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kazoolapow · 9 months

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Azula's Gambit

pairing : Azula x Gender-Neutral Reader word count : 5k

warnings: angsty and feels. Summary : Princess Azula known for her cunning and control, finds herself inexplicably drawn to you, a figure who challenges her at every turn. You and Azula were bound by a complex game of emotion, mind games, power plays and manipulation. One day, you challenge Azula to break her facade; to see her vulnerable, with one question in mind: Are you just a game to her? Or are you something more? A/N : I really hope you enjoy this angsty, brainy, little fic of Azula. There will be part two of the ending (in which I still wrecked my head to write about 🥲)

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In the center of the courtyard, Azula stood, a figure of fierce concentration. She took a deep breath before opening her eyes. She started off by twirling a flame on her fingertip, it zig-zag through her fingers effortlessly. With a flick of her wrist, that flame conjured a blazing inferno. The blue flame leaped, spiraled, and danced around her; each second is precise, each movement is organic, each turn with it’s whirl are calculated.

So far, so good. A smug smile playing on her lips. Now, It’s time to dance with the lightning.

As she extended her arm, her fingers splayed. She shifted her weight effortlessly, her feet gliding over the ground as if she were part of the wind itself. With a swift, circular motion of her hands, the lightning followed, spiraling around her in a mesmerizing display of control and power. She transitioned into a series of quick, explosive movements, a sharp turn of her body directed the lightning outward in an stunning arc. She finally point to a giant rock to blast all the lightning with, cracking it into two.

The courtyard erupted into spontaneous applause. Each clap full of admiration, awe and maybe a bit of fear: just how Azula liked it. As she stood amidst the blue flames, her chest swelling with pride, her head held a touch higher.

She scanned the crowd, searching for one face in particular, yours, hoping to catch a glimpse of your stupid amazed face. Her ‘fiery’ performance, as you repeatedly called it, was a spectacle to proof your dare. You had dare her to split the rock with only a finger, and she did just that.

As her eyes darted through the sea of mostly aged and ragged men faces, her heart sank slightly. You were nowhere to be seen. Instead, her eyes met her father’s. Their eyes locked, he stood, a stoic figure– his face betraying no emotion. He gave a subtle nod, it was terse, almost reluctant approval. But she knew almost it’s not good enough.

Finally, she had to maintained her composure, her face now a mask of indifference mirroring her father’s. With a graceful bow to the audience, she let the flames die down, taking her leave from there.

The performance had ended, and the courtyard was still buzzing with the leftovers of Azula’s fiery display. Azula had trained for this. Hours and hours that turned to days and days then it became to several weeks to months. But she felt nothing paid that hard work, those time were wasted. This performance was not a big deal, it was not a green light to be a Firelord either. Yet, she can’t help but failing.

Ty Lee rushed up to her, “Azula! There you are,”

Ty Lee already brimming her words of amazement with uncontainable energy, “The way you move the lightning and those dancing flames?! It was so amazing!” she exclaimed, her voice echoed the corridors.

Azula nodded in acknowledgment, “Naturally,” casually shrugging.

“You did well,” Mai soon approached with a small smile, “As always, you know how to leave an impression.”

“Leave an impression?” Ty Lee said, “She set the standard sky-high! Oh, Y/N should’ve seen this. Y/N would’ve been totally wowed!”

Azula almost jolt by the mention of your name. As if she had electrocute herself with her own lightning. Her eyes immediately glare at Ty Lee, usually fierce and controlled, but now it flickered with absolute disappointment. “Y/N or not, the performance would have been the same. I don’t perform for anyone’s approval.”

Azula felt weird. It was something bittersweet. It’s simple in words actually, she just long for your eyes to witness her element; her elegance and her perfection–all blended it in her ‘fiery’ performance, to share the countless training sessions into triumph–but now felt incomplete. Was that too much to ask?

“Maybe not,” Mai observed wryly, “but sometimes certain eyes matter more than other, don’t they?”

Azula’s gaze hardened to Mai, a silent glare that spoke volumes. But Mai was unfazed by the glare, somehow she was used to it.

“Y/N is busy with the date,” Ty Lee tried to defend, completely oblivious to the unspoken glares, “but anyway, we are going to celebrate! What about a dinner in your honor? Come on, it’ll be fun!”

Azula momentarily lost in the fact that you are busy with something that you had to bail on her performance–wait, what is the date? She decided to ask that later on and quickly set that aside as she straightened her posture, the commanding edge returning to her voice, “A celebration in order, indeed. Lead the way.”

As they started to follow to wherever Ty Lee’s are leading them towards, Azula still let her eyes momentarily drifted back to the empty space where she had hoped to see you. It was a fleeting glance, one filled with a mix of hope and resignation, before she finally turned away.

———

You finally made it to the place, the place your date will be waiting. You stepped into the restaurant, and was immediately taken aback in an atmosphere of elegance. It was bustling with energy, each table almost occupied by well-dressed patrons engaged in lively conversation, the clinking of fine china and glassware creating a harmonious backdrop. Soft, golden lightning bathed the room, casting a warm glow over the sophisticatedly decorated interior, accentuating it’s luxury.

Though you were no stranger to luxury, having spent considerable time in Azula’s opulent surroundings, the ambiance here was a refreshing change—to say the least. This place was a modern version of luxury you’re used to—sleek, polished, and contemporary. It was less about showcasing heritage or history, it is simply about aestheticity.

Comparing this to the Fire Nation’s palace, specifically Azula’s bedroom or her study room—where every corner told a story, every tapestry and artifact held a piece of history. You had always been fascinated by that world, a world where elegance was defined by it’s connection to the past, it’s cultural significance to the Fire Nation. But, if you had to choose: you knew your heart leaned more on the timeless, old and dusty artifacts in no time since you are such a history nerd.

Your mind took you back to the palace. Your mind showed you her face—that damned face. Her stupid beautiful face with her arrogance, her high ego that seemed impenetrable, and her refusal to be vulnerable with you. Then you remembered that today was her ‘fiery’ performance, where she practically show off her skill and power that was undeniably impressive, yet tinged with haughtiness.

You had deliberately missed it or rather bailed on it. It was a decision that is not easy but felt necessary. You believed Azula needed a lesson, a taste of what it felt like to have someone important to you not acknowledge your hard work, no matter how small or grand it is.

You remembered the countless moments when Azula had to let her ego overshadow their friendship. Azula always keeping a part of herself hidden, always maintaining that edge of superiority, always strive to perfection. You don’t need that perfect princess of Fire Nation; you had always been attracted by what makes Azula human. You love her intense passion, which made her arrogant but also made her deeply committed and earnest. You love her insecurities that she rarely voice out loud—but once she do, you savor her little doubts and asked your thoughts on it. You love her hidden softness in her usual confident and prideful exterior. You simply just love her, by her flaws.

Now, you are searching for a sign if you meant more to Azula than just another person in the friend group. You are reaching for cracks to Azula’s walls, to find a tender glimpse that you, more than anyone else, held a special place in her heart.

This date is more than just a dinner. It is a statement, a silent rebellion against Azula unyielding façade. Tonight, you wanted to feel that sting of absence, the pang of being ignored. You wanted Azula to realize what she was potentially losing. It was a gamble—provoking someone as strong-willed as Azula—but you felt it was necessary.

You had only one question: Will this finally drop Azula’s barriers?

“Hi, I’m Y/N,” You said to the receptionist, “I believe I’m expected by Chan?”

“Oh yes, Y/N! He’s been looking forward to your arrival. Just follow me, I’ll take you to him.” The receptionist glanced up at you, there was a brief flicker of recognition in her eyes—maybe too quick to be merely courteous acknowledgment from a staff member to a guest. In a place where the staff typically meets countless strangers daily, such a look is a bit odd, as if the receptionist had been expecting you, or perhaps knew of you in some way beyond the scope of a simple dinner reservation.

The receptionist weaved her way between elegantly set tables and past animated diners as you followed her through the bustling restaurant. The receptionist moved with a practiced ease, guiding you through with a casual grace.

“Our chef has some delightful specials tonight," she mentioned, gesturing subtly towards the kitchen, where the harmonious chaos of culinary creation was just visible. “Is there a particular type of cuisine you're fond of, or are you looking to be surprised?”

“I’m open to recommendations. Surprise is part of the experience, isn’t it?” you said. You wondered how, in a busy restaurant like this one, the staff could still afford to be so casual and engage in small talk. Perhaps she was just exceptionally good at her job.

The receptionist nodded, her smile still in place. But you caught a quick, almost imperceptible tap on her pocket. It was a weird gesture, a brief one though—but it made you questioned more. Was there more to this receptionist than met the eye?

No, no, you said to yourself. I’m here on a date. You shook off the thought as a byproduct of your cautious instinct.

Reaching a well-appointed table, the receptionist present you to Chan, who is apparently the restaurant owner, "Y/N, welcome!" Chan exclaimed, rising from his chair with a warm smile. He leaned in to peck your cheeks in a friendly greeting, then smoothly slid aside, gesturing gracefully to the chair, inviting you to take a seat.

You sat as the receptionist departed, you found your gaze subconsciously trailing the woman’s retreating figure. There was something about her you could not figure out, something like a hidden agenda beneath her polished exterior that catch your curiosity.

“I’m glad you could make it!” Chan interrupted your thoughts. You scolded yourself for possibly reading too much into a simple exchange, a habit you often fell back on— especially now with your thoughts deeply entangled in how Azula might respond to this evening.

“Well, thank you for inviting me, Chan. I heard so many great things about your restaurant.”

“How could I not invite someone as knowledgeable as you in culinary arts? I’ve been looking forward to our conversation all day.” His gaze lingered on you just a moment longer than necessary.

“And might I add, you look absolutely stunning tonight. Guess it’s not just the food that’s going to be exceptional.” His smile broadening, tone alight. He leaned slightly towards you, trying to close the physical and metaphorical gap between you two. His gestures were smooth and a well-rehearsed play.

The dinner progressed with a steady flow of conversation and laughter. Chan, ever the entertaining host, amused you with tales of the restaurant’s origins and his personal journey in the culinary world. Each story was accompanied by a detail explanation, his knowledge in arts and history were evident— that made you intrigued, his enthusiasm were entirely contagious too.

“I'm definitely interested in those stories,” you confessed, “Did you know I stumbled upon a recipe from Princess Azula’s ancestral line? It’s amazing to see how food connects with history!"

"No kidding? That’s the kind of stuff that makes my job cool, right? We should totally whip that up sometime. Might impress the Princess or even the Firelord, too. You know, they got quite the taste for the authentic."

You nodded eagerly, you stand up by what he said, your smile brightened, “It's all about the details, isn’t it? She values that in everything, food included.” Your gaze briefly flickered to the door, half-expecting, half-hoping for her to burst in—but the door remained closed.

“Absolutely,” he said, as you two were finishing dessert, “Speaking of details, how about after dinner, we take a closer look at some of the exclusive wines I’ve got? A private tasting, just for us. It said dated a while back to Avatar Roku’s age! Could be a nice way to wind down the evening, you know?”

His invitation was clear, his gaze intent on you, slightly dimming. The suggestion was tempting, it was wrapped in the complex of his stories that you really enjoyed and it was a possibility to continue your fun conversation. But it was also unmistakably laced with an intention that went beyond a simple wine tasting.

Chan leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a suggestive whisper, his hand finding reasons to brush against yours under the impression of emphasizing a point. He was intruding your personal space, his body language more assertive than courteous.

You shifted uncomfortably in your seat, your mind’s racing. You were aware of Chan’s motives. And now he was trying his best to lure you into accepting his request. He sensed your hesitation; thus escalate his flirtations even more.

You look around for some form of silent support. You realized you might get none. The staff, loyal to Chan, were unlikely to intervene. The patrons were too absorbed in their own worlds, oblivious in your discomfort. Then, you locked eyes with the woman you noticed earlier— the receptionist.

Her gaze was intense, not just observing the scene between you and Chan, but seemingly focused on you yourself. In that brief eye contact, you felt a strange sense of safety—a little bit. The receptionist, whatever her role or reason for being there, was a witness, an outsider to the unfolding scenario.

“You know,” Chan said, “I once threw a party back in the day, at my parent’s place.”

He grew bolder; you could feel it. He was getting impatient with your hesitance, so he decided to shift tactics.

“There was this girl, like you,” he began, a mischievous glint in his eye. “Sophisticated, smart, but impulsive. We hit it off, and well, let’s just say, we shared a memorable kiss that night.”

He paused for effect, his smile grew. “But here’s the twist— suddenly, we found the house in ruins. Turn out, she had a bit of a wild side. Wrecked the place. My parents were furious and I was too. But she still live up here,” he pointed to his forehead. “I couldn’t help admiring her spirit, now.”

The story, seemingly harmless, but you knew there was something intended; what is he trying to say? You knew he was subtly warning you of your next move. It was a veiled attempt to gauge your response. The clock ticked on, each minute stretching longer than the last. You found yourself at a crossroads. Part of you wanted to put an end to the evening, to assert your boundaries firmly. Yet another part, the strategist within you, contemplated the potential outcome.

Screw it. You went this far. Screw you, Azula.

“I’d be delighted to see your winery,” you said, voice steady. You made your decision. Chan’s face lit up, he giggled boyishly.

You instantly pictured Azula’s reaction— would it be jealousy, anger, or indifference? The uncertainty was agonizing yet exhilarating. You doubt the effectiveness of this decision; Azula was a fortress of composure and arrogance. Could this be the key to crush her?

Your thoughts swirled as you left the restaurant, hand in hand with Chan. You decided the night was young, and the possibilities were endless. There was no turning back now.

From the corner of your eye, you saw a woman, disheveled and frantic, burst through the restaurant doors, clutching a young boy in her arms. The boy was pale, his condition visibly dire. The restaurant, a moment ago, a peaceful haven of lively diners, plunged into chaos.

“Help!” The woman cried loudly. “My son! He is sick because of your food!”

Chan, caught off guard, hurried back inside, with you following closely behind. Your heart pounded. The mother’s anguish was blatant, her voice breaking through the murmurs of the startled diners.

“Ma’am, please, calm down. Let’s not jump to conclusions. Tell me what happened.” Chan said, trying to maintain control.

“We eat your leftovers, and now he’s like this! You did this to him!” she cried out, almost hysterically. She clutched the poor boy close, her eyes were wild with panic and desperation.

“Everyone, please listen!” the mother continued, “This isn’t just about me and my son. It’s about you too, how can you eat here, not knowing if your food is safe? My son is dying because of this place!” Her voice cut through the room, her desperation resonating with every patron.

Chan seemed irritated, he blocked her from reaching the diners, “Ma’am, I understand you’re upset, but making unfounded accusations won’t help. Let’s discuss this privately and find a solution, yes?”

The mother, ignoring Chan’s presence altogether, turned to other diners. “Would you all just sit there if it was your child? He was fine before eating the leftovers, but look at him now!”

“I’ll assure you, our food is prepared to the highest standards. We’ll call for medical help right away, but please, let’s not cause a scene.” Chan tried again, though he was visibly flustered.

“A scene?” The mother shrieked, “My child is dying! How can you talk about scenes? You need to take responsibility!”

Chan struggling to maintain his professional demeanor, signaled his staff to intervene, hoping to move the mother and her son away from the public eye.

You stood there, a bystander. You froze from the unfolding scene before you. Your plan to provoke Azula suddenly seeming insignificant in the face of such raw human vulnerability. It was heart-wrenching, a stark contrast to the calculated world you’re used to, a world you shared with Azula.

And you loved this. You would love to see it in Azula.

You heard Chan sighed. His earlier confidence had evaporated. This was not how he had envisioned the evening—what was supposed to be a simple date with a girl had spiraled into his career nightmare. He looked back to you, offering a small smile that he tried doing genuinely. He looked tired. You couldn’t help but feel a twinge of sympathy for him.

As the tension of the restaurant simmered, the sudden arrival of men, dressed in crisp, light blue uniforms with the emblem of public health department prominently displayed. The health inspectors. What are they doing in here?

Accompanying the inspectors were a couple of royal palace guards, adding a layer of urgency to the situation. These officials grabbed the attention of all eyes in the place.

What the Agni is this about?

“Good evening, Mr. Chan,” the health inspector said, “We’ve received an urgent complaint regarding a health hazard in this establishment. We need to conduct an immediate inspection.”

Chan with his face a mix of confusion and panic, quickly stepped forward to greet them. “This must be some misunderstanding. Our kitchen adheres to the highest of standards. Can we discuss this privately, perhaps?”

“I’m afraid this is a matter of public safety. We must proceed with the inspection now. In full view of your patrons.” He surveyed the restaurant with keen eyes.

“Please, let’s handle this discretely,” Chan practically begged and almost fell to his knees, “I promise, whatever the issue, we’ll cooperate fully. There’s no need for a public spectacle.”

“Our priority is the health and safety of the public, Mr. Chan,” said he firmly, “We need to inspect your kitchen and restrict all activities within. We are ensuring that there are no violations.”

The health inspectors, without warning, walked towards the kitchen, with a pleading Chan following closely behind them. As you stood by the door, left, deserted, you had no idea what to do now. The restaurant buzzed with whispers and speculation from the patrons. The air was thick with tension, drama after drama are unfolding way too fast.

The timing of the inspection was too precise, too perfectly aligned with the chaos the mother had caused.

You grew suspicious to the inspectors. You observed them; they moved with an air of the outmost confidence and purpose that seemed beyond the usual protocol. Their approach was methodical, almost as if they were following a script.

Moreover, the presence of the guards, royal guards. What are their business with this?

These details, all in different kind that if were put together—it formed a picture. A scheme. An orchestration. You had aligned it all to form it’s real essence—which point to her involvement.

You knew Azula’s penchant for dramatic flair; you knew this was controlled and design thoroughly, unyielding and impactful; you knew the guards were a show of force, a tactic that Azula often employed to assert dominance and control. And the mother? Was that her plan too?

This wasn’t just a simple health inspection; it was a revenge in a larger game she recently launched, in perfect motion. From this, you knew that this night was far from over, and that the aftermath of Azula’s actions would ripple far beyond the walls of the restaurant.

“Ms. Y/N,” a guard spoke, “Princess Azula request your presence at the palace immediately.”

You expected it, but you were also caught off guard. You were about to dismiss the guard when the receptionist from earlier appeared beside him. She gave you a subtle nod, her expression betraying nothing, yet is trying to tell something. In that instant, you realized the truth—the receptionist was more than she seemed, likely a spy placed by Azula, to monitor your movements.

You acknowledged Azula’s cunning and what a dick move she pulled. You can’t help but respect this carefully designed scheme but frustrated to the supervision that limits your own autonomy. The latter emotion got the best of you than the former. “Tell Princess Azula I’m not at her beck and call. I won’t be going to the palace.”

The guard’s expression remained impassive, but it was the receptionist who stepped forward, breaking her professional facade. In a swift, startling motion, she slapped you across the face, the sound echoed sharply.

“You don’t understand,” she said urgently, “You need to come with us now. It’s not a request.”

The slap left a burning sensation on your cheek. It was unexpected and forceful. The onlookers in the restaurant paused, the scene unfolding before them adding to the night’s surreal quality.

Realizing that resistance might escalate the situation further, you reluctantly nodded in agreement, “Fine, I’ll come. But this isn’t the end of it.” You shifted your eyes to the receptionist, she was somehow surprised herself. Her actions, It was a breach of protocol.

As they escorted you away from the restaurant, you felt a sense of being a pawn in a larger game, a feeling that was becoming all too familiar. ——— Azula sat calmly in her opulent study room, her posture relaxed, unpinning her hairpin and let her hair fall. She was waiting for you, expecting you to burst through the door at any moment, fueled by your anger and frustration.

Azula had done the evening’s event with precision, pushing you to your limits. She anticipated that this act would be the peak to finally see your raw astonishment that she believed you harbored for her.

The door opened, but not with force or drama that Azula had expected. You entered quietly, your expression unreadable, your usual kindled spirit replaced by an unsettling calm. Azula’s lips curved into a sly smile, intrigued by this new side of you.

“Well, well, Y/N,” Azula started, “I must say, I’m terribly sorry. I was expecting a grand entrance. Did you lose your fire along the date?”

You remained silent, your eyes locking with Azula’s. There was a depth in your gaze, a tumult of emotions you harbored beneath.

“Come now, don’t hold back my account. I know my little game at the restaurant must have… stirred things up for you.”

“Your games are getting old, Princess,” you finally replied, “Do you always need to manipulate situations to feel in control?”

Azula leaned forward, breaking a genuine smile. You hadn’t change at all. And Azula is enjoying this.

“Oh, Y/N, manipulation is such a harsh word. I prefer,” she paused, “strategic planning.”

She saw your faint smile, she knew you would not backing down. “Strategic planning that involves putting a homeless family in distress? You’re losing your touch.”

“On the contrary, I’d say my touch is quite effective. It brought you here, didn’t it?”

You side eyed her, “Maybe I’m just here to tell you that your ‘strategic planning’ is backfiring. You’re not as in control as you think.”

Azula’s eyes narrowed, she was both admired and irritated by your resilience. She had long for your anguish to confront her, but your composed defiance was a curveball she hadn’t anticipated.

She sighed. “Or maybe you’re just afraid to admit that you enjoy my little game. Admit it, Y/N, you love the challenge as much as I do.”

You walked to her, leaning in close, lowering your voice. “There’s a fine line between a challenge and a reckless game, Princess. Be careful not to cross it.”

Azula waved her hand dismissively, “Always so serious. Where’s the fun in playing it safe?”

“This isn’t funny, Azula,” your voice impatient, “Your little game at the restaurant, using that woman and her son—it’s cruel. You manipulated their distress for your own amusement.”

“I’m being cruel to be kind. I gave the boy the best medical attention. Plus, the sister received a job now—but a shame it will be in ruins. Anyway, There’s no need for you to worry about that.”

Your face redden. Azula could sense you’re infuriated. “How dare you use someone’s vulnerability for your own selfish ends? These are people live. Our people!”

Azula, usually unfazed, was taken aback. She felt goosebumps in your intense voice, a seriousness that was rarely encountered.

“You think I don’t know that?” Azula raised from her seat, “Everything I do, I do for a reason. You of all people should understand that.”

“Understand? What is there to understand about exploiting a desperate mother and her dying child? I want to see you vulnerable for once, Azula. I want to see you hurt, to see you break.” You roared as you were shaking. There was a palpable silence in the room as your words hung in the air. It was a raw, emotional confession, one that revealed the depth of your desperate goal to that date.

Azula did not know how to respond, your emotion was too intense for her to handle. Azula felt a twinge of something unfamiliar. Was it guilt? Regret? For a moment, her fortress of composure wavered.

“Is that what you really want, Y/N? To see me broken?” she asked, surprisingly soft and weak.

“I don’t know what I want anymore.” You choked, “But I can’t keep doing this. Not with you, not like this.” Tears, unbidden, spilled from your eyes, your resilience crumbling under the weight of your emotions.

Azula stood there, feeling a sudden urge to reach out, to offer comfort. It was an odd desire that clashed with her self-restraint, her need to always be in control.

You turned to leave. “Where do you think you’re going?” something within Azula compelled her to made you stay. It was a surge of emotion, random and messy, unlike anything she had ever allowed herself to feel. She rushed to you with a determined stride.

You suddenly paused at the door, looked back at Azula, watery eyes. “Every game has it risk, right, Azula?” your voice faltered, barely a whisper.

“What are you getting at, Y/N?”

Azula watched you looked down, thinking something. “In the next of your act, I promise you it would include real danger—a situation I’ll go that even you can’t control.”

Azula scoffed, “You wouldn’t dare, you’re not that reckless.”

That took so much to say for Azula. She half-expected to see your ego arise from the compliment. But as she looked into your eyes, she saw something that gave her a pause. There was no trace of the usual sarcasm or defiance. Instead, there was a deep, unsettling seriousness.

“Y/N, you’re joking, come on laugh it out,” Her heart pounded. “If you’re trying to provoke me, there are better ways.”

You remained silent, your expression unwavering. You turned to leave for real now, your steps resolute.

Panicked, Azula lunged towards the door. Swift and forceful, she slammed the door shut, effectively blocking your path of escape. Her heart raced with adrenaline and unusually breathless.

“You’re playing with fire, Y/N. Literally and figuratively.” Azula searched your eyes, looking for a sign. But all she found was an empty resolve that send a chill down her spine.

You finally looked back at her, your voice cold and distant, “Sometimes, you have to get burned to see the light. You’ll understand when it’s too late, Azula. When you’ve finally lost.”

Azula felt your words like a physical blow, her face twitching in pain, her mask completely shattered. She knew this was a trap. But the threat brought something in the depth of her own feelings—the potential cost of losing you, forever.

You two just looked at each other, thick with absolute silence.

“Don’t be stupid.” Azula gritted her teeth.

You pushed Azula away. Then your figure slipped from the door with a slam. The room felt colder. The air was suddenly thick that almost made Azula suffocate. The door closed, leaving Azula alone with her thoughts.

The game had change, and for the first time, Azula was uncertain of her next move.

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violetlunette · 8 months

Text

Runaway_Chapter 2: Too Late

<-Previous Chapter

Master List

Ao3

Summary: When Lilia realizes Silver is missing, he goes looking for him, but is he already too late?

Notes:

*Twst spoilers for Chapter/Book 7

*Fairly long, around 3,000 words

“Silver? Silver, where are you? Answer me!” Oh, where could that boy be?

Lilia’s lips curled downward while he glanced at the dark stoned halls and rooms around for Silver among the thralls of waking bodies.

When Lilia first woke up, his thoughts had been focused on Malleus, who blotted due to his grief over the old man’s departure.

Thankfully, his beloved Prince was alright, and Lilia was able to apologize for inadvertently hurting them all and causing the situation. It was only when he was about to dole out praise to Sebek and Silver for all their hard work that Lilia realized one of the boys was missing.

‘He must still be asleep somewhere,’ Lilia reasoned as he paced about, occasionally checking on a Diasomnia student who stirred. Silver always had trouble staying awake before, but now the lad had been under a sleep spell—the second one of his life—and spent who knows how long using his unique magic. It didn’t surprise Lilia at all that the other was exhausted.

Turning down Sebek’s offer to search, Lilia had gone off to find Silver, leaving Malleus in the guard’s care. The other had more than proven he was capable of looking after the Dragon Prince.

As he had been by Lilia’s side when the spell was cast, Lilia assumed Silver wasn’t far anyway and he would find his child quick enough.

Yet time ticked on to seconds, then minutes, and Lilia hadn’t caught a glimpse of the boy. The lad didn't even respond to Lilia’s calls, which were becoming more and more anxious, despite his attempts to remain calm.

Lilia didn’t understand! Why wasn’t Silver responding to him? Why had no one seen him? Where could he have possibly gone?

As the fae walked on, his acute hearing became more sensitive to every sound, such as the ‘click’ and ‘clack’ of the heels of his black, shin-length boots.

Lilia scowled at the shadows as if they were withholding answers. He wished the green flames that lit the dorm were brighter. Lilia never had an issue seeing in the dark—being a nocturnal fae, such a thing never bothered him—however, more light might illuminate something he missed.

He took a breath and tried to think logically.

‘He used a lot of energy and magic…’ he thought, a hand pressed to his chin. Aloud, he whispered, “Could it be that...he...” Against his wishes, Lilia’s mind conjured a vile image.

It was one of Silver covered in blot as his skin grayed to the image of near death, his lovely eyes hollow and black as ink fell from them like rivers--

Lilia moved faster through the area as his pulse picked up pace, and his brain locked on finding Silver. In this mindset, his actions became animated and less composed as the father began practically throwing students aside to find the lost boy.

However, no matter how many students—along with a confused headmaster—were flung into the air like throw pillows, Lilia could not find the familiar silver head of hair the teen was named after.

A thick, icy feeling formed in his chest, building by the second and sending a chill throughout him.

He bit his thumb.

‘Where is he?’ That question was starting to become a mantra of madness. Where was he? Where was his Silver?

This was troubling. No matter where he passed out, Silver should have been in Diasomnia somewhere. So why, why, why--!

Lilia had to bite back a growl as Jamil and Kalim came to his side, each grabbing an arm to stop him from tossing another drowsy student.

“Calm down, will you!” Jamil hissed in his ear, which even he knew was the wrong thing to say at the moment. To rectify this, he added, “Silver’s skilled. Wherever he is, I’m sure he’s fine.” This helped Lilia a little bit.

For all his failings as a father, Lilia knew he raised Silver strong. He made sure of that. And Silver himself was diligent in his training. Heck, he pushed himself harder than Lilia ever did.

‘Even so…’ The question still remained: where was Silver? And why wasn’t he there?

It was driving Lilia closer to madness every second.

“Maybe he walked off while he was asleep?” suggested Kalim, in a tone that was too cheery at the thought. “I’ve seen him sleeping standing up, so he could have wandered off,” he added. It wasn’t out of the question.

Lilia could recall that when Silver was a child, the boy would occasionally sleepwalk. (Lilia used to think it was cute until Silver walked off a cliff and nearly drowned in the river below.) However;

“Silver was using his unique magic while he slept,” Lilia stated, his gut becoming more uneasy. “Which means his consciousness would have left his body. Therefore, there’s no way he could have left.”

The weight in his gut grew heavier, making Lilia more anxious. He wrinkled his brow, his foot tapping impatiently.

‘If something happened in the dream world...' Lilia didn’t know how to finish that thought.

Silver dream-traveled for years, yet no harm ever befell him. In fact, Silver mentioned that he usually wakes himself up from a dream by smashing his head in, so that alone wouldn’t hurt him. Then again, if Malleus’ spell had altered the rules in some way, then...

Lilia clenched his jaw at the same time he attempted to swallow the lump in his throat. He sighed.

‘This is no good.’ He needed to get his head together. Running around blind and digging through students wouldn’t help anyone, especially Silver.

“I need to get back to Sebek and Malleus,” he told the other two. Hopefully, they could provide a clue as to what Lilia’s next step should be. Jamil and Kalim nodded.

“We’ll continue looking for Silver down here,” the latter said, forcing a bright smile. “Don’t worry so much! I’m sure he’s just snoozing somewhere, like always!"

Lilia gave his thanks and hurried back to Sebek and Malleus. (Ignoring the disgruntled glares of the students he tossed about earlier.)

Both looked up upon his return. Sebek looked like a concerned puppy, while Malleus was barely able to keep his eyes open. (Perhaps he should have Sebek take him to his room, while Lilia got someone to find a doctor.)

“Did you find him?” Sebek inquired right away. Lilia dropped his head; his brow wrinkled as he shook it. Sebek’s worry automatically turned to anger. “WELL, WHERE IS HE?! How dare he not--”

“Sebek.” Lilia's firm tone cut through his sentence like a knife. “In the dreamworld, did anything happen after we separated? Sebek scoffed.

“A lot of things happened! But none of that would justify his disappearance, especially now! We met Ortho and…” As he half-listened to Sebek tell his story, Lilia noted that Malleus had closed his eyes in thought, eyebrows furrowed downward as sweat trickled down his temple. His lips moved in a breathless mumble.

“Anything that could have..."

Malleus trailed off as his already pale skin went white, his eyes growing to full size as their green became smaller. Lilia's stomach dropped as he set a hand on the dragon's shoulder.

“Malleus? What--” He tried to make Malleus look at him, but was shoved away.

“I have to speak to Silver.” The prince tried to stand but quickly lost his balance. Sebek and Lilia caught him, each calling his name, but he paid no heed.

“I have to find Silver," he insisted. “I...need… I have to...” Before Lilia could ask the other what was so urgent, there was a loud BOOM as the tall, thick wooden doors were thrown open, slamming into the walls, and cracking the stones.

“SEBEK!!"

The green-haired teen jumped to attention. He nearly fell backward as his expression widened in shock. His jaw dropped as he uttered, “Grandfather?!” Lilia was just as surprised.

“Baul?!” The old warrior burst into the room and hurried towards the others, the students having to scurry to the side so they didn’t get trampled by the approach. When he was close enough, he barely stopped himself from sweeping the trio into his arms. (Something Lilia was grateful for, as the man’s bear hugs often crushed him.)

“Sebek, General, your Highness—are you all alright?” Baul asked, his eyes looking each of them over. As Lilia nodded, he noted that his neck was stiff. Was it from sleeping so long, or something else?

“Malleus is fatigued, but no worse for the wear,” Lilia assured him. He was about to ask if he had come across Silver when Sebek spoke.

“Grandfather, why are you here?” Baul folded his arms, trying to keep up appearances in front of the surrounding beastmen and humans.

“Hmph! The humans couldn’t handle Lord Malleus’ power, so we were called in to assist. But never mind that. What happened here?” Malleus pressed his lips tight as his head dropped. Obviously, he did not want to explain his failure and how he let his emotions get the best of him.

“That…” Lilia held his hand out to stop him.

“We can discuss that later,” he said firmly, his eyes leaving no room for argument. He quickly moved to another topic. Or rather, he tried to. “Baul, have you--"

The other man had turned away, causing Lilia to tense, pressing teeth together behind thin lips.

As of now, Baul's attention was focused solely on his grandson, eyes searching for wounds or anything else that could be a threat.

“Well, regardless, I’m glad you’re all right, Sebek,” he said, once he was satisfied. Baul smiled at the young man, his eyes unusually soft. “It looks like you managed to protect everyone. I’m proud of you.”

Sebek fought hard not to cry, but his eyes still watered.

“Grandfather—” He bowed his head out of respect and to hide his expression. “I’m honored you came!” Baul stared long and hard at Sebek.

"Of course I did,” he finally said. “After all, you--” His words failed as the old warrior finally broke down. He reached forward and pulled Sebek into his arms. The boy was both startled and embarrassed; however, he respected his grandfather too much to pull away.

Lilia's agitation grew.

He hated to interrupt the reunion between grandfather and son—truly, he did—but his greedy emotions overpowered his soft heart. After all, he wanted that moment with his son. He wanted to tell Silver how proud he was. To pet his hair and hold him after this whole ordeal. But Silver wasn’t there. He wasn’t anywhere--

“Baul!” he snapped, his tone returning to when he was a general in the army. Baul looked surprised as he stood straight as if he were being addressed by a commander rather than a friend. “Have you seen Silver?” Baul frowned as he gave a slow nod.

“I did." Momentary relief filled Lilia. “Outside. He said he was surveying the area under your orders.” Lilia frowned.

“Surveying the area?” he repeated, folding his arms across his chest as his noggin tilted to the side. He closed his eyes as he pondered.

‘Now, why would he be doing that?’ Honestly, Lilia could never understand that boy.

Leaving of his own accord was shocking, but why lie about the reason?

Silver never lied about anything . If the child had a fault, it was that he was far too honest for his own good.

But then, his leaving was odd as well.

After everything, he should have rushed to Malleus’ side like the other two had. Yet Silver chose to leave without saying a word? That wasn’t like him at all.

Lilia closed his eyes, putting a fist to his chin, muttering a “why” as he thought about all that occurred, searching for a clue when...

His eyes shot open.

‘Oh, no.’ His skin became like snow, and his blood was just as cold.

How could he not realize it sooner? How could he be so--

“Fuck!"

Realizing how much time he wasted, Lilia turned on his two-inch heels and ran off, ignoring the voices that followed.

The world began to lose its shape around him. All sounds became distant echoes except for his breath, which he felt as if he were choking on as his throat tightened.

“Dammit, dammit, dammit!” How could he be so stupid?! He had been so worried about Malleus that he forgot Silver—and not for the first time, sadly.

‘I should have realized sooner. I should have figured it out right away, but...' Lilia had to find him. He had to find Silver and talk to him. Even though he had no idea what he would say. Then again, that didn’t matter. The important thing was to get to him before that extremely stubborn boy did something equally foolish.

“Silver!” he yelled desperately, despite knowing that it was pointless. “Silver!”

The heavy feeling in his stomach made him queasy as he hurried down the winding steps, eventually jumping the final few when he neared the bottom. The action made him want to throw up, but he swallowed the bile and continued on his way, knowing that every second was precious.

Thankfully, despite the loss of his magic, Lilia still had the speed that came with being a fae. Thus, his legs were able to carry him through the Diasomnia dorm and down the thorn-covered path at a pace that humans couldn’t even dream of. When the mirror was in sight, Lilia leaped the final fifteen feet forward and through.

As he barrel-rolled onto the black-marbled floor of the hall of mirrors, Lilia tried to deduce where Silver could be.

He wasn’t here, obviously, and using the looking glasses to leave the island without Crowley was impossible for Silver’s power level. That left two options:

One was taking a boat, something Silver was unfamiliar with and would have taken time and trouble. The other--

Lilia took off in the direction of the sports field, his long coat fluttering behind him in the chill wind that brushed against his.

‘Silver! Please, please, hold on!’ If he could just get there before it was too late, Lilia could explain everything. He could fix everything!

Outside, the sun was climbing, turning the sky above the retreating blackthorn barrier orange. Lilia scowled. Sunrises were never good omens for him.

It was during the dawn that Lilia received the news of Malenore’s death after all.

‘I hope this isn’t a sign as to what’s to come…’ He clenched his jaw tightly and moved faster.

As he ran, he caught the attention of the guards, who called out, “Hey, you!”

Lilia vaguely recognized the uniforms of Styx and Brair Valley. Lilia realized that Briar Valley's forces would want to question him about Malleus and the events that occurred, but decided that could wait. Right now, he had more pressing matters to worry about.

The soldiers, however, didn’t agree.

“Hold it right there!"

“Vanrouge! The Queen wants to speak to you as soon as possible--” One of the fools grabbed Lilia’s arm, yanking the old fae backward. Lilia growled in irritation.

He turned to the other, fangs bared and eyes glowing like a red light against the shadows that covered the area.

“Not now!” he snarled. He flipped the armored soldier to the ground, who landed with a cry. He then dodged another who moved forward, holding a stun weapon. Lilia’s temper nearly got the best of him as he grabbed it, snapping the zapper in half with one hand.

“I don’t have time for this!” he yelled.

Lilia could still recall the last time he saw his son.

It was in his dreamscape just after a trip through his memories of four hundred years ago, during the battle with the Silver Owls, and just after Malleus hatching—the happiest moment of his life, as he finally realized he was capable of giving something love. Something Lilia never thought he could do.

After a blotted Malleus had shown up, Lilia told the teens to flee while he held Malleus back. Silver insisted he come with them, but Lilia knew he would be best served there as a distraction.

At the time, Lilia hadn’t noticed the look of rejection on Silver’s face, the way his body had shaken, and how his skin resembled that of a ghost. His aurora-stone eyes appeared haunted, holding back sadness and remorse. Lilia didn't notice just how--how broken the child looked.

“Father, I—I’m sorry. For everything, I-- ” Silver never got to finish this line. He never got to express what was meant behind those words, nor did Lilia have time to think about it.

And because of that--

Lilia tossed a soldier into another, their armor clanging like pots as they collided. He then dove between the legs of another and kicked him in the back. Nothing was going to stop him from reaching his son. NOTHING.

“Get out of my way!” he bellowed. He finally managed to escape the group by leaping over them and using a tree branch to swing himself into the distance.

When he landed, Lilia took off like a track star across the dewy grass.

‘Almost there!’ he thought through haggard breaths. ‘I’m almost there! Just a little further and--’

But even as he ran, his blood pounding in his ears, he knew--

“Silver!"

--that he was too late.

When Lilia finally arrived at the field, Silver was already flying high into the sky, soaring over the barrier that surrounded the island.

The sight made Lilia feel as if his heart was choking him. No, it couldn’t end like this. It couldn’t. This couldn’t be how he lost his son!!

“Silver! Wait! Come back! SILVER!!"

Had Lilia still had his magic, he would have flown after him and tackled the boy midair before locking him in his arms to make sure the other couldn't flee again.

However, as it was, Lilia was grounded. Thus, he could only extend an arm to the sky, fingers outstretched, just before the sun swallowed his son.

The world became silent as it fell away.

“No…” A sense of hopelessness filled him, pulling the father to his knees as all his strength vanished.

‘No… Please, no…’ Lilia's body shook as anguish consumed him. In a final act of desperation, Lilia threw his head back and wailed.

“Silver!!”

Next->

*Poor Lilia, he was so close and yet…

*Super big thanks to everyone who commented here and on Ao3! I can’t tell you how happy they all made me!

*I’m surprised how long this turned out as when I first wrote it, it was around 1,200 but here we are.

*Lilia’s a bit OOC as even in the dreamworld with hell breaking loose, he would have noticed Silver’s mental break down, however, I tweaked him for drama purposes.

*But yay! We got to see Baul again. I hope he shows up at the end of chapter 7 and gets to talk to Sebek.

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spooky-all-year-round · 1 year

Text

If Things Were Different.

Sebastian x Female!Mc/reader

TW: ANGST, major spoilers for late game in Sebastian's story, swearing, Sebastian being an ass (but he feels bad), hints at death, violence, self hate, self doubt, the reader is pissed, you are MC

Dust and debris everywhere, you were sweating from all the fire spells cast to combat the inferi and from the running to doge spells from Solomon. You were kneeling on the ground, trying to catch your breath. Sebastian was to your left and winding up for a spell at Solomon, the lightning energy around his wand gave away his intentions. You cast a quick depulso on Solomon, and in your panic the spell was strong enough to knock him back and he crumpled to the floor, unconscious. Sebastian's spell hit the wall opposite of him, leaving a large crater in it. A few pebbles actually made it far enough to hit you.

"Sebastian what the hell was that?!" Your voice echoed in the cave. Your blood was boiling. He promised! He said no more! How could you have trusted him after he went back on his word before? You were too angry for tears, pure rage had you trembling as your glare met his.

"Why did you stop me? He attacked us! He was going to turn us in!" The look in his eyes made it seem like he was going to curse you next. His non-wand hand was clenching and unclenching. He didn't understand, how could you have stopped him? He was saving you BOTH. Soloman had to be stopped, there was no other way.

A quick glance at Solomon confirmed he was still breathing. You gripped your wand a bit tighter and looked back at him before answering, "I couldn't let you do that to one of your only family members left! You would've -"

"YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT I WAS GOING TO DO!" His voice was so loud it had your ears ringing. He was blinded by anger over Solomon attacking you both, over the hatred of Soloman stopping his efforts to save Anne AGAIN. The end of his wand was crackling with sparks, his overflowing emotions seeping out through it in the form of pure magic.

"Sebastian please, if I hadn't done that you would've been haunted by your actions forever." You were trying to reason with him, but you should've learned there is no reasoning with him when he's angry. Let alone this angry.

"I thought you were just ignorant, running around with goblins and playing the hero! But now I know you're down right FUCKING STUPID! YOU THINK NOTHING CAN HARM YOU! THAT PEOPLE ARE INHERENTLY GOOD! HE WOULD HAVE GLADLY SEEN YOU DEAD, OR WORSE IN AZKABAN! YOU COMPLETELY DAFT WOMAN." His chest was puffed out, teeth bared and eyes wild.

That struck you. Hard. Playing the hero? Did he think you did what you did for some kind of praise? That you weren't a kind person but just some attention seeking girl wanting a bit of fame? He always praised you for how smart you are but now you were stupid for saving a life? Where the hell did he get off thinking that?! Tears full of anger and pain started filling your eyes.

His words seemed to hit him when he saw the tears gather in your eyes, the look of pure hatred on your face made him sick. "Wait-" but before he could finish Anne came hobbling in, she took out the rest of the inferi with one amazing and powerful fire spell before falling to her knees. Sebastian could only stand numbly as he watched you conjure up stretchers for Anne and Solomon. You got them situated before rushing out, floating the two of them alongside you.

He had done it again, and even worse this time. He allowed his anger to overpower his rational thoughts and he hurt you again. He didn't really think that of you, Soloman might have tried to get you sent to Azkaban but he wouldn't kill you. Another hit. He almost killed his Uncle. You stopped him from murder, and in return he insulted and screamed at you. Merlin, what has he done? He had to make it up to you. He had to apologize, but he had done that before, no he needed to really change. He had to do something big that would prove that he was done with dark magic, and that he never wanted to get this close to being a murderer again.

---------------------------------------------------------------

It had been weeks, you were avoiding him like the plague. You wouldn't even look at him. He didn't know how you would disappear so quickly or where you might be even going to. Ominis wouldn't tell him either, but Sebastian didn't know if that was to help you or out from really not knowing himself.

It seems that you told Ominis and Anne about the fight that broke out with Solomon. But you left out Sebastian's attempt at murder and skipped straight to you sending Solomon hurdling into the wall out of fear. Solomon seems to have forgotten about the whole incident and was told by Anne and Ominis that he was hit by a stray depulso on accident and hit his head on the side of his home causing a bad concussion. Sebastian sent a letter to Anne swearing that he would never delve into the dark arts again and that he would prove it. He just wasn't sure how. But the answer came to him through Ominis, bless him.

"Don't tell me you're reading that book again." The look of anger and disgust on Ominis' face was evident without Sebastian even looking up.

"I've never read this book before mate. What book are you talking about?" He was genuinely confused. He was looking at potion ingredients and writing down ones that might mix well together to cure Anne's different symptoms, he just needed the one thing to tie them together according to Golpalott's third law to making an antidote. Something new, something no one had tried.

"Don't play dumb Sebastian, the book of dark arts you've been obsessing over!" Ominis had walked over and ripped the book out of Sebastian's hands. But a brief pass over the page with his wand had his eyebrows raised. As if he didn't believe it, he closed the book while using his finger to keep track of the page and waved the wand over the front. "This is...just a regular potions book."

"Yes, I told you I was done with that other book. Look!" He swung himself out of bed and walked around to the foot of his bed. He knelt down and opened his truck before digging straight to the bottom before wrestling the damned thing out from it's hiding place. "I've had it at the bottom of my trunk. I haven't touched it since! I don't want to even look at it." It was true, ever since that day he didn't want to even think of that book. But he didn't know what to do with it so he just buried it in the trunk, hoping to find a permanent place later.

"If you don't want it, then why keep it then? Why not just rid the world of that accursed thing and burn it to ashes?" Ominis sneered at him. He was frustrated, he couldn't believe Sebastian didn't want the book. Not after everything. So if it was true, why was it allowed to continue to exist?

Sebastian blinked several times. Why *did* he not just burn it? Why hadn't he even thought of that? He wouldn't have to find a hiding place. He wouldn't have to worry about it being found. No one could ever be tempted by it like he had been. When he told Anne he had given up the dark arts she was so excited he doesn't think she even thought about destroying it. But now he had the perfect plan on how to prove to you and Ominis that he was no longer going to practice the dark arts! But he needed a bit of help, " Ominis, you're brilliant! I need your help!"

Ominis have him an amused look. "With setting something on fire? I'm sure your well practi-"

"Not with setting it on fire you prat! I need you to get her to meet me in the undercroft. All three of us together." The hope that was reignited in Sebastian fizzled a bit at the small frown that graced his friend's lips.

Of course Ominis knew who he was talking about, getting you to even look at him had become Sebastian's new obsession. Anytime Ominis spent more than 5 minutes with you, Sebastian was on him. Asking how you were, if you said anything about him, if you had forgiven him. It drove Ominis crazy. Yes, he wishes you two could be friends again. Yes, he wanted things to return to normal. But he stood firm on not rushing or pressuring you into forgiving Sebastian. You wouldn't even talk about him anymore, not since the night Ominis found you in the Room of Requirements crying your eyes out. It was then you had admitted to Ominis what really happened, and you had begged him to promise to never mention it to Sebastian, for him to please act like everything was normal. He held you for hours as you had talked through everything and continued to hold you until you had calmed down. He agreed to the promise and was true to his word. But that's when Ominis noticed how quiet Sebastian had become. How now it wasn't Sebastian staying up and Ominis finding him after having a nightmare. Instead it seemed like Sebastian was having them too.

"I don't think she would agree to that, and I will not lie to get her to meet you." His frown deepened, as he ruled out that idea before Sebastian could even pose it.

"You don't have to! Just tell her I have something very important to show you both, and that it will be a good thing. That I want to make amends and show you both how sincere I am about giving up the dark arts...please Ominis." Still on one knee, he pleaded with his best friend. His voice had become a whisper on the word please, in an almost heartbreaking way.

Ominis sighed, knowing it was no good arguing; and praying to Merlin that Sebastian was being honest. All he had to do was ask. Hopefully you wouldn't be angry at him for that if he didn't push you. "Fine. I will ask her. But I don't want you bothering me again if she says no." His tone let Sebastian know that his word was final, he would not waver on this choice.

Sebastian jumped to his feet and pulled Ominis into a hug. "Thank you Ominis! I won't let you down!" Sebastian threw the book into his bag and took off to the undercroft. Ominis sighed again. He guessed that means he had better go find you now.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

Sebastian paced back and forth, opening his pocket watch every once in a while. His nerves only worsened as the minutes passed. What if Ominis couldn't convince you? What would he do then? Could he maybe surprise you when you're alone and burn it then? He was sure you'd tell Ominis you saw him do it. Maybe that would work. But he'd rather do it now and be able to express how sorry he was. His thoughts were cut off at the sound of the gates to the undercroft creaked open. His eyes flickered to the book, it was carelessly tossed on the floor a few feet away so when he burned it he wouldn't get burned as well

His eyes went back to the door way leading to the gate and they landed on you. Merlin you were so pretty to him, even with the prominent frown on your face he couldn't help but stare. How could he have been so stupid to have hurt someone who was so beautiful inside and out. How could he betray someone who did so much to help him? Remembering your smile he wondered how did it not pull him out of that book and steal all his attention.

You turned to him and your eyes finally met his. It had been so long he forgot how intense your gaze could be. His heart fluttered in both fear and attraction. You didn't even say anything, you just raised your eyebrows in a way that asked "well? Why am I here?" He gulped, he was ready to get rid of the book. But now he just had to hope this would be enough. He turned his head, raising his wand, and with a quick flick of his wrist and a shout of "confringo" the book was ablaze. It took only a few seconds for it to be fully turned to ash with how strong he cast the spell. Turning to you he gave a lopsided smile.

"I'm done with the dark arts. I've been researching normal ways to create new potions that might help Anne. Ones that haven't been thought of before! Ominis can tell you, he found me reading the book!" His smile faltered as you continued to glare him down. You turned your head to the blonde and leaned gently against him. Ominis nodded mutely. That stung. You both didn't even need to say anything to communicate.

You turned back to him, your lip curling with anger. "Wonderful. But do you really think that solves everything?" He started to apologize but you pressed on, raising your voice over his. "Do you think that changes or makes me feel better about all you put me through? What you put US through?!" You had gestured to Ominis when you used the word "us".

"Wait, please let me apolo-" Sebastian tried again. But you quickly cut him off.

"NO! YOU don't GET to apologize. You said horrible things at me. You did horrible things, even when we begged you to stop. You were horrible to me! To US! I was just a tool for you to get what you want! You were never my friend! I cared so much about you and I care about Anne. But I am a human too! I deserve kindness too!" Your voice raised loud enough to fill the undercroft, tears were streaming down your face.

He felt sick all over again. Of course this wasn't enough, he had done more than just read the book. He had put you two through so much. He just never realized how much it affected you until now. It never really dawned on him how much he asked of you, how little you asked of him. His eyes started to burn with tears as he sank to his knees. That put a dead stop to your rant, your face changed to shock and confusion. Turning his head down he began to beg. "Please. I'm so," his voice cracked, "sorry. I never meant for anyone to be hurt. I-I didn't mean to make you feel this way. I never knew it affected you so much. I just wanted to save Anne. I just wanted to put my life back together. I was horrible to you both because anytime either of you argued against my ideas... All I saw was Solomon telling me that nothing would work and to give up. That wasn't fair to you both. I can't apologize enough, I will spend my whole life trying to make it up to you, and to prove I've changed...even if you don't give me the chance to show you. You two are so important to me and I can't believe I let some book lead me to harm you two in the ways I have."

The silence was deafening. It seemed too quiet after all your yelling. It pressed in on him, but he never raised his head. Even if he could see through all the tears falling from his eyes, he wouldn't be able to look you in the eyes right now.

"I-" you cut yourself off. Should he dare to hope you'd give him a chance? Maybe even forgive him? Now instead of the crushing silence he heard the blood rushing in his ears, his heart pounding like it was going to jump out and present itself to you. His breath hitched, he was praying to anyone, anything that you would give him just one more chance. Anything, anything at all for him to possibly have you back in his life.

"I just don't know right now." Were the words you finally landed on. Merlin help him.

#sebastain sallow imagine #sebastian x reader #sebastian sallow #sebastian sallow x mc #sebastian sallow x reader #sebastian sallow x you #angst #i woke up and chose violence #im both so sorry and not sorry at all #major spoilers

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michaelmilligan · 11 months

Text

Archangel Week: AU To boldly go where someone has gone before

(Star Trek AU, Midam, 6.5k, also on AO3)

***

Michael noticed that something was going on the moment Raphael turned their face towards the console in their chair. They studied it for several seconds, their face rippling in surprise, before reporting to Michael.

“Captain, we have located a vessel near the Veruvian border,” they said, their expression flawlessly calm again.

“On our side?” Michael asked, though he already knew the answer – Raphael would never have reported it if it was not important. Still, there were protocols.

“Yes. Our scanners indicate that it is moving further into our space, though slowly.” Raphael permitted another slight ripple to cross their face. “Further, scans indicate that the vessel is a Federation ship.”

Michael stilled his hands, lightly gripping the armrests. “Is that an assumption, or established fact?”

Raphael tilted their head to the side. “It is the most logical assumption, but not established fact.”

“Then we will delay our judgement in this case until further information is collected.” Michael arose from his chair with the fluidity that only angels possessed – for a moment, he thought of Adam's struggles to get up from normal chairs, his complaints that he didn't have enough abdominal muscles to smoothly arise from a reclining position. The thought almost made Michael's face waver, but he pulled himself together. He was on duty, after all, and as the general on board this vessel he was required to be professional in front of his soldiers.

With a hand gesture, Michael conjured his standing console, and reviewed the data himself. His three fingers were quick, but his eyes were quicker, and soon he had learned all there was to know yet: That the energy signature, as well as the transponder signal they had picked up matched what little data they had on Federation vessels.

Only one had ever crossed into their space, and they had retrieved little information from it, seeing as it had fallen apart so quickly.

“How far?” Michael demanded, and Raphael bent over their console.

Samandriel let his fingers fly over his own console, no doubt relaying the assessment regarding distance and speed to Raphael. The angel was a good pilot, but sometimes a little hasty – he should have waited for Raphael's demand of the data.

Raphael did not draw attention to it, though, and possibly no one would notice. They may think that Raphael had demanded the data with a press of buttons on their console.

“Twenty minutes,” Raphael said at last, and Michael frowned.

He drew up the same data on his console. “They are well past our border then. How did they get there without us noticing sooner?”

This time, Raphael did press buttons to demand more data, and Hester busied herself at the science station to relay it. Her fingers were always steady, all three of them sure and precise in their movement, and her face betrayed nothing but a slight whiff of disdain. A true angel.

It was almost a pity that she could never become anything more than she was now. There was no track to becoming a general for those who were not archangels.

But then, this was for the best. She was well-suited to her station, and would only get airs of grandeur if given more responsibility.

“I want updates as soon as we have them,” Michael said, and let the standing console glide back into the floor as he returned to his chair.

“Relay any data to me,” Raphael said, and soon engrossed themself in a stream of information. Their face rippled once before turning to Michael. “We have confirmation that it is a Starfleet ship. Visuals have been acquired.”

“On screen.” Michael stood up again, and noticed that he may seem nervous to his crew. With forced detachment, he studied the view on the screen before him: a ship not unlike the Cassiopeia which they had encountered all those years ago, though obviously a little different, perhaps upgraded.

The designation on its hull read NCC-80102.

“Hail them,” Michael said to Raphael, who relayed the command to Inias at the communication console. “And inform the humans.”

That last command, Raphael enacted themself. Possibly because it might have been misunderstood by others – there were more than just humans on board. But Michael had never bothered to learn the differences between their species.

“We're being hailed,” Lieutenant Nitero said.

“First Contact so soon,” Will mused.

“Be careful,” Deanna told him, and he smiled at her.

“Always. But this is what we're here for, right?” To Nitero, he said: “On screen.”

Will stood up, and then wondered if he was maybe dizzy, seeing the scene on the viewscreen distorted like that. But as he forced his eyes to focus, he realised that it wasn't him – the other species simply looked like that.

“I am Captain William Riker from the USS Titan,” he introduced himself, putting on a smile to ease both this new species and himself. They looked like something out of a Halloween movie – humanoid, but too thin, with too indistinct features for the part on top to really count as a face. Like something imitating humans, but badly.

They were also blue, and seemed to be slightly glowing.

“I am Michael of the Heavenly Sword,” the creature standing in the middle of the screen said. “Welcome, Starfleet.”

Will shared a perplexed look with Deanna. “I see you're one step ahead of us. You know us, but I'm afraid that we don't know you.”

The creature – Michael, which was a surprisingly human name – gave something like a nod. “We have encountered your kind before, when they were adrift in our space. The Cassiopeia was reportedly torn apart by an attack and the passage through a wormhole.”

Will stood straighter, his hackles rising. “Reportedly?” The name Cassiopeia meant nothing to him, but was Michael implying that they had shot down the ship?

“Our scans confirmed damage consistent with that from energy weapons. Scans also showed that particles consistent with the passage through a wormhole were present. The survivors furthermore did not recognise any known star charts, and we were not familiar with their species.”

“Survivors,” Will repeated. Now they were talking. Unless these guys had killed all Starfleet personnel – in which case they'd know what to expect from this interaction.

“Yes, we were able to extract several crew members from the failing ship. Some of them have since relocated to our home planet, Caelum, or one of our colonies, though some have remained on board this ship.”

Only Michael and another of his kind were visible on the screen, the second on a chair in a way that reminded Will of Riza, and many hours spent in the sun. There was no immediately obvious way to discern them, since they had no hair or pronounced facial features. They did seem to wear something likes clothes, including gloves, but the two visible people were wearing the same colour.

Just when Will realised that he hadn't even asked their species' name, Michael took a step to the side to make room for people stepping into the frame. There was a vulcan, Will noted, and what seemed to be two humans and an andorian. They were wearing the same drab uniforms as Michael did, a dull sort of brown.

Before Will could even open his mouth to greet them, a gasp sounded from the pilot's console.

“Adam?”

Will turned towards the Lieutenant, but he only stared at the screen with his mouth open and eyes wide. On the screen, one of the humans looked back at him with a scowl.

“Someone you know, Lieutenant?” Will asked.

Reluctantly, Lieutenant Winchester turned to him, as if afraid that 'Adam' would vanish if he looked away. “He's my brother, sir.”

“Half-brother,” the guy on screen said, pursing his lips. “Hey, Sam.”

“Are you sure that it's wise to let them on board?” Deanna asked, but helped straighten the uniform around Will's shoulders. “I can't read them at all, they could be up to anything.”

“But you were able read the humans, and they had no ill-will towards us, right?” Will asked, not for the first time. Deanna could fret a little when her empathy didn't work. Not that it wasn't understandable – Will also had to think about the safety of his crew, and his wife.

But in the end, it was Starfleet's goal to meet new species and civilisations.

“Adam had some resentment towards his brother,” Deanna said thoughtfully.

“Half-brother,” Will said, but the joke fell flat. “Imzadi, this is a First Contact mission. As the captain, I need to show good will towards them.”

“Technically, it's Second Contact,” Deanna said, but then sighed. Will knew she wasn't really trying to convince him to cancel the whole thing. She was just airing her concerns.

“This will be over before you know it, and then we'll bring these people home.”

Deanna huffed out a small laugh. “My hero,” she said, and kissed him before they left their quarters.

The delegation consisted only of Michael – who Will assumed was the Captain – and the former crew members of the Cassiopeia. Will would have thought that they would send more of their own people and only let the others come over after, and he had still feared that maybe they wouldn't let the Starfleet personnel go at all. So it was a nice surprise to see that Michael apparently trusted both the, for him, alien crew members of his own ship, as well as the crew of the Titan.

It might have just been that they were beamed in that way, but Adam stepped off the platform right next to Michael while the rest of the delegation stayed back. The other human was looking around with wide eyes, as if she couldn't believe she was back on a Starfleet ship.

“Captain William,” Michael said, and inclined his head while turning his hands palms up.

A greeting, Will supposed, and tried to imitate the gesture. Adam obviously tried and failed to hold back a grin, while Michael cocked his head to the side.

“Captain,” Will started, then faltered. “I'm sorry, I'm not even sure if you call your rank captain – or even if you have the equivalent of a captain. You know so much more about us than we do about you.”

“Indeed,” Michael said, his face rippling strangely. Will also realised that he couldn't be speaking his own language, since the universal translator wouldn't know it – which might have explained the slight accent Will thought he heard. “I am a general, though we do not use titles much.”

“I see. Well, you probably know a lot more about how we talk than the other way around, so forgive us if we're coming off as rude.”

Michael inclined his head again. “This will almost certainly happen. I have been learning your English language, though, and your – ah, how do you say – human quirks.”

Will felt his eyebrows shoot upwards. “I see.”

Adam still looked amused, as if there was a joke Will wasn't getting, but he let it slide.

“Oh, I haven't introduced you to my First Officer yet. This is Commander Deanna Troi.”

Deanna smiled at Michael and executed the earlier greeting with much more grace than Will had. Michael returned the gesture, then studied Deanna for a moment longer.

“You are not human,” he eventually said.

“Oh, no, I'm betazoid,” she said, seeming surprised.

There wasn't outwardly any difference between humans and betazoids, so for a member of an alien species to be able to tell...

“I see. And the betazoid people have telepathic abilities?” Michael asked, looking at Adam more than Will or Deanna.

“Yes,” Deanna said, looking unsettled.

Adam frowned at Michael.

Michael turned back to Deanna, his eyes unblinking, since he had no eyelids. “My people have telepathic abilities as well, though we do not use them at a distance. We are rather private about our thoughts, and I would ask you not to pry.”

Deanna's smile was a little crooked. “As a half-human, I can only detect emotions, not full thoughts. And you don't need to worry – I cannot read your emotions at all.”

Michael nodded, though it seemed a bit stiff, which was interesting on a being that looked as if it had no bones.

“Can you turn it off?” Adam asked, his gaze on Deanna strangely intense. “Because it is kind of rude to pry.”

Deanna shook her head. “I'm afraid I can't. It is an innate ability, and trying to stop my empathy is like... well, like trying to stop breathing.”

“Oh. Well, that's generally not recommended, then,” Adam said, a bit startled. “Sorry, I probably should have known, but we didn't really get that far in neuroscience before the war, and I didn't know any betazoids.”

“Neuroscience? You were studying medicine then?” Deanna asked.

Adam nodded. “Until the Borg attacked. Starfleet students could volunteer to serve on ships during the war, and I was put on the Cassiopeia.”

That would explain why Adam looked so young. He could barely be thirty, and the records Will had studied before this meeting had said that the Cassiopeia had been presumed destroyed several years earlier, during the war with the Borg.

“How old were you back then?” Will asked, frowning.

“Nineteen.”

A nineteen-year old, volunteering to go to war, and getting lost for several years as a result. He must have been overjoyed to see his own people again, to get a chance to go back home.

“Please,” Will said, indicating the way out of the transporter room, “let's go to the meeting room.”

Even though it was called a meeting room, Adam was more reminded of a house party. A small buffet was set up on the conference table, and people started mingling as soon as they stepped into the room. Adam didn't have any plans on socialising, but he knew he had no choice in the matter when Sam spotted him.

“Adam,” he said, and his face lit up like a Bussard collector before going to warp. “I can't believe we found you!”

“U-huh.” Adam thought that they had found the Titan rather than the other way around, but if Sam wanted to live in a self-delusion, who cared.

“We thought you were dead.” For someone of his size, it shouldn't have been possible to look like a kicked puppy. And yet, Sam somehow managed.

“Yeah, well, I couldn't exactly send a message or anything,” Adam grumbled.

“Oh, no, I didn't mean to blame you.”

Sure. Whatever.

Sam gulped. “You know, your mom-”

“Yeah, I know.” Adam had heard about all the planets that had been destroyed by the Borg, back before the Cassiopeia had fallen into the wormhole. The loss of lives had been astronomical – though Adam had only fallen into despair when he had seen 'New Minnesota' on the list.

He'd had no illusions about his mom having made it. She would have stayed behind to help as many people get away as possible, and to comfort those who couldn't get off the planet. That was what his mom had been like – others had always come first.

It was no wonder that she had been a nurse.

“So,” Adam said, trying to chase those gloomy thoughts away, “how's Dean?”

The expression on Sam's face didn't bode well.

Seemed like Adam was the only (kind of, sort of) brother Sam had left.

“Angels... an interesting name,” Will said, intrigued.

While Michael looked nothing like he would have imagined an angel – except for, maybe, him being so undefinable – he wondered if his species had ever had contact with humans before, or if there was any other connection between them.

“I am aware of the connotations of that name in your culture,” Michael said, almost apologetically, “and our pronunciation is a bit different, but I found that this is what humans and the other humanoids will best understand.”

“You don't consider yourself humanoid, then?” Deanna asked.

Michael cocked his head. “Do you consider yourself to be like other species? We Angels are what we are, and other species may be similar to us, but I don't see why I should use a word for myself that marks me as similar to humans, rather than the other way around.”

Deanna considered that – while she mostly spoke betazoid, she was familiar enough with the English language to know what he was referring to.

“There are different words for it,” she ultimately said. “Every species takes itself as a base line, I think. But in the end, one admits when there are similarities.”

Michael gave a small nod. “One must admit that we are vaguely similar in shape, with two lower extremities and two upper ones, flanking a head.”

“And isn't that what humanoid means?” Deanna asked.

“Perhaps. But the word... what is the phrase... it bugs me.”

Will huffed out a laugh. Somehow, hearing such a colloquial term from someone like Michael was supremely funny.

“Did I use it right?” Michael asked. “I am still working through what Adam teaches me in earnest and which sayings are a joke.”

“Adam taught you?” Deanna glanced over at Adam and Lieutenant Winchester, who seemed to be arguing. “I thought he was a med student, not a linguist.”

“He is a doctor, among our people,” Michael corrected her, and also looked towards Adam for a moment. “He graduated at one of our universities and is working as a doctor on our ship.”

“Oh.” Will looked at Deanna. “I guess, over all those years, he built a life with your people, huh?”

Something like a smile pulled at Michael's lip-less mouth. “Yes. He has a life with us.”

Deanna's own smile faltered as she felt rage and exasperation rising to critical levels in the room. It was easy to locate the source – Adam wasn't only inwardly fuming.

“For the last time,” he bellowed, making the rest of the room fall silent, “I'm not coming back to Federation space, Sam!”

“But Adam-” Lieutenant Winchester started.

“Lieutenant,” Deanna interrupted him, walking towards the two. Once she was close enough to speak without the whole room hearing her, she said: “Why don't you take a walk?”

“But-”

“Lieutenant,” Deanna said again, more sharply. The intent behind that one word seemed to have come across, or maybe the Lieutenant simply remembered that she was his superior officer – but in any case, Lieutenant Winchester left, with his head held high and at least some of his dignity intact.

“Sorry for that,” Adam said through gritted teeth once his brother was out of sight.

Deanna could tell that he only felt sorry after looking at Michael, and even then the anger outweighed everything else.

“Have you tried the food yet?” she asked to distract him. It seemed to work – at least he was a little confused now, and less angry. “We made specialities from Vulcan, Andoria, and Earth.”

Adam scanned the buffet table with mild disdain, but perked up at a particular dish. Apparently, the cookie salad was a sight for sore eyes.

When he had placed more than a fair amount of the dessert on his plate, Adam said: “I didn't mean to yell at Sam, but he can't expect me to come back with y'all.”

Deanna made a thoughtful noise, trying not to show her surprise. “He thought he would never see you again, and then he suddenly found you. I think he can be excused for getting a little ahead of himself. Don't you?”

Adam pressed his lips into a thin line.

“My apologies,” Michael said, glancing at Adam. “It appears that my crew member caused a commotion.”

Of course, it was Sam Winchester who was really at fault, pressuring and annoying Adam. But still, it was unlike Adam to loose his cool like that – Michael needed to find away to detach himself from Captain William, and pull Adam away from Commander Deanna...

“Oh, well, I'm sure my crew member is partly at fault,” Captain William said, his smile a little crooked. “I must say, I never thought about anyone staying, either. But it has been several years, so Adam... sorry, Doctor Milligan, right? Anyway, it must be difficult to imagine leaving now, especially if he's a doctor for your species, which – sorry, but I doubt that what he learned is all that applicable to other species.”

Michael nodded. “Yes. And several of the survivors from the Cassiopeia have built lives with us. Most of them have settled somewhere, though I imagine some may still wish to return to their people.”

It would be hard on Adam if all his humanoid friends left. Michael didn't actually have any idea if any of the other crew members would stay.

With a start, Michael realised that not only Adam would miss them. Raphael's weekly 3D chess matches with T'Lor would stop. Samandriel wouldn't have Tynaar following him around the ship with big eyes like a hellhound puppy anymore.

Michael wouldn't be able to ask Mariama about human culture and traditions anymore, and would be unable to surprise Adam with a celebration or gift from his home.

The loss to Michael's crew, logistically as well as emotionally, would be higher than anticipated.

In the comfort of their own quarters, Michael placed a tentative hand on Adam's clothed upper arm. At first, Michael thought that Adam would shake him off and deny him any further intimacy, but then he placed his other hand over Michael's.

Since both of them had already taken off their gloves, the touch sparked their mental connection, and Michael felt tension fall off of both of them as their essences touched and joined. As so often, Adam's smaller essence was surrounded by Michael's bigger one, as in a hug. Adam also jokingly called Michael 'the big spoon' regularly.

But a part of Adam was keeping itself back, closed off to Michael. He prodded it gently, and Adam was stubborn for a moment, but eventually released his feelings to Michael's soothing presence.

Anger. It was anger, and hurt, and confusion because he had never expected to see one of his half-brothers, or even any human, again. There was even a small part of Adam that was touched by Sam's concern, though it was almost drowned out by the anger and resentment at his so-called family.

Images of his homeworld's name flashing on a screen bubbled to the surface. And then images that were not memories but nightmares – his mother brutally killed, buried under rubble, or worse, assimilated by those vile creatures, the Borg.

Michael shuddered – he was not immune to the breadth of Adam's emotions, which sometimes threatened to overwhelm him. Angel minds were more disciplined, and more capable of keeping their emotions separate instead of having them tangled in one big, complicated mess. But human minds – or at least Adam's, since Michael had never touched the essence of another humanoid – were always swirling with unfinished thoughts and knotted up emotions.

It was chaos, as Raphael would have said, if they had known. Michael never spoke to them of his connection to Adam, since that would have been most rude, though of course when he joined his essence with Raphael, some things tended to bleed through.

The thing was, Michael liked the chaotic nature of Adam's mind – as an archangel and general of this vessel, he rarely ever got to solve puzzles himself anymore, and mundane tasks such as sorting were done by computers. But Adam's mind couldn't be touched by a computer, and so Michael started organising the thoughts and feelings, putting them in neat 'boxes' as Adam always said.

Adam's essence calmed down at his efforts, letting him disentangle what had been a stream of feelings and was now a mere trickle. It was only when Michael pulled out the little thread of gratefulness that Adam seemed to realise it was there – he peered at it with a wave of surprise, and then embarrassment.

Michael took those feelings, too, and made neat stacks of them.

Ultimately, Adam radiated amusement, and love.

Michael took the latter one and added it to his own, letting their feelings combine and heighten each other.

For a long time, Michael hadn't thought that he would ever have a mate. He was an archangel, after all, and his power and position made it difficult to get to know any other angels. The only equals he had among his people were his siblings, and while it was not forbidden to form mate bonds with those who had come from the same parent, they were all, in his mind, children, and would always be.

Yes, Raphael was a capable general in their respective position on the ship, but they were also his little sibling who had always had a question to ask about science and how the universe worked, and who had quickly exceeded the knowledge Michael had about such things.

Gabriel, of course, was still a little kid and a prankster at heart, and Lucifer – well. Michael's relationship to Lucifer was complicated, in part because he had expected for them to form a mate bond, which Michael had rejected, since their father had forbidden it.

But now Michael had Adam, and while this did not preclude them from forming further mate bonds, he thought that he would be satisfied if he spent his whole life with only him.

Adam's essence nudged him playfully, telling him that the way he was spilling emotions and images needed to be contemplated together. Of course, Michael's emotions had all slid neatly into their boxes, with none left unsorted, but Adam drew attention to one which Michael had barely noticed – a hint of regret.

Adam seemed insecure about it, and Michael sent him a wave of reassurance. The regret had nothing to do with Adam, would never have to do with Adam, but was related to how he had rejected Lucifer on his father's orders, and how he was wondering if it had been right to follow his father's words.

Shame welled up now, related to this regret. His father had been God, supreme ruler of the angels, and it would have been treason to act against his word. Though now that he was dead... No, it was no use thinking about it. Lucifer would never love Michael the way he once had, before bitterness had entered their relationship.

This time it was Adam who sent reassurance, and hope for things to come. He had never met Lucifer, and yet Michael could tell that Adam already loved him, because Michael loved him.

But it was idle to think of such things when Lucifer was light years away, commanding his own ship. Though perhaps one day...

One day, Adam seemed to tell him, his presence now the soothing one. Our family will be even more complete.

We're already complete, Michael sent back, letting images of Kate filter into Adam's mind.

Yes, we are, Adam agreed – and then pulled back, out of their connection.

“Speaking of Kate, I should get her before Anael gets sick of her,” Adam said, smiling as he put his gloves back on.

“I should go to the bridge,” Michael said, and put his own gloves on. It was always a jarring experience to do so after having been connected to someone so deeply, but he would manage. “I promised Captain William that we would speak more about connecting with the Federation.”

“Are you actually going to do it?” Adam asked, raising an eyebrow.

Michael weighed his head. “I can only pass any requests and terms on to Jack – I mean God.”

His face rippled. It was still weird to call his nephew God, but he had replaced Michael's father as supreme ruler of the angels a few years ago now. With neither Michael nor his siblings wanting to take on the role, nor being particularly suited to it, the boy had been the best choice. Despite his young age, he was doing well – his connection to all of angelkind had made him wise beyond his age.

“He's more open than your father was,” Adam said, his voice carefully neutral. “Maybe he will allow the connection.”

“Perhaps. If their ships have the technology to travel the distance to us now, communications with them may be worthwhile,” Michael said, and then realised that he had excluded Adam from the Federation, his own kind, labelling them as the other.

But Adam just smiled and nodded. “It might help both sides,” he said, and brushed his lips against Michael's face before he left their quarters.

The second meeting between angels and the crew of the Titan took place on board the Heavenly Sword. Of course, it would have been possible to do it via comms, but it was both a showing of good will and a logistical thing, as those on board who wanted to go with Starfleet would do so after the meeting.

Raphael's face had rippled in displeasure when Michael had informed him of this second meeting, but they had of course prepared everything without complaint. No doubt where they fussing over the last details now, Michael thought, re-arranging things only for T'Lor to put them back in the previously agreed position. Michael now knew that T'Lor was the only humanoid except Adam who would not leave. Apparently, it would not be 'logical' to leave behind the opportunity of first-hand studies of a little known species.

Adam had made allusions to bonds and something called 'pon farr', which meant nothing to Michael. A muscle in T'Lor's face had twitched, though, and Raphael's face had rippled in embarrassment when Michael had mentioned it.

Perhaps he would inquire the meaning at his next connection with Adam.

For now, he and Adam stood next to each other but were not touching as Captain William and his entourage beamed over.

There were pleasantries exchanged, though Captain William appeared confused by Adam's presence, and called him 'Doctor Milligan'. Michael had never understood the need for two names, or including one's rank or title in a name. While he aimed to be polite by referring to the human captain by rank, he did not react to the way Adam called him 'Captain Riker' and gave Michael a very obvious look.

When he saw that Sam was attending the meeting as well, though, Adam got more tight-lipped, his smile more strained.

At least Adam could reasonably stay by Michael's side, now that he was acting as host in the capacity of Michael's mate, and not as guest on a strange ship under the care of Michael as his general.

The humanoids appeared to be continually baffled by the closeness they kept, but were distracted upon meeting Raphael, who was more polite in addressing them, and who made compliments about the fine humanoid specimen who had served upon the Heavenly Sword, and whose presence would be missed.

Michael wasn't sure where the surprise regarding Adam and him was coming from, since Captain William and Commander Deanna stood equally close. Though Adam had told him that it was rude to speculate about whether they were mates, Michael was rather certain that they were.

However, in order to ease the humanoids' minds, Michael made sure to suggest to Adam to try the buffet. Similarly to the set-up at the other meeting, they had prepared an array of dishes – both traditional ones of the humanoids, as well as traditional Angel dishes.

Adam tended to prefer the latter, since, according to him, the humanoid dishes were 'poor replicas' of the real thing. This made sense considering that the Angels didn't even know the ingredients used in those dishes. Adam had said many times that the grains the Angels used were different than the ones he knew, as were the vegetables and fruits.

Michael couldn't spend too much time looking at Adam without being rude, but out of the corners of his eyes, he saw him put a mountain of balagda on his plate, the sweet dish being one of his favourites.

Michael also saw Sam approaching Adam – just as he had planned.

Perhaps he should have told Adam that he had purposely asked Captain William to bring Sam with him, but then Adam would have only been mad at him. This way, he got the chance to make amends with his estranged brother without Michael being in the cross-fire.

At some point, Commander Deanna excused herself to go to the buffet. Michael was rather certain that she was only lingering around the Angel dishes to make sure that Sam and Adam wouldn't kill each other.

Sam was being annoying again. Less pushy, maybe, but more pitiful, if that was even possible. He was using his puppy eyes, and this time Adam wanted to punch him a little less, though he did still want to punch him.

“Sam, I have a life here,” he told him for what felt like the thirtieth time.

“You can have a life back home,” Sam countered.

Home. What was that even supposed to mean, with regard to Federation space? The planet he had grown up on, that had been eradicated by the Borg? Wherever Sam was? Starfleet academy?

No. Adam's home was right here, on the Heavenly Sword.

“Sam, I became a doctor here,” Adam said, willing the stubborn ass to finally understand and just be happy for him. “I'm not a doctor in the Federation. Besides, I have a family.”

Sam frowned at him. “What do you mean, family?”

“I-” It was rude to speak in public about one's mating bonds, but Adam told himself that it was fine since Sam was human. “I'm mated. And I have a-”

Adam broke off and looked towards the doors, feeling a pull, or maybe someone reaching out...

The doors opened, admitting Kate, with Hannah right behind.

Adam smiled and pushed past Sam.

It was poor etiquette to admit a child to a meeting, Michael thought, but he couldn't be upset about it when it was his little girl. He would have to reprimand Hannah after this, of course, since she had failed to keep Kate in check. But for now, he was happy to see her. She shifted from her distinct Angel appearance into a more human one when she saw Adam, complete with long blonde hair in what Adam always called 'pigtails'.

She had already been wearing a dress, having taken to those since Adam had first managed to replicate one for her. So now, she looked like a human toddler as she waddled over to Adam, and let him pick her up.

Yes, it was rude to admit a child to a meeting, but it would have been cruel to dismiss her now that she was there.

“Oh,” Captain William made, once again seeming baffled. This appeared to be his default mode that day.

“My apologies for the disturbance,” Michael said. “I hope my daughter's presence is not too inconvenient.”

Captain William blinked at him. “Your daughter?”

“Yes. She is daughter to Adam and me.” Boasting a mating bond would have been quite rude, but one should never fail to emphasise one's parentage. It was a point of pride, after all.

Captain William, however, only looked more bewildered.

“Oh, who is this lovely little lady?” Commander Troi asked, at which Kate half hid her face in Adam's shoulder.

“This is Kate,” Adam said, revelling in the bond as his daughter shared all her thoughts and feelings with him, still uninhibited at her young age and not wearing gloves. “Kate, say hello.”

“Hewo,” Kate said, and nuzzled against Adam's neck.

Adam sent encouragement to her, but also told her that she didn't have to talk to the strangers if she didn't want to.

“Is she your daughter?” Commander Troi asked, smiling at them both.

Meanwhile, Sam was staring with an open mouth, and his shock only got worse when Adam confirmed that Kate was his.

“But how-” Sam started, then blushed furiously.

“Procreation works differently with the Angels,” Adam said, and stopped when he saw Michael and Raphael approaching. “It's a long story.”

Actually, it wasn't long at all. Angel babies were born through the mating bond of their parents – basically, Kate was a brain child. She had formed out of a little part of Michael, infused with some of Adam's spirit.

But it would have been embarrassing to say all that in public.

“Say hi to your uncle Sam, Kate,” Adam prompted her again, and she turned towards Sam with sudden interest. Through her bond with Adam, she gleamed what an 'uncle' was – and she immediately wanted to go into Sam's arms. “Oh, sweetie, I'm not sure Uncle Sam wants that.”

“What? No, I, uh- I can hold her,” Sam said when he saw her reaching for him.

Adam looked at him sharply. “Angel telepathy works through touch,” he cautioned.

Or at least it was only ever used through touch. Adam was pretty sure that Kate could reach him even without touching, though her reach wasn't very long. So maybe it was both a skill issue as well as a societal norm that limited it to touching.

“Oh, uh...” Sam looked less certain now about holding his niece. Adam kept her against his chest, lightly rocking her.

“She's beautiful,” Commander Troi said kindly.

When Michael approached, Kate let some of her Angel appearance bleed through, startling the assorted humanoids. Adam didn't mind – he loved her in any form she could take, and if she had never looked like him at all, that would have been fine, too.

Once Kate was in Michael's arms, she turned fully back to her Angel appearance, that mostly faceless, vaguely humanoid shape.

For a moment, Adam wondered what others saw when they looked at them – what Sam saw as he stared with mild disgust. But Adam only saw Michael and Kate, the two people in the world he loved most. Not that he minded the appearance of other Angels – perhaps he had, once upon a time, but he had lived among them for long enough to get used to it.

“Well, this is a surprise,” Captain Riker said. “The first interspecies baby before we even officially made First Contact.”

“I'm not sure she has any of my genes,” Adam said, and grinned when Michael's face rippled at their old argument. Then his eyes softened when he focused back on Kate. “But yeah, she's definitely both of our daughter.”

“Well, Lieutenant Winchester.” Captain Riker lightly slapped Sam's back. “How does it feel to have a little niece, huh?”

Sam just kept staring, but the puppy dog eyes were coming back.

Great.

The Titan soon returned to Federation space.

They would be back to take any other survivors of the Cassiopeia who wanted to leave Angel space, and to further discuss a bond with angelkind. Michael wondered what Jack would decide with regards to that – he had put his own suggestion into the briefing which was sent to Caelum, of course, but who knew what God would decide.

Not that it mattered much, though Adam might be sad if God refused the connection. Still, it wouldn't have any bearing on Adam being home, right here with Michael, with their little family.

Because he loved Michael, and Michael loved him, and they both loved Kate so much it was sometimes unbelievable.

And maybe one day Raphael would be less awkward about their bond, and Gabriel would be close again, and Lucifer would have forgiven Michael. Then, their family would be even more complete – but it was already perfect.

#I had to do it. I had to.#The second show/franchise that gives me brainworms helloooo #spnarchangelweek #Midam #Kid fic I guess

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zodiactalks · 6 months

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These 4 Zodiac Signs are Most LIKELY to START a FIGHT

Attention, all hot-headed signs! You’re getting called out today. Whether we’re looking at the zodiac sign most likely to tell someone a piece of their mind, the first ones to post a mean comment on someone’s photo just to get a kick, or the first ones who will actually fight to the death over something trivial, today we’re covering the most violent zodiac signs.

It’s not that they want to be like this, but the skies bestowed them the uncalled for honour of being the ones with the shortest fuse. These are the signs that love revenge, that are quick to take their earings off as soon as someone breathes in their direction, and that will stop at nothing short of blood. #1. Aries

You must have seen this one coming. These hot-headed monsters are ruled by the God of war himself, Mars. It certainly does not help that they’re the very first zodiac sign of the wheel, where the energy of creation just explodes into a fiery, yelling, ugly-crying mess. Not only are these zodiac signs quick to anger, but they love fighting in all of its forms.

Did you take a bit too long to answer their text? You better find shelter, quick. A cashier made a mistake to their order? A manager needs to come and deflect the situation before the whole joint perishes in an unknown cause fire.

Of course, Aries are total sweethearts, but they’ve got way too much energy to be able to handle it properly, especially when someone is chewing so loudly next to them. The audacity! #2. Capricorn OK, hear me out. They won’t jump to bite someone’s face off for no reason, but Hell has no fury like a mad Capricorn. They will use their expertly crafted replies to get the worse of you out and then call you a baby for getting mad. Of course, you getting mad is exactly what they were after because, at that point, they will obliterate you with the wittiest, snarkiest remarks. And if you were stupid enough to actually start a fight, you already lost. But they won’t back down, even if you’re two times their size. A Capricorn will fight to the grave, and they’ve got every chance to win because we hear they can conjure up entire armies of demons in the blink of an eye. That’s probably not true, but I would certainly not risk it and let them have the last word. #3. Leo Leos are certainly cute, fluffy fur babies. They love to be comfortable, and they generally want to be liked. So they’re not going to start a fight for no reason. The only problem is that what they consider a good enough reason is wildly different from what a reasonable person would think.

They are most likely to fight someone that came up to a party dressed like them or put pesky trolls in their place when they’re commenting something negative under their pictures.

While physical fights are not their go-to weapon - mostly because they don’t want to ruin their clothes or makeup, they are masters of witty insults and sarcasm. There’s no one quite as sassy as a Leo, so your best chance is hitting them and running well before they’re able to insult you. #4. Libra

For anyone who does not know, Cardi B is 100% Libra. They’re tempted to yell “What was the reason???” way more than they like to admit. Although Libras are one of the most diplomatic and tactful signs of the zodiac, they only have two moods: complete, serene calm, and hellfire.

The scales can only hang in one direction, and if there’s something that throws them off balance, you better believe there’s going to be some turbulence before their stoic calm has returned.

But you don’t need to fret. While they’re very likely to pick a fight and yell with their whole pulmonary capacity, these social butterflies are usually just talking. They will threaten you with their heels, but as soon as there’s any real danger, you can catch them getting a cab sooner than you can say “Manolos”.

#Zodiac #Zodiac Signs #Zodiacs #zodiac facts #zodiacsign #astrology #astrology signs #Aries #Aquarius #Cancer #Capricorn #leo #libra #Gemini #virgo #Pisces #Sagittarius #taurus #scorpio

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ainarosewood · 15 days

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Rage

FFxivWrite2024 Day 8 Prompt: Free Write

In the back of Ruru's mind she knew full well this was stupid that she shouldn't be doing it like this. But the Garlean bastard's complete dismissal of her allies combined with seeing Y'shtola prone coated in blood unmoving had made her blood boil. In an instant she had snatched her Red Mage soul stone from her pouch and her aether flared violently reflecting the rage she felt as she lunged forward recklessly striking with everything she had.

The fact that the crown prince seemed completely bored with her vicious onslaught only infuriated her further, causing her to completely lose her head in battle. Something that small part of her brain was screaming at her for it. This was a greenhorn mistake and she knew it but she ignored that little voice in favor of showing this asshole that they were a force to be reckoned with.

She continued striking and the prince finally seemed to have enough for he blasted her back with a burst of artificially created aether then lunged at her slashing down with his katana. As the red hot pain flashed through her breaking her reckless rage she swore he heard Tal's voice shouting "Ru No!" With that she tried to call up the Shield of Light to deflect the backstroke of the katana which she found her reflexes just slightly too slow to prevent the damage but just quick enough to deflect most of it.

Once the prince finished his strikes he started to sneer at her until his katana broke in half. He then straightened and turned and walked away the Skulls slinking off with him. Ruru knelt there panting as Raubahn rushed up and she saw him briefly look like he was going to draw on the crown prince but seeing her down severely wounded and several other wounded he stayed his hand and asked, "Are ye hurt lass?"

"Mostly my pride," she wheezed as the Serpent conjurer who had ran up with the general began to heal her. She reached into her pouch and grabbed her White Mage stone shifted to the class and waved the conjurer off saying, "I've got myself. See to her shes worse!"

With that she pointed to Y'shtola who now had both Alphinaud and Krile at her side with Krile healing her and Alphinaud taking care of Conrad. The conjurer looked torn for only a moment before nodding and rushing to aid Krile.

Ruru then focused and quickly closed her wounds before pushing herself up and running over too. Krile barely started to ask before she started pouring healing into the prone Miqo'te. She channeled the energies trying to focus on the woman she saw before her pushing the image of a different Miqo'te lying there from her mind.

This will be different, she will live. She has to live! she told herself silently as she and Krile together slowly closed the wounds to a point where Shtola could be safely moved. As everyone prepared to move out Ruru followed slowly mentally berating herself

That was so stupid. I know better than to just charge in like that! What the hell was I thinking.

Deep down she knew what happened. She hadn't been thinking, she just wanted to hurt the bastard for being so dismissive and hurting people overtly for the sake of it. It sickened her to her core that someone could be like that.

For her entire life she had strove to protect people to save them from the dangers of the world. When she fought a foe she tried to make the battle quick and concise. Desiring only to end the threat be it driving them off or if necessary killing them. The Lalafell was not a fan of killing unless absolutely necessary. Killing to hunt for food sure was definitely she didn't hesitate with. Killing to protect people from harm absolutely would do if necessary. But she never once wanted to kill just for the "fun" or "thrill" of it.

The fact that he thought to compare them, to claim they were the same infuriated her almost as much as his dismissal of everyone had. She trudged along after the group as they fell back to Castrum Oriens her entire body aching from her wounds but she didn't bother with any furthering healing on them. Nothing was life threatening and the pain was a good reminder not to be stupid as she had told many a green adventurer who had gotten hurt due to stupidity.

Several times the Serpent Conjurer Vounex tried to come up to further heal her, But she waved him off each time in favor for one of the Ala Mhigans from Rhalgar's Reach. She knew deep down he was simply doing his job but she felt his energies better spent on the others. She had healed herself enough to keep going.

We're gonna need to figure out what were going to do now. So many were felled in that fight and those that weren't are in no condition to fight. she thought to herself as they walked, We're gonna need allies….the Far East maybe? Im sure Doma is itching to throw of the imperial yoke and a fight on both fronts for the Garleans will force em to streatch their forces thin.

She made up her mind long before they reached the Castrum she would suggest if not insist that they take the fight to Doma. It would be a good way to weaken the Garlean's holds on both regions and gain them like minded allies.

#FFxivWrite2024 #FFxivwrite #lalafell #dunesfolk #crystal data server #mateus #veteran

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lacrymatoryao3 · 8 months

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Redemption Was Just The Beginning

Chapter 8: New Years Day, 1900

[1][2][3][4][5][6][7]

To the world, Arthur Morgan is dead. As he tries to face the idea, in a lush valley in Ambarino he comes face to face with a woman from his past, and they must reckon with an era long gone. Especially when she has secrets of her own.

(Rated explicit simply because eventually there’s smut in this.)

Tag: @photo1030

1,824 Words (AO3 Link)

It seemed like only one of Ana’s dreams. One of the fleeting moments where she could be against him. His chest rose and fell calmly, the occasional snore or mutter from whatever he himself was conjuring up in his own mind. His heartbeat was strong and steady. She could feel his large hand on her shoulder, his thumb stroking at the fabric of her dress. It was too cruel of life for her to wake from it, in her big bed by herself.

It was such a pretty dream…

She opened her eyes with an agonized groan, from being ripped away from the imaginary version of him and the pounding headache from her overindulgence from the party. She rolled onto her back, squeezing between her eyes for a moment of relief from the pain.

She awoke Arthur in the process, snapping him into reality feeling every human emotion at once. He blinked a few times, finding her trying to fend off the worst of hangovers to minimally function. An all to familiar experience.

He scratched at the stubble on his jaw, “Mornin’.”

Ana’s eyes widened in surprise, snapping to his groggy face. It hadn’t been just a dream, and given how things went the night before a panic shot through her that made her temporarily forget her suffering. She shot up, nearly falling out of the bed from how sudden she lurched away from him.

“W-what happened here?” She cried, her pulse racing in terror. As much as she desired it, losing herself in that way when so heavily inebriated was a fear worse than injury or death.

“Nothin’.” Arthur replied sedately, “You know I wouldn’t do anythin’ like that. Especially with how drunk you was. Would’ve been wrong.”

Ana sighed in relief, falling back onto the pillows. It took some of the fright away, “So… How did we end up like this, exactly?”

It wasn’t a shock to Arthur that she didn’t remember much, or anything. He didn’t know how to explain everything that happened, but he also felt like she was owed it, “You asked me to stay with you.”

“You didn’t have to. You could have gone when I fell asleep.”

“You were in a bad way by the time we got back. I didn’t feel right just dumping you and leaving you.”

Ana laid there rubbing her forehead. She regretted not making a pot of menudo the previous night for breakfast. She sighed, unable to to feel too sorry for herself. Her body felt like it was made of lead, using the little energy she had to try to roll out of bed.

Arthur caught her by the shoulders, pushing her back down, “Oh no you don’t. You rest for once. I’ll take care of breakfast and get you something to help.”

Ana wanted to protest. She wasn’t fragile. She had toughed out more than a bad case of alcohol withdrawal, but she knew how he was. She instructed him where things were, especially the medicines she kept in the kitchen cabinet. She screwed her eyes shut, letting her body float around around without moving. It made Arthur comfortable enough to gather his clothes and leave the room.

He made quick work of taking care of himself, getting dressed in his own room. He caught his reflection in the mirror of his shaving station, about to open his mouth to criticize his appearance like he often did before stopping and shaking his head. There was no time for that. He went to the kitchen and gathered the remedies for Ana to feel better. He took a tea spoon and a glass. He grabbed a bottle of Doc Crockett’s Miracle Tonic and a bottle of medical bitters. He placed them onto a tray and set the glass on the counter. He cracked an egg in his hands over the waste basket, removing the slimy whites from the yolk and gently sliding it into the glass so it didn’t break. He added to it a few dashes of hot sauce and Worcestershire sauce with a pinch of salt and pepper.

He brought them up to her before going back to the kitchen to figure out what he was going to do. Living outside most of his life, usually having someone do the cooking for him and if they weren’t around only roasting a random and crudely cut of meat from whatever animal he killed, wasn’t conducive to working in a kitchen alone. He knew how to make black coffee. He had eggs, scrambling them wouldn’t be too hard. He could easily open one of the cans of strawberries. There was some bread rolls and a block of cheese on the counter in a basket. Going into the ice box he produced some bacon he could fry.

The next challenge came with the stove. He opened every hatch and lifted every lid he could to figure it out. He had no idea where to put wood, or how to light it. It probably took a long time to warm up to do anything. He got frustrated about it quickly, taking his ingredients and tools into the living room. He sat in front of the fireplace, stoking it and adding new wood to it until the flames began to crackle brightly. He cooked eight pieces of bacon first, holding the pan above the fire and flipping them every minute or so until they were crispy but not burnt. He used the grease they produced to scramble up four of the eggs. He put them on a serving platter to cool while he prepared the coffee.

“I knew I should have told you how to get the range going.” He heard Ana’s voice announced beside him. He looked towards her. She had rallied and gotten dressed, though her face was still a bit haggard and exhausted.

“I must admit though,” She added, “I do admire your ingenuity.”

Ana helped him carry things back to the kitchen, instructing him for the future how the stove worked. They sat down an ate together, both thinking it nice to have time alone for once. They made idle conversation. She praised him for what he did, to which Arthur replied with a remark about how if she kept feeding him like she did he would need pants with a larger waist. She admitted she didn’t think that was at all a bad thing, believing he could benefit from putting on more weight. She remembered how old he was, 36 and going to be 37 at some point in July. She was 32, reminding him she was turning 33 in February though she didn’t want any big to do about it. It felt almost like old times, when they’d be sent away on some lead together. The money was nice, but the time spent talking and laughing freely was – at least for Ana – the favorite part of being away from the others. For the moment, they saw each other as they once were again.

“I got to ask, Anie.” Arthur said cleaning up the mess he made, “Did you mean all those things you said last night?”

She sipped her third cup of coffee, the inquisitiveness in her tone told him she had no memory of it, “Depends on what I said. You know how much of a fool I am when I’ve been drinking.”

Arthur smiled and nodded. There was a time at camp when they all had been drunk off some cheap spirit they stole off a stagecoach. Somehow Ana’s attention turned to Dutch. She slurred something along the lines he’d have been much happier if he had been born a woman, and was someone’s well kept wife. Everyone else thought it was hilarious, though Dutch himself was fuming. He avoided her for a good part of a week, if he needed to tell her anything he either sent Arthur, Hosea, or Susan to relay it.

He took a deep breath, going quieter as he said it, “That… That you’re still… In love with me.”

Ana paused, setting her cup on the table, “Of course I am. I always have been, likely always will be. The happiest moments in my life were with you. You gave to me one of the best things in the world, and that’s my… Our… Little boy. He’s always been like you.”

She got up and went to the sink, placing her hand on his shoulder. It seemed so tiny on his broad body, “What else did I confide?”

“You made a mention about Mary.” he replied.

Ana hummed seriously, “Did I? She had always been in the back of my mind, I suppose. Make no mistake, I do not hate Mary. I never had anything against her, she was a very nice woman. I wished it worked for you two. Like I said before I’m willing to-”

“That part of my life is long over.” Arthur interrupted, “It didn’t work, and it’s best if I put that behind me. Don’t worry about her… Please.”

He wasn’t sure if she believed him, but she didn’t bring it up the rest of the morning. She perked up considerably by the time they were ready to bring Arthur Francisco back home. The apartment the Liangs lived in was at the very top of the inn, making them go up two flights of stairs to get to their door. They were greeted by Mrs. Liang, who welcomed them inside with her usual warm hospitality. Everything was a mixture of the familiar and Oriental, from scrolls with dragons and Chinese writing to hand painted calligraphy. The children sat at a low table on cushions, using sharp knives to slice patterns into blood red paper.

Ana and Arthur joined Mr. Liang at another table. Mrs. Liang joined them carrying a tea set smaller than the Western ones, made of well sculpted clay and glazed to take on the pale green shine of jade. She poured a dark roasted Oolong tea into the handleless cups for them to drink with some dried Mandarin orange slices. They chatted casually until the tea was gone and the children finished the little projects they had taken on. Arthur Francisco presented his to Ana, a simple cutting resembling the petals of a lotus flower.

Both Ana and Arthur Francisco thanked the Liangs for letting him spend the night profusely before they started their return to their own home. The boy talked about everything he did while there on the way. Though the hangover was still making her miserable she didn’t let on around her son, still being the same supportive force. As Arthur followed behind them, he was reminded of the few memories he had of his own mother. It came with a sudden longing, a desire to wholly belong within what he was being offered.

Maybe Arthur did have a future, but he needed to fight hard for the one he wanted.

#rdr2 #arthur morgan #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 posting #rdr #red dead redemption #arthur morgan fanfiction #rdr2 arthur #rdr2 fandom #rdr2 fanfiction #red dead redemption 2 fanfiction #rdr2 community #red dead 2 #red dead redemption arthur #red dead redemption community #arthur morgan rdr2

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aquostrainer · 4 months

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Where my Power Rangers fans at? This is a mini project that spawned out of a random sketch over the course of a couple days...

Power Rangers: Rainbow

(I wanted to call it Prism, but I recently found out an unadapted Sentai team was labeled as the Prism Rangers in PR lore. Anyways...)

This concept is based on multiple things, mainly magic, the colors of the rainbow, elements and gemstones. These Rangers come from Earth and realms beyond to fight an enemy seeking to conquer the world across dimensions. I don't really have that much lore figured out so I'll just briefly explain the powers of the individuals Rangers:

1. The Ruby Red Ranger

No team can function without a solid leader. Therefore, the Red Rainbow Ranger represents the element of Earth. Each Ranger is gifted a magical staff as the equivalent of their morpher, and this staff provides them varying levels of power to control their respective element. They can also cast a transformation spell upon their staff to become a specialized weapon. Red Rangers are often relegated to wielding swords, so I wanted something unique that still filled that niche. Red can summon a shovel that acts as a close combat weapon or a sidearm. Its main ability allows her to cause destructive tremors in the earth. I imagine this character as a roughly 19-year-old college student.

2. The Amber Orange Ranger

Like the rainbow, I wanted every other Ranger to function as a transition from one to the next. Quick spoiler: Yellow represents the element fire. So, my idea of a combination of Earth and Fire is Metal. As the second-in-command, Orange is tough as steel, and commands all metallic substances with his power. I had this loose idea of their weapons also reflecting their number in the team, so Orange can transform his staff into two, a hammer and a sword. Out of uniform, this character is probably one of (but definitely not thee) most different of the team because he is actually the 35-year-old metal/woodshop instructor at the college most of the characters attend. Besides the actual mentor figure (a talking rainbow dragon, did I mention that?) he often acts as a secondary mentor.

3. The Topaz Yellow Ranger

Yellow burns bright as the sun, so of course this Ranger commands the element fire. Typical of Yellow Rangers, he is a high-energy team player. Beyond being a Ranger, he is an athlete who mainly specializes in cycling (clock the shape of the helmet). This Ranger pushed me to think more outside the box with his weapon. He can conjure a three-barrelled device that functions as either a lantern or a flamethrower. I was thinking it could probably use a third function to remain on-theme, but I haven't come up with one yet... I imagine him to be 20-21.

4. The Emerald Green Ranger

Functionally the "heart" of the group, as green sits in the middle of the colors of the rainbow, this Ranger commands electricity. They keep the spirit alive! Again, I don't have much lore on these characters figured out. So far, this character is disabled (missing their left eye, wears an eye patch) and they're a tattoo artist. 21-years old. They have what I think is one of the coolest weapons of the group: a bo staff that collapses into a four quarter staff, but instead of being held together by chain links, it's electricity.

5. The Opal Cyan Ranger

There haven't been enough explicitly cyan Power Rangers for any kind of archetype to be applied to them, but mine is the youngest of the group, being a high school student who participates in a summer educational program at the same college. They represent the childhood amazement of superheroes, and for better or worse, they look at their work as a Ranger as a chance at having the best time of their life. They are a dancer who goes with the flow, seeking to experience all that life has in store. Maybe you've guessed, but they command the element of air. Their staff can transform into a weapon reminiscent of ribbons used in performance. This one can extend beyond its normal size like a lasso or a whip, and it can be used to conjure gale-force winds. 16-years-old

6. The Sapphire Blue Ranger

Blue, my favorite color! Surprise, surprise, she is the genius of the group. She majors in climate studies and seeks to be an environmental scientist. Her element is ice, an allusion to the archetype of Sentai Blue, who can be the cool, calm and collected types. I struggled with coming up with a weapon that represents the number six, so I just gave her a cool-looking pickaxe. But hey, if you look at the blade as a polygon, it does have six sides! 18-years-old.

7. The Amethyst Purple Ranger

The wild card of the group, this Purple Ranger hails from the aforementioned other realms before, presumably the same one the rainbow dragon comes from. Think of her as basically Wonder Woman or Nubia as a Power Ranger. She's a warrior who fights injustice and operates from a place of compassion. Functionally she is like the Pink Ranger of the team (although I have ideas for incorporating pink into the "special" Rangers for this team, haven't designed them yet). She commands the element of water, which can be gentle and healing, but also tempestuous and unrelenting. Her special weapon is a seven-pronged trident (probably not the right word cuz 'tri' is three, I know). Note the gold and silver blades, of which the silver are ejectable, harpoon-like projectiles. She's 22-ish.

Of my recent art, I'm genuinely most proud of this. As a newbie artist, you frequently look up every now and then and get a reminder of how much your skills have grown, and I feel like this marked a significant step in my journey. Again, this is hilarious to me because it all started as a random sketch. I had no intention of making the whole idea. Suddenly I found myself churning out each Ranger every two hours or so. It was fun. I wonder if I'll ever use them for a bigger project one day. Let me know if you like these 😁

#my art #fanart #art #comics #power rangers #super sentai #pride #pride month #artists on tumblr #digital art #digital illustration #digital drawing #digital artist

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theuniversalscat · 1 year

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Did you hear the latest?! (I’m starting a rumor…) Ellen is now changing her last name! She is not taking anyone else’s that I know of, because she doesn’t steal, as a matter of fact she’s extremely giving and philanthropic on many levels. She’s a person who opens her heart to love very readily, and celebrates life. It’s a very inspirational energy that she chooses to embody, which is cool, but, I digress; she will now be known not by a symbol, well, if it is a symbol, I don’t have a clue, but when you think of it it does conjure up a mental image, but it’s not technically a symbol per say…unless it is in another part of the world, and to that I claim ignorance not in a rude, mean way, but in a “I dunno cause never been exposed to it before and if I was then I’d know” way. So, if her new last name is a symbol, my apologies for not being up to date with what it may or may not be, depending on if it is or isn’t one.

Right! Now, what is this new gossip that is not currently going around about Ellen stealing but not a new last name that is or isn’t a symbol but does create a mental image that is different for everyone who thinks it?

First I must say, that I strongly oppose gossip, as it really isn’t an energy that furthers anyone’s happiness, it usually tends to drag everyone down…. Feel that?! I’m getting… slower… more muddled…. Less clear… quicksand-y. Why do they call it quicksand? If someone or something falls in there, you sink very very slowly, no? There’s nothing quick about it, really. And you yell, and usually no one is there to save you, BUT, there is usually a very old tree with a wispy vine JUST long enough for you to hold onto and pull yourself out, and a camera person to witness and film the whole ordeal, not help, mind you, just document the happenings (i think more camera people should get involved in helping instead of being a voyeur to shame the people who need help… it would really bolster the world’s positive vibration) so I can tell you this with somewhat authority. Whew! That was a close one! I narrowly escaped the quick slow sand gossip! Thank goodness for the proverbial “vine” of a “run on paragraph free association-thought process”, and quicksand moving on the slower side…

Ah yes! Ellen (not) formerly Degeneres, (not) changing her last name to something different. And no, it’s not Smith, cause Will and Jada and family have that, along with millions of others that they share with, and it’s not “Brooks” cause lord knows that’s a whole other non specific set of confusion right there! which Brook is it? How many are there, and Where? I mean… the absolute generalization of it all… I’ve discussed this at length, my own really, but it’s just too vague to continue without any concrete information that doesn’t come from myself… And Jones! There’s a whole truck commercial about all the joneses out there…

No, Ellen’s new “non” last name is extremely fitting to her chosen personality and positive energetic position…. And that new last name is…

George Carlin: Kari?

Kari: Yeah?

George: why the f*ck are you writing this about Ellen when there are a number of other non celebrity people out there that deserve the recognition?

Kari: Look George, I agree that there are a whole lotta people out there contributing a lot of wonderful things to the world behind the scenes, and Ellen was one of them before she hit it big. She has been through a lot trying to be her true self in both her public and private life without selling herself out, not to mention the fact but I will that cause I’ve already typed it that she’s also very kind to people, and I respect that. So that’s why.

George: Yeah. I agree she’s very cool. Proceed.

Kari: So, You’re giving me permission to continue?

George: sure. Don’t let me stop you.

Kari: you already did! You interrupted the flow of energy! The positive momentum I was creating…

George: you were saying that she was changing her last name. And that wasn’t true. Ellen is NOT changing her last name, people. She has been and forever will be Degeneres.

Kari: ok, I was trying to cleverly make a punny point with this piece, George. Now the flow is just caca…

George: it’s not done yet, Kari, turn this caca around…

Kari: that’s very “De-generous” of you, George. Does spelling count?

George: yes. And actually I heard that’s Ellen’s new-old last name….

Kari: you don’t say….

Scene. 👍😉

#life blogging #love #feel the love #love is all around #peace #love is #ellen degenerous #a Bieber is not a bird #not like a puffin #i celebrate #kind and degeneres

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autumnalwalker · 1 year

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Empty Names - 15 - Matters of Technique

Author's Note: I'd say something about Ashan's chapters always taking me forever to write, but this also ended up being the longest chapter yet by a wide margin. Maybe its because I tried to fit three separate action scenes? Barely finished in time to post for the "every other week" schedule I've tried setting for myself. This one also ended up being less "monster of the week" and more "villain of the week". Anyway, time for Ashan experimenting with casting from other magic systems and getting in fights with opponents who actually know what they're doing. Hope you like haikus. See the tags for more spoiler-y commentary in the tags. Word Count: 13,075 Content Warnings: "Genre-typical violence" in the form of a sparring match and a wizard duel. Magic mind control. Fantasy parallels to human trafficking. Mild swearing. Blood. A leg impaled by a spear. Mention of a character lit on fire. Implied but undescribed gore.

<-Previous Chapter Masterpost Next Chapter->

Ashan holds his wand upright before him, concentrating on willing an uncooperative flame into existence above its tip.

Eris paces the confines of the transparent dome holding her trapped, periodically striking out at the conjuration with a glyph-inscribed spear that leaves trails of frost wherever it makes contact.

Lacuna stands in her labcoat on the sidelines of the gym’s sparring ring, note-taking momentarily forgotten in the building anticipation of the duel’s tense lull.

Both combatants are trying something new this bout. For Eris, it is the test run of Lacuna’s first enchanted weapon. For Ashan, it is attempting a technique from Whispers of the Sun that he had found to be of particular interest whose mastery has so far eluded him.

For all that he has kept his frustration in check up until now, his repeated failures to replicate any of that tome’s spells has begun to gall. Any magic originating from a world operating on a similar conceptual schema to the one he trained with on Orthon inevitably manifests as one of that world’s purely destructive pyromantic evocations instead of the intended effect. Meanwhile, attempts at spells built around further-removed systems of rules simply sputter out and die no matter how much energy he draws upon to power them.

Hopefully the stress of battle - if only a mock one - will be the push he needs. His opponent’s confinement is merely buying him a moment of breathing room. Thus far in prior matches Eris has displayed a startling - if inconsistent - propensity for breaking through his conjurations with nothing but brute force. Even without the gloves she employed on the Culescun ship it is only a matter of time until she is on him again.

Curious then that now she is only making quick, light prods and slashes that never land in the same place twice.

Ashan reins his focus back to the flame; it is already split enough between that and keeping the barrier reinforced. Attempting to ‘draw out the fire from within’ as instructed has so far produced only the briefest of sparks, but what about a hybridized approach? Perhaps if he conjures the flame in a familiar way, combusting a point in the air and then feeding it ambient energy the same way he would his barriers, and then attempts to manipulate it the way the text said.

The air above the tip of Ashan’s wand catches alight like a candle. He directs more energy into the fire and the candle becomes a torch. The growing warmth on his face and hands contrasts sharply with the sudden chill at his back. While the office facilities are not without their own permeating aether field that he could be drawing from, best to focus these sparring matches on practicing with the power source guaranteed to be available wherever he goes.

With effort, he manages to tame the flame’s flickers into the pattern he memorized from studied diagrams. Pattern stabilized, he moves on to the step of ‘pouring his will into the fire’. The point of this spell is not to burn, but to entrance, capturing and drawing in the attention of onlookers like moths to a lantern. Not true mind-altering magic that would send the spell into the realm of sorcery by issuing commands or stripping a target of autonomy, but merely inducing a brief but intense calm to stop an attacker in their tracks until acted upon or line of sight is lost. Like any mage with a sense of ethics, the only time Ashan has ever broken that taboo is for the generally-accepted exception of Masquerade-preserving amnestic magic. Even with so unintrusive an effect as this one, Ashan warned Eris and Lacuna what he intended to attempt ahead of time despite the opportunity it would give Eris to steel her mind for resistance.

Staring into the fire before him Ashan admits to himself that there is an undeniable allure to the flame’s dance, but not one he would go so far as to call truly magical. Then again, it would be a poor spell unworthy of the Bridgewood library if it affected the caster. Only one true way to test.

Just then Ashan feels his barrier around Eris fail. The failure is not the shattering under pressure from raw force that she has accomplished before, the flicker of his own broken concentration, the fading of exhaustion, nor even the shredding or melting of dispelling countermagic. It is a sudden pinprick puncture followed by an unraveling that collapses the multiple reinforced layers from the inside out and makes him dizzy with the sensory backlash. The shock of the novel sensation is nearly enough to cause the fire above Ashan’s wand to go out.

The shattering cascade of ice falling without an invisible wall to hold it up snaps Ashan back to awareness just in time to sidestep the fist-sized chunk of ice that Eris kicked in his direction before it could hit the ground. The unsettling thought that there shouldn’t be enough humidity in this room for anything more than a thin dusting of frost to form crosses the wizard’s mind and then the warrior is upon him.

Even after four duels with her prior to this one, the speed and precision with which Eris moves for a combatant of her size and build continues to catch Ashan off guard, especially now that she is wielding a weapon to further leverage those qualities. Thrust after thrust after slash, it is all Ashan can do to dodge the strikes while simultaneously maintaining his concentration on unfamiliar magic. It has been a long time since he last found himself dancing with an opponent rather than around them.

He does indeed however manage to keep that flame burning bright and steady while he holds it between himself and Eris. So far however, it seems to be failing at its purpose; instead of becoming entranced and slowing - much less stopping - her assault, she just keeps looking straight through the flame and into Ashan’s eyes, predatory grin across her face all the while.

Ashan tries to alter the conjured fire on the fly as variables come to mind. Color, brightness, size, pattern, flicker frequency, aetherial composition; none of it produces the desired hypnotic effect. He is just about to give up on the experiment in favor of focusing on reclaiming a chance at winning the duel when Eris shifts the grip on her weapon and changes up her style of attack, abandoning the spear thrusts in favor of flowing swings as if she were wielding a staff.

Against anyone else the sudden stylistic shift might have had the desired effect of unbalancing Eris’s opponent, but for Ashan it simply kicks a long-dormant set of reflexes into play. His mentor favored staves over wands for spellcasting implements and melee combat with them had been a persistent, if relatively minor, part of his training even after he switched to a wand for casting. This is a dance whose steps are well known to Ashan Glassheart, and for all Eris’s strength and speed, she is not half the accomplished staff fighter that Aliana Glassgaze is.

The styles may not be identical, but there is enough similarity that Ashan finds himself slipping back into the old, unthinking rhythm easily enough that he can manage to conjure short-lived shields to parry strikes away from him into the ground and nimbly leap over the follow-up sweeps at his legs. Despite this, Eris’s grin only grows wider, showing ever more teeth. Their dance sends Ashan’s mind’s eye back to his mentor’s expressions at times like this. In most fights, she would seem to enjoy them much as Eris does now, but perhaps without the feral tinge. The laughing banter that infuriated most of her foes made it all seem like one big fun game to her, and by extension to Ashan. It was only when against the truly dangerous adversaries when stakes were high or on the rare occasions that Ashan got hurt that Aliana’s face took on the intensely cold and faraway look that was half the reason for her epithet of Glassgaze.

Ashan is picturing that expression, single-minded and unfocused all at once, when something about the flame he has been carrying changes in a way he cannot identify. Eris slows to a stop, staring into the fire as tension drains from her face. Ashan fails to suppress a shiver from the precipitous drop in temperature. Ambient heat energy flows through and out of Ashan as magic, building in power to something new and grand.

The flame above the tip of Ashan’s wand flickers and goes out.

The moment of near-revelation lasted less than a second before ending in anticlimax.

The shaft of Eris’s spear cracks into the upper part of Ashan’s off arm, encasing it in ice and knocking him to the ground.

Ashan mentally scrambles, trying to get the flame back as it was right before it disappeared. It returns as a roaring jet of fire that engulfs Eris and momentarily blinds Ashan from the unexpected brightness. He barely sees the spear swinging down at him in time to roll out of the way. Now held with its full length flat against the floor by a notably unburnt Eris, the glyphs lining the spear pulse with a chilly blue light. Mist condenses in the air. Ice spreads across the ground, bulging up into low walls in the spots where earlier deflected blows previously left trails of frost.

Ashan attempts to stand up, slips, and attempts to conjure a support to catch himself on. A cold pain shoots through his arm in absence of sufficient surrounding air and ground temperature for the spell to draw from. He gasps and the conjuration flickers out, dropping him back to the frozen floor. The cold sharp point of a spear presses against his neck without breaking the skin.

“That makes three to two,” Eris says, “my favor.”

She pulls the spear away and offers a hand to pull Ashan to his feet.

The next several minutes are spent cleaning up the generated ice and moving it from the gym’s sparring ring to the lab’s testing chamber for disposal. All the while, Lacuna chatters excitedly, going back and forth between commenting on how ‘cool’ it is to watch her teammates go at it and asking Eris questions about how well the spear performed. Apparently the whole length of the spear being able to freeze on contact rather than just the spearhead was an unintended side effect rather than a designed feature.

“Where does all the ice come from?” Ashan asks as the testing chambers close, leaving said ice to safely melt into the chamber’s cleaning system.

Lacuna tilts her head to the side. “What do you mean? It’s an enchanted ice spear; it freezes things and makes ice. Well, maybe more like it manifests the idea of freezing things? In theory, based on the simulation results it should be able to totally encase someone and just put them in stasis to be thawed out later no worse for the wear, unlike normal ice. Haven’t figured out an ethical way to actually test that though, so probably best not to try it.”

“But where is the water for all that ice coming from?”

Lacuna shrugs. “I don’t know, same place as your barriers and fire?”

“My conjurations are all simply energy manipulation,” Ashan corrects that terrifying answer. “The barriers are pure impartations of kinetic friction onto an area of space with no material component. The fire is the controlled ignition of the oxygen in the air. The frost and mist that often forms around me is merely a side effect of rapidly lowering the ambient temperature to fuel those other processes causing the same changes on humidity the same as any mundane overnight cold front would. What it is not is a violation of the conservation of mass. Or at least, not beyond the limits of an anchor world’s ability to stretch.”

“Ooohhh, so that’s the difference between conjuring and summoning,” Lacuna says. “Fascinating. I’ll need to go take a look at some of the source rituals the program drew from for the enchantment sequence later.”

Ashan dearly hopes that whatever that spear is doing is only a variation of summoning. But even then, where is that water being summoned from? An elemental plane? The nearest ocean? A random comet orbiting the solar system? For all any of them know it could be ripping the bodily fluids from some unknown, distant victim, killing someone every time the spear’s magic is used. That last one is highly unlikely with the Autogenesis Principle in play, but the point is that Lacuna is casually experimenting with magic that would normally take experienced mages and enchanters decades to master without even knowing the answers to such basic questions about how it works. When Ashan asked her several days ago what such complex, high-output rituals use as a power source for their casting without a strong ambient aether field, ley lines, or other such element lacking from an anchor world (even a pocket dimension with loosened anchoring such as this), she had given the frankly horrifying answer that the power generation issue had been solved before she joined the project and she had never gotten around to reviewing that part of the legacy code so she just took it as a given that it worked safely and stably.

Ashan is just about to bring the matter up again when Lacuna takes a seat in front of her workstation and says “I actually got the idea for the ice spear from you.”

“From me?” Ashan asks.

Lacuna nods. “Well, that is, partly from you and partly from…” The last half of her sentence trails off into unintelligibility.

“Sis,” Eris prompts, “you’re mumbling again.”

“Sorry!” Lacuna not-quite-shouts. “It’s just that you and Road both have magic ways to easily subdue people without hurting them and I wanted to help Eris have a way to do the same, and then I got to thinking about something your outfit sort of reminded me of and looked up where I’d seen something similar and…”

Lacuna hands Ashan her phone, face blushing and not making eye contact. On the screen is a manga cover with the title Crystal Witch Arya. There, floating in the center of the screen with white staff pointed dramatically and a wry smile on her face is Ashan’s mentor. The face is artistically stylized and the real Aliana was never so well-endowed as this fictional “Arya” character, but otherwise the resemblance is uncanny. The midnight blue hair, the robe Ashan’s own was patterned after, the broad-brimmed white hat he had never incorporated into his own style, even the patterns carved into the staff; all of it certainly drawn by someone who met her.

Ashan thinks back to all the cases of mistaken cosplay identity this past convention season and groans.

“Sorry, I know it’s kind of cringe, copying from something like this,” Lacuna says. “I shouldn’t have made the comparison to you.”

“No it is not that,” Ashan assures her. “My mentor never was any good at amnestic spells. It would seem that someone she rescued remembered well enough to capture her likeness.” He taps on the phone, skimming through questionably scanned and fan-translated pages and cringing at the inaccuracies in personality and magic. “Albeit not well enough to be accurate about much of anything else.”

Eris laughs. “So you’re telling me that Crystal Witch Arya is a real person and you trained under her?”

“Her name is Aliana Glassgaze, but yes, this character does appear to be based on her.” Ashan glances down at a panel of Arya intoxicated at a bar and flirting with a witch dressed all in black. “Very, very loosely based.”

Knowing his mentor, she probably reads every issue and laughs the whole time. The more uncomfortable implication is that she came back to this world after he left her on Orthon.

“Oh this is just too perfect,” Eris says with barely contained mirth, looking back and forth between Ashan and Lacuna.

“And why is that?” Ashan asks.

“Oh, no reason.”

Lacuna sinks into her chair, drawing her feet up onto the seat with her, red faced, and muttering something about “ruined cosplay plans.” She bolts upright at the sound of the lab door opening.

“These are my friends I told you about,” Road says from the doorway. “You’ll be safe here.”

Out in the hallway a beautiful young man nervously clutches subtly webbed fingers around the edge of the sealskin draped over his shoulders.

*******

Four hours later Ashan stands at the edge of a west-coast forest looking down a hill at a mansion. With the timezone difference it is still only mid afternoon here. The mansion is of a modern design and after Bridgewood Manor looks almost quaint by comparison with its mere two floors and swimming pool. As expected, no one stirs on the property, for the inhabitants, staff, and prisoners are all in the phase-shifted pocket dimension mirroring mundane space but invisible to normal means of detection.

Road and Eris flank him, both fully armored, Road in their uncanny symbiote that’s taken on an almost mechanical look with a metallic sheen and overlapping geometric plates of green and purple, and Eris in her freshly crimson-painted tactical gear. Unlike Road, her face is still visible through her visor and she looks about ready to do murder as she sets down the knee-high drone sent by Lacuna and unslings the spear from her back. To Ashan’s eyes, the drone looks like nothing so much as a blocky, headless parody of black dog.

On the other side of Road is the dryad-turned-minor-harvest-goddess that brought them here and will soon be piercing the phase-shifted veil for their party. From what Ashan has gathered over the past few hours, she was once in a similar situation to the poor souls they are here to save before Road and the Bridgewoods rescued her some years back and is more than eager to repay the favor. She is yet to speak her name and if Road knows it they are not sharing.

“Let’s review the plan one more time before we head in,” Road’s voice resonates from their helmet. “Down there is the home of a wizard going by the alias of Logos. Once our fair lady of the green shifts us over to the true mansion our job is first to retrieve the various items binding the house servants to his will and then to escort them back here where they can be spirited away to safety.”

Mellírd, the selkie Road brought into the office, had recounted a tale that neither Eris nor Road were willing forestall acting upon for more than the minimal amount of time it took to throw a rough plan together. According to him, this Logos individual has amassed a fortune over the years through bargaining, tricking, coercing, and stealing his way into the possession of objects that would grant him power over the beings they were bound to and then selling those objects - and by extension the people - to wealthy buyers. Mostly it was selkies like Mellírd, swan maidens, and other shapeshifters who had animal skins to step in and out of to change, but from time to time others with more esoteric tokens would be captured and bound as well. In every case, these tokens were no mere items but part of their rightful owners just as much as their hearts or brains. Those still waiting to be sold were made to serve in Logos’s home, or worse, sent out to lure in others of their kind.

Mellírd managed to steal back his skin and escape while in transit to a buyer and in the following days was spotted mid-shapeshift by a photographer who posted his image on an on set forum for cryptid sightings. Lacuna tagged the story as a potential Masquerade breach, and passed it to Road who followed it up after noting that Mellírd looked distressed in the photo. As soon as they got him to safety and filled in the rest of the team, preparations of the now-imminent infiltration and extraction commenced.

“Thanks to Mellírd,” Road continues, “we know that Logos keeps the binding items in a display case on the second floor and we have a headcount of everyone that we’ll need to return those items to so they can leave. For the safety of the people we’re rescuing, we’ll be doing this as stealthily as possible. Or priority is getting them out; dealing with Logos can come later. Now then, does everyone remember their roles?”

Eris speaks up first. “Rescuee escort and protection. And subdual if required.”

“Detecting and disabling wards,” Ashan says, “in addition to running interference if Logos catches on.”

“Remember,” Road says, “if it comes to a fight just play for time until we give the signal that everyone is out. We can’t risk him feeling threatened enough to start using prisoners as shields. Lacuna?”

“Right! Sorry. Was running last-minute checks on my end. The remote mobile concealment rituals should be good to go. Also, I’ve got Mellírd set up in the testing chamber for observation with cleansing rituals queued up in case any lingering linkage back to Logos flares up.”

“And I shall be ensuring your way out and ferrying any who escape to my demesne.” The trees shake in time with the cadence of each word spoken by the fair lady of the green. “As much as I would prefer to do more to make this mortal pay, you are correct that rescue must come before retribution, but tarry not in this foul place lest you still be here when that hour of vengeance comes.”

Road nods. “Consider that warning heeded.” They turn to look down at the drone. “Everyone gather in close. Lacuna, show us what you can do.”

A screen on the drone’s back lights up with the most horrendous mess of a glyph circle that Ashan has ever seen. To even call the tangled, spiraling mess of overlapping arcane symbols a circle is generous. To his trained wizard’s eye there are a few scattered and warped fragments that look as if they belong in a visual concealment ritual, but much of the rest that is not gibberish looks to be warped pieces of unrelated functionality. At a glance he can make out an arc from the start of most divination drawings there, a temperature modulation glyph there, and what looks like a complete miniaturized pattern for a common housecleaning ritual embedded in the middle of a spiral in the corner of the screen. When what sounds like Lacuna’s voice speaking in an untranslatable tongue starts playing from a speaker and then speeds up into a high-pitched electronic buzz, Ashan is convinced that the whole thing is going to explode and take them with it. His head certainly feels like it is about to.

“Is it working?” Eris asks.

Ashan focuses his sense for magic and the ensuing nausea from trying to perceive the incomprehensible mess of warped reality flowing from the drone sends him staggering backwards. And then the noise - audio, mental, spiritual, and aetherial - is gone, along with his companions. The buzz of the accelerated chant has stopped, ambient magical fields are normal, and the grass everyone should be standing on does not even appear to be bent. He puts a hand forward to where he had just been standing and the hand stays visible, the shadow cast by the afternoon sun that should be falling across a presumably invisible Eris’s knees projects onto the ground unobstructed.

Ashan steps back into position and suppresses a gasp as everyone, the noise, and the headache all snap back into existence without transition.

“It works,” he confirms, “however unorthodox it may be.”

“Here we go then,” Road says. “And remember, no names once we’re in. Mellírd implied that Logos has at least some experience with nominal magic for exerting further control over those already in his clutches and we don’t know what else he can do with it.”

Their fair lady of the green raises her arms, puts the backs of her hands together, and then flings them apart as if throwing wide unseen gates. The trees behind them shake, the air before them trembles, and the mansion down below appears in misaligned, translucent double. Her hands drop to her sides and everything stills. The double image of the mansion snaps into alignment. Figures now move in the windows and mill about the poolside patio while a lone gardener trims topiary at the front of the house that had not been there a moment ago and two figures in antique metal armor stand flanking the front door.

The drone begins loping down the hill toward the manor at a pace just slightly too fast for comfortable walking and much too fast for comfortable sneaking while Ashan, Road, and Eris try to stick close to it. Halfway to the mansion the drone comes to an abrupt halt that causes Ashan to bump into it and Eris to nearly walk out of the range of its veil. The pulsating buzz of the accelerated chant changes subtly and the glyph circle loses all claim to calling itself that shape as it begins growing new branches of symbols and folding in on itself.

“What’s it doing?” Road asks.

“Sorry. Hit a ward. Adapting,” Lacuna’s voice comes over the line in clipped tones. “Okay. We’re good.”

The drone starts walking again. Ashan takes a step forward and feels the ward that he should have sensed far sooner. Would have sensed were it not for the horrid metaphysical noise surrounding him. In any other circumstance he would be worried about having tripped it and chiding himself for not being more aware of his surroundings, but here and now he is too busy being torn between awe, disgust, and horror at the way the glyphs shifted. One does not simply change a ritual in progress! And to do so on one so chaotically complex… Gods, is she trying to kill them all?

Road’s face is still hidden beneath their helmet so Ashan cannot get a read on their reaction to what just happened. The concerned expression on Eris’s face gives him some hope that she at least might have picked up on how utterly reckless that maneuver was, but her words quickly bury that possibility.

“Nice job. How you holding up sis?”

“Thanks. Fine. Shush. Concentrating.”

Approaching the front door, it becomes apparent that the armored figures are in fact empty suits of armor. In Ashan’s experience that is a sign that they are more of a threat, not less, particularly given that they are in front of the main entrance to a wizard’s abode and clashing with the decor.

“Move us to the back,” Road says. “Might be an already open door if the pool is in use.”

“Okay. Please shush.”

To call the pool “in use” proves to only be partially accurate in the sense that it is occupied by two mermaids that appear to be twins, one consoling the other at the edge of the water as she cries. A man in a servant’s uniform with a selkie’s webbed hands scrubs the other end of the patio deck next to another suit of armor, pointedly looking in any other direction. The drone is halfway across the patio when another uniformed man, this one with fox-red hair and yellow eyes, exits the sliding glass doors on the backside of the mansion carrying a tray of raw fish filets. Ashan and the others follow the drone through the open door as the man sets the tray down and joins in consoling his fellow prisoner.

None of these people pay the intruding party the slightest notice.

Once inside the only other person they encounter on their way upstairs to the display case is a selkie woman at a bar furiously muttering about “polishing the same sun-blasted clean cups every drowned day.” That makes all but one target accounted for and still no sign of Logos. With any luck, he will hold to the routine Mellírd indicated and not wake up until an hour or so before sundown.

Upstairs, the door to the second-floor study is wide open, providing unobstructed passage into a room flooded by sunlight from a wall-wide window silhouetting a stout mahogany desk with bookshelves to its right and a glass display case to its left. A fox’s pelt, two seal skins, a gown of swan’s feathers, paired driftwood carvings of a human and a mermaid, and a torc of woven grass. In most folk stories, such treasures would be carefully hidden away from their rightful owners who spend years searching for them to regain their freedom. It would take both arrogance and cruelty to display them openly like this, easily found but impossible to touch behind magical defenses.

Crossing the threshold causes the glyph pattern on the drone to shift for the seventh time since beginning the infiltration.

“We’re good. Close door,” Lacuna’s voice says once the drone reaches the center of the room.

Ashan waves a hand and the door swings shut.

“Thanks. Dropping veil ward.” The pattern goes dark and the noise stops, taking Ashan’s headache along with it. Lacuna’s long sigh sounds in his ear. “Sorry about that. For getting snippy earlier. Harder to concentrate on than expected with all the adjustments. Lot of concepts to hold in my head at once. Gonna need a minute before I do much else. Sorry.”

“It’s fine, you did great,” Road says and then turns to Ashan. “You’re up for getting the protections off the case.”

Ashan steps forward, wand drawn and holds it half an inch off the glass of the case. He blinks in surprise and then slowly traces a looping pattern back and forth along the length of the case.

“There is nothing there,” he says slowly.

“That was fast,” Eris says.

“No, I mean there is nothing there. The tokens are real so far as I can tell, but there is no warding on them.”

“A trap then,” Road says.

“No,” Eris growls. “It’s a flex. The bastard’s saying ‘Look all you want, but I don’t even need to lock it up because I’ve got your leash so tight.’ Mages. Probably didn’t even cross his mind that anyone else would even get this far.” She shoulders Ashan aside and slides the glass open. “Arrogant prick. It isn’t even locked.” She reaches inside and pulls out one of the driftwood carvings.

Ashan flinches, but detects no indication of a tripped ward. A quick divination spell fails to pick up any signal from a mundane electronic alarm either.

“We are clear,” he confirms.

Road nods and joins Eris in retrieving the items, taking the feather gown and the torc. “I’ve got my own ways to avoid detection so we’ll split these up. Eris, you and Ashan stick with the drone, get the people by the pool and head for the extraction point. I’ll track down -”

“I could have sworn I left this door open earlier.”

Everyone goes still at the sound of the voice outside and the turning doorknob. The drone lopes over to where they are standing and restarts the veiling ritual just in time for the door to open and give the feather-duster-carrying maid with pale hair a clear view of an empty room. She looks around for a moment in confusion before her gaze lands on the empty display case and her eyes go wide.

“Ma’am,” Road says, stepping into visibility with helmet retracted and proffering the swan gown, “I believe this belongs to you.” They give a soft, warm smile of reassurance. “You’re free now.”

The handle of the feather duster clatters on the floor. The swan maiden gasps, hesitates, and takes a shaky step toward Road with tears welling up in her eyes. She closes the distance and reaches a tentative hand for the feathered gown. For her true skin. For the stolen part of her self.

She pulls her hand back as if burned and clasps it over her mouth. She falls to her knees, sobbing. Now with both hands over her mouth she chokes back muffled words as well as tears. Road leans down close to her.

“What’s wrong?” they whisper. “How can I help?”

The swan maiden just shakes her head, hands still over her mouth, doubled over now and rocking with effort until her forehead nearly touches the floor. Road moves to drape the feather gown over her and she screams a cry more bird than human as she skitters away.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers before throwing her head back and screeching “THIEF! INTRUDER! HERE TO STEAL MASTER’S TREASURES!”

Three flicks of Ashan’s wand and the poor woman is gagged and bound before she can keep being used as a living alarum against her will. There was magic in those words tied back to the one who planted them in her. Even if the master of the house somehow failed to hear he still certainly knows.

Even restrained, the swan maiden struggles against Road’s attempt to return her skin until it is fully around her shoulders. She goes limp, eyes suddenly less frantic but still breathing hard. Ashan releases her bindings and she pulls the gown tighter around her. Into her. Before his still-hidden eyes she shrinks into a ball of white feathers until wings unfurl and a long, graceful neck rises up, proud and free, a swan once more. She looks back to Road and gives a snort of thanks.

“You’re welcome,” they reply with a nod.

Just as they finish hastily explaining the situation to the once-again-swan and shepherding her into the concealing veil around the drone, a sourceless masculine voice echoes throughout the mansion.

“It has come to my attention that we have an intruder in our lovely home. I’m afraid you all know what this means. I’m sorry, but you brought this on yourselves by allowing this miscreant to get this far.”

Servants by Token, Your very selves in my hands, Be as puppets now.

Servants bound by Name, Hearken to your master’s will. My word is your truth.

Servants and naught else, As the sun rises, my will, As sets, your action.

HEED!

“Now, defend your master’s home! To the death, if need be! Resist any attempts to take you away as if they were attempts on your life!”

The swan puffs up her feathers and shudders, but otherwise does not react to the spell and subsequent commands. Ashan takes that as a welcome sign that Logos’s mastery of nominal magic is not so much that he can command others by Name alone. It makes him feel a little bit better about what is about to come. He and Road look at one another and nod in unison.

“Please allow me time to engage this Logos before leaving this room,” Ashan says.

“Of course,” Road says. “The plan still holds. I’ll signal when everyone is clear.”

“Make him hurt for me,” Eris growls.

With one last nod of acknowledgment to the swan, Ashan steps out of the drone’s veil, slips his earpiece off and into his sleeve, and draws a barrier around himself. His next breath mists in the air. There is even less of an ambient field to draw from here than in the basement office, and if Logos is employing the system of magic that Ashan suspects after that incantation then that makes for an even larger home turf advantage than normal.

The doorway ward crackles with electricity at Ashan’s unveiled approach and he raises a second barrier behind him to shield the others before stepping through. Lightning meets forcefield and turns back on its source. With senses no longer awash with the noise of Lacuna’s travesty of a ritual, he picks out the weakest points of the ward, flicks his wand with a hooking motion and pulls. Safely unpicking a ward like this might take the better part of an hour but - as Eris is so apt at demonstrating - destroying one can be done in seconds, with one important caveat.

One must needs be prepared for the backlash.

A burst of light and noise leaves a ragged, scorched hole in the wall twice as wide as the erstwhile doorway. What parts of the room and outside hall are not burnt are covered in frost, and debris lays in a neat line halfway across the room where it collided with Ashan’s second barrier. The ring of carpet around Ashan’s feet is pristine. He drops the barriers and glides out into the hallway.

All starts with a spark. Grow it, nurture it, feed it, Send it blazing forth.

FIREBALL!

The roar of the flame hurtling toward Ashan is almost enough to cover the clang of metal footsteps behind it. He syphons the fireball down to a puff of hot air and repurposes the energy to lashing the charging suit of armor into place. Gauntlets to wall, greaves to corners of the floor, chestplate to the ceiling behind. He puts forward a clenched fist and then snaps it open, ripping the empty construct to pieces. A dismissive wave of that same hand sends the falling helmet crashing out the window and into the topiary before it can hit the carpet.

“That style,” says a blonde-bearded man in a knee-length maroon dressing gown at the other end of the hall, “so much flashy yet effective gesturing. Orthonian in origin is it not? Dancing Dream Paints I’ve heard the technique called.” He strokes his beard. “Yes, you must be the young Ashan Glassheart who’s been making waves lately.”

“You must be Logos,” Ashan says. A statement, not an answer. To answer would be to acknowledge his name to one who might wield it as his Name. “Was that Dorbreithan Long Chant just now? I have always heard it lauded for its power draw to output efficiency ratio but have never seen it in action until now.”

“At last, a proper connoisseur of mystic arts,” Logos laughs. “Why, I’m almost glad I didn’t kill you for trespassing already.”

Ashan allows himself the faintest of smiles. It seems like Logos is just like nearly every wizard he has ever met. The slightest bit of flattery and acknowledgment of their craft and they become all too eager to stop what they are doing and start talking shop. It was always one of his mentor’s favorite diversionary tactics. As much as she claimed to be immune to it herself, even she was nearly as easy to talk into showing off with a demonstration rather than an explanation.

“And fair passing glad am I to still be alive. Tell me though, is the use of nominal magic a native part of the tradition or your own hybrid innovation?”

“Caught that did you? As keen as the rumors say, I see. No, we can’t all be so lucky as to be born on an anchor world. But oh the wonders I could achieve if I were. Still, I think I do well enough for myself, mastering obscure branches of my home world’s traditions. And besides, what other style can match its raw poetic beauty?”

“What other indeed? I only lament that so much of that poeticism is lost in translation for me. I am told that even the name of the style is a lyric unto itself in its native tongue.”

“Such is ever the plight of interworld travel. But alas, as much as I would love a peer to speak of lofty arts into the small hours with, you are a thief and a vandal in my home and I have had my fill of stalling for time.”

“You think I would stoop to stalling?”

“No, but I would. Now let’s cut to the chase.”

A quick rotation on his heel and a spiraling conjuration sends Ashan to the ceiling just in time for three blades to pierce the empty air where he had been standing. He cups his hands and the three suits of armor that had tried to sneak up behind him are trapped in a dome. Three less guards to cause problems for the others. In the seconds it takes him to neutralize the one threat and then slide down a conjured rail toward Logo’s end of the hall another incantation is nearly complete.

Storm's wrath gathering, Glistening blades fall and scourge Earth lies bare, burnt clean.

LIGHTNING!

The air takes on an acrid reek of ozone and Ashan’s few unbound hairs raise from the gathering static. He drops the prior conjurations to wrap himself in an opaque cocoon that slams into Logo’s evocation. He skids to a stop a mere yard from Logos and unspins himself from the cocoon, wand pointed at the enemy wizard and empty hand up and blocking off the corridor behind him. From here, the edge of a most-likely-enchanted-tattoo on Logos’s chest peeking out from beneath his robe is visible.

“One who goes by Logos,” Ashan says with a voice flat as a frozen lake. “For breaking the taboo of stealing autonomy I name you sorcerer. Surrender now and submit to your judgment.”

Logo’s expression does an impressively fast shift from shocked to smug. “By whose authority? This is an anchor world and I have not torn the Veil or broken the Masquerade or whatever silly term for secrecy you like. Nor have I committed a crime within the jurisdiction of any of the hidden city states.”

“By the code of honor amongst mages shared by all civilized peoples, including those of your homeworld. And on behalf of those who cannot fight for themselves.”

“Hah! Just a child playing hero then.” Logos shakes his head. “Given all I’ve heard about you, I suppose it was only a matter of time until it came to this. And if it wasn’t you it would have been that Road boy. Very well then. I suppose you’ll be wanting a formal duel?”

The idea truthfully had not crossed Ashan’s mind, but it works all too well for his role here.

“Indeed.”

“Stakes?”

“Upon my victory, you release all people, beings, and entities currently bound to you by magical means.”

“I figured as much. Stake accepted. Upon my victory, you speak to me your Name and allow me to bind you to my service.”

“Stake denied. Counteroffer: Upon your victory, I surrender unto you a book of spells taken from the private library of the sorceress Bridgewood.”

Logos’s eyes narrow. “You’re lying. Carnette Bridgewood never parted with the slightest morsel of her hoard during her life and the library’s been locked since her death.”

Keeping his wand still pointed at Logos, Ashan slowly reaches into his sleeve with his free hand and produces Whispers of the Sun.

“I swear on the Name of my teacher who named me, I speak the truth about the origin of this tome. Furthermore, I have read it and it contains at least one spell compatible with Dorbreithan magic.” Ashan returns the book to the safety of his robe’s sleeve. “Do you accept this stake?”

If the look on Logos’s face were any hungrier he would be slavering. Whatever price he is getting from trading in sapient flesh, this is knowledge money could never buy him. “Stake accepted. But first I must know how you came by it. Better to die than to inherit one of her curses from beyond the grave.”

“I have reached a mutually beneficial arrangement with the current Bridgewood and this tome is not cursed. That is more than you need to know.”

“Oh what dark secrets the little wizard in white hides,” Logos mocks. “Who would have thought Ashan Glassheart, the young wannabe hero, would be so close with the wife-killer?”

“As the challenged, you have the right to set the terms of the duel,” Ashan says, once again ignoring his name.

“Victory by forcing submission or incapacitation. Anything goes on magic forms. Retreat is forfeit. To be held outside my house. I’d rather avoid yet more property damage. And partisan outside interference is forfeit, while neutral is annulment. If the Golden Death is involved in any way, I’d just as soon not have a knife in my back mid duel. Do you accept these terms?”

“Terms accepted.”

Channeling power into their words to complete the specialized ritual, Ashan and Logos speak in unison.

“Stakes and terms agreed upon, I enter this duel of my own free will. Upon my magic, may this rite be upheld until a victor is found.”

*******

Several minutes later Ashan is standing halfway to the edge of the mansion’s phase shift border staring down Logos. Or perhaps staring up, given that the man is head and shoulders taller than him. And up close it is apparent just how well-toned the muscles beneath that ridiculous excuse for a robe are. A sign of another wizard who understands the importance of keeping the body in shape for a sharp mind, with none of the exaggerated bulk of novices attempting to shortcut transmutation enhancements on themselves.

The two duelists nod and take seven paces backwards without breaking eye contact. At the edge of the designated dueling field the intact three suits of armor from the hallway now stand at the ready. Laughable substitutes for witnesses, but not a technicality of dueling etiquette that Ashan is keen to point out right now with the alternative being one or more of the people the others should even now be spiriting away to safety. When Logos sent his dragonfly-winged gardener to wait in the house to avoid “collateral property damage” Ashan could not believe his luck.

The casual confidence that Logos is comporting himself with does little to make that luck any more credible. It is hardly the look of a man who just failed twice in a row at murder. Tranquil as his own face is, Ashan’s own confidence is still shaken by this morning’s sparring match with Eris. If she, with no arcane training, could pick out flaws in his barriers that neither he nor his mentor had ever noticed simply by examining the reactions different portions had to the ice spear’s enchantment - or so she explained to him - then what might Logos, a master of a notoriously difficult spellcasting discipline, have already picked out with properly attuned senses when their magic collided in the hallway?

Not to mention the well-known folly of facing a mage in his own domain. That there will be some manner of trap or hidden resource in play for Logos to draw on is a given. The most likely such play would be to rescind the temporary guest access that prevented Ashan from triggering the defensive wards on the way out of the house, but that seems almost too obvious. A distraction then from whatever the real trick Logos has planned is?

Stop thinking and start doing.

His mentor’s words ring in Ashan’s mind. The corner of his lip creeps upward. For all that she drilled that advice into him in his youth, it has been many a year since he last needed it. What would she do in this situation? How would Aliana Glassgaze continue buying time while putting her opponent off balance?

“You know, when I heard about the great wizard Logos, I was expecting something more than an old man in his pyjamas,” Ashan says with an imitation of his mentor’s smirk. “I shall see what I can do to be gentle about this.”

She always did enjoy treating the challenger’s call marking the start of formal duels with irreverence.

“Pajamas!?” Logos sputters. “Are novices taught no respect at all these days? These are the traditional vestments of the Mystics of the Unending Word!”

“You might have the color right, but the vestments of the Mystics of the Unending Word are floor-brushing robes of heavy wool to endure the climate of mountaintop temples. That is a thin silk dressing gown short enough to be daring in a light breeze that you tossed on in a hurry after waking up to the sound of your house exploding.”

“You bottom-feeding anchor mage. I will not abide such disrespect from a man in a dress.”

“Says the man still wearing fuzzy bedroom slippers.”

“Enough! If you cannot recognize peak performance when you see it, then you must be -”

BLIND!

Ashan’s vision blurs. Spots of black limned with chimerical colors bloom and spread like holes burnt in a page. He wraps a barrier around himself by reflex, the motion rote enough to only need be seen in his mind’s eye. He hunkers down, listening for the attack to come while he is vulnerable.

Hunter in the night, A flash of claws then stillness. Once were two, now none.

Mist upon the ground, Such an ephemeral thing, Gone with the sunrise.

VANISH!

Ashan’s eyes clear just in time to see Logos flicker into invisibility.

“I understand your technique relies heavily on visualization,” Logos’s voice echoes from everywhere at once. “Such an eminently exploitable weakness.”

As if any wizard worth their robes could not sense the aetherial hotspot of an active tactical-scale invisibility spell. Ashan drops his barrier to keep its own signature from interfering as he quickly gauges the hotspot's speed and direction then begins visualizing the arc of a dome.

“What, all out of witty retorts already?”

Splitting his own concentration between banter and spellcasting was one skill that Ashan’s mentor never had been able to properly teach him, albeit not for lack of trying. Just as well; he has come to find ethereally silent tranquility to carry its own intimidation factor.

“Or are you just now realizing how far you are outclassed, boy?”

The drunkard stumbles. Streets leading home twist strangely. The lantern smashes.

The hotspot is still on course toward where Ashan imagines the dome will be. Impressive that the sorcerer can still chant while running at that speed.

Smoke reaches the peak, The mountain cannot see past. Its neighbors are lost.

Just a moment more…

HAZE!

A buzzing fills Ashan’s ears and the aetherial signature of the “Vanish” spell’s hotspot begins distorting and bleeding out across the dueling field. As do any signs of the property’s wards. Not a second later and Ashan’s magic sensitivity detects little more than a vague static. While not as utterly overwhelming as Lacuna’s abomination of a ritual, it is still more than enough to keep him from picking out anything useful from the noise.

He flicks his wand in a key-turning motion and the glassy barrier of his trap arcs from the ground and snaps back down in a dome. A muffled thump and an echoing projected grumble of “Nine hells!” soon follows.

His sense of timing, it would seem, is still as strong as ever.

Such arrogance to Reject our reality, Substitute your own.

DISPEL!

Ashan’s conjuration barely wavers at the attempt. He points the wand at the apex of the dome and then begins lowering his arm, slowly so as to not destabilize the spell too much while he shrinks it.

Such arrogance to Reject our reality, Substitute your own.

One will against all, A comforting lie you tell, Doomed to fall apart.

DISPEL!

The dome begins to lose cohesion, bulging and sagging like a soap bubble in the breeze. Irritating but nothing he cannot handle. He cups his free hand so that distance and perspective give the illusion of gripping the conjuration to stabilize it. It stabilizes and continues to shrink. Half the original diameter now. Ashan continues to look through his cupped hand while moving to a warmer spot, crunching frozen grass beneath his feet.

The tortured earth groans, Writhing for its skin fits not, Never shall it sleep.

We build on a shell. Solidity is a myth. The beast beneath stirs.

QUAKE!

The ground beneath Ashan’s feet trembles, but he has trained with far greater threats to his footing. The earth roils in waves, but he has danced on the decks of storm-tossed ships. The land splinters and cracks, vomiting up stones and leaving ragged pits behind, but he simply conjures a platform to stand on and leaves the attempt to break his concentration beneath him.

Such arrogance to Reject our reality, Substitute your own.

One will against all, A comforting lie you tell, Doomed to fall apart.

Fool who would be god Your will does not shape the truth. Behold your folly.

DISPEL!

Ashan’s dome is multilayered and near small enough to crush the sorcerer with it when it flies apart like water from a spun goblet. He falls through his platform onto the still ground and lands lightly on his feet. Logos’s spells of concealment are still very much in effect when the next incantation begins echoing from all around. Ashan makes a tapping gesture with his wand, leaving behind a formless invisible marker that he can only just sense through the “Haze.” He starts moving.

The scream and the crash from the direction of the mansion is enough to get Logos to break off his incantation without locking in the command word. Ashan’s misting breath hitches. Road’s promised signal? No, that scream is not a voice he recognizes. A complication with resisting rescue then.

“What infernal trickery is this?” Logos’s shout rings throughout the phase-shifted mansion grounds. “Call off your thieving accomplices Glassheart. This duel is annulled!”

“It is no such thing,” Ashan replies cooly. “The duel itself has yet not been affected, the terms still stand. And my companions are not thieves for people cannot be stolen, only captured and forced into bondage or liberated.” He places another marker.

“Hells take you!”

“You could try to stop them, but you and I both know that would count as a forfeit by retreat.”

The sorcerer’s sourceless growl of frustration is loud and low enough to be felt in Ashan’s bones more than heard.

“Activate procedure twenty-two.”

The three suits of animated armor that had been watching the duel turn around and begin running toward the mansion to engage the still-unseen-from-here Road and Eris. Ashan places another marker.

“As for you,” Logo’s voice says, “Enough playing around. You’ll be incapacitated enough for the duel when you’re dead!”

All starts with a spark Grow it, nurture it, feed it Send it blazing forth.

Flame calls to us all, We answer once and again, In timeless cleansing.

Gift of the dragons Raining down to cry out doom, All before you burns.

FIREBALL!

A floating circle of flame appears yards in the air above the dueling field and dozens of balls of flame like the one Ashan stopped in the hallway begin raining down from its circumference. Some seem to be aimed at him but most seem to scatter randomly. With the “Haze” still in effect and preventing Ashan from sensing them without looking, not dodging out of the way of one fireball and into another is harder than it would normally be for him.

And yet it is still easier than keeping up with Eris’s spearwork, and hardly holds a candle to Road’s swordplay. That had been enough to overcome both him and Eris at once.

More offensive spells come, all of a similar caliber with two and three verse incantations. Writhing and persistent arcs of lighting. Erupting stone spikes. Spinning blades of light. Throughout it all Ashan stays purely on the defensive. Converting the heat from fireballs into conjured lightning rods and shields to stay the blades. Balancing on the tips of the spikes. Laying more markers in the air.

There are strings between the markers now; a variation on the wayfinding spell he used on the cave mission. They are not true conjurations, not yet, and should be invisible even to Logos.

Meanwhile, the sounds of fighting continue from the other side of the mansion. Ashan has not seen anyone leave yet, but that could just mean Eris is keeping the guardian armors busy while Road smuggles everyone out with Lacuna’s drone. Best to keep Logos thinking he has him on the run until Road gives the signal that everyone is out and the duel is void due to Logos no longer being able to fulfill his stake by freeing those who are already free.

Or until Ashan can wrap things up in a single move.

The sound of shattering glass, splintering wood, and tearing metal is not the signal Ashan has been waiting for, but signals an opportunity all the same when a giant metal knight formed from the composited and rearranged components of half a dozen suits of animated armor bursts backwards from the front wall of the mansion pursued by a gleefully howling Eris. The sight and sound of this second duel destroying his house is enough of a distraction for Logos to momentarily cease his chanting attacks.

That is all the opening Ashan needs to trace the lines between his markers and spin a shining web that would make any spider proud, with himself at the center. He raises his wand to the sky and spins in place, swirling the web into a contracting spiral and sweeping up anything caught between the gaps. A strand whips around something unseen, dragging it along. Logos’s shouted curse begins to transition into another incantation. The rest of the web’s strands continue their path around until they too collide with the invisible sorcerer, wrapping around him and cutting off his words of power.

In the background, a corner of the mansion’s upper level, now bereft of support, crashes to the ground.

The strands of the web weave into a braided rope, neatly outlining the cocooned Logos and leashing him to the tip of Ashan’s wand. Ashan jerks on the conjuration and his bound opponent flies over the half dozen intervening yards of broken, burnt, and frosted-over earth and grass to come to an abrupt stop within arm’s reach, still held upright. Ashan stabs his wand into the cocoon and elicits a muffled grunt of pain. With direct contact, the “Vanish” and “Haze” spells are no longer enough to conceal their source. He rips the wand away and the concealing spells with it, revealing Logos struggling to open his mouth beneath Ashan’s transparent conjuration. The front of his dressing gown has fallen partly open, revealing the geometric tattoos on his chest.

Behind them, Eris - now on top of the conglomerate knight - whoops with excitement as she repeatedly stabs into it with her new spear, freezing component pieces together for her to violently rip away from the central mass.

Ashan allows himself to shiver and flexes his numb fingers.

“By the terms of the duel,” Ashan begins, “you have lost by incapa-”

Logos’s tattoo flashes and the strands around his neck shatter.

“You are no longer welcome in my home.”

It is then that Ashan realizes he is standing on top of one of the ward lines he had lost track of in the “Haze.”

The ward abruptly and roughly lifts the young wizard into the air and begins violently shaking him. Short, shallow, stinging cuts begin appearing across his skin, growing deeper every time they overlap. Unable to stain his enchanted robes, his blood begins trickling out of his sleeves and around a ring at the hem near his ankles before being flung out in scattered droplets by the shaking.

Ashan drops his wand. The conjuration binding Logos flickers out.

Unable to move properly to draw a conjuration, unable to concentrate enough to envision one through the pain, true, genuine fear steals into Ashan for the first time in a very long time. His thoughts race. Where is Road? Was that flash just now the signal? Why isn’t Eris helping him? What would Aliana do now? Is he really going to die to this ridiculous, arrogant, monster of a man? Did they rescue everyone? Did he buy enough time? Why didn’t he see that coming with the tattoo? How could he have been so careless with the ward? What is Logos chanting now? If he had forgiven Aliana, would he be in this mess now? Why could he not bring himself to confront his true parents after returning home?

If he can convert the heat from another mage’s conjured fireball into energy for his own spell, what is stopping him from doing the same for a passive kinetic ward with no directing will behind it?

In any less desperate circumstance the idea would be absurd. At any other time he would be able to recite eight different theorems on why it should not work. At the moment he cannot recall any of them and the idea makes perfect, simple, elegant sense.

Ashan’s gaze goes glassy and distant as the shaking on his body lessens and a spark flickers to life in the air before him. New cuts stop appearing on his skin and the spark grows into a candle flame. The shaking stops altogether and the candle grows into a torch. He lowers until his toes just brush the ground and he cups his hands around the flame he has poured his will into. It is warm, but does not burn.

Dimly he realizes that Logos’s chanting has trailed off and the sorcerer is now staring into the flame with a contented expression and glazed eyes that reflect the dancing fire. Ashan moves the flame in his hands back and forth, still keeping his own gaze fixed at nothing, and the sorcerer wavers back and forth in place to follow it.

“By the terms of the duel,” Ashan begins again.

The last of the imbued power forming the ward runs out.

Ashan drops to his knees on the ground.

The fire in his hands flickers and dies.

The look on Logos’s face contorts into rage.

Ashan scrambles to coax the flame back to life. Frost blankets the ground, rapidly spreading out from around him. Grass freezes and audibly cracks. Mist condenses and blankets the dueling field. Ashan’s cuts from the ward flare with pins and needles. The back of his neck burns.

The flame comes back, no more than a sputtering match.

Logos becomes enraptured once more, nonetheless.

Ashan tries to force the words to end the duel out through chattering teeth. It makes no sense. So much energy flowing through him, from him, out of him, exhausting him, but the flame is still so small. Where is it all going?

The flame goes out.

BIND!

Ashan feels a tugging sensation on his numb arms, urging them to his sides

BIND!

Ashan’s limbs snap together. Not that he had much strength left to move them anyway.

He looks up. Logos is standing over him, breathing hard. He has Ashan’s blood on his hands.

No chains so tight as Those in the prisoner's mind Waiting for the rope.

The muscles grow stiff, Blood congeals, breath halts, eyes glaze. In death all is still.

BIND!

Ashan’s posture snaps upright, face forward, neck stiff and unable to turn, shoulders thrown back, arms and legs pressed in tight enough to be painful.

“Amazing isn’t it?” Logos pants. “As worthlessly inefficiently taxing as chant discarding normally is, you can get so much extra oomph with just a little bit of blood to strengthen the targeting.

Winter's lash falls harsh. Wind bites, snow cuts, frostbite gnaws, Scouring flesh and soul.

The storm drowns voices, Blinds the eye, and steals all warmth. Nothing left but white.

BLIZZARD!

A cold wind blows, stealing the last remnants of warmth from Ashan’s skin. Unseasonal flakes begin to fall from the sky.

“The thermodynamic twisting was clever, I admit,” Logos says, “but I’ve had just about enough of that. Now then, by the terms of this duel, you have lost by -”

“I do not yield.”

“Yield or not, there is no more you can do, boy.”

In the Beginning There was the Word, and the Word, The Word was Fire.

“Oh, this should be amusing. Go ahead boy, knock yourself out.”

From stars worlds are born. Is it any wonder then They embrace in death?

Unable to move, but still able to speak, there’s one more desperate gambit from Whispers of the Sun to call on. The author’s analysis of the spell’s poetry had been compelling enough for Ashan to read it all, despite the pure destruction of it.

Ashes to ashes, Stardust to stardust. But lo! In between is life.

Dorbreithan Long Chant. The Unending Word. The primary strength of the style has always been lauded as its efficiency in taking a small power draw and producing outsized effects. The unwieldiness of its long cast times are supposedly made up for by the end effect increasing nearly exponentially compared to power input the longer an incantation goes, allowing dramatic end results for the price of what most other styles would expend on simple cantrips. A midpoint between rituals and pure spellcasting.

Fire we all are. From fire we all sprang forth. In fire all end.

Ashan draws on the thin ambient magic, marginally thicker now in the wake of the duel. He draws on heat as much as he dares and feels his body wrack with freezing pain and then go numb. He draws on his own metabolism. He feels a warmth inside.

Hark! I am flame and flame is light. I am fire and fire is sun.

Five verses of chant. The full spell has hundreds, ever increasing in structural complexity and conceptual density, but any more now would risk unacceptable collateral damage, even in his weakened state. Even incomplete, the air is already growing hot. What was moments ago frost and mist on the ground begins rising back up as steam. Feeling creeps back in and sweat runs down Ashan’s face. Something, somewhere begins to smell burnt. Logos’s gloating face gives way to fear.

NOVA!

The back of Ashan’s neck burns.

The rising steam flash-freezes into particulate ice.

Ashan goes as limp as his bindings will allow.

Nothing happens.

Logos laughs. Nervously at first, then mockingly, then victoriously.

“An admirable try boy, I’ll give you that much. A shame to waste such talent so young. But, let me show you how a real wizard does it. Now how did that go again?”

In the Beginning There was the Word, and the Word, The Word was Fire.

From stars worlds are born. Is it any wonder then They embrace in death?

Ashes to ashes, Stardust to stardust. But lo! In between is life.

Fire we all are. From fire we all sprang forth. In fire all end.

Hark! I am flame and flame is light. I am fire and fire is sun.

NOVA!

A pinprick mote of light appears in the air between the two mages. It grows in size and intensity to the size of a heart and so bright that it pierces Ashan’s closed eyes.

A miniature sun.

The bonds holding Ashan vanish and he falls forward onto the ground. He struggles to push himself up onto hands and knees, cracks his eyes open, and glimpses Logos fleeing the bright and still-growing thing he just created. The thought crosses Ashan’s mind to start syphoning what surely must be abundant energy off of the working before him and converting it into a self-reinforcing bubble to contain the coming blast.

If he were in a better shape, that might be viable. Funny, the second and third times in his life he has burnt out happening within a month of one another. If Aliana were here she would lay into him for not being more careful. And then hug him, cry, and promise to do better protecting him while she nurses him back to health. Maybe buy him sweets that she knows he is too old for but that will somehow make him feel better anyway.

His leg is numb enough that he barely feels it when the spear pierces his calf and pins it to the ground. It is more with curiosity than anything else that he watches the thick sheet of ice spread from the point of impact and crawl up his leg to engulf his body. Where is it all coming from?

A crimson blur brushes past him and the light from the miniature sun dims. He looks back up to see Eris eclipsing it.

The last thing Ashan sees before the ice reaches his face and he figures it would be best to close his eyes is Eris’s silhouette with her back to him and light streaming from between her fingers as she holds back the sun.

*******

The first thing Ashan hears upon regaining a tenuous consciousness is a repeating heavy, wet, crunching sound.

The ground he is lying on is warm and slightly damp, and after a struggle to open leaden eyelids he sees vapor rising up from the earth around him. A white flake floats down and lands on the back of his hand. He forces a blink, trying to focus. It is ash.

There is a voice accompanying those wet, thudding, crunches. He cannot quite make out the words. Or is it only growling?

He tries to shift his position but finds the calf of one cold, numb, and immovable. Oh right, the spear. He stretches out an arm to find that the ground mere inches further away from where the hand had lain is intolerably hot. The reflex of jerking his hand back is enough to tire him.

The sound continues. He smells something burning.

Pushing himself up onto his elbows is a trial that he surprises himself in passing. Lifting his head enough to look forward while keeping his fully unbound hair out of his eyes is hardly easier. The urge to go back to sleep is treacherous and so he quashes it.

He is lying at the edge of a small crater, maybe about as wide across as he is tall. Hard to judge with the smoke, ash, dust, and steam all swirling together in and around it. On the other side of that blasted pit a hulking, demonic figure with fire for hair that flows down over the black-and-red carapace of its shoulders and back is repeatedly stomping something obscured by the low-hanging steam. Its lips are pulled back nearly to its ears is what might just as easily be a snarl or a grin but either way is all teeth.

Amidst the creature’s slew of invectives and vocalizations more beast than human, Ashan manages to pick out the phrase “slaving piece of human garbage,” as one of the few intelligible mutterings directed at whatever it is crushing.

“Eris!” A voice calls from off to the side. Road, still armored and running at a full tilt, emerges from the smoke and dust. They throw something small, round, and blue that bursts over top of the hellish creature, showing it with water and dousing its flames. The monster does not seem to notice.

“Eris, stop!” Road shouts again, coming to a stop next to the stomping thing. Their blade of orange light is drawn and lit. It does not look at them. It keeps stomping.

Road’s helmet retracts back into their armor and they gently place their free hand on the monster’s shoulder. “You can stop,” they say softly enough that Ashan has to strain to hear. It stops. Their blade is still drawn and positioned at the ready.

A mechanical whir heralds the arrival of the headless black drone through the haze. It nudges the looming creature’s leg, at last eliciting a reaction. Its face softens as it turns to look down into the drone’s camera. Road extinguishes and holsters their sword before it turns around all the way.

“Yo, sis,” Eris says. “Don’t worry, I’m fine. Ashan over there prolly needs one of those healing rituals you said you had.” She cocks a thumb over in Ashan’s direction and then promptly falls over. Road catches her.

The acknowledgement snaps Ashan from his surreal daze enough that he finally thinks to call out. All that escapes his throat is a dry coughing fit that sends his face back to the ground.

*******

The first thing Ashan hears upon regaining a comfortable, if drowsy, consciousness is birdsong and the wall-muffled ticking of grandfather clock.

It occurs to him that he is alive, awake, and in a different place. This revelation causes him to sit bolt upright and begin conjuring a shield. The former makes his vision swim and the latter elicits a sharp pain in the back of his neck. He gasps and falls back into the pillow of the bed of one of the guest bedrooms of the bed and breakfast above the office. He tries again, more slowly this time and without doing anything to aggravate the burnout. Scanning the room, he locates his wand on the bedside table next to an untouched water glass and his robes hanging in an open wardrobe. The sight of them both intact and accounted for calms him.

More belatedly, he realizes that his arms are free of any sign of the myriad cuts inflicted by the tripped ward. Lifting the bedsheets finds his legs similarly unblemished. At the lack of scar or even bandages, he begins to wonder if he only dreamt the spear and everything else that happened after tripping the ward.

He is still pondering the possibility when a gentle knocking at the door arrives, followed by a “Do you mind if I come in?”

“You may enter,” Ashan answers, realizing his mistake too late. Glancing furtively from the turning doorknob to his hanging robes and back again, he pulls the bedsheets higher and tighter up around himself.

“I thought I heard you moving in here,” Road says, entering with a soft smile and a tea tray. Their armor is an unassuming, if distinctively colored, jacket once more. “You want the door open or closed?”

It takes Ashan a moment to process the unexpected question. “Open, please.” The soothing, regular tick of the grandfather clock in the hallway is louder with the door open.

Road nods, sets the tray on the bed next to Ashan, pulls a wooden chair out from the room’s desk, spins it on one leg to face him and takes a seat.

The smell of steeped herbs and warm toast serves as a powerful reminder to Ashan that it has been at least a day since he last ate. He resists the urge to indulge just yet and asks “How long?”

“Just under a day,” Road replies. “You were in and out of it a few times but I’m not surprised you don’t remember it. After we got everyone out safely Lacuna and I went back for you and Eris. By that time you’d already beaten Logos, but it looked like that last big blast had just about done all three of you in. Lacuna did some emergency triage and our fair lady of the green healed you up more thoroughly afterwards. She doesn’t mix well with burns though and Eris had a few of those despite the fireproofing charm she had on her, so we had to get her back here for the autodoc to deal with the worst of it. “I handed him over to Sullivan,” they say plainly.

“And Logos?” As much as Ashan fears the answer, he has to know.

The characteristic warmth of Road’s expression disappears as abruptly as any Ashan has drained from the air for a spell. “I handed him over to Sullivan,” they say plainly.

A chill unrelated to magic runs down Ashan’s spine. “I thought he was still out on the lighthouse keeper investigation,” he says.

“Following up on Logos’s past clients was higher priority, and between Eris and our fair lady of the green there wasn’t anything left of his house to search for records.”

“So you are leaving Sullivan to interrogate him?” Torture him, he almost says.

The look on Road’s face seems almost hurt at the suggestion. “No, he and Carnette had their own more effective and humane ways of information gathering, along with ways to hold beings like Logos in stasis, seeing as the powers that be in Crossherd won’t take him on account of it not being a Masquerade breach or in their jurisdiction.” They pause and a measure of warmth returns. “I can understand why you would think that though. Sullivan does have a certain reputation in some circles and he loves little more than fanning the flames on rumors about himself.”

“So he did not…”

Road shakes their head. “Sullivan didn’t murder Carnette, no. More detail than that about what happened to her isn’t my place to say, but I can assure you, while their marriage did start out strictly as a business arrangement, they wound up loving one another in a way that I don’t think either of them ever had thought themselves capable of before. Even if they were unorthodox with their displays of affection. Don’t ever let him hear you say it, but he’s got a more tender heart than you’d think, underneath all the knives and gilt.”

“I shall… I shall take that under consideration.” Truthfully he had not given much thought to their relationship. To Ashan, the sorceress Bridgewood was the most famous mage of his time, pushing the boundaries of mortal magic while maintaining the will to refrain from abusing that which most considered taboo to even study due to the inherent temptations. Sullivan was just an odd, obscure, off-putting, caretaker to her legacy. To think of either of them in a romantic capacity with anyone, much less each other feels somehow wrong to him to contemplate too closely.

“Anywho,” Road says, brightly as ever, “I’ll not keep you from eating any longer. I’ll be right down the hall if you need anything.”

Ashan blushes at the realization of how much his gaze has been wandering to the nearby tray instead of making eye contact. “Thank you.

“Anytime. Oh, and one more thing,” Road adds, pausing halfway out the door with one hand on the frame. “If it’s not too personal, I’ve been meaning to ask, what’s with the tattoo on the back of your neck?”

Ashan blinks at them, uncomprehending.

“What tattoo?”

<-Previous Chapter Masterpost Next Chapter->

#In which I try my hand at poetry and then blame the quality on it all losing bits in translation in-universe.#It amuses me that the wizard is the one who keeps going “How the f--- are you doing that?” to his companions.#writing #original fiction #urban fantasy #web novel #WIP #Writeblr #serial fiction #writing practice #writers on tumblr #creative writing #literature #prose #writers #novel #fantasy #fiction #my writing #Empty Names #emptynameswriting #I always found the recurring folk-tale motif of the shapeshifter whose animal skin stolen forcing them into marriage really messed up.#So I thought “Let's make it even worse by having a guy who does that repeatedly and makes a business out of it.”#The incantations were mainly inspired by Final Fantasy Tactics and Bleach.#The “chant discard” concept in particular was from one specific Bleach episode where they mention the idea then never revisit it.#The last verse of “Nova” though came from an old Toonami promo clip for Sailor Moon that's stuck with me for over 20 years.#I think the chants looked better when they were right-aligned in my source document.#I'm only a little ashamed of the visual pun of the “swan maiden” being given a dress and a feather duster.#Worked in references to a couple of my dream recordings. “A Dream About A Plea” and “A Dream About Trust And Fear.”#My pinned intro post has a link to all those.

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astronomyforastrologers · 2 years

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Ceres and Jupiter Ignition ~ 20 Jan 2023

Ceres and Jupiter Ignition ~ 20 Jan 2023, Philip Sedgwick

First off, a quick note. I am offering the Twin Stars Report - a relationship report using Chiron and cronies as soul-based connections, for a limited time only. Full details can be found at the end of this post.

Mercifully, Mercury and Mars both now travel in direct, prograde motion. Asks the Universe, “So, what are you waiting for? If the Cosmos gave you a burning bush as a sign, most likely you’d call the fire department.” True, Mercury in Capricorn now quincunxes Mars in Gemini. Since Mercury is who they are and Gemini is what it is, there should be a six-fix at hand.

Claim these personal planets, to figure a plan to conjure at least six options for the next three life steps, right? After all, the quincunx points to creating a constructive personal sequence of events that were not initially part of the plan, or whose inclusion, add essential torque to overcome early year inertia not previously realized or considered.

Online circulate a series of vintage postcards that wish or portend luck in the new year for the recipient. Those images of prosperity, luck and well being: Horseshoes, four-clovers, mushrooms and plump pigs were omens of a fruitful, prosperous year at the beginning of the 20th Century. Missing from the list: Promising Planetary Passages.

Venus now approaches Saturn in Aquarius, that approach complete in two days. Combined, they sextile Eris in Arise, each accomplishing the sextile within days. This pattern says, “You want in? Ante up!” Yes, getting in on the new offers and gizmos guaranteed to make life a galactic groove takes investment of all your resources from financial to physical and psychic energy expended. Venus to Saturn is great to assess and budget what one has available. Should it be that not enough resources appear immediately available, a time line for acquiring needed assets and a strategy for doing so can develop. And one can get on the schedule with this information. Remembering that resources are not only cold hard cash, but benefits than can be transferred, and enthusiasm and applied energy, a plan can formulate for inclusion, albeit considering the obvious resources often overlooked. Says Aquarius to Aries, “You can fill that container if you consider the intangible.” Budget and apply your physical resources as well as imagination, knowledge and wisdom.

Looking down the road to shore up personal well-being and confidence, Jupiter in Aries treks toward Chiron forming an exact conjunction on 11 March. This will do just that. Something to look forward to embracing. More immediately Jupiter opposes Ceres in Libra right as we enter February... and right as Ceres stations into retrograde motion. Given the Jupiter transit immediately at hand, consider negotiations with everyone’s pal, Pluto. Sure adding Pluto arranges a tricky wicket that makes electing a Speaker of the House in the United States House of Representatives appear like a Romper Room play date. But it’s part of the plan to ensure everything - especially primal soul stuff - weaves its way into the transiting tapestry.

When Pluto abducted Ceres’ daughter, Ceres went ballistic. To arbitrate the ceriousness of the matter, Jupiter had to step in. Indeed a difficult set of negotiations caused a compromise to be struck. Of course, neither of the arbitrating parties emerged fully satisfied. Still, each party gained some wishes and did not come away empty-handed. Was it fair and balanced? It was close and it prevented a catastrophe.

Now, In Ceres in Libra fashion, all are inspired to strike deals that work between parties with differing, seemingly divergent, needs.

Astronomers now contend that Ceres once occupied the Kuiper Belt and Jupiter gravitationally escorted her away from the realm of constant interactions with Pluto and into a dominant position in the asteroid belt. How amazing is that!? The physical solar system is believed to have transacted, perhaps emulated, what Jupiter mythologically did to assuage the Ceres to Pluto potential confrontations.

Let’s track Ceres returning to her station point degree later this year and several steps of that return. We all ride this early year Ceres-Jupiter negotiation point in life. We’ve not heard the last of her interactions in the opposition with Jupiter until after her oppositions to Neptune. On or about 10 April, Ceres retrograde opposes Neptune direct, Virgo to Pisces. At this point expect more matters appear to arbitrate because with Jupiter in Aries, Ceres claims to have felt rushed to compile and submit a list of needs, wishes and demands. This upgraded wish list drops on the table in April as she engages Neptune from her detail driven Virgo occupancy. Come about 10 June, when Ceres opposes Neptune again, she dishes out more even more needs and demands. In mid-July Ceres, again in Libra and direct, opposes Jupiter one last time in this aspect cycle. Here, its time for Ceres to resolve her requirements, as it is for anyone with Ceres in the natal horoscope.

If one considers Ceres’ physical characteristics - diameter, mass, specific gravity and density - relative to all other planets with mathematical assessments, she turns out to be more like Kuiper Belt Objects than inner solar system bodies. Add to that, she comes out demonstrating more physical capability that the other planets. Truly, Ceres is a superior physical force with which the other gods and goddesses must contend, and as an astrological component of a full, healthy horoscope, mortals benefit from considering her provocations with solution-based optimism.

Here are some things to consider in the spirit of gaining the most superior results from Ceres in her current aspect run:

One must be on the moral high ground and provoking outcomes not only for the self, but for how the self can do its best in the current incarnation.

Cooperation between all parties must be built. Allies who match the highest objectives can be included as resources. Pot-stirring individuals and provocateurs are best not included.

Negotiations cannot be zero-sum with the intention of or resulting in scorched Earth. Win-win scenarios serve the best outcomes, and more cosmic brain power will be required, calling back any Venus conjunct Saturn in Aquarius wild ideas.

Improvement and enhancement are cornerstones of evolution. “Include the newfangled ideas,” Uranus crankily yells, while sitting on the porch of Taurus.

Transferring assets and redirecting energy to the highest causes may serve to solve stalemates, urges Pluto on the verge of Aquarius.

Savoring all gains and wins and accomplishment is recommended for increasing satisfaction and filling the sails of the soul, sanctions Jupiter in Aries.

So, this year, as Ceres plays big and wants her fair due, keep in mind what it means to play nice in the sand box. Avoid cutting off the nose to spite the face. Shun the urge to take your marbles and go home, which runs contrary to Jupiter’s transit to Eris which insists each person be responsible for their full involvement in life. Submit all your needs without compression or attenuation since Jupiter is involved. It likely helps to articulate why you want what you want. As others understand the drive of your passion and your intent and motivation, the organic comprehension tends to clear obstacles from the path as you are no longer perceived with suspicion and interfering vibes.

Luck and lucky icons have nothing to do with it. Nice for last century, but here we are in an eon in which all skills, insights and knowledge meld together for forging optimal results.

So, with all this good, dive in and deal. That’s how get it going, Cosmic Rompers!

More soon.

Should life feel stalled out and in perpetual stalemate, that may be the universe signaling that a consultation would be in order. Remember to ask for a full Ceres, Jupiter, Chiron, Pluto assessment and ask that dwarf planets be included to apply galactic grease to those gears. Sessions can be a half hour, full hour or a package of consultations intended to guide your way through the early weeks of a year that portends great progress. A Galactic Report will offer up some subtle life aids. So click on the links below to get yourself on the books in a timely manner!

I now accept Zelle payments. You may remit the amount posted on the store page for the service or product to [email protected]. Send along an email with relevant data and requests. Presto! It’s as simple as that!!

Over the holidays, I conducted a heap of computer de-glitching. As part of that, I was able to restore the Twin Stars report on my computer. This report conducts synastry between two people as I see it and includes two couples in the cosmic centaur camp known to be devoted soul mates: Chiron and Chariklo; Hylonome and Cyllarus. This report will be offered for a limited time only: $21.99! It is not listed on my website's store. To receive this report, send along the birth information in an e-mail and either, request an invoice, or send along the minimal fee via PayPal or Zelle. Soon as I can, the report is headed your way straightaway. This report will be offered only through the duration of the Sun in Aquarius. Order now!

Visit my Website Consultations and Services Order Form Astrological Texts

#philip sedgwick

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czenzo · 2 years

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Seven Years - Chapter II

[ao3] chapter links: [ 1 ] [ 2 ] [ 3 ] [ 4 ] [ 5 ] [ 6 ] [ 7 ]

summary: Charlie swung the door open, and his world promptly came crashing down around him. It had been seven years since Charlie last saw Nick Nelson, but he had barely changed – aside from the extra inch or so of height, the beard, and the fact he’d put on a bit of weight and muscle. Charlie’s brain couldn’t process it quickly enough, and so he simply stood, slack-jawed, waiting for Nick to say something.

Seven years after they broke up, Nick suddenly shows up at Charlie’s door, changing the course of their adult lives.

words: 2706 rating: M

note: tw for a brief mention of animal death (I'm so sorry), if you'd like to avoid it then once you reach “So how’s Nellie and Henry?”, skip to “How is she? Your mum?”

Charlie groggily opened his eyes and immediately winced at the sliver of sunlight peeping through his curtains. It gave him a moment to work out whether his memories of Nick showing up at his door were reality, or simply a cruel fantasy conjured up by his own sadistic brain, but no amount of time could help him reach a conclusion.

He was alone in his room. What time was it? A quick glance at his too-bright phone screen told him it was roughly seven o’clock in the morning.

Good god, that was way too early for him.

Charlie hauled himself out of bed anyway. The desire to find out if Nick Nelson had truly stayed the night after eating takeout and talking all evening long far outweighed his desire to stay in bed. He moved to the living room, footsteps light, and cautiously peered over the back of the sofa.

It was there that Nick Nelson lay, feet dangling over one end and hands tucked behind his head at the other, blanket loosely covering his body.

Charlie resisted the urge to reach out and touch him.

It was real. He was real.

He had another chance at keeping Nick Nelson in his life.

❃

Finding Nick still there had both startled and excited Charlie so much he knew there was no point in trying to get back to sleep; instead, he brewed himself a cup of tea and opted to read, keeping an ear out for Nick waking up.

He’d mentioned having his teacher conference today, but Charlie had absolutely no clue what time it was at. He could only hope Nick had set himself an alarm. (Though back when they were together, Nick had never set alarms. He’d never needed them on account of his body always naturally waking up at the right time, and Charlie had always envied it.)

True to form, he heard Nick stirring less than an hour later, without the need for a blaring alarm. Some things never changed.

It took him an embarrassing amount of time to work up the courage to leave his room – it was as if the previous evening had never happened, and his body was suddenly full of self-doubt and hesitation. He thought he'd left all of that in his teenage years. Having a hint of nausea in the pit of his stomach wasn’t a particularly pleasant way to start the day, and it was so stupid. If anyone should be feeling awkward, Charlie reasoned, it should be Nick. He was the one who did the breaking up, on account of–

No. Charlie shook that line of thinking away. He didn’t need to be wasting his time and energy on it. They were trying to rekindle their friendship; nothing more, nothing less. And Charlie was content to keep it that way.

When he finally emerged from his room, hands gently picking at his nails to ignore the way they trembled ever so slightly, he found Nick sat up on the sofa, scrolling through his phone.

“Morning,” Charlie said, startling Nick so much he was surprised the phone stayed in his hand.

“Jesus, Charlie,” Nick breathed, a smile forming on his face. “Morning.”

“Sleep well?”

“Yeah, yeah I did.”

“Good, good…” Charlie absently rocked back on his heels. “Have you had any breakfast?”

“Er– no, I wasn’t sure where to find any.”

The nausea in Charlie’s stomach subsided upon being reminded that he had the upper hand here – this was his flat, his space, and he was far more familiar with it than Nick was. It was going to be fine.

“Oh, yeah,” he said, feeling the tension melt from his muscles. “Cereal’s in the first cupboard on your left, uh, and there’s eggs in the fridge, or– y’know, I could just sort you something out myself. What do you want?”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh,” Nick said, eyes darting this way and that as he tried to make a decision.

“I was gonna make an omelette, if you want one too?”

“I’m not gonna say no to that,” Nick replied. “There anything I can help with?”

“No, no, you’re fine,” Charlie reassured him as he made his way into the kitchen, hearing Nick call out his thanks as he went.

After seven years of not seeing or hearing from him, Nick Nelson was sitting in his living room while Charlie cooked breakfast for him. (All because he hit his car?) It was too strange to dwell on, and so Charlie busied himself with going through the motions of making food. As he cracked the eggs he tried not to think about Nick’s beard, while he whisked them he didn’t allow himself to remember the way his muscles strained the sleeves of his pyjama t-shirt, as he poured them into the hot pan he tried to forget the way his name sounded in Nick’s deeper voice, and while he flipped over the half-cooked omelette and added some cheese Charlie let out a sigh, because he’d failed at every step. The omelette turned out fine, but Charlie’s heart sure as hell did not.

He was falling for Nick again.

Fuck.

It was so stupid, so childish. Nick had moved on, and Charlie thought he himself had – no, he really had, he was fine and had even gone on dates and flirted at bars and kissed and teased men who weren’t Nick, who looked nothing like Nick, and who would never be Nick. He’d moved on until Nick reappeared at his door and Charlie was stupid enough to ask him to stay.

As Charlie was plating the first omelette, Nick entered the kitchen, and Charlie had a split second to straighten his deflated shoulders and widen his drooping eyes before the other man noticed.

“There you go,” he said, motioning to the plate with his spatula. “Oh, shit, I didn’t even ask if you wanted a drink or anything.”

“S’alright,” Nick said, taking his plate over to the kettle. “I’ll sort it. Tea?”

“Coffee, please.” God knew he needed it.

Charlie’s omelette was turning out significantly worse. He was hyper-aware of Nick’s presence behind him, as he munched on his breakfast and prepared their morning doses of caffeine. Luckily the tea bags, coffee, and sugar weren’t too hard to find, so Charlie didn’t have to listen to him asking where things were in his sleep-deepened voice, but it didn’t escape his notice how his arm bulged and stretched through his sleeve as he opened the fridge and reached for the milk.

Jesus Christ, stop staring, Charlie thought.

Nick had finished making the drinks and was about done with his omelette when Charlie finished making his own, and as they both returned to the living room he incessantly thanked and complimented him on the cooking.

“It was just an omelette,” Charlie said. “I’m not a renowned chef or anything.”

“Consider the career change,” Nick replied, sipping on his tea. He checked the time on his phone, and Charlie stole a glance too. It wasn’t far off nine o’clock.

“What time’s your conference thing?”

“Eleven,” Nick said. “It’s not far from my hotel though, and my hotel isn’t actually that far from here. It’ll be fine. You have anywhere to be today?”

“Mm,” Charlie nodded around a mouthful of egg. “Meeting up with Tao in a bit.”

Nick paused with his mug halfway to his mouth. “Tao? Are you still good friends?”

“Yeah, ‘course. I still speak to most of the secondary school lot, really.”

“Oh. That’s nice.”

“Do you?”

Nick made an uncertain noise. “Not really, honestly. After… everything that happened before I left for uni, it, uh. Conversations started to die out quicker, I guess. I talk to some of the rugby lads, and Tara every now and then, Isaac once in a blue moon.”

“Oh,” Charlie frowned. He didn’t know what he expected; once Nick left he’d been adamant about not bringing him up around his friends – he didn’t care if they spoke to him, it was none of his business. But knowing they all stuck with Charlie was… it was comforting, honestly, though he couldn’t ignore the twinge of guilt that hit him. Nick had been forced to start anew, at university without the cushion of having friends back at home.

That must’ve hurt.

Seventeen-year-old Charlie would’ve been glad to hear it, but twenty-four-year-old Charlie wasn’t so sure.

“It was fine, though,” Nick carried on, seemingly seeing the sadness in Charlie’s eyes. “I get why it happened. I still managed to settle into uni and make other friends, so it was fine.”

“Yeah,” Charlie said. They’d managed to stick to more light-hearted topics the night before as they stuffed their faces with Chinese food; the sudden shock of talking about their teenage memories in the morning light was almost too much.

But, Charlie supposed, if they were to try being in each others’ lives again, it had to be done.

“I bet Tao hates me now, doesn’t he?” Nick said with a laugh.

“Hate is a strong word,” Charlie replied.

Nick raised an eyebrow. “You’re avoiding the question.”

“So how’s Nellie and Henry?”

“Nellie…” Nick’s eyes were suddenly glued to his feet. “She, uh, she passed away a couple of years ago.”

“Oh,” Charlie breathed. “Oh Nick, I’m so sorry. That must’ve been so hard on you.”

“Yeah, it was. But, y’know, she lived a happy life, and everything. She really did try ’n stay as long as possible, but, once they get to a certain age… It’s kinder to… yeah. It wasn’t fair to force her to keep going.”

“She had the best life a dog could ask for.”

“I like to think so,” Nick smiled bittersweetly. “Henry’s doing well, though. Keeps my mum company between my visits.”

“That’s good,” Charlie replied, suppressing the wave of emotion that hit him at the mention of Nick’s mum. Sarah Nelson had been like a second mother to him.

Seven years.

God.

“How is she? Your mum?”

“She’s good, yeah. I think it was hard on her once I properly moved out after uni. When David left she still had me, so… But she adores Henry, and I try to visit as much as I can. How about your family? How's Tori?”

“Tori’s doing well, yeah,” Charlie nodded. “She’s still with Michael. He’s started not-so-subtly asking me questions about Tori’s preferences for rings. And, uh, mum and dad are fine. I visit when I can. And Oliver – ah, well, he’s grown quite a bit since you last saw him. Full-on teenager now. I’m starting to worry he might end up taller than me.”

Nick’s smile stayed on his lips all throughout, nodding along as he listened intently, and Charlie wondered how the bar was so low that that was enough to make him want to swoon. He took a deep breath, finished off his (now somewhat cold) omelette, and inhaled the last dregs of his (even colder) coffee.

“I’m glad they’re all doing okay,” Nick said, rising from his seat. “I should probably start getting ready. Thanks again for breakfast, Charlie.”

“No problem.”

❃

Cleaning and washing up was a welcome distraction from all the thoughts racing through his mind; if he focused hard enough on scrubbing a particularly stubborn piece of dried food, he almost forgot about the other person in his flat. (But not completely.)

He wasn’t due to meet Tao until later that afternoon, so Charlie was more than content to stay in his pyjamas for now. Nick, in the meantime, was in the bathroom, changing into… whatever it was that teachers wore to teacher conferences, no doubt pimping and preening himself to show off what Charlie could’ve had but didn’t get in his adult life.

No, no. He didn’t have the need for that kind of thinking. (What would it be like to kiss him with that beard?) Stop.

To drown out his thoughts even more aggressively, Charlie pressed play on his phone and badly sang along to the tunes that followed. It was a bad mish-mash of sung words, unsure noises, and humming when he didn’t know the lyrics, but it kept him occupied and happy – so much so, that he didn’t notice Nick come into the kitchen as he was drying off the dishes.

“I like this song,” Nick said, sending Charlie jumping ten feet into the air like a startled cat. “Oh, sorry. Thought you knew I was here.”

Charlie tentatively pressed pause on the music. “I… did not. But at least I’m properly awake now.” He placed the last plate into the cupboard and turned to face Nick, then immediately regretted that decision.

Nick was in a crisp, clean, white button-up shirt, perfectly tapered to rest on his broad shoulders and narrow at his hips, disappearing into a pair of trousers that hugged all the right places and reminded Charlie that Nick was an avid rugby player. The neatly knotted tie, the leather watch, the shiny belt buckle, the polished shoes…

Charlie almost forgot how to breathe.

“You look…” he paused. “Like a teacher at a posh private school.”

“Thanks. Exactly the look I’m going for,” Nick replied, leaning against the countertop and making Charlie hate him even more. “The other teachers at these conferences can be so pretentious sometimes. I hate how I feel like I have to impress them, or something.”

“Yeah, no, it’s really rubbish,” Charlie said unconvincingly.

Nick checked his watch. “I’ve already packed my stuff back into my suitcase, so I’m all ready to head off and check into my hotel. Hope they won’t mind I skipped a night.”

“Ah, yeah… At least you didn’t pay for it.”

“Very true,” Nick said, standing up straight. “Well, uh… thanks again for having me. It’s been nice.”

“It has, yeah,” Charlie replied, finding himself sounding more sincere than he intended to. He followed as Nick left to scoop up his suitcase and head to the front door. “Hope the conference goes well.”

Nick was reaching for the door handle when he stopped moving completely. Slowly, eyes narrowed with apparent uncertainty, he looked over his shoulder.

“Do you… wanna stay in touch?”

Charlie thought about it for a moment. The sensible side of him said no, that he should let Nick leave and forget he never came by just like he should’ve done yesterday, but the hopeful side of him said yes far too enthusiastically, said that they should stay in touch and make plans and slowly intertwine each others’ lives once again.

He sighed inwardly. There was, unfortunately, a very obvious winner.

“Sure,” he said, and Nick immediately pulled out his phone.

“Has your number changed?” he asked, and Charlie shook his head. “Oh. I was kind of hoping you’d say it had.”

“Why?”

“So I could pretend I didn’t still have it saved.”

Internally, Charlie screamed.

“You never were one for regularly cleaning out your phone,” he managed to reply. “Bet your camera roll is full of useless screenshots, too.”

“Haha, yeah, you got me. I’ll just– I’ll send you a message now to make sure it’s all in working order, yeah?”

Moments later, Charlie’s phone buzzed from his pocket. He pulled it out, unlocked it, and stared at the new message from an unknown number.

He’d deleted Nick’s contact long ago (seven years), but the number was as familiar to him as his own face. He’d recognise it anywhere.

Charlie created a new contact, and the message now read:

[Nick Nelson] Hey

It was so simple, so cautious, a message that seemed to tiptoe around him in fear of crossing an invisible line. Charlie didn’t let himself stare at it for a moment longer and slid the phone back into his pocket.

“Keep in touch. You’re more than welcome to visit while I’m here for the weekend, yeah?” Nick said.

He gave Nick one last farewell smile before he watched him leave and shut the door behind him.

Charlie closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and leaned his head against the door. He was full of uncertainty, doubt, and tentative excitement. He had no idea how things would turn out between him and Nick, but he was certain about one thing:

Tao was going to freak out.

#heartstopper #heartstopper fic #charlie spring #nick nelson #narlie #czenzo.fic #Seven Years

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