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inlocusmads · 2 months

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"mama, didn't mean to make you cry" ~ trystan thorne, viktoria thorne

Before Trystan leaves for a second time, (this time willingly), he must have a difficult conversation with his mother. (Crimes of passion)

wc: 3k, no warnings but mentions of toxic parental relationships involved.

A/N: Yes the title references Bohemian Rhapsody, which I hc is Trystan's favourite song that resonates with him the most. Well. Now you know why. Written for @choicesmonthlychallenge - prompt: "cyclamen flower" which symbolises resignation.

Banner art: In the Garden by Denis Sarazhin

Trystan stepped into the large balcony, tucking his phone in with an email for the next day's charter flight back to New York. His mother had a flute of wine - a glass made of the most verdant material possible, studded with dripping diamonds and golds. She took a small sip in between her nightly watch - fixated on the spot in the sky where the sun had set.

“I am leaving tomorrow.” he spoke in Drakovian.

His mother didn't respond. She took another careful sip, but her silence beckoned Trystan to join her.

“Your father is very disappointed.” Mother said, after a break of silence. “But - he seems to understand. He thinks your American education has made you more jaded than usual, but he hopes when the time comes you will understand.”

“Is that what Father said or is it what you want him to say?” Trystan asked.

“He has been quiet but do not take his silence as acceptance.”

“Are you implying that I might change my mind one day?” Trystan asked.

“One hopes that their children will also yearn and fight for the throne as they have, in the past. But times are changing. The future is, as embarrassing as it is for me to say, uncertain and your sister cannot bear the precarious throne all alone. One day she will need her family and I hope she can count on you to not run away from your responsibilities.”

“I'm not going anywhere, Majka.”

“Don't give me promises you cannot keep, Trystan.”

Another sip of wine. Mother looked concerned. She had stress marks all over her eyes, from the days of sleep deprivation. She refused to show any sign of vulnerability, fearing her son might capture onto that to draw it out even more, like an expert weaver. Viktoria Thorne could hold up the skies and pick out the lies simultaneously, but she would break at the mere mention of her son showing her empathy and kindness. She didn't allow herself to crumble at his feet, to beg him to stay and let them move on as a family. There was no family to begin with.

“I won't. I'll come back home one day.”

“How is New York?”

“Well.”

“I hear you have new companions.”

“They are fine.”

“Refreshing I see, to engage with regular people. You must be tired of politics.”

“I think I am more honest with them.”

“Than your own family?” Mother expressed prudent surprise.

“I believe so, yes.”

“You must have a tarnished opinion of us.” Viktoria took generous sips of her wine. “Had you shared it with us earlier, it would have stopped all of this.”

“How could it have stopped all of this?” Trystan raised his voice immediately. “People still died, Mother. People -- good people were -- I cannot believe you would insinuate that my doubt is so large that it could have single-handedly predicted what Vasili would have done. Am I not allowed to have faith in us?”

“That is where the problem started, Trystan. You cannot pick and choose what you like and avoid the others. Had you expressed your doubts more clearly, we would have been able to forestall all these terrible happenings. Your jaded faith mixed in with your disloyalty birthed this tightrope dance we are all caught up in. And now -- it is easier to leave it behind, is it not?”

“Mother, if you think this is my fault, you are wrong.”

“Eight years in America rid you of all your responsibility. God knows if you will ever come home.” Viktoria sighed deeply, clutching the railing of the balcony to compose herself.

“Do not use my loyalty as a weapon.”

“Nobody is perfect, Trystan. It is you who sees everything in black and white. Perhaps if you had attempted to understand Juliana better - outside of your pre-marital squabbling, maybe we would have gotten somewhere. But, now isn't the time to look back.”

“Are you saying this is all my fault?”

“No. I didn't say you were an accomplice, did I? It is just that--” Viktoria took a deep breath, “It is always difficult with you, Trystan. Difficult and different. Perhaps it was me. You were my first, you see? A favorite. Unfortunately, it didn't work out so well. Might as well make some progress with the others had I given them a chance. Now nobody will talk to me. It is sad.”

“Lydea does.”

“She doesn't. A right-hand man, they all say.” Viktoria shrugged. “You have been gone for far too long and yet, I found it in my heart to favor you anyway.”

“The sham trial you organized did not do it justice.”

“It was a way to bring you home. I had no intention of hearing anything from the Georgescu family. It was merely a litmus test to see how many people favor you as I do. Clearly, not many. Jean Luc Everheart was a plant. A seed in a bigger operation and his nonchalance to making a strong case for you only heightened my theory. And yet -- you had to come home with so much faith in your heart while using the same tongue to condemn your family in front of the Americans.”

“They were my friends, Mother.” Trystan snapped. “And they had little to no larger role in the kind of faith I have in my heart as you so falsely imply.”

“Right, which is why you are in such a hurry to go home tomorrow?”

“New York.” He corrected her.

“Home. To you. Not a problem. I am not going to question your decisions.”

A pause.

“Detectives are seldom trustworthy creatures.” Viktoria began. “Let me explain. Someone with no nuanced understanding of a place, assuming a position of some sort of an advisor is -- appalling. I have nothing but her heritage to blame. The American dream cultivates so much hope and faith and this righteousness that your word cannot be challenged. Naturally, such confidence will make you fall prey to any school of thought. Your father was one such sentient being, with an education from Harvard. Prestigious school. I learned to never see Maksim the same way twice.”

“Are you saying that somehow Nora influenced my decision?”

“Doesn't a cat run to a patch of catnip? A moth to a flame?”

“A mother to a lost childhood?” Trystan added.

“You don't get to speak now.”

“Strange. I thought you favored me.”

“You’re more different than the one I raised.” Viktoria shook her head. “It was difficult, Trystan. Those years of your absence. I knew you could not be involved in Juliana's death. You couldn't have. The Trystan I raised would never allow for this to happen, no matter how careless and charismatic he might appear. It is saddening but what else can I do, but wait? What else could I have done?”

“I haven't changed, Majka.”

“So you tell me, Trystan.” Mother sighed, exasperated. “Those eight years -- I will never be able to scrub them away from history. Your father was of no help. The family was torn apart without your presence. I thought when I first had you, you would be a unifying idea. A goal. Now when I think about that time, it makes me want to scold myself for being so naive. They say it's important to look towards the future, but I don't know how far I can run without looking back once or twice. I cannot run alone.”

“I am here, Mama.” Trystan placed a hand on his mother's palm. “You know I am not going anywhere. I might have made a -- difficult choice, but I promise this isn't a withdrawal from the family. It is what I consider best for me. Best for us. Lydea had eight years - just eight to make Drakovia’s progress chart a linear course upwards. Imagine the time she will have now.”

Viktoria ignored his words of hope. Trystan's encouragement fell on deaf ears.

“You will always be my favorite, Trystan. I hope you know that.”

“I'm still leaving Mama.” Trystan swallowed with great difficulty, almost struck with disbelief that it was his words that supplied a hard truth and he could no longer take it back.

He could no longer afford to have regrets about his abdication, no longer could afford to be a human being who could look at it without the black and white filter. Who couldn't afford to pledge loyalty to his roots whilst critiquing the empire it had cultivated. Every word in Drakovian that he enunciated from the depths of his throat felt like his first foray into the English language upon setting foot in North American soil eight years ago.

“One day I might tell you about the plans I had for the country -- our family, had you expressed an interest in us. But - it is too soon now. I must let you grieve.”

“You don't have to be so understanding, Mama.” Trystan replied. “I don't think any of us are expecting you to offer sympathy, when we should be doing that to you.”

“No. I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself. My pessimism is not an excuse for you to take a somber feeling of disapproval back home. Your father wants the best for your future, regardless of where he sees you practicing it. I would know better than to defy his wishes.”

“I don't think Father has a plan.” Trystan confided.

“Hm?”

“Might be speculation, but -- I doubt he has a plan for the future. Something to leave us with. I could be wrong-”

“Yes. Yes you are.” Viktoria retorted immediately, squashing the lingering seed of doubt that her son might otherwise take back, only to cultivate it in the Land of Further Questions. “You are not the heir anymore. I assure you, the country is in safe hands. You said so yourself. Must you concern yourself with these matters now, given you have a cushy life waiting back at home?”

“No, I have a responsibility -- I-- You told me to!”

“I'm disappointed, Trystan. I thought you would have grasped your place in this now. It's remarkable how your previous choices have clouded you in this sea of comfort. It's complicated to answer your questions and downright insulting when you think this is how you show concern. To speculate wildly about your family and carry all the wrong assumptions home and make a fool out of everyone who has carried this country as their responsibility!”

“I don't think you can tell the difference between the country and our family anymore.”

“Strange. I think you ought to review your definitions. It would give your stuffy mind more questions to occupy with than questioning the legitimacy of our legislature.” Viktoria snarled. “Perhaps then, would you have left earlier?”

“My departure has nothing to do with the current political climate of Drakovia.”

“Of course. Perhaps you are leaving for love, then. What a privilege you have, my son. To love. To forge a new path for yourself, selfishly while everyone else burns the midnight oil. What a privilege it is to simply walk away, in the name of love out of all things.”

“If you want me to stay, I can stay.” Trystan grabbed his phone.

“You came to talk to me. You approached me with the question.” Viktoria shrugged, setting her empty glass down. She gingerly removed her rings, placing them on a tall table, preparing to go to sleep. “And yet you question your father's insecurity in his decision-making. Trystan, you have turned into a fool. You know only I am capable of telling you this, because I want the best for you. Give me a reason to favor you.”

“You're my mother. Not God.”

“Perhaps you need to review that as well.” Viktoria sat down on the plush velvet couch, watching her son obscuring the view of the horizon. “I am merely admiring the benefits you have. Is “selfish” not an appropriate word, these days? Can't I offer an opinion without being accused of playing God?”

“I'm always going to disappoint you, aren't I?”

“You always disappoint the ones you love.”

Viktoria seldom was a woman of generalization. Trystan knew it was a recurrent problem with him and his mother had just supplied him with a word of caution. Perhaps he should count his days before he could disappoint more people. Sleep with an eye open as she did. If it was so easy to let his mother down - the woman who raised him, who watched him fail at everything his hands could touch, who saw and did nothing yet hope and hope in utter silence, with mere faith in her heart that contributed to the rot the family could never move past from - then how long would it take for him to carry on and on, before he could disappoint Nora?

“You think too much.” Viktoria observed. “At least, perhaps when you come back one day - from your little pilgrimage to the West, you might realize things aren't so black and white -- now don't be so angry, dear. You are only proving my point even further.”

“Which is?”

“You know you can only show your anger here. To me. Can you do the same back at home? Can you offer your frustrations and be considered an honest voice?”

Trystan thought for a while. “Yes.”

“You're lying to yourself.”

Viktoria stood up, placing a hand on her son's shoulder. “There is a place for you here. Whatever you say or do, someone will clean it up. That's what parents do. A parent. A somebody. It is unlikely you will ever want children of your own. Then again, I suppose your dog is easier to take care of.”

Trystan's heart leaped to his throat. He freed himself of his mother’s hand, dismay etched on his face.

“I'm leaving. If you have some decency left in you, you would want to say goodbye at the airport.”

“But I don't, according to you. I am part of something unpleasant you would most likely want to forget.” Viktoria said, bluntly. “It must be easier for your Nora. A traumatic past is easier to forget than a model, golden upbringing that derailed a few many years ago.”

“Don't bring Nora into this.”

“I don't want you to lie to yourself, Trystan. It means I have failed as a mother. Everything I did, I did for you.”

Viktoria picked up one of the rings she'd carefully assembled on her table. The gemstone was a deep rich color - that of the cyclamen flower. Many had misconstrued it with that of a pale rose, but it was Mother who had sat Trystan down to tell him the differences one carefree afternoon. The cuts were deep, intricate, precious - the simplicity contained within the band, rather than the additional carvings royal pieces of jewelry were usually commissioned to.

“Keep this as a token of memorabilia. I would like for you to hold onto this and let it be there with you when you experience a change of heart.”

“You say that with a concerning amount of certainty.”

“It would be cruel of me to expect you will simply let me die alone.” Viktoria chuckled. “Go. Tell me when your plane lands tomorrow.”

She dropped the ring into his palm.

“And close the door when you leave.” she added. “Goodbye. I hope this satisfies your need for a send-off.”

“Thank you.”

As Trystan carried the ring downstairs to the inner sanctum of the palace, he searched for a sign of his friends. Nora would have been given a different room for accomodation or perhaps, had already left for New York on a different plane. He sent off a quick message to one of the palace staff to ensure the luggage was on board for tomorrow and one to Nora - hopefully she was still awake. He crossed the threshold of the court, the Drakovian throne sitting prominently in the middle - clean and polished in its entirety.

The throne drew him in. He felt the plush velvet cushion, the gold and silver - the seat that his father, his great grandfather and his many ancestors had once sat on before the throne was permanently retired; given a symbolic position as the permanent cycle of ascension. The throne represented a martyr, placed upon a land to pay homage to the ones that died for the land to prosper. Refusing it would be criminal. Refusing it would fracture him with a wound enough to have the damning curse of all of his ancestors on him. Refusing it as a result of a series of sinful acts, despite his indirect involvement would be an insult. Then again, refusing it in its entirety erased him from the country's history. Poets would stop writing in his name. His gravestone that his family had selected long before his generation would lose all meaning, thereby scrubbing him entirely of his existence.

Trystan Thorne would no longer exist the moment he got on the plane. His Mother was right. He would be nothing without the Family. His window for a second chance had long been shut off and now the space he had once occupied - the bedrooms with their drawings embedded into the wallpapers, the kitchens echoing the loud sounds of a prince who had merely wanted to help, a court with a podium; the acoustics a reminder of the most powerful speeches from the lungs of a child. All would be lost. And for what? For hope? For a new path? For love?

Viktoria was correct to question it.

And yet Trystan didn't have an answer except the angry drawings in the bedrooms that reflected a past he'd wished to bury within the walls. Except the kitchens and their clutter, the fear of expressing discontentment knowing that he was edging closer to the hot stove with every passing question. Except the lungs of a child that had once provided a country with eclectic hope was also the first to disagree with it; to look back at the words and despise it for what it had become.

Trystan placed his mother's ring on the seat of the throne. I refuse, I refuse, I refuse.

___

A/N: this is my attempt to make some reasoning out of why Viktoria was the dicey character she was, because she was I guess, a lot more involved in Book 2 as a parent figure to Trystan? There was a lot more there. I just wish canon did something about it and put these things to rest but eh, should know it by now PB actively kills sequels.

Also yes I've been working on this for a WHILE now lmao. This was a concept in my head for a long time and it didn't see anything past the outline. Eventually I figured out how to knit in the symbolism and I don't know if you've noticed the subtle switch in how Viktoria is addressed. In the moments she offers genuine concern - or Trystan thinks she is, she's highlighted as a Mother. Where she supremely feels like a mother, she's addressed as "Mama" or "Majka" and in the moments she's well, not being a good parent, she's plain old Viktoria. I love adding little bits of symbolism in my writing! If you caught that, here's a cookie 🍪

I'm so SO glad this is out because this is just the biggest fic I had problems writing. Finally I can retire the angst train and move onto some other pursuits lmaoooo.

Thank you for reading if you've reached this far. I'm eternally grateful for you guys, because I doubt I'd have kept this interest far if not for the encouragement. Life has been pretty sucky lately and I hope some frequent writing might rectify that, take my mind off things and I really really appreciate you guys taking time off of your busy lives to give this a read. I'm super sorry if I haven't been responding to your comments - once again, I'm trying to cut back on screentime a little, but I promise I definitely will get to your lovely comments. I still eat them up tho lmao.

You can catch me going through old comments and going "holy shit people liked this stuff??" So thank you SO SO MUCH even if you're a casual reader or a reblogger or someone who's just yknow, in it for the ride. It means literally the ABSOLUTE WORLD to wake up to encouraging, thoughtful comments that makes me want to jump off the walls.

Tagging:

Thank you so much.

Perma: @stars-are-within-me @tessa-liam @thosehallowedhalls @quixoticdreamer16

Crimes only: @jerzwriter @ao719 @peonierose @cassie-thorne @moominofthevalley @trappedinfanfiction

#trystan thorne #crimes of passion fics #viktoria thorne #w:inlocusmads #crimes of passion #choices march challenge

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tina-armani · 1 month

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I'm not a writer, but being among writers does this to you, so I'm gonna just leave it here, for you and for the future me. Please keep in mind that English is not my first language lol. But my heart is in this little story. Also the observation of the main character's behavior, habits and things I notice about how he is and what he does. Disclaimer: this is totally a work of fiction. ;)) but I tried to write it in the way that's not out of realm of possibility (no wild sex scenes in other words lolol😅) but rather "what could have been if the stars aligned". Sorry, long text lol. Thanks for reading. 💕

DIRTY MARTINI

I'm surprised that you are alone... You are never alone. You are always surrounded by people fighting for your attention. But the bar is dark and empty, and no one seems to care.

You have a martini in front of you, dirty, two olives. I gasp and stop, as if I ran into a wall, staring at you in disbelief. "Hey, you" you smile softly. "I know you". I am trying to shake an eerie feeling that something surreal is happening. Yes, you know me. You gave me a hug in New York. You are the one who has the power to send me to heaven or to hell with just one word, with just one glance.

"Would you join me?" You ask shyly. Yes, of course, I would join you, are you kidding me? I take a deep breath and jump into the abyss. Or so it seems. I sit next to you and immediately break into cold sweat. I order a dirty martini, too. I wanna have what you are having.

You are very quiet. You are visibly tired or upset, I can tell this by the corners of your mouth pointing down, and the lines on your forehead that seem deeper than usual... You ask me about my day and why I am out alone so late. You sound like a concerned parent, but I am not sure I want to dump all my troubles on you. Not yet, anyway. I am afraid to open up, to say the wrong thing that might disturb the fragile birth of this conversation. So I give you a vague answer and ask the same thing back. You don't answer either. You just lower your head, touch your face with a palm of your hand and through your fingers give me a little smile. "You don't really wanna know" the little smile suggests. God yes, I wanna know. I wanna know everything about you. But out of respect, I don't insist.

I talk to you about the movies you've done. Yes I've seen them all. "All of them? - you raise your brows and your eyes open wide with amusement. You chuckle. "Wow". "Yes!!" I laugh. "Do you know which one is my favorite?"

The conversation flows, despite my fears. It is because of you: you pay close attention, you are curious, gentle and thoughtful. You look too tired to hide vulnerability, so you let the emotions show. Your hair is a mess, glued into chunks by dried up hairspray. You always look so sharp and impeccable in public, full of hollywood swagger, so seeing you so unguarded and exposed sends waves of tenderness down my spine.

We talk about movies, art, music and traveling. As I tell you my traveling stories, you get a bit distracted and your face starts to light up. I notice that and let my hair down a bit more, attempting some jokes. They feel quite awkward, but you listen in an almost childlike manner, bright-eyed, with your mouth open. I have good traveling stories. Excited, you share your own. I feel a lot more comfortable now. I tell you a particularly funny one and all of a sudden you throw your head back and laugh, loudly, uncontrollably. It makes me giggle. I'm so happy I made you laugh. I'm so happy that knowing your love for traveling, I managed to find the way to cheer you up. You finally stop laughing and take another sip, lower your head to catch your breath, and a lock of your hair falls on your forehead.

You brush it back with your hand, look me straight in the eye and give me a radiant smile. All my thoughts disappear. I love this smile so much. I love the dimples on your cheeks and every wrinkle that appears in the corners of your eyes. I suddenly feel so calm, like I'm wrapped up in a warm blanket next to a fireplace on a cold winter night.

I take a deep breath and gather some courage to finally tell you my story and why I am here in this bar after midnight. I'm not embarassed anymore to share the deepest and the darkest... A man like you, capable of great empathy and compassion, will understand. I know you will. You listen carefully. When I'm done, your eyes are full of tears. It's not sadness. I know that you cry when you are moved, by beauty, art or emotion. You take my hand in yours. Your hand is so big, it covers mine completely. Your touch is soft and warm. On a sudden impulse, I put my other palm on top of your hand. You don't remove it. I freeze, afraid to ruin this beautiful moment. The intimacy of it makes my body quiver.

You become serious, look down and touch your ear with your other hand, the way you always do when you are thinking...looking for the right word... and then you move closer and start talking. You tell me about feelings, about the world, about kindness and gratitude. Your voice is low and soft like velvet, but it carries through the room like there is no other sound in the world. I feel that by telling me this, you are working through your own issues. Maybe even the ones that brought you here tonight.

While you talk, you make long pauses to emphasize certain words and sometimes you slightly raise your voice at the end of a sentence, almost like you are asking a question. But those are not questions. Those are offerings: gifts of thoughts right out of the depth of your beautiful mind. I am catching every word like a treasure. I can't take my eyes off you. Your face looks especially gorgeous when you talk about things that matter to you.

When you finish, I am at a loss for words. There is nothing more to add. We sit in silence, listening to the sound of our breathing. Your hand is still sandwiched between mine. An eternity passes. Then you give me a slight grin, gently free your hand and break the silence with a change to a lighter subject. We laugh and talk some more. I'm not nervous anymore. I feel like I've known you my whole life.

Time stands still. Nothing else exists, just two people, transitioning from being strangers to being something indefinitely more. But there comes a moment when you take that last large sip to finish your drink.

You slowly lick your lips, the remaining drops of the martini... it makes me dizzy. I catch myself staring at your wet mouth, my heart pounding. No matter how hard I fight it, all I can think about is how it would feel to kiss you right now. I wonder if you know how erotic it is: the shape of your lips and the way you part them slightly when you listen and pay attention. You see it in my eyes, the longing. So you lean towards me, put your hands in a prayer position and say, almost apologetically, that you have to go. It is a relief: I want you to stay longer, but I realize that if you do, I will either throw myself into your arms or I will break into tears at your feet... in any case I would embarass myself beyond recovery. I can't take it anymore. I'm emotionally drained. You know it, so you save me by leaving.

You say goodbye, give me a long bear hug. I bury my face between your neck and your hair, trying to memorize the scent of your skin. And then you walk away, fast, without looking back. And I stay, completely still, staring into space, gasping for air, while the whole world is spinning around me. A single burning thought is beating onto my brain like a panicking bird. I love you. I love you. I love you.

No matter where I am or what I do, my thoughts always bring me back to this radiant smile, to this beautiful face. When I lie awake at night, I close my eyes and I remember our conversation. It was a fleeting moment for you, that disappeared into the night without a trace. But for me, it defined my whole life moving forward. It pushed me through changes you cannot imagine. Maybe I can tell you about it one day, if we ever meet again. But for now, I make a dirty martini, two olives, and I feel you close. In the air around me, in the taste of the drink, and in my heart, forever.

#fan fiction #short stories #art #creativity #writing

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tact-and-impulse · 10 months

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Based on this ask, it’s the childhood friends AU that’s grabbed me by the throat! @shepherds-of-haven, I’ve been waiting to drop this. Below the cut and on AO3 as well!

simple charm

The village was nothing like home. The land was flat and unchanging as it stretched towards the horizon. Rope cordons were tied around the fields of barley and vegetables, struggling to remain green under the summer heat. The dusty wooden houses, clustered together, were giving a standoffish air. People had noticed their arrival, withdrawing into their doors and suspiciously eyeing their elk mounts. Only a slight majority of the locals had white hair; others sported lighter shades or multicolored locks indicating mixed blood. A very different welcome than usual.

“This is Maj?” Halek muttered. His father had told him and Naolin that this was a good opportunity to journey out of Uth Baryd, with a few elite fighters for protection on the road. Father was leading a diplomatic mission, to make contact with a gathering of refugees and reunite with their lost kin. For the future sol and sola, it was meant to be practice for leadership and negotiation.

Halek had taken it in stride, but Naolin was obviously unsettled, knuckles gripping their elk’s reins. They’d never left the Reach before, and Maj was in such stark contrast. Nakedly vulnerable, no defenses against demons, and shabbily built. But the villagers were surviving on their own means. Halek respected that.

From the front, their father called out in Uth, before announcing their small party. In response, one of the older folks indicated to a house, a little apart from the rest. Lothar and Hecathe lived there with their daughter, and they would speak for everyone in Maj.

As they approached, the door opened. The man was a full-blooded Hunter though his age could’ve been anywhere from twenty-five to forty-five. A weary expression and years of labor had aged him, and he walked with a slight hunch. He stiffly greeted Yerom, glancing at everyone with skepticism through the formal introductions.

Halek’s attention began to drift and he yawned. He rolled his shoulders, working out the soreness from travel. An elbow jabbed into his belly, as Naolin hissed.

“You shouldn’t be rude, diru.”

“Rude? I’m just tired.”

“So am I, but I’m not yawning!”

“Hey, calm down.”

They looked up, to Yerom’s disapproving gaze. Lothar, however, gave a wan smile. “I suppose you’ve had a long journey.” He invited them inside, calling out to Hecathe. A white-haired woman rushed from downstairs, her hands in a worn apron. She wasn’t fazed by their group, huddling in the cozy living room, but occasionally, she glanced to the upper floor.

“I understand that you mean well.” Lothar said. “But we’ve lived here for years and this is our home, for better or worse.”

Yerom pressed his lips together. “There is safety in Uth Baryd, and you wouldn’t have to fear the Autarchy. You would be with kin.”

“And where was kin, when my father’s generation was nearly wiped out?” He bitterly countered. “Or when my grandfather’s parents were driven out of Haven? We aren’t the only refugees, and we’ve long accepted that we could only help ourselves.”

“It doesn’t need to be that way. Yes, aid should have been provided time and time again, but I swear that we are here to make things right.”

Lothar stared at their entourage. “You didn’t bring many with you. Is the grace dwindling with you as well?”

“We have enough to endure.”

“But it is, and if you’re trying to recruit people, there are none here.”

Yerom tensed. As much as he tried to speak around the subject, the other man had already figured out their real purpose. It was true that they had less exorcists with each century, and the art couldn’t be lost.

Hecathe softly spoke up. “None of us are properly trained and too old to learn. The children are young, but not all of them are full-blooded.”

“It would be good for them to learn about their Hunter heritage though, and anyone eligible can be trained. Your daughter included.”

Now, this brought an odd reaction from the couple. Their expressions shuttered, and Hecathe abruptly stood. Lothar grabbed her hand, squeezing tightly. “You know we have a daughter?”

“One of your townspeople mentioned who lived in this house.”

“Did they say anything else? Who was it?”

Then, Hecathe gasped, looking into the foyer. “Oh, we must have woken her.”

Footsteps pattered. A little girl, younger than Halek and Naolin, dove into Hecathe’s skirt. Unlike her parents’, her hair was raven, except for a pure white streak. She buried her face into her mother’s lap, before sparing a glance to the room. Bright violet eyes glowed with power.

Lothar reached down, to pat her arm. “This is what I meant. Our daughter’s a Mage.”

***

In the Reach, all of the children were naturally Hunters, so Halek was intrigued by the girl. Since the grown-ups were still talking, she was told to give the twins a tour around the farm. That seemed to perk her up, and she opened the back door, looking over her shoulder to make sure they followed. Behind the house, there were fenced enclosures and a handful of other buildings, before the parched land led to the dense evergreen forests of the Shield Peaks. And it was quiet.

Their guide kept moving forward, but her eyes constantly darted to them and unlike their peers at home, she wasn’t awed. She seemed to be figuring them out, with equal measures of curiosity and caution. Naolin awkwardly cleared his throat and even that seemed to put her on edge; she took a hurried step away.

“So, your mom said your name’s Kalmia?” Halek asked.

She nodded, a jerky motion. Then, she veered towards one of the enclosures, setting the boundaries for a group of unruly yellow chicks. She hoisted a sack closer, digging her hands in and cupping what looked like the birds’ food. The chicks began to scream, and she spared an inquiring look at the twins before proceeding to deposit the meal. Given the small amounts, it was probably going to take a while.

Halek drew closer, an armspan away. “They definitely look hungry. Can I help you?”

“...Okay. But you have to do it like this.” She scattered the feed, spreading it evenly. She offered the sack to him, and he took it.

“Thanks.” He tossed a handful, though some of it landed in feathers instead. “Sorry, if I hit them.”

“It’s okay. They eat off each other too. See, over there.” She pointed to a cluster, where the poor target was desperately trying to shake off its siblings.

Halek laughed. “Well, I’ll try not to do that.”

Kalmia peered up at him, before offering a little smile. Her violet eyes were brighter in the sunshine.

“Can my brother join us? He’s dying to, he just doesn’t want to ask.”

“Diru!”

But Kalmia nodded and stepped aside, watching them feed the chicks before she said they had enough. “You can’t give them too much. Thank you!”

“Thanks.” They replied simultaneously, and Kalmia let out a startled giggle.

“That was funny.”

Halek inclined his head towards her. “Yeah, that happens sometimes. We look the same, don’t we?”

“Almost.”

“That’s because we’re twins.” Naolin explained. “Wait, almost?”

She readily said. “Halek’s hair is flat, and Naolin’s hair sticks up.”

Immediately, his hand went to the flyaway strands, while Halek laughed. “She got you there.”

“Diru…”

“Why do you call him that?” Kalmia tilted her head.

“Because he’s the older one.”

“By eight minutes.” Halek clarified. “It just means I’m his big brother. Unfortunately.”

Naolin sighed, an exhale that slumped his whole body. “You’re only saying that because you’re the future sol.”

Kalmia watched them with interest. “Is it fun being brothers? All I have is Zori.” Her earlier shyness was beginning to fall away. “Zori’s my best friend.”

“We can be your friends too.” Halek said and ignored Naolin’s elbow nudging his ribs. Maj didn’t have a council that dictated their schedules, or families jostling their children to get closer to them. It would be nice for once, to actually have a friend separate from that stifling grip.

“Will you come back to visit?”

“I think so. Our father’s planning more visits. Naolin might be a crybaby and stay home, but I’ll go.”

“That’s mean.” Naolin complained.

But Kalmia gave a smile. “Next time, I’ll wake up earlier from my nap.”

“You really shouldn't.” Halek cracked a grin. “At your age, you should nap all you can.”

They talked for a while longer, meandering past the rows of root vegetables and vegetable patches. The barn housed a pair of cows and ten sheep, which Halek requested to see. Kalmia slid the door aside and headed in, with Halek immediately following. Naolin trailed behind, reluctant to pass the threshold.

It was smaller than the elk stables he was used to, but the interior was clean. The animals were resting in their pens, flicking their ears occasionally. Hay was piled about and scattered across the floorboards. Towards the back, there was a ladder leading to an alcove with a window. Halek surveyed everything, asking. “Did you name the cows and sheep?”

“Mama and Dad said I can’t name them. But…” She pointed to the cows in turn. “I think of her as Clover and her as Rosy. Because of their spots.”

“Oh, I get it. Clover has three on her side, and Rosy’s got one round patch on her forehead.”

“Yup! The big sheep I can’t tell apart, but we have one baby who was just born. Here he is.” She went to the edge of the pen, and Halek peered over to see the suckling lamb.

“Cute. Thanks for showing them off.”

“We have cats too, to keep out the mice. I’m not allowed to bring any inside.” She gave a longing look to the alcove.

Halek suppressed a laugh. “Well, we don’t have pets either, if it makes you feel better. Maybe, someday.”

“Maybe. The rest is storage, so we can go back.” When they arrived at the front, Kalmia pointed to the steps. “That’s where my parents found me.”

“So they adopted you?” Naolin mused. “But your birth parents must have been Mages. Do you know anything about them?”

“No.” The word rang with finality, and perhaps, a touch of discontent.

Then, a figure sprinted to them, a blur that leapt for Kalmia in a crushing hug. “Sun above, there you are!”

“Hi, Zori.”

Zori was about a year older than Kalmia, with pale hair pulled into a thin braid, and her dark eyes narrowed at the twins. “Who are you?” She loudly demanded, squeezing Kalmia tighter.

“Zori, you’re hurting me.”

“Oh, sorry!” She let go, but maintained her glare even as introductions were made. “So, how long are you staying?”

“We’ll have to ask our father, but not more than a week.” Naolin replied.

“Huh. Okay.” A dismissive sound escaped her, before she scowled. “Are you sleeping over at Kalmia’s house?”

“Why?” Halek boldly shot back. “Want to join us if we do?”

“I’m asking because you’re both huge! You’ll take up too much space!”

At that, Naolin spluttered and Halek wheezed. Simultaneously, they said. “We’re probably camping.”

“But it’s not safe to sleep outside.” Kalmia seriously said, like she was repeating an adult’s warning. “Lots of people travel on the road, and it’s dangerous.”

“Yeah, and they came from the road, didn’t they? It’d be dangerous if they stayed at your house.” Zori countered.

“It’s okay, they’re nice.” The sentiment was warming.

“We’ll see about that.” Another evil eye was thrown in their direction. “Anyway, I wanted to ask if you’d pick berries with me. The blackberries are ripe now, and my mom said she’ll make pie.”

“I’ll get some for my mama too. Halek and Naolin, will you come with us?” Her violet gaze was expectant, while Zori made a scrunched face behind her.

“Yeah, sure.” Halek smiled back at Kalmia. “Let’s go.”

The girls grabbed woven baskets, handing one each to the twins, before darting ahead and having a rapid, high-pitched conversation. Naolin muttered in his ear. “Are you sure about tagging along? Zori’s kinda…hostile.”

“I think it’s funny, we’ve never been hated on sight before. Kalmia doesn’t care about whether we’re going to be sol and sola. I’m having fun, and besides, we’ve never gone berry picking before.” He spun the basket in his hands, starting to whistle.

They arrived at the base of a slope, the brambles overgrown and heavy with fruit. Zori and Kalmia immediately began plucking off the blackberries, dropping them into the baskets. Halek imitated them, trying to steer clear of the thorns. One large berry split between his fingers, and he popped it into his mouth. Warm from the sun, the tart sweet flesh easily melted in his mouth.

He wasn’t the only one either. In his periphery, Zori had just crammed a handful past her teeth, and Kalmia was quietly chewing as she filled her basket. The latter met his casual glance, a splotch of purple on one cheek. “Have you eaten blackberries before?”

“The ones that grow in the Reach are smaller, not even half the size. And these taste much better.” He indulged in another. “How else do you eat them?”

“Mama makes jam but I like eating them this way best.”

It was true, there was something addictive about fresh berries. He could have spent the rest of the afternoon here.

“Ouch!” Naolin’s hiss drew his attention, and he turned to see his brother cradling his finger, blood welling up. Tears soon followed, along with a shriek from Zori, and that put an end to their little adventure. The Black Shield scrutinized the twins’ juice-stained hands, but Yerom was only concerned about the thorn prick. A bandage and salve from Hecathe sufficed, though Naolin’s eyes remained red and he held his hand at a delicate angle.

By now, the rest of Maj was accustomed to their presence, and dinner was held outdoors. Not a banquet by any means, but every household placed a dish among the variety of wooden tables. A bonfire was lit to keep away the biting summer insects, and as the stars peeked into view, friendly conversations rose. Laughter soared, and calls for dancing to journeying songs. There were games that the twins had never played, to Zori’s smug superiority, and she roundly declared she’d teach them. It was fun, but Halek preferred to try a bite of everything. Pastries stuffed with cheese, greens sprinkled with herbs, other entrees he’d never seen before and had to ask Kalmia what was in them. The pie, of course, was excellent.

All of it was amazingly new. Celebrations at home were repetitive and predictable, but this…he’d remember this forever.

***

Returning home was awful. The Black Shield must have said something, because word quickly spread about the twins spending time with children who weren’t full-blooded. At the end of another boring meeting, the council scrutinized them; Naolin visibly squirmed but Halek glared back. The old people droned on and on, about how it wasn’t proper or whatever to associate with outsiders.

So what? Halek thought. Kalmia and Zori were more honest about wanting to play with them, instead of loitering and whispering and waiting for the future sol to choose them.

And that was exactly why on their next trip to Maj, he steered the elk towards the Metella house. Late autumn had given the town some color, in fallen leaves and the remnants of harvest. It was in a pumpkin patch, that dark hair was starkly visible, and Halek abruptly pulled the reins taut to Naolin’s chagrin.

“Ugh, I feel sick. Did we have to go so fast?”

“Yup.” He replied, sliding off the saddle. “Hey, Kalmia.”

Cradling a gold and green striped pumpkin, she beamed. “Hi! Halek and Naolin, are you here to help us?”

“That was the idea.” Another diplomatic outing, to convince the people in migrating to Uth Baryd. Honestly, with winter approaching, it was a hard sell to Halek. But he wouldn’t complain. It was his only chance to feel like a ten-year-old boy, not a title with the crushing weight of prophecy. And happily, he rolled up his sleeves and joined a Mage girl in the sun-warmed soil.

Gourds were separated from vines, sorted by ripeness and size. Mostly, they did what they were told to by the adults. But Kalmia was pleased by their company, especially because Zori was with her large family. She reintroduced them to the farm animals, including the latest additions. The chickens, now grown, crowded around her legs in a heap of feathers. Hecathe appeared to shoo them away, before offering that they come inside and lend a hand in making dumplings. By the way Kalmia cheered, it was something enjoyable.

The next thing Halek knew, they were in the Metellas’ kitchen, under bundles of dried herbs and flowers. They sat at a wooden table, a large bowl of orange pumpkin innards and stacked circles of rolled dough between them. Hecathe demonstrated how much filling was enough, before saying she’d return soon. It was certainly an interesting task; they’d never cooked before. Naolin was struggling, the dough tearing in his fingers. Kalmia was working patiently, crimping the edges of a dumpling with intense focus. But Halek found a rhythm to the scooping and wrapping, and it was actually fun. He began to fold the sealed sides of his, in his own personal twist. Those were his creations. Strange, he felt prouder about a pile of little dumplings than any test about demon knowledge or marksmanship. But it was a good feeling.

“How are you doing this so fast?” Naolin was in disbelief.

“It’s easy once you get the hang of it. Should I fix yours?”

“No!”

Kalmia noticed, taking one of his dumplings and placing it in the palm of her floured hand. Her face brightened. “They’re so cute! I want to eat them later.”

“How do we cook them?” He was very curious now.

“With butter and greens, or mushroom sauce. Oh, toasty pine nuts too. And cheese! But you can pick.”

“Then, I want to try all of those.”

That made her laugh, and he found himself looking forward to the whole process. With his folding pattern, he tracked his dumplings, through the boiling, sizzling, and plating. Once they were ready, he kept going back for small dishes of different sauces and seasonings, though in the end, he really couldn’t decide on what he liked best. But the ones he made were extra delicious, regardless of what they were enveloped in. He glanced at the others, watching their content expressions as they ate. As soon as they were home, he would make a batch for his mother.

In hindsight, that was probably the beginning of his love for cooking.

***

Years passed, and the diplomatic trips continued. Sure, the council was getting restless that no one from Maj was emigrating to the Reach, but Father insisted this was the right course of action. And once Halek dryly backed him up, everyone’s ears perked at the prophesied savior’s words.

It only made him more eager for these visits. Of course, Naolin never shared in the same enthusiasm, always a little hesitant and looking back at their home in trepidation. But even his straightlaced nature loosened when Halek dragged him over to the girls. Usually, they were found together, in the midst of a small task or the occasional spar with wooden batons. Kalmia always noticed first, stopping to cheerfully bound their way, while Zori trailed after, her hostility congealed into grudging acceptance.

And while the grownups chatted, they’d embark on an ‘adventure’, as Zori liked to call them. Past the edge of town, the trees found purchase amidst stone outcroppings and climbed the Shield Peaks. Rivulets of snowmelt wound between, like silvery threads. The air was clearer, and noise was absorbed by the dense underbrush. Occasionally, a flap of wings or a small bushy tail would rustle their surroundings, as they searched for just the right spot among the rocks and fallen branches.

“Alright, let’s stop here.” Zori puffed out, before launching into the setting of whatever they were going to play. The Castigation, and they were rebels gathering a stockpile. Pioneers to the west, lost after a storm. Mythic heroes, fighting demons. To her credit, her imagination transformed the gray terrain into a more exciting scene, of foreboding danger and heightened shadows.

Naolin, unable to resist, pointed out the little inconsistencies with a slight frown. So-and-so wasn’t alive during this era, actual demons would be scarier, things that would earn a flying kick from an irked Zori and he’d flinch. For Halek, it was easier to go along with the idea, at least until it became too complicated. Then, he’d volunteer to be the sick one they were trying to find a cure for, or the injured one left behind at camp. Kalmia would pat his shoulder, telling him not to die in the meantime; he’d have to stifle his laughter.

But most of the time, it was fun. A recurrent theme was slaying wyverns, to coordinate attacks against wings, fangs, and toxic breath. They called out to each other, darting among the rocks and trees. The boys mentioned a Hunter maneuver, tossing their smaller companions at the enemy. Zori absolutely hated it, wrestling away from Naolin’s timid attempt, while Kalmia’s glowing eyes widened as Halek seized her arms. They whirled around, gaining momentum and she gave a stunned cry when her feet lifted from the ground. Of course, he didn’t really throw her, setting her down neatly, but she took the next step, somersaulting and aiming with her miniature shortbow. Then, she beamed and ran to Halek.

“Can we practice it again?”

“Sure.” This time, he grabbed her by the armpits, and she expected it, miming a draw of her absent quiver. Already, her instincts were good.

A measly distraction came in the form of a blow to his side. “Let her go, you huge monster!” Zori was obviously jealous.

“Betraying me at last?” He drawled.

“Alright, no hitting each other.” Naolin sighed, trying to be responsible, as usual. He was forced to parry Zori’s sudden strike. “Hey! Come on, stop!”

Then, it dissolved into a grand mess without a story, and they inevitably grew tired. They’d return from the mountains with smooth rocks or wildflower bouquets, spoils from their invisible battles. Halek pocketed these souvenirs; he’d never recall the rules of each little game but these were enough to remind him of the ringing laughs and shouts.

Throughout one weeklong stay, Zori became obsessed with a new kind of game. If they had a race or competition, the winner could boss around the loser out of the quartet. Typically, this ended up being Zori, who declared herself as their queen, with Naolin or Kalmia as her servants. The latter didn’t act like this was beyond their usual dynamic, tagging after the older girl without fuss, but Naolin complained.

“She’s such a tyrant, diru.” He sighed after another demand for shoulder massages. “Can’t you win one of these contests?”

“That means I have to try.”

It wasn’t until the next day that the reign of terror ended. They hadn’t left Kalmia’s backyard; a recent trade with Norms had gone poorly and tensions were high. A set of old scarecrows became their targets to stave off boredom, and Zori picked up a slingshot.

“Whoever hits the farthest one gets to be our ruler.” She stuck her tongue out, a pebble pinched between her fingers. It flung wide, scraping the base of said scarecrow before skittering off.

Halek was next, falling short of the closest one. He passed the slingshot to Naolin who gave him a dirty look. His brother really did his best, the pebble cleanly rolling to a stop just in front of the desired target. The wind blew, the stitched face of the scarecrow wobbling. And then, Kalmia took her turn, her face determined. For a moment, it seemed like she’d miss too, but a faint thud and the puff of straw escaping threadbare cloth proved otherwise. A direct hit, right in the chest. She seemed stunned, dazedly accepting their round of congratulations.

“Now, Kalmia’s the Queen and Halek’s her servant.” Zori announced with a glint in her eyes. “So, you have to do whateeever she says for the whole day.”

“Fine by me.” He looked to her, folding his arms.

For a moment, she was stunned. Then, her lips pursed in deep consideration. “Um…can I ride the elk with you?”

“That’s a question, not an order. Your Highness.” He belatedly added, at Zori’s kick to his shin.

“I asked because I won’t be a mean queen.” Kalmia said. “And I still want you to play with me after today.”

Huh. How thoughtful of her. At least, power would never go to her head. “Wise words, Your Highness. Alright, your wish is my command.” He drawled and then lifted under her arms, setting her in the saddle. Ignoring her surprised gasp, he swung his body behind her, taking the reins. A click between his teeth, and they were off.

It was only a lap around the town, so he coaxed the elk into a canter. Kalmia’s wavy hair fluttered, and she tilted her head back to look at Halek. “He’s fast!”

“Too fast?”

She shook her head and gave a delighted laugh. In his periphery, he noted that some of the townsfolk were openly gawking at them. It was a relief to return to the Metella farm, and he dismounted, taking Kalmia with him. Despite her unsteadiness once she touched down, she smiled from ear to ear and he couldn’t help returning it in kind. Then, she asked if he could toss her, so she could actually somersault after her landing. After that fulfilled request, she would just look expectantly at him, and he’d oblige whatever she was indicating, making a show of dragging his feet. But then, her purple eyes would shine and he didn’t feel like it was a chore at all.

The last thing she wanted was a cup of fresh milk, but by the way she glanced towards her parents, it seemed like she didn’t want them to know. She didn’t drink it either, heading towards her room instead. Zori was occupied with the scarecrows, trying to improve her aim, while Naolin was being a good little boy and helping Father with packing. So, Halek shadowed Kalmia, his eyebrows raised.

“Are you hiding something?” He stopped at her threshold, peering inside. She had a neat bedroom, though her blanket was askew on her wooden bed. On the walls, dried laurel bouquets were strung on twine, and a subtle fragrance met his nose.

“It’s not bad. I think.” She lifted the blanket. From under her bed, she pulled out a trundle-like box, containing a heap of rags. A stirring movement, and the head of a gray kitten popped out.

“I should’ve guessed. Smuggled it into your room, huh?”

“She was the smallest one in her litter and she wasn’t eating enough. I thought I’d take care of her.” To her credit, the kitten didn’t look starved, eagerly lapping at the milk.

Halek knelt beside her. “You did a good job. Are you going to sneak her into the barn when she’s bigger?”

“Yeah, soon.” She fondly petted the gray fur. “Before, she was too weak to play, but she likes to cuddle now.”

“Sounds like you’re getting attached.” He teased.

With the milk gone, the kitten blinked sleepily and curled into a ball in Kalmia’s arm. She countered. “I don’t care.” She looked unusually unapologetic as she hugged the kitten.

He reached out to scratch the kitten’s head; it was softer than he expected. A vibration kicked under his touch, the purring startling both him and Kalmia before they exchanged grins. Humming under her breath, she tucked the kitten inside the makeshift bedding, and slid the box back. Then, they descended downstairs, about to return outside. Her gaze turned to him, suddenly wide and nervous. “You won’t tell my mama, will you?”

“Nope.” He ruffled her hair. The gesture surprised her, her own hands flying to the top of her head once he let go. Cute. “I can keep your secret.”

“Thank you!” And then, she sped off towards Zori.

On the way back home, Naolin pointed out. “I know you could’ve hit that scarecrow. Why’d you lose on purpose?”

“Maybe, I just wanted to see what it was like, doing things for other people instead. It’s nice.” It was also bitter, with the fact that such behavior would be discouraged in the future. In silent understanding, his brother nudged his shoulder against his.

***

The instructions had been clear. Venture into the Wastes, kill a demon, bring it back. The last step was currently evading him, but he was so tired. Fresh memories continued to taunt him. Bloody chains, crunching bone, that sinister voice. Half delirious, he picked a direction and kept going.

He didn’t even remember collapsing. He only registered feeling colder and colder, the urge to sleep becoming a heavy blanket. And then, something turned his face.

“Halek?”

Violet eyes stared down at him, as a gloved hand brushed the snow off his head. In a winter coat lined with rabbit fur and dark hair flying away from her hood, Kalmia gasped in disbelief. No, that wasn’t possible, she couldn’t be near the Wastes.

“I’ve got to be hallucinating.” He muttered.

“No, you’re not. Let me start a fire for you.” She shook his shoulder, and that kept him from nodding off until she lit a pile of dry kindling. Most likely, she used magic, but he was grateful, warmth returning to his tired body. She opened her pack, handing him a dry biscuit, which he scarfed down. Around them, the deep woods were eerily silent.

“What are you doing here?” His voice was rusty from disuse, and the uneven crack, growing frequent as the days passed, really wasn’t welcome in this moment.

“I want to ask you the same. Were you planning to visit us? We didn’t know.”

“This is near Maj?” Strange, his body must have gravitated to this place.

“A little deeper in the mountains, but yes.”

“So what are you doing here?”

“I set out a few traps. We’re running low on food, since the traders stopped coming.” She hesitated, and then, she rubbed her coat sleeve over her face. Over the fresh tears dampening her cheeks.

“Kalmia, what’s wrong?”

“It’s the Gray Death. I don’t have it, neither does my dad, but…Mama got sick. And I want to find something that can help her too.”

In all this time, he had never seen her cry. The sight was unsettling, tying a knot under his sternum. He dug into his pocket, searching for whatever spare cloth he had, but the only scrap was spotted with dried blood. “Sorry, this is all I have.”

She gave a warped sound, between a choke and a laugh. “How did that happen? Are you hurt?”

“I was. A demon.” And then, he held his tongue; it was an awful tale, and he didn’t want to scare her. “Anyway, it’s dead now and since I forgot to get proof of the kill, I have to find another before going back to the Reach. If I want to.”

“If you want to?” She echoed, flashing him a concerned look. “Are the council elders that harsh?”

“It’s not just them, it’s everyone. They’re expecting me to bring a Cacophant or something that proves their future savior is destined to save the world, or whatever they believe. And afterwards, what else is there but the same? Just…more and more pressure, to make sure the prophecy is true.” He stared into the distance, the freshly fallen snow glittering in the morning. Shaking his head, he said. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter what I think, obviously. But I don’t have to go yet. Let’s find herbs for your mom.”

Hecathe had always been kind to him and Naolin, and courteous to their father. The Gray Death, however, spared no one, and despite the sinking feeling in his gut, he lifted his boots and began searching the underbrush.

Kalmia trudged beside him, explaining. “She has a fever and she keeps throwing up. I tried cooking soup and that worked for a few days.”

Those words should have been coming from a town elder, not a slip of a girl with a bow half her size to protect herself. “You sound like a grandma.”

“And you sound like a cranky grandpa.” She protested but her voice was amused. Her hood had slipped off; her hair was longer, past her shoulders.

He gave a quick tousle, ignoring the futile scrape of her gloves, and used his stride to his advantage in escaping. He drawled. “Then, if I’m that old, you better catch up.” And he took off, boots crushing the frozen ground.

Her startled bright laugh followed, then her softer footsteps. “Halek, wait!”

And he did have a brief lead, exhaling a cloud of vapor into the cold air. Exhilaration flooded his veins, cleaner and lighter than the survival-based response he was running on for the past few days. Then, the bruised spots on his body flared, his gait slowing. An arm linked through his, Kalmia peering up at him.

“Where are we going?”

“As far as we can.”

They hurtled down the slope, and time slowed. They were aloft, suspended in the air between each step. Pale sunshine spilled into the powdery snow ahead, and their breaths wove around their heads as they gasped. Two kids, running away from their fears. It lasted until they arrived at the bottom, of what looked like an old riverbed, and their footprints stamped divots in the hard ground.

He braced against a tree trunk, his sides aching, and that was why he noticed a hint of green amidst the rocks. He cleared the crust of snow, revealing a frosted cluster of serrated leaves. “Mint. It should help with your mom’s nausea.”

Her eyes sparkled in recognition, and she immediately knelt. “It will, thank you!”

One small leaf clung to his glove; he shoved it in his mouth, the cool burst welcome. As he chewed, he watched her finish gathering what she needed, then turn to search for other herbs. She must have found something because she straightened and worked on snapping the outer edges of a bush.

What if he never went home? What if he stayed here, content to live in Maj and explore the mountainsides with Kalmia? But inevitably, the elders would look for him, and the Black Shield knew about Maj. They’d sunder the village to recover their beloved savior, and the possibility weighed heavily on his heart.

Kalmia strode over, her pack full of mint and bark shavings. “This should be enough.” Then, she hesitated. “I’m going home; do you want to come along?”

“...I don’t think so. Glad you got what you were looking for, but I still have to kill a demon.”

To his surprise, she took his hand, pressing something within. “Here, this is for you.” The neatly folded cloth was better than what he had offered earlier.

“Thanks. I’ll see you later.” He promised.

She visibly relaxed, nodding. “Okay. Safe travels.” She spared a last glance at him before drawing her hood up and hurrying through the snowy trees.

Once she was out of sight, he opened the kerchief. A dented compass, clinging to its purpose. Wryly, he turned in the direction of the needle and headed north.

He did return to Uth Baryd, demon bounty in tow, and once he deposited it at the Mornhaven Gate, the first thing he asked was to send another diplomatic mission to Maj. To bring supplies or food, anything to help. The council argued back, a clamor of reedy voices, and the deep-set frowns didn’t waver. The city walls were barred, preventing even the merchants from entering. They were afraid. Think of the infection, they said, as if the village wasn’t living through it. Cowards and hypocrites. The roads froze over, and while the city seemed to exhale a private sigh of relief, Halek counted the days to spring.

However, the next letter from Maj came before the snow melted, and in smudged ink, Lothar’s handwriting flatly conveyed that Hecathe was dead.

***

Almost a year passed, after the old bats were replaced by slightly less old bats, when Yerom contacted Maj again. Halek noticed the flicker of surprise on his father’s face, at the response. But there was no argument, since they left by the end of the sennight.

The village was dustier and quieter, cloaked in twilight. At first, Halek wondered who the elderly man exiting the Metella house was, before he abruptly realized it was Lothar. The man was bowed under the weight of grief, shuffling with dull eyes. He swayed, looking at their procession without reacting. And then, the door opened, candlelight streaming around a silhouette.

Hurrying towards them, Kalmia carried a shawl. Her legs were longer, her skirt above her ankles, and her dark hair spilled past her shoulders, the white tress tucked behind her ear. She slowed to a stop, draping the fabric over Lothar before making the familiar Hunter greeting gesture. “Welcome.”

Then, Yerom spoke to Lothar, in the careful tone of their initial acquaintance while the Black Shield dispersed to give supplies. Halek gave the elk’s reins to Naolin, heading to Kalmia. She was standing rigidly, her head slightly bent. This formality was appropriate, she’d be like the daughter of a First Family according to his lessons, but he loathed it.

He closed the distance, ruffling her hair and grinning at the odd squeak in response. “Long time no see.”

And then, it was his turn to be surprised. She leaned in, clasping her hands behind his back in a full embrace. “Thank you for coming.” Just as swiftly, she let go and her face turned aside, before he could say anything more.

Slowly, the rest of the town became aware of their return. While the Black Shield was forced to answer the torrent of questions, Halek and Naolin retreated. At least, Zori didn’t care about why they were gone; she had undergone a growth spurt, her pale hair shorn on one side. Still, her love for adventure hadn’t wavered at all, and her first demand was a scavenger hunt. But Kalmia had changed. She didn’t look as aged as her adoptive father, but her eyes contained a new depth, piercing through the make believe scenarios.

After the events of his trial, Halek wondered if that was also reflected in his face. Demons and death had taken their childhood innocence. These small games felt…hollow. But Zori was determined to distract Kalmia in her own way, and she beckoned the twins; so they played anyway, clinging to what remained of sweeter memories.

Fortunately, Maj was open to future visits. Unfortunately for Halek, the council decided it was time for him to delve into preparing for his destined role. Naolin was assigned to conduct diplomacy instead, while Halek remained in the Reach to study and spar.

…If they could tell the difference. Just like when they were kids, Halek coaxed and prodded his brother into swapping places.

“The council will notice, won’t they?!” Naolin protested. “Come on…”

“I’m going to sacrifice the rest of my life to serving them, so just let me go.”

Ultimately, he had his way. He had to restrain himself from whistling, his brother didn’t, but he was thrilled by the successful deception. The whole way to Maj, the Black Shield soldiers didn’t realize they had the wrong twin. However, upon their arrival, violet eyes seared into Halek. During a quiet moment, she murmured to him.

“Did you skip your training to be sol?”

“What are you talking about? I’m Naolin, the younger and more obedient brother.”

“If you say so.” But she knowingly smiled. “Then, you can help me with sorting the vegetables. I’ll show you how to pickle them.” And happily, he followed in her wake.

The peace of mundane routine was a magnetic force, drawing him again every time the delegation left. Naolin complained that the elders were bound to catch on, though they never did, and it continued until the summer before Kalmia’s Flower Day. Kalmia was born in deep winter, about a month following the twins’ birthday. Not that Halek was anticipating that year’s grandiose celebration, with the impending betrothal.

“You’re getting married?” A flower slipped between her fingers, and she hastily picked it from her lap. It was an idle afternoon, the two of them enjoying the crisp mountain air and watching the drifting puffy clouds. “What do you know about her?”

“Not much.” He shrugged. “She’s from another clan, somewhere with a lot of powerful families. She’s a few years older. Supposedly beautiful.”

“Is she nice?”

“Who knows?” He sourly retorted. He wasn’t thrilled to be married off for the sake of producing more full-blooded Hunters, more bodies to fight demons. The future was a bleak image of sitting on a pedestal, looking down on opaque silhouettes like salt pillars, their hands blindly grabbing for a savior.

Something ruffled his hair, and he glanced upwards, to find the circle of elm and edelweiss. It was a simple charm, evenly made and sweetly fragrant. What were the meanings again? Elm was for warding, especially against demons. Edelweiss was for strength, or devotion? In the corner of his eye, Kalmia was somber, but when he turned to her, a shy smile was on her face.

“You’re always welcome in Maj, whenever you want.” Then, she resumed crafting another flower wreath, a pink blush flooding her cheeks. “As long as you send a letter first, we'll know to prepare your room!”

The village was nothing like home. He could place his hands on the dark soil, watch the green things grow ripe, and work as an ordinary person. He’d learn to cook dishes from across Blest, and share them in a cozy kitchen adorned with dried herbs and flowers. If only he was born here, if he wasn’t the future sol-

All stupid and pointless, he berated himself. Out of reflex, he wanted to run away, to nip temptation in the bud. But the clouds shifted and sunlight beamed down as she perfunctorily crowned herself with violets. Staring at her happy face, he said instead. “I’ll bring you something for your birthday.”

She tilted her head, the blossoms catching. “Why though? You don’t have to. It’s enough if you’re at the party…and awake when the cake’s cut.”

“I might just take a nap under your table for that.” He tousled her hair, pulling away before her fingers futilely tried to stop him. While she hastily shook the petals out, he smirked. “Well, if it’s good cake, I’ll try to be there.”

Kalmia laughed and the image was burned into his memory. His hand still carried the aroma of violets when he left.

***

But a winter storm locked down the Reach, and when the sky was clear again, the messenger birds brought the terrible news. Demonkind had returned to Blest, rampant across the continent. Then, word came that it started in Maj. And it was completely massacred.

Halek ran.

He took only the essentials, a ration pack and his spear. He made for the stables and steered his elk on the familiar path. It was a hard ride, but he was numb to the bitter cold and winds. He was purely focused on the road to Maj.

And then, the destruction was laid bare in front of him.

He was dragged back to Uth Baryd without a struggle. He didn’t have the energy to fight off the Black Shield, and the elders’ chastisements washed over him. The first day of his confinement was hazy, as he cycled through horror, rage, and anguish.

Then, he opened the thick books of exorcisms and forced himself to read through the crackling pages. The mourning period had already begun, but he was allowed to attend the lighting of the pyre, a mass funeral in the name of Maj. He went through every name and face, and when a violet ribbon was tossed into the flames, his vision blurred.

“Diru.” Naolin pressed a handkerchief into his palm, but he ignored it, listening to Father’s words about the return of demonkind. The fallen would never be forgotten, as martyrs engraved in the annals of Hunter history. But it wouldn’t bring any of them back.

“I can’t promise anything.” He murmured, and he wasn’t even sure to whom. “But I’ll try not to let this happen again.”

Days turned to weeks, then to months and years. Their home expanded, with Hunter refugees and their families. The elders griped, but vacant houses were filled and there was no complaint regarding more fighters. Halek and Naolin came of age, and the engagement to Moonsilk was finalized, though any opportunity to delay the wedding was readily seized. He became sol, not the best one by any stretch, but he mustered the effort if there was an Endarkened. He owed that much, in the name of an obliterated town.

Sometimes, he looked out at the southern mountain peaks, until the shine of snow was too bright to endure. His attention would catch on the rare sight of purple fabric, but it was never the right shade. When the laurel bloomed, he’d take a flower and count how many days for the petals to brown, hating each time how short it was.

And deep within his chest of drawers, a locked box protected a simple charm of elm and edelweiss.

#shepherds of haven #yes it's a downer ending only because it stops before the game #not for long though 👀#the rest of the tags are my ranting/hinting so feel free to ignore #as i'm writing further along i realize this is the WORST au lmao #that shared past is just another dimension of angst and yearning #especially since she'll be drawn to familiarity given everything headed for her #kinda...makes him giving it all up more believable in a way...

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bonebirds · 1 year

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This got long but I'm fucking pissed. Content warnings for abuse mentions, trafficking mentions, discourse about discourse to prevent future discourse, "proshipper" nonsense, grooming, etc.

This is gonna be the one time I open my mouth about this because haha, hey, years of internalized fear and shame. I'm trying to lay down a boundary and that comes with so much anticipated backlash.

I do, for the record, have a background in Yelling about the crossroads of media/culture/literature/academia/games studies/trauma/capitalism. Which is a wide range and we can thank my comp exams in the PhD for that.

Since this is tumblr I also gotta just do the fuckin' disclaimer before anyone else feels like doing the "if you don't publicly condemn xyz then I'm gonna make your day worse" thing:

I don't participate in fandom and I don't ship things. I'm not about to defend specific instances or pairings because everything exists in subjective contexts, and texts especially so. But also, I have graduate degrees in English and text analysis and lived experience with CSA and trafficking that went on for a long fucking time. And I am very, very tired of being called the worst things you can call a trauma survivor because I don't care about shipping.

I'm not anti-ship, or whatever. I am not down for imposing my own trauma, feelings about it, and opinions on others in order to censor their art. Call me a proshipper if you want -- ignoring the part where I don't write fanfic or participate in fandom -- because I agree with them. I condemn CSA/CSEM, abusers, predators, the entire evil side of humanity but people who write fic aren't that. Neither are people who read it, even the most problematic of the problematic.

People can write, as fiction, as fantasy, whatever they want. There are no real people being harmed. I can distinguish between those things and, again, am a survivor of some very intense abuse. You're welcome to disagree. I'm fine with that if you're fine with me. I don't believe in absolutes when it comes to topics this complicated (and it is). I spent years on the opposite side, actually, because just the MENTION of things like incest or age gaps triggered me. And then I would do the same and get mad at the people writing it.

This is not healthy and it is not healing on either side of the argument.

But also in treating everything like such a monolithic moral purity test, where you're either good or deserve to suffer -- a test that I fail, because there is no room for things like Complexity -- you just spent a lot of time telling me I'm as bad as the people who trafficked me. Because of fiction. Because of fake things happening to fake people, based on an idea in someone else's head, people's real harm and real trauma means we're as bad as their abusers. That is so heavily the implication in so much of this talk. If I don't disregard my degrees, my training, my own experiences, my own principles and take a stand against people shipping things on the internet, I must basically be a predator!

That is violent and fucked up.

I don't want you around here, so block me and get it over with.

I (like a lot of people with trauma histories) use fiction and writing to process and heal. I don't even post them. A lot of that writing, and being able to seek it out, was helpful. It was a connection to someone else out in the world who maybe understood a little bit of the pain and fear and confusion.

There's a difference between fiction and real abuse. And the "but predators use it to groom vulnerable children" angle barely holds water -- predators use anything. Mainstream TV shows. Vending machine snacks. Gumballs. Access to a remote control to change a channel. A lot of things are more accessible and friendly to kids than making them read. Advocating for censorship, especially in today's political hellhouse, is not actually helpful. It just feels really righteous.

Which doesn't mean there aren't those trying to leverage fic to "normalize" abuse and grooming, I absolutely believe they have and do, but that does not justify externalizing your pain and trauma onto others, or policing them, or trying to take control back by claiming an imaginary moral high ground and pinning other people to it. It also doesn't mean that censoring the internet of all things icky to you saves the world, the kids, anything. It just means they'll find easier avenues, of which there are already so many. It also means you're all just attacking people from a place of presumed hurt rather than compassion, curiosity, anything like that.

So.

Anyone whose stance on this entire thing boils down to "you agree with me or you're a secret pedo enabler," you need to leave.

I'm happy to talk about it if you want! I don't think people trying to draw those lines are right but I think they're well-intentioned, until they start calling me shit that triggers entire mental collapses. You know. In the name of saving the children. Which hasn't been a red flag for conservatism and oppression for hundreds of years or anything, either. How many kids do you think are protected by shutting down places they can actually go and talk about the darkest shit in their heads? How many of us just suffer unbearable pain and isolation because the culture around us is shame-based and if you think about things like that, you're Just Like Them?

This ain't about protecting kids, basically. This discourse never has been. It's about being righteous and never examining why that is. It's about lashing out and displacement. I think the concern for victims is real, like I said, but that concern can translate to actual, real help elsewhere. People are DOING the work to make the internet safer. This? Is not that work.

You are responsible for how you manage your trauma and pain, and that has to include not taking it out on others. Full stop. Even when you disagree. Even when everything in your brain is going DANGER ALARMS DANGER ALARMS DANGER ALARMS WE MUST STOP THIS because someone ships something you think is wrong or uncomfortable. It sucks, and it sucks we have to do that, and it sucks we have to learn how. None of us asked to. None of us wanted to end up here. It's not victim blaming to say you're accountable for your own recovery.

But while you are here, maybe consider that the name/shame/blame model hasn't been working either. For hundreds of fucking years. We know shame doesn't motivate people to care, or learn.

But especially when you're weaponizing shame against trauma survivors for recognizing their own experiences in literature, art, stories. We all struggle with toxic shame. Using it against people until they agree with you?

Holy shit just look in the mirror one day, I guess. But block me first.

#sorry but i really am done being called this shit #by people who don't know me or my history and shouldn't feel entitled to knowing it so i can #the things saving people are being done in places other than twitter and tumblr #pass some bullshit binary test in their brain #by people who know what they're doing #not oh my god can't overstate this #not by attacking traumatized people because you think you got this equation figured out #thousands of years of philosophy and art but yes you found the answer #and it's conveniently so simple and straightforward!#sorry I'm obviously triggered and going #...none of these are new opinions for the record #talking just to change my mind is not gonna happen #like please just go i can't deal and i hope yall find less toxic and actually actionable ways to help people at risk #the look on my therapist's face when i had to be like children are cyberbullying me for liking fucked up fiction #because no one off the internet thinks like this

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lauvra · 1 year

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How often we’re caught in the most mundane of acts when life happens to us. I find I’m often waiting for it to go wrong enough. When it finally does it rarely lives up to expectation. I’m tired of holding my tongue with iron bitterness at my fingertips while nothing much happens, so I think I’ll just confess. The dull edge of everything that ever happened has led to this. The early ambitions of my life were clearly a facade. I think back to nights part-taking, exposing vulnerabilities and deep desires to others also making a show of exposure and really I think we were all full of shit. All our costume ideations of philanthropic endeavour. Looking back, I think the people who were least full of shit were the ones with sights set on getting their next fix. I’ve always wanted to create but really I’d begged for the curse of an embodiment. To be a particular kind of person. What a shallow notion, good intentions swirling in a useless potion. I’ve finally acquired the only authentic ingredient; necessity. Drawing in thirst from the shallow well within, free-falling backwards at will. Once chin deep clawing at the walls attempting to flee my own baptism of consequence, escaping then labelling the scarred wall History or Art. Are you an artist if you make art or if other people believe it? Maybe you’re an artist if your only other option is violence. Someone compares my work to that of Franz Kline, describes a thematic kinship with Francis Bacon if Bacon were more abstract than figurative. I laugh. We make a deal: I’ll paint dumb shit and you market it. Because I’ve only ever been a con artist. In creativity, in conversation, in bed, in love. But I once would have sworn to have sought connection leading to larger scale connection. It’s like when you go to shows, everyone holding up a smart phone. The performer has a love-hate relationship with half the audience. The drones get the message out but what’s the message? there’s a distinct intimacy robbery. More eyes the better to draw bigger crowds. All the better for... a larger scale robbery. The truth is, once you create something and share it with the world it’s no longer about you, as if it ever was. As if there were ever a you to speak of. I guess it’s always hard to perform, to trust what it’s for. My mythologically collaborative intent sure sounded noble enough to be true. People confess to me, though I am no priestess which is usually precisely why. I never wanted to live a life, I only ever sought to be the most well-fed parasite beneath the skin of anybody else who’d dared to. My empathy was true once, but some days I fear it’s diminishing quickly. I want to feast, they come to me with tattle as offering. Regular people calling from the eye of a storm just to tell you how fine things are going. How often I wish to turn and say ‘I am sorry, I am no longer interested in dividing my time within the inherent compromise of companionship, I have too much to do alone. Besides, I’ve grown tired of all your circular problems which are in fact, very ordinary.’ I’ve heard word of tables in old pubs crowded in commune by creatives and the idea sounds tempting until I consider in earnest the way I am. My bowels would constrict, the muscles of my stomach would strangle itself into letting out distressing creaks and groans forcing a memorably anti-social departure. I live in my mind, it’s such a shame about the body which deceives me.

I was born with a clogged filter between my mind and mouth, perhaps one fitted backwards in a frantic nature as I insisted on leaving my mother weeks too soon. On that day my mother had locked herself in the hospital bathroom beneath a scolding hot shower. When they finally coaxed her into unlocking the door she was red raw. She said “it feels like an alien, get it out of me!” The midwife Katherine, asked “how do you know what an alien feels like?”“Get it out!” I suspect from the beginning I’ve wanted to get this whole thing over with. My inner idyll of thought is romantic, succinct in its elegance yet all that escapes when I open my mouth is the wailing of a fool only articulate in its desperation to get it out. It’s not an original idea that being human is inherently humiliating, but I never claimed to be.

#me #word

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polyhexian · 2 years

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The absolute overwhelming brutality with which tlt music approaches it's topics. It goes so wildly hard. He manages to hit this kind of razor sharp vulnerability that's relatable in an UNCOMFORTABLE way, not in a fun relatable way but in a way that legitimately can make your fucking skin crawl. Nobody comes close. "Drunk" is fucking incredible. I have NEVER in my LIFE seen or heard any piece of media, any piece of artwork address alcoholism the way it does. The unflinching aggression, like wailing at god and ripping your beating heart from your own chest. Open mouthed screaming. "What I want" openly craves the validity and safety of selling out, it has this weary wondering admission of yearning to stop making art and start making content in exchange for comfort and security. The relief of giving up. For gods sake there's a track on zero one where Sam haft merrily chants I JUST CANT WAIT TO DIE OH I JUST CANT WAIT TO DIE over and over again. Not even in a suicidal or depressed way, in an absolutely fucking exhausted way, I can't wait to die and stop dealing with everything. I don't want to die, I want to be dead. Lazy. LAZY!!! IM LAZY IN LAZY IM LAZY IM LAZY! The fucking point blank "it's been a long time since no mercy" breaking the veneer of relatability, destroying the ability to put yourself in the place of the songs protagonist, casting you out of the position and reminding you THIS SONG IS ABOUT ME ITS ABOUT ME ITS ABOUT ME ME ME NOT YOU, "the love I need" being a song about an abusive relationship with ones audience WHY LIVE A LIFE I WASNT MEANT TO? sunburn sunburn SUNBURN you smile and I get sunburned!!!!!!!! HIT THE SNOOZE DROPS AND IT FUCKINF... We are all so tired of COVID and no one wants to make art about COVID no one wants to talk about it and when they do it's revolting, I hate this, I am so tired of COVID I don't want to fucking watch a movie about it and then yoav and Sam drop hit the snooze on me with this lilting wailing grieving lonely plea for relief, the terror of illness and the isolation and constant paranoia fear misery agoraphobia, the betrayal and resentment of watching those around you reveal their selfish nature's, GOING OUT OF MY HEAD FUCKING WISH I WAS DEAD CUZ AT LEAST THEN ID KNOW IT WAS OVER. Ask me how I'm holding up and I will gleefully exclaim it's still the same

I'm fucking losing it dude this is the art I've aspired to make my entire life. I don't know this man and I know parasocial blablabla but I know in his work he talks so openly about the pressure of an audience and the insecurity of feeling like he's alread peaked and he will never make real art he's proud of again and my heart weeps for him because for me legitimately he creates some of the most inspiring and artistically valuable content I've experienced in my lifetime and it literally makes me feel emotions no other artist can evoke in me. I would literally kill a man if yoav asked me to

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monomorphilogical · 1 year

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The list

Good lord, how I am unable to admit some things to myself.

This morning, it was merely I, who stared into the bathroom mirror; no soul around but my own haggard one. The mirror, partially fogged, did not even show the fullness of me, and yet, yet I could not make myself say the words to my own reflection.

Lord, I was barely able to think them clearly; only a mere concept floating around my head with a notion of truth, not whole and not untrue. I bit my lip hard enough to draw blood, and I clamped my teeth together hard enough to ache even now, deep into the afternoon.

So hereby; the list of everything I cannot say, but I will force myself to do so anyhow. For the sake of honesty, bravery and spite.

I have been staring at this empty list for twenty-five minutes, hand covering my mouth, astonished, that I cannot even write down the truths on paper. This is because I am terrified of admitting that which makes me vulnerable.

Vulnerability makes me believe I am one of the weak, not because I am better than those vulnerable, but because it opens up the possibility of getting harmed, ridiculed, ignored.

I often get the urge to bury a knife in the middle of my thigh, as a protest, perhaps as a distraction, or punishment.

A gentle touch wakes up a starving animal within me; and it screams to be beaten into a pulp until it cannot growl any longer.

I do not know what love-making truly is, I have never experienced it, and a sick part of me would rather be beaten and gutted than find out.

I understand pain, I do not understand those who do not.

I am writing down these truths first to avoid the ones I am struggling to admit.

I am more comfortable talking about the act of abuse than about the yearning of care.

Sex makes me want to scream out for them to 'tear me apart' because I cannot handle a hand laid upon my skin any longer. No matter the heavy-handedness, nor gentleness (which may be worse).

I think I am very sensitive.

I experience thought, emotion, and art quite deeply; it is like a wound that cannot close.

I feel like a small girl still, and it is bothersome to look into the mirror and see someone so very grown up.

I dislike my mother, and her tendency to manipulate my convictions and emotions, it took me far too long to understand what were her opinions and what were my own.

I wish I had a father who cared for me, and I wish he was one to keep me safe; instead of the source of danger.

I was just a little girl, and I needed my father to hold me, and I needed my mother to listen to me.

I still need my father to hold me, and my mother to be kind to me. (though I will never have this, for this is not something they can ever offer me; nor can I ever accept any form of care from them)

I am fairly certain that I do not know what love is, precisely.

I do not know how to possibly love, but also I do not know how to hate.

I am terrified of being less than someone deserves; or being bothersome.

I am also fairly certain I will make many mistakes in any relationship, and though I will try my hardest; it is up to them to decide if I am worth it. That terrifies me.

I do not believe I am worth it.

I do not believe I am worth anything to anyone but myself.

Intimacy, in any form, is my greatest enemy, and I fear I will fight it until my knuckles crack and bleed.

I am vulnerable.

I want to be cared for.

I am tired of being responsible of care, I want someone to take it off my hands every once in a while.

I crave to be held.

I crave someone to tell me it is all well. No matter the truth in it.

I wish I had someone to look out for me.

I spend all my pastime in my own head; reading books, listing to music, imagining some other version of my life, anything to escape the crushing weight that are my horrid memories.

I am afraid I will not be able to escape in this way were I to be in a relationship.

I am afraid that will make life dull, since all that lives in my head is the horror and grotesque and dramatics, and I have gotten very much used to the intensity of it all.

Almost none of my scars are because of accidents, clumsiness or the cat. I am good at making them look like they are.

I tell people all of them are from my teenage years. It’s only a half-truth.

Were I not afraid of its consequences, I would slash open the entirety of my body.

I often get the inexplicable urge to sink my teeth into my own skin. I do not know why. It makes my teeth ache with want. I suspect it is a form of self destruction.

I am afraid that when I cry to be torn apart, I am really crying to be held gently. I suspect you have to restrain me first, for I will try to kick and scream as you do so.

I want someone to be strong enough to restrain me until I can be held with gentle hands.

I do not know how to ask for anything.

#posting this is the bravest thing I've done #which is objectively pathetic but alright #the things about my childhood are funnily the hardest; the admittance of wanting something and missing something makes my skin crawl #list #writing #mental health #things I can't say #the things I can't say out loud #renae

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let-minnow · 1 year

Text

A Dance, Warrior of Darkness? (Part 3: End)

Tags: Crystal ExarchxWOL, fem/miqote/wol, Shadowbringers, FFXIV fanfic. If you dont want spoilers, git outta here.

Disclaimer: I wrote this, but I do not own the characters or story from FFXIV, nor do I claim responsibility for history placed or misplaced, rather.

Enjoy!

********

The Exarch felt a shift in energy as he opened his eyes. "Exarch? Art thou ill?"

Urianger's voice cut through his foggy mind as he sat up and shook his hooded head, trying to remember the last thing he did before he wound up sitting or laying on the floor. A fool he was for allowing himself to sit so vulnerable at such an inopportune time. "I am alright. Although I am quite confused as to how I am here like this."

The elezen glanced to the left.

"Thou art not alone in this dishevelled happenstance. T'would seem that our comrade hath seen a similar fate."

He turned toward what Urianger looked at and felt his heart skip three beats.

The warrior of darkness on her back, eyes closed and completely unconscious. He scrabbled to his feet and began toward her when Urianger stopped him. "I prithee... What I assessed before the light took thee both would suggest that the warrior got too close and learned thy secret. Unaware of the full scenario as I am, I would advise thee to stand aside and let myself tend to the sleeping warrior."

The Exarch froze in place and allowed a shallow dip of his head.

Of course! He could scarce remember a thing, and both of them were unconscious together. He'd made a mistake by standing too close or letting something slip. Not able to afford mistakes, the Exarch kept a spell on standby. A memory spell, nothing big, but anything memory based in itself was quite an invasive breech. Nevertheless, it would keep his identity safe.

Urianger stepped up to Minnow's exhausted form and gently rubbed her shoulder. "Minnow, my friend? Art thou aright?" He watched as she stirred and sat up, looking right confused and his stomach twisted with guilt. There was no mistaking now that he was the reason.

"What happened?" She groaned, rubbing her head in discomfort.

"Are you injured?" The Exarch felt himself ask before he could process the thoughts. Minnow looked up and shook her head feebly.

"I do not think so... How incredibly odd."

"Do you recall what happened before you lost consciousness? Perhaps we can shed light upon this mystery." He urged gently, hoping that whatever memory got cut off wasnt cut off too untimely. Broken memories lead to broken casts. She scrunched her nose gently, pursing her lips as she concentrated.

"I was standing around the opening that allows vision to the party downstairs... I can only describe feeling like I'd endured an Echo... Only... Less painful than usual? Perhaps I dream?"

The Exarch sighed. "I am glad you are unharmed. Perhaps it is time for some rest." She nodded vigarously at the suggestion, still rubbing her head. He worried for that and was going to ask if she needed an escort, but Urianger was quicker than he.

"Would'st thou accept an escort to the Pendants? I should be happy to accompany thee."

The Exarch nodded quite seriously, but Minnow beamed kindly.

"I am tired but I think I will be alright now, thanks to the unprompted nap." She joked, shrugging goodnaturedly.

A grin escaped him at her words. Even in such an odd state, she was chipper and steadfast. He bowed, respectful and deep.

"I pray you hail better after some sleep, my friend."

The warrior of darkness stood, echoed a gentler, much smaller and stiffer bow, then slowly and carefully descended the rounding stairway. They let her steps hit the bottom and her silhouette vanish into the shadows of the hallways exiting the party foyer before Urianger spoke another word to him.

"Exarch. I do not understand thy ways, but truly, I fear that thy feelings for Minnow may indeed be the culprit of this compromising event."

"Feelings? What do-..." He paused, felt his gut flip as it suddenly dawned on him that they had been rather close together, then continued. "What on earth did you find us doing, might I ask?"

Urianger looked conflicted and said nothing for a moment, a hand up in ponderance in struggle of searching for the proper words. "In the beginning, from the looks of it, t'would be best described as simple dancing... But I cannot describe what happened soon thereafter in a way that is appropriate for..." His words lowered to near inaudible. "Lustful lip-locking."

A fire burst within his chest, or at least thats what it felt like when his brain finally processed the meaning behind such interesting speech.

Kissing. He had been kissing her. He'd kissed the warrior of darkness. And she had kissed back, mayhap? No, she wouldn't kiss back unless she really wanted to and he wouldn't have started something like this naturally unless... Unless she had initiated it. Therein, he could make no promises that he would not give in to her desires or requests of such nature, as was his no longer secret a weakness. His whole head felt like it burned.

Lustful, was the word Urianger had used.

Gods... It was hard to believe that she had allowed such a thing. As for his own actions, to know now that he had enjoyed her touch with no memory of it... His ears burned beneath the hood as if his whole head baked. A hint of envy for his past self raked his stomach. He tilted his head in response to his accomplice's statement.

"I must say, I did not expect such a possibility. I will have to maintain a professional distance indefinitely. To know that it happened once was much too much." He discerned aloud, rubbing his neck under his cowl. Urianger nodded fiercely.

"Quite right. What next, Exarch?"

"I stay back; Keep my distance from her until the time comes. It's too important that all goes to plan. That she may yet live, and that you all will go home safe, it is the only option." He murmured, fully recited and memorized by now. It was implanted and ingrained there. Nothing would stop him from protecting his homeland, the better future, her friends,... Her life.

Whatever could have been here... Was simply a byproduct of his lapse in reason. If Minnow had been seduced by or had seduced the Exarch, it was because she had found an attraction for the Exarch. Not himself.

Not G'raha Tia, who had used a fabricated persona to befriend them and gain their trust promptly after yanking them from the Source and their bodies. Not he who was using Minnow to save the First and byproxy save herself a death in the Ghymlyt Dark, but also endanger her own being by absorbing the Light.

He didn't even know if this could be promised to even work, but he had to try.

It might be a shame to lose the Exarch, but not he who had sealed his own fate by deciding his own life to be forfeit. He had made his choice. No one would miss G'raha Tia if his body still lived on the Source. His other future self, waking up to a new generation. Alone. With no one he knew to watch an expanse of higher technology reform anew.

Needless to say, he owed it to them.

Owed it to her. For she inspired him to live. To fight for the future. To bend to duty's obligation. To be the wall of protection. If it was, if it could be unwritten, he'd see the death of the Source and his hero unwritten.

He'd be their solidified hope, no matter what the cost. For Minnow. For the Source. For the Scions he came to adore. For their people. For their shard to continue on, he'd die.

He'd die as a beacon of hope.

#ff14 ffxiv #writingprompt #ffxiv scions #inspiration #writing #ffxiv endwalker #crystal exarch #ffxiv #ffxiv miqo'te #thancred waters #g'raha/wol #y'shtola rhul #alphinaud leveilleur #alisaie leveilleur #urianger augurelt #ffxiv shadowbringers #ffxiv spoilers #ffxiv glamour

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pablosexc0bar · 1 year

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friends have just left house. it is 20 past midnight and we spent the whole day together, sometimes in silence, a lot of the time playing (climbing trees throwing balls doing voices etc) and to my uttermost soul-filling delight we talked so so much philosophy! the human condition, the dimensions, perceptions of self, mental societal state and whether time is moving in spirals, i even got to read out some relevant passage from steppenwolf. they don’t mind when i am crazy silly or quiet or girly or rambunctious or intellectual. how so, so, nice. maybe i am over glorifying a simple well spent day in good company but i am not expecting anything; only appreciating. it is good to be grateful. we cooked dinner together! all of us (well mainly brandon lol). i am content. brandon thinks full contentment is impossible due to the human condition and ollie doesn’t quite grasp what the human condition is, but knows it isn’t wholly graspable anyway. i personally believe i was fully content today, because my pains and frustrations with life are separate from my capacity for joy, and do not diminish that. i hurt my nail really bad, acrylics and catching hard, flying shoes, do not mix well apparently. it was fun to find out (genuine). i want to clean the kitchen really bad but im going to leave it for tomorrow. i have to be up early. so many thoughts, as always, and much happening in my life. all of it for the better. sat with my sadness last night, all of it, about ex and alexis and my own mistakes lately, it felt safe for the first time in a long time. i feel safe to be both sad and happy and anything else right now, the safest in a long time. definitely the right time to be reading steppenwolf. im quite tired, it’s approaching 1 and i feel everything i did today catch up to me. i let this pain be enjoyable to me while it can because i feel very aware of how fleeting youth is. no longer with fear at least but a lot of gratitude and curiosity. i am a sponge and i want to see life from any angle im allowed. i struggle to put back into world though, it feels unnatural to leave a mark where other people can see. and at least, when i do put back into the world, through fashion or speaking my honest mind or sharing art or publicising my interests, i almost always do so in ways that other people cannot respond to. i regularly say ridiculous shit and when questioned i answer with “figure it out for yourself i don’t know any better”. this amuses people most of the time but it is a genuine shut off from vulnerability. not only do i not crave validation; i curve any feedback whatsoever. im much more interested in knowing what people think than what they think of me. this is to some degree a detriment. if i don’t allow feedback on anything i truly mean i will never be able to have a conversation or bond over it. so i’ve been practising saying things i mean in conversation and it is so wonderful with this audience. alright, really must sleep. goodnight

#txt #journals

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maggiecheungs · 2 years

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i am truly in love with how p’nuchie films nakedness. her gaze is so unbearably intimate and gentle; nakedness becomes vulnerability, and she treats it so tenderly. it isn’t eroticised at all by the camera. skin becomes the final barrier between the inner self and the world; the act of baring your flesh is confession and surrender. we came into this world naked, she says. do you remember what the world looked like when you were a child? children live their lives free of shame. who are you when you shed your clothes and your labels and your fears and your guilt? do you remember a time when your naked flesh brought you joy?

yok builds his art and his resistance around the idea of nakedness because he sees it as something crucially—painfully—beautifully—human. the body is more than just a tool for labour or an object to be sexualised. when you cut us, we bleed. we bleed beneath our clothes and our status and our masks and armour. how long can someone bleed and still live? we are so tired.

and when she brings the naked bodies of lovers together—even those scenes refuse to be reduced to sexuality. instead, they say: i come to you wearing nothing but my own flesh and skin; do you still want me? and in return: i see every part of you and you do not disgust me.

nakedness says: look at my scars and my flaws and do not flinch. it says: i am not ashamed. it speaks of bravery and vulnerability and trust. when p’nuchie films nakedness, it is an acknowledgment of the body as a wearied repository of pain. it is also the recognition of and hope for its ability to one day heal; to find joy and pleasure in the world and the people around you. yok draws dan’s body, heavy with pain and guilt, and makes it beautiful.

a coin has two sides. on one: the body is a prison. on the other: the body is a home.

#not me #not me the series #danyok #anucha boonyawatana #not me meta #nmts #ellistxt #ik i only talk about danyok in this but i’m also thinking about her film malila #which is just incredible <3

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rpclefairy · 2 years

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𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐑𝐀 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐋𝐘𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐒 𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒

❛ i'm not yours to keep. ❜ ❛ what's the point in saying you love me like a friend? ❜ ❛ you're never gonna love me, so what's the use? ❜ ❛ i've lived a lot of different lives. ❜ ❛ adolescence didn't make sense. ❜ ❛ baby you don't have to live your life in fear. ❜ ❛ i want the world to go away. ❜ ❛ now i’m ready for the last hoorah. ❜ ❛ not everyone is out to screw you over. ❜ ❛ why don't we just pretend? ❜ ❛ you're a coward 'til the end. ❜ ❛ yeah, you may be good looking but you're not a piece of art. ❜ ❛ i’m sick and tired of all your preaching. ❜ ❛ just maybe they just wanna get to know you. ❜ ❛ in the night your heart is full and by the morning empty. ❜ ❛ people in this town — they can be so cruel. ❜ ❛ life gave me some lemons so i made some lemonade. ❜ ❛ all i ever wanted was the world. ❜ ❛ i can feel it coming to the end. ❜ ❛ i'll chew you up and i'll spit you out. ❜ ❛ i'm gonna pop your bubblegum heart. ❜ ❛ i don't know why but i feel conned. ❜ ❛ what's the point in saying it's never gonna end? ❜ ❛ rule number one is that you gotta have fun. ❜ ❛ i send my best regards from hell. ❜ ❛ you're too proud to say that you've made a mistake. ❜ ❛ all i really want is to be wonderful. ❜ ❛ if you don't know that by now then you don't know me that well. ❜ ❛ i live my life in bitterness. ❜ ❛ so pull me closer and kiss me hard. ❜ ❛ you can count on me to misbehave. ❜ ❛ the light inside you died. ❜ ❛ i wish i wasn't such a narcissist ❛ i'll never tell you how i feel. ❜ ❛ every day is a chore. ❜ ❛ there is no crime in being kind. ❜ ❛ i know you only want to own me. ❜ ❛ i don't care at all. ❜ ❛ you're still living life in the dark. ❜ ❛ you and i will never last. ❜ ❛ i wanna stay inside all day. ❜ ❛ a human vulnerability doesn't mean that i am weak. ❜ ❛ but baby i'm the one who left you, you're not the one who left me. ❜ ❛ i can't help that i need it all. ❜ ❛ your life is dark and it needs some light. ❜ ❛ i know i've got a big ego. ❜ ❛ i just want it to be perfect. ❜ ❛ you say that love is not that easy. ❜ ❛ you say that i'm kinda difficult. ❜ ❛ you don't love me, big fucking deal. ❜ ❛ we cannot escape the past. ❜ ❛ i don't wanna admit that we're not gonna fit. ❜ ❛ don't care if you think i'm dumb. ❜ ❛ all this time was fighting for what i believe. ❜ ❛ feelings are just like the weather. ❜ ❛ i really don't know why it's such a big deal, though. ❜ ❛ did i really deserve it? ❜ ❛ i can't let you go. ❜ ❛ deep down all you want is love. ❜ ❛ you played the martyr for so long. ❜ ❛ everyday i feel the same. ❜ ❛ would you get down on your knees for me? ❜ ❛ ain't youth meant to be beautiful? ❜ ❛ what's the point in playing a game you're gonna lose? ❜ ❛ i guess you could say that my life's a mess. ❜ ❛ i wanna be a bottle blonde. ❜ ❛ i never fall asleep when you're in my bed. ❜ ❛ we don't own our heavens, we only own our hell. ❜ ❛ all my life i've been so lonely. ❜

#rp meme #ask meme #rp prompt #ask prompt #ask memes #indie rp #sentence starters #sentence meme #rp prompts #roleplay meme #rp ask meme #rp resources #rpc #rph #rp help

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ahjustroza · 3 years

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I saw a hc post abt how Last Legacy love interests react to MC actually going back to Earth,so can I ask some hcs abt this one? I'm curious of what you come up with!!

I actually made the same request to @lucigucci !!

For this ask, I had to play the entire game once again because I couldn't come up with anything. Hope you'll like it!

MC Going Back to Earth Headcanon

Warning: Sad feelings and pain...

Anisa

Before giving in to her emotions she will make sure to not miss anything important for your return to Earth

She'll check with important magical necessaries for the portal

Check if you have everything you would possibly need

If you ate well

Will check twice everything she prepared for you to take with you to remember her

She will also give you the Orlando postcard

It is important to her but also you two shared many memories together talking about Earth looking at the postcard

She knows when you visit Orlando you will remember her

After she is done with everything

The realization of you actually leaving her will hit her HARD

She knew you for only months but fell for you in a way with no return

You became her breath

The meaning, the cause she wanted to live further

The center of her life

Her priority

Her peace

Her shelter, and safe place

If only she could stay in your arms for a little longer...

If only she could find a way to see you again

The smell your scent while she buried her nose to your neck

To your hair...

She misses you always

Even for a couple of minutes without you within her eyesight makes her feel troubled

She misses you to death before even you leave her...

She will use all her strength to not cry in front of you

But the moment you hugged her and kissed her the last time she broke

She never struggled like this

Never felt hurt like this

The devs mentioned that each character will have multiple endings, so I headcanon two different happy endings in this situation

One is being Anisa letting you go while she stays in Astraea

She knows that she might not be able to fit in

You are people of two different worlds

Quite literally

And it shows

Anisa however will never love again after you

She will refuse every potential partner both in her romantic life or in her bed

She will confess her feelings for you and give you her hair ribbon as well as the most painfully mesmerizing kiss...

The other ending being Anisa leaving Astraea with you.

She is half-human and can tell people that her marks on her face are tattoos on Earth

She will see this as an opportunity to start a new life

Without the guilt of who her parents are and what they have done

Without the danger of magical monsters or assassins tracking her all around

She is smart, a quick learner, and curious about Earth

With your support, she can get used to life on Earth and get a job

I am thirsty for Anisa as a workout or martial art trainer

But I can also see her going to college and finish it quicker than expected to work in a school

Counselor Anisa

You two will travel the world together

No matter the lifestyle you live Anisa is happy

She doesn't need a lot of money

All she needs is you

Also another surprise, she doesn't miss Astraea one bit

You are what she calls home now.

Sage

I am a Sage hoe myself but I can't see him leave Astraea with you

He can't fit in to Earth

He has to be free and living on Earth means he has to follow so many rules that he struggles to understand

Also Sage will absolutely refuse to leave Tulsi behind

There are only two people he actually cares about in this world

You and Tulsi

You two are his family and home

He is a family guy

And oh my god does he want to make his family larger secretly

Sage is a character that struggles with emotional confessions

He is also a good liar

So even tho he wants a future with you

If you want children, raise your children together (adopted/surrogacy/biological/a found family...)

Finally settling down and actually live in a home

Sage will experience the feeling of home with you the first time

He never felt safer and not worried about being vulnerable to someone

Having family dinners, family meetings with auntie Tulsi...

Celebrating anniversaries

Getting yourselves in trouble and moving to a different town

Even though he would fight the gods themselves to have this future with you, he will not tell you to stay

He will not say anything at all

He'll watch you and make sure to prepare everything for your return

And to make sure of your security during the process

You will look into his eyes each passing hour, hoping him to say something

Anything

But he will not

He'll only give you his signature soft half-smile with tired eyes

He will drink the entire day before your depart

Spend the whole night with you

Watch you sleep

Memorize your face

Your body

Will listen to your breathing

He will take everything he can get to never forget you

Also, cry too

Silently

Without you noticing

Tears will fall down to the pillow one by one

He wants to scream and tell you to stay but he can't force you to do anything you don't want

Any word out of his mouth might make you change your mind and do the opposite of what you want to do

You have a family too and you have to see them

A life you have to return to...

So if you don't say that you want to stay he will stay silent forever

If you choose to leave, do give him something to remind him of you

A necklace? Your laser pointer? Your foam sword?

He will carry whatever you give him with him

Always

Until the day he dies

Let's say you gave him a necklace, anyone who knew you will feel the pain in Sage when they see him still wearing the necklace after all those years...

He will never love again. It was a one-time thing.

He will not open up to anyone

He will not let anyone see the real Sage the way you did

He might have bed partners but it is not emotional

He is in pain and will either drink or throw himself somewhere to spend the night without thinking anything

But that can only happen if he is too drunk to remember what happened the night before

If you choose to stay, he will feel relieved

Guilty too but mostly relieved

He will build the future he desires with you

But will also look for ways to make you visit Earth and come back

Felix

I don't think Felix can fit in the Earth either

He grew up as the Arcmage's son and spent all his life studying magic

He can't live in a world where magic doesn't exist

He can't live a lifestyle where he will have to learn everything anew

I just think he is too sensitive for our world.

But unlike Sage and Anisa, Felix will ask you to stay

He'll ask you to stay and live a crazy but full of love life with him

He'll promise to take care of you since he is filthy rich

Then admit his fears of losing another lover

If you decide to leave he will feel betrayed and abandoned at first

He'll cry, then disappear for a while, then appear and tell you that you gave him a lot of hope

And disappear once again

He'll get drunk and then cry loudly too...

After Rime, you taught him how to love again

You made him feel safe and supported

Accepted for who he is...

You taught him how to properly love someone

No toxicity

No lies

No rivalry

He only wants to sleep in a bed in your arms around him not wake up for years

The idea of you leaving him hurts like someone stabs a dagger into his heart

He'll start to believe that this is his cruel destiny

To be the one stays while the other leave

He wants to follow you but he knows he can't live with you on Earth

He couldn't even fit in his own house yet...

Once he cooled down he'll admit how important your life back at home to you

And how it is his fault to steal that life away from you by bringing you to Astraea

He will open the portal for you himself

He is not trusting anyone else for this work

Before you leave he will tell you that he loves you and promise to never forget you

Here comes the pain

But he might fall in love again after you

You will always have a different place in his heart and in his memories though!

Felix did try to bring someone he fell for back from death then fall in love with someone else

I just think he will be more flexible with what life brings in front of him

And get even more depressed with time...

If you accept his offer and choose to stay his eyes will see nothing but you from that day and forward

You are officially his spouse now, no ceremony necessary

You will go on the vacation you both need and deserve then get a house to live together

You two will be the scary power couple

People will talk about you two as "the small necromancer and his spouse- yes the spouse. They are the one that fought the Lord of Shadows and the undead Rime. I also heard they got a relic the moment they stepped on Astraea- I KNOW it is crazy..."

Felix will share everything he owns with you, even his thoughts

He is so open to you that he knows you understand him the best

#fictif felix #fictif anisa #fictif sage #fictif last legacy #fictif games #sage last legacy #sage lesath #sage headcanons #felix escellun #last legacy felix #anisa anka #anisa last legacy #anisa headcanons #felix headcanons #last legacy headcanons #some writing

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pochiperpe90 · 3 years

Text

Here comes “The Old Guard”. Marinelli goes to Hollywood, alongside Charlize Theron.

“Alone, fragile and immortal.”

A story of love, friendship and compassion with an ancient warrior and a young African American, who has just discovered she is immortal, as protagonists. Because the world needs women and courage knows no gender differences. 20 years after “Love & Basketball” and after “The Secret Life of Bees” and “Beyond the Lights - Find Your Voice”, Gina Prince-Bythewood comes to the action movie with very clear ideas on how to reinvent the rules. We talked to her over the phone while she was in Los Angeles during the lockdown.

A superhero movie that doesn't look like a superhero movie. Is that why you decided to make it?

Absolutely yes, when I read the script I realized that despite the fantastic genre there was a very realistic background. These characters are real and it's easy for the audience to relate to them despite being immortal. They fight for goals and reasons that people understand. The more realistic the film, the more viewers can reflect themselves in the protagonists.

In fact, the most fascinating aspect of the characters is their vulnerability: they are immortal, but up to a certain point, which is a paradox. They too have to deal with the sense of the end.

There is a possibility that they may die, that their immortality is interrupted, that they still suffer from their wounds, and this brings them closer to us. The public still feels sorry for them when they see them in danger.

Immortals suffer, and not just physically.

Many think that being able to live forever would be extraordinary, but no one asks what this really means. Immortality has consequences: it can be a gift, but it can also be a curse.

And we don’t know why immortality fell to them.

The thing I loved about the graphic novel and the script is the fact that there is no explanation. Not only do we not know it, but neither do the protagonists. But it is a trilogy and therefore there is still a lot to tell.

Could you offer your contribution to the script?

It was a great script, with great roles based on the graphic novel so I stayed very true to the text. With the author, Greg Rucka, we wanted to reflect on the fear of taking someone's life, the one that sometimes overwhelms soldiers in war, whose psychology is often neglected. Hollywood films have never been very concerned with this aspect, as if killing had no consequences. The protagonists are forced to kill, but if someone has been doing it for centuries, for others it’s the first time.

What struck you about Luca Marinelli?

I could talk about him for days, I love him, he's the actor that all directors dream of having on set. He loved the character and gave him life in a very credible way. Between him and Marwan Kenzari is born a great complicity, necessary between two people who have been together for centuries. Luca's eyes are full of soul, his Nicky is the heart of the group, he’s the most sensitive character of all of them.

Charlize Theron, who is also one of the producers, has an increasingly and more torn body.

Charlize has already played roles like this one, she is very credible in the genre of action and has been helpful to who had never faced it before. From her, who really worked hard, others learned to do the same. She is very credible in the role of a woman who lived for thousands of years.

Matthias Schoenaerts, on the other hand, has an insidious role.

He embodies the tragedy of immortality, loneliness, betrayal. He is the actor who most resembles his character in the graphic novel. He wanted to make the film at all costs because he had never measured himself with the action genre and felt he had things to express.

The film underlines how today it’s no longer possible to hide, images can capture you at any time.

In a scene near the end, when the immortals look at photos and articles about them, they truly become aware for the first time of everything they have done to protect humanity. They understand the power of images from which they continually try to escape in order to hide their identity.

And then we talk about science and profit.

In the film, people from different places join forces to protect the world, a need even more relevant today. Yet it is increasingly evident that profit matters more than human lives.

Do you think the film industry is becoming more inclusive with women?

Things are finally changing and I am grateful that, despite having no other action films on my resume, I have been entrusted with The Old Guard. I am grateful for the trust they have placed in me. It should be taken for granted by now that women are capable of coping with any film genre and I think how much pressure from the industry Patty Jenkins, who directed Wonder Woman to success and opening the door for many of us, went through. But the door must be wide open because there are still few who have such opportunities.

In your opinion, have opportunities grown with the arrival of platforms like Netflix?

Netflix wasn't afraid to trust a series of directors. Which studio would have produced Roma or Irishman? He has the courage to make films that Hollywood deems too risky.

The Golden boy

“Luca Marinelli, as we have never seen him before: in his Hollywood debut, he becomes an immortal and fights with Charlize Theron to save the world.”

Just before the lockdown he was one of the jury members of the 70th Berlinale in the city where he has lived for years - and he swears he had so much fun watching three films a day. The audience awaits him in theatre in the role of Diabolik, in the film directed by Manetti Bros., but on July 10th he arrives on Netflix with The Old Guard, the action movie that sees him alongside Charlize Theron. And where he plays the Italian Nicolo, Nicky for the group of immortals he belongs to. Directed by Gina Prince-Bythewood and based on the graphic novel by Greg Rucka and Leandro Fernández, the film offers Luca Marinelli an insidious superpower, an endless love and a new opportunity to demonstrate his talent as a true champion. We reached him on the phone and he, less shy than usual, told us how he became a secular "superhero".

How did you get to the project?

I auditioned in London, where I later returned and met the director. Lastly, there was a final meeting between me and Marwan Kenzari. We made a scene together and then they announced to me, "We'd love for you to be Nicky."

What struck you about this character?

The story fascinated me because it tells of immortals as if they were the damned. Nicky and Joe live this condition as a gift because they are linked by a wonderful love story and they are not alone. They met in an absurd and paradoxical situation, during the Crusades, ready to kill themselves. They did it a hundred times and then they looked at each other and fell in love. But others suffer from it, like Andy and Booker. In a beautiful scene, Booker, played by Matthias Schoenaerts, explains what happens to them: they see the people they love die and blame them because they cannot prevent it. And they are tired of watching the world repeat itself following the same dynamics. They fight to save people, but everything seems to go on the same way. Only in the end will they discover what they have done and what they are doing.

How did it go with Charlize Theron?

Well, it was wonderful! As I read the script I said to myself: am I really going to make a film with Charlize Theron? And hug as well! I was very excited and intimidated already while reading. She is an extraordinary actress. In the scene where we are at the table and everyone tells Nile something about us, Andy tells her what we are and it was nice to see her running and venturing into the midst of emotions and thoughts. Sometimes I got distracted and didn't say my line. But Charlyze is also a crazy athlete. You have to be really athletes, otherwise you don't survive at the end of the day. And Charlize is an athlete of the body and the heart.

What about her athletic training?

We got together a month before shooting to start working with the stunts. I had to get some athleticism back: when I arrived and they looked at me I think they were a little worried. We had to become familiar with martial arts and then we switched from the sword to other weapons and to hand-to-hand combat. We prepared scene by scene, including the choreographies, different for each fight, and each of us had his own rubber reproduction of the sword. It was an unforgettable training.

The immortals come from different places in the world. How much of Italy is there in Nicky?

Apart from the pronunciation? They still laugh at some of the things I said. Marwan and Matthias, but also Charlize, speak Italian at different levels and every now and then I enjoyed shooting a few sentences to which they could answer me.

Did you offer your character something that wasn't in the script?

Well, being in such a group, shy as I am ... I tried. I have always focused on the bond between Nicky, Joe and the other members of the group, because I am interested in discovering what is inside a character, his feelings, how he looks at the world, what excites him. Nicky has lived for centuries, but still greets the people he meets in the desert with a smile, inside him there is the flame of an infinite good. Each character has a different sensitivity and their own armor. Nicky is perhaps the least armored one.

The challenge was also to make people believe in a love story that has lasted for centuries.

Marwan recites a beautiful monologue in which he talks about their love story. I hope that each of us, in their short life, can say the same thing about the person they love.

You’ve already had superpowers in “They Call Me Jeeg”. What is your relationship with this genre?

I like it very much and I think that both films, very different from each other, have a very interesting soul. In Jeeg Robot, Enzo Ceccotti uses his superpowers to help others, taking on a social responsibility. In The Old Guard the protagonists put themselves at the service of others, even if no one has asked them to. “This is what we do,” they repeat over and over to each other. What they do is save people, participate in what they think is right.

How do you think they would react to protests on American streets and around the world?

I don't feel like playing games, mixing reality and fiction on a terribly real subject like this. I think that in reality, outside of any cinematic fiction, it’s fundamental to fight for equality, within society, but also within ourselves. To go back to our film, if in a microscopic way we manage to carry a message in that direction, I would be very happy.

What director was Gina Prince-Bythewood?

She is always ready to listen, and I am someone who asks a lot of questions even at inappropriate times. She always had great patience and was very attentive to the emotional side of the film, to the interiority and beauty of the characters.

CIAK Magazine - Luglio 2020

Just wanted to translate this old interview for the non-italian’s fans ^^ (sorry for my English)

#Luca Marinelli #marwan kenzari #Charlize Theron #gina prince bythewood #Matthias Schoenaerts #the old guard #TOG #TOG Cast #Film #netflix #magazine #movie #interview #english #english translation #mine #joenicky #joe x nicky #Immortal husbands

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