#also adding this: carving themselves into shape is bad

[neteyamsilly]

i will soften every edge, hold the world to its best | 4

summary ;; A father protects, that's what gives him meaning. Jake Sully has failed. PART 3 | PART 5 pairings ;; dad!jake sully x reader, mom!neytiri x reader, sully family x reader genre ;; pure angst and family feels notes / explanations ;; PLEASE READ AUTHOR NOTES. I explicitly said in the previous chapter I would NO LONGER BE TAKING TAG REQUESTS. You're just going to have to check my profile every now and then. I also will not be re-tagging the peeps I did in the last chapter’s replies, it’s just a lot 😭 I'm sorry for the inconvenience and thank you for your understanding! Now I present you, the long awaited angst and groveling of Jake. Enjoy! Please excuse my mistakes if you see any. Thank you so much for the lovely comments and support, I hope the angst hits the way you wanted it / was expecting HHHHH

It’ll shine better, Jake mused to himself, rotating the lumpy amber around in his fingers to better reflect the sunlight streaming in thin rays from the hands of the dense flora above, once I dip this in that polish oil. It’s not entirely unsalvageable. 

At least he hadn’t scraped too much in attempts to give it a rounder shape, the bug at its core you were gushing about to the point of waking him up at zero dark thirty was still intact. He had been summoned from his dreams to look at a cool rock. 

Jake couldn’t not gift it to you as something to be permanently worn after that.

The problem? He was ass at this. Always had been. No drop of craftsmanship in his bloodstream at all when the Na’vi were particularly fond of their ornaments and accessories, making it themselves, in fact. 

Songcords were put together from beads, bones and stones, virtuosity was a must intrinsically woven into everyday life, methodized and irreplaceable since it wasn’t as if mass production could ever be a thing in Pandora. Everything was handmade. 

Jake’s worst enemy beadwork was in their clothing, for example, even in braids — his maladroit at it may or may not be why he wore his hair in plain dreads now. 

He wasn’t an artist or a creator, his hands were more comfortable being fit around a gun or a knife than slipping effortlessly in the rhythm of weaving or the act of making. All his end results were dreadful enough to be bullied relentlessly by his kids — except for you, that is. You absolutely loved them for reasons your mother or none of your siblings could understand. 

Jake’s blundering conscience would melt at the sight of your eyes shining and the biggest smile almost splitting your head in half as if he had just handed you the world every single time he gifted you the newest of his clunky handiwork. He didn’t know why that made you the happiest. You’d been that way ever since you saw him carving and personally adding a bead to his songcord about how he got his firstborn daughter to utter her first word: dada. 

It was important to him, so, down it had gone into Jake’s life story; putting official significance to the moment he never wanted to forget in the same thread that carried the story of him becoming Toruk Makto, just beside Neteyam’s first word, which was also dadada. (Neytiri had Lo’ak’s mam, and Kiri’s perfectly articulated mommy.)

Ever since that day, you had made grabby hands at the bead all the time when he picked you up, teethed at it like a puppy trying to grab a toy, tried to rip it off to make it yours — anything, until Neytiri made you one, but no, you wanted it from dada. 

So dada started making you little trinkets. 

He didn’t know if it was a good or a bad thing you never grew out of receiving gifts from your dad he himself cringed at. Jake wasn’t one to complain, not when someone in this life would feel such enough joy to purify thousands of blighted souls upon receiving his ugly personal work. It made him happy, stroked his ego to high heavens that his sweetheart was doting on dada to see the imperfect as the most fascinating. 

That’s why he had taken on the daunting task of making a bead for you out of the amber you’d fixated on, rasp in one hand, sitting on a thick log that cut into the little stream he and his family were spending leisurely time that day, one leg pulled to himself and one feet in the water up to his ankle. Even though he had half an ear on his four children playing around in the shallow water of the creek, all the screams and squeals of joy felt weak compared to the contained huff of amusement that escaped from his mate who had come up to Jake while he was way too engrossed in his task. 

His eyes shifted to Neytiri, watching her hop on to the log in one agile move. “Don’t laugh.”

“I am not laughing,” Neytiri said, crouching to sit, her mouth twitched upwards as she looked at the amber in his hand.

“I have eyes, Neytiri, I literally see you laughing.” His face used to burn at her openly teasing about beadmaking, but his oldest daughter’s attentions had restored his bruised confidence over the years. The slander wasn’t taken lightly these days as Jake had proudly relabeled the odd shapes of his work as a creative choice. “Right to my face.”

“You’re mistaken.” 

Jake made his jaw drop, overacting his bafflement. “Wow, gaslighting? Really?”

Neytiri hit his arm lightly. In her terms, it was light, at least. “I don’t know what that is.”

“It’s something you shouldn’t do to your mate.” He turned his back to her, giving a look over his shoulder. “You’re abusing me. I’m being abused.”

“Baby.”

“No amount of pet names are gonna fix my broken heart.”

“No. You are a baby. I’m insulting you.” Neytiri hadn’t even laughed, but the uplifted timbre of that sentence sure did make Jake snicker in disbelief. “If you can’t take it, maybe you should leave beading to me.”

“I would say they are fashionably off,” he defended. You carried them with delight, so why shouldn’t Jake take more pride in his work? “And you said practice makes perfect years ago, I remember the exact words—”

“Years ago. You still haven’t gotten any better at it.” Neytiri was his biggest supporter and criticizer at the same time. “And you became a part of the clan back in the day in three months Jake. Never a more unbelievable thing to me than this.” 

“I’m trying alright?” He turned back to the bead, or, vaguely bead-shaped amber, if technical terms were involved. It still had a whole adventure to embark on until it could receive the noble title of a bead. “She likes what I make, at least.”

“It’s because she’s your daughter and anything you do is out of this world. Beauty in the most unlikely places. A child’s love is pure that way.” The unexpected hypnotism of poetry in that sentence alone pulled Jake’s gaze to Neytiri’s, and for a moment, he could physically feel his heart within his ribcage being squeezed, tethering on painful, but with a joyful tinge. “She doesn’t have standards yet.”

Well, that hurt. “Damn.”

“Damm!” A pair of small and branch-thin arms wrapped around his neck from behind, and something, or rather, someone, latched onto his back. “Rahh!” 

Jake should have been suspicious of how silent it had gotten halfway into his talk with Neytiri. Turns out, you had swam underneath the log to get out of his line of sight, climbing with the stealth of a bug to come up undetected. 

Well, mark Jake down as impressed, you weren’t able to do that without being spotted until today, this was another wonderful milestone for you — you had learned impressively, taking advantage of his distraction, avoiding making noise and using water to your advantage. Neytiri must have given you some pointers. 

And now he was wondering if his mate was in on this all along, purposefully disturbing his peace so their kids could see an opening to pounce on him.  

“Oof!” Your hold on him was something he could break out of any minute with how adorably strong you were exerting yourself to make it, but he wanted to play along more than anything. Jake was acting panicked, swinging his body left and right from the waist, but really, it was just a light warm-up exercise with the easiest deadlift possible. “I’m being ambushed!”

“I got you now, Toruk Makto!” You wrapped your legs around his torso, and he felt like this was just a piggyback ride with extra steps. “Watch this, mom!”

Oh, it’s on. 

Discreetly handing Neytiri the amber, Jake stood up, bringing you up with him and fighting a smile at your clipped squeak as the height became too much too quick, causing you to cling onto him stronger. He reached behind, and within seconds, he had you in his hands, holding you from the armpits and dangling you above the stream, your kicking legs beating the air, and he cackled like a villain threatening to fling the hero from atop of a skyscraper. 

“You got me? Please.” He loosened his grip the slightest amount to give you the illusion he would let go, and you stopped struggling to scream, catching his forearms. “A measly thing like you? Conquering me? I’ll show you why I’m the king of the skies! Here I come!”

Making sure you wouldn’t get hurt, Jake threw you into the water as gently as possible, but made the angle entertaining enough so you would go flying. He wasn’t sure who’d screeched the highest, your three siblings who had you spearheading this little operation with full trust in your capabilities, or you reacting like you were falling down from an ikran midair. Either way, he was enjoying bullying his kid a bit too much. 

Emerging from the stream and shaking the water off too akin to a wet dog, your first action was to shield your siblings, open arms and whole body and all. “Nete, run! Protect Lovak and Kiri, I’ll save you!”

Jake’s evil smile looming on his kids wavered at that. 

You had problems with some letters even at the big age of eight, two vowels next to each other in one word was one of them, along with the confusion of “f” and “b”, and sometimes “p” — it made for hilarious misunderstandings Jake had to fight to be a parent about instead of busting a lung from laughing. 

One of the many unforgettable events was deemed “The Fish Incident” between Jake, Max and Norm. He had been recording Neteyam’s first catch on his own to add it to the cute memory pile he and his mate would watch in the future after all their children eventually moved out to pursue their paths. You happened to be present that time, watching intently as your big brother shot a particularly giant yellow fish, eagerly jumping down to the pond to get it and showing it to the camera with a shy, yet proud grin on his face. 

“Good job, boy!” Jake had cheered. “Say I got that fish!”

Out of the camera’s frame and making little jumps on your toes, you’d blithely yelled. “Yeah, you got that bish!” 

The rest of the footage was shaky and out of focus, the microphone hadn’t picked up any sound but Jake’s uncontrollable laughter, kicked off by an exploding snort of shock. 

You and Neteyam had no idea why, but after he’d stopped recording with tears streaming down his face, wheezing because he couldn’t stop laughing, you’d joined to laugh and play with him regardless, mirroring his excitement. 

Later though, Jake had to actively make it so you wouldn’t have to say the words kitchen and pitch (and obviously, fish) out loud, at least, in front of Neytiri. He didn’t want to abstain from having a little fun himself, so under no circumstance was she allowed to find out and correct you. And he had it going strong for a while until it slipped when he was talking about a scientist friend over at Hell’s Gate called Richard and you repeated it as “Bitchard”. The word had somehow weaseled into your English lexicon as well, and Neytiri wasn’t illiterate enough to be oblivious to what you’d merrily blurted. 

Good old days. Jake sometimes missed hearing you curse innocently. Neytiri had to take that source of joy away from him. Discouragement and warnings would be given to his kids if they knowingly cussed, of course, Kiri calling Lo’ak penis face was something he’d immediately shot down, but this was harmless, he thought. He could have let you be blissfully unaware until the day you learned the meaning of the words, or gain consciousness of the articulation errors as you grew up and naturally fix it yourself. It was only a natural part of a child’s growth.  

But he had other entertainment. The obligatory consonant you had to sometimes add to two different neighboring vowels if it was too difficult for you to pronounce, for example. Your little brother was a victim to this. Thankfully, Lo’ak wasn’t bothered to be called Lovak by his older sister, somehow thinking of it as a nickname, but Jake could bet his ass the boy would use this as infinite ammo against you once both of you were older. He would of course forget how you always protected him in play fighting like right now, of course, maybe you would remember enough to accuse him of ungratefulness, and perhaps Lo’ak would declare he didn’t recall anything such as that. 

How bittersweet of a thing it was to drift into imaginations of how his kids would be like when they grew up. Like the stinging ache Jake always got when he was confronted with the sadness of losing his children forever one day — the need to put every minute with them in a bottle, and the feeling of time slipping through his fingers, the same old melancholy each time: when it first dawned on Jake that you’d successfully sneaked up on him just now, when Neteyam had captured his first fish all on his own without assistance, when Lo’ak showed him the knife he had successfully carved by himself to get his approval, and when Kiri had tended to a scratch wound of his better than her grandmother did with precocious wisdom on her face. 

Jake was making every moment count. Just like this one. 

“Nobody is safe from me, I’ll huff and I’ll puff and blow your house in!” He jumped down from the log with the grace and intimidation of a leopard who had been disturbed while eating up the tree he’d dragged his meal on, splashing water everywhere. “What will you do, o’ mighty hunter?”

You loved being called mighty hunter by him, he saw the sparkle in your eyes. 

“Noooo!” Kiri cried, pulling on both Lo’ak and Neteyam’s arms huddled behind you. “He’ll get us!”

Your thought process, completely spooked by Jake, was painfully visible. But surprisingly, you yelled, “Scatter!” with the experience of a rave addict who would take a forty and smash it on the ground as the police closed in on the party grounds. And his kids ran in different directions, like a group of cockroaches when someone approached them, they all ran in different directions. 

Sloshing water all around to make it more terrifying, he got Kiri first, hauled her right over his shoulder when she made for Neytiri, thinking her mother could protect her, but no. Jake was inevitable. Lo’ak gave him a weak challenge trying to step around him, getting Jake to confuse his steps as if they were playing basketball, but this was his dad he was facing and not Spider, these tricks didn’t work on veterans, so now he was flush to Jake’s side, tail facing forward, carried like some strapless bag, it didn’t even put any strain on the man’s bicep. Neteyam was the last, hiding beneath the water level and holding his breath, but the little nose peeking out for air gave him away, and Jake had him up the other shoulder in seconds, the boy didn’t have enough time to run away even though he’d spied from underwater that Jake was coming for him. 

Three out of four. That left only his eldest daughter. 

You were nowhere to be seen. The delighted and struggling giggle-cries of the three kids in his arms and shoulders didn’t help at all to Jake taking his surroundings in with a keen ear, all senses attuned to spotting the stray. 

A rustle from above. 

“Attack him!” 

He didn’t have enough time to see just which branch of the trees cocooning the creek you had climbed on before all three in his arms turned on him, flailing around together in unison to get Jake to fall down and kneel, and it surprisingly worked, he couldn’t even recover between the blink of a time between them getting off the way and you jumping down on him. The height at which you did that knocked all air off his ribcage for a second as he tried to retain balance, and you took that chance to sit on his shoulders, your legs dangling from each one, grabbing onto two dreads on his head as if they were the tails of Toruk he once had held onto like leashes. 

Jake had to give this one to you, damn. When had you become a student of the art of strategizing? 

But, defeat was defeat. He had to play his part. “This can’t be!” He opened his arms, making it seem cartoonishly like he had been incapacitated. “I’ve been… bested?”

“That’s right!” The cockiness was dripping from you as you pulled on his dreads. “I’m Toruk Makto Makto now. The first of my name!”

Your siblings started cheering battle cries, repeating the word. 

Don’t laugh, he ordered himself. Toruk Makto Makto, what a title, oh Jesus Christ. 

“Alright, alright, you got me, mighty hunter.” 

“So I win?”

“Yes, you win.”

He was going to have two less dreads on his head if you kept pulling on them like this. “Hell yeah!” 

After hearing the declaration, his other children also joined in on the ‘Hell yeah!’ train. Jake supposed he could let this slide for now, you guys were too happy, he wouldn’t sully it. 

“You’re gonna rip my hair off, get down now.” You understood play time was over from his tone, and obeyed, hopping down his shoulders when he lowered you into the water, immediately attempting to rush to your siblings’ side to be celebrated, but Jake had something else in mind. “C’mere for a sec.”

He pulled you to the edge of the stream where water met grassy land, dipping his hand into the wet soil under your confused gaze and bringing his fingers up to trace a pattern on your face.

The reaction was instantaneous. You pulled back. “Ew, mud!”

“Hold on,” he gently warned, or rather, encouraged.

You let him continue whatever he was doing then, albeit not losing the laughable concern along the way. “What’s this?”

“Well, you’ve tamed Toruk Makto before an ikran. My mighty hunter should be painted accordingly, no?”

He pointed down and you followed it with your eyes. Seeing your reflection and the ‘V’ shape with a dot on your face in the water, you stopped yourself from touching it with the impulse control that kicked in at the last second, looking up at Jake, jumping up and down, unable to contain the energy, knowing exactly what he did just now. He’d recognized you as a prospective hunter candidate. “Thank you, dad!”

Jake could swear his insides liquidized at that. “Always, sweetheart.”

“Will you paint me like this when I finally get an ikran, too?”

“Of course I will.” He actually wanted to cup your cheeks and plant a little kiss at the adorable flat of your nose but the mud would be ruined, so he pet your braids instead. “As will your mother. It’s what family does.”

At the time, Jake didn’t have the slightest inkling that the paint would end up being your own blood. 

Neytiri’s bloody hands — your blood, his child, his child, his baby Jake’s entire day would stop at seeing one tear on her face — had been stroking your face, trying to hold on to you anywhere she could to soothe your flaming pain as you were squirming like a dying animal fighting for the next breath. His heart beating right behind his eyes in a massive pulsating headache, Jake was too desperate fighting his swelling panic with each noise that ripped from you to notice they had left the vague pattern of Iknimaya paint pattern in their wake. 

She did. 

And her following anguished, gasping shudder as her shaking hands hovered above your contorted face, tracing the air along the lines the blood had left on your face ended up hitting him right in the gut. He couldn’t dwell on it. He couldn’t let this random twisted sign sweep him into the roaring waterfall of torment, your life was on the line.  

Jake didn’t have any coherent memory of running back to the mouth of the cave from the family tent. One moment, he was back with his brain fried from thinking about Quaritch in the aftermath of an hour that had just taken twenty years from his lifespan, avoiding the inquisitive silence of his kids who hadn’t gone back to bed yet; and the other, Neytiri was screaming in the distance with terror worse than the anguish he’d heard her go through upon losing her father and her home. Jake had all but flown there, mind blank in swirling, spasming panic. 

Neytiri had told him he had a strong heart the first time they’d met. No fear. Even though Jake was aware he was being disliked strongly, this quality of his she had remarked on, honest to her soul. 

But she was wrong. 

That fearless fortress heart of his had begun to crumble the moment he learned of Neteyam’s existence. And with each and every new addition to their family, Jake had been rehabilitated on what fear truly was, like a baby learning a language. 

Losing. It was all about losing. 

He would wake up from terrorizing, choking nightmares with the sensation of his family being violently taken away from him when his children were in his arms, sleeping peacefully all along. He couldn’t stop it. It had spiraled out of control after the sky people came back, turning him into a paranoid, angry man who was ruled by fear. He worried for the safety of his family every day, obsessed over it — beneath the impenetrable iron mask of a leader his whole clan was leaning on, Jake was nothing more than a weak, emotionally crippled father who would lose it the more his children grew up to take reckless actions he made worse by the inability to govern his fear-curbed anger. He called it tough love. 

That tough love had resulted in this. Loss. Loss. Loss he had tried his damnedest to prevent. It was blood slipping through his fingers from a wound he had no way of stitching back together. 

The more he pushed to block the bullet entrance point, the more you fought Jake, making feral yowls that weakened into animalistic whimpers and throaty whines that all but ripped his heart off muscle by muscle, your hits and scratches didn’t faze him, but the noises. Eywa, the noises. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I know you’re in pain, I know, I know, I’ll make it go away, please hold on, c’mon.” The droplets of sweat that had formed in the matter of seconds rolled down his face. You had begun to hyperventilate from the accelerating pain because of his efforts. “C’mon sweetheart. Breathe for me, breathe for dad, okay? You gotta breathe. Breathe!”

You were unhearing, lost in the overwhelming, blinding, deafening agony he couldn’t anchor or shield you from. The grunt of desperation that escaped his sore throat rattled his carbon fiber infused bones.  

Jake didn’t have time to think. His reason had flown out the mountains to be able to force one single word to form in his mindscape. He just knew he had to stop the bleeding, propelled by concentrated instinct. You were struggling too much for him to have a solid hold on you. Everything, too slippery. Too much blood. Too fucking much. The sickening smell of iron bit at his senses. 

(Was it the liver? The spleen? Pancreas? One of the major arteries? But Na’vi biology wasn’t the same as humans. Fuck.) 

Then, you were being restrained by a third party, Neytiri was too devastated to make that reasonable decision, and in his peripheral vision, he saw it was Neteyam who had sat down on your legs, restricting your movements with incredible strength. Jake couldn’t even bark at him to go away with how much Neteyam looked in control, a rock he and Neytiri both could draw strength from. Behind him, Lo’ak was a stone statue just standing there, frozen, his eyes not leaving your bloody abdomen. 

When you let out a yelp his heart could no longer stand, he yelled, “Bring a stretcher!” to nobody in particular, out of his goddamn mind. Lo’ak jumped at it, coming back to his senses, hesitating what to do for a second before he was off to god knows where. He had to take you to Norm’s, and then a doctor—

A tiny, trembling voice he couldn’t recognize as Neteyam’s reached his ears. “Dad…” 

The boy was looking at you, blown eyes shining with unshed tears, upper set of teeth sinking in his shaky bottom lip. 

You had gone slack in his arms. 

He hadn’t even seen the moment, didn’t stop putting pressure on the wound as the dread assaulted his body. And a biting shiver went down his spine before Jake also looked down on his eldest daughter. Your eyes weren’t closed all the way, halted gaze focused on something to the side, one tear rolling down your temple. 

“Don’t do this to me.” Jake couldn’t breathe as he shook his head, he was about to lose it, about to tumble down the edge he could never climb his way up from. In denial, he didn’t lift his hands, losing all strength in his upper body and gradually collapsing forward as his forehead found yours. “Don’t do this to me, sweetheart, not like this. Please, not like this.”

The last thing you were looking at was the ikran you’d gotten.

Jake didn’t feel that very ikran making its way to their side, flapping its wings, didn’t feel anything to react when a snoot reached down and ever-so-gently nudged you, like you were asleep and it was given the duty to wake you up in the morning that day. 

Your ikran nudged you once. Twice. Thrice. Each push was harsher than the other. 

You didn’t wake up. Your eyes didn’t get their light back. 

A paralyzing numbness took over Jake’s body, all his neuron ends stunted. The moon stopped spinning, time stopped moving, he ceased existing, all at the same time. 

A piercing ringing stabbed his ears, took away his hearing. He didn’t hear Neytiri scream louder than the ikran, you were ripped from his arms, and he couldn’t move to do anything about it, just staring into the distance, at nothing, bloodied palms facing upwards in his lap. 

It was Neteyam who tried to stop his wailing mother from going mad with grief, trying to get her to set down your body from her crushing embrace even though he couldn’t take his misty eyes off your body. It was Lo’ak, frantic in his run even though his panic-frozen face gave away nothing, who had rushed back with Mo’at and Kiri. It was Tuk who had thrown herself into his arms for a hug Jake wasn’t in his body to reciprocate, his seven year old child, in tears, comforting him when Jake, as the adult and the father, should have had his shit together and be the provider of comfort. 

Instead, all he could feel was the blood on his hands, one small part in his mind making him focus on that one amber with a bug inside he’d carved for you, years ago, now in your hair.

The tears didn’t come. His world was shattering all around him, but not one tear made it to the surface. 

Someone was talking to him, but Jake wasn’t there, experiencing the moment behind a thick veil of silencing glass. 

“Open her mouth, Jakesuli.”

He looked at the source of the muffled sound breaching the ringing in his ears, painfully empty and unfeeling. It was Mo’at. In her hand, a woodsprite gently floated in the air and landed before it repeated the motion again. It was as if his brains had been emptied from his skull. He didn’t understand. He didn’t see. Tuk was clinging to him, Neytiri doubled down in waves of cries in Neteyam’s arms. Jake wasn’t there. 

“Open her mouth so I can keep her spirit here longer,” Mo’at said. “Do it now. We do not have much time.”

And Jake could breathe again, his soul slinged back into his body, feeling returning to the tips of his fingers, kicking into action. 

He cradled your body from the cold ground you were lying on, bringing his shaky hand to your tightly shut jaw. Your body couldn’t have been experiencing rigor mortis, so you must have been clenching your teeth to the point of your jaw locking to fight the pain, and he was nearly blinded from the sheer strength with which he had to hold back from hugging you. But he eventually opened your jaw with a sickening pop that made him visibly grimace, and Mo’at guided the woodsprite to slip inside the cavity of your mouth.

The bioluminescent dots on your body began to flicker the moment your mouth was closed again. Jake gave a shuddering breath at the sign of life, hands unsure if he should continue to cover the wound again. 

“Eywa has allowed her to remain. For a while.”

“Oh Great Mother, thank you!” Neytiri took one of your hands, pressing it against her cheek and kissing it over and over again. “Thank you, thank you.”

“Bring her to my tent,” the Tsahik simply stated, and Jake didn’t even stop to consider how he should be taking you to the science guys, how they were probably going to say you needed a blood transfusion and surgery right after they got the necessary tests such as MRI and blood analysis out of the way. Kiri, sniffling weakly, took the crying Tuk away so Jake could carry you. He couldn’t comfort his girls the way he wanted to, couldn’t attend to Neytiri as their sons consoled her and got consoled in return in a tight hug together; he was on the move, heart about to beat out of his chest.  

He took you in his arms and clutched your unconscious and ashen blue body tightly to his chest, your head lolling in the crook of his arm, arriving to Mo’at’s tent faster than she did — and oh, how small you were compared to him, how fragile and vulnerable. The attitude made you appear bigger than you actually were, and Jake was reminded how you were still a child from how light his daughter was, like a fleeting bird. He’d forgotten. It had been forever since he last held you like this that he couldn’t bear to lay you down on the mat. If only he could hide you away within his ribcage, away from the pain and the suffering, forever.

“Everything in this world is borrowed,” she told him, an incense was burned, salves were prepared, tools he had no idea on what they were used were brought out. Plants, herbs. Jake stood there, helpless. “Even this child, Eywa has lent to you. She is borrowed from the bosom of our Great Mother, entrusted to you. Entrusted.” Your freckles were still flickering, and Tsahik’s tone, clipped. “I will converse with her. Ask if she plans to call her daughter back home today.”

Ice washed over Jake. “No, you gotta heal her, Mo’at, I can't lose m—”

“Everything in this world is borrowed. Each breath. Each heartbeat. All children. All gifts from Eywa.” Her eyes bore into him. “I can only ask.”

Neytiri pounced on him as soon as he stumbled out of the tent, beaten and spent despite not having one scratch on his body, upon Kiri’s entrance to assist her grandmother in tending to you. 

“Your fault!” He was violently pushed back, only able to take in the woman’s bloodied, wrathful face, tear tracks freshened with saltwater she couldn’t stop shedding. “This is your fault! I told you! I told you to fix this!”

Jake was aware other clan members were watching even if they weren’t out of their homes, he was Olo’eyktan, their leader, his pride would have taken this to their own tent had this been any other debate, but now, he couldn’t give a flying fuck. Bruising his back was the weight of a failed father instead of the ornamental piece of the clan leader, it was unbearable enough. She was right. There was nothing else to be said. His mate was right. 

“Mother, please,” Neteyam was right beside them in a flash, holding Neytiri back and shielding his father from her. His sunken eyes found Lo’ak and Tuk crouching at the edge of the tent, huddled together, the youngest having the crying hiccups as her older brother had an arm around her, himself looking traumatized enough. 

“Don’t, boy.” Jake put a hand on his stone-hard shoulder, moving him aside. Neteyam took one hard look at Neytiri half-circling his father in long strides, and decided it was best if he took care of his siblings instead even if he wasn’t told outright. He ushered Tuk and Lo’ak up and away, to the other side of the tent where they wouldn’t disturb their parents by staying in the field of vision. 

Jake should have been the one to take control, but Neteyam had stepped up for it — he was a kid, too, eldest child or not. What the fuck am I doing? 

In his tumultuous sorrow, every piece of the fortress Jake had put together was coming down, every decision re-evaluated, emotion overtaking what he once thought as logic. His fault. His fault. He had ruined his children, all of them. He had thought embracing the iron will of a war chief would allow him to be a strong father figure, but it had only alienated his family. 

You had died in his arms. 

Jake contained every storm in a box inside his body, Neytiri lived those storms, she was strong that way. He would take it. Her eyes were only seeing red at the moment, the grief and wrath of a wronged mother. “Yeah, it’s my fault,” he told her, something between a whisper and a sigh. His kids deserved to hear it. “I know.”

“She is dying because of you!” Jake couldn’t escape the truth by closing his eyes, but he did anyway, like an automatic body reflex against detecting something would be hitting him. He swallowed, his mouth was drier than a desert, no relief was found in the action. “My daughter! My child! Your child!” She pushed him again, hissing. Jake didn’t do anything to stop it. “All because you told her to go today—everything, everything… All because you didn’t reach out to her. She hid that.” A shiver shook her voice. “That… because of you. You! She thought you would be angry!”

Violent horror seized his heart, ears pinning back on his head, knuckles clenching so light blue they were almost white. “I would… I would never—how could I ever—?”

But it was in character, wasn’t it? Jake always getting angry over worry for his children. Going crazy because they could have gotten hurt. Fear grows into anger, worm eating away the bark of a tree into poisonous snake. The realization hit him like a ton of bricks, chest rising and falling in big breaths, there was no air.  

“She said you hated her. Over and over again, she said you hated her. Not to call you because you would hate her for it, Jake!”

Bitter guilt and glacial shock rose from his stomach, choking him, his eyes looking at anywhere but Neytiri’s blazing golden eyes, to his children who sat together seemingly away from them but blatantly listening, to the tent flames were barely illuminating the shadows inside. His legs were weak. All that he had been breaching behind a wall to prioritize your safety flooded rancid to his mind. 

Jake got angry at you all the time that you’d expected it at your most vulnerable. That he would blame you, reprimand you for his enemy’s actions.

His memories were attacked by all sides. That you had gone off on your own for the Iknimaya everybody should have been there for, he should have painted your face personally for. That you have been hiding the bleeding out from the moment Jake had found you pinned down by the dead body of an avatar, from the moment you’d answered positively to the question of if you were hurt or not, with that rifle he’d thought you didn’t let go because of how the events had shaken you. He opened his mouth, a gaping fish, but no words came out, mute and voiceless. 

Hate you? Hate you? Hate his own child he would burn the whole world for?

His child. Suffering in silence when her nature was anything but silent. Afraid of her father when she was the most fearless of his kids when facing him.

You thought you weren’t loved.

“What have you done to our children? What has this family become? What are we if our children are too afraid to come to us in their darkest hours?” Neytiri was snarling, both fury and grief battling inside her, teeth gnashing so hard they could sharpen a knife. “What child does not seek her parents when she is hurt?” 

Unseeing, Jake couldn’t stand anymore, staggering towards a particularly large rock and sitting on it, he raised his hands to rub his face but stopped when he saw the blood. 

All yours. All his daughter’s who he had failed. Who had died in his arms thinking she was hated because Jake was a shit excuse of a father you couldn’t trust to say you were hurt that you would take the risk of dying so he wouldn’t find out. 

His daughter’s blood, on his hands. 

He put his elbows to his legs, crossing his wrists to lean his forehead on, yet unable to hide his shaking hands even if he managed to hide his face. Jake couldn’t comprehend any of this, crushed beneath the skyful of burning hot shame and the guilt dwarfing him — tears he couldn’t seem to shed found life in his eyes at him trying to blink away the memory of you clinging to your ikran at the flight home. You had been suffering the whole time and all he could think about was Quaritch when he should have been thinking of you.

“What child would rather hide her injury than let her father know?” It shocked his spine like lightning, and Jake visibly flinched, fists clenching and unclenching. “Explain this to me!” 

Shame. Shame. Shame. Jake was about to throw up, rocking back and forth.

He had nothing to say. Nothing could ever excuse this. He couldn’t wash away all your moments from this night, all a cursed film strip haunting his every breath accompanied by thorns that ripped apart his insides. 

“If she lives,” Neytiri said, pointing a curled hand at him, slowly, scarily calm, but shaking with mastered rage. If she lives destroyed Jake.  “We would be lucky if my mother doesn’t decide to perform Stxel’eveng as Tsahik!” 

Jake’s head shot up at the word, his arms dropping altogether and meeting his mate’s tortured stare. As Olo’eyktan, he had to be taught the traditions and ceremonies to the point of talking in his sleep from overlearning — this one was a long lost one the clan hadn’t performed for a long time, as the Omatikayan were faithful and loyal to Eywa and her teachings. 

Stxel’eveng was the shortened word for ‘Gifting of a Child’ — an adoption ceremony within Na’vi that didn’t even have the word ‘adopt’ in their vocabulary, simply because it was almost non-existent, most Na’vi didn’t even know the existence of such a tradition. If the parents were unable to care and provide for their child, mistreated on purpose or neglected them to the point of no return, they were to be publicly dishonored by the gifting of said child to another willing family. A knot would be formed between the three, one thread bound around the waist of the mother signifying the womb, one thread fastened to the queue of the father, and the final thread to the wrists of the child as if they were captive. The knot, then, would be severed by Tsahik to symbolize the dissolvement of the familial relations in Eywa’s eyes.

The biggest shame a Na’vi could bring upon their name. 

“No,” Jake muttered, his mind going blank yet again. Fuck the shame. Damn his name. He couldn’t lose you. It’s a stone in his throat he can’t swallow, whales on his tongue he can’t speak to save himself.

“Pray to Eywa it doesn’t happen. Because if I was Tsahik, I would do it.” Neytiri turned away from him, pushing the heel of her hands on her damp eyes. “I cannot bear this shame, Jake. I can barely breathe.”

He quivered like a baby leaf caught in a storm, a couple more tears rolling down his cheeks. “Neytiri…” 

“I lost my daughter today. She slipped from my fingers. I watched her die.” He lowered his head at her grief, vision swimming. “How am I a mother when I can't feel her pain? How am I worthy of being her mother when I saw my child’s pain and just sat there helpless? Why would the Great Mother ever want to send her back?” She just kept going, not having any mercy on Jake’s soul. “Where was I when she won against her ikran? Where was I when she had her first flight? Where was I to protect her from those demons?”

A father protects, that’s what gives him meaning.

Who was Jake Sully?

“Lo’ak, come back here!” 

Both of them turned just in time to see their youngest son running away from the back of the tent they’d been hiding, Neteyam following a couple steps before he stopped to look back, probably at his sister. 

“I’ll get him,” Jake said, soulless and absentminded. Neytiri didn’t respond, stalking back to Mo’at’s tent, just kneeling in front of the entrance, wrapping her hands and tail around her knees. Tuk turned the corner, scampering towards her and finding refuge in Neytiri immediately wrapping around her protectively. 

Jake wasn’t allowed to comfort his mate. 

But he could get to his children who needed it. Trust, Neytiri had said. Honesty. 

Walking up to Neteyam, he put a warm hand behind his rigid back, and felt the taut muscles relax underneath his touch, another wave of shame hitting at the inability to recall just when he had last comforted his boy. 

“Get Tuk. Go home. Rest.”

Neteyam turned to him, scandalized. “We will stay.”

“Neteyam—”

“Dad—sir, please. I can’t leave my sister.”

That sir was a splash of acid on his already weeping heart. 

It dawned on Jake that Neteyam was the one witnessing your moment of death. Death. A surge of nausea shot up from his esophagus, and he didn’t stop himself from hooking an arm around the boy, careful of using his hands not to get blood on the eldest, pulling him into a much awaited embrace. He hadn’t allowed him to be a kid.

“It’s okay, Neteyam,” he croaked. “She’ll be okay. We’ll be okay.”

Neteyam’s arms didn’t wrap around him, unfamiliar to the gesture — crumbling Jake’s already broken heart into dust, but he did shiver, fighting the tremble. He simply said, “I pray so.”

He was still trying to hold it together — for everybody’s sake. 

Jake felt the boy’s tears on his skin, and didn’t let him go when he tried to step back to wipe them, letting Neteyam cry silently as much as he wanted. He owed the boy that much, as his father. It was the least he could do. 

Jake would stitch this family back together. He had to.

Washing the blood off his hands had taken a while. Jake wasn’t let off easy, cursed by the remaining line of bloodied dirt in his nails. 

He found Lo’ak at where it all began. The mouth of the cave where your ikran was disturbing the other ones with restless chittering, reminding Jake of a wolf howling all night at the full moon. 

His youngest son was transfixed by the blood staining the ground. Just standing there, looking at it. Jake couldn’t protect him from the sight. Not anymore. He himself could barely stomach it.

“Is sister going to be taken away?” was the first thing he asked Jake, not looking at him still. 

Jake didn’t know if he meant death, or Stxel’eveng. 

“I pray not,” he told Lo’ak, honest for once. 

And like him, the boy wasn’t sentimental or emotional enough to bear his wounds to another, even to a family member, and fell silent. “It has Toruk’s colors,” he said instead, referring to your ikran’s red, orange, yellow and black patterns. Looking at the creature, Jake tried his hardest to stand up straight when he discerned all the blood coating its neck and back from the natural red color disguising it. “I wanted to fly with her.”

Pulling him into a side-hug, “I’m sorry, Lo’ak,” Jake admitted, causing him to finally break the trance he had on the blood. Speechless at his father, proud and strong, admitting he was wrong out loud and that he was being hugged when it wasn’t like his father at all to show them casual physical affection. Jake knew what must be going through his head, he would be thinking the same if his own father had ever taken responsibility for wrongdoings, as well.  “It’s my fault you didn’t get to.”

Lo’ak’s mouth was hanging low. “Dad…”

“But you will,” he said, determined and full of hope. He had to be. For his children. 

“You think so?”

“I pray so,” he quoted Neteyam. “Your sister is stubborn. She will pull through. Don’t lose faith in her.”

Lo’ak’s grip on his forearm was painful. 

“That ikran’s lost the half of its tail fins,” the boy sniffled, thickening his voice to hide the tears. “How did it get all the way here?”

It stung in Jake’s chest. The same way you’d hidden that injury. Your ikran was fueled only by the desire to get its rider to safety, it seemed. 

It would never fly again. 

Jake looked down at Lo’ak, only to be met with him avoiding his look, still concerned with hiding the tears. “Loyalty,” he said. “Devotion. Sometimes you don’t want to lose the things you love no matter what, that desperation gives you enough strength to push through any trial by fire. You would do anything. Anything.” 

And sometimes it was fear that did it, but he didn’t mention that to Lo’ak to not put salt on their family’s injury. Jake didn’t want to think about how terrified you must have been, or he would actually go insane. He didn’t want to think about the possibility of you not making it in the end. He had to keep going. He had to push forward. Be the father this family needed him to be. 

“Come on, boy,” he pulled Lo’ak gently. “Let’s go back.”

Your ikran whined at this pitifully. Jake tried not to think. He tried not to imagine what your reaction would be upon learning you would never fly together again, and had to put down this ikran that had been devoted endlessly to you if you wanted to get a new one. 

Jake didn’t think. Because if he did, he would actually go insane from the pain. 

Mo’at and Kiri emerged from the tent only in the morning, by which the whole family was cocooned in Jake’s embrace for the first time in years before the sky people had come back. They all had scrambled to get up, waiting with bated breath for one syllable of good news as Kiri slipped into Jake’s arms, one wink from falling asleep while standing. He kissed the girl’s head, soothing her, hoping this could be you eventually. He had been praying for it like a madman. 

“Eywa has accepted to bestow your daughter back to you, Jakesuli,” was the only answer Mo’at had for them, no word about your physical wellbeing. “But only if she accepts as well.” 

“I don’t understand.”

“You must go speak with her. At the Tree of Souls.”

taglist: @ihonestlydontknowwhattonamethis@alohastitch0626 @jackiehollanderr @lucciera @qvrcll @iloveavatar @velvtcherie @ssc7514 @goldenmoonbeam @neteyamforlife @itsluludoll @jakesullys-bitch @blubrryy @sully-stick-together @arminsgfloll @alice121804 @noname2246 @justthingzsblog @eywamygoddess @m-1234 @ellabellabus07 @hellok1ttycake @dakotali @bluefire12348 @abbersreads @yellooaaa @aimsro @octavias-next-meat-bite @nikqdn @nao-cchi @spicycloudsalad @yeosxxx @heybiatchz @winxschester @elegantkidfansoul @eichenhouseproperty @kakimakiloh @dueiosy @liyahsocorro @dimplesxx @tigresslily@n8ivatar @strnqer @lillybbyy @jakesullyssluttt @r3dc4ndy @myheartfollower @gcldtom @bunnyrose01 @aceofheartzzz @ghoulbli @slasherfcker505 @ducks118 @megsthings @graykageyama @gwolf92

@thotd-f1 @httpjiikook @nipoxe @fussel9913 @gloryekaterina @nxptury @thesheelfsworld @heyyitsmaiaa @anyasullyyy @rey26 @in-luvais @em-100 @n7cje @kpopslur @holysaladapricothero @dedicateeverythingtomilkshake @maviee @grxcisxhy-wp @me-marilm @n39ro-chann

[batbobsession]

Positive-ish Things that Happened During the Curse

I feel that I’ve made a lot of posts about how terrible the curse was for the staff (I’m not mistaken in doing so, the curse was definitely bad for everyone) but that little voice in my head got me thinking: what if I made a happy post about it?  So without further ado, here are a few headcanons about the curse that will (hopefully) make you smile.

Chip teaches Froufrou some new tricks.  Garderobe and Cadenza had already taught him the basics, like “sit,” “stay,” “quiet,” and a few other general ones, but Chip decides that “roll over,” “play dead,” “hide and seek,” and a few other fun ones should be added.

In the first few days, Plumette and the other maids cleaned the entirety of the castle. Obsessively. And while this served as a healthy distraction, it was also a way to remind themselves that they weren’t forgotten. It was their own rebellion against the curse, and everyone thanked them for it. The only two places left avoided were the West Wing (for obvious reasons) and the East Wing, because Adam forbade anyone go near it after his mom died.

Cuisinier had control over most of the knives in the kitchen, and with some help from more mobile residents, he carved toys for Chip and Froufrou. 

Yes, telekinesis exists. Cogsworth confirmed that some objects are just objects, so I imagine Mrs. Potts can push her own cart, Lumiere can light every candle in the castle, Plumette and the other maids can control the sheets and pillows, Chip can use his saucer like a skateboard, Garderobe can make a dress with a thought, etc.

On the subject of dog toys, the Madame wasted no time sewing little trinkets filled with rice and beans from the kitchens. Though she couldn’t leave the East Wing, Mrs. Potts provided the necessary materials on her cart. It was through this love of crafting (and the precious dog, of course) that Garderobe and Cuisinier, the two stationary residents, became good friends.

They all became snow artists over time. Think about it: the whole castle is blanketed in an enchanted winter, which means an enormous amount of snow. As Lumiere put it, they were doing nearly nothing before Belle arrived. But I can imagine that the staff members--Chip, Chapeau, Lumiere, and Plumette especially--learned how to make the best snow-sculptures ever.

And for those who immediately call baloney on Lumiere being good at it because of his candles, he can and does put them out. And even so, you know you can form ice by melting away parts of it, right? Imagine him making abstract, curving shapes out of icicles, or beautiful, water-like patterns in ice blocks. 

Not to mention, any time Chip asks for a snowball fight, the team who has Chapeau with them always wins. And it’s unfair. But it’s fun.

There have been times when Chip has been buried in the snow. It’s all in good fun, but Chapeau insists on watching him every time. After all, porcelain/fine china can crack if exposed to enough cold.

There are some dogs out there that aren’t smart enough to recognize their own reflections, so I like to think Froufrou has no idea what’s going on. Like sure, his mamma and papà look different, but they smell the same, so what’s the big deal?

I think I’ve mentioned this in other posts, but during pre-curse times, Lumiere hosted little midnight parties with music and dancing. He keeps that up, obviously, and after the curse falls on the castle, those meetings descend into chaos (since the walls of the ballroom have playable instruments on them, and the maids can fly). Chapeau usually provides the music, and sometimes the maestro joins in (when he feels up to it--after all, he’s incomplete without his dear one). 

Cogsworth hates it, but has absolutely no say on the matter, because he’s outvoted by everyone else.

Lumiere could and did light candles from far away. Maybe it’s just the 1991 version knocking on my brain, but I love the idea of Lumiere just blowing out one of his flames and then having all of the candles in his vicinity flaring up instantly. You need a ballroom lit? Give him five seconds. Done.

Plumette and the other maids tested their wings. On a calm day, they just decided to see how high they could fly, and Plumette made it pretty high before the winds picked up. The quest to find her around the castle grounds was pretty funny...for everyone but Plumette. And Lumiere. Poor thing went cold with worry. 

Of course they found her, and of course she wasn’t hurt, but from a bird’s-eye perspective, seeing the staff scramble to “catch the maids” just makes me laugh so much.

Under Mrs. Potts’ strict instruction, Chapeau taught Garderobe and Cadenza Adam’s favorite lullaby, the one his mother sang to him when he was little. If the Beast slept inside the castle, whoever was closest, and whoever was awake, would play it for him. He’d rage and silence them if he was awake, so in that way, his mother visited him in his dreams. It was a sign of the servants relearning to care.

The first big reunion with the beast and the servants was a few weeks into the curse: 

For the first few weeks, the Beast was so filled with self-loathing he would avoid the staff on a daily basis, killing things in the forest and eating them, like a real animal. Once Mrs. Potts and Chapeau found out that this was what he got up to when he left, Cogsworth nearly had a stroke and put his foot down. The Beast was doing the exact opposite of what he was supposed to be doing; disappearing into some wild thing was absolutely unacceptable. 

They didn’t pull out every stop. To do so would mean pretending like nothing was wrong, and they weren’t about to start that. But they made him dinner--a childhood favorite--and locked the doors of the castle, forcing him to eat what they made. They hovered, out of striking distance, but present in case he needed them. 

He ate. He trudged up the stairs to the West Wing. Looked at the rose. And cried. His first good cry in years, one that eventually lulled him to sleep. 

He never missed dinner after that. 

tagging @lumiereswig and @lumiereandcogsworth​ because I feel they’ll enjoy this

[mimzy-writing-online]

Writing Toph Beifong, Advice from a Blind Writer

I’m Mimzy, an actual visually impaired writer and blogger who talks a lot about writing blind characters accurately and sensitively. A while back someone sent me an anon asking how to write Toph more accurately and sensitively.

Anonymous asked: Hi there! Your blog has been super-helpful already - I thought I knew a bit about writing with blind characters, but it turns out there was a lot to learn - but this is more specific. I'm writing a The Last Airbender fanfiction, and one of the characters is Toph. I think the fandom has done a fairly good job of respecting her blindness, but what are some things you'd like to see when people write her? I want to represent the character as best as possible; thanks in advance!

It’s taken a while for me to answer because I have a lot of thoughts about it as both a blind writer and someone who has read a lot of atla fanfiction. So here we go:

Before we get started, I want to mention some things: 

One: I have an entire series for writing blind characters that continues to grow with time and the most up-to-date version can be found pinned as the top post on my blog. There will be a time-stamp for when the post was last edited and a long series of links to all relevant posts on the subject.

Here’s a quick link to that post, but again, all you have to do is click my blog url and you’ll find it immediately.

Two: I’ve noticed something amazing about the atla fandom and I would like to thank you for it. I’ve noticed a lot of bloggers have taken to writing image descriptions for both the fanart and memes you post in the fandom, whether it’s OP including the description or another blogger adding it themselves. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a fandom so consistently doing this and that’s incredible. Realizing how many different blogs were picking up this habit has warmed my heart.

I’d like to see writers use her other senses. There’s soooo so much more to her O&M (Orientation and Mobility) than earth sense. 

Beyond sight and earth bending, there’s hearing, touch, smell, taste, sense of direction, hot vs cold, sense of pain, sense of where your body parts are in relation to the rest of you, sense of internal well-being, etc. Before Toph had mastery of her earth bending, she had to have mastery of those too.

Toph also must have very strong opinions about certain smells, sounds, tastes, and textures. Toph is opinionated about everything, and when so much of your understanding of the world depends on senses that most people are ignoring in favor of some other sense you don’t have, it gets frustrating. I’m sure that tree looks pretty but the smell is terrible. Who cares if this fabric looks pretty, it’s scratchy, do. not. like. at. all.

But also in positive ways too. Oh, that flower arrangement looks bland and monochromatic? Who cares, it smells sweet and honey-like. Weird dark cavern with high ceiling and no light? The harmonics are awesome.

Every character probably has a certain sight or image they’re particularly fond of: Katara watching snow fall, or Aang enjoying how small the world looks from up on Appa, or Zuko enjoying the sunrise every morning during meditation. In that line, Toph must have some things personal to her that she enjoys.

I imagine she likes the taste of foods familiar to her childhood, the smell of whatever flowers grew around her home, and the texture of certain kinds of dirt Example: loose dirt probably isn’t the best for seeing, but I think she would enjoy how it feels to run her fingers through it or maybe enjoy the way it softens her perception of the world the same way sighted people like to see colorful, bright lights reflecting off puddles in the middle of rain.

If you struggle with this, that’s okay. I recommend taking some time to think about it for yourself, to find what tastes and smells and textures and sounds you enjoy the most, what makes you feel safe and at home, what brings you comfort, and relate that back to Toph.

In a Modern AU, I want to see Toph have a cane. Even in a Modern AU with bending included in the world building, I think Toph would benefit from having a cane.

The cane has a lot more function than bumping into things. A big part is that it signals to others that you are very obviously blind. Which is a big deal because sighted people are really, really bad at spotting the blind person.

(psst, please stop saying ‘the blank look in her eyes’ because I swear to god it’s been killing me inside for years.)

Also, even in an AU with bending, I think Toph would like the advantage of tapping her cane to create a stronger, more distinct vibration than a small shifting of her weight on her feet. It would have more control.

You could give Toph a guide animal, buuuuuuut, um, Toph is not a guide dog person. Like, there are some people who definitely prefer a guide dog, and some people who definitely prefer a cane, and some who definitely prefer no mobility device at all. Toph does not have the vibes of someone who wants to be both responsible and reliant on an animal when she’s so insistent that she can take care of herself on her own. Toph likes animals, but not that much.

Although, yeah, only 10% of the blind community use mobility devices, so cane and guide dog users are the minority of the blind community, but I stand by the vibe that Toph would love the independence of a cane. Also, it’s almost never ever done. Modern AUs never seem to touch much on Toph’s O&M skills with canes or guide dogs.

I wrote a whole post on everything you need to know about canes, what orientation and mobility is, how you learn O&M, what kind of canes exist, how to use them, how to describe the sensory input a cane gives you, and everything I know about guide dogs from past research.

Honestly, you could give Toph (or any blind character) a cane in any AU, because I fully stand by the theory that canes are a piece of technology that has been invented, lost, and reinvented again and again.

I wrote “I found a piece of lost blindness history” a few months ago after a visit to see my grandparents. My grandmother told me how her blind aunt found a way to write letters by hand to send to my grandmother when she was a child. I speculated on how the long cane has probably been invented and then lost and then reinvented over and over again in history, as well as giving a little history on the growing popularity of guide dogs in the 20th century following World War 1.

About the “blank look in her eyes,” I have a theory to the exact cause and nature of Toph’s blindness.

I know it’s common to think that the milky green color of her eyes is why she’s blind, though I’m not sure how many realize that milky green color is caused by severe cataracts. At least, cataracts is what I assume to be the reason for the color of her eyes. However, people with cataracts still have some remaining sense of light and shadow perception.

Only 9% of the blind community is completely blind, seeing absolutely nothing. The rest have some remaining vision, even if that’s only light and shadow perception or the perception of vague movement.

The percentage of people born completely blind is even smaller.

Toph says that she’s never been able to see, which would lead me to guess that the initial cause of her blindness was a defect with the visual processing part of her brain. I also theorize that the cataracts developed slowly over her very formative years and that she likely wasn’t born with them. For that reason, I think it would have taken a few weeks or months for her parents to realize there was something wrong with her eyes.

Here is a post about the developmental years of blind children and how their life would differ from both sighted children and from someone who went blind as an adult.

What is it like to see nothing?

It’s a concept that sighted people struggle with and I completely understand. I myself didn’t understand the concept of “nothing” until someone explained it as this:

“Imagine trying to see out the back of your head.”

Which, genuinely, imagine that. Try that. Because here’s what I found. There’s no part of my body that can help perceive that. I don’t have eyes there, nor do I have a part of my brain that can process that. Because of this, there is no sense of light or dark, no shape or shadow or movement or depth that I can perceive. There is nothing.

And honestly, it gives me a headache trying to think too much about it.

Toph doesn’t see black, doesn’t have a mental image of it. When people talk about light and dark, Toph has nothing to base the concept on. The closest relation she has to that is silence versus sound, or her earth sense when she’s in the air on Appa versus when she’s on solid ground. But it’s not the same.

I would like to examine the way the show tried to describe Toph’s earth sense, that black void with ripples of white stretching from her feet and outwards. Television is a visual medium so of course their explanation of Toph’s earth sense would be visual, but that’s not what it’s actually like in her head. More accurately, it’s like touching the back of your head to something and feeling what’s solid behind it and what has more give. A wall versus a pillow for example. Slamming your hand on a flimsy table and feeling it rattle under your palm. And for someone so adept at using that sense, she feels not just the table surface under her palm, but the individual rattles down the four legs, how uneven those rattles are because the legs are carved decoratively instead of solid planks, and how the foot of each leg bumps against the ground, and how the floor vibrates in response to the impact, which she feels in both her feet and hand. 

About Toph’s Relationship with Her Parents

It’s not something I see touched on much. There’s been a lot of focus on Zuko and Azula’s relationship with their parents and the abuse, as well as exploration of Sokka and Katara’s trauma with losing their mother, and Sokka looking up to his warrior father while Katara struggles with her abandonment issues.

Please don’t take this as a critique, because there are a few valid reasons for this and I would like to give you some insight on how to explore Toph’s relationship with her parents.

For starters, the show had a lot more reason to focus on Zuko and Azula’s parents, with Fire Lord Ozai being the primary villain and Zuko’s greatest abuser, and Azula’s dependent worship of her father in response to Ursa’s neglect and favoritism of Zuko, which was likely Ursa’s response to Ozai’s favoritism of Azula. Their parents are huge driving motivators for why Zuko and Azula make the decisions and mistakes they do, why they are at one point in the show the villains themselves. (And why I think Azula should get a redemption arc and some healing.)

Katara’s trauma of losing her mother and blaming herself is a huge factor in both her response to the war, her relationship with her bending, and her motherly nature with her friends. The show has to explore that. Just as it has to explore Sokka’s problems with toxic masculinity in response to being the man of his village, and his desire to be a great warrior and leader like the father he idolizes. 

The show needs to explore that to make the plot move forward, and it benefits from these being two sibling sets with different responses to their upbringing and different sibling dynamics, setting them up as foils for each other.

The show also wouldn’t benefit by giving Lao and Poppy Beifong more screen time. Their established character were two nobles who kept as far out of the war as possible and prospered monetarily for it. Poppy was polite and demure and Lao liked to lead the conversation. Unless the gAang decided to return to Toph’s home, those characters had no reason to pop up anywhere in the show. And if they did, they would be a hinder to Toph and her part in the plot as both Aang’s earth bending teacher and as the greatest earth bender in the world, tossing Fire Nation soldiers eight ways to Sunday. 

So truly, I understand that there’s not a whole lot of canon material (comparatively) to go off of when developing this, but I will offer some insight on what is there in canon.

Toph’s relationship with her parents is explored in that it maps out why Toph doesn’t want to be mothered by Katara, why she wants to prove how independent she is, but there’s very little on screen interaction between Toph and her parents.

Toph deeply loves her parents. I think that plays into why she doesn’t want Katara mothering her, because she has a wonderful mother at home who she loves and wants to better understand her, but she had no friends growing up and no older sister, which are the roles she needs and wants Katara to fill. If Toph wanted a mother figure, she would have latched onto Katara. Look at how Zuko never sought out another mother figure but did find a father figure in Iroh as he began to heal from his childhood trauma and separate his self image from his father’s acceptance.

Toph is in a complicated situation, she loves her parents but the way they’re raising her is hurting her in the long run. But Toph can see that their actions are because of their immense love for her. She can see how they would do anything for her. While she never had any examples of how other noble children were treated by their parents, who might have been distant or disinterested or always away for their social and work lives, she was remarkably loved by her parents. Her father put careful thought into her tutors and checked in on her progress. Her mother feared for Toph’s emotional state when she was kidnapped (even if she was incorrect about how Toph would respond), showing genuine empathy for her daughter.

I think their over protective nature became the love language Toph best understood them by, and part of her reasoning for not revealing how capable she was, was because she wanted to keep experiencing that love and care for as long as she could. But it’s not a love language she would put up with from anyone else.

I would like to point out Toph’s genuine excitement to see her mom again in the season finale of Book Two, how badly Toph wants her mom to understand and accept her for who she is.

My thoughts on what Toph can’t do: read, swim, see in the sand, fight things mid-air.

For how incredibly powerful the show makes Toph with her earth bending and the O&M she taught herself through it, they do touch on some of her weaknesses when they come up and find a useful way to showcase them.

The Serpent’s Pass was an excellent example of Toph’s vulnerability in water. From her fear of not being able to see on Katara’s ice bridge to not being able to swim and needing Suki to save her, Toph’s weaknesses putting her in danger added to the excitement and “sitting on the edge of your seat” feeling while watching the episode without turning her into someone who was helpless. She was just in a position where her normal defenses were useless.

Just like the earth benders in the metal prison in the ocean, or Katara having little water in the middle of a desert where her friends needed that water to survive more than she needed it to fight, making her vulnerable later in the show when the insect-wasp things attacked. Just like fire benders being weaker at night, or powerless during a solar eclipse, or a sighted person being lost in the dark. Those were just situations in which the tools you were accustomed to relying on could no longer help you or were taken away.

The show was clever in that it didn’t make her inability to read a direct threat to her safety, but rather as a clever plot device for her to be alone when the sand banders attacked and have to choose between fighting them to save Appa, or holding back an entire fricking building by the tiniest spire on its very top from falling into a void leading to the spirit world. It also showed her weakness to not being able to see or fight as well in sand. Which the show later made an effort to show how she’d improved on that problem in Book Three when she was surrounded by nothing but sand at Ember Island.

Like improving her ability to see in the sand, I would like to see a character teach Toph to swim, or at least float, so that she never feels helpless again. If she took the initiative to improve her sand bending so much, I’m sure she would have learn to swim eventually.

And on the note of reading, I’ve seen some speculation on how Toph could learn to read, whether it’s through using ink that has some percentage of earth mixed in, or developing the sensitivity to feel out the different weight, consistency, and texture of ink on paper. 

I would like to bring your attention to Louis Braille, the blind Frenchman who invented Braille while studying at  the Institut National des Jeunes Aveugles, the world’s very first school for the blind in Paris France (established 1785). Previously Louis was learning to read through a method in which each letter was pressed into the paper to leave an imprint that someone could feel out with just their fingers.

Louis Braille concluded that raised lettering was impractical because-

1.       It is difficult to read, the letters had to be printed in huge font to be fully felt out and printed on thick paper.

2.       Thick paper means higher quality, more expensive. Larger font means more paper is needed for a single text.

3.       This made it inaccessible due to expense and the sheer volume of a text.

4.       If today’s Braille books are hard to access and giant compared to traditional books, I can’t imagine how inaccessible those raised letter books really were.

The subject of Braille, the start and controversial near downfall to  Institut National des Jeunes Aveugles were discussed in a post about writing a blind character during the Victorian Era.

I’ve heard others complain in the past about fantasy universes in which a sighted person invents a solution to allow the blind to read, when the most effective and longest lived method was invented by a blindman over two hundred years ago and is the standard taught in schools today.

And while I couldn’t easily explain it or how it works because I can neither read Braille nor speak Chinese, I can tell you that Chinese Braille exists and works only slightly differently from the Braille western languages use. So, again, modern AUs especially would benefit from enabling Toph to read Braille and use a computer and phone with screen reader.

But just as easily you could choose not to have her learn to read but rather have sighted people read things aloud to her. Whether it’s in a professional setting as an adult having an assistant who reads and writes for her, or as a cute, fluffy little moment between Toph and another character. Both are just as genuine to the blindness experience.

Blind Jokes

If you ever get around to reading my post about blind jokes, I’d like you to remember that it’s primarily written for people writing original characters and that Toph canonically makes blind jokes, so to take away from that would not be true to her character.

Does Toph’s Earth Sense Negate her Blindness?

It’s a question I’ve seen raised before and discussed by both abled, disabled, and blind people. There are multiple perspectives on it, but my own take on it is that Toph’s earth bending does not negate her blindness, but rather functions very much like the process of learning to use a cane.

She had a tool, a teacher, and she learned to use that tool. Instead of a cane, it was seismic perception and her teacher were blind badger-moles. She spent years learning to earth bend as they do and then continued to take it to new heights as she explored fighting with it on her terms against sighted fighters.

Come to think about it, I would love to see Toph teach another visually impaired or blind earth bender who to see and bend as she does.

Is Toph Good Blindness Representation?

This question was posed to me in the comments of my master post, and my answer was something like this: “Toph is good representation, but she can't be the only type of representation we get. She's the best we had 15 years ago, but there are a million ways to nuance the blindness experiences. Toph's experience being born blind, having very over protective parents, being a small girl in a patriarical and wealth influenced society, having no friends growing up. Those are all great aspects of blindness to show, but there is so much more to explore. As for her blindness and whether or not that's negated, that's also nuanced. She has limits, she's not all-powerful, but she is the best earth bender hands down. More or less, I love Toph, she's a great character, give me like a million more blind characters who are completely different from her.”

I want to see accurate and well-written blind characters become much more common in modern media, and that’s why I started this blog. So if you decide you want to write your own blind character from scratch, feel free to come back and look at some of my other stuff.

End Notes:

I want to thank the anon who sent the original question because it never occurred to me how much the atla fandom would benefit from a post like this. 

You should follow my blog. Along with advice about writing blind characters, I write general writing advice and answer questions about writing, college, plot development, character analysis, and living with blindness. I curate writing advice from fellow writeblrs, write my own image descriptions for writing memes, post about mental health and working/living with ADHD, disabilities outside of blindness, and LGBTQA+ topics. 

[transpat]

bad buddy ep 11 and themes of filial piety

the moral of junior and his mom's story was not that parents are always right and it's kind of ??? that so many ppl have interpreted it that way? so i wrote an entire essay about how our culture, our upbringing has shaped us into submission to our parents, how it's carved a trench into our hearts to hold undying love for them, uncaring about the damage it inflicts upon us kids.

(under the cut to grace ur dashboard nflslnfs)

here, when they're conversing about how parents know what's better for their children, pran immediately disagrees. thinks back to his own parents, thinks about how happy he is w pat, thinks how could she have ever been right about separating me from him. he knows she's wrong, even points out that his mother might have been:

but then she says this:

implying the most important thing to her is her son, that having her son is what completed her life. and that makes a dent in his wall, prompts him to ask her what's been eating at him:

here he asks her this from the depths of his heart. he's asking: mae, are you lonely w/o me? he's answered: yes, but i'm more worried if ur alright, if ur safe and healthy, bc i'm ur mother.

narratively the purpose it fulfills is obv to guilt-trip pran, but also to give pran another an excuse, a justification for his mother's actions, the final push he needs to return to someone he can't separate himself from. he's angry but he misses her, and now he has a reason: she was doing what she thought was the right thing. so pran immediately jumps on that and forgives her bc it was breaking him when he couldn't. and i get it, i really do. as someone raised so similarly as pran, by a parent ur very very close to, by a parent who shares all their joy, takes out all their distress on u, u start to feel responsible for them, u feel like u should be protecting them, from themselves even. (and this is all be a parent's job. but that's what emotionally immature parents do to their kids: turn those little children into their guardians.)

pran's thoughts r so heartbreakingly simple thru out this ep: it's finding out his mother was a victim, and constantly stressing for her, bc he now that he knows, he wants to see her, he wants to comfort her. he told her before he shouldn't be responsible for her feelings, but that was when he thought it was a bad breakup, but the truth is worse, is uglier and what he said now sounds nasty to his own ears and he wishes he could take it back, wishes he could hug her.

she hurt him before he left, and that both enables him to take this step and makes it harder, bc he knows she must be guilty now, that he's adding to her pain by running away. he should be eating her apology curry, crying w her as she hugs him to her chest (lying for the millionth time 'i didn't mean it. i didn't want to hurt u. i was only protecting u son.'), but here he is, so far away from her, laughing w other ppl while she must be in pain.

the logical part of pran's brain understands he should not be responsible for an adult's feelings. the child part, the part that's dissaya's son, the dominant part of his brain tells him 'how could u abandon her when she needs u still' tells him 'u left ur mother to stress and worry and cry and ache while ur here enjoying urself laughing w other' tells him 'ur only job was to not cause her worry, yet here u r, a horrible son'.

this narrative is guilt-tripping pran, but it isn't guilt-trippy in the way that says 'parents know what's better for u', bc pran and pat r past that point, they know w cemented surety that's not true. if it was, those adults wouldn't have fabricated lies for years to keep them apart. what it says is, 'she did that w the best intentions at heart', and to pran that rings true. to pran, all he can see now is a heartbroken girl who has a son she falls in love w and fights for, tooth and nail against the world, to shield him from the same pain.

and this entire narrative sucks. it's not saying 'mothers know best' it's reinstating how many asian cultures have always tried to brainwash kids, that 'whatever bullshit ur parents do, even their actions leave u bruised and bleeding, it's out of genuine concern for u, so you can't hate them for it xoxo'

that's ass advice, and idk why p'aof or the writers would opt for such a damaging narrative, but story-wise its been working on pran. pran who knows his mother became like this bc of her victim complex, who knows she was trying to protect him from what she went thru by forcing him apart from pat, who can temporarily give pat up bc he can't ask her to forgive pat's father or family, thereby putting a wholeass grownup's whims above his own needs. pran who's gullible and believes she did it purely out of love and not to release her own pent up anger, who's grown enough to understand he needs to fulfill the roles she's envisioned for him for as long as he's under her roof, who's love for his mother is so great, he'll jump aboard any justification he can grasp onto to forgive her fully. (someone please tell him u don't have to forgive ur parents to love them. that u don't have to forgive anyone u love to continue loving them. its so obv he doesn't know, and in forgiving them he keeps wronging himself.)

bc see, this is where the real damage these deep-rooted values of filial piety has done to children. it's crippling, but not just in the sense that it forces you to bend to bad parents, but it also snatches ur ability to ever truly hate them, to view them in negative light for long. bc we're taught that that's what bad, ungrateful children do. bc disobedience, hating ur parents is the biggest imaginable sin, a horrible, evil thing to do, and so just the notion of hating them will make u loathe urself. makes it unbearable for u live w urself.

our culture has intertwined the lives of parents and children to the extent that any attempt to cut them off will be like trying to slice off ur own flesh. ur parents become this painful, purulent blister on u, that's chronic and throbs and causes u excessive pain, but popping it is much more pain, is terrifying and could possibly be more damaging, so the only thing u can do is live w it. if u pop it open it'll scar, if u let it heal on it's own it'll scar, it'll scar regardless of what u do, and some ppl don't have the courage needed to mutilate themselves that way, to forcibly cut off a bad arm, so they live w it. it'll heal, it'll leave a nasty scar, but it'll heal in the end. years will pass, it'll dry up and leave a blemish, a darkness in ur soul. it'll heal and leave u with flesh so raw and soft, it bleeds open from the lightest nip. but it will get better, it won't forever carry the power to harm u.

(there's also the way our society tricks us into gratitude by telling us at least. at least ur parent isn't doesn't regularly hit u. at least ur parent isn't a violent drunkard. at least it's just a blister, a searing burn, and not a cancer. as if that makes it any better, any less painful.)

pat is the kind who has the courage to prick the blister before it festers. pran does not. it's sad, it's heartrending, it's tragic, but some ppl aren't - will never be - strong enough to fight their parents. some ppl will forever cower in their presence, will be powerless against them. some ppl need time, till they've grown enough to be removed from underneath their shadow, and finally blossom under the sunlight. pran's that person, and pat only let him go bc he understands that.

u also need to remember that they're still at a stage where they're dependent on their parents. where they still need their parents to fulfill their basic needs. so cutting them off at this point was never a viable option.

and so, our societies give parents a platform to weaponize a child's reliance and devotion to them, teach children one - and the only - way to love them - the sacrificial, all-consuming, unconditional love, that's actually supposed to be a parent's duty to their kids. it fools kids into believing they owe their parents for their upbringing and guidance (like that isn't simply their job), for giving life to them and bringing them into this world (which was their decision not ours), for completing the most basic responsibilities parents owe their kids. and that esp applies to mothers. mothers who carry their babies in their wombs for 9 months and go thru painful deliveries to give birth to them. mothers who are put on a pedestal for the same (and they should be unless they turn out like. that.) and are handed a right over their children and their bodies no one else can claim. that's another reason why it was easier for pat to leave his parents behind, bc they were in the clear wrong, bc it was his father he abandoned.

it's impossible not to lash out on unfair parents, and the guilt u feel about hurting them is reinforced by a culture that tells u forgiving them is ur redemption, loving them despite it all is martyrdom, heroic, smth that is worthy of applause and praise. detrimentally, that becomes the only way ur able to like urself, the only way u find purpose and value in ur existence. that's what they make of children - thru centuries and centuries of deeply rooted trauma passed down through generations - living w ur parents is war, and children are soldiers thrown into battle unarmed; forced to learn on their own and fight a war they shouldn't have to. when those children grow up, they either become pranpat's parents and push their own offsprings into the fire they've never escaped, or they become pran and pat who struggle and suffer and tolerate and come out of it battered, but w their souls intact.

for pran there's that added 'only child' factor, where he thinks that pat's parents have pha but his parents have him only, that they'd break entirely w/o him and he can't do that to the ppl who raised him, to the ppl he loves. plus, he's very close to his mother, freely shares most things w her (had no reservations about telling her he met pat again in ep1 despite. well the history around that), to him he's her best friend and w/o him she'll get lonely. miserable.

in the same scene, where when pranpat tell their parents about their first fight in uni, pat's father asks him if he won and his disconnect from his son's wellbeing is what later makes it easy for pat to shrug off his. while pran's mother asks him if he was hurt, bc that's what she's worried about, bc that's what her upbringing has been like: underneath the abuse and struggle for control in every aspect of her son's life, there's genuine worry u can't separate from who she is. like her poor decision-making and bad parenting, her love too is a very real and an enormous chunk of of her, and for a child that's always strived for her approval, who still yearns to be blanketed in her warmth, it's that aspect of her that stands out, stark against the years of trauma and abuse. she does love him, she loves him a lot. its just tragic that her love is conditional unlike pran's unconditioned love. that where pran is incapable of hurting her for his own happiness, she carries no such reservations. but to pran, that selfish, venomous love is enough to forgive every single atrocity she's ever committed against him, that much is enough for him to put aside his own needs and desires to baby his parent.

where pran's deepest insecurities and traumas are born from, isn't the control his mother has on his life, or her irrational regulations. it's the persistent disapproval she chucks at him. she tells him 'u can do whatever u want as long as its smth i like' says 'if u have time to waste doing what u love, why aren't u working harder for me' looks at him like 'u could have done better, if u loved me enough u would have tried harder'. everything he does, everything he's given up, everything he's become, is bc he wants her approval, her praise, for her to look at him and hold her chin high w pride. what hurts him isn't her malice or temper, it's that, despite having done so much, despite cutting out so many pieces of himself to fit her mold, he hasn't received the approval he was seeking, the thank u he's wanted to hear.

it's a quiet pain u carry ur whole life, where for ur parents u give and give and give, u do everything the way they like to make them happy, but it's still not enough. they're still not satisfied. they still want more and more and ur running out of things to give, u've already peeled all the flesh from ur bones. and u think 'just this once, can't u look at me and think this is enough. just one time, can't u accept me for what i am.'

but u'll never be enough for them. u'll never fit their exact mold bc everyone's their own person, everyone's a bright, unique soul that should be allowed to exist as they are. u understand that one day, and it breaks ur heart. bc if u understood this with ur juvenile brains, why can't they? they're the adults, they're the experienced, they're the grownups. how come smth so clear-cut, so simple is still a mystery to them? and that's why pran won't throw away his dreams for her. he's given up enough, he won't give up himself. he will become a musician, he will return to pat. but bc he loves her, he'll do it in the way he dreams she'll be okay with. bc he believes all she wants is for him to live a secure life, so he'll get the secure, stable job she wants. he'll fulfill his duty as her son, then he'll reach out, grab onto his own dreams.

one last facet we've seen of pran's mom is that disease of shifting blame onto others. that most asian parents suffer from varying degrees of the same. in our households, someone has to be responsible for each and every situation, someone has to be held accountable for every last thing. and our parents don't want to be that someone. so naturally, the weak, the lesser humans, the children become their scapegoats. i imagine that must be what pran's childhood must have been like too. with no siblings to share his load, he carried the brunt of their mistakes, their misgivings since he was young. that's why pran's the 'responsible', the 'sensible' one amongst them. that's why pran's so meticulous, why he fears consequences so much. why he can apologize to wai after he was outed, after he had his trust betrayed. bc he's used to that. his parents have already conditioned him into bearing responsibility for others, into dreading disobedience so fiercely, he's locked himself shut in a closet he's terrified of leaving.

and so, ik it seems ideal, as the right thing to do to us as the audience, for pran to choose healing, love over his vile, abusive parents. but for pran who's skeleton has been built on these very values, for pran who sees only the love beyond every ugly shade of his parents - abandoning those ppl, the ones who raised him, who did so much for him, and all for a boy who comparatively holds nothing above them is virtually impossible. for pran, who's parents have only ever made him hate himself, to whom loving pat has been a lesson in making peace w himself, in learning to like who is, in beginning to love being in his own skin, ofc he wouldn't want that love tainted w his parents' shadows. loving pat is holy, sacred, the only thing that truly matters, and ofc, ofc pran doesn't want that corrupted, sullied, by becoming a bane to his parents. that's why he has to let pat go, till the clouds clear, till the air he's surrounded w is fresh, free from any pollutant that could poison his love.

they'd never be truly happy if they left behind their entire lives (and why should they have to, just to be w each other. why is it that they have to sacrifice smth to be happy.) but that esp holds true to pran, who cannot desert his parents. (and so he's forced to make another sacrifice. not the one he could have made for himself, but one he again makes for others. but this time it's okay, bc he knows this isn't forever. pat and him are meant for each other, meant to be together. he feels easier about letting pat go for the time being, bc he knows, inevitably, they'll find their way back to each other, like magnets, like the moon to its orbit, like two halves of the same whole.)

our culture isn't inherently wrong, gratitude and devotion to parents can be a beautiful thing. if parents do their jobs right. raising kids is difficult and does put a lot of stress upon them, so ofc they'd dream of love and gratefulness in return. guardians do sometimes have to hurt children to protect them (never in an abusive manner thou). where it goes wrong is telling children regardless. regardless of how ur parents hurt u, ur obliged to forgive them. where it goes wrong is in the expression of that love and gratitude. children shouldn't be expected to make sacrifices for their parents. ever. what it does wrong is teaching children and children and only children when it's parents that require education first. parents who should be fulfilling their duties first. parents who will do the bare minimum like teaching u to walk and paying ur school fees then wash their hands off responsibility and still. still expect children to pay them in return.

filial piety tells u repay ur parent's love, to love them they way they unconditionally love u. the inept adults of our society twisted it into smth meaningless, into that destructive notion of having to repay parents for simply doing their duty. u don't owe them for that. u don't owe them for bringing u into the world when u had no say in it. if ur parents r worthy of ur devotion, of ur gratitude, it's only if and when they don't constantly remind u of it, if they don't make absurd demands of u and enforce this. ur only obliged to love and forgive ur parents if their love is boundless first, if they're capable of reflecting and changing for ur sake (w/o having broken u first that is).

also, given how they've dealt w the junior thing this ep i've kind of lost any hope about them dealing w the parents situation the way they should. bc junior's mom is right, kids keep changing, and what they want at this age might not be what they'll want later. but to take away ur child's agency, their right to make their own decisions, purely bc of their age and ur conviction that u know better is shitty. what he wanted wasn't necessarily bad - he might not have a stable income, but he would have stayed where his heart was, he would have been content and happy. what he wanted might have not been temporary like she imagines, and what she believes is doing the right thing for him, could simply be snatching his happiness away. she doesn't take her child's wishes seriously, doesn't believe he's capable of making the right decisions for himself at this age, and that same idea will filter thru her upbringing even once the kid has grown and shouldn't be at her mercy.

all this wasn't to say this is a 'realistic' take bc fuck realism this is a story, and ppl began to tell stories to allow superheroes and utopias - that are impossible in real life - to exist. to fight off the suffering and injustices of reality. and homophobia doesnt exist in this world, so why did this kind of 'realism' have to? the point of realism in stories is satirize darker aspects of society, so if anything this arc should have either been closed by pranpat fighting their parents or by painting their parents as the villains they r, instead of the whole 'they're still ur parents <3 they only do rubbish bc they love u' narrative. i won't comment much on that for now, until ep 12 comes out and i can see how they finally deal w that but. i don't like the direction it points to rn. pran and pat's parents are evil, their children should never feel bad about abandoning them, and if the story concludes w/o emphasizing this i'm going to be disappointed.

[ifindus]

What do you think about Norway’s cross hairpin, and where do you think he might’ve gotten it from? It’s something I’ve always wondered about and you seemed like the perfect history buff to ask!

Thank you so much for this ask! I might have gone a bit off about this topic 😅 Apologies in advanse.

I’m just going to start this off by saying that I personally do not like the hair pin. I don’t really understand the reason for it tbh, and the bit with it being a cell phone?? What? I also find it strange that in the official art, young Norway is drawn with this hairpin, but chronologically that would have been at a point in time where he wasn’t even Christian, so it doesn’t make much sense to me.

Historically, Norway is considered to be christened in 1030 although the process had been going on for a while at that point. However, to site a local historian; almost all the traditions and rites that are now connected to Christianity in Norway, are of pagan origin. People would often call themselves Christians, but still keep on doing whatever it was they were doing from earlier. Christianity got incorporated and adapted to the local traditions, and we can see this change in jewellery they wore as well. Thor’s hammer was a popular symbol for the Vikings and over time we can see the “T”-shape change into a cross as the people put their faith in the new god for protection instead.

So, jewellery of crosses was not an uncommon thing, often used for protection from evil spirits. Even in the late 1800s people would carve crosses onto milk buckets to keep the evil spirits from making the milk go bad. However, the type of clip that Norway wears in canon and the way it is worn is very modern. I’m sure something like that would not have existed until the 1960s at the earliest or 1990s at the latest. Up until the 1800s, early 1900s, Norway is not unlikely to have worn a cross, but probably as a necklace or carried in a pocket. The hairclip seems like a very modern, cutesy, Japanese thing to me personally, only added to make the character more interesting, and it is not actually a Norwegian thing.

Additionally, Norwegians would never ever wear anything like that nowadays. Today, Norway is one of the least religious countries in the world and no one really flaunts their religion like that. If you’re really Christian and talk about it a lot or wear large symbols like that, people will get vary of you and perhaps shy away. It’s not really a topic that gets brought up much, and no one really cares a lot about religion anymore. Now it’s more about the traditions than the belief itself.

So, to answer your question: I do not think that hairclip is something that Norway ever would have worn, especially not while still pagan. But, if I had to pick a time, and completely ignore the canon design, probably around the 1400 – before the reformation in 1549 an while he was still Catholic would be my guess? Although, regarding fashion history, is does not make sense until perhaps the 1960s.

[strawberrylemonz]

My Gift To You

Part 2

Part 3 [CURRENT]

Part 4

DT: @lynnarts and @snapdragonfirefly

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

“Are you telling me that you called me away for absolutely nothing?”

“Nothing? I’m threatening to cut off the trade deal of our kingdoms if you don’t meet my demands!”

“Your demands? Your demands? Don’t you ever attempt something like this again. And our trade deal? Over.”

“Wait-”

“Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a birthday boy to see.”

Techno left the meeting hall, leaving his guards to escort the “guest” out of the castle. Annoyed by the time wasted so far, Techno made his way to his study. As he opened the door to walk in, he motioned for his personal butler to follow him. As he dug around the shelves, he hummed as he got to work.

“Has the proper papers been shelved?”

“Yes sir, everything is accounted for.”

“Wonderful.”

“Sir, what about the boy’s father? Did he approve of this?”

Techno momentarily froze at this. He didn’t tell Phil about this. Phil and Wilbur had no clue that he was doing this. He heard his butler sigh, finding his words before speaking up once more.

“Sir, I’m not sure it is wise for you to hide this from his biological family forever.”

“It’s not forever, I just haven’t been able to get ahold of them. They’ll know.”

Lies, sure, but were they harmful lies? Sure, so what if Techno had a constant stream of communication for the past few years? That communication stopped after they sent their last package, and that was two months ago, so it wasn’t a technical lie. Phil and Wilbur were basically family, weren’t they? By that logic, they shouldn’t care. Besides, they weren’t the ones that raised Tommy. They aren’t the ones who were there for the child’s nightmares and injuries. They weren’t there for sickness and for health. Did they really have a say in the choice that Techno, the child’s current caretaker, decided to make? He peeked over his shoulder when he heard his butler sigh once more. The older man pursed his lips, as if thinking things over. After a moment, the man nodded. Walking up the the young king, he spoke up. 

“I trust your choice, sir. Do try to not “forget” to inform them. You will be needing this. And sir? Don’t forget the gift his family sent a few months back.”

Techno brightened up upon seeing the large envelope in his butler’s hand. Taking it from the man’s hand, he let out a sigh of relief as he nodded.

“Thank you, Peter.”

“Of course, sir. Now, go off and see Thomas. I’ll see you during the cutting of the cake.”

Once the two said their goodbyes, Techno happily made his way out of the room. Before he went to ask where he could find the birthday boy, he first stopped by his room. Humming as he pulled out two packages out from the top shelf of his closet, he smiled as he went to find the nearest maid. After handing her the packages to put with the rest of the gifts, he was told that the child was located in the kitchens. Walking in, he snorted as he watched the kitchen staff help the small boy bake cookies. Walking up by the boy, he couldn’t help but smile as the boy brightened up upon seeing him.

“You came!”

“Of course I did, I promised. Besides, why wouldn’t I celebrate your birthday?”

Tommy faltered for a moment, before changing back to a happy demeanor. 

“I baked you a cookie!”

“Heh? Let me see.”

Tommy hesitated as he looked over at the kitchen staff, who all smiled and encouraged the young boy. He sheepishly grabbed a cookie and held it out to the 20 year old king, who hummed as he took the treat. It was shaped like a person, like him. The icing was terribly spread onto the cookie, pinks and blues and whites and gold everywhere. 

“Well, this is bad. I don’t have a cookie for you-”

“That’s okay! I don’t need one!”

Techno hummed as he took a bite out of the cookie, watching as Tommy’s eyes filled with hope. After a moment, the piglin nodded.

“It’s good, Tommy. Thank you.”

“Yes!!!”

Tommy did victory jumps as he high-fived the many kitchen workers that surrounded him. After they all ate cookies, Techno took the small child to celebrate his birthday. Tommy had a blast, “beating” Technoblade in sword practice, showing off that he could write his name, and feeding the ducks with Techno. By the time the two showed up to the dinner celebration, they were filthy. The staff all laughed amongst themselves as the two sat down with the staff, dirt smudges on their faces and dress shirts. The seamstresses silently cringed at the tears in the clothing, but they didn’t make a comment. Everyone happily ate the many favorite meals Tommy loved, all listening to the young boy talk about his favorite moments so far. The painter happily painted the dinner, and was even happier to paint the young boy posing with his cake. As everyone enjoyed the delicious cake, some of the maids brought out the gifts for the child. Tommy happily thanked everyone as he opened the gifts given to him from the castle staff. Finally, he made it to the final two gifts. Unraveling the twine from a package, he excitedly opened a box. Pulling out a brand new journal set and a small coat, both bearing a hardcore heart, the boy couldn’t help but let his smile slip. Tiffany was the first to speak up.

“Tommy, what’s wrong? Don’t you like them?”

The boy stiffened, before smiling up at everyone once more. They all frowned as they noticed the boy’s smile didn’t reach his eyes, which were filled with guilt and sadness.

“I do, they’re both very nice. I just- why don’t -It’s nothing”

Tommy peered down at the table, only to look back up when an old hand sat on top of his own. Peter smiled at the small child, who tried to hide his sadness.

“It’s not nothing if it’s bothering you, Thomas.”

The boy sighed, nodding in understanding. He slowly put on the coat and hugged the journal close to his chest. Finally working up his courage, he spoke up.

“I love these gifts, I really do. They’re very nice looking, and they look cool. But if father and Wilbur really do love me, why aren’t they here? They’re never here when I need them to be. Did I- Did I do something wrong? Is there something wrong with me?”

Tommy sniffed, wiping at his nose, as the staff began to fret around him. They all rushed to reassure the child that nothing was wrong with him, that he was perfectly wonderful. Techno just frowned, more sure of his choice than ever. Picking up the last package, he plopped it in front of the sad child. Tommy looked at the package, before turning to look at Techno. The king sighed as he nervously scratched his neck.

“You, uh...You haven’t opened my gift yet, Tommy.”

Tommy rubbed away the tears that were forming in his eyes. Sniffling, he opened the package. He pulled out an envelope, and carefully opened it, pulling out a paper. He couldn’t read well, not yet, but he could make out some words. He peered up at the nervous king, who tried to keep a stoic expression. Finally tired of trying to keep a straight face, Techno gently took the paper out of the small hands of the child.

“I know that Theseus isn’t your name, and I know that you know that you were left here. I just feel that you deserve to call this place your home, legally. To make things short, I’d like to name you my heir, Tommy. I want you to be the official prince of my kingdom. Of course, this would mean that you would need to take more formal classes. I also had it written to have Theseus be added as a middle name for you. You will also have access to an allowance as of now, but your part of the kingdom’s fortune will grow alongside you. Look, what I’m saying is that-”

Techno made his way to the package, trying not to look at the child who was about to burst into tears. Moving away some of the packaging, be pulled up a small crown. It was gold, with silver linings all around it. Beautiful jewels and carving decorated the crown, magnifying its beauty. Turning to the small boy, he held out the crown him.

“-I would love to keep you around. That is, only if you want to be prince.”

Techno’s eyes widened as tiny arms wrapped around him. He stumbled back as Tommy lunged into his arms. Tommy cried as he clung onto the older man, as if he were his lifeline. Techno’s own eyes began to dampen as the child’s shaky voice spoke up.

“I’d love to be prince!”

Techno let out a laugh as he lifted the child into the air. Smiling as Tommy wiped away his tears, Techno placed the crown on the child’s head. And as the staff all cheered and celebrated alongside the king and the newly made prince, Tommy decided that this was the best birthday ever.

[thestraggletag]

The Game, a Rumbelle Chess AU

Summary: Inspired by The Queen’s Gambit. When Arran Gold first lost a chess game against Belle French, he thought that nothing would feel better than wining against her. But the more he lost, the less he minded, and more eager he was for their next game.

AN: Look, it’s a bad summary but a good fic, I promise. Also both games described in the fic are real games that can be played. Here, for example, is their last game.

Rating: Explicit.

He couldn’t recall exactly when the tradition had begun. Long ago, when he had only owned about half the town and had yet to adopt his more refined image. A tenant, a once-wealthy businessman who had once had “old money” and had wasted it away in reckless business ventures, had challenged him to a game of chess in lieu of the rent. He had likely thought that Mr Gold, a lowborn Scotsman with a thick brogue and brusque manners, was unlikely to even know the rules of chess. He had trounced the fool in less than twenty minutes, and only because he had toyed with him first.

Chess, after all, was something he knew well. His aunties had taught him as a child, but it hadn’t been till university that he had gotten to love the game, after finding out there was a veritable underground circuit of contests and tournaments that could pay his way through law school. He had developed an irreverent yet aggressive style, completely unpolished but completely brutal. In spite of his quickly-gained reputation he had never lacked opponents. There were always posh idiots who were sure their sophisticated gameplay could beat his street smarts. They were never correct. He had developed a nickname, over the years, given to him in honour of his savage style of play and his ruthless approach to the game: Beast. He considered quite a compliment.

He had thought about going pro, entering formal tournaments and acquiring a ranking, but the life of a chess player, and even that of a grandmaster, wasn’t particularly profitable compared to practicing law or going into business and he aimed to accumulate wealth and power as much of it and as fast as possible. He had kept up with his secret hobby, though, sometimes catching televised tournaments or reading about them later, enjoying the process of dissecting a game, sometimes thinking of how he would have won against a particular opponent. But it had never occurred to him to play against anyone in Storybrooke till the challenge came. It had attracted lots of attention at the time and people had turned up at the library that Sunday to watch them play.

Though he won, other people sought to challenge him, to the point where he had decided to establish an event of sorts. A chess day, once a year, in which anyone could challenge him. If they won he would forgive their rent for an entire year. There was no penalty for losing, at least none outright, but the shame of defeat meant most people challenged him only once. Besides it kept everyone from complaining during rent day for the rest of the year. And, he had to admit, he enjoyed it. Enjoyed playing cat and mouse with people, exerting power over them, watching as people’s confidence shrunk down and melted away.

He always looked forward to chess day, though that year perhaps less so. Storybrooke had acquired a new librarian around eight months before and, in spite of all of his efforts, she did not think ill of him. Belle French was, apparently, immune to the gossip of the town about him and his own brusque manner and dark humour. She even seemed to enjoy the later, which made him uneasy and… nervous. A strange, unsettling form of nervous.

It didn’t help that she was insultingly kind, surprisingly sarcastic and delightfully witty. The sort of person that could spar with words and make it look effortless. And smart enough to know that though he pretended to hate it, he loved it. She was also, regrettably, gorgeous. Smaller than him, with reddish brown hair and electric-blue eyes. An accent that wrapped around his name like a lover and an actual sense of fashion, which was almost unheard of in Storybrooke and the only thing most people seemed to hold against her, the town matrons disapproving of her short skirts and high heels. There was also a disarming quirkiness about her, a sense that she was somewhat otherworldly, like she belonged half to the mortal plain and half to the realm of stories and fantasies. He had seen her more than once walk around town lost in a book, dreamy-eyed and clearly miles away from the little town. He was always fascinated by how dreamlike she looked, how otherworldly.

Though he had tried to make her hate him for the first few months of their acquaintance, he had grown used to failing, and admitted to himself that it felt nice to have someone who would smile genuinely at the sight of him, who would treat him with kindness, who would be eager for his company and did not consider talking to him to be a chore. So he wasn’t looking forward to Miss French being exposed to angry tenants who called him names when he beat them, and wasn't really looking forward to her seeing him dash people’s hopes ruthlessly.  

It couldn’t be helped, though. And perhaps it was for the best, to have her see what everyone else saw. There was no point in delaying the inevitable. So he washed and shaved carefully that day and had a hearty breakfast- chess day tended to take up all of his morning and most of the afternoon, and he did not like having to take a break to eat, knowing that his stamina added to the image of him as some larger-than-life monster. He dressed with care, picking his favourite purple striped shirt and matching paisley tie. He added his sleeve garters and square cufflinks, though he was not expecting those to be visible at any point during the day. It still felt nice, empowering, to be impeccably dressed. 

By the time he reached the library there was already a crowd there, as well as the customary barren table, awaiting his chess set. He always played with the same set, an ebony and boxwood one from House of Staunton. It had the classical Staunton look and the hand carved pieces had a nice heft to them. He had bought it years ago, one of his first purchases after beginning to make serious money, costing him well over a thousand pounds back in the day. Not by any means among the more costly of chess sets, but the price spoke of its fine quality. 

He set the board down and opened the box with his pieces, arranging the whites on the side of the board furthest from him and setting the blacks on his side, careful to properly align the knights and position the pawns at the centre of their squares. He took out his clock next, which he had cleaned and serviced the day before, and sat down on his customary, throne-like bergère, the one that usually was the focal point of the Ancient History’s reading nook. In contrast the chair opposite him was one of the plain, serviceable ones that populated the study room at the library. He hoped, for his own amusement, that whoever had set up the place had picked the wobbly one.

It wasn’t long after he settled that a crowd formed around him, but it took almost half an hour for the first challenger to present themselves. It was, surprisingly enough, Dr Whale. The good doctor was one of the few people in town that made a nice, tidy six-figure income, mostly from his private practice. Whale, whoever, did like to live above his means, and it seemed it had finally caught up with him. Though he did not rent a house from him, he did rent his private office from him. It was large and well-located, and likely to detract quite a bit from his overall profit. 

The doctor looked cocky, in spite of Mr Gold’s infamous reputation around town as a chess player. And he didn’t even have to speculate as to why. Victor Whale was the prototypical Ivy-league alumnus, likely played chess for Dartmouth, his undergraduate alma mater, or Brown, where he had acquired his MD. He may perhaps once been ranked, if his smug grin was any indication. He took pains to hide his own savage smile, not willing to give his prey any hint of the carnage to come.

He drew it out, both for the audience and for the sheer pleasure of watching all of the doctor’s confidence and arrogance melt away, leaving an increasingly obfuscated and delightfully sweaty mess behind. And once he knew that he had pushed him as far as he could go he had gone in for the jugular, watching in delight as his opponent toppled his king. The crow murmured, unhappy. When he dragged a game out sometimes people got the idea that he might be struggling, that his challenger might actually have a chance. He enjoyed dashing that hope every single time.

As he rearranged the pieces back to their starting positions he caught a glimpse of a tweed flare skirt swishing about a familiar set of tight-clad legs. Miss French, as always, was impeccably dressed, the black sheer floral blouse a bit daring, perhaps, but carefully hidden by the demure cardigan she had over it. Her hair was in a French braid, the end tied together with a lovely silk ribbon in the same muted plum colour as her cardigan. He wondered at her clothes, which he recognised as high quality, likely expensive as hell. It cemented his idea that she came from money, and likely worked out of a genuine passion for books rather than necessity. Just as he studied her earrings-lovely gold studs in the shape of blooming roses, she turned her head, catching his eyes. He saw interest and curiosity, but no fear or disgust. Perhaps Whale was too unlikeable a victim to elicit sympathy from her.

Frederick Knight was next, playing not for a reprieve from his own rent- his teacher’s salary might not be impressive, but his wife pulled some major money working from home for a law firm in Boston- but for the pet shelter he volunteered out. Briefly he wondered how it all worked, how he could volunteer at the shelter run by his wife’s ex-husband, who had cheated on her with one of Knight’s own colleagues, causing the divorce that would eventually leave her free and available for them to meet and fall in love. Gold thought it was all rather unseemly.

The lad was smart, he would give him that. All that strategizing for baseball clearly carried on to chess, to a certain extent. Mr Knight clearly saw at least a few moves ahead, even if he did not have the skill to plan and anticipate more than that. In the end, because he was a decent enough bloke, Gold put him out of his misery quickly. It felt bad to drag it out unnecessarily. The man was gracious about defeat as well, something that was rare, offering his hand for a quick, firm shake, before leaving the board, no doubt to sink into the welcoming arms of Ms Midas. Though married, she had chosen to keep her last name, after the hassle it had been to change it back after the divorce. And yet there was no doubt that she loved her new husband more than she tolerated her ex, which even the strictest traditionalist in Storybrooke had to acknowledge. 

More people challenged him, as was the norm. Out of all of them only Mr Prentice put much of a fight. Gold could tell he was a man of some talent, and an old hand at the game, but too by-the-book to beat him. He implemented moves and strategies well, but did not have a creative bone in his body. A pity, really. He was the only one after Mr Knight to be mature in defeat, sadly. By the time four o’clock rolled around three people had upended the board after they had lost and at least one had made a move as if to punch him in the face. 

He reset the board with little expectation of playing again. It was late, the crowd was thinning, and people’s enthusiasm had died down considerably. He excused himself to go to the restroom, enjoying the brief walk after hours of sitting down. When he went back to the board, however, he froze up. Sitting on the challenger’s chair was the librarian herself, carefully unbinding her hair as she half-listened to something Miss Lucas was telling her.

He hadn’t foreseen this, the notion that the librarian might wish to challenge him. He had become resigned to having her smiles dimmed when they were directed at him, but nothing more. Certainly not this. 

“Miss French, I didn’t know you played.”

His voice was, by some miracle, even. The librarian smiled, shaking her hair out and wrapping the now unused ribbon around her fingers.

“I used to, some time ago. Still do, sometimes. In my head.”

She said that last part quietly, only for his ears.

“Well, what are the stakes going to be? Rent forgiven from the library for a year?”

“Oh, not, that would be too much. And I’m not sure that would be good for the library. That much money would surely go to what the mayor considers more… lucrative pursuits. But I thought, perhaps, that you could lower the rent of the library by a certain percentage, enough to cover for my apartment. I could use the extra money to refurbish the children’s section, and replace some stock. I could do without another brawl about who gets the last copy of The Polar Express come Christmastime.”

He smiled in spite of the cold spreading across his chest, constricting his lungs. He would be quick, he decided, better to have it over as soon as possible, so that afterwards perhaps Miss Lucas could coax Miss French into a consolatory drink or a slice of apple pie, her favourite. It wouldn’t be too bad, he convinced himself, and it would endear her to the other townspeople, that she braved the beast in pursuit of better reading experiences for their children.

He started her watch, a bit surprised when she moved right away, dragging a pretty white pawn to e4. He counted with his opposing pawn, and in his next move he captured his first piece, another pawn she had likely moved unsuspectingly into the line of his attacking one. She took out her knight then, and later a bishop, but he played more conservatively, using mainly his pawns, waiting for the moment where he could unfurl some of his more devastating attacks. He was startled by her castling her king. It gave him a firm idea that she was no amateur, and he adjusted to this new insight accordingly. He advanced his pawns further, seeing little overall sense and reason to her movements. She had her queen out, as well as a bishop, but had taken her knight back in and her pawns were scattered about, presenting little challenge.

And then she moved her bishop, lightning fast, and suddenly he was in check and the game did not look as it had a second before. He studied the board more carefully, instincts telling him there was danger in there. What once had looked devoid of logic now seemed elegant and strangely coordinated.

Like a dance, he thought. And somehow familiar.

He moved his king, and noticed people suddenly paying attention. She took her bishop away, looking amused, and he pressed on with his queen’s pawn, losing his first piece one move later. Feeling his hackles rising he took one of his bishops out, losing another pawn a second later after she took one of her knights out again. He disposed of it in the next move, thinking he had finally seen her make a mistake, but her rook advanced, threatening his king and bishop. He moved the former, thinking he was sure to lose the other piece, but surprisingly she moved her queen instead. Far from putting him at ease it was that move that made him aware that he was in front of a person that could likely beat him. And, almost against his will, the thought rose the competitive beast in him. 

He went savage, increasing the aggressiveness of his moves to an obscene degree. A chance look at Miss French, however, let him know that she found it amusing. She leaned over the board with interest, head tilted to a side and the fingers of her non-dominant hand tangled in her hair ribbon. Her eyes, barely visible from beneath her thick lashes from the way her face was tilted towards the board, sparkled, letting him know she was enjoying herself. Thoroughly.

He, on the other hand, felt strangely angry. Defensive. Exhilarated. He watched her as she made her bishops dance across the board, forcing him into another check and into a few defensive moves with his rooks, before her queen made her presence known once again, sliding across the board with both elegance and devastation. He took off his jacket, feeling too hot, and looked at the board again.

It was all so familiar. The style of play, he had seen it before. Like a dance, spontaneous yet choreographed, forcing him to respond in a certain way, backing him into a corner. He took one of her bishops and then a rook, when it came sliding into his side of the board, but it only made him feel more anxious, more like a creature trapped. Soon he was without his rooks and both his queen and his one remaining knight were in peril. But as he focused on them he missed the slow advance of a white pawn along the side of the board, flanked by the white queen and the remaining white rook. He sent his own queen out, trying to regain some semblance of control, but there wasn’t much the piece could do. In the end it was the queen, aided by the unassuming pawn, that forced his king into a checkmate. 

“I believe the game is over, Mr Gold.”

The librarian’s accent softened the blow of those words. She looked up at him, happiness and excitement written across her face, as if she had gone through some marvelous experience. But it wasn’t the smile of a winner, but rather the smile of a conspirator.

“I believe the game was over ten moves ago, Miss French.”

He could admit that now, even as people cheered around him, rubbing salt on the newly-opened wound. He watched as Miss Lucas briefly enveloped the librarian in a side-hug before turning her attention to other people celebrating. Miss French, however, didn’t seem to want to join. She simply stared at the board and then at him as if this was their own private thing, their shared, secret joy.

It felt too intimate, and it made him even more angry, that she seemed to think that he had somehow enjoyed getting his arse thoroughly kicked by her. Brusquely he stood up, putting his jacket and coat on quickly before a well-placed snarl opened a way out from the mass of people gathered around the chessboard. He would go home and lick his wounds and figure out a way to repair the damage to his reputation after he reached the bottom of his half-drunk bottle of Balvenie Tun 1509. 

It wasn’t until he was well and truly hungover that he realised, with a shock, that he had left his chess set behind. He left a message in Dove’s phone to have him call him back on Monday, so that he could instruct him to retrieve it for him. No need to go into the library for a few days. Or weeks. Might as well not step foot in it for the rest of the year, really. And no need to ever again think about the game, ever.

But after a couple of Tylenol and a lot of water, he found himself rethinking that last decision. There was something nagging at him about that game, and it would not let go of him. He knew he had seen that style of play before, but he could not recall where. He pulled up his collection of saved games, recreated from tournaments and world cups, and began analysing each of them, trying to find the same dreamlike, flowing style of play, like dancing. It wasn’t in the latest World Cup, or the one before, or in any of the recent tournaments. Not in the London Classic, or the Sinquefield Cup, or the Tata Steel. Not in any of the major American or European tournaments, so he branched out, looking at the Asian championships, the ACF Grand Prix and-

Something about the ACF gave him pause, so he went back through the tournaments he had saved, year after year. It wasn’t until he hit the 2006 Grand Prix that he saw it, a match where the blacks moved like in a ballet. He saw the name of the player, I. Avon, and did not recognise it at first. Then he searched for the recorded video of the match and realised why: I. Avon was Isabelle Avon, and she was usually known in internet circles by her nickname, Beauty. And the 2006 ACF Grand Prix had been her last major tournament. She had disappeared shortly after, and had caused a bit of a stir, specially amongst Australian chess enthusiasts, who thought she had the makings of a Grandmaster and even a top five world player. 

And yet, somehow, she had ended up as a librarian in a small town in the middle of nowhere, Maine, living under a different name, for some fucking reason.

He wouldn’t let it go once he knew, trying to piece the puzzle together. He had never seen pictures of Beauty, there were no headshots to be had, likely because she had been an up-and-coming player at the time and a minor for most of her active years. He had seen videos of her playing, but her hair tended to obscure her face in most of them. She had not won her nickname on account of her looks- though how painfully fitting it was, considering how attractive she was- but because of her playing. People praised her for her beautiful moves, how she built this gorgeous ballet of a strategy that was as effective as it was enchanting.

She had been described, in the few articles that talked about her personality, as quirky. Odd. A calm player, given to the occasional smile and never able to lift her eyes off the board, a dreamy look on her face. Quite unsettling, some people had said. 

She had dropped off the face of the chess world at age twenty, in 2006, and no one had heard from her again. Some people claimed to have played against her in an online tournament, but there was never a way to know for sure. He was sure now that at least some of these people were likely right. He delved more into whatever he could find about Isabelle Avon, but there wasn’t much. Though she had been at the time considered a chess prodigy she had been sheltered from press scrutiny likely by her parents, and had not given many interviews nor posed for many photographs. The few that circulated on the internet were of her as a very young teen, likely fifteen, when she had made her debut. He recognised her electric-blue eyes immediately, but the librarian’s fine bone structure was hidden behind layers of baby fat still not ready to peel off and her hair was a few shades lighter than it was now. Her mother was always with her in the pictures, as good-looking as elegant as her daughter had grown up to be, but her father was only in one of the pictures, a rather portly man that was rendered striking rather than dumpy by his height, which was considerable.

He found nothing to explain her retirement from chess, at least nothing official. He did find, however, a funeral notice in The Australian for a Colette Avon, neé French, dated December 2006. He felt sure that he had stumbled across the reason for Beauty’s fall from the chess circuit, and the origin of her new name. Why she had felt the need to create a completely new identity was, however, still unexplained.

And it bothered him, he found out soon enough. The more games of hers he saw the more he could appreciate her artistry, her craftsmanship. He could not conceive anyone having such talent, such passion for the game, and quitting, even over a personal tragedy like the loss of a beloved parent. He remembered how she had looked when she had played him, alive and excited, her pleasure obvious, and it cemented the idea that there was something he was missing. And he didn’t much care for it.

That’s how he found himself in the library weeks after his defeat, confronting the librarian. She was wearing a pretty burgundy shirtdress, prim and proper if not a wee bit short, and her hair tumbled down her back in a mess of curls, which was to be expected, since the library hours had ended twenty minutes ago. She wasn’t surprised to see him, nor did she appear hostile or otherwise on edge. Quite the contrary.

“Mr Gold, I’ve been expecting you.” She smiled up at him, and it felt a bit different from her previous smiles. Those had been lovely but this one felt more… personal. Intimate, somehow. Like they shared a secret. He supposed, in a way, they did. “You left your lovely chess set here. I’ve been holding onto it for you, keeping it safe. It’s in my office, do you want me to go get it for you?”

“Why did you change your name?”

He didn’t mean to blurt it out. He meant to build up to it. But there was something about her that utterly unsettled him, made him anxious in a way that wasn’t wholly unpleasant. Her smile turned somewhat cautious and sad, and he hated himself for provoking that reaction out of her.

“That’s a rather personal question.” 

“You owe me.” He tried to stop himself, but he found he somehow couldn’t. “You played against me under false pretences. You owe me at least an explanation as to why.”

Miss French raised an eyebrow, looking unimpressed at his emotional outburst or the questionable logic of his assessment. A moment later, however, she tilted her head to a side, biting her lip and narrowing her eyes, as if considering something.

“It’s a rather big secret. Would you play me for it?”

That sounded very much like a deal, and it made him feel more comfortable with the situation, more in control. Deals were his specialty, after all.

“And what would you wish for if you win, Miss French?”

She smiled, the picture of innocence.

“A secret for a secret sounds fair. Let’s say… your name.”

Nobody knew his first name. He appeared in all legal documents as “A. Gold”, which caused all manner of speculation around town. His name would be a high price, indeed.

“Oh, I wouldn’t tell others, just as I trust you would not tell others what I told you if I lost. I just want it for myself.”

Her words sent a frisson of something down his spine, leaving him tingling and on edge.

“That sounds acceptable. Do fetch my set, if you please, and I’ll get the board.”

They had the board set and ready in no time, flipping a coin to decide who would be whites. Miss French, having won, started the game, and from the beginning he read her moves differently from before, knowing they were those of a chess prodigy. He moved aggressively, trying to create too much chaos to allow her to build her beautiful moves, but soon began to second-guess himself, struggling between being too bold and playing it safe. He lasted longer, forcing her to pause and consider her next move once or twice, which she had not done during their first game. He took in those few seconds of uncertain contemplation with eager interest, watching as she bit her lip and furrowed her brow, the apple of her cheeks red with an enticing blush.

In the end, however, her rooks trapped his king too soon, forcing him to topple the piece. She smiled at him, offering her hand for him to shake. He did so, marveling at how delicate it was. And cold. The whole building was cold, he realised. Apparently the mayor demanded the heat be turned off the library the moment it closed, to save on the heating bill. 

“We can do this again sometime, if you still wish to know, Mr Gold.”

He nodded, leaning on his cane in order to rise from the chair, making no move to gather his chess pieces.

“I’ll take you up on that, Miss French. And the name’s Arran.”

.

He returned a week later, with a tin of oolong tea to keep the cold of the library at bay. Though the librarian seemed to have been expecting him, with the board and chess set already laid out at the customary table, she did not seem to be in the mood to play right away, inviting him instead to her office so she could prepare and pour them both a cup of tea in the adjoining kitchenette. Though she did not seem to want to speak of whatever had happened to her in 2006 she did not seem reluctant to talk about her chess career in general. She told him about learning the game at six from her mother, and playing in the park against adults as a ten-year-old, shortly before entering her first tournament, for children. She would soon outgrow those, reluctantly.

“Children are more creative players, I find, and I missed that in professional adult tournaments. It’s what I like about your playing.”

He told her in turn about his own chess experience, so vastly different from hers. It was a part of his life he had not shared with anyone before, and it felt nice to do so, especially with someone who could understand chess like he did, could see the beauty and the sense of it.

By the time their tea was finished over an hour had passed, and it was getting almost too late for a game. This one lasted a bit longer, and felt more… playful. Though he lost, he enjoyed himself more than he should have. He could make more sense of her playing style now, and it made him respond in kind, to soften his moves a tad, make them less savage and more complimentary to hers. It was the first time in years he altered his playing style, but it gave him more of a fighting chance and it seemed to amuse and thrill her to no end. In the end when he lost she asked about his aunts,  and he told her about how in love they were, even though the times were different and they could not express that love in the open like people could now. As he talked he realised how much he missed them and how nice it felt to share a bit of their memory with someone else.

Though he left the library defeated, it was difficult to conjure any negative feelings about the evening.

At some point, he realised he had stopped playing to win. Well, not necessarily. He still played with the intention of seeing her king toppled and extracting the secret of her retirement from her, but it was about more than that now. Perhaps it was their now customary tea break right before the game, which lasted up to an hour and now included cookies and several cups per person. It was a strangely-relaxing ritual and led them to talking about things that he would usually not discuss with anyone else, things that felt too personal. She shared in kind, with the exception of talking about her father, which he understood tacitly was a no-go subject. To be fair so was his, and she took pains to never ask him anything about him. 

Playing her, he had to admit, had become exhilarating. Once the sour taste of defeat had been taken out of the equation- it didn’t feel like losing anymore, or at least not the way losing usually felt to him, cloying and humiliating- all that was left was the thrill of the game, the excitement of thinking on one’s feet and seeing long strategies come to fruition on the board. He caught her chewing on her bottom lip more and more as he learned to thwart her moves and bring a sort of organised chaos to the board that she found difficult to navigate around.

He got so used to losing, and so comfortable in it, in the notion that losing only meant he got to return to the library, have tea and spend a few pleasant hours with someone who was interesting and treated him with kindness, that he did not consider the fact that he might win at some point. And when it happened, one evening he saw it, checkmate in two moves with his remaining knight and one of his rooks, plain to see. He had been working at leaving her king adrift, too exposed and with her queen distracted enough to not be able to stop the attack. She saw it too, he realised, and there was a bittersweet smile when she toppled her king. The sound the small piece made was deafening in the sudden silence of the library and he stared at the board for the longest time, as if he had been struck dumb by his win. In reality he was trying to process how disappointed he suddenly felt, how utterly unhappy he was about having won. It made no sense.

“As you perhaps know my mother died in 2006.”

“Miss French, please, you don’t have to-”

“Belle, please. I’d like to believe we’ve transcended such formalities. Especially considering what I’m about to do.”

She paused, letting the silence stretch between them. Though she seemed determined to tell her tale, whatever it may entail, she did not seem to know where to start, or even where to look. He thought about getting up and downright refusing to listen to her, anything to take away the sudden air of vulnerability about her, but stopped himself. She was a grown woman who would not appreciate him trying to decide things for her.

“You must know my mother died in 2006. It was very sudden, a stroke, and was very hard to accept. We were very close, especially because my chess career kept me from socialising much with my peers. I was sad for a long time after her passing, kept recreating some of our favourite matches on the chessboard she had given me for my twelfth birthday. I didn’t want to eat, or go out much, and I guess… My dad grew worried. We had always struggled to communicate, never had much in common. He didn’t get chess or me, so he didn’t know how to reach me, or talk to me, or even understand what I was going through.”

She paused, picking up a white pawn and staring intently at it. He itched to reach out to her, though he was not very good at comforting people.

“He thought I needed professional help. And he was right, I did need to speak to someone. But he thought it best to-” Another pause, where Belle looked like she was trying to find the words to explain, or excuse, what came next. “He had me hospitalised.” He did not need to ask what kind of hospital she was referring to. “It was a nice place, on spacious, green grass and under the supervision of an order of nuns. I’ve read that other places can be more… unpleasant, and less safe. Still, I don’t remember much of it. I was drugged most of the time, they were pretty liberal when it came to medication, and I hated it. Took me a while to figure out how to behave in a way that was considered normal, how to grieve within the bounds of acceptable behaviour.”

He was surprised by the white-hot rage that took over him. He tightened his grip around the handle of his cane, eager to hurt someone with it. Belle’s father seemed like a prime candidate, or any of the doctors involved in her care, who could not see that what they had in front of them was a woman trying to grieve in her own way. He ached to do harm, to hurt, in a way that unsettled him, that spoke about primitive instincts he had spent years mastering, or at least trying to. He tried to calm himself, focusing instead intently on her, watching her walk the pawn across the board and exchange it for the white queen after it reached the other side.

“Once I was out I changed my name and applied for university in the US. My chess career and my mother’s care of my finances gave me financial freedom, so I went to school, then did my masters at Columbia, and took on as librarian here when the position opened. And I never participated in a tournament again. At first it was because being active in professional chess circles left me exposed, made it so my father would likely know where I was, but later on I discovered I just did not have the temperament for big tournaments anymore. Crowds of strange people looking at me make me nervous, and playing chess in public makes me feel… unsafe, I suppose.”

Her fingers closed over the white queen, as if testing the strength of the piece.

“I still love it, though. Used to play at Bryant Park when I was a college student, though never in tournaments. And I still play online, sometimes for money, because it’s safe. But it’s been nice, playing face to face against someone again. I’ve enjoyed it immensely.”

She put the white queen back with the rest of the pieces inside its box, closing the lid securely before offering the set to him. Instead of taking it he stood up, taking a few steps backward to make sure she knew he had no intention of taking his chess set home. 

“I thank you for your candor. I will keep what you have told me in confidence, of course. Same time this Saturday?”

She looked up at him, confused for a second before a wide smile spread across her face.

“It’s a date.”

.

Though he had made the journey to the library dozens of times in the past couple of months it felt different that day. Instead of the customary tea he brought he clutched a tote bag with an unopened bottle of Highland Park 18 and two crystal tumblers. It was a particularly cold afternoon, which he told himself called for something more bracing than a strong cup of tea.

Belle did not seem against the whisky, though she did warn him that she had no affinity for it and would not know good scotch from bad.

“You’re calling it scotch, so that’s a good start.”

She seemed more intrigued about the tumblers, running the pad of her thumb across the designs on the glass.

“Thistles.”

“I’m nothing if not a walking stereotype.”

She laughed, telling him to pour while she set the board. By the time they sat down to play it was dark out, and Belle had turned off the zooming fluorescent tubes, leaving instead the soft, warm light fixtures in the reading room on. It was a cosy, relaxed setting, and yet the air felt strangely electrified, like something was going to happen, something big. His nerves felt raw, exposed, but the feeling wasn’t exactly unpleasant.

“So, what should we play for tonight?”

He startled, the tumbler halfway to his lips. She was right, there were no preconceived stakes anymore. Before he had wanted to know something about her, something valuable, so they established an arrangement whereby whoever won could ask a question of the other. That arrangement no longer applied. A sudden flare of panic travelled down his spine. What if he couldn’t think of anything? What if they both discovered that, without stakes, there was no sense in playing again at all? What if-

“I have an idea. It’s… a bit unorthodox. Always wanted to try it, but never got the chance to.”

The librarian looked intently at her glass of whisky, running a finger across the edge, but there was a sort of mischievous air about her. Playful.

Flirtatious, almost.

“Do tell.”

“Well, I’ve read about strip chess. Obviously I never actually played strip chess before because for most of my years playing chess in front of people I was a minor. But I always thought it sounded… fun.”

She chanced a look at him from beneath her eyelashes, biting her lower lip the tiniest bit. He must have looked rather stupid to her, sitting ranmrod straight and wide-eyed, with the look of a rabbit that has just spotted a wolf nearby. A man a few years shy of fifty looking stupidly terrified of a woman more than ten years his junior.

“What would be the rules?”

“A piece of clothing for every captured piece. Something small for pawns is allowed, but bigger pieces merit more important sacrifices. Things in pairs are to be removed in pairs. Jewellery and such are considered pieces of clothing. We play until either someone wins, or someone is completely naked.”

He took a gulp of scotch, hiding a grimace as the liquid burned a path down his throat. He took a quick stock of the librarian, taking in her few pieces of jewellery- earrings, a ring, and a simple necklace-, and her clothing. A skirt, no belt, a shirt tucked into it, a cardigan, stockings and a pair of booties. He imagined all of it on the floor at his feet and his blood simmered.

“That sounds… acceptable. You got the coin?”

He was glad he sounded unbothered by the new arrangement they had just entered into, nonchalant. He lost the coin toss, so it was Belle who opened, moving the queen’s pawn two places. He moved more conservatively, a pawn to c6, and a couple of moves later she took her first pawn, leaving the piece to be taken by another pawn of his.

“My earrings for your cufflinks?”

It was a fair exchange, so they paused to relieve themselves of their pieces of jewellery. Belle’s next move gave him a chance to capture another pawn and he discovered that he had to physically restrain himself from making the move, reminding himself that he was supposed to be playing for win. It added something extra to the game, the tension between what the best move was according to whatever strategy he was struggling to make, and what could get him more pieces. It made the game tense, as they both considered their moves and braced themselves for the possible occurrence of another piece taken. 

When it finally happened, a white pawn taking the place of a black one, he surrendered both his shoes, but not before using one of his knights to take the place of the newly-moved white pawn. Belle bent down to unlace her booties, removing them and placing them to the side with care, letting him know that she did have a thing for shoes, as he had always suspected. 

Nothing else happened for the longest time, the game unfolding without much action. They both moved their bishops and castled their king, pretending for a while that there wasn’t a likelihood that one of them would end up naked before the night was out. He kept the scotch nearby, refilling the drinks every now and then to give himself something to do other than think about all the exposed white pieces. Finally, when he thought he was going to crawl out of his skin if he didn’t do it, he took a white pawn with his knight. 

“Wondered when you were going to do that.”

He watched her as she shimmied out of her cardigan, letting him see more of the blouse she was wearing. It was slightly sheer, letting him know she was wearing a black bra. He wondered if he would get to see it.

“It’s a pity about your knight, though.”

She moved one of her own knights to take his, making it the first major piece to be taken. She held it in her hand for a while, studying it.

“I’ll accept your jacket and tie, if you have no objections.”

He reached automatically towards his neck, tugging on the silken knot around his throat. He must have drunk more than he realised, because his fingers felt clumsy, uncoordinated. After a few ineffectual tugs and some choice expletives muttered under his breath Belle rose from her chair, gently pushing his hands away and untying the tie herself. She tugged on it until it was off and tossed it on the back of his chair. She then wordlessly prompted him to remove his jacket, hanging it on the back of his chair as well. 

“That’s a lovely colour on you.”

She ghosted her fingers across the silk of his shirt. It was one of his favourites, a deep navy blue silk jacquard with a contrasting pattern of leaves. He had worn it because he had noticed she tended to favour blue, which had felt stupid at the time. Now it felt inspired. Emboldened by the touch and the compliment he dragged his bishop across the board, knocking her knight off its place.

“I’ll take your necklace and stockings, if you please.”

His voice was rough, with little of the cultured diction he usually employed, but between the alcohol and the simmering sexual tension there was little he could do to change that. She took her necklace off without much protest, making sure to fasten it close before she looked at him right in the eye, smiling innocently and extending a leg till her silk-stockinged foot found his knee. 

“Help me?”

It was embarrassing how fast he dragged a hand across her leg, pausing only to notice the quality of the material, and reached beneath her skirt, till his fingers came across the scratchy lace of the top of the stocking. With slow, steady precision he peeled the stocking off her leg, letting the tips of his fingers slide across the soft underside of her thigh and calf, trying to memorise how soft and warm her skin felt, so he could replay it over and over again each night. He repeated the process with the other stocking, delighting in the goosebumps the dim light of the room revealed in Belle’s skin. After it was done he folded the stockings neatly and presented them to her.

She moved her bishop next in a direct challenge to his castled king, meaning he had no other choice but to take it. He did it with shaky hands, trying not to look as eager as he felt.

“Shirt or skirt, I suppose. May I choose?”

Her voice was soft, playful, undeniably coquettish. He nodded, following her movements as she stood up, unzipped her skirt and let it fall open around her legs. Her shirt was long enough to cover anything but the barest hint of her underwear, something black and lacy and the slightest bit sheer that had him reaching for his glass. A second later she sat down, dragging her queen to take his bishop.

“Quid pro quo?”

With all the grace he could muster he stood up, refusing to show even a hint of apprehension or shyness as he undid his belt and pushed his trousers down, carefully stepping out of them before sitting down and reaching for the scotch bottle, filling up their glasses again. He took a long, fortifying sip and moved his knight to take her remaining one.

“That lovely blouse is gonna have to go, dearie.”

Belle smiled, looking bold and strangely pleased, and made sure to look at him square in the eye as she plucked every little button free of its hole. It was an invitation to watch, and he accepted it greedily, leaning forward and holding tightly onto his cane to keep himself from doing something stupid like try and touch every new bit of soft, pale skin that was slowly revealed to him. When she reached the last button she shimmied out of the shirt and carelessly tossed it at him. He caught it one handed and tried to not notice how the fabric retained the warmth from her body and the scent of her skin. 

“Don’t get too comfortable, we’re about to get even.”

She moved her queen to take his knight and leaned back on her seat, one hand cradling her tumbler of scotch and an expectant look on her face. He reached up and unfastened the buttons of his shirt with practiced nonchalance, trying to keep the shaking in his hands from being too obvious. When that was done he paused for a second, trying to gather up his courage, before shrugging out of the shirt. With a gallant little gesture he handed it to her.

The next few rounds were intense, but no pieces taken. Arran was having a hard time concentrating on the board and not on the way Belle’s fingers caressed the silk of his shirt, tracing the pattern of leaves absentmindedly. It was a safer bet than focusing on her balconette bra, a delicate, impractical little thing made almost entirely out of leavers lace, with dark flowers woven into the pattern to keep him from seeing the rose pink of her nipples. He wondered if she had worn the set with their game in mind, if she had selected it just so he could see it.

At some point he took his queen out, and she did the same with one of her rooks, both of them seemingly in agreement that the status quo was not to be borne. It wasn’t until her rook put pressure on his king, forcing him to set his queen in the middle, that he began to feel cornered. When her bishop got too close he had no other option but to take out her rook. Though from a strategic point of view that was a desperate last-ditch effort, he could not help but feel strangely ecstatic over it.

“Oh, dear.”

Belle moved her hands towards her back, seeming to struggle with the fastenings of her bra. 

“I think one of the hooks is snagged on the lace. Will you help me?”

He narrowly avoided biting his tongue. He managed a croaked, barely-intelligible “aye” before she stood up and turned around. He tried not to look down, but it was almost impossible, taking into account the panties she was wearing were made almost entirely of sheer black lace- leavers as well, clearly she was wearing a matching set-. With hands that felt clumsier than usual he felt around the clasp of the bra, delicately pulling the offending hook from the lace before unclasping the bra altogether. Slowly he lowered the straps from her shoulders, noticing the red indents they left behind on her skin. Then she was turning around, bra safely in her hands and her glorious breasts bared. He hoped that she wasn’t expecting him not to look, because it felt impossible to avert his eyes. As he had imagined- and he had not realised how often until then- her nipples were the perfect shade of dusty pink, framed perfectly by pale skin a shade lighter than the rest of her. 

“I know I’ve lost on the board, but right now I feel like a winner. Like the luckiest bastard on Earth.”

His accent was shot to hell, thick and incomprehensible, as if he had never left the dodgy part of Glasgow. But it did not seem to be a problem for Belle, who kissed his cheek, tugged on his hair a bit, called him a “sweet boy”, and thanked him for the compliment.

“Let’s finish this, Arran.”

Her Australian lilt turned his name, which he always thought rather charmless and rough, into a soft caress. He sat down, something considerably uncomfortable to do all of a sudden, taking into account his painful state of arousal, and struggled to focus in the game. He was done for, he knew it, but he owed it to her to try. To lose with as much dignity as possible. Or so he thought, till her queen took his in one simple move.

“I’m afraid your underwear must go.”

The silk boxers were doing a pisspoor job of hiding his raging erection in any case, but it still felt uncomfortable to peel them off and be naked in front of another human being for the first time in years. Well, nude, technically, since he still had his navy socks on.

“Let’s finish this, then.”

He took his rook out, forcing her queen to retreat and then getting his other rook to cover for his king. For the next few moves they danced around each other on the board, with Belle trying to close her trap and Arran fighting tooth and nail to remain standing. His moves weren’t elegant at all, more like the savage swipes of a cornered beast, but they were effective. He managed to snag a rook, which gave him the pleasure of sitting down and staring intently as Belle shimmied out of her useless little panties. She flashed her watch at him to remind her she was not completely naked as per the rules of the game and continued to press him. She had only her queen and a few pawns, but the board was laid out in her favour all the same. Still he gave her a run for her money, and it took her twelve more moves to checkmate his king. Feeling irrationally expectant he toppled the piece, watching it roll around the board for a few seconds before coming to a stop.

“That was exciting. Though I’m afraid we forgot to agree on what the winner got. Quite an oversight on our part.”

He watched her as she reclined on her chair and stared at the board, a rosy tinge on her skin that he realised travelled past her neck and to the tops of her breasts. She looked at ease, comfortable in her own skin, and surprisingly he noticed that he did not much care about his own nudity either. In the low, almost romantic light of the library his skin acquired a golden colour that he thought rather becoming. He was tanned for a man who spent most of his time indoors, a direct consequence of his propensity to laze about in the sun whenever possible in the privacy of his backyard or his cabin. And in such a light his wrinkles were less obvious, his scars less visible. He felt anxious, yes, tense, but it was not an unpleasant sort of tension.

“What is it you want, Miss French?”

He affected the persona of the devious dealmaker, noticing the spark of heat in the librarian’s eyes when he called her by her last name. She made a show of thinking about it, though he had the distinct feeling she had thought about something ages ago.

“How about a kiss?”

He took her left hand, kissing the back of it.

“Like this?”

When she shook her head he reached further, kidding the underside of her elbow.

“Higher, Arran.”

He tugged her closer, trying to disregard the rapid beating of his heart, and softly kissed her shoulder. Her skin was soft and smelt faintly of something citrusy, something that somehow managed to tug both at his heart and his groin. 

“Higher, please.”

She took his head in her hands, tilting it upwards till their lips met. It was a soft, tentative press of the lips at first, unhurried and unassuming, but it grew firmer and more insistent. When he pressed her she opened her mouth to him readily, letting him curl his tongue around hers with a moan of approval. Her arms wrapped around his shoulders at some point, fingers sinking into his hair to pull him closer till he was flush against her, skin against skin. His hands roamed her back, tracing the ridges of her spine, pleased at the way it made her shiver.

Reluctantly he let go of her lips, pressing his mouth against her sharp jawline, down her long neck until he was tracing her collarbone with his tongue and dipping down further into the swell of her breasts. He felt her fingers dig into his scalp, pressing him closer, tugging on his hair to guide him towards a puckered nipple. He accepted the unspoken invitation gladly, closing his lips around her flesh and sucking with embarrassing enthusiasm. His hands roamed the rest of her, one caressing her back while the other pressed against a soft, round thigh, aching to move just a few inches and cup her sex. 

When she stepped backwards, out of his arms and the reach of his mouth, he felt a flare of panic that she was having second thoughts, or he had done something wrong. It was on the tip of his tongue to apologise- for fucking whatever, he didn’t care- when she tugged on his arm, urging him a little ways across the room to a reading nook next to the folklore session. There was a faded divan in there, usually full of pillows and throw blankets meant for readers to take to their seats if they were uncomfortable or chilly. It was old and likely uncomfortable, the type of couch that looked like it had lost most, if not all, of its padding and most of its support capabilities a long time ago. At the moment, however, it looked to Arran like the most luxurious of beds. He let her push him onto it, glad when the springs beneath him groaned but held steady. A second later she was on top of him and all thoughts of structural stability fled from his mind as he kissed him thoroughly, asserting a dominance he was more than happy to submit to.

He had to struggle to concentrate between the kissing and the groping to understand her when she asked about protection, muttering that she was clean and on the pill but she had condoms just in case, from the sex-ed talks Miss Blanchard gave every now and then. Briefly he contemplated the notion of using one of those condoms, thinking of Miss Blanchard’s absolutely scandalised look if she ever found out, but the idea of being bare inside Belle was too good to pass. He told her he was clean in as clear a voice as he could muster that he was clean too- he recalled his last annual check-up, which he drove to Boston for, since he would rather die than let Dr Whale anywhere near any part of him- before she was straddling him, grabbing his stiff, aching cock with one hand and guiding it to her entrance. He could barely register the sudden wet heat on the tip of him before his entire member was engulfed in it. He sunk his blunt nails on Belle’s back, trying to call forth every last shred of self-control he possessed not to come then and there. Thankfully Belle didn’t move, looking overwhelmed and in need of a moment to adjust.

“You’re big.”

“Fuck, sweetheart, you can’t tell me something like that if you want me to last.”

It was taking everything he had not to come like a fucking schoolboy. Later, much later, he might me in the right frame of mind to replay her involuntary compliment. Over and over. He tried to recall the names of all the subs of the Celtics, in fucking alphabetical order, till he somehow felt more in control. Slowly, lovingly, he captured her lips with his own for a long, lazy kiss, feeling as her own tension melted away, leaving only a simmering sort of excitement. Tentatively she began to rock, trying to find a comfortable angle and motion in the restrictive confined of the divan. He tried to help her as much as possible, holding onto her hips and trying to thrust up as much as he could, given his precarious perch on the furniture and his lame ankle. Slowly but steadily they found something that worked, a rhythm that had him hitting a sport deep inside her that he could tell was, blessedly, the right one, given how Belle sunk her nails on his shoulders and tried to muffle her cries against the side of his neck. He tried to talk, to tell her how gorgeous she was, how wet and warm and perfect she felt around him but it all came out as unintelligible grunts and low, feral moans.

When he felt himself near the edge he gritted his teeth and gathered all of his remaining willpower, dragging his right hand down her stomach to the small nest of curls that framed her dripping cunt, delving inside till he found a spot that made her gasp when he touched it. 

“Come for me, sweet girl.” He didn’t know whether she could understand him over the thick mess of his accent, but he hoped at least the cadence would convene his meaning. She keened in response before he felt her flutter around his cock, the rest of her tensing with the force of her release. When he muffled her scream against the side of his neck he let go, his own orgasm almost uncomfortable at first, too much at once. He clutched her close, hoping against hope he would not send them both toppling to the floor, feeling like he was walking a fine line between pleasure and pain. Pleasure won out in the end, sizzling on his veins before slowly fading into a pleasant simmer. Tiredly he wrapped his arms around a barely-awake Belle, feeling the cooling sweat on her back and grunting in protest. He looked around, spotting a throw on the floor in his reach. He grabbed it quickly, managing to wrap it snug around both of them. Later, much later, when he could remember his name or how to walk, he would insist on them finding some better place to sleep, for her sake. At the moment, however, that seemed beyond him, a faraway concern to be dealt with at a later time. He was loath to give up his queen too soon into the game, in any case.

[yeochikin]

halloween grump. | p. seonghwa

a/n: thank you anon for requesting this fic! hope you enjoyed this. also, i suck at jealous scenes so uh,,, j just pretend you didn’t see that sdhfjsj

word count: 2.5k+

main focus: seonghwa x fem. reader

warning(s): there might be some inaccuracies in this as i have NEVER celebrated halloween before, so i do apologise for that. also, maybe a really short scene of hwa being protective.

seonghwa never really understood this particular… celebration, you had brought up.

sure, he knows that people of all ages would love to dress up during halloween so they would go trick or treating from door to door in the neighbourhood, along with their friends or families by their sides. 

not only that, said male would even notice the variety of decorations being hung up on the walls or windows of their houses, and on their lawns. from fake spider webs hanging on the neighbourhood porches to the carved jack o’ lanterns laying idly on the front lawn he had noticed after making a quick trip from the grocery store with you earlier this week. 

but honestly? that was it. the holiday never really excited him in any way possible, thinking it was the same old thing over and over again every year. 

however, from the way your eyes glinted a certain excitement in them when you had brought up about the topic while the two of you were cuddling in the living room one day, both of your hands holding the matching mugs filled with hot chocolate, seonghwa knew he couldn’t object the idea of you wanting throw a little costume party during the day of the event with the boys and some of your close friends. 

at first, he wasn’t really into the idea that much. imagine the time the both of you have to spend decorating the house to fit the theme, or even worse, cleaning up after the party? heavens above knew full well what could happen every time you would throw a little occasion at your shared apartment with the boys and your friends. honestly, why spend so much time when the two of you could just have a normal gathering for hallo-

“honey, can you please get those balloons up there for me? my hands are quite full.” 

your voice interjected his thoughts, shaking his head mentally to regain his consciousness back to reality to see you pointing up at one of the many shelves of the halloween store the both of you had walked in earlier. 

he couldn’t help but to release an amused chortle at the sight of your hands filled with the many decorations, wondering to himself just how long has he been in his mind to have failed to notice you picking up every halloween themed decor your eyes landed on. taking some of the decor from your hands to give your tired arms a little relief, your lover reached up to grab on the balloons that you had mentioned, noting how it had little bat patterns from the little picture printed right at the front of the package. 

“just how many more decorations do you need to get?” he grumbled, now following you as soon as you started to move once he grabbed the said item in his hands. 

“until we have enough, you grump.” you giggled just before stopping in front of the section just where the many pumpkin shaped candy buckets were displayed, eyes shooting up to meet with seonghwa’s unamused ones. 

you knew that the idea of halloween would be at your boyfriend’s distaste, but you had completely understood the reason why due to the fact that he never really celebrated the occasion throughout his childhood. hence, why he had seemed to look rather reluctant to hold the party you had suggested. and with you being a huge enthusiast of the said holiday, you were determined to give him the best halloween he had ever celebrated in his life during the party tomorrow. 

so, here you are, in the middle of the store shopping for halloween decorations with your grump of a boyfriend. 

seonghwa merely shook his head yet you could see the faintest of smiles playing over his lips as you stuck your tongue in his direction, yet he continued to follow you around the store, eyes busying themselves by looking at the various decor the store had provided. it would be a lie to say he wasn’t impressed with the amount of choices the place had. 

it took the both of you a little while more to finally walk out of the store, seonghwa offering to carry the bags in your hands. but the both of you knew deep down, your boyfriend merely wanted to hold your hand in his as the both of you made your way to the grocery store before going home. 

❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁

“love, i'm going to check on the cookies in the oven for a bit. can i trust you to not fall off the ladder while you do this?” 

seonghwa asked, his hands resting on your waist to steady yourself on the small step ladder as you busied yourself by hanging the bat patterned balloons on the wall in the living room. smiling, you leaned down to press a quick kiss against your lover’s lips, to which he returned almost out of reflex. 

by now, almost the entirety of the living room somehow managed to look like a haunted house you had initially wanted to do. the window panes were decorated with fake spiderwebs, a couple of big toy spiders being stuck on said webs. the doorway had a huge sticker of some type of graveyard with a haunted manor next to it being stuck along the walls. and the night before, seonghwa and you had decorated the ceilings with the orange and black streamers.

“don’t worry about me, honey. it’s not like i could hurt myself.” you chided, seonghwa deadpanning at your words before slowly releasing his hold on your waist.

“says the one who slipped in the shower earlier.” he retorted, eyeing the little bruise on your skin, just a little above your knee.

seonghwa simply chuckled afterwards upon catching sight of your playful pout as you sulked, mumbling that it was somehow… the tiled floor’s fault for being too slippery in the morning. with a roll of his eyes, your boyfriend lightly gave your bum a light pat before making his way into the kitchen, you watching his retreating figure before moving your gaze to the wall, remembering your initial intent earlier on. 

carefully leaning up on your tiptoes, you gently attempted to stick the balloons against the wall with the tip of your tongue peeking out of the corner of your lips, a habit of yours whenever you were placing your full concentration towards something. this one, being the bunch of balloons. 

leaning back ever so slightly, your irises were set on the position of the balloon, making sure they were in the symmetrical position as the ones next to it. your lips pursed themselves in distaste as the position was a tad lower than you thought, leaning back in to fix the position to make them hang just a little higher from the current position.

however, you seemed to have leaned a little more than you intended to as you lost your footing on the step ladder, letting out a little shriek as your eyes shut instinctively, waiting for the impact to come. yet, it never came. instead, a pair of hands were quick to rest themselves on your waist, effectively breaking your fall.

“i really can’t leave you alone now, can i?” a deep voice reached within your ears, an eye peeking open to look at your savior.

you merely smiled sheepishly up at your lover, encircling an arm around his neck before pulling yourself up to press a gentle kiss on his lips, murmuring a small apology against his lips. with a shake of his head, seonghwa gently lifted you off of the ladder, setting you down on the floor instead.

“why don’t you decorate the cookies while i finish up here, hm? i know that you’ve been wanting to do so when we started baking them earlier on.” he mused, expression softening up at the sight of your features perking up. 

with a playful salute, you made your way into the kitchen, seonghwa shaking his head at your antics as a tiny chortle left his plump lips as he started to fix whatever you had left. 

it was after a little over half an hour, that the living room was finally done, filled with the various halloween themed decorations being put up by the both of you while the little snack section in the room had plenty of food the invited guests later on tonight. both of your hands rested on your hips as you stood next to seonghwa to give the living room one more glance, a proud grin spreading itself over your lips at the sight. 

“now that this is done, i think it’s finally time we get our costumes on!” you chimed, earning a confused look from your lover.

“but we don’t have costumes?” he asked, tone full of confusion at your sudden claim. but with the way your eyes twinkled with the familiar mischief in them, he knew that you had something hidden up your sleeve.

“i may or may not have bought a matching costume for the both of us tonight.”

“love, i-”

 but i swear it’s not anything bad!” you quickly added just before your boyfriend could protest.

clasping your hands together and putting them underneath your chin, you gave your lover your best puppy-eyed look.

“please, honey? just this once. if you don’t like it, we don’t have to do it again. i promise!” you pleaded, palms now pressed against your lover’s chest as you still kept the certain gaze on his own serious ones. 

seonghwa stared at you in silence for a few seconds before emitting a low sigh out of defeat, leaning down to brush his lips against your forehead with his arms encircling your waist. of course, he just couldn’t say no. especially not when you looked like a kicked puppy with your pleading. 

“fine, but if i don’t like it, i won’t do it again.” he grumbled, you giggling in return.

❁❁❁❁❁❁❁❁

“woah, seonghwa is one lucky man!” wooyoung exclaimed.

the boys had come surprisingly early to your place. you cooing and giggling at the boys’ costumes. hongjoong as a pirate, mingi, yeosang and yunho as hogwarts students, san as a doctor from his favourite drama that he kept impersonating, wooyoung as a police officer, while jongho went as a zombie.

upon seeing seonghwa all dressed up as soon as they walked in, the boys couldn’t help but to tease him, the woosan duo playfully asking if he was allergic to garlic, much to your amusement. 

it didn’t take long after that for the other invited guests arriving.

you couldn’t help but to laugh sheepishly as you felt seonghwa wrapping his arm around your waist while the two of you went around giving the guests the food you had prepared earlier. the both of you were dressed in a matching vampire costume, as cliche as it looked.

yet, no matter how cliche it was, the both of you somehow managed to pull off the costume well judging by the compliments you received tonight as you interacted with the guests.

 “might i say that you look good tonight, my love.” you heard him whisper into your ear as the both of you made your way back to the kitchen to refill the snacks, you lightly bumping your hip against his.

“likewise, honey.” you winked, bringing the bowl of chips back into the living room while seonghwa stayed back in the kitchen to work on another batch of punch. 

arriving to the little food section you had set up, you made sure to clean up some of the spills that had somehow gotten on the cloth of the table until you heard someone clearing up their throat behind you. turning around, your gaze was met with one of your close friends’ friend, kim hyunjae. the both you weren’t entirely close but the both of you shared a few classes on campus.

“oh, hyunjae! i didn’t know you came.” you grinned after throwing away the used napkin into the little trash can next to the table. 

“oh i came with donghyun.” your lips formed into a small ‘o’, realising that this was the friend one of your close friends had mentioned he was bringing on the way here.

“plus, i haven’t seen you much lately.” the male playfully pouted as he nudged your side, causing you to laugh.

“sorry, sorry. been busy with my assignments, ya know?” you retorted. 

and with that, the both of you started talking and catching up with whatever had happened before this party. occasionally, the both of you would share a series of laughter at whatever joke he had said. 

unbeknownst to you, a certain pair of eyes watched both of you quietly from the side as he kept a close eye on you, smiling faintly to himself at the sight of you enjoying the night. however, he couldn’t help but notice the other’s eyes glancing down at your body. 

seonghwa thought that they were only a mere coincidence of some sort but with how many times he caught the other kept glancing a little too often, along with the slight uncomfortable expression on your features as the other stepped a little too close to you yet you continued to ramble whatever the topic you were talking about, seonghwa knew that he needed to step in.

while you were busily talking, seonghwa crept up behind you and wrapped his arms around your waist, feeling you jump ever so slightly before relaxing as you realised who it was. smiling at the feel of his pair of lips pressing against the top of your head, you tilted your head up as an attempt to meet his gaze.

instead of the usual warm pair of eyes, you were met with serious ones, yet they were focused on the young man in front of you. it was a look you knew too well. 

as if feeling awkward, hyunjae excused himself saying that he wanted to find his friend, bowing his head before leaving the two of you alone. 

with a roll of your eyes, you turned around in seonghwa’s arms to wrap your own around his neck, seonghwa merely sent you a gentle smile with a shrug of his shoulders, slightly swaying the both of you in place to whatever song that was playing through the speakers. 

“are you enjoying the party, honey?” you murmured, a hand reaching out to give his cheek a gentle caress. 

turning his head, seonghwa brushed his lips against the skin underneath your wrist. “except for whatever had happened just now, i surprisingly am enjoying the party.” 

those words were enough to make you grin brightly, leaning up to quickly press a chaste kiss upon his plump lips that just can’t get enough of, emitting a low squeak from the gentle squeeze on your waist. 

it might not be an overly interesting way of celebrating halloween with you, but seonghwa knew just how much halloween meant for you with how your features brightened up throughout the whole remaining hours of the party. 

who knows? he might even dress up again next year with you.

[chessdaze]

Three Wishes Institute: New Locations part 2

I realized I forgot a few locations in my last post about new locations, so I decided to write out the rest here! Under Read more for Length

Crystal Woods:

The crystal woods is a beautiful place, so much so that beautiful seems like a lacking term. The area is full of crystalized trees and nature, yet it’s all entirely organic and the animals who live in the woods have adapted to the environment, eating crystalized foot or grass like it is nothing. Some animals even have crystals growing off of them - it’s an entirely strange and beautiful phenomenon that modern science is still trying to explain.

The woods might be out of the way from a lot of places (the closest city being around two hours away), but it’s not a tourist trap or even a place people visit often. There are people who come to research, people who come to buy land, but they’re all eventually turned away by the residence. The people here are almost all dwarves or descendants of dwarves, and take pride in the land they stand on. There is also a mine, like in the old stories about dwarves serving a princess, and a lot of the residence work there on a normal basis.

It’s a hub of history and tradition, and thanks to modern technology some people have gotten together to properly document all about their land and it’s history - they don’t mind it they simply didn’t want outsiders to do it, not trusting them to really understand or take everything they talk about seriously.

They do however allow new people to move in if they intend to work in the mine or on the fields to pick and sell crystalized crops (this is their major trade item with other cities / countries, and how the town has reminded in good shape for so long). Though it’s rumored that there is an...extensive interview process.

Emil and Otto are from here, and are one of the bigger families within the small town. Not just from the fact that have a lot of younger siblings, but the fact they have a lot of extended family as well. Most of which, are still pure blooded dwarves, while the twins themselves and most of their siblings are only a quarter dwarf, only having pointed ears to show for it.

Thieves Den:

The thieves den is located in a canyon, where ‘houses’ are carved into the side of the canyon wall. If it wasn’t filled with the worst people imaginable, It could be a popular tourist or vacation spot. Sadly, that is not the case. The people who live here are the worst of the worst, stealing from anyone or anything - sometimes even eachother, which starts brawls that could last all night. While they all sort of agree to follow one ‘king’ or ‘queen’ of thieves, there is no honor here, at the end of the day it’s every thief for themselves.

Still, the way they have crafted the homes in the canyon walls is both beautiful and functional. Magic and minor electricity keeps the place let up and functioning with the basics, rooms are filled with gold and other treasures gather Instead of doors there’s normally walls of beads and jewels, or expensive looking fabrics and tapestry that close off areas.

No one from the land of hot sands goes near the Thieves Den, lest they rob you blind and not even leave you with the clothes on your back. Some people from the slums seek refuge here if they have been kicked out for their ‘bad behavior’ and have no where else to go. Sometimes criminals are thrown in here by the guards of the surrounding cities as punishment for their crimes - either those criminals end up joining the den, or they aren’t heard from again.

There are two people who have connections to the den that are correctly At three wishes. One of them is unaware of the other, but the other is all too familiar with the former and occasionally tries to offer advice that only a thief could...

Sand Dune Slums:

A place that is exactly how it is described - a slum area within the Land of Hot Sands. It’s technically in the shadow of the major city (Modern Agrabah, cause idk what else they would call it honestly), so another name for the location is Agrabah’s shadow. People here are sometimes former criminals that can’t get a paying job in the city thanks to their previous record, or just people who had tried to make it big in the city and gave up at some point, or simply those who can’t afford to live in the extravagant city. Their homes are built out of layers of tarp, wood, and stone blocks - and they have to build within a certain area or else the guards from the city get mad at them, saying they’re ‘ruining the scenery’ since the city is a popular tourist spot. This is why the slums are contained to the back side / shadows of the outer city walls.

There’s a bit of a barter system in place of money, as no one really has a decent amount, ad any they’re going to spend would be spent in the city getting better quality things if that could afford it. However there’s still thugs and lowlifes here who try to steal from others without bartering at all - they only get stopped half of the time - the guards tend to turn a blind eye towards crimes that happen in the slums, focusing more on if any of the population of the slums makes trouble within the city, or throwing people out too the slums.

But, overall, the people here are pretty kind and try to welcome everyone with open arms. There’s lots of community events to keep people’s spirits up and they try to share what they get with anyone they can afford to.

Ozan is originally from here, but after stealing one too many things, he was thrown out of both the city and the slums. Left where no where else to go (other than the thieves den, but they wanted to avoid that place at all costs aswell), they wandered until they found a mirror to transport them somewhere else for them to live - which is how he came to steal items from Three Wishes Institute, and later be accepted into the headmaster’s family.

Underland:

(a big thanks to my friend Freya @twstriddle who let me use this idea that they had come up with and make a few tweaks to).

Underland is the organized crime capital of Twisted Wonderland. It is not a place you ever want to be caught in if you don’t know the unspoken rules of the place. Crime happens 24/7 here, you can barely take a look around without catching at least 3 crimes going on around you.

Having mostly been a dumping ground for the Country of Roses in the distant past, the city itself isn’t too modernized but instead has a more steam based system. This is someone’s Steampunk paradise on the surface; clock towers, exposed machinery with  running gears all day and night, Crazy new inventions being made - and thrown out - every single day. Steampunk fashion is also popular and the most sold (legal) items in the city.

Among the crime families, there is one that practically rules over them all, the Pillars. They practically have a monopoly over most of what comes in and out of the city. They maintain a decent, working relationship with the other families, but they are also the most targeted because of their status. (and funfact the leaders of the Pillars are two husbands. I would say I don’t make the rules, but I very much do in this scenario).

Some say that there has been an uproar in Underland ever since someone stole items from the Pillars and disappeared without a trace.

Chronos Gate:

A stretch of land between the Country of Roses and Underland, which is a famous tourist destination. The land has been touched with time magic, now pretty much forbidden over all of Twisted Wonderland, and while efforts were made in the past to try and correct this area’s disrupted time, no success came of it and soon people founded it as a tourist destination instead.

Different areas of the land have different time zones and seasons, as time does not match up over all of the land. One step you’ll be in summer at noon, the next it might be a dark and cold winter night. The biggest attraction is at what is considered the ‘center’ of the land, time is completely stopped. A special walkway had to be made so that people wouldn’t get trapped here as they traveled through.

Each time one enters a different time, it’s considered walking through a ‘gate’ of time, hence the name of the location.

There are also research facilities set up in multiple areas of the land, studying the time magic and how to dispel it. There are people who live here aswell, but they tend to stick to the outer edges of the land - the ‘beginning’ and ‘end’ gates, the ones closest to Underland and the Country of Roses. These are the two gates that are the most accurate as far as time goes, even if they are a few hours ahead or behind the mentioned areas.

Someone in Three Wishes is very familiar how the Gates work.

Rosa Castletown:

A mysterious castle-town that only few have heard of, and even fewer been to. Apparently it used to be an entire country, but has been dwindled down to just the castle and the surrounding city - all enclosed within large stone walls.

Silas Rosamund is from here and often praises the castle town for persevering through the times, but also has slight criticism for the town as they have not all decided to keep up with the latest technology or trends. A lot of senior citizens move to the castle town because of this, wanting a nice and simple place to retire and relax. They have the basics at least, so at the very least they aren’t entirely in the stone age.

The castle town is said to be rolled by a beautiful and powerful queen, who only shows herself on special nights of the year. International holidays being a few but also a few holidays specific to the town, such as the rose viewing festival - as the castle town, if known by anyone, is known for their roses - they even have vines of roses encasing the walls of the town.

Silas actually lived in the castle as a servant, and tended to the Queen personally, so he’s one of the only ones who has ever seen her face up close.

[charmed-henry]

Shark Bait Oo Ha Ha | Heric

Previously on Baywatch... 

Baby There’s a Shark in the Water

Date: 20 May 2021 TW: None, other than some discussion of the attack

@maritimeericandersen

Henry and Eric make a plan.

HENRY

If only Eric were here. That was what Henry kept thinking throughout the attack. Eric would know what to do. And a part of Henry resented that, just a little bit, because this was such a clear example of why the Order needed him… but there was no time to dwell on that. People were avoiding the lake, sure, but they wouldn’t forever. Even with this creature undoubtedly lurking below the surface. Henry needed Eric on this, and fast.

Henry texted Eric to meet him by the gryphon statue after his last class, and he was relieved when Eric did show up. He didn’t waste any time with pleasantries. “You heard about what happened, right?” 

ERIC

Eric had not heard anything, actually. Like a man avoiding spoilers of the world cup he had gotten through without hearing a word about what had happened up at the lake. It hadn’t reached him during work or class or while he was walking around campus— probably due to his thick skull and lack of his own surroundings. 

So he didn’t really think anything of it when Henry texted. It seemed like a normal enough message with nothing to kick up a fuss about. He walked down from his dorm ten minutes from when Henry said he’d be finished and stood beside the statue, thankful for the sun despite the breeze that still held a chill. Eric looked up periodically from his phone and when Henry finally appeared he smiled, only for it to turn into a confused frown at Henry’s opener. 

“Er— no?” He shook his head, shifting his stance to a more alert position. What happened could have meant anything, good or bad. “What’d’ya mean?” 

HENRY

Henry groaned. He knew Eric was taking a break from the Order, and Henry respected that, in a sense, but to not have heard anything at all? What could possibly be so all-consuming in his life that--

Never mind. Henry knew it was the same sort of thing he used to get in trouble for during training, and part of how they became friends. Being daydreamers. What was important right now was to catch Eric up, not berate him.

“At the lake. Candace was attacked. By some sort of sea creature. She’s, er-- she’s okay now, but we didn’t catch the creature that did it, and it might still be lurking there. Waiting for its next victim. I need your help, Eric. I know you’ve… stepped back from the Order, but this sort of thing is exactly why I’ve been sent here. And I need your help,” Henry explained, desperation shining in his eyes. “We need to find out what that was. Until we do, the lake won’t be safe for anyone.”

ERIC

Now that was not what he had been expecting to come out of Henry’s mouth. At best, that he had proposed to his bird or something, at worst, that the Order had found out he was alive and was coming to actually kill him. 

But an actual ocean dweller? Here? In Swynlake? Eric knew he had come looking for answers, for a mermaid to give those to him, but he hadn’t actually been counting on finding one this far inland— let alone one bold enough to attack. They had to have known it would put a target on their back. 

“I’m glad she’s okay— thanks to you, I presume.” (Even though Henry had said we, but he was taking that to mean a general term for the people of Swynlake, not any one specific person.) He let out a breath, a hand coming up to brush over his mouth as he took a moment to think. 

“Of course, of course, yeah. Anything you need, mate.” Eric hadn’t done this in well over a year but he couldn’t imagine denying Henry. And this was the opportunity he had been looking for when he came here. If he could just talk to this thing, maybe all of this will have been worth it. “Did you get a look at it? Or Candace— did it try to drown her or was there an actual wound?” 

HENRY

Henry let out a sigh of relief. Even though he trusted Eric to have his back, sometimes he just felt like he didn’t know what Eric would do anymore. He had a whole life here, new friends and school and a new purpose-- and Henry did, too, in some ways, but at least he stayed on the lookout for opportunities to prove himself to the Order. He wasn’t sure if Eric cared as much as he did.

But no matter what, they would always be like brothers. And they would always be there for each other. Henry was sure of that, and he felt a bit silly for doubting. 

Then he remembered the scene and winced. It was painful to relive, to be honest. “Er… yes, it bit her in the leg. Seemed to be trying to drag her underwater, but Rose and I were able to fight it off.” Wait. Did Eric know about Rose? Was it okay to tell him about the Huntsclan? “She’s okay now. Got her in an ambulance right away and it ended up being not too deep of a wound. But I worry about what would happen if we hadn’t been there. And the lifeguard was absolutely useless.”

ERIC

Eric did not know about Rose, but Eric also didn’t know that Rose knew about them. Within the context of Henry’s story, he assumed she was just there willing to help out a friend in some serious distress and paid that detail little to no mind. He nodded along, eyebrows raising briefly at the mention of the lifeguard and huffed— sounded about right. Wasn’t like a magic friendly place like this was going to think to train their staff on things like this. They would just issue an apology after the fact and move on. 

“Then we’re probably not dealing with a siren.” They let their voice and the victim themselves do all the heavy lifting. It felt odd to be back in this mindset. He had not thought about hunting or training in well over a year and he didn’t know what it meant by how easy it was to return to this part of him. Eric hadn’t expected that it would have left him so quickly, it had been apart of his life longer than it hadn’t been, but still. Would he even be able to carve it out? Or would it always be there whether he wanted it or not?

“What about its flukes? Did you get a look at ‘em? Were they pointed like a fork, rounded, or erm— shaped kinda like a crescent moon?” He drew the shapes in the air with an index finger. It mattered to figure out if they were dealing with something that was shaped for speed or for marathon swimming. 

HENRY

Henry wished he had a better recollection of the scene as it had happened, but the whole thing was something of a blur. What had mattered the most was getting Candace to safety. This was why it was better to work with a team, Henry thought. Rose was there, of course, but she had been busy helping Candace. Once again, Henry wished Eric had been there…

But it was too late for that. Henry would just have to try and remember. “Er, it was a sort of pointed tail, two fins on the end, dark gray. Sort of tough-looking, like a shark, not the sort of shiny scales you would see on a siren. Does that help at all?” Henry looked at Eric hopefully.

ERIC

He nodded absently as he continued to think over the next course of action, but stopped when he caught sight of Henry’s expression. Eric reached out to give his shoulder a squeeze. “Hey, it was a high stakes situation. I’m just glad you managed to make it out of there, let alone remember what the bloody thing looked like. And you saved your friend before it could do any lasting damage. You did good, Henry.” 

Eric gave Henry’s shoulder a gentle shake before releasing him. “Any little detail helps. Like you said, from the sounds of it we’re probably dealing with one that comes from a deeper part of the waters. It’ll make it harder to spot, and if it’s built for speed a paddle boat won’t cut it.” 

They were going to be out favored going in if they took it on in the water. (On land was a different story, but the problem with that was identifying the slippery bastards while they pretended to be human.) “We’ll have to create a trap and draw it out again somehow. Hopefully it’ll come back to the water— assuming it ever left.” 

HENRY

This was the thing that Henry struggled with. Especially hearing it from Eric, seeing that encouraging look in his eyes, feeling the reassurance of Eric’s hand on his shoulder. Henry wouldn’t dare admit any kind of weakness to anyone in the Order… except Eric. So he wanted to take what Eric said at face value, to nod and smile and agree with him. But those images haunted Henry.

So he just nodded grimly instead, looking down at his hands. Better to push all of that emotion down, because Henry worried if he started to say something genuine, it would overpower him. Focus on the mission. Focus on the threat. Henry wasn’t going to let this happen again.

“A trap…” Henry repeated, trying to imagine what Eric meant. “With some sort of food? Or something else? I’m not using Candace as bait--” he added quickly, determined. “I’m not going to let anyone else get hurt. We’ll handle this the old-fashioned way, you and me. And maybe Rose, too, she knows what we’re dealing with.”

ERIC

“Jesus, Henry, what do you think I am? Some kind of lunatic? No, we aren’t going to use some poor girl as bait.” Eric scoffed, shaking his head like Henry had gone completely barking. Then he added, like it was obvious,“We’ll use me.” 

This time Eric caught on to Henry talking about Rose because erm— what? He let out a little huff of laughter, eyebrows coming together briefly as he gave Henry a look. 

“I don’t understand. Why would that matter?” A hand came up to scratch the back of his head before something dawned on him. The hand raked forward through his hair, moving to point at Henry when he pulled it back down. “I thought your girlfriend’s name was Ashleigh? Ginger, right? Or is that Candace? Or have they both—? Wait, I’m sorry, who’s Rose then? Are you—?” 

Eric’s eyes widened and he looked around them to make sure no one was close enough to be listening in (you know, now that the conversation was important to keep a secret) before lowering his voice and leaning forward. “Did you call it off? Or no? No judgement, I just never thought— I mean you were just so infatuated with erm— it was Ashleigh, wasn’t it?”   

HENRY

Henry was snapped out of his pensive funk by three ludicrous things that Eric had just said. One, that Eric intended to use himself as bait (??); two, that Ashleigh and Henry had broken up (???); and three, that Henry and Rose were somehow a couple? (????????). Henry stared at Eric in horror, not even sure where to begin.

“What? Eric, no-- I-- that’s-- just, no. Ashleigh and I are still together. And I really wouldn’t want to get her involved in this, it’s too dangerous. Rose is just a friend, she’s been working with the Order here in Swynlake. She’s part of a certain, er, sort of version of the Order from the States. And she’s a very good hunter, that’s the reason I suggested bringing her with us. Candace is-- never mind. Long story.” It would be too complicated to explain what was going on between Henry and Candace right now, considering Henry didn’t even really know where they stood.

He shook his head. “Anyway, if it’s alright with you, I think Rose should join us. But back to what you said, you want to use yourself as bait? Haven’t you had enough near-death experiences?”

ERIC

Eric stared back at Henry with a very dumbfounded look on his face as all of that explanation unfolded. He didn’t know which one was more bizarre, that the yanks had once again stolen from them or that they’d let women train with them— not because Eric had anything against it, but the Order was still being fuddy duddies about that. Also what was she here for if she was from America? Wasn’t that place like the wild west? Filled to the brim with Magicks that needed to be taken care of? 

“My bad. Sorry. Too many names to keep track of.” He blinked, frowning slightly to himself before shrugging it off. Well at least Henry wasn’t stepping out on his girlfriend. Eric had always thought him to be loyal so that version of Henry would have completely dismantled his perception of him. “If you trust her that’s good enough for me, mate. Just uh— make sure she’s on the page, yeah? About me and the whole I’m-not-actually-dead-but-don’t-tell-the-others-that.” 

Clearing his throat, and moving away from the topic of social drama he had no idea would turn out to be a minefield before stepping into it, Eric nodded. “It has to be me. I’m the one with the most experience with these sorts of things. And you’ll be there, so I’ve got nothing to worry about.”

HENRY

Henry gulped. Eric, like many members of the Order, tended to walk a line between “honorably brave” and “completely reckless.” He had a feeling that, if he were in Eric’s position, if this were Henry’s expertise, he would probably suggest the same thing.

“Fine,” Henry said grimly, recognizing that this was one of those situations training had prepared him for when he needed to do the dangerous thing. It would just have to be worth it. He would be there for backup after all, wouldn’t he? “I suppose you’re the expert here. Just tell me what you need me to do. As for Rose… I think if I explain the situation to her, she’ll keep it quiet. I’ve never mentioned you to her before, but I don’t know if the others have. So it’s probably best to come up with a cover story. Unless, of course, you’d prefer that I just leave out the fact that you were ever in the Order. Up to you.”

Honestly, Henry hated this. The secrecy and the lying. He still felt guilty about not telling the older guys about Eric. Being in the Order meant constant secrecy, but you were supposed to be completely honest and trusting with your fellow Princes. But Henry needed to protect Eric by any means necessary. So if this was what it took, fine. Didn’t mean Henry wasn’t a little annoyed about it, though.

ERIC

Eric, too, was tired of all the lying and sneaking around. The phone Ollie had given him was a blessing but also a curse considering how easy it was to go scrolling along social media. The amount of times he’d almost accidentally liked something or hit the wrong thing when he fumbled the phone was one too many. Imagine the panic Grim would go through seeing a notification that Eric had liked his most recent post. 

“No, that’d just make her wonder why you got me involved besides feeding me to it. Plus, if we’re going to do this together, can’t go in first thing lying to her. Then she wouldn’t care for what I had to say. No, we’ll just tell her the truth. I’m Eric, I faked my death for reasons, and no one can know I’m alive. Or in Swynlake.” He shrugged, thinking it wasn’t that big of a deal since he and Henry had been doing it for months now. Again, if Henry trusted this girl and gave her his good word then Eric figured it would be fine. “I seriously doubt they’ve talked about me. It’s been well over a year— old news.”

He rubbed his finger under his lower lip as he tried to think of what supplies they needed versus what they could realistically scrounge up. “Alright, I’ll work on getting a net big enough for this and can probably take whatever meat the market’s throwing away for bait. In the meantime, you get together whatever weapons you’re comfortable using and a bloody good light for this. Oh and— clear your night time schedule. There’s no telling when or if this thing’ll be back in the water anytime soon.”

HENRY

Henry wondered if maybe they should have gotten Tom involved. He knew about sea creatures, and Henry was a little less worried about him getting seriously endangered by this sort of thing. Not that Henry trusted Eric any less, of course, but the fact remained that Eric had almost died once. Henry still got worried about losing him again. Tom seemed older, more sure of himself.

But getting Tom involved meant getting everyone else in the Order involved. Exposing Eric’s identity. And, truthfully, part of the reason Henry was involving Eric in this was because he hoped it might remind Eric why being in the Order was worth it. Maybe he would come back on his own, reveal himself to the other guys and rejoin the Order. But in order for that to happen, Henry had to let him stay in hiding for now.

“Right,” Henry said seriously. “I’ll tell Rose as much as she needs to know and we’ll work on getting some weapons together. She’s really good with a knife, I’ll tell you that… When are we doing this? I have a SDG concert this weekend, and Ashleigh and I like to go out to dinner at least once a week, but other than that, I’m free.”

ERIC

He scratched at his temple, one foot kicking out to lean his weight against while he listened to Charming go on about concerts and dates. It almost made him want to give a random day and then go off and do this on his own. Not because he was annoyed with Henry having a life but because Henry had a life and people and things to look forward to. What Eric wanted to do (capture this thing, not kill on sight) wasn't the safest bet or their protocall. If things didn’t go the way he wanted well— he was already dead. 

But he wouldn’t do that to Henry. After all, he had come to Eric with this and not the three greatest Prince’s the Order had as he knew that this could be an opportunity for Eric to get the answers he had been searching for. It would feel like a bigger betrayal than having pretended to be lost at sea. He would just have to make sure that he had Henry’s back just as much as Henry had his. 

Eric smiled, nodding when Henry had finished. “Yeah, alright, Mr. Popular. We’ll schedule around you then. Whenever you haven’t got something going on, we’ll go stake out the lake to see if it’s out there. In the meantime, just be on the lookout for anyone exhibiting the signs. Now that there’s confirmation one’s here— could be anyone.” 

[bardicknowledgeblogger]

Critical Story Beats

While it’s not really an aspect of the rules anymore, a lot of us who play D&D and other similar TTRPGs like to make use of the Nat 20 = Auto Success, Nat 1 = Auto Fail rule with varying degrees of success and excitement.

I’ve seen people post their stories of Nat 20s and 1s resulting in hilarious and ridiculous moments as a DM allows the player to get away with something they probably shouldn’t have been able to, or failed horribly at something that really should have been easy to accomplish. I’ve read posts from frustrated DMs trying to keep players with godlike luck from just auto succeeding encounters they shouldn’t be able to waltz through like this. And in my own games, I’ve simply seen Crits be... well, not much. You succeed or fail in a way that doesn’t really make much of a difference from a normal success or failure.

Obviously everyone runs their games a bit differently, and there’s not anything wrong with having silly story moments or more low key interactions at your table if that’s what works for you. But lately, I’ve been trying to challenge myself to make moments in my stories more engaging, and that includes handling Critical Failures and Successes. So I wanted to share a few different ideas, philosophies, etc... on how to handle these rolls! Hopefully you find some things to apply to your own games as well! 

(This is mainly on how to make the most of your Nat 20s and Nat 1s - if there’s interest I will make a different post about how to handle problems with it, such as succeeding the impossible and how to curb that without players losing “faith” in their Crits)

Everything below the cut because it’s a tad long...

Making Things Interesting

This has been a guiding philosophy for me lately in all of games, as I strive to make sure that every choice made, while still narratively coherent and satisfying, is also as interesting and intriguing as possible. I want my players to feel enraptured with every moment, and that idea has carried over into my narration of critical fails and successes.

In the past, I wasn’t very good at handling Crits, especially the failures. In a combat, if a player rolled a Nat 1 for their attack, my response was often to have them just.... drop their weapon, or a spell just failed to cast. It wasn’t very interesting and proved to just irritate and frustrate the players because it was a minor inconvenience that resulted in a wasted turn and nothing more. Similarly, Nat 20s in many non-combat situations were the same as usual successes with the added flourish of “You do it flawlessly” Which was.... fine, but not very exciting. This year, I started to try and change things.

When a player rolls a Nat 1 or a Nat 20, I take a moment to pause as I think “What would be the most interesting thing to happen in this situation? What bad thing could completely shift the tide in this one moment and introduce a new conflict/what amazing thing could shift everything in their favor and create a satisfying and exciting moment for all?”

A recent example I’ve had of this - My players were navigating through a massive underground cavern, and were entering a larger room that was pretty dark and had some unique traits that had been different from the rest of the cave system. I had my players roll Perception, to see how many of these details they picked up on, and one of the players rolled a Nat 1. Now, in the past, I would have made some joke about them being too busy watching their feet to make sure they didn’t trip that they didn’t notice anything happening around them. But this time around, after some consideration, I decided on something different.

What if instead, they were so focused on trying to see something, trying to see anything, that they started seeing and hearing things that weren’t really there. Many of us have been in that position before - it’s late at night and you get an uncomfortable feeling so you look around in the dark of your room, and suddenly you feel like you definitely saw something move out of the corner of your eye, or heard a shuffling noise. So that’s what I did.

While the other players started to get details about how the cavern was carved out, signs of drawings on the walls, etc... the player who rolled a Nat 1 became convinced that they could hear whispers and shuffling in the darkness, could see dark shapes flitting about just at the edges of their vision. They started to panic and nearly started blind firing spells in an attempt to chase whatever it was off and had to be coaxed the rest of the way through the cavern.

Instead of a forgettable moment, it become a defining experience for this player as they navigated through the cavern - an experience that has shaped them in some way. And that’s the goal.

How Do You Want To Do This?

If you’re a fan of Critical Role then you’re familiar with this line and the excitement it can summon up. This is something you can carry into your games as well in regards to Critical Successes.

Now obviously not everything is going to be something you can give any player control over. But allowing the player the opportunity to really bring the vision of their character to life for an exciting conclusion to an encounter, or for any epic moment really, does a lot to build hype and excitement in the game. It make players eager to see that 20 come up on their die, and gears them up for what is coming next.

The easiest place to put this into practice is in combat. Obviously this works incredibly well if they get a Critical Strike that finishes the enemy off, as you can give them full control of the narrative if you’d like. However, there are still ways to apply it in the combat even if they aren’t finishing it off.

I try to reward my player’s combat crits by turning the tide of the fight pretty drastically, allowing them to stagger or even cripple the opponent with their attack. If your players seem eager to engage with narrative and add their own flavor and flare to the actions of their character, this can be a great place to allow them to do so. You can tell them “Your attack manages to cripple the opponent’s arm - how do you want to do this?” And let them build their role in the story. It may not be quite as spectacular as you had originally imagined, or perhaps its something completely different from what you would have done - either way, it is likely to get your players more engaged, and way more excited for these strikes.

Extra Rewards and Penalties

Finally, and something I’ve already vaguely alluded to in the previous sections, you can handle Crit Fails and Successes with “extras”. Sometimes a player fails or succeeds a task where there’s not a lot you can do with it - Maybe they’re picking a lock, and they roll a Nat 20 to do so. There’s unfortunately not a lot they can get beyond succeeding to unlock it (unless you had planned additional traps or something that they can now bypass) so in these instances, I try to think about what extra they might get out of the situation.

Maybe as they re-positioned themselves to finish unlocking the door, they jostled a nearby potted plants and noticed that just in the dirt was a small ring of keys that may be able to be used on other doors or chests within this place. Maybe, if you were planning an encounter in the next room for a guard they were going to alert coming in, they find that guard asleep and you mention that the player was so expertly silent with their lockpicking they didn’t alert or awaken the guard, allowing the players to bypass him altogether.

Obviously there are still some limitations here, and it may not be the most exciting thing, but it can still elevate a success from “Yay, you did it just like you would have if you rolled one of the other 3 numbers” to being something special. This same principle can be applied with Nat 1s, if they fail at something that simple can’t have consequences. 

I mentioned my Perception example above, but sometimes a Perception check simply can’t be twisted into anything more. So in addition to them missing out on whatever was going to be noticed, give them something extra to focus on instead. Maybe they trip over something and twist their ankle - not enough to have major mechanical effect, but enough to be frustrating and something to keep them preoccupied from the other information. Or perhaps they see something that is ultimately useless but stands out to them - a shiny pebble on the side of the road that has a strange green hue to it. If the player really plays along and even takes the pebble, trying to determine what it does, this is something you can potentially play with later. Maybe the pebble is a mark used by goblins to track potential people to rob? Perhaps the stone grows bigger every day until they start receiving movement penalties. They possibilities are truly limitless.

There’s obviously a lot more you can do, but these are the things I’ve been trying to incorporate into my own games. I want there to be magic to seeing a 20 come up on the die, and a sense of dread to seeing a 1. I don’t want it to be a minor annoyance, I want it to be a defining moment in the story.

As mentioned at the top - I will look at doing another one talking about how to handle Impossible Successes and Failures if there’s some interest!

[pinkplantmakesstuff]

I’ve written a thing about Alec based on past personal experiences, so big warning for suicidal ideation and suicide attempt. 

I’m not entirely sure if I want this to actually happen in Alec’s story, I’m erring on the side of not at the moment or even at all, but I wanted to write a thing because I’m doing so much better then I ever was but I wanted to write something I related to back when I was having a real bad time. (January is a weird time for me because of this lmao, not bad but weird!)

This only has Caithe and Logan in it because like I said it’s heavy stuff and I’m not sure I even want this to actually happen in his story, but out of all the npcs those are the two who I think would be around and Alec would feel like he could turn too. (Canach too, him and Alec get on REALLY well and I reckon he would know about this situation but I didn’t wanna add anymore characters)

Also the ending is kind of “And things got better the end” coz things for me DID end up getting much better, and it’s hard to write that up in the equivalent of a fictional made up universe. Right enough rambling here’s the thing, Trigger warning: for Suicidal Ideation and Attempted Suicide.

Alec absentmindedly scratched at his throat, it had been several years since it had happened, and the burning sensation only flared up when he was truly angry. The symbols he’d carved into his chest had long since faded too, no trace of them remained. It was as if his body simply rejected the concept he’d been originally trying to achieve.

He smiled slightly, though one of reflection rather than happiness. It had taken a lot of work but he felt secure in the knowledge that regardless of anything that happened he wouldn’t go down the same path.

Looking back he thought about what happened.

-

He hadn’t initially started researching ways to prevent coming back. Originally it had been morbid curiosity, perhaps an idea of sealing away his beastly powers forever after death. Over time it turned into a failsafe, a last go to measure, and from there it developed into a constant thought at the back of his mind.

Trying to learn about ancient magic was hard, especially given Alec couldn’t read. Instead he turned to the small yet growing collection of books he’d gathered that only he seemed to understand. Their contents were scattered at best and he was sure it changed frequently, but the knowledge contained within was old and dark. It left a bad taste in his mouth as he went through them, their subject matters often always celebrating destruction and the pain of others, but he continued on, flipping through the pages looking at anything that might prevent someone passing to the mists. At first the books showed him ways to become a lich, but he rejected those, pushing on further through the densely packed scribbles. It seemed as though the text knew what he wanted to achieve and tried hiding it, but he was nothing if not determined.

Eventually he was able to cobble something together. It seemed he needed a seal - a lock to prevent him coming back again. He practiced in his notebook, hand shaky as he tried copying the curving and swirling shapes. It took time before they resembled any of the old language he’d slowly grown accustomed to seeing. Even his own writing seemed to want to change into anything but what he’d drawn, but it seemed he held sway over the language when drawn in his own hand as the more he practiced the less it changed.

The sigil was step one, step two required something easier to obtain. Going over all the options he reckoned poison would be the best bet - something to destroy his body before his magic would have a chance to heal itself.

Alec went to Caithe for that, framing it in a way that looked like he was helping Taimi with dragon research. She hadn’t even questioned it, as why would he lie? It would take time she said, she had to gather the right ingredients and brew them together. He helped with the gathering, in his mind this was still just a precaution right? A last resort.

When Caithe handed him the vial she’d smiled as he’d thanked her, the weight of it heavy in his hand. She explained it was deadly, a painful concoction that destroyed the consumer from the inside out. There was an antidote, she made one too in case Taimi wanted to study that, but it had to be administered quickly. He promised he’d send them to Taimi right away, but that lie came with a guilt that weighed in his stomach, adding to the already grim secrets he felt like he was keeping.

If the others had noticed a change in attitude they never mentioned it, but he doubted they had. He was just as quiet as ever, always pushing forward through each obstacle without complaint, pushing through each injury as if it were nothing. The bubbling anger in his chest remained constant - a sharp fury that struggled to climb out of his throat. An anger that would lash out and hurt people if he wasn’t careful. He refused to acknowledge it however, letting it fester inside him instead.

As the days pressed on the constant “what if” grew and grew til it was an all-consuming thought. What if he snuck away, and drank the vial here, what if he waited and did it there - it was no longer a what if to an escalating situation, but now a when.

The night came after he bid farewell to his travelling companions; Caithe was heading to do a goal she would not fully disclose, and Logan had been called back to Divinity's Reach. They’d parted early in the afternoon, and the moment they were out of sight he was acutely aware of the vial and notebook in his bag.

Once the sun had slunk beneath the horizon, he found his hands moving automatically, his movements almost mechanical in nature. He removed his shirt, painstakingly carving the seal onto his chest, just enough to draw blood. Once completed he sat inside his tent, it only took a moment for him to uncap the vial and down the contents. 

The burning was agonizingly painful and his hands flew up to his throat. The words on his chest seemed to react, and he could feel them trying to squirm into any other shape then the one he’d carved but to no avail. And then, he slipped into darkness.

For a moment there was nothing.

Then the next thing he knew he was violently throwing up a mixture of poison and black blood. Someone’s hand was on his back, another in his hair stroking it. He was aware of muted voices and being lent against someone’s shoulder, before he passed out again.

The next time he awoke he was in a bed. He shifted and let out a groan. The marks he’d etched into his chest stung but were wrapped in heavy bandages, and his throat felt torn and shredded. Opening his eyes and saw Caithe by his side, watching him intently. As soon as she saw he was awake her eyes lit up.

“ ‘m sorry.” His voice was hoarse, barely more than a whisper.

She shook her head and gently took his hand. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” 

Behind her Alec could make out Logan, who looked tired yet relieved. The other man took a seat beside the sylvari, and at Alec’s request helped him sit up.

They sat in uncomfortable silence for a moment before they all started trying to talk at once. 

“I really am sorry-”

“I should have said something I knew something was up-”

“Thank the gods you were okay I was so scared-”

And then Alec started laughing, not his normal gentle chuckle but as close as it could be with a destroyed throat. The angry viscous ball nestled in his felt dislodged, instead he simply felt physically and mentally exhausted. Logan and Caithe paused, letting him go first.

Then they started talking, properly.

Alec explaining what he’d learnt, the anger he’d been feeling all these years and how he was just so scared he’d lash out. Both Caithe and Logan listened, no judgement from them except blaming themselves with how they’d let Alec slip into such a mindset. He forgave them, it was no one’s fault really, but he was grateful they were there now. They took in turns to stay by his side while he slept, and over the coming weeks they took it slow while Alec recovered physically - taking a break from the draining awful job they had of saving the world, and instead took time to be, in their opinion, as normal people as they could be.

-

It had been several years since then, an incident that only the three of them knew about. 

They didn’t really talk about it as time passed, it was in the past and he'd grown better at recognising his emotions and powers since then. 

No longer was this grey cloud hanging permanently clouding his every thought, instead, despite everything, he was able to keep going; taking time to appreciate and enjoy more of the little things regardless of how small. Sure there were bad days, but now he was equipped to deal with them.

[danetobelieve]

I Spy With My Little Eye || Darwin, Rio and Winston

Usually, when people invited Darwin it was always about some demon that needed to be banished, or the occasional booty call. In this case it wasn’t a demon, but something definitely suspicious anyway: Winston had asked his expert opinion on a knife and... An eye? Pictures had been sent, but the messages had been vague, the sort of short responses you only give when your current project is eating most of your time away, or when it’s troubling you enough that you don’t feel like sharing much over the internet. Whatever Winston had gotten themselves into, it must be something big. Something dangerous, judging by the carvings on the knife. Darwin liked to think of himself as a demonic expert, but even he had some trouble identifying the symbols on the weapon. Which is why he’d asked Winston to see it in person: books were fine, Darwin had even brought a few with him in his bag, but in his experience a hands-on approach was always the best way to get answers. Which is why he now stood there, bag filled with tomes and various supplies, lips slightly twisted in an excited smile. Dangerous, sure, but interesting nonetheless. Too bad Bertrand would have to miss this: Winston had mentioned a roommate, and Darwin couldn’t be sure they’d be as welcoming about fashionable yokai as Winston had been. After a moment to fix his clothes, he knocked. “It’s Darwin. I brought something.”

Winston had been working with Rio for a bit now. Ricky was off working out, training or something else that would make Winston sweat and wheeze. But they were making progress, at least, they hoped by it. The carvings on the knife were beyond Winston and every search of the internet that they had done on the images carved into the knife hadn’t been all that helpful. There were just too many resources to be able to reliably cut down and some of the answers that they were getting were conflicting or just downright contradictory. “Hey Darwin,” Winston said with a yawn as they opened the front door a mug of coffee already on the way up to their lips, “we’re in the workshop I’ll show you the way.” Winston turned and led them through the house to where the old garage had been converted. They were in the corner that was Winston’s, a mess of notes and old leather bound tomes were scattered across the parts of the desktop not covered by wires, the keyboard or the mouse. A bank of screens on the wall were each running their own individual search. Some cross referencing, some image searching and some running through key phrases. “Darwin, this is my friend Rio, Rio this is Darwin, he’s … an expert.” 

Winston has mentioned that somebody would be dropping by that would hopefully be able to help with the research. Orion hoped that he could, because the two desperately needed it. They had cleared a small space in the workshop for Rio to set up an area, and Rio had taken full advantage of the given space. He had pulled whatever books he could fine at the Scribe building on demons and stuffed them in his book bag to bring back home. Now they laid spread across his desk space, sharing it with various cans of energy drinks. Rio had been going on about twenty seven hours without sleep now. His eyes were bloodshot and his pink hair was a tangled mess, but he kept it hidden beneath a baseball cap. He was also incredibly jittery, the sugar rush of the energy drinks being the only thing keeping him going at the moment. Rio heard Winston and Darwin coming before the door opened. He leapt up to hop over and extend his hand out to the man here to help. “Hey there! So happy to have you here! We need an expert. How are you?”

“I don't know if I'd call myself an expert after having seen your setup here...” Darwin looked around the room with a low, impressed whistle. “You've been busy, I see.” Most of the screens and wires were as alien to Darwin as runes and rituals were to the common folk, but there was no denying the two had been poured their heart and soul into whatever they were researching. He turned to Rio and shook his hand. “Darwin Asrani, at your service.” For a moment he hesitated, wondering if the young man would recognize the last name, and if so what he'd make of it. Being an Asrani came with a certain reputation, one that would give Darwin credibility in his 'expert' role, but could also cause some tension. Then again, the two seemed way too exhausted to care about his family, for which Darwin was grateful. “I'd say I'm more well rested than both of you. Is... Is that a first edition?” The sight of tomes like those laying so close to coffee and drinks made him shudder a little: his book store may only be a cover, but he still cared about knowledge. “Well, the sooner we begin, the sooner you two can get some sleep. I've brought some books as well, I think I recognized some of the symbols on the pictures you sent me.” Darwin took out a couple of tomes and gently added them to the pile on the desk. Like most of the books in his private collection, they were old and written in a language long forgotten. “I'm afraid I couldn't understand most of what was written in there. I got this as payment for a... Favor I did for a friend. But maybe if we cross-reference them with whatever you have here we could...” He let the sentence hang, twirling his moustache for a few moments. “Anyway, what are we looking for, here, exactly?”

“Sleep is for the weak, finals season is worse then this.” Squinting at the book for a moment, Winston grabbed the mug of coffee and poured it into the one they already had in their hand before placing the coffee mug next to the book. Placing it in the microwave in the corner, Winston shrugged. “It might be? I don’t know about first editions but it has some very fascinating information in it that helped us to … well more questions.” Winston forgot about their coffee as Darwin kept talking and began to explain their point of view. “Okay, so the situation is that we’re pretty sure there is a demon in the lake, big squid demon. It’s been cordoned off by the police but a few of us managed to get close to the lake hoping we could do some recon and get a real look. Instead, we actually ran into a cult, well, we say cult, we don’t actually know. They were wearing robes, chanting in a long dead demon language, had their eyes sewn shut and their eyes in their hands somehow? Anyway, we beat feet and got out of there but we’ve got some samples.” Winston pointed at some of the photos they had taken, both of the cultists by the lake and of the eyes which they were keeping on ice in the back of their freezer (the tupperware was brightly labelled and Winston didn’t know what Ricky’s problem was). “Rio over here has been working on the language and I’ve been trying to analyse the eyes as well as run searches through the database of information we’re collating. It had made sense to give them home access to all of the digitised information that Rio had accrued. “So, I guess we’re trying to work out what the dagger says and find out anymore information on this stuff that we can?”

Admittedly, Orion didn’t even feel that tired. Most likely they had reached some sort of numbness, long passing the point of exhaustion and entering some state of sleep deprived and caffeine fueled hysterics. “It is first edition. The Scribe who owned it was a friend of the original author.” Rio answered nonchalantly, remembering the signature on the inside of the first page. Sometimes he felt like he hadn’t even made a dent in the Scribe library, which in a lot of ways he hadn’t. But other times like these he finally thought he was making some progress. “The creepy cult people kept making mentions of the water and ‘joining the bodies’. It makes sense to assume that they mean the lake when they say water just because that’s where the cultists were, but I haven’t really found anything to prove that yet. I was able to hunt down the translation for water in the language. It’s written on the white board over there.” Rio babbled, pointing haphazardly towards the board while he focused instead on type books Darwin had brought along. “Woah. These looks old.” He ran his finger along the spine and stared at it in wonder, “Can I start looking through them? If I can find a match somewhere in these books with the what we know about water and bodies and joining then I bet we can pinpoint the language.”

Darwin blinked. “You... Suspected there's a giant demon in the lake and you decided to take a look? No wonder Hellhounds leave you unimpressed.” Darwin tried to make sense of everything Winston and Rio told him. Squid demon was too vague a clue: most demons adapted their form to fit humans' expectations of a monster, and the imagery of tentacles had been present enough throughout history to become sort of a staple. Eyes and hands were also pretty common in demonology: windows to the soul, the tools with which someone shapes the environment around them... Off the top of his head Darwin could think of four Greater demons who would appreciate something like that, but two were supposed to be just a legend, one had been banished and the other was always depicted as a spider, not a squid. And none of them had a particular interest in water, or joining bodies. “They were chanting, you said. A ritual, maybe a prayer of some sort? What day was it? Lunar phase? The moon often matters when water is involved, something about the tide. And I'm assuming you crashed the party and interrupted them, right? If so, they might try again. If I were you I'd try to keep an eye, pun intended, on the lake during the next few days. Demons don't appreciate their cultists missing Sunday's mass.” Darwin was about to ask even more questions, but he figured the two already had enough on their plate, so instead he nodded at Rio's request. “Knock yourself out.” He walked to the pictures, picking them up one by one and studying each of them for a few moments, focusing more on the ones depicting the knife. After a couple of seconds, he pointed at one of the symbols on the blade. “This one here, I think it has something to do with energy. Or spirits, maybe, not sure. I saw the same symbol in the black leather-bound book on top, you might find something in there. Oh, and... That's a first edition, too.” A weird flex, but one Darwin couldn't help: he might not have only three degrees of separation between himself and the author, but his collection had always been his pride and joy.

Shrugging, Winston gave Darwin a smile. “Yeah, well, I’ve found that if I don’t actively try and solve these potentially town ending problems then it has less then enjoyable consequences. Especially after the mimes.” Winston began googling so that they could answer Darwin’s questions. “That is a good point, it was like four days ago and on a day after the full moon which means that it was a waning gibous, I can’t believe that we didn’t consider lunar phases affecting tidal currents within the lake. I mean, or something like that.” Winston remembered Kaden opening fire without warning with a wince. “Yeah, well crashing the party wasn’t exactly something that we volunteered for, but yeah, I think they would probably go back. The place is meant to be being watched by the cops, but I’ll see if I can set up some cameras in the area so that we can at least get an idea about it. I might even be able to get it on the police budget…” they scratched their head thoughtfully and made a few quick notes on a sticky note. Raising an eyebrow at Darwin’s comment. Winston had to admit that they didn’t understand the whole first edition being a boast thing. Sure the book was older and therefore more valuable, but edition 1 was usually the one with the most problems that were slowly fixed and made worse in edition 2,3,4 and so on. “Energy and spirits, I can run a search on other symbols that are used for that,” Winston tapped a few buttons and symbols began to arrange themselves into a grid on the screen in front of them as their search results loaded in, “I don’t know if that helps though….”

It only took Darwin’s approval to dive into the book, skimming through the pages as Orion listened to Darwin and Winston continue the conversation. Rio had to admit that he wasn’t exactly well versed in the lunar cycles, but maybe it was something he should start learning. It wouldn’t be too hard to incorporate the lunar calendar into his own and memorize the patterns. But that wasn’t important right now. “You can keep a hold of the knife if you’re looking at that. I have the pictures that Kaden sent me.” Glancing through the book Darwin suggested, he came across a symbol that he recognized from some of the Scribe books he had read on a similar subject. He rushed over to the white board, sketching some of the symbols that he had found that he thought looked similar to the symbols on the knife. Then he brought the picture on his phone up and propped it against the board, zooming in on various spots of the picture and trying to mention it. “These symbols look pretty similar to this sketch on the knife. Something about a shelter or home. There’s something else on the knife that matches with the symbol. Another part of the word or something. I’ll keep looking.” Rio exclaimed, excited that he was working with another first edition. To think that the author of this book had personally put this together, that it was his own words on the page was fascinating. “The squid itself is an interesting choice for a demon. They’ve been seen as a sort of monstrous creature for a long time. The Kraken dates all the way back to the 13th century.” He spoke, mostly to himself as he worked. Something about the familiarity of the subject made the unknown of the thing they’re studying a bit calming. “I don’t know that being a squid is necessarily related to the demon. But considering the connection to water my guess is that choosing some kind of aquatic creature was specific.” 

“Cameras are a good idea. If I wanted to hold a ritual nearby a place full of cops I'd try a sleeping spell first. Or illusions. Memory spells would work too... It's easy to deceive the human mind, but cameras? I for one would not have thought of that. I'm too old-fashioned, I suppose.” Darwin shrugged before clearing his throat. “I should note that I do not make a habit of holding dark rituals in the moonlight, cops or no cops. I have better things to do with my spare time.” People were quick to assume the worst of a demonic expert, sarcasm and deflection had become second nature to him. Putting the pictures down, he moved behind Rio, watching carefully as he added notes and compared symbols, going too quick for Darwin to really follow. “Water definitely seems to be a recurring theme, yes. Perhaps what we're looking for is something involving both shelter and water. And over there, zoom on that picture, please...” Again, he nodded. “That little hook at the end of that rune is often used to represent a sign, a warning. Winston, can your fancy computer see if there's anything that would involve all of these things? A shelter, water and a warning? Maybe a place where the... Joining of bodies, was it?... can take place. Or maybe...” Darwin's musings were cut short by one of the screens beeping, and he turned to look, hopeful. “I want one of those. Wouldn't know how to run anything on it except Minefield, but I want it. Has it found a match for the spirit bit?”

“I mean, we don’t know that they have magic necessarily,” Winston replied with a shrug, “but yeah, cameras sound like a good idea, hopefully they won’t think of it.” Pausing for a moment, Winston laughed a little at Darwin’s joke, maybe it wasn’t a joke. Winston wasn’t sure that Darwin struck them as the type to have moonlit rituals. At least this was good natured fun research, for once they weren’t nearly dying. At least not yet. Winston grabbed their coffee and swallowed a mouthful that was now piping hot. Winston followed Darwin’s instructions carefully and listened carefully to their conversation. Honestly, this was a little out of their league but it was all so fascinating. “Cross referencing everything is something I can definitely do,” Winston set to work, setting up the specific search parameters before setting the search going. The screen beeped with results far faster then Winston had expected, but at least they weren’t going to be sitting around waiting for ages. “It looks like this is something to do with a lighthouse y’know, like the old timey beacon thing, look over here, you’ve got multiple symbols for lighthouses, both in terms of a nautical capacity and as a geographic location. I guess it makes sense right?” There were a few old newspaper articles, various other search results were flashing up in the background too.

Some time had passed since they had first started diving into the research. When Orion found that he had started dozing off while looking for something relevant he reached beneath his desk and cracked open another energy drink. “A lighthouse?” Rio questioned, perking up at the discovery and glancing over at the screen to see what Winston had found. “That fits the theme of water!” They were getting somewhere, they had to be! “Obviously lighthouses have a functional purpose, but beyond that they’re used as a religious symbol. It’s seen as some sort of spiritual guide. Not sure if it that has any connection to the spirit symbol on the knife or not.” He sighed. Maybe he was trying to find a connection where there wasn’t one. He studied the blade of the knife again. Noticing some slight differences between symbols that he had originally thought to be similar. “Hm. The first time I looked at these I thought these were the same.” He pointed at the knife, “something to do with joining or coming together.” He flipped through the book again, spotting down a symbol he had glanced over the last time. “But I think right here looks more like some kind of transformation.” He made a correction on the white board, looking over the change that had been made. “So joining the bodies like Nell said, and then transformation of spirit and something about a lighthouse.”

Darwin listened carefully, his eyes darting quickly between Rio and Winston, and suddenly he found himself wishing he had some coffee as well. “Lighthouse. An odd thing to put on a ritual knife, but you're right, lighthouses have been a recurring religious symbol in the past, which would definitely fit with a crazy cult. Perhaps their purpose was to... Summon a lighthouse? Or rather, a beacon. To guide something... To the place of the ritual?” Darwin shook his head, unsure. Pacing back and forth, he went on. “Lighthouse beacon, joining of bodies, transformation of spirit...” He repeated those words over and over, their only clues. Could it mean the ritual was meant to guide a spirit to join with its original body, transforming its form from incorporeal to very much corporeal? Wild speculation at best, they didn't have enough information to be sure of anything. Darwin pinched his nose and sighed. If only he'd been there to witness the ritual, maybe he could be of more help. And then a crazy idea started to take root in his mind, and he moved to his bag. “So, most people would find what I'm about to suggest... Shady, at best. But I've done something similar in the past, and I can promise, it yields results. You said you have samples, and I've seen pictures of an eye. Do you, by any chance... Have said eye?” Instead of bracing himself for their reactions, Darwin simply left them no time to react and continued. “During big rituals there's always some sort of... magical residue, and the eye was at the center of it all. It might be possible to channel that residue and let us... See what the eye saw. Its memories, so to speak.” Mental magic, the other Asrani specialty. Granted, Darwin had never used it on an eye, it shouldn't even be possible: dead things have no mind, no memories to share. But then again, magic was life, and the eye probably had been bathed in it multiple times. Chances were, it was less of an eye now and more of a focus, and as such he could use it.

“Lighthouses could also mean somewhere to avoid maybe?” Winston thought that it seemed like a long shot but whilst everyone was riffing and spitballing they might as well throw something against the wall and see if anything stuck. “Lighthouses are there to show where rocks are right, so maybe it’s something like that?” Winston wasn’t convinced. Listening carefully to Darwin’s suggestion, they thought for a moment before nodding carefully. “gimme a sec and I’ll get the eye, does anyone want anything from the kitchen while I’m there? I might get some snacks, I don’t remember when I last ate.” Dashing to the kitchen, Winston returned with arms laden with various treats and a carefully wrapped eye that had been retrieved from the lake and carefully stored in their fridge-freezer. “So, what exactly do you need us to do?” Winston was aware that this was something that could potentially be viewed as somewhat shady by other members of the magic community. But Winston had deliberately refused to join a coven to avoid any conflicts of interest like this and as long as everyone was volunteering and no one got hurt Winston wasn’t exactly sure what the problems were. The ethical implications seemed fairly clear cut for once.

“It’s true, in the literal sense that serves the dual purpose as both a warning, not to get too close and a signal that land is near. If I was more fluent in the language I may be able to tell some sort of difference. Just like English has its nuances to the language. Context clues provide a lot more detail when you’re trying to paint an entire picture. Unfortunately we’re going in sorta blind.” It wasn’t the most optimistic of views, but Orion was mostly pointing out that he was disappointed he hadn’t had more time to learn the language. Not that learning some creepy ancient demon language was particularly high on his priority list. The last thing he needed was to accidentally summon something, which would have been his luck. “You kinda ruined the appetite asking if we wanted food in the same sentence as saying you’ll grab the eyeball.” Rio shrugged. He had tried to wipe the memory of the eye from his memory anyways, so the idea of doing some creepy ritual using the thing was… well it wasn’t something Rio was about to jump for joy at. But it was the best shot they had at trying to piece some of the loose bits of information that they had together. Plus, Rio knew he was just going to go along with whatever Winston did anyways. Wasn’t that what he had been doing for weeks now? They were some kind of kryptonite. “This sounds terrifying but uh- I guess I don't have any other ideas. So let’s get started.”

“Context clues, that's exactly what I'm hoping to get from this little... Let's call it a seance, it's less unnerving than 'foreboding dark ritual'.” Darwin commented with another shrug, perhaps a bit too comfortable with the idea of digging through the memories of an eye that was most definitely part of some twisted cult. Most of what Darwin studied and did was considered questionable by the majority of other magic users, but as far as Darwin was concerned results were what mattered, and he got results. “I'm also going to need a bowl, one that you don't mind throwing away. And maybe some orange juice? I love me some orange juice.” While Winston was away, Darwin dug through his bag, taking out a carefully wrapped dagger, not unlike the one they've been studying for what felt like hours. The runes on his were of channeling and protection, of course, but to the uninitiated Darwin was sure it would've looked ominous; that's why he'd asked the juice: he figured the explanation of what they were about to do would be more comforting if given with such an unassuming drink in hand. “Mental magic is... Deceptively simple, even a beginner can pull off a trick or two. But here we're dealing with a dead thing, one that we don't know.” For a moment Darwin doubted himself, wondered if they were biting off more than they could chew. Then again, the alternative of not knowing was worse. “We need to bring life to it. Not necromancy, but... Still unpleasant. Blood is life, you see? By sharing our blood with the eye, we might restore some of its energy. And since the blood will be ours, we'll create a... A connection. And that is what will let us see through it. Hopefully. So... When you're ready just put the bowl between us and place the eye inside. I'll get us started.”

“You could just call it a plan, because seance isn’t at all better then dark foreboding ritual,” Winston reached up and adjusted their glasses again, pushing them further up their nose. Winston passed the orange juice and the bowl over to Darwin. “If we could avoid getting anything caught on fire that would be great, otherwise if we bin the bowl I can deal.” Winston watched curiously as Darwin pulled a dagger that look ritualistic from their bag and couldn’t help but admit that they felt a little jealous. They wished they had a ritual knife. Either way, Winston carefully unwrapped the eye and placed it in the center of the bowl so that the iris was facing the ceiling. The white of the eye looked a little less pure in that moment and Winston found the dark hazel iris really unnerving. “Shit, okay, I’ve never done blood magic, this is really cool,” Winston knew that they probably shouldn’t be excited about this but they loved trying new things and blood magic had been fascinating to read about, “oh god sorry this is just really fucking cool.” Unbuttoning the cuffs of their shirt, Winston rolled their sleeves up in anticipation, taking a deep shaky breath. “I’m ready when you are Rio.”

Nothing about a ritual or a seance sounded good to Rio. It sounded terrifying and pretty much every sense of the term. “Nothing’s gonna catch on fire! That would be crazy!” Rio was laughing now, convinced that Winston had meant it as a joke. But he quickly sombered up when he realized that he didn’t know much about the world that he was currently diving into. “Wait… like seriously? Woah.” Now he definitely didn’t want any part of this. But it was too late now. “Cool is definitely one word for it.” Rio mumbled in reply to Winston. Maybe Rio was a little excited, but only because he had never seen anything like this before. He would have much rather read about it afterwards or watched it from afar rather than experience it himself. Winston was unrolling their sleeves to get ready. In the movies, didn’t they always use the palm of their hands for some reason? Rio wasn’t thrilled at the idea of rolling up his own sleeves. Now wasn’t the time to have to explain the scars that laid beneath his hoodie, but he would if he had to. For now, he just held his hand out towards Darwin, shutting his eyes and bracing himself for the pain. “Let’s get started.”

Darwin smiled again, doing his best to be reassuring when he noticed Rio's reluctance. “This is more within the realm of mental magic, to be fair. Blood is an ingredient, but the focus of the ritual will be to connect our minds to the eye. Blood magic is... Not my specialty. But like all the Arts, magic often draws its power from multiple sources.” It felt good to share his knowledge with these two. Darwin was used to working alone, and before that he was used to being the apprentice, never the mentor. He wasn't a fan of the responsibility that came with the role, but the admiration? He ate that up. “I should also warn you... Mental magic is subtler than other branches. There won't be any fireworks in this particular spell, so no fire hazard. But that doesn't make it any less powerful, and there's a good chance we won't be seeing rainbows and unicorns, so be prepared for anything. Am I making myself clear?” He waited, letting his silence weigh heavily on the other two as he moved the small flame from his lighter across the blade. “Here we go.”

Before Rio could have any second thoughts, Darwin grabbed his wrist, gently yet firmly. The scars were noticed, but Darwin spared them no thought, too focused on his task. A small cut on Rio's palm was all it took, and Darwin tried to make it as quick and painless as possible, offering Rio an apologetic smile. Then it was Winston's turn to go through the same process. “Let the blood drip in the bowl and look at the eye. Look through the eye, let it show you what we seek.” Darwin winced as he sliced his own palm, a shallow wound that quickly drew a thin red line on his hand. He closed his fist above the bowl and let the blood flow, drop by drop. Words of power followed in a low whisper. Those well versed with languages might recognize words such as 'connection' and 'sight', and what sounded like a request. In his rituals Darwin never demanded, only suggested: he wouldn't taint his magic with slavery, he was better than that. The other two followed his example, letting their own blood mix with his in the bowl. The air around them grew cold, and then impossibly hot, and the red liquid started to react to Darwin's energy. Small ripples at first, and then bubbles as the blood started to boil. And then something unexpected happened. Darwin felt a surge in power, one he hadn't anticipated, strong enough that he was sure the other two must have sensed it too. Darwin looked at them with what could only be described as panic on his face as he realized he was unable to stop the ritual: another force, one Darwin didn't recognize, was pulling from the other side, keeping him from severing the connection. The eye started rotating in the bowl, spinning faster and faster, focusing its dead pupil on each of the three. They'd wanted a connection, alright, but this ran deeper than Darwin expected. Smoke rose from the bowl as the level of the boiling blood kept rising. Darwin felt his own eyes moving in sync with the dead eyeball, and then he stared in horror as the dead thing stopped moving and started to melt like candle wax. The last thing he saw were three red tendrils slide up, towards their closed fists still dripping blood in the bowl. He felt his hand being opened by force and something slide inside the small cut he'd make. And then, he saw.

Third eyes were really not what Winston had expected from this. Not at all. But as the blood spiralled from the bowl and funnelled into their hand, Winston could really see. For the first time ever. It was different from normal sight. They could still see everything in front of them, but somehow they could also see everything else that the eye was showing them. Winston looked down and saw the eye that had been in the bowl was somehow set into their palm and for a second they could see their own face looking down at the eye and then there was darkness. A thick fog enveloped their vision and when it began to clear Winston could feel sweat pouring down their back, their legs shook but the vision kept going. The fog was getting less thick now and Winston spotted a light in the distance, and then another one, and then another, the lights slowly blinking open. Wait, no, they weren’t lights, rather giant eyes that rolled and spun to fixate on Winston. Bloodshot veins ran through the eyes in jagged lightning bolts of crimson and scarlet, cutting across the pale white backdrop of the eye. The irises seemed to spiral and blur, running into one another in a constant never ending whirlpool that was somehow spiralling and still all at once. The eyes didn’t seem to have a body to them, and yet they sat their, hanging in the darkness and blinking. There was a creature, Winston couldn’t see it’s body. Just it’s mouth. A long, purple, leathery skin covered a jaw that protruded from the darkness. Long, jagged and uneven teeth stick from the bottom lip. The teeth are cracked, scarred and chipped, they’re clearly used to tear and grind. To mash and chew. To rip and maim. Yet they’re a perfect, snow white. The colour of which Winston has never seen. The colour so bright that you can see it in the darkness before you notice the rest of the mouth. 

At first, Orion had no idea what was going on. Whatever magic Darwin was using, it seemed to be working. He was mumbling about seeing, a rather pointed line considering they were pouring their blood over a frozen eyeball. But then the eyeball leapt. Or moved or did something and suddenly it was attached to Winston. “What the heck is it doing to him?” Rio yelled out, beginning to move but suddenly being unable to. Oh god, this must be part of the spell or maybe it was something the eye was doing to them. Rio had no idea what was going on. But he had a sense of dread that had washed over him as he suddenly felt like he was being watched. He didn’t know the full scope of it until the eye hopped from Winston’s eye and began sliding across his arm, the tendons trailing behind the eye as it scurried to its new victim. Finally, it hopped over to Rio, still unable to move or jerk away from it. Goosebumps shot up his arms when the eye touched him and it easily slid into the cut that Darwin had made.As soon as the eye latched on, that’s when Rio figured out the true scope of why he had felt being watched. He could see them. Thousands of eyes. Some attached to the walls and some their own lone creatures, chained down and jerking around, ooze and blood dripping from them as they fought to be freed. What was this? Rio could only hear the room they were in, but whatever he was seeing seemed so real, so disgustingly vivid that he felt like he could hear the chains rattling and the sound of blood dripping onto the floor. Worse, it was like the monsters were staring right at him. The veins that ran through the eyes were dark red and blood escaped from them, coating the eyes with streaks of blood mixing together with all the others, creating a sea of blood between the monsters. It wasn’t like anything that Rio had ever seen before. He had never felt so dark or scared in his entire life. He could feel the tears escaping his own eyes. He needed these visions to stop. Jesus, he would do anything to make it all stop.

The notes and screens in the room blended together with visions of bones and raw muscles pulsing to a macabre beat, and Darwin couldn't make out what was real and what was just a cruel trick of the eye. There was something malicious in it, something ancient and powerful that he could not hope to push back. He stood there, cold sweat sticking to his neck as he was helpless to stop what was happening. Darwin witnessed Winston and Rio being assaulted by that dark, foreboding energy that had been awakened by the spell, he watched as the eye moved from one to the other. And then he knew, it was his turn next. Unable to react, Darwin swallowed back an anguished scream as the eyeball disappeared from Rio's hand, but when the evil sphere latched onto his own hand and made its way inside the pocket he'd unknowingly carved for it he was unable to hold back a whimper, equal parts fear and pain, and he turned around in a futile attempt to escape. His vision blurred, and the room was replaced with a terrible sight. Barren lands, grey hills covered with dark mist and darker thorns, haunted by creatures that he'd only read about, and some he never even imagined. Black leathery wings surrounded him, a swarm of bats with luminescent claws. He raised his hand to protect his face, the eye still blinking ominously on his palm, and when Darwin lowered the arm he was met with another sight, a mass of monsters. Hounds, and grotesque hybrids that vaguely looked humanoid, some of them dripping what looked like acid. Fangs and screeches surrounded him and Darwin grabbed his head and knelt down, crawling back. “No, no, stop!” That last word was an anguished scream, covered by the sound of the bowl falling to the floor. His back was against the small table, his breath heavy. He looked around, and everything looked just like it had before they'd begun the ritual: sticky notes covered the walls, empty cans of energy drinks were scattered all over, books were exactly like they'd left them. Finally he stood up and turned to face the other two, voice trembling. “Are... Are you alright? Did you see?” With a sudden realization, Darwin lowered his eyes to his hand. Instead of the cut he saw what could only be described as a closed eyelid, but of the eye no trace. “The... The eye. Where is it?”

Drenched in sweat, Winston could feel their clothes sticking to their skin. Their exhaustion was beyond palpable. Their chest rose and fell in laboured attempts to drag oxygen to their brain as a bead of perspiration rolled down the end of their nose and dripped onto the floor with a plop that was so quiet it deafened Winston. Looking down at their hand, the eye had returned to their palm and was looking back up at them, but the visions of the monsters had stopped. “It’s in my hand,” Winston said with a wince as they flashed them their right palm and showed them the beady eye sat in the center of their limb. “Fuck, that, was weird as shit. Do you think- do you think that is what the cult is trying to do?” They had seen terrible terrible things. monsters that they hadn’t ever been able to comprehend previously. Ghoulish creatures with bones that jutted through skin at odd angles, razor sharp teeth and talons, rough skin, scales, fur and eyes. So many eyes. They bored into Winston’s brain as they did everything that they could to forget the terrible things that they had seen. A tear rolled down the side of Winston’s face as they sat there, exhausted. “Oh fuck, that was pretty fucking bad wasn’t it?” 

[dzenwitch]

Gemstones & their meanings: 40 stones for magick and meditation

Looking for stones for your magickal toolkit? Here’s a crash course in 40 of the most commonly available crystals and gemstones. Working with crystals can improve your personal energy, amp up your spellwork, and help you create the life you desire. This handy guide will help choose the right crystals for you, whatever your goals might be.

After you’ve read these crystal meanings, I encourage you to spend some time gazing at and handling your crystals. Crystals are a hands-on, eyes-on, heart-on hobby. One of the best ways to study them is to visit with them. It sounds kooky, I know—but many stones will tell you all about themselves if you take the time to listen.

Collecting crystals is a blissful and transformative experience. Here at Grove and Grotto, our own crystal work has undeniably changed our lives for the better. But I never recommend crystal magick as a substitute for medical care. If you’re seriously ill or distressed, get qualified help before rock shopping, mmmmkay?

Here they are, in alphabetical order, 40 magickal stones and their metaphysical uses:

Amazonite 

Sea-green Amazonite carries all sorts of positive meanings: Serenity, creativity, and brave self-expression. It is one of the best talismans for artists and performers. It clears self-doubt and inspires love of beauty. Amazonite is found in a pale celadon hue (see picture) in Brazil, China, and Africa. The bright turquoise variety is a new discovery and comes from Madagascar. 

Amethyst

One of the most magickal stones on Earth, Amethyst is a favorite of witches, healers, shamans and seers. Purple is a color that is seldom found in nature, and Amethyst has an exquisite vibration to match its rare hue. Amethyst is great for meditation and for managing the emotions. It calms anxiety and balances fear and excess. Amethyst gently stimulates dreams and visions, inspiring you to become your highest self. There are countless colors and shapes of Amethyst, each with slightly different properties.

Angelite

A lovely stone with a lovely name, Angelite is formed by the compression of Celestite over millions of years. (Yes, it is actually condensed heaven!) Angelite is soothing and uplifting. It is a popular choice among Angelic healers, channelers, and lightworkers. Angelite can assist in making contact with ancient guides and smoothing the way toward higher states of awareness. Don’t get Angelite wet—it didn’t wait all these millennia just to turn into calcite in your jacuzzi, thanks. 

Apatite

Apatite is a semi-precious gem that can be found in a wide range of colors, most often green or blue. Apatite is a stone of confidence, truth, and creativity. It is used by energy workers to help balance overactive energy centers and stimulate underactive ones. Apatite is a wonderful crystal for working with the Third Eye and Throat Chakras.  It helps awaken and develop gifts of clairvoyance, telepathy, and lucid dreaming. Apatite brings mental clarity and improved communication. It makes it easier to speak to others with authenticity and directness.

Black Onyx

Black Onyx is a glossy dark gemstone that evokes the deep and restful properties of Earth.  It is a stabilizing, balancing stone said to assist with mastery of the body's energy. Black Onyx can strengthen determination and willpower, and help bring wisdom in difficult circumstances.

Black Tourmaline

One of the premier protective stones, Black Tourmaline has long been used as a shield against evil spirits and negative energy. A Root Chakra stone, it helps in grounding and releasing stress and emotional baggage. (It is especially useful for empaths.)  Black Tourmaline is also considered a lucky stone—rub a piece of Black Tourmaline when you need a little extra boost of luck!

Blue Aventurine

Blue Aventurine is a naturally colored Quartz crystal. Sometimes called "Blue Quartz" it gets its color and shimmer from tiny inclusions of other minerals. It combines the energy-boosting properties of Quartz with the soothing quality of the color blue. In crystal magick, Blue Aventurine is used for stress relief and healing of the heart and mind. It gently enhances communication and stimulates creativity.

Blue Calcite

Blue Calcite is a calming, relaxing stone with an especially high vibration. It is used in rituals of healing and purification, or carried as an amulet to relieve pain and anxiety. Blue Calcite corresponds to the element of Water and the Throat Chakra. It gently amplifies energy and assists in recalling dreams and astral travel. Calcite is also found in yellow, green, orange, and pink varieties—but Blue Calcite is certainly the most beautiful.

Blue Goldstone

Blue Goldstone (or Blue Sandstone) is a dark blue, almost purple stone with tiny sparkles throughout. It is formed by adding copper salts to molten glass using a unique cooling process. This synthetic gem was reputedly accidentally created by Italian monks practicing alchemy, hence the name Goldstone. Despite its laboratory origins, Blue Goldstone is a very popular choice for mystical items. A piece of Blue Goldstone looks just like a midnight sky full of stars! It is an inspiring stone that encourages confidence and courage, and places one’s dreams within reach.

Carnelian

Carnelian is a red-orange, semiprecious stone that has been prized since ancient times for its captivating color. Its bold energy brings a rush of warmth and joy that lingers, stimulating courage and desire. Carnelian resonates with the Sacral Chakra, and is traditionally worn to inspire love and passion. Carnelian may be solid orange or have red and white bands—the banded variety is sometimes called Red Agate.

Citrine

Citrine is a member of the Quartz family of minerals. Golden and sparkling like a drop of sunlight, Citrine is said to bring the solar qualities of warmth and happiness to the wearer. Because Citrine resonates with the Solar Plexus Chakra, it stimulates vitality, willpower, and personal strength. Citrine is said to be one of the only crystals that cannot hold negativity, and experience bears this out. Try to charge a piece of Citrine with crappy vibes sometime and see how long you can keep a frown on your face. Quite a lot of the Citrine on the market is heat-treated Amethyst—the two are chemically similar and are sometimes found together in a stone called Ametrine.

Clear Quartz

Clear Quartz is possibly the most versatile and magickal of all gemstones. Clear Quartz amplifies energy and thought, acting as a powerful aid to psychic perception. It balances and revitalizes the subtle bodies and brings all the chakras into harmony. Clear Quartz makes an excellent “memory stone” because of its ability to absorb, store, and release energy. It may be used in combination with any other stones, enhancing their effects. Clear Quartz is often used in crystal grids to direct and amplify the energy of the other stones. Special designations like Record Keeper Quartz, Lemurian Quartz, and Phantom Quartz are sometimes used. They may refer either to the shape of the crystal or the patterns of inclusions found within.

Dalmatian Stone

Dalmatian Stone (sometimes called Dalmatian Jasper) is a beige stone with black spots like a puppy dog. You might think, then, that this stone is related to the doggy world--and you would be right. Dalmatian stone is used to cultivate loyalty and enhance family bonds. An earthy stone, it helps ground and connect you to the here and now. Some people use Dalmatian Stone to boost communication with canine familiars.

Fluorite

Fluorite is a highly structured crystal that may be clear, green, purple, blue, yellow or a mix of these colors.  Green Fluorite is the most common. It has a fresh, clean vibe that matches its spring-green color. Fluorite offers an organized, high spiritual vibration to any person, place, or object it touches. It helps to disperse chaotic or stagnant energy. Fluorite may be used to cleanse and balance the aura, boost mental acuity, and protect the bearer on the physical and psychic levels. Green Fluorite resonates with the Heart chakra and promotes feelings of abundance and well-being.  This unearthly stone also helps interdimensional communication, especially with Nature Spirits and Fae folk.

Garnet

Garnet is a stone of love, strength, glory, and devotion. Garnet has been prized since at least Egyptian times, when it was known as the "Blood of Isis." Dark red in color, Garnet is considered to be Root Chakra stone with a protective vibration. Use in crystal grids and charms for psychic shielding. Garnet is said to help balance the energy system and encourage love and loyalty.

Green Aventurine

Green Aventurine is a quartz-based stone colored by mineral inclusions. It is one of the best all-around crystals for prosperity, happiness, and well-being. The name comes from the Italian word for chance, and carrying the stone is supposed to protect a person from bad luck. Aventurine is linked to the Heart Chakra. It promotes creativity, contentedness, and feelings of abundance.

Hematite

Hematite, a natural form of iron, is a strongly grounding and protective gemstone. The ancients noted it for its resemblance to blood, and the name means “blood stone.” Hematite is common in protective amulets because of its mirror-like quality—it is said to deflect any negativity deflected at the wearer. (Some also use Hematite mirrors for scrying.) Synthetic Hematite (known as Hematine or Hemalyke) is often carved into shapes for jewelry. Just about every teenager loves Hematite, and that’s probably no coincidence. It is excellent stone for anyone experiencing mental or emotional strain.

Howlite

Howlite is a white stone with wispy veins of grey. (Howlite is frequently dyed to make imitation Turquoise which is how most people first encounter the stone.) This humble mineral is useful for calming an overactive or troubled mind. It aids in dispelling fear, resentment, anxiety, and anger and replaces them with gentle self-awareness. It is known as a stone of wisdom and compromise. Working with Howlite can help you learn to communicate difficult issues without causes offense. Some also use Howlite as a sleeping aid.

Labradorite

Labradorite is a variety of feldspar known for its iridescent optical effects, or “now-you-see-it-now-you-don’t” flashes of color. Usually green-grey, the stone has spectral shades of blue, green, and copper. In crystal lore, Labradorite brings deep spiritual insight and connection with the other realms. It stimulates mental and intuitive gifts and acts upon the entire energy body. Labradorite is also associated with Faery trickery and portal magick. High-grade Labradorite is sometimes marketed as Spectrolite.

Lapis Lazuli

Lapis Lazuli is a deep blue semi-precious stone that has been prized since antiquity for its rare color. It often includes tiny specks of gold-colored pyrite, which make it shimmer like a sky full of stars. Lapis Lazuli is regarded as a stone of harmony and truth. Its deep, celestial blue remains the symbol of royalty and honor, gods and power, spirit and vision. Lapis Lazuli resonates with the Third Eye chakra, expanding psychic awareness and stimulating attunement to higher wisdom.

Lepidolite

A variety of Mica, Lepidolite is a lilac-grey stone with a subtle shimmer. In crystal healing, Lepidolite is a stone of serenity. It contains the element Lithium, a natural mood enhancer. Lepidolite is said to relieve stress, assist with healing and balancing, and gently encourage spiritual growth.

Mahogany Obsidian

Mahogany Obsidian is a little-known version of the popular volcanic stone.  It gets its brick-red color from the inclusion of small amounts of iron oxide. Originating within the depths of the Earth, Mahogany Obsidian resonates with the Root Chakra. It supports integrity and courage, even under difficult circumstances. Use Mahogany Obsidian for protection magick, ancestor work, and underworld journeying.

Malachite

One of the most prized ornamental stones, Malachite is characterized by its green bands and whorls in a variety of patterns. Malachite has a long list of positive effects for the crystal user: Boosting personal energy, stimulating creativity, blocking negative emotions, and transmuting trauma into wisdom. Malachite is an ore of copper, the metal of Venus. As a Venus stone, Malachite guides you to appreciate the beauty of the natural world and engage deeply with its pleasures. Malachite is also associated with wealth—both material possessions and the spiritual wealth that comes with experiences of love.

Moonstone

Found in soft shades of white, pink, and bone, Moonstone is soothing to look and to hold. Moonstone is connected to the magic of the Moon, and is traditionally used as an amulet for travelers, a token of love, and a symbol of mysticism. Moonstone is said to comfort and soften the heart while it stimulates the psychic mind. Rainbow Moonstone, with its iridescent flashes, is especially prized as a stone of Lunar magick.

Moss Agate

Moss Agate, also known as Tree Agate or Dendritic Agate, is a semi-opaque stone with swirls of white and green that look like moss. All Agates are respected as healing and protective stones, but Moss Agate is a special favorite of green Witches. It is especially attractive to nature spirits and can assist you with making a deeper connection to the Earth.

Prehnite

Prehnite is a yellow-green stone that may be translucent or opaque. It often contains needles of black Rutile. One of the best stones for healers and wisdom-seekers, Prehnite helps you confront tough realities with patience and grace. It helps to heal the heart, removing old hurts and blockages from the energetic body. It has the power to “heal the healer” and is a valuable amulet for empaths. Prehnite supports magickal learning at a safe and sustainable pace. It unlocks gifts of empathy and clairsentience. Some users report that it aids in past-life recall.

Pyrite

Pyrite is a cubic mineral often called “fool’s gold” —but only a fool would neglect its magickal uses. Pyrite’s mirror-like surfaces are said to deflect negativity and ill luck when carried as a charm. Its name comes from the Greek word for “fire” —like flint, Pyrite-bearing stones can make sparks when struck together. A mineral of the Sun, Pyrite is associated with all the Apollonian qualities: Logic, success, clarity, confidence, and vitality. Pyrite’s resemblance to gold nuggets makes it an obvious choice for money-drawing magick.

Red Goldstone

Red Goldstone (or Red Sandstone) is a red-orange gem with tiny golden sparkles throughout. It is formed by adding copper salts to molten glass using a unique cooling process. It is a Root/Sacral chakra stone that encourages creativity, confidence, and drive.

Red Jasper

Red Jasper is a strongly protective and healing stone. Historically, Red Jasper has been a talisman of warriors and a token of strength. The red color comes from deposits of iron oxide. This iron resonates with the Root Chakra and with the blood, and aids a person with grounding to the stabilizing energies of the earth. Red Jasper promotes vibrancy, endurance, and stability.

Rhodonite

Rhodonite is a pink gemstone with veins of black Manganese creating a marbled look. All mixed stones are thought to aid in reconciling and balancing opposing energies. Rhodonite is a particularly powerful healing stone for relationships. It encourages clear communication, emotional stability, and releasing of fear from the heart.

Rose Quartz

The sweetheart of the crystal world, Rose Quartz is known as the stone of unconditional love. Rose Quartz emits a calm, peaceful energy. It soothes the heart and helps one to overcome past suffering. Wear an amulet of Rose Quartz to learn to become more loving and more able to accept love from others. Rose Quartz is commonly used in love-drawing spells and charms.

Ruby Fuchsite

Ruby Fuchsite is two minerals in one—precious red Ruby and soft green Fuchsite. It is a popular mineral for healing wands and massage stones. A heart-centered stone, Ruby Fuchsite encourages personal transformation, compassion, and trust in others. Ruby Fuchsite is an excellent emotional healer. It helps with self-integration and balancing the messages of the intellect and intuition. Ruby Fuchsite instills a sense of peace and protects the user from negative emotions brought on by the words and actions of others.

Selenite

Selenite is a variety of gypsum, a mineral related to Quartz.  It is known as the stone of clarity, and is renowned by crystal lovers for its high vibrational frequency and peaceful energy. Selenite resonates with the Crown chakra, helping to connect the use with higher wisdom and intuition.  It gently opens all the chakras, preparing the etheric body for energy work.  It is an excellent choice for meditation, healing work, and spiritual discovery. Selenite is quite soft—softer than most of the other crystals on this list—so don’t soak it in water or let it knock around with your other stones.

Serpentine

With its spotted green and black appearance, Serpentine is named for its resemblance to snakeskin. Sometimes called “New Jade,” Serpentine is found in various patterns in deposits around the world. It was known to the ancients, who used it as a talisman against snakebites and poisons. Serpentine is one of the most psychically active Earth stones, and some specimens contain deposits of Magnetite (natural magnetic stone). Serpentine encourages the unlocking of magickal secrets and observation of the spiritual planes. It is an excellent complement to wisdom-seeking and shamanic practices. Partner with Serpentine for rites of initiation, deep meditation, and working with kundalini energy. Because its powerful energy can be disruptive, Serpentine is often paired with balancing and grounding crystals.

Sodalite

Beautiful, swirly Sodalite is mainly blue with deposits of White Calcite mixed in. It is related to the stone Lapis Lazuli. Sodalite is an excellent stone for promoting mental clarity and self-expression. Because Sodalite’s blue hue resonates with the Throat Chakra, it is said to aid communication. Sodalite helps dispel anger, helping the user handle difficult situations with grace. It may stimulate latent psychic and creative abilities.

Snowflake Obsidian

Snowflake Obsidian is a type of natural volcanic glass, created when grey crystals form in rapidly cooling black lava. Obsidian has long been considered an especially magickal stone. It is strongly protective and cleansing. Use Obsidian to banish negative energy, and to delve deeply into inner truths. Obsidian is a gemstone but not, precisely speaking, a crystal—the molecular structure is amorphous rather than crystalline.

Sunstone

As its name hints, Sunstone is bursting with gentle solar energy. It brings warmth and radiance to meditative or magickal practice. It is a stone of leadership and personal power, as well as abundance and generosity. Sunstone combines the fiery power of the Sun with the grounding Earth energies, making it an excellent stone for manifesting your desires. Use Sunstone to strengthen your resolve, boost charisma, banish doubts, and inject fresh positive energy into any project or relationship. Most consider Sunstone to be a Sacral Chakra stone, but it can also awaken and soothe the Solar Plexus and Heart Chakras.

Tiger’ Eye

Tiger’s Eye is a natural Quartz-based stone that comes in gold, red, and blue varieties. Gold Tiger’s Eye corresponds to the Solar Plexus Chakra. Tiger’s Eye combines the brilliant energy of the sun with the grounding properties of earth and stone.  Using Tiger’s Eye is said to improve focus, will, and personal power.  Just like the fierce animal that is its namesake, Tiger’s Eye inspires courage and grace—and the ability to act decisively without illusion.

Unakite

This unique stone was first discovered in the Unakas mountains of North Carolina.  It is a granite-like stone with mottled green and pink patterns. Its other name, Epidote, means "growing together" in Greek. In crystal healing, Unakite is used to draw off negative energy from the Heart Chakra. It is said to encourage confidence and healthy balance, and to aid in resolving personal differences.

[ramblinganthropologist]

Writober 2020 - 14 (Tomb)

Summary: Kaas isn’t mad... ok that’s a lie, he’s mad. Wouldn’t you be? Then again, what was he thinking sending two necromancers into a tomb?

---

“Alright you two... I promise I'm not mad.”

That, of course, was a lie. Kaaras could feel the vein throbbing in his forehead as he glanced across the desk at the two standing before him. Ian and Trevy looked less than comfortable standing before him, hands behind their backs like they had been called in to the principle's office. Yet despite everything, he got the sense they were pleased with their efforts.

Damn it all, it was impossible to lecture a mage who was pleased with the experiment. He should know, he grew up with one.

“Everything's working exactly as we planned it out.” Ian grinned, as he rubbed the back of his neck. There was no contrition in that gesture, or he was Orlesian. “We have it completely under control, trust me!”

Trevy nodded next to him, so hard her headband almost slipped down to her nose. She, he noted, was practically bouncing on her heels at the news. Oh no, they'd gotten the reasonable one. “The plan's foolproof, we went over it enough times before leaving.”

Kaaras sighed as he pinched the bridge of his nose and leaned back in his seat. Already, he could feel the headache coming on. Some days, it just didn't pay to be in the Inquisitor. “Creators help me... why don't you just start at the beginning?”

Why did he get the feeling his headache was going to turn into a migraine at this rate? Must've been the gleam in their eyes...

---

“Are we even  in the right area anymore?”

“We must be, it feels right.”

It was a lovely day, and somehow they were out on their own.

Trevy glanced down at the map she had been given, comparing it to the landscape. Apart from the trees being bigger and the smoke from a village off in the distance giving her some pause, it was the right area. Here, if they found the entrance, would be the first of the tombs they would need to check for signs of Red Templars laying in wake. They had gotten reports of them gathering in the area, but nobody had been able to find them. At least, not above ground anyway... the ground looked pretty, but underneath it was positively chock full of ancient tombs from families who had sought to bury their dead there.

Plenty of hiding places for templars. So... send in people good with knowing the signs of grave robbing to check.

Ian placed his hand to the ground and closed his eyes. He stayed like that for a few minutes, still as the grave itself. Then his grin returned as he stood, dusting off his gloved hands. “Yep, there's definitely one beneath our feet, and I'm guessing the entrance is hidden in those bushes. See how they're shaped funny? I bet there's a door leading to a ladder.”

The inquisition agent who had been assigned to help them (read: keep an eye on them) nodded as he followed them into the aforementioned corpse. A few moments of digging around, and they found a half-rotten door that opened to a dark hole and a ladder. Trevy went down first, and soon the other two joined her.

Underground, it was dark until Ian cast a light spell. That's when they got the full picture of the dark, dingy hole they found themselves in. Once, torches had lined the walls to guide those with business there. Centuries of disuse and neglect had rotted them to the wall, plunging them into darkness. Off in the distance, water dripped and rats squeaked.

Just like a proper tomb to have ambiance.

“D-Do we really have to go in?” Their guide was sounding less than excited at the prospect. Ian and Trevy exchange looks above his head, before nodding. Then it was the taller of the pair's turn to act, smiling as she did.

“If you want, you can guard this entrance. If we find anything, we'll call to you. The way this passage is shaped will make hearing us pretty easy.”

The poor man nodded. “Will you... can you leave the light? It's dark here... I can't see my own hand in front of my face without it.”

A second light was generated and left with the agent while Ian and Trevy left to go deeper into the tomb, still following the map they had been given. With every step, their hearts began to pound a little faster. The architecture was getting older, reaching to before the last Blight if their lessons were correct. Whatever was left in here was old.

Old... and probably powerful.

“Yep, there's the family crest.” Ian jabbed his index finger at a carving above the door that would lead to the main crypt. “Pretty sure we're about to enter the vault. What did your research turn up about who rests here?”

Trevy pulled a hidden note from her pocket and read it by the light. “Quite a few strong warriors, this clan was well known for berserkers... but it's the 3rd head of the family who is particularly of note. Legend said he was buried with the bones of a dragon he slew in combat.”

They exchanged grins at the mere mention of dragons. True, this mission was really about checking for Red Templars... but if they got a little work in, did it really hurt anyone? Besides, there could be enemies hiding in the main crypt. It was most likely dry and protected from the elements. It be the perfect place for a sneak attack.

The pair exchanged high fives before checking the door for traps. They weren't rogues, but they had been in enough tombs to know where to look. Arrows twanged as they set a few off on purpose – and maybe one by accident – and they both stepped back as the battering ram soared past. Pretty typical turn of the age stuff, in remarkable condition despite the location. Clearly, the family had put some money into this.

Oh well, that made the goodies on the inside all the more enticing.

Inside, there were a few more traps laid among the dusty stones that surrounded the marble slab coffins. Nobody in this family was Andrastian, so they hadn't burned their dead. Instead, they had been kind enough to gift wrap them for anyone who came by...

Particularly, two very curious necromancers who hadn't had a chance to test their new pet theory out yet.

“Remember, he's the 3rd head so he's probably back a ways. Look for the family crest that has the dragon in it they added it after him.” Trevy was already checking the lids of coffins, hand trailing along the surface like she was caressing a lover. “Even if you don't find him... ooh... we got a good family here, don't we?”

Ian sounded positively giddy off in the distance. “Remember how you said he was buried with the bones? You weren't fucking kidding, come check this shit out!”

Trevy practically skipped among the tombs as she raced to find her cousin. He was towards the back, at the largest settlement. Here, the sarcophagus was wrapped with bones that made her heart skip a beat. Diagrams lept out as she figured body parts and where the muscles should have been on the creature in life. A glitter entered her eyes as she looked at her cousin.

“Does he have his sword?”

Ian beamed as he motioned towards the lid. “It's kind of heavy, mind giving me a hand?”

For two mages, they didn't do a bad job of getting the lid off. Adrenaline must have helped. Whatever did, it sent up centuries of dust that even they had to cough and sputter at while it dissipated into the stale air. Once it did, however, they had full view of their prize.

“Maker's breath, he's beautiful.”

It wasn't every day you saw a skeleton in full armor with a sword between its hands, much less surrounded by the bones of a small dragon that definitely looked like it could have worn a saddle at one point in life.

“There is no way we're walking away from this.” Trevy sounded giddy as she turned to her cousin. “Did you bring the potions, I think we're going to need them.”

Her cousin responded by shaking his bag, in which tinkled a few bottles of something they definitely shouldn't have brought with them. “Stocked up before we left. Shall we get to work?”

“I was hoping you'd say that!”

---

“So... you found the bones of an ancient warrior and his mount...”

Yep, that headache was a migraine now. Kaaras could feel it pounding between his horns as he looked at the two in front of him. Technically he didn't need their story – he had plenty of reports of a skeletal warrior all but bursting out of the ground on the back of a creator some said was a wyvern, and others said was a dragon. Either way, skeleton man popped out of the ground and gave  a lot of nice people heart attacks.

Definitely not a good look for the Inquisition.

Trevy was still nodding. “It took a few potions, but we managed to imbue a few basic commands into him.”

“Protect the village was the one we worked hardest at.” Ian was glowing. “Also if he saw any Red Templars to just utterly wreck their shop and let us know afterwards. We left a raven with him.”

Great, a skeletal raven had joined the party. Were they trying to scare people to death?

He sighed, breathing deeply so he didn't yell. “And you thought this was appropriate because...”

The two exchanged glances and the urge to hit the desk forehead first was never stronger. Ian he could understand, but Trevy was another story. She was supposed to be the reasonable one of the pair. Apparently, reasonable was relative with necromancers.

“Well, we can't protect the area without help. And this one will keep running because we made the power source the dragon bones.” Ian was ticking off his fingers. “And the one we locked it to is pretty well secured, so the Red Templars would have to smash the whole skeleton before they found it.”

Trevy added with a way too enthusiastic grin, “And if they tried that... well... he wasn't the only one down there.”

Kaaras felt his eye twitch. “What?”

No. Fuck no. He was not dealing with this today.

The pair looked rather impish as they exchanged glances. In the end, it was Trevy who decided to let the cat out of the bag as she stepped forward, a piece of parchment in her hands. She laid this on the desk, brushing away what had to be grave dirt as she did.

“Well, we figured Red Templars would eventually figure it out and come calling... so we may have asked some of his relatives to keep an eye out for us. This one, this one, and that one are on active guard duty.”

She jabbed at a few circled tombs. “And there's two others that are latent. They'll only summon if they actually get down to the crypt.”

“But don't worry, we coded Red Templar as the activation. Some goat herder wanders down, he's just gonna shit himself because of the skeletons. They won't bother him.” Ian finished, tapping the map. “We made sure of that.”

Great. So the booby trapped, skeleton-filled tomb was laid in such a way that the local villagers would only be fucking terrified of them instead of dead. Just what he needed to hear after having to assure them the next Blight wasn't coming down around them. His head was throbbing... this was just a nightmare.

Worst of all... it was proving effective if the reports were anything to go by, so it wasn't like he could really say anything.

So he sighed, feeling his head pound. “Right... of course.”

“Don't worry, Inquisitor, we thought of everything.” Ian sounded way too confident in that. “So... we good? Because there's a lot of books that need re-shelving in the library since we've been gone.”

He sighed as he wave them off. “Yeah go... go do that. I'm going to start writing a very long letter to the mayor of the town you terrified.”

The pair left, leaving him to his misery. Kaaras massaged his temple as he stared down at the paper in front of him. Saying it was a nightmare was putting it mildly, but in the end it had been about his only option.

That agent was fired, or demoted or... something.

“You should've sent Scout Harding or Krem-puff to keep them in line.”

Another headache. Kaaras sighed as he felt a familiar pressure settle onto his shoulders. No doubt Jackel had heard the entire story from multiple people by now, and she had most definitely been in the room, so there was no need to explain to her what was going on. He just had to sit through the reaction to it afterwards.

He pinched the bridge of his nose in the hopes his head wouldn't explode. “Bad idea. They would've done worse if their crushes were there to see it.”

“Yeah, true.” She tossed him a piece of chocolate as he started to work. “Josie wouldn't let me go because I'm a bad influence or something. That's on her.”

Kaaras munched away as he waited for sanity to take over. “Akri, Hissra, and I wouldn't have fit... and I wouldn't have asked the first choice there anyway. Owain is pretty much useless too, and anyone else  I would've asked was busy. It had to be those two.”

Sending necromancers to a tomb... the universe clearly hated him.

“Hey, they get results at least. That place is set for a couple centuries.”

Yes... and so were the nightmares of everyone who lived there. Kaaras wasn't even sure how to begin the letter he needed to write besides a giant 'I'm sorry I sent necromancers into a tomb but I didn't have a lot of options to pick from' at the beginning. That was as good a place as any, but maybe he needed to punch up the language a bit.

Ugh... next time he was just going to break himself in half and go down himself. What a headache.

[smallmediumproblems]

They’d been gone too long.

Jon knew it in such a bone-deep, paranoid way that he almost discounted the feeling out of hand. He didn’t have instincts anymore, just information, and anything that he might have called a “gut feeling” was more likely to be coming from somewhere distant and cobwebbed than inside him. He shuffled farther away from Daria’s corpse. Towards the inside of the store. He could no longer hear Static Man carving through whatever had attacked Morgan, and, as he had observed previously, silence was not a good thing to hear from him instead. Morgan was gone, gone to get them a quick escape route when they were ready to leave, and if they weren’t fighting, it meant that one or the other party had been defeated and something was holding up the survivors.

What it all added up to was simply that they had been gone too long.

Jon examined the entrance. The corn snake from earlier, having been dislodged from Jon’s tape recorder, now observed him from near the door.

“I’m not totally helpless,” Jon informed it. “I can buy them some time. Enough for them to escape.”

A wave of nausea bubbled up through him as he spoke. “It’s not like I used any serious amount of energy, fighting that spider woman. I certainly didn’t overdo it to get back at her.”

The corn snake regarded him impassively.

“Look, I can still cause a distraction,” Jon insisted. “I’m not just the Archivist.”

The corn snake didn’t disagree.

“Right,” Jon said quietly, taking a step towards the door, and then another. “Right.”

The interior had been a very cozy workshop at some point in the recent past. Long, low tables were overturned over the splintered remains of wooden bench seats, and several plush armchairs had been eviscerated across the room. The place smelled of raw wood and thick leather. In the center of the chaos, a large green orb was embedded partly into the floor. Jon could just barely make out something that looked like a human inside.

“Nick,” he called out, running to the orb. The room was deserted, with no sign of whatever had caused the carnage. “Nick, is that you?”

“What-” Nick whirled around to face him. He didn’t look in as bad shape as Morgan had, but had clear scratch marks digging all the way through his shirt into his skin. “What are you- Get in! They’re still here.”

A clacking, rustling sound filled the air, and from underneath the destroyed furniture dozens of bodies began to emerge. They were only barely recognizable as the clerks from the fabric store. Some looked freshly made, with tattered gingham skin and crisp, clean aprons, while others were more plant matter than fabric. Jon was extremely distracted by one that had several googly eyes pasted over its face. Nick seized his wrist and dragged him into an opening in the orb, which closed up as soon as he was inside.

“Congratulations,” said Nick, “Now we’re both trapped. For as long as I can keep this barrier up, at least.”

“What happened to-”

“Gone,” Nick growled, “He’s gone, we’re on our own. They ambushed us just as we were about to leave.”

“...shit,” said Jon.

“Yeah,” Nick agreed. “I take it there’s nothing you can do to get these things off us?”

The swarm of clerks was growing larger as more and more of them emerged from hiding. The first wave had reached the barrier, but seemed unable to break through.

“Not this many,” said Jon. “There was someone out front I had to deal with. I’m a bit worn out.”

“Did Morgan make it out?” Nick asked immediately.

“She’s fine,” Jon assured him. “She put the finishing touches on that particular conversation.”

Nick nodded, doing some mental calculations. “Good. That just leaves us.”

From the looks of it, Nick was already well into brainstorming his escape plan. He had a fistful of small papers that he was now folding methodically and stowing into a shopping bag. Under his jacket sleeve, Jon could make out something that looked like runic symbols scribbled onto his skin in smudged marker. He didn’t take the time to See what they meant. It was safe enough to assume it wasn’t anything good.

Whatever stage his planning had gotten to, he seemed to think that Jon would be an addition to his resources rather than a drain on them. “You’re out of juice, so… The stories, you said you’re powered by stories.”

“Nicholas,” Jon said warningly.

“You know what I have,” Nick cut him off. The statement was back - Capital ‘S’, for Nick, his most valuable one - but Jon bit back his hunger and simply glowered at him. “Will it be enough?”

“Yes, but-”

“Do it,” said Nick. “Ask me about my father.”

Jon took a deep breath, trying to rationalize how this conversation would surely go. “No.”

“Excuse me?”

“I won’t do it,” Jon repeated. “Especially not that one. This is hurting you, whether or not either of us admit it, and I won’t do it anymore. Two is too many as it is. I should never have agreed to this in the first place, and neither should you.”

“I’ll be fine,” said Nick. “You know there’s more where that came from.”

“You’re not a bloody vending machine!” said Jon. “It doesn’t work like that.”

“Okay. This is cute, and all?” said Nick, “But now is not the time to feel bad for me. I don’t really get what you want out of this, this whole sappy-”

“I want to apologize,” Jon said over him.

Nick’s expression tightened. He took a step back to lean against the green, glowing barrier. It took Jon a second to realize that he was waiting.

“I’m sorry,” said Jon, not reluctantly but with no small amount of difficulty. “For trying to hurt you just to make a point.”

Nick stared into the open air over Jon’s shoulder rather than making eye contact. Jon took this as a sign that he shouldn’t be finished yet.

“I didn’t want-”

“You weren’t wrong,” Nick said at about the same time. They both stopped short, waiting for the other to continue, until Nick broke the silence again. “You and Morgan. She had a point. I should have told them. I got impatient, and I told myself I could protect them. No matter what happened.”

He waited for Jon to say something smug. There was a time not too long ago when Jon absolutely would have. Now, though, the whole thing just felt too familiar, and he could only think of what he would want to hear if he admitted the same thing. He settled on nothing at all.

“I’m sorry I called you a ‘thing,’” said Nick. As far as Jon could tell, this meant that nothing was exactly the right thing to have said. “You’re not, and I know that. It’s just easier to say than admitting I… Well.”

“You don’t trust people,” Jon finished for him.

“Yep,” said Nick, “That’s the one.”

Nick rested his head back against the barrier. If he was at all bothered by the half-dozen feral plant monsters clawing away inches from his face, then he didn’t show it.

“It’s not easy,” said Jon. “The whole trusting people thing.”

“It’s also not safe,” said Nick. “Some of us have people we need to take care of.”

“Some of us can only wish we still did,” said Jon.

They sat in the dim glow of Nick’s shelter in silence. Slowly, eventually, the clerks started to slow down to conserve their energy. Several of them shambled back into hiding, awkwardly pulling bits and pieces of debris over themselves.

“I’m so sorry about your friend,” Jon added. “You seemed very close.”

Nick lifted his head to give him a blank look. “Static Man? What about him?” he asked.

“Er… Isn’t he, um… dead?” Jon said.

“Oh. He’s fine,” said Nick, looking relieved.  “He’s probably going to be less dead than us when all this is over.”

“What?” asked Jon, “You said he was gone.”

“Yeah, back to his- It’s hard to describe. Back home, I guess?” Nick explained. “There’s a place you can summon him from. In order to have a corporeal form, Static Man needs to be recorded. They crushed my tape recorder, so -” Nick made a cartoonish popping noise with his mouth.

Jon started to laugh.

“What?” Nick asked.

“Can you get him back?” asked Jon, still grinning, “Here, right now?”

“Not really,” said Nick, “I can call him, but we don’t have a - oh! ”

Nick remembered Jon’s tape recorder at the exact moment that Jon pulled it out from his jacket pocket. The cashiers renewed their frenzy at the sight of it.

“You might have wanted to keep that hidden,” Nick pointed out.

“Trust me,” said Jon. “It’s not going to be a problem.”

Nick fumbled for his phone, jabbing in a few numbers on the screen. “Hey,” he said softly into the microphone, “It’s me.”

“Well, hi there, ‘me.’ I’m Static Man,” Static Man boomed from directly behind them in the bubble. His companions swore loudly and scrambled to make room for him, an effort that was complicated when he wrapped an arm around both their shoulders and hugged the whole group into a mound on the floor. “You’re alive! We all good? No more mind battles?”

“How are you this heavy ?” Jon wheezed.

“It’s- No, we’re alright now,” Nick laughed. “He was right.”

“In all fairness, so were you,” said Jon.

“I do that a lot,” said Nick.

“I’m so proud of you guys,” said Static Man, pulling them back to their feet. “Now, what’s popping?”

“This shield, in just a second,” said Nick. The break in his concentration had caused it to dent in several places under the clerks’ fists. “Get ready. Archivist, keep ahold of that tape recorder.”

“Really, it’s fine,” Jon insisted.

Static Man squared up at one side of the bubble, the edges of his barely tangible body fuzzing with anticipation. He was through almost before Nick had created an opening, and managed to tear apart a clerk before the lot decided to give him a wide berth. The three made slow progress toward the entrance. Static Man divided his attention between threatening the crowd in front of him and keeping the occasional straggler at bay. With every step there seemed to be more plant monsters pouring from their hiding places, and with every nervous scan of the crowd they appeared to be getting closer.

A hand closed around Jon’s ankle.

In an instant, he was ripped from the company of his friends and into the swarm. Hands tugged at his arms, his clothes, his hair, but - as he expected - didn’t move to harm him. He hurled the tape recorder away from him, and the distraction gave him just enough of a window to escape. All three of them looked on as the recorder was ripped to shreds.

“Welp, it’s been real,” Static Man said grimly. “Don’t know how you guys are going to get out of here without me.”

There was a short pause as Static Man realized that he was very much not discorporated.

“Wait,” he corrected himself.

The swarm looked around in confusion until one of them pointed to an overturned desk. They fell over themselves to retrieve a second tape recorder from underneath it, tearing it to bits. They looked expectantly to Static Man, who, to their collective disappointment, once again failed to disappear.

“Are you doing that?” Nick asked Jon.

“You know, I’m not sure,” said Jon. He pulled a third tape recorder from Nick’s shopping bag and tossed it to the crowd as well. “I’ve been blaming it on my boss, but at this point it seems far too helpful for that to be the case. Shall we?”

Half a dozen tape recorders and a couple especially aggressive clerks later, they emerged to find Morgan waiting for them with transportation. They were ushered into the cab of a ferret, and did not relax until Jon had punched in a destination and settled into a seat. Morgan started to dole out supplies to herself and Nick from the first-aid kit she’d retrieved from their bags. They moved quietly, but it felt more relaxed than solemn. There was a certain relief inherent in being alive to have injuries to recover from. Halfway through, something occurred to Nick, and he reached into his pocket.

“Oh,” he said awkwardly, “Should probably give you this back.”

He offered Shirley across the cabin to Jon. A large circular flake had been chipped out of her surface, on the side opposite her dark spot.

“No! What happened?” Jon gasped. He snatched up the rock and inspected the damage tenderly.

“It’s part of the ritual, from the tailors,” said Nick. “We needed a piece of a pet rock. I meant to ask you when we got there, but… Yeah.”

“Well, now you’ve gone too far,” said Jon, frowning. “Knocking me unconscious was understandable, but bringing an innocent rock into it is just cruel.”

As the others tried to figure out whether he was joking, Jon retrieved a band-aid from Morgan’s kit and applied it over the chip. Morgan was the first to laugh, although it was short and pained through some well-concealed injury. Static Man followed suit, then Jon, and finally even Nick contributed a smile.

“Do you want to see what they made?” asked Nick.

“Of- Of course!” said Jon, leaning forward eagerly. “I thought you said it was personal.”

“Consider it part of your payment,” Nick commented. He reached into a shopping bag and pulled out a large bundle of tissue paper. As he unwrapped it, Jon tried to formulate a way to tell him politely but forcefully that there was no way he was going to hold them to the original terms of the agreement. Maybe stress the point that he was getting quite tired of being just the Archivist. Consider reminding them that he hadn’t been entirely joking when he said that he needed a nap and some real, honest food. While he was at it, perhaps mention that the statements hadn’t been remotely as satisfying as just having something resembling a normal, human conversation with people who - in spite of all the pretense - seemed quite intent on treating him like a normal human.

Jon had distracted himself quite thoroughly by the time Nick revealed the contents of the tissue paper. He held a stunning green leather knapsack, constructed simply but very elegantly. It had one large pouch, and Jon recognized a piece of Shirley set into a bronze fixing on the flap that covered the top. To Jon’s continuing surprise, Nick held it out for him to examine. The leather was soft, and the silk-lined seams glistened slightly in the light of the directory screen. The whole arrangement was surprisingly lightweight.

“It’s a gift,” Nick explained. “We’re going to visit my sister in a few days. She’s pretty hard to get to, and I think I’ve finally found a solution. Watch.”

He pulled out a second, identical bag, dropped a roll of gauze into it, and gestured for Jon to open the one he was holding. Jon reached in and pulled out the very same gauze.

“You know, she’s always wanted to write you letters,” Jon commented. He tossed the gauze roll once in the air, then across to Nick, who fumbled it spectacularly. “She’s done it a couple times, when things were hard. Just thrown them out to sea. It did make her feel better, if it’s any consolation.”

Nick’s smile shifted tenor. Jon had startled something more genuine out of him, softer and less considered.

“Sure,” Nick said warmly. “Yeah, let’s call it that.”

By the time they were delivered to their destination, everyone had recovered enough energy to look forward to leaving. There was no lengthy walk this time, or even a storefront to navigate. Jon led them directly to a plain metal door set into the wall between two buildings, labeled simply “EXIT.”

A hand settled on his shoulder as he reached for the door handle. He turned to see a very concerned look on Nick’s face. Morgan would have looked much the same if she hadn’t been so exhausted. Static Man was barely watching, instead scanning their surroundings for any new threats.

“It’s alright,” Jon said gently, “We’re nearly there.”

The first thing that hit them was the smell. It was soft and sweet, like something beautiful had passed by leaving only the barest trace. It wasn’t rotten, although it was most certainly dead. Directly inside the door was a mountain of flowers so old and dry that they could have been made from paper. They were interspersed with sympathy cards that called out things like “I’ll miss you!” and “May you find comfort.” Despite the withered quality of the whole arrangement, the colors were still very vibrant. It probably hadn’t seen the sun in a while. At the center was a large stuffed bear giving structure to the flowers, its arms safety-pinned crudely together around a bundle of daisies. It held a sign that looked like someone had scrawled in crayon on the top of a cardboard takeaway box:

For the lost.

“Oh,” Static Man said flatly.

Nick didn’t comment, pushing past into the corridor. Morgan and Static Man left Jon to linger at the shrine a little longer. The corridor itself was unremarkable, as was the door at the end of it. If it weren’t for the shrine, it would also have been fairly unremarkable that the door was locked.

“What did we miss?” Nick muttered. He and Morgan approached to examine the door critically. “Were we supposed to buy a key somewhere?”

Jon crouched down and lifted one of the flowers, drinking in the history. The offerings had been left piecemeal over a long time. Some were from groups that had to leave their friends behind. Others were put there by people who lived and worked in the Arcade, witnesses to deaths that they didn’t like to be complicit in. The shrine didn’t belong to the Arcade. If anything, it existed in spite of it. It was equal parts protest and comfort against the grinding, bloody machinery that made this place - and places like it - function. A very familiar machinery.

He looked down at his mug.

He knew who it belonged to, of course. He’d known ever since he became the Archivist - properly and truly the Archivist, not just someone with the title. He knew she’d kept it after her first university roommate left for grad school. They both agreed their brief relationship wasn’t anything serious, but she could never bring herself to ship this last remnant of her out to Norwich after finding it in the cupboard. And so she kept it. She kept it when she moved into her own flat. She kept it when she started a job at the Magnus Institute. She kept it when she moved into her new office in the Archive, which was not the office she deserved, and in the back of her mind she even planned to keep it when she found somewhere new to go. After the Archive took that chance from her, it kept the mug instead.

Jon knew all about Sasha James. It made it even more hurtful that he didn’t have any memories of her.

He placed a few flowers in the mug and settled it next to the bear. From the far end of the corridor, he heard the unmistakable hiss of a door opening, and the shrine was lit with the soft, tentative first rays of a sunrise.

“By all technical measures, I’d say you’ve more than held up your end of the bargain,” Nick pronounced to Jon once they were outside. He looked nervous, and without being prompted he explained why. “There’s still the matter of what I owe you. I think I’m up to two more statements?”

Jon made a grandiose show of thinking this over.

“Strange. Not by my count,” he said lightly. “We did two, plus the one about your sister. Counting this one, that brings us up to four, which I believe was the number we agreed upon.”

“This… what?” Nick asked. Jon gestured broadly at the Arcade behind him.

“This whole mess,” said Jon. "I wouldn't believe any of this unless I'd seen it myself. I'm still not entirely convinced that this hasn’t been some massive hallucination.”

“That doesn’t sound-”

“I’m sorry, are you the Archivist?” Jon said petulantly. “I think I know what a statement is.”

“Fair enough,” said Nick, smiling.

“I do actually have one more question,” said Jon. “How did you all get here?”

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it,” said Nick. He paused to acknowledge that Jon hadn’t made him answer, although none of them commented on it. Instead, he pulled out his phone and offered it to Jon. “Let’s get you home.”

Jon accepted it hesitantly, as though it might disappear from his hands in some further expression of his supposed madness. It remained solid and real when he punched in a phone number. Nick, Morgan, and Static Man watched with bated breath to see what terrible power the Archivist would call to his aid in this dire time of need. Jon did his best to ignore them while he waited for someone to pick up the phone. A curt, guarded voice answered on the second ring.

“Hi, Basira, it’s Jon,” he said. “How are things?”

There was a pause, and a confused response. His audience exchanged a reverent look at hearing his name. “That’s actually what I’m calling about. Do you think you could send Helen to come get me?

"That’s a bit complicated. The short answer is, I have no idea.

"It’s not- I mean, technically, I was abducted, yes.

"Again.

"No, no I’m alright.

"No, they’re right here. We're, er, friends now.

"They took me to a cafe? They did try to feed me some chips that were, frankly, unspeakable.

"Help with their shopping.

"They appear to be some kind of Americans.

"Yes, I know that's n- No, they’re not affiliated. Not with any of them. One is, ah… he’s something, but not our kind of something.

"Weird does not begin to describe it.

“Erm, hang on-”

He tucked the phone out of earshot and looked to Nick. “How did you get me out of the Archive?”

“Magic,” Nick said, as if this should have been obvious.

Jon looked at him like Nick had unexpectedly punched him in the face.

“Listen,” he returned to the phone, “Just- could you find Helen? I’ll explain everything when I get back.

"I don’t know. Wherever it’s narratively relevant for her to be. She might already be here.

"Sure. Thank you, Basira.”

They stood in silence for a few moments after he’d hung up, until Jon remembered to pass Nick back his phone.

“My name’s Jon, by the way,” he said awkwardly.

“Nice to finally meet you, Jon,” said Nick.

“So, Helen’s going to summon you back?” Morgan asked.

“That is not a thing,” Jon said, “If we’re lucky, she’ll find her way here and you’ll get to meet her. She’s… extremely interesting.”

“Dude, we gotta do this again sometime,” Static Man insisted.

Jon grimaced. "You all are lovely, really, but I would appreciate a bit more advance warning next time."

"Well, you’ve got my number now,” said Nick. “Next time you can call us.”

"That might be nice," said Jon. “I could use an excuse to get some fresh air. If you're ever in London, look up the Magnus Institute. You would legitimately be the first visitors I've had who haven't tried to kill me."

“Wait,” said Nick, stifling a laugh, “Just- London? You’re just, in London?”

“Where did you think I lived?” Jon asked, confused.

The others exchanged an apprehensive look. “An extraplanar prison, like the genie from Aladdin?” Static Man suggested.

“Some kind of library-based hellscape?” said Morgan.

“I thought you were a tulpa when you first showed up,” Nick admitted. “For at least half an hour.”

Jon scoffed. “Please. Some people live normal lives in normal places, like London.” He caught sight of a battered yellow service door in the side of the Arcade behind them. “Perhaps I’ll meet one of them if I stay there long enough. Now, if you’ll excuse me, that’ll be Helen.”

He strode over to open the door for her, and Helen unfurled from the corridors into the dusky sunrise of the parking lot. Her hair billowed as though underwater, and she adjusted her pant suit casually - or was it a pencil skirt? No, definitely a jumpsuit, the romper kind. It was more of an aesthetic concept than an outfit.

“We keep meeting like this,” she said, grinning, “I’m beginning to suspect you only like me for my intangible relationship with time and space.”

“Helen,” Jon said primly, “Good to see you, too.”

“Basira mentioned that you’d made some friends,” said Helen, towering over his shoulder. Jon followed her gaze to see the others huddled together, already reaching for various weapons. “So very lively! It’s nice to see you getting out of your shell more.”

Jon whirled around to face them. “It’s- It’s alright, she’s alright. This is Helen. Helen, this is Nick, Morgan, and…” He knew Static Man’s name, of course, but he hadn’t considered the possibility of saying it out loud until just that second.

“Static Man,” he said reluctantly. His tone, plus how much he appeared to relax once Helen had arrived, put the others at ease.

“Whatever, mister ‘I put a definite article in my name because I’m fancy and important,” Static Man scoffed.

“But I am the- There’s just the one. It’s not like-” Jon’s argument started to putter in a different direction in lieu of asserting that he was both fancy and important. “Look, Static Man is a fine name, it’s just excruciatingly American. You sound like you’re from a comic book.”

“Literally, you are the most British person I’ve ever seen,” Static Man said flatly.

“...yeah, that’s fair,” Jon sighed.

“Charming,” Helen said graciously. “Everyone’s quite cross with you back home. Are you sure you don’t want to go on the run for a while? You’ve got the right shoes for it - goodness, those are hideous, I’ll have to come back for some.”

“I’ve had enough running for today, thank you,” said Jon. "It's time for us to go home."

After their guests had left, Morgan moved to put a comforting hand on Nick's back. "You gonna be okay?"

"Uh, yeah. Why wouldn't I be?" He took a second to parse the look Morgan and Static Man were giving him, and contributed a disapproving frown. "Hey. No."

"Hey, yes," Static Man rebutted. "You got it bad."

"If by 'it' you mean a completely professional relationship with a guy I met literally hours ago," said Nick, "Then yes, I absolutely have got that."

“Please,” said Morgan, “‘You’ve got my number?’ You should have just written it on his arm.”

“Yeah, those were some pretty professional longing stares,” Static Man added. “Dude rescues you one time and you’re ready to take him home. I thought I was gonna have to distract him while you looked for a ring.”

“Look,” Nick started to argue. “I think I’m allowed to be a little impressed by a demigod of secrets and forbidden knowledge.”

“That’s it, buddy, let it all out,” Static Man said reassuringly.

“Which I might have been attracted to,” Nick continued, ignoring him, “If he didn’t - and I quote - ‘have someone he wanted to get back to’.”

“Duel them,” Static Man jeered. “Fight for your star-crossed monster love.”

“Don’t think I didn’t see you both checking out his friend,” Nick countered.

“She was so tall,” Morgan said wistfully.

“I already got one phone number out of this field trip,” said Static Man. “I’m not that kind of guy.”

“Hey, serious question: I wasn’t going to ask in front of him,” said Morgan, “But how are we going to get home?”

Nick did not reach for his bag, where the Spiral-bound travel pamphlet was safely nestled. Instead, he led a very leisurely charge towards the opposite end of the parking lot.

“I told you, it’s fine,” he reiterated, “Don’t worry about it.”