planet, and her love of the light, and he was so proud of her. In his daughter's eyes he saw Padme Amidala, and he stole a smile thinking of how Leia was continuing her mother’s legacy, whether she knew it or not. He could only hope that she would listen to Luke and maybe, just maybe, be able to forgive him enough, even though he knew he didn’t deserve it. 

“...you were right.” 

The world around him grew darker now, the Force moving in closer and transitioning his spirit from this world to the next. He looked into his son’s eyes one final time, seeing nothing but goodness and light, and he breathed his last, letting go and releasing himself into the larger will of the Force. 

And as he went, he felt only peace. 

Darkness gave way to light, and as he opened his eyes in a new plane of existence, he was greeted by a face that he would recognize anywhere, regardless of the effects of age and two harsh suns beating down upon it. 

“Hello there, my old Padawan.” 

And without a moment of hesitation, eyes brimming with tears, Anakin Skywalker fell into the open arms of Obi-Wan Kenobi. 

“...I want to be more than

This devil inside of me.”

[painandignite]

medieval/fantasy!dsmp au

here’s my take on what the dream smp would look like if there was magic and took place in an older setting. my knowledge in medieval stuff is very minimal, but i’m trying my best.

- there’s a kingdom called the Dreamlands, which has many towns surrounding the main castle’s city. it’s a joint leadership between george and eret, with bad as their advisors, and sapnap and dream as personal knights. dream also takes on an advisor-like decision with george, and often george will confide with dream before talking to bad. a relationship built on unbreakable trust.

- wilbur is a leading general of their troops mainly as a strategist rather than a fighter. he often keeps the morale of fellow knights by singing tunes or taking time to know each person. however, after the last battle of the Pillager War, he’s no longer able to lead; he’s a shell of himself. more on the war later.

- tommy and tubbo are two knights-in-training. chaos buddies. you know the drill. though tubbo is in the guard, he’s thinking of becoming a craftsman apprentice. he wants to learn how to build things, and maybe create new inventions. but, he stays in-training to stay close to his best friend.

- karl is the main historian/records keeper of the castle. attending meetings and revising the notes bad takes to make into proper logs is his job. sometimes, he disappears for a while, and returns shaken. whenever karl comes back, he spends the next few days writing page after page of stories that no one can truly understand. karl insists they’re important, but can’t give a clear reason as to why. (the first day karl comes back, sapnap always brings him some food or warm drinks, and keeps him company. usually, sapnap ends up napping on a bench in the library.)

- ranboo is a new archivist at the castle since karl was looking for an apprentice. he tries his best, really, but sometimes there are blank pages that appear in records that ranboo doesn’t remember leaving empty. (tubbo makes time to go over ranboo’s work since tubbo knows a surprising amount of what goes on in the castle.)

- antfrost is their medic, who takes care of a herb garden for medicinal needs. it’s by a cottage behind the castle, where he spends most of his time with velvet. -w-

- philza is a sorcerer who prefers to watch things from the sidelines. he resides in his own private wing in the castle, where he experiments with different potion remedies and spells. after the war, he halted a lot of the projects he’s worked on to focus on memory restoration. for wilbur.

- you see, the dreamlands were at war with pillagers who raided towns on the border of their kingdom, slowly working their way to the heart of the land. george and eret sent knights to stop their approach, however the pillagers were powerful enough to eventually reach the castle’s surrounding city, L’manberg. wilbur asked to lead the remaining knights to defeat the oncoming pillagers, and created a plan to use illusionary magic to hide where their troops position. miraculously, their efforts to trick the pillagers worked, and the dreamlands were victorious. 

- having won the battle, wilbur led their knights back to the castle with the city’s flag in hand. but a pillager had their enchanted crossbow ready to fire at wilbur, and arrow pierced through his chest. he falls to his knees, gasping as the sudden numbness from the injury. 

- wilbur was quickly carried to the castle, with phil meeting them halfway there. they make it to phil’s work area, and he desperately tries to give him herbal remedies to the poison, when wilbur starts coughing blood, he uses healing magic to try to alleviate the pain. it doesn’t work. phil removes the arrow with shaky hands to try to stop the poison from spreading more. 

- (it’s too late)

- he dies on the table. 

- phil refuses to let him go. he uses a spell he learned about from a wandering trader on resurrecting people. however, there has to be a trade in exchange for granting the life. when wilbur awakes, he’s a ghost with hazy. he can’t leave the castle either because his body died in the castle, so his soul is chained to it. now, he wanders the halls, and many have gotten used to his presence.

- ok enough about ghostbur.

- PONK IS A CHEF AND HE IS THE BEST PASTRY CHEF OF ALL THINGS LEMON. he really wants george to let him plant more lemon trees, but they said no (even though he said please. ponk didn’t like the answer because the royal gardener has so much land to do as he pleases).

- techno. royal gardener. go figure. did i mention he helped write half of the books on potion-making that are in the library? no? well, no one really knows either, except for phil, since he was the main author of most of them.

- fundy is in-charge of the coffers. because foxes like shiny things? (i kind of based it off his originsmp character where he had a den of stolen stuff). when he’s not busy, he’ll keep track of where ghostbur goes from a distance.

- sam is the replacement general for wilbur. dream recommended him for the position because 1. he respects his ability to stay objective and 2. they trained together as knights, so dream knows his capabilities. he sets up rigorous training schedules for trainees, the hard work pays off.

- hannah and purpled are two knights who are basically sam’s assistants, dealing with the finer details of their army like weapon stocks and armor quality. they’re also extremely competitive with each other, and sam thinks it’s fun to watch them try to carry the most shields across the training grounds.

- callahan is a spy for the kingdom, and sends a few reports a month on how areas beyond the kingdom are doing. who’s to say he also includes town gossip about one of the kings and his green-eyed advisor.

- also, to be clear, eret and george aren’t married, they’re more like brothers 

- skeppy is a blacksmith, and utilizes magic to create many of his weapons. during peaceful times, skeppy makes a lot of cooking ware for ponk and cauldrons that are exported for sale. he also specializes in making baking trays.

- quackity is a tavern-owner, and drags george, dream, and sapnap from the castle to spend a night drinking together. a gateway to a commoner life. karl makes sure they make it back by morning, though no one in the castle minds that they’re gone. 

- niki is the stable master. if nascar racers rode horses, niki would be at that level. she’ll always beat you in a race even with the slowest horse. in addition to taking care of the animals, she keeps track of what medical supplies they have. she’ll have tea with philza and they talk about whatever comes to mind. sometimes, they talk about old memories of wilbur.

- jack manifold is a known explorer in the kingdom, roaming the realms beyond the dreamland. legend says he’s lived and died three times over, and he’s three times as lucky as any other man. jack specializes in fire magic, which is helpful for torches or campfires or lava.

- puffy is a captain on the sea, seeking the “Hermit’s Cove”. the dreamlands is not her home.

- schlatt is a sorcerer that can only create wine from any liquid and give people lung cancer. he’s usually too drunk out of his mind to actually cause damage. george doesn’t know why he’s in the castle, but hasn’t tried to get rid of him because...lung cancer...yea. quackity usually keeps him in check whenever he visits the castle, or drags him to stay at the tavern for a few nights. absolute nuisance.

i can probably write in a role for the other smp members, but that’s all for now.

[my-funky-little-cowboy]

Yeehawgust Day 9 | Cattlepunk Characters: John Marston, Abigail Roberts, Jack Marston Word Count: 1,472 Warnings: None

John shoved the final bag into the back of the wagon, he turned quickly and the bundle rolled back and out of the wagon.

“Oh come on, now!” John groaned, the contents of the pack scattered on the ground. 

He stopped, seeing Arthur’s satchel among the things littering the ground. A pained expression flashed across his face as he bent down to pick the bag up, wiping the dust from the worn leather. It was heavy in his hands. He was sure they had emptied all the weird trinkets and collectibles that Arthur had stuffed away all those years ago. 

He flipped open the bag and reached inside. His hand dusting over the worn cover of a book, he pulled it out, his breath caught in his throat and he closed his eyes. He let his arm with the satchel fall, his head falling back. 

Arthur. 

He opened his eyes slowly, turning to place the satchel in the bed of the wagon. Slowly cracking open the old journal, he smiled looking down at Arthur’s elegant handwriting. He flipped through the pages, his heart ached as he recognized the small drawings of Jenny and Sadie from that final year.

He continued to flip through the pages, leaning heavily against the wagon. The memories of that last year flooding back to him, his heart heavy. Seeing all the people Arthur had met in that last year, the interesting sights, his diagnosis. He stopped briefly, the words he read next haunted him.

Turns out, I’m not very well. Got tuberculosis. Doctor did not know how long I would last. All them bullets shot at me, all them horses threw me, all them fights and it was beating up that pathetic little fella Downes that killed me, I reckon. He’s the only man I been near was real sick. He begged for mercy and I beat the bastard and he died. And now I’m dying too. The way of the world

John stopped. He hadn’t known then, he knew Arthur hadn’t been feeling well, a cough here and there. Nothing he didn’t expect his brother to bounce back from, but then the bank job had gone so wrong.

The gang split and God only knows what went down on Guarma. Abigail had said it was bad. When Sadie and Arthur had come for him at Sisika he looked like a hollow shell of the man John had grown up with.

Those following weeks, watching him waste away, that promise, the only thing Arthur had asked of him, the thing that kept him going even now.

He looked back down at the journal, flipping through the rest of the pages, Arthur’s final thoughts. He stopped on a page with a portrait of a man, and beside it a curious looking building with the name Dover Hill scrawled under it. He skimmed the entry and it’s talk of grand machines and mechanical men. 

Marko Dragic

Had he ever heard about what happened to his curious friend? He snapped the journal closed hearing the footfalls approach.

“Almost done, John?” Abigail asked as she reached the wagon, Jack following behind her, the crate in his arms overflowing with provisions.

“All loaded up here.” He slid the book into the pocket of his jacket, turning to greet them.  He reached out and took the crate from Jack, loading it into the back of the wagon.

“And all that?” Abigail motioned to the fallen contents of the pack and John grinned sheepishly.

“Right, I’ll get those loaded up now. One of the bags fell.” He rubbed the back of his neck and dropped down to pick up the miscellaneous pieces, placing them into the wagon.

Abigail shook her head and climbed into the driver’s seat, waving for Jack to climb up into the back. John tossed the last of the items into the back and climbed up next to her. He picked up the reins and cracked them gently, the wagon pulling out of town.

It had been nearly 7 years since the Marstons had been back down this way, back to where Arthur had given everything up for them. They rode slowly through the valley, the familiar paths from that winter, through Roanoke Ridge, he recognized the trails as they came closer to Beaver Hollow, and he steered them north of the area, opting to take some of the less populated roads as they moved farther west.

They continued west into a bone-chilling wind as the sun dropped below the mountains, the trees becoming thicker as they moved farther into the forest.

 A moose call echoed through the valley, starling Jack who looked up from his book.

“What the hell was that?” Jack exclaimed!

“Jack!” Abigail shouted, smacking his head gently. “This is all your fault!” She frowned at John and he chuckled.

“Jack, watch your mouth.” He stifled his laugh and Abigail nudged him with her shoulder.

The wagon splashed through the shallow water as they crossed the shallow river, the cold water splattering John’s leg as he hung it from the wagon, turning his attention back to the road and the sign off to the side. The crude carvings pointed west to Colter, south to Saint Denis, and north to...Dover Hill?

John pulled back on the reigns, slowing the horses as they came up to the sign. 

“We should find a place to set up camp tonight, it’ll be dark soon...and cold.” His curiosity piqued, he pulled the wagon down the northern path toward Dover Hill curious to see what Arthur saw all those years ago.

They wound up the trail, eventually the path opened and a large building came into view. John pulled the horses to a stop.

“What is this place, John?” Abigail asked.

“I don’t know, sign said Dover Hill, and the name looked familiar.” He trailed off.

“Looks abandoned. Maybe we should head back to the road?” She offered.

“Wouldn’t you rather stay indoors if it’s an option?” John hopped down from the wagon, pulling the shotgun from under the seat he moved toward the building, leaving Jack and Abigail in the wagon.

He knocked loudly on the door and waited, no response. He put his ear to the door, silence. He tried the handle and it relented to his push and he disappeared into the darkness.

“Hello?” The light spilled into the space in front of him, reflecting off the dull glass.

 He reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigarette pack, grabbing the small matchbox from within. Striking a match to the rough wood a dull glow filled the room. He lit the end of his cigarette and scanned the room for a lantern or candle, finding one and lighting it, he swung it back around the room.

The light flooded the space, the walls were lined with bulbs and levers, the panels dark without the electricity flowing through them. John ran his hand along them, his fingers leaving thick trails in the dust. He stopped in the doorway that led into a large caged room, the body on the floor was long dead, the skin tight to the bones and the clothes in tatters. The dark stain of the blood surrounded the body, long dry, the boot prints from the body gave John all the story he needed.

Damn, wonder if this was that fella.

He lifted his lantern, casting the light into the rest of the room and his jaw dropped. The room filled with mechanical metal men in various states of completion, enough to form an army, forever waiting for directions that would never come. 

He turned back, looking to where he left his family, and back down to the floor, the bloodied footprints leading out of the room back toward the front door. He looked back at the army and a chill ran down his spine, the vacant lifeless eyes leaving him feeling unnerved. John grit his teeth as he carefully surveyed the room once more before making his way out of the building. 

John reappeared in the doorway and Abigail crossed her arms over her chest.

“Find anything? Anyone inside? It’s getting cold! We need to either settle here or find someplace before nightfall, otherwise we’re gonna freeze!” 

John shook his head, pulling himself back up into the wagon, tucking the shotgun up under the seat. “It’s clear, but someone got killed in there. I think we should move on.”  He said, his eyes locked on the building, the uneasy feeling still settling in his gut.

It wasn’t a lie, but it was sure gonna be a hell of a lot easier to explain than that other stuff. He gently cracked the reins, turning the wagon around and moving back toward the main road, he shook his head. Arthur sure had met some strange folk.

[frodos-bizarre-adventure]

@gingerreggg ooo the lore deepens

Heads Up- Part 10 (Joseph x Bust! Caesar)

▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪

With Joseph going to university every couple of days, and Suzi visiting often but still usually sleeping at her own home, there were days that Caesar was left home alone.

Joseph had invested in extra door locks to keep him safe, makeshift mini-elevators to help the bodiless bust get up and down the kitchen and living room tables, and put up canvasses and customized paint holders to encourage his fondness for painting to pass the time.

Caesar was a great painter-- especially for someone with no hands.

With much practice in holding a paintbrush in his mouth, something that Caesar found much easier as opposed to colored pencils that broke when pressed too hard, Joseph's artistic masterpieces had begun producing masterpieces of his own. Simple, abstract scribbles at first, but over time began to make art of the things he saw around the house. Still lifes of tables, furniture, windows, in his own crude, mouth-scribbly style.

Today was one such day. Joseph was away at the art school, working on projects of his own. And Suzi hadn't called for today, and probably wasn't coming for a while.

And so Caesar spent his time painting. But he was tired of the things within the confines of the apartment, and opted for a new medium.

Pulling the blinds of the window open with his teeth, Caesar exposed the view of the vacant lot behind Joseph's house. One that was somewhat still a wild region, overgrown with grasses, with a few sparse trees, and further into the horizon, the skyline of the big city with towering skyscrapers that seemed like mere toys from such a distance.

A smile crept across Caesar's face. This seemed like a perfect muse for another painting.

And as Joseph created art with a purpose, he wondered if this was his.

---------

Suzi looked over at the bag Joseph had given her.

She was in her own home, an apartment somewhat smaller than Joseph's. The post-graduate artist hadn't really done very much in the past year, and her house reflected it: it was quite a mess, with many boxes, items and inexplicable odds and ends cluttering every tabletop and shelf, a problem compounded by the artist's somewhat scatterbrained nature at times.

She sat on her couch, typing away at her laptop. She'd been very curious about the past few days about where exactly that design on the bag came from-- definitely a Mesoamerican influence, perhaps some sort of mystical trinket from long ago.

It had been the bag that Joseph had found in his attic, that had contained the lump of clay that had become Caesar. As Joseph had said before, it didn't seem like a particularly special material at first: yet now, given that it literally was alive, there certainly was something unique about it. Especially given that all other clay they attached to Caesar, in their failed attempts to give him a body, had invariably remained lifeless and cold.

And as she scrolled through pictures on her laptop, she happened upon something extraordinary.

A site cataloguing local folklore, with details that seemed oddly familiar.

Legends told in ancient Central America about sacred soils that could channel strange energies. One myth, in particular, caught her attention: a tale of a talented artist who, in her sheer devotion to detail in her work, managed to usher in spirits of inspiration to take new life into her work.

Idols that harbored the souls of the ancestors that led them to convene with their successors generations on.

Suzi scoffed. This seemed like strange superstitious magic, wasn't it?

Yet deep down, as much of a mature, rational woman as she was, a small part deep within her had always believed in magic, wished to believe. Perhaps it was the hopeful, wide-eyed child within her now enveloped in the shell of a responsible adult, that sometimes shone through when she was around people she was comfortable, like Joseph, and now, Caesar too.

Perhaps that was why she wasn't too surprised about Caesar when she first met the living sculpture in Joseph's apartment a couple of weeks earlier.

Because a bit of her had always believed in magic-- and Caesar's very existence served only to confirm it.

---------

Joseph strolled around the art gallery of the university, beholding in wonder at the vast, museum-like halls bearing the works of its many previous students.

Statues, sculptures, paintings and murals of all shapes and styles adorned the walls, platforms and shelves of nearly every corner of the building's interior. Everything was art, they said, and the masterpieces certainly reflected it.

And as much as Joseph was in awe of the beauty of the gallery, something made him uneasy, as he looked at them, especially the sculpted statues that resided in glass cases, carved in eternal repose with their lifeless eyes gazing blankly into empty space.

Would this have been Caesar's fate?

Joseph couldn't bear the thought of Caesar, his roommate, his friend and companion, spending the rest of his existence like this.

What kind of life would that be?

Joseph's disturbed thoughts were interrupted when he bumped into somebody, as he was too preoccupied with the art to look where he was going.

"Oh, I'm sorry, young man," said an old, throaty voice, with a prominent Italian accent. "You need to be careful around here too."

"Apologies, Mr. Zeppeli," Joseph said awkwardly, with an uncertain scratch of his head.

Mr. William Zeppeli was one of the oldest professors in the university, and had long taught the class on the subject of three-dimensional art. Instantly recognizable by his trademark moustache and top hat, Mr. Zeppeli had mentored Joseph in his first year in the university, and was quite familiar with him.

"I'm glad to see you've come so far, Mr. Joestar," Mr. Zeppeli said with a pat on Joseph's back. "I believe you would be graduating this year, are you not?"

Joseph smiled proudly. "I sure will be, sir!"

Mr. Zeppeli gave a warm chuckle. "That's the spirit!" he said. "So, the final project is due next month. What is your grand masterpiece?"

"A bust sculpture," Joseph said impulsively, before realizing he probably shouldn't have said it out loud.

A proud, yet solemn smile emerged on Mr. Zeppeli's weathered features. "Come with me," he told Joseph.

He led Joseph towards the hall of statues, where Joseph was amazed to see a vast array of clay figures, of people, objects and places, all impressively detailed even for him. Sculptures of birds in flight, each feather intricately carved in astonishing perfection. Miniature models of famous landmarks around the world, such as a replica of the Colosseum in Rome. Faces of people molded in clay, so expressive they seemed they almost could speak.

Something that, at this point, wouldn't have surprised Joseph anymore.

"He would have loved to meet you," Mr. Zeppeli said woefully. "I've seen some of the sculptures you've made before and they remind me of him so much."

"W-who?" Joseph asked, curious at the person Mr. Zeppeli had referred to.

"My grandson," replied the old teacher with a bittersweet note in his voice.

"He went to this school a decade ago, and was one of the best students this institution had ever known. All these, the figures you see before you, are his creations, and I...I am proud to call him my grandson," said Mr. Zeppeli, as he wiped away a tear.

The old professor gestured to a small sign next to the case displaying his grandson's masterpieces. "He was a jolly fellow, if not without a strange sense of humor. You two might have become friends."

Joseph looked closely at the sign. There was something very familiar.

And as its contents sank in, his heart nearly stopped.

"IN MEMORY OF ANTHONIO ZEPPELI (1983-2008), GONE BUT FOREVER REMEMBERED," said the caption.

But what captured his attention, and struck him to the very center of his being, was the picture of the late artist displayed on the sign.

He had no pink cheek marks, and he, of course, had a body.

But he was, unmistakably and otherwise identically, Caesar.

"Is--is this him?" gasped Joseph in disbelief.

"I guess you'd recognize that face," Mr. Zeppeli gave a faint laugh. "Remember that statue of Julius Caesar displayed here, several years ago? He based it off himself. That isn't even remotely close to what the real Julius Caesar looked like, he was a talented, if strange, boy who found it amusing to stick his own likeness onto his art."

Julius Caesar, Joseph thought. His reference.

He felt a strange sensation, as if his whole world was suddenly shattered, and was slowly piecing itself back together like a jigsaw puzzle, into a new reality that seemed way too fateful for his peace of mind.

"Uh...uh...I just suddenly remembered I have a class to go to," said a flustered Joseph, quickly conjuring up an alibi. "See you later, Mr. Zeppeli!" he said, and promptly dashed off in a hurry.

-------

"Jojo? You would not believe what I just found," Suzi said, as she entered Joseph's house later that evening.

"Well, you wouldn't believe what I found out today," Joseph replied, with a shell-shocked look on his face.

Suzi was taken aback. "Looks like you've seen some serious stuff," she gasped. "Y-you go first."

"Do you know a certain Anthonio Zeppeli?" Joseph asked her.

"As in...the student who died a while back?" she said. "I've...I've heard of him, he was talked about a couple of times by my friends one year ahead of your batch. And about...what happened to him."

Caesar, who at just the right moment, had been bouncing by, was intrigued. "Happened to who?" he asked, pausing in his tracks.

Suzi sat down on the sofa. "They say he was a student from a few batches prior. He was a talented sculptor who was great at working with clay, marble, concrete..."

"Yeah, I've seen his stuff," interjected Joseph.

"Well, the thing is, they told he had been commissioned to carve a mural into a hotel's front lobby, nearly ten years ago," she told. "He was perched up on a ladder, chipping away at the wall, when suddenly, he broke a support on a stone ornament, shaped like a cross--"

"--and he was so startled when it began to topple, that he stumbled right off his ladder, fell to his death...and then the stone cross fell and landed right on top of him."

Joseph winced. That sounded like a terrible way to go.

"Well, there's something you wouldn't believe," Joseph said, pulling out a yearbook he'd borrowed from the library. Look at his face."

Suzi leaned closer for a look, and gasped in shock.

"I'd never seen what he'd looked like, but...but..."

"Caesar. It's you."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Caesar exclaimed. "I can't see anything from down here!"

Suzi picked up the bust with some effort and rested him onto the tabletop. He hopped over to the book to check out what all the commotion was about--

--and was silent for an uncomfortably long time.

"See, this is what I was gonna tell you," Suzi said. "I'd been reading on the design on the bag that you found Caesar's clay in. There were legends in ancient Mesoamerica that artists who were talented enough would be able to usher in spirits of predescessors into idols of a special sacred clay to serve as inspiration," she said.

"And maybe, just maybe, Caesar is alive-- because he is Anthonio Zeppeli's soul."

"So am I a ghost?!" Caesar screamed in terrified confusion, hopping backwards a few bounces from sheer terror. "I'm a dead man in a clay head?!" he cried, disturbed by the revelation.

"More like a reincarnation," Suzi explained. "The legends told that they became spirit guides to their creators, that they held the wisdom and knowledge of the past, but remembered little of their past lives-- rather, they carried over some traits, but were their own, unique person."

"Did they have bodies?" Joseph asked right off the bat.

"Yes... you were just unlucky to not have enough clay," she added.

Caesar groaned in frustration.

"You know, I honestly wouldn't have believed some ancient mythology," Joseph said, "but given I've been living with a talking, walking sculpture--"

"Not exactly walking," Caesar corrected.

"...er, bouncing, sculpture for the last couple of weeks, I'd take any explanation at this point." he admitted.

"I think he chose you, Joseph," Suzi said with a smile.

Caesar looked at Anthonio's picture in the yearbook, and saw only himself. The same green eyes, blond hair, unmistakable face. He lacked the pink cheek patches, however, which Joseph admitted he'd tacked on to Caesar just for kicks. Anthonio had a body.

Could he really be Anthonio Zeppeli returned from the dead? Caesar pondered. If that was true, he remembered nothing of being Anthonio.

The idea of having once been a living human unsettled Caesar.

But at the same time, he couldn't help but feel oddly vindicated.

He'd wondered often recently why he even existed, as just another of Joseph's art. What use did he serve?

But now he wondered, upon hearing of Suzi's tale-- maybe this was his purpose.

--------

(Previous Chapter)

(Next Chapter)

[millylotus]

Ender Bunn

Desert Bunnies

When my wings stretch out behind my back it feels like heaven. When they catch air in a way that seems to clean all the grime from under my scales I feel at peace. But when he used to rub my wings with ointments I didn’t yet understand. When he would clean and groom them, whilst I laid on my chest fully trusting my first love to take care of me, I was so happy.

I was overjoyed the first time we kissed, the feeling new and strange, but I could sense the intent behind it. He wanted to show his love for me in a way his people did, not just in the way my people instinctively knew. A single kiss led to a night I hope to never forget.

Her fluffy ears, just like her fathers in shape. She hatched from her egg just like I did screaming for food and missing the warmth of her shell. She was like me and like him. Purple tinted and End descended, but everything else was him. Her bunny ears, that pricked and twisted at the slightest noise, her nose that twitched at every new and intriguing smell in the area. Her legs grew strong and powerful just like his.

My little family, my everything. The husband who taught me how to live in the Overworld. My first daughter who seemed to be a shining beacon in my life, the first of many to come.

But what I didn’t know fully, as naïve as I was back then, is that beings of the Overworld and Nether don’t live as long as those of the End. He died in his sleep peacefully holding me as tight as he could, knowing he wouldn’t like much longer. We cried, the man we both loved, my first love, her only father gone with the wind. He was only fifty-eight, so young compared to my true age. But my body, unlike his, stayed the same, I would be twenty-three for a longer time.

She went next, but she died differently than him, no she died painfully slow. An arrow from those horrible pillagers ended my daughter, she fell in my arms. So you are only thirty years old, and only me to call home. My bouncing fire, my little cottontail sprite. My everything was gone. I buried them in the end. On an Island I claimed as my own. I made the altars and carved their names into the rock with our family tapestries standing tall behind them.

I wasted no time killing those pillagers, I savored their blood, and their jewels that I burned in front of their greedy eyes. I killed so many with over a thousand miles. I ended the reign of those terrible creatures with my claws and my jaw.

Leaving back to my graveyard I made a place around them. A grand spacious palace that would house my first family and my next ones to come. Made of dark purple blocks, and stone the color of cream, my den.

Returning to the Overworld gave me a bit of a start. I was Harold as the savior of the nation, the killer of the dastardly Pillagers. The King gave me a title.

The End Saint of the Desert

A title that I don’t flaunt but I still hold with a fondness and small sense of pride. I may be that of the End but at the very least I did some good for these people.

Desert Bunnies : Character details

Ender had only just recently come to Overworld. And traveled for a while before stumbling onto a small desert village. They first interacted with Co when trying to get a pork bun. He paid for them, saying that it’s the least he could do for a stranger who clearly wasn’t used to the area. He showed them kindness and taught them how to navigate the Overworld. Co would often marvel over Ender’s wings. They adored this attention and would often let Co clean and shine them just so he would be happy. Co worked as an aromatherapist (modern word) he would create perfumes, ointments, and soaps for the people of the village. Everyone knew Co, so everyone knew Ender. Ender for the first time in a long time felt like they were in a family, and for the first time ever they felt like they were in a community. Co and Ender’s relationship blossomed into something more one night on the rooftop staring at the stars, and soon they would welcome a new being into their family.

Soco hatched from an egg just like Ender. She was born screaming and crying, but so healthy and strong. The couple’s worries of a dragon/bunny hybrid put to rest at just how stable their daughter became. Her ears grew tall and pointed and her legs grew similar to that of a desert hare’s (just like other rabbit hybrids) she was a hybrid just like her father, but instead of her father gray fur, her’s was a lilac purple, that contrasted her mostly dark purple color scheme perfectly. Soco grew to be a rambunctious girl with a passion for heroism. Dreaming to some day rid the desert of as many dangers as possible.

Soco loved to fly with Ender. When Ender would lift her by her hands and take her high up into the sky to see the great expanse of the desert beneath her feet, she loved it. Soco became a Guard and would systematically attack pillager outposts that would get to close the village or any that caused too much trouble. She became a sort of town hero along with her fellow guards.

Co died at the age of fifty-eight in his sleep, right next to his spouse Ender. Ender and Soco were distraught, this being the first time Ender realized just how short non-enderian lives could be, and Soco losing her father. Only ten years later during a fight with Pillagers Soco was struck, she got back to the village before she died. But the healers couldn’t save her, she died in Ender’s arms.

Ender mourned their daughter’s death, burying Soco and Co in the End. Later letting their anger take over. Killing all the Pillagers in the area. They returned to the End and built a proper altar for their family. Along with a proper and extravagant den for any other thing they wanted to keep.

Later rewarded by the King for their slaughter of the Pillagers, Ender just wandered the desert not really paying attention to time, only ever really doing anything when the desert was in danger, killing its enemies.

Becoming The End Saint of the Desert

Choosing A Name

“Hey Ender, I just realized you never gave me your last name.” Co ponders while eating his shaved ice. The two were just hanging around today. Nothing really active considering that it had been hot as Nether for the past week.

Ender thought for a second before speaking. “Well I don’t even really have a name to be honest. I was only ever called Dragon or Solmai which means child so that doesn’t really count.” They took a bite out of their popsicle after explaining not really bothered by the fact. But Co most definitely was.

“Wait then why did you say your name was Ender, when we first met.” He was confused, usually Ender would just say things without realizing it so not knowing this was strange to him.

“Oh well I never really said it was my name. I actually cursed and said ‘Oh Ender’ like oh shit, ya know. Cause I didn’t really know what a name was at the time. And you seemed happy so I didn’t really think I got it wrong.” They just shrugged.

“Well if you never had a name why don’t we share one.” Co said, bouncing a bit the crate he claimed as a seat.

“Yeah sure, what you got in mind.” Ender adjusted their position so they weren't just laying flat on their stomach.

“Well my last name is Bunnix, so combining that with Ender might be hard.” He took a second to think, wanting to get Ender’s first name right. “What about Ender Bunn? Short and sweet.” Co blushed a bit, knowing that taking on someone's name would be an act of love.

But Ender didn’t seem to notice. They grinned, liking the slightly awkward combo. “Yeah it’s nice.”

The rest of the hot day was spent lounging in the shade of carpets strung between the houses and resting on empty but sturdy crates. Whilst eating delicious ice.

[newstfionline]

Friday, August 6, 2021

US plans to require COVID-19 shots for foreign travelers (AP) The Biden administration is taking the first steps toward requiring nearly all foreign visitors to the U.S. to be vaccinated for the coronavirus, a White House official said. The requirement would come as part of the administration’s phased approach to easing travel restrictions for foreign citizens to the country. No timeline has yet been determined, as interagency working groups study how and when to safely move toward resuming normal travel. Eventually all foreign citizens entering the country, with some limited exceptions, are expected to need to be vaccinated against COVID-19 to enter the U.S.

Big tech companies are at war with employees over remote work (Ars Technica) All across the United States, the leaders at large tech companies like Apple, Google, and Facebook are engaged in a delicate dance with thousands of employees who have recently become convinced that physically commuting to an office every day is an empty and unacceptable demand from their employers. The COVID-19 pandemic forced these companies to operate with mostly remote workforces for months straight. And since many of them are based in areas with relatively high vaccination rates, the calls to return to the physical office began to sound over the summer. But thousands of high-paid workers at these companies aren’t having it. Many of them don’t want to go back to the office full time, even if they’re willing to do so a few days a week. Workers are even pointing to how effective they were when fully remote and using that to question why they have to keep living in the expensive cities where these offices are located. Some tech leaders (like Twitter’s Jack Dorsey) agreed, or at least they saw the writing on the wall. They enacted permanent or semipermanent changes to their companies’ policies to make partial or even full-time remote work the norm. Others (like Apple’s Tim Cook) are working hard to find a way to get everyone back in their assigned seats as soon as is practical, despite organized resistance. In either case, the work cultures at tech companies that make everything from the iPhone to Google search are facing a major wave of transformation.

At least 10 dead as van carrying migrants crashes in Texas (AP) An overloaded van carrying 29 migrants crashed Wednesday on a remote South Texas highway, killing at least 10 people, including the driver, and injuring 20 others, authorities said. The crash happened shortly after 4 p.m. Wednesday on U.S. 281 in Encino, Texas, about 50 miles (80 kilometers) north of McAllen. A surge in migrants crossing the border illegally has brought about an uptick in the number of crashes involving vehicles jammed with migrants who pay large amounts to be smuggled into the country. The Dallas Morning News has reported that the recruitment of young drivers for the smuggling runs, combined with excessive speed and reckless driving by those youths, have led to horrific crashes.

Turkish wildfires are worst ever, Erdogan says, as power plant breached (Reuters) Turkey is battling the worst wildfires in its history, President Tayyip Erdogan said on Wednesday, as fires spread to a power station in the country’s southwest after reducing swathes of coastal forest to ashes. Fanned by high temperatures and a strong, dry wind, the fires have forced thousands of Turks and foreign tourists to flee homes and hotels near the Aegean and Mediterranean coasts. Eight people have died in the blazes since last week. Planes and dozens of helicopters have joined scores of emergency crews on the ground to battle the fires, but Erdogan’s government has faced criticism over the scale and speed of the response. In the last two weeks, fires in Turkey have burnt more than three times the area affected in an average year, a European fire agency said. Neighbouring countries have also battled blazes fanned by heatwaves and strong winds.

Sri Lanka’s financial problems (Foreign Policy) Sri Lanka is threatening to become South Asia’s economic weak link. It’s mired in a severe debt crisis, and its budget deficit exceeded 11 percent of GDP during the last fiscal year, which ended in March. The country’s foreign reserves can only pay for three months of imports, prompting Colombo to cut back on many foreign imports, including turmeric, a staple product. Fitch Ratings has warned default is a real possibility. Sri Lanka’s woes stem in great part from a floundering tourism sector. Tourism typically accounts for at least 5 percent of GDP, and some estimates even put the figure at 12.5 percent. The sector’s troubles began before the coronavirus pandemic, when suicide bombers killed at least 290 people in churches and hotels in April 2019, keeping visitors away. But the pandemic still dealt a giant blow. A 2021 assessment found tourist arrivals between January and April fell nearly 100 percent from the same period in 2020.

Australia to spend $813M to address Indigenous disadvantage (AP) Australia’s government on Thursday pledged 1.1 billion Australian dollars ($813 million) to address Indigenous disadvantage, including compensation to thousands of mixed-race children who were taken from their families over decades. The AU$378.6 million ($279.7 million) to be used to compensate the so-called Stolen Generations by 2026 is the most expensive component of the package aimed at boosting Indigenous living standards in Australia. Prime Minister Scott Morrison said the compensation was a recognition of the harm caused by forced removal of children from families.

Israel launches airstrikes on Lebanon in response to rockets (AP) Israel on Thursday escalated its response to rocket attacks this week by launching rare airstrikes on Lebanon, the army said. The army said in a statement that jets struck the launch sites from which rockets had been fired over the previous day, as well as an additional target used to attack Israel in the past. The IDF blamed the state of Lebanon for the shelling and warned “against further attempts to harm Israeli civilians and Israel’s sovereignty.” The overnight airstrikes were a marked escalation at a politically sensitive time. Israel’s new eight-party governing coalition is trying to keep peace under a fragile cease fire that ended an 11-day war with Hamas’ militant rulers in Gaza in May.

‘Winning a medal doesn’t make him Jewish’ (Washington Post) When gymnast Artem Dolgopyat stepped off the podium as only the second Israeli to win an Olympic gold medal, he triggered one of Israel’s many cultural tripwires: It quickly emerged that the country’s newest sports hero is banned from marrying his fiancee here because he is not considered Jewish enough by the rabbis who control Israel’s marriage law. Immediately after Dolgopyat took top honors in the men’s floor exercise, his mother took the chance to complain that Israeli religious law is keeping her engaged 24-year-old son from tying the knot because only his father’s side of the family is Jewish. Marriage law is tightly controlled by Israel’s Chief Rabbinate. And for generations, couples who are of mixed religions—or who are atheists, gay or inadequately Jewish—have been forced to marry outside the country. Dolgopyat’s training schedule has made that impossible, said his mother, Angela Bilan. “I want grandchildren,” Bilan said Sunday in an interview with Israeli radio.

Talking to strangers (Atlantic) A hefty body of research has found that an overwhelmingly strong predictor of happiness and well-being is the quality of a person’s social relationships. But most of those studies have looked at only close ties: family, friends, co-workers. In the past decade and a half, professors have begun to wonder if interacting with strangers could be good for us too: not as a replacement for close relationships, but as a complement to them. The results of that research have been striking. Again and again, studies have shown that talking with strangers can make us happier, more connected to our communities, mentally sharper, healthier, less lonely, and more trustful and optimistic.

But tanks make such handy snowplows... (BBC) A German retiree was fined nearly $300,000 by local authorities on Tuesday following the discovery of a World War-II era tank in his basement along with other items of the period, including a flak cannon and multiple machine guns. The Panther tank was removed from the man’s property in 2015, a job that took 20 soldiers almost nine hours to complete. The unnamed 84-year-old might have been able to hold on to his tank and the rest of his collection—which must now be donated to a museum within two years, according to Tuesday’s ruling—had he kept it a better secret. “He was chugging around in that thing during the snow catastrophe in 1978,” Heikendorf Mayor Alexander Orth told reporters.