#echoes of the past: anatole

[oxymorayuri]

𝐶𝘩𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝟿

𝑆𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑒 𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠 »

𝑇𝑟𝑎𝑓𝑎𝑙𝑔𝑎𝑟 𝐷. 𝑊𝑎𝑡𝑒𝑟

𝐿𝑎𝑤 ✘ ♀ 𝑅𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟

𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐈𝐒𝐓: 序川_ on pixiv

Story: The princess of Tanata

(Long Fic)

➽ Click on this link to see all chapters.

Spoiler: none

Warnings: none

slowburn with plot

Wordcount: 2168

Text in italics emphasizes the reader’s thoughts

Bold and italic text emphasizes Law's thoughts *~*

Tagging: @slytherinambitious - @sassyyassi - @norasincubi

You're on this strange ship again.

The 'Yellow Wonder' as you thought the other day. You look around curiously, the deck is quite simple but it is quite exciting to be on a ship.

Once upon a time, it was common on Tanata for people to sail on ships. You have read all the history books and writings about your own past.

The past of Tanata.

No matter what the written records say, there is not a single trace of ships on the island. The people of Tanata have not sailed for centuries…

"Princess?" - You flinch slightly and turn to look into the troop leader's eyes.

"Hey, don't scare me like that Ambrosios!" You put your hand on your chest.

" Sorry not sorry… but I have to tell you that there might be a problem…" - "Ahh man…" Annoyed, you put your hands on your hips.

Ambrosios does the same, but instead of an annoyed expression, he grins cheekily at you. When you notice how he copies you, you snort.

That cheeky guy.

You two have known each other since you were kids, he's Anatol's son and was raised to be a warrior. You've always trained together.

Your eyes roam over his upper body.

He is definitely not badly built, his armor is designed in such a way, that you can still see his impressive muscles.

"You know, princess, you don't have to stare, you are allowed to touch." He comes closer to you but you laugh and push his face away from you, kicking him lightly in the side.

"Come on. Tell me about the problem." He's always been like this and he's like this with everyone, but you know that he doesn't get into bed with everyone. You've always wondered why he never had a serious relationship.

"Not only is the ship stuck, it's also stuck in mud. It's much harder to get it out and we could end up damaging the ship." - "Do you have any ideas, my princess?" He leans down slightly towards you, his blond hair falling slightly in his face. He's quite the pretty boy, you have to admit.

But you just don't like blonde. You like the opposite.

Without intention, you glance over at Law.

Ambrosios follows your glance. You quickly look back at him, luckily he can't hear what you're thinking.

"I think, I have an idea… Someone has assured me that he could be of great help."

A smile appears on your face that Ambrosios has never seen before. It's a sort of cunning one.

With Law as your target, you make your way over to him. He was with a few soldiers and had his back turned to you. When the soldiers saw you, they interrupted the conversation and stood up straight.

Law didn't miss this behavior and turned around.

"Princess-ya." - "Princess.ya?" Ambrosios asks a little bewildered… and a little pissed off, because it seems so intimate… but you don't realize that anyway.

"Hey Law, do you have any ideas what we can do? Your ship is stuck in the mud and we can't lift it out of the river." - "I can deal with it, but there's one thing that needs to be done first."

Curiously, you watch as the soldiers heave a tree trunk onto the huge wagon where the ship should be placed.

Law said it was necessary and you are looking forward to what comes next.

"Okay, everything should work now." Law says casually as he claps his hands.

With a firm stance, he raises an arm and his low voice echoes a 'Room!

You've heard that before…

First you recognize a small swirl forming in his palm, which becomes a growing dome.

The dome surrounded you, the ship and the wagon that was positioned right next to the ship. He paused briefly and you hear him say 'Shambles'.

Suddenly the ship disappears from your sight and in the next moment you hear the loud creaking sound of Law's ship, which appears on the cart.

With your mouth open, you look in amazement at the Jolly Roger's broad grin as the log falls into the river.

Your gaze goes over to Law, who takes one step backwards.

"That was awesome Law!" - Law smiles at you, a little drained. You immediately recognize his irregular breathing and slight dark circles under his eyes.

"Are you all right?" you approach him worriedly. He quickly collects himself and tries to adopt a composed posture.

"Swapping such large object takes a lot of energy." You look at him sympathetically as Ambrosios steps to his side and places a hand on his shoulder. He is slightly taller and broader than Law.

"That was pretty useful, we'll take it from here." And walks past him to the wagon, where the other soldiers are getting ready.

Although Ambrosio might not look like it, if you can win him over, especially with strength, you'll have his respect.

"Pretty cool, I must say." - "Thanks, you could say I control the room" - "Sounds familiar…".

For a moment you both just smile at each other and it feels like time stands still. You definitely won't be the first to look away. You're enjoying the sensation waaaay too much.

"Aheem." comes from the side and you both look to Ambrosios who comes slightly between you to talk to you.

"We're ready then."

After securing the ship at the city border, you say goodbye to the soldiers and make your way back to the palace.

Now it's just the two of you…

Even if you want to ask a thousand things, you remain silent. At first it was a bit awkward again, but as time went on you found it quite pleasant. You become very calm around Law.

"Hey Law, when we get back I could do something to make you feel good."

What on earth did this woman say?

A little surprised, he looks down at you and raises an eyebrow.

"A-Also, only if you want to, of course." - "What do you mean?" he looks down at you sceptically.

Only then you realize what you actually said and turn bright red!

"UHH I MEAN… of course I meant that I can heal you!" Ashamed, you bury your face in your hands.

Oh my God, why do you express yourself so incredibly silly, huh?

It is now impossible to look Law in the face and you go your way in silence. You are glad when you arrive at Hera's palace and a few pirates greet you.

"Captain!!!!!!" Bepo comes running towards you.

"How's the Polar Tang??" - "Fine, it's safe at the edge of town. I would say that you help the people with the repairs. After all, it's not a normal ship." The Mink saluted his captain and scurried off to gather a couple crew members.

Law looks down at you. You can feel his eyes on you and carefully look up at him.

"You said you could heal me?" you nod hastily at him.

"All right, I suggest we go to my room," he adds as he makes his way to the stairs.

Once in his room, you suddenly feel like a complete stranger. It's your home and yet you're still tense.

Law makes himself comfortable on the sofa and looks at you expectantly.

You stand a little lost in the room. The thought of what you're about to do suddenly makes you feel strange. You start to feel a little uneasy at the thought of healing Law.

You sit down next to Law with your upper body facing him.

"Ready?" you ask as you carefully reach for his hand. With your delicate hands, you hold Law's hand and bring it to your lips.

Your warm lips meet Law's cool skin. With your eyes closed, you try to concentrate on his exhaustion.

Even if Law doesn't show it, he is literally overwhelmed by the warm feeling running through him. It feels as if waves are flooding his body without him feeling drowned. He feels rather light and safe.

He has never felt so good. Now he understands why you said it like that.

He closes his eyes. It's not that he feels like he is intoxicated by the feeling… it's more that he feels calmer than ever before.

He opens his eyes slightly to look down at you. Your lips are still on his hand. His gaze wanders from your long eyelashes to your full lips.

Why did she have to kiss Luffy and me when it was just a simple touch with Penguin?

A little tired, you let go of Law's hand. You used quite a lot of power yesterday and although it was only a small effort, it's quite noticeable now.

Law, on the other hand, spreads his arms out on the backrest and leans his head back with closed eyes.

The way you're both sitting, with your upper body still facing him, it looks like he's putting an arm around you. Exhausted, you lean back against the sofa. You don't care that you're touching Law's arm, and Law doesn't seem to mind either as you enjoy a moment in silence.

"Princess-ya?" - "Mhmm?"

"When you healed Penguin on the ship, you only had to touch him but you kissed me and Luffy… why?" - "It depends on how bad the damage or injury is…." You take his hand in your small hands and let some of your power flow into him.

"Can you tell the difference?" - Law nods silently at you.

"I'm not sooo good at controlling people's time yet… or rather, I can't without skin contact. There were some devil fruit users who could do it without any contact but I guess I'm a bit too uncontrolled… as my grandfather always swears." You can't help grinning.

"I build a direct connection that way, otherwise I'd use up too much energy myself." - "Why don't you heal yourself?" - "I can't."

He lifts his head straight up to look at you. Tired, you look into his eyes.

"You can't?" - "Yep. I've tried but nothing happens when I touch myself. I know from the old writings and stories that there were devil fruit users who could do it, but I never learned." You say with a hint of bitterness.

Law studies your face. Your large e/c eyes gaze into his stormy gray.

"Do you want it?" - "Absolutely." your eyes sparkle with passion. "But grandfather won't let me. There was a terrible incident back then and I strained my powers so much that I unleashed a terrible force…" You hold on to your arms and gaze into the distance.

"Apparently I've released something that's never been seen before. A power so terrible that it almost killed me. Since then, my grandfather has forbidden me from using my powers like that…"

You can't control yourself and a tear flows down your cheek.

You don't know what happened back then. You only know that it must have been so terrible because you were in a coma for a year. When you woke up again, you realized that your grandfather had burned all the textbooks that could help you with your techniques. In general, there were some forbidden techniques, but none of the previous users had ever been able to do what you did.

With his thumb, Law wipes away your tear and smiles kindly at you. You return a weak smile and the black haired man leans back again. He looks up at the ceiling a little thoughtfully and closes his eyes.

"You know, I feel really good."

You're glad Law can't see your face. You notice his attempt to refer to your words from before and lean back with a grin. You close your eyes and wonder why you feel so good... Even though you've remembered so many bad things.

After all you've known Law for less than 48 hours, you have shed a tear in front of him. Even if it was just one…

Law's voice, calm manner and slight arrogance trigger feelings in you that you've only read about in books.

It feels strange… No, rather good.

After a while, you say your goodbyes to Law. You're quite sleepy and if you don't get up now, you'll fall asleep and that would create DRAMA.

You can imagine the headline on the newspaper 'HOLY PRINCESS WITH PIRATE!!!'

When you get to your room, you throw yourself into bed. Your face is buried in the pillow.

What exactly do you feel? Is it sheer curiosity? No.

With the question still unanswered, you fall deeply asleep.

Who knows what tomorrow will bring.

It's almost 2 in the morning. I'm off to bed now. Nightie Babes!

See you next time, kiss kiss ♡

➽ Next chapter

[vampiresuns]

Anatole’s turn for @arcana-echoes day 1: Hometown. This isn’t strictly about his hometown, such a post is coming later with a bit of explanation for the trio. This is a poem about him I wrote a while ago.

There is no way to talk about hometowns and Anatole, and not brush open the feelings that come with being someone in-between ethnic, racial and cultural identities. In-between the history of those places, fractured, sometimes bloodied, always inevitably interpreted by those who live it, and the dreams and aspirations one has for oneself.

[rena-iwa]

» To lose himself in her, so that she could be lost in him.

Chapter I(?) Pairing: Riftan x Maxi Rating: Explicit (18+) Word Count: ~2.1k Setting: Most likely canon-divergent timeline (sometime post Book 2, but it's unclear how that would play out since it's not finished yet). Post Maxi's return from the Mage Tower.

Whew, it took longer than expected to complete. Now, I do know what I'd like the (theoretical) second chapter to include. Would you like to see it? Also, do excuse any typos that may or may not be present. I quite literally can't see them. + Smut is most definitely not my forte.

» Cold snuck into the air, reddening leaves signalling for autumn to fall. Heavy rain pouring from the skies, Maxi hurried down the corridors of Calypse castle, a ledger in her hands. «

Cold snuck into the air, reddening leaves signalling for autumn to fall. Heavy rain pouring from the skies, Maxi hurried down the corridors of Calypse castle, a ledger in her hands. Deep frown cutting across her features, she hardly minded her steps, the rows of numbers simply not reflecting the actual state of their estate. Missing wine, fabric which was not there, even though she was certain it had arrived, more grain than recorded occupying space in their warehouse – all of those and few more clearly aimed to grant her a headache. How did it come to that? She truly wished to know, the few weeks of their absence being hardly enough for such a situation to arise… The corridor quieted as she stopped, the echo of her steps dying eventually. A sigh heaving her chest, she closed the book and hugged it to herself, her eyelids fluttering shut for but a moment. A timid smile making it onto her face, Maxi looked down onto the castle gardens, her shoulders relaxing instantly. She – they – were home. Wasn’t anything else secondary?

The backlog of work had both her and Riftan occupied completely for the days to come, her husband tackling the tasks with a newly found ferocity. Unable to sit still, Maximilian attempted to match his pace, the mountain of errors and misattributions diminishing before her as her eyes scrutinised every corner of their castle. Placing orders, negotiating with merchants, assessing the state of supplies they owned and inspecting the available tools – it seemed no amount of work could tire her, her heart drumming ever so strongly. Perhaps such was the effect the years she spent studying in the Tower had on her, but whenever she found herself back in Anatol, Maxi wished to drink the place in. The daily commotion, the softness of her bed, the residual warmth sitting over Riftan’s side of the bed whenever he woke up first, the joyous cracking of flames… She swore to never forget any of them, her greed only rising as she hurried up the stairs, the sun beginning to set.

Winds swept atop the bastile, ruffling her hair and cooling her skin. Maxi walked up to the railing, soon letting her elbows rest on it, her eyes aglow. The nearby mountains turned to gold, splashes of red velvet taking over some of the forests, few ever-resilient yews and pines remaining stubbornly green – like emeralds, the land being their treasury. Propping her chin in her hands, she watched as light began to spill over the horizon, only one issue still daring to bother her.Riftan...Her shoulder slumped, bashful guilt washing over her. Was her husband not terribly busy? Surely, he would find time for her, but she should not add to his trouble… Too preoccupied with her thoughts to take note of the reality, Maxi jumped up a little, warm arms snaking around her from behind.

“There you are. I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

“Riftan!”

“Did I startle you?” he asked, his embrace loosening as he attempted to get a better look at her. However, the action never went past being just an attempt, her hands holding onto his begging him to stay in place.

“N-no… I was j-just thinking a-about you.”

His body relaxing against hers, pleasant warmth spread through her limbs, his scent enveloping her as wind blew from behind them and pushed her hair into her face. Riftan brushed his lips against her ear.

“You should have put on a warmer robe, you’ll catch a cold,” he murmured with discontent, a giggle shaking her shoulders prompting the crease over his forehead to deepen. “Maxi…”

“I-I am really warm now, th-though!” she protested as he pulled her closer.

“And if I haven’t found you?”

“Then… Then I w-would go inside sooner.”

Seemingly dissatisfied with her answer, Riftan stifled a grumble, his mood only lightening once she kissed his cheek.

“I-It’s good to be home,” she added in a low voice, his embrace tightening. Her nose nuzzling against his jaw, Maxi prompted him to look forward before continuing. “It’s beautiful.”

His gaze darting between the clouds, Riftan inhaled deeply, as if savouring the air.

“We should go on a ride. Tomorrow may be one of the last warm days for the year.”

“Y-You’re not busy?”

Maxi twisted in her position, her back pressing further against his chest as she looked over her shoulder, curious to see what expression he wore. Her heart fluttered at the prospect of finally being able to spend more time with him, their schedules hardly allowing them to see each other before dusk.

“I am,” Riftan sighed. Her hopes sunk. “But it’s nothing urgent.”

“A-are you sure?”

“Do you not want to go?” he asked, his eyebrows furrowing. However, his frown cleared just as fast as it appeared, her hair tickling his chin as she shook her head vigorously.

“I just worry… t-that you will have to work harder later… to m-make up for this.”

His warmth withdrawing from her body, Maxi spun on her heel to face him, not quite sure how to understand this – until she felt his hand in her hair, his tongue parting her lips hungrily. Her back pinned against the battlement, she gasped for more and let him explore her mouth, beyond willing to repay each caress. Her arms reached around his neck, his hands sliding down her shoulders and past her waist, down to her bottom… Maxi pushed onto his chest, his hardness pressing against her as he pulled her flush against himself, her feet lifting off the ground. They broke apart for air, Riftan gazing up at her longingly, dying sun having her hair turn wine red. Wide-eyed, he drank the sight in carefully, taking note of each freckle over her face. His gaze followed the carnelian blush, from the tips of her ears, through her cheeks, down her neck… Riftan groaned.

“If only you could see yourself now, you’d know why I always lose myself in you.”

Riftan inhaled sharply, but he held her all the same, the tips of her fingers tracing the outline of his jaw, only to brush against his Adam’s apple and tap his collarbone. Maximilian leaned down slightly, her usually bright eyes appearing closer to obsidian than anything else.

“We… should come inside… a-and take leave for the rest of t-today,” she uttered, her voice a barely audible whisper. Seemingly still not content with his state, she kissed his lips, her caress weighting no more than a feather. His body tensed.

“You’re a temptress.”

Castle corridors were much too long, Riftan cursing internally at every second staircase they had to cross. He was hardly a patient man, much less so when his wife clung to him, pleasant scent of rose oil raising from her hair, the heat seeping through her clothes driving him insane. Her cheeks burning in bright red, Maxi hid her face in the crook of his neck, servants politely pretending they hadn’t seen anything out of the ordinary – or well, pretended as well as they could, few curious eyes still following them here and there.

The door to their bedchamber opened, and before Maxi even knew it, her shoes fell to the floor, her back being pressed into the soft sheets as Riftan’s hand trailed a path up her calf. Her thigh seemed to burn as he stroked it, the skirt of her dress bunching up around her waist allowing for air to cool her skin. Impatient, Maxi spread her legs apart, thus earning herself a smile from her husband. He leaned down to kiss her, her lips parting for him as she reached below his tunic, his groan spilling into her while his thumb brushed against her sensitive bud, his fingers teasing her entrance…

Maxi buckled against his palm, his digits slipping inside her without any resistance. She tightened herself around them, something within her withering when he pulled back. There was no rational thought she could think at the time, the yearning in the pit of her stomach only intensifying with each passing moment.

Her heart drummed.

Riftan pulled the tunic over his head and undid the straps of his trousers.

Her pulse was deafening in her ears, her skin growing scalding hot. She propped herself on her elbows – and he stole her breath, tasted her like a starved man, utterly ravenous of her. Dexterous hands pulled at the lacing of her dress. The garment and her underwear disappeared. Maxi gasped, Riftan staring down at her –

A rain of kisses fell onto her shoulders, his teeth nibbling at her freckles, only for him to descent further, a rose garden of marks blooming in the wake of his lips. Her collarbones, her bosom, her nipples, her ribs, sides, midriff, the tender skin just below her navel, nothing was spared from his affection. Dazed, Maxi shivered below his caresses, a moan slipping out of her throat as he sucked on the inside of her thigh. Her eyes snapped open, the realisation dawning onto her – but the world slipped her as he made himself comfortable between her legs, his tongue lapping at her sensitive place. She squirmed, but he kept her from escaping with just a single arm, the fingers of his free hand pushing into her…

“R-Riftan!” she cried, but he didn’t wish to stop.

“Humour me… I haven’t tasted you in too long…” he murmured, his breath warming her flesh as he relentlessly worked her to her heights.

She felt feverish, the fire within her belly only growing worse, her muscles tensing as the blaze rose. Quite sure she’d lose herself if she didn’t get away in time, Maxi held onto his arm, her fingers curling around his wrist as she attempted to pull it back… Only for Riftan to hold her hand instead.

“P-Please… No more… I c-can’t –” her words melted into a moan, her body refusing to obey by her wishes, all residual reason withering away… Her hips buckled, her legs kicked – and he pushed her further, as far as he could take her, never once stopping until she began to tremble.

Riftan rose from his spot, his lips pressing soothing kisses upon her midriff while he waited for Maxi to calm down. If only she wanted to, that is. Frantic hands reaching for his shoulders, she urged him to move up her body, her lips searching for his with newly found ferocity. Maxi gasped as she tasted herself over his tongue, shaking legs hooking behind his back to pull him closer, pleading for him to finally fill her… To lose himself in her, so that she could be lost in him.

Her mind ceased. There was only his name and that overwhelming heat, only his groans as he thrust into her.

***

Maxi awoke to the sound of splashing water, warm liquid climbing up her back as an arm hooked around her waist moved. Still feeling mildly groggy, she clung to the person holding her, her arms still being locked behind his neck. Her ear pressed against his pulse, she listened to the beat of his heart, the steady rhythm soothing her tired body…

“Is this the end of your nap?” Riftan asked, his voice reverberating through her. Maxi groaned quietly, as if wishing to disagree. Nevertheless, she opened her eyes and stretched her back, quite surprised to see the clear look of amusement over his features.

“Y-you didn’t h-have to bathe me,” she mumbled, nestling against him once more, sleep refusing to let go of its hold over her.

“I did.”

“N-no,” Maxi mumbled again, although this time her voice was somewhat clearer. Her brows furrowed. “I-I could do i-it o-on my own.”

Riftan laughed – and she sat up straight, her dazed mind being utterly displeased with his clear disregard for her ability to take care of herself. True, they did make love, but… He kissed her forehead, her frown thus being dispelled. Her rubbed her arm, which still reached behind his neck.

“You could. But you held onto me so hard I couldn’t get up without you,” he chuckled, clearly pleased with the state of affairs, and with the blush which lit the tips of her ears red, before spreading to eventually take over her entire face.

“I- I… Did?”

“You did. Now, turn around, so that I can wash your hair.”

Maxi followed his instructions, grateful for the fact that Riftan let her live down her embarrassment, even if he clearly enjoyed the situation. He began to slowly detangle her hair, just as he always would, utterly and undeniably devoted to her, thankfully bound by something more than their vows.

[indurarinks]

stygian dagger

a sneak peek Like clamouring thunder intimidating a planet during a hot summer day, a small group of highly trained Tavali, the renowned pirates and travellers of the Universe, quickly dissolved themselves in the crowd as if each individual had always belonged to the scene. Bursting at the seams, the makeshift arena placated the savage desires of the rowdy public through violent, gruesome fighting. Their bellows demanded blood and guts from the unwilling practitioners of cage fighting, sold to this business for the purpose of serving the sick pleasures of the rich. Filling the pockets of greedy masters with abusive hands. Though illegal, the fights were wildly known throughout the Nine Worlds, beckoning hefty wallets with the promise of a night of indulgence. The three Tavali, fearless and unrelenting and heavily armed, approached the round stage, a fenced cage that had been electrified to discourage any contestant from trying an escape. Ushara, Davel and Trajen slowly descended the rows of stairs with a single purpose in mind. Rescuing Jullien eton Anatole. The bastard of the Ichidian Universe. “How do you want to do this?” Davel, Ushara’s older brother turned to her. Ushara Altaan, Vice Admiral for the Gorturnum nation (one of the four nations of Tavali) and the bastard’s best friend, thirsted for vengeance the moment she learned of Jules captivity. But despite the spiralling emotions, she led the rescue operation with military expertise. The Fyreblood in her was built for war, after all. Her breed of Andarions possessed the talent of pyrokinetics with their fiery breath that put them at great advantage in battle. “We have to find where they’re keeping the fighters. We grab Jules and get the hell out of here before I burn this shithole to the ground and cause Trajen here even more trouble.” The glance she threw at her boss and friend catapulted them both to a few months prior when she flew without proper papers and authorisation into Steradore to rescue her son and executed ruthlessly her son’s kidnappers. That was also when Jules crashed into her life. “Let’s start by looking for cells underground. I bet my money that’s where we will find him.” Trajen added quickly, the air of ancient wisdom surrounding him like royal robes as his eyes held a faraway look. Returning to the task at hand, the group proceeded through the darkened corridors, merging into the shadows like fading mist. Away from the main event and prying eyes, the three of them advanced into the house of horrors’ lowest pits where its security relied mostly on a few guards, now lying unmoving after quickly being neutralised, and the highest technology one could acquire in the black market. The collective tension thickened the atmosphere with Trajen’s warning. “I don’t know how long I can keep the interfering with the system’s security.” Visibly concerned for her boss, Ushara, who marched at front, turned back and gave him a look that silently asked him if he was alright. Though his expression had now been contorted into one of extreme suffering, Trajen nodded with a dismissive shrug. “Let’s keep looking.” Expecting the alarms to go off any second, inevitable frustration was slowly mounting between them as their options to find him grew scarce with the nearing of the end of the row of cells. “Where is he? Titana ræl. He has to be here somewhere.” Trajen’s curse surprised the others. Their Admiral was nothing but an infinite well of wise ponderation and heedful shrewdness. But this restless, almost sloppy version of him gave the others a marginal idea of the potency of the bond he shared with Jules. And where his loyalties lied. His purpose was clear. Despite Trajen’s many efforts to remain isolated from those under his protection, Jullien eton Anatole quickly wormed his way into their secluded leader’s heart with his wits and scars. In him, he found a brother, a kindred spirit. Both, a product of the brutality of their pasts. Drenched in darkness, Ushara refused to let old fears roar back to life as she searched each cell thoroughly. Those demons poked their incessant torment on her mind but she wouldn’t give way. No way in Tophet. “Jules! Jules! Dammit, dark heart. Where are you?” Her desperate bellow echoed through the hall. “Ah, shit.” Followed by a string of mouthful expletives, Davel run both hands through his tousled hair in evident denial. “What have they done to you, drey?” Terrified by her brother’s words alone, Ushara moved slowly toward Davel. Suddenly her legs weighed a ton, and all her instincts screamed at her. She wasn’t ready for what she was about to see. Her gasp of horror came without warning. Lying on the filthy floor of the smallest cubicle of that hellhole, he was in fetal position, back curved and head bowed to make himself smaller. His eyes resolutely shut, Jullien remained eerily motionless. Almost as if… “Jules..?” Low and soothing, her voice wrapped itself around him. “Please.” She begged. No reaction still. Lost to her panic and petrified by the shock of her best friend’s predicament, Ushara’s angry tears fell like an unexpected hurricane. This entire nightmare began when one of her cousins and his crew sold him as punishment for something he played no role at. Hate is an ugly creature whose talons infect the soul upon their impaling. And there is no recognition between right or wrong. There is just the ugly need for vengeance, the hunt for a twisted form of justice that’s justifiable through past suffering and grievances. Davel’s strained grunts catapulted her back into reality. For the time being and Jules’ sake, she vowed to abandon her thirst for retribution against those who sought to harm her best friend. Both her brother and Trajen joined their efforts to break him out. Between mighty brawn and refined brain, the electrified door of his dungeon held no chance against them. At the first opportunity, Ushara crawled toward the entrance on hands and knees. She outstretched her hand toward Jules. “Jules?” She tried once again. Only then did he shift his position, daring a tentative look at her as if afraid she might be only a mirage. “It’s me. Shara.” Her body ached from the awkward angle of it. “Come on, let’s go home.” When a single tear rolled down his face, her entire world shattered along with her heart. The agony and misery reflected upon those beautifully hybrid eyes, a mix of human and Andarion, clutched her insides before twisting them until she felt what she could describe as a poor replica of the same pain. Yet bravely, he offered her his bloodied fingers, silently accepting her strength to escape this house of horrors. As he dragged himself along the ground, Ushara confirmed all her fears. After the years of unthinkable abuse Jullien had fallen victim to, she feared he would resort to shutting everybody out to deal with yet another trial in his lonesome road of redemption, one he endured after she had promised him he was safe with the Tavali. She failed him. And she hated herself for that failure. Stoically, his face an unreadable mask of indifference, he stood awkwardly as Ushara embraced him in relief despite her reservations regarding his mental stability. “We better get going, guys.” Davel interrupted their reencounter with good motive. It wouldn’t be long until the alarms went off. “I sense trouble incoming, too.” Trajen added with a distant look. His impressive powers at work. As if on cue, the blaring sound of sirens threatened to awaken even the dead. “Let’s get out of here!” Ushara’s hand sought Jules’, tugging him behind her as the others hurried before them. Without uttering a word still, he followed after her. They were halfway down the hall when he broke contact with her fingers, turning toward a group of inmates, all female, as his fingers curled ferociously around the metal bars of the cell. His knuckles white, Jules tugged at the bars with a frightening growl. Eyes now full of untamed fury, he kept yanking and yanking. Unable to understand the source of Jullien’s outrage, Ushara spared a glance at her brother and Trajen before joining her best friend. He was clearly set on opening this specific cell. Mildly confused, she helped him by unleashing her fiery breath over the unyielding lock. It took some work as the ancient metal resisted more than first predicted but once it fell apart, he was quick to get pull the door open and venture into the room’s darkness. Tempted to go after him, she bit her lip. She shouldn’t. Right? Jules knew what he was doing. He had to. Right..? Praying for her friend’s mindfulness, she raked her fingers through her white hair while readying herself for the swarm of hostiles. “Shit.” Unholstering both blasters, Ushara aimed them ahead, patiently waiting to feed her need for violence. To sate her hunger to spill enemy blood. Surely enough, the first party showed up next. An eerie smile descended upon her lips. “Come get some, bitches.” She murmured dangerously, mostly to herself. Her blood singing in delirium for a chance of revenge. It was then Jules emerged from the shadows of the dungeon with a female stranger leaning heavily against him. Vulnerability surrounded this woman, obviously injured during her captivity. She was a vision, absolutely breathtaking. And totally human, it seemed. Golden skinned and green eyed, she beckoned every gaze in the room like a siren singing to her sailors. Finally, all hell broke loose. Ushara’s first two shots came as warning. After that, she was all business, no play. She went ahead of Jules and his companion, assuming her offensive stance before engaging in further confrontation. With envying expertise, she blocked every attack while ensuring their inevitable escape from this shithole by counter attacking tirelessly. She was an animal in the game of warfare. When every opponent lied lifelessly on the ground, Ushara released a breath of relief before holstering her blasters again. The barrels still singed her flesh if she were to touch them directly. Her babies were well used today. Collecting their breaths, the five of them exited the house of horrors without so much as a backward glance. Only Jullien hesitated briefly to bend his upper body forward so he could pick the woman up and carry her in his arms, regardless of her protests that claimed she could walk on her own. Once safely inside her ship, Ushara urged Davel to initiate the flight commands to get them all back home and far, far away from there. Trajen, the silent watcher, joined her while the both of them observed from afar the exchange between Jullien and the woman he refused to leave behind. “Is she trustworthy?” She whispered her concerns to her boss, hoping he could give her some sort of endorsement. Instead, he shrugged. “Time will tell.” Helpful. She grumbled quietly on her way to the pair. Despite Jules current inability to interact with the world outside of his well of misery, he still managed to put the human’s needs before his. A feat she probably can’t even begin to appreciate but Ushara’s version of a very malicious green monster was quickly suffocated by her immediate thought to not throw judgements before gathering proper insight. “Hi there. I’m Ushara.” The female warrior extended her hand toward the other female before pointing at Trajen. “That’s Trajen, and the mountain of a man at the front of the helm is my brother, Davel.” She finished with a sincere smile. “I—I’m Bonnie. Bonnie Bennett.” She cleared her throat to mitigate the hoarseness in her voice. “It’s nice to meet you all.” As she took Ushara’s hand in hers, she couldn’t help but noticing Jullien’s retreating form as he sought solitude to quiet his roaring demons.

[littlelonghairedoutlawllho]

E/C Fics

The third and last E/C rec list, containing everything longer than 1000 words, also multi-chapters, and fics that are related to each other. All E/C fics in the Etched with Tears ‘verse can be found here, and those in the Luckless Romance series are here.

Composer AU

Tender is a Kiss -- Christine Daaé is a chorus girl at the Palais Garnier. Erik Delacroix is a composer and conductor of the Garnier orchestra. When he hears her singing to herself he is spellbound, and decides to give her lessons, if she will accept. She agrees, and slowly lessons turn to friendship turn to love. (FFN) (AO3)

Street Kisses -- Christine surprises Erik with a kiss as they walk down the street at night. (FFN) (AO3)

Eva!verse

Twice Blessed -- Erik's reaction to the news of Christine being pregnant. (FFN) (AO3)

Fateful Night -- Erik spends the duration of Christine's pregnancy worrying that the child will look like him. (FFN) (AO3)

Pearl Anniversary -- He goes to every trouble to ensure that her birthday is special. And it is, but not just for the reasons he thinks. (FFN) (AO3)

Peace in the Night -- Christine nurses her daughter, and considers her face. (FFN) (AO3)

Soulmate AUs

Famous Last Words --  (E/C, R/C), A person is born with the last words their soulmate will ever speak to them tattooed on their arm. Christine Daaé has words written on both of her arms. (FFN) (AO3)

Twin Hearts, Echoed -- One always hears the echo of their soulmate's heartbeat, and can only recognize them by feeling the person's pulse match up with the rhythm in their head. Erik never heard the echo until he was in his thirties. Christine has heard it for as long as she remembers. (FFN) (AO3)

Fragmentations - 28 - Alcohol & Heartbeats – (post-Twin Hearts, Echoed), Drunk!Erik talking about his favourite song. (FFN) (AO3)

Time to Share Our Love -- When Christine and Erik first met, a timer appeared on their wrist counting down to the moment they would lose each other. Now they lie in bed beside each other, and there is only a week left. (FFN) (AO3)

Fragmentations - 4 - Invitation – (pre-Time to Share Our Love), Christine’s thoughts after she meets Erik for the first time. (FFN) (AO3)

Tinder ‘verse (Modern AU)

Tinder Date -- Nadir convinces Erik to download Tinder, and he matches with a pretty girl named Christine. And before he knows it, a first date leads to more. (FFN) (AO3)

Date Night -- (Smut), Christine has thought a great deal about Erik's hands, fantasised and dreamt about them. And a date that turns into their first time proves that those hands are all she suspected and more. (FFN) (AO3)

One-Shots

A New Chapter Unfolds -- Erik finishes composing 'Don Juan Triumphant' and it leaves him shattered, but Christine is there and maybe everything will be all right after all. (FFN) (AO3)

Arms of an Angel -- Erik has his own bed, and Christine has hers, and it is as simple as that. As far as he is concerned. Christine, however, has her own ideas on the subject, and frankly considers Erik to be ridiculous. (FFN) (AO3)

Christmas Eve Encounter -- (Modern AU),  While in the supermarket on Christmas Eve, Christine meets her old lover, and it reinforces all of her love for her husband. (FFN) (AO3)

Coda -- Fifteen years of marriage has impacted on both of them, but their love only burns brighter. (FFN) (AO3)

Contemplated Desires -- Christine overhears the ballet girls discussing various, ah, /indecencies/, and as she considers them when her fiancé sleeps beside her, she becomes terribly curious. (FFN) (AO3)

Creatures of Quirks -- Christine and Erik have not been married long when they start to notice each other's irritating habits. (FFN) (AO3)

In Hindsight -- (Kay AU), It is a year since Erik's death, and Christine reflects on that night, what was and is, and what might have been. (FFN) (AO3)

In the Stacks -- (Modern AU), Christine is a librarian attentive to her work, and so she notices when sections of books start disappearing at night then mysteriously re-appearing weeks later. One night, she decides to confront the mysterious borrower. (FFN) (AO3)

Of Liniment and Pride --  She knows the cold weather is making Erik suffer, and she also knows her husband's pride refuses to let him admit that, and so Christine must take matters into her own hands. (FFN) (AO3)

Nights Like This -- Erik's rest is disturbed by his son, and Christine hopes that they still have many long years ahead of them. (FFN) (AO3)

Permission of Intimacy -- (Smut),  They have been married for four months, and still Erik asks for Christine's permission when he wishes to be intimate. (FFN) (AO3)

Tangled Knot -- Anatole is handsome, intelligent, talented, and popular, and, through Erik's eyes, is loved in a way that he never was. (FFN) (AO3)

Things (Better) Left Unsaid -- He doesn't recall what he said last night, but he must have said something because Christine is upset. (FFN) (AO3)

Visit After the Fact -- He sends her away, sends her away as he knows he should, but she returns to check on him one last time. (FFN) (AO3)

Multi-chapters

Cartography -- (Smut), He would explore every inch of her, if given the chance. And she would do the same to him, map him and imprint him on her memory, if he were not so very afraid of what she might think of him. (FFN) (AO3)

Cocoon of Comfort -- Sometimes, when Erik has nightmares, Christine is there and she'll look after him. (FFN) (AO3)

Inebriation -- Christine drinks too much champagne. Erik must look after her. And occasionally, Erik likes to take a drink too. (FFN) (AO3)

Nearer to Thee -- (Nextgen, Kay!verse), He is not who they think he is, a muddle of stories and lies, wrapped in an opera cloak and mask that are not his own but could be. But Charles de Chagny, all of 22 years old, craves to be closer to that past which is out of his reach. (FFN) (AO3)

[letsfitem8]

No one asked for this but I wrote something and I like it and it's too short to post on ao3 so enjoy this I guess

The late afternoon sun was shining on Julian's hair, illuminating his face, his hair, his smile. From the position Anatole was sitting in, wrapped in the doctors arms, it was nothing if not a beautiful sight.

Anatole didn't have many good family memories. Even once he started remembering, his past unlocked to him, it wasn't something he enjoyed remembering. There was no childhood, no silly mistakes to laugh about. It was yelling and being alone and having to work harder than a child should. It was memories that could bring down anyone's mood if dwelt on for too long.

The apprentice didn't hear much about Asra's past, him not wanting to think too much about how his parents left, if it weren't for a good reason. If it didn't fix the problem, he didn't want to do it, in such a case. At least, not out loud.

So, when the bad memories came crashing in, and Anatole remembered how he got to Vesuvia, how he was pitied and taken in by Asra, when everything his parents said invades his mind and he can't think straight, he goes to Julian. No matter how bad he felt, how much the past biting insults seemed real and present, Julian helped. He wasn't a cure, and Anatole knew that. Julian was Julian. His words of comfort and contact helped chase the demons from the past, helped make it something Anatole could deal with, not struggle with.

On a couch, surrounded by blankets and pillows, a nest of sorts, they both had shed their outer layers; jackets, vests, gloves, shoes. They're comfortable.

They curl together like they're meant to, like they were designed to fit perfectly together. As Julian rubs gentle, gentle circles on Anatole's wrist and arm, Anatole geny takes his other hand and kisses the mark on it, the mark of a murderer. A small gesture, yet, he could swear Julian relaxes just barely at it.

He pulls Anatole closer, so the smaller man is sitting in his lap, as his lips ghost his neck, his hairline, as his hands wrap around him, the warmth of him, the smell of him, filling Anatole's senses.

And Anatole looks up at him, his mood better, but that underlying sadness never quite leaving. A look that requires being close to him, close enough to kiss. A distance Julian cherishes, for he sees how Anatole likes his space with people.

A hum. A sigh of contentment. Julian runs his hand through Anatole's hair, trying to tame it.

It's no secret Anatole loves Julian's stories. His childhood ones are his favourite. They give him a taste of what he missed, of what he so dearly longs for, and he can imagine it, imagine being there, beside Julian, beside Ilya, as he got into the not well thought out schemes. The idea of not getting in trouble for things appealed to him, never having that experience.

So, with a hum, Julian shifts him ever so closer, and Anatole tilts his head backwards, to see Julian that way, and the doctor kisses his forehead.

"Love, have I ever told you about the time I single handedly stopped a bunch of robbers as a child?"

Anatole smiles, a soft laugh coming from him and echoing in Julian's chest. "You have, but I'd love to hear it again,"

As he pulled a blanket closer to them, Julian cleared his throat and began, "Well, it was back home in Nevivon..."

[epicfics]

HUMANS one-shot: HEAVEN RAINING

So this is a scene I envisioned for episode 8, even though I know it won’t happen because we can’t have nice things. Anyways, if you haven’t seen episode 7 I’m not sure if you want to read this.

*This is the second time I’ve used first person POV for a Humans fic, the first time for first-person, past tense. I chose a Leo story because I really like writing for him...everything’s so serious and observant yet at the most random times he’ll say/think something hilarious. Plus, I found it really cathartic going inside his head and thinking about things the way I thought he might be.

                                    HEAVEN RAINING

 Dusk was fading in. Cloaking all that the sun touched with the colour of crushed forget-me-nots, I thought my eye caught the spark of a falling star as it took in the balcony jutting high above my head. The sight moved the ground under my feet, turning it to air and water until I was dizzied. And, as though by a time machine, I was home.

My mother was in front of me, pointing past my open bedroom window into a world of velvet black sky. Beaming down at me, she said, “Heaven is raining, love. It’s time to make a wish!” Then she scooped me into her arms and carried me outside to the balcony. Her laughter was contagious as the meteor shower soared like fireworks, and I must have wished for what any child would wish from a star. More toys, more sweets. Maybe a unicorn.

“Beatrice!” Strong as a brass bell, my father’s voice echoed from behind us. “Bring him back from the railing, now.” 

Mother gave me a soft kiss on the cheek and turned us back to face him. “Don’t tell him what you wished for, Leo,” she whispered.

“Leo.” Another voice pulled me to the present. Another mother. One whose daughter I had, in more ways than one, ruined for life. Laura’s furtive glance at me said all of that, as well. When she’d summoned me from amid the power crisis at the railyard, she’d said almost as much. “I know what’s going on over there is urgent, but Mattie’s situation is – quite directly – your responsibility. So move it, I’ll give you an address.”

For sure, she had an admirable way of working a conscience. It must have made her a brilliant lawyer. Not that I’d needed so much convincing, granted – even with Max, Mia, and Sam at low battery life, I was ready to turn myself in for Mattie’s freedom.

But rather than the door to a police station, we were standing in front of one to a mansion.

“Who lives here?” I asked Laura.

“A scientist. I worked with him on the commission.” Her voice was both quick and hushed, like a small deer disappearing into the wood. “He helped engineer Operation Basswood.”

So we were seeking an audience with the man facilitating the murder of my family. My insides pained with a longing, torn between saving them and doing what was right. “I thought we were here for Mattie.”

“We are.”

“Laura, please, just hand me over to Scotland Yard.” I felt hoarse with nerves – with hope, really – to leave before Dr. Death opened his door. “Tell Mattie I’m sorry for everything, and that I want her to be happy. Just let me go.”

Laura Hawkins’s eyes held a shine under the starlight. It was both wary and thoughtful. “Do you love her, Leo?” she asked suddenly.

The words in my head were vanquished by her question. “I what?” I said, sounding as stupid as I felt.

Mattie’s mother sighed. “I said, do you love my daughter?”

I had no answer for her. Did I love Mattie? When there were so many forms of love, what did she even mean? My memories flashed from my childhood to a more recent one, of pleading with Mia to give me the location of her flat. To my surprise, she’d said no, and told me to figure myself out. Figure out what I wanted. As though by divine symmetry, I’d looked up at saw her. A girl who’d been there for me, in a way that few had been lately. And I enjoyed her company too, in a way that I rarely did with anyone. Mattie was my first real friend in this world.

But did I love her?

The door opened, revealing a greying, thin-haired man with a bottle of scotch in his hand. “Laura,” he greeted her while side-eying me, both of us receiving the tone I supposed was reserved for hikers that ran afoul of irritated grizzly bears. “I was sure you wouldn’t be back, now that you’ve got your answers about Basswood.”

“This is about something else, Neil,” Laura told him, and within moments of being ushered inside I had to suppress a wild urge to laugh. Marble countertops, satin curtains, and cherry wood everywhere. What was it with scientists and their lavish homes?

The scientist, Neil, waved an impatient hand at me. “Who is he?”

Before I could speak for myself, Laura said, “This is Leo. He’s a friend of my daughter’s.”

The man raised an eyebrow in realisation. “So this visit has to do with your daughter?” Laura nodded, and the oddest thought struck me at that moment. Neil and I both were learning why Laura had brought me to him at the same time. It could have been…was she expecting a decision from me that even I was not yet planning?

A shadow passed over Neil’s face, and I heard his words before they left his mouth. “I canna do a thing.”

Because he already knew about Mattie.

He half-shrugged, downcast. “Between the news on the telly and Lord Dryden himself calling, I heard about this an hour after she was taken in. Laura, I’m sorry, but you know what this is for me.”

“No,” she said quietly, “I don’t. What is this for you? Justice for losing your son?”

Neil shook his head, his neck taught as he drank from the bottle.

Though I was paying close attention to this interaction, my chest heaved with impatient breaths. What was I doing here? There was only one sure way to help Mattie, and Laura wasn’t letting me do it. Instead we were in a pointless session with a man who blamed my friend for the loss of his son, when it wasn’t even…

Ah.

I stepped forward, clearing the tickle in my throat. “Hey if you want to punish someone for that, try me.”

Although Neil blinked in surprise, Laura didn’t even cast a glance at me. She knew this was my card to play.

He folded his arms. “So that was your code then?”

More or less, though I wouldn’t say it yet. “Mattie got it from me. We didn’t know…we didn’t mean for any of the tragedy on Day Zero to happen.”

Finally angry, Neil snapped at Laura, “Why’d you bring him here? You should be telling the police, not me.”

I shot him a helpless, wry smile. “My thoughts exactly.”

Now Laura looked annoyed. She held up a “one moment” finger, pushed me to the foyer, and said, “What are you doing?”

I shrugged. “What am I supposed to be doing?”

“Open up to him!” she hissed, her eyes slightly wild with desperation. “Tell him your story.”

I frowned. Give the man who was throwing a lit match on everything I had left to care about an autobiography? Laura was a smart woman, but sometimes she made no sense.

She sighed. “I asked before if you loved Mattie. Do you know why? Because she’s heartbroken, Leo. I don’t think it’s going to make her condition any easier if she never sees you again. Neil’s a behavioural scientist, which means out of everyone we know he’ll have the best chance at figuring out how to keep everyone out of prison.”

Earlier, Max’s duplicitous friend Anatole had nearly bashed my head out, and my face looked like it met a bad day with a razor. But that was nothing to the wind Laura Hawkins had just knocked out of me. Then she threw at my unprepared psyche, “If you tell me that you never want to see her again, I’ll turn you in myself.”

Never see Mattie Hawkins again. Never share the jokes that we had about being friendless, never confide in each other the things that no one else would understand. Never share a cup of tea under a sky of shooting stars.

Did I want that?

I shook my head and marched past Laura into the kitchen. She was just starting to follow as I said to Neil, “My father gave me that code. His name was David Elster, and he created the prototypes for five conscious Synthetics for me.”

Neil squinted at me like I’d just dropped from his ceiling. “Excuse me? David Elster…?”

“Right,” I said, hoping he could keep up before I lost my nerve. “I was traveling with four of the conscious Synths three years ago when we got separated. After my father died, they were all the family I had, and then Mattie brought me one of them. Mia.”

I stopped then because he shot a startled glance at Laura, which meant he'd at least heard about the first Synth to rent a flat in London about as much as the next person.

He wasn’t going to break my momentum, though. “Mattie helped me figure out the code my father had left behind, and when she uploaded it, it wasn’t to create chaos or death. I’m sorry for your loss, truly, but when Mia’s system was crashing Mattie did it to save her. None of us imagined the consequences.”

I looked away from the scientist now, and the lawyer, and imagined it was just me saying this to myself. “But if you need a pound of flesh in the face of all this truth, it should be me. Mattie’s a good person – the best I know, in fact. The guilt of this has been eating at her for a year, and she nearly turned herself in last week for it. But in another year,” I drew a deep breath, finally ready to say it, “she’s going to be a mother. I hope the anger from losing your own child won’t destroy the life of another.”

Neil’s eyes widened at this revelation, and he said to Laura, “Why didn’t you just open with that line?”

Laura smiled at me, tentatively. “I don’t know. I wanted to cover all my bases with you, Dr. Sommers.”

He shook his head, half-marveling, half-outraged. He jabbed a finger at me and said, “Aren’t you dead, lad?”

I raised my eyebrows, not ready to go into that. “I’m not anymore.”

Neil groaned. “What a headache you’ve given me. I’ve finished my scotch. One of you owes me a drink.”

“Will you help us?” asked Laura breathlessly. For someone who was counting on it, she sounded like she could scarcely believe it now.

 “Aye,” said Neil, but his gaze was on me alone. “It all falls to you, Leo. Coming out with this information will alter public perception, Day Zero will be seen as a misguided heroic attempt rather than as a cyber terror attack, and the girl will likely get pardoned. Especially with the child. Yours, innit?”

 I nodded shortly, then repeated, “Likely?”

He scowled. “You like my odds, or the ones stacked against her right now?”

Laura said, “I’ll take it. Thank you Neil.”

But the scientist shook his head. “I’m not doing this for you, Laura. With all due respect, but you lied to me. You’ve used me for information, and you’ve used my loss against me. But your daughter dinna do any of that, and it sounds like if I’m gonna use my heart instead of my head for once, it might as well be for a pair of kids who dinna know any better.”

Truer words were never spoken. Mattie and I hadn’t known any better, and if we had then a lot of terrible things probably wouldn’t have come out of it. But then again, perhaps something good had come out of it too. Earlier, I’d been remembering my parents. A mother who loved me, but couldn’t care for me. A father who could have cared for me if he’d wanted, but couldn’t love me.

And if I had a child, was I really incapable of either caring for or loving it? Is that what I was afraid of? Because if there was one thing of which Anatole reminded me, it was that I wasn’t David Elster. I imagined going back to that balcony of my childhood and knowing my wish. It was the same wish I’d made moments before going into Dr. Neil Sommers’s house.

 Meanwhile, Neil was staring at me. “You know, not to be a downer, but you will have to say goodbye to nearly any form of privacy you’ve ever known. Cameras in your faces twenty-four seven, doling your life story out to jurors, journalists, and random hatemongers alike. There’ll be death threats.”

Sounds like fun. I swallowed and said, “Yes, I understand.”

“Hmm. Mattie must be something precious to you.” Another knowing glance at Laura.

Do you love my daughter? she’d asked me more than once. Did I love Mattie, my first and only real friend, the one who’d stayed at my side while I was comatose and who’d shared her life with me…who’d shared everything she could with me? Someone who was a far better person than me, and made me wish I was better in return? Did I love the woman who was carrying my child?

I’d wished for a family, whole and complete. Don’t be an idiot, I thought as I saw her soft-featured face in my mind.

 “I love her very much,” I spoke out, my voice clear, palms unsweaty.

 And as Laura and Neil shared a smile, I knew things were never that simple. Did I love Mattie as a friend, or as family? Or was I madly in love with her? But there were many forms of love, and I didn’t have to pick which category Mattie fell under yet. The best thing that ever happened to me didn’t come from a shooting star. It came from her.  

THE END

[andryuska]

@extasiie // new year’s kiss.

there are only five seconds left.

something in the air is unfamiliar and at the same time, unmistakable. uplifted spirits ; the scent of alcohol ; the loud and messy counting of countless other voices around him as he stands, shoulder pressed into anatole’s, near the back of the crowd that has gathered around the television to watch the ball in times square make it’s descent. five seconds left of the year ---- he’s heard more than one person say that it’s hard to believe the year is almost over. and andrei, who has never been attached to festivity, has until now thought ironically that is it not at all surprising. the progression of time seems to him a random and obscure cause for celebration, and he’s issued more than one complaint about it.

and yet as he stands there, something has changed ---- something about it is striking and bright and that hand that is not holding a nearly empty cup finds anatole’s, fingers entwining around the other’s with natural and practiced ease. his heart, he has found, has started to race for no reason, and his cheeks burn red, and for some reason he is excited about what he had called stupid less than an hour ago. and it is not because something within him is changing ---- everything but this one feeling is the same. andrei is the same but different ; still cynical and unhappy, but lighter. hopeful, almost. his hand squeezes more firmly in this revelation, and though he thinks he should be disgusted by it, for some reason it brings a smile to his face.

there are only four seconds left.

though it is entirely false to call andrei the sentimental type, the effect of this affection over the year becomes, all at once, abundantly clear, tearing through him in an instant with great gravity and significance, and suddenly he’s more aware of the person beside him, not merely physically, but some other, deeper way. through bad and worse anatole has been with him ---- hate sex and fighting and dreadful separation have wrecked countless hours and have left andrei feeling more than once as though he was meant for nothing more than awful and silent isolation, for loneliness that would forever endure so long as that desire for distance rested within his soul. yes, his most terrible days have been in their separation ---- long months of a summer at home, where anatole’s secret visits had not been frequent enough, dreadful hours of anxiety and detachment when their fights have been too serious to be reconciled immediately. he remembers it all, and though in his soul it causes echoes of the pain of having endured this, it is only that ; an echo. a part of his history whose damage is done, but over.

and it is not, he reminds himself, by any measure all bad ; because anatole has been with him through good and better was well ---- long hours watching  ( and not watching ) movies together, so close that where one body ended and the other began became unclear, pointless dates to strange places peppered with small shared smiles and brushing hands, long nights of nothing but their touch in the darkness, there no matter what worries kept andrei from sleep. anatole has been the cure to every infection he’s created in andrei. the single comfort in all the pain he causes. it is unhealthy, and vile, and necessary ---- and andrei has long since conceded, in countless moments when through the stress and hurt he’s felt the small comfort of anatole’s hand in his hair, anatole’s touch against him, that he needs him. it means more than he has ever been able to say, but he knows it with the same intimacy with which he knows anatole.

there are only three seconds left.

in the recognition of this need there comes the reason that his vitriol to the celebration of new year’s has been markedly more harsh this time. it is an awful thing, but andrei dreads the new year, because with the new year comes the prospect of ending. of losing anatole to a fight or to another person, or to mere and dreary distance. he has even started to dread that once coveted graduation if only because the uncertainty that follows. the prospect of being alone again terrifies him ; in having meaning, this thing between them that had once been nothing more than a fling has become something else entirely. something that, without a future, will destroy andrei. because he can imagine a life without anatole ; a bleak military career, where long days were punctuated by memories of some better time, where happiness is not a goal, but a memory. and maybe it will be better, maybe this is just the stress of a man conditioned to see the worst in everything. maybe he is simply being cynical. regardless the thought of it is unbearable.

and so in that precious second, even if it will not last, he wants to imagine something better. he wants to pretend, to trick himself into believing that there is a future for them despite the turbulence that so often comes between them. he wants to imagine a life beyond the remaining time they have in their studies. as delusional as it is, andrei has imagined himself a future wherein he will not have to endure that dull existence that will surely follow their breakup ; a future where it never happens, where this relationship, and not lonesome misery, endures. and in believing it, he finds again that hope, a tiny and flickering flame within him that amongst all the ice still survives, still burns away at the coldness that had once so completely seized him. this is foolishness, and it is too much, and it overwhelms, and yet when he draws his gaze from the television to look at anatole, it’s what he wants. inexplicably, and despite all the pain it will cause when it doesn’t happen, it’s the only future that can make him happy.

there are only two seconds left.

andrei has not fallen in love with the past, nor has he fallen in love with an impossible future ---- the thought comes when he watches anatole’s eyes, his own wide and bright and full of sadness and wonder alike. living in the present moment is not a skill of his ; his mind too easily wanders away into history or into unrelated matters, and he forgets himself, and forgets to enjoy where he is now. tonight, in the fleeting seconds on this year, he’ll not let it happen. because right now, they are not fighting and they are not separated and they are not on the verge of being parted forever. right now, they are side by side, hands clasped and eyes locked despite the excitement that buzzes around them. andrei knows none of it ---- he sees only anatole, thinks of only him, and thinks with vexation and endearment of how he loves him. it is terrible and amazing at the same time, and there is nothing he wants more than that tug in his heart when he thinks of it. there is nothing he needs except to love and to want, and to know that he is loved and wanted in return.

everything will fade the next morning, when the alcohol wears off and the energy in the air around them is no longer able to prompt this existential and meaningful feeling in him. he won’t look at the memories with this sad wonderment. he won’t ache for this future with such foolish resolve. he won’t feel this love in the same unique intensity as he does now. it will not be gone, but merely forgotten. and andrei finds that he doesn’t care. he’s here now, and that is all that’s important to him, and though he wants to say something, anything, to describe this feeling in his breast, no words come to mind. there is no time, not a second to spare regardless for words, and so as the room shakes, ready to burst when finally the clock strikes midnight, andrei is silent. the world around him is muted. this is unexpected, and he���d thought he’d only be able to continue his cynicism despite everything. but with the man he loves, he cannot bring himself to keep to the darkness ---- he knows that despite all he has told himself, he cannot let this moment fade away without ever having acted upon it. his heart and his soul will not allow reason to ruin it for him.

there is only one second left.

despite their having being found out earlier in the year, andrei has never been keen to be physically affectionate with anatole in public. they touch, casually and almost constantly when they’re out together ( this is surely why their friends so easily discovered their relationship in the first place ) but andrei has been strict about ensuring that it is nothing more than that ; one single blurry picture exists to prove the one time he had slipped in this restriction, but that is impossibly far from his bewildered thoughts at the moment. but tonight is not some ordinary night at some ordinary party. and his resolve, when the entire room begins to shout, disappears. there has never been in him this feeling of life, there has never been this much hope, and it makes him forget all those other considerations. the clock strikes midnight, and because he cannot help himself, he presses his lips to anatole’s to kiss him.

no matter how many times they’ve done this and more, something of this is different. something in him is warm ; it does not burn with anger or passion, it does not leave his insides feeling like ash, but instead makes him feel light and soft. his inhibitions are weakened, but this only makes this public kiss more honest ; there is in it all the love and the need and the want he feels, unrestrained by shame or anxiety, more free and open than he has ever allowed it to be. it feels, in that moment when the clock strikes midnight, like he has found something which he is unable to recognize and even less willing to name. it does not swelter, but rests gently within his soul, and still it causes his heart to pound against his ribs and his cheeks to turn bright red. he does not know what this is. he does not know what to call it. but it is divine, and as it happens. he never wants it to end.

( a small voice whispers inside his mind the name for all he has felt in these five fleeting seconds ; happiness. )

the moment passes, and the next minute comes, and andrei pulls away, taking a moment before he seeks a more suitable separation to press his forehead to anatole’s, to let the smile that has overtaken his expression linger there, humble and beautiful and so deeply in love. their friends speak loudly and raucously around them, but he needs only murmur the only words of which he can think, knowing that though they are the summation of everything that has flooded his mind, they will never be enough to express all he feels. in that moment, though, he knows not to doubt or to regret. he simply knows to say it.

“ happy new year, tolya. ”

[ruleandruinrpg]

CONGRATULATIONS, CHARLOTTE!

You have been accepted for the role of ARINA ZAHKAROV with a faceclaim change to Eleanor Tomlinson. Admin Em: Charlotte, with each layer expanded upon in your application, it became clear you understood Arina perfectly. My heart fluttered at your para samples - you nailed her voice, her innate confidence that could be misconstrued as cockiness but is actually self-awareness, her complete disinterest in anything but the morbid, and perfectly described how, so far, she has been untested in her morality. But most importantly, you nailed her innocent, almost child-like fascination with death and all its tenets, describing her as beautifully as she would describe dying. I can’t wait to see Arina on the dash! You have 24 HOURS to send in your account. Also, remember to look at the CHECKLIST. Welcome to Ravka!

OUT OF CHARACTER

ALIAS: Charlotte

PREFERRED PRONOUNS: She, her.

AGE: Twenty two

TIMEZONE & ACTIVITY LEVEL: GMT. In regards to my activity, I’d say that I’m a solid 6. I like to spend as much time as humanly possible rp’ing, but I do have a full time job and sometimes a social life. I can dedicate a couple of hours each evening, but I can be a more constant presence when I’ve got a day off work.

CURRENT/PAST ACCOUNTS: Calista, Fallon

IN CHARACTER

DESIRED CHARACTER: Arina Zahkarov

Little doves decorated the nursery, which housed the flame-haired girl, a child Liliya and Anatole Zahkarov had longed for - the fruit of their long enduring love. Named for soft contentment, the line between boredom and excitement, an expression of happiness that could be found in the most gentle of natures. Her name was pocketed by her mother many years before, when Liliya had held dreams of having a daughter to walk in the shadows of her own footsteps, cut from the very cloth her mother swathed her own body in. But despite the restful state of her name, Arina’s mind has always been anything but peaceful. Others have often gazed at her so strangely. Perhaps they wondered how someone so odd, could come from a line so poised and admired. It’s true that whilst her entire existence caused uproar within her home, tranquility was found within her very soul, so she was not named poorly. Curled up by the fire, books splayed over her lap, that was her gentle solitude.  The mind housed within her body has always been curious, people using the word inquisitive as an insult thrown towards her - how blind they are.

WHAT DREW YOU TO THIS CHARACTER?

To say that there were an abundance of characters I gained muse for would be an understatement, the broad spectrum of personalities and plotlines made it difficult to choose the one. However, there was something about Arina that just kept tugging me back to her biography. For me, she’s a challenge, purely because she’s not feather light in her softness or drenched in the blood of her enemies, two tropes that I have an affinity for. Her oddball nature is beguiling, and I was certainly looking to break out of my comfort zone. I felt Arina was striking in the sense that I admired her curiosity and disinterest in worldly goods, but that is just a smidgen, or speck of who she is as a person. Her reliance has always come from intelligence, and resources surrounding her. She’s passionate, but not in a quintessential way. For someone steeped in life, the very core of her soul alight with passion and vibrancy, she found interest in something which tore away life from another. I see her restlessness which comes from mundane living, the desperation to constantly learn and uncover. There’s an innocence in her passion, her interest in the subject vibrant and her excitement for it untamed, and Altan’s offer was like giving her the cookie jar. You could say that her devotion to her interests is what drives me to apply for her, there’s something incredibly endearing about her.

WHAT FUTURE PLOT IDEAS DID YOU HAVE IN MIND?

ONE - Knowledge is power, it’s a motto that Arina has lived her life by. Malevolence is not in her bones, but curiosity certainly is. There’s a fine line between science and cruelty, at least where she is concerned. Her fascination with the way in which poison attacks the body, has driven her to accept an offer that she never thought possible. Never satisfied by the answers she’s gained, Arina has a lust for more information and that drives her every day living. Materialistic items may not have made her greedy, but information certainly has.  Thus far, this has all been a positive journey for Arina, and she’s never had to question her own morals in her process of discovery. Someone could very easily ask her to poison someone, not for the purpose of science, but as a means to an end. I want to see the other side of Arina’s choices, the reaction to every action. Perhaps her curiosity of poisons takes her to a new line she never thought she’d cross, and then from there it’s whether she will continue to fall down the rabbit hole. Afterall, it’s a slippery slope.

TWO - Self indulgences and the pleasures of the world have never been a desire of her’s, material items considered frivolous and the company of others only pleasant when stories, facts and resources are provided from the other. Relationships have always been a difficult task for Arina to manage, from the connection she had with her parents to even making friends. The world has viewed her as odd, and she in response  viewed it as a nuisance. I’d like to push Arina out of her comfort zone, more than it’s already been tested. Shona is a representation of her attempts to have some sort of connection with another person, but I’d like to see her in a setting where she’s forced to find kinship in someone she would not have expected.

THREE -  Arina has for a long time felt confident that she is best served where she is, studying as she does. Her interests have been unwavering since she discovered them, and her abandonment of them would certainly not be willing. At some point, I would like to see her needing to set aside her own passion for something deemed a necessity, that does not cater to her wants.  With poisons and knowledge, Arina feels comfortable and that’s where any confidence or wit is found, because her years of learning have provide her with the ammunition to have a strong view on her worth. What if she were moved from the Little Palace, to the unknown, where her studies are not as they are now.

WOULD YOU BE WILLING TO HAVE YOUR CHARACTER DIE?: Maybe. Aside from illness or a long life lived, I cannot imagine Arina dying. With some characters, those broken birds or bold beings thinking themselves god’s instead of men, I can see it. For me, Arina has a lot more to discover and uncover. I suppose it would very much depend on the situation because right now I can’t imagine  a scenario in which I would find it fitting for her to die.  I mean, I’m saying this, but if Arina would to ironically die by poison, I’d be down with that.

IN DEPTH

IN CHARACTER PARA SAMPLE(S):

Triggers: blood, death, needles.

ONE

Water droplets fell in rhythm, a continuous tempo vibrating around the room, which seemed to echo every noise that fell into the void of silence, and came out louder and bolder.  Puddles splashed beneath her feet, licking the bottom of her Kefta as she descended down the stairs. Her fingers wrapped together, anticipation caused a bundle of nerves to flutter in the depth of her stomach. In all her dreams, she had never expected something so exciting to present itself as a viable opportunity. Taking chances did not come naturally to her, but she leapt forth and clasped with both hands, not allowing it to pass her by. There was something dark and dismal about the place, setting a melancholic aura over the room. In spite of this darkness, she felt a lightness to her movements.

Clearing her throat, she tucked the book closer to her chest, all her findings scrawled on the pages. She heard screams far off, which sent a string of chills down her back. Hairs stood on the back of her neck, but she did not allow her nerve to be lost. Whether she aided them or not, the fate of those she would work on had already been decided.The archway which led to the line of benches, presented a haunting sight - but she would never turn and flee. Her interests were particular, her passion deeply embedded within the talent that she’d collected. Poisons were her calling, and live test subjects were an unknown dream.

Stepping down, she walked with purpose over to where Altan stood. A concoction of potions had already been mixed, each one labelled differently. She wondered how it would affect the blood, the different organs of the body. When pouring snake venom into a dish of blood, she’d watched with fascination as it solidified before her eyes. Attacking the body with something so subtle was an art, beautiful, captivating and utterly beguiling. A wash of poison across the lips was enough to starve a man of  his life, taking away their last breaths before they even realised it had been planned.

Placing down her books on one of the benches, her head turned towards the subject, remorse void from her eyes. It was not as though she were taking the life of someone valued, someone worthy of redemption - each one was a criminal, bound to a death sentence. Not all poisons would be quick, not all would be painless, but that was the purpose of her tests. A discovery unlike any other, and she would be the one to uncover the secrets - that was her prize in life. Some could writhe in the fabrics of their riches, decorating their bodies with a thousand jewels, but it would be her who found a fulfilled life.

“Are you ready?” The voice of the Corporalki asked, looking at her with a sternness. Intimidation did not rise, for she merely pulled out a vial, trying to suppress the smile of excitement. To others it might have seemed foolish, but the rewards and self gratification which came from such tests  would give her fulfillment, she hoped. Arina did not know whether it would be enough to keep her entertained for the rest of her life, but the wealth of knowledge which had yet to be discovered, certainly would.

“Absolutely.” A haze of focus fell over her features, replacing girlhood with a professional and methodical outlook on the situation.

First, she set about examining the body that she would be giving poison to, ignoring the hushed pleas of the man who waiting for his lethal dosage. It was important for her to know the physical state of her test subject, in order to then fully assess the damage.

“Damn you.” The man spat with rancour, fingers twisting into fits.

Sometimes monsters must fight monsters. The thought was disregarded easily, she refused to go back to the moral line that she was crossing, for it was for the importance of science that she agreed.

No soft words left her mouth as she gazed at him, before then turning to her wooden box of glass vials. Each one shone in different hues, some completely transparent whilst others glistened in hues of red and gold. Her most lethal, reserved for a later date, was the colour of sparkling sapphires - certainly her favourite and most deadly.

“I’m glad you agreed to do this, Arina,” Darkness appeared to like the taste of Altan, for he too walked with a venomous gaze and sinister intent.  She rolled her shoulders, cracking her neck from side to side as her slender fingers plucked one from the box.

“It is well suited to my interests. You made a smart choice in me,” she responded with confidence, taking a moment to note down the details of the poison. Her notes would be a tool to refer to, when exploiting the various avenues which she’d descended, in order to achieve such results. Theory was surpassed by the practical approach.

Slowly dragging back the plunger of the needle, the contents of the vial were sucked up into the vessel. Focus stretched over her features, her brows knit together as she took a deep breath, before releasing it with a long sigh.

Injecting the poison into the man’s vein, she paid no mind to the patient’s attempt to shy away from her touch. It was only once every last drop was removed from the tube, that she then discarded the equipment and moved to collect her notebook once more. Everything needed to be recorded, each sign meticulously noted down, not a symptom missed. Her path to understanding death was just beginning.

TWO

Crumbs were brushed from her lips, powdered sugar leaving its trace across porcelain skin. If having a constant immaculate appearance was at the forefront of her mind, her own reflection would have been studied in the looking-glass. But instead, her head remained bent over the pages, fingers tracing dried ink, which embossed the once clean parchment. Words bled together, and despite the late hour, she could not staunch her fascination enough to retire to bed. Burning the midnight oil, heat pressed to her cheeks as she devoured the knowledge, wild flaming locks tumbling over her shoulder in a haphazard fashion. Aches formed in the shell of her neck, protesting from her need to bend over the desk for hours with no respite.

The clearing of a throat did not curb her interest in the pages. In fact, she simply leaned closer in an attempt to block out the blurring of people who brushed past her. Her interests meant very little to them, but she did not feel disheartened by it - she never had. Even as a child, when she’d shown more of an interest in literature than the soft sway of dance, and the dalliances of men hoping to catch her eye, the sneers others pressed to their tongues never once caused a tear to fall. She did not think them cruel, but ignorant instead. Her differences made her special, the encouragement fell heartily from her father’s mouth on many occasions when he’d heard the jibes of others - it affected him, more than it did her. It was not as though she’d ever seen fit to care about what others thought of her.

“Have you not given enough of yourself to those documents for one day?”

Despite the reluctance of her heart, she turned to face the intruder - for there could be no better word to describe them. Whilst the space itself was open to anyone who wished to wander through, she loathed being disturbed, unless she could pluck the mind of he who entered.  Wiping her hands down the purple fabric which encase her body, she lifted an expectant eyebrow.  Whilst she was not limited to two states, there was a clear divide in her nature depending on the situation. Either reserved and light in tone, or enthused with the passion for the subject, you could see whether Arina thought the conversation was truly worth her time, simply by the expression which painted her features - It was too often boredom.

“If I believed that, I would not be here,” she sighed, turning back to the documents. The listing of ingredients was intricate, like the skill she desired to master. Beautiful and deadly, her fascination for poisons spread like a virus, attacking each of her cells until she lived in hunger for the knowledge.

A melodic hum vibrated against her swell of her lips, attempting to ignore the figure, who seemed persistent in their decision to linger where they were not wanted.

“Is there something I can help you with?” She placed her fingers against the desk, agitation growing up the length of her spine. Time was better spent in other ways, and why waste it on the irksome task of meaningless conversation when her mind could be put to better use. Boldness licked the bottom of her lips, a lion creeping from the shadows to force another comment to leave her mouth, without full permission of her own mind. “Shouldn’t you be eating food and combing your hair, or doing any of the other mundane things that humans do?”

She caught sight of the arch of their eyebrow increasing, perhaps surprise had assaulted them. An intelligent mind was wrapped up in her head, a solitary voice barely used outside of the walls of The Little Palace. It was a sanctuary, her very own haven in which to learn and discover, she was not one for provoking the humans, even if she thought them uppity. Her parents were just the same, floating about with their wealth and prominence, her mother’s laughter carrying down the halls as she turned her nose up at those lesser. How cruel for her, that her own daughter should be labelled just the same.

“And I thought you were supposed to be intelligent.” Their name was known to her, since she’d been force fed the titles of those closest to the crown, and the inner circle titled as the nobility of court. Had she not been born with such gifts, Arina might have been forced to attend court - an arduous task.

Leaning against the dark wood, arms folded over her chest,she watched with minimal interest as Arisha walked forward, too boldly invading the space which Arina had titled her sanctuary. “That intelligence comes from books and parchments, which I’m trying to read,” she murmured under her breath,  curbing the need to roll her eyes in response. Who were they to her, really? Arisha was no master of small science, any source of intelligence had come from classic studies, and not those which seemed other worldly.

Witch was a friendlier term, when faced with many snide remarks growing up, not that her body had frequented the outdoors an awful lot to hear such slander. The closed, dogmatic views of those stuck in their old beliefs would never harm her, but that did not mean that she wanted anyone capable of such poison, anywhere near her.

“What are those that you’re reading?” A hint of curiosity laced the threads of Arisha’s voice, almost similar to the tones that caressed Arina’s own, when picking Adrik’s mind. There was nothing wrong in another being curious about her field of study, for it was a fundamental trait of her own self, but she felt mistrust over a human and the sincerity of their actions.

She did not answer the courtier, instead moving back to glance over the pages. In truth, the presence of another had disturbed the flow which she’d found, and tiredness had begun to fall over her. Whilst keen of mind, she was certainly not invincible.

Incensed by the lack of response, Arisha pushed forward to stand beside her - dark eyes bearing down on the mass of fiery waves that clung to the back of her head.

Pulling the parchments into a neat pile, lips set in a straight line, she continued to ignore Arisha, hoping that they would simply grow bored of trying and leave.

“I asked you a question.”

“And I decided not to answer,” she retorted, words clipped at the end. If she admired the persistance of them, no admittance would leave her tongue.

CHARACTER HEADCANONS:

ONE - Celebrations have never appealed to her, the significant one being her birthday. When she was young, her mother had made a grand affair of the occasion, her father sweeping her up onto his shoulder. It was the time when she’d worn pretty white dresses, with silk bows in her hair and been offered pastries and gifts until her hearts content. But it would not be long before she slipped away, even as a toddler, disinterested in the attention and frivolity of parties. After a certain age, Arina demanded that any mention of her birthday be ceased. It was not that she loathed growing older, but more that she did not care for the fanfare of the occasion. Her age would be marked down, but she refused to have a single well wisher utter words of ‘Happy Birthday’ to her. It became easier after she left her parents, for no one was interested in making the effort for her - much to her relief. Arina liked to be left to her own devices, in peace.

TWO - Despite her admiration for death and science, she does have a fondness for things that grow and the simplicity of animals in the wild. Perhaps because she too felt wild, free from the pressures of society that wished to act a certain way, when she declared that it would not be the case. With something of a green finger, Arina was the one to tend to the gardens surrounding her house and to admire the rabbits that frequented in a particular patch of land at the back. Others turned their nose up, calling them vermin and cackling at the thought of their demise. She admires the softness of such creates, comparing her own heart to theirs.

THREE - Being born into a human family has meant many changes came about when she was discovered, The biggest was her being uprooted from her family, although Arina felt certain that her parents would feel the loss more than she would, since she’d always felt like the outcast of the family. For many years she was their only child, and it made it harder to avoid their need for affection that she wanted to push away. It wasn’t that she was completely void of human emotion, or incapable or love…quite the contrary, but they didn’t understand her and therefore, she felt as though they never really knew her. She was grateful when her brother was born, completely human and capable of living up to their hopes, he was the prized child that they’d hoped for in her.

FOUR - Since childhood, Arina has gazed up at the stars with wonder, a vivid imagination creating stories in the constellations.  If the stars gazed back, what did they see? Years and years of history in the making, the study of death as she is now doing it. Even now, Arina loves to take her books outside and lie with the stars above her, and the grass below her - finding it comfier than the bed provided for her.

FIVE - After leaving her own family, Arina never considered having a family of her own. Given her choice of lifestyle, she could not imagine a world in which she would be forced to play wife and mother, not that she has time for such things. But even so, there is very little intention to fall in love, since she loves her books instead. It may stem from others perceptions of her, since they saw her as an odd-ball and not a beauty, but she’s not shallow enough to let it concern her.  Arina has always been more concerned with the unknown, and the questions that needs answers, than any form of romantic or physical attraction. She knows that the latter would not come without romance, but she has very little time for that . Arina is content with her virtue, she quite likes that there is a part of her which is still innocent.

EXTRAS:

Mockblock ( x )

Morality Alignment : Chaotic good. A chaotic good character acts as his conscience directs him with little regard for what others expect of him. He makes his own way, but he’s kind and benevolent. He believes in goodness and right but has little use for laws and regulations. He hates it when people try to intimidate others and tell them what to do. He follows his own moral compass, which, although good, may not agree with that of society.

MBTI Type: INTJ. Have original minds and great drive for implementing their ideas and achieving their goals. Quickly see patterns in external events and develop long-range explanatory perspectives. When committed, organize a job and carry it through. Skeptical and independent, have high standards of competence and performance - for themselves and others.

Westeros House: House Arryn. The Arryns have often been men and women of true worth, both wise and honest. The house has given birth to gallant knights and beautiful women, all of whom could be relied upon to take their responsibilities to the Vale very seriously. Unlike many other nobles south of the Neck, the Arryns carry themselves with little ostentation.

ANYTHING ELSE?

Can I please request a faceclaim change to Eleanor Tomlinson?

Thank you for reading my application. I certainly admire this rp, and will continue to do so, even if it’s from a far. I wish you the best of luck, and hope that it will flourish.

Choosing a favourite book is extremely hard! Can I be really cliche and say Gone Girl? That one gripped me from start to finish, but I’ve got a list longer than my arm of books that I love.

[party-hard-or-die]

Polish Crisis Deepens as Judges Condemn Their Own Court

WARSAW — For days, tens of thousands of Poles have marched in the streets to protest their nationalist government’s purge of the Supreme Court, an action that has been condemned by the European Union as a threat to the rule of law in a country that led the struggle against Soviet domination in 1989.

The crisis over judicial independence in Poland took a new turn on Thursday, when nearly half the judges on the country’s other top court, the Constitutional Tribunal, said its workings had become politicized and dysfunctional, casting into doubt the validity of crucial rulings it had made over the last two years.

Taken together, the purge of the Supreme Court and the open rebellion within the Constitutional Tribunal underscored the tensions over the future of the rule of law in a nation that once represented post-communist hopes for democracy but that is now under the grip of an increasingly authoritarian — though legitimately elected — government.

Lech Walesa, the Nobel laureate and former trade union leader who served as president of Poland after the fall of communism, has warned that the confrontation over the judiciary could lead to a “civil war.”

On Thursday, seven of 15 members of the Constitutional Tribunal — which the nationalist governing party had stacked with its own jurists — signed a letter declaring that the body had ceased to function properly under the leadership of its current president, Justice Julia Przylebska. They called into question cases involving a variety of topics, from state surveillance to the judicial reforms themselves.

The letter was first reported by a journalist, Tomasz Setta.

Echoing the criticism of outside legal experts who have warned that the once-impartial tribunal had become increasingly politicized, the judges declared that the naming of panels of judges to hear and decide cases was, in essence, rigged to predetermine decisions.

Even one judge appointed by the ruling party, Law and Justice, signed the letter, a cutting public denunciation, which was made public on Thursday.

“It is quite extraordinary to see members of a court so outraged by the behavior of their leadership to issue such a letter,” said Sarah H. Cleveland, a professor at Columbia Law School and a member of the Venice Commission, which is responsible for monitoring rule of law issues for the Council of Europe, a human rights body.

That commission warned in 2016 that changes being made to the tribunal would undermine democracy, human rights and the rule of law.

This week, with the forced retirement of up to 27 of the 72 Supreme Court judges, judicial independence may now be extinguished.

The government says the reforms are all intended to make the courts more responsive to the will of the people — and to free the judiciary from corrupt judges or communist-era holdovers.

But critics see the end of the judiciary’s functioning as a check on power — and a violation of the liberal democratic norms that are required of members of the European Union, which Poland joined in 2004.

Tens of thousands of angry protesters have taken to the streets in recent days across the country to oppose the ruling party; the emotion that was on display is only fully understood when the latest moves are put in the perspective of the long fight that has been waged in Poland.

The purge of the Supreme Court was the culmination of nearly three years of a systematic effort to reshape the entire judicial system.

Unlike in the United States, where the Supreme Court has the final say in all matters of law, including the interpretation of the Constitution, Poland divides the responsibilities between its Supreme Court and its Constitutional Tribunal.

When Law and Justice came back into power in 2015, it was the tribunal that politicians targeted first.

That hardly came as a shock, since the party’s leader, Jaroslaw Kaczynski, had once described the tribunal as “the bastion of everything that is bad.”

But the speed at which they moved surprised some observers.

The Stefan Batory Foundation, a nonpartisan group dedicated to promoting civic virtues, outlined what happened in a report released in May.

“The government checkmated the tribunal’s majority in three moves,” the authors wrote. It refused to seat judges appointed by the previous party, installed its own judges and then refused to recognize the rulings of the court until its majority had been installed.

“The Constitutional Tribunal was turned from a guarantor of the constitutionality of laws into a hapless bystander within a few weeks,” the report said.

When the term of the tribunal’s president ended, all of the judges were supposed to choose a replacement. But the Parliament passed a law that created a position not foreseen in the Constitution itself: an “acting president of the Tribunal.”

President Andrzej Duda chose Justice Przylebska for that job.

She quickly brought in three judges previously rejected by the court, and she moved to immediately reconfigure how panels of judges were selected to sit on specific cases.

This selection of new judges drew the most ire in the protest on Thursday.

In their letter, judges accused Justice Przylebska of selectively assembling panels to hear cases in ways that “manifestly deviate” from “the statutory standard.”

Specifically, they echoed the criticism that when it comes to highly sensitive cases, judges are selected based on party loyalty, calling into question the validity of scores of decisions over the past two years.

Justice Przylebska took to state television on Thursday to defend herself and the court. “All those stories about its nonfunctioning, about it being some sort of facade, about the illegitimately appointed president of the Tribunal,” she said, “are simply gibberish.”

But the fight over the Supreme Court highlighted how the tribunal has lost the faith of many Poles.

At the heart of the purge is a constitutional matter: The First President of the Supreme Court is guaranteed a six-year term.

The ruling party, however, wrote legislation lowering the retirement age to 65 from 70, forcing some 27 judges to retire (unless they get a reprieve from the Polish president).

Justice Malgorzata Gersdorf, the court’s president, refused to retire, calling the change in the retirement age unconstitutional.

Normally, it would be a matter for the tribunal to decide. But Justice Gersdorf said in an interview last week that she lacked faith in that institution. She and several colleagues hope that the European Court of Justice will now step in to stop the purge.

On Monday, the European Commission referred the case to the European court, which gave Poland one month to make its case.

However, the justice minister, Zbigniew Ziobro, said on Thursday that the government would move ahead with naming replacements soon.

And he suggested that it might disregard any ruling of the European court.

“I am convinced that the Court of Justice of the European Union is neither competent nor proper and thus may not make statements on the judiciary reform in Poland, or any other E.U. country for that matter,” he said.

Anatol Magdziarz contributed reporting.

A version of this article appears in print on , on Page A7 of the New York edition with the headline: Crisis in Poland Deepens as Judges Scorn Their Own Tribunal’s Leader. Order Reprints | Today’s Paper | Subscribe

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[dragnews]

Polish Crisis Deepens as Judges Condemn Their Own Court

WARSAW — For days, tens of thousands of Poles have marched in the streets to protest their nationalist government’s purge of the Supreme Court, an action that has been condemned by the European Union as a threat to the rule of law in a country that led the struggle against Soviet domination in 1989.

The crisis over judicial independence in Poland took a new turn on Thursday, when nearly half the judges on the country’s other top court, the Constitutional Tribunal, said its workings had become politicized and dysfunctional, casting into doubt the validity of crucial rulings it had made over the last two years.

Taken together, the purge of the Supreme Court and the open rebellion within the Constitutional Tribunal underscored the tensions over the future of the rule of law in a nation that once represented post-communist hopes for democracy but that is now under the grip of an increasingly authoritarian — though legitimately elected — government.

Lech Walesa, the Nobel laureate and former trade union leader who served as president of Poland after the fall of communism, has warned that the confrontation over the judiciary could lead to a “civil war.”

On Thursday, seven of 15 members of the Constitutional Tribunal — which the nationalist governing party had stacked with its own jurists — signed a letter declaring that the body had ceased to function properly under the leadership of its current president, Justice Julia Przylebska. They called into question cases involving a variety of topics, from state surveillance to the judicial reforms themselves.

The letter was first reported by a journalist, Tomasz Setta.

Echoing the criticism of outside legal experts who have warned that the once-impartial tribunal had become increasingly politicized, the judges declared that the naming of panels of judges to hear and decide cases was, in essence, rigged to predetermine decisions.

Even one judge appointed by the ruling party, Law and Justice, signed the letter, a cutting public denunciation, which was made public on Thursday.

“It is quite extraordinary to see members of a court so outraged by the behavior of their leadership to issue such a letter,” said Sarah H. Cleveland, a professor at Columbia Law School and a member of the Venice Commission, which is responsible for monitoring rule of law issues for the Council of Europe, a human rights body.

That commission warned in 2016 that changes being made to the tribunal would undermine democracy, human rights and the rule of law.

This week, with the forced retirement of up to 27 of the 72 Supreme Court judges, judicial independence may now be extinguished.

The government says the reforms are all intended to make the courts more responsive to the will of the people — and to free the judiciary from corrupt judges or communist-era holdovers.

But critics see the end of the judiciary’s functioning as a check on power — and a violation of the liberal democratic norms that are required of members of the European Union, which Poland joined in 2004.

Tens of thousands of angry protesters have taken to the streets in recent days across the country to oppose the ruling party; the emotion that was on display is only fully understood when the latest moves are put in the perspective of the long fight that has been waged in Poland.

The purge of the Supreme Court was the culmination of nearly three years of a systematic effort to reshape the entire judicial system.

Unlike in the United States, where the Supreme Court has the final say in all matters of law, including the interpretation of the Constitution, Poland divides the responsibilities between its Supreme Court and its Constitutional Tribunal.

When Law and Justice came back into power in 2015, it was the tribunal that politicians targeted first.

That hardly came as a shock, since the party’s leader, Jaroslaw Kaczynski, had once described the tribunal as “the bastion of everything that is bad.”

But the speed at which they moved surprised some observers.

The Stefan Batory Foundation, a nonpartisan group dedicated to promoting civic virtues, outlined what happened in a report released in May.

“The government checkmated the tribunal’s majority in three moves,” the authors wrote. It refused to seat judges appointed by the previous party, installed its own judges and then refused to recognize the rulings of the court until its majority had been installed.

“The Constitutional Tribunal was turned from a guarantor of the constitutionality of laws into a hapless bystander within a few weeks,” the report said.

When the term of the tribunal’s president ended, all of the judges were supposed to choose a replacement. But the Parliament passed a law that created a position not foreseen in the Constitution itself: an “acting president of the Tribunal.”

President Andrzej Duda chose Justice Przylebska for that job.

She quickly brought in three judges previously rejected by the court, and she moved to immediately reconfigure how panels of judges were selected to sit on specific cases.

This selection of new judges drew the most ire in the protest on Thursday.

In their letter, judges accused Justice Przylebska of selectively assembling panels to hear cases in ways that “manifestly deviate” from “the statutory standard.”

Specifically, they echoed the criticism that when it comes to highly sensitive cases, judges are selected based on party loyalty, calling into question the validity of scores of decisions over the past two years.

Justice Przylebska took to state television on Thursday to defend herself and the court. “All those stories about its nonfunctioning, about it being some sort of facade, about the illegitimately appointed president of the Tribunal,” she said, “are simply gibberish.”

But the fight over the Supreme Court highlighted how the tribunal has lost the faith of many Poles.

At the heart of the purge is a constitutional matter: The First President of the Supreme Court is guaranteed a six-year term.

The ruling party, however, wrote legislation lowering the retirement age to 65 from 70, forcing some 27 judges to retire (unless they get a reprieve from the Polish president).

Justice Malgorzata Gersdorf, the court’s president, refused to retire, calling the change in the retirement age unconstitutional.

Normally, it would be a matter for the tribunal to decide. But Justice Gersdorf said in an interview last week that she lacked faith in that institution. She and several colleagues hope that the European Court of Justice will now step in to stop the purge.

On Monday, the European Commission referred the case to the European court, which gave Poland one month to make its case.

However, the justice minister, Zbigniew Ziobro, said on Thursday that the government would move ahead with naming replacements soon.

And he suggested that it might disregard any ruling of the European court.

“I am convinced that the Court of Justice of the European Union is neither competent nor proper and thus may not make statements on the judiciary reform in Poland, or any other E.U. country for that matter,” he said.

Anatol Magdziarz contributed reporting.

A version of this article appears in print on , on Page A7 of the New York edition with the headline: Crisis in Poland Deepens as Judges Scorn Their Own Tribunal’s Leader. Order Reprints | Today’s Paper | Subscribe

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[vampiresuns]

The Rising Tide

For @arcana-echoes​ day 9: First Loves. I decided to post this one day early after spending two days straight working on it.

This is the story of Anatole and his first boyfriend. It is not a happy story. I could write an entire series about Anatole’s first loves: Vesuvia, Himself, Navneet Kaur, one of his best friend’s older brother. However, this is a story about Anatole’s vulnerability and I suppose it is a love story about himself.

Title: The Rising Tide - The Killers

CWS: Discussion of abuse, implied assault (though nothing is explicitly described). Anatole gets called ‘limp-wristed’ but he punches the guy who does so. Mentions of blood and wounds which draw blood.

Words:  4,740

Anatole was sitting on top of some crates, the sea breeze playing with his hair and his notes long forgotten. The ship was going from beyond the strait of seals to Firent, where he was supposed to board another ship and go directly to Vesuvia. Stopping by at Firent didn’t thrill him in the slightest, though it had nothing to do with Firent itself, and everything to do with the ship he would board there. 

He wouldn’t even have Milenko and Amparo there with him. Milenko was taking another ship to Venterre before he made it back to Vesuvia, and Amparo was staying in Firent. 

Amparo who was sitting one crate below Anatole, reading a novel she shut with a thud. “Speak.”

“I thought I was on a speaking ban,” Milenko replied. 

“Not you. Toly.”

Anatole pressed the heel of his palm against his eyes, rubbing. He ran his hands over his face, and groaned loudly into them. “What is there to say.”

“Here we go,” Milenko said, rolling his eyes with an affectionate smirk. Anatole hit his head with his notebook. “Hey!”

“Speaking ban.”

“You’re not on one, so spit it out, you’re brooding like a lobster.”

Milenko mimicked lobster claws with his hands, clicking his mouth as a sound effect. 

“How do you know lobsters brood?”

“I do.”

“Okay, merlenko.”

“Rude.”

Anatole accepted the claim and sighed, resigning himself to speak. “The only ship which can take me back to Vesuvia on time is Admiral Lemione’s.”

Milenko perked up, sitting abnormally straight, and Amparo paled. “Is there anyone else, are you sure?”

“We’re dead sure.”

“Oh, fuck. Toly, I’m so sorry.”

Anatole snorted, grabbed his notebook, his pen and climbed down from the crates. “Yeah, well, it’s not your fault,” he said, angry and curt, stomping away like he would push anyone who would dare talk to him, or worse show him pity, out of his way.

Later he would realise Amparo was not pitying him, she was worried, as was Milenko. He would apologise then, but right now all he wanted was to scream and be left alone. 

***

Navy Admiral Emmanuel Parakevas Lemione, Baronet, was an orderly man, who liked things in an orderly manner, disliked unruly crowds and didn’t let his sailors play too much music or play too many games as they were “mundane distractions ill-timed with duty.” He had married Lady Alba Dommina Aspi in an arranged marriage when he was 25 and she 21 — a marriage resulting in six children, all of them men: Emmanuel, Terminus, Parakevas, Adeodatus, Nereus and Decimo. 

He disliked the Colosseum only because he disliked anything that resembled commoners reminding anyone they existed, and while he thought gambling was foul, he supposed it was an adequate end for criminals and the like. 

While land-owning, rich and old, the Lemione family had impoverished itself to the point of only keeping two properties: the ancestral seat at the outskirts of Vesuvia — dilapidated and in disrepair — and a minor, unremarkable Palazzo which came endowed with Alba when she and Emmanuel got married. A series of poor alliances had left them with almost no allies, no money, at risk of losing everything and in great debt.

Emmanuel, stern and impassive could think of nothing worse than losing all chances to win an even better title, and leave nothing to his sons. Elitist and removed, Alba could think of nothing worse than being ostracised from good company, and having to work to earn their living.

So they had agreed a good change in directions was needed, if their comfort was to be retained. 

The new Count, while trite, foreign, flashy and undeserving of the position in their minds, did enjoy expansive foreign policies which were always a nice environment for war, which suited Emmanuel — he didn’t have to like the Count if they both had a mutually beneficial relationship. A Navy fleet was quite useless without a war in sight. 

The other thing they needed was acquaintances or alliances which would serve as proof that they had changed, a way to reposition themselves back in the Court, and enjoy all the privileges they once did. Create the feeling they were dependable once again, so people believed things of them depending on whom they went with. 

The Cassano weren’t the kind of family they had in mind — they were nothing further from the Lemione, with their self-won importance, people-leaning tendencies and their lack of Nobiliary tiles; but they had the Consulship, and had held it for the last 500 years. Them ruling the Council of Vesuvia undisputed was no rumour, it was reality: they had taken the second most important political office in Vesuvia to their name, and by interacting with, and considering, people from all ends of life, they had acquired unprecedented status. 

Even if they were too eccentric for the Lemione tastes, and their families had never merged, it could be seen as a move of cooperation. Besides, they did rule the Council and they did have money. 

Decimo Lemione becoming enamoured with Aelius Anatole of the Cassano, who was rumoured to take the Consulship after Valerius (unless the Consul himself married and had children, which seemed extremely unlikely) was simply a stroke of luck.

***

Aelius Anatole Radošević De Silva, of the Cassano of Vesuvia was as beautiful as he was intelligent. He had looked striking in a suit almost as blue as Decimo’s eyes. 

Decimo hadn’t even bothered with the other two: Milenko wasn’t a Cassano, and Amparo, while beautiful and a Ravella on one side, which was most advantageous, did not glow golden in the ballroom lights like Anatole did. His father and his mother had always told him to seek advantageous pairings and acquaintances, something which Decimo tried, he really tried — yet sometimes all the stories one of his aunts used to tell him as a child overtook him.

He was 18, he was no longer a child. He longed to prove himself worthy and useful, a man through and through, so he pushed down the old fairy tales and decided that the boy whom everyone who was anyone knew was Valerius’, Consul of Vesuvia, favourite candidate to succeed him, would be good enough for his parents, so he let himself follow him around, starstruck at his bright mind and charming words.

Decimo didn’t account for how all that one repressed, still sought an outlet. His fairytales slipped through his fingers, weaving in his head a story of how Anatole would love him for reasons only right to him, and they would get married like his parents had, and the children of the future Consul would be his children, and therefore Lemiones. It would work for in his mind the stars wanted it that way. 

Him and Anatole dated for six months, six months in which they saw one another not as much as Decimo would like — in reality, nothing was much like Decimo would’ve liked. Anatole seemed well adjusted, but was as eccentric as the rest of his family. He danced on ships, and talked to people one wasn’t supposed to talk to. He read authors who had dangerous ideas, and sometimes he almost sounded like his brother Nereus. Anatole was not easily dissuaded, intimidated or dismayed. His ideas were bright beacons of possibility, and he was ready to pursue them all when the time was right.

He talked, and talked, and talked, and talked, and talked, and talked. Mostly about his dreams, and he wanted to know Decimo’s opinion on topics he had no idea what to think about beyond what his parents had told him, or what his family thought, which was never enough for Anatole. He had heard his mother once talk about how the Consul was too preoccupied with arts and cultural festivals, and not enough with proper aristocratic rule, so he would’ve had to be broken in more — a flaw of youth, as young Consuls, in Alba’s idea, didn’t do. Decimo imagined Anatole was the same, but with ideas of justice, equality and democracy, words which seemed all to foreign for him to even want to accept. 

Anatole wasn’t even Vesuvian, he was Balkovian. Decimo, set on his fairytale, decided his weird ideas would have to do with the fact Balkovia was a Democratic Federation: he wasn’t entirely sure what that entailed in real life, but he knew it was a Sovereignty which was ruled by its people, and not by birth right. That couldn’t do, it wasn’t their fault people resented them for having a better origin and therefore being entitled to finer, better things. Therefore, to Decimo, the solution was simple: Anatole, like his uncle, had to be broken in, never accounting that Anatole’s spirit was not one to be dominated by anyone or anything. 

Breaking down a Cassano, or a Radošević, took years, and it took people (or entities) stronger and wilier than Decimo will ever be, and Anatole was both. 

Decimo’s aspirations went three towns further from Hell when one Vesuvian Summer, his father officially laid on the table the possibility of an arranged marriage in the future, given the boys have taken to each other and it would seem most beneficial for the families and the boys happiness. Valerius’ — head of the Cassano family as the Consul in seat — and Anatole’s parents’ ‘No’ were so automatic Admiral Lemione thought it was a joke at first. 

The second set of ‘No’ was final and emphatic; the rest of the evening was a complete disaster.

The list of things Decimo never accounted for was long: he never accounted for Valerius and the Cassano being so starkly against marriage offers. He never accounted for Anatole’s parents being nothing if not an unified front when it came to protecting their son’s dreams, feelings, integrity and aspirations. He never accounted for the Cassano to see straight through his father’s intentions and distrust his lack of principles. 

He never accounted for Anatole’s feelings, his opinions or all of the times Anatole asked him to back off, said ‘no’, or said anything really. Playing pretend he was older and more important than he actually was, it wasn’t that Decimo didn’t pay attention to Anatole, it was that he thought his ‘weird ideas’ were temporary, his ‘no’ finite. He never accounted for the fact Anatole’s patience, politeness or ‘civility’ (how his father called it) would run out, and were in fact were very limited when they came to Decimo.

All that his father had told him on the matter was: “You’re a fool, boy. Unless that boy comes crawling for you, I don’t want to hear about him ever again.”

“But—”

“No buts! Do you think I have forgotten how he speaks to people who are higher ranking and older than him? Do you think I have not listened to that son of radicals and agitators masked in fine clothing speak? What is worse, Decimo, is you never even realised what you were getting into. That boy is a lost cause and he would eat you alive in three seconds because you are not firm enough.

“Him and his family are a plague upon good people like us. A Baudelaire would’ve been better, for no riches will ever make Aelius Radošević anything other than what he is: a disgrace.”

His father paused, walking to the nearest window and looking out on it. “At least he is smart. Too smart, alas. He was right in telling you you are too young to know what love is. I should’ve never let your aunt Amani tell you all those stories as a child, you clearly haven’t outgrown them.” 

Decimo was going to say he had a plan, that it would work, if only his father and Anatole would see, but the Admiral turned to him and Decimo felt his voice die in his throat. “Let me teach you something right here, right now, Decimo: the only thing Love is useful for, is as an excuse.” 

***

Anatole has always been fascinated by statues. When he was a kid he used to look at statues of men and think how one day he wanted to be like them, but living. Walking. Breathing. They meant an imprint in the world of whom you had been, but at the same time, it was someone else’s interpretation of you: someone else moulded you to whom you thought you were. Anatole looked up at them, cheeks growing hotter at those he found the prettiest and thought how much he would like for them to become alive and tell him how they thought themselves. 

No heroes commemorated by the memory of others, but by their own hand.

He had never liked the myth of Pygmalion and Galatea for that reason. How horrid must it be to be idealised as everything you were not, of having your identity and your existence handed to you. He had never liked people who did that, and Decimo was one of those people.

He had liked him once, but not anymore. He had liked him when he relaxed and his blue eyes became unsure and poetic, but had stopped when he had pushed what made him different, what made him himself down to resemble his horrible father. He had liked him when he listened, making him feel like those dreams he kept under his pillow weren’t big enough for him — that he’d grow and grow and grow until he fit them — until he realised Decimo wasn’t listening.

He had liked him when he felt sorry he had lost his brother Nereus, who left after a fight with his father a year prior, moving in with one of his aunts. He hadn’t when he saw Nereus’ wish to be himself as an act of cowardice, instead of an act of bravery. Decimo could be very bright and very gentle, but he always had a but. For Decimo to be everything he could be, he would have to stop living in the Admiral’s shadow; as sad as it could be, Anatole didn’t know if Decimo had it in him to stop. 

His airs of self importance, and how he acted like love was an act of disposition made him intolerable in Anatole’s mind. Everything nice Decimo had once had, was been swiftly changed with the image of him telling him there was no need to fight his father when one day Anatole had been invited for dinner (and he couldn’t find any way to excuse himself). Parakevas, who had stayed for dinner, told Decimo Anatole had simply disagreed, congratulating him for it. 

“For the sake of the Gods, Decimo. Let him. What worth is youth without some disobedience.” 

“Father wouldn’t like that.”

“Is father here? No he is not,” Parakevas took a drag out of the cigarette he was smoking. “And I would tell him what my opinion is right to his face anyway, I don’t live in this decrepit old house any more.”

“I think it’s a nice house,” Decimo insisted.

“Well, I don’t, and I’m not arguing about it, it is simply my opinion. You’ve been travelling for less than a year with the Navy, you haven’t seen enough of the world yet.”

Anatole thought Parakevas was right. Decimo had seen nothing of the world. He lived right in Vesuvia, with its different cultures and people, and he still thought difference was only tolerable when performed by the right people — a copy of his father.

That had been months ago. Now he was lying in his bedroom in Firent, looking at the ceiling and thinking too much, too loudly. Everyone in his family had told him there would always be people who thought his mere existence was an affront to theirs, people who would like to mold the world into something familiar and people who, as he became more notorious, would want things out of him, painting him to their own convenience. Anatole had always had enough of a presence, enough of a strong, noticeable personality to know what that was like from a young age. 

The world, in its diversity, changes and differences was beautiful, and there were always people who would want to make it all the same, per secula seculorum. The more himself he became, the more apparent it was. The Lemione would always dislike people who used their power for others, instead of for themselves.

What Anatole feared out of all of it was he would sway to them: that one day he might not be strong enough to carry forward, that he would not be enough. That their words and opinions might swallow him whole, and his strength vanish.

He doesn’t want to think about it, but the scene replayed in his head over and over again: in the Vesuvian summer, he had asked Decimo why was his father talking to his parents and Valeriy. Decimo had explained, rhapsodising about a plan and a future which involved nothing of who Anatole really was, casually insulting everything he wanted to be. He had said no, and this time, Decimo wasn’t so gentle about it; instead he became abrasive, demanding to know why it was that Anatole refused to see that he was right. 

You could repeat a wrong thing one thousand times, and it would not make it any less wrong. Decimo held Anatole by his wrist. 

“Decimo, let me go,” Anatole hissed, pulling his hand away. 

“But, but I have written to you, and I have travelled with you, and I have fallen in love with you—” Decimo kept listing things, trying to prove something by its appearance rather than by its substance. Anatole’s patience ran out.

“Decimo you’re months older than me,” he interrupted him. Decimo stared at him with a half open mouth. Anatole no longer looked beautiful, the anger in his eyes and the sarcasm in his voice made him look terrifying; to Decimo, he had suddenly grown to occupy the entire room. 

“You have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about, you jerk. You don’t know a thing about anything and you never listen to me. You parade me like a pretty little thing you found in need of patronage, as if you were anything else than a guy my age.” 

“Anatole, I love you,” he insisted. 

“No you don’t, you don’t know a single thing about what love is, and maybe I don’t either, but at least I know I’m not a self-entitled jerk.” 

With tears clouding his vision Anatole turned off the candles in his room with a flick of his hand. In the darkness, overwhelmed and afraid, he cried.

***

His cousins hugged him goodbye before Milenko went his way (his ship sailed earlier); Amparo hugged him once again for good measure. 

“You’ll see us in a couple of months, and you can tell us how terrible it was in person, if you haven’t already in letters.”

“I think I’ll need both after the sour aftertaste. Break a leg, Lele.” 

“I plan to break both.” 

His cousin’s bright smile stayed with him as he armed himself with courage to board the ship. His head tutor asked if he was okay, to which he said yes, but before he could say anything else they were separated as she was needed somewhere else and Anatole was led towards his room. 

He didn’t have the chance to settle down when someone came to retrieve him: the Admiral wished to speak to him. Of course he did, the disgusting man. 

The Captain was in the navigation room, where a Cartographer who was around Valeriy’s age was working as well, along with an apprentice of theirs. They looked up when Anatole stepped in, the Cartographer’s face brightening — he knew Anatole from before. His name was Cassius Ravella, one of the Cousin’s of Amparo’s parent, Iris. The Admiral interjected before Cassius had any chance to speak. 

“Young Aelius.” 

Gods (of whatever religion, Anatole was not picky), he hated this man. “Admiral.” 

“It is a pleasure to have you on board,” he began, amiable enough for Anatole to distrust his words. “I have already met with your head tutor, who has informed me you would be focused on your studies so you should not interfere with Navy business.” 

“Yes, that is correct,” as long as you leave me be, Anatole didn’t add. 

“Then I expect you not to interfere, and accept the olive branch that was handing you your own quarters after—“ he paused, “you may go. Please remember the ship rules for the Navy man’s duty never ends.” 

Anatole blinked at him, frowning. “But I’m not a Navy man.”

The conversation didn’t end there, but for all purposes it did; Anatole had no wish to cause trouble, but he had no intention to let this man order him around. Whether he wanted it or not he was going to be on the defensive the entire way to Vesuvia. At least it was apparent Decimo was not on the ship, a blessing on itself. He wouldn’t try to antagonise the Admiral too further, even if he wanted to — right now was not the time to blow his chances, nor he wanted to give anyone the pleasure to get a reaction out of him. Maybe Decimo wasn’t on board, but Adeodatus — whom Anatole disliked the most out of the Lemione brothers — and one of his friends, Joa, were on board. 

His safe haven on the ship lasted ten days.

For ten days he had replied as intelligently as he could, tried to set boundaries, or not replied at all to all sorts of commentary and taints from Joa and Adeodatus, while feeling like he was constantly being observed. Still he had tried his best in his lessons, and spent as much time as possible not around. However, per the Admiral’s insistence (or wilful lack of cooperation) his fencing lessons had to be with the rest of the younger navy people, whatever their rank was — Anatole did not care. 

He hadn’t been paired with Adeodatus or Joa, but they found him anyway. The exercise was rounds, and Anatole had won all of his; so had Adeodatus. On the fifth point in their spar, Adeodatus made an unlawful move.

Anatole took his face guard off, holding it under his arm. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Jeez, don’t take it so badly Nana,” Anatole looked at him deadpan, “we have to train for war.”

“You’re training in a martial sport, and even war has rules.”

“Rule of the strongest,” Adeodatus laughed. Joa high fived him.

Anatole rolled his eyes as the fencing master declared the point nule, but Adeodatus said something unspeakable about Anatole’s Uncle and Anatole himself, and the world fell silent around them. The fencing master granted him a black card, but Antole didn’t even notice. He wasn’t just angry, he seethed, his face disfiguring with anger making Joa’s mouth fall open.

“Say that to my face, slimy, rat bastard.” 

“I said—” 

Anatole dropped his face guard completely, closing the distance between them. Without him noticing his brain already decided for him: he’d have a better chance at doing anything if he went for Adeodatus midriff. He was considerably taller, but jaws were hard and his brain decided to minimise his hand damage by punching him on the solar plexus. 

Adeodatus coughed, Joa yelled at him, so did the fencing master. Anatole paid no mind to it. He had a limit, this was his limit, but he should’ve thought it was a bad idea to punch someone as prideful as Decimo’s brother: Adeodatus who had always lived in the shadow of his brother Emmanuel, not because of anything that Emmanuel did, but because he had none of the good qualities Emmanuel had. Adeodatus was a cocky, mediocre bully who had just been punched by someone six years younger than him. 

A six years younger than him ineffectual, limp-wristed fool, like he had said before Anatole punched him. 

Anatole almost fell on his back scrambling for his own sword as Adeodatus lunged forward. He was taller, stronger, definitely more violent than Anatole. One thing was Anatole being in the headspace of a fight, where he made up for his lack of height and his fairly average strength with stamina, wits and velocity. This was an actual fight, a scenario he had never found himself in before. Adeodatus hit his cheek with an elbow, as someone — Anatole didn’t notice who — futilely tried to separate them. 

Everything ended when Adeodatus took his sword to Anatole’s face.

“Adeodatus Lemione!” the Admiral yelled, drawing everyone out of it. Anatole took his hand to his cheek, it stung, and blood was starting to go out of the cut on his left cheekbone, his fingers touching wet, fresh blood. 

He advanced and didn’t give Adeodatus peace until he disarmed him.

***

Everyone who was anyone in Vesuvia, where gossiping was the local sport, knew the Lemione and the Cassano couldn’t stand each other — however everyone assumed it was for the usual reasons. Very few people knew Decimo Lemione and Aelius Radošević had dated, with a failed marriage offer. More people knew about  Adeodatus Lemione scarring the cheek of the Consul-to-be after insulting him, the Consul in seat and his family, and the subsequent scandal it had caused. 

They didn’t know it from Decimo Lemione, though. Decimo Lemione refused to talk about Aelius Anatole Radošević in any capacity, out of what most people assumed was respect. In reality, it was fear. He was terrified of his ex-boyfriend. 

A couple of years after the sword incident, when Anatole was 23 he saw Decimo face to face for the last time. They had crossed paths on a Palace function: Anatole was even handsomer than Decimo realised, foolish as he was he decided to approach him. 

While he felt fear when the ever insisting Decimo placed an indiscreet hand on his leg, it was the anger in him which won. As calmly as he could he told Decimo they should take this somewhere else. When he was away enough, Anatole unshielded his rapier, pointing it directly against Decimo’s chest. 

“Now you will listen to me, and you will listen to me well, you absolute fucking coward. Do you know what the penalty is for these and further offences in Vesuvia?” 

“Nana, put that down.” 

“It’s Radošević De Silva to you. You do know by the look in your disgusting eyes. Do you really think anyone will listen to the no one son, of a no one Admiral, against the claim of a Cassano of Vesuvia? When I have a rightful claim? Think about that when you decide to put a hand on me ever again.” 

“There’s no need to exaggerate— I wasn’t—“ 

“Do I need to remind you of your own words to me?” Even if his hand shook, his voice did not. “Do you know what your brother called me when he put a sword to my face? That I was an ineffectual, limp-wristed fool. And yet— and yet.” 

Decimo tried to back away but every step that he took was a step Anatole advanced. 

“You could’ve at least tried this when I wasn’t carrying a sword with me, but you’ve always been an idiot. I swear on my mother, Decimo, that if you ever dare to put a hand on me, there will be no corner of the world you’ll be able to hide. Put a hand on me again, speak to me again, and I will make your life so miserable you’ll have nowhere to hide because everyone will know the kind of asshole that you are.

“Do not try me, Decimo.” 

Later that night, Anatole would cry in the arms of his parents who were visiting Vesuvia with him, just like he had cried after he had fought Adeodatus, only this time he wasn’t alone. He would shake and cry out of fear and hurting, so many of his fears and doubts joining one another in one screech inside his head. 

However he had been right: Decimo was a coward. Maybe he had never truly listened to him, but he had listened enough to know Anatole was stronger than he let on, in body and spirit. Anatole never saw him again, and Decimo never spoke of what had happened between him and Anatole to anyone outside of his family. 

[newestbalance]

Polish Crisis Deepens as Judges Condemn Their Own Court

WARSAW — For days, tens of thousands of Poles have marched in the streets to protest their nationalist government’s purge of the Supreme Court, an action that has been condemned by the European Union as a threat to the rule of law in a country that led the struggle against Soviet domination in 1989.

The crisis over judicial independence in Poland took a new turn on Thursday, when nearly half the judges on the country’s other top court, the Constitutional Tribunal, said its workings had become politicized and dysfunctional, casting into doubt the validity of crucial rulings it had made over the last two years.

Taken together, the purge of the Supreme Court and the open rebellion within the Constitutional Tribunal underscored the tensions over the future of the rule of law in a nation that once represented post-communist hopes for democracy but that is now under the grip of an increasingly authoritarian — though legitimately elected — government.

Lech Walesa, the Nobel laureate and former trade union leader who served as president of Poland after the fall of communism, has warned that the confrontation over the judiciary could lead to a “civil war.”

On Thursday, seven of 15 members of the Constitutional Tribunal — which the nationalist governing party had stacked with its own jurists — signed a letter declaring that the body had ceased to function properly under the leadership of its current president, Justice Julia Przylebska. They called into question cases involving a variety of topics, from state surveillance to the judicial reforms themselves.

The letter was first reported by a journalist, Tomasz Setta.

Echoing the criticism of outside legal experts who have warned that the once-impartial tribunal had become increasingly politicized, the judges declared that the naming of panels of judges to hear and decide cases was, in essence, rigged to predetermine decisions.

Even one judge appointed by the ruling party, Law and Justice, signed the letter, a cutting public denunciation, which was made public on Thursday.

“It is quite extraordinary to see members of a court so outraged by the behavior of their leadership to issue such a letter,” said Sarah H. Cleveland, a professor at Columbia Law School and a member of the Venice Commission, which is responsible for monitoring rule of law issues for the Council of Europe, a human rights body.

That commission warned in 2016 that changes being made to the tribunal would undermine democracy, human rights and the rule of law.

This week, with the forced retirement of up to 27 of the 72 Supreme Court judges, judicial independence may now be extinguished.

The government says the reforms are all intended to make the courts more responsive to the will of the people — and to free the judiciary from corrupt judges or communist-era holdovers.

But critics see the end of the judiciary’s functioning as a check on power — and a violation of the liberal democratic norms that are required of members of the European Union, which Poland joined in 2004.

Tens of thousands of angry protesters have taken to the streets in recent days across the country to oppose the ruling party; the emotion that was on display is only fully understood when the latest moves are put in the perspective of the long fight that has been waged in Poland.

The purge of the Supreme Court was the culmination of nearly three years of a systematic effort to reshape the entire judicial system.

Unlike in the United States, where the Supreme Court has the final say in all matters of law, including the interpretation of the Constitution, Poland divides the responsibilities between its Supreme Court and its Constitutional Tribunal.

When Law and Justice came back into power in 2015, it was the tribunal that politicians targeted first.

That hardly came as a shock, since the party’s leader, Jaroslaw Kaczynski, had once described the tribunal as “the bastion of everything that is bad.”

But the speed at which they moved surprised some observers.

The Stefan Batory Foundation, a nonpartisan group dedicated to promoting civic virtues, outlined what happened in a report released in May.

“The government checkmated the tribunal’s majority in three moves,” the authors wrote. It refused to seat judges appointed by the previous party, installed its own judges and then refused to recognize the rulings of the court until its majority had been installed.

“The Constitutional Tribunal was turned from a guarantor of the constitutionality of laws into a hapless bystander within a few weeks,” the report said.

When the term of the tribunal’s president ended, all of the judges were supposed to choose a replacement. But the Parliament passed a law that created a position not foreseen in the Constitution itself: an “acting president of the Tribunal.”

President Andrzej Duda chose Justice Przylebska for that job.

She quickly brought in three judges previously rejected by the court, and she moved to immediately reconfigure how panels of judges were selected to sit on specific cases.

This selection of new judges drew the most ire in the protest on Thursday.

In their letter, judges accused Justice Przylebska of selectively assembling panels to hear cases in ways that “manifestly deviate” from “the statutory standard.”

Specifically, they echoed the criticism that when it comes to highly sensitive cases, judges are selected based on party loyalty, calling into question the validity of scores of decisions over the past two years.

Justice Przylebska took to state television on Thursday to defend herself and the court. “All those stories about its nonfunctioning, about it being some sort of facade, about the illegitimately appointed president of the Tribunal,” she said, “are simply gibberish.”

But the fight over the Supreme Court highlighted how the tribunal has lost the faith of many Poles.

At the heart of the purge is a constitutional matter: The First President of the Supreme Court is guaranteed a six-year term.

The ruling party, however, wrote legislation lowering the retirement age to 65 from 70, forcing some 27 judges to retire (unless they get a reprieve from the Polish president).

Justice Malgorzata Gersdorf, the court’s president, refused to retire, calling the change in the retirement age unconstitutional.

Normally, it would be a matter for the tribunal to decide. But Justice Gersdorf said in an interview last week that she lacked faith in that institution. She and several colleagues hope that the European Court of Justice will now step in to stop the purge.

On Monday, the European Commission referred the case to the European court, which gave Poland one month to make its case.

However, the justice minister, Zbigniew Ziobro, said on Thursday that the government would move ahead with naming replacements soon.

And he suggested that it might disregard any ruling of the European court.

“I am convinced that the Court of Justice of the European Union is neither competent nor proper and thus may not make statements on the judiciary reform in Poland, or any other E.U. country for that matter,” he said.

Anatol Magdziarz contributed reporting.

A version of this article appears in print on , on Page A7 of the New York edition with the headline: Crisis in Poland Deepens as Judges Scorn Their Own Tribunal’s Leader. Order Reprints | Today’s Paper | Subscribe

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[8dpromo]

Klaus Benedek - forTunea Label mix (8DPromo)

Vienna’s rising forTunea label has released a cluster of quality tunes over the past year, and 2018 is filled with big plans and amazing new music. Label don Klaus Benedek has crafted an excellent DJ mix showcasing some of the label’s sounds from 2017 as well as output from artists in forTunea’s orbit. It’s a pleasurable dive into upfront deep house sure to get your seat swiveling. Have a listen:

We asked Klaus Benedek a few questions about forTunea, the house scene in Vienna, and this mix.

What inspired you to start the label, and when did it begin?

Klaus: I was tired of waiting for my tracks to get released. After signing contracts with various digital labels, it took about a year until my tracks finally came out. That's why I started my own label in 2014. And of course, I always wanted to release vinyl, too. At first I worked alone and there were only songs released by myself. But after a while I received demos from fellow local DJs/producers and so I signed them. The vinyl is always limited to 300 copies (except the first release "Still Daydreaming", 350 copies). If they are sold out, then they are gone. There will be no repress.

Tell us about the Vienna scene, specifically the underground house scene. How are you a part of it? Who are the standout artists? Who's making moves? Anything to let us know about what's happening in Vienna (or Austria as a whole) that makes it special right now.

Klaus: Clubbing in general got its boom since the Pratersauna opened in 2009. However you can't compare the nightlife with other metropolises like Berlin or Amsterdam. Venue owners have to follow regulations and they are strict. So do not expect massive sound systems in every location. They are mostly locked on a certain db limitation. Afterhours parties exist, but they only take place for a few hours. Other than that there is a closing time for bars till 4 AM and clubs till 6 AM.

Before the Pratersauna, electronic music was always more a niche market in Austria. In Vienna, we had only a couple of venues where techno, house, and, at that time, the minimal sound was played. Those were Flex, the Camera Club, the Fluc Wanne, and occasionally some huge, more commercial events in the Volksgarten and the Gasometer. Other than that, drum n’ bass, downtempo, and indie rock were more popular in the Austrian capitol. But since the beginning of the 2010s and the popularity of certain individuals and movies that became a pop culture phenomenon (such as Berlin Calling) that all changed. Techno parties are well attended now. Especially since more locations opened (Grelle Forelle, which has the best sound system in the city) or relocated (Werk) on the Danube channel.

The house scene in Vienna is relatively small compared to the techno/tech house crews. If you really wanna hear Chicago style, deep, garage, lo-fi house, or even disco you need to visit smaller locations like Celeste, Spark, Elektro Gönner, or Sass. Many fellow DJs have their home bases now. For example, Roman Rauch organises the event series Manifest - Spritzwein Session with Nico Nesta and Maaki for more than two years. It’s where you’re most likely to hear DJs that don’t come to Vienna regularly like Move D, Red Rack'em, Hunee, Fouk, and Terrence Parker. Besides forTunea there are a handful labels that have been established or had a breakthrough during this decade. You should check them out, regardless the genre: Luv Shack Records, Secret Crunch, Life Is For Living, Schenkelspreizer, Affine, Step Back Trax, Sama Recordings, Luv Lite Recordings, Morbid, Yoshi, Driving Forces Recordings, Footwork Frenzy.

What is on deck for 2018 for forTunea?

Klaus: In January my Consequences EP will be re-released digitally. After that we will expand our artist roster. In March we will finally release an EP by my good old friend Alex Kolodziej. I think it took almost two years for him to finish the tracks. That’s because he had almost no time. He works in catering and has a 60+ hour a week schedule. Appropriately the record will be called Workaholic. Peletronic and myself will deliver remixes too. In May/June Munich/Bavarian-raised Anatol, who has lived in Vienna for quite a while, will release a 12" vinyl single. And in summer we plan, for our 10th issue, an eight track compilation.

How does the philosophy of the label tie in with your DJ’ing and production?

Klaus: On forTunea not every release sounds the same, and we want to stick to this philosophy. The tenor is always house music. But it shouldn't be monotonous. We’ll release a deep house record, then the next one will have a disco vibe to it, and others will be more techy, broken beat, or with Chicago or Detroit influences. My DJ’ing is similar. I never liked to just play one (sub)genre the whole night. I upload a promo mix on my Soundcloud page bi-monthly to introduce new tracks/vinyl that I picked up and present them in a way that makes sense.

I am making music on Ableton Live, combined with Reason as a master/slave combination. Most of the time I use VST Plugins. But I also work with hardware pieces like a Waldorf Pulse, Microkorg, or my newest baby in the studio, a Korg M1R.

Tell us about this DJ mix.

Klaus: All tracks that I feature in this mix came out this year. Of course, you will hear some tracks that have been released previously on forTunea amongst other artists like Nick Höppner, Ponty Mython, Space Echo, and Demuja. I’d like to highlight Demuja! This guy comes from Salzburg and 2017 was definitely his year. He even released an EP on Jimpster's label Freerange Recordings. In this mix you will hear a track from his current EP on Life Is For Living. Enjoy!

[shotbyafool]

listen,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,dolokhov with a hand fetish/kink,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,

it is something of a rather calculated attraction: as a man of warfare and battles, he knows that hands tell stories more than faces do. he will trace the lines along his own palms, the calluses that have toughened the skin of his fingers, the echo of a pistol in his grasp, the ghost of a horse’s reins in his thumbs.

he, in the darkness of his own room, will log each aspect of his own hand. it is self-indulgent and yet divine.

still. seeing those of others then creates a sort of excitement, a thrill, he takes a pretty woman’s hand and presses his lips to her knuckles and even if there is no attraction there, there is an interest. a quickening of the blood. he holds out the kiss, looking up at her, her gentle little fingers underneath his, a soft blush on her face. he smiles. 

for men, it is different, since men are built differently, a certain kind of raw strength in their hands.

he observes, quietly, in the superfluous motions, in the waves goodbye, in the brief opportunities that he gets as a creature of society. he shakes hands with an established hero and his hands are covered in the marks of a man who has fought and bled and struggled, as though he has pulled himself away from death by his hands alone.

more ordinarily, there are those that dolokhov is frequently surrounded by, the things he learns by paying attention to the motions of their fingers more than they do. anatole, for example, is clearly a man who has never truly fought, all frantic yet beautiful movements, pretty and polished nails, smooth lines along his palm. all too perfect, too washed, putting on a show as every other aspect of anatole is.

pierre, on the contrary, is a fighter, a writer, those telltale blisters along his thumb and middle finger. a pen in his hand in the early hours of the morning. perhaps he has never held a pistol but he has seen more than dolokhov had expected, he realizes, watching as bezukhov holds the champagne glass with a pinky raised, a sort of tiredness in those large, worn hands, an experience beyond his age. 

it’s a sort of hushed excitement, and sometimes his mind wanders, imagining a hand creeping up his leg, or cradling his face, or a finger slipping past his lips, the lines of calluses against his tongue. he hides the flush by glancing to the floor, a wicked, private grin on his features.

still. fedya, never having believed in palm readers, does believe there is something heavenly in the lines of a hand, the marks made by nature. he will always appreciate them first in a lover, pressing kisses to the knuckles, the fingertips, the places in between. he always glances up after ravishing them, looking almost mischevious, a sparkle in his eye. he never cares to explain his particular attention to the lines of the hand, and no one ever asks.

[vampiresuns]

How Will It Matter After You’re Gone

For Anatole’s day 13 of @arcana-echoes​: Aftermath.

Title: From Disenchanted - My Chemical Romance (Nana was an MCR teen, it’s only fair).

Quick guide: Here you can check on the Cassano-Radosevic family tree. Medea Pryce & Leonore Kaur are Anatole’s best friends, I owe them a post. Medea is a community organiser, and Leonore a therapist in training. Althea is his twin sister, and Navneet his eldest sibling (there’s seven Kaurs: Navneet, Sashi, Althea & Leonore, and Isha, Vaishnavi and Ashok). Navneet and Anatole end up together in one of his timelines.

Dear Vesuvia,

It is with the greatest regret that the Cassano of this City inform to the public that Aelius Anatole Radošević De Silva, Of The Cassano of Vesuvia, has passed away in the Lazaret on the date —.

Taking this time to mourn, while the Cassano and the Consul will remain in the city, striving to find a cure, we inform the city that Consul Valerius has taken the decision to close the doors of the Palazzo.

Due to sanitary measures, no funeral will be held.

Milenko & Amparo

Amparo sat in the middle of the stage of the closed theatre. She wanted to be alone, everyone’s energy threatening to drag her down and never bring her back again, down to a place where the sun does not rise. Not that it matters. The sun could rise a thousand times over, and she feels like she will never notice it again. Losing Anzano, her grandparent, was hard enough. Losing Anatole was unbearable.

Her Anatole deserved the brightest of requiems, and he will have silence, in a bitter city which will probably not mourn him. Not that she can hold it against them — but it still hurts, just like it hurt to feel him die. She always knows when people die.

“Vesuvia lost it’s last honest lover,” she tells no one.

She doesn’t know how long she’s been sitting there, but she knows she must head back, and for the first time in forever, she dreads Death itself.

When she comes back, she finds Milenko sitting on Anatole’s piano, crying.

Valerian

Valerian Cassano spent three days siting in the winter garden of the Palazzo after his great grandson died. He knew the biggest loss would always be for his parents, he had gone through that long before they had to. Losing a child was something one never truly recovered of.

He remembers so clearly the first time he met that child: golden before his hair caught up with his personality, avid to learn, curious, ambitious, resolved, more intelligent than most people he’s met. He reminded him of Vitale, his father in law.

Sometimes, if you spoke to the dead, they would listen, so he tried his luck: “Elysian, my dearest friend, take care of him. Do what we could not.”

Cassiopeia

Cassiopeia Cassano considered herself a lot of things: dedicated, passionate, fair, reserved, thoughtful. Brave... bravery was something she was beginning to doubt in herself. Seeing your parent die of a disease as invasive as the plague could do that to a person — seeing someone like Anatole, with his vitality of a thousand suns, could cement it a little deeper in oneself.

Cassiopeia didn’t like endings, they were predictable and inevitable and, sometimes, unfair. At least Amparo was back, and she didn’t have to worry about wherever she was and if she would be safe. 

A door opened and closed behind her. She turned to find Iris, her spouse.

“How is Lele?”

“She’s eating, at least.”

“And Lenko?”

“Lenko doesn’t want to see anyone.”

“How... how is...”

“Louisa and Vlad? Please don’t make me answer that.”

“And Va—”

“Don’t.”

Her eyes swelled with tears. Holding her own forehead, she began to cry. Iris sat with her, holding her free hand and kissing her knuckles.

“He rearranged the filing system for the Council by himself— he—” a hiccup, “he had so many plans—”

“I know.”

“He was drafting a social reform for—”

“I know.”

“I’m never going to see him walk around with his coffee, nor terrorise the Praetor. I’m never going to see him— I’m never—”

“I know, my love, I know.”

“He would’ve been a wonderful Consul, Iris.”

Iris’ voice trembled. “I know.” They held Cassiopeia closer. The only thing they could think about was how that could’ve been Amparo.

Mircea & Florentino

“Florence?” Mircea Radošević said, looking and sounding lifeless. “Do you want something to eat?”

“No.”

Mircea understood. He didn’t either.

Medea & Leonore

She’s cried too much to be properly angry, but no matter what she does, no matter how much she pets Leonore’s hair she keeps silently crying, snot threatening to make her unable to breathe alltogether. She’s tired, exhausted, and miserably, dreadfully alone. She feels alone in this world like she hasn’t in years. Leonore has his forehead on her forearm, and a hand on his third glass of spiced whiskey. The only reason why he stopped drinking was because he began crying again.

Medea used to think nothing was enough of a hit to fully break Leonore. He had that quality about him: feelings came, they went, and he sat with discomfort running rampant, only to build up after it was gone with a smile on his face.

Not any more.

Leonore sobbed pitifully, choking on his own cries.

After he finally managed to calm down, he looked at her: “How the fuck will I tell Navneet? How am I telling Althea.”

She began crying again. “I don’t know, Leo — I don’t have the slightest fucking idea.”

“Fucking— How the fuck am I going to wake up tomorrow if he’s, if he—”

“I don’t know, Leo... I really don’t know.”

Antupillán

Antu searched the entire city for Anatole, only not to find him anywhere.

He had gone where Antu couldn’t follow, so he did the only thing he could think of: he went back to Anatole’s room, made himself a lair in his wardrobe, and feel asleep.

If you paid enough attention, you could hear him weeping.

Vlad & Louisa

Aelius Anatole, his son, had come into the world at dawn to seal the lesson that Louisa had brought into his life: that if he knows what love is, it is because they exist. He had nicknamed him Lily because he had always been little, shorter than the other kids, yet somehow stood taller, brighter. He figures all parents think the same of their children.

His son came into the world at dawn. Vlad will never know at what time he left it. He will never know if he was scared. He will never know if the fever kept him lucid. He will never have a body to hold, just like he used to before, when Anatole still asked to be tucked in, demanding to be given a hand to tug on while he fell asleep.

He will have no stories to tell him, he will have no more hallway dances to see him dance, no more dreams, no more smiles. 

Death has taken so much from him, all he feels is rage. For the first time in years, he wishes he had died too, but he has a wife, and he can’t leave her alone.

Louisa De Silva never expected to have any children, nor she expected her only son to be taken away from her. She thinks, no, she knows she will feel hollow for the rest of her life, that nothing ever will be the same: happiness will be a ghost of what it used to be. Food will taste blander than before. Joy will be watered, and laugh will take a long vacation never to return.

That Anatole is now with her sister is no consolation at all. She’s always loved Paris, but right now, she’s envious of her. Wherever it is that they are, if there is such a place, her sister will get to hold her son while she didn’t have a chance to even see him die. She holds the arm of the chair she’s sitting in until her knuckles go white. She feels like fainting.

Incompetent and despotic rulers have taken so many things from her: her family home, her parents when they sent her away, and now, while a different tyrant, the offence is the same, worse even, because they too have taken her son.

Louisa De Silva, mother of Aelius Anatole, is a doctor: she doesn’t need to be told all of this was preventable, but it was her son the one who paid the price.

Valerius

“Uncle! Uncle! Look at what I learnt today in my fencing lessons!” Anatole was 8 then.

“Uncle? Was that your boyfriend?” Anatole, aged 9, hanged from a tree branch to ask him that question.

“Uncle!” He had screamed of joy at 11, running to him in the Palazzo after Valerius moved permanently to Vesuvia.

Dearest Uncle, he had written at 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20.

“Valeriy,” he had called him not two weeks ago, still so sure they would endure this. They are Radošević’s, they are Cassanos, the are Vesuvians but also Balkovian: that meant whatever life threw their way, they survived it.

Or they were.

Valerius feels a knot on his throat: he doesn’t have Anatole’s resolve, his progressive ideas, he doesn’t have his hope, and whatever amount of those he had himself, they died with him. They died with him, giving his life away for a city which would never appreciate him, which would never value him like he did. They did not deserve the soil of Anatole’s shoes and now he’s dead. The boy had given them summer without them asking, a summer which was snatched away from him: Anatole had slipped from his grip like sun-rays between his fingers. 

The world should stop without him. That it didn’t was an act of cruelty Valerius would never forgive, even if resentment poisoned him. No amount to lying to himself will change the fact his Aelius died, that he failed his brother in protecting him, that he will have no successor, no one to pass the Consulship to, and that no one will ever be worthy.

A year later, he will watch the Count burn in his bed, and he will smile: Good, he will think, If Anatole did not get to live, then neither should you.