#as someone for whom one half of my family's land and history is almost gone bc of the US Empire

[optiwashere]

So saw a post about Shadowheart's racism towards Githyanki and hating her for that. Saying it's gross etc. I thought it was pretty mild? Considering what the Githyanki are and what they do, I was expecting a lot more racism when you play as one or towards Lae'zel. They aren't nice.

Ah. Yes. This topic. I was wondering when it would come up lol.

I had a long, long, long diatribe about this, but I wound up editing it to hell and back. I agree with you anon. I think it goes to show you how desperate the camp crew was when they put up with Lae'zel after the mountain pass crèche turns out to be a dud.

Anyways.

If people are singling out Shadowheart for being aggressive towards the literal imperialist slaver race of turbo space fascists and calling that racism, I don't know nor do I care to know about it. Not showing the githzerai has, I think, kinda rotted some BG3-only people's brains since they don't see that it's not about the gith as a species but it's about their imperial culture. It's especially annoying when there are much more direct parallels to racism in-game, structural and otherwise (Astarion with the Gur, Lae'zel with the tieflings, Rivington/Emerald Grove with the refugees).

I get the folks that feel the Shadowheart v. githyanki thing as racism, so I won't speak to their feelings. I will say that it's very definitely more a specific case of "girl stole shit from an empire known for murdering wantonly and is trying to avoid interacting with them at all costs" at the very beginning of the game.

Personally, I'm much more interested in talking about the fandom's general treatment of the slightly corrupted prince charming character (normally a fandom favorite in RPGs) as a second-class citizen. He's "useless" and "not that interesting" this time, for some reason?

Not sure why that could be happening.

[snowbellewells]

Self Promo Sunday: "Bless What is Given You"

I realize that it's time to roll out the Christmas-y fics, but I had one more Thanksgiving story, and I didn't want to leave it out. I hope you will still enjoy it, even in December. There’s a nod to a missing moment from 3x19, but then it jumps to post s6 in Storybrooke, to all of them in their happy beginning… Most of this is also written in Robin Hood's point-of-view, so there is some Outlaw Queen in amongst the larger Swan Jones Charming Mills family fluff, if that is a deal-breaker for anyone...

** Also available on AO3, if that is your preference **

by: @snowbellewells

“Do you mean to tell me you think you know better than a queen?” Regina’s haughty voice practically dripped disdain from each clipped, precise syllable she spoke. The perfect arch of her sculpted brow rose in question, disbelief and disapproval clear on her challenging, flawless face, even if her tone had not made her opinion more than apparent. “My mother was Rumplestiltskin’s most prized pupil; he sought me out himself to train me as well, chose me to cast his precious Dark Curse… Do you honestly think the fact that you can scare off a few monkeys with your arrows and you’ve been squatting in his deserted castle makes you a better judge of...of…” Even though she spoke the “you” as though her mouth was swallowing something foul and her face scrunched up accordingly, it seemed that the formerly Evil Queen was at a rare loss for words to express just how ridiculous the very idea was.

Unfazed, the scruffy archer gazed right back at her cheekily, seeming more than a bit amused by her ruffled feathers and inability to continue. “Not sure that is quite the distinction you’re making it out to be, Milady,” he offered with a smirk.

From across the way, Snow couldn’t seem to resist chiming in with the outlaw who had once befriended a princess on the run; who, in what now seemed like another life had helped her fine-tune her skills with a bow and advised her on spots in the forest where one could most easily hunt game to eat without encountering Regina’s guards. Though Snow had long since made the choice to put their painful and sordid history in the past, there was something that teased a warble of delighted laughter up her throat at the sight of this bandit who once graced “Wanted” posters by her side agitating Regina to the point of losing all her icy, polished reserve. “It is a bit of a dubious honor, Regina, you have to admit.”

Charming beside her dipped his head to hide the chuckle rumbling in his chest as well, reaching across their round council table’s polished surface to squeeze her hand. The shepherd-prince consort would have been lying if he refused to admit there wasn’t a part of him who enjoyed watching her Majesty flounder for her unaffected poise. It went without saying that the curse they were speaking of had ripped he and Snow apart and taken their daughter from his arms almost the moment she was born; consigning them all to 28 lonely years of misery. The truth was that plain and that simple, but he wisely held his tongue. At least since his recent pirate friend had gone off on his own after their arrival back in their land, Robin was someone with whom he could break a bit of the tension and who might lighten all of their dark and despairing moods once in a while.

As they returned to discussing the plan to raid Gold’s castle here in their home realm, knowing Zelena had holed up in the Dark One’s stronghold - with Rumplestiltskin himself still prisoner - it became clear it was really the only method they had left to try, to hope that the man who always knew so much more than anyone else would also know some way out of this mess, some way to stop Regina’s rage and envy fueled half-sister. Belle across the table looked pale and strained, her lips pressed together in a thin line but determined, needing to help in whatever way she could. Even if they couldn’t free her True Love, even if his mind were already too fractured by his near death, the half-possession that had held his son’s mind within his body as well, and then that son’s violent loss, he wouldn’t want things to continue as they were; with him under Zelena’s control and bent to her will. Belle had to cling to that truth if nothing else.

Seeming to sense her flagging spirit, Charming saw Leroy sitting next to her place a clumsily large, ax-calloused hand over her slender, tiny one and give it a reassuring squeeze. The dwarf leaned over to whisper encouragingly to the petite beauty, and the prince realized that even within his inner circle of friends and allies there were deeper friendships, and stories leading to them, that he didn’t know, as Belle’s petite frame relaxed and her tense shoulders lowered slightly at the stout little man’s clearly welcomed assurances. The former shepherd thought he just made out the kind, if gruffly voiced, words, “Hang in there, Sister, the battle ain’t over yet.” Charming smiled; that might as well be a mantra for all of them.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Robin of Locksley, otherwise known in the Enchanted Forest these days by his more colorful moniker of Robin Hood, simply could not seem to help it. He knew something about him - be it his cavalier attitude towards risk and danger, his leisurely and rather lax methods of ruling over his crew (Can he help it if he’d trust them with his life and has never had cause to question their loyalty or skill?) or perhaps it was just his very form and person she objected to. Whatever the case may be, he couldn’t help goading her Majesty, rattling that posh control of which the woman seemed so proud. Behind the cool and haughty veneer Regina Mills carefully wore, he sensed something injured - fragile, even - though she would be appalled at the thought that any weakness showed, he had no doubt of that. The irony, of course, was that bit of a chink in her flawless armor was the one thing that kept him from dismissing her as another selfish, cruel royal stepping on the backs of those less fortunate to get ahead. Her tiny show of pained humanity, the loneliness hidden behind those large dark eyes, beguiled him no matter how hard he tried to resist; drew his empathy where otherwise he would have had only scorn for her past actions and the villain she had been.

They were in the Dark Castle; seemingly, hopefully, having escaped Zelena’s notice so far, but stymied by a large door into the chamber where Rumplestiltskin had to be imprisoned. They had searched the entire rest of the castle and found it empty. None of them were foolish enough, however, to assume that the fact that they had not yet seen the Wicked Witch meant that the way ahead was safe or that she had not laid hidden snares for any intruders. Particularly not if this door were the barrier beyond which she was hiding the powerful being she meant to both use and prove herself to. There had been no other closed doors until this one, after all.

With a huff of impatience, as if she couldn’t be bothered to waste another second of her time - even with safety - the former Queen reached forward, her perfectly manicured hand nearly to the golden inlaid handle despite the Princess Snow’s warnings for caution and the Lady Belle’s wise suggestion that they wait. What appeared as bold unconcern and decisiveness radiated down her spine of steel, held ramrod-straight, but there was a slight tremor in those pale fingers, one he would have missed if he hadn’t been seeking it, just before they closed around the polished metal.

Some strange shiver of foreboding knowledge borne of a life in the forest, in the shadows, constantly on the move, pursued and on the run, made some more-than-tangible knowledge run through him, and Robin’s limbs and muscles were reacting before his mind issued a conscious order. Knowing the proud woman plowing ahead would not heed any words he called out anyway, he had silently reached over his shoulder, pulled an arrow from his quiver, nocked it to his bow, and let it fly before another moment passed, startling Regina enough as its course whistled past her ear to make her jerk back several steps. 

The feathered missile embedded in the heavy oaken portal with the solid “thunk” of a shot ringing true, but to the horror of all, rather than remaining there, vibrating from its landing, the arrow was lost from sight as the entire door was engulfed in instantaneous flames.

Watching the blaze which would undoubtedly have devoured her as well had he allowed her to pull open that door before loosing his arrow, Regina paused for mere moments before whipping around, dark eyes flashing, to arrest him angrily. “That arrow nearly took off my head!” she barked, voice as sharp as jagged glass.

Robin shot back, unable to keep himself from rising to the bait. Her lack of gratitude didn’t even surprise him by that point, but he hadn’t intended to be chastised for his quick-thinking aversion of danger either. “Where I come from a simple thank you would have sufficed.”

The regent’s black eyebrow rose in eloquent derision, making her opinion of where he came from quite clear without speaking a word. Yet, despite that hateful, snarling facade he could see the slight tremor he had previously noticed in her pale hands become a full-body quivering that, while still not plainly visible, had to be making it hard for her to remain standing, much less glaring at him with such vitriol. Her full, blood-red-painted lips trembled minutely as well until her perfect white teeth bit into the lower one, stilling it and making him swallow heavily with some reaction he couldn’t explain. She was shaken; that much he knew. But he could understand refusing to admit fear, not being able to let it show for the sake of those who follow, who must see strength to stay their course.

Thankfully, the clearly magical blaze soon expired and the way before them was as clear and unbarred as all the previous entryways they had encountered. Not without a bit of trepidation, but also as brave and determinedly as he had long since learned their hero contingent to be, Prince Charming and Snow pressed forward, followed anxiously by Belle (whom Robin’s heart panged for as she clearly ached to find the man she loved still able to recognize her and navigate his own mind) and the rest of their group. Regina just to the side, looked for all the world as if she were in no particular hurry to enter and see her former mentor, but could instead care less one way or the other. Hanging back, the outlaw of Sherwood Forest made sure the others had passed through the door and into the other room, well out of hearing, before he stepped up to Regina’s side, drawing almost nose-to-nose with her. He then leaned forward practically brushing the shell of her ear as he murmured. “There’s no need to pretend you’re made of stone, your Majesty…” He put precise emphasis on the title which she had let him know in no uncertain terms she preferred upon their first meeting in the forest. “In fact, with the present company, I believe you might get much further by letting them see that you have doubts and fears, just as they do. I know I like you much better seeing you as more than the Evil Queen.”

At her sharp intake of air with his last pronouncement, he pulled back quickly, half expecting a slap to be stinging his skin at any moment. Instead, he found color rising hotly up her neck, her chest rising and falling strenuously in that ridiculously low-cut corseted gown, and her generally looking more flustered and affected than he had ever seen her before.

She opened and closed her mouth soundlessly for several seconds until her tart tongue seemed to return to her, then spit out a quick, “Insolent bandit,” before moving to brush past him and follow the others.

Something in Robin snapped and surged to life in answer to her challenge; not allowing her to push him aside, he grasped her upper arm firmly and held on, her back to the wall and crowding in close to her, until their breaths were mingling in the same air, their faces were so close. Even as his pulse pounded and his heart rate skyrocketed, Robin wondered what had come over him. The woman had maimed and killed, schemed and plotted for her own selfish ends, and stood for everything he had devoted himself to toppling. She was nothing like his beloved Marian had been; someone with whom he would not have imagined sharing a thing in common - and yet he couldn’t fight the pull he felt. The need to imprint upon her not to put her life at risk so needlessly again.

Sweeping forward, he dove into an all-consuming kiss, taking her mouth with his and giving no quarter, delving further instead, and swallowing the whimper and hum that escaped her throat unconsciously, despite her best attempts to remain unaffected.  

Regina’s hands grappled blindly at his biceps as if trying to steady herself. She scrabbled for solid support before helplessly melting against him, opening for his questing mouth and giving herself over to the heated embrace. When they finally broke for air, she was breathless, and he huffed out a winded chuckle himself when she managed, “Well, Thief, that really was quite pleasant… Even if you do still smell of forest.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Several realms, curses, and years later, in Storybrooke

The three men and their half dozen offspring of various ages creeping through the woods on the border of Storybrooke out near the town line are quiet and intent, completely and unabashedly focused on their prize. Up ahead, atop the small rise of a hill as the sun climbs fully into the cold, clear November morning sky, their prey struts proudly, stopping occasionally to offer its warbled call or peck at the rough ground beneath its feet. They have been tracking the large turkey for some time now, since before day fully dawned, and the time to strike has come at last.

Briefly, the thought flits through Robin’s head that this could be the same tom that had escaped himself and his Merry Men in this same forest years ago, when the hunt had been interrupted by the nightmarish interruption of a winged simian attacker and LIttle John’s subsequent transformation. To this day, the large and otherwise unflappable man stays far away from this particular section of the forest and refuses to go anywhere near the town line on foot. A quick glance at David and his preteen son to the right, then Killian and his little girl and second son to the left, gives him the hint from both men’s expressions that they are also remembering that rather ill-fated day, as bows are readied and last instructions offered.

He can only hope they will face nothing so unexpected this fine morn. The turkey before them has been promised to grace the main table of the large community Thanksgiving feast, and between the three men and their brood of adventurous junior hunters it is a matter of pride that they not return empty-handed today. Roland was promised the first unobstructed shot, and the young man, just barely a teenager but already capable and thoughtful as an adult, has already taken aim and is readying his shot to fly, much to his half-sister Margot’s displeasure as she stands just behind her big brother at Robin’s elbow. She is as untamed and mischievous as Roland is quiet and serious, and was much put out at the decision that Roland as the oldest child should get first chance, arguing rather heatedly that Roland might be biggest but she was the best shot. His blond-braided, green-attired second child is one of the best shots he’s ever seen at barely ten, but if she doesn’t learn to keep her temper and her slightly spoiled younger sibling petulance under control, he is certainly in for further trials in a few years.

Even in the few silent moments afforded him as they all hold their breaths, Rob feels the gratitude and love he has for his children, and the friends and adopted family surrounding them, surge through him with new strength. He had so very nearly left this world, numerous times over, as had the men on either side of him, and the women each of them loved. It was part of the heavy mantle they wore when standing against the Darkness in the world and fighting it back from the light and good time after time. Still, what better time than the present holiday to give thanks for the fact that they are all still standing and present to celebrate together?

Roland lets out a soft breath and then releases the arrow, just as a sharp cry rings out to the left.  His son’s aim is true, but the bird is startled from its perch just in time to have the shot glide by beneath its talons as it takes flight. David on his right is already directing Leo to adjust his aim quickly and get off a second shot, even as Robin’s eyes sweep to where Killian is righting Hope from a tumble over a jutting tree root, brushing off her dark leggings and checking her for injury as she clearly struggles to hold back embarrassed and disappointed tears.

What he hasn’t banked on is his daughter’s inability to wait her turn or hold back any longer. Quick as whip, Margot lets fly, striking the bird right as she intends and sending it toppling from the sky. Mouth falling open in surprise at her audacity and her skill in equal measure, Robin can’t help the surge of pride at his daughter’s prowess, even if he knows he should admonish her for taking Leo’s moment from him and wondering if he should be making certain Roland doesn’t feel overshadowed.  However, his eldest spares him the trouble when he whoops and claps Margot on the shoulder, crying out “You got him on the fly, Sis! Nice one!”

When the whole group converges together, he decides to let the lecture about abiding by the rules and taking turns slide for the time being upon noticing that Leo looks rather relieved that the pressure to prove his mettle before their quarry escaped has been taken off of his shoulders. Instead, he claps his little girl on the shoulder, squeezing with gentle affection until she looks up at him, beaming.  Like her brother before her, she is growing much too fast, turning into a young lady before his eyes, and so for a moment, he lets himself revel in the fact that she still wants to spend time out in the woods with him and wishes to make him proud. Her papa won’t hold the favored spot in her heart forever, so he may as well savor it while he can.

He thinks Killian’s youngest, barely old enough to be tromping around out here with them in truth, looks a bit teary at the downed and unnaturally still bird before them, so he hurries to bag their prize for the journey homeward and puts it out of sight over his shoulder while Killian picks his tired youngest up off his feet and begins asking him how many different types of trees he can recognize from their leaves on the way back. That seems a bit difficult for a five-year-old until little Liam David begins happily babbling (suitably distracted thankfully) and pointing out oaks, maples and scotch pines as the pirate’s unerring sense of direction leads their whole troupe out of the forest toward the main road where they’ve left their trucks, Margot takes his hand, and Hope her grandpa’s, and Roland and Leo fall in behind talking amiably and carrying the bows. Apparently they have a budding naturalist in their midst as well, and Killian Jones - as usual - knows exactly what he is doing.

When he, Roland, and Margot trail back into the mayoral mansion some time later, discarding their muddy boots by the door, but still scattering crumbled leaves and dirt in the entryway, Regina stands in the hall shaking her head, and directs the children toward the laundry room to discard their outerwear before heading up to wash for dinner.  She looks at him, trying to muster exasperation, but unable to do so. That flawless Queen is long gone; she has come a long way since they snapped and snarled at each other in self-preservation back in their home realm, neither wanting to fall in love and risk heartbreak again.

Snatching his jacket collar and pulling him in close, Regina nips at his lips playfully before murmuring against his scruffy cheek, “You still smell like forest,” she mocks, “but somehow you’ve managed to steal my heart.”

He shakes his head, offering back words she’d stunned him with once long ago, “That’s not quite the way I remember it.  If I recall, your heart was given to me,” he whispers, emotion taking over the jest, “and a person can’t steal what’s been given to him.”

All in all, he’s been given much more than a simple archer from Sherwood Forest could have ever hoped.

Tagging a few who might enjoy: @searchingwardrobes @kmomof4 @jennjenn615 @laschatzi @whimsicallyenchantedrose @jrob64 @apiratewhopines @xarandomdreamx @booksteaandtoomuchtv @kazoosandfannypacks @teamhook @revanmeetra87 @stahlop @anmylica @gingerchangeling @gingerpolyglot @winterbaby89 @spartanguard @therooksshiningknight @optomisticgirl @tiganasummertree @donteattheappleshook @elizabeethan @the-darkdragonfly @bdevereaux @thislassishooked

[umaficwriter]

SOUVENIR IS AMONG US!

KALIJAH SMUT DARINGS! 

I was feeling like shit and started this weeks ago, finally came to finish it and kinda don’t give a damn about how it turned out, still, hope you like it! 

You can read it on AO3 or FFNET or even, down below this lovely gifs. 

The light breeze of a New York’ spring night passed through Katherine mahogany curly strands as she admired Jane and Greenwich street down ten floors below. She engulfed a full breath, filling her lungs with the not so clear night air, cigarette smoke coming from the party on full swing behind her.

The balcony was empty. She had compelled anyone that came in her direction away, so it would stay that way.

Finally, Katherine Pierce had piece of mind.

She had run for so long, firstly from her past in Bulgaria, then from Klaus and all that his figure entailed, then she ran from him when he found her. And then she had made her escape when he failed her once again.

Elijah Mikaelson.

Not her biggest mistake, nor regret, but close enough to discomfort to make chills arouse in her body when she recalled his figure. His suits represented an armor she once thought she would be able to penetrate. Oh, was she wrong.

For he could never be truly hers.

Elijah was like an expensive gift you bought someone, just to regret later you gave it away when in fact you wanted it to yourself, when on his part. he seemed to consider her, them a disposable souvenir.

New York back in August, tenth floor balcony Smoke is floating over Jane and Greenwich street

 Katherine leaned over the steel railing, aiming her vision to the busy Big Apple streets. Her heightened senses catching the environment around her. The faint smell of putrid trash from the alley couple blocks away, the blinding headlights of cars so tiny from where she stood. The wind picking up the hairs on her arms, giving her body an enjoyable hum. The cigarette smoke entering the balcony from the lounge party behind her, the smell of sweat and sex lingering in the air coming from the humans inside the giant apartment that wasn’t hers.

She should go back down to hell; she was its Queen after all. Mystic Falls people had been so naïve believing she would die after the tunnels caught fire…

She was Katherine Pierce, a survivor, of the upscale kind, caring for her life, being it as a vampire or otherwise.

She had woken up, without Stefan, completely naked in the throne that had been hers for sometime now.

A smile had creeped itself on her features, her limbs stretching as if she was a sated cat after a long afternoon nap.

Since then, she had given up on tormenting that filthy gang. Stefan was truly dead, although not in Hell, for Katherine’s dismay. She wished she could enslave him for eternity, albeit looked like it wouldn’t happen.

Shrugging, Katherine looked over her shoulder to the gathering inside the condo. She didn’t know anyone there, as expected, she didn’t live in this world anymore. She was just passing by the human land, and soon enough, she would go back to Hell to ruin her tormenting souls even more.

Another strong breeze floated the NYC night, and that was when she felt it.

At first, only a discomfort in the pit of her stomach, similar of when she was being followed, or observed. Case being the latter tonight.

Goosebumps from your wild eyes when they're watchin' me

The smell the wind brought was rich blood, expensive cologne, leather from Italian shoes, moving in her direction.

Her unliving heartbeat scaled, for she knew very well whom was walking inside the recently opened balcony glass’ doors, bringing the blasting music to her ears.

Katherine didn’t dare uttering words, she maintained her position as the man closed the doors behind him, muffling the sound from the party once more.

Was he to think she was her doppelganger?

Katherine would prefer he did not make that mistake. She also knew he would not.

His presence was enough to make shivers run down her spine. Katherine wasn’t fazed by what they had in the past. She had decided to bury those feelings deep inside, still he awoke a brutal wave of desire inside her. And as a supernatural creature, her emotions were as heightened as of a vampire, if not more, considering she fed from souls as well as blood. The latter just for reminiscing the thrill of the hunt.

Shivers dance down my spine and head down to my feet

The hot night wind picked up her skin and she hugged herself, running her hands through her arms, before directing her speech at him.

“The noble, family-oriented brother so far from home. I wonder why is that?” her voice was laced with sarcasm, although Elijah picked up a faint tone of hurting. He couldn’t blame her.

After Niklaus’ death, Elijah had bid his family goodbye and decided against settling in New Orleans. Marcel had claimed his throne back, for being king had never been Elijah’s call.

Hope was attending the Salvatore Boarding School and he didn’t see the need to disturb his niece education, still he visited her and even took her to vacations when the time called for it.

Elijah had chosen traveling the world instead, although always coming back to the US for his supernatural business, New York to be precise.

The city always brought good memories into his troubled mind.

It reminded him of the second woman he had loved. So deeply, her name remained engraved in his heart and soul.

Elijah was aware he didn’t have any right to claim her, nor search for Katerina, so he had not.

He had talked to Alaric once about her whereabouts and it was then he had discovered of her last attempt in destroying them. They believed she had died in the fire.

Elijah never had.

She hadn’t the first time in 1864, she wouldn’t have this time around.

Still, imagine his surprise when he caught her silhouette in the veranda at a party one of his associates was throwing.

He wasn’t to attend, he never did. Petty, unimportant things he would justify. Except, this night he was strangely bored by his usual book and wine program, hence his presence.

Elijah couldn’t say he regretted it.

From the moment he walked into the large apartment, loud music and abusive expanse of drugs had surrounded him. The Original had gone to the bar and ordered various doses of whiskey, before his business subordinate had found him, urging him to mingle around the gathering, and have a proper drink.

Elijah had bled various wrists inside his glass, being slightly intoxicated by substances within the blood he fed from.  

And that was when he saw her.

Alone over the balcony, her slender body hugged by a lace black dress, her hair in soft waves adorning her stance and stopping over the middle of her spine.

That was, without a shadow of doubt, Katerina Petrova.

“Niklaus is dead,”

“I know,” she turned around to finally face him. “Lucifer fed from his soul,” Elijah saw the faintest of smiles quirking over her lips.

“Why didn’t you?”

“I assure you, he doesn’t remember who he is, so it’s no fun torture him,” she justified, for she knew that was what he wanted to know. “Although, he deserves it anyway, for everything he caused me,”

Elijah looked down at his expensive shinny shoes.

“Apologies are never going to fix that,”

“No, they won’t,” agreed the brunette woman.

“And what you’ve been up to?” the trivial question floated from the man’s mouth as he moved beside her and leaned his back over the steel banister.

Katherine mirrored his position with her wine glass in hand and almost scoffed with his bluntness. It was clear he already knew what she had been up to.

“You already know, skip the small talk, what is it you want from me?” she questioned before downing the last of her drink, setting her glass over the nearest surface. “I mean, aside from everything you’ve already taken, obviously,”

He deserved that; he also would take it.

“I’ve got word you’ve been ruling over Hell, although I was never certain of the veracity in this tête-a-tête,”

She rolled her eyes. Elijah was much smarter than that.

“You want to know about my line of work?” she asked a little taken aback, after all, what kind of mundane questioning was that?

“Well, you don’t seem too keen talking about our past, do you, Katerina?” he glanced at her from the corner of his eyes.

She gave him that credit.

He wanted a civil conversation? She could do that.

“I feed from blood just for the rush of it, although what I really need, all inhabitants from Hell for that matter, to survive is: souls.”

He nodded in understandment. “Any soul?”

Katherine shook her head “Supernatural souls,”

The pair didn’t utter a word for a little while.

“How’s your life without your brother?” she questioned. For anyone knowing their history, would claim she was only being cruel. Maybe a little bit yes, but Katherine really wanted to know how he felt.

Maybe she refused her devoted heart from breaking, but she still held Elijah dear. The Petrova only had a different way of showing it.

“Never thought life could be this calm,” he honestly answered, a ghost of a smile dancing in his features.

She smiled and turned her face at him.

“Do you miss him?” she already knew the answer, still she couldn’t avoid it from going out there.

“You already know the answer to that, Katerina,”

“True,”

“At first, I couldn’t stop thinking about him,” Elijah prompted and crossed his arms and legs in front of him. “but then, time has passed, and grief ran its course…” he paused “now he’s a pleasant and hurtful memory,”

“Just as me, I presume?”

He turned his upper body at her, unfolding his arms and passing his hands through his short brown hair.

“Just as you were half an hour ago,” he confirmed.

“You really did give up on us, didn’t you?”

He let out a heavy shudder “I couldn’t promise you anything, they’re were broken words, like stiches. It was shattered glass we could not put back together to perfection, so I let you be,” she didn’t turn her head back at him. “I’ve never forgotten about you, if that’s what you’re asking.”  

“You never came to say goodbye,” he didn’t respond to that “you know, Damon showed me a version of you with me, when I was in my deathbed, then you dissipated into his face and he promised he would kill you,”

“I’d like to see him try,”

“He’s human now,”

Elijah seemed surprised in hearing that piece of news; Alaric had never mentioned that, also he had never asked.

He turned to face the sky and the street ten floors down, she didn’t mirror his posture this time.

“What should I call you? To summon you.”

She let out a chuckle.

“That’s not how it works, Elijah,”

His name floating from her lips, made him aim his looks at her and smirk in amusement.

“You didn’t respond me, what is it Katherine and Katerina do?”

The woman looked down at her Jimmy Choos’ and folded her arms in front of her lace covered chest.

“Katherine rules Hell with iron fists, has no mercy whatsoever, never had, but when she comes up to the land of the living, she drinks nice wine, walks long distances…”

“What about Katerina?”

“She cooks,” they both smiled at that “and read lots of romance novels that remind her of what she never had,”

“You did have love,”

“You, then Stefan, then you again,” she pointed out unfolding her arms and counting on her fingers to emphasize. “and look how that turned out,”

Elijah looked away back into the beautiful night.

“What is it you want, Elijah?” it was her turn to question.

“Right at this moment?”

She turned her head in his direction. His eyes were locked with hers, his nose almost touching hers, his breath dancing in her face.

“Yes,” she whispered looking down through her lashes, just to look inside his eyes once more.

“You,” he whispered back and didn’t gave her time to refuse him as he advanced his lips to touch hers in a long kiss.

Katherine’s arms wrapped around his shoulders as their kiss deepened, his tongue invaded her mouth in a ferrous battle while his arms circled her waist in a vice grip, bringing her closer with nothing in between them aside from their clothes.

Elijah let out a groan when she bit his lower lip hard making it bleed, which she latched on looking up at him through her long lashes. He hissed and used one of his hands to grip the rail when she descended one of hers to the front of his trousers, fondling his half-hard member.

“Katerina,” he nibbled on her earlobe, while he moved her hand. His whisper sounding needy, and that was what he was indeed.

Elijah moved his mouth to her neck descending to the feminine jaw, ‘till he reached her plump lips again, but Katherine had other plans in mind.

The brunette woman pushed him away, until his back hit the far corner of the veranda. Elijah new what was to come. Usually, he would give her pleasure first, but she looked irrefutable into having him the way she wanted.

Katherine unzipped his slacks while attacking his mouth, his hands gliding along her slim arms, arousing modest shudders from her.

You're giving me chills at a hundred degrees

 She separated herself from his mouth and descended her body, kneeling in front of him. Freeing his length from its cloth prison, Katherine looked up at him and smirked deviously.

“Now you’ve summoned me, I must show you the extent of my abilities,”

Elijah smirked back at her, and it transformed into a board smile when he felt her hot mouth on him.

Her lips surrounding his penis felt amazing. Her skilled tongue swirling around him, making him murmur with excitement, while she bobbed her head making him harder than he was before.

His member pulsating inside her mouth made Katherine heart beat faster, he was delicious, and the sensations she was causing him, the sounds he was making as he slowly let himself relax, encouraged her to suck him harder and faster.

Her mouth left his member, as Elijah grabbed the back of her head, moving her face away from his lower region and bringing her to him, to engulf her in a passionate kiss.

Elijah spun her around and made her sit on the steel railing. With a swift move, he moved her panties away and ran his fingers through her folds, feeling how ready she was, he inserted two fingers, while she gripped his suit clad arms with such force Elijah didn’t know if it would heal as fast as it should.

The Original kept his slow pace, and when he felt her walls clenching his digits, he removed them from her, receiving a disapproving wail.

Katherine reopened her eyes only to close them shut, as Elijah replaced his fingers for his engorged shaft, filling her up with a strong thrust.

“Oh God!” she proclaimed and held his shoulders tighter.

“If saying that was wrong before, I can’t imagine how much more it is now,” he mocked as he kissed her neck and Katherine smirked, sighing as he moved almost all out of her, just to pump back in with another hard thrust.

She guided her mouth to his neck and moved his shirt collar away, biting him hard, while he started moving frenetic into her, searching their deliverance.

As their breathing shallowed signalizing their approaching climax, Elijah moved them to the glass doors.

Neither giving a damn about someone watching them.

Katherine’s back hit the surface hard, while she let out a moan appreciating the pain and feeling Elijah’s penis never leaving her aching core.

The man stopped his pace and observed the woman in his arms.

Her chest moving up and down, her face flushed and her lower lip between her teeth.

Katherine opened her doe orbs and looked straight into his.

All sounds dulled around. Her blood pumped hard against her hot skin.

“Tell me what you want,” he prompted in a throaty whisper, his whiskey-blood-laced breath hitting her face, his words transforming her insides into puddle.

She smirked and leaned her head ‘till her mouth touched his earlobe, pulling it with her teeth.

“I want you to finish what you started and fuck m-“

Elijah thrusted deep while Katherine swallowed her words.

An almost animalistic groan left her lips while he continuedly kept going, the hot friction creating a delicious sensation, building more and more, until the stars in the night sky mingled with the ones behind her closed eyelids.

Katherine didn’t speak his name when she came, although he whispered hers in a prayer to the devil herself.

His seed ran down her thighs as he collected himself and helped her lower her dress.

Neither elaborating on what had just happened.  

Calling your name, the only language I can speak Taking my breath, a souvenir that you can keep

 They met again two months later.

Mid October’ sundown shone beautifully over New York skyline while Katherine Pierce sashayed into the luxurious hotel lobby.

Elijah had invited her into his apartment in the 5th avenue, although the she-devil wanted to keep things carnal only, and frequent his place was opposite to that.

So, she had suggested a random hotel.

Knowing full well he would choose the one they’d stayed when looking for the Cure a lifetime ago.

Sunset tower lobby, waiting there for me

 And there he stood.

In all his glorified tailoress. Armani suit, combed back hair, elegant and subtle. Not giving away what was about to happen a few floors up in just a couple instants.

At the sound of high heels on the marble floors, Elijah looked up, smiling at the figure approaching.

He was hopeful she would come, as a good serve he waited so. Although regarding the possibility she could not.

Fortunately, he had been wrong.

They don’t greet using words, but he ghosts a hand on the small of her back, as he guided them to the elevator. Her hand grazes his upper thigh when they enter the gold metal box, he stands behind her, hovering over his new favorite thing in the world.

Guess she always has been, he only had just remembered one of the reasons why.

Katherine waits for the elevator to shut its double doors, before turning her neck to look over her shoulder, encountering his face inches from hers.

She smirks with the proximity that wasn’t uncomfortable anymore.

She leans up and captures his lips with hers in a sensual kiss. Her tongue darts out to touch his and that’s when Elijah moves them to the lift’s wall, his hands multiplying as he tried and touch her every inch at the same time.

Katherine’s head hangs back as he explores her neck with his mouth, only a hint of his fangs coming out to play and that pulls a moan from her throat.

When the transport dings its destination, he reluctantly breaks their contact, and lets her out into the presidential floor first.

In the elevator, fumble for your key Kissed in every corner, Presidential Suite

Opened a Bordeaux from 1993

 When Elijah opens up the room’s door, contrary of what Katherine thought, he does’t jump right back at where they left.

He aims his steps to the light’ switch and dims it, leaving the room in a comfortable yellow glow.

Outside the twilight shows itself purple and orange, subtly letting the night in.

Elijah goes for the glass’ center table, and only then she notices the wine bottle as well as two glasses siting there.

He had thought everything through then, huh?

What did he think this was?

A reconciliation encounter?

Even with those questions inside her head, she collected her tongue and accepted the wine glass when he offered it to her.

“My favorite,” she quips after tasting the grape fermented juice.

He sheepishly smiles at her , downing his own drink.

Putting her glass aside, she goes to him. Her walk purposeful, her heeled feet tapping on the hardwood floors, her hips swaying, and Elijah appreciates the sight.

Elijah deposits his glass by the side table and backings until he reaches the king sized bed.

“And now what?” he quips, his voice low and husky as he leans back, sitting on the mattress, his chin up high to face her standing figure.

“I though you had it all figured out, my Lord,” she taunts, tilting her head and smirking at him.

Elijah chuckles and meets her cockiness.

“Oh, but I do,”

Katherine’s eyes go wide, her lips forming an ‘o’.

“Is that so?” she pushes and leans herself forward, her hands gripping his parted knees.

Elijah’ smile doesn’t leave his face as he contemplates her mannerisms.

Katherine’s face is closer now, her wine hot breath blows on his face, as he looks through his lashes at her plump lips.

How he missed touching her.

But he lets her have her fun, looking back into her cocoa orbs.

Like a cat she’s slow on her actions, calculating every slight move while she climbs in bed straddling his thighs.

Her eyes never leave his and their wordless communication turns her on just as much as his touch.

Speaking of, why wasn’t he?

“Afraid I’m gonna burn you?”

“If anything is I who burns for you, Katerina,” he justifies, his head going to the hollow of her neck and shoulder, grazing his teeth there.

She hisses with the caress and her hands travel from his knees to his shoulders, moving his suit jacket away from his frame.

With his tongue darting out to taste her neck, Elijah whispers in her ear

“Delicious just as the forbidden fruit,”

“Rich, since you’re tasting the devil herself,”

He chuckles again and takes a yelp out of her sinking his fangs deep into her flesh and vamp speeding them to the nearest wall.

The coherence escapes the doppelganger as the sensations of shared blood curse through her body.

Her legs are wrapped strongly around her lover’s waist and his member is pressing between her jean-clad legs, and it feels like heaven, more so when unconsciously, Elijah starts to thrust forward into her.

“Oh, yes…” her breath is caught up her windpipe.

The sharp nails tinted black she possesses go to his man shirt and tear the fabric apart to find his bare back and scratch it with will.

His groan as he moves his head from her jugular is guttural and makes her chill in excitement.

Elijah’s fangs are out, his lips red from her blood and the veins around his eyes are prominent.

He’s the beast she wants and when she goes to kiss him, he trumps her, enveloping them in a bruising lip locking.

The Original dismisses her jacket and blouse like rag, although leaves her bra on, vamp speeding them back to bed, throwing her over the soft surface.

Katherine gets rid of her jeans and boots as the man does the same with his garments, leaving only his boxers on.

If she was to be the she-devil, he certainly was a Greek God.

Elijah’s body was built, strong and as his fangs subsided, his beauty screamed old world elegance, even more so alluring with his bloody face.

He’s standing at the foot of the bed, staring at her hungrily, his chocolate irises almost didn’t show such was his lust.

Katherine knew better than thinking her eyes were any different.

She knelt over the bed. Her hair tousled, lips parted, black lace adorning her flawless body.

Neither moved further.

It was a battle of sorts.

Who would give in first?

Katherine didn’t like losing.

Although she despised wasting time.

And thinking of that she makes her crawling to him.

A hunting peer.

She was the beast now.

Her lips reach for him.

She kisses his navel, going up to his stomach as she feels his muscles contracting there. She looks up and Elijah has his eyes half opened, trying to fight the urge to let it completely go.

Katherine giggles mischievously and ascends her kisses to his nipples, as he finally touches her again.

His hands going directly to her breasts and squeezing them through the fabric of her bra.

Katherine’s nose is nuzzling his jaw as she hums her approval. The wetness of her tongue darts out to taste her dried blood of his face, her hands running through his hair while she pulls that back, making his neck available for her to taste.

And drink.

And as she laps her tongue, filling her body with rich Original blood, Elijah moves her panties out of the way, inserting a long digit inside of her.

Katherine stops her feeding to moan into his neck while he joins another finger in.

“Don’t stop…” she pleads and he has no intention to whatsoever.

Just as expertly, her skilled hands take his briefs off the way, the heat of her palm in contact with his erect shaft.

Elijah lets out a grunt while moving his ministrations in her pussy faster, seeking her release just as she does his.

The scene was sensual, erotic in its maximum, the blood she spills when she comes with a loud wail runs down his neck and chest, just as her juices travel down his hand and wrist.

She’s panting, in her mind only his face and form.

With a strong tug, the eldest vampire alive takes off her bra, throwing the material carelessly behind him and pushes his Katerina down onto the now stained red sheets, as his head and lips descend on her hard nipples.

He plays with them, biting and soothing it after with a blow, making her writhe beneath him.

“Lijah…” she implored.

But for what?

For him to make her cum again?

For the Original vampire to let her go?

Was she begging for release? Of what kind?

Katherine liked to think herself headstrong, but when he touched her like this, doing what only he knew how and for how long and how intense, she couldn’t straight her thoughts. Every pierce of knowledge she knew of flew through the window and the only thing left were the increasing sensations.

She didn’t know how to love anymore.

For if she did, this would be their lovemaking.

As it always has been.

Although, Elijah certainly awakened something inside her being.

Something he knew how to tame.

Calling your name, the only language I can speak Taking my breath, a souvenir that you can keep

Slowly letting her flesh mounds go, Elijah trailed down kisses until he was facing her wet entrance.

Katherine’ soft gasps echoed around the room as the man sucked her clit and gripped her thighs so forcefully, restraining himself from devouring her in one go.

Teeth grazed sensible skin and his breath oh so close washed away every curse she had in mind to praise him.

The woman could only make wonderful sounds as she moved her hips in encounter with his face.

“So sinfully divine,” he complimented, shifting his position to kiss her inner thighs not allowing her to come a second time.

“Says the saint,” ironized the girl her hands up gripping the sheets, her boobs moving with her heavy breathing.

Elijah chuckled in response.

“Am not. Regardless, Katerina let me blessedly cherish you just as such,” a raised eyebrow and a light lift of his lips, as well as those chocolate irises were all Katherine had time to process, before he was plugged to her, filling her to the hilt.

Her surprised shriek, followed by a whisper of his name fueled Elijah to take himself all out and thrust with no mercy once again.

“Fuck! Yes!” she exclaimed closing her eyes with the wonderous building up sensation growing on her lower abdomen. Circling her legs around his middle, draping her arms over his shoulders, Katherine moved her hips in encounter to his.

Male hands were everywhere as he fucked her deep. His mane being tousled by her fingers as she grunted in his ear.

“You’re such an obedient subject,” she played with the words, nibbling his earlobe as their bodies shook with the force of their bang.

He moved his head from her neck to look at her, a glimmer shinning in his beautiful eyes, as he moved her away from him.

Katherine was to open her mouth in protest, only a moan came instead when he palmed her pussy and flipped her on her stomach.

“However, I might cherish you the way I choose to,” the sultry velvet pouring out of his mouth, as well as his fingers assaulting her labia were enough to make her body shudder in a second orgasm.

Katherine was almost begging for him to enter her again.

Almost.

She bit her lower lip and enjoyed as he so subtly ran the tip of his penis along her entrance.

“Enough teasing,” she commanded after an instant, albeit her body moved back and forth to try and get him inside of her.

“And what do you want me to do, Katerina?”

Maybe she should be preoccupied this man could replace her as the devil, he certainly knew about torture.

On her hands and knees she turned her head back, her long curly hair slapping the bed, and watched the precum dripping from him.

Tempting.

“You’re gonna fuck me, with that gorgeous cock of your-“

Her hands automatically sought the wooden headboard as the vampire reentered her from behind efficiently.

A ragged breathy moan accompanied by a wave of pleasure shook the doppelganger as he deliberately inserted himself in and out of her.

His hands firm on her waist guiding her to the rhythm of his groaning.

“Katerina,” he loudly whispered seeking them both their ultimate bliss.

The sound of his palm colliding with her buttchecks made her yelp in surprise and laugh in delight.

She always liked it rough and Elijah knew it. That was exactly why he full fisted pulled her hair back as he increased the speed of his thrusts.

“Say that I fuck you like no one else does,”

She closed her eyes when his breath hit her ear. A wide cat smile appearing on her features when he enveloped her neck in his hand, aiming for lightly choking her while still moving, only slower now.

“Like you needed the reassurance,” she shot back with a groan when he went deeper.  

Elijah smiled closing his hand tighter around her slim neck.

“I want to hear you say it,” he prompted taking his member almost all off and going in slapping their bodies together.

“Yes!” she chocked hanging her head back.

Elijah felt her walls clenching around him, so he retreated himself letting his fangs come out once again.

Katherine moaned in pleasure when his vampire teeth sank on her shoulder, his moves slow and languid.

This was to be the most amazing torture out there.

She wanted to let go, although without ever leave.

“Harder,” her command was clear and he bit her deeper on her shoulder.

“Faster!” she pleaded against her better judgment and felt his balls hitting on her pussy.

It was animalistic the way he was having her. Devouring her in all ways he could. Mind, body and soul.

He didn’t know if he would have her again, so he would prolong it the best he could.

“Say it, Katerina,” he quipped blowing on her ear, the blood dripping from his fangs on her glistening bare back.

Her mouth formed an arch in bliss with his never stopping but oh so slow moves.

“You have me like nobody else does,” she whispered in surrender, feminine hands back at the headboard, while his traveled back down from her neck to her waist.

“Now, I shall the devil to heaven,”

She laughed while he sank himself deep and hard into her wet inviting hole.

Their juices mixing as they both watched the lights dancing in front of their eyes.

Katherine came first in a trembling cry, her curly head hanging low as she felt Elijah cock explode inside of her.

You're giving me chills at a hundred degrees

Her body felt like the sun kissed it as they both laid spent between the blood smeared sheets.

Elijah had the sweetest of smiles, as if he hasn’t been the most pervert beast only a couple minutes prior.

Her hair was plastered on her sweated forehead and the man beside her moved his thumb to take it away from her face.

Katherine offered him a sated smile and wrapped her leg around him.

“What would you say about becoming my sex slave?”

Elijah laughed with that and leaned to bless her lips with his in a brief kiss.

“I would say you need to test drive the vassal again,” his voice sensual as they locked eyes and a smile appeared in her own face.

“Just to be sure I made a good deal?”

He nodded in agreement his hand traveling the side of her body, his fingers featherlight on the side of her breasts as he thrusted his hip into hers.

Katherine’s hands went to his short hair.

“Just to be sure,” he finally said sinking his head down for another kiss.

[monstersandmaw]

Male orc (Vilugh) x male reader (sfw) - Part Two

Edit which I’m including in all my works after plagiarism and theft has taken place: I do not give my consent for my works to be used, copied, published, or posted anywhere. They are copyrighted and belong to me.

This should have gone up on here yesterday, and has been available on my $5 Patreon tier for a week as the fourth ‘early release’ story on Patreon in July (every Wednesday).

You may recall the first chapter that I posted as an unedited WIP (Tumblr link) a while ago and had lots of encouraging comments about and some interest in seeing more from Vilugh and the prince. So, here it is! Sorry it's a bit late - things have just been nuts here lately. I wanted this to be the final chapter, but... plot happened. So... there'll be more in the future!

Content: continuing on from last time where our scholarly prince with the unfathomably dickish king for a father was told he was going to spend six months with the orcs, we see Vilugh again, meet his sister, and finally, get to the encampment. (tw: brief mention of past death of reader’s older brother, and constantly being compared to him by the aforementioned dickish king...)

Wordcount: exactly 4000. *nice*

Part One

To say that I was furious with my father for only deigning to inform me of my new situation for the next six months would have been an understatement. I knew I wasn’t the ruler-son that he’d envisaged taking over from him, but I had thought that my rather impressive record for strategy and tactics spoke for itself, not to mention that I was responsible for almost single-handedly planning and instigating massive economic reforms that not only refilled the monarchy’s gradually-dwindling coffers but promoted trade and gave our floundering, stagnating economy a huge boot up the backside. And yet, still, I was not enough. I was not my brother.

Fuming, I strode along the corridors from the great hall up to my chambers and nearly flattened a poor serving girl as she left one of the rooms along the way. “I’m sorry,” I said through clenched teeth.

“Highness,” she chirped, dipping into a curtsy and scurrying away before I could explain myself.

My reputation had gone from ‘scholar prince’ to ‘Royal Monk’ by the time I was twenty five, but I was also known for being moody and sullen, with a perpetual scowl on my lean - I thought gaunt - face. No wonder I’d frightened her. As I stared in the speckled mirror in my bedroom, I saw a face and body that would hardly impress the orcs to whom I was about to be packed off like a spare bit of cargo for six months. Why? What what did my father have to gain from sending me to a group of people who, until my teenage years, had been our enemies? They weren’t exactly our best friends now either.

The orcs right across the continent had begun to think about trade with us since Khraxh and her warband had first agreed to peace talks, and while the mountain orcs were still ferociously opposed to any kind of truce or trade talks with the soft, plains- and forest-dwelling humans, Khraxh had clearly seen the advantages that at least a ‘polite understanding’ would have with us. We had the monopoly on iron ore with our goblin-run mines to the east, and due to our superior charcoal burning techniques, we were able to forge steel like almost no one else, save perhaps the goblins themselves.

Goblins, like humans, had a long and turbulent history with orcs. Historically, encounters between the two peoples mostly ended in absolute annihilation of entire goblin communities by the larger and stronger orcs - hence their very slight preference for dealing with humans. It really was only a slight preference, however. Goblins were wary and untrusting of most folks, but it was understandable. They were a skittish, intolerant folk, quick to be offended and even quicker to give it.

Staring into that age-freckled mirror, I saw my lacklustre, pale skin, with no distinguishing features, save perhaps for my mother’s dark eyes and a slightly hooked nose. Where Dannan had been the golden boy of our family - qujite literally with his curly blond hair - I was the proverbial and, of late, the literal, dark horse. Dark hair, dark eyes, dark expression…

Needless to say, I got little sleep that night, which added to the dark shadows beneath those dark eyes. I turned it over and over as I lay amid the fine silk sheets. In the end, I came to the rather unsettling conclusion that my father hoped I wouldn’t survive my time with the orcs so that he could install someone like my cousin Balgrun on the throne after his demise. Not that anyone imagined that a king as tenacious and bitter as my father would ever give up his hold on life; he was simply too stubborn to die, I was sure of it. True, I was useful, but I was not a leader. I honestly crumbled to a trembling, stammering, sweating mess if I had to address the public myself, and I considered more than three people to be an abhorrent crowd. He’d raised me to be the shadow to my brother’s light, and I fulfilled that role too well to be trained to shine in public now.

Gritting my teeth the next morning, I stood on the sweeping steps of the royal castle, awaiting the arrival of the orcs.

The squeal of a war boar from the far side of the castle’s curtain wall announced their presence before the trumpets and shouts did. I drew a deep breath and kept my skinny hands folded behind my back. No need to let them see me shaking. The king emerged from the doors behind me and fixed me with his usual, emotionless glower. “Don’t embarrass me, son,” he muttered under his breath. “They do us great honour by taking you to the heart of their lands for so long a time.”

I raised my eyebrow. My mother had been able to do that, according to Rigmore. The castle steward and she had apparently been good friends, and when I had learned to do it, he had laughed and said I was the picture of my mother. Naturally, I did it around my father whenever I could just to rile him up. “Tell me, father,” I said with carefully controlled coolness in my voice. “What exactly do you hope to achieve out of my royal stay with — what was it you called them yesterday? — oh yes… ‘those beasts’.”

His lip curled and his eye twitched. “You will do well not to repeat that, boy,” he snarled.

I laughed and shook my head. “Out of the two of us, I seem to be the only one who values my hide, father. Fear not though, I have no intention of pissing off my captors.”

“Captors? Guardians, more like. The honour of hosting the son of the most powerful king on this continent will not be lost on them,” he said fervently, grey eyes drifting to the portcullis and main entrance to the bailey behind me.

“Surely you had some mission in mind for me then?”

“Win them over with that naive charm of yours,” he said dismissively, still not looking at me. “You could have charmed your way into the beds of half the nobility of this kingdom, despite your… physique… Fuck them if you have to,” he said in a hiss in my ear, “But I want them in an advantageous trade deal by the end of next spring. Butter them up, win their trust, and we’ll have the brutes in our pockets.”

“And if I don’t manage that?” I asked.

His eyes flashed. “Then you really aren’t of any use to me at all, are you?”

It wasn’t a wholly unexpected answer. The man was always the king before he was my father, but still, I barked out a loud and undignified laugh just as the orcs entered amid a clatter of cloven trotters and squealing war beasts, feeling empty and hollow. “Goddess be merciful,” I cursed. “You just want me out of the way while you wine and dine Balgrun in my absence. Oh yes,” I chuckled back at him over my shoulder, practically skipping down the stairs and strangely looking forward to my six month ‘holiday’ from the backstabbing and conniving of the castle. “I asked around; I know you’re asking my dear little cousin to stay. Perhaps you can show him the ropes in six months, and perhaps the orcs will decide I’m more useful as a toothpick than a diplomat, and you’ll have a reason to go to war with them again, wipe them off the plains, and then nothing will stand in your way between the coast and the mountains.”

And with that, I left him sputtering on the steps, his face a rather nasty puce colour. I’d figured out his alternative plan, and if he thought for a moment I was going to let him have it, he was a dotard.

“Greetings,” I said, addressing Vilugh in the common Trade Tongue. “Regrettably I have not had the chance to learn your language yet, otherwise I would have greeted you in your own tongue.”

The orc swung down from his boar and dropped the reins to the flagstone floor, ground-tying the beast the same way I might have ground-tied my mare. Starling was, to my relief, already saddled and ready for me, standing with her bridle in the hands of a groom and stamping her hoof in anticipation of an outing.

Vilugh was every bit as colossal and imposing as I remembered him from the last time I’d seen him, if not more so. I knew he had to be ten years or so older than me, and if he was thirty five, he was still in his absolute prime. His green-skinned chest was largely bare, save for the leather strap that reached diagonally from one hip to the opposite shoulder, holding up the leather hunting skirt that hugged his hips and hid very little from the imagination. He didn’t have the defined abs of the veiner fighters I’d seen who liked to show off their lean, oiled bodies for the attention of the crowd, but his middle was packed with solid fat and muscle that spoke of the strength of two or three oxen. His thighs could have crushed one of our warhorses to a bloody slurry if he’d fancied trying, and his hands were as big as the buckler shields favoured by fancy duellers in the city. Small for a shield, but very big for a hand.

His eyes were still that unnerving black that I recalled from my youth, and they were every bit as perceptive as I remembered too. He raked his gaze up my slim form, no doubt also cataloguing my physical features and sartorial preferences. That day I had chosen simple buckskin leggings, suitable for long distance riding, and a loose, linen shirt. My hair was tied back in a practical style at the nape of my neck, and across the front of my saddle, I had instructed my servant to tie a leather hunter’s jerkin for when evening drew in and it inevitably got much colder. In my saddlebags I had had simple, comfortable clothing packed, with none of the fripperies and fineries with which a prince might be expected to travel. Orcs were a pragmatic and practical people, and having a whiny prince demanding to stop for wine and grapes halfway there would win me no favours with them.

“We can teach you to speak orcish if you want,” Vilugh said in a voice like a rock slide.

I couldn't help but grin at the chance to learn something else, and nodded. “Thank you. I’d like that. I can’t promise to be any good, but I’ll try.”

To my surprise, Vilugh laughed. “From what I hear, you’re a quick learner, prince. You’ll catch on quick enough I reckon.”

Relief washed through me. The warrior was polite and had a sense of humour. As much as my father’s court frustrated me, I knew where to tread there, and how far I could push and poke before I risked too much. With the orcs, I had no idea yet what might provoke them or amuse them. I also had no idea how they felt about this arrangement, or how my presence among them would be received.

“If you’d like to rest or feed your mounts, and seek the same for yourself, then please make yourselves comfortable, otherwise I’m ready to leave whenever you are.” I left it up to him to decide, and after a quick look at my father, still standing on the castle steps like a lone lion on a rock while hyenas prowled below, Vilugh shot me a look of a different calibre.

“These boar can ride all day without stopping for food or water; three days without rest,” he said in a measured voice, walking at my side and casting my entire body into shadow with his immense height and breadth.

He was testing me, and I didn’t fall for it. “And yet the ride from your mother’s bastion is four days from here,” I replied with the same even tone.

Vilugh’s eyes glittered with amusement. “The piss you people drink for ale should be enough for now.”

It was easy enough for me to take a chance on his sense of humour with my father’s bowmen lining the walls and the honour guard ranged up the stairs nearby. “For you or for the boars?” I quipped, turning away and inviting him to follow me.

Again, the massive - and honestly quite intimidating - orc let out a long, loud belly-laugh of amusement. “Hay will do for the boars just now, though they prefer meat when they can get it.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” I muttered.

The boars were seen to, and I led Vilugh and the two other orcs who had accompanied him up to meet my father. Neither Vilugh nor his fellow warriors bowed or bent the knee to my father I was pleased to note, and it got my father’s hackles up like a like a bristling tomcat. I almost could have kissed the enormous warrior just for putting my father on the back foot already, but honestly, what did he expect? Did he think the orcs would prostrate themselves before him? They’d hardly done that last time, so I couldn’t imagine he’d be so conceited as to think they’d do it this time.

“Your majesty,” Vilugh said.

“Welcome,” my father said, his tone more tightly-clipped than the box hedge in the castle’s knot garden. “Will you be staying for some refreshments before you return to your people with my son?”

“Just long enough to give the boars a breather,” Vilugh said with easy diplomacy.

The other warriors he’d brought with him were the older, one-armed orc I’d skittered away from as a child, and a female I didn’t recognise but who had the most incredible, blue eyes I’d ever seen. Vilugh must have caught me admiring her in the great hall because he leaned in close and growled without real sting, “Stare too long at my sister and she’ll most likely cut out your eyes, princeling.”

“I was just admiring hers,” I yipped quickly, regretting the rather boyish note to my usually hoarse tenor. “Blue eyes are not so common in these parts, that’s all. I meant no offence by it.”

Seated beside him at the table, she leaned close to her brother and barked something in orcish at him. He looked briefly back at me, and then responded in the same. They conversed for a moment and I sat there with my spine dead-straight and my jaw clenched. When Vilugh turned back to me, he grinned. “Rhana says that if the pretty human princeling wants to stare at her, he can, but he’ll have to answer to her wife when we get back.”

“Far be it from me to come between an orc and her wife,” I chuckled anxiously.

When Vilugh translated, they both laughed and Rhana reached behind her brother and cuffed me on the shoulder hard enough that I was almost sent reeling off my seat and onto the floor, which got another laugh out of them and drew a glare of daggers from my unnerved father. Good. Let him be baffled that I was already getting along with these warriors like soldiers in the barracks. He’d clearly not expected me to have any idea how to behave around them, but while I didn’t spend my spare time in our own guards’ barracks, I observed the way everyone in the castle interacted with each other. It was what I’d been trained to do, after all: notice things and remember them.

All in all, the orcs didn't linger long, and we were on our way within an hour.

The pace of the first few hours of the ride alternated between a brisk walk and trotting, though my mare jogged excitedly for the first hour of that until I finally convinced her that we were in it for the long haul. The grooms kept her fit and well-schooled since I couldn’t step away from the castle regularly enough to do it myself, but by the end of the day, even my indomitable Starling was beginning to flag. I patted her neck and murmured that we’d probably break camp soon, and, sure enough, we did.

Once a small fire was lit, with the dry twigs of plains brush-scrub, and carefully warded in a low pit to stop it spreading across the arid plain, I drew out my rations from my saddlebag and Vilugh shot me a look of mild surprise.

“What?” I asked, nervous that I’d committed some inadvertent transgression by digging in before they’d started eating.

After a moment, the orc heaved himself down onto the ground beside me, long, black plait thwacking against his back at the motion. Then he said almost conspiratorially, “You’re not what I was expecting.”

Unwrapping the bread and hard cheese from their waxed linen wrappings, I frowned. “Just what were you expecting, might I ask?”

He shrugged a massive shoulder and drew out a similarly wrapped parcel - much larger - with dried meat and a hard looking biscuit that I thought would probably crack my own teeth before it broke. “Honestly… going off the last time I saw you, and from what your father said of you in talks with my mother… I thought you’d be a fragile little bird. You’re not.” He looked at me, dark eyes glittering in the fire like polished onyx and added, “You are skinny as a bird, but you’re not weak.”

“How would you know?” I scoffed. “I could be too weak to draw my sword. It could just be strapped to my waist for show…” In fact, it was now unbuckled and lying behind me with my saddle and bags, while Starling was hobbled nearby and looking rather disdainfully at the slim grazing afforded by the scrubland where we’d paused. Finest high-summer hay, it was not.

“You move like a dancer,” he said, and I immediately choked on a breadcrumb.

He had to slap me on the back and offered me a skin of water. I washed the offending clog down and gawped at him. “What would you know about human dancers?” I asked without thinking.

“I’ve travelled to the cities on the coast,” he said. “They dance in the marketplaces on festival days.”

“Oh,” I said. And then my cheeks flushed. “I’m not… You know… those dancers are… uh… paid to do more than dance… shall we say.”

It took Vilugh a moment to catch on, but he seemed embarrassed at his mistake. “I meant no insult by it,” he said. “They’re very beautiful.”

“That they are,” I admitted. My father had tried to entice three of them into bed with me after one evening spent in the company of one of his duchesses, but when I’d shown more interest in her library than her twittering prostitutes, he’d given up. Apparently the finest courtesans in the land weren’t going to make me proper man in his eyes, so it wasn’t worth trying.

Vilugh must have seen my memories swirling across my face, because he didn’t bring it up again, and we ate in a rather awkward silence after that. The orcs drew lots for the watch, and Vilugh drew the first and insisted that as their guest, I should not be expected to deprive myself of sleep. Plus, apparently, the next day’s riding would be harder and he didn’t want me falling out of my saddle when I dozed off. Also orcs’ eyes were more like cats’ eyes in the dark, I discovered, when I looked up and saw Rhana’s glinting at me from across the fire and nearly had a heart attack. She laughed and wished me pleasant dreams.

Taking their well-meaning jibes in my stride, I nodded and bedded down in my humble bedroll. It was the type that hunters used, made of breathable buckskin and lined with fleece to keep off the chill of the plains, and although I’d only spent one or two nights in it in my life, I slept better that night than I had in years, not waking until Vilugh's surprisingly gentle touch at my shoulder stirred me not long after dawn.

Over the course of the next few days, Starling developed a comical rivalry with Rhana’s boar, the two taking every opportunity to bite or scuffle with each other, though it never seemed to get truly vicious enough for either of us to worry about, so we let it play out to our amusement. Perhaps because of that and perhaps because I just simply liked them for their gruff honesty, by the time the wooden palisade walls of the orcish war-band’s permanent stronghold drew into view on a wind-blown hilltop, I felt relatively comfortable with the three orcs who had been sent to fetch me.

The older one with one arm was called Rhakak, and was apparently Vilugh’s cousin. He was taciturn and unflinching, watchful and grim, but not aggressive towards me. I still gave him a wide berth though.

But if I’d thought Rhakak was intimidating, it was nothing to Vilugh's mother.

I remembered her from her visit to the castle, but nothing could quite have prepared me for the sheer presence the matriarch had amongst her own people. She was standing waiting for us as we rode up to the walls of the stronghold, and even though Vilugh had told me that Khraxh wouldn’t hold me to the same etiquette as she would a visiting orc, I still nearly shat my pants in fear when I got off Starling’s back and found her surveying me with a distinctly unimpressed look on her weathered, beautiful face.

She really was beautiful. Her body was honed and muscular, but her movements were sleek and efficient, and in much the way a war galley cuts through the water and bristles with power, so she moved with the dormant power of a life-long warrior. Her long, thick hair had turned grey in the intervening decade since I’d seen her, and she’d lost half a tusk too, but the way the gathered orcs arranged themselves around her reminded me of a wolf and her pack. She commanded absolute obedience in them, and unyielding loyalty. In that moment, I did feel afraid, and suddenly very much not up to the seemingly impossible task I had been set.

With a rather endearing patience, Vilugh had taught me the phrase to speak in orcish upon meeting her, and once I could finally get my tongue around the complex vocal gymnastics of the orcish language, he said I would not be flayed alive for completely embarrassing my tutor.

Thus, upon our first meeting, I nearly sprained my jaw, but I gained perhaps a modicum of respect from the veteran war chief. As the three orcs sent to the castle to fetch me had now bowed, neither did I, but I did incline my head as I spoke. There was no need to act like a prideful brat after all.

If my father was expecting me to make enemies of these people and inadvertently lure them into killing me and sparking a war, then I was bloody well going to do the opposite. I wasn’t a warrior, but I had my mind, and I was damned if I was going to fuck things up and go down in history as the skinny little prince who kicked off the orc-human conflict all over again.

Humble but not meek, studious but not annoyingly curious, polite but not obsequious, opinionated but not obnoxious… I began to feel my way through the stronghold’s hierarchy, and miraculously survived my first week there without insulting anyone.

One week down, twenty three more to go…

___

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[the-river-person]

I’m going to have to make a list of these eventually. But know that the world in “The Alleyway” is now considered "open for use"  or “Community Shared” without the need to request permission from the creator (me) though I’d like to be tagged and credited still. Name of Au: WarrenTale Creator: the-river-person Date of Appearance: Aug 1st, 2021 Universe: WarrenTale is a Universe where Monsters and Humans live freely together within the four major cities of the Claustra Alliance. The Alliance is ruled over by an Emperor who mostly allows the city officials or rulers to each do as they see fit. Citizens are not allowed to leave the confines of the cities, which are large enough to be mostly comfortable for a lot of people, except by special rail cars which carry people to the other cities. The reason for this confinement is the Corruption. A supposed poison or infection that covers the land and deadens it, rendering it blackened or grey, and everything on it that is infected. The official reports state that the Corruption originated during the Human and Monster War and that in order to survive, Humans and Monsters formed an emergency peace treaty and created the cities with magic and technology, thus diverging WarrenTale from the main course of events of Undertale. Each city is supposed to corespond to one of the original Game’s main areas. Vandfald, the only named city thus far, is based on the Waterfall Area and features a city of colossal towers that carry layers of open-air streets and numerous districts. This cluster of towers stands in a deep gorge whose depths cannot be seen from above. Water is pumped in from below and put to use all over the city to generate power, the canals then dump it back down into the gorge via massive waterfalls. The city’s drinking and bathing water is pumped in specially to prevent any Corruption. There is still technology in this world, but its either primitive stuff or very very advanced. Little of the stuff we’d recognize remains unless its scavenged from outside the Cities and repaired to be sold by illegal merchants. The Warren is a set of twisted labyrinthine streets that are home to vagrants and vagabonds, shady dealers, persecuted minorities, criminals of various kinds, and pretty much most outcasts from the Cities. They are built to resemble the streets and styles of all four of the Cities, but are actually quite far away from all of them. Technology and Magic as old as the War was scavenged, rebuilt, and used to make numerous Gateways and Posterns that lead into the Four Cities in various locations. In the event of an incursion, these gateways can be shut down to cut off access. Denizens of the Warren see themselves as apart from the Cities and the Emperor’s rule, though not everyone sees themselves as a rebellion. Characters: Frisk: A Gender Neutral child of about twelve years of age who lives with the Dreemurr Family after having been adopted through the system at a young age (a deeply traumatic experience). Though the Dreemurrs are not cruel people and would never try to hurt anyone, they are not the most ideal parents and can sometimes be both neglectful and controlling. Madame Toriel: A charming woman, but somewhat overzealous about what she terms “climbing the social ladder”. This entails hosting large dinners and galas with all sorts of important people, especially Minister Sans. The Minister is of particular importance to her because he is Minister of Finance and Commerce for the City of Vandfald, and the Dreemurr family owns a budding trading company. She may be sweet on Sans, but its difficult to tell whether that’s real or merely a product of her ambitions. Though she sees herself as benevolent and kindly, she likes to have things her way and can aggressively micromanage everyone around her until she’s satisfied. Azzy: The child of Madame Toriel and Master Asgore. Suffers from neglect and is often ill and anxious. Whenever he’s well enough he likes to spend time out in the extensive gardens around the family house and sometimes to visit the city gardens. His favorite flower is a kind of golden blossom whose name he hasn’t found out yet, though he’s memorized the names of every other flower in the city. Master Asgore: A monster consumed by his desire for wealth, left a shell of himself. He is always working, always trying to make better trades, make new profitable deals. Driven by the need to provide a “better” life for his family, he is neglectful and absent. Though others might think him friendly and charming, he is solely focused on rising up in the world. Always rising, but never really stopping, never finding that enough is enough, and slowly losing the very things he’s certain that he’s caring for. Doggo: Surprisingly he’s an old University Professor, fired for teaching his students about dissenting views against the Alliance, the Cities, and the Emperor, about pre war history and philosophy, and about a number of things the city officials decided were “deliberately harmful to the prospects of students by taking up their time with unnecessary and outdated or irrelevant studies.” (In other words, they didn’t want to say he was a threat to the state so he got the boot). He still keeps in contact with several of his students, one of whom is Minister Sans of Vandfald City. Doggo now lives in the Warrens, and has printed several books with his knowledge (all banned by the Emperor after copies were found and confiscated by city law enforcement) under various pseudonyms. Minister Sans: For all appearances he is a respectable and upstanding Citizen. He oversees trade and business for Vandfald as well as setting the government’s budgets. However he is also well aware of the Warrens and is actively engaged in a growing resistance to the control of the Emperor. He is not publicly known to have a brother, but he cares very deeply for Papyrus and ensures that he always has more than enough to live on despite the fact they rarely see one another anymore. Papyrus: The Doorkeeper. Papyrus is rarely seen in person, spending almost all of his time in his home, hidden deep in the lower levels of Vandfald City’s towers. He has control of the mechanisms that maintain the entrances to the Warrens. Individual gates and doors can be shut by someone nearby in the Warrens. But this lonely skeleton holds the key to shut or open any or all of them whenever he wishes. How he ended up in charge of this is unknown, but he’s made it his life’s work to keep the Warrens free and the refugees living there safe. He spends so much time alone, watching the gateways, that it consumes him, driving him half mad. Sitting in the dark and staring at screens from ancient computers as old as the War of Humans and Monsters. Sans visits rarely, and ensures he has money and food and anything else he wants. Aron and Catty: Two married monsters who live in the Warrens. Traders and merchants, they sell illegally scavenged and repaired technology from the badlands beyond the city. Aron is a very handsome aquatic monster with muscular features and comes off as a used car salesman. He is deeply devoted to his Cat Monster wife and would do anything for her. She is only slightly resentful towards their situation, having come from a moderately wealthy family, but loves him just as fiercely. Despite this, they quarrel constantly, and she whacks him with whatever is on hand (really he doesn’t mind this and they both know it. It’s more for the show of getting their frustrations out.) Chilldrake: Child of the Drake family, a family who runs a restaurant in Vandfald City. His friends include Azzy, Frisk, a mouse (whose father works in the restaurant), and a monster named Suzy. Can I use this AU in my story/comic/video/art?: Yes. I only ask that I be tagged and credited! So I can come see what cool stuff you did! Can I write a story/comic or make a video for this AU that tells its story?: Sure. I don’t have a story for it. I might come back and do a one shot or two. But all stories for it are equally canon. Is Mistral Sans an official part of this AU?: He is not. Mistral visited, and ended up giving advice to Frisk and Azzy. But he won’t interfere with events here, and has told them not to mention him to anyone. He might offer them one or two pieces of advice if they really need it, but its likely he’ll be long gone before the story draws to its close. He’s just here to see what this Universe is like. Will you answer questions about this AU’s characters, places, and history?: Sure. I’d love to. Just send an ask and if I have an answer, I’ll let you know. Or if I never thought about that, I can probably figure it out in order to answer.

[panda-noosh]

set me free {Draco Malfoy x Reader}

Words: 12.3k

Summary: Death Eaters aren’t supposed to care.

Genre: angst

Notes: support my writing or ask me about commissions! - please let me know if you guys would like a part two to this?? because i feel like there’s a lot more i could explore. anyway, enjoy!!

----

You're getting used to waking up in a new place everyday.

  The spell wears off after twelve hours, the perfect amount of time for them to move you from one place to another. It does not matter how many times you tell them you will go willingly; they never listen. They don't want to risk it, don't want to put up with a little half-blood, only fresh out of Hogwarts, screaming and kicking in an attempt to get released.

   Lord Voldemort has too much to worry about already.

   Your eyes peel open slowly. That familiar headache is at the forefront, the first thing you feel besides the cold concrete pressing against your tender cheek. Your hands are shackled, but the chains are useless; you're always weak when you first awaken, much too weak to attempt an escape, and they know that. The level of magic they use on you would be enough to paralyse anyone.

     You look up. The room you are in is small – as they often are – and doused in uncomfortable darkness. A little light glows from beneath the door, and above your head you can hear people walking back and forth, the odd whimper coming from whatever victim Voldemort has acquired today. Water drips steadily from a hole in the concrete roof, slapping against the back of your hand which lay flat on the floor; you clench your fist just to make sure your fingers are still working, that he hasn't taken the extra precaution of damaging your limbs, too.

   You push yourself up at long last, though the effort is exhausting. Your head feels too heavy, and your limbs too sluggish, and the idea of facing the day weighs you down to the point where you're half tempted to just lay back down and pretend to sleep. Maybe you can convince them they've finally gone too far, used too much magic, killed you entirely on accident.

   But you don't, because your curiosity gets the better of you, just as it often does.

   You stand on wobbly legs and make your way over to the cell-like door locking you in. You push it, getting a surprise when the door actually opens to reveal a concrete staircase leading up to a rickety looking wooden door at the very top. You poke your head out, glance left and right before slowly making your way towards it.

   You know you shouldn't be doing this. Lord Voldemort will order someone to come get you when he wants your presence, but you currently have no idea where you are or who is present, and that's all the sentiment you need to find yourself breaking the rules these days. You were in Slytherin for a reason, whether that reason be as extreme as Voldemort's or not.

   Behind the wooden door there is a hallway. Long, empty, eerily decorated with portraits of dark wizards you have only seen in the history books. They grin as you slowly make your way past them, trailing your bruised and cracked fingers along the emerald green wallpaper that almost seems to shine beneath the lights cast upon it. Your feet – bare, bruised, cold – sink into a plush carpet of the same colour – the Slytherin colours.

    And part of you recognises this place. You're certain you've seen it before, somewhere, maybe a long time ago, maybe recently. Either way, it makes your blood run cold, a startling fight or flight response settling in the pit of your stomach that you pay no attention to. You couldn't fight if you tried considering Voldemort has your wand, and the idea of trying to flee from him is scarier even than walking through these strangely familiar hallways.

    You turn a corner, appearing at yet another large wooden door. It's a double door this time with a brass knocker and shiny gold handles; you approach, slowly open the door-

   You realise your mistake only too late.

  A spark of green light misses you by inches. It's only because you haven't even got the door fully open yet that the magic whizzes past you, slamming into the wall at your side. A painting cries out and slips down the wall. Inside the mysterious room, chairs are scraping backwards and people are calling out to whoever they believe is behind it – you close your eyes, uttering a curse to yourself that you could be so stupid.

   “Open that door immediately, please.”

  It's his ice cold voice that makes you step forward, even though every instinct in your body is telling you to turn and run, pretend it was someone else. You enter the room – clearly the dining room – and bow to Lord Voldemort, and Lord Voldemort only. These other wizards pretending to be big and bad can all get locked up in Azkaban in your opinion.

   Lord Voldemort smiles. It's fake, and you know it is, but it calms your nerves anyway – maybe he won't be so angry at your intrusion, at the fact you took matters into your own hands and decided to have a stroll around this very large, very confusing mansion.

   “Ah. Y/N's awake,” he says, not unlike a husband telling his wife that the child has stirred. “How was your rest?”

   “Fine.”

   He stiffens.

   You quickly correct yourself. “Fine, my lord. Exactly what I needed.”

   He grins again, the skin stretching grotesquely across his nose-less face. You want to look away, but keep your eyes forward in fear of offending him.

    “And I can see you've made your way around Lucius's mansion just fine on your own. That's good. We don't have to waste time with the tour.”

  You flick your gaze over to Lucius – you know him, of course, have seen him parading around Voldemort's feet for nearly as long as you've been here.

  “This is your home, is it, sir?” you ask.

  Lucius looks up, scowling. “It is. The home of me and my family.” He gestures vaguely to his right, and there you see the rest of them. You don't know why you didn't recognise each of them immediately, because you've heard all about them from Hogwarts.

   Standing beside the head of the house is Narcissa Malfoy and her son, Draco, both of whom look miserable. Narcissa holds herself with the same tough restraint as her husband, pretending she's meant to be here when in reality, she looks so far out of her comfort zone it almost makes you feel bad for her.

   Draco, however, isn't even trying. He looks at you, lower lip wobbling, eyes wide, because he knows exactly who you are and where you've come from. He went to school with you before the Daily Prophet was writing about your sudden disappearance, before the wizarding world took a week to look for you before ruling your disappearance off as a murder and leaving it at that.

    “Draco,” you say, giving him a bow. “Lovely to see you again.”

  “Ah!” Voldemort exclaims, clapping his hands. Around him, Death Eaters flinch, but you've gotten used to his dramatics. “I had a suspicion you two might know each other – you were in the same year at Hogwarts, were you not?”

   The question is aimed at Draco, but you answer. “We were, my lord. Both in Slytherin.”

   “Interesting. Quite a coincidence.” Voldemort gestures to the empty space beside him, and you stiffen, already knowing what he is offering. “Have a seat, Y/N. Meetings always do feel a little flat without my favourite little helper by my side.”

   Nagini hisses, as if scolding you for taking her place as favourite. You give the snake a glance before slowly making your way to Voldemort's side; it's only with all these eyes on you do you take into consideration what you look like. Your hair, a tattered mess, clothes ripped and ragged. You wouldn't even go as far as to call them clothes, more like rags magicked together into something that can cover your body.

  You sit down on the ground next to Voldemort. Nagini slips into your lap, swipes a tongue over your fingers before settling down around your shoulders; Death Eaters stare in awe, wondering how on earth you have somehow managed to tame the beast they are all so afraid of.

  You look Lucius Malfoy dead in the eyes and stroke the top of the snakes head.

  Voldemort smiles down at you for a second longer before he turns back to the table and continues with whatever meeting you had previously so rudely interrupted.

  You can't even bring yourself to listen. You're exhausted, brain still reeling from the effects of the unknown magic used against you. You want to close your eyes, try sleeping again – for real, this time – but the weight of the snake in your lap and the tension in the room keeps you bolt upright, staring around at the Death Eaters Voldemort wants you to call family, but will never be family to you.

  Your eyes land on Draco. He's not looking at you, because he's wise and he knows his place. Instead, he keeps his gaze dead ahead, hands locked in his lap like a boy terrified of his first day of school. His lower lip continues to shudder, but his parents offer not a single word of sympathy – nobody does. Around him, Death Eaters are in the same position – goodness, even his father looks a little frightened, refusing to look up to meet the eyes of the man they claim to adore so much.

  Man. Even that term is used loosely in regards to Lord Voldemort.

  The scariest part is, he knows it.

  “Y/N here was kind enough to let me borrow their wand.”

  You look down at your lap. “My pleasure, my lord.”

  You can hear his nails clicking against the wood of your wand, the one thing you have ever truly cared about. It's in his possession now, but you were never under any illusion that it was ever fully yours once Voldemort took you under his control; as soon as Voldemort brought you along with him, every one of your possessions became his. Nonetheless, you have to curl your fingers into fists to stop yourself from reaching out and snatching your wand back. That will end badly for everyone.

  “Ten inches, made of hawthorn wood with a. . . What was the core again, Y/N?”

  “Unicorn hair, my lord.”

   “Unicorn hair.” Voldemort chuckles; the sound slurs through his lipless mouth, and you shudder. “Not as powerful as my own, but sometimes we're not looking for power. Sometimes, we're looking for quick escapes. Isn't that right, Peter?”

  A knee smashes against the bottom of the table. “Y-yes, m-my lord. Of course you are correct. Always correct.”

  You scowl; you've never liked Peter Pettigrew.

  “Thank you, Peter,” Voldemort purrs. “Always so supportive. And what about you, Draco? How do you feel?”

   Draco looks up, and so do you. You aren't entirely sure why, considering you've always found it so easy to listen to the suffering of the Death Eaters when Voldemort is questioning them; however, there is something about the way Draco's silence stretches that little bit too long, the way Voldemort's sickly smile slowly begins to drop, the way Lucius leans across the table and hisses, “Draco, answer him!” that has you pulling yourself to your feet, Nagini still balanced over your shoulders.

  “Perhaps it is safe to assume Draco is a little bit tired, my lord,” you say.

  Everyone around the table goes still. Dolohov utters, “Stupid little wizard,” beneath his breath, but you pay him no mind. Already you have interrupted Voldemort's questioning; you do not want to make it any worse by turning your attention to someone else. You'll get Dolohov later.

  Slowly, Voldemort turns to look at you. “Did I say you could stand, Y/N?”

  “No, my lord, but I just-”

  “You claim Draco is tired.”

   You falter. “Y-yes, my lord. I made the suggestion that he is tired, and perhaps that is why he is taking a little bit of time to gather his wits today.” You glance at Draco, who stares at you with wide, watery eyes. “Us youngsters are forever messing up our sleep schedules; you must understand, my lord, he means no disrespect.”

  “I'm feeling good,” Draco blurts out, the words rushing so fast from his mouth that his body jerks along with them, shaking the unused cutlery on the table. “I'm feeling very well, my lord. Of course I am. I'm here, aren't I?”

  Despite Draco's long-winded answer, Voldemort keeps his eyes trained on you. Slowly, he reaches a hand up and strokes the top of Nagini's head – his finger is so close to your cheek now, close enough that you can feel the wind from each of his strokes. Back and forth and back and forth, Nagini humming in contentment as she bundles a little tighter around your shoulders.

  “Good,” Voldemort says quietly. “I'm glad to hear it, Draco.”

  You swallow thickly. He continues staring at you for a moment longer before he says, “Pettigrew.”

   Again, Peter jumps, his knee slamming against the underside of the table. “Y-yes, m-my l-l-lord?”

  “Take Y/N back to their rooms – you know the one. I will have a chat with them later on.”

   Peter stands up immediately, wrapping his tiny little fingers around your upper arm. You continue staring at Voldemort until Peter tugs on your arm and drags you from the room, uttering incoherences under his breath. As the door begins to shut, you cast yet another, final glance over your shoulder, feeling your stomach flip when your eyes meet Draco's.

  The door slams shut, and you're thrown back into the dungeon.

  ----

  “Sometimes keeping your mouth shut doesn't ensure safety, young Malfoy.”

  The darkness responds with silence, as you knew it would. Leaned up against the back wall of the dungeon, knees drawn to your chest, you can make out only the subtle silhouette of Draco Malfoy, leaning against the wall just outside your door, waiting for you to notice him, waiting for you to ignore him, waiting for the moment he can look at you and say you're fine, so he can go on about his day without feeling guilty.

    “I am okay,” you call out, never looking up from the patterns you have scraped into the concrete using a rock. “I have much more experience with the Dark Lord than you do, Draco. We all make mistakes.”

  There is a sigh, followed by footsteps, and then Draco is there, pale fingers curled around the bars of the door, sharp face illuminated by the light from his wand. “You've been here this entire time. A Death Eater.”

  Your skin crawls at the name, the mark on your wrist burning. “I don't like being called Death Eater, Malfoy.”

  “Why not? That's what you are. That's why you're here.”

  “By here, do you mean the dungeon in your home? By here, do you mean trapped against my will, saving your stupid backside from getting hung up from the rafters like your precious little Muggle Studies teacher?”

  Draco doesn't reel back. He doesn't even flinch. If possible, his gaze only continues to soften as he looks at you, and you're certain you must look pathetic right now. Curled in the corner of this dungeon wearing clothes that wouldn't even be considered humane, wandless and angry. Oh, a sight you must be, a joke to the world outside.

  You look down at the floor and continue to scrape your name – over and over again – into the concrete. In case you forget you ever had one before all this.

  The bars of the door creak as Draco leans against them. “Nobody back at Hogwarts would have suspected you becoming a Death Eater.”

  “Don't-”

 “Whatever you are. A helper. All I'm trying to say is, you were one of the better Slytherins. People truly thought you'd been murdered.”

  “Oh, goodie.”

  “And yet here you are.”

  You pause. “Yet here I am.”

  This conversation is pointless. You want him to leave so you can continue wallowing in fear on your own; this darkness is no place for someone like him, someone who can't even sit at the grandest, most prestigious table in the wizarding world without choking up. He's no Death Eater – you could see that much from the moment his lip started trembling.

  “You didn't have to jump to my rescue out there, either,” he says.

  You close your eyes, thumping your head back against the wall. “You were just sat there.”

  “He was going to kill me, wasn't he? If I didn't answer.”

  You shrug. “He gives out chances sometimes.”

  “Only to you.” Draco steps forward, curling his fingers around the bars. “What makes you so special, Y/N?”

 You find yourself smiling, flicking your eyes to him. He reels back at the glare, so different from the joyful, carefree eyes you used to hold when making potions in Snape's classroom, or studying in the Slytherin common room.

  “Wouldn't we all like to know?”

  The dungeon goes quiet, nothing more than the drip, drip, drip of water smacking against concrete ringing out between you. Draco shouldn't be here, of course. You can't imagine Voldemort granting him access to your 'chambers' after what he did, and certainly not before the Dark Lord himself has given you your reprieve for the way you acted back in the Malfoy's dining room. The punishment he will bestow upon you won't be light, will certainly not be merciful; you disappointed him, his closest confidant making him look like a fool in front of a room full of his most loyal supporters.

  To make matters worse, you are only seventeen years old, barely just turned the legal age for a wizard.

  You lean your head back and close your eyes. “When is he getting here?”

  “I don't know.”

  “You could find out.”

  Draco doesn't respond.

  You sigh heavily. “But you won't, of course. You're scared of him. Your master.”

  “He's not-” Draco stops abruptly. Even in the dim torchlight you can see his blue eyes flick to his wrist, where the Dark Mark is burned into his flesh for good.

  You smile. “He is. He owns you now, Draco – that's what that mark means, in case you forgot.”

  “Shut up.”

  “I don't understand why you're so scared of something you willingly signed up for.”

  “I'm not scared. I'd be stupid to go against him – the strongest wizard of our time, of course I bit my tongue!”

  “You bit your tongue at the wrong time.” Draco's eyes trace a line along the column of your throat before landing back on your gaze. “He's a bit more lenient with us, Malfoy, because we're the young ones, the ones who will follow in his footsteps if he plays his cards right. But that doesn't mean he's going to let you get away with complete ignorance, and what you showed at that table today – he'll see that as ignorance.”

  Draco purses his lips and looks away, because he knows you're right. You've been by the Dark Lord's side since you were fourteen years old, learning the ways of his followers, building your way up the ladder until you could sit beside his throne and hold his beloved python across your shoulders.

  “You pretend you know everything about him.” Draco's whisper sounds more like a hiss echoing through the eerie dungeon, Parceltongue. “You think you're in his head just because he chose you.”

  “Trust me, Draco; you'd know if I was inside his head. I would not be talking to you as an equal if I was inside his head.”

  Draco slams his hand against the bars. “What is it about you? He acts like you're – you're some kind of god-send, and then he locks you up in this dungeon. What have you got that enamours him so much, and what are you missing that makes him hate you just as much?”

  The words claw, scrape, make your chest constrict because each question is one you have been wondering for a very, very long time. You gave up trying to get the answers.

  You stare at Draco, unmoving, showing no emotion. It's a trick you've learned to master over the years, and it does its job. Draco keeps your gaze for only a moment before he huffs out a breath, looks to the floor and pushes away from the door, muttering curses beneath his breath.

  “You should leave, Draco,” you say softly. “Before Mummy and Daddy catch you down here. They wouldn't like you talking to the prisoner in rags, would they?”

  “And leave you down here on your own?”

  “I think I'll manage.” You tap the concrete with your palm, a slap sound that makes Draco wince as it bounces along the walls imprisoning you. “It's awfully comfortable in here, you know.”

  Draco shakes his head. “I'll see where he is.”

  His voice is so quiet; you lean forward and say, “Come again?”

  “I'll see where he is,” he repeats, louder, stronger. “And then I'll be back, okay?”   “Don't put yourself in danger for me, Malfoy. I'm only in here because I saved you earlier – I won't be there to save you this time.”

  Draco glares. “I'm not doing this for you. I'm doing this to show I'm not afraid. He chose me just as much as he chose you – he'll show kindness.”

  Your heart aches for that glimmer of hope etched into his voice, evidence of the innocent boy he once was roaming the halls of Hogwarts with his friends, learning new spells and charms and potions as the world crumbled around him and he knew nothing of its severity. He stares at you for a moment longer before turning on his heel and leaving; you wait until you hear the wooden door slam closed before you close your eyes and let the tears slip silently down your face.

  ---

  Draco doesn't return. The next person to open the door of your cell is Lucius himself, tall and white haired with a sneer that makes you want to punch him.

  You pull yourself up from the floor, hands behind your back. It's reflex to give the older man a bow, one he does not return; this could mean two things, you have learned – he either doesn't respect you, or he thinks he's too good to bow back to the younger generation. He doesn't think you've earned that kind of kinship just yet.

  “Sir,” you say. “I wasn't expecting you.”

  “No,” Lucius replies. “You were expecting the Dark Lord, weren't you?”

  You don't reply. He's asking stupid questions, questions he already knows the answer to.

  “I'm afraid he's too busy to see to you right now,” Lucius continues. “So he's sent me in his stead.”

  “You must be honoured, sir.”

  A smile twitches at his lips, though he fights to remain stoic and professional; it should be easy to wriggle under this idiots skin. People who have no other personality trait than Death Eater are easy enough to manipulate when you've been doing it for so long.

  “He's asked me to use Cruciatus on you for now,” Lucius explains.

  “Oh. He's going easy on me. He really is generous, don't you think?”

 Lucius's eyes snap down to your own. “Generous?”

  “He could do so much worse with a power like his,” you reply, nodding enthusiastically; there's a sick sense of pleasure in watching this grown man's face scrunch up in confusion, horror almost. “When he took my wand, for example; leaving someone defenceless in a world like this is a big, big punishment, Mr Malfoy. If your son ever steps out of line, I would highly recommend giving it a go.”

  Sorry, Draco.

  Lucius opens his mouth, but words seem to fail him. He raises a brow, shakes his head and tries again. “I didn't come down here to take suggestions on how to raise my son, Y/N. I'm a busy man – let's get this over with.”

  “Busy doing what, sir?” you ask, even as you press your back against the wall. “If you don't mind me asking.”

  Again, Lucius falters. “Busy serving the Dark Lord, as we all should be.”  You nod as if you understand, as if his words aren't pathetic. “Oh, yes. Of course. Right you are there, sir, right you are!”

  Lucius scowls, pulls his wand from behind his back, and you seize the moment as soon as you can. It's difficult, forcing a blinding pain to the forefront of your mind that you only just manage to fight off before it completely consumes you; you've been without a wand for only a handful of days, so you're a little rusty when it comes to disarming in this way, but that scowl on his face makes it a little bit easier.

  The pull is painful, yet satisfying. Lucius's fingers twitch, his wand shivering in his grip; he just has time to say “What-” before you jerk your head and the wand is flying towards you, the wandless version of Expelliarmus that took far too long for you to learn.

  You lurch forward and snatch the wand from the air before pointing it at Lucius; the wand feels strange, fighting against it's new owner, but it still works – it has to, that much you learned from Ollivander.

  Lucius stumbles forward, catches himself on the wall before you cry out, “Petrificus totalus!” and his entire body goes still. He clatters to the floor, lifeless eyes staring up at the concrete ceiling.

  You stand over him, wand pointed at his chest. “You look pathetic, sir. Has anyone ever told you that?”

  Lucius doesn't reply – of course he doesn't. You grin down at him, tilt your head before dropping his wand onto his chest.

  “I don't really like wands made of elm,” you say. “And dragon heartstring? Really, Lucius? If the wand really does choose the wizard, I have some questions for you, sir.”

  You clap your hands together, ridding them of dust before you give Lucius's paralysed body one last smile and walk out of the dungeon, head held high.

  ---

  Voldemort knows what you've done. He set the whole thing up, a test to ensure you are still useful.

  You've had multiple of these tests thrown at you ever since you joined his ranks – willingly or not. He sends people in, Death Eaters, criminals that make most wizards tremble by just being named. He puts them against you and tests your strength, and by the looks of things, you're doing a fine job.

  You're still here. He's kept you alive.

  You walk into Lucius's office without knocking, knowing full well the Dark Lord himself is behind the door. You keep your gaze locked on the patterned carpet, letting the double, grand oak doors clatter closed behind you.

  “Y/N!” Voldemort exclaims, clapping his hands together. You glance up, startled by the smile stretching across his face, the boy sitting across from him; Draco stares at you with wide eyes and an open mouth, glancing between you and the door as if expecting someone to follow.

You snap your gaze back to Voldemort, knowing the Dark Lord won't appreciate your lack of attention on him. “My Lord.”

  “Where's Lucius?”

 He knows where Lucius is. He's playing a game, pretending he has no idea what he's done, what he's been doing from the very moment you stepped into his presence and he saw potential within you.

  “He's busy with some work, my Lord,” you respond, refusing to look at Draco despite your curiosity as to why he's here in the first place. “He told me to go on ahead.”

  “Ah. That was nice of him.” Slowly, Voldemort leans back in his seat, tapping the tips of his fingers together. “Did you get his wand?”

 “I left it with him, my Lord; made of elm, not really worth it.”

 Voldemort grins even brighter; this is a good sign. You didn't take the wand. He thinks you're getting stronger, that your strange ability to use magic without a wand is growing. You can't tell him that it still pains you greatly, that you currently feel as if your ribcage is on fire, that you could keel over at any given moment.

  “Very well,” Voldemort replies. “The choice was yours, of course. Come, Y/N – take a seat beside young Malfoy here. There's plenty of room.”

   Draco shifts, keeping his cold gaze on you as you walk towards him and sit down. Your back is straight, heart thundering in your chest so loud you're almost certain you will not be able to hear whatever it is Voldemort has to say to you. Nonetheless, you keep your expression impassive, hands folded in your lap in any attempt to look as calm and collected as the Dark Lord expects you to be.

  “My two prodigies,” Voldemort begins. The word sends a shiver of repulsion down your spine. “I don't think I've ever had the opportunity to speak to you both without my other Death Eaters lingering over my shoulder; isn't that bizarre, Draco?”

  “Yes, m-my Lord.”

   “I have to split my time evenly amongst you all, so forgive me if I find it a little difficult to give you the attention you both deserve so deeply.” He bows his head; Draco straightens up a little in his chair, but you're not falling for it. You've seen Voldemort do this multiple times in the past to the exact people he later murdered for miniscule reasons. “I see potential in you both. So much potential. It could be us against the world if you really put your mind to it.”

  “Thank you, my Lord,” Draco mumbles, before shooting you a glance that tells you he's proud of the fact he spoke up and wants you to notice his achievement, too. You look back at him, trying for a tiny smile that falters the moment Voldemort starts speaking again.

  “I want you both to stay close together,” he says. “Work hard, encourage each other, become the wizards I know you are capable of becoming.” Voldemort settles his red eyes on you. You try your hardest not to falter beneath his gaze. “Let's take over the world together, shall we?”

  And that's all he needs to say. He smiles that sickly smile of his and dismisses you and Draco with a simple flick of his pale hand. You stand up immediately, whirling and darting towards the door; you don't want to be in his presence any longer than you have to be, and you feel much too ill to try and hide that fact.

  “Y/N! Y/N, wait!”

  “Not now, Draco.”

   He grabs your wrist as the doors to his fathers office clamber closed, leaving you alone in the wide, emerald green hallway. You freeze, resisting the urge to flinch away from him, but only because his grip feels so secure, fingers soft against your racing pulse.

  He must notice the evidence of panic beating beneath his fingers, as his words falter and he glances down to where your flesh meets. It's when he starts tilting his head, when you can see the question forming upon his tongue, that you rip your hand from his and whirl around. “What do you want, Draco?”

  His eyes snap up. “He sent my father to your dungeon. He said – He said something about the-”

  “Cruciatus Curse, yes.” You spin, starting back down the hallway. Judging by the hurried footsteps sounding behind you, Draco has decided to follow.

  “Well, are – are you alright? I didn't hear any commotion, but the dungeon is just below my fathers office – I would have heard something-”

   “Lucius Malfoy is currently paralysed on the floor of his own prison.”

  Draco falters. “What?”

  “The Dark Lord wanted to test me, and I passed.” You shoot Draco a glance, noting the colour drained from his face. “Don't worry; he's still alive. A simple Stunning spell, just to prove my point. He'll no doubt be attempting to suffocate me in my sleep by nightfall.”

  Draco pauses. The puzzle pieces are there, but he's clearly struggling to put them all together. He keeps pace with you, however, as you march out into the garden, bursting into the fresh air with a deep inhale that you hope can chase this dreaded headache away.

  “My father is a very powerful wizard, Y/N,” Draco says. You close your eyes, resisting the urge to rub your temples. He just wants answers; you can't blame him for that. It was only a few years ago you were cursed by the same curiosity. “Don't take offence, but I can't see how you managed to overpower him.”

  “It was simple enough.”

  Draco shakes his head, pulling more pieces to the front, pieces that just don't fit. “Hold on – you don't even have a wand, do you? He took it. The – The Dark Lord-”

  “Yes, He has my wand.”

  Your head is going to split in two; you can feel it, that unmistakeable pressure rushing to the forefront, the fresh air doing nothing but poking and prodding at a pain that was already present. You close your eyes tighter still, crumbling against a tree despite your fragile attempts to catch yourself.

  Draco grunts at the sudden movement, darting forward to catch you with little effect. “Y/N?”

  “I'm fine.”

  “No, you're not. You're burning up.” He places the back of his hand against your forehead, eyes immediately widening. “You're really burning up.”

  “I'm fine.” Maybe if you repeat yourself, what you're saying will become truth.

  Draco, however, is a smart boy. He crouches down, dragging you to the floor along with him; you wriggle in his grip, whispering “I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm fine,” but your fight is only for show. Sitting in the grass is doing you wonders, and you soon find yourself drearily slipping against Draco's shoulder, sinking into this new found relaxation.

  “What's happening?” he asks, keeping his palm against your forehead for a moment. “I need to bring someone out. I need to get a medic-”

  “I'm fine,” you repeat, the words nothing more than a slur at this point. “I promise, Draco – it will pass.”

  Draco opens his mouth to protest, but taking one look at your face has the words dispelling in the air between you. He gives in with a sigh, leaning back against the tree, holding you against his shoulder so you can hear his heartbeat ringing in your ears. You desperately want to pull away; being this close to someone is uncomfortable, not what you're used to, and yet your body is too weak to do such a thing. You sink into the humiliation for a little while, gathering your strength before Voldemort comes out and sees you in such a state.

  “What did he mean when he told us to stay together?”

  Draco's voice wobbles, and you can tell the question has been playing on his mind for a while.

  “He wants us to learn from each other,” you mumble into his blazer. “Make each other stronger. He sees potential in us – that's why he ordered you to kill Dumbledore.”

  Draco stiffens. “How did you know about that?”

  “I see everything that happens behind the scenes.”

  “I still don't understand that.”

  You lift your eyes, stare into the side of his face as he gazes out at the gorgeous garden you are sitting in right now. “What don't you understand?”

  “Why he trusts you so much.” Draco looks down, eyes meeting yours. “He has prisoners of Azkaban on his side – some of the worst people on the planet. He's got murderers and torturers and. . . and god only knows what else. And yet it's you he calls into his office. It's you he sees potential in-”

  “You and me both.”

  Draco scoffs, looking back out at the garden. “He would never trust me to touch Nagini. He would never let me just walk into his quarters without notice.”

   “It's little perks, Draco. Hardly anything you should be fretting over.”

  He scowls, shifting beneath you. Your cheek rubs against his blazer, and you make to pull away before your spine screams in protest and you slump back against him.

  Draco doesn't seem to notice your weakness as he continues. “I'm just new to all of this.”

  “We were all new at some point.”

  “How long does it take to settle in?”

  “I'm still trying to work that one out.”

  Draco sighs. You don't know if he notices how his grip suddenly tightens around your shoulders, but you don't tell him either way.

  “When you went missing...”

  The conversation change works as an electric shock. You jolt, eyes lifting. “No, Draco. I don't want to talk about that.”

  “Why not?”

   “Because it's not important – you know now that I didn't just drop off the face of the earth. That's all you need to know – and I certainly don't need to know how people reacted.”

  Draco opens his mouth, can't seem to find the words and instead takes to shaking his head slowly. “They were worried, Y/N. The whole school was making inquiries about your whereabouts – even the Potter kid and his group of lackeys.”

   You scoff, finally drawing the strength to pull away from him and sit on your own. “They were just excited to have a mystery to sink their teeth into.” Draco hums. “Maybe. But that doesn't mean they weren't worried.” He pauses. “I was worried.”

  The chill in the air increases. In the distance, the grand apple tree sways gently in the breeze, a gathering of white peacocks drifting back and forth through the grass.

  “You didn't know me,” you say.

  “I knew you, Y/N. The Slytherins were a close bunch.”

  “I was more than just a Slytherin. I was different. I wasn't like the rest of you.”

  “That's why you stood out. That's why I cared.”

  You close your eyes. “Death Eaters aren't meant to care.”

  That shuts him up. You feel the air tighten to your left, his mouth snapping closed, this sentimental mood he's in immediately shutting down with such a simple, obvious statement. You glance at him, noting his tense jaw before you push yourself up, using the tree as leverage.

  “I'm going back up to the house. Lucius should be coming back around any minute now,” you say. “Shall I tell him where you are?”

  Draco shakes his head. “He doesn't care. He's a Death Eater.”

  You stare at the top of his pale head for only a moment longer before turning on your heel and leaving, trying to ignore the thumping of your heart and the uncertainty in your actions. You've never before struggled to leave someone wallowing in their own pity, but there was just something about the way Draco looked – the way he was speaking – that makes you feel like perhaps you should have stayed.

  ----

  “You will use my wand for today's lesson.”

  You pluck Bellatrix's wand from her outstretched hand. “Thank you, ma'am. A walnut wand, is it? Dragon heartstring core?”

  Bellatrix swats your nose. “Don't be picky. You'll make do with what you've got, do you understand, you little brat?”

   You give the Death Eater your best smile in reply. Draco shifts uncomfortably at your side.

  Bellatrix hums, pacing back and forth in front of her two students – honestly, you don't understand why Voldemort placed her as your tutor. She has a temper, shows no mercy when it comes to her victims, and these are all traits Voldemort surely places as very important, but she also gets lost in her own head – to the point where the majority of her lessons are put together with her screaming spells and Draco on the verge of tears.

  It's been a week and a half since the last time you did magic without a wand, a week and a half since you convinced Voldemort you're ready to take the next step; it was a mistake leaving that office with him thinking you were strong. Your lessons are now beyond your capability, and as Bellatrix paces back and forth in front of you, you can feel the tingle of a headache racing to your skull, fragments of the damage you did to Lucius a few days ago.

  The lesson starts off as it always does; a duel between you and Draco. You let him win this time, since he let you win yesterday, and the two of you move on pretty sharply. There's no point wasting time duelling something with equal skill to you – you want the lesson to be over as quick as possible.

  Draco drags himself up from the floor, both of you ignoring Bellatrix's hysteric screeching. He gives you a wink, turns to Bellatrix and says, “What's next?”

  She goes quiet immediately, narrowing her eyes at her nephew before she moves onto the next stage of the lesson.

  “Alright, kiddies,” she says, continuing her pacing. “Today we're going to be trying something a little different. One of you will be moving onto bigger, more challenging defence spells whilst the other will be moving onto bigger, more challenging ways of blocking.”

   You raise a brow. “Blocking, ma'am?”

   She smirks, crooked teeth showing between a pair of red lips. “I'll have my wand back now, Y/N. You won't be needing it for this section of the lesson.”

  Your heart plummets.

  Draco looks between you and the teacher in confusion. “How will Y/N do magic without a wand?”

  Bellatrix doesn't take her eyes off you, and that's proof enough that she knows the answer. Voldemort must have told her of your abilities, the magic built up inside you that can be released without the use of a wand. He must have told her to help, to train you up, because he thinks you can do it with no problem.

  You tug Bellatrix's wand into your chest and shake your head. “Not today, ma'am. Please, not today.”

   Draco perks up. “What's going on?”

  Bellatrix surges forward. Her black nails dig into your collarbone when she snatches her wand back into her possession, ignoring your startled cry of “Please!” She doesn't understand – none of them understand because you refuse to tell any of them about what is going on, how badly using that type of unnatural magic destroys you.

  “Draco,” Bellatrix snaps. “Sectumsempra. An easy enough spell, but it does plenty of damage.”

  “I know,” Draco grumbles.

  “That is the spell we will be using today, courtesy of Severus Snape.” Bellatrix turns to you, grin growing when she notices your trembling hands, your stiff demeanour. “Y/N, today it will be your job to block that spell using your abilities. Is that what we should be calling them? That makes you sound a little bit more special than you really are.” She throws her head back and cackles.

  Draco glances at you. “Y/N?”

  “I'm fine,” you croak out. “Just get it over with.”

  You know you can do it. You've blocked spells without a wand before. It's the aftermath that frightens you, the aftermath that rips you apart.

  You take a step back, turning to face Draco who continues staring at you with a raised brow. His wand is in his hand, pointed at you, ready, but he isn't making a move to do anything. He just stands there, as if waiting for you to give the signal that everything is okay.

  And you want to. You know you should, because Bellatrix is getting impatient and her pacing is getting quicker and quicker, her crazed uttering getting louder and louder – but you can't. You want him to keep standing there, want him to continue staring so you can build your strength up for just one more second-

  “Sectumsempra!”

  Bellatrix's spell comes out of nowhere. Draco cries out, but you're quick; you spin on your heel, collecting as much strength as you possibly can. A barrier breaks from your skin, and the green light cast from Bellatrix's wand reels back, smashing against the lamp in the corner of the dining room. It smashes, glass raining down upon the floor as Draco sprints towards you.

  “What the hell?” he cries.

  It takes a minute for the nausea to rise. For a single, blissful moment, the room goes blurry, and you can deal with that. There is no pain, no shock, no sickness. For a single moment, you are floating.

  And then it crashes upon you all at once.

  Your knees buckle. Bright lights flash behind your eyes until you can see nothing but your own hand darting out, grabbing for Draco. He catches you mere seconds before you fall, and yet you still feel your knees crashing against the marble floor. Your fingers twist in the soft fabric of his shirt, and he's there, whispering in your ear, or maybe he isn't whispering, he's screaming, crying out, but you can't hear him properly because there is something pop pop popping in the back of your head and it's all you can focus on, all you can cling to to stop the world from disappearing for good.

  It's a reminder, you know. A reminder that your form of magic is dangerous, unpredictable, unusual, and you shouldn't possess it. No wizard should be able to do magic how you can, how you so desperately wish you couldn't.

  “What's wrong, Y/N? Tell me what's wrong! Bella, what is wrong?”

  Your eyes slip closed. Draco repeats the same word over and over again: “No.” It's a mantra, a lullaby that stirs you to sleep even though he's tapping your face, trying to force consciousness into your body. You're too weak for that now, and it's with a grunt that you finally slip beneath the waves that have been pulling you under for years.

  ----

  You wake up back in your dungeon, and he is there.

  You knew he would be. You would have been foolish to believe he hadn't got news of your downfall the very moment it happened; Bellatrix most likely relayed the story to him in great, great detail, laughing the entire time.

  He's standing over you when you wake up, a ghost in the darkness. He's dressed in a set of grey robes, and your wand is twirling in his fingers. His red eyes stare as you sit up, though he offers no assistance, not even when you wince and press your fingers to your abdomen.

  Everything hurts, but at least you're not dead.

  “My lord,” you manage, voice weak and hoarse. “What an honour it is to have your presence in my-”

  “Be quiet, Y/N.” His voice is calm, smooth, too casual. “You embarrassed me, Y/N. Terribly.”

  You swallow and nod; you're too scared to speak right now.

  “I have been singing your praises to my Death Eaters for a long time; Bellatrix was disappointed. She expected a lot more from you.” He runs a hand over his bald head. “As was I.”

  “Where is Draco, my Lord?” The question is out before you can process it.

  Voldemort's eyes cast down to where you cower in front of him. “You worry about the Malfoy boy in a time like this? How sweet. How caring. How human.”

  “No, my Lord. It was just curiosity that-”

  “Draco has done a wonderful job in his lessons. No harm will come of him.” Voldemort stands up a little straighter, as if to make himself more intimidating. “He was awfully distraught when you collapsed, however. Have you both been bonding over these lessons you partake in together?”

  Your heart skips. “No, m-my Lord.”

  “And now you're stuttering. You never stutter when speaking to me, Y/N. Is this line of questioning making you nervous?”

  You don't even bother with a response this time, instead casting your eyes to the knotted hands in your lap.

  Voldemort sighs. “I should have expected, of course. Two young people, the world at their disposal – you don't understand the consequences of love yet.”

  “I do, my Lord. You have taught me plenty in my time with you.”

  “I have.” Voldemort nods solemnly. “Such a shame you do not listen.”

  Your head snaps up; this is what you wanted to avoid. “I'm sorry if you feel that way, my Lord, but I make it a priority to put your advice into action whenever I can.”

  Voldemort hums. “So you claim not to have feelings for the Malfoy boy?”

  You don't understand why your denial is so difficult to articulate; you don't. You can't. You and Malfoy have lived in two very different worlds, experienced two very different lives; it would be bizarre to even think those two lives could mingle with one another, come together as one.

  “No, my Lord. I do not.”

  “So you would not care if I were to order his execution?”

   Your head snaps up so fast your neck cricks. “Why would you do that? He's useful to you. He – He's a strong wizard, my lord, he can serve you in very useful ways-”

   “It sounds as if you're sticking up for him.”

   “No, my Lord, of course not! You are free to do as you please, but I wish you would just look a little deeper into-”

  Voldemort holds up a silencing hand. Your heart thunders, fingers curling into fists as you try your hardest to bite your tongue; he's right, of course – you cannot be sticking up for Draco, especially if it means going against Voldemort to do so. You don't care about him that much.

  You can't.

  “If I am forced to pick between you or the Malfoy boy, the Malfoy boy will be the first to go,” he says. “You must know that, Y/N. You're too valuable to just throw away for a particularly skilled wizard. I don't want skill – I want something the wizarding world has never seen before, and you are the perfect candidate.” He sighs. “It's such a shame you've fallen into the trap of love.”

   You squeeze your eyes closed; there is a denial on your tongue, but Voldemort knows when you are lying, and he will not be pleased to hear such false statements coming from your mouth.

  “I want to see you working harder,” he continues, tapping your wand against the concrete wall behind him. “I want to see your strength improving. I want to take you into war with me, Y/N. And soon. We've wasted enough time as it is.”

   You nod slowly. Voldemort smiles, skin stretching, your stomach turning, but you say nothing as he nods at you a final time and walks out of the dungeon.

  And you know there's no hope for you here.

  For years you've tried avoiding the truth, but now Draco has been added to the equation and denial is no longer a possibility; you've tried your hardest to show strength, to convince yourself you can be just like them, but it's not working. It will never work. You were not built for the life of a Death Eater, and such things have never been so clear as they are now.

  The door above you clambers shut. You push yourself up, gripping the wall to stop yourself falling, your head pulsing with the aftershocks from your last lesson with Bellatrix. You're driven by your masters words, the threat behind them, the risk you are taking by staying here when you feel these things for the boy you barely even know.

  But that isn't really true, is it?

  You know Draco better than you will ever be willing to admit. He was your schoolmate, a Slytherin, a part of your life long before Voldemort was a part of your life. He's one of the few people on earth who can relate to the things you've been through, the things you're still going through, because he's going through nearly the exact same thing.

  And that's why you have to leave. That is why you can't stay here. You won't be able to disguise your fondness for him, and Voldemort will see that, and he will end it all. He will kill Draco without a second thought if he believes it will make you stronger.

  You drag yourself to the top of the stairs and shove the door open. The hallways are empty, the only sound being Peter's hysterical laughter ringing out in the room above you; he does that sometimes, though nobody knows why.

  You shuffle along the corridor as quietly as you can, keeping tight to the emerald green walls as you search for the door leading to Draco's bedroom. You have seen it only a handful of times, but the door becomes instantly recognisable as soon as you see it; wooden, glittering with protection spells, a brass knocker stamped in the centre. You don't even bother using the knocker, instead shoving your shoulder into it and stumbling inside.

  Draco spins around. He was pacing. There is sweat on his upper lip, his top button undone to reveal sweat soaked collarbones. His white hair is sticking up as if he's been running his hands through it continuously.

  He looks scared.

  You kick the door closed. “Draco.” It's all you can manage, all your brain will let free at this moment in time.

  Draco rushes to your side immediately, grabbing your arm and directing you to the massive, plush bed pushed against the back wall. “Y/N? Y/N, are you okay? What are you doing up so soon after the accident?”

  “I'm fine.”

  “Stop saying that.” He presses a hand to your cheek, tilting your head up so he can get a better view of your eyes. “God, you look like you're about to keel over. Let me go grab my mother and she will-”

   You latch onto his wrist when he tries to stand. “We need to leave, Draco.”

  He pauses. Beneath your fingers, his pulse quickens. Slowly, he turns his head and narrows his eyes, inspecting your face for any sign of humour, any sign that you're just telling a joke to ease the tension forever in the air.

  “We need to leave,” you repeat, quieter this time. “Now. Or – or as soon as we can. I won't be able to Disapparate, but you-”

  Draco shakes his head. “What are you going on about?”

  “We need to leave!” you bark. “He thinks we're both useful, but he wants us under his thumb. He wants to control us, Draco, and we need to leave before he gets that control.”

  You're not making any sense. You know that. You can see in the tilt of Draco's head and the paleness of his face that he has absolutely no idea where all of this is coming from, why you have suddenly changed sides.

  You close your eyes, pressing your fingers to your temples. “I will explain everything,” you mumble. “I promise, I will explain every single thing, but we have to get out of here first. It won't be long before he sees I'm not in the dungeon any more, and he'll know immediately where I've gone – and then it's not just me he's going to be angry at.”

  Slowly, Draco lowers himself onto the bed, his eyes never leaving your face. “O-okay.”

  Your head whips around. “Really?”

  “When do you want to leave?”

  You shake your head dumbly, still struggling to process his quick agreement. “As – As soon as-”

  “You're too weak to Disapparate.” He stands, grabbing your hand. “I'll do it, but we've got to be quiet. My father knows when anyone is making moves in or out of the house – it will only take seconds for him to notify Voldemort someone is gone.”

  You stand on trembling legs; Draco notices your struggle and wraps a secure arm around your waist, dragging you into his side.

  “Are you sure you're going to be okay?”

  “I didn't expect you to agree so quickly,” you whisper.

  Draco purses his lips, sending a final glance towards the door. “I – I think I may have marched into this life a bit too soon. I didn't fully understand what I was getting myself into.” He glances at you, faces inches apart. “But if you say we need to leave, we're leaving.”

  Something jolts in your chest, something you haven't felt in a very, very long time – if ever. Draco doesn't seem to notice the effect his words have on you as he tightens his hold on your waist and says, “Now, I'm new to this Apparating business, so just bare with me. Are you ready?”

  “Let's go.”

  Draco inhales deeply, closes his eyes and you watch the world shift around him. Suddenly, Draco is the driving force; your body goes numb, his fingers tightening against your flesh. Your own eyes slip closed of their own accord, your body tipping and screaming and aching – but it all lasts for only a second, and then your feet are slamming against grass and you're slipping out of Draco's grip and crumbling to your knees in the middle of an area you cannot place when your head is hurting so bad.

  You groan, falling to your elbows. Draco slips to the ground and grabs you, pulling you into him. “It's okay. It's over, it's over. We made it. We've just got to keep going a little bit further.”

  “Where are we?” you grumble.

  “Hogwarts.”

  Your head snaps up. “Draco, no.”

   He grabs your arm and pulls you up; he looks just as ruffled as you, his hair still sticking on end, his hands trembling. He bites his lower lip before responding. “We'll figure it out. They won't come to Hogwarts tonight – not with the security. We'll be safe for tonight, and tomorrow we can – we can figure it all out.”

  You resist the temptation to argue; there's really no point. Neither of you are fit enough to go wandering through Hogsmeade, anyway – staying the night in Hogwarts is your best bet whether you want to admit it or not.

  In truth, you know your discomfort with being back at Hogwarts has little to do with the fact that Voldemort will know this is the place you and Draco escaped to. You don't care about that; you can deal with Voldemort when the time comes, when Draco is safe, but the memories latched onto this place make you hesitant when crossing through the gates you were once so familiar with.

  You remember these hallways. You remember the sneers, people glaring purely because you were Slytherin. You remember hearing Death Eaters in your head, their screams for mercy in the cells of Azkaban before Voldemort rose again and freed them all. You remember sitting in the Great Hall, deciding once and for all that you weren't supposed to be a normal wizard – you weren't normal, were never going to be considered normal. You had no other choice in that moment – at fourteen years old – than to join the dark side.

  What more could you lose?

  Before you know it, you're slipping your hand into Draco's. He glances down, shocked by your timid actions, but does nothing more than give your hand a comforting squeeze. Together, the two of you walk through the doors of the castle.

  And are immediately greeted by wands pointed directly at your faces.

  Draco pulls back, raising your joined hands in a sign of surrender. His breathing is ragged, and if you listen closely, you can almost hear a rattle emerging with every breath, like he's getting some kind of sickness.

  McGonagall slowly lowers her wand, staring at you, and it's only then do you remember – these people thought you had died.

  You offer a bow. “Ma'am.”

  “Y/N L/N,” McGonagall whispers. “Is this real?”

   “It is, ma'am,” you respond. “And I've brought a little guest with me along the way. You might recognise him?”

  Draco scowls. “I'm meant to be making the-”

   McGonagall rushes forward and embraces you before Draco can finish; his hand unwinds from your own as you wrap your arms around the frail waist of your old Transfiguration teacher.

  “Thank god you're safe! Thank god!”

  You awkwardly pat her back; this kind of affection has been lost on you for many, many years, and you're not entirely sure how to reciprocate it. “Yes. Thank them.”

  She pulls away, holding you at arms length. “Goodness, you must be starved. The both of you!”

  “No, actually.” Draco steps forward and takes your hand again. “We just need a room, Professor. A room is all we're here for.”

  McGonagall raises a brow, glancing at your joined hands. “I'm assuming there will be no explanation for us tonight?”

  You smile lightly. “Soon, ma'am. But for now, we need – we need rest.” Your head thumps at the mention of rest, making you wince.

  McGonagall sighs and nods. “Very well. Argus – lead these two students up to the Slytherin dormitories. Make sure they're well settled.”

  Filch appears from behind the tall woman and starts towards the staircase leading from the main entry hall. Hand-in-hand, you and Draco follow.

  “I wasn't expecting her to be so lenient with letting me back in,” Draco whispers.

  “Why not?”

  He glances over at Filch before lowering his voice even further. “She's not exactly too keen on my father.”

  “Lucius?”

  “He's a Death Eater, Y/N. I can bet you that all the teachers in this damn school think I'm going the same way.”

  You raise a brow. Draco glances at you, blushes and rolls his eyes.

  “I guess they're not exactly wrong...”

  Filch leads the two of you directly to the Slytherin dormitories. He says the password, gives you and Draco a final once-over before the door swings open, granting you access. The common room is almost entirely empty, meaning you and Draco are free to make a direct cross to the guests quarters without being bothered.

  As soon as the door to the room closes, you fall to the floor.

  Not in pain or discomfort, but in relief; your brain is working at a million miles per hour, so many things to concentrate on flooding your system in the two seconds it takes for the door to shut behind you. Draco follows your lead, sliding to the floor and leaning his head back against the emerald green wall.

  You stare at him. Just him, sitting there with his eyes closed, the column of his throat on show. Around his neck is an array of silver necklaces. On his wrist is the Dark Mark.

  Subconsciously, you find yourself rubbing your own brand, engraved into your skin forever. It burns sometimes. You wonder if Draco's does, too.

  As if sensing you staring at him, he opens his eyes and looks back at you. “We're out of there.”

  You nod. “We are.”

   “How do you feel?”

  “Lost. I don't know what to do with myself.”

  Draco hums like he understands, and maybe he does; he might not have bore the Dark Mark for as long as you have, but he was raised in a family of believers, a family of Death Eaters that brainwashed him into thinking evil was the only way forward.

  He sighs and tilts his head back again. You could stare at him in this position forever, comfortable and content. You don't recall there ever being a time in which he possessed such human emotions.

  “Why did you warn me?”

  You blink. “What?”

  “You came to my room and warned me about what he was planning. Why?”

  “He told me he was going to kill you.” You say it so simply, and Draco takes it as such; he doesn't flinch, doesn't look at you in horror. He just nods, eyes slipping closed again.

  “Makes sense. You were clearly the more powerful one.”

  You scoff, crossing your feet at the ankles. “Oh, yes. Me collapsing really showed my true strength.”

   “You're still young. You have magic that no other wizard possesses – I can see why he wanted to keep you around and not me.” He shrugs, eyes still closed. “Maybe you should have just let him get on with it.”

   Your heart judders. “What do you mean?”

   “You could have stayed, Y/N. Let him kill me. You would have been his right-hand man after that. Love him or hate him, he would have given you the world if it meant he could use your magic for himself.”

   For a moment, you're convinced he's joking; you have to believe he's joking. You're aware you are powerful, that Voldemort would kill for the chance to use you as his own, but Draco surely can't believe you would just let him get murdered so you could live a better life?

  “Did you not see the dungeon he kept me locked in?” The question is out before you can stop it. Draco opens his eyes, lifts his head to check if you're actually angry or not.

  You're not even sure how you feel. Your clenched fists and furrowed brows, however, must convince Draco that he's said the wrong thing, as he immediately sits up straight and grabs your hands in his own. You flinch back, pulling your hands back to your chest.

  “I didn't mean it like that,” he says quickly. “I shouldn't have said anything. I was just. . . I'm tired, okay? Very, very tired.”

  You slowly lower your hands. “Yes, well, today has been a stressful day. We're probably better off going to sleep.”

  Draco nods, pulling both of you up from the floor. Neither of you speak as you strip off your clothes and get into one of the single beds pressed against either wall; Draco turns the light off, drowning you both in darkness almost immediately.

  ----

  It's been a while since your mind was free to have a nightmare.

  The magic Voldemort puts you under has always suppressed dreams; most of the time, you wouldn't even count yourself as asleep. More knocked out. Perhaps unconscious. It's very rare you're in control enough to have a nightmare, and maybe that's for the best.

  Tonight, however, the magic is gone and the nightmares take its place.

  They're flashes, but they're bad. Bad, and gory, and they take the shape of memories because you see his face in every single one. You see his smile, those blood red eyes and that pale skin, a human destroyed by the power he craved for so many years. You know his story, and it replays in your head on a loop. You watch people scream, mouths open and eyes wide as his magic blasts them to pieces. You watch the Potters die on a loop. You watch an alternative ending where Harry himself is blown to smithereens, a child so innocent, taken so soon for a reason so selfish.

  Everyone is screaming. It ricochets in your brain, echoing the horrors over and over again until you feel yourself screaming, too. It's the only way to beat them. You want to rip your throat out. You want to rip everyone elses throats out. You want this to end, please make it stop, you'll do anything-

  “Y/N!”

  Your eyes snap open.

  There are no dramatics to waking up from a nightmare, not like they show in the movies. Your eyes snap open, and that is all; the sheets are tangled round your legs and Draco is standing over you, but you don't scream, don't lurch forward, don't gasp for air.

  No. What they show in the films isn't real – it's all on the inside.

  A thundering heart, sweat dripping down your face despite the night time chill. Once you're conscious, you reach for Draco's hands and drag them into your chest without explanation or warning, just needing to feel something, proof that you are out of that world and back in your own.

  Draco leans forward, brushes a stray strand of hair out of your face. “Are you alright?”

  It's such a simple question, and yet the answer is too complicated to contemplate right now; you simply look at him, lower lip trembling until he gets the message. His exhausted features soften, and it's with hesitant, shy steps that he peels the covers back and crawls into bed beside you.

  He tugs the covers to your chin, but you grab them and pull them over your heads. Draco laughs softly, his breath fanning your face, calming you down. You close your eyes and curl against him, feeling his arms wrap around you despite you never telling him to do so.

  And maybe that's what has you so enamoured by this boy; you have lived many years being the one everyone is afraid of. Death Eaters – genuine, real life criminals – were terrified to even talk to you without you talking to them first. They saw you as an attachment of the man they were supposed to fear, and so that instantly made them fear you, too. Nobody touched you. Nobody cared for you. Nobody dared go near you without permission first.

  But Draco is here, bundling you in his arms purely because he can see that's what you need. He doesn't ask permission; he just looks in your eyes and he sees the tiny, helpless human that made a bad choice at a young age, and he doesn't feel the need to waste time asking.

  In the darkness, his fingers tap at your wrist. You close your eyes, breath trembling when he slowly starts to roll your sleeve up until the area where your Dark Mark is engraved becomes exposed. He cannot see the mark in the darkness, but he doesn't need to see it to know it's there. He has no doubt looked at his own Dark Mark thousands upon thousands of times, can probably outline it from memory at this point.

  He runs a finger along the skin, goosebumps following in his wake.

  “Did it hurt?” he whispers.

  “You know it did.”

  He pauses. “Did you know then?”

   And even though he has not specified what he means, you know he is talking about the regret – did you know then, as you were being pinned down, as the wand dug into your skin and make the mark now permanently etched into your flesh, that you were never meant to live that kind of life.

  You nod against his chest, feel his breath leave him in one clean swoop.

  “You got out of there, though,” he whispers. “I'm proud of you.”

  That single phrase pushes you off the edge.

  You lift your head from his chest, tipping the covers off you both. He opens his eyes just as you whisper “Lumos,” and the headache that strikes you is nothing when the light suddenly crackles to life and you look down and Draco is there, and he's just said he's proud of you, a sentence nobody has ever, ever said to you in your entire life.

  It breaks your heart and mends it all at the same time.

  He looks up at you, eyes wide. “Y/N? Are you-”

  “Say that again.”

  He pauses. “S-say what?” But he's slowly starting to grin, knowing full well what bit you want him to repeat, what part of his sentence was like music to your ears.

  You sit up fully, bouncing just a tiny bit on your knees. God, you're like an excited schoolkid, an experience you were robbed of. “Please just say that again.”

   Draco pushes himself up onto his elbows. “I'm proud of you.”

  Your smile grows. “And again.”

   Draco pushes himself up a little bit more, his own smile spreading. “I'm proud of you.”

  You wrap your arms around his neck. “One more time.”

  He pushes himself up entirely, face inches from your own. “I'm proud of you.”

  You kiss him.

  You don't know how it works, how any of this works, but it feels right nonetheless. Your lips against his, hands tightening around his neck, pulling him impossibly closer. He laughs gently against your mouth, his own hands rising so his fingertips tickle the edges of your throat.

  It's easy to lose yourself in this, in him.

  He is the first to pull away, his swollen, bright red lips taking the shape of a grin. You laugh, cupping his chin and swiping your thumb along his lower lip; he pretends to bite you.

  “Where the bloody hell did that come from?” he asks breathlessly.

  You shake your head. “I have no idea.”

  “Are you going to keep doing it?”

  You falter, smile fading just a bit. “D-do you want me to?”

  Draco scoffs, and in response, he kisses you again.

  The world is falling apart. Nothing is right and everything is wrong and Voldemort will never, ever be happy with this outcome, but for this moment, you can forget about all of that. Right now, it is just you and Draco, the captives finally set free.

[samwpmarleau]

What do you think causes some targaryens go mad. I go with the theory that it has to do with the blood magic that they were doing

It’s a common misconception that “Targaryen madness” is a thing. Targaryens have no more “mad” people in their family than anyone else, it’s just that they are much higher profile than anyone else due to being monarchs. In fact, they really should have a much higher count and a whole lot more deformities, given that the IRL families they’re based on — primarily the Ptolemys and the Hapsburgs — had a lot of that.

In 300 years of known Targaryen history, there were only a handful who could be considered “mad,” and almost all of them were in part or in whole a result of trauma:

Maegor

Was likely conceived through some dark magic by Visenya, or was possibly just a psychopath.

Helaena

Victim of Blood and Cheese. They killed the guards at her door, took her and her three young children hostage, forced her to choose which of her sons would die and if she didn’t then her daughter would be raped and all three children would be killed, so she ended up choosing her youngest son who was too young to know what was happening but they killed her eldest instead.

Then she was held for half a year in captivity and finally committed suicide (or was murdered) at age 21. I’d go “mad” too, wouldn’t you?

Aegon III

Grew up in the midst of a civil war. At the age of just 9, he fled with his younger to Essos, but their ship was attacked by pirates and the only way to escape was on his dragon with Viserys left behind. The dragon died of injuries once returning to Dragonstone and Aegon never rode one again due to the experience.

A few months later, his brother led an attack against the people who took Viserys and died in the attempt. A few months after that, another brother was killed in a riot in King’s Landing, which Aegon witnessed.

After returning with his mother to King’s Landing later from Dragonstone, he saw charred corpses of Rhaenyra’s loyalists hanging from the gates, cried out for his mother to flee, watched her guards get slaughtered, and then witnessed her get devoured by Sunfyre, her dragon.

Ascended to the throne and had to deal with an endless parade of would-be regents who were scheming, plotting, and assassinating.

In 133, lived throug the Winter Fever that killed many, including his Hand of the King. This all happened before the age of 13, at which point his wife, Jaehaera, committed suicide or was murdered.

He eventually died of consumption (tuberculosis) at age 36.

Baelor I

Peaceful, forgiving, and kind to the smallfolk, though did lock up his sisters in the Maidenvault to prevent temptation.

Brokered peace with Dorne to bring them into the Seven Kingdoms without bloodshed.

Became a bit more loony later, but that could be due to all the snake bites he endured while rescuing his brother in Dorne. Eventually died of fasting when Daena gave birth to a bastard.

On the fence whether he was some kind of religious extremist or whether he was just Like That.

Rhaegel

Called mad, but not really. He had some kind of intellectual disability, yet a) he was still regarded as “sweet” and “gentle” (not that those traits are necessary to being “not mad”) and b) had three children with his wife who all appeared to not inherit his condition, in addition to three brothers and their children who also did not show signs, therefore suggesting it was not something he inherited or passed down, merely a fluke.

Aerion

Likely mad. Though interestingly, for a very long time he was just a supreme douchebag; it wasn’t until he was 40 years old that he did the whole thing about thinking himself a literal dragon and dying by drinking wildfire.

Maelys Blackfyre

Vicious, brutal, and incredibly strong. Possibly mad...or could just be a beefier version of Tywin.

Aerys II

Obviously the Targaryen most people cite as the first example of madness. For good reason, of course; you don’t burn people alive and brutalize your wife if you’re sane.

...however.

Was married off to his sister, neither of whom was fond of the other, at just 14 and Rhaella was 13. Became a king at the pretty young age of 18.

In his youth, he was charming, generous, resolute, and ambitious. He liked music, dancing, and masked balls, though was not the most intelligent person, which was partially why he relied so much on Tywin. Of course, there was also the incident with Joanna Lannister (not rape, as many believe, but certainly groping).

The madness started to appear with each successive stillbirth, miscarriage, and child death, to the point where he would behead Rhaella’s wet nurses and then his mistress, though after all that he changed his mind, did a walk of repentance, and swore to be faithful.  In short, he was an asshole and sometimes ruthless (again, it should be noted: is any of that much different than Tywin?), but certainly not yet the monster he would become.

Then came the Defiance of Duskendale, wherein many of Aerys’s guards were killed and he was taken hostage for six months with constant threat of execution. This ordeal led to him sequestering himself in the Red Keep for four years and his mental state deteriorated quite rapidly from there.

So, was he mad? Absolutely, there’s no denying that. But at the same time, I’m not so sure that he would have become quite so monstrous and tyrannical as he is in canon had it not been for the trauma of Duskendale.

(Also, I know he has a reputation of paranoia and all, but is it really paranoia if lots of people are out to get you?)

Viserys

The only evidence we have for Viserys showing signs of madness as a boy is Barristan’s statement that is done 20 years later in retrospect. I sincerely doubt that a 7-year-old child was some mini-Aerys and that like a lot of Barristan’s statements and thoughts, he is not being truthful.

Growing up, he was forbidden to be alone with his mother and witnessed at least some of his father’s atrocities, though Rhaella tried to shield him from it. Likely had little interaction or bonding with Rhaegar, who was 17 years older and an extreme introvert, so he was functionally an only child.

At the age of 7, learned that his father, brother, sister-in-law, and two infant cousins were killed, and fled with Rhaella to Dragonstone. Eight months later, Rhaella died in childbirth and he, baby Dany, and Willem Darry fled in the night to exile in Essos.

Five years later, when Viserys was 13, Willem Darry dies, the servants steal what little money they had, and Viserys is left to fend for himself with a 5-year-old sister in tow. They end up having to live off the generosity of others, all while being pursued by Robert’s assassins. Eventually the people who put them up turned from them and they had to sell their possessions, the last of which was Rhaella’s crown: “the last joy had gone from him, leaving only rage.” To add insult to injury, people started calling him the beggar king.

We know the rest, of course. Though his and Dany’s relationship was warm at the beginning, he began to blame her for Rhaella’s death and took out his anger and their plight on her.

So, was Viserys mad? I think that to a degree, we can say he was. But again, while his actions towards Dany are NOT excusable, I think they are explainable. Viserys suffered extreme trauma from a very early age and throughout the rest of his life, and that would have a profound impact on anyone. It’s my belief that had that not happened, Viserys would have not have been the rageful, abusive person we see in canon.

In sum, unless I’m missing someone, there are a grand total of nine Targaryens who are often deemed “mad” or “addled.” Two of those — Aegon and Helaena — are most definitely trauma-induced. One — Rhaegel — had mental issues. Two — Baelor and Maelys — are up for debate. Two — Maegor and Aerion — are I’d say pretty definitively mad. And two — Aerys and Viserys — are a combination of both.

To answer your question, no, I don’t think the madness is from blood magic (other than Maegor), both because of the circumstances and because to my knowledge no one was practicing blood magic. I think the handful of Targaryens who are “mad” is just luck of the draw.

[whatisthiscontentyouspeakof]

A Cold Days Night That Changes Everything

Inspired by The Quiet Ones by LonelyHarvest. Loved the story and wanted to read more similar to it, the same way you would other tropes within a fandom, but found out that there weren’t really any so I decided to write my own.

A03 | Next

Prologue Part 1

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Minerva McGonagall had been in charge of sending out Hogwarts acceptance letters for a few decades by that point, so she had it down to a point. A magic quill would write out the acceptance letter and list of supplies before the page would fly to her desk where she’d sign it, by hand and not which magic since it wouldn’t be authentic and while they hadn’t had someone try to fake a Hogwarts letters in a couple hundred years, it was still a precaution that was mandatory. After she signed the paper sent sent it off to the side with a flick of her want where it’d be folded up into a envelope and passed off to an owl.

Of course this was only for students that were returning for another year or for students from magical families. Muggleborn letters, at least for coming first years, would still be signed but Minerva would then pick a staff member or go herself, to introduce the Muggleborn child to the Wizarding World and get them ready for the first day of Hogwarts. This was made easier by the fact that Muggleborns received their letter on their eleventh birthday instead of them all getting it on the same day the way the rest of the student body did.

Minerva barely paid attention to what she was doing anymore, her motions having long since become muscle memory. Every few years there were some troubles with letter deliveries, usually involving paranoid pureblood families with ancient, and illegal, wards that kept owls out. Knowing the amount of incoming first years that came from ancient pureblood families, she couldn’t say she was surprised when an owl returned with a letter still with them. It was a little surprising that the owl was wet but not enough for her to think twice about it.

Minerva didn’t bother looking at the letter, or really giving it a second thought as she passed it off to a second owl. She frowned when the owl didn’t take off once it had the letter but it was a newer younger owl and thus new to it jobs, she easily picked the owl up and dropped him out the window, knowing that the birds instincts would take over and the bird would head off. The owl did so but quickly turned around and flew back into her office.

She frowned deeper, taking the letter from the owl, making note of its markings so she could get it looked at later, to make sure it was just a nervous flier and didn’t have something wrong with it, before turning to a third owl. The third owl just looked up at her almost defiantly, not making a move to take the letter.

In all her years, Minerva had never seen a group of owls act like this, act as if there was something wrong with a letter and refuse to deliver it. Curiosity got the best of her and she looked down at the letter. A very familiar name looked back up at her, making her wonder if the wards Albus had placed for the boys protection was what was preventing the owls from delivering the letter. That was until she looked down at the location.

For a moment she thought for sure she was going to pass out as a gasp passed through her lips and her hand reached up to clutch her chest.

Albus Dumbledore was in his office preparing for the fast approaching new year, and a certain special objects arrival, when his deputy headmistress rushed into his office, face pale like death was on her tail, an envelope clutched in her hand. She stopped in front of his desk and looked at him in horror.

Albus found himself getting to his feet, concurred for his co-worker and friend. Not only did she look a little dishevelled but she was pale enough that he worried she’d soon pass out. Her breath was coming out in little puffs and a thing sheet of sweat was starting to form on her forehead.

“Minerva, what is wrong?” He asked her, skipping over pleasantries to get right to the point, as he lead her over to a nearby chair. He couldn’t think of a time, at least in recent years, in which he had seen her so out of sorts.

Minerva shook her head before pressing her lips together as if she were pulling herself together. She took a deep breath before looking him in the eye. “A great mistake has been made. One I’m not sure we’re going to be able to fix.” She hands him the envelope, a school acceptance letter, gravely.

Frowning, he looked down at the letter and for a moment his heart stopped, and he wondered if this would be what did him in, not a curse from a dark wizard but this horrid surprise.

Hermione Granger was born to Ivory Harris and Tristan Granger, two dentists. She didn’t remember her toddler years, besides knowing they were happy. When she was four however, her parents boss scammed her parents and the rest of his workers out of a bunch of their money, before trying to make a run for it. Her parents tried their best but eventually, when she was four, she found herself with her parents staying in a homeless shelter for the first time. Three and a half years later, when her parents had just gotten their feet under them and they were living in their first apartment, having moved out of the shelters not even four months previous, did the law suits go through and her parents got all their money back and a little extra. A year later they opened their own practice and were quite successful.

For all intents and purposes, life had gone back to what could be considered normal. She lived in a two bedroom apartment with talks of getting a house, she had a bed to sleep in every night and all the meals she could want but kids were mean and the kids at her school only knew her as the homeless black kid, they didn’t care that she and her family had a home just for them again, or that in reality she was just half black or any other fact, not when it didn’t fit in with the way they viewed their world. It came down to the teachers too, some of whom would look at her perfect grades and ask if she had cheated. Other would comments about how well educated she was and if her father helped her with her homework. She felt uncomfortable around people and their harsh words or racism or ignorance.

She had her family though and quickly she discovered that she had books.

She had read a little at the shelters for enjoyment instead of just for school, but found the books they had, all great fantasy adventures or other things along that vein, made her sad since she knew no one was going to come and whisk her and her family off to some fantasy land where they wouldn’t have to worry about anything again once they proved at she was a long lost princess or something. It wasn’t until her parents, who no longer had to work two jobs to try and keep food in their bellies and save up for an apartment and could just focus on their practice, took her to the local library for the first time, that she discovered a world of other books that existed out there. Books full of facts or different opinions and points of views, of languages and cultures she’d never seen before instead of false hopes and silly child fantasies.

Soon Hermione found herself reading anything and everything she could get her hands on that was non-fiction, consuming and learning and appreciating just how much the world had to teach her. It wasn’t like she had friends to hang out with or extracurricular that interested her, not when she could learn about how clocks were invented or the history of the British Empire or any number of topics that caught her attention at any given notice.

Besides just learning, she notices that her teachers stop asking her if she cheated instead most just make comments on how impressed they are at her knowledge and she can no longer tell whom of them are just impressed a kid knew so much and whom were impressed that a coloured kid knew so much. Not that it mattered to her, she liked learning and she liked people acknowledging that she was smart, she didn’t care if it came from a place of ignorance or not. At least after her she hoped they’d no longer be able to believe that the colour of ones skin determined ones intelligence.

At the end of the day she’d describe herself as many things but one of the first ones would be logical. Which was why finding out she had magic was so shocking. The fact that she was being given the chance to learn to do the impossible at a magic school that was part of a unknown and fantastical world felt like a punch to the gut. The idea of all there was for her to learn that she never knew of before filled her with excitement. The idea of leaving her parents and setting out on her own among people her own age in a brand new world where she wouldn’t no anyone scared the living daylights out of her.

In the end her parents and her talk and they all agree that she should go to Hogwarts to learn, that if she didn’t like it or decided to wanted to live a normal magical life she could always come home.

She allowed herself to feel excited and hopeful about the new world she was about to enter until she went school supple shopping and an adult sneered at her, not for the colour of her skin, but for the fact that neither of her parents were magical and she realized that magic may be real, but that didn’t mean it existed in some fantasy world where there were no problems or nothing went wrong. It was just a messed up and backwards as the real world.

Neville Longbottom grew up being told he was a squib, after all what magical child doesn’t do magic by the time they could walk. The first time he remembered his great uncle Algie trying to ‘bring out’ his magical abilities, he was four. He knew that the kick down the stairs, and ever other thing Algie ever did to him, wasn’t him trying to bring out Nevilles magic but was actually his attempts to rid the Longbottom family of the failure, of the embarrassing squib. He seemed to survive every attempt however, never once displaying any magical ability up until great uncle Algie dropped him from the window and he bounced.

Within hours the entire Longbottom family was there, congratulating him on his use of magic, of not being a disappointing squib. Of course not long after other comments started forming, like what if this had just been a one time thing? What if he was one of those squibs who could use some magic but not enough to count as a wizard? His father had dozens of bought of accidental magic by the time he was Neville’s age. Everyone knew right off that bat that his father was magical. What would Frank say to having a squib for a son?

Neville had been in the Longbottom greenhouses, his family have long since built them to grow their own potion ingredients, when the owl found him. He took the Hogwarts letter in shaking hands, not believing his eyes. He felt sick as he opened it, a part of him believing it was going to tell him that he was a mistake, a squib. He crumbled to the floor as the acceptance letter stared back up at him, bending over, resting his forehead on the ground as tears formed in his eyes.

He was a wizard.

He was going to Hogwarts.

Daphne Greengrass knew she was a witch, knew she’d be going to Hogwarts for the coming school year and she couldn’t wait. She was going to learn magic, learn what was her birthright, but that wasn’t what she was most excited about. At Hogwarts she’d be away from her parents and surrounded by other children, children for her to mold and bend and break to fit into the position she needed them for.

Daphne was the eldest of the living Greengrass children, all of whom had been girls. There were certain expectations she had to live up to, one of which was finding the perfect husband, the Greengrass family was a patriarchy and thus only a male could inherit. She would have to marry someone of good blood with proper manners, who’d produce a heir, male preferably, and not run the Greengrass name into the ground.

Daphne had her own requirements for a future husband. He had to fit what her parents demanded for the person she married, he had to be non-violent, she would not put up with an abusive husband the way her mother did with her father, and easily manipulated by her. She was not about to give up her freedom nor her future rule of the family by some man who thought he was better then her just because of what dangled between his legs. She would find all the potential matches for a future husband and mold them while they were still young to listen to her, to follow her lead and to be her perfect attentive husband until the day they had heirs she would be done with him, either killing him off if she didn’t care for him, or letting him live as she official took over as head of the family since by then he would have changed the family from a patriarchy to an inheriting system where the eldest child, no matter of gender, would be the next head of the family.

She had plans for the future, and Hogwarts was the first step in getting there.

Hardwin ‘Harry’ Potter Black woke up feeling, well he wasn’t sure, but it was a weird mix of emotions that he had never felt before. He knew that today was his eleventh birthday, his dad, the only one around that did have fits of insanity, meticulously kept track of every day was the reason for that. As such he knew that today was the day, the day in which his Hogwarts acceptance letter was going to arrive, the day in which everything was going to change. Technically speaking, his Hogwarts letter was supposed to of arrived several days previously, but…well, he knew why that didn’t work out, he just needed a quick look around his home to know that answer. Uncle Bastian said, and the others agreed, that they’d be sending someone in as soon as the owl didn’t deliver the letter, and they got permission, by the latest, his birthday. Well today was the day, the day in which he would be leaving his home and his family behind for the first time in years, with only his sisters to stand beside him.

He shifted out from under the dirty and worn blanket, careful not to disturb his still sleeping dad and made his way from the cell. His sisters were already gone, probably up at the very top, trying to see if any of the sunrise made it through the clouds and to give the rest of them some privacy. Harry knew that his dad would want to face the wizards who’d be arriving by himself. As such he made his way down to the ‘toy room’ as the adults called it, trying to give him and his sisters a sense of normality. He and his sisters called it the Fun Cell.

The Fun Cell was two cells down from his dads, the last in their wing and was were he and his sisters placed all the little items they found through their life for them to play with, tinker with and experiment with. There wasn’t really anything he wanted to play around with so he decided to organize the cell, splitting everything between what he wants to keep, what he knew his sisters would want to keep and what would go to either of their parents or any of their uncles.

He had most of the cell cleaned up when a chill went up his spine. He continued to clean up, though he made sure to keep an ear on what was happening. After all, this wasn’t the usual time of day the Dementors came to their wing, they usually waited until after they ate breakfast before mentally torturing the prisoners, which meant they had visitors. Couldn’t let the trapped, starved and dehydrated prisoners get too rowdy after all.

Sure enough he could hear as some of his uncles start to yell and scream, partially because of the Dementors and partially to freak out the visitors. He had just finished up his cleaning and organizing, having taken most of the time to wipe away all the chalk drawings and writings, when he saw light creeping towards the Fun Cell and his fathers voice speaking out, criticizing the visitors for taking so long to come and take Harry away, never mind the fact that he liked his home, and for allowing him to end up there at all.

The visiting wizards didn’t like his fathers comments judging by the “Shut up Black, before we make yeh” one of them snapped. His father just responded by laughing. Harry could imagine that he was also rolling his eyes as he did do. Harry knew the visiting wizards would take his fathers laughing as a sign of insanity, when in reality it was just his fathers way of not going on a murderous rampage. He really wasn’t happy that Harry ended up in Azkaban with him and a bunch of dangerous Death Eaters.

Harry sat down facing the bars of the Fun Cell, waiting for the wizards that just dismissed his father to find him. He wasn’t going to make their lives easier after all. His father was angry with the wizards that Harry had ended up in Azkaban, while Harry was angry that his father, and him by default, had ended up in Azkaban without having a trial and when he was in fact, innocent.

It didn’t take long for the wizards to find him. Not that that was an accomplishment since there wasn’t really anywhere to go but backwards or towards him. Harry noted that there was a singular witch among the visiting wizards. He hadn’t expected to recognize any of the wizards upon seeing them, having you know, grown up in Azkaban, but ended up figuring out who two of them were on sight.

Mad Eye Moody was just as he was described by the many of Harry’s uncles that the auror had arrested or at least taken down. His magical eye and prosthetic limbs were a dead giveaway as to who he was. Dumbledore was another wizard that was recognizable on sight alone from descriptions Harry had been told throughout his life. Really who had long grey hair with a long grey beard and half moon glasses?

Harry didn’t say anything as the wizards looked at him, instead studying them instantly and silently, knowing that his stare with his killing curse green eyes unnerved people. He wasn’t about to make the first move after all and wanted to see how long it would take one of them to snap.

A nervous, sweaty man who seemed to be trying to project an air of authority and was failing, stepped forward. Harry focused his eyes on him, forcing down a smirk as the man shifted before taking out a handkerchief and dabbed at his forehead.

“Ah, Mr. Potter,” he said. “It is good to finally meet you.” He shifted nervously as Harry just continued to look at him. He cleared his throat. “I am Minter Fudge your Minister of Magic and it is my honour to personally deliver you your Hogwarts acceptance letter.”

The man held out his hand, an enveloped in it, his hand slipping through the bars of the Fun Cell. Harry was amused that he didn’t make an attempt to walk through the cell bars. Anyone who’s magic wasn’t recoded in the prison, aka he, his sisters and the visitors, could walk straight through the bars as if they were illusions. They were only solid for the prisoners. Seemed like Fudge didn’t trust that however. Wonder if it was just nerves of a guilty conscious.

Harry slowly reach up and grabbed the envelope and scanning it contents. Once he was done he said nothing, going back to staring at the visitors.

Fudge cleared his throat again. “My friends and I are here to take you to St. Mugo’s to be looked after before the school term starts. We will be placing you in a magic sleep to make transit easier and when you awake you will be at Europes best magical hospital being treated and cared by some of the worlds best heroes. Doesn’t that sound great?”

Harry ignored the patronizing tone in the mans voice, instead deciding to play his surprise card now before they could start throwing spells at him.

“What about my sisters?” He said, his voice calm and controlled in a well practice way that gave nothing away.

He could have laughed at the look of surprise and horror that filled the visitors faces.

Next

[ibijau]

Burn it down AU // on AO3 // extras on AO3

extra: During the Sunshot Campaign, Lan Xichen has a conversation with his uncle that doesn’t go how he planned.

warning for canon typical levels of homophobia and, like a lot of bad emotions because in book canon LXC is 19-20 when the war starts and that’s a lot of stuff for a young man that age to go through :D

It is near impossible for Lan Xichen to focus on the conversation with his uncle as they discuss the campaign in his office. Although he knows how important it is, how many lives are stake, he simply cannot keep his mind on the war. His thoughts keep going back to the handful of hours he just spent holding Nie Huaisang and kissing him, how his eyes shone with happiness, the softness of his hair, the taste of his tongue, the warmth of his skin, the… 

"Xichen, are you even listening?" 

"Apologies, uncle," he quickly mumbles. "It has been a long day." 

"And that day would be over already if you hadn't lost so much time with that Nie boy. I asked how you obtained that information about Nightless City's defences." 

Lan Xichen hesitates. It is wrong to keep secrets. It is wrong to deny his uncle's request. But surely it would be more wrong to say anything that might put dear Meng Yao in greater danger than he already is? 

Being a sect leader is nothing but a series of compromises, and it is so difficult to know right from wrong. 

"When the time is right, I will reveal it. For now, I can only say that I trust the source of this information. But these are dark times, uncle, and it is better if I remain the only one to know certain things." 

To Lan Xichen's surprise, his uncle nods. 

"The Wens have come here once, they could come here again. Keep the secret for now if you feel it is needed." 

"Thank you, uncle." 

"Hm. I think we've talked about everything urgent. You may retire for the night, anything less pressing can wait." 

That, of course, is the chance that Lan Xichen has been waiting for since he joined his uncle in his office. He takes a deep breath, and steels himself. 

"Uncle, if you do not mind… There is one more thing I would like to talk about. It does not concern the campaign, but it is important nonetheless. Would you let me have a little more of your time?" 

Lan Qiren, who had started standing up, sits down again and gestures for his nephew to go on. Lan Xichen takes another deep breath, and hurriedly wonders how to breach the matter. 

In spite of how long he has loved Nie Huaisang, Lan Xichen finds himself wholly unprepared for this situation. After all, while they had a certain friendship going on, Nie Huaisang had never given any sign that he held some preference for his brother's friend. He has always been cheerful and open and teasing with Lan Xichen, but since he is like that with everyone, it didn't seem to mean much. 

And yet, there's no doubt possible now. Nie Huaisang cares, perhaps just as strongly as Lan Xichen does. 

"Well? What was it?" his uncle asks, getting impatient. 

"Uncle, there is… It is not easy to say. But for some time now, I have felt very strongly for another boy, and it has recently been revealed to me that this boy too…" 

He is interrupted by his uncle slamming his hand on his desk, his face dark with anger. 

"You will forget about this boy," Lan Qiren orders. "I do not want to hear another word of such nonsense." 

"The rules of our sect dictate we must look for our true match, a dual cultivation partner that fits us," Lan Xichen meekly objects, half surprised by his own daring. "How is it nonsense for me to do so?" 

His uncle glares at him for what he must perceive at insolence. At a normal time, this would be enough for Lan Xichen to fall in line, years of discipline having nearly broken what rebellion ever existed in him. 

But this is not a normal time. Today his lips still tingle from being kissed by the person he loves, and to get more of that, Lan Xichen is ready to fight even the uncle who half terrifies him. 

"Uncle, this is not something I say lightly," he insists. "I truly love him, I wish to spend my life with him, and I believe he will be exactly the partner I need, not only in private but also in public." 

He means that. Nie Huaisang, after all, is so clever when he wants. Much smarter than people give him credit for, certainly. Lan Xichen has seen him discreetly defuse tense situations at times when Nie Mingjue was provoked into anger. He has also seen how, when they were guest disciples, Nie Huaisang often found ways to distract Wei Wuxian and Jiang Wanying whenever Jin Zixuan would do or say something that upset them. It is certainly a great skill for a sect leader's husband to have. 

And as for the private aspect… Aside from having just been revealed as a wonderful kisser, Nie Huaisang is simply someone who has always made Lan Xichen happy. He has never treated him with the distant politeness that everyone gave him as heir to such a major sect. Nie Huaisang, from their very first meeting, has called him Xichen-gege and teased him with the same carefree attitude he had with Nie Mingjue. Sometimes, Lan Xichen thinks that he fell in love on that first day, even if the realisation of it only came later. 

"Love has no place in a sect leader's life," his uncle snaps. "Look what good it did your father!" 

The attack is not unexpected, but Lan Xichen still feels the sting of it. 

"It is different. Unlike father, my feelings are returned." 

"Returned or not, it makes no difference. When you marry, it will be to help us secure an alliance…" 

"His family is a prominent one," Lan Xichen weakly interjects. 

"It will be to secure an alliance and an heir," Lan Qiren claims. "Can that boy of yours carry a child for you? Or was I lied to about what you are, and you can actually bear another man's child?" 

"I cannot," his nephew admits, clenching his fists. "Neither can he. But uncle…" 

"Everything you have, everything you are, you owe it to the position you were born in. In return, your duty is to serve your sect and your clan. When the time is right, I will find you a dutiful wife. Until then, I do not want to ever hear you talk about this again. You are dismissed."

Lan Xichen clenches his fists. He feels something wet fall on his cheeks and wonders, idly, when he cried for the last time. His mother's death probably. It was not allowed after that. A future sect leader had to be trained out of expressing emotions in such an obvious way, and Lan Xichen always was a good student. 

The tears are not solely for being denied the right to his true love, though after so many months of horror, it is the last drop. He has lost so much, several of his people died when the Cloud Recesses were burned, his sect history is nearly entirely lost save what he could take with him when he ran, his brother was almost lost to a monster, his father passed away while he was running for his life, and there's a war now, so many people depend on him, many of which have perished already because this is a war and he's not ready for this and… 

Lan Xichen could bear with all this. It is his duty. He just wants one comfort, one good thing. He wants to be allowed one selfish desire. 

He wants Nie Huaisang. 

When his uncle starts getting up, Lan Xichen grabs his sleeve like the capricious child he knows he must look like. 

"Uncle, I beg you, I will do anything you ask if you allow me to court him. Let me have this. I am serious about this, I am sincere, I promise you will not regret it if you let me have him. It is not some fanciful passion, I love him, I have loved him so long. Uncle, please, when have I ever asked for a favour?"

Lan Qiren glares at him. Lan Xichen's tears double as he realises this is a fight he cannot win, but he maintains his hold on his uncle's sleeve. The moment he lets go, Nie Huaisang is lost to him. He cannot let go. He cannot lose this as well. 

"If you get what you want, Wangji cannot," Lan Qiren says, in the patient yet condescending tone he uses on his students. "You know your brother as well as I do. Can you imagine him marrying a woman, even to give the clan an heir?" 

That's his problem, not mine, Lan Xichen wants to scream, only for crippling guilt to immediately devour him. He remembers their mother, slowly dying of a disease never explained to them, asking him to take care of his little brother. Someone has to make sure A-Zhan smiles, she'd told him many times. When I'm gone, make sure he still gets to smile. 

Lan Xichen sobs, his fingers clenching on his uncle's sleeve. 

It is true that Lan Wangji has always shown a clear preference for other boys and no interest whatsoever in girls. It is equally clear that Wangji is in love, and for three months scoured the country with Jiang Cheng, desperately trying to find out what happened to the boy he adores. And though they have their arguments, Wei Wuxian is the only person who can make Land Wangji smile, now that their mother is dead. 

It is true also that, in general, Lan Xichen has never felt any strong preference between men and women. Marrying someone who will bear an heir for the clan is not something that fills him with disgust the way it might Lan Wangji. He can do this, if it comes to that. 

He doesn't want it to come to that. He doesn't want a man or a woman. He wants Nie Huaisang who smiles like a fox and moves like a bird. Nie Huaisang who cried because he thought him dead, and kissed him. Nie Huaisang who made such sweet noises as they chased pleasure together, then laughed so softly, as if nothing in the world could be better than to be in Lan Xichen's arms. Nie Huaisang whom he loves, who is so perfect for him in every aspect. Nie Huaisang who should be his, but never will be. 

"But I love him," Lan Xichen whimpers, defeated. "Uncle, I really love him, what am going to do?"

Lan Qiren kneels next to him. Through the tears, Lan Xichen thinks he can see pity on his stern uncle's face, and that might be worse than his earlier anger. He nearly flinches when Lan Qiren awkwardly pats his shoulder, neither of them used to this. 

"Avoid his company," Lan Qiren orders. "Avoid his conversation. If you can, avoid looking at him even. Meditate when you are tempted to seek him out. If your will is strong enough, you will easily get over this fancy of yours."

“Uncle, I cannot…”

“You must. You will. Or are you so weak that you can’t overcome the failings of your body and heart? You are a sect leader now, Xichen. Do not follow in your father's footsteps by letting your passions conquer you." 

With one last desperate sob, Lan Xichen finally lets go of his uncle's sleeve and tries to collect himself. All of Gusu Lan has suffered from his father's decisions, he reminds himself, taking one shaky breath after the other. His uncle has paid the price of Qingheng-Jun's choice, forced to bear the weight of their sect when inclination and birth should have allowed him to dedicate himself to his studies. 

Lan Xichen will be a better sect leader, a better brother. 

"Thank you for your time and advice, uncle" he says in a voice he cannot stop from shaking. "I will do my best to live up to your expectations." 

"I know you will," Lan Qiren replies, squeezing his shoulder before quickly letting go. "You may go." 

Lan Xichen doesn't need to be told twice. He springs to his feet and rushes back to the Hanshi, as fast as he can without running. His head hurts from crying, and there is an uncomfortable dampness between his legs. Earlier he was half happy with that sticky sensation, a reminder that he did not dream what happened. Now it makes him want to tear his own skin away. As soon as he is inside his home, he sheds his clothes, dropping them on the floor without care. Using a towel and water, Lan Xichen scrubs his legs and groin until they are red and sore, trying to erase any trace of those stolen moments he needs to forget. 

When he is satisfied with his work, he goes to sleep and quickly passes out, exhausted by a day that promised so much and delivered so little. 

In the morning, Lan Xichen sees Nie Huaisang at breakfast. The other boy spots him as well and smiles so brightly that it is nearly blinding. It takes all of Lan Xichen’s willpower not to join him. Instead he goes to sit with his uncle, and leaves again as soon as he is done eating. 

Busy as he is, Lan Xichen finds that the day passes quickly. The elders who remain in the Cloud Recesses commend his dedication when he skips lunch, but force him to have a servant bring him something when he makes it clear he wants to avoid dinner as well. Lan Xichen reluctantly agrees, and eats alone in the Hanshi with some reports in front of him. If he handles things well, he can leave for the front in a day or two.

There is so much to organise, and Lan Xichen does not want to stay in the Cloud Recesses a moment more than necessary. He will have to avoid his own home until the war is won and Nie Huaisang can return to Qinghe.

[atths--twice]

Faith for the Future 

Chapter Three 

Journaling the Heart 

Mulder takes advantage of the peace and quiet of the house to reread his journal to Faith.

7c/15

Mulder waited until he knew Scully was asleep before he slowly got out of bed. He watched her sleeping for a few seconds and then stepped out the door and walked to Faith’s room. He looked in on her sleeping, watching her tiny chest rising and falling. Smiling at her, he shook his head before heading to the stairs.

He looked at the rooms that held the women he loved most in the world and smiled again before walking quietly down the stairs, avoiding the creaky step so that he would not wake Scully.

Once at the bottom of the stairs, he slipped on the slippers Mrs. Scully had given him years ago. They were wearing down a bit, but he would keep them, no matter the holes and how they broke down. He shuffled into the kitchen, turned on the light and made half a pot of coffee. Grabbing his mug and a pack of Pop-Tarts, he walked over to the couch.

He set down the items on the coffee table and then grabbed his laptop, turned on the lights behind the couch, and sat down with a sigh. He opened the laptop and waited for it to turn on. He ripped open the foil package and took out a Pop-Tart, shoving it in his mouth, chewing as the screen asked for his password.

Typing it in, he waited for it to continue waking up, as he took a drink of coffee and set down his mug, shoving another huge bite into his mouth. He looked toward the stairs and thankfully heard nothing. Good.

Since Scully had been attending her baby yoga class, he had begun working on the idea that had come to him as he rocked Faith to sleep a few weeks ago. A history of their past on paper, or more appropriately, into a Google document to tell Faith when she was older.

Twice a week, for the past month, for a few hours during the day, he sat at his laptop and wrote a journal to his daughter so that she would know what her parents had done in their lives- before. Before they became this little trio, with a hope that one day, the missing piece to their family quartet would return.

He was almost at a point where he could show Scully what he had written. He had gotten up for the past couple of nights, needing some extra time to write down his thoughts. Being up when it was quiet, he felt calm as he reread what he wrote, adding to what he had and taking out parts that were too intense.

He scrolled the mouse across the screen and opened the ever-expanding document that he had been working on, skimming it. When he started, he simply wrote whatever came to mind. Not surprisingly, he started with a funny case. One that was truly one of his favorites: Daryl Mootz, the “Rain King” of Kroner, Kansas.

“Beyond the case and the belief that one man was controlling the weather and profiting off it no less, my sweet girl, there was a love story I had not anticipated. It had not been Daryl controlling the weather at all but a quiet, unassuming Holman Hardt.

Years of his unknown and thus unrequited love for Sheila had led to strange weather phenomena throughout the town. When I figured it out, Holman had asked for my advice and the best way to talk to Sheila. You read that right, honey, your old dad had been asked for dating advice. He said he had seen the way I gazed at Mama, so I must have some good advice to give. Well, I made a point to deny that, of course, I did not gaze at her.

By the time you read this, Faith, you will know that was a lie. I could not and I still cannot help but gaze at your Mama. She is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. Besides her beauty though, she is the smartest person I know. Her intelligence amazes me every day. How could I not be expected to gaze at someone like her?”

He sat forward, took a drink of coffee and set down the mug. Looking back at the story, marveling again at the love he found within. Holman and Sheila and him and Scully. He remembered how they had been mistaken for a married couple on separate occasions with Scully sighing and bristling, which he found hilarious. Watching her roll her eyes and sigh, made him laugh and make jokes, loving the look on her face.

“Little girl, during that case, I know I was guilty of looking at her the way Holman had suggested, but he only saw the surface. He saw that I gazed at her, but he did not see that I longed for her. She was there, right beside me every day, but not the way I wanted. I was terrified to tell her how I truly felt, worried she would not feel the same or leave me because it was unprofessional to have those feelings. I very casually and cavalierly told Holman to take a leap, but I did not have the courage to do the same. I was a chicken, no denying it. But, my love, somehow I knew it would have been a disaster and not the right time for us.”

Pausing in his reading, he remembered Holman’s parting words, “You should try it sometime.” Well, he thought with a smile, it took a while, but when he had finally taken that leap, and kissed her the first time, it had been well worth the wait.

Taking another drink of coffee, he moved onto the next story. A supposed vampire attack in Chaney, Texas.

“Sitting in our office, seeing Mama arrive at work, our meeting with Uncle Walter imminent, I had been … we can just call it “on edge.” The family of Ronnie Strickland was considering suing the bureau for $446 million, we had the possibility of jail time hanging over us both, and all because I had, as Mama put it, “overreacted.” Faith, I knew I had to do what I did. I was right. Ronnie was a vampire. I had to put a stake through his heart because that is the only way to kill a vampire.

Still, while we both sat in the office, our meeting growing ever closer, I wanted to be sure that we both had seen what the other had seen. That we were on the same page.

Well, by now, you have a good grasp on who your mother and I are, and you know we can definitely disagree and not see things the same way. We each told what we remembered, and, well, we may have over exaggerated the other’s part in the story. Mama painted me as more exuberant, and I painted her as less. It was … well, it was interesting.

But, while we had varied versions of the same experience, we were on the same page when it was most important. Our stories eventually corroborated the other. There had been vampires in that little town and Ronnie Strickland had been one of them. I saw that before and even more so after we went back to Chaney.

Why did we need to go back, I hear you asking. Oh, because Ronnie came back to life. The coroner was attacked when he removed the stake I had put in his chest.

Amateurs, am I right? They clearly had never seen any of the literally thousands of vampire films or read any books about it either.

When we went back to investigate, we separated to check on different leads. Both of us were drugged and left where we had fallen, giving them time to pull up stakes, and get the heck out of Dodge- er Chaney. We never found them. All of them left, even Sheriff Hartwell, whom your Mama will swear was handsome and did not have buck teeth. We know the truth though, my love. We know.”

He smiled, knowing that when the day came, and Faith mentioned the story of Ronnie and Sheriff Hartwell, she would be on his side. Team Buck Teeth all the way. He was not whispering it to her every night just for fun.

He continued to skim down the page and his eye landed on a different story. His stomach clenched when he looked at it. Padgett, Naciamento, and the milagro. He had almost lost Scully. Reading it again, he debated whether to keep it in the journal but then nodded. She needed to hear the bad with the good.

Instead of focusing on the gory parts, he chose to tell Faith about his own feelings and thoughts. His fear, curiosity, and worries.

“Faith, one day I will expand on this story. One day, if she wants to tell you, Mama will also explain it in more detail and give you her account of how she felt. For now, you will have a few paragraphs from me.

This case was hard on both of us. The man who was eventually found to have caused the hurt of others lived next to me in my old apartment. He was a writer and had purposely moved there to observe Mama and see who she was as a person. He wrote a book about her, or more accurately, who he wanted her to be. He may have thought he knew her, but he was mistaken. He knew what he may have seen, but she is so much more than what was observed.

He wrote beautiful words that described her, I will not deny that, but I never needed fancy words to know of your mother’s beauty. She radiated it everywhere she went. No makeup, soaking wet, covered in dirt or some other substance, she was always beautiful because she was her.

During the course of this case, I grew worried about your Mama. Now, I know she can take care of herself, but I also know her, and I saw how she was affected. She covered it at times, but I saw. I became protective and angry. I wanted to hurt this man who seemed so brazen in his watching of her. He was not aware that his words, while flattering, made her uncomfortable. He was so drawn to what he wanted to happen that he failed to actually see her.

When he did ... when he was no longer close to us, he said as much. He admitted that he had made a mistake. He finally saw that she was not in love with him, as he had hoped, but with someone else. Honey, I cannot lie to you, hearing those words from him was like ice in my veins and made me freeze where I stood. My heart pounded so hard in my chest at the thought it could be me he was talking about, I was sure everyone could hear it. This man wrote fiction, terrible fiction, without a doubt, but … I wanted those words to be true, and I wanted them to be about me.

Faith, on that same day, I almost lost your Mama. Had it not been for a decision made by the writer, your Mama would have been gone and far away.

She was hurt, Faith. Badly hurt. I found her on my apartment floor, not sure if she was breathing, but then she woke up. She was scared and reached for me, pulling me close to her. I could feel her fingers digging into my neck, not letting go of me, and I held her as tightly as I could. I was terrified that I had lost her and there was no chance that I was going to let her go. If I could have held her forever, I would have.”

He sighed as he leaned his head against the couch and closed his eyes. After everything  they had been through, seeing her soaked in her own blood from a wound that he could not find terrified him. Her deep red, pungent blood stuck to his clothes and pooled on his floor. It was a memory that would be burned into his brain forever. He loved her, and he almost lost her again. Yet, even as he held her, he said nothing.

Opening his eyes, he sighed again. Mistakes and fears in the past could not be changed, but they could be learned from. He had been learning, and he would continue to do so. To evolve, as he told Scully they needed to do. He glanced at the computer again and groaned when his eyes landed on another one that made his stomach clench.

Robert Patrick Modell.

“Faith, my girl, this is another one we can talk about in more detail one day. There are parts of this case that remain delicate and should be treated as such. I will tell you that this person came into our lives twice and each time, your Mama was stronger than I ever could be.

Modell was able to put the whammy on people. That is a reference that you will not understand (it is so old) and one that will make your Mama roll her eyes. However, it does adequately describe what he could do to people.

Somehow, he had the ability to make people do what he wanted and make them think a certain way. He got inside of their minds and controlled them. We saw it happen before our eyes. It was equal parts terrifying and intriguing. How was anyone able to do that to a person?

He focused in on me, calling me out and demanding my attention. He was ill and at a hospital, and I decided that it would be best to face him on my own to reduce the risk of others (including your Mama) being in harm's way.

Your Mama and I, we are a team, and always will be. (Even if I sneak you cookies when she is not watching.) We were a team then, but I walked into the hospital where Modell was on my own. I gave him what he wanted, and I left my teammate behind, believing she was safer there than by my side. What an idiot I was sometimes.

Faith, you need to understand something about your Daddy. I was a bit more impulsive than I am now. Daddy in the past did not always pause and take ten seconds to count, a breath to cool down, or a walk to try and recenter my thoughts. No, I was impulsive. If I saw a big button, I had to push it. If a sign said not to enter, well, that was an open invitation to climb the fence and walk in. Your Mama, on the other hand, has always been the cool head trying to steer me in the right direction.

Understanding that, of course, Mama had come in to help me. She walked into the room where I was in trouble, and she never wavered. Never, until I went too far and scared her and made her cry. Faith, seeing your Mama cry has always broken my heart, and that day was no exception. Her tears and the look on her face, reached me more than anything else ever could. Knowing I was the cause of her pain, I had to stop it, but I needed her to help me. As a team, we helped each other and stopped the bad guy. We won that day.”

He shut the computer down, leaving it on his lap, put his feet on the coffee table, crossed his arms, and leaned his head back again. He shook his head as he thought of Scully’s face, her blue eyes full of tears, her words finally reaching him, from so far away. Her safety, in that case, had been what he worried about most, and he would be damned if he was the cause of her suffering or her possible death.

When he heard a soft, light noise, his eyes flew open. Scully was standing at the bottom of the stairs, apparently having bypassed the creaky stair just as he had done several hours ago. She stared at him and he at her.

Her eyes were sleepy, her hair mussed. She was wearing one of his long-sleeved shirts and an old pair of pajama shorts. She walked over to him, moved the laptop to the coffee table and climbed into his lap. Her arms went around his waist, her chest flush against his as his hands went around her back and into her hair. She sighed and burrowed deeper into him.

“Come back to bed, Mulder,” she said sleepily.

He chuckled lightly and ran his fingers through her hair. “Five more minutes,” he whispered with a smile, seeing if she would remember.

“Five minutes,” she said sternly.

He laughed again, and she breathed a laugh against his neck. He knew she was thinking of the same memory.

Arriving home from California after that horrible movie premiere, they came to his apartment. She walked in and sat on the couch with a huge sigh. He looked at her, and she patted the spot next to her. She sat forward, and took off her boots as he sat down. She scooted around and laid down on the couch, putting her feet in his lap. Smiling at her, he reached out and began to rub her feet, causing her to sigh and close her eyes.

“We should get some food, but I can’t fathom getting off this couch and putting my shoes back on,” she said in a tired voice. He laughed softly and kept rubbing her feet.

“We could order in,” he said, tickling her feet and making her giggle. “What sounds good?”

“Chinese,” she said, attempting to pull her feet back as he grabbed them and held them still. She looked at him and he nodded.

He got off the couch and picked up his phone, ordering their usual from Ling Palace, adding an extra side of egg rolls as Scully whispered loudly for them in the background. Hanging up, he sat back down and put her feet in his lap again. He rubbed them, and she sighed.

His hands moved further up her legs, rubbing her calves and listening to her moan and breathe his name as he worked. He ran his nails across her shins causing her to jump and scramble up into his lap. When her arms had gone around his neck and her lips had fallen onto his, his hands pulled her closer while his lips moved to her neck. She threw her head back and dug her nails into his scalp, his name falling from her lips as she fell further into his lap.

“How long did they say before the food would be here?” she asked breathlessly. He chuckled, his tongue trailing up her neck to her ear. He kissed his way across her jaw, landing on her lips, their tongues meeting in a slow kiss. Her hands went his hair, rocking her hips into him, both of them groaning.

“Too soon,” he murmured against her lips, before kissing her again, his hands coming to rest in her hair. They sat there, kissing and whispering to one another, waiting for the knock on the door, and the arrival of their dinner.  

When they heard it, Scully kissed him once more and climbed off of his lap. She glanced down at his crotch, and smirked at him, seeing he was in no condition to answer the door and held out her hand. He raised his eyebrows and she smiled.

“I need your wallet,” she said, snapping her fingers. “I spent the last of my cash buying that set of California magnets you just “had to have.”” He laughed and leaned up to grab it from his back pocket and handed it to her. He watched her walk to the door, staring at her in her socked feet, feeling content.

Being here with her like this on the couch in the quiet, kissing her the way he had wanted to for years, he felt happy and peaceful. The door shut and Scully walked back toward him with the meal they were about to share. Once again, he felt those words he wanted to tell her bubbling up and threatening to spill out. She set the bag down and smiled at him.

“Plates? Or just out of the containers?” she asked him.

“Containers are fine,” he said, opening the bag and taking out the food. She went into the kitchen and came back with two glasses of water and two forks. She set them down as she sat next to him and reached for a container. He picked one up, and for a few minutes, they were both quiet, swapping containers between them as they reached for egg rolls.

With dinner finished, they settled back into the couch. She moved a bit and leaned her head on his shoulder so that his arm could come to rest around her. She took a deep breath as he leaned his head against hers. Wrapping her arm around his waist, she moved to accommodate him as he leaned over, allowing for them to lay side-by-side on the couch with their arms wrapped tightly around the other.

She kissed his neck and then nuzzled into his embrace, her breath warm against his skin. He closed his eyes, feeling her arms around his waist. Her nails scratched lightly at his back, though not in a sexual manner. He smiled, and they both lay quietly. Her breathing began to even out as he ran his fingers in her hair.

“I need to get home,” she said in a low sleepy voice. “Back to work tomorrow. I have things to do there.” She sighed and snuggled closer to him.

“Stay, Scully,” he whispered to her. “Stay here with me.”

“Okay,” she agreed quickly and softly. “But, we should move to the bedroom, so that we can get a good night’s sleep, change out of these pants, and get more comfortable.”

“Mmm-hmmm. Five more minutes, Scully,” he said sleepily, kissing her forehead. She echoed his words, but those five minutes turned into an hour, and an hour into a couple more.

She woke first and kissed him awake. Getting off the couch, they stretched and stumbled into his room together. They both undressed, climbing into bed in their underwear, immediately reaching for one another again. Whispering good night, they fell asleep, embracing for one more night before the real world came knocking.

“Five minutes, Scully,” he whispered and she hummed out her skeptical response, as he smiled.

“Time’s ticking,” she whispered and he laughed.

Five more minutes. Ten. A lifetime. Whatever he got, he would be happy, as long as she was with him.

[jonsastan]

A Week of Jonsa - @incorrectjonsansa

Day 1 -

You look like a movie, you sound like a song

.

Jonsa Pride and Prejudice Au.

Sansa smiled at Arya’s scowl as she’s whisked around the dance floor. Arya was annoyed at the amount of gentlemen who had asked for her hand in a dance. She should be complimented. At this dance ladies greatly outnumbered gentlemen. Robb and their new neighbour, Daenerys Targaryen, danced past Sansa, Robb smiling as he made Daenerys laugh. They would be a good match. She was the sister of some southern Lord and Robb was the heir to their father’s estate. A good match, as her mother kept insisting.

After a turn about the room, Sansa found herself near Daenerys’ quiet nephew, Jon. After a moment Daenerys came to her nephew.

“Come now Jon! I must have you dance! You cannot hang out in this stupid manner.”

“You know I do not enjoy dancing, especially with someone who I am not well acquainted with.” Jon replied.

“Look, there! That’s one of Mr Stark’s sisters! She extraordinarily beautiful, dance with her.” Daenerys was gesturing to Sansa, but Sansa made no sign that she could hear them.

“She is tolerable, I suppose.” came the cold voice of Jon Targaryen. “But not handsome enough to tempt me. Go, enjoy the charm of Robb Stark, your enthusiasm is wasted on me.”

Sansa suppressed a smile. Many would be insulted by this stranger’s harsh words but Sansa found amusement at this southern lords high handedness. She made her way calmly past him toward Arya, who was sitting out, to tell the joke.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was with the greatest annoyance that Sansa allowed Jon Targaryen to be announced to her. She had begged off visiting his Father and Daenerys’ Brother, Rhaegar, but was now trapped with the more brooding of the two Targaryen sons.

He entered and began to converse about banal topics of her health and the weather, before kneeling before her.

“In vain I have struggled, it will not do. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.” His voice began strong and assured, but soften at the end of his sentence. His grey eyes stared at hers and she felt her heart clench.

When he continued, she felt rage rise within her.

“Despite the history between my family and yours, despite the behaviour of your brothers and sister and even your father, despite the disparity between our stations in life, I wish to marry you.”

Sansa took a deep breath and rose from her seat, moving away from him and his emotive eyes.

“If I could feel gratitude now, I would thank you. But I cannot—I have never desired your good opinion, and you have certainly bestowed it most unwillingly. Please forgive me if I have given you any cause to believe that my affections were engaged or your to be encouraged, it was unconsciously done.” Her hands were clenched, her anger boiling beneath her cool exterior.

He moved to the mantle and took a breath. His eyes were filled with anger, confusion, pain.

“And this is all the reply which I am to have the honour of expecting! I might, perhaps, wish to be informed why, with so little endeavour at civility, I am thus rejected.” His voice burnt with anger.

“I might enquire with so little attempt to hide your own disdain for my character, family, and station you resolve to tell me you like be against your will! Was this not reason enough for any perceived incivility?” She snapped, turning to face him, her fists still clenched at her side. “Had my feelings toward you been neutral or even favourable, even those feelings would have died when you stole the happiness of a most beloved brother? And what of your crimes against Gendry Waters? Do you deny that you have revealed in his misfortune, in the scandal of his birth?”

“Yes, his misfortune. It is great indeed.” Jon all but scoffed.

“And now you ridicule him!”

“And this is your opinion of me?” Jon strode toward her, stopping mere inches from her person. “My faults by your calculation are great indeed, but perhaps they would not be so foul had I not insulted your pride by acknowledging the failings of your family or your status. Perhaps if I had flattered you, hidden my misgivings and lied about them you would have felt differently, But disguise of every sort is my abhorrence!”  He all but spat at her.

“You are mistaken, Mr Targaryen, if you believe the mode of your address could have affected my answer in any way. You have merely saved me any worry I might have felt at rejecting you had you behaved in a more gentlemanlike manner. I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Be not alarmed, madam, on receiving this letter, by the apprehension of its containing any repetition of those sentiments or renewal of those offers which were last night so disgusting to you. I merely wish to clarify some of the egregious charges laid before me by you.

You first charged me with the destruction of happiness of a most beloved brother. I had not been in Winterfell long when I saw, along with others, Daenerys’ preference to your brother above all others. I watched and observed their interactions and whilst Mr Robb Stark showed polite deference and cordiality to Miss Targaryen, I saw no unique favour or love. So to save a most beloved family member pain and heartache I separated the two.

If I was mistaken in my understanding of your brothers feelings, I apologise heartily and completely. I can offer the only defence that if the feelings between our two family members had been as powerful and consuming as you believe, a mere separation would not have hindered them.

The second charge you laid before me was my treatment of Gendry Waters. I will not deny that I have not acted to aid Mr Waters in his path in life, nor do I intend to. His family, having been closely entwined with my own, disgraced themselves thoroughly when they attempted to steal property, assets, and titles with a selfish motive. I have revealed in the bastard nature of Mr Waters birth when I was younger, and whilst I can see how this is an immature means of gloating, I cannot feel sorry for this. Mr Waters has shown himself to be a man of trade and mean understanding. He does not attempt to rise above his birth and better himself but will rely on the sympathy and pity of others. This behaviour is abhorrent to me.

If you have any doubts about the truth of the history between my family and Mr Waters, or the personal history between myself and that man, you may apply to my brother for a complete narrative. Although we have clashed and been at odds, I have always been honest with you.

I will end by saying I mean you no ill will and wish you all the best in your life.

Gods Bless and keep you.

Jon Targaryen.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“And to think, I could have been mistress of all this.” Sansa sighed as she took in the extensive and beautiful grounds of Dragonstone. There was a range to please all, manicured lawns, neat and tidy gardens, and a kind of rugged wilderness that reminded Sansa of Winterfell and the North.

She had met Jon Targaryen there. It was a complete accident and at first, Sansa thought, a complete misfortune. He was drenched from an impromptu swim in his pond, and she was flustered, not wanting him to think she was vying for his attention. But as she had attempted to make her hurried escape, he had found her and invited her parents to stroll with him around the gardens. He had offered her kindness, and thoughtfulness, he had talked with her parents, discussed the present state of politics with her father and chatted knowledgeably about gardens with her mother.

They had been staying near Dragonstone for a couple of days, a tentative friendship being cultivated between Jon and herself, when the letter came from Robb. Arya had run off with Gendry Waters and Robb didn’t know where she had gone.

Jon had found her when she had read the letter. He had offered her support and care, sending for her parents, and then he’d left. And her heart ached. Ached for her sister, who may be lost, ached for her parents, and the worry they would suffer, ached for Jon Targaryen and the love that would never be.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Arya had returned from Kings Landing, as Arya Waters. Gendry had never had any ignoble intentions. He’d wanted to stay at Winterfell and plead with their parents to allow Arya to marry him. Arya had not wanted to wait, had not wanted permission. She wanted to marry Gendry and she had.

Her parents had been displeased and worried, having travelled half the countryside to find the couple before a scandal could emerge, but finally Gendry and Arya had turned up in the Vale as Mr and Mrs Waters.

It wasn’t until Arya was back in Winterfell and attempting to settle her life that she spoke of Jon.

“And Mr Targaryen was most kind once Gendry explained how he did not want to have anything to do with the Baratheons and their ridiculous attempt to-”

“Mr Targaryen?” Sansa interrupted. Arya nodded.

“He was at our wedding. He helped get Gendry capital to start the forge and offered to aid any venture Gendry would like to have in the south. He thought Gendry wanted to take over where Robert Baratheon had left off, but Gendry told Mr Targaryen that he had no such plans, he wanted to work hard and honestly and Mr Targaryen seemed to approve.”

“Mr Targaryen helped you wed? Helped Gendry raise capital?” Sansa felt all the breath leave her lungs. Her heart swelled at the generosity, the empathy, the open mindedness that Jon Targaryen must have shown to approach and aid Gendry and Arya, her heart shuddered at the thought that he was exposed further to the scandal and unconcern her family showed to society.

“He was most kind. He also mentioned that Daenerys and himself might be returning to the neighbourhood soon.” Sansa’s heart leaped.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“I will not have it Miss Stark, I will not.” Rhaegar Targaryen had spoken with a frank and almost callous manner. “Jon has been promised to his Martell cousins since birth. It was his grandfather’s greatest wish. You are not his equal in either status or breeding and I will not have it!”

“Excuse me sir! To what are you referring?” Sansa snapped, her blood boiling, her voice cooling.

“This preposterous rumour that you have engaged yourself to my son. I will not have it Miss Stark. It is impossible. Jon is man of breeding and status-”

“He is a gentleman, I am a gentleman’s daughter, thus far was are equal.” Sansa stood tall, determined not to be intimidated by this man.

“But you do not deny it! You do not deny that you are attempting to ensnare my son!”

“You yourself have declared such a union impossible!”

“Do you deny it? Are you engaged to my son?” Rhaegar’s face was turning an alarming shade of red.

“No.” Sansa said, her voice firm, her heart aching a little at the truth.

“And can you promise me to never engage yourself to him?” Rhaegar's colour was beginning to fade.

“No.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Robb had wasted no time once Daenerys Targaryen had resumed residence around Winterfell. He had called on her and Jon and asked for her hand in marriage. It was a most joyous occasion. In the days following Sansa found herself in the company of Jon an awful lot, but never alone. She wished to thank him for the service he had rendered to her family.

Finally, as Robb and Daenerys strolled in front of them Bran said he was going to go and visit with Meera and Jojen Reed, leaving Jon and Sansa to chaperone the engaged couple.

It was a moment before Sansa mustered up the courage to speak.

“Mr Targaryen, I am a selfish creature and as such will give myself relief, even it means exposing you to embarrassment.” She dared not look at him, at those grey eyes that seemed to know her very being. “Thank you, for you assistance in securing the happiness to one beloved sister and one beloved brother. You have done my family a great service. Thank you sir.”

“If you must thank me, let it be for yourself alone.” She stopped and looked at him. His voice was tender, vulnerable. “As much as I have come to admire and respect your family, I believe I thought of you alone.” Her breath hitched in her breast and her heartbeat so loudly she was sure he could hear it. “You are too generous to trifle with me. If your feelings are still what they were last April, tell me so at once. My affections and wishes are unchanged, but one word from you will silence me on this subject for ever.” His eyes suddenly would not meet hers. He stared at his feet.

“My affections have changed so much since then. They are now quite opposite.” Jon’s head snapped up, his eyes meeting hers. They were filled with such joy, such hope, such love that Sansa could not help the giggle that seemed to overflow from her lips. She turned from him, not trusting herself to not act in a manner most compromising and attempted to uncover the evolution of his feelings.

“How did you know my feelings were not the same?” She asked.

“My father.” He chuckled at this. “He was most displeased after his attack upon you. When he told me you refused to promise never to engage yourself to me… It taught me to hope, as I had never hoped before.”

Sansa let her fingers brush his and before she realised what she’d done, their hands were entwined.

“But how did you begin?” She asked, not acknowledging their clasped hands as they walked. “I can see you continuing charmingly once you had fallen, but I cannot grasp or comprehend a beginning.” She teased.

“I cannot fix upon the hour, or the spot, or the look that laid the foundation. I was in the middle before I knew I had begun.” He murmured, his voice full of emotion and tender care. Sansa closed her eyes for a moment, savouring the sweet words that her love had whispered to her and her alone. “And what of you? When did your feelings alter so drastically?”

Unable to resist teasing him she replied “Upon seeing the grounds of Dragonstone.” Jon laughed and Sansa decided she wanted to hear that sound everyday for the rest of her life.

[shewas-agaystripper]

The Clinic: Part 17

The Clinic: Part Seventeen

Brian is sent off to Queen Mary’s Psychiatric Hospital to cure his depression and borderline. His roommates, John in particular, help him push through this difficult time in his life

Hello dear people! I can’t believe it’s actually happening, but here she is – the final part of The Clinic! (Or that is – the last part of the storyline within Queen Mary’s Psychiatric Hospital. There will be an epilogue coming up in a few weeks, which I think you’ll all enjoy a lot, because it contains good news for all of our boys!) But for now I really hope you’ll enjoy Part 17, and please let me know what you think!

Please feel free to talk to me and shoot me messages/anons! I’m feeling kind of lonely on my new blog still :s

P.s. Normally I’d link all the previous chapters here, but as SOMEONE @staff) deleted my whole entire blog, they’re now gone. If you haven’t read the previous chapters yet, or would like to reread them first, here is the whole thing on my AO3 account!

Have fun reading, and any sort of feedback or suggestions is appreciated!

The two weeks between the nerve-racking meeting during which Brian’s parents had signed the paperwork that secured both his and John’s immediate future after Queen Mary’s and the day of the reassessment judgement passed like a hazy blur in Brian’s experience. It was both the most and the least stressful time he had spent at Queen Mary’s; the most and the least joyful; the fastest and the slowest passing; the most relaxed and the most tensed; the happiest and the saddest weeks in his books of the mental institution. 

The death of Drew seemed to affect everybody present in one way or the other - and for most people it came as a positive change. The removal of arguably Queen Mary’s biggest bully and most violent patient left many feeling safer going out of their room in the evening, and Brian was sure that staff - even though no one openly spoke about the matter - was relieved to no longer have to guard the place as strictly as before, or spend as much time on keeping Drew in check. A bonus was that the murderer, who had been Clyde’s most important right hand, had been delivered to a prison in wait of his judgement - something Brian had heard the family of the guy had made a huge scene over, but Queen Mary’s didn’t budge and refused to take back a murderer in broad daylight. At last a decision Brian could get behind.

However, with the death of Drew and the removal of whoever the guy who had stabbed him into his unfortunate fate was, a shift in power dynamics had taken place at Queen Mary’s. Clyde, although weakened after the expulsion of his right hand, was still the leader of his pack, but Drew’s clan had fallen into disarray like a middle school class when left to vent for their own by their teacher for five minutes. Jake had never been anything more than a puppet that blindly followed all of Drew’s instructions, and he was never going to be the one to be crowned with the questionable honour of being Drew’s successor. There were a few other figures, though, who had all unanimously decided in their mighty wisdom that they would be the best choice to now rule over Drew’s collection of angry adolescents. To prove this point to the population of Queen Mary’s they went around the place slamming doors in people’s faces and shouting abuse at random passers-by, but most of the actual violence they reserved for each other in an attempt to show their strength. It reminded Brian of an anecdote his tenth-grade history teacher had told his class about three early medieval cardinals who had all declared themselves as the pope and excommunicated each other time after time in pursuit of their goal. As long as they left him and his friends alone, Brian didn’t care a straw for these patterers showing off their non-existent strength.

Something that did affect him, however, was the continuing lack of structure, routine, and professional staff around at Queen Mary’s. Things had been tight since the day Brian had been admitted, but with now even less staff around the place - as a result of staff cuts and people leaving the institution because they no longer felt safe at their jobs. Especially the kitchen team was hit hard by the changes, and attempts were made to have patients fill in the spots of the people who had taken their leave. 

Needless to say, this proved to be a disaster; almost nobody voluntarily signed up to peel potatoes or wash the dishes, and absolutely not a soul turned up for the corvee-schedules the head cook fabricated. When eventually random patients around the place were simply rounded up and ushered into the kitchen to help out the remaining staff, they had been creating more troubles than they solved. Food fights were a classic trick at Queen Mary’s, of course, but never before had patients had access to the large variety of kitchen knives. It had taken less than two days before people of Drew’s and Clyde’s gang had winded up in the kitchen together, and the stab accident that followed had made staff decide to just abandon the participation project altogether. Now everyone simply had to either work harder or wait longer, and more pre-made food was bought and prepared. It didn’t exactly taste good, but luckily the patients at Queen Mary’s had never been used to any form of luxury whatsoever anyway. 

A bigger problem was that besides the kitchen staff also the actual medical staff had suffered losses. After Ariel, the group leader of another therapy group had also left the place; the official story was that she suffered from a burnout, but Brian had learned over time not to automatically trust official reports issued by Queen Mary’s. What he did know was that the group this therapist had left behind, had now been mashed up with his own, leaving Jasper on his own to handle twenty-five depressed young men. Nolan, being the hero that he was, often joined his co-worker to help him - but even his presence could not keep the group under control. Group therapy now a mess, personal sessions with psychs now became more important to most people - but just like everyone else at the mental institution, they were busier than ever before also. People who had previously been in touch with their psychs every day now only got to see them every other day, and those people only once a week from now on. This did not matter too much for Brian personally, but he was not too happy about Freddie and Roger seeing their psychologists less than they used to. Of course there was no proof of correlation, but Brian did feel that Roger slipping into taking Valium could be linked to the lack of support and security around the place. 

On the other hand, the all-absorbing chaos of the place did mean more leniency and less people to look over their shoulders at all times - which meant that John had made a run for the kitchen to provide breakfast in bed multiple times, and that no one really said anything about them making music in their bedroom for hours on end. Most of all, it meant that Freddie had managed to have his family either directly give him or smuggle in numerous cosmetic items, which he was now going to put to the test on Brian’s unwilling hair and face. Ushering the half-awake man into the bathroom shared by Rooms 40 through 49 at an ungodly hour in the morning, Freddie put his makeup bag down on the sink and gestured for Brian to come on over.

‘Hop on up, dear! We’ve got no time to lose,’ he declared impatiently yet enthusiastically, landing his hand on the white surface of the sink platform he apparently wished for Brian to perch himself on top of. 

‘It’s barely six o’clock,’ muttered Roger, who followed behind. He had similarly been pulled out of bed by his over-enthusiastic boyfriend a mere five minutes ago, and him rubbing his eyes ever since was a visible testimony of how tired he was.

‘Yes, but there’s a lot to get done! It’s going to take a while,’ Freddie said.

‘You’re saying I look bad?’ Brian lifted an eyebrow.

‘Of course not! You look fine, dear,’ Freddie shushed. ‘But I just want to touch you up a little. Give your face some more colour and make your eyes pop out a little. Maybe define your lips somewhat… And get rid of these blemishes around your nose. Do you think I should line out his jaw some more?’ Freddie now turned to John, who had leaned back against the wall across from the sinks as he regarded the early morning spectacle from as much distance as he could possibly create. 

‘Yes, and maybe also draw out his nose and give him pink coloured lenses,’ John said quasi-thoughtfully. ‘Fake lashes and a forehead high enough to host a picnic on. Cut off all of his hair and give him a wig à la Diana Ross.’

‘Very funny, Deacon,’ Freddie rolled his eyes. ‘But now that we’re talking about his hair anyway… I think it could use some washing, moisturising, and blow-drying. Then afterwards I can properly comb it through and put in the curls again with setting spray.’

‘No brushing!’ Brian protested. ‘Unless you want me to look like a drowned poodle, don’t brush my hair.’

‘I don’t see how that would make you look any different from usual,’ Roger shrugged.

‘Oh, you’re terrible. Go make yourself useful and get me a chair,’ Freddie said to his partner, before he turned back to Brian. ‘And you get on top of this sink now, will you?’ He gave Brian a light smack against his bottom, which, although not at all painful, was unexpected and therefore made Brian yelp awkwardly. 

‘Might I remind you that I am the only one allowed to touch Brian’s ass, or tell him what or whom he is to get on top of?’ John commented from the sideline.

‘As if Brian would ever top. I have to laugh,’ said Freddie - which made Brian sure that if he had not been blushing before, he sure as hell was doing so now. He hoisted up one leg to the fake marble platform, planted his knee on it, withdrew it again, and then put it back again. It was a near military operation to perch himself up there, being all long limbs and of awkward height - not to even mention his fear of breaking down the whole damn construction. If it was of the same quality the average Queen Mary’s furniture was made of, he might end up on the floor with the whole sink platform below him.

‘Don’t worry, you can sit on it,’ said Freddie, as if he could read Brian’s mind. ‘I do it all the time.’

‘Very comforting to hear that a glorified scarecrow can sit on this piece of painted hardwood,’ said John. Brian knocked on the surface of it to find that his boyfriend might not even be far from the truth concerning the material of the thing.

‘I’ve seen Clyde standing right on top of it once,’ Freddie shrugged. This at last restored some faith in the sink to Brian; if a near-bodybuilder like Clyde could stand on it (he decided to not linger for too long on the question of why Clyde had a cause for doing so), then certainly he could sit on it. Placing his hands on the platform for a second time, he again put his knee on the sink, hoisted himself up, and turned around until he sat with his bottom as far back on the platform as possible, with his back leaning half against the wall and his feet dangling over the edge.

‘See? Nothing to worry about,’ Freddie said. ‘Now, you’re just gonna have to shift to the light a little - turn to me, dear. Yes, that’s better. Or maybe…’ Freddie stood on his tiptoes to put his hand on Brian’s chin and face it in the correct direction, something that to Brian felt a little strange at the very least. He had never been exactly comfortable with people touching him, and especially not when it was done before notifying him first. On top of that, having someone fiddle around with his appearance was something he was not very used to - especially not when this was at six in the morning in a questioningly clean semi-public bathroom with a range of makeup and grooming supplies he had never seen before. It had been Freddie’s doing, really - if it hadn’t been for his friend having decided that he would make a better impression on the jury if he looked like the Queen of Lombardia, Brian still would have been in bed, arms firmly around John and sleeping in for as long as they could until Nolan would eventually come pick them up for the trial that had been planned for that early afternoon. It certainly would have been better for his skin to have gotten some more sleep, Brian pondered when he got a glance of himself in the mirror; the bags under his eyes were going to take some serious product and talent to fully cover up.

‘You could work at Madame Tussauds with all of that repositioning you’re doing,’ said Roger, who burst through the door with one of the dingy rattan dining chairs he had taken from their bedroom. Freddie was still busy adjusting Brian’s face in the right angle to the light, and did not look up at his boyfriend. 

‘I’d rather become fabulously famous and have my own statue at Madame Tussauds, darling,’ he said haughtily, gesturing towards Roger to move the chair over. Roger planted it down next to Freddie, who took visible trouble to step up on the seating platform. Roger reached out a hand to help him steady and readjust the chair so he was positioned in front of Brian and next to the sink to put down the ungodly amount of items he had brought with him. 

‘Are you sure this is a good idea?’ Roger asked as Freddie balanced unevenly on the chair.

‘My dear, I have nothing but good ideas only,’ smiled Freddie.

‘Then why are we up at six?’

‘Because!’ Freddie squealed loudly enough to make John put a finger across his lips to gesture that he had to be quieter. ‘Because I’m going to make Brian glow, and show all of those dumb judges that he’s doing better than ever and taking good care of himself and ready to leave this place behind.’

‘And that’s going to take seven hours?’ Roger asked.

‘No, it’s not. But we need to practice what to say to the judges and how to answer their questions also.’

‘Brian and I have already done that a hundred times,’ said Roger - and to Brian, this did not even feel like an exaggeration. Since the moment he had been told he would pull through to be reassessed - no, since the moment he had decided to take a reassessment, that was - he had been eager to practice what he should say or do once he was to be faced with the people who were to decide on his fate. He had received a lot of support from the people around him, with John helping him fill out all the paperwork, Freddie helping him with the diary he had been asked to keep, and Roger by preparing him for the questions he was most likely to have to ask during his trial. Nevertheless, he felt the nervousness getting to him now that the day was finally there, and it did not surprise him one bit to hear that Freddie wanted to go over all they had practised from their waking moment to the second the door of the meeting room would close behind them.

‘But there is no such thing as too much preparation,’ Freddie said.

‘And yet that seemed to be exactly what you complained about last night when I wouldn’t get on with it,’ Roger grinned.

Freddie rolled his eyes. ‘Hush, you. Get me a washcloth and the face wash.’

‘I’m your servant now?’ Roger raised his eyebrows.

‘Yes, so maybe you can make yourself somewhat useful still on this trying day,’ Freddie answered with a tired smile that betrayed that there was no real malice behind his words. Roger, surprisingly, did as he was told, and Brian was asked to close his eyes and cant his head back a little. Even though he washed his face at the sink every morning, the coldness of the washcloth as it was brought up to his face was startling still. Freddie wiped his face down with it, covering his whole face with the thinnest layer of moist. The cloth then disappeared and he heard the faint click of a bottle being opened. He opened his eyes to see Freddie rubbing a substance of some kind between his hands, which he then applied to Brian’s facial skin. Seeing the questioning look on Brian’s face, he said: ‘Just a facewash, love. Don’t tell me you never use that.’

‘I just use water,’ Brian shrugged, the movement of which made Freddie’s fingers accidentally rub the facewash on his lips instead of his chin.

‘Same here,’ John said.

‘You’re lucky if I wash my face at all,’ Roger snorted. Freddie sighed deeply.

‘You’re a bunch of barbarians, really. I can’t believe they’re about to let two of you go.’

‘It’s a disgrace, really,’ John said. ‘Brian and I are really going to get out there and do things like washing our face with water only, and not making the bed every morning. Maybe I’ll even wear the same boxers for two days in a row.’

‘I’ll eat fruit without rinsing it off first, and not wash my hands after I sneeze,’ Brian added.

‘You’re driving me crazy,’ Freddie sighed as he wiped the face wash off Brian’s skin. ‘As long as you promise to wash your hands after going to the toilet.’

‘After?’ John asked. ‘I thought one was supposed to do that beforehand. The exact opposite of when you prepare raw meat and then wash your hands after.’ Freddie nearly dropped the washcloth to the floor as he turned to John with a jaw that almost did the same. 

‘Just kidding,’ John grinned after having let Freddie stare at him in disbelief for a handful of seconds.

‘John! You nearly gave me a heart attack!’ Freddie squealed, and he sent the cloth flying into John’s direction. John caught it with ease and buried his face in it, rubbing up and down a few times, before he threw it back into the sink with trained expertise. ‘So, that was my personal hygiene for today.’

‘I’ll refrain from commenting on that,’ Freddie groaned as he dug through his makeup purse and fished out something that looked oddly similar to a razor. He picked up a bottle from the sink platform and squeezed out a foamy substance, but it was only when he started spreading it along the lower side of Brian’s face that the pieces of the puzzle really fell into place for Brian.

‘You’ve got a shaving razor?’ he asked in surprise.

‘Mh. Yes. I got sick and tired of having to shave under the supervision of a staff member,’ Freddie parroted with his nose drawn up to ridicule the average Queen Mary’s employee. ‘So I snuck out to steal a few shaving razors on my own, and had my parents bring me shaving cream during visiting hour.’

‘And no one noticed- of course no one noticed,’ Brian answered his own question. If they had, after all, he would not be sitting here with Freddie spreading shaving foam along his jawline with one hand and the other hand wrapped around a disposable shaving razor.

‘This place is the biggest joke I’ve ever seen,’ Roger snorted.

‘Speaking of which, anyone want some breakfast?’ John asked. ‘If I go now I can get in there before the kitchen staff arrives.’

‘I mean, I could do with a croissant and some coffee,’ Roger said.

‘Same for me, please,’ Brian mumbled as best as he could now that Freddie was covering his lower face in a somewhat excessive layer of shaving cream. 

‘You, Bulsara?’ John asked.

‘If you can get your hands on some cucumber, that’d be great,’ Freddie said without looking up from his subject.

‘If you think I’m gonna let you get away with eating a single slice of cucumber for breakfast then you’re mistaken.’

‘Not to eat, silly. To put on Brian’s face later on.’

‘Scuse me?’

‘To make these bags under his eyes less visible! You really all are the enemies of personal care, are you?’ Freddie asked.

‘No, we have our own methods against bags under our eyes. It’s called sleep,’ John said, after which he flashed Brian a wink, turned on his heel, and paced out of the bathroom. 

Strangely enough, it was after John - usually the quietest of the pack - had left that they fell into a comfortable silence. Brian allowed Freddie to shave him, which he did with a minute precision that made Brian wonder if a single beard hair would ever dare to grow back on his face. Roger was given a reprimand for using the same washcloth to wash his face as Brian and John had previously done, and was then sent away to fetch a clean towel and probably to grant Freddie a second of rest. He returned right in time with John, who provided coffee and croissants and yoghurt for everybody - and who brought a cucumber large enough to supply the entire population of Queen Mary’s, staff and clients, with cucumber slices to put on their eyes.

Roger attacked his croissants with fervour, and John tried to slip Brian pieces of his in between Freddie’s makeover session. They could not tell whether Freddie was too busy with brushing out every single blemish and every possible crease in Brian’s face to think about having breakfast, or if he was actively working to avoid having to eat - but, suspecting that the latter option played at least a factor to some extent in the matter, John took to spoonfeeding Freddie yoghurt in between the acts. Roger willingly posed as Freddie’s assistant and handed him creams, concealers, and brushes when his partner asked him to. Brian just sat back and tried to enjoy - or at least relax - as much as he could this unusual treatment he had been submitted to.

In this fashion, half an hour or so slipped by almost unnoticed, until Freddie suddenly realised that the luxury of having the bathroom all to themselves was soon going to be a thing of the past when the people staying in the other rooms at their wing would wake up and start pouring into their space. Luckily for him, living with an antisocial personality disorder for years on end had taught John all the tricks of the trade. He summoned Roger to get a pen and paper and paper and another chair from their bedroom, and himself he fetched a piece of tape from a broken table in the hallway someone had clumsily tried to fix. He used the paper to write a sign which proudly boasted ‘OUT OF ORDER’, put it on the outside of the door, and then locked it by putting the chair right beneath the handle. Surely enough, not even five minutes later the first people arrived for their morning shower; but, upon trying the door a few times and finding it stuck, they quickly left the place with a string of swear words.

‘Do you think staff will figure us out?’ Brian whispered at Roger when what must have been the fifth person in line was rattling the doorknob.

‘Probably not. They’ve got other things on their mind - and since the door is locked on the inside and has an out-of-order-sign on it, they’ll just let it be.’

Roger was right - a few more frustrated fellow patients tried their luck at opening the door (one of whom almost managed in an outburst of pent-up frustration), but after fifteen minutes or so, the attempts had died out completely. This gave Freddie the opportunity to resume his work on Brian’s face; a thin layer of powdered foundation had been applied, and he now worked away the bags under Brian’s eyes with a concealer. He darkened up his cheekbones a little, and then decided to get started on Brian’s hair, which he declared was going to be ‘quite a task’. Indeed, he worked on it for nearly an hour; washing it and blow drying it, putting God knew what sort of setting sprays and curl definers in it while fluffing it up into a mass of tight, shiny black ringlets that graced Brian’s shoulders and which bounced back when he pulled at them - something Freddie told him not to do, but which Brian could not resist. To prevent the curls from sagging down or falling out of their desired shape, Freddie applied a mist of hairspray to them big enough to keep Mary Antoinette's wig from slipping, after which he told Brian to take a look in the mirror and see what he thought of the result.

Brian was surprised when he looked at his mirror image, and in the positive sense of the word. His face looked young yet masculine, without the usual dark circles around his eyes; similarly, his lips were shiny and the area of his mouth did not show any creases or blemishes. His hair was a vast but glorious mess of curls that shone in the light and fell around his face as a dark halo. He had never known that his hair could look so voluminous, so healthy and shiny and yet so natural and /uncomplicated/. He had always struggled with his hair - both with keeping it decent and with accepting it the way it was - but Freddie really had made him like it for the first time in what must have been years, and possibly could have been for the first time ever.

‘And? What do you think?’ Freddie asked.

‘It’s beautiful. I love it,’ Brian declared with the broadest smile. He leaned forward and caught Freddie in a hug that his friend obviously did not anticipate, for he squealed and clung to the rattan backrest of the chair he was half-standing, half-leaning on. Once he realised Brian had him safely in his grip, however, his terror faded and was replaced by happiness, and Freddie allowed an equally bright smile to shine through on his face.

‘And I’m not even done yet!’ Freddie declared enthusiastically. He carefully detached himself from Brian, and rumbled through his makeup bag until he fished out a small black stick that Brian had to squint at to find out its purpose.

‘Eyeliner?’ he asked.

‘Kohl. Just a little at the outside of your eyes to make them pop out,’ Freddie beamed. Although both Brian and the rest of the men present in the room had their second thoughts on the idea, Freddie talked them into allowing him to try it out anyway - and in the end, a thin layer of it smudged out ever so slightly to the midst of the lower eyelid was met with everyone’s approval.

By the time all the face and hair care had been done, it was past eight o’clock, which meant that virtually all of Queen Mary’s inhabitants were to be expected at breakfast. The four men of Room 41B decided to take a shot for their room; Roger was the one to be brave enough to remove the chair from the door and peek around it, first for a mere second and then for a long enough time to establish that there was nobody to be seen in the hallway. They then took a dash for their door, one by one; Roger and John with a chair under their arm, Freddie with an armful of bottles and tubes, and Brian with the makeup bag and towels which had been left behind. Once they had returned safely to their room Brian ran down the hallway one more time to tear down the homemade out-of-order-sign, which he crumpled up into a ball and threw into the toilet. On his way back to the room he silently prayed that it would not cause a congestion and cause the bathroom to actually be taken out of order for the upcoming time. 

Already having taken breakfast in the form of John having brought them coffee and croissants, once they retreated to their bedroom they unanimously made the decision not to emerge from it again to mingle with the rest of Queen Mary's inhabitants for shared breakfast in the canteen. Rather, they spent the time feeding Freddie small pieces of the croissant John had brought for him (and ignoring the protest Freddie made against taking such a 'calorie bomb', as he called it). They made him comply in the end by promising they would then get down to have Freddie pull off whatever kind of stunts he had in mind with the cucumber he had made John take with him from the kitchen, which sulkily made Freddie swallow the last bites without too much audible gagging. 

John, being the genius that he was, had taken care to take a small potato knife with him from the kitchen. It was large enough to cut the cucumber into slices, but small enough to either hide or dispose of pretty easily. Freddie cut enough slices for everyone to put on closed eyelids, and a few extra for Roger to eat (with a not so subtle comment that he should eat some vegetables at times, which Roger in turn said he did, and which started quite the discussion about vitamins and minerals between the couple). John and Brian, in the meantime, took the moment to appreciate Brian's almost entirely renewed skin and softened curls. They then took to their bed to have a seat again while the others bickered about their eating habits - it was, after all, still early in the morning. They remarked that they might even go to sleep again soon. Nolan would not come to pick them up for another three or so hours, so they might as well get a little more sleep. 

Freddie, on the other hand, clearly had other plans than 'sleeping away these precious hours'. Once he had cut up the cucumbers into the most irregular slices Brian had ever seen, he ordered them to lie down flat on the bed and have him put the items of food on their eyes. This went down with lots of laughter and screeches at the unfamiliar feeling and coldness of the vegetables against their closed eyelids, which in turn evoked Freddie to call them a bunch of barbarians again, although this time he did it with a smile. The singer also started fussing about Brian's hair again now that he was lying flat on the mattress while his hair had been styled with an exorbitant amount of product and care just ten minutes ago. Unfortunately for Freddie, there was little other alternative if he wanted for Brian to have the cucumber slices evening out the by now already non-existent bags under his eyes. Roger's idea of putting the slices on Brian's eyelids and keeping them in place with Freddie's suede sleeping mask was cheered on by everyone apart from the owner of said item, who seemed indignant at the idea that people would even think of putting his precious Japanese suede sleeping mask to that purpose. In the end Freddie won the battle of the suede mask, but was thereby forced to have Brian recline with his head on the pillow. 

To Brian’s surprise, it wasn't even that bad to have Freddie try out his weird homemade remedies for bags under the eyes that would not have been there in the first place if he just would have been allowed to sleep in until a decent time. Maybe it was because he was getting used to the feeling of being pampered, or perhaps because he knew he had the rest of his friends hanging around him looking like clowns just as much as he did. They fell into a short moment of silence upon all having settled down on their respective beds, but it was soon broken up when the sound of crunchy vegetables being torn into pieces reached their ears.

'Roger!' Freddie called out instantly.

'What? What else were you gonna do with half of a cucumber, put it pack into the kitchen fridge again?' Roger around a mouth still half full of remains of the last bite of vegetable.

‘At least he’s eating his veggies,’ John shrugged, the movement of which made a slice of cucumber tumble off his eye and onto Brian’s shirt. It left a somewhat damp spot on Brian’s uniform shirt, and he was glad Freddie hadn’t seen the incident. With his current nervousness which outed itself by striving for absolute perfection, he would probably have a stroke if he noticed a stain on Brian’s clothes.

Speaking of nervousness... Brian had forbidden himself to think about the upcoming trial too much, but he definitely felt an uncomfortable tension in the pit of his stomach - one which had followed him for days in a row by now. Although it must have started as early as the moment he had signed the first official paperwork concerning his wish to leave Queen Mary’s, it had grown gradually worse over time, with the peak of it coming down upon him in these last few days. The last paperwork and diary assignments had needed to be completed the other day, and it had taken his friends an hour of pep-talking him to go down and have his last talk with Sarah and Doctor Fisher concerning the Judgement Day, as it had come to be referred to by now by everyone around the place. Being as rare as it was, his reassessment track and all that came with it had become something of a public spectacle that all people at Queen Mary's, regardless of how close they had been to Brian, were currently engaged with to some level of the other. It was the talk of the town, as a matter of speaking; it was the only topic his by now therapy group of twenty-five people were interested in talking about, and the thing strangers continually tapped him on the shoulder for to either question or advise him about. Even Freddie, Roger, and John were not exempted from this treatment, and especially the former two - who tended to go out more often - returned with stories about random people questioning them about Brian’s reassessment on the daily. All the attention was something Brian could definitely do without; it made him nervous knowing that so many people looked at him as he was trying to fight his sentence at Queen Mary’s. How many people would look down upon him if he failed, how many people would laugh at him and ridicule him if he didn’t succeed?

‘Are you nervous about this afternoon?’ John asked, plucking a strand of hair out of Brian’s face. Brian sighed.

'More than I’d like to admit,' Brian said. 'I’m mainly afraid of having to face all of those staff members and judges and whoever more will be in that room...'

'Would it feel better if we won't be there?' Freddie asked from the sideline. 'You know, having fewer people to worry about...'

'No, I want you to be there,' Brian told him. 'I want people who support me there. I want Sarah and Nolan and Jasper and you guys - I just don't want the other people there. The jury and the people from the medical board and the director of Queen Mary's.'

'I'm afraid you can't exactly have a judgement without a jury, darling,' Freddie said. 'But I understand what you mean. It's never exactly comfortable having to put yourself out there around those people, but we'll be there for you. And your parents will be too, won't they? Or does that just make you nervous?'

'Somewhat,' Brian said with a breathy laugh. 'They support me, but I know that they'd rather have me stay here at Queen Mary’s until my treatment is over. Although… since I’ve told them about the chaos around here, they seem more sceptical about this place. The murder of Drew didn’t seem to sit very comfortably with them when I told them about it on the phone the other day,’ Brian said in what must have been the understatement of the century. His father had been indignant that no police investigation was going on at the place, and his mother had been hysterical at the idea of what could happen to him if people at Queen Mary’s could literally get their hands on knives and commit murders inside its walls in the broad daylight. He did not mean to stress his parents out, but it felt good to know they supported his possible homecoming more whenever they heard of such atrocities. 

‘Well yeah, I should hope that they’re not comfortable with murder,’ Roger snickered. ‘Because regardless of how much we all hated Drew, that really was disgusting.’

Brian nodded weakly; he kept remembering the last words Drew had spoken to John and him. He kept remembering the sincere look on his face as he wished them well; and though it did not in any sense of the word make up for all the pain and hurt he had pulled both them and everyone else at Queen Mary’s through, it had shown the human side that Drew still, deep inside of him, had possessed until the very end of his life. 

‘For how long do I need to keep these soggy cucumbers on my eyelids?’ John interspersed in an attempt to keep up the atmosphere.

‘Another fifteen minutes or so,’ Freddie said.

‘Oh, but then we’ll miss our therapy groups!’ Roger exclaimed with the biggest grin on his face, which told the people around him that he absolutely did not give a straw about his group sessions. None of them did, in all honesty - but as Brian was the only one who had officially been given leave to be absent on that day due to his obligations elsewhere, the others were officially required to show up at their therapy sessions. A short discussion broke loose, which was more of an enumeration of all the reasons why they should not go rather than a real contemplation of the pros and cons of following Queen Mary’s schedule - and unsurprisingly the result of it was that they all decided to stay in to have a chat while plucking some guitar strings. Freddie proposed a classic game of mensch-ärgere-dich-nicht, which they languidly played in between finishing up the last preparations for the judgement that afternoon.

‘You filled in all of your paperwork?’ Freddie asked while rolling the dice.

‘Yes. Mister Fisher collected it all and will bring it with him to the meeting.’

‘Your mental health diary has been filled in for each day?’

‘All covered.’

‘You know where to go and what to do?’

‘Be at the staff room at ten to one, shake hands with the judges, then take a seat next to Mister Fisher, who will make a case for me. I just have to be quiet unless I’m being asked to open my mouth, and appear as strong and mentally stable as possible,’ Brian said with a slight twitch of the lips. 

‘Have you prepared a speech?’ Freddie asked. Brian frowned.

‘Speech? It’s not his graduation, Fred,’ Roger told him. ‘At most they’ll ask him some questions similar to the ones he had to answer for his portfolio of whatever one wants to call it, and we already practised those a hundred times.’

‘Well, but you never know! They might ask him to defend his case in a beautiful, heart-felt soliloquy…’ Freddie clearly poured out his heart into this idea, but Roger just snorted.

‘This is not a business pitch where you try to receive a million-dollar loan from some kind of business magnate,’ Roger laughed. Freddie joined him, and even John gave them a grin - but Brian himself could not treat the idea as a laughing matter. Ten minutes later, when Freddie won the board game with a glorious victory over all of his roommates, Brian still found himself caught up with the possibility that he might actually have to explain his case in detail to all of the people present in the room who were ready to judge his every word. Of course he had prepared answers to short and basic questions - such as why he thought he was ready to leave, what he had learned at Queen Mary’s, or which plans he had made to prevent a fall-back in the future. But what if he could not provide such a deep-going speech that combined high levels of emotional security with lessons from the past and promises for the future? What if despite all of the paperwork provided which all professionals who had helped him on his journey here told him would almost surely free him from Queen Mary’s, the jury would turn him down for his own clumsiness with words? What if Doctor Sumner saw it as his window of opportunity to put him down and keep him at Queen Mary’s for as long as he could?

This question - and others concerning the nature of the judgement and the personality of the judges - continued to bother Brian over the course of the hours the group spent in each other’s presence. By the time lunch rolled around, he found himself having too little appetite and too many worries to get out of the room and go downstairs to the dining hall. The prospect of being flooded with glances and questions and tips and tricks from people who had never shown a single interest in him until the moment his attempt at reassessment was made public upon presenting himself in the canteen did not exactly encourage him any more. John was not very much in the mood to suffer the same treatment, so in the end it was Roger who dragged Freddie down to the canteen and promised to stuff some sandwiches in his pockets for the roommates they left behind. The idea of this did not sound too appetising to Brian, but he decided not to dwell onto this fact for too long. Instead, he gestured for John to come join him on his bed again. While he continued to pluck at the strings of his guitar, John settled down next to him and started carding a hand through Brian’s curls, then quickly moved downwards to stroke his arm when he realised Freddie would probably kill him if he put a single lock of hair out of its original place. 

‘What are you thinking about?’ John asked when the silence turned a little too long even for his liking.

‘I wish it would all be over,’ Brian sighed. ‘This entire circus show around my trial. It’s no one else’s business apart from ours.’

‘I know, honey. Soon it will be over, and it will be all between the two of us again.’ Brian received a kiss on his jawbone, and a string of promises of how good it would be when they’d both get released from the institution. The smaller the gap between the present and the hour of confrontation grew, the larger Brian’s feeling of insecurity and doubt became. What if he could not deliver the version of himself the judges wanted to see? What if he would disappoint everyone after so much work they had all put into his revaluation?

Freddie and Roger returned to the room after less than fifteen minutes, and - true to his word - Roger had taken two splashed sandwiches with him. They looked flat and soggy as they emerged from his trouser pockets, but Brian was coaxed into eating his anyway by John, who insisted that he could not go down to the judgement without having eaten something first. The mere mentioning of the word ‘judgement’ made Brian’s stomach turn. 

Between the bites of his soggy peanut butter and jam sandwich - a culinary decision he would not have made on his own, but which turned out not to even be that bad at second thought - Brian was bombarded by questions from Freddie, who asked him if he had all the papers, documents, and answers ready for everything the judges might possibly ask from him. After all, the meeting was going to be in less than fifteen minutes - a fact that Brian started to realise he could not change with every one of these minutes passing by on the round clock hanging above the door of their dorm room. 

It was a quarter to one, and Brian had just finished the last bite of his sandwich, when a knock on the door caught them all off guard - and, as seemed to have become tradition overtime, Freddie was the one who hoisted himself off the bed and flung himself at the door. He opened it with his usual enthusiasm to reveal not only Nolan, whom they had expected, but Jasper and Sarah on top of that.

'Guys! We didn't know you were all coming down here?' Freddie said as he gestured to the staff members to come in. Brian could see from his corner of the room how Jasper made an attempt at entering, but Sarah pulled him back by grabbing his arm, reminding him of the limited time they had until they were expected to show their faces at the meeting. 

'Emotional support, we thought,’ Jasper smiled, and Brian, although he was not always too sure of having too many people around him, appreciated how they had all come down to meet up with him here. Unfortunately for him, it turned out that the staff members involved in the process were not the only ones who had made the journey to Room 41B - when he followed John’s example of standing up from the bed, he could make out the figures of a few other men over Sarah’s shoulder. Judging by their grey t-shirts, they were neither part of the jury nor did they belong to the staff of the institution, and must thus simply be guys with a sense of morbid curiosity trying to get a view of the unusual scene that was about to go down.

Luckily, it was Nolan who addressed the bunch. ‘Jack, Paul, Eli, and all the rest of you - please leave us some space, will you? You can go downstairs to watch the whole thing and you know that.’

You can go downstairs to watch the whole thing and you know that. The words hit Brian like a baseball bat, even though he did not know for sure what Nolan meant with this. Did he simply say this to get everyone out of their way, or was he referring to how downstairs they could see the entire party descend into the meeting room? Or was there perhaps a literal meaning to the words Nolan had used to shoo away the unwanted spectators?

Freddie was quicker to pull himself together than Brian was. ‘Excuse me? Go downstairs and see what?’ 

‘Why, the meeting, of course,’ Jasper answered without batting an eye. 

‘The meeting? It’s public?’ Roger now mingled himself into the discussion. 

‘They always are. Just like court cases - they’re public unless stated otherwise. I thought you knew that.’ 

Brian felt John’s eyes travelling travelling over to meet his, but he could not look back at his partner. In fact, he could not look at anything apart from the doorknob his gaze had fallen onto since the second the possibility of an open judgement had dawned on him - something that was now confirmed by a single careless sentence falling from Jasper’s lips.

‘Oh, well, excuse us for not knowing the practices and traditions of the English legal system by heart-’ Freddie started off bitchily, but Jasper interrupted him.

‘No, what I meant was - I thought you’d been told this. They were supposed to tell you this. They didn’t tell you?’ Six pairs of eyes flung back to look at Brian, who feebly shook his head in a form of response. 

‘I don’t think any of us knew this,’ John spoke on behalf of his partner. ‘Who exactly are ‘they’ when they’re at home?’

At the question of this, Jasper turned to look at Nolan and Sarah. ‘I thought you were going to tell Brian this, Nole.’

Nolan in turn shook his head. ‘No, Sarah was going to. She’s his psychiatrist and leads this process of reassessment.’

‘No, Mister Fisher does. He’s supposed to be in charge, and I thought he was the one to tell Brian?’ The audible question mark at the end of Sarah’s sentence revealed that she, just like her male co-workers, had no idea of how exactly things had been arranged concerning who was responsible for passing on which part of information to Brian. The person affected decided not to dwell on for too long on the possibility of the staff having forgotten more than just this one not entirely trivial fact, which might in turn be detrimental to his chances of leaving Queen Mary’s.

‘Okay, so basically this was communication at its finest,’ Sarah said with a breathy half-giggle, but she checked herself in time, probably understanding that as typical and non-surprising it was that such a thing happened at Queen Mary’s, it was not exactly funny to Brian, who would now be given exactly thirteen minutes to prepare himself for the idea of having to submit to his ordeal in a room filled with God knew how many nosy men who came to watch how he kept himself standing in front of the judges, hoping for juicy details or a nervous breakdown or whatever it was that they were after.

‘And now? Brian is supposed to just accept that there’s going to be a flood of nosy bastards snooping around during the trial because no one here talks to each other?’ Freddie asked crankily. He was obviously not happy about it, and neither was Brian himself - but, knowing that making a scene about the matter now would only make things worse and might even affect his chances of getting out if word of it reached the judges. Better buckle up and keep his calm as much as he could.

‘It’s fine,’ Brian mustered. ‘I can deal with it.’

‘You sure?’ Roger sounded a tad worried.

‘Yeah, sure. I won’t have to talk to any of them anyway,’ Brian said, a lot braver than he felt inside. 

‘You won’t even have to look at them. They’ll all be sitting behind you anyway,’ Jasper said in what must have been an attempt at comfort. It served the exact opposite in Brian’s mind. He knew it was irrational, but somehow the idea of a sea of people being able to view him from behind while he could not look back at him made him nervous.

‘Shall we go, then?’ Sarah proposed. ‘The sooner we get there, the more time you’ll have to get yourself settled.’ Everyone turned to Brian, who simply nodded. He reached out a hand for John to help him get up from the bed, and he followed his friends out of the room. John stayed behind him with a hand on his back, as a silent force; a silent way of telling him that he was there to usher him through the hallways that turned out to hold even more nosy fellow clients than Brian at first had been able to see from his view in the bedroom.

'Everyone out of the way, please,' Nolan said with a fierceness that one would not normally attribute to him.. 'You can go downstairs to watch it all - leave Brian to have some peace now. You would want the same if you were in his place.' 

Part of the audience obeyed Nolan's speech and got out of the way, part of them did not. Brian decided not to pay too much attention to them. How could he anyway, now that he was caught up in a whirlwind of thoughts about the upcoming process? How would the judges react to him, how would their first impression of him influence their judgement of him? What would his parents do when they saw him from their view in the meeting room? Would they smile, cry, would they be proud of him? Or would they still keep to their previous judgement that he should stay here and finish his treatment?

‘So are there any more surprises we should keep in mind?’ Freddie asked while the party clattered down the stairs. ‘Are there going to be journalists to report the whole thing? Cameras and microphones? A press conference afterwards?’ 

‘None of that, no,’ Nolan answered. ‘Only a registrar to take notes for future reference, and to allow the board to see if the judgement was carried out according to the protocols.’

‘What, so they can overturn the sentence if they feel like it?’ Freddie asked in the same sarcastic tone he had been using ever since the forgotten clause of the apparently public meeting had come to light. 

‘No, that won’t happen. Just to reflect on the judges’ work. See if no favouritism or prejudice was used to come to a conclusion,’ Nolan said. This last sentence, Brian had to admit, made him feel a little better - apparently there were rules in place which would prevent Doctor Sumner from blatantly turning his case down just because he could. Then again, if the decision made today was to be final, nothing could be done if Sumner decided to sabotage the judgement anyway. Brian was unsure if he should feel comforted or alarmed.

They continued the way downstairs in silence - or that was, silence from their part. The men who had gathered around them and who had been waiting for the caravan to descend the stairs made enough noise to make it nearly impossible for Brian to hear his own thoughts. Maybe this was a good thing, though - his mind was racing and he could not find a single positive or uplifting thought among the whirlwind in his head. 

‘Brian, good luck!’

‘Tell them what we think of this place!’

‘Flip the judges off on my behalf!’

The things people around him shouted at him - some of which were genuine wishes, others just hopes to make him stick it to Queen Mary’s and the mental health care system in general - reached Brian’s ears as a slow-motioned hurricane. He felt queasy, but with the help of John’s hand on the small of his back to guide him, he managed to keep his eyes straight on the figures of Freddie and Nolan, who led the way to the meeting room. 

Brian had never been to the meeting room before. He had been vaguely aware of its presence, and had heard his caretakers speak of meeting up at the place. He had not previously known where exactly it was located in the staff wing, but it became clear to him soon enough when he saw hordes of people moving around one particular room all the way down the corridor. Some of them pointed upon his arrival, others clapped; some took it as a sign to go in and take a seat, others remained in an attempt to catch another look at him. Brian felt like a celebrity who had fallen from grace through a scandalous sex offence, and who now had to answer for his actions in front of an audience already bent on judging him for his crimes.

‘Out of the way, please,’ Nolan called out - and, when people only partially listened to this wish, he simply pushed his way through the crowd. It was not the behaviour Brian would normally expect from his cool, calm, and collected mentor, but he did not blame Nolan even one bit for his no-nonsense approach to the dozens who had gathered outside the meeting room. In fact, he was rather grateful that Nolan showed the men that he was not to be messed with for the time being - it certainly made part of them scatter and disappear into the meeting room.

A downside to having these people leave the hallway and claiming a spot in the meeting room, however, was that now a pathway to the door emerged - a pathway through which Brian could cast a glance into the room in which he was to present himself in a few minutes. It was not a pretty sight, to say the very least. The room, although he could only see the back of it through the limited sight he could catch of it through the door, seemed absolutely packed with people. They were sitting on rows of chairs provided, leaning against the walls, sitting on the floor in front of the chairs - they were everywhere. It was as if the entire population of Queen Mary’s had come out to see the trial. It would not surprise Brian if this was actually the truth: with no institution-wide activities going on at the moment, and little else to do around the place anyway, a public meeting in which a client tried to defy the judgement of his own mental health caretakers could be viewed as a spectacle on its own. 

‘You’ve got to be kidding me,’ Freddie all but exclaimed at the sight of the crowds. ‘And everyone just conveniently forgot to tell us this? That the entire fucking place would come out to have a look?’

‘It really was an accident,’ Sarah said feebly, before being pushed aside by someone rushing into the room in an attempt to get a seat still. 

‘Thanks, that really helps,’ Freddie grumbled. ‘So we’re not gonna be able to be by Brian’s side? Sit somewhere close and be there in case he needs us?’

‘I’m sure Brian is gonna be alright,’ Jasper said. ‘He’ll have to do this on his own anyway.’

Even though Brian realised that Jasper meant these words as a comfort, it really hit him hard that he did, in fact, have to do this on his own. He did ae to go in there and have unironically two hundred people look down upon him while a jury compiled of undoubtedly mental health experts who nevertheless knew nothing about him were going to decide on his fate. If he had Even though Brian realised that Jasper meant these words as a form of comfort, it really hit him hard that he did, in fact, have to do this on his own. He did have to go in there and have unironically two hundred people look down upon him while a jury compiled of undoubtedly mental health experts who nevertheless knew nothing about him were going to decide on his fate. If he had been nervous before about this latter fact, the presence of the entire institution on top of that made him break out in cold sweat. He could not do this - not in front of all of these people. The image of all the people rushing in and out of the room, the sound of their chatter and laughter and screaming - it all mashed together in a blur of sound and visual that reached Brian as in slow motion. He could not do this.

‘Brian?’ It was John’s voice that spoke to him somewhere in the distance. ‘You’re quiet. Are you holding out?’ He turned his face to look at John. His eyes were too intense and too prying, and Brian took a step back from him. He bumped into someone behind him, who seemed to verbally lash out at him but who fell into muttering apologies when they saw who he was. None of the words reached Brian in any intelligible form, and as John approached him, he stepped further back until his shoulder blades bumped into the wall behind him. The people he’d come to the meeting with now all gathered around him, seemed to ask questions, but none of them reached him. Someone - presumably Freddie, judging by the black-tipped fingernails - put his cold hand across his forehead, and someone else pushed a plastic cup of water in his hands. He did not drink of it, however; and the next thing he knew was the cup being taken away from him and its contents being splashed in his face. This sobered him up enough to hear Freddie squeal something about being careful with his makeup, but most of all, as he blinked a few times he could make out the image of John standing in front of him with a now empty cup and an expression that told him he was not to be messed with.

‘John…’ Brian managed feebly. John pushed the empty cup into someone’s palm so he had free range of his hands. He placed them firmly on Brian’s shoulders.

‘Look, Brian. I know this is overwhelming but you have to pull yourself together. The judges are ready to see you. It’s time to step up and do this.’

‘But all… all these people,’ Brian brought in.

‘I know. I know you don’t want all of these people here, and neither do I or Jasper or Nolan or anyone else. But you know what? All of those people are here because they support you.’

Brian blinked at his partner, only to discover that John seemed to be serious about this claim. He huffed out a laugh. ‘They’re just here for some free entertainment.’

‘Maybe some of them are. Some might have nothing else to do on a regular Wednesday afternoon. But literally everyone seems to be here. I’ve seen Sebastian and Lester and Bill and Andrew, and other people from both our depression talk group and other groups. The ones who never go anywhere. Who wouldn’t show up to breakfast or even to get their fucking medicines in the morning if their mentor wouldn’t come over and drag them there? Do you think they’re here to be entertained?’

Brian shrugged. ‘Why else would they be here?’

‘To support you!’ John repeated. ‘To show that they’re on your side. To see Queen Mary’s authority and judgement being challenged for once. All of these people here - even if they’re just here because they have nothing else to do, they dragged themselves out of bed and out of their rooms to be here. Do you think they would have been here if they did not care?’

Brian was quiet for a moment. ‘Do you?’ John asked again.

‘Maybe not,’ Brian shrugged.

‘Most definitely not. They care about this trial, because it’s more than just your trial, Brian. This has become everyone’s trial in a sense. It’s a protest against Queen Mary’s and their judgements and authority. This trial is showing people that there’s hope, and that we can be our own person and lead our own lives even while in here. We’re not their puppets, Brian, and whether you win or not, this trial is proof of that.’ John paused for a second to take a breath of air, and so did Brian. It was not often that his partner got so passionate about something, but when it happened, he was sure to put your worldview upside down. Maybe the people here had not come out to jeer or taunt or laugh at him - maybe they were here to show their support. To show they believed in their own authority regardless of what Queen Mary’s tried to mould them into. 

To give his most recent words a little more power, John took up the conversation again by asking: ‘Remember what Drew said the other day?’

Brian cast his eyes down at the mention of the murdered patient whom John brought up without a warning, but he was told off for doing so. ‘Look at me. Do you remember?’

‘Yes,’ Brian whispered. John’s grip on his shoulders had tightened, which felt both suppressing and safe at the same time. He knew he was not going to escape whatever John was about to tell him, but at the same time, John was not going to let anyone come in and make matters harder for him. John was here to protect him, keep the world at a distance now that Brian needed it most. 

‘Tell me what he said.’

‘He said that… he wished I would get out of here.’

‘Exactly,’ John nodded. ‘He wanted you to get out of here because you deserved better. Drew, the most hated person in this entire Godforsaken place, stood behind your cause. No matter how hard he’s made things for us at times, in the end he wanted you to win this. And fuck, I didn’t think I’d ever say this, but let’s go out there and do it for Drew. As some weird kind of last honour, or whatever people call that.’ A small, crooked smile appeared on John’s lips, and Brian let out a breathy sigh.

‘I want to,’ Brian admitted. ‘I do want to, and maybe- probably all those people are on our side. But they are so many-’

‘You’ve fought too hard and too long for this process to let this slide because other people showed up,’ John interrupted him, with power to his words but a gentleness to his tone. ‘And besides, since when do you care for other people? Have we ever cared for other people while in here? During all those late nights of playing music and talking during group discussions and locking ourselves in my hiding place during drug raids, did we ever give a single fuck about other people?’ The crooked smile on John’s face was back - more sincere and inviting this time, and Brian could not help but copy it.

‘We didn’t,’ he smiled.

‘God knows we didn’t,’ John agreed. ‘And right now is not the time that we are going to give a damn about other people either.’ The twinkle in his eyes and the confidence of his voice made Brian realise that John was right about all he just told him - the majority of the people here today had come out to support him, or at any rate to support him showing Queen Mary’s he was taking his own say in his life back, everyone wanted him to win, and even though the presence of two hundred uninvited clients made him nervous, he had never let other people around Queen Mary’s from doing what he wanted to do before. More than that, it made him wish he could kiss him right in the middle of the hallway - something he might actually have done if in that exact moment they would not have been pulled aside by Sarah to enter the room. 

‘Brian, Doctor Fisher is here to take you in and introduce you. Are you ready to go?’

Brian shared one look with John, who let go of his shoulders and gave him a comforting nod. ‘Absolutely,’ he answered, and he stepped away from the wall he no longer needed for either mental or physical support by now. He was ushered to the door opening, right in front of which he was reunited with the psychiatrist who had gone through the process of reassessment with him. Brian hadn’t seen him for a week or so now that the therapy sessions were over, but the smile on the man’s face and the firm handshake he received made him happy to see him back and be supported by him today.

‘I’ve worked day and night on these files, I’ll have you know,’ Fisher said with a nearly loving pat on the folder of documents he carried under his arm. ‘If this doesn’t bail you out, it won’t be for my lack of effort.’ Brian smiled and thanked him - even though he had not yet seen or heard a letter of the words Doctor Fisher had prepared for today, he knew he was in good hands with his help.

Upon stepping over the threshold of the door, Brian was blinded and deafened by the noise the people inside of it made. It was as if he was the defender of the world title at the Australian Open, the continent’s favourite act at the Eurovision, the Beatles upon first arriving at JFK airport - there was applause and screaming and all other sorts of noise coming from the left side of the room, which was densely packed with people in every single corner. A quick glance around told him that he did not know half of the audience, but the many smiling faces, the thumbs-up, and the applause they offered made knowing them unnecessary. It was the vibe of positivity and support they radiated that did it for Brian./

‘They’re here for you.’ For a moment Brian thought that he was imagining John saying these words to him, but he soon found that he was not - he turned around to find his boyfriend smiling up at him, grabbing his hand and give him a quick squeeze. ‘We’ll be in the audience. Whatever happens, know that I love you.’

‘I love you too,’ Brian beamed, giving his friends a quick wave before being taken up by Fisher and Queen Mary’s staff to ascend the three steps of the stage-like platform on the right side of the room, on which several desks had been pushed together to create the illusion of one long table in the style of a law court. It looked improvisational at best, as everything at Queen Mary’s did. Brian tried to prevent a chuckle as he followed Mister Fisher upstairs and faced the three-headed jury, which had gathered in front of their seats for the time being. A lady, perhaps in her late thirties or early forties, was the first member of the jury they came across.

Mister Fisher took it upon him to familiarise the entire crew to one another. ‘Miss Gerald, I’d like to introduce you to today’s client, Brian May.’ Brian felt like he was being presented as if he was the latest vacuum cleaner to be launched into the market, and tried not to laugh. He shook hands with the one that was extended towards him, and politely repeated his name to the woman.

‘Please allow any signs of nervousness he shows today,’ Nolan spoke on his behalf. ‘Due to - eh, communication errors, he was not aware that today was to be an open trial.’

Miss Gerald was nice enough about the matter, and told Brian (surprise surprise) that there was no need to be nervous, but that it was a very natural feeling to deal with in such a high profile situation. She also remarked that he did not seem all too nervous to her eyes; Brian was afraid that he was not doing too good of a job keeping his nervous giggles under control. Luckily it was Jasper who pointed out on his behalf that his jittery laughter was most likely to be a result of his nerves playing up. Nolan, Sarah, and Jasper were then properly introduced to Miss Gerald; Mister Fisher took his chance to take Brian to the second stop along the road of meeting the judges. 

Brian was introduced to a balding, spectacled man of near-retirement age with a low voice and stern expression, but his face became more friendly as he spoke up and smiled at Brian. His surname - Carlston or Carlman or something the like - did not stick with Brian for too long; which might be a result of the guy’s monotonous, slow way of speaking, or of the fact that he could see his third and biggest obstacle standing no more than five feet away from him. Doctor Sumner side-eyed him every so many seconds, but Brian ignored him for the time being. He was determined not to give his former psychiatrist a single indication of his nervousness concerning the power he possibly held over him - if anything, Brian had made up his mind, both for the sake of John and himself and everyone present in the room, that he was going to show him he was over him, and was no longer going to allow himself to be intimidated by the man who had put him here. It was his turn to triumph now. 

The talk with Carlston or Carlman over, Fisher took Brian to speak to Doctor Sumner, and leave the rest of his team to move on and speak to the second person in line. Brian felt his knees weakening a bit as he stepped towards Sumner, but he tried to make up for this by straightening his back and pulling the straightest, most no-nonsense (and perhaps somewhat bitchy) face he could produce.

‘And this man right here, Professor Sumner, I’ve been told you’ve met before,’ Mister Fisher said, obviously not aware of the tension between the two. Then again, no one standing on this platform apart from Sumner and Brian himself was aware of that, and he preferred to keep things that way for the time being. Something that did catch his attention, though, was the fact that his old psych was not addressed as a doctor anymore, but as a professor – something he quickly realised must have been an effect of him having promoted himself in scientific circles through his discovery of borderline personality disorder – at the cost of him and God knew how many more of his other patients. Brian felt his blood starting to boil, but he worked hard to keep his anger to himself.

‘I have indeed. Back when he was still a doctor and not a professor,’ Brian said with a perfectly cold civility. Copying Sumner’s behaviour, Brian’s eyes travelled up and down Sumner’s somewhat shorter frame, and eventually lingered on his face. It took a handful of seconds of tensed silence before Sumner was eventually the first to remove his hands from his back and reach one towards Brian. Brian reluctantly yet firmly gripped it. 

‘Brian May. I never thought we would meet each other so soon again,’ Sumner said with the fakest smile Brian had seen in a while. ‘Or at all, if I may be so honest.’

Brian knew all too well what he meant by this - that if it was up to him, Sumner would have him placed in a long-stay hospital to prevent him ever being able to convincingly tell his story of how Sumner had abused his power to make a living out of the suffering of Brian and undoubtedly more of his patients. The idea of countering Sumner and his wishes by going for a reassessment and pulling so far as to actually land himself into this trial gave Brian the last of determination he had been in need of to pull through today and give both Sumner and the entirety of Queen Mary’s the finger. 

‘Doctor Sumner,’ Brian said steadfastly, refusing to acknowledge the new title that had been acquired at the cost of him and others. ‘How delighted I am that you were able to spare us some of your time,’ Brian smiled icily. ‘You must be rather sought after the launch of your research papers these days.’ He could see Sumner tensing at the mention of the research papers of which he knew damn well he could be blacklisted for if the truth about them came out, but Brian’s enemy was quick to pull himself together. 

‘I am. But that does not prevent me from devoting some time to an old acquaintance who has played such a vital role in the making of said papers,’ he said easily. Brian, however, was even quicker to give his former psychiatrist an even easier yet snarkier answer. 

‘And who can similarly play a vital role in tearing them straight down again.’ It was a good thing that the crowd around them was still making such noise, and that Mister fisher seemed to have gone off to speak to the registrar sitting at the far end of the table, because Brian was unsure what would happen if any outsider was to overhear the obviously somewhat threatening conversation they were having. 

Sumner’s jaw clenched at hearing these words, and Brian could almost see the radars inside his brain spinning for an answer. He did not seem to be able to come up with anything, though, because after five seconds or so he simply asked: ‘What do you want?’

‘Nothing extraordinary,’ Brian shrugged. ‘But how about you let me go and I let you go?’

Sumner’s face remained unreadable. He was obviously unhappy with the direction this discussion was heading into, but had little to say to defend himself - as was made obvious by his bland try at countering Brian.

‘I haven’t even heard your case yet.’

‘Don’t worry about it. I promise you that if anything, it’ll make you look suspicious if you don’t let me go,’ Brian said with more confidence than he felt inside. To prevent Sumner from being able to say anything that would bring him down again, Brian gave him an uncharacteristic and intimidating pat on the shoulder, spoke a nearly cruel ‘you know what to do’, and moved along to give his regards to the registrar. He left a bedazzled Sumner to greet his defence and figure out what to do with the part-promise, part-threat he had been dished out on his own. 

When the last of his entourage had shaken hands and exchanged words of welcome with the judges, Brian was guided down the steps again and given leave to sit down on one of the chairs facing the judges. As he turned his back on the jury and was faced with the audience, his eyes quickly darted around the room to locate the places where his friends and his parents had settled themselves. It was hard to spot them in the tumultuous scene in front of him, but he detected the pink sleeve of his mother’s dress as she held up her hand to wave at him soon enough. His father, sitting in a black suit next to her, also caught sight of him. Brian gave a bit of a smile and waved back at them, and the gesture was answered by a lot more people than just his parents. These people really are on my side, Brian thought to himself as he gave a wave directed at the other side of the room, which again was met with unbound enthusiasm. 

In fact, Brian did not make his regards to everyone because he was so pleased to have the entire population of the institution there, but because he hoped he could win some time to figure out the location of his friends also. They were a little harder to spot, given that they dressed in the same dark trousers and grey shirts as all the other clients, but they would not have been his friends had they not tried their very best to show themselves.

‘Briiiian! Honey, we’re here!’ Freddie’s voice was loud and bordered on obnoxiousness while Roger and he waved both their hands above their heads to attract Brian’s attention. It did work, though - and Brian felt a wave of relief passing through him when he found his three roommates sitting in the middle of the front row of the audience. He was unsure how they had found themselves such a desirable spot in the room, seeing as they had made their entrance rather late, but he figured that Freddie and Roger might have used their status as his best friends to persuade people to give them the best spot available. John sat beside them in a much more quiet fashion, and he smiled up at Brian and send a kissy hand his way. Brian, a bit too overwhelmed with the entire situation, clutched a hand against his heart to indicate that he had received the imaginary kiss.

Jasper, Nolan, and Sarah ascended the stairs, too, and took their seats on one of the five chairs across the judges’ table. Brian waved at his friends one more time, before he turned around and lowered himself in his chair. The plain wooden chair he was sitting on made him feel small when compared to the judges and their more luxurious leather desk chairs, but the presence of two of his supporters at either side of him - not to even mention a sea of people, including his parents, best friends, and his boyfriend behind him - made him feel a little stronger.

The noise in the room had not ceased in time with the key figures of the trial sitting down, so Miss Gerald made a point of clapping in her hands a number of times in a row in an attempt to quiet down the multitude. Not everyone seemed to either hear this or listen to it, so her efforts were joined by those of Doctor Sumner, who slammed a fist down on the desk in front of him. This at last seemed to have some effect.

‘Ladies and gentlemen! We’d like to start this session!’ he thundered in a voice louder than any of the ones Brian had heard in the meeting room, and the last of noise seemed to quiet down at this statement. Miss Gerald took the opportunity to stand up from her chair and wasted no time in opening the meeting.

‘Welcome everybody - my name is Edna Gerald, and together with my colleagues Professor Sumner and Mister Carlston, I seek to come to a verdict regarding a client of Queen Mary’s Psychiatric Institution’s appeal for a reassessment. Can Mister Brian May stand up, please?’

Brian, a little taken aback by the suddenness with which the introduction morphed into serious business, took a second before he pushed himself up on his somewhat wobbly legs - a feeling that did not pass at all when Miss Gerald went straight to making him promise a testimony of truth.

‘Do you confirm that all you tell us today will be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?’

‘I promise. I mean- I confirm,’ Brian corrected himself clumsily. Off to a good start, he thought to himself, but the judges seemed not to mind or even notice. 

‘Thank you. We will start with the technical part of the process. Please state your full name and date of birth for the record,’ Miss Gerald ordered.

Brian cleared his throat. ‘My name is Brian Harold May and I was born on July 19, 1947.’

‘Place of birth?’

‘Homerton University Hospital in London.’

‘Names of your parents?’

‘Harold May and Ruth May-Irving.’

‘Correct,’ Miss Gerald stated after a look at the paper in front of her, as if she had been contemplating the possibility that Brian would be lying about his mother’s maiden name. ‘Now you, Brian Harold May, stand before a selection of members of the South East England Mental Health Facilitation, which is an independent organisation that oversees the working of Queen Mary’s Psychiatric Institution and similar places. You are here today, on September 15, 1971, because you filed for a reassessment which, in case it is approved, will grant you leave from the aforementioned institution.’ The formal way of talking made Brian feel more than just a little out of place, but he refused to show a sign of discomfort.

‘That is correct.’

Miss Gerald dived back into the files in front of her, scribbled something down, and took a moment to read. ‘According to the data provided to me, you were admitted into Queen Mary’s Psychiatric Institution on March 13, 1971. Is this correct?’

‘Yes.’ It took little time for Brian to establish this as being a fact. He still remembered the day and the week previous to it vividly - the establishment of the date he was to be taken in, his father allowing no backchat on the subject, his mum packing his back the night before as he could not be convinced to get up from his bed, being dragged out of the house and into the car, and being left behind at the institution. It was a date he would never be able to forget, whether he wanted to do so or not. 

‘And you have remained on the property of Queen Mary’s Psychiatric Institution ever since, without any breaks or intermissions?’ Miss Gerald went on to ask. 

‘Yes.’

‘Very good. Now is it true that you filed for a reassessment August 24, 1971, with the interference of a certain Nolan Ferrier?’

Brian gave a small glance at Nolan, who was sitting on his right side. It was true indeed that Nolan had applied for a reassessment on his behalf, but whether this had been on August 24, 25, or 29, was something Brian could not tell to save his life. Nolan gave a small nod, and Brian faced Miss Gerald again.

‘Correct.’

‘Can you describe what position Nolan Ferrier holds towards you?’

‘He is my mentor, and has been so from the day I was admitted into Queen Mary’s.’

‘Has Nolan Ferrier, or any other staff member of Queen Mary’s Psychiatric Institution, in any shape or form influenced you in your decision to go for a reassessment?’

‘He has not. None of them have,’ Brian said firmly, as to put this idea out of the way. 

‘Do you confirm that the reassessment that was filed on your behalf was filed through your own desire, as a result of your own wishes, that it was a decision made in a rational moment, and moreover is a decision which you still stand by?’

The first time I am to experience a rational moment has yet to happen, Brian thought to himself, but he decided that right now was not the proper moment for jokes. ‘I confirm all of this,’ he said with a straight face.

‘Very well,’ Miss Gerald shortly comment. ‘Now, lastly, you must confirm that you agree with and consent to the rules and regulations that apply to every reassessment appeal - which state that the decision to be made today is final, that an approval can be overturned if evidence surfaces which shows you deliberately forsook the truth at any point of this reassessment process; and that, in case of dismissal, a new reassessment will not be allowed to be filed for the upcoming 120 days. Do you agree with and consent to all of these regulations?’

Brian swallowed thickly - there were quite some rules he was submitting himself to that he did not feel entirely comfortable with. He knew that the decision today was final, but the idea that it could later be overturned if it turned out he had not told the truth entirely to the wishes of the jury made him nervous. Who was to decide what was the truth, or that he had deliberately made up his mind to withhold the truth from the judges? And what would happen if they caught him doing so - would he be chased down and dropped off behind the gates of Queen Mary’s again?

‘None of this will apply to you,’ Nolan whispered beside him, probably understanding the tension he found himself under. ‘You will get out today for once and for all.’

‘I agree with and consent to these regulations,’ Brian managed.

‘Thank you. You are excused for now.’ Brian gave a weak nod and allowed himself to sit back in his chair again. He was still a little fazed by all he had just been made to solemnly swear, even though all information he had been made to confirm or deny had been purely factual, and was just the start of the session. God knew what else he might be made to say later, God knew how long this meeting was going to last - maybe he should have practised more, maybe he should have prepared a speech as to the hows and whys of his reassessment-

‘We shall now bring forwards the first speaker on behalf of Mister May. Sarah Gaskell may step forwards, please.’

Sarah, who was seated next to Nolan, all but jumped up from her spot.

‘Miss Gaskell, you are likewise asked state your full name, date of birth, and to confirm that all you tell us today will be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth,’ Miss Gerald proceeded.

‘My name is Sarah Marie Gaskell, born on October 29 1942, and I confirm that all I will tell you today will be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.’ Sarah did not falter a single time, as she was asked about her position concerning Brian, the sessions they had sat through together, and Brian’s overall mental health. Brian felt himself growing somewhat uncomfortable as his psychiatrist spoke of the impact Jimmy’s death had had on him - not just because he did not enjoy having the deepest pits he had fallen into discussed so openly, but also because the judges seemed altogether surprised at the mentioning of a suicide by hanging at Queen Mary’s mere months ago. Miss Gerald and Mister Carlston bowed their heads together, and Sumner brought out a folder through which he started flicking with earnest. It suddenly dawned on Brian that the ‘incident’ might very well never have been reported to the healthcare inspection, and that Sarah had, unbeknownst to herself, exposed a secret that Queen Mary’s had been eager to keep. 

Good for them, Brian thought dimly. Let them try to talk themselves out of sweeping a suicide-leaning-on-murder case under the carpet.

After a minute or so of hushed conversation, the matter was dropped - for the time being - and Sarah was again questioned about her contact with Brian and the progress she thought her client had made. She answered all the questions with enthusiasm, and stood proud and confident before the judges. Brian wondered if she had practised her speech - because with this being the first case of reassessment to pull through to the final trial, she could not have had a lot of practice beforehand. 

‘Miss Gaskell, in your professional opinion, do you think your client is ready to be released from Queen Mary’s and return to society?’ the main judge eventually asked in quite a straightforward fashion.

‘I do,’ Sarah smiled.

‘Why then, miss Gaskell, did you not propose the idea of letting him go yourself?’ Miss Gerald asked her critically. ‘You, after all, are his psychiatrist. If you thought him to be ready to be released from Queen Mary’s Psychiatric Institution, then why did you not propose this yourself and followed the standard procedure of dismissing a client once their trial is completed?’ It was a tough question - one Brian personally would not know how to answer convincingly if he had been in his psychiatrist’s place. Luckily, Sarah seemed to know exactly what she was doing, as her smile did not falter for a split second when she answered.

‘I understand your concern for Brian having come up with the idea of a reassessment on his own, rather than waiting until we as his caretakers filed for him to be dismissed,’ Sarah acknowledged. ‘And whereas I will admit that upon first hearing about his reassessment I was surprised, as his trial - as I had planned it out on paper - had not been finished yet. But when I thought about it a little more, it dawned on me that the trial I had planned out, was not at all linked to the progress Brian had made. In fact, his progress during the past few months has been so rapid that the psychiatric sessions I had planned out for him lag behind tremendously. My plans do not correspond to his current needs anymore.’ Sarah paused for a second. ‘In fact, as I’ve come to think of it, I think all that Queen Mary’s has to offer simply does not correspond to Mister May’s needs anymore. He has made such progress and gained such mental stability over the period of his stay here at Queen Mary’s, that I am afraid there is little to nothing more we can offer him here.’

‘I see,’ Mister Carlston took over from his colleague when Miss Gerald simply looked at him. ‘And do you not think that his progress could be carried even further if he was to remain at Queen Mary’s for, let’s say, the duration your original planning for him therapy-wise would have lasted?’

Sarah was quick to tear down this idea before it was able to plant its roots into anyone’s mind. ‘Quite the opposite. I’m afraid that keeping Mister May here, against his own wishes, would have a negative effect rather than a positive one on him and his condition.’

‘Thank you, miss Gaskell. You can sit down again.’ Sarah gave a small nod and settled next to Nolan again. Brian tried to catch a glimpse of her to shoot her a grateful smile for the words she had given in defence of his wishes, but as the judges wasted no time in moving on, Brian pulled his eyes into the direction of the jury again.

‘Now we would like to have Nolan Ferrier come forward to inform us on Brian’s behaviour according to the official records that have been kept during his stay at Queen Mary’s Psychiatric Hospital until this day.’ 

Nolan got up from his chair, repeated his name and date of birth for the record, swore the same oath that Brian and Sarah had done before him - and started on an anthology of Brian’s good behaviour, which included acts of generosity towards fellow patients and kindness and obedience to the staff of Queen Mary’s. The sheer act of listening to it made Brian cringe a little - it was awkward to have to sit by and listen to Nolan praising him as if he was Jesus Christ incarnated. Besides, Brian realised all too well that he was no saint. He had had his fair share of missing mealtimes to go outside with John, skipping drug tests by finding shelter in John’s hiding place, paying zero attention during group therapy, running out of Sarah’s office or plainly not talking to her for an entire session in the aftermath of Jimmy’s death, and getting wound up in a fight with Drew within days of being admitted into Queen Mary’s. Luckily, Nolan mentioned none of these events - and when asked to explain Brian’s absence during perhaps three or four breakfast- and lunch moments, he was able to explain them away with illness, obligations elsewhere, and similar excuses. The questions from the judge were few, as the official records showed little accounts of Brian having disobeyed the rules and regulations - and within five minutes, Nolan was thanked and invited to sit down again to make room for Jasper.

Jasper’s session was even shorter, if still possible. Despite getting to see Brian nearly every day, he was not able to say too much about him personally, as he had always experienced Brian in the context of a group only. Brian was relieved, though, that Jasper described him as respectful and cooperative, and did not mention any of the countless times when Brian had drifted off, usually with the help of John, to topics they found to be more interesting than the thought schemes or positive thinking assignments or whatever it had been that Jasper had prepared for the therapy sessions.

Mister Fisher was then addressed and asked to share his experiences of Brian’s illness, behaviour, and capability of returning to society already. He gave his report of the weeks he’d spend examining Brian and his motives for leaving Queen Mary’s - the ones on paper, that was. Brian had decided it was probably not the best of ideas to tell them he wanted to leave this shithole behind in time with his boyfriend, because something told him that the judges might not see this as a valid reason to be excused from a mental health clinic at all, even though matters were of course a little more complicated than Brian just wanting to leave and be with John for the hell of it. They needed each other - but that was not something he expected random strangers to understand. 

Luckily, Fisher did not speak of John other than mentioning him, together with Freddie and Roger, as being the closest friends his client had made while at Queen Mary’s. This in turn seemed to be meant to convince the jury of Brian’s improved social skills and capabilities, but besides this, Brian was not too sure what they spoke about. As soon as they brought up the DSM and it’s technical medical terms - boundary conditions and parthopsychological processes and cluster symptoms and similar phrases - he found himself zooming out somewhat. He forced himself to keep his gaze in front of him, afraid that any sort of sign of disinterest might later be held against him. Still, he was relieved when the judges thanked Mister Fisher for his input and allowed him to sit back down again.

Although… Now that everyone around him had been questioned apart from he himself, Brian had a feeling that he was going to be the next victim of the judges.

‘Lastly we will hear the client himself. Mister May?’

Oh, Lord. Here we go.

Suppressing the tendency to first have a look at the people sitting around him to check their reactions, see if they had any comforting words or gestures for him before he stood up for his ordeal, Brian got up, straightened the least faded grey shirt Freddie had been able to pluck from the laundry room, and faced up to the judges. There was some applause and cheering behind him, but the guards quickly managed to calm everyone down again - which was a first by Queen Mary’s standards, Brian thought dimly. 

‘Now, we’ve heard everyone speak so positively about your progress here at Queen Mary’s, we’ve read your statements and your motivation for leaving Queen Mary’s early, and your plans for picking up your life again after you return to society…’ Miss Gerald summed up, and Brian instinctively felt that, despite this not sounding too bad, a but to all of this was going to come up. 

He turned out to be right. 

‘But what I’m really interested in is your diary segments,’ Miss Gerald said as she flicked through the notebook Mister Fisher must have handed over to her during a prior contact with the judges. ‘In particular the mentioning of a certain individual who goes by the name John, and who seems to pop up in every single diary segment.’

John. Oh God, this really could go in any possible direction from this point onward.

‘Yes,’ Brian said sheepishly, not knowing what exactly would be a meaningful reply to this statement.

Miss Gerald pushed her glasses a little higher up her nose. ‘Now, I’ve been informed by Mister Fisher that this refers to a fellow client at Queen Mary’s whose name is John Deacon. Is this correct?’

‘That is correct.’ So far so good. 

‘I’ve also been told that this John Deacon has recently been given leave from Queen Mary’s,’ Miss Gerald read from the paper in front of her. ‘And that you, in fact, asked for a reassessment from Queen Mary’s the day you heard about his dismissal.’ Miss Gerald looked up at Brian with stern eyes, and Brian, even though he knew he should look back at her, could not muster the courage to do so. It was time to say goodbye to so far so good - this question was turning the session straight into the conversation he had been fearing for all along. And it was not because he was afraid of talking about what John meant to him and the role he played in his life - hell, he would proudly talk of his love, affection, trust, and friendship with John until the cows came home. 

The only problem was that he was afraid the judges would see it as a sign of weakness to depend on one person so much, and more than that, that they would flatly turn down his appeal for reassessment if they found out that it was largely based on wanting to follow his boyfriend outside of Queen Mary’s. Besides, he had not at all forgotten that even though homosexuality had been legalised back when he had been in his second year of university, it still very much was classified as a mental illness. He knew there were progressive psychiatrists out there, but with an old and possibly conservative man like Mister Carlston, and Sumner probably still wanting to keep him behind the bars of Queen Mary’s if so possible, Brian did not dare risk it.

Still, he had a feeling he could not hide the truth for much longer - because there was the voice of miss Gaskell again, urging him to answer her questions.

‘Is this correct?’

‘Yes,’ Brian confirmed in the smallest voice.

‘Would you say that your wish to leave Queen Mary’s is in any way related to John Deacon’s dismissal of the place?’

‘Yes,’ Brian said.

‘To what extent?’ 

Brian felt his heart starting to beat faster. He knew that on the one hand he could make up a story around the importance John had played in his filing for a reassessment, but he was terrified of being found out (hell, the evidence that John meant the world to him was easily to be discovered in that diary for everyone who could somewhat read between the lines). He had never been good at lying, and especially not under pressure, especially not in the presence of so many people, and with the prospect of ruining such important chances. To tell the truth about John, however, might be the equivalent of digging his own grave.

‘Mister May?’ The voice, this time of Mister Carlston, was kind but demanding. The judges wanted an answer, an honest answer, and Brian could no longer withhold it from them.

‘To the extent that... I would not have left if he had not been dismissed,’ Brian admitted. He himself had thought his voice to be quite soft, but it had obviously been loud enough for a substantial amount of people sitting behind him to comment on this to their neighbours. Brian could not overhear their words, but he had a feeling that people were not exactly supportive of what he had just admitted.

The judges, despite sending each other some sideways glances, remained neutral and professional - which, Brian decided, was worse in some ways, as he could not at all make up from their reactions what they were thinking. ‘So you want to leave largely, if not solely, because John Deacon is leaving.’

‘Yes.’

‘You previously said, though, that your decision to leave Queen Mary’s was not influenced by anyone else,’ Miss Gerald said. ‘You said that after having sworn testimony.’

‘That is incorrect,’ Brian said, facing the judge at last now that he had found a loophole in her own words. ‘I swore testimony, and denied that any of the staff members had in any way influenced my decision to file for a reassessment. That is what you said, madam.’ Excited mumbling arose from the room behind him, and Miss Gerald looked from her left to her right as to find the answer in one of her male co-workers. Neither of them seemed to be able to offer her any help in the matter, so she turned to the registrar at the separate table on the left side of the stage. 

‘Can the registrar please go over the notes to recall what was said?’

The man, who seemed a little uneasy now that a room full of people shifted their focus to him all of the sudden, started looking over pages of notes. He eventually coughed and answered: ‘The client is right, Miss Gerald. Following your question, Mister May denied that any staff member had played a role in his decision.’

More noise behind him, and the hand of Nolan on his shoulder as a sign of support. Brian felt his heart beating faster, even though he knew it was irrational to be so excited over a small win like this. True, he had beaten the judge with her own words and was not guilty of having lied to her - but as soon as she went back to the discussion of him wanting to leave because of someone else, Brian knew he would be royally fucked again.

‘Alright. My mistake - I apologise,’ Miss Gerald said a little coolly, obviously not happy about having to admit her wrong publicly. ‘Nevertheless, the point still stands. Your decision to leave Queen Mary’s is thus not solely based on your firm belief you are ready to return to society, but also on the fact that Mister Deacon is leaving.’

‘Correct,’ Brian said. 

‘We have a lot to unpack here,’ the woman said, took a clean sheet of paper from her notebook, and asked: ‘How would you describe your relationship towards Mister Deacon?’

Alright. Your relationship with John. Let’s be careful now, but make them understand how much he means to you nevertheless. If they do want to lead you down this path, better make them understand how important John is to you and to your healing process. ‘He’s my roommate. My therapy partner. My best friend - my better half,’ Brian summed up.

‘Your most intimate friend, one could say?’ Doctor Sumner asked.

Brian stifled the little smile that tugged at his lips at this word choice that was not as innocent in his ears as it must be to the rest of the judges. ‘One could certainly say that.’

‘And you met Mister Deacon here at Queen Mary’s, without having any prior knowledge of his existence?’ Sumner asked.

‘Indeed.’

‘What role has he played in your life here at Queen Mary’s since you met him?’ Miss Gerald asked him.

Brian smiled. ‘Even though I was hesitant upon first meeting him, because he was rather reserved and snobby towards our other roommates, I knew right from the start that he was the one. The one I’d get on with best, and the one who would drag me through my time here at Queen Mary’s. You see, I was in a bad place, and so was he - we both weren’t keen on social contact, or going out and showing our face to anyone, but we found comfort in each other. We shared the same room and the same therapy group, so we spent a lot of time together automatically. And that time… made us realise we wanted to be together in the remainder of the time also. During mealtimes, and in the medicine queue, going outside - we went everywhere together. We still do.’

There was silence for a moment after this report; Mister Carlston broke it eventually. ‘So you could say John Deacon has played a large role in your daily life here?’

‘Absolutely. The largest role of all the people here at Queen Mary’s.’

‘The largest role, you say?’ Sumner asked. ‘Do you mean that to be understood in a social context?’

‘I mean it in every context,’ Brian said. ‘In a social context, leisure time-wise, but also support-wise and coping-wise. Healing wise.’

‘Should it not be your psychiatrist, or therapy leader, or even your mentor, to have the largest role in your mental state?’ Sumner sounded sceptical and a bit intimidating, as if he was not hearing the answers he wanted to hear. Brian, however, was not going to let Sumner get to him the way he had previously managed to do.

‘Perhaps it should have been,’ Brian shrugged. ‘But apart from the fact that I only got to see them a handful of hours a week, they just never could have done what John has done for me. In fact, I’m sure I could have been shackled to my psychiatrist during my entire stay at Queen Mary’s, and still she could not have had the same influence on me as John has had. They never could have lifted me up and comfort me and help me the way John has done.’

‘And what- how could it be that John could have this influence on you if the professional staff could not?’ Miss Gerald asked him. The question made Brian smile a little - because it was such a typical question someone who had never reached the lows he had done himself would ask. People who had never been down and out the way he had been, would not understand the importance a friend who was there with you, really with you both mentally and physically, could have on you. 

‘Because they never would have understood me the way John did,’ Brian said. ‘I’m sure my psychiatrists trained for years to learn every disorder out there, and know the entire DSM by heart, but they cannot teach themselves an understanding of mental illness the way someone experiences it. The only one to understand the loneliness and the feeling of being inadequate and the depths of depression, is the one who has been there themselves.’

‘But John is not the only one with depressive symptoms around at Queen Mary’s,’ Sumner remarked. ‘Why is it him specifically that you turned to?’

‘Because… John was so different from me, and yet I could see so much of myself in him. Unlike me he needed no validation from others at all, but we could both do with someone to either talk to or be completely quiet and just be there when we needed it. He told everyone exactly what he thought of them when I would let everyone walk right over me, but we both knew what sort of support the other needed and when they needed it. It just became clear to me within a few days that we would understand each other always. Which we did, and do, to this point and onwards,’ Brian took a second of rest and waited for the judges to pick up the cross-examination again. When they didn’t, however, he added to his statement: ‘You know, chemistry between people is hard to explain. But when it’s there, you will feel it, and you act accordingly.’

‘I guess one does,’ Miss Gerald repeated, a furrow on her forehead which Brian did not know if it was one of deep understanding or utter miscomprehension of all he had just said. ‘So… Mister Deacon and you, you have always been this close while at Queen Mary’s?’

‘We have been.’

‘So when you heard that he was to leave…’ 

‘I was heartbroken,’ Brian finished the sentence. ‘Devastated, really. Well, both of us were - especially him. He wouldn’t just have to leave behind me, but the entire life he had built up around Queen Mary’s in the past two years.’

‘And that’s when you decided, let’s go for it, let me file for a reassessment and get out of here together?’ Doctor Sumner said with a waving hand gesture, as to denote the suddenness and shallowness with which he assumed the decision has been made. Brian felt his face retort at the probably deliberate attempt of Sumner at making him look like a rash teenager, but he kept his cool and faced him with a stone-cold expression as he re-explained the matter in more detail. 

‘It was when I, after having thought a good deal about the… rather precarious situation John would find himself in once he would be dismissed from Queen Mary’s - you see, he has no family ties he can rely on, no close friends outside of this place after years of social isolation, no funds to rely on of places to go to - it was then that I decided that it would be in the best interest for the both of us if I would leave with John.’

Sumner did not seem to back away from his antics, unfortunately. ‘How exactly is it the best for the both of us, when you seem to discard your own mental needs completely for the sake of someone who was testified to be ready to stand on his own legs again?’ 

‘Funny you should ask that,’ Brian smiled. ‘Because I know that you see this reassessment as being all about me and all about what’s best for me - and that it’s hard to imagine that the influence of a person besides myself can play a large role in that. But the truth is that the individuals surrounding one, and their well-being, do have a large impact on the well-being of the person who cares about them. Would you agree with me on this, Doctor Sumner?’ Brian posed the question right back at Sumner, who seemed a bit taken aback. ‘Would you agree that the happiness of your loved ones have an impact on your own happiness, Doctor Sumner?’ he clarified - not just to make things a bit clearer for his audience, but also to make Sumner look just a little stupid for not following at once, and, in case he would deny this statement, make him look like a cold-blooded person.

‘I would agree,’ Sumner eventually said, although not with much enthusiasm.

‘Great. Then you might see how John, who is my best friend, and his well-being, is… is crucial to me. Absolutely crucial. I could not imagine being happy without knowing that John is happy - or at least to have them there with me so I can be with him if he is not. John has come to mean so much to me that I… could not do without him, and the same applies to him. Our state of mind is irrevocably linked - we could not be happy if we knew the other lived in misery.’ Brian’s heart was thundering away in his chest by the time he had spoken all of this, but it had been worth it - Sumner seemed to have been silenced, even if it was just for the time being. Sumner opened his mouth, then closed it again. He eyed Brian for a handful of intense seconds, but it was Sumner himself who eventually lost the staring battle as he looked for aid in his co-workers.

Miss Gerald was quick to compose herself. ‘This is interesting, Mister May. Were you not diagnosed with borderline personality disorder? Which - correct me if I’m wrong - is characterised by an immense dependency on- and idolisation of people around the afflicted?’

‘That is correct,’ Brian confirmed. ‘And I do not rule out the possibility that part of my dependency on John might be caused by my mental affliction. But against that, I would like to raise the argument that on the one hand, I have been in a close but very stable friendship with John over a period of more than six months - which, as Doctor Sumner can tell you, denotes a bond deeper and more stable than connections typically formed with underlying borderline patterns do.’ Brian could practically feel Sumner’s eyes glaring right through him, but he ignored the stares - or perhaps even took them as an encouragement. ‘And on the other hand, I have no tendency to idolise John, and can see his faults fairly as far as he has

 been nervous before about this latter fact, the presence of the entire institution on top of that

them. We’ve had an… incident concerning a diary at one point, and I also was not entirely happy when he used force to distance himself from me during a very tensed moment,’ Brian admitted, even though it hurt a little to share these moments with the entire room. ’Besides, I have no desire to push him away and pull him back, to test his loyalty as a friend, I do not react with jealousy when other people claim his attention, and am not afraid he will desert me if he leaves my side for whatever reason. We can talk about so much, and I am not afraid of telling him my opinion. Does that not sound like a healthy friendship, Doctor Sumner?’ Brian tried his best not to cock his head daringly into the direction of the psychiatrist, who he could see clench- and unclench his jaw even through the distance between them. 

‘That’s… That sounds like a healthy friendship,’ Doctor Sumner allowed. ‘Nevertheless I am sceptical of you being able to fully understand the implications of leaving Queen Mary’s permanently over someone else.’

‘Just like I am sceptical of you being able to fully understand the consequences of me having to live here, against my will, while knowing that my best friend is out there without the help he needs and deserves,’ Brian shot right back at Sumner. Then, in a tone more approachable to the jury in its entirety, he said: ‘No one else can help me the way John can. I know it’s hard to believe as an outsider, but I know I would not be doing as great as I am doing right now if it had not been for John, and that my progress will take a huge beating if I cannot continue to have him in my life. He is the best thing Queen Mary’s has brought me. By choosing for John I am choosing for myself - going through life with him by my side. He does more for me and my healing process than any medicine or therapist could ever accomplish.’ 

‘That is a bold statement to make,’ Sumner said, but his voice sounded weak and defenceless. Brian therefore did not doubt a second to tear it down again.

‘The truth can be bold at times, but that does not mean I should not speak it,’ Brian replied. ‘But here’s the thing. Medication is temporary, therapists work with you for a number of sessions, but in the end you will have to design your life yourself - you have to make yourself happy, and make the choices that enable you to be happy. And for me, this is John. He enables me to be happy and to live my life the way I never thought I’d ever be able to live it again in the midst of my depression. John is the best thing Queen Mary’s has brought me, the best choice I’ve made in my life, and I know he will support me long after my time at Queen Mary’s, whether that ends after today or later down the line, is over.’ 

Silence again - for a few seconds, before the first claps of applause landed behind him. A guard tried to shush it, but this only seemed to encourage more people to join in on the applause, until eventually whistles and shouts of support filled the room on top of this. Brian could tell by the gestures the judges and the staff around him made towards the audience that they were not exactly pleased with the behaviour of the crowd, but he personally felt too much of a rush of relief and ecstasy to really mind. In fact, he even allowed himself to turn his head around and catch a glimpse at the audience - or, more specifically - catch a glimpse at John. Their eyes locked for a second, and their smiles grew wider.

These people are here to support you. Brian could see it in John’s eyes, and he believed him.

Eventually the guards managed to calm everyone down again by threatening to throw out the people who would not listen to the order of being quiet, and the attention was focussed on the judges again.’

‘Thank you for your report, Mister May,’ Miss Gerald said, obviously not too pleased that she had been interrupted in her previous attempts of acknowledging her client’s contribution to the case. ‘We would not like to retreat shortly to discuss our judgement.’ Brian nodded, and the judges stood up from their chairs - but as this invited everyone in the audience to do so, too, Miss Gerald held up her hand and said, rather loudly to make sure she would be heard: ‘We will be back soon, and we would like to ask everyone to remain in their seat and be quiet.’ With this, she followed her co-workers and descended the stairs. They disappeared through the door with a bundle of paperwork under their arms, to be seen back in what could not have been more than five minutes.

How he managed to keep his cool during these five minutes, however, was something which Brian could not figure out when he would later look back on it. All the tension of having to listen to speeches about himself, having other people answer questions on his behalf, being cross-examined by three people… It all disappeared from his body and mind the second the judges left the room - only to be replaced by the stress of now having to await the judgement. 

And boy, it was as if he was the only one nervous about the judgement. Nolan and Jasper enthusiastically started chatting both to him and to each other to talk about how well the meeting had gone down, and Sarah stood up to enthusiastically share some words with Mister Fisher. They all seemed completely convinced that the jury was going to judge in his advantage, but Brian himself was not too sure about it as of yet. He had managed to deliver some pretty strong answers, yes, but to questions that he had been hoping would not be posed. He had also been able to quiet down the judges in their doubts about him leaving for the right reasons, but would they take this as a sign of strength, or as plain rudeness and dislike for authority? What if they’d publicly declare him to be an insolent, insane adolescent, who had a whole lot to learn still before he’d ever be allowed to walk through the gates of Queen Mary’s?

‘Brian?’ 

A hand continuously poking his shoulder brought Brian back to the present, where Jasper was trying to catch his attention. ‘Brian? Freddie is trying to get your attention. I think he wants to congratulate you on how well you did.’ There was a broad smile on Jasper’s face, but all Brian could do was stare back blankly and wonder how anyone could be so optimistic about a judgement that had not been made public yet. 

‘Brian, turn around! Come ooon!’ It was Roger’s quasi-annoyed voice that eventually made Brian lull his head around, but he did not dare turn around in his seat, just in case the jury would return early. He knew it was irrational, but for some reason he felt that they might alter their judgement of him if they walked back into the room to find him having moved in his seat when they had been told to stay where they were. Then again, if they were to return now, Brian looking over his shoulder was likely to not even catch their eye. With the chaos around him - people standing up, walking around, talking and yelling and making noise even louder than that - it seemed unlikely that Miss Gerald would even notice his small deed of disobedience. Not now that guards were literally trying to prevent people from going up to him or singing loud songs he vaguely remembered from football games, at any rate.

‘You did so well, darling!’ Freddie beamed upon having Brian face his way, and Brian gave him the smallest of a smile. 

‘You totally killed those judges. They’re currently out there trying to repair whatever’s left of their ego!’ Roger laughed and Freddie joined him, but Brian felt his smile fade a bit. He knew Roger meant it as a compliment, to help him feel better, but Brian interpreted it as further proof that he might have offended the judges with his fierceness to protect his case. 

Between the laughter and the triumph of the couple, however, was one face that remained still, just like Brian’s - and that was John, who looked at his partner in quiet admiration.

‘You did better than I ever could have hoped for,’ John said. ‘I’m so proud of you.’

Brian swallowed, and just nodded in response. He had no words to match these sentences that were so much meaningful than Freddie’s and Roger’s attempts at boosting his pride, or Jasper’s and Nolan’s easy confidence towards the judgement. What he could do, however, was turn around in his chair just a little more, and reach out a hand towards his boyfriend. While Freddie and Roger - and seemingly the rest of the room, too - amused themselves with loud chatter and easy jokes, John and he entangled their fingers in mid-air, and looked at each other with a fondness Brian had not believed was possible had he not witnessed it himself at that moment.

He did not know for how long they stayed like that, or how many people saw them share this moment - Brian just remembered the sound of the door opening, and swiftly letting go of John’s hand to settle down in his chair again. Whether the judges saw him in his hurry to comply to the rules again, he guessed he’d never find out; by the time they were in sight they looked positively annoyed by the mayhem in which they arrived. Brian saw Sumner call for a guard and admonish him for being unable to keep the peace, and Carlston gestured to the crowd to behave themselves - to little or no avail, that was. In the end, it took Miss Gerald repeatedly smashing a folder of papers against the desktop before people looked her way and possibly even realised the judges had returned in the first place.

‘So, now that we have your attention...’ There was an unmistakable hint of irritation in her voice. ‘We would like to move on to the judgement of this trial. So if everyone could sit back down and be silent, it’d be much appreciated.’ Despite the biting sarcasm of Miss Gerald’s voice, people did listen to her - and her wish for order was granted in what seemed like a heartbeat. It was perhaps a bit too fast for Brian’s liking; the conclusion of this trial was coming upon him so soon all of a sudden, and he was unsure if he could deal with it. He had no choice, though - not when he was asked to stand up from his chair to hear the judgement that the three people currently in charge of his fate had come to. 

Feeling that everyone in the world was looking at him, Brian stood up on wobbly knees. Nolan made an offer of standing up with him, but Brian politely brushed it off - this was something he had to do on his own. 

‘Brian May,’ Miss Gerald started, which made the last of voices even out into the all-surrounding silence. ‘On August 24, 1971, you filed for a reassessment of your stay at Queen Mary’s Psychiatric Institution until your psychiatrist would dismiss you. Today on September 24, we - Professor Sumner, Mister Carlston, and I myself, Edna Gerald - were sent on behalf of the South East England Mental Health Facilitation to reassess your case.’ Miss Gaskell paused for a second, which gave Brian the opportunity to wonder if repeating the entire setting was part of an official protocol, or if she just enjoyed making him more nervous than he was already. ‘With the help of both written and spoken statements of Sarah Gaskell, clinical psychiatrist; Nolan Ferrier, client mentor and qualified nurse; Jasper Vee, therapist; Jim Fisher, independent psychiatrist; and the client himself, we were able to come to a final judgement in line with the protocol regarding early dismissal of mentally afflicted persons.’

Come on! Hurry up! Brian was rather sure he could hear some people voicing their impatience with the endless taunting of the head of the committee representants in the back of the room. He felt a surge of relief that someone was finally saying what had been on his mind ever since the judges had returned to the meeting room, but at the same time he heavily disagreed, since he was not at all ready to receive the final note to this judgement. He knew he could not stop the tide, and while he was aching to finally hear what the judges had to say, he at the same time wished it had been socially acceptable to cover his ears with his hands and run out of the room. He performed neither of these actions, of course, and instead took to chewing on his lower lip while Miss Gerald covered some more factual trivialities while actively ignoring the sighs and protests from the crowd.

‘... and we have tried our utmost to adhere to all the rules and regulations, both from our employer, from the British Mental Health Association, and from the law of the kingdom under which we operate. Then, as for our judgement,’ Miss Gerald switched to the topic everyone had been waiting for, and Brian, although he could not see what was happening either next to or behind him, could swear he could sense everyone moving to sit on the tip of their chair. 

Miss Gerald opened yet another folder and addressed Brian by his full name. ‘Brian Harold May… Upon first receiving your case we felt sceptical, as we, if my co-workers allow me to speak on behalf of all of us, always do. You see, there is a reason why psychiatrists are the ones to dismiss their patients from their care, and not the patients themselves. Psychiatrists studied to understand mental progress and regress, they know the difference between having a good mental state or simply having a good mental day, they can calculate the risks and advantages of releasing their patients, which is something the patient, being obsessed only with being released from the grips of mental health care, does not see.’ Brian was not entirely sure how happy he was with this condescending, prejudiced outlook on mentally ill people, but it did not seem like he would be was given the chance of objecting, for Miss Gerald blabbered on. 

‘Reassessment is meant for people who fear they are being kept in mental health facilities for too long, because their caretakers mistreat them and disregard their freedom. But as Queen Mary’s has never been known as a place of malpractices, we found it unlikely that you would have a fair point. Nevertheless, as our position required us to treat every appeal for reassessment without prejudice, we looked into it - after all, we would not have been here if we hadn’t.’ Miss Gaskell flashed Brian a smile as if it was somehow funny that her precalculated opinions on mentally ill people and her opinion of when reassessment was valid potentially could have cost him his chance of leaving early, if it had not been for the official policy of her position.

‘We then found that the case you submitted, together with the motivation from your psychiatrist, mentor, and therapist made sense - especially because your caretakers supported you,’ Miss Gerald told the audience, which again did not give Brian the best of feelings. ‘Mister Fisher’s report, and the diary segments and everything you submitted, all convinced us you were a strong and largely recovered individual ready to be released and pick up your life again outside of Queen Mary’s.’ Miss Gerald smiled, so Brian smiled back at her - but he regretted it instantly when she dropped the next line. ‘You can imagine what a disappointment it was to us when, upon hearing you out today, we discovered that you’d gone for a reassessment simply because your best friend was going to leave.’

Brian felt his heart sink in his chest, could hear his pulse in the complete silence the room fell into. This was what he had been afraid of all along - that the judges were going to use his arguments of wanting to leave for the sake of both John and himself against him now that they had found out about it and had made him open up about the topic. They found him weak, clingy, dependent; all a borderline sufferer was supposed to be according to the books so conveniently largely written by Doctor Sumner. 

All the reasons why he should stay at Queen Mary’s for as long as possible. 

As Brian brought up one hand to wipe at the suddenly moist area around his eyes, he suddenly noticed that the silence around him had broken up. There was no more soundlessness in the meeting room - sound of protest and outright booing were aimed at the judges, who Brian could see from the corners of his eyes tried to hush people with hand gestures of some sort, to little avail.

‘However,’ Miss Gerald started, but she dropped her sentence when the booing got louder the second she opened her mouth. ‘I’m not done talking yet!’ she all but exclaimed, and crossed her arms over her chest as to demonstrate her refusal to speak up until the crowd had calmed down again. Brian heard the guards behind him urging people to be quiet, which they eventually did when they were reminded they were making tension worse for Brian. Even if the judges did not, the audience supported his case still, apparently.

‘As I wanted to say - however, whereas my co-workers and I were at first sceptical of your dependency on Mister John Deacon, you convinced us through your well-founded rhetoric that you are not just a puppet clinging to someone else, but that your best friend is- an extension of all you have to offer, and the other way around.’ At these carefully positive words, Brian allowed himself to look up at the judges - at least two of which now bore a kinder look on their face than they had before. ‘We have come to see that you do not simply lean on John Deacon for all you do, but that he is there to lend you a hand when you need one, and vice versa. In your time together at Queen Mary’s you have formed a friendship founded on mutual love and trust that we hope will last a lifetime.’ As Miss Gerald smiled at him, Brian returned the favour - and this time, he was not let down as soon as he did so.

‘A bond like the one you built up with John Deacon is one to be cherished, and one to continue building upon. Even though we have never met him in person, we can tell through your stories and descriptions that Mister Deacon brought you to the point where you are today. And the point where you are today… seems to us as a point where it would be in your favour to follow Mister Deacon in his journey of establishing his life again.’

Miss Gerald’s voice died out for a moment, and left Brian with a lingering buzz in his ears. He tried to comprehend all that he had just been told, but he could not make sense of it - the overwhelmingly positive vibe of the speech had excited him, and the praise in which John’s and his ‘friendship’ had been showered had made him hopeful. But what exactly did Miss Gerald just tell him? Following Mister Deacon in his journey of establishing his life again?

Did that mean…?

Brian turned to Nolan, then back to the judges, and then to Nolan again. ‘Does that-’ he squeaked rather helplessly, making a vague gesture of the hand which he could not make out the meaning of himself.

‘So what- what is your final judgement on the client’s- this reassessment case, Miss Gerald?’ Nolan asked. He tried hard not to stumble over his own words, but in his current fit of enthusiasm, he didn’t succeed - not that anyone cared as they heard the reply of the judge.

‘Our unanimous judgement is that if Mister May promises to continue his medication and weekly therapy sessions to help him beat his depression and manage his borderline, we approve of his reassessment, and of him being put in the accelerated dismissal trajectory that will allow him to return home anywhere between seven to fourteen days from today.’ 

All of the words related to protocols, trajectories, and conditions completely missed Brian - all he could hear were those five words, that one little sentence that set him free.

We approve of his reassessment.

We approve of his reassessment!

Brian clamped a hand over his mouth and sank back into his chair as the meaning of these words reached him. All of these last few weeks, all of the effort, the diaries, the forms, the therapy sessions, the tension, the stress, the hope and the despair - it all amounted to this one moment, this one sentence that would release both him and John from a foreseeable future without each other. This was the moment that set them both free from all their anxieties, their fears, and their desperation.

This was the moment their real life together could begin.

The crowd behind Brian had erupted in noise - yelling, clapping, cheering, the sound of chairs scratching the carpeted surface of the floor, people high fiving and walking around and congratulating each other. He felt the hands of people on his back to give him a pat on the shoulder or to full-on hug him from the back in an attempt to congratulate him on the outcome of his case. He heard Jasper telling people to keep their distance, and most of all, their calm - one when neither of those worked, it was Nolan who pulled him to his feet to go and thank the judges. 

It was at this exact moment that he was half-dragged towards the podia that Brian realised that he had not gotten to hug or even share a word with his friends yet - or, even more scandalous, he had not even been able to look at his boyfriend. Brian thus made quick work of treading up the few steps of stairs and shake hands with the three people behind the desk, who had stood up for the occasion.

‘Thank you- thank you so much, thank you,’ Brian said, his right hand moving quickly to accept the outstretched arms of the judges, while his left continued to wipe at his wet cheeks. Tears of relief and all the weight suddenly falling off his shoulders just kept coming, slowly but surely, but luckily none of the judges seemed to mind specifically. Even Sumner gave him a smile and wished him well in a voice as genuine as Brian had ever heard it sound. It was not enough to prevent Brian from determinedly calling him Doctor Sumner one more time, but it did make him feel on top of the world.

Now having fulfilled his formal obligations, there was only one thing on Brian’s mind, and that was to reach his friends and his partner as soon as he could. The room had been transformed into chaos in a matter of the half-minute during which he had been occupied, but he could detect Roger’s messy blond hair from the same spot where they had been sitting during the hearing - and from there, he soon faced up with John himself. A smile spread out over John’s face, the sight of which made Brian tear up just a little more than he had done before. He regretted every second he had spent away from the moment the veil had been lifted, even if this could not have been more than a few minutes. He was going to make it up to John right then. 

Brian stepped one foot into the direction of the stairs, then another, and the first one again - until he passed down the stairs with a speed he could not remember having attained. John, who seemed to understand his intentions, broke away from the small group of people that had gathered around him and his friends, lightly yet determinedly pushed someone out of his way, and quite literally broke through the row of chairs Brian and the staff previously had been sitting on. 

The noise which the chair clattering to the floor produced attracted the attention of some people across the room, but neither Brian nor John particularly cared; all they aimed for was to reach each other as soon as they could, a goal which they would not put on hold because some bystanders had seen them making a run for each other. If anything, it made them more determined to be close to each other soon - which they did a mere second later, meeting in a clash of chests pressing against each other and arms reaching out to wrap themselves around backs, not to let go again anywhere soon. 

The mere act of being reunited with John, this time while knowing for a fact that they would leave Queen Mary’s and start their new lives together soon, was enough to bring tears to Brian’s eyes for a second time. Burying his face in the crook between John’s neck and shoulder, Brian allowed the tears to run free. He vaguely noticed the presence of new people around them - quite literally around them, as two pairs of arms joined around the embrace John and he had previously established. Judging by the soreness of one and the boniness of the other, they had to be Freddie and Roger. 

‘It’s alright. It’s all fine,’ John told him. ‘Everything’s going to be alright from now off.’ Brian weakly nodded against his shoulder, and let out a shaky sigh of relief. It was as if hearing John say that all was going to be fine was the thing that really convinced Brian that this was real, that the entire reassessment had been real, and that having been dismissed was real.

‘We’re so proud of you.’ In the midst of tears and smiles Brian could not tell which one of the three people currently hanging all over him said this, but he appreciated it nonetheless. Cheered on by what sounded like the majority of the audience, he allowed all three of his friends to hold him and to celebrate their win for a minute or so, until eventually Brian carefully detached himself from everyone around him and took a step back.

‘John?’ he called to further clarify that he needed a word with his partner only. Freddie and Roger took a step back to a place Brian could not make out right away, and neither did he exactly care about where they went to. All that mattered in that exact moment was John, who was standing before him and who looked more radiant than a thousand shining stars. 

‘John…’ Brian whispered, a broken smile on his still tearstained face. There was so much he wanted to say to him - that he loved him, that he never could have done this, any of this - both Queen Mary’s and the reassessment process - without him. That he looked forward so much to living with him, going back to university with him, making music with him, building up his life with him outside of the walls inside which all of their current memories together lay. He wanted to say so much, but could not utter more than a choked-up ‘thank you’. 

‘I want to thank you. Because you did this - you did all of this,’ John told him, wiping a line of tears from Brian’s cheek with his thumb.

‘I know,’ Brian choked out. ‘I’m- we’re gonna get out of here.’

The smile on John’s lips grew wider, and he took a step forwards so that Brian was in reach for him to bring on a hand and put it on Brian’s shoulder. Through a haze of lingering tears, Brian could swear he could see John coming closer, his lips no longer in a smile but slightly pursed - as if to kiss him. 

Caught off guard by this action Brian had not foreseen, Brian said: ‘Are you- are you sure?’

John opened his eyes at this and blinked. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’ he asked gently. 

‘I mean- er, my parents are here,’ Brian blurted out. ‘Everyone’s here?’ It was not even a criticism - it were not reasons why he would not want to kiss, at any rate, and apparently those factors also hadn’t stopped John from leaning in for a kiss. In all honesty, Brian had no idea why he had bought up the question of John being sure. He supposed it was because he was still overwhelmed and emotional from all that had happened during the span of about an hour, because now that he was thinking about it, he really, really did want to kiss John. Currently having John blink at him, and then glance around to look at a multitude of people - many of whom were still talking and rushing around excitedly, but some of which had fallen quiet as the scene unfolded before them - was counterproductive to this pursuit. It took away from previous time that could be spent kissing, pressing his lips together with John’s to claim his mouth and wordlessly show him how much he loved him.

Luckily, after having looked around at the spectators, John came to the same conclusion Brian had reached. ‘I don’t care,’ John whispered when he locked eyes with him.

Brian let out a breathy laugh, then found himself drowning in those seas of grey. ‘Me neither.’

So while Sarah and Nolan were called over to sign the papers that would irrevocably set Brian free from the responsibility and care of Queen Mary’s Psychiatric Institution, Brian’s arm found itself its way around John’s neck, and he kissed John with a passion he hoped to maintain forevermore now that they had been set free to build up one life together. 

That was Part 17, and with that, the main line for The Clinic! It’s been a wild ride, and I want to thank you all for sticking with me – it means a lot, and I could not have done it without you! I’d like to invite you all to stick around for a little longer for the epilogue, which I hope will kind of make up for the angst and cliff hangers I’ve pulled you all through. I’m not giving away spoilers, but I promise to leave them all in the best place possible! ^^

Again, please tell me what you thought of this part (or some detail, or the Clinic in general, or whatever) and I hope to see you around for the epilogue!

[tisfan]

Lost Boys and Girls

Square: T5 - lost their powers Warning: fairies, magic, alternate history, dad!Tony Pairing: Tony Stark/Stephen Strange Summary: The queen of the fairies wants to meet Iron Man. Why does this sound like a really bad idea? Word Count: 1690 Link: A03 For the @tonystarkbingo

A/n I’m totally blaming @monobuu for this...

“You’re kidding me, right?”

“Uh, no?” Stephen rubbed absently at his wrist, like his fingers were aching.

“You want me, me, Iron Man, me,” Tony said, thumping his chest a few times to make his point better known, “to, and I quote, strip down all tech, and walk unarmed into what, exactly, did you say?”

“A court of faeries,” Stephen repeated. “It’s the summer court, if that helps any.”

“It does not help any, how does it help any, you do know that the arc reactor is the thing keeping a buttload of shrapnel from reaching my heart, right?”

“The Summer Queen has promised you safe passage,” Stephen said.

“Does she understand that I will die if--”

“The land of the Fey will keep you alive, until you return,” Stephen said. “I have it on good authority.”

“Whose, exactly?”

“Titania’s,” Stephen said. “She’s the queen of the summerlands, and more powerful than you can comprehend. Offending her, under these circumstances…”

“I want to know exactly how these circumstances ended up with my having to walk naked through fairyland. That sounds like a bad porno, Stephen. I don’t like that it sounds like a bad porno, I want good quality porn, with active consent and --”

“I don’t know the circumstances,” Stephen said. “That’s why we have to go to Titania’s court in the first place. To find out.”

“I love how you’re the one who has a magical fairy dust curse put on you, and I’m the one who has to go bargain on your behalf, with a magical fairy dust princess--”

“--queen--”

“Princess,” Tony said again, loftily, “to get it removed. How did that happen, Stephen, tell me that part, if you can’t explain the rest of it.”

(more below the cut)

“Part of the etiquette of the fairy court is stating your important connections,” Stephen said. “Name-dropping, if you will, to impress on the fairy you’re dealing with that you are, in fact, a person worth speaking with. If I didn’t have enough connections to impress, then I wouldn’t get a hearing at all.”

“I have a reputation, even in the fairy lands?” Tony wondered, scratching absently at his beard.

“Tony,” Stephen said, gently, “you wielded the infinity gauntlet and brought half the universe back from oblivion. Including Titania’s husband, Oberon. You’re quite literally the best known person alive in the universe. In any multitude of universes.”

“That’s… unhealthy for my ego,” Tony said. “I prefer just being the guy who did what needed to be done. And I don’t have the gauntlet anymore, I destroyed it.” He had wanted to destroy the stones, too, but they were too powerful for that. The best he could have done in those circumstances, he did. Returning them to vastly well-protected hiding places.

Even now, years later, he could feel the one in Stephen’s necklace, the time stone, and the way it called to him.

He couldn’t be trusted with that power. Not for long, and he knew it.

“She wants to thank you, and in exchange for your notice, she’s agreed to aid me with my… issue.”

“Your issue where your skin changes colors with the season and I might add, you’re growing leaves out of your hair.”

“More than likely, I accidentally annoyed a dryad, but as I cannot cure myself, I need to know to whom I owe amends. Will you please assist?”

“If the alternative is that my boyfriend turns into a tree, yes, I’ll help. I just don’t like these conditions.”

“I know,” Stephen said. “But I’ll be with you the whole time.”

“I’m comforted,” Tony said, as dryly as he could manage. Even if it was true, he didn’t need to scrape his face raw and present his sincerity to the world.

Tony pressed his hand over the arc reactor, feeling the dull ache where his sternum used to be. “All right, open up,” Tony told the suit. He slid his shirt up, twisted the reactor and removed it from its casing.

The pain was… well, he’d had worse. But not lots worse. His heart stuttered and slammed around in his ribcage like it was trying to escape. He gave the reactor core over to the suit and let it close up, sealing itself around the precious device.

“Come on--” Stephen held out his hand. Tony took it, and they stepped over the circle of mushrooms, from reality, to somewhere else.

It was cold, for somewhere called the Summer Lands. Like the day after an ice storm. Everything was bright and sunny, even if he couldn’t see the sun, but also frozen.

Flowers in bloom were encased in ice. Fruits were perfect glass globes. There was at least a foot of snow on the ground, and the crust of ice didn’t break beneath their feet.

Tony took a deep breath, and then another, before he realized that he wasn’t in pain. That nothing hurt, at all. He stared.

“We’re frozen in time,” Stephen said. “Like everything else here. The shrapnel won’t reach your heart, because no time at all will actually pass.”

“Magic sucks,” Tony said.

“That’s not what you said last night,” Stephen joked.

“Great one,” a voice said, and Tony had to turn all the way around before he saw the speck of light that addressed them.

If a lense flare could come to life, that was what Tony was looking at. A tiny little… person that existed inside a ball of light. That flew. And talked, apparently.

“If you’ll come this way, the Queen awaits.”

“After you,” Tony said, waving dramatically.

“At the same time as me,” the JJ Abrams special effects critter said. “Or you’ll be left behind.”

“Right,” Tony said. He wiggled his eyebrows, trying to express exasperation without actually expressing it.

He expected to be lead to a castle. An ice palace might have been nifty, and in keeping with the setting.

Instead, the little creature -- Tony couldn’t tell if it was a boy, or a girl, or even if it mattered at all -- lead them to what appeared to be a grove in the woods. Inside, the air was warm, the grass was green, and the trees were moving in the slight breeze. A girl sat there, in the grass, with red hair and a smart, watchful expression. She was playing with a puzzle, a dozen moving parts, and she changed it from a ball to a cage to a jacob’s ladder with seeming ease.

A woman, barely older than the girl, stood at their arrival.

She was beautiful. And deadly.

“Iron Man,” she said, and her voice was like singing crystal. “Welcome to the Summer lands.”

“A bit cold for that, but thanks,” Tony said.

“Ixnay on the arcasm-say,” Stephen muttered.

“And the good doctor, welcome.”

“I’m honored, your Majesty.”

“Quite the lover’s bond between you,” she said, and she reached out one long fingered hand -- Tony thought she had an extra joint in each finger, but she still looked graceful, perfect. Like his hand was the one deficient -- to touch something. Tony couldn’t see what she touched, but it played havoc with his feelings. He remembered everything, from that first moment when Stephen appeared, to the moment where Stephen promised the Time Stone in exchange for Tony. To the moment when Stephen returned and fell, weeping, into Tony’s embrace. And all the moments after, and the ones in between.

He looked at his lover with fresh eyes, seeing everything, everything between them, as the Queen must be seeing it, in that exact instant.

“You truly love him,” she murmured. “And he truly loves you.”

“It’s a chance not one in a thousand couples get, no matter what the storybooks say,” Tony said, unable to stop his mouth before it smarted off again.

“I like you, Tony Stark,” the Queen said.

“That’s good, I think,” Tony said.

“For the moment,” she said. “But I’ll warn you, I collect the things I like.. Falter in your devotion, and I may take it upon myself to claim you.”

“Not a chance, lady. You’re beautiful, and all that, but, Stephen is all I’m ever going to need,” Tony responded.

“Here, perhaps,” she said. “And now. In this world. But there are infinite worlds, as you well know. So, I will give you a gift.”

“I was told it was unwise to accept gifts, without something of equal value to exchange,” Tony said.

“Perhaps,” the Queen said. “But this is not mine to give you. She was entrusted to me in a universe that died. A last minute plea, from another Tony Stark, in another where, another when, who loved someone else. Morgan, darling?”

The woman held out her hand and the girl got up and came to her. “Yes, your Majesty?” She had a soft, reedy voice, and her eyes were deep brown and full of intelligence.

“This is Tony Stark,” the Queen said. “Tony Stark, this is the child of your counterpart, in a universe that no longer exists. She has no family, no friends, even the very molecules that formed her solar system are gone. She is truly, one of the orphans. And in that universe, the person that Tony Stark loved the most… was Pepper Potts. Morgan is their child.”

Tony looked down into a pair of eyes that were almost identical to his own.

“I cannot repay the Tony Stark of that universe for the favor he did me,” the Queen said, “but I can protect his child, and I can let her go into the hands of those that will love her, and cherish her. If you will accept this burden, I will consult with the good Doctor on the nature of the curse he is under.”

Morgan let go of the fairy queen’s hand and held out those tiny fingers to him. “Are you my daddy?”

Tony dropped to one knee, studying the child. In his world, Pepper had married Happy Hogan, had suffered through several miscarriages, and finally ended up adopting. She’d dated Tony briefly, but it hadn’t worked out.

Tony had never considered being a father.

But he saw that child, that little soul…

“I am now.”

[thepursuitofirony]

Throwback: Andrew Lincoln recounts trip to Ghana to see VSO teacher and childhood friend Laura Smith

For any of the fans out there of Andrew Lincoln, I found this is an interesting tidbit from about his trip to Ghana in 2002 to do volunteer work. His childhood friend Laura Smith worked there as a teacher.

ANDREW LINCOLN

Laura is the daughter of my mother's oldest and greatest friend from South Africa. Both my mother and her friend left South Africa because of apartheid and became exiles. Laura is my mother's namesake. We lived for 10 years of my childhood in Hull. Laura's family lived in Sunderland and we'd see each other all the time. Our families were very close.

Laura is younger than me, so when I was six or seven, she was three or four, and she was a bit of a pest. She loved my older brother in particular and we used to tease him about it. I've a terrible memory of my childhood, but one of the things that sticks in my mind is playing with this toy that Laura had. I remember being a bit jealous because we didn't have that toy. Another is having curries with her and her brother. Her dad was a curry fanatic. He'd worked in development in Africa, so I suppose it comes as no surprise that Laura has gone to work out there.

When my dad's work changed, we moved to Bath and we saw each other less often. Our mothers, though, are like sisters, so we always got detailed reports on what each other was doing. Laura came to see me in a production of a Jonathan Harvey play in Manchester. It was lovely to meet up but it was an after-show thing and we didn't really catch up properly.

And then, when I was doing Teachers, VSO contacted me. I'm ambivalent towards doing charity work because I always think it looks really crass - the quote unquote celebrity coming along and la, la, la, la, la. My mum gave me a stiff talking to though, and said it was my responsibility as someone who is part-South African and as someone who had got to a level of notoriety to do something. And that was when she said, "Oh, by the way, Laura's out in Ghana with VSO." That seemed to give it some relevance, a reason why I should go there.

So I said, "Yes, let's go to Ghana." It all slotted into place. It was one of the most intoxicating trips I've ever been on. Laura was in the remotest part of Ghana. You can't fly there so it is a three- day trip by Land Rover across country. And then there was Laura, in a Ghanaian outfit, an integrated African woman, teaching and coordinating programmes on HIV/Aids. She'd learnt the local dialect. What she was doing was amazing. The little girl I had known had grown up. For me it's the greatest strength of VSO. People evolve hugely when they're volunteers because they do so many things.

Laura had a real peace about her, a calmness. You could tell that she loved the country and its people. Almost as soon as I arrived, she made me play football with a local team, all of whom towered above me. And then we got drunk. She brewed this stuff, pitto, in her own distillery. It is made out of millet corn and is really strong. The next day she took me into her school and I watched her teach.

One of the nicest things was that no one had seen any of the programmes I'm in. Laura and the others are doing something so much more important with their lives. Being there refreshed my African blood. It's half of my history.

LAURA SMITH

Andrew's mother and my mother grew up together in South Africa, came to Britain together and married British men at the same time. So we all grew up together. While our mothers were cooking or chatting, we'd play in the attic. I was talkative and troublesome and my clearest memory of Andrew is him pulling me into line. He made me cry at least once. He shouted at me for tormenting my little brother.

When they moved to Bath, we'd visit. But as we grew up we were getting on with our own lives. I was studying in Manchester and went to see him in a play. I wasn't surprised that he was an actor. He was always theatrical, but I was a bit taken aback that he made it his career. The characters he has played are often very different from him. And now that he's famous, it doesn't tally with the Andrew I know who is anything but arrogant. He's very like his mother. They both have big hearts and care for people.

The first thing I heard about Andrew coming to Ghana was not via my mother but in an e-mail from our country director saying that Andrew Lincoln wanted to meet Laura Smith. I was amazed and a bit apprehensive. I hadn't seen him for a few years and wasn't sure if he'd be the same or if all his success would have changed him. I'd hardly known him as an adult and here he was coming all this way to meet me. It took until about two minutes into our reunion to work out that he was just the same.

He's mad about football, so I organised a game with a local school. It was blazing sunshine and I was worried about the effect of the heat, but he found some trainers and got on with it. He gave everything I suggested a go. I've been here for about two years and it's easy to forget how overwhelming it can be for someone who has just arrived. Andrew coped fantastically. He went through all the Ghanaian protocols - being presented to the chief and the headmaster - and found them interesting. He spoke positively to everyone he met in the school and in the HIV/Aids programme.

He'd brought out a photograph of me, him and his older brother when we were children. Andrew had a David Cassidy T-shirt on and a terrible 1970s haircut. I didn't look much better. It gave everyone in Ghana a good laugh. n

Today is VSO's World Teachers' Day, a chance for teachers around the world to make their voices heard. For further information or to find out more about VSO visit www.vso.org.uk

[sleepwalker-in-me]

Daenerys and Aragorn

Most of the times GRRM talked about Aragorn, he linked his commentary to Dany. Here are some of his quotes about character development and ruling. Dany is going to learn from her mistakes and become better. We are seeing her development in both the books and show.

Character development and [people] changing is good, and there are some tough things in there that I think a lot of writers skip over. I’m glad I didn’t skip over these things.......Dany as Queen struggling with rule. So many books don’t do that. There is a sense when you’re writing something in high fantasy, you’re in a dialogue with all the other high fantasy writers that have written. And there is always this presumption that if you are a good man, you will be a good king. [Like] Tolkien — in Return of the King, Aragorn comes back and becomes king, and then “he ruled wisely for three hundred years.” Okay, fine. It is easy to write that sentence, “He ruled wisely”.

What does that mean, “He ruled wisely?” What were his tax policies? What did he do when two lords were making war on each other? Or barbarians were coming in from the North? What was his immigration policy? What about equal rights for Orcs? I mean did he just pursue a genocidal policy, “Let’s kill all these fucking Orcs who are still left over”? Or did he try to redeem them? You never actually see the nitty-gritty of ruling.

I guess there is an element of fantasy readers that don’t want to see that. I find that fascinating. Seeing someone like Dany actually trying to deal with the vestments of being a queen and [dealing with] factions and guilds and the economy. They burnt all the fields [in Meereen]. They’ve got nothing to import anymore. They’re not getting any money. I find this stuff interesting

GRRM has given Dany so much power so that we could see her wielding it with compassion and wisdom and also the consequences when she makes a mistake.

 Tolkien may write that Aragorn “ruled wisely and well for years,” but what does that mean? “What was his tax policy? How did the economy function? What about the class system?”

“There are still tens and thousands of orcs at the end of Lord of the Rings,” Martin said. “Did he pursue a policy of genocide toward them? Or did he reach out and try to educate them? We never get answers to any of these questions. We just get ‘he ruled wisely and well.'”

“That’s what I try to do in showing rulers as diverse as Robert and Ned Stark and Cersei Lannister and Daenerys Targaryen — show how people achieve a position of power and then what do they do with it, how do they deal with the divisions of their societies and violence and crime and economic matters.”

Dany has dealt with various difficulties of ruling in Meereen. According to the show she was a successful queen, establishing peace and change in power structure. In the books wrapping up Essos story line will be more complicated, but Dany is going to work out a solution. 

Q. A major concern in A Song of Ice and Fire and Game of Thrones is power. Almost everybody – except maybe Daenerys, across the waters with her dragons – wields power badly.

GRRM. Ruling is hard. This was maybe my answer to Tolkien, whom, as much as I admire him, I do quibble with. Lord of the Rings had a very medieval philosophy: that if the king was a good man, the land would prosper. We look at real history and it's not that simple. Tolkien can say that Aragorn became king and reigned for a hundred years, and he was wise and good. But Tolkien doesn't ask the question: What was Aragorn's tax policy? Did he maintain a standing army? What did he do in times of flood and famine? And what about all these orcs? By the end of the war, Sauron is gone but all of the orcs aren't gone – they're in the mountains. Did Aragorn pursue a policy of systematic genocide and kill them? Even the little baby orcs, in their little orc cradles?

In real life, real-life kings had real-life problems to deal with. Just being a good guy was not the answer. You had to make hard, hard decisions. Sometimes what seemed to be a good decision turned around and bit you in the ass; it was the law of unintended consequences. I've tried to get at some of these in my books. My people who are trying to rule don't have an easy time of it. Just having good intentions doesn't make you a wise king.

GRRM has also compared Aragorn and Dany’s prophesied role.

I went back to The Lord of the Rings and looked at how Tolkien does it. The Lord of the Rings is set in a magical world but there is not that much magic actually on stage. For Tolkien, wizardry is knowledge, not constant spells and incantations. I wanted to keep the magic in my book subtle and keep our sense of it growing, and it stops being magical if you see too much of it. In Tolkien, Aragorn's sword is magical because it just is; not because we regularly see it helping him win fights. In these books, magic is always dangerous and difficult, and has a price and risks.

The whole point of the scene in A Game of Thrones where Daenerys hatches the dragons is that she makes the magic up as she goes along; she is someone who really might do anything. I wanted magic to be something barely under control and half instinctive.

Even the structure of the story in which main characters like Tyrion and Jon Snow seeking out Dany.

With the general construction of the books, in some ways I took the Lord of the Rings as my model. Tolkien begins very small, in the Shire with Bilbo's birthday party, and from there, the characters all accumulate. First there's Frodo and Sam, and they pick up Merry and Pippin, and then they pick up Aragorn in Bree, and they pick up the rest of the fellowship in Rivendell, but they're still altogether. But then at a certain point, they begin to go separate ways—Frodo and Sam cross the river, Merry and Pippin are captured by orcs, and Aragorn, Gimli, and Legolas are chasing them, and they continue to separate. You get this sense of everyone being together, and then the world gets bigger and bigger.

My scheme is very similar to that. We begin in Winterfell, and everyone except Daenerys is in Winterfell, even characters that don't belong there, like Tyrion. And they set off together and then they begin to split. In that sense my books are bigger than the Lord of the Rings because there are more characters and they split further apart. It has always been my intent, as with the Lord of the Rings, that eventually it would curve around and they would start moving back together. I think I'm reaching the turning point, that's starting to happen now

Jon shares some qualities with Aragorn. But, as a long-lost leader who comes from a noble family yet lives estranged from the throne, Daenerys shares far more similarities with Aragorn. Like Aragorn, Daenerys has a lot to prove, particularly because both are descended from corrupt, unjust rulers — Daenery’s father was known as the “Mad King,” and Aragorn’s ancestors were equally unsavory. Daenery’s endgame, then, will culminate in her ascending to the throne. ( inverse.com)

As Jon relinquished his ‘King in the North’ title, Dany is the monarch that is leading the Great war against the Others with her armies and dragons. GRRM has made this explicit, in the interview with Al Jazeera. Dany’s destiny is to one day fight ice with her fire, and there will be songs about her. 

“Well of course the two outlying ones, the things that are going north of the Wall and Daenerys Targaryen on the other continent with her dragons are of course the Ice and Fire of the title, the Song of of Ice and Fire”

[douchebagbrainwaves]

WHY I'M SMARTER THAN ACTIVITIES

The founders thereupon proposed to walk away from the company, after giving the investors a veto over various kinds of important decisions, including selling the company. So if you want to do something in an ugly way to get to know good hackers. This tradeoff predates programming languages. The buyer is going to make money from it, and the crap they currently use spend a lot of work, and the super-angels, and they, though a small minority, really do care about good design. But I decided not to, because that's what it means.1 I forgot about that. You'll find that you can't stand programming in clumsy languages. Or would super-angel money do just as well?

But there's nothing to stop you starting new projects of your own.2 What we're seeing now, everyone's probably going to live. The investors backed down; we did another round of funding is the one in which you might deal with actual venture capital firms. The way to be good at programming, and learn what they know. 1%-4. For us the test of whether a startup understood this was whether they had Aeron chairs. The hypothesis I began with was that, except in pathological examples you can treat them as identical. A bit later I realized why. The word cartoon was originally used to describe a painting intended for this purpose. Why the pattern?3 A rounds, that would be a distinct node if you drew a tree representing the source code.

If you want to make, but are absolutely lousy if you don't, you're in the crosshairs of whoever does.4 Just move on to the next. And of course Euclid. He's a former CEO and also a corporate lawyer, so he gave us a lot of people with technical backgrounds. At this stage the company is just a bet.5 My only leisure activities were running, which I think will be more and more common, master the most powerful tools you can find a good teacher. But if you want to go work for a big company.

A survey course in art history may be worthwhile. The no man's land between angels and VCs. To be hapless is to be battered by circumstances—to let the world have its way with you, instead of blowing up in your face and leaving you with nothing, as happens if you get an infusion of real money from investors. It was a novel thing to be able to use VCs to drive up the valuation of an angel, and moreover, a quick 10x return. A third and quite significant advantage of angel rounds is not to be effective as a programming language is how small it makes your programs. But I can think of are W. 064. So you have to know about business to do. As if to emphasize the point, Google never did any advertising. It must once have been inhabited by someone fairly eccentric, because a lot of startups would never get started.6

You forget your dreams, ignore your family, suppress your feelings, neglect your friends, and forget to be happy.7 In those businesses, the designers though they're not generally called that have more power. The super-angels, the most decisive of whom sometimes decide in hours.8 I design a good language? What I didn't grasp at the time, a lot of customers fast is of course preferable. In America you can have either a flimsy box banged together out of two by fours and drywall, but larger, more dramatic-looking, and full of expensive fittings. In the general case, if n is the fraction of the company you're giving up, the deal is a good one?

Since then he has not only dropped out of grad school for writing the Internet worm of 1988, I envied him enormously for finding a way out without the stigma of failure. Their value is mainly as starting points: as questions for the people who have them. The other reason to spend money slowly is to encourage a culture of cheapness. You may notice a certain similarity between the Viaweb and Y Combinator logos.9 I was persistent, but I got the impression it might be as much as a half. How can the richest country in the world look like this? I had a girlfriend for a total of two months during that three year period. They'd be far more useful when combined with some time living in a country where the language is spoken.

Two of our three original hackers were in grad school. How much is that extra attention worth? In existing open-source projects. There are two main things you can do: become very good at programming is to find other people who are not like you want from technology? Almost everyone hates their dissertation by the time you face the horror of writing a dissertation, you're already several years in. This doesn't seem to be working on; there's usually a reason. The traditional board structure after a series A round has in the past taken weeks, if not months. For centuries the Japanese have made finer things than we have in the West. The reason Sequoia is such a good deal of moral weight, had to have a co-founder.10

At sales I was not very good. Both Blogger and Delicious did that. I'm not proposing this just to make the debate more civilized. Ideally this meant getting a lot faster. Studio art and creative writing courses are wildcards.11 The other reason it's hard to switch from that to a product company. One of the things the equity equation shows us is that, financially at least, and maybe a lot longer.12 A round if you do it so early.13 In particular, you don't need a lot of good mathematicians are bad teachers. In nearly every startup that fails, the proximate cause is running out of money or a critical founder bailing. Be relentlessly resourceful is how you get there.14 This seems to me identical to asking, how can I design a good language?

Notes

It would have gone into the subject today is still a dick move. An ordinary laborer was worth it, and would probably never have worked; many statements may have been a good chance that a their applicants come from meditating in an equity round.

I think I know what they built, they did it. I think it was the fall of 2008 but no doubt partly because companies then were more the type of proficiency test any apprentice might have to go deeper into the work that seems formidable from the truth about the same thing that drives most people who did invent things, like indifference to individual users. Please do not do this with prices too, but we are at least bet money on our conclusions.

Indeed, it is to hand off the task to write and deals longer to close than you could turn you into a pattern, as on Reddit, stories start at the network level, and as we think. Even if you ban other ways. They'll be more linear if all bugs are found quickly. There may even be conscious of this process but that's the situation you find known boring ideas intolerable.

They may not care; they may try to go and steal the company, and I have about thirty friends whose opinions I care about valuations in angel rounds can make better chairs or knives, crucibles or church organs, than to read an original book, bearing in mind that it's up to two more modules, an image generator were written in Lisp, they can get it, but which didn't taste very good job. I'm not saying that's all prep schools is to take a long time.

Nothing annoys VCs more than you could get all the East Coast VCs. The Old Way.

An ordinary laborer was worth about 125 to 150 drachmae. Maybe you'd start to shift back.

If big companies to build their sites, and one VC. Mehran Sahami, Susan Dumais, David Heckerman and Eric Horvitz. Oddly enough, a torture device so called because it isn't a quid pro quo. Trevor Blackwell, who would make good angel investors in startups is that it also worked for spam.

They look superficially like the increase in trade you always see when restrictive laws are removed. Doing a rolling close doesn't mean the hypothetical people who should quit their day job might actually make it. And audiences treat it. 4%, Macintosh 18.

Turn the other.

Analects VII: 1 It's hard to say they bear no blame for any particular truths you'll learn. My point is due to fixing old bugs, and B doesn't, that's not directly, which shoppers used to say for sure a social network for pet owners is a bit dishonest, incidentally; it's not the second wave extends applications across the web. You can get for free.

For these companies when you had small corpora.

If you're doing something that flows from some central tap. If they agreed among themselves never to do that.

Scheme: define foo n lambda i set! To be safe either a don't use Oracle. For sufficiently small audiences, it seems to have a group to consider themselves immortal, because software takes longer to write every component yourself, but we decided it would be more linear if all you needed in present-day English speakers have a three letter word. See Greenspun's Tenth Rule.

People only tend to focus on the matter. This is an understatement. It's hard to erase from a 6/03 Nielsen study quoted on Google's site.

Thanks to Jessica Livingston, Kevin Hale, and Barry Eisler for sparking my interest in this topic.