#catching four when he's unbalanced

[cheenapri]

Transactional [Yandere Illumi Zoldyck x Reader]

Day one

Summary: Illumi had decided to spoil you for once, little did you know how much it would cost you in the end.

Word count: 7.6k

Notes: yandere, kidnapping, gender neutral reader, unhealthy relationships, unbalanced power dynamics, mentions of past abuse, Illumi is kind of an asshole but when is he not, reader is not having a good time

Day two + three Day four + five

Shit.

Why didn’t you figure this out sooner?

You had deluded yourself into believing that maybe he felt bad, that he had actually changed for the better, for your wellbeing, that he actually wanted to treat you for once just to make you happy.

Of course not.

There’s always a catch. It was chiefly for his benefit under the guise of strengthening the involuntary relationship you had with him.

“Fate brought you to me. And thus, it is my duty to protect you.” he explained over and over during his many lectures, trying to drill it into you. 

He had only given the illusion of change.

You held your breath, his body looming over you with one hand interlaced with your own and the other straddling your hip to keep you still. He left bite marks on your neck, too rough and inexperienced to be interpreted as anything affectionate, though what he intended, blood quick to seep out of the wounds. He had slowly lapped it up, taking far too long for it to be seen as any sort of foreplay. A part of you wondered if he changed his mind and decided to cannibalize you instead. 

He didn’t really care how strange his actions were, though. He had you right where he wanted you — where you should’ve been long ago. He moved like he was following a script; his long, black hair draped down as he went in for more “love bites”. His face was expressionless as always, cementing just how empty this relationship was. How did he develop such a twisted sense of love?

You question why he even bothered preparing you for this, though you appreciated it for once, as he took the time to organize a five day vacation with you – or rather order the butlers to organize it. What was the point? Everything was lifeless and awkward, just like back at the estate. Was this the only sense of normality he was willing to give you? 

Your mind recalls when it was first announced to you, it was through your appointed butler, Shiori. Shiori was around the same age as you, chosen deliberately to increase your chances of opening up to her. He gave her the task, having her inquire about your likes and dislikes, favorite hobbies, movies, fashion taste and more just so he could surprise you with it later. You assumed he’s either too awkward or doesn’t care enough to learn about your interests directly from your own mouth.

Sitting at a white desk in your prison of a master bedroom, you assembled a DIY house kit. It was a little greenhouse, the tediousness of it giving you something to do while you tried to maintain your sanity. The room was windowless, the walls soundproof, and there was only one door, a titanium maximum security door that could only be opened with his permission. A security camera with a speaker loomed above you, seemingly always pointing directly at you.

You try not to think about how many times he’s watched you through that camera.

The distant sound of one of the security gates opening catches your ears. Someone’s coming. 

You set the tweezers down, heart quickening as you continue listening. It doesn’t take long for the door to be unlocked, the multiple clicks ringing throughout the silent room. Audible footsteps could be heard, causing you to relax a little as that was your indication it wasn’t him. You turn as Shiori emerges, swiftly locking the door behind her and standing with her white gloved fingers interlaced neatly in front of her. She smiles at you and you return a half hearted one. 

“Good evening, Master (Name).” she bows her head with formality, her short brown and blonde hair briefly falling over her face. She straightens up again and quickly fixes her hair. “The Master has a message for you. You are to freshen up and dress yourself, you will be escorted outside shortly.”

Your interest immediately piqued. You had only been outside of this room once since you got here – when you attempted your first escape. It was during a time when you had a different assigned butler named Junpei. Junpei had fallen for you in their short time taking care of you, bonding with you in ways no other butler would ever be able to. They were genuine, they actually cared about you and your well-being rather than what their employer had tasked them with. There were no cameras in the room at the time so the two of you made plans to escape whenever they visited under the guise of wanting to keep you company. Unfortunately for you, your captor had already planned for something like this, though he didn’t think anyone had the gall to actually up and do it. Both your and Junpei’s heart dropped to your feet when you saw him standing menacingly outside the first security gate. He was silent, but his bloodthirsty aura spoke for him. You soon found out what it sounds like to physically rip someone apart with bare hands. You actually thought you'd die that night as you found yourself unable to breathe or even think amidst his extreme, malicious aura, eyes widening further when he questions if you truly loved Junpei. You never want to see him like that ever again. 

You were let off with a broken ankle and no one spoke of the incident again. 

Shiori could see your confusion mixed with awe. “That is all I can tell you, Master (Name). It would be best for you to begin preparing yourself now.”

You slowly stood up, looking at your project for a moment as you pondered what he may have been planning. This was strange. He definitely wasn’t rewarding you for good behavior. You’ve already tried that route of buttering him up in hopes he’d let his guard down; he, in fact, did not and you were punished for dishonesty. How would he know what true love was anyway?

You make your way to the large, luxury bathroom, turning on the warm water and letting the shower run for a bit. You hear Shiori’s footsteps through the door, assuming she’s going through your wardrobe and picking your outfit at his request. You hate him. 

You slowly stepped into the tub, the warm water embracing you like a comforting hug. Hot showers restored a bit of your sanity. You liked to stand there and allow the water to splash onto you, imagining you were anywhere but in this hellhole. Shiori, however, encourages you to pick up your speed, well aware of your tendency to reminisce in the shower for far too long. You sigh, stepping out of the tub and finishing your routine. You avoid looking at yourself in the mirror, not wanting to see what months of stress had done to your features. You threw on a fluffy robe before leaving the bathroom. There was an outfit sprawled out on the bed, one you knew he really liked on you though he’s never admitted it, only staring longer than he should.

“Is this some kind of special event?” You ask sarcastically.

It’s a rhetorical question, but Shiori humors you regardless.

“The Master is in a good mood today.” she smiles gently, her voice somewhat monotone. 

She reminded you of him in a way. Why did she even choose to work here? You stare at the outfit for a moment, reluctant to even touch it. Shiori notices your uneasiness, fully understanding your anxiety but feigning ignorance nonetheless. “Is something the matter, Master (Name)?”

“I have a bad feeling about this.”

Your anxiety continues to build. Everything in your strange, unstable relationship with him has been purely transactional. Want dessert? Speak kindly to him. Want a new video game to play? Butter him up but be careful not to overdo it, there’s only so much dishonesty he could allow. Want the privilege of having a full belly for the next three days? Behave. Do everything he says without question, regardless if you have to swallow your pride. So despite all of this, why was he suddenly treating you so graciously? Allowing you to leave your prison cell masterfully decorated to resemble a bedroom belonging to a ten million dollar mansion?

Shiori chuckles a bit. You’re aware of how disingenuous it sounds, but you don’t comment on it. “You shouldn’t worry yourself, Master (Name). The Master has been planning this for a while now, I’m sure you will enjoy yourself.”

Great, now you’re worried Shiori has said too much. You’re no stranger to how strict the Zoldyck family is with their servants, how strict he must be with Shiori. You think of what happened to Junpei again, of the desperate pleas that fell upon deaf ears as he continued to mutilate them, how his expression seemed more uncanny than usual.

Shivering at the thought of it, you drop the topic, not wanting to continue to allow her to dig her own grave but grateful for the hints. You remove your robe, ignoring Shiori’s presence as you’ve changed in front of her countless times, and put on the outfit along with your assigned shoes. 

Shiori confirms that you’re ready before the two of you move to stand in front of the large security door. To say you were apprehensive was an understatement. Perhaps this was your chance to finally escape? No, that would be stupid. Obviously he’d already accounted for that, most likely had medical professionals on standby in case he needed to break your ankle again. Maybe he’d break both of them this time or even saw your legs off. You wouldn’t put it past him.

The multiple clicks of the locks could be heard again before the door was pulled open, multiple butlers on the other side. Shiori steps out and you’re hesitant to follow, not wanting to give away how eager and ready to bolt you were. Not like you could anyway, not with five highly skilled butlers watching your every move. 

Not a word was spoken as they escorted you through the two security gates, your eyes stinging when sunlight poured over you. 

You’re outside. 

You’re actually outside.

You would scream and cry if the situation was different, falling to your knees and feeling the grass on your hands in your frenzied state. 

You look around, taking a mental note of every little thing. You could see the Zoldyck’s mansion in the distance, far away from your separate living structure. Good. 

“Eyes forward, (Name).”

The sudden order breaks you out of your thoughts, your head whips forward while your eyes move to look at the source of the voice. It was a taller, older lady with pink, pigtail type hair. She must’ve been serving the Zoldycks for a long time. She’s silent, giving you a stern look before turning forward again. You fight the urge to look around, to run even, as you’re led through the forest that surrounds the estate.

“Where are we going?” you couldn’t help but ask. Your voice is somewhat soft and timid, but it’s clear they all heard you. 

“It’s just up ahead, Master (Name).” Shiori answers, her hands now folded behind her.

You’re taking in as much information as you can without actually looking around, taking note of the distance between the Butler’s Quarters and your prison cell. Approximately one hundred fifty seven steps, you’ve been counting. An additional two hundred seventy four steps from the Butler’s Quarters to the front gate. Would you even remember this information?

One of the butlers effortlessly pushes open the giant front gate, the feat reminding you just how weak you truly are. Those gates weigh four tons and the bigger gates above it are many times heavier. 

You can’t even begin to describe what you were feeling. A part of you fully believed he had come to his senses and was releasing you like some wild animal, throwing you off of the property and leaving you to fend for yourself. Surely it would be better than going back to that room. 

Unfortunately for you, that wasn’t the case. Instead of throwing you out and shutting the gate behind them, the butlers led you to a black Mercedes truck sitting in wait.

Your head hurts. You feel like you’re going to throw up. Typical reaction when you know he’s near. You could just die right now. You knew you were bound to see him again, but that doesn’t repress the dread it fills you with.

He’s staring at you through the tinted windows, you can’t see him — you just know it. You don’t want to see him, you haven't had enough time to mentally prepare; you’ll never have enough time to mentally prepare. Shiori steps ahead of you, opening the passage to hell as the Devil himself sits patiently, his black, empty eyes gazing upon you.

You nearly vomit.

You swallow hard, holding your breath in an attempt to mellow out your facial features as you climb into the backseat. You didn’t acknowledge him yet, slowly buckling your seatbelt and staring at Shiori with widened eyes as she shuts the door, sealing you inside with that monster.

It’s suffocating.

Overwhelming.

You forgot to breathe.

Sucking in sharp breaths, you shut your eyes tightly. The silence is deafening. He’s waiting on you. For once.

“H-hello… Illumi.” saying his name was the equivalent of swallowing a cup of hydrochloric acid. It leaves a bad taste in your mouth, pains your throat, your stomach, everything. 

Illumi hums in approval. “Hm. I’m thankful you hadn’t forgotten your manners, (Name). I thought I’d have to discipline you sooner than I anticipated.” you hear him shift, surely turning to fully face you. “I won’t need to, right?” his monotone voice does your ears a disservice despite its smoothness.

“No.” you quickly wipe your eyes, knowing how much he hates seeing your tears. 

You finally force yourself to look up at him, his piercing, cat-like eyes filling you with the unwavering desire to do something drastic. Maybe throw yourself out of the car when it’s moving and hope it runs you over, killing you in the process. 

You look away just as quickly, tightly gripping your pants to quell the need to gouge your eyes out. At least you wouldn’t have to look at him then. He shifts again, facing forward but not looking away from you. “I’ll assume you’re overwhelmed. You’ve missed me so much you don’t know how to convey it.”

“I didn’t miss you. I actually had hoped you died and I’d never have to see you again.” is what you would say if you were fond of getting the life strangled out of you. Instead, you stay silent, staring at your hands intertwined on your lap. 

“What have you been getting up to?”

Shouldn’t he already know? Shiori is his human security camera plus the actual security camera he has in your enclosure. What are you even supposed to say to this? You’ve been rotting in bed and crying your eyes out because you can’t leave? You had thought of creative ways to end your own life? He’d have you restrained to your bed for all eternity if you mentioned that last one. 

“Nothing of interest.” is all you say.

“Tell me. I want to hear it.”

Bastard’s trying to force conversation. 

“I’m working on that greenhouse project Shiori had given me-”

“I had given you.” he corrects. Silence falls over the two of you as the car finally begins to drive off. 

Illumi was always out on missions or some other job, how were you supposed to know it was a gift from him? You wouldn’t have touched it otherwise, preferring to rot in bed than encourage him in the slightest. You’re actually thankful for his extended time spent away doing fuck all, not seeing yourself surviving if you had to physically endure him day and night constantly. Hell, you were barely keeping your composure just sitting next to him and you’d only seen him for two minutes. 

“Thank you.” not knowing what else to say, you simply thank him, hoping he’d be satisfied with just that and leave you alone. 

“Aren’t you going to ask me what I’ve been doing?”

Of course he doesn’t.

“Killing people?” you state the obvious, hoping he wouldn’t interpret that as you trying to be smart. Assassinating people is his job, it only makes sense to assume that’s what he’s been doing. You wish he’d kill you and get it over with. 

“Naturally. Take a better guess.” what the hell does he want from you? You don’t know anything significant about him to be able to give a good guess. You’re clearly stunted, your lack of a response giving it away. He narrows his eyes slightly, reaching out which causes you to flinch. He retracts his hand momentarily upon seeing your reaction before going in again slowly, softly cupping your chin and guiding your head to look at him. “Do you assume I don’t think about you?”

What? He must be fucking with you.

Illumi brings forth his other hand just as slowly, now gently cupping your face with both. You were always shocked by how smooth and soft his hands were. They’re cold though.

“Answer me.”

His owlish eyes were staring directly into your soul, almost hypnotizing you. You shift your head and look away. If you were as bold as you used to be, you would’ve swung on him by now, turning his gentle hands cupping your face into violent claws gripping your throat. It took many lessons for you to learn that you simply could not fight him.

He backs down and lets go of you when you fail to answer, pulling his hands into his lap again. He was aware of your fear, he found twisted comfort in it, believing it would keep you glued to his side. You glance in his general direction but not at his face. He was wearing that purple outfit again and his long, black hair was as silky as ever.

“Aren’t you curious as to where we’re going?” 

He sure was talkative today; Shiori did mention he was in a good mood. He’s usually very blank, even around you, his supposed partner. It forced you to learn to read his emotions using his micro expressions, tone, silent indicators, and of course aura. Aura was mainly reserved for more intense emotions, ones you should avoid inducing at all costs.

You were always on edge whenever you were around him, and this unusual shift in attitude didn’t help. 

“So where are we going?” you finally ask.

“You’ll see when we get there.”

Motherfucker. 

You don’t respond, looking away from him in favor of staring out of the window. You were seated awkwardly, not fully allowing yourself to relax, not that you could in the presence of Illumi. You could almost drown him out completely if it weren’t for his uncanny staring, something you still couldn’t get used to. He barely blinks; it reminds you of some sort of Creepypasta.

“Talk to me.”

It was an order.

“I don’t know what to say to you.” your voice was quiet. You’re really not in the mood to speak right now, especially not to him. This wouldn’t do, however, as Illumi was determined — something that proves to never end well for you. 

“You can talk about anything you want.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“(Name),” it was a warning, a hint of irritation laced his otherwise monotone voice. “Do you really not have anything to talk about… or do you just not want to?”

You didn’t want to clearly, but you also didn’t want to taste his wrath. 

“Could you tell me about your day?” you chose to interview him instead, hoping that if you got him to talk in length, you wouldn’t have to. He brings his hand up to his chin as if he was thinking, his eyes never leaving you. You felt like he was robbing you of your life energy just by looking at you. 

“My day?” he repeated the question, falling silent for a few moments before speaking once more. “If I told you, that would ruin the surprise.”

You reply with a mere “oh” before looking out of the window once again. 

“(Name).”

He’s never been this persistent for your attention before. All the times he’s returned home and “spent time” with you mainly consisted of the two of you sitting in silence while he watched you do nothing; an occasional short and awkward conversation. It felt more like he was being forced to interact with you rather than wanting to on his own volition, despite him being the one keeping you there. 

“I’m sorry, Illumi.” 

You only said his name when you were trying to soothe him, hoping to avoid consequence. He knew that, but he wouldn’t admit that it indeed worked. The slight drooping of his shoulders betrayed him every time, however. 

He doesn’t accept nor reject your insincere apology, choosing to silently savor your calling of his name. You will never understand him.

“I answered you, now it’s your turn to talk. Tell me about your home life.”

This question immediately raised flags. He’s never asked you something like this, let alone allow you to cry about it. You look at him, eyes slightly widen for a brief moment. Was he only bringing this up to bait you into talking? “Don’t you already know everything about me?” 

He indeed did. He made it known to you that he’d stalked you for five months before making his move, talking about it as if he was stating what he had for lunch. He had no sense of morality, no awareness as to how his extreme actions affected others. He’s insane.

You’ve noticed a slight change in his stare. You’re pissing him off.

“I want you to tell me.”

“Uh,” you quickly scrambled for things to say, “I had my own house and car as well as a really good high paying job.” you used “had” for a reason. You were positive that all your assets were repossessed when search parties couldn’t find you and weeks were flying by without a single clue regarding your whereabouts. Illumi keeps staring, quietly pressing you to continue. 

“I had a really sweet dog.” you used “had” again. You don’t recall all the details of that night, only that you had gotten a rude shock when you woke up to a strange man in your bedroom. Surely you would have woken up sooner if you heard something happen, but you didn’t. You decided to ask what you were always afraid to ask before, taking advantage of this moment to finally get closure. “Are… are they okay? My dog?”

Your hesitation was obvious. Nothing good ever happened whenever you brought up members of what he refers to as “your past life.” you were positive he intended for you to talk about things you did alone rather than actual people or living beings you connected with. They didn’t exist anymore, according to him. They don’t matter. Don’t talk about them. 

“Your dog is dead.” 

You’d been preparing for this moment for months now, but the bluntness of his answer still hit you like a truck. “H-huh?”

“Your dog is dead.” he repeated again with no sense of remorse. ”I didn’t want to risk it alerting you to my presence, so I killed it.”

Something felt off that night, your dog was more anxious than usual, pacing back and forth and staring out certain windows. They even refused to go outside when you tried to let them out, their tail tucked between their legs and fur standing on edge. You should’ve known. You should’ve taken them and ran.

It was even worse that you also ignored all those strange people you had met that week. They all had a gold piercing sticking out of some part of their head, almost like a needle. Their words were slurred and their movements puppet-like as they asked you unsettling questions. “Do you have a romantic interest?” as well as  “Do you have any exes?” and “Do you live alone?”

That should’ve been your sign to get the hell out of there. 

Illumi tilts his head and watches you attempt to bottle your emotions. Your hands gripping the fabric of your pants tightly as you bit your lip, your heart was hurting. You’d already mourned for your dear pet, assuming that killer had taken their life when he broke into your house, but still having slight hope that he had spared them. 

Why had he even bothered to answer your question let alone allow you to ask it?

He doesn’t initiate anymore conversation for the rest of the car ride, thankfully, allowing you to simmer in your emotions. That doesn’t mean he averts his attention from you, though. 

The car finally pulls into a parking lot belonging to a grand, luxurious hotel. You’re as confused as you are shocked. The parking lot is empty aside from several black Mercedes trucks holding Zoldyck butlers and presumably cars belonging to the hotel’s employees. It’s a normal working day and this is a well known, upscale hotel, so why was it so empty? 

Illumi looks away from you for the first time since you’ve entered the car, pulling the door’s handle and exiting the vehicle. You didn’t move, you’re too afraid to, you didn’t want to make the wrong move. 

Shiori approaches your side of the truck, but Illumi steps in front of her, opening the door for you and holding out his hand. You slowly unbuckled your seatbelt and attempted to slide past him, he only grabbed you and placed you back into the car before extending his hand again, silently commanding you to take it. He took note of your blatant disobedience, but said nothing, deciding against giving you a much desired punishment. He took what he considered to be a softer approach, giving you a chance to correct your mistakes. 

Feeling as though he’s one inconvenience away from breaking you, you hesitantly take his hand. His grip was firm, his assistance useless. He ignored your attempt at pulling your hand free the second your foot touched the ground, choosing to let go only after both feet were firmly planted. 

Illumi doesn’t explain the situation as he begins walking with you in tow, Shiori and some other butlers trailing behind the both of you. Butlers were all over the place actually, standing guard as if this was a maximum security prison rather than a hotel. You feel like they’re all watching you, fully expecting you to try something in vain. You don’t blame them, if you had super speed, you would’ve run off by now. 

The hotel was completely vacant of people, aside from more butlers and concerned hotel employees. As you enter the lobby, your eyes lingered on the receptionist, praying they had seen your missing person’s report months earlier; if it had even been reported as such. They only look down, guilt seemingly spread across their face. Were they threatened or perhaps even paid off to stay silent? 

Who knows.

The silence was louder than the shuffling of the butlers’ footsteps or the tune of the faint jazz music coming from the ballroom. A butler approaches Illumi and informs him that all preparations were ready, earning them a nod in response. You silently follow as the both of you are led away, the uneasiness on your face evident to anyone who dared to look at it. 

The butler soon stops in front of a particular door far at the end of a long hallway. The space felt liminal, you’d almost think you’d gotten sucked into a different reality if the two people next to you weren’t present. The butler bows slightly before leaving you and Illumi alone. He looked at you, like he was trying to read your expression, before twisting the door’s handle and revealing the room’s interior. 

He must’ve paid a fortune. The room was large, decorated with luscious furniture you couldn’t even begin to think about affording. There was a king size bed in the middle of the room, a flatscreen TV almost as wide as the bed propped on the wall in front of it, a glass sliding door leading to a balcony on the far right, and a lounge chair in the corner to say the least. 

You awkwardly step into the room, hugging yourself as you attempt to make sense of the situation; taking note of the clicking of the door’s lock. 

“Well, here we are.”

His lack of enthusiasm spoiled the mood. Not that the mood was bright anyway.

“So… what’s the point of this?” your voice was a bit low and shy. He didn’t like it, he’d have to chip away at that. He had bigger things to be upset over, however, as you appear, or choose to pretend, to not understand what’s going on. His intentions should’ve been obvious by now. He doesn’t respond right away, causing you to ask yet another ignorant question. “Are we attending some kind of special event?”

“No.” his answer was short, intentionally vague to encourage you to figure it out yourself. Illumi casually moves about the room while you continue to stand in the same spot, presumably checking for himself to make sure that everything was in place. You were on edge, that much was apparent as he stopped a few feet in front of you. “Do you like the room?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. I will be back.”

You feel a slight wind as he walks past you, a little too close considering the amount of space around you. You immediately relax once he’s gone, taking a few deep breaths as you cautiously inspect the room. The thought of trying the handle to see if he’d locked it behind him doesn’t even cross your mind, the odds were against you and you knew that. Doesn’t mean you wouldn’t try the balcony door, however.

It was locked, just as you’d guessed. 

Sitting on the edge of the bed and resting your head in your hands, you think in vain of a possible escape. Maybe when he leaves you alone again, you could use something to break the glass then use the bed sheets to craft a makeshift rope? The problem with that is the bedsheets wouldn’t serve you as you were several stories off the ground. Your plan didn’t even account for what you’d do if you even reached the ground as you were sure Zoldyck butlers surrounded the premises.

You decided it was best to just roll with it, see where this was going. Maybe you could exploit him as he does seem to be more lenient with you. 

The door clicks and it opens, Illumi standing in the doorway looking in at you, noticing how much more relaxed you appeared to be in his absence. He motions for you to follow and you do so without fuss. 

Following him down the long hallway felt surreal, you couldn’t hear anything aside from your own footsteps as his were completely silent; traits of an elite assassin. You watch as his long, black hair swayed behind him, almost glaring as you study his robotic movements. He doesn’t feel real.

The two of you entered the hotel’s restaurant, it was just as desolate of other patrons as the rest of the place. You were led to a lone, two person table placed next to the glass wall, the table’s decorations stood out amongst the others as its setting included rose petals and candles. 

Corny. You don’t like this.

You take your seat, now being forced to fully face him for who knows how long. You turn your head to the right, looking out of the window. Your breath hitches as you notice people in the far distance. People. Actual people clueless as to what’s happening to you right now. You give Illumi a side stare, his blank yet judgemental one challenging yours.

“Where is everyone?” you couldn’t help but ask despite knowing it was a question he did not want to hear. 

“They aren’t important.”

Why should they matter? They’d only interfere and distract you from what’s important: him. You should only be focused on him and his efforts to please you. 

“So what exactly is this?”

Your inability, or unwillingness, to comprehend the situation was beginning to annoy him. Wasn’t it clear? Did the dim lighting and candles not give it away? The rose petals on the table? The romantic — or what he deemed to be romantic — atmosphere? 

“It’s a romantic dinner.”

He didn’t offer any further details, upset he had to state that it was a date rather than let his efforts speak for him. You were sitting across from him, the two of you were almost completely alone. This was a date.

“All of a sudden, though? You never let me leave that room before.”

“Why does it matter?” his tone was still flat. 

Illumi couldn’t believe you’d question his acts of kindness. He was doing it because he wanted to treat you for once, deciding to take you somewhere appropriate and fitting to your taste. 

“I’m just trying to understand you.” you state, holding your hands together on the table as a self soothing mechanism. 

“You don’t need to understand me.” his voice hinted at the tiniest bit of annoyance. He had no need to explain his actions, he had his reasons and that’s all you needed to know. “Just enjoy the dinner.”

You say nothing as you turn your attention to the only other people present in the room: the butlers standing at the exits and the chefs working in the kitchen. None of them looked at you, their attention focused on anything but. 

“Don’t stare at them. The butlers are simply here to protect you.” his monotone voice made his last sentence sound oddly intimidating. 

You fight the urge to question if it was him they would be protecting you from in the case that you anger him. 

“It feels like the rapture has happened and we’re the only ones left.” you pick up one of the rose petals, inspecting it as an excuse to avoid his gaze. 

“That would be ideal.” 

“Is something bad going to happen to me?” your forward question caused his thin eyebrows to raise slightly.

“Not if you behave. I just want you to enjoy this date.” his tone was a bit softer now, barely noticeable to anyone who wasn’t, or forced to be, close to him. He didn’t like your anxiousness, worried it would ruin his meticulous yet futile plans to make amends with you. 

You were still on edge as the butlers served a lavish meal to the both of you, your facial features failing to soften as you inspected the food. He was fully aware of just how much damage he’d done to you and he wasn’t going to justify his behavior, only wanting to make you feel better. 

It was hard for him to stay silent, however, as you were continuing to look around and stare at the butlers.

“Is the sight of them bothering you?” the sound of his voice catching your attention. “I could have them move out of view if that would ease your nerves.”

He doesn’t get it. Maybe he pretends not to, choosing to ignore your uncomfortableness with him in favor of deluding himself.

“It’s not that, it’s just…” 

Your words couldn’t come out, you didn’t know what to say. Ask him to get rid of all the unnecessary escorts and open the hotel to the public again as this felt more like a standoff than a romantic dinner? You hated the silence between you, not that you wanted to speak to Illumi, you wanted to hear the chatter of other diners over the classy jazz music, the clinking of utensils as they enjoyed their meal.

“Oh?” he slowly tilted his head, his uncanny expression observing your every move and sound. It’s as if he was daring you to ruin it all with some sort of stupid comment; it’d give him a reason to drag you back to the estate and lock you away for good. 

“Nothing. It’s nothing.” you manage to finally say. It just wasn’t worth it.

He continues staring, features unmoving as you assume he’s thinking of various ways to brutally murder you. He only straightens himself.

“I see.” 

You’re internally thankful he dropped it, your shoulders drooping in relief as you watch him continue to eat unnaturally fast, a strange habit of his. When was the last time he’s blinked? You can’t stand him. 

Illumi obviously didn’t believe that you had nothing to share. He knew you well enough to guess that whatever you were about to say would’ve angered him, so you kept quiet in order to avoid problems. Good, you were learning. 

Silence fell over the two of you, increasing the tension in the air. He’d already finished eating, choosing to gaze at you rather than anything else. He was making you lose your appetite, but you somehow managed to finish your meal.

“Would you like dessert?” Illumi inquired, barely giving you enough time to chew and swallow your last bite before asking.

“No thanks.” you don’t explain why. The truth was that you didn’t want to sit in front of him any longer, you were tired of his eyes boring into you. 

“Are you sure?” he tilted his head again, pressuring you for a different answer.

“I’m sure.” 

You wouldn’t budge, much to his dismay. You had unknowingly foiled his plans to spoon feed you a strawberry sundae. 

“Very well.” he doesn’t push any further, only slowly nodding. “Did you enjoy the food?”

“Yummy.” 

Illumi didn’t immediately react to your childish response, only straightening himself after a few moments. He had made sure this dinner would be perfect, planning everything to the last detail, and you’ve shown your gratitude by looking at everything other than him and rating his endeavor with a one word answer. 

He remained still for a few more moments before deciding to ignore your strange behavior once again. He stood up from his seat, looking away from you for the first time since he’s sat down. 

“Let’s go.”

You follow him as commanded, taking clear note of his slight annoyance. He led you to the hotel’s theater, the sound of your footsteps slightly echoing in the large, spacious room. He picks two spots in the center and takes a seat, you follow suit. 

Choosing to stay silent, you don’t ask any questions about what movie the two of you were seeing, only staring forward as the lights turn off and the showing begins. Illumi had carefully selected this movie for you. It was lighthearted and fun, chosen specifically to improve your mood. The date wasn’t meeting his expectations, as you weren’t quite throwing yourself at him, but he was determined to change that. 

You tried your best to ignore his constant glancing in your direction for the entirety of the film. It was as if he was looking for something, for reassurance to soothe his ever growing concerns. He didn’t like your indifference, he didn’t like that he couldn’t tell how you were feeling in detail about his attempts at courtship.

The movie was good, you liked it. Illumi was already staring at you by the time you faced him, the credits rolling on the screen. It was subtle but he still looked upset, the image of you leaning away from him as if you were trying to put as much space as possible between the two of you was still fresh in his mind. 

He would break that physical barrier, desensitize you to his presence.

As you silently walk back to the suite, Illumi suddenly grabs your hand. Your heart jumps into your throat, fully expecting him to crush it as punishment for upsetting him. He stops walking and stares at you when you impulsively try to pull away, not saying a word as he gives you a second to collect yourself. 

You were ruining his passionate act of love. He knew he wasn’t the most expressive, as he was raised to mask his emotions, but his straightforwardness made up for that. You should be happy. This is an act of love. He had done his research — asking his father — and knew what he needed to do in order to please you. He won’t let you spoil it. 

Eventually you somewhat simmer down, still tense in his firm hold. He continues walking, slower this time. He wasn’t even holding your hand correctly as yours was balled into a fist. He didn’t care though, as long as he was holding it.

The night hadn’t gone his way but he had plenty more tricks up his sleeve, optimistic that tomorrow would be better. Illumi would not put up with failure. 

You were in for a ride.

You reach and enter the suite once again, Illumi locking the door behind him. He lets out a sigh and begins to settle down, having no issue kicking his shoes off and changing clothes right in front of you. You, however, move to sit stationary on the lounge chair, staring at the ground to avoid any awkward interactions with your naked “husband”. 

You had no desirable reaction to anything he did, which he found disheartening. You finally look up when he’s fully clothed, watching as he sits on the edge of the bed. He decided to risk it, to ask about your experience. He figured a blunt and bold answer would be significantly better than overthinking and assuming the worst. “Did you enjoy anything I did today?”

Truth be told, you did. You just didn’t like him. Had anyone more deserving taken the time to do this for you, you’d throw yourself all over them. 

“It was the typical Illumi experience.” 

You regretted saying that before it even left your mouth. “The typical Illumi experience” was not a compliment, it was a brutal insult disguised with subtlety. You had just compared his month’s worth of intensive planning and preparing to a regular day being around him back at Kukuroo Mountain. 

Something you didn’t like flashed in his eyes, your fingers nervously grip your pants yet again. What you’d just said was so dismissive, condescending, everything he didn’t want to hear. He turns away from you, looking out of the glass balcony door as he takes several slow and deep breaths. He was collecting himself.

He reasoned in his mind, internally arguing that this was his chance to dissect your feelings and see how he could improve. He turns toward you, expression unreadable. “Elaborate.”

“Am I allowed to express myself?” you ask, your question was legitimately innocent. However, you were saying all the wrong things at the wrong time. 

“You were always allowed to express yourself, you just seem to have a habit of doing it disrespectfully.”

“I’m sorry.” you lower your gaze, apology insincere. 

You don’t know why he’s changed. You can tell that he’s being softer with you. If you said something like that a few months ago, you’d be unable to speak for the next two weeks. 

“Do you harbor resentment towards me?”

That was a rhetorical question. He didn’t want an answer; an answer other than a loud, confident “no” anyways. 

You stay silent, continuing to stare at the ground. He didn’t acknowledge that your silence was your way of saying yes. 

“Are we going back tomorrow?” you ask, changing the subject in order to lessen the heavy atmosphere. 

“Back to Kukuroo Mountain?”

“Yes.”

“No.” Illumi doesn’t provide further details. This trip won’t end unless it’s on a good note. “You should get changed.”

He stands up and rummages through the wardrobe, pulling out a silk pajama set. You slowly stand and retrieve it, making your way to the bathroom to change. He assumes you’re just being shy. You eventually come out, having put your dirty clothes into the hamper, before making your way to the lounge chair once again. The lights have been dimmed in your absence.

He was sitting up in bed, halfway under the blankets, staring at you expectantly. You didn’t want to come to terms with the reality that you had to sleep in the same bed as him; that fact wasn’t lost on him. It was obvious you were avoiding having to deal with the inevitable conclusion of the night by seeking comfort on the lounge chair. He wouldn’t allow you that comfort. “Come to bed.” his tone was flat, it was an order. 

“I’m not tired yet-”

“Come to bed.” he wasn’t hearing your excuses, only repeating himself while patting the empty space next to him. You look at him with a saddened expression, silently pleading to be let off the hook; the issue is that he’s let you off the hook multiple times today already and he wasn’t planning on letting you rob him of this. “Do as I say.”

Sensing the impatience in his tone, you reluctantly head over to your side of the bed and slide under the blanket, making sure to curl up as close to the edge and as far from Illumi as possible. You face away from him, silently making it clear you weren’t interested in anything other than sleep. He doesn’t comment on this, choosing to stay silent as he thinks to himself. He wanted to hold you, but he knew not to push too far. At least not so soon.

He sighs, continuing to sit up in bed as he watches your sleeping figure. Tomorrow will be a better day, he’ll make sure of it. 

[shift-shaping]

where did your hips go

enaste finally reaches her clan.

rating: t

pairing: solavellan

previous fics | 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16

By the time Enaste finally saw the first wolf statues, she was starving. She should have arrived much earlier, but after an intense round of screaming slurs at her, one of her captives had started losing blood at an alarming rate and she'd needed to stop to heal him. And gag him. Turns out dragging two half-dead men on a couple of tired horses took much longer than she would have liked. She'd brought a few pieces of jerky with her, but it wasn't much and she'd eaten them hours ago.

The smell of fish cooking over a fire nearly sent her into a frenzy. Klein, the man she hadn't felt the need to gag, groaned hungrily. She saw the sails of her clan's aravels peeking up from the trees.

Moments later, three hunters emerged and ran to help her. The sight of them made her heart ache, but it was a happy ache, the kind of ache that comes from missing someone so much for so long. They greeted her, hugged her, told her how happy they were to see her. One of them started trying to catch her up on happenings in the clan, but was interrupted by Klein's groaning.

Only then did the hunters really take in Enaste's hostages. Cole had apparently disappeared again, leaving Enaste to look especially impressive with two captives and two horses behind her.

"Wow, no wonder you took so long to get here," said the youngest of the hunters, a freckled girl named Aridhel. "Are those the mercenaries we've been dealing with?"

Enaste nodded. Her voice rasped. "Some of them, yes. They have information, but they're in rough shape and need healing first."

More members of her clan came out of the trees to greet Enaste as the hunters led the horses into camp. A few of the children escaped their carer's hold and bolted to her, hugging her and yelling about recent events and asking her questions so quickly she couldn't respond. Enaste laughed and knelt down to their level, taking care to greet every one by name.

She knew them, by face and name and voice, because she had seen them before anyone else in this world; nearly every child in the clan, all but the very oldest and very youngest, Enaste had delivered herself. One particularly excited boy grabbed her hand and bounced up and down. "'Naste, 'Naste!" He said quickly, and she laughed as she turned to him.

"Yes, Inar? You're very impatient today."

"I'm four! I just had my name day!"

"That you did! You've gotten very big. How was it?"

He smiled at her compliment and slowed in his bouncing. "It was so fun! Lahalaan made crab cakes and sweet cheese on toast!"

Another child, a smaller girl named Nellasa, started to pull on Enaste's other hand. "Inaarr stop talking. 'Naste just got here!"

Enaste turned to the girl, smirking. "What? Didn't you like the crab cakes too, Nella?"

"I guess," she drew the word out and pulled Enaste's hand harder, unbalancing her and making her laugh. "But come on! You have to see what I made with Elder Shora!"

"You used too many colors!" Inar replied, annoyed at her interruption.

"Elder Shora said there's no such thing!"

Enaste felt footsteps behind her. "Children, please, let your First at least come into camp." She would recognize that voice anywhere --confident, steady, wizened with age but still deep and strong.

Enaste stood carefully, and turned to face her Keeper. Her breath caught in her chest. Keeper Deshanna was as beautiful as ever, her long white hair plaited into crisp, oiled braids decorated with trinkets and adorned with silver halla horns that graced her head like a crown.

"It is so good to see you, da'len."

Enaste bowed, eyes closed, momentarily too overwhelmed to speak. When she straightened, her Keeper pulled her into a warm, loving embrace. She smelled like the herbs they burned to keep away mosquitoes, and the campfires they lit for warmth at night, and the oils worked into her hair to keep the strands in place. She was shorter than Enaste by several inches, so Enaste had to be wary of the horns on her head.

They stepped apart, and Deshanna kept her hands on Enaste's arms. Her vallaslin was extensive and vibrant, kept fresh from a new application just two years before. It was a more advanced version of Enaste's own --where the mark of Mythal covered only Enaste's forehead, on her Keeper it extended across her cheeks and through her lips, cutting a long line towards her chest.

"You are thin," Deshanna observed, and Enaste laughed nervously. "You need some real food, none of that shemlin dogfeed. Come. We have fresh trout and oysters."

Enaste's mouth watered; she was momentarily so hungry she lost her train of thought, but still managed to thank her Keeper profusely.

Keeper Deshanna looked over Enaste's shoulder, towards the horses. She narrowed her eyes, then nodded slowly. "These are some of the mercenaries that have been harassing us, aren't they?"

Enaste sighed. "Yes. I encountered a group of them earlier and managed to take these two captive."

"Were you hurt?" Deshanna asked, and without hesitating, ignoring the pain in her throat and the aches in her back, Enaste shook her head.

"They were not expecting a mage."

"I see," Deshanna looked skeptical, but did not press the issue. She didn't need to know what happened. Enaste was fine, regardless, as long as she didn't think about it too much.

"Aridhel, Hauen, Eirie," Deshanna announced, and at her voice all three hunters stood at attention. "Get more help from the older hunters, and put the men in the storage tent on the north side of camp. Keep them tied down, but tell Elder Le'an to watch over them. Whatever information they have, we want it."

Enaste watched the three hunters hurriedly follow their new orders. The children started pulling on Enaste again, especially Nellasa, and Enaste picked her up instead of letting herself be dragged down the hill.

"Where are Hallin and Harea?" Enaste asked, careful not to step on a stray child as they walked down the slope into camp.

"Hallin is hunting, but Harea is around somewhere. I believe she is doing some leatherwork."

Enaste smirked. "She never does stop working."

Keeper Deshanna sighed. "I wish she would. She needs more rest." She looked at Enaste dryly. "Though I'm sure she would get more if your brother would stop fussing over her."

Enaste's smirk turned into a wider smile: she knew her brother, and that was very much in-character for him. "He won't leave her alone?"

"No!" Deshanna replied, exasperated. "I had to order him to leave for this hunt, and it took far more convincing than it should have."

"It's been so long," Enaste said. Nellasa had started playing with her scarf. Enaste gently took her hands away from it so she wouldn't pull it off, and the girl laid her head on Enaste's shoulder. "He's worried for her, and the child."

"I know. But if he keeps hovering around her he's not going to have a bonded or a child because Harea will have killed him."

The camp was set up long and narrow, so from this entrance they could only see a few tents, an aravel, and her clan mates buzzing around them. A woman named Miolvun, beating the dust out of a rug, froze as soon as she saw them and ran off. "Harea!" She yelled in the distance, and Enaste grinned.

Keeper Deshanna returned her smile and led her towards an aravel where hardered leather lay across the decks. A bag of tools and thread for embroidering said leather hung over the side. Miolvun barely had time to warn the heavily pregnant woman sitting against the aravel before she saw Enaste herself.

"Creators!" Harea yelled. "Oh, fenhedis--" Harea hissed before tossing whatever she was working on into the darkness of the aravel.  "Help me up," she ordered the other woman, who quickly gave Harea her arm.

Enaste gently put Nellasa down as her friend approached. Harea was a beautiful woman: her hair was the same shade of black that Enaste's was, but her skin was a darker, richer tan, and the blue in her vallaslin --meant to honor June-- made her brown eyes stand out even more than they would have otherwise.

"Oh, how could you leave me, you monster?" Harea asked, putting her hands on Enaste's face. She was tall, too, one of the tallest elves in the clan, and looked down slightly at Enaste. "In my time of need? It's like you don't even care."

Keeper Deshanna sighed. "She was kidnapped, da'len."

Harea shot her an annoyed look. "She could have escaped."

Enaste laughed and put her hand on Harea's wrist. "I did escape. I'm here now, aren't I?"

Harea pursed her lips. She suddenly squished Enaste's face, earning a surprised yelp. "You should have been here earlier. Your brother has been an absolute nuisance, and you're the only one he listens to."

"Abelas. I really did try," Enaste said through squished cheeks.

Harea let Enaste's face go and sighed. "It's fine. I know you were busy being... Some kind of shemlin goddess...?"

Enaste rolled her eyes. "I'll tell you later."

"Yes, you should eat first," Harea frowned, looking down at Enaste's body. "Where did your hips go?"

"Enough, da'len," Keeper Deshanna soothed. Before she could go on, a voice called out to Enaste.

"Maker's breath! There you are!" It was Jester, the agent Leliana had sent along to assist her. A human woman was just behind them, followed by Blackwall, and further behind, Solas. Her gaze lingered on him, warmth blooming in her chest just from seeing him. He smiled at her when he caught her eye, and she smiled back. It was embarrassing.

"And hey, what's up with your voice?" Harea asked, frowning. "You sound like you have a cold."

"Ah, well, I think I do," Enaste lied, and Harea started asking Deshanna about various remedies.

"Inquisitor," Jester said, their thick brows knit in concern. "We were so worried for you. What a relief to see you alright."

"What caused the delay?" Solas asked, and, frustratingly, she found herself excited by his voice. Had she missed him? It had been scarcely twelve hours.

She turned towards where the hunters had taken her captives. "I ran into a few of our mercenaries friends. Took two of them hostage, and two horses."

Solas's brows raised. "Impressive work." His praise made her heart skip. Then he frowned. "Are you feeling alright? Your voice sounds strange."

"That's what I said!" Harea exclaimed, crossing her arms. "You need elfroot, and honey."

"I need to eat, lethallan," Enaste said, finally speaking up for her aching stomach. She looked at her Keeper. "You said there was trout?"

Deshanna smiled, nodded, and looked to the gathered Inquisition representatives. "Your friends have already had some, but there should be plenty. Come, let us eat."

Soon she was sitting in the grass, eating grilled trout and mushrooms and oysters and herbs. Save for when Roshan cooked at Skyhold, it was the best thing she'd eaten in months. She ate so fast Harea teased her and told her to slow down, and her friend was right because she felt a little sick afterwards. But it hardly mattered. She lay back against a tree and closed her eyes and listened to the surreal intermingling voices of her family and new friends in the comfort of her clan's camp. She met Lady Guinevere Volant, who explained the situation in Wycome as she understood it, and Keeper Deshanna went over the situation with the bandits.

The plague the Keeper mentioned was, obviously, not in reference to the clan itself but the city of Wycome. Some disease was tearing through the upper quarters, killing humans but suspiciously --almost pointedly-- avoiding elves. When Enaste explained that the mercenaries had apparently been paid for by the Duke of Wycome, the full picture came into focus: something was killing the humans of Wycome, and the elves were being blamed for it. Despite obviously not being connected, Clan Lavellan was made a scapegoat. They were lucky the mercenaries were so incompetent.

"They may come here to try and avenge their comrades," Blackwall warned, and Enaste nodded.

"We'll be ready for them. We can speak with the hostages I took and get more information about what to expect, but after my encounter with them I don't think there are many left in fighting shape." She nodded to Deshanna. "We can handle what's left."

"Good," the Keeper said. She looked at Lady Volant, grey brows furrowed. "What of the elves in the alienage? If we are being harassed, I find it hard to imagine they are safe."

Lady Volant nodded slowly. "Tensions seem higher than usual. One of my informants in the alienage has expressed concern, and many of the elves are especially worried. I am uncertain of more than that, however." She looked to Enaste. "I had hoped we could introduce you to the Duke, that we might gain information that way, but if he's paying for these mercenaries to harass your clan, I doubt he'll tell you much."

Keeper Deshanna nodded. "But you could go, Lady Volant, and see if he will give you a tour of the city as a representative of the Inquisition. Then you would be able to assess the reality of this plague for yourself."

"Should you have protection?" Enaste asked.

"Not typically, though..."

Enaste looked to Blackwall, who nodded. "Blackwall can accompany you."

Keeper Deshanna hesitated. "Is it the norm for a tour of the city to require an armed guard?" She looked at Blackwall kindly. "With all due respect, having such a visible guard will raise suspicions. The Duke will know we do not trust him."

"None taken, my lady," Blackwall responded.

"Still, it is not a bad idea." She looked at Jester, who was silent thus far. "If we send one of our warriors or hunters the Duke will know we have some involvement. You are without vallaslin; if you accompany the ambassador as a servant, it will draw less attention."

Jester considered this, running their hand along their chin. "That might be fine. If we visit the alienage, however, they may recognize me. Some of the Duke's own servants may as well."

Enaste frowned, thinking. She cleared her throat and nodded to Solas. "You could accompany Lady Volant."

He smiled slightly, and no one objected immediately, so Enaste went on. "You wear no vallaslin, you are unknown to the alienage and the various elven servants, and should something go wrong, you can protect Lady Volant." She shrugged. "It's not a bad idea."

"They won't be able to tell you're a mage?" Blackwall asked, and Solas shook his head.

"Likely not. Even if they had a mage of their own, it is difficult to be certain."

"You don't hate the idea," Enaste observed. "You will be treated like a servant."

"I can pretend to be humble, for one afternoon," he joked, and Enaste snorted.

Keeper Deshanna nodded slowly. "This feels like the right compromise." She raised an eyebrow at Solas. "You are rather large for an elven servant, though."

"No one looks at elves that hard, Keeper," Harea replied, and the Keeper sighed her agreement.

"Tomorrow, then?" Enaste asked, and Lady Volant nodded.

"I will travel back to Wycome today, and send a messenger to inform the Duke that I will be taking him up on his offer of a tour. He will be disappointed in your absence, Inquisitor, but he should understand how much of diplomacy is done via proxy."

"Shall I go with you?" Solas asked, and Lady Volant nodded.

"I could send a messenger to the clan in the morning, but it would be easier if you simply stayed in Wycome."

That made perfect sense, and Enaste did not object. Still, for some reason knowing he would not get to spend the night with her people was disappointing. It was her own fault for volunteering him, and maybe it was for the best. She knew he was uncomfortable around the Dalish, even among her clan, and maybe introducing him to her people in small pieces would be easier.

Thus it was settled. Solas would go with Lady Volant back to Wycome that evening, and everyone else would remain in the camp. Lunch lingered a while longer, and Harea half-forced Enaste to drink honeyed tea for her throat despite how full she felt. Other clan members came and went, greeting Enaste and marveling at her entourage. Roshan ate with them for a while as well before he went off to nitpick something about the oysters.

As the sun drifted past midday, Keeper Deshanna instructed one of the hunters from earlier, Aridhel, to show the Inquisition where they'd be staying. The clan had set up several tents for them, modest in construction but outfitted with warm furs inside that would be plenty of cushion to sleep on. Enaste returned to the small, private section of the aravel she'd shared with Deshanna for the better part of the last ten years. It had been kept clean, and free of dust. Were she not burdened by the warmth in her hand and the pain in her throat, it would be easy to imagine she'd never really left.

<- prev fic | next fic ->

[waywardstation]

Scrambled

After Akari’s memory gets scrambled by the effects of a confusion attack, she forgets almost everything, including who Ingo is.

I wasn’t expecting to write another one so soon, but I found myself with no internet connection and a lot of time to kill last night. I wrote this without any requests this time, as this is a concept I’d like to explore in much more detail later on!

OR read here on AO3!

Enjoy!

————

“Besides the few cuts and scrapes, she’s not hurt.”

“She was unbalanced when I brought her. Is that still an issue?”

“That seems to have lessened some, and will get better over time. Many people affected had dealt with that initially.”

“She was experiencing difficulties finding words earlier...”

“Just another common side effect. That seems to have recovered as well; she was talking fine with me when I was examining her.” Pesselle could tell these answers weren’t really reassuring the largest worry that was still yet to be verbalized. “Everything else has more or less stabilized.”

Standing in the Galaxy Hall’s hallway, Ingo broke his gaze away from Pesselle’s to glance into her medical office. Akari was sitting on Pesselle’s examination table, with the medical corps captain’s crogunk sitting with her.

“Well, that is relieving, I suppose.” The warden felt a weight lift off his shoulders… most of it, at least. “But, can you hazard a guess as to how long her state of mind will be like this?”

Within the medical room, Akari looked up, seeming to sense Ingo was looking over at her from the doorway. But instead of a familiar warm grin, or a reassuring smile, she returned his gaze with a look of indifference… if not distant confusion hidden behind suspicion.

There was no recognition. Like she didn’t know who he was.

“Well,” Pesselle looked over her notes, moreso out of nervous habit than anything; Ingo’s own potent concern was starting to affect her own demeanor. “It’s hard to say. You have to understand, we haven’t really had anyone in the survey corps experience being hit with this many waves of Confusion at once. You’re sure it was four kadabra?”

Ingo broke his uncomfortable gaze with Akari, returning it back to Pesselle as he rubbed the back of his neck. “It was a massive mass outbreak. I would not be surprised if it was more.”

“Another outbreak? She needs to be more careful-“

“I can assure you, she was exercising just as much caution as I was.” Ingo stopped Pesselle’s train of thought before it got too far down those tracks. Akari had been making an effort to better mind her surroundings, and Ingo wanted to give credit where credit was due. “There was simply an unscheduled secondary horde that made itself known. Neither of us were quite prepared for it.”

If utilized right, the use of Teleportation could catch even the most aware targets off-guard.

Pesselle cleared her throat at the correction and folded her notes back up, tucking all the loose papers together. “Well then, the best I can suggest is really to just watch her for now. When affected by a case of Confusion, people seem to have recovered their memories within a day or so. But understandably, Akari might take a bit longer.”

“So it isn’t permanent at this severity.” It was a hopeful question phrased as a confirmation statement.

“I can’t say, but I have no reason to believe it wouldn’t be like the other cases, seeing as other things are already starting to return to her.” Pesselle wished she could offer more certainty. “Just stay with her, and make sure she’s alright until the effects wear off, and she recovers her memory.”

“Ah, Miss Pesselle,” The woman had turned to enter the office again, but Ingo hesitated, reaching out to tap her arm and keep her back. “She does not appear to recall who I am at all, and it seems she is not too keen on departing with me. I admit, I did not make the best first impression with Miss Akari in this scrambled state of hers.”

Ingo had collected the teen up in his arms and carried her across the Fieldlands as best he could, taking her back to a safe place as soon as she had crumpled in the tallgrass. But in retrospect, with her confusion-scrambled memories in mind, it had made sense when she had shouted and tried to shove off of him like she had no idea who he was, groggily coming to when slung across his shoulder. Normally, she would have clung tighter.

Akari generally was not someone who acted unfriendly or standoffish when first meeting new people - a memory scramble would not get rid of that entirely. But this experience was not nearly as pleasant as their actual first interaction when Irida introduced the two of them at the training grounds, where she had treated him with cautious friendliness.

So it was both understandable, and a feat, that Ingo had managed to get Akari to become skeptical of him.

“Supervising company like that may not go over well with her.” Ingo appeared troubled. Pesselle knew Ingo well enough to know he specifically meant his supervising company, but she didn’t exactly know what to offer in order to alleviate it.

“…It’s ok, I’ll let her know it’s alright.”

Pesselle stepped back into the room, and Ingo followed after; Akari looked up at the two of them as they did so.

Ingo did not like how the eyes of a wary stranger lingered on him.

————

Ingo opened the doors to the Galaxy Hall, and Akari slipped out between them.

She did not joke about how she should hold the door for him instead, as one does for old people, like she normally would have.

She did not run through, telling him the last one to The Wallflower would have to pay for both their meals, and he was only giving her a head start by getting stuck holding the door (though Ingo was always perfectly content with that), like she usually did.

She didn’t even have the usual bounce in her step, just happy to be spending time with him.

She just walked through, giving him a casual side glance and uttering a ‘thank you’ as she did so.

Ingo’s frown tugged down. He followed Akari down the steps, standing off to the side as she looked down the dark strip of Jubilife Village’s storefronts. The sun had long set, and everything had closed hours ago, with the village asleep in its entirety under the dark night sky.

“Ahem,” Ingo cleared his throat. “…your unit is this way, Miss Akari.” He pointed in the direction of the gates. “Just past the Ginkgo Guild’s cart. It’s not too far.”

All Akari could manage was an ‘oh,’ as if she was already chastising herself for not remembering, while she fell into step behind him.

…Behind him, not by his side like she usually did.

It had taken some time for Pesselle to convince Akari that Ingo was someone she knew - immensely so - and not just some wilderness thief who had tried to take her belongings earlier.

Their prolonged conversation of reassurance had pained Ingo to listen to. Akari was just as unfamiliar with Pesselle as she was with him, but it was clear that she trusted the medical corps captain more than she trusted him.

And he felt he couldn’t blame her hesitance. Pesselle was Pesselle, with her reassuring bedside manners, and her disarming smiling. And well, Ingo was…

Ingo had gradually learned to become less conscious of his conventionally-intimidating appearance with repeated disregard over it from Akari, but the essential stranger staring at him made the familiar worries poke at him again.

It was strange seeing someone he cared about so much look at him like that.

Though in the end, Pesselle had convinced Akari, and she went with him, leaving the office with instructions to return daily for checkups on her memory, as well as gradually re-introduce herself to her Jubilife friends.

“Thank you,” Akari stayed behind him as he turned to head for her unit. “Um, I’m sorry about hitting you earlier when you were trying to help get me to safety. And shouting at you. And kneeing you...”

“It’s alright.” Ingo tried to reassure her as he kept moving forward, set on guiding her. And truly it would be alright, perhaps after the ugly teenager-knee-shaped bruise under his clothes had faded. “You were simply confused by what was occurring at the time, understandably so.”

Akari stayed uncharacteristically silent at that, simply humming in acknowledgement instead. Ingo didn’t exactly know what the Akari he knew would have said, but that was probably because the Akari he knew wouldn’t have even had this awkward small-talk conversation with him in the first place.

He just recognized that her courteousness, as polite as it was, seemed empty without the familiarity and warm recognition behind it. It seemed she still didn’t want to have anything to do with him.

Would she be this detached from everyone else? Surely to some degree, she would.

It made Ingo anxious for that familiarity to come back. And it would come back. But until then, it would be a long week.

[vagabondfandoms]

Falls On Me

Day 5- Goblin Camp: Morning

Rating: Teen/Mature 

Previous Chapters: Chapter One , Chapter Two , Chapter Three , Chapter Four , Chapter Five , Chapter Six , Chapter Seven ½ , Chapter Seven 2/2 , Chapter Eight ,

Characters: Gale Dekarios, F!Tav: Copper, Karlach Wyll Ravengard, Astarion, Lae'zel, Halsin and Shadowheart. Dror Ragzlin and unnamed goblins.

Tags/Warning: Gale POV, Mentions of Chronic Pain, Canon Typical Violence, Death, Descriptions of Having a Seizure, Gale x Female Tav. Approx: 2400 words

The fight with Dror Ragzlin is almost over. Gale tries to help his teammates with the last goblin commander. But finds himself in a dangerous situation with his orb. Is Gale going to blow up? And what about the reactions from his companions?

---

An Eldritch blast gets hurled at Gale's head and he barely makes it around the pillar before the bolt of energy smashes into it, causing small chunks of stone to fly all around him.

Astarion and Wyll are still positioned in the rafters and the young man shoots down his own Eldritch Blast at the warlock goblin, knocking the monster out before Astarion shoots a finishing arrow into the downed creature.

Gale yells out a quick thanks before taking off again. He ended up separated from the main fighting force when he, Halsin, and Lae'zel were pushed back by a large group of goblins. Halsin and Lae'zel are finishing off the last few goblins with Astarion and Wyll as support so Gale decides to help Copper and Karlach. 

The two women were facing down the last goblin commander, Dror Ragzlin, with Shadowheart assisting. The battle must be intense since Gale can feel the magical aura the hobgoblin is omitting from the other side of the hall.

Gale jumps over some dead bodies and feels the heavy weight of his orb in his chest. He must be overdoing it again but they are so close to victory!

Gale skids to a stop at the top of the stairs and looks down. Copper and Karlach were attacking Dror Ragzlin together and the hobgoblin commander is having a hard time defending against the continuous Ki strikes and swings from the battleax. 

Enraged, the hobgoblin berserker gives out a loud bellow. He swings, barely missing Copper before his warhammer strikes down with such force it shakes the foundation of the temple. 

The attack causes Karlach to become unbalanced but Copper keeps her footing and quickly dashes behind the battle commander, slipping her arms underneath his armpits and locking her hands behind his neck. This immobilizes his arms but the monk is still straining to hold him in place.

“Karlach! Get him!!” Copper yells out, struggling against his thrashing so she digs in her heels, grounding herself for more support. 

Karlach, still dazed from the enormous strike, shakes it off and rushes forward. The fiery tiefling aims for the largest target she can find and drives her axe deep into Dror Ragzlin’s chest, right into his heart. 

The Absolutist lets out a loud groan and it takes a couple of seconds for this body to go limp in Copper’s arms. Then Karlach rips out her axe and a large amount of blood, bone, and gore accompany the motion, splatting the floor before the other woman releases her grip, letting the body fall dead to the ground.

Exhilaration fills Gale’s body at the sight of the last goblin commander defeated and he finds himself starting to move down the stairs to congratulate his companions on their victory when Shadowheart gives out a warning shout. 

Arrows come whizzing down from the rafters striking Copper and Karlach while the last group of goblins comes charging at the two battlewary women. Gale catches a glimpse of Lae’zel and the others rushing towards them but they are too far away to do anything. Shadowheart sends out a Sacred Flame, lighting up the attacker hiding in the rafters but she soon gets overrun by the opponents on the ground.

The girls are outnumbered and need help now! Gale reacts quickly, reaching out his hand and gathering the Weave into his palm. He calls on Mystra and yells out the incantation for his strongest fire spell, “ARDЕ̄!” 

He feels the force leaving his body but he can’t just unleash the destruction or his companions will get caught up in the blast. Gale needs to control the fire and he uses all his skills to manipulate the flame. His hands ache from the strain his quick hand movements make in the air but he can't let up now! He has to burn all the enemies surrounding Copper, Karlach, and Shadowheart. 

The heat is intense and it reminds Gale of his archmage days. He watches as the last group of goblin attackers turn to ash and he smiles when the girls look up unscathed by his flames. 

Then his orb attacks.

A great pain rips through his body, making his limbs shudder and shake. Gale tries to grip his chest to soothe the hungry beast inside but it decides to attack again and Gale loses his balance from the pain.

“I am going to explode?” Gale thinks as he crashes headfirst down the stairs and starts seizing in a heap on the floor.

Gale barely registers his companions surrounding him. Copper reaches him first and starts cushioning him with her body so he stops banging his head on the cobblestone. 

Shadowheart looks helplessly on, shaking her head when Wyll asks her to do something. But she's unable to do anything. The cleric is all out of spells for the day, like the majority of the team, and none can heal like her.

Foam starts flowing out of his lips, mixing with the tears running down his cheeks. Between the haze, Gale just wants to tell them to run away before the explosion happens yet he feels helpless in the wake of this seizure.

“He needs a powerful magic item!” Copper yells into the chaos. “Like last time! Remember?!”

“The hag staff is back in camp! There's no way we can get it to him in time.” Wyll shouts back, pacing back and forth. Fighting the urge to run for the item even though their campsite is far away next to the deserted Jergal Temple.

Karlach is on the verge of tears and even Astarion and Lae'zel look downtrodden.

“He needs a powerful relic?” Halsin steps up, crouching down and applying a small minuscule healing spell to Gale's brow. The wizard stops seizing. Now he just feels wiped out with a ticking time bomb in his chest.

“Leave, please leave me!”  Gale wants to cry out but he's mute. His vocal cords felt like they were ripped apart by the pain of the orb.

“Yes! He needs to absorb the magic inside it.” Copper answers, her voice staying steady under the pressure, her grip firm not leaving Gale.

“Here, let me have him, Copper.” The druid commands. “I’ll take him to the grove. We have an Idol of Silvanus there, brimming with magical energy. That should do the trick!” 

Halsin lifts Gale into his strong arms as Copper hovers close by. “The Druid’s Grove is not far.”  The elf eyes Copper's heavily bleeding shoulder and frowns since she hasn’t even removed the arrow yet. “You can all get healed there. Nettie can patch you guys up quick.”

“Then, let's get going!” Karlach says impatiently, hiccupping a little and rubbing snot away from her nose. Karlach also has two arrow wounds but all her concerns were about her wizard friend.

“I’m coming too,” Wyll adds but Copper puts a stop to it.

“No Wyll, you guys stay here! None of you are badly injured.” Copper says hastily. “The temple is open now. Find any stragglers and neutralize them before they can escape and report back to Moonrise Towers.” 

She jogs after Halsin and Karlach who took off running with Gale. But before the monk is completely out of earshot she yells back. “Also, look for any good loot and secure it for us! We’ll need it for the future.” 

A loud and enthusiastic “Yippee” answers this request. As Astarion already started pulling loot from the dead goblin commander and rummaging through the corpses around him.

---

Day 5- Druid Grove: Afternoon

Tick, tick, tick…

Gale becomes slowly aware of his surroundings with each passing tick. He feels the solid weight of his pocket watch, next to his hip so that means he didn't explode into hundreds of little pieces. 

“That's good.” Gale thinks. “But where the hell am I?”  

He opens his eyes and he doesn't even have to wait for them to adjust, because the room he was in was already dim. His neck was stiff so turning his head took some effort but in the faint light, he saw the fiery glow radiating off Karlach. She’s lounging in a bed next to him, gouging herself on some bread, cheese, and grapes. It's a strange sight. “Karlach should have meat in her hands not food you can find on a charcuterie board.” Gale wearily thinks.

The tiefling notices Gale’s movements and starts shouting around her food.

“Mmmhummph…Kaaaaper….oook! Gaaale!!” Karlach coughs from inhaling her food before taking a large swig of water, forcing it down and clearing her airway. “Copper! Gale’s awake.”

Gale sees Copper’s head poking around Karlach’s body, bread to her mouth-midbite. She drops her food and rushes over to his side. “Hey, I wasn’t expecting you up already!” Copper exclaims, happiness shining in her eyes. 

But Gale doesn’t feel happy to be alive, all he feels is guilt. He could have killed her…he could have killed all his companions if his orb exploded. 

Gale wants to say he was sorry and confess his wrongdoings but Karlach jumps up and starts enthusiastically explaining everything that has happened since he fell unconscious. The fiery tiefling babbles on and on about the trip to the Grove. How the poisoned arrows lodged in her arms were throbbing-making her woozy while she ran, and that Halsin had to turn into a bear to carry her. That Copper not affected by the poison, carried Gale. Once they got to the grove, Halsin had to argue with the druids to let Gale absorb the Idol of Silvanus. 

With each passing second the wizard grows more distressed but Karlach is so excited that her friend is not dead that she doesn’t notice Gale’s growing discomfort.

“...and then, Halsin turns into a bear AGAIN and gets up in that bitch, Kagha’s face!” Karlach laughs as her hands animate the story. 

“Hey, are you alright Gale?” Copper cuts in, looking concerned as she takes a seat on the edge of his bed and places a gentle hand on his forehead. Her touch and the kindness behind it once again shatter Gale’s heart and his defenses almost come crumbling down.  

“Don’t be so nice to me.” Gale thinks as he struggles to not nuzzle into the warm hand on his face. 

“I almost killed you.” He chokes out, swallowing down some tears that threaten to fall.

“Whoa, there!” Karlach laughs awkwardly at the unexpected emotion from the usually steady wizard. “Buddy, you didn’t even touch us with your flames! That blast was sooooo cool so don’t be upset!”

“It's not that!” Gale says aghast, “I almost exploded, erupted, blown up into a thousand teeny tiny little pieces…Anyway! It doesn’t matter what word I use. I almost killed all of you because of the orb in my chest!”

“Gale, what do you mean?” Copper asks, her voice steady but stern. “You didn’t simply collapse because you were low on magic?”

“Yes and no,” Gale confesses. “I did collapse and start seizing because I was low on magic for my orb to feed on. But I failed to tell you and the team earlier… that if my orb fully destabilizes I will erupt. I don’t know the exact magnitude of the eruption, but I theorize, the blast radius could level a city the size of Waterdeep.”

Gale grits his teeth. “There I said it…at least to two of my teammates. Now it won’t take long for everybody else to know and for me to be cast out to wander alone until I explode! Or turn into a mind flayer, which might make me explode anyway!!”

Copper is hiding her shock well, but Gale can feel her tense up on the bed beside him. Karlach however, lets out a loud “Holy Shit” and starts pacing the room. 

“I thought we were growing closer, Gale. You should’ve told me as sooner…” Copper’s quiet disappointment stings more than Karlach’s frantic worried energy. 

“I’m sorry. I know I should have said something sooner but I… this all must feel like a betrayal to you.” Gale says drearily, wincing at the words he has to say next. “Say the word, and we’ll part ways.”

“What?” Copper looks up in surprise. “I meant you should have told me about the rest of your condition sooner. If I had known I was pushing you to the point of collapse, I would’ve had you stay back from the Dror Ragzlin fight.” 

“What?” Gale sputters out, sitting up quickly. He was not expecting those words and felt his pride as an ex-archmage wounded. “You weren’t pushing me. I wanted to fight. I can fight, I swear!”

“If that’s true. Then you have to tell me when you feel unstable!” Copper says sternly, pointing a finger into his chest and pushing him back down. “We’re a team and we need to tell each other when we aren’t feeling well! There’s no shame in hanging back to recoup. I don’t need one of my teammates collapsing or exploding.” 

Copper pauses to breathe and gives Gale a heated stare. “We have a long road ahead of us and we need all of us to get through this together!”

Gale blinks back a flood of emotions. He wasn’t expecting this kind of reaction. Even Karlach stopped her pacing to listen to Copper’s stirring words. 

“Plus…I care too much about you Gale, to abandon you now.” Copper murmurs, looking away from the man, embarrassed. Which was fine with the man in question because he might just explode from happiness, relief, and embarrassment all rolled up into a giant messy ball of emotions centered in his chest.

“Yeah, I care too. Maybe not in the way Copper does.” Karlach awkwardly chuckles before adding. “But we’ll talk to the others and explain the situation. We’ll keep feeding your magical items and you’ll keep protecting our backlines! I’ll make sure no bad guys get anywhere near our squishy wizard!” 

She beats her chest over her infernal engine, like she was making an oath and Copper just smirks and nods her head in agreement. 

Gale just lays there stunned. He can’t believe his luck. Out of all the millions of people in Faerûn, how did he encounter two of the most caring and giving people on this strange journey?

He lets out a choked sigh, his emotions threatening to come out. “That is - a great relief. Oh, a great relief indeed. Thank you for standing by my side when I haven't given you anything in return.”

“Don't put yourself down, man!” Karlach huffs out in annoyance. She goes back to her bed to finish eating while Copper gets up to grab something from hers. “You're very handy to have around, plus you're wicked smart!” Karlach adds, mid munch.

“And you're kind too.” Copper says, sitting back down next to the wizard, a plate of food in her hand. “There's not enough kind people in this world.”

She gives Gale a smile and offers to feed him from her plate. He just smiles back and grabs some cheese, a Waterdhavian blend.

“Good, my favorite.” Gale thinks as he gives it a bite.

[dearweirdme]

"From our side things look very different than they do from members' side. We only see what it's shown. And since the company has favoured Jkk moments over Tkk moments, that is what we see a lot. It feels unbalanced. But for the members, this is probably completely different. They have seen each other every day for hours at a time. They know what the real balance is like. So they don't judge situations the same as we do." Thank you! This is such an important point that a lot of people miss and I think fuels a lot of negative feelings people have. We as outsiders hyper focus on the ships and certain interactions, but that's such a small part of their lives. That anon making everything Jungkook does about how the fans see their relationships and by extension him being a bad boyfriend/friend because of it...I don't know if you have seen all maknae line solo stan communities but they all hate each other and project that hatred onto their faves as well, as in saying their fave actually hates the other members. Tae stans are dragging Jungkook constantly and using him as a punching bag during Tae's debut, there are definitely Jungkook and Jimin stans who think Tae feeds antis as well. It's all just bs fandom infighting and very little of it has to do with who they actually are and what their lives and relationships are like. And the fans take some of this stuff so seriously, spewing the most vile hatred and making threats against them for perceived injustices to the others through what are completely innocent and largely meaningless actions, and some turn their anger at the fans' behavior into anger at the members. It's a pretty messed up situation, and I don't know how I would navigate friend/relationships under that kind of scrutiny.

Also, thank you for actually mentioning one of my favorite Taekook moments and my number one moment if we're talking the kind that defy platonic explanation. The nape kiss at Citi Field gets largely overlooked and I'm not sure why, but one of the reasons it's so special to me is I was at that concert. It gives me some added context I think, because I can tell you that was not for the audience. I was in the stands and watching on the big screen monitors and all we saw was Tae and Jimin (and I have a theory that Jimin knew what Tae was planning) approaching Jungkook from behind, and then Jungkook looking kind of flustered and I was like "...what just happened?" 😂 It wasn't until I was back at my airbnb and talking to another friend who had been there when the first clips from the side of the stage started showing up on Twitter and we were going insane. They released a DVD/Bluray of that show, and you can confirm on there that the official cams did not catch that kiss and in fact you can see Tae watching the monitor and cameras as he approaches to make sure what he did cannot be seen. There's a very specific reason I think Tae did that, but I won't discuss it openly yet. Maybe someday. For me, that's the moment after two years of being a Taekooker where it went from 99% to a 100% for me that the relationship between those two is more than just friendship. The Bon Voyage season 1 cuddles/kisses still blows my mind as well. That really kicked off the Taekook drought in official content. That was the last year we saw just the two of them in a V Live together, and there not another one for four whole years and we all know they had chaperones in the room the next time. I've been thinking recently that if I was to make a Taekook top ten right now, those two moments and probably the "I love you" signs during the Chile concert where Jungkook was sick would be there...but the rest would probably be solo era/2023 because this past year has been full of hugely significant moments and I did not expect it. But looking back, it makes sense that in solo era, it is Taekook's bond that became more apparent than ever. Because they are involved in each other's lives in a very significant way that goes beyond members of the same band, or even friends.

Hi anon!

Thanks for the addition 😊.

I think they have a very complicated relationship with their fans in general, and with shippers especially. I don’t think they appreciate any shipping mentions in their lives for instance, not even the correct ones. It must be weird having people comment on your relationship and asking questions trying to bait you into giving a hint while you’re just there to talk about your music.

I really dislike what this has done amongst maknae line solo’s. It is also so weird to me to actually see fans talk about members hating each other. Hate is such a strong word, and is in general not actually a feeling people very often have about each other. So for fans to think any member actually hates another while there have been no signs of that is so out there.

[daybreakrising]

@mercyburned: pour me one, would you? / Kaeya to Thoma

He had known coming back to Mondstadt would be an emotional experience. Even just walking through the gates again for the first time in years had evoked such feeling from him that he'd had to stop and catch his breath, no doubt earning him a curious glance from the Knights stationed there.

The wave of nostalgia that struck him as his gaze took in the familiar buildings, the familiar noise and bustle that filled the air, had summoned a bittersweet ache within his chest. With a mind filled with memories - how he had chased his friends through these streets, the meals shared at Good Hunter, scaling the windmills to sit and gaze out across the landscape - he found himself wandering past old haunts, wondering if the remains of the past still lingered. Somewhere, he recalls, there is a wooden beam in which four initials are crudely engraved: four friends with big dreams who had no idea about the future that lay ahead of them.

Perhaps it was the thought of old friends that guided his steps to the Angel's Share. Here, yet more nostalgia swarmed his memory: attempts to sneak into the back rooms, a fiendish redhead leading the charge, his blue-haired brother not far behind. It was with some trepidation that he entered the tavern, not sure of what he might find within, but if he had expected a long-awaited reunion, he was to be disappointed. It was an unfamiliar face behind the bar - no sign of any Ragnvindr.

There were other reunions to be had, and some liquid courage required to aid the task. So it is here that he finds himself seated at an outdoor table, indulging in a taste of home - a bottle of Dawn Winery's finest. And it is here, in the midst of his thoughts, that one such reunion finds him first.

Though it has aged since last he heard it, he knows that voice. His gaze lifts as a shadow falls across the table, and he sucks in a sharp breath as he takes in the man that now stands before him. Kaeya.

His first thought is that Kaeya hasn't changed - but of course, he has. Thoma still has a clear image of the boy he was when he left for Inazuma, and whilst the echo of that boy remains in his visage, there is an air about the man he has become that is unfamiliar. He cannot know what has happened since his departure - what letters he tried to send home received no reply - but he knows that something has. Why else would his old friend feel so different?

"Kaeya!" He springs to his feet, nearly unbalancing the table and the bottle sitting atop it with his enthusiasm. "Looks like you found me before I could find you, hah." He greets him with a warm smile, eyes shining with delight at seeing his old friend again.

He falters slightly - he has been gone so long. He isn't sure how much things might have changed, if Kaeya will even be pleased to see him. That he approached first means nothing.

"I... I tried to write, when I got to Inazuma. I don't know if the letters made it... that sea is fairly unforgiving, as it turns out." A hand lifts, rubs awkwardly at the back of his head. "There was a slight mishap on my way there. Honestly, it's a miracle I survived at all."

A pause.

"It's good to see you. I missed you. I missed everyone." The words don't convey the sometimes crippling homesickness he has felt since leaving. Inazuma may have become a home to him since, but he has missed so much about Mondstadt and the people he left behind. "How... how is everyone? How are you? I've got so many questions-,"

[justforbooks]

Daniel Ellsberg, who has died aged 92, was the most important whistleblower of our times. His 1971 leaking of what became known as the Pentagon Papers showed conclusively that virtually everything the American public had been told by its leaders about the Vietnam war, from its origins to its current conduct, was false.

The leak itself did not end the war, and Ellsberg regretted not having come forward years earlier. He spent the rest of his life as a peace activist, encouraging others on the inside to reveal government malfeasance, and supporting those who did, including the 2003 GCHQ whistleblower Katharine Gun. But his leaks did result in a landmark decision in favour of freedom of the press, and, ironically, led to the downfall of the US president Richard Nixon. It is not unreasonable to set Ellsberg’s leak alongside President John F Kennedy’s assassination as the ground zero of today’s distrust of politics.

Before working on the Pentagon Papers, officially a study titled A History of Decision-Making in Vietnam 1945-68 commissioned from the Rand Corporation research organisation by the secretary of defense Robert McNamara, Ellsberg had spent two years at the US embassy in Saigon, advising on General Edward Lansdale’s “pacification” programme. As he sifted through the material gathered for the report, including evaluations which deemed the war unwinnable, he realised the enormity of the political fraud.

He began copying the documents, with the help of a former Rand colleague Anthony Russo, and in 1971, as the US extended the war with bombings of Laos and Cambodia, resolved to make them public. The chair of the senate foreign relations committee, William Fulbright, turned him down, as did the Washington Post’s editor Ben Bradlee and owner Katharine Graham; Graham was close to the secretary of state Henry Kissinger, who had known Ellsberg at Harvard; he advised her Ellsberg was “unbalanced and emotionally unstable”. Matthew Rhys played Ellsberg in the 2017 film The Post which loosely covers those events.

Neil Sheehan of the New York Times was a reporter Ellsberg admired in Vietnam; Sheehan convinced the Times to take the papers, the first instalment of which revealed that the Gulf of Tonkin incident, the casus belli which launched full-scale US participation in the conflict, had been bogus.

The Nixon administration obtained an injunction prohibiting further publication; the supreme court’s overturning of that injunction, dismissing the idea of “prior restraint”, remains a cornerstone of US journalistic freedom. But leakers themselves were not protected. Ellsberg was hidden by anti-war activists while Mike Gravel, the US senator from Alaska, entered most of the leaked papers into the congressional record, and the Post played catch-up.

Meanwhile Nixon, furious at the leaks, created the so-called “plumbers” covert special investigation unit, to discover if Ellsberg had further material that might affect him directly, and to discredit him. When the plumbers’ bungled break-in at the Watergate offices revealed an earlier burglary of Ellsberg’s psychiatrist’s office, the ensuing chain of scandal and cover-up eventually forced Nixon’s resignation to avoid impeachment.

Ellsberg grew up the very definition of a true believer in America. Both his father, Harry, a structural engineer, and mother, Adele (nee Charsky), were the children of Russian Jewish immigrants, but had converted to Christian Science. When Daniel, born in Chicago, was six, his father found work in Detroit, building Ford’s massive Willow Run factory.

Daniel won a scholarship to the elite Cranbrook school in the Detroit suburbs; a talented pianist, he practised for four to six hours a day to fulfil his mother’s dream. But in 1946, rushing to Denver for a family gathering, his father fell asleep while driving and rammed into a bridge. His mother and younger sister, Gloria, both died; Daniel recovered from his severe injuries, but ceased playing the piano.

He won a scholarship to Harvard, where he studied economics, edited the college paper, and finished third in his class. Upon graduation he married a Radcliffe student, Carol Cummings, whose father was a colonel in the Marine Corps, and took up a Wilson fellowship for a year’s study at King’s College, Cambridge. In 1954, accepted as a Harvard junior fellow to pursue his doctorate, he instead joined the Marines, becoming a rare first lieutenant given command of a full company.

He returned to Harvard in 1957. His dissertation, Risk, Ambiguity and Decision, contained what is now known as the Ellsberg paradox, which delineated how the preference for well-defined probabilities, over the uncertainty of ambiguity, influences decision-making, especially as it reinforces preconceived ideas. It became an important part of game theory, and Ellsberg went to work for Rand on the Department of Defense’s Command and Control research, much of which was devoted to spit-balling Fail Safe/Dr Strangelove scenarios, as detailed in his 2017 book The Doomsday Machine: Confessions of a Nuclear War Planner.

In 1964 he went to the Department of Defense, as special assistant for international security to McNamara’s number two, John McNaughton, before moving to the State Department and Vietnam. In 1967 he rejoined Rand to work on McNamara’s project, but was increasingly tormented by Kissinger and Nixon’s Vietnam policy; they believed that if the US opened relations with China and entered into a detente with Russia, those countries would pressure North Vietnam to come to the table while the US bombed incessantly.

Ellsberg began joining anti-war campaigners, including the poet Gary Snyder, and was inspired by Randy Kehler, a draft-resister who spoke of welcoming imprisonment for his belief. Ellsberg left Washington for MIT’s Centre for International Studies a year before leaking the papers. His first marriage had ended in divorce; in 1970 he married Patricia Marx, a peace activist.

In June 1971, he surrendered himself to the US attorney in Boston; asked on the courthouse steps how he felt about going to prison, Ellsberg replied: “Wouldn’t you go to prison to end this war?” He became the first civilian charged with violating the 1917 Espionage Act, and faced a maximum sentence of 115 years. The District Court judge William Byrne ruled irrelevant his public-interest defence, that the documents were “illegally classified”, and so it has been for every whistleblower since. But Byrne eventually dismissed the case because of government malfeasance, including the plumbers’ break-ins, as well as Nixon’s wiretapping of Kissinger’s aide Morton Halperin, and John Ehrlichman’s offering Byrne the directorship of the FBI.

In 1974, Ellsberg’s moving interviews were a major part of the Oscar-winning Vietnam documentary Hearts and Minds. In 1978 he was awarded the Gandhi prize by Promoting Enduring Peace. In the next 40 years he was arrested around 50 times at anti-war protests. He likened the weapons of mass destruction excuse for invading Iraq in 2003 to the Gulf of Tonkin affair, and over the years supported leakers who revealed government deceptions, including Edward Snowden, Chelsea Manning and Reality Winner, who was sentenced to five years in prison for leaking a single page from an in-house National Security Agency magazine showing the NSA had concluded Russia interfered in US elections, while the government was maintaining they had not.

He recognised a practical corollary to the Ellsberg paradox: the more secrets you are able to access, the less able you become to act sensibly with them. In 2021, Ellsberg released government memos from 1958, showing that the joint chiefs of staff had prepared a nuclear first-strike against Chinese bases on Quemoy and Matsu during the Taiwan Strait crisis, with a full nuclear attack planned on China should they respond. His point was that little had changed since the Pentagon Papers.

Ellsberg was played by James Spader in the 2003 film The Pentagon Papers, and was the subject of a 2009 documentary, The Most Dangerous Man in America. His memoir, Secrets, appeared in 2003 and in 2021 Risk Ambiguity and Decision was updated as a book, once again challenging the concept of rational decision.

Ellsberg is survived by his wife and their son, Michael, and his son, Robert, and daughter, Mary, from his first marriage.

Daniel Ellsberg, military analyst and political activist, born 7 April 1931; died 16 June 2023

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at http://justforbooks.tumblr.com

[brokehorrorfan]

Jamie Lee Curtis will make her graphic novel debut with Mother Nature. Originally due out last November, it’s now set to be published in hardcover and digital on July 18 via Titan Comics.

Curtis co-authored the 176-page comic with Russell Goldman (who served as her assistant on Halloween Kills), adapted from the eco-horror script they co-wrote, which is currently in development as film from Blumhouse and Comet Pictures.

Mother Nature is illustrated by Karl Stevens. The trailer and synopsis are below, along with statements from all three creatives involved.

Nova Terrell who, after witnessing her father die in mysterious circumstances on one of the Cobalt Corporation’s experimental oil extraction projects, has grown up to despise the seemingly benevolent company that the town of Catch Creek, New Mexico, relies on for its jobs and prosperity. The rebellious Nova wages a campaign of sabotage and vandalism against the oil giant, until one night she accidentally makes a terrifying discovery about the true nature of the “Mother Nature” project and the long-dormant, vengeful entity it has awakened that threatens to destroy them all.

Jamie Lee Curtis statement:

I first thought about this story when I was 19 years old. I’ve always been aware of the very unbalanced relationship between humans and nature, and even though I was young, I always knew that, inevitably, nature would win.

I have long admired and collected Karl’s work, and I’m very excited he suggested expanding the idea to turn it into a graphic novel. The partnership with Titan has now given us a wonderful platform to begin to tell our story.

Russell Goldman statement:

We wanted to reach deeper than the big picture doom-and-gloom of climate change narratives to tell a story specific to Four Corners, New Mexico, an amazing part of the world where every major source of energy is mined, and where the climate and resource crises are acutely felt. We wanted to use these themes to shape a story that feels intense, honest and unexpectedly aspirational.

Karl Stevens statement:

I was immediately blown away by the depth of the characters, the perfect blend of action and gore, the urgent ecological message, and how all these things would translate beautifully into a graphic novel. It's a joy and privilege to work with Titan Comics and Blumhouse on this project. I'm producing the best work of my career!

Pre-order Mother Nature.

[whumpdoyoumean]

Whumptober #31

xxx a light at the end of the tunnel

Hope is a funny thing. 

Having lived for well over half a millennium, Hob Gadling has lost hope more times than he cares to admit. But he’s also seen that hope rewarded, often in the most unexpected of ways, sometimes decades or even centuries after it had been seemingly lost. 

It’s hope that keeps him from turning tail and running when he arrives at Fawney Rig, home of Alex Burgess. It’s a grand old estate, the type that requires a good deal of staff to keep up. Staff who are currently lying dead in the foyer, on the steps, in the upstairs hallway. Four of them that he can count, and he’s barely got one foot in the door.

Six hundred years, and the brutality of which man is capable still manages to surprise him. He does his best to avoid such barbarism, when he can. It does nothing for his mental well-being and, having not gotten used to it despite his overabundance of experience (maybe because of it). It eats away at him.

And yet here, in the middle of such darkness…still there exists that bright sliver of hope. That maybe something he thought he’d lost for good isn’t lost after all.

This is what he clings to as he enters the mansion. His footsteps echo on the tile, and it occurs to him just how quiet it is. No sounds of weeping or begging, no quiet pleas for help. His heart sinks, and he knows in his gut that there are no survivors. Whoever is responsible for this carnage will have seen to that.

Hob’s step quickens. He’d managed to find the public records on the house--architectural drawings, blueprints and floor plans, surveys. A long night’s study had led him to the conclusion that the paperwork was carefully curated, and that the strange American was right: Something is afoot at the Burgess estate.

A shudder runs through Hob as he thinks back on the man who’d come into the inn a few nights before, asking odd questions of the people there. It had seemed at first that he was just another tourist, curious about the old homes that are older, almost, than his country. But as the questions had grown more pointed, the man more insistent, it became clear that he was looking for something. There was a lot of talk of dreams. It was his mention of the Devil and the Wandering Jew that finally prompted Hob to speak. 

“A fascinating little story isn’t it?”

He’ll never forget the flash of malice that had crossed the man’s face. It had only been there for a second before it was replaced by a forced smile that was no less discomfiting. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and laced with venom.

“Who says it’s just a story?”

There are more bodies as Hob continues through the halls. The American had seemed quietly unbalanced, like there was something desperate and dangerous and wild just below the surface, but this…

Could one man really have done all of this? 

It’s with that thought that he begins to run. 

He’s surprised at how quickly he finds the hidden basement door--due, largely, to the fact that it sits wide open. The air coming from the doorway is cold and musty-smelling and sends a shiver down his spine. His fingers land on the handle of the small knife at his hip, and then he’s moving down the stone steps, as quietly as he can. He can hear snippets of sound as he gets closer. The only thing he really makes out is Morpheus.

He doesn’t know why but the name, though he doesn’t recognize it, sends a warm jolt of familiarity through his heart. He’s so busy trying to piece together what the feeling might mean that he forgets his attempt at stealth as he steps through the open iron gates and down the two small steps into a dark, candlelit chamber. He certainly doesn’t notice the man lying in wait for him, until he feels a gun pressed to the back of his head. 

“Turn around,” the American says, and Hob does so, though not before he catches a glimpse of a naked figure on a bed of broken glass, pale and bloodied and striking the same golden chord that the name Morpheus had. “Professor? I have to admit, this is unexpected.”

He launches into some long-winded monologue, but Hob doesn’t hear a word of it. Because he was right. He knows who it is lying there, unmoving, on the ground beneath the round metal frame. And he knows who it is that made him bleed. 

He doesn’t enjoy killing people. He’s done it, of course. Not just out of necessity, either. He’s killed for reasons far more selfish and debauched than that. Never has he taken pleasure in the act. 

This, though. This is maybe as close as he gets.

He moves with lightning speed, with reflexes refined by centuries of honing. It’s not a fight. The American doesn’t even have time for his finger to twitch before the blade is buried in his carotid. He stares at Hob with wide-eyed shock. Hob stares back for one hate-filled moment before he pulls the knife out, turning on his heel as red arcs out and the American falls to the ground.

The hatred is forgotten immediately as Hob runs to the naked man’s side, replaced by something gentler and more precarious. 

“It’s you.”

Even beaten and bloodied, he knows this face. Of course he knows this face, how could he not? He quickly takes off his coat, draping it over the huddled and trembling and bleeding figure whose eyes remain shut.

“Alright, old friend,” Hob says softly. “I don’t know if you can hear me, but I’m going to move you now.” 

He moves as quickly as he dares, mindful of the larger pieces of glass in the slight man’s body as he carefully lifts the man into his arms. He’s surprised at how easy it is, barely taking more effort than lifting a child, and the man stirs slightly, a groan slipping from lips that are pale white beneath the blood.

“Easy, now,” Hob murmurs. His eyes land on a sigil on the ground, and disgust rises in him as he scuffs the markings with one foot before continuing. 

The man groans again and he starts to squirm in Hob’s arms. He’s skin and bones, and has just had the shit beat out of him, and it would be easy to subdue him if Hob weren’t so worried about doing further harm. 

“Okay--alright! Let me at least get you away from all the glass and the damned binding circle.” 

He walks hurriedly, moving to a subchamber that’s free of glass and blood, and eases the man onto the floor, covering him carefully with his coat. The man’s not fully conscious, eyes moving beneath slightly parted lids. Hob doesn’t want to leave him here alone for even a second, but the stone floors of the basement are frigid, and he can practically see the heat being leached from the man’s body. 

“I’ll be back,” he says, brushing his fingers against the man’s icy knuckles. “I won’t be a minute. Don’t move.”

He runs up the stairs and then up another flight, barely noticing the bodies now as he ducks into the first room he sees. He’s got more pressing things on his mind. He loads his arms with blankets, a pillow, and a flannel nightshirt, and makes the journey back to that awful basement, twice nearly tripping in his haste. He grabs a bottle of water as he passes the desk where the guards lay dead, then hurries into the subchamber. The relief he feels when he sees that the man hasn’t vanished is quickly undercut by the fact he’s gone completely still. 

“No.” He dumps everything from the bedroom onto the floor and kneels next to the man, his immortal heart beating so frantically it feels as if it might give out. His fingers shake lightly as he takes the man’s wrist in his hand. He’s spent a hundred and twenty-seven years waiting for this reunion. This can’t be the way it ends. 

He almost cries when he finds the pulse, surprisingly strong given the state of the man.

“You scared me,” he says. He wipes the blood from his knife and cuts one of the blankets, ripping it the rest of the way with his hands and repeating the process until he’s got a small pile of cloth strips. He talks quietly the whole time. He’s not sure if the man can hear him, but he’d much rather speak and have his words fall on empty ears, than not speak and have the man be offered no comfort. 

There are things Hob wants to tell him, of course. Things he’d planned on telling him when they were last supposed to meet, things he’s thought about telling him since. He doesn’t say them, though. He’ll save those for when the two of them can have a proper conversation. 

For now, he talks about the weather, describing the color of the sky and the leaves, the feel of the breeze and the lovely scent that it carries, the birdsong. He talks as he winds a long strip of cloth around the large piece of glass in the man’s thigh, careful not to jostle it but also making the make-shift bandage tight enough to slow the bleeding, and to keep the glass in place until he’s in a better position to deal with it. By the time he finishes and moves to the man’s arm to repeat the process, he’s run out of ways to talk about the weather, so he talks about his recent holiday to the Isle of Wight. He doesn’t notice the silent tears that slip down the stranger’s face.

Once he’s satisfied with his work, he drapes a blanket (one that he hasn’t torn up to use as bandages) over the man and turns his attention to his face. He can’t help but grimace as he does. An ugly bruise is already forming over the man’s left eye and there’s a nasty gash over his cheekbone, and a small knot is forming above his right temple. His lip is split, too, and his nose looks like it might be broken. Perhaps most alarming is the man’s lower jaw, which juts sharply to the right. Definitely dislocated.  

A fresh dose of hatred courses through his veins. 

He won’t be losing much sleep over the American, he decides. 

He pours water over one of the strips of fabric and starts the work of cleaning the blood away. Only when he starts to gingerly dab at the cut on his head does the stranger flinch and begin to stir. 

“Sorry!” Hob says, pausing as the man turns away from his touch. “Are you with me?”

The man’s eyes fly open and for a fraction of a second, Hob could swear that he sees the stars reflected in them. And then he’s staring into those familiar pools of blue, wide and panicked at first, but quickly softening with recognition. His lips begin to move, and Hob speaks quickly before the man has a chance to. 

“Careful. Don’t--don’t try to speak. Your jaw’s been dislocated. I think I can move it back into place--I’ve learned a great many things in my lifetimes--but it’s going to be unpleasant. Painful…” His mind goes back to what he’d heard when he first came down the steps. “I heard the man say Morpheus. Is that your name?”

The man stares at him for a moment before bobbing his head up and down.

Morpheus.

“Alright, Morpheus. Do you trust me?”

Morpheus nods once, without hesitation. There’s not a hint of trepidation in his eyes. 

“Good. I’ll be as quick and as gentle as I can.”

It’s an uncomfortable procedure. Hob is impressed by how quiet and still Morpheus is as he puts his thumbs against his lower molars, wrapping his fingers under the man’s chin.

“I need you to relax for me, now, while I move it back into place. Ready? Relax relax relax…” He applies pressure, pushing the man’s jaw down and then back until he feels it click back into place. The man lets out a sharp gasp, and then sighs, his shoulders sagging a little as he leans his head back against the wall. 

“Thank you,” he breathes. His whole body is trembling, even under the blanket. “Thank you. Thank you, Hob.”

“You’re welcome, Morpheus.”

The ghost of a smile crosses the man’s lips--lips which, Hob notes gladly, have begun to gain a bit of color back--and he reaches his uninjured arm out from under the blanket, resting his hand on Hob’s shoulder. 

“You may call me Dream. That is what my friends call me.”

Hob can’t help the laugh that bubbles up in his chest and escapes out his mouth at the word friends, and the chill of this place seems to fade a bit. 

“We should get you out of this place, Dream,” he says after a long moment. He picks up the nightshirt and sets to work ripping off the right sleeve, pausing when he sees Dream’s stare which he interprets as being inquisitive, despite it looking very much like his usual staring. “The glass in your arm,” he explains. 

Dream winces a little, as if he hadn’t noticed it until just now. The small surge of energy he’d had is clearly beginning to fade.

“Here, put this on. It isn’t quite to your taste, but it will cover you well enough until we can find something more suited to you.” 

Dream scowls slightly at the red and black plaid, but takes it anyway, pushing the blanket down and pulling the nightshirt over his head.

“Can you stand?” Hob asks.

“Yes.” 

He doesn’t look as sure as he sounds, though, and doesn’t turn down Hob’s proffered hand. The nightshirt falls down around him as he rises to his feet, and it’s clear that it was intended for a larger man. It makes for quite a sight: Dream, practically drowning in the bright fabric, save for his one care arm. Would’ve been quite funny, if not for the cuts and bruises, and the hiss he lets out as he tries to put weight on his injured leg. 

“Easy, there. Are you alright? Can you walk?”

“I can walk.” There’s not so much confidence now, and Hob loops an arm around his bony waist. 

“I’ve got you.”

It’s slow-going, and Hob finds himself cursing the spiral staircase more than once as they make their way up. Dream is gasping by the time they get to the ground floor, and shaking, a dazed, exhausted look on his face. He doesn’t react to the bloody scene in the foyer, and Hob’s not entirely convinced that the poor man even sees it. They make it the last few steps out the front door and onto the porch before it occurs to Hob that Dream is barefoot. He looks at the gravel drive and then at Dream’s bloodied feet and shakes his head. 

“That’s it, I’m carrying you the rest of the way.”

Dream barely protests as Hob lifts him off of his feet, and it’s clear he’s given in when he loops his good arm around Hob’s neck and leans into him. 

He’s unconscious again by the time they reach the car, and Hob has to wrangle him into the passenger side, careful not to jostle the glass. He’s just done the seatbelt when he looks up at that godforsaken house, and the hatred and rage for the people who imprisoned Dream come roaring up, all at once. 

“Just one more thing I’ve got to do,” he says. 

He’s never been more grateful for the extra petrol he keeps in the car just in case. The place is full of unattended candles and dry old books, anyway. 

An accident was bound to happen.

xxx 

The first thoughts that enter Dream’s mind upon regaining consciousness are soft and warm--both of which are things that he hasn’t been in a very, very long time. The next word is safe. And the word after that, a name: 

Hob.

He opens his eyes to find himself in a bed that’s infinitely softer than any he’s been in in this realm. A quick examination reveals that the glass is gone from his arm, replaced with clean bandages, and when he brushes his fingers against his leg, the same is true there. There’s a bandage on his cheek, as well. Strangely, he can hardly feel his injuries. Instead, his whole body feels tingly, almost warm. And his head feels…sodd. Like it’s been filled with helium and would take flight if not for his neck keeping it attached to his body.

“Hob?” he asks. He’s about to repeat the name when a door opens to his left and Hob appears, his hair and body dripping, gripping a towel that’s wrapped around his waist.

“Are you alright?” he asks, eyes wide. 

Dream nods, and the world starts to spin. He squeezes his eyes shut to try and stop the movement. “I feel strange.”

“Ah, yes. That would be the medication. I had to give you something before I removed the glass. The piece in your leg was dangerously close to your femoral artery. Even the slightest movement could’ve caused you to bleed out.”

Dream forces his eyes open and stares at Hob, who’s opened his closet and is pulling out a bathrobe. 

“You needn’t have worried,” he says, the words feeling strange on his tongue. His lids start to droop and he forces them open. “I can’t die, remember?”

He has just enough awareness to see a flicker of something in Hob’s expression. Something like guilt. 

“Aye,” Hob says quietly. “But you can be hurt or captured.” He shakes his head, almost as if, Dream thinks, to shake the sadness from his face. And then he smiles, a warm expression crossing his handsome features. “Please, Dream. Don’t stay awake on my account; we’ll have plenty of time to talk later. You can rest now.”

And for the first time in a century, Dream does.

xxx end

[fullfiresiren]

unconquered // 4

[4; the throne room] [read on ao3]

“Please have a good rest of your night, my lady,” your sworn sword wishes, bowing as you plod past him, soaked to the core and shivering. “Rest well, and warm up.”

“Thank you, Ser Erryk,” you mumble, arms wrapped around your chest to keep the minuscule amount of heat left in your body trapped close. You offer him a smile, passing through the door as he holds it open for you.

He returns your smile with one of his own, and, once you are safe in your room, shuts the door behind you.

“Gods be good!”

You jump at the sudden outburst, whipping round to see Elen, your older lady-in-waiting, rushing over, fawning at your half-drowned state. She’s short, and stout, her grey hair tied up in a neat bun. She’s kind; combs your hair diligently, makes sure your bath is warm enough, and treats you well. It’s obvious that she's been patiently waiting for you to arrive so that she can dress you down for the night and brush out your hair – perhaps even run you a bath – but now that you’ve arrived looking worse for wear, she realizes her work is cut out for her.

“You’ll catch a chill if you remain in those clothes, your grace!” she fusses. She’s the only one who calls you that. “I’ll run you a nice hot bath and get you into your sleep gown.”

While she potters about, muttering to herself and preparing the bath, you slide out of your soggy dress, shivering violently.

“I had a good time today,” you tell her as she hands you a blanket, wrapping yourself in the soft fabric.

Elen always asks about your day. She is perhaps the only one here who asks you genuine questions about your thoughts and feelings, what your day consists of, and how things are going with your future husband to-be. She offers advice if you ask, and if you do not, she simply listens. Nothing she asks feels like it is done to gain information, but rather, only to be a friendly face in an otherwise sea of indifference.

“I can see that, your grace,” she smiles. “You are perhaps the only lady of the realm who doesn’t mind being caught out in the rain.”

“I have been caught out in worse,” you mutter. You’re not sure why you do. The memory isn’t clear. It’s more of a feeling that you have. You find it disheartening that you have to trust a blind feeling rather than a solid memory, but it is all you have left to lead you.

Your heart will guide you when all else fails.

The bath water wraps around you like the warm embrace of a mother, and you sink below the surface to envelop yourself in it.

This is all you have left.

How sad.

Will anyone ever love you again? Will you ever be able to relax into the embrace of another, knowing that within their arms, you are safe from everything? Do you even remember what that feels like?

Last daughter, don’t forget where you came from.

You resurface suddenly, gasping for air. Elen gives you a troubled look, making to come to your side, but you raise a hand, signalling all is fine. She gives you another frown, like all concerned do, but when you relax against the back of the tub, she acquiesces.

When you sink below the fabric of your covers, back dipping against the plush mattress, the moon is already high into the sky. You think of Archeon, on the beaches below, and the four others, out there in the world somewhere, without you for so long. You think of your family; the fleeting feeling of your parents, what life must have been like with them. You think of the new world you’ve been thrust into, the Targaryen dynasty, and your place within it.

You feel a deep sense of wrong. Something is wrong with that.

You press further under the covers, thinking briefly of the prince. Silver hair and one eye. Will he ever hold you like you wish?

Sleep comes quickly after.

You dream of Archeon.

But it is not a dream.

It is a memory – the first that you can grasp – a real memory from your time in Valyria.

He’s small; barely able to carry you on his back as he flies above a magnificent golden city. He’s wobblily and unbalanced, but you urge him onwards, stroking his neck and praising him when he flies steady. The air is hot and warm, and you feel free in yourself, untouchable with your mount.

The sky darkens, and you frown, casting your eyes upwards.

There is something moving in front of the sun - something dark and haunting. It sinks everything below you into a shadow, suffocating, like night has fallen too quick, and when you turn back, you realise it is a solar eclipse.

The shadow of night envelops the day.

You startle awake, rousing to the noise of your chambermaids plating breakfast for you, clinking dishes and cutlery.

Why is that memory the first that resurfaces? What is your dream trying to tell you?

You blink wearily, head throbbing, and squint in the light of the morning sun.

“Good morning, your grace,” Elen greets, noticing you shuffle to sit up. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes, Elen,” you lie. What’s the point of worrying her over something you do not yet understand. Your burdens are your own. “It’s morning already?”

“It is,” she smiles, plating some eggs and meat to bring over to you, pouring you a hot mug of what you assume is herbal tea. “Ser Erryk is asking if he may enter, your grace. But if you would prefer to see him after you are dressed and proper, I will pass along your wishes.”

She speaks a little louder than necessary as she places your tray of hot food in front of you, obviously seeing that you’re still half-asleep. You yawn.

“It’s fine, Elen. He may enter now,” you answer sleepily, shovelling a forkful of eggs into your mouth, and nodding at her.

Elen gives you a muted look, like she’s lightly amused by your lack of etiquette, but disappears out of sight to open your apartment doors for Ser Erryk. Moments later, the tell-tale clinking of his heavy armour sounds out, and no later than that, he appears before you. He’s trying his best to keep his eyes trained over your head, least he gaze at a highborn lady in her nightgown.

“Good morning, my lady,” he greets.

“Good morning, ser,” you smile lazily.

“I come with a note to give you. From prince Aemond.”

You are suddenly wide awake.

“Really?”

He nods, extending his hand to reveal a small, rolled up note, with a golden ribbon keeping it shut tight.

“It came... last night...” he trails off, looking elsewhere.

“Last night?” you ask, reaching forwards to take the note from him. “When?”

“Ah...” he gives Elen a look, but she refuses to meet it, busying herself instead with preparing your clothing for today.

“Please feel free to speak plainly, Ser Erryk,” you nudge.

“I was informed not to tell you.”

“By whom?”

“...The prince himself...”

“Hand-delivered,” you hear Elen mutter under her breath.

“The note was hand-delivered by prince Aemond last night,” Ser Erryk explains, “perhaps only a few minutes after you had retired to your room. The prince told me I was not to disturb you with it until the morning to allow you to rest. He also said I was forbidden from telling you that.”

You grasp the note a little tighter under the new knowledge, your heart thumping in your chest. There’s a kindness there from the prince, you feel, hidden beneath his stony glare and too-perfect posture. He’s uncomfortable in the new territory that he is exploring with you, but he is trying, if only with you.

“Thank you, ser Erryk,” you smile. “I promise I won’t tell him.”

He bows, and takes his leave. You take a sip of the herbal tea that Elen prepared along with your breakfast earlier, and unwrap the note.

My betrothed, it reads. A little forced, you think.

If you wish, let us meet at midday, in the Great Hall.

There will be no chaperones, so we will be free to talk comfortably. For as long as you want.

Prince Aemond.

The knowledge that you will meet with him again strikes a glorious chord within you, and an unnameable emotion blooms across your chest. Elen notices your immediate change in disposition and her hand moves from choosing a simple necklace, to a more elegant piece, one that compliments your complexion and sits against your skin beautifully.

“If I may, your grace...?”

You look up from the note, eyes landing on her. “Is everything alright, Elen?”

“May I speak plainly?”

“Of course,” you say, “I welcome it.”

“I have known prince Aemond ever since the boy was born,” she says, laying out a beautiful flowing dress of eggshell blue and lavender for you, “and in all my many years at court, I have never once seen him take any interest in the fine women who would be more than suitable for him. Not once. Not to chase, nor pursue, not even as a child. In fact, I do not think I have ever seen him even talk to another women. To see him reach out to you in such a way, regardless of your future betrothal, warms my heart. He was always a sweet boy. Quiet, no less, and unsure of himself, but a good child. And a good man, I am sure.”

You take a few moments to think on her words. Never once has she seen the prince pursue a woman? Not even as a child? Overshadowed by the boldness of his older brother, perhaps? A lack of interest? Or is he far shyer than you initially thought? A fire ignites in your belly at the thought of him trying so hard, traversing rocky terrain and unknown territory just to speak with you. You smile at the note. He held it once, as you do, now.

“That is comforting, Elen,” you say. “Thank you for telling me.”

She nods, and continues in her duties, preparing you for a meeting with your prince.

Comb soft and diligent, fingers nimble when she braids your hair, she is ever dutiful, making sure you look as ethereal as always. Her eyes linger on your face in the mirror, adjusting what she needs, and when she is done, you admire her work. The dress sits tailor made and seamless. The necklace glinting at you in the light of your eyes. Such wealth, you feel, is undeserved. In Valyria, you are sure you would be treated as such, wearing fine garments and even finer jewels daily, but that, of course, was because you were the crowned monarch. Here, you are no one. You have no last name. Why then, are you kept in abundant riches? Why are you kept satiated? You watch yourself frown, an uneasy feeling rising in your chest. You swallow it down, and smile at Elen.

A sharp knock on your door sounds throughout your chambers.

“Come,” you call.

Ser Erryk appears, bowing formally to you.

“My lady,” he greets, “May I escort you to the Great Hall?”

“No need, Ser Erryk,” you raise a hand, dismissing him softly. “I wish to walk there myself. If you like, you may have the rest of the day to yourself. You, too, Elen.”

Your aides bow to you, leaving you in peace, and, after a few more glances in the mirror, you sigh.

“Quisling,” you whisper. The reflection stares back unblinking.

Midday is fast approaching, and your walk to the Great Hall is brisk, stomach filled with soft butterflies at the thought of meeting with prince Aemond again. You wonder what he wishes to speak about, and what topics of interest you will discuss. You are particularly interested in viewing the Iron Throne up close, having only seen it from a distance a few times throughout your stay here. You are curious as to whether he will give you a history on the greatest seat in the new world, or whether he wishes to talk about the old world, instead. The closer you approach, the more you steel yourself for that conversation.

The sun streams in from the stain glass windows, painting the stone floors a flood of mesmerising hues. You step through them slowly, smiling to yourself as shades of rose and gold encompass your body, forest green and marigold reflecting on your gown, azure, lavender, honey--

“Oh, what a delightful surprise~”

Your attention is stolen by a slurred voice that calls out from nearby. Prince Aegon sits slumped on a bench, head resting on a closed fist. He blinks slowly at you, smiling wide, a cup in his other hand. There is something swirling in his eyes and lurking behind his expression that warns you not to step closer, not to go further.

Hic sunt dracones.

“Prince Aegon,” you greet. You do not bow.

“High Lady (y/n),” he returns, finishing whatever remained in his cup, and placing it beside him.

When he stands, you become acutely aware that there are no others around you. The hallway is desolate and empty. The colors he steps through on his approach had you so enthralled that you failed to notice. The closer he gets, the more you smell the stench of alcohol permeating through the air, and only when he is close enough for your breaths to intermingle does he stop.

He admires you, your dress, your beauty, fingers hooking under the jewel at your throat to inspect it closer, and he hums.

“You are wasted on my twat of a brother,” he smirks, words slurring. “Why not bed me, instead?”

Your necklace is dropped in favour of his fingers sliding up your neck to cup your face.

You pull out of his grasp, warning, “do not touch me, prince Aegon.”

He seems to like your fire, gripping your chin, lifting it just so, angling your head upwards, lips pulling into a smirk.

The urge to slice his fingers from his hand is overwhelming, but you have no weapon to attack with, and instead, must settle for jerking away more forcefully. He is lucky you are without dragon.

He becomes indignant, sneering, “you think my idiot brother lusts for you?”

You make to move past him, not dignifying his childish tantrum with an answer, but he blocks your path, body pressing into yours, until you have no choice but to back away. He encroaches still, and the stone wall comes up behind to trap you.

“You think he’d ever be able to satisfy you – a woman of such high nobility?” he purrs, tilting his head down to inhale the scent at your throat.

“Move away from me--”

“I tried once, you know,” he murmurs, breath hot across your neck, reeking of alcohol, “to teach him about women. He was 13. Old enough, wouldn’t you say?”

You still at the tone of his words, blood as cold as the stone pressing at your back.

“Took him to a brothel – my favorite one, no less,” he hums, “Paid for whores to mount him as a nameday gift. He didn’t even have to do anything – not that he even tried – just had to lay there and let them pleasure him. Do you know how he repaid me? Tears. He cried the whole time. Begged to go home, snivelling and whimpering like a dog. Please Aegon,” he mocks, “I don’t want to do this— I’m scared— I’m scared, Aegon— Aegon, please make it stop! I don’t like this— I want to go home!”

You feel violently sick.

“He never even finished--”

He’s laughing when you finally push past him, running as far from him as possible, and you don’t realise you’re crying until you’re hiding in an alcove, chest heaving.

Horrified is an understatement when you recall the details prince Aegon gave. Forcing his younger brother to visit a pleasure house, refusing to call a halt to the events even after his brother begs him too - even after he cries. You cannot help but weep at the thought of prince Aemond scared and afraid, assaulted so young, instigated by someone who was supposed to protect and care for him. You feel heartbroken for him, angry on his behalf.

You wipe your tears on the sleeve of your dress, trying to calm your thunderous heartbeat. You are supposed to be meeting with him soon, and you cannot allow him to see that something has happened. You cannot allow him to see you upset.

It takes a moment to calm yourself, steady your breathing, but when you feel adequately presentable, and the hallways are clear, you leave promptly, at a brisk pace, to your designated meeting spot. Prince Aemond must be waiting for you by now.

After a minute of fast walking, the grand double doors to the Great Hall come into view, towering in scale, and as you approach, two guards either side move to open them for you, polearms in hand.

The doors groan when they part to give entrance, and you walk through at a deliberate pace.

The hall is vast, towering ceilings, arching pillars, all befitting a station of such notoriety. The sun spills in from the floor to ceiling windows, and at the centre of it all – the Iron Throne; a monstrous seat of swords from conquered lands, twisted and warped by dragonflame. You have barely seen it from a distance and were only privy to the inside of the Great Hall a couple of times, when it was full of people.

As you step further into the room, you quickly realise there is no one here – all except one. He stands with his back to you, staring at the empty seat of his father, the king. When he hears your approaching footsteps, however, he turns.

“My betrothed,” he greets, bowing to you, long silver hair pooling over his shoulders at the movement. “Good to see you.”

You return the greeting, eyes holding his as you bow. “My prince.”

“You look...” he trails off, eyes shining as he takes in your dazzling appearance, trying to find the right words. “L-lovely.”

“Ah,” you look down at your dress, hands splaying across the soft fabric. “Thank you. As do you.”

He smiles then, a tug of his lips as he lowers his head, and what sounds like a scoff leaves his lips. You frown a little. Does he think you jest? When he next looks up and studies your face, it is his turn to frown.

“Is everything alright?” he asks, stepping closer, features painted with soft worry. “You— ah, what I mean to say is— you—” he makes a noise, frustrated with himself, perhaps, before finding the courage from somewhere, and blurting, “have you been crying, my lady?”

You blink at him, aware then, that your lashes are still wet – with tears shed for him.

“N-no,” you lie.

He must sense it. A few moments pass where it looks like he is warring with himself on whether to press his curiosities. Eventually, he does.

“You may tell me if you have,” he mutters, just loud enough for you to hear. “As your future husband, I wish to know if something has upset you.”

The act of kindness takes you admittedly, off-guard – especially since it comes from prince Aemond himself – a man, who, until a few days ago, had spoken nothing to you. Somehow, you cannot bear to see him look at you like that.

“I have not been crying,” you assure, heart heavy with the lie, “I simply ran into your brother a few moments prior to our meeting here.”

His expression changes sharply, turning overcast and dark, and mutters something that sounds very much like ‘wastrel’ under his breath.

“Did he touch you?” he asks quietly.

“No,” you lie.

“Did he do anything to you?” he is louder this time.

“No, my prince,” you shake your head softly, “Please do not worry.”

He pauses.

“I am happy to run him through my sword if he did.”

You pause.

And then, you burst out laughing, the sound bright and airy, like sunshine after a heavy deluge, and Aemond is mesmerised by it. It was clear to you that he is only half joking, but nevertheless, the joke comes at the perfect moment; the perfect icebreaker. You grin at him, chest still tickling with the embers of laughter, and he is looking at you like you are one of the seven personified before him, face lit up with a smile at your happiness.

“If you did, my prince, I fear you would have to do it quick, less my dragon enjoy a meal tainted with wine.”

Your bold statement has prince Aemond breaking composure, and laughing, too. The air around you becomes light and relaxed, and each of you wear a genuine smile within one another's company.

“Would you like to sit?” he offers, gesturing behind him to the stone steps before the Iron Throne, some of which have been draped by a red cloak in a kind of make-shift seat, hand outstretched to you.

“Very much,” you smile, taking his hand.

Prince Aemond becomes embarrassed at the contact, despite him initiating it, hand growing hot, and once you are settled on the cloak, he removes himself from you, and sits by your side.

The light that streams in from behind him illuminates a golden ring around his stark white hair, giving him a heavenly aura, and you blink up at him, time seeming to stand still for you when your eyes meet. He thinks you radiate an elegant beauty, even without the added glow of light. You are your own source of brilliance.

“I heard you saw Archeon yesterday,” he begins, tearing his gaze away to brush non-existent dust from his dark trousers, “and returned to the Red Keep soaked?”

“What you heard would be the truth,” you admit, “I... felt the urge to be with him, and so I did. He escaped the Dragonpit... again... and was instead found lounging on the beaches. I believe he gave the tamers a rather stressful and difficult time...”

You notice that although he is not meeting your gaze, more focused instead on the floor by his shoes, he does smile softly at your words.

“He is strong willed?”

“Very much so,” you think fondly of your dragon. “But... with me... he’s calm... and gentle... and understanding... he is perhaps the only one who truly knows me. My closest companion. My soul.”

Prince Aemond recalls reading a similar phrase in a book about old Valyrian traditions and dragonriders. He feels a bond to Vhagar, of course, but... nothing like what you are speaking of with your own. He plays with the hem of his leather shirt, debating the topic of his next question and whether he should truly ask it. He feels, unspoken, that he must.

“Forgive me, my lady,” he begins, continuing to avoid your gaze. “Is it wholly true that you possess five dragons?”

They come to mind at once, the four who exist apart – how you miss them. Their absence is like a part of yourself you have lost to the aether. It was in your search for them that your presence was noticed by the crown, a non-Targaryen riding a dragon larger than any housed at the Dragonpit, and you were swept away to Kings Landing.

“Yes,” you say. He looks at you then, holding your gaze. “It is true. It was custom...” you inhale before starting, the topic breaching one you knew was coming far faster than you anticipated. “...in Valyria. Sons and daughters of highborn lords and ladies were given a dragon egg at birth. One to be born when they are a babe, to grow with them until they themselves become dragonlords, old enough to ride. It was tradition – one I have heard has been passed down to Targaryen's and is kept to this day.”

He nods, listening to your words.

You continue, “Sons and daughters of royal bloodlines, however, were given five – one to represent every thousand years the empire of Valyria reigned. I am no different. On the day of my birth, I was gifted five dragon eggs. My mount is Archeon, but I have four others who... reside... elsewhere. Somewhere I am unfamiliar with.”

A thought whispers to you then; one about Vhagar. She is far older than he, his senior by possibly hundreds of years. So... was the tradition overlooked for him? Was he given a dragon egg and it never hatched? Did it hatch, and later die? Did his dragon survive infancy and perish later, in battle or war? He is still looking at you, surveying your features, intrigued by what you have to say. You wonder if you are close enough to ask him about a topic so possibly personal. Then again, he is asking about your own dragons.

“Were you given one?” you ask then, blinking at him. “A dragon egg? At birth?”

He becomes visibly uncomfortable at the question, and you wonder then if you have crossed an unspoken line. “Ah, no...” he mumbles, “I was not.”

The tone of his voice urges you to leave the conversation alone, and you suppress your curiosity for now.

“I see,” you hum, changing the topic only slightly, when you question, “Vhagar, you claimed her, I imagine?”

He nods then, his small smile returning. “Yes, I did.”

“What age were you?”

“I was 10.”

There is a breath of silence, where you become transfixed.

Claiming dragons was nigh unheard of in Valyria. Since dragons roamed in abundance during the days passed, each one had their own rider who was bonded to them since birth, and upon their death, the dragon would become free – simply another part of the freehold, tame enough that it would never attack, but regarded highly enough that it would be left well alone. Such was the number of dragon eggs, and the speed and frequency at which they hatched, that there was no need to search for a grown dragon to tame and conquer. No need to claim one whose rider had passed, and such actions would be considered ill-mannered and disrespectful – qualities no true dragonlord possessed.

Ultimately, those whose birth rite it was to ride a dragon would never have to claim one.

In the more recent years, however, there are so few dragons left, that perhaps the only way to have one, for some, is to claim one without a mount. You have heard in the passing, that some dragon eggs never hatch. A concept so foreign to you.

The times have changed, and with them, so too your perception of those who took it upon themselves to steel their gaze and approach an adult dragon with the hopes of bonding to it within minutes, enough so, that the dragon would allow them to mount. You cannot imagine doing such a thing to a dragon larger than Archeon. When you were a child, no less.

“That’s...” you trail off, truly in awe. “Incredible.”

Your reaction was one he was not expecting. He assumed to steal a dragon would be considered pathetic and lowly by someone such as yourself. Prince Aemond opens his mouth slightly, too shocked to truly conceal his expression.

“You claimed the largest dragon alive at the time, when you were barely ten years old? I have never heard of something so wonderous. You... that is magnificent. I... I am finding it hard to express the depth of my respect and admiration for the courage you had to do something like that... I don’t think I could have. Vhagar herself must have understood the depth of your staggering actions. I am not surprised she chose you.”

For once, he is truly lost for words.

No comments or snide remarks trickle through his conscience, no criticism or derisive utterances die on his tongue before he can announce them. No barely contained anger, no lust for vengeance. He feels something wholly else. Something unspoken, something new and foreign, and it sits in his chest warm and comforting. He tries to name it then, but he cannot, such is the callow nature of it.

He realises then, when he is with you, he has no feelings of malice or contempt. Why then, does he feel so placated? Why, after everything, does he feel calm; like a river softly ebbing and flowing? Why does he feel worth something?

“T-thank you,” he blinks, mouth closing, and tears his gaze away. “My lady.”

You catch his face blooming pink, and feel the air charged.

“Do you wish to reunite with them...?” he asks, unassuming, still looking away. “Your dragons?”

“More than anything,” you whisper. “They are the last things I have left of my home.”

“Will you tell me about them?” he inquires, something raw devouring the soft emotion in his chest at his questioning. “If you are able? If you are... comfortable to?”

The memory hurts, but not necessarily in a negative way. It’s painful, aching, but feeling something is better than feeling nothing at all. The suffering reminds you that they were real – that they are real. That they are out there, somewhere, waiting for you. As long as you keep speaking of them, they remain alive, with you, in your heart.

“You know of Archeon, my mount, the eldest of the five,” you begin, and he nods, forcing himself to look you in the eyes, no matter how breathless you make him. “But there is also Aetheur, Attora, Andolon and Andorran.”

“Hmm,” he hums, smiling. “Do you enjoy names that begin with ‘A’?”

It’s a light-hearted joke, and you laugh at his comment. The soft emotion in his chest is back, and he laughs a little, too.

“Well,” you begin, “It was custom for royalty to use the letter ‘A’ for their dragon’s names – a symbol of... a symbol... of...”

You trail off, the memory escaping you completely. Nothing remains but a dark emptiness. A void where there should be brightness.

You lower your head, smiling. “I have forgotten, it seems.”

He hates how painfully sad you look. Hates it more that, for his sake it seems, you try to conceal it. He realises quickly the emotion that so viciously devoured the soft, and warm feeling that had bloomed in his chest.

Guilt.

“It’s alright,” he reassures softly, “Please do not worry. Tell me what you remember. I... enjoy... hearing you talk...”

It seems like an inane and dull compliment, and he internally scorns himself for not being able to think of something more worthy. You brighten at his words, however.

“Aetheur was the second that hatched, and he took after Archeon, both in appearance and temperament – followed him around like he was his sun. It used to annoy him, but after a while, I suppose he found it endearing. He’s very pale – a tint of lilac to his scales that’s only visible in certain lights. When the two of them would stand side by side, they were like night and day. Then, the twins.”

“Twins?” he asks, interest piqued.

“Yes, Andolon and Andorran – they hatched from the same clutch, at the same time. They were remarkable in appearance – golden yellow, and more serpent-like than dragon-like. Long necks, fixed, unblinking eyes – despite being only small, they used to frighten the other children of nobles, since their appearance was unsettling, but I always thought they were beautiful. They were mine, so of course I would. When they were hungry, they used to stare, unblinking at whatever it was they wanted to eat,” you smirk, “It was unnerving, even when they were little. I can’t imagine how terrifying it would be to witness now. They’d bicker a lot – like siblings tend to do, I suppose. I had to reprimand them for their squabbles often.”

He agrees wordlessly, perhaps thinking of his own relationship with his siblings – namely prince Aegon.

“My last was Attora -- the youngest, and the only female of my dragons. She was a gift from my mother, precious in the way that she is the only thing I have as a reminder of her. She is blue –startingly so, and would shimmer in the sun. Beautiful. But she was the smallest. I always feared that she would be given a hard time by the rest of my dragons, but they would always protect her. She is shy, kind, gentle – adverse to conflict, and would always skitter behind my legs at the first mention of disagreements. She was unlike others of her kind. I... was trying to find them, when I was seen by enough people that word of my existence reached the king here, in the Red Keep, and... I was asked to join the court.”

There is a silence, and then, “Hmm.” You are beginning to realise that this is his go-to response when he is unsure of what to say. “You miss them?”

It is more of a statement than a question. He knows you do.

“Yes. Very much.”

“You miss your home? You miss Valyria?”

As soon as the words have left his lips, he realises that question was ridiculous. Of course, you do. Your home, your life, everything you know was destroyed. You are the sole survivor, alone in everything, and he is forcing you to remember the worst details of your life. He scowls.

“Ah, please forgive me,” he starts. “That was an insensitive question.”

You smile, but your eyes are sad. “Not at all, my prince. I can understand your curiosity, and I appreciate you voicing it. Everyone who knows about my past is desperate to ask me -- I can see it in their expressions and the way they guard their tongues. Instead of that, though, they simply stare at me... treat me like a valued possession... avoid me... I don’t want to talk about it, and yet, not talking about it somehow makes the nightmares worse.”

He frowns. “Nightmares?”

“Ah,” you turn red.

“Do you... have nightmares about... your time in Valyria?”

“I feel embarrassed admitting something like that to you--”

“I...” he begins, “have them, too... sometimes...”

Please Aegon,

I don’t want to do this— I’m scared— I’m scared, Aegon—

“The past stays static, and yet, somehow we cannot escape it.”

“Hmm.”

The silence wraps around you like a blanket of heavy snowfall, and what was once a carefree and light conversation becomes weighted.

“If you wake from a nightmare, my lady,” Prince Aemond cuts through the atmosphere, suddenly, “there may be something you could do... that helps... well, in my experience, I find it has helped me, so perhaps it may help you, too.”

You look at him, expectant.

“When you wake... say aloud your three most favorite things in the world. Those most precious to you. Keep repeating them until it lulls you back to sleep. When you do, your dreams are sure to be pleasant.” There is a brief pause, and then, “I apologize if my advice is not very helpful.”

“I have never had anyone try to help me with my nightmares before. You, alone, are the only one,” you confess. “It means more than you know, my prince. To not have one to care for you is so terribly lonesome, so... I thank you.”

He nods, almost bowing his head to you. “I... understand... that.”

“Since I have arrived at the Red Keep – at King’s Landing – I have noticed the silence more so than before. I feel more alone now than ever, despite being surrounded every day by others. The more time I spend here, the more I fear this loneliness will never dissipate. The more I fear the absence of something that will never return.”

Prince Aemond sees how the sorrow overcomes you, sees you try to fight it in the presence of him. He is concerned that your sadness is too much for only one person to carry, and wishes he could shoulder a portion of it for you. He wishes he could shoulder it all.

“I... have never been one... to surround myself with others,” he admits quietly. “Even when I am, I feel as though I am forgotten by them. As if I am inconsequential, to everyone – even my family. I, too, feel as though... I have no one...”

You are more alike than he originally thought. You feel so, too.

“I apologize if I am being insensitive...” he offers, retrospectively. “What you have witnessed— what you have experienced... my problems are nothing compared to yours.”

“That does not make them any less painful,” you reassure.

He opens his mouth. Closes it again. “Hmm.”

“But,” you begin, smiling at him, never faltering once, “when I am with you, sitting like this, or even when we used to walk in silence, I... don’t feel sorrowful, or solitary. I cannot explain it,” you trail off, and he keeps staring at you, even when you look ahead. “Perhaps it is because no one here is as close to me as you. As kindred. My prince, do you ever feel that some people will grow closer to one another than others will?”

He swallows, that tight feeling in his chest coming back in waves. He’s never felt like that, and yet, you are making him experience all manner of things for the first time. An unspoken connection being one of them.

“S-sometimes.”

“As if they have met before?”

“Yes.”

“Their souls never strangers, not even for a moment.”

Everything you say is mesmerizing; every word. If any other woman was to speak of such things, he would scoff and dismiss them. Not that any other woman has ever been interested in him. With you, he’s hanging on every breath you take, waiting for your gaze to fall on him. He has a foreboding sense that if this continues as is, when you use the word ‘please’, he would give you utterly anything you wanted.

“It feels good to be open, does it not? Cathartic, in a way,” you muse, moving to stand.

Reflexively, as if he has been thoroughly schooled in etiquette, he stands faster, leaning down to give you his arm for stability. You’re grateful for the offer, thanking him as your hand finds his forearm and you raise yourself, stretching and patting out some of the creases in your gown from sitting. Prince Aemond stands there awkwardly, lips tight and face concealing an emotion you do not know him well enough to read.

“Would... you like me to escort you back to your apartment?” he offers.

“Oh, is our time together ending so quickly?” you begin, smiling only a little. “I apologize if my conversation was too tragic and cheerless.”

“Ah,” he starts, “I misunderstood.”

You stare at him.

He shakes his head, “I thought you wanted to leave.”

“Not at all!” you exclaim. “What caused you to think that, my prince?”

“You stood up, and... it seemed as if you wanted to end the conversation.”

“...that is all?”

“I understand now it seems foolish.”

“I simply wanted to stretch my legs,” you reassure. “If it is alright with you, may we talk longer? I enjoy speaking with you.”

He looks wobblily, if only for a moment. “Y-yes. Of course, my lady.”

“Shall we take a walk around the room?” you offer.

He nods, and the two of you set a slow, but comfortable pace.

“Will you tell me about your family?” you ask, looking up at him, his long white eyelashes brushing his cheeks when he blinks.

“What do you wish to know about them?”

“What is your fondest memory of each? When you were happiest with them?”

Prince Aemond feels this topic is one that could give you a window into his true self, like showing his soft white underbelly to an attacker. The feeling makes him uneasy, wary. He knows he should tread carefully.

“I am closest with my mother,” he explains, “The queen. I remember she used to read to me often when I was younger. I think, perhaps, that is my fondest memory of her.”

A lie. His fondest memory of his mother is when only she spoke up for him when his eye was sliced out. Only she defended him. Only she called for justice.

“My sister, Helaena,” he continues, “as children, she would enjoy showing me all manner of insects and small beasts she found. She is misunderstood by most but... she is a kind soul. Unlike my older brother, Aegon...”

He trails off, frowning to himself, regal features pulled into a distasteful scowl. You suppose he has no fond memories of his brother, and nor does he elaborate on the matter. You cannot blame him. From what you have heard of and experienced first-hand, he seems like someone you will never see eye-to-eye with, nor with whom you will voluntarily break bread.

A quick change of subject to keep the mood from turning too sour.

“What do you enjoy doing, my prince?” you ask, keenly intrigued on whether you could, perhaps, share similar interests.

“I enjoy sword fighting, I suppose,” he hums, leaning a little closer as if the next part is a secret he wishes few to know, “and reading.”

“Reading?”

“Yes,” he smiles small, “I am particularly interested in my forebearers, so from time to time, when I am free, I enjoy learning about them.”

You notice he avoids using the word for it. You choose to clarify.

“Valyria, you mean? Or rather, Valyrians?”

He nods. “Yes. I have always been interested in your people.”

Your people.

But you abandoned them, didn’t you?

His voice is somehow able to silence the one inside your head.

“I find it fascinating,” he continues, “...if not a little frustrating.”

He glances down to gauge your reaction, and when you look uneasy, he mistakes your forlorn expression as a direct result of his words, and not the outcome of your memories creeping up every now and then.

“A-ah,” he stumbles, “what I mean is— not frustrating, in a negative way, just there is not— it's hard to find... detailed works on... your... people...”

He trails off, feeling foolish and vulnerable. The urge to flee the situation rears its head – to save face, to hide from embarrassment, to keep himself from experiencing first-hand your reaction to his staggering inferiorities.

You manage to steady yourself by listening to the sound of his voice lulling you back to the room.

“If you have questions about Valyria, you may ask me about them, my prince. If I remember, I will tell you what I know.”

He studies your face, repeating your words in his head. Perhaps he may have misjudged the situation.

The conversation continues, flowing like the tide, ebbing onto a soft sand shore, as easy and carefree as the breeze. You talk with him about anything and everything, from the histories of Westeros, to his family today. Prince Aemond tells you of how Aegon conquered the seven kingdoms with his sisters roughly 100 years ago, how his own dragon saw it all, how he united the world under Targaryen rule. He tells you of how he grew up with the conqueror as his hero, wanting to be just like him, taking up swordsmanship, and philosophy, and history, and etiquette. Learning what it takes to become a true ruler – a good ruler. He tells you that his elder half-sister is in line for the iron throne once his father passes, and that even though it's very unlikely that he’ll find himself in a position to rule, he thinks the skills that teach him discipline are valuable, nonetheless.

He reminds you of what your parents expected of you.

You talk with him about what little you remember of your homeland, of your parents, of your dragons, your culture, and your hopes to regain what was lost – your memories.

“Without them,” you say, “I feel like a hollow shell. I should be a shining example of the greatest civilization; a living relic that carries the past with me so that it is never forgotten. But I am failing terribly.”

“Your memories will return; you must simply give them time,” Prince Aemond hums, silencing your worries and fears once more, without even realising.

It has grown dark, you realise; a haunting mirror of your inner emptiness, but the warmth of Prince Aemond by your side reminds you that perhaps, not all is truly lost.

“Ah, night has fallen,” he announces, stopping to glance towards the dark windows of the Great Hall. “I seem to have lost track of the time...”

He seems apprehensive, alarmed when a few maids enter to light the candles dotted around the room, and hums, deep in his chest, eyes darting around the room, watching the goings on of others.

“May I...” he begins, turning back to you, “...walk you back to your apartments?”

You nod, smiling, “of course, my prince.”

He leads you softly through the corridors of the Red Keep, keeping quiet, and you are relieved that his brother is nowhere in sight, and that there are few who can disturb the both of you. When you arrive outside your door, Ser Erryk is standing guard as always. He bows to the prince, who seems reluctant to let you go. You notice his aura change, face become unreadable, firmly hidden behind a steely glare, and his posture goes rigid beside you.

In the presence of others, he returns to the man who would answer you with silence or hums, that reaction now granted to all else but you. You have seen the underneath of his cold exterior, peaked through the cracks of his towering walls. The thought brings a sense of odd comfort. In it, you find an ally; a kindred soul.

Reluctantly, you part from him, his warmth dissipating.

“Good night, my betrothed,” he bids, dipping his head, “Please sleep well. I hope this night is one free from terrors.”

It is not.

You return his soft farewell and enter your chambers.

But his advice helped.

[part 5]

[periwinckles]

THE TRAIN BACK TO TWELVE - CHAPTER 19

Week 10 - Peeta

When I get home from the construction site, Katniss and Delly are already there. It's not out of the ordinary for them to hang out at my house. But it's too early for our dinner arrangements and they definitely never cook. As I watch them wandering around the stove, I think that's exactly what they are doing.

"What are you two up to?"

Delly turns, her face instantly turning to a wide smile, and she flungs herself at me in a tight hug. "Happy birthday!" She whispers in my ear. As if I don't know she is incapable of keeping a secret, and she must have ratted me out to Katniss by now.

Katniss slowly turns to acknowledge my arrival with a nod but she keeps her eyes on the stew she is stirring. "We're cooking dinner tonight. We thought you might want a break. You did spend the afternoon at the construction site. " She says, trying to blow a loose strand of hair off her face. Damn. She knows.

"Why don't you go take a shower, Peeta? Don't worry about dinner, we've got it covered." Delly tells me as she starts to sprinkle a greens salad with herbs and salt.

"I guess… ok, I'll do that. Thom went to take a shower as well, he said he wouldn't take long."

As I make my way upstairs I can hear them whisper in the kitchen, but I can't make out what they are saying. I don't know whether or not I should hope for them to be talking about me, but I suppose given the unbalanced ratio of Delly's voice vs Katniss' voice they are probably talking about Thom and Delly.

I take my time with my shower. I ended up helping out to carry some of the bricks and it feels good to let the hot water run down my sore muscles. It's strange to admit it, but soreness feels so good. There was a time when I couldn't really feel anything, either emotionally or physically. All I remember is feeling enveloped by a sense of numbness.

I push that thought aside. Not today. Today I'll think about hot water, sore muscles, and teenage girls gossiping in the kitchen. As I get dressed I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Eighteen. I'm officially an adult, but I've been one for two years now, haven't I?

On a whim, I take a razor blade and I start shaving. Uselessly, of course. Only a few hairs are stubborn enough to grow, despite the procedure they subjected me to for the arenas. Haymitch tells me it wears off over time, but his only started to grow back after five years or so.

Shaving used to be a big thing at the Mellark household. We were bakers and "bakers can't have facial hair". As I stand in front of the mirror I'm thrown back in time, to a much cluttered bathroom, and a shaving mirror that served four different Mellarks. I used to hate having to shave everyday, but my dad was unbendable about that. Ironically, now that I'm back to being a baker, I miss the mundane task of shaving.

When I get downstairs, Haymitch is already there with a sour face.

"Happy Thursday, kid."

Delly's eyes widen, and Katniss pretends to ignore it. So we're going on with the claim that she doesn't know. Ok.

"I want to make it clear I was lured here under false pretenses. "

"What are you talking about Haymitch?" I ask him as I inspect Katniss stew. Wild rabbit with potatoes. The scent is enough to make me hungry.

"I was promised a fine home cooked meal. It was implied you would be cooking. "

"You never complained about my food before!" Katniss strikes back, looking offended.

"You'll still get a fine meal Mr Abernathy!" Delly assures him. "We just thought Peeta could use a break, after all it's his…" She looks around unsure of what to say "... Thursday."

Haymitch huffs at this, but takes a seat at the table anyway.

I take a loaf of bread and as I begin to slice it Thom finally arrives.

We talk about the construction and the new wave of residents coming, as we savor the food.

I've been thinking about opening the bakery again, and Thom agreed to take a look at my plans after dinner. Houses for the residents are the priority right now, but once that's taken care of they will start with other buildings.

I don't know if it's the heavy lifting I did today that made me so hungry, but the food is excellent, better than anything I might have made myself

Haymitch fills his plate a second time, but he's still a tough nut to crack.

"I suppose it's not that bad."

"The food is great!" Thom says as he extends his compliments to the girls. "I think it's the first time I ate something you cooked." He says turning to Delly, and her cheeks turn a slight shade of pink.

"You're not disappointed?" She asks with a cringe "I know you love Peeta's cooking. He goes on and on about it for days, every time we eat here." She tells me and I feel a little swell of pride.

"Not disappointed at all." Thom answers back as Delly locks eyes with him again. But whatever silent conversation they're engaging in is interrupted by Haymitch, who drags Thom to a chess match.

I make a point to be the one handling the dishes, but I'm leaving those in the sink for later. I cut the cake like a regular dessert and bring it to the living room so everyone can get a slice. When I get there everyone looks thoroughly amused except for Thom.

"Check." Haymitch says, leaning back into his chair with his arms crossed.

"How is that even possible? We only made three moves. Three moves. That's not… that's got to be illegal or something right?" Thom looks to me asking for help, but there's nothing I can do. I was never able to beat Haymitch at chess and I'm beginning to think I never will.

They end up playing three more games as we sit on the couch. Delly tells us all about the progress on her vegetable garden. "It's much easier now, with more hands to help, and I think I'll be able to get another five or so workers with the new wave of residents."

"How does that work? Will people be able to choose what to do?" Katniss asks and I'm curious myself. Thom told us a new group of former residents is coming back next week, another 63 to add to the current 68. With the three of us in Victor's village, we'll have 134 residents in the entire district.

"Jack is working with a list of available positions. Most will have to be directed to construction with Thom or cleaning with Jack. But there will be openings for suppliers, they need more cooks with so many mouths to feed. And the garden will have openings as well. The newcomers will be able to choose according to the available slots. "

As Delly keeps talking Katniss softly places her hand on top of mine. I try not to react. Delly appears to not have noticed it, as she keeps talking, but I'm way off track by now. Katniss and I never touch each other unless we are sleeping or the other is either crying or fighting with a nightmare. I notice a small smile on her, out of the corner of my eye as I entwine my fingers with hers.

"And we want to try our way with preserves in the fall, to make provisions for winter. Ideally we would be completely independent from the Capitol foodwise, but who knows how long that's gonna take us, right?"

Delly looks at us, waiting for an answer but we both fail to deliver. Her eyes dart to our joined hands and a grin appears in her face, as I try to hide mine behind pursed lips.

"I give up!" Thom flails his hands in the air and slumps to his chair. "He's undefeatable!"

"I told you." I remind him, with a shrug of my shoulders.

"I'll take that as my leave." Haymitch says, getting up. He takes his jacket and produces a small package from his pocket. "Catch."

He throws the package to me and I catch it easily. It's lightweight and wrapped with a repurposed newspaper sheet.

"I'll see you tomorrow."

As he goes, Katniss excuses herself to go to the bathroom. I start unwrapping the package, but as soon as I catch a glimpse of the inside I wrap it back again and hide it inside a drawer.

He's giving me more condoms? This feels like Victory tour all over again.

Read the rest on AO3

[bewareofchris]

👀 more cards writing, you say? How about #13, dealers choice on pairing or rating (maybe the jujutsu kaisen boys you've been a fan of recently?)

Hey there Christmas is over and I definitely did not do this as promised in a timely manner. But um, happy new year?

The ‘why the fuck would anyone buy this for me, this has to be a joke, but oh god it’s not and now I’m just holding this atrocity while everyone stares me’ gift

Sass | R for naughty words |

There was, in Malik's estimation, no harder part of being a parent than sitting wedged into the side of a Christmas tree at four-fucking-thirty in the goddamn morning, having just opened some unidentifiable item in front of four beaming faces and having to summon the energy and intent to pretend to have seen nothing so amazing in all his life. Between the fact that Jaida had violently pulled him by the pajama pants away from the coffee pot and the way Altair was smiling from behind the kids' backs Malik could barely force his mouth to form a smile.

He wasn't thinking, oh-wow-what-effort or even how-thoughtful-are-you but something more like, as-soon-as-i-escape-this-I'm-stabbing-you. No, the only thing saving the moment was that the triplets were so overcome with sudden sympathy for his one-handed-struggle to remove whatever-the-fuck-it-was from the box that they didn't seem to notice he couldn't keep a smile on his face.

Darim pulled the box right out of his lap, Sef wrapped both his fists around the corner of it and pulled with all his bony might while Tazim bypassed the struggle entirely to wrap his arm around Malik's shoulders with his knees digging into his thigh. His voice was wet and loud, but that was forgivable because he was stage whispering, "its a paperweight!"

"Hey!" Darim shouted in outrage. "We promised we wouldn't say." he might have thrown himself forward, rolled up like a cannonball, but Altair managed to catch him by the waist before he got that far. "You pink promised!"

Sef was mission-oriented, so completely focused on the task at hand that he didn't notice the betrayal or Darim's removal. He only looked up when Jaida leaned in to lift the paperweight out of the box. From how it seemed to pull her downwards, it was definitely heavy enough to weigh down some papers and probably his whole desk too.

Removed from the tissue paper and cardboard, the thing was even more incomprehensible. It looked both as if it had been crafted lovingly and deliberately and as if eight separate little hands had balled clay in their hands and then squeezed it out between their fingers. It was glazed a deep charcoal gray with two teal dots on the flattest part of it.

"Oh," he said with as much energy as he could manage, "that's going to keep my desk in place."

Jaida laughed and that was for the best because the triplets followed her lead on what was and what was not funny. She shook her head at him, one hand on his shoulder as she very earnestly assured him, "it's for papers. Daddy said you'd love it."

Altair was outshining the sun with how proud he was of himself for the unbalanced monstrosity that was too spikey, too round, too flat and too heavy for Malik to keep holding. "Don't you love it?" he asked.

He would definitely love throwing it at his husband's head later. "I do," he said to his children, who were waiting so patiently for him, "I'm going to take a picture of it and send it to everyone so they can see what a good job you've done. Then maybe we'll see how many papers it can hold down."

That must have been enough for the kids because they abandoned him to flock back to their dad who was the one throwing gifts to them like a zoo keeper feeding wild beasts.

[inkofamethyst]

October 23, 2023

In terms of my cohort, I definitely do feel younger than them. Less experienced. That really manifested, for me, when the ones in my evodevo class were sharing their ideas for the final project. Their ideas just seemed so much more mature (robust, specific, identifying resources relevant to them and finding ways to relate this project pretty closely to their interests) compared to mine. And it's like, I don't know.. I mean I know I'm not supposed to be comparing myself to other people when I can help it. But I don't know how much of their.. intellectual/research maturity(?) comes from having years more than me to devote to research on a basically full-time basis before starting this program. And I don't know how to go about trying to catch up without burning out? I don't even know if that's the right way to think about this, I don't know if it's even a problem at all. I don't know what my advisor thinks and a large enough part of me is too afraid to ask.

I feel like I'm a ways out of my depth.

[a week later]

I don't feel too much different, but my advisor being the prof kind of helps. Like, he has some ideas for people/resources I can look into for data.

Finished my braids. They're a bit boneless ha. My parting technique needs work, the front and back are def unbalanced density-wise (I only used four bundles out of the eight I ordered). But that's okay just in case I'm not feeling the color and want to take them out quickly. I didn't really even try to "tuck" so my roots definitely show through, especially in the bigger sections at the back. I mean, no one would ever think I was a natural ginger anyway and that wasn't the goal. Ultimately, I think the color is cute, and having so much left means I should be able to do another set some day, or maybe I can use this color for accents around the bangs/temples with my typical black. I'll give it a week to decide how I really feel about it. Pretty sure I'm going for minitwists next, though. Maybe twice. Just to give my hair some time to breathe.

Read through my SOP to my current uni last night to prep for tomorrow's talk and boy I sure did sound confident. Like, the words are certainly mine, but the tone is so unlike me. I fear the woman who wrote that (...in an afternoon, no less).

Anyway I got some good feedback from my advisor on my talk today. Implementing it now. It's a lot of little stylistic notes. I'm worried that I'm going to go over time. We'll see. It's not for a grade in the typical sense, but I'd argue that this is just as if not more important than any "grade" I'm getting in my other classes. Coursework is a semester-long endeavor. Several intense weeks. I'm going to be in this department for years. Gotta make a good first impression.

[edit, a few hours later: spent wayyy too long trying to perfect this presentation when the best thing i can do for myself rn is go to bed]

Today I'm thankful that listening to vgm doesn't hurt as much anymore.

(vgm is entrenched into my personal brand at this point so I've got some catching up to do if I want to keep my steak of 6(?) years straight of having a vgm composer as my top artist, and Vincent Diamante deserves it by now tbh. unfortunately listening to the skyrim ambience while watching a 12-hour landscape walk on youtube isn't counting for anything)

[pertinax--loculos]

Unofficial WIP Intro

___RISK IT

So I have bad luck doing official-sorta WIP intros, but I want a little bit of accountability (and also to be a bit more active on here), so... here’s a brief dot-point overview of the one that’s currently consuming my brain:

inspired directly by spite (because of a book I read recently that annoyed the crap out of me)

bodyguard/protectee dynamic (ultimately friends-to-lovers, I think)

urban fantasy in a World Not Our Own But Close

magic system TBD, but the MC is Barren (aka, has no magic -- this is kinda a big deal)

incorporating bits and pieces from other WIPs I’ve played with, most significantly the arcane demon dog Shade (who is also a disobedient little shit)

seriously messed up characters who don’t want to process their trauma

murder mystery! Maybe! Sort of! Think urban fantasy fare with the characters investigating something. It kicks off the plot. It maybe is the plot. Who really knows?

magic havers vs have not (read: privileged vs others)

dual POV (in first person! Wish me luck separating their voices ahaha)

loyalty and codependency and love that leaves scars

...aaaand, cuz why the hell not, have a little snippet from the first scene under the cut:

Caden took half a step back. We got within arm’s reach of him just as the shadows solidified into a coherent form.

It looked like a dog, as much as a creature made out of shadows can look like anything. Tall, though, taller than any real example of its breed, which looked mostly like a dobermann. Its shoulders easily reached Caden’s waist. The tips of the pricked ears were level with his chin. The smouldering red eyes  bored into his neck. And the steely metallic fangs, revealed when it slowly opened its mouth, were just the right height to rip out his throat.

The shadow creature made a noise that sounded like a cross between metal in a garbage disposal and a chainsaw. Caden’s step backwards was quick enough that his ankle turned and Ilya had to catch his elbow to stop him sprawling on his ass.

“That’s…” Caden gave me a cursory glance before he fixed his horrified gaze on Ilya. “That’s a—”

“Shade,” Ilya said.

“Holy shit.” What little colour remained in Caden’s face drained. He slowly turned his face back towards the shadowy dog, adam’s apple bobbing in a deep swallow. “That’s a Shade.”

“No,” Ilya said. “Well, I mean, yes, it is, but I meant — Shade.”

The Shade — that Ilya ingenously named Shade — tilted its head. The wisps of shadow that made up its long and pain-in-the-ass tail began to swish back and forth.

Ilya cleared his throat and tried, with great and heavy gravity, “Shade.”

Shade bounced — all four feet off the ground, shoulders at the pinnacle, an expression of joy if I’ve ever seen one — and landed in a play bow. He made a sound similar to an unbalanced washing machine and then turned and bolted off down the alley.

[jdgo51]

Did Jesus Have Fun?

Today's inspiration comes from:

He Gets Us

by Max Lucado & He Gets Us

"'Writings from He Gets Us

From the beginning, we’ve wanted to share the real Jesus. At some point along the way, we realized that despite our best efforts to show a true and complete picture of Him, that image became a bit unbalanced. Not incorrect but incomplete. We spent so much time reflecting on heavier topics that when we stepped back to look at the whole mosaic, we couldn’t help but notice we were showing a picture of Jesus that was distinctly lacking joy.

This video is a response to that — a sort of rebalancing. As it turns out, Jesus was no stranger to joy. He went to weddings. He shared lively meals with His friends. He drank with them. He had so much fun and acted so freely around the dinner table, the uptight religious leaders called Him a glutton and a drunkard (Matthew 11:19). He didn’t worry about what would happen to His reputation when He hung out with people who others thought were shady, and he was always uninhibited in His pursuit of compassion and joy for others. Jesus let His hair down too.

Writings from Max Lucado

I have a sketch of Jesus laughing. It hangs on the wall across from my desk.

It’s quite a drawing. His head is back. His mouth is open. His eyes are sparkling. He isn’t just grinning. He isn’t just chuckling. He’s roaring. He hasn’t heard or seen something like that in quite a while. He’s having trouble catching His breath.

It was given to me by an Episcopal priest who carries cigars in his pocket and collects portraits of Jesus smiling. “I give them to anyone who might be inclined to take God too seriously,” he explained as he handed me the gift.

He pegged me well.

I’m not one who easily envisions a smiling God. A weeping God, yes. An angry God, okay. A mighty God, you bet. But a chuckling God? It seems too... too... too unlike what God should do — and be. Which just shows how much I know — or don’t know — about God.

What do I think He was doing when He stretched the neck of the giraffe? An exercise in engineering? What do I think He had in mind when He told the ostrich where to put his head? Spelunking? What do I think He was doing when He designed the mating call of an ape? Or the eight legs of the octopus? And what do I envision on His face when He saw Adam’s first glance at Eve? A yawn?

Hardly.

As my vision improves and I’m able to read without my stained glasses, I’m seeing that

a sense of humor is perhaps the only way God has put up with us for so long.

Is that God with a smile as Moses does a double take at the burning bush that speaks?

Is He smiling again as Jonah lands on the beach, dripping gastric juices and smelling like whale breath?

Is that a twinkle in His eye as He watches the disciples feed thousands with one boy’s lunch?

Do you think His face is deadpan as He speaks about the man with a two-by-four in his eye who points out a speck in a friend’s eye?

Can you honestly imagine a somber Jesus bouncing children on His knee?

No, I think Jesus smiled. I think He smiled a bit at people and a lot with people. I think He was the type of guy that people wanted to be near. I think He was the type of guy who was always invited to the party.

Jesus was happy and wants us to be the same.

Consider, for example, the wedding at Cana. We often talk about this wedding as the place where Jesus turned the water into wine. But why did Jesus go to the wedding in the first place? The answer is found in the second verse of John 2:

Jesus and His followers were also invited to the wedding. — NCV

When the bride and groom were putting the guest list together, Jesus’ name was included. And when Jesus showed up with a half dozen friends, the invitation wasn’t rescinded. Whoever was hosting this party was happy to have Jesus present.

“Be sure to put Jesus’ name on the list,” he might have said. “He really lightens up a party.”

Jesus wasn’t invited because He was a celebrity. He wasn’t one yet. The invitation wasn’t motivated by His miracles. He’d yet to perform any. Why did they invite Him?

I suppose they liked Him. Big deal? I think so. I think it’s significant that common folk in a little town enjoyed being with Jesus. I think it’s noteworthy that the Almighty didn’t act high and mighty. The Holy One wasn’t holier-than-thou. The one who knew it all wasn’t a know-it-all. The one who made the stars didn’t keep His head in them. The one who owns all the stuff on earth never strutted it.

Never. He could have. Oh, how He could have!

He could have been a name-dropper: Did I ever tell you about the time Moses and I went up on the mountain?

He could have been a show-off: Hey, want me to beam you into the twentieth century?

He could have been a smart aleck: I know what you’re thinking. Want me to prove it?

He could have been highbrow and uppity: I’ve got some property on Jupiter...

Jesus could have been all of these, but He wasn’t. His purpose was not to show off but to show up. He went to great pains to be as human as the guy down the street. He didn’t need to study, but He still went to the synagogue. He had no need for income, but He still worked in the workshop. He had known the fellowship of angels and had heard the harps of Heaven, yet He still went to parties thrown by tax collectors. And upon His shoulders rested the challenge of redeeming creation, but He still took time to walk for miles to go to a wedding in Cana.

As a result, people liked Him. Oh, there were those who chafed at His claims. They called Him a blasphemer, but they never called Him a braggart. They accused Him of heresy but never arrogance. He was branded as a radical but never called unapproachable.

There is no hint that He ever used His heavenly status for personal gain. Ever. You don’t get the impression that His neighbors grew sick of His haughtiness and asked, “Well, who do You think made You God?”

His faith made Him likable, not detestable. Jesus was accused of much, but of being a grump, sourpuss, or self-centered jerk? No. People didn’t groan when He appeared. They didn’t duck for cover when He entered the room.

He called them by name.

He listened to their stories. He answered their questions.

He visited their sick relatives and helped their sick friends.

He fished with fishermen and ate lunch with the little guy and spoke words of resounding affirmation. He went to enough parties that He was criticized for hanging out with rowdy people and questionable crowds.

People were drawn to Jesus. He was always on the guest list. Thousands came to hear Him. Hundreds chose to follow Him. They shut down their businesses and walked away from careers to be with Him. His purpose statement read:

I came to give life with joy and abundance. — John 10:10 The Voice

Jesus was happy and wants us to be the same.

When the angels announced the arrival of the Messiah, they proclaimed “good news of a great joy” (Luke 2:10 RSV), not “bad news of a great duty.”

Would people say the same of us? Where did we get the notion that a good Christian is a solemn Christian? Who started the rumor that the sign of a disciple is a long face? How did we create this idea that the truly gifted are the heavyhearted?

May I state an opinion that could raise an eyebrow? May I tell you why I think Jesus went to that wedding in Cana? I think He went to the wedding to — now hold on, hear me out — I think Jesus went to the wedding to have fun.

Think about it. It had been a tough season. This wedding occurred after He had just spent forty days in the desert. No food or water. A standoff with the devil. A week breaking in some greenhorn Galileans. A job change. He had left home. It hadn’t been easy. A break would be welcome. A good meal with some good wine and some good friends... Well, it sounded pretty nice.

So off they went.

His purpose wasn’t to turn the water into wine. That was a favor for His friends.

His purpose wasn’t to show His power. The wedding host didn’t even know what Jesus did.

His purpose wasn’t to preach. There is no record of a sermon.

This leaves only one reason. Fun. Jesus went to the wedding because He liked the people, He liked the food, and, Heaven forbid, He may have even wanted to swirl the bride around the dance floor a time or two. (After all, He’s planning a big wedding Himself. Maybe He wanted the practice?)

Jesus was a likable fellow. And His disciples should be the same. I’m not talking debauchery, drunkenness, and adultery. I’m not endorsing compromise, coarseness, or obscenity. I am simply crusading for the freedom to enjoy a good joke, enliven a dull party, and appreciate a fun evening.

Maybe these thoughts catch you by surprise. They do me. It’s been a while since I pegged Jesus as a party lover. But He was. His foes accused Him of eating too much, drinking too much, and hanging out with the wrong people! I must confess: it’s been a while since I’ve been accused of having too much fun. How about you?

What sort of portrait of Jesus hangs on the walls of your mind? Is He sad, somber, angry? Are His lips pursed? Is He judging you? If so, visualize the laughing Christ on my wall. I’ve needed the reminder more times than I can say. Jesus laughed. He had fun. He was always invited to the party, because people wanted to be near Him. They didn’t fear His judgment. They knew He wouldn’t try to shut things down.

Who could be relied on to be the life of the party more than the one who came to give life with joy and abundance?

Scripture references: John 2:1–11; Matthew 11:19"'

Excerpted with permission from He Gets Us by Max Lucado, copyright He Gets Us.

[legaciestold]

@everythingheard (poe)

dragons bellow over the shore, columns of smoke from burning ships and coloring the sunset skies above in darkness, shrouding beauty with bloodshed. the battle off the shore of halendil is done, the fleet the snow witch had sent to meet those with lady jessika almost sunk or burning. a dark dragon lays dead on the shore, three others on the ocean floor and it makes something in her heart drop. enthralled dragons. the snow queen had dared to take control over the majestic beasts that she and poe and others called friends. beasts with minds, with feelings, with emotions just as humans and mages alike held.

it had taken months filled with loss and battles, with near-deaths and new discoveries to get back to the north and she hadn't been alone, not the entire time. she'd rallied the support she could, ever faithful to her princess-- no, her queen's cause. the rightful queen not the vile creature that had slaughtered most of the royal family and so many others. people she'd known since she was a child and saved from the enslavement of that wretched house in the eight.

was sir temmin still alive? had he and lady kare survived the fall of thorndil?

she'd heard word, though outdated, of sir poe, of him and his dragon engaging in a battle in the midlands under lyliana's banners but she hadn't heard of her parents-- for that was what they had become over the years. oh, she should have told poe what she'd suspected before she left on the mission for the queen. yet how could they have known a war would be upon them and separate them for nearly four months? for that matter how had it taken her nearly two prior to that to realize..

lady jessika hadn't breathed, not in a true sense, until a battle was upon their ships and she'd seen poe's orange dragon soaring above, sending a line of fire toward the ships which had intercepted them. her messenger to the narrow keeps had made it to halendil then. she and the allies she'd brought were expected and forces raised when a threat to them had attempted to wipe them from the face of caaladan. the battle had been fierce, mages shielding and sending magic across the seas, projectiles catapulted at poe's dragon and her own who flew along side her ship. and then the dark army's dragons came upon them. enthralled dragons and a hand had moved protectively over her stomach as one of them launched fire directly toward her ship and she'd used what little control over her new powers she had to redirect it-- but just barely. the rest of poe's dragon squadron wasn't in the skies which either meant.. they were dead, that her parents were dead, or they had been called to other areas of the war for a time.

but three dragons to one would mean the father of her child would fall, no matter how skilled he and his dragon were in the skies. six moons of the year with child or not, jessika had known what she had to do. and so as difficult and unbalanced as she was she took to the skies too. engaged her and her dragon against the two remaining dragons after poe had taken one out and the other two had pursued him. everything had happened too fast to catch more than blurred glimpses of each other though their dragons and them were of one mind, synced in the dance of battle as they always were. they'd taken the dragons down together and eventually, her remaining forces had made landfall and the snow queen's had perished. there weren't as many victories as would be desired as yet in the war, at least from the news she's heard trickling through the snow covered lands. but this, this had been a victory for their rightful high queen.

waves crash against the shore, debris washing onto sand as jessika and her dragon land, poe not far away. carefully she maneuvers herself off the dragon though it's a difficult task considering her condition. she doesn't know how he will react to such news and despite all the worries of war around them, or perhaps because of it, a fear strikes through her. how were they supposed to do this in the middle of a war? or how was she if he didn't.. what if he didn't-- no, poe had always cared about family and a part of her knows he cared about her. she'd never had become involved with him so intimately if there hadn't been love present even if they hadn't said the actual words yet. so much had happened. so much was happening. if she had to do this alone she would, she'd made it this far after all. but even as prideful as she could be at times, she didn't want to. her internal musings are washed away like the sands under her feet when she meets the ground and sees him moving around her dragon and she watches him take her in, all of her, stomach included.

"poe--" she speaks and it's almost like a prayer. "i wasn't sure before the queen sent me on that mission but i suspected. i should have-- i thought i'd see you, that i could tell you, and then the war broke out--" except she cuts off when she starts to become dizzy and sways, her dragon letting out a panicked sound. jessika was as strong as anyone but a battle on dragonback had been entirely too much for a woman nearly six moons with child.