#found this drawing of Gale I did like month ago?

[riense]

[tumbleweed-run]

The Reluctant Bride pt 2

(18+, explicit) Kinktober 2023 Day 6: Dub Con

Part One

Part Two

Astarion stood straighter, offense etched into his face. “I understand I don’t have the appeal of Tav but I thought-”

“That’s not what I meant,” Gale interrupted shaking his head. He had to pause and lean against the wall as the movement brought on a wave of dizziness. 

“I’m so sorry,” Tav sounded stricken. 

“It’s not your doing, darling,” Astarion threw over his shoulder but his eyes were still pinned to Gale. 

Gale sighed, heavily, the reality of the moment and its consequences crashed down on him. “I meant,” he began again, pinching the bridge of his nose, “that this isn’t how I wanted… this.”

And that was that. 

It wasn’t some statement of desperation, a lie pulled from his lips in a moment of panic. No, he wanted Astarion. He’d thought numerous times, especially in the last month, of how they’d bring their odd dynamic full circle. He’d never been sure of just how truthful Astarion’s flirtations were and wanted to be sure the vampire wouldn’t agree to it just to please Tav. Gale needed to be sure, for both their sakes, that they both wanted this. 

Truthfully, his odd attraction to Astarion had begun long before they culled the goblin camp. 

When Gale was finally brave enough to reopen his eyes, he found Astarion staring at him. His face was closed, mask that had been endearingly absent the last few weeks, back in place. Gale felt his stomach sink, perhaps he’d misread the situation all along. 

His eyes dropped to the floor because it didn’t matter. Astarion was right, if this was the only answer to their predicament, they would have to go through with it. The curse didn’t care whether either of them was a willing participant. In fact, judging by the name, that was the exact point. 

Astarion reached out and grabbed Gale’s arm. Gale stared at the point of contact. Without the fabric between the touch was both a balm and a stimulant. It felt almost as if his fever had begun breaking instantly. 

“It’s not,” Astarion began, drawing Gale’s eyes up to his face, “how I’d wanted things to happen either.”

Gale’s eyes roved over Astarion’s face, searching for an indication as to what he meant. He realized quickly that he was just going to have to ask. “I need you to be more specific.”

Astarion clicked his tongue and sighed. “I mean I would have been willing to try this,” he waved his hand wildly, “long ago. But seeing as you near exploded Halsin just for suggestion something similar, what hope did I have? But now that seems a bit out of our hands.”

Gale attempted to process this new information, his fever sluggish brain making it difficult. “So this, if we do this-”

“We are.”

“If we do this,” Gale repeated, “I’m not… you won’t be hurt?”

For a brief second Astarion’s eyes sparkled, remnants of his flirtatious nature clawing its way to the surface. But just as quickly as it was there, Gale watched it transform into something more earnest. 

“I can’t say I’m entirely thrilled given the ‘do it or die’ nature but,” Astarion said, “I guess this is certainly one way to get passed the awkward stage.”

Gale nodded, finally accepting their situation. When he glanced passed Astarion’s should he saw Tav watching them both, eyes wide. She was chewing on her lip. When her eye caught his, she smiled. It was a tired but hopeful thing and went a long way to buoy Gale’s spirits. 

He turned his attention back to Astarion. “How should we… continue?” He asked not liking how unsure he still sounded.

“Well, first things, I think we should lose this,” with that Astarion plucked the towel from around Gale’s waist, letting it crumple to the floor. 

It was truly a sign of how badly this curse was affecting him that Gale didn’t protest his sudden nakedness. 

“Then,” Astarion continued, “I think perhaps you should go and sit back on the bed and allow me to help with that.” He looked down very pointedly at Gale’s erection which hadn’t flagged in the least despite having had no attention paid to it for some time. 

He looked hungry in a way that had Gale briefly wondering if he would leave this night with all his blood intact. 

He cleared his throat. “Are you sure? I mean we don’t know if that will work and beside how will you… I mean I can also, I have, but…” Gale allowed himself to trail off as he realized he had no real end to his ramblings. 

Astarion raised an eyebrow at that revelation. “Are you saying you wish to just get to fucking me?” He challenged. 

Gale sagged against the wall again and dropped his head. “Actually it might be best the other way,” he admitted. 

“And why is that?” Astarion sounded unnervingly interested. 

Gale cleared his throat raising his head to risk a glance at Astarion before looking away again. “We tried…” he trailed off unable to finish. He wasn’t ashamed or really bother, but it was an odd thing to talk about with someone who hadn’t been involved. 

“Oh,” Astarion’s voiced pitched up and he was beginning to sound delighted. “Your fingers or a toy?” That question was thrown backward at Tav. 

“My fingers,” she answered quickly. 

“Aren’t you full of surprises,” Astarion drawled before grasping Gale’s chin, forcing him to look at him, “but my fingers and my cock are larger than anything she’s stuck in you. So while I’m not opposed, I need to make sure we won’t cause you any undue harm.”

Gale attempted to nod. 

“The easiest way to do that, and allow us to build an allusion that this is at all consensual, is if I do that while you are distracted,” the last word positively dripped from the vampire’s mouth. 

Gale swallowed harshly at the visuals being provided for him. He was beginning to realize the effects of Astarion’s words were not entirely to blame on the curse. 

“Gale,” Tav called. She’d shifted so she was sitting in the center of the bed, gesturing for him to come join her. 

Gale slid away from Astarion and went to the bed. Before sitting, he leaned over and kissed Tav who returned it enthusiastically despite how swollen her lips were. When he did sit he found that Astarion had pulled off his shirt and had made his way back across the room. 

“Lay back in her lap,” Astarion directed him. 

It’d been less than a minutes since they’d touched and Gale was already feeling the consequences. His head had begun spinning again, just enough that he was willing to follow Astarion’s demands without argument. As he laid back the top of his head brushed against something cool and wet. The guilt reared its head again when he realized it was the rag he’d given Tav in the hopes of calming some of the pain she’d surely been feeling. 

“I’m sorry,” he told her shifting until he was comfortable. 

Tav shook her head, hair falling loose about her shoulders. “Don’t be,” she insisted, “this is my fault.”

Gale reached up and took her chin in his hand, making sure she was looking at him. “This isn’t your fault,” he told her, “I was wrong to try and blame you.”

Tav’s eyes searched his and then she nodded, Gale could tell though, that her burden hadn’t lifted entirely. 

“We can assign blame later,” Astarion spoke up now, standing between Gale’s legs.

Gale looked up at him but whatever he meant to say died on his lips as Astarion gently rested one hand on his leg. The wave of relief was almost instant and Gale found he was irritated at it. 

With an alarming amount of grace given the predicament they were in, Astarion sunk to his knees. Gale tried to follow him down but the position became to awkward to track. Instead he rested his head back again into Tav’s lap, one of her hands coming up automatically to stroke his hair back from his face. 

He moaned when Astarion gripped his cock. The other man stroked him a few times and then without much prelude pulled Gale into his mouth. 

“Fuck,” Gale moaned as his cock almost immediately butted against the back of Astarion’s throat. 

Astarion was unlawfully skilled as he sucked Gale down. The lack of need for oxygen translated to no breaks or moments for Gale to catch his breath. He truly had to focus to keep his hips from bucking up into the vampire’s mouth. He wanted to, so badly it was bordering on delirium.

As if sensing this Astarion pulled off and stood again. Leaning over him Astarion maintained a grip on his thigh in order to keep the contact. 

“Before you forget how to speak,” he waved his fingers in front of Gale’s face. 

Gale muttered the spell to coat Astarion’s fingers in oil. Well it had been intended to be just in fingers but he was too tired, too done to truly focus and enough appeared that some of it dripped onto his chest. 

Gale did not miss the glance Astarion snuck up at Tav, something passing between them that he was also too tired to try and decipher. 

“There’s oil in the dresser,” Tav said softly, fingers carding through Gale’s hair even though she was speaking to Astarion, “if you need more.”

Astarion gave a short nod before disappearing from Gale’s vision once more. 

No warning this time when Astarion’s mouth found him. Gale’s hips bucked upwards, unable to maintain his composure any longer. 

Astarion’s forearm braced across his hips then and all but pinned him down to the bed. 

Gale almost didn’t notice the finger as it pressed into him, mind preoccupied with the pleasure he was receiving. Dimly though he realized Astarion was right, Tav’s fingers were decidedly smaller. 

As Astarion worked his finger inside, expertly finding the spot that left Gale shouting, he continued drawing his cock into his mouth. He was drinking Gale down as if trying to swallow all of it. Gale was certain he was down the other man’s throat and the thought left him moaning, feet desperately trying to find purchase. Astarion held him fast, not allowing Gale to get any leverage. 

Above Gale, Tav was hushing him, or perhaps that was the sound of his blood swiftly vacating his brain. He couldn’t be sure any longer. 

Astarion had breeched him with two fingers now, pistoning them in and out of Gale. Each time making contact until Gael’s vision was devolving into spots of stars. 

He desperately hoped he’d come like this. If he did, he would be more than willing to get on his knees for Astarion. His hopes seemed to be for naught though. It didn’t matter how close he felt he was, there seemed to be just something out of reach keeping him from tipping over. 

In the last coherent vestiges of his brain Gale began to panic, wondering if this wasn’t the solution. Worried that even if they fucked there would be no release and he would die this way. 

“Gale,” Astarion snapped pulling his mouth off of him, “you’ve got to relax.”

“Shhh,” Tav urged him leading Gale to realize he was near hyperventilating. “It’ll be okay,” she soothed running a hand down the side of his face, “we’ve got you.”

Astarion’s fingers pulled out of him and Gale would later deny the whimper that was ripped from him. 

“I’m going to fuck you now,” Astarion announced, once more leaning over him, eyes desperately trying to catch on to his. “I worry if we let this go any longer you might have a stroke,” Gale could no longer tell if that was hyperbole or the truth. 

Both Astarion and Tav shifted him backward just a little until he was able to brace his feet at the edge of the bed. Then there was a brief loss of contact as Astarion worked his trousers off and Gale burned so hot Tav’s hand felt like ice on his skin. 

Astarion crawled up onto the bed between Gale’s planted feet. With little warning, he began pressing into Gale. If it hurt he couldn’t tell, the wave of relief, of calm overrode any other sensation he might have been feeling. 

“Shit,” Astarion panted above him, clearly just as affected by the sensation as Gale. 

Astarion doubled over as he began thrusting in and out of him. His hands coming to rest on either side of Gale’s arms, head hanging down so his face was lost to him. When one particular thrust slammed into that spot again Gale’s back bowed up off the bed and he gripped Astarion’s arms trying to pull him impossibly closer. 

A few more thrusts and Astarion all but dropped onto Gale’s chest. One hand hooked around behind Gale’s thigh, attempting to find leverage again. His cock was now trapped between them, rutting against Astarion’s stomach with each thrust. 

There were teeth at his throat, specifically fangs. Gale arched his neck on instinct rather than some desire to be bitten, but Astarion took the motion as permission and bit. 

The pain was sharp as it pushed him over the edge.

Gale cried out, back once again arching, as he came coating both of their chests in his spend. His arms shifted their hold, body moving again on instinct, and all but trapped Astarion against him. The vampire groaned, a wet sound, as he drank and Gale could feel his cock pulsing inside of him. Astarion’s hips were still save for small shudders as he spilled inside of Gale. Still drinking all the while. 

Gale was only vaguely aware of Tav’s voice and then Astarion’s mouth leaving his neck. The removal of his fangs worse than the insertion.

The next time he blinked he realized Astarion had slipped out of him, but hadn’t managed to go far. Gale allowed his arms to drop, effectively freeing him, but Astarion stayed laying against his chest. It was then that he became vaguely aware that room seemed to be returning to a normal temperature and his heart was slowly working down to a more livable rhythm.

They remained that way, Tav’s hands gently carding through both of their hair, until the sticky feeling on Gale’s chest became uncomfortable. Only then did Astarion push off of Gale complete, dropping onto the bed next to him. When Gale was finally able to shift he saw a strange dazed look on the vampire’s face. 

He reached out a hand and gently touched Astarion’s cheek. Astarion started, eyes darting immediately up to his. 

“I’m sorry,” was what fell out of Gale’s mouth instead of any of the number of things that he had considered saying.

Astarion shook his head, not managing to dislodge Gale’s hand entirely. “You no longer taste like bile,” he said, deflecting. 

For now, Gale was left with nothing to do but allow it. 

[spaghettiwench]

Lucy as the Golden Blade AU headcanons because the comic I did for it a little bit ago started gaining some traction. Please enjoy some of the thoughts I had while drawing it:

-Lucy joins up with Fittes after the Screaming Staircase and becomes the apprentice of the Golden Blade after Penelope realizes how strong of a Listener she is.

-Lucy leaves for Fittes in part because she wants to keep her promise to Norrie in becoming one of the best agents in the business and in part because she doesn’t want to lose a team that she truly cares about all over again.

-She refuses to wear the Fittes uniform but finds herself wearing gray more often than not (sometimes she’ll wear splashes of blue because she really likes the color)

-Gale pushes her to her breaking point when it comes to both rapier skills and her psychic abilities, making her incredibly powerful and skilled with a blade by the time she crosses paths with Lockwood and co again.

-Lucy and Gale do not like each other in the slightest. Gale is annoyed that he gets stuck training some snot nosed brat and Lucy is pissed because no matter how hard she works she is never up to his standards. Nonetheless he trains her and she shows up every single day because she would never give him the satisfaction of thinking that she’s hiding from him or not up to the challenge.

-I like to think she volunteers for jobs where she might be able to run into George and Lockwood again. Not because they’re friends (of course not they’re sworn enemies at best) but because she likes to bait them.

-Also she finds that Lockwood is a fantastic sparring partner and keeps a detailed count on who wins what battles. She keeps a tally in the inner cover of one of her sketchbooks.

-The night at Winkmans warehouse both Gale and Lucy were in attendance but only Lucy ends up catching up with Lockwood and dueling him. Lucy holds that over Gale's head for months, accusing him of losing his touch because of his cripplingly old age. He never fails to remind her that even though she caught Lockwood she didn’t manage to actually beat him.

-She uses that point as a reason to push herself even harder at rapier practice, she’s determined not to be bested by him again.

-Lucy will never admit it but she looks forward to her confrontations with the small agency. Going out of her way to keep up with their cases in the papers and magazines. Deep down she likes them and remembers their friendship from when she first arrived in London. Secretly she believes she owes them for being a stepping stone in her success, and she never stops feeling guilty for leaving them behind in the way that she did.

-The more she crosses paths with Lockwood and George the more she starts to regret abandoning them for Fittes.

SPOILERS FOR HOLLOW BOY/CREEPING SHADOW/EMPTY GRAVE PAST THIS POINT

-Lucy meets up with Lockwood and co again when they go and visit Chelsea for the mass haunting. Fittes even has her working on the case so she gets lumped in with Kipps and his team.

-The chase at the parade is basically the same except instead of Lockwood and Lucy helping each other out they’re determined to see who can catch up to the attacker first. It ends with them pulling out the rapiers by the river, almost coming to blows before they’re found by other people.

-Lucy goes with Kipps to Aickmeres and it ends up playing out the same exact way. Lucy gets teamed up with Holly, the two argue, Lucy ends up saving Holly before herself and falling down into the old prison. She still sees Lockwood as the Fetch and he still comes down after her. So when he offers her a job, to come back to Lockwood and Co, to be part of a real team again, she has to refuse. It breaks both of their hearts when she does it.

-Okay this is where I start to deviate from cannon a bit more so bare with me

-Lucy has no idea that Fittes and Rotwell are opening spirit gates, at the end of the black winter is when Penelope finally trusts her enough to let her in on the secret

-Lucy is obviously horrified by the idea and runs away. She has nowhere else to go other than to the one place she knows is safe. The only place that might offer to take her in, and runs off to Portland Row.

-Of course they take her in and after the Creeping Shadow case she officially becomes the newest member of Lockwood and Co.

-Absolutely flips her shit when the skull starts talking to her when she first moves in

[waywardangel-wilds]

This is from an idea I had ages ago. I'm still trying to figure out how to finish it.

___

He didn’t intend to do it.

Okay, scratch that. Of course, he did it on purpose. You don’t press that many buttons in a silent, secluded room by accident. He meant to do it. What he didn’t intent to do was to take it this far.

His job is prestigious, the kind that used to only be within the reach of the sons and daughters of other people holding prestigious positions. He’s proud of it, happy to have it, but he never intended to abuse it. Never thought he’d stoop that low, become like the people he so frequently talked down about.

But, well, he’s done a lot of things he wouldn’t have thought himself capable of in the past handful of years.

And so, it starts.

The first time he did it the decision was made in a moment of weakness. Bitter, petty, and curious, he’d taken the military computer into his private office when he was sure no one would overhear him. He was so secretive about it, so aware of the wrongness of what he was doing that he’d turned off the lights in his office, shut the blinds of his windows and turned down the brightness on the screen.

For the first ten minutes there wasn’t anything interesting to listen to. There weren’t any cameras, so he was relying entirely on sound. He pressed the earbuds into his ears and waited.

There was shuffling. The sound of footsteps, running water. He looked at the screen to see what channel he was listening to. The computer reported back to him in wide block letters: V.V. MLLRK. KITCHEN.

There was some mumbling, but the voice was too low. Annoyed, Gale turned up the volume, but he didn’t recognize any words. The person mustn’t have been really trying to speak.

But then:

“No, I can do that.”

It was that guy’s voice. Low and in that strange unemotional tone he’d adopted after his rescue.

Nobody replied.

“Suit yourself.” More shuffling. The water shut off, and Gale could hear the distinctive sound of dishes clicking together. Someone was washing and drying dishes, perhaps?

Relative silence. Occasionally he could hear movement, things and people moving.

“You don’t have to,” her voice. It was clipped and short and oddly unemotional.

Silence. “I want to.” His voice again, but further away. Out of the room. Gale looked at the screen and saw the sound graph moving ‘hotter’ in another room. He switched channels. V.V. MLLRK. D.R.

“Who?” his voice.

“District 1.” A pause. “Marvel. I keep seeing him, with the spear.”

“And you want him in here?” Gale waited, frowning, confused about what they were talking about. “Katniss, I thought—”

“It’s for memories.” She interrupted. “You shouldn’t draw them looking bad, but we need to write it down.”

“I thought it was for good memories. People we liked. Loved.”

“It’s for all our memories. All of it.” Her voice rose then dropped back down again. “They were just kids. Wasn’t their fault.”

Gale waited for them to speak again but after forty-five minutes he gave up. He angrily slammed the computer shut.

The next time he did it, it was months later. He’d stayed late in the office just putting off the inevitability of going home to insomnia. He leaned back in his chair, the hard-covered computer tossed under a pile of documents teasing him from the edge of his desk.

Fine, he’d thought. Just to see if they’re okay.

He’d turned the computer on, checking the ‘warmth’ of the audio channels in every house. Nothing came in from Abernathy, but he suspected the old man had simply found the bugs and ripped them out years ago. Once again MLLRK was hot.

He put in the earbuds and switched on V.V. MLLRK. LVNRM.

“—the half of it!” an unfamiliar voice was laughing. “Ugh, I wish you guys could see it. You’d love it.”

“Sounds like fun,” his voice again, but lighter, less emotionless. “I’m happy for you.”

[everlarkbirthdaygifts]

Happy Birthday, alepaolvi!

Apologies for the delay on your birthday gift, @alepaolvi​! We hope you had a wonderful day on October 2, and got exactly the presents you were hoping for! To bring your party back around, the lovely @norbertsmom has written a story just for you!

Author’s Note: Happy belated birthday, @alepaolvi. Sorry for the delay. I hope you enjoy your arranged marriage fic with a jealous Gale. This is set in Panem au. The revolution happened a few years before it did in canon. You may notice several lines are taken directly from the book, and tweaked to fit this new timeline. Special thanks to my bestie, @mega-aulover for her help. Rated T.

A Different Kind of Reaping

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

When I wake up, I reach out for Prim but find the other side of the bed is empty. Prim has her own bed now, but sometimes I forget we’re no longer in the Seam. I prop myself up on one elbow. There’s enough light in the room to see that she’s not in her bed. Of course not. She’s been so excited to help me get ready for today. I’m sure she and mother are up prepping my clothes and making breakfast.

The two of them are so alike, with their blond hair and blue eyes and perky attitude. At fourteen, Prim is fresh faced and as lovely as the primrose for which she was named. My mother is still beautiful, if not a little weary in her grief at the loss of my father. Even seven years later, his absence is still felt, especially today.

I get out of bed and pull on trousers, a shirt, and tuck my long dark braid up under a cap. I slide my stocking feet into my leather hunting boots and grab my bow and sheath of arrows along with my foraging bag.

On the table is a feast fit for celebration: eggs, bacon, toast, and orange juice. All luxury items just a few years ago, before the war. Now a gift to me on my reaping day.

Reaping day is so different now. Before the revolution, reaping day was the day all district children between the ages of twelve and eighteen had their names put into a drawing. In punishment for the failed first uprising, each of the twelve districts had to provide one boy and one girl, called tributes to participate in the Hunger Games. The twenty-four tributes would be imprisoned in a vast outdoor arena to fight to the death. The last standing tribute won.

“Sit down for breakfast, Katniss,” my mother says. “You’ll need your energy today.”

I set my hunting gear down and sit, loading up my plate and tuck into the meal. I want to go out into the woods one last time before the ceremony. Who knows if I’ll be able to go back out after today?

Prim plops down in the chair beside me. “Are you excited, Katniss?” she asks as she loads up her own plate.

“Um,” I hum around a mouthful of food because I really don’t know how I feel. “A little scared, I guess.”

When the revolution was won by the districts, the Hunger Games were abolished. But soon after it was discovered that the population was critically low, and at risk of extinction after all the loss during the war. The new senate that ruled the country with one representative from each district, came up with a plan to help repopulate the nation: arranged marriages.

They decided to reclaim the reaping day as a day to bring new families together. That first reaping day after the war, men and women eighteen and older were matched to form new families. I wasn’t old enough then, but I am now. I don’t know how I feel about having my future decided for me.

I think back on all of the questionnaires we had to complete in our last month of school. We also had to list the names of those we would be happy to be matched with. We weren’t allowed to leave it blank, so I wrote down the one name I secretly wish for, but I’m sure I won’t get.

I may not even be matched this year. Not everyone is matched in their first year, so they have to go through it again the next year. Special deferment was granted for those who fought in the war to put off their reaping a year or two.

“Leave your sister alone, Primrose. She has a big day ahead of her,” mother says as she joins us at the table. She pours herself a large mug of coffee and cups it with both hands, holding it under her nose to breathe it in. She closes her eyes before taking a sip.

I’m the first to finish and get up to leave. “Thanks for breakfast,” I tell them as I grab my gear and head toward the door. I’m in a hurry. My old hunting partner, Gale Hawthorne is back in the district today. I haven’t seen him since he went away to fight in the rebellion. After the fighting was over, he stayed in the military and moved to district three so he could study under the victor Beetee Latier.

“Don’t forget your cheese,” Prim says as she gets up from the table and hands me a perfect little goat cheese wrapped in basil leaves. It’s been a tradition since she started making goat cheese to give them as gifts on special occasions.

“Thank you,” I tell her with a hug as I pocket the cheese.

“Don’t stay out too long, Katniss,” mother says. “You need to report to the Justice Building by one thirty. We need time to get you ready.”

“I won’t,” I tell her as I slip outside.

Our part of District 12 is the merchant quarter. My mother and Prim run the apothecary, but we didn’t always live here. I grew up in the part of the district nicknamed the Seam, where the miners live. The apothecary had been vacant since my grandparents died when the mayor’s mansion was bombed at the start of the revolution. After the war, my mother applied for and was granted permission to take it over.

As I’m skipping down the back steps, I look over to the bakery next door. Peeta Mellark is walking toward the trash bin with a bag in his hand. He looks up at the sound of our door closing. “Hey Katniss,” he says with that contagious smile of his. “Heading out to the woods, I see.” He nods to my hunting gear after placing the bag in the bin.

“Yep,” I tell him with a smile of my own. “Gotta catch dinner for tonight.”

“Ooh. Wild game, that’s one advantage you have over the other girls in the reaping today,” he says, crossing his arms as he leans against the small fence that divides his yard from mine.

“Whatever you say, Mellark,” I tell him, shaking my head. He’s always teasing me about how different I am from the other girls who live in town. Not because I’m from the Seam, but like I’m some unique creature he’d never encountered before.

As I walk down the path I wonder who Peeta will be matched with. He’s such a kind person. He was the only person to help me and my family after my father died. He gave me bread that helped us survive and gave me hope to go on. I’m sure he’ll have no problems finding a match today. Lots of girls will be hoping to be the next baker’s wife. Peeta lost his mom at the start of the war. She was one of those lost in the bombing of the mayor’s mansion.

Even though there’s an entrance to the wood close to home, I make my way through town toward the Seam to the entrance by my old house. It makes me feel closer to my father. That’s where he would take me into the woods when I was a child.

The streets of the Seam are empty today. Usually, the workers would be out heading to their morning shift at the mines or the medicine factory, but the ceremony isn’t until two. Might as well sleep in if you can.

Our old house was almost at the edge of the Seam. I only have to pass a few gates past it to reach the scruffy field we call the Meadow. The barbed wire loops that used to top the high chain-linked fence that separates the Meadow from the woods are gone. The fence remains to keep the wild animals out of the district, but gates have been installed at several locations around the perimeter to allow citizens access to the woods.

As soon as I’m in the trees, I look around for signs of a threat, like packs of wild dogs, bears, venomous snakes, or rabid animals. Inside the woods they roam freely, but there’s also food if you know how to find it. My father knew and he taught me some before he was blown to bits in a mine explosion. There was nothing even to bury. I was eleven then. Seven years later I sometimes still wake up screaming for him. But since Dr. Sidney, the head doctor, came to the district after the war, I’ve learned how to deal with my grief. My nightmares aren’t as frequent. Dr. Sidney helped my mother as well. She no longer lies in bed staring at the walls.

Before the war, trespassing in the woods was illegal, and poaching carried the severest of penalties, but the woods belong to us now, the citizens of District 12. Still, most people aren’t bold enough to venture out unarmed. My bow is a rarity, crafted by my father along with a few others that I keep well hidden in the woods, carefully wrapped in waterproof covers. If my father was still alive, he could have made good money selling them, but before the rebellion, if the officials found him selling weapons, he would have been publicly executed for sedition. Which is kind of ironic since the mine explosion that killed him was one of the catalysts for the rebellion.

We were never prosecuted for poaching back then because most of the Peacekeepers had turned a blind eye to the few of us who hunted. They were as hungry for fresh meat as anybody. Now we get food shipped in from other districts regularly, and I can sell my game openly to the other merchants at their back doors, and at my booth in the open-air market called the Hob.

In the woods waits my hunting partner Gale. I feel myself relaxing and quicken my pace when I think about seeing him again. I only got a quick chat with him yesterday when he arrived, mobbed by his family. He asked if we could meet up to hunt this morning like old times. I climb the hills to our rock ledge overlooking the valley. A thicket of berry bushes keeps it hidden. The sight of him brings on a smile. We used to be the best of friends before he went away.

He looks different than I remember. Not just older; he stands different, ridged and yet alert as if he is waiting for an attack from a wild lone wolf. He’s wearing gray uniform pants, and a faded black shirt. His eyes are sharper; they scan the area, before settling on mine.

“Hey Catnip,” says Gale. He knows my real name, but I had whispered it when we first met so he thought I said catnip. It stuck as a nickname even after all this time.

“Look what I shot,” Gale says as he holds up a loaf of bread with an arrow stuck in it. I let out an uncomfortable laugh. It’s fine bakery bread, the kind used during a toasting ceremony.

I’m not sure if he’s trying to impress me with what he can buy with his fancy new job, so I take the bread in my hands. I pull the arrow out and hold the puncture in the crust to my nose, inhaling the fragrance that reminds me of the blond haired, blue eyed son of the baker.

“Mm, still warm.” He must have been at the bakery at the crack of dawn to buy it. “Prim gave us cheese,” I tell him quickly as I pull it out of my pocket.

“Thank you, Prim,” Gale says as he pulls out a shiny knife from a sheath on his hip. I watch as he slices the bread. He could be my brother, same straight black hair, although his is cut short in a military style, same olive complexion, we even have the same gray eyes. We’re not related, at least not closely. Most of the families in the Seam resemble one another this way.

That’s why my mother and Prim, with their light hair and blue eyes used to look out of place when we lived in the Seam. They were. My mother’s parents were merchants. They ran the apothecary. That’s why she got it after the war. Now I’m the one out of place. I have the look of the Seam, but I live in town.

My father got to know my mother because he would collect medicinal herbs and sell them to her shop. She really loved him to leave her home for the Seam. Back then, the homes in the Seam were nothing more than shacks really. We had to boil water from the spigot in the yard if we wanted it hot. After the war, all of the squat gray houses in the Seam were replaced with new homes that are well insulated with running hot and cold water and reliable electricity.

Gale spreads the bread slices with the soft goat cheese, carefully placing a basil leaf on each slice while I strip the bushes of their berries. We settle back in the nook in our rock. I don’t eat much, since I already had breakfast, but it’s a nice treat. Everything would be perfect if all this day off meant was roaming the woods with Gale for a casual family dinner tonight, catching up on how our lives have changed since the war ended, but instead it feels awkward, like I’m here with a stranger instead of my old friend Gale.

“What’s it like in District 3?” I ask quietly to break the awkward silence between us. It was never like this before. He would rant about the unfair treatment the citizens endured, and how we should rise up against them. But now that the revolution is over and won, we don’t really have much to say.

“It’s alright, but I’ll be moving to District 2 after the ceremony. You’ll love it there. Mountains bigger than these. Lots of woods to hunt in.”

“Why would I want to go to District 2?” I ask. The idea is preposterous. I can’t leave my sister. Before the war, the fantasy was to run off, and live in the woods, but this conversation feels all wrong now. There’s never been anything romantic between Gale and me. When we met, I was a skinny twelve-year-old, and although he was only two years older, he already looked like a man. It took a long time for us to even become friends, to stop haggling over every trade. Then he went off to war and moved to District 3 as a hero. His hero status gave him the option to postpone his reaping until this year.

Gale’s good looking, strong from his time as a soldier, and he has a good job in another district. He will be a desirable match at the reaping today. I don’t know why he would want me.

“Forget it,” he snaps.

I let out a breath and ask, “What do you want to do, hunt, fish, or gather?”

“Let’s fish at the lake,” he says. “We can leave our poles and gather in the woods. Get something nice for tonight’s betrothal meal.”

Tonight, after the reaping, everyone is supposed to celebrate, but I’ll be betrothed. I’ll be spending time with my intended. He and his family will come to my house so we can get to know one another. Does Gale hope it will be him?

We fall into the comfortable silence I remember from hunting with him before he left. By late morning, we have a dozen fish, a bag of greens, and best of all, a gallon of strawberries.  

On the way home, we swing by the Hob and trade half the fish and greens for fresh vegetables. Greasy Sae gives us a nod as we walk by. Even with the beef and chicken coming in from other districts, her wild game soup that she calls beef is always a hit. The customers around her booth are talking away about today’s reaping.

When we finish at the Hob, we go to the back of the mayor’s home to sell half of the strawberries. The mayor lives in a modest house not unlike the others in the district. After the war, the residents of the district realized that the old mayor’s mansion was just another tool the Capitol used to keep us in the district divided. The poor people of the Seam resented the wealth the mayor and the merchants had. So when the mayor’s home was rebuilt, he had it built the same as all the others.

The mayor’s daughter Madge answers the door. She was in my year at school, and my closest friend since Gale left. Her everyday outfit has been replaced by an expensive white dress, and her blonde hair is done up with a pink ribbon. Clothes fitting for the betrothal reaping.

“Pretty dress,” says Gale.

Madge shoots him a look, trying to see if it’s a genuine compliment. He used to antagonize her when we were younger, but now that he’s been gone for a few years it’s hard to tell. She presses her lips together and smiles. “Well I have to look nice for my reaping today, don’t I?”

“I’m sure you’ll have the match you want,” Gale says with a scoff.

Madge’s face has become closed off. She puts the money for the strawberries in my hand. “Good luck, Katniss.”

“You too,” I say, and the door closes.

I turn to Gale, “What did you mean by that?”

“Her father’s the mayor. People in power can influence the outcome of the reaping,” Gale says.

Madge’s father isn’t just the mayor. He was quite influential during the war. He was able to convince the residents of District 12 to join the revolution by bringing in Annie Cresta. Then he became our district’s liaison with the rest of the rebels.

Annie Cresta was the last Victor of the Hunger Games,and the spark that started the rebellion. She won the summer after my father died in the mining explosion. During her interview, after winning her games, she started screaming about her father and brother who were lost at sea with a whole ship full of fishermen just before her games. The Capitol played it off as her going mad. But during her victory tour she was more subdued, she would compare her district’s loss to the loss each district had suffered from a tragedy that same year.

The rumors started that perhaps the mine explosion that killed my father wasn’t an accident, but a sabotage to take out the rebel miners who had been planning an uprising. While in District 11, she talked about the silo collapse, in District 10 the stampede, and so on until she had rallied half the country behind her. Before her tour reached the Capitol, District 13 re-emerged from the ashes to sweep her off to be the face of the rebellion.

District 12 was one of the last districts still neutral to the rebellion even though the mayor tried to get our residents involved. He asked Annie Cresta to come back, to rally us to join the cause. Most of our Peacekeepers were recalled to the Capitol to fight off the uprisings in other districts. Those who stayed behind were sympathetic to the districts’ plight. The residents of District 12 wanted to wait out the war. If we didn’t join in, nothing would happen to us.

After the rally, while most of the residents of the district were at home debating why we should join the rebellion, the mayor hosted a dinner for Annie with the most influential Merchants and Seam residents. After the dinner was over, the mayor, his daughter Madge and a few others were seeing Annie off to her hovercraft back to District 13 when the mayor’s mansion was bombed by the Capitol. All those still inside were killed, including the mayor’s wife, his staff, my grandparents and many others.

The rally that day, along with the bombing that took out the mayor’s mansion, is what finally convinced the residents of District 12 to join the rebellion. We couldn’t stay neutral. The war came to us. Gale, among others old enough, went off to fight in the war. Not everyone came home. The baker’s oldest son died. Gale stayed in the military.

As we walk back toward my house, I glance over at Gale, still wondering why he came home this year. He could have participated in the reaping in his new district. I hope he didn’t come back here for me.

Gale and I arrive at the divide between the Seam and town and split up our spoils.

“See you in the square,” I say.

“Wear something pretty,” he says flatly as he walks towards his mother’s house in the Seam.

When I get home, Peeta is in the yard next door, feeding the pigs. “Hey, Katniss,” he says. “Good day hunting?”

“Yep, got some fish and greens for tonight,” I tell him.

“I’ve got a few recipes you can try out on your new family if you want?”

“Sure, that last one with the nuts was nice.” Curious I get closer. “So are you ready?”

He stops feeding the pigs. “I’m nervous,” he confesses.

“Nervous?” Peeta has nothing to be nervous about. He’s good like my sister Prim. Any of the women today would be lucky to have him.

“Well, what if the girl they pick for me doesn’t erm,” his face turned pink. “Well, like me.”

What he is saying is impossible.

“My parents didn’t have the best marriage, you know.”

I nod. I can see why he would be anxious. His parents did not get along; they hated each other but miraculously, had three boys.

I wish I had the words to be able to tell him that he had nothing to worry about. But nothing comes.

"Listen, I'll see you at the reaping. I've got to get ready. Don't want to scare my bride away by smelling like a pig pen."

I shake my head and laugh. When I go inside my mother sets aside her knitting and jumps up from her chair. “There you are,” she says as she helps me remove my hunting gear. She hands my bag to Prim and ushers me into the bathroom. “Get yourself a shower. You need to start getting ready.”

I scrub off the dirt and sweat from the woods and wash my hair. When I’m done I find my favorite dress from my mother’s collection laid out on my bed. A soft orange, with white lace insets near the collar, and a tie at the waist. “Are you sure?” I ask.

“Of course. I’ll fix your hair,” she says.

After I’m dressed, I sit at the vanity as she towel dries my hair and I watch as she braids it up into a crown on top of my head. I hardly recognize myself in the mirror.

“You look beautiful,” says Prim in a hushed voice.

“And nothing like myself,” I say as I hug her. Things are going to be so different after the reaping today.

Prim and mother get dressed. We have a quick lunch and then it’s time to go to the Justice Building to check in.

As we head toward the square, we are joined by others headed that way. Attendance is not mandatory like it was for the Hunger Games reapings, but most people show up anyway.

Mother and Prim hug me goodbye when I go into the Justice Building. After checking in, I’m ushered into the women’s waiting room. I find Madge and join her at the refreshment table.

At precisely 1:45, our escort, Effie Trinket, comes into the room. Miss Trinket was on track to be an escort for the Hunger Games, but she was actually a rebel working inside the system to help bring it down. After the revolution she became our escort for the betrothal reaping. Her bright pink clothes and makeup, while much more flamboyant than what those of us in the district would wear, is nowhere near as garish as the makeup and outfits worn by our last Hunger Games escort.

“Ladies, it’s time to follow me out onto the stage,” Effie says and we all line up to follow her out.

As we go out onto the stage, a cheer begins to rise from the crowd gathered in front of the Justice Building. Effie escorts us to the several rows of seats arranged on the left side of the stage. Madge and I sit next to each other.

Once we are all seated, Effie goes back into the building, but comes out a few minutes later followed by the group of men for the reaping. She escorts them to the seats on the right side of the stage. They are all wearing their best suits. Peeta gives me a wave before he sits in the second row. Gale sits in the front row in his military uniform.

At precisely 2 o’clock, Mayor Undersee steps up to the podium and begins his speech. He talks about the history of Panem: the dark days, the first failed rebellion, the 70 years of the Hunger Games, and then the revolution that freed Panem. He talks about how we have to rebuild Panem, the population lost from the Games and the war. Which brings us to today, the Betrothal Reaping. He then introduces Effie Trinket.

“Welcome, welcome,” Effie says. “It’s such an honor to be here, to help bring together the families who will be the future of our country.” She goes on to explain how the selections are not random. The answers we gave in the surveys taken during school, as well as our DNA were used to determine the matches. “Now, onto the pairings!” she says, and with a flair of her hand pulled out a stack of envelopes.

She plucks the first envelope from the stack and calls out, “Delly Cartwright!”

Delly jumps up from her seat, and quickly walks up to stand next to Effie. Delly is practically vibrating in anticipation. I wish I could be that excited. I just hope I get someone I can stand.

“And your match is,” Effie pauses dramatically, “Thom Davison!”

Thom, one of Gale’s old classmates who didn’t get matched in his previous two reapings, looks around bewildered. He gets a nudge from the person sitting next to him before he gets up and walks up to the podium to formally meet Delly.

Delly and Thom are ushered to the back of the stage where they stand next to each other whispering, with big smiles on their faces. I guess that means they are happy with that match.

“Very good,” says Effie. “Our next match is the mayor’s daughter, Madge Undersee.”

I squeeze Madge’s hand and she stands and gracefully walks up to stand next to Effie Trinket.

“And your match is… the local hero, Gale Hawthorne!” Effie exclaims. A quiet murmur goes through the crowd. That pairing was unexpected. I think everyone expected me to be paired with Gale, but I know it would have never worked out, we’re too alike.

Gale doesn’t look very happy at his selection, but stands and walks up to meet Madge. They stiffly shake hands, then walk back to stand next to Delly and Thom. It’s quite the contrast between the two pairs.

“Wonderful!” Effie says with a little too much enthusiasm. “Next up we have, Katniss Everdeen.”

I stand up slowly, then stiffly walk to stand next to the podium.

“And your partner is… Peeta Mellark,” Effie calls out.

My eyes go wide as I think, Oh, it’s him, my neighbor, my friend. The boy, no man, I correct myself, who saved my life and gave me hope. The man who reminded me that I was not doomed. The man who’s name I wrote on my questionnaire. I feel a smile come across my face as I watch Peeta get up and walk toward me. The smile on his face matches mine.

When he reaches me we stand and stare at each other for a moment before Effie Trinket clears her throat. “Go ahead, shake hands,” she urges. Peeta's large warm hand engulfs mine, and he gives me a reassuring squeeze. “Go ahead,” she tells us, nudging us toward the back of the stage.

When I drop Peeta’s hand, I feel the loss of warmth immediately, but I feel his hand at the small of my back as he escorts me to join the others. “Told ya I’d see you at the reaping,” Peeta whispers in my ear, and I can’t help but laugh. After that, I’m in a bit of a daze and miss most of the remaining matches.

At the conclusion of the ceremony, Effie dismisses the few remaining people who didn’t get paired up and calls the matched pairs to the front of the stage. Delly and Thom lead the way, arm in arm. Madge and Gale walk stiffly side by side. Peeta takes my hand and leads me toward the front of the stage, and the couples behind us follow suit. When we are all lined up, Effie calls out, “District 12, I give you your new couples. Please join us in the reception hall for family introductions.”

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

That’s the end of part 1. This will continue as a work in progress.

A few notes: Dr. Sidney is named after Dr. Sidney Freedman from the final episode of the TV show M*A*S*H. He helped the main character work through his PTSD. Thom Davison is named for Dave Thomas of Wendy’s fame, who seemed like such a sweet man. The character Thom in canon is only mentioned a few times, but he is such a great guy. Gale’s friend who helps carry him back after the reaping, and then after the war Thom comes back and takes on the task of clearing away the debris so the district can rebuild.

[loveyou-x3000]

Ohhhh thanks for the Toga and Izayoi as it is so cute!!, maybe you can do Moroha being awesome and tag team fight with mum or dad?

Ok so this one... well, it got way out of hand. This isn’t quite a tag team fic like you asked -- I’m learning I go pretty off course with prompts, guys, I’m sorry -- but it is an InuYasha-and-friends-reappear-in-the-midst-of-battle-fic. None of this really lines up with what’s currently happening in Yashahime, but whatever. Nothing in Yashahime makes sense anyway!

Tag List:  @liz8080 @superpixie42 @dangerouspompadour @thebishopkate @lavendertwilight89 @sistasecbhere @thornedraven @ladycelestite @clementinesgulag @keichanz @zelink-inukag @heathersmusings @horriblehowl @animeandfilmotaku @bulba-baby @heavenin--hell @captainyukicho @rightoveryonder @hopidoodle @itsyogirlcaitlin @digital-art-monster @all-my-cuffs-have-buttons @cammysansstuff @glow–bunny @cyncyn981 @nellyvampdragon @sticky-llama-perfection @karina-inuphantom @neutronstarchild​

Prompt me!

Riku had them cornered.

Of all the bastards Moroha had ever faced, he was perhaps the biggest bastard of them all, with his smug little smirk and his pompous way of speaking, acting every inch of a lord's son that he said he was. And Moroha had met a lot of that sort, too; stupid, scrawny little lordlings who pretended they were better than her because they had money and "better blood," whatever that meant, even when they were asking for her help against the demons that scared them half to death.

The only thing that made Riku any different from them was the fact that when he picked a fight, he at least had the balls to see it through to the end. Sure, the fight he’d picked this time was against them, and if they weren’t careful he was probably going to kill one of them before sunrise, but hey-- he wasn’t relying on anyone else to do his dirty work, and Moroha could respect that.

Jumping up and back to dodge a spearing attack of rock that he'd summoned from the ground, Moroha landed in the relative safety of the of the Tree of Ages, hidden amongst its branches. He controlled the elements, so far as they could tell: he could move the ground, shape water, spark fire, and guide the wind-- though the last of those abilities didn't seem to work well when he was around Setsuna. Towa had noticed that the last time they'd fought; he’d flung a cutting gale of wind at her when Setsuna, quiet as she was, had grit her teeth and swung her naginata so high and hard that she'd blown Riku straight off the edge of a mountain, redirecting his attack back onto him with twice the efficiency.

Setsuna had always been able to shape the air for her Cyclone Burst, but that? That she’d never done before.

But now they weren't on a mountain, Setsuna was injured, and Towa was trying to protect her sister from all the attacks Riku was launching at them. They’d both been robbed of their pearls not so long ago and without them, their strength was fading fast. 

"Dammit, dammit, dammit—"

Moroha scrambled inside her pockets, withdrawing the little clamshell that held her pearl and her grandmother's lipstick. On her shoulder, Myoga jumped up and down, protesting— but she already knew everything he was saying. Yes, she wouldn't last long in a full demon state, but maybe it could give Towa the opening she needed to cut the pretty bastard down. All she had to do was distract him.

While droplets of blood dripped from her wrist and onto the tree, Moroha swiped her pinky across the red rouge. Readying herself, she took a deep breath, concentrating all her energy and—

Riku spun the wind and Setsuna spun it back, distracting her. Where one gale met the other, a glowing scar struck through the open air, and the tree beneath her feet gasped.

A tree couldn't gasp, of course, but it was trying very hard to, rocked with an energy that demanded everyone's attention. Energy pulsed beneath the pads of her bare feet and Moroha startled, clicking the clamshell shut as the Tree of Ages trembled. Myoga held on tight to her ear as she tried to steady herself, claws digging into the bark; and once she did that, the voice of the tree screamed in her ears.

"You won't be free!"

It was the Tree— that priestess, Kikyo, who apparently her mother was, or had been, or something; no one really seemed to agree on the difference and Moroha thought it was all stupid, anyway. How could someone be someone else? But Kikyo (who was not really Kikyo, and also not her mother) screamed and raged and tried with all her might to keep a seal from breaking. Someone was screaming back at her.

"You're not her, you wrinkled old bitch!"

The clamshell in her hand trembled and the well in the middle of the clearing pulsed with yoki once, then twice, reminding her of long summer days and thunderstorms. Red robes and white hair. 

"LET ME GO!"

Moroha had never noticed the seal before, but she noticed it now: pink and black and sickly purple, like a bruise, pulsing from an old fletching notch in the tree. Towa screamed for her, but it was too late; the notch cracked, the seal broke, and a pulse of reiki shot through her so hard it made her teeth rattle and purified the rouge right off her pinky. Riku jumped back and his and Setsuna’s winds spun out, and Towa lurched aside, trying to avoid the pink-white light that was now spilling out of the mouth of the dusty old well in the middle of the clearing.

The hate that had been embedded in the Tree of Ages - the onyrō, if the echo of a dying priestess could be called that, left there in the power of her arrow - died an abrupt, sudden death, and all the sudden everything that ghost had been trying to hold in and destroy began to break free.

"What's happening?!"

It was a scream to no one as leaves began to rain down from the branches, even though Autumn was months away. There was a sudden burst of wind then, swirling of its own accord, unguided, and new scents came in an onslaught: reiki, yōki, and something in between; pain, anguish, hate, and unbridled sorrow; storms, iron, metal, tears, and flower blossoms. All of them were mixed and strange and rainbow-colored, until the first body came soaring out of the well.

A yōkai with brown furs, jet black hair, and piercing blue eyes shot straight out of the lancing light and into the night sky, seeming to hover in the air above them before he plummeted back towards the earth. Somewhere on Kirara's back, Kohaku called out a name:

"Koga!"

Once, there had been a battle in this clearing. Kohaku had told them as much. After all three of them had been spirited away to safety as infants, their parents and their friends had fought a strange enemy here. The only one to walk away unscathed from it had been that enemy— and Sesshomaru, whom no one had seen since. 

Everyone else had disappeared from this very spot, leaving behind only a stunned monk and his family of demon slayers.

Koga - whoever he was - cracked the ground as he landed, and Riku cursed and cursed, flinging expletives in languages she didn't even know. He held up his hands and Moroha's stomach bottomed out, feeling that strange pull that only the rainbow portal had, but a gale of wind knocked him off his feet; again, sourceless, but it dispersed his strange powers.

"What the fuck happened?!"

Then there was another voice, another scent— and it nearly sent Moroha falling out of the tree.

"I saved your life, you mangy wolf!"

A man dressed in red climbed out of the well, shining silver against the moonlight. There was a woman unconscious on his back, chin pillowed against his shoulder; another girl lay sleeping in his arms. 

Behind him, the Butterfly of Dreams fluttered up into the sky and all the light in the well faded to nothing.

"You sealed me in a tree, you flea-infested— shit!"

Koga bailed to the left to avoid a trail of fire that shot across the field and Towa slammed her sword in the ground to protect herself, letting it buffet against that wall of yoki until it extinguished itself. Setsuna's naginata fell to the ground beside her as her strength failed her, though she was far off from dying. There was something else on her face— exhaustion, maybe.

Hisui and Kohaku's voices were a mangled mess of names as Kirara brought them to the ground. Kohaku went first to the sleeping girl, taking her in his arms; Hisui went to the hanyō and the miko, wide-eyed and incredulous.

Moroha knew who they were. She couldn’t not know who they were.

“Shit,” InuYasha cursed, adjusting the unconscious Kagome on his back and drawing a sword that sang like a storm, streaking through the night like lightning. “How long has it been, Hisui?”

“InuYasha?”

Moroha was frozen, gone completely silent, watching the young demon slayer speak to her Father. Myoga was gone. Kohaku tried to shake the girl in his arms awake, softly calling her name.

“Rin?”

InuYasha waited impatiently for an answer. Eventually, Hisui found it.

“Fourteen years.”

“...fuck.”

And then there was no more time for talking as Riku attacked again, suddenly incensed, aiming the brunt of his attacks straight at Kohaku and Rin, flinging fire aside at the twins as he did. Moroha lurched when she saw Towa wasn’t going to be able to withstand the attack this time, but then the winds kicked up again, blowing the fire aside, and a scar blazed in its gale once again.

InuYasha swung Tessaiga and Riku disappeared in a burst of white light.

[astraeagreengrass]

this is me trying [the woods 3/4]

You make a decision and Steve takes a chance

Word Count: 4.848

Warnings: angst, mentions of sickness, mentions of death and death-related themes, alcohol, curse words

A/N: This chapter is filled with Taylor Swift references - I would love to know which ones you guys find and what are your expectations for the final part of this story! Many thanks to the beautiful @xbuchananbarnes​ for your help with this one. The banner picture was found here. Dividers are from @writeyourmindaway​. I hope you like it ♡

pulled the car off the road to the lookout could've followed my fears all the way down and maybe i don't quite know what to say but i'm here in your doorway i just wanted you to know that this is me trying

There is a place in Pennsylvania, a few miles past the old Swift Christmas Tree Farm, where a careful rider might notice a path off the side of the highway. If he chooses to follow this gravel road, he’ll find himself flanked by Eastern Hemlocks and Red Cedars, whose branches tangle together and the leaves whisper secrets like sisters do. “She’s here”, they’ll say. “She’s home”. At the end of this lane, the rider will encounter a house, and a gale will blow in the heart of the woods, announcing the good news to all of the forest: their child was home.

Steve turned off his motorcycle. When the rumble quieted, you heard some Blue Jays singing in the distance. Your lower back complained when you stretched, yet your boyfriend appeared completely unperturbed by the long ride.

“It’s beautiful,” he said, gaze circling the clearing, going from the house made of stone and wood to the trees surrounding it.

The door opened and an older woman skipped down the porch steps. You’d seen her a mere three weeks ago, yet your grandmother somehow looked older, more fragile. The disease was taking its toll on her body, causing her to be out of breath when she hugged you.

“You’re not supposed to run, grandma,” you chidded. She was shorter than you, shoulders slumped by age and illness, but you still hid your face in the crook of her neck, inhaling the gentle scent of home and family.

“Can you at least say hello before you start scolding me?” she replied, wrinkled hands grabbing each side of your face, as if to assess any damage. “Being in love suits you, darling. You look beautiful!”

You flustered, lips opening up in a perfect, embarrassed pout, but she was unfazed, shifting her attention to the other guest.

“You must be Steve!”, she beamed. “It’s wonderful to meet you.”

Your grandmother kissed both of Steve’s cheeks, leaving him stunned.

“It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Y/L/N,” he cleared his throat, a soft pink blush crawling up his cheeks.

“Oh, no!” she dismissed him. “Please call me Meredith. Now, come inside. You must be tired from the journey.”

She waved you into the house, up the rickety wooden stairs and past the veranda whose railings you used to perch on to catch raindrops with your tongue.

“I’m so happy you could join us for Thanksgiving, Steve,” Meredith said as the three of you crossed the threshold. “Did you know it’s Y/N’s favorite holiday?”

“Grandma!” you reprimanded.

“What?” she raised her eyebrows, feigning innocence.

You raised your own, a silent warning for her not to at least wait until dinner to start with the embarrassing stories. Thankfully, he was oblivious to the quiet exchange.

The house reminded Steve of a cabin he stayed with his ma in upstate New York for a few months when he was eight, after a doctor suggested that the mountain air might be good for his lungs. He remembered the whistle of a train, it's red wagons gleaming brightly under the spring light, and the way it sped through fields and forests, almost to the beat of his racing heart. He remembered the smell of grass and the buzz of the cicadas singing in the late afternoon. He remembered going back to the city after his birthday and telling Bucky that the woods were magical.

The memories flowed through his bloodstream as he entered your home. The front door revealed a small living room that someone - that undoubtedly looked a lot like Tony Stark - might call cramped, but Steve thought it was cozy. Knit blankets were thrown over a cream-colored couch sitting opposite a built-in-the-wall fireplace. Across from the entrance, a large window overlooked a glittering pond and, behind the couch, there was a bookshelf overflowing with volumes, portraits and trinkets. A staircase, which he supposed was as rickety as the one outside, led to the second floor.

"You have a beautiful home, Mrs. Y/L/N," he complimented, in a voice that sounded somewhat distant to his ears, as though muffled by nostalgia.

"Meredith!" your grandmother corrected him, clearly pleased by the compliment. "And thank you! My husband and I moved here in the 1990's after he retired from the Military. We did some renovations back then, and I suppose it's time I do it again, but oh well..."

She trailed off, fast feet scurrying to the kitchen in a silent order for you to follow her, yet Steve turned to you:

"Your grandfather was in the Army?"

"Yep. My dad, too," you said, avoiding his gaze.

"You never told me that," he pointed out.

You sighed: "I know."

"Why?"

His hands went to his waist, in that defensive stance you knew all too well, and his jawline clenched in frustration.

Your phone buzzed in your back pocket, saving you from answering - at least for now.

"It's Fury," you showed him the screen. "I have to take this."

You turned, bolting outside before Steve could protest.

He exhaled, rubbing his eyes furiously. Hearing the soft tinkling of glasses coming from the kitchen, he trailed your grandmother's footsteps.

"Would you like some sweet tea, Steve?" she smiled.

He nodded, thanking her as he took the glass. Meredith groaned as she sat at the dinner table and Steve's heart squeezed in his chest. Theoretically, the woman was younger than he was, yet their bodies - and their lives - were many decades apart.

"She didn't tell you about them, did she?" Meredith asked, contemplating him with eyes just like yours.

Steve shook his head.

"Please, don't be mad at her. It's a hard subject for Y/N," the woman said. "Would you get that picture frame for me, please?"

With a bony finger, Meredith pointed at a double portrait sitting at the countertop: Both pictures showed young men in military garb, but one was noticeably older than the other, in black and white with sepia coloring the edges.

"John and Michael," she said, cradling the portrait as one would an infant. "John and I met in Japan. My father was a veteran from the Pacific, and in the late 50’s the Navy stationed him in Okinawa. So, long story short, I was this rebellious daughter of a high-ranking officer who wanted nothing to do with wars and the military and John was a good boy from Pensylvannia drafted to fight in Vietnam. Still, we fell in love, eloped and I moved to Philly while pregnant with Michael, but John only joined us in 1972.”

“Wow,” Steve smiled genuinely. “That’s incredible.”

“It is,” Meredith nodded. “And he was an incredible man. Earned all the medals he was honored with. He made it to Sergeant Major, you know? But when Michael made the decision to join S.H.I.E.L.D, John retired.”

"Y/N’s father was a S.H.I.E.L.D agent?" Steve gaped.

Meredith pursed her lips.

"My husband was a righteous man. He believed his institutions and he loved them. And Michael, like everyone that knew John, admired his father and his career. So, like any boy in his position, Michael enlisted. But he was different… I think he liked the thrill, the adrenaline rush that came with the danger.

"I'm not entirely sure how or when he joined S.H.I.E.L.D., but one evening he left Y/N on our doorstep, saying that it would be best for her if she stayed with us from then on," she continued. "He visited very little after that."

Despite the brisk autumn weather, Steve's glass of sweet tea was wet with perspiration, as if the tales he'd just heard were so alive in this house they could manifest themselves in the air, in an introduction to the absent characters.

"What happened then?" he asked, unsure if he wanted an answer.

“Well," Meredith sighed. "The official report said an IED hit his convoy in Iraq, but shortly before he left Michael said he was going to Northern Europe, so…”

“I’m sorry,” Steve whispered.

"I know," your grandmother said, and she meant it. If anyone could share her pain of losing too much to the military, it was Steve Rogers. "I know you do."

She slid her forearm across the table and squeezed his hand gently. There was so much kindness in her gaze that Steve nearly cried.

"It's not my place to meddle in your relationship," she said. "You're both adults. But please be careful with my granddaughter, Steve. She has a lot of love to give, she just doesn't know that."

Behind Meredith's frame, her bright yellow headscarf catching the light coming through the open window, Steve could see you pacing back and forth in the lawn with your phone in your ear. Tiny specks of dust glinted where the luminesce was brighter and in his mind they were the pieces of your puzzle, coming together for him like a gift from the extraordinary place you called home. He always thought you belonged at the Triskelion, sitting behind a computer or looking down at a tablet, cracking digital enigmas as fast as he could draw his next breath, but what a lovely mistake this was.

Maybe he was high on the sugar from the sweet tea, or maybe he just desperately wanted a piece of the love your grandmother told him about, but Steve thought about black holes - those wondrous forces of nature he learned about on TV a few weeks ago while cuddling you on the couch. Like a black hole, your gravity was so strong that nothing - not the grass, not the leaves, not a single fiber of Steve Roger's being - could escape your hold.

The woods were a small universe, and you were it's center.

The last of the boxes was emptied on Christmas Day.

It had snowed in the evening, leaving a light dust of white covering the grounds outside. If the temperature kept on lowering, the pond might freeze by January. When you opened the final cardboard package and found your old ice skates, you thought you should fix the rusted blades in case that happened. Or perhaps not. You were never the most skilled skater and there was no else here to drive you to the ER in case you broke your arm - it wouldn't be the first time.

For years, the house in the woods sat quiet - some during which the three-hour journey proved perfect for your grief to turn the car around and give up visiting and others when you were declared as dead as your ancestors. It was in urgent need of repairs, filled with the belongings you packed after your grandmother’s passing, but never found the courage to give away. But the heat was working. That would be enough for now.

"Are you sure you're going back there?" your cousin asked as you finished loading the car with your things. There wasn't much - your furniture was sold with the apartment and most of your clothes were moth-eaten and frayed from their long stint at a cramped storage unit.

"I've taken up your space for too long," you said. Olivia was your cousin from your mother's side, and like everyone from that part of your family, you shared little to none connection. You'd gone to her out of desperation, because you'd rather stay with your far-flung cousin after returning from the dead than with your not-so-ex-boyfriend who left you two - or was it seven? - years prior and you were extraordinarily glad she took you in. But like it always happened with your mother's family, it became too much, too soon. "Besides, it's time for me to move on."

Olivia hugged you before you drove away and it was stiff and awkward. You wouldn't miss her and you were sure she wouldn't either.

You programmed the GPS on your phone, but somewhere past Newark, you realized with a start that you were always one step ahead of it. It was like the way home was ingrained in your heart, despite the new buildings and the fresh pavement. It went beyond street lights and stop signs, following a map made of veins and arteries, rather than just paper and ink.

Rain started pouring heavily when you reached Reading and you nearly missed the gravel road off the side of the highway, but it was there, as unperturbed as the forest encircling it. As a child, you'd give them names and personalities, and dream up conversations they'd have with each other - Betty and Inez, the Hemlock twins; James, the Red Cedar; sweet Rebekah, the Sugar Maple. It felt stupid, but you wondered if they'd left too, like you did. If when the snap came, their soul was dusted from the bark, leaving nothing but trunk and root.

"No," you muttered to yourself. They'd stayed. They'd stayed and guarded the woods.

The first three days were daunting. You'd sleep until noon and spend the rest of the afternoon trying to book tickets to wherever in the world you thought would be the perfect place to start over, but something invisible always held you back from actually buying. On the fourth day, you emailed the lawyer, asking about the possibility of putting the house for sale. On the fifth day, while rearranging the boxes, you tripped and they fell, spilling hundreds of pictures on the timbered floor.

When you bent down to collect them, the first face you noticed was your father. He had a wide, carefree smile as he gently held you standing on a chair. You were looking down at a cake, where a big candle shaped like a "3" was lit up. You tiny hands were clapping, and your father looked at you with all the love in the world.

You never doubted his love as a child. You just didn't understand why he wouldn't visit often or why he couldn't have a job like the other kids' dads - a job that kept him close so he could tell you that he loved you, instead of whispering it in a forehead kiss every few months. As an adult, you still didn't doubt it - but you knew that he loved his job more. Still, seeing the affection so clear on his face was comforting.

An older, gray-haired, version of your father smiled in another picture - your grandfather. He was wearing a flannel shirt and a blue cap, and he held you on your shoulders. You remembered that it terrified you to swing in the air as he lifted you, but the moment he placed you on his back, you relaxed.

“Don’t ever let me fall, grandpa,” you’d beg, little hand clasped tightly around his.

"Never, sweet pea," he'd promise.

Behind the photograph, your grandmother had written: "John and Y/N. Summer, 1994".

She was notably absent from most of the pictures, you noticed. They must’ve been taken around the time she became interested in photography, and would spend hours experimenting with a Kodak she got at the flea market. You, on the other hand, was the perfect model - posing at the swing, by the pond, with your legs crossed in the big armchair, always smiling, always happy.

You didn’t remember this particular box from when you organized the house after her death. The photographs must’ve been stored away for nearly a decade, judging by the dust that covered them. There were albums, as well - Y/N’s first birthday, Y/N’s first school day, Y/N’s first trip to the beach - but the amount of pictures was so abundant that most were kept loose.

Dusk came and went, and, on the dawn of the sixth day, you made the decision to unpack the house.

You started with the kitchen - crystal glasses, the porcelain dish set your grandparents got as a marriage present and the beautiful Portuguese pottery. The living room came next with the books, portraits and an elaborate scheme to clean the hearth of the fireplace that you immediately regretted. You moved the furniture around the upper floor to the point you thought the ceiling might collapse, but eventually you managed to turn the mattress and push the queen bed to the window side of the master bedroom.

And when you found your old ice skates, tangled with an ancient string of Christmas light, you decided to hang them in the mantelpiece. Some of the tiny light bulbs were burnt or broken, bathing the room in a messy, uneven golden glow.

Like you, you thought. Damaged, but perhaps you could still shine again.

During the time you spent tidying up the house, you tried your best to ignore the nagging sensation that maybe this was a mistake. That wistfulness shouldn’t grow roots and boxes should stay closed, just like the dead stay dead. But you hadn’t. And when your fists crushed the last piece of cardboard, you wept. Not because you were haunted, but because you were wrong. You thought returning home would be haunting, that you would see your grandparents at every nook and corner, but you were mistaken. The creak of the wooden steps, the marks on the door frame for every inch you grew, the soft slope of the book bindings in the shelf - all of it brought back only the most generous memories of your childhood, and you basked in the newfound revelation that they were filled with a love so strong and abundant that it drowned even loud noise of absence.

You missed your grandparents, almost to the point of desperation, but there was a fondness in your grief now, because you were finally safe, in the home they built for you.

With the realization, came the decision. So in the space between Christmas and the New Years, you made three phone calls:

One for a therapist’s office in Reading, scheduling an appointment for the second week of January.

One for the bank in Switzerland where you'd wired all the money you made in your profitable years at S.H.I.E.L.D.

And one for a contractor, who, after much cajoling and the promise of advanced payment, agreed to start your renovations in early 2024.

Despite the state-of-the-art acoustics of Stark Tower, Tony’s buoyant countdown to the New Year was drowned out by the large crowd gathered outside, waiting for the Times Square’s ball drop.

The excited cheers rattled the bullet proof glass of the windows and the comforting press of Steve’s palm on your lower back tightened as the seconds closed in on midnight. Gentle finger - too gentle for a soldier - took your chin, angling your head towards his. Your hands wrapped around his shoulder, mindful of the crystal flute halfway filled with bubbly champagne.

“Happy New Year, sweetheart,” he whispered right before he kissed you. It was slow, just the calm press of his lips and easy flicks of his tongue, the sweet lingering taste of Asgardian mead. A hand cradled the back of your head and you sighed, pushing your body further into his.

And like a firework show, it burned too fast, too brightly - sparkling in the starless night before fading away in thunderous applause.

“For a man who saved the world, you look awfully glum.”

Steve let out a dry laugh.

“How should I look, then?” he asked before taking a swig of his beer. He was well into his fourth bottle, but it wasn’t like the alcohol had any effect on him.

“Less miserable, maybe?” Bucky shrugged, plopping down next to Steve on the couch. He raised his own beer bottle: “I can’t believe how fast the refrigerator worked!”

“You spent two years in Wakanda, Buck. Modern technology shouldn't surprise you as much."

“I spent two years in Wakanda in a hut," Bucky retorted. "Besides, for all the greatness of hovercrafts and magnetic shields, there's just something so fantastic about chilling a beer in half an hour..."

“I can’t wait for when you finally master the art of the microwave,” Steve snickered.

“They’re confusing, ok?” Bucky grumbled.

They settled in comfortable silence, watching a blonde popstar perform at the New Year's Eve concert in Times Square. She was halfway through a beautiful rendition of Robbie Williams’ Angels when Bucky spoke again.

"Did you call her?" he asked. "Your girl?"

Steve hadn't told Bucky about you, but he knew. He'd seen you at Natasha's memorial service and he noticed the way his best friend got home afterwards, as well as his sullen mood in the weeks that followed.

In their youth, Steve always mocked Bucky's easy infatuations. "You can't live out of love affairs, Buck," he'd say and Bucky would roll his eyes. He lived for the hot rush of blood flushing his skin in the dark, hot corners of a speakeasy as lips trickled his ear or fingernails scratched his scalp. He longed for the soft brush of fingers circling a wrist or the bump of noses before hungry mouths met. And in his juvenile ignorance, Bucky thought his life would be too short to just no have them all - so he had them.

When the war came, Bucky believed Steve had found his match with Peggy. They were complimentary in every way - both righteous, stubborn, never backing down from a fight. And what a fight it was - so grand, so terrible, so cold. There was no room for love or heartbreak those days, only combat. Steve and Peggy's courtship was a promise, meant for better times - but they never really came.

The friend Bucky encountered in 2016 was different - still tenacious and daring, but almost to the point of recklessness. Steve wasn't satisfied in snuffing out the fires, he ignited them now. Their experiences awakening in this new world were much different, but Bucky supposed they were the same kind of nearly maddening decipherment. Besides, he may have his doubts about himself, but not about Steve Rogers.

Bucky Barnes knew a broken heart when he saw one.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you about her," Steve muttered.

"You don't have to apologize," Bucky said. "I am curious, though. Sam wouldn't tell me anything."

Steve chuckled.

"Of course not. Her name is Y/N,," he started. "We met when I went to work at S.H.I.E.L.D. She was an intelligence agent, so we were always working together and… She is so smart, funny, kind and beautiful, Buck. Everyone was walking on eggshells around me, meanwhile she was giving me shit for not knowing who Beyoncé was."

"Who's Beyoncé?" Bucky asked.

"The greatest performer in the world," Steve stated. "Anyway, we became friends and after a few months, I asked her if she wanted to go on a date."

"You did?" Bucky gasped.

"I was a mess," Steve groaned. "You would've given me so much shit about it. But she said yes! And then we had a second date, a third date, a fourth date… She was the one that found out about you."

"She did?"

Steve nodded, tearing the wet label of his beer.

"She uncovered Hydra's plot inside S.H.I.E.L.D. - Pierce, Project Insight, you. After the fallout, Fury managed to take most of the blame, if you can even call it that, but she still had to testify before Congress. They treated her like some kind of criminal. By then I was already back in New York, living in the Tower, working with the Avengers again. Tony was really impressed with her work so we offered her a job."

"And did she say yes?" Bucky asked.

"She wanted to go to school, learn something new. Find another trade, any trade that didn't involve secrets and conspiracies, but I begged her to accept the position. And not for the right reasons."

"What do you mean?"

"Y/N was - is - incredibly resourceful. And I wanted to find you, find Loki's scepter, punch bad guys, save the world. I wanted to be a superhero and I knew that with her I could. I felt secure in her abilities and secure in her affections. She was my safe zone, but I don’t think I was hers - or at least I don’t think I let her know that. We weren't perfect but we were fine, I think, until the Accords happened. She wasn’t a signatary, but she agreed with Tony and Natasha and that felt like the worst kind of betrayal. The night before Peggy’s funeral we had a massive fight. I called her a coward, said…” Steve hesitated.

“Said what?” Bucky coaxed.

Steve exhaled heavily. “I said that Peggy would’ve never done that to me.”

“Jesus, Stevie,” Bucky sighed, running a hand through his newly cut hair. “You’re an idiot.”

“I know,” Steve said, but acknowledging it after all was said and done was useless. “I left for London that night without saying goodbye. And then… Everything happened.”

“Did you contact her at all while you were away?” Bucky asked.

Steve didn’t reply, but the answer was clear in his quietude. "Sometimes silence is louder than sound," you used to say. He finished off his beer, dropping the empty bottles on the coffee table with a thud.

“When Vision was attacked in Edinburgh and we brought him to the Compound I actually thought I’d see her there, you know?” he confessed. “Like it was all a bad dream and I’d find her waiting for me like she always did. But the computers were turned off, the jacked she kept on the back of her chair was gone. It was like she was never there.”

He continued: “So I went to her apartment - our apartment - and I couldn’t even look her in the eye. I was the coward, not her, never her. I was the worst kind of bastard, showing up unannounced after vanishing for years, as if I had a right to any of her answers…”

His breath hitched and Steve rubbed his eyes furiously. Bucky put his own beer down and pat his friend on the back.

“You couldn’t have known what would happen next, Steve,” he said. “That is not a guilt you should carry.”

“I can’t erase the image of her sitting in that hospital bed, Buck,” Steve croaked. “She was so lost and scared. I keep thinking that, even if everything was the same - Thanos, the snap, those five fucking pathetic years - if I’d just been braver, we’d be together now. The worst part of everything is that I let her think she meant nothing to me.”

“Where is she now?”

“At her childhood home in Pennsylvania. After Nat's funeral, she told me she needed to figure out what to do with her life, but she'd let me know once she decided,” Steve said. “Somehow I don’t think her plans include me.”

Bucky sighed.

“So you’re just going to quit?”

Steve frowned. “Quit?”

“Yeah,” Bucky said. “After everything, is this how the two of you will end?"

Steve opened his mouth, then paused. Bucky thought he looked like a big blonde dumb fish flapping in the wooden Red Hook docs he used to work at.

"I don't… Know?," he muttered hesitatingly.

"Clearly," Bucky snorted. "Pal, the guy I used to be is long gone. Hell, I might be the worst person to give out advice, but if you ask me, it sounds pretty stupid to sit here sulking while the only girl who's ever loved you for who you are is out there making plans that may or may not include you."

Steve perked up.

"You think I should go after her?"

"I think you should try," Bucky said. "First you left her, and then she Snapped. Her mind must be a mess! She has every reason to be confused, sad and especially angry, but you need to let her know that she's not alone."

Steve understood then: why it took so long for you to share your secrets and open your heart. Why you hated when he left for missions and the smallest of his wounds made you cry. Why you'd sometimes cling to him in the middle of the night.

"Don't leave me alone, Stevie," you begged once after your screams startled him conscious and he had to shake you awake from your nightmare.

"Never, sweetheart," he promised. But he failed you.

He craned his head, gaze finding his motorcycle keys hanging next to the door. If the snow wasn't too heavy, he could be in Pennsylvania in less than three hours.

"Please be careful with my granddaughter, Steve."

"Maybe wait until morning?" Bucky suggested, noticing where Steve's eyes had landed. "I'm presuming girls still like their beauty sleep, so maybe show up at her door at a reasonable hour?"

Steve laughed then, a real laugh.

"How did I spend eighty years without you, Buck?"

Bucky smiled.

"Trust me, pal. I have no idea."

[phoenotopia]

2020 August Update

For once, development has moved on time (sorta). I am happy to announce that the "Reveal and Launch" trailer for Phoenotopia Awakening will drop this morning at 9AM. And the game itself is set to launch for Nintendo Switch on August 20th.

You may recognize that August 20th is in fact the 6th year anniversary of the Flash game. I wasn't particularly aiming for this date - I actually wanted August 14th. It's like a minefield - even just one week offset forward or backward could put you into a crowded release slot. And you don't know how everyone's moving because they're also probably considering the same things. At some point you're locked in and you can't change course. In the end, I added 1 week to the time I wanted initially as an error buffer in case some things came up - which they did! So August 20 ended up being about just right for us and a neat coincidence to boot.

First half of July

The first half of July, I threw myself well into the PC port. The controls still need to be figured out, but we did make a lot of progress. I found out about a 3rd party library called "Rewired" which is all about supporting a multitude of different controllers, disconnects, reconnects, and so forth. It doesn't take us all the way there, but it did remove a lot of the headache involved.

There's still a lot of design involved concerning controller rebinding. For instance, how much of the controls do you expose and allow to be remapped? Technically, you could allow so much freedom that you can break the controls. One solution for that is to lock a portion of the keyboard to be unmappable and so you're never without controls that can remap a menu.

(my solution was to have a lock screen that confirms you have the necessary inputs to at least return to the rebind menu and fix the controls should they ever be set in so bad a state)

There are also some things that a joypad can do that a keyboard can't, and vice versa. For instance, the control stick allows 360 degrees of movement and detects sensitivity. How much you push the control stick will determine whether Gail walks or jogs. However, the buttons on the keyboard do not have sensitivity - they're either all ON or all OFF. Thus, there's no way to "walk" if using a keyboard. I could add a separate "hold to walk" button to the keyboard but that introduces an incongruence between the joypad and the keyboard.

(Rewired's interface for mapping keyboard and joypads. If a "hold to walk" action existed, it would only make sense for the keyboard column, but not the joypad column. Finding that perfect balance between joystick and keyboard will be a challenge.)

Another snag we've hit are button names. If using a Nintendo, Sony, or Microsoft controller, the Right Trigger is either going to be named ZR, R2, or RT. Rewired can be agnostic about joypads, which is great because it reduces the workload on my end, but the caveat is that buttons like this will simply be called "Right Trigger". (See that first image again). Not really elegant...

I can probably fix this after I've had more time to investigate. However, around this time I had to pause PC development, because the Switch version became unblocked and now required my full attention.

Second half of July

The 2nd half of July proved quite busy. As noted in my previous blog post, I thought the Switch version was on track and off my hands. Turns out there were a few more hurdles to clear, and the ball came back into my court, and it moved back and forth a few times. Luckily, the hurdles are really cleared now and we're set to release (August 20!). The specifics of this process are under NDA, so I won't go into details.

We also went around updating a bunch of the game's social media sites - facebook, twitter, youtube. The second half of July was also when we started acting in a PR capacity - we're combing websites and youtube channels and looking for people who look like they might want to cover Phoenotopia. This was fun! I used to read IGN daily over a decade ago (back when Matt and Fran ran the IGN Nintendo channel). Then college happened followed by early work life, and I wasn't able to follow videogames as much anymore. I didn't even have access to a TV for a few years. And I never found a new landing page after that, so combing for websites and youtube channels was a lot of fun. It was interesting to see how the landscape has changed, and the new depth and variety that exists.

We're set to send out a BUNCH of emails tomorrow. Will they catch? No idea... I think if I had 20 reviews on launch day on OpenCritic, I'd consider that a success. We'll see!

Fan Art 

This past month, we see a lot of fan artists cross Phoenotopia with other universes. Luckily, all universes I'm familiar with. I'm impressed by the creativity on display!

First, what if Gail appeared as an enemy in Undertale? Glittering_Touch_904 depicts the scene. Gale, like Sans, has only one eye shining meaning she's about to dish out some serious pain. Nice! Definitely choose the Mercy option.

R_Contagio answers the question of what would happen if Phoenotopia was depicted in the style of Limbo? And the answer is very pretty! I'm impressed by how everything is done with one color. Using a band of white to depict water, the creepy eyes on every creature, the patience in drawing each leaf... very impressive! I'd play this game!

UnrealWorld_32 depicts a scene that asks what it would look like if Gale was still back in Panselo when the invasion happens :D I'm impressed by the use of colors - they look like they could come from the game itself! I think it wouldn't be a fair fight. For the invader.

A rare scene, Didi depicts Gail, hammer at the ready, approaching a dreaded Phoenix Pod. We get lots of depictions of 66, but rarely of the pod itself! In the Flash game, we skirt around how the pod opens by having it opened off-screen, so it's nice to see the pod up close. The mystery remains... how does it open?

Another crossover of Phoenotopia and the Shrek universe - this "Shrale" is drawn by Firanka. I'm impressed by the use of colors - dominant use of red garb contrasts well with her green skin. She kinda looks like a grumpy Namekian. Hah hah. What is she annoyed at? 

Maybe this little running Gail underfoot (also drawn by Firanka)

Coming Up

We'll continue acting in a PR capacity leading up to the game's release. When the game finally does launch on Switch, I suspect I'll become swamped handling bug reports. When the flash game launched, I remember being swamped for 3 weeks straight! Day in, day out, fixing bugs. I suspect it'll be the same with Phoenotopia: Awakening, but to a heightened degree. 

Regardless, we'll post an update on the state of ourselves at the end of September. Even if it's only a small one. Until then!

[gryfon-spanish-werewolf]

Hey if you're taking writing prompts 👀 how about “Don’t touch her/him.” and/or “Why did you choose me?” for uuuuuh elsanna?

@themountainsays​ I hope this story makes up for how late the response is^^; I started it the same day I received it, but I wasn’t in the best frame of mind. But now! Much better :D

Special shout out to @daughterofhel because I was really stuck on this piece for a while and you helped me figure it out!! <3

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

“Don’t touch her,” the letter warned Elsa, delivered by Gale in a trip across the ice. Nokk had whinnied at the scent of its companion, but slowed to a halt when Elsa’s trembling began to shake her mount as well.

“Don’t touch her,” the staff told Elsa as she hurried to her sister’s room, twin capes flying behind her, lending size to a courage she didn’t feel. 

“Don’t touch her,” Kristoff reminded her one last time, mumbling through tired hands. Sven brayed at his back and nudged his big nose into the side of Kristoff’s head - a sad sound and an even sadder sight.

Elsa entered and heard the door click shut behind her.

Despite the high noon sun, Anna’s chambers were dark. Every curtain had been drawn and extra fabric had been hung over windows to block any remaining scraps of light.

“Elsa? Is that you?”

“Olaf?” Elsa whispered back into the darkness. The distinct squeak of Olaf’s footsteps approached, the white snow of his body giving him an almost phantom inner light. Small stick arms wrapped around Elsa’s waist and his head fell against her stomach.

“She’s not well,” Olaf said softly. “We thought she was getting better, but then this morning...” He trailed off. Elsa put a soothing hand on his head, fighting the shiver of fear growing in her stomach.

“Is she sleeping?”

Olaf nodded, taking Elsa by the hand and leading her to the side of Anna’s bed. Elsa’s eyes began to adjust, and she saw Olaf sit atop a small stool that had been placed near the headboard. He took to it with such a strong sense of formality that Elsa was struck with the image of a vigil, waiting for a dawn to shrink back the darkness.

She shook the thought from her mind, casting her gaze over the bed to distract herself.

The sheets were a mess, lumpy and thrashed about. Nearly half the bed was bare, covers bundled to one side to envelope a shape that could only be her sister. There wasn’t a single scrap of visible clothing, much less skin, but the tension around Elsa’s middle eased slightly when she saw that the middle of the pile was moving regularly up and down.

“How long has she been like this?” Elsa asked, picking her way carefully to the other side of the bed where Anna’s head lay.

“A few days.” Olaf swallowed at Elsa’s stricken expression. “She didn’t want to bother you…”

Elsa opened her mouth to respond, but shut it just as quickly. It had only been a handful of years ago that she had pushed herself past the point of mere fever for Anna, and though it pained her to be on the other end now, she couldn’t find it in herself to be angry.

Just... sad.

“Kristoff is the one who said we had to tell you,” Olaf continued. “I think seeing her get worse when she seemed to be recovering was the last straw.”

“What happened?”

“Three days ago, after you left the reception for the visiting royalty, Anna said she suddenly felt tired and went to bed. When Kristoff went to join her later, she claimed she couldn’t sleep because the room was too hot. He put out the fire, but even then she was sweating. The next morning she seemed… lost.” Olaf shuddered, the action completely foreign to Elsa, who’s heart was starting to feel constricted in her chest. “Gerda would call her name and it would take two or three times for her to pay attention. During meals she would push food around on her plate or just stare at it, eyes dull. Anything she did eat, she couldn’t keep down, and by the next evening Kristoff decided she should just rest in her room. And now she hasn’t come out for a full day.”

“How awful.” Elsa reached out for the blankets, needing to check for herself.

“Don’t touch her.”

“I won’t,” Elsa said. Blue light bloomed around her fingers, coating her hand in a thin and flexible layer of ice. She flicked her encased palm, a crystalline ‘ting’ sounding out. “But... why?”

“We don’t know what she has, or how she got sick. I’ve been the only one able to care for her recently.” 

Affection lightened the cage around Elsa’s heart just a little. “Thank you, Olaf.” He smiled thinly in return.

Carefully, Elsa eased back the covers.

The first thing she found was Anna’s nightgown, soft and lightly patterned as was common in the summer months. Olaf’s words rang true however, for the material was stuck like a second skin to Anna’s body, drenched in sweat. Another layer peeled away revealed Anna’s hair, darker in hue from the dampness that plastered it to her skin. Her freckles stood out like the tappings of charcoal dust on drawing paper. Finally, Anna’s face, pinched with the effort of keeping herself covered. Her frown deepened at the disturbance of her slumber and she attempted to turn away from the scant light that reached into the room, muttering.

“–can’t… leave.” Elsa glanced up at Olaf but looked back when Anna groaned and continued. “Have to… stay…”

Olaf sighed heavily. “She’s been talking in her sleep. At first it was her normal mumbling, but it changed.” Elsa felt pierced by his gaze. “Ahtohallan called to you too, didn’t it?”

“You think she hears Ahtohallan?” Elsa watched Anna grimace and turn away from her.

“I don’t know,” Olaf confessed. “Looking back, you only ever seemed distracted, which Anna did, but now… It was never like this for you, right?”

“I’ll admit it disturbed me at first, and when I fought it, the voice seemed to grow louder.” Elsa pursed her lips. “But no. In the end it was a beckoning voice, though not an unfriendly one. The uncertainty made me sick with worry, but never actually ill.”

Anna made another pained sound and this time Elsa couldn’t help herself. She reached out and touched the tips of her frost covered fingers to the back of Anna’s exposed neck. Goosebumps broke out immediately, shivering through Anna in waves. But instead of leaping away from her touch, Anna pressed back until Elsa was running her hand through damp tresses. Anna’s muttering soothed to the odd murmur, her chest rising and falling evenly once more.

“Please be careful, Elsa,” Olaf jumped down from his perch and joined her.

“I will, I promise.”

At their voices, Anna turned back, her clenched eyes relaxing. Her voice was thick and hoarse, and it took several tries for her just to whisper the word, “Water…”

“I’ll get it!” Olaf bounded up and raced for the door, his excitement drawing forth a smile from Elsa, and even a weak one from Anna. He was gone in a flash, but even with the door swinging open and shut in hardly more than a second, Anna flinched at the extra light.

“I’m sorry, did we wake you?” Elsa cupped Anna’s cheek, renewing the ice around her hand when Anna all but nuzzled into her touch.

“No I–,” Anna cleared her throat, trying again with a little less rasp. “I don’t think I was fully asleep.”

“We heard you talking, you were dreaming.”

“Yes… a dream.” Anna paused. She seemed to gather her strength, then with great effort, she opened her eyes. “But you’re not, are you?”

Anna’s eyes had always been the loveliest of greens under low light: positively lush under oil lamps, campfires, sunset, and candlelight. Even Elsa’s own magic sparked her eyes with the verdant life of flowers and spring.

But the sickness, short in it’s stay, had already taken its toll. The only color reflected in Anna’s eyes now was the sludge brown mud at the bottom of a frozen lake.

“Oh, Anna,” Elsa brushed her thumb across her sister’s cheek. “What’s happened to you?”

Anna didn't hear.

“No, you’re not a dream,” she seemed to say to herself. “Of course you and your magic would be the only things that keep the Count away.”

“The… the Count?” Elsa frowned. “The one whose visit we celebrated just a handful of days ago? I’d thought he left that very same night.”

Anna eyed her quizzically, though it’s power was diminished by her fatigue. “Well naturally, he had a long return trip to make. But he left me a gift, so I could remember his time here.” Her face scrunched up again, “At first I wasn’t sure about it, but…”

Then Anna beamed, a sight that would have made Elsa’s heart soar as it caught the sunlight, bright as any star brought to Earth could be.

Except this time it sank, like a seal yanked beneath the waves by a shark.

“Now it feels like he’s always around,” Anna grinned before closing her eyes once more. She sighed, “Though he’s a bit overbearing at times, calling at all hours of the day and night.”

Elsa didn’t know if it was rage or terror that made its home behind her ribs, but one of them broke her heart with the realization that something had changed Anna’s smile.

No. Someone.

“W-what kind of gift, Anna?”

“The kind benefiting a gentleman of course.” Anna yawned and seemed to settle happily as the memory revisited her. Elsa felt her heart travel further - down down into the icy depths. “A kiss.”

The light from Elsa’s magic glinted off Anna’s teeth in a way it never had before. Twin flashes of pointed bone, longer and sharper than any human’s.

Elsa had always thought they were stories, a fairytale, one more thing to be scared of at night. But fate had decided on more than one occasion to grant magic into her and Anna’s lives, so terrible as it may be, why not this particular myth as well? How much more odd would it be than a living water horse, sentient wind and rock, and a fire spitting amphibian?

Why not… a vampire?

Anna hooked her hand into Elsa’s, ignoring her sister’s reflexive tug away. “Who knew a kiss could be so chilling? But it was hot that night, and you were gone, so it was a decent substitute.”

Elsa took a moment to center herself. The reality of the situation was bearing down on her like calvary hooves, but she needed to be certain. “Where did he kiss you?”

It was a small comfort to hear her sister reply with humor. “Well it certainly wasn’t the lips, Elsa. He knows the rules of etiquette the same as us. No, it was the back of the hand.”

Elsa immediately inspected Anna’s hand, then the other. But there was nothing.

Anna entwined their fingers, pressing her palm against Elsa’s icy one. “So many questions about the Count,” she said slyly, more playfulness dripping into her voice to chase the sick away. “You’re not jealous, are you, Elsa?”

Elsa gawked at her. “I’m not jealous, Anna!” She turned her head away, “I thought he was a pleasant enough man, though a little conceited. Didn’t you feel the way he made himself superior to those around him?”

Anna shook her head. “He certainly came off that way in public, but he really was very polite at the end of the night. He even showed me the special goodbye he gives his visitors in his home country.”

Elsa nearly scoffed, moment forgotten. “Is this that kiss you keep mentioning? That’s hardly anything new Anna, you are queen after all.”

“You are jealous, you are!” Anna’s excitement was cut short by an upturning of brows and a small whimper of pain. She immediately pressed their joined hands to her forehead. “Sorry,” she mumbled, “it’s so hot in here.”

Any reply Elsa might have had would forever be stuck in the back of her throat. She’d found what she had been looking for… but in an unexpected place.

When Anna had pulled her hand towards her, Elsa saw the marks under Anna’s wrist.

Two small dots.

“Mmmm, Elsa,” Anna murmured, “you’re so cold. Just like me. The rest of the world is so hot and bright, but you’re perfect.” She pressed Elsa’s knuckles along the bridge of her nose. “And don’t worry, I can share the Count’s secret with you too - after all, you’re also warm, warm where it matters. On the inside. Your heart,” Anna smiled and Elsa felt the little hum that came from her chest. “I can smell it.”

Elsa barely heard a word, her thoughts swirling like dense fog. She’d never get the chance to respond either, as Olaf chose this moment to make his reappearance, the sound of the latch raising Elsa’s head, away from her sister. Her mind was still turning over Anna’s words the way a mouse tests the new pressure plate under an old crumb of cheese. She didn’t notice how her hand shifted to rest against Anna’s lips, how her control slipped, exposing pale, bare skin.

No, the last nail in the coffin was that, when Anna had spoken, her eyes had opened again.

Opened to a deep, dizzying red.

Red like the finest wines of Arendelle castle.

Red like the kind exposed by bullets and blades.

Red like blood.

Olaf called Elsa’s name in oblivious greeting as Anna’s teeth sunk into her wrist. The bite was kind, the fangs almost soft. And the pain?

Intoxicating.

[randomguywithwords]

As The Dust Settles: Chapter 21 (Geten X Dabi Slowburn)

Chapter 21: The Commander’s Will

AO3 Link

Previous Chapters: 20, 19, 18, 17, 16, 15, 14, 13, 12, 11, 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1

–––––––––––

It was nice to know that Dabi’s Monday afternoon was interrupted by an emergency meeting by Shigaraki, who broadcasted it over their private channel. The LoV channel, which had gone unused for a while. Which meant that this gathering concerned only them. 

That would explain why the venue was the Doc’s place, which employed the usual protocol that Shigaraki had devised. Dabi let out a sigh lost in the gales blowing about, and got to work.

10 minutes later, Dabi found himself surrounded by his old ragtag group of villains, except that they were now in possession of wealth and luxury rivalling the richest families in Japan. He supposed, that included the family he left behind. 

“I’ll get to the point. This is about what’s happening next Monday night.” Shigaraki was once again undergoing more of Ujiko’s experiments, this time with metal injectors protruding from his back. Dabi was no stranger to gore, but it looked as if Shigaraki was suspended by large metallic spider legs, and that disturbed him. It didn’t help that even Tomura himself looked to be in agony, with a strained expression and a coarser voice than normal. 

Despite all that, he called us here for this meeting. Must be hell of an emergency. 

“What about Re-destro and the others?” Spinner asked.

“I got the suits to go do some mundane task, so we have this window of time. I don’t trust them. Don’t plan to. I’m somewhat certain they’re plotting something, but I don’t care. Once they’ve served their purpose, I’m getting rid of them.”

“Anyway.” Shigaraki closed his eyes, his face muscles tightening like a python was constricting itself around his neck. “I need two – no, three teams for Monday. Your regiments will all be fighting. I’ll do another briefing for everyone about the invasion itself.”

He let loose a tiny gasp as steam arose from his back. Dabi heard Toga gulp. Compress took a minute step backwards. 

“Toga, I need you and Spinner to infiltrate a laboratory. Doctor needs a last piece to help finalise all of this.” Shigaraki waved a floppy hand at the machinations behind him. Himiko vigorously nodded along with Spinner’s affirmation. 

“The doc’s up in that room.” Tomura pointed with a shaky finger. “Go see him, he’ll tell you what to do.” The two nodded with startlingly obedient demeanours and left. 

“Compress, I need you for this mission.” Sako nodded. “I’m in talks right now with this guy on the street and his gang. He wants, or he thinks that he can undergo some experimentation like mine to wield multiple quirks. Even the Doc confirmed his blood matched that of All For One’s. It would make a good diversion for the heroes. I’m trying to draw him off the scent.”

“Who?” Twice asked. 

“Hawks. Which brings me to number three. Dabi, you might want to join this. We’re getting rid of him.”

“What? Cool!” Twice said, while Dabi raised an eyebrow. “That soon?”

“Yeah, after I got my sensory quirk, I’ve noted how this guy’s been snooping around too much. I don’t think he’s gotten that much info, but he pokes around any deeper, he’ll screw us over. So you, me – Twice, you too, we’re killing him.”

“But...why? He’s not a bad person. I’ve talked to him a few times, he’s just like us.”

So you got to him already, huh, Keigo? Smart, smart. 

“Twice.” Shigaraki’s voice resonated through the chamber, drawing all attention back to him. “Just trust me on this.”

Twice gulped, but nodded with a shiver in his form. 

“Compress.” Shigaraki took a deep breath whilst squeezing his eyes shut. “The guy’s name, is Nine.”

“Wait.” Dabi cut in. That name. Memories spawned from the depths, flashes of them, cut through with blue and red flames. And through it all, a face he’d met with a few times. “Silver hair, blue eyes?”

Tomura looked at him. “Yeah, you know the guy?”

“Swap me and Compress. I’ll deal with him,” Dabi said. 

“Why?”

“Please, just let me handle this.” He needed to. 

“Wow. All right then, if you say so. Compress, you good with this swap?” Tomura looked to Sako, who nodded with a hat tip. 

“Haven’t heard this man say please in my entire life. How could I say no to his cute pout?” Atsuhiro chuckled upon noticing Dabi’s glare. 

“Bitch,” Dabi muttered.

Shigaraki uttered his name with an authoritative tone. Dabi realised only a second later that he had turned his head towards his commander out of instinct. 

“First, you’re first meeting him on Friday to bring him to the Doctor’s place. Next Monday, you need to escort the chamber in a transport to a separate location – during the festival – to meet up with the rest of his posse. We’re gonna leak this to the heroes, make them think it’s me or something important. I’ll bail you out at the last second. I don’t give a shit what happens to the lunatic.”

“Got it.”

Tomura faced the other two, continuing, “Compress, Twice, just follow my lead when we bait the guy in. Don’t worry, I’ll keep you guys safe. Twice, you’re a menace enough that you don’t even need to be there. Just keep generating copies of me. This’ll be a piece of cake.” Shigaraki clenched his fist.

“No, don’t do this! Sure thing, Shigaraki!” Twice gave a thumbs-up with his left and a thumbs-down with his right. Compress gave a grunt of assent. 

“That’s all I got for you guys, then. Bye.” 

A wave of gunk pouring from Dabi’s mouth enveloped him, and five nauseous seconds later, the trio were back in the council room. 

“That was a fast meeting,” Dabi’s clone droned from his seat. 

“Aww...time to go already?” Toga’s clone pouted as she spun her pocket knife. 

“Sorry guys! Not sorry!” Bubaigawara raised his arms, and the clones of the LoV were reduced back into grey sludge, which seeped back towards the real Twice. 

“I’ll be taking my leave then. It’s a lot to think about, going up against him…” Atsuhiro murmured. “Guess I just need to have faith in Shigaraki.” He departed afterwards. 

Faith. The thought was irksome to Dabi. Having faith in Shigaraki of all things. A few months ago, he would have balked at the thought of Shigaraki being a competent leader, and he would have laughed if he was told he would actually listen to his orders. 

And here he was, accepting another assignment at the boy’s request. 

He’ll turn on you, just like the rest, A voice in his head snarled. And to a frightening degree, as Dabi’s thoughts lingered on Shigaraki’s plan, the voice was right. Except this time, it wasn’t personal. Shigaraki sought the annihilation of Japan. That included him, and the ground he stood upon, and it would destroy his dream. That dream he had been having for a while now. 

Part of him wanted to rage against that, to demand that Shigaraki find some other way to defeat the scum of society, but something in Tomura’s eyes told Dabi there was no stopping what the boy set out to do. 

“He’s good, I know it…” He heard Twice murmur beside him, not even acknowledging Dabi’s presence, as he walk-stumbled out of the room. Dabi watched him go, his brow creasing. 

If Hawks gets to him…No, Shigaraki said he’d keep them safe.

Maybe he would have to place his trust in Shigaraki after all. Yet he’d trusted people before, people he looked up to, and where did that lead Dabi?

Unto death.

Perhaps – he thought as he surveyed the council room, a reminder of the leaders he found himself following with little question, this time would be different. 

Either way, meeting Nine made for an interesting reunion. Not that he cared about the fanatic, but if anyone could help him regain the memories he burned, he could. It was Nine who once worked with Dabi, his mentor, the body that remained silent, even when engulfed in flames. 

His flames. Touya had to remind himself of that from time to time. 

[cheion-writes]

The Garden Flowers had always been a part of your life. Few know how it all began. . For @pearl-kite​, as part of the gift exchange! I hope I got Gale right :) Thanks everyone for participating and for creating such wholesome gifts! . . The garden was beautiful. Lush trees stood with trunks sturdy and tall, branches bent in salute to the flowers that bloomed in the comfort of its shade. There were the dark purple ones you could identify as hydrangeas, the yellow ones you knew were sunflowers, and the whites – daisies – that added a layer of peace to the otherwise colourful landscape. 

 You would watch every day, as an old lady tottered out to trim the branches and weeds. She would speak to the flowers as if they were her own, and smile at the bees and dragonflies that hopped from bloom to bloom. 

You’re unsure why that sight made you smile, just as you’re unsure what kept drawing you to that house. 

After all, it wasn’t particularly accessible (considering where you live), nor was it the first time you’ve seen flowers. And it certainly wasn’t right to spy on someone like this. 

But you couldn’t help yourself. Couldn’t help coming back to that garden; couldn’t help watching and chuckling as it grew more beautiful with time. Couldn’t help the fond spark of affection each time a tiny smile graced the lady’s cheeks whenever a new blossom caught her sight. 

 One day, you would watch as she dug the soil, fingers deft and spirit light. A light brush of her mind revealed a bubbling spark of excitement and anticipation, and you would watch as she let a handful of seeds fall into the damp soil. Weeks later, when the first hint of a leaf finally peeked out from beneath the soil, you would find your smile mirroring her own. 

The young plants grew rapidly. Their stems grew taller and stronger, their leaves fuller and greener. And when they finally broke out in full bloom, when the garden was lit up with a sea of red, you plucked up your courage to ask her a question. When no one was looking, you dropped a note onto the well-worn path, a hasty scribble upon paper of soft blue: 

What are those red flowers called? They’re beautiful. 

The next morning, you received your reply. Nestled upon the fertile soil, right at the foot of a flower of the brightest red, was cursive typography upon peach paper: 

They’re poppies :) They certainly are, aren’t they? 

That day, you left the garden with the hint of red capturing your dreams. 

While you would have loved to visit the garden as often as you wanted, it was alas not to be. 

Life was, after all, never meant to stay the same. (You would now that well too.) 

You’re no stranger to change – you never have been and never would be – and you knew that things would never go back to what they once had been. Not since you donned the black and blue suit. Not since a man who could throw lightning from his fingertips deemed fit to call you his friend. 

But sooner than you thought; faster than you had anticipated, your life becomes a whirlwind of lightning and new faces; of training and friendship and new memories. And as your responsibilities grew, your visits to the garden became less frequent. 

And one day, when you sit back and think on how far you have come, you realise that it has been more than a year.  You take off right after, mind flustered and buzzing with anticipation, feet guiding you where you know you must go. But when you finally reach the garden that once was, you realise that it is no more. 

The trees, the flowers and the poppies – they are all long gone. As is the old lady whose smile you never knew how much you’d miss.  

It is only then you realise that you’d never thought to ask her name. 

That is not the end of the story, however. 

Months pass. Your mind doesn’t let you forget, but just as things change with time, you find yourself growing fond of the man who you’ve now fought beside in countless battles. Who you’ve grown to love and trust. Who (God knows why) looks at you as if you’re somehow precious to him.  Who you can’t help but look back at with the same affection in your gaze. And it would seem that the feeling is mutual, for one day he invites you to visit his mother’s home. 

It isn’t a courtesy he grants everyone. You’re honoured that you’ve been counted amongst the select few. 

“You’d love it,” he tells you with an easy grin. “I’ve seen the poppies on your windowsill. Wait till you see my mother’s garden.” 

Little did you know how much of a surprise it would be. 

And when you first set sights upon the garden, you pause. Because the lush garden before you is covered with poppies. Rows and rows of poppies, red and yellow and purple, a painting so real and beautiful that it sends you spiralling back to the time you first arrived in Los Diablos. To a little old lady and her garden. To a beauty so intimately familiar. 

And when its owner steps out of the house, you realise why. 

The same old lady is walking towards you, the same easy smile that once captivated you bright upon her face. The same smile that Ricardo always wears. 

She doesn’t recognise you, not that you’d expect her to. 

“Hello there,” she says. “It’s nice to finally meet you.” 

And you know exactly what she’s talking about – and what she is not. 

She’s talking about you as Sidestep, as Charge’s partner, as her child’s best friend and the first person he might have truly liked in a long time. Not as the person who’d asked her about her poppies all those years ago. 

“Your poppies are beautiful,” you say. Your voice is thick in your throat. 

“They certainly are, aren’t they?” Elena Ortega echoes. Her smile so innocent and welcoming crinkles the edges of her eyes. She looks older now. Wiser now. And yet still the same lady whose garden you’d fallen in love with all those years ago. Still the same lady who smiled at the bees and dragonflies and thanked them for breathing life into her growing blooms. Whose grace you fell in love with and who you regretted never getting to know. 

It’s funny how life comes full circle sometimes, isn’t it? 

“They are,” you hear yourself saying. You duck your head, so she would not see the tears in your eyes. “You’ve a really beautiful garden, ma’am.” 

“Please,” she laughs and ruffles your hair. “Call me Tía.” 

And maybe she won’t ever know how much that means to you. Maybe she won’t ever know how much meeting her again, like this, means to you. 

But maybe it’s a story you can share with her another day. And maybe, like the poppies that continue to bloom despite the quakes and the nanosurge; like the seemingly fragile trees and flowers that still grow strong and tall; like a wish that went unanswered for years but has now somehow found its way into your life again – maybe you can let yourself believe in life’s miracles. 

Maybe you can let yourself believe that things will be okay.

[itsclydebitches]

Title: Mightier Than the Sword

Fandom: Witcher

Summary: A month after the events of "Rare Species," Geralt slinks his way into an inn and is faced with the question of how an emotionless man apologies. (TV!canon with some details drawn from the books and Wild Hunt.)

Pairing: Pre-slash Geralt and Jaskier 

Word Count: 2,568

Where to read it: Below or on AO3 

A/N: It’s a Christmas miracle! Look at me making an attempt at writing. I figured that if season one was going to leave us in that horrible place with Jaskier and Geralt’s relationship I’d just have to start fixing it myself 👍

The storm had raged for two days and looked as if it had enough life in it for a third. When Geralt shouldered his way into the inn he felt like there was a kikimore on the other side, so strong was the wind keeping slabs attached to frame. When he finally managed and let the door slam shut behind him, catching his heel and dimming the storm’s voice, he found a number of glares leveled his way, the patrons none too pleased at the cold interruption. Dropping his hood did not improve matters.

One man splendid in rotting clothes and stained teeth spat as soon as he saw Geralt’s hair. Another flinched away from his eyes. Still another pretended to keep attention on his food but Geralt caught the inquisitive looks he snuck, far worse than any hatred. The curious only thought they were kinder.

“Witcher,” said a fourth. That tone spread through the room. Apparently Jaskier’s ballads hadn’t reached this corner of the world yet.

Geralt found his seat and kept his back to the wall.

For all the poverty he’d passed through in this town the inn at least was holding its own. The horse hair plaster did little to warm the space, but the many bodies and roaring fire made up for the lack of insulation. The room was otherwise dark. Comforted in the soft chatter and the simple blessing that, though they might growl, no one was inclined to approach him. Geralt took a moment to merely sit, listening to the drip of water from his cloak and the clink of spoons against bowls. The latter made his stomach ache something fierce and with a sigh Geralt stood, approaching the bar.

The innkeep took one look at his threadbare clothes and went back to cleaning his nails. Geralt slid what little coin he had across the counter.

“Oats,” he said. “For the chestnut mare outside.”

“This look like a ploughing stable to you?”

“Does this metal look fake to you?”

Geralt spoke of the coin. Might have meant his sword. Either understanding worked just fine. The innkeep pocketed his meager offering in a flash.

“Doesn’t get your bitch much,” he said, but moved to the back regardless, presumably to make up a pail. Geralt traced his movements just long enough for reassurance before heading back to the fire. His knuckles creaked and when he grimaced the skin of his lips split.

As he sat that hole in his stomach grew wider, deeper, pulled him down stronger than gravity herself and Geralt had to plant his feet against the wave of dizziness that hit. Even witchers were susceptible to starvation. Obviously he would have preferred food for both himself and Roach, but work hadn’t been kind to him these last few weeks. Oh, there were plenty of monsters, just few people willing to pay for their demise. As he’d once told Jaskier, the two rarely went hand-in-hand.

...must be the hunger addling his brain. Geralt knew of no other reason why he should think so much on a bard who was no longer bound to him. He’d severed that tie himself, over a month past.

“Endings,” Geralt said. To Roach, really. The conversation had picked up enough to cover his voice and he knew his horse was just beyond the wall, sheltered beneath the hanging roof of the inn. “It was bound to happen eventually. Best to do it on my own terms.”

If pressed Geralt might have admitted to catching that snort. As if Roach had heard, understood, and had more than her fair share to say about that claim. But he held his ground. Jaskier would have left, and all the better for it. Over the last few weeks Geralt had pictured the man lying prone on Yennefer’s bed. Thought over the advice he’d given about heading to the coast. Become antsy during the long stretch of silences and could only admit now that he’d grown used to Jaskier’s singing. The memories of his songs had settled in the back of his mind, rooting there with a determination that fit their author. More than once Geralt had caught himself humming a tune when there was no one else to hear it.

Yes. There were things he... missed. But better to miss them now while they shown bright in his memory. There would have come a day when Jaskier would no longer ask to accompany him to far off places. Where his songs would warn of a witcher’s violence and treachery, rather than simply lying through his teeth. There may have even come a time when he fell and no sorceress, not even one of Yennerfer’s skill, could save him. Geralt knew this as surely as he knew the weight of his own sword.

Jaskeir would have grown to hate him whether he’d held his foolish tongue or not. That was a destiny Geralt could believe in.

He’d just resolved to meditate until the phrase ‘Toss a coin to your witcher’ finally left his head—its repetition had certainly not brought the command into reality—when a plate was dumped in front of him, steaming meat and crispy potatoes. A bit of relish dotted the top, specific to the region as Geralt didn’t recognize the spices. The smell was enough for him to draw a sharp breath though, swallowing it like that might fill the hole in his stomach. He forced himself to look up into the eyes of a plain woman and kept his hands away from the table's edge.

“I didn’t order this,” Geralt said.

The woman smiled. “I know.”

Hmm. “You misunderstand. I don’t have coin to pay for this.” A drink was set beside the plate. The smell of steamed milk had Geralt briefly closing his eyes.

The woman chuckled. At his longing or whatever game she played, he didn’t know. Perhaps both. Though Geralt had an inkling that he had misjudged her when she pushed the plate closer, a chipped nail tapping its edge.

“It’s you who’s not understandin’” she said. “Coin’s already in the pocket. Mine, not my lout of a brother over there.” Her head jerked towards the innkeep. “Pretty bard was in here just a mo’ ago. Went pale as milk when he saw ye. Thought the poor boy was gonna faint! But he recovered, sure as anything, and gave me a handful of silver before slippin’ out the back. Had stern instructions that I get you a hearty dinner so now here I am, doin’ jus’ that. You won’t catch Sinah goin’ back on her word, no sir. So go on. Eat your fill, witcher. More where that came from if you’ve a mind to have it,” and Sinah inched the plate ever closer.

Geralt’s gaze was on the hearth though. He stared at the flames and tried to ignore how the smell of meat had gone sour. “A bard?”

“Aye. As said, a pretty thing. More dolled up than we’re likely to get ‘round these parts. Sang a bit for his own meal before settlin’ in the back. Quiet. Fidgety. Like a mouse before the cat. Specially when he caught sight of that hair o’ yours. Thought he might be a monster himself—one of those dopple things, if you know my meaning—up until he asked me to serve ye. Odd that. I’ll not have my cookin’ go to waste though. I’ll take it back if—hey now!”

But Geralt was already up and on the move because he’d heard it. Muttering something about saving his plate, he was across the room with a dexterity only a witcher could manage, dodging legs, chairs, spilled drinks, all in near darkness. Throwing himself out into the gale that sound grew stronger. No one else would have heard it above the storm, but Geralt followed it like a clear, melodious bell.

Someone was speaking to Roach. Jaskier was speaking to Roach.

A little ways down the path to avoid a small river forming, around the corner of the inn. Geralt slipped into the shadows created by the overhang and blinked at the sudden assault on his vision. Jaskier was dressed entirely in purple and pink, a beacon amid the grays of the night. Geralt’s first thought upon spotting him was that his clothing was a monstrosity all its own and he would happily accept a contract to dispose of it.

Then, ears perking like a wolf’s, Geralt focused on the conversation.

“—hardly deserves it,” Jaskier was saying, using Roach’s neck to hide from a particularly sodden gust of wind. His mare put up with it, long familiar with the man’s proximity. “Though I suppose that you could technically make an argument for reciprocation. If I am owed a ten percent cut of whatever work he secures thanks to my genius ballads, then perhaps I owe him ten percent of whatever I earn thanks to his heroics. Yes, yes. I know I’m not supposed to be touching you, but I’m not see? I’m touching your saddlebags. Geralt can’t get mad about that, can he?”

He could, yet astoundingly Geralt found that he was not. How could he be when the light of the moon showed Jaskier slipping coin into the side pocket where Geralt was sure to find it? Shivering, drenched to the bone, Jaskier continued to give up his riches, smiling all the while. Geralt could see it even from the shadows. Noted the melancholy grip on its edge. He looked away—again—and this time told himself that it was so his shining eyes didn’t give him away. The excuse sounded weak even within his own head.

“Just a bit to tide him over,” Jaskier said, continuing to pour more than “a bit” into various pockets. “And you of course! No need to tell him I was here, but you should make sure he buys you plenty of carrots. You need more than these wet oats... oh by the gods those look disgusting. I’m sorry, girl. I’d sneak back in to get you something as well but... ah.... not sure ‘sneaking’ and ‘White Wolf’ go well together. Our King of Brooding would spot me for sure and then where would I be? Suffering another punch I’d wager. And given our last meeting I don’t think Geralt would settle for aiming at my gut. Sorry, girl, but this face is just too beautiful to risk.”

Another sliver coin glinting from the shadows. An endless wave of prattle just under the rain. Geralt listened as Jaskier told Roach all about his travels over the last month, how audiences were growing weary of the ballads he had, demanding new, exciting tales. Jaskier had nothing to give them. Though that was fine. Grand even! Challenge and limitation, the bread and butter of an artist. He would find a way and until then he’d help others find there’s. Even grumpy witchers.

“I’m his friend, after all,” Jaskier said. It came out quieter than all the rest. “That’s what the foolish man doesn’t realize. Hardly matters whether he’s my friend. Doesn’t stop me from being his. Really, all those mutated brains and he’s dumb as a goat half the time. He’s lucky he’s gorgeous.” Roach tossed her head, knocking into Jaskier’s and drawing a chuckle. “Knew you’d agree with that, girl. There now. All loaded up? Excellent. I’m going to go dry off now. I will not allow this storm to ruin my new outfit,” and he did a little twirl, showing off the decorative stitching. “Stunning? Why yes, I’m quite aware. Never hurts to hear it though. Thank you, darling.”

Jaskier planted a quick kiss on her muzzle, whispered not to tell, and with a wink slipped away. Geralt took note of the house he was renting a room from and then returned to the inn.

He found Sinah in the back removing a man’s hand from her waist. She followed him to his seat, the meat and potatoes now cold. Geralt shoveled forkfuls down regardless.

“You said the bard’s coin would get me more?”

Sinah inclined her head. “Aye. Wanting a second plate, do you?”

“No, but I’ll take paper and quill if you have it.”

If she found the request odd she didn’t show it. Sinah left and returned with the speed of a wraith, depositing pulpy parchment and a vile of ink heavily watered down. It was enough. Geralt inclined his head in turn, the most respectful gesture she’d seen all day, and the two parted with satisfaction on both sides. Geralt put aside a third of his meal for Roach before finishing the rest with a speed that would have choked a human man. Done, he set about composing a list.

He was no poet. Geralt hadn’t the words to describe his contracts with anything other than the blunt language spoken by all witchers. Still, he made an effort to include details. He wrote about the noonwraith he’d dispatched three towns over, only to find that the residents had but an eighth of the coin they’d originally promised. Geralt had looked at their own sunken cheeks, taken half of that eighth, and been on his way. After that had come the drowner colony, but no one cared to pay for what amounted to a pest—even a dangerous one. There were the men who’d succeeded in both putting a hole in his cloak as well as forfeiting their lives. The young woman who looked much like Sinah but had none of her honor, attempting to lure Geralt into a robbery through false tears. The ghoul whose liver he'd eaten when he couldn’t sell it. The curse he’d lifted for a roof over his head. The nekkers that had managed to drain the rest of his energy before he’d finally collapsed here. It was all common work. The witcher equivalent of doing one’s chores. It was only Jaskier’s voice in his head that told Geralt any of this might interest another.

The whole thing filled five pages and took the length of time required to dry his socks. There was no signature. The writing was splotchy and the paper now smelled of rain. Geralt folded it with all the care he’d give to cleaning his sword.

It wasn’t an apology because witchers didn’t do apologies. Geralt wasn’t even sure he’d know how to give one if required... though this was probably as close as he’d get. He would not think on what Jaskier had done to earn the attempt.

Instead, Geralt planned to sop up the remaining juice on his plate and lick his fingers clean. He would return the inkwell to Sinah and, when the rest of him was dry, he’d ruin it all by going back out into the storm, across the weeds, into the room where Jaskier slept with lute and clothes as flamboyant as a peacock. Geralt’s notes would look like a pauper’s trifle next to the rest of his belongings, but perhaps Jaskier could spin them into something grand.

Indeed, perhaps someday soon there would be another inn, a new ballad, and this time Jaskier would choose to stay. Geralt wouldn't deserve that, but he found himself thinking on it nonetheless. Treacherous thoughts that circumvented destiny and warmed him far better than the fire.

Until then, Geralt curled in on himself and let the music he already knew wash over him.

[threadsketchier]

ere dawn’s light

To get October kicked off, I’m posting a wee thing I wroted @azalea-scroggs about a month ago.  Just a filler scene for the time Luke spends between his conversation with Vader and being taken up to the Death Star in ROTJ.

The lift door slid shut, cutting off his view of Vader, and Luke let his eyes fall closed in turn, sealing him away from the car and the stormtroopers flanking him.  He hadn't held high expectations of their next face-to-face meeting since Bespin, but the disappointment and frustration still gnawed at his resolve.

They were moving upwards, and a pang of mortal panic seized him as Leia’s words rang through his head.  Luke, run away!  Far away!  This was his last slim hope of escape.  Only two troops escorted him now; he could in theory overpower them with cunning, fight his way out of the turbolift as soon as it stopped, even leap off the landing platform if he had to and let the Force break his fall, dashing away to become just another shadow in the night-cloaked forest, fleeing both his enemies and allies…

The car stopped with a soft clunk, and Luke pried his eyes open and released the breath he’d been holding.  No, he’d made his choice.  No more running and delaying.  His last words to Vader held more bite than the half-hearted protests and declarations he’d received for his pleas.  He wasn’t truly giving up on his father.  The darkness consuming Anakin’s soul was proving difficult to penetrate, but it wasn’t impervious.  The man who met him on this walkway tonight was defeated, a far cry from the savage wraith who’d terrorized and besieged him in Cloud City.  His heart - whatever was left of it - wasn’t in the act, even as he went through the motions.

A lone Lambda shuttle, exactly like the one he and the strike team had arrived with on the moon, occupied the landing platform, open and awaiting.  The two stormtroopers marched him toward it, and four more exited the shuttle to meet them as they approached.  Luke’s mouth stretched in a subtle grim tic they were unlikely to notice.  Definitely no escape attempts now anyway, especially without his lightsaber.

He’d been expecting more rough treatment since being frisked upon his surrender, but to his mild surprise and unease the troops merely gestured for him to take a seat once they led him into the passenger hold.  So sit he did, rather stiffly, waiting for additional restraint that never came.  And then he realized: Vader had to have hand-selected these troops, who were wise enough not to stir a hair on his head unless they were commanded to do so.

If he’d been taken directly to transport, they must be leaving immediately.  Luke took several more slow, deep breaths to try to calm himself inwardly as much he appeared outwardly.  The Emperor both mattered and didn’t.  He was the galaxy’s oppressor, but more intimately, he was his father’s oppressor.  The Alliance was on its way to take care of the former.  His focus was on the latter.

Minutes crawled by without a sign of any change.  Luke recalled Vader’s orders to search the area and his stomach twisted.  Perhaps this would postpone takeoff.  Somehow he doubted this time that Vader was as invested in finding them, but he was still fiercely glad his friends were hidden within the Ewok village for now.  He didn’t need them being harmed and held as bargaining chips again; the very thought wearied his spirit.

A trace of pride kept his spine ramrod straight in the seat to the point of discomfort, and his mind was too fraught in turmoil for him to use the Force for something as trivial as detaching from his bodily sensations.  After what felt like a very long while Luke allowed himself to slump forward slightly with a faint sigh, cuffed hands shifting forward to rest on his knees.

“Impatient to meet your death, Skywalker?” one of the troops nearest to him remarked snidely.

Something about the startling irreverence of that question made Luke feel that he could relax rather than adding to the tension.  After everything he’d been through and was burdened with, dying was the least of his concerns.  Looking unfazed and affecting an air of disinterest, Luke tilted his head upwards to reply, “A little, yes, actually.  I’ve been waiting for four years now.”

A thin crackle that could have been anything from a snort to a click of the tongue issued from the helmet’s comm speaker, and the soldier’s grip tightened around his blaster, but no further provocation came.  The heavy blanket of silence descended on the hold again.  Despite the morbid humor falling flat, the exchange compelled Luke to shake off the smothering sense of anxiety and hostility and allow himself to settle into the Force’s pacifying currents.  If they weren’t going anywhere anytime soon, he might as well meditate.

Time shed its veil as his mind slipped free of binders and armed guards and proclamations of destiny.  His father’s presence hung in the near distance like an encroaching storm, its violence subdued and turned inwards upon itself.  With gentle caution Luke dared to brush its edges, his intent whispering into the gale, I’m still here.

Sudden realization lanced through his heart and nearly thrust him out of the meditative state before he let the emotional surge dissipate.  Security was relatively lax because Vader knew he wouldn’t leave.  Seeing his son come forth of his own volition, he was trusting him to carry out his decision.  Trusting, and dreading this confrontation in equal measure.

It doesn’t have to be this way, Father.

The tightly coiled storm finally advanced, drawing nearer, and Luke snapped out of his trance to see a dim wash of ambient lighting reaching the passenger hold - dawn had arrived.  Several hours had to have transpired since he’d lapsed into meditation.  On cue, ponderous footsteps reverberated up the shuttle’s ramp, followed soon afterwards by the respirator.

Luke found himself oddly bereft when he felt the ship embark without Vader bothering to see him.  Perhaps avoidance was easier for him, however temporary it was.

Once airborne, it was a short flight to the Death Star.  As soon as they landed, Vader did finally emerge from the cockpit and dismissed all of the stormtroopers with a curt gesture.  Once more it was only the two of them alone.

One last gasp of hope kept Luke still upon the seat, his gaze compelling his father.  It’s not too late.  We can leave this place, just you and me.

Vader remained impassive, staring back at him, until it became apparent that the moment had passed and he was merely waiting for Luke to submit to the inevitable.  Letting his face harden into a stoic mask, Luke rose at last and walked right past him, striding down the boarding ramp with his shoulders squared and head held high, as if the rows of troops and officers lining the docking bay were his own ranks, and he was traversing the length of the Yavin moon temple’s grand ceremonial chamber again, on his way to accept the honor of sacrifice one final time.

[empressofmankind]

The Lion in Winter - Part I: Departure - 04. Tywin I

Fandom: A Song of Ice & Fire Major Character/s:  Kevan Lannister Sr, Tywin Lannister, Loren Lannister (mentioned), Cersei Lannister (mentioned) Minor Somebodies: Miana Hill, Brynmor Royan (mentioned) Location/s: Casterly Rock Premises: ...but what if I made you feel for Tywin? Mood: There were probably emotionally healthier ways to deal with things but then Tywin wouldn't be Tywin Warnings: N/A NOTE:   Part I of The Lion in Winter is set shortly before King Robert   Baratheon, Queen Cersei  Lannister and their family set out for   Winterfell. It therefore takes  place a little bit before the start of   the first book, ‘A Game of  Thrones’. The Lion In Winter - Part I: Departure - 01. Kevan I // 02. Loren I // 03. Jaime //

Lord Tywin strode out onto Casterly Rock's twilit inner bailey and into the pouring rain. Down the narrow way between the beacon and the western wall, he went, ignoring the late summer storm. The watchman sat huddled leeward of the twelve feet stack of soaked firewood. No flame but wildfire would light it now. The wind seized Tywin's thick crimson cloak as he came around the beacon, throwing the heavy damask about like a living thing. He ignored it like he ignored the rain pelting his face, seeping into his golden side-whiskers and drenching his quilted burgundy doublet. He held a square of fabric in his fist, water running in rivulets between his knuckles to soak into the faded embroidery. He went up the stone steps, worn concave down their middle from centuries of sentries doing the same. The western wall was the tallest of Casterly Rock's myriad defences, the drop down to sea-level sheer safe for a small ledge.

Tywin stood upon the western battlements and surveyed his storm-torn domain. Far below, the lighthouse of Lannisport cast its fire across the raging black sea, guiding its fishermen home. The storms were ever wild at the tail-end of summer. It would be wet, and then it would be cold. His gaze turned north, to the Iron Isles. The beacon at Faircastle was dark, even the Ironborn had deemed to stay ashore. But summer was drawing to a close, the lean months of winter approaching. They will come before long.

Lannisport huddled amid the rugged hills, shrouded in a curtain of grey. A dismal port along a desolate stretch of limestone cliffs and shingle beach, its shoulders in brooding old-growth and its toes in dark tidal waters. But Tywin knew how it could be, when the wretched weather rolled back and all glistened in the morning light. White shores, before a colourful port. And beyond, a green cloak of broadleaf forest. The limestone crest of the Rock pearlescent under a swift sunrise, setting fire to its gleaming battlements. The Westerlands were his home, and always would be.

“My Lord.”

Tywin ignored the call as his gaze wandered inland, to the mountains and the Golden Tooth, just visible behind the old quatrefoil keep. Beyond them, the deltas of the Riverlands, the forested Crownlands and the supposed jewel in Westeros' benighted crown: King's Landing. A presumptuous name for a hive of intrigue and petty crime. Yet Tywin's gaze lingered, even though he much preferred viewing Lannisport at dawn. Kevan would be a squire, soon. A boy of ten and a child not for much longer. He could remember the day he'd held his son as a mere babe as if it were yesterday. Small and blond and freckled, like his mother. Tywin smiled. He'd make a fine Lord, one day.

“Tywin.”

The rains were becoming more frequent. Tywin could smell it, the vague scent of damp never entirely leaving these days. It lingered in the wood and draperies, rotted rushes within the day. They marked the change in the season. Winter would be upon them before long. Not a cold snap, like the frost spell out of nowhere six years ago, which the smallfolk called ‘little winter’. But a real winter, one that would last years rather than nine moons. Tywin pursed his thin lips. Kevan would be fine, he was a vigorous child. Like himself, Kevan had been born towards the close of winter, braving its tail-end as a babe. Tywin clenched his fist, squeezing water from the strip of cloth he held. They'd had to bury Kevan’s baby brother together with the uncle the babe had been named for. Tywin did not miss his brother Tygett.

“Brother.”

‘Brother!’ Tywin could hear Gerion’s flippant call and laughter as if he’d never left. His gaze returned to the choppy sea and the shrouded lands beyond the horizon. Gerion was out there, somewhere. He ought to have been born a Lannisporter. ‘Look to the sea’ their words were. Tywin clenched his jaw. Gerion would return one day, laughing and swinging Brightroar in jest, mocking their concern as he swaggered down the docks. Laughing, always laughing. Tywin’s gaze lingered. Make haste, little brother. Winter will soon get into the sea.

Tywin had never thought he must steer their House through another winter. He’d always believed Jaime would, considered even that Tyrion might. Jaime... Tywin’s gaze found the pass across the Golden Tooth, the first rays of a watery dawn lighting the jagged peak to honour its name. In a few days, Kevan would be a squire. One more winter and Kevan will be old enough to do it in my stead, Tywin thought. He could do one more. His grip on the cloth tightened. He must. It would be his sixth winter. It would be his last.

Ser Kevan reached for his older brother’s face with both hands and turned it towards himself. “Is there any particular reason you are out here in the rain, trying to catch consumption?”

Tywin glanced at the beacon. The watchman was gone.

Kevan Lannister was a large man of modest stature with broad shoulders and a thick waist. In that, he took after their father. “He was just doing his job, Tywin.”

Tywin pursed his lips. Perhaps, not only in that. “His job is watching the beacon at Faircastle.”

Kevan sighed. “Come inside, take a hot bath. Lady Loren will have both our heads adorning these battlements if she returns home to find you bed-ridden.”

At the mention of his wife, Tywin’s gaze returned to the Golden Tooth. Kevan’s squiring was eight days hence. The ride down the gold road would take six days, even at haste. Loren wouldn’t rest beside him for another fortnight.

“Come on.” Kevan put a hand against his brother and Lord’s back, urging him towards the keep.

Tywin let him.

The venerable keep of Casterly Rock was old and known precisely so, as the ‘Old Keep’. Its correct name, if ever it had one, was lost to time. It squat on the westernmost tip of the limestone promontory, the summit forming a natural motte. Erected from pale, quarry-faced ashlar, delved right beneath its ancient feet, and crowned with smooth red shingles, the keep sat quiet and dignified in the storm. The Casterly’s had built it in the Dawn Age, but its four-leaf clover shape suited the person that had winkled it from them: Lann the Clever, not for no reason, also named Lann the Lucky. Some considered him a son of Floris the Fox, daughter of Garth Greenhand, but Tywin was not a man who put stock by tales that banked on fancy for veracity alone. For that matter, he doubted their eponymous golden-haired ancestor had existed at all.

“Why have you not left for King’s Landing?” Reproach edged Kevan’s tone.

Tywin put his hand to the pale stone as they entered, the seaward face of the Old Keep worn smooth by the unrelenting gales. It was cold and slick from the rain. “No one wants me there.”

Men-at-arms in the red cloaks of their household guard stood inside, sheltering from the dreadful weather. Tywin ran their faces past his recollection, putting names to each as he glared at them in turn. Ser Harren. Donyllo. Briella. Ser Marreo. Selvin. Young Selvin glanced away as Tywin caught her gaze, her sallow cheeks tinging red. So, you were on watch.

“I dare say your wife would like you to be there.” Kevan pulled the hood of his mantle down and ran a hand through his short, blonde hair. Water dripped from his close-cropped beard.

“Loren knows better than to wish for foolish things.” Tywin made no effort to prevent the trail of water he tracked onto the flagstones. The household guards closed the crimson doors behind them with a boom, and he dismissed them with a flick of his hand. Ser Marreo and Briella took up posts by the door while the others retreated to the guardrooms beyond.

“Don’t tell me you honestly believe she’s safer without you nearby?” Kevan pressed. He put a hand to the limestone column as they ascended the spiral stairs.

“Loren can handle herself.”  Tywin scowled. She couldn’t uncover what they needed to know with him around. The tourney of his grandson Joffrey’s name day had shown the sorry truth of that.

“I’m not suggesting she can’t.”

Tywin paused. “Then what are you suggesting?”

Kevan squared his shoulders, filling out the narrow stairwell. “Ride for King’s Landing. You can still make it.”

Tywin started back up the stairs.  “Loren can handle herself.”

“What about my little nephew? Your son? What about Kevan? You don’t think he wants you to be there on the most important day of his young life?”

Tywin’s jaw moved, but he didn’t speak. When he had left King’s Landing a fortnight past, his young son had asked if he’d make it back in time for his squiring. He’d given the boy a non-answer. His mother needed as much time as he could carve out for her.

“You can still make it,” Kevan insisted. “Ride out now. Ride fast. Send a raven ahead.”

They emerged into what had once been the Casterly’s great hall, long since turned into a solar. It was dominated by four paired limestone fireplaces, protruding proudly from the walls on either far end of the hall. The seaward side comprised seven tall archways with leonine capstones, the middle one twice the size of any of the others. They were shuttered with bloodwood from the Summer Isles now, but on fairer days they provided a view of the sunset sea like no other. Across, a semicircle dais marked where the high table had once been. The earliest Kings of the Rock had carved out the Grand Assembly, and they had moved their court there. Comfortable couches, upholstered chairs and even a claw-footed divan from far Qarth now occupied the place of honour. Among them, distinctly down-sized but equally well-made furniture. An assortment of wooden toys laid spread between them, including a gnarled, flaking dragon whose wings would flap when tugged along on its wheels. It had been a gift from King Aerys Targaryen, many years ago. The dais was flanked by a pride of true-to-life limestone lions. The roaring one had a crimson table runner thrown across its back, like a make-shift saddle.

Overlooking the solar from that fair vantage point hung the life-size portrait of a noble lady resplendent in crimson and gold. Regal and arresting, she sat frozen in time upon a divan just like the one standing before her likeness. Her dress was of luxurious, red damask and edged with ermine, the fine needlework and delicate fur beautifully rendered in paint. A golden pendant, shaped into a stalking lioness with ruby eyes, graced the curve of her pale collar bones. And many rings, crowned with pearl and ruby and a crest of two lions entwined, sat around her long, slender fingers. Her gentle, oval face was framed by hair as burnished gold that fell well past her waist in tender waves. It seemed in paint as silken as it had been in life. Her emerald eyes smiled at him.

Joanna.  Tywin paused in front of it, as he always did. Loren had hung it here, during the Little Winter. ‘It saddens me to think that she can only ever hear our little cubs from her dark bed below,’ she had explained. ‘Now she can see them.’

“Brother?” Kevan’s hand rested on his shoulder. There was a question in his sea-green eyes, but he did not ask it.

Tywin shrugged his touch and turned abruptly from the portrait. It was paint on panel and merely shaped into the likeness of his late wife. It couldn’t see or feel any more than the old tree in the Stone Garden could. He shook his head. A streak of bear-blood ran through the Lannisport cadet branch of his House and, some times, he could feel the breath of the Old Gods roll off Loren like a half-recalled memory of the Long Night. Such as when she spoke of portraits keeping watch over their offspring. He pursed his lips and shook his head. Hrm. No.

“Kevan is the first boy to squire at nine since Aegon the Unlikely,” Tywin said, not without pride. He’d been right to decide his son page with his brother,  for his namesake had taught him well. He ought to have insisted on the same for Joffrey.

“He is eager to become a knight of great renown and live up to his Lord Father’s fame,” Kevan said as they climbed one of the twin stairs flanking the portrait.

Good, Tywin thought. His son would be Hand to a worthy King, one day. He would make it so. The tourney had been the perfect opportunity for Cersei to showcase Joffrey’s qualities to his future realm, but she hadn’t. A frown creased his brow. It wasn’t like her not to preen.

“He reminds me of you, you know, when we were younger,” Kevan added, stirring Tywin from his thoughts.

Tywin’s eyebrows rose, amused. “Does he, now?”

“Mhm. The intensity with which he sets to mastering something new.”

Tywin glanced at his brother from across his shoulder as they ascended the stairs. You don’t exactly lack in tenacity yourself, Kevan, he thought. Kevan had hounded him about King’s Landing for four days now. Genna, too. He wondered when his siblings would resolve to gang up on him.

“You remember that?” It had been a goodly while ago. He’d been twelve, or so. Maester Hrothan was no longer with them. He regretted it now, for Creylen was not nearly as competent. They ought to demand a substitute from the Citadel. Or, perhaps, Loren could winkle Maester Ainsley from Lannisport.  

“You hammered the quintain through the dead of night for a fortnight,” Kevan said as they stepped into a smaller solar, though not less sumptuously furnished than the hall below. A fireplace, its limestone arch fashioned into twin lions, protruded from the oak panelling and dominated the secluded chamber. The dawn crept in through the diamond-paned bay window, filling the room with warm, filtered light that set sparkles to the gold-thread in the red samite hangings. “I dare say we all remember.”

Tywin had met Ainsley on occasion, a diligent man and an expert on the histories of the Westerlands. Tion sorely needed a proper tutor and currently wanted nothing more than to learn the origin and purpose of every pebble and peasant in their fief.

“I am glad it healed well, in the end,” Kevan added.

Tywin crossed the solar and strode into his study, a private office where he might retire and work in peace, undisturbed by courtiers or claimants. He flexed his right arm. “I am still not as proficient dexter as I should like.”

Kevan lingered at the door, his hands behind his back and his gaze on an elegant painting he had beheld a hundred times before. It depicted Lord Tywin, standing stately complacent holding his then 2-year-old son Kevan. Lady Loren stood beside him, a delicate hand in the crook of his elbow. The finely rendered sparkle of amused satisfaction in her soft gaze betrayed that whoever had supervised the painting of her, knew her well. The same could not be said for Casterly Rock. The picturesque landscape behind them evidently meant to depict their family seat but had clearly been rendered by someone who had never seen it.

Tywin made for the cluttered, dark wooden desk dominating his study. He produced a small, bronze key from the pouch concealed at his hip, opened a drawer and took from it a bijou coffer of elegantly carved ivory. Lions danced along its finely worked panels. Before opening it, he glanced up and found his brother diligently studying the painting King Robert Baratheon had gifted him for his 50th name day. Then he pressed the concealed indents on the small strongbox. It opened with a soft click to reveal a lining of faded crimson velvet within. Tywin folded the cloth he had been holding, still damp with rain, and laid it on the velvet pillow. It was threadbare from age and handling, the neatly embroidered heraldic lions having long since lost their gold-thread lustre. The shadow of a smile flitted across his face. Their attitudes had been arranged to make it look as if they mated. After a moment, he snapped the box shut, put it back and locked the drawer.

“A fine gift, this painting,” Kevan said, as ever.

Tywin straightened and pocketed the key. “I am fond of it.”

Only after Tywin had spoken did Kevan turn to him. “Our King is generous.”

Tywin pursed his lips. With my coin.

A girl with thick curly black hair, no older than eight, in the ruby livery of their House, entered with a pitcher of wine. She made a curtsy, holding the pitcher perfectly straight, her pinky lifting free off the handle as she did so. The dainty obeisance made Tywin think of Helaina mimicking her older sister and Queen. “Milords Lannister.”

“Only water,” Tywin said.

Kevan smiled at her. “We would break our fast with warm toast and egg, boiled well, Miana.”

Tywin paused. Joanna liked runny eggs. ‘I want it to bleed when I stick it with my knife,’ she’d joke. Gerion would invariably make a rejoinder unsuited to the dinner table, as to why she preferred her egg so.

“Straight away, milords.” Miana left as swiftly as the full pitcher allowed her, to arrange the command.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Joy’s friend, isn’t she?” Kevan said, ignoring his comment. Tywin suspected his wife had instructed Kevan to hound him over it if need be.

Tywin frowned. Joy was a pale, sallow-faced girl whose light hair was akin to straw more than spun gold. She was his little brother Gerion’s natural daughter. Loren had all but adopted the girl, diligently heeling her into the lady she might have been had his brother bothered to wed first. Tywin had seen the two girls play on occasion. They would go to the stables and braid the manes of every horse in sight, and of every young man that didn’t flee fast enough. “I’ve seen them at play, yes.”

“I wasn’t aware Ser Brynmor had wed,” Kevan said. Miana’s resemblance was more than passing and not purely because of her warm brown skin which seemed to hold the sunshine of the Summer Isles. She had the same, soft, round features. Her small, broad nose and high cheekbones framing bright, intelligent eyes the stormy grey of her father’s.

Tywin’s frown creased with disapproval. “He hasn’t.”

Kevan’s expression fell. “Oh, I see.”

A few years ago, Lord Gawen Westerling had sold the deed to the hamlet of Westerbridge title-and-all to the Royans, in an attempt to bind one of his last remaining banners to him. Like so many things Lord Gawen undertook, it had fallen sorely flat.  Lord Lloyd Royan, the newly minted petty Lord of Westerbridge, had sent his sibling to Casterly Rock faster than a dead-whipped runner boy. He’d charged Ser Brynmor with swearing fealty directly to Lord Tywin himself instead of Lord Gawen. Tywin had accepted and formalised the penny-sized fief. Ser Brynmor had chosen to stay as part of their Household guard.

Tywin entered his bedchambers to find a bath had already been drawn. He had no doubt the temperature of the water would be as he preferred it. The corner of his lips twitched as he entertained the notion of his wife drawing up precise instructions for his siblings and their staff alike before they left.

“Loren noticed when she saw her as a toddler,” Tywin said as he undressed. His wife was prudent in her caution towards strangers. Ser Brynmor had still been a new face among their guard at the time. She had kept the girl at hand, should anything unfortunate occur. Though these days, Miana’s uncle was a fixture among their vassals and her father had been commended by the assiduous Ser Gnaeus.

“You don’t approve of her friendship to Joy?”

Tywin pursed his lips. Even trueborn daughters of their respective Houses would not be friends for much longer. “Not all bastards are begotten equal.”

Tywin reached for the golden bowl and rinsed himself shoulders to toes. The plink of water drops falling from his limbs carried Tywin’s thoughts to the balnea, where bronze pipes brought water up to patter down from the ceiling like salty summer rain. They plinked just so on the warm ceramic tiles of the bathing hall. It was a feat in engineering. Tywin’s grandfather had built it for his Lady Alysanne, who had been of delicate health. It was well-loved by all the women of his family, and plenty of the men besides. After Joanna had… After she had gone, he had not used it in near two decades. Until he’d wed Loren. She loved it there, too.

“They grow fast,” Tywin said as he rinsed himself. Though the water was a pleasant temperature, it failed to soothe the cold that had seeped into his thoughts. “Before long, Kevan will be a knight and a man grown.”

“Aye, time used to seem so slow, didn’t it?” Kevan agreed. “It feels like yester morn that I held my Lancel as a swaddled babe. I remember it so well.”

Tywin did, too. When the twins had been born, Maester Hrothan had given him his little girl. So small and quiet, she’d been. Unmoving as she laid in his arms. Until she took in a breath and came alive, opening her emerald eyes for the very first time to see him. The maesters said life resided fully formed in the seed, but he didn't think so. He had seen life come into his firstborn when he held her. Joanna had said the same about Cersei’s twin. Two children in one, they’d never dared hope. But then his thoughts clouded, and he frowned. Thrice-ten-and-two this year. A knight and a Queen they had become. Yet Cersei hadn’t been herself when they arrived for Joffrey’s name day.

“Kevan will need a suitable match soon.”

Kevan’s voice broke through Tywin’s pensive mood. He focused his gaze on his brother, who held out scrub and cloth. He took them, belatedly. “We have spent some thought on it.”

“Banners?” Kevan said as Tywin had known he would. Tywin had never meant to remarry. He knew there were, and no doubt are, those among his banners who were peeved he wed the daughter of a second cousin, rather than one of theirs.

“Perhaps a Kenning of Kayce, or a Farman of Faircastle,” Kevan suggested. “It can never hurt to strengthen those ties.” His brother was shrewd, for these matches would please Loren too. The two fortresses stood vigilant between the Iron Isles and Lannisport. They formed the first line of defence against the Ironborn.

“A Marbrand,” Tywin said as he cleansed himself. The Marbrands of Ashemark were an ancient and powerful family, and their allegiance went back centuries before Aegon’s conquest. Lady Jeyne, their own Lady Mother, had been a Marbrand. As was Darlessa, the wife of his late brother. “Its been long enough that they’ve suffered our brother as their last tie to us.”

Kevan frowned at his words.  “Longer for the Farmans. And Lady Alysanne is great mother to none of us.”

Tywin pursed his lips. They were not shy for choice. “Has Loren said anything to you on the matter?”

“No, she has not.” Kevan shook his head. “And even if she had, neither of us is served with her feeling she cannot tell me something, you will not hear of too.”

Tywin frowned. He didn’t like the notion of either of them withholding information.

Kevan handed him a heated cloth. “What do you think she would want for your boy?”

“What does every woman want?” Tywin said as he climbed out of the bath and took it. “He’s her firstborn. She’s ambitious. She’ll want a dynastic marriage.”

Kevan stared at him for a long moment. Amusement flitted across Tywin’s face as he dried himself.

“That’s why you came home.”

There were various reasons he’d come home. Tywin frowned and reached for clean garments: a long, black tunic of finely tanned leather with a subtle pattern of lions embossed across the shoulders, and dark braies and chausses to match. Loren needed more time. Cersei hadn’t been herself. Her poise had been fragile, her willingness to demonstrate Joffrey’s capabilities hesitant, and that was nothing like her.

Kevan squinted, though amusement crept onto his round face. “You didn’t accompany Loren so she might mingle at court. True, enquiries such as these are more becoming for women to make.”

“I came home because Tion is too young to stay at court.” Tywin pursed his lips. Too young and too troublesome, for now. It was offensive enough Tyrion had insisted on staying.

Kevan’s expression turned thoughtful. “The Tyrells, the Starks… even the Martells, they all have girls in the right age range. Stannis Baratheon, too.”

“Shireen? Cersei is wed to Robert.” Tywin said as he dressed. He doubted Loren would double up ties. He knew her well enough to know she’d want to forge her own path, iron out a new alliance. To show that she could.

“The Martells? That’ll turn the court on its head.” Kevan’s smile turned wry. “Though not unthinkable.”

No son of mine will be a hostage to Dorne. Tywin fixed his brother a look. “I’d sooner perish.”

Kevan chuckled, though there was no genuine mirth in it. “Oberyn will be happy to oblige, I imagine.”

“The red viper is mad, and welcome to try,” Tywin said. The comment made Kevan frown, but he said nothing about it.

“What about the Starks?” Kevan said instead, shifting the topic away from Dorne. “There’s precedent.”

“Arsa Stark?” Tywin frowned. She’d been sister to Lord Beron Stark and had wed their grandfather, after their grandmother had disappeared. No children had come of it.

“Yes. And Lord Tion was betrothed to one of her brother’s daughters.” Kevan’s expression darkened, for their uncle had broken the betrothal. “Though that ended poorly.”

Tywin shrugged on his tunic. “Poorer for the Reynes.”

“It would be good to re-acquaint those ties,” Kevan said. “The North is a powerful ally in trade, politics and defence against the Ironborn.”

Tywin’s frown deepened. He’d heard that argument before and, at the time, it had made him consider agreeing to wedding Jaime to Lysa Tully or Lyanna Stark. “The Starks never come to court.”

“Which is a shame. Last they came south, they had two fine girls,” Kevan said. “One of them is around Kevan’s age if I am not mistaken. The other is only a little older, though she may already be betrothed.”

Tywin straightened his tunic before fastening his sword belt. “That leaves the Tyrells, and they’re kin through her brother’s wife. Aliyah is sister to Lord Paxter.” Brokken and Aliyah’s eldest daughter, Lynara, had become one of Loren’s ladies-in-waiting the previous year. “Margaery? How old is she now, five-and-ten?”

“I believe so. You think Loren will sue for an older maid?”

Tywin crooked an eyebrow as he finished dressing. “Maybe. Lady Rowenna was twice-ten when she wed Lord Gerald. Loren herself three-and-twenty when she was betrothed to the Greyjoy boy by them.”

“Unhappy unions, both,” Kevan reminded him as he followed Tywin from his bedchamber.

“Indeed.” Tywin crossed his study, back to the small solar. Perhaps not Margaery, then.

“A banner marriage would be wise,” Kevan said as they descended the stairs once more. The sweet scents of toast and sugar drifted up to them.

Tywin’s hand trailed the limestone column, absently counting the terminal rondels as they went. He wondered who Loren would set her sights on. No doubt, he’d hear before long. A smile tugged at his thin lips. They’d argue about it, but he didn’t mind. He hadn’t wed her for her placable nature.

“Unless she can convince you otherwise,” Kevan added as they reached the bottom of the stairs and stepped into the grand solar once more. He turned to Tywin and gave him a searching look. “Can she?”

Tywin pursed his lips, but it could not hide his amusement. “Maybe.”

Warm morning light flooded the erstwhile great hall, revealing flecks of gold in the pride of limestone lions. The one in repose had a crimson table runner thrown across its back like a make-shift saddle. Tywin crooked an eyebrow. It was the roaring lion that was the children's favourite to play knight-of-mine with. It's concave back and scuffed flanks were a testament to its suffering. When Cersei had been little, she would perch sideways on it, brushing her long golden hair and waving daintily at imaginary crowds. Tywin remembered how she had sat sideways on Robert’s warhorse at their wedding, waving just so at the gathered smallfolk, and he almost smiled.

The round, oaken table near the furthest of the archways, and pleasantly close to one set of fireplaces, had been laid. The shutter beside it had been opened, a isinglass pane replacing the red wood. It allowed the soft, orange light of dawn to filter through but kept the rain at bay. The petulant patter against the mica the only sound on this quiet morning. Fresh rushes had been spread, here and their, the last scents of summer trying to chase the damp reek away. Tywin eyed the flaking wooden dragon toy sitting among horses and knights. The mark of a friendship he had thought would last his entire life. Every time he saw it, the urge to throw it out the nearest archway was real. Tion would be inconsolable.

“Have you decided for Lancel?” Tywin took the place he always sat when breaking his fast, his back to the wall and the sea to his right. His nephew would come of age soon.

“No, wish that I had," Kevan admitted as he seated himself on Loren's place, nearest the lions and toys.

“What did Lord Emmerick say?” Tywin studied his brother as Miana poured each of them a glass of water. Had the seat been an idle choice?

“He was civil but ultimately declined.” Lord Emmerick Prester was the widowed Lord of Feastfires, his only child and heir his daughter Alynne. “Dorna was disappointed. The Presters are kin to her through her nephew Jared.”

The Presters are kin, to us, too, Tywin thought. Through Joanna’s mother. Kevan never spoke of her. And so, neither did he.

"Boiled well, milord," Miana said as she moved to serve Kevan.

"No, no," Kevan said and placed his hand across his platter, before indicating Tywin.

The girl flinched but recovered admirably. She swiftly moved around the table towards him. "Apologies, milord."

Tywin inclined his head a fraction. After serving him, she returned to Kevan.

“Lord Emmerick has only one match. No doubt he means to make the most of it,” Tywin said. Whomever wed Alynne would be the next Lord of Feastfires. Tion was only three, but he committed the footnote to memory, regardless.

“Lord Gawen approached me, regarding Jeyne, his eldest daughter.”

Tywin cut his toast in precise squares, revealing the hard-boiled egg inside. It stayed where it’d been put, as it well should.  "Reject him."

Kevan looked up. “Gawen is a good man and the Westerlings have always been loyal to us.”

"And he had a good wife in Rona of Lannisport." Tywin pointed at Kevan with his knife, a square of toast pricked on it. "But no children came of that."

“Lady Sybell was very courteous." Kevan spread his runny egg across his toast. Tywin glanced away from it. ‘I want it to bleed when I stick it!’

"Of course she was courteous," Tywin said as he caught his brother’s gaze. "If she isn't even that, she has nothing at all." House Westerling was not what it had once been, and it had been a poor match for Loren's aunt, even then.

"I said I would give it thought."

“Don’t." Tywin said. "Sybell Spicer is the daughter of a commoner. And any betrothal to those baseborn children of theirs is an insult to the name Lannister." Tywin held his brother's gaze. He wouldn't allow his young children's prospects to be tarnished by a poorly wed cousin.

Kevan glanced away. "I will write them."

"Gawen should never have married her." Tywin pursed his lips. "The Westerlings always did have more honour than sense."

Kevan gave a dejected nod.

Tywin poured Kevan and himself another glass of water. It had been some time since one of them wed a Crakehall. A maternal grandfather of Loren, if memory served him. “Lizl Crakehall, daughter of Ser Tybolt. She’d be a good match for Lancel."

Kevan looked up and smiled. “I shall write them, too.”

Maester Creylen appeared with young Tion at his side. The three-year-old boy never failed to conjure up memories of Tywin’s father, Lord Tytos: short, soft, round, with a head of golden curls and those ever-smiling eyes. Tywin pursed his lips. The boy wore a red samite tunic that reached near his ankles. It was trimmed with soft squirrel because fabric edges bothered him. A fine little belt that matched his small boots gathered it around his waist. His hair was tied into thin helmet braids like his favourite knight, ever willing to let him ride his high shoulders or yeet him into the nearest hay bale, much to Tion's delight.

"Lord Tywin, Ser Kevan," Maester Creylen said with a bow. Creylen was a gaunt young man, a peer to Loren and the twins. A stark contrast with ancient Maester Hrothan.

"Lord Papa, Ser Uncle." Though only three, Tion's speech was clear and precise. And not remotely like the terrifying mess his brother had made of talking until he was nearly five.

"Good morning, Tion," Tywin said as he put his knife down. "How was your lesson?"

"Boring."

Tywin looked at Maester Creylen. "Is that so?"

"He is a smart boy. A very smart boy, my Lord." Maester Creylen clasped his hands and dodged his gaze.

Tywin made a dismissive gesture with two fingers and a flick of his hand. He would speak with Loren regarding Ainsley. "Leave us."

"As you wish, my Lord."

Tion climbed onto the dais and plopped down amid his toys. He picked up the flaking dragon and made it fly around him.

“I am told the Spicers are wealthy but the Crag remains a ruin,” Tywin said, picking up their conversation.

“Deeds to the eastern copper mines have been written while you were away.” Kevan picked up the glass and drank from it. “Envoys are en-route to pledge fealty.”

“Who were they sold to?” Tywin said as he resumed eating his breakfast. The copper mines were some of House Westerling's oldest and most profitable holdings.

“Ser Teron Worting,” Kevan said. “And Dame Miriam Hill, now of House Worting of Silverbrook.”

"Daughter of Ser Gerrit Closter, is she not?" Tywin shook his head. The old tourney knight had too many children and none of them by his wife.

“Aye, one of the elder ones, I think.”

“The northern shores are splintering among a dozen petty Lords while the Crag lays a ruin.” Tywin scowled. Something had to be done. And soon. “They’ll squabble before long, and the moment they do the ironborn will stir. Those sea rats smell weakness like a shark does blood in a pond.”

“One of them will prevail over the others,” Kevan said. “And if not, a cadet branch could marshal them.”

Tywin frowned. Little Tygett would have been the right age in a few short years. “It’ll be two-and-ten long years before Tion is old enough.”

“You have another son.”

Tywin's scowl deepened. And none did ever let him forget it for very long.

“Why not give this task to Tyrion? Let him stand on his own two feet.”

Tywin looked up to find his brother studying him. There was tension in his shoulders.

“Perhaps.” Tyrion was cunning enough, Tywin didn’t doubt that. He frowned as he observed his brother. Loren had suggested something rather similar, not too long ago.

“If little Kevan is to be the one to follow in your footsteps, you will need his older brother settled before long.” Kevan choose his words carefully. “He may be younger than the twins but not by that much, and not for very long. He’s five-and-twenty, its not too belated to wed yet.”

“It’s past time.” Tywin rubbed his fingers past his lips, considering it. But to who? Perhaps Loren had an idea. It was as his brother had said: enquiries such as these were easier for women to make. Kevan shifted in his seat, drawing Tywin’s attention. What are you two up to?

"Lord Papa?" Tion stood beside him, that benighted dragon under his arm.

"Yes, Tion?" Tywin said.

Tion reached out his small arms to him, dragon-and-all. Tywin shifted his chair back and picked the boy up, sitting him on his lap. "Are you hungry?"

Tion eyed his father's near finished breakfast. There were still some choice bits left.

"Do you want the yolk?"

Tion turned away from the table, his nose against his father's tunic. His eyes never left the plate, though.

"Here," Tywin said as he picked up his knife and pricked a bit of the hardboiled yolk to it and held it near his boy's lips.

Tion took the bite, smacking a little and snuggling closer against him. Tywin shifted, removing the dragon’s wooden wing from between his ribs. Tion’s grip on it tightened as soon as he touched it and Tywin ground his teeth as the thing was squeezed against his side once more.

"Studying is hungry work," Kevan said.

“Indeed.” Tywin pricked another morsel on his knife and fed it to Tion.

Kevan smiled as he watched the boy, then turned to Tywin. “Castamere could be rebuild and used as a cadet seat, it’s stood empty—”

“And so it will remain,” Tywin interrupted. Castamere served a purpose and it would remain as it was: a shell of the proud fortress it had been.

“The woodlands surrounding it could provide the boost in charcoal we need,” Kevan pointed out. “And the silver mines may not be depleted even if the gold mines are.”

“They are, they loaned heavily from our Father.”

“Debts he always cleared. They lend because they could, we don’t know that they needed to.”

Tywin’s frown creased deeper.  

“Tailyn wishes to lead a prospecting expedition to the old mines.” Kevan laced his fingers. “She is confident that if there’s still silver there, she can find it.”

“Out of the question.” Castamere had stood crumbling for soon twice-twenty years. For all they knew what was left of it would collapse as soon as it was disturbed.

"Can I see the mines?" Tion sat up, putting his dragon on his own lap. He was a curious boy, and an intelligent one too. He already knew his letters.

"Absolutely not."

Tion looked up at his father, his bottom lip trembling.

Tywin crooked an eyebrow.

Tion scowled. "Down."

Tywin obliged and put his son back down on the ground. Having finished their breakfast, Kevan and he rose as well and moved to the dais.

“She’s very adamant that there might be silver yet,” Kevan said.

“Loren's sister is adamant about everything.” Tywin sat down on the divan beneath Joanna's portrait. Tailyn was as stubborn as she was skilled. He frowned. She’d been skipping dinner of late, taking her food with to the forges. So, that was what she was up to.

“She seemed certain, Tywin.” Kevan sat in a chair at his side and leaned forward as he spoke.

“You’re fond of her.” Tywin followed Tion from the corner of his eyes as the boy moved around the solar. He knew Kevan was wont to humour Tailyn's outlandish ideas. It made him suspect his brother missed having a daughter to dote on.

“As are you of Loren. Does that cloud your ability to gauge the merit of her words?”

Tywin’s scowl returned. Think carefully before you go there, brother.

Kevan sighed in response.

They sat in silence, for a while, watching the boy play.

“I go outside,” Tion announced.

“No, you will not,” Tywin said.

Tion turned, regarding his father. He took a step towards the shuttered archways.

Tywin’s eyes widened in warning.

Little Tion pouted, a crease wrinkling his button nose and his small chin jutting forward as he squinted at his father in defiance.

“No.”

Tion's bottom lip trembled but this time, it was real. Tywin could tell. "The weather is poor, you'll be swept off the balcony."

The fascinated look the boy gave the shutters was precisely the opposite of Tywin's intent. "Come here, " he said, beckoning him.

Tion picked up his dragon, and a lion for good measure, before going to his father. "For you, " he said as he held out the lion.

"Thank you, Tion." Tywin accepted the lion, which had once been a stair baluster top. Its gilding had long since flaked and it's garnet eyes had been removed for safety.

“Up?” Tion stretched out his arms.

“You’re a big boy, come climb on here yourself,” Tywin said. The divan was low enough. Tion scowled, his little nose wrinkling. Then threw the toy-shaped block of wood into his father's lap.

“Tion.” Tywin scowled as the dragon struck him square in the stomach.

“King Dragon is bad at flying,” Tion said before clambering onto the couch.

Tywin could scarcely wait for the day Tion would bore of the toy. He’d have it fly right out the window.

Tion snuggled against him, the dragon lodged between them. Tywin picked up the lion. It had less pointy parts. He shifted, intending to swap it with the dragon. However, as soon as he placed it between them, Tion latched onto it. The boy wrapped his arms around the wooden toys and curled closer, now nestling both hard objects into his father's ribs. Tywin sighed. It wasn't worth the tantrum. He was still so small, even though he sounded wise. He had risen very early for his lesson about the night sky and it had disappointed him, which angered Tywin. His bright little boy deserved the best tutor they could find.

"You can still make it in time, " Kevan said.

Tywin glanced up.

"To King's Landing, " Kevan added.

"Yes."

Tywin’s thoughts drifted back to the tourney. His daughter was scheming, he could tell. He’d always been able to tell. What are you up to, Cersei, he thought, for the first time in a long while.

Kevan smiled and nodded. “Good. I am glad.”

The rain pattered against the isinglass as the morning light crept across the solar. Tion's eyelids fluttered. He tethered on the edge of sleep, his thumb in his mouth and faint suckling noises escaping him. Can you see them? Tywin's gaze found Joanna's face, her emerald eyes smiling at him. He is as clever as his mother. Only three and he already knows his letters. Tywin stroke Tion’s curls, golden as the sun in the filtered morning light. Loren is proud of him. I am, too.  He gathered the dozing boy closer and hummed the dulcet tones of a song he’d once danced to. Its words came to him despite himself, and he sang them softly to his sleeping son: “I loved a maid as fair as summer, with sunshine in her hair.”

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[vegetacide]

Whump●tober - Embracing Recovery

Veg-notables: Well it was a month in coming but i have finally drawn this whole thing to a close. It’s been quite the trip and the learning experience to boot. Somehow it all wrapped up in a nice tidy package encompassing several story lines into one world completely by accident by there you have it.  Something just happen that way.  

Many thanks to all those that jumped on this month long whump ride with me and many, many thanks to  @gumnut-logic for putting up with me none stop pretty much for the whole duration.  Your guidance and support has been very, very much appreciated.. And the mountain loads of candied ammo that was lobbed in my direction.  I think I might have a cavity now… 

Obligatory whumptober stuff: @whumptober2019 @la-vie-en-whump

Blanket warning:  Revelations, hurt, comfort and a resolution of sorts. 

Characters: Virgil, Scott, with a dash of Kayo, Gordon and Alan.  V/K

Whumptober - TaG’verse

Part 1 Unconscious | Part 2 Shaky Hands | Part 3 Stitches | Part 4 “Don’t move”

30. Recovery & 31. Embrace

Enjoy…

oOo

The moment Virgil stepped foot into the lounge he could feel Scott’s eyes on him and he resisted the urge to roll his own.  

“I’m fine, Scott.”  He said on reflex as he crossed the space on his way to the stairs.  He needed coffee stat and nothing was going to distract him from his goal. 

Scott came around the desk,  eyes narrowing on Virgil’s face as he headed towards him.  

Virgil was well aware of what he looked like and how he felt, thank you very much.  He was fresh from a shower, clean shaven and feeling for the first time in a while, well rested. The fact he required coffee to function on any given morning was nothing new and something that decidedly didn’t warranted the frown that was brewing on his brother’s face. 

“You’re squinting.” 

Now he did roll his eyes and he didn’t care if Scott saw it or not.  Turning he trotted down the stairs, Scott hot on his heels.

“Scott,  I’m okay. Stop worrying.”  Virgil b-lined it for the coffee pot, one though in mind.  Most obtain caffeine…

His brother’s hand landed on his shoulder, preventing him from reaching his target just feet from his destination. 

“This is really getting a bit much, Scott.”  He grumbled and cursed at himself internally for not taking the elevator all the way down the kitchen.  Why oh why had he thought that stopping at the lounge on the way was a good idea?  Hind sight and all that jazz was bullshit. 

“Are you sure?”  His brother’s voice sounded worried. 

“Yes,  it’s just the usual aftermath.  Nothing new there,  I am always a bit light sensitive for a few days after a migraine,  you know this.”  Virgil slipped out from under his brother’s grasp, stepped past him and snagged his favourite mug out of the cupboard.  

“Any double vision? Blurriness?” Came the expected rapid fire questions as he stalked after him to the coffee pot.  

Virgil sighed and didn’t answer right away and concentrated on pouring the aromatic brew.  Let his brother stew for a moment,  served him right for the mother hen and interrogation routine.   

After their lovely discussion the previous morning, Virgil had retreated to his room again, only venturing out around sunset in order to obtain some much needed sustenance and to watch Kayo do her ninja thing on the pool deck.  

Thankfully he’d managed to avoid Scott as he had been called away from the island and he’d only had to deal with his very perceptive Grandmother.  

That had been an interesting exchange and not one he wished to repeat any time soon. He needed time to wrap his head around things, sort out his emotions and if that meant doing everything in his power to be on the opposite side of the island from everyone else.. So be it. 

Except there was his very real need for coffee and due to that vice he had risked the trip down from his room.   It was apparently evident that Lady Luck was so not in his corner this fine morning.

Satisfied that his cup had reached its maximum capacity,  he lifted it to his lips and took his first sip of the day.   

Scolding, hot and deliciously rich, the flavour flowed over his taste buds and sung the song of the caffeine addicted.  A thrum of ecstasy fired up his neurons and the pleasure centre of his brain lit up like a Christmas tree.  Oh sweet Baby Jeebus, he bit back on the joyful moan as his need was finally sated. 

Then his brother’s tapping foot finally registered.    

Drawing in a breathe to anchor is growing antipathy,  he finally graced his overly anxious sibling with an answer.  “No double vision or blurriness.  Like I said, I’m fine. Let it go, Scott.” 

His brother’s arms crossed over his chest, eyes still inspecting.  Searching for any sign of deceit in his answer.  

The trust they shared had been rocked and Virgil was well aware that this was the price of his actions.  Something he was going to have to learn to deal with but right now… there was coffee..

Sipping away quietly for a few minutes, he let his brother continue staring at him, assessing the minutia of his movements and facial expression with a bored air of one well used to an over protective big brother filling in the very large shoes of their Father.  

His patience lasted a lot longer than he thought it would.

“You look tired still, you get enough sleep? “  

That did it,  patience quota reached. Completely maxed out.  

“Jesus… Scott. Stop it. I’m fine.” Putting his mug down with a little more force than he intended he marked off points on his fingers.  “I have slept, done pretty much nothing but since I crashed out in Two.   I have eaten enough food to satiate a small army.   I am more hydrated than even the Fish right now and that is saying something considering he basically lives in the pool.  There is no pain and my vision is fine. “

His brother looked like he was about to say something but Virgil put up a hand to stop him.  

“No.” He sighed, hands on his hips as his head dropped down.  Closing his eyes, he counted to ten to reign in his ire.   

“Look,  Scott…”  He started,  stalled out. Gave his doubt the middle finger and plowed on.  “Globalmax was over a year ago and you can stop hovering now, I’m not going to break. Sure I get the odd migraine but that’s it. Pack it in, let it go

Scott’s face shifted,  darkened.  Eyes narrowed, he poked a finger into Virgil’s face.   “That’s rich coming from you.”

“What…?” Confused all to hell at the change in his brother, Virgil’s brow furrowed. 

“Kind of the pot calling the kettle black isn’t it?”

“I have no idea what you are talking about.” 

“Bullshit,”  Scott’s temper flared and it had Virgil adjusting his stance to square off against the gale force that had surged into the kitchen. “You telling me to let it go when you can’t do the same.  You act like I haven’t clued into what you’ve been doing the last few weeks ever since I put Gordon back on active duty.”

Virgil’s face blanched, his defenses suddenly evaporating in the face of Scott’s accusation and he stood dumbfounded.

“I…”

“You what?” Scott stepped up to him,  all righteous anger and indignation but Virgil didn’t know how to respond.  Caught off guard by his brother’s fury and being found out so easily, words completely abandoned him.  

Scott seemed to catch himself and forced himself to step off, to back up.  Temper radiated out of him in waves but he clamped his control down hard on it and closed off as he reeled himself in.  

“Ya, just like I thought.  You can preach to me about letting things go but I sent you in to that plant. I was the one that put you in harm’s way and we came damn close to losing you.  Almost did had it not been for a fleet of stubborn ass doctors set on keeping your heart going.”

His voice hitched at the end and he had to put some physical distance between them,  long legs taking him across the kitchen around the table and back again. 

He paced a few more steps and stopped,  the counter between them.  “Just like you did sending Gordon in after Braman at the Calypso crash site. 

The words hung like a stinking carcass in the air and Virgil’s chest heaved, breathing in the hot, foul stench of it. 

Pulse kicking he tried to come up with excuses, tried to think around what Scott had tossed to callously in front of him but he couldn’t see a way around it.  There was no avoiding it when it was strung up with flashing lights right in front of your face like some damn garish marquee sign at a theatre.  

“You..you don’t understand.”

"Try it,  make me understand.”  Scott’s voice grew soft though his posture still screamed unrestrained agitation. 

Virgil drew in a breath, thought a moment,   blew back out again as his mind tossed out and rejected several responses. Finally he settled on one. “He’s my co-pilot.”  As if that should be answer enough.   

Like those three words could explain the whole of it.  That Gordon was more than a passenger along for a ride in Two.  He was his partner on missions,   his back up when he was unable to take the controls himself,  his goofy baby brother,  his responsibility… 

Virgil had been well aware of the dangers out here,  all those feet below the ocean surface under all that atmospheric pressure of millions and millions of gallons of water but he’d still let him go.  Even with the nagging feeling in the back of his head that something didn’t feel right but they were International Rescue so they did what their Father’s legacy dictated.  

Even if just for a machine,  an automaton that had been broadcasting on all their frequencies for hours on end.  He let his baby brother go,  and he’d nearly ended up dead. 

Left to die at the bottom of the ocean, crushed beneath a mountain of a crumbled volcanic stack like his life meant nothing. Like he was just an irritant that needed to be swatted away and was done so carelessly and with such disregard for everything their family stood for.  Everything they had spent the better part of their adult lives striving to achieve.   

Hovering above the ocean waiting for some news, seeing the broken body sprawled unmoving across a med-bay gurney had torn a hole through Virgil that he hadn’t been able to fill in all the time since.   An aching pit of guilt and despair that he had thought he could handle,  hide away in some dark corner of his mind.

It had only grown and festered, like an untreated wound.  Kept him up at night with visions of alternate outcomes. Of vaguely remember funerals,  caskets draped in white flowers and the somber words. 

Kayo had clicked into the fact that something was wrong months ago maybe Scott had too. The concerned etched on his face now mirrored her own every time he looked at her but he hadn’t been able to bring himself to burden them with this.  So to throw Kayo off the trail he’d tossed something else at her feet. Hoping that it would be enough to waylay her.

The message from Bramen about their Father being alive. He hadn’t lied to her about his feelings but he hadn’t supplied her with the whole of it. The omission hadn’t been easy and the guilt of that had compounded all the rest, but he had stood firm in visage even though he was crumbling just like that stack on the inside. 

As for Scott,   he’d just closed himself off.  Withdrawn and buried himself in work and good intentions   

The stim-tabs had come in handy and as he looked down at his trembling hand he knew, he’d gone way too far with it.  All Scott had to do was look back through all of Two’s records to see how far he’d fallen. 

Scott had a right to be concerned and Kayo had a right to her tears.  

Clenching his fist, he forced himself to answer no matter how painful it was. “He should never have been down there on his own.  I should have gone with him.” 

“So you could do what exactly?”  Scott moved, settled on a stool at the counter, in for the long haul if that was what it was going to take. “Gordon knows what he’s doing better than any of us.  He was WASP.  He has more qualification for underwater rescue than all of us combined.  He is always aware of the dangers every time he heads out there but he accepts it.

Scoot looked to the counter,  his fingers playing through the cooling puddle of coffee left there by Virgil’s careless handling.   “You can’t stop him from going out there, Virg... “  His words stopped short as the sounds of voices and stomping feet came thundering down the stairs.

Inane chatter about some video game or another bounced around the lofty ceiling and abruptly came to a halt when the aquanaut in question came up short at the end of the flight, Alan nearly running into the back of him.

“The fuck, Gordon?  Why’d you sto….?”  Alan’s inquiry drifted off as he took in the open air kitchen and instantly picked up on the heaviness that clogged the space.

“What’s up?”  Gordon asked as two pair of serious eyes turned his way.  One carrying more worry and guilt then it appeared  Gordon cared for and the other, frustration at whatever was going on being interrupted.  His own gaze darted back and forth between his older siblings with some trepidation.  “Who died?” 

Virgil turned away,  walked over to the  large, open patio and leaned his bulk against the thick clear blast door where it nested by its stationary counterpart. 

Scott sighed,  and Virgil pictured him standing with his hands braced on his hips and his head shaking back and forth is annoyance"Gordon.."

"What?"He asked completely oblivious to what his words had invoked. 

Virgil listened to the exchange behind him with only half an ear and watched the play of light across the rippling water of the pool.  

Gordon's oblivion question had been more  poignant they he knew his brother had meant.  It had struck the chord of the conversation and the image of his still, unresponsive body in Two echoed through his mind with a clarity that made Virgil shudder. 

It was early in the day still so the oppressive heat this time of year usually drummed up hadn't yet settled over the island yet.  

There was a breeze whispering through the fronds of the palms and rustling the long strands of ornamental grasses that boarded the patio in quaint little arrangements that Virgil knew his Father had installed as homage to the woman who so loved to garden when they were little.  

The cadence of the conversation behind changed and his pushed his focus back inside to the room as Gordon's voice rose.  

"Oh well..it looks like the adults are talking so we better run off and play like good little boys." 

"Gordon,. That's not what I meant.". 

"Than what did you mean?" He demanded facing off with Scott glare for glare.  

When Scott failed to answer, the currently land bound human-fish bristled and turned his sights on Virgil.  

Virgil’s mouth gaped a moment as he floundered but he didn't get a chance to respond as Kayo appeared at his elbow, her hand resting a moment on the base of his spine in a gesture of support before she slipped around him and over to Gordon.  

Her voice was pitched in such a way that they could all hear her words.  "I just got word that Lady P in inbound. Should be here soon."

Gordon’s attention was instantaneously redirected. “Penny’s coming here?”

Kay nodded, “About ten minutes out. Sad something about a reef project she is working on.”

“Ya,  she mentioned that to me last week.  I didn’t think they would move so fast on it..”  

The distraction work and in short order Gordon was back up the stairs and out of the room. 

Alan remained behind, gaze ping ponging between all those gathered in the familiar space.  A little lost as to what to do and where to go now that Gordon was off chasing after her Ladyship.   “Sooooooo…?”  He ventured.  

Kayo took pity on him,  grabbed a bag of oatmeal cookies from the pantry and gave the pair of them a look,  her eyes lingering on Virgil as she turned and walked back over to Alan.  “Hey, why don’t you show me that new Zombie game you’ve been going on about?”

Alan blinked,  shifted awkwardly on his feet as he absorbed the rising tension in the room again and was unsure what to do about it.  It was obvious from his pinched expression that he was well aware that things were far from alright between his two biggest brothers. 

“Everything okay?”  He asked instead as Kayo came up to him.  

She glanced back at Virgil as if she was interested in the answer to the question as well.  

Virgil’s large chest expanded on an inhalation before he took the reins.  “It’s cool, Alan.  Don’t worry about it.” 

Alan didn’t look convinced and neither did Kayo but she nodded in return.  

There would be words later, Virgil knew but for now she would back off and leave them to sort themselves out.  

“If you say so…” And the pair of them disappeared up the stairs. 

The kitchen grew quiet with their absence, the only sound that of the wind through the palms and a few wild birds that called the island home. 

“Listen,”  Scott was the first to break the stillness and Virgil peered back over his shoulder so Scott knew he was doing just that. “All I am saying is that I understand where you are coming from.  I’ve been there.  Am there, every day.  Every time a call comes in and I have to send one of you out there to do the impossible because it seems like no one else can, I’m right there where you are now.  I have to live with that. Remind myself that not only did I pick this life but you all did too.  You know the risks,  just trust that they know the risks too and remember that you are not alone.  

He came up to Virgil bumped his shoulder against his companionably.  “And if things ever get too hard, too much there are those on this island that are more than willing to help and if not here,”  His head inclined towards the ocean, towards the world at large,  “There are plenty of people out there that owe us a few things and would jump at the chance to return the favour.“

Virgil absorbed what was being offered and finally for the first time in days, months really the weight on his shoulders lifted.   

He chuckled slightly as a thought came to mind and just like that the tension was gone,  the animosity and outrage and all the negative crap that went along with it up and left.

“What?”  Scott asked a quizzical look popping his brow up in confusion,

“How in the hell do you put up with all of this?  All of us?” 

Scott grinned back, the devil in his smile.  “Dad’s private stash of Scotch… lots of Scotch.”

The sun was shifting outside as it made its way across the sky and a spear of light bounced off the pool which made Virgil blink, that fact that nothing speared into his brain with the flash of light didn’t go unnoticed by him.  Time took care of all things and it seemed the worst of everything had come to pass.  

The band-aid holding everything back had been torn off, the wound free to breathe and hopefully to heal now that all those party to it existence had lanced it of the festering poison that was rotting away at its core. 

The disinfectant that family supplied, was to be applied liberally and eventually all that would be left was a fading scar and life would go on.

His smile widened and grew broader as the future finally started to look brighter and he slung an arm over Scott’s shoulder, pulling him in for an unexpected hug which his brother reciprocated wholeheartedly.  

“It might be early but somewhere in the world it’s not.  Let’s go find that scotch.”  

oOo

The End.

The Master List of prompts can be found HERE

[alienduckpond]

Back in town - ch1 - Good Day

First of the 9 part childhood friend AU between Arlo and the builder I did for @nerdnag‘s birthday.

Slightly wtf-ish in places, but only because I followed canon logic. Also up on AO3 if that’s easier for anyone to follow, as it’ll be updated at the same time

-~-

When Arlo was younger he was friends with a sweet little girl who followed him everywhere, and copied everything he did. But after her Ma died her Pa took her away, and he hasn’t seen her for nearly twelve years. He still remembers her fondly, and wonders what she’s up to sometimes.

Until the day he runs into her at the Commerce Guild.

-~-

Arlo whistled happily as he left Gale's office and turned towards the Commerce Guild. Today was going to be a good day, he could feel it. He wasn't entirely sure why, but there was something about the way the sunlight made the spray from the fountain sparkle, and the fresh smell of Spring swirling around him on the warm breeze, that was making him feel more energetic and positive than usual.

He sidestepped around Higgins, walking down the steps engrossed in a commission with a smug smile on his lips. Which was strange, since Arlo was almost certain he'd seen him take one that morning already. But no matter, he could ask Presley after he'd dropped off this new one from Gale. He jogged up the stairs with a bounce in his step and decided at the top, screw it.

Lifting his foot, he kicked out at that sweet spot where the doors met, bursting them both open so they swung inwards and crashed into the walls. He didn't allow himself to do it too often, but it always felt so good when he did.

“Hey Pres, I’ve got a job for ya!”

He zeroed in on Presley and a young woman standing next to the main desk. Presley was perking up, going from disappointed to considering, and the women…

She wasn't anyone from Portia, and she wasn't dressed like a tourist. Thick mousy brown hair was escaping the ponytail that hung down her back and swung round her hips from where she'd spun around, and a fringe that she was lifting off her face to reveal surprised bright green eyes over a stubby nose that was peeling from a sunburn. A thin white scar along her cheekbone and going back into her hair that stood out against her lightly tanned skin. She wore a long floaty cardigan, the sleeves pushed up to her elbows over a tie dye t-shirt and loose jeans, which were rolled at the bottom to reveal mud splattered boots. And were hitched up with an oversized builders belt.

His eyes went back to the scar on her cheek, focusing on it. It was strangely familiar for some reason.

“Or not,” Presley muttered to the woman. “Gaby, this is the leader of Portia’s Civil Corps, Arlo. Arlo, this is--”

“Alolo!” she suddenly screamed, throwing herself forward at him, her arms lifting up to wrap around his neck. He let out a soft ouph as her face collided with his shoulder, and his hands landed on her waist to hold her steady as she giggled and jumped, her feet leaving the floor as she hung off him. 

“Alolo?” he spluttered, his hands on her sides firming to both support her, and push her away, before he froze, gears in his head turning. Alolo, that scar, Gaby… Gabriella? 

“Wait, Ella?!”

She pulled back, her hands linking behind his head as she let herself back down, beaming up at him with a now familiar toothy smile, her eyes crinkling up as she made a happy sound.

“Hi there Burny Boy,” she said with a wink, and he started to laugh before his arms wrapped around her tight and he lifted her back off the floor, spinning her round in a circle and making her shriek with surprise.

“Ella!” he shouted in her ear, unable to stop himself. “Oh wow, it’s been forever! What are you doing here, when did you get here and how long are you staying?”

She clutched at the back of his shoulders as he spun her around again, kicking her feet up behind her as she giggled happily.

“Oooh, down now, before I hurl,” she told him when he'd spun them again, and he immediately dropped her to her feet, keeping his arms around her as she wobbled. “Oooooh,” she groaned, lifting one hand to her head and gripping his arm with the other. He tightened his hold on her, helping hold her still as he looked her over again now he knew who she was.

His head filled with memories of her. Playing with her as a baby on his living room carpet while their Ma’s chatted over tea and coffee. Her being sniffly and curling up in his lap with her blanket and a book, wanting him to read her a nap time story. Her arms around his neck as she climbed up his back, demanding he play horsey through giggles. Her sparkling eyes looking up at him from under a messily self cut fringe, covered in dirt as she desperately tried to follow him everywhere, despite the eight years and massive height difference between them.

He lifted his thumb to her cheek, running it over the scar. He remembered the day she got it like it was yesterday.  Her stubby three year old legs trying to keep up with him as they walked to the apple trees by the tree farm. He'd let go of her hand for only a second to retie his laces, but it'd been long enough for her to trip over nothing and fall face first into a pile of rocks. 

He’d been more upset than she was as he carried her home, trying to soothe her as she demanded they go get her the apples he’d promised. Her Ma had just sighed, and bundled them both up in a blanket while she cleaned Ella's head.

“I got here yesterday, and I guess I’m going to be here a while,” she chirped happily, drawing him from his memories and tilting her head back towards Presley. “Pa left me his workshop, and Presley already gave me my builder tests, and I just got my workshop registered with Mayor Gale like, half an hour ago. So I am officially Portia’s newest builder.”

Her grin stretched even wider as Arlo looked down at her, and a feeling like warm pride filled his chest. His little Ella was all grown up now, and making her way in the world. But he was knocked out of the moment by a chuckle from behind her.

“Aaaah, I remember now, you two were close before she left, weren’t you?”

Arlo looked over her head towards Presley, feeling what he knew was a sheepish grin spread across his face. 

“Just a bit," he acknowledged before looking back down at her. "But you never wrote to tell me where you were. I always wondered what happened to you.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, sliding her hands forward to squish his cheeks between them. He let his lips pout out, like she'd always found amusing, and was rewarded with a snort of laughter. “Pa dragged me here there and everywhere for a few months, then left me with Aunty Kendra in Barnarock. And then I was so busy being signed up for stuff to make up for all the learning I’d missed, that I never had time to write. And then it felt like it’d been too long, and you wouldn’t even remember or have time for me.”

She trailed off with a sigh, then ducked her head and bit her lip when he looked at her.

“You were stuck to my side practically every day for seven years, and you thought I’d forget you after a few months?"

She shrugged, blowing a questioning raspberry at him, then giggled as he pulled her close again and held her tight. She moved her hands back around his neck and hummed happily into his shoulder as he threw familiar insults at her.

“Numpty. Snaillob slimed and Panbat brained numpty.”

“Yeah yeah Lolo, I missed you too,” she said sweetly as she pulled back, sliding her hands down to his elbows and gently pushing him away.  

“You were saying something about a job when you kicked the doors in like a hooligan?” she prompted him, and he made a small noise as he let go of her in turn, looking around and spotting the commission sheet on the floor, dropping down to grab it. He handed it to Presley before eyeing her speculatively.

“The Mayor wants to rebuild the bridge to Amber Island. Thinks it’ll be good for the tourists, with the Haunted Cave and all.”

“I remember your Pa built a few bridges during his time here Gaby, so the diagrams should be in his old Workshop Handbook. The job’s a little bigger than the one I had saved for you, but what do you say, want to give this a shot?”

“I surely do Presley. Sounds like it'll be fun.”

“Wait. Do you not go by Ella anymore?” Arlo asked, starting to frown. She blinked up at him a few times, clearly confused, nose wrinkling and a furrow appearing between her brows. But it quickly smoothed away again to be replaced by her bright smile as she shook her head, moving next to him and grabbing his arm to hug.

“Eh, I didn’t like hearing it from other people. Made me miss you and your Ma too much. So since you’re here, I’m kinda looking forward to hearing it again.”

He huffed a laugh at her wide eyes and stuck out lip, and reached up to pat her on the top of her head, just like he always used to.

“Understood. C’mon, how about I buy you lunch, and we can catch up? And then I should have time to help you go through your Pa’s things and work out what you need for this bridge.”

“I’ll never say no to a free lunch,” she said, perking up and bouncing on her toes. She smiled brightly at Presley as she took the commission sheet he was holding out to her. “Thanks for everything Presley, it was nice to see you again.”

“Always a pleasure Gaby. Let me know if you need any help, anything at all.”

He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and led her outside into the sunlight, lifting a hand to shield his eyes. Yes. Today was a very good day indeed.

-~-

2 - Different Feelings