#but the rest i am absolutely flummoxed

[itsgonnagetinspiringsoon]

losing my mind trying to figure out what the different colored backgrounds mean for the fhjy characters. Absolutely cannot find a common thread so far. It's not villains/non-villains bc gorthalax and ruben are both red?? maybe the more major characters are certain colours? maybe it means absolutely nothing at all and I'm steadily going insane over nothing??

^ me rn

[the-chicken-or-the-banana]

I always wondered how the foxes would react to finding out that it was andrew that "hit on" neil first (specially Kevin, since he was just standing right there while that happened)

(now, i don't think they would willing just talk about it but if one of them slip up...)

Btw: i absolutely adored the goodbye kisses series

AHHH sorry for being so MIA lately but i'm absolutely loving this! also i'm realizing that i'm very bad at actually getting to the point so enjoy a shit ton of irrelevant exposition :)

read it on ao3 here

— ··· —

Kevin didn't understand why they had to come to the zoo. It was smelly, there were kids screaming everywhere, and he'd nearly been stepped on three times in the past 10 minutes. He much rather preferred exy to this.

Team bonding sucked.

He trudged along beside Aaron as Dan, Matt, and Nicky actually tried socializing with the new Foxes. Normally, Kevin would jump at the chance to talk about exy with these recruits, but also, normally he didn't feel like he'd just just rolled through a flaming dumpster filled with screeching, pooping monkeys.

Kevin let out a sigh as they passed some sort of mildly interesting snake exhibit. He nudged Aaron, who was on his phone with a red face, which meant he was either texting lovey-dovey things to Katelyn or blasting an idiot in his Ochem class. You never really knew with him.

"Aaron."

Aaron just scowled at him. Kevin sighed again. Conversing was always so much more exhausting than he anticipated.

"Snakes."

"What."

"Do you want to... see the snakes?"

Aaron blinked in confusion. "Okay?"

Kevin led them to the snakes.

There, they shoved past some families and made it to the front of the glass enclosure.

"Well?" Aaron asked. "Now what do we do?"

Valid question, Kevin thought. He hadn't really considered what they were doing. He just wanted to see snakes.

He told Aaron as much, who rolled his eyes aggressively and went back to his phone.

Kevin felt a tap on his shoulder and twisted around, coming face-to-face (well, more like chest-to-face) with some sort of tour or information guide.

"Hi!" she smiled all too brightly. Kevin wanted to cover his eyes. "How are you enjoying the exhibition?"

"Um," Kevin gulped eloquently, then remembered his media training. "Oh yeah, it's great!"

"Awesome," she beamed. "You know, there's a snake feeding session in about 5 minutes if you and your son are interested."

Kevin's face contorted in confusion. He whirled around, assuming some tiny, lost child was latched near him, but when he turned back, the lady — Sandy — had her gaze intensely focused on the only other small person near him: Aaron.

Oh dear.

Aaron seemed to come to the same conclusion as Kevin did because his eyes widened comically and he hissed "I. am. not. his. son."

Sandy blinked owlishly. "Little brother then?"

Aaron threw his hands up. "I am 21! Leave me alone." He then proceeded to stomp out of the enclosure, dragging Kevin along and leaving a very flummoxed old lady behind them.

"I can't believe it," Aaron kept muttering. "Your son. Your son! I hate life."

Kevin was a bit miffed that he hadn't actually been able to see the snakes, but he figured Aaron's plight was slightly more significant than that.

After a few moments of silent walking (Kevin) and angry grumbing (Aaron), Kevin realized he couldn't see any of the Foxes anymore. He glanced around, instinctively searching for Andrew.

"Hey, do you know where Andrew and Neil went?" Kevin asked.

Aaron scoffed. "They're probably making out somewhere."

"Who's making out?"

Aaron and Kevin both gave unholy screeches as they turned around to find Nicky standing between them, a wide, innocent grin on his face.

"What the fuck," Aaron complained. "Don't do that again, you bitch."

Nicky waved him off. "Shut up. Who's making out? Might be able to close some bets."

Kevin rolled his eyes. "We just can't find Andrew and Neil anywhere. Aaron seems to believe they're off deflowering a zoo Port-A-Potty or something."

"Well then, we wouldn't want to interrupt them, right?" Nicky winked. "Anyways, we're all going to the butterfly exhibit right now so y'all have to join us. I'm not taking no for an answer."

It seemed that they had no choice, so after sharing a resigned glance, Kevin and Aaron trudged behind an overly enthusiastic Nicky while he babbled on about some parrots that he saw. It really didn't seem as interesting as Nicky was making it out to be, but Kevin didn't want to say anything lest he was expected to participate in the conversation too.

They finally reached the butterfly exhibit where the other Foxes were waiting for them. They entered as a mass of loud, mildy buff, smelly athletes and got more than a few glares from the parents of young children who moved out of the way.

But in all this movement, the path cleared and Kevin found... Andrew and Neil? He was about to turn to Aaron and tell him that they evidently not making out, until he noticed how still Andrew was standing and the glee on Neil's face.

Nicky's gaze caught onto them a second later, because he squealed and grabbed Kevin's arm, jabbing his finger at the sight.

"Oh my God," he whispered. "Is that a butterfly on Andrew's nose? That is adorable."

Kevin squinted, and yes, that's exactly what it appeared to be. Nicky's outburst had caught Allison's attention, and she began marching over to Neil and Andrew, the rest of the Foxes in tow.

Kevin could already tell this was going to be a mess.

When they finally reached Andrew, Aaron was the first to speak. "What the fuck?" he asked flatly. Andrew glared at him. Slowly, as to not move the butterfly, he raised his hand to gently flip off his brother.

Nicky immediately started cooing. "Aww, don't worry Andrew! I think you look adorable."

Andrew began slipping out a knife.

On Allison's left, Kevin saw Dan practically shaking with laughter as she pulled out her camera and snapped a picture.

Neil opened his mouth, probably to tell off Dan but Nicky rushed in to talk to him.

"Soooo," he waggled his eyebrows. "I didn't know you could see the future, Neil."

Neil stared at him blankly and turned back to Andrew as he pulled out a map, but Nicky rallied on.

"Like, you must have been able to predict that one day Andrew was going to be this adorable. That's why you asked him out, right?"

"What?" Neil asked distractedly. "I never asked him out."

Kevin blinked in surprise. After a moment's consideration, he realized that considering how utterly oblivious Neil could be, it really was no shocker that Andrew had to ask him out first.

"Wait wait wait," Matt shook his head. "So Andrew asked you out?"

Neil waved them off as he continued squinting at the map he was holding. "Yes yes, just go ask Kevin, he was there."

All eyes turned to Kevin. Kevin was very lost.

"What the fuck," Aaron repeated. "I'm so confused."

"Me too," Kevin muttered. "Me too."

— ··· —

After their long day at the zoo was over, the Foxes finally began the trudge back up to their respective dorms. The younger Foxes dozed off immediately, but the older Foxes gathered in the girls' room to drop off the bags they had borrowed for the trip.

In all the commotion, no one really noticed Andrew and Neil leaving together. But right before they slipped out the door, Renee caught sight of them.

"Good night, you two!" she called. Neil turned around and gave her a tired wave, his body slumped on Andrew.

"Wait!" Nicky scrambled off the sofa. "Before I forget: Neil, how did Andrew ask you out?"

Neil blinked sleepily. "Well," he slurred. "He asked if he could blow me."

The room went silent.

Andrew heaved a sigh and dragged Neil out the door, leaving seven wide-eyed, very much awake athletes in their wake. Slowly, everyone turned to Kevin.

"You!" Allison weakly jabbed a finger in his direction. "You knew about this!"

Too late, Kevin realized what Neil's statement meant. Andrew had asked out Neil in front of Kevin. By offering sex. Nothing could have possibly ruined Kevin's night as much as this information had.

He met the Foxes' eyes slowly. Even Renee looked a bit surprised at Neil's admission, but she was clearly biting back a smile. "Trust me," Kevin groaned. "If I had known this had happened, I would have won myself so many bets."

"Damn," Nicky sighed. "I wish Erik and I had such an iconic story. Who knew the quiet, stabby cousin was such a horny gay bastard?"

"I," Aaron announced hotly. "have never wanted to forget a conversation more than this one."

"But Aaron. Andrew asked to blow him."

"Nicky, I swear— "

"OH MY GOD. They're probably having sex right now! Kevin, could you— "

Aaron put his head in his hands. "Please shut up now."

[feanorianethicsdepartment]

heeey! so back when @eirianerisdar posted chapter 12 of their fic the ransom of the house of fëanor - that’s the one where they finally let the brothers hellspawn and their idiot dad out of the void, but they have to throw elrond in, all very sad - i thought up my own somewhat fluffier vastly dumber au for the end of that chapter. in honour of the fic being finished, i’ve decided to write up the various scattershot ideas i’ve had for it, with the caveat that i’ll be working off my own slightly different background headcanons

the divergence point is roughly when elrond announces that he’s totally going into the void now, for realsies, the local ainur are nodding solemnly, and the fëanorians are running preliminary can-we-take-them calculations. except for maedhros, who’s very sad to hear that they must sacrifice his nephew to the eternal dark for their freedom, ‘tis truly a shame, they will honour his memory and GET THE BOAT, BOYS

or, the original elf mad scientist, his murderous blood-hungry spawn, a guy who’s extremely grouchy about not getting to do his dramatic self-sacrifice, and their somewhat-less-reluctant-than-he-should-be getaway driver go on the lam

how they got away from the valar:

námo: already knew this was going to happen, but it’s not like anyone ever listens to him, is it? in the moment, was a little more concerned with how morgoth had started belly-crawling towards the doors of night

manwë: never wanted to throw elrond into the void in the first place, and has been silently hoping elrond would call his bluff for the past week. the children are all safe and inside like they should be, and isn’t that what really matters?

eönwë: no it isn’t boss the fëanorians are a completely unpredictable wildcard we cannot afford to let them run around unsupervised!!! would probably have at least delayed the family hellspawn until backup could arrive, except

olórin: realised what maedhros was planning almost immediately and had to consciously force down a shit-eating grin. as soon as the brothers started moving, divetackled eönwë

-

[from a note attached to a harpoon lodged outside the highest window on the white tower of the isle of seabirds]

elwing - it went better than i expected, honestly. the sons of fëanor took about as much offense to elrond’s plan as everyone else has, except when words didn’t work they resorted to action. they dragged him onto vingilot and i followed them, and then we cast off together. we’ve set sail for as far away from the doors of night as we can get. i’m coming with them, of course, i’m not letting these lunatics crash my baby

i’m not entirely certain when we’ll be back? the fëanorians seem worried the valar might come after us, which wouldn’t surprise me, really. i’m taking us out towards middle-earth, we’ll see where we go after that. they’re all screaming at each other and running across the deck, i’m not convinced they have much of a plan. elrond is yelling too, he’s arguing with either caranthir or curufin, can’t tell which. the one i suspect is maglor has wrapped himself around his neck and refuses to let go. our son is alive and healthy and not in the eternal darkness, and for that, at least, i am grateful

the redhead who’s co-opted the harpoons says we’re coming up on your tower. no one’s done anything to threaten me or elrond, or even looked at the silmaril. there’s something nice about sailing with a crew again, no matter who it is. i love you, and i’ll be back as soon as i can - eärendil

[from a note attached to a harpoon found among the ruins of a house in the tirion stonecarvers’ district]

you were right, nerdanel. you were right about everything, and i was wrong. i’m sorry. the boys and i are going on another adventure right now, but we’ll come back to you someday, i promise

[from the same note, in much neater handwriting]

tell tyelpë i love him, and also that the coordinates are [rest torn off]

-

the first sign of this mess that reaches arda is the morning and evening star disappearing from the sky. gondorian astronomers, haradren scholars, avarin priests all stare flummoxed as the star of high hope simply fails to appear before the sun. no matter how unsuperstitous they are everyone agrees this is a really bad omen, and all across the globe the high halls of power tremble in fear over the new horror this must portend

the first sign of this mess that reaches the shire (except for that one took who’s really into astrology) is when eight-year-old elanor gardner rushes into bag end the next day, all ‘dad! dad! there are elves in the woods!’

sam is pretty chuffed to hear this. the fair folk don’t pass through the shire half as often as they used to, and it’s been some years since he heard their song. if they’re in the neighbourhood, why, it’d only be polite to say hello, wish them luck on their journey, hand them a letter. he packs up a nice tuck-box full of goodies to share, and then sam and elanor (and frodo, who’s going through a following-his-big-sister-around-and-copying-everything-she-does phase) set out to meet the elves

first they hear the shouting. then they see the smoke

at the end of the path his daughter leads him down, sam finds the wreckage of what looks like a crashed boat strewn across the forest, still faintly smouldering. at least a dozen elves are rushing between and up the trees, yelling at each other in the angriest quenya he’s ever heard. in the middle of the impact crater stands a blonde elf carrying a stone that shines like the phial of galadriel, wailing something sam knows just enough sindarin to recognise as ‘MY SHIIIIIIIIIP’

as sam’s gaze pans over the unfolding catastrophe, his eyes land on one of the last elves he’d expected to see, master elrond. elrond is rubbing his temple, groaning like someone who knows he’s the most responsible person around and really wishes he wasn’t. a vaguely familiar sketchy-as-fuck elf is clinging onto his shoulders, in a not-dissimilar way to how frodo-lad is currently riding on sam. elrond catches sam’s gaze

‘greetings, master samwise,’ says the wisest elf-lord of the west, ignoring the scuffle that’s breaking out behind him. ‘i must apologise for my relations’

(fëanor and elanor become fast friends, teaching each other their languages and exploring the shire together. absolutely no one else is okay with this)

-

fëanor, dragging an incredibly-put-upon elrond around the citadel of minas tirith: grandbabies!

fëanor, marvelling over the embroidery arwen is showing him: great-grandbabies!

fëanor, carrying a tiny giggling eldarion all the way up the tower of gondor: great-great-grandbabies!

fëanor, staring fixedly at an increasingly apprehensive aragorn: great-great-great...

celegorm, on dad-watching duty: actually if you lay the maths out it’s very likely every human in middle-earth is descended... from... elros... fuck

fëanor: has gone completely still

fëanor: massive grin spreading across his face, eyes sparkling like the two trees brought back to life

fëanor: eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

[lordabovehelpme]

ONE MORE! How about after an attack or something happens, the reader made a mistake and ends up getting hurt. Din gets super upset and says a lot of things that are hurtful towards the reader and instead of fighting back they kinda just nod and accept it. after a few days Din notices how the reader starts to act different and apologizes once he realized that the whole thing was because of him. Just some angst ya know? THIS IS SO MANY IM SORRY

Dead- Din Djarin x Reader

Summary: You’re sure you died, but maybe not. 

Warnings: Drowning! 

A/n: No, it’s totally fine. I love all your asks! :) I hope you like this one! 

Masterlist

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

It’s surreal and calm under the icy water. It feels like you’re being held still in time and space. Nowhere to go, nowhere to be. The water should feel freezing and yet, you can’t feel anything. Your chest should be screaming for air but you feel tranquil, not needing anything and nothing needing anything from you. Existing and nonexistent all at the same time.

The world surrounding you is tinted blue and it stays invariably silent. Your hair floats around, framing your face as you look about. Light casts down from above, highlighting the vast water. You’re starting to get tired, eyelids slowly opening and closing. Bubbles work themself from your mouth until no more are left.

Everything fades away, you can’t feel anything. Death is comforting, you conclude. It’s like the moment just before you drift off into a deep sleep. It’s not lonely or spine-chilling like people say, it’s like a blanket of security has been placed over you.

Is this it? Is this the final page in your story? 

You feel warm and cozy, accepting your fate. Opening your eyes to take one more final look at the world, you’re met with a dark blob swimming towards you. You smile as you realize it’s your mandalorian. Reaching out, you cup his cheek before closing your eyes for good.

***

His heart stops as you sink under the water. Body moving on autopilot as he shoots the rest of the group. Running over to the hole in the ice where you were discarded so ruthlessly by the quarry. Bodies surround the area and yet he pays no mind to them. Not thinking twice before diving into the dark icebound abyss after you.

Swimming as fast as the beskar will allow him, he nearly gasps when you reach out to him. Heart dropping to the pit of his stomach when you smile and close your eyes.

No! No, no, no! This can’t be right! You’re not dead! You can’t be! Thoughts fly through his head as he pulls you both up to the surface.

Running to the Crest with you in his arms he checks your neck for a pulse. His blood runs cold when he finds nothing. Yanking off his helmet he presses his head to your chest, no breath.

The water from the lake mixes with the salty tears trailing down his face. He starts pumping over your heart, willing it to start.

“Come on, cyar’ika! Don’t leave me like this!” He’s begging now, wishing he could have only been a tad faster. If only he would have kept you in the ship. You’d be safe and sound then.

He takes a deep breath before smashing his lips to your own. Tilting your head back slightly, he forces the air into your lungs. He starts pumping again, tears blurring his vision.

“Please, please.” If only he had shot the quarry sooner. Then it wouldn't have been able to grab hold of you. The memory of the quarry holding you over the frozen lake, its hands wrapped around your neck, playing over and over again in his head. “Cyar’ika.” He murmurs. The sound of your scream is endless, repeating like a broken record.

It’s been at least six minutes of his desperate cycle before his muscles ache for a break. You’re not coming back, you’re gone. He rests his head on your chest above your heart. He’s wailing now, loud sobs filling the Crest.

The child runs over to your body. “She’s gone. Buir’s gone.” He is broken, like his entire soul shattered into billions of pieces. The child lifts a hand before closing his eyes. But not long after, it collapses into a slumber. He picks up his son and sets him in his hammock.

“Good try, but nothing we can do can help her.” He says more to himself than his son.

***

Lights flash behind your eyelids. Your stomach protests and sends waves of bile and water up your throat. Yanked out of your peaceful sleep you are brought back to the world. Failing your arms you cough and hack up at least a gallon of water. Clutching your newly started heart, you finally get all of the water out of your lungs.

“Cyar’ika?” It’s the whisper of your nickname that greets you first. You open your eyes into the pitch black of the hull.

“Tin can?”

Arms wrap around your body pulling you close. What happens next surprises you more though.

“Cyar’ika! How dare you leave the ship without telling me!” He’s growling and yelling at you. “Are you so weak that even an unarmed quarry captured you? And what was going through your head when he strangled you?”

“I’m sorry.” It comes out meek and timid.

“Saying sorry doesn’t change the fact that you got in the way of my entire plan!” He doesn’t understand why he is yelling at you. All of his anger for the quarry is being thrown onto you but he can’t stop it.

You nod your head while looking at the ground, tears welling up.

“Don’t ever, EVER, do that again. Just stay put when I tell you to!” He gives you one final glance in the dark before pushing his helmet back on and opening the hatch, walking out into the world.

You’re absolutely flummoxed.

***

It’s been three days since the incident, neither of you talk about it. You’ve been trying hard to please the mandalorian, trying to make up for your mistake.

He realizes something is wrong when you’re two hours into hyperspace and you’ve not uttered one word. “Cyar’ika, what’s wrong?”

You look up to him with the most innocent eyes. “Oh, nothing.”

“Come on, I know something is up. What is it?”

“Nothing, Mando.”

“See that's the thing, you never call me Mando, it’s always tin can. What is wrong?” He is starting to get agitated and you can tell.

“Nothing, I swear.”

His fist pounds on the arm rest. “Tell me!” He is yelling now. “What is wrong with you?!”

“Fine! You want to know what's wrong, then I’ll tell you.” You’re yelling back at him. “It’s the fact that I literally died and you have not said one thing except that it was my fault!” You take a shaky breath before continuing. “If I am such a nuisance and I always get in your way, then why didn’t you just leave me to die?”

You can’t tell if anything you’re saying is affecting him, because he just sits there. “Did you even care?” Your voice cracks with vulnerability. Biting your lip you look away from him as the tears slip from your eyes.

It's silent for a couple minutes before his own shaky voice says, “Oh cyare, if only you knew how much I care.” He reaches for your hand but you flinch away. “I’m sorry for yelling at you. I was mad at the quarry and it all was projected onto you.”

You face his visor, locking eyes with the space where you know his eyes are.

“Cyar’ika, my world stopped when I saw you in danger. I just want you to be safe.” He reaches for you again, except this time you take his hand and plant yourself in his lap. “I love you so much and it hurt so bad when you were gone. I am not used to holding these emotions so I just distanced myself from you. I’m sorry.”

“You love me?” It's a hushed question that makes its way past your lips before you even realize it.

He chuckles and brings his helmet to press against your forehead. “I do, cyar’ika.” He takes a breath, “I do so much.”

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

Well that was an emotional rollar coaster. Thanks everyone for reading and I hope y’all liked it!

Love, Lordy. 

[has-gilgamesh-doneanythingwrong]

If we put Gil, Merlin and Solomon in a room together what could possibly happen?

LMAO I AM CRYING XD

Anon, this is a great idea. There is endless chaotic potential here. This is my first time writing them all together, so i hope my characterization is okay.

For this request i decided to pick Caster Gil. Triple caster mayhem is my favorite kind of mayhem.

~Gilgamesh, Merlin and Solomon in a room~

- Gilgamesh and Solomon had no idea how it had happened. Even with their clairvoyance and foresight, they never expected for such a shocking twist of events to occur.

- All that happened was that Solomon took a well-deserved nap; whilst Caster Gilgamesh more or less fainted as soon as he landed on his bed.

- Yet, here they were; greeted by none other than the most irritatingly evasive mage to ever exist. Waving cheerfully at both kings, Merlin raises his cup of tea. "Yahoo, Gilgamesh; Solomon! Fancy seeing you here, in my Garden of Avalon! I haven't had guests in a while."

-Merlin's eyes glimmer mischievously as he recalls past events...

- "Merlin. I need you to give these two a nice rest. Trap them within your realm, if you will." Gudako's eyes were steely, as they stared Merlin dead the eyes. "Think you can help me out here? I know you can be a lil shady sometimes, but I'm betting on you here. Force these kings to have some TLC." As Gudako faces them, Merlin leers like a cat whose got the cream. He loved plans like these.

- "Sure, I can help." Merlin all but purrs, as he slinks towards Gudako. "But what's in it for me?" Hoping to make himself look as terrifying as possible, he leans dangerously close towards them. "I'm an incubus, you know~ Master shouldn't rely on me too much..." However, as soon as Gudako promises to give him some of their more...interesting dreams, Merlin grins. "That's a deal!"

- So now, here they all were. Flowers drifting through the bright blue skies as a billowing grass spread before them; the garden was like something out of a dream.

- However, the mood between them all is naught but peaceful. As Solomon gawps in shock, "...h-how did you get past my clairvoyance?"; Gilgamesh clucks his tongue in irritation.

- "I could fathom if you wished to solicit me over a nice cup of tea; but to trap me here, with none other than that buffoon for company? I'm outraged by this, Merlin!" As Caster Gilgamesh points angrily towards Solomon (who is already feeling worn out by the current circumstances), Merlin chuckles at his outburst.

- "Well, even if that's true, he must've brought us here for a reason. Let me guess, was it Gudako?" Solomon remains eerily calm, as he takes a seat next to Merlin. "There's no point hiding things. Let it out, Merlin."

- "Awe~ You're such a spoilsport, Solomon." Merlin confesses the truth behind why he has brought them both to his realm tonight. As Gilgamesh slaps a palm to his forehead in agony, Solomon smile softly at that. Although he finds Gudako's methodology to be a bit...shifty, their good intentions warm his heart.

- Stuck within his realm, they play multiple games of cards; but due to everybody's clairvoyance, it ends in utter shambles. In particular Gilgamesh keeps on trying to prove to Solomon that he's much better than him, and Merlin keeps tricking them all by using his magic to change the cards.

- "You utter buffoon! This isn't relaxing in the slightest!!" Infuriated by this, Gilgamesh pulls out a box of Karuta Cards which leaves the other two absolutely flummoxed. 'That gate can really store anything, huh...' Although he knows a great deal about it already, Solomon can't help but be impressed.

- However, this game fares even worse than the last one; with heavy squabbles and debates breaking out between them, as they all scramble to grab the card that matches the poem being read out. Growing tired of this farce, Solomon asks for a ceasefire.

- Despite this, they then begin to play an extremely passionate game of beer pong, but everyone remains sober; so there's no fun to be had!

-Caster Gilgamesh then tries to raise the stakes with some gambling, but then remembers that Solomon probably left his cash in the real world; not this dream world.

-Then Merlin tries to enforce Gudako's advice by subjecting them to a flower massage with his magic plant skills, but that just leads to more confusion and conflict.

- Eventually, the three of them all give up; entirely worn out from these activities. With nothing else to do, they begin to talk; laugh and enjoy some merry cheer.

- Maybe being here wasn't so bad, after all. just kidding caster gilgamesh will probably hunt gudako down once he reawakens in chaldea

[rosethornewrites]

Fic: the thread may stretch or tangle but it will never break

Relationship: Lán Zhàn | Lán Wàngjī & Wèi Yīng | Wèi Wúxiàn

Characters: Lán Zhàn | Lán Wàngjī, Wèi Yīng | Wèi Wúxiàn, Wēn Qíng, Wēn Níng | Wēn Qiónglín

Additional Tags: Pre-Slash, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Secrets, Crying, Masks, Soulmates, Truth

Summary: Following the return of Wen Ning's spiritual cognition, Wei WuXian doesn't pull away quickly enough to avoid Lan WangJi discovering his secret.

Notes: This isn’t connected to try to praise the mutilated world. I’m also not sure whether it’ll just be a one-shot or if it’ll insist on being more. This is more compliant with The Untamed series as opposed to the novel. The title is from a Chinese proverb.

AO3 link

-----------

Wei Ying pulls away from him, but too late.

Lan WangJi had caught his wrist with the intent of giving him spiritual energy to help heal from the injury caused by Wen QiongLin’s unconscious fury.

He disregards Wei Ying’s protestations about not needing spiritual energy for such a small thing and turns toward him, feeling a growing sort of horror. He knows what he felt.

“Wei Ying.”

Lan WangJi lets his voice carry enough insistence that Wei Ying goes silent mid-sentence.

“What has happened to your golden core?”

He doesn’t expect the raw fear and grief and exhaustion in Wei Ying’s eyes, the way he stumbles back a few steps as though struck. His mouth opens, then shuts again, and he turns away.

Lan WangJi hears a sigh behind him, and turns to find Wen Qing, accompanied by Wen QiongLin. She advances and places a hand on Wei Ying’s arm.

“Wei WuXian, that no one realized before now is a miracle,” she tells him.

Which lets him know that somehow Wen Qing knew. He remembers, when Wei Ying interrupted the banquet at Koi Tower, his assertion that Wen Qing and Wen QiongLin helped him during the war, his absolute insistence that he owed them his protection… 

Wen Qing presses a finger to a meridian on Wei Ying’s back, and he coughs up bad blood from his injury, staggering.

Shockingly, she then turns to Lan WangJi and bows respectfully. “Hangaung-Jun, we have no tea to offer, only water. We will leave you to your conversation.”

Wen QiongLin sets down a tray with a teapot and two cups, and Wen Qing grabs him by the sleeve to yank him from the room.

This leaves them alone, Wei Ying still hunched from his position coughing up blood, as though frozen, his eyes distant. He looks vulnerable, more so than Lan WangJi has ever seen.

Lan WangJi had always had difficulty with words. He knows he has driven Wei Ying away through his words before, and does not want to do so again. So instead of speaking, he reaches out slowly, as though to one of his rabbits so as not to startle, and gently grasps Wei Ying’s elbow, leading him to a seat. He pours water into one of the small cups, presses it into Wei Ying’s hand when he doesn’t take it.

This is what finally snaps Wei Ying from his fugue, his eyes finally losing their distance as he eyes the cup, then looks up. He seems to be searching Lan WangJi’s face for something, wariness painted in his expression.

He stays still, letting him search; perhaps he will find what his words have failed to convey. Nearly a minute passes before Wei Ying looks away, curling in on himself just slightly. Lan WangJi sits across from him, pours his own cup of water as though it is tea.

Wei Ying’s entire posture is defensive, as though he expects to be attacked, and he can only feel regret that he has led him to believe he ever would. 

“Wei Ying, when did you lose your golden core?” he finally asks.

“I didn’t lose it,” Wei Ying mutters, almost petulant. “I know exactly where it is.”

It’s so cryptic, Lan WangJi can only stare at him, reminded of just a few hours ago when Wei Ying claimed to have given birth to Wen Yuan with such a deadpan expression and tone he had for a moment doubted reality. 

“Ah, your face.” A ghost of a smile flits over Wei Ying’s face, fleeting, but his tone is just tired.

“Wei Ying.”

Wei Ying seems to deflate, and sets down his untouched cup, running a finger around the rim. “I gave it to Jiang Cheng. He doesn’t know. Wen Zhuliu.”

Lan WangJi’s mind reels at the idea. Giving up one’s golden core—that it’s even possible. But he has no doubt that Wei Ying speaks the truth; he has always given so much of himself. The evidence of how much he would give, his lack of self-preservation, is both awe-inspiring and terrifying. 

“When? How?”

“After Lotus Pier…” he trails off as though finishing is too hard. “Wen Ning helped me get him back. Even managed to get Uncle Jiang and Madam Yu, their bodies, away so they could be put to rest.”

Wei Ying’s voice has grown detached and clinical, as though he’s emotionally disconnected himself from what occurred. 

“He took us to the Yiling Supervisory Office and hid us. Wen Qing let him. And when I found out she’d written a paper theorizing the possibility of core transfer, I insisted. Told Jiang Cheng I was taking him to BaoShan SanRen. He thinks it’s his own, restored. I won’t tell him otherwise.”

The last sentence is spoken more forcefully, as though he fears Lan WangJi will interfere with his wishes. But what Wei Ying decides to tell Jiang WanYin is not his business, though perhaps the latter would behave in a manner more befitting as a brother if he knew what Wei Ying had sacrificed on his behalf.

He falls silent for a while, and Lan WangJi waits, asking nothing, trusting Wei Ying will decide what he wishes to share. 

“Then Wen Chao caught me and threw me here.”

His throat tightens as he realizes just how helpless Wei Ying had been against Wen Chao, against the resentful energy of this place, how terrified and alone he must have been...

“I did what I had to, to survive.” 

It comes out a harsh whisper, and Lan WangJi realizes Wei Ying is shaking, sees the dark circles under his eyes that he suddenly realizes have been ever-present since the Sunshot Campaign, since he returned from being missing and presumed dead for three months.

Wei Ying smiles suddenly, but it’s a broken, self-loathing one. “And so I walk the crooked path. It’s the only path I can walk, to protect the weak and seek justice. Regardless of the weapon I was in wartime, I am reviled for it. Even you—”

“I do not revile Wei Ying,” he interrupts, ignoring the Lan rule against it, frustrated that Wei Ying has referred to himself as little more than a weapon, an object of power—further because that is exactly how he has been treated. “I have never reviled Wei Ying.”

“You wanted me to submit to punishment at the hands of your sect,” Wei Ying hisses.

Lan WangJi feels as though he has been slapped. Was that how Wei Ying had interpreted his request to come to Gusu? 

“No,” he whispers. “For protection. For healing. Never for punishment. Never.”

For a moment, Wei Ying looks flummoxed, more vulnerable than Lan WangJi has ever seen him. Then he hides it under derision.

“‘Reject the crooked path,’” Wei Ying recites. “‘Do not associate with evil.’ I copied the Lan principles enough to memorize them, you know. I recited them at Indoctrination, even, at least until Wen Chao interrupted me. So rude. Sometimes I wonder if I let him off too easy...”

Abruptly, Lan WangJi realizes he’s being pushed away, that this is how Wei Ying seeks to protect himself. But this time, he’s not willing to go.

“Wei Ying is not evil.”

The broken smile appears again. “Oh, didn’t you hear? I dig up graveyards and steal naughty children away in the night. Who knows, maybe I even sacrifice virgins. Honestly, I can’t be expected to remember these things; you know my memory.”

He’s heard those terrible rumors, most recently at a tea house in Yiling earlier today. He doesn’t wish to hear them again, particularly not from him as though he believes them. He knows Wei Ying is trying to derail away from the topic of his golden core, from anything serious, hiding behind flippancy, trying to draw him into a semantic argument.

“Wei Ying,” he pleads. 

Wei Ying’s face goes carefully blank. “Lan Zhan, I have no other path to walk. There is no righteous path for me, only the crooked one.”

“You do not walk it by choice.”

He laughs shortly, without humor. “Does that even matter?”

“Yes,” he answers without hesitation. 

Wei Ying looks away at that, and Lan WangJi can see the way the muscles in his throat work, as though he’s fighting tears. There’s a long stretch of silence.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Ying finally says, very softly, his voice tight, almost regretful. “I can’t go to Gusu with you, Lan Zhan.”

Lan WangJi comes to a decision so quickly it almost leaves him reeling. ‘Do not act impulsively’ be damned; he’s caused enough pain to Wei Ying. It is easy to disregard that rule now. 

“Then I will stay here.”

The myriad of emotion that passed across Wei Ying’s face is astonishing and quick like his mind—alarm, fear, confusion, but more importantly a heartbreak mix of longing and vulnerable hope. 

Then it’s gone, replaced with a resolute set in his jaw, and Wei Ying stands. “No.”

Lan WangJi calmly finishes his cup of water and pours himself another before repeating. “I will stay here and help Wei Ying.”

“You can’t! You can’t stay. You have responsibilities—“

“Brother will understand.”

Wei Ying starts pacing, agitated. “No. Throwing in with the Yiling Patriarch will ruin your reputation.”

“I do not care about reputation.” He keeps his voice placid.

Wei Ying makes a frustrated sound and stops pacing in favor of glaring at him. “Why? Why would you throw it away?”

Lan WangJi stands, leaving Bichen leaning against the rickety table. In many cases this would be seen as disrespect of one’s cultivation levels, implying one sees them as no threat, but he means it as a sign of trust; he hopes Wei Ying understands that. He moves until he is within arm length. It takes him a moment to find the words. 

“Bi sheng zhi ji.” He frowns when Wei Ying flinches. “You once called me this. I should have come with you at Qiongpi Path. I failed you, then.”

“You didn’t,” Wei Ying insists. “I didn’t ask you to come, or expect you to. I knew how I’d be seen, how they’d talk. You deserve better.”

Lan WangJi remembers; Wei Ying had expected him to stop him, to fight against him; had asked that when it came to the fight he believed and probably still believes is inevitable, that Lan WangJi be the one to kill him. The memory still hurts. 

“As does Wei Ying,” he finally says, pushing the memory away. It won’t come to that; he won’t let it. 

He suddenly realizes that Wei Ying is shaking slightly, his posture deflated as though he knows he has lost the argument. His eyes are wet, his throat moving soundlessly again. 

“I can’t… I’ve already damned myself, Lan Zhan. I can’t damn you too.” Wei Ying grabs his arm. “Don’t you get it? I’ll just drag you down, too!”

For a moment, he’s speechless. This isn’t unusual, but rarely is it due to this much emotion. That Wei Ying thinks so poorly of himself shakes Lan WangJi to his core, and he can only wonder how long he has felt this way. 

But Wei Ying has never defended himself against jibes and insults, only ever stepping in to defend those he cares for—and sometimes even complete strangers. Does he truly believe he deserves to be treated poorly, to be reviled and left without protection or aid?

“No,” he says finally, when he finds the words. “Wei Ying could only ever lift me up.”

Lan WangJi isn’t prepared for Wei Ying’s tears; he’s brought back to Cloud Recesses, his concern that he was crying when he was really goofing off. He’s never seen him actually cry. 

He feels frozen, uncertain what to do, but when Wei Ying sways and his knees seem to buckle, he surges forward to draw him close, to ease him down to prevent injury.

Unlike everything else Wei Ying does, he cries silently, like he’s used to doing so alone and without burdening others, his face bowed against Lan WangJi’s chest, his breaths coming in short gasps, his shoulders shaking as they once had at Cloud Recesses—though not then from crying.

As the minutes pass, Lan WangJi wonders how much Wei Ying has kept hidden away, how much grief he has tamped down within himself and hidden under smiles and false cheer, whether his constant chatter is perhaps just a distraction from his pain.

Wei Ying eventually stills, his breathing deepening with only small hitches, and Lan WangJi realizes he’s fallen asleep—whether from the release of emotion, overall exhaustion, or a combination. For a moment, he’s at a loss on what to do, but during what he had dubbed ‘the grand tour,’ Wei Ying had shown him where he worked and slept in the cave.

What surprises Lan WangJi further is the ease he has in lifting him, even able to hook one arm at his knees; he knows he has not gained as much strength as that, leaving only the possibility that Wei Ying has lost weight—and not a little. Looking down at his face, smoothed now in sleep, he realizes just how gaunt Wei Ying looks, how haggard. How truly vulnerable.

Bi sheng zhi ji.

He will never leave Wei Ying again.

[burninglilys]

run till the end of time

my hand kinda slipped and then i couldn’t stop writing. i have taken some creative liberty in making it so that their exams are pushed back because this entire ordeal has been a whole lot traumatic for the kids. 

Here's the irrevocable truth: 

They've won. They've actually, veritably won. 

Their sweat and blood, and sometimes nothing but phantom desperation and determination has shaped itself into a completely intangible thing called 'victory' and has permeated into every nook and crevice of the world around them. 

They've won. 

Here's the truth that is extremely hard for Pang to fathom that he has been existing in for over a few days now: 

They've won. 

There's a voice inside his head telling him that all of this is a mere illusion; his actual reality is still muddled in layers of inequality instead of the palpable reality that he is currently living in. 

There is no need for him to look over his shoulder every step of the way, no need for him to drown in nights where sleep always seems a blink away, no need for him to think twice before he lets joy consume him whole. 

There is no need for any of that. 

They've won and Pang feels as though this is a simulation where nothing is as it is, as he has known, and that the Director is up there, superimposing his present, past, and his future, laughing at what a fool he was to have ever believed that he's won. 

But they have, is the thing. 

He's reminded that they have by the way Wave smiles, looking more relaxed than Pang has ever seen him, by how Ohm's eyes twinkle, the way they always did before all this, by how all his friends -- his family, really -- find their way to each other, their way around each other, a bond created by the constraints of dictatorial power -- something so strong that nothing could've been able to get through it. 

None of it explains why Pang feels this hollow chamber inside his chest where that fire of changing something used to be. 

Someone knocks against his shoulders, snapping him out of the syrupy reverie he finds himself in on most days. 

"You can't believe it, huh?" 

Pang blinks slowly, taking a deep breath before putting on a smile and turning towards P'Chanon. 

"How did you know?" Pang asks, ignoring the loud cry that Ohm gives out as Namtarn smears the icing on his face. 

P'Chanon shrugs. "I can't believe it either," he says.

Pang presses his lips together, swallowing. 

"Everything we fought for is over," Pang replies. 

"It is," P'Chanon says, leaning against the table. 

"I didn't have a purpose before this," Pang says. "And then there was this. And now there's nothing." 

Pang never did think of a future for himself, he realises. It's as though he lived his life with a neon sticker on his forehead, relaying to everyone who he was and moulded exactly to fit that. First, there was the stupid kid, then there was the stupid kid who was smart enough to get into Rithda, then there was the stupid Class 8 kid, then there was the lucky Class 8 Gifted kid, then it was Class 8 Kid but as a leader, after which he became the kid who was completely idealistic, and then the kid who finally succumbed to the Director. 

The reality of this has ripped the neon sign off his forehead, leaving him floundering for a person to be. 

"Oh, Pang," P'Chanon says, his voice incredibly gentle. "Pang, I know exactly what you mean. You feel lost again." 

"I am nothing without this," Pang says, even though a voice in his head that sounds a little too much like Wave disagrees. "I don't-- what am I supposed to do?" His voice comes out broken around the edges, firmed only with the number of times he's asked his reflection. 

"Pang," P'Chanon says, bumping their shoulders together again. "You find a new purpose." 

"You say as though it's easy." 

"It's not," P'Chanon says, his voice firm. "It really is not. I have been in your position before, Pang. I am in your position now." 

Pang turns to look at P'Chanon, who looks straight ahead, his jaw clenched. 

"I didn't know who I was," he says in a whisper. "For the longest time, I was a shadow of who I wanted to be. And then I remembered. So there was my purpose again-- defeating Supot. And then I was mind-controlled, of course. So there was my purpose again-- defeating Pom. And then there was nothing. Just a void in front of me."

"How did you find your purpose again?" Pang whispers. 

P'Chanon nods his head -- that is when Pang realises that P'Chanon had been looking at Khu Pom all along -- and he hears P'Chanon give out a sigh. "I had some help," he says. 

"And now?" Pang asks. 

P'Chanon nods at Khu Pom again, who is currently doing his absolute best to stop Jack and Joe from fighting over something. 

"I'll figure it out," he says with a small smile. "As will you, Pang," P'Chanon pats his shoulder. "We have all the time in the world." 

"I'm so exhausted," Pang whispers. 

P'Chanon's face turns soft. "You've fought for the generations before you and the generations that will follow. Rest now, Pang. You will find a purpose again."

P'Chanon looks ahead, and this time, Khu Pom looks back, smiling at P'Chanon. 

Pang feels as though he's intruding on something extremely personal. "I know that I've found mine," P'Chanon says. 

"Khu Pom?" Pang asks before he can stop himself. 

P'Chanon shakes his head. "Doing right by the ones I love."

"You're going to be okay, Pang," P'Chanon says,  giving him a final pat on the back and walks towards where Khu Pom stands with a smile Pang has never seen on him. 

Pang stands there, warmed by P'Chanon's words and uncertain, just the same. 

***

It was so sudden, is the thing. 

Pang had been fully prepared to work for the Director in case it all failed. He always assumed that he would die trying to rid the clutches he held everyone in. 

But one moment, there was all hope lost and the next, the Director was gone for good and the world resumed turning around its axis with everyone in tow. 

Everyone but Pang. 

It is a mere ten minutes after Pang reaches his dorm again when he hears frantic knocking on his door and for one horrible, horrible moment, he thinks that it's the Director. 

His stomach swoops at the sight of Wave on the other side of it. 

"Here," Wave says, holding out a bag. "You didn't eat much." 

Pang looks at Wave in awe. "You brought food for me?" 

"Don't make it weird," Wave mumbles. "Just eat something, okay?" 

Pang takes the bag out of his hands, warmth blooming at where their fingers touch. "Do you want to come in?" 

"Obviously," Wave says and pushes past him to stride inside the room. 

"You didn't have to bring me food," Pang says, pulling the chair out for Wave to sit in. 

He is about to bring them both a plate when Wave tugs at his wrist. "Sit."

"Wave…"

"Sit," Wave says. "Just sit, okay? You look like you're going to fall dead at any moment." 

Pang stands there, flummoxed when Wave moves around his room as though it's his own. He brings out two plates and two glasses and starts serving him the noodles, swatting at Pang's attempt to help. 

"Do you think that you're invisible somehow?" Wave mutters. "I see you, Pang. Do you think that I haven't noticed the change in you?" 

"What change?" Pang asks, digging into his noodles. 

"You really think I'm stupid, huh?" 

Pang looks up, not knowing how to reply to that. Wave sighs, pushing forward his plate to serve him more noodles. "I care for you," he grits out. "I care for you," he repeats, gentler this time. "You were so full of hope before the final video," Wave says. "And then, you came out of the room as though you'd lost a war. And today, at the party, you didn't talk to anyone." 

Guilt curdles in Pang's stomach. "I'm sorry--"

"No!" Wave exclaims. "None of that, Pang. I am just letting you know that I see you and that I-- that I'm here for you, whenever you want. In any form you want me."

Pang looks up, startled. In his yellow-hued room, Wave looks a whole lot pink. "Not in that way," Wave says hurriedly. "But I'm here for you. So just-- yeah." 

"I care for you too," Pang says, carefully putting his hand over Wave's. "And thank you, I appreciate you." 

Wave looks at him once before looking back at his noodles again and makes no move to remove his hand from under Pang's. "Good," he says, his voice hoarse. 

"Good," Pang replies, feeling lighter than he had all week. 

***

Here is the truth, no matter how Pang sees it: 

Pang is in love with Wave. 

He does not really know when exactly the process of falling in love happened. He just knows that one day he woke up and all of a sudden, his eyes involuntarily found Wave's. The world slowed down whenever Wave was in his vicinity and for some unfathomable reason, Wave was suddenly in everything he saw and did. 

Claire had once snickered when she'd found him staring at Wave and that's when he realised what the clamminess of his palms and the fastening of his heart beat meant. 

He is in love with Wave. 

This absolute truth is the one thing he does not find himself bending around, no matter what. The truth only glows brighter every day he spends with Wave, tinting all his surroundings with the pink that doesn't leave him even when Wave isn't around. 

There is no-one who understands him the way Wave does. 

Case in point: the reality unfolding itself in the way Wave lies beside him, holding one earbud out for Pang as he loads up a meticulously curated playlist. 

Pang gingerly takes the earbud from him and settles easily on the cold floor underneath them. 

"You can talk to me about anything, you know that right?" Wave says, somewhere in the middle of the fifth song. 

I love you, Pang thinks. "I know," Pang says. 

"I don't know what's bothering you and I want to be there for you," Wave says. 

I love you so much, Pang thinks. "I don't know what I'm supposed to do after this," Pang says. 

He feels Wave moving closer to him. "What do you mean?" Wave frowns. 

"I don't know what I wanted before this and I don't know what I want now," Pang admits. 

"You're Pang," Wave says, as the music shuts down. "You'll figure it out." 

The lull of the darkness around him makes it safer for him to say, "I don't know who I am supposed to be now." 

"You don't need to be anybody," Wave says, causing Pang to turn towards him. Always turning towards him. "You're Pang," Wave says, his voice a whisper. 

Who is that person, Pang wants to ask. There's a certain kind of surety behind Wave's words. The surety whose entire weight Pang doesn't think he can carry. 

"You're Pang," Wave whispers. "That's all you need to be," he says. 

I'm Pang, Pang thinks, and lets the golden of the words settle beneath his skin, as though merely being Pang is enough. 

He looks at the dead-set certainty veiled behind Wave's eyes and thinks that perhaps it is. 

"Why did you go against the Director?" Wave asks. 

"You know why," Pang replies, resigned. 

"No, say it." 

"Because he was harming everyone."

"And what made you want to stop him?"

"Because it wasn't fair."

"Why did you care?"

"Because I wanted to make this world a better place!" Pang exclaims, unbidden and then breathes a sigh of relief. "I want to make this world a better place," he whispers. 

The corner of Wave's mouth lifts up. "There you go."

I love you, Pang thinks. 

"I hope you have a seat beside you as you make your way in this world," Wave says, a bit hesitant. 

"For you, Wave? Always." 

Wave looks at him in surprise. 

Pang reaches across to cup their hands together, again. "We're going to find our way in this world together, I think."

"Together," Wave repeats, still wide-eyed. 

"Together," Pang confirms, feeling hope bloom behind his ribs. 

***

It takes some getting used to, but Pang gets there. 

The hallways of Rithda feel painted over, without the lingering anxiety of being surveilled by the Director all the time. There are bad days, and there are the exceptionally good ones, but the words, "We've won, we've won, we've won, we've won," keep ringing all the same. 

The hollow chamber in Pang's chest blooms with every possibility he can ever think of once it sinks into him that they are, in fact, free. Pang thinks of his life beyond this point in the present and thinks of a world waiting for him, in all the ways he's ever dreamt of. 

The lingering days of Rithda are moulded carefully by the smiles on his friends' face, by how Wave's hand slots so perfectly into Pang's, by the promise of never parting even after they've graduated, by Pang saying I love you out loud to Wave on their rooftop and Wave's equally dumb-struck declaration of reciprocated love, by the sturdy purpose of wanting to do good around him, and by the hope of a better future in his chest so bright that it spills through the gaps between his fingers. 

The future will unfold itself the way it has to. For now, Pang looks over the room full of his favourite people and feels nothing short of home. 

[jbk405]

I watched Shadow and Bone over the weekend since I was looking to fill the time.

I wasn’t particularly impressed by anything, but it at least kept me in to the end of the season.  Which is a far sight better than several other shows I started recently.

The characters are all standard archetypes so after the first episode you’ll know exactly how they’re all going to act for the rest of the season.  The story also doesn’t offer any surprises, if you’ve read any number of fantasy adventure books or watched TV before you’ll be able to plot pretty much the whole arc by the end of the third episode.  But provided you don’t expect to be Surprised and Amazed then you should be satisfied.

The magic system of the setting is easy to understand, albeit with the inevitable comparisons to Avatar that you’ll get with any sort of elemental powers.  Although I’ll actually say it’s more of a Codex Alera vibe if you ask me.

I do have several questions about the history of this setting, because as presented I don’t understand how Ravka continues to exist as functional state.  The Fold has existed for hundreds of years, preceding even the invention of firearms, so how is it that West Ravka is only now attempting to secede?  Travel across the Fold is perilous even with armed soldiers to fight off the volcra when they attack the skiffs, the idea that they could be repulsed by bows-and-arrows is so farfetched I won’t even entertain it.  The Grisha weren’t accepted in the Ravkan army back then, either.  With absolutely no way to defend the skiffs, in fact no skiffs at all without the Grisha to propel them, the Fold would have been fundamentally impassable.  Not “dangerous” or “difficult”, but impassable, which would have meant that the west and east would have had no contact at all.  Not “limited” contact, but no contact.  How did these two territories not diverge centuries ago?  Add in the actual war that Ravka is waging against their neighbors (Their technologically superior neighbors at that) and I am flummoxed that Ravka exists at all.  It should have broken into two (If not more) successor states long ago.

It would make some sense if the two halves had diverged long ago, and then the East had reconquered the West after developing the technology and abilities to make crossing the Fold at least possible, but that’s not how it’s presented.  These two regions have apparently remained united all along, and only now is the simmering resentment in the west blossoming into rebellion.

I understand that the setting is partially based on Tsarist Russia, and so I realize that this is deliberately leading up to the societal collapse to metaphorically represent the Russian Revolution and Russian Civil War and other events of the early 20th century, but we should be past all that.  Given the time involved we should have already seen the metaphorical rise of communism and the metaphorical cold war and probably also seen the metaphorical collapse of the Soviet Union as well.

[tinabean37]

My Superman Part 4

My Superman Part 4

Catch up with Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

Summery: Reader and Henry make plans for their date.

Warnings: None

Important: I do not know or own Henry Cavill. The characters in this story are made up by me.

**This chapter took forever to write, and I apologize for that. I started and restarted this chapter more times than I can count. I hope I came up with something you all like. Feedback is definitely appreciated. Let me know what you all think! And also...Asks are open. Send me ideas. :)**

******************************************************

The harsh sunlight of the new day shone brightly in your bedroom window. With a groan, you grabbed your phone off the nightstand to check the time. You were met by a notification for an unopened message from Henry, and that made you smile. You clicked on the message and the smile stayed on your face while you read his reply.

“Y/n. I was absolutely serious about getting together again. Tonight was one of the nicest times I’ve had in a while. I would love to see you again this week if we can? Think on it tonight. Sweet dreams darlin’.” He was serious? And wanted to see you again? This was the best news. You decided to fire off a quick reply before you got ready for the day. You were too eager to wait.

“Good morning Henry. This week would be wonderful. I am free tomorrow night, so if that works for you, I would love to see you again.” You hit send and put your phone away so you could clear your racing thoughts and be prepared for your day.

Once you got in the office, you were quickly met by your 2 workmates who you went out with the previous night. They were quick to apologize for leaving you and to see how the rest of your night went.

“Y/n, we’re sorry we left off last night. We met up with some gorgeous guys that we couldn’t say no to. Was the rest of your night alright?” Your friend offered. As you told them of last night's events with the horrible stranger, Andy, you decided not to be upset with them. If they hadn’t left you all by yourself, you most likely wouldn’t have met Henry. Which you told them as much. When they heard about your amazing chance encounter, you could pick up on their obvious jealously. You were unable to call them on it, however, as your boss took that moment to call the meeting to order.

When the meeting was over, you hurridly checked your phone on the way back to your desk. There were no unopened messages yet. Slightly disappointed, you sat down and decided to distract yourself with the project your boss set upon you this morning. This worked because the next thing you knew, your friends were at your desk inviting you to lunch, to make up for the night before. Taking them up on their offer, you grabbed your bag, threw your phone inside it, and headed off to grab a bite to eat.

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

Henry had barely made it through his door from his early morning meeting when he heard his cell phone ringing from the kitchen. He quickly ruffled Kal’s head, as he came to greet him, and rushed to grab it before the ringing stopped. Before he swiped to answer, he saw the name and face of his brother shining on his phone.

“Hey, Hank. how’s it going, man?” Henry's brother Charlie always gave his mood a pick-up. They were always close growing up, as they were the closest in age.

“Not too much. I just had a meeting with the studio heads. My new project starts up in a few weeks.” Henry continued to fill his brother in on his latest project and where that would take him and for how long. Afterward, Charlie updated Uncle Henry on how his nephews were doing, as well as what was new in his life. The brothers spoke at least once a week and always had a lot of catching up to do. Those Cavill boys were a busy bunch.

“That’s great, Henry, about the new project. But away for 4 months? Do you still not have anyone there who would miss you, and want you home?” Charlie always found a way to steer the conversation back to Henry’s love life. Or lack thereof. He didn’t do it to be mean. He legitimately cared about his brother and wanted him to be happy.

“Charlie, you know how bare that area has been. However, I did meet a girl last night. Might see her again too. She’s great. It was at the pub last night. Just walked right up to me. No idea who I was, and asked me to pretend to be her guy to scare off some arsehole who wouldn’t leave her alone. We got talking after that, and really hit it off.”

“Talk about chance encounters.” Charlie joked. He heard the excitement in Henry’s voice when he spoke of the girl, hoping for him that this worked out. He let his brother gush about this new girl for a bit longer, and after an agreement to keep him up to date on how it goes, the brothers ended the call. As Henry was about to put his phone back in his pocket, he saw the envelope icon on his phone, and his heart jumped as he saw that y/n had replied.

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

You and your workmates were having a coffee after lunch when you heard your phone buzz. You were so excited you almost threw it across the cafe with your jittery hands. Two pairs of excited eyes watched you intently as you stared at your phone, your mouth erupting into a giant smile.

“Y/n, don’t leave us in suspense. Is it from him?” You only nodded, too flummoxed to speak, as you handed your phone over to your friend to read the text message you received.

“Y/n, I hope you weren’t late for your early meeting this morning. I know I kept you late. I cannot wait until tomorrow. I haven’t been able to get you out of my head all day. I will pick you up at 7 at your flat. Until then, xo.” After the message was read aloud, your phone was roughly handed back to you with a scoff. That huge smile was still beaming on your face when your eyes fell on your two workmates, and couldn’t ignore their jealous edge. They passed looks between them two that you couldn’t ignore. You decided to finally put them in their place.

“I cannot believe my luck. Thanks again guys for leaving me at the bar last night. I really owe this to you.” You knew that comment may have taken things over the line with them, but you couldn’t bring yourself to worry about it. They didn’t seem to worry about you last night. You packed up your lunch, tossed the rubbish in the trash, and made your way back to your desk. When there, you sent your response.

“You have been in my thoughts all day as well. Tomorrow seems so far away. I will wait impatiently until then.” You put your phone down and dove back into your work. You had to keep yourself busy to keep your thoughts on track. 7 pm tomorrow couldn’t come fast enough.

[coffee-with-bucky]

Flummox

Summary: Bucky is perplexed about what love really is. After stewing on his thoughts, he finds that love just might be with you and a white furball named Alpine. 

Words: 2.9k

Genre: Fluff

A/N: After digging through many prompt generators on various sites, I found a writing prompt generator that prompted three words that made this entire fic possible: belief, cat, and piano. 

~~~

Combat boots with a film of mud trudged up rickety apartment building stairs, a creaky moan heaving into the night with each step. A slight twinge prickled the side of his torso. The tread upwards and onwards to the top floor made Bucky’s thighs and calves slightly ache underneath his black tactical pants. But the burn in his limbs was totally worth it. After a grueling two-week mission, he finally gets to see his girl. 

And his feline son.

Bucky scratched the side of his jaw, his metal fingers running through his soot-filled beard that needed a trim. As soon as they landed back at the compound, Bucky sped off the quinjet with the energy he had left in him and took off on his motorbike towards your apartment. He knew very well that he could have used the training room showers to clean himself up beforehand, but all he could think about on the ride back home was the comfort of your arms, stealing your shampoo because it’s a scent that he’s come to know and absolutely love, an affectionate white cat who loves to twirl around his ankles, and the cozy apartment that was made for the two of you. Scratch that, three of you.

He missed you so much. And as he counted the days down, the more he yearned for you.

Standing in front of your door, his super-soldier hearing picked up a soft piano playing on the other side. Bucky’s eyebrow raised. It’s just past 2 AM. Why are you playing music at this hour? Shrugging it off, his knife holster bounced and shifted as he rummaged through his pockets. Out pulled a small apartment key, the key to his castle and humble abode.

Unlocking and opening the door, he quietly took off his combat boots and left them by the mat, reminding himself to clean them off when daylight comes around. He quietly padded across the hardwood floor, looking for the source of the music when his eyes took a double take. He almost didn’t see the two lumps on the couch if it wasn’t for the small tableside lamp that barely illuminated the entire apartment.

You were fast asleep underneath a quilt blanket, chest softly rising and depleting while your face was buried into one of the couch pillows. Your arm hung off the couch, your limp hand directing to the book that fell onto the floor below. A mug of half drunken tea sat cold beside your laptop on the coffee table. Upon further inspection, Bucky read the piano playlist that was on loop on your laptop, a quiet and soothing melody drifting to his ears. And lying on your lap was a ball of white fur, Alpine sleeping soundly with you and his head resting on the blanket.

Your head suddenly shifted, making Bucky’s breath hitch. He thought he had woken you up, but it turns out you did the exact opposite and buried your head further into the pillow, letting out a tiny sigh. Bucky chuckled quietly to himself, his eyes softening and his heart swooning over how adorable and snuggled up you were with Alpine.

His feline son heard his chuckle and began to stir, opening his eyes while arching his back to stretch every part of his body. Alpine’s eyes lit up upon seeing his dad, jumping onto the back of the couch and letting out a tiny mew. Bucky’s smile widened, reaching up to pet Alpine’s head.

“Did you keep your mom company while I was gone?” Bucky whispered.

Alpine purred while Bucky scratched behind his ears. Bucky took that answer as a yes.

Reaching over, Bucky paused the playlist and pushed your laptop closed. He leaned down and pressed a light kiss to your forehead. With a careful touch, he grasped the edge of the blanket and brought it up to your chin.

Bucky used to get very little sleep. His nightmares and anxiety were the main culprits of reckless and dreadful nights, tormenting him to no end. But from the very beginning, you were there for him. You were there when he was severely shaken up from a horrible nightmare, your arms and your scent were there when he needed to recognize his surroundings, you were there when he just wanted to talk in the early hours of the morning. And you knew how exhausted he could be with no rest.

You let him sleep in on weekends, making sure that any activities you did in the apartment were quiet, including feeding Alpine before he started wailing for his meals. You even went as far as calling Steve a few times during weekdays, telling him that Bucky needed the day off to rest. Bucky was forever in your debt from those days forward.

After what you did for him in the past, letting you doze off and sleep contently on the couch was the least he could do for you.

Turning off the lamp, he headed to your shared bedroom for a fresh set of clothes and went to the bathroom for a much-needed shower.

Bucky purposefully left the bathroom door a crack open before turning on the hot water. Stepping into the cascade of steaming water immediately soothed his sore muscles, the knots in his back and limbs slowly coming undone. He began to scrub off the dirt, dried blood, and gun powder residue off his body, all the while being careful of his stitched-up wound on the side of his abdomen. 

Hearing a meow on the other side of the shower curtain made him grin. Alpine loved the warm steam and would sit on the lid of the toilet seat whenever you or him took a hot shower. It was probably because the steam cleared Alpine’s sinuses on the daily, but it was a cute habit nonetheless.

After washing the grime out of his hair with a big dollop of your shampoo, Bucky stepped out of the shower and dried himself off. He ruffled Alpine’s fur, fluffing it up with the help of the humidity to which Alpine purred in satisfaction. Throwing on his grey sweatpants, he began to towel dry the wet curtain of hair that hung across his face.

He halted the towel drying when he heard the bathroom door squeak open and what looked like to be a blanket ghost sluggishly walking in. A pair of arms wrapped around his bare torso as a head buried into his back between his shoulder blades.

“You’re finally back.” You yawned into his skin, making shivers shoot down his spine.

Bucky hung up his towel and tucked his wet disheveled locks behind his ears as his cheeks began to burn. Without breaking your hold, he turned around to properly engulf you with a hug. Bucky slowly pushed you until your back was pressed against the bathroom wall as a sleepy grunt emitting from you. He nuzzled his head into the crook of your neck, a deep sigh exhaled from his lungs as your touch, scent, and voice overwhelmed all of his senses.

“Did I wake you up?” Bucky mumbled into your neck.

You hummed, a hand stroking his warm back. “Yeah, but I don’t mind. I’m glad you did.”

Bucky pulled back slightly to pull the blanket that barely hung onto your head. Your eyes were still closed, your sight trying to adjust to the bathroom lighting. He placed two slow and soft kisses to your cheeks, his beard brushing against your face. You slowly opened your eyes because of this, your hands immediately cupping his jaw to feel it.

“Your beard is thicker.” You smirked, running your thumbs across his cheeks.

“You like it?” Bucky chuckled, his hands finding your waist.

Alpine leaped onto the sink counter and let out a meow, making the both of you laugh.

“Alpine certainly does,” You grinned and kissed Bucky’s nose, “I think you look great.”

“Thanks, doll. We forgot to pack razors in our bags before we left. So instead Steve, Sam and I decided to have a competition to see which one of us had the best beard by the end of the mission.”

You scrunched your nose. “You can have contests all you want but I don’t think you could ever beat Steve, babe. I mean, have you seen it? He’ll always have the best beard.” Bucky’s mouth hung agape as you giggled.

“Why you little–“ Fingers tickled your sides, making you erupt in laughter as your neck was suddenly bombarded with kisses. Your mind and body woke up from your sluggish state as Bucky’s lips and beard tickled your skin. He playfully bit the base of your neck as the blanket that hung on your shoulders fell to the floor, revealing that you were adorned in one of Bucky’s old t-shirts. His lips trailed up, peppering kisses to your jaw and every inch of your face.

“I missed you so damn much.” He muttered, brushing his nose against yours.

Your eyes softened, your mouth raising into a tiny grin. “I missed you too, Buck.”

With a tilt of his head, Bucky pressed his lips to yours, finally kissing you properly.

It was like a fresh breath of air, breathing you in instead of the dusty and stale HYDRA bases they invaded on their mission. You were his detox. The shower washed away the physical evidence from the mission, but your presence was all he needed to forget about the strategic plans, the HYDRA agents he had to attack, and the many times he had to get stitched up in the quinjet. His thoughts were now consumed and filled with you, what the week was going to look like, what plans you two had in store and unwinding at home.

His metal hand cupped your cheek, lips hungry for yours as your hands fell to his balmy chest, still warm from the shower. Your fingers danced up to his shoulders as he sighed into you, his heartbeat pounding in his ears and going haywire in his chest. You deepened the kiss as his lips moved in tune with yours. Your hand grasped the back of his damp head as Bucky melted into you, his knees going weak just like the very first time you had kissed him. Kissing you was addictive and Bucky wished he could kiss your delicate lips forever. If only oxygen was inevitable.

He reluctantly pulled away, the sounds of the both of you catching your breaths echoing off the bathroom walls. Bucky rested his forehead against yours as you gazed into his eyes. Your shirt was riled up slightly, giving him the chance for his thumbs to skim your skin that peaked under the hem. Your fingers weaved into his hair but quickly stopped. You pouted.

“Go blow-dry your hair. You’re going to catch a cold.”

Alpine meowed from his spot on the counter, a little frown on his face as if he was agreeing.

Bucky laughed, eyes crinkling in his corners as you beamed. He briefly kissed the smile on your face. It was a superstition that ran in your family, believing that you can get sick if you go to bed with wet hair. Bucky didn’t mind. Dry hair was much more comfortable to sleep in.

“Yes, ma’am.” He saluted.

Picking up the blanket off the floor and Alpine off the counter, you walked out of the bathroom as Alpine snuggled against you. Like many other cats, Alpine was afraid of loud appliances in the apartment such as vacuums and hairdryers. Taking him out of the bathroom was the best thing to do instead of terrifying him out of his mind.

Grabbing the hairdryer that was stored under the sink, Bucky went to work. Tousling his freshly washed and dried hair, he quickly brushed his teeth before going to the bedroom.

Bucky frowned at the door, hands on his hips as he saw the sight before him. Alpine was resting in his spot on the bed beside you, hogging up his pillow.

“Nuh uh.” Bucky shook his head, walking over to the bed. “You have your own bed by the window, punk.”

You snickered under the covers. You watched Alpine and Bucky glare at each other in a standoff, moonlight casting shadows across their faces and making the situation much more dramatic than it should be. Alpine yawned and curled himself into Bucky’s spot.

“Seems like someone kicked you out.” You giggled.

Bucky rolled his eyes before picking up Alpine and placing him on his cat bed that sat on the window sill. Getting under the duvet cover and lying down, Bucky pointed two fingers at his eyes, proceeding to point them at Alpine in a ‘I’m watching you’ gesture.

“Just because I was gone for a bit doesn’t give you the excuse to sleep in my spot, okay bud?” Bucky scolded.

Alpine disregarded Bucky entirely. Leaping off his cat bed, he hopped onto the duvet and situated himself at the foot of the bed. Bucky smiled, retracting his statement. Following the two of you around and wanting to be around 24/7 was endearing. It showed how much Alpine trusted you two and that he loved his owners back.

“You’re lucky that I love you, punk.” Bucky mumbled as he got himself comfortable, turning over to his side to face you. “But not as much as I love you, doll.”

You chuckled, your eyes slowly being weighed down by sleep as you rested your head on your pillow. Bucky took the edge of the duvet and tucked it up to your chin, placing a kiss on your forehead like how he did earlier.

“I love you, Buck.” You whispered as you closed your eyes. “Goodnight.”

“Night.”

Bucky closed his eyes, a small yawn escaping his lips. He furrowed his brows. Something was preventing him from sleeping. Maybe it was the way he was lying on the bed? He squirmed, trying to get into a comfortable position without disturbing you or Alpine. He mentally groaned, frustration starting to build up. He wanted to have a good night’s rest, but something was slightly off.  

Bucky opened his eyes, knuckles rubbing his eyelids as he tried to adjust to the dark.

Bucky stared at your relaxed state. You haven’t moved from your position at all, light breaths slowly inhaling and exhaling from your nose. His annoyance immediately dissipated. You were in quietude. And it was beautiful. You were beautiful.

He realized that his mind was still buzzing, millions of thoughts running wild through his head.

He was puzzled, but in a good way. How you miraculously came into his life and changed it for the better was somewhat of a mystery to him.

Well, he knows exactly how it happened because it was Natasha who actually introduced you to him.  

Bucky’s heart pounded as a warmth diffused across his chest.

That’s what was keeping him up. It was love.

He bit his lower lip. But what is love?

Well, to him it was an emotion he was currently experiencing in the early hours of the night, a strong emotion of devotion and affection if he had to describe it at best. It was through the rough patches and difficult times of his life where Bucky found you, a diamond in the middle of all of it. He finally found happiness. He had never experienced this daunting, yet wonderful feeling that he can’t describe until he had met you.

However, you weren’t just his partner. You were also his best friend. You were the one who made him realize that he was much more of a cat person than a dog person, which made the final decision to adopt a cat and adopt Alpine. You’ve taught him how to come to terms with his past, and that despite his job as being an Avenger, it wasn’t just his whole identity. He was Bucky Barnes, a man who was trying to find who he was, and you were there to help shape him to who he was today.

There was always a little voice in the back of his head, reminding him that he was lucky to have you, to never let you go because there was no one else that could compare to you. Even the dames back in the forties couldn’t stand a chance against you. You were incredibly patient with him from the very start, making sure that the relationship went at a steady and comfortable pace whilst giving an incredible amount of love and support. To have someone love you as much as you loved them was something to cherish.

Bucky’s focus on you slowly became blurry as his eyes gently fell shut.

At the core of it, love was a mystery. Sometimes love accidentally falls into place, sometimes love just needs to be searched for. In the end, the answer to Bucky’s question about love is valued, construed and defined differently depending on other’s perspectives. It was up to his own interpretation and definition to figure out the answer.

Bucky couldn’t quite put a finger on what the definition of love is, but he believes that he’s found it somewhere in the depths of the apartment. And specifically, you and Alpine are at the center of it.

The sounds of your quiet breathing and Alpine’s purrs faded, the warmth still in the center of his chest making him float and drift off into a peaceful slumber.

[sablelab]

Covert Operations - Chapter 125

SYNOPSIS:  While Jamie and Claire travel to their downtime destination, back at Section One, Madeline discusses her misgivings about the breach with Operations. They also get an unexpected call from Colum who knows more than he should about Section One. The plot thickens, suspicions are raised and the finger is pointed at Fitzgibbons and Fergus.  As a result Murtagh receives a call to meet Madeline in the White Room and Fergus begins to freak out as he discusses his apprehension over Operations believing his story about the breach.

 Chapter 124 and all other chapters can be found at … https://sablelab.tumblr.com/covertoperations

I am glad that you all enjoyed the last chapter as Jamie and Claire begin their journey to their destination.  That place will be disclosed next Friday as I will be posting weekly for the month of June. However, I hope you will be pleased to know that all of July will be Jamie and Claire centred chapters. THANK YOU all so much for your replies, for the likes and for reblogging my story. It is very gratifying to know that others enjoy this story as much as I enjoy writing it. I really appreciate your continued support for me and for all of the Outlander fanfic writers.

CHAPTER 125

 Madeline made her way to a private dining room for a breakfast debriefing with Operations about James Fraser and Claire Beauchamp and what she had planned for them when they returned to Section. There were also other things that had been playing on her mind that she wanted to raise with Operations. She couldn’t let go of the niggling unease in her head since the supposed breach and it had occupied her thoughts more than it should have. Section’s Head Strategist knew instinctively that there was something not quite right and Madeline wanted to get Dougal’s opinion about her intuitions.

Upon entering the room, she saw a stupendous breakfast laid out for them and approached Operations seated at the table. He gestured for her to come closer. “Good Morning Dougal … I see that you started without me,” she stated good-humouredly. He glanced up at her. “Where have you been Madeline? Come and join me before it gets cold.” Taking a chair opposite to him, she sat down. “Thank you. My … My … Christopher has outdone himself this morning,” she remarked upon seeing the fine breakfast spread he had prepared. “Yes, he has. What would you like?” Taking a croissant and accompaniments she placed them on her plate. “Sorry I’m late but I had some last-minute things I needed to attend to.” “What things?” “Just some eleventh-hour profiling for the Somalia mission.”  “Let me know if there's anything critical.” “I will.” Glancing at her, satisfied with Madeline’s answer, Operations started the agenda for their briefing. “I wanted to discuss our convalescing operatives with you. I see that they left bright and early this morning.”

‘Yes.  They wasted no time in leaving Section. Trust Jamie to want to get a good start on the two weeks we allowed them.  Quite predictable under the circumstances.”

“Does this add more evidence for your file on their personal relationship then Madeline?”

“All of their information is data Dougal.  You know I am very thorough when it comes to fraternization between active field operatives.  They have always needed to be watched carefully.”

“Are we able to establish where they are going?” “No their trackers are down but Fergus can work on another way to locate them if you wish.” “I don’t think that will be necessary.” “Unless something comes up that requires them back at Section earlier,” Madeline added. Operations nodded in agreement. “You’re right.” He then looked at her for a moment with a quizzical expression at her statement. “You don’t think there is something that will recall them earlier?” “Not at the moment … but you never know. If we get new Intel on the Rising Dragons it could be a possibility.” “Do we have anything new?” “Not at the moment … but we have our people searching for anything of interest.”  “Good. It seems that everything is going to plan. We can certainly pick up the Rising Dragons’ mission where we left off once they return to Section.” “Yes. Jamie will want to avenge Claire’s incarceration at the hands of the triad, so they’ll return fully recovered I’m sure when the two weeks is up. I’ll do a psyche analysis on the two of them before resuming the mission parameters.” Dougal nodded in agreement but noticed that his second in command seemed a little off kilter this morning. “Is something else bothering you Madeline?” he inquired. Given a perfect opening, she brought up the subject that had been troubling her for some time. “As a matter of fact, there is. I would like to discuss the breach with you.” “I thought that was done and dusted long ago but … I’m all ears. What is worrying you?” “It’s just a hunch, but I’m not completely convinced that it was a malfunction in the door mechanism that triggered the alarm.” “Why?” Operations asked offering to pour her a coffee. “I think that Mr. Claudel and Murtagh Fitzgibbons were somehow involved. They have been acting rather strangely lately. I did find them in the restricted area after all.” “Yes, but I thought Fergus’ explanation was reasonable. And they have been worried about Jamie and Claire.” “That may be so, but nothing those two do together is reasonable.” “What do you want to do then? Call them in?” “Yes that was my plan.” “Very well, but I was satisfied with their answers but if it will make you happy go ahead.” “I will.” ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ As the two leaders were enjoying their meal, they were interrupted by an incoming call. Answering the phone Operations put it on speaker mode so that Madeline could hear his conversation with the person at the other end … his nemesis and brother Colum Mackenzie. Once again the head of Oversight seemed to know when there had been some crisis happening at One and they both held their breath as to why he had contacted them this time. ”Good morning Dougal.” “Colum. How nice to hear from you again so soon after your last visit. To what do we owe the pleasure?” The intonation of his voice was laden with insincerity. 

Madeline interrupted the conversation before he could reply knowing that it was easier for her to talk to Colum than Operations given their antagonistic relationship. Her voice was laced with feigned delight. “Colum.” “Good morning Madeline … I trust that you are well?” “Very. So how can we help you?”

This was such an imposition. Whenever Colum Mackenzie rang or paid them a visit it spoiled Dougal’s breakfast and started him off in a bad mood for the rest of the day. Operations scowled waiting for his reply thinking a plethora of thoughts as to why his brother was calling Section One and all of them inane. However, they were certainly not expecting the reason for his call this time. Cutting to the chase he stated, “I want to know about the breach.” Taken aback Operations blurted out, “What?” “Don’t tell me you don’t know what I’m talking about Dougal. I want to know about the breach in security that happened at One. I want to know everything.” Flummoxed as to how Colum could possibly know such information or about the commotion that took place at Section One, Madeline and Operations both had a stunned look on their face. Recovering his composure before answering, Dougal raised his eyebrow at Madeline. As the enormity of the situation sunk in, his bewilderment quickly turned to ire at what he and Madeline must do. Somewhere in Section One there was a mole or Colum had managed to plant listening devices or surveillance that had gone undetected. They would need to get to the bottom of this treachery and fast.

Operations was furious and held his tongue … but just. “I’m curious Colum. How did you find out about the situation at Section anyway? After all it did happen days ago.” “Everything that goes on in all the Sections and not just Section One, is known to Oversight … remember that Dougal,” he warned. “I was waiting to be informed by you but obviously that was not forthcoming.”  “I saw no reason to tell you,” he muttered tersely under his breath and took great delight in setting the record straight. “However, this time Colum, I’m afraid that your Intel is incorrect. What you call a breach was actually a malfunction in the system.”  “Are you sure that was the case? I hope you were not compromised in any way?” “Absolutely. We ran down inexhaustible possibilities, but nothing was found. There were no casualties. No intruders were discovered and everything was contained. We're at full capacity except for Jamie and Claire.”  Colum, however, pushed his own agenda forward and ignored Operations’ response knowing that his reply would incense the leader of One. “Perhaps I need to send in my team in to examine the situation anyway. Starting with department heads and key operatives.” Suspicious of his motives Madeline interrupted stating emphatically, “I see no reason for you to intervene. We’ve already seen to that Colum. We have our own people who have comprehensively done that. Don’t you trust our judgement?” ”What’s not to trust?” was his tacit reply enjoying their pickiness. Madeline was also acutely aware of the waves of anger that radiated from the man opposite her. She jumped to their defence not liking the tone of his question. “That’s provocative Colum. Are you implying that we can’t be trusted?” Immediately put on the back foot he tried to soothe over their chagrin.  “Of course not. I was merely stating that what you have said is admirable and Oversight is thankful that you moved so expediently on the matter. However, that does lead me to another issue that may refute this statement.” “What?” Operations barked back incensed by his inferences and line of questioning but especially about his prying in Section One. His face darkened with anger while his brother’s conjecture provoked his budding volatile temper. Without preamble the Oversight leader continued, but the tone of his voice was far from happy. “Since you failed to notify me, I’m also just checking as to how are things going with Jamie and Claire’s recovery?” So that was it. He was peeved that they hadn’t notified him earlier of their decision. “By all means. I can answer that for you Colum,” Madeline replied. “You’ll be pleased to know that they were granted downtime for two weeks to recover fully, which they started this morning as a matter of fact. I hope that meets with your satisfaction and approval?” “It does. I will notify Centre that plans for Jamie and Claire’s recuperation have been implemented and that once they return the Rising Dragons’ mission can conclude. Or have you plans to continue without them? You do know that Oversight has the capacity to take over the mission if One is understaffed because they are on downtime.”  Operations’ reply was gruff. His brother’s inference was confrontational as Colum knew that Jamie and Claire’s presence on the mission was vital. They had no plans to continue the mission without them but they did have Fergus working on possible leads from their informants for when they did return. The temerity of the man was beyond belief, after all it was on his orders that they were given two weeks to recover. Operations ignored Colum’s question and answered his statement about Centre. This Intel caught them both by surprise too knowing that Mr Lambert was also keeping tabs on them.

“Of course.”  You know that Centre is closely monitoring this mission too don’t you Dougal, and that its success is paramount.” “We are doing everything we can to make sure that happens brother.” “Good … I’ll hold you to that rest assured. It will look extremely bad for One … and especially for you Dougal … if you can’t deliver the goods. Remember that nothing escapes Oversight and how you handle your two best operatives is of immense interest to Mr Lambert, so we are expecting great things of Section One. Understand?” Despite their dislike of the man, they needed to keep Colum onside … Centre too as interference from either was the last thing that either of them needed or wanted and it seemed that his brother was far too familiar with happenings at Section One. Operations was becoming more incensed the longer this conversation went on and he wanted to see the back of Colum once and for all. He and Madeline shared a look and with Dougal biting his tongue he replied succinctly, “Perfectly.”  “Fine. Then I won’t hold you up any longer. Have good day.” ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ Once the connection was terminated, Madeline turned towards Operations. The look on his face said it all and she was in no illusion as to how he was feeling. This conversation had been a bombshell. It was no surprise that his eyes were sleet grey with anger. Under the circumstances his reaction was to be expected. Colum only bought out the worst in him and this time he had really set the cat amongst the pigeons. Their day was anything but good now given the conversation they’d had with the leader of Oversight. They had always wondered why he used to turn up at Section unannounced armed with classified information about some crisis that had taken place at Section and now they were faced with the added dilemma of finding out how and why he was keeping tabs on them. In fact, it left many questions unanswered for them of things they needed to address and the sooner the better … the first being the breach and how Colum had known about it. Unfortunately, he had sown a seed of doubt and they couldn’t let it go unresolved. “Don't let this distract you Dougal. He was baiting you to get a reaction.”  “Distracted! How can I not be distracted when Colum knows too much? This is serious Madeline. This is the second time that there has been a spilling of Intel. I want it to stop. Now!”  “It does seem coincidental that he has been aware of happenings at Section too frequently of late. We’ve long suggested his involvement now we have to act.” “We need to get to the bottom of this once and for all. I want every operative scrutinized ASAP. Your hunch may prove to be right about Fergus and Murtagh after all.” “Maybe that's what Colum wants us to believe.” “You don’t think they have been feeding him Intel do you?” Her nagging suspicions had manifested and it all seemed to be tied into Colum Mackenzie. Madeline’s mind was already leaping forward to what she had to do although it pained her that the subjects were Fergus and Murtagh, but they needed to do what was necessary. There was a leak and it had to be contained. Operations would expect nothing less. She doubted that it was the two larrikin operatives but they may know something that could find the culprit responsible.

“No, but it’s possible. We need to get to the bottom of it and fast.”  “I agree. Do it! If they are in any way responsible, I’ll cancel them myself.” ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Like Madeline and James Fraser, Murtagh Fitzgibbons was an enigma in Section.  His pragmatic attitude and uncanny way of playing both ends against the middle, if it suited his own agenda had held him in good stead and kept him out of abeyance over the years.  Section One’s munitions expert was a man of the sixties.  He was a Hippie who had never grown up and was a living, breathing 60’s “time warp.”  Murtagh’s demeanour was his kind-heartedness and his loyalty was hard-won and once given, hard to break.  He knew all about Free Love, he’d been to Woodstock, smoked dope, loved the girls and left them wanting more. He was a total charmer; he could charm the birds out of the tree, a flirt who just loved the ladies.  His laconic sense of humour and irreverent behaviour was a welcomed relief in a place that never smiled, never laughed, never loved.  

His approach to his job demonstrated his cavalier attitude to the things he held dear, his munitions work and his communications devices. Murtagh was also a deadly, accurate manipulator of the system that incarcerated him, but he knew how to manipulate the system but still keep his nose clean. It seemed he had been in Section forever, for he had seen the changes of Command and had adapted to the different styles of leadership, perfecting his role in the scheme of things.  He was his own boss and was left alone most of the time.  He knew how to play their games to keep out of trouble. Yet Murtagh Fitzgibbons was an integral part of the team. He was Section One’s expert in explosives and firearms … the weapons specialist for the Section.

Except for his machinations and childish behaviour with his buddy Fergus Claudel, he observed and listened.  He was the ears and eyes of Section One and never missed much of what went on in Section.  

It pained Madeline to have to interrogate Section’s munitions expert and their computer whiz kid but under the circumstances it needed to be done. Nine times out of ten her hunches were proven correct but her initial misgivings about their behaviour now raised serious doubts in her mind about their loyalty to Section. Although Operations was satisfied that they were not responsible for the breach, could it be that they were the ones feeding Intel to their adversary Colum Mackenzie? Her gut said no, but her head said they needed to be questioned further. She had to be sure that they had nothing to do with passing on information and the only way to do that was the Section way ... in the White Room. No one was immune from suspicion including them and she was determined to get to the bottom of the breach and treachery in Section One once and for all.

Meanwhile in Munitions …

Murtagh Fitzgibbons was working at his post thankful that things had settled down at Section. Jamie and Claire were finally off on their downtime and he hoped that the two weeks would be the medicine they needed to fully recover. He was a hopeless romantic, when it came to these two operatives who Operations and Madeline had put through the ringer time and time again. It seemed that Section’s leaders were fixated on the couple and Madeline especially was always trying to gather data on their relationship.  To all intents and purposes, it was platonic but he knew otherwise.  He recognized a couple in love.  He knew that feeling only too well and he wanted them to have a chance at some privacy on their downtime. Murtagh was a big softie and he wanted the best for the people he cared about … and Claire and Jamie were very special to him.  God knows he knew that they needed time away from this hellhole. The Rising Dragons’ mission had been totally consuming and the two operatives had given their all thus far and had paid the ultimate price for their loyalty.  They had been tortured and had nearly died on the last mission, so if he could help them in any way possible then he would do so, for their sakes.

Fergus had also managed to convince Operations that there had indeed been a malfunction that had caused the breach and had given him the proof to back his claims. They were off the hook and he was thankful that his buddy was able to think under pressure to come up with the scenario he gave Operations. Like he’d said to Fergus … there was no way of their leaders finding out that they had indeed set off the alarm or been responsible for the hullabaloo that ensued. Yes … everything was getting back to normal.

As he was busily working at his station loading the guns for the Somalia mission, his lady love Bóinne Rivière happened to join him. Happy to see her, Murtagh gave her his idea of a sexy rebel smouldering look and they shared one of their special glances. It was plain to see that they both enjoyed each other's company and he was giving the beautiful nurse his undivided attention. They were both laughing, sharing private jokes and Murtagh’s was concentrating solely on this tall, striking woman.  ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Hey, Murtagh.” He was oblivious to the fact that his friend, Fergus Claudel, had made his way to Munitions as he was fussing around Bóinne and was busy explaining one of his gadgets to her so he didn’t hear Fergus call out at first. 

“Huh?” he replied not really paying attention to the sound of his pal’s voice. The nurse’s eyes glanced at the computer expert as he approached. Bóinne could tell by the look on Fergus’ face that he wanted a private talk with his friend. Aware that something was bothering him, she ended her chat with Murtagh.

“That's okay honey; I've got to go anyway.” He looked up to see Fergus approach munitions and realised why she had said what she did. Although her answered her, it was obvious he really wanted her to stay. She could see the disappointment in his gaze.

“I'll catch you later then.” Fergus now stood in his line of sight but Murtagh watched his girlfriend until she was no longer in view. He briefly shut his eyes lost in his own feelings and gave a breathy sigh.

“Wow! I haven't felt like this in a long time ... I … I think she might feel the same way.” “Murtagh ...”

Fergus had said his name in a wistful manner, however, the older operative failed to see that something was troubling his buddy. He was too wrapped up in his own euphoria at having been in Bóinne’s company. Ignoring the tone of his voice, he was unaware of Fergus’ mindset. Because he felt so happy, he thought that Fergus was also back to his old self as well. The thought that ran through his mind was about their last encounter with the breach. Murtagh knew that his friend would not be up for any new adventures in the near future except those that involved his area of expertise. He looked at Fergus and greeted the young techie with a jovial smile.  “Hey what’s up amigo?” But before his friend could reply he prattled on about his own needs, his mind suddenly back on the woman who had just left. “I ... I need your help. Find out anything you can about her, something I wouldn't likely know.” “Look, I’ve ...” “Her birthday's coming up. I want to get her something really special. ... Please?” “… I've … gotta talk to you.” Although a little distracted with his own happy thoughts Murtagh replied, “I’m listening,” but when Fergus said his name imploringly again, he looked up at him realising that something was bothering his friend.

“Hey? Why the long face?”  “I’m just a little nervous that’s all.” “Why? You still worried about the breach?” “Yeah, I am a little.” He immediately stopped what he was doing. “I thought you said everything went well with Operations. So why are you down in the mouth?” “Nothing I guess … just a feeling.” “Trust me, you’ll get over it,” he replied with conviction continuing again with the task at hand. “What if I can’t? I feel kind of guilty.” “Don't feel guilty. Everything has gone back to normal … you should be pleased.” “But Murtagh, we caused a security breach and I’ve got a bad feeling that something is going to happen. Operations was too compliant. They’ll find a way to blame us for sure.” “Don't worry about it.” But Fergus just wouldn’t let it go and continued venting. “Yeah, what do you think they're going to do if they find out? Huh? This is not a convalescent home!” This time Murtagh looked his buddy square in the eye trying to convince him that his doubts were not warranted. “It’s just your imagination. Why would Operations or Madeline blame us? They found nothing to implicate us and besides you gave Operations evidence that was irrefutable. What’s to worry about? Have they called you in?” His friend’s words made sense to him but still Fergus had this lingering feeling that scared him. “No. But what if they do? They’ll find out I was lying and put me in abeyance.”  The weapons’ expert tried to diffuse the situation and the techie’s concerns once and for all. “I find that highly unlikely amigo. You’ll be fine. Don't agonize over it … you’ll only worry more. It’ll do your head in if you’re not careful.” “How do you do it Murtagh? How do you stay sane?” Fergus implored. “What's the secret?” “Knowing when to lie, and when to tell the truth,” he replied enigmatically. Fergus didn’t quite understand. “What do you mean? To them?” “Yes … and to yourself. At night you go to bed knowing you live in hell. That's the truth.” “And the lie?” “You wake up in the morning thinking that this day may change everything … you'll escape, you'll fall in love, they'll close the place up and send everybody home.” It finally dawned on Fergus what his wise friend was alluding to. “Then that night you have to face the truth again,” he replied reflectively. “Yeah. But in the meantime, you've accomplished what's truly remarkable. You've made it through another day in Section.” “Is that what Jamie and Claire do?” “I’d bet my last dollar on it.”  “Thanks, Murtagh, I feel much better now.” Changing the subject he then asked. “So, things are going well with Bóinne I see.” Murtagh gave him a silly smile. “Yeah … you could say that. Hey, it’s her birthday tomorrow. I need to get her something that she really likes.” “Why don't you ask her?”  He smiled at his friend’s naivety. “You ..., ah ..., don't know women very well, do you?”  Fergus looked up at the older operative and met his gaze, before breaking into a big smile. He laughed. “You want me to pull up her file and check out her likes. Don’t you?” With crinkling eyes he grinned at him. “Yeah.” “Okay … I’ll get back to you with anything I find out.” “Thanks … I owe you one.” However, while Fitzgibbons was dispensing his pearls of wisdom to reassure a despondent Fergus and in the middle of their friendly banter about his relationship with the Med nurse Bóinne Rivière, Murtagh’s phone rang. He looked at his friend. “Wait here I’ll be right back,” he ordered then went into the back room to answer it. Picking up the handset Murtagh Fitzgibbons spoke into the receiver. “Hello?” ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ 

Fergus Claudel was cooling his heels waiting for his friend to re-emerge from his back room, but he was taking his time about it. He was getting a little testy and those demons in his head he’d been talking to the weapons’ expert about reared their ugly face again as he began to think the worst.

“Hey … Murtagh? You okay back there?” he called out.  When his buddy didn’t reply, Fergus decided to check if he was okay, and made his way into the back room to see what had happened and why Murtagh was taking so long in reappearing. On entering the room, he found his friend standing there listening to whoever was on the other end of the line with his head bowed and the receiver in his hand. He gestured for Fergus to be quiet and raised his hand to stop him from saying anything else. Seeing that the colour had drained a little from his friend’s face he immediately became worried about what was being said to his buddy. He watched Murtagh’s body language and knew something wasn’t quite right. ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ “Yeah? … Oh ... I'll be right there,” he replied nonchalantly to the recipient on the other end of the line. He looked over at Fergus for a moment, then turned away from the quizzical look in his eyes.

Fergus knew one thing though; his buddy was talking to either Operations or Madeline. However, he couldn’t read his expression as to which one of Section’s leaders it was. “Is there anything else?” Murtagh asked realising what was required of him. “No … That’s all.” In a composed voice he responded. “Very well … I'm on my way.” 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~  to be continued on FRIDAY 5th JUNE when we find out where Jamie has taken Claire.

[thetimelesscycle]

Tales of Arcadia Wizards Fanfiction: Hope Dies Last - Chapter 4

A common goal fails to foster cooperation, and questions without answers continue to perplex.

A/N: In which I am forced to try and include some actual plot and civil conversations are in short supply.

Chapter 4

A Puzzle Incomplete  

To say that Merlin was furious would have been as wild an understatement as the claim that Arthur was not especially fond of magic. He was not certain there was a word for the incandescent rage boiling just beneath his skin, threatening to dissolve carefully constructed walls that had not crumbled in decades. It took a conscious effort to keep a lid on that fury as he guided his exhausted apprentice to lie down once again, the boy having spent what little strength he’d regained in a few scant minutes. Shivers still wracked his slender frame, his body reacting to the invisible wound festering beneath the surface, though at this point Merlin was more worried about his state of mind.

He had never seen Hisirdoux display such raw terror before, not even at the sword point of Arthur’s knights. Then again, Galahad had only threatened to execute him, not tear his soul to shreds and leave him with the tattered remains.

The worst part was he did not think there were meant to be any remains. Whoever had attacked his apprentice had done so with the intention of destroying him completely. They had come dangerously close to succeeding, thwarted by the boy’s own magic, which raised more questions than it answered. If Hisirdoux had encountered a creature powerful enough to wound him in this way, how was he still alive? How had a child whose own enchantments still flummoxed him fended off that sort of danger?

He wasn’t going to get any answers from Hisirdoux right now, that much was clear. His apprentice was mumbling restlessly in his sleep again, nonsensical words, the delusional arguments of an overstressed mind.

“Tell me you know how to fix this.” Archie had settled himself behind his familiar’s shoulders, one paw draped over the boy’s arm, but his eyes were fixed on Merlin, plea and demand both in that gaze. “Tell me you can help him.”

“I intend to do everything in my power, Archibald.” It wasn’t quite the same lie he’d told his apprentice, trying to soothe the boy’s panic before he did himself further injury, but it wasn’t the whole truth either; He was already doing everything in his power, it simply wasn’t enough.

“That’s not a ‘yes’.” The tiny dragon gave him a look that could almost have been called threatening. “He thinks you’re capable of anything, you know. Maybe it’s time you lived up to the legend.”

Not gracing that barbed statement with a response, he tucked the blanket back about Hisirdoux’s shoulders, pausing just long enough to rest a hand on the boy’s clammy forehead as he renewed his stasis spell for the umpteenth time. That done, he took his leave, refusing to acknowledge Archie’s lingering stare as he slipped out of the room.

Morgana was waiting for him when he reentered the workshop, pacing back and forth with long, sweeping strides, a book held open in her hands. She whirled as soon as the door opened.

“How is he?”

Straight to the point. Her and Arthur were very alike in that way. He didn’t answer at once, drifting across the room to the cluttered workbench by the stained glass windows. There was a fine layer of dust there that had gathered over the past two days, the designs he had been pouring over what seemed a lifetime ago now sitting discarded and forgotten. He sensed Morgana’s impatience as he lifted the page of sketches and idly examined its contents, dropping the weighted truth into the tense silence.

“Slipping away.” It was an inadequate description for what would happen if he didn’t find a way to stop the dark magic from finishing its work. What was confusion and spontaneous panic now would devolve into raving madness as Hisirdoux’s very essence continued to crumble. The boy was already losing memories, the spell he had cast only slowing the process, not preventing it. “I have no doubt this was an attempt to kill him.”

“Why?” Her outrage echoed his own. Where his bubbled beneath a thin veneer of self-control, hers revealed itself in a flash of righteous fury, the room rattling briefly as she paced closer. “He’s a child, Merlin!”

“That I cannot say.” His suspicions, founded on his knowledge of the type of magic it took to cause this kind of injury, seemed ludicrous. Hisirdoux was not trained enough to be a threat to anyone yet — besides himself — and certainly not enough of a danger to warrant such wanton cruelty. The being who had attacked his apprentice under Arthur’s very nose had done so with purely malicious intent. To hurt someone in that way, to threaten not only their life but their existence beyond the mortal plane as well... that was an act of pure hatred. More perturbing still, Hisirdoux appeared to have been the only target. Not even Archie had been wounded, despite the fact the pair of them shared the same bed. “Though I intend to find out.”

“I will help in any way I can,” she asserted, coming to stand on the opposite side of the work table. “What about Douxie? Is there anything he needs? Anything we can do?”

“He needs a proper healer.” Morgana scowled, and Merlin’s own glare deepened out of habit. It was a tall order. Neither of them had a gift for healing magic, formidable wizards though they might be, and those of Camelot’s dwindling magical community who were proficient in the healing arts had been some of the first victims in Arthur’s war against magic. Such individuals were typically well-known and notoriously bad at keeping themselves hidden, driven as they were to put their skills to good use. Hisirdoux had shown some aptitude for minor healing charms using his runic bracelet, but not to the level required to mend someone’s shredded spirit; Certainly not when he was the victim.

“Did he tell you what happened?” Morgana was on the hunt. He’d seen that look enough times to recognise it. “A name? A face?”

“No, not yet.” He could have pushed. It was clear Hisirdoux remembered something, and was deeply disturbed by it. Perhaps that was why he’d chosen not to force the matter. Further stress right now would only make things worse. He also had the image of his apprentice reeling away from him in abject terror ingrained in his mind, and wasn’t in any great hurry to repeat that experience. “We’ll have a chance to ask some more pertinent questions when next he wakes. In the meantime, we should continue our efforts to keep the castle secure.”

“You’re worried about Arthur.”

“He is a rather more likely candidate for assassination than my very green apprentice.”

“You haven’t even considered the possibility that you were the target, have you?” He came up short, casting her a piercing look. Morgana rolled her eyes. “Of course you haven’t. He is your apprentice, Merlin. If anyone wanted to draw you out, Douxie is by far the easiest way to reach you.”

It made a disturbing amount of sense, much as he would prefer to deny it. Anyone with even an inkling of familiarity with the royal court would be aware that he would go to Arthur’s aid as required, but the king had an enchanted blade and dozens of trained knights at his beck and call. He would not fall without a fight. Hisirdoux, on the other hand, couldn’t even fend off an enchanted broom. It was entirely possible, even probable, that anyone trying to strike down the Master Wizard would see his apprentice as the weak link in the chain.

Except, that would suggest that the person responsible believed he would set everything else aside to assure the welfare of his student. That assumption was to his advantage; Or, it would have been, had he not spent the last two days doing exactly that. Without the constant renewal of his stasis spell, Hisirdoux might not have survived long enough to regain consciousness. Putting aside his other duties had seemed the right thing to do at the time, weighed against the unnerving thought of no longer having apprentice and dragon constantly underfoot. Morgana was forcing him to face the fact his enemies may have depended upon him making that exact decision, and consider the very real possibility his eyes had deliberately been drawn away from some greater danger.

He wasn’t in the mood to entertain that thought, or to acknowledge the stark fear nipping gently at his heels, so he deliberately set them both aside. There had been no further attacks; It seemed reasonable to assume Hisirdoux was the only target for the time being, as perplexing as that was.

“There is no point speculating until we know more,” he said aloud, knowing the silence had stretched a beat too long. “Better to concentrate on securing our defenses and finding someone to help Hisirdoux.”

“You won’t find anyone in Camelot. You know that.”

That she was right didn’t make him any less aggravated by the observation. “What do you suggest, then?”

“I could try.”

He had not been expecting it, which was the only reason it took him more than a second to formulate his reply. “No. Absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

“I think enough damage has already been done without bringing Shadow Magic into the mix, don’t you?”

“I’m not going to hurt him!”

“No, because you will not be using your dark arts anywhere near him. I forbid it.”

She clenched her fists around the volume in her hands, the room rattling again as she stared him down in muted fury. “You know you are part of the problem, don’t you? If you didn’t spend so much time dismissing and demonising that which you don’t understand perhaps Arthur would not feel so justified in destroying every form of magic that does not serve him.”

“Rubbish.” He waved the words away. “We both know where Arthur’s hatred of magic stems from. It has nothing to do with me.”

“You are blind if you truly believe that.”

“And you are wasting my time with pointless arguments in the midst of a crisis. I have better things to do right now than have this discussion with you again.”

He turned towards the door, only to have it come aglow with magic as it slammed shut.

“I am not Hisirdoux to be dismissed whenever you don’t feel like listening.”

“More’s the pity.” He swung back around to face her with his condemnation. “I did at least think you had enough regard for the boy not to delay my work.”

The glare she fixed on him could have quelled Gunmar himself. Merlin simply glared right back, raising an imperious eyebrow in that way he knew she hated.

“Waiting and hoping you’ll think of something is not the answer, Merlin, as you well know. You just don’t want to admit it.”

“What I refuse to admit is that diving headfirst into the Shadow Realm is a viable solution to the problem at hand. Because it isn’t.”

“You don’t know that.” She gestured with the book in her hands. Not one of his library; He had never encouraged this exploration of dark magic. He didn’t even know where she had happened across it, only that he deeply regretted not having snatched it away to cast into the fire years ago. “You don’t know Shadow Magic. How can you be so certain it won’t work?”

“Common sense, girl.” She glowered at the title, a humbling she had earned with her adamance. “Double the poison does not make a cure.”

“There is nothing there to cure.” She slammed her hand palm down on the table. Out of the corner of his eye, Merlin marked Archie emerging from the bedchamber, though whether he intended to intervene or simply wanted to be closer to the unfolding argument was debatable. “Whatever magic did this to him destroyed parts of his soul. They’re not there to be mended, they’re gone. He’s not a torn cloak, Merlin. You can’t just tie the pieces that remain together and hope it’s enough to cover what is missing. Even if you get him back on his feet you will stretch him so thin you’ll be lucky if he doesn’t kill himself the first time he tries to cast a spell!”

“And how would you know that, hmm? What extensive well of experience are you drawing your theories from?”

“This.” She lifted up the spell book, shoving it at his chest. He seized it on instinct, and she took the opportunity to pluck several more volumes off the table and toss them in his direction as well. He caught those with magic, which was preferable to his face, and watched her storm closer whilst struggling to contain his own rising ire. “You are so convinced that your way is the only way that it has never even occurred to you that I chose to study Shadow Magic for this very reason. For when other means are not enough. You have no idea how it works because you think it is beneath you. I do know. I can use it. And I know that if we have any hope of restoring Douxie’s soul the Shadow Realm is our best chance. Somebody tore that boy to pieces, Merlin, what’s missing doesn’t exist in this world anymore, but that sort of dark magic leaves a trail. I can save him if you will just trust me.”

“And when what you save is not Hisirdoux? When you patch him back together with dark magic and corrupt him entirely? What then, Morgana?”

“I know the difference.”

“No, you think you know the difference, and I will not wager my apprentice’s life on your arrogance.”

“My arrogance? You are the old fool who can’t see past your own self-importance to what your inaction has cost us all! You could have stopped Arthur years ago if you so chose, but you needed him to keep you safe so you could continue your all important work, at the cost of the hundreds of innocents you abandoned. The only reason your apprentice ever needed saving was because you were too much of a coward to stand up to your king!”

“How dare you—!”

“Stop it, both of you!” The outburst was such a surprise that Merlin was actually struck to silence, turning in tandem with Morgana to stare at the small dragon glaring at them both with a baleful expression. “What you seem to be forgetting is that this isn’t your decision to make, it’s Douxie’s. He is the one who has been hurt here, and you deciding what is best for him without bothering to even ask what he thinks is not going to help matters at all. When he wakes up we will all have a civilised discussion on what the best thing to do is. Until then, perhaps you two Master Wizards can put your heads together and properly figure out who was responsible for this. Before they do the same thing to someone else.”

The ensuing hush was awkward, to say the least. Archie refused to back down, standing with wings flared and lips curled back in a faint snarl as he tried to look as intimidating as a dragon that didn’t come up to one’s knees could. Merlin was the first to turn away, stalking back to the table to set down the books Morgana had flung at him in her fury. Unfortunately for him, years spent as his student had taught her to read his silences better than anyone else, and there was disbelief in her eyes when he turned back to face the pair of them.

“You already know, don’t you?” she accused.

“I suspect,” he defended himself. “That is not the same thing as knowing.”

“Yes, yes, it’s completely different,” Archie pressed impatiently. “Who do you suspect is responsible then?”

He had not been ready to disclose this much to anyone just yet. Sadly, he could not see a way out of it without inciting another argument. It was a small miracle they hadn’t already woken Hisirdoux with all the shouting that had been going on, and he didn’t want to subject himself to Archie’s righteous anger should it start up again. Instead, he adopted the stance of a teacher once more, marching back and forth as he spoke, “The ability to injure someone in this way is not common. Shadow Magic might allow you to tether a soul to a traumatic memory, hold it in place, twist it until it bends to your will, or rip it from its mortal flesh entirely, but it does not allow you to cause irreparable harm. This is something older, darker. This is the Arcane Order.”

Morgana exchanged a glance with the familiar, then asked the expected question, “What is the Arcane Order?”

“You mean who,” he held up a finger to emphasise his point. “They are a trio of ancient wizards who protect the balance between the magic and the mortal worlds by rendering destruction on those they perceive to be a threat. If you want to blame anyone for the world’s growing mistrust of magic, Morgana, the Order should be at the top of your list. To say that they are responsible for the deaths of hundreds would likely be understating the bloody mark they have left on history. Part of the reason I aided Arthur in uniting Camelot was because it was becoming abundantly clear I could not continue to fight them on my own, and the divisions amongst the mortal kingdoms made them easy prey. The Order has been quiet since Arthur came to power; I might have known they were planning something.”

“Why Douxie, though?” Archie wondered aloud. “Why not Arthur? Why not you?”

“I do not know.” It grated to admit that much. Morgana’s theory might hold some merit, but he still didn’t understand why the Order would not have come for him directly. He was not an easy mark, but he was not unreachable either. “If it was the Arcane Order, then I do not even know how Hisirdoux survived. These are beings older than nearly any other that walks the earth. Hisirdoux is a child. It doesn’t make sense.”

“We are missing something,” Morgana agreed, leaning across the table to emphasise her next point. “So let me look for it.”

He folded his arms, making his disapproval known. “We are going in circles, Morgana. The answer is still no.”

“But—!”

“Enough!” He called his staff to his hand from across the room just to add the force of slamming it on the ground to his words. “I need to go make sure our king is kept informed of this potential threat. If you want to make yourself useful, try searching my library for a solution that won’t simply kill the boy faster.”

“Kill?” Archie’s head shot up, eyes wide behind his glasses. “He’s dying?”

Merlin took that as his cue to leave the room. Let Morgana be the one to break the bad news. If she was doing that perhaps she wouldn’t feel tempted to go rooting through every scrap of forbidden knowledge Arthur had not yet managed to destroy.

A doubtful outcome, but a wizard could hope.

Right now, that seemed like all he could do.

Story Canon Notes:

"Hisirdoux had shown some aptitude for minor healing charms using his runic bracelet..." - Not strictly canon, but Douxie's role in the Trollhunters game is team healer, which at lease loosely implies he has some sort of remedial spell in his arsenal. His (minor) injuries also disappear between scenes in Episode 8, and I assume he was going to attempt to use some sort of healing spell on Merlin before Merlin stopped him.

[ravenwritesstuff]

Best Laid Plans (10/?)

Fandom: Frozen (modern AU, no magic) Pairings: Helsa, established Kristanna, Rapunzel/Eugene, lotsa frohana Rating: T for now, M later almost for sure A/N: Fun fact about why it takes me so long to write stuff. I write everything out of order. The very first scene I wrote of this fiction is in this chapter.

She cannot help but be wary. She has seen what happens when Hans Westergaard shows what he wants and she is all too familiar with that heat and tension. Her body tightens in anticipation of what he means, and does her best to hide her apprehension behind professionalism.

"While I am sure we all are thrilled with the mystery of your offer, it really is critical that we establish exactly what you want as quickly as we can as our timeline is so limited." 

She has never had a client be so withdrawn about their event or purpose before. Most clients could not wait to throw ideas and concepts and colors in her direction or instead all the things they didn’t want. So far she knows he liked the wedding because they danced and that he likes the ocean. She is in no way prepared for an event where that is the center. His lack of forthcoming throws her off balance and makes her irritable. She is not sure if it is just the Hans Westergaard way or if she is actually losing control of the situation. Whatever it is, she does not like it, but she hides her discomfort behind a Mona Lisa smile.

"Of course. Which is why I am going to show it to you as soon as I can. But it will require the wearing of swimsuits and the ability to swim. Are you all up to the occasion?” He is in full showman now, the elegant host, and while she feels more at ease when he is in this space she also likes it less. The conflict leaves her with feelings she promptly ignores and shoves down beneath the mental checklists ticking through her mind. 

“Per your vague instructions I believe we are all prepared for a swim,” she looks around at her team to get their confirmation even though she knows they all packed accordingly. “But really we have so much to cover. I think it will be best if we work through a few more steps before we get distracted.”

“Oh this is not a distraction. I promise.” He peers out over the ocean, shielding his eyes to make out something. “We have ten minutes before we need to get suited up so let’s talk until then.” He leans back and sips his coffee. “I would love to hear more from the team personally. Why do you all do what you do? What part of the events you manage is your favorite?” 

It is an unconventional question, but what other kind can she expect from Hans Westergaard? 

She watches as the team all look at each other with puzzled expressions and she is glad that at least this time she is not the only one befuddled by what Hans Westergaard has to say. 

“I mean - I guess my favorite thing is that I get to work with my family.” Anna chimes in first, smiling at Elsa and Kristoff. “We make a great team and I don’t know many families that can say that!” She turns to Rapunzel and Eugene as well. “And I’ve gained new family members I never knew before. So it is a win all around.”

“As someone deeply acquainted with the complications of family - I appreciate that Anna.” 

It is strange to hear her sister’s name on his lips, to see him smile at her and smile in return. 

Anna nudges Kristoff with her elbow and he grunts before offering:

“I get to work with my hands and make my wife happy. Not much better than that.” He chuckles when Anna throws her arm across his stomach and side hugs him. “Plus there is something awesome when a client sees you build the thing they wanted just like they wanted. Makes you feel like Santa or something.”

“The tables and altar at Eric’s weddings were incredible. You made those?”

Kristoff tilts his head, not one to enjoy outright praise, and then nods. 

Hans returns his nod with a smile. “Excellent work. Truly. I have ideas for you.”

Elsa sees an opportunity and cuts in: “We would love to hear more about those ideas so we can really talk them over and -”

“Hold on,” Mister Westergaard holds up his hand and focuses on the petite brunette across from him. “What is your favorite part of planning events?”

“Oh. I love weddings and I know you aren’t planning a wedding, but they are my favorite.” Rapunzel’s eyes widen. “But my favorite part of my favorite weddings is the kiss. You can totally tell who is going to make it and who isn’t by the kiss. When the groom really kisses the bride - or bride kisses the bride - or groom and groom - oh you get it. When they kiss them in the way that you can almost feel it from the back row… yeah. That’s my favorite part because I know we did something to give them their happily ever after.”

Leave it to Rapunzel would say something fantastical. Never mind that it has absolutely nothing to do with her role in the company or what is at the heart of their events, but it is water under the bridge. Elsa sniffs.

“Is everything okay?” It is Mister Westergaard. He is arching his brow in the most annoying fashion because it makes her stomach flutter and her mouth go dry and she screwed up. She drew attention to herself at the worst time possible.

“Don’t mind her.” Rapunzel interjects before Elsa can even force a smile. “It’s just that Elsa has never really been kissed.” She smiles a little too broadly at her boss before looking at Eugene (who is honestly at a loss). 

Elsa is flummoxed by the comment and she can practically see the mischief dancing across Rapunzel’s features. She is living for this, needling her like the second younger sister she never had. Anna is hiding laughter behind her strawberry lemonade where Kristoff’s eyes are wider than she has ever seen them. 

She cannot even look at Hans Westergaard. 

Eugene clears his throat and swoops in while Elsa’s mind sputters at Rapunzel’s brazenness.

“Well to be completely honest I had a bit of a rough start. I didn’t exactly use my super negotiation skills for good, but Elsa gave me an opportunity to do what I do in a productive way and that is what I enjoy the most. I like knowing I can con a deal for my client,” it is a joke and they all force a laugh. “Plus I like parties.”

Even Hans Westergaard manages a smirking chuckle without all of Eugene’s history. Chances are he has files on all them from some sort of private detective or something invasive like that anyway. There is no need for elaboration.

“So what about you, Hans?” Anna says, sipping her drink, deflecting from what was to inevitably be Elsa’s turn to share. “Why E&A Events? What do we bring to the table that you want for your event?”

Elsa could hug her sister for the segway. 

Anything to focus past the horrendous mess Rapunzel insisted on introducing and keep Elsa from having to answer Hans’ time wasting question.

Hans looks at them all and smiles. It is wide and easy, like he has never had any other job besides smiling at them and his response makes her boil. She hates his smile, his calm, that he had somehow gotten her on this ship where her insides are being flipped and churned and turned upside down. 

“I want you because you are unexpected,” he says matter-of-factly. “You aren’t what I thought I would want but somehow you are exactly, wholly, and perfectly what I need right now.” 

Elsa does not need to look up from her tablet to know he is speaking directly to her. She can feel his gaze as sure as she can feel the hammering pulse in her throat. It takes her best efforts to  take rein of her stampeding thoughts and draw a deep breath.

“That is very nice of you to say Mister Westergaard,” she pretends to be very busy taking notes on her tablet. “We are excited to dive into the particulars about why you chose us but right now I think the question we all have is just what exactly we are endeavoring to initiate.” 

He nods and looks again at the horizon just as the ship’s pace slows dramatically. His smile spreads. He looks back at them.

“You’re about to find out. It is time to suit up.”

….

Elsa put on her incredibly conservative one piece in the stark privacy of a marble and gold bathroom. The couples were given other rooms and while she knows the lighting is not flattering all she can do is look at flaws in the mirror. The suit had been specifically chosen because it did not show any of her scars. The navy suit had no cut outs, barely scooped below her collarbones and shoulder blades. The suit is made out the same fabric that swim athletes use. It compresses every inch it encases but it covers everything and is not flashy in the slightest. 

She had told Anna and Rapunzel to leave the bikinis at home.

She hopes they had or else her suit is going to look impossibly old fashioned.

She turns sidewise in the mirror and sucks in. She is not certain why. Her shape is her shape. There is little much she can do about that now. Her swim wrap is her saving grace. It looks much like any of the other dresses she might wear throughout the week though  is slightly sheer. The almost black is burned out with floral patterns and wraps at the waist with a feminine sensibility she normally eschews, but she had nothing else that would serve on such short notice. 

She looks at herself once more, feels her bare feet on the cool tile and breathes. This is fine. She is simply winning over a client that her company needs to impress. That is all. 

She presses her hands against her stomach and breathes. 

She does not tell herself it will be okay. She has not done that in years. Instead she tells herself it will all be managed. It will happen and she will handle it, whatever it is. This is a test and she intends on passing it. 

There are risk to swimming with her condition, but she knows her team has her back. They will watch her. It will be okay.

She tosses her braid over her shoulder, makes sure her personal items and stacked tidily in the corner, forces herself out of the bathroom.

The rest of them are already waiting on the aft desk. She hopes she hadn’t taken too long, not wanting to raise suspicion by her lengthy change. She assesses everyone’s dress as she approaches. The expression of personalities under the instruction of ‘dress appropriately’ is not lost on her with Anna’s tankini beneath a loosely tied robe, Kristoff’s rash guard and the longest possible swimmers available. Eugene trends towards more fashionable Bermuda cuts and Rapunzel’s suit is a one piece that hardly qualifies with all of the crazy cut outs. That leaves Hans Westergaard who stands in shorts similar to Eugene’s and a plain white t-shirt that is too tight to be decent.

She tries to not notice the shape of his calves, the size and shape of his feet, but it is a lost cause. Her rebellious mind grabs onto these facts before she can convince it not to. He smiles as he sees her and it is the same earth shattering power that leaves her shaky and uncertain where the rest of the world went.

“Shall we?” he says to the group before leading them out of the shaded part of the deck out into the bright sun. 

She squints and pulls her sunglasses down over her eyes as he leads them out past the infinity pool. There are wide steps beyond it railed with stainless steel grips and she clings to them as they descend to what appears to be a small launching platform.. At the base there is a large white space where three crew members wait. They demonstrate general snorkeling protocol that she vaguely remembers from when she was six, before this all began. They offer up equipment. They fit it to them. Then the worst comes. 

Every swimmer must have one buddy. Pick your buddy and know you are responsible for them out in the water.  

And the lines are so clearly drawn. 

She stands fidgeting with her mask and flippers knowing she is now responsible for Hans Westergaard. Anna casts her a knowing glance, but Elsa knows that damage that would be done if she let Anna be her partner. The affront will be obvious, personal, and honestly this is the least of worst case scenarios. 

It is just swimming. They won’t have to touch or speak. All she has to do is make sure that Hans Westergaard does not die. Easy peasy. 

With a return glance she calms her sister’s concerns. It will be okay. This is okay. She is okay. 

Then the crew is distributing sturdy plastic bottles to everyone named with only the words BODY and FACE This time though Mr Westergaard steps up to explain the reasons.

“This is just a little project I’ve been working on - a new line of sunblock. If you don’t mind using this instead of the kind you brought I would love to know what you think.”

Elsa holds both bottles in her hands thinking it is a bit strange, but she would rather have him be strange than charming. She had applied sunblock that morning in her apartment just in case, but the sun is bright and she is not interested in burning. 

She opens the bottle labeled BODY and starts with her legs and feet. The scent and feel of a lotion is pleasing. The texture is not oily or rough but actually absorbs into the skin easily. The scent is not overwhelmingly tropical but instead has the essence of eucalyptus. It is refreshing. She hates to admit how much she enjoys it.

They are all standing fairly close together but the couples have sectioned off into their own little bubbles. She and Hans are on the outside, reasonably spaced. Anna has lost her robe as has Rapunzel. She is next and the idea of him seeing her in something so opposite of what she normally wears makes her heart race. What if he was cataloguing her traits the way she inadvertently was his? What if he liked what he saw? What if he didn’t? 

She reprimands herself. None of that matters. This is a job just like any other job and she needs to stop losing her mind over things that don’t matter.

Her fingers work the tie at her side, thankful now more than ever that they all were wearing sunglasses. If he did look at her she wouldn’t know. She shrugs and the wrap falls to her elbows and then slips all the way to her hands. She carefully draws it in front of her and folds it neatly before setting it next to her snorkel gear and hopes it is bright enough that no one can tell she is blushing. 

She retrieves her sunblock and works her way over all the parts she had missed before until she arrives at  the exposed part of her back that she cannot reach. She is struggling to bend her arms to cover stubborn spots between her shoulder blades, head bent down, and a pair of feet comes into her field of vision. She looks up and Hans Westergaard stands there with his  sanctioned sunblock in his hand. He looks at her with a smile that is nothing but warm, sincere, and if he wasn’t wearing sunglasses she is sure that his eyes would hold that defenseless, human look that always rattles her.. 

“Need some help?” He offers. “The back is always the first place to burn.”

Her decline is on the tip of her tongue but she hesitates. She can always just ask Anna for help but how will that look? No matter how infuriating and unsettling this man is he is still her client and she is trying to make a point. She can handle his flirting and still maintain a professional nature.

“Okay.” She gives a stiff nod. 

He circles around her and that is worse. She is standing there in a garment that shows every lump, bump, and irregularity. It is not cut for flattery and she should be glad of that at this moment, but she finds herself wishing she has the more daring choices of her counterparts. Or at least something that doesn’t look like she is about to take a water aerobics class at senior citizens center.

No. She mentally reprimands herself. This is for the best. She is here to be professional, and he cannot create ideas about her interest in enticing him in any way when she is wearing the equivalent of a nuns habit in modern swimwear. 

She hears him open the bottle, make the necessary squirt, and she waits then for the first touch. It takes longer than expected to come, but when it does her entire body stiffens. 

She had expected cold but there is none of that. The lotion and his touch are warm. He spreads the cream over the available skin before he begins the process of massaging it in. She stays perfectly still, not daring to move, and does everything in her power to not consider that he is touching her, she is allowing it, and that the strength of his fingers is enjoyable.

His thumbs trace the fragile wings of her shoulder blades. The slick of the lotion gives his touch a silky glide as his hands work across her skin, tracing the delicate bulbs of her spine. He comes up to where her braid hangs across her neck and pushes it to the side before she can stop him. 

She knows exactly when he sees it. She can sense it in his hesitation. The scar creeping from the base of her neck up under her hairline is a wide pink line, made wider and more noticeable with every cut, and is something she hides with low lying hairstyles and high collars but now… 

She can practically hear his breath catch at the sight. 

His thumbs run in tandem up along the length of her scar in impossible reverence. She is sure that he can feel the rapid rhythm of her heart against his fingertips where they rest on her throat before she pulls away. 

“I'm sure that's good. Thank you.” she flips her braids back over her neck in an attempt to not rub the spot his thumbs had branded and looks at him with a dare to ask her.

It would be a relief in so many ways if he would just ask. If she could just tell him and scare him away before they get any further in this unnamed dance. Behind his sunglasses it is nearly impossible to tell what his intent is until a smile spreads over his face. Instead of probing he hands her the bottle of sunscreen.

“Return the favor?” It is a question as much as it isn't and she can hardly keep from blushing when he strips off his t-shirt. He winks as he turns his back to her and she recognizes a challenge when she sees one.

But that isn’t all she sees.

Her eyes trace the ropes of his muscles as they bunch and pull as he adjusts his posture to do his own application on the front of his torso. A wide smattering of freckles swaths his broad shoulders in frenetic clusters. Despite his fair complexion there is a tawny glow that speaks of his love of being outdoors. 

For a long moment she stands there frozen just staring as he worked his hands down the length of his arms. She watches his hand slip over the enticingly sharp cuts and swells of his shoulder and then down lower. He turns his head a bit to cast a look in her direction with a smirking grin. 

“If you need more lotion, just let me know.” 

Then he is back to it. His short phrase jerks her out of whatever spell she had been under and now it feels like all eyes are on her. Is her sister watching, is Kristoff? Eugene definitely would be and Rapunzel probably was brokering some sort of wager about what is actually happening and what will happen. 

She grits her teeth. 

She knows if she looks to see if any of that is true she will not be able to do this, which is exactly why she doesn’t. She’s spent the better part of today convincing everyone that this is nothing more than a harmless flirtation and that she can handle it. Running away screaming because he needs help applying sunscreen is not going to do much for her case, but she knows she is going to hear about this later.

So she might as well put on a show.

She grabs a nearby bottle and squares her shoulders. The cap opens with a snap. She focuses on each motion as she squirts a generous amount into the palm of her opposite hand. It is too much, she knows, but it is the only shield she has. She rubs her hands together to coat them thoroughly and then, before she can lose her nerve, reaches out to touch. 

Even with the thick creamy coat of sunblock she can feel the heat of him rising to her touch. The broad lines of his back are long with foreign trenches and cords of muscle telling their story of use. His body is not exaggerated in size like her brother-in-law’s, but it is well formed, athletically cut. There is a kind of feline grace about him and the way he moves, the way his calculating eyes watch her move in this game she can hardly remember starting.

She is more rough than she needs to be, pressing hard enough that she feels him brace. She does not take the care he did to make sure that every inch of skin is absolutely slathered and rubbed in. She works from the center of his back up over his shoulder blades and then down close to the line of his swim trunks.

She stares at her own hands moving across his skin and she tries to think of anything but the idea that she is just inches away from dangerous territory. As if this entire exercise isn’t dangerous territory. She lets out a breath she did not know she was holding  and steps away.

"There. All set." She holds her hands down at her sides, palms still tingling with his heat.

He turns and faces her. 

"So," he sets his sunscreen on the deck and straightens. "Snorkel buddies? What do you say?"

She has to respect that he is actually asking instead of just assuming. It gives her the opportunity to negotiate.

"We could always triple up. No sense in creating a superfluous twosome."

"There is no possible way that any group you are a part of could be superfluous," he grins. "But it's statistically safer in pairs. Trust me one we get out there you will have so much to see that I promise you will be glad you only have to keep track of one other person."

She is not going to ask for his source on those stats, but instead she asks: “What exactly are we going to look at?” 

She had not thought it possible, but his smile grew three sizes at her question.

“My initiative,” he pulls off his sunglasses, puts them off to the side, and fits his mask over the top of his head. “Ready to see?” 

She looks over to the others and they all have their gear ready to go and are watching them. How long had they been watching them? She looks back at Hans and nods. 

He leads them to the edge of the platform. It is a few feet above the water with a plastic and metal ladder on the side. Hans sits, pulls his flippers onto his dangling feet, and then slides off into the blue water. He pops up only an instant later and swims back a few feet to look up at them. 

“Water’s great!” He treads, powerful shoulder muscles rolling. “Come on in.” 

They all follow suit. Elsa is the last to slip from the safe edge of the boat into the water below. It is cold, not freezing, but definitely not bathtub water. The temperature is jarring at first. Her body cramps and hesitates as she stays submerged, but she manages to kick to the surface. She pops up on a sputtering gasp, reorients herself, and swims to the others. 

“We’re swimming to that buoy over there.” He points to a yellow speck a few hundred yards away. I recommend using one of these to help with the swim.” He raises his arm out of the water and gestures. Several life preserver belts fly over the edge from a helpful crew member and they all grab one. “Also once we are out there it is a strict look but don’t touch policy. Ready?” 

“When will we know we are seeing what we are supposed to be seeing?” Rapunzel asks, her intrepid curiosity shining through.

“I have a feeling you will know.” He smiles and pulls his mask over his eyes. “Follow me!”

[ previous ]

[queercapwriting]

So potential prompt for the holiday series: just a cheesy hallmarky movie fic. Girl meets girl for some reason they're on opposite sides of a business they have to work together to make Christmas or Chanuka festivities a reality and they end up falling in love. But this time, ITS FINALLY GAY! but that's also a lot so also totally cool if it's disregarded...

“I don’t understand,” Maggie rolled her eyes -- for what felt like the four hundredth time -- at her supervisor Professor M’orzz. “They’re astrophysics. We’re xenobio. Why on Earth - no pun intended, I guess - would we work with them on a stupid holiday party?”

Professor M’orzz sighed, also for what felt like the four hundredth time. “Because, Maggie, the show of unity will be good for the overall science department. Funding and all that. And anyway, it’s as you said: astrophysics and xenobiology. You realize that both departments are dismissed by the entire rest of the department as speculative sciences, right? That should give us some kind of bond, you’d think, no?”

Maggie sighed, knowing when she was caught in a truth. “Yeah. I know. Just. They’re so into... math.”

Professor M’orzz smiled at that. “Well I’m sure you and their representative will have a lot to learn from each other while you plan the department’s holiday party then.”

“And why me, again?”

“You know why. The student doing the most prestigious work in our program, being the face of our holiday party slash fundraiser? We need the money to continue our research, donors love to give around the holidays, and you know it.”

Maggie sighed, heavy and deep and with a slight exaggeration that she knew would aggravate anyone else, but that Professor M’orzz would have affection for.

“Fine. Who am I collaborating with, then?”

She didn’t know that the person she was collaborating with was right down the hall in the astrophysics lab, having the same conversation with their professor. 

“Oh come on, J’onn,” they said, because Alex Danvers was far past formalities. “It’s a cheap ploy for money, and -”

“A cheap ploy for money that will keep this department running, Alex,” J’onn said. “It’ll help pay for that accelerator I know you and Mr. Allen were chatting about earlier this week.”

Alex glared, knowing when they were defeated. “Fine. I’ll meet up with this Sawyer woman then.”

“Good,” J’onn smiled, as Alex set off toward the xenobio program office.

They met each other in the hallway and knew each other instantly, by reputation and, somehow, by instinct.

“Danvers,” Maggie greeted with a slight glare and head tilt.

“Sawyer,” Alex clasped their hands behind their back as though to take shaking hands off the table completely.

“So we’ve got to work together on this stupid party,” Maggie said.

“At least we can agree it’s stupid,” Alex smirked.

“Might be stupid, but I’ve got some ideas.”

"Yeah, xenobio’s all about ideas with no observational data for follow-through,” Alex murmured, forgetting everything J’onn had tried to teach them about diplomacy.

“Well,” Maggie nearly stood on tiptoes to look Alex in the eye, but seemed to think better of it, “getting money for both of our departments with this damn holiday party is well within my no-observational-data’s jurisdiction,” Maggie said, and she had the audacity to smirk along with that infuriatingly sexy - wait, no, just infuriating, right? - little head tilt.

“Your jurisdiction ends where I say it does,” Alex returned, knowing even as they spoke the words that they were being way over the top. But Maggie seemed to like over the top, because her smirk only deepened.

“My lab. Seven pm. We’ll do some planning then, okay?”

Alex blinked, and Maggie seemed to take that as ascent as she turned on her heel. “See you around, Danvers.”

So Alex, flummoxed, had no choice but to head to the xenobio lab at seven that night.

If they were honest, they’d always been enamored of the subject. They were considering doing further graduate work in both astrophysics and xenobio -- the fields were so interlinked that the rivalry made absolutely no sense. But, alas, competition like that had a momentum of its own, and who was Alex to mess with an unstoppable force?

Except Maggie Sawyer seemed to be an immovable object of some kind.

Because by the time Alex showed up, Maggie had an entire whiteboard full of ideas for this stupid holiday party they were supposed to throw, complete with scribbles in the margins about the ways that tardigrades’ capacity for coming back to life after extreme desiccation could be used to help fuel crop growth in arid regions, and tiny, hastily-scrawled notes about how bacteria that survived thermal heat vents in deep oceans could be useful for understanding the origins of... well, of everything. 

It was like she’d been party planning, all Chanukah this and Christmas that, with a strong dose of fundraising everywhere, and then gotten so sidetracked by her own genius that she had to stop and scribble out her ideas before they leaked away, elusive and never to return...

Alex did that kind of thing, constantly, in their own notebooks, on their own whiteboards...

So they walked past Maggie, without so much as a greeting, to squint -- not at her holiday party notes -- but at her scientific ideas.

Maggie didn’t move, but rather watched Alex quietly, as they stared at her ideas, looking for all the world like Alex was scrutinizing her naked body -- because really, they might as well have been.

“You know,” Alex said into the silence after several long, long moments, “if I’m understanding your horrible handwriting correctly --”

“Well this is starting off great --”

“Then if we exchanged some of our data, I think you could help me understand some of what might happen on rogue planets and I might be able to help you engineer some solves on your desiccation-scaling problem.”

Alex finally turned to look at their forced colleague, and Maggie was tilting her head, staring between the whiteboard and Alex. “We would do better sharing data than hating each other, wouldn’t we?”

“That’s what J’onn is always saying.”

“Professor M’orzz, too.”

Alex took a deep sigh, and Maggie gave that infuriating smirk again. “Well, maybe this holiday party’s a start. Planning now, the fun stuff later?” 

There was a sparkle in Maggie’s eye, Alex thought, when she referenced fun stuff, and for a moment -- just a moment -- Alex wondered whether she meant fun science or fun sex. 

Or both.

Or maybe it was all just in Alex’s head.

They really needed to get out of the lab more.

“Come on,” Maggie smirked again, and yep, Alex definitely needed to get out of the lab more, because they definitely should not be finding this xenobio woman attractive. Maggie reached under a desk to pull out to utterly ridiculous-looking hats. 

One was a tall green pointy thing with elf ears on the sides; the other was a floppy red Santa hat. “If we’re gonna plan this damn thing, we might as well get in the spirit. Come on.” Maggie held both hats out to Alex, bobbing her hands up and down to indicate that Alex should pick one.

“Absolutely not,” they crossed their arms over their chest.

“Oh come on. If we have to do this, we should do it right.”

“I’m Jewish,” Alex protested as a last resort, and Maggie tilted her head deeper for a moment before diving back under her desk. 

“A beanie, then. Simple, but wintery. And I’ll be an elf.”

She tugged the elf hat deep over her head, so the fake ears covered her own. Alex couldn’t help but snort and accept the blue beanie Maggie held out.

“Okay. So. Are we going to plan the biggest, most money-making and fun-having holiday party of all time, or what?” Maggie asked.

“If you’re gonna go, go hard,” Alex muttered, a smile creeping onto their face. Because Maggie was mocking the whole thing, even with her enthusiasm, and it was so Alex’s style that they couldn’t help but admire her.

Plus, all those scribbles in the margins...

They stayed in the lab well past midnight, sidetracking every hour or so to get into broader discussions about their fields, their passions, the things they most wanted to discover, the ways they both wanted to use their studies to change the world, the solar system, the galaxy.

Somewhere in between, they also divvied up who would be responsible for venue, food, invites, decorations, music, and the best ways to actually get a solid mix of grad students, professors, and rich alumni in the room.

By the time they agreed to call it a night and head home, neither of them quite thought the holiday party was such a stupid idea after all.

They met a handful more times in between. More logistics and more details. But -- not that either of them would admit it -- more often than not, their meetings became excuses to talk science, to talk to universe.

To talk about Maggie’s father and Alex’s mother, Maggie’s hometown and Alex’s surfing.

To talk about anything and everything under the sun, under the ocean, and above Earth’s sky.

Neither of them noticed, or would admit it.

Until the night of the holiday party neither of them wanted to plan.

Alex wore an elegantly green dress, backless and just this side of tight.

Maggie wore a red suit, white shirt, red tie, slim cut and just this side of swoon-worthy.

They stopped when they saw each other, because usually they were in sweats and glasses and yesterday’s makeup, pen stains on their hands and goggles on top of their heads.

They stopped when they saw each other, because suddenly, all their conversations, all those excuses for meetings... clicked.

“You look beautiful, Sawyer,” Alex breathed, running a hand through the buzzed side of their hair self-consciously.

“And you look handsome, Danvers,” Maggie smirked, but this time it was warm, not sarcastic, and Alex wondered when that transition had happened.

“This uh...” Alex gestured around the room, at the party still being set up around them. “We did good.”

“We did,” Maggie grinned, even as her eyes were glued to Alex’s body.

“Still my jurisdiction, though,” Alex murmured as the two stepped closer to each other. Something about gravitational forces between unstoppable forces and immovable objects.

“Not a chance,” Maggie shook her head as they entered each other’s space, no need for words when they’d both already said so much with their planning, their late nights, their bodies, with their dreams and their scribblings in the margins.

“Merry Christmas, Maggie.”

“Happy Chanukah, Alex.”

They didn’t need any mistletoe to tell them to kiss.

Professor M’orzz and J’onn fist-bumped behind them, because they’d definitely had holiday hopes for the two all along.

[lesdemonium]

Into Nightfall

Rating: M Words (so far): 6162 Chapter: 1/? Summary:  Nilfgaardian insurgents do not want the treaty between Cintra and Nilfgaard to take place, so Geralt, a witcher bodyguard-for-hire, is reluctantly hired to escort Princess Cirilla across the continent to expedite the signing of the treaty. What should have been an easy-enough contract keeps getting more and more difficult, though, especially when Geralt is forced to ask for help from those he has wronged in the past. Calanthe tapped her fingernails on the thick, solid wood of the arm rest, thinking hard. Geralt could see her mouth moving in a silent conversation as she considered her options, and then she stood, a decision made. “Fine, Witcher. I remain skeptical at best of the intelligence you have brought me. But I accept the terms of your wager. You will attend the banquet tonight as a guest and tell no one of your true intentions. And in the morning, when I am right, you will leave Cintra and never return. Do we have a deal?” Calanthe strode forward, holding out her hand to Geralt. this is chapter 1 of the teaser I posted yesterday, which you can find here ao3 link

The less one knew about a bodyguard, particularly a witcher bodyguard, the better the guard was. However, this fact did not keep people from trying to find out more. Everyone wanted to be privy to what went on in their guards head, everyone wanted to be the one that they divulged to.

Really, what Geralt did was not often a secret. Despite this, he found that it was often best to keep his tales to himself, lest his charges started to press for more and more personal stories. It was a lesson he had learned a long time ago; even those whom you think you can trust, often disappoint you. Geralt did not intend to have such a somber view of the world and humankind, but unfortunately he was practiced in the art of attention.

So he kept his information close to his heart, far away from prying eyes and full purses. This bothered some of his employers, such as Queen Calanthe, but she was so often fond of regaling the crowds with her own tales that she quickly moved on from the upset. Some of them thought it just added to Geralt’s mystery, and, really, who didn’t want their witcher to be a bit mysterious?

At the end of the day, all that mattered was that Geralt was paid. He could navigate the often unforgiving waters that were life in close proximity to the most important members of society (as often the only people remaining who found use for a witcher) as long as he was being paid. The problem was that now it was getting harder and harder to find work.

Witchers had gotten a reputation for being a mark of luxury--if you had a witcher, then you had something worth guarding. Which, often, had the undesired effect of bringing attention to valuables. Jobs had been few and far between for the last several years, largely boiling down to fetch quests and ridding towns of monster pest problems. With time came change. Some of the changes were nice--more and more industry and innovation were making daily life easier--but others made it hard for him to continue his work.

He was, if nothing else, adaptable. Life had made that a necessity for the witcher, and as such he had become a professional at the skill. He would get through this, just as he had gotten through everything else.

--

Geralt had not been expecting, however, to receive an invitation from Queen Calanthe.

The last time he had dealt with the headstrong queen had been over a decade ago. Clearly, she had forgotten about getting so angry with him for absolutely refusing to agree with her that she had thrown a dinner roll at him and told him to never again step foot in her city. Likely she would have thrown something more substantial, if her daughter hadn’t seen to it that every weapon, utensil, and sharp object had been taken from the queen as she drank. He will say, to their credit, he did get paid as he was unceremoniously escorted from the castle. Geralt hadn’t needed the escort. He was perfectly able of showing himself out, but clearly Calanthe had convinced herself that he would rob the castle if he did not have someone watching him.

It wasn’t worth explaining to either Calanthe or the guards that if he had wanted to, he had found no less than fifteen different opportunities to fill his pockets before leaving, even while he was flanked on either side by guards. Being right was rarely a good reason to correct someone, especially those in power.

Despite this unceremonious booting marking the end of their previous acquaintance, here was a summons, directly from Queen Calanthe herself. There was something in the hasty scrawl that made him believe this was a personal directive, rather than one she had a scribe write on her behalf. Though he would have found his way to Cintra either way--it did not do well to ignore the summons of queens and kings, no matter how much Geralt would have preferred to--there was something decidedly interesting about the queen being needy enough to pen a summons herself.

So Geralt found himself brought to a personal meeting with Calanthe. He was no less confused now than he was when he had originally received the invitation, as the people around him seemed more interested in flitting about preparing something than explaining to the witcher why he was brought there. Geralt stood in the banquet hall silently, watching and taking in as many details as he could, but his patience was growing thin.

Finally, when he could take no more, he reached out and grasped the arm of a servant all-but running by with sheets. She looked at his hand and then his face, alarmed, which was a reaction he had grown accustomed to drawing, but it was no less frustrating the hundredth time.

“I was called here on business with Queen Calanthe. How much longer will I be made to wait?” he demanded.

The girl--they all looked so young, though truthfully she was likely old enough to be married--looked flummoxed for an answer. Perhaps she hadn’t heard him; it wasn’t exactly rare for people to get so caught up in looking at him that they missed what he said. Luckily, he was spared the need to repeat himself by the doors being thrown open and Queen Calanthe and her entourage striding in. Geralt released the servant and she scurried off as if he had been poised to attack; also not a new reaction, but an exhausting one all the same.

“The witcher,” Calanthe said in lieu of a greeting, the corner of her mouth turned upward in a smirk. Geralt wasn’t sure what he had been anticipating, but Calanthe looked amused, not urgent, and Geralt was left wondering if he would have been better to have simply declined the summons. It would have meant avoiding Cintra for a few decades, but that would have been a risk Geralt was willing to take.

“Queen Calanthe,” Geralt greeted in turn, bowing his head. “You summoned me.”

The queen scoffed. “Mousesack insisted I call you. Your services are not needed, Witcher.”

Geralt’s jaw set at her nonchalance. He had wasted his time in coming after all. He was unlikely to find much work in Cintra, as the kingdom’s nobles tended to be as proud and primed for battle as their queen. It would take another few days before he could make enough coin to afford a room in an inn or find a new contract, and he had a suspicion Calanthe was not inclined to offer him a bed for making the journey. Geralt took a deep breath, bowing his head again. But before he could open his mouth to speak, Mousesack entered the room behind the Lioness.

“Geralt,” Mousesack started, stopping at Calanthe’s side. “Your majesty, we cannot move Princess Cirilla without a guard--”

“We have guards,” Calanthe interrupted. “We have me. We have you. Do you mean to tell me a Witcher, on his own, is a more formidable protection than the royal guard, the royal mage, and the Lioness of Cintra?” Calanthe laughed as she moved forward, taking a tankard off the table and motioning impatiently for a nearby servant to fill it. “The witcher’s services will not be necessary. I am not sending my only grandchild away without me, Mousesack. I do not care how important this alliance is.”

Geralt was quite familiar with the expression on Mousesack’s face. Though he was a trusted mage and advisor to the queen, there was only so much pushing you could do against royalty. Ultimately, Queen Calanthe would do whatever Queen Calanthe wanted, and Geralt wasn’t much interested in watching Mousesack try to toe the line between getting what he thought was right and keeping the Queen in well-enough favor.

“If I am not needed, then I won’t waste any more of Your Majesty’s time,” Geralt said stiffly, begging to finally be free of this personal layer of hell. Dramatic, yes, but Geralt had never cared much for the intricacies of court. He wasn’t fond of lying, and that was the only language they spoke here.

Mousesack opened his mouth to speak again, but Queen Calanthe cut him off, “Yes, Witcher, you are dismissed.” She waved him off with her hand and Geralt turned, only for Mousesack to stop him with a hand on his arm. Geralt sighed, but looked at Mousesack expectantly.

“I will escort you to the door.”

Mousesack took his time in telling Geralt what this was all really about, but Geralt didn’t mind. If Mousesack wanted to wait until they were out of the castle and practically to the gate, that just meant that Geralt was closer to escaping. They walked in silence until they reached the gate keep, where Mousesack slowed to a stop. Geralt followed suit, and turned to Mousesack, his eyebrow raised.

“Calanthe’s pride..” he began, then faltered. Geralt tilted his head sympathetically; neither one of them were strangers to the pride of nobles. “She doesn’t believe what we’re up against.”

“I cannot guard someone that does not wish to be guarded, Mousesack.” Geralt’s voice was firm. Surely Mousesack knew there was nothing to be gained from this conversation. If Queen Calanthe did not want to solicit Geralt’s services, then there was nothing either one of them could do. And Geralt was not going to try to convince the queen to change her mind.

“No, of course not,” Mousesack agreed, though he still looked troubled. He glanced around, as if checking to see if anyone was watching, and Geralt found himself doing the same. No one was around aside from a few bored-looking guards. It was hard to know what Mousesack was looking for, though, as no one had explained a damn thing to Geralt.

“What are you afraid of?”

Mousesack’s eyes widened at the question, but he shouldn’t have been surprised. They had both seen too much in their long lives to be caught off guard by these questions. There was always something to be afraid of.

“There is unrest. Cintra and Nilfgaard are closing in on a treaty between the two nations, but there are rebels from both kingdoms that would rather see it fall, and see one overtake the other,” Mousesack answers, leaning close and speaking just barely loud enough for Geralt to hear. “The queen believes we are safe, but I am less sure. Cirilla is the key, and while no talk of betrothal has happened yet, the promise of an eventual one to a Nilfgaardian prince is keeping them interested.”

Geralt sighed. So this was a political squabble. Geralt did his best to stay out of those; all he wanted to do was keep his charge, whoever they were, from dying and move on with his life. Mousesack, however, seemed determined to drag Geralt into this.

“And what am I to do about this?” Geralt asked, weary.

“I believe someone will try to take or otherwise dispose of the princess. I want you to protect her.”

“This doesn’t change the fact that the queen does not want my services.”

“I will work on the queen.” Geralt rolled his eyes, but Mousesack had a determined glint in his eyes. He pulled out a coin purse. “I will pay you, if you will stay in the city. See what you can find.”

“I don’t usually run reconnaissance.” Geralt crossed his arms, but he eyed the coin purse warily. He did need money, if he wanted to avoid another hard day’s ride and camping in the woods around Cintra, which were far too sparse for his liking. He set his jaw and looked to the side, frustration painting his features. “Fine. I’ll stay for two days. If I find nothing, I’m leaving. Whether the queen hires me or not.”

Mousesack nodded and handed over the bag, which Geralt took and hid away inside his cloak. He was going to regret this, he knew it, but at least he would get a bath and a stay at a decent inn for his troubles.

--

The first night in Cintra was peaceful. The room he took was modest, but clean. In previous days, he would have picked something with slightly more to it. But in previous days, he’d had company, very loud company that would complain about the lack of luxuries without coughing up extra coin to pay for those luxuries.

Tonight, though, it was only Geralt, and Geralt didn’t need much except to scrub off the layer of dirt and to sleep without keeping an eye out for a monster or beast to attack him. He kept an eye out, anyway.

--

Unfortunately, it seemed Mousesack was right. It didn’t take long for Geralt to find evidence of unrest.

Citizens knew how to talk, Geralt knew that well. A kingdom’s citizens rarely understood the intricacies of court, and they were often better for it, but they always had opinions. Often, those opinions were right . The farmers told of bad crops, the crown ignored their warnings, and the people died of famine. When it came to the treaty between Nilfgaard and Cintra, however, the people seemed divided, and generally misinformed. The naysayers spoke of tradition, of the great power of Cintra and the Lioness, of pride in their kingdom and disdain for the south. Geralt paid them no mind.

The whispers were another matter.

At first, Geralt missed them. There were many reasons to keep secrets, very few that pertained to Geralt, and a great many that were about Geralt, but held no clout. But as the day wore on, Geralt was noticing intentional whispers.

They were careful, these insurgents, and spoke in non-specifics, but one thing was clear: the castle was in danger.

--

“Your majesty, I really must insist--”

“Really, Mousesack, you insist ?” Queen Calanthe drawled, interrupting the mage. “We are in a time of peace . Nilfgaard has agreed to sign a treaty to combine our two great kingdoms, or some other such horseshit. No one would dare stage an uprising against the Lioness of Cintra, and if they did, they would be disposed of before any blood was spilt.”

The queen looked wholly unconcerned as she sat on the throne before them. Her husband, Eist, was watching them with careful eyes, but Geralt knew even if he disagreed with his queen, he was not likely to come to Geralt and Mousesack’s defense. They were running out of time, though. Geralt hadn’t been able to discern a plot, even after following a small group of insurgents for hours without them noticing, but from their preparations, it had to be soon.

“A wager, then,” Geralt announced.

All eyes snapped to him, but Geralt did not explain himself further. The queen looked interested, though, and that was all Geralt had needed. All he had to do was capture Calanthe’s attention; she didn’t need to listen , she just had to participate .

“A wager?” Queen Calanthe repeated, her mouth quirking up into a crooked smile. “On what terms?”

“I provide extra protection at your banquet tonight. If nothing happens, then--”

“Then you leave my kingdom and never return,” the queen suggested, one eyebrow raised in a silent challenge.

Geralt grit his teeth. He wasn’t overly fond of Cintra, but to be banned from two large cities on the continent was a bit too much for his reputation. He wasn’t likely to have any songs sung to change this particular blemish, unless a new bard sought to make a name for themself using Geralt's. Geralt would just have to win the wager.

“Then I leave your kingdom and never return. If an attack does happen, then you allow me to personally escort Princess Cirilla to Nilfgaard to expedite the treaty. And pay me for my efforts.”

Calanthe tapped her fingernails on the thick, solid wood of the arm rest, thinking hard. Geralt could see her mouth moving in a silent conversation as she considered her options, and then she stood, a decision made.

“Fine, Witcher. I remain skeptical at best of the intelligence you have brought me. But I accept the terms of your wager. You will attend the banquet tonight as a guest and tell no one of your true intentions. And in the morning, when I am right , you will leave Cintra and never return. Do we have a deal?” Calanthe strode forward, holding out her hand to Geralt.

Geralt considered a moment. Ultimately, he was getting the raw end of the deal, and they both knew it. But if this was the out he needed to take to leave with a clear conscience, no matter what happened after his departure, then the terms were acceptable. He nodded once and took the queen’s hand, shaking it as her mouth opened in a broad, smug grin.

--

Another snag in this plan was Geralt’s hatred of parties. Especially ones hosted in Cintra.

They were grand affairs, always full of loud, boasting lords and silly, giggling ladies. Geralt was content to stand in the corner and watch as the bards--none familiar, thank the gods--played jig after jig for the court to dance to. Every so often, a hopeful young woman, brave enough to see his white hair, yellow eyes, know what he was and want to try anyway, would attempt to strike up a conversation with him. It didn’t last longer than a few stilted lines, before they realized that Geralt wasn’t interested in dancing, or even pretending to be interested in whatever conversation they started.

“Well, at least you are dressed better this time.”

Geralt was honestly almost a little relieved to hear Mousesack’s voice. He tilted his head in acknowledgement as Mousesack took his place beside the witcher, also watching the floor.

“Do you believe an attack will happen tonight?” Mousesack breathed, and Geralt sighed.

“I would. Everyone is distracted by music, dancing, or flirting. Men are full enough to be patting their bellies as if they are bearing a baby, and their wives have taken enough wine to have realized they deserve better than what they have. Even the Lioness is distracted with the political necessities of a party.” His eyes grazed over the hall, though he had not seen anything amiss yet . “If I were a mutineer, acting in small packs, this is when I would attack.”

Mousesack hummed. “I suppose I should be thankful you’re on our side. You sure know how to enjoy yourself.”

His barb didn’t require an answer, so Geralt only hummed in response. He scanned the hall again, only to come to an abrupt halt on a familiar face.

“Mousesack,” Geralt began, his voice tight. “What is Yennefer doing here?”

Geralt turned his head toward Mousesack, who looked neither surprised nor remorseful. “I felt we could use more help,” he answered. “See if you can get her on our side.”

“Yennefer has even less interest than I do in political squabbles.”

“Then you seem to be exactly the person to persuade her.”

“This was not part of our agreement, mage.”

“Neither was the wager. You took a chance, and now I’m taking mine. Try not to get distracted.”

If Geralt had anything else to add, it didn’t matter, because Mousesack strode away from him, back to the party.

Geralt was floundering. If Yen had not already seen him, she would shortly, and he was trapped as per his agreement with the Queen. Yen was the last person--well, second to last person--he wanted to see right now, but apparently Mousesack had decided to take Geralt’s life in his own hands.

It had been a year since he had last seen Yennefer, and that had been by the design of both of them. Now, she was crossing the room toward him, and Geralt wanted to go back to just a few moments ago, when the worst thing about this party was that he was attending it and nothing was happening. Oh, how he already longed for that calm period of time.

“Geralt,” Yennefer greeted.

“Yen,” Geralt answered.

Yennefer stopped by his side, also casting her gaze over the party. If she was uncomfortable in the long moments of silence that followed, she didn’t show it. Though her irritation did seem to shine through as she spoke again.

“Are you planning on telling me what I’m meant to be doing here?”

“I didn’t invite you.”

It was childish and insolent, and they both knew it. And yet, Geralt had said it. He couldn’t be the bigger person in every interaction--in fact, he rarely was, and Yennefer knew this. Still, she was impatient with him. Geralt couldn’t blame her, exactly, but he also couldn’t necessarily bring himself to care.

“Geralt, I don’t have time for this. There are a great many things I could be doing, but Mousesack said you were in need of my help and was tight-lipped about the details. I know I’m asking a lot of you, to actually communicate with me for once, but I do not have the patience for childish games. Do you need me or not?” Yennefer demanded.

Geralt turned to face her. Yennefer looked good, but saying that was like declaring the sky blue or Calanthe obstinate. It wasn’t worth voicing, and honestly would likely land him in more trouble than he already was in. Yennefer was not someone he wanted to piss off more than he already had; she was not above retaliating in petty squabbles.

And, though Geralt was loath to admit it, she could be a great deal of help if things were to go tits up.

“Mousesack and I believe there might be a hit on the princess tonight,” Geralt finally answered, and turned his attention back to the princess.

She was dancing now, and though neither one of them had been introduced--Calanthe refused to let Cirilla or even any of the guards be privy to the true reason for Geralt’s presence--the princess’s eyes had met Geralt’s multiple times tonight. She knew something was off, and Geralt found himself a bit impressed by her attention. At least she wasn’t completely oblivious like most royals were at this age.

“Is that why you’re here, then? You’re her new bodyguard?” Yennefer asked, barely cutting off her laugh.

“I made a wager with the queen. I’m acting as a guard tonight. If there’s no attack, I will leave Cintra in the morning.”

“And if there is?”

“Then I will escort her to Nilfgaard.”

Yennefer scoffed and Geralt peered at her from the corner of his eye. She looked wholly unimpressed, but he wasn’t expecting any differently. This was precisely her sort of nightmare; the dealings of a royal court and political squabbles that often ultimately amounted to nothing. He couldn’t blame her for her disinterest. Geralt was disinterested.

“Where do I come in, then?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t ask for you to come. Mousesack must be even jumpier than I had anticipated."

Yennefer hummed, then stepped forward and took a goblet of wine from one of the servants carrying a tray. He looked affronted for a moment, until Yennefer raised her eyebrows, challenging him to speak up, and instead he turned down his eyes and continued on his way. She stepped back and took a sip from the goblet.

“Well. There are worse things than to waste my time sipping Cintran wine,” she said, raising her glass to him. Geralt had no glass to toast back--all the ale seemed to be conveniently gone whenever he tried to take a tankard--so he smirked and nodded in return.

“It’s good to see you, Yen."

Yennefer opened her mouth, but whatever she was going to reply was cut off by a scream ringing out through the hall.

In the middle of the room, there was a man struggling spectacularly. His hands clawed at his throat, every so often finding purchase, only for him to desperately find a new position. As his hands helplessly maneuvered their way around, his face turned a spectacular shade of purple. The woman he had been dancing with was equally as desperate, though she was far more interested in wailing than assisting the man. She had thrown herself to the ground and was racked with sobs.

Geralt took a step toward the man, then hesitated. Something wasn’t right. All eyes were trained on the display, everyone frozen in their shock or confusion. Everyone, except the princess, who was nowhere to be seen.

It was a diversion.

“Fuck,” Geralt muttered, his eyes tracking the entire room for a clue as to where the princess could have gone. His eyes met Calanthe’s for a moment and it took only a moment for Calanthe to register that something more was going on, and she, too, looked in vain for Cirilla.

Geralt seized Yennefer’s hand and tore toward his best guess--an archway that had been used all night by the servants. People passing in and out, dressed intentionally to be ignored and invisible. Geralt didn’t know if Yennefer had realized what happened, but she ran with him just the same, and by the time they made it to the kitchens, he could let go of her hand and trust she was following him.

The servants in the kitchen looked scared. Someone dropped a plate of food, and though the clattering of it hitting the ground threw Geralt off, he paid it no mind. They weren’t here, but a door just on the other side wasn’t completely closed. He continued his pursuit in that direction and he and Yennefer came to a hallway branching off to his right and his left.

“Geralt,” Yennefer said, pointing toward the left corridor, where now he heard a faint scuffling sound and a muffled noise of protest.

They rounded the corner and Geralt just narrowly missed a dagger hurtling toward his face. It hit the stone wall ineffectually and dropped to the floor. Everything felt so much louder now with the adrenalin priming his already enhanced senses. Geralt and Yennefer turned to their assailant, a man dressed in dark leather armor and chainmail, with one hand covering the princess’s mouth, and the other holding a dagger to her neck.

“Not a step closer, witcher. Witch,” the man ordered, and both Geralt and Yennefer froze where they stood, but raised themselves to their full heights. This was going to be tricky.

“This will not bring your desired outcome,” Geralt said, trying to appeal to his sense. He had long since learned this was a losing outcome. Humans didn’t want to admit when they were on the wrong side, or had taken the wrong actions. This man was not likely to see that killing the princess wouldn’t cause the revolution he wanted or put a stop to the treaty, but for now, all Geralt needed was time. Time to figure out how to get the princess out of this predicament.

“I wouldn't expect a witcher to understand politics . You eat right out of the hands of royals, no matter how dirty they are.” He spat at the floor, and Geralt was sure if they were closer, he would have spat at Geralt. The rebel was passionate, if a bit short-sighted.

“Let the princess go. You might still escape from this with your life.” Unlikely, but he at least wouldn’t die by Geralt’s hand.

The man only shook his head as he backed up, dragging the struggling princess with him. “No, I think I face better odds with royal protection,” he said, nudging the door to his left open with his foot, then helping it with his dagger-hand.

Cirilla took this moment of fumbling to finally break free of the hand over her mouth. She let out a scream that brought even Geralt to his knees. Her abductor was thrown off her and into the wall, where he lay crumpled and knocked cold. Once Cirilla was silenced, Geralt hesitated, until he heard footsteps from behind the door the rebel had been trying to escape into. There were more, of course there were more. It was impossible for one man to have pulled all this off and expect to get away with his life.

Geralt leapt to his feet and ran to Cirilla. Just as he reached her she let out another earth-shattering scream, this time throwing back the first wave of assailants on the other side of the doorway. Geralt braced himself, expecting it this time, but was still thrown into the wall with a loud, painful thud .

There were more coming, Geralt could hear them, and even the banquet hall sounded as if it had descended into chaos and fighting. Somehow the insurgents had outnumbered them without being detected.

“Princess!” Yennefer called, and Geralt lifted his eyes to her to see Yennefer opening a portal. “Run!”

Geralt lifted Cirilla to her feet, barely putting her back on the ground before they were diving into the portal and thrown onto a hard patch of dirt, Yennefer stepping out far more gracefully than Geralt and Cirilla had.

“Who are you?” Cirilla demanded, clambering to her feet and looking at Geralt and Yennefer accusingly. “What just happened?”

Yennefer and Geralt exchanged tired looks. He hadn’t expected Calanthe to update the princess on what was happening, but it would have been much easier if she had told Cirilla something .

“We’re here to protect you,” Geralt answered. Beside him, Yennefer lets out an exasperated sigh, and Geralt turns to her and raises an eyebrow.

“Yes, Geralt, wheedle out the story detail by painful detail. It’s not like we need to figure out what our plan is now.” Yennefer rolled her eyes. “This is Geralt of Rivia. Butcher of Blaviken--” Geralt stiffens at this, “The White Wolf, witcher extraordinaire, what have you.”

Cirilla’s eyes widen. “From the songs?”

Geralt grunts. Of course she’s heard the songs.

“Well, at least someone’s reputation precedes him,” Yennefer adds derisively. “Rebels want you dead to stop the treaty with Nilfgaard. I presume now they might want you alive to harness your power or use you as a bargaining chip. He was hired by your grandmother to safely deliver you to Nilfgaard to expedite the treaty.”

“Technically Mousesack,” Geralt corrected.

“ Technically .” Yennefer rolled her eyes, then turns her attention back to Cirilla, who had sat back down and stared at her feet. “I know that was scary. And you don’t know us. But we’re on your side.”

“Is my grandmother okay?” Cirilla asked, her voice sounding faint. Geralt couldn’t blame her. This was a lot to take in. One moment, she’s dancing and enjoying a party, the next she has a dagger to her throat.

“I don’t know,” Geralt answered. “I expect she is. This was a large effort, but an insurgence nonetheless. The other fighting was just a distraction to get to you.”

“But why me ?” she asked miserably.

“You’re a symbol,” Yennefer answered, and Geralt was grateful for it. If anyone could explain this, it would be Yennefer, and surely not Geralt. “You are the next generation and the hope for this treaty going through. Depending on which side they’re on, your death either kills the treaty where it stands, because there is no hope for a stable future in Cintra and therefore no reason for Nilfgaard to provide one, or it provides a martyr for the cause against Nilfgaard. Either way, your death spells disaster.”

Cirilla seemed to accept this. In fact, her reaction was much more level-headed than Geralt was expecting from a child. It may have been the shock. In fact, it was almost certainly shock, judging by the way it seemed as if she couldn’t look away from her hands, her fingers twisting and untwisting before her. Geralt wanted to make her feel better, but this wasn’t exactly his area of expertise. So, instead, he turned to Yennefer.

“Where are we?” he asked.

“Just outside of Cintra.” Yennefer pointed toward the south, where Geralt could see the faint glow of a large city.

“I need to go back for Roach and my supplies. Can you stay with her?”

Yennefer rolled her eyes. “Whether you wanted my help or not, Geralt, you have it. I’m doing this with you.” She opened a portal before him and Geralt eyed it warrily. “It’ll land you in the Cintran stables. Come back quickly; I am not sleeping on the ground.”

Geralt huffed a laugh and hesitated only a moment before walking through the portal. Truth be told, he was relieved. This was turning out to be far more complicated than he had originally anticipated. It would be good to have Yennefer to help. He had guarded plenty of royals over the years, but transporting one when there was a yet-undetermined amount of insurgents after her death was quite a bit different. Nilfgaard was far, and Yennefer could only produce so many portals (not that Geralt was inclined to use them beyond emergencies, anyway).

That, however, would have to wait for another time to worry about. For now, he needed to get back into the castle without being seen.

Luckily, the stables seemed to be largely unattended. There was one stablehand far in the corner, but he seemed to have nodded off. Geralt rolled his eyes, but he had to admit that it was awfully convenient he had run into an essentially useless and disinterested boy. Geralt found Roach and patted her neck, promising to return shortly, before he made his way to a side door of the castle, the very same one he had been escorted out of the last time he had been asked to leave Cintra.

Either the Gods were on his side tonight, or the rebels had already taken advantage of this particular weak spot, because the door was unlocked, and Geralt slipped inside silently.

The castle seemed empty. As he edged through the corridors he saw evidence of struggle here and there--a broken lock, a dropped weapon, but nothing that suggested much of a fight. He supposed all evidence of that would likely be located in and around the banquet hall, but Geralt had no intention of stopping there. Instead, he made his way to his own room, to grab the few belongings he had left when he’d had to pack lightly for the party.

Not a single guard stopped him, and while this was concerning, he didn’t have time to dwell on it. As quickly as he had found his quarters, he had slipped right back out, not wanting to push his luck any further by getting distracted.

He was almost to the exit when he heard footsteps behind him. They were quiet, going just as slowly as he had been. Geralt paused, looking for a place to hide, and when he saw none, he instead tucked himself into a doorway, hoping the cover would give him at least some advantage as he took out a dagger.

It worked well enough. It gave Geralt the advantage he needed to catch the other unawares, and Geralt pressed them into the opposite wall with a knife on their neck so fluidly that Geralt didn’t even realize who he had until the man’s back hit the other wall.

“Mousesack.” Geralt stepped away.

“I hoped that was you,” Mousesack answered, relieved. “Where is she?”

“Safe. With Yennefer. Outside Cintra. The queen?” At least this way, he would have some news to report to Cirilla.

“Furious, and injured, but alive. After the man choked and you left, we were ambushed. Their attack was larger than I anticipated, and we lost a few men, but they were subdued and the survivors have been captured. I’m glad I found you; Calanthe is just shy of calling a search party herself for the princess.” He let out a sigh, and for a moment he looked as tired as Geralt was sure he felt; though in a moment it was gone.

“To Nilfgaard, then?” Geralt asked, and Mousesack nodded. He held out a small satchel to Geralt.

“No one can know who she is.” Geralt snorted. “I have some supplies and half your coin. Calanthe will pay the other half when Ciri is returned safely.”

“We would travel faster with another horse. Or two.”

Mousesack shook his head. “It would raise too many questions. No one can know the girl is gone. They might come looking for you.”

Geralt grunted, but he couldn’t argue with Mousesack’s logic. They already didn’t know who could be trusted within the castle, and though the princess’s disappearance would become obvious soon enough, the more time they had to get away, the better.

“Good luck, Geralt. Keep her safe,” Mousesack said, resting a hand on Geralt’s shoulder.

Geralt nodded, then continued on his way, out the door and back to Roach.

“Well. This will be interesting,” he said, and they took off.

[pollylynn]

Title: To Begin With Rating: T WC: 1500

A/N: A little something hatched from a rejected Dialogic. Happy National Coffee Day.  

There is no husband in her bed. The sun is curling its fingers around the edges of the bedroom curtains. It’s nudging at her in that gentle, sotto voce way that’s so much worse than someone just whisking the covers away and declaring it’s time to get up. And there is no husband in her bed.

Her eyes pop open. Breath rushes into her body and stirs a million, billion butterflies. There should be a husband in her bed. Not a fiancé, boyfriend, partner, plucky sidekick—a husband. She pulls the covers up to her chin. She presses them in fists against her mouth to keep what might well be a girly squeal from making its way out into the quiet of the bedroom, the quiet of the huge house, the quiet of the first day of the rest of their lives. There should be a husband in her bed.

She waits a while. With the covers pulled up to her chin and her toes curled and flexed and curled again, she waits, listening, listening, but the kitchen is far away, and that’s probably where he is. He’s probably assembling something ridiculous on a tray, and she lies there, picturing him in bare feet with his robe flaring out behind him as he turns from the stovetop to the refrigerator to the cabinet up high with the fancy, fancier, fanciest plates.

She drifts, not sleeping exactly, but drifting. Her mind nudges back at the morning sun. It elbows it right out of the way, because there’s room for nothing but fire sinking below the horizon, violet and midnight blue crowding in from above. There’s room for nothing but bold brushstroke clouds and stars winking on at the end of their perfect day.

Her thumb brushes over the new weight encircling her fourth finger. She shivers, remembering the satisfaction of the click of it against the band of her engagement ring, the momentous swell of feeling as her breath caught and she felt the presence of her dad over her shoulder, her mom everywhere. She drifts, but it’s been a long time now. The sun is more insistent, not content with a whisper any longer. His pillow, when she draws it into her body, is long cool and the scent of him is faint.

It’s been a long time, and there is no husband in her bed, no husband backing into the room, barefoot and with infinite care, as he balances a tray with a cluster of perfect winter roses in one corner. It makes her grumpy, but fills her with sly satisfaction, too. If she has to hunt him down—if she catches him in whatever over-the-top act he’s embroiled in—there’ll be the good kind of hell to pay. He’ll be nervous and fast-talking. He’ll backpedal, she’ll advance and there are so many first times ahead of them, because he’s her husband.

She throws back the covers. She scowls at the sun and gasps at the cool bedroom air, because it’s November. It’s November, and though the world wouldn’t have dared to offer up anything but a beautifully mild evening for their perfect day, the huge house takes forever to heat, and how the heck is it fair that the stupid sun barged in to wake her and it’s still cold.

She grumbles and finds a robe. A thick one of his, first, because it’s cold, then a silky one of her own, because there’s a first-time opportunity waiting in the kitchen, on the hillside overlooking the water, by the pool, and she wants to look the part. She scurries on bare feet herself, retracing what must have been his steps. She patters down the stairs and he meets her there, all in a rush.

“No, no, no, no, no.” He grabs her around the waist and swings her in a one-eighty halfway back up the stairs. “You have to go back.”

“Castle, what?” She digs her heels in at last. Not literally. That would take them both back down the stairs, ass over tea kettle, but she grabs hold of the polished wood railing and tugs the other way. “What is wrong with you?”

“Me?” He looks flummoxed. Annoyed. “Not me. Here.” Now he looks guilty. His eyes shift away. “Well. Me. I should have thought.” He rouses himself. He tugs her up another few stairs with renewed determination. “But I did think now. I thought and  I’m fixing it. It’s fixed. It’ll be here soon, but you have to go back to bed.”  

“Castle. Stop. I’m not going back anywhere!” She plumps down on her butt, three stairs from the top. The hard wood is freezing through the thin silk of her robe, and she hisses. “Here? What’ll be here?”

“Machine.” There’s more than that, but he drops two steps below her and mumbles miserably against her knee. It’s the only thing she can make out until he heaves a sigh and tips his head up and back to face her. “I’m sorry. This is the worst.”

“The worst?” She grinds the heel of one hand into the knot of a headache that’s started to move in between her eyebrows and grabs a fistful of his hair with the other. “Machine?”

“Espresso machine.” His eyes squeeze shut. She can see a companion headache settling in between his eyebrows. “Your latte. I can’t believe I didn’t think of it.”


“We’ve got the french press.” She laughs and taps him on the head. Her stomach rumbles in anticipation as she thinks of  to-die-for pastries. “And then we walk down . . .” She trails off in horror. 

“It’s closed.” He buries his face against her knee again. “It November and everything’s closed, and I can’t believe—”  

“Castle!!” She slides her palm over his mouth. She laughs, a little weakly, a little miserably, because those pastries. Her latte. “This is hardly a tragedy.”

There’s muffled outrage from behind her hand. His eyebrows lift to encompass all the indignation under the sun. He twists free of her hold.


“You’re my wife!” His voice bounces off he hardwood stairs, off the bright white walls and the high ceilings. It bounces around the huge house and the wide world. “How is it not a tragedy that you are not in bed and I am not bringing you the first latte of the rest of our lives right now?”

She doesn’t have an answer for him. Not right away. There are a million, billion butterflies beating their wings inside her. She’s his wife. Not his fiancée, his girlfriend, his parter, the girl whose pigtails he’s dead set on pulling. His wife.

“You bought a machine?” she says finally. She gives him a sly look out of the corner of her eye. “A fancy one like the precinct’s?”

“Way fancier,” he scoffs. “They have smart machines now. You can control it right from your—”

“And they’ll set it up?” she cuts in. Her mind is working over time. “You probably paid them, like . . . a bajillion dollars to set it up.”

“Not a bajillion,” he protests, but she’s already up and away. She’s already surveying her options from the landing above him.

“Put a note on the door.” She mentally reviews the layout of the whole damned, sprawling, spectacular place and identifies the point that’s as far from the kitchen as possible. “A very detailed note, and then have it . . . text you or send you a drone or whatever—“

“There’s this open source hack where you can get your roomba to vroooooooom, beep, beep, right into your room!” He makes ridiculous hand motions to go with the ridiculous little boy noises. He is ridiculous and he’s her husband. 



“A note.” She whirls, her silk robe flaring seductively around her. “Leave a damned note and meet me on the balcony.”

“The balcony?” he frowns. “It’s November.”

“It is November. And your fiancée has very fond memories of that balcony.” She catches the corner of the wall and peers back at him. “Now your wife has a list of demands.”

“Demands.” He shoots to his feet. “Yes. Absolutely. A note.” He starts down the stairs then rushes all the way up to her. He hooks her fingers half a second before they’re out of reach. He reels her in and kisses her breathlessly. “Wife. That’s pretty cool, isn’t it?”

“Cool.” She laughs right into the kiss. “Gonna be cooler on that balcony.” She grabs hold of the front of his robe. She pushes him away, then pulls him back. She steals one more kiss, then pushes him away again. “Better have a plan.”

“Oh, I have a plan.” He starts down the stairs. She sees his fingers twitching for a pen. She sees him writing the note in his head already and moving on to the next thing and the next and she can’t wait. She and the million, billion butterflies beating their wings inside her absolutely cannot wait. “Your husband has plans, Beckett.”

image via homeofthenutty