#but she did and to Childe's credit too for honing himself further

[sullustangin]

Theron Shan Week, Prompt 1: Childhood

Corellia, 14 ATC (3639 BBY)

(Post Annihilation, pre-Hutt Cartel)

Word Count: ~3000

Rating:  PG/T

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/33142732

A whoosh of air.

He touched down on the last building ledge before the street turned into a crater.  He recalibrated his jetpack for the potentially dangerous terrain he was about to face below.  This job was to be a quick one.  Recover personnel data and exfiltrate to the remains of the Coronet Spaceport.  Then it was on to Makeb for initial reconnaissance. That job would take more time than this one, but still, it had to be quick.  Too much was buzzing there, literally and figuratively…

Theron Shan was willing to bet there’d be boots on the ground not long after the new galactic year rolled in.  He leapt from his perch on the building and activated the retroboosters just in time to let himself touch down softly, flexing his foot against the ground to test stability. 

Acceptable.  Theron switched the pack to standby and fixed his attention on what was beneath his feet.  That was always the center of focus now, lest he plunge down into the sewers as the ground gave way.  

Before proceeding any further, Theron called up old holostills.  Despite the ruin of Coronet City, certain features remained identifiable, and he’d be damned if he was going to go rooting through the wrong building.

He’d done his best to forget this place, after all. 

As his implants matched key architectural features and the crumbling skyline, Theron closed his eyes to conjure long-shelved memories.

Yes, he had stood here before.  This used to be the gymnasium.  He’d spent countless hours there.  It was the one place he could fly. It was the last place his body had been perfect.

Well, almost.  He’d had an adventurous childhood.  There was certainly a difference, however, between slicing his foot on a shell on the Gold Beaches and being shot in some Czerka factory on Telos IV.  Theron impulsively ran his tongue over his new teeth.  After Ziost, he estimated he had six original teeth left.  

Funny how he thought of that in the place he cut his last molars.  

That all said, Theron never had a particularly strong opinion about his body.   His body was a tool, something he used to serve the Republic and work in the Strategic Information Service.  

Just as his boot nudged a sign, covered over in dust, his implants chirped to confirm his location. Using a heavily gloved hand, he crouched to wipe the metal plate just enough to read the lasered words: CORONET CITY MILITARY ACADEMY GYMNA—

The rest of the sign was broken off, probably somewhere in this rubble.  It confirmed everything else though, including his own recollections about this place.

As Theron tread carefully through the ruin, his focus was on the rubble under his feet and the map in his implants, augmented by the old memories that ran in his head like holos.

Those were simple tasks, however.  Theron’s mind was far more active than that, much to his annoyance.  He thought back…

**

His mind and body had been sharply honed from a young age.  The discipline of a Jedi was more than mental.  However, he noticed the first hint that something was wrong with him. Theron had to work so hard, and he had to be so much more fit he than the other younglings he occasionally encountered in his travels with Master Zho.  Yes, he was strong and athletic and graceful.  But Theron struggled.  He fought gravity, as others danced with it.  

Theron remembered her in particular.  The girl who had bested him with such little effort was also the most compassionate of the bunch.  She was going to be a great Jedi, he knew it.  She barely bent her knees before she could launch high in the air, and she landed silently, as if invisible wings lowered her back to the dusty earth. Theron had to put everything he had into the launch, and the soil puffed up around him in the arid environment as his body displaced it.

She was poetry.  He was gutter-speak.  

Theron could defeat ill-disciplined younglings, but someone like her – someone who took this just as seriously as he did – outmatched him.  He tired long before she did, and it was a mystery to him how her muscles did not ache, how her breath never managed to run out.  

It was only in retrospect that Theron realized he had a crush on her.  At the time, the warm feeling that had crept across his face whenever she spoke to him, the small flutter his tiny, preteen heart gave – that had been dismissed.  Jedi didn’t fall in love.  Jedi didn’t have selfish attachments.

Theron wanted to become a padawan on the off-chance he’d be paired with his mother as his master.    

The dream changed – it had to – after Haashimut.  

Zho left him without telling him he was as Force-null as his biological father likely had been -whoever he was.

Nobody knew who his biological father was.

His mother didn’t come for him.  They couldn’t find her.

As he turned 14, Theron was lodged at Coronet City Military Academy.   Here.

**

Theron turned.  This was where the lift had been that went down to the basement, where the janitorial offices and the records facility had been.  He peered over the edge of the shaft.  No, he wasn’t going to risk it.  Theron activated the magnetic picks on the toes of his boots, turned the retroboosters to standby, just in case, and he started the dusty, sweaty climb down. The heat that built up reminded him of one particular shame that came over him --

**

Theron was put on a brief crash course of all the subjects Jedi hasn’t necessarily prioritized in his education to this point.  

He discovered his mother was imperfect and had apparently broken the Jedi code.  At least once.  Theron was evidence – a body of evidence.

He was embarrassed. He felt like he’d been fooled by everyone about his mother, about his abilities, about his life – everything.

The first bubbling of teenage fury rose up in him, and when the school registrar asked for his name, he did not supply “Theron Zho” as he so often had when traveling with his so-called ‘father.’

“My name is Theron Shan.”

Theron hadn’t known at the time that “Shan” was as common as Smith or Parr or K’tilhok in certain corners of the galaxy.  He thought he was being defiant.   He was one of nineteen Shans in his class at the Coronet City Military Academy.  So much for that rebellion, that attempt at scandal that would surely bring her to confront him…to see him for the first time since he was six months old.

Theron always carried that last holo with him… the one of her with him and her.  The anger died away when the news reached him that Satele Shan had rediscovered Tython.  It wouldn’t be formally founded and populated for another few years, but she had done the impossible.  To her credit, she had sent word to the governors of the Academy that she was gratified that Master Zho’s charge Theron had been safely placed in their care.

The business of Tython would be a long process that took time.  She was going to be busy.  

Theron continued to train his body and maintain the physical fitness he had, even though he was never going to have the opportunity to do a backflip, summon his lightsaber into his hand, and duel a Sith Lord atop of a ship hull or anything like that.  

Theron also found out that the kind Jedi youngling had become a padawan.  She was killed at the Coruscant temple.  He didn’t want to remember her name anymore.  It hurt too much, for he had realized that if he had been Force Sensitive, he wouldn’t be here on Corellia in so many ways.

That first Life Day on Corellia, Theron knew the conundrum of his heart being so warm and yet the outside world being so cold as other children went home on weekends and holidays, and he remained in the dormitory.  His bed assignment was changed at the end of term, so nobody thought anything was amiss.  Everyone’s bed assignment was changed between terms. He wasn’t thought to be any different than other child.  His parents just got him late and returned him early, his peers thought.  It was impossible that he stayed there for a month by himself.

But he did.

**

Theron always remembered the janitors that cared for the building and the one chef that remained to feed him and the residential staff.  It wasn’t just a holdover from Jedi teachings about equality and respect.   He mouthed their names as he passed the doorless thresholds that were once their offices: C’thik.  Donya.  Thileo. Danodeen.  They cared for Theron.  He cared about them the best he could.

Something inside Theron hurt any time he had an urge to express his feelings beyond gratitude.  Many impulses to hug were suppressed.  When he woke up from the formless terror that pursued him in the night, he did want to scream out, in the hopes someone heard him. But he pushed that down.  He grew up, or at least he imitated the idea of what he thought was being a grown up.

**

Theron’s constant presence at the Academy came with the assumption of an unhappy home, so in the second term, it appeared some well-meaning mothers encouraged their sons to befriend him. He remembered some of them.  They’d grown up in places like this too.  

Theron didn’t remember the names of his … companions?  Fellow inmates?  all that well.  They were good kids.  They didn’t get Theron, who was so mature about some stuff but just so oblivious to other stuff, like girls and music and holos and virtual games.  

The girls at the Academy were made of braver stuff than the boys were.  Theron didn’t know what to make of them, for the most part, but they at least tried to strike up a conversation with him.  They asked how he was.  He failed, utterly, at small talk, so once their questions were answered, he moved on.  The girls were brazen in coming to watch him in the gymnasium.  Theron was already in SIS by the time he figured out they hadn’t been interested in the technical merits of his routine.

The boys (with one exception) never got too close to Theron.  They were terrified of him after he knocked an upperclassman’s teeth down his throat for trying to shake down the class runt in Theron’s year for his datapad.  They still hung out with him, but they watched him with the same fascination they had when they visited the zoo’s jaggalors.  He was a creature so fierce they were never even tempted to tap on the glass, see how he was doing, what was going on inside.  

The one exception’s name was Arlo, the runt in question, and the datapad was his comic book collection. The collection had been started by his grandfather and maintained by his father and uncle and passed down to the smallest Gran ever born in that family.  

Theron thought it was the most wonderful thing to have a hand-me-down anything from anyone.  

Arlo wasn’t bothered when Theron asked why he was being trained in the military arts; the Gran had strict career quotas, and everyone was expected to do their part.  Arlo was not an obvious candidate for battlefield hero. “I’m in this to get into the intelligence service. SIS.”

That was the first time Theron ever heard of what would become the rest of his life.  

In exchange for self-defense lessons, Theron became very knowledgeable about the last 75 years of comic books. It was still the only element of pop culture he kept up with.  Theron kept it to himself; his dates never got it. He and Arlo plotted their schedules so that they could train together, study together, and have a free period on the day of the week when the comics hit the holostands.  They took the tram to the nearest major holostand – the one near the academy didn’t have comics, possibly at the behest of the commandant. In their minds, nothing was going to stand in the way of them getting into SIS together and seeing the galaxy and fighting the Empire.

…Somewhere in the middle of that, as he stood in the basement, Theron realized he had still been just a child.

**

Well, this might have been a wasted trip.  Theron stood in what remained of the records office.  At the back of the room, there was a great kriffing hole that vented down into the sewer he’d been so anxious to avoid, and half the databanks had clearly collapsed into it.  If they’d been swept away, then it was game over for Theron.  Ugh.  The flimsi work he’d have to file.

Then again, it was only half the databanks.   He still had a 50/50 chance of success.   Theron activated his implants and scanned for the power source.  Aha, there.  And it had a battery back-up.  Theron waited for the full report on the battery’s health before he did anything. He needed to know how much time he had.

He wanted to be done with this place.  

Once the battery passed its health screening, Theron sliced in with his implants and booted the entire system up with the clearance codes he’d been given by the current commandant; the one Theron had known was long gone.  

Yes, he knew there was corruption.  Yes, he knew critical files were missing.  Yes, yes, yes, yes, please boot up now –

Would he like an index of available files?

Yes, yes, he would.  It would tell him whether this was pointless –

Or not.  It was not.  The two sets of files he had been instructed to extract and wipe from this system were right there. The Empire hadn’t even realized it had trodden right over vital intel about the agent now known as Technoplague and the SIS Director.

**

Marcus Trant had been Coronet City Military Academy’s finest alumnus, rising high and fast before, during, and just after the Great Galactic War.  His arrival on campus had turned heads.  Not Theron’s.  Theron remained focused on his study and his physical routine.  

It was after Theron had stuck the landing on his floor routine that the man approached him. Theron remembered watching him with wariness until he introduced himself as the Director of SIS.  He was seeking recruits for the agency’s early start program. Promising 16 and 17 year-olds could go. Since Theron was a ward of the state, it was entirely his choice; parental permission wasn’t required.  

Theron’s first question was whether Arlo could go with him.

Arlo was ultimately sidelined from SIS due to a heart murmur.  Even if he was just an analyst, SIS wanted him to be able to handle himself in a blaster fight, and they didn’t want to kill him while training him. That meant he went back home to become a religious scholar.  

Theron went to SIS. Arlo gave him a copy of the comic collection, with his father’s permission.

Then the rest of Theron’s life had started.

**

Theron checked the files to ensure he’d copied everything over before wiping and reformatting those sectors of the database.  For Trant, his files could be a wealth of raw data and inspiration; he could have drawn on his experience at the academy to create codenames passcodes, associations. He could have used innocuous childhood memories to create these items.  Someone with enough data about Trant’s life could feasibly put the pieces together.

For Theron, it was all about his biometrics: his medical records, his yearbook holos, even his growth charts could be used to identify him in the field as a grown man.  The name didn’t matter as much as the evidence of the body.

He was done here. Theron sent the final command to wipe that area of the database and reformat.  Trant and Theron were no longer documented alumni here.

As Theron readied his jetpack for exfiltration (he was keeping it simple: up and out), his implants sorted the images attached to the files before sealing them.  He saw something.

He paused the process to have a look at his 14-year-old self.   He was 14 years and 5 weeks, actually.  Zho had sent him to Haashimut 7 weeks before, just before his birthday.  

…and he looked terrified. His life had been ripped apart, and he was flying without a safety net or a familiar face anywhere near him. Theron though he heard the whine of a holocam that would signal a great white flash --

Theron pushed back at the memory, as he always had, and he dismissed the holo, letting the sealing process finish.  It was over. There was nothing he could do now. He was no longer a failed Jedi Youngling.  

…it was all about context. Theron ignited the jetpack and began his ascent out of the ruin of the Academy.  

He’d had a good childhood with Master Zho – if he could forget what happened next.  In all honesty, nothing awful had happened at Coronet City Military Academy to make him hate the place.  It had been his haven between being a Jedi and being an SIS agent.   But it was being between lives that had made Theron so miserable: his past was irrelevant and his future was uncertain for almost three years.  That was the context that made every moment there excruciating.

But that was done and over with.  He was fine. He had his career.  Arlo had his career and his ever-expanding comic collection. They still commed once in awhile.

As Theron landed at the spaceport, a message came through his implants from his personal Holonet box. Oh.  Karrie.  

Kriff, he’d forgotten to tell her –

Kriff.   He was off to Makeb and he’d forgotten to tell the girlfriend he wasn’t even on Coruscant.

Well, if she was the girlfriend after that screw-up.  He left it on ‘read.’  He’d try to comm her in transit.  Theron really did like her.  He was pretty sure he was in love with her.

Theron would deal with the personal stuff later.  On to Makeb and the next mission.  

Neither the Republic presence on the planet or the girlfriend endured the following year.

Author’s Note:  I’ve had this sort of headcanon dump file for Theron, and I drew this out of it.  I have a few more bits still in it.  In terms of timeline, I imagine that after the Treaty of Coruscant was finalized, Satele disappeared to go find Tython for the better part of 18 months.  It’s during this period -- as Theron is 13 going on 14 -- that Zho finally gives up on him and Theron leaves the Jedi.  Satele finds Tython and finally gets word of Theron’s situation. I decided that “finding Tython” and the “founding of Tython” are two separate events; the Jedi didn’t just move in the second Satele popped up with the good news.  So 3653-3651 is a transition period for the Republic, Satele, and Theron at the same time.  It’s a new galaxy for the losers of the war.

@theronshanweek-official

[eternalsshipsandfics]

In Cold Blood: Chapter 3

Summary: The illustrious Kuran family is thrown into disarray when the crown princess disappears under suspicious circumstances. Will she ever be found?

"Shouldn't we have heard from Yuuki by now?" Kaname asked his harried looking father. It had been a fair few days more than the family had expected to hear about Yuuki's safe arrival at the Shizuka estate. Haruka had cited a number of reasons as to why Yuuki may not have arrived yet, or why the letter had not made its way back to the Kuran estate, but even he had a worried edge in his expression.

"I'm sure she's fine, Kaname. She's a capable girl." He had every faith in Yuuki's ability to handle herself. Whilst she was still a young noble, she had proven herself many times, pulling herself out of any number of dangers when she was a child. However, she was even more of a target for rebel factions now that she was older and had more influence.

"She might be capable, father, but she's not invincible." Kaname retorted, addressing his father's internal worries. "Shouldn't we send someone out to check? It's been too long, and it's not like her to forget something like this."

"You're right." Yuuki could put across the image of an airheaded girl when it benefited her, but she was smarter than many gave her credit for. She knew that her family would worry if they didn't hear from her.

"There have been more hunter attacks lately." Rido's calm voice reached their ears. "And as you are aware, our young princess Yuuki is a prime target if they wish to strike at us."

"That's not the only answer." Haruka replied.

"If she was simply injured, we would have heard by now. If not from Yuuki herself, then from one of the servants." He could see the logic of his words sinking in for both Haruka and Kaname, despite the slightly doubtful look he was getting from the younger male. "I think the only conclusion we can reach is that the hunters have taken her."

"How can you be so calm about this, uncle?" Kaname challenged. There wasn't a hint of worry in Rido's voice, and it rubbed him the wrong way. They were supposed to be family.

"Believe me, I'm far from calm. However, I don't believe they will harm her. She's too valuable of a bargaining tool."

"Rido has a point. If she is in captivity. We can't be sure until we have confirmation."

"We need to get confirmation. Send someone out to find her!" Kaname demanded, a dangerous aura surrounding him. He resented his importance in the Kuran estate. If his presence wasn't necessary to the smooth running of the kingdom, he would have left to find Yuuki himself. No matter the potential danger.

"I'll have someone out tonight."

"Tonight? This is your daughter!" His anger and worry were building.

"Please, Kaname. If Rido is correct, she is not in danger yet. I don't think we'll need to worry until we hear something from her abductors." Haruka ran a harassed hand through messy hair. "This is as quickly as I can act, I'm afraid."

"And as you two have said, she is capable. I'm sure she can defend herself for a little while." Rido added, a hand coming up to cover his mouth in an almost thoughtful manner. "The hunters will certainly be punished for their crime."

"We should prepare ourselves for any outcome. Not just a hunter abduction."

"Oh, excuse me. You're quite right."

Kaname took in a deep breath, using a technique he had taught to Yuuki when she was small. He would send out his own men alongside those he was certain his father would send, for extra insurance.

As he left the elder Kuran's in the reception room, he barely registered the worried looking Yori who had overheard the whole exchange.

~Z~

Yuuki shifted from foot to foot uncomfortably. The room had been silent for a couple of minutes as both men in front of her silently appraised her. She couldn't read anything in the leader's expressionless eyes, and it was leaving her feeling rather nervous. Just what would he do to her? Was he as savage as she had heard? Did she really have something to fear here?

She sucked in a breath as he finally spoke. His voice was calm and strong, eliciting the feeling of a tranquil lake in her.

"You're looking better."

"Uh…yes." That hadn't been what she expected. What did he want her to say to that?

"How are they treating you?" These were odd questions from a man who was supposed to be her enemy. She could handle the open hostility she had experienced at the hands of the hunter man who had brought her here, but she really didn't know how to respond to this subtle kindness. He was the hunter leader, so he couldn't really care about her wellbeing as a pureblood. Was he feeling her out?

"As well as can be expected." She responded in a guarded tone. The man standing menacingly by Kiryuu's side spoke frostily to his colleague.

"So what are we going to do with her?"

"We'll need to keep her here."

"If we can't give her back, why don't we just get rid of her?"

"And how do you propose we do that? If we harm her, we'll draw even harder retaliation from the vampires."

"This is a lose/ lose situation either way. Why use resources to keep her when we can just kill her?"

"Stop talking about her like she isn't even here!" Yuuki cut in. "I don't care how many hunters you send at me, I won't just let you kill me!"

"We're not going to hurt you." Kiryuu calmly stated. His companion scoffed.

"Yet."

"At all." Kiryuu gave the auburn haired male a stern look. "However, you must understand our situation."

"I won't tell them anything." Yuuki knew that this line was less than meaningless to the two hunters.

"Oh, that's fine then. I guess we should just let you go." She gave the second male a cold glare at his sarcastic response.

"Kaito. Control yourself. We'll discuss this in further detail later." He got another warning look from Kiryuu, before his leader turned to Yuuki. "You know that I can't trust your word. A lot of lives are at stake here."

Yuuki's mind flashed to Yui. As much as she didn't want to remain here, she understood his plight. She got the sense that he'd rather she wasn't here either, but she didn't feel a sense of danger from him like she sensed from the other older hunters.

He stood elegantly, exuding the strength of a tiger on the hunt. Her senses were suddenly on high alert as he approached her. Her sight fixed firmly on the untrustworthy brunet while she honed her focus on Kiryuu.

"You'll only need to worry about him if you try my patience." Yuuki was suddenly reminded that as courteous as this man appeared to be, he was still her enemy. He only needed a reason to put a bullet in her if he wanted to. "Come. I'll take you to your room."

"You make it sound like it'll be pleasant." She finally removed her gaze from the hunter named Kaito, reassured that he wouldn't attack her. At least not while the quietly threatening Kiryuu was around.

He was apparently done talking, just giving her a silent look as he held the door for her. She looked into his eyes for a second, taking in the strong and determined gaze. He had a neutral expression, but there was a cold fire shimmering beneath the calm exterior. She wondered what it would take to set that fire ablaze.

She obediently followed along behind him as they passed through a densely populated area of the colony. She could almost feel the distrust radiating off of the residents, the silence an unnatural accompaniment to the crowd. She was astonished by the variety of people around her. She had assumed that a hunter colony would be primarily made up of capable, strong hunters, but there were men and women of all ages. Some were clearly normal humans, their impartial aura separating them from the hunters.

"There are so many people here…" She muttered to herself. Yui's presence should have alerted her to the possibility. Hell, the fact that she had clearly woken up in a medical bay fit to hold many sick and injured bodies should have told her that.

"Where else would you vampires expect them to go?" His tone was accusatory. She started slightly.

"Are you saying that they're escaped slaves?"

"Not all, but plenty are." He cast her a cold glance over his shoulder. "You see why I can't just let you go?"

She did. A group of hunters was one thing, but slaves who even attempted an escape were treated cruelly before they were, perhaps, executed. The very public torture of these slaves was permitted as a message to others who may attempt the same thing. If she proved herself untrustworthy and brought an army of vampires down on these people, she would be subjecting them to a fate worse than death.

But then, what was he going to do with her? He couldn't just keep her locked up, as the one called Kaito had said.

She couldn't help but feel relieved as the angry glares fell from her body. Her mind kept telling her that she was now alone with quite possibly the most powerful hunter in the world, but she quelled the uneasy feelings that arose with the thought.

"Here we are." She was pulled from her thoughts by his quiet statement. At least there was a door, she thought. It'd feel a lot less like she was in a cell than if she had bars, as the Kuran dungeon had. Stepping around Kiryuu's firm body, she looked around the room that was to be her temporary home. It was small and held the bare minimum, but it didn't feel totally empty. There was a warmth to this room that she couldn't identify.

"Make yourself comfortable."

"Right." And then she was left alone, a soft click letting her know that she was locked in. She sat down on the bed, her thoughts wandering in a million directions at once. So, she was officially a prisoner now. Her captors had no idea what to do with her now that she was conscious and moving. And in that vein, were her companions also conscious and moving? Were they being afforded the same protection that she was? Were they in danger because they weren't important to the vampire sphere?

She didn't think so. While Kiryuu definitely didn't like vampires, he didn't come across as cruel. His first concern had been how she was, despite her very existence being an affront to him. She had seen minor slips in his mask as his ire shone through, however he also didn't appear to be the type to kill without reason. In short, he was the logical type.

Having sufficiently reassured herself of her companions' immediate safety, she let her mind shift to her family. Did they know that she hadn't reached her destination? Were they frantically looking for her? She could imagine Kaname losing his mind with worry. She wished she could let him know that she was alright. He had always been overprotective of his baby sister, often to his own detriment.

Another soft click reached her ears. The door slowly swung open, a small figure emerging from the doorway.

"Yui!" She stated in astonishment as the boy quickly shut the door behind him. He put a finger to his lips in the classic 'shh' motion.

"I'm not allowed to be in here." He whispered, coming closer to Yuuki.

"You shouldn't come if you'll be punished!" She admonished. "They're concerned for your safety, you know!"

Yui waved a hand dismissively. "You're not going to hurt me."

"That's not the point." She smiled softly. "But I am glad you came to see me."

"Yeah. It's hard work being surrounded by angry guys."

"You're not wrong." She giggled. She leant back, gazing at the ceiling. Yui hopped up beside her. A rhythmic rocking motion told her that he was kicking his legs merrily.

"Don't worry about Zero. He'll do the right thing!" He suddenly stated confidently.

"You seem certain of that."

"Yup. Zero seems scary, but he's really nice."

"I wouldn't go that far."

"You'll see!" He grinned a boyish grin at her. She hoped that he was right. A thought struck her, now that she was stuck here indefinitely…

"I want to hear what happened to you after I let you go."

Yui studied her face for a minute, before he settled himself flat on his stomach. Yuuki adjusted herself according to his position.

"Well, what happened was…"

~Z~

As Yui hurried into the woods, he was struck by just how dark it was, despite the searing sun up above. Everything seemed ten times larger now that he wasn't with the kind vampire anymore. Each tree glared down at him, branches blocking out the heat from the sun and reaching for him as he ran for freedom. Every screech in the abnormal darkness sent his heart pounding into his mouth; every scampering footstep leaving him convinced that the vampires had discovered that he was missing.

The feeling of anxiousness only rose as the trees thinned out, and the ominous trees were replaced by ominous buildings. He tightly gripped the pendant around his neck, hoping that what the female vampire had told him was the truth. He kept himself out of sight, his skills at thievery coming in handy. He didn't want anyone here giving information on his whereabouts to the vampires who would be set the task of returning him.

He could feel his heart rate calming. While most of those actively walking around the town were human, there were a few brave vampires who had also ventured outside. They would have noticed his obviously panicked aura by now. Keeping to the shadows, he searched out a secluded spot to rest for a while. His legs were beginning to burn and he was having to focus far too much on bringing his noisy breathing to an acceptable level.

He travelled through a few vampire towns over the following days, stealing just enough to survive and remain beyond the realm of discovery. He was feeling safer and safer as each day passed without incident. Maybe he had gotten away scot free?

With the growing sense of triumph, his confidence grew beyond his means. He was getting bolder in his actions, the risks that he'd be seen growing greater and greater. Finally, a few towns away from the one he had started in, his luck ran out.

As the sun reached its zenith in the sky, Yui decided to make a bold grab off of an apple cart that had trundled into town for the day. He had noticed that some particularly business oriented vampires would bring themselves out to work throughout the day to appeal to the humans wondering about carrying out arbitrary tasks for their masters.

The business vampire's attention apparently taken by an interested customer, Yui made his move. He darted forward and made a wide sweep to take as many apples as he could carry. He was quickly stopped by a powerful grip on his arm.

"I do hope you're intending to pay for that." The vampire glared down at him as he tried to free himself from his grip. His heart stopped as the vampire's glare changed into a cruel smirk. "Oh, you're a street urchin. No one will miss you then."

The humans milling around were nervously ignoring the struggling child in the vampires grasp, lest they brought punishment down upon themselves. Casting a warning glare to any other humans with the bright idea to take from his cart while he was gone, he began to drag the youngster away. Yui began to beg for help, knowing that he wouldn't receive any.

"That necklace can fetch a pretty penny." The vampire taunted. "This is my lucky day."

Having taken Yui to an isolated area where he would be left to his business, he yanked the boys head to the side, exposing his creamy white neck. He let out a panicked scream before the weight of the vampire was suddenly yanked away from him.

He scrambled back against the wall before he opened his eyes. He saw a second male he had not seen before pinning the vampire to the ground. He was holding something to his head.

"You like to prey on children, hmm?" The second male's grip tightened on the vampire's hair. "Unfortunately for you, that's something I can't forgive."

"Who are you? This is none of your business!" The vampire spat angrily as he squirmed.

"You were about to murder a child. This is my business. Don't worry, I'll make sure you never harm a child again."

"What are you-" The vampire's response was cut off by the sharp retort of the gun in his hand. The man's body slumped as the support under him crumbled to dust. He wiped his weapon before getting to his feet and turning to the prone Yui.

He flinched as the man approached, causing him to pause and bring himself down to the child's level. Yui was struck by how angelic the man looked, a soft expression on his face and the vibrant silver hair glinting like gunmetal in the light.

"It's alright. You're safe now."

Yui whimpered softly. He was struggling to hold back the frightened tears that had been threatening to spill since the start of the whole encounter.

"You can cry if you need to. I won't let anything scary happen to you." His voice was soothing, almost like a father talking to his child. Yui threw himself forward at his saviour, burying his face in his chest and letting the tears spill. He felt the safest he had in days as the man's arms enclosed him in a comforting embrace.

As he slowly began to calm down, he felt the man pull away from him. He tightened one little fists grip on the older male's shirt, keeping him close for a bit longer. He watched curiously as the other reached into his pocket, and then extended his hand towards him.

"You must be hungry. Here."

Yui carefully checked over the small packet that he had been handed. It wasn't like anything he had seen before, not that the vampires had had any obligation to feed him more than the necessary amount. He looked up to see a small smile playing across the other's features.

"It's not much, but it should keep you going." Realising that the younger didn't know what to do with the small packet, he gently took it back to prise it open for him.

"Thank you!" The boy sniffed inquisitively at the new food item in his hand, before he took a cautious bite. The new flavour took over his senses, almost drowning him in sugary sweetness. As he took another excited bite, he heard a soft laugh in front of him.

"You like that, huh?" The man took advantage of his newly secured freedom to stand. "I guess you parents aren't around here?"

"I don't have any…"

"I thought so. It's not safe for a human child to be wondering around a vampire town." Yui grabbed at the soft fabric of the man's coat as he turned, fearful that he would leave. After a quick sweep around the area, the man turned back to Yui, mindful of his small hand. "I have somewhere safe we can go, until you get back on your feet."

"Yes please!" Another small smile. An open hand was extended to the child, who eagerly took it.

"My name's Zero. What's yours?"

"Yui."

"It's good to meet you, Yui."

~Z~

"And I've been here ever since. He still sneaks me food if I didn't get enough to eat!"

Yuuki let go of her knees, which she had pulled up to her chin as she had listened to Yui's tale. She couldn't quite believe that the cold and calculating man she had visited was the same kind man who had dropped in to save a scared child. But then, she reminded herself, Yui is a human child.

"I'm sorry… I wish I could have done more to protect you."

"I get it. You would have been punished if you weren't around that night." He beamed up at her. "It's fine, because Zero was there when I needed him!"

She smiled. His affection for his saviour was simply adorable. Both jumped when the cell door was roughly thrown open. Yuuki had been so engrossed in Yui's story telling that she hadn't sensed anyone approaching.

"Yui! Get away from that vampire at once!" The tall male hunter roared.

"She's not as bad as you think she is!" He yelled back before obeying the older man's orders. He gave Yuuki a tentative wave, a gesture she appreciated a lot more than the hostile glare the hunter gave her before he locked her back in.

She sighed softly. They'd probably keep a closer eye on Yui now. She prepared herself to be alone for a while.

~Z~

The next few days all merged together in a tangled mess of boredom and frank idleness. Yuuki wished that there was at least a window for her to look out of, instead of being trapped with only the same four walls to fill her vision. She tried pacing in an effort to stave off her growing anxiety, but it didn't take long for her to feel ridiculous and stop.

She allowed her mind to wander once again to thoughts of her family. How were they doing? Were they looking for her right now? Did they still have hope of her return? She wasn't sure how long she had been left alone in this little room, but she was almost certain a decent amount of time had passed. Her thirst was awakening.

She focused her senses in order to determine how many humans were outside the door, considering knocking the door down and making an effort to escape, as inevitable as her death would be. It would at least be stimulating. She decided against it. Her brother would never forgive her if she put herself in danger.

~Z~

Yuuki traced the crevasses in the ceiling above her for what had to be the thousandth time. She was more and more willing to just fade away as the inactivity slowly drove her mad. She blinked as she heard an angry sounding voice approaching the door. Was someone actually coming to see her?

"I don't care what she is, we are not savages! Honestly, I'm away for five minutes and you forget to take basic care of her?"

There was a mumbled response before the door was flung open.

"No more excuses! Kuran, up, now!" She glanced up at the livid silver-haired man above her. His nose was wrinkled in response to the smell she was certain to be emitting by now. She slowly twisted herself around to stand.

She was surprised when a strong hand helped her to her feet. His grip didn't remain on her for long.

"Is this how you treat all your 'guests'?" She questioned, her voice cracked and strained from her lack of use. Kiryuu threw a glare at the guard standing in the doorway, who visibly shrank away from him.

"I thought they had more manners than this." He looked into her red tinged eyes, the disgust evident in his features. "She's starving. Fetch a blood pack."

The guard was thankful for the excuse to leave his angry leader. Yuuki returned his angry glare with one of her own.

"Come. I'll take you to get clean." He turned his back to her, expecting her to follow. She eagerly did, finally presented with a reason to leave the small room she had been confined to.

"Were you hoping I'd just turn to dust in there?" Yuuki heatedly bit out, keeping close to his powerful strides. She heard him sigh.

"As much as one less vampire in the world would be a good thing, it's not really in our interests to turn you to dust."

"So you would if I wasn't the princess?"

"You certainly wouldn't be here."

"You don't have to talk around it. Just say you'd have killed me!" Her frustration and hunger were boiling over. Kiryuu didn't answer her, instead bringing her to a stop in a secluded area in which a small stream flowed from a medium depth pond throughout the cavern. The water poured down from a small opening in the ceiling, cascading through the small cracks in a pretty pattern.

"Here?" She looked at him nervously. "But it's so open…"

"It's nothing I haven't seen before." Was he boasting to her?

"Well, you haven't seen anything on my body before! So uh… could you at least turn around?" She would have much preferred to bathe on her own, but she couldn't blame him for wanting to keep an eye on her after she had been abandoned in his absence.

"You sound confident of that."

"What?" Yuuki squeaked, before attempting to regain her composure. Losing her cool in front of this man probably wasn't a good idea. Especially while she was beginning to eye his rather delicious looking neck. Where was the man he had sent away to get blood? Did he know to come here? She assumed that he would know where Kiryuu would take her, but she didn't know how well she could trust such an assumption.

"I won't let him see you." He said, as if he had read her mind. He had a warning look on his face despite his seemingly friendly banter with her as her eyes wandered once again.

"So only you can see? Perv."

"There's nothing to see." He finally complied with her request, turning his back to her. He had apparently had enough of her nervously playing with the top of her dress. "This area is more isolated than it looks."

"That's good."

"Be a good girl and wash up. Then you can have…dinner."

Yuuki finally began to unbutton her dress, satisfied that Kiryuu wouldn't look. She chose to ignore the repulsed pause in his statement. "Will I be the only one who gets dinner?"

"Your friends are fine. Shinmei only forgot about you."

"I'm not that forgettable…" She muttered, slipping into the surprisingly warm pool. She sighed a little as the cleansing water enveloped her.

"I wouldn't risk forgetting you. Even a young pureblood is a dangerous pureblood."

"Well, aren't you quite the flatterer?" She replied bluntly. He refused to comment, instead casting his lilac gaze around the area like a loyal guard dog protecting its master. She let herself sink lower into the water, allowing it to cover half of her face. After the long days building up an awful layer of dirt, the water felt simply heavenly. Not even the continued presence of the watchful hunter could ruin this moment.

Though she didn't particularly know the man accompanying her, she could trust his survival instinct. She allowed her eyes to slide shut and her head to tilt back a little before she ducked her whole body under for a minute. When she had finished happily cleaning herself up, she was astonished to see a fresh set of clothes lying next to the pond.

"Where did you get these from? And when?" Yuuki was certain he hadn't been holding them when he had brought her here. They were actually quite nice. She had thought there would be the most basic, hideous clothes to change into, just behind the expectation of having no clothes to change into at all.

"That's a secret." He replied unhelpfully.

"Well, thank you."

He glanced over his shoulder into her garnet eyes. "You're ready to go?"

She merely nodded in response, now eager to get the blood that had been promised. Yuuki almost led the way back. Kiryuu spoke, apparently in response to her desperate thirst.

"I'll make sure you're properly taken care of in future."

"That's fine. If you forget me again, you'll just have to give me your blood."

"Don't push your luck."

~Z~

After the hunter's apparent mishap, Yuuki was being personally taken care of by Kiryuu himself. He would come by each day, taking her to bathe and providing her with more stimulating conversations than a one woman room could provide. Whilst she was aware that he was probing her as much as keeping an eye on her, she was grateful for the company.

Yui had either disappeared, or he was being deliberately kept away from her. She restrained herself from asking about him in case it put him in further trouble with his elders.

Eventually, Kiryuu decided that she had earnt herself some extra stimuli. He began to provide her with books and games to keep her quiet, as she had begun to not-so-subtly hint that her enclosure was mind numbingly dull.

When she switched her complaints to the games, and how they were no fun alone, she even got him to play with her once or twice. He never went too far in the friendliness factor, but she had begun to enjoy his company anyway.

She wondered if this was part of his duty. To find out as much as he could from her in order to effectively decipher what was to be done with her. Or whether he could attack. She frequently pushed these thoughts to the back of her mind. There was no use worrying about it. Her father and the others could handle any incoming threats.

"And with that, I am once again the victor!" Yuuki placed her piece triumphantly on the board. Kiryuu scoffed.

"I won't let you win again."

"You're losing to vampire girls now? You've gone soft." A new voice made Yuuki glare lightly. The hunter he had called Kaito was standing in the doorway.

"You have to give them a victory now and then."

"I beat you fair and square!" She caught an irritated look from the newcomer, as though he had expected her to stay quiet. She returned it confidently.

"You have to beat their confidence down, not build it up."

"Vampires or girls?"

"At least Zero can get a girl with confidence." She clapped her hand over her mouth. What was she doing, bantering with these hunters as though they were friends? Kaito apparently agreed with her thought, giving her an icy look.

"On a first name basis, are you? You really have gotten soft." Yuuki silently chided herself. She hadn't even realised that she had called Kiryuu by his first name.

"Stop it, Kaito." Kiryuu stood, casting Yuuki into shadow as his body blocked the flickering flame behind him. She was surprised that he hadn't rebuffed her for her casual use of his name. He spoke to her next.

"You'd better prepare yourself for some hard labour tomorrow. Earn your keep."

Earn her keep? She wasn't here for fun, despite his efforts to make her stay more enjoyable. The look she gave Kiryuu told him everything he needed to know.

"Don't you want to leave this room?"

"I do." She considered the odds of being able to come back into contact with Yui. The child had put all his faith into her, and she had felt a little better when he had come to reassure her in her first few hours. She decided that it was worth it to see him again. "Alright, I'll do whatever you want me to."

[bigskydreaming]

Okay, last random post for the day, then I gotta work. But something else I’ve been thinking a lot about lately, is that kinda weird feeling when you don’t like a writer or how they handled stuff and would have preferred someone else write it, BUT at the same time, you also really like something that came out of their writing and probably wouldn’t have happened if not for that writer making it happen.

And I think this also traces back to that post the other day about not settling for substandard representation and holding creators accountable for not doing more, and when its not the creators’ fault but the higher-ups, holding them accountable, etc.

Like, Scott McCall and Jeff Davis is a great example of this, I think. Obviously, he’s one of my favorite characters of all time. And as much as I hate how Davis and co. wrote him a lot of the time, obviously they also wrote him in ways that established all the core reasons I love that character so much, and there’s no guarantee that if another writer had launched a TW reboot, their version of Scott would be remotely like the one that I latched onto. 

And obviously we’ve all talked a lot about how Davis could have done more with Scott’s Mexican heritage and identity as biracial and latino, even though there’s a large chance he would have just been white if another creator had been in charge. I raise that just as another example of what I’m talking about, not one that I myself am looking to weigh in on, I leave that to latine fans. For myself, I’ve obviously talked a lot about how I project onto Scott and identify with him so much as a survivor and see a lot of parallels between his story and my own experiences and the identity they’ve shaped for me. And on that front at least, I’ve ranted just as much about how I personally don’t give Davis any credit for this stuff, because I think it happened in spite of him not because of him, that he was oblivious to the undertones of his own material, or at least the ones that could easily be read into it.

And then there’s Devin Grayson, the Nightwing writer I rant about a lot. The one who wrote him being raped, which obviously is also a large part of why I identify with Dick, and just like Jeff Davis, something I think is in spite of her writing, not because of it, as she too was irresponsible and oblivious in a lot of her handling of her own material. And at the same time, she’s also the one who introduced Dick’s Romani heritage and made that canon, while being very heavy-handed and stereotypical with the way she wrote things herself, and a lot of Rom readers being very critical of her choices there, while at the same time celebrating Dick’s Rom heritage and happy to have him as representation now. And given how few writers have even referenced Dick’s rape since it happened or how few actually acknowledge that he’s Rom, an argument can bemade that neither of these things would have happened if not for her.

And then we’ve got Bobby Drake, who I identified with long before he came out in the comics, and even moreso now that he’s actual gay rep I can point to. But obviously I rant a tooooon about Bendis and his handling of all this, probably even more than I ever have about Davis or Grayson specifically, and I think the difference here is that making Bobby gay WASN’T something that only he would’ve written. Given that multiple writers going back over twenty years have wanted to and even tried to write Bobby as gay or bi, but Marvel told them no, this is a definite area where the higher-ups are as much to blame for my issues with the comics as Bendis himself. Because Bendis is responsible for the writing choices I dislike so intensely in this matter, but Marvel’s higher ups are responsible for Bendis being the one who got to make the writing choices in this matter, even though other writers were willing and able.

I’m honestly not sure where I’m going with this, lmao, and don’t really have a point, sorry if you thought I did. I’m more kinda just thinking out loud. Except...in text. Whatever.

Anyway. All of this I think goes to show one of the best things about storytelling IMO....which is that stories grow with the telling. Always. Storytelling is like one giant, never-ending game of telephone. Where every time a story is retold, or adapted, or even just passed along from one person to another via a summary of the events - something gets added to it. The last person to pass it on in some fashion added a little bit of themselves to it, their own personal experiences and perspectives and priorities helping to further shape or flesh out the story even further. 

Sometimes by adding little details or context that maybe weren’t even in the original source material, but that we unthinkingly add in, maybe because those details are things that came to mind when reading or watching the story since they go hand in hand with why the story appealed to us in the first place. Like we add them in without realizing it because it seems so obvious that there are little holes and gaps in the story and these are the things that SHOULD go there, should’ve been there from the start. 

And other times, we add to and grow stories in the telling, somewhat counter-intuitively, but by ERASING little details about the stories or elements that feel like they don’t belong. Like filing away the rough edges to leave a more finished, polished piece before we hand it off to the next person, our audience for our retelling or recounting of it. Again, often not something we’re even consciously thinking about, our minds automatically leaving out the parts that we take for granted don’t fit or shouldn’t have been there in the first place. 

So any time we interact with a story, have some kind of personal relationship with it or connection to it, its like that story exists on two levels, in two separate ways. There’s the story as it was originally told, initially laid down, the story a creator constructed based on their own personal experiences, lens, and priorities, the story both as they intended to write it and as they actually wrote it, what ended up on the page. And then there’s the story as it exists once distributed to a wider audience, the story as its retold and recounted and transformed and shaped and honed and added to.

And you can’t divorce that second, larger version of the story from the initial ‘baby’ story it grew from. Not to get too precious here, but as with anything that grows, either physically or metaphorically, there is a sense in which its alive, and can be compared to other living things. Like take any person you meet. That person grew from a baby. The baby they were is fundamental to the person they are now. Who they are wouldn’t exist if it weren’t for who they were.

But how much does the baby they were actually matter, when interacting with the person they are now? No, you can’t separate the two, the one wouldn’t exist without the other, but in every way that actually matters, its only the larger, more grown version of that person that you’re actually interacting with, engaging with, INTERESTED in engaging with in the first place. How much credit do you actually owe whatever they were like as a baby or young child, for them growing up to become someone you like and value as a person now, someone who adds something to your life?

I think its something similar, with the way we interact with stories, and I think that’s part of why I have such a problem with the way we’re...encouraged to give proper credit and even show gratitude to storytellers for giving us certain stories in the first place. And I say that as a writer myself, and one who LOVES feedback, and loves interaction, and collaboration, and for whom a large part of the appeal of writing is seeing what someone makes of something I’ve written, or what they go on to do with it.

But I mean.....there’s no doubt that however these things originated, Dick Grayson’s existence as a male rape survivor means a ton to me, as one myself. Just like him being Romani means a ton to a lot of Rom fans, and the way Scott McCall being Latino means a ton to a lot of latine fans and how he means a lot to survivors in other respects and how Bobby Drake being gay means a ton to a lot of LGBTQ+ fans.

But in a lot of those cases, these characters mean so much to us more as a result of what other people have done with them SINCE those initial stories laid out these aspects of identity. It’s not Devin Grayson’s fumbling attempts at writing Dick as Romani that most Rom readers I know celebrate and enjoy his character, its for what others have done with that heritage on their own. Adding to it with their own personal experience, or at least researching attentively and with proper credit and deference paid to people whose experiences they listen to and learn from, etc. Just like, its not her issue with Nightwing and Tarantula I would actually cite as the reason I identify so strongly with Dick Grayson, but all of the fics and meta and headcanons written about that issue by other survivors who added to it and fleshed it out and made it real and lived with their own experiences and takes, while filing away the parts that just didn’t work for them.

Then again, we could argue that at least we still owe something for having that opportunity in the first place, right? That there was even that seed planted, that other people cultivated and grew into the story we actually like and engage with.

Except, idk. Like, intent doesn’t matter in terms of harm done, we say that a lot and its true. The fact that you didn’t intend to hurt someone with something doesn’t mean that they weren’t hurt. But that doesn’t mean that intent doesn’t matter, that it doesn’t make a difference in how something comes across. That sometimes it isn’t THE difference, in and of itself.

I rant about non/con fic and hurt/comfort fics all the time, fics that are really just an excuse for torture porn, even as I write stories that deal heavily with rape and abuse. And I don’t find this remotely hypocritical, because for me, this part traces back to intent. I’ve got zero interest in people using trauma such as rape or abuse for a narrative REASON. Like when writers talk about using rape as a tool to reveal something about a character, to change them in some way or develop them, to show what they’re capable of surviving or toughen them up, anything like any of that, I have an immediate and visceral reaction of FUCK NO. That train of thought is basically a dealbreaker right there, because I’ve got a deep-seated hostility to the idea that rape or any kind of trauma can be a tool. Even in fiction. Because no matter how you frame it, that tacitly perpetuates the idea that rape or abuse can have a purpose, a reason for existing, for happening to a character or a real person, and from there it’s only a few small steps to justification of it happening. The idea that being raped or abused can make a person better, can change them into a better or stronger or person in ways no other experiences or circumstances can manage - that’s deeply abhorrent to me, and I’ve got no respect for stories that go this route.

But at the same time, I do write stories about rape and abuse and read and engage with stories about this stuff, like various stories about Dick or Scott. And for me, the difference in these stories, the reasons why I’m interested in these but not those others, is because of the intent behind their writing, or at least what I perceive that intent to be, based on the writing. I’m interested in the stories that aren’t about writing rape/abuse to tell a story about a character, but stories about characters who have been raped/abused. Stories that are about the PEOPLE affected rather than the events that affect them. That treat rape/abuse not as a narrative or plot device or a thing that happens with purpose or for a reason, but rather just as things that happened to the people the story is about. Treating these things as lived experiences rather than part of an author’s grand design, or the real-life version of these things as part of God’s grand design. I don’t read/write stories about rape or abuse, I read/write stories about survivors. The difference is in the intent. Writers who are trying to make something horrible into something useful versus writers who are trying to make something out of the aftermath of something horrible. The latter value the survivor’s pain; the former don’t value their pain enough not to subject them to it in the first place.

And this of course relates to writing identity as well as experiences. With writers like Davis and a Latino character like Scott or writers like Bendis and a gay character like Bobby. It comes down to intent. Why are they making these choices, giving these characters these identities. Are they doing so for a purpose, because they think it says something about that character or will result in something? Or are they doing it to tell stories about a character with this identity? Because just like with certain lived experiences, I’ve got no respect for writers who treat real life identities as a tool, as something that can be chosen with purpose, to achieve specific goals. 

Most latine fans who are dissatisfied with Davis’ handling of Scott as a biracial or Latino character specifically, IME they cite the problem being how little interest Davis showed in actually expanding on that or doing anything with that aspect of his identity, even while happily taking credit for casting a Latino actor in his lead role. The vast majority of my complaints with Bendis and his writing of Bobby’s sexuality go back to how little interest he ever showed in writing Bobby as a character, having him explore his sexuality rather than just treating his coming out as a character benchmark or milestone that would forever have Bendis’ name on it, and that’s all he needed or wanted out of that. Why would anyone owe a writer credit or praise or gratitude for using someone elses’ identities for personal achievements? 

The flipside though is what about writers who write outside their lane in an honest and sincere attempt to tell stories about people who have these identities, stories about the experiences that come with them, stories about these people as people. Okay sure, that’s different, that’s great. But I mean, its not THAT great. As a white dude, I don’t ever think, gee I sure am grateful that this writer sat down and decided I’m gonna make this character a white guy because I think white guys have stories worth telling. LOL. Nah. So why should I be like, well gee, I sure am grateful that this writer sat down and decided I’m gonna make this character gay or bi because I think gay or bi guys have stories worth telling? I wouldn’t. I shouldn’t. Congrats on seeing me as a person whose identity and experience has value, same as I am and do because of my whiteness or my maleness? I’m....grateful? Nah. I mean, yes, this is better than writers like Davis or Bendis who are only writing outside their lane to get credit and praise for doing so, but just because its not ACTIVELY bad, doesn’t mean its like....ACTIVELY good or worthy of gratitude instead of just....hey, here’s a thing a writer did, they wrote a story with someone who’s like me in these specific ways. I’m a person to them.

Again, I have noooooooo idea where I’m going with any of this or what I was trying to say in any kind of cohesive fashion. This was just....stream of consciousness musing that I will now wrap up because I’ve run out of steam and/also I gotta get back to work. Make of it what you will, like, if you can find something useful in this, hooray and also, impressive, lmao, and if not....let your eyes glaze over and scroll past, lololol.

[justadram]

Words Written on Wings

Jaime x Sansa fic written for @storey1. Thank you for your donation to help fight Nazis!

Request: continuation of Words Written in Steam

The soft sweet sound of Sansa’s high harp echoes in the chill of the corridor. Sansa once told Jaime that the harp was one of her weapons, and while that might be the case, he has heard those who play with more skill. Lady Leonette, her first teacher, while proficient and pleasant enough, was not Prince Rhaegar returned. Knowing it is Sansa’s head bowed beside its golden frame, however, lends some enchantment to the playing that few could duplicate in Jaime’s estimation. The only thing that might improve upon the glissandos would be the accompaniment of her voice. She rarely sings, but the beauty of her sad voice can cut as keenly as any blade. That is her true weapon.

Listening to her fingers pluck the taut strings is a fleeting pleasure: when he makes his presence known, she’ll put her instrument away for the night. For she plays either in solitude or for company, and he is something else to her. She doesn’t think to entertain or win him over, as she does the others, but he is also not yet a fading piece of furniture adorning her chamber.

Slowing his steps, Jaime tries to recall the song without the benefit of the words sung over it, but as soon as he thinks he’s caught a thread, she misses a note, two, and the music stops. Without yet turning the corner, he can picture her elegant white hands pressed flat to the strings, dampening their ring. Her face will be pinched with annoyance, drawing her finely arched brows down. It isn’t like her to make a mistake. Not on the harp, nor on any other field she commands, and yet tonight, she was not herself long before her notes went astray.

Something disturbs her practiced calm, enough that Jaime wonders whether he should have bent his feet this way to stretch out before her hearth and stare into the flames as is their habit. Custom overcame hesitation. That and the fear of the emptiness he feels, when he is left to his own devices. Those long nights when she must see to those more important than him in this new world order reverberates with voices lost forever, the past washing over him as relentlessly as the tide.

His good hand wraps around the thick frame of the door, as he dips his head through its entrance, clearing his throat to announce his presence. She ought to have a guard posted. It is a well-worn argument between the two of them.

Why do I have need of constant guard, when a lion stands beside me?

To protect us from each other, a more honest man would admit.

She lifts her gaze to him, and he swallows at the pull of her lower lip through her teeth as she stands and lets the harp rest back flat on the floor. How long was it before vague attraction, a sort of detached appreciation turned into this clawing hunger?

“You’ve been listening long enough to know I’m in need of practice.”

“Are my footfalls that heavy?”

“Just a wager.”

Sansa’s intuition is honed sharply enough that she could make a real menace of herself at the gaming table, should she ever take it into her head to indulge the pursuit. Indulgence of any kind is not her practice. Ned Stark’s daughter indeed.

“But yes, I heard. A disastrous effort to be sure,” he says with a slow grin.

If she would give an inch, he would be lost. It is her caution that keeps him in check. He is half a man at best, and the loss of his hand was not the cause. Nature made him this week: strong in body, weak in character. He is at best the reflection of others. Choosing the right mirror is the real trick. Ser Arthur Dayne for a time, his sister, now Sansa Stark. His honor, the one he sought so desperately, is only hers reflected back.

She hums her assent, though she knows he teases, and gestures at the two chairs before the hearth. It is an invitation he scarcely requires, as he strides to take his place beside her, but she is nothing if not courteous. It gives them a script to follow, which he appreciates. Knowing one’s role is half the battle.

“You might wish you’d sought out better company tonight, ser. It’s not only my playing that suffers if that weren’t yet plain.”

Even on her worst day, Jaime has known worse company. Certainly less beautiful company. Less quick. Less gentle. It is she that is forbearing of his moods more often than not, so he can afford to be tolerant.

“Will you ask what is amiss?” she asks, as she sinks into her chair and rests her head against the side of its high back, turning her lash shadowed eyes on him.

Crossing his ankle over his knee, he watches the light play over her unlined face, tracing the slope of her nose, her cheekbones, the bow of her lips, consuming every detail to sate himself. This is how they wile the hours alone, trading verbal intimacies and looking. It is only in the attendance of others that he ever dares touch her, freed from constraint by the safeguard of their presence.

Kneeling at her feet, he could wipe away that careworn look she wears.

The silence between them beats with the pulse of the blood in his veins, not yet sluggish with enough wine, watered down as it often is, though spring has come. Thriving vineyards are not the most pressing need of a thawing Westeros.

Giving up on his ever prompting her, she lets her head roll towards the fire with a purse of her lips. “A raven brought word today. Jon has arranged a marriage. For himself.”

His gut twists.

Just as Sansa’s giving of Winterfell to Jon Snow as a poor substitute for herself brought Jaime no real joy, he feels no thrill in this announcement. If she’d gone with Jon to the North, he could have dispensed with this attempt to be someone he fears he’ll never quite manage to be. The mummer’s act could be dispensed with and there would be some relief in that, he suspects.

Though Sansa will never admit it, Jaime can’t even claim victory over the dour faced bastard. He knows he is not Sansa’s first choice anymore than she is his. It is circumstance—mostly unwanted circumstance—that has thrown the lion and the shewolf together and formed them into a two person pride or pack.

If anything, he feels trapped. Like a hare in a foot soldier’s snare.

He runs his hand over the plush fabric covering the left arm of his chair. The fibers give under his touch and spring back, as he asks flatly in what he hopes sounds like bored disinterest, “One of the Mormonts?”

“The daughter of that hedge knight Daenerys raised up in High Garden.”

Jaime snorts. The men elevated in these days aren’t fit to sit at the same table with the likes of Tywin Lannister, much less hold a great house. He supposes his brother thinks it helps his queen consolidate her power to surround herself with loyal upstarts.

“She’s a child, is she not?”

Her narrow shoulders lift and fall. “Older than I was when Daenerys made land.”

“A child and a Southroner.”

That is like to irk Sansa more than the girl’s age. She is wary of all Southroners, and with good reason given what she endured at their hands. His family’s hands. He does penance for that, keeping his hands to himself, when he would like to run them over her smooth skin.

“Yes. It’s not what I was expecting from Jon.”

“You’re... disappointed? In his choice?” he falsely clarifies for her benefit.

“No,” she says, her eyes narrowing as her lips curl into something approaching a smile. “It makes more political sense than I gave Jon credit for.”

“How astute. That hedge knight’s wife was a crofter. A finer match was never made.”

“That doesn’t matter now,” she says with a wave of her hand. “Daenerys favors these new families. She’ll be pleased. And Jon prefers a simpler woman, I think. It might suit him.”

He lifts his brows at her insincerity. “This message appears to have earned the old saying for you. Dark wings, dark words. What is the source of your upset then, if he has chosen so wisely, pray tell?”

She refuses to turn her attention on him, staring fixedly. Never will she admit what she really feels for her bastard brother, and while he taunts, the last thing he truly wants is an admission from her. Jaime seeks assurances of his place here. With her. If he is a rabbit, he’s sought the warmth of her lap. There were no need of snares.

“I own I am surprised in his choice. He demonstrated rather more refined preferences in women when last I saw him. More appreciation for those he’d call family too.”

That finally rouses her. Its an icy glance, as cold as any Northern winter she casts his way.

He’d rather she be full of wrath than sullen, so he presses further, as he extends a boot towards the fire. “Shall I arrange an assassination? Solve both your problems once and for all?”

“Don’t jest.”

“Was I?”

She exhales slowly as if in exacerbation. “Sometimes I don’t know with you, ser.” She reaches across the space and trails her fingertips over the linen of his shirt. His hairs respond, standing at attention in the wake of her touch. “But don’t you dare.”

He lowers his voice. “I’d do it for you, my lady.” Perhaps he would. He’s done worse or close to it. He’d feel some conflict, but not enough. “And then your honorable Jon Snow would come for my head.”

As surely as if he’d spoken of what he might do with his cock in the seclusion of her bedchamber, her cheeks color. She’s a bold thing, when she wants to be, however, and her hand finds his, slender fingers slipping between his sword calloused ones.

“No, I wish Jon and his bride all happiness.”

He would laugh at the absurdity of her statement if the tension in his chest permitted it.

He curls his fingers in, squeezing too hard in his rising desperation to hold tight to what feels like is slipping away from him even as obstacles are removed from his path. “Of course you do. Your concern for his happiness was most evident when you sent him away, trading him a kingdom for your love.”

She didn’t choose Jaime, but he would accept her claiming she did, plying him with some prettily worded lie here alone with her hand in his. He could live off that lie.

Her fingers dig half-moons into his palm. “Jon does not always know what is best for him.”

“And you do?” She normally does a better job of obscuring the fact that she believes she knows better than anyone else. Men do not like to be so blatantly managed. Most men. Jaime finds it easier to submit. Just a touch of artifice will do.

“His parentage doesn’t change what was. Ned Stark was his father. He needed to believe in the meaning of his Targaryen blood, but Jon and I are both Starks. Not Targaryens.”

“Nor Lannister.”

She nods. “We can’t always silence our hearts, but we can choose what’s right.”

It is not a romantic girl’s notion. She sounds like a septa. It would cool his ardor if he did not think stripping a septa’s veil from her coppery locks appealing. Jaime always appreciated playacting.

“Well, he lacks a sense of humor and fails in conversation, but I cannot fault him for his taste.” Neither in choosing Sansa nor a sister. “Best wishes to them both, I suppose.”

She gives her head a tired shake. “It’s all for the best.”

He turns his hand, letting her palm fit into his. “Sounds practically medicinal.”

“Not all tinctures are loathsome.”

Pulling their clasped hands from the arm of his chair, something dances in her eyes. Something other than the reflection of the flames. Something freed by a raven’s message.

“I can be plenty odious.”

She clicks her tongue and draws their hands to her breast. “I am aware of your questionable qualities, ser.”

Tilting her head down, she kisses each knuckle in turn, as his breath quickens.

“The songs never celebrate those who did what was best for them.” And while this Southron upstart might be just the thing for a lovesick bastard prince, Jaime wonders that Sansa’s skills at deception—even self-deception—can extend so far as to believe him a salve for what ails her.

“Imagine how dull it would be if they did. But they might sing of the wolf and the lion. Mightn’t they?”

They might.

[vorthosjay]

Let’s Talk About Jace, Alone

The R&D Narrative Team drops the first Magic Story of Ixalan block today: Jace, Alone! We won’t be seeing author credits on individual stories anymore, which has its pros and cons, but if I never have to see someone dismiss a story because of the author again it’s good in my book. This is the first episode in ‘The Broken Gatewatch’ story arc that will see every member of the Gatewatch recovering from their defeat at Nicol Bolas’ hands. Today’s story does a great job of breaking down who Jace is as a person, without any of the baggage of his history. Let’s dive in!

Ixalan’s Binding by Chase Stone

He pushed toward the feeling, praying that if more of his body vanished, then more of his mind would return—only to feel himself yanked backward, pulled by some massive force back through whatever metaphysical door he had begun to walk through. Away and away and down and down until he smashed back together on the same beach he tried to depart.

So Jace tries to planeswalk away, but is pulled back by a mysterious force. That sounds familiar, it’s essentially what happened in Jace’s Origins: Absent Minds:

Alhammarret reached out with a tendril of Æther, into the void between worlds (plural!), and pulled the boy back.

Maybe that explains why people can still get IN to Ixalan, because the binding is an aetheric trap instead of a planar barrier.

A shining triangle enclosed by a circle appeared in the air above him, and the man gasped through mended lungs.

@sarpadianempiresvol-viii​ made this better look at the symbol from Ixalan’s Binding. Check out his tweetstorm about it, it’s something we’ve been speculating on for weeks, it’s nice to have confirmation.

Lazlo was a name.

Lazlo IS a name. A hardened criminal on Ravnica.

A scar ran in a perfect line down his right forearm. It was straight as a surgeon's cut; someone had intentionally done this.

The man assessed himself for further clues. He was bruised from recent battle, but he could feel several more of the deep, stick-straight scars running along his back. Were these as old as the scar on his arm? Who had done this to him?

It was Tezzeret, with a Mage Blade, in Agents of Artifice.

Tezzeret wasn’t too kind to underlings who failed, you see, and with the pressure of Bolas closing in, he took it out on young Jace. This is the moment that pushes Jace away from the Infinite Consortium.

The cloak was a bit much—it was not a gaudy thing, per se, but its pattern belied any semblance of subtlety.

Was he that idiotic, to travel so unsafely?

Between this and The Promised End, the best Jace owns are self-owns.

The symbol on the cloak caught his attention.

It was . . . familiar.

Why was it familiar?

That’s probably because it’s Alhammarret’s sigil as well as various other Vryn symbols.

His muscles were flimsy from disuse, and the man wondered again how his prior self had intended to survive here without weapons or tools. 

It’ll be nice to see Jace with a renewed focus on physical fitness. He knew sword fighting, once.

"Why do I know what an albatross is?" he asked aloud.

The albatross didn't respond.

I love this bit of writing.

The flame flickered a brilliant blue—blue?!—then unceremoniously vanished.

But he had seen the smoke! He'd seen the fire consume the kindling below! And yet not once did he feel its heat before the fire's evidence vanished.  

What’s interesting here is that without people around, Jace believes himself to be an Illusion mage and hones that skill.

A woman with snow-white skin and elaborate white hair who would float behind him, taking note of his actions in a journal. A bailiff, stern faced with a blue cape and silver armor. A leonin missing an eye.

In his moments of loneliness, he would sometimes see a woman in violet on the edge of his field of vision. A tug of anxiety gripped his chest whenever she walked by.

It’s interesting that Tamiyo, Lavinia, and Ajani are the people he remembers most clearly. And that anxiety from Liliana, very appropriate, given how she had all of his friends murdered to get him to confront Tezzeret again.

The hallucination sighed. "You and I both know you're not suited to this. Let me handle it, you go philosophize on the other end of the beach."

"I said I can do it myself." The man let his irritation reach his voice.

"No, you can't. I call the shots and execute, you stand to the side. That's how this works."

The man responded by throwing his hook at the hallucination. It went straight through the figure's eye and landed behind him on the sand.

Jace’s feelings of inadequacy when compared to Gideon are very interesting. Probably a huge reason why they didn’t work out a proper organization structure for the Gatewatch. Jace talking to his own illusions about his deepest anxieties is a fabulous way to tackle his characterization.

A woman with dark hair and a cane was staring at him from a few feet away down the beach. She wore a white dress with a sun emblem on its front. A dark cloak hung behind her and grazed the sand, and her expression made it clear that she was on a mission.

Jace is recalling his meeting with Teysa in Family Values. Teysa Karlov takes place before it. It’s part of a long-simmering side plot regarding what is going on behid the scenes on Ravnica, Pride of the Kraul being a more recent entry (with Vraska).

"Of course you don't, boy."

She looked him over. "You didn't know who I was then, and you don't now. Hard to build trust when neither of us trusts each other."

"You weren't who you thought you were, that's for sure. No one else saw through you, but I did. You were never a leader or a detective or a scholar; you were a frightened child playing pretend."

The woman knelt and looked him in the eye with a cold, crocodilian smile

"I'm the best thing that ever happened to you."

How could someone who was close to a person like that be deserving of friends? 

Man, someone on the Narrative Team certainly has experience with abusive relationships. Jace’s longing for but anxiety about Liliana encapsulates some of that perfectly, as does the trust issue and Liliana’s condescension and the self-doubt.

The hallucination isn’t far off the mark about Jace playing pretend, but the fact that Liliana is the one delivering these lines instead of a hallucination of Bolas, or Ugin, or any number of figures is very telling.

The man gripped the sides of his raft and screwed his eyes shut, wishing he had been gifted with power over the seas rather than power over the mind.

Jace’s Ingenuity by Steve Argyle

Counterspell by Jason Chan

Open into Wonder by Tyler Jacobson

SURE JACE. NO POWER OVER WATER. WHATEVER YOU SAY.

It was there, suspended like a silver jewel, a shining light embedded in the well of his mind.

Jace’s spark, which actually resides in his soul. I’ve wondered, based on Ajani’s soul magic, if Jace’s mind magic isn’t just a different kind of soul magic.

That familiar circle-and-triangle sigil appeared over his head, and the man let out a breath when his form condensed once again into flesh.

Okay, so this appears every time someone tries to planeswalk, then? If you checked out Andrew’s tweetstorm you know that’s fairly similar to Ugin’s binding glyph that Nissa is shown using. Whatever prevents planeswalkers from leaving, the binding coalesces around them and forces them back into reality.

A stone statue was unceremoniously strapped to the front of the ship, and written in graceful script on the side of the bow was the epigraph: The Belligerent.

The statue is the former captain, according to the Worldbuilding Panel. I love that Vraska’s ship is named The Belligerent.

In case you need a Vraska referesher: The Shadows of Prahv, Part 1, The Shadows of Prahv, Part 2, The Gorgon and the Guildpact, and Pride of the Kraul. 

He locked eyes with a regal woman he could only assume was the captain of the ship.

She was remarkable.

So this answers that one burning question. Jace and Vraska team up! Without his memory, he believes she’s regal and remarkable. And, he locks eyes with her! From the Gorgon and the Guildpact:

"Have you already read me, Jace Beleren?" came a different woman's voice from behind him.

Jace spun around to look, and then he immediately averted his eyes.

Art by Igor Kieryluk

God, this would still be a healthier relationship than Jace and Liliana.

The man realized with equal parts excitement and dread that this woman knew exactly who he was.

"Jace, what the hell happened to you?"

Rather than killing the Guildpact on sight, she’s shocked at what he looks like and jumps in to inspect him.

I don’t know for sure what the future story holds, but I think seeing another side of Vraska will make for an interesting character.