#and the shift in his language going from very fleeting and temporary to this very permanent thing despite his inability to name it

[myrkulitescourge]

can i just say, it still makes me feel a little crazy how astarion, come act 3, still can’t quite put a name to his relationship with his partner, but he WILL tell them he wants to keep them both safe.

he won’t say i love you just yet but he will say forever, for good.

[baldwin-montclair]

Baldwin’s Nightingale (Part 17)

Characters: Baldwin Montclair/OC

Timeframe: After the S1 Finale, TV Show canon MOSTLY with some S2, Shadow of Night and Book of Life.

Summary: Alisha learns that there’s more to her nature than she initially realised and a surprising death of an adversary brings its own problems.

Tag requests: @christi14 @poemfreak306 @pookie-cleary @hofficoffi @stormyheart326 @wonderlander594 @madamquacklemore @thereadersmuse @kynthiamoon @she-who-is-named-katie @ordinarymom1 @fuzzyflowervoid @maybelightning @lady-lazarus-declermont

The Story So Far

———

Baldwin remained silent as she spoke, listening intently to the torrent of pent up worries regarding her sudden linguistic abilities.

He only moved to gather the bedcovers around her shoulders when he sensed her temperature lowering from the high of their previous exertions.

“It’s an old building,” he explained his actions when she stopped speaking in surprise, “I don’t want you to be cold.”

She took a deep breath, in part because of the length of time she had spoken but also to defeat the tears stinging her ducts, touched by the tender gesture.

“Thank you,” she gave him a faint smile, clearing her throat, “but that’s everything up until now, I didn’t even realise you had been speaking...Italian?” She asked.

“Yes, although it was a slightly archaic version. I spent a lot of time in Florence in the late 1500’s.” He mused.

“So, what do you think this means?” She asked, her eyes brimming with hope that he had an explanation.

“Not to discount your distress or concern,” he asked before lightly stroking his knuckles over her cheek tenderly, “as they are both clearly very real, I simply ask for clarification, is that the total measure of your stress at this moment.”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll be glad to alleviate it,” he looked relieved, an expression that confused her, “there’s nothing wrong with you, nothing in you has changed, you are a daemon.”

“What does that have to do with it?”

“My brother hypothesises it has to do with the daemon’s innate drive to communicate,” he started, “he discovered that daemons have an instinctual proficiency for understanding more than their native tongue. I suppose this is the first time I can be grateful for his little sociological study, if only because I can use it to reassure you.”

“But, I never had a talent for languages.”

“Apparently you do.”

Alisha opened her mouth to argue but the sense in his words reverberated in her mind. In truth, she hadn’t really tried before. Any language classes in school were so boring they all blended into the other subjects she had no interest in.

Which was all of them.

Trying to differentiate one experience from another in high school usually just led to a dull grey haze.

She looked away sheepishly, feeling the rising warmth of her cheeks.

“It’s not widely known, at least not at a confirmed scientific level, there’s no reason you should have known this, so there’s no reason for being ashamed of it.”

“I still feel like an idiot for not realising sooner,” she shook her head, “you already have a crisis on your hands with the vampire killing.”

“It’s real enough to upset you so it’s real enough to be a problem.”

“You have more important things to worry about.”

“Not more important than you.”

She nodded but still averted her eyes.

“Alisha,” he spoke quietly, “you are my wife, not my servant, my underling or my employee, you can share your concerns with me, it doesn’t matter how major or minor you deem them to be. Do you understand?”

Somehow, Baldwin knew that the inhale of breath she took was not to affirm her understanding but to protest.

Before she could give voice to her disagreement, he cupped her chin in his hand, forcing her attention.

“Tell me that you understand.”

“I understand.”

Upon receiving the answer he wanted, his own attention wandered down to her lips and he leant down to press a soft kiss there.

His domineering manner fired a predictable impulse within her, one which prompted her to return his kiss with fervour, pressing her body into him.

Baldwin’s hand moved from her chin to the side of her neck as the other slid up her back to hold her firm against him.

“What’s this?” He asked between kisses as she moved to straddle his lap.

“Don’t think you can handle not being in charge for a while?” She teased, pushing him down onto the mattress.

“I am always in charge, little nightingale. You should know that.”

“Maybe, but I’m sure it’s not everyday that Baldwin de Clermont is put on his back.” She clasped his hands in hers and leant forward, kissing him whilst moving his hands over his head and pressing them down onto the mattress.

“It isn’t but I am exactly where I want to be, the view is exquisite.” He countered, allowing his gaze to sweep her naked form in admiration.

“If I let you go will you take over?”

“I haven’t yet, have I?”

The intimation was clear, her position over him was a temporary allowance, but an allowance nonetheless.

“I don’t know if you’re allowing this because you trust me or because you don’t perceive me to be a threat.”

“My dearest wife, you are very much a threat,” he chuckled, “in two thousand years there has been no-one as capable of distracting me so thoroughly. I think you could convince me to destroy empires, if you were so inclined.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she giggled, releasing his hands to lightly drag her fingers down his chest, “I was told that vampires are part wolf, is that’s true?”

“We do have some shared traits.” He admitted.

“The hunting and the growling?”

“Does it bother you?”

“The growling bothers me, but not in a bad way, I find it actually kinda hot!”

“Is that a fact,” He placed his hands on her thighs, “what else ‘bothers’ you?”

“You’re the vampire, can’t you tell.”

“Of course I can but I like to hear you say it.”

“Why?”

“Because you get the sweetest blush in your cheeks when you discuss intimate things,” he cocked his head to the side and reached up to tuck her hair behind her ear, “yes, just like that.”

“Do I,” she teased, biting her lip as she shifted to sink down onto him, slowly, less to torture him and more to let herself accommodate his size in the unfamiliar position.

“Yes,” he groaned lightly in triumph, sliding his hands up her back as he sat up, “and I need to be closer to admire it.”

He murmured, moving to wrap her legs around his waist, somehow deepening himself within her, making her shudder with the sensation.

“A compromise?” He suggested, brushing the hair from her shoulder to place a kiss there.

“I knew you couldn’t help it.”

She kissed him, moving slowly, gradually finding a rhythm that kept them as connected as possible.

“You’re always so warm,” he observed with wonder.

Baldwin steered clear of warm-bloods in terms of intimate partners. There was too much risk of exposure if they weren’t a creature and too high a risk of manipulation if they were.

Vampire sex tended to be a much more competitive event with both sides vying for dominance and that definitely had its advantages in terms of satisfaction.

This was different, even for him.

The blood rushing to bloom under the skin of her cheeks and chest irradiated his entire being with intense heat.

He had previously observed that her sweet apricot scent became stronger when they made love but again, there was something else he sensed, something even more overpowering yet somehow hidden.

Instinctively he knew it wasn’t the result of the mate bond and yet it was also something that he had sensed before.

He swiftly chided himself for allowing his mind to overpower the moment that he had been craving whilst they were apart.

Growing more bold, she leant back, bracing her hands on his thighs and using the extra leverage to increase the tempo.

Initially missing the direct contact of her chest against his, he could not object to the sight of her body pulled taut before him.

He effortlessly moved to support the small of her back with his hand as the other rested on the side of her neck.

He reached up and stroked his thumb across her bottom lip, subtly suppressing a groan when she opened her mouth and closed her lips around it, sucking whilst keeping his gaze.

With the digit sufficiently lubricated, he reluctantly withdrew from her welcoming mouth and swept it lightly across her clitoris, feeling her clench in an attempt to keep building the high he was pushing her towards.

“Very good little nightingale,” he praised, “hold it for me, until I say you can let go, can you do that?”

“As you command my lord, my husband,” she sat up, again bringing her body flush against his and kisses him deeply, “my king!”

The growl that escaped his throat tested her resolve, it was so deep, primal and rippled straight through her core.

“My apologies, sweetheart.” He rasped.

In an instant, she was on her back.

Despite the contrition and show of dominance, he caught her gaze, looking for any indication she was uncomfortable or displeased.

Instead, she gave him an enthusiastic nod to continue.

Baldwin leant forward, his lips just ghosting over hers as he reached under their pillow and produced the sewn favour she had made him as a wedding gift.

“Bound by your heart to my will?”

“Always,” she replied instantly, “just tell me, what is your will and I will happily obey it.”

Baldwin’s gaze fleeted around their bed for a brief moment.

“There’s a bedpost just behind your head, reach behind you and feel it.”

“Got it!” She grinned, in the heat of excitement and anticipation.

In reply, he proceeded to tie her wrists together around the post with the favour.

When he was satisfied that she couldn’t move away, he again rejoined her on the bed.

“If I have to leave for a short while again, it is this scene I want in my head,” he entered her again, “you are completely bare to me, open and honest.”

His motion was deliberate and slow, almost reverent, especially in the way he admired her body.

“I am yours, all of me.”

“Yes, you are,” the almost animalistic, possessive nature of his words somehow spoke to a dangerous and hidden part inside her heart.

He resumed his attention to her clit, gradually slowing his strokes as she grew closer and quickening after letting the impending climax fade.

“Please,” she whined after the third trip to the edge and back again.

“Anything, ask for anything my darling and it’s yours, you need only ask!”

“Let me, please?”

He shook his head with a tut.

“Be specific, let you do what?” He leant down, taking her nipple into his mouth before releasing it and blowing his cold breath over the puckered flesh.

Erotic talk was not her forte, it felt fake and vaguely pornographic to her. But she was desperate, he was challenging her and he wasn’t giving in for anything less than a spirited plea.

“Let me cum,” she blurted out, “please.”

“Such a polite little thing but still such a sinful mouth,” he teased.

“Baldwin-“ she pleaded, desperation in her eyes and he knew he could not deny her longer, not when she gave that look.

“Sweet Nightingale, you can fly, go on.”

The release was all the more powerful for the brief denial that she didn’t even feel him release her wrists from the bindings.

Still, he must have because when her senses returned, he was placing the tenderest kiss on first one then tying the favour around the other in a bow.

“Now, I want to please you.” She moved to sit up but he shook his head.

“I’m sure you will but I am not done with you yet.”

“But-“ she protested.

“Consider this a teachable moment,” he kissed her lips, then between her breasts, “you begged me to let you, what was the word?” He teased, his kisses trailing down her stomach.

“I can’t say it now.” She blushed furiously and he stopped to look up.

“Trust me, you will, teachable moment, remember,” he settled between her thighs and licked a light strip over the still sensitive bundle of nerves, “be careful what you wish for.”

Alisha woke up to find the bed empty, the sound of hushed argument coming from the lower levels of the chateau.

A short time later, a decidedly annoyed Baldwin returned to their room as the sound of a departing motorcycle echoed back down the large driveway.

“Was that Gallowglass?” She asked sleepily.

“Unfortunately it was.” He sat on the edge of the bed.

“Is everyone okay?” She asked, the worry evident in her voice.

“Everyone who matters is fine, the one person who isn’t is Peter Knox, a witch and a fairly powerful one.”

“What happened to him?”

“Killed by a vampire. Luckily I have an alibi and as omnipresent as the witches believe me to be, it would be impossible to both kill him in London and satisfy my wife here, all at the same time.”

“In that case,” she yawned. “you must be innocent because I can barely move.”

“Is that a good thing or-“

“Definitely a good thing .”

“Alisha-“ he started, his tone contrite, “we need to-“

“Return to Sept-Tours, I know,” she stopped him with a comforting smile, “I’ll go get ready.”

“Thank you,” he placed a kiss on the top of her head, “for being so patient with me.”

“I know who I married.”

It was a day later that she finally saw him, having been locked in meetings with his Knights, the other de Claremont’s, hunting.

Alisha barely even heard the door open as she repacked her overnight bag, just in case.

“Did you find Miyako?” She asked, turning to look at Baldwin.

The vampire had left before they arrived, a fact that had greatly aggravated Baldwin.

“I spoke to her, briefly,” he nodded, offering nothing more, clearly in his ‘War General’ frame of mind.

Alisha approached him carefully, stopping to place a kiss on his cheek.

He looked down at her and for a fraction of a moment, his stony expression cracked.

“Baldwin, I think-“ she started.

“The grounds aren’t safe,” he interrupted instead, “stay within the walls of Sept Tours.”

“Alright.”

He looked away for a moment, his mind clearly fixed on something.

“But there’s something else,” she prodded.

“Hmm, yes, I forgot to ask, do you know when Michael found out about the murals? I don’t think he would have trusted Peter enough to discuss it with him. If they plan on pinning it on us, I’d like to at least have an alternative suspect.”

“Well, I know Michael was not in the Congregation when he took me in and if he dropped off the map like Christina said, that was at least twelve years ago.”

“You moved in with Michael after your parents’ death, yes?”

“Yes, I already told you that, our first date, I know a lot’s happened since but it was only a few weeks ago.” She teased.

“I remember, of course, I am sorry.”

“Baldwin, that was a joke, you have a lot of spinning plates. I understand that.”

“You really are too good to be true.” He placed a gentle kiss on her temple and headed to a side table to pour himself some wine from a decanter.

“This is a sample from one of my - sorry - our Tuscan vineyards, would you like to try it.”

“Of course I would but, word of warning, I’m not good with wine. I’m afraid my critique won’t be more sophisticated that ‘good’ or ‘bleugh’.” She warned, taking a seat at a small table.

He chuckled a little as he approached, placing a glass of wine in her hand.

“Thank you.” She took a drink and nodded, “hmm, oaky, earthy, freshly cut lawn-”

“Okay, point made,” he gave her a smile that was almost sad.

“No, but wait, I’m getting subtle notes of tyre fire,” she took another drink, “hot air balloon-“

“Be serious, for a moment.” He asked.

“Fine. It honestly tastes a bit metallic but other than that, perfectly fine.”

“I didn’t mean the wine,” he placed his hand over hers, “you know that I love you and would do anything to protect you?”

“Yes, I think you said that you would protect and adore me.”

“And what was your obligation in return?”

“That I would love and obey you,” she noted that he was avoiding her gaze.

“Baldwin, what is it?”

He stood, collecting their empty glasses and placed them on a table, his back to her.

“Michael disappeared out of the blue, he just left one day, but that was two years ago, not fifteen.” Baldwin told her evenly.

“No, he was in New York, with me.”

“He had a secure posting at Cambridge University in England, he was well celebrated in his faculty until one day he just fell off the face of the earth.”

“So, what are you saying? If only the last two years are possible, everything that I remember from before that...“ she trailed off.

“We could find no trace of an accident at the time you said, not one with the surname Black, or caused by a drunk driver.”

“I-I don’t-“

“Alisha, if you can give me any details about your parents that will help narrow it down.”

“There are photos of them in my home, in New York-“

“Yes, I had them sent over for you,” he nodded towards her small frames on a table, “go look, tell me what you see.”

“These are my frames...” she picked one up and turned to look at him, “but what is this symbol, where are my photos?”

“Do you not recognise the symbol?”

“No, I, wait-“ she realised, “it’s the same one on my violin but why are they in here, where are the photos that were here?”

“We don’t believe there ever were any.”

“I’m sorry, we?”

“Sarah and Emily,” he answered carefully, “it looks like a binding spell, perhaps even a memory spell.”

“I thought only witches could be spellbound, not daemons.”

“You couldn’t be spellbound as a witch, because you’re not one.”

“Exactly, I-“

“Nor are you a daemon,” he interrupted, “Alisha, you are not a daemon either, Marcus was checking the effect of the solution you took, comparing it to DNA profiles from daemons in their study, yours does not match theirs, or witches, or vampires, or humans.”

“This’ insane, I’m a daemon, of course I am, what else could I be?”

She swayed, a sudden fatigue started lapping at the edges of her mind. Baldwin was there in an instant to steady and lead her to sit on the edge of their bed.

The feeling was sickeningly familiar, when Christina had drugged her with vampire blood to get her to safety.

The metallic tang of the wine suddenly made sense.

“Baldwin, what am I?” She asked, hoping to play off her realisation of her husband drugging her as understandable panic about her situation.

She had to get away, not knowing how or why, all she knew is that she had to escape from him in that moment.

“You are my wife, that’s all that matters right now but you must tell me,” he framed her face in his hands, a genuinely earnest look on his face, “is there anything about your past, about your parents that you have not told me?”

“No,” she answered truthfully, “everything I know I have told you already.”

He nodded, seemingly satisfied with the answer and answered in a language she did not recognise.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he noted her confusion, “it is a quote by a very old friend, it means ‘those who are sincere are always in a state of worry’, I never realised how true that was until now.”

The fatigue seemed to be spreading more slowly than before, evidently, Baldwin gave her a lower dose in order to interrogate her before she passed out. Still, the undertow was pulling stronger with every passing moment.

“Can I have some water, please?” She asked.

“Yes, of course.” He got up to retrieve the filled, and iced, water jug Francois had brought to the room.

With his back turned, she bolted for the door, opening it a crack before his hand pushed it closed.

“Those are stone steps,” he cautioned from behind her, “you wouldn’t make it to the ground floor before passing out and the fall would kill you, that’s not happening.”

Her shoulders sagging in defeat, she leant her head against the heavy oak door.

“You drugged me.”

It wasn’t a question but a statement of fact, a recrimination.

“I had no choice, please, come lie down.” He placed his hand on her arm but she wretched it from his grasp.

“Let go!”

She backed away from him, unsteadily.

“Alisha, listen to me-“ his calm, measured tone was infuriating.

“You betrayed me.” She hissed.

“Never,” he answered firmly, “I promised to protect you and that is what I am doing.”

“By knocking me out cold, how do I know any of this is even true, its all just your word and now I know how much I can trust that.” She swayed, taking another step back when he moved forward.”

“Don’t touch me!”

“When you fall I will catch you, I really don’t care how you feel about that! I will not let you get hurt.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I need you to trust me and if believing that what I say is the truth will convince you then I am sorry to do this, knowing it will hurt you.”

“How much more could you possibly hurt me?”

“By asking you,” he sighed, “Alisha, tell me the names of your parents?”

She laughed at the ridiculous assertion that she wouldn’t be able to and opened her mouth, fully expecting herself to speak their names, as though on automatic pilot.

But there was nothing, no names, no faces.

It was as though waking from an extremely vivid dream, those first few seconds of confusion and disbelief that what had happened was not real.

It had to be real, she was there, she felt it.

A whooshing darkness clouded her senses, accompanied by the sensation of floating.

She fought to stay present for no other reason than sheer defiance.

When she managed to open her eyes again, she was on the bed, a comforter pulled over her as Baldwin sat in silent contemplation by the bed.

“Baldwin-”

“Sweetheart,” he took her hand in his, “I promise that everything will be well, and in time, you will understand why this was necessary. On that day I will beg for your forgiveness but right now, I will do what I must.”

She shook her head, willing herself to yell, scream, fight but she had lost the battle and the warm lure of unconsciousness was proving hard to resist.

“I will see you soon, my little nightingale.” She faintly heard him speak before feeling a light, cooling kiss on her forehead.

Gallowglass looked between the heavy locked door and Baldwin as the older vampire outlined his instructions.

“It’s easier to contain her in a few rooms on the same level than in my tower.” Baldwin explained.

“You’re asking me to be the lass’ jailer, ‘easier’ really doesn’t come into it.”

“I’m not asking you anything,” Baldwin answered coldly, “I’m telling you to keep her contained in those rooms, she is not to leave, no-one is to go in, save Francois for meals.”

“I imagine they will protest at her being kept a prisoner.”

“If they do not wish to reside here under those conditions, there is a simple remedy for that.”

“Marcus has given them sanctuary.”

“And I don’t intend on revoking it, but it does not mean they get to dictate what happens while they are here.”

“And what if you can’t find out where she actually came from, what will you do?”

Baldwin froze him with a glare and turned to leave.

“If you’re considering what I think you are, just know that not only will I not do it for you, I won’t let you do it either.” Gallowglass called after him.

“There is no record of her existing before two years ago, her memories are a constructed fiction, she can speak and read languages that she has never learned and is not any creature that still exists today. Now, if someone plans on using her to try to destroy us-”

“Then they will not have to lift a finger, because If you kill her, it will destroy you.”

Baldwin stared in response.

“Under protest,” Gallowglass added with a visible exhale, “I will do as you command, I’ll keep her safe.”

Baldwin gave a definitive nod.

“Thank you, I-“

“Even from you, if I have to,” Gallowglass added, “because I could not bear to be under orders of the sort of monster killing that lassie would turn you into!”

Baldwin glanced at the locked door before leaving without another word.

[houseofvans]

SKETCHY BEHAVIORS | INTERVIEW WITH PEARL C. HSIUNG

LA based multimedia artist Pearl C. Hsiung explores the relationships between humans and nature through her various paintings, sculptures, videos and installations.  In a collaboration with the Borrego Boys & Girls Club as well as members of the public, Pearl recently created a site-specific sculpture using wood, plexiglass and non-recyclable plastic waste. She’s also unveiling a large-scale tile mosaic commission in 2022 at the new 2nd/Hope St Metro station in downtown, LA. We’re excited to find out more about Pearl’s artwork, collaborations, and what she’s got coming up for the rest of the year.

Take the Leap! 

Photographs courtesy of the artist. 

Could you introduce yourself to everybody? Hi I’m Pearl C Hsiung, I live and work in Los Angeles.  ‘Hsiung’ is pronounced ‘shung’ and means the animal bear in Chinese.  I have a pet mini-Rex named Rambo who lives free- range in my apartment.

How would you describe the art you create? How would you describe your particular technique? I’d say that my practice uses the landscape as a starting point for thinking through our connection to it and towards the idea that we are inseparable from the matter around us.  If all matter in the universe combusted out of the same material then our current, subjective reality, where we behave as if we’re defined apart from everything around us, is an illusion.  

In past painting, video and installation works this is performed through metamorphosing, flowing and eruptive forms bursting out of their geological, biological, technological, and cultural skins.  In works like Full Gorge (2017) and Original Face (2018), I was thinking about the interconnection of all that is natural, human, more-than-human and artificial through an experience of immersive presence in material space.  

For me, these free-standing paintings point to a certain moment of presence, not unlike the moment I experience sometimes after reading certain zen kõans or Daoist phrases; it is an instant moment, a moment of clarity where I understand it all.  But it is fleeting, it is a momentary experience that precedes, challenges or completely eludes language.  Maybe this is not unlike a moment experienced when in nature, during sex or laughter (during both?), plugged into VR or while coding.  

What are your favorite things to paint? What should folks take away from your works? I enjoy painting on canvas, paper, MDF, wood…  Actually I hope people bring to my works.  I encourage the exchange that I make the work and viewers bring their perceptions and interpretations.

What’s a typical day in the studio for you like? And what are you currently working on in the studio? My studio schedule is fluid depending on the season.  It also depends on how much I’m teaching, I may only get one full day and a couple half days a week for the studio, other times I’m 5-6 days a week.  Time spent in the studio varies a lot and can include research, reading, sketching, painting, writing, building, cleaning, organizing, accounting, correspondence, grant proposals, teaching applications, pacing, prepping for big work/big actions, paint experiments, materials tests, staring, repotting plants…

I’m starting on new work for a show at Visitor Welcome Center in Koreatown in November 2019.

When you’re working on and developing a new painting or piece, how does it begin - take us from sketchbook, to color choices, to finished painting?   New work is always a continuation of themes and ideas from previous works and research. The form changes as the focus shifts on those ideas or approaches.  The decisions on everything from composition, structure, color palette and presentation are informed by this new focus as well as the new context of making that work.  Personal, experiential, studio environment, cultural influences, topical events all seep into that.  The sketchbook is full of garbage, I let it sit there to compost and sometimes it sprouts a new bud…

What tools will someone always find you using at your studio? What are your preferred materials? Tools have changed through the years.  More recently you’ll see squeegees and plastic paint guides (that I use like a squeegee) rather than brushes for the paintings.  Consistently, I use white paper and tape as painting tools.  The computer, the internet and books are always studio necessities for research and admin tools.  I use paints and inks that comes tubes, tubs, tins, buckets, bottles, spray cans, jars, sets on canvas, cold-pressed paper, MDF, cardboard.  I’ve been experimenting with painting on non-recyclable plastic I’ve tried to make into it’s own substrate but it’s not yet working out.

How do you unplug yourself so to speak? What do you do to center or re-focus yourself if you find yourself stressed out about deadlines, art shows, and the sort? When the stress piles up it helps if I do yoga first thing in the morning in my living room, but the best way to deal with the stress is to work through it.  When I feel overwhelmed by anxiety relating to projects, teaching, or deadlines, it usually helps me to become more prepared, using research, preparation and experimentation to deal with the parts that can be addressed.  For short term refocusing, I step outside and stare at things:  the sky, the plants outside of my studio, the birds on the telephone lines, the clouds.  Or I’ll take a walk around the block, change my daily routine like driving a different route, take the bus, walk through the grocery or thrift store before getting to work.  

For longer term re-centering, if I can, I leave town or just go stare at the ocean.  Staring is like open-eyed meditation for me, I try to empty out my thoughts, blank out and spend unscheduled time.  Sleep well and spending time with family and friends are also priceless rechargers.

You recently worked with AIR Talks: Candlewood Arts Festival collaborated with folks you met at the Borrego Boys & Girls Club? Tells us about the festival, the project and about the various workshops you helped conduct? Why was this event so important to you? This was the inaugural Candlewood Arts Festival, a temporary public art event in the town of Borrego Springs located in the Anza Borrego State Park.  Tanya Aguiniga, Devon Tsuno, Kor Newkirk, Mario Ybarra Jr and I created different site- and community-specific sculptures and happenings during the last weekend of March 2019.  Most of our works were located out in Galleta Meadows, an open, outdoor lot amidst the expansive desert landscape.  

For my sculpture Holocene Screen, I collaborated with youth from the Borrego Boys & Girls Club as well as members of the public during a workshop at the Borrego Art Institute to create a sculpture using wood, plexiglass and non-recyclable plastic waste that considered the simultaneity of nature, human and artificial as a landscape within a landscape.  

As part of the Holocene Screen workshop process, the students had to brainstorm words that fell into three categories: nature, human and artificial.  Then they were asked to write a short story, poem or single sentence using one word from each category which they painted onto a plexiglass window in the sculpture.  It was interesting to learn how easy it was for them to identify elements from nature and human, yet struggle with artificial.  

We had discussions about what artificial is and what items from their everyday lives fall under that definition.  Their next step was to visualize and compose a singular picture or narrative that threaded all three.  I think that was a good example of how easily we can grasp, and even romanticize and/or idealize the relationship between nature and human, and the difficulty or resistance to imagining the artificial in our aesthetic compositions or picture of reality.  

My intention, for both workshop participants and myself, was to place these three elements in one view, one image in order to de-emphasize the space between natural and unnatural.  What does that look like and where does that lead us to.

What do you enjoy about collaborations? What would be your dream collaboration? The best aspect of collaboration is giving up control and the sharing of ideas and labor.  Working in the studio is so solitary that it can be a great relief to open up to working with someone else or others.

Earlier this year you also showed works and visited with the Paramo Galeria in Guadalajara! Tell us a bit about the overall experience and exhibition. I had paintings included in New Suns, a group exhibition curated by Kris Kuramitsu at Paramó, it was the first time I’ve been to Guadalajara.  It was thrilling to be showing with such a strong group of artists, Sherin Guirguis, Kenyatta A.C. Hinkle, Nasim Hantehzadeh and Gabriella Sánchez among them.  I went for the opening back in December and also spoke on a panel with Sherin, Kenyatta and Kris at the Guadalajara International Book Fair, which I learned is the largest book fair of the Americas and the second largest in the world.  

Another first was speaking to an audience while being translated sentence by sentence.  We had a really furtive conversation though regarding the themes that our practices share.  

Something else that was new for me, was having an experience that someone might call…spirit related.  Ghost or undead related?  I told you about it later and you also had a ghostly experience the same weekend but in Big Bear?  

All I will say is that it was a disturbance by very young thing that was too visceral to be a dream.

You’ve worked in various mediums from murals to sculpture to painting to video / animation. Is there a medium you’ve yet to try that you want to get into? I like an answer that Gertrude Stein gave during an interview from 1935.  It regards the forms that writing takes, i.e. the novel, the autobiography etc, so I’m taking it out of context a bit, but the interviewer asks her “What has passion got to do with choosing an art form?”  She answers “Everything.  There is nothing else that determines form.”  So I think I’ve let form, or choice of medium come from the initial impulses of the work I end up making.  Maybe there is a VR piece or mural in bronze in my future….

What’s the most challenging aspect of what you do? How do you overcome these obstacles? What keeps you going? Financial sustainability.  Keeping the studio open while also preserving time to work in it.  I live off a financial collage composed of hustling - teaching, selling work, artist lectures, panel discussions, grants, commissions - but the stress of keeping it together has taken years off my life!

Share with us some artists you’re really excited about as of late.  York Chang,The Signal and The Noiseat Vincent Price Art Museum, April-July 2019. What I like about York Chang’s works in this show is that he uses information, text, images and sound to magnify the chaotic and disorienting feeling that comes with checking your phone, radio or tv for news or information. Facts and truths are just atoms floating around in a giant cosmos of distorted narratives, info, and transmissions, you cannot locate the signal or its source amidst the noise. The show’s installation makes you feel swallowed up in this, it’s enveloping yetliberating to be lost in, setting you up to enjoy the weird connections that York makes.

Carolina Caycedo’s Apariciones / Apparitions, a video exhibited at the Huntington Library last summer (you can see it on view at the Vincent Price Art Museum this summer, June 15 - December 21, 2019.)  This video is gorgeous and powerful.  Female, black, brown and queer dancers twirl, flounce, throb and glide throughout the colonial-style and asian gardens and libraries of the Huntington.  Sometimes they are totally fluid bodies in motion and at others times quite still and making spellbinding eye-contact with the viewer. You are watching a conjuring of the bodies and spirits of those whose representations and histories are missing throughout the art, books and histories archived in the Huntington’s collections.

Christina Quarles But I Woke Jus’ Tha Same at Regen Projects, April-May 2019. I suggest people see her paintings in person, they are really engaging.  They are figurative, figures coupling, moving into and through each other, embracing beyond recognition by the brain and into recognition by the flesh.  Materially they are gymnastic, virtuosic but not stuffy and make me want to paint. York Chang, The Signal and The Noise at Vincent Price Art Museum, April-July 2019.  What I like about York Chang’s works in this show is that he uses information, text, images and sound to magnify the chaotic and disorienting feeling that comes with checking your phone, radio or tv for news or information. Facts and truths are just atoms floating around in a giant cosmos of distorted narratives, info, and transmissions, you cannot locate the signal or its source amidst the noise.

Dynasty Handbag (Jibz Cameron) is a performance, video artist who lives in LA right now.  She’s the sharpest, funniest, slipperiest, grotesque-adjacent comic performer in the universe.  When you see her live, she reads the room, the crowd and herself so spontaneously that you’re always on a mood-swinging rollercoaster. She’s so distortedly vulnerable, proud and charming that you’re not only laugh-crying with and at her, but you’re mostly dying over how culture makes us schizo and insane.  She hosts a monthly queer performance night called Weirdo Night here at Zebulon.

What are your favorite Vans? SK8-His that are all solid black w/ black soles.

What do you have coming up that you can share with us? I’ve got a show opening in November 2019 at Visitor Welcome Center in Koreatown, LA and a large-scale tile mosaic commission at the new 2nd/Hope St Metro station in downtown LA, opening in 2022!!

FOLLOW PEARL | WEBSITE | INSTAGRAM 

[plumoh]

[NatsuYuu] sweet pea • goodbye

Word count: 1316

Summary: It was unimaginable for Natsume to refuse such a request about finding a home.

Note: AO3 link. Written for @ichigo-ichie-zines NatsuYuu Blooming Zine! The youkai is inspired by the yuki warashi, which is a little snow child wearing a straw hat. The fic was illustrated by Deerinspotlight!

Natsume wrinkled his nose when he stepped in a particularly muddy pool of water, splashing droplets of dirty water on his pants and shoes. This wasn't how he had imagined spending his afternoon.

“I don't mind helping you, but do you have a specific place in mind?” he asked as he dodged a branch poking out of a bush.

The youkai turned their small frame around and glared under their thick straw hood. “For such a powerful human, you are very ignorant of our practices.”

Nyanko-sensei, bundled in Natsume's arms, snorted. “Don't pay attention to him, his ignorance will be his death.”

Natsume rolled his eyes and dropped Sensei without any hesitation. The cat let out an undignified yelp as he landed on the wet ground partly covered in equally soaked leaves, hissing and swiping at Natsume's feet. The youkai didn't look very impressed with their usual display of bickering.

“I have never encountered such a bizarre pair like the both of you,” they said flatly. “It is quite entertaining, to say the least.”

Their piercing gray eyes were gauging them, hard and inflexible, like they wondered if they were making the right choice by asking their aid. Meeting a youkai who didn't have their name in the Book of Friends was rare enough that Natsume may have showed a bit of too much enthusiasm to get to know them. His willingness to help, of course, had been met with Sensei's grumbling and whining.

He simply could not refuse their request to go home.

“I assume you travel often?” Natsume inquired. “If you have to find a home, that is.”

The youkai turned their eyes on the slippery road ahead, their sandals splashing in the water; somehow, their white kimono didn't seem to retain the stains it was subjected to. They shrugged.

“I suppose it is similar to you humans. At different stages of our life, we find different places to go. This one requires perfection, for it is a resting place.”

Perfection, Natsume mused, for a home that may be temporary but still held dear to the heart. It was a comforting thought—somewhere to go back to. It would be like carrying a piece of hope everywhere at anytime. The youkai's focus on the task almost seemed reverent in its nature.

“It's a beautiful goal, I think,” he said with a small smile. “Home is where you feel the safest.”

He recalled old futons and cramped rooms and a cardboard box, which presented a normal sight for him, but were never inviting enough to be called a place to go back to. The images of warm meals and tatami mats and a welcoming porch sprang forth and Natsume had to blink away the sudden onslaught of affection that stirred from within him. It wasn't unpleasant; he realized with frazzled surprise that echoed in his misstep, that there was a place he could call his home. 

The youkai eyed him with a calculating gaze, hands folded in front of them. “You are not wrong, but it is simply something we have to do. Humans truly attach sentimentality where it is not necessary.”

Despite their harsh words, Natsume didn't feel the air shift, nor did he miss the way these clear eyes looked far too wistful to express anything other than contemplation—like they were considering the meaning behind these words.

“Maybe we do feel more than youkai, but I don't think our experiences are that different from each other,” Natsume commented. “In the end we’re all trying to live our lives as best as possible.”

A pale hand came tugging at Natsume's, and the young man blinked in surprise. The youkai tilted their head. “You are so peculiar. Ensure that your goodwill and faith will not jeopardize your efforts.”

Sensei huffed and quickly nodded, though Natsume didn't quite understand what the warning was for. Perhaps he still didn't know enough about the youkai to decipher their messages; he'd have to ask Sensei later.

They kept walking in silence, leaving footprints in the mud and disturbing the beds of rocks and twigs. It was becoming harder to suggest a spot when everything looked identical, and the youkai didn't seem in a hurry to settle down. ‘That place was too big,’ the youkai would say, or ‘this branch would fall on their head,’ ‘the scents weren’t pleasant enough,’ ‘the noises of the forest couldn’t be appreciated in this location’… The search felt like a wild-goose chase that the youkai seemed to have infinite patience for. Sensei wasn't being very helpful, either, chasing after random animals.

Natsume’s own patience was starting to run thin, though he didn’t show any signs of it—this home undoubtedly meant a lot to the youkai, if they were so attentive even to the smallest details. He decided that anything could serve its purpose, so he pointed to a tree with a small crack at the base wide enough for the youkai to fit in.

“What about this? The trunk is big.”

The youkai surveyed their surroundings, taking notice of the stream a few meters away and the clear view on the rest of the forest. They put a hand on the tree, then nodded.

“I like it. Thank you for your help, human child. This will do.”

They fully faced Natsume and cupped their hands together; at its center, a bright light produced a colorful arrangement of white, pink and purple flowers, emitting a strong but fresh fragrance that Natsume instantly fell for.

“Sweet peas,” Sensei muttered. “Of course it’d be flower language. Those are too much of a compliment.”

Reinvigorated by this kind gesture, Natsume briefly wondered whether anything made by a youkai’s hand was instantly suffused with calming properties. Though the meaning behind the sweet peas was lost on him, as he looked at the youkai’s eyes, they showed so much sincerity Natsume couldn’t help but smile.

“Please take these flowers as a sign of my gratitude,” the youkai said in a warm voice, ignoring Sensei. “I wish you a happy spring.”

Natsume crouched down and carefully took the flowers, cradling them in his hands while the youkai bowed. The soft petals almost looked like they were glowing under the sun.

“Thank you. Take care of yourself, alright? I'll visit when I can.”

The youkai’s already quiet enthusiasm visibly subdued, but their lips still curled upwards, like a sign of reassurance they alone felt the need to express.

“A word of advice, human child. I see you are full of love to give; I trust your innocent and beautiful heart inspires more than one. You will meet many people who will benefit from your help, but you will leave them, since they are only one of the many encounters in your life.” They paused, lifting their head to look at the greying sky. “Everyone seeks kindness. Saying goodbye calls for a new hello.”

Confusion and joy simultaneously swirled in Natsume’s mind, an odd understanding dawning on him.

“Even if encounters are fleeting, I cherish what is important.”

A hint of surprise flickered in the youkai’s gaze and vanished just as quickly, momentarily taken aback by these unwavering words. Seemingly satisfied, they inclined their head one more time, and then headed inside the tree without a word.

Sensei pawed at Natsume's leg. “Come on, let's go. Leave that youkai be. There's nothing interesting left to see here.”

Sensei dashed through the forest, calling to Natsume and telling him to stop lingering like a fool. Natsume stared pensively at the tree trunk a bit longer, then at the flowers, before finally following his bodyguard.

On their way back, as Natsume kept the sweet peas in his hands without crushing them, the tree welcomed within its core a new spirit that would watch over the forest blooming into beautiful colors—a spirit no longer seen by any beings but the whispers of time.

[lazyheretic-blog]

Flip Side

The droning voices threaten to send him to sleep, but he's familiar with the beating that will earn him. He concentrates very hard on the glittering motes of dust that spin lazily in and out of the thin streams of light filtering through the screened windows. He imagines he can follow the journey of one individual as it's buffeted by updraughts of a wind he cannot feel. The heat is stifling; he wishes he were a dancing mote that didn't have to wear robes and a stupid hat and could ride the breeze. If he were, he thinks, he would try his best to land in Adminstrator Park's eye so he had to break ceremony and rub it.

He giggles, and realises his mistake. Park doesn't even look at him but the room seems to become much darker. He can see Park's nostrils flaring, a sure sign of his anger, even though his face remains impassive and the tone of his voice, expressionless and dry as he dictates tributes and taxes, never wavers. The boy shivers, despite the oppressive heat.

Park never beats him. It's always one of the women, a concu-something that the six-year-old hasn't figured out a role for, other than whipping him with a thin bamboo cane around his thighs. It's a crime to hit the king, of course; the real punishment comes afterwards with the ragged cry, gush of blood and the hideous tearing noise as a soldier slits their bellies open in front of him. If he doesn't watch properly, eyes wide open, he gets another beating. There's always a second woman in the room.

It only had to happen once. Now, he watches like a king as royal justice is dispensed in his name.

"See, your Majesty," Park tells him. "These loyal women sacrifice much in order to further your education. In a few years you will learn what else they can teach you. She will be reincarnated and will be pleased to rejoin their number to serve you."

He doesn't know why he feels sad at their deaths. It's only temporary, right? Their pain is fleeting and their reward is great. But the look on her face as she writhes in front of him, a girl only a few years older than he is, just makes him want to scream and hide. The soldiers scare him too, the ceremonial guards with covered faces and shining, bloody swords.

There's only one who doesn't. Gerralkim's been his friend since before he can remember and it's still easier for his tongue to wrap itself around the name he gave before he was properly articulate, but the tall man who kneels down to his level when he speaks to him doesn't seem to mind. He's never told Gerralkim about the beatings but when he's finally allowed to flee, the man's quarters are his preferred destination. He's not always there, but Wang Yeo has a child's active imagination.

This time, he's sitting cross-legged at his low lacquered desk, penning a letter in slow, deliberate strokes of a bamboo-handled brush. He half turns and smiles as the boy approaches him to watch characters form under the bristles.

Yeo finds it calming. Watching this is never dull, unlike sitting in the audience chamber, and he can pick out some of the meaning.

"Who are you writing to?" He asks, wide eyed.

The general smiles at him. He's a young man, younger than Park, perhaps twenty five at most. Years in the sun and in battle have darkened his skin and etched fine lines of worry between his brows and around his mouth. Unlike the officials he wears his hair down, dark waves falling off his shoulders and roughly cut shorter at the front. Today, he's wearing a pale cotton robe, wrapped at the front and belted. Yeo is relived he's not dressed as a soldier.

"I'm writing a letter to my father," he explains. "Remember my report to Administrator Park two days ago, about the battle against the Qidan?"

Yeo does. He always pays attention to General Kim, even though the thought of battle scares him. He nods.

"Well, my father worries about me. I write to tell him that I am unhurt and victorious."

"I worry about you too," the boy says seriously. "It would cause me sorrow if you got hurt."

Kim Shin grins, and ruffles his hair with a large, calloused hand, stained with ink. "You shouldn't worry about me. If anything happened, I would write you a letter so you would be the first to know."

"Of course. I am the king," the boy replies, all innocent and pompous, just as he should be. "But you should wait until I have learned all my letters, so I can write back by myself."

General Kim bows from the waist, arms folded in front of him. "It would be the utmost honour, your Majesty."

"Who's that?" asks the boy suddenly, pointing to a charcoal drawing of a woman and a young girl.

Kim pulls it towards them and straightens it between his hands. "That's my mother, and my little sister, Kim Sun. She's about your age."

Yeo studies it intently. It's an unusual drawing, life-like and untutored and utterly different to the heavily stylised scrolls hanging around the palace. He's drawn to the smiling faces of the little girl and the woman, shining with a happiness he's not used to seeing.

"She's pretty," he murmurs. "I want to meet her." He's never had playmates, wouldn't know what to do with them, but he yearns to see that beaming smile for himself.

"I'll let you in on a secret," Kim says solemnly. "Can you keep it?"

He's used to keeping secrets. Unconsciously he shifts and his bruised thighs protest. The stinging is turning to a profound aching, deep in his bones. He nods.

"Your half-brother, Wang Gang, willed it that you should marry my little sister when you grow up. What do you think?"

Yeo pretends to mull it over seriously, but can't keep the shock and delight off his face. "I can visit her?" Maybe, just maybe, there's a place Park doesn't have all the power.

"It's a bit far," the big man says. "The king should stay safe in the palace. She will come to you when she's twelve, and be trained how to look after you as a good wife and Queen." His face grew serious. "But don't tell anyone that you know, your Majesty. I don't think Administrator Park likes me very much."

He knows it's true. He's a sensitive child, schooled to be quiet, and taught by experience to read the unspoken language around him. He knows that Park hates the warrior like no other, but his close friendship with the previous king and his victories make him popular with the army. Apart from the handpicked palace guard, regular soldiers distrust civil servants like Park. He worries his lip as he considers the girl. The thought of her being beaten or treated like the other women is even more scary than what he endures.

He thinks he's hiding it, but he's transparent to an adult. Kim says, gently, "You and I will protect her. I promise."

"Tell me about her," the young king commands.

"She loves persimmons, fresh or dried. My father's last letter describes how she refused to eat anything else for a whole week, even when they made her ill."

"Persimmons make you ill?" He was doubtful.

"Anything can make you ill if you eat too much of it. Diet must be balanced."

"Tell me more."

"She feeds my horse persimmons, too, when she thinks I'm not looking."

Yeo was entranced. What freedom! "Did he get ill?"

"No, he just got fat. I scolded him for being so greedy but he didn't care."

Park hears their laughter, and scowls.

----------

The week Kim spends in the palace is the most fun he's ever had. Park doesn't dare threaten him when Kim's around, tall and imposing and cloaked in authority. His soldiers rest in the barracks, and sometimes Yeo sneaks over to listen to them sing and tell stories before he's inevitably discovered and carried back by Kim. They know interesting words, and talk about things he's curious to see; the ocean, barbarians on little ponies with tattoos, legends of gods he doesn't know.

Kim plays little tricks on him, pulling cards and coins out of his hair or from behind his ears, making him giggle with delight. Yeo uses his tall hat to scoop out a squiggle of tadpoles from the inner palace pond and dumps it in Kim's basin. He watches, wedged inside a tall chest and peeks through the hinge gap, as Kim bends to splash his face before the midday meal, and gasps in exaggerated horror at the squirming water. That earns him a rough capture and a serious and slightly painful head rub, until he's wriggling as hard as the little creatures in the sink.

Kim has to steal him a new hat.

But weeks come to quick ends, especially the best ones. He mopes in the doorway as a servant packs Gerralkim's traveling trunk, and the general dons his armour.

"A king shouldn't pout like that," Kim gently chides him. "You must be strong, no matter what."

"Must you go already?"

"I must. One of your towns in the North has been attacked, and I have to go protect the people there. Then I must retaliate so it never happens again."

"Will you kill people?" He asks in a sniffling whisper, the pink Cupid's Bow of his lips quivering.

Kim sighs. He can protect the young monarch from many things while he's there, but the realities of rule, and the war that allows it to continue, are hard truths the king must face. The servant finishes, and carries the trunk outside.

Kim bends down and kneels in front of the boy. "Yeo," he says seriously, using the given name reserved only for parents and close family he's technically forbidden from. He does it anyway in private sometimes, because he knows that it makes Yeo feel safe. "I won't lie to you. I have to kill lots of people to protect our own. We live in dangerous times, and if we don't kill our enemies, they might come and kill us. That town has children in it, so I have to go and make sure they don't come to any harm. Please understand."

Yeo nods. It's easier to accept when stated simply like that. Park sometimes tells him that General Kim kills in his name, as if Yeo's responsible; maybe he is, but he didn't ask for it.

Kim pulls him unceremoniously into a last rough hug, and holds him close until the child stops shaking.

----------

He's away for several years. His letters, delivered by suspicious-eyed warriors, tell of continuing unrest and the need for more soldiers at the front. After a while, they dwindle in frequency and no longer go directly to him; Park receives them first. Yeo is shocked when Park passes along a blood stained scroll in shaky handwriting detailing a massacre of a barbarian village, women and children subjected to torture and worse before being burned alive. Park says, nonchalantly, that Kim's acting on his own; that orders have been sent to have mercy on the barbarians, but the people of Goryeo call for revenge, and General Kim gives them what they want.

Yeo doesn't know what to think about this, but he's not given time to consider; when there's a botched attempt on his life by one of the couriers, the palace is locked down and he's placed under armed guard permanently. His food is tasted, his servants are replaced, and Park himself moves into the annex of the king's quarters.

"Your Majesty," Park tells him, a week after the attempt. "We cannot, of course, be sure that General Kim sought to take your life. It is true that the people are starting to worship him as a second sun in the sky, but we should not be hasty in judgement. Please have patience and mercy until the truth is revealed."

Yeo's mind is foggy, a result of sleepless nights and the restless paranoia of his guards. It's all he can do to sit straight on the hard throne, and at the age where his bones sometimes feel like they are breaking and knotting themselves back together constantly, he's rarely inclined to introspection.

He's twelve just before he sees Kim again, walking alongside the palanquin containing his new bride. It's a pretty box, carved but not lacquered like his own, carried by four stocky men. Not a commoner's carriage, but not royalty. Tradition forbids him from rising to greet them, and despite his constant fatigue he's eager for it to be over so he can take advantage of the freedom Kim's visit should bring.

He is disappointed. Hard-eyed guards keep them separated except in formal situations. He is desperate, bursting to ask so many questions, to ask if Kim tried to have him killed, why he sends his letters to Park now, why he has to kill children in the name of Goryeo. If Kim notices the pleading in his eyes he doesn't react to it, just stays his tongue and speaks formally, steady voice echoing in the audience chamber. Park keeps Yeo away from battle accounts, claiming that he should not sully his mind with the unnecessary details.

----------

It's well after Kim has left that the guards make an error of sorts. There's a commotion in the kitchens, the loud crash of celadon pots meeting an untimely end, and the guards reach for their swords, drawn to the sound. Yeo sweeps from the room before his servants can object and flees, followed by his indignant shadows, to the outer wall of his courtyard. The palace walls are low, barely taller than him at twelve years old, and he gets a leg up on an obliging flowerpot to peer over at the ladies' domain.

She's beautiful, is his first and only thought.

She's trying to walk with the grace of a queen, a small dish balanced on each of her shoulders, but her face is sort of squished up with the effort of concentration. Several pinch-faced women watch her, whispering to each other behind their long and loose sleeves. His heart goes out to her; she must feel judged, like he does. It looks hard, walking so straight over the uneven stone slabs, with that bunch of harridans silently laughing at you, in those tiny ridiculous shoes.

His hand grates over a stone; she looks up startled, and meets his eyes as the plates go crashing to the floor. She offers him a small, uncertain smile and he grins back, amused and confusingly aroused at her clumsiness.

Insistent, unwelcome hands help him down from the wall.

----------

Their wedding night, two years later, is the first time they get to speak in private. Unsure of what he's meant to actually be doing, the two young teenagers simply spend the time in their sleeping robes talking into the small hours of the morning.

She's terrified of Park. So is he, of course, but he's sworn to himself to protect her and he can't tell her the worst of it. Some things are his burdens to bear. So he instructs her to just do as Park tells her and he hopes with all his heart that this will be enough to keep her safe.

----------

She's too much like her brother, he realises as he matures into his fifteenth year. She's grown up with freedom and love and doesn't understand his kind of survival.

She shouts at him, "Why do you always side with Park? Is it too much to ask that I go outside these dark walls once before I die? The people are loyal, they love you. Nothing will happen to me!"

"Be quiet!" He hisses. "If Park hears you question him-" The room echoes with the sound of the chopstick snapping in her hands.

"I don't care what Park hears! You are the king, I am the queen! What does he matter?"

His mind whirls; images of bloody concubines and sharp swords crowd behind his eyes. The ghosts of pain around his lower body makes him tense. She has to submit; it's the only way she can survive. For her own good, he grabs her by her slight, narrow shoulders and pushes her into the floor pillows.

"I am the king," he growls in her face, his teeth grinding together with every word. "And you will obey me."

His breath is hot and stale, and his long pale fingers dig bruisingly into her flesh. From so close, she can see the tiny red veins in his eyes, dark-rimmed and intense. He's never been physical before, or hurt her in any way, so she's shocked at his sudden ferocity and can't find the right words to calm him down.

Still gripping her, he says quietly, "I can only protect you if you obey me."

She's still in shock, even after he releases her and steps back. His own heart is pounding loudly in his ears and he clenches and unclenches his fists to exorcise the tension.

"My brother," she says in a small voice. "He can protect us both. Call him back from war."

Yeo shakes his head. "He leads the army but too many of the men belong to Park now. Even if he came back, the palace guards would keep him out. He has to stay away. I can't protect him either, if he comes back."

It earns him a sniffle of temporary defeat, but he knows she's too stubborn to give in easily.

----------

It's checkmate, and he knows it, signing the order that will keep Kim Shin away from the capital for good. He's back for a brief respite, sanctioned by Park, though he doesn't know it, in return for the royal seal on that scroll. Yeo bargains for an audience alone, and gets it, but he knows there are ears and eyes in the walls.

Kim doesn't understand, but he doesn't have to. It's enough for Yeo that he's going away to be safe, because he has enough faith to know that Kim is unkillable in battle.

Through clenched teeth and on his knees, Kim accepts the sword that Yeo has had made for him. It has a tiger on the hilt, because that's how Yeo thinks of him; ferocious, graceful, and gentle.

Kim thanks him through gritted teeth. His parting words are cold and sarcastic. Yeo's heart breaks as he speaks, equally coldly, of his coming sorrow at Kim's death, praying silently, fervently, that it will be many years before coming. He desperately wants a last embrace from the man he thinks of as his only friend, and tells himself that his life is the only thing that matters.

----------

In the middle of winter, he finds out that Kim has disobeyed him. He rushes to Sun's rooms, intent that somehow she can write and dissuade him from his self-destructive path. In the presence of the servant-spies, he calls Kim a traitor, acid burning his throat at the lie.

He knows she loves him, but she's far braver than he is.

----------

As General Kim Shin approaches the heavy wooden double gates, the court waits in silence within. Behind Park, Yeo sits beside Sun, close but no more able to touch her than reach the moon. She is staring straight ahead, back ramrod straight, breathing a little too fast. As the gates swing open she rushes forward and halts at the top of the stone steps when the archers draw their bows in unison, the creaking of strings the only noise in the icy courtyard.

Kim ignores Park; his eyes flick between Yeo and his sister's as he approaches, slowly, wearily, his lieutenant at his heels. He's wearing only his black padding, no armour; he's got the sword Yeo gave him but no means of defending himself.

Yeo's heart gives a painful twist. He doesn't really hear what's being said, but there's nothing he can do to stop what he knows is coming when Sun takes an arrow to the chest and tumbles, soundlessly, to the ground. Around them, bodies fall. The screams reach him curiously delayed, muted as though underwater.

As the gifted sword is driven through his friend's chest, he finally crumbles, and flees.

----------

The years that follow are lifeless and grey, as though that winter day never came to an end. The decoction tea Park sends him every day is numbing and he welcomes the oblivion it brings him each night. His second wife has somehow conceived a child; he doesn't know how, and he can't even recall her face or name, so he doesn't care. The servants stay away from him except for necessities; dressing, eating and bathing. His presence is rarely required in the throne room.

Park takes care of all that.

He's still got that charcoal drawing in a secret drawer, now yellowed and smudged with old tears. On his better days he pulls it out and takes a cathartic comfort in the fresh guilt it brings; he craves the crying, the cramps, the nails he digs into his palms until they bleed.

He draws, seeking a nameless meaning in his work. He mainly draws Kim Shin as he remembers him, tall and dependable, strong enough to conquer the world and carry it on his shoulders.

Sun evades him, as if refusing to materialise on paper out of spite. She is clear in his mind's eye but his hands shake too much.

In his thirtieth year, enough decoction tea to kill him in burning agony keeps his hands steady enough to finally capture her.

[theindifferentdroid]

Bad Moon Rising: Part 9 [Modern!Kylo x Reader]

BMR Masterlist // AO3

A/N: Y’all. Thank you for being patient (or at least not complaining) about this part. In the time since part 8, I’ve bought a house, moved, and started taking a class. I also recently realized it may have taken a little longer to write since it’s double the length of what I usually post. I feel much more confident about the direction of the rest of the story now, so hopefully I won’t have to drag this out too much longer! Enjoy.

Warnings: Death, language, violence

Word count: 3,300+

A buzzing noise woke you, its rhythmic pace standing out from the organic sounds of your morning, like Kylo’s deep breathing or the rustle of the sheets.

You rolled over on your side and grabbed your ringing phone off the side table. You answered in a whisper, not wanting to wake Kylo.

Kylo’s head turned subtly, his eyes landing on your bare back. He was awake; he’d been awake for a while, unable to bring himself to bother you. You deserved the rest.

So, he’d watched you as you slept, admiring more of your features as the sun seeped into the room, uncovering them piece-by-piece. He liked how the sheets rose and fell with each peaceful breath. Or how you reacted, just slightly, when he delicately spun a lock of your hair around his fingertips.

You gently placed your phone on the table, carefully maneuvering back to your spot under the sheets. You didn’t want to get out of bed. Not just yet. Not after the night you had. You sunk your head back into the pillow, the coolness hugging your head like a cloud as your eyes fluttered closed.

"Good morning."

You jumped, the deep voice disturbing the otherwise quiet room.

You rolled over strategically, clinging tightly to the sheets around your chest, suddenly self-conscious. "You’re awake," you stated.

"I’m clearly not as good at this sleeping thing as you are," Kylo teased, eyes closed. He seemed so relaxed. His voice was still gruff and tired.

He remained on his back but turned his head on his pillow to look your way. A sliver of sunlight caught his eyes, the amber burning brightly around his large pupils. You could tell he was smiling by the way his eyes began to crease, but you couldn’t look away to tell for sure.

God, you were in deep.

When he finally looked away, his eyes darted down towards your covered chest. He turned his body to face you, and his hands were on yours before you could react.

"Relax," he whispered.

You looked down and realized you were clinging onto the sheets with white knuckles. You loosened your grip hesitantly, Kylo taking the opportunity to weave his fingers between yours. You felt the scabs on his knuckles beneath your fingertips.

His touch gave you goose bumps, much like it had done last night. Your gut tightened and you held your breath remembering what you had shared. To have been so completely taken, it was much more than you had expected from someone like him.

"I’m sorry about last night."

You sat up quickly, propping up on your elbow. "Woah. What do you mean?"

Your breathing quickened, suddenly anxious. You didn't have much experience to compare it to, but you thought it had all gone so well.

Looking Kylo directly in the eyes, you repeated yourself after he remained silent. "What do you mean?"

You saw the exact moment he realized what he had said. His expression changed. His relaxed face was immediately a flurry of emotion. His eyes grew wide before his brows furrowed deeply. "Shit. No, I didn’t mean –." He sat up hastily. "Fuck."

You followed suit, sitting up – very strategically – aligning yourself next to him, the sheets still pressed against the front of your body, your back exposed.

Kylo was hunched over, though his large frame still dwarfed yours. You ran a soothing hand over his back, taking time to admire the way his muscles made mountains under his skin.

He sighed heavily before speaking again. "It was… you were… great. I meant before that. I’m sorry I came in here beat up. I shouldn’t have let you see that. I shouldn’t have done that to you. I just took it out on you, just because you were there."

The last part was so low you could barely hear him. His head hung low; he was nearly talking into his chest.

"It’s okay," you began.

"No. No, it’s not.” He paused, brooding. “I’ve never had to worry about… explaining myself to anyone. Now I feel – I don’t know. I’m not used to this. To having someone to talk to."

"I’m sorry."

He turned to face you, taking your face in his hands. "No. Don’t be sorry. If it’s anyone’s fault it’s mine for dragging you into this." He placed a kiss on your forehead, and you felt as if you were melting under his touch.

Your cheeks reddened. "Oh. Okay."

"I don’t usually do this, you know. I know it sounds corny, but I just had to say that."

You bit your lips to hide a sheepish smile. He was cute when he was embarrassed and humbled. It looked good on him, but he didn't need to know that.

You noticed how different your chemistry was this morning. Last night – you cringed thinking about it – the two of you were like oil and water. He was hurt and defensive. You were emotional and confused. As awkward as this was, it was a step in the right direction.

This moment was raw. Kylo was incredibly exposed, and he felt it and wanted so much for that to go away, to bottle himself up again, just like he’d done the last five or ten years of his life. He’d forgotten exactly how long he’d been like this. He just wanted to bottle himself up and act like he didn’t care or didn’t feel anything. It was just easier that way.

But you made even the simplest things difficult.

Maybe it was just the fact that he was finally allowing someone – anyone – into his life that was making him feel this way.

There just was something about you.

He jumped slightly when you touched his back again. "I got called into work," you said.

Kylo stood up quickly, taking the opportunity to talk about something other than his current situation. "Well, we better get going then. I’ll take you home."

The car ride was silent, but Kylo held your hand from the second you got in to the moment he pulled up at your apartment. He squeezed your hand tightly just before letting go.

He rolled the window down once you shut the door. "Thanks for the ride," you said, poking your head in the window. "I'll see you later?"

Kylo was silent, only looking over to give you a curt nod before driving off.

You shed your clothes as soon as you walked into your bedroom. You had about thirty minutes before you needed to leave. You cursed work for calling you in - or rather whomever called in sick - desperately wanting more time with Kylo. A guy like him was likely to disappear out of your life like he’d never been a part of it. You didn’t have anything of his; no personal items, no physical evidence to prove he’d even existed, besides his number in your phone. It wouldn’t be hard for him to do if he really wanted to. He’s made other people disappear without a trace; it likely wouldn’t be hard to do to himself. Hell, he’d basically done that for the past few weeks.

You started running the water for your shower and picked up your phone while you waited for the water to get hot. Part of you wanted to text Kylo, just thank him for the ride. Not that you hadn’t just done that a few minutes ago. But there was just something about having him out of your sight that made him seem fleeting, almost temporary. And the way he just drove off did nothing to quell that feeling. Maybe he just needed some alone time.

Steam began to roll over the shower curtain, so you decided to leave Kylo be for now. Showers usually made your thoughts come easier anyway.

But not today. Thoughts were replaced with memories. Vivid ones. It was like a bad movie montage. You’d close your eyes and you’d see Kylo’s bloody face, broken and defeated in an otherwise heavenly scene in the glowing white of the bathroom. But then you’d see the same face, cleaned up, closer, much closer. Just a cheekbone or some hair. Whatever you'd see as his lips were pressed against yours, or your neck, or your body.

You wiped the water from your eyes, trying to snap out of the scenes. Sighing, you got out the shower, drying off and wrapping the towel around yourself. Is this what Kylo felt like, unwilling to leave but terrified to stay?

You tried picturing something in the future, anything with Kylo. With other relationships, you could at least envision introducing them to your family, not that it would ever happen. But what about Kylo? You chuckled darkly, imagining how the conversation would go when they would ask what he did for a living. You then groaned catching a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. What were you getting yourself into?

"Ren was right to pursue you. You are quite beautiful."

The voice spoke up out of nowhere, seemingly shrouded in the steam. You jumped, your heart suddenly wanting to burst out of your chest. Unmoving, you shifted your gaze from the mirror, pushing your eyes to their limits of their corners. You didn’t need to see him, though. You knew that voice, that upper crust accent. The blurry orange in your peripheral vision only cemented your idea.

You didn’t want to move. Maybe if you stopped moving, he wouldn’t see you anymore, like a wild animal, a predator.

Thinking quickly, you stole a glance down at the counter looking for your phone, but it was nowhere in sight. "Fuck," you whispered.

"You know," Hux continued, staying where he was, for now. "I’m not a creep. This is just… bad timing, I suppose."

"What do you want?" you asked.

He began making his way towards you, but you remained where you were. There was no other way out of your bathroom except the way he came. Maybe if you could just comply, you wouldn’t have any issues.

"What do I want?" Hux laughed. The noise was empty and insincere; it riddled your arms with goose bumps. "It’s actually what I don’t want. Rather, what I don’t need."

He was behind you now, making eye contact with you in the mirror. His blue eyes were cold and empty.

Hux placed his gloved hands on your shoulders. The leather clung to your damp skin uncomfortably. "You."

You hardened your face, biting your lip to contain any emotion. You couldn’t let this guy get to you like he had before.

"You see, you’re quite the distraction for Ren. For example, last night."

Your eyes grew wide for just a second, but enough for Hux to notice. He squeezed your shoulders excitedly. "Ah, see. I knew it. I heard Ren was dangerously sloppy at work last night, and neither of you were home. I drove past his house last night before coming here. I’ve been here since five this morning, you know? I was growing impatient."

Your face began to burn beneath your eyes. Your mouth started pulling down at the corners. As much as it pained you, your eyes stayed locked onto Hux's in the mirror. You didn't want to give him a second of victory.

Ignoring your emotions, Hux continued. "I know you were at his house that night I showed up. It’s why I did it, to be honest. I presumed he had confided in you already. So, I wanted to test the waters, see how he'd react." Hux hummed, smirking at you. "Not well, if you recall. Thought if I could put on a show it would scare you away. But we’re resilient, aren’t we?"

You shifted, unnerved, beneath his grasp. His hands only tightened.

"I'll admit, it was a bit of a misstep on my part. I thought Snoke would appreciate it. Didn’t think Kylo would be so defensive. I certainly didn’t think that would cost me my job. But you can help me get it back."

It was quiet for a moment. The look in his eyes made you sick; he enjoyed this.

You raised your eyebrows, signaling him to continue, sure if you tried to speak you would begin to cry.

"This is what’s going to happen. Either you immediately stop seeing Kylo, or –"

You quickly reached out and grabbed the closest object to you, your hair dryer, and swung it around, hitting the side of Hux’s head. It was just enough to stun him but he quickly recovered, pushing you down. Your torso hit the toilet, the impact rattling your bones before you hit the floor. Hux was still between you and your way out of the bathroom.

Trying to anticipate Hux’s next move, you stood up quickly, figuring you’d be better off anywhere but on the floor. Your back was against the wall, and you were trembling now, your breaths shallow. Your body ached already. A quick thought flashed through your mind that the pain would go away soon; you wouldn’t be alive much longer.

"Or we can finish this now, I suppose," Hux spoke through gritted teeth. His blue eyes were piercing now, full of rage.

He reached out a hand towards you, but you ducked quickly, pushing Hux’s arm away from and running past him. He tripped backwards, nearly falling into the tub, but reached out to grab your wrist before you slipped though his grasp, his leather gloves skidding across your skin.

You only got a few steps away before you froze in your bedroom, the barrel of the gun stopping you in your tracks.

"Get down."

Without thinking, you let your body go limp and fell to the ground.

First, you heard the muffled shot ring out above your head.

Then you heard the clang of the hot brass casing on the floor.

A handful of rapid heartbeats in your ears.

The sound of dead weight hitting the floor just beside your feet.

Somewhere in there, you screamed. Or thought you did.

Your eyes were closed so tightly pain began to radiate through your head. Every time you thought about opening them, you just couldn't, like your mind and body were no longer connected.

The floor gently rumbled beneath you to the sound of footsteps. The noise started by your head, got minimally louder before fading away briefly and stopping altogether. A moment passed and the steps started and grew louder again before ending near your head.

The air around you was disturbed. You could feel someone moving around you; you could hear the rustling of clothes.

Your body finally responded and you opened your eyes, peering through the small slivers of light between your arms around your head.

Boots. Dark jeans. A large frame crouched over long, bent legs.

"Kylo?" you whispered shakily.

"Are you alright?"

Ignoring him, you moved to get up. "Is he -"

Kylo placed a hand against your shoulder, gently keeping you on the ground. "Don't. Don't look. But yeah, he's dead." He paused, processing the information himself. "I checked."

Kylo reached out a hand to help you up. You winced and stayed seated. Your eyes began to burn, the physical pain grounding you in reality. It was finally hitting you.

"Did he hurt you?"

Silent tears began to trickle down your face. You opened you mouth to speak but you didn't know what to say. Didn't want to answer the question, as if confirming what happened would somehow make it worse.

Kylo dropped to a knee in front of you, encasing you in his arms. You closed your eyes and leaned into his shoulder.

"Everything's going to be fine," he whispered into your ear. As he stared over your shoulder at Hux's lifeless body, even he was able to convince himself of this. It wasn’t just some empty promise.

You drew in a long, ragged breath. "Please leave."

Kylo let go of you and held you at an arm's length, staring deep into your eyes, his brows knitted tightly. You had never seen him so concerned before. "What's wrong?"

As you spoke the words, you didn't even feel like they were yours. "I don't want... I can't do this anymore."

He knew what you meant.

Kylo's hands remained on your shoulders while his eyes narrowed. His breathing became deep. You could tell he was trying to control it.

"But I can protect you. I swear."

You closed your eyes, choosing your next words carefully. "If I'm not with you, then I won't be in danger."

Kylo stood up quickly and walked over to the window, running his hands though his hair. "Fuck," he whispered. He couldn't deny you were right. Sure he'd come to your rescue twice now, but he wouldn't have had to if it weren't for him. He sighed heavily. "Get dressed."

You stood up finally, slowly, pulling the towel more tightly around you. "I'm not going anywhere."

Turning to face you, Kylo gestured dramatically behind you. "So you're going to clean up the dead body yourself, then?"

You began to turn your head to look where he was pointing, but quickly decided against it, only barely seeing a muddled mass lying on the ground.

"Just get dressed. I'll bring you back to the hotel. And take care of... this. When I'm done we can talk. Or you can leave. I won’t keep you.”

You huffed and stared at him. He was right; the dead guy in your apartment was a bit of a dilemma.

You walked past Kylo hurriedly to your closet. The silence between you was eerie, like you both realized there wasn't much left to say to each other. Pushing everything out of your mind, you proceeded to get dressed. You only noticed your hands were shaking when you tried to button your jeans.

A shrill ring came from your bedroom, and you poked your head out, barely catching a glimpse of the silhouette on the floor before squeezing your eyes shut. "What's that?"

Kylo walked up to Hux, surveying the scene. "Someone's calling Hux. We should hurry."

You ducked back into the closet to finish getting dressed. Then you remembered. "Oh, I think Hux has my phone," you called to Kylo.

It was silent for a minute until you walked back into your room to see Kylo wiping your phone on his shirt. You couldjust see where the black fabric was a little darker where the phone had been. "Here," he said, holding it out to you.

You reached out to grab it, your eyes wandering to the side of Kylo's body towards the floor.

He quickly put an arm around you and pushed you out the door. "I said don't look!"

"Fine," you retorted. You didn't know why you wanted to look. To confirm he was dead? Or was it like a train wreck, so unreal you needed to see for yourself? You felt your stomach flip at the thought alone; if you went the rest your life without seeing a dead body, it'd be too soon.

Kylo boots echoed down the wooden staircase of your apartment building. Enough time had passed that you figured you could talk. Maybe he'd cooled off by now. And the silence was unnerving.

"How did you know?" you asked. It was vague but Kylo was smart and you truthfully didn't want to talk about it.

"There were guys crawling all over my house. So, I called you to see if anything was off over here. When you didn't answer your phone, I decided to come check on you." He paused, opening the door. "I just had a bad feeling."

Your heart swelled, even though you didn't want it to. He actually did care about you. You moved past him out the door. "Thanks. For -"

A loud bang rang out behind you where Kylo stood. You turned to see what it was, but before you could catch a glimpse, something soft was over your mouth and your arm was pulled forcefully behind your back.

You saw a flash of white before everything went dark.

Part 10

[docfuture]

The Maker’s Ark - Chapter 39

     [This is a chapter from my latest novel, a sequel to The Fall of Doc Future and Skybreaker’s Call.  The start is here, and links to my other work here.  It can be read on its own, but contains spoilers for those two books.  I try to post new chapters about every two weeks, but there will sometimes be short stories and vignettes if I don’t have a new chapter ready.  The next chapter is planned for the week of October 9th.]

Previous:  Chapter 38

      Light and darkness.  Ice and fire, turning to water and steam behind her.       Anger and heartache.       Flicker hadn't expected the heartache, as she skated around Europa.  Despite all the pain, effort, and dread she'd gone through up to this point.       She could suppress her emotions at high speed.  She'd done so unconsciously for most her life, thinking slow neurochemistry was needed for them to be real.  But four humans, one Grs'thnk, three AIs, two pseudo-mythological entities, and every biogestalt she'd ever met had recently convinced her otherwise.  And that suppression was unhealthy.  So she'd stopped.       Flicker ached because Europa's surface had millions of years of history, oddities, quirks, and places of beauty.  And she was obliterating them all.  She was angry because she had no choice.  Because she needed Skybreaker's Spear to defend against what was coming.  And for her to construct it, Europa needed to be smoother.       There had been last-minute scans and surveys, pictures and core samples, all taken before she started.  It helped a little, knowing that there would be records.  But not enough.  She glanced at the picture of the old Europa on her visor display one more time.  It was familiar to astronomy buffs, and similar images were in books, papers, articles, and vids, and even on a few posters.       Those would require an update, or a note.  The simplest one would be 'Before'.       Doc, Ashil, and DASI were still hard at work, struggling to determine the best way for her to forge the Spear.  But all plausible construction scenarios had something in common--they required a portal in a freefall orbit of Europa within Flicker's entropy dumping range of the surface--and that was only fifty meters.  Allowing for a reasonably sized portal, and the ship needed to support and guide it, meant nothing could be much over thirty meters high across the entire orbital path.       Europa was already the smoothest large body in the solar system, and its outer layers were almost entirely ice.  Flicker was giving it a temporary atmosphere of steam and a shallow liquid water surface. Those would condense and refreeze, but not before the water had time to do what it did best--flow downhill.       If you wanted to make a solid surface very flat, it was hard to beat covering it in water and letting it freeze.  Tidal flexing would eventually produce irregularities again--but not soon.       Journeyman was aboard Three's favorite ship, keeping watch from above, along with the Learning Is About To Occur.  There were new, more distant watchers as well--a group of ships from an ally of the Grs'thnk had jumped in yesterday.  Learning said they'd moved up the timetable of a planned diplomatic mission.  Preparation for black hole construction was apparently enough to worry the neighbors, even if they lived two universes away.       *****       The lab was a kaleidoscope of holograms and display screens, and Doc concentrated to keep focus as Ashil flipped between them.  This was the kind of work where her implant made a big difference--and Doc wasn't as fast as he'd been.       "...worst still third case.  Collapse asymmetry," she was saying.  "Not most energy, but--"       "But hardest for us to rule out," finished Doc. "We need better bounds on either the non-linear collapse phase or the permeability of the portal to gravitational waves. Because they won't bother Flicker, but they sure might kill Journeyman, even through a Xelian shield.  I think--"       "Priority interrupt," announced DASI.       "Incoming?" he asked.  "Problems on Europa?"       "Neither.  However--"       "Then what on Earth is so important?" Doc felt the immersive flow of the theoretical work slipping away.       "Director Reinhart wishes to discuss her response to an official communication from the Floater ships that jumped in yesterday, along with several other issues.  Also, you and Ashil are two hours overdue for a dinner break, and your personal health maintenance index is in the red."       "Great." Doc closed his eyes and sighed.  "Ashil, I'm sorry. Can we--"       "Break.  Yes.  Implant yell at me, too.  Don't worry, I have new idea for free parameter reduction I work on after I eat."       "Thank you for being understanding," he said. Robots served the meal in the kitchen nook of the apartment Doc shared with Stella.  "Okay," he said after taking a bite, "Choosers and superheroes are handling the crisis list, DASI won't let me start reading my message backlog before I eat, and nothing's on fire except Europa.  What did the Floaters want?"       Stella smiled.  "A short, liberal translation might be 'You are doing dangerous and reckless things.  We are very concerned.'  Which is reasonable.  But."       Stella raised an eyebrow.  "One thing everyone agrees on is that mistranslation and misunderstanding of other races is a longstanding issue for the Floaters.  Working out the protocol for their entry into the Grs'thnk Trade League took years.  You're the only human who has spoken to a Floater before, and I'm curious about your meeting.  The notes you recorded about the occasion were brief and unhelpful."       "I didn't write them up until I got back to Earth, and a lot happened in the meantime.  It was at that same diplomatic nightmare of a party where I got myself in trouble talking about grav drives.  I wasn't drunk, but I was still very loopy from the antihistamines."       Doc took a drink before continuing.  "The Floater I talked to had an autotranslator that used Grs'thnk trade pidgin as an intermediate language.  We agreed that it didn't work well.  He seemed eager to get cultural context data for a better translator, which I could sure understand, but given the venue and available time, I thought that was just asking for trouble.  So I begged off on grounds of fuzziness."       "What did he look like?"       "No clue.  His envirosuit was bipedal with six tentacles, and about human-sized, but that doesn't mean much.  Is it important?"       "Body form is associated with Floater factions in some complex way, and our new visitors admit to having representatives from at least four factions.  That's one of the clearer parts in DASI's composite translation of the message--and there are plenty of signs that different sections were composed by different groups."       "I remember that Floaters need to body mod to allow interstellar travel, because the gas bladders in their unmodded form are too big to make it practical."       "That's not necessarily true," said Stella.  "One of the ships is quite large, and part of the message is devoted to complaining about the inconvenience of transporting an elder here."       "That's new.  At least to me. What do the Grs'thnk say?"       "Beveda says yes, it's new.  Learning says not really.  DASI says it depends on what they mean by elder."       "Wonderful."       "It gets better.  The least opaque parts of the message are disclaimers and complaints.  One you might find interesting blames an entity or entities unknown--but circumstantially linked to Earth--for creating a lasting navigational difficulty that caused economic hardship to a Floater colony.  For eighteen years, ending shortly after Flicker destroyed the Topaz Realm."       "How does the timing fit with the Grs'thnk portal shifts?"       "Exactly, as far as Learning can tell."       "I'm beginning to wonder if one reason Golden Valkyrie left in such a hurry was to avoid awkward questions."       "Plausible.  But that one was mild compared to the diatribe against the recklessness of Flicker's probability manipulation during the fleet battle.  Literal translations--we have five different ones so far--are rather incoherent.  The figurative ones start with 'Fools!  You've doomed us all!' and go downhill from there.  DASI is reasonably confident of two important bits of information from the rant:  The ranter thinks it's at least possible to avert the coming doom, and there are three of whatever is bringing it.  But there's no indication how they know that."       "How reassuring.  What else?"       "The Floaters are more moderately displeased that Flicker is threatening the fabric of spacetime and committing planetary engineering without filing an environmental impact statement, because we foolish humans are insufficiently protective of Jupiter and don't require one.  Learning says that if the moons of Jupiter were their lawn, they'd be yelling at us kids to get off of it."       "Not unreasonable.  They're touchy about gas giants because they live on one."       Stella smiled again.  "Our lawn, our rules.  The last part of the message emphasized that regardless of anything else, they are here to help, they have two portal test 'devices', and they would like to share data as soon as is practical.  They were clear, if somewhat passive-aggressive, about their intent to carefully monitor what Flicker and Journeyman are doing.  They also intend to survey the local gradients around Earth, which is specifically permitted by the terms of our treaty with the Grs'thnk."       Doc frowned.  "Gradients of what?"       "They didn't say.  And 'gradients' is an indirect and possibly figurative translation.  There was also an amusing disclaimer from their primary translator; essentially 'I'm sorry, we were ordered to translate this on an impossible deadline. Here is the raw text so your AIs can try.'  He included an appendix on the failure of their first translation project, which would have been much easier to understand--"       "If it hadn't failed."  Doc sighed.  "They do have a reputation for persistent and patient action, as well as grouchy and ambiguous communication.  Anything else?"       "Ambassador Beveda said it's clear to her that the Floaters were putting together a more coherent message, then decided to send what they had on short notice.  The obvious impetus would be Flicker starting work on Europa.  Learning sent some highlights from past misunderstandings between the Floaters and the Grs'thnk, and a link to a sketch by an human comedian telling an improbably intricate tale of woe with the punchline 'but that part is complicated'."       "Heh.  DASI said Journeyman sent something, too.  He's still on the observation ship that you have sticking close to Learning, right?"       "Yes.  His message was sent about ten minutes before the Floaters sent theirs, warning that what seemed to be a weak divination attempt bounced off one of his wards just after Flicker started work.  He performed some tests that he's unwilling to discuss until they get back, but he thinks the Floaters have either a probability manipulation based scanner or a magician."       *****       The steam was thick enough now to block most light.  Flicker used the radar in her visor to see, and her gravitational gradient sense to stay at the right level.  Collisions were her usual worry, but not today.  Solid matter was no more of an obstruction than a spider web if she wanted it gone.       She followed a carefully planned path, because the energy distribution was important; she could add heat to Europa in a hurry, but cooling it down again depended on weather and thermodynamics.  They would need a near vacuum before starting portal work, it would take time for all the steam to condense out, and sufficiently uneven snow distribution could be just as much of a problem as the ice geography she was erasing.       Plasma flashed brightly but briefly for the central peak of Pwyll crater, and Flicker felt a pang of sadness as she vaporized the jagged blocks of the Conamara Chaos, old ice rafts twisted into rugged beauty.  But there was no beauty in a portal crash, so they had to go.  Any life on Europa was kilometers deep, in buried oceans far under the ice, and shouldn't notice her disturbances to the surface unless something went catastrophically wrong.       And if things went that wrong, life elsewhere would be in trouble too.       *****       Doc finished reading the messages on his handcomp.   A lot had piled up over the past week while he'd been helping Ashil with portal theory.  He looked over at Stella.  She was reviewing DASI's translation of the official EDU message to the Floater ships.       "Send, with a copy to the Grs'thnk," she said aloud.       "Sending," said DASI.  "Verified.  Recorded by the Auditors."       "Thank you."  Stella set down her own handcomp, then met Doc's eyes.  "Well?"       "I asked not to be disturbed if there wasn't a crisis," he said.  "So I can hardly complain.  But I'm wondering about the Volunteer.  His letter was not reassuring.  Did he send anything to you?"       "DASI has been keeping me updated on his healing progress.  His eyesight hasn't returned.  The problem seems to be that Golden Valkyrie and Flicker regenerated most of his brain damage while his eyes and optic nerves were still gone.  DASI's most recent scans indicated a connectivity problem that's healing very slowly, if at all."       Doc nodded.  "He says they were making sure he didn't lose any memories permanently.  But I'm more concerned about the effects he's been experiencing on Earth.  Migraines and general malaise--but they go away as soon as he returns to Kyrjaheim. That sounds like a probability manipulation effect."       "Our magic theories are all pretty speculative, as Journeyman never tires of pointing out, but I think it's archetype backlash," said Stella.  "The Volunteer filled an important symbolic role for a long time, and now he can't.  There could easily be a strong feedback effect from all the people that saw him as a bulwark against unwanted change.  Especially older people in the United States."       Doc frowned.  "Or he could have lost part of his connection to Earth; he was gone when Flicker was hammering the universal reset button, and he was healed in Kyrjaheim.  We just don't know.  He sounded pretty discouraged."       "He's discouraged because he can't directly help Earth.  Margie was quite clear about that.  I forwarded some letters from the Xelian Volunteerist converts; perhaps those will help."       "I hope so.  Not much else we can do.  I could go visit him, I suppose.  I need to stop pushing the physics for a while, anyway.  I can keep up with Ashil and help her--but not all the time.  I'd trash myself on the schedule she's been keeping lately."       Stella smiled wryly.  "That rarely deters you.  But I could use your assistance with a few things, on a more reasonable schedule."       "I'm trying to be more sensible.  I have a lot of bad habits from my days of dealing with crises while chronically short of sleep.  But we still have time, and I'm now convinced that Ashil is better at portal theory than I am or will be, even if I someday manage to restore my top-level augments.  And the potential for new data from the Floaters makes this a good time to take a break.  What do you need?"       "The CBI has been requesting a secure meeting with you for a number of days.  Given recent developments, it would be useful if you were willing to accommodate them here.  DASI believes they will now agree to all of your conditions."       Doc raised his eyebrows.  "The pennies are finally dropping, eh?  DASI, would that be consistent with 'taking a break'?"       "Yes," said DASI.  "Such a meeting is unlikely to be cognitively difficult, even if you have anger management issues.  And it's aversive enough to you that you won't prolong it."       "All right, go ahead and schedule it."  Doc turned back to Stella.  "I'd like to hear a bit more about those 'recent developments' though."       "I could let DASI explain, but I'm red-zoned too.  I really did not need a new set of aliens arriving to increase the variance of all my political projections.  Venting will help.  With several things, some of which I've been putting off for weeks."       Doc frowned.  Stella's body language was usually very hard to read, and she normally affected a detached amusement.  Now she just looked frustrated and tired.       "Stella?  Are you all right?"       She stared back at him for a moment.  "Let's go into the the living room, so I can put my feet up.  We need to talk."       *****       It was done, finally.       Europa was now a steam-enshrouded billiard ball, slowly cooling.  The rain had already started, but it would still take weeks before the residual atmospheric density was low enough.  Flicker stared at the image in the screen on the shuttle that had picked her up.  It was something to do other than dwell on the lack of mass around them.       "The destination shuttle is almost at the right spot and velocity," said Journeyman.  "You ready?"       "Green," Flicker said automatically.  He had his arms around her, preparing to port both of them most of the way to Earth.  She was still dissociated from her long work at high speed, but she would recover.  As soon as she had mass, and air, and ground she wasn't doing anything destructive to.       "Thirty seconds, mark."       "Goodbye, Europa," Flicker whispered.  "I'm sorry.  I'll be back."       Did that make what she'd already done better, or worse?  She was still wondering when they ported out, heading home.

Next:  Chapter 40

[prettybabyhazza]

drunk on the mic part one (e.d.)

~i highly recommend listening to the song this is based off of for extra angst. Hope y’all enjoy. :)

***(extra note: I imagine Ethan to be slightly older in this one, specifically around 20 or 21. Same goes for the main character.)***

~MASTERLIST~

***Warnings: strong language, mentions and descriptions of alcohol and intoxication, and hella angst. Hella.

SONG: “Drunk on the Mic” by Mickey Shiloh

Don’t let me get drunk on the mic, I’mma tell him all my secrets…

Your ankles wobbled slightly with every step your tipsy self took in your matte black stilettos. Any chance of stripping out of your skin tight, completely sequined, black dress had been long lost. Partially due to the thin layer of sticky sweat adorning your skin, but mainly because of the strange sense of structure it gave you; as if it was the only thing holding you together. It also provided you a sense of false empowerment as you continued to strut down the never ending hallway of your apartment complex, head held high and shoulders back in attempt to look more independent and put together than you felt.

“He isn’t my property. He doesn’t belong to me. He can do whatever the fuck he pleases.”

The overplayed mantra persistently fumbled from your anxiously over-bitten, swollen lips as you finally reached the door to your empty penthouse; the same home you shared with Ethan. What was your relationship with Ethan exactly? You didn’t even know. Considering tonight’s events, he clearly meant more to you than you did to him. 

Whatever.

Slamming and locking the door shut behind you, you turned and pressed your aching back against the heavy industrial door, leaning your head back and closing your eyes. You focused intently on your breathing, as well as the quick rise and fall of your chest. In and out. Up and down.

“E, I’ve slept with three guys starting from when I was sixteen. I’m not stupid. I know this is casual. Nothing more.”

The lie you had easily let slip off your tongue months ago echoed through your brain in a scream. What was meant as an innocent, one-time fib, snowballed out of control. Your closest friend and roommate became your “fuck buddy” with a convincing flip of your tongue.

But for the love of God and all that is holy, why in the hell did you tell him that? Were you that desperate to get in his pants? Pathetic is what it was. Nothing more. But that wasn’t the only false truth you fed him.

“I’ve loved a couple guys, I guess. Nothing crazy, but I don’t want to do it again. I hate it.”

Well, the last part wasn’t a lie.

“He isn’t fucking mine,” you seethed through gritted teeth, unsuccessfully attempting to calm your anger. Emphasis on unsuccessfully. Desperately, is probably more like it. Alas, the storm rumbling inside you was only growing stronger. 

However, as your torturous mind began to play back the circumstances the night threw your way, it instantly shifted into a raging monsoon.

It was supposed to be an innocent, carefree Friday night with you and Ethan’s regular group of friends at your favorite nightclub.  The bass of the overly produced electronic music pounded through your chest as you swayed your hips and flipped your hair to the melody. Clearly the vodka soda you had just finished was already starting to work its magic as you danced freely in the middle of countless sweaty bodies. 

“Hey!”

It was a miracle you were able to hear the sound of your friend’s voice calling out to you over the volume of the music and insolent hollering of the group of frat guys next to you. Careful not to twist your ankle in your stilettos, you pushed through the crowd to the edge of the dance floor where your friend was standing with two more vodka sodas in her hands; one for each of you.

“Thanks, babe,” you yelled into her ear as you took the beverage from her hand. “Where is everyone?”

“You missed it! Gray got ‘cornered’ by two girls who were quite… affectionate. I have no idea where he is now, but my guess is, he’s having the time of his life.”

The sip of your drink you took as she talked nearly shot straight up and out of your nose as you cackled along with her. Grayson never had problems with finding hookups, that’s for sure.

“Where’s E?” You asked as you turned and scanned the dancing crowd behind you. You were very much looking forward to staying for a couple more songs before continuing the party back at home with Ethan, and Ethan alone. He couldn’t have gone too far. Could he?

“Well,” she hesitated. “Are you sure you want to know?” Her uneasiness caused your eyebrows to furrow and heart rate to spike.

“What is it?”

“Ethan is… He’s sort of…” her sentence trailed off as her eyes shifted over to your right. She bit her lip uncomfortably, making you follow her gaze.

No. Fucking. Way. 

You looked on helplessly as you took in the sight of none other than Ethan Dolan wrapped in the arms of a much smaller blonde girl, lips fiercely tangling together and his hands inching dangerously low on the small of her back. You were no longer surrounded by God knows how many drunks in an overfilled nightclub. You no longer heard the voice of your friend calling to you, nor did you feel the tug of your arm as she hopelessly tried to break your stare. You demanded your body stay upright; to not break down.

The fleeting sense of relief you felt when Ethan broke away from the blonde girl’s kiss, briefly connecting with your stare was very much short lived, as he merely glanced at you before taking the girl’s hand and whisking her outside. Since the two of you began whatever the hell you had, neither of you took part in any more hookups. You saved yourselves for each other, like some sort of twisted, silent agreement. Was he actually going home with her?

Instantly, your heart began to crack and break.

“Fucking hell,” you groaned as you brought one hand to your aching head, desperately rubbing as if the action would erase the memory and any pain it left in its wake. Sighing, you trudged to your kitchen in search of your medicine of choice from the glass cabinet attached to the island. Bending down and running your fingertips gingerly over the necks of each bottle, you hunted for your desired liquor. Tonight, you chose a frosted bottle of lemon infused vodka. After locating and sloppily filling the nearest shot glass, you took a shaky breath and silently willed the distilled beverage to do its worst.

“Bottoms up.”

Easily downing two shots back to back, you welcomed the all too familiar, searing burn of the liquid danger snaking down your throat. You begged the alcohol to mask your pain and seal your heart closed for just one night. Desperation flowed through your veins as you pleaded for yourself to stay together. Not tonight. Don’t break tonight. Not here. All you needed was to fill your body with enough venom to forget the night’s events and knock out. You’d deal with whatever repercussions came in the morning.

If he found you in the current state of a failed attempt to hide your pain and intolerance with ineffective intoxication, all hell would break loose. He wouldn’t be able to take two steps in the front door without being bombarded by your never ending word vomit. You knew if he came home earlier than you expected, your temporary liquid courage would let him have it. Every thought, secret, lie, and feeling swirling your head would slip up your throat and onto his heart.

Full disclosure? No, you hadn’t slept with three guys. Before Ethan, you had only had sex with one guy, not three. He was nothing special to you, just someone who happened to take your virginity; something that never held value to you in the first place. Although, you weren’t lying when you said you hated love and didn’t want anything to do with it. It scared the shit out of you. The idea of being open to someone and becoming so vulnerable absolutely terrified you. You imagined someone holding a sword over your chest, asking you to trust them not to drop it straight in.

That being said, another truth, and the hardest pill for you to swallow: Ethan was the first person you truly fell for.

“Who did I think I was, loving a grown ass man?”

Who did you think you were, trusting yourself not to fall in love with the most beautiful man, inside and out, you’d ever had the pleasure of knowing? Who were you to believe yourself when you made the promise of “keeping casual”? A damn fool, that’s for sure. Even worse, a damn liar.

“It’s none of my goddamn business whose pussy he’s buried in right now!” 

You screamed the vulgar lie into the hauntingly empty apartment. You mentally challenged any neighbors that heard you to complain. Frankly, you were fucking loud, but you couldn’t care less. Even though you weren’t wanting to confront Ethan, you were up to fight anyone else. 

If Ethan came home while you were still wide awake and intoxicated, Lord help him, you would end up airing out your entire wardrobe of dirty laundry and hidden skeletons. Every word and action of his you had overly dissected and stored in your brain would undoubtedly be retrieved and used against him as ammo. Every lie you told would become untangled, wrung out, and draped on his heart, like a tragically heavy duvet. 

Your vision turned blurry and nearly doubled as you sloppily poured yet another shot into your awaiting glass. Stomach fluttering and head pounding, you were grateful you finally began to feel the familiar feeling of deep intoxication.

A sudden silence swept over you as the only sound to be heard in the dark and weary apartment was the jingle of keys outside the front door. 

Ethan.

Any other night, such a noise would have gone unnoticed, but tonight, the melody was deafening. Instantly, your mind went blank. What the hell was he doing home? It wasn’t his “style” to fuck and leave. 

Just like that, with the sound of a key being inserted and locks clicking and turning, your body was no longer yours to control. 

Your brain desperately begged your legs to run, but you didn’t flinch. Your vision fully doubled. The red blood flowing through your veins turned to ice. The newly filled shot class in your hand came crashing down onto the expensive hard wood floor; the clear spirit spreading at your feet. Your lungs refused to welcome anymore oxygen.  Instinctively, your mind became locked and loaded, your eyes narrowed, refusing to break contact with the entrance. No turning back now. It was time.

It all happened in slow motion.

Ready..

The door creaked open.

Aim..

Ethan stepped in, halting at the sight of your battle stance and the broken glass on the ground. 

“What the hell is going on?”

Fire.

xx

part two.

[halliewriteshockey]

At the End of the World

Read it on the AO3

Chirrut didn't expect to wake up. The last thing he remembered was Baze holding his hand, praying over him, praying with him, and then gray fog had rolled through his mind.

When he woke, Baze was still holding his hand. Chirrut knew the fingers that gripped his more intimately than he knew his own. He'd had them all over his body, after all, touching him in ways Chirrut himself hadn't known he needed to be touched. Baze had held him when they grieved after the fall of the Temple, had kissed him hard in the first dizzying rush of new love, had pushed and pulled and fought and adored him for so many years.

Chirrut turned his head on the pillow, wincing as his temples throbbed.

"He's awake," Jyn said, voice faint like she was looking over her shoulder.

Someone joined them, rustle of crisp linen and smell of antiseptic. Cool fingers touched Chirrut's free wrist, turning it to take his pulse. Clicks and sibilant hisses, a language Chirrut didn't know.

"Baze," Chirrut said, turning his head on the pillow.

"I'm here," Baze rumbled, squeezing his hand.

"Chirrut," Cassian said. He was standing beside Baze, leaning over the bed, his voice coming from above and to Chirrut's right.

"Did we do it?" Chirrut whispered.

"Yeah," Baze said. Joy and sorrow mingled in his voice. 

"We did it," Cassian said. "Jyn got the plans through."

Chirrut moved his left hand and Jyn took it, small fingers nestled in his palm. He smiled in her direction and Jyn squeezed his hand gently.

"Bodhi?" Chirrut asked.

"He's unconscious," Cassian said. Worry bled into his voice and he shifted his weight. “He hasn't woken up since the grenade—”

"The healer says he will," Jyn said. It had the sound of words oft-repeated, patience and forbearance heavy in her tone.

Chirrut tried to sit up. Several hands pressed him back against the mattress and he scowled but didn’t fight. “Tell me what happened.”

They took turns filling him in as Baze stroked his knuckles, not saying much.

“Jyn got the plans out,” Cassian said. “We made it back to the beach just in time to see the Death Star appearing.” His voice tightened with remembered terror. “I don’t know everything that happened next—all I know is there was a huge blast, something hit the Death Star at high speed.”

“Biggest ship in the Rebel fleet,” Baze murmured. “Nosedived into the Death Star’s firing module.”

“It was Admiral Raddus’s ship,” Jyn said. “He basically rammed it, took out the Death Star’s firing capacitors, lit up the sky with fireworks. It won’t stop Vader for long—Mon Mothma says this is a temporary setback at best, but at least it stopped him from blowing up Scarif. Gave us the chance to find a ship and get everyone—everyone we could—off that damned beach.”

Baze’s hand tightened briefly on Chirrut’s.

“Injuries?” Chirrut asked.

“Cassian’s got a handful of broken ribs and a busted leg,” Jyn said. “Bodhi—” Her voice faded briefly again. “He’s going to wake up.”

“And you?” Chirrut asked.

“I’m fine,” Jyn said, patting his wrist. “You sustained a severe concussion and your right shoulder blade is broken.”

Chirrut winced. “That sounds painful.”

“They’re going to put you in a bacta tank,” Baze rumbled. “Wanted you to wake up first.”

The healer came back, broad, flat feet slapping against the stone floor. They clicked and hissed and warbled until slowly, reluctantly, Chirrut’s visitors left him, promising to come see him again soon.

That left Baze, still clutching Chirrut’s hand, but the healer didn’t throw him out too.

Chirrut turned toward him as the healer checked his vitals, but didn’t say anything until they were alone. Then he closed his eyes and waited until Baze leaned forward to press their foreheads together.

“I thought—”

“I know,” Baze whispered. “Me too.” There was a hitch in his voice when he continued. “I saw you—walking toward the master switch, and I—there was this one crazy, wild moment when you turned around and I thought—I thought, ‘he’s done it, it’s going to be okay’ and then t-the grenade, and y-you—”

“Hush,” Chirrut said, reaching for him. The red-hot spike of pain in his shoulder made him think better of that, but he leaned forward, trying to get closer. “Oh, my love. Hush, I’m here. See? I’m alright. So are you.”

Baze hiccupped and turned his head to press a kiss to Chirrut’s palm.

“Ch-Chirrut?” Bodhi sounded very young, his voice slurred with pain.

He was in the next bed over, Chirrut realized, on Baze’s other side. He opened his mouth to ask him how he was feeling but Bodhi spoke again before he could.

“W-who are you talking to, Chirrut?”

Chirrut went very still.

“I didn’t know how to tell you,” Baze whispered, grief in his voice thick enough to choke on.

Chirrut shook his head. “No.”

“I’m sorry,” Baze said, but Chirrut just shook his head again. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t move—

“This is a trick,” he said.

Bodhi made a pained noise as he struggled to sit up. “Chirrut, what—it’s not a trick.”

Chirrut ignored him, reaching for Baze. His groping hand fell through empty air.

“Baze.”

He realized suddenly that he couldn’t sense Baze’s presence, that it wasn’t the warm, comforting glow in the back of his mind that it had been since the first time they touched.

“No,” he repeated, and pushed himself upright. His shoulder screamed in protest but Chirrut didn’t slow. Throwing the blankets off, he swung his legs over the side of the bed, cradling his useless arm in his good one. “Baze, talk to me. Talk to me.”

“He’s not here,” Bodhi said as a door crashed open and the sound of running footsteps neared them. “Chirrut, I’m sorry, but he’s not—”

“Chirrut—” Cassian sounded out of breath. He reached Chirrut’s side and put a hand on his good shoulder. “Please, don’t get out of bed, you’re still too weak.”

Chirrut shoved his hand away. He had to—he had to find—he’d been right there, he hadn’t dreamed Baze holding his hand, or touching their foreheads together. His bare feet hit the floor and he flinched as his ribs protested.

“Answer me,” he demanded, but there was only silence where Baze had been.

Chirrut wavered, blood loss and exhaustion and pain crashing over him in huge waves. Uncertainty gnawed at him. He hadn’t imagined it. Had he?

“Where is he?” he asked, turning to Cassian.

Cassian hesitated.

“Tell me.”

“He—I’m sorry, Chirrut. He died on Scarif.”

Chirrut shook his head and took a step forward, hand out in front of him. “No. No. Baze! Baze!” Baze had been there, he’d been right there, why wasn’t he answering Chirrut, why couldn’t Chirrut sense his presence, feel that reassuring light in his mind that always told Chirrut where he was and how he was feeling?

His legs gave out and Chirrut sagged sideways into Cassian’s arms as the gray fog rolled back through, wiping him clean.

 ~~

When he woke again, he was back in bed. Someone was holding his hand. It wasn’t Baze. Chirrut pulled until the person let go, working moisture into his dry mouth.

“Here,” Cassian said, and a straw touched Chirrut’s lips.

He sucked at it, the cool water sliding down his throat and soothing his shredded vocal cords. When the cup was empty, Cassian set it aside and touched Chirrut’s knee.

“How are you feeling?”

Chirrut didn’t dignify that with a response. “Tell me what happened.”

Cassian sighed and a chair was dragged across the floor, fetching up between Chirrut’s and Bodhi’s beds. He sat down with a stifled noise.

“I’m alright,” he said, clearly not to Chirrut. Bodhi, then, who hadn’t spoken since Chirrut woke the second time.

Chirrut waited, jaw tight.

Cassian blew out a tired breath and fabric rustled like he was shifting to get comfortable. “Bodhi should probably tell it, he actually saw it happening, I was still up in the data vaults.”

Silently, Chirrut turned toward Bodhi’s bed.  

Bodhi cleared his throat. “I—didn’t see all of it. After you threw the switch, there was an explosion. Baze went after you. I don’t know what happened, because that was about when the grenade hit the ship.” He faltered, then resumed. “I woke up in the sand. Thought for a minute I was dead.”

Cassian made a quiet noise but didn’t interrupt.

“Baze was—he was walking toward the deathtroopers, firing. I saw him go down—” Bodhi’s breath hitched and Chirrut fisted his hands in the blanket covering his legs. “But he got back up. He looked over his shoulder—I think he was trying to see you one more time.”

Sentimental old fool. Chirrut focused on keeping his breathing steady.

“Then he went over the dune and—it exploded.”

“Did you see his body?”

Bodhi hesitated, but there was no anger in Chirrut’s voice, no harsh accusation. “No,” he said, “but Melshi—he went right past where Baze was on his way to get me and Tonc. He—saw him. He said—I’m sorry, Chirrut—he said no one could have survived that blast.”

Chirrut didn’t answer.  He turned his head away and closed his eyes. Awkward silence fell, and Cassian cleared his throat.

“We’ll let you rest.” The chair scraped as he stood, and then he murmured something to Bodhi, too low to be overheard. His voice was gentle, intimate, and it hurt deep in Chirrut’s gut.

He reached for Baze’s presence again as Cassian’s footsteps receded and quiet cloaked them. He’d felt it, he had, he hadn’t been imagining it—Baze had held his hand, pressed their foreheads together, spoken to him—

There was nothing. Blackness surrounded him, no respite to the yawning void on all sides. No spark of life, exasperated affection warming his voice, heartbeat steady and strong and faithful as he followed Chirrut on yet another mad adventure.

The first hot tear slid down his cheek but Chirrut didn’t bother to wipe it away. Instead he folded his hands in his lap and prayed.

In darkness, cold.

In light, cold.

The old sun brings no heat.

But there is heat in breath and life.

In life, there is the Force.

In the Force, there is life.

And the Force is eternal.

Baze was alive. The alternative was unthinkable.

“I’m not,” Baze said, and Chirrut nearly jumped out of his skin.

“Baze,” he said. Bodhi stirred, pulled from his doze, but Chirrut ignored him, focused on finding Baze’s light, the steady radiance that showed him where Baze was at all times. It wasn’t there, he couldn’t feel it, and he sat up, orienting himself to where the voice had come from.

“I know you’re there.”

Silence.

Chirrut made a frustrated noise and swung his legs over the side of the bed. “Answer me,” he demanded.

“Chirrut—” Bodhi sounded worried, and Chirrut flung out a hand behind him to hush him.

“Where are you?” he asked the empty air.

“I’m here,” Baze said, and something brushed Chirrut’s cheek.

Chirrut turned his face into it and Baze cupped his jaw, thumbing gently over his cheekbone.

“I knew it,” Chirrut whispered. “Why can’t I sense you?”

“You know why,” Baze said, just as quietly.

“No,” Chirrut said. He would have shaken his head, but that would dislodge Baze’s hand, so he stayed very still. “You’re not dead.”

“Yes I am,” Baze said, barely audible. His touch was fading, dissipating like fog on a sunny day, and Chirrut reached for him, grasping at air.

“Baze, no, come back, Baze—”

No answer.

Chirrut caught his breath on a sob. His shoulder was a solid scream of agony, nearly drowning out the rest of his body’s complaints, but Chirrut ignored it. He pulled his IV line out, hissing at the pain, and fumbled for the edge of the blanket to staunch the bleeding. He was wearing a simple linen shirt and soft trousers, he noted distantly. That made it easier—at least he wouldn’t have to hunt for clothes. He stood, the duracrete floor cold under his bare feet, and felt around on the floor.

“What are you doing?” Bodhi asked.

“Shoes,” Chirrut said through his teeth.

“To your left,” Bodhi said.

Chirrut’s hand fell on them and he nodded in thanks before stepping into them. “Is my staff—”

“It’s against the wall by the head of the bed. Chirrut—”

Chirrut found the staff and exhaled gratefully. He felt steadier, more himself, with his bo staff grounding him. “I have to go,” he said.

“Wait.” Bodhi struggled with his own IV line and blankets, but Chirrut was orienting himself, listening for sounds of activity and feeling for a cross-draft.

There. Chirrut strode for the door, staff tapping in front of him, as Bodhi swore and scrambled after him.

In the hall, Chirrut stopped to orient himself again. He needed to find the hangar bay, but he’d never been in this part of the base before.

Bodhi caught up to him, breath ragged.

“Go back to bed,” Chirrut told him.

“Not fucking likely,” Bodhi snapped.

Chirrut’s eyebrows rose but he didn’t argue. “Which way’s the hangar bay?”

“Why?” Bodhi parried.

“You know why.” Echo of Baze’s voice drifting through his mind. Chirrut shook it off. He’s not dead.

“Chirrut, you’re—”

“Just tell me.”

Bodhi sighed and took Chirrut’s elbow, turning him. Chirrut immediately strode off in that direction, leaving Bodhi to swear again and dash after him.

The few people they passed in the hallways didn’t challenge them, and Chirrut paused in the open, cavernous space of the hangar bay, letting the sounds and smells wash over him. He needed a small ship, something easily maneuverable. He turned in a half-circle, extending his senses in an effort to feel what was around him. Non-sentient things were always more difficult for him to gauge—at least living beings had the Force flowing through them, letting him get a sense of who and what was around him.

“Chirrut, I can’t let you do this,” Bodhi said.

“How exactly do you plan on stopping me?” Chirrut inquired.

Bodhi didn’t answer and Chirrut went back to inspecting his surroundings. Large masses showed as voids in his perceptions, empty holes that blocked out the life signatures of the people working in and around them.

He fixed on one, smaller than the others, and moved toward it without hesitation. People tended not to challenge someone who walked like they had every right to be where they were, Chirrut had found, so he walked briskly across the hangar floor and circled the small ship.

It was perfect, he decided. Quick and nimble, built for speed and able to hold only four to five people, it also seemed unoccupied.

Chirrut bent to re-tie the soft laces of his slipper as a pair of deckhands hurried past, then straightened and climbed up the gangplank.

“Chirrut, stop,” Bodhi said, sounding desperate. “Why are you—what are you doing? Please… just tell me, maybe I can help.”

Chirrut turned toward the sound of his voice. “He’s alive, Bodhi.”

“How do you know?”

Chirrut lifted a shoulder. “I just do.”

“B-but—” Bodhi sounded young and out of his depth, and Chirrut reached out and gripped his shoulder, careful not to squeeze too hard.

“I have to trust the Force,” he said quietly. “And the Force says he’s still alive.” He let go and turned back to climb the rest of the gangplank into the hold of the tiny ship.

Settling at the controls, he spread his hands over the panels, feeling where each switch and toggle was.

“Move over,” Bodhi said from behind him, his voice thin with determination and fear.

“What?”

“You heard me,” Bodhi said. “You’re not doing this alone, and you’re sure as shit not flying a ship, you lunatic, and since I can’t stop you, I guess I’m going to help you, so move. Over.”

Chirrut swallowed hard and felt for the co-pilot’s chair. When he found it, he slid into it and listened as Bodhi settled himself in the captain’s chair with soft, pained noises.

“How badly are you hurt?” Chirrut asked, guilt washing through him.

“I’m fine,” Bodhi said. “Just banged and bruised. Shut up and let me concentrate.”

Chirrut obeyed, setting his staff on the floor at his feet and then folding his hands in his lap.

“You can’t do this,” Baze said from his left.

Chirrut turned toward his voice. “Why not?”

“Because I’m dead,” Baze shouted, but he sounded faint, like he was far away. “All you’ll find is my rotting corpse, Chirrut, why are you torturing yourself like this?”

Chirrut snorted. “It’s been a day,” he said. “Even if you were dead, you wouldn’t have started to rot. But you’re not, so shut up.”

The ship’s engines fired with a roar and it lifted off the deck, wobbling slightly as Bodhi muttered to himself.

“Stabilizers are touchy as fuck,” he said. He didn’t seem aware of Chirrut having a conversation with someone who wasn’t there. “Get out of the way, move, move—thank you. Okay, hang on, here we go.”

Chirrut gripped the arms of the seat and prayed. “I’m one with the Force and the Force is with me. I’m one with the Force—”

“Damn your stubborn hide, Chirrut!” Baze said. He sounded suddenly close again. “I’m dead, you fool, you have to let me go!”

“If you’re dead, how am I talking to you?” Chirrut asked.

Bodhi fired the thrusters and flung Chirrut back against his seat as outraged squawking erupted over the radio.

Chirrut hung on, still praying, as Bodhi hurled them out of the hangar and into the sky above Yavin 4.

“We’re going to be in so much trouble,” Bodhi said, sounding equal parts terrified and delighted.

They broke atmosphere and all ambient noise ceased, making Chirrut draw a relieved breath. He reached over, feeling for the switch to turn off the radio, and flipped it.

The silence made them both sigh, and Chirrut settled back in his seat.

“How long will it take?”

“Not long.” Bodhi’s voice was distracted. He was clearly busy, so Chirrut turned back to where Baze’s voice had been.

“You didn’t answer my question.” He put out a hand to forestall Bodhi’s response, making it clear he wasn’t talking to him.

“Because—” Baze sounded furious and stymied, a combination Chirrut was intimately familiar with. Usually when Baze got to that point, Chirrut was able to defuse his frustration with hands and mouth, drawing him down onto their bed and letting Baze vent his emotions in the form of sex that left them both limp and panting and covered in bite marks and bruises.

That wasn’t possible now. Chirrut sent a quick prayer up that it would be again, and waited for Baze’s answer.

“You told me to look for you in the Force,” Baze finally said. “I did. I must have. There’s no other explanation for how I found you.”

“Even though you don’t even believe in the Force?”

“I believe in you,” Baze whispered, and Chirrut caught his breath at the pain in those simple words.

“Hold on,” he said. “Please, Baze, just—hold on. I’m coming.”

“There’s nothing for you to—” Baze’s voice cut off abruptly and Chirrut gasped at the loss, flinging a futile hand out.

“You’re really talking to him,” Bodhi said. It wasn’t a question.

“I was,” Chirrut said. “Can we go any faster?” We’re almost out of time. He didn’t know how he knew, but it didn’t matter.

“I’ve got it pushed to the max,” Bodhi said. “It won’t be much longer, I promise.”

He’d been telling the truth. Within the hour, as near as Chirrut could reckon it, they’d entered the space above the now deserted Scarif base.

“Imperial forces evacuated in a hurry,” Bodhi said as he prepared for entry. “No one’s there now, and we’re going to claim the planet for the Alliance, Cassian says.”

Chirrut nodded, only half-hearing him. All his attention was focused on willing the tiny ship to go faster, reach the surface already.

“Baze?” he said. “Baze, can you hear me?”

Bodhi stayed very quiet, beside him, as the ship broke atmosphere, jostling them about in their seats.

Chirrut listened hard but he couldn’t hear Baze’s voice.

“Can you…” Bodhi hesitated as if searching for words. “You always seemed to know where he was, in a room. Not that you were often apart, but—can you sense him, somehow?”

Chirrut nodded, swallowing around the stone in his throat. “Always,” he rasped. “Ever since we were children in the temple. I’ve always been able to find him.”

“Have you ever spoken across a long distance before?” Bodhi asked. “I mean, you’re so close, I guess you’ve probably never been apart for that long.”

“We have, actually,” Chirrut whispered. “We—fought. The temple fell and Baze lost his faith—he took jobs offworld. Mercenary. Assassin. He was gone several years.”

“I’m sorry,” Bodhi said. “I didn’t mean to bring up painful memories.”

Chirrut half-smiled, thinking back. “It wasn’t a good time for either of us, no. But we healed from it. And no, when we were apart then, we were never able to communicate like this.”

“Are you—” Bodhi paused. “Are you sure, Chirrut—”

“Sure he’s not dead?” Chirrut said. “I am, Bodhi. I’ve never been more sure of anything. He’s alive.”

“Alright,” Bodhi said. “We’re coming in to the landing pad we were on before, okay? What do you want me to do?”

“Show me where you saw him last,” Chirrut said. “And if he’s not there, then we’ll separate and look for him. We don’t have much time.”

Bodhi set the ship down neatly and Chirrut was out of his seat and waiting by the door before he’d finished the landing checklist.

When he joined Chirrut, he pulled open a small door beside the hatch and rummaged in it briefly.

“Aha,” he said triumphantly. “I was hoping—you dragged us off in such a hurry I didn’t have time to look before, but there’s a very nice med kit here.”

He let the gangplank swing down and Chirrut rode it to the sand as Bodhi followed close on his heels. Chirrut could smell charcoal, blood, and explosives in the air, the foul mixture clogging his nostrils and making him gag.

“It was right over here,” Bodhi said.

Chirrut went after him, footing uncertain in the soft, shifting sand.

“Body,” Bodhi warned, and Chirrut stiffened. “It’s a stormtrooper,” Bodhi clarified. “I’m sorry, I didn’t want you to trip on him—”

“It’s alright,” Chirrut said as he stepped around the corpse. “Are we nearly there?”

“Just over this ridge.”

They climbed the short, steep hill and slid down the other side. Bodhi hesitated when they’d reached the bottom.

“He’s not here,” Chirrut said.

“He was,” Bodhi said. “I swear, this is where I saw him, he went over the ridge and he would have been right about here—”

Chirrut touched his arm. “It’s alright,” he repeated. “I’ll go this way—” He pointed. “You go that way. Shout if you find him, I’ll do the same.”

They struck out and Chirrut found himself in underbrush quickly, pushing heavy leaves aside as he made his way through the tall grass. They were alone, the still emptiness of the air told him that.

“Baze!” There was no answer, but he hadn’t expected one. He kept going, ducking foliage and stepping over the occasional body in the grass. If he could tell by touch that it was a rebel soldier, he said a quick prayer for them as he passed. The Imperial corpses did not receive the same treatment.

Chirrut was halfway down the path formed by the carefully planted trees before he realized he hadn’t thought it through. Baze was injured, probably quite badly. He wouldn’t have gotten this far.

Chirrut turned, retraced his steps, and stopped for a moment at the edge of the blast zone. Where would a seriously injured Baze Malbus go? He’d seek cover, Chirrut realized. Go to ground.

He took a step forward, then another, staff out to help him map the surroundings, and at the tree line, he stopped. Baze, please, he thought desperately, tell me where you are.

Chirrut closed his eyes and prayed, surrendering himself to the Force, letting it flow through him, taking him over. His feet moved. He dropped the staff and found himself turning, moving, walking in a sure, steady line across the line of the trees to the next row over. He put his hands out and touched a downed trunk, slanted sideways across its fellows.

Chirrut went to his knees, feeling with his hands. The tree had fallen across a shelled area, forming a cover for the shallow ditch beneath it.

He took a deep breath. “Bodhi! I found him!” Then he leaned forward and pushed the big, flat leaves aside to take Baze’s limp hand.

Bodhi came running, footsteps muffled in the sand, and fell to his knees beside Chirrut, who was half in the dugout.

“We have to get him out,” Chirrut panted. “My shoulder—help me get his arms—”

Together, they heaved until Baze was lying on the sand, limp and unresisting.

“Is he—” Bodhi didn’t finish.

“There’s a pulse,” Chirrut said. “Let’s get him to the ship.”

It took some shuffling, but they finally managed it, Bodhi taking Baze’s shoulders and Chirrut carrying his legs in his good arm. They staggered across the sand and up the gangplank, nearly dropping Baze on the floor before they could set him down gently.

“Go, go,” Chirrut said. “Get us back to Yavin, hurry.”

He heard the gangplank rising as Bodhi scrambled for the pilot’s seat and grabbed the controls, but Chirrut stayed where he was, on his knees beside Baze’s still form.

So still. Too still. Chirrut prayed harder than he ever had before, hands on Baze’s chest as it rose and fell in shallow breaths. You didn’t bring me so far just to let him die now, he thought fiercely.

“I’m here,” he said aloud. “Baze, beloved, I’m here.” He felt for the catch on Baze’s chestpiece and flicked it open. Lifting the armor off carefully, Chirrut cupped Baze’s face in both hands. “Wake up,” he whispered. “Please, my love. Please.”

The ship broke atmosphere as Chirrut moved back down Baze’s shoulders and chest, taking stock as best he could of the injuries Baze had sustained. One arm was broken badly, bone piercing the skin of Baze’s forearm. Chirrut thought the wrist on that arm was probably broken as well, but the whole limb had swollen so much, it was hard to be sure.

Broken ribs, bruises, burns all along his left side—Chirrut was to Baze’s hips when he heard his breathing change. Chirrut nearly fell getting back up to his head.

“Baze, can you hear me?” He spread his fingers across Baze’s face, resting them lightly on the skin and ignoring the tackiness of the blood coating them.

Baze groaned and his eyelashes fluttered. “Ch-Chirrut?”

Chirrut choked on a laughing sob. “I told you,” he managed as tears fell in scalding rivulets down his cheeks.

Baze closed his eyes. “I thought—I dreamed it. Thought—I was dead.”

“Shh,” Chirrut said. He folded forward and kissed him, still cradling Baze’s face, tasting blood and his own tears on Baze’s lips. “I’m here,” he whispered. “It’s going to be okay.”

 As expected, they reentered Yavin 4’s atmosphere to a very angry voice telling them to land the ship immediately and prepare to be detained.

Everything was chaos for the next few minutes after Bodhi set the ship down, pounding feet and raised voices, but the shouting stopped abruptly at the sight of Baze’s limp form.

“Medic!” someone roared.

Baze was taken gently from Chirrut’s hands and carried away. When Chirrut tried to follow, a hand caught his bad shoulder and pushed him back to his knees.

“Let him go!” Bodhi shouted from the cockpit as Chirrut struggled to breathe through the pain. “He didn’t do anything wrong, he was just—”

“That’ll do, Lieutenant.” Mon Mothma’s voice was as cool as ever, her footsteps sharp and precise. “You may go.”

The rough hand left Chirrut’s shoulder and he bent forward, touching his forehead to his knees and cradling his useless arm to his chest. When he’d composed himself, he rose and gave a shallow bow.

“My apologies,” he said formally. “Time was of the essence.”

“So I see,” Mon Mothma said. “We shall speak of this later. You should go be with your husband. Bodhi, you shouldn’t be out of bed either. Cassian’s worried sick.”

Cassian caught up to them outside the door to the medbay. “Bodhi, what the hell?” he panted. “I thought—”

Chirrut stepped around them and into the medbay. He could hear the medics talking over Baze’s body, and his knees went weak as he realized he could sense him again, feel the faint glow that surrounded Baze’s form.

He stumbled forward, suddenly exhausted.

“Look, here he is,” one of the medics said, and to Chirrut, “he’s been asking for you.”

“I’m here,” Chirrut said, and found Baze’s hand stretched out to him.

~~~

Much, much later, when Baze was out of the bacta tanks and Chirrut’s shoulder blade had been set, they lay in the narrow bed in their newly assigned quarters, Chirrut’s head on Baze’s chest and an arm draped over his waist.

“I still don’t understand how it was you were with me here when I woke up,” Chirrut murmured.

Baze hummed, finger idly stroking the fine hairs on Chirrut’s forearm, and pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “Don’t you know?” he whispered. “I go where you go.”

[cupnoodle-queen]

CHASING SUNS: Chapter 8 Power

1,949 words MY BABY IS GETTING SO BAD ASS! I love rereading this chapter, so happy with the scenery. UGH. Also, I had serious song motivation for this one: Hard Time by Seinabo Sey was on repeat, such a good track. Tagging friends @blindbae @nifwrites @themissimmortal

Cam flexed gloved fingers over the hilts of two weighted short swords, turning them to catch the light, their intricate filigree designs worth marvelling. They were lighter than she expected, yet she could already tell her arms would be jelly after a long fight.

Gladio looked at her expectantly. “Well?”

“They aren’t very short.”

Her response was met with an eyeroll. “That’s because you are. Average height people have no problems with their size.”

“I am average height,” She protested, though would be lying if she denied having straightened her back a bit.

Gladio took a step closer to Cam until only inches separated them. Dangerously close; she could smell his shower gel. He looked down at her with a smirk. “So am I.”

She shoved him away, doing her best to ignore the sudden flutter at her hipbone. “To hell you are, I haven’t seen anyone your size around here.” Cam holstered the weapons and sighed, her breath a bit visible in the chill of morning air.

“Just something to get used to, I guess.”

Her first hunt with the swords was nothing to shake a stick at. Her wrists were weak, lacking the muscle and stability of seasoned swordsmen. Gladio had warned her they would be sore, but she didn’t complain. Change required pain, she thought, a temporary albeit necessary evil.

After her second hunt, cleaving her dominant sword down on the skull of a Bashura, she’d anticipated the soreness. It was there, lesser though. Icing them at the end of the day made it all worthwhile.

The third hunt was awkward. Flans are not meant for slicing and Cam took a beating, Gladio having to offer a shoulder as she hobbled their way back to his Jeep. The contact made her forget about the pain. It was a welcome reprieve.

It was only after countless hunts, when she’d stopped icing her wrists altogether as it wasn’t required, upgraded her swords to sharper ones, so many snapshots of the dead in her phone that she had to flick her finger to scroll past them all, did Gladio finally change up their almost daily routine. “We aren’t going hunting today.”

Cam laced up her new combat boots, the glint of metallic accents and shiny leather catching her eye. “Oh? What’s up?”

“I’m showing you how to duel.”

Her head shot up at him. “We are?”

“Yeah.” He worked a kink out of his neck and leaned against the Jeep. “Figure you’re used to those things enough to not take my arm off.”

“Wouldn’t want to mess up your tattoo.”

“Heh,” he chuckled dryily. “Paid decent gil for it, I’d rather keep it on my body.”

Right on que Steph slinked over like a jungle cat, skimming a milky hand across the muscled plains of his shoulders. “I’d rather be on your body, big guy.” she stopped in front of him and tilted his chin into a heavy kiss, her lips parted and devouring his mouth.

Another part of their daily routine was having to endure Steph’s petty attempts at getting a rise out of Cam, often succeeding but not to the point of Cam saying anything. She’d look off in another direction, fiddle with her fingerless gloves, tighten a strap on her chestpiece, anything to distract herself from the pang at her hip, stinging like barbed wire dragged across her skin.

After Steph had finished saying goodbye to Gladio, they headed out. The spot he chose was overlooking a massive gorge, the city of Lestallum on the other side. The residual light that spilled over the hub offered just enough to keep the daemons at bay while they sparred.

Cam stood before him, several paces away. “Now what?”

Gladio had his massive great sword drawn, casually rested over his shoulder. From hilt to tip the thing must have neared her size. Nervous tremors rolled off her in waves. His tone was casual.

“Attack me.”

Her eyes bulged. “No, I’d rather not be killed today.”

“Do you trust me?”

Cam hesitated. “Yes.”

“Attack me.” 

His eyes looked up at her with steadfast determination. Ready for her.

With nothing to lose she drew her swords, inhaled, exhaled and charged forward, weapons poised to come crashing on him. Her heart screamed at her and the fire at her side shot pain to her core. This action went against her nature, against the path the Astrals mapped for them.

In a blink Gladio’s sword swung up and over his head, landing between her blades with a harsh CLANK. Cam could tell he wasn’t using his full strength otherwise she would be toast. He jutted the blade sideways and in some gesture that broke physics laws, pulled the swords from her grasp with a twist of his wrists. They flew from her grip and landed on the asphalt, clattering.

Cam froze, still trying to comprehend what happened. Gladio sighed. “Think it would be that easy?”

“One can hope, right?”

As Cam gathered her weapons off the ground, Gladio offered pointers and tactics. “Focus on your opponent’s body language. The side they relax their weapon on. Where they’re looking, ‘cause they’re tryin’ to figure you out as well.” He rested his sword back on his shoulder and paced to the side. “Never let them in your head. They do that and they get you off guard, you’re done for.”

Flicking her wrists and letting a kink out of her neck, Cam considered his advice. She studied his movements, how he carried himself; upon first glance it was even and strong, but with extra attention to detail, Cam could detect the slightest window of opportunity. There was a hesitation in his composure, as if he were struggling to keep his breathing rhythm steady. His shoulders seemed to dip, chest emptied of air. Vulnerable.

Cam readied herself, the little nod that Gladio gave her que. This time she did not charge him, opting instead to play the slow and stealthy card. Cat and mouse at it’s finest. Her eyes never left his, demanding his full attention, watching his moves from her peripherals. She was patient, eager to strike but at the same time hungry for the overtake so she circled and so did he, a slow stalk of amber alertness.

Finally, there. Cam was agile, her wrists long since accustomed to balancing the blades she wielded as she leaped forward towards her prey, her centric force directed without straying course. Her blade clipped the edge of his sword and he faltered; it was unexpected, startled. Her other blade met the opposite side and he flinched, though kept a firm hold on his weapon. Cam reeled back and struck again, this time he was ready for her and their blades bounced against each other's, the loud clanking harsh on Cam’s ears, metal against metal and almost sparking on contact.

The exchange lasted longer than Cam anticipated, the transfer of energy against their steel back and forth getting her blood pumping, adrenaline tapped and mainlined, sweat beading along the now scarring wound on her face. Every chance she got to make eye contact, she did. Not only did it light a fire in her, but it got him off guard for the slightest second.

As the days went by their dueling interactions lasted longer, each one pushing her further and honing her reflexes. It engrained itself in her everyday occurences, her balance improving, attention to detail skyrocketing. Her body was adapting as well, the clothes she wore on her back when she first arrived at HQ becoming baggy around her frame, the spare tire she carried most of her adult life melding into taut flesh over toned muscle. She dreamt of it, matching his blows with mirrored tactic and finesse to counter the movement. Soon enough she craved the thrill of competition more than that of the hunt. Soon enough she almost leapt from her bunk everyday, excited to push her limits.

Soon enough, the pain of Nolan’s absence was pacified, the void filled with the fight. With Gladio.

Try as she did to deny herself, she was letting her soulmate marking get the better of her judgement. She had the color of his irises memorized, the duration of his breaths timed to the millisecond, the little grin he gave when she lasted longer than the previous fight, how invested he was in her, how much he strived to better her. It made her better. It made her want to be better.

Not once had she succeeded in disarming him, though. He’d rendered her weaponless multiple times, but she held her own as she improved, their exchanges and clanking of blades back and forth the soundtrack of Cam’s life.

On one especially rainy evening, as they sparred like they had every night before, something shifted in Cam. A momentous quake in her mind, her lifeblood and essence. Her arms windmilled with speed and fury of a seasoned fighter towards Gladio, rain pelting against her already soaked-through armor, wet curls of her loosening ponytail splayed against her shoulders and neck. She was beautiful death and fury absolute. A machine. Terrifying.

For a fleeting moment Gladio’s heart stammered, watching the construct of lethality, a creature of his own creation before him, land blow after blow to his weapon’s edge.  And then, he’d missed the chance to counter; Cam’s blades all but fused to his sword, a force he’d never imagined possible from the petite woman knocking it from his grasp, the great sword smacking against wet pavement.

Cam was starstruck. She hesitated, the rain cold refreshment on her screaming muscles, before she let out a body-rocking laugh. She’d finally succeeded in disarming her opponent, disarming GLADIO, the physically strongest person she’d ever met. She chuckled so hard her already exhausted lungs struggled to maintain airflow.

Barely a month ago she’d lost the love of her life, her home, her purpose, darkness of her own creation fogging her mind. But now, standing beneath the sheets of downpour, holding her weapons as an extension of her form and not  foreign objects, having bested her opponent before her, she was a complete one-eighty of her former life.

Powerful. Confident.

Lethal.

Gladio smiled, seeing her full of life and overjoyed. He’d never heard a genuine laugh from her before, and it’s dulcet sweetness softened his shell. He was proud of his protege, the girl who’d turned up one day after setting his heart aflame years before, stoking the flames and rekindling the fire. Her skin glistened in the rain, the light from nearby Lestallum making her skin sparkle.

He was near her without even noticing, his body acting on impulse, fueled by the alignment of stars predetermined before their birth. Cam was frozen in place, their torsos barely touching as Gladio placed a hand on her waist, tugging it forward as his head lowered, lips parted, rain-drenched and needing hers. Though darkness existed around them his eyes were a light at the end of the tunnel, promises of warmth and happiness and-

Suddenly Gladio’s phone went off, interrupting their shared musings. He exhaled, backed away from Cam and answered the phone call, his voice sandpaper. “Yeah?”

Cam knew who it was without asking. It was always the same, his red-haired siren beckoning his return, ensuring he didn’t spend more time with Cam than her. Promises that she was his world like reciting a script.

It was dismal to listen to, so Cam would throw her weapons in the back seat of the Jeep, get in the passenger seat and watch him through the windshield, a silent film of answering repetitive questions and tired assurances.

She rubbed the sun at her hip, the blaze renewed.