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shuxiii · 1 year

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Everyday pt.7

Hanni Pham x reader pt1, pt2, pt3, pt4, pt5, pt6, pt7, pt8, pt9, pt10, pt11, pt12, pt13

a/n chapter might be sensitive to other individuals so please if you don't feel comfortable reading this chapter you can skip it. credits all to ''every day'' by David Levithan. Once again please if you are sensitive to the trigger warnings don't read it.

TW: mental illness, thoughts of suicide

Day 6005

Some people think mental illness is a matter of mood, a matter of personality. They think depression is simply a form of being sad, that OCD is a form of being uptight. They think the soul is sick, not the body. It is, they believe, something that you have some choice over.

I know how wrong this is.

When I was a child, I didn’t understand. I would wake up in a new body and wouldn’t comprehend why things felt muted, dimmer. Or the opposite—I’d be supercharged, unfocused, like a radio at top volume flipping quickly from station to station. Since I didn’t have access to the body’s emotions, I assumed the ones I was feeling were my own. Eventually, though, I realized these inclinations, these compulsions, were as much a part of the body as its eye color or its voice. Yes, the feelings themselves were intangible, amorphous, but the cause of the feelings was a matter of chemistry, biology.

It is a hard cycle to conquer. The body is working against you. And because of this, you feel even more despair. Which only amplifies the imbalance. It takes uncommon strength to live with these things. But I have seen that strength over and over again. When I fall into the life of someone grappling, I have to mirror their strength, and sometimes surpass it, because I am less prepared.

I know the signs now. I know when to look for the pill bottles, when to let the body take its course. I have to keep reminding myself—this is not me. It is chemistry. It is biology. It is not who I am. It is not who any of them are.

Kim Ji Won's mind is a dark place. Even before I open my eyes, I know this. Her mind is an unquiet one, words and thoughts and impulses constantly crashing into each other. My own thoughts try to assert themselves within this noise. The body responds by breaking into a sweat. I try to remain calm, but the body conspires against that, tries to drown me in distortion.

It is not usually this bad, first thing in the morning. If it’s this bad now, it must be pretty bad at all times.

Underneath the distortion is a desire for pain. I open my eyes and see the scars. Not just on the body, although those are there—the hairline fractures across the skin, the web you create to catch your own death. The scars are in the room as well, across the walls, along the floor. The person who lives here no longer cares about anything. Posters hang half-ripped. The mirror is cracked. Clothes lay abandoned. The shades are drawn. The books sit crooked on shelves, like rows of neglected teeth. At one point she must have broken open a pen and spun it around, because if you look closely, you can see small, dried drops of ink all over the walls and ceiling.

I access her history and am shocked to realize that she’s gotten this far without any notice, without any diagnosis. She has been left to her own devices, and those devices are broken.

It is five in the morning. I have woken up without any alarm. I have woken up because the thoughts are so loud, and none of them mean me well.

I struggle to get back to sleep, but the body won’t let me.

Two hours later, I get out of bed.

Depression has been likened to both a black cloud and a black dog. For someone like Jiwon, the black cloud is the right metaphor. She is surrounded by it, immersed within it, and there is no obvious way out. What she needs to do is try to contain it, get it into the form of the black dog. It will still follow her around wherever she goes; it will always be there. But at least it will be separate, and will follow her lead.

I stumble into the bathroom and start the shower.

“What are you doing?” a male voice calls. “Didn’t you shower last night?”

I don’t care. I need the sensation of water hitting my body. I need this prompt to start my day.

When I leave the bathroom, Jiwon’s father is in the hallway, glaring at me.

“Get dressed,” he says with a scowl. I hold my towel tighter around me.

Once I’ve got my clothes on, I gather my books for school. There’s a journal in Jiwon’s backpack, but I don’t have time to read it. I also don’t have time to check my email. Even though he’s in the other room, I can sense Jiwon’s father waiting.

It’s just the two of them. I access and find Jiwon’s lied to him in order to be driven to school—she said that the route had been redrawn, but really she doesn’t want to be trapped in the bus with other kids. It’s not that she’s bullied—she’s too busy bullying herself to notice. The problem is the confinement, the inability to leave.

Her father’s car isn’t much better, but at least there’s only one other person she has to deal with. Even when we’re moving, he doesn’t stop exuding impatience. I am always amazed by people who know something is wrong but still insist on ignoring it, as if that will somehow make it go away. They spare themselves the confrontation, but end up boiling in resentment anyway.

She needs your help, I want to say. But it’s not my place to say it, especially because I’m not sure he’ll react in the right way.

So Jiwon remains silent the whole drive. From her father’s response to this silence, I can imagine this is how their mornings always go.

Jiwon has email access on her phone, but I’m still worried about anything being traced, especially after my slip-up with Haruto.

So I walk the halls and go to classes, waiting for my chance. I have to push harder to get Jiwon through the day. Any time I let it, the weight of living creeps in and starts to drag her down. It would be too easy to say that I feel invisible. Instead, I feel painfully visible, and entirely ignored. People talk to her, but it feels like they are outside a house, talking through the walls. There are friends, but they are people to spend time with, not people to share time with. There’s a false beast that takes the form of instinct and harps on the pointlessness of everything that happens.

The only person who tries to engage me is Jiwon’s lab partner, Rei. We’re in physics class, and the assignment is to set up a pulley system. I’ve done this before, so it doesn’t strike me as hard. Rei, however, is surprised by Jiwon’s involvement. I realize I’ve overstepped—this is not the kind of thing Jiwon would get excited about. But Rei doesn’t let me back down. When I try to mumble apologies and step away, she insists I keep going.

“You’re good at this,” she says. “Much better than I am.”

While I arrange things, adjusting inclines and accounting for various forms of friction, Rei talks to me about a dance that’s coming up, asks me if I have any weekend plans, and tells me she might be going to DC with her parents. She seems hypersensitive to my reaction, and I’m guessing the conversation usually gets shut down long before this point. But I let her talk, let her voice counter the unspoken, insistent ones that emanate from my broken mind.

Then the period is over, and we go our separate ways. I don’t see her again for the rest of the day.

I spend lunchtime in the library at the computer. I don’t imagine anyone at lunch will miss me—but maybe that’s just what Jiwon would think. Part of growing up is making sure your sense of reality isn’t entirely grounded in your own mind; I feel Jiwon’s mind isn’t letting her get anywhere near that point, and I wonder how much of my own thoughts are getting stuck there as well.

Logging into my own email is a nice jolt to remind me that I am in fact me, not Jiwon. Even better, there is word from Hanni—the sight of which cheers me up, until I read what the email says.

Yn,

So, who are you today?

What a strange question to ask. But I guess it makes sense. If any of this makes sense.

Yesterday was a hard day. Minji’s grandmother is sick, but instead of admitting she’s upset about it, she just lashes out at the world more. I’m trying to help her, but it’s hard.

I don’t know if you want to hear this or not. I know how you feel about Minji. If you want me to keep that part of my life hidden from you, I can. But I don’t think that’s what you want.

Tell me how your day is going.

Hanni

I reply and tell her a little about what Jiwon is up against. Then I end with this:

I want you to be honest with me. Even if it hurts. Although I would prefer for it not to hurt.

Love,

Next, I switch accounts and find a reply from Haruto.

I know I haven’t made a mistake. I know what you are. And I will find out who you are. The reverend says he is working on that.

You want me to doubt myself. But I am not the only one. You will see.

Confess now, before we find you.

I stare at the screen for a minute, trying to reconcile the tone of this email with the Haruto I knew for a day. It feels like two very different people. I wonder if it’s possible that someone else has taken over Haruto’s account. I wonder who “the reverend” is.

The bell rings, marking the end of the lunch period. I return to class and the black cloud takes hold. I find it hard to concentrate on what’s being said. I find it hard to see how any of this is important. Nothing I’m being taught here will make life less painful. None of the people in this room will make life less painful. I attack my cuticles with merciless precision. It is the only sensation that feels genuine.

Jiwon’s father is not going to pick her up after school; he’s still at work. Instead, she walks home, in order to avoid the bus. I am tempted to break this pattern, but it’s been so long since she’s ridden the bus that she has no memory of which bus is hers. So I start to walk.

Again, I find myself wishing for the mundane possibility of calling Hanni on the phone, for filling the next empty hour with the sound of her voice.

But instead, all I am left with is Jiwon and her damaged perceptions. The walk home is a steep one, and I wonder if it’s yet another way she punishes herself. After about a half hour, with another half hour in front of me, I decide to stop at a playground I’m about to pass. The parents there give me wary looks because I am not a parent or a little kid, so I steer clear of the jungle gym, the swings, and the sandbox, and end up on the outer ring, on a seesaw that looks like it’s been banished from everything else for bad behavior.

There’s homework I could do, but Jiwon’s journal calls out to me instead. I’m a little afraid of what I’ll find inside, but mostly I’m curious. If I can’t access the things she’s felt, I will at least be able to read a partial transcript.

It’s not a journal in the traditional sense. That becomes apparent after a page or two. There are no musings about boys or girls. There are no revisited scenes of discord with her father or her teachers. There are no secrets shared or injustices vented.

Instead, there are ways to kill yourself, listed with extraordinary detail.

Knives to the heart. Knives to the arm. Belts around the neck. Plastic bags. Hard falls. Death by burning. All of them methodically researched. Examples given. Illustrations provided—rough illustrations where the test case is clearly Jiwon. Self-portraits of her own demise.

I flip to the end, past pages of dosages and special instructions. There are still blank pages at the back, but before them is a page that reads DEADLINE, followed by a date that’s only six days away.

I look through the rest of the notebook, trying to find other, failed deadlines.

But there’s only the one.

I get off the seesaw, back away from the park. Because now I feel like I am the thing the parents are afraid of, I am the reality they want to avoid. No, not just avoid—prevent

. They don’t want me anywhere near their children, and I don’t blame them. It feels as if everything I touch will turn to harm.

I don’t know what to do. There’s no threat in the present—I am in control of the body, and as long as I am in control of the body, I will not allow it to hurt itself. But I will not be in control six days from now.

I know I am not supposed to interfere. It is Jiwon’s life, not mine. It is unfair of me to do something that limits her choices, that makes up her mind for her.

My childish impulse is to wish I hadn’t opened the journal.

But I have.

I try to access any memory of Jiwon giving a cry for help. But the thing about a cry for help is that someone else needs to be around to hear it. And I am not finding a moment of that in Jiwon’s life. Her father sees what he wants to see, and she doesn’t want to dispel this fiction with fact. Her mother left years ago. Other relatives are distant. Friends all exist far outside the black cloud. Just because Rei was nice in physics class doesn’t mean she should be freighted with this, or would know what to do.

I make it back to Jiwon’s empty house, sweaty and exhausted. I turn on her computer and everything I need to know is there in her history—the sites where these plans come from, where this information can be gleaned. Right there, one click away for everyone to see. Only no one is looking.

We both need to talk to someone.

I email Hanni.

I really need to speak to you right now. The girl whose body I’m in wants to kill herself. This is not a joke.

I give her Jiwon’s home phone number, figuring there will be no obvious record of it, and that it can always be discounted as a wrong number.

Ten minutes later, she calls.

“Hello?” I answer.

“Is that you?” she asks.

“Yeah.” I’ve forgotten that she doesn’t know the sound of my voice. “It’s me.”

“I got your email. Wow.”

“Yeah, wow.”

“How do you know?”

I tell her briefly about Jiwon’s journal.

“That poor girl,” Hanni says. “What are you going to do?”

“I have no idea.”

“Don’t you have to tell someone?”

“There was no training for this, Hanni. I really don’t know.”

All I know is that I need her. But I’m afraid to say it. Because saying it might scare her away.

“Where are you?” she asks.

I tell her the town.

“That’s not far. I can be there in a little while. Are you alone?”

“Yeah. Her father doesn’t get home until around seven.”

“Give me the address.”

I do.

“I’ll be right there,” she says.

I don’t even need to ask. It means more that she knows.

I wonder what would happen if I straightened up Jiwon’s room. I wonder what would happen if she woke up tomorrow morning and found everything in its right place. Would it give her some unexpected calm? Would it make her understand that her life does not have to be chaos? Or would she just take one look and destroy it again? Because that’s what her chemistry, her biology would tell her to do.

The doorbell rings. I have spent the past ten minutes staring at the ink stains on the walls, hoping they will rearrange themselves into an answer, and knowing they never will.

The black cloud is so thick at this point that not even Hanni's presence can send it away. I am happy to see her in the doorway, but that happiness feels more like resigned gratitude than pleasure.

She blinks, takes me in. I have forgotten that she is not used to this, that she is not expecting a new person every day. It’s one thing to acknowledge it theoretically, and quite another thing to have a thin, shaky girl standing on the other side of the precipice.

“Thank you for coming,” I say.

It’s a little after five, so we don’t have much time before Jiwon’s father comes home.

We head to Jiwon’s room. Hanni sees the journal sitting on Jiwon’s bed and picks it up. I watch and wait until she’s done reading.

“This is serious,” she says. “I’ve had … thoughts. But nothing like this.”

She sits down on the bed. I sit down next to her.

“You have to stop her,” she says.

“But how can I? And is that really my right? Shouldn’t she decide that for herself?”

“So, what? You just let her die? Because you didn’t want to get involved?”

I take her hand.

“We don’t know for sure that the deadline’s real. This could just be her way of getting rid of the thoughts. Putting them on paper so she doesn’t do them.”

She looks at me. “But you don’t believe that, do you? You wouldn’t have called me if you believed that.”

She looks down at our hands.

“This is weird,” she says.

“What?”

She squeezes once, then pulls her hand away. “This.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s not like the other day. I mean, it’s a different hand. You’re different.”

“But I’m not.”

“You can’t say that. Yes, you’re the same person inside. But the outside matters, too.”

“You look the same, no matter what eyes I’m seeing you through. I feel the same.”

It’s true, but it doesn’t really address what she’s saying.

“You never get involved in the people’s lives? The ones you’re inhabiting.”

I shake my head.

“You try to leave the lives the way you found them.”

“Yeah.”

“But what about Minji? What made that so different?”

“You,” I say.

Just one word, and she finally understands. Just one word, and the door to the enormity is finally unlocked.

“That makes no sense,” she says.

And the only way to show her how it makes sense, the only way to make the enormity real, is for me to lean over and kiss her. Like last time, but not at all like last time. Not our first kiss, but also our first kiss. My lips feel different against hers, our bodies fit differently. And there is also something else that surrounds us, the black cloud as well as the enormity. I am not kissing her because I want to, and I am not kissing her because I need to—I am kissing her for a reason that transcends want and need, that feels elemental to our existence, a molecular component on which our universe will be built. It is not our first kiss, but it’s the first kiss where she knows me, and that makes it more of a first kiss than the first kiss ever was.

I find myself wishing that Jiwon could feel this, too. Maybe she does. It’s not enough. It’s not a solution. But it does lessen the weight for a moment.

Hanni is not smiling when we pull away from each other. There is none of the giddiness of the earlier kiss.

“This is definitely weird,” she says.

“Why?”

“Because I still have a girlfriend? Because we’re talking about someone else’s suicide?”

“In your heart, does any of that matter?” In my heart, it doesn’t.

“Yes. It does.”

“Which part?”

“All of it. When I kiss you, I’m not actually kissing you, you know. You’re inside there somewhere. But I’m kissing the outside part. And right now, although I can feel you underneath, all I’m getting is the sadness. I’m kissing her, and I want to cry.”

“That’s not what I want,” I tell her.

“I know. But that’s what there is.”

She stands up and looks around the room, searching for clues to a murder that has yet to happen.

“If she were bleeding in the street, what would you do?” she asks.

“That’s not the same situation.”

“If she were going to kill someone else?”

“I would turn her in.”

''So how is this different?”

“It’s her own life. Not anyone else’s.”

“But it’s still killing.”

“If she really wants to do it, there’s nothing I can do to stop it.”

Even as I say this, it feels wrong.

“Okay,” I continue, before Hanni can correct me. “Putting up obstacles can help. Getting other people involved can help. Getting her to the proper doctors can help.”

“Just like if she had cancer, or was bleeding in the street.”

This is what I need. It’s not enough to hear these things in my own voice. I need to hear them told to me by somebody I trust.

“So who do I tell?”

“A guidance counselor, maybe?”

I look at the clock. “School’s closed. And we only have until midnight, remember.”

“Who’s her best friend?”

I shake my head.

“Boyfriend? Girlfriend?”

“No.”

“A suicide hotline?”

“If we call one, they’d only be giving me advice, not her. We have no way of knowing if she’ll remember it tomorrow, or if it will have any effect. Believe me, I’ve thought about these options.”

“So it has to be her father. Right?”

“I think he checked out a while ago.”

“Well, you need to get him to check back in.”

She makes it sound so easy. But both of us know it’s not easy.

“What do I say?”

“You say, ‘Dad, I want to kill myself.’ Just come right out and say it.”

“And if he asks me why?”

“You tell him you don’t know why. Don’t commit to anything. She’ll have to work that out starting tomorrow.”

“You’ve thought this through, haven’t you?”

“It was a busy drive over.”

“What if he doesn’t care? What if he doesn’t believe her?”

“Then you grab his keys and drive to the nearest hospital. Bring the journal with you.”

Hearing her say it, it all makes sense.

She sits back down on the bed.

“Come here,” she says. But this time we don’t kiss. Instead, she hugs my frail body.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” I whisper.

“You can,” she tells me. “Of course you can.”

I am alone in Jiwon’s room when her father comes home. I hear him throw down his keys, take something out of the refrigerator. I hear him walk to his bedroom, then come back out. He doesn’t call out a hello. I don’t even know if he realizes I’m here.

Five minutes pass. Ten minutes. Finally, he calls out, “Dinner!”

I haven’t heard any activity in the kitchen, so I’m not surprised to find a KFC bucket on the table. He’s already started on a drumstick.

I can guess how this usually works. He takes his dinner into the den, in front of the TV. She takes hers back to her room. And that marks the rest of the night for them.

But tonight is different. Tonight she says, “I want to kill myself.”

At first I don’t think he’s heard me.

“I know you don’t want to hear this,” I say. “But it’s the truth.”

He drops his hand to his side, still holding the drumstick.

“What are you saying?” he asks.

“I want to die,” I tell him.

“C’mon now,” he says. “Really?”

If I were Jiwon, I’d probably leave the room in disgust. I’d give up.

“You need to get me help,” I say. “This is something I’ve been thinking about for a long time.” I put the journal on the table, shove it over to him. This might ultimately be my biggest betrayal of Jiwon. I feel awful, but then I conjure Hanni’s voice in my ear, telling me I am doing the right thing.

Jiwon’s father puts down the drumstick, picks up the journal. Starts reading it. I try to decode his expression. He doesn’t want to be seeing this. Resents that it’s happening. Hates it, even. But not her. He keeps reading because even if he hates the situation, he doesn’t hate her.

“Jiwon …,” he chokes out.

I wish she could see how it hits him. The look on his face, his life caving in. Because then maybe she’d realize, if only for a split second, that even though the world doesn’t matter to her, she matters to the world.

“This isn’t just some … thing?” he asks.

I shake my head. It’s a stupid question, but I’m not going to call him on it.

“So what do we do?”

There. I have him.

“We need to get help,” I tell him. “Tomorrow morning we need to find a counselor who’s open on Saturday, and we need to see what we have to do. I probably need medication. I definitely need to talk to a doctor. I have been living this for so long.”

“But why didn’t you tell me?”

Why didn’t you see? I want to ask back. But now’s not the time for that. He’ll get there on his own.

“That doesn’t matter. We need to focus on now. I am asking for help. You need to get me help.”

“Are you sure it can wait until morning?”

“I’m not going to do anything tonight. But tomorrow you have to watch me. You have to force me if I change my mind. I might change my mind. I might pretend that this whole conversation didn’t happen. Keep that notebook. It’s the truth. If I fight you, fight me back. Call an ambulance.”

“An ambulance?”

“That’s how serious this is, Dad.”

It’s the last word that really brings it home to him. I don’t think Jiwon uses it that often.

He’s crying now. We just stay there, looking at each other.

Finally, he says, “Have some dinner.”

I take some chicken from the bucket, then bring it back to my room. I’ve said everything I’ve needed to say.

Jiwon will have to tell him the rest.

I hear him pacing throughout the house. I hear him on the phone to someone, and I hope it’s someone who can help him the way Hanni helped me. I hear him stop outside the door, afraid to open it but still listening in. I make small stirring noises, so he knows I’m awake, alive.

I fall asleep to the sound of his concern.

#Hanni Pham x reader #newjeans #newjeans fanfic #hanni pham #new jeans #nwjns #NewJeans Imagines #Newjeans imagine #Newjean Fanfic #NewJeans Fanfic #newjeans fic #newjeans imagine #Newjeans x reader

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lamentsof-bee · 4 years

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one ghost king to rule them all

ALRIGHT SO - i finished my self indulgent character analysis of our little gay lord and savior, nico di angelo.

and let me tell you. THE PAIN really just makes him more gothy and i’m here for it.

under the cut if y’all wanna read it. your choice. except wendy, she has to read it bc i said so.

Summary:

There were many boys at one point. Boys with flames on their skin. Salt water in their hair. Lightning in their veins. And they all mattered…

The one with the animal heart and the one with a halo made of sun.

Each and every single one mattered.

But not like the boy born of shadows.

Never like him.

[Nico di Angelo would never walk a straight and narrow path, Hestia promised him that much. His would always be a journey marred by sadness, distrust and destruction. But sometimes, beauty can be born of hate. And acceptance can be found in even the darkest of nights.]

[An in-depth look at Nico's journey from the cliff of Bar Harbour to the Battle of Gaea]

Read it on AO3.

There were many boys at one point. Boys with flames on their skin. Salt water in their hair. Lightning in their veins. And they all mattered…

The one with the animal heart and the one with a halo made of sun.

Each and every single one mattered.

But not like the boy born of shadows.

Never like him.

Nico di Angelo remembers the death of his mother.

He was young but still, there is an imprint of the year 1941 on his brain, and the crash that came with Zeus destroying the ceiling.

The faint glow of his father’s power still wakes him at night. A black force field that could only be described as suffocating. The warmth that the Lord of the Underworld could create was never quite inviting though. It licked at you, like hot flames whose only goal was to singe. He had shielded Nico and Bianca from the physical harm, they had survived, but he left them torn.

River Lethe was strong, strong enough to wipe even a Titan’s memories Nico would later find out, but no power was stronger than a mother’s love. The memories of vows of vengeance that Hades swore had faded, the white marble of the Washington D.C. hotel had withered. But Maria di Angelo’s red lips and olive skin will never leave Nico’s mind. Nor will the first moment his father chose to protect him.

For a long time Nico would think it was the last. If only he knew back then how wrong he’d be.

They travelled some with a dark haired lawyer that asked but never listened. And they ended up in the Lotus Hotel.

Nico, even at his young age, heard whispers of The Child of the Eldest Gods and a prophecy to end all prophecies. It was drowned out by the lights of Las Vegas and the inviting doors of the Lotus Hotel.

A month passed for Nico and he and Bianca were swept away by a new lawyer with the same habit of questioning and ignoring. The world outside had changed. Washington D.C. had new subway stations, motorized vehicles had more efficient and ugly, everyone seemed to have something called a ‘cell-phone’.

They were taken to Westover Hall, a military academy in Bar Harbour. Things had changed, Bianca wore a hat and learned everything about this new, modern world that she could. Nico picked up Mythomagic and found himself loving something for the first time since his mother died.

There was so much heartbreak since then.

So many deaths. So many losses.

Nico swore he wouldn’t lose anyone else. Not after his mother had gone so suddenly. So he made Percy Jackson promise to keep Bianca safe.

Percy could do it! Nico insisted to himself. Percy was strong and experienced and he’d been on a quest before. His hair was dark and his eyes sparkled, Nico liked that a lot. Nico knew Mythomagic, he knew what kind of points the monsters would have that his sister would be facing. And she needed someone to watch her six. Someone who knew how.

Percy could do that.

He tried his best to keep his spirits up after the group’s departure.

It was still cool, that Camp Half-Blood was like Mythomagic brought to life. The lava climbing wall and real life land mines made for an interesting stay.

But still…he felt quite lonely.

He’d never been without Bianca before…

He’d never been alone…

On his first lone night, Nico stood apart from the campers gathered around the fire. They sang together off-key and toasted marshmallows as if they didn’t have a care in the world. Everyone seemed happy, everyone seemed at home.

Except Nico.

And that one young girl in a mousy brown dress with eyes like fire.

She stared into the blazes, her gaze softening as it grew with the intensity of the love around the hearth. She seemed so ordinary. Without thinking Nico drew towards her wanting to get a better look at her face. When he did, he noticed it was all together unremarkable. Freckles on the bridge of her nose, brown hair to match her dress but she had flames in her eyes.

She looked at him and said nothing. Still, there seemed to be an invitation in the air.

He took a seat next to her and stared in the blazes.

‘Your hearth,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s so small.’ Sorrow clouded her voice.

Nico felt vulnerable and naked. His hearth was practically empty. His father would feed him to the dogs, his mother had passed before he could grow old enough to remember her and his sister had left him behind. The coals of his hearth were barely glowing. He felt as if there was only one left and its ember was extinguishing.

‘A small hearth is still a home.’ His voice was as quiet as hers. His eyes never leaving the fire.

‘And home you will always return.’

The smile she gave him was small and the wisdom in her eyes seemed far beyond her years. She looked of Nico’s age but her demeanour betrayed her.

‘You have far to travel, Nico di Angelo.’ Her tone sounded sombre again. ‘You have much to face. But for your kindness you will be rewarded. You shall always find a place at my hearth.’

He wanted to ask her how he knew his name and what exactly she was talking about but a warmth filled his stomach. A sense of calm and serenity washed over him and suddenly it didn’t matter so much that his hearth was small or he had been left behind. This fire was warm enough and a hearth could be rebuilt with time.

His life had been touched by a goddess.

Since his time at Camp Half-Blood, Nico’s powers had grown. He felt the souls passing on, meeting the ferryman at the River Styx. He felt the marble shake with his father’s anger and watched as the flowers wilted when he walked.

But nothing quite made him feel like the Son of Death than when Percy came back without Bianca and only a Mythomagic figurine to make up for it.

Nico had wondered before why his father had such rage built up inside him. Why he couldn’t just accept the life his siblings chose for him? But in that moment, Nico understood.

With every step Bianca took towards her hearing, Nico felt the pang echo in his chest. As if he were standing there with her, he could see the gold masks leering down at him. He felt the ringing in his ears.

The rage exploded inside him like a volcano and sizzled the pity Percy tried to shovel on him. The hero he had in his mind, the greatness Percy Jackson encompassed, had disappeared. The fluttering in his stomach, the butterflies that took flight when he looked at Percy, they withered and died as Bianca was sentenced.

The amorous feelings, as amorous as a ten year old kid could feel, he had towards Percy were marred with darkness and stained with hate. Still… when the skeleton warriors pounced Nico couldn’t help it.

He saw Percy get disarmed. The ringing in his ears increased. He brought his hands to his head, trying to shake away the sound. The darkness grew inside of him, like a ball of energy ready to combust until he couldn’t take it anymore.

‘No! Go away!’

The ground split open and the skeletons were swallowed by flames and earth. One crunch later and not a single bone was left to be found.

Panting, Nico’s eyes moved from the fissure in the ground to Percy. He looked back at the kid, wide-eyed and awestruck. Bianca may have died but Darkness has just risen.

One step forward was all it took for Nico to shout a curse at Percy and run into the shadows of the woods. With this he would leave behind any feelings that Percy Jackson awoke in him.

The road to Daedalus is dark and messy. Minos whispers in his ears with a voice as smooth as silk and provided both comfort and education. The things Nico learned with Minos he will never forget. Shadow travel, raising of spirits, conferring with the dead. It took some practice but eventually Nico made it back from his accidental trips to China and succeeded in summoning a soul.

Theseus’ words were muddled and unhelpful. His gaze drawn constantly to Nico’s ghostly guide, unsettling the young boy. He senses your power. That was what Theseus had said but he hadn’t said who. Darkness closed in again and Nico was alone, no one but Minos and an empty pit.

When he faces Percy next, Nico is disappointed to find that his heart still skips a beat. He likened it to a minor heart attack first and thought perhaps he’d be able to find Bianca that way but when the sensation passed with Percy’s eyes still on him, Nico only looked back coldly.

Your soul is worth nothing to me! He wanted to shout at Percy. How dare he think his soul could be exchanged for Bianca’s? Bianca’s soul was worth thousands of Percy’s. No amount of good looks and boyish charm could save him from that.

‘Let’s ask Bianca.’

That was what Percy had said. As if her appearance would rectify the wrong he had caused her. As if she would appear in front of Nico simply because Percy willed it.

If it were true, if Bianca showed this time, Nico would wring Percy’s neck.

He poured the root beer into the pit and let the words come from the deepest part of him. The chant brought about a mist and spirits followed it to kneel by the depth.

The chanting became forced and as Minos lowered himself and drank.

‘Be gone, Minos!’ He ordered.

The ghost flickered, hesitated and tried to stay. Nico’s voice strained as his power fluctuated and the ghost obeyed, albeit reluctantly.

The figure that followed formed into the glowing spirit of Bianca di Angelo. Silver snowboard jacket, olive skin and sad eyes.

She gazed at Percy and rejected his apology. ‘I made my own choice. I don’t regret it.’

Watching her raised, the words spilled out of Nico. ‘Why didn’t you answer me sooner? I’ve been trying for months!’

His heart breaks when she says, ‘I was hoping you would give up.’

‘Give up?! I’m trying to save you!’

Her hand stretches towards her little brother. He’d grown since they’d seen each other last. His eyes were colder, surrounded by dark rings. He’d become taller too. ‘Don’t do this.’ She said quietly. ‘Percy is right.’

‘You must listen to me,’ she implored, ‘holding a grudge is dangerous for a child of Hades.’ Her hand evaporated as it got close to his face. ‘It is our fatal flaw.’

She cocked her head, asking him for understanding.

‘You have to forgive. You have to promise me this.’

He shook his head like a child refusing to let their parent leave before they fell asleep.

‘You are close to the truth now,’ she told him. ‘It is not Percy you’re mad at, Nico. It’s me.’

The wound he had been trying to cover broke open. The scab felt raw and wet. He felt the hurt leak from his heart through his body until even his toes were drowned in sorrow.

‘You must overcome your anger. Or else it will be your doom.’ She insisted. Don’t do this her soul begged.

‘No! I am the son of Hades. I can.’

For the second time, a dead demigod spoke of Nico’s power before disappearing. It hurt all that much more because it was Bianca. When the mist cleared there was nothing left in the pit but a leftover smell of root beer and bad barbeque.

It rattled him to his core. The strength he felt surge inside of him. The orb of darkness that pulsed, sometimes so strongly that it forcefully pushed out of him and dark tendrils followed him when he walked. Souls cowered where he went, even nature couldn’t seem to thrive in his presence. Maybe he was destined for a life in the labyrinth. A life filled with darkness and solitude.

He yearned for laughter and peace. He wished he could imagine a life happiness. He thought, if he could picture it, which he can’t but if he could, maybe Percy would be there. Maybe he’d hold out his hand towards Nico and all would be forgiven. Maybe he would know that Bianca would give him her blessing and he would finally rest knowing that he was okay. That he was not deviant. That he was only human…

But he wasn’t.

He felt the darkness move inside of him like a pool of ink staining a white shirt. Noticeable and inevitable. When the dracanae captured him, his only thought was that he hadn’t found Percy yet. Minos betrayed him – not that Nico was surprised. He’d played enough Mythomagic to know who King Minos had been and his power over Darkness was strong enough to know who Minos had become.

The battle started and Nico was pushed to the ground. The iron on his chains bit into his wrists but as he watched the people he knew – his friends? – fight, he felt helpless. Annabeth duelled with her knife, Percy sparring with his sword. They weren’t holding their own. The emotion rammed into his chest and made the Darkness surge. Like iron against fire, the chains melted into smoke as they left Nico’s wrists. This is not how he would go down.

Percy would not die before he had atoned for his sins, not before Nico could understand why his heart still skipped a beat when the dark haired boy looked at him. Minos would not rise again to call himself the ghost king. Luke would pay for his treachery.

He starred at his ghostly former companion.

‘You do not control me, young fool.’ Minos sneered. ‘All this time, I have been controlling you. A soul for a soul, yes. But it was not your sister who will return from the dead. It is I!’

Spirits shimmered around Minos as his body solidified. The whirling energy inside Nico forced his entire body to awaken. His gaze hardened, his look one of ice.

You dare speak to Son of the Dead that way?

‘No.’ Nico insisted. ‘I am the son of Hades. Be gone!’

If looks could kill, Minos would have returned to the grave again.

‘You have no power over me. I am the lord of the spirits! The ghost king!’

A crazed look fell into Nico’s eyes as his dead tilted. He drew his stygian sword with intention and stared Minos in the face.

‘No.’ He held up his sword. ‘I am.’

He plunged the sword into the floor and ran through it like butter. He called to all the spirits that clawed at his feet and his mind. He ordered them to take back Minos and put back where he belonged, under the rule of Hades. The windows cracked and the ground boomed and suddenly the spirits around Minos veered towards him. When the fissure opened in the ground, much like the one that had appeared in Camp Half-Blood, Minos could not struggle against the souls holding him down. He could do nothing but disappear into the depths of the Underworld where he would forever walk with Nico’s shadow over his head. Spending an eternity knowing he had challenged the wrong Darkness.

The energy he needed to banish Minos sucked more out of Nico than he’d like to admit. His olive complexion turned pale, his sword hand could barely lift the weight of his blade. Still, he followed Percy, Annabeth and a strange red-haired girl called Rachel when they fastened him into make-shift wings.

They stopped at a gift shop, attempting to find a way back into the maze.

‘Daedaulus isn’t dead.’ Nico told them when they wondered if the labyrinth was even still alive. ‘That I know for sure.’

Percy thanked him as Annabeth and Rachel walked ahead. For a second it felt like pure adrenaline running through Nico’s body. He pushed the feeling away and muttered something about being even for the fight on the ranch and raising Bianca.

‘Minos was right.’ Percy looked at him confused. They walked in silence for a while. ‘Daedalus should die. To cheat death for so long. It’s not natural.’

‘So you were going to trade Daedalus’ soul for Bianca’s?’ Percy voice doesn’t sound accusing, more like the pieces are finally falling into place and he can see the big picture.

Nico walks in silence wondering if he should bare his soul. He looks at Percy and sees a glimmer of the boy he admired. The one that makes his blood pump faster than usual. He figures, now is as good a time as any – since he’s not coming back.

‘It’s not easy, you know. Having only the dead for company.’ His words are quiet and his eyes downcast. ‘Knowing I’ll never be accepted by the living due to my heritage. Having only the dead respect me, if only out of fear.’

‘You could be accepted.’ Percy answered. And there it was, that naïve optimism that made Percy so attractive. His blind desire to help and save and foster. But good intentions not a good life make.

Look at what happened to Luke.

Kronos strode towards them, shimmering gold eyes, Luke’s short cropped blonde hair and scythe in his hand – ready to take whatever path he deemed worthy.

Nico knew the only escape would be to venture back into the labyrinth but Kronos’ domineering voice giving orders shook him to his core.

As it always did when he was afraid, the Darkness within him pulsed.

‘NO!’ Nico yelled as Kronos ordered his cronies to target them. He clapped his hands together and pushed his energy outward. If it would have been visible, people would have seen a shadow fall over the fortress. A spire of black rock erupted and tore the building to pieces. Kronos and his servants were left under piles of debris.

And Nico had outed himself. Well, not outed as… he couldn’t even think that. But outed as one of the Big Three.

When Percy had said as much, all Nico could do was shrug. ‘Big deal.’

What was one more person on his tail.

They find their way back into the maze and into the cave of the Nature God, Pan. Nico’s life had been touched by the Gods before but this time, this time it was different. The shimmering form of Pan sat before them, glistening off the ruby and sapphire walls.

His pull so strong that even Nico fell to his knees in respect. Yet, there was something eery about the whole thing. Like Nico could feel the energy being sucked out of the cave and towards nothingness. As if it were only a fragment of a life, a well-kept memory of something already passed…

Only once did the god acknowledge his presence.

‘Dear Grover,’ Pan said, ‘you must accept the truth.’ His gaze moved towards Nico’s bowed head. ‘Your companion, Nico, he understands.’

Nico nodded slowly, looking up at the god. His answer hesitant. ‘He’s dying.’ Grover made a strangled sound. ‘He should have long ago. This…this is more like a memory…’ As Nico said the words, the world seemed to make sense again.

The god had held on long enough for his disciple to find him but still, the years had waned his strength and he was but a collection of hope left over. Fading was a god’s punishment for not staying relevant in the modern world. And the modern world had no place for nature the way it had in the past. The times of forest foraging and daylight dwelling was over, it was replaced with technology and skyscrapers and time running out.

Nico could feel the sand in Pan’s hourglass running out. It was about to let the last granule drop.

He gave each of Nico’s companions a message, a gift of wisdom. Only Nico was ignored. What could Pan teach Nico about nature that he didn’t already know. His power was the most natural of all – to watch life end and return to its birthing place.

Still the god’s words struck a chord with Nico.

The only salvation you must make for yourself. Each of you must.

Some souls have escaped the claws of death but that day, one long over due returned. When the lights faded, the cave was dark and the moss on the walls had receded. As had the holy presence that lured them there.

Nico felt the essence of the god disappear, until not even a whisper of it remained in the undead realm.

There was no time for rest or mourning. Though it seemed Grover would take time for the latter eventually. It took only one uncomfortable pegasus ride for Nico to fall back into his thoughts about Percy. The sea demigod was always protecting him, always bargaining with him, trying to make sure that Nico was safe. It was a selfless act, stupid, but still selfless. And for that Nico had to give him credit. The way Percy had chastised him for revealing his powers to Kronos made him aware of the fact that Percy had kept his secret. He hadn’t told anyone about Nico’s birth right or his heritage. And he had done it to try to save him.

The battle wasn’t over though. Luke’s plan, Kronos’ plan – whatever, had succeeded. They had infiltrated camp and were running rampage on the grounds.

It was quite a sight to see – all the demigods coming together to fight for their lives. A dozen dracaenae were heading towards the cabins when Percy alerted Nico of the threat.

Taking a deep breath, he raised his hands, straining as if an invisible force was resisting their pull upwards. ‘Serve me!’

The earth trembled and parted in the midst of the dracenae. Undead warriors, all answering to Nico, rose from the depths and engaged the enemies. He pushed as much of his power as he could into the corpses, daring them to oppose his will.

He sunk to his knees as the soldiers drew more and more of his energy to stay aboveground.

He gave and he gave and he gave. He watched the lady dragons get pulverized until his vision started to fade and blackness surrounded him.

When he woke, a figure was standing above him with a canteen of nectar. The people in his vision slowly started reforming from their three-fold selves and his sight cleared. Percy was hovering over him with more people fanned out.

His eyes landed on Daedalus.

‘I came to correct my mistake.’ The words struck Nico. The labyrinth could not continue, that much was clear. The only thing left to do was offer up one last sacrifice, a last trade to compensate for the damage the old inventor had caused.

Annabeth protested. ‘You won’t get a fair trial! The spirit of Minos sits in judgement –’

The inventor smiled at her ruefully. ‘I will take what comes.’ He turned to Nico. ‘And trust in the justice of the Underworld, such as it is. That is all we can do, isn’t it?’

Nico’s dark look didn’t waver Daedalus’ spirits. The boy nodded in agreement.

‘Will you take my soul for ransom, then? And use it to reclaim your sister?’

Nico’s eyes lowered and for a second he wished he could act like the boy that he was. But he knew he could not. Instead, he had to act like the son he was born to be.

‘No,’ His answer was firm. ‘I will help release your spirit. But Bianca has passed. She must stay where she is.’ Thus is law of nature.

Daedalus looked at him with reverence. ‘You are becoming wise, son of Hades.’ There was a pause. ‘I am ready to see my son…and Perdix. I must tell them how sorry I am.’

Getting to his feet, with much effort, Nico turned to the old inventor with his sword. He raised a hand towards the forehead of the old man and whispered ‘Your time is long since come. Be released and rest.’

The inventor smiled with relief and released as sigh so deep it seemed to have been held for eons. Slowly his skin became transparent until the gears behind it became visible. The machinery halted its whirling and the old man turned to ash and blew away with the wind.

Nico shared the relief the inventor had felt. Releasing a soul so long overdue and feeling it return to the depths of the earth had granted him some freedom. The souls bound to the mortal plane that evaded the clutches of Thanatos weighed him down more than he had realized.

Post-battle Nico spent a short time in the Apollo cabin’s med-bay where the head councillor prodded his bruises and poked his scratches with very little comment. The councillor seemed wary of him.

Nico felt the vitality in the cabin. There were plenty of campers running around and plenty of patients to be treated. Nico felt the life of each being in the room. There was a plump blonde boy at the back of the room. There was a small gathering around him, a kid maybe slightly older than Nico stood with his head bowed. The kid in the bed was dead. Nico felt his life extinguish on the battle field, still the medics tried to breathe life back into lungs and jump-start his heart with compressions.

It was no use.

Nothing good was going to come of the Son of Death hanging around in a place meant for healing.

Nico got to his feet, using his knees to push himself upwards. He spared a glance at Castor, the fallen demigod, a son of Dionysus if he remembered correctly. He had liked Mythomagic and had a twin. In another life, if Castor had lived and Nico weren’t shunned for his heritage, perhaps they could have been friends.

A sigh escaped Nico’s lips as he turned. He briefly caught the eye of the small boy standing at Castor’s bedside. A mop of blonde hair almost covered his blue eyes but still, they looked into Nico’s, wide eyed and wondering. As if to ask why are you leaving?

The implication of the question stopped Nico short.

He shook the blue eyes out of his mind and turned.

Nico had a lot of work to do. On himself. On discovering who he really was, where he came from and what his purpose was. Camp Half-Blood couldn’t help with that. There was a reason why Hades didn’t have a cabin on the grounds. It was best to keep death as far away from a haven as possible. And Camp Half-Blood was a sanctuary if Nico ever did see one.

He left camp with a short goodbye to Hestia. The goddess didn’t bless his travel or his journey but she did give him some advice.

Wisdom will come to you when you least expect it. And someday you must face your own shadow. Beware, Son of Hades, the path you walk will never be straight but it will lead you home.

He didn’t know what to make of her words but he chose to guard them closely and maybe soon they would become clearer.

He travelled the underworld and began to feel more at home amongst the souls that transcended through the realm. Sometimes Ms O’Leary joined him, more often than not though, he travelled alone. Daedalus’ hearing took place and although Minos pushed for a malice filled punishment, the Lord of the Underworld had other ideas. It was the first time Nico saw his father enact any type of power within his realm. Minos stewed quietly behind his golden mask and obeyed his master. He visited his father at court and found nothing but malevolence boiling below the surface of their relationship. Questions about his mother and the life he led before the Lotus Hotel remained a mystery.

Time passed quickly and before he knew it, days had turned into months.

He became familiar with the happenings of the Underworld and the created a map inside his mind. He placed all the rivers in his model and added in Asphodel and the Fields of Punishment. It was only when he got to the River Styx that he discovered something that may change the way his wind blew.

A plan formed in his mind.

A bargain made with his father.

And then, he went off to return to the one person that scared him the most.

He watched Percy from the bottom of the fire escape . The demigod gently placed a sprig into a small planter box and sprinkled it with nectar. The look on Percy’s face was almost melancholic, it pulled at Nico’s heartstrings. He took a breath and stepped into the shadows, and tried to leave any feelings for Percy at the bottom of the stairs.

‘Nice plant.’ He said, stepping out of the shadows.

Watching Percy Jackson jump was one of the few pleasures Nico had left in life.

‘Sorry.’ He said, not meaning it. ‘Didn’t mean to startle you.’

Percy’s eyes looked greener in the moonlight, the sprig that had grown in the plant box and the way he had handled it made Nico wonder if he’d ever be able to treat something with so much care.

For a mere moment, he wondered if he might, someday, be able to treat Percy with such care.

A compliment was on the tip of his tongue. Instead he said ‘I want to make you an offer.’

All business, all the time.

Over blue cake and soda, Nico explained to Percy what he was proposing. How Percy could save the world, how the tide of the upcoming war could be changed. It was risky and really, really stupid, still Nico was convincing.

But Percy was scared.

For that, Nico could not blame him. Still, he had to push.

He decided what Percy needed was time. And what he needed was answers. So he left Percy in New York to stew over his plan with the intention to return within the month.

It took him much longer than that. Almost a year passed before Nico next contacted Percy to set their plan into motion.

It brought him back to his time in the Underworld. Back when he thought there was no place a son of Hades couldn’t see. He should have stayed home, even if home was a ghastly castle made of black marble that provided a highway for souls to transcend their mortal lives.

There had been some comfort there though.

There had been Bob…

The most gentle of giants, the friendliest Titan in the world.

‘Time passes quickly.’ Bob had said to Nico as he cleaned the stairs of the palace. Though how that was possible for an immortal Titan, Nico did not know.

Nico sat on the marble staircase and watched the giant.

‘Never quickly enough…’ Nico had muttered under his breath. He had meant not quickly enough to forgo the suffering he was enduring but Bob had misunderstood.

‘You’ll see your friends soon.’ His tone was light.

‘Friends…’ Nico hesitated.

‘Bob would like to have friends.’ The Titan’s expression was thoughtful, melancholy even.

‘You’d need a friend like Percy.’ The worlds rolled out of Nico before he could stop them.

‘Percy…’ Bob looked at Nico curiously.

‘Yeah, you know…’ He swallowed his pride. ‘Someone who looks out for you when you’re in trouble. Who comforts you when you’re down and tells you no matter what it’s gonna be alright.’

‘Your Percy… he does this?’

Your Percy.

It shouldn’t have struck a chord with Nico but it did.

‘Yeah.’ He swallowed hard. ‘He does.’

He took the breadcrumbs his father gave him about his mother’s birth and followed them to Olympus. While he was in the area, he headed to Mount Othrys. Any chance to eavesdrop on a Titan was a good chance to take. While he was there he sent a dream vision to Percy, this was the time to push. Time was running out and he was running out of leads.

‘You see Percy?’ His voice barely a whisper. ‘You’re running out of time.’

A change in the air told him to return to his father’s realm. A shift was about to take place.

He followed his impulse back to Styx where he went to speak with Charon, the ferryman of the Underworld. Before he could greet the Spirit of Boundaries a presence drew his eye. Between a small group of people he found the head of tall dark familiar person. Beckendorf looks at him with recognition and regret.

Nico walks up feeling a little numb.

Beckendorf had been the best of them. Always the first to take the lead, the first to sacrifice, the first to comfort. He was in the wrong place. And yet, Nico knew that Beckendorf’s mortal life was over.

‘Hey.’ Beckendorf’s low voice was still comforting.

‘Hey.’

‘Nice place you got here.’ Beckendorf raises an eyebrow in jest.

Nico snorts. ‘Thanks.’

He sobers and turns to his tall companion. ‘Follow me. You don’t have to wait in line.’

Beckendorf walks behind Nico, who leads him to Charon and passes the ferryman with a nod.

They speak little on their journey to the hearing. Beckendorf asks if Percy survived the fall from the Princess Andromeda and for one awful second Nico needs to go searching for his soul and hope to Gods that he doesn’t find it. He breathes a sigh of relief. Percy’s soul has not passed on. He survived the explosion.

He tells Beckendorf as much and mentions that for his heroic sacrifice he will be granted admission to Elysium. Nico brings up rebirth but Beckendorf only smiles and shakes his head.

‘I’m waiting for someone.’

His stance is resolute. His eyes are clear.

‘If you see Percy…’ Beckendorf smiles ruefully. He will never see Percy again. ‘Tell him it wasn’t his fault. That he shouldn’t beat himself up over this. I’m good here. I’ve got something worth waiting for.’

Watching Beckendorf pass through the gates towards the court of judgement made Nico feel dizzy. He had seen demigods fall before, he had felt souls pass on a-plenty but this was different. Beckendorf had been the most competent soldier amongst their legion. And still, he had fallen. It hit close to home.

He needed to protect what little he had left.

He needed to protect Percy.

And he would.

After he found out about his mother.

The plan wasn’t thought through. He doesn’t know why he trusted his father and betrayed Percy. Tricking a guy into an audience with your undead Lord of the Dead father is the best way to get someone to fall in love with you – not. Still, there were some things that took precedent. And the di Angelo history was one of them. One of the few. Okay, the only thing.

The look of betrayal on Percy’s face had Nico looking away in shame.

The throat pin in the cell was definitely deserved.

‘I swear on the River Styx, I didn’t know what he was planning.’ Nico heard the rush of water in his ears as the oath was sworn.

‘You know what your dad is like!’

The anger was real and justified. Nico hadn’t given Percy any reason to trust him in the past and he may have just marred any chance he had of getting Percy to trust him in the future.

But Percy bathed anyway.

Even when Achilles told him to turn back.

It will make you powerful. But it will also make you weak.

Nico watched Percy stare in Achilles’ face and say no. If Luke had bathed, then Percy must too. It is the only way he would stand a chance.

Let the gods witness I tried.

The boys shivered as the wisdom of the greatest mortal hero to ever live rolled down their backs. Achilles disappeared and the river kept churning.

The minutes Nico spent on shore seemed endless. He counted the pebbles at his feet and tried to ignore the river that had swallowed his friend. A son of Poseidon couldn’t drown…right?

This was the only way. This was the right choice.

Nico repeated the words in his mind like a mantra. This will save him. This will set him free.

There was no doubt in Nico’s mind that Percy was the hero of the prophecy. That knowledge both hurt and healed him. He knew the object of his affection was going to be a great hero, was an honourable half blood but the same hero’s hubris may come at too high a cost. Nico would never be the child of the prophecy. It had nothing to do with his father’s taunts of Your sister would have done a better job. And more to do with the fact that Percy was just cut from hero cloth. He inspired loyalty and trust…and love.

And if he took this dip. If Percy came out of the river alive then he would be able to survive the prophecy and he would be saved!

Then we would thank Nico!

Then maybe…

Maybe they could start over.

After that night the trust was broken between Nico and Percy and maybe that was for the best. He stayed in the Underworld and attempted to persuade Hades to join the fight.

It was futile.

Their relationship, what was left of it, was strained and strenuous at best. Nico tried to implore his father but to no avail. He couldn’t understand why Hades would rather watch the world burn and him with it than protect what he loved by serving the greater good.

Only when he dug up Persephone’s flower beds and called upon his mother did he begin to understand the god he called his father.

‘Why? What is he hiding?’ Nico had asked Bianca when she took her mother’s place.

‘Pain. Hatred. This knowledge will only hurt you. Remember what I said.’

He clawed his way through her image, it was replaced by a series of scenes like something out of a movie.

He watched his own mother’s death and the destruction of life as he knew it. He felt he couldn’t take it all in until a girl entered the picture and Hades began to chant.

His eyes fully black, Hades looked possessed by an otherworldly creature. ‘I swear as long as my children remain outcasts, as long as I labour under the curse of your Great Prophecy, the Oracle of Delphi will never have another mortal host. You will never rest in peace. No other will take your place. Your body will wither and die, and still the Oracle’s spirit will be locked inside you. You will speak your bitter prophecies until you crumble to nothing. The Oracle will die with you!’

The screams of the girl would make Nico wake up in cold sweat for many years to come. So chilling was it, watching his father enact his rage on an innocent bystander.

Now Nico knew why Bianca had warned him. Grudges were fatal to the children of Hades because they had been fatal to their father. A curse born of hatred had caused the world to fall into chaos and it was their duty, no, only Nico’s duty now, to atone for the sins his father had committed.

It must have been a miracle that Hades decided to join the war, that Luke woke up at Annabeth’s injury, that Olympus didn’t fall at the hands of Kronos that day.

Hades was welcomed into the throne room with pats on the back and words of welcome. And Nico sat at the foot of his make-shift throne feeling like he might finally be worthy of his father’s attention. The Curse of the Oracle had been broken. Or so it seemed…

The next few weeks are something out of a dream. Nico is welcomed the same way his father was and for a while things seem to be looking up. He built his cabin with style. Obsidian walls and green fire torches. No cabin would compare.

He spent a little time in the med-bay again. This time his wounds were minor but his health had deteriorated due to his shadow travel. He would need to get stronger to shadow travel more often. The head counsellor was nowhere to be seen. The kid he had seen at Castor’s bedside treated his wounds instead. His bright eyes and sunny disposition were jarring. Still there was something calming about the guy.

‘Solace. Will Solace.’

After the blonde, Will, had covered Nico’s wounds in nectar and band aids, he held out his hand.

‘Right uh, Nico. di Angelo.’

He hesitantly grabbed Will’s hand, standing up. To his surprise, Will didn’t shiver or back away from Nico. He grasped Nico’s hand softly and gave it a shake.

‘Nice fighting and all that.’

‘Oh uh thanks.’ Nico, who had never really interacted much with people, became aware that it might be normal to compliment Will as well. ‘Nice… um.. healing and stuff.’

If Will thought his reaction was strange, he didn’t show it. He simply flashed Nico a blinding smile and threw up a peace sign.

‘Thanks.’ He gave Nico a wink. ‘See you round.’

With that he turned and exited.

The people he met – Annabeth, Grover, Rachel … Percy… they all became his friends. They became his reason for continuing his journey. Maybe the curse of Hades really had been broken. Nico finally felt like he had something worth returning to.

There were so many experiences that led Nico to becoming the person he was destined to be. Meeting Percy at Camp Jupiter had shaken him but he had remained strong. His father’s will would undoubtedly win. And his word’s rang true. Go to them. It is important you make this connection. The path was never going to be easy. Hestia had all but promised him that much. Whether Tartarus had always been part of that destiny, though, was unclear. But Nico knew if he could give it back – he would.

The pull of the pit had been too strong. It sucked him in like a black hole and left him feeling naked, empty and helpless. Still, he followed it. He knew he would find the Doors at the end of the burning road. Nevertheless, he drank the fire water and faced the Goddess of Misery, Akhlys. She had congratulated him on his sorrow and whined ‘Child of Hades, what more could I do to you? You are so perfect. So much sorrow, so much pain.’

He could add it to the things that kept him up at night. Her blood streaked face, his distress mirrored in her tears on the shield of Hercules. He would never forget the true face of misery and how it had welcomed him home.

In a way it seemed right for him to be overwhelmed in Tartarus. Overrun by Gaea’s minions. In a way, he had seen it coming. He had prepared for the worst.

The pomegranate seeds he ate had been a last resort. As the air in the bronze jar thinned and his pomegranate supply dwindled, he wondered if this was all he had been meant for.

To be a puppet in another god’s game.

He had been so close. He had found the Doors of Death. He almost saved them.

He had only just gotten Hazel back and now he would be the one that needed finding in the Fields of Asphodel.

He thought suffocating under Rome in a bronze jar would be the worst thing to happen to him since losing Bianca.

And then…

And then he watched Percy and Annabeth fall to their doom.

Lead them there! Percy had begged him. Promise me!

He saw them fall into blackness and almost jumped after them. He clawed at the rocks and bellowed and cried. Not again. Nico screamed until his lungs gave out. Bring them back! Bring them back! Bring them back! He was inconsolable.

Not again!

None of it seemed to matter anymore. He knew Percy could survive Tartarus, especially if Annabeth was with him. Nico just didn’t know who Percy would come out as at the other side.

Gaea didn’t want to give him time to dwell on it but he did so anyway.

He’d stay up late at night and watch the shadows dance against the walls as Coach Hedge walked up and down the hallway making sure everyone was in their own cabin. Not that Nico had anywhere else to go.

The last battle ran through his head like a movie. Some parts were marred by dizziness and fog because he hadn’t completely recovered from the asphyxiation in that moment but still, the outlines of the figures were clear. Percy was standing over him again. Percy was saving him again.

And all Nico could do was lay there trying to catch his breath.

The Death Trance had taken plenty out of him. The black clothes he wore seemed to slowly become one with him as he faded in and out of the shadows. It took his upmost control to not sink through the lumpy mattress he was sitting on in that moment.

He needed to be stronger.

He always needed to be stronger.

Bu there was no time. Every minute Percy (and Annabeth, he reminded himself) stayed in Tartarus was a minute longer they stood in hell. They needed a way out and Nico had to make it to the Doors of Death when they found it.

Nico would make sure that Percy and Annabeth survived their walk through the abyss. But it would be a whole lot easier with an army by his side…

Chasing the Sceptre of Diocletian brought Nico face to face with a demigod he thought he’d never see again. Jason Grace.

He looked different than Nico remembered.

His close cut hair had grown slightly, the glasses on his face (also new) seemed to be permanently askew. His strength hadn’t waned though. Jason still emanated an intense aura. Like that of a lightning storm coming to pass. Close, suffocating and inevitable. Still, he didn’t look so Roman anymore.

Nico had extended a challenge. Go with me to Diocletian’s Palace if you dare. And the son of Jupiter was never one to back down from a fight.

Maybe Jason had become a little more Greek than he’d like to admit.

‘I just can’t imagine how weird that must be, coming from another time.’

It almost made a shiver run down Nico’s spine. You have no idea.

‘No, you can’t.’ He wanted to end the conversation there but sometimes you have to take one for the team. Jason wasn’t trying to be hostile or interrogative.

‘I don’t like talking about it… Honestly, I think Hazel has it worse. Me…’ a beat. Not just him. ‘Me and Bianca, we were stuck in the Lotus Hotel. Time passed so quickly. In a weird way, that made the transition easier.’

‘Percy told me about that place. Seventy years but it only felt like a month?’

A hitch in Nico’s stride and a darkness that seemed to fall over them.

‘Yeah. I’m sure Percy told you all about me.’

If Nico had known who he would meet in the Palace, he would have never entered in the first place. Let alone taken Jason with him.

What Favonius said wasn’t cruel but it may as well have been because it felt like a sword sharper than his stygian iron one was being pushed through Nico’s heart.

‘I knew eventually you would return to look upon my master’s face.’

What little blood Nico had left in his cheeks drained.

‘The one you care for most … plunged into Tartarus. Still, you will not allow the truth?’

Panic rose in Nico until he felt the gall all the way at the top of his throat. His heart rate quickened and the grip on his sword loosened as his hands became sweaty.

No.

‘We’ve come for Diocletian’s sceptre.’ He struggled to keep his voice level.

The words Hestia spoke to him years ago came back to haunt him.

‘Your trials will be much more difficult.’ Favonius looked amused. ‘If you want the sceptre, you must face the god of love.’

Favonius almost ripped Nico apart by taking him to see Eros. But the grass that wilted at his feet and the blackness of his shadow that snaked out wasn’t only due to unforeseen air travel.

‘I don’t blame you for being nervous, Nico di Angelo. Do you know how I ended up serving Cupid?’

A knot tightened in Nico’s stomach, for a second he regained his stature and stood. ‘I don’t serve anyone. Especially not Cupid.’

What came next was anyone’s guess. Nico would have never thought that the god of love and the god of death were so intimately connected. But Cupid had been right, sometimes Death was kinder.

Blood ran down Nico’s sword arm, the red arrow lying at his feet dissolved with his wound. Nico’s fear was replaced by frustration.

He watched Jason get thrown around. First hitting the columns, then almost swallowed by a crumbling wall.

‘Stop it! It’s me you want. Leave him alone!’ He stretched out his arms as if standing in front of Jason and covering him would stop the god from attacking his friend.

Still, the taunting continued.

‘And you – what have you risked in my name?’

Anger burned in his stomach.

‘I have been to Tartarus and back,’ Nico snarled, his eyes icy. ‘You. Don’t. Scare. Me.’

For a second it seemed like Nico had found his fight again. ‘Give us Diocletian’s sceptre, we don’t have time for games.’

An invisible hand rapped against Nico’s cheek. He went flying into a granite pedestal. Head cloudy and throbbing, Nico tried to sit up.

‘Tell him, Nico di Angelo. Tell him you are a coward, afraid of yourself and your feelings. Tell him the real reason you ran away from Camp Half-Blood and are always alone.’

Something inside Nico broke. His eyes were shaking and he lost control. He let loose a terrifying scream as he realized that there was nowhere left to hide. Nowhere that Cupid wouldn’t find him. The ground split open and bodies of passed soldiers clawed their way to the surface until they surrounded Nico.

The darkness rolled off of Nico in waves so powerful Jason almost couldn’t withstand it. Every pulse of energy that Nico released, seemingly unintentional, brought with it a wave of hatred, shame and fear.

The images his power brought to the surface were ones he tried his best to supress. Percy’s smile, the clap on the shoulder he received after the Battle of New York, the way his stomach flipped when they were together.

To his horror, he realized Jason saw all the same things.

He looked over at the blonde in horror and urged his soldiers forward.

They grappled with the invisible god until he released a cruel, low laugh.

‘I wasn’t in love with Annabeth.’ Nico’s confession is hollow, his eyes downcast. He looks as if he has lost all his strength. The fight, the denial, it all left his body at once.

Nico crumbled to the ground with his soldiers and the darkness around him subsided. All that was left was a boy drowning in his own shame and misunderstanding.

Jason couldn’t believe how young Nico looked in that moment.

‘I hated myself.’ Nico confessed quietly. ‘I hated Percy Jackson.’ Because I loved him.

Cupid’s shape became clear, the white wings and black hair that belonged to the god were startlingly magnificent yet Jason couldn’t help but hate him. Love was cruel and Cupid was a monster.

‘Happy now?’ Nico demanded.

Cupid’s gaze changed, for a moment he seemed to almost pity Nico. ‘I wouldn’t say Love always makes you happy. But at least you’ve faced it now. That is the only way to conquer me.’

With the next gust of wind, the god dissolved and in his place was the sceptre of Diocletian.

It suddenly dawned on Jason that Nico’s story was not an ordinary one. He finally understood why Nico’s past weighed on him so much. To be born in the 1940s, during a time of war, a time where feelings such as Nico’s would have been shunned. It’s no wonder Nico battled so heavily with his secret.

The modern world that he lived in now, where acceptance was more wide spread than before, was not his home. Nico had always felt out of place. And the acceptance that the queer community got nowadays did not feel inclusive to the kid from World War II.

‘Nico,’ Jason said gently, ‘I’ve seen a lot of brave things. But what you just did… that was maybe the bravest.’

Jason was unsure if Nico’s battle with Cupid had changed anything within the son of Hades but over the next days he saw Nico firm up. His once starved body became taut with muscles though his skin stayed as pale as ever.

And waiting in front of northern coast of Africa was making everyone antsy. Especially Nico.

‘Any word from the king?’

‘Every day, he calls for me later and later.’ Jason sounded frustrated.

‘We need to leave,’ Nico insisted. ‘Soon. Percy is close to the Doors.’

Jason had his doubts. The king of the South Wind was uncooperative, the ship was no where near ready and now with Leo gone…

‘I promised I’d lead you to the House of Hades,’ Nico said, his voice hard as if sensing Jason’s uncertainty. ‘One way or another, I will.’

‘You can’t shadow-travel with all of us.’ Jason had already considered that idea but it was worthless if Nico wouldn’t survive the trip.

Bringing up Nico’s inability somehow made the orb on the sceptre glow. Hanging on Nico’s belt it somehow seemed to throb.

‘Then you’ve got to convince the king of the South Wind to help.’ Nico sounded angry. ‘I didn’t come all this, suffer so many humiliations…’ He trailed off but his intention was clear.

I did not suffer all these trials and forcefully out myself to you for you to NOT make it.

The dark energy that swirled around Nico and blackened the floor was unsettling. For the first time in his life, Jason thought this may be a foe he couldn’t defeat in battle. And he didn’t want to find out, if he was truly honest.

Jason wanted to be Nico’s friend but he wasn’t exactly making it easy.

The conversation shifted, for an uncertain amount of time it was always going to be about Nico’s coming out. Until he accepted his own feelings, that is.

‘It’s not like you’ve got a choice. It’s just who you are…’ Jason’s sympathetic voice sounded accusing to Nico.

‘Just who I am... What would you know about who I am? I didn’t choose any of this.’ He lashed out with his hands, swiping through the wind. ‘My father, my feelings.’

There was a pulse of energy.

But for some reason Jason began feeling just as frustrated as Nico.

‘I get it, what do I know. But Nico, you choose how to live your life. You want to trust somebody? Take the risk. Find out if I’m really your friend and if I’ll accept you. At least that’s better than hiding.’

The floor cracked, Nico’s eyes were cold and his aura seemed to be sucking in all the shadows from around him.

‘Hiding?’ It was barely a whisper.

Jason’s instincts told him to run, to grab his sword, to fight this threat. But he stood his ground.

‘Yes, hiding. You’ve run away from bot camps. You’re so afraid they’d reject you that you won’t even try!’ He pushed just a little further. ‘Maybe it’s time you came out of the shadows.’

Hestia’s words echoed in his mind.

And someday you must face your shadow. Beware, son of Hades.

For one unbearable moment, Jason felt like his bones were being pulled towards the Underworld and then it passed. Nico dropped his eyes and the fissure in the floor closed. The ghostly light around the son of Hades faded.

‘I’ll honour my promise,’ Nico’s voice was barely a whisper. ‘I’ll take you to Epirus. I’ll help you close the Doors of Death. Then that’s it. I’m leaving.’

For a second Nico wonders if he and Jason were always mean to butt heads. After all, it was Zeus who had smited Maria di Angelo. How could Nico be sure that Jason was any different than his father? This olive branch was nothing but rotten.

The journey to the House of Hades was nothing but unsettling, even for the children of the Underworld. Nico marvelled briefly at Hazel’s ability to crumble a house sized boulder into nothing before they continued their journey.

They reached the chalice filled with dark green liquid. Nico felt he was at a crossroads. Hecate was watching. Nico drank and offered it to Jason.

‘You asked me about trust. Well, here you go, son of Jupiter. How much do you trust me?’

Jason’s eyes glinted but he didn’t hesitate grabbing the cup from Nico. Jason drank never breaking eye contact as if to dare him. Next question. He all but threw the goblet at the others.

Nico hid his shock. An olive branch if he ever did see one.

The group continued downward.

A shudder made his way through Nico’s heart. He kept walking. It happened again. He saw Hazel pause too, ever so briefly. He briefly recounted the time. Twelve minutes. The Doors of Death were opening every twelve minutes.

Then Frank saw a ghost and the plan Nico had in his head went down the drain.

They were surrounded. On all sides.

‘Nico, the sceptre!’

He raised it and the dead with it. Not that it was much use though, Jason couldn’t command them and neither could Frank.

‘My rank,’ Frank realized. ‘I’m only a centurion.’

Nico carved through a gryphon with his stygian sword.

‘Well, then promote him!’ He shouted at Jason as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Jason didn’t hesitate.

‘Frank Zhang! I, Jason Grace, praetor of the Twelfth Legion Fulminata, give you my final order: I resign my post and give you emergency field promotion to praetor, with the full powers of that rank. Take command of this legion.’

Then, the battle changed and Nico couldn’t help but smile.

Watching Frank take control of the legion of undead soldiers had Nico thinking: maybe this guy wasn’t so bad after all. Maybe he could trust Frank with Hazel.

They won. Nico could barely believe it but they won.

A glimmer of hope ran through him.

Until, he staggered. His heart panged and he knew something changed.

‘The Doors,’ Nico said. ‘Something’s happening. We need to go now.’

Hazel and Leo were in full battle mode when they arrived. And Clytius was a terrible foe, even Nico had to admit. They attacked as a group. Even Annabeth and Percy had their weapons raised. Every time the giant attempted to tackle them with his dark smoke, Nico stood guard and absorbed the dark energy. For the first time in his life, he understood what it felt like to inhale and feel true air in his lungs. The substance Clytius released did nothing but agitate Nico’s hunger for darkness more.

Still, watching the giant burn to death had been awful but nevertheless, Nico felt a sick sense of relief.

There was hesitation in his step. Being so close to Percy after almost losing him. He couldn’t help but feel slightly paralyzed. He managed a ‘I’m glad you’re okay,’ and kissed Hazel’s forehead. ‘The ghosts were right,’ he said. ‘Only one of us made it to the Doors of Death. It was you, it was always supposed to be you. You would have made dad proud.’

She noticed his eyes were bloodshot and his face was wet with dried tears. Something had broken inside her brother recently and it was all flooding to the surface now. She wished so badly she could give him some peace of mind and some comfort. But she didn’t understand what was going on. And he wouldn’t tell her.

He got goose bumps as he realized Percy was standing behind him holding up Annabeth. Hazel suggested shadow-travel and Nico winced. ‘Hazel, I can barely manage that with only myself. With seven more people –’ I would die. He thinks.

I don’t want to die.

It’s an afterthought, the first time he had ever thought such a thing, but still it rang true.

‘I’ll help you.’ She’s insistent. And so he believes her.

The pain in Nico’s chest intensified as they sat in a circle and traded war stories. He watched Percy lace his fingers through Annabeth’s and felt like the loneliest person in the world.

Jason caught his eye, his gaze sympathetic. Nico couldn’t do anything but turn away in shame.

Later, when the commotion had passed and Nico was rigging up the statue, Percy found him.

‘Thank you.’

Nico stops. ‘What for?’

‘You promised to lead the others to the House of Hades, you kept your promise.’

Nico’s words are curt and guarded. They have Percy hesitating and rubbing the back of his head in discomfort.

‘Also…’ Percy said, ‘you visited Bob…You convinced Bob that I could be trusted, even though I never visited him. I never gave him a second thought. You probably saved our lives.’

Nico’s face darkens. ‘Yeah, well, not giving people a second thought. That can be danger.’

Confusion joins Percy’s discomfort. ‘Dude, I’m trying to say thank you.’

Nico’s laugh is humourless, there is something icy in his gaze. ‘I’m trying to say you don’t need to.’ You’ll never need to.

He made the one decision that made the most sense. The Athena Parthenos needs to go west, so he will take it there. Along with Reyna and Coach Hedge.

The trip was hard.

Not as hard as surviving Tartarus but still, by all means, hard.

There was no comfort to be found on their journey. His gang slept in their tent on the outskirts of a road that seemed endless.

Maybe he would have felt warmed by the fact that Jason prayed to his dad every time he burned an offering. And that Hazel begged for his safe return. He plagued the thoughts of the Seven.

Reyna lent him her power in their moment of need which was good because he barely had any left. With every jump, he felt the darkness spread. It wasn’t like the darkness he had felt with Clytius, that darkness had strengthened him. This one tried to consume him. Until he was nothing left but shadow.

‘It’s not mind-reading,’ Reyna had said about her gift. ‘Not even an empathy link… just a temporary wave of exhaustion. Your pain washes over me.’ Hesitance. ‘I take some of your burden.

Shame and embarrassment washed over him.

‘You should rest,’ was the only thing she told him.

There was a lot of time spend unconscious for him. A lot of time for him to mull over the last few months. Sometimes he saw Akhylis, the Goddess of Misery, other times a vague picture of his father floated around his mind. Most often though, he was tethered down the thoughts of the Seven. He waned past all the usual painful memories and always landed back on his friends. Hazel’s face, Jason’s intense eyes, Frank’s look of determination.

He had plenty of grief during his waking hours too though. He wished he could find some peace in his sleep.

The most peace he got was when Clovis dragged him off course and into Hypnos’s dreamscape. The detour was annoying but nonetheless helpful. He watched Will Solace, the lanky boy from the med-bay, diffuse a row between Clarisse and Rachel. The combat medic had something of Jason in him. Brave, loyal but the eyes were different. The eyes… bore right into your soul. Even in the dreamscape, Nico had to look away.

When he awoke he had no choice but to follow the burning man into his father’s chapel.

He felt his father’s presence before he saw him. Like a cold shadow that falls over you.

Nodding at the skull lined walls he asks his father dryly ‘Getting some redecorating ideas?’

‘I can never tell when you’re joking.’

‘Why are you here, Father?’

A pulse of embarrassment rushes through him as Hades mentions the sceptre of Diocletian and it’s… exploded state. It had been enough to rouse the god from his confused state. Still, that was not why he had come.

‘So tell me, Father. What do you want?’

‘Can you entertain the notion that I might be here to help you? Not simply because I want something?’

Nico suppresses a snort. ‘I can entertain the notion that you might be here for multiple reasons.’

It turns out Hades can be useful. He tells of Orion, the fallen archer who gave in to bitterness and anger after being scorned by love. ‘You can understand that.’ Hades had said to Nico.

What do you know about what I understand?

‘Still there is more,’ Hades said, ‘Your sister.’ He falters. ‘Your other sister. Hazel. She has discovered one of the Seven will die.’ Nico’s heart stops. It couldn’t be… ‘She may try to prevent this. In doing so, she may lose sight of her priorities.

Would Hazel be safe? Would Jason?

Nico barely notices that now, Percy is an afterthought.

‘Who will die?’

Hades’ eyes face the floor. ‘Even if I were certain, I could not say. I tell you this because you are my son. You know that some deaths cannot be prevented. Some deaths should not be prevented. When the time comes, you may need to act.’

Great, more responsibility.

A softness enters Hades’ face and his tone. ‘My son,’ he said, ‘whatever happens, you have earned my respect.’ Nico swallows hard. ‘You brought honour to our house when we stood together against Kronos in Manhattan. You risked my wrath and guided that Jackson boy to the River Styx.’ For a second Hades reverts back to his old self. ‘Never before have I been so harassed by one of my sons. Percy this and Percy that. I nearly blasted you to cinders.’

There’s a hollowness in Nico’s chest. That feels like a lifetime ago.

‘I didn’t do it for him,’ he insists. ‘I did it because the whole world was in danger.’

Hades allows his son this lie and gifts him the faintest of smiles. ‘I can entertain that you acted for multiple reasons.’

Nico can’t stop his eyes filling with tears. There was something under the surface there, something close to acceptance.

‘You and I rose to the aid of Olympus because you convinced me to let go of my anger,’ Hades reminded him. ‘I would encourage you to do the same.’ Sadness twinges his voice. ‘My children are so rarely happy. I… I would like to see you be an exception.’

‘My son, what you are attempting – shadow-travel across the world, carrying the statue of Athena – it may well destroy you.’ Nico thought he imagined the pain in his father’s voice. But there was nothing to be done about that.

‘I will see you again,’ Hades promised. ‘I will prepare a room for you at the palace. Perhaps your chambers would look good decorated with skulls of monks.’

‘Now I can’t tell if you’re joking.’

Hades’ eyes shimmered. ‘Then perhaps we are alike in some important ways.’

Lycaon followed just as Hades had said he would. And Orion did too. Their escape led them to Old San Juan. It led Nico to realize that maybe Reyna was as lost and bitter as he was. The only memory left of that part of their trip was a Hawaiian shirt and the glowing figures of Reyna’s past.

‘I can’t,’ she pleaded, as if asking the spectres for forgiveness. ‘Please, I can’t.’

Nico raised his hand and stood in front of her. The ghosts dissipated but they both knew they would never truly be gone. He would shield her from this.

‘I don’t want to talk about San Juan.’ She said when they arrived at their next destination.

For the first time, Nico found himself giving out advice. ‘You should,’ he said, ‘That’s the thing about ghosts – most of them have lost their voices.’ He turns to her and shrugs. ‘In Asphodel, millions of them wander around aimlessly, trying to remember who they were. You know why they end up like that?’ She gave no answer. ‘Because in life they never took a stand one way or another. They never spoke out, so they were never heard.’

She takes in his words. And he does as well.

‘Your voice is your identity,’ he continues, ‘without it… you’re halfway to Asphodel already.’

Damn, he needed to take his own advice.

‘I don’t like talking about it either,’ he said, looking into her eyes, ‘but sometimes, you have to.’

What Nico learned about Reyna that night thoroughly changed his opinion of the praetor. She was strong and resilient and came from such a broken home. Nico listened attentively, rarely commenting, only taking in.

In the end, the PTSD got to Reyna’s father and he became ‘a mania…’ Nico speculated. ‘I’ve seen it before. A human withering away until he’s not human anymore.’

It didn’t help. Tears filled Reyna’s eyes as she confessed her sins to Nico.

‘I killed my own father.’

He shook his head.

‘No. Reyna, no.’ Nico’s words were firm. ‘That wasn’t him. That was a ghost, a mania. What you did, you did out of self-defence. You were protecting your sister.’ And he would never blame her for that.

‘You don’t understand.’ But he did, she just didn’t know it. ‘Patricide is the worst crime a Roman can commit. It’s unforgivable.’

‘You didn’t kill your father.’ Nico insisted. ‘That man was already dead. All you did was dispel a ghost.’

Her tears awoke something in Nico. A protective instinct that usually only flared up around Hazel, and more recently Jason, came to the surface. He knew a little something about pretending to be strong and putting on a face for everyone around you. And then secretly crumbling away inside like a rock slowly being eroded.

If there were ever a moment when Nico would have imprinted on someone like a duckling, it would have been that moment.

And then, Bryce Lawrence decided to threaten his duckling.

‘I am a descendant of Orcus, the god of broken vows and eternal punishment. I’ve heard the screams of the Fields of Punishment first-hand.’ He stared at Nico crazed. ‘And they’re music to my ears.’

Nico was paralyzed as undead soldiers clawed their way up from a grave that he had thought previously was empty. It was the first time someone had used their own power of the Underworld against him.

The skeletons grabbed Reyna and only then did Nico regain his senses.

‘Nico, take the statue and go!’

He looked down at his hands. They were transparent and smoky. Had Bryce been right? Was he losing his grip, literally?

His energy was waning. Even standing in direct sunlight couldn’t hold his molecules together anymore.

His eyes met Reyna’s and a warmth spread through him.

She shared with him her strength and her drive.

Bryce laughed as if he were invincible. ‘I hope they’ll execute you in the ancient way.’ He nods at Reyna. ‘I’ve always wanted to see that. I can’t wait until your little secret comes out.’ He flicked his pilum across Reyna’s face. A trail of blood poured down.

A beat. Silence.

And then Nico exploded.

The air dropped to freezing temperatures and the grass on which they stood withered and died. With a single, glass-shattering cry the darkness poured out of him leaving every living creature to experience exactly what pain and anger were.

Bryce had challenged Nico. And Nico would teach him.

You want secrets? HERE.

Bryce’s soldiers disintegrated into dust until all that was left was a shivering Roman falling over his own feet. Tortures of Tartarus and Akhlys, a suffocating bronze jar and modern world that didn’t make sense transmuted through the air.

Nico ripped the probation tablet from about Bryce’s neck. ‘You. Are not. Worthy of this.’

It took all his self-control not to hit Bryce across the face with it. Nico’s eyes were black and he didn’t blink as the rocks split and Bryce sank down to his waist.

‘You took an oath to the legion. You broke its rules. You inflicted pain. You killed you own centurion.’

They weren’t accusations. There was no defence. This was not going to be a fair trial.

‘You should have died for your crimes. That was the punishment.’ Nico cocked his head. ‘Instead, you got exile.’ The crazed look Bryce had carried was now mirrored on Nico’s face. ‘You should have stayed away. Your father may not approve of broken vows but I know another god who does not favour escaped punishment.’

The Underworld had no mercy. It only had justice.

‘Please!’ Bryce whimpered. But his beg fell on deaf ears.

‘You’re already dead.’

Bryce’s eyes widened in horror.

‘You’re a ghost with no tongue, no memory. You won’t share anyone’s secrets anymore.’

‘No!’ Bryce sunk deeper into the ground. ‘No! I’m Bryce Lawrence! I’m alive!’ He recounted it as if it were a mantra but his body turned dark and his skin became translucent.

Nico’s cold eyes gazed down at him.

‘Who are you?’

And Bryce couldn’t answer. Bryce was no longer alive. He would forever be a spirit with no voice. Just a nameless spectre amongst millions of others.

Nico swiped his hand through the ghost’s body. ‘Begone.’

And with that, he collapsed.

Three days.

That’s how much time they lost with Nico unconscious and his body barely a shadow.

He had been in a shadow coma. And it scared him.

Am I dying?

He expected them to recoil. To feel threatened and paralyzed by him after the show he had put on. He wanted to feel angry towards them for knowing they were judging him. But his anger wouldn’t materialize. He just felt… tired.

‘Why didn’t you leave me? You knew I couldn’t help you anymore. You wasted three days watching over me. Why?’

Reyna looked at him sympathetically. ‘I trust you, Nico. You lifted some of my burden. Your not the only one who lets out the darkness every once in a while. You shared your painful experiences; how could we not support you?’ Her face opened up. ‘We’re friends.’

‘Two days. The Romans will attack Camp Half-Blood in two days.’ Nico shook his head. ‘We have to hurry. I have to get ready.’ Even if it kills me. He realized.

But Coach Hedge relieved him of his burden.

Instead, they took to the sky with pegasi. And then they took a ride with Jules-Albert, Nico’s undead chauffeur.

He bid Reyna farewell with a grip on the arm.

‘It’s been an honour questing with you, son of Hades.’

‘You’re the most courageous demigod I’ve ever met, Reyna.’ The look in her eyes was almost too much. ‘I won’t let you down.’

Nico made it to the battle with two legionnaires and Jules-Albert at the wheel.

‘Leila, Dakota, Jules-Albert will drive you to the legion lines. Get out, talk to your troops, convince them to follow your lead. I need a distraction.’

‘I’m not hurting any of my fellow legionnaires.’

Nico supressed a growl. ‘No one is asking you. But if we don’t stop this war the entire legion will be wiped out.’ He looked at them, his orders clear. ‘I’m counting on you.’

They nodded at him.

‘I’m going dark,’ Nico said and faded into the shadows.

The second he jumped the shadows he began to dissolve. It wasn’t setting a great precedent for the battle. The voices called out to him Help us. Remember us. Join us.

He did his best to keep them at way and as he faced the sunlight, he answered. No! I am the son of Hades. I control the shadows. They do not control me. He rested his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath.

A brief look at Octavian’s tent had Nico wondering if maybe an assassination might solve their current problem. He didn’t have time to test his theory though. Will Solace tapped him on the shoulder instead. Nico jumped and almost took his head off.

The son of Apollo muttered through clenched teeth. ‘Nico, what are you doing here?’

‘Me? What are you doing here? Getting yourselves killed?’

He surveyed Will and his two companions, dressed in black with matching face paint.

‘You’re dressed in black with the sun coming up. You painted your face but didn’t cover that mop of blonde hair. You may as well be waving a yellow flag.’ He scolded. Will’s ears turned red.

Nico inquired about Coach Hedge making it in time for his baby’s birth. The group nodded.

Will grabbed Nico’s hand unexpectedly ‘My hands are still shaking. See? But I delivered it. A very cute little satyr boy.’

Nico pulled his hands away, ignoring the electric current that ran through his body.

He was going to go back to his assassination plan until Will spouted some nonsense.

‘No more shadow-traveling. Doctor’s orders.’

Nico wanted to make a comment about how Will’s ‘doctor’s orders’ didn’t really mean much since he went into the OP with his a scrub shirt, khakis and flipflops but it didn’t seem like the right moment.

Not worth it.

‘Whatever. You follow my lead.’

Nico revised his impression of Will on their way to manipulating onagers. Talented, yes. Cool-headed, yes. Stubborn, double yes. Aggravating, unbelievably so.

In the next minutes Nico learned he could add reckless to that list too. Will, with the intention of creating a diversion, sprinted off and engaged six Romans at once. He needed an assist.

‘Six at once, not bad.’ Will punched him in the shoulder.

‘Not bad?’ Nico asked blandly. ‘Next time I’ll just let them run you down, Solace.’

‘Ah, they’d never catch me.’ He shoots Nico a blinding smile.

They were moving towards to last onager when they were spotted.

‘Do we run?’ asked Lou Ellen quietly.

‘No,’ Nico said. ‘Let’s give them what they want.’

He raised his hands and called upon five skeletons. Watching the look on the Roman’s faces was almost worth his falling back and being caught by Will.

‘Idiot.’ Will held him up. ‘I told you no more.’

‘I’m fine.’

‘Shut up. You’re not.’

The spat with Will caused him to miss the entrance of the entire First Cohort. Octavian at the helm. His purple robes shone in the sun, jewellery glittering around his neck. On his head he wore a crown of laurels.

He watched Will let out a piercing taxicab whistle and suddenly Octavian didn’t seem so high and mighty anymore.

‘My – my elite guard!’ Octavian spluttered helplessly like a complaining child. The dog-men crumbled at his feet. ‘Did you see what he did to my elite guard?’

Regaining his posture, Octavian marched right up to Nico and to his credit he didn’t seem the slightest bit scared. Nico felt Will tighten his grip, staring Octavian down over Nico’s shoulder.

Up close Octavian looked sickly and bare. A descendant of Apollo but only evident in the shade of his hair. The arrogance and lust for power, that wasn’t a child of Apollo. Octavian was nothing but a watered down copy of Will Solace. Whatever it was that made a child of Apollo special, that made them glow the way Will did, Octavian didn’t have it.

‘Tell me son of Pluto,’ hissed the augur, ‘why are you helping them? What have they ever done for you?’

Nico’s hand itched to reach for his sword. He could do it now. Assassinate Octavian. He could probably even manage before the First Cohort intervened… it would be worth it.

Still, he hesitated.

If he committed this act of murder and died – he wouldn’t mind so much. For the good of the world and all that. But Will, Cecil and Lou Ellen… they would become casualties of his plan.

It wasn’t right.

Octavian intervened in Will and Nico’s quarrel. ‘What do you mean you’re leaving camp?!’ If they lived long enough, they would be able to hash out whether Nico should stay at camp or not.

‘I see ruthlessness in you,’ Octavian encouraged. He looked greedy. ‘And I appreciate that. Step aside and allow the Romans to win.’

‘Don’t do this, Octavian.’ Will shook his head. ‘Don’t force your people to choose. This is your last chance.’

There was sympathy in Will’s eyes. As if the gift of prophecy had been granted to him again, as if Apollo’s head had finally cleared.

The clearer Will’s eyes got, the more crazed Octavian’s seemed in comparison.

‘I will SAVE ROME!’ He explained. ‘Now, Romans, follow my orders! Destroy these Graecus scum!’

‘Don’t be stupid!’ Will yelled, his voice almost as loud as the second taxicab whistle he’d let ring to stop the Greek armies from waging against the Romans.

He pointed to the sky. Nico couldn’t believe his eyes.

Reyna was flying on Guido with six pegasi hauling the Athena Parthenos behind her.

Reyna’s voice boomed. ‘Greek demigods, Behold your most sacred statue. I return it to you now as a gesture of peace.’

An intense energy emanated from the statue all across the Greek camp. Everyone stood dazed. The statue seemed to be speaking out to each of them individually.

Nico felt his throat close as the voice whispered. ‘You are not alone. You are part of the Olympian family. The gods have not abandoned you.’

Reyna asked for the help of the demigods. Unite, please, so that we can all thrive.

‘Listen to her!’ Nico insisted, marching forward. ‘Reyna risked her life for all of you! We brought this statue half way across the world, Roman and Greek working together. We must join forces –’

And then Gaea woke.

When the battle started, it didn’t seem to end.

Nico found the Seven or well… Six (Leo was no where in sight) on the hill. Nico hadn’t felt his soul pass… still, there were too many casualties to be sure.

‘He’ll be fine.’ He met Jason’s eyes.

‘Sure.’ Jason sounded unconvinced.

‘But…just in case… For Leo.’

Jason nodded. ‘For Leo.’

Fighting with Jason was almost like a dance. It seems although they were made from separate cloth, their threads were very much intwined. They fought in harmony like they had been doing it all their lives.

And then Will Solace ran up to Nico. He said one word into Nico’s ear.

‘Octavian.’

On their way to the augur they felt the Earth shake. Festus snatched up Gaea and soared away with her. Stunned only for a moment, they continued on their way.

As they got closer, Nico saw Octavian furiously messing with an onager’s levers. He kept glancing up at Festus. It seemed his intention was to shoot the bronze dragon out of the sky.

‘Octavian!’ Nico yelled.

With a start, the augur turned, not noticing his flowing purple robe getting caught on the trigger. He looked crazed, hungry.

Will walked forward with his hands raised. ‘Octavian, get away from there. It isn’t safe.’ He spoke in calm, quiet words. As if psst-ing at a frightened kitten.

Nico nudged Will and looked at Jason soaring toward Festus with Piper in his arms.

‘If you fire the onager, you’ll kill Jason and Piper and –’

‘Good!’ Gods, it was hard to reason with him. ‘They’re traitors. All traitors!’

Will tried again. ‘Listen to me. This is not what Apollo would want. Besides, your robes –’

When Mike Kahl showed up, a bruised bump on his head, Nico thought he’d have to draw his sword. The soldier only surveyed the scene and looked at the Centurion.

‘Are you certain, Octavian?’

‘Yes!’

‘Are you absolutely certain?’

‘Octavian, don’t.’ Will pleaded.

He stepped forward only to be stopped by Nico’s hand. ‘Will, we can’t stop him.’

He saw the dread in Will’s eyes, the pain of causing another human being harm. But Hades had been right, some deaths cannot be prevented. And some…should not be prevented.

Octavian cut the release and disappeared into the sky. The flaming fireball landed in the middle of the storm and exploded.

He had achieved his goal. He had saved Rome.

The only sound that Nico registered was Will’s shark inhale.

Nico felt a new soul join the ranks of the Underworld and it wasn’t Octavian.

No.

There was no time for rest and recovery. At least not for Nico.

He watched over the dead and honoured them with the proper funeral proceedings. So many casualties…

Many would be remembered as heroes. Even Octavian would have his place in the stories. But Leo was going to be the hero that no one forgot. The greatest sacrifice.

An oath to keep with a final breath.

Nico wondered who Leo had sworn to and if it was worth it.

They recounted the tales of bravery. Nico never thought he would see the day that Greeks and Romans sat around the campfire singing together. Even if it was a song of mourning.

Reyna stepped up and looked at the faces in front of her and thanked them. For their bravery, for their loyalty, for their loss.

‘We could have chosen hatred and war. Instead, we found acceptance and friendship.’

She turned to Nico with the warmest look he had ever seen and pulled him towards the flames of campfire.

‘We had one home,’ she said. ‘Now we have two.’

Nico didn’t notice but if he had, he would have seen Will’s approving gaze on the two of them. And even a little ways behind him stood Hestia. Disguised as a teenager, she looked out from under her headwrap and nodded. Your path has led you home, don’t you see?

Maybe staying wouldn’t be so bad after all…

At midnight, still awake, Nico saw a blonde tiptoe. His heart jumped but settled when a framed face came into view.

‘Jason.’ Nico greeted.

Nico knew he came to ask about Leo. There was no comfort Nico could give him. They hung their heads together. Jason wanted to convince him to stay. The more he blabbered on, the more endearing he became. ‘I probably can’t change your mind about leaving but I have to try –’

Nico’s ‘I’m staying,’ had Jason blinking so hard that he had to shake his head to clear it.

The joy was so prevalent in his face that Nico even granted him a hug. Soon, Jason was off talking a mile a minute about sharing a table and teaming up and, and, and. The fact that it was midnight didn’t seem to wear on Jason’s enthusiasm.

There was a tiny sense of peace that settled in Nico’s heart.

A true friend.

So that’s what it felt like.

Lucky.

That’s what Nico thought when Will ordered him to the Apollo cabin to rest.

Someone to look out for you. That’s what it seemed like.

In the midnight moon, Will’s hair seemed to shine brighter than usual.

‘I told you, no more Underworldly stuff, doctor’s orders. You owe me at least three days of rest in the infirmary.’

Will held up three fingers with an insistent look on his face.

Nico agreed self-consciously. Still trying to wrap his head around the fact that Will had asked where he had been. That he had been looking for him, that he had wanted to see Nico…

‘I hope you got over all that nonsense about leaving camp.’

Nico looks up with a start. ‘I – yeah. I did. I mean,’ he shrugs, ‘I’m staying.’

‘Good. So you may be dense but you’re not a complete idiot.’

Nico wants to threaten Will or say something back but he doesn’t get the chance.

‘You make yourself an outcast.’ Will told him. His tone would have been accusing if his demeanour hadn’t changed. He looked tired now, worn. Like someone that had seen hardship and wished it away. ‘How will people ever accept you if you don’t let them know you?’ It was the first time Nico had ever seen something resembling anger on Will’s face. His eyes were hard and his ears red.

A bout of confusion hit Nico. ‘Who would want to ever be around me?’ His voice is quiet, as if he were truly asking himself that question because he couldn’t comprehend it.

‘Me.’ This time Will’s eyes look open and honest. And a little hurt.

Nico felt reprimanded.

‘I don’t understand.’ Nico whispered, looking confused.

‘Then learn.’ Will insisted.

‘…okay.’

Will huffed as if a weight had been taken from his shoulders. ‘Okay.’

#pjo #lit #percy jackson #nico di angelo #heroes of olympus #blood of olympus #fic #ff #solangelo #vaguely #beewrites #bee writes

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dokidoki-tae · 6 years

Note

How would La squadra react to their s/o who usually doesn't show any emotion look at them blankly but they noitcibly have tears forming over something they said to their s/o? (Sorry if I worded this weirdly...)

Oh. Like La Squadra are the ones to say something that causes their s/o to tear up. Tears of happiness or tears of sadness??? Hmm

Edit: Just wanted to add an apology for taking so long, anon! Sorry! >-

Risotto: Risotto is no stranger to remaining emotionless. He’s the same way, rarely allowing his expression to change, keeping his emotions leveled and mind rational. He appreciated that you had the same nature because he’s often overwhelmed the eccentric nature of his team. To him, you were normal. He felt like he didn’t have to use his time to watch you like he did them. He considered you levelheaded enough not to need him to intervene in what you were doing. You desired to want to spend time with him though even though he was often busy. On this day, you desired to be with him more than ever as you hadn’t had time with him in a month. It was supposed to be a day off, but Risotto opted to continue working and you stared blankly at him, hoping he’d get the hint as he normally did. He glanced at you before getting back to work. “What is it?” Risotto asked without looking up again. “It’s your day off,” pointing out obvious. Risotto ignored you and you pressed him, knowing he cannot work drown himself in work. “Will you be a nuisance to me too?” His voice boomed. Risotto saw your eyes flash, but you remained calm when you excused yourself. Risotto watched as you walked out and waited for 5 minutes before following you. He found you in his bedroom, laying down. He pressed himself against your smaller frame, acting as the big spoon. “Tesoro, I’m sorry. I cannot give you excuses for saying something like that to you.” He can’t see you but he knows that he’s hurt your enough to cry and plans to do what he can to make up for it.

Prosciutto: Prosciutto has never minded your nature. It was part of the reason he loved you. He wouldn’t have been your partner if your stoicism was ever a problem. Though he sometimes thinks he has to speak on your behalf. At a Passione black-tie party, Prosciutto and you were gathered with other members of the organization. It was surprisingly normal since there was a ban on discussing anything on the organization and the jobs that come along with it. Prosciutto spoke most as he is very charismatic. He noticed some of the others were giving you mean looks, probably because your lack of emotions and seeing it as an insult. Prosciutto steps in to avoid something happening. “Ignore them, they’re like that by nature.” While he meant well, there was the feeling of dismissal of your presence that hurt and you started to tear up. Prosciutto notices when he takes a second to glace at you. Immediately, he gently guides you away from judgemental eyes. He cups your face and looks you in your tear-stained eyes, reading what those irises he loved. Your face may be unreadable but your eyes say everything to him. “Tesoro, forgive me for hurting you for my thoughtless words.” Prosciutto knows he needs to let go of control sometimes and allow you autonomy. Prosciutto kissed your damp cheek before making your way back to the party.

Pesci: Before starting to date Pesci, he was a little afraid of you because your unemotional personality was a bit unsettling. When you began dating, he was surprised but in a pleasant way. He saw you in a different light, but he was still not sure how to handle your relationship because you continued to remain stoic. Pesci was a bit insecure because in his eyes he thought he still wasn’t good enough or you weren’t happy with him. It started to eat away at him and he needed to talk to someone about it (Prosciutto). He didn’t intend for you to hear the conversation. Pesci was questioning whether your feelings were genuine and “Can they even feel?” Admittingly, you were eavesdropping, listening to them talk in Pesci’s room. It was enough to ache your heart and you retreated to your room. The conversation between Pesci and Prosciutto ended positively though with Prosciutto reminded Pesci that love is shown in different ways and will not always be in forms considered normative. Pesci’s confidence was recharged and wanted to spend the day with you after. He knocked on your door, but when you didn’t answer, he let himself in and saw that same expression but quickly noticed the change in your eyes. They were wet with tears. Pesci panicked and frantically examined you to see if you were hurt. “What’s wrong?” Pesci trying to stay calm. You were quiet and finally said, “I can feel…” Pesci felt like his heart was being squeezed. Pesci had his own tears forming, upset that he made you feel this way. He brought you into a tight hug, “I’m sorry for thinking and saying something so hurtful,” as you shed tears together.

Formaggio: He often sticks his foot in his mouth, saying things he thinks are socially appropriate but in actuality are not. His s/o never seems to mind his comments or jokes, they don’t really react to anything so it just eggs him on to try harder to get his s/o to react. It’s his mission to get his normally stoic s/o reacting in some way preferably laughter. One night, Formaggio was holding them on his lap, smothering them with affection. When his s/o doesn’t react, having that same emotionless expression, he’s a bit frustrated and gives up, removing you from his lap and getting up to leave, but not before making a comment. “Why do I bother…” He mutters it to himself, but he’s still close enough for his s/o to hear. When he’s gotten over his pity party, he’s back to his cheerful self and tries to be affectionate again. As he walks to his s/o, chatty and full of energy, it slowly starts to deplete when he finally notices the tears in their eyes. “Cara/o…” He realizes that they must have heard him and was hurt by his words. He accepts responsibly and toughens up, carrying them bridal style and maneuvering them to the couch. He nestles his face in his s/o’s chest, “Cara/o…” he breathes, “I’m sorry for what I said and that I hurt you. Know that I didn’t mean it.” He expresses sincerely,, wiping a tear away and kissing their wet cheek.

Illuso: Illuso says some pretty hurtful things as jokes just like he mocks Formaggio’s stand. He makes off-handed comments and jokes to you too, but you don’t really react or change your expression. But he’s never made jokes about you or of you. One night while the team and you were watching horror movies. You were pretty expressionless, not reacting to whatever was happening. Illuso is trying to best to hide his nervousness as he’s not big on this kind of thing. He makes jokes and makes fun of those who are jumpy. He tense and ups his fake bravado. He points out creatures in the movie, comparing you to them. Likening your behavior to theirs. It doesn’t bother you the first time, but then he continues to compare you to monsters, the undead like zombies and ghosts, saying you and the horror villains are equally dead. By the end of the night, Illuso has pushed you into shedding tears. It’s an awkward moment because Illuso has shown himself to be a bigger asshole than before and the others are sneering at him for being the asshole. Everyone, besides Illuso, simultaneously get up and leave you two without a word. Illuso is uncomfortable because he’s never made you cry before. He’s careful and takes your hand into his and caresses your knuckles. “Amore, I’m sorry for being careless and for causing you pain. I’ll make it up to you I swear.” He wipes a tear away with his thumb and peppers you with kisses before carrying you bridal style to your bedroom.

Melone: Pretty accustomed to differences in human personalities. He doesn’t mind yours at all and finds you fascinating and alluring. He does genuinely like you and your relationship is only growing. However, Melone’s preoccupation with child-rearing causing him to say offhanded things. When he was working on something, he was asking you questions and you obliged. It wasn’t a big deal until Melone revealed what he was working on. You and he were compatible but Melone discovered, together, your compatibility goes down if you were to have a child together, as conflict is sure to arise due to your stoic nature not being the best for a child. “Hmm. It seems you are not fit to be a parent.” While there was no malice or resentment in his words, you know about his preoccupation with being a parent and you questioned whether your relationship would end. Melone notices the tears forming in your eyes and quickly moves to reassure you and scoops you in his arms. “Cara/o, you do not need to worry. I would never leave you for something like this.” He peppered kisses and your face and moved to your neck. “I know you well enough that you’d make an excellent parent.”

Ghiaccio: Sometimes his temper gets the better of him and loses control of he becomes more tactless than normal. His s/o stoic expression never gets to him; he’s used to it. But sometimes something else pisses him off and he rants and rants to them, but whatever pissed him off this time has really gotten to him. He’s going on and on, expressing his annoyance to his s/o, and his speech starts to slow until he’s no longer talking and just staring into the eyes of his s/o. He brows furrow deeper than one thought possible, biting the inside of his cheek, trying to keep himself from blowing up on his s/o. “Your face really pisses me off sometimes. You always look like you don’t give a shit about what I’m saying. You’re nothing but a frigid bitch/bastard.” Ghiaccio spits. To no surprise to Ghiaccio, his s/o continues to maintain that emotionless stare until he sees their eyes start to tear. Ghiaccio is stunned, frozen in place, his mouth hanging slightly opened and eyebrows raising in shock. He can feel the guilt start to creep up, loosening him up a bit. He tries to brush it off at first, turning away so he doesn’t have to look at you, but it doesn’t help. He sighs and gently places his hand on top of your head and into an awkward hug. He still and quiet for a minute until he whispers, “Sorry” soothing you in his own way.

Sorbet: He’s counting the money from the last mission as he overhears Gelato making jokes and poking your face, trying to get you to smile. “If I kiss your belly, will it get your smiling?” He asked you devilishly. You stare blankly, “I’m not ticklish.” Gelato throws his hands in the air, defeated. Sorbet joins the conversation. “Don’t waste your time, Gelato,” Sorbet turned, adorning a smirk on his lips. “They can’t be like you.” Gelato huffed at his comments. “Someone’s who’s lively contrasting with someone who’s lifeless is good. I don’t know how’d I’d manage if you were both lively. To be called “lifeless” by strangers is one thing but by one of your lovers? The tears started to fall when you thought you had escaped those type of comments, but Sorbet, a man you loved, was here making them. Sorbet full attention was brought back to you when Gelato threw something at Sorbet. When he noticed, Sorbet signed, rubbing the back of his neck, guilty for making your cry. Gelato didn’t say anything, but Sorbet knew him enough to know he wanted him to apologize. Gelato stepped out of the room and Sorbet moved to sit next to you. He was stiff and awkwardly placed his arm around your shoulder, pulling you in. He rubbed your arm in comfort. “Sorry…” he muttered, resting his head against yours.

Gelato: Doesn’t mean a lot of the mean things he says because he’s joking or teasing. He does it to Sorbet all the time in a much better way than Illuso’s more hurtful comment. Gelato is fascinated with your personality and thinks it’s fun to try to get a reaction out of you and mimicking your behavior. It doesn’t get to you. Gelato laughs off whenever you aren’t fazed by him and he comments, “Man, no wonder you’re friends and dating assassins (him and Sorbet). You probably don’t have other friends beside us cause you’re so cold.” To Gelato, he didn’t see a probably with his comment. You must be aware of how your personality can be uncomfortable to be around but you can’t help it. Gelato is eating his words when you start tearing up, trying to hide them from him. He’s making a fuss and stutters out apologies and how he was joking. He pouts and hugs you forcefully, kisses your neck. “I’m such an idiot. You know I don’t mind the shit I say. Ask Sorbet, he agrees!” Gelato spends the rest of the evening whispering sweet words in your ears.

#jjba #risotto nero #prosciutto #pesci #formaggio #illuso #melone #ghiaccio #sorbet #gelato #jojo hcs

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lefaystrent · 6 years

Text

Lifeline ch.3

Fandom: Thomas Sanders, Sanders Sides

Pairings: platonic lamp/Thomas

Summary: Unable to help himself, Patton reached out to ruffle Thomas’s hair. The other sides rolled their eyes, knowing what would happen, except—

Patton’s hand.

It made contact.

Chapter Navigation: one , two , four

AO3 Link

When his sides inevitably did reappear, he didn’t expect Logan to be the first to show up.

“If you fail to correct your posture now, it could negatively affect your health.”

“Logan!” Thomas exclaimed, flinging out his arms to keep himself from falling out of his seat. He’d been sitting at the dining table going through his business email on his laptop. Behind him, his logical side stood in his usual spot by the stairs.

Logan adjusted his glasses calmly. “Salutations, Thomas. As I was saying, though you may not notice it at the time, sitting at your computer as you were doing attributes to back and neck pain, stress on your joints which could lead to arthritis, digestive issues which can lead to acid reflux or—”

“Careful, Logan,” a deep, graveled voice interrupted. “You’re stealing my thunder.”

Thomas snapped his head to his left to find Virgil sitting on the table beside his computer. Although his sides tended to like their living room spots the most, they could pop up anywhere. That didn’t mean it wasn’t odd to see Virgil away from his regular spot while Logan remained in his usual place.

Or maybe it was just because of all the thoughts that had been plaguing Thomas since he last saw them. That was sure to make anything weird.

Logan glanced over at Virgil, expression unreadable. “I’m always careful. As for the latter part of your statement, I suppose you mean to say your metaphorical thunder; however, I’m not sure how I could ‘steal’ that.”

“It’s supposed to be my job to stress Thomas out.” Virgil leaned back on one arm, hand braced against the tabletop while his feet rested on one of the dining chairs. His position should have been a relaxed one. Head angled down, he looked through a fringe of purple-stained bangs to level a hard stare at Logan.

“I only seek to ensure that Thomas maintains a healthy lifestyle through the use of facts. And as you are well aware, that is my job.”

“If your job is to be a nagging mom, then yeah, I’m aware.”

“What is it with all of you likening me to a mother in a negative context?”

“Guys?” Thomas questioned quietly. He thought this would be one of those times where they’d keep on going, not having heard him. Instead they zeroed in on him immediately. The sudden intense stares pierced into him. He tried to smile. “Why so serious?”

Logan scoffed, shoulders stiff and hands held together in a lecturing stance. “I’m always serious. I have to be if anything is to be done around here.”

“Logan, that’s not—” Thomas went to say because they had been over this kind of conversation before, but Virgil beat him to it.

“Maybe nothing needs to be done at the moment,” he growled, teeth bared.

Logan’s brow raised. “And this is why I have to always be the serious one, because frivolous nonsense is reserved elsewhere.”

For a second, Virgil’s mouth hung open. The air chilled between them, cold enough to suck breath from lungs. Thomas suspected a lot more was being said than he understood. It was like watching parents trying to act normal in front of their kid after having an argument in the next room. And wasn’t that a freaky thought? Thomas knew that they had conversations away from him, inside the mindscape, but it had never felt more disconcerting than it did now, to think of what the pieces of him did unbeknownst to him.

Almost like they were real people, people who he suddenly felt like he didn’t know so well anymore.

Virgil shot a hurried look at Thomas. He didn’t know what he must have saw there, but Virgil quickly schooled his lips into a scowl.

“This is bullshit,” Virgil muttered, turning away. “Princey! Code stupid, or whatever.”

“Virgil!” Roman rose up in front of the tv, arms falling from his regal pose to point accusingly at the darker side. “We agreed that it would be ‘code blue’ considering— wait, why are you all over . . .”

Roman frowned in observation at their location. Upon spotting Logan, his eyes widened for a brief second before he dived into action, running to hop over the couch with a grunt of, “Parkour!” He landed between the table and Logan.

“Whenever troubles block your way, your prince shall come to save the day!”

“If by ‘save the day’ you mean ‘interrupt an ongoing conversation that has nothing to do with you’ then yes, I suppose you’re right.”

“If it had nothing to do with me then it was obviously not a conversation worth continuing.” One hand on hip and eyes closed as his head turned to the side dramatically, Roman raised a hand to gracefully gesture at his face. “Go ahead, you may shower me with praises.”

Virgil rolled his eyes, sharing a glance with Thomas to shake his head. Thomas smiled weakly, more focused on Logan at the moment.

Arms crossed, Logan stood there unimpressed. He offered no retort. Which was a good thing, right? Because Thomas worried that this would turn into a full-blown argument, and he felt unprepared to play mediator at the moment since usually that was Patton’s—

Logan turned to look across the living room, gazing for a long, drawn-out minute at the white blinds.

“At this rate, nothing will get done,” he commented. Then he sank out.

Roman drooped, pouting. “He could at least put up a decent fight.”

Virgil smacked his arm. Roman gasped and smacked his arm right back.

Having grown up with brothers himself, Thomas knew they were about to squabble. He knew it and he couldn’t take it.

“Hey,” he called their attention sharply, throwing an arm out between them. Both of them flinched and avoided the limb at all costs, Roman jumping back and Virgil nearly falling off the table.

. . . okay, that kind of stung a little. Even worse was the spooked way they watched him now.

Were they afraid of Thomas? Or of themselves?

Thomas swallowed. He tried his best to remember Joan’s words and let that give him the determination to do what needed to be done.

“What was all that about?”

They looked at each other first in that way that screamed they knew exactly what Thomas meant but didn’t want to be the first to spill the beans. Roman stood up straight, offering a dazzling smile.

“Whatever do you mean, Thomas? You know how things usually go with us. We’re a rowdy bunch!”

“No, no.” Thomas denied, shaking his head. “I know how things usually go and that wasn’t . . . usual. There’s something going on here, something that you aren’t telling me, am I right?”

Virgil avoided looking at Thomas altogether. He let Roman do the talking. “Nothing that you don’t already know, I assure you. You know how Sir Thinks-a-Lot is, repressing the fact that he’s as human as the rest of us.”

Thomas could leave it there. It’d be the easy way out. Laugh it off, let things go back to normal. Forget the looming sense of unease and uncertainty.

Forget the other day ever happened.

Thomas folded his hands in his lap, eyes fixed on Roman, imploring and earnest. “I don’t think that’s all there is to it.”

“What you don’t know can’t hurt you,” Virgil muttered.

“There’s already a lot that I don’t know,” Thomas pointed out, “and I’m not the only one it’s hurting.”

Silence fell on them. Not for the first time, Thomas wondered where the line was drawn between himself and his sides. How similar had their thoughts been running these past days? Or could he fathom what they were going through?

Roman put his back to them, bracing his arms on top of the couch, head bowed. Likewise, Virgil refused to look at him. He sat there hunched in on himself, hood having been pulled up. Without being able to see their faces like this, Thomas could imagine they were anyone. Anyone with their own problems and fears. Anyone he could reach out to, if he dared.

What would it be like? If he were to grip at the arm of Virgil’s hoodie and tug. Or to place a steady hand at Roman’s back? Could they feel the weight? Would they want to?

You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to do this.

That’s what Patton had said. But that was Patton. Did the others . . . did they ever think that way too?

“Please talk to me,” Thomas whispered, unable to bear the pounding silence.

They said nothing. Thomas drowned in the absence of sound, the tide of questions cresting over him, until an ocean spanned between them. His heart twisted in his chest, and he felt the inexplicably urge to cry.

More than anything, he wanted to understand himself.

Because they made his life better, right?

I want to make their lives better too.

From behind him, someone spoke softly, “This is my fault.”

Thomas looked over his shoulder to see Patton round the corner from the kitchen. His eyes were as sad as his smile. The other two sides seemed taken aback at his appearance. Virgil slid off the table, ready to approach Patton if Roman hadn’t gripped him by the elbow. Amazingly, Virgil let him without protest.

“Patton?” Thomas questioned. “How is any of this your fault?”

“We’ve all been thinking about it,” the fatherly side chuckled. “Even if it’s hard, or we might not want to. What happened, happened. We can’t change the past, just how we deal with it.”

“Pat,” Roman began but Patton hushed him gently.

“It’s alright, champ. I know what you’ve been up to. I know you care, but I don’t need you to protect me.”

“Protect you from what?” Thomas asked, glancing back and forth between his sides. What in the world was going on?

“From myself?” Patton confessed with a chuckle, scratching the back of his head. He took one step in front of the other, stopping almost a foot away from Thomas. They were the same height, all of them, but from where Thomas sat, he’d never seen Patton look taller. “I don’t think I’ve been setting a good example for my kiddos, lately.”

“What do you mean?” Thomas asked, voice barely a whisper.

“It’s okay to be scared, Thomas,” he said, smile understanding. He leaned forward, hands on his knees, their eyes at the same level. The corners of his eyes crinkled with fondness. “It’s okay to hide when you need to. But Thomas?”

A hand rose, palm facing up.

“We can’t hide forever,” Patton said and waited patiently.

Thomas scrutinized the hand. It was his, same lines drawn on skin, same tiny freckles scattered here and there, same thick fingers spread out. But at the same time, it wasn’t. This was Patton’s hand, and Thomas could feel everyone’s eyes on him, though he didn’t look up to check.

If Patton could do it, so could he.

He hung his own hand above Patton’s for a moment before bringing it down.

Tag list: @spectralheartt @a-pastel-pan @notalwaysthevillian @rose-gold-roman @ijustrealizedhowdumbmynamewas @katie-the-noble-fangirl @yourroyalydramaticanxiousness @aroundofapplesauce @merlybird500 @beach-fan @jemthebookworm @whats-going-on-kiddos @5am-the-foxing-hour @sevencrashing @ryuity @sanders-s1des-blog @pridefox @romano-cheesey @fandomsofrandom @book-of-charlie (let me know if you want to be added or removed from this story’s tag list)

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hushpadart · 5 years

Photo

“Do you know what it’s like to freeze to death, Hans? Maybe I should let you find out. But it won’t be half as quick or you as it was for Anna.”

Alternate Frozen ending where Anna’s act of true love was too late to save her, and when she died Elsa snapped and went Evil Ice Queen.

Created May 2015

Long post under the cut!

Okay so I'm planning on writing a fic where the ending of Frozen turns out differently. Anna's act of true love was too late to save her and she died. As a result of this, Elsa snaps and goes Evil Ice Queen. The fic will be pretty dark and I'm so excited. Here are some headcanons I came up with for this fic. Most are copy/pasted from a notepad document where I have them all saved. TW: Suicide discussion. It’s in bold so you can skip it if you need to.

First, Elsa's ice magic is basically controlled by her emotions, right? And you know how much stress and fear and self loathing she has?

She's tried to kill herself several times, telling herself that everyone would be safe if she was gone and that Anna would make a better queen. But her powers wouldn't let her die. Remember how she protected herself from an arrow without even thinking about it? She flinched and closed her eyes and when she opened them there was a wall of ice in front of her and the arrow was stuck in it, right? No matter what method she tried, every suicide attempt was foiled by her own powers.

If she tried to throw herself off a height, enough snow would appear under her to cushion her fall. If she tried to drown herself then the water would freeze into a sort of "bowl" under her so none would get in her mouth or nose and she could climb out safely. If she tried to hang herself, an ice pedestal would rise under her and prevent her from falling and being choked or having her neck broken by the rope, or the rope would just freeze and break. If she tried to cut or stab herself, the blade would freeze and shatter before it could break her skin. If she tried to poison herself, the poison would freeze and stick in her mouth, preventing her from swallowing. And if she tried to kill herself with her own ice it always failed. She can't get hypothermia or freeze to death, so that's out. Any icicle she tried to stab or impale herself with would refuse to go any further when she got it close. Once she created a pit of ice spikes and threw herself into it. The spikes burst into soft snow before she hit them and she didn't get a single scratch. This happened because in spite of her fear of hurting others and her self hate and belief that she was a monster and that everyone would be safer without her, she was afraid to die. Her fear of dying caused her powers to defend her from herself. In the fic, she may or may not attempt to freeze her own heart in an attempt to numb the pain of losing Anna.

But since she's immune to the cold, while it might make her colder as a person, she won't die or turn into solid ice.

It may physically preserve her though, so she won't really age and her body will be preserved for a very long time and even when it does finally start to deteriorate and age, the dying cells are replaced by snow and ice so eventually her human body will be gone and her soul will reside in a body made of ice until someone figures out how to destroy her.

The most effective way would probably be to stab her in the heart with a weapon that has fire magic.

But until someone is able to get near enough to kill her, she'll continue as a destructive force, keeping her kingdom essentially cursed as a frozen wasteland where nothing can thrive and everything is dying.

If her heart could be thawed or if she could be killed, the curse would be broken and the kingdom would thaw.

But until then, she'll remain alone in a cold, dark castle, in a cold, dark land that she cursed to reflect the state of her heart and mind. It's cold, dark, cloudy, maybe snowing most of the time. But when she goes into a rage or has a breakdown, blizzards and storms come and can be deadly. She's driven out any and all reminders of Anna, the childhood memories they had, and reminders of the happy life they could have had. Olaf and Kristoff and Sven are gone(either exiled or having left willingly, but they are still alive, just no longer in Arandelle), all the dolls and toys they played with as children are gone, even the paintings that Anna used to talk to in her loneliness are gone. It's all dark, hollow, empty, and gloomy, and icicles hang in every doorway and fall on idiots who enter without permission. Tbh she kind of reminds me of Walpurgisnacht from Puella Magi Madoka Magica. The witch's nature was helplessness and she had no choice but to spin aimlessly in circles, going from place to place destroying everything and wishing someone would destroy her so she could stop, but being unable to stop because nobody was able to destroy her and every time someone failed to destroy her she only grew more powerful and her hatred and despair multiplied. That's what's happening to Elsa in my fic. She wants to stop cursing the land and destroying everything with her powers but she can't because her despair and hatred are too strong and she believes even if someone could stop her, nobody would want to because that would be the same thing as saving her, and she thinks she's so undeserving of salvation that saving her would be spitting in the face of everyone she hurt. This is another reason she'd be unable to commit suicide and it would be very difficult for someone else to kill her. She feels dying is too kind a fate for her. Elsa taking "Revenge is a dish best served cold" literally. People attempting to assassinate Elsa, only to have every attempt fail because her ice magic protects her too well and kills them. Elsa pulling a Bruce Banner on them and saying with a bitter laugh that they can't kill her, she knows, she's tried, but no matter what she does or what anyone else does, her magic won't let her die. Elsa displaying her wrath for the assassination attempts by bringing down a winter so cold and dark it could be likened to the biblical plagues of Egypt. Some brave idiot pulling a Katniss and saying "If we freeze to death, you freeze to death with us!" Only for Elsa to laugh and remind them that the cold never bothered her anyway as she freezes them from the inside by creating ice in their organs or bloodstream, then walks away after they fall lifelessly to the ground. Elsa being a terrifying queen driven by anger and hatred and made more dangerous by her incredible magical ability as well as being very mentally unstable.

Elsa having hallucinations of Anna and begging these hallucinations to forgive her. People calling her the Ice Witch instead of the Snow Queen and Elsa embracing that title. Elsa being dark and brutal and having an insatiable hunger for revenge that she feels she can't curb until she destroys everything, including herself. ICE GORE, TORTURE, AND KILLING PSYCHOLOGICAL HORROR GRIEF ANGER DEATH Also a few quotes I plan on using in the fic. "I've lost the only thing I had, the only thing I was afraid of losing. There's no point in fearing anything anymore." "I'm not afraid anymore. I was afraid before, afraid of hurting An- hurting her again. But now she's gone, and she took my fear with her." "There's no fear.. No pain... No sadness..." "You can't hurt me anymore. You can't take anything else away from me. I've already lost everything." "Would Anna have wanted this?!" "Anna is dead, and if you dare say her name again, you will be too." "Feel my pain, Arandelle! You deserve it just as much as I do! My heart will never know warmth again, and neither will this land! The sun will never shine here or give life to anything here again!" And my favorite "No, Hans... My sister is dead because of you. She trusted you and loved you, and you betrayed her, broke her heart, put out the fire that could have kept her alive until she could be saved and abandoned her. You let her die a death that was probably agonizingly painful. Do you know what it's like to freeze to death? Maybe I should let you find out. But it won't be half as quick for you as it was for Anna."

#frozen #elsa #queen elsa #disney elsa #frozen elsa #Hushpad's art #fanart #digital art #disney #disney frozen

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harianadimples · 5 years

Text

006 | The Pink Side

Warning: Drug use 4.9k: fluff (relative), some angst, written during sad bitch hours + Inspired by The Umbrella Academy on Netflix; especially Klaus.

|–|–|–|

The street is becoming hauntingly familiar to Harry.

He knows the curves of the bushes from how they terrify him when it’s dark. The trees tower over him and cast a grey hue in his path. The wind breathes down his neck. Then he sees the first pillar, and the bars made of iron, and the second marble pillar. He touches the gateway and feels a surplus of emotion overtake him.

The voices return tenfold. They’re screaming, pale-faced and devoid of any life as they cried his name. “Harry, Harry, Harry!”

“Harry, are you okay–?”

“Why have you brought me here? You said you wanted to go to the park,” Harry glares at Y/N as he quickly removes his hands from the gate. The vein in his neck beats against his fingers as he breathes sharply. “What have you done to me?”

“I’ve done nothing Harry. You did this to yourself.”

“Get out of my way,” Harry mutters, warning her, “go away. Leave me alone, leave me. I’m never going back, not for you, not for anyone. Leave me! Alone!”

When she doesn’t show any sign of moving, Harry walks through her, muttering reassurance to himself as he stumbles onto the street. He looks around, deciding on a way to go as he hastens himself, stumbling over his own feet as he brushes his hands over his ears, begging the voices to stop.

“Harry, you’re going the wrong way,” Y/N warns him as he darts into a nearby alleyway hoping to get rid of them. Yet they follow and rattle his mind intensely.

“Go away, get out!” He pleads, sobbing as he hits himself with balled fists, “get out!”

Harry feels his pockets and shakes the billowing drum in his head as he opens the small plastic pouch and pushes a finger through. “Get out, get out, get out,” he chants before touching his finger to his tongue.

Slowly, but surely, all of Harry’s pain seemed to dissolve around him. The voices were drowned beneath the rivers of nectar grappling over his knees and sinking him in bittersweet bliss.

The world swirls around him as muted white noise, and Y/N’s nowhere to be seen.

The one where Harry discovers he can speak to the dead after losing his wife but he thinks his powers are more of a curse than a gift; Y/N, a ghost, disagrees.

-:-:-:-

“I’ll see you on the pink side Floyd!” Harry salutes the sickly man lying in the bunk above his, facing the wall.

Harry moves onward to the next bunk curtsying before his crowd, deeply honored by their roar of applause for his performance.

"Robert, William, gentlemen.” Harry greets the pair perched at the edge of their beds in an exaggerated posh accent as he brandishes a pillow and a magazine. “As promised,” he says placing each item in their hands.

Harry paces across the room to the door. He clutches its frame and lunges before propelling himself forward. His eyes fix on his coat: a patch-worked stone-earthy suede petticoat he picked up from a bodega near where they always find him; it’s his favorite coat for the feathers that lined the cuffs of his sleeves, the collar and the ends of his coat. He figures there’s enough to help him get to where he needs to be.

Harry sees Anti, one of the support staff, standing by the commissary and makes his way towards him. “Hey Anti,” Harry greets him as he leans forward, reaching for a small ziplock bag sitting by the commissary window. “That all that’s left, Froggy?”

“It’s all they found on you Styles.” The man replies, with a sigh.

“Do you need me to call someone for you?” Anti asks as Harry clicks his tongue, blowing a raspberry as he pockets the ziplock bag. “No need. No one’ll answer,” Harry chuckles as he pivots towards the empty corridor eyeing the bright red exit sign at the end with untamed hunger.

Harry hears Anti call his name and glances behind him. He catches something glint in the air and he stretches his hand towards it, catching the small plastic disk in his palm.

“I better not see you back here again,” Anti tells him as Harry waves the small disk in his direction.

Harry’s never been one for sentimental goodbyes.

He catches his appearance in the commissary window, clicking his tongue before licking his lips. His hair’s gotten long again, reaching just past his chin in matted waves. In inspecting his appearance, Harry catches his own gaze through his reflection. Buttons instead of eyes.

“You need a haircut.”Y/N comments as Harry pulls his tresses behind his ears, clicking his tongue in disagreement. “I don’t need anything. I look fine,” Harry says as he runs his fingers through his hair.

Devoid of any life, his ashen-face was hardly recognizable to Antonio– known by Harry as Anti– from how he remembered Harry to be when he first saw him on his solo tour back in ’17. Has it really been fifty years? Antonio was barely in his twenties then, full of life, like Harry was once when he was exalted by many. Treated like a deity, his music surpassed the legacy he’s made of himself now. He’s praised for his genius still, of his youth, but hardly remembered in this decaying state. Except by Antonio, and Frederic from commissary who Harry wittily calls Froggy.

Harry continues down the corridor, passing Anti and Froggy with a small smile as he takes out his watch from one of his pockets. Harry’s always had a soft spot for the care bears, how soft their fur and gentle in nature they are with no guilt; no guilt comes from not having done anything wrong; not having the capacity to wrong. He snaps the watch over his wrist and tucks his hands into his pockets again as he pushes through the exit. He inspects the time on his watch, clicking his tongue before running it over his teeth. Humming, he takes a tentative step to his left, and stares down the narrow sidewalk; overshadowed by city noise in the distance, Harry couldn’t see past the single street light that blinked above him.

“What are you waiting for?” Y/N asks him, “Go on, we’re nearly home. Just through the shadow.”

Pulling out his sunglasses from his pocket, Harry pivots on his heel and places them on the bridge of his nose as he continues down the opposite direction.

“You’re going the wrong way, Harry.” Y/N huffs.

Harry skips from one foot to the other as he keeps the same path he’s set himself on.

~*~

“Wonderful Alice,” Harry says as he reaches out for Alice’s hand and shakes it. Their hands linger as their eyes meet. It’s brief– Harry doesn’t linger for too long, soon staggering away with his fingers curled around the small clear pouch in his hand.

He opens his hand under a streetlight, inspecting the tranquil faces beaming back at him. He picks one on the tip of his finger and delicately takes it on his tongue, shutting his eyes as he inhales sharply.

Harry realizes it's gotten colder and instinctively he holds his coat closer together. He continues walking to where his feet drag him to. The alleyway he was in loses itself under the evening’s hand with his visions becoming more obscure by the minute. He recognizes the all too familiar holes burrowing in his skull; how lovely it is to see something he’s familiar with.

~*~

There’s ringing in his ears when Harry wakes from his trip. He jolts up from the cold pavement and dusts off the dirt covering his coat. It’s become noisy again, the streets lively with strangers trying to get to where they need to be, and Harry would like more than anything for them to be quiet for once.

“Good morning, or should I say, good afternoon,” Y/N greets Harry as she sits above him on the bench. “You’re not too far from home. You should get there by sundown if you leave now.”

“Let me have something to eat before you start this again,” Harry sighs. “How do you feel about a burger?”

“I haven’t had one in months,” Y/N sighs as she kicks her feet forward standing off the bench.

Her enthusiasm nearly knocks Harry over as he blinks up at her with a small smile creeping over his features. Her silhouette stands against the glaring sun. He chuckles, reaching for the sunglasses that slid off him during the night and props them on. He stands with her and looks around. Harry’s unsure where to go from where they are, but Harry figures with them being in the middle of the concrete jungle it wouldn’t be too difficult to find a burger joint.

There’s a burger joint right around the corner from where he slept. Harry checks his pockets and pulls out the zip lock bag he pocketed earlier. He has about ten dollars in coins, he figures, enough for something on the value meal but nothing too fancy. His appetite isn’t that of dogs, but he’s stared down like he is one.

“Water is fine,” Y/N tells him when he asks her what drink she’d like. Harry makes a face that disagrees. “But I want a Coke,” he mutters. Y/N shakes her head, “You’re decaying Harry, the least you can do for your body is drink some water–.”

“We’ll get a Coke,” Harry snaps, looking at the cashier who reluctantly lowered a cup beneath the nozzle, all while staring at Harry, “Is something wrong?”

“No sir– that’ll be four-twenty,” he says, gulping. Harry places the exact amount in his palm, and thanks the man as he takes his Coke. “Your food will be by the end counter.”

“Thanks, have a good one,” Harry tells him as he walks away, wrapping his lips around the thin straw.

When his number is called, Harry takes the small paper bag and turns to leave. He catches Y/N’s disappointed expression in the glass window, and he huffs, “Don’t look at me like that.”

“I–I wasn’t–,” A young man stutters as he quickly turns away from Harry.

Harry steps out and continues walking back to where the bench was. Y/N skips ahead of him, hopping over each line embedded in his path as she hums; Harry always likened her voice to that of hummingbirds. There’s something sing-songy about her tone even when she speaks of gutted rats and burning bones.

Harry likes it when she sings, and when she dances it’s nothing short of entertaining. The twirling she does, and how her hair seems to float around her; Harry could swear that she could make flowers bloom in stones.

So, he doesn't ask her to stop even if she's been particularly annoying since last night. He didn’t mean to shut her out, going against their promise, but she didn’t seem to be hammering down on him as much as he expected her to. A few snide comments here and there, telling him to make smarter, healthier choices and whatnot, but there’s something not right in how she’s not given him a nightmare; he expected that last night. It’s foolproof, they both know.

But he slept soundly, never once startling awake screaming. Those passing hours are never too long, at least it doesn’t feel that way to Harry, but he’d usually wake up to her gentle expression and he’d be fine until the night time.

Harry settles on the bench with Y/N who sits a seat away from him, allowing enough space for Harry to put down his food and drink. He takes a relatively large bite and chews, looking at Y/N for her approval.

“I’ve missed normal food,” Y/N sighs as Harry nods, “I have as well,” he mumbles before taking another bite, chewing some until he had some room in his mouth for his drink, and took a sip.

Harry continues eating, stealing glances at Y/N whenever he felt he needed reminding she was there. She’s outstretched against the back of the bench; her head had fallen back facing the sky as a content smile appeared. Her hands are folded over her stomach and she’s humming again. Her toes swing back and forth, moving to the beat of her song, her smile nearly orgasmic now.

Harry slurps up the rest of his drink. The noise silences Y/N who sighs as her eyes slowly flutter open.

“Sir I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” A small voice coming from above him interrupts Harry’s train of thought as he blinks up at the sun, seeing the silhouette of a man in a yellow coat and black cap; the word ‘security’ etched on his front.

“This is public property. I’m allowed to sit here,” Harry explains, glancing at Y/N who’s already standing and shakes his head. “No, Y/N we were here first. Sit back down, we’re not moving,” Harry tells her as the man sighs deeply.

“Sir, I don’t want to have to ask you again.”

“Harry come on, I want to go to the park,” Y/N says.

Harry takes a few seconds to wrap up his garbage and stands, brushing past the man as he clicks his tongue at Y/N. “Where is it? Is it far?”

“Not really. I’ll lead the way,” Y/N smiles at him as she turns and begins to skip away.

~*~

Time becomes one incoherent thought to Harry.

~*~

The street is becoming hauntingly familiar to Harry.

The voices return tenfold. They’re screaming, pale-faced and devoid of any life as they cried his name. “Harry, Harry, Harry!”

“Harry, are you okay–?”

“I’ve done nothing Harry. You did this to yourself.”

“Get out of my way,” Harry mutters, warning her, “go away. Leave me alone, leave me. I’m never going back, not for you, not for anyone. Leave me! Alone!”

“Harry, you’re going the wrong way,” Y/N warns him as he darts into a nearby alleyway hoping to get rid of them. Yet they follow and rattle his mind intensely.

“Go away, get out!” He pleads, sobbing as he hits himself with balled fists, “get out!”

Slowly, but surely, all of Harry’s pain seemed to dissolve around him. The voices were drowned beneath the rivers of nectar grappling over his knees and sinking him in bittersweet bliss.

The world swirls around him as muted white noise, and Y/N’s nowhere to be seen.

~*~

Harry hasn’t seen Y/N in three days, or five– he thinks; time is two-toned when he’s high.

~*~

“This isn’t funny anymore, Y/N. Where are you?” Harry asks, muffling his concern with a low chuckle, though worry has been fueling him since he woke up from his most recent nightmare not to the soft features of Y/N but the dehumanizing snarl of empty reality above him. “I’m sorry for shouting at you, okay, I’m sorry for telling you to go away, I didn’t mean it. You can come back now.”

He’s been retracing his steps all day. He circled the alleyway where she left him, went back to the bench– which since he’d been told off has been guarded by the same security man. He went into the burger joint, thinking maybe she’d answer to a cup of water since she wanted one so bad. His bladder full, and disappointed tears brimming his eyes, Harry crushed the paper cup under his fist and stormed outside.

“Y/N, please! Come back to me! I said I was sorry!”

“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave–.”

“No, I’m waiting for someone!” Harry shouts, clenching his fists at his side as he looked around, “C’mon Y/N, please. Don’t– don’t leave me. I didn’t mean it.”

"You're causing a scene," the man speaks condescendingly as Harry feels a weight on either arm.

Harry stumbles into the street, falling to the ground before the two men who had carried him out. They stand by the door, watching Harry with staggering contempt as he pleads with them to allow him to at least wait by the door, but Harry knew his pleas were falling on deaf ears.

“You’re all the same,” Harry mutters.

~*~

The withdrawal began setting in around the three-week mark.

Harry’s unsure how long it’s been, but he’d been managing, expanding his mind, feeling himself on the edge of enlightenment. Enlightenment, his own glorified version of the eighteenth-century idea, came to him in a dreamless sleep. Up until this certain night, Harry had been able to visualize Y/N; it’d only been caricatures of how he knew her to be like during the time they were together.

Since she left Harry could keep her in his thoughts at least, but that night he hadn’t dreamt of her at all. In fact, he couldn’t begin to picture what her face looked like or what her voice sounded like. Harry figures he would have forgotten her name as well if it hadn’t been for the word inked over his heart.

It was beginning to terrify Harry how she was slipping away from him, staying only as empty cases of memories that he didn’t know how to process and make sense of.

Harry didn’t want to forget her. He’s not ready to accept the reality of her being gone, and so he decides he’ll suffer through a few more nights while he continues searching for her.

He’ll start with places she loved, and hopefully, he’ll find her somewhere.

~*~

The park is in full bloom.

The pebbled pathway crunches under each footfall tickling Harry’s ears. Sunlight cuts through the oak trees in discontinuous shapes which Harry hops upon, envisioning each shape like stones in a creak. He finds a vacant bench under the trees that umbrella over the pathway to sit and leaves enough space for Y/N if she were to come. Leaves dance around his feet as people pass by. Harry leans back and listens to the hummingbirds sing their song as he watches the trees breathe.

It’s beautiful, and calming here, just like Y/N. As the sun began to move across the sky, so did Harry’s mood. He becomes increasingly aware that it’s becoming darker, and soon he’ll need to leave and find a spot to sleep, but he’d found an oasis in this park that he didn’t feel compelled to leave behind for some alleyway.

Harry eventually picks himself up from the bench and makes his way further into the park, hoping to find somewhere he could lie down and not be seen. He finds his way through and comes upon a wall of bushes; just beyond it was a bed of dandelions. Looking at them closer he notices that they looked pressed down, meaning someone had else had the same idea as Harry.

Harry situates himself in the middle and lies on his back, folding his hands over his stomach as he stares at the lavender sky above him.

“Wish you were here,” Harry mumbles, hoping Y/N could hear him.

~*~

“So, so you think you can tell,” she sings, “heaven from hell. Blue skies from pain.”

Harry didn’t think a person could look any cuter. He folds his arm and leans his cheek on his hand, wanting to get a closer look of this beautiful angel who frequents his dreams, but mostly to soak up the delicate warmth that her presence radiated.

The smell of coffee attacks his lungs as the scene in front of him changes.

The coffee shop is sepia-toned, perfectly styled that the coasters matched the flooring and the cups matched the shirt he wore. Harry sits across from her, two tall, colorfully designed menus stand between Harry and the mystery woman of his dreams.

“What’ll you have miss?” A voice rings in his ear.

“Water is fine,” she replies, “honey?”

“Black iced coffee, no sweetener, and a glass of water as well,” Harry hears himself say.

“Again hon?” She giggles, coughing at the end, “At this point, I reckon you’ve got coffee pumping through your veins instead of blood.”

“I just love it, babe, sue me,” Harry says as he closes his menu and hands it back to their server who looks between the two with a small smile.

As Harry looks towards her the perspective shifts to her looking at him. Harry looks at her tentatively, listening to her cough again.

“You okay?” He asks her. She nods, “Yeah, just have a tickle,” she points to her throat as she coughs a few times more into her fist.

Harry continues watching her as she takes a long sip from her water which arrives shortly after. She seems fine, but Harry gets startled when she begins coughing again, this time her cough quickly turns into hacking. The sound is horrendous; her hand falls open and latches itself over her mouth.

The scene changes and they’re in a hospital room.

The white walls feel all too familiar to Harry as he stares at them. He’s resting his cheek on her hand free of the IV, facing towards the foot of her bed. The doctor is with them, and he’s trying his best to block out the voices in his head, but they’re so loud and the truth of their words is unbearably suffocating Harry.

“The cancer has reached your lungs. I’m so sorry.”

Next scene, they’re at home again. The room feels cold, but Harry is warmed up by the body he spoons to his chest. Harry realizes how close she is to him, can feel her chest rising and lowering slowly, steadily.

When she wakes, she moves to lay on her back, coughing a little as she picks her hair away from her face. Harry notices the mask covering her nose and mouth before he catches the oxygen tank by her bedside.

"Morning beautiful,” Harry says over his breath as he buries his nose into her neck, kissing her skin before folding his arm under his side so he could be somewhat above her. He can’t see her quite well but he sees her eyes, tired from sleep, fluttering open and upon staring into her eyes he feels something break inside him as he knows his moment all too well.

Her hand slowly reaches for the mask, and Harry notes the way it takes her a minute to do so, and he notes how her chest raises in accordance with her last intake of breath before she pulls the mask down to her chin. Harry doesn’t waste any time and kisses her quickly, but carefully. Her lips are chapped, but he doesn’t care. He deliberately holds himself back and tenderly kisses her. She kisses him back eagerly and much sloppier given the circumstances, but Harry only chuckles and parts his lips to let her wandering tongue find a home. The kiss is over too soon, but Harry has to move away while she coughs rather hard, and rather than making a fuss about it Harry covers her nose and mouth with the mask.

She breathes in deeply a couple of times, covering Harry’s hand which still held the mask with her own, slotting her fingers through his. She pulls both their hands with the mask away and smiles up at Harry as she thumbs the worry-lines that had formed on his forehead because of her.

“Gonna miss you kissing me like that, always took my breath away,” She says to him, slightly wheezing after, meaning for her comment to be lighthearted, Harry knew, but it’s the present mixing with the past in her words that tears at his heart.

“Don’t talk like that. Not now,” Harry murmurs, “not yet.”

“I’m sorry honey,” she whispers after a while.

The pain in her voice is what truly breaks Harry. Her sweet voice apologizing, sounding like a broken record to him, hurts him because she had nothing to apologize for. He bows his head, feeling his eyes begin to burn as water filled them. He ducks into her neck, trying not to cry, but he brokenly sobs into her skin as he reaches around her waist to grip her side (still being careful), just wanting to feel her near him for as long as he can.

“Don’t cry for me, honey,” She delicately says, raking her fingers through his hair at the nape of the back of his head to the top. “Don’t want you missing me too much, want you to be happy. Want you to find someone else, fall in love again,”

“No,” Harry moves his head away from her hand and stares at her, his hurt increasing tenfold, letting her see his tears freely fall as he clasps her hand, the one with the wedding band, and kisses the ring. “It’s always been you. It’ll only be you. I don’t want anyone else. I just want you Y/N.”

“Harry,” Y/N murmurs his name, and it makes Harry weak to see her struggling just to speak. “Please, just hold me.”

He shakes his head, apologizing as he leans forward to kiss her cheek. But his lips linger there even as she puts her mask back on and can breathe better again. They cling onto each other. It doesn’t need to be said, but Y/N’s always loved him, and he’ll always love her.

Suddenly the bed is empty. It’s silent. Harry watches the paramedics clearing out the room after taking her monitors away. The oxygen tanks are taken next. The last one still full.

~*~

Harry jolts awake screaming, crying as the anguish of losing Y/N squeezes his chest, and leaves him to choke on cursed air.

It’s so painful.

The memory is killing him, and it hasn’t come back to him in a while but he supposes since he hasn’t had his fix in a while he’s become more vulnerable to his emotions. And Y/N isn’t there to help him.

He quickly reaches for the small pouch in his pocket and is horrified to see that it was empty. He checks the rest of his jacket and his pockets again, hoping that one of those little buggers had escaped and now lived at the bottom of his pockets.

To his dismay, he finds nothing and resorts to try and beat the memory from his mind. His head will surely bruise again, but his mind had it coming.

Feeling as if the trees around him are closing in on him, Harry quickly stands and stumbles out from his hiding spot. It’s quite dark in the park, save for the few lanterns that lined the pathway.

Harry runs, and he keeps going even when his legs begin to burn, following the lights that light up the way for him. All around him is dark except for what’s ahead of him.

Harry finds himself stopping when he reaches a building with the light through the windows turned on. The place had an air of safety that Harry feels drawn to. He squints his eyes and swears he sees the silhouette of someone sitting at the foot of the steps in front of the building. He retreats towards the iron-casted gate between the two marble pillars and pushes against it. As he walks through and nears the front steps, he becomes increasingly aware that the silhouette wasn’t a figment of his wild imagination. Yet, the presence of this person has a relaxing effect on Harry despite looking so suspicious to him.

When the light from the window casts his own shadow on the pathway, he hears the silhouette gasp. Harry doesn’t know what to do when he sees Y/N come out into the light. She doesn’t look upset with him, but rather happy, even if her cheeks look flushed and her eyes are still a little wet. She throws her arms over his shoulders and embraces him.

“I waited for you, for so long,” she breathes.

“Y/N–,” Harry wants to tell her about his dream-turned-nightmare, but it became apparent to him that she knew already from the way she cups his cheek, and as he instinctively bows into her touch, she presses delicate kisses on his forehead.

“I know baby, I know,” she hushes him. “I’m sorry, honey.”

“Don’t do this again,” Harry takes her hand, clasping their fingers together as he brings them to his lips to kiss, “don’t leave me again.”

“I’ll always be with you Harry, in your heart, in your mind. Whenever you need me,” she tells him.

“I can touch you now,” he says, “can properly feel you now.”

“You know why,” Y/N replies pointedly. Her eyes show the concern she’s always had for Harry, but her words are momentarily cold and bite at Harry who nods shamefully. “The universe has a plan for you, Harry. You have a gift, and it’s squandered every time you numb yourself with drugs. I know the memories come back more intense, and you become more vulnerable to feeling the pain and suffering again, and again, so you get yourself high until reality is two-toned for you; until I go away.”

“Y-You’re still the love of my life,” Harry shivers, feeling a pang of guilt when he sees her smile at his words. “I want you around me all the time, but–.” I’ll never sleep. I can’t bear to dream about the night you stopped breathing. I can’t look at you aware that I know what you look like when your life leaves your eyes.

Harry’s wordless explanation is conveyed through his tearful gaze at the ghost in his arms. He’s still somewhat discombobulated, and he feels anxious about the whole situation in general, wanting so bad to cure his disease with just one more quick-fix, but he owes it to Y/N, his girl, to stay level headed (somewhat).

“We’ll figure this out,” Y/N tells him directly. “Your family can guide you, they can help you control your powers. More importantly, they can look after you. I can only do so much.”

“I–I–,” Harry stammers as he glances at the building, “I don’t know about that. Haven’t talked to them since…”

“They’re your family Harry. I have a feeling they’ll be interested in what you have to say when you tell them how you were able to manifest me and kiss me at the front step.”

Harry is confused for a moment before he feels something warm spread across his face. He understands Y/N has kissed him, and it’s quite alarming since he thought this feeling could only exist in his dreams.

|–|–|–|

hello there, thank you for reading and if you want you can send some requests here. I love a challenge :)

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eleanor-writes-stuff · 6 years

Text

through Rose-colored glasses [one-shot]

The first time Rose ever hears about her new friend Rey's husband is when Finn and Poe tell her that Rey's asked him for a divorce.

Rey and Ben drift apart and then find their way back to each other. Rose watches the whole thing unfold.

I have no idea what this is or where it came from, but at this point that's par for the course, right? Anyway, here’s modern AU Reylo through Rose’s eyes, because I’m a big fan of Rey and Rose being friends.

Also available on AO3.

On Monday, Rose arrives at work only to stumble upon perhaps the most worrying sight she’s encountered in her four months at Resistance.

“Is Rey okay?” she asks Finn and Poe in a hushed whisper, going to painstaking lengths to be as quiet as possible as she settles in next to the woman in question and slowly sets up her workstation for the day. There’s something unnerving about seeing her colleague slumped over her desk like this, face hidden in the cradle of her arms. Rey isn’t exactly the ball of sunshine her office nickname would suggest – her energy levels fluctuate wildly depending on her caffeine intake, just like anyone else – but Rose has never seen her be anything less than completely alert, even that one time they all stayed until midnight to work out some kinks in their project. Old habits, Rey had shrugged when Rose first marveled at her constant sharpness. Some instincts never go away.

Finn and Poe share a long look before the former sighs and tells her, “She’s completely drained. Her husband flew in yesterday.”

Under any other circumstances, that little tidbit of information might have warranted an eyebrow waggle. But Rose isn’t that socially maladjusted – she knows how to read a room well enough, thank you very much – plus she’s way too blindsided to do anything other than ask, “Husband? I didn’t even know she was seeing anyone.”

Come to think of it, there’s a lot about Rey’s life that she doesn’t know, despite the fact that the woman has been a constant source of support for her ever since Rose moved to Chandrila. But it’s one thing not to know Rey’s favorite color; not knowing that she’s married is a whole other beast entirely. “Why doesn’t she ever-?”

Finn clears his throat a little too loudly, bites down on the side of his mouth for a bit before he says, “It’s complicated. She doesn’t like talking about it.”

Poe goes a step further and tells her, “She asked him for a divorce last night.”

“Poe-” Finn hisses in reproach.

“What? It’s Rose. Rey won’t mind,” Poe claims confidently.

Beside Rose, the woman in question sleeps on. She sneaks guilty glances at Rey as she asks the guys for more details, and they paint her a picture of college sweethearts slowly, painfully torn apart by jobs on opposite ends of the country and the stress of a long-distance relationship.

“I think we all saw this coming, but at the same time…” Finn shakes his head and trails off with a heavy sigh as his lips press into a thin line.

“No one could’ve seen this coming,” Poe disagrees. “I mean, this is Rey and Ben we’re talking about. They’re the stuff of fairy tales. If even they can’t make it-”

Rose startles as a hoarse voice beside her croaks, “You do realize I can hear you guys, right?”

Poe jumps slightly and immediately abandons his train of thought as all three of them turn to see Rey slowly lift her head to reveal bloodshot eyes and cracked lips. Rey’s never been overly fussed about her appearance or bothered with makeup, but Rose can honestly say she’s never seen her friend this disheveled – no, not even that one time they all got wasted at Poe’s birthday party and the entire department shuffled into work the next morning with raging hangovers and misery etched all over their faces.

“I’m sorry, Peanut,” Finn says, the first to break the silence. “How are you feeling? Still sure you don’t want me to track the idiot down and-”

Rey winces as Finn pounds his fists together in an unspoken threat, and Poe lands a punch on Finn’s arm, shakes his head at the younger man with a heaviness in his motions that Rose would never have thought to associate with Poe Dameron.

“Don’t,” he hisses at Finn just as Rey abruptly pushes back from the desk and stumbles out of her chair.

“I’m just- I’m going to the bathroom,” Rey mutters, and doesn’t spare any of them a glance before she’s stalking away from the team’s quiet little corner. Her shoulders start to shake before she disappears from sight, and it takes every last bit of Rose’s willpower for her not to run after Rey and offer her help. Rey was there for her when she first adjusted to life in the big city without Paige or any other familiar faces and Rose would do anything to return that kindness, but this is obviously a highly personal situation best handled by the people who’ve known Rey for years.

A beat, and then- “I’ll go,” Finn murmurs, and Rose watches him scurry after his best friend.

“Is Rey going to be okay?” she asks as Poe settles into his chair with a sigh and starts tapping away at his laptop.

Poe stills, and Rose notes the way his shoulders slump with a sinking feeling in her gut. “I don’t know,” he finally admits, and the lost look in his eyes when he turns to her is utterly out of place on her supervisor’s face. “No one does. They’ve been together for so long that it’s completely inconceivable to think of them apart. I think even Rey can’t picture it.”

But she’s the one who asked for the divorce, right? Rose almost asks, but even she knows that’s not how things work. She’s never really been in love, not the kind of love Rey and her husband apparently have, but she knows it’s not something to be thrown aside lightly, not something you can get over just like that. For Rey, who loves her friends fiercely and never gives up on anything, to even consider this…

“Poor Rey,” she murmurs, and vows to do everything within her power to help her friend through this.

On Wednesday morning, she arrives at work for the second day in a row to find Rey hidden from sight.

To improve team coordination and cohesion or something along those lines, the teams at Resistance share a workspace instead of having individual cubicles. When Rose first arrived, Poe likened it to a family all sitting down together at the dining table to help prepare dinner – things just work better when we’re all up to date on what and how the others are doing, he’d shrugged. Besides, it beats staring at a wall all day. But every once in a while, when one of them is working on a deadline, there’s a clip-on desk divider to help them block out the rest of the world.

Before this week, Rose could count on one hand the number of times she’d seen that divider in use since she first started working here, and she’d never seen it in place for more than two hours.

Rey clipped it on sometime after lunch on Monday and hasn’t taken it down since.

When she turns to the guys, Finn merely shakes his head in helpless dismay while Poe gives her one of those sad smiles she’s getting too familiar with.

“Good morning,” Rose says tentatively as she sits down next to Rey, and is honestly surprised when she hears a quiet morning over the felt walls of the divider. A dozen questions come to mind, but she doesn’t push her luck, choosing instead to get right to work.

The team works in silence all morning, the three of them trading hushed murmurs whenever they have to consult each other. Rey speaks up every now and then when it concerns her part of the project, and there’s no doubt that she’s been hard at work behind that divider of hers.

Too hard, maybe.

“She’s always been like that,” Finn shrugs when the two of them head to the break room for coffee. “Throws herself headfirst into work and drowns in it so that she can avoid everything else. I think she wrote the best paper of her life when she and Ben had their first fight as a couple,” he recalls with a chuckle, only to abruptly fall into silence when he remembers the situation at hand.

“Did they…?” Rose asks hesitantly, still trying to navigate the murky waters of office-based friendships and figure out where exactly the line is drawn.

Finn beats her to it. “Fight a lot?” he guesses. “Nope. Before this, I think they’d only ever had two major fights. The one in college was about where they saw themselves in five years’ time, and then there was one about money shortly after they got married – Ben’s always had a lot, Rey didn’t have that much, and they both had strong ideas on how the bills should be split,” Finn kindly explains when he catches sight of Rose’s wrinkled brow. “That’s about it, really. Two fights in seven years. But ever since Ben moved…”

Poe pokes his head into the break room, two jackets on his right arm and a heavy backpack slung over his left shoulder. “Finn, hurry up. We’ve got that lunch meeting with Holdo in fifteen minutes. She wants to meet at Maz’s.”

“Shit, I forgot,” Finn curses, and the two of them bid Rose a quick goodbye before they rush out of the office. She takes her time preparing her coffee, and decides to bring Rey a cup as well.

“Hey,” Rose says gently as she places her own cup on her table, “I brought you some coffee.”

Rey pushes back from her desk and rolls into sight with a soft smile on her face as she reaches for her cup. “Thanks, Rose.”

“You’re welcome,” she beams, happy to note the lack of tear stains on Rey’s cheek. Her next words are a gamble, but– “How are you feeling?”

“Like I’ve made the worst mistake of my life,” Rey promptly replies before she blows on her steaming coffee. “I know it’s the right thing to do. It is,” she insists, more for her own benefit than anyone else’s. “But…”

Rose turns her chair around to fully face Rey, and does her best to look open and supportive.

“It’s just… It was okay, at first. I mean, it was hell on us and I missed him every day, but I knew he was happy, happier than he’d been in a long time, so it was worth it,” Rey says, a small smile on her face as her eyes grow distant. “Consulting just… fits him. Ben’s always needed instant results to quantify his worth, to prove that he’s bringing something to the table. Working for First Order, incubating and troubleshooting – it was perfect for him… at first.”

“What happened?” Rose asks after a beat, allowing Rey to gather her thoughts.

“Snoke happened,” she declares flatly. “When the time came for Ben to come home, he freaked out, said Ben was wasting his potential here in Chandrila. He offered Ben a huge raise and a significant promotion – too good to pass up on, apparently,” Rey scoffs, an unfamiliar bitterness seeping into her voice. “So Ben agreed and told me it would just be one more year. I wasn’t happy about it, but I didn’t hate the idea either; he was still so happy and fulfilled, and I didn’t want to take that from him. But then the promotion came with more and more deskwork, and the next thing Ben knew he was in charge of management and funding instead of any actual consulting or incubating. God, he’s been miserable ever since.”

Rose frowns. “Then why-”

“Contract,” Rey shrugs. “It was easier for him to just wait the year out rather than trying to mess with the contract. So he did – we did – and then when it was finally time for him to come home, Snoke pulled another fucking card up his sleeve, put Ben in charge of basically half the company. And now…” Rey sighs, and Rose watches her friend wilt right before her very eyes. “Now he’s saying that if Ben stays for another two years, he’ll be on track to become the next CEO.”

One of the guys had mentioned Ben’s company in passing – a multi-million tech incubator called First Order – and Rose knows that’s nothing to sneeze at. Even the possibility of being considered to lead the company is a huge deal. But it can’t be worth the pain in Rey’s eyes right now; nothing could possibly be worth causing that kind of hurt to your wife.

“The thing is, if he wanted this… if he were still happy…” Rey says slowly, heavily. “I’d be okay with it. I mean, it sucks and I miss him so much it hurts sometimes, but if he’s happy then I’m happy, you know?” she shrugs. “But I know he’s not happy, I know he’d be better off coming back here. I’m here, and his family’s here, all our friends are here… our whole life is here, and he’s off being miserable in Coruscant while I’m all alone in the house we bought to raise a family and grow old together in.”

Rey makes a strangled little sound, and Rose realizes that she’s choking on a sob. She reaches forward to take the coffee out of Rey’s hand, puts it on the table before she toes her chair closer to Rey’s and reaches out with open arms.

“Oh, honey,” Rose sighs as Rey falls into her arms, and tries her best to replicate the way Paige cards soothing fingers through her hair whenever she’s upset. “It’s going to be okay, Rey. You’re going to be okay.”

But as Rey breaks down in her arms, she thinks of what Poe told her on Monday and starts to see what he was talking about.

On Friday, Finn arrives at work and heads straight for Rey’s corner with single-minded determination, and Rose gasps as she watches him wrench away the desk divider.

“We’re going out tonight,” he declares. “No excuses, no exceptions. You need this.”

He crosses his arms and taps one foot against the hardwood floor while he stares Rey down, and Rose locks eyes with Poe to find that he’s watching the situation unfold with bated breath just like her.

The seconds tick by, and eventually Poe moves to break the tension when–

“Fine,” Rey gives in with a sigh. “But!” she holds up one finger before Finn can get ahead of himself. “No clubs. No raves. Nothing crazy. I just want to grab some drinks with my friends after a long week, okay?”

“Good enough,” Finn shrugs, and heads to his table. Rose leans over and taps a weary-looking Rey on the arm.

“I’ll keep him in line, I promise,” she assures Rey. “I’m thinking… Cantina?” It’s a bit rundown for Rose’s tastes, and certainly not Finn or Poe’s first pick, but Rey loves the place for some reason and Rose knows she’ll at least feel comfortable there.

“Rose Tico, you’re one of the good ones,” Rey whispers with a smile, possibly the brightest one she’s worn all week, and Rose beams at her in return before they go back to work.

The desk divider remains on the floor where Finn left it, and when the three of them ask Rey if she’d like them to bring anything back from lunch, she actually takes them up on their offer for the first time this week and requests a hearty meal that’s more in line with her usual tastes than the bits and pieces she’s been forcing herself to eat all week.

“I think she’s finally processed it,” Finn says a couple of hours after lunch, the three of them huddled together in the break room while Rey remains hard at work. “I mean, I’m not saying it’s going to be smooth sailing from here on out, but… it’s a start, right?”

Poe shrugs and Rose smiles, and it finally feels like things might actually go back to normal for their little team.

And then a tall, dark-haired man walks into the office and Rose watches in shock and confusion as Poe and Finn drop everything to chase after him and block him from making his way to their little corner, tucked away behind the wall located towards the back of the office.

Rose joins them just in time to hear the newcomer pleading–

“Guys, I need to talk to her, I have to do something-”

“You’ve done enough, Solo,” Finn says with a glare, folding his arms over his chest. He and Poe stand shoulder-to-shoulder as if that’ll deter this absolute hulk of a man – seriously, how does Rey even look at him for extended periods of time? – from pushing past them. It’s an amusing sight, but the show of support for their friend warms Rose’s heart.

The man – Ben, she realizes, the mysterious husband who’s completely devastated her friend – could easily push past them, send them both sprawling with a single shove.

He doesn’t, and she watches in awe as he crumples in on himself instead, his posture slumping into something defeated as his voice drops into a pained whisper. “Please, Finn, I’m here to fix this.”

Poe, who she’s learned is kind of a childhood friend of Ben’s, is significantly gentler than Finn when he says, “There’s only one way to fix this, Ben.”

“I know,” Ben sighs, runs a hand through his hair. “That’s why I’m here.”

It takes a while for Rose to catch up, but when Finn’s eyes widen at the implication of Ben’s words and he allows some of the tension to drain out of him, she realizes the magnitude of what’s going on here.

“Are you saying–?”

“Ben,” Poe chimes in, “did you–?”

“I want her to be the first to know,” Ben answers evasively before he takes a deep breath and looks at Finn and Poe. “She deserves that much, at least.”

Finn nods in agreement. “It shouldn’t have taken this long, man,” he says with a hint of admonishment in his voice, but steps aside anyway.

Ben drops his eyes to the ground as he murmurs, “I know.” Rose is struck by how much he resembles a kicked puppy right now, and suddenly understands what Rey meant when she said she could never be angry with him for long.

“You should never have let it get this far,” Poe adds.

Ben sighs. “I know, Poe. Trust me, I know. Can I please just…”

The two men share a look, and Poe steps further aside to make space for Ben as Finn reaches out and pats him on the shoulder. “Good luck.”

For no discernible reason, Rose allows impulse to propel her forward and plants herself between Ben and their corner.

“Rose Tico,” she says curtly, sticking her hand out as she draws herself to her full height and squares her shoulders.

“Um,” Ben’s forehead is creased with confusion as he shakes her hand. “Ben Solo. Who-”

“I’m a friend of Rey’s,” she explains. “And she means a lot to me.”

Ben smiles then, a soft thing she recognizes from watching Rey get lost in memories of happier times. “She means a lot to me too,” he says quietly.

It’s adorable – they’re adorable, and Rose can’t wait to squeal all about this once they’ve worked things out and she gets to see them actually be the loved-up couple Finn and Poe consistently describe them as – but Rose pushes the thought aside for later and forces herself to focus. “Good,” she says, a little sharper than intended. “So you won’t hurt her again, right?”

Holding eye contact with Ben Solo is somehow more intimidating than she’d expected it to be, given that all she’s heard about the man has come from either his wife or his close friend, but Rose doesn’t waver until Ben nods and solemnly vows, “Never again.”

“Okay. Good,” Rose nods, and finally allows a smile to break through her tough façade. “Go for it, Ben.”

“Um, thanks… Rose,” he says somewhat hesitantly, but laughs at the situation all the same and throws a nervous smile over his shoulder at the three of them before he rounds the corner.

“Come on,” Poe hisses, and she feels a tug at her arm before she processes that he’s pulling both her and Finn closer to their workspace.

“Shouldn’t we give them some privacy?” Rose whispers as the guys hug the wall and lean forward ever-so-slightly to spy on their friends.

“Nope,” they say in perfect unison, and Finn reaches out to pull Rose forward just in time for her to witness Rey notice Ben’s presence.

“Ben?” she whispers, and Rose strains to pick out the wonder and fear in her friend’s voice as she gapes at the unexpected sight of her husband.

Even more unexpected is the way Ben crumples at the sound of his wife’s voice, just… falls to his knees and presses his face to her stomach. From this distance all Rose can make out is a litany of “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry” interspersed with other things she can’t quite catch.

Rey leans forward, curves almost protectively over her husband as she runs her fingers through his hair soothingly. There’s no mistaking when she finally hears what Ben has to say, her sharp gasp ringing out in the quiet space.

She slides down from her chair to kneel on the ground with Ben, and Rose feels happy tears trickling down her cheeks as she watches Rey throw herself into her husband’s arms with a sob. He holds her close, the both of them crying and smiling between kisses, and when Rose hears a quiet sniff it takes her a moment to realize that it didn’t come from her.

“What?” Finn snaps defensively when two pairs of eyes fall on him in disbelief. “I like a happy ending,” he adds, darting a hand up to his face to swipe at his tears.

“You sap,” Poe says with a roll of his eyes, but it doesn’t escape anyone’s notice that they’re suspiciously shiny. Finn calls him out on it, and the guys rib each other for a bit before they settle down.

Rose ignores them, and just smiles to herself as she watches the happy couple hold and heal each other.

Would you believe that this was originally meant to be a ficlet?

I've got something planned for Halloween, so hopefully I'll be able to shake off this weird episode soon and get back to my normal writing style in time for that because this is getting ridiculous, really. Amazon reviews? Royals AU? And now this??? Oh well, at least it was fun to explore Rose's POV for a bit. Still a bit shaky on characterization, but I TRIED (and failed).

All the same, thank you for reading and I hope you liked it. As always, please don't hesitate to like/reblog/comment!

#reylo #reylo au #rey/kylo ren #rey/ben solo #kylo ren/rey #reyben #rose tico #star wars #rey #ben solo #kylo ren #fic: rose-colored glasses #fic archive #my fics

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selowyn · 6 years

Text

It has a little ring to it.

The ocean was always partially frozen up here; jagged ice floes warring with frothing brine from land’s edge to beyond where mortal eye could see. Perched upon a low bluff against the cliffs, she observes with cold detachment as a throng of Scourge shamble along the shore below. The avian exhale of her Argent hippogryph, the only other living being for leagues, provides faint comfort. Snaking out a gauntleted hand, she gently touches the creature’s face - a gesture of connection in this forbidding place. Grasping the reins, she vaults astride with a practiced motion. The steed launches upon contact and they take to the skies, intent upon rousing a warning; however, the creature betwixt her legs does not...move. Pursed lips turn to a frown; strong thighs squeeze, urging the beast onward. Wing-beats grow more flurried, though still they do not make progress.

The faint metallic whistle of something pitched is rewarded with a massive jolt which nearly knocks her from the saddle, followed by a high-pitched squawk. Ensnared by Scourge trickery, the breath is knocked out of them both as they tumble downward in a flash of silver, gold, chestnut and white, crashing to earth with an explosion of gritty sand, encrusting her armor in a hissed dusting of glinting crystal.

Dazed, stars spark in her dimmed sight with each breath. “Get up…” she murmurs to herself, “get up and do your job.” It’s no use; yet again the world does not obey, mired by cold and disillusionment. Loud splashing, leering grins as boney hands strong as iron ring her ankles to yank her toward the roiling sea. Mithril fingertips futilely claw for purchase through the sand as she is pulled toward doom. Reaching for her hip - her scabbard is empty. ‘Why so unprepared?’ she thinks idly, shivering as the surging tide begins to claim her.

Sand below turns to ice above; it scrapes her armor, whining as they clash. Heaved upon the surface, her form floats outward for but a few stoic moments as a funereal gesture before it is sucked into the undertow. The sea proves a cruel mistress; the weight of her armor and the world so heavy. Weak cries for help, croaked as she tries to swim, do not move the undead who merely watch her with vacant gazes from the shore.

“Please...I will drown...”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A ragged in-breath; a macabre hovering within the liminal space. Clutching tendrils of frozen nightmare vying with the golden light of a Quel’thalassian morning. A choked exhale, thrashing away from the leviathan of fear, relentless, occluding her senses. Fingers clutch sheets, scraping for purchase, slit eyes attempt to crack open. I will drown…

There is a flash of amber, a searing of fire; a saturation of color that distracts from the abyss. An echo of clasped hands passing warmth amid the throbbing of a pulse - the sound of celebration; the sound of life. Urged thus forward, that practiced part deep inside kicks in and, with a whispered prayer, a benevolence of serenity replaces all else for a brief blessed moment, allowing an escape. Her eyes finally open and she peers down into the faceted orange depths of a fire opal, burning away the last vestiges of the nightmare. Awareness of soft coverlets, warm sunlight and birdsong replace falling, gasping and jagged ice.

With a heavy sigh, she pushes herself up into a sitting position and takes a few deep breaths before spending a good while in meditation and prayer, clearing her mind. The nightmares come and go. Years of training in thwarting the addiction assist in relaxing her body, slowing the racing of her mind until there is no yearning, no fear; only a singularity of purpose and experience. Stars and darkness and light merge into the promise of a realm beyond, crafted of quiet knowledge and peaceful benevolence.

Once satisfied, the fear abated for now, her thoughts turn to more pleasant mundane things such as brewing tea and recalling last night. The Maelstrom. That nightclub certainly proved rich for the study of others, and Miss Melisande’s dark and stormy was quite good indeed. A pleasant enough diversion surging with a mass of writhing bodies, scrappy, hungry and seeking. ‘Not entirely different from the undead,’ she muses, a bit morbidly, as she waits for the little kettle to boil…

...

...no no, keep those thoughts away, now. As the tea is poured, cyan eyes follow the splash of liquid into porcelain...there was talk of the sea, last night. The gray-blue of the north sea is as the hue of her new acquaintance’s skin. Camille, soft-spoken and mysterious, with wisps of the void all about her. ‘She carries a sadness with her, and a love of the sea, like me,’ she reflects, watching steam rise and dance in spirals within shafts of sunlight. The sea in this enchanted land is warm and calm, and she feels a pang to sit beside the water with the Ren’dorei and learn more about her, to ponder the intricacies of finding one’s way in this convoluted world...

Frowning slightly, grabbing a spoon to stir in some honey to sweeten things up, the blonde pauses at the *clink* the fire opal ring makes against the utensil. Ah yes, that eye-catching hunk of jewelry, gifted in an impulsive moment at the club’s threshold by the elf with the dark curls and roiling emotions. Upon noting her admiration, he had passed it to her without a second thought, his hands clasping together with hers for a lingering moment. She had privately likened the gesture almost to a prayer, though no doubt his stance was much different.

She wore the ring around all night (ah, Miss Melisande seemed to recognize it?) and even after returning home and falling fast asleep. Odd that she would do that; must have been her exhaustion. But glad she is for her little savior. “I think I will keep you with me for a while, my firey friend.” Stroking its polished surface, she hums thoughtfully and smiles--the irony is not lost upon her. From him, the capricious carrier of that little tin, yet another little piece of the world has been thrown to who needs it in a moment of chance.

Or fate?

(( @audemus-dawnspark @camille-silversun @melisandemeadowshine for mentions ))

#wra rp #it's the little things #nightmare #memories #twisted memories #argent crusade #the maelstrom #new friends #this was longer than I meant oops #distractions #it won't tag Melisande for some reason #PTSD #Selowyn writing

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angelicspaceprince · 6 years

Text

Sorrow’s Hold

Author: Anna

Title: Sorrow's Hold

Pairing: Crowley/Reader

Character/s: Crowley, mention of Cas and Jack, the Winchester bros

Warnings/Tags: Post Season 12, Crowley lives because he's my fave, depression, talks of suicide, just general poor mental health, talks of a favourite person (its a BPD thing, but I gather most people have one person they talk about their mental health to?), psychosis/hallucinations, disassociation, mood swings, anger, like some semi-intense descriptive writing, I'd avoid if you are sensitive to that due to mental illness.

Summary: Your depression takes a massive hold over you shortly after Crowley's death and without him to help you with your thoughts, you can slowly feel yourself slipping away.

Tags: saintbartine, oddone92, autoressskr,

Notes: So, had a shit day today and have been listening to 'My Heart is Broken' by Evanescence over and over, so I decided to write a fic based on it. Hope thy all enjoy!

Based off of this song.

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Sorrow's Hold

‘I pull away to face the pain I close my eyes and drift away Over the fear that I will never find A way to heal my soul And I will wander 'til the end of time Torn away from you

My heart is broken Sweet sleep, my dark angel Deliver us from sorrow's hold Or from my hard heart’ – ‘My Heart is Broken’, Evanescence

When Sam and Dean returned with Jack and no Crowley or Cas, you instantly knew something was wrong. Hell, you knew something was wrong the day before but no matter how many times you called the boys, they didn’t pick up. So, when they walked through the door, you were a nervous wreck. It took one look at Dean and Sam to know what had happened.

“What happened?”

Sam looks at Dean, clearly unsure on how to approach the subject. “What happened to my boyfriend and Wicked Wings?” You repeat, words hard and cold as stone, tears already threatening to spill over.

“Y/N….” Sam starts, hesitating and Dean just flat out refusing to talk. “Cas….he was stabbed by Lucifer before we could close the riff. And….the spell we needed required a life. Crowley, he killed himself so it’d work.” You blink as the events that took place the night before the boys went to go save the world – again – started making sense.

Crowley had insisted you stayed behind, not wanting you to be within arm’s reach of Lucifer, knowing he’d kill you in an instant. You tried to protest, you wanted to see this through to the very end and that you could handle yourself, but when he finally told you what had happened during the hell that was the months he was locked away in Hell being humiliated by Lulu himself, you decided to cut him some slack. You weren’t even suspicious when you asked him to promise you he’d return home safely and he responded with a kiss, an inside joke between the two of you about ‘sealing the deal’.

The insistence and his refusal to verbally promise to return, and the fact that he didn’t want sex he just wanted to spend time talking about your life together, stuff you had done and wanted to do, the fact that at one point you swore he was teary-eyed, but that’s not Crowley. He wouldn’t be like that, the last time he cried was when he was on the blood and you had to help him through his withdrawals.

It made sense now.

You hadn’t released that you sat down in shock and that tears were streaming. You were silent, vocal cords frozen in disbelief. “He’ll be back.” You swear, voice wobbling, giving away the fact you knew he was going to stay dead.

Sam’s hand rests on your shoulder, trying to provide you with some level of comfort. “Y/N…I’m sorry, but I don’t think he is.”

Shortly after, you snapped.

You knew it was coming, this time of year you always had a massive depressive spell that you and Crowley could track better than you could track any other part of your body. You had been preparing for it when he died, and usually he’d be there to help. He was your support, the one person you seeked approval from and the one person you seeked help from during the times like this. Eight years of this support and you were unaccustomed to go through this alone, or even setting up and preparing for all of this.

So, with the very few resources you had prepared, you locked yourself in your room and allowed yourself to slip away.

First came the tears. God, you were sure that you would have been able to fill oceans with the amount of tears you cried. You cried and cried, never leaving your bed for anything, dressed in a shirt of Crowley’s, clinging onto his pillow tightly as your tears soaked through the fabric of the black, satiny pillow case, because he refused to have any other colour. Sam and Dean would leave food and water by your door, and on occasion would bring it in when it became apparent you weren’t leaving the room to get it. They tried talking to you about hunts, about memories of Crowley, about how amazingly strong you are getting through this, but you didn’t have the strength to respond. You barely had the strength to cry, but the tears kept on coming.

You did, however, force yourself to drink water, Crowley’s voice ringing in your head to remind you that tears make you dehydrated and that’s not something you need to be.

A week of tears, only drinking water and refusing to get out of bed for anything but to pee. The boys were concerned, and rightfully so. But, they presumed once the tears were over that that’d be the end of it.

Then the zoning out happened

You’d spend hours just staring at the wall, retreating into your mind, uncontrollably. You likened it to sitting in a pool, the words you hear are jarbled but you can acknowledge words were being said. You could see everything, but it was all foggy. Thoughts were slow and hard to grasp. You just….sat there. Unable to move, unable to think, drowning in nothingness.

When Sam first saw you he freaked out. Seconds later, you felt a familiar pressure on your forehead and the feeling of someone you knew – Cas? – rummaging around your mind, hands grasping at your consciousness, trying to drag you out only for you to slip through ghost fingers.

So, they did the next best thing. They sat with you, taking shifts, leaving Netflix on as they researched beside you, helping you through the fatigue that followed you coming out of an attack. At some stage, you came out of it to see a bearded Ketch in your room, bullet wound on his shoulder as he slams a tray of food down by your feet, simply saying that Crowley wouldn’t want you to waste away before disappearing into the night. You don’t know why you like Ketch, but you like him nonetheless. So, you ate a little and drank more water.

That, thankfully, only lasted a few days. But what followed would have freaked you out, if you didn’t currently have the emotional range of a toaster.

It was almost like a ritual. You’d bring out all your weapons and line them up in order of how slowly they’d kill you, nearly going through with it with your gun or tracing lightly the words you wanted to carve onto your legs, leaving light scratches. When Dean walked in with your gun in your mouth, he flipped. You’d never seen him so pissed.

You didn’t even apologise. Just staring at him emptily, not sure why he was freaking out so badly. After all, you weren’t loved, who were you to keep living? Who’d care if you died, if anything, people would rejoice.

Sam quickly removed everything from your room that could be seen as a weapon, leaving you in a more or less empty room. So, you resolved to just laying there. Staring at the ceiling, unable to move.

Now, over a month since Crowley’s death, your brain started something new

You hadn’t been this bad for this long since childhood, for the most part your episodes would last a week, maybe two. So, when the next symptom started up, you were completely unprepared.

Hallucinations.

You were there when Sam was suffering with his visions after Cas tore down the wall in his brain, so you were certain yours would get worse. But, for the most part, it didn’t affect you as bad as Sam’s affected him.

Commanding voices telling you to change your sheets, shower, brush your hair that had been neglected for months – which, thankfully, a local hairdresser was more than happy to do for free when she saw you grabbing top quality conditioner and detangler –, to eat something other than a small apple or a piece of bread, to wash your clothes and put something clean on. The voices were never cruel, they just wanted you to get your life back together.

The only thing they did that caused you to freak out was order you to clear our Crowley’s belongings from your room.

You couldn’t.

It was too soon.

It was the only time you refused to go through with the voices instructions, compromising to instead move his stuff into your closet so it was unseen.

Images of the ghosts of your past would walk right in front of you, you’d swear you saw your deceased boyfriend next to you, but when you turned, you were alone. The sensation of hands rubbing up and down your arms, applying the right pressure to calm you, exactly the same way Crowley would during anxiety attacks would make you think ‘maybe he managed to return in spirit form’. A quick spell assured you that that was not the case.

You couldn’t sleep. Your emotions were slowly returning in full force, making up for lost time. The sensation of complete anger then crippling sadness before heart-attack inducing anxiety leaving you useless in a ball wherever you were standing made it impossible for you to even do anything. You began apologising profusely to Dean and Sam for your actions, and even met Jack. Nice kid.

But any time you saw or remembered anything about your boyfriend, you became catatonic. Just unable to move, paralysed by the tsunami of emotions flowing through you.

So, when you woke up in the middle of the night to see him standing over you, calling your name softly, you were ready to stamp down the sudden oncoming of emotions that hit you like a brick wall.

“Y/N, love. C’mon, wake up for me.” His gravely voice pulling you from your nightmares slowly. “You were having a nightmare, pet, its not real.” You blink before laughing apathetically.

“Figures that this would be the next step.” You say, no emotion in your voice. The vision looks down at you, confused.

“Love?”

“My brain is a prick, you know that? And this is just cruel, giving me a vision of you to torment me? Fucking hell, I’m more messed up than I released.” You turn your body, bringing your blankets closer to you, inhaling his scent through the pillow. Only, it seems to be encompassing the room, coming from everywhere. You roll your eyes. Your brain is thorough too.

A warm hand rests on your shoulder and it takes all your strength to shrug it off, not wanting it to leave. The hand is stubborn and refuses to move. “Y/N, I’m really hear pet.” His voice sounds heartbroken, unsure. Not Crowley. “Love, I came back. I had to follow Lucifer through the rift then make my way here.” You move away, it’s painful to do so but you manage. Standing, you move to the opposite side of the room. The look in Crowley’s eyes of concern and uncertainty was foreign, but undoubtedly there. “Why did you do it?”

He slowly makes his way around the bed. “Do what?”

“Leave me? Especially now, when I was about to crash. Why didn’t you promise me to return?” Your voice wobbles as you fight back more tears. Fuck’s sake, why can’t you control yourself?

He pauses, clearly affected by your growing emotions. “I’m so sorry, love, but I had to. We had to get him away, and I couldn’t- you would have been in danger if you were there.”

“Why didn’t you tell me your plans? That you were going to gank yourself?”

“Would you have honestly let me leave the Bunker knowing that I was going to take my own life?”

“Well, no.” You admit softly and he shrugs.

“There you have it then.” You didn’t release he had moved to in front of you until his feet are touching yours. “Please love, look at me.” You shake your head, eyes squeezed tightly shut. “Why not?”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“It’ll hurt.” You can hear his confusion without him voicing a word. “I can’t look at you and know that you aren’t real.”

“Oh love, I’m very real.” His hand brushes against your shoulder and you yank back, sudden anger taking over your system as you begin to yell.

“Why can’t you leave me alone? I’m tired, Crowley. I’m tired of feeling, of living, of not knowing what’s going on and what’s happening, of having absolutely no fucking control of my body. I don’t want you to be here, to torment me! You left me, Crowley. You didn’t tell me shit and you knew you were going to die. And you don’t enter fuck all without knowing what’s happening. You should have told me.” You sit down on the bed, tears streaming yet again. Surely you had cried enough? Why was your body not tired enough, and how could it still be producing tears? “You should have told me.” You repeat, voice broken.

To his credit, he doesn’t try to leave you, or step back, or even react shocked. He just stands there, waiting for you to finish. “I know, I should have told you. I’m really sorry, but I’m back and in one piece.” You finally look up and stare at him.

“How do I know it’s you? Not a hallucination, not a trick from an angel or a demon.” He looks down before humming.

“Well, have you had any hallucinations recently?” You think over it.

“Only voices. Shadows. Not…not together though.” You admit. “But it could have progressed.” Crowley nods.

“Well, let’s think about this logically. What have the voices said to you?”

“They, they told me to do stuff.”

“Have I done that, pet?”

“No?”

“Then why would they change?” You nod slowly. Your auditory hallucinations had been relatively consistent with their theme, not really changing besides the orders given.

“But then you could be a trick. Asmodeous is apparently good at that sort of thing, or a shapeshifter?” Crowley hums before smiling, a genuine smile that only you ever got to see.

“When we first met, it was before I met the boys. You were working a case about this idiot who sold his soul to me and you managed to get me into a devil’s trap and ward off my hellhounds, and at the same time was working on a case concerning a nest of vampires the town over. All on your own.” You smile at the memory of an insulted and annoyed Crowley glaring at you as you left him alone for a day mid-interrogation to go and deal with the vamps. “I was pissed, but you kept me there for a week. We got flirting, I would come see you to invite you for drinks-’

“Stalked.” You interrupt. “The word you are looking for is stalked.”

“It worked though, didn’t it?” You roll your eyes, letting out a watery laugh. “You agreed to one drink if it meant that I’d, and I quote, “fucked off back to hell and never bothered you again”. One drink slowly turned into this.” You smile softly.

“You’re really back, aren’t you?”

“Yes, love, I am.”

“If you ever do something that fucking stupid again, I’m killing you myself.”

“I know you will, pet.” You launch yourself at him, holding him tightly as you nearly wind him.

“I missed you.” You admit, him returning the sentiment as you snuggled in close. Seconds pass before you finally ask the question you only wanted to ask him that had been burning in your mind for days now. “Am I broken?”

He looks down at you in slight surprise. “What on earth could be broken in you, love?” You shrug.

“My heart, my soul. Me. Just generally broken.” You shrug it off. “It’s stupid.” His hand grasps at your chin and makes you look up at him.

“There is not an inch of you that is broken, you are whole and you are perfect.” He reminds you. “You are human.” That last sentence makes you feel so much better, that small reminder squashing away any feelings of uncertainty that you are, in fact, nothingness. “When was the last time you slept a full night without any disruptions?” You shrug, honestly not being able to remember. “C’mon, go to sleep. We can talk about everything else in the morning.”

He leads you to your bed, moving instantly to wrap his arms around you as he presses against your back, his warmth and familiar scent and pressure as he holds you tight calming you instantly. “I love you.” You whisper quietly.

“Love you too.” Comes the reply with a chaste kiss to your temple.

“If I wake up tomorrow and you’re gone, I’m going to find a way to murder my brain.” You hear him laugh lightly before you start to slip away into the darkness.

“I know you would.”

It took a while, but eventually sorrow’s hold let go and you were on the mend. The boys weren’t impressed with Crowley’s surprise return, but you knew one thing for certain.

Everything was going to be okay.

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cryingbilldenbrough · 7 years

Note

Pls write something with Will in the IT universe omg.. . I would literally die that would be some good coming from you.

Will Byers doesn’t remember much about Derry, Maine.

It had been more of a rest-stop than a home, he knows that much is certain. He and his mom moved there that summer after Jonathan graduated high school, packing up their station wagon with Will’s colored pencils. A change of scenery, she called it, a chance to stretch our legs.

Will knows they were running away. But the bitter bite of cowardice had nothing on the relief he felt seeing Hawkins in the rearview mirror.

Now when he conjures memories of that single school year, his ninth grade year, he only comes up with faint flashes of color. Blue lockers and green grass and a red two-story house next door. He remembers ice-cold water and a rope swing in somebody’s backyard and lifting the door of some clubhouse, hidden away from the world.

A honking laugh, a hand clapping his back, a red balloon.

The memories don’t gain solidity until Mike Hanlon calls, late late at night.

Will rolls over in bed and picks up the landline, cradling the phone between his shoulder and his ear. His bedroom window is open, fall air blowing in and ruffling the curtains. The sounds of scratching branches and crunching leaves would have scared him a lifetime ago, would have reminded him of a summer spent in another World, but now they calm him. He can’t sleep in the lonely loud silence of his apartment, he needs a reminder of life outside his own, nature outside his window.

“Hello?” he asks softly, far too tired to speak louder than a whisper.

“Is this Will Byers?” a voice asks on the other line, honey-smooth and familiar.

“Yes,” Will whispers. There’s a peaceful silence for a moment, like time has stopped and the entire world is spinning around Will Byers, phone in hand. And then the voice shatters the peace and Will’s world with a single phrase.

“Will, it’s Mike. Mike Hanlon.”

“Mike,” Will breathes. “Can you believe I’d forgotten all about you?”

He hears Mike sigh on the other end of the line, crackly and distorted from miles of distance. Mike sounds older but still just as warm, a voice Will remembers from that singular school year spent tucked away in a sleepy Maine town. The fractured memories start to gain a little clarity, get context within his brain. For example, he remembers the tire swing was in Bill Denbrough’s back yard, which is a name he wouldn’t have been able to conjure up if you asked him for it just moments ago.

“I can believe it, all right,” Mike says. Will’s mind is racing, repressed memories floating to the surface all at once and it’s hard to grab hold of one and right himself. They slip through his fingers, like he’s drowning and trying to climb to the surface by grabbing hold of slippery seaweed.

And then one memory sticks out.

He remembers unpacking his room at the house in Derry, an attic bedroom with a small window that looked out across the neighborhood.

He had already filled his bookshelf, breaking down cardboard boxes as he went in order to create some actual floor space in his already small room, and then moved on to hanging and folding his clothes. The closet had a musty sort of smell, like mothballs and dust mixing together and Will cracked the window open in order to air the room out as much as possible.

The sounds of the day drifted in through the open window, the hum of a lawnmower cutting grass down the street and feet slapping on pavement. There was a shout from down below, a sort of yelp, and Will peered over the edge of the windowpane to investigate.

There were two boys across the street, probably a year or so older than him, and they were wrestling in the grass in front of a green bungalow house.

“Get off me, Richie!” the one boy yelled, pushing his friend and trying to roll over on top of him. He looked too small to do any real damage though and Will watched as the other boy, Richie, easily held his arms down with one hand and tickled his stomach with the other.

“Say uncle, Spagheds!” the boy on top shouted, pausing the tickling to push his glasses back up his nose. The brief moment of respite allowed the smaller kid to catch Richie by surprise and knee him in the stomach, forcing him to let out a choked gasp as he collapsed to the side dramatically.

“I’ve been assassinated!” Richie cried, “Killed by my own Eds!”

“You got grass stains all over my shirt, Trashmouth,” the little one whined, pulling the edge of his shirt out to look down at it. Sure enough, it had green smudges all over it that even Will could see from across the road. “Ma’s gonna kill me!”

Richie leaned over and helped to brush a bit of grass out of Eds’ hair and Will suddenly felt like an intruder, like he was watching the private moments of these strangers. It was nothing more than friendly wrestling but it felt like these boys had a bond Will could only dream of.

He suddenly missed his friends back in Hawkins more than he could bear, so much he felt the sadness would fill up his insides and drown him, and Will closed the curtains before it could settle inside him any more. He set back to unpacking, hearing the sounds of the boys outside drift down the street, carried away by the summer wind.

When he comes back to himself, Mike is continuing on the other line.

“Will, I’m calling you about Derry,” he’s saying, “I’m calling you about It,”

It.

Such a small word to send bone-chilling terror into Will, to inject his blood with ice. He shivers underneath all his blankets, his palm on the phone growing clammy with nervous sweat, and swallows audibly. The trees continue to creak and groan outside his window and Will almost finds them fear-inducing now, almost likens them to the creaking and groaning of bones, brittle and breaking. He has a flash in his mind of It, of Its lair, of Its terror.

“Do you remember Bill?” Mike asks and it feels like he’s constantly changing the subject on purpose, to keep Will on his toes and keep him from spiraling down into a crazed despair, mad over the memories of It. Will latches onto his voice, lets the warmth remind him of the good times and distract him from the bad.

“Of course I remember Bill,” Will answers, thinking of his friend’s blue eyes and stutter. He loved Bill, he remembers, they all did. It was impossible not to fall in love with Bill Denbrough, impossible not to be drawn into his cosmic aura of protectiveness.

Mike chokes out a laugh on the other line, almost as if he’s wrapped up in the same memories as Will, remembering being ready and willing to die for Bill Denbrough.

“He’s come back to Derry,” Mike explains, “I saw him just the other afternoon,”

“You’re still in that town?” Will interrupts. He always thought they all were going to go running just like he did, abandoning that haunted town as soon as possible. He remembers Bev did that year, left them for Portland and her aunt. When Will left, so close to the beginning of his sophomore year of high school, they were all chomping at the bit to go. Derry was sucking the life from them, assimilating them to its dark magic.

Stay here forever, it whispered in their ears, Give in.

You’ll be happy here.

You’ll float.

“Someone had to stay behind,” Mike says. “You know that,”

Will knows there were other powers at play, a thrumming energy beneath the earth that he merely joined in on. He wasn’t part of the Lucky Seven, his fate wasn’t intertwined with theirs, but he wasn’t an outsider either. For some reason the fog of Derry didn’t work on him like it seemed to with everyone else, didn’t pull the wool over his eyes. At the time he thought it had something to do with his past, was a side-effect of his time in the Upside Down, but now he knows it was because he was Chosen. The Turtle chose him to do good, to protect the Lucky Seven and aid their cause. Will feels honored to have been trusted.

“What’s Bill doing in Derry?” Will asks.

He knows the answer, knows deep down in his bones why Bill followed the siren song back to the town that taught Will the true meaning of evil.

He remembers standing in a circle in the Barrens, his left hand in Eddie’s and his right hand in Mike’s.

The sun shone over them, casting shadows across their features. Will watched as Richie brought his knees to his chest, picking at a scab on his knee. He was leaned into Bill, just slightly, like he couldn’t bear to be apart from him even a few inches. Will knew something changed between them that day in the sewers, something in them grew closer and closer together. He couldn’t help but be a little jealous of their bond, like he always was when he remembered how much the Losers shared without him.

“I can only remember parts,” Bev said, staring at the grass as it bobbed in the wind. Will couldn’t meet her eyes, couldn’t force himself to look at the cut on her cheek and the way her hands shook as she clasped them together in front of her. “But I thought I was dead,”

Will kept his eyes on the ground as she told them of her vision, her now-memory of them as adults back in Derry, back in Its lair.

“I saw us,” Bev told, looking around the group. Will could feel her eyes on him, boring into his soul, but he couldn’t get himself to look up. Her vision couldn’t have included him, there’s no way his fate could be intertwinned with theirs in the same way.

“All of us,” she promised. When Will looked up, she was looking right at him, focused on his face. She looked so much older than the rest of them, so much wiser. It was like the Deadlights changed her, aged her, made her perhaps a little more empty inside. Will hated looking at her now and seeing the effect It had on her, on all of them.

“Swear it,” Bill said, standing and grabbing a broken piece of glass from the ground. Will cut his eyes over to the boy, watching the sun glint off the glass as Bill gestured. “Swear if It isn’t dead– if It ever comes back, we’ll come back too,”

They looked around at one another, the wind ruffling their hair and stinging their eyes, and they made a promise to themselves. Richie stood up first, Eddie following his lead, and then they were all stood in a circle in the Barrens, pledging their future.

The bottle stung as Bill cut open Will’s palm, dug into his skin and stretched it open. He felt sharper somehow, more awake with the blood running down his palm and between his fingers. He looked at Beverly and she was watching him again, something in her eyes that Will couldn’t place. He kept looking at her as he took Eddie’s hand, wincing as his cut dragged across Mike’s palm.

There was a thrumming enery between all of them, a power being passed through as they bled together. It was hot like fire, electric as he felt his heart beat all the way down to his toes, getting louder and louder. It felt like they were beating together, their hearts in time with one another as they made a promise to return and finish their job.

They stayed together as long as they could stand it, for as much time as they could bear to feel the power, before they broke apart. The summer wind felt chilled when they separated, like the only thing keeping Will warm was the power of the Lucky Seven.

“You were there,” Bev told him later, saying goodbye for the last time before she went to Portland. She grabbed his shoulder and made him look her in the eye again. “Grown up just like the rest of us, back in the sewers,”

“Okay, Bev,” he said quietly, blinking as she swallowed. He watched her eyes flick between his, searching for something, before she nodded once and then brought him in for a hug.

She was lying. He knew she was lying, was trying to make him feel better by pretending he was there with them all those years from now, but she was wrong. He could tell in her eyes that she was scared of the future, was worried about what awaited them years and years from now, but that she was trying to be strong for all their sake. Will wondered what she really saw in the Deadlights that made her so scared, so desperate to assure Will of his placement in their cosmic group.

Friends don’t lie, but Beverly Marsh was lying anyway.

“I love you,” she promised, kissing the top of his head.

“I love you too,” he said and that was that.

He never saw Beverly Marsh again after that summer.

“He intends to finish what we started,” Mike says.

Will can almost feel Mike’s hand in his now, warmth spreading from his fingers over his palm and up his arm. He brings his hand up to the light, to his face, and expects to see blood in the center of his palm, dripping over the bedsheets, but he’s clean.

He squints and just for a moment, sees a thin white scar. It’s as long as the cut Bill made for him, jagged from the blunt bottle tearing his skin instead of slicing it, and it’s the first time Will is noticing it for twenty years. He turns his hand over and then back, watching it to make sure the evidence doesn’t disappear again.

“Please say you’ll come back too,” Mike asks. He sounds hesitant, like he’s waiting for Will to slam the phone down.

“I–” Will starts. The words clog in his throat and he has to clear it before he can force them out, “I’m not one of you,”

“No,” Mike interupts but Will keeps going, has to say it all now or he’ll never be able to say it again.

“I’m not… one of you. I never was,” he whispers. “You have so much power that you can’t even see and I’m not a part of that.” The scar on his hand feels hot, feels like a fresh wound that’s fighting infection, and Will pulls his fingers into a fist to fight the urge to break down.

“I can’t help you, Mike, I’m not strong enough,” Mike silences on the other line and Will’s breath is ragged, loud even over the beating of his heart.

“You were one of us,” Mike says finally, the words crackling. Will closes his eyes and tries to sink back into his pillow, tries not to let the words get to him but Mike sounds so earnest and honest. “We loved you like a brother, like one of our own,”

“I’m not strong enough,” Will repeats.

“We need you anyway,” Mike says and Will knows the decision has been made, was made twenty years ago when he cut his hand and looked into Bill Denbrough’s eyes. His fate was decided before he even knew what he was deciding on.

The scar burns as he nods, as he tells Mike he’ll be there soon. It aches as he packs his bags and books a flight to Derry first thing in the morning, twinging when he climbs into a towncar outside the airport and riding into the sleepy Maine town he’d forgotten all about.

The scar doesn’t stop burning until he’s stepping out of a taxi in front of Jade of the Orient, Derry wind prickling his face and smelling like the past. It reminds him of summer and dust and death and Will bites back the sudden fear that crawls up his throat.

He takes a deep breath and goes inside the restaurant, finally ready to face his fate.

send me requests/headcanons/prompts!

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jennyclaybourne · 6 years

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i see my eyes are shallow stones, in a prison made of bones | solo

From her spot on the couch, Jenny had watched the late afternoon sun dip beneath the horizon, watched the sky as the darkness chased away the remaining light. She felt like she could relate to that on some kind of miserable metaphorical level.

Her head rested on the arm of the couch, damp with tears that came in waves. She lay there in numb silence for a very long time, knees pulled up to her chest, holding herself together. Ben had been gone for hours but his words still bounced around her head as loud as if he was sitting right there, screaming them at her.

Ben.

Her heart curled around the name and the tears welled back up in her eyes. She felt angry and stupid and sad and a thousand other emotions she didn’t have names for. A dark part of her mind reminded her that she shouldn’t have been surprised. She always got too close to the fire; she always got burned.

The moon crawled across the sky and Jenny watched as the night moved in. Eventually, she heard the heavy footsteps, the creak of the storm door as it was pulled open, and then the jingling of keys. She heard the exact moment he noticed her, his footsteps coming to a halt immediately, felt the awkward pause as he tried to decide what to do. And then she felt him sink into the couch beside her.

For a long moment, he sat there. She could feel the slight shift in the cushions and she tensed, fighting back tears at the question she knew he was about to ask.

“You okay, J?”

She squeezed her eyes tight, but her chin trembled, giving her away. Without a word, he placed a gentle hand on her side and she fought off the twist in her stomach as she furiously blinked back tears. She sat up slowly, her head throbbing. She dropped her head into her hands, her elbows resting on her knees. “He’s married,” she said, muffled through the hands on her face. She blew out a miserable, watery breath. “Fucking married.”

Dustin’s hand withdrew as if he’d been burned and she looked up to see the shock in his face turn to anger. “That mother fucker,” he spit through clenched teeth. He turned to her, his eyes softening but his face still hard. “He’s a piece of shit and you’re better off without him.”

She looked at him for a beat, disappointment throwing itself into the ring with the rest of the emotions she was drowning in. Ever since he’d come back from his time overseas, he’d been more closed off, detached in a way that could only be felt in moments like these. Moments where she needed the connection more than she needed the words. She’d made peace with it, knew his time in the military hadn’t been easy on him, but anger flared in her now anyway.

Tears rolled freely down her cheeks, her hands clenched into tight fists because she felt like it anchored her somehow. She stared at him and he stared at her and she wanted so much for him to just close the distance and hold her, to feel the connection and the comfort of another person. She needed it like it were the only thing that could keep her together. Honestly, it might have been.

But he didn’t offer and she didn’t ask.

“I’m sorry, Jenny,” he said quietly, patting her knee. She knew it was supposed to be comforting. She could even acknowledge that he was trying. But the anger still burned, the resentment that he knew what she needed and couldn’t give it to her, unfair as it was to hold it against him.

He looked at her a moment out of the corner of his eye. “You know...” he started, his words slow and calculated. “We never really talked about...” He gestured helplessly in front of him as if he couldn’t quite get the wording right. “New York.”

Images slammed into her like a train without brakes. He knew the basics about why she’d left New York in a hurry. She knew he could draw conclusions about her taste in men, could liken it to her mother and she was angry for it. It didn’t matter that none of those things had left his mouth. She heard them anyway.

Her eyes narrowed, a dark look on her face. “No,” she said through her teeth, pushing herself up from the couch. “We didn’t.” She left him there on the couch, surely confused as to where he’d gone wrong. As soon as her back was to him, the tears blurred her vision almost completely, cascading down her red cheeks as she disappeared down the hallway and into her room.

Ben was all over this room, too.

Clutching her pillow, she spooned herself around it, burying her face in the fabric. She wasn’t sure how long she cried, but at some point, the well behind her eyes ran dry and she slipped into a dreamless sleep.

#para: i see my eyes are shallow stones

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frederickwiddowson · 4 years

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The writings of Luke the physician starting with his version of the gospel - Luke 17:1-10 comments: offences will come

Luke 17:1 ¶ Then said he unto the disciples, It is impossible but that offences will come: but woe unto him, through whom they come! 2 It were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and he cast into the sea, than that he should offend one of these little ones. 3 Take heed to yourselves: If thy brother trespass against thee, rebuke him; and if he repent, forgive him. 4 And if he trespass against thee seven times in a day, and seven times in a day turn again to thee, saying, I repent; thou shalt forgive him. 5 And the apostles said unto the Lord, Increase our faith. 6 And the Lord said, If ye had faith as a grain of mustard seed, ye might say unto this sycamine tree, Be thou plucked up by the root, and be thou planted in the sea; and it should obey you. 7 But which of you, having a servant plowing or feeding cattle, will say unto him by and by, when he is come from the field, Go and sit down to meat? 8 And will not rather say unto him, Make ready wherewith I may sup, and gird thyself, and serve me, till I have eaten and drunken; and afterward thou shalt eat and drink? 9 Doth he thank that servant because he did the things that were commanded him? I trow not. 10 So likewise ye, when ye shall have done all those things which are commanded you, say, We are unprofitable servants: we have done that which was our duty to do.

An offence is something that causes someone to stumble in confusion or their faith, that harms their faith.

As the Jewish rejection of Christ caused their confusion;

1Peter 2:8 And a stone of stumbling, and a rock of offence, even to them which stumble at the word, being disobedient: whereunto also they were appointed.

Which is an allusion to the passage in Isaiah;

Isaiah 8:13 Sanctify the LORD of hosts himself; and let him be your fear, and let him be your dread. 14 And he shall be for a sanctuary; but for a stone of stumbling and for a rock of offence to both the houses of Israel, for a gin and for a snare to the inhabitants of Jerusalem. 15 And many among them shall stumble, and fall, and be broken, and be snared, and be taken.

So, see that an offence can cause one to stumble, to fall, to be broken, and snared, and captured. This is what happens with unbelief, one falls into the snare set by the king of terrors himself.

2Timothy 2:26 And that they may recover themselves out of the snare of the devil, who are taken captive by him at his will.

Someone who belongs to God, who is mature in His care, and loves His word should never experience such a thing.

Psalm 119:165 Great peace have they which love thy law: and nothing shall offend them.

In the Early Modern English of the era of the King James translators to offend could mean, not just to displease or insult someone, but to injure one’s conscience, to deceive them, to commit a wrong, to cause damage to, and an offence was a crime, a sin, or a trespass, an injury done to someone.

Offences against God and humans will come, they will happen. It is the nature of things in this dispensation. But, woe to that man or woman through whom they come, who permits themselves willingly to be a vehicle for sin against God and their fellow men and women.

Little ones can be a reference, of course, to children.

Matthew 18:1 ¶ At the same time came the disciples unto Jesus, saying, Who is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven? 2 And Jesus called a little child unto him, and set him in the midst of them, 3 And said, Verily I say unto you, Except ye be converted, and become as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven. 4 Whosoever therefore shall humble himself as this little child, the same is greatest in the kingdom of heaven. 5 And whoso shall receive one such little child in my name receiveth me. 6 But whoso shall offend one of these little ones which believe in me, it were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and that he were drowned in the depth of the sea.

7 ¶ Woe unto the world because of offences! for it must needs be that offences come; but woe to that man by whom the offence cometh! 8 Wherefore if thy hand or thy foot offend thee, cut them off, and cast them from thee: it is better for thee to enter into life halt or maimed, rather than having two hands or two feet to be cast into everlasting fire. 9 And if thine eye offend thee, pluck it out, and cast it from thee: it is better for thee to enter into life with one eye, rather than having two eyes to be cast into hell fire. 10 Take heed that ye despise not one of these little ones; for I say unto you, That in heaven their angels do always behold the face of my Father which is in heaven. 11 For the Son of man is come to save that which was lost. 12 How think ye? if a man have an hundred sheep, and one of them be gone astray, doth he not leave the ninety and nine, and goeth into the mountains, and seeketh that which is gone astray? 13 And if so be

that he find it, verily I say unto you, he rejoiceth more of that sheep, than of the ninety and nine which went not astray. 14 Even so it is not the will of your Father which is in heaven, that one of these little ones should perish.

But, in this context, in this particular sermon given by Christ, He seems to be saying that offences must come but it is a sad day for the person through whom they come. Do not give cause or reason for a new believer, a little one in the faith, to stumble and fall, and to forgive graciously and abundantly if your brother or sister repents of their deed against you. Do not feel a sense of self-righteousness by your getting out of your comfort zone and doing what Christ has commanded in the realm of forgiveness but accept it as the least you can do considering what He has endured and what He has done for you.

Luke 11:4 And forgive us our sins; for we also forgive every one that is indebted to us.

Peter and Christ had this interaction;

Matthew 18:21 ¶ Then came Peter to him, and said, Lord, how oft shall my brother sin against me, and I forgive him? till seven times? 22 Jesus saith unto him, I say not unto thee, Until seven times: but, Until seventy times seven. 23 Therefore is the kingdom of heaven likened unto a

certain king, which would take account of his servants. 24 And when he had begun to reckon, one was brought unto him, which owed him ten thousand talents. 25 But forasmuch as he had not to pay, his lord commanded him to be sold, and his wife, and children, and all that

he had, and payment to be made. 26 The servant therefore fell down, and worshipped him, saying, Lord, have patience with me, and I will pay thee all. 27 Then the lord of that servant was moved with compassion, and loosed him, and forgave him the debt. 28 But the same servant went out, and found one of his fellowservants, which owed him an hundred pence: and he laid hands on him, and took him by the throat, saying, Pay me that thou owest. 29 And his fellowservant fell down at his feet, and besought him, saying, Have patience with me,

and I will pay thee all. 30 And he would not: but went and cast him into prison, till he should pay the debt. 31 So when his fellowservants saw what was done, they were very sorry, and came and told unto their lord all that was done. 32 Then his lord, after that he had called

him, said unto him, O thou wicked servant, I forgave thee all that debt, because thou desiredst me: 33 Shouldest not thou also have had compassion on thy fellowservant, even as I had pity on thee? 34 And his lord was wroth, and delivered him to the tormentors, till he should pay all that was due unto him. 35 So likewise shall my heavenly Father do also unto you, if ye from your hearts forgive not every one his brother their trespasses.

Next to trusting God in the painful circumstances of life for which we are given no explanation, like Job, forgiving is the hardest thing for a Christian to do. Some of the great causes of mental illness are a refusing to forgive and a refusing to be forgiven. Refusing to forgive as Christ commanded can be the source of great offence to the faith of not only another but yourself. Discouragement is a powerful tool of Satan.

2Corinthians 2:10 To whom ye forgive any thing, I forgive also: for if I forgave any thing, to whom I forgave it, for your sakes forgave I it in the person of Christ; 11 Lest Satan should get an advantage of us: for we are not ignorant of his devices.

I suspect there are many out there who cannot find it within themselves to forgive one who has caused offence to you or to forgive yourself; perhaps even just for failure in this life to meet the expectations of your youth. But, forgiving is a fundamental of the Christian faith, of far more importance than your political or historical beliefs. Keep in mind that it is called for when the other party is repentant and is not only sorry for their sin against you but has turned from it, the meaning of repentance. Sometimes it takes time to forgive because we need to see that repentance is real. These are the facts of living.

Paul gave a warning about offending weak brothers and sisters. Read Romans 14. With regard to forgiveness, there may be a person in your life; a parent, a spouse, a friend, who regrets what they did to you and, if that is so, it is incumbent upon you to forgive them. You, too, have regrets for what you’ve done. You are sorry for your sin against God. Receive His forgiveness. Do not remember what God has forgotten.

Another take on this passage is that it represents a few of the sayings of Christ for which we would have to cross-reference to uncover the more complete doctrine the sayings are referring to. For instance, there is verse 2 opened up by the passage in Matthew 18:1-14. There is verse 4 further explained by Matthew 18:21-35. Verses 5 and 6 are further illuminated by Matthew 17:14-21 if you take this tack on the passage. But, I don’t think it is correct to do that particularly. I believe that this passage represents a coherent message given by Christ in its entirety to be understood by the context in which it is written, cross-referencing for contrast and understanding.

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leonpaladin · 7 years

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Flicker: A Non-Linear Love Story

It's seems a bit farfetched but hear me out.

When Niall first previewed his album at his first Flicker Session in Ireland, I noticed that there was a theme to all the songs and I started looking at the lyrics of each of these songs. And, quite oddly enough, if you listen to the album in a certain arrangement, it almost feels like a Nicholas Sparks novel. Basically, it's a cycle of falling in and out of love.

I could be most possibly wrong, of course, but it's quite intriguing to be just a coincidence that all of Niall's songs revolve around the central theme of finding love, staying in it, and then losing it. In the album, the songs are arranged in a way that the story is non-linear. For the sake of cohesiveness, I'm just gonna assume that the story is about a girl and a boy, who is our protagonist (though there are songs that are gender neutral).

Below is a linear version of that story:

1. Slow Hands

It's the protagonist's first encounter with this lover whom will be the subject of the entire album. They somehow meet at the bar and hit it off quite well. The girl wants something more from our protagonist and seeing that they have this connection, they promtly leave the bar and continue on somewhere else. The song, of course, says they went back to the girl's house.

2. Seeing Blind

After a while, they started developing real feelings for each other. It's no longer a one night stand but a real relationship. The song goes on about how the protagonist has never experienced anything like that before, citing that he's only read about love in books or watched it on the telly. They are in the honeymoon stage of their relationship and there's this huge amount of happiness and love between the two of them that everything feels like a dream.

3. Mirrors

However, as they learn more about each other, our protagonist notices how the girl has some problems that she was keeping to herself. She has this different side of her that she lets nobody see, including our protagonist. Of course, she's trying to be happy with him but the weight of her problems is pressing down on her.

4. Fire Away

The protagonist confronts her about it and she's afraid that he wouldn't understand. But he assures her that no matter what those problems were, he was there for her -- he was ready to listen and remove those burdens that has been making her sad and broken.

5. Since We're Alone

Even with his assurances, the anxieties of this girl are eating her up. So much so that she's become this former shell of herself. The protagonist keeps telling her that it's okay and the he loves her for who she is. In their quiet moments together, he keeps baring his heart out to her and promises her that he'll always be there.

6. You and Me

But fate has a different plan for their love. The protagonist gets whisked away and it becomes a long distance relationship that was becoming harder and harder to maintain. The girl is starting to get scared that they're going to eventually fall apart but the protagonist keeps telling her that he's doing all of it for their future, for the life they will be living together for the rest of their lives.

7. The Tide

Even if they were trying maintain their relationship, it had indeed been falling apart slowly. Both their anxieties -- her fears that he values his dreams more than her, and his fears that she will leave him for someone who will always be there -- start eating at their love, and he likens it to the tide slowly washing away their castle on the sand. He keeps begging her to hold on, that their distance is not forever, but she's starting to lose her grip on their love.

8. Flicker

They finally break apart. It didn't blow out of proportion or burned out, it simply faded and was ultimately lost. She says she wants to let go of our protagonist but he begs her to stay, telling her how much he loved her. He reminisces of how much love and hope she has given him throughout their relationship. But all of his happy memories weren't enough to convince her to stay. He's completely devastated about it and wishes the feeling of grief won't last too long.

9. Too Much To Ask

He falls into depression, often imagining that she comes back -- the lights turning on, and that there was someone outisde the door -- but of it were mere hallucinations that never existed. His grief completely consumes him, and he becomes broken and hung over her leaving him.

10. Paper Houses

The aftermath of their break-up. He wonders on the things that ultimately destroyed their relationship. He thinks it's because they asked for too much from each other, that maybe he chased his dream more than choosing the girl he loved the most. Either way, he payed the price and their love made of stacks of cards crumbled. Now he's all alone, still hurting and bleeding from her departure, but he plans on moving on.

11. On The Loose

He becomes bitter about the girl, seeing her in a different light than before. Somehow, he's still in love with her to some degree but he's more angry than desperate at this point. The fears he had about her leaving him for another man becomes his own twisted reality. To him, she was saving her own skin: playing with him and, when she was finished, she discarded and traded him for someone new.

12. On My Own

Our protagonist finally forces himself to move on from his past relationship after realizing what it was doing to him. He goes on enjoying life -- having a drink here and there with friends, sleeping till noon, making out with girls, and getting into fights sometimes. Anything to drown himself from the hurt he had been in. He realizes that there is more to life than that love he had lost.

13. This Town

But sometimes, he does fall back into missing her. It has never left, even if he had been able to cope up with it. When he finds out that she's back in their old town, he feels the need to see her but then he discovers that she's already got someone else. Somehow, there was no bitterness left in his heart, simply that melancholic feeling of things that will never be. It still hurts but he comes to the acceptance that she will always hold a special place in his heart: That she will always be the one that got away.

#niall horan #flicker #niam #narry #ziall #nouis #one direction #1d #so proud of our snowflake #he's a ball of sunshine #who hurt him

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mon-blanchetts · 7 years

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Thieves Among Us (3/5)

Let Jon have his armies and his devoted wildlings and the love of their people, she thinks. Let him have his dragon queen. She’s in possession of a secret, tragic as it may be, but at least it’s entirely her own. For Sansa, that’s more than enough. It has to be. Rated M; inspired by content from S7. Previous chapters can be found here.

Sansa’s eyes dawned with realization while she stared back at him, her face a kaleidoscope of surprise and panic that burst wide open before swallowing itself up again as she recovered from his unexpected appearance.

“Hello, Jon,” she greeted evenly. Sansa may have had the sense to speak first, but her tone was distant—as distant as it had been when she’d spoken to him on the rampart. It was like she had thrown ice water over him, jolting him out of his dazed bewilderment. The fact that she sounded so casual, as if her presence wasn’t anything strange to ponder over whatsoever, only set him off the edge just a little further.

“What do you think you’re doing here?” He demanded, barely able to mask the frustration in his voice. His mind had been circling around her for most of the evening while he tried to keep his concerns at bay, but here she was, standing tall before him, her blue eyes as alert as ever. Candlelight spilled over her hair, transforming it into the colour of spun gold, but it was powerless in thawing the coldness in her stance. “Lady Brienne said that you weren’t feeling well,” he related, refusing to cower beneath her hard stare.

Theon’s voice cut through the silence that followed, just as her lips parted in preparation for a response. “Don’t be cross with her, please,” he pleaded.

Jon tore his eyes from Sansa’s to glare at the ironborn reclining in bed, his back against the oaken headboard. Despite his initial intentions, Jon had completely forgotten about Theon as soon as he caught sight of the woman who sat in the chair beside his bed. His face wavered a bit when he took in the ironborn’s damaged frame—shoulders and torso wrapped heavily in linen, with one side of his face well-battered and swollen, the other mottled with bruises, some of them ranging from a deep purple to a sickly yellow.

His grip on the door handle tightened. Jon was still trying to wrap his head around the scene laid out before him, despite the fact that there was nothing complicated to it—nothing at all. Was it because of the stark clarity behind it? He had spent far too much time mentally grappling with the nature of Sansa’s connection with Theon, this newfound affinity that they had unearthed so suddenly; now that there was a picture he could attach to it, something physical and tangible, Jon could only stand and stare.

“Please don’t be cross with Sansa,” Theon entreated again. “It’s my fault she’s here. I asked her to come,” he explained hurriedly.

“It is not your fault,” Sansa protested, shaking her head defiantly, red hair dancing around her face in conjunction with her movements. She rose to her feet in one swift movement—Jon couldn’t help but liken the act to a swan extending her majestic wings in preparation for a flight. “Lady Brienne was only following my orders,” she admitted, head held high. If she felt guilty in the least for lying to him, Sansa managed to conceal it wonderfully. So proficient was she in her ability to rein in her feelings that Jon had to start questioning his own. He was beginning to accept that his bitterness was in league with his jealousy, but what right did he have to be jealous?

“What are you doing here, Jon?” Sansa fired back, narrowing her eyes at him suspiciously. Strange to think that he had just associated her with a swan, when, at that moment, there was very little to differentiate between herself and a she-wolf protecting her cub. That Sansa eyed him as if he was ready to attack startled him just as powerfully as she’d done earlier, making him the outsider he had always felt like when they were younger. We aren’t supposed to be like this anymore, he wanted to shout at her desperately, Theon’s presence be damned. But Jon feared that his words would only get lost in the arabesque patterns of her gown, like smoke that floated upwards into the gray skies above; he remembered the way his words had fallen onto her deaf ears while they had spoken on the rampart. Had Sansa truly decided to cut herself off from everything sensible, or was there more to it that he didn’t quite understand?

“Well?”

Jon blinked at her. “I came to see Theon,” he answered, glancing back at the man in question again. He felt uneasy at the way the ironborn was observing the both of them, as if he was trying to decipher what hadn’t been said out loud. “I wanted to see if you were all right,” he added, speaking directly to him for the first time.

A smile ghosted across Theon’s mouth before vanishing completely, making his haunted gaze all the more unsettling. “I’m not dead, you see. I suppose that’s a decent start to anything.”

He nodded at him once before turning back towards Sansa. She remained standing with a defensive air still around her, but the expression on her face was faltering. Jon was torn between wanting to dismiss her outright and crumbling onto his hands and knees, desperate to find any gaps in the mountain that stood between them, if the minutest space existed so that he could crawl through. He had sensed their formation as far back as the morning when they had bidden their farewell to one another, stilted and hollow as it was. I will return, he had promised, but Sansa’s gaze remained fixed on the happenings in the main courtyard, her doubt rolling off of her in waves. Jon honestly thought he could’ve drowned. He couldn’t think there was a way to mend the bridges they’d burned in the wake of their passion, of their sin, not while a threat greater than any of them loomed dangerously beyond the Wall. His reticence was coming back to haunt him now, he realized, while his heart crawled its way up his throat.

“I was worried for you,” he admitted, because it felt like the only thing to say. “Does she know you’re here? Lady Brienne?”

Sansa turned her head to the side, eyes falling on Theon. “Nobody knows,” she confided, just before she broke into a smile. A sad one, Jon thought, but it was a knowing one, too.

Her profile was just as beautiful. Her patrician nose was still as sharp as a blade, while the silhouette of her lips made them even more prominent and enticing, especially after he had discovered just how sweet they were. Jon found it peculiar that he was always so fixated on the lips he had tasted, whether it had been here, at Winterfell, or sailing along Blackwater Bay from Dragonstone. He should never been given the privilege to indulge in such temptations, but he had. Now he was left in a mess of confusion and guilt, sinking under the weight of everything else that was happening around them. Jon was as much to Sansa as she was to him—in their current state, though, that didn’t even amount to anything. He would never be able to rationalize the trouble he had while trying to staunch the flare of jealousy threatening to burn through him as he watched the pair in front of him, a scene that looked as if he should never have been privy to.

“Sansa,” he pleaded. She didn’t acknowledge him, not immediately. When she finally faced him again, there was no denying the desolation and sadness that Jon knew she was desperate to hide. She was like a candle that burned with twice the intensity as those around her, only to burn out quicker than all the others—it wasn’t her choice, either, but what the greed of men had set upon her. The human condition was full of great and terrible follies, he lamented, but it pained him to think that Sansa—sweet, strong, beautiful Sansa—was subjected to it so harshly.

It frightened him just as much to think that he might have been part of the force that brought her down, let alone accept it.

“Let me walk you back to your chambers,” he implored. Jon grimaced—even to his ears he sounded desperate, but he realized just how badly he wanted to talk to her. He needed to. Not the distant, formal way that they would converse when they were in the company of their advisors, but the way they used to when they existed behind closed doors, free of constraints and expectations and all the things that kept them shackled to a reality they wished they weren’t always obligated to. Jon remembered when he used to kiss the space between her breasts, remembered wishing that that should have been the only universe there was.

They had tried retaliating, the two of them, but they had only made things worse.

And you—you’ve only made it worse, whispered a foreign voice in the hollow crevices of his mind, something far off but all-encompassing at the same time, like the echoes of a mountainside.

“That won’t do,” she said, shaking her head adamantly as she approached him. He still stood in the doorway with his fingers still tightly wrapped around the door handle, like an obstacle she would have to face if she wanted out of this room. “I’ll find my own way back,” she declared, just as she made to pass him.

“Sansa–”

“No,” she bit out, snapping her head around to stare at him. The weariness in her eyes mine as well have been a sword through his shoulder blade.

“No,” she repeated, more gently this time, but it did little to soothe his wounds. “Not now, Jon.”

The intricate patterns on her grey dress left him almost disoriented as he tried to follow its trajectory over her shoulders, across her chest, down to her stomach. It was never like this with Dany’s clothes; his aunt favored dresses of solid colours, a clear symbol of her steadfastness and strength. The abstract designs on Sansa’s gown left him confused, out-of-touch, but Jon wondered if that was meant to be their intention.

As if she was trying to hide something.

Sansa passed him without another word. Even if he tried, Jon doubted that he would’ve been able to stop her. Sansa’s steps were quick and purposeful as she walked down the corridor, until, finally, the shadows engulfed her altogether. That was how it was for them: a series of trials where she walked away from him, all while their relations were still as fraught as they were since he came home.

Sinking deeper and deeper into his thoughts, Jon nearly lost all knowledge of where he was. That perceptible feeling of being watched brought him back to his surroundings, reminding him that he wasn’t as alone as he felt.

Theon remained silent. Jon saw how he would clutch the furs strewn over his legs before loosening his hold, only to repeat the action over and over.

“If you’ve got something to say, then say it,” he ordered.

The ironborn didn’t respond immediately, but it was clear that he wanted to. Jon’s patience was wearing thin; he wasn’t going to wait forever.

“She’s a lot lonelier than you know,” Theon said at last, stumbling gently on his words, but his gaze never faltered.

His tone wasn’t critical in the least, but to Jon it still sounded like an accusation to him, a painful jab. “What do you know about Sansa?” He sniped, clenching his jaw stubbornly.

“Not as much as you, no doubt,” Theon confessed, staring off into the flames dancing in the hearth. “That doesn’t mean I’m blind to her sorrows and pain.”

When Theon looked back at him again, his face pensive, Jon saw a man so vastly different from the boy he’d grown up with. The ironborn had always been so full of confidence and banter, always eager to expound on all the ways he knew how to pleasure a woman, but that spirit had been completely snuffed out now. Sansa once told him about the man she’d found when she came back to Winterfell, a shell of a man who was so badly damaged that he mine as well have been a ghost. Jon knew from Tyrion Lannister that he’d been castrated, as memberless as the eunuchs that made up part of Dany’s immense host, but it wasn’t until he’d seen him face to face again that he was truly able to grasp the changes that had taken place. Now, with his battered face upon him, Jon couldn’t keep his curiosity at bay.

“What happened that night you were attacked?” He asked, unable to hold back his inquiry. Jon leaned against the doorway, arms crossed in front of his chest, unable to trust himself to go any closer to Theon, who he was still wont to throttle whenever he got near enough. It made him no less vile than the party that had assaulted him, a fact that Jon was in no way proud of, but barely able to contain.

Theon shrugged, unsurprised by the question. “You—you left so many of them here, all these soldiers, while you went away to the Gift. They’re armed and ready for battle, but there’s nothing to quench their bloodlust. Men in that state get restless, most of the time.”

“Why didn’t you fight back?”

“I don’t know,” he murmured. “Maybe I understood where some of their anger came from. I know what people think of me, here in Winterfell. I know better than anyone. How can I blame them for their hatred?”

Jon didn’t know what compelled him. “Sansa doesn’t hate you,” he informed, even while it pained him to say it out loud. “She has absolutely every reason to be, but she doesn’t.”

Theon didn’t react. “Sansa has a gentle heart,” he said. “I’m grateful for someone like her.”

His face was as somber as ever, but his voice was flecked with affection and warmth as he spoke. Jon’s irritation began to simmer again, his mind reaching towards all the questions and possibilities that decided to make an appearance. He was still at odds with Theon and Sansa’s newly-formed connection, even while he had no right to pry.

“Has Sansa told you about the hearing?”

Theon nodded slowly. “She wanted your blessing, but she says that you won’t give it.”

“You understand why, don’t you?”

“Aye.”

Despite his agreement, Jon saw the way Theon’s face fell as he bowed his head to look down at his fingers again. “I’ve already told her that a hearing isn’t necessary. It would only make things worse, and I didn’t come back here to start trouble.”

It was a complete relief to hear that. “Did she take it well?” He inquired, opting to take a step further into the room, his relief momentarily trumping the animosity he harbored for the man reclining in the bed. Jon eyed the chair that Sansa had been sitting in when he first caught a glimpse of her, wondered what exactly the two had been discussing before he had interrupted.

“Well enough, Theon answered. “Sansa wasn’t pleased with my answer, it’s true, but she didn’t press any further when she realized that I wasn’t going to change my mind.”

“She was near willing to travel to all seven Hells and back for you,” Jon admitted, even while it vexed him to do so. The longer he remained in the ironborn’s presence, the more tempted he was to ask him what kind of relations he was having with Sansa. It was his pride—fear, as well, perhaps—that stopped him; he refused to let Theon, of all people, see him unravel. Something about this conversation, though, kept luring him in.

“What have you been telling Sansa these days?” Jon asked, before another idea struck him. “What has she been telling you?”

Theon shook his head slowly, as if any greater effort was too extraneous; judging by his appearance, it might well have been. “It’s not my place to tell you what she’s spoken about,” he stated.

“Because it was about me, wasn’t it?” His fingers curled into fists.

“Not just you,” Theon corrected. “She’s speaks curiously about others, too. About Daenerys Targaryen.”

As soon as her name came out of his mouth, Jon remembered all too well Sansa’s face, of the hurt that had bloomed on it. Is that what you call her in private?

The name had slipped out of him so naturally, without even so much as a second thought to it, but her question had thrown him off course, what with all the implications it conjured. Dany—that was what Jon did call her when they were alone. When they used to lie naked beside one another, questioning the trajectory of their lives, when she told him stories about Essos and the Free Cities—of a world full of colour and histories so different and yet so similar to the continent he’d spent his whole life on—while his bare shoulder bumped against hers.

Jon realized, at the same moment, that Sansa might just have been thinking the same thing.

“Do you love her?”

Theon’s question shattered his reverie, like a rock hurled against a glass-paneled window. Jon stood frozen on the spot, lost for words, despite his desire to hurl a storm of expletives over the ironborn for daring to bring something like that up. Where did Theon think he had the right to ask him a question like that? Why did Theon think he had the right to know, even?

Amidst the chaos that danced in his mind, something dawned on him: Jon didn’t know which woman Theon was referring to. His discovery only issued another wave of confusion and fear over him, threatening to dismantle even faster, like a thread pulled viciously away from the spindle it had been wrapped around endlessly.

“You don’t get to ask me something like that,” Jon bit out, narrowing his eyes at him. Now was as good of a time as ever to leave, he realized, before the ironborn doled out more questions he couldn’t find the words to answer. “I’ll send someone to attend you,” he informed bluntly, turning his back on him. Theon’s question still echoed through his mind relentlessly.

“We’re all broken in some way,” Theon said aloud, determination etched in his voice. “Even Sansa,” he opined.

Jon stopped in his tracks. He looked over his shoulder to glare at the ironborn.

“Don’t talk about things you know nothing about.”

Theon stared at him. “I know that Sansa’s heartbroken,” he confided, quietly. “She hides it well, but there’s only so much she’s able to cover up. She’s hurt. And she’s lonely. Can you swear to know as much, Jon?”

He didn’t answer.

His body, facedown in the dirt and broken leaves. A sacrifice to the Old Gods, but they were never known to accept them.

A sacrifice to Winterfell, then, for all she’s lost.

Sansa couldn’t help the wide smile that appeared on her face while she watched the child that was playing before her. She knew not whether Little Sam’s shrieks were uttered in delight or discontent, but they echoed throughout the cottage in a way that was as hopeful as sunshine in the dead of winter. Once she had always thought that only stories and the lyrics from her favorite songs could move her, but every wordless sound that Sam made was as endearing and moving as the last. He was the reason why she found herself visiting the Tarlys’ home whenever the chance allowed itself, regardless of the lengthy walk required to reach it, a remnant of the winter town located beyond the castle’s main gate house. No matter how low she felt, the sight of the Tarly infant never failed to lift her spirits.

“Why must you be such an awful delight whenever I come round?” She complained gently, wiggling one of his feet that poked out from the hem of his gown. With eyes perfectly shaped like almonds and a mop of hair that was the color of spun gold, Little Sam must have been the handsomest infant for leagues on end—it would take much to convince her otherwise. Even the twisted and terrible history he was born from did little to tarnish the beauty he was so full of. Sansa was well aware of the child’s parentage, but she’d stopped concerning herself about that a long while back.

“You always bring him gifts, see,” Gilly pointed out. They all sat atop a fur rug that was placed a safe distance apart from the hearth, with dozens of small learning blocks scattered around them. While Sansa had played with Little Sam, the former wildling distracted herself with the blocks, where the sides of each one was painted a different color to differentiate the letter that was etched into it. “I think he senses when you’re about to come by, because he’s always so much more happy and agreeable beforehand,” Gilly explained.

Sansa carded her fingers through the infant’s hair, reveling in its softness. “I can’t imagine Sam being anything but a joy,” she protested, allowing him to fist strands of her own hair that he’d managed to grab hold of. She loved that he was just as fascinated by her auburn locks as she was with his golden ones; one too many times Sam had gone and stuffed her hair in his mouth, only to stare up at her afterwards with disappointment. It never stopped him from trying again, though.

If she hadn’t run into Maester Tarly near the entrance of the crypts, today’s visit would never have occurred. The maester had invited her back to his cottage for a spot of dinner with his family, but she was hesitant to intrude on their privacy. Sam had insisted, nonetheless, while the promise of seeing his adopted son again was too tempting for her. Sansa would’ve been lying to herself if she said that she didn’t want to go, besides; while the reality of the situation at hand dawned on everyone more and more, her longing for family magnified tenfold. Memories would always crop up in her mind here and there while she went about her duties, passing through corners where she remembered playing in with her siblings, or springing up in the middle of a conversation with the master of kennels, who was still alive, even after Theon’s attack and the destruction wrought on by the Boltons. What would it be like, she wondered, to share a meal with all of her sisters and brothers again, all of them gathered around a blazing fire as they supped on childhood favourites? Even after everything that had happened between them, Sansa still included Jon in her fancies, too; he would sit the way he did while she had drank her soup, holding his cup of bitter ale in both hands and smiling at her softly when she turned to look at him, still unsure if she’d finally lost her mind, that he was a phantom in her mad imaginings. But Jon had been real—solid to the touch, even after he told her about Ser Allister’s mutiny and the Red Lady’s magic—and she didn’t think she could be happier. When she felt particularly lonely, Theon would be there, too, his smile a little broken, just as it was now, but with just the slightest glimmer of hope in his eyes. The ironborn was back in his little hovel attached to the Broken Tower, his wounds mostly healed, but he was nowhere fit to take up a sword. With the help of a carpenter she was able to get a plank fashioned, one that would fit nicely against the entrance and keep out the draft a bit better.

She couldn’t help but finger some of the learning blocks within her reach while keeping her eyes on Little Sam, fixated as he was on the gift she had brought for him. Curious, Sansa gathered a few of the blocks together before forming them in a row. “What word do I have here, Sam?” She challenged, tapping the last block in the row with a finger. He was on his feet now, staring at the blocks fixedly for a moment before kicking them away. Sansa shook her head with mild amusement.

Gilly scolded her son for his behavior, but he paid no heed. “Cou—could I see that again, my lady?” She requested.

Sansa knew that Gilly could not read; the former wildling had told her how the late Princess Shireen tried to teach her, but the lessons had been sporadic and short. With all the responsibilities that were hefted on her shoulders, Sansa could offer nothing better, either, but she was more than happy to help when she could. The learning blocks weren’t exactly much, but they turned out to be a delight to both mother and son.

When she was finished forming the word again, the former wildling tilted her head to see. The way she was frowning spoke of her inner struggle to piece the syllables together, but the more she sounded them out, the closer she got. Sansa did not rush her. “Fam-ily,” Gilly pronounced, with a little stutter. “Family,” she said again, this time with more confidence.

Sansa nodded at her, smiling warmly. “That’s right, Gilly. Family. You, and Samwell Tarly, and Little Sam. You’re a family.”

The words brought about a fresh wave of yearning that she hadn’t anticipated; Sansa ducked her head with the pretence of forming another word with the learning blocks. “What letter is this, Sam?” She inquired, offering a block to him. He took it gingerly from her before making a vain attempt to throw it, but it slipped from his fingers and landed back on the rug. Sansa giggled.

“Sam says that you were in the crypts today,” Gilly recounted. “Is that true, my lady?”

“Yes, it is.”

“And the crypts…that’s where you keep your dead, isn’t it?”

Sansa lifted her head. Gilly wore a mixed expression of fascination and fear, her mouth slightly agape in wonder. She realized that she had spotted a similar look on her son’s face before.

“They’re not my dead, exactly,” she explained gently, mindful of Gilly’s feelings. “The Starks are all buried in the crypts when they die, except for the women who marry into another family.”

“Do you go alone? Aren’t you afraid?”

“Sometimes,” she admitted, with a little nod. “But then I remember that there’s really nothing to be afraid of, because just about everyone I love is down there. If there are spirits in the crypts, they’ll only haunt those who wish ill on the Starks, you see.”

Gilly looked unconvinced. “Sam says that Jon—His Grace, I mean—he says that His Grace does not like going to the crypts. He thinks he’s not allowed down there because he’s not a Stark.”

“Jon is a Stark,” she insisted. No matter what had unraveled between them, she still meant it. “Jon will always be a Stark,” she declared. “No matter what others say or think. After what he’s done for his family, he couldn’t be anything else.” How could he be, when he had help reclaim Winterfell for her and their remaining siblings? And what about later on—who else could Jon have been when he agreed to touch her the way she asked him to? She’d been so desperate to regain a piece of who they once were; Sansa had wanted him to wipe out all the memories that continued to scar her mind through the only means she thought possible. He’d gone and complied with that request as well, but, oh, what a mess that had led to. Perhaps there was something of a clairvoyant inside of her, a part of her that had known that Jon was bound to leave her one way or another. Maybe deep down she wanted to keep a piece of him when she knew that it was impossible, but it had turned out that all she’d done was lose what was left of her.

The fire crackled in the small hearth that was crudely built in the wall to her right, tempered with the occasional sharp snap as a log split. She often came to the Tarlys’ cottage to forget about the things that happened inside the walls of the castle, including Jon. Sansa sighed. It was inevitable, she supposed, that his presence would finally bleed through. “Jon must’ve forgotten that he used to play in the crypts when we were younger,” she suggested, rubbing one hand against her arm absently, eager to warm herself up, even while the cottage wasn’t cold in the slightest. “But why would we have been afraid of something we didn’t understand? Children don’t know what death entails. I don’t know if that makes them fortunate or not.” She smiled sadly at Sam, but he was completely oblivious to her now.

“The dead have been known to come alive again,” Gilly alleged with a fearful shake of her head. “The bodies in the crypts…couldn’t they come back as well?”

Sansa glanced at the former wildling, who was watching her quietly. “Some of them could, I suppose.” All the statues in the crypts had been accompanied with a sword as well, so as to keep the spirits at bay. Nobody ever accounted for the actual bodies themselves. The flesh had decayed, but what about the skeletons? Did the Night King’s magic extend to such a circumstance? She thought about Rickon, whose body had not quite become all dust and bones; her blood ran cold at the image of his corpse emerging from the tomb he lay in, his eyes completely lifeless and hollow. Little Sam was toying with the blocks about his feet now, but she was swallowed by the future that loomed ominously before him. Never, she thought defiantly, leaning forward to plant a kiss on the crown of his head. Despite the terrible history he’d been born from, Sansa didn’t know a child who was more loved than the one in front of her, with so many people desperate to protect him, sacrifice their life for him. Had her own mother felt just as strongly about her own progeny? She must’ve, Sansa thought, reaching for a few other blocks around her so that Sam could progress with the tower he was trying to build.

“What do you do while you’re in the crypts, my lady?” Gilly asked, as their conversation lulled. “Is…is that where you pray?”

“I take care of the statues and the tombs, mostly. Rickon’s in particular. Sometimes, if I can find them, I put flowers before his tomb and think about the man he could’ve become if fate had been kinder to him.”

There was a pensive look on Gilly’s face. “People like Sam put flowers on their dead, too,” she informed. Sansa smiled back at her proudly.

“Yes, Gilly, you’re right. It’s a tradition from the Reach.” She hadn’t known about it, not until she had met Margery Tyrell and the ladies she had brought with her. Beauty was as valuable to them as chivalry and honor—it only made sense that their dead would be sent off in a fashion that reflected their values. Her expression near wavered when she thought of her friend, now deceased. No doubt Olenna Tyrell would have showered all the roses and blossoms of Highgarden onto her beloved granddaughter’s corpse, if only one had been found beneath the rubble and stone of the that once made up the Great Sept.

The distant sound of knocking brought Sansa back to the present. It stopped briefly, only to resume a moment later, this time more with more persistence. Usually Maester Tarly’s young apprentice was available to answer the door, but it was soon obvious that he wasn’t around. As soon as another round started, Gilly rose from the floor to see who was calling, leaving Sansa alone to watch over her son. Little Sam had given up building a tower with the learning blocks and had turned his attentions back on the gift she had brought him. It was a rattle, one that was coarsely made by a creative blacksmith she had asked; the grains inside of it made a robust, crackly sound every time Sam shook it in his chubby fist enthusiastically. Sansa had to walk all the way back to the Main Keep in order to retrieve it, but the excitement that had bloomed on his face when she presented the toy to him had been well worth the journey.

Sansa let him be while she took notice of the learning blocks that lay about, their bright, almost garish colors a far juxtaposition to the hues that existed all around the cottage; pewter accessories on roughhewn wooden surfaces along with grey, unfinished stone walls were natural reminders of the real world she lived in, but the blocks were like a touch of whimsy that she realized had been sorely missing from her life—no, not just hers, she thought, but from everyone’s. The vibrant colors were so characteristic of the childhood that had been taken from her—a childhood where she had seen life through a window of stained glass, a kaleidoscope of colors that had been entirely false, though there was no denying its beauty.

It didn’t occur to her what she had been forming, not until her vision came into focus and she stared down at the line she had made with six of the blocks. The longer Sansa stared, the more she remembered; a smile crept along her lips while she traced each letter with her finger, as if they were a living, breathing entity in themselves. She could feel the areas where the paint had chipped off, evidence of time passed. Time was supposed to have healed her, she thought, but that hadn’t been true. Just how long would it haunt her? How long would the yearning last for?

A gust of white fur completely overwhelmed her vision, a shock that nearly chased the life out of her. Sansa gasped loudly as she stumbled back in surprise, until she discovered a moment later that it was Ghost. The direwolf had his wet nose against her arm as he continued to inspect her, his eyes as red as she always remembered them. Where had he even come from?

“Gilly,” she began, looking up to ask about Ghost’s sudden appearance, but the figure she had assumed to be the former wildling turned out to be no such person.

Jon towered above her, those gray eyes of his wide with surprise. He was draped in furs that still had flecks of snow clinging all over it, while Longclaw’s ivory pommel peaked out from beneath the folds of his cloak, offering a break from the somber colours of his attire, like a lighthouse in the middle of a moonless night. Sansa was sure that the sight of him would have chilled her to the bone, as his appearance had done when he found her in Theon’s bedchamber more than a sennight ago, but Jon’s presence this time around turned out to have the opposite effect. Suddenly she was burning with indignation, scorching beneath dozens upon dozens of thick layers—as if the heat of the south was upon her. Sansa thought she might’ve been able to walk through fire like his Dragon Queen, convinced that she, too, would come out unscathed. Maybe he would’ve wanted her, she thought with bitter acridity, if only she possessed some of the gifts that his lover did. She wasn’t yet strong enough to delve into all the possibilities of what made Daenerys Targaryen attractive in Jon’s eyes, not after she had gotten more than what she could swallow when she had discussed it with Theon, but her curiosity didn’t wane, either. Sansa knew, for the sake of her pride and her sanity, that she should just gave it all up; and yet, there was something oddly addicting about the pain she suffered through that she just couldn’t let go.

“Hello, Jon,” she greeted, regarding him with as much nonchalance as she could bear. Was he going to make another outburst like he’d gone and done that night? She wasn’t doing anything duplicitous this time around. Strange that it never dawned on her that she might run into him here, despite the cottage being where his closest friend currently dwelled; Jon was always tied up somewhere, in one war council or another, that it just seemed highly unlikely that he would ever step foot beyond the Main Keep.

Jon was twisting his gloves absently with his hands. “Hallo,” he responded softly, as if he was still wasn’t sure what to make of her. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

When his gaze turned downwards, Sansa realized with an all-consuming panic that he was looking at the row of blocks she was toying with, that he could read the name that she had formed on a whim. A name that he wasn’t privy to.

He must never know.

With a careless swipe of her hand she scattered the blocks away, praying to all the gods she knew of that he hadn’t seen anything.

Little Sam emitted another yelp of infant delight that penetrated the silence hovering almost painfully between them, a most welcome distraction from the dread that threatened to overwhelm her. When Sansa turned away from Jon to see what the child was up to, she found him playing with Ghost, who nuzzled the boy’s neck with animal affection. It was a heartwarming sight, even if she was feeling a little resentful towards the direwolf for stealing Sam’s attention away from her. The rattle she had brought for him was resting beside him, momentarily forgotten.

“Why are you here?” She asked over the raucous, her eyes still fixed on Sam’s and Ghost’s antics. As long as she had someone else to focus on, Sansa was convinced that she could hold herself together. She was bothered by the fact that her thoughts were constantly in disarray whenever Jon was close by, certain that she had already hurdled over such a shortcoming. Neither was she happy by the fact that they kept on running into each other, either. Wasn’t it in their best interests to stay away from one another?

Well, it was hers, at least.

“I wanted to speak with Sam,” he answered. “Gilly says I’ve just missed him, though.”

Gilly’s voice floated towards them. “But he will be back, Your Grace,” she insisted, reappearing beside Jon, her crooked smile full of easy assurance. “Sam said he would only be gone a moment, but Sam always says things like that, and one moment becomes another, and another, but he always comes back,” she babbled. “He hasn’t finished eating yet, see,” she added, gesturing to the table nearby; sure enough, the remains of his meal were still there, covered by his linen. The stew was cold now, the bread just as so. “Why not stay here and wait for him?” Gilly urged. “I’ll go find him for you.”

Sansa bristled at that, turning her face away from both of them to gather herself together and figure out how she might take her leave. She could handle Jon in a crowded room filled with nobles and advisors, but in a setting as private as this, she wouldn’t last long. After their encounter on the rampart she was fairly certain she wouldn’t be able to make it through a similar experience, even if Gilly and Little Sam were present.

“I ought to go,” she announced, while she got to her feet. Ghost left Sam to return to her, letting out a whine of protest before pressing his muzzle into the palm of her hand. It was the wrong thing for either of them to do; Sam looked around in confusion, his face screwing up in preparation for a wail.

Unable to ignore his sadness, Sansa bent down on her knees to pick the boy up. “Don’t cry, my little lamb,” she begged, bouncing him up and down in her arms in an effort to cheer him up. “Don’t you know that I’ll never tire of watching you?” she confessed, smoothing his hair away from his face with one free hand. “Will you still like me when I run out of things to give you, my sweet?”

It was uncertain whether Little Sam understood what she was saying; he broke into an open-mouth smile, nonetheless.

“Will you stay with me?”

Sansa darted a furtive glance in Jon’s direction, alarmed by his request. “Why would you want that?”

He gave his leather gloves another sharp twist. “I want to speak to with you, Sansa.”

“About what?”

Jon watched her with a clouded look. She could sense that he was trying to figure out what he could and could not say before Gilly—like most of those around them, she knew little about their fractured relations. United a front they appeared in public, but when the doors closed behind them and the curtains were drawn up, it became another matter altogether.

“It’s about Theon,” he confided.

That made her frown. “Theon,” she echoed flatly.

He nodded at her wordlessly. Sansa wondered, for just a brief moment, if she could trust him.

“You could watch over Little Sam while Gilly’s away,” he suggested off-handedly, when she still watched him with questioning eyes. As if on cue, the boy let out a shriek of delight, all while trying to reach out towards Ghost.

“Yes, you could,” Gilly agreed. “It’ll be faster that way, too, if I don’t have to strap him on my back.”

Sansa regarded both of them pensively. If she had Little Sam with her, maybe it wouldn’t go so bad, she reasoned. The child was too much of a joy to walk away from, so much so that he could even override her own hesitations. She wasn’t even sure if there was anything left to discuss between them where Theon was concerned—the ironborn had already turned down the idea of a hearing, anyway, meaning that it wasn’t necessary for Jon to campaign against her participation. Sansa glanced back at him to see if she could discern anything from his demeanor, but she found that she couldn’t look at him for very long, not anymore. It was such a sad turn of events, the pace at which things once so beautiful and charming could mutate into something ugly and unfortunate. She still remembered with clarity how she could barely keep her eyes off him while he stood naked before her, ready to learn and understand him in a way she knew she’d never done before with any man. I am a snake who has shed its skin once more, she had recited again and again, all while she basked in the feel of his bare skin against her palm, warm and safe and everything she could want in that moment. Their pasts had already been set in stone, but the first time he brought her towards her first peak, Sansa had believed that, perhaps, there were some things that could be regained. With paradise flashing behind her eyelids and Jon surrounding her, Sansa had never felt so innocent.

If only she had been smart enough to anticipate the fall. Surely it wouldn’t have turned out as painful as it did, if only she had prepared herself for the corrosion of dreams she should’ve have invested in, anyway. Little Sam was fisting locks of her hair again, pulling her face towards him; would she have felt as lonely as she did now, if those in her life had turned out differently?

Gilly was off as soon as Sansa agreed to watch over Little Sam in her absence, but not before she squeezed her son’s feet affectionately. Come back soon, she pleaded silently, lowering herself back onto the fur rug again with the boy in her arms. She wondered how merciful the gods would be this time around.

After stowing away his cloak and sword, Sansa pretended not to notice when Jon pulled a low stool towards them that he promptly occupied, just along the edge of the rug that she rested on, together with Little Sam and Ghost. Gilly had offered her the same stool initially, until Sam’s charms had led her onto the floor completely. Through a curtain of her own hair she could make out his boots, but that turned out to be more than enough for her to bear. The silence around them was beginning to grow heavy again; it felt like an eternity later when Jon spoke at last.

“Theon’s left his chamber in the Main Keep,” he informed.

“I know that.”

“Do you know where he’s gone?”

Sansa nodded. “I do. Now that he’s mostly recovered from his wounds, he didn’t want to take up the space that was needed.” She didn’t reveal where he’d gone, but that wasn’t any of Jon’s concern.

“I’m glad that he’s healing,” he admitted. “That’s good news to hear.”

She toyed with the hem of Sam’s gown, recalling the one she had completed a fortnight ago. “I hope something like that won’t happen again. Who knows if Theon will survive another beating as severe as the one he just went through?” The thought made her ill, but considering his reluctance to proceed without any public justice, Sansa knew that the possibility of another ambush was high. When she had spoken to the ironborn about his decision to forgo any hearing, she demanded to know if Jon had played any role in his decision. Theon had denied any coercion on his part. Was it possible that he was lying?

Of course it’s possible, she thought. Jon was leaning forward, arms resting on his knees, his fingers entwined. He was eyeing her with a strange mixture of tender weariness, but it was better than a look of disgust that she’d been anticipating.

“You know, I was wrong to expect that someone as broken as Theon would have been able to help me,” she confessed, keeping her voice as level as possible. Children were perceptible things; she knew that Sam may not understand the things she said out loud, but he could still tell when something was amiss when she used a certain tone around him. Sansa forced a smile on her face when the boy turned away from Ghost to look at her, his deep, blue eyes flecked with curiosity. She liked to think he was asking her if she was all right, if only he was able. “Theon did what he could, when he could. He said he would’ve taken me to the Wall if it meant his life. Who knows if he really meant it, but I believed him at the time. I have every right to hate him as much as everyone else does, but I can’t. I won’t,” she declared, before she drew a shaky breath. “Theon deserves whatever I can offer him.”

There was a light pause. “I should have known that nothing would’ve stopped you from being his champion—not even a whole legion of White Walkers. I was a fool to think I could sway a mind as determined as yours.”

Sansa couldn’t help but smirk at that. “I don’t have very much else, these days,” she murmured, while she still played with the ends of Sam’s gown. Of course the child wasn’t hers, but he was distraction enough from the things she had lost. “Poor Theon,” she breathed. “What’s to be done with him?”

When she lifted her head to look at Jon again, he was watching at her with a studious look on his solemn features. “Theon knows his way with a bow and arrow,” Jon pointed out, “better than he does with a sword, to be sure. I thought it would do him good to teach the fresher recruits how to use them. If we’re serious about using wildfire, we’ll need all the proficient archers we can train.”

She lifted a curious eyebrow. It wasn’t a terrible idea, really. Theon needed something to occupy him, other than ready the weapons he had yet to use. Since the attack, her concerns had been strictly on his recovery; Sansa had put little thought into what he could do afterwards. The fighting would happen soon enough, but until then, he could contribute in different ways. “Will the other men even listen to him?”

“They’ll have to, if they want to survive.”

Whether or not Jon came with the idea spontaneously, she didn’t know. While the idea was still too new, what with no tangible plans to execute it, Sansa found that she liked it, nonetheless. “Theon will agree to that, I hope,” she admitted. Her face didn’t feel as taut as it had been earlier, but the air was still fraught with all the things they left unspoken, of secrets and confessions never to be uncovered.

“Something still needs to be done about Lord Hornwood,” she pointed out, ignoring her pain. Lord Cerwyn, in a surprising turn of events, had come forward to confess his role in Theon’s attack, albeit in a drunken state, as he claimed. It was far easier to dole out punishment to those who admitted to the crime, rather than those who would not, she learned, hardening at the thought of Hornwood. The man had been undeterred by his peer’s confession, despite the testimonies of the lower-grade soldiers who had been involved. Without a proper hearing, there wasn’t much she could do without inciting the wrath of the other nobles.

Sansa didn’t miss the smirk that flashed on his face before it disappeared beneath his whiskers. “It’s to Lord Hornwood’s good fortune, then, that there’s a vacancy at Easwatch,” he explained.

“What?” She burst out, glaring at him with fury dancing in her eyes. Her features softened when she glanced down at Little Sam, who was watching her curiously againy after the noise she had made. “He nearly killed Theon, and now you’re offering him a keep?”

Jon nodded, undeterred by her anger. “I told him it was his—if he can hold it, that is. Hornwood’s under the impression that a wildling like Tormand isn’t competent enough to lead, that the castle’s going to pieces and the men running amuck. He’s got the opportunity to lord over the castle, provided that he can prove himself capable of doing so.”

“What about Tormund?”

“Doing what he knows. When Hornwood gets to Eastwatch, they’ll only be so many men who will be willing to follow him blindly, until they realize which is the stronger of the two. When it dawns on them, it won’t be long until Hornwood will submit. After that, Tormund can make use of him as he will.”

Sansa studied his figure. “Did you come up with that yourself?”

He shrugged. “Most of it. I remembered Sam’s own upbringing and the kind of man his father had wanted him to be. Maybe Hornwood will learn a thing or two while he’s at The Wall, so long as he doesn’t get himself killed.”

By whom? She thought, grasping at the fabric of her own gown. By Tormund and the wildlings who had followed him to Eastwatch, or by the White Walkers and the wights that the Night King had conjured amongst the dead?

Daylight poured through the only window in the cottage, highlighting the planes of Jon’s face. The faded scar that cut over his left eye was more visible than it usually was because of the light, a line so out of place because it ran in the opposite direction to the brief lines that were grew more evident across his temple. She hated to think about it, but the memory came unbidden, almost like winter itself: her lips following the length of his scar that started from his forehead, before she slowly made her way past his left eye towards his cheek, where it reappeared again, a soft red isle in an expansive ocean of flesh. Sansa had felt like a connoisseur, an aesthete, reveling in the beauty that had come from what was a mark of pain, of violence and destruction. She had learned of her lover’s scars as well as Jon had learned hers, but had he ever really viewed them as something beautiful, the way she did? Or was the evidence of her abuse just something to pity over?

Her mind full of unwanted images, Sansa turned away from him in the hope of focusing her attention elsewhere. Their conversation had lulled now, the silence as loud as it was uncomfortable; when she rediscovered the learning blocks she’d been playing with earlier, she grabbed at them eagerly, as thankful for their presence as a beggar was thankful for a roll of bread when he hadn’t eaten in days. There was a noise from beyond the cottage, a soft thump that wasn’t unlike the sound Longclaw made when Jon had set it down against the table. It occurred to Sansa that he likely hadn’t come alone; there must’ve been a few guards who had accompanied him out here, if only because precedence dictated it to be so. She pitied them for having to stand out in the cold, if that were truly the case. It made her curious as to what he came to see Sam about.

Sansa was stacking one block on top of another when Jon spoke up, his voice as rough as sandpaper against wood.

“Ser Davos told me that you were making a wedding cloak,” he confided; there was no ignoring the accusation laced in his tone. “And it’s supposed to be for me.”

Her tower of blocks came tumbling down noisily. Jon’s comment didn’t come as a surprise, but that didn’t mean that she wasn’t affected by it.

“I am,” she confirmed, her voice as even as she could make it.

“Why?”

Sansa didn’t have the courage to say it. “It’s just a cloak,” she insisted, unsure whether it was for his benefit or whether it was actually for hers. “You know why,” she claimed, her eyes locked on the learning blocks while she spoke. She hated him in that moment, bitter and resentful that he wanted her to say the words out loud, just as she was bitter and resentful of herself. Jon’s wedding cloak was only partially done with the Stark sigil only half-way embroidered in, but if need be she was now willing to bring on a few extra hands to complete the design, women with double the experience and just as nimble with their fingers. She had thought that if she could complete the cloak herself she could prove her strength—with each stitch she darned, Sansa hoped to mend her own heart, split open and irreparable as it may be, to her dismay. Instead, with each stitch that she put in, the weight of her heartache only grew heavier and heavier, until she was left wondering when she would finally crumple under it all.

Jon jumped to his feet without so much as a warning, his stool scraping loudly against the floor from the impact of his movement. Sansa tilted her head up as far as it would go, her eyes meeting his own heated gaze.

“I am not marrying Daenerys Targaryen,” he proclaimed, with so much conviction in his voice that she was almost persuaded enough to believe him. At least this time he was wise enough to use Her Majesty’s full name rather than the informal one he had let slip the last time they’d spoken in private, and she was oddly grateful for it. But, really, what did it matter if he didn’t marry her, in the end? Sansa could’ve placated herself with the thought of a marriage that was purely political; she knew, just like everyone else did, that their relationship was so much more than that. She had wanted so badly to believe that everything she heard was just another of Littlefinger’s lies, except that he had been dead before Jon ever left for the south, had been no more than a rotting corpse when the stories reached her ears, tales of dragons long thought to have been the stuff of songs and poetry—of Cersei Lannister and her sellswords from Essos drawing a river of blood that flowed through the streets of King’s Landing, but she’d gone up in flames anyway, no matter how loud she roared. Sansa hadn’t shed any tears for those stories; no doubt some of them had been exaggerated for the sake of propaganda. But then came those about Jon and the Dragon Queen, of unbridled passion that had no doubt been consummated, many, many times over—it was those tales she could not hold back on, no matter how hard she tried. None of those stories had been Baelish’s fabrications. The realization only made the truth harder to swallow than ever.

Sansa was holding herself together desperately when she allowed herself to speak. “I don’t believe you,” she protested. “Nobody will believe you,” she added.

Hurt danced across his face. “I would never lie to you, Sansa.”

That doesn’t mean you won’t hide things from me, she thought resentfully. An image of The Dragon Queen’s rose up again in her mind, what with her pale limbs and violet eyes. How often had Jon gotten lost in those eyes? How many times had Jon entangled himself with her?

“You should’ve just married Her Grace in King’s Landing,” she said reproachfully. Sansa was oddly emboldened by his discomfort, even while each word she spoke was like a knife through her heart. She looked away again, turning her head to check on Sam’s whereabouts, but more words were already bubbling to the surface. “If only you did, then it wouldn’t be such a cause for concern now, when there’s already so much to deal with.”

She could sense the frustration rolling off his body like the undulating waves of the Blackwater, drawing closer after each tide, but never quite reaching her. How Sansa used to stand at the edge of the shore and watch the horizon for hours and hours on end, praying for a ship with a direwolf sigil against its sails, trying to ignore the discomfort that the healing scars and bruises affected. She had to remind herself that the blood of wolves coursed through her veins, that a couple of beatings could never break down her walls, no matter the lions that roared just outside its perimeters.

She was preparing herself for Jon’s verbal revolt, or, at the very worst, his declaration of what she already knew, of what she had accepted with a shattered heart. It never came.

“Do you remember when I came back from the South?” He asked, still towering above her.

“Not really,” she lied.

There was a brief pause until she heard Jon sigh quietly. When she caught his intertwined hands in the corner of her eye, she knew he’d returned to his seat.

“I do,” he confessed, his voice thick. “I’m sure I remember every moment of it.”

Sansa didn’t say anything. Little Sam was switching his attention between Ghost and herself; hoping to win him over, she offered him another colorful block, shaking it before his face, even while there was no rattling noise to accompany the action. The child was taken aback by the object, his green eyes wide with wonder, despite the fact that were blocks scattered all around him as well, his little fingers digging into hers as he pried the block from her. She studied the boy intently, as if all his movements and expressions were new to her. If Jon was affected by her ignorance, he made no mention of it.

“There was a messenger who approached me while we were riding past Castle Cerywn along the Kingsroad,” he recounted, reaching forward to retrieve the rattle that Little Sam had ungallantly thrown away. “He told me there was a party from Winterfell waiting to accompany us at the crossroad, but he never said who the group was made up of. The thing was, he didn’t have to—I already knew you were going to be one of them. That made me happier than I thought I could ever be, but when I think back on it now, it doesn’t seem so strange, after all.”

“Why not?”

There was such a long pause that Sansa couldn’t help but turn back towards him. It was a grave mistake; she ended up staring straight into his gray eyes, familiar and full of intense yearning, just as he longed to remember them.

“I missed you so much,” he confessed, as soft and quiet as a hare roaming soundlessly in the snow. “All I ever wanted was to see you again, Sansa,” he insisted, clutching the rattle tightly in his hands. The words were meant for her ears only, she realized, where innocents like Little Sam nor familiars like Ghost were privy to that, even when they didn’t have the capacity to understand what Jon had spoken aloud.

Fear began to well up inside of her, drowning out all sensations and noise. Please don’t do this, she begged silently, clenching her own teeth to prevent herself from saying the words out loud. Jon had made his choice long before he’d taken his Dragon Queen to bed, long before he brought her back with him to Winterfell, the two of them riding together side-by-side, while Sansa watched across the field, eyes boring into the scene that played out before her as she realized with a sinking heart how true the stories might actually be.

“Sometimes I thought I’d forgotten the way you look because I’d been away from you for so long,” he pressed on, oblivious to the chaotic state her mind was in. “And then I reached King’s Landing for the first time, not knowing what to expect, other than the things you told me about. And everywhere I looked, I saw you.”

“Suppose I wasn’t worth a place in your memories before that,” she muttered, unable to hold her tongue any longer. It was the only way she knew how to protect herself from his words, angry that he was telling her all this now. What did he hope to gain from this? What game was Jon playing with her?

The air shifted. Even without looking she could feel him tensing up. “I never forgot you,” he said, the words enunciated like a hammer coming down, swung using the strength of his conviction. “Even when I wanted to, you were always on my mind.”

Sansa wanted to prove him wrong with every fibre of being, desperate to catch him in the middle of his lies he swore he would never tell her, a desire that pushed her towards the edge of confession. She knew that she was putting herself in a vulnerable position, a tapestry whose weaves were about to come apart, intricate pieces of thread frayed and destroyed. She didn’t want to care, anymore. Besides, when was victory ever achieved without a few sacrifices?

Her heart was racing painfully in her chest when she finally lifted her head, mindful of all the emotions that threatened to reveal themselves on her face. It turned out that she had miscalculated the distance between them, had not realized that he was within arm’s reach, but the fact did little to weaken her resolve.

“I was never on your mind while you were at Dragonstone, was I?”

Jon’s reaction wasn’t exactly what she had envisioned, but it was enough. There was no denying the guilt that blossomed on his face, the way his features melted just as he turned his head to the side to avoid the hurt and betrayal she knew shone bright in her blue eyes. Sansa didn’t even have to be explicit; they knew exactly what she meant.

“Theon was probably right,” she concluded. “Maybe…maybe it was all inevitable. There are some connections you just can’t deny, like forces that are meant to collide and meld.” She broke into a sad smile, despite herself. “Everyone must’ve known the moment they saw the both of you.”

But nobody knows about us, she thought. Nobody except Theon, perhaps, but she’d never confessed anything outright. There was Littlefinger; he had known. But he was dead, just before he had any opportunity to use what he knew against either of them. Was it wrong to wish he were still alive, in times like this? Baelish would’ve had something to say, at the least. It was easier to harden her heart to everything while he had still been alive.

“Sansa,” Jon pleaded, but she refused to face him again. She always found it strange nowadays when he said her name aloud, so seldom was it uttered. I am the Lady of Winterfell, she reminded herself, hoping that the title would act like a talisman that could magically forge the walls she needed garrisoned around her. Not just from Jon, though, but from everyone.

“I need you to hear me,” Jon pressed, his voice taut with emotion that was barely bridled. “Listen to me, please. I never, ever wanted to hurt you. I never wanted to hurt anyone. The things that happened…I won’t deny them. I won’t disrespect you by lying, Sansa. You deserve to know the truth, if that’s what you want.”

Her hands were shaking now. Sansa wasn’t sure if she wanted to know the truth, wasn’t sure if she had it in her to listen to him while he confessed the things she had already imagined behind her eyelids, anyway. It’s all irrelevant, besides, she persuaded herself, ready to cling to anything that might keep her heart and her sanity in tact. Yes, it was irrelevant, in the end. Love, she learned, was a privilege, never a right. She had been in the wrong when she let herself indulge in such a state, even if she had stumbled upon it by accident.

But it wasn’t enough. Over and over the question turned in her mind, as never-ending as a boulder rolling down a mountainous hill. Did you ever love me as much as I loved you?

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” she protested. Sansa had just realized how exhausted she was, that their conversation was more trying than she could’ve imagined. She didn’t even think it would ever come to this, not while his mind was tied up with the war effort and his body belonging to his Dragon Queen, and yet here they were, two ships that had somehow reunited in the midst of a wild storm. “What’s done is done.”

“I shouldn’t have left you the way I did,” he admitted, eyes downcast. “If there had been any way, I wouldn’t have left you at all.”

With his shoulders slumped and his head bowed, it was a rare show of vulnerability and exhaustion that reminded her of the fact that, despite his resurrection at the hands of the Red Lady, he was still irrevocably human. Jon was just as mortal as everyone else was. He was at risk of making the same mistakes, subject to suffer through the same highs and lows. Jon was no different than she was.

Sansa sighed quietly to herself. “You went south because you had to,” she said with a tone of resignation. “And I’m glad you did, because it turned out to be the right thing to do, after all.”

He didn’t respond, but she saw a smile hovering against his mouth, much to her consternation and delight. It warmed her more than she liked, seeing him when he was anything less than somber, especially when there was so little to be happy about these days.

“What is it?”

“I think that’s the closest you’ve ever been to admitting you’re proud of me.”

Sansa frowned. “That isn’t true,” she said, scoffing indignantly, all while trying to recall any particular memory that she could use to prove him wrong. It was to her misfortune that she came up blank.

“All right, so I may not have said it in so many words,” she conceded, “but I’m sure I’ve told so, once or twice.”

Rather than retaliate, his smile grew wider. Lifting his head to look up at her again, Sansa caught the hint of mirth present in his eyes, that which indicated his amusement rather than any offense to her comment, and it took most of her will-power to keep her own face from wavering into a smile.

“You’re not the only one who’s guilty, though,” he pointed out. His smile wavered a bit. “I’ve never told you how proud I am of you, either.

She shrugged, but there was no ignoring the warmth that spread through her. “There were more important matters at hand.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he protested. “The North has you to thank for its independence, not me. If you hadn’t been so determined to take back Winterfell, who knows where any of us would be?”

“Where, indeed?” She questioned. Her head swam with all the duties and responsibilities associated with her title; everything was made heavier by the emotional turmoil she’d been suffering through for so long now. Jon’s smile—even the smallest one—was nearly enough to dismantle the sorrows he’d caused the moment she saw him riding alongside Daenerys Targaryen from across the field, their banners waving relentlessly behind them. Sansa never wanted anyone to leave her so unhinged, not even Jon, whom she had loved with such fervor that she was left breathless just thinking about it. There was no denying the spark of happiness she felt when he had told her how proud he was, but Sansa also couldn’t deny the feeling that, perhaps, his praise might have come too late. What use was there for it, when she was still alone?

There was no anticipating what Jon did next, deep as she was in her thoughts—his movements, careful as they were, still contained a spontaneous air to it that took her by utter surprise. Sansa felt the pads of his callused fingers ghosting along the side of her cheek as he pushed strands of her hair away from her face, looping them over the shell of her ear tenderly, the act as familiar and intimate as he had once performed it while they had lain together, each as naked as the day they were born.

“Don’t,” she ordered, as soon as she realized what he’d done. “Don’t ever do that again,” she warned, her voice only slightly above a whisper, because it was all she could manage under the circumstances.

Jon went as still as a statue. As soon as he appeared able, he drew back slowly, remorsefully, but she refused meet his gaze after that. How such a simple act could feel like a betrayal, she knew not, but it did. It did.

Both of them were startled by the sound of the door slamming shut, jolting them out of the world they had built around themselves. Sansa didn’t think she’d ever been as grateful to Maester Tarly as she was when he appeared before them, looking every bit as disheveled and endearing as ever, but a welcoming sight regardless.

Sam rose from the floor with Little Sam gathered protectively in her arms, never once looking at Jon.

AN: Yes, I know this chapter is ridiculously late, and I sincerely apologize for it. Does the length make it better? I don’t know. Am I grateful to people who read this? Yes!

All feedback is welcome. Thank you so much to everyone who’s been reading and leaving support. It’s you guys that motivate me to keep writing.

#jon x sansa #jon snow #sansa stark #jonsansaff #jonsansasource #my god this took six ice ages to revise #i don't know why it's so long all right #just in time for that got teaser that got released on thursday #i'm allowed to go work on my kitxsunny story now rite?#i've earned it i think #thieves among us #writings

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