#frame is from some old ladies room who may or may not be dead vague but the photo is a few years old

[wastedpurity]

She lives inside three o’clock sunshowers

[renegadewangs]

Van Zieks - the Examination, part 4

Warnings: SPOILERS for The Great Ace Attorney: Chronicles. Additional warning for racist sentiments uttered by fictional characters (and screencaps to show these sentiments).

Disclaimer: (see  Part 1 for the more detailed disclaimer.) - These posts are not meant to be taken as fact. Everything I’m outlining stems from my own views and experiences. If you believe that I’ve missed or misinterpreted something, please let me know so I can edit the post accordingly. -The purpose of these posts is an analysis, nothing more. Please do not come into these posts expecting me to either defend Barok van Zieks from haters, nor expecting me to encourage the hatred. - I’m using the Western release of The Great Ace Attorney Chronicles for these posts, but may refer to the original Japanese dialogue of Dai Gyakuten Saiban if needed to compare what’s said. This also means I’m using the localized names and localized romanization of the names to stay consistent. -It doesn’t matter one bit to me whether you like Barok van Zieks or dislike him. However, I will ask that everyone who comments refrains from attacking real, actual people.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

It’s time to take a close look at Episode 2 of the second game, The Memoirs of the Clouded Kokoro!

Episode 2-2: The Memoirs of the Clouded Kokoro

Remember how in the last episode we vaguely got Barok on our side near the end of the trial by proving Mrs. Garrideb was actually involved in the crime? … Yeah. Forget that progress. It's being undone. Case 2-2 is the first case of the second game which features Barok, which unfortunately means he needs to be 'reintroduced' to the audience and it takes him back several steps in his growth. It makes sense, I suppose, it would've been weird starting a new game with him already being lightly on Ryu's side. Even so, it's a bit insulting how this case acts as if the chronologically previous one accomplished nothing.

So anyway, this case flashbacks to something which supposedly happened right after the first game's fourth case. The day after Soseki's acquittal, even. Turns out, Soseki awoke to find one of the other tenants in his building dead and asked Ryu for help, but (S)Holmes tagged along. Gregson is at the crime scene, keeping an eye on the place and on Soseki in particular since he's suspicious. (Sure, Gregson. Sure. Has nothing to do with the Reaper's curse, probably.) After some investigation with (S)Holmes, Gregson has enough evidence to actually arrest Soseki, which definitely feels like a step backwards. A bit later, it turns out the victim is Not Actually Dead Yet. Again! The Great Ace Attorney really enjoys throwing us for a loop by pretending we're in for another murder case.

Anyway, during the course of the investigation, I found two mentions of Van Zieks. The first is when you investigate the broken glasses and bottles in the victim's room. Susato is immediately reminded of Lord van Zieks.

And when examining Garrideb's old army uniform, Susato points out it might suit Lord van Zieks.

Haha, as if his usual outfit isn't ostentatious enough already. So we learn that Susato doesn't have a very high opinion of him at all, and I should hope it's not still related to that time he called detective novels pathetic. It's fun of them to refer to him in an investigation that he's not involved in in any way, especially when they don't know yet that he's the prosecution again.

Speaking to Soseki in the gaol, we're once again told that he's had a dreadful time in England so far. He sees foreigners everywhere and he's sure they're all laughing at him. He's been so on edge the past year that he's moved 'more times than he can remember'. So once again, we're reminded that racial prejudice in 1900s England is a focal point of this game's story. Once the conversation is over, Gregson appears to let the gang know that the victim has regained consciousness and is accusing Soseki of poisoning him. We're going to trial for an attempted murder charge, y'all!

The next day, in the defendant's lobby, Susato comes bursting in with the dreadful news that Barok van Zieks has once again taken on the prosecution. It's definitely safe to assume now that either Ryu or Soseki is the reason he's taking on these not-really-murder trials when he normally wouldn't. As I mentioned before, this is his reintroduction in the second game and so the game feels compelled to remind the player of what went down in case 1-4:

He sure did! The game also once again reminds us what the Reaper's Curse entails, and that perhaps that's the reason why Soseki is on trial yet again. He's doomed, perhaps. Susato also informs us that (S)Holmes is running late, just as he was two days ago, and Ryu thinks that's a good thing because if the Great Detective were there, Ryu might come to rely on his help.

… I suppose? He already relies on Susato for help and I feel like that would warrant far more 'preying' from Van Zieks than relying on a male, adult British detective for help. Though knowing (S)Holmes, he'd end up stealing the show and taking the words from Ryu's mouth, but that doesn't seem to be what Ryu's worried about here. I suppose the main point to take away from this remark is that Ryu wants to do as much as he can by himself. He wants to appear strong in front of Van Zieks to avoid presenting an easy target, and I think this might actually be the first time we see a sentiment like that from him. Is he afraid of Van Zieks? Does he actually care about the man's opinion? Anyway, he swears to show Van Zieks what a Japanese lawyer can do.

Inside the courtroom, Van Zieks does the usual prosecutor spiel about how the defense needs to be ready for defeat. Ryu thinks to himself that Van Zieks has a particular animosity towards Japanese people for some reason.

Good thing we got a second game in the series, eh? So because the defendant was on trial only two days ago, the same jurors were chosen where possible. The only juror not returning is Mrs. Garrideb, who's too busy being in prison. Her spot is now taken by a very fancy lady we later learn to be the wife of the Altamont Gas Company's owner. She may as well be the CEO herself with how she's acting, though. Anyway, Van Zieks addresses the jurors directly.

“However, the innocent verdict afforded to this eccentric Nipponese before... has had dire consequences. Did the accused repent for his wrongdoing in that affair? Far from it. Instead, he used his freedom to perpetrate a most blood-curdling crime!”

Van Zieks makes record time by taking off his cloak immediately after this line. He's gone straight into overdrive. The witnesses summoned this time are Inspector Gregson and... Soseki? It's very irregular for the defendant to be testifying, especially this early in the trial and especially by the prosecution's request. I can't really make much of it. It feels like the only reason Soseki is testifying is for this joke:

Also found when examining the testimony is a remark from Van Zieks that I honestly found shocking in how ferocious and scummy it is.

Unnecessary, that remark. It didn't need to exist at all in my opinion. So after Ryu shatters the testimony and scatters Gregson's fish 'n chips, Van Zieks calmly pours himself a glass of wine. I have to be honest, by now whenever he does this I'm left wondering what he'll do next. Will he crush the chalice? Will he throw it? Will he actually take a sip? The versatility of the action and unpredictable nature of Van Zieks add a bit of suspense. Turns out, his mind wandered during the testimony.

And then he ends up crushing the glass in his hand anyway. Alas, poor chalice. We knew it. So after a bit of debating back and forth about whether Shamspeare drank the supposedly-poisoned-tea after Soseki left the room, Van Zieks suddenly falls silent. We get three different, consecutive frames of him going “......” and when the judge asks what's wrong, he says this:

Supersonic hearing, this one. That is, unless the carriage entered the courthouse and literally pulled up in the hallway outside the room? Haven't we learned our lesson from the last time a carriage was driven into the Old Bailey?! So Shamspeare was apparently subpoenaed by the prosecution and has shown up to testify (with his doctor's permission). Bad news for us, since he's the one accusing Soseki in the first place. There's also a second witness to support Shamspeare's insistence there were no other visitors to the room and therefore only Soseki could have poisoned him. After that testimony is over, Van Zieks gets his wish and all the jurors vote guilty.

Van Zieks really seems to think that Soseki is a terrible person deserving of justice, huh? He was right there during the previous trial, saw Ryu prove without a shadow of a doubt that Soseki was innocent and still insists that justice will be done “this time”. Calm the heck down man, you're the one who sided with us when Mrs. Garrideb needed to testify, remember? And here comes another example of the game pretending the previous trials didn't leave an impact; when the Summation Examination is brought up, it's with disdain and this remark:

Bro, we used the Summation Examination successfully like five times already. Sit your butt down and watch the show. The jurors once again give prejudiced reasons for their decisions:

And unfortunately, instead of changing their minds by proving Soseki is a morally upstanding, innocent citizen, Ryu instead gets through this Summation Examination by basically proving Shamspeare is a worse person than Soseki. That's... not the direction you should be taking here, narrative. After convincing four of the jurors that Shamspeare is a fishy liar, Van Zieks flings another chalice of wine in frustration. The judge still thinks he could technically pass a ruling on the trial, since the new information didn't exactly disprove that Soseki is the culprit, but the jurors have been influenced so thoroughly that they can't let this new info go ignored. Testimony from the Altamont Company is allowed! Van Zieks thinks it's a waste of time, of course, and if this were reality it would be. Since it's an Ace Attorney game, we know Shamspeare's gas thievery is bound to somehow be related to the incident. Van Zieks flings yet another chalice after hearing the testimony (how many has it been already? Five?) and very shortly after, he tosses the entire bottle over his shoulder. Susato points out that he seems to be in a violent mood. I feel like someone must've pissed in his oatmeal that morning, because I've got no real explanation for why his character regressed this badly in the course of what chronologically was only two days.

Van Zieks flings two more chalices as the testimony progresses to prove that Shamspeare made fake coins to fool the gas meter. At the end of it all, he supposedly 'throws his hand up in despair and happened to catch his hallowed bottle along the way', flinging yet another one of those into the gallery. I'm starting to feel very bad for the people seated behind him now. Is the game overdoing these quirky animations to compensate for his regressed attitude? Because I'm not sure it's working... Van Zieks continues to insist that the situation hasn't changed and only Soseki could have poisoned the victim, so he calls for immediate adjucation. The game gives Ryu the option to either object or wait and see, and I have to be honest, this gave me pause. After what happened with the penalties in case 1-4, I was sure Van Zieks might dish out more punishment for waiting and seeing. Turns out, he doesn't. Ryu points out that Shamspeare likely used the tea to make these fake frozen coins of his, meaning there's still tea left at the scene of the crime which can be tested for poison.

Head in my hands right now. Again, I get it, they basically had to reintroduce Van Zieks to newcomers of the game (however few there might've been) so they had to regress him a bit, but I really don't like this. He honestly felt like he'd grown at the end of 1-4 and the game's not only undone it, it feels like they've made him even more of a scumbag. This line and this gesture honestly doesn’t quite correspond with the character established in the previous game. Anyway, court adjourned till the next day so the police can test the tea for poison.

During the investigation segment, we get a conversation that I'd quite honestly forgotten even exists. Turns out, (S)Holmes and Van Zieks are acquainted! ...or are they? (S)Holmes says he 'must pass the time of day with Mr. Reaper again, as it's been too long' and when asked whether they're acquainted, (S)Holmes replies that there isn't a person in the world who doesn't know his name, expertly dodging the question. Naturally, a new conversation topic opens up about it, so we can still attempt to needle more details out of him.

He explains the history of the Reaper's curse a bit more. Previous defendants found not-guilty would 'disappear from the capital' by falling under a passing carriage, drowning in the Thames, succumbing to a sudden fever... Etc. Susato points out that if those rumors are true, then surely the obvious conclusion would be that they were killed by Van Zieks's own hand. (S)Holmes points out that's impossible, since Van Zieks was already investigated on the matter before and for every single incident, he had a solid alibi. (This... doesn't disprove Van Zieks had anything to do with it, but okay (S)Holmes. Sure.) (S)Holmes also rubs it in yet again that Van Zieks retired from the courts five years ago and didn't return until the day Naruhodo arrived. I honestly don't know why they keep bringing that 5 year hiatus up in every single case, because as far as I can recall it was never fully explained or relevant.

I love how “foul smell” is wedged in-between those two topics as if it's also related. Anyway the conversation continues when Ryu brings up that Van Zieks seems to have a particular disdain for Japanese people. Susato demands to know whether (S)Holmes knows a bit more about it and while he's silent at first, he relents and tells us a tale (which will apparently be forgotten by Ryu and Susato in case 1-5). Van Zieks “chose to enter the legal profession ten years ago, but before that time, the man's closest companion hailed from the empire of Japan”. Which is a wording that baffles me, because it implies that Van Zieks chose to enter the legal profession at the same moment that Japanese person betrayed him, which we know is not the case. He was already in training to be a prosecutor before that, otherwise how could he possibly have prosecuted the Professor trial? Ryu is shocked and asks to know more, but (S)Holmes says the veil on the events from the past will be lifted soon enough. I'll get back to the implications of what this means for Van Zieks's backstory when we hit this exact same reveal in case 1-5.

Van Zieks is mentioned very little in the rest of the investigation segments. We only learn that he tasked Gregson with finding new clues, much to Gregson's dismay, as there isn't much to be found. The Inspector does immediately leap at new information when we uncover it, which implies he's eager to either please Van Zieks or avoid being scolded by him. I'm assuming the latter, but it's also possible Gregson feels guilty over the whole Reaper thing and Klint's autopsy, and is now compensating by working his hardest to fulfill Van Zieks's requests.

At the very end of the investigation, when evening falls, (S)Holmes reminds us that “it'll be hard to escape the grip of our friend, Mr. Reaper”. The next day, in the defendant's lobby just before the trial begins, Ryu thinks to himself that he doesn't believe in the legend of the Reaper any more than he believes in the convict's curse Soseki keeps mentioning. What's interesting here is that Ryu isn't dreading the confrontation anymore. After the McGilded trial he seemed genuinely intimidated by the concept of going up against Van Zieks (not because of the racism but because of what happened to his first defendant), but now he's not so hesitant anymore. He's beginning to see that Van Zieks can be defeated, that the Reaper thing is nonsense and that protecting his client is a fight worth fighting.

Into the courtroom we go for day 2 of the trial! When the judge asks about the results of the tea test, Van Zieks is silent for a moment. He pours himself a glass of wine, asking for a moment to “savour a liquid of a more sanguine hue”, then refers to Gregson for the full report. Gregson confirms no poison was found in the tea remains, but the prosecution wouldn't be the prosecution (and the game would be pretty boring) if they didn't have a backup plan. When Ryu proclaims Soseki is innocent, Van Zieks accuses him of jumping to conclusions, “a typical Nipponese reaction”. It's also a typical prosecution reaction to be hypocritical, no surprises here. He throws his chalice (first one of the day) and summons Shamspeare back to the stand to testify about how Soseki's unpoisoned and undrank cup of tea had been used to make the ice coins.

There's some lines here that I thought I might as well include:

“Yet on occasion, tedium distracts me and I pour more times than I intended until the bottle is dry.”

You know, it occurs to me that this drink is pretty much confirmed to be wine. He's very extra when talking about it himself, but he had his silly little wine analogies in the previous case and Susato referred to his glasses as “wine glasses”. And you would think it's obvious that it's wine, but we know Ace Attorney's long history with 'grape juice'. Either way, this dialogue leaves a pretty harsh implication that Van Zieks drinks alcohol simply to distract himself from troublesome moods. Sure, he says “tedium”, but this is a stoic prosecutor in the year 1900. They referred to depression as “melancholia” back then, and since he doesn't appear to have any friends, I expect he experiences “tedium” quite often outside the courtroom. He apparently set a rule for himself not to fill his glass more than seven times during a trial which, in turn, implies he's aware any more would cause problems. All of this is moot, of course, since 80% of the wine he pours for himself ends up on the floor between shards of glass. Still, though... Zieks, are you okay?

I don't think he is, because he pulls a very dirty trick here. Ryu proves Soseki drank all his tea and therefore it couldn't possibly have been used, so Van Zieks insinuates to Shamspeare that perhaps he misremembered using the tea from Soseki's cup and instead used tea still left in the teapot. An excuse Shamspeare happily takes, of course. Not gonna lie, I got angry, not because it's a dirty trick but because it's inconsistent. This is the very same character who all but dragged Mrs. Garrideb down from the juror bench to testify when it became clear she likely threw a knife out the window. And now he's feeding slippery excuses to a man who's very clearly lying about all sorts of things? What??? And remember this incident, because I'm going to be referring back to it later.

He crushes another chalice, removes his cloak and continues to insist that we should believe this thieving liar at the witness stand. The jurors for some reason buy the baloney served to them on a tinfoil platter and even twist Ryu's sentiments around, with some bloke going as far as to interpret the situation as 'the lawyer lad believes anyone who steals gas deserves to be poisoned'. Summation Examination gets very funky this time around, with the outcome being that Shamspeare probably blew the gas pipes (s-snerk) and the poison was laced on the pipe.

Van Zieks pours himself a glass of wine and pretty much immediately flings it, saying these are all empty assertions without a shred of proof. When Ryu presents the picture with the skin prints, Van Zieks once again breaks the rule of the prosecution staying silent during Summation Examination to point out that skin prints cannot be used as evidence, since that method is not recognized by the court (yet). Aaand he crushes yet another chalice in his hand.

Susato claims it was never meant to be used as official evidence, it was only a tool to demonstrate a new possibility to the jury. Jumping through some loopholes here, we are, since the picture is clearly in our Court Record as evidence. But, well, the prosecution cheats too so what's the harm? Some jurors vote not-guilty, but there's still one more that needs convincing on order to keep the trial going. Ryu says he has a witness who's already testified that the pipe-blowing incident did indeed occur that night, as Soseki stated the other day before the court that his stove went out in the dead of night. (Hang on, is this why the narrative made him testify alongside Gregson?) With that the majority of the jury votes not-guilty and the trial has to continue, but Van Zieks is extra rattled now. (Another bottle goes soaring.)

He once again reminds the court that skin prints aren't admissible evidence and therefore, there is no real proof Shamspeare put his mouth to the pipes (ghghhh I'm sorry this is such a silly thing to have to type out). Ryu asks for an investigative team to test the mouth of the gas pipe for poison, but since it would've evaporated by now, that's a no-go. Also, Van Zieks says that “what appears to be simple is my Nipponese friend's mind” and that's a scumbag point. Ryu attempts to turn the trial around by claiming that Shamspeare attempted to kill Soseki, making the defendant the victim, but Van Zieks ain't having it. The aggrieved being the accused is an interesting notion, but doesn't change what actually happened. In fact, if anything, it establishes a motive for Soseki to lay a trap for Shamspeare. Because who else could have known about the gas pipe trickery and put the poison there, right? Why, the true culprit, of course.

Our man Van Zieks really doesn't like (S)Holmes, huh? A tidbit which the games will never bother to explain! Either way, Ryu raises the name of Olive Green, the victim of the previous case. And I gotta say, I do genuinely like the way they integrated these two Clouded Kokoro cases together. The chronology of everything that went down is very fun to decipher, but long story short, Olive Green was at Briar Road the day she was stabbed for a reason and knows more about the 'convict curse' Soseki and Garrideb kept mentioning, so let's drag her into court! Van Zieks agrees to subpoena Miss Green in order to 'see his Nipponese friend's farce through to its conclusion'.

So during intermission some more evidence is handed to Ryu and when trial resumes, Van Zieks continues to be his usual self.

“The prosecution has tried to extend every courtesy to this amateur newcomer from dubious Eastern shores.”

Ryu sweats bullets as he meekly thanks Van Zieks “(for his backhanded consideration)”, but once again the judge is the one to call Van Zieks out on his attitude.

Amazing. It's so refreshing to see a judge who actually disagrees with the prosecution's haughty attitude problems and acknowledges it has no place in a courtroom. Nothing against Udgey, because we all love Udgey (and his Canadian brother), but this man actually grows and learns. So Olive Green takes the stand alongside Shamspeare (maybe not the best idea since Ryu just accused her of trying to murder this man) for dual testimony. When Green brings up what a dreadful ordeal the knife to her back was, Van Zieks says this:

Hang on, empathy? He's giving her advice? This reeks of humanization! Green seems taken aback and thanks him for his words, so the sentiment was genuinely accepted. This in itself is a very nice scene to see in action, similar to Van Zieks allowing Roly Beate to keep his job. Unfortunately, Van Zieks's character is in a wild rollercoaster of moral inconsistency during this particular case which sours the experience somewhat. Case in point:

YOOOU hypocrite! This actively angered me, because at the very start of this same trial day he was personally feeding lies to Shamspeare. Now he's warning Green not to lie? It gets even worse a bit later on when Green gets cornered about stealing the note, she asks him whether it could all be some sort of misunderstanding, and he says:

ACTIVELY FEEDING SHAMSPEARE A LIE. THE VERY SAME DAY. I'm all for prosecutors using dirty tactics. It helps to juxtapose them further to the honest defense attorney we play as. However, it needs to be consistent. Either a prosecutor condones a witness's lies to help their case, or they feel that they're above it. The third, most used option is for them to start off condoning it, only to learn that truth takes priority over victory. This sloppy back-and-forth morality that Van Zieks has going on here is insanely frustrating, so it's no wonder some players end up disliking him. It honestly feels as if they rewrote this case so many times, they screwed up the exact growth trajectory Van Zieks has.

Anyway, it seems Van Zieks is suddenly fully on our side now to help Ryu prove that Green was in Shamspeare's room and laced the gas pipe with poison. And I mean help help. When the judge points out that if Green had laced the pipe the very same day she was stabbed, the attempted murder would have happened six days ago. Van Zieks is the one to say “Perhaps not, My Lord” and explain Briar Road was full of police at that time. At this point, Van Zieks and Ryu (and also Susato) actively start to take turns to explain the proper chronology of events. So the defense and the prosecution are in perfect sync right now, working together to explain the whodunnit. This is the ideal outcome to any trial, usually not seen until the last case of the game, so it's curious that this dynamic abruptly shows itself in a case like this. Van Zieks does still have one moment of gaslighting when he claims Ryu may have inhaled some dubious gas, causing his judgment to be clouded, since there's no motive behind Shamspeare's attempts on his fellow lodgers. A matter that's very easily resolved, of course. Once the name of Selden is brought up, Van Zieks continues our little game of back-and-forth-truth-reveal until (S)Holmes shows his face.

“Your usual haunts are the filthy backstreets of the capital, are they not?”

To which (S)Holmes replies that it's been too long, and Van Zieks's complexion has worsened since last they met. Alright, so Van Zieks and (S)Holmes definitely have met in person before, some undetermined amount of time ago. You'd think that going by (S)Holmes's friendly attitude they might've even been friends once, but our great detective is like that towards everyone. This is evidenced by an earlier encounter with Gregson where (S)Holmes insists they're friends and Gregson says that they're not friends, to which (S)Holmes quietly agrees. So really, this little exchange tells us nothing about the history between the great detective and the Reaper.

Some shenaniganry, a breakdown and admittance to guilt later, the court is finally ready to deem Soseki innocent. Van Zieks once again has some interesting lines here:

“And one I certainly didn't envisage walking... with you.”

Considering he attempted to trip us up for most of this walk up until the very last stretch, I don't like this remark very much. It feels very unearned. This is another one of those things that would've been more suitable in the last case of the game, but instead it's being crammed into a messy mid-game moment with the pretense that Van Zieks learned a lesson about being our ally.

In the defendant's lobby, the game basically gives the exact same dialogue as at the end of the original Clouded Kokoro case; that Soseki is returning to Japan and hopes to pen his own literature there, with the rest of the cast pointing out that the Reaper's Curse must factor into his decision to some degree. So we're still holding onto that question of whether Soseki will escape an untimely death or not. Anyone who's already played the last case of the first game will know the answer, of course.

So to summarize... I genuinely didn't enjoy Van Zieks's portrayal in this case. It really feels as if something went horribly wrong and they got some notes mixed up about where his character was already headed in the previous game. It's a crying shame. There was a lot of potential for a case set between 1-4 and 1-5, but they really dropped the ball when it comes to consistency and I've no doubt that it reflected badly on people's opinions of him. Though I think when we return to the first game for The Unspeakable Story, everything will right itself out again to some degree. Stay tuned!

[nanashiii]

Heron x queen!reader

So this is my first fandom contribution ever and even if it sucks I'm happy with it lol, it's kinda of a wip and since english is not my first language...well, it may just worsen the whole thing :,)

@zen-gordon I'm sorry it took so much time to write it 😖😖

↠ Wc: 1.7k

↠ Chapter 1

↠ Warnings: none yet

There was something to be revealed to you, the new queen of the polis, your mother wanted to warn you about who you really are.

She seemed to be delirious that night, it was a celebration, everyone was partying, the Palace in an uproar for some successful hunt or something of the same relevance for the nobles.

"Y/n, my ... daughter, listen to me, please ..." she was disheveled, so different from her usual self, eyes trembling. You thought it was the drink's fault, the wine must have been too strong.

It was a foolish judgment, the queen had been poisoned that same night, during the feast.

You guided her to the royal quarters, your mother's speech becoming more and more vague. And waiting for her to fall asleep, you stared at the night sky.

An eagle watched both of you from the top of a tree, which years before, had been struck by lightning. The bird was abnormally big, aside from the fact that it was nothing nocturnal.

The observation lasted a few minutes - a clash of swords and shields made you jump from the bed, which you have sited next to the queen - the woman lulled into an apparently peaceful sleep.

A maid - Lamia, the queen's most old and loyal lady, entered the room like a gust of wind, her eyes wide and blood on her robes matching her panicked face.

She was crying, her hands trembling as she grabbed yours in an attempt to get you out of the room.

You were on your feet instantly.

"My sweet child." The maid sobbed. "I can't let them kill you too."

"What?!" You felt the air escaping your lungs way too fast.

"The king is dead ... the queen ..." the woman staggered, trying to contain her crying. "Poisoned. There was poison in her food and drinks and ..."

The world seemed to shatter around you, at least, you world, the servant's words becoming distant murmurs. You turned, almost falling on the queen's bed, grabbing a hand that was already cold and purple with some grotesque poison.

Before a scream broke from your throat, someone covered your mouth, dragging you out of the room. You couldn't tell if it was the maid or a guard. Everything looked like a blur between tears, howls and a metallic smell that was beginning to approach.

The guards who remained in the stable placed you at the maid's side upon two black steeds, assuring that they would follow the new queen, you, soon. But first they would need to find the murderer.

The night had never seemed so terrifying to you, but Lamia tightened her knuckles, her eyes red with tears lit by the moon.

"We will take refuge in the Palace of your Aunt, in the neighboring polis." She will give you all the support you need." Lamia said, looking back one last time, you followed her movement.

Something in your heart seemed to sunk, as if someone had staked it there, tears flowed hot, sobs broke out and somehow now your horse was on the trail of the other steed.

It was a nightmare, Phobetor was playing with you.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>><<<<<<<<<<<<<<

He wasn't.

The next morning was so real that you almost felt ill. Taken by the shock, you arrived at your Aunt's palace in the polis that had heavy rain clouds but, strangely, didn't let not even one drop touch the soil. Even so, nothing seemed to matter at that moment, you were guided to a new room, an aunt dismayed and angry at what they did to her brother, shouted orders to your own remaings guards and when things calmed down days later, she decided that you coronation should be done there and soon.

The aid of a noble should always be questioned, she would probably ask for favors during the next years, but you couldn't even bear the thoughts of dealing with it, so the best option was to ignore your aunt's apparently innocent help.

"My queen, may I suggest something?" Lamia mumbled, she have spent more time by your side since that cursed night.

She couldn't ignore your current state, the sleepless nights and nocturnal fears were claiming it's own price. There were always creeping nightmares waiting for you, so the wandering nights inside your aunt's palace seemed much more appealing than a nightmare filled sleep. Soon both of you would need to go back to your truly palace, it seemed that your aunt's mercy was coming to an end more quickly than what you have expected.

"What is it?" You didn't even blinked an eye as you replied to the maid, one commotion down the plebe stands catching your attention as the sound of shouting voices started to reach your ears.

It seemed like a group of men harassing a lonely woman - well she looked a bit like an outcaster there, with everyone turning their eyes to the explicit violence against her.

"A guard's switch, my queen." Lamia approached your side.

What was making her so absorbed after all? The servant questioned herself, seeing nothing but a normal day at the polis.

"I think that, with a personal guard selected by yourself will bring you some peace, most nobles do this when they ascend to the throne" Lamia explained.

When the woman was brutally pushed by one of the five men, an young man appeared, he came running and as fast as he reached the group, he punched and even used a knife at some point. Almost slicing someone's throat.

He helped the woman to rise again, with some caution.

The two left, disappearing from your view.

I may need warriors like this one.

No...

I need this one.

He was ...

"I accept your suggestion, Lamia, can you organize everything so I can meet and choose them during the next week?"

"Of course my dear queen, I'll start it immediately." Lamia bowed, now questioning what could possibly have happened for the queen's complexion to light up. Nonetheless what has caused it she was glad for.

"And Lamia, make sure that they know about how generous the new queen is when it comes to payments."

"Yes, I'll be sure they hear about it" the servant bowed a second time and then left you, it didn't take too much time to another servant to come and replace her.

Your thoughts seemed to run more wildly as the day passed by.

The sudden attraction to the man made you question yourself, was it because he was the one who made you wake up from an aphatic state?

You weren't sure.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>><<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<

Zeus, in this case and in this form, Elias, was once again wandering drunkenly through the streets of the polis, enjoying the few pleasures that an old mortal could give himself and also maintaining his disguise.

He had overheard the conversation of one of the servants of the new queen, queen who was Demeter's and a mortal's daughter mortal which the goddess decided to deny the existence, handing her daughter over to a sterile human queen.

A demigod, just like his own son.

The two shared a strangely similar past, even when it came to traumatizing nights.

The disguised god walked back to his lover and son's home, the new queen's offer was too tempting for Heron to refuse, no matter how stubborn he could be. He had declined Alexia's offer, and perhaps the regret would make him choose right this time.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>><<<<<<<<<<<<<

Lamia had organized everything just as the queen asked, her aunt did not hide the relief that you were leaving soon and wandered happily around the room in which the three of you were.

"The men in my polis make great guards, excellent warriors." the mourning for her brother had dissipated quickly, and it also increased your desire to leave that place, now the cloudy clouds seemed to worsen your mood.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>><<<<<<<<<<<<<<

You were waiting for them inside a kind of canopy like bed, Lamia had murmured something about only the selected ones seeing your face. It was a strange security issue and the day was particularly hot making you hate the stupid idea even more. But there was something, making your afternoon a little more tolerable.

The chance of seeing him again.

A few remaining men from your old guard positioned themselves near the door and soon it was opened, the first candidate entering the room, an undoubtedly strong man, but it wasn't the one you're seeking to see.

Your frustration almost materialized right there, and a doubt arose, what made you believe that he would appear?

As you were selecting the most competent ones, or at least apparently competent, your hope of seeing him again was being drained as the hours passed by, soon you would have to leave the polis and perhaps you should have to accept the fact that you would not see him again.

Besides, as a new queen there would be more important things to deal with, and soon this sudden...

The door opened again, the last one to be chosen and you had to control yourself not to tear the canopy.

It was him.

You were silent for a while, observing every possible detail through the fine fabric, his frame but what has made you literally frozen were his eyes - a vibrant blue, as if the sky and the ocean were inside those irises.

"My queen?" A servant called, waking you from your almost trance.

You composed yourself. Continuing with the same questions I had repeated so many times earlier.

"Your name?"

"It's Heron."

"Well Heron, you must already know I'm not from this polis, even so, are you willing to work as one of my guards?"

Tension filled your brain, after all he could simply deny it, you remembered the woman he helped, could she possibly be a relative?

He stayed silent for some seconds, his face was doubt itself but soon with was replaced by calm and determination.

"Yes, I'm willing too." Heron replied.

"Great." your response didn't matched the sheer happiness that you were feeling. You proceeded with the other questions about what weapon could he wield, combat experience...

You weren't really listening to Heron's answers, still mesmerized simply by seeing him close enough, even so, you managed to inform him that you all would be departing soon and he should prepare for doing so.

"You can go now."

He left the room and so did you, watching from a safe distance as he kept walking down the aisle, there was definitely something different about him.

Something that seemed weirdly familiar to you.

What was it?

[xxgoblin-dumplingxx]

Pair of Hearts

“Good Girl,” Thor heard himself growl against the shell of your ear as your body arched into his. Prettily manicured nails leaving red lines over the planes of his abs as he ravaged you, his bulk pinning you, needy and willing to the plush bed.

He’d had you there for hours. The room was saturated in sex and the smell of animal lust as he found satisfaction between your silken thighs again and again. There was no reason to leave. There was no battle to fight. No training to be done.

It felt like a honeymoon.

Nothing for Thor to do but initiate his pretty lover into the joy of being pleasured by a god. A god who had waited for centuries to love a woman the way he loved you.

A crack of Thunder shook his tower and Thor jolted awake in his chair, the front of his sweats stained with his shame as they had often been since your arrival in New Asgard. He groaned and let his head fall back, taking a deep breath.

Another exquisite dream courtesy of your graceful visage, he thinks bitterly. Not, he admits that his torment is your fault. You treated him with the same warmth and kindness you treated everyone. Your cheerful good mornings as you tended your garden was no more or less sweet-voiced for him than it was for anyone else. You’d done nothing to invite this damnable lust he felt for you.

The King hefted his massive frame out of the spindly rocker and slouched into the bedroom, starting the tap in his sink to run warm water so he could clean himself up and change clothes. Dawn was breaking over the horizon and if he hurried, he could catch sight of you and your dog headed towards a run in the woods. He liked watching the serenity on your face. The laugh that would ring out as your furry companion started his antics. It made him happy. It was the simplest joy he could imagine and it gave him hope.

“Thor!” a familiar voice growled from downstairs, “Fuck the girl or learn to jerk off BEFORE you go to sleep. These fucking storms have almost sunk two boats this week!”

Thor sighed, “Brunhilde,” he said blushing, pulling on clean trousers, “it’s not like I can help it.”

The Valkyrie leaned against the doorway, arms folded, “You could help it. But you’re being a child.”

Thor sighed, “Brunhilde,” he said, “She deserves better than this.” He gestured vaguely to his self, his softer body and shabby tower.

“Thor,” she countered, “She’s a nice girl. Sweet. She bakes a lovely chocolate cake and keeps bees... After the snap, when she showed up here, she was honestly a gift. Dead useful... Talk to her.”

The king shook his head, glancing toward the window where he could just make out the shape of you, headed towards the woods with your faithful hound at your heels. “If you don’t talk to her,” Brunhilde threatened, “I’m going to. And I’m going to make sure that the only sound you hear is her saying my name over and over and over again.”

Thor scowled at her and Brunhilde smirked, “You have three days,” she said. “If you don’t at least talk to her by Saturday I’m going to give her the ride of her life. Then she really will never be interested in you.”

He snorted bitterly, “And if she doesn’t like women?”

The Valkyrie laughed, “Every girl is a little gay... You just gotta know what button to press.”

“I could have you tried for treason you know,” Thor said frowning at the way his belly poked out where his abs had used to be. He hated that he couldn’t seem to go back to his old self. It irritated him that he looked this way. That the body of a romantic hero was hidden under years of neglect.

Brunhilde smiled a little, “You could... or you could go compliment her garden and make some small talk. I think that would be more productive.” She didn’t say another word, she simply turned and loped back to the docks, satisfied that Thor would speak to you soon if only to keep from having to hear you say someone else’s name as you cried out in bliss.

___________

The path to your house was tree-lined streets. Whimsical. A district that had been created by Fae expats. It was nice. It suited you. The same way your house could only belong to you. Cozy and sweet. He’d passed by it often, imagining what the inside might be life. What it would be like to bring you here after a long day working. To make love to you in your bed... He imagined you had a quilt and some hand braided rugs.

Thor paused, watching you climb a ladder, plucking apples from the boughs of the tree with nimble fingers and putting them in a basket at your hip. “Good morning, Lady Y/N,” he said, cheeks coloring as you turned to smile at him.

“Good morning, Your Majesty,”  you answer, “How can I be of service?”

Kiss me? he thinks. Fucking hell, kiss me before I run mad.

Outloud, he answers, “I was hoping I could speak with you.”

You climb easily down your ladder and pluck a perfectly ripe apple from your basket, holding it out to him. “Of course,” you say, smiling softly, “but only if your majesty will do me the honor of letting me make him a proper breakfast.”

Thor felt something unclench in his chest and he smiled, “I’ve heard that your cooking is legendary,” he says, hoping it’s a compliment.

“I’m not sure about that, your majesty,” you say modestly, “But I hope to live up to your expectations.”

He follows you into your cottage, ducking to avoid hitting his head and takes the seat you offer. While your back is turned, he looks around and admires how comfortable it all looks. It looks like a home, unlike his spartan, Drafty tower. In his once over, he sees a suitcase, open and half-filled... or half unpacked, he isn’t sure. “Are you planning a trip, my lady?” he asks lightly.

“Yes,” you say, a flicker of something unreadable in your face. You don’t elaborate and Thor is unsure if it’s impolite to press.

“Have you gotten bored of New Asgard already?” he says, trying to cover his nosing about as a joke.

“No,” you laugh lightly, “It- it’s merely time for me to go home for a time... I’ve been away too long.”

“And what awaits you there? Suitors?” he says, covering his panic. Or trying too.

Big, fathomless eyes turn toward him and, like he felt so often with his mother, he feels you look through him. “No,” you tell him, a little sadly, “Only my sons.”

It’s a moment of pain that flickers in your eyes. Thor knows you’re older than your face. That you’re no stranger to hobnobbing with Royalty and navigating court policies from your comfort with him. “How old are they?” he asked, trying to make conversation, unsure of which way to go.

“If they still lived,” you tell him, taking a deep breath, “They’d have been just over 100 this past summer.”

You set a teacup in front of him gently and pour him a cup of something that smells of roses and rain. Taking the moment to look away and regain your composure.

“My dearest lady,” he said, his rich baritone contrite, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude on a private pain.” He clutches your delicate hand in both of his and squeezes softly. He’s no stranger to loss now. To losing something that cannot be replaced.

“Your majesty-” you start.

“Thor,” he interrupts gently, “please.”

“Thor,” you correct yourself, “I- it- it’s been. It’s fine. A yearly pilgrimage. Nothing more.” You smile a little, “Just to check on the house. And my roses.”

You seem reluctant to say more and for once, Thor listens to his instinct not to press. “I’ll miss seeing you out and about while you are gone,” he says, “Where is your furry companion. Sphinx, I’ve heard you call him.”

“He is, I believe,” you answer smiling, “Begging for scraps on the dock... No one believes I don’t feed him, not really. But he’s a very good actor.”

Thor laughs, picking up his teacup. The delicate China makes him feel clumsy and oafish. The cup too small to fit comfortably in his hands. But, as he takes a sip of the brew you gave him, it doesn’t matter. Sweet, tangy, earthy, flavors that shouldn’t work but they do. It warms in his chest and sends a pleasant frisson of comfort through his body. He feels it swirl comfortably in his belly and tension he didn’t know he carried melted from too taught muscles. “My lady,” he said appreciatively, “If your breakfast is as good as your tea, you’re in a good deal of trouble. I’ll never leave your table.”

You smile a little, cheeks coloring. It had been a long time since you’d permitted a gentleman into your house. Your Charlie, your true love, had been gone a century and more now. Your boys almost as long. Having the King so close, having someone to appreciate a meal you made. Someone to talk to over tea. It was nice. You couldn’t bring yourself to mind too much that he may never leave.

Tags: @lancsnerd​ @stevieang​ @thorfanficwriter​ @innerpaperexpertcloud​ @etherealwaifgoddess​ @amalthea9​

[annhellsing]

The Drawbridge.

Notes: we’re going full beauty and the beast, ladies and gentlemen.  Rating: she’s sfw. Pairing: alucard/female reader. Word count: 3,259

This place is an architectural nightmare that defies gravity. And it moved, once. Not any longer, of course which is what makes it just another tomb. Its outside intricacy doesn’t fully state just how dark it is inside, of how the rugs are soaked with old blood and the corners are filled with cobwebs. 

It’s so old, it must be haunted. You toe the line where the light ends and the shadows begin. Outside, it’s springtime and the glow of the sun cuts the peace of the grave. There’s a door-shaped hole in the black of the floor, illuminating the entryway. You’re very worried about leaving it. You wonder how many souls this castle’s seen and if any were eaten whole. 

There’s a shiver that runs through the spine of the building when you make your choice, stepping carefully away from the safety of mid-afternoon. Your hands shake around the handle of your basket, flowers and herbs barely fill the first third. It’s barely enough to cover your journal, the castle distracted you today more than it usually does.

 This isn’t the first time you’ve walked this path in the forest, but usually you’re able to suffocate your curiosity about the ancient wonder that’s just appeared among the trees. Its close proximity to the old Belmont manor kept you at bay, as stories told to terrify children well into adulthood do. Usually you continue on. 

Not this time. 

Maybe it’s a good thing you brought flowers, whatever lives here might demand an offering. You’re unsure when or why exactly this castle chose here as its final resting place. Word travels as fast as it can but the last time it was seen was rather suddenly in Brăila before disappearing as quickly as it arrived. Why here, you wonder. What’s hiding here? 

A large throne room with a vertigo-inducing ceiling is easy enough to traverse. A few shallow steps lead to a central arch behind the vacant, high-backed chair. There’s an old, lost feeling here. This place has seen too much death, but where bodies should be there is only bare floor and crumbling stone. Traces of magic, real magic float and dance across the air. Someone burned here, someone froze.

Arched windows in the the much steeper staircase in the arch behind the throne room turn the gloomy stone a yellow colour. The stairs spiral up, up, up to a thin corridor and it’s there that the panic begins to emerge. With the way the place twists off into so many corridors, the fear of getting lost rises in you like heat does in the summer. 

The hallways run through the castle like cracks in a mirror, this space is gloomy and broken. You reach into your basket, picking up a daisy. Finding more of them should be easy enough, you begin to pluck petals. They land softly on the wine-red carpet, stained here and there with water and blood. Now you won’t, at least, die because you lost your way. 

It’s warmer up here, you note. Still no windows, not like the ones lighting up the staircase. Instead there are burning candles casting a dim glow on the floor, it sounds like there should be footsteps. There should be life. But it’s as quiet as the rest of the rooms, the immense size of the place doing nothing to make it feel more inhabited. It’s so eerie, so empty, you imagine laughter from down the hall that disappears with a shake of your head.

You carry on, dropping daisy petals past rows of closed doors. Most of them are locked, you discover upon trying their handles but some open to cold, cold rooms filled with old books and shattered glass. The wood panelling on some of the door-frames is splintered, like claws were dragged across their expanse. Someone tried to do harm here. 

The end of the hallway isn’t the end and it terrifies you. You can see where it’s supposed to veer off naturally but there’s another way to go, it looks like the mouth of hell. It’s just a gaping maw, circular and singed with no light inside it. Part of you wants to explore, another thinks that would be worse than monumentally stupid. 

You make up your mind eventually, backtracking away from the mouth and investigating the other side of the hallway. The doors that do open distract you from the little line of semi-needless daisy petals and how a few are spaced further apart from where you originally placed them. You don’t notice that any are missing. 

Only one door opens on this side to reveal something orderly, or at least not n full ruin. It’s a study with a desk and well-loved books. There’s sunlight here, shining in through the iron diamonds crossing the windows. You let out a sigh like content at having found the heart of the place, this must be it. You smile without really meaning to and take another step into the room. 

It looks nice here, a little less like a prison. The books are all shelved neatly and the only drawback, you soon find, is the shattered mirror shards on the floor. You’re careful stepping over them, looking at the golden light flooding in from the window onto the red-velvet chair. 

There’s a painting of a woman sitting demurely on the desk, holding a bouquet of lilies. This must’ve been her home, perhaps it still is. Her eyes hold a smile barely reflected in her face but it’s clear as day that she lends the space her light. Your smile widens. 

So wrapped up are you in your exploration, setting your basket down by the chair and beginning to browse the books that your senses fall short again. You don’t hear the soft shuffling down the corridor, the sound of air-light footsteps approaching until it’s too late. Your back’s to the door, a book held carefully in your hands. 

“I really must lock the front door,” you turn at the sound of a voice in your ear. It’s close, it is so disturbingly close but when you’ve rounded on the source he’s standing mostly in the hall. The book your holding falls in an instant, landing on its spine with a thud. You gasp and cover your mouth. 

“Oh, oh, no---” you start. Someone lives here, you should’ve known by the candles. His face is a wall, vague but apparently annoyed with you standing in his study. You take a step back but there’s nowhere to go, you’re against the bookshelf. “I didn’t mean---” 

“Do you know that you’re trespassing?” he asks, the tone in his voice takes a sudden shift. It’s still death-dry, quiet but markedly less cold. He’s scared you, that seems to bother him. 

You don’t know what you’re supposed to do, if you should kneel and beg forgiveness. Is he going to kill you for this? He might. Your chest tightens and you slowly shake your head. 

“I--- I thought everyone who lived here was dead.” your voice sounds small, reed-like and whispery. The man makes a sound, you press your back against the books until it hurts but you realize that he’s only laughing. 

Laughing? What have you gotten yourself into? 

“Not quite,” he replies. “this castle is my home, I live here. And you---” you cut him off, you don’t know why you do that. 

“Right, trespassing. I should---” you want to say that you should go but you end up with a hand clamped over your mouth again to keep you from saying anything else. He’s important, standing in the doorway like a lord with a sword at his hip and you’ve interrupted him. 

“Leave,” he finishes. You don’t need to be asked twice, you breeze past him without so much as a second thought. You’re less mindful of the broken glass on the floor but there is no option to care about it as you rush from the room and down the hallway you came from. 

You aren’t chased, aren’t forced from the castle but the embarrassment of having been caught snooping is more than reason enough to go. Down the sun-lit stairs and through the throne room, you fail for a third time to realize what’s wrong. 

Half-way down the road away from the dark spot in the forest and you realize your mistake. You left your basket, your flowers and most importantly your journal. 

There’s a ship sinking in your chest as you stop and stare, looking back at the windows and the towers at what you left behind. You need that journal, how could you have forgotten it?

And then you remember the sound of the man’s voice, the way his eyes looked and the sword he carried. If you go back now he won’t care if he scares you. You just know it. But you snuck in once already, didn’t you? You could return---

No, no that’s a wonderful way to get yourself killed. You resign yourself to going home, pondering the loss of the contents of your mother’s medical journal. Yes, the pages were battered and the script necessarily tiny but there was no better text to consult. You were only beginning to add information of your own. 

You watch the sun move for the rest of the day, empty-handed and uncertain how to preserve what information you know without it. Books are rare as jewels in your little village, belonging only to the church as there are no affluent families for miles. What does exist in your sphere is mostly illegible, written in latin with no intention of being added to by common people. Journals of your mother’s kind were worth more than you would ever be able to afford, if you healed everyone you knew a hundred times. 

The courage to return for your most prized possession does not return as easily as it arrived. You putter about your home, thinking and re-thinking just how lucky you may have been to escape. Who would live in a castle like that? Dracula? It simply appeared one day, but you’re unsure of how or precisely when. 

Visitors in the night, the demons, mostly have ceased. Maybe Dracula's dead, or changed his mind. Who was the woman in the painting? Did the man who scared you know her? Did he hurt her? 

For all you know you may have met Dracula, the thought makes your blood run cold as ice water. You shiver in your otherwise warm home. If you go back he might find you faster. He might not let you leave. 

But you need your journal, you won’t be able to record anything else you learn without it. It’s imperative you get it back, despite your fear. Now you know the place is habited, you’ll knock this time and ask for it face-to-face. 

There are worse ways you could handle the situation, it’s true. But you do find yourself putting the whole thing off for a few days, weeding the garden and doing as much as possible before committing to returning to the castle. 

Some things you remember well enough, a man comes to you with a headache after a hard day and you’re able to treat it with ease. But other things, far more serious things will require information that you haven’t put to memory yet. 

On the third day since you fled the man with the deep, dry voice you lace your boots and decide to go back. You tell only your neighbour, the widow with the failing sight that you’ll be going into the wilderness today. If you don’t return, don’t search. Stay away from the castle in the darkest part of the woods. 

Your feet feel heavier than usual setting out as they did before. Mid-afternoon seems the safest time to go, but part of you wonders if the rumours about vampires and sunlight are true with the window that was in the study. Would you be safe in the sun? 

Even the forest seems quiet as you veer off the path and head between the trees. You carry nothing with you, nothing that could be interpreted as hostility. He’ll have to murder you if you do not run fast enough. There are no deer, no singing birds as you start towards the ominous, black shape that becomes more clear as you leave the village behind. 

The castle rises above the trees, you see it before it sees you. It’s just as before, nothing’s changed. It’s not mysteriously disappeared, carrying off your mother’s life’s work and the beginning of your own. It really must be stuck here, never to move again. The feeling that overcomes your heart is strange and somber, similar to when you see a bird unable to fly. At least someone intends to protect this place. 

Maybe the doors will be locked this time, the strange interior barred from you with no way to enter and prove it looked how it did. Regardless, you knock this time. Someone’s home and you refuse to be rude a second time. 

There is no answer and your stomach sinks. Turning away from the door without bothering to try the handle, you sink down onto the steps. Entering uninvited again would be unseemly, just asking for retribution. But you’ve come all this way---

“This belongs to you?” again there’s a voice, so close that someone could be sitting next to you. You let out a shout and turn your head, having to tilt it very far up to see the man from the study with your basket in his left hand. 

Your hand goes to your heart that’s now thundering away. Clumsily, you stand on the second step. Looking up at him is still no easy feat, he towers above you like a statue. 

“I forgot them,” you say, looking down as the man holds out your basket to you. The flowers are mostly withered but untouched. Putting your hand inside, you push them out of the way. But there’s no journal, only the wicker weaving brushes your fingertips. You look up in horror. “Oh, my---”

“Your book?” he asks and there it is, taken from his pocket and held aloft. You want reach out and take it from him, to inspecting it for any damage. But you’re too afraid to approach.

“My medical journal,” you say. “I’m a healer,” 

“I thought you were a thief,” he replies and your eyes snap up to his again. You can see him clearly now that you’re not clouded by fear. 

He’s handsome, their’s no denying and pale as the face of the moon. His hair falls to his shoulders, golden-blonde like the woman in the painting. His eyes are orange and seem to stare through you, cutting like knives as he tries to puzzle out whether you’re a threat. The urge to step back, away from that hellfire-gaze is strong but you don’t act on it. 

It’s his teeth that give you pause, that terrify. The fangs and his eyes speak of his true nature, sunlight or no sunlight. He stands in the path of the rays without flinching but there’s no denying it. He’s a vampire.

“No, I was just curious. It’s not every day that a castle shows up in the middle of your walking path, at least not any ordinary castle,” and this is when the discrepancy between expression and tone begin to make themselves very well-understood. The man’s face is still hard, suspicious, but he speaks softly. 

“That it isn’t,” he starts. “my apologies for frightening you when I did. I hoped that the Belmont history would be enough to keep people away.” you give a little shrug. 

“Then I’ll take my journal and I’ll never come back,” you begin, but you’re cut off when he opens your book to the first page. 

“I’m amazed at the wealth of information, which handwriting is yours?” you know what he’s asking and against your better judgement, you get close to him and begin flipping to the last, few pages. You’ve taken to writing in a tiny, cramped style to reserve the remaining space. 

“The one near the back, did you read it?” the man shakes his head. 

“Not all of it, but enough to differentiate,” you can’t help but feel unsettled and his face changes when you step back again. “your village is lucky to have you.” 

Your head tilts to the side, it occurs to you that what may be an invasion of privacy could really be the opposite. 

“They were lucky to have my mother, it was her’s. I’m just picking up where she left off,” his eyes narrow, he looks back down at the journal before closing it and handing it to you. 

“My mother was a doctor,” he tells you, you get the feeling it’s very special to know this. “did you have a chance to find her library while you were--- exploring?” the last word’s tense, an admittance to himself that your intrusion was the antithesis of harmful. You really were just curious. 

You shake your head, the man’s pause is drawn-out. He’s considering something else, now, something that requires more trust than you have. 

“Perhaps you should, healer,” your eyes widen at the implication, you look down at your crumpled journal before putting it in your basket. 

“What’s your name?” you ask. You’ll come to understand the look of uncertainty on his face. He doesn’t know what to say.

Instead of waiting, you give him your name instead. First and last with a look of understanding, but you leave out the middle. For whatever reason, magic has touched this castle and him. Some secrets are meant to be kept. If he’s dangerous, at least he won’t own you by name. 

“Adrian Ţepeş,” he’s made his decision, your smile catches him off-guard. 

“I was worried for a moment that you might say Dracula,” you begin. There’s a tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“I’m beginning to lose track of how many times I’ve been mistaken for him,” it’s a softer saying, a joke that makes your smile widen. 

If he’s not Dracula, then, who is he? Perhaps a brother, or a nephew. Adrian bears a striking resemblance to the woman in the painting, same blonde hair and slight smile. Maybe that was his mother, you wonder how she died. 

“But this is his castle, isn’t it?” you ask, tearing your eyes away from his changing, orange gaze. You look at the spires, at the windows and the towers. 

“It was, yes,” was, that speaks of more safety than names can give. You tilt your head, looking at Adrian again. 

“Was your mother a good doctor?” he barely needs a second to consider the answer. 

“The very best,” he replies and the force of admiration in his voice is admirable. She’s dead, this doctor-mother and you understand the feeling. 

“If I can really see the library, you’ll have to let me leave. My village may have been luckier to have my mother but I’m all they’ve got come winter.”

“You can leave when you like,” he says. He promises without stating as much, you can tell. 

“Well,” you begin. You take the few steps forward that fear tried to undo. You’re still cautious, perhaps. Worried about the teeth, absolutely. “I suppose I’ll have to risk it. Lead the way.”

@showeredwithlullabies, @spookyscaryscully. i’m so sorry both of you

[writing-royza]

A Murder Most Festive - Chapter Two

Chapter Two

They followed Armstrong without a word through the dimly lit halls of the residence. Riza kept her eyes on the large man's back, watching the way his shoulders moved, riding high with a tension she herself could feel.

They reached the library, its huge oak doors pulled shut, and Armstrong stopped turning to face them.

"Before we go in," he said somberly, "I need to warn you that what you're about to see is rather… shocking."

Roy looked to her for confirmation, and she nodded. "Go ahead, Major."

The first thing Riza saw past Roy's shoulder as the door opened was the blood. A small pool of it was on the polished hardwood floor, stopping just shy of the expensive Xingese rug that was stretched in front of the hearth. She only had time for a brief glimpse, before Roy abruptly turned and caught her around the shoulders, easing her back.

"No." His voice was low, urgent with the need to prevent her from seeing any more. "You don't need to see this, trust me."

Riza pulled away from him. "Sir, I-"

Then she caught the look. His eyes were wide, watching her with the sort of haunted shock that she hadn't seen since….

Since Hughes….

His hand touched her arm, a gesture meant to he comforting, but with that look on his face, all it did was raise goosebumps over half her body.

He saw her look turn determined, and his own eyes widened with the realization of what she was about to do. "Lieutenant, don't -"

Too late. Shrugging free of him, she ducked past his arm, dodged the hand Armstrong reached toward her, and slipped through the door into the library.

The body lay face-down on the floor, facing away from the rough stone fireplace with the blood underneath the white-haired head. A wooden carving of a growling badger, at least two feet in length, lay on the floor a short distance from the old man's body, the snarling head coated in blood.

Riza stood still, taking it all in before her eyes roamed the shadowed corners of the room as if the perpetrator might still be lurking there.

Roy's hand brushed against her back, his arm wrapping around her shoulders in preparation for leading her away. "Hawkeye, I'm so sorry," he murmured. "Come on, you can't-"

She pushed his hand away, stepping deeper into the room. In the heavy gold-framed mirror above the fireplace mantle, she was aware of Roy turning to look at Armstrong, shaking his head with a rueful, half-felt smile at her stubbornness. Ignoring him, she circled to the right, coming up on Grumman's right side.

She pulled the thin chiffon outer layer of her dress over her hand before pressing two fingers to the old man's neck.

Roy watched, feeling something inside tearing at his heart as he watched her kneel beside the body and check for a pulse. It seemed so incongruous, this beautiful young woman whose face was so solemn and betrayed nothing when only fifteen minutes ago, she had been smiling at him with promise for after they left.

He saw her withdraw her hand and sit back, looking vaguely confused and unsettled. She met his gaze for a brief moment before she turned her attention to the envelope still in her hand from the Solstice tree.

He moved toward her as she opened it and pulled out a note. He didn't see the words, but they seemed to ease some of her confusion, or at least comfort her.

She folded it in half before he reached her, hiding the words, and he didn't press to know what they said. This was not the time or place. Gently, he helped her to her feet, keeping his arm around her for her own comfort as much as his own.

"I'm sorry, Armstrong rumbled quietly as they reached him. "I thought you two would be best to notify first. Though now that you know…." He hesitated briefly. "I'm afraid I have to ask you not to leave the premises until we get this sorted out."

Roy's head snapped up. "Just what are you saying, Major?"

The big man looked uncomfortable as he ushered them out and closed the door. "Only what's true of everyone else here: no one is above suspicion."

Once again in the ballroom, it was mere moments before the rest of Roy's staff gathered around, Rebecca joining them moments later.

"What's going on, Chief?" Havoc asked quietly, eyes travelling around the vicinity. Men and women were casting curious surreptitious glances at the little group.

"It's, uh…." Roy shot Riza a nervous glance, but found her as impassive as before. "It would appear," he said softly, leaning forward to allow his voice to remain at conspiratorial levels, "that the Führer-President has been murdered."

Stunned silence fell on the little group, four pairs of eyes widening as they stared. Rebecca reached out, settling a sympathetic hand on Riza's back.

"Dare I ask with what?" Falman asked, voice hushed.

"One of those wooden carved statues he was always polishing," Roy murmured. "Somebody…." He dragged a hand over his face, suddenly weary. "Somebody… took it to his head."

Fuery gulped, the colour draining out of his face. Breda swore quietly.

"So who do they -"

"Ladies and gentlemen, your attention again!" Armstrong was back in the door, with a shaken-looking young woman who clutched nervously at a piece of paper.

"We are beginning our initial investigation into what has occurred," Armstrong began gravely. "We are -"

"What happened, exactly?" someone in the crowd called, eliciting shouts of agreement. Armstrong quieted the room with a gesture before continuing.

"As I was saying, we are going to begin speaking to persons of interest in the case. When you hear your name called, please step forward."

The young woman - Grumman's secretary, Roy recalled - handed her paper to Armstrong, who began to read names aloud.

Major-General Armstrong. General Hakuro. Colonel Mustang. Major Miles. First Lieutenant Hawkeye. Second Lieutenant Breda. Second Lieutenant Catalina. Second Lieutenant Falman. Second Lieutenant Havoc. Sergeant-Major Fuery. Former First Lady Bradley.

Gasps of shock echoed continuously throughout the recitation, but Armstrong paid them no mind. Finished, he looked up. "Please keep in mind that at this time, you are not charged with anything or even true suspects. We are merely trying to get to the bottom of things. In the meantime we ask that the rest of you remain here. Thank you."

The little group assembled and moved out together, accompanied by two of the plainclothed guards and led by Armstrong, toward the spacious study. Roy, walking just behind Riza, saw her shoulders rise in a brief shudder as she passed through the doors, and a wave of sympathy passed over him. Out of sight of the others, he let his hand brush hers on its backswing. She looked back, giving a small smile.

They dispersed to the seating scattered about the room, and Roy took advantage of the sudden distance to murmur, "You okay?"

"Yes," she said, her voice hardly more than a whisper. "Just… memories. Having to come here when it was Bradley's."

He nodded, understanding, stopping behind a dark brown leather club chair and handing her into it in gentlemanly fashion. Around the semi-circular seating arrangement that faced the fireplace, the persons of interest settled into places with reactions anywhere from curiosity to trepidation.

"I'd like to begin," Armstrong said, "by reiterating that you are not suspects. The Führer-President has been murdered –" Gasps and exclamations of reaction came from around the circle. "– but you are not suspects. Not yet."

His sister's eyes flashed with annoyance; like Riza she was seated in a plush club chair with Miles standing just behind it. "Then just why are we here, Alex?"

To his credit, the big man flinched, but only slightly. "To determine whether or not any of you could be suspects. I went through the guest list for this evening, and all of you were deemed to be the people with the most reason to want the Führer-President dead."

Everyone spoke as one. "What?!"

Hakuro's face reddened with anger. "I seriously hope you are joking, Major. To accuse any of us of the possibility of being a murderer, on Solstice Eve of all times…."

"Nevertheless, General, there has been a murder, and it needs to be investigated." Unlike with his sister, Armstrong did not allow himself to be cowed into submission this time. "And since I'm from the Investigations Office, it logically falls to me."

"And just what have we done to warrant suspicion?" Riza asked calmly.

"I was getting to that." Armstrong consulted the list still in his hand. "We may as well start from the top."

"Olivier: your ambition is no secret, and neither is your role in the battle of Central last spring. It stands to reason that you could be harbouring some resentment toward Grumman for assuming a position that you coveted for yourself." He looked to the man standing behind his sister's chair. "As for your assistant, he could have acted on your behalf."

Olivier's smile was as frosty as her nickname might imply. "Loyal to a fault."

"You could say." Armstrong glanced back at the list. "General Hakuro, your potential motive stands as your open disapproval of Grumman's leadership, and the several counts in your file of insubordination toward him directly."

Scowling, Hakuro folded his arms across his chest. "It's considered suspect to disagree with someone's politics or their management style?"

"Most people, myself included, tend to regard any strong feeling - especially feeling evidence by action such as insubordination - as potential motive," Armstrong explained. "I hope you'll pardon my saying so, sir, but people have killed for less."

Another quick look at the list. "Colonel. Your motive is the same as Olivier's: you're an ambitious man, and Grumman beat you to the top after your actions on the Promised Day that could have put you on the track toward the Presidency."

Roy had shifted to rest one hip on the wide armrest of Riza's chair, his hands folded comfortably in his lap. "It would make more sense if Grumman hadn't been a personal mentor of mine for several years," he pointed out. "Not to mention a family friend."

"Most murders are committed by someone known to the victim," Hakuro pointed out, just loud enough for the group to hear. "Personal relationships in a case like this only tend to strengthen motive, not weaken it."

"Which brings us to Lieutenant Hawkeye," Armstrong interrupted before a verbal sparring match could get too far off the ground. "Like Major Miles, she could have been trying to secure a better position for her superior… but that's not the only factor." Blue eyes looked at her; Riza stared back, unintimidated. "There's always the possibility of a harboured resentment for the years of estrangement from your grandfather."

"Come again?" Olivier leaned forward in her seat. "Did I hear that right? The old man was her grandfather?"

"Estranged, but yes," Riza answered calmly. "But I don't hold that estrangement against him. If I'm to have a motive in this, it should be loyalty and nothing else."

Armstrong nodded, but turned back to his list once again. "Unfortunately, the same can also be said of the rest of Colonel Mustang's staff, including Second Lieutenant Falman. All of you have reason for wanting to see your superior succeed, even if it's only to give yourselves a higher position since you would doubtless be carried along with him.

"Second Lieutenant Catalina, your motive is a little more serious." He looked up. "Am I right in saying that, at one time or another you have mentioned incidents of sexual harassment perpetrated on you by Grumman?"

Rebecca flushed. "…Once or twice, but never anything terribly serious. Or at least, I didn't take him seriously. If I had, I would have reported him, or at the very least asked Riza to tell him off if I didn't do so myself."

"I see. Which, last but not least, brings us to our former First Lady." Armstrong's expression turned sympathetic as he looked to the older woman. "Ma'am, it brings me no joy to say this, but –"

"Then allow me," she said, with near-perfect composure. "I have motive to have committed the murder because Grumman occupied the position held by my late husband, and perhaps I resented that fact."

"Exactly."

"Hold on just a minute," Roy put in, looking hard at Armstrong. "You're presenting all these motives, but let's not forget that motive is only part of the equation. There are three criteria to meet: motive, means, and opportunity." He spread his hands. "Sure, anyone can be said to have motive, even a flimsy one. But you need the other two before the MPs will even consider an arrest."

"Fair point," Miles spoke up. "You said the Führer-President was – my apologies, Lieutenant Hawkeye – bludgeoned to death with a wooden statue? Am I right in calling this a crime of passion then? Severe rage?"

Roy nodded. "From what I saw, there were a few good blows, and that statue is no featherweight. It would take someone with muscle in addition to anger. Which I think would exclude Miles, Falman, and the majority of my staff, save Hawkeye. Anyone who's motive wouldn't be resentment or anger-based."

"I can agree to that," Olivier commented, almost grudgingly. "If we're narrowing down the persons of interest, why don't we send anyone we eliminate back to the ballroom? It's not like they're going anywhere yet."

"Very well." Armstrong looked first to Falman and Miles, then to Havoc, Breda, and Fuery. "You can all go, but remain in the ballroom with everyone else where we can recall you if necessary."

The five men just reached the door, where they passed a guard entering, carrying a second piece of paper. This, he passed to Armstrong, who read it over briefly, his brow furrowing in puzzlement. "You're sure?" he asked the guard. "All these sources are viable? Unbiased?"

"Yes, sir, though there's one other thing." The guard cast a look at the others in the room before adding, "We checked the murder weapon for prints but only found the Führer-President's. Whoever it was must have worn gloves."

Armstrong's frown deepened. "I see. Well, nevertheless, well done." He waited until the man had gone, before holding up the new page. "I've had the guard asking around, trying to see if any of you had the opportunity to slip away from the party and commit the murder. So far, multiple witnesses place all of you in the ballroom at the time."

Hakuro suddenly went very still. "They can place all of us there," he said slowly, "but don't I remember seeing you slip out the doors?" His eyes narrowed. "And don't we only have your word that you only found the body, instead of committing the murder yourself?"

"I did lose track of you for a little while." A similar expression was on Olivier's face now as she regarded her brother. "And you certainly have the strength to get the job done, Alex." She didn't look away as her brother turned to her in surprise. "Hakuro has a point. You told me you had an appointment with Grumman, and the next thing I know, you come back saying he's dead."

"Except he has no motive," Rebecca put in.

"Not to mention that the first thing you learn about Major Armstrong is that he's essentially harmless," Riza added. "He would never attack anyone without provocation or reason."

"Then who did it?!" Hakuro demanded. "Or do you think it was ghosts?"

"I did it!"

Chapter Three: http://writing-royza.tumblr.com/post/168936333540/a-murder-most-festive-chapter-three

[nanaswhispers]

Wandering Souls

Day 1 KLAROLINEAUWEEK : Fusions & Crossovers

OUTLANDER AU.

K&c don’t interact with Claire and Jamie. They’re also not really Claire and Jamie, but there are some similitudes with a strong Klaroline twist. Also, Randalls became Lockwoods. Not really Outlander canon either, just Outlander Universe.

Angst. Violence. Language. 

Although it was originally intended as a one-shot, and I ended it in a way so that it can still be read as that, I’m feeling inspired, and like it needs a continuation, so, if you like it, stay tuned for a second part! After Klarolineauweek ends most probably.

PART 2 - PART 3

Enjoy !

 « Eerie, isn’t it ? » a distinctly male voice abruptly brought her out of her contemplation.

Caroline threw a quick glance towards the man walking up to her, then looked back down, from her perch on the balcony, at the dancing, joyous pairs moving through the castle’s Great Room, the fires in the various hearths scattered in all the corners of the space to combat the wet cold winter seemingly never ending here in the Highlands, the unfamiliar smells of food and beverages that wouldn’t even be remembered centuries from now, the swirls of the tent-like skirts women were forced to wear below the excruciating tightness of their corsets, and the swirls of the kilts around the men’s knees proudly displaying the loyalty to their clan, their allegiance to their Laird.

And, she supposed, it really was eerie. Although, she guessed the man now standing next to her didn’t find it so for the same reasons she did. At least not from her perspective as a 26 years old woman from the 21st century that suddenly traveled through time and landed in the 18th century, right in the middle of Scotland.

So, she only nodded, not willing to show or say to much.

Even if she hadn't quickly glanced back when he interrupted her musings, his voice would have betrayed his identity immediately. Such a raspy, smooth, velvet was recognizable amongst thousands, but, it was his accent, so different from everyone else’s around here that truly differentiated him from the other people in Castle Leoch.

She had heard he was a traveler, and had been a warrior for some Lord in another land some time ago, his prowess with a sword was rumored to be extraordinary. (Clearly, only nice terms to say sell-sword, she scoffed, internally.)

She supposed he had his reasons as to why he divulged no details about his past. (She couldn't really hold that against him since she hadn't really been that forthcoming herself…)

Perhaps he had done things that would take away the good grace the Mackenzies had towards him?

Maybe it was shame that ate him up from the inside? (Although Klaus didn't strike her as one that would care about such unprofitable and unusable emotions…)

Or, most probably, his past was too painful, still too raw to share… she understood that.

Those were different times, where people didn’t always have the luxury of circumstances or even the rights to choose a path for themselves. Sometimes, to survive, one must do things they didn’t like. Things they wished to never remember again.

Objectively, she had known in a vague sort of way, that all those were indisputable facts. That free will and freedom were what dreams were made off. However she had never truly comprehended it, grasped the whole spectrum of that fact, understood how it affected people to be choice-less, powerless, voice-less, not until mere months ago. Now, she did. Unfortunately.

Caroline looked back at him again. Observed him standing quite rigidly, especially compared to his usual falsely laid-back attitude. Watched as he took notice of every nook, cranny, and corner present in the Great Room, never letting down his guard. His already paranoid streak seemingly accrued by the tension right before the battle that will take place only hours from now.

When she met him initially, his aura of violence and aloofness perturbed her. Frustrated her. Unbalanced her. She wasn't equipped to deal with men who dealt everyday with violence and non-ending wars, as real individuals, with their own set of traumas and real experiences. People who lived through the consequences of spilled blood. They were just a story, something passed almost as anecdotes when political machinations and tales of bloody battlefields were taught in class as more important than the measly life of a no-name Scot, until they stood in front of her, threatening her, thinking she was a spy for the English that persecuted them.

Now, with hindsight and experience on her mind, she guessed his attitude had its benefits. Even though he was capable of angering her like no one before in her life (both time frames included), he was also the one that protected her like nobody ever did before, even at his own expense.

She would remember until her last breaths those wretched moments when he took a hit, or a bullet in her stead. When he defended her honor by sullying his. When he sacrificed his comfort so that she could feel better. And he did it without ever bragging, which was actually quite surprising and commendable for someone with such a propensity for teasing and showing off.

Klaus had sometimes been such an antagonistic bastard during her three months in this time that she in some stances (after an arduous battle with herself) could force her mind to forget how handsome and charming he was. Yet, here, standing next to her, with an indescribable expression stretched on his fair and strong features, her breath was taken away.

The warmth exuding from his arm to hers was much more effective than the fires in chasing away the chill from her bones, she noted absently.

This time, when his voice interrupted her from her musings, about how hot he was, she was grateful. She couldn’t allow herself to fantasize about men she didn’t plan on seeing for much longer. She had to get back to Tyler. Her, maybe not as sweet nor devoted as she would like, husband of two years, waiting for her, generations away. So she only focused on his words and not on the divine mouth uttering them.

“I find it quite eerie to see such joy on their faces. They know that the dawn will bring nothing good, that most of them could be dead come sundown. They know that Lockwood and his brutish British goons are better funded, better equipped, and have higher numbers. And yet, here are those Highlanders, dancing, laughing, drinking and fucking… Is that the most stupid or most intelligent thing on this world, I wonder?”

She pondered his question a few moments. Never truly finding a concrete answer but still giving away her piece of mind.

“I don’t really know, to be perfectly honest with you… It is stupid. They are drinking themselves to a stupor they won’t really exit out of even on the battlefield; they are using all the energy they could save for the fight by fucking women they wouldn’t even acknowledge any other day; they are burning up every resource they have that could feed their people in the coming months…”

(She hushed the words “if survival is theirs” for both their sakes.)

“And yet, there is something undeniably awe-inspiring and truly…beautiful, seeing them like this, focusing only on the present time, not worrying about the events of the morrow, enjoying everything about living at least one last night… One can only envy such lust for life.”

Klaus looked at her in silence, contemplating her (and her words), a small smile etched on his sinful lips, as if he was amused by the rhetoric of her answer, or as if he was pleased she shared her mind so openly with him after weeks of avoiding real conversations with him, instead giving back only defensive, short and concise words.

They stood side to side, in silence for a long while, pondering the events to come, the forced joy and drunkenness being displayed in front of their eyes, as if a scene from a historical action movie. Appreciating each other's warmth, knowing fully well it may be the last time they ever could. Quietly, secretly, throwing quick glances that when caught would case an embarrassed smile to bloom on their otherwise stony faces.

As per usual, it was Klaus that breached through the wall of silence between them.

“I, am no Scot, my fair lady, and I do not plan on giving away the fight before it has even begun. I intend to broaden significantly my list of slain English bastards. Therefore, I must bid you a good night and take leave to retire to my own chambers. (Where you are always welcome if you so wish)”

He smirked a little, by habit, but the usual heat and innuendo were not present this time.

“As my people say Wake early if you want another man’s life or land. No lamb for the lazy wolf. No battles won in bed… If I come back from the battlefield tomorrow, it will be my pleasure to see those beautiful eyes again my lady Caroline. If not, it was my greatest pleasure to have gazed upon such beauty. May your journey be easy and prosperous.”

Watching his form slowly inserting itself into the crowd made of rowdy highlanders, Caroline hoped with everything she had in her that those parting words would be useless and that his famed prowess with a sword was as true as it was told to be.

Caroline went to bed shortly after. But sleep wasn’t destined for her.

His parting words resonated in her. Ringed something distant in her mind. A memory she couldn't quite grasp, of a knowledge she felt even into her bones was important. Something that would help her unravel the mystery that was Klaus.

Well, the saying of “his people” did that. The others, the last, more personal ones, she didn't want to think about. (She failed. It may or may not have provoked tingling, fire and constricting of the heart. Caroline wouldn't even admit it under duress.)

She had spent the entire night fretting over all the possibilities the morrow would bring. Contemplated each person’s probability to die on that clearing. Admonished herself for even wishing that some would make it back.

She knew the Scots would lose. She knew it was the beginning of the end for the Highland culture and way of life. She knew that in the times to come, even speaking one’s mother tongue could get yours to be separated from the rest of your mouth. She knew it was the landmark for oppression.

She had gone to fucking Scotland, visited and observed every ruin, studied every book and stood upon Craigh Na Dun, because her entire career as an anthropologist would depend on how she started it, would depend on her thesis about the history and culture of these lands. The way people had lived and developed in a region not known for its welcoming nature.

And yet, she still hoped against hope.

So, she mourned for all the lives that would be lost. She cried for all the lives that wouldn’t be, but will live under torture and agony. She wept for all the women left behind waiting for any news that their loved ones survived, for the children that will become orphans in the coming hours.

Just before dawn and its daunting sun rays came, she heard the stirring of horses led to the gates of the castle. The bustle of men hurrying for armors, swords, food.

Caroline stood up, engulfed herself into her giant woolen shawl looking for every scrap of warmth and comfort she could find, and went hesitatingly to the small window in her room. Watched the heaviness slowly etch itself into each pair of shoulders. Observed them trying to joke and laugh as they usually would no matter the context, but without their hearts in it. As if they knew, that this time it would be something else entirely.

Her eyes strayed by themselves on the imposing figure Klaus presented, standing stoically against the archway, waiting for the signal to go. She felt his eyes rest on her too, and without thinking, her hand rose, and he nodded instead.

She watched, paradoxically unaware and simultaneously much too cognizant of the time trickling by. The final moments coming too fast, but the preparations for it endless.

“May we meet again” she whispered, almost unknowingly, as she watched them leave.

Seconds, minutes hours meshed together, passed away without anyone noticing. Time stretched itself into a continuous agony of not knowing. The haze of waiting seemed unending.

And yet, when the main door of the castle caved under the might of His Majesty's troops, every child, woman, elder that had been huddled together in the Great Room as they waited, jumped as if broken out of a short nap.

Screams and wails, of despair and realization that they had lost, breaking into a symphony of pain and misery.

Their people were doomed. Their families broken. Their loved ones most probably lying amidst bowels, mud and piss, their blood fertilizing the soil they had fought for until their last breaths.

Surrounded by the cacophony of cries, grunts and orders to knee in front of His Majesty's power, Caroline stood rigid, devoid of any expression, numb.

Some would perhaps say she didn't feel affected by the outcome of the battle, that these weren't her people, that she had only been an unsolicited guest in this time and in this clan. Others would simply rationalize that her forehand knowledge of the loss had prepared her sufficiently to not break in front of the menacing soldiers.

However, Caroline knew that neither of these options were right.

She wasn't catatonic, but her mind had stopped. The blow of the truth too hard, to powerful to digest immediately. She would do what she did best in situations where everyone succumbed. She would hold the ship and bear stoically every hit, up until the moment when she would relax and everything would just engulf her. It was okay, she would handle it when the time comes, as she always did.

For now, she had to be strong.

Especially since the man bearing the same name and features her husband had centuries from now, sauntered proud as a peacock in the Great Room. Laughing at the misery etched onto the faces of every Scot present. Enjoying the defeat creeping into their eyes. Thrilled to see the proud people that defied him at every turn kneel weakly in front of his power.

Caroline would not kneel. So he sent two of his apes at her.

One soldier of his Majesty dead, lying in a pool of his own blood at her feet, the other holding his side while grabbing her hair at the same time, holding her in place, she watched as Theodore Lockwood, her husband’s ancestor, and doppelganger, the King's most infamous Lieutenant, walked proudly towards her.

She glowered at the man that tried to rape her, that tortured her, that gave her the status of criminal.

He came to her, as closely as possible, smirked as he towered over her now that she was kneeling against her will at his feet, and replaced the hand in her hair with his own mighty grip.

Her attention went for a small moment to the man standing behind her, and the knife she had used to kill his compatriot moments away that he now pushed relentlessly against her spine. Dumb rookie mistake Caroline.

Suddenly, she felt her head move under the force of his pull, her hair being torn out of her scalp. She felt him rubbing his groin on her entire face, particularly her mouth, while holding her still.

While Tyler's main attribute and reason as to why they had tried so hard for so long to make it work, was his anatomy and their incredible alchemy in bed, the mere thought of being in contact with her husband's cock elder twin awoke in her a repulsion she didn't even know she could feel.

And the smells certainly did not help: his putrid penis, the piss he didn't wipe away, and the aromas of death and blood from the field hit her all at once. The repulsion she felt needed a physical outlet. She couldn't stop the gag in her throat, and managed barely to contain the vomit that wanted to get out of her lips.

He laughed at her struggling and as he heard the present people objecting but not nearly loud enough to count as worthy protestation. Still shaken with their grief and pain and helplessness, they couldn't put up a real fight.

He enjoyed seeing mothers shielding the eyes of the young and elders being drawn to tears as they witnessed the glorious spectacle he gave them.

He looked back down at her, obviously thrilled and satisfied with his stage. She felt him get even harder against her lips. Her stomach went up to her throat again.

“If memory serves me well, and trust me, I never forget any slight, you had previously sworn that you would never kneel to, I quote, “a scumbag” like me… Hmm, I wonder what you are doing right now? Not that proud anymore, Miss Forbes, are we?”

She only glared. Her lips remained stubbornly sealed, she would not give him the satisfaction of rising to the bait, nor would she give him the opportunity to shove that gross bulge in her mouth… even if the perspective of biting that particular appendage to blood was thrilling.

His victorious grin changed to a glower as her eyes remained without tears and ever challenging.

“Don't expect your protector to come help save the day as usual either, I saw him lying motionless surrounded by a pile of shit next to another one of your little band of criminals. I must admit, it was quite the pleasuring sight, quite arousing too, pity I had to come here so fast, I would have enjoyed tremendously finally fucking that dirty asshole that deserved much needed punishment, defiling his body and showing that even in death I could make him suffer... Mmmh, quite the waste really. I'm only sorry it wasn't me that ended his miserable worthless life.” he taunted.

Anger shone in her eyes even amidst the pain. Disgust written plainly on her features.

And as she felt herself succumb a little to despair and pain as it hit her in the chest, for reasons she had never truly admitted to her herself until then, she forced herself in a state of unbending steel. One of coldness reining in the darkness growing at the prospect of never seeing Klaus again. She could not afford to lose her composure and resistance right now. Otherwise he would achieve his goal of putting her down.

It angered him, clearly.

She felt him distance his breeches covered cock away from her face, and just as she exhaled, glad to be out of contact with that thing, with the tight grip he had on her hair, he abruptly threw her down to the worn, gray, dirty stone of the ground.

The knife of the unaware soldier lacerated her deeply into her left side. Pain erupted in her body at once. Her blood ran profusely from her forehead where her skull hit the floor with force, forming around her head a halo of red.

Still, even battered and bloody, Caroline refused to let him win. So she grasped every ounce of force present in her and slowly lifted herself up on her hands, then knees, and lastly feet. She pressed a hand on her wound, trying to slow the flow of blood oozing out of her chest.

During the entire, without a doubt long process of her getting to her feet, filled with moans and grunts of pain, he watched as one might study sadistically a weaker animal slowly get devoured by a mightier predator.

In that exact moment, as she saw the gleeful triumph he regarded her with, Caroline swore she would kill him. She promised it to herself.

Whatever she had to do to reach her goal, she would. However much time she had to stay in this timeline in order to rid the world of scum like him, she would spend it, without even a consideration to the man with the same voice, the same face and the same initials as him waiting for her.

She would kill. She would avenge all the people that suffered or died because of him. She would kill him for Klaus, so that his death wouldn't be vain. 

She would end his life just as he ended every possible future she could have had with him, every opportunity that would never happen where she would have finally come to realize how much Klaus meant. She would end him because he ended her.

And he will suffer, that she swore.

[foreversillythings]

roses are red, roses are white chapter two

chapter one

roses are red, roses are white part one now rises the sun of york chapter two to kneel before the queen

It is mid-March, 1468, when Katniss of York enters London.

Madge climbs up as many stairs in Westminster as she can, up to the tallest point she can reach and watches the triumphant procession from a window. She takes in the streets swollen with cheering men, women and children and their delight echoes up to her, her fingers clutching at the rough stone of the window ledge. Banners and streamers wave and white rose petals float through the air, tossed up by joyous hands. London’s officials wait in their state clothes and horns blare as Katniss of York rides in on her horse, a crown of white roses on her head.

The people are small and distant from Madge’s perch, but she knows that has to be Katniss, the crowds bowing as she passes. Men on horses follow after her, probably her cousins, and a sour taste fills Madge’s mouth.

Katniss of York. Haymitch of Warwick. Gale of Salisbury.

My judges, jury and executioners. What punishment have you in store for me?

London rejoices below her, finally free of King Coriolanus, and Madge watches with hostile eyes, knowing her sentence has just begun.

*

Madge is fifteen years old and never has her life been more uncertain than it is right now.

Everyone they’d brought from Bedford Castle joins her in their suite of rooms, much too nervous to be caught out in the hallways. The Yorkists will surely come to take possession of Westminster once they’re done with their procession in the city and though their chambers are crowded, with nowhere near enough room for everyone to be comfortable, the illusion of security they are afforded by being together makes it worth it. And it won’t be for long anyway, the Yorkists will soon have to inform Madge and her mother of what their future holds.

(and she cannot imagine it will be good)

In the meantime, they try and keep themselves busy, even as worry rages like a river in their bones. Madge focuses on mending the torn hem of someone’s dress, as there is no seamstress among them and it is too risky to venture out to try and find one. Her fingers move methodically and no one speaks, anxiety weighing down their tongues. Eyes stay stuck on the door, just waiting for it to open and even with the work; Madge cannot keep her mind from straying to her father.

You must be alright Father, you must be

Her mother is laid up in bed, trying to gather her strength and Madge is left in charge, everyone hovering around her as if expecting guidance. She has none to give, is in desperate need of some herself when the door opens without warning, not even a knock.

Everyone in the room is silent, holding their breath, all eyes on the figure before them and Madge feels a thick, syrupy hatred bubble in her veins. Standing in the doorway is a young man only as few years older than her, with dark hair and grey eyes that are almost blue. There is a white rose sewn onto his surcoat alongside a double headed eagle badge she does not recognize and finally, the time has come.

The Yorkists have sent for them.

“Thom Oakfield, Baron Lovell,” he says, bowing low and flourishing his cap. Everyone turns to her, waiting for her reaction and she knows she should be sweet and docile, attempt to curry favor with this messenger but her body trembles with rage at these victors come to claim their spoils and fear at what destiny awaits her. She straightens her shoulders and pricks her finger with her needle, uses the sharp pain to help steady herself.

“And what brings you here, Lord Lovell?” she asks, the words burning holes in her tongue. He straightens up; his eyes stuttering for a moment over the bruises Prince Cato’d left behind on her cheek.

“I bring word from her Majesty the Queen.”

There is pleasure and satisfaction in his voice as he says it and Madge feels her stomach tighten, acid climbing up her throat and filling her mouth.

“Katniss of York has been declared queen then?” she questions, even though she’s already sure of the answer. Sir Thom blinks at her, probably surprised that she is so forward, but all her good breeding seems to have evaporated.

“Yes,” he responds, uneasy under her stare, “Queen of England and Lord of Ireland.”

Madge bites her tongue and almost laughs, though not from mirth. Katniss of York is England’s first ever reigning queen and Madge should be able to join the throngs of cheering citizens, not locked up here seething with hatred.

(and she supposes ‘Lady of Ireland’ does not sound nearly imposing enough for all those stuffy men who make the rules)

She inhales and forces her tone to remain even.

“And what has she to say to us?”

“I am meant to deliver my message to the Duchess of Bedford,” he replies with a frown, squeezing the brim of his cap.

“She is ill, you will have to talk to me,” Madge tells him, voice hard like a command and he frowns deeper, entirely unsure what to do. He was most probably expecting a demure young lady who spoke softly and wouldn’t meet his eyes or question his words. Madge is too tired to be polite, feels weary in her bones. If Queen Katniss is to ruin her, Madge cannot find an interest in behaving. Sir Thom swallows.

“The Queen and her advisors request that you, your mother the duchess and your household remain within your chambers until such a time as she is ready to summon you and discuss your future.”

Madge shakes her head, a bitter flood welling inside of her.

“We are to be prisoners then.”

Sir Thom won’t meet her eyes.

“It is for your own protection, as there are those who would be glad to revenge themselves on Coriolanus’ family.”

Madge almost snorts at the lie, at the lack of ‘King’ before King Coriolanus’ name. Instead, she merely levels Sir Thom with her most unimpressed glare, wants him to know she is not fooled by the Queen’s paltry attempt to appear benevolent.

“Food and drink will be brought to you of course,” he hurries to continue, eyes focused slightly above her head.

“And a physician,” Madge states and Sir Thom does meet her eyes finally, startled she is making demands.  

“My mother is ill; she will need a physician to attend her.”

“Oh, yes, ah, I shall inform her Majesty,” Sir Thom mumbles, looking off to her right. Madge nods and Sir Thom drops into a hasty bow.

“I shall return when the Queen is ready to see you,” he informs her and then turns quickly, clearly desperate to escape from her. Madge is glad to see the back of him.

“Wait! Lord Lovell, wait,” she calls suddenly, heart thudding. She was so distracted by anger she had almost forgotten the most important thing of all. Sir Thom turns back slowly with a grimace.

“Yes, my lady?”

Madge swallows, fear like ice against her skin.

“Is there any word of my father, the Duke of Bedford?”

She would curse the tremor in her voice but she is too terrified to even think and Sir Thom looks down, fiddling with his cap.

“I do not think it is my place,” he says and Madge feels the sudden urge to vomit.

“Please Lord Lovell, we have not heard from him in months, I beg you for any news you may have.”

Perhaps it is the tears in her eyes or the pleading in her voice but Sir Thom relents, an awkward empathy colouring his face.

“My apologies, my lady, but the Duke of Bedford was slain at Towton.”

The world seems to have fallen away from her, leaving her alone in a sea of black.

“You are certain?” she hears herself ask, as if from underwater. Sir Thom nods.

“There is no doubt, my lady.”

“Thank you,” she tells him, voice oddly flat. He watches her for a moment more and Madge is not sure she is breathing, not sure she is even alive. Sir Thom bows again, says something she does not hear and then he is gone and Madge is sinking, dark waves crashing over her head. Someone touches her shoulder and she is vaguely aware of wailing, of sobbing, of the sounds of heartbreak all around her but she is frozen, despair keeping her chained and far away.

“Please do not speak of this to my mother, I will tell her when she awakes.”

She does not wait for an answer but stands, her legs weak and trembling. Hands reach for her but she ignores them and stumbles to her own chamber, connected to this one by a heavy gilded door. She steps inside and shuts it firmly, closing herself off from everyone else. She rests against the door for a moment, feeling winded, Thom’s words echoing around inside her.

The Duke of Bedford was slain at Towton

She places a hand on the stone wall, her nails digging into it and her knees knock together, a pain unlike any she had ever imagined swelling inside of her.

Take care, my Madge.

And you, Father.

She clutches her stomach with her free hand and the sobs are wrenched out of her, great, heaving sobs that send her to her knees.

The Duke of Bedford was slain at Towton

She folds inwards, crumpling and she cannot breathe, is drowning in her own tears.

Papa papa papa you cannot be how can you no please please please papa no I can’t I no please no papa

Madge curls up on the floor, a puddle of suffering and heartbreak. Misery wracks her body and she clings to herself, a desperate wail building in lungs.

Papa!

*

Her father is dead

She will never forgive the Yorkists for this.

*

Madge has cried herself dry when she finally goes to her mother, her throat raw and her face red and swollen.

Her mother is sitting up in bed, her eyes sunken and ringed with purple. She has been growing worse every day and the thought that she could soon become an orphan steals the breath from Madge’s lungs. She sways and has to grab the door frame to keep from falling over, panic momentarily making her blind.

“Madge?” her mother questions, soft voice slicing through her haze of fear. She’s still here. I’m not alone, not yet.

“Katniss of York is queen,” she begins and her mother frowns, reaching out her hand. Madge takes it and allows her mother to pull her gently over to her bed. She sits down on the edge of it, words crowding up inside her.

“She sent a messenger, Thom, Baron Lovell, to tell us we are prisoners here, until the Queen sees fit to summon us.”

Her mother nods and uses her thumb to wipe at a stray tear dribbling down Madge’s cheek.

“You have had news of your father?”

Madge ducks her head, a flood building behind her eyes. She’d thought she had no tears left to cry, but they come again, enough to wash her out to sea.

“He is dead, Mama, dead. They killed him at Towton.”

Madge cannot continue, sobs strangling her voice and her mother pulls her close, hands stroking her hair.

“Oh Madge, oh my sweet Madge,” she coos and Madge sinks into her mother’s chest, soaking her bedclothes and sheets. Madge clings to her, squeezes her too tight but she cannot help herself, almost paralyzed by fear and devastation.

With her eyes closed, Madge can see her father; pale and frightened as he’d rode away that final time, the glare of his armor hurting her eyes. She can hear him saying her name; the syllables wrapped in a bitter wind and feel his fingertips on her cheek, colder than the fall air. She had wanted to stop him then and had thought it brave not to, but now she thinks it was foolish, foolish and weak and cowardly. Brave would have been to stand up to the King, courage would have been to beg her father not to go without caring what anyone would have thought of her.

Come back Father, please come back to us, she wants to wail, even though she knows he can’t. Come home!

(but they have no home, not anymore)

*

Madge does not sleep that night, though she pretends to.

To try and accommodate all the people now confined to their quarters, Madge gives up her bed and shares her mother’s instead. Her mother, who had not shed a tear as she held Madge, whose words had been soothing and whose hands had been steady, spends that night spiraling to pieces.

Madge lies on her side and doesn’t move while her mother bawls, the whole bed shuddering with her grief. Her mother had wanted to be strong for her, so Madge allows her as much privacy as she can while she mourns, her voice repeating Joseph Joseph Joseph until Madge feels as if the word has been carved into her skin. She cannot see her mother but can imagine her, huddled around her pillow and gasping for breath through her wracking sorrow.

They have lost the same man, though he meant very different things to both of them, but Madge doesn’t think that matters. Father or husband, he was the man they both loved best and his death has cut a ragged hole into their lives, one Madge doubts will ever be sewn entirely shut.

“Joseph, Joseph, do not leave me Joseph,” her mother begs and Madge digs her nails into her arm.

He hasn’t left us.

The Yorkists have stolen him from us.

(and they will pay for it)

*

In the weeks that follow, Madge starts to plan.

She needs to be ready for her meeting with the Queen, the fate of herself, her mother and their entire household riding on its outcome. She needs a strategy, needs to win over Queen Katniss. They are entirely at her mercy but Madge will not let her take anything else from them.

They have suffered enough.

Because the Duke of Bedford died a traitor, it is entirely possible that the Queen will have him attainted, and if that happens, everything that belonged to him, all his lands, wealth and titles will be forfeit to the crown. They are meant to pass on to Madge as his only child, but the Queen could take them all and leave her with nothing. Madge will have no legal right to argue for them and she cannot accept that, feels like her heart is bleeding just from the thought of his murderers rejoicing in his wealth. They could take her mother’s inheritance as well, that royal dukedom of Clarence and all its associated lands, castles and wealth. It had been passed down to Margaret from her father, Prince Henry, and though her mother had not fought against the Queen, Madge does not trust the Yorkists to let her keep what is rightfully hers.

Perhaps they will seek to argue that as her husband was acting as Duke of Clarence in her name, the dukedom should be forfeit along with his Bedford estates. Perhaps they will insist that she too is a traitor, for not renouncing her husband and uncle. Perhaps they will not justify it at all and merely seize it, desperate and greedy for all that land and money. If they do, Madge and her mother will be left destitute and starving. No home, no money, no anything at all. Worse, is that as King Coriolanus’ relatives, they have a claim to the throne, one that would be carried on with any children they had. The Yorkists can’t allow them to raise anymore Lancastrian claimants, so they might find themselves prisoners for the rest of their lives, locked away where they will never run the risk of falling with child.

They might even be executed, to ensure no one ever rises up in their names.

Madge knows her future is bleak, knows she is fighting an uphill battle, but she cannot surrender now. She will do everything within her power to keep herself afloat, to ensure the survival of the Bedford family.

Let the Yorkists have England, they will never have me.

She lays out the gowns she’d brought with her and there is little selection. She needs to look perfect, will need every advantage she can muster to go to battle with this victorious queen, but unfortunately, she has only three plus the one she arrived in, and four is rather pathetic number to choose from.

Her travelling dress is grey with faint white embroidery, rather plain and simple and Madge knows it will never do. She would look weak to come to them in something so unremarkable, so drab. She would look beaten and in need of sympathy. On the other hand, her grandest gown, purple and gold and dripping in precious jewels, would send the opposite message, would remind them of just how much a threat she could be. That is too dangerous, will make them more likely to strike out against her if she forces them to acknowledge just how much wealth she is set to inherit, just what kind of blood flows through her veins. She needs something in between, something that commands respect, as she is the daughter of a duke and descendant of kings, but still portrays her as sweet, innocent and non-threatening. She needs to walk the finest of all lines, needs them to dismiss her at the same time as they recognize her.  

There is a pink gown with gold roses stitched across the fabric but it makes her look too young, too naïve. They will laugh at any demands she makes, will take everything from her without batting an eye. She turns to her final gown, her very last hope. It is emerald with gold brocade and dark green velvet cuffs and collar. It is lovely, but not overly so, looks like a fine lady’s gown but not one fit for a queen. She imagines paring it with a white girdle and plain white kirtle, to invoke purity and innocence. She will leave her hair free and unbound, to remind them of her youth, while she will wear any jewelry she has, to ensure they recall that she is the daughter of a duke and deserves more than to be pushed around.

Madge looks down at the dress and nods. It is not a perfect plan, but it is a start.

The Yorkists may have won the war, but I will win this battle

(I have to)

*

(She knows it is dangerous, foolish, stupid, but she does it anyway)

(she takes scrap pieces of linen, old rags, torn edges of dresses and attacks them savagely with her needle, covers them in red, red roses)

(it could cost her everything if the Yorkists found her out, might ruin her before she even gets the chance to plead her case)

(she can’t help it though, rebellion burning like an inferno in her stomach)

(stop she can imagine a hundred angry Yorkists voices demanding)

(make me she shouts back)

*

The Queen’s physician comes every other night to check on her mother and after three and a half weeks of waiting, Madge stops him as he goes to leave. She smiles as kindly as she can and presses several gold coins into his hand. She hadn’t brought many with her, but some things are worth paying for.

“I just wanted to thank you, for your service to my mother. I think she is much comforted.”

His fingers close around her money.

“It is my pleasure, my lady. Anything I can do to help.”

Madge nods and he turns to leave.

“I think she is much grieved by all this…not knowing. If we only we had some indication of when we would be summoned to see the Queen, I think it would greatly ease her mind,” she says to his back and he pauses, hand still warm around her money.

“I’m sure it would,” he murmurs in agreement and Madge smiles to herself as he leaves.

She won’t have the Yorkists catch her off guard, won’t have them summon her when she might not be properly dressed or prepared. They will arrive unannounced she is sure, but she will be ready for them. All she needs now is to plan out exactly what she’ll say.

Be wary Yorkists, I’m coming for you.

*

Madge spends a lot of time looking out windows.

Locked up as she is, with her only contact being servants with strict orders to remain tight lipped, windows are her only look into the outside world. She peers down at the Thames and the barges slowly sliding through the water, at the tiny people going about their daily lives. There is an ache in her chest, dull and throbbing when she looks at those people, happy and rejoicing in England’s new state. Madge craves their freedom and almost cries at the fact that so many would crave her life just as strongly.

She wonders if anyone down there ever looks up at Westminster and sees her face, pale and miserable, watching them from high windows. She imagines small children whispering of a ghost haunting the palace, all of them terrified and giggling. Tales of a young lady who died in some tragic circumstance, whose spirit lingers in drafty halls. She can’t help but wonder if that might be what the Yorkists want, to keep her here until she dies. Maybe, one day, she will be a ghost, still locked up in Westminster, a prisoner even in death.

Madge spends a lot of time trapped behind windows.

*

(nightmares come every time she closes her eyes, horrid, bloody dreams of death)

(always her father, butchered before her)

(and always, she can do nothing but watch)

*

Exactly eight days after she pressed her gold into his palm, the Queen’s physician whispers into Madge’s ear.

“Tomorrow.”

She smiles.

Her time has come.

*

That night when the servants come with supper, Madge stops them with a special request.

“I would very much enjoy a bath tomorrow morning,” she says, every ounce of her charm poured into her words. The servants exchange nervous glances.

“I am not...entirely sure if that will be possible, my lady,” one of them mumbles without meeting her eyes. Madge frowns in carefully rehearsed confusion.

“Why ever not? We are the Queen’s guests aren’t we? Does the Queen not want her guests to be comfortable? Or have I misunderstood?”

The silence crackles, the servants standing on unsteady ground and Madge knows she’s won.

“Of course, my lady,” one of the servants finally caves. “We shall have a tub and water brought for you tomorrow.”

Madge beams. “You are ever so kind. Do give the Queen my compliments.”

They nod and shuffle out, Madge’s smile falling away.

Getting a bath may have been simple, but let’s see how I do against the real test.

*

(Madge convinces herself she is brave, strong, unafraid)

(these Yorkists are villains, monsters and Madge will face them head on, demand what is hers and never back down)

(the truth is not quite so sterling)

(the truth is that Madge is young, scared and grasping at straws)

(Madge hides everything behind bravado and righteous anger, but she is terrified, so, so terrified)

(she is fifteen and has to fight for her life, claw her way out of a grave blood and politics have thrown her into)

(Madge is afraid, but she cannot admit it, not even to herself)

(anger is her shield, hatred her sword and she will fight, because really, what other choice does she have?)

*

She wakes early and lays out the clothes and jewels she will wear to see the Queen. She smoothes out every crease, shines every gem and assures herself that there are no rips or tears.

Everything must be perfect.

She is ready when the servants carry in the wooden tub, lined with a sheet to keep her safe from splinters. They pour in buckets and buckets of water and Madge climbs in, gritting her teeth from the chill.

(perhaps she should have specified wanting a warm bath)

She scrubs herself clean from toes to hair, needs to shine when she makes her appearance before the new court. She dries herself carefully, but not roughly, when she’s done and dabs rosewater on her skin. Her mother’s ladies help her dress and they comb her hair until it is smooth and soft, bright gold and gleaming. She tucks sweet smelling flowers into her bodice and thinks about trying to cover up the fading bruises on her cheek, but decides against it. Let them see that the Lancastrians have caused her suffering as well.

Dressed and ready, Madge settles herself in a chair and turns to her embroidery, cultivates the appearance of this being any other day. She engages in idle chit chat with the ladies, behaves as she does every other day and that is how Sir Thom finds her when he accompanies the servants who bring their food.

“Lord Lovell,” she greets pleasantly and he stops, blinking in confusion. She sets down her embroidery and bows her head to him while he continues to look flustered, his eyes skittering once again over the yellow remains of Prince Cato’s angry parting gift.

“Lady Madge,” he finally manages, ducking into a hasty bow, “the Queen is ready for you.”

Madge smiles and Sir Thom looks her over, surprise washing over his face.

“Wonderful, I have so been looking forward to meeting Her Majesty,” she says cheerfully and stands, placing her embroidery on a table. Sir Thom seems off put by her change of attitude since their last meeting and hesitates by the door.

“Yes…yes she is very glad to see you too, I am sure.”

Madge smiles as kindly as she can and waits. Sir Thom starts and offers her his arm.

“Allow me to escort you, my lady,” he fumbles and Madge curtsies slightly and takes his arm. He leads her from the room and down the long halls and someone has taken the time to bring back some of Westminster’s old luster. The floors have been swept and fresh rushes set down, the windows dusted and the braziers shined. New banners hang on the walls, blazoned with white roses and elegant cats. Madge supposes they must be Katniss’ badges, replacing King Coriolanus’ wolves and red roses.

Sir Thom doesn’t speak on their way down and Madge is glad, uses the silence to gather her thoughts. I must be pleasant, polite, respectful. Demure and conciliatory and firm. Do not let them walk all over me, do not let them condemn me for sins I have not committed and steal everything I have. They have no right to my inheritance. I must fight for my life, for Mother’s, for everyone we’ve brought with us.

Sir Thom releases her and hurries to inform a herald of her approach. She waits outside the great doors to the hall and banishes memories of other royal audiences. This is a different monarch, a Yorkist monarch. The doors finally open and Madge squares her shoulders. This is it. She lifts the hem of her skirt and walks inside, as graceful as she can manage with shaking legs. Make them love me; make them see me as no threat at all. There are guards lining the hall, all dressed in green and wearing fine white rose livery badges. At the far end is a gilded wooden throne, the one King Coriolanus always sat upon as he observed whoever was unfortunate enough to find themselves in his company. His great banner is gone, the wall a slightly different shade than the rest of the room.

Madge looks first to the men standing on either side of the throne and feels her heart harden. On the Queen’s right is a man about her mother’s age, dressed in old velvet and weighed down with chains of office. His hair is nearly black and hangs down around his haggard face, the cheeks and chin rough and unshaved. He has brown skin and bloodshot eyes the colour of grey stone, his shoulders hunched. On first glance she would call him scraggly and ill kept, but she can see shrewd calculation in his eyes, a reminder that he has made a queen of his young cousin, that he is no fool, regardless of the rumors of his drunken behavior. Many would discount him on appearance alone but Madge is no simpleton. Haymitch of Warwick is her enemy, she will not forget it.

Her eyes skip over Queen Katniss to the boy on her left, tension in every muscle of his body. He’s the kind of boy many would swoon at, tall, broad shouldered and well built with a strong jaw and rich dark hair. His eyes are bright silver, make her imagine full moons at midnight and she’d guess he was somewhere around seventeen. He has all the looks of a knight errant of troubadour songs but Madge is not moved. Just like with Prince Cato, she finds herself unable to appreciate his charms, cannot find him handsome. Those pretty eyes are narrowed with accusation, his jaw clenched tight. Gale of Salisbury, that loyal champion of the Yorkist cause, despises her, could not hide it if he tried. No matter what Madge says, she knows she has no hope of swaying his opinion. His counsel to the Queen is obvious. Gale of Salisbury would deprive her of everything.

Let him hate me, for the feeling will always be mutual.

Finally, she looks to Katniss, Queen of England. She is just eighteen and has Haymitch’s grey eyes and Gale’s dark hair, twisted up in complicated plaits. There is a crown on her head, gold and bejeweled, but nowhere near as grand as Madge has seen King Coriolanus wear. Her skin sparkles with gold dust and her dress is stiff and made of beautiful silver tissue, diamonds gleaming from the fabric. She is garbed as the most magnificent of queens, but she shifts uncomfortably on her throne, as if she has sat on something sharp. Her back is a little too straight, her eyes somewhat overbright. Madge wonders if that is some ploy, carefully orchestrated to win over the masses. King Coriolanus loved being King far too much, so now his successor will appear as if she detests it.

Madge would not put anything past these Yorkists.

She curtsies low before the Queen and awaits a command to rise, smoothing out her expression as best she can. She cannot let them see how she truly feels, she must be locked up tight as a coffer of jewels.

“You may rise,” Queen Katniss tells her and her voice is lifeless, as if she too is keeping all her emotions bound tight and away. Madge stands but keeps her eyes respectfully downcast.

“It is the greatest honour to be in your presence, your Majesty,” she says and there is an angry snort from Gale’s vicinity. Madge does not favor him with a reaction.

“We apologize for keeping you waiting, Lady Madge.”

“You have no need for apologies, your Grace, for I am far below the notice of one with such great matters of state to occupy their mind.”

Gale scoffs and Madge bites down on her tongue

“We have given much thought to your situation,” the Queen begins and Madge bows her head.

“I am more than grateful, my Queen.”

There is a pause and Madge wonders if they had expected hostility from her and are left unsure when confronted with her manners. She catches the hint of a whisper, advice perhaps, from a counselor to their Queen?

“Your father died a traitor, opposing his rightful Queen,” Katniss pronounces and Madge chances a look upwards, sees them all eager for her reaction. Haymitch raises his chin with interest, cold eyes focused on her intently and Gale leans forward, clearly waiting for theatrics. The Queen is distant but even in her, Madge can see a question, a wondering of how she will react.

Curse you all

Madge can feel her heart constrict, can feel tears burn in her eyes. The mere mention of her father makes her want to weep and this slander, as if he was some common criminal makes her furious, her tongue clamped between her teeth to keep it silent. She knows what they want, knows what they are waiting for, but Madge will not cry before her conquerors.

“I am most terribly grieved that we found ourselves on opposing sides, your Majesty, but as my father he commanded my loyalties,” she says, each word sliding up her throat like jagged glass. There is another pause, more whispering and Madge feels tension tickle her spine.

“And what did you think of Coriolanus?” the Queen asks, all ears open for Madge’s answer. She almost laughs. Do they really think she would be unable to denounce him? Nothing in her life has ever been easier.

“I hated him. He was a monster, cruel and horrid.”

“You are not sorry that we sit on this throne instead?”

Madge wonders if she is imagining the hint of vulnerability she hears in Katniss’ voice, the tremor that speaks of a young woman not quite comfortable in her new role.

“Not at all, your Majesty. I can think of no greater cause for rejoicing.”

The silence that follows is much too long and makes Madge’s skin itch. She would bet it is intentional, meant to put her on edge and she forces herself to remain calm. She will not bend to their game.

“Many would say we should have your father attainted.”

Madge swallows, her greatest challenge unfolding before her.

“I am sure they would, your Grace.”

“Do you agree?”

She chances another peek and easily ignores the daggers sent her way by Gale’s star bright eyes. She focuses instead on Haymitch, clearly trying to gain her measure. Madge will not disappoint, this she promises.

“I would plead most ardently that you find mercy for a daughter whose only crime was to love her father. I cannot deny that I prayed for his victory, but it was no slight against your Majesty or your cause and I am most grateful that you have freed England from Coriolanus’ wicked grasp. I beg that in your wisdom, you will find pity for a girl whose fault was to obey her father and pray he would return to her.”

Madge allows a break in her voice and knows she has taken a gamble here. She has staked everything on the hope that Katniss did not seek to overthrow the King out of ambition, but out of love for a father struck down in his conquest for the crown. Madge has thrown the dice on this hope and now she prays the Queen will find empathy for someone who has also lost a beloved father. There is a low murmur from Haymitch, a furious hiss from Gale and Madge waits, prays she has judged right about Katniss and her father.

“I think I can find it in me to be merciful,” Queen Katniss whispers, a catch in her voice. Madge feels a flare of triumph, takes note of the lack of royal ‘we’. There is a flurry of whispering then and Madge wonders if she has changed their minds, swayed them from their previous decision. Please Lord, let me prevail in this.

The whispering turns argumentative, rising slightly in pitch and Madge can just make out Gale spitting out the word traitor. Madge keeps her back straight and someone hushes him, Haymitch’s voice a calm murmur. What are you planning? Madge thinks, wishes she could look up and study their faces. Finally, the whispering grinds to a halt, even Gale mumbling assent to whatever it is they’ve decided.

“We are prepared to allow you and your mother both to keep your inheritances,” the Queen begins and Madge would shout for joy, except she knows there must be more, a caveat to accompany so generous a sentence.

“My most gracious thanks, your Majesty.”

“Indeed, but there are conditions to this mercy.”

“Of course, your Grace.”

“Your mother, Lady Margaret, will marry our cousin, Lord Haymitch, Earl of Warwick.”

Madge feels shock stab through her like a lance. Her mouth drops open and she cannot help but look up, hot fury burning in her blood. Gale of Salisbury smirks, eyes bright and scalding, Haymitch of Warwick raises an eyebrow and the Queen purses her lips, uncomfortable but firm.

How dare they, Madge rages, how dare they how dare they how dare they

“You will be placed in his guardianship and he will retain full control of your inheritance until you marry,” the Queen continues and Madge wishes she could strike them all down, cut them to pieces by her own hand. They will sell her mother to Haymitch, his reward for loyal service to the crown. He will be richer than he could dream, gifted with a royal dukedom and a wife of royal blood. All that wealth and her mother’s claim will be kept safe in his hands and have they no heart? Her mother is a widow of only weeks and already they would marry her off for their own advantage. And Madge herself will also bolster Haymitch’s standing, all her wealth flowing into his coffers until she marries, if she ever marries. And if she does, it will be to some other Yorkist noble, one who can be trusted and has earned himself a great reward.

Madge could spit at them, but that she imagines, is what they want. They want her anger and though it is nearly impossible, she will not give it to them. Mark my words Yorkists, this is not over.

“A most generous offer, my Queen, but I will have to bring it before my lady mother.”

Her voice is taut with fury but she holds herself together, even as she strains to scream and shout.

“Of course. Lord Lovell will escort you back to your chambers. We will await your mother’s answer.”

Madge curtsies as low as she can and forces herself to remain composed. They will get no satisfaction from her. She takes Sir Thom’s offered arm and leaves, her dignity held together by strings.

They won’t get away with this. I won’t let them.

*

Madge enters their chambers in a tizzy of fury, her mind swimming with hatred.

You shall pay for this Yorkists, I swear you’ll pay

Their household watches her with nervous eyes and she knows she should try and reassure them, but her mouth is pooling with venom, kind words drowning. She strides to her mother’s door instead, slamming it behind her with far more force than necessary. Greedy, heartless scum!

“What happened?”

Madge startles and her mother is awake, propped up on pillows. Her skin is a waxy yellow, stretched over jutting bones and Madge feels her stomach sink. There is a tray of untouched food beside her and a smell of illness and rot lingering in the room. Madge walks over to the tray and picks up a spoonful of broth.

“You must eat,” she murmurs and her mother shakes her head, takes Madge’s hand with her own fragile one. Madge looks down at it and wonders what she is meant to say, how she can tell her mother of her fate.

“Tell me what happened, Madge.”

There is a strange strength in her mother’s voice, a steel rarely used and Madge knows she cannot protect her from everything.

“They will allow us to keep our inheritance, if you marry the Queen’s widower cousin, Haymitch of Warwick.”

Madge had not meant to sound so bitter, but it wells up inside her, poisons each of her words.

“I’ll do it,” her mother agrees immediately and Madge pulls away as if she’s been burned.

“What?”

“I’ll marry him.”

Madge shakes her head in disbelief. Is this a nightmare? Is she hallucinating?

“How can you-you cannot-I don’t even-why?”

Her mother looks at her with pity in her eyes and Madge bristles.

“We have no choice, my love.”

“They will take my inheritance too,” Madge hurls at her, words biting, “allow Haymitch to keep it until I marry, but I doubt he’ll allow me to! I’m sure he’ll pack me off to a convent so he can have it all himself!”

She is breathing too hard and her mother reaches for her but Madge pulls away, light headed and hysterical.

“How can you so easily agree to marry the enemy? A man who helped send your husband to his grave? Do you not care at all for the man you are prepared to abandon?”

Madge regrets it the instant it leaves her lips and her mother’s expression turns stormy and grave.

“I am doing this for you and only for you. If we do not agree to their terms, the best we can hope for is a life of imprisonment. If I had only myself to think of, I would gladly take it, would rather lose my freedom than betray your father’s memory. I am your mother Madge, and this is how I can keep you safe. If I marry Lord Haymitch, you will have your inheritance, you will not be branded a traitor’s daughter. We will be safe, protected by the Queen’s closest advisor. If we can woo him, charm him, you can live a comfortable life and perhaps even chose your own husband. This is our one chance Madge and if you care so much for your father, think about what he would want. Would he want us to honour him by throwing away our lives?”

Madge is a volatile mix of repentance and frustration, everything inside of her spinning and twirling in chaos.

“No,” she admits and her mother nods, anger draining out of her. She reaches again for Madge’s hand and this time, she allows her to take it.

“I know this isn’t ideal, sweetheart, but this is our only chance. Your father would understand. All we both want, have ever wanted, is for you to have a long, happy life.”

Madge does not say anything, isn’t sure she could.

How can I ever be happy here, trapped in this Yorkist prison?

(and she doesn’t mean Westminster)

(she means England, all of England)

*

When the servants bring supper, Madge looks at them coldly.

“I will need more water for the tub,” she commands and there is no gentleness in her now. They do not dare refuse.

Madge watches them leave, hands knotted tightly in her lap. She and her mother will both look their best when Sir Thom comes to fetch their answer.

*

She helps her mother bathe the next morning and she is so thin, so painfully, horrifically thin Madge cannot believe she is even real. She is brittle skin over frail bones and Madge is certain even a stiff wind would shatter her. They dress her in her very best gown, silver and gold and shimmery with gemstones. They bind her hair underneath a great tall hennin, delicately embroidered lace veils hanging about her face from wire frames. She wears all her jewels and Madge too puts on her grandest attire, that rich purple houppelande she’d rejected when she’d gone to meet the Queen. But now she chooses it, drapes herself in jewels and finery.

Yesterday she had wanted them to underestimate her. Today she is making a statement.

Sir Thom does not come with the servants that bring their first meal of the day and her mother forces herself to eat, brings a little colour back into her cheeks. Madge finds her own appetite somewhat lacking. She understands her mother’s reasons, knows they must focus on surviving in this new England, but still, Madge is livid as she has never been. When Sir Thom does arrive, she cannot contain her look of utter fury and he actually stumbles back a step when he looks at her.

(every time he sees her she is someone new)

(he’s starting to be concerned)

Her mother is far more composed, inclining her head in Sir Thom’s direction.

“Good day sir, have you come for my answer?’

He nods, wary eyes still on Madge.

“Yes, my lady. The Queen is eager to hear it.”

“And I will be happy to enlighten her.”

Sir Thom whirls around to look at her mother, face stricken. He fidgets uncomfortably.

“Her Majesty had hoped I would deliver it,” he says and her mother narrows her eyes.

“On a matter of such importance as this, would it not be more prudent for me to tell her myself? I would hate for anything to go awry in delivery and jeopardize the future of my daughter and I. I would feel far more secure were I to speak the words to her myself.”

Sir Thom frowns and looks around helplessly. When no aid is forthcoming, he nods, shoulders slumping. He holds out his arm.

“As you wish, my lady, Allow me to escort you.”

Her mother stands and there is one moment when she sways unsteadily, Thom and Madge both watching her with concerned eyes. Margaret recovers and takes Thom’s offered arm, Madge trailing after them as they head out into the hall. There are various people milling about and they all stare as their little group passes, wide eyes taking in the splendor of their attire. Look your fill, Madge thinks venomously, observe what remains of the once great House of Lancaster.

They are led to the Queen’s audience chamber and Madge ignores the tightening in all her limbs. Sir Thom informs a herald of their arrival and they wait to be announced, a sour taste pooling beneath Madge’s tongue. I hate you. I hate you all.

The doors swing open and they make their entrance, Madge trying and failing to school her features into an impassive mask. Unlike last time, the hall is filled up with all sorts of people. They’ve clearly interrupted some kind of gathering. The Queen looks stiff in an emerald green gown, her fingers drumming on the arm of her throne. Gale of Salisbury hovers beside her, still bent over as if he’d been in the process of whispering in her ear. He notices them and straightens with a scowl.

“Lady Margaret, Lady Madge,” a gruff voice greets them and Madge looks over to see Lord Haymitch emerging from the crowd. She and her mother drop into curtsies, the whole room hushing.

“Stand, please,” Katniss says, sounding weary. They do so, eyes still downturned. Madge knots her fingers in her gown, smoke and fire crowding in her lungs.

“Have you come to give me your answer?” the Queen continues, a barely discernible strain colouring her voice.

“Indeed I have, your Majesty. I most graciously accept your generous offer. It would be an honour to marry Lord Haymitch.”

Madge feels like a spike has been driven straight through her heart. Forgive us Father.

“A toast for this most momentous occasion!” Lord Haymitch calls, clapping his hands. Severs hurry into the hall with goblets and jugs of wine, passing them around as quickly as they can. Madge takes hers with tense fingers.

“To my betrothed, the illustrious Lady Margaret!” Lord Haymitch says, lifting his glass.

“Lady Margaret!” the room calls and everyone takes a deep gulp of wine. Madge can feel it burning all the way down her throat. The hall is filled with smiling faces but Madge barely registers any of them. Only three bear any importance and they brand themselves into her memory.

Lord Haymitch is all bland pleasantry, but his eyes are cool as he observes her and her mother over the rim of his cup. Queen Katniss does not smile, looks somewhat morose, teeth biting into her lip. Gale of Salisbury does not even bother to drink, just stands there with a frown. Madge meets each of their eyes in turn.

This is not over.

This is only just beginning.

*

After the toast, Lord Haymitch decides to introduce them to his family.

He leads her mother around by the arm and Madge follows behind, her mouth twisted up in her best charade of happiness.

“My son Marvel, Earl of Northumberland,” Haymitch introduces and Madge takes a look at her future step-brother. He is quite tall, his hair a muddy brown and his eyes a glittering, vibrant green. He is somewhat skinny, dressed in lavish splendor and there is a fierceness in his grin that makes her skin twitch. He bends over and kisses her mother’s hand, his eyes bright like the emeralds sewn into his doublet.

“A great honour, my lady,” he greets and releases her mother’s hand, gaze swinging over to Madge. She curtsies.

“And my new sister! It is such a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“Likewise, my lord.”

He smiles again, satisfied and glowing. Madge hopes her answering one is at least somewhat sincere. Haymitch goes to lead her mother to the next relative and Marvel extends his arm to Madge. She takes it and he wraps his fingers around her hand, guiding her somewhat forcefully, as if he doesn’t trust her to follow. His grip is slightly uncomfortable but Madge doesn’t squirm, knows appearance is everything. They stop before an imposing woman in an elaborate butterfly hennin and a black fur lined gown and she is pale with icy blue eyes, though there is something about her face that reminds Madge of Katniss.

“My lady aunt, Elizabeth, Duchess of York,” Haymitch says and of course, this is the Queen’s mother. She looks to be about Haymitch’s age, the only lines on her face in the corners of her mouth. She does not smile as they curtsy, her own head dipping just slightly in acknowledgement.

(clearly, she is no friend of theirs)

“And of course, my cousin, the Queen’s sister, Lady Primrose.”

Hovering at the Duchess’ shoulder is a girl perhaps a year younger than Madge, blue eyes bright with excitement. They exchange curtsies and Madge is so tired of this, wishes she could just go up to the front of the room and do one blanket curtsy to cover the rest of the day. Lady Primrose looks more like her mother than her sister, with pale eyes and hair. She rocks on her heels, face awash with wonder and Madge feels the anger in her soften just a bit.

“Lady Margaret, it has been far too long,” comes a voice to their left and Madge turns to see a woman a few years older than Haymitch coming towards them. He smiles.

“My aunt, Lady Hazelle, Dowager Countess of Salisbury.”

Gale’s mother.

She has a kindly face, her son’s silvery eyes and a smile that could put anyone at ease.

(well, anyone but Madge)

“Indeed it has, Lady Salisbury,” her mother returns and Hazelle gestures for the two young boys behind her to step forward.

“My younger sons, Rory and Vick,” she introduces and Vick is perhaps ten, hiding shyly behind his mother’s skirts. Rory might be twelve and bows somewhat disinterestedly in their direction. Hazelle clears her throat and Rory barely hides a grimace.

“A pleasure to meet you,” he says stiffly, gingerly takes Madge’s hand and barely kisses it. He drops it quickly and Primrose giggles, Rory shooting her a scowl. Madge would normally be offended, but she gets the impression this display has less to do with her and more to do with his twelve year old feelings towards girls in general. Hazelle sends Rory a stern look he determinedly ignores and Madge feels a loosening of her knot of tension. Whatever crimes the Yorkists have committed, these children share none of the blame.

“You have a daughter as well, if I remember right,” her mother comments and Hazelle nods.

“Yes, my Posy. We thought her too young to attend today, she is but five.”

Her mother and Hazelle slide into discussion and Madge notices someone else approaching them from the corner of her eye. It is Gale, the eldest of the Salisbury children and Marvel squeezes her arm tightly.

“Be wary of my dear cousin, he has been somewhat cross ever since his father’s death,” he murmurs in her ear, a thread of almost laughter caught in his words. Madge thinks that might be an understatement.

(funny, isn’t it? that they have suffered much the same and yet he can find no sympathy for her?)

Gale stops before them, his expression one of barely concealed displeasure. She curtsies and he bows stiffly, eyes simmering with loathing.

“Lady Madge,” he greets, her name sounding like a curse. He does not try and kiss her hand.

“Lord Salisbury,” Madge returns, as sweetly as she’s able. She smiles softly, eyes demurely turned away and he frowns, teeth clamped together in his bristling hatred.

Let him, she thinks viciously, let him be rude and cruel and mean, let him make a spectacle of himself in his rage, let him look the disrespectful fool. She will be kind and charming, docile and polite. She cannot spit in his face or claw out his eyes, so she will defeat him with the manners her mother has spent years teaching her to hone.

“I saw your banner,” he reports, venom wrapping around each of his words. Madge allows her smile to grow.

“I stitched it myself,” she says and he snorts, “What did you think of it?”

His eyes blaze then and if Madge wasn’t boiling over with her own hatred, she thinks she might wilt under the potent anger so clearly visible in him.

“I had it burned.”

Madge feels a stab of pain in her heart as she imagines it, that banner she had slaved over to welcome her father home smoldering into ashes. Lady Hazelle gasps.

“Gale,” she reprimands, voice outraged. Gale turns away from his mother’s disapproval and Madge feels a spark of victory ignite in her gut. He turns back and won’t meet her eyes, muscles tense.

“I am sorry, Lady Madge, that was rude of me.”

She smiles.

“It’s alright, I forgive you.”

He meets her eyes and she wonders if he can read the triumph in her expression.

You may have deposed a king, Gale of Salisbury, but you shall never defeat me.

*

Her mother returns to bed but Madge lingers, hostile eyes stuck to Lord Haymitch. Marvel chatters beside her but she is only half listening, thoughts consumed by this man who will marry her mother.

“Earl of Northumberland comes from my mother’s side of the family,” he tells her and she nods absently. “My grandfather, Henry Percy, had no sons, so the title and estate would have passed to my mother, and thus my father would have held it in her name. But she died years ago, so now that my grandfather has died, it’s mine.”

“Hmm,” she comments and he nods.

“The Percys of Northumberland have long been the most powerful magnates in the north and I have inherited it all. In fact, the Queen has even named me Warden of the North. And when my father dies, I shall inherit everything from him, making me one of the richest men in all of England.”

“Oh my.”

“Yes, it is quite impressive,” he agrees and then his eyes smooth over her, making her skin prickle.

“But you too are set to be very rich, aren’t you my sweet sister?”

“I suppose,” she replies, hates that it comes out breathy instead of steady.

“All that Bedford wealth, not to mention you will receive your mother’s royal dukedom of Clarence unless she bears my father a son.”

Thankfully, there is little chance of that.

“Yes,” he says, nodding thoughtfully, “whoever is so fortunate as to marry you will eclipse all the other noblemen in England. You are easily the richest heiress in the kingdom, I suspect there will be quite a war over your hand.”

Madge doesn’t answer, feels distinctly uncomfortable. And then, by some unimaginable twist of fate, Gale of Salisbury comes to her rescue.

“Marvel! Come here a minute, will you?” he calls from his permanent position by the Queen’s side. There is a strangely unreadable expression on his face and she is thankful for whatever it is he wishes to discuss with Marvel.

“Forgive me, but duty calls,” Marvel tells her, voice flavored with self-importance. Madge manages a smile.

“Of course,” she agrees and he kisses her hand, lips lingering against her skin. She watches him go and her eyes meet Gale’s across the room, his expression still impossible to read. She lifts her skirts and dips her head like a puppet on strings and Gale turns away quickly, focusing back on Katniss. Madge turns away as well, eyes finding Haymitch making his way out of the hall. Her stomach tightens and she shouldn’t, she knows she shouldn’t, but she follows after him anyway. Her footsteps echo in the empty hallway and he stops, turning to face her.

“Lady Madge,” he acknowledges, voice courteous

“You are going to marry my mother,” she says without preamble and he is tactful enough to ignore the accusation in her words.

“Yes. It is a good marriage,” he says, sounds as if he’s repeated it a hundred times before. “It will do us both well.”

Madge knows she shouldn’t say a word, should leave it be but she cannot, hate like a disease rooting around inside her.

“My mother cannot have children,” she tells him boldly, stepping wildly out of line.

Haymitch blinks at her in surprise but Madge does not back down, her fingers tightening in the folds of her dress.

“I have heard rumors of that,” he says eventually, shrewd eyes raking over her. Madge bristles.

“I already have a son and heir, I need no others,” he continues and Madge feels a little twinge of relief. It fades though as Haymitch does not stop observing her, narrowed gaze taking her in.

“Am I not to your liking, sir?” she asks, anger leaking into her voice. His eyebrows rise and he could beat her for her insolence, but she is beginning to think she doesn’t care.

“It is good of you, to look after your mother,” he says finally and Madge feels something hot licking her insides.

“Someone has to,” she replies coldly and he nods slowly. He looks at her again and his silence is too heavy, makes her feel like invisible hands are pushing her down. He nods again.

“Your father was a good man,” he admits and Madge feels like he’s cleaved her open and plucked her heart from her chest.

“I know,” she whispers, tears stinging her eyes.

“Yes,” he agrees, “I suppose you do.”  He looks away from her then, eyes focused somewhere far away.

“I know what it’s like to lose a spouse you love,” he murmurs, voice so quiet Madge has to strain to hear it. He clears his throat.

“On my honour I swear no harm will come to you or your mother.”

Madge looks at this man, an enemy who helped steal her father away from her and cannot believe him.

How could she, when all the world has ever given her, is harm?

*

Promises, Madge decides that night in bed, are made to be broken.

*

No longer prisoners but soon to be in-laws of the Queen, they are shepherded into brand new chambers with a suite each for Madge and her mother. The rooms are sumptuous, carefully made up for luxurious comfort. Madge supposes she is meant to be grateful, but she isn’t, can’t muster anything but a steady burn of anger. The room smells of fresh paint and Madge can see where they’ve covered up the red roses, crowned wolves and portraits of King Coriolanus on the walls and ceilings. She wonders if they mean to erase him from memory, to blot him out of history forever.

She unpacks her meager belongings and bites down on the question hovering on the tip of her tongue. Gale burnt my banner, but what of Bedford Castle? Does anything remain? Have you left me anything or destroyed it all?

(if she were a gambler, she would bet on the latter)

Of course, even Yorkist generosity comes at a price. Though they have been given new lodgings and the freedom to move about Westminster, everyone they’d brought with them, from Sir Thomas, Sir George and Sir Richard to her mother’s ladies, are to be dismissed. They are to pack their things and go, to be replaced by people of Lord Haymitch’s choosing. Her mother will of course be allowed to provide them with references, but they cannot stay.

Lord Haymitch rattles off some drivel about unity and fresh starts but Madge is no fool. They are adrift in a sea of enemies and their jailers are not about to allow them any allies. They cannot be allowed any chance of rebellion, of attempting to promote Lancastrian causes. They will be surrounded by people loyal to York, every single one carefully selected to suppress any Lancastrian sympathy.

(Madge had not thought it possible to hate the Yorkists anymore than she already did)

(she was wrong)

Madge sobs with frustration into her pillow at night but every morning she is cheerful and pleasant, knows she cannot allow even a hint of weakness. She is still a prisoner, this time in a gilded cage, locked up just as tight as she was before.

Woo them, charm them her mother had said.

I will, she vows, I will make them love me until it destroys them

*

As it turns out, her mother’s new ladies are at least useful in that they know much of what has been going around at court and are more than happy to gossip all the details to Madge.

The Queen has apparently been busy rewarding her supporters, her two cousins chief among them. Lord Haymitch has been named Captain of Calais (the Crown’s last territory in France) as well as Lord High Admiral. He has been made Steward of the Duchy of Lancaster, whose wealth used to belong to King Coriolanus, not to mention he has been gifted lands and income once belonging to noble men who have now been attainted. Gale of Salisbury has been named Lord High Constable of England, put in charge of the realm’s safety and defense from threats within and without. He too has been made rich off other men’s lands, their wealth flowing into his coffers. He has also been made a Knight of the Garter, the most prestigious order in the kingdom. Lord Haymitch had already been invested as one by King Coriolanus, otherwise, Madge is sure he too would have been promoted.

Marvel, Earl of Northumberland, has likewise been rewarded, as a Knight of the Garter and recipient of lands and castles that should not belong to him. William Herbert has been made Earl of Pembroke, the title stolen from Boggs, half brother to the deposed King. He, like the rest of the royal family, is exiled to Scotland, though the Queen’s agents are furious in negotiations with the Scottish Queen Regent to have them returned. They are not alone, plenty of loyal Lancastrians having followed them to exile, including the once Duke of Somerset, Brutus, and the no-longer-Earls John of Oxford and Finnick of Richmond.

(though she wonders if they are all truly loyal to the cause, or bound by other reasons, much like Madge herself)

(and what of Anne? With her father in exile, what has become of her?)

Plenty of others have been rewarded and punished in turn, the lines of enmity in England running deep. The country is not healing from its vicious war, instead it seems to be tearing further apart. Lancastrians in Scotland bray for blood and Yorkists grow fat off their spoils, desperate to crush any remaining resistance.

The war may have been won, but it is far from done.

*

The wedding won’t be happening for some time yet, as her mother and Haymitch are third cousins and will require a dispensation from the Pope. In the meantime, Madge is now free to go wherever she likes in Westminster, though she cannot leave the palace grounds. Haymitch says something about safety, but Madge doesn’t listen, is well aware that it’s all lies. She can’t go out alone either, must always be accompanied by one of her mother’s new ladies. A Yorkist spy, in other words. Madge should care, but really, she’s just thrilled to be able to move around, not kept penned inside her chambers.

She spends most of her days wandering through the halls and grounds, finally breathes in fresh air after over a month in captivity. Madge rarely encounters anyone high up in the Yorkist hierarchy during her outings, they are far too busy in constant conference with Her Majesty. This suits Madge just fine, lets her feel a bit freer even though she knows she isn’t. She tries to guess what it is they’re all discussing all day, every day and whatever it is, she probably wouldn’t like it. It could be things entirely benign, but her imagination is wild, can think only of blood and punishment.

She keeps her ears open as she walks, eager for any whisper, rumor or shred of news. Royal Palaces have always been havens of gossip and Madge listens to it all, desperate for something, though she’s not sure exactly what. A weakness she can use? Knowledge of what’s in store for England? Insight into these people she has sworn to charm? Regardless, she lets each of their words tickle her ears and sink into her brain, kept safe for when they might be useful.

She’s not sure what she’s waiting for, but when it comes, she’ll be ready.

*

Her soon-to-be-step-father commissions new gowns for both of them and Madge cannot help but wonder whose money is paying for them. His? Or hers, kept safe with him?

“Be gracious in your thanks,” her mother whispers and Madge smiles with all her charm as she stands for fittings.

“They’re coming along nicely,” Lord Haymitch comments and Madge beams in gratitude.

“I am ever so thankful for them,” she tells him and his eyes narrow. She does not think he believes her but he merely nods and leaves. She watches him go and it may not be as easy to woo him as mother had hoped.

It doesn’t matter. Madge will find a way.

(she has to)

*

Madge spends many a moment enjoying Westminster’s gardens, even if they are somewhat lacking. They’re overgrown, flowers buried beneath green vines and moss, but she understands. King Coriolanus clearly had more important things to focus on than his gardens when he’d last been in London and the Yorkists have been far too busy taking up the reins of government to focus much on weeding.  

Still, it is possible to see its former beauty, pretty colours peeking out between the yellow-green of weeds, flowers that once took center stage. She bends down to try and free some violets from the choking overgrowth and looks up at the sound of voices. She freezes, still crouched down, at the sight of Gale, gesturing and pointing. He’s looking around, eyes narrowed and a clerk follows behind him taking notes. Madge squeezes a vine between her fingers and Gale and his clerk are almost out of sight, but then he stops abruptly, staring down at a wild bush of red roses. He frowns deeply, disgust in his eyes and Madge supposes red roses make him just as sick as white roses do her. Her fingers slip, a thorn drawing blood and she gasps. Gale looks over suddenly, his gaze meeting hers.

His eyes are hot, his face stern and Madge knows she should smile, attempt to look friendly, but all she can do is stare, judgment bubbling all over her face. He holds her eyes for a long moment and then marches off, the bush left undisturbed. Madge glares at his back until he is out of sight and then looks down at her stinging fingers.

The blood has stained her gown, turning the gold roses red.

How appropriate.

*

There is an air of festivity in London, everyone filled to the brim with excitement for Queen Katniss’ coronation.

Madge, unsurprisingly, does not share their enthusiasm. She behaves herself though, smiles and feigns interest in every plan and detail. She discusses gowns and hairstyles with various ladies but her eyes follow Gale of Salisbury as he skulks about the palace, always right in the thick of every preparation. Whispers chase after him as he goes, rumors snapping at his heels. Hushed voices say he is ambitious, cold, cruel. Others that he is the most valiant of knights, loyal and brave and true. They talk of his heroic acts in the war, how he fought with courage, commanded troops with devastating skill, risked his life to see Katniss triumph. They murmur of how he showed his enemies no mercy, how his skin drips with the blood of Lancaster. Some say he is using Katniss for advancement, others that he loves her with all his heart.

(some even go so far as to say they are already lovers)

Truth and fiction blend to create the contradictory picture of Lord Gale, Earl of Salisbury, hero and villain. Madge cannot be bothered to pick apart these stories, to discover just who Gale is under all the fanciful tales. It does not truly matter, for brutal or kind, noble or selfish, he is certainly unforgiving. He is the Queen’s most trusted man and gaining his confidence would open more doors than Madge can count, but it would be pointless to try. She will continue to be charming of course, to smile but she has little hope of winning his favor. He is young, tempestuous and anger seems to the fuel that keeps him running.

(Madge would never admit it, but maybe they aren’t so different after all)

*

Madge takes all her meals with her mother, the two of them alone in her bedchamber. No one, not even Haymitch, bothers to ask them to come down and join their soon to be in-laws for supper, and Madge is glad of it. She is tired of all the pretending, always smiling when all she wants to do is scream. The Yorkists do not want her there and she does not want them here, these moments without them the closest she’ll ever get to peace.

Her mother actually eats, even though she clearly has no appetite, takes each bite like she’s chewing sand. Madge squeezes her hand and picks at her own food, her stomach shriveled up and small. If she were capable of laughing, she might think it was funny that this marriage neither of them wants is what’s forcing her mother to regain her health. Instead, it just makes her angrier, eating at her with vicious teeth.

(Madge remembers Gale, angry eyes, angry mouth and curses herself)

(they are nothing alike, nothing at all)

Madge can’t help but see her life stretching out before her and she stabs at her dinner, wondering if survival is even worth it. Until the day she dies, she will be tethered unwillingly to her Yorkist masters but then, spitefully, she thinks they might prefer it if she gave up or died, could then do whatever they wanted with her inheritance without any complaints. She is young and petty and thinks maybe she’ll live forever just to make things more difficult for them.

Hate is a disease her mother had once told her before bed and Madge doesn’t quite care. She would much rather rebel with sickness than surrender with perfect health. And suddenly she does find her appetite, is determined to maintain her physical wellness. She will not die until she is grey and wrinkled, will be a thorn in the collective Yorkist side forever and ever and ever.

Love me, hate me, you will never be rid of me

*

As the coronation draws nearer, even the youngest members of Katniss’ family are gifted with greatness.

As is tradition, the Queen’s coronation will be complemented with new inductions into the Knights of the Bath. Rory and Vick of Salisbury are two of the chosen, just twelve and ten but still showered with honour.

The ceremony of knighthood is long and complicated, involving baths and a night spent in vigil at the chapel, but Madge is only called to witness the final portion. She wears a new blue damask gown from Haymitch and stands with her mother, Duchess Elizabeth, Lady Hazelle and the very young Posy of Salisbury, who has to be shushed repeatedly to stop her cheering excitedly for her brothers.

Both boys, as well as the three other recipients, are led before the Queen and they kneel before her. As is custom, she instructs two senior knights to buckle spurs to each of the knight-elects’ boots. Madge is not entirely sure of the symbolism behind this particular act, but she pretends to understand, lest anyone think her stupid. The Queen then fastens a belt around each of their waists and strikes them on the shoulders with her sword. Both Salisbury boys are solemn at their turn and Gale beams as he watches them, looking strangely young and human. Madge could almost call him handsome.

Five new knights, five more Yorkists graciously rewarded.

And so our divisions cut ever deeper.

*

The day of the great coronation, Madge is laced into one of Haymitch’s new gowns, this one of white silk. Gold roses are embroidered at the cuffs, collar and hem while pearls are sewn into the skirt and bodice. Pearls and rubies hang from her neck and decorate her hair, left free and unbound for the ceremony. She has dangling earrings of gold and spinels and a red kirtle for a bold pop of colour. She looks the perfect dutiful cousin and thanks her maids with a smile before inhaling deeply to steady herself.

She has a part to play today and she will do it magnificently.

*

As always, the coronation starts with a magnificent procession from the Tower of London to Westminster, people from far and wide clogging up the streets as they cheer. The noise is deafening, between screaming voices, blaring horns and the shouted performances lining the streets. Rose petals and confetti rain down from windows, banners and streamers blowing in the early May breeze.

Madge rides in a litter with her mother, Duchess Elizabeth, Lady Hazelle and Lady Primrose, who hangs out the side with overflowing excitement. Katniss, Haymitch and Gale ride before them on horses, out where all of London can see them. People wave hands, handkerchiefs and ribbons, throw flowers and blow kisses as they pass, the three royal cousins smiling down at their subjects. Haymitch looks tired, like he hasn’t slept in days, his smile tight in the corner but overjoyed citizens don’t seem to notice, too busy screeching in appreciation of Coriolanus’ overthrow. Gale looks mildly uncomfortable with so much attention, posture somewhat stiff and smile fluttering on his lips. Women call his name, shout others things that make him grin in shock and Duchess Elizabeth scowls, Hazelle covering a blushing Primrose’s ears. Katniss rides between them both and Madge never sees her face, but her limbs look heavy as she raises them to wave at the adoring masses, her back painfully straight.

Westminster looms before them, the ceremony crawling closer and Madge is about to witness history. No Queen has ever ruled this kingdom, no woman has ever worn the crown by her own right.

Katniss of York has certainly changed all that, has changed England.

(though it remains to be seen if it’s for better or for worse)

*

There are a great many tasks to be performed at a coronation and Madge has been chosen for a very special one. While Haymitch acts as Lord High Steward for the occasion, entrusted with the duty of bearing St Edward’s crown and Gale performs as Lord High Constable and bears the Sword of State and Marvel the Orb, Madge, her mother, Lady Primrose, Lady Hazelle and Duchess Elizabeth will be Katniss’ train bearers, marking them as the greatest ladies in the land. Most would see this as a unbelievable honour and would happily climb over Madge to get it, but she knows this is no gift. The most important people in all of England will witness this coronation and they will see Madge and her mother, the last scions of Lancastrian blood in England, carrying the Yorkists Queen’s train. Madge is being used as a political tool, a visual cue that Lancastrian resistance is dead.

Madge knows all this and still performs her duty admirably, will be appropriately solemn and reverent throughout. Katniss is pale, a quiver visible in her chin but she squares her shoulders when their moment comes, walks up the aisle of Westminster with perfect poise and dignity. Madge inhales one last time and follows after, holding Katniss’ train with steady hands.

Traitor! she can imagine King Coriolanus hissing in her ear. Her cheek throbs suddenly, a reminder of Prince Cato’s wrath but she ignores them both. If the King had not first betrayed all of England, she would not be here and York would merely be a dukedom with royal blood rather than a ruling house. She reminds herself of that with each step, but she cannot help but wonder what will happen if the King ever does reclaim his crown.

I am a Lancaster by blood, but would their victory doom me?

Am I to be punished by the Yorkists for my birth and then the Lancastrians for doing what I could to survive?

Is there no way for me to win? Am I always to lose?

The assembly sings a hymn, voices rising together and Madge stomps down on the bleak hopelessness she feels creeping in her heart.

I am a daughter of dukes, a child of royal Lancaster.

We’ll find a way to make it through this.

(we have to)

*

The ceremony is long and intricate, but finally, the most significant moment of all arrives, the whole world silent as the Archbishop places the crown on Katniss’ head, the whole abbey holding its breath. Katniss stares straight ahead without blinking, eyes a little too wide and Madge looks at her, the first queen regnant of England and feels her stomach tie itself in knots.

“God save the Queen!” the people around her cheer and Madge’s tongue feels like lead, the words too heavy to speak.

“God save the Queen!” they all call again, Gale’s voice sticking out loud and proud.

“God save the Queen!” everyone chants for the third and final time, Katniss’ eyes meeting Madge’s for one terrifying second. The world seems to freeze for that single moment and Madge sees fear in Katniss’ face, feels her own crashing around inside her. Trumpets start to blare, church bells ring out all across England and Katniss is still staring at her, face pale when Madge finally finds her voice.

“God save the Queen,” she whispers.

And us. God save us from the Queen. And the King.

God save us.

*

As is tradition, there is a great banquet in Westminster Palace to celebrate their new sovereign.

Madge spends most of it in a daze, heart hammering. Possibilities keep building behind her eyes, horror stories of King Coriolanus chopping off her head, or having her hung, drawn and quartered. Is that not the punishment for traitors? He would never forgive her for participating in Katniss’ coronation, would never understand that she had no choice. She remembers being nine years old, remembers watching the public executions. If the King ever returns to England, that could very well be her.

No matter who sits on the throne, I am ruined

Madge feels panic beating in her chest, feels like she might faint. What am I supposed to do? King Coriolanus does not forgive. But Katniss of York has no love for me, could turn on me at any moment. How can I charm these monsters? How do I win over people who want nothing more than to steal my inheritance? They’ll lock me away, send me to a convent, marry me off to someone who’ll break me until I learn never to resist again.

What do I do?

“Are you alright?” someone asks her and she doesn’t answer, hands pressed to her heart. The world seems to be blurring around the edges, her chest tightening painfully.

“I can’t…I can’t…” she tries to say but her throat feels swollen, breath struggling to leave her lungs. She gasps, skin feeling too hot.

The Yorkists will kill me. King Coriolanus will kill me.

“My lady?”

I don’t want to die.

Her chest hurts, she can’t breathe and the world goes bright white and then black, disappears and swallows her in darkness and Madge is almost glad of the release.

“My lady! Somebody help! Help!”

*

She is covered in blood, King Coriolanus is laughing and Katniss of York is chasing her with an axe, face painted red.

Someone is screaming, the sky is spinning and she feels sick, wants to vomit and collapse.

Everything is loud, she has never felt so scared, she’s about to die, she can’t breathe, can’t think-

“I’ve got her.”

A voice, a male voice, cuts through the chaos in her head and she blinks, world swimming before her. She is staring at the ceiling, skull aching.

“I’ll take her to her chambers. Someone fetch the physician.”

That voice again and she almost recognizes it, her ears ringing and head stuffed with cotton. She is still trying to get her bearings when suddenly she is flying, the change of altitude making her stomach toss. It takes her a moment, mind sluggish, but she realizes she is not flying but being carried. She still feels too hot and her face is pressed to someone’s doublet, the fabric soft and velvet.

I must have passed out, she realizes, must have been lying on the floor. Someone is holding her in their arms, cradling her against their chest. She tries to hold onto her thoughts but her head still hurts and her eyes start to flutter closed. She rubs her cheek on the smooth material of his shirt, does not register words being spoken above her.

It’s alright, she thinks, I’m safe now

*

Madge wakes again as she is being put down, laid gently in her bed.

Blurry people mill around her and warm hands smooth the hair from her face. She can barely keep her eyes open, cannot focus on any faces.

“Will she be alright?”

Mother…?

She never hears the answer, the world going dark around her yet again.

*

The sun is too bright.

Madge’s eyes open and she is nearly blinded, noonday light making her wince. Her mouth feels dry, her temples throb and hazy memories trickle back to her. I passed out. Right there, in full view of the entire court, I fainted.

“Madge! Oh, sweetheart, you’re awake!”

She blinks and her mother is there, squeezing her hand tightly.

“I’m sorry…I worried you,” Madge mumbles, tongue feeling leathery. Her mother shakes her head.

“I’m just glad you’re alright. The physician said you were overexcited.”

Or over-panicked.

Madge nods and struggles to sit up while her mother helpfully fetches her some water. I can’t let that happen again. The Yorkists cannot see me being so weak, never again. I have to get a hold of myself. Fear can’t be allowed to beat me.

(if only it were as easy as all that)

*

With the physician’s blessing, Madge takes some fresh air with a walk in the garden.

Someone has begun to tame it, pruning and weeding at the violent overgrowth. White roses dominate the space, but there are other flowers too, adding vibrant splashes of colour amidst the green. Madge sits on a stone bench and fiddles with some daisies, still mulling over her humiliation.

No one is likely to forget her collapsing at the Queen’s coronation banquet, certainly not any time soon. What whispers must be filling the halls, what laughter at her expense. Any strength she has managed to project has been stripped away, leaving her looking frail and pathetic in all Yorkist eyes. What a disaster.

“I see you’re feeling better, Lady Madge.”

Madge stiffens, something cold sliding down her spine. She recognizes the voice, the same one that had carried her to her room.

Gale.

She turns and he is standing behind her, face his usual rigid mask. She forces a smile.

“Yes, Lord Salisbury, I am feeling much improved.”

Madge stares at his chest, feeling somewhat sick. Not only did she expose her weakness for everyone to see, but Gale of Salisbury was the key witness, transporting her limp body up to bed. Her greatest critic saw at her lowest and she could cry.

What cruel hand spins this wheel of fortune?

“I’m glad,” he says and she does not believe a word of it. They stand there, silence tense and she does not know what to do, how she is meant to salvage this situation. If he’d thought of her poorly before, she cannot imagine what he thinks of her now.

“My sister wanted me to give this to you,” he says, half turned away from her, eyes focused on a far wall. She looks down at his hand and her eyes stretch wide in his surprise. He holds out a mismatched bouquet tied together with hair ribbons and Madge takes it tentatively, too shocked to speak.

“Posy thought these might make you feel better, since you’re always out here, with the flowers.”

Madge’s heart lurches in her chest and she squeezes the stems.

“Thank you.”

“I had nothing to do with it,” he says immediately, nearly cutting her off.

“Then thank your sister for me.”

He nods jerkily and a sudden thought occurs to her.

“Was it you, you had the gardens…fixed?”

He turns fully away from her, so she is staring at his back.

“My sister likes gardens.”

He walks away without another word and Madge watches him go, fingers twining in little Posy’s hair ribbons.

What game are you playing fortune?

*

The news Madge has been dreading arrives a week and a half later, Marvel delivering it over supper. He leans in close, fingers stroking her elbow.

“We have finally received the Pope’s dispensation, our parents will soon be married.”

Madge feels the floor drop out beneath her and looks at Marvel, feeling none of the satisfaction she can see in his grin. Just beyond Marvel, she can see Gale watching her and she wants to scream. Do you know what he’s telling me? Do you want me to flood the room with tears, collapse in hysterics? She does neither of those things, but holds his gaze instead and he turns away, jerking his head around to Katniss beside him.

Madge almost laughs. Or maybe it is tears she can feel, the future rushing towards her and swallowing her whole.

Lord have mercy on us both and deliver us from harm. Please, do not let these Yorkists be our end.

please

*

Her father stands before her, bloody and dripping.

The sky is red and smudged with black clouds.

Faceless men with white roses laugh and cackle.

Madge sinks, ground wet and muddy and eating her alive.

Help me! she wants to scream but she cannot, drowns quiet and afraid.

*

Her mother’s wedding day dawns, a bright June day that might as well be black and cold to match Madge’s mood. She spends a long time staring at the ceiling, willing this to be a nightmare she can wake up from. The idea of her mother marrying Lord Haymitch still makes Madge sick and she cannot help but think of her father, not even cold in his grave when the Yorkists struck with their greed and cruelty. It still doesn’t feel real that he’s dead, that she will never again see him in this life. And now his wife has been sold off to one of the men who helped him to his death.

Curse the Yorkists; curse each and every one of them.

*

Madge dons her third and final new gown from Haymitch, the houppelande made of beautiful, shimmery silver tissue. The collar and cuffs are made of silk as is her girdle, each of them weighed down with diamonds. Her kirtle matches her gown, the material patterned with birds in a darker gray. Ladies’ maids that are still strangers to her plait her hair into intricate designs woven through with silver ribbons and topped with a headband studded with pearls, a gift from her almost-cousin the Queen. On her ears hang large diamonds surrounded by stylized silver flower petals, a great pearl dangling at the bottom of each. Her last adornment is a necklace of moonstones hanging from a delicate silver chain.

She feels a little like royalty as she sweeps from the room, eyes sticking to her as she makes her way to her mother’s chamber. The gown and jewels are magnificent, truly fit for a queen and Madge can’t help but wonder if the Yorkists are trying just as hard to woo her as she is them. It would make sense, as an heir to Lancaster, her support would be invaluable, especially as rumours circulate of a planned invasion by the King hiding in Scotland.

Madge is not so easily charmed. Her loyalty cannot be bought.

She arrives at her mother’s rooms and steps inside, finds Margaret already dressed and ready for the ceremony. Her gown is golden, her hennin shimmering with embroidered veils and her skin ashy and pale. She’s gained weight but is still too thin, the dress drowning her in luxurious fabric. Madge feels her heart squeeze and prays for a miracle, some sort of lightning strike to burn Westminster down around them and save them from this nightmare. No such providence comes and Madge enters the room with a heavy heart. Her mother turns to her and tries to smile, tired mouth not quite managing it. Madge bites her lip, hands clenched and this isn’t right, this isn’t fair.

“You look beautiful,” her mother says and Madge shakes her head, angry, frustrated tears building in her eyes.

“They can’t make you do this,” she insists and her mother tilts her head with pity.

“Yes they can. The Yorkists can make anyone do anything now, that is the privilege of kings.”

“Father’s only been dead a few months!”

“In their eyes he died a traitor, and why would we need to mourn a traitor?”

Madge closes her eyes, her father’s smile burning in her mind.

“He wasn’t, he wasn’t. He was…”

“He was the best man I’ve ever known,” her mother says softly and Madge looks up at her, tears wet on her cheeks.

“All my life, I have lived in the shadow of King Coriolanus. I have always known what kind of man he was, what a horrid, wicked king he was. So did your father. Marrying me meant tying himself to a king he despised, meant that he’d have to support Coriolanus against every enemy. People would never forgive me the sin of my blood and your father knew that. But for love of me, and for you, our perfect, perfect daughter, he was willing to support the king, willing to die for him. In another life, I am sure your father would have sided with the Yorkists, at the least, he never would have fought for the king.”

Her mother’s smile is tragic and Madge covers her face with her hands, unable to control the tears leaking from her eyes.

“We must make difficult choices if we are to survive, your father and I knew that. I know it is not easy, I know it might feel wrong, but survival is what matters most. This upheaval will not last, eventually the country will settle. When it does, all I want is for you to be standing there, safe and alive and with your inheritance intact. That is all I have ever wanted. I swore, from the moment I first held you in my arms, that I would do anything for you, and that has not changed. You are the light of my life, sweet Madge, there is nothing I would not do for you.”

Madge takes unsteady steps forward and falls against her mother, heedless of the mess she must be making on her new gown. She hugs her tight, never ever wants to let her go.

“Hush, my love, it’s alright,” her mother murmurs, tone soothing and soft.

“I love you Mama,” she forces out and her mother’s hands are warm and sure on her back.

“We’ll be alright,” Margaret whispers and Madge nods against her shoulder. We will be, I swear it. Her mother is right of course, what matters is survival. And Madge, Madge will survive. Careful neutrality will be her new strategy, patience until a final victor has emerged from the ashes.

York or Lancaster, whoever triumphs, Madge will outlast them all.

*

The ceremony is simple and solemn, Madge made of ice throughout. She does not listen to the vows, ignores the Priest as he drones on in Latin and closes her eyes when Haymitch places the ring on her mother’s finger.

This is wrong

This is all wrong

*

Though the ceremony may have been simple, the feast that follows is anything but.

Westminster has been decked out in splendor, beautifully decorated and filled with energetic minstrels. The Queen invites Madge and her mother to join her at the high table for the first time, certainly an honour even if it curdles Madge’s stomach. Katniss sits at the center, as always, Haymitch to her left and Gale to her right. Beside Gale is Duchess Elizabeth, then Lady Primrose and finally Gale’s mother, Lady Hazelle. To Haymitch’s left is his new wife and then Marvel, preening before the assembled eyes of all those seated in the great hall. Madge is beside him, seated at the edge of the table and burning under the scrutiny of everyone present. She smiles even though it aches, oohs and ahhs over every plate of food placed before them. She joins heartily in every toast offered and listens with feigned interest to Marvel’s incessant chatter.

The hall is loud with laughter and Madge wishes she could soak it all in, but her body is prickling, on edge as it always is when surrounded by Yorkists. She eats daintily, stomach roiling with snakes and giggles at Marvel’s jokes, which unfortunately encourages him to tell even more.

“Ah yes, the Duke of Suffolk, though it might be more apt to call him the Duke of Suf-fat,” he chortles and Madge smiles to hide her grimace. Marvel’s eyes glitter as he looks at her, Madge’s skin feeling hot and thankfully, servers come with the next course, interrupting whatever poor attempt at humor was about to leave his lips. Madge washes her hands and observes the platters of meat, each drenched in sweet smelling sauce. She intends to choose some quail, always a favorite of hers, when Marvel sticks out his arm.

“Allow me,” he says with a grin, indicating to a server to slice some swan for her. Madge blinks and forces down her words of protest. She digs her nails into her palms beneath the table but smiles appreciatively at Marvel, his face shining with pleasure. He leans over to whisper in her ear, his voice like melted butter.

“Only the most graceful of birds for my most graceful of sisters,” he purrs and Madge hopes he doesn’t notice how her shoulders tense. She can feel the strain in her smile and hurriedly turns to her plate, distracting herself with eating. The feast doesn’t move nearly fast enough and when desert finally arrives, Madge feels as if she’s been trapped with Marvel for days. He chooses her desert for her, marchpane and fruit paste, without asking her opinion and she forces herself to pretend to be charmed. He knocks his glass against hers, looking into her eyes for an uncomfortably long time.

“I am so pleased we are now family,” he tells her, voice warmed with mulled wine.

“As I am,” she agrees, dropping her eyes in what she hopes appears to be maiden shyness.

“Gale opposed this marriage you know, quite vehemently.”

Madge is not surprised. She pokes her marchpane half-heartedly, has never much enjoyed the taste. Marvel notices and frowns.

“Is it not to your liking?”

“Oh no, of course not. I’m just not very hungry,” she lies and Marvel nods.

“It is good for a woman to watch her figure,” he says and Madge clutches her knife tightly. His eyes slide down the table, landing on his cousins with disapproval. “Not everyone is so prudent,” he continues and Madge follows his gaze. Lady Primrose is laughing, her plate piled high with sugar and sweets. Katniss too is picking through a healthy assortment of confectionaries, a little of everything sampled on her plate. Marvel is still frowning at them and Madge feels a violent urge to eat everything in sight, simply to spite him. She settles on ignoring his comments instead, knows she cannot afford to alienate him, no matter how repugnant she finds his company. He doesn’t seem to mind and reaches forward, plucking some marchpane from her plate, his shoulder brushing hers.

“I must admit though,” he whispers, just for her, “I do have quite the hankering for sweet things.”

Madge represses the sudden desire to vomit.

Thankfully, mercifully, dinner ends and Madge almost heaves a sigh of relief. Servers hurriedly clear the tables and arrange the room for dancing, the minstrels striking up a much livelier tune. Marvel turns to beam at her and whatever relief she’d felt dies a sad death.

“May I have this dance?” he asks and she smiles.

“Of course.”

He leads her out onto the floor and Madge’s smile becomes a bit more genuine when she realizes this a group dance and not a couples’ one. Everyone assembles into a great circle and joins hands, Marvel to Madge’s left and the Earl of Pembroke to her right. She sees her mother and Haymitch across the circle, her mother’s eyes already drooping with exhaustion. Madge winces and then they begin, hopping and skipping to the music. Marvel’s grip is a bit too firm, tugging her along as if he does not trust her to be able to follow the steps. They all move inwards, joined hands raised and then back away again, separating with their partner for just a moment. Palm to palm, Madge and Marvel spin around, his hand touching her waist a little too familiarly. They return to the circle and begin again, twirling around the room. The dance is repetitive and energetic, but even still, Madge cannot help but focus on the feel of Marvel’s fingers through the material of her dress.

She is beyond relieved when the dance ends, Marvel pressing a much too long kiss to her hand, thumb rubbing over her knuckles. Haymitch and her mother arrive to swap partners and though Madge would rather spit in Haymitch’s eye than dance with him, she’d be lying if she said she didn’t prefer him to Marvel. They perform a slow, stately bassedance together and then she’s swept up by the Earl of Pembroke for a pavane. The portly Duke of Suffolk begs her hand for a group dance, this time in a line rather than a circle. She manages to escape when the dance ends, exclaiming loudly that she is in need of refreshments. She flees to a server at the edge of the room, gulping hastily at the wine he offers. Her mother has retaken her seat at the table, face pinched and colourless and go to bed, Madge wants to tell her, sleep. She knows she wouldn’t listen though, would be determined to remain and entertain her guests. Appearances are everything, aren’t they Mother? Madge sets down her goblet with a thunk.

Curse the Yorkists.

A giggling Lady Primrose drags a grimacing Rory of Salisbury into the center of the room and Madge spies Marvel trying to catch her eye, her stomach turning to stone. She hastily averts her gaze only to notice something perhaps worse. Katniss is still seated at the head table, hasn’t danced even once, and now she and Gale are in heated conference, Katniss gesturing at what has to be Madge. Her face is anxious and Gale is scowling, arguing in hushed tones. He stands abruptly and marches down from the dais, steely eyes trained on Madge. He is heading right for her and she wants to run, hide but Madge of Bedford is no coward. She watches him steadily, smile firmly in place. He stops in front of her and for a moment no one speaks, the two of them merely staring. Finally, he bows.

“Would you do me the privilege of this dance, Lady Madge?”

He is here against his will, part of Katniss’ design to show that York and Lancaster are truly united. She remembers another sovereign forcing his relative to dance with her and she feels only slightly less reluctant now than she did at nine years old.

“It would be an honour,” she replies, sweeping into a curtsy. Gale nods and takes her hand, leading her out amongst the other couples. The music indicates a gaillard, a fast paced couples dance, and Madge does all she can to appear excited. Gale stands a bit too far away from her, their arms stretching the obvious distance between them. She wonders what they must look like, obviously uncomfortable, but still she smiles, moving with all the grace she can muster. She tries to catch his eye, tries to coax out a smile but he is entirely unmoved, gaze fixed firmly above her head.

“The gardens really are looking quite lovely, you did a wonderful job,” she says brightly.

“Thank you,” he answers, tone flat and eyes still looking at everyone but her. Madge covers her frustration with a shy smile and breathy laughter as he spins her around.

“I must agree with your sister, Lady Posy. I too love a good garden.”

“Hmm,” is his only response and Madge is somehow meant to charm him, but it is difficult when he is so determined to be resistant.

Why are you so stubborn?

Even still, he proves a better partner than Prince Cato, never once stomping rudely on her foot or sneering. He surpasses Marvel too, who’d dragged her around the room as if he didn’t believe her capable of remembering the necessary steps. Gale leads, but gently, allowing them to fall into step far more naturally than Marvel ever would. His hands never touch her in places they shouldn’t, in contrast, her holds her loosely, making as little contact with her as he can. She wants to grit her teeth or throw up her hands in surrender, this dance almost painful, but still she perseveres.

No one will ever be able to say I didn’t try

Finally, most mercifully, the music stops, the dance over. Gale drops her hands quickly, jaw chewing on words.

“You are an excellent dancer,” he manages to compliment, even if he sounds entirely insincere. Madge bows her head, curtseying in gratitude.

“It is merely because I had such an exceptional partner,” she counters and he stares at her, mouth twitching in what could be an attempt at a smile. He nods, a new song begins and he doesn’t walk away, hesitates by her side for several awkward seconds. Suddenly, strangely, unexpectedly, he bends down and kisses her hand, the very first time he’s done it in all these months of knowing each other. He straightens and their eyes meet for the briefest of moments, his still an unyielding silver. What will it take to win you? she wonders, smiling her most beguiling smile. Gale simply nods again and turns to walk away, back over to an anxious Katniss. Madge watches him go, the skin of her hand tingling.

You will not resist me forever, she vows, eyes stuck to him as he leans to murmur in Katniss’ ear.

One day, Gale of Salisbury, you will love me.

[pinksweatergettingbetter]

aight

lets ends this

-

i love that he's still trying to cheer her up with her terrible crossover idea

phoenix is such a sweetie

-

“...so we may put this dead lawyer walking out of his misery”

hear hear 

just kill me already

-

“she's now slain two high level clergymen...”

one of which was a confirmed rebel but HEY whatever ITS NOT LIEK YOU KILL THEM IN GENERAL ANYWAY

who gives a fuck this trial is janked

-

“bahlgilpo’kon hell- the realm of eternal agony”

wow eternal agony is the bottom hell??? thats like the first hell in dante’s hells; youre soft as runny shit kooraheenism.

-

“there she will suffer the endless punishment of ja’gar by the galuun of Puhlmo’ten.”

SUBTITLES PLEASE 

-

he was killed during the rite but they only found his body like two days later?!?!

what the fuck!?

...and wait a fucking second, he wasnt there when we were fucking investigating BULLSHIT

BUUULLLLLSSSHHHIIIIIIT!!!

-

two consecutive murders constitutes a serial killer??

-

every time sadmad sighs and shakes his head i lose a year of my life

-

Rayfa’s voice is so fucking unfitting; she’s got the voice of a 30 year old woman and she’s supposed to be a whiny-ass 14 year old

do these people know anything about casting??

is it really that hard to get a 14 year old to say a few lines? i was voice acting (not professionally obvs) when i was 14. i sucked, but i was doing it, and there’ve been younger kids working on real shows.

anyway 

-

welp looks like this mcfuck is using a fake name

someone get on that

-

I'm sorry you’re surrounded by such incompetence, Rayfa. and i mean that. i like you now, youre kinda funny.

-

phoenix: plus, yesterday, someone told me how the divination seance used to work

phoenix fucking sucks at keeping secrets jesus christ holy fuck just SHUT UP ABOUT THE REBELS YOU MORON

-

if he says let it go and move on again I'm going to fucking scream

-

“haha! the police overlooked the clergy tattoo on the back of his neck!”

directly below the stab wound. the clergy tattoo. that has significance in their country.

Why do the Kooraheen Police suck so much ass? They can’t catch a running suspect, and apparently they’re all blind.

-

HOW DOES THE JUDGE NOT FUCKING KNOW A RELIGIOUS SYMBOL FROM HIS OWN FUCKING RELIGION?!?!?

-

[insert nahyuta eats (peach emoji)ass joke]

-

“aren't they utterly different shapes?”

...a... peach... and an upside down peach?!

nahyuta 

im gonna blow your mind

this is called a handstand, here, do it with me

-

lazy ass parents naming their kid “real name”

fuck this joke country

this is some ‘who's on first’ bullshit

-

RAYFA LUSTS FOR BLOOD

-

yeah it was freezing on that mountain, of course your estimate was wrong.

i knew this was coming...

-

hebLINDED HER WITH SCIENCE

BEEP BA BOO BA

-

“this article is small in size but huge in importance!”

just like my d––

-

How... did this work? They did a great job of hiding that wound...

also no blood at the “scene of the crime”

yeah not suspicious at all

-

once again the prosecution blames the detective for something they couldn’t have helped :/

GUARD YOUR ASSHOLE EMA, GUARD YOUR ASSHOLE

HOLY SHIT

INSERT REFERENCE TO ABOVE PEACH JOKE

-

loud ass clock inside a secret hideout? good one, rebels. super well done.

-

ahhhh

now that is clever. i like that

although, considering the length of that statue’s beak, he should’ve been impaled right through his body, so.....

you were close, SOJ

glad to see more clever twists though. 

-

game ruins everything with blatant hints

-

there are other cases where they can tell when two weapons have been used on the same wound

why cant they tell now?

-

stone sharp enough to cut skin??

-

your hideout is fucking death trap

good going rebels

-

youre using serial killer wrong... again

-

thats a lie, nobody likes swiss cheese

-

LAY OFF CHEESE YOU PIECE OF SHIT

ILL RIP YOUR ASS OUT

-

“what you said is total bullshit!! heres what happened; this, this this. and since I said it ,its true! without any proof!!! SO THERE”

-

phoenix: VALID POINT!

sadmad: bullshit excuse

judge: sounds legit, overruled!

-

“jeez just toss me an Axe if its that bad...”

-

“plotting your escapee from this sacred hall?”

yeah well just run out

-

“you would pin a crime upon the dead, who you know tell no tales?”

uh

did you just forget the whole

soul pool thing or

are you just stupid

-

aw baby here we go

-

stop saying 30% you dont know shit

-

oh my god

whoa whats he doing with the magatama

-

“wait... i think i saw something just now...”

what, phoenix

what did you see, hmm?

-

“the power of prayer! yes... it uh... helps you... install listening devices in your secrets base uuhhhhhh...ITS NOT WEIRD

-

“She has a way of putting me at ease...”

(weeps) my babies

-

(sigh) its the wife, get on with it

-

“long years of ascetic training have sharpened my ears”

god the training is more useful to Athena than it is Maya. this is depressing.

-

make like a mollusc and clam up??? who says that???????

-

boy you sure fuckin suck at this Mr. Inmee

-

judging by that KAAHHH Tahrust should have a deep voice, and DD had a deeper male voice blip... why aren't they using it? they've already implemented singing blips and tutting blips, did they forget about the extra deep blips?

or are those reserved for demons?

he is a ghost...

-

...how far along is behleeb anyway? either I'm blind or the sprite artist forgot to give her a baby bump.

hey yeah! she's barely pregnant! her character art shows that! so its not so much of a stretch that she could be running around killing rebels. Plus, she hasn’t been pregnant for two years...

...of course, its not her, it’s rUHEEL NAYMUH, but still. she’s not far along enough to be inconvenienced by her child. 

-

potato potahto tomahto egg salad!!

stop praying at me, nahyuta.

-

dont you fucking dare...

dont you even fucking dare

-

THEY DARED

I SWEAR TO FUCK

i swear to fuck 

so. youre gonna blame maya. for the actions. of YOUR OWN GODDESS. 

WHO’S GREAT AND POWERFUL AND MYSTICAL AND WISE AND PERFECT.... UNLESS SHE’S BEING CHANNELED BY A DIRTY FOREIGNER?

i just i cannot express how angry this makes me. it doesn’t make any fucking sense and it’s complete and utter hypocrisy. it’s even worse than before;  before they were suggesting that the person dressed as Lady Kee’ra was killing rebels in her name, if it wasn’t outright her. Now they’re suggesting it was LITERALLY HER, and remember, these people are UBER RELIGIOUS, and they still have a problem with THEIR IMMORTAL GODDESS IN THE FLESH exacting her divine punishment against people THAT ARE HARMING THEIR COMMUNITY ANYWAY???

yes, vigilantism is dangerous. but it gets a little more fucking complicated when you suggest that it’s the legit actions of an ACTUAL GODDESS.

and even if this is the corrupt government just trying to cover up deaths (which it is) why didn’t they just step in and go “Yeah, another Lady Kee’ra murder. All hail the marvellous goddesses. er diarrhoea kooraheen.”

it would be a lot easier and a lot less messy than taking a kid to court. why do they even want Maya out of the way, anyway? She didn’t know any of the rebels, and she posed no threat to their corrupt government. Yeah, Zealot’s dead, but they literally could have just hired another crazy assassin. 

Unless there’s a REAL GOOD FUCKIN REASON for all of this, I call bullshit, bullshit bULLSHIT

-

i think it’s time to let your head go and move on to another room sadmad

at the same time

-

...plus they legit just forgot their own lore.

maya can’t summon Kee’ra if she doesn’t know what she looks like.

that was so easy i didnt have to even press on statements; thats how easy that contradiction is. thats how easy it is to remember something stated five minutes ago, and how easy it is to remember how your own religion works. you fuckhats.

-

oh hey i just realized Tahrust really does call Behleeb his “lovely wife” 

aw. how nice. if only they didnt decide to scapegoat maya.

doesn't matter your intentions; you die if you scapegoat maya. you die by my blade.

-

you ok pal. is an alarm clock really the source of an evil laugh.

-

“indeed! we leave the alarm switched off at all times!”

why would you even have a clock with an alarm on it in a secret base anyway?? and how did phoenix manage to play it in the hideout if the alarm was switched off? 

-

“those distinctive taiko drums”

fuckin’ finally

ive been waiting for that stupid watch to come back for AAAGEES

of course there was a reason maya would mention traditional japanese instruments...

-

y’know it’s funny that he would even make that fuckup in the first place. if he’s a plumed punisher fan, he should know how the theme song goes. his wife was at least a big fan, meaning he’d probably have heard the opening enough times to know that Taiko drums weren’t part of it. Furthermore, if he was banking on the fact that the two themes sound similar to pass off the deception, then it was a huge mistake on his part to define the sound as Taiko drums; thats just a needless detail that could get him caught out, which it did. 

and if he just didn’t know, well... again, useless detail. always bad. always be vague if you wanna get away with shit.

-

ah... at least in death, Raheel Namer didn’t have to suffer the Plumed Punisher theme song.

-

i love that phoenix refers to the show by it’s full title. that’s adorable.

-

now what’s really confusing me is that that Photo of the fam is stated to have been taken during the Feast of whatever. Which is the same time-frame as Reely Real Name’s death. He’s alive in the photo, Behleeb is in the photo, and the Judge and his family are nowhere to be found. But all those things were huge parts of the case, and they couldn’t have eaten before or after because of the whole ‘you can only eat Ghingil for three hours on that one special day’.

am I missing something or going nuts??

that said I'm so glad i can finally present this photo. it’s been gnawing at me as much as the watch thing.

-

“trademark topknot”

-

OH PLEASE JUST LET IT END

ffjglk dlg ljlgkd   hey Tahrust do me a solid and just tell them how you died ok 

please i have a family

i have stomach ulcers

-

oh

off-brand logic 

i totally forgot that was in this game too

-

wow.

“hmm, there’s really nothing to suggest a murder other than the red water in the spring, which only Maya would see and probably not question (considering this isn’t her religion and she doesn’t fuckin know how that shit works) and said spring probably empties somewhere, since it would be swampy otherwise. let’s see... i can KILL MYSELF TO GIVE THE RED WATER A REASON FOR EXISTING or do literally anything else... WELP, BETTER FUCKIN KILL MYSELF. ALL HAIL THE REBELS!”

...well at least he saved maya from contracted a blood disease.

-

tahrust must be pissed that his death came to naught when his own rebel pals gave the secret key to a guy who sold them out in five seconds.

never gets to meet his child... never gets to see the revolution come to fruition... never gets to live happily with his family... all because he couldn’t think of any other solution to protecting that shitty hovel behind a rock.

kinda tragic.

wish i was less angry

-

“there was no weapon at the inner sanctum...”

did everyone just forget the giant bloody murder statue???

-

pohl’fuckya sadmad

-

babe... oh no... don’t give yourself up like this

thats sad

dont 

i feel the sad now

shit

-

“abbot inmee!! summon a physician at once!!’

HES DEAD

WAY TO RUIN THE MOMENT WITH UNINTENTIONAL COMEDY DUMBASS

-

“but murder sanctioned by the crown is still murder”

what’s murder sanctioned by a goddess? apparently you guys are ok with that one. oh unless it’s a goddess being channeled by a foreigner.

soerry im bitter about that one moving on now

-

he lunged at you from behind the stone slab?? nice trajectory moron

-

hang on a second he put reereenaymee’s body in the plaza before prayer time... with the dagger still in him??

HOW DID NOBODY NOTICE THE FUCKING DAGGER

-

“you need not frame the accused for your crime”

for once Sadmad says something smart

-

honestly... suicide really wasn’t the answer. even if it was to protect your wife there were,,,,, so many other options

for example, realname’s last moments, as we saw, made it look like he was killed in the Plaza of devotion. You could have so easily made it look like he was murdered there, by some rando, during the rite. The kooraheen police fucking suck at their job, so it wouldn’t matter. but no; you had to die, and blame Maya.... because she was foreign. A foreigner who came to you for guidance and shelter. 

-

STOP AGREEING WITH ME SADMAD, I DONT LIKE YOU

-

“You must use your law powers to make sure no more innocent people suffer under this shitty law!!

...like Maya did!! .......because of me!!

-

i love that the excuse is like “there’s no way she could prove it was self defence in this government...” to make it all tear-jerking and point out how horrible and corrupt their legal system is...

...and yet, if we remember Reunion and Turnabout, which also included channeling and self defence... It was EQUALLY impossible for Maya to be cleared of the crime on self-defence charges!!

pot calling the kettle black, japanifornia!

-

“lol sorry for almost getting you killed cause i couldn't think of a better plan than kill myself”

yea thanks tahrust, coo-al

-

“I ask that you look after my wife”

er she’s... going to jail... she’s... been outed as a rebel... you do get that right

-

fuck you Tahrust, you made her cry

-

“now you can watch over me from the world beyond”

he cant actually, since they retconned spirits being conscious in the afterlife. good going, capcom.

-

oh man that cutscene was goofy. except for the crying

fuck you Tahrust

-

Maya: :D hOW y'all doin?!

also according to maya Tahrust didnt leave any regrets behind which means that he totally gives no fucks that his dumbass plan endangered Maya’s life and made his wife cry. Dick.

He doesn't even regret missing the birth of his fuckin child. Ass.

-

Sadmad: I owe a debt to you, one that I will return––

Me: Eat a rotten egg.

Sadmad: Wha-–

Me: Go on, master of putrescence. Eat a whole rotten egg. Consume it shell and all. You heard me. Insert the egg into your mouth and chomp down. Times ticking, I’m waiting.

-

i forgot about the stupid butterflies

-

“So I was thinking, Nick, the legal system here is really stacked agains the defence! It’s really unfair!”

YA DONT SAY

-

listen to this happy music playing as everyone is forced to come to terms with all this sad ass shit. also it appears we just forgot about that tiny matter of the government literally putting hits out. Rayfas dad. is doing this. Nobody gonna address that?? No? Ok

-

Maya: QUIT BEINA LIL BITCH

wait what 

what is this new sprite

eurhg i dont like it put it away

thats not maya thats a husk of evil

-

wow. rayfa didnt even know why maya was here training. the bullshit continues to flow...

-

Maya: deciding what is true and what is false for your people...

the actual truth and lies, right? RIGHT? MAYA???

-

ergh this is so... corny? schlocky? it feels forced

-

“Sorry for almost getting you killed anyway VIVE LA REVOLUTION”

-

Yay! It’s vore man!! i kinda missed his stretchy face.

-

oh well that

thats just a really anticlimactic reveal of Dhurke

like tada! there he is! and he's gone! whatever; he's just been talked about in hushed whispers for the last case or w/e!

-

awww the bailiff thinks he can catch a running rebel!! so cute~

-

“The Steel Samurai vs Dhurke the Rebel!”

MAYA. THE LAST FIVE MINUTES WERE DEVOTED TO EXPLAINING THAT THE REBELS ARE THE GOOD GUYS. WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM???

-

i love that they keep hammering in that “maya has stayed maya”

see guys??? dont you just feel the magic of the trilogy??? ITS THERE GUYS WE SWEAR

-

Welp, thats it for that case. Now back to America, to visit Athena and BK, and hopefully to read a more enjoyable storyline...

[mattymattymerduck]

Into Infinity (Pt. 1)

Summary: Imagine being pulled through a portal randomly. When you awake, you find yourself in the Marvel Universe. More specifically, Tony Stark’s lab. Guess this is what happens when Tony Stark ‘examines’ an Infinity Stone.

Warnings: Nope

Word count: 1300

A/N: I am not responsible for posting this, I promised @thedizzyidiot I would do this self-insert pic thing so here. Have it.

Let’s get one thing straight; life isn’t perfect. It never has been and it never will be, but it has its moments just like everything else. Sure, you may not be exactly where you planned to be when you turned 24, and no, there isn’t anything particularly extravagant or adventurous about your life, but it’s a pretty okay place to be.

And you thought this would be an average day - as usual you were running late for class, so when you got there your teacher would be disappointed but not overtly harsh on you, and you would have another long and for the most part disinteresting day. Well that’s not what happened.

Campus was emptier than usual, which was almost a frightening thought because there was always at least a dozen students smoking or skipping class or just enjoying the sun on their spare. The fact that not a single one of them was embracing the warm wind was unsettling, and had you thought anything even slightly out of the ordinary could happen to you today, you might have seen it coming.

It - of course - being the giant endless hole under your feet. At first you thought you tripped on the uneven sidewalk or something else that you normally did, but usually when you tripped you landed face first on the ground, not in an entirely different room all together.

You knew this room too, not by the chilling absence of the sun or the cranked AC, not even by the view of a city you had never visited before, framed by windows larger than life. No, you had seen this very lab in a movie, one of your favourite series of adaptations; you just couldn’t figure out how in the span of a single heartbeat you had fallen through your university campus and ended up here.

In Tony Stark’s very own lab.

“JARVIS, why don’t you read me those statistics again, I know there’s something I’m missing here.” And you definitely recognized that voice, the esteemed, and very fictional, Tony Stark pushing open the glass door with his back.

“Sir, there seems to be a flux-” The robot chimed in while you threw your gaze around the room. There must have been something wrong, maybe you hit your head on the cement and now you’re in a coma? Maybe you were in fact still asleep in your bed and this whole thing was a dream? Maybe you were dead and the Marvel Cinematic Universe was your heaven.

“Who the hell are you?” Maybe you would have been able to choke out something more comprehensible if your head wasn’t swimming with all the regrets you had and the fact that you just weren’t ready to die. That, and how lame would it be to go from tripping and hitting your head too hard on the sidewalk?

“No. Nonononono, this, this right here? It is not happening. I’m just gonna wake up, dust myself off and get to class. Oh no, I’m already so late for class!” You had to pace, it was a habit, something to work off the adrenaline pushing through your veins. You were fully aware that Tony, a man who until this very moment you would have been ecstatic to meet, was staring at you like you were mental. And maybe you were to some extent, because how could this be happening otherwise?

“Right. Excuse me, yeah you, I don’t know how you got in here but if you could pack up all your crazy and get out of my building that would be great.” You had stopped walking when you heard his voice, the voice you were so used to hearing through the speakers of your tv. You took a moment to stare at each other before you released a shaky breath.

“This isn’t usually how dreams work though, is it? Would you mind pinching me? At least then I can rule out the possibility of dying on my way to class.” You stuck your arm out to your hallucination and watched him almost recoil.

“See, here’s the thing, I would, but I don’t like getting psycho on me, it’s bad for business.” You bit your lip and nodded, seeing his point. If you were in his place, you would be scared too. Worried and maybe a tinge excited, but scared.

“Right well I can’t leave until we figure out how I got here, and since none of my friends have the ability to make a trap door that falls into the set of Iron Man or even have Robert Downey Jr in their contact list,”

“Robert Downey who?” Tony was a hairs width away from giving up on the conversation. Frankly, he was a little worried about the lax security in the Tower - how could someone just waltz right into his lab without alerting any of his security measures or running into a single Avenger? They were getting old and rusty if it was that easy for a college student to trespass so effortlessly.

“Jr. You, or at least, where you got your face from.” This made total sense to you, juggling both universes in your head, but Tony was lost and vaguely offended.

“Alright sweetheart, I got my face from my parents, neither of which had a Downey or a Robert in their name. And just for the record, no one else has a face like mine, the world couldn’t handle all that handsome roaming the streets.”

“Wait, but if you look like this it’s safe to say this is based off of the movies, right? Not the comics 'cause then you’d be flawlessly reconstructed into the shape Stan Lee gave you. So then the question is are you following the same timeline?” You replayed the last scenes from the latest Avengers movie in your head, that and everything you’d already seen from the Civil War trailer.

“Oh my god, Civil War. That hasn’t happened yet, has it? Steve, is he okay? Have you met Bucky yet? How’s Rhodes? Is Pietro alive?” Even if this was a dream or heaven or whatever, the least you could do was get the answers you’d been dying for.

“What Civil War? How do you know about all of those people, why would Steve not be okay?” It was like he was talking to a brick wall, and now you were back to pacing. He considered briefly calling security to haul you out, but now he was curious. Who were you?

“Oh thank the lord. Pietro though, he’s alive isn’t he?”

“Speedy’s recovering, but he’s fine. How do you know him?” You didn’t seem like a Hydra agents, but it was the only viable excuse he could come up with.

“I knew it! There’s no way Clint would have taken him on the helicarrier if Cho couldn’t heal him up!”

“Lady! Focus. Where did you come from, and how do you know all this stuff?” Tony’s hand slammed onto his desk and the noise jolted you right out of your excitement.

“I just have one more question, okay?” You asked softer than before, getting a better handle on yourself with the sliver of fear Tony’s annoyed eyes awarded you. He nodded with a sigh and pulled his hand away from the cool metal.

“What were you last working on - before you came in here and found me?”

“Why should I tell you that?” Tony didn’t like the idea of his recent work getting into the hands of someone he couldn’t trust, it could mean New York all over again. He was still sorting out the repercussions of that disaster, and on top of the whole Ultron thing there was no way he could let another cataclysmic villain weasel into their ranks.

“Because I think that’s how I got here.”

[technoplaguearchive]

King For A Day Chapter 7 of – Fandom(s): Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic Star Wars - All Media Types Rating: Teen & Up Characters: Original Characters, OC

“He’s just asleep on the floor out there?”

Pax smiles good-naturedly and nods in answer to the question. “Yep, walked over his big dumb feet on the way in here.”

Lis huffs out an approximation of a laugh, focusing her eyes towards the door her long-time friend had left through earlier. He must have been exhausted to pass out like that in a hallway where people were bound to pass by him.

A sharp pain shoots through her shoulder, breaking through the haze of painkillers pumping into her body. She bites her lip and squeezes her eyes shut against the prickles shooting through her body. When would it stop hurting so much? This was almost unbearable.

Noticing her discomfort Pax rests a hand on her back after setting down a needle. He rubs small circles across her shoulder blades and smiles as Lis sinks against the comforting warmth. Pax may not have been a full-fledged Doctor but he was doing a damn good job of keeping her going until one could get there.

“Can I ask you something?”

Pax’s eyes snap up to meet Lis’ warm brown pair, reading the fear she was trying to bury. When he’d met her the once he didn’t think she was the type who could ever be scared. She’d seemed so much larger than life, so full of herself. Hard to imagine this was the same woman who’d blatantly teased him to get a rise out of Kelan.

He gives her a smile and a nod, keeping his hand rubbing her back while his other hand holds onto the rail on her bed. He had a feeling he knew what she would ask and he didn’t know if he was ready to answer.

Lis takes a deep breath in, shoring up her courage to ask; “How bad was I? Kelan, he- He made it seem like I was on the brink of death and that doesn’t seem right. It’s been five days and while I’m not in top form I don’t think I’m that bad.”

That was exactly what Pax had thought she’d ask. He sighs and removes his hand off her back, stepping back to grab his datapad from a chair. The room is silent for several minutes while he sorts through the data, trying to find the easiest bit to pass on to her. By the sounds emanating from the bed, he’s guessing that Lis is fidgeting around, not liking how quiet he is.

Finally, he finds what he’s looking for and flips the pad around to hand to her. She stares at it with wide eyes until he shakes it at her, urging her to take it. Quickly she reaches out with her left hand and cradles the hunk of metal and plastic as if it’s a precious gem, doing her best to hold it without the other hand. On the screen is her, from several days ago, suspended in a bacta tank and hooked to several wires. The sight is…. unnerving. It’s hard to believe that's her in that goop but, the evidence is right in front of her. Pax reaches over the screen and taps a button near the bottom, causing a video to start playing. In it, she can see Pax off to the side of the tank, monitoring a readout and taking notes. Kelan is off on the other side, forehead pressed against the front of the tank. It’s him she stares at; every few seconds his body is shaking. She would almost believe the video was malfunctioning if it wasn’t for Kelan suddenly reaching up and pounding a fist against the tank. Pax jumps on the other side and glances over to Kelan, a frightened look on his face. She sees Pax set down the datapad in his hands and move to stand by Kelan, tentatively reaching out towards the man.

It’s then that Pax snatches the datapad out of Lis’ hand and stops the playback. When she looks up at him questioningly he clears his throat and looks away, a blush forming on his pale cheeks. That’s fine, she wouldn’t pry. “So how long was I in the tank?”

Turning his back to her Pax sets the datapad down. He doesn’t want to face her but he’ll have to, she has questions. The bacta tank was for extreme cases and no one ever did okay after knowing they were in one, nobody ever seemed to enjoy seeing themselves in one. But he can’t avoid her forever.

Instead of facing her as he should do, he speaks over his shoulder at her, his voice just above a whisper. “You were in that tank from the minute we touched down till probably only an hour before you woke up.” Here he pauses and inhales deeply. “You almost died, Atlis. Kelan was a wreck. He was sobbing for hours every day and no one could get him to leave you. He was so afraid that if you died he wouldn’t be there. He couldn’t let you die alone.” Pax pushes a hand through his copper hair and turns to face her.

He’s not prepared for the look of abject horror on her face, even less prepared to see her lower lip quivering. He rushes to her side and grabs her face in both hands, tilting her eyes up to meet his own. So unprofessional, Pax. “It’s okay, it’s okay. You’re going to be okay now. We’ll have a real doctor here soon and he’ll get you set up for a cybernetic.” This doesn’t seem to calm her and he finds his own anxiety spiking as her eyes actually water and spill down her cheeks. Kriff, kriff, karking kriff. “No no no, don’t cry. Please don’t cry. Kelan told you about how the Clan is giving beskar to get you a new arm, yeah? It’s going to be better than a regular arm.” His attempt to placate her does nothing but cause more tears to roll down her cheeks, and then she’s burying her face against his chest.

Pax is almost certain he feels his brain short-circuiting from this turn of events. How does someone deal with this scenario? He has no frame of reference for dealing with weepy females who are best friends-probably lovers with the guy who would see him gutted. He’s dealt with bandaging women in the field, or being there as they passed, but never ones that have straight up cried on him. Her short nails are curled into the fabric of his shirt and he can feel the dampness already spreading through the fabric around her eyes. This was… nothing short of very awkward. He’s thankful her face is hidden as he grimaces and rubs circles on her back with one hand, the other cradling the back of her head.

He lets her cry and wail against his chest, murmuring “It’s okay” over and over when it seems appropriate. Finally (Kriffing finally) she seems to calm down some and her hand unclenches from his shirt. He casts his eyes down and watches her hand fall limply to her lap. When her breathing seems to hitch he becomes concerned and pushes her back, holding her at arm's length. She’s alive and smiling, but the smile is frail and looks like it’s taking every ounce of energy she has.

“Sorry I ruined your shirt. Thank you for letting me get that out” she rasps out.

She looks so sweet and sad with that expression, every bit a broken woman. It’s some long buried instinct that takes over when he leans forward and presses his lips to her forehead, some instinct to protect this fragile lady before him. He pulls away almost immediately with eyes wide and face paling and he notices Lis’ eyes are as round as his. Immediately he jumps back to put space between them and crashes into a cart behind him, sending tools scattering about and knocking the whole damn thing over.

A loud curse is the only warning he gets before there’s a hulking mass of green and silver filling his vision and he’s being dragged by the collar out of the room. He struggles to keep his feet under him and wraps his hands around Kelan’s arm to help with balance as he stumbles after the angry Mandalorian.

He only wished he knew why the man was so angry. Had he seen him kiss Atlis? But why would that make him angry? It was innocent, it had been nothing and both participants had not been happy about it. Maybe Kelan was just ridiculously possessive which to Pax seemed utterly ridiculous.

Being slammed against the wall just outside the room jogs Pax from his thoughts and he can hear Atlis cursing up a storm inside; he’s vaguely impressed to hear it’s mostly in Mandalorian. Kelan must have been teaching her some words but probably only the rude ones, that would be so like him. A quick violent shake has him jerking his gaze to meet the fiery stare of the older man whose hand was still roughly twisted in his shirt. Pax moves his hands past Kelan’s gauntlet and digs his thumbs into his inner elbow roughly, causing Kelan to release him and snatch the arm back. He may not be the warrior Kelan was but damned if he didn’t know a few moves to get someone off his neck. He tugs at the bottom of his shirt to straighten it then folds his arms across his chest. If he stood up straight he was every bit as tall as Kelan, but much leaner. He wondered if that would intimidate the other man even a little into keeping his hands to himself. He wasn’t a kid anymore, Kelan couldn’t rough him up the same nowadays.

He all but leaps out of his skin as Kelan slams his hands against the wall by his head, pinning him in place with a glare, eyes burning bright and angry.

“What the kriff was going on in there, Thano? You’re supposed to be taking care of her, not using this as an excuse to get laid” Kelan snarls out. His teeth clench and he breathes in hard through his nose, trying to reign himself in before he put the younger man through a wall.

Pax takes his own steadying breath in and screws his eyes shut, trying to reign in his emotions before he either started yelling back or cowering; he wasn’t sure which he was feeling more like at the moment. What was alarming was the use of his surname, a sure sign Kelan was trying to put him in place and remind him who was the better of the pair. Joke was on him, though; Pax didn’t need a reminder that Dorne was the head Clan and Thano was just allied with them under one House. He opens his eyes slowly and steels himself, forcing himself to meet Kelan’s angry green stare head-on. “What happened in there was a mistake and nothing was meant by it. Atlis is my patient for the time being and I will continue to treat her as such.” He speaks slowly and concisely, as one would talk to a scared child or a spooked animal. He can tell when Kelan comes to the same conclusion, the fire in his eyes blazing brighter. Pax can’t help but needle him a little, although he wishes afterwards that he had better control over his mouth. “Atlis doesn’t belong to you anyways, you should stop being so overprotective.” His voice is low but carries a sarcastic lilt that was unmistakable.

Kelan’s brain blanks momentarily as he tries to comprehend the words the other man had just said. Atlis doesn’t- No of course she didn’t belong to him, she was her own person. Kelan was her best friend, her ally, he was only trying to protect her. With a snarl he smacks his hands against the wall again, internally smirking as Pax once again flinches. “You don’t kriffing touch her, got it? You do the bare minimum until a real doctor gets here to attach the arm. I will be there every step of the way, you are not to be alone with her.” He finally removes his arms and stands up to his full height, hoping to intimidate the younger man. He notices a slight flush on Pax’s cheeks as he stares down at him and wonders briefly if the boy was actually enraged, he’d never seen this look on his face. It was a nice contrast to that fiery red hair of his and the color showed so well on his pale complexion; a complexion that wasn’t too common within the Dorne compound.

As if sensing Kelan’s train of thought Pax looks away and shoulders his way past the imposing figure before him. “Stop looking at me like that.” He turns around to face Kelan again, arms still tightly crossed over his chest as he slowly backs his way towards Atlis’ room again. “She’s my patient while she’s on the base-“, he shrugs his shoulders and offers his companion a tight-lipped smile, “-and I’m pretty sure she said she didn’t want to see you.”

That’s all it takes to trigger Kelan’s short fuse and in two steps he’s on the other man, hand balled in his shirt again as the other palms his face. He keeps the forward momentum going and steers Pax against another wall, shoving the back of his head against it with added force. The effect is immediate with Pax swinging out blindly and connecting a fist to Kelan’s side right where the armor doesn’t meet up. Kelan lets go of his face to pull back for a punch and Pax quickly evades, dropping his weight as best he can to throw Kelan off balance and dodging to the side. Kelan releases his shirt in an effort to grab him again and curses loudly as Pax drops into a roll and takes off down the hallway behind him.

He has only the briefest hesitation before he gives chase. If he had to hazard a guess he would assume the redhead was headed towards his blaster, that’s what Kelan would do in this situation, but he’s surprised when he notices the man dashing out a door towards the main square. What in the karking hells are you doing, Thano? The thought briefly flashes through his head as his body goes on auto-pilot in preparation of a fight; feet slowing from a run to a silent walk, head on a swivel in case of an ambush. He didn’t think Pax would stage an ambush, it wasn’t the kid’s style, but it had been so long since he’d fought alongside him that he didn’t know anymore. It wouldn’t be the first time today he had been surprised by the changes in the redhead. Like; since when did Pax get mouthy to him? Up until the time he’d left to travel with Lis he’d been scared of him, or at least actively avoided confrontation. Now it seemed like the man was trying to pick fights.

His feet hit dirt outside the medcenter and he spots Pax up ahead, sitting on the edge of the fountain; the same one Kelan used to hang around and the same one Lis had visited. He hadn’t realized how far in they’d moved the medcenter since he’d been gone. The Clan had moved forward without him. That realization stung but only fueled his desire to show Pax he was still on top.

The younger man’s head snaps up at the sound of booted feet before him, eyes raking over Kelan’s armored form as he scans him from toe to head. He could’ve sworn he saw a shiver pass through Kelan but that couldn’t be true; he was probably just amped up, the man always wanted to fight. He’d probably fight himself if he could figure out how.

Pax stands from his position and stretches his arms above his head, reveling in the feel of the muscles in his back and arms pulling taut before relaxing.

“I’m assuming you would prefer to get this over with out here,” he remarks, gesturing widely to the open space around them. At Kelan’s nod, he hangs his head and hooks his thumbs into the waist of his pants. “Honestly I’d prefer we didn’t have to do this at all but-“

Kelan has a split second to look confused at the trail-off before Pax swings a fist up and into his side, right between his ab plate and back plate. Of course, the little shit knew exactly where to hit. His breath whooshes out in one big huff and he makes a grab for the slimmer male, catching him by the arm as he makes a dodge to get out of range. This would be so much easier if I wasn’t in armor.

Pax breaks the hold fairly easy and skips sideways out of reach, taking advantage of Kelan’s momentary surprise to put distance between them. “We both know I’m not a match for you, Dorne. Why are you being like this?” His eyes flash in amusement and his voice dips low as he taunts, ”Why am I such a threat to you?”

Kelan’s face flashes furiously as he lunges towards the other man, taking him down in a tangle of limbs and curses. Pax goes down easily in his surprise, landing hard under Kelan’s weight and grunting from the impact. The two men grapple for the top, landing several hits on each other in the process.

Pax’s lip splits open on a particularly hard punch to the face and blood drops, spattering Kelan’s fist and face as they roll. Kelan finally gets the upper hand and rains blows on Pax’s body as he pins his arms down with his knees. He knew he wasn’t particularly light, especially in armor, but Pax seemed to be having a hard time handling Kelan atop him; the boy’s face was red and he had a panicked look in his eyes.

It’s that look that halts Kelan’s fists, the wild rage chilling to confusion. Pax looked absolutely terrified underneath him and Kelan found he couldn’t stay furious with that look on the redhead’s face. It was awful and heartbreaking for some reason, a reason he didn’t have words for. It made his stomach clench and douse the flames of his irrational rage. What was it Pax had said; “Why am I such a threat to you?” Thinking back on it, Kelan hadn't heard the words at the time. All he had known was that Pax did not have the right to be there with Lis, to be holding her like that and comforting her. That was his job and he wasn't going to let Pax swoop in and steal someone else from him. The boy had everyone in the Clan wrapped around his finger and it was like Kelan was the only one who saw through it. It infuriated him that everyone fell for him. But here he was, Pax underneath him and bleeding, and he was falling like everyone else. Maybe it was the way those blue eyes showed every single emotion or the young face that made him look so damned innocent. Or maybe Kelan was actually seeing himself for the first time and realizing it was stupid petty jealousy that was fueling his anger. He had no right to be acting this way. Lis wasn't his, and Pax hadn't done anything wrong... Ever. The thought strikes like lightning, making him tighten up and sit up straight. Why then had he always taken his aggression out on this kid?

Pax takes notice of the change in Kelan’s demeanor and he relaxes somewhat, his muscles unwinding and his struggling stopping. He had known he was no match for Kelan’s fury but he hadn’t expected to be so freaked out by the murderous look in the other man’s eyes. In the back of his mind there’d been the thought that given the chance, this chance, Kelan would have ended him. Something had stopped him though and Pax was grateful for whatever it was, but he would analyze it later when he wasn’t pinned between the other man’s thighs.

He clears his throat, trying to draw Kelan’s attention back to their current predicament; namely Pax being pinned under him uncomfortably. He’s rewarded for his efforts when Kelan looks down at him, seeming to remember what was happening. Pax gives him a stiff, broken lipped grin. “You uh- You spaced out there for a second. Can you let me up or finish kicking my ass, please?”

Kelan is silent for several heartbeats, an eternity in Pax’s mind, before he suddenly bursts into laughter. His face turns crimson and tears gather in his eyes from the force of it and his hands drop to rest on Pax’s shoulders, dropping more weight onto the slighter framed man. He can’t stop the laughter bubbling forth, the whole situation seeming more absurd as time wears on. Five minutes ago he was ready to rip his Clan mates’ arms off his body and use them as weapons, but now he can’t remember where that fury even emanated from. He felt completely ridiculous now.

Regaining his composure he stands up from his position over Pax, knees cracking and protesting the movement. He takes a second to readjust his flightsuit and armor before reaching a hand out to Pax still on the ground. The boy’s eyes widen marginally as they trace a path from the outstretched hand to Kelan’s still smiling and blood splattered face but ultimately he accepts the proffered appendage and uses it to haul himself to his feet. The two men are left staring at each other, taking each other’s measure and both still a little wary. Pax wasn’t sure if Kelan would jump him again. Against his better judgement, he reaches up and wipes a particularly large spot of blood from Kelan’s cheek. The other man winces and jerks his head away, leaving Pax to snatch his hand back and mentally scold himself for such a stupid movement. His cheeks flush red as he stuffs his hand in a pocket on his pants. “We should get you bandaged up back at the med center” he murmurs, already making to move past Kelan.

Kelan reaches out and grabs at Pax’s elbow, pulling him gently to a halt. He turns back to him and glances nervously down at the hand before looking back up into Kelan’s deep green eyes. Kelan gives him a tight lipped smile and releases his arm, his voice almost a whisper as he speaks, “Can we not let Lis know about this? Even with one arm and the shape she’s in I really think she’d beat the crap out of us.”

Pax nods with a grin, the smile widening as he hears Kelan’s soft answering chuckle. He’d wonder later why the noise made his stomach clench, right now they needed to get patched up before anyone saw. “I had no intention of telling her. I’m probably in enough trouble with her as it is and I-”

Kelan looks confused for a second as Pax trails off. The man looked both confused and alarmed suddenly, eyes unfocused and head cocked as if listening for something. Kelan hears it at the exact time that Pax makes eye contact; an incoming ship. Both men knew it wasn’t theirs.

Suddenly Pax is pushing Kelan in the direction of the medcenter and screaming, but Kelan doesn’t understand any of it. All he hears is the static in his head and the single-minded chant of ‘Get to Lis, get back to Lis’.

He makes it halfway back when the first imploder drops in the distance. He’s almost there when the second and third drop, and he’s at the doors when he screaming starts. He pauses at the open doors to look back for Pax but the redhead is nowhere in sight. This causes a whole new wave of static to fill his brain as he chooses between getting to Lis and finding his Clan mate. Pax wasn’t armed. Pax was a medic, not a fighter. He shouldn’t be out there alone.

With a curse he slams an old code into the keypad by the doors, praying it still works and locks the doors, as he takes off back towards the fountain in the square.

He spots the familiar shock of hair in the distance… and then nothing as the world explodes before him in debris and dirt. He’s thrown backward from the force and smacks his head on the edge of the fountain. His last thought before he blacks out is that he should’ve worn his helmet.