#genuine gift taken as a declaration of war

[yourantag]

Do NOT Let Him Cook (Morningstar!Ithaqua×Reader)

AN: Happy White Day! I'm probably not posting more than this and the other fic I was supposed to post Valentine's Day (which, as you can see, I failed in doing) for March. I will, however, be posting a little more in April cause that is my birthday month! Expect a few indulgent fics. This fic is honestly just crack, so if you need something silly and sweet, here we are! Genuinely, do not let this man cook. Word count: 2.2k words Summary: It's White Day, a day of reciprocated love. Of course, Helel has to give you something in return for your wonderful Valentine's gift. Now, if only he could figure out how he turned a tart into a fruity croissant...

There were very few things Helel feared. The first, of course, was you. He held your heart in his hands as you did too, yes, but no one could get him to obey them quite like you could. It was loyalty, it was devotion, one reciprocated through blood and love. To possess such power over him is somewhat of a marvel, something to fear, even just a little.

The second was your death, the thought of you leaving his side forever. He'd tear apart the world, commit sacrilege in the holiest places, and declare war upon the gods before he'd let someone take you from him. Still, he cannot control plagues, time, or the hostility within the hearts of humans. Life is delicate, even Helel cannot deny that.

The third thing he feared, Helel learned, was baking.

It seems simple enough, really. Chuck a few ingredients in, mix it, then toss it in an oven. Easy, right? Looking around him now, with smoke billowing off the charred tray (and wow, he didn't know metal could burn like that), Helel was completely at a loss.

"Ah, these don't seem quite right." He muttered, scratching his cheek. All Helel wanted was to give you something in return for your Valentine's gift, something special. He had consulted many people, even asking some of the prisoners, as odd as that sounded.

Most didn't give any good responses, only saying "please let me go" or "you're going to pay for this." Terrible advice, really. Not even on topic, either, but it could be worse, he supposed. So, he went to ask his favorite person to bother.

"For the love of- just make them cookies or something!" Nebuchadnezzar had exclaimed, absolutely done with Helel's ramblings. He looked about ready to chew his tongue off so he could finally know peace again. At least death wouldn't ramble about their lover for 15 hours straight.

It had been a decent suggestion, so Helel had taken it. Perhaps he shouldn't have, considering the disaster that was most of his creations.

The counters were covered in flour, the fine powder dusting the area like snow. Splatters of batter, egg, and butter painted some places like abstract art. The worst place of all, funnily enough, was the table. It was completely clean, presenting only a few delectable looking treats.

Sadly, they were not exactly what they were made to be. Somehow, Helel had managed to make bread instead of cake, a croissant instead of a tart, and now small bricks instead of cookies. He carefully tapped one against the counter, wincing as the wood chipped under the force. The cookie, however, was fine.

'I... can't give them this.'

Helel smiled awkwardly, wanting nothing but to slam his face against a wall. He had thought "it couldn't be that hard!" and look at him now. It was pathetic, to the point he genuinely considered just asking a servant to make something instead. However, that's literally something he could do any other day. It didn't carry the significance he'd want it to.

You had given him the head of the rebellion's leader, which most would find horrifying but he found terribly romantic. The best Valentine's gift, truly. Sure, he couldn't give you something of equal value, but he could try and match the sentiment. Helel knew you loved effort and thought, so he would do his best to give you something of that in equal measure.

So, he couldn't give up. Helel once again turned to a different page in the cook book, praying to himself that he didn't fuck up this time. He couldn't possibly mess up sugar cookies, right? They were simple, so surely no matter what they'd be fine.

He was cursing himself wasn't he?

He poured the ingredients, carefully measuring them as he went through the motions. It went smoother this time since he just made cookies (if he could really call them that). With practice under his belt, Helel managed to make a tray of cookies.

"Now I roll them in sugar before baking... where's the sugar?" He looked around, grabbing at the jars in front of him.

"That's flour... that's baking powder... or is it baking soda?... that's powdered milk... wait why do we have powdered milk? Oh!" Helel smiled as he finally found what he was looking for. He didn't know how the chefs managed to get anything done with nothing labeled, but that was the beauty of not being a chef. He didn't have to know, and perhaps he never would.

So, he popped open the glass jar, pouring in the crystalline fragments into a bowl. They glimmered innocently in the light, small gems that melted upon one's tongue.

Helel quickly tossed each cookie ball into the bowl, placing them back onto the tray afterward. Making sure they weren't too close together, he arranged them one last time. Finally, he placed them in the oven. The timer would let him know when they were ready.

The man sighed, moving quickly to wash the dirty dishes. He knew he could leave it to the servants, but at this point, he just wanted to get rid of the evidence of his failures. Sure, most of his baked treats looked... fine, but the first few looked as though it had gone through someone's digestive system already.

After all was said and done, Helel felt a wave of exhaustion wash over him. If this was what the chefs dealt with on the daily, he was going to have to give them a raise. All this for some desserts? Really? They deserved to be paid more for this misery.

Checking the timer, he nodded to himself. 10 minutes was enough time to snack on something. Helel let himself drop into a seat, groaning as his weary legs finally got to rest. He grabbed the cake-turned-bread, cutting off a small slice. The cookies were a definite no, and he had his suspicions about the croissant, but the bread seemed fine.

'If I get poisoned from this, they're never going to let me live it down.'

You would absolutely make fun of him. Morningstar, the King of Babel, dying from his own creation. It sounded like a story Shakespeare wrote, really. Helel hoped more for his pride rather than his life that he wasn't that bad at baking.

Taking a few bites, he found that he wasn't dying yet. Which was relieving, of course, but to his surprise, the bread also tasted not bad. Sweeter than most breads, but nothing unbearable. It was probably going to be one of the few things he could actually share with you.

At the chime of the timer, Helel took the cookies out of the oven, letting them cool. That would give him another few minutes to start packing things up. Should he use red ribbon or white? It's a White Day gift, yes, but you told him red reminded you of him.

Humming, the young king started slicing the bread, gently placing the slices in a nice container. Perhaps he should pack some jam in the basket too- it would go well with it.

Helel glanced at the first batch of cookies, opting to dump them in the trash after a brief moment of contemplation. Could they be used as projectiles? Honestly, yes. Was he going to let anyone know he failed that badly? Never.

Finally, he took a bite of one of the croissants. It was fine as well, just odd. The fruit fillings and cream were distributed well throughout the pastry. If it weren't for the fact that it was supposed to be a tart, Helel might have been proud.

Packing those up as well, he placed the 2 containers in a basket, grabbing a few jars of jam and a butter knife. By then, the cookies were sufficiently cooled. Though, after taking another look at them, Helel wondered what he had done wrong this time.

Unlike the first batch, these cookies were puffy. They weren't like cream puffs, but they were certainly not cookies. Had he mixed up which of the powders he was using? He really wouldn't be surprised if that were the case.

The other pastries he had packed weren't made to be what they ended up as, but tasted fine anyway. Maybe, these would be the same.

So, shrugging his shoulders, Helel tossed one of the "cookies" in his mouth. 

And instantly he regretted it.

It was salty. Not salty in the pleasantly seasoned way, but salty as in if he had drank salt water it would taste better than this.

Spitting out the abomination, Helel glared at one of the jars. Of course he mixed up the sugar and salt, of course. Still, he at least had something other than this. He'd just have to dispose of these.

If you didn't find him.

The door clicks open, and Helel can't decide whether he wants to scream or jump right out the window. In the doorway, as he expects, is you. You're always welcome in his eyes, his wonderful, perfect significant other. However, at this particular moment, he really wishes you weren't here.

"Helel? What are you doing here?"

Though you ask, you already seem to at least know he was baking. Not a very hard assumption to make, all things considered, but that just makes things harder for him.

"I was... baking." He says, giving a strained smile as he slowly grabs the tray of cookies. Hopefully, if he's quick enough, you won't even notice him toss the entire thing in the trash.

'Please do not ask about these, please don't notice-'

"Is that a scone dusted in salt???" 

Helel was going to throw himself off a cliff.

"...I was trying to make sugar cookies."

The look you give him simply reaffirms his decision.

"I... see. What's the occasion?" You draw closer to him, staring curiously at the basket. He's thankful he managed to add a blanket on top beforehand, though it would've been nice if he had tied a ribbon around the handle, too.

"It's White Day, so I wanted to give you something special." Helel responded, dropping the tray with a sigh. It was too late to hide it, so why bother?

You hum softly, lips curling into a smile. You grab one of the scones, taking a bite before he can warn you. Yet, instead of spitting it out like he expected, you chewed as though nothing were wrong with it.

"Are- are you okay?" He can't help but ask. He had tried one right before you came- he knew they didn't taste good. So, how was it that you ate the entire scone without even cringing in the slightest?

"Yep, I'm fine. I'm sure you already know, but these are salty." You laugh, quickly grabbing a glass of water and chugging it. Despite the concern he feels, Helel can't help the way his chest warms. 

"Well, yeah, I was going to warn you about that. Can't believe you ate it all- I spat it out immediately. Why did you eat it anyway?" He can't help but ask. You weren't one to shy away from being honest. The fact you looked him in the eye and told him it was salty was proof enough. You weren't scared of him, so why would you put yourself through that?

You give him a smile, tilting your head towards the window. The sun is high in the sky, letting all know that it was sometime in the afternoon.

"You've been here for... I'm guessing at least 5 hours. I don't know how you haven't collapsed yet, but that's not the point right now. The point is," You take his hands into yours, kissing each of his knuckles. "I see your effort, and I don't want to let it go to waste."

Helel, for all his cruelty, his hatred, his grief- cannot be anything but in love for you. To love is to be seen, to be known, and it seems that for all his life, that's exactly what you've done. Seen him, known him, but most of all, loved him.

So, he lifts your hand to his lips, pressing kisses from your palm down to your wrist. He lingers there, letting you cradle his face as he closes his eyes.

It wasn't perfect by all means, but he thinks that this small moment is worth more than anything he could've ever orchestrated. Helel doesn't need endless praise, gifts, or overwhelming acts. All he needed was a bit of acknowledgement, a bit of love.

"Happy White Day, my sun.”

-

ALTERNATE STORY:

Helel did not realize he was that bad at baking. He completely blames Nebuchadnezzar for everything.

"HELEL, HOW THE FUCK DID YOU MANAGE TO MAKE A MONSTER!?"

"HIS NAME IS FREDERICK KREIBURG AND HE'S SORRY TO SAY THAT HE'S FRENCH!"

"WE AREN'T EVEN IN FRANCE! WHAT DID YOU ADD TO THOSE COOKIES? THE CREMATED REMAINS OF YOUR DAD!?"

"...that explains why the sugar was so dusty."

"...Helel Morningstar Babel-"

"Ahaha... ha..."

Yeah, Helel was going to kill his brother if you didn't end up killing him first.

[djmarinizelablog]

I sent this ask to a couple of people and I really want to know your take on this.What do you think is Hanji’s love language?

I can't choose among quality time, receiving gifts, words of affirmation, acts of service, and physical touch hehe. Can't it just be all of it???

For real, though, I feel like Hange can exhibit all five love languages, so allow me to explain~

Quality Time:

Hange likes visiting the 104th while they were working on a hot summer day for the railroad opening. Hange would go out of their own way just to spend time with people they care for. In the series, they even asked Levi to tag along so the two of them could give updates to the Scouts since they haven't seen the kids in quite a while (which explains why Levi was so upset with their growth spurt haha!)

Apart from that, ever since the Scouts discovered the ocean, Hange has learned to appreciate the shore. I think it also comes with the fact that as Commander, Hange was most likely asked to patrol the area often while they were establishing the port during the timeskip in canon. I can definitely imagine Hange waddling in the waters once the day is done.

Receiving Gifts:

Although Hange doesn't really show it, they are very delighted when people hand them gifts. This includes imparting new knowledge to them. I feel like this scene in the anime highlights the genuine curiosity of Hange who's definitely impressed with the vast information that the Marleyans had given the Scouts.

In addition to that, since Hange's birthday has passed, I imagine Hange would have been amazed at the sheer amount of greetings and presents that the fandom has made for them (and it's not yet too late to send in yours via https://tinyurl.com/happybdayhange! hehehe).

They also love giving gifts to people in return!

Acts of Service:

Few people deserve Hange's kindness. Saving Falco, a Marleyan kid, was a selfless act on Hange's behalf. They didn't hesitate to help the child who was laying helpless on the floor, and even made sure that Falco was properly taken care of despite all the tension that has happened. Hange's gallantry and valiance was probably the reason why I learned to appreciate their character so much. It's difficult to imagine someone who's kind-hearted in the midst of adversity, but there's more to Hange than just the crazy Titan expert or the mad scientist that people have come to brand them.

Hange's dedication to humanity is unparalleled, in my opinion. A lot of people would argue about the value of their sacrifice in Chapter 132 of the manga, but the mere fact that they agreed to be left behind for the sake of saving the others, or at least to get a chance of winning the war, speaks a lot of Hange's values.

Words of Affirmation:

Remember this scene in the anime? The Scouts were getting confused on who to trust since they found out that there were traitors in their midst. But Hange as commander had to remain steadfast on their beliefs and even had to remind the kids on what they stand for as soldiers. Imagine having the confidence and leadership in the midst of turmoil.

And of course, even though this has yet to be animated, I think this scene speak volumes of Hange's compassion and feelings, which I believe is in line with the last love language:

Physical Touch:

Why would someone, who was being held captive by enemies, carry the body of a person whom they declared to be dead?

How else can Hange show their care and concern for someone who's on the verge of dying?

I think that scene encompasses all of Hange's ways of loving, to be honest, because for someone dear to them, Hange would risk their very own life just to save the person they love the most.

Let's not forget this official art that Mappa has given us:

I imagine Hange's the type who would show their affection for people, especially Levi, in any means possible~

Thanks for the ask, Anon! I had fun answering this. :)

[shera-dnd]

Are you ready for some nuts? some dolts? some bees even?

Because this chapter has a lot of all of those

Also Lady Xiao Long is 6′6, because everyone in this is already over the top and larger than life, so I just had to go a little extra with my girl

anyway link above, fic bellow. Let’s get to it!

Weiss had to admit, Lady Blake was absolutely right, this really was the best meal she’d had in ages. Of course this was only in small part thanks to the fish, and in great part thanks to the company she now shared. Though it would be a long shot to consider any of these people her friends, it was certainly a far more amicable setting than any meal she’d had in at least a decade.

Lady Polendina was a ray of sunshine personified, and was happy to make Weiss feel welcome. Lady Blake had been nothing but courteous with her since the moment they spoke their oaths to each other, and Lady Ilia…

Lady Ilia may still very clearly detest Weiss with all her heart, but she had done something that she would not soon forget. She had given Weiss a gift, the first gift born of genuine kindness she had received since the day her grandfather passed away.

Now that gift was draped over Weiss’s shoulders, warming her heart as well as her body.

Maidens save her, she felt so foolish to ever even think of something so sappy. Perhaps it was for the best that she followed Lady Blake’s example, and focused on her grilled fish right now.

Unfortunately a growing commotion kept her from enjoying this meal any further.

The crowd of festival goers parted and scurried away as six figures made their way towards them.

The first figure was a blond woman who stood a full head taller than the rest of the crowd, her face was hidden behind a mask painted in the semblance of a bear, her muscular arms adorned with a collection of iron bangles. From her side hung the largest blade Weiss had ever seen, and she had no doubt that if anyone could ever swing a weapon like that, it would be this mountain of a woman.

Behind her followed an equally fearsome woman; though older, and not as large as the first one, she easily compensated for it with her demeanor, and an intense glare that could cut through a man’s resolve like a blade through flesh.

Following those two came three more figures, each of them carrying war scythes and covered by long hooded cloaks. The first was a younger woman in red, then an older one in white, and finally a man in grey.

The last one to approach was an older blond man whose calm smile, and sunny disposition, would mark as the least threatening of the bunch...were it not for the fact he was accompanied by a massive hunting hound.

Whoever these people were, they were nothing short of terrifying.

Weiss’s hand reached for the hilt of her sword, not to draw on the sinister group, but simply for the comfort it offered. Lady Polendina on the other hand seemed to need no such comforts, for she marched up to the group with confidence and greeted them with her usual cheer.

“Salutations! You must be the envoys from the Branwen Clan.”

The figures stopped, the girl in red peeked from under her hood in expectation, but did not move yet, awaiting for her leader to act first. That titan of a woman walked up to Lady Polendina, towering over the knight as she took off her mask.

Behind it was a cheerful expression that could almost match that of the little knight she talked to.

“Lady Polendina, I presume,” she greeted with a voice that matched her size. Though the woman was clearly mistrali, she spoke in perfect atlesian, “it’s good to finally meet the woman my sister has spoken so highly of.”

The girl in red shifted nervously and pleaded something in mistrali. Whatever she said seemed to amuse the rest of the envoys.

“And it’s good to finally meet my dear Rose’s family, Lady Xiao Long,” she replied. Quite a lot of emotion placed in the nickname, more than enough for Weiss to notice.

Done with waiting, the girl in red rushed to Xiao Long’s side. Her cloak billowed as she ran, revealing under it silver armor with the heraldry of the Knights of the Spring Maiden. Looking more attentively, it was clear that all but Lady Xiao Long carried that crest.

“Yang, must we do this here and now?” The young knight asked, “could we at least set up camp before you embarrass me further?”

Lady Xiao Long said something in mistrali that had earned her a furious glare from the young knight. They conversed in the language for a few moments before the larger woman let out a loud laugh.

“Very well, Ruby, we’ll be on our way,” she declared, before turning to face Lady Polendina once again, “but before I leave, Lady Polendina. I’ve heard that a tournament has already taken place in our absence.”

“Indeed it has,” the knight replied, “it was a simple warm up, but it was quite thrilling. I was actually just sharing a meal with the winner of that tournament.”

That seemed to pique Lady Xiao Long’s interest tremendously.

“And who would this mighty victor be?”

“That would be me,” Lady Blake answered, putting down her food and joining Lady Polendina’s side.

“Lady Xiao Long, this is Lady Blake of the Knights of the Fall Maiden,” Lady Polendina gladly introduced, “Lady Blake, this is Yang Xiao Long, chieftain of the Branwen Clan.”

“Your fame precedes you, Lady Blake, it is an honor to meet you,” the chieftain greeted, taking Lady Blake’s hand gently and bowing before her. Lady Ilia gagged at the sight, “and it would be a greater honor still to see the Black Knight in action.”

“Would you be inviting me to a sparring match, Lady Xiao Long?” She asked, sounding profoundly amused by this turn of events.

“I would indeed,” she replied, a smirk forming on her face, “if you would indulge me.”

“I believe I will,” Lady Blake replied with a smirk of her own, “though perhaps it would be best if we wait until you and your family are fully settled in. Besides, I’m in the middle of enjoying a nice meal with my companions.”

“Then let me keep you no longer,” she answered, before turning back to her companions and calling out their orders in mistrali. She turned and spoke to Lady Blake one last time, “I look forward to seeing you again, my lady.”

And with that they departed.

Lady Ilia shivered and suppressed another gag.

“Are you well?” Weiss asked.

“Not if I am to see those two acting like this again,” she replied.

“I do not see what’s so wrong with their conversation.”

“Of course you don’t,” was Ilia’s only response.

Weiss rolled her eyes and returned to her food. It was obvious that she would be getting nothing more from her on this topic. And, unlike Lady Ilia, she was genuinely happy that their companion seemed to be making such fast friends in the Branwens. This was a celebration of peace and union between the kingdoms after all.

The two of them were silent for the rest of their meal. Ilia quietly seething at Blake, while Weiss was simply lost in thought. Though they walked the grounds a little longer after that, they soon enough found themselves being dragged along to the Branwen clan’s tents. Lady Blake eager to have her match and Lady Polendina eager to spend more time with her…friend.

Even though it had been hardly more than an hour since they last spoke with Lady Xiao Long, the Branwens had already properly set up camp and had even made a small fenced area for them to spar in.

This makeshift arena was currently occupied by Lady Xiao Long herself, standing mighty and proud, face once more covered by her terrifying mask. In one hand she held her colossal sword, in the other she held a fully armored knight by his throat.

Seeming to finally notice her visitors, she smiled before slamming the man to the ground with ease.

“Do you admit defeat?” She asked, the knight could only nod, prompting the chieftain to yank them up once again, “thank you for this fantastic warm up!”

She pulled them into a rib crushing hug before unceremoniously dropping them. The knight bowed before her, and excused themself away from what Weiss assumed was a humiliating defeat.

“Lady Blake,” Lady Xiao Long cheerfully greeted, “I’m glad to see you here so soon.”

“I could not bring myself to keep you waiting,” Lady Blake replied, “though I must say I’m surprised you have set up camp so quickly.”

“My people are nomads, my lady,” she explained, “if there is one thing we’re good at it is making camp.”

“Impressive.”

“Lady Xiao Long, if I may,” Lady Polendina interjected.

“You wish to know the whereabouts of my sister, do you not?” she asked, and Lady Polendina nodded, “she’s off with our mothers and uncle. As Knights of the Spring Maiden they’re expected to greet your Knight Commander as soon as we were done setting up. So for now it is only me, and my father, here at camp.”

“Of course,” Lady Polendina replied, mildly disappointed, “may I wait here for my dear Rose’s return?”

“Anything for Ruby’s beloved little Firefly,” Lady Xiao Long chuckled, “please make yourself comfortable.”

Weiss had her suspicions, but that made it certainly clear that those two were much more than close friends. As happy as she was for Lady Polendina, she simply couldn’t help but be surprised by the openness with which they discussed this topic. Though Lady Xiao Long had also admitted to having two mothers and a father, such things must be considerably more common among the people of Mistral.

“Now if you’ll indulge me my lady,” she once more turned to face Lady Blake and gestured towards the arena behind her, “I would be delighted to spar with you”

Lady Blake gave her host a smile and readied herself. She put on her horned helmet, drew her blades and walked with Lady Xiao Long towards the arena. Her black armor gave her a sinister air matched only by the chieftain herself.

The battle began and Weiss quickly understood that had she been in Lady Blake’s position, she would have been defeated already. Though Yang Xiao Long may have looked brutish and simple, her form and fighting style was anything but. Every swing of the blade was calculated, every opening pressured, and every mistake punished. She fought not only with her blade but her entire body, throwing in punches and kicks to catch her opponent off guard.

Meanwhile Lady Blake proved her incredible skill once more. She rushed in close, keeping the chieftain from effectively using her blade, adapting as fast she could to the woman’s unconventional strategies, compensating for the difference in their physical strength with an unmatched fierceness.

Had this been one of the storybooks from Weiss’s childhood, these would be monstrous villains, engaging in a bloody battle to the death from which the only good ending would be their mutually assured destruction.

For once reality was far kinder than fiction.

Lady Xiao Long laughed as the fight dragged on, not out of malice nor bloodlust, but out of sheer, raucous joy. Her hand finally connected with one of Lady Blake’s horns and she slammed her down with force, bringing her greatsword down by the knight’s head… only to find a sword pressed against her stomach.

There was a moment of silence, the two of them looking at each other through mask and helmet, their ragged breaths the only sound around them. Until Lady Polendina broke the silence with her cheer.

“Sensational!” She nearly jumped as she said the word, “never have I seen a fight like this before. Truly you two simply must join the tournament.”

The two combatants laughed as they began to stand up. Faces once more revealed as they spoke.

“Lady Blake of the Knights of the Fall Maiden,” the chieftain began, pride in her voice, “I declare you victorious!”

“I’m flattered, Lady Xiao Long,” she replied, “but this was a tie at best.”

Lady Xiao Long smiled, but shook her head.

“Nay, my lady,” she spoke, taking Lady Blake’s hand once more, “sparring with you was already a great victory for me, so it is only fair that I grant you this one.”

Lady Ilia gagged once more.

“If you insist,” Lady Blake replied, rolling her eyes in playful annoyance, “though I’ll hardly be able to brag about a victory granted through kindness.”

“Nonsense,” was the chieftain’s reply, “you’ve more than earned your bragging rights.”

“Maybe so,” she countered, “still I can’t help but feel like a rematch is in order. Perhaps I should return soon and earn this victory properly.”

“Then I look forward to when our blades meet next.”

At that Lady Ilia made an outraged noise that Weiss couldn’t quite describe. Weiss’s previous annoyance at these senseless responses revived once more.

“Why must you react so crassly!” Weiss demanded.

“Is it not clear to you what they’re doing?” Lady Ilia asked back.

Weiss looked at her in confusion, “being polite to one another?”

“What you do is polite, Sch--...my lady,” she cleared her throat, catching herself just in time, “what they’re engaging in is flirtation.”

Weiss looked back at them, only now seeming to catch the lingering gazes, the playful smiles, the tone in their voice.

“Oh.”

[crystalirises]

The Love of Fools

I smile... knowing I have never read Romeo and Juliet and have no plans to read Romeo and Juliet.

Listen. I know it's a tragedy and all, but it still has focus on the romance and I just don't like reading romantic stories. They're not my cup of tea. Because of this, the one I wrote may not be Romeo and Juliet in particular... it has some elements of it, but it's not a Romeo and Juliet AU. I tried.

...Also I changed my username... yay XD

TW: Major Character Death, War, Blood, Violence, Double Suicide, and Talk of Suicide

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28886223/chapters/81467140

Fundy closed the heavy oaken doors behind him, breathing in the fresh night air, the collar of his suit biting into the skin of his neck. His sensitive ears picked up the soft lull of violin music within the ballroom, their family’s guests lost in a world of waltz and merriment. He picked at his collar, loosening it to give him but a quick moment to breath. Amongst the festivities, he could faintly hear his father’s low whispers. Fundy shook his head, making his way towards the railing of the balcony, decorated with tulips. “O Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo?”

“I don’t know who Romeo is, but I’m quite the Dream, don’t you think?” He tried not to giggle the moment he caught a glimpse of a red rose floating above the banister. His fingers curled around the stem, flincing the moment he touched an uncut thorn. Blood coated the green, dripping before landing against a white porcelain mask. Dream’s masked face appeared, hands grasping the vines that grew around the rails before finally climbing over the balcony. Fundy concealed his bleeding finger, not wishing to worry Dream. It was a rare moment for them both, after all. Dream moved the mask so that it was resting on those blonde curls that shone like the finest gold, green eyes that seem to hold the vast and lush forest stared at Fundy with such love that he couldn’t help but lean forward, pressing a soft kiss to his lover’s lips. “I missed you.”

“As do I.” They parted, their kiss lingering in the air. It was quick, a moment to last until their next meeting. It was all they could afford, that short time when the world melted away. When Fundy was not the Crown Prince of L’Manburg and Dream was not the leader of the Essempian Rebellion. For that brief moment, they were both two star-crossed lovers, longing for the other with all their heart and soul. Dream reached for his hand, lacing them together before they turned to look out into the night sky. Fundy rested his head against Dream’s shoulder, relaxing in the warmth of his love. Dream’s eyes twinkled with starlight, the stars shining against the green. If Dream held the silver of the moon in his eyes, Fundy held the gold of sunlight. It was a strange characteristic for them to share. Dream with his hair of gold, and Fundy with his fiery red hair that had streaks of silver. They were both the sun and moon. “How bold of you to show tonight.”

“And miss an opportunity to see you? Might as well take a dagger to my heart.” He refrained from rolling his eyes, it would be unbecoming, even if he was free to act as himself around Dream. He looked down at their entwined hands, a smile crossing his face. Dream followed his gaze, chuckling before rubbing Fundy’s knuckles with his thumb. He could see that there was a new scar on the back of Dream’s hand, gained from the many battles that he’s no doubt found himself in. In a better world, Fundy would have preferred that his heart had chosen a man who wouldn’t scare him so. However, what world would that be? And why would Fundy ever give up the man he actually loves? “You, on the other hand, should be inside… with all the fancy folk.”

“You’re right, I can’t imagine the interesting topics I’m missing by being with you. All that talk of politics, proposals, and marriages. You’re right, I should head inside.” Fundy winked, slowly slipping his hand from Dream’s hold. The man pouted, reaching for his hand again before pulling him back. He giggled, leaning against Dream’s chest. His free hand had caught itself on Dream’s chest, right above his heart. Beneath his fingertips, he could hear his love’s heart, its steady beat making him quite dizzy with the thought that they were here. That they were alive. He took their intertwined hands, pressing a kiss to the scar on Dream’s hand. “They have nothing to say that could ever pique my interest. You… Well, you’re very interesting. So… mysterious. So…”

“Entertaining?” His nose scrunch up at the word, Dream chuckling at his sudden glare. If he wanted entertainment, Fundy would have sought out any of his three uncles. Uncle Tubbo was fun to be around, for they both shared an interest in redstone and animals. Uncle Tommy was argumentative, but he made for great conversation. Uncle Techno was filled with stories of his own and with knowledge of the myths, there was no moment where he felt bored to be around his uncle. Dream was not entertainment. Fundy had no proper word to describe him yet, but he’d find one. He just knew that Dream made him feel like he wasn’t who his father and everyone else expected him to be. “I know. I know. You don’t see me as another trinket to amuse yourself with. Still, to be with me is to incite danger. What would your father say if he ever found out—”

“He would be too furious to say anything. You would have pushed him beyond words, beyond reason. I dare say, he’d have your head if he were to ever find out. And… perhaps, I may never see the light of day again.” That may be an exaggeration, but with his father, Fundy could never know how he might react. To argue with him was to be like punching a great oaken tree. It would hurt, and it would be nearly impossible to get through. Ever since his father became the king, he’s been under a lot of stress. Fundy couldn’t fault him, after all, he loved his father. Yet he would like to go a day without his father intruding upon his privacy to ensure that Fundy wasn’t climbing a tree or scamming someone out of their money. Both were very unbecoming for a Crown Prince. Dream winced beside him, and Fundy had to wonder why he still remained by his side. “You know, many a suitor have left me in favor of their lives. Why are you so different?”

“Now, I do value my life and would rather not be brutally murdered by Wilbur.” For a moment, Dream glanced down at his hand, and Fundy knew it was no ordinary soldier that had wounded him. Fundy pressed another kiss against the scar, wishing that he had been born with the gift of a healer. But that was not what fate dealt him. He was an inventor. Like how Dream was a leader. It was what they were given in, it was their life’s destiny. Yet, destiny had allowed them to meet despite all odds. Or perhaps - and it was odd to think of, but he’d thought it through ever since he met Dream - that destiny was what they made it to be. “But I love you more than life or death.”

“Don’t be so careless, death and life are not matters that should be taken lightly.” Fundy was taught to be careful with his words, a talent he’d used to trick people, much to his father’s disappointment. Death and life were ideas that one did not trifle with in such a calm and joking manner. It was no secret that his grandfather had somehow gained favor with the Goddess of Death, and Fundy would not wish to disrespect his grandmother, wherever she may be. However, it would be a lie to say that his heart didn’t skip a beat at Dream’s declaration. His rebel always knew how to make him blush. He shouldn’t be happy with his lover’s words. What good were they when everything was stacked against them? Regardless of life or death, they were not meant to be. “You don’t mean that. What we have, it cannot go on forever. We cannot possibly be—”

“Then hear my proposal.” Dream squeezed his hand, reaching to hold both his hands in his own. Fundy held his breath, his head heavy with euphoria and trepidation. There was a genuine gleam in Dream’s eye, one that made Fundy wish to either retreat inside or pull Dream into a kiss to cut him off. He liked what they had. He wasn’t sure he could handle any change that was about to come. “Run away with me. Far from your family’s expectations, away from the coming war.”

“You would abandon your people and you ask me to abandon mine?” His breath caught in his throat. What was one to say to such a proposal? What could he say that wouldn’t somehow damage any of his relationships or hurt anyone in the end? What should he say? Fundy lowered his gaze, sweat dripping down the sides of his neck. His destiny hung in what he was to say. He thought of both outcomes. If he were to run, perhaps he and Dream could move far away where no one would ever find them. Yet would his father let them live in peace? Would he not hunt them down? Would he not be breaking his father’s heart if he were to run without so much as a goodbye? If he were to stay, he’d incite Dream’s hate. Then, he’d lose his only love. He may never see Dream again if he were to refuse. Fundy trembled, “Dream, you know I can’t just—”

“Little champion?” They both froze, a knock at the door sending both of them into a momentary panic. The door creaked open, but Fundy quickly lunged towards it, slamming against it with a thud. He could sense his father’s surprise and concern, the door moving against his hold. Dream strayed towards the shadow, hiding behind Fundy. He tried not to giggle as Dream’s breath tickled the back of his neck. He couldn’t be caught dead with a suitor, much less Dream. His father’s fingers appeared within his vision, the man pushing even more against Fundy. “Fundy, what’s wrong? You know you shouldn’t be alone. We live in quite a dangerous time, my son.”

“I know. I was just… taking in a bit of fresh air.” He leaned against the door, putting all of his weight while Dream tried to help him fix his collar. Dream’s nimble fingers grazed against his skin, causing him to shiver at how cold Dream’s hands really were. He felt the door jolt behind him. “I’ll be inside in a minute. Just… just wait! Dad, wait! I’ll be in a minute! Just wait!”

Dream rolled his eyes, a cheeky grin appearing on his face. He adjusted his mask, but not before pressing a kiss against Fundy’s lips. It was enough of a distraction for him to stop guarding the door. His father burst through the door, but by that time, Dream had long since disappeared.

Fundy could only stare at his father, the man confused as to why his son seemed so flustered.

---

Perhaps this was destiny. Fundy chuckled, nearly choking on his breath. The dusty blue sky was above them, the sun high on the sky. He could feel Dream beside him, their hands intertwined with one another’s while they listened to the war wage on around them. It had been a mistake to exile Dream, not because he loved him, but because Fundy knew Dream’s friends and family wouldn’t take it lightly. The independence war had come and gone, with a bit of convincing from his side, the Essempy had been granted independence. Then Tommy had gone and incited a bit of a feud with Sapnap, needless to say, he’d nearly lost an uncle that day. His family couldn’t handle the outrage and slander that had caused, so Dream had to bear the punishment. He hadn’t seen his lover in years, and yet now here they were, right about to fall into Death’s kind embrace.

“You are a fool.” Fundy swallowed, the poison he had ingested had begun to burn his throat. His body was a shivering mess, his skin cold to the touch despite the heat that was spreading throughout him. Dream laid by his side, blood flowing from his stomach. He could see the dagger nearby, his lover’s blood still on it. If he’d known that Dream would follow him to death, he would have chosen to run away with him all those years ago. He caught Dream’s smile, a piece of the broken porcelain mask laid near his lover’s head. He wasn’t sure where the mask had gone. “You have your life. You have your future. Why would you willingly chase after me?”

“To have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and health, until death do us part." Tears pooled at the corners of his eyes, their vows echoing in his mind. It had been a quick wedding, one that may never be honored by the gods, but what mattered was that they had vowed to be with one another no matter what may come. Dream moved closer, his face turning pale with each second that passed. Fundy forced himself to move, his heart growing heavier and heavier, threatening to stop at any moment. They didn’t stop moving until they were face to face, their eyes staring into the other’s, their entwined hands laid in between them. He wished he could move closer, but his strength had forsaken him. Dream pressed a kiss against his hand. “But I love you more than life or death. So, I shall follow you.”

“You absolute fool.” Fundy laughed despite the pain, closing his eyes against the tears that fell past his cheeks. He pulled at their hands, resting his head against them. He had wondered for many nights when he’d see Dream again, when he’d be able to hold him in his arms. He hadn’t known that it’d only be in the precipice of death that they’d meet again. Perhaps, Fundy was the fool. He’d taken the poison first, Dream had merely followed with the blade. If he had known that Dream would come for him, then he wouldn’t have given himself into despair. He’d led them to their death. “I’m sorry. You deserve to live, if not for yourself then for me. I’m sorry.”

“These past few years have been torture. My loneliness and despair consumed me, but it was the thought of you that kept me alive.” Dream shook his head, his eyes misting over with tears. Fundy felt the injustice of it all. Their only crime had been love, must death be the punishment? If only they could hold onto each other for just a little longer. But as is their fate, they could only ever have the small moments. “You will not abandon me on this cruel earth. I shall go with you.”

“Then together we shall go.” They were both fools. Fundy was a fool for giving up too easily, and Dream was a fool to follow him in his mistake. His mind was beginning to numb, his breath getting harder to catch. Dream’s eyes had shut close, his brow creased in pain. There was nothing to be done to save them now. They’ll die here, together. “I… I know what you are to me now.”

“I’m not your entertainment? Here I thought I impressed you enough to amuse you for the rest of your days.” Dream weakly laughed, the afternoon sun glinting off his dull blonde hair. Fundy wished he could see his lover’s eyes once more, but the moment had passed, he must be content with staring at Dream’s face instead. He’d memorize it, burn it into his memory that even death wouldn’t be able to make him forget his love. He’d hold on, even if he was reborn into a new world, into a new life. He never wanted to forget. “What am I to you…? What was I to you?”

“You are the blue sky. You are the fleeting light of day. You are the stars of the night.” Fundy giggled despite himself, despite the darkness that was beginning to crawl into his fading vision. He heard Dream’s hitched breath in his ear. It wouldn’t be long now. “You are freedom.”

He closed his eyes, content to feel Dream’s hand in his. It was strange, to think that they may have never met if Fundy hadn’t turned at the right moment. It had been another ball, his father too occupied with one of the guests to monitor where Fundy wandered off to. He had been having a conversation with one of the many other nobles, when a glint in the corner caught his eye. Fundy had glanced over, surprised to find a lime blur disappearing into the crowd. No one would be caught dead in such a bright color. Fundy had followed, then he met the love of his life.

He could hear his grandmother’s voice in his ear now. He’d met her two times in his short life, those moments brief and soothing, but now he could feel a bit of fear. Dream squeezed his hand, and Fundy took a breath. He wasn’t alone. With his sensitive ears, he could hear the faint approach of footsteps, his father’s low whispers through the explosions. He could hear a few of Dream’s friends as well. His heart ached for them. Dream and Fundy never said their farewells.

Fundy choked back a sob.

He couldn’t help it. He didn’t want to say goodbye.

He didn’t want to die and forget.

Fundy forced a smile to his face, “Parting is such sweet sorrow.”

Dream whispered, “Then may we meet again in the next life, and fall in love all over again.”

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

Clarification: In this world, L'Manburg is the country that rules over the land, and the Essempy is the one that is the rebelling country. Unlike L'Manburg, however, instead of the whole Pogtopia Arc, it just skipped straight ahead to the New L'Manburg Arc in which they have a new country but someone is getting exiled because someone got pissed.

Yeah, Dream was exiled (because Romeo was exiled) and I know Juliet devised the whole poison-coma thing because she didn't want to marry Paris but I didn't know how to put such a concept in this. So, instead, Fundy was devastated that he may never see Dream again and with the waging war with the Essempy, he just decided to commit suicide. Dream comes back during said war, finds Fundy and realizes that Fundy drank a poison that cannot be cured (shhh I know Minecraft mechanics don't work like that but shush). So he also commits suicide by stabbing himself with a dagger.

... yeah...

(Also yes I know the deaths are reversed cause Romeo was the one who drank the poison and Juliet was the one who stabbed herself with the dagger. I just felt the need to reverse the death because Fundy actually drank poison to kill himself. So... yeah...)

This is not for the faint of heart.

[robininthelabyrinth]

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, past 5, part 6 - aka Pastime (with good company) (ao3 link)

Warning: some adult content 

-

Everything was settled.

The marriage date had been set – sadly there was still some time to go, since they’d reached that part of the year where there weren’t any auspicious days for marriage for a while, especially for a marriage like this (they were not getting married on a day that was auspicious for childbirth, no matter how much Wei Wuxian cackled at the thought) – and now all that was left was preparing for the ceremony.

The logistics were a pain, but all parties involved had been determined to hold a single ceremony, both to demonstrate that they were both first, neither above the other, and, as Wei Wuxian had grumblingly put it, to make sure no one was satisfied until they were all satisfied.

The negotiations had gone on forever, representatives of each sect bickering back and forth, but finally, finally, Lan Xichen had conspired with Nie Mingjue and Jiang Cheng behind the scenes and they’d exercised their authority as Sect Leaders to declare the latest version of the marriage plan acceptable.

There was a distinct possibility that they had gotten somewhat intoxicated before making the announcement, but however it had happened, it been made and Lan Wangji was happier for it.

Now, there was only – the wait.

Each of them had agreed that now that the marriage was settled, they would each stay at home to prepare the necessary things for marriage. Technically, only Nie Mingjue needed to pay the bride price, and of course their families would be providing dowries (with lists so long that Lan Wangji grew numb just thinking about it), but they had agreed between the three of them that it would be suitable for them to exchange gifts between themselves.

A sign of their forthcoming affection, but also – and this was Nie Mingjue’s rare insistence on the subject of gifts or etiquette – independence. Nie Mingjue was the husband, of course, and they the brides, and that meant something, even if cultivator sects rarely imposed the sort of requirements on its female cultivators that the common world did, but in his heart Nie Mingjue was a fairly staunch an opponent of unnecessary hierarchy when in peacetime, though whether this was his own inclination or another of the Nie sect’s oddities was less clear. Politically, he was engaged in a fierce fight with the Jin sect, opposed the mere concept of a Chief Cultivator and preferring that the Sects manage themselves as they always had rather than succumb to the order the Wen sect had tried to impose, but his opposition was – as always with the man – genuine, and it was important to him that his brides knew that they were free in their own right, rather than receiving their freedom as a gift from their husband.

(Lan Wangji had thought of their mother when Nie Mingjue had argued the point, his eyes flashing and hand hitting the table to emphasize it, and his heart had overflowed with joy that he was marrying this man above others, this man and Wei Wuxian who did not know rules, both of whom would rather die than cage him; Lan Xichen and even Lan Qiren had been moved by the demand, their eyes suspiciously wet, and Lan Wangji had seen in the way Jiang Cheng rubbed his thumb over Zidian that he, too, was not unaffected.)

Of course, once the principle was agreed upon, they now had to enact it.

Lan Wangji expected that Nie Mingjue would have delegated the initial task of finding gifts for them to Nie Huaisang, reserving the right for a final decision for himself – if it was a Nie sect principle, there might be some element of ritual involved in the unusual gift-giving, some tradition that wouldn’t make sense or be explained until they were safely married in; Qinghe had long had a reputation for being a little bit different from the other sects, and not just in their preference for the saber over the sword.

Wei Wuxian, on the other hand – Lan Wangji expected he was equally hard at work. Perhaps others in his sect believed that he would ask Jiang Cheng for one of the Jiang sect’s treasures, diminished by war but recovered in their victories, but Lan Wangji thought he knew Wei Wuxian better than that: most likely, he had just decided to use the time before the marriage to invent something no one in the world has ever seen before, and contribute that instead.

That seemed far more his style.

As for himself, Lan Wangji followed his own sect’s traditions, taking on the new request with the dignity and solemnity with which it ought to be respected. He had already spent several days in the Lan sect’s treasure room, sorting through each item and considering whether it would fit one or another of his spouses. His uncle, not yet fully reconciled with his decision – his general approval of Nie Mingjue wrestling against his general disapproval of Wei Wuxian – had come to see him several times while he was there; he would never disagree with Lan Xichen on such a serious matter as someone’s life, and never publicly, but his love for his nephew and his concern for Lan Wangji’s well-being drove him to probe repeatedly as to whether Lan Wangji really thought that this marriage would make him happy.

Lan Wangji was very sure it would. He’d only liked two people in his entire life and thought them both untouchable, forever beyond his reach – to now be faced with the possibility of having them both was beyond even his wildest dreams.

…perhaps not his wildest dreams. He’d been having some very interesting ones recently.

At any rate, it was a wise decision on their part to separate, and to stay separate. After all, they would have their whole lives to spend together – it was better to take this precious time before their marriage to reflect on their families, their past, the events and circumstances that had led them to this moment…

“Lan Zhan!” Wei Wuxian called, his eyes bright with excitement as he waved and ran forward to greet him. “What a surprise! I wasn’t expecting to see you – what brings you to Yiling?”

Absolutely nothing, in truth.  

There was no reason at all for Lan Wangji to be in Yiling.

He should not be in Yiling: he thought of himself as the patient one of the three of them, suffused with Lan serenity and self-denial, having cultivated long ago the ability to wait forever for what he wanted – none of Wei Wuxian’s impulsiveness or Nie Mingjue’s hot-headedness for him. And yet, of the three of them, Lan Wangji was the one who weakened first.

It was only that he had woken up in the dead of night, alone in the jingshi and abruptly convinced that it was all a dream that had lingered too long, that it would disappear with the morning dew, and he had suddenly needed, urgently, to see one of his future husbands, to confirm to himself once again that this was really happening. And before he knew what he was doing, he had taken Bichen and turned his face to the sky, fleeing to Yiling as the closer and least-bad option –  

At least Wei Wuxian seemed to feel the same way, to judge by the way he insisted on dragging Lan Wangji to and fro throughout the Burial Mounds, reintroducing him to all the Wen sect members that he’d already met on his first visit; only things time, Wei Wuxian would stop to speak to each one with a smile, explaining the situation – just now he had greeted a man with a wave and shouted, “Fourth Uncle, this is Hanguang-jun, Lan Wangji. We’re going to be marrying soon, to Chifeng-zun – all of us together, me, Lan Zhan, and Nie Mingjue.”

“Yes, we know,” the man said, looking indulgent. “You’ve mentioned it a few times.”

To judge from his expression, it was more than a few times.

“You remember them, right?” Wei Wuxian barreled on, utterly undaunted. “Lan Zhan’s been here twice before, and Nie Mingjue is the tall gorgeous one. Not that Lan Zhan isn’t tall and gorgeous – wait. Am I the short one in this relationship?!”

Wei Wuxian was two centimeters shorter than Lan Wangji, who was in turn shorter than Nie Mingjue (who he was sure routinely lied about his height in some misguided attempt to pretend he wasn’t quite as toweringly tall as he was); Wei Wuxian was, in fact, the short one, albeit only by a little.

Lan Wangji exercised his judgment and decided not to comment, offering up only a neutral hum when Wei Wuxian looked at him, aggravated.

“It’s good you’ve got a smart one in your marriage, Wei-gongzi,” the man said, chuckling. “Good at spotting and avoiding traps.”

“Traps..? – hey! Are you saying I’m not the smart one? Lan Zhan, tell him -!”

Lan Wangji hummed again, more to make Wei Wuxian laugh than anything else.

At some point, they settled down in the Demon-Slaughtering Cave, Wei Wuxian running around to fetch tea and some snacks; it was getting to be late in the evening, the journey to Yiling and all the introductions having eaten up most of the day, but tea was always welcome.

After a few moments, Lan Wangji realized that no one else was there – not Wen Ning, nor Wen Qing, nor anyone else – and he frowned. “Is this appropriate?”

“Sure it is,” Wei Wuxian said at once, his response coming a little too fast to be anything other than planned ahead of time. “Obviously it would be inappropriate for either of us to be alone with Nie Mingjue, being as he’s our future husband; we would require a chaperone. However, although we will also be marrying each other, we’re both marrying in as brides, and there’s never been any restriction on brides sharing each other’s company before the wedding.”

Lan Wangji gave him an unimpressed look. “Semantics.”

“Very useful semantics,” Wei Wuxian protested, and pushed one of the snacks – a little radish cake, by the look of it – towards him. “Come on, I want to talk with you, discuss some questions about our marriage, and to do it without being gawked at by one of the Wens. Are you really going to insist that I call one of them in here?”

He would probably call Wen Ning if he called anyone, Lan Wangji thought, and felt a spark of jealousy in his belly. Which was ridiculous, he was the one who was marrying Wei Wuxian, and getting Nie Mingjue in the bargain as well; there was no reason to be drinking vinegar at the thought of Wen Ning. Even if he was the one that Wei Wuxian had defied the cultivation world for, resurrected from the dead at great cost, kept by his side at all times –

“…no,” he finally said, and Wei Wuxian’s smile was brilliant enough for him to almost forget about his not-quite-righteous motives in agreeing to waive propriety. “You had questions?”

“Sure! I mean, how is it going to work? Do we split having him on even and odd days, or do we have just one really big bed –”

Lan Wangji’s ears were burning; he had somehow not expected that the questions would be of this type. He pinned his gaze firmly across the room. “The Unclean Realm is large,” he said. “We will each have quarters of our own.”

“Well, yes, of course. Everyone gets their own courtyard; I was there at the marriage negotiations too, you know. But in terms of the details –”

“Mingjue-xiong is the husband. He will decide.”

“He might be the husband, but it’s not as if we’re not men ourselves,” Wei Wuxian argued. “I may not know that much about being a cutsleeve – Jiang Cheng only managed to find me one spring book in all this time, apparently he’s encountering some awkwardness about buying them – but I have a vivid imagination and plenty of yang energy; I’m not going to wait around in my courtyard to see if he wants to visit or not.”

Of course he wouldn’t. Why would anyone have expected that he would? Why had Lan Wangji ever expected that this conversation wouldn’t leave him simultaneously turned on beyond all belief and also wanting to die of sheer awkwardness?

“I can lend you one, if you wish,” he said, still staring firmly at the wall.

“Lend me one – oh, Lan Zhan! You mean a spring book? For cutsleeves? You have one?”

Lan Wangji had more than one.

His brother had figured out years ago what his inclination was, and anyway the Lan sect prided itself on preservation of information; there had been cutsleeves among the Lan in the past, and they had donated their books to the library upon their deaths the way everyone else had. With Lan Xichen’s help, it hadn’t been too difficult to smuggle some of them back to his quarters to review once he’d realized that his spring dreams were not going to go away without external assistance.

(In the end, the information had only made his dreams more vivid and detailed, but at least he learned enough to be able to stop shamefully smuggling in extra robes every day and taking on additional chores to account for overusing the sect’s laundry.)

“Lan Zhan, Lan Zhan, you have to tell me everything,” Wei Wuxian said, leaning forward, his eyes bright with mischief – mischief, and something just a little bit more. Before, Lan Wangji would have told himself that he was imagining things, but for the first time he thought that he could hope that he wasn’t, that Wei Wuxian wanted him, wanted him as much as Lan Wangji wanted him in turn. “You have to take pity on me; I’ve never even kissed anyone!”

That got Lan Wangji to stop staring at the wall and to turn to stare at Wei Wuxian instead.

Wei Wuxian, the accomplished and even notorious flirt, as he’d seen with his own eyes in their time in the indoctrination camp; who had told him on Phoenix Mountain that he had lots of experience kissing –

“But you said –” he started, then stopped, pressing his lips together when Wei Wuxian started laughing.

“At Phoenix Mountain? You believed me?” Wei Wuxian said with a smile, his eyes curving into crescents. “No, I was just trying to save face. What was I supposed to say? I would have been embarrassed to admit it! Though actually, even though I’ve never kissed anyone myself, I did lose my first kiss right around that time; someone came up to me while I was blindfolded –”

Lan Wangji’s shoulders went up around his ears. “Wei Ying.”

“– the maiden was very forceful, but at the same time very shy, since she waited until I was blindfolded –”

“Wei Ying.”

“– she was so aggressive! Even managed to slip me a bit of tongue –”

“Wei Ying.”

“What? Don’t tell me you’re jealous, Lan Zhan!” Wei Wuxian looked delighted at the thought. “Now, now, fair’s fair, I’ve told you, now you have to tell me – have you ever been kissed?”

“…kissed. Once.”

“Oh, you did the kissing?” And now Wei Wuxian’s eyes were narrow, but playfully so – at least, Lan Wangji thought it was playful. Maybe Wei Wuxian was drinking a little vinegar, too. “You don’t mean a childhood kiss, do you? No? A real one, then; that puts you one up on me. When was it?”

Lan Wangji wanted the ground to swallow him up, but – it was no longer a matter that needed to be hidden lest Wei Wuxian hate him forever, a hopeless infatuation that could go nowhere and would be taken to the grave eternally unrequited. They were going to be married.

You could not start a marriage on a lie.

“…Phoenix Mountain.”

“What, really? Huh, that’s a coincidence! You kissed someone right around the time that –” Wei Wuxian paused, and Lan Wangji braced himself. “Lan Zhan. You didn’t.”

Wei Wuxian didn’t sound angry.

Lan Wangji snuck a peak at him – he didn’t look angry, either. He looked delighted.

“You know, Lan Zhan, that was very bad of you,” Wei Wuxian said, pretending to scold but grinning far too wide for it to sound authentic. “You took my first kiss, which I’d been guarding for twenty years! You have no choice but to take responsibility.”

“Mm,” Lan Wangji said, feeling a wave of relief. “Wei Ying is right. Would marriage be sufficient recompense?”

“Now that’s more like it,” Wei Wuxian cackled. “Your first kiss, and mine, and soon we’ll be married…hey, Lan Zhan! We should do it again.”

Lan Wangji’s heart skipped a beat. “What?”

“Kissing! After all, we wouldn’t want to disappoint Nie Mingjue on our wedding night – we should practice.”

“Practice…kissing.”

“We’re just the brides,” Wei Wuxian reminded him, and suddenly he was closer than Lan Wangji had expected; he was pressed right up against Lan Wangji’s side, and every part of them that was in contact felt as if it was on fire, even though there were layers and layers of cloth between them. “Our job in our marriage is to please our husband, since we’re not exactly going to be bearing him heirs. It’s no harm then, is it, trying to study up in advance on the sorts of things that will please him – that’s why I want to read those spring books you have, Lan Zhan. I want to think about all the things we could do together.”

Lan Wangji’s mouth was dry, and Wei Wuxian’s face filled his eyes.

“But I have to admit, Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian said. “I also – just really want to kiss you.”

Lan Wangji leaned over and pressed his lips to Wei Wuxian’s.

It was better than Phoenix Mountain, when he’d been too aggressive, almost wild in his frenzied need to express himself and yet so new at what he was doing to figure out at first how their mouths would fit together; this time, with the little experience from before, their mouths slotted together naturally, and best of all, this time Wei Wuxian wasn’t just shocked and stiff with surprise in his arms; this time, Wei Wuxian was kissing him back.

Fiercely, even; his hands sliding up into Lan Wangji’s hair as they kissed frantically, Lan Wangji’s own hands on Wei Wuxian’s shoulder and waist.

“Oh, Lan Zhan –” Lan Wangji heard Wei Wuxian groan his name against his lips, voice low and deep, and he was drunk on the sheer joy of it. “Lan Zhan –”

They tumbled down to the ground, Wei Wuxian pulling as much as Lan Wangji pushed, and Lan Wangji was straddling him, the two of them hot up against each other as they kissed again and again – lips and cheeks, faces, necks, wherever they could reach. Lan Wangji had had dreams like this, but nothing was compared to the reality: Wei Wuxian was warm in his arms, vocal with his pleasure, full of little whimpers and moans and his name, rolling around his mouth like fine wine; his legs inched up Lan Wangji’s thighs, urging him onwards even as his hands started exploring his shoulders and giving little tentative tugs of his hair that only made Lan Wangji less restrained because of how unexpected it was.

“Wei Ying…” he growled, applying his teeth to Wei Wuxian’s neck and rumbling with delight when Wei Wuxian threw back his head with a surprise moan of pleasure.

“Lan Zhan, oh, yes – is that how you’d do it for Nie Mingjue, Lan Zhan? I bet it is, I bet you’d love to put your teeth in his neck and mark it up – ah! Yes, like that, more – ”

They had long ago left propriety behind, but they were very quickly getting to the point of being truly inappropriate; the thought was fuzzy in Lan Wangji’s mind, seeming very unimportant – they were getting married soon, after all, and that would be even better than this, because Nie Mingjue would be there, his intense gaze on them both, his hands on them –

“We should stop,” he forced himself to say.

“We will,” Wei Wuxian said, tugging him down for another kiss, his hips arching and rubbing up against Lan Wangji’s. “We will, Lan Zhan, just a little more –”

Much more and Lan Wangji would very quickly be lost, violating his oaths of restraint before marriage; he was very near to the edge as it was.

“We can’t, we have to wait until marriage,” he murmured even as he sucked kisses and left teeth marks on Wei Wuxian’s collarbone. “But we can do something else…”

The Lan sect prided itself on a strict adherence to the rules, on obeying the spirit of the rule and not merely the letter, but there had been since long ago a very particular loophole regarding the rules of restraint – an acknowledgment of reality, really, of the fact that the blood of young men and women ran hot, and that it would be cruel to make a rule that so many would find themselves unwittingly breaking.

Sharing physical pleasure with another before marriage was of course absolutely inappropriate – when it was a man and a woman involved, rather than two men, it came with the loss of chastity, the risk of pregnancy, the ruination of all future hopes; it was reasonable to restrict those who had not yet bowed three times to, at most, touching each only with clothing fully in place.  

If they were not cultivators, that would be the end of it – but they were, and there were more routes to pleasure than the mere physical.

After all, the act of joining together yin and yang was not called dual cultivation for nothing.

Lan Wangji summoned up the qi from his golden core, allowing it to circulate through his meridians as if he were planning to cultivate, and dropped his hand eagerly between their bodies to Wei Wuxian’s dantian, where Wei Wuxian’s own cultivation, his golden core, would respond to his own, their cultivation reacting to each other as a stimulus, sparking pleasure even as they grew stronger. He’d never experienced it before, but he’d heard whispers of how it felt, a rush that was so good that it was nearly addictive and yet soothing as well, a relaxing of the terrible tension, allowing their bodies the peak of pleasure without the physicality of release that was denied to them.

Lan Wangji put his hand on Wei Wuxian’s belly and felt Wei Wuxian groan, his hips arch –

He felt –

Nothing.

[purple-possibilities]

Like Father, Like Son

Rating: Teen

Warnings: mentions of death, mentions of prostitution, like slightly dark? Gritty maybe is a better descriptor, Naruto world taken seriously.

Length: 1888 words

Pairing: MinaKushi, Minato’s Canonical Dad x Minato’s Canonical Mom

Genre: romance, drama, slight angst (we know how these two ended up), crack taken seriously

Summary: the story of Minato’s parents, and how that influenced Minato’s decisions, and his courtship of Kushina. Inspired by this post about Minato being extra.

Like many children in ninja villages—and truly, just children in general, since the Warring States Era and the formation of the Ninja Villages—Namikaze Minato is an orphan. His father was a self-taught ninja from a small village on the boarder of Kaze no Kuni, while his mother was a kunoichi from Tsuchi.

Though Minato's parents had died when he was young, he was old enough to remember them. He was old enough to understand why his parents were forced to hide away from their home countries, old enough to know when and why he had to hide and lie.

He was old enough to understand why tousan had to escape in the night while he and kaachan had to flee in the cover of tousan's sacrifice distraction.

He was old enough to understand why he and kaachan had to lie about their ninja training when they immigrated into Konoha with forged papers so realistic that not even Konoha's infamous T&I, or their renowned Yamanaka clan could tell the difference.

He was old enough to understand why kaachan was forced to work in the way she did, why strange people would spend an hour or two, or sometimes even the whole night behind the door to his mother's room, why she made him leave when some specific visitors stopped by, why he eventually came home to find her laying in bed, blooms of red and shocks of shiny white against her cold, still skin.

He was old enough to remember it all—to want to change it all, one day—but his mind would always take him back to one specific memory.

His most precious memory of all.

The love in his parents' eyes.

Minato could recite the story word for word, with how much his kaachan told it—how much more she would cling to the words after tousan was gone.

Kaachan was from Iwagakure, having sworn her life to the Tsuchikage and the Tsuchi no Kuni daimyou as a kunoichi of the Rock. Touchan truly had no allegiance—his skills had come from a talent with chakra and a necessity for self-defense.

So when touchan had seen a group of Suna-nin abducting a woman, he did what any good man would do.

He saved her.

Touchan had followed after the Suna-nin in secret, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Touchan was not sure he could defeat the two Suna-nin on his own, but he knew that with the help of the right environment and a few tricks, he could come out victorious.

With his wind chakra aiding him in both speed and his strikes, touchan caught the first nin completely off guard. As the second nin—the one holding kaachan—noticed his partner listing to the right—before the dead body could hit the ground—touchan had just as swiftly eliminated the other, catching kaachan in his arms.

Unwilling to linger at the scene, touchan carried kaachan away, until it was safe for them to stop. When touchan untied kaachan's binds, she couldn't help herself.

Kaachan pulled touchan into a kiss.

It was in that moment that kaachan fell in love with touchan. Both were alone in this cruel ninja world. The shinobi nations were in the midst of the second Great Ninja War. People were dying left and right, hundreds every day.

Who would miss one kunoichi? Who would recognise one self-taught man from the edges of Kaze no Kuni?

Who would give up on the chance of happiness, love, and family, when the world had taken so much from them?

He remembers asking his parents how they knew they were in love after just one meeting.

His mother always answered, “A selfless act of kindness in a cruel world is a rare thing to be treasured. When you find that, especially when you're alone and hopeless, it's easier to leave behind the entirety of your harsh, unfriendly life for even just a single moment with such a person."

When Minato asked his touchan, his father always answered, "There is not much kindness in this world, not much any single person alone can do to fix that. We work hard, we may try to help others, but that's not going to get any one man very far. Kaachan has a fire in her, a toughness, a resilliance which cannot be crushed. She is fierce in her mind, body, and soul. As a man forced to grow and survive on his own, I know just how valuable, and how rare those traits are. I had desperately craved for companionship, for a family, and your mother has the strength and resilliance to ensure our story will be longer than most."

At the time, Minato didn't truly understand what either of his parents meant. But as an orphan, as a boy all alone, who had witnessed the worst of the world and wanted to make it better, who had his world stripped from him in a place that should have been safe, with the weight of his parents sacrifices on his mind and the desperate urge for a family once more...

Minato fell in love.

All he knew about love was what he'd seen from his parents. With no advice, no one to turn to, Minato did the only thing he could:

He emulated the fond, much told memory of how his parents fell in love with the percotions, strong-willed, resilliant Uzumaki Kushina.

And like a blessing from beyond, like a gift from his absent parents, Uzumaki Kushina—who had only ever glared and grumbled at Minato before then—had fallen in love with him.

It hadn't been hard to use the shadow-clone jutsu and then henge them into Kumo-nin. It wasn't hard to find Kushina all alone, after tricking the ANBU who followed her with a genjutsu laid out by Uchiha Fugaku's sharingan.

It wasn't hard for Minato to gently disable (but not disperse!) his own clones, to catch Kushina in his arms, to take her to "safety" (as if she were in any danger at all).

It wasn't hard to attract her heart and capture it—not with his boyish good looks, his patience, and most damning of all—

Kushina's lonliness and desire for connection.

With her home village destroyed and Mito-sama recently deceased, there wasn't a better time for him to put his ploy in motion. Maybe to a civilian that might seem callous, but to a ninja, that was just smart planning.

What did it matter if he was using her grief and loneliness to his advantage? His company would heal that for her anyways.

(Besides, it was his grief and lonliness which drove him to do it).

Minato would grow up to be a lot of things: a hero and a curse, a soldier and a leader, a husband and—just briefly—a father.

Minato would not go on to share the story of how he got Kushina to love him with his son. Minato would instead go on to emulate his father, sacrificing himself in the hopes of giving his child a shot at a better life.

But that was for later. In this moment, in the shoddy comfort of the bachelor apartment allotted to orphaned ninja-in-training, Minato put the pieces of his plan together.

Minato was old enough to retain memories of his life before Konoha, before his parents were taken from him, but only one memory stood out.

And so he remembered.

And so he took the past and made it his present with dreams of the future on his mind.

Fun Facts!

I imagine Minato's mom to be blonde like he, Naruto, and Deidara are, while his dad has red hair similar to Kushina and Gaara. His mother's hair was smooth and straight while his father's was spikes like Minato and Naruto.

The ninja who killed Minato's father were sent after his mother for desertion. Another Iwa-nin had caught sight of her and reported back to the Tsuchikage. The nin were sent to kill Minato's parents but were instructed to bring Minato back alive in case he was useful. I kind of puts Minato's massacre of those thousand Iwa-nin during the Third War into a new light...

Fugaku only agreed to help Minato because when he initially refused, Minato accused Fugaku of not being able to do it. Fugaku, like a certain other Uchiha we know, was desperate to prove himself. Minato didn't tell Fugaku about his plan, he just dared Fugaku to trick the ANBU.

Minato had to practice with his clones for weeks to be able to fight them without them "popping." He ended up having to use a seal on them to make them more resilliant. It was his first time working with fuinjutsu, and what sparked his love for it. Kushina's interest only heightened his own.

Yes, Minato's dad only went along with kaachan's feelings because he was lonely and she was strong. Relationships have been built on less. He was a very pragmatic man. He did genuinely fall in love with her though.

When Minato and his mom immigrated to Konoha, she had to pretend to be a civilian with no ninja training to avoid suspicion, and be offered asylum as a Hi no Kuni refugee. As a foreigner (even one posing as a Fire Country citizen) and with the growing number of refugees, it was hard for her to find a job, so she became a prostitute. She was killed by a nin who was triggered and experienced a panic attack/flashback. He fled the scene after, and ended up letting himself get killed during his next mission. The case of her murder remains unsolved—not that the police did much investigating. There were more pressing issues to deal with at the time.

The harsh life Minato lived—as a fugitive and then a refugee and orphan—is what led him to want to be Hokage. He wanted to save people from the pain he and his parents suffered.

Kushina's spirit (and declaration to be Hokage) is what attracted Minato to her. His father's words of finding someone strong and stubborn enough to survive in this cruel ninja world is what made him decide she was the one for him.

Kushina is dumb. So dumb. Didn't catch on even once. Fell for the plot hook, line, and sinker. Even when, years later, Minato shared the story of how his parents met with her, Kushina did not piece his plan together.

Due to Minato using "Kumo"-nin to carry out the abduction, he made their already poor reputation in Konoha worse. This was further exasterbated when real Kumo-nin actually tried to kidnap Hinata.

Minato sacrafied himself that night when Kurama was unleashed on the village, because all he could think of in that moment was the way his father sacrificed himself to save Minato and his mom. It clouded his judgement from more logical options, like, I don't know, not casting a suicide jutsu to trap half a tailed beast in his minutes old son and his soon to be dead body.

Kushina was delirious from pain meds, having an tailed beast extracted from her, and her own hotheadedness. It was a bad mix.

In the end, Naruto learnt that rescuing a girl is the way to her heart, following the Namikaze family tradition of courtship.

AN: So, uh... This got darker than I thought. The post that inspired this was so cute too. I wrote this a few weeks ago on a night I was too busy for this bs and yet it would not let me rest until it was released. I wrote this after being challenged prompted by @books-n-guns, as crack is my apparent specialty (we been knew, I know. After the LeeKaguya fic I think I solidified my place in this fandom). I hope you enjoyed it!

[iatethepomegranate]

Just a fic about Caleb buying a house in Rexxentrum with Beau and Yasha, and coping with that kind of change and newfound stability (and becoming Professor Widogast). Angst and fluff are at war in this fic.

Content warnings: lots of grief, Caleb's backstory, referenced child abuse

Chapter summary: The Nein goes shopping and Caleb is tired. The market offers up an expected memory, and the chance to hold a little piece of childhood in his hands.

Notes: Title is from Nine by Sleeping At Last.

****

Chapter 4: I let the scale tip and feel all of it, it's uncomfortable but right

Jester and Caduceus were a force to be reckoned with at the marketplace. They had already convinced Caleb to let them buy him a set of curtains for his side of the house. Thick fabric to block out most light and definitely any nosy neighbours. They were a soft yellow-green patterned with watercolour chamomile flowers, which they had figured out were native to the Zemni Fields behind Caleb’s back.

“These are so pretty Cay-leb,” Jester said, gently sliding them into the bag of holding with Fjord’s help as they stepped out of the shop. “We’ll put these up as soon as we get back, okay? Yasha promised she’ll help us.”

Yasha was a little way off with Kingsley, her arm over his shoulders as they looked at swords at a nearby market stall. Caduceus dragged everyone off to stock up on kitchen necessities and more seeds for Yasha’s garden. And a ton of baking supplies, because Yasha had begged Caduceus to teach her, even though everyone knew no one had to beg Caduceus for that kind of thing.

Essek, disguised as a half-elf with soft brown hair and eyes, held himself a little awkwardly here in the heart of the Dwendalian Empire, but he defiantly refused to complain. He had little input on Empire goods, aside from wine, about which Beauregard happily bickered with him. Caleb was happy enough to let the others direct him, even if he theoretically knew the markets better than they did.

He trusted them. And he was so tired.

So he quietly followed the Nein around the market and let them make decisions for him with minimal input. He must have looked wrecked, because Essek, despite his disguise and clear nervousness, held his hand to anchor him.

Fjord, Jester and Kingsley bought him a ton of high quality paper and ink for the study, with Essek’s subtle guidance. Caduceus picked out basic kitchen staples for Caleb that would keep him fed even if he didn't have much time to cook, in the event he couldn’t eat with Beau and Yasha. Veth found some orange-amber cushions that complemented the curtains. Yasha found an orange-white checkered tablecloth that she declared matched his hair and therefore was a necessity for the house. She and Beau bought two, one for each side.

Caleb, in a lucid moment, found a soft blue rug for Beau and Yasha’s bedroom and bought it for them, despite their objections. It was only fair he gave them something back after everything they were doing for him. He would have to work out the logistics of installing a real-world sex mirror later as a proper gift. He’d ask Essek to help, and Essek would do it, but he would hate every second of it. The one sex joke he had ever made in front of the Nein was 50% deflection. And jokes were very different from installing a sex mirror for someone.

Jester would be up for it. A little bit of gold dust would be enough for Caleb to hold it in place with Immovable Object while they secured it.

Caleb was pulled from his calculations about dimensions and weight for a ceiling mirror when Veth tugged on his hand. “Hey, Cay. There’s an old lady selling homemade quilts. Rexxentrum is very cold, and you are going to catch a chill if we don’t get you something better than that one shitty blanket. Come on.”

She led him over, catching up with the rest of the Nein. Jester was chatting with an old Zemian woman sitting behind the table behind piles of bright quilts. The stitching sparked an old, old memory in Caleb, and he found himself stepping closer before he had consciously thought about it.

“Ja, I make the trip up from Blumenthal every few months,” the old woman said in a thick Zemnian accent, much thicker than Caleb’s after all his time travelling.

Caleb froze for half a second, easing himself through the shock of that information. “Ah, hallo, grandmother. It is good to meet someone from home.” This conversation would be easier in Zemnian. Common lacked the polite Sie form that Caleb would typically have used for respect. But he wasn’t sure he could handle having this conversation in Zemnian, so it was probably for the best.

The woman smiled up at him, her lips wobbly with age. “Hallo, young man.”

Caleb’s knees ached a little, just to remind him some parts of him really were not young at all.

She held out a wrinkled hand for him to shake. “Call me Lisbeth.”

Caleb had a strange moment of indecision regarding his name, trying to remember if he had known this woman as a child but coming up empty; Blumenthal was just large enough that it was possible not to know everyone, and she may have even moved there after he was gone. “Ah, Caleb Widogast.” He shook her hand. “I grew up in Blumenthal. This stitching is…” Why was he just saying everything that came to his mind?

“Very traditional, ja.”

“Ja, my mother used to make quilts like these...” His was probably ash now.

He was dimly aware that the Nein were watching him, and that Veth had done an extremely visible double-take.

Lisbeth searched Caleb’s face for one terrifying moment, and he was convinced that maybe she did know him after all. But then, whatever she saw made her soften, and she reached beneath the table. “I like to save my best work for those who will appreciate it. Here.” She laid a thicker quilt on top of the others. “I made one like this for my grandson. He wears it like a cape around the house.”

The stitching was a little more intricate, and the squares were detailed with minimalist animal shapes. Mostly cats. Una had taken Caleb’s cat obsession to heart; the quilt she had made him had been similar. Painfully so.

Caleb traced the stitching of an orange cat, his vision blurring. Essek squeezed his hand. Caleb blinked until he could see again. Even with the disguise turning purple eyes to brown, these were definitely Essek’s eyes staring up at him with a familiar look of both affection and concern.

“We’ll take it,” said Veth. Veth, who had already bought Caleb a house, and cushions. This was… no.

“Veth.”

“Caleb.”

He sighed. “A word, please.” He took her hand, leading her a little away from the group. “Veth, this is too much.”

Veth’s eyes were wet. “No. No, it’s not. I saw how much this means to you. Caleb, you just talked about your childhood and your mother to a total stranger. That’s not…” She sighed. “I saw your face when she pulled out that quilt.”

“I cannot let you…” Caleb could barely speak. “Veth.” He swallowed. “You bought me a house. You are still buying things for me. This is… I can’t take this.”

“Why not?” There was an edge to her voice, but it was a genuine question. “I thought we were over this. Why is this the line?”

Caleb did not know where he found the strength to stay on his feet when all he wanted to do was fall in a heap. He stared at the dirt.

“Cay, look at me. Please.” Veth couldn’t reach his face, but she absolutely could conjure her mage hand to lift Caleb’s chin until he met her eyes. “Will having this make you happy? Or does it hurt too much? I won’t force you to take something that hurts you, but if this is because you don’t think you deserve it…”

“I don’t know, Veth.”

They had spent a long time alone together, relying on each other to survive. If anyone could read him, it was her. She stared at him for a few moments, eyes moving as if his face were a real book.

“I don’t think you would’ve struck up a conversation with a random Zemnian lady if this was the bad kind of pain,” she said. She rolled her shoulders back. “That settles it: you’re getting the quilt. I’ll get the Nein to chip in if that makes you feel less weird about it.”

It kind of did. And Caleb didn’t have it in him to argue anymore. “Ja, okay.”

Veth pulled him down so she could kiss his cheek and led him back to the stall. “All right, everyone give me your money.”

It was probably a sign of how bad Caleb looked that nobody questioned her. But when Essek reached for his pocket, Caleb reached out to stop him.

“No,” he said. “Not you.”

Essek frowned deeply with the half-elf’s face, but the expressions were undeniably him. “Caleb.”

“No. You need that money. Do not put me through this.”

Essek’s face softened. “All right.”

The rest of the Nein, even Kingsley who still barely knew Caleb from a bar of soap, coughed up enough coins to pay for the quilt. Lisbeth, a little teary herself, offered a discount, which they refused. Jester and Veth gave her extra gold that Caleb couldn’t count through his brain fog. Okay, he was very much not coping if he couldn’t even count things.

Veth was too small to pick up the quilt without dragging it on the floor, even after Lisbeth had gently folded it, so Yasha accepted it from Lisbeth and handed it to Caleb. Old muscle memory took over, and he buried his face in the soft fabric.

“Danke schön,” he said quietly.

Lisbeth smiled at him again, but it was sad. “You should come by the market and say hello before I go back home in a few weeks.”

“I will.” It would hurt a lot, but Caleb meant it.

“Take care, Schatz.”

No one had called him that in a long time. It hurt. It hurt so much.

Grief was funny like that sometimes. You think you’re getting on with things, doing okay, and then there will be a scent on the wind, an old term of endearment, stitching identical to your mother’s… and you break.

Caleb squeezed the quilt and barely held himself together as the Nein led him back home. Whatever shopping they had left to do… they had wordlessly agreed to leave it for another day.

****

Back home, Caleb asked to be alone for a bit. That meant Essek was allowed. They laid the quilt out on Caleb’s bed, Essek’s disguise abandoned. Caleb stopped fighting the tears, letting the sobs come as he smoothed out the edges, fingers catching on a stitched golden retriever puppy.

Essek pressed his palm between Caleb’s shoulder blades. “Sit. Please.”

Caleb lowered himself slowly, wholly convinced he would collapse if he wasn’t careful, and settled on the edge of the bed. Essek pushed him onto his back and curled up next to him, guiding Caleb’s head to settle against his chest. Limbs tangled together.

No more words were said for a while. Caleb drifted asleep at some point, waking with a headache. Essek left briefly to fetch him a cup of water. Caleb stretched and his back cracked a little bit. He felt hollowed out, but in a good way. The way you felt after a good, well-deserved cry.

Essek returned in a few minutes, wiping his own eyes on his sleeve, and made Caleb drink the whole cup. “You should eat something.”

“Soon.” Caleb still felt a bit queasy from the tears.

Essek tucked himself into Caleb’s side, arm around his waist. He squeezed, just a little, and kissed Caleb’s collarbone. Caleb pulled him in close and kissed the top of his head.

“Danke.” The word was not enough to express the depths of Caleb’s gratitude that Essek had lain here with him through his grief, that he had taken such a risk to stay at Caleb’s side in the market to begin with. Under better circumstances, Caleb would have been furious with Essek for that, but they both knew Caleb had needed him today.

Caleb slowly rubbed his palm across the surface of the quilt behind Essek’s back. It felt exactly the same as the one he’d had when he was little, which Una had repaired again and again over the years because he was so attached to it. She had made it last until he was seventeen. Until the night he had destroyed everything because of a false memory, primed by faux-patriotic indoctrination and horrific abuse. Caleb would never fully shake off the guilt. Not entirely. Whatever Trent had put in his head, it had been Caleb’s hands that set the fire. But it was getting easier to accept that Trent had engineered the situation very carefully, so that Caleb did not feel like he had another choice.

He was glad Veth had convinced him to accept the quilt. One more piece of his past reclaimed. One more piece that could become a comfort instead of a knife in his ribs.

Caleb felt better. The two of them slowly stretched out their limbs, rolled aching joints, and headed to Beau and Yasha’s side of the house. There was a scent of baking in the air. Not apple tarts--Caleb probably would have broken again if it had been, no matter how happy the memory. He could smell spices.

They stepped down the stairs into the living area. Beauregard was grumbling over some Cobalt Soul report, while Kingsley, notably bored, lazily slapped her leg with his tail over and over. Fjord listened to Beauregard’s complaints with a constructed look of sympathy. Veth was openly ignoring her, head in her spellbook once again. Yasha, Caduceus and Jester were notably absent.

“Oh!” Fjord was very quick to find an excuse to stop listening to her. “There you are. The others are baking biscuits that none of us can pronounce.”

Beauregard rolled her eyes. “I’m telling you I said it right.”

“Caleb, help us out,” said Kingsley. “They’re some kind of spiced biscuit dusted with sugar while they’re still hot. Normally for special occasions.”

“This is a special occasion,” Veth told him. “It’s got the same number of syllables as fluffernutter. I think.”

Caleb suspected he knew what they meant. “Ah. Pfeffernüsse.”

“Yeah, that.”

“Told you I was right,” Beauregard muttered.

“They’re very good,” said Caleb.

“I think the first batch is almost done,” said Veth. “You should be our taste tester.”

Caleb crouched beside her on his way to the kitchen, pointing at the book. “Veth, that rune is upside down.”

“Fuck!”

He found the spell she was copying out in his own spellbook and set it beside her. “Here. It’s easier with more than one source. I’ll be back to help you in a moment.”

Caleb then stepped into the kitchen, with Essek on his tail. Yasha had a pair of soft pink oven mitts on, pulling a tray from their dark metal oven. Jester held a bag of confectioner’s sugar, bouncing in anticipation while Caduceus tried half-heartedly to close the bag before she spilled it everywhere.

“You’re just in time, Mr Caleb,” Caduceus said, giving up. “The lady selling baking supplies at the market gave us the recipe. I am not going to try pronouncing it again.”

“Pfeffernüsse,” Caleb supplied again.

“Yeah, no.”

Jester snickered. “He kept trying to say it while you were upstairs. It was very cute.”

By now, Yasha had set the tray down and put another in the oven. “Caleb, Caleb, come here! Look!”

Caleb stepped to her side and gazed down at the cookie tray. They were a little less round than the pfeffernüsse Caleb was used to, but recognisable. Jester came over and sprinkled the sugar over them with far more grace than anyone had expected.

Once cooled a bit, they brought the biscuits out to the living area. They were soft like Caleb remembered, and the spice blend was excellent. “These are perfect,” he said. “Thank you.”

Yasha looked genuinely touched, and swept him into a huge hug.

“May I help you next time?” asked Essek. “I have never baked before.”

“Of course,” Yasha said. “Caduceus is going to teach us to make bread soon.” She held up her hands in a slow-motion shrug. “Goes well with soup?” Her voice went up at the end, making it sound like a question.

Kingsley, who had absolutely not paid any attention to the conversation, shoved an entire biscuit in his mouth, his eyes widening to a ludicrous degree. “What the fuck? This is the best thing I have ever tasted.”

“We are famous for our baked goods,” said Caleb.

“You’d think Zemnians would be a happier bunch if this is the shit they eat,” Beauregard said, her mouth covered in sugar.

“Depression baking is a cultural pastime,” Caleb said.

“Bro, what the fuck?”

“Do you think Astrid and Eadwulf eat these things?” asked Jester.

“Probably,” said Caleb. “We used to.” That reminded him; he needed to message Astrid and arrange a time to discuss the job offer. “Ah, one moment.” He pulled out the copper wire, sticking to Common for the sake of his companions. “Astrid, it’s Bren. The Professors delivered the offer. Do you have time to talk? I am a little nervous about it. Time and place?”

Astrid replied in Zemnian, “Do you remember Trent’s old office? I’m there now. Come when you are ready.”

Caleb re-upped the spell. “I will be there in half an hour,” he replied in Zemnian.

Still in Zemnian, Astrid replied one last time, “I look forward to it.”

Beauregard was the only one who could understand the Zemnian half of what Caleb had said. “Caleb, I don’t wanna be patronising, but are you feeling up to that?”

“I want to get it over with,” Caleb replied. He clarified for the rest of the group, “I am going to see Astrid soon, to talk about the job.”

“I’ll pack some cookies,” said Jester, grabbing the plate and rushing into the kitchen. Yasha chased after her before she could break anything.

“Do you want an escort?” asked Fjord.

“Nein. I’ll be all right.”

“You will call if you need us?” Fjord’s voice was firm; it wasn’t a question.

“Ja, of course.”

****

Caleb was out the door in a few minutes, carrying a cloth bundle of six Pfeffernüsse, all that had been left of the first batch. It was four in the afternoon, the air having chilled a little but it was still pleasant. Caleb didn’t mind the cold too much, as long as he wasn’t trapped in it.

Walking into the Shimmer Ward was less frightening than it used to be. There would always be a lingering hint of anxiety, but he had it well in hand. There were crownsguard stationed at the Academy gates; they silently let him pass into the manicured gardens of the campus.

Coming here as a teenager had been a dream come true, which had quickly become a nightmare. Maybe coming back here to teach would let him reclaim those memories, turn them into something useful. He headed to the nearest tower, where he knew most staff kept an office. Trent had rarely been in his, but Caleb recalled that Astrid had been teaching here, so it made sense she would make better use of it.

The tall marble archways and huge windows had not changed one bit since the last time Caleb had been here, not long before he murdered his parents. Maybe coming here was a bad idea, especially after the day he’d had. Or maybe he needed to get this over with. If he got emotional about being here, at least he could claim it was because he was tired.

Muscle memory carried Caleb to Trent’s old office. He felt nauseous. He knocked on the door. It swung open, seemingly of its own accord.

Astrid was seated behind the massive, heavy mahogany desk. Caleb knew from personal experience how sharp the corners could be. He was going to be sick.

Astrid set aside her pen, capping the inkwell front of her. “Hallo, Bren.”

Caleb swallowed before he spoke. “Astrid.”

Astrid continued in Zemnian, so Caleb decided to match her. “Sit down,” she said , gesturing to one of the three chairs. They looked spindly and delicate, but Caleb knew for a fact how sturdy they were. And how much force it took to break out of any bindings tying one’s arm to the arms of the chair.

Caleb took a deep breath through his nose, picking up the spices of the Pfeffernüsse. It helped. He placed the bundle on the desk. Astrid’s desk.

“Jester, Yasha and Caduceus are experimenting with Zemnian baking,” he said quietly, letting himself fall into a chair. “They’re good.”

Astrid raised an eyebrow, gently picking at the piece of twine holding the bundle closed. She lifted a biscuit from the cloth. “They smell right.”

“They taste right, too.”

Astrid split the biscuit in half, handing the larger part to Caleb. He wasn’t sure if it was affection or distrust. She waited for him to take the first bite but also quickly followed suit, so maybe a bit of both. Understandable.

“These are good,” she said, finishing the biscuit and rubbing a thumb across her sugared lips. Slowly. It had to be deliberate. “You look tired.”

“Long day.”

“How is the house?”

“Good. Different. I am...” He laughed, just a bit, thinking over the last couple days. “A little out of practice. I don’t know if you knew… I was homeless for a while. It felt safer.”

Astrid did not look surprised. “I know.” She exhaled through her nose, visibly rousing herself. “You wanted to talk about the job offer?”

“Alphira would have made a terrible Volstrucker.”

Astrid cracked a small smile. “She told me about your meeting today. I apologise for her clumsiness. You took it more gracefully than I would have.”

“I doubt it.” Caleb didn’t tell her about his breakdown behind the shop. “A shame the smut shop is gone.”

“Evidently their business fell apart without your patronage.” Astrid gave an extremely put-upon sigh. “Wulf found another place. Get him to give you directions.”

“Kingsley is curious.”

“Yes, I am sure that is your only motivation.” Astrid cleared her throat and visibly put her mind back on task. “Bettina needs a replacement. The Archmages are falling over themselves to sing your praises. They are, in some ways, full of shit. Hiring you will terrify them. I think you will like that.” She glanced at the now-closed door and lowered her voice. “Headmaster Zivan Margolin is a weak link to Trent, but a link nonetheless. Your presence will make his life very difficult.”

Caleb matched her volume. “Whoever decided the Headmaster of Soltryce Academy should be the same person as the Archmage of Conscription is…” He sighed, unable to put into words how much the deck had been stacked against him, Astrid, Wulf and every other child pulled into the Volstrucker program. And how much it upset him. “What the fuck.”

“Margolin is busy pretending he loves you,” said Astrid. “He’s become a little bold in his claims that he saw your potential from the beginning. The Martinet is growing uncomfortable with the implication and will throw him to the sharks to save his own skin. One word to the right people…”

Caleb knew Beauregard would carry the message to Yudala Fon in a heartbeat. “We need to be careful. Take it slow. We have disrupted the Volstrucker pipeline for the moment. We cannot afford to stumble now.”

Astrid leaned back in her seat, looking very much like a cat who had just eaten a bird it had been chasing for miles. She raised her voice to a normal volume. “So, you will take the job?”

“I might.”

“Bettina told me your demands,” said Astrid. “We’ll put them before the Archmages. See what we can do. If nothing else, making the demands will prove a point no matter what they do about them.”

“Astrid, I am serious. I want them fulfilled.”

“I know. Bettina has suggestions about the ethics lessons. I agree you should teach it as part of the Transmutation classes, at least for now. Would we have listened when we were students?”

“I think that depends on who it came from. And whether Trent had gotten to us yet.”

“I agree. I think you will make a more compelling speaker than anyone else we could find.” She smirked a little. “You were always charismatic, and you have the lived experience to make an impact.” She took another biscuit, chewing thoughtfully, eyes tracing through the air as if she was reading calculations. “You said you were nervous.”

Admitting that in the Sending had been an impulse decision, born out of an emotional day. He didn’t regret it. Outside the Nein, Astrid probably understood best that Caleb had always been an anxious person, even if he had handled it much more gracefully in his youth. When he eternally swung between deep insecurity and excessive arrogance owed to his skills, and the fact he had known very well how charming he could be. Anyway, Astrid and Wulf knew his old insecurities well. Now he had new ones, and Astrid was trying to be on his side as much as she could.

So Caleb voiced something he wasn’t sure he would ever tell anyone else. “I have always wanted to teach. You know that. But. It’s a lot of responsibility. Maybe Trent is still in my head a bit, but I am afraid. He said that I am not the only ‘one of us’ in the Assembly who went through similar trauma. What if I… turn out no better than he did?”

“He also said you were defined by your trauma, if I recall.” Astrid’s face had shuttered a bit the instant Caleb invoked Trent. “He likes to find our pressure points and push until we break. You know that.” She took a third biscuit and shoved it into his hand. “He saw what he wanted to see, and he wanted his vision of you to be what the rest of us saw as well. I… made an error. I misunderstood your ambitions. As did The Martinet.”

“What did Ludinus think I wanted?”

“Power. Like most others in the Assembly. Revenge. Like most Volstrucker who have thought deeply enough about what Trent put us through.”

“He would have been right. Once.”

“I know. The first time you came to me, you were still very angry.”

“I never stopped. My goals changed. I… learned better, I suppose.” Caleb owed so much to the Nein, especially his talks with Caduceus that helped clarify what he did and didn’t want in the end.

“I didn’t. You know I would’ve killed him if you hadn’t stopped me.”

“I wouldn’t have resented you if you had.”

“You were right to stop me. It was more satisfying to shame him in public and have him tossed in a dark cell with a silencing collar glued to his neck forever.”

“And his hands glued together for just as long.”

Astrid’s eyes softened a bit. “One of the most beautiful things I have seen in my life.” Her gaze lingered on him, just a second longer than either of them could dismiss as casual. “How’s your beacon thief?”

“He’s fine.” Caleb wasn’t sure he could handle talking about his current partner with Astrid of all people.

“Have you seen him recently?”

“I am not telling you that.”

“I won’t turn him in. It would not go well for me.” Astrid rested her chin in her hands, searching his face. “Are you two happy?”

“Yes.” Caleb did not offer further details, and Astrid did not pry.

“You deserve it.” She smiled down at the bundle of biscuits. “Tell your friends thank you for the Pfeffernüsse. Will you take the job?”

“I will.”

“Good. For what it’s worth, I think you will be a good professor. You and I both know how important that will be.”

Caleb matched her sad smile. “No more children on the pyre.”

“No more.”

Caleb felt better. He could do this. It would take more than one person to make change, but he could do his part. Astrid had her ambitions, but he knew her in a way very few people did. There were conversations to be had between them, more damage to stitch up.

But it had been a long, emotional day. There would be more days. More time to pull the vulnerable from the flames, to stand between them and the remaining elements of this government who would use, abuse and discard them.

And, he hoped, time to care for those had already been hurt.

[corinthbayrpg]

NAME. Elene Petrakis (Helen)  AGE & BIRTH DATE.   Unknown, 3,000+ GENDER & PRONOUNS. Female & She/her SPECIES. Rift  OCCUPATION. Archivist at the Museum of Corinth FACE CLAIM. Emilia Clarke

BIOGRAPHY

(Tw abduction, war, death, hanging) They thought she was going to be a monster. A queen gave birth to two eggs, and whispers had abound of what horrors could lay inside. Everyone had see what had become of Pasiphaë’s child, the ferocious creature that tormented the island of Crete until it was slain. They looked at the eggs and feared creatures of equal terror would emerge to plague this world. Perhaps they had even been right. But what emerged instead was a babe, bright and beautiful even in the cradle, along with her siblings, every one of them humans with ten fingers and ten toes. To the child they gave the name Helen, a princess of Sparta and daughter of both a king and the mightiest of the gods. She grew quick and strong, her earthly father ensuring her capabilities with any weapon that could be fit into her small hands. Perhaps in another life, she would’ve been a warrior, more comfortable sat atop a horse with a bow in hand than others would grow to be in their entire lives. She wrestled against other children in the palaestra, and frequently went hunting with her brothers. But even as a child, Helen was golden, and so her fate was tainted.

The first lesson she learnt that beauty could be as much a curse as it was a boon befell the princess in her girlhood. She was merely thirteen, when Helen was abducted from her home in Sparta. Theseus and his companion Pirithous had decided that they would take wives, but only those great enough in stature to themselves. As a daughter of Zeus, Helen became Theseus’s choice, taken to his mother Aethra to be watched over in Athens, while the pair descended into the Underworld to claim Persephone for Pirithous’s bride. That was the last time she laid eyes on either man, for her rescue came long before the sole survivor’s return from the failed abduction. It was her brothers Castor and Pollux who came for Helen, leading an invasion into the city for the return of their sister, whisking her away back to Sparta.

After the abduction, King Tyndareus became concerned with the safety of his daughter, that others may attempt to follow in suit. A closer guard was kept on the princess, and when the time came for Helen to marry, a great contest was put forth. Men from across Greece came to compete for her hand, including the man that would eventually be married to her cousin. It was Odysseus who suggested that an oath be sworn by all the suitors, a pledge to uphold and defend the union of Helen and whomever her husband was to be, should quarrel ever arise. With his daughter’s best interest in mind, Tyndareus agreed to the idea, unknowing of the trouble it would eventually bring.

Menelaus had not been her choice, but at the time of their marriage, Helen had no cause to protest the arrangement. His attention was flattery, the greatest of the great many who had come for her, and for a girl of fifteen, it was easy to allow herself to be swept up in the fantasy. But real life is hardly ever so idyllic, and her husband soon proved to be far removed from what she had wanted. Lust and love are so easily confused for each other, but the want of a person is not the same as to see their soul. To Menelaus, Helen was a trophy; the most beautiful woman in the world, the daughter of Zeus and Spartan royalty, a coveted possession that he had won and displayed proudly. Even as she sat beside him, Queen of the land that had always been her home, she found no value in her life anymore, and none that took her more seriously than a girl with a pretty face.

It was not the life Helen had wanted for herself. A golden cage is still a cage, no matter how much finery decorates it’s bars. She gave Menelaus a daughter, gave him years of her life, and yet received little in return. Bored, lonely and wistful, it was then that Paris appeared in her life. First came Aphrodite, who informed her of the Trojan prince’s impending arrival. She promised Helen the connection she had always yearned for, an understanding that would never be found with Menelaus, and bid for the young queen to go with him when he came for her.

Paris was everything that he had been promised to be. Kind, attentive, and genuine, unlike her husband. He cared to hear Helen’s thoughts and opinions, her desire for independence from the marriage she had become trapped in, and a close knit bond formed between the pair in a short amount of time. They made plans to run away from Sparta, to return to Paris’s home of Troy and live amongst the dryads in the land beyond the city, where they would be safe and Helen would have the chance to be free. It was a selfish decision, and one she would not make again if given the chance to rewrite history, knowing all the grief that was to follow.

Menelaus was not a man to let his bride go so easily, Helen knew that. Still, never in her dreams did she imagine he would call upon her once suitors to uphold their oath, and lead them across the sea to reclaim his wayward life. They never got the chance to reach the trees, before the city was besieged by Greeks. War had broken out, and thousands upon thousands of people would die before it came to an end. The Trojans that housed her did so with spite, blaming her for the death that arrived at their doorstep, and though she had the company of Paris and Hector to shield her from the mass of their anger, Troy became just as lonely a place as Sparta had once been.

Both the Trojan princes would lose their lives in the war, and it was meant to be Helen’s fate as well. She was shunned by the women of the city as the walls were breached and Troy burned around her. The daughter of Zeus, a trained fighter in her own right, and yet she had been reduced to a state of fear and desperation, surrounded by people on both sides that reviled her. Trojans and Greeks alike wanted her blood, prepared to stone her to death for the role she had played in such a great destruction, but it was for Menelaus that their hands were stayed. The king had declared he would be the only one to kill his runaway wife, and so she was brought forth before him and his blade. But at the sight of Helen, dropped to her knees in subjugation, he was once again taken by the sight of her great beauty. Though the rest of Troy would not be so lucky, the once and again Spartan Queen’s life was spared, and she was taken back to her homeland along with the victorious Greek army.

Sparta no longer offered a comforting home to the woman either now, however. The image of her as a wanton adulteress had spread across the Greek land, never mind the truth of the matter, and the remaining years of her human life were no more happy. After Menelaus’s death, Helen was chased from the land by the anger of Nicostratus and Megapenthes, who still harbored hatred for their stepmother that had simmered across the years. She fled to Rhodes for sanctuary, where a woman she thought to be her friend resided. Polyxo had been the queen of the island for a number of years, after the death of her husband, and so Helen mistakenly thought the place to be safe to her.

But though Polyxo received her warmly, inside she held a desire for vengeance. She, along with many others, blamed Helen for the events of the Trojan war, where her husband died on the first day of fighting. When the former queen came to her for protection, she saw the opportunity she had waited on for years, placed right onto her lap. And so it came about that while Helen had been bathing in her chambers, Polyxo had the handmaidens she had given to her dress up under the guise of furies, to drag her out of the tub and through the city. She was taken into the public of the island, amongst it’s people, and hung by rope on a tree branch for everyone to see, until her once pink lips turned a shade of blue.

Perhaps death had been kinder to Helen than her life ever had. As Zeus’s child, she had been taken to Elysium for her eternal rest, a land of paradise and splendor. And yet even so, she had not been happy. It was during this time that she had made a companion of the goddess Hestia, one of the few friends she had found even in such a utopia. She could see the sadness that resided in Helen’s soul, the feeling of loss that she had never truly gotten to live as she desired, and so the goddess offered her a gift; a second chance at life, to return to the earth as an immortal. It was a decision she made with ease, and so Helen was sent back to the land of the living, no longer a mortal woman, but as a rift.

But she could not be Helen anymore. No, her name had now become synonymous with the great and terrible war that left the city of Troy in shambles. In order to be truly free with a new beginning, she had to be someone new, too. The infamous women went through an abundance of names at first, trying them on like the dresses she wore, but never back to her own. It was during this time that she returned to the destroyed city, to the hills beyond where the dryads Paris had spoken of lived. It was with them she found a feeling of true peace, maybe even for the first time. There was a kinship with the dryads that the former queen had been missing, the feeling of belonging amongst a people that for the first time, did not see her for only her beauty. But nothing can last forever, not even for immortals.

She loved the dryads greatly, and remained with them until the very last had returned to their tree, to slip into a slumber that would last for thousands of years. Alone again, Helen slowly reformed herself to fit into the world she was left with. Elene Petrakis was a name she adopted centuries later, when the story of Helen of Troy was more myth than history. It was close enough to remain familiar, and yet not so much that to hear it felt like reopening the wound that never quite healed inside her chest. A life as Helen had lead to a great destruction, and so Helen she would no longer be.

That was how Elene’s story began; she was a wanderer, who moved across continent to continent, never settling anywhere for more than a few years. She used the new talents she had gained as a rift to help those wherever she ended up. Women in particular, she found herself protective of — perhaps it was too much like looking into a mirror, the reflection of everything that used to shackle her in her human life. But she was still a Spartan princess before she was ever known as the face that launched a thousand ships, and she could swing a sword just as well as any man. And swing she would, in the defense of those who could not defend themselves. It was not a righteous crusade so much as her inability to watch others suffer as she once did. Greater conflict it was easy to steer from, to turn away and let the world become what it would, and the greater humanity she cares little for the fate of. But individual people in suffering, Elene has found, it is much harder to walk away from.

It’s surprisingly easy to be a ghost, even when the entire world thinks it knows your story. Who would ever connect the pretty blonde they saw in a crowd to the woman of legend? Her name became a cautionary tale, a treacherous and wicked woman or an unfortunate victim, even a cheesy pickup line for those bold enough to spin it, all depending on from whose lips it fell. After awhile, she learnt how to shut it all out. Elene learnt how to keep her head down, and not include herself in the rabble that existed around her, whether supernatural or human. She intended to keep on living that way, maybe even for the rest of her immortal life, until the fall of magic came.

It happened suddenly, and returned just as quick, as if the world had been reset. Though the two week period in-between was a strange adjustment time, Elene had been prepared to return to her life as usual, until the whisperings reached her ears. It was an impossibility, and yet, talk of the dryads resurfacing was not something she could ignore. She remembered the days of living among the trees, the last time that she had truly been happy. It was an ache so sharp, that’s led her straight to Corinth Bay to see for herself. It’s a city she’s been avoiding since the veil first tore, evading the pull it had on the supernatural creatures of this world, that it might would bring a chaos into her life that Elene sought to avoid. But at the chance of seeing her friends again, there is little she would not do, even if it means stepping into an unknown danger.

PERSONALITY

+ protective, generous, observant -  defensive, contrite, withdrawn

PLAYED BY Abby. CDT. She/Her.

[thecleverdame]

The Oath - 14

Parings: Dark!Alpha!Sam x Omega!Reader

Story Master List

Summary: After an unsuccessful escape attempt, the reader finds herself taken as a spoil of war. She ends up in the bed of a ruthless Alpha, the son of John Winchester, leader of the kingdom of Gilead. She struggles to conceal her true identity and navigate a society where being an Omega means nothing more than serving at the pleasure of powerful men.

Warnings: non-con, sexual assault, rape, attempted suicide, sexual slavery, branding, torture, ownership, voyeurism, anal play, smut, violence, and murder.

Sam is dark in this story. If any of the warnings are triggers for you, I would suggest skipping this one. Please read and heed all the warnings.

Beta: ilikaicalie

Support my Patreon and get access to exclusive stories.  CLICK HERE

-

The looming threat of John Winchester grows ever closer. 

For a few days, you have Greta as a company. She’s constantly angry, hovering somewhere on the verge of defeat but she talks to you like you're a person. It’s mostly just her exposition on how much she hates Dean and what she’ll do to him one day when she takes her revenge, but you don’t mind listening. She makes you feel alive and like you’re not in this alone. 

And then one day she’s gone. Dean leaves early one morning taking her with him and you’re again commended to the solitary life of waiting for a stoic Sam who makes ill-suited company. 

-

“Let me see.” Sam sits shirtless on the edge of the bed. He’s covered in a thin layer of dirt and bruises over this chest and arms. He’s been spending long days with the troops. The hoots and hollers can be heard all across the camp. Men fighting each other for sport, and Sam is no exception. He loves a good brawl more than any of them and he often comes bearing the marks of another man’s knife or fist. 

Tonight he waits patiently as you pull up your nightgown and rollover. 

Since the branding, your spirit has taken a blow. Most days you do nothing more than lie in bed. At first, it was to alleviate the pain, but now it’s to alleviate the stark surroundings of your reality. His fingers trail over the mark on your backside, but he says nothing. With a tap at your hip, you roll over and let him inspect the brand on your inner thigh. He unwraps the bandage while you stare at the ceiling. 

“What do you think of it?” he asks with interest. As if you should admire his handiwork. 

“I haven’t looked,” you admit.

“Haven’t looked?” he balks. “It’s been nearly two weeks.” 

“I haven’t been able to bring myself to do it.” 

“Then look now, while I’m here.” When you close your eyes he sighs, wrapping a large, wide hand around your knee and squeezing. “Look at it.” 

Pushing down the dread you prop yourself up, taking a breath before looking down. The flesh is pink, raised and newly healed. It’s a thin outline of the letters S and W with the small recreation of his family’s crest below. 

“Why?” you whisper, staring at the wound. “Why did you do this to me?”

Sam’s confused, a genuine perplexity settles over his face. 

“Because you’re mine.” 

You laugh out of exasperation. This is what life has come to. He marked you because you’re his. It’s so simple. He thinks you should already understand. 

“And to keep you safe,” he continues. “There are countless men, Alphas, that will never see an Omega in the flesh. I don’t want anyone thinking they can just take you. My mark would make any man think twice.”

“Oh,” you counter, anger bubbling up faster than you can suppress it. “That’s why it’s between my legs? So if another man tries to force himself on me he’ll see it?”

“Yes.” He ignores your frustrations and gets up. “You don’t understand it, but you will. That mark is a gift. If you were taken, any man who found you would know who to return you to.”

“You think someone is going to take me?”

“We’re at war. There are no absolutes. Circumstances change in the blink of an eye. Anything can happen.” The muscles of his back flex, growing bruises bleeding into yellowing healed spots from the week before. 

There’s no point in entertaining this conversation. In his mind you should be grateful he’s taken such care to leave you with this declaration of ownership. Luckily, you’ve become a master of redirecting the moment. 

Clearing your throat, you sit up and adjust your skirt. 

“Would you like me to wash you?” you ask, nodding toward the tub from your afternoon bath. “It’s probably still warm. I’ll put some water on the fire to warm it up.”

You’ve discovered over the last month that he responds favorably when you present your plans instead of ask. So you set water to warm. Sam strips down and sinks into the bath without a word. Once the pot is steaming you carefully carry it over to him and pour it near his feet then sit at the side of the tub, taking a cloth and washing his back. 

There’s a deep scar along the right side of his spine. You’ve spent hours looking at it while he’s sleeping and always wondered how it got there. 

“How did you get this?” you ask, a finger trailing over the flesh. 

“My father tried to kill me. Well, actually, he wanted Dean to do it. But of course Dean would never go through with it, so John tried himself.”

“Why would he want to kill you?”

“Because he thought I was something evil. No longer a man.” Sam shrugs. “He’s not wrong.”

“He had to have cut you deep, this scar is massive.”

“It should have killed me outright. But I’m not sure I can die again. I recovered quickly. And my father learned his place in the order of things.”

As the water turns brown, his skin comes clean. The awful scents of other men’s sweat and blood wash away, leaving nothing but Sam. A strong scent that gives a preview of what’s to come. 

“Your rut is coming?” you ask for confirmation. 

“Yes.” He closes his eyes as you rub a cloth across his back, watching the water rolling across taught muscle. “Does that worry you?”

“A bit. I’ve just heard…”

“What have you heard?”

“Sometimes Alphas can’t control themselves. Especially older...I mean...unmated ones.”

He chuckles, breaking into a smile and turns to look at you. 

“Are you calling me old?”

“No, I, no…”

“It’s alright little bird. I am older than most to be unmated. That’s a fair statement. But you don’t need to be worried. I control myself better than most men. You might even enjoy it.”

Two Days Later

His rut overtakes you both. For Sam it’s an animalistic need to have you. And for you it’s desire beyond reason. His scent curls inside you, vibrating, coming alive until you think you might burst if you can’t have him inside you. 

-

You wake up out of a dead sleep, body so stiff you can hardly move. Sam is beside you, tossing and turning in his sleep, his face creased in distress. 

You imagine you seem just as desperate in a heat. Lust and pain and desire all coming together in an animal need for each other. You could fight this feeling; resist giving in to what you want and he needs, but there’s no point. Physical pleasure has become the last ray of hope and you might as well hang on to it for as long as you can. 

“Sam,” you murmur, getting to your knees and lifting a leg over his waist. His naked cock is thick and tall, hot skin thumping against your stomach as you straddle him. 

His eyes are still closed, body radiating the heat of his rut like a fever that’s about to break. His head presses back into the pillow when you wrap a hand around his shaft, stroking down and then up under the head of his cock. Precum drips from the head, and you wipe it away with your thumb. 

In one motion, you lift up and sink back down with him inside you. That familiar stretch sending pings of pleasure out in all directions. 

His eyes pop open, meeting yours in a surprised look before dropping down to where your bodies are joined together. Both hands curl over your hips, fingers sinking into flesh as he rolls you quickly onto your back, sinking balls deep back into your cunt with one powerful thrust. 

The connection you felt to him before is nothing compared to the growing desperation you feel for each other in this moment. There’s an energy building in your chest, pressure swelling as he moves faster, his hips slapping against your thighs. 

Your clit is throbbing, just a feather’s touch away from sending you over the edge.

Sam squeezes his eyes shut in concentration as sweat drips from the end of his nose, landing on your stomach. 

“Please,” you find yourself begging without even trying to speak. 

His eyes open again, looking down at you. With one hand he pushes soaked hair away from his forehead. The room feels as if it’s spinning, the moment careening out of control. 

“I’m going to claim you,” he explains, his eyes just as hungry as every other part of his body. 

“I want it,” you nod vigorously. With one hand you reach up, sliding a hand around the back of his neck and pulling him down for a messy kiss. His tongue glides over yours, tasting, searching, before pulling back. “Please.”

The rest is a blur. His knot thickens, and just as you cum his teeth sink into your neck. His bite is deep but the pain is tempered by the pleasure of your climax. You shake around him, wrapping your arms over his back and holding him as close as you can. 

His dead drops into the crook of your neck, hips still moving until he’s got nothing left to give. There’s hot breath at your pulse point while he licks at the wound. His tongue seals the open flesh, sucking and teasing until he’s as boneless as you and collapses on the bed at your side. 

-

Sam stares at the ceiling of the tent, one hand behind his head and the other wrapped around you where you’re curled into his side. 

He shouldn’t have done it. 

Alphas in Gilead don’t claim Omega’s outside of marriage. You’re meant to be a part of the ceremony, a wedding where he’ll be wed to a Beta of high social standing. Only then would he have the blessing of his father to claim you. 

What the hell happened to his self-control? One moment it was fucking the next minute you were...everything. The whole world narrowed down to the woman in his bed, asking to be his. 

He has to own it, he has no choice. If anyone senses even a hint of trepidation, they’ll take you from him. It’s what should happen, what the law demands. The offending Alpha is beheaded and the Omega paired off with some Alpha who’ll get what he can before she begins to fade. Without her mate, the Omega dies a slow death that sometimes takes years but always kills in the end. 

It’s not that he doesn’t want you. He does. Sam has zero interest in an uptight Beta, but he also knows he should have waited. He’s just created a whole host of complications and his father will be all too happy to find a reason to reprimand him. 

-

You stir at his side, waking up slowly as your eyes flutter open. You’re not truly awake as your mouth curls into a sleepy smile, eyes closing again as you nuzzle closer until your face is pressed into the side of his neck. 

That’s when he feels it, a pang in his stomach that’s there for a second and then gone. He shifts, pulling your body into his, skin on skin while you purr like a happy cat at his side. This isn’t a bad feeling. He doesn’t mind you being bonded to him in such a permanent way and if it keeps you more content, then it’s worth it. But it certainly does impose a whole set of complications he wasn’t anticipating. 

-

“Did you kill her?” Dean inspects your lifeless form, nodding from the bloody sheets, to his brother. 

“No.” Sam looks at you as well, gaze lingering longer than it should. “I claimed her.”

Dean’s eyes go wide, but he doesn’t say anything. He stews in silence for some time. 

“Are you trying to create a situation? You know how dad is going to-”

“I know.” Sam raises a hand. 

“At first I thought she was good for you. You were less agitated, not so much of a temper, but she’s proving to be a problem.”

“She’s my problem then,” Sam snaps back.

[ayawriter]

Surprise

Character: Naib, Jack, and Friends

Plot: The manor is plotting something, and Naib is suspicious. And there may be a confession at the end of it all.

WARNINGS: TINY NON-GRAPHIC MENTIONS OF PTS/ANXIETY/MURDER, JACKNAIB AT THE VERY END

It was a normal morning. Or at least, that’s what it was supposed to be, according to Naib. But as he wandered the halls on his way to breakfast, he noticed a strange tension in the air, especially whenever he was present. It wasn't a bad tension, but it put him on edge nonetheless, the way the others kept whispering and planning something behind his back. At first, it didn’t bother him as much, but when hunters started letting him go, he began to get suspicious. 

“What is going on…”

The match this time was with the Ripper. His teammates this time were the Mind’s Eye, the Priestess, and the Cowboy. However, with Ripper spinning around so merrily, it seemed that he wasn't looking for a serious fight that day, so while everyone was busy decoding, Naib decided to take it easy and spend some time with him. 

“I don’t have a bad feeling so much as a feeling that they’re planning something...Even the hunters. No matter what, I’m always let go or ignored...It’s not so bad sometimes, but when they spare me after slaughtering the rest of the team...well…”

Jack nodded his head, humming in acknowledgement. The two were currently hanging out on the second floor of the Sacred Heart Hospital, with Naib sitting on one of the beds and Jack leaning on another across from him. It was no secret that the two were close. It still baffles many residents how the two became as close as they were, despite the rocky start the two had, with Naib’s complete distrust over the hunter, and Ripper mistaking the Mercenary for a child. Yet, when Naib had succumbed to the pressure and memories of his past during a match, it was Jack who had ultimately helped him through his panic, and occasionally kept him grounded when his friends were unavailable. They were also able to connect through the fact that both of them had a significant body count. Now they could be found spending time together even outside of matches, something the others rarely see him do, except maybe with the Seer, Embalmer, and Forward, and occasionally the TonTon duo. 

“You don’t happen to know anything do you? It’s not often you decide to take things easy either.”

Jack gave him a look through his mask, pausing his fidgeting with his claws. 

“You...Don’t know what today is?”

The Mercenary tilted his head in confusion. 

“Is today some important event or something?”

The Hunter merely sighed and shook his head.

“No, it’s nothing....”

Naib hummed, suspicious. He’d have to check his calendar once the match was over. Right on time, the last cipher had popped, yet Jack’s eyes had yet to flare up. 

“I see you took off Detention.”

“Of course. I have no need for it if I’m planning on letting you all go free anyways.”

“Hah, fair point.”

He extended a hand towards the Mercenary with a gentlemanly bow. 

“Well, aren’t you being a gentleman today,” he remarked, taking the hand that was being offered, blushing slightly when it was kissed.

However, instead of being helped down, he was swept upward into a bridal carry, something Jack rarely ever did, unless it was a special occasion. Naib’s face was red in embarrassment, and could practically feel the smirk that was permeating through his mask. 

“You’re a real piece of work, you know that?”

“I try.”

And Jack proceeded to carry Naib to the gate, where the others were waiting. 

“Thank you very much, Mr. Ripper,” Helena bowed politely, her can gripped close. 

“I’m not one fer friendly matches, but thanks.” 

“Yes, it’s nice to be able to have some time to relax, even within matches,” Fiona agreed. “And I see you two have been having fun while we were out decoding.” 

The priestess had a knowing smirk, eyeing the mercenary being carried by the Ripper, making him blush brighter. 

“I-It’s not like I’m being carried like this because I like it!”

Kevin laughed heartily, “Yet yer not even strugglin’! Actions speak louder than words,kid.”

Jack put him down, as a flustered Naib tried to defend himself to his team as they left one by one. Once Naib was the last one left, Jack took off his mask, a privilege he gave only to Naib on the survivor’s side. He always did enjoy seeing Naib get all flustered, and because of him no less. No matter how many times he sees it, Naib’s cheeks always gets dusted in pink whenever he sees his face uncovered. With a shy wave of thanks and goodbye, he leaves. 

Jack sighed, staring at his hand. Today, he was going to do it. He had an inkling Naib felt the same, but even if he didn’t, he wanted to clear the air before continuing their current relationship any further. They’ve had their moments, but he wanted to make sure. So he was going to test the waters tonight. After all, what better day is there to confess than today?

---

Naib stood frozen in front of the calendar. July 23rd. His birthday. How could he have forgotten? No, it wasn't that he had forgotten. He just hadn’t celebrated it in so long, he simply forgot the importance. And to be fair, there was never any reason, nor was there time to celebrate it. War was no place for personal celebrations, especially as a Gurkha. 

At the same time, Naib wasn't stupid. The way the other survivors kept hiding something behind his back, the hunters letting him go free even if it was their loss. He should have noticed the patterns. Heck they did something similar for Servais’ birthday not too long ago. But since birthdays were things he didn’t deem necessary to celebrate for himself, he never stopped to consider how the others might view it.  A sigh escaped his lips as he combed his hand through his currently loose hair. But even with this newfound knowledge, he didn’t want to raise his hopes up. After all, despite his suspicions, there could always be the possibility of a different celebration. But in that case would the others be keeping it secret from him? 

A knock on the door pulled him out of his thoughts. It was Eli, one of his closest friends within the manor. 

“Good evening, Naib. I was just calling you down for dinner.”

“Yeah, sure. Gimme a sec, I’ll be right down.”

Since he was in his room, he had left his hair down and taken off his green hood. Once he deemed himself presentable, he left the room and headed towards the dining hall with Eli. But when Eli had walked straight past the hall, Naib couldn’t help his growing suspicions. 

“Hey, where’re we going exactly?”

Eli merely smiled mysteriously. “You’ll see.” 

They stopped in front of the garden entrance. Naib was confused. What were they doing at the garden? He was about to ask, when Eli opened the door. 

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY NAIB SUBEDAR!”

Naib was greeted by excited shouts of congratulations and birthday wishes. The garden was brightly lit with paper lanterns courtesy of Michiko, Xie Bian, and Fan Wujiu, and there were tables set with food and sweets, complete with a huge birthday cake, courtesy of Hastur. Naib couldn’t believe the scene before him. For a split second, he was no longer at the manor, but at home, with his mother smiling warmly at him. For some reason, it filled him with a strange sort of happiness that was almost painful. He hadn’t even realized he was crying until his usual friends were surrounding him, and Jack was wiping them away, and the others became quiet. 

“S-Sorry,” he quickly wiped them away but the tears wouldn’t stop. “I...It’s been so long...I guess I forgot…” Despite the silent sobs that wracked his body, Naib made the most genuine smile, something he felt he hadn’t done in so long. “Thank you, everybody...Thank you so much!”

The worried faces quickly melt away to smiles. 

“It should be us who should be thanking you,” Eli spoke up. “You’ve done so much for us already, both in and outside of matches, this is the least we could do.”

Naib nodded, grinning at them wide despite the tears. William returned Naib’s smile with his own and a pat on the back, declaring with a loud voice, “Alright, what are we waiting for, let’s PARTY!”

Everyone cheered, and the party was a success. Naib was given many gifts, mostly handmade and small, due to the limited supplies in the manor, but to Naib they were something he would cherish forever. The festivities lasted long past midnight, till everyone just passed out in various parts of the garden. Only a handful of people were awake, helping clean up the mess in the garden. Naib was in the middle of taking the trash back inside when he was stopped by Jack. Michiko, with a knowing smile, just nodded at him, and took the bag inside for him. 

“This was honestly really nice. It was a bit overwhelming at first, but I’m glad nonetheless.”

“That’s good to hear.”

Jack and Naib were sitting on one of the benches that was a bit more isolated and less brightly lit, so that they could see the stars clearer. Jack had his mask discarded by his side while Naib settled his head on the taller man’s arm, since he couldn’t reach the shoulders, much to his annoyance. 

“Thanks, Jack.”

“I didn’t do anything. It was more of everyone’s ideas, but, you’re welcome.”

They sat in silence. Jack took a breath. 

“Naib.”

“Hm?”

Without another word, Jack’s lips found it’s way onto Naib’s forehead. 

“Happy Birthday.”

Naib was frozen, wide-eyed, a bright blush dusting his cheeks. 

“You--”

“Sorry,” Jack immediately pulled away. “I should have asked permission first. You were just so cute, I couldn’t resist.”

Silence reigned between the two, awkward and thick.

“You could’ve just asked…” the mercenary mumbled.

“Hm?”

Naib sighed. “I said...You could’ve just asked...I wouldn’t have minded…”

Jack smirked. “Oh?”

Naib was now a very deep shade of scarlet, his eyes refusing to meet the Ripper’s own. 

“And...next time…”

“What was that?”

“...’

Jack’s smirk grew wider. He absolutely loved teasing the mercenary. “I’m sorry, Naib, you’ve got to speak up.”

“I said...Next time...You can do it on the lips.”

Naib was blushing deeply, while this time it was Jack’s turn to be caught off guard. Slowly, his shock faded into a more genuine smile, his long arms snaking around Naib and hugging him close to his side. 

“Thank you, Naib. Happy Birthday. I love you.”

“...Yeah. I love you too, Jack.”

[pip-n-flinx]

Among Us

So this is going to get long, this is going to get personal, this is going to be about prejudice and race and self-serving bad-faith arguments and flawed rhetoric. And for all of these reasons I’m going to leave the rest of this under the cut.

As a few of my friends will know, earlier this week I was delivered an ultimatum from my landlord/roommate. He disguised it well, telling me he was ‘concerned for my mental health’ that my ‘negativity was dragging the whole house down’ and that I was simply too filthy to live with. I won’t pretend I’m a neat freak, and I can honestly say that I have taken some pains to clean more since, to his surprise and delight, though its particularly hard to take coming from him.

“You’re always so down. It’s making you lazy and thin skinned” You know its funny you should say that, now specifically, because I’ve actually been on the up and up this last week and you didn’t mention this at all in January when I was actually at my worst, or February when I was afraid I was going to have to quit my job, or back during the holiday season when retail work was breaking my back... Only now do you think to check in on me?

“You left a pair of gloves, a letter, and a small wooden trinket on the table!” Indeed I have, as you have left your pair of gloves, well over 21 letters, and regularly set your packages on this same table, including today two packages to be returned to amazon. I didn’t realize I didn’t get to use the table the same way you do.

“You don’t do dishes! except that you did this week, which is cool I guess but still!” You do realize that I actually hand-wash every dish I use within 24 hours of using it, right? And that often the dishes you come to me bitching that I never cleaned are in fact your fiances, yes? Ok good, next question.

“You’re always complaining about work. I don’t mind that you vent, but its all you talk about anymore!” I have either lost or walked away from 4 jobs in this last year, and that has not been easy, or fun. I have worked essential retail jobs the entire pandemic thus far. Additionally, in the months leading up to you storming out of your 75k a year salaried sales job, I had told you to leave it because I could see that it was killing you. You got so fed up with the job that for 4-5 months before you left your grandma-paid-off-my-second-mortgage capitalism-knows-best-pull-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps-ass spent more time playing valorant and league of legends on the clock than doing actual work. Need I remind you that every time I stepped into your office, or simply stepped upstairs to get ready for work, you would complain about how awful your managers were, or how shitty someone had been to you over the phone? DID I EVER BELITTLE YOU FOR ANY OF THESE THINGS????

The real kicker was that the spark, the moment that started this (at least for him) was me trying to explain why racism and ‘cultural supremecy’ was bad. I had brought to him something I thought we could both agree on, that we could both laugh at. I brought him a series of tweets about how problematic Van Gogh was for studying and imitating traditional japanese painting techniques. He took this, and immediately turned into a piece of the culture wars. Now, I agree, this is an egregious example of trying to ‘cancel’ someone. How cancelling a long dead artist who couldn’t sell his art while he was alive is important is beyond my comprehension, its not as though the market value of these comes up very often, and almost no-one will ever have a chance to buy or reject a Van Gogh. But to him this was emblematic of ‘liberals’ cancelling Seuss and Rowling.

He even went so far as to say that Van Gogh probably ‘did it better’ than the artists he was studying/imitating. Now, this is a huge red-flag to me because this is straight out of the Nazi playbook. This is William Shenker, proposing a theory of music to proof ‘German cultural superiority.’ This, if you will pardon my language, is the real culture war: trying to supplant other cultures art and history with western figures and events.

Now, for those of you who don’t know who I’m talking about, this man is sexist. He doesn’t believe women are equal, complains about women’s sports, and rejects a woman’s right to choose. This man is a transphobe, questioning the logic of ‘safe-spaces’ and allowing people to change their pronouns. This man is a Trump supporter, and voted for him twice. And all of these things I found out years after we became friends. I have in the past contemplated what it would take to cut him out of my life wholesale. Despite our wealth of shared experience and our shared interests, we’ve been drifting apart as he drifts further and further to the right. And he has been drifting. He’s parroted more bad-faith arguments from Ben Shapiro and Tucker Carlson in the last 6 months then he ever did when I first moved in with him.

I have been trying to push back, especially when he says the quiet parts out loud. I try to let him know that it is not acceptable to say he would rather an unarmed black man die that risk that a police officer might be injured. When he compares the people in control of Seuss’ intellectual property and works choose to stop printing less than 6% of his published works to the book burnings in Mao’s china. When he says that its more important to protect teacher from students trolling them by changing their pronouns than it is to protect trans or NB kids. When he espouses his belief that trans and NB kids are ‘just mentally ill.’ Whenever he says any of this shit, I have pushed back. I have tried to halt, or at least slow, his descent towards eugenics and white supremacy and fascism.

It has been to no avail.

And to be honest its exhausting. I wanted to believe that he would trust me, not just to be a moral and thoughtful person, but to be educated and informed on these issues. We went to school together, spent countless hours solving homework and trying to crack games together. If I don’t know the answer to his questions immediately, he often jokes ‘C’mon, you’re supposed to know everything!” and has frequently told me that I’m selling myself short.

But apparently all that trust and all that respect goes out the window when I challenge him. Suddenly I’m ‘overly negative’ or ‘too sensitive’ or he’ll ‘need to look into that, but...’

And the thing is, he is capable of great acts of kindness. He offered to rent me a room in his completely paid-off house, no mortgage at all, simply because he could see living at home was killing my mental health. He offered me 50-75% off of market rate. He buys gifts all the time, has landed tenants job interviews, set people back on their feet, and refused to press charges for several major financial loses he’s taken on the determination that it would do more harm to the defendant than he could ever recoup from it.

But he does not extend this kindness, this generous soul, to everyone. And lately, his circle grows smaller, and his kindess has waned, and it’s been so devastating to see him slip further and further towards his own worst impulses.

I know there will be people who think I should have cut him out of my life years ago, who can’t believe we never talked enough to know that he voted for Trump in 2016. I think back then he was genuinely ashamed, or at least guilty, about that vote. Now? It’s almost a matter of pride for him. I can’t tell you the number of times in the last 4 months that he’s told me that Biden “couldn’t possibly” be as “great” a President as Trump.

And he hides behind this “praise them when they do good, cuff them when they do bad” line and I used to take comfort in it but now... Now it’s clear that it was just a front or excuse for liking these abhorrent people.

I’ve had a couple of hard conversations with some of our mutual friends about what this means for me, and how I interract with the whole group of friends as a whole, in the last 3 days. None of our mutual friends seem to take any of these things as seriously as I do, with my oldest friend even telling me that he ‘can’t imagine’ breaking a friendship off over politics.... I know I know, the caucasity of it all, yes ha ha. And it does make me genuinely worried that I’ll wind up losing the 5-6 close friends that I actually rely on these days over this horrible sonuvabitch. But all this personal venting aside, there’s something bigger here I want to address:

I sat down this evening to watch Last Week Tonight and I was struck by this piece about Tucker Carlson, because while I knew some of what was said on his show, he is remarkably confident for a man who spouts the quiet parts of racism/sexism/homophobia on TV. I have a hard time imaging a more blatantly racist thing to do then declare that a woman who suggested ‘dismantling systems of oppression wherever they are found’ wants to dismantle the American system...

And I have to say, we should go back to punching Nazis. I want these fuckers afraid. I want them to crawl back to the furthest reaches of the internet, relegated to be laughed at for their bigotry by pundits of every political ideology. I want their vile vitriol hidden away where it doesn’t embolden others. I want them to know that they are out of line, out of touch, out of time. I want them to feel ashamed, like the relics of a bygone and worse era that they are, and for them to quietly fade to an ignominious death. I’m tired of seeing them on National News. I’m tired of Pewdiepie’s channel and influence refusing to die despite all the horrible things he’s said and done. I’m tired of Ben Shapiro spouting off about a woman’s place and rights, as if he has any fucking authority on the matter. I just want these people to lose their platforms and their followers. And for me the fact that they haven’t yet is so incredibly discouraging.

I know I didn’t offer any answers here I’m just tired of being alone with this defeated attitude and I guess I needed to get this off my chest as I try to disentangle myself from the losing battle of trying to save a friend from alt-right radicalization.

[spookyspaghettisundae]

So Even Gods Can Die

Beeping. Revolving metallic sounds. Click. Computerized monitors. The light everywhere, blinding at first, then softening until his vision cleared. Click. Whirr. Click.

Bright light from the fluorescent tube overhead and daylight flooding in from a window. But it was not actually that bright. Click. It was his eyes slowly adjusting. The feeling of needles in his skin, taped down, and the plastic tubes hooked up to his nose to help him breathe.

Lips parched, throat dry. Click. When he swallowed, it felt like forcing down a lump of sand and lava. A woman sat in the room, and he did not recognize her. Click. But she looked at him, expectantly. Whirr.

A white box on the table next to the bed. Like one containing a cake. Click. The woman sitting in the room stared at him. The ominous white box stared at him. Click. Whirr.

It wasn’t his time yet. He refused to accept that. But between the woman and the box, he knew he was going to die.

Grit and sand clung to her clothes. Any spots of exposed skin featured myriads of cuts and scratches. Black rings of exhaustion lined her eyes, and her clothing looked like it had been mangled in a meat grinder.

The woman picked up a chart attached to the end of his bed and idly flipped through its pages. Click.

“Who are you?” he finally asked her.

She flapped the pages back up front and tossed the chart onto the foot of his bed. He watched but was too weak to protest. With delay, he registered that he couldn’t even feel it when the clipboard landed on his legs.

“I’m Kim. Here because we need you,” she said. Her words rolled out and sounded even more tired than she looked. Her eyes had a dull sheen, like she hadn’t slept in days or had taken some drugs, or practically had only caffeine in her veins.

Thump.

The white box on the table thumped again. It had moved half an inch. Although he had only seen it from the corner of his eye, he could have sworn that its walls had bent outwards when something thumped inside of it. Like there was a small animal trapped within.

“What’s in that box?” he asked. He lifted fingers, attached to a drip and some cables. Feeble, trembling softly as he tried to point at the gift box.

“Don’t worry about it; it’s got nothin’ to do with you. Or, well, maybe it doesn’t need to have anything to do with you,” she said.

“Okay,” he said. He had heard the threat implied in there.

He blinked—hard. Blinked again. Blinked so hard that it became painful.

The edges of his vision lost their blurriness. The fuzzy edges on everything straightened out—turned sharp. The clouds cleared from his memories.

His name was Gabriel. Gabriel understood his place in the world again. More powerful than his current state of being revealed. Even though his body had begun to betray him, he contained power beyond what normal mortal man could comprehend. More powerful than most of the wretches working in this hospital, or living in this pathetic city all around them.

A living god.

Or so he believed. Click.

“Cut the shit. What do you think you need? What do you hope to get from me?” Gabriel asked. Ordered. Every word he spoke hurt, as if each syllable rasped over his soft insides like sand paper.

“You don’t know us, but you may know Kevin,” Kim said. She crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair. The plastic squeaked, the metal creaked.

Thump.

The box had moved closer yet again. Like something inside of it was trying to get closer.

“Don’t mind it. If you get upset, it gets more violent,” she commented.

They both peeled their eyes off of the innocuous white box of terror and their gazes met.

Click. Whirr.

Gabriel pondered for a second and then sneered. He knew Kevin, alright. Michael’s protege and worst nemesis.

The person who was going to bring everything down.

“We need to find him, help him return from the House,” she said.

Gabriel chuckled. The chuckle transformed into coughing after a few labored revolutions of the laugh, leading to him hacking and wheezing.

His body had truly reached its end, but he refused to let go. Two hundred years was a long time.

Once he had gathered himself and felt her burning stare on himself, he asked, “How long’s that motherfucker been in there?”

“Three months,” she replied.

Gabriel closed his eyes and mulled it over. Bad number.

THUMP.

He ignored it. Probably just a baby of an entity inside that box.

It was more important to figure out what he was dealing with here.

Click.

How he could kill this woman.

Gabriel uttered a string of profanities; with no power in it because of his failing lungs, but more than enough zeal to express his disgust. She listened to his every odious word. He gave it a rest after a solid half a minute of swearing.

Click. Whirr.

“Fuck him,” he finally concluded. “Can rot in that hellish Otherworld for all I care.”

“No,” Kim said. Resolute, like a cliff standing defiantly against the ocean’s waves.

“No?”

“No,” she repeated. The word crashed like thunder. It fed into a headache growing behind Gabriel’s forehead. She added, “Once he’s out of the House, he can finish his transformation.”

Gabriel glared at her. His eyes simmered with rage and his tear ducts burned, not capable of producing the salty fluid anymore. His flesh was weak. But he still had other means. Other power. Power this woman failed to notice.

She had made a mistake by coming here like this.

THUMP.

He couldn’t be sure about the white box, though. He pondered if he was underestimating it.

Resigned to his fate here, he knew this was going to be a brutal battle. Not quite as uneven as his current state looked.

“Falmaghorr,” he whispered. So feebly that it sounded like nonsense, or like he was having a stroke.

“What?” Kim asked.

Click.

“Nevermind,” he sighed. Either she was stupid or he had snuck that past her. “You know, right? That when he completes that damned transformation, the world ends?” he asked her.

“And a new one is born,” Kim spoke with reverence, incessantly staring into Gabriel’s eyes. Into his soul.

She was convinced. Had chosen a side in this war. Her words just now—a declaration. A war cry, delivered with the eerie calmness that only zealots can produce.

“For every dream that is dying, a new world is born,” Gabriel mused, reciting the old poem that his kind were wont to sing. He broke out into another chuckle, dry and sardonic. Erupting into coughs at the tail end once more.

THUMP.

Kim pulled a small silver box from her jacket pocket and opened it to show him something inside of it. A steel syringe that looked like it came from a different age. Weathered, old, scratched.

“You came for my blood?” he asked. “Ridiculous. You could have just—you didn’t need me to be awake for—”

He stopped choking on those words. It dawned on him.

Blood of a dying hierophant—a potent reagent. One with powerful symbolic tension. And like all things magick, one where the symbolic tension lies in just how literal it was.

“Can’t beat the reaper,” he sighed. “Nobody beats the reaper. All you do is entertain ‘im. And hope you get off easy when it’s time to punch your final card.”

Kim took the syringe into her hands, slipped her fingers into its metal loops, but rested the awful thing on her lap. Waited. She was waiting for the moment during which he died. Had she put something into his IV drip to slowly kill him? Was she going to smother him with a pillow?

“Nice speech, asshole. You’ve lived way past your expiration date. After all you’ve done—after all the things you’ve gone and done to people—I think you’re getting off easy. Real easy.”

“Yeah? How you gonna do me in, bitch?”

Click.

Kim’s tired face contorted. With painful slowness, accentuated by the exhaustion written all over her visage, she formed a wide smile.

Click. Whirr.

“I ain’t gonna do a damned thing. Your time’s up, you Rasputin son of a bitch. I have a friend who—well, let’s just say she just knows these things. You’re about to punch your final card—right about now.”

She checked her wristwatch—whether it was out of genuine curiosity or to emphasize her words did not matter. Gabriel felt the weight of time crushing down on him. In his mind, the clock’s arms ticked away, second by second, ever closer to his doom.

The door to the room opened and both their heads turned to behold the new arrival. Kim had whisked the syringe away into hiding, holding it inside her jacket, her entire fist buried in there in an uncomfortable position.

A nurse entered and walked around the bed. She placed a cup of water on the table next to Gabriel. In contrast to the bright and happy colors of her scrubs, the nurse’s head was just a cloud of shadows and tentacles. Despite her name tag identifying her as Beverly Winters, the demon’s name was Falmaghorr.

Kim couldn’t see it. Its power over human minds held true; the entity looked like a normal nurse to her. She even smiled at Gabriel’s servant before Falmaghorr left the room and left them alone again. He sensed his demonic servant’s presence hovering just outside, waiting for him to summon it to battle inside this tiny room.

To think that he, who had seen the rise and fall of empires, would be fighting for his life in such a tiny, sterile room.

Click.

He had no intention of letting this harlot easily take his blood.

“In one last act of defiance against nature, he hopes to transform into a woman,” Gabriel theorized. “Because only a woman can give birth, and only a woman can birth a new world. Is that the idea?”

Kim said nothing. She checked her wristwatch again. Pulled out the syringe.

“You’re out of your fucking minds,” he growled. He suppressed the urge to cough that came with it.

“Time to go, you old bastard.”

“Now,” he uttered, oozing with contempt.

The room’s door burst open and Falmaghorr stomped inside.

The white box exploded. A black fog roiled out from it, churning like oil on water, spreading like a flood, engulfing everything in a flash, continuing to gush out of what seemed to be a bottomless pit inside that tiny white box.

Not a cake emerged from it, but mouths. Eyes. Things that cackled, and gibbered, and gnashed their tiny little teeth. Falmaghorr was consumed within seconds, blood spraying all over the place.

Kim was bathed in blood and gore from the entity’s body being ripped to shreds, but leaning over Gabriel. He felt the needle only after it had ruptured the skin.

Even through the cacophony of alien voices, he could hear the sounds of the machines.

Click. Whirr.

Blood being drained. Kim getting one step closer to breaking the House wide open.

Gabriel screamed.

Even gods can die.

—Submitted by Wratts

[shera-dnd]

AND WE’RE BACK BABY! WHO IS READY FOR SOME ANGST?

Well you better be ready, because I packed this one full of it

The campfire crackled between them, fire lighting their faces and smoke rising into the night sky. Silence had fallen over their camp, and none dared to break it. Belladonna, the Black Cat turned Black Knight, held her knees to her chest, tail wrapped protectively around her body. Though she easily towered over her companions, now she felt so small and frail.

“I knew there was something wrong with Taurus,” Amitola spoke first. She could still remember the way Belladonna looked at him like he was the most beautiful thing in the world, and how he looked at her like she was nothing more than a valuable asset.

“And I should have known much sooner,” Belladonna replied, quietly.

Weiss, for her part, stayed quiet. Amitola wasn’t sure if this was due to having her words taken from her, or out of respect for their conversation.

“He lied to us,” she said, and red tinged her skin as her anger rose, “he said the humans took you. That we should avenge your death.”

“Of course he did,” Belladonna sighed, though there was no disappointment in her voice, there was still sadness, “I shouldn’t be surprised that he turned my defiance into more fuel for his revenge.”

“When I saw you I thought...I thought you had faked your own death to escape us, that you had left us,” that you had left me, she thought, but did not dare say it out loud, “when you had only left him.”

“Could you claim you would have been more accepting?” Belladonna asked, looking her in the eyes, “that the court wouldn’t have slain me the moment I spoke of my plan.”

And once more there was silence, tense and agonizing. Holding the Black Cat’s gaze in that moment was like holding your breath, and there was only so long Amitola could keep that up.

“No, I cannot,” she spoke, red shifting into blue, “even now I doubt this plan will ever work.”

Belladonna let out a sad chuckle, “sometimes even I have my doubts.”

“Well, I don’t!” Weiss declared, breaking her silence. Though Amitola could only shake her head, the Black Cat looked at her with something almost like hope in her eyes. “You are a fae who has clad herself in iron, and refused to burn. You have done the impossible once, Lady Blake, I cannot see how you couldn’t do it a second time.”

“I appreciate your confidence, my lady,” Belladonna thanked, “but I have done nothing more than accept Lord Ozpin’s gift.”

“Then accept my gift as well,” Weiss insisted, taking the Black Cat’s hand. Jealous greens and reds marred her at the sight, “I shall take my father’s seat at the council, and my sister shall take Ironwood’s once she becomes the Witch of Winter. Together we can sway the council in our favor, we can reshape Atlas. We can build the bridge from our side too.”

Light returned to Belladonna’s eyes and she smiled, “I didn’t take you for the kind to have big dreams, Lady Weiss.”

“This isn’t a dream,” she countered, “it’s a plan, and my plans don’t fail!”

Amitola couldn’t help herself. “Haven’t your plans for the festival failed miserably?”

“Things have certainly not gone the way I expected, but I must say…” Weiss took her hands away from Belladonna’s and looked directly at Amitola, with a smirk on her face that set her skin into a riot of colors, “I much prefer it this way.”

Her body seemed to decide that yellows and pinks were the colors of choice for the moment, as much as the fae herself found it profoundly disagreeable, forcefully changing it back to its natural colors.

“This still doesn’t speak well for your planning skills, Schnee,” Amitola argued, “and here I thought your whole family knew how to scheme from birth.”

“Actually, we have a scheming tutor,” Weiss played along, “though I can’t say I paid much attention to mine.”

“I take it you were too busy daydreaming about sword fighting and rescuing damsels in distress to pay attention to your classes,” Amitola joked, finally getting her revenge by making the human blush for once.

“You are…not incorrect,” Weiss answered quietly.

This whole time none of them seem to notice the bright smile on Belladonna’s face. Genuine and full of joy, only growing as they continued to playfully argue. It was only when laughter escaped her lips that her cheer was brought to their attention.

“Are you well, Lady Blake?” Weiss asked, a little worried by the sudden display of mirth from the fae.

“I’m more than well,” she answered, another chuckle escaping her, “you two just reminded me of why I chose this path in the first place.”

Weiss looked oh so very pleased with herself, smiling back at the Black Cat. Amitola on the other hand was utterly disgusted at the implication, and at how happy it made the Schnee. She forced her skin to shift a sickly green, before faking a gag.

“Don’t be rude!” Weiss complained, nudging her with her elbow.

“Bite me, Schnee!”

Belladonna could only laugh at those two, comfortably leaning back and watching them go at each other once again, her tail swaying contently behind her. To see a Schnee and an unseelie play around like this, it made her mission feel just a little bit more possible, and the slightest hint more rewarding.

It was unfortunate then that Amitola did not quite see the value in Belladonna’s pursuit.

In the days that followed Amitola continued to fulfil her roles in Fennec and Corsac’s plan. It started simple, spying on the human nobility, taking on different faces so she could listen to their never ending gossip.

Then came the rumors, spread through words she spoke in the wind, or through faces that weren’t her own. Small things, little twists on the truth, small lies here and there to rile up the nobility. Soon fear would spread among them, the fear that there was a spy in their ranks, that one of the kingdoms was conspiring against the others, during a celebration of peace no less.

Amitola did not delude herself, she knew this wouldn’t be enough to spark a war between the nations, this was simply the first step, gathering wood so someone else may light the pyre of war. But once the fire was lit, she had made sure that it had enough fuel to keep on burning until Atlas was consumed whole.

And the Schnees along with it.

Not a month ago she would’ve been filled with pride at having a hand in the destruction of that damned family, and their accursed kingdom with it. Now it was difficult to find any joy in this. When every night she returned to that same smile from across the campfire, the smell of the meal she had prepared for them, the sound of that playful voice. It stripped her heart of any joy it could find, and in its place left only the terrible weight of guilt.

She knew peace wasn’t an option, that Belladonna had deluded herself, and that this could only end in war. This was her only option. If this could only end with one side destroying the other, then she had to make sure her side was the one to survive.

She had to do this. They had to burn so her people wouldn’t have to.

Even when Penny stumbled onto her again and again, every time offering little apologies riddled with that sweet giggle of hers.

They had to burn.

Even when the Branwen sisters sang and recited beautiful poetry about their home, their family, the people they love.

They had to burn.

Even when she saw that sparkle in Belladonna’s eye whenever she talked about the future and all the amazing things they’d achieve together.

They had to burn.

Even when Weiss smiled so sweetly. When she snarked and bantered with Amitola over something silly. When she gave Amitola space, because she knew when to back down. When she laughed. When they sparred. When she looked at her, her real self, as if she had never seen something quite so beautiful.

They had to burn.

But Amitola didn’t want to be the one to light that torch.

Days passed, and the tournament grew ever nearer, with now only two nights between them and the great event they had been waiting for. It was half heartedly then that Amitola continued her job, that she continued to don the faces of strangers and speak words she did not care to remember.

It was perhaps of this indisposition that she did not catch the pair of eyes that followed her as she left the tents of the vacuan emissaries.

“Lady Ilia,” called the last voice she wished to hear.

Amitola did her best to pretend not to hear it. She turned to leave, but there she was.

“I’ve been looking for you all evening,” Weiss informed her, “where have you been?”

“None of your business, Schn--Gigas,” Amitola snapped.

There was some annoyance in her expression, but she put it away and did not push. Curse her for being so understanding.

“How did you find me anyways?” Amitola continued, trying her best to stay angry at her companion.

“Mostly luck, but with some unwitting help from Lord Marigold,” Weiss answered, causing the fae’s eyes to go wide in attention, “he was attempting to spy on you for some gods forsaken reason, but I sent him scurrying away before he got the chance.”

Oh no.

How much had Marigold seen? How long had he been following her? Damn it all, if he saw something she couldn’t risk letting him tell anyone. But silencing him would require…

“Hey, it’s gonna be okay. He didn’t see anything,” Weiss assured, offering Amitolla her arm, “how about I walk you back to camp?”

Or maybe she could ignore the little lordling for now. It’s not like anyone with any real power actually believes a single word he says. Oh, curse the Schnee again for having this effect on her.

“I...wouldn’t be opposed,” she sighed, resigning herself to a fate of wanting to spend time with a Schnee and genuinely enjoying it.

And so they crossed the festival grounds, arm in arm in a way that Amitola vehemently refused to acknowledge. Part of her worried that people were watching them, making assumptions as to the nature of their relationship, but it was clear the festival goers could not care less about a single minor noble and her little knight.

Weiss on the other hand was trying her best to not look profoundly pleased by this turn of events. She was failing miserably, of course, but it was clear that she was trying. Another curse, this time for being so endeering in her awkwardness.

“You know, I meant what I said,” Weiss spoke, quietly, so only the fae could hear it, “the festival hasn’t gone the way I expected it, but I think I’m much happier with how things turned out.”

Amitola did not answer. It was hard to, when it felt like Weiss had just impaled her heart.

“As a kid I always wanted to come to the festival. I wanted to be a knight like my sister, and compete in the Vytal tournament,” she continued, unaware of the pain in her companion’s heart, “this is my first festival, and I’m glad I get to enjoy it with you.”

They had to burn.

“This is my first festival too,” she informed, voice naturally even, as she did all she could to hide the turmoil building inside her, “my parents used to show me the tents when I was a kid, and they told me that someday, when I had mastered my glamours, I would get to walk among the humans and enjoy the celebrations with you.”

“They must be happy for you then,” Weiss offered with a smile, but she was wrong.

They had to burn.

“I’m certain that they would be.”

There was a question stuck between Weiss’s lips, something she wasn’t sure she wanted the answer to, so instead she stayed silent. Thankfully they had reached their camp and Amitola finally had an excuse to escape the Schnee’s terrifyingly comforting touch.

“Where is Blake?” Amitola asked, trying to escape the topic.

“She plans to spend the night with Lady Yang,” Weiss answered, “I believe she wishes to tell her about her nature.”

“Of course,” was her only reply, now wishing for nothing more than sweet silence.

For a while Weiss obliged, focusing all her attention on making them both supper. Allowing Amitola to enjoy some momentary peace, even if her mind and heart denied her any. It was unfortunate then, that even this flawed blessing was also a fleeting one.

“That’s why you hate my family, isn’t it?” Weiss asked, though she already knew the answer, “we’ve hurt you and your family.”

“Always so clever, Schnee,” Amitola mocked, half heartedly, “yes, your family is the reason why my parents and my entire village are gone.”

Shock and horror spread through Weiss’s face, “I did not know.”

They had to burn.

“Of course you didn’t, you were probably just a little girl back then,” Amitola offered, “I was barely old enough to understand what was happening.”

She only noticed she was crying when she saw the stains from the teardrops on her dress. It had been so long and yet that memory still wracked her with such terrible sadness. Even back with Taurus, when he insisted that she allowed that tragedy to fuel her rage, she could not find any anger in her, only sadness. Anger and hate were things she had to learn.

“Your family’s men had pushed my village further down river, so they could open up a new iron mine,” she told her through the tears, “for a while we thought that would be it, that if we just lived our lives away from your people, that maybe we’d be allowed to live on,” a sad chuckle escaped her, “but things just couldn’t be that easy. One day that mine flooded, and the iron your father had mined now poisoned our river, and my village burned.”

“I’m sorry,” Weiss whispered, tears streaking down her face as well, “I’m so sorry.”

They...had to burn.

“I know.”

Amitola couldn’t look at Weiss right now, she couldn’t bear to see the genuine sadness and worry in it, so she looked away. So she was surprised when she felt Weiss’s arms wrap around her in the terrible comfort of a hug.

“I--I promise I won’t let anything like this happen again. I swear it, I’ll do everything within my power to keep this tragedy from repeating itself,” Weiss swore once more. Yet another on the long list of oaths she has made to Amitola.

And yet, this time, she believed her. She genuinely and truly believed every word Weiss said. She was a human, a Schnee, and Amitola couldn’t help but trust her implicitly. But that wasn’t the worst part - no - the worst part was the revelation that came next.

“They would have loved you, you know?” Amitola said, voice cracking with every word, “my parents. They would’ve been truly happy that I met you.”

Weiss pulled away, just enough to look into the fae’s eyes. Perhaps it was all the tears clouding her vision, but to her the Schnee’s expression was unreadable.

“I would have been honored to meet them.”

They...

She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t keep tearing herself apart, she couldn’t keep doing this.

“Curse you, Weiss,” Amitola whispered, “why must you be kind? Why can’t you be the monster I always thought you’d be?”

Weiss wiped away her tears, looking at her now with clear confusion, “what?”

“Things would be so much easier if you were some hateful monster. It would be so much easier if I didn’t care,” Amitola accused as she shoved her away, “but you had to be so trusting, you just had to be lovely, did you not? You had to make this hurt.”

“Ilia, I don’t understand.”

“I betrayed you, you fool!” Amitola shouted, “I’ve been spying for the fae for days now, and you just let me, because you were enough of an idiot to trust me!”

Weiss tried to stand up, but roots and vines had grown around her legs while she was distracted.

“Ilia!” She called, desperately trying to get rid of damned plants.

“Curse you, Weiss Schnee,” she repeated, more softly, with every hope that Weiss wouldn’t hear, “curse you for making me love you.”

She left for the woods before she could hear her answer.

[kendrixtermina]

An Alternate Take on The Prologue

It seems to have been almost universally accepted that the events in the prologue were an assassination attempt meant to remove Dimitri and Claude so that the war would go smoother later on. I’d like to present an alternative possibility. 

I have no solid 100% certain proof I’m not even going to pretend that this is anything other than my own interpretation that’s no more valid than the other one. It’s just a possibility. 

Thus it is ultimately an opinion that I wouldn’t base further conclusions on. We don’t know for a fact that her goal wasn’t, in fact, assassination. 

Still I think because there’s quite a lot of interesting stuff going on in that scene that ppl seem to miss, that I want to dissect here regardless of wether you agree with my thesis or not

Significant Clues: 

The Actual Motive

I’m not sure if it was Seteth or a random Monk, but I think more than one character goes on about how the Church’s reputation that they worked for so many years would have been tarnished if anything happened to the heirs.  Especially when you consider there aren’t that many Blaiddyds left and even less Riegans and that both are expected to solve/end the dire chaos in their respective factions.

Now who would benefit from making the Church look bad? Someone who plans to declare war on them maybe? 

They wouldn’t put that sort of dialogue there if we weren’t supposed to conclude something from it.

This might be less obvious if you haven’t played her route (though even then, you still get her speech in all of them don’t you?) but her declaration of war was strictly against the Church and their allies. She hands out papers everywhere, exposing the Church’s wrongdoings and asking all the rulers to choose sides. Petra mentions getting one such letter. 

She knew full well that most of the Kingdom and Alliance would side with the Church (and keep fighting even after Rhea’s taken out) and that there would probably be calvacades of collateral damage,  after all the Church indoctrinates the ruling elites at the Academy and thanks to the phony “crests are divine gifts” story the nobles depend on the Church for legitimacy as rulers - but every lord who doesn’t support the Church is one whose army she doesn’t have to fight. 

When she declares war, she wants as many people as possible to either stand down or join her. Painting the church as incompetent (or, in her mind, “highlighting” their incompetence) to safeguard the precious heirs might have increased that number, if Byleth’s heroic intervention and subsequent appointment as a professor hadn’t overshadowed the whole thing. 

Also note that for this to cause a scandal, Dimitri and Claude don’t need to be dead. 

Essentially ordering a hit on herself is certainly in line with Edelgard’s other... as Claude put it, “gutsy moves” (Such as not evacuating Enbarr in GD knowing full well that Claude was not going to tear through the civilians, effectively restricting his movements) but looking at literally any other action she’s ever taken, she always goes out of her way to give people the option to surrender., consistently, all the time, all throughout her route (and even many of her engage quotes in the other routes - She offers to let Claude and Byleth go at Gronder, for example) 

She even gets this whole rant before you go to fight Claude about how she wishes people would just stand down peacefully instead of starting fights they can’t win. (which is perhaps why she tells Byleth to just go ahead and finish her once she realizes that she’s beaten in the other routes)

She’ll mow you down if you oppose her alright but first she’ll make sure that both you (and her allies all of whom get the chance to opt out) are all there because you want to be/ are actually choosing to oppose her. It’s not like her to just kill people without giving them an explanation or a choice. 

But smears and coverups? That’s another matter. There’s her whole secret identity/secret faustian Bargain thing, that time only Hubert, Byleth and Lysithea knew which fortress they’d be attacking, and how she pinned the Javelins of light on the church. That’s totally something she’d do, (which might’ve backfired on the credibility of her pamphlets; PR and negotiation are simply not her greatest strengths)

Which makes her less truthful than, say, Dimitri (I think the only time he ever remotely lied to an ally was to hide his investigations of Arundel from Dedue), but overall still not as deceptive as Claude or the Church , since these are all “tactical” lies for concrete short-term goals, nothing relating to their goals. 

Everyone on Edelgard’s side knows that she wants to abolish hereditary rule and create an equal society, even if that means making enemies; Claude tells no one what he’s planning until the very end even though the knights might not follow him if he’d told them that he means to diminish the Church’s influence on society, kinda hoping that everyone will come around on their own - He does this even with Byleth to an extent. 

(Though when it comes to the Church we must really differentiate between the Chuch as a whole established by Rhea and Seteth individually, who I’d rate as significantly more truthful than Edelgard since he only lies out of very justified self-protection and loyalty to Rhea (who is his sister, and about whose wrongdoings he only knows the tip of the iceberg), and even urges her to come clean in the end.)

Ferdinand finds it strange that they just so ran into a bunch of mercenaries and wonders if one of the house leaders knew that there were mercenaries. 

As before, that Dialogue is there for a reason. One of them probably did know. 

So who is it? Probably not Dimitri he can’t pokerface worth a damn. 

That leaves Edelgard or Claude. 

Edelgard might’ve know that there were mercenaries nearby and expected them to intervene if things went south. Or it could be Claude, and that’s why he ran off.

We know that he’s got great survival instincts, grew up in a warrior culture of sorts, and makes a habit of carefully observing his surroundings. Perhaps he just spotted a large amount of hoofprints or beaten muddy footpaths, and deduced that there might be help to be had in that direction.  

For now I’ll say that Claude is the most likely option. 

I mean it’s really like him to be a spanner in the works before he even known anything is up - also, he’s the one who ran. It’s because of HIM that the trio went that direction, not because of anything Edelgard did. 

Leave it to Claude to look like he’s bailing when he’s actually looking for help. (but also taking a bit of a risk since he didn’t know for certain that he would find help).  Also he says something like “Ain’t it great the gods of fortune sent us your way?” which is something Claude would only say ironically. 

Kostas didn’t know there would be knights

As far as he knew he was just supposed to “kill some noble pipsqueaks”

But actually, our trio wasn’t supposed to be alone - it was an exercise with Alois and bunch of knights, the elite knights of Seiros, mind you, who are renowed throughout the land. (as Edelgard herself tells you after the fight)

Meaning that Edelgard probably didn’t expect them to be beaten by a bunch of bandits.

Of course beating Claude and Dimitri themselves on their own might be another matter, at least if they’re outnumbered. Still, she must’ve known that Dimitri had seen actual war before and was aware of Claude’s suspicious arrival. 

Since she was with them one could think that she maybe lured them away from the group... except that the situation ultimately depended on at least two unpredictable factors:

- The guy who was supposed to get Byleth’s job bolted. He was supposed to be with the trio and presumably semi-competent. 

I’m surprised that he didn’t show up as an antagonist afterwards or something. We never find out anything about this guy or why he ran though it coulve been simple cowardice. 

Well, unless he too was a plant who meant to run off so Jeritza (who definitely was an imperial plant) could take his job - Didn’t someone say something about expecting Jeritza to get the job Byleth got? I think it was Felix. 

- Claude ran for it, and Dimitri chased after him

Now that’s something that Edelgard really couldn’t have predicted. It’s just Claude being Claude, and Dimitri being Dimitri and hence, heroically charging after him to help him out. 

If Claude hadn’t run off, the trio would have stayed with the knights who could presumably handle a bunch of bandits. If Dimitri hadn’t charged after him to save him, Claude’s plan would have worked without a hitch and he would have returned with allies - he was just one person, he’s the fastest/stealthiest and the least valuable target so he might’ve escaped by himself. 

But Dimitri and Claude running off? Let alone all three? That’s all the most valuable targets on a platter so the thieves went after them. Dimitri, bless his heart,  of course thought that Claude was acting as a decoy and counting on himto come after him.  (consider how he eventually really DOES expect Dimitri to bail him out at the end of Dimitri’s route)

I’d like to stress that Dimitri’s genuine, unpremeditated and unplanned action with no ulterior motive besides helping out proved to be as much of a spanner here as Claude’s clever foresight and chaotic action, and that neither of the other two had been expecting it.  

Dimitri and Claude explicitly tell us that the other two got separated from the group because they chased after Claude. (Again, if she just wanted to kill them, why not just stick with the knights and let them run to their deaths? She’d get a bonus alibi. Indeed she might’ve gone after them because she hadn’t meant for this to end lethally - though it’s fully possible that she just followed without thinking and didn’t intend to get separated)

Something to appreciate here is that while Edelgard is competent and had been planning this for a while, she’s still relatively young and inexperienced and she can only defy or constrain TWSITD so much until she gets the throne.

She has clearly been amassing allies of her own (she marches in with a bunch of relatively young, handpicked generals such as Randolph, Jeritza and Ladislava, and cuts a deal with some from the old regime such as Caspar’s and Linhardt’s dads... though how he goes out in the Church and Alliance routes suggests that Caspar’s dad had some redeeming qualities) , but even with all this and some tentative assent from Arundel and co. she still needed to make an unnanounced surprise visit to actually get her hands on the crown.

She’s not exactly in over her head, but she’s attempting to control a very volatile situation while essentially making a deal with a loose-canon devil she can just barely keep in check. 

A microcosm of what’s to come

The central tragedy of the game is that though the faction leaders were ultimately good people who had the same enemies, they wind up fighting each other before they get at the real bad guys because they’re all acting on information that other other’s don’t have and hence don’t know the other’s situation. 

In a way the introduction scene is kinda like a miniature version of that. 

Each of their individual plans/decisions might have worked, but not all three at once. 

If you think about it the way they would’ve died without Byleth’s intervention foreshadows each of their “bad” endings - Edelgard finds herself surrounded and outnumbered after he plans backfire and goes down fighting as no one else has a clue what she’s really doing, Dimitri rushes head-first into an unwinnable fight because he puts honor before reason,  misjudged someone’s intentions and doesn’t consider his own role, and Claude would’ve either bailed, or gotten himself killed when one of his plans didn’t quite turn out like he wanted. 

Too bad you can only pick one :( 

The other two stay that way. 

[allgirlsareprincesses]

The Quest for the Lost Bride: Anidala (and Reylo) as Orpheus and Eurydice

One of the theories I’ve found intriguing since belatedly joining the Reylo fandom has been that of Reverse Anidala, or the idea that the tragedy of Anakin Skywalker and Padme Amidala is being told in reverse, as the joyous romance of Ben Solo and Rey of Jakku. When researching folktale types for my Reylo as Eros and Psyche analysis, I came across the apparent inverse of ATU 425: The Search for the Lost Husband, which is ATU 400: The Quest for the Lost Bride. If Star Wars does indeed draw on mythology from around the world, and the theory of Reverse Anidala is correct, it seems reasonable that Anakin and Padme’s tale would match closely to these Lost Bride tales, the most famous of which is that of Orpheus and Eurydice. On the surface, the mythological motifs in the Prequel Trilogy didn’t seem as distinct as those of the Sequel Trilogy, but a deeper dive demonstrated that George Lucas is, in fact, the inspired genius we all know him to be (awkward dialogue notwithstanding).

Quest for the Lost Bride tales include, just like Search for the Lost Husband stories, variations such as the Animal Bride and Supernatural Bride. There is slightly less standardization in the Bride tales than the Husband ones, even within a single cultural tradition: for instance, some versions of the Orpheus tale end with the eternal separation of the lovers, while others include the eventual happy reunion in the Underworld after Orpheus’ death. However, the most well-known of these stories are tragedies, so I’ll be focusing on those, including both Virgil and Ovid’s versions of Orpheus and Eurydice, several versions of The Swan Maiden, The Crane Wife, the Shinto creation myth of Izanagi and Izanami, and more. As some of these involve faith traditions that are still practiced to this day, I will try to handle them respectfully, but I would appreciate a generous correction if you feel my treatment has been in any way insensitive.

Orpheus was the son of Apollo, the sun god, and Calliope, chief of the muses who presided over epic poetry. He was best known as a uniquely-skilled musician and poet, whose music could charm all living things and even cause rocks and trees to dance. In some versions of the tale, Apollo gives Orpheus a golden lyre and teaches him to play it, and this hero is nearly always associated with magic or witchcraft. While the Greek story presents Orpheus as an artistic soul, both contemporary and later critics scoffed at this as his “unmanliness.” They would often blame the hero’s loss of his wife on the husband’s failures of traditional, aggressive masculinity. Accordingly, later iterations of the Quest for the Lost Bride folktale type have the hero as a warrior, king, or prince.

There’s a lot of Anakin Skywalker here already, both from a canonical perspective and a fandom perspective. The son of an inspiring woman and The Force itself (which is the deity of the Star Wars universe), Anakin is essentially a demigod, and his extraordinary skill with the Force is clearly a gift from that powerful “father.” His power does sometimes take on an artistic, charming character (and as a calligrapher, his grandson has clearly inherited this artistic spirit), as when he floated the pear to Padme, but the Jedi force him to turn his skills to war instead. Anakin is pressed into a violent role at odds with the selfless soul his mother Shmi describes, and even the fans at times seemed dissatisfied with his softer nature. This is part of the reason that the Clone Wars TV show portrayed him as much more traditionally masculine. We recognize both versions of the character as Anakin Skywalker, but they each reflect a particular audience perspective, just as the different mythical Husbands do.

Eurydice, on the other hand, is hardly described at all in the myth. Unusually, there’s not even a mention of her particular beauty. It seems she is just the object of Orpheus love and no more, leading to a great deal of excellent feminist criticism (which we’ll get into later). However, other versions of the Lost Bride give us more detail: most notable is that the heroine is nearly always a fairy or other ethereal creature, who hails from a mystical world apart from the mortal realm. She might be a fairy princess, a selkie, a mermaid, a swan, a crane, or even a goddess. Frequently, she must be enticed or abducted from this other world and her means of returning to it must be destroyed (usually with the typical burning of the animal skin). In some versions of the tale, she even had another husband before the hero captured her. She comes to love her new husband sincerely and live happily with him for a time, but there is always a sense of her being out of place.

When Anakin meets Padme as a child, his first words to her are “Are you an angel?” This has always struck me as a fascinating artistic choice by George Lucas, a man who so enjoyed worldbuilding that he frankly got a little carried away with it in much of the Prequel Trilogy. He certainly could have chosen a Star Wars-y sounding name for this alien race of ethereal beings from the moons of Iego, but he chose something with a very specific and recognizable meaning: Angel. He knew that this word would immediately communicate what a convoluted explanation of in-world lore (*cough* midichlorians *cough*) would not: an image of purity, kindness, and beauty. Padme is cast as a supernatural image of perfection, and we understand immediately that the lovesick Anakin has placed her on a pedestal, seeing her forever as Angel rather than as Woman. To marry Anakin, Padme must to some extent turn her back on her principles (remember her insistence that she couldn’t “live a lie?”), and is then torn between her loyalty to her husband and to democracy. In a sense, she has been plucked from the fairy world of Naboo and drawn into a marriage that, though filled with genuine love, places her at odds with her true nature.

In Quest for the Lost Bride tales, this duality of the lady is often expressed by the Animal Bride motif, with the heroine taking one form when she is away from her fairy world, and another when she is in her natural home. This might be taken further by having a false bride, a variation best known from the Black Swan of the Swan Lake ballet. In this example, the bride’s false nature is personified as a completely separate woman, while her true self exists in the form that the hero first falls in love with. Interestingly, this appears to be referenced in the costuming of Queen Amidala and her decoy, Sabe: During the invasion of Naboo in The Phantom Menace, Sabe wears a towering robe of black feathers. Later in the finale, Padme wears a similarly-feathered gown of soft white layers.

In Attack of the Clones, we see this duality within Padme herself in the two scenes in which she confronts her feelings for Anakin: When she denies her feelings for him and declares that they cannot be together, she wears a jarringly seductive black dress. This is clearly not her true self. Later on Geonosis, when she finally declares her love for him, Padme is clad in pure white. She then wears white again as she binds herself to him in marriage. Still another variant of the two brides theme is the human woman versus the shade (sometimes a rotting corpse), but we’ll get to that later….

Orpheus and Eurydice’s union seems to be doomed from the outset, as Hymen, the Greek god of marriage, fails to bless their marriage. Eurydice is then pursued by an insistent suitor, and in fleeing him, steps on a viper and dies of a poisonous bite to the heel, descending to the Underworld for eternity. In other Lost Bride tales, the enchanted wife returns to the fairy realm or retreats into her animal form, often after a betrayal by her husband. In the Maori tale of Mataora and Niwareka, husband Mataora strikes his spirit wife Niwareka across the face, and she flees back to her homeland because domestic violence is unheard of among her people. And in the Shinto creation myth of Izanagi and Izanami, wife Izanami dies in childbirth, burned to death when giving birth to the fire god Kagutsuchi. In fact, it’s extremely common for the fairy wife to flee or die after giving birth to her husband’s children.

Again, the parallels to Anakin and Padme’s story should be obvious: Since marriage is forbidden by the Jedi Order, the couple’s nuptials must remain a secret, meaning their union is never blessed by the powers of their world. Though Padme has no suitor, we see Anakin in Revenge of the Sith split into two people: the Jedi who loves his wife, and Darth Vader, who bids her join him in his galactic domination. In that sense, Vader is the dark rival for Padme’s affections. Further, he cements the loss of his wife with the ultimate marital betrayal, attempting to strangle her with the Force. And finally, Padme dies after giving birth to the twins, at the same moment that Vader rises from the flames that consumed Anakin Skywalker. The Lost Bride descends to the Underworld, and now begins the husband’s Quest.

One of my favorite sources for this analysis was In Search of the Swan Maiden: A Narrative on Folklore and Gender, by Barbara Fass Leavy. I strongly recommend checking it out, but this is one of her excellent points that caught my eye:

“.... according to the tale type Index, wives search for their lost spouses, whereas husbands who have lost fairy wives embark on quests - a particular irony given that the searching women characteristically win back their spouses and the questing men characteristically do not.”

I find this fascinating as a commentary on the perspective of both the storyteller and the audience in the Prequel Trilogy versus the Sequel Trilogy: the traditional tales seem to assign greater agency to the men, but greater success to the women. This can be seen in the prequels when Padme seems unusually passive and even dies of a “broken heart,” despite having two children to live for, as many have pointed out. Further, the first six films of the Skywalker saga are told from a masculine perspective, so a Quest for the Lost Bride tale seems like a natural fit. In the sequels, however, the perspective has shifted to the feminine, attempting to assign greater agency to the heroine and leading her toward a successful retrieval of the Lost Husband. This is important, because from this point onward in the myth, I’m going to be applying more and more of the story motifs to the Sequel Trilogy, not just the Prequels.

Back to the Quest: Orpheus, devastated by his wife’s death, roams the earth playing mournful tunes on his lyre. Eventually, he decides to descend to the Underworld and plead with Hades and Persephone for his wife, referencing their own love story to appeal to their empathy. Just because it’s gorgeous, here’s part of his song:

“Let me again Eurydice receive, 

Let Fate her quick-spun thread of life reweave. 

All our possessions are but loans from you, 

And soon, or late, you must be paid your due; 

Hither we haste to humankind's last seat, 

Your endless empire, and our sure retreat. 

She too, when ripened years she shall attain, 

Must, of avoidless right, be yours again: 

I but the transient use of that require, 

Which soon, too soon, I must resign entire. 

But if the destinies refuse my vow, 

And no remission of her doom allow; 

Know, I'm determined to return no more; 

So both retain, or both to life restore.”

*MELTS* So anyway, his song works and they tell him he can lead Eurydice out of the Underworld, BUT she must walk behind him and he must not look back at her even once, or else she will spend eternity as a shade in Hell. In other tales, the husband might be instructed never to look upon the wife’s animal form (The Crane Wife), or upon her rotting corpse (Izanagi & Izanami), or he may be given another admonishment from his father-in-law as to the acceptable treatment of the daughter. Invariably, the hero swears he will obey, but whether an hour or many years later, he fails. In Orpheus’ case, he is nearly returned to the land of the living when he is unable to resist the temptation to glance back and check that Eurydice has not lost her footing. She vanishes, and Orpheus (described thereafter as having a “frozen breast”) is again wracked by grief, swearing off of [sexual] contact with women and again roaming the world singing songs of sorrow.

If the “look back” can be seen as a loss of faith, or a fall to the temptation for power, then Anakin certainly demonstrated this in his reach for the power that Sidious offered. Padme begs him to run away with her, to turn back toward the Light, but Anakin “looks back” to the powerful promise of the Dark Side and loses her forever. Similarly, Ben Solo gazes at Rey across the burning throne room, clearly thinking only of being with her…. Until he “looks back” at Snoke’s throne, and is pulled back into the fear and bitterness that have kept him trapped in the dark for so long. Within her own Search for the Lost Husband journey, this is the moment that Rey also sees Ben’s true form, and realizes that she has to leave him. The lovers are separated (for now), until the husband can reject the lure of power and keep faith with his wife.

I’m very much not the expert here (that’s @corseque ), but we know from the Darth Vader comics that he was trying for the rest of his life to bring Padme back from death. We don’t really know how near he was to success, but that story may be relevant to the plot in The Rise of Skywalker. In any case, the myth now starts to get very interesting: Feeling spurned, a group of Maenads (female devotees of Dionysus) attack Orpheus in a forest and literally, gruesomely tear him limb from limb, until the ground is littered with body parts. This is actually a fairly common event in Greek mythology, such that it even has a name: Sparagmos, “to tear apart.” TEAR APART. Anakin, of course, did indeed lose limbs at the time of his “death,” when Obi-Wan cut off his legs and then Sidious raised him as Vader. If Reverse Anidala is true, and Ben Solo begins his story at a moment parallel to when Anakin Skywalker ended his, then of course the son of Leia sobs in the first sequel film: “I am being torn apart.” It’s poetry; it rhymes.

(GIF source: @mamalaz)

After his death, Orpheus’ head floats down a river on his lyre, continuing to sing his mournful songs to all who will hear. It eventually lands on the island of Lesbos, where it prophecies and eventually becomes as famous as the Oracle of Apollo. As I mentioned in my previous post, the iconic helmet of the tragic fallen hero does make an appearance in the ST, and it even seems that Kylo Ren is seeking wisdom from it. Apollo and the Muses finally take pity on poor Orpheus, and they bury his limbs. In some versions, the story ends here with a nightingale taking up the song of the lost lovers, but in others, Orpheus finally descends to the Underworld and is reunited with Eurydice, and they spend eternity together, hand-in-hand. Perhaps this means that Anakin may finally return to Padme and they may be together in the Force.

Among the other stories of the Lost Bride type are details that also align well with the Skywalker Saga: In the Shinto tale mentioned above, Izanagi fails to retrieve his wife but then begets Amaterasu (the sun goddess) and Tsukuyomi (the moon god). Anakin’s children Luke and Leia are visually associated with the sun and moon throughout the films, and similar imagery is used for Ben and Rey (NOT suggesting they’re siblings, people, just descendants of the Skywalker legacy, geez).

Another feature of these tales is the original meeting of the wedded pair: While in Orpheus and Eurydice their initial meeting is unrecorded, most stories actually include the abduction of the bride, either physically or by default because the husband has hidden or burned her animal skin. While this doesn’t really apply to Anidala, it certainly applies to Reylo, as Kylo of course carries Rey off to Starkiller Base. But it applies in another way, as well: In The Last Jedi, Ben breaks down Rey’s lies that she has told herself about her parents, in a sense burning away the protective skin of denial that she has, rendering it impossible for her to return to her childlike state. This is in a way another abduction, as Rey is forcibly pulled from her enchanted form to her true self.

(GIF source: @lyanna-stark)

There is also the common motif of recognition, which appears in the Search for the Lost Husband, as well. Often, when the lovers are separated, the lost spouse forgets the questing spouse and does not recognize them when they come to the rescue. Their memory is usually jogged by the spouse performing a unique task that only they can do, or by returning a gift which was once given before. From The Greenwood Encyclopedia of Folktales and Fairy Tales: “It is interesting to note how these extended narratives tend to duplicate the motifs by repeating them in reverse order - she recovers her suit, and he recovers her; she presents a ring, and he represents it to regain her.”

In Revenge of the Sith, Padme cries to Anakin “I don’t know you any more!” clearly stating that she no longer recognizes her husband. While we have yet to see those characters’ reunion, there is a particular moment of recognition in the ST, related to a powerful object which has been previously offered as a gift: the legacy lightsaber. When Rey calls the saber to her in The Force Awakens, Kylo breathes “It is you” in the novel, clearly recognizing her in some way. There are hints that Rey also recalls him on a subconscious level, though for now we can only speculate how. Still, it’s clear that many more legacy objects are going to appear in TROS, so there will be plenty of opportunity for Rey to get a reminder!

In Barbara Leavy’s book, she mentions that the central thesis of these folktale types seems to be that the relationship between spouses is the basis for peace and stability in the world:

“These examples of emotional failure are significant because they suggest that even were it true that romantic love is an invention of modern Western literature, its elements not to be read into narratives where they do not apply, the importance of emotional bonds in the marital relationship has probably always been recognized. The breakdown in the attachment of husband and wife is a significant feature of some of the world’s most widely-told stories. So long as the family supplies society with a basic structural unit, the affective tensions within the family will be crucial aspects of daily life and the narratives that grow out of it.”

As applied to the Skywalker Saga, I take this to mean that the wars of in “Star Wars” are tied to the breakdown of the marriage of our central characters: Anakin and Padme, and later (to a lesser extent) Han and Leia. It follows then that this central conflict can only be resolved by the healing of the bond between husband and wife. When we say that the Skywalker Saga is the story of generational trauma, this is what we mean, and it is a tragically relatable tale for much of the audience. We see the sorrow of our broken families writ large in a violent conflict across an entire galaxy far, far away, and we yearn for hope and healing.

Leavy further illuminates an aspect of these stories - Psyche’s Search and Orpheus’ Quest - that I find particularly fascinating in light of the frequently gendered discourse around Star Wars:

“If it is true that the Orpheus tale is as favored by men as the Cupid and Psyche tale is favored by women, then male storytellers appear to be expressing through these narratives their difficulties in achieving self-definition consistent with stereotypical ideals of manhood. The typical success experienced by Psyche and the equally typical failure encountered by Orpheus can be profitably analyzed in the context of a recent study of the difference between the ways in which men and women respond to their own fantasies:

‘women would see deprivation followed by enhancement, whereas men would see enhancement followed by deprivation.’ In contrast to women, ‘men showed a preference for extreme endings, which revealed itself most clearly in the tendency of men to see any decline or fall as abrupt, total and final. The possibility of a resurgence or second chance, which is implicit in the female pattern, does not seem very real for men. Perhaps an important difference is that the woman is socialized to lose (or give up) control without panic, and that she picks up as a positive concomitant to her submission confidence of recovery in the face of failure or suffering.’”

If I may generalize, the Star Wars fans who seem to want or expect a tragic ending for Ben Solo predominantly identify as men, whereas those who want or expect his redemption and happy ending predominantly identify as women. It seems that the Star Wars fandom does bear out Leavy’s claim that men relate to the tragic Quest for the Lost Bride, which contains harsh punishment for the failures of its hero, while women prefer the Search for the Lost Husband, which rewards its heroine’s persistence with a passionate love. Again, this is a generalization, as obviously individuals of all genders and none can enjoy a wide range of stories.

Many critical analyses of Orpheus and Eurydice point out that there is a distinct power imbalance between the pair, and that therefore a happy ending can only occur if the husband successfully subjugates his wife. Much of the hero’s actions seem to be an attempt to control his wife or control her fate, and this is nearly always characterized as a character flaw on his part. In fact, the descent into the Underworld is sometimes interpreted not as an expression of death-defying love, but of an unwillingness to accept the finality of death, or a failure to accept that the fairy wife has chosen to flee of her own volition. On the rare occasions when the husband successfully retrieves the lost bride from the mystical realm, it is usually not because he approached her with humility and remorse for his lack of faith, but because he vanquished her demon lover. On the other hand, some stories actually switch perspectives from husband to wife after the bride is lost, and the tale suddenly becomes the Search for the Lost Husband, with all its typical features. When the lovers are equals and the wife pursues the husband, then their reunion is successful and lasting. This seems to be happening both on a large scale within the full nine films of the saga, and on a smaller scale within the Sequel Trilogy itself, as Anakin and Ben follow Orpheus’ path while Rey alone follows Psyche’s, which is an excellent sign for Ben’s redemption and happy union with his bride in The Rise of Skywalker.

So there you have it…. Yet another big-ass meta that hopefully demonstrates the genius mythology of the Star Wars saga, and not just the fact that I’ve spent way too much time researching this. Thanks for reading and as always, feedback is welcome!

Previous posts in this series:

The Search for the Lost Husband: Reylo as Eros and Psyche

More Search for the Lost Husband: The Burning of the Beast’s Skin in Star Wars

This post is dedicated to @ahsokaeden65, who gave me a gentle kick in the butt to finish it! <3

[twitchesandstitches]

Polypa’s Victory Growth Comm

Commission of Polypa growing hyper-sized anime-esque proportions; I was given leeway for the actual circumstances, so I went with a more fantastical setting this round.

-----

It began with a hunt; victorious, mighty, and Polypa standing high over her prey.

Polypa roared in triumph, as only a troll could, and the other hunters (humans, trolls, carapacians, and other beings) saluted her, shaking weapons and claws and their own fierce mutations. Fangs gnashed, tusks were clanged together, and several of the more excitable trolls headbutted humans who had thought to wear helmets.

Polypa bowed her head, taller than some but shorter than others, her figure well-built and beefy; an ideal weapon to aim at the enemies of clan and oath-kin. Slowly she slid off the massive torso of the devil beast, her head still tilted backwards in a gesture of docility.

And she gazed upwards and kept craning her head back as the enormously muscular and motherly body of Nepeta Leijon, the progenitor of all olivebloods and Huntmaster of the creators, raised her massive paws up.

Leijon was massive; her hips wider than a doorway, her shoulders individually broader across than Polypa’s whole body, her armor distorted by the huge swells of her curvy frame, her large belly suggesting a hint of divine pregnancy. Her hands, as big as Polypa’s whole chest, raised up, claws extending out over the metal hand-blades she wore. Polypa tensed, dreading a frown or criticism from her, the first of their kind…

And Nepeta applauded her, a warm smile on her atavistic snout. Several antannae sprouting from her face like whiskers tweaked as her smile grew. “Good job, everyone! This is going to go in the records!”

They cheered at this. Someone Polypa couldn’t see declared, “All the other reenactment clubs will be so jealous!”

Nepeta, goddess and incidentally president of the Peeled Bones Rennactment Society, smiled indulgently. She took another look at the corpse, and said something that made Polypa stop: “Oh, good job, Polypa! You struck the killing blow!”

The others gathered around, saying things along the lines of ‘good on you!’.

Konyyl Okimaw, Polypa’s childhood friend, rival, occasional mate and professional pain in the neck, gave her a level look Polypa found hard to parse. Was it indignation? Jealousy? Genuine pride?

Konyyl then grinned, and applauded as well. “Congrats, burny girl. You fried that bastard good!”

Polypa glanced down at the beast, the flames from her special claw weapons still blazing upon it, and she preened. “Well, I don’t wanna brag…!”

“You should,” rumbled Li’l Hal, an ironically named war construct from ancient days, towering over the rest with a truly fearsome arsenal still dripping in bloody ichor. Just to be super-extra, he still kept that look even outside the hunts. “Or I’ll take credit for it.”

Nepeta gave him a look. “Don’t tease her!”

Hal winced, in the sense of his many articulated face plates wiggled contritely. “Yeah, ma’am. Sure.” Polypa smirked at him. He made a rude gesture at her, which Nepeta pretended not to have seen. Instead, Nepeta stood forward, extending the godforged green claws (said to have been crafted with some pieces of the green sun used in shaping the new universe they knew), and she sang the song of gratitude to the spirit of the prey. It had been an old song when she made this universe; it sounded older even now, these many eons later.

Then her massive arm blurred, and blood sprayed onto the ground. Her cut avoided getting any on herself, but it did land on the grass. It began to grow faster, swelling upwards with sudden blooms, but in that moment, they were too focused on the ritual of slaughter to notice this.

Nepeta wrenched out the heart of the beast, still dripping blood, and she carefully handled it so that she did not get much on her. The blood of these beasts could have strange effects even on gods, but her magic contained it, aimed those transformation effects on those honored by her. And she offered the heart to Polypa.

“Take it,” the goddess of the hunt said, her expression keen, glowing faintly with her divine olive light as her powers blessed Polypa, priming her for the benefits of her benediction. “You’ve earned it.”

Polypa did not waste time with refusal or meek protests. You didn’t argue with the lion goddess, and anyway she had a habit of just rolling through arguments without ever raising her voice or changing her tone from a sweet, gentle tone. Polypa accepted the heart, bowing her head with awkward grace. Briefly, she wished she could have a quick discussion with her moirail Tegiri on the proper protocol of divine gift receiving; he knew all about that kind of thing and she most absolutely did not!

Nepeta just kept half smiling in a pleasant, amiable way that nicely defused her tension. Polypa awkwardly smiled back. Nepeta patted her shoulder, leaving a bloody clawprint on the furs she wore, and bowed her head low, standing up high until she towered even over Polypa’s amazonian figure. “You may eat.”

Polypa looked down at the heart, which was no longer beating. That possibly would have made it a bit stranger. The black blood still poured, so much of it that it was frankly implausible, maybe it was actually the natural magic of the beast, Polypa mused, still being processed into an organic stuff not so different from blood. Certainly it tingled on her skin, in a surprisingly pleasant way. That was a bit odd; it felt warm, tingling pleasurably. Part of her felt the hints of bloodlust her people were blessed with, the joy of the hunt and the ecstasy of feeling the blood FLOW-

She got a handle on it. Tamping down bloodlust was one of the first things done in the club’s hunt training. She opened her mouth, her jaws working strangely as her mouth fully unhinged, membranes connecting them as they gaped impossibly wide, her lower jaw expanding wide like some kind of anglerfish, and she scooped the heart up into her maw and swallowed it. Her throat squeezed around it, squashing it into a pulpy mass sliding down so sweetly into her belly.

“Is it supposed to tingle like that?” She said, patting her enormously detailed muscle belly with some concern. Her claws scraped against a bulge of gut that wasn’t quite as thick as her abdominal muscles.

The general feeling from the others was along the lines of ‘I dunno’.

And that was then.

----

And this was now.

Months after the hunt, Polypa stretched through her morning exercises, enjoying the weight at her front, and the wonderful flex of all those new splendidly aligned muscles all going up her back.

She was stronger, now. She was… famous, in ways that the hunting reenactment clubs didn’t really think to cater to. And most of all, she was bigger.

She paced through her room, adopting a stride naturally for hips that were much wider now. She didn’t so much walk as sashay, a rolling stride that tended to draw gazes downwards with sheer motion power alone.

At her front, her breasts bounced in all their massive glory, almost bigger than she was, and to feel them moving with each sway, every little bump against her muscular belly… it was a pleasure.

In many ways, she looked every inch like the heroines of the shows she and Tegiri loved so much, that had inspired her to join the hunting club to fight mighty beasts. Wait… no. She was so much bigger than even they were usually drawn!

The thought put a smug grin on her face.

Polypa was a large troll. Larger now, in fact; her doorway had been remodeled several times over the past few months, scaling increasingly upwards just so she could fit through it. Fortunately it hadn’t (yet) gotten to the point that she was in danger of going past the ceiling of her hive; they were built to be as tall as possible, given considerations like the size of some lusii. Even so, she had to walk with her head low, her body lowered so much she felt like she was constantly about to drop into a quadruped stance. And, well. Given the size of her assets now, that would probably be a poor move.

And she was still scraping her ceiling up with her horns. The weight of them, arcing up through her scalp-quills, had almost doubled; they had to be as long as her forearm now, their jagged edges so much more pronounced that not even the armor of worthy prey or warriors would pose a threat.

Distantly, she heard a murmuring, the distinctive sound of many people gathering about as a respectable distance, and she smirked to herself. It was a faint, confident smile, as much self-adoration as anything else. Her public was arriving.

Yes; she didn’t much like hanging out in her hive all day, even before all this, and now that her hive was too cramped for her new stature, and the impact of her body, she had taken to spending a lot of it outside.

And being… admired.

She finished her meal, jaws unhinging as she swallowed her food and edible dish whole, and it made a brief bulge in her throat as she swallowed. She did a few exercises before she went to go on her daily jog, mostly to accommodate her body.

The back muscles were important. They formed a new support structure for her back, flexible and rigid in turns as required by the bouncing hulks at her front, but she felt better working them out first before doing anything intensive. And it felt good working them out, making them stronger. She could FEEL them growing bigger; perhaps it was just her imagination.

Polypa finished her stretches and strode to her doorway, opening it; moonlight poured in, and as she saw the crowd doing its best to huddle around secretively, she tilted her head up, preening. “Hello there,” she said amiably to them. They flushed, almost every one of them a hardened berserker or carapacian brute, and they were still reduced to squirming lumps of shyness in her presence.

It was so cute.

Polypa exited the doorway, and cut a dramatic figure as she left. But it was her breasts that exited first.

And they were gigantic; perhaps there had been some cow-beast in the genetics of the monster that had empowered her, or it was some latent mutation in her olive blood set loose, to make her so mighty. Though Polypa was a juggernaut weighing over fifteen hundred pounds of muscle mass, far more of it was in her breasts; each one was eight hundred pounds heavy, dipping from her throat to almost her knees, the teardrop-shaped masses almost as long as she was tall, and so wide that only their amorphous squishiness let her force them through the doorway. They sloshed heavily, a payload of nearly three thousand gallons of milk making them even heavier, swelling to even bigger sizes.

They bounced hypnotically, the crowd awestruck by her size as she strode out, towering over them even at range. It was hard to appreciate her figure behind her bustline, but Polypa was a curious blend of amazonian and extreme hourglass; her waist impossibly tiny, her hips shockingly enormous. Her butt stuck out like a gelatinous platform, and her shoulders were broad enough that most trolls (most only coming up to her waist, admittedly) could ride comfortably on one. Her muscles stood out, as defined as carved stone, and wearing only small shorts and a tiny beach-top to cup her breasts, it was impossible to not be aware of this.

Polypa strode out, the outer swell of her muscular gut smacking into her breasts and making them bounce up with every step. Her shoulders flexed ,her hips swayed, her butt moved so perfectly; every motion was a delightful frisson, and Polypa restrained herself from a soft moan only with the hunter’s focus that had earned her these benefits in the first place.

She kept going; step after step, moving in just such a way as to make sure everyone’s eyes were on her. She had EARNED this look, earned every magnificent inch she’d piled on. She would make quite sure they saw it all, just as surely as she had always carried her hunting trophies on high whenever it came to call.

She glanced and saw Tegiri sitting atop a hermit’s pole, apparently to catch some brisk morning air before his own run. He glanced at her, with an expression that was somehow totally deadpan. He nodded, just once, as if to say ‘good morning’. There was no real indication or commentary from him over her transformation, besides some vague comments on his part that he could help remodel her home.

She appreciated it. He knew her worth; she didn’t have to blare it with him like she did with others. And that pleased her.

Polypa did some more stretches, and noticed a few people imitating her specific stretches. As she hefted up her own breasts, their immense weight making excellent exercise for her arms, and stirred up her milk stores, she thought it was nice to be… inspiring people like that.

She whistled, and they all looked at her. “Right, then!” she said brightly. “Everyone, after me! It’s a training montage!” She pointed at a few random people in the crowd. “We got a tournament coming up, and if you want to hang out with me, you gotta compete!”

“We what now?” Someone (Joey, she thought vaguely) said in a small voice.

“Ah,” Tegiri said. “First the training montage, in preperation for the tournament arc?”

Polypa smirked. “See. You get it!” The others looked dumbfounded, but now helplessly caught in her wake.

And so off they went when she started to run, the quaking of her breasts causing shockwaves around her, and into the night they went.