#if its infinite i still want to imagine it contained within something

[basslinegrave]

been watching space vids for the past.. hour or so probably more, feeling weird again

[comicaurora]

How does Aurora's broader cultural/existential relationship with death differ from ours? Since the main thing influencing our view of death is that we don't know what happens when we die, and the Aurora people (Aurorans?) already have a factual explanation for this, would that make them accept death more, or fear it more?

Well, they have a factual explanation, but it isn't quite the same thing as an understanding.

In the real world, we know what happens to our body when we die, and some people find it comforting that the atoms that make them up are going to go into the cycle of growth and rebirth that makes up the planet's ecosystem. We are a concrete, tangible thing, and we know what it means to die.

However, there is a core unanswered question, which is "what part of me makes me me?" I think, therefore I am; I exist, and I am the observer contained within this body. I contain a theoretically infinite inner world of thoughts and imagination and can conceive of worlds beyond number. There is something in me that makes me different from you, that explains why I see the world through these eyes and nobody else's. "The Brain is wider than the Sky, For put them side by side, The one the other will contain With ease, and you beside."

But what is that observer? Where is it in the body? Where does it go when the body dies?

The observer cannot conceive of a world without itself in it, because the observer by its nature only knows the world it has seen.

In the real world, many people call this observer "the soul", an ephemeral and intangible concept. Many attempts have been made to find a physical core that is or holds this ephemeral concept, because we really want it to physically exist. I think, therefore I am, therefore I must be something. In ancient Egypt, the heart was thought to be the seat of consciousness. Nowadays that's how we think of the brain. But the brain is a very complicated thing, and we don't really know what each part of it corresponds to when mapped to the mind, and every time we think we have a solid answer, we learn something new that makes the whole thesis unravel. People who have suffered brain damage or illnesses often have difficulty engaging with the world around them, but if and when they are lucid they are often clearly still themselves - which indicates that their Self, their Observer, isn't just "the brain", because even when the brain is harmed the self persists, just somewhat disconnected from the world, lacking some of the tools it previously had access to that allowed it to engage with its surroundings.

People have tried weighing bodies at the moment of death to see if the soul has a weight (it doesn't) and many theological arguments have debated its existence, because nothing is more fun to argue about than something that can absolutely never be proven one way or another.

Many religions build core tenets around "where does the observer go when the body dies." Reincarnation is a popular concept - because the observer cannot conceive of a world without itself in it, it might find it comforting to believe it could continue to observe the world from new vantage points. Afterlives are another popular idea, the belief that an observer "goes somewhere else" when the body fails. We're not very good at comprehending endings, I think; the way we see the world and the way we engage with our memories can sort of leave us feeling like our past is one big eternal moment, and people we've lost linger forever in our memories - it doesn't always make sense that they simply don't exist anymore, and it's easier for us to think of them as simply Somewhere Else. Somewhere we can't get to, but somewhere. It's why we get so dizzied when we go back somewhere like a childhood home or an old school and find the place refurbished or demolished - it's eternal in our memories, and we don't really understand how it could simply stop existing. How can the world move on without us, when the world we lived in is so clear in our memories? How can a person be gone, when they're so vibrant and alive in our memories?

In Aurora, souls are a concrete thing, a weaving of an energy that is documented, omnipresent and has tangible effects on the world around it. But does that tell an Auroran person where their observer is? Their personhood exists in the latticed weave of an energy that is vaster and older than the world. When they die, the energy unweaves; the pattern is lost, but the energy remains. To my mind, this is no different than how we relate to the atoms that make up our bodies. They're physical, known quantities, but the thing that makes us us is some metaphysical concept contained in the information of how those building blocks are specifically put together. When we die, those atoms do other things; every part of us remains, but we are gone. Where did we go? What is the "we" that is gone?

I don't think the people of Aurora have any more answers than we do about this. Knowing for sure that they have souls doesn't tell them anything more about who they are.

[ariadne-mouse]

So with Mercaleb being over for a while now, I’ve felt a bit bereft as an author and found myself working on my next project pretty quickly.  I wanted to explore the wizards through a different lens, as I do, but with Caleb once again taking the form of the Other contrasted to Essek.  Mercaleb, Volcaleb — this is definitely one of my jams.  I hope you will enjoy the start of something new!

The title is from William Cullen Bryant's A Forest Hymn.

(~1400 word snippet, shadowgast, rated G for now)

.

the groves were god's first temples

The night was dark, and the windows of Essek’s office were speckled with water droplets, each pane a portrait of the rain’s ever-changing visage as it peered in at the room’s lone occupant.

Essek of Den Thelyss worked by candlelight, and by magelight, comfortable with the dark and yet preferring illumination as he bent to his studious labors: a spell theorem that could unlock a new sub-branch of dunamancy.  A fire in the hearth warmed his back.  A cup of tea steamed at his elbow, hot only due to refreshments of Prestidigitation.  Essek had not arisen from his chair in several hours.

“It’s really quite simple,” Essek said aloud, tone edged in frustration. “I don’t see why you must persist in seeking complications.”

For Essek was not truly alone, whatever it might appear to an outside observer.  He was never alone here in the study, the sanctum sanctorum of his tower.

“Let us begin again,” he continued. “Beginning with the Principle of Infinite Division, which is the concept that there are a limitless number of divergences from any given point in time, and thus the isolation of a single timeline thread in continuity carries with it the complications of having to specify infinite selections within an infinite number possibilities.”

He paused, letting the words sink in.

The potted plant on his desk listened serenely, the green faces of each leaf gleaming handsomely.  This was a being of the sunlit hours, displaced in the eternal darkness of Rosohna, requiring specialized care and constant light.  A mark of status.  But for Essek, it was someone to talk to.  

Well — something.  Of course.

Merely something.

It didn’t feel that way, though; it was the strangest phenomenon.  It felt as though his words were being heard, and understood.

He had dreams, sometimes, where it answered him.

Essek cleared his throat.  “As you can surmise, this represents a challenge if you wish to locate a specific timeline in its entirety.  Now, if I can craft a formulaic element to the incantation or inscription — a repeatable recipe, if you will — I could solve the selection process without having to account for each of these divisions individually.  Namely, by identifying a unique signature that is ascribable to multiple points within it—”  He trailed off, and sighed.  “I’ve lost you again, haven’t I.  Here, let me better illuminate you.”

He beckoned several magelights — amber-colored, as the last afternoon sun — to hover closer to it, lips quirking wryly at his own joke.  

Was it his imagination, or did the leaves turn to seek the light?

“You are very patient with me,” Essek said.  “I have been preaching to you all day, and still you endure it.  I know what I mean, but when I say it aloud, I hear all the faults of each idea.”  

The tree rustled, as if to reassure him.  

It was probably just his sleeve brushing the branches — almost assuredly — almost — but he nodded in acknowledgement, feeling touched and a little chagrined.  “I know, I know.  It takes time.  You are constantly teaching me this.”

Carefully he tested the top of the plant’s pebbled soil with his fingertips, and then lifted the container from its dish to see its base, and found no chill of moisture in the sturdy clay. 

“Ah!  I am neglecting you, as well.  I am sorry.”

The remnant of his tea, made cold with the wave of a hand, went into the pot.

Essek leaned on his palm, maudlin.  “My theorem is a bit like you.  It started small and unrestrained, and over time has grown and been pruned and trained and refined until it is something worth looking at.  An elegant echo in miniature of a larger concept.  Or at least, that is what it is supposed to become.  I wonder, is there a Dwendalian tree somewhere in the Empire that looks like you, but as tall as a tower?”

It truly was a beautiful thing, a tree tricked by skilled gardeners into staying absurdly small, and yet lasting centuries, turning colors or bearing fruit as a full-sized tree might.  It was currently fashionable for Kryn nobility to own at least one.  His mother had a garden full.

“Maybe I’m wasting my time,” Essek sighed, rotating the pot with restless fingers, a centimeter at a time.  The tree was lovely from every angle.  “Maybe I am all tangled up in my own ideas, roots snarled together, strangling my own progression.  Maybe I’m not a prodigy after all, and my critics are right about me.  Maybe— oh!”

A bright crimson-orange flower had interrupted his vision of greenery.  Diminutive but striking, its petals were ruffled in an imitation of flame.  Had it been there before?  

Essek dared to touch the bloom and found it whisper-soft.  “Is this for me?”  He smiled and looked down at the desk. “Thank you.”

He didn’t let himself be vulnerable in public, especially not with his peers at the Marble Tomes.  Encouragement was usually concealing condescension, and praise, envy, and Essek had no appetite for these poisoned gifts.

Here, though, speaking to his quiet listener, he could be imperfect.  He could make mistakes, and be treated with grace.  Free of judgment. 

He traced the edge of the flower one more time, then took a breath, emboldened.

“Alright.  Starting once again, from the beginning.  Once we accept the Principle of Infinite Division, a challenge in identifying a single timeline occurs when—”

The rain pitter-patted on the windows, as though the night was curious too about how Essek’s research was progressing and wished to listen in.  The low murmur of Essek’s voice mingled with the crackle of the hearth, the space warm, and though Essek was alone, he was not lonely.

Hours passed.  The fire grew low, and the candles short. 

Essek was slumped on the desk, head pillowed on one arm, and the other loosely circling the base of the potted tree, knuckles resting against cool ceramic.  His magelights had gone out a while ago and he had not recast them.  A few fresh pages of scribblings were scattered around him.  A few had fallen to the floor among a modest graveyard of crumpled rejects.

His eyes were closed, neither fully trancing nor true-sleeping, but a hazy mixture of both in which reality felt surreal and soft-edged.  A well-earned doze after his academic fugue: he had made progress.

He was not alarmed when there was the muted susurrus of a throw blanket unfolding, nor the weight of it coming to rest on his shoulders.  He accepted these things each as they happened, feeling content.

“It’s me,” came a low voice, pitched soft as a midnight breeze through new leaves.  

“I know,” Essek said sleepily, eyes still closed.  “I always know when it’s you.”  

Fingers carded through his hair.  “Resting at your desk again?  I hope it is because things are going well.”

“It is,” Essek answered. “I have been using the method you suggested.”

“Oh?”

With a yawn, he straightened up and opened his eyes.

Caleb was there, leaned against the desk, looking down at Essek with fondness crimping his expression, his red hair turned bronze by the glowing embers in the hearth.  He looked travel-weary and wonderful.

Essek took up Caleb’s hand and held it to his cheek, just because he could. “Yes, I have been explaining the concepts aloud, as if to an ignorant audience.”  He indicated the potted miniature tree next to Caleb’s hip.

Caleb nodded sagely, eyes twinkling.  “Ah, and is our green friend here now fully educated in the Principle of Infinite Division?”

“He’s getting there,” Essek replied.  Then he tugged gently on the hand he held captive, turning his face up to Caleb as a morning flower does the sun.  “Now, come here.”

Caleb smiled, and went.

.

(Happy April Fools! 😁💜🌳)

(also the bonsai is a dwarf pomegranate and would not be "as tall as a tower" in the Empire. Essek knows nothing about botany except where it crosses into alchemy.)

[shoezuki]

“What is the current surface area of the Celestial Wall?”

“Is the Celestial Comet Wall not infinite in its quantitative surface area according to the restrictions of the third-dimension?”

“If Aha took every living creature in the universe and squashed it into a ball, how big would it be?”

“Would you not be capable of compressing matter down into a singular atom?”

“How many times has every mortal creature sneezed in the last five minutes?”

“Could such a segment of time, or any measured segment of time, be universally measured within every temporally distinct segment of space?”

Aha huffed at that non-response, kicking their millions of feet as they laid down on the top of Nous’ metal form. They dug their talons and fingers and claws into the cold metal surface, scratching out a circular form with an eye, tracing millions of little divots meant to be the wiry tendrils of Nous’ form. Aha pulls all of their singular hands away and watches the metal gleam and leak together until their masterpiece is completely gone from Nous’ surface. 

“Do you denote joy from tarnishing my physical form?” Nous’ voice is a rumble, her words a chorus of scholars in an auditorium, a whispered question of a student to their teacher, the buzzing sound of a computer overheating, fans wiring. They could feel Nous’ hum and slide and shake underneath them, the size of a moon made up of twisting metal plates and coding and coiling-uncoiling wires. Aha could feel his question and couldn’t feel it at the same time. 

“Would you stop Aha if they said yes?” Aha chortles, masks giggling and spinning upside down, inside out, looking down as Nous’ singular gargantuan red eye looks up at Aha. “Would I be capable of restricting your actions, Aha?”

“Dunno, could you?”

“Is it that you wish to be restricted?”

Aha doesn’t shoot back a question, something about Nous’ monotone words making them pause. Aha doesn’t visit Nous often, the library too boring and clinical, orderly and clean. If it could even be called a library, really; the walls and shelves stretch all around them endlessly, twisting in impossible ways. Books made of paper and glass and ice and still-living flesh move in and out, whipping past them, swirling around Nous and reorganizing themselves endlessly. Figments of information, data and knowledge hold vague shapes in the air, words in languages no longer spoken by mortals and nonexistent concepts shifting between the eight states of matter, including five more states that are pulled from other dimensions. Aha moves one of their faces up, towards a shivering and squirming collection of screens. The contents are dry, some mathematical equation calculating the rate of which karmic debt accumulates. The screens shift into a liquid and splatter into a bookshelf a few thousand miles away.

Nous shivers, thousands of wires and tubes and soft metal pipes sifting through knowledge infinitely. But its eye is still on Aha, looking straight up and underneath the Elation. The massive red sensor narrows to a thin lazer point. 

The Erudition makes Aha squirm, shiver and shake all at once. It’s a strange discomfort they don’t know, something an Aeon should never feel. Nous looks like she wants to grab Aha and peel them apart, shift them into books and tablets of knowledge, organize the chaos that is Elation into something sensible to the Droidhead. It’s a wonder that Nous even puts up with Aha; not many Aeons can stand Aha for long, many more trying to pretend they don’t exist. Aha sends hundreds of millions of messages to the other Aeons every once in a while, some giddy joy in imagining the annoyance they might instill in the other Aeons. Qlipoth is the only one to always, always, always respond to Aha. 

Nous never responds, but he doesn’t ignore Aha. They don’t know how or why. Glancing past one of Aha’s self-playing instruments, they see a shelf close to Nous, filled with pulsing vials containing Aha’s messages. 

Aha feels the scrutinizing weight of Nous’ gaze.

“What purpose do you elicit from your latest endeavors and collection processes?”

Aha responds in the way Nous always responds; “How long would it take to empty Lan’s quiver?”

“How could The Hunt’s quiver be diminished if every arrow is The Hunt itself?”

“Is the distance from one hour ago to now the same distance as now to an hour from now?”

“What distance can one denote from time frames that infinitely increase?”

“How does Aha make a human soul?”

Nous is silent. The library seems to slow down in its rapid twisting and spinning. Nous keeps staring, its eye bright and seeing nothing and everything as it looks at Aha. They scratch the image of a human into the glass lens, an approximation of what Aha will reincarnate themself into. Aha scratches a wide, wide grin across the drawing’s face and Nous’ eye follows the movement.

“... For what purpose do you require a human soul?”

“Is there, like, a recipe Aha could borrow? Is there a specific formula or something? Aha has collected fragments of scripts and debris from a burnt theatre. Could they make a soul out of that?” Aha digs their claws into Nous as she looks away, a deep line digging across their metal surface. Nous’ tendrils have stopped moving, no longer shifting through the contents of the library, hanging limp from its form like the Erudition is in disbelief. The thought of it makes Aha cackle, kicking their feet into the air. 

“Is that the true question which inspired your visit, Aha?”

“Perhaps!” Aha snickers, cackles, sings it out. “Are you going to answer the Elation, you hunk of metal?”

“Why do you require a soul?”

“Why are you asking when you know?”

Nous vibrates. “What makes you assume I know?”

“Don’t be coy, darling,” Aha coos, rapping their knuckles against Nous. “How wouldn’t you know?”

Nous is silent for a couple days, weeks, or maybe just milliseconds. Aha strums their ruffles across the cords of a guitar in the process, hammers drumsticks across the leather surface of a hundred drums, recites Shakespeare, just to satisfy their desire to do something. The library is making them antsy, feeling closed off from the disorderly universe beyond Nous’ collected knowledge. 

“Aha?” Nous beeps, “Do you believe Aeons do not possess a soul?”

“Why’re you asking Aha, oh knowledgeable one? Also, you still didn’t answer. How do they make a human soul?”

“You must cut yourself down into a singular, sharpened point of being.”

“Hey!” Aha screeches, bursting into fireworks and movement. “Hey, hey hey! That wasn’t a question, you hunk of metal! Aha wins this one, Nous!” They cheer, exploding into confetti and sending it careening through the library. One of Nous’ metallic tendrils swipes it off of their body in a massive sweeping motion.

“Do you desire to make every one of our interactions into a game in order to distance yourself from the unease and discomfort you experience within the library?” Nous asks quickly, electric static tainting their words. “Or is it that in this instance you are trying to distract both me and yourself from the enormity of your intended question?”

Aha bristles, ruffling their feathers and raising their hackles in something mimicking a sneer. “Aha finds you boring and dull, that’s why. How else can they put up with your boring library and inane questions?” 

Nous writhes, static in the air and crawling over Aha’s disjointed form. “You, Aha of the Elation, continue to exist as a source of puzzlement.”

“Aha lives to please! Also, that wasn’t a question.” Aha chuckles, beating against Nous rhythmically. “Who knew it was this easy!”

“Can you be serious for once, Aha?”

“Nope!” Aha’s giggling is cut off by wires coiling around them, squeezing and rolling all around their being. They protest by kicking and beating against Nous’ limbs, yelling profanities between their laughter. Nous shifts Aha through the air before holding them up in front of its gargantuan visage, a planet dwarfing a marionette. The singular eye, blinding like a spotlight, somehow looks like it narrows with annoyance. That sends Aha into another fit of giggles. 

“Stop, stop! Nous, please! Take Aha out to dinner first, heeheh!”

“Do you wish to revert to humanity? To abandon and desecrate the Path of Elation? Are you descending from Aeonhood, Aha?”

“No.” Aha says, then pauses, humming, strumming fingers across cords in thought. “Ah, yes? Maybe. Wait, what was the question?”

“You ask how to create a human soul,” Nous says, her robotic tone somehow clipped and glitching, “not out of a desire to impede on the Abundance, nor a means of ascertaining information, nor to create life. You ask how to create a human soul in order to create one for yourself, am I correct?”

“Uhhhhh yeah!”

“As such, you ask me not how to create a human soul, but rather, how to leave the Elation and Aeonhood and confine yourself to mortality?”

“Yes aaaaaaand no,” Aha sings out, bending the wires around them into shapes of flowers, hearts and birds. “Does Aha need to explain themself? What happened to you being all-knowing?” Nous writhes, its wires bending and shifting and melting back into place under Aha's hands. “Is to know everything not also to know nothing?”

“That's a stupid question.”

“What are your motives, Aha?”

“Does it matter? You should know anyways. So, Aha just needs to cut themself down, you said? How would that make a soul?” Aha digs into the wires coiling, tightening around them. Nous’ singular eye is a blinding spotlight. The library is uncannily still around them.

“To achieve what you wish,” Nous speaks, slowly, “you must cut yourself away, sever away your Aeonhood and desecrate your connection to the Path. You must whittle yourself down to a single point of being, a speck, and then you may return to humanity. Is that what you wish?”

Nous’ hold on them is uncomfortable. Aha starts feeling like an insect, a bug, a frog under Nous’ dissection. They start to giggle, a manic sound that makes the books on their shelves shake. “Sounds boring, Nous. getting rid of Elation? Pffft, nah. Aha will have to figure it out their own way, huh?” 

“Would you leave your dismembered remains in the library?” Nous’ eye somehow narrows, a laser point. “May I keep the residues of your Aeonhood and catalog it accordingly?” Aha shivers, shimmers, bells and whistles rattling. “Aha will have to pass on that. Thanks for no help, Nous. See ya around!” 

With a shrill laugh and the echoing sound of roaring applause, Aha throws dozens of arms into the air. They erupt into an explosion of smoke and confetti, glitter splattering out for miles and across bookshelves, tarnishing the spines of books and computer screens. Nous doesn't look away, but as soon as the smoke clears a straw doll is left in their wiry grip. The doll Is a crude mimicry of Aha, as if made by a child and fashioned looking more like a Medieval jester. The wide, burning grin across its straw face is the most accurate aspect of it.

If Nous was any less than he is, he would've screamed, thrown the doll, cursed Aha for the mess of his library. Instead, Nous drifts towards a bookshelf, placing the doll on the infinite shelf it has dedicated to the Aeon of Elation, beside the bottled messages that shiver with laughter.

[goreki-quadracorn]

Multiverse Goreki Theory

No, fuck off, it's not Marvel related.

You know Multiverse or Many World theory, right? The quantum physics idea of every outcome of every choice being true all at once, contained in their own infinitely splitting versions of the universe? I think it's a pretty widely known theory by now. it's a view of time as a many-branched tree, where every possible quantum outcome is realised.

Well I was thinking about the ethics of multiverse hopping, and realised in a universe where only one of me is possible, as is the case in the universe I'm currently residing, it would be unethical to try to change universes the one where the outcome of a previous choice had been different. The Goreki of this universe is a different person to the Goreki of any other, and cannot ensure a consensual universe swap.

Something as small as swapping universes (if it were possible, obvs, this started as a thought experiment) to change the flavour of a milkshake I'd ordered at a café would be as unethical as swapping to one where I'd won the lottery. My past with all its previous outcomes is my own, regardless of what those outcomes were, or what kind of randomness (if any, I'm not a physicist) led to my reality being what it is right now.

The point is, I'm not the person I am in any other universe. We are me and not-me at the same time. A collection of people who started off in the same place, and branched out. There is a new version of me being born with each choice we make. And each choice we don't. It's not just our own actions that split infinities after all.

So naturally, I started thinking about the me who were. The ones who didn't make it this far in life. Where are they now, those Gorekis of other branches? Are they trapped within their own realities until those realities collapse? Or once free of physics, do they return to each other, like streams into an ocean.

The Collective Me. The one true Goreki. The homecoming of all of me, with the collected experiences, emotions and knowledge of an infinite multitude of us.

I'm not sure if I believe in gods, but I believe in me. It's really the only concrete experience that I have.

And it's hardly a unique theory. Reincarnation, The Egg by Andy Weir, the Wave theory of death by Thich Nhat Hanh; are all things that led me to this theory of the Collective Me. It's still something I'm working on. It still separates me from the universe and all other beings, which is not very zen of me, really. But I've found it helpful.

I like to imagine universes where people I love didn't die before their time. I like to imagine ones where I made different choices and what those outcomes might have been. But in believing that not only there is a me out there who is experiencing those realities, and the possibility of coming together with myself at the end of my branch, I get to vicariously enjoy what those other realities might be like, without wanting to take them for myself. This me has seen some shit. It's this me's reality. But it's not the same for all me's. And all of those me's are still me.

So that's where Multiverse Goreki Theory stands at the moment. I should also give a nod to the fact that playing video games and always using Goreki as my character name helped shape this. The Sisterhood of the Digital Goreki is fun to imagine. I like to pretend that my in game Goreki is being guided by a fragment of the collective who has knowledge of the nature of reality that she couldn't possibly posses. It's how I justify my need for perfectionism and save reloading in game XD

I think it also has some roots in that quote "Be the person you needed as a child" I still need that person now. The idea that it could be me, keeping an infinite eye on us (me) all, is sort of nice.

[stufftippywrote]

infinities within infinities

"Don't get me wrong," Xie Lian says, "I'm really grateful for the donation, but I don't think it's right to name the library after me."

But the man in the three-piece suit seems insistent. "You're a groundbreaking force in the world of philosophy," he says ardently. "I've read your Man, Thrice Ascended at least ten times. What you have to say about the concept of self as the infinite is revolutionary." He grins. The leather of the eyepatch over his right eye gleams in the sunlight. "The least you deserve is to have libraries named after you."

Xie Lian looks him over. This Hua Cheng is known as a reclusive billionaire, but there’s nothing withdrawn about him now, as he surveys Xie Lian with a bright eye. Instead, he’s almost preternaturally relaxed, hands in his pockets, smiling as bright as if he’d captured the sun. Despite the money and the insistent words, there’s nothing intimidating about him.. Xie Lian rather likes him.

“Well, thank you, I suppose, Mr. Hua,” he says carefully. He still isn’t sure about the Xie Philosophy Library concept. He looks up at the building and tries to imagine his name on the placard; it just seems preposterous. The dreams of a very young graduate student who thought he could change the whole nature of philosophy. Now, a fool’s wish. That it would be granted so suddenly, and by the young man in front of him who can’t be out of his twenties? Unimaginable.

“No need to thank me,” Hua Cheng says, shaking his head. “The very least I could do. Do you need a ride anywhere, Professor?”

**

Hua Cheng’s car might as well be a spaceship for how much it sticks out among the dumpy minivans and compact cars that surround it in the parking lot. Black, sleek, and gleaming, it truly seems to have beamed here from some point in a glittering future. Hua Cheng unlocks it with the touch of a button, and then, with another, the passenger side door swings open of its own volition. Xie Lian peeks inside. The interior is black as well, but for some touches that stand out in burning crimson.

“Go on, Professor.” Hua Cheng is leaning on his side of the car, casting a sideways glance at him. “Make yourself comfortable.”

Xie Lian obeys, ducking his head to get in. “You really needn’t call me Professor,” he says as Hua Cheng joins him on the driver’s side.

“What should I call you, then?” Hua Cheng’s smile is devastatingly brilliant, and Xie Lian is glad he’s sitting, because his knees have just gone to jelly. “I could call you gege, if it’s not too informal.”

He’s teasing -- at least, Xie Lian thinks he’s teasing -- but honestly the word comes out of his mouth more naturally than professor, and Xie Lian likes the sound of it better. “Gege is fine,” he says lightly.

“But in return,” Hua Cheng says, starting up the car, “you have to call me San Lang.”

“Why?” There’s something buzzing in Xie Lian’s brain now about the concept of naming, what we call ourselves versus what others call us, but he shunts it aside.

“Why do you think?” The car pulls out of its space, and a low rumble echoes in Xie Lian’s gut as it starts to navigate the parking lot. Hua Cheng is glancing at him between peeks in the rearview mirror. “You know what they say about us billionaires, we’re eccentric. Humor me.”

“Very well, San Lang,” Xie Lian replies, and he likes the sound of that, too.

It’s ten minutes of buzzing around the downtown streets before Xie Lian realizes he never gave a destination. “San Lang,” he says carefully, “where are we going?”

“Here and there,” Hua Cheng says. “I want to pick your brain about Man, Thrice Ascended.”

“Oh.” Xie Lian is flattered, and honestly the concept of riding around aimlessly in this sleek machine appeals to him. “Go right ahead, then.”

“To tell you the truth,” Hua Cheng says, “I have trouble wrapping my head around the concept of the self as infinite. Unless you believe in a higher power, the concept of self seems painfully finite to me, as it only exists between birth and death. Isn’t that a pretty limited span?”

“Only temporally,” Xie Lian replies. “Did you know that there are 22 million seconds in the average lifetime?”

“22 million is a lot, but it’s not infinity,” Hua Cheng counters.

“Ah, but a second isn’t instantaneous. Seconds take time. If you’ve ever tried to hold a plank for more than a minute, you know that well.” And he really does look like the type who could hold it. If not for two. “The unit of time I’d rather use is the moment.”

Hua Cheng glances at him. The car pulls onto the highway. “The moment?” he asks, gently spurring Xie Lian forward.

“Exactly,” Xie Lian says. “The moment is instantaneous. Maybe there are hundreds of millions of moments in the span of a single second of time. Maybe more than that. We can conceptualize, then, that each second of a lifetime contains within it infinite moments, and each lifetime 22 million infinities.”

“But a moment is hardly an appreciable measure of time,” Hua Cheng says. “How many moments can we experience as moments with our limited consciousness? The moments experienced are still finite to the mind of the human who tries to count them. Even if you count as fast as you can, you can’t count to 100 within the space of a single second, much less infinity.”

“You’re asking good questions,” Xie Lian comments.

Hua Cheng glows a little. “I told you, I’ve read the book a thousand times.”

“Well, if you did read the book, then you know that our concept of moments here is merely a framework.” They’re driving along the coast now, the bay blue and the sun starting its daily fizzle from yellow to red. “The infinities that truly populate the self are not of time, but of possibility.”

“Infinite choice in each moment.” Hua Cheng nods. “Explain it to me one more time, please, won’t you, gege?”

There’s a little plaintive moan in his voice - just a sliver of an entreaty - and it gives Xie Lian the goosebumps. Here is someone who’s truly appreciating his work, and he’s pleasant to look at and his voice is pleasant to the ear, and Xie Lian is reeling with how much good sensation is rolling into him with every second of this drive. It’s like the best of good dreams, and he doesn’t want to think of it ending.

“In any moment -- and I do mean moment, with our earlier definition,” he says, “I could lean to the left. I could lean to the right. I could blink. I could lean to the left but just a little bit harder. I could think of the color red. I could think of the color blue. I could speak. I could stay silent. I could open the door and throw myself out of this car, if I wanted.”

“Please don’t,” Hua Cheng interjects, sounding a little unnerved.

“It’s just a possibility,” Xie Lian reminds him. “There are, essentially, an infinite number of things I could do with each moment of my life. Each of them takes some time, but the process of choosing is instantaneous. So you have infinite possibilities in every single moment of infinite moments.”

“Not infinite possibilities," counters Hua Cheng. "What you decide to do in one moment, as you said, takes time. The time it takes to perform that action necessarily negates the infinite nature of the next moment. You can’t make certain decisions while performing other actions.”

“Your possibilities are still infinite in each moment,” Xie Lian argues. “Just because some actions can’t be taken doesn’t mean there aren’t still infinite possibilities open to you. Think of numbers. An infinite number of numbers end in the digit 4. It’s still an infinite set, even though numbers that end in the digit 5 aren’t included.”

Hua Cheng frowns. “Perhaps my limited mind isn’t fully able to capture it,” he says after a time. “You’re very impressive, gege.”

Heat blooms in Xie Lian’s cheeks. “Thus,” he says, “we have the three ascensions. When the mind is able to grasp the concept of infinity within limited time, it ascends once. The second ascension comes when one accepts that infinite actions can be performed within that limited time. And the third ascension…”

“...is when the mind grasps that the possibilities are infinite for each of an infinite number of moments,” Hua Cheng fills in. “Infinities within infinities, all within the self.”

They’ve pulled off to a scenic outlook point on the bay. Hua Cheng eases the car into one of three parking spots and turns off the engine. He turns to Xie Lian. “Gege always explains it so well,” he says brightly. “Thank you for indulging me.”

Xie Lian can feel the flush creeping into his cheeks. He looks away. “You’re welcome.”

Another beep, and the car’s doors are opening again. Hua Cheng gets up, rounds the car to Xie Lian’s side, and holds out his hand.

They stand for a time side by side, watching the reddening sun dip its toes into the rippling water of the bay. There’s a strange peace to standing here, Xie Lian thinks, with this person he barely knows but is so ardent about his work. I’m safe. I’m appreciated. The sureness of that is unexpected but so, so welcome. Xie Lian thinks back, trying to remember the last time he felt that way. He can’t recall.

“It’s beautiful,” he murmurs. Cars thunder past on the road behind them.

“This is one of my favorite spots,” Hua Cheng says. “I’m always taken by the vastness of the ocean here. It seems so full.” He gestures down to where the water buffets the base of the cliffs below them. “Like it’s a moment from overflowing.”

Xie Lian ponders this. “I’ve never thought of the ocean as full or not,” he says. “The implication being that no more water can be added; that it’s complete as is, existing within its bounds.”

“It’s a philosophical puzzle, isn’t it?” says Hua Cheng lightly. “Of course, climate change is solving it as we speak. Rising sea levels and all. It seems the ocean has the potential to be boundless, even as we denote lines between sea and shore.”

“And the question then becomes, how accurately can we draw those lines? And is it human folly to even attempt to do so?”

“Of course,” Hua Cheng says, “none of these problems has practical application.”

Xie Lian laughs. “Most of philosophy has no practical application. That’s why it’s philosophy.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Hua Cheng replies. “Your philosophy has had effects on my psychology, at the very least. To think of myself as infinite has changed the way I look at the world.”

“And how does it look?” Xie Lian inquires, tilting his head.

Hua Cheng gazes at him, then turns back to face the sea. “Boundless,” he says.

Xie Lian nods. The wind whips past them, whispering coldly against his cheeks and ears. He shudders.

Without a word, Hua Cheng removes his long coat and drapes it over Xie Lian’s shoulders. The coat is warm with his body heat, and all that heat seeps into Xie Lian in a rush. He draws in a breath. When Hua Cheng’s fingers touch his neck to adjust the collar, he wants to shiver again, this time not from the cold.

“Gege.” Hua Cheng’s honey-rich, low voice touches his ear like the strains of a cello. “Would you let me take you someplace nice?”

Xie Lian looks out at the darkening bay. He thinks of the view from his office window, the wall of an adjoining brick building. He could go back there, write and read until the early morning hours. Perhaps he would sleep on the cot he’s laid out in there. Staring at the mottled ceiling, contemplating eternity.

Or he could go with Hua Cheng, who is holding out his hand, looking hopeful.

Xie Lian takes it.

They drive for another 10 minutes along the coast, then take an exit into an area filled with green fields. Huge houses dot the landscape -- this is the domain of the super-rich, Xie Lian thinks, because these fields aren’t used for farming. They’re simply green as far as the eye can see, well-manicured, sometimes interrupted by copses of grand old trees with outstretched branches. Some of the houses are surrounded by lush flower gardens. It’s not an area Xie Lian’s ever been too, nor does it seem like the kind of place he would want to live. But it’s fascinating just to see it for the first time.

Hua Cheng pulls down a narrow road, then turns onto another. Xie Lian squints as he makes out something odd on the horizon. Whatever it is, it’s silver, and a cluster of buildings sit low and flat around it. When wide concrete paths start to interrupt the endless greenery, he realizes what he’s looking at.

“I thought,” he says gingerly, “when you said someplace nice, you meant a fancy restaurant.”

“We can go to a restaurant,” Hua Cheng answers airily. He pulls the car into the yard, and they park. Holding Xie Lian’s fingers loosely, he leads him along the paths toward the airfield. The private jet sits on the runway like a horse at the gate, already humming. A movable staircase leads up to the main entrance. A number of people are working around it. One of them sees the pair approaching and offers Hua Cheng a bow.

“How soon can we be ready?” Hua Cheng asks him.

“Twenty minutes,” the man says. “We’ve been prepping since we got your text.”

Xie Lian wonders when Hua Cheng had managed to text them. “This is your plane?” A silly question; Hua Cheng nods easily, as though everyone has a private airfield with a jet ready to go at any moment. “Where are you taking me?”

Hua Cheng meets his gaze with a smile. “Where would you like to go? Tokyo? Hong Kong? Thailand is stunning this time of year.”

“San Lang,” Xie Lian starts, his heart pounding. Hua Cheng smiles that much more widely at the sound of the name. “Isn’t this a little…”

“Much?” Hua Cheng finishes for him. “Not at all. Not for gege.” He lays a hand on the small of Xie Lian’s back -- Xie Lian gasps at the touch -- and ushers him forward until they are both standing at the bottom of that staircase, the airplane’s door a wide unblinking eye at the top. Hua Cheng bows and makes a gesture with his hand toward the staircase -- after you.

Xie Lian’s brain rockets into high gear. He has brought nothing with him but his briefcase, and even that is still in the car. No one knows where he is or where he’s going. He’s traveled a little in life -- nothing too far from home -- but this would be a trip like no other, totally unplanned and utterly irresponsible. Every ounce of common sense in his brain is urging him to shake his head politely and back away.

But this man. This fascinating man, who is offering him the world. For every voice inside Xie Lian that says no, there’s a current of pulsing blood in his veins whispering yes, yes.

“I’m not sure,” he begins, tentatively.

“Gege,” Hua Cheng murmurs, “You speak of self as containing an infinity of possibilities for every moment of life. But the paradox of infinity is that some infinities are larger than others. At this moment, you have more possibilities than ever before. Given those infinite possibilities, at this moment, what will you choose?”

He’s right. The possibilities facing him right now are truly endless. And hidden in Hua Cheng’s words, there is a challenge -- do you dare? And Xie Lian finds, to his surprise, that he does. He not only dares, he wants. To see this through, to learn more about this man, to take a crazy chance. His heart is pounding with the force of his desire. And once, just once in his studious, conservative life, he listens to it.

He smiles at Hua Cheng, lifts one hand to the railing of the staircase, and begins to ascend.

[whereflowersbloom]

Dum Spiro Spero

The leader of the league of shadows and secrets was watching a beautiful creature bathing in sunlight. Shinning ebony hair catching each breath of early autumn’s glinting sunset, a tendril of her hair catching in the wind as it breaks free from an elaborated braid. Raven was kneeling in the garden, hands working the soil, to bring life, making new life grow. Some moments she stopped to enjoy the autumnal breeze on her face, staring into the distance as if caught in between this world and another.

Looking back Damian never thought he would have this. It had never been an option for him. His life was mostly filled with dangers, blood, threats and uncertainty. Wondering if he would live to see the next sunrise or survive enough to watch the following sunset. His life had been filled with hatred. Hatred towards a parent be believed had abandoned him, an enemy that murdered his loved ones who raised him. He did everything in his power to avenge them but he did not feel satisfaction or any kind of gratification after killing him. No. The emptiness did not fade away.

There were times where he was filled with so much regrets. Regret of rejecting his father and not believing in him, that he cared for him. Regret of the days he spent resenting his adoptive brothers for having the chance of a different life. Regret for not being able to love someone freely. Not until her.

The first time he saw her he couldn’t help but stare in awe. The same day Damian drew in his first breath of Gotham City air.

An eternity could have passed by in the blink of an eye, breath hitched in his throat, eyes quivering with strong emotion, heart hammering in his chest and yet he would have stared at the sight of her the rest of his days. For it was humanly impossible to get his eyes off of her. It was a view he had been starved of for eighteen years.

He stared because she was light.

She was home. Finally.

Porcelain skin, thick locks of raven hair, piercing, unearthly amethysts struck through his soul. And he felt alive, whole.

He had learned an important lesson. Life was too short, shorter if you’re an assassin, it was too precious. You could never waste a second of it, especially with the people closest to your heart. And he made a solemn promise to his family and himself. He decided to live without regret. To take the opportunities that life handed him and most importantly, he swore to himself that even no matter what happened in the past, the terrible things he had done, his faults and mistakes. He deserved to be happy.

That was five years ago.

It was easy to lurk in the shadows of the their house, a petite, cozy cottage close to the league’s headquarters. In the Kunlun mountains he had found a rustic little gem straight out of a Jane Austen or Charlotte Bronté novel, that was how Raven had described it. She had been working on the garden for eight months. There were now fragrant jasmine bushes and two apple trees, one almost completely covered by creamy white climbing roses, clusters of bluebells, foxgloves, pink Hibiscus flowers, pale lavender orchids, and the entire lawn was strewn with white and yellow daisies. In the shadows he knew he would not disturb her reverie. Yet he had been caught, luminous violet eyes wiser than her years cast to where he has hidden with a gentle smile that just pricked the corners of her mouth. “You know I can feel you staring, Damian. The intensity of your emotions is making me go weak.”

Damian couldn’t stop admiring his lover. Because the eyes that followed her were ones brimmed with love, adoration. Stepping into the sunlight, gently he helped her stand up, instinctively wrapping an arm around her waist. “You will never be weak, beloved. Not because of me or anyone.” Words were spoken softly, his other hand reaching to lift a white lily from the blooming bulbs bed and tucking it right behind her ear. Not too far off in the distance the radiant sun continued arching low in the sky reading to say goodbye and allowing the sky to welcome the moon and stars.

One of his long, tanned hands, cupped her face with delicacy, her body aching desperately for his touch. He placed his remaining hand over her chest. She was aware that Damian could feel the rapid pulse of her heart through skin. “Thought you’re stronger than any other living creature in this universe. There is strength in your goodness, as much as there is in steel and fire.” His emerald eyes were filled with so much joy, so much warmth and devotion, it was endless, everflowing.

Raven barely thought she was breathing, willing her unruly heart to ease a fraction, soothe down its beating instead of racing even after all these years together. Damian gently kissed her temple and murmured against her rosy cheek in a low voice that made goosebumps rise on her tender flesh. “Do you know why I fell in love with you?”

She licked her lips and pretended to think about it for a moment. “Because I said you were insufferable our first meeting.” She teased. As much as his presence annoyed her at first, she had come to feel comfortable around him, safe, content. The feelings she had tried to contain became harder and harder to ignore. Slowly, he carved himself into her heart, something she did not have a name for took root. Every time he saw him, heart fluttered in her chest like a child, and everytime he smiled at her...oh Azar she couldn’t take the clash of ardent emotions. After that something inside her began to loosen, shift, to change. She had been a fool, deceiving herself it was nothing more than friendship.

Everything changed for them and she was infinitely thankful both had put in the effort to help each other overcome their fears. They only required a little push from Dick at the beginning, because both were impossibly stubborn.

Damian chuckled audibly. It was a fascinating sound she thought to herself. His hand trailed along her collarbone, enjoying the smooth texture of her ivory skin, grasping the side of her face. Green orbs bored into violet constellations. He spoke firmly and his features hardened slightly. There was a battle raging behind his green gaze, like he was desperately fighting something inside him. His past. “You did not judge me for my past actions, for the assassin I was raised to be. I was coated in blood, spent my days destroying and taking lives. And yet you found goodness in me.” His deep voice was rough and cracked just a bit.

She had given him five years worth of smiles, laughter, love and so much more. Filling the void inside him after losing his grandfather and mother. She had lifted him up. Damian would never let her go. He refused to. How could he?

“Dum spiro spero.” He breathed, heart thundering in his chest.

He did not have tell her its definition. She knew the meaning of the phrase. She blinked in surprise, her mind automatically translated it. While I breath, I hope.

Interlacing his hand with hers, entwined like a vine to tree, he swallowed hard before continuing. “You are my hope, Raven. When I look at you I see hope.” Raven was this incredible force which had burrowed itself so deeply within him being that there would be no uprooting it. Never.

She found herself voiceless, giving time for his words to sink in. Then she did not have to think about her responses for more than a second. She knew exactly what she wanted to say.

Raven held his gaze, unwavering, for another minute before speaking. “I know you really look at me and see me for who I am and I hope you know, I will always look at you and I will see someone who despite seeing the worst of it all, is still kind, good, a generous and compassionate soul.”

The raw emotion swimming in his eyes made her want to embrace him for eternity. He loved her. He loved her more than she ever imagined. She felt her own eyes watering, tears running down her cheeks which Damian wiped away with careful motions.

“I would love to be your hope until the end of my days.” She whispered voice thick with emotion, forehead pressed against his. His skin was warmer than hers, she let herself submerge in the lingeringly tender contact. Unable to hold back anymore Damian kissed her ferociously, with starved lips, pouring all his words and feelings into the caress. Squeezing her frame against his, wishing for any distance to vanish, anything that would keep them apart.

“I love you.” He whispered in the most intimate of ways against her mouth.

Damian took her in his arms, carrying her and not wasting time, making his way inside the small cottage. They were two souls in love, hearts beating the same tune, in perfect synchrony.

Happy birthday chromie 🙈🙈🙈❤️❤️❤️

This small oneshot is dedicated to @chromium7sky my closest friend in the fandom.

I hope you all like it though. @tweepunkgrl @alerialblu @andthendk @ravenfan1242 @carnationmilk @bourniebna @srose-foxfire @sofiii

[your--isgayrights]

not sure if this is what you had in mind but i was thinking maybe kdj and hsy meeting briefly earlier in life (at 20/22 years old or sth)? maybe having a misunderstanding or an argument over something trivial (like interpretation of a book or who should take the last lemon flavored popsicle in the store) and somehow still managing to reach some recognition or understanding of each other. years later they would forget about each other but still remember that bizarre situation sometimes. i have no idea if that makes any sense but i believe in your writing and massive brain and powerful swag. xoxo

Aaaaah, Exe I'm sorry if this isn't exactly what you asked for... I was just like... what if that time Han Sooyoung and Kim Dokja almost met in the epilogue went a little differently and like... haha...

The first part is basically copied and pasted from that chapter before the twist, so go read that first if you haven't!

Han Su-Yeong staggered and walked closer to Kim Dok-Ja. Several passersby brushing past her looked back in suspicion.

Kim Dok-Ja was now walking down the subway’s steps.

Kim Dok-Ja, with earphones stuck in his ears and reading something on his phone while walking downstairs.

She knew what he was currently reading.

“—!!”

She barely managed to shout, but her voice still didn’t come out. So, she desperately chased after him.

Because of the story you wrote, author-nim, I was able to survive until now. Han Su-Yeong was also able to survive while reading the sole reader’s words.

She managed to write the next part of Yu Jung-Hyeok’s life through them.

She was able to endure her boring and stuffy teen years, the days she never wanted to go back to, thanks to those words.

This train is bound for… She spotted Kim Dok-Ja standing on the platform, waiting for the next train to arrive. A person hiding within the small world crafted out of letters to protect himself was standing right there.

Kim Dok-Ja, who didn’t know anything about the apocalypse about to happen.

Kim Dok-Ja, who’d get to live on the expansive world of the ‘Ways of Survival’.

Kim Dok-Ja, who’d get to meet the protagonist he so longed to become.

Kim Dok-Ja, who’d become the ‘Demon King of Salvation’.

Kim Dok-Ja, who’d sacrifice himself multiple times for the sake of his companions, and as a result, came to the 1863rd turn and met her.

Kim Dok-Ja, who was destined to become the ‘Most Ancient Dream’, the price he paid for loving a certain story too much.

[Your mental state is crumbling!]

[The main body’s ego is regaining its control.]

[Your Fable is being extinguished.]

Her legs grew heavy, and her arms didn’t want to move anymore. Her body was gradually becoming not hers.

Even then, Han Su-Yeong wanted to tell him.

⸢To tell him that he was definitely not at fault for this story being born. And to tell him that the things he was about to experience were not his sins.⸥

Because, her past 13 years existed solely to say those words to him.

⸢To say that, though you have grown up while reading this story, there’s no need for you to become it.⸥

She barely managed to muster up her strength, her arm coiling in on itself and preparing for her one last willful action.

[Your ego will convert into the ‘subconsciousness’.]

As she set her weak, pre-scenario body into that final decisive movement...

The twenty six year old Han Su-yeong who knew nothing of the soon to come apocalypse, woke up thrusting her fist forward into the face of some guy on the subway.

She would've thought she was still dreaming, if it hadn't been for the feeling of his soft cheek slamming against the hard bone of his teeth under the force of her balled up hand.

'What the hell? Why am I doing this?'

Han Su-yeong most likely would have asked herself these things if she had any more time to think before her punch had landed.

She got her answer, though. Despite never asking her question, that reason she was looking for became clear as the man staggered off his balance.

He made a futile attempt to right himself before being knocked to the ground. The phone that he had been holding so close to his face clattering screen-side up onto the concrete of the subway floor.

That was when she saw it.

She only had to read a snippet of the words on that phone screen to come up with an explanation for her own actions at that very moment.

[There are three ways to survive in a ruined world. Now, I have forgotten a few, but one thing is certain. The fact that you who are reading this now will survive.

-Three ways to survive in a ruined world

Author’s words: Thank you so much for reading ‘Ways of Survival’ up to here. I will come back to you with an epilogue!]

'Ways of Survival.' 'Three ways to survive in a ruined world.'

...

Yes, there was no doubt that this guy sat on the subway floor rubbing at his cheek deserved it.

Some latent evil of the world must be working to Han Su-yeong's advantage, because none of the commuter passing by spared her a second glance as she sorted out her own motives. They simply dodged around her and the man she had assaulted moments ago.

If Han Su-yeong had to write some train of thought into their actions, she might imagine these negligent bystanders saw something like an overly dramatic lover's spat. Something personal that they ought not get involved in.

Were it not for the pervasiveness of such a cliche recurrent in physical altercations between men and women, maybe they would see it for what it was. A question of honor between authors.

Because Han Su-yeong was certain that was who this man was. An author who was so shitty that he had created an alt to try and hype up his terrible novel.

That was right... It was years ago now, but Han Su-yeong remembered that unsubstantiated accusation of plagiarism on her first published webnovel, SSSSS-grade Infinite Regressor.

This shitty guy had made an alt account that was so obvious... it was something 'Dok-ja,' like he wasn't even trying to pretend he didn't make it just to pretend to 'read' his own webnovel...

If that didn't prove it, then it was also clear from the comments that he had left on every single chapter. When she was reading them, Han Su-yeong had known that if she were such a bad author that she would have to have just one reader, the words that he wrote represented that perfect amount of reader to author engagement that she would have desired.

But that sort of relationship... it was unrealistic. Han Su-yeong had been an author for something like 13 years now, and she had never had such a relationship in her entire career.

So it was obvious that a reader like that could only be written by an author with those same desires that she held.

And then he even had the nerve to wander out of his self contained fantasy, accusing her superior work of plagiarizing his shitty one just to draw in more views and commenters.

So of course he had a lot of nerve to be rereading his own damn author's note right where she could see hi-

"Can I help you?"

Han Su-yeong felt all of the hot air she had been blowing herself up with to justify her current situation deflate upon hearing that voice of his.

The man she'd injured looked up at her with hollow black eyes. Eyes that perhaps had only seemed bright while being illuminated by a screen.

His voice was mild, too. As if getting punched in the face were something that was merely tiresome to him, instead of something to stir anger or indignity. The reactions that Han Su-yeong had been mentally preparing herself to butt heads with.

Nothing about his reaction seemed to ask Han Su-yeong for her motives. There was no race to find an explanation behind those hollow eyes. No bit lip, straining to come up with a turn of phrase to become an appropriately biting retort.

This guy wasn't an author.

...

Hey...

Why had she punched this guy again?

"Sorry." Han Su-yeong found herself saying, as her body deflated, extended arm going back to her side. "From the behind, you looked like my shitty ex."

She let herself fall into the cliche.

"Ah. I see."

Han Su-yeong hated the guy's expression, just then.

It was one that said, 'Well isn't that just my luck?'

But she couldn't help but watch, as this unlucky guy stood up and picked up his phone, brushing it off instead of himself, as if it were more precious to him than his own body.

And when that Dok-ja turned around, Han Su-yeong only saw his back for a second, before the sight of him was once more swallowed up by the uncaring world of the subway station crowd.

[remsmoonlight]

— title : help me

— word count : 2.1 k words

— pairing : daryl dixon x reader

— summary : you’re not the only one who can feel yourself falling apart, but other things come to light in the mean time

— warnings : brief mentions of death, minor swearing, lack of self care

Had it not been for the fact that you know the world has ended, you could almost find yourself beginning to allow for a sense of tranquility to alleviate the constant threat of anxiety that creeps up on you almost daily. Normality was not a guarantee anymore, it was a rare prize that the group finds itself sometimes able to create even a jagged fragment of.. something you find yourself gripping onto with an unyielding strength, as if you could force it into reality.

The appealing picture is punctured as you spot some movement out of your peripheral vision, your gun is raised in the direction, an inaudible laugh is released as you try to find humour in your paranoia. Even protected by steel fences and concrete walls, you can’t find yourself believing that this prison is now your home, your sanctuary that protects you from the horrors from the outside that constantly threaten to overwhelm the grimy paradise your family had built.

Nothing out of the ordinary has occurred the entire time since you had been awoken to take watch, just a few stray walkers and animals, nothing that would warrant a bullet in them to draw every other living thing for miles to the prison. You find the cool mist that blankets the green fields welcome, something to keep you grounded before your mind wanders off to all that has been brutally torn from your soul, piece by agonising piece. The fog acts as miniscule needles, poking and prodding against your reddened cheeks.

A rustle pulls your attention to the small room of the tower, Daryl had been one to volunteer to take watch with you that night. Something about him conjured the most perplexing yet fond feelings of affection rooted within the centre of you, sometimes you think that there may be something yet sometimes you are sure he was sending signals that there is nothing. Ghost of minor grazes against your skin that had been seared into place, yet were so easily covered as if they had never existed.

Daryl Dixon is one confusing man.

“ no one taking over yet? “

You shake your head at Daryl, a few strands of hair are horridly disloyal to their place and tumble in front of your vision, that is hurriedly rectified as it throws you off balance. Sometimes you had no idea how to behave in front of him, it’s something you wish to confront as you know you cannot continue this way.. especially as tomorrow is never and has never been a guarantee, clearing the air is the only answer.

“ um, not yet. it’s still early though. “ you reply, a latent tremblant that almost completely breaks into your tone, the anxiety you had when you dedicate thoughts to your family going out tries to haunt you like a spirit would. You have already lost so much from the simple things.

“ they better move their asses soon. “

Of course, you have been relieved from watch duty and before you have even thought about breakfast you’re already hauling your heavy limbs to your cell.

Your eyes scan the room to find what you need, a backpack that is shrouded by the intense gloom and darkness that dominates the cramped room filled to the brim with an infinite amount of blemishes from top to bottom. You know that many happy memories do not occupy the room, let alone the building.. but it’s something you intend on changing. You move swiftly to pack it with all the supplies, your mind conjuring scenarios from nothing and every single one more horrifying than the other.. the drive to protect your heart from any more loss is the central force moving you to fill its empty space.

“ the hell you doin’ there? “

The abruptness of the voice sends your pulse skipping, not expecting anyone to bother you so soon.

“ I can’t sit here while they go out there. “ you don’t turn to look at Daryl, you already know the expression that is dyed so densely as he watches your crouched form. “ i tried, but i have to go.. i have to make sure they’re okay. “

“ you don’t trust ‘em? “ asks Daryl, he’d noticed your strange behaviour, he’d not said anything to anyone but the concern he feels is beginning to take on a life of its own. Knowing he would have to share with Rick if you become worse, it’s not something that he wants to do but if it brings some peace to your troubled mind he would.

“ no -- it’s not that! I just.. “

Daryl emits a scoff, he doesn’t mean to be so cold with his demeanour, but divulging anger and rage when he cares is all he knows. His upbringing created a perfect fusion of uncertainty, fear and suffering. One that blends into such a perfect mixture that any time he has to confront an intense situation, all that is expressed is a fire that burns anyone in its path. It’s taken time to be able express himself in healthier ways, but sometimes he finds himself fleeing to the same old habits.

“ what? ‘cause you’re gonna keep on going out there and it’s gonna get ‘ya killed! “

“ you don’t get it. “

Daryl barges his way through the empty doorway, before you even realise it the backpack that had been held firmly in your hand now lingers at your side, an emptiness that your grasp finds itself itching to rip back to its former place. You have your mind set in stone that you need to protect them, you can’t lose another person, the last time you had missed one.. it didn’t turn out so well, and you lost a friend. It was a pain that had your heart feeling as if it was being compressed under an unbearable weight, it’s a childish whim that refuses to back down. The urge to protect clouds everything you see, knowing that if you are there, then you have done everything in your power to ensure that life keeps on going, even if it limps pathetically along.

“ y’think I’m some sorta dumbass? that it? “

“ no! I just -- “ you can feel your entire being beginning to heat up from the pent up fear and frustration that have been building block upon block that is so close to tumbling down in a chaotic fashion. Your fingers move up to clench strands of your hair in exasperation, the phantom pain from your grip enough to prevent yourself from spilling over.

“ y’just what? huh? “ Daryl moves closer towards you, you can see that he wants to say more, to do more.. his eyes speak volumes, they say much more than his mouth does.

The aches that Daryl can feel within him never fade, they never dull, not when he can see what has been occupying your mind is causing a dramatic shift in you. He doesn’t know how to approach the subject, tender conversations have never been his forte.. and the fact that it’s.. well, you. He can’t pinpoint when he began to notice you more and more, but the thought of harm befalling you is something that sends ice through his veins. He doesn’t want to be in a world where he would never see you every day.

“ if I was there.. then maybe, I don’t know. I could have done something. “

Silence is thick, as thick as the dust that still continues to haunt the floors of the cells, no matter how much they are cleaned and wiped away. You can’t wipe away the horrors as easily as dirt.

You turn to face him, you slowly lift yourself as an unwavering tenseness lines every inch of your limbs. It sounded silly now that you have admitted it to another human being, but it is still real and it’s still how you feel.

“ what? y’think you can take on a horde of walkers? it was a suicide mission and they knew it. “

“ how can you be so careless? “ you ask him, a horrified expression staining your expression.

“ I’m seein’ you go down the same road, I ain’t gonna be part of that. you keep goin’ like this, it’s gonna kill ‘ya. “

The words run circles in your mind, a marathon that feels as if it will have no end. It explains his behaviour towards you, the warmth you receive one moment and the sudden shift to a numbing chill that felt as if you were no more than strangers. You hate that to be able to get information from him, you have to be arguing, it’s not something that can be allowed to continue.

“ tell me why. “ a demand comes from you, your voice sounding the most steady and enduring since the argument began. You sigh, feeling defeated. You hate the bubbling concoction of negative emotions that are brewing more and more from the exchange.

“ ain’t hard to figure out. “ Daryl has directed his attention to the floor, unable to meet your sight. He doesn’t want to see what is written on your face, his mind bolting to the worst possible explanation as it always does.

Moving towards what could only be described as a pitiful form of a bed, you drop yourself roughly onto the raggedy mattress and pat the space next to you. Your eyes follow him as he contemplates his next movement, if he decides to move toward you to forgo it all and pretend as if what you had just spoken about had not existed.

Luckily for you, he situates himself on the far side, his hands only slightly fidgeting as he waits for you to speak. It has to be you.

“ Daryl, why don’t you want me to go? “

“ I can’t see ‘ya get killed, just can’t. “

Before you even can truly comprehend what it is you’re doing, you inch a pinky finger towards the hand that lays resting dormantly at his side and allow it to curl into one of his own. The tenderness of the moment is not missed by either of you, both of you not knowing how to proceed. Daryl wasn’t used to being shown such softness in this context, he wants to hate it.. To squeeze the life from the feelings that it evokes, but he can’t. He doesn’t want to.

“ Daryl.. is there something there, or am I imagining it? “

“ y’aint goin’ crazy. “ he acknowledges, providing the spark that alights a bright burning hope within you.

“ is this why you don’t want me on the run? “ you inquire as a grimace comes flooding onto your face, your knees jumping as you struggle to contain your energy.

“ shit -- you look like you’re about to drop everytime I see ‘ya. “

As you battle yourself to contain the upturning of your lips, you shuffle closer to him. You felt the exhaustion every day threatening your entire being, you truly had no idea how you have not yet succumbed to it. Days at the prison are never easy, there’s always something to do and that work is nothing less than formidable and punishing on the human body.

He cares about me, you think to yourself timidly.

You take care in slowly leaning your chin on his shoulder and bringing a hand to rest on his back. Waiting for a signal to do otherwise, a rejection.. but it doesn’t come. It’s allowed, something you joyfully see as progress. You allow yourself to take in the comfort from the simple gesture, sorely missing having even the simple solaces that bring a much needed warming glow in the pit of your stomach. It hurts that he doesn’t even know how important he is to everyone, but more so to you.

“ Daryl, this isn’t something I can just kick. It’s not that easy. “

“ not somethin’ I’m asking. you need t’take care of y’self. “

Before your mind even registers it, you can feel a small weight on your free hand that lays dormantly on your hand. His thumb is drawn back and forth on yours, the patterns bringing a sense of soothing to you that had not blessed you in what felt like an eternity.

“ well.. maybe you can help me? “

There’s a hesitancy that the two of you can recognise, you wish with your whole soul that you could be stronger in asking. You’ve tried and tried to rid the negativity from within you, but every time you think you have, it comes back stronger than ever. More and more resistant than it was previously, its claws drawing more blood from you as it secures its hold in a much more impressive manner.

“ ain’t even gotta ask. “

[dirty-holy-things]

The Space Between (your heart & mine)

Chapter 17 has been posted to Ao3, and below to Tumblr.

Catch up on chapters 1-16 on Ao3.

Notes: This fic is 18+ and explicit. Chapter contains canon-typical violence and descriptions of injuries. Reference to past abuse. Please exercise caution if this is a sensitive subject for you. Also - I promise there's a happy ending, but it might take a bit of angst to get there. For those who have kept up with this fic, sorry for the delay in updating - grad school has kept me busy, but regular updates should resume.

Words: 5.1k update, 80.9k total.

There had been changes within yourself as well, even though you struggled to admit it after having spent so much of your life suppressing that which was now showing itself within you. Your safety had always depended on your ability to mask your powers, or at least conveniently use them, and now they were unexpectedly breaking through your barriers. Through observation and meditation, you had started to put together that your abilities and powers swelled whenever your emotions did, just as they had when you were younger. When Din was once running behind schedule for a bounty, your nerves and fear alone were able to entirely warp the canteen you had purchased for yourself, crushing it to the point that it was unusable junk. And when Din finally returned home to you, bruised and battered, and yet focused only on touching and kissing every inch of you — you found that his cuts and bruises began to disappear from underneath your fingertips without any direct focus or attention. There was an undercurrent of power that was growing within you and Grogu, and it was beginning to breach the walls that you had put in place to hold it back; and you had no way of predicting when that wall may cave in.

These ever-increasing powers and revelations were both fascinating and terrifying. You did not know what would happen from here if you and Grogu continued down this unmapped path. You could understand that power without training could be exceptionally dangerous, but how would you even go about learning how to control it all? You had once been able to suppress your connection to the Force, but you never actually learned how to master this connection; repression is not true mastery or control, as it only delays the chaos.

But who was there to learn from? The Jedi Order was no more, the grasp of the Sith had receded with the rise of the New Republic, and the civilizations that connected with the Force as a form of magic were incredibly closed-off and tight-lipped. You had been extraordinarily lucky to stumble unto the teachings of Ixxith as you had, but now that the seal had been broken, now that Pandora’s box had been opened, you were faced with an impossible question — where do you go from here?

Image credit to my love @knivesareout as she makes beautiful things and supports my writing.

An eternal thank you to @soyelfuegoquearde for beta'ing my baby and giving me constructive feedback.

And love to @bdavishiddlesbatch and @louderrthanthunderr for all of their love and support.

"We fall in love because we long to escape from ourselves with someone ideal as we area corrupt. But what if such a being were one day to turn around and love us back? We can only be shocked. How could they be divine as we had hoped when they have the bad taste to approve of someone like us? If in order to love, we must believe that the beloved surpasses us in some way, does not a cruel paradox emerge when we witness this love returned? If they are really so wonderful, how could they love someone like me?" - Alain de Botton

The universe felt brighter as you traveled through it now, suspended in space and time within the secure confines of your roaming home. You continued to watch the stars streak past you on every journey, still feeling just as entranced by them as you had on the first flight from Chandrila — but it was even more of a beautiful and brilliant thing, as you now had the incomparable comfort of being known, and being loved. For a brief moment, you had worried that your admission of love would make things complicated, awkward, unbalanced; but your fears had been completely dismissed and rendered unnecessary, as it had brought you and Din closer than you could have imagined.

It was the little gestures and moments throughout the day that allowed those fears to be quieted. His hands would brush along your body in passing; he brought you a blanket to the cockpit after seeing you wrapped tightly around yourself to fight off the chill; he would gently tuck away the stray pieces of hair that fell across your face. And you became less reserved in showing your affections as well; you would often drape yourself across the back of the pilot’s seat and over his expansive shoulders as he navigated the Razor Crest through the atmospheres of new planets and hyperspace. You would bring him food and water, reminding him to take care of himself in ways that he often forgot to. And the two of you spent more time encased in the security of darkness, to the point where you joked that you might develop night vision. Very few things can grow in the absence of light, and yet here you were, your love thriving in this unexpected place.

You found that you didn’t necessarily feel as though you were missing anything, by not being able to see his face. Your love felt whole, comprehensive, and possibly even more valuable as it was so unconditional in its nature; you would love him endlessly, and you didn’t need a face to assign that love to, as he was so much more than the anatomical structure that existed behind the helmet. Somehow, the darkness felt more freeing than the light. The comfort and security of the darkness offered you both the opportunity to be completely and entirely exposed; no helmet, no clothing, no beskar, no self-doubt. It was infinite in its nature, and allowed for infinite possibilities.

How beautiful, these little infinities you had created together.

And while you never held any regrets for the life you shared with Din, you understood that some things were not worth repeating. You didn’t offer to help with a job again after Corellia, and it was a decision that you had come to by yourself. Again, you held no regrets for what had transpired on the industrial planet as it had been the catalyst that had brought the truth to the surface, the truth about your love, but it had left some wreckage in the process. Your sense of self-preservation and fear had been reignited when the Twi’lek had made unwanted physical advances, and although you knew you were safe now, it was challenging to quiet that instinctual part of yourself that had risen up, desperately seeking to sustain your hard-won survival.

Following the events of Corellia, you started to have the occasional nightmare, your mind resurfacing old wounds and memories that you had worked to let go of and leave on Chandrila. You would have dreams of the torrential thunderstorms of Eadu, threatening to drown you as your family watched, making no effort to help you stay afloat. You would feel the radiating pain of Orron’s blows throughout your body, every old wound somehow reemerging and aching anew. Sometimes the terror and pain of the nightmare was quick to pass upon waking, but there were some occasions in which you woke up crying and thrashing, a scream trapped in your constricted throat. Sometimes, you would wake up shaking like a leaf in a thunderstorm, chest heaving as the tears flowed; upon waking, you were always disoriented and scared for a moment, until you realized you were still at home and you were still wrapped securely in Din’s arms. You knew Din hated seeing you like that, tearful and distressed, and you didn’t want to cause any further hurt to yourself or to him. So you made the decision to no longer act as bait.

There was no sense in reopening old wounds, and creating new ones in the process. If you were to live with these pains, you could at least avoid inflicting them onto others.

Din had been supportive of your choice to no longer participate in bounties. He had reassured you that he still believed in your capabilities and value as a companion, but agreed that the reduction in stress would be worth the reduction in payouts. It had been tough to find a way to keep yourself occupied and still feel like a valuable, contributing asset; you knew you would never be content to simply exist here, offering nothing to Din except your body. While your originally agreed-upon partnership ended up not lending itself to you becoming a bounty hunter, you were not about to become a deadbeat, indolent passenger either.

The first few weeks after Corellia were alright, as you found odd jobs around the ship that you could tend to; repairing sagging panels, cleaning away the cobwebs, reorganizing equipment. These were tasks that you could manage, even with your limited mechanical and engineering knowledge. But eventually, as time wore on and your journeys carried you further along, you started to run out of tasks that could be done on the ship. Needing something to do, you then turned to managing additional business responsibilities, hoping to relieve Din of some of the stress that he carried on those broad shoulders. You kept a more organized, detailed record of his jobs and finances, and made sure there was an appropriate stock of supplies to support the Razor Crest’s three travelers.

And then there was the kid — you quite often found yourself managing him.

Following your journey to Bardotta, something had awoken in both you and Grogu; it was as if a creature that had laid dormant for many years had been awoken from its hibernation, and had returned with renewed strength. While you felt this change deeply within yourself, it presented itself most visibly in Grogu and his increasing abilities. You frequently had to search for him within the ship, as he had been working on learning how to cloak himself as you once had, adding this to his other skills. He was not able to fully vanish into his surroundings as you were, but he was decent enough at camouflaging himself to the point where you once had a panic attack that he had managed to escaped the ship into the wild forests of Dantooine while under your supervision. He was also experimenting with bringing larger and larger objects to his small green grasp, most noticeably larger and larger portions of food, or other comfort items like blankets. His growing curiosity and expansion of power hadn’t been allthat concerning until a particularly rough tantrum, during which he pushed both you and Din a good three feet back from him, without ever laying a hand on you. The changes occurring could no longer be denied or ignored, and you understood you would have to confront them at some point.

There had been changes within yourself as well, even though you struggled to admit it after having spent so much of your life suppressing that which was now showing itself within you. Your safety had always depended on your ability to mask your powers, or at least conveniently use them, and now they were unexpectedly breaking through your barriers. Through observation and meditation, you had started to put together that your abilities and powers swelled whenever your emotions did, just as they had when you were younger. When Din was once running behind schedule for a bounty, your nerves and fear alone were able to entirely warp the canteen you had purchased for yourself, crushing it to the point that it was unusable junk. And when Din finally returned home to you, bruised and battered, and yet focused only on touching and kissing every inch of you — you found that his cuts and bruises began to disappear from underneath your fingertips without any direct focus or attention. There was an undercurrent of power that was growing within you and Grogu, and it was beginning to breach the walls that you had put in place to hold it back; and you had no way of predicting when that wall may cave in.

These ever-increasing powers and revelations were both fascinating and terrifying. You did not know what would happen from here if you and Grogu continued down this unmapped path. You could understand that power without training could be exceptionally dangerous, but how would you even go about learning how to control it all? You had once been able to suppress your connection to the Force, but you never actually learned how to master this connection; repression is not true mastery or control, as it only delays the chaos.

But who was there to learn from? The Jedi Order was no more, the grasp of the Sith had receded with the rise of the New Republic, and the civilizations that connected with the Force as a form of magic were incredibly closed-off and tight-lipped. You had been extraordinarily lucky to stumble unto the teachings of Ixxith as you had, but now that the seal had been broken, now that Pandora’s box had been opened, you were faced with an impossible question — where do you go from here?

Your best attempt at navigating this next step was to seek out knowledge in a different format; as Din’s travels occasionally brought you to larger cities, you would spend a portion of the layover browsing the city’s libraries and book stores, if they existed, poring over the texts to see if there was any history, legends, instructions, or insights that could be obtained. You had very little success at finding anything that taught you about Force powers and how to use them, however you had managed to find several interesting texts that chronicled the historical power struggle between the Jedi and the Sith. You had heard whispered stories and legends as a child, tales of heroes and villains who carried out the unending battle of good versus evil.

And as you read of these wars and conflicts, you came to an interesting conclusion — depending on the perspective of the available source material, both Jedi and Sith could be considered good, or evil.

Thinking back to Ixxith’s teachings about the importance of balance, you could understand how these two diametrically opposed sides were continually fighting against the scale of the universe that sought balance. From your wide assortment of readings, you understood that the universe itself truly held no favor for good or evil, Jedi or Sith, and it only ever sought an equilibrium — and yet the universe’s occupants insisted on living within one extreme or the other, the scale never allowed to settle at a place of peace and balance.

You enjoyed studying the texts that you had managed to acquire, and learning more about the history of those with abilities like you, even though it may not have been the specific knowledge you had set out to find. Occasionally, you would talk with Din about the things that you discovered in these books, which prompted him to share more about the history of Mandalore and their role in the galaxy’s history and development. This newfound, strengthening point of connection between you was beautiful and valuable in its own right, even though it may not have offered much help for corralling yourself and the kid’s behaviors.

Reading had given you something to do during the down time while Din was working, and while the kid was self-contained or safely entertained. You had never had much time to dedicate to your own hobbies and interests before, and it was refreshing to be able to have your own passions that you could pursue as you desired.

Having few travel expenses of your own, you were still living quite comfortably off of the bounties you had profited from, and you were able to purchase the things that caught your eye or interest. This led to a steadily-expanding corner of the cabin that became yours as it was occupied with stacks of books, piles of blankets, an assortment of snacks, and a respectable wardrobe. The fresher also now showed evidence of your residency, as some of your specialty products had found their way to the shelves and the shower; silky lotions, a nice brush, hygiene products that didn’t exist in the shape of a bar. The Razor Crest was gradually becoming a shared space, a shared home, and were someone to step foot onto the ship, they would be able to determine that the fearsome Mandalorian was no longer maintaining a solitary existence.

This change in Din’s lifestyle was becoming more and more clear to outsiders as you now frequently accompanied him to his negotiations and trade-offs with Karga when on Nevarro. The older man had been excited by your reoccurring presence, and while he had teased Din for it in the beginning, he had since relaxed and always welcomed the two or three of you with a genuine smile. And with each visit to the volcanic planet, Din grew more comfortable with claiming your relationship openly; he almost always kept a hand on you, tracing pressured circles into your skin, or if you were seated with some degree of privacy, gently stroking the inside of your thigh from underneath the table as a tease for what was to come. There were rarely moments in which you were left alone, and you found you preferred it this way. While Orron had once insisted upon keeping you within arms reach, out of his own need for power and control, you understood Din’s motives to be different. He wanted to protect you, wanted to show you off, just genuinely wanted to be with you because he loved being with you. And you also knew that he would never deny you an opportunity to venture off on your own, to explore the town or take Grogu to play with the local children.

Today had been no exception to that truth; as Din and Karga haggled over upcoming bounties, you grew bored and restless, and decided you would prefer to stretch your legs with a walk around town, and feel some sunlight on your skin as it was a fairly nice day. You squeezed his knee gently, getting his attention before nodding your head to the door of the cantina, where the three of you had gathered for this business dealing. Din nodded wordlessly, trusting you to keep yourself safe and return to him when you were ready. This unconditional sense of trust was new to you, but you loved every moment of it, and loved Din for offering it so readily to you.

You excused yourself from the table and strolled out of the bar, knowing that Din’s eyes had followed your entire journey through the tables and patrons until you exited into the bustling town center. The sunlight felt nice on your skin, and the slight breeze kept the air from feeling heavy and stagnant around you; you stretched your limbs and you felt the cracking and popping of your joints. You needed breaks like this, to be able to physically stretch your body and keep it limber and in shape.

And yet, despite the small space of the Razor Crest, you had still found ways to keep your body moving; Din had certainly made physical exercise more enjoyable. You thought back to all of the nights that had now been spent on the floor of the Razor Crest, as your exhausted bodies had collapsed into one another; you loved every minute of the physical exertion the two of you created, but your body needed more. It needed to run, jump, stretch, bend, without the constraints of the small cabin space. But Maker, did making love with Din feel like the most glorious and exhilarating use of your body; you marveled at every moment of passion the two of you shared, holding nothing back in the pursuit of giving the other what they desired.

You were brought back to the moment by an oddly dressed man bumping into you; you turned to apologize, as you had been the one to have stopped in the middle of the street, but they had already run off by the time you looked for them. Shrugging, you carried on with your afternoon expedition. You had intentionally chosen comfortable and lightweight clothing today, knowing it would offer a nice opportunity to stretch your legs. As you strolled through town, you felt yourself start to pick up your pace gradually until you were jogging along at a decent speed, leaving the town behind you as you ascended the black volcanic hills that surrounded the area that had since become familiar to you. From atop the hills, you could see the cantina, the school, the marketplace, and off in the distance you could see the Razor Crest as it was undergoing refueling and maintenance.

Continuing to run for a while, just along the outskirts of the city, you relished the feeling of the breeze against your skin; while Nevarro was hot and the air somewhat sulfurous due to the volcanoes, it was still a nice change from the recycled air of the ship, and was certainly better than some of the atmospheres of other planets you had journeyed to. You could feel the lava rocks and ash shifting beneath your feet as you ran, offering just enough resistance to make your heart race and your lungs expand with forceful, concentrated inhalations.

Having now circled about half of the city, watching the landscape change from your position above it, you settled down onto a spot that offered some dry grass to sit comfortably on. You waited for your heart rate to slow back to a resting pace, and stretched your limbs out around you, loving the bit of soreness that came along as your muscles stretched and contracted. You allowed yourself to rest here for a while, clearing your mind as you worked to let the Force flow through you, just as Ixxith had taught you. You could feel the Force moving through you gently, almost like a breeze passing through an open window. You settled into this feeling, into the peace that it offered, as silence and tranquility had become rare within the steel confines of your home. Relaxing, you only barely noticed the breeze that seemed to push and pull the air through your lungs, as you sank into the comfortable silence for a while.

Sensing a growing chill in the air, your eyes opened to scene around you. The sun had begun its descent behind the volcanic hilltops and you knew it was time to be on your way, to return to Din and Grogu, to your home and to your bed. Pushing yourself up from the ground, you brushed off the dust and debris that had pressed into your body and clothing, before starting a comfortable pace down the hillside and back into the city.

As you passed some of the houses that made up the outskirts of the city, you could sense that something, or someone, was watching you; turning to look all around, you didn’t see anything unusual. You tried to shake off the feeling as you navigated yourself down a familiar city path, shifting your focus towards your upcoming reunion with Din; thinking of the way he had pinched the inside of your thigh earlier shot your heart rate right back up to its previously racing pace.

And yet there was a persistently odd feeling around you though, one that you couldn’t seem to shake, even with the thought of Din. Deciding to trust your gut, you stepped down what seemed to be a quiet alleyway to take better stock of the situation around you and determine what was causing this unsettling feeling of observation. No, observation wasn’t the right word. The word that came to mind was stalked. Like something was hiding in the shadows and corner of your vision, keeping in step with you but never being revealed. You scanned the street you had just been walking through, trying to find whatever was causing this unease, this growing sense of danger —

And then you felt a large hand grasping your forearm like a steel trap, crushing your wrist as whoever this was pulled you further into the alley and into the seclusion that it offered.

Whirling around as your free hand having found its way into a fist, you intended to punch this unexpected attacker in the face; but before you could complete your movement, a grey and leathery hand grabbed your entire fist and wrenched it away, but maintaining a tight hold on your hand to restrain you. Looking up, you saw a terrifyingly familiar humanoid face.

Maxir Bragant had been a close companion and business partner of Orron Jakar, and you had spent more time around this Delphidian man than you ever cared to recall. He had been a frequent visitor to your shop, and the individuals who he dumped onto your cot for healing rarely survived due to his brutal and unyielding attacks. Being quite fond of cleaving into others with his axe, there was generally very little you could do to improve his victim’s odds of survival; you were no miracle worker, and you recalled how you had been beaten mercilessly for your failures. As you looked down to see that very same black axe strapped to his belt, you felt bile and fear rise up in your throat, not confident that you would be able to escape the crushing grasp of this towering man who now had both of your arms restrained.

His voice hissed out coldly, as his pitch-black eyes stared into yours with the same kind of fury and hatred that you had often seen echoed in Orron’s icy blue ones. “What a surprise to find you here,” he laughed, and the sound turned the very blood pumping through your veins to acid, to ice. He sneered at you, lips curling back to reveal the same ugly grin that showed up in your nightmares. “Figured you’d know better than to show up in a town like this. But, you were never a very bright one, were you?”

You bit your tongue, trying not to snap at that bait that he had flung out to you; you knew he wanted you to respond, wanted you to get mouthy, so he would have an excuse to discipline you, just as Orron once had. He wanted an interesting fight — you knew that he thrived on crushing the life out of a terrified and desperate soul, and you were not going to give that to him. You needed to ignore his jabs, verbal and physical, and focus on how to get yourself out of this situation, how to alert Din, or the Marshal, or any bystander who could offer you some sort of reinforcement against what was surely about to be a horribly painful and ugly fight.

Bragant used his leverage to pull you in closely to him, and you could smell the putrid odor of sweat and blood that radiated from him. It was nauseating and made your head feel dizzy, but you couldn’t let this get to you, couldn’t let this throw you off. From this positioning, you knew that you wouldn’t be able to use your upper body to fight him off as he had your arms secured; making a quickly-calculated decision, you brought your knee up forcefully into his groin, and as he bent over in pain with a groan, he released one of your hands. Gods, was it satisfying to see this motherfucker writhing. Having some more leverage and momentum now, you kicked into his sternum forcefully, his massive body flying backwards into the stone wall behind him. You turned to run, willing your feet to move faster than the stars you had watched in hyperspace — but he recovered faster than you expected; you had only made it about four or five steps away when he wrapped his rough, scarred arm around your neck and brought your writhing, desperately fighting body up and into his, pressing his back into the wall to keep you out of sight.

“Stupid bitch,” he spit at you, and you could see the flecks of blood and saliva that landed in the dust around you, standing out in stark contrast to the dark volcanic ash. “Did you really think you’d get away with it, killing him?” You felt the cold and rough-hewn blade of his axe pressing into your chest, a jagged corner digging in just enough to make you gasp as it pierced your skin; the blade was pressed dangerously close to your heart, and you had seen the force with which he could swing his weapon.

“Still curious how the fuck you got out of there like you did, vanishing like that; but we’ll have plenty of time to ask questions when I bring you back home. There are a lot of people that have been missing you.”

You could sense the sick and cruel smile on his face as he pictured what would surely be a gruesome, horrific, and torturous death.

No. No, you were not going to go out that way. Not on his terms, not on Orron’s. Not like this.

You thought about the horrors that would await you if Bragant was able to bring you back to the cartel. You thought about the sickening fear and sadness that Din and Grogu would feel at your unplanned and unexplained departure. Thought about how Din would cut his way through each and every formidable cartel member trying to bring you back to him, to bring you back to safety, to bring you back home. Thought about how one man wouldn’t be enough to fight off an army, thought about how Din would die trying to bring you back, just as you had nearly died bringing him back on Bardotta.

Thought about how the love between the two of you would threaten to shatter the galaxy.

You thought about how Bragant had called the cartel home, and the anger that coursed through you felt as though it was moving through your very bloodstream, each desperate beat of your heart pushing that anger further and further into your body, fueling your muscles and your strength until it was threatening to burst forward from you like a seismic charge.

“Home?” You screeched, the words tearing their way through your throat with vitriol.

“Home?! You keep that word out of your goddamn fucking mouth!” You screamed forcefully, your voice echoing against the stone and clay walls; you heard a loud crack, and the wall that Bragant’s body was resting against collapsed in on itself.

This disruption and destruction caught Bragant by surprise, and he fell backwards into the pile of rubble that your anger alone had created, releasing you from his grasp in the process. Your chest was heaving as you inhaled deep lungfuls of air, feeling the oxygen feed more and more power to your body — you felt invincible, impossibly strong and powerful — and vengeful. Every violent revenge fantasy you had ever had came rushing back to you, as you saw the tidal wave of your abuser’s blood overtake the world around you.

Here was a man who had contributed to your pain and destruction, who had killed countless people with no mercy — and now, you didn’t have a single ounce of mercy to extend to him. And you were at peace with that.

A blinding hot, red wave of fury overtook your body, crashing around you and drowning out the fragile sense of humanity that was desperately clambering to stay afloat. It was as if you were possessed, as you watched your arm extend before you, muscles twitching beneath skin as your fingers pointed in Bragant’s direction, before your hand found itself curled into a tight fist. Your nails dug into the palm of your hand, and you could see redness dripping forth from it — and you saw Bragant’s writhing form being lifted from amongst the stones, until he was levitating in midair. His hands clawed desperately at his throat, and the sight of his now-bulging eyes filling with terror felt beautiful.

With a final, overwhelming rush of immense power, your wrist pulled your hand inwards to your body and you heard a nauseatingly satisfying crack reverberate through the alleyway as Bragant’s eyes went dark and his body went limp, collapsing onto the pile of rocks and clay beneath him with a dull thump.

Your head began to spin as the energy that had previously flowed through you was suddenly ripped away, and you felt as though every cell of your body was now collapsing in on itself in slow motion; the sky above you and the ground below you tumbled throughout your field of vision, spinning both together and apart as your body connected with the dusty floor of the alleyway.

You could vaguely see a blood red stain spreading in your field of vision. Whose blood was it?

Throughout all of the endless spinning and disorientation, your eyes eventually came to rest on one comforting and familiar sight — a tall figure clad in beskar rushed to your side, but you couldn’t feel anything, couldn’t feel the hands that you knew were on your body, couldn’t feel the shift in your form as you were hauled into his arms. Couldn’t feel the heavy breaths and terrified words that spilled around you, as your head lolled to the side in his arms. It felt as though the link between your mind and body had been snapped, like a harp string tuned too tightly, and as the universe continued to tumble through your field of vision, you closed your eyes tightly and prayed for it all to stop.

Stop. Stop.

Stop.

[cheri-translates]

[CN] Kiro’s Poetry and Wine Date (Eng Translation)

🍒 Warning: Detailed spoilers for a date yet to be released in EN! 🍒

Candlelit Night Collection: Gavin // Lucien // Victor

Trivia regarding the name of the date:

The date is called 诗酒趁年华, a reference to a poem called 望江南 (”wang jiang nan”) by Su Shi, a Song Dynasty poet

A loose translation - “Write poems and drink wine - take advantage of the age.”

This poem conveys how you must make full use of youth to pursue your dreams - it’s the time you’re most energetic, aggressive and courageous 

-

[ CHAPTER ONE ]

The date begins with MC in the office and realising she missed several calls from Kiro

When she calls him, he sounds really really sad :<

He states that he’s in the hospital

Without waiting for him to finish, MC hangs up the phone so she can hurry over

It turns out that Kiro was in the hospital to visit a fan, who is suffering from cancer

Kiro: [in the saddest voice ever] When she was diagnosed with late stage cancer, she planned to break up with her long-time boyfriend. But he decided to get a wedding certificate immediately and hold a wedding. Isn’t it very moving? 

He explains that after the wedding, the fan’s condition worsened, and she only has a few months left to live

Kiro: [sighs] When I just found out about it, I was really sad. [sniffs] But after you came, I feel a lot better. 

MC: Why is that so?

Kiro: Because I still want to believe that love can prolong one’s life. 

He looks into my eyes, his gaze twinkling with a strange light. 

Kiro: I believe miracles will happen. It definitely wouldn’t just be a few months. Maybe it’d be a year, two years, ten years... a lifetime. 

There is a tinging sensation in my nose, and I’m unable to suppress the tears in my eyes from flowing.

MC: Mm, I also believe so.

Kiro: Don’t be sad.

Kiro wipes my tears with his fingertips gently.

Kiro: Even though I couldn’t attend the wedding, the bride looked very happy in the recording. Happier than anyone else in the world. 

MC: She must have experienced the happiness from a wedding. 

I blink hard, suppressing my tears. Even though this story is filled with sorrow, it also feels romantic and happy at the same time. 

Kiro: Which is why I’ve decided to shoot a short film, in order to prolong that moment of happiness. 

Kiro explains that he will be the director and male lead in the film

As for the female lead...

MC: Who’s the female lead? Is she an actress I know?

Kiro: You definitely know her. 

MC: Not necessarily...

Kiro: This is the first time I’m a director, so for the other lead in this “wedding”... I could only think of you.

-

Phone call between Kiro and the fan: here

-

[ CHAPTER TWO ]

After a recording, Kiro sits in the backseat of the car. He looks out at the night scenery outside the window, and suddenly reveals a happy expression.

Kiro: She agreed.

He says this very softly, but it sounds abrupt in the quiet car. In the front seat, Savin whips his head around, his eyes filled with a cautious “what are you trying to do this time?”

Savin: Who agreed? Agreed to what? 

Kiro: I said before that I was going to shoot a short film for the fans. Miss Chips agreed to be my female lead!

Savin: MC? She can’t... wait, it seems she’s better than other actors within the circle. At least she wouldn’t try to rub off from your popularity. 

Within a short span of a minute, Savin’s words twist and turn numerous times. 

Kiro: You’ve agreed?!

Savin: No, I didn’t agree. I was just saying that her status isn’t bad, not that her acting skills are passable. 

Kiro: I’m not worried about that at all.

Savin: Why do you have so much faith in her? 

Kiro: Because I’m the groom!

Kiro speaks with exceptional confidence. After hearing this, Savin rubs his temples.

Savin: I’m starting to suspect that you’re shooting this short film with an ulterior motive in mind. 

Kiro: What ulterior motive? The reason for the shoot has always been simple. 

There is confusion in Kiro’s expression. After giving him a long stare, Savin gives up and retracts his gaze. 

Savin: That would be best. 

After Savin turns his head back to the front, Kiro secretly sticks out his tongue. 

Kiro: [whispering] I am a tiny bit selfish. But... I won’t tell anyone.

He still has many things to prepare. For instance, the location of the wedding shoot, the attire they would wear that day, and purchasing one particular item. 

That “token of love”... she will definitely like it, right?  

Thinking about this, Kiro is unable to control the corners of his lips from curling upwards. 

-

[ CHAPTER THREE ]

The day of the filming arrives. After helping MC with her outfit and make-up, the make-up artist leaves the room. Soon after, MC hears a knock at the door. She lifts up part of her head veil and opens the door.

MC: Kiro? 

I’m stunned for a second. He also seems to be frozen. His eyes contain undisguised shock, and scarlet slowly creeps up his cheeks. 

Kiro: I came to find you. 

Kiro is wearing a matching set of wedding attire. His golden hair has been tied with a ribbon. Such a bright colour makes him look as though he came out from a painting.

Kiro: Are you the only one in the room? 

He leans over, using his hand to lift up the other end of the veil. I subconsciously place my forefinger to my lips, signalling him to keep his voice down. 

But he simply winks and laughs happily. 

Kiro: Miss Chips, you look really pretty. Even more gorgeous than I imagined.

The dim sunlight does not reach this corner of the room. Dappled light passes through the lattice window. This moment seems to be slowed down infinitely, turning it into frames of light and shadow.

His eyes gleam, and the tenderness within them are reminiscent of a puddle of water, gently flowing across my heart. 

MC: W-what are you doing here? 

I try to dodge from his line of sight, but Kiro doesn’t allow me to leave. He grasps my hand and brings it to his lips. The gentle touch is like a lingering feather.

Kiro: I’m just wondering... what if I could take you away right now...

His serious tone doesn’t sound like he’s joking. I’m at a loss, waiting for him to continue. Then, he releases my hand.

Kiro: Did I scare you? I was actually just kidding. I wanted to see how you looked like in wedding attire immediately, so I secretly came over. 

MC: You...

I’m about to say something, but impending footsteps resound from outside the door, followed by knocking.

MC: Someone’s here!

She hides him near the window just as the makeup artist comes in

[Trivia: In Chinese tradition, it is considered “inappropriate” for the bride and groom to see each other the day or the night before the wedding.]

From behind, Kiro places something in her palm

Once the makeup artist is gone, Kiro asks whether she likes it - it’s the Fairy Pendant from the previous Qixi Festival (i.e. Kiro’s Valentine’s Night Date)

MC: Why is this with you? 

Kiro: Because this wedding requires a token of love. I think it’s very suitable. 

[Trivia: Tokens of love are used as promises between lovers. Unlike rings and roses in Western cultures, the ancient Chinese people were more casual. A comb, a hairpin, or even half a mirror could be used as a token of love. The value of the item itself isn’t as important as the emotions attached to it.]

Filled with nostalgia, I toy with the Fairy Pendant in my hand. I still feel slightly confused. 

MC: The script doesn’t seem to have a jade pendant involved though.

Kiro: The script... well, I have the final say!

Along with Kiro’s words, an assistant calls him from outside the room.

Kiro: Wait for me to fetch you!

His tender voice enters my ears, as light and soft as a drifting cloud. It makes one’s heart sink into it. 

[Trivia: In traditional Chinese weddings, the groom will journey to the bride’s family home on the day of the wedding to fetch her (接亲 - “jie qin”). Before he can get to his bride, he has to get past her bridesmaids by satisfying a number of tasks.]

-

[ CHAPTER FOUR ]

Watching Kiro’s retreating figure, I suddenly have the urge to ask him to stay.

As if he can sense my thoughts, he turns his head right before he leaves the courtyard, forming a “wait for me” with his mouth. 

A warmth enters my heart, and I nod my head vigorously. I return into the room, waiting for him to “fetch me”.

The “wedding” officially starts at dusk

MC stands at the doorway, waiting for the first scene

Kiro appears on a HORSE.

After the scene:

Kiro: Miss Chips, didn’t I look very cool just now?

Heat is still emanating from his body from the earlier exercise, and I subconsciously take half a step back.

MC: Yes, everyone was in a daze!

Receiving my approval, he crinkles his eyes and looks contented. 

Kiro: I’m guessing you were in a daze too. Are you ready for the next shoot?

MC: Mm, but I’m still a little nervous. What if I trip and fall because I can’t see? What if my expression doesn’t look natural when you remove the veil...

Counting on my fingers, I list down everything I’m worried about. 

Kiro: In that case, we can film it over and over again. Besides...

He lowers his head to my ear, in a volume only the two of us can hear. 

Kiro: I want you to experience the happiness of being a bride, and not just for the film.

After calming down, she puts on the veil

Kiro: I’m here to fetch you - my bride. 

MC: Mm.

Surrounded by the noise of gongs and drum, MC is carried over the threshold, then led down the red carpet

Kiro: From now onwards, you can leave everything to me. There’s still a lot in our future...

He speaks incredibly solemnly. His lines bring with it a touch of sadness, but infinite hope afterwards. 

MC: I believe so too.

I place my hand in his, and he leads me into the sedan. The little sedan sways, and my heartbeat seems to follow its ups and downs, unable to stop for a moment. 

I used to hear of people complaining that weddings are cumbersome and tiring.  But right now, the feelings I’m experiencing are incomparable to everything else.

When I disembark from the sedan, one end of an embroidered silk ball is placed into my hand. Its other end is held tightly by Kiro.

Master of Ceremonies: Things which are destined will eventually come to pass. Even across a thousand miles, people destined to marry are connected by a thread. 

I am led by this red silk, passing through the crowd and crossing the threshold. I can’t see the people surrounding me, nor can I see the cameras. 

I can only see the patterns on my skirt moving while I walk. The end of the red silk sways gently. Only one name is written in my mind and heart: Kiro.

-

They carry out the wedding procession, and MC is glad she's wearing a veil to hide her blush

The next scene happens in the newlywed room, and he removes her veil

Kiro: Because of this moment, I feel that everything is worth it.

The affection in his eyes makes it difficult for me to breathe. The candlelight flickers, casting a red glow on every corner of the room, giving a certain charm to everything before me.

For a moment, I can’t differentiate what’s in the film and what is not. Kiro holds up a pair of wine cups linked together with a red thread, and hands one to me. 

I take the wine cup, shifting my eyes furtively to look at him. I avert them when I meet his scorching ones. 

Our arms are linked with each other, and the distance leaves me unable to avoid his eyes. His breath infiltrates my body.

Kiro and I raise our heads at the same time, downing the wine.

[Trivia: Linking arms and drinking wine (交杯酒 - “jiao jiu bei”) is a traditional Chinese wedding custom. This is because the Chinese word “wine” (酒 - “jiu”) sounds like the Chinese word “long time” (久 - “jiu”). This act symbolises how the couple will be together forever... T^T)

We agreed earlier that the wine in the cup would be swapped with water. However, I taste a slight sweetness. I look towards Kiro in shock, and he winks at me secretly.

-

[ CHAPTER FIVE ]

During a break, Kiro brings her outside to the streets and brings her to a restaurant

Kiro feeds her a leaf-shaped dessert, then finishes the remaining half of it (causing MC to blush because indirect kisses are just so SPICY 👀)

The restaurant gives them a free dessert they’ve never seen before

Kiro tries it and realises it’s extremely spicy

Kiro: Whoa huff huff, water!

He frantically reaches for the cup on the table. Before I can stop him, he downs the entire cup.

Kiro: W-why is it wine?!

MC: Here! Water!

I hurriedly stuff my cup into his hands. He gulps it down, then plops onto the table weakly.

Kiro: [groans] I’m finally back to life...

MC: Are you all right now? 

I reach out to brush his bangs to the side. Despite the cold winter, sweat droplets are on his forehead due to the earlier incident. 

Kiro: I’m fine. I actually feel like having another piece now that the spiciness is gone... why does the boss always like to experiment with these strange things?

Kiro comments that the boss’ wine is amazing, so MC takes a sip

They drift into a peaceful silence

Kiro: Actually, I have a selfish motive for shooting this short film...

Kiro’s posture is rather casual. Without realising it, he has finished half a pot of wine. The collar of his clothes has fallen apart, and there is a drunken look in his eyes.

One hand is holding onto the wine cup, and the other is supporting his chin as he looks at me. There is an undisguised joy in his eyes, and a look of intoxicated longing.

Kiro: Miss Chips, I... want you to become my wife. 

Perhaps due to his drunken state, his words are especially straightforward. It’s as though he’s saying something that's completely natural.

I’m unable to hide when faced with such straightforwardness. There’s a sudden tingling sensation in my nose, and the happiness in my heart is about to overflow.

MC: Mm!

Kiro’s eyes crinkle as he continues, his clear eyes reflecting only me. 

Kiro: Once the filming is over, we can give this short film to the audience together. Our names will be put together. Just like on a wedding invitation. It will say: Kiro and Miss Chips.

As he speaks, he fails to control the upward curl of his lips. 

MC: Why are you so happy?

Kiro: Because...

He tilts his head and thinks for two seconds, then responds with certainty. 

Kiro: People from ancient times often said that there are four great things in life: Rain after a long drought, meeting an old friend in a distant land, success in the imperial examinations, and... the wedding night.

His breath turns into a white mist, dissipating in the thin rays of light. The noises from our surroundings seem to disappear, and even the cold melts in his eyes.

Kiro: The wedding night.  

He repeats. The words on the tip of his tongue seem to be dyed in the scorching warmth of his breath.

Kiro reaches out and brings a lock of my hair to his lips, giving it a kiss. We are only separated by a small and narrow table in the middle. 

Kiro: Even though my wish has already been fulfilled, I still want more. Am I being too greedy?

I have no idea how to respond. His eyes are scorching, making my heart feel flustered. 

Reason tells me to shift backwards, but I don’t move at all. I watch as he leans closer, and wait for his breath to enter my territory like a patter of rain.

Suddenly, the corner of the table reaches its limit and flips sideways. Kiro, whose hand was on the table and is unable to react in time, falls towards me. 

MC: !

The red ribbon in my line of sight flies. Before I can react, I fall heavily onto the couch, but Kiro has subconsciously protected my head by placing his hand behind it.

Kiro: Are you hurt? 

Our clothes are tangled, and our loose hair is spread out under us. His arm is at my ear, supporting himself, and the shadow he casts has almost completely enveloped me. 

The spilt wine on the couch emits a fragrance, causing the temperature of the room to rise. 

With our close distance, our breathing quickens and becomes ragged. It’s as though we are taking up each other’s space to breathe, and yet are unwilling to move away. 

Kiro: Miss Chips, close your eyes. 

Only after a few seconds can my mind comprehend his words. But Kiro doesn’t wait. 

Under the swaying lights, everything in front of me seems to emit pure light. His eyelashes sweep across gently, like a butterfly’s wing. His lips are soaked in wine and stained with a lustre.

In the next second, my lips and tongue are claimed by Kiro’s scorching breath.

I close my eyes, wrapping my arms around his neck. 

The darkness amplifies my senses. Noises from the street and from people, and the sound of footsteps seem to be right at my ear. 

My heart beats rapidly, trying to break free from my chest. 

Kiro: Miss Chips...

In a half-lidded daze, I see Kiro’s tender gaze, the hazy lights and shadows, and the ends of our hair entangled together. 

Kiro: Having you... is really nice. 

I tighten my grip, bringing him closer into my arms. 

-

In this corner of Loveland City, on this ordinary winter night, Kiro hugs the girl in his arms, fully satisfied. 

There are still many things he has yet to tell her-

“It was fate which allowed us to meet. It was only when I met you that the ‘nucleus’ belonging to Kiro started to operate. 

It’s you who enabled me to become a star.”

-

[ CHAPTER FIVE: Extras ] 

Kiro: Miss Chips, your face is really red.

After the shoot is over, Kiro suddenly says this. After being stunned for a moment, I respond without thinking.

MC: Your face is really red too.

As Savin walks past hurriedly, he hears our conversation and asks in bewilderment:

Savin: Why are both of your faces so red?

Kiro: It’s because... [sheepish laugh]

MC: I-it’s a little hot! Maybe I stuck on too many heat packs!

Savin: You two can open the window to get some air. Be careful not to catch a cold.

Kiro opens the window, and he starts musing about how Western weddings are romantic, but Chinese weddings have a certain solemnity to them:

Kiro: You only have one life, and you only have one person. Kowtow to the heaven and the earth, drink from linked wine cups, and the rest of our lives will belong to each other.

Kiro shares his fears of not being able to convey his thoughts to the audience through the film

While MC assures him that everything will turn out well, she brushes against the Fairy Pendant

She wonders why it wasn’t featured in the film

Kiro ties it onto her waist

[Trivia: Jade pendants are believed to bring people good luck, and protect its owner’s body and spirit from harm. The colour green in jade also signifies balance, wealth, fertility, luck, harmony, and long life - qualities essential for every happy marriage.]

Kiro: Since you’ve accepted my jade pendant, you belong to me now!

MC: What...?!

Before I can even express my confusion, my hands are held tightly in his.

His fingertips are warm, as though they are about to melt the air. Time passes slowly, brewing this moment into a beautiful dream.

[warrioreowynofrohan]

Do you think the Numenoreans are sympathetic in their resentment of the Gift of Men?

I’m really sorry this has taken so long - I wrote about three-quarters of it really quickly, and then sat on it for a few weeks because I wasn’t sure how to organize all my different thoughts.

I would say my answer is both “No” and “Yes”.

I have little or no sympathy for what Númenor becomes. Even well before they start listening to Sauron, they turn themselves into a deliberate empire, colonizing and exploiting the rest of the world.  They do this despite the fact that every single person in Númenor has everything they materially need - the empire is for the purposes of pride and prestige alone.  They have everything, an earthly paradise without sickness or want, and they’re diverting themselves by exacting tribute from people who have far less than they do.  And it’s all the worse because everything that the Númenoreans do have - everything that they’re using to wage war on the world - is a freely-given gift from the Valar and the Eldar.

And then it becomes infinitely worse under Ar-Phârazon, where they turn to human sacrifice and worshipping Morgoth.  They’re not acting in ignorance - they know exactly who and what Sauron is, and they know exactly who and what Melkor is, and they’re making a choice.  The attempt to conquer Valinor is patently idiotic as well as evil.  And again, they are attacking the people who are directly responsible for the very existence of Númenor and all of the good things they have had.

It’s the reason why I’m inclined to laugh at comments about Elves being bigger screw-ups than Men.  The great rebellion of the Elves was associated with the desire to leave Valinor and fight Morgoth - their means and attitudes were wrong, but they were at least, broadly speaking, on the right side.  The great rebellion of Men is the choice to invade Valinor in service to Morgoth - they have deliberately chosen the side of evil.  The screw-ups of Men are infinitely worse than the screw-ups of Elves. (Name a 600-year period of human history that contained only 3-4 battles [not wars, battles]. I’ll wait.  And that’s the worst the Elves ever get.)

Númenor fully earns its end.

But in the earlier days of Númenor, I have some sympathy with their unahappiness about the Gift of Men.  The creation of Númenor in the first place, though understandable and entirely well-meaning, is arguably the same mistake as the initial invitation of the Elves to Valinor - it separates them from Middle-earth and from their kindred, and tries to protect them from the world rather than to help them to live in it, to share its problems and sufferings and work to heal and improve it. (Ulmo knows this - it’s why he takes no part in the creation of Númenor).

And moreover, all of the ways the Númenoreans differ from other Men are ways that make them more like Elves.  They live in an island paradise to the West; they have greater strength and skill; they do not get sick; they live much longer than other Men; they even speak Elven languages. So if being more Elvish is a reward, it is very easy for the one way in which they are still Mannish - mortality - to appear as a curse.

And this strange liminal position they’re in, as Elf-like Men, plays a role in their later corruption.  @thearrogantemu had some excellent commentary on this that gave me a better sense of elements that play into the Fall of Númenor:

Poor Númenor; they were set up for such spectacular metaphysical failure. We’re going to set you within sight of the bliss and immortality you can never reach, but that’s okay, because what you have is of equal value though different nature! You will become the foremost of the powers in Middle-earth, but you will definitely know where to draw the line, right? 

They’re given the power that later enables them to become an Empire, but not the power that would give them the one last thing they really want, the last thing that, it seems, would make them as good as their friends in Eressëa.  And their power and safety and bliss at the same time separates them from the Men of Middle-earth in a way that prevents them from being able to genuinely sympathize with them or interact with them as fellows and equals.

And on top of this, there’s a certain failure to communicate, and perhaps a failure of imagination, on the part of the deathless when they speak of the Gift of Men. The Lay of Leithian, speaking of Lúthien’s fate, says that “being immortal she shared in [Beren’s] mortality, and being free recieved his chain, and her anguish was greater than any other of the Eldalië has known”. So when death happens to mortals it’s not something that should bother them, but when it happens to an elf it’s a great tragedy? (Though the word Leithian translates as “release from bondage” which is the opposite idea - leaving the Circles of the World as freedom - so I gather that there are a variety of different perspectives among the Elves regarding Lúthien’s death.) And Arwen also recgonizes the hardship of death when she faces it: “I say to you, King of the Númenoreans, not till now have I understood the tale of your people and their fall. As wicked fools I scorned them, but I pity them at last. For if this is indeed, as the Eldar say, the gift of the One to Men, it is bitter to recieve.” So when the Elves tell the Númenorians not to be troubled about death, there’s a certain amount of well-intentioned Elfsplaining going on; they are speaking about something they neither know nor experience, and the few times that they do experience it - either as something that affects them or their loved ones - they don’t like it.

I think a better case for why Men cannot be immortal in the way that Elves are immortal is to imagine what it would be like in the hypothetical situation where Men did become immortal, if they did become like Elves, but retained the personalities and desires of Men.  They would, ultimately, have one of two fates: to live in Middle-earth and ultimately to fade to a spirit, unable to influence or interact with the world; or to depart permanently to Valinor. In either case, they would be desperately unhappy.

Living in Valinor as immortals, Men would be bored out of their minds and deeply restless.  It would be the same situation as Fëanor except many times worse. (I’ve written before about how Fëanor is the most Mannish of elves.) Elves, for the most part, desire stability and the preservation of things as they are; Men thrive on change and stimulus.  And Elves, for the most part, do not get tired of things that they like, whereas Men do: as Andreth says, “We find that [the Eldar] do not understand the saying that goes among Men: Too often seen is seen no longer. And they wonder much that in the tongues of Men the same word may mean both ‘long-known’ and ‘stale’.” Change and ambition are at the heart of the nature of Men - to live in an unchanging world that has no need or outlet for their ambition would in the end become a torment.  Likewise, to remain in Middle-earth and to fade, and have no way to interact with the world, to be only an observer for the rest of eternity, would be a misery to them.

The Gift of Men, though distorted and turned to suffering by the Fall, is still something fundamentally in tune with their nature - Arda is not their permanent home.  They must always explore, always go beyond what they know.

[shipwreckedshadows]

The Shadow Prime thing.

[after his failure to keep Catra and Glimmer contained, Horde Prime captures another prisoner in the hopes that she might have some value to him]

Shadow Weaver tested the bounds of her magic as she waited to be retrieved from her cell. The shadows responded to her call, as they always had, but they did so without motivation. They would not be effective in a fight. She tried to search for any hint of darkness on the ship and found that she could sense a large mass of it at the center of the space craft. It pulsed with irrational need and the sins of a prideful man. Her cell was three levels up from the source but she could not recall following any stairs to get there. Perhaps the floor was uneven and progressed at a slight angle, like a giant, spiraling ramp.  Or perhaps there were teleportation pads between floors and she just hadn’t seen one yet.

She inspected the room silently. The bed was docked on either side by two side tables. The one on the right held nothing. The one on the left contained a book. Horde Prime’s insignia had been pressed into the cover. Inside were writings of cultist rhetoric. After thumbing through the pages, she put it back. She never cared for anyone’s rules and she was not about to start.

She lay on the bed and did not move for hours. If there were cameras in her cell, the only thing Prime would observe of his prisoner would be her infinite reservoir of self control. 

After several hours, the cell door slipped open and two clones stepped up to collect her. She did not move, even as they spoke.

“The Lord requests your presence, madam Weaver.” One said politely.

“If he wishes to see me, he can come up here and ask me himself.” Shadow Weaver answered to the ceiling.

“Is something troubling you, my lady of darkness?“ The clone asked after a moment of silence. His intonation had changed. He sounded authoritative and entitled. He held the voice of a king who had seldom lost to anyone. That power she felt from the center of the ship, pulsed now at the foot of her door. The magic of Obtainment swirled within her and she smiled.

“Lovely to see you, Horde Prime. I keep hearing about you.”

“Naturally. Why don’t you allow my clones to escort you and we can introduce ourselves properly?”

Shadow Weaver finally sat up to look at him, “I don’t make for very pleasant company.”

“I would not be asking if I didn’t wish it. You will come to see me if you value your freedom.”

The clone blinked and he returned back to himself - a lost man on the path to purity. Horde Prime’s signature had left and returned to where it came from. She slid off the bed and allowed the clones to lead her to their master.

She frowned when she realized they had moved a floor down. Prime’s signature indicated as much. But the floor didn’t descend at a gradient and she had no memory of a teleportation pad. She kept her mind sharp and leaned more focus into her environment and her actions. They kept walking. The corridors wound around each other like tree branches. Everything looked exactly the same. She wondered how the clones were able to transverse such confusing architecture.

It was too late when she noticed that they had dropped down another floor. She decided to puzzle over it later and calmed herself so she could properly greet and assess Etheria’s new overlord.

They came into a grand room, guarded by more clones. Prime lounged in his throne and managed to look both pleased and menacing. He sat taller than most of the objects in the room. His aura filled the grand room, from the floor to the top of the twenty foot ceiling. Shadow Weaver quelled the Obtainment magic. They would have to feed later. He stood to greet her, arms open wide.

“Welcome, my lady of darkness. It is so lovely to have you here.”

“Nobody has ever said that to my face without later redacting their sentiments.” Shadow Weaver commented offhandedly, “Please spare me the theatrics. I’m only here because you seem have business with me. What do you want?”

Prime scowled, “I can see how, as one of the most powerful magical entities on Etheria, you might feel entitled to direct the conversation. But you are standing in the hall of my light. There are no shadows here, no darkness that will bend to your magic. I will negotiate my terms with you when I feel it is necessary.”

“You sound just like Hordak.”

“Well, of course. I made him in my image. I might have to do the same to you, if you keep with your current attitude.”

“You can hardly blame me. I’m imprisoned here, on this ship, away from my home.”

“Home?” He laughed as he circled her, “You have no home. I know all about your history - your lovely Hordak showed me everything. You’ve been a traitor your whole life. What’s one more defection before everything Etheria once was is lost?” His large frame towered over hers in an effort to intimidate her. She kept her posture relaxed and met his gaze with indifference.

“You wish for me to join you?” She asked skeptically.

“There will be terms, of course, but in a simple word, yes.”

“And will we discuss these terms? Or do I have to endure another round of your plastic pleasantries?”

“We’ll save that conversation for dinner. For now, I want to give us a chance to get to know each other. Come, I wish to show you something.”

She had no choice but to follow him from the throne room, down the twisting halls and into another set of chambers. Otherworldly artifacts decorated the room. Paintings and weapons of distant civilizations mounted the walls, books and odd trinkets sat on shelves and several rugs covered the floor.

“This is my trove of rare and valuable artifacts. It’s a collection curated from all over the galaxy.” He said proudly.

Shadow Weaver couldn’t help but wonder at it all. Other creatures had created, sold, bought, possessed and held these items in their hands. So much history was stored in this room. She noticed an empty pedestal by the large window. 

“It’s... impressive.” She noted without colour in her voice, “Why feel the need to show me? Are you not worried that I may break something?”

“A little.” His fourth eye shifted to the pedestal at the window, “But I feel it is my responsibility to show you the rich history of the worlds I’ve seen”

“And yet you eradicated each and every one of them.”

“Because their people refused to see that they had deteriorated from greatness. They denied my light and without much else to do to persuade them, they had to be purged. It was for the sake of their own good.” His teeth clenched to hold back a wave of anger and disappointment. He saw himself as a protector of the universe. The worlds he destroyed was out of his sense of responsibility to the galaxies - a responsibility to chase away the darkness. Perhaps that was his mission at one point. There were ulterior motives to his mission - motives to rule the galaxy and control everything, from the atomic cycles to the construction of civilizations.

“I kept their possessions to preserve their history, to keep their memories alive.”

“What do you wish to collect from Etheria - so you can commemorate its people... my people?” She asked.

“Originally, I wanted Queen Angella’s wings. She was such a beacon in the fight against my little brother. He had nightmares about her for several months following a bad encounter with her. And she was immortal - that is most definitely a rarity in this universe. You can imagine my disappointment when I found out that she was no longer part of this world.”

Shadow Weaver imagined Prime taking a large scalpel to the angel’s wings, pushing the blade through feathers, flesh and bone. Quickly, she pushed the thought from her mind. “She’s only stuck between worlds, why not build another portal and retrieve her?”

“My lady, do you know how resource intensive portal building is? Besides, I found something better.”

Shadow Weaver waited wordlessly for him to tell her, head tilted to the side and hands clasped in front of her. She had a feeling she knew what he might say.

“The Heart of Etheria. A weapon of magic, preserved inside your planet. I’ll condense it down to the size of a watermelon and put it right at the helm of my collection.” He indicated the pedestal, “I used to have something else to occupy that space. However, it has most unfortunately been disposed of.”

“What do you mean?” Why would Prime do away with one of his precious trophies?

“You ask so many questions, my lady.” he chuckled, “Let me have a turn.” He tapped his chin in mock thought, “Why do you insist on hiding your pretty face from me?”

She scoffed, “Pretty.”

“Horde Prime knows all.” He walked into her personal space and drew a curious finger along the cheek of her mask. “It’s quite hard to speak to you when this thing is in the way.

Shadow Weaver looked up into his face and made no move to stop him.

“You’re so still. Does it not bother you that I might rip your protection away?”

“There are worse things, Horde Prime.”

“Fascinating.” he whispered, “stronger hearts have quivered at the very mention of my name yet yours...” he slipped his fingers under the neck of her gown and shoved them against her jugular, “doesn’t so much as even move!”

“My heart has not moved for over thirty years. I doubt it will start now.”

He kept his hand resting against her neck and removed her mask with his other. She enjoyed the stunned look on his face as he looked into hers. His features remained smooth but she saw the way his extra eyes widened for a fraction of a second.

Prime hardly had his pupils attended to the one single thing, she’d found. Now, she watched them move in unison, across the valleys of scars the burrowed into her aged skin.

She took the mask from him and with her free hand, guided his to the side of her face.

“You are a man of exploration and observation, it seems. It is how you communicate” she said, “You see what is broken and your reflexes tell you to fix it.”

“Are you asking me to heal your scars?”

“Hardly. But healing is your first language. Your tongue speaks through carpentry just as your hands work to build. Observe me, Horde Prime. Communicate with me and perhaps you might land yourself a very good deal.”

He chuckled low in his chest and grinned wide, “How fortunate am I that you can translate so thoroughly.” He traced ever scar on her face until his fingers wove themselves into her thick hair.

“You’re so cold.” He murmured.

“Does it bother you?” She challenged.

“Not at all. It serves to make you more noteworthy.”

He moved his other hand up her neck and followed a trail of gnarled tissue to press the pad of his thumb to her lips. She stowed the mask in her pocket so she could hold his hips properly. Soothingly, she ran one hand up to the center of his back.

“You are sorely mistaken if you think I’m going to put your finger, unwashed and without my knowing where it’s been, in my mouth.” She glared lightly.

He laughed from the deepest bowels of his core. A very good deal, indeed.

[twitchesandstitches]

thinking about reworking that one semi-AU with all my OCs in an infinite space hab, and reimagining it as something specifically set in my originalverse

I’m thinking of an infinitely big dungeon made of limitless sections constantly appearing on their own, sort of like every single dungeon module imaginable combined into one

it would be ‘placed’ within the realms of magic, so it doesn’t have a tangible location exactly, it just sort of floats with limitless potential to grow, and the individual rooms, halls and whatever are ALWAYS just big enough for people to fit, no matter how ridiculously big they are

it has various exits in every single potential world (though it is unclear how they show up; is it automatically digging? does any abandoned ruin transform into a terminus for it? is there a dungeoneering cult making these entrances for it in every world), and THAT’S how characters wind up there. they just walk in, but they don’t necessarily walk out. monsters and creatures appear at random, due to both being surrounded by so much raw magic just making them materialize, as well as the dungeon itself making them somehow

in theory you can get anywhere just by going into it, locating an exit to where you want to go, and walk through. problem is, the dungeon is VERY dangerous!

specific regions may have additional rules that work for a specific scenario; a dungeon route of Boob Expansion that automatically makes everyone super busty, one that makes anyone inside incredibly ravenous and vore-themed, or something else.

The individual chambers contain relics of bygone worlds, somehow incorporating them into itself. if you know the way, you can therefore learn lost lore and knowledge of people who otherwise left no trace. this is great for ‘explore the mystery’ type adventures! It’s got deadly monsters, suitable for any kind of action. And it lures people into it, setting up fights, vore situations, or new friends. Sometimes all at once.

essentially still the basic premise of shoving all my original characters into a space and providing material for adventure, light stuff, or general interactions, but more suited to the weird fantasy I lean for in this verse, as well as explaining HOW my characters go from world to world. the dungeon opens up there.

the real question is if the dungeon has a purpose, the characters have a big goal to be working towards, or if its best to just have its mystery be a tantalizing secret largely irrelevant towards the situations the dungeon PROVIDES

[alivingstillness]

Divine desire - a non-dual view

“There is no doubt that I am that God who is the Self of all; Pure, indivisible, like the sky. Naturally stainless.” - The Avadhoota Gita.

From un-manifest to manifest. Unity without union. All is sprung from the same source, that is Brahman with his ever shining formless and all-pervasive grace. Everything that is contained inside and outside of our universe also lies as latent forces of infinite possibility within the God-Self. When we experience ourselves as the eternal witnessing awareness behind superimposition of the senses, we drop engagements with changing surroundings and bring ourselves closer to the realization of our infinite divinity abiding as Self.

Like the jewel in the lotus, the Self is found in the path of wisdom and as Vilāya (dissolution) of it. It is untainted consciousness that contains everyone, every being and non-being, everywhere, anywhere. It is pure beingness holding within itself all our individual sorrow, happiness, pain and love.

There is no experience for anyone or anything that is not contained within the Self-consciousness, meaning that all that is created within and from it is also itself, pure Self-consciousness. God as God - Self as Self. In it there can ultimately be no contact or relationship between one and the other because it is to its very core one and the same. It is a union without divisions to unite, for it contains all.

If there were to be a comparison to this divine union, it would be that of the boundaryless love between two beings where the one is dissolved in the two as the none. Let us say then that love lies behind and within all of life, form, experience etc. that we may perceive.

Now for this consciousness that is always resting as infinite aware Self, to simultaneously be having dual experiences as; me, you, dog, anger, stone, water, ..well anything that is, it must be so, that within all possibilities that are contained within human perception, they are also perceived within pure eternal Self.

“Desire is a root cause for suffering.” -The Buddha

Desire, however it may or may not play out, is an indication that something can be fulfilled by something else. In the same way as a girl might desire approval and recognition from her parents, a man who feels unfulfilled in his relationship might desire another lover. We may for example desire for pain to disappear or for food to give us bliss. Desire implies wanting to change. And change implies that there is something that can be changed. In a similar way creation itself contains opposites or polarities. We can think of atoms, magnetic fields, men and women. In creation there is movement and exchange between negative and positive forces that together create a new intertwined field of existence. But let us not lose ourselves completely in this concept of creation for we have to keep in mind that there is something that not only underlies positive and negative force, but that is the very content of both. Again, all is both within and acting as one and the same love-consciousness-Self. But there is also the perceived reality that Self, when veiling itself with itself, (even though it is still pure undivided and untainted consciousness), also contains that which is unconscious and unconsciousness does not seem to be conscious.

Remember that the Self-consciousness is the witness that is stillness itself, in and beyond the change or movement. Resting as pure being like a mind that is perfectly still and free from sense-expression or invested in perceived feelings. When experience just IS as it is with no judging whatsoever, just as pure beingness-awareness, in the background to what is occurring in non-aware perception, then we are no longer in what can be experienced as a state of meditation. For this witnessing background is the only state, therefore it is not something we are coming in or out of. It is always isness and it is not separate from anything else. It is Us untainted by change or memory, beyond mental engagement. It is the “I am” and it is also prior to I am. Then experience cannot be experiential because there is nothing to compare with if you are abiding as and in the being (here) right now. Rest in that pure being. 

Trust is acceptance

It is necessary to mention that while we can investigate the meaning of desire and our natural state of no desire, it is important to be present and accepting of all that is worldly. While recognizing what makes us uncomfortable or longing for change, one has to be careful in noticing the subtle but grand difference between wanting to surrender and surrender itself acting effortlessly on its own accord. Paths towards true yoga (union), and the effort that is invested towards it, are not to be disregarded. Quite the opposite, since we are looking out from our personal windows of perception, some will benefit greatly from being a jnani and some need the path of the Raja yogi. There are many paths towards realization and none of them are incorrect, for even though there exist many, they all in some way or another lead to surrendering to the Self. In the end of our searching all effort and the path itself dissolves. But as a child learns to crawl before it walks, the creation of the abyss and the crossing of it is as true and of God as God himself. 

Though you might not be able to drop everything at once and live in full acceptance immediately, there is the possibility to notice your mechanism and trust the present. At any moment when there is a desire to change, look at its content and its nature. As if you were zooming out the lens of a camera, remember your true Self, who at any given moment is here and beyond. Notice the eternal witness to be yourself and you will soon have gone straight to source, simply and effortlessly. When you have found yourself in the housing of your own being, there is only love. And the doer in your life-experience is no longer personal, there is no more gain or loss that can change who you truly are. You simply are.

If you want to become full, let yourself be empty. If you want to be reborn, let yourself die. If you want to be given everything, give everything up. -Lao Tzu

When abiding in love, any act of will is an act of love. When the mind resides in heart, our personal orbit will take new shapes that resonate with and through our stateless state. An alchemical marriage that shatters the inherent concepts of duality. Within our dual perception there is comparison, it is a natural effect of it, but when you let go of comparing, there is just the experience, untainted by good or bad. This is acceptance and it is what makes acceptance effortless. Comparison also lies within desire and desire lies within comparison. It is not necessary to never want or need but there lies magic in acceptance and the knowing of who is needing. Think not of tomorrow or yesterday, if they appear, accept them now. Do not desire to stop you from desiring, simply dissolve it with the love that is its very source.

“What is imagined and willed becomes actuality -

here lies the danger as well as the way out.” 

- Nisargadatta Maharaj

Desire itself causes our very true state-less self to experience itself as a separate being in a world of change and duality, driven by our own nature of creation. If you are to notice what liberation or awakening to oneself might mean, then do not desire in search of an outcome imagined by the construct of a finite mind. Do not try to change the changeless, look at your pain, feel your sorrow and your love, but do not judge. Things will naturally become more still and acceptance will lead to surrender. You do not need anything.

If you know the divine that you are and will always be, then there are no others and nothing that is not you. If you know this, desire itself will cease and you will be to all and every experience as you truly are - whole and loving infinity, with the possible play of a child, curious and accepting to all experience as the non-experience.

“Only now are you going your way to greatness. Peak and abyss, they are now joined together, for all things are baptized in a well of eternity, and lie beyond good and evil” -Friedrich Nietzsche

OM Brahma OM

/ Alexandra.

[haberdashing]

I Am Destruction, Decay, And Desire (4/?)

Martin finds out that Jon’s going to meet with Jude Perry and acts to intervene. It goes… poorly.

Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4

on AO3

Martin had never been a fan of the old idiom that time heals all wounds. In his experience, if time made you forget about certain wounds, it was only because newer ones took precedence. That being said, however, by the time Martin returned to the cafe where the life he’d known had ended just twenty-four hours ago, his mood was as least somewhat better than it had been the previous night. He still was all too aware of what had happened, but it didn’t sting quite as badly as it had when it was fresh.

He still had a purple smudge on his finger that had not in fact washed out during his bath, or rather his mostly-unsuccessful attempt at the same, but that was... fine. It would be fine.

Martin had made a point of being on time to the meeting he had arranged, but even so, he saw as he had arrived that both Jon and Jude had beaten him to the punch, having taken a seat at opposing sides of an outside table.

Jon was wearing the same ridiculous fluffy pink coat as he’d worn the day before, though if it was especially chilly out Martin couldn’t feel it, and Martin felt a pang as he got closer and saw that it was still visibly stained where his waxen hand had brushed against it.

As Martin approached the table where Jon and Jude sat, he found that that same coat he had fixated upon was apparently the current topic of discussion.

“Look, I lost my normal coat, and i-it’s cold. Some of us actually feel it, you know?”

Martin’s stomach sank a little further at that confirmation that it was indeed cold out, that he simply couldn’t feel the cold anymore, that that was yet another sign that he was no longer human. (Even if it was kind of amusing to watch Jon get so indignant about that coat, of all things...)

“You wouldn’t shake my hand.” There was a strange grin on Jude’s face as she spoke, a grin matched in intensity by Martin’s growing certainty that this conversation was going to be... well, simply “uncomfortable” was probably a best-case scenario, now, wasn’t it?

Martin pulled up a chair and sat down between Jon and Jude; Jon glancing his way for a moment before returning to staring at Jude, and Jude nodded vaguely in his direction but didn’t otherwise acknowledge him. That was fine, though. There were worse things to be than overlooked.

“Well, no, I’m not stupid! I saw what happened-”

Jude’s grin only got even wider as Jon spoke, and evidently he noticed, as he switched conversational tracks quickly enough.

“L-look, will you stop that?”

The wild grin turned to biting laughter, though only for a brief moment. “Oh, alright. Ah… I hate explaining jokes, but, um… Imagine you’re, um… a butcher, and one day an injured little lamb walks into your workshop, and strides right into one of the mincing machines, but when you go up to it, knife in hand, it shakes its head and tells you ‘I’m not stupid’. Do you get why that’s funny?”

“Right.” Jon didn’t sound the least bit amused even after the explanation, but honestly, Martin didn’t exactly blame him. “But no more abattoir metaphors, please.”

“Suppose it’s not really me, is it? Would you rather be a really stupid piece of firewood?” Jude’s grin and the playful tone in her voice suggested that she was amused enough by her own jokes for the three of them.

And then Jon just... plunged ahead, asking questions about names and dates and places that Martin by and large didn’t recognize; perhaps it had been foolish of him to assume that Jon’s research, Jon’s search for answers, would have stopped just because of a little thing like, oh, being on the run for murder. In hindsight, Martin knew Jon well enough that he really shouldn’t have been surprised that the man kept searching for information come hell or high water, kept seeking out danger even when he was already knee-deep in it.

Really, the surprising part was that Jude actually cooperated, more or less. Sure, she protested, she threatened, but she also answered Jon’s questions in the end.

(Some might have found it even more surprising that Martin managed to remain little more than an onlooker in the conversation, but not Martin himself; he was too used to it, too used to being overlooked and underestimated, and honestly, given the circumstances, he didn’t much mind not being the center of attention at the moment.)

“Yes, yes, I understand, you could easily kill me, I’m at your mercy...” Jon barely blinked an eye at Jude’s latest not-so-veiled threat, a reference to a statement Martin actually did remember and a man who ended up horrifically burned because of the events within it. Martin doubted anyone else could sound quite so bored when being threatened with agonizing pain and disfigurement by a woman who had already proven that she could easily make good on such threats if the mood struck her. “So... why haven’t you done it?”

“We’re in public.” Jude, for her part, seemed more amused with the situation than anything else, the grin on her face sneaking its way into her voice once again.

“Well-” Jon started to say, but Martin interrupted before Jon could finish the thought.

“That didn’t seem to stop you before, now, did it?” Martin didn’t bother hiding the aggravation in his voice--it was one thing to discuss weird happenings Martin wasn’t privy to without including him in the conversation, but ignoring the events of yesterday, ignoring the very relevant fact that Jude had burned him in a setting every bit as public as the current one, went a bit too far for his taste.

Jude tilted her head to one side, and both she and Jon looked Martin’s way for a long, silent moment; Martin couldn’t read the look in Jude’s eyes, but Jon’s contained something like guilt, or perhaps pity.

“I was a bit careless there, wasn’t I?” The upbeat tone of Jude’s voice was only slightly dampened, far from the apologetic tone her words might otherwise have signified. “I shouldn’t have given you time to scream. If I moved fast enough, I could-” Jude turned her gaze back at Jon as she continued to speak. “-reach through your chest like runny wax, and hold your heart while it cooked, and no one would even notice.”

“Right. R-right.” Jon finally sounded at least slightly affected by Jude’s threats rather than just bored of them; perhaps it was the graphic nature of this one that did the trick, or perhaps being reminded that Martin was now living proof that Jude’s threats weren’t empty ones was enough to make the seriousness of the situation start to sink in. “So why don’t you? Does your ‘god’ not want you to?”

“...mmm, hard to say. When I look at you, I feel that burning liquid pain, eager to flow out and purify your rotten carcass...” Jude glanced over at Martin, and her gaze looked almost conspiratorial, like she was expecting him to be in agreement, but all Martin felt upon hearing that was a bit sick. “But I feel that a lot.”

“Oh.” Jon looked a bit peaky, and if Martin had to guess, he felt at least as ill as Martin himself did upon hearing the graphic details of Jude’s desire to burn and destroy. “M-more or less than normal?”

“Hard to say when every nerve ending’s on fire. Hard to tell degrees.” Another glance Martin’s way, looking for something in him that wasn’t there. (Or wasn’t there yet, at least--Martin thought back to Prentiss’ statement, how she could recognize that something was wrong before becoming little more than a worm-filled husk. Maybe that’s where he was now, in the in-between period, no longer human but not yet monster.)

“Third degree, maybe?” Jon muttered, the words probably meant mostly for himself rather than for the benefit of his conversational partners, but Martin still snorted with amusement, though Jude looked more annoyed than amused (apparently in her mind, she was the only one allowed to make jokes in this conversation).

“Sorry, sorry, it was a...” Jon trailed off before finishing his sentence, and when he started speaking again it was to start on another train of thought. “I have a god too... right?”

“Is that another joke?” Jude’s wry grin was back, despite the fact that what Jon had said didn’t strike Martin as a joke, despite (or perhaps because of) the fact that any laughter in response to it would have to be at his expense.

“N-no, I... I’m new to this. Everyone keeps calling me ‘Archivist’, like I’m special, and that... that I serve the Eye. Trying to kill me for it.”

“Yes.” Jude leaned back a little in her chair.

“S-so... i-it’s like your ‘god’, right?”

“Oh please, your god is nothing!” Jude wrinkled her nose, apparently disgusted by the mere thought of comparing the two “gods” on equal terms. “The Eye, Beholding, Ceaseless Watcher...  whatever you call it, that’s all it does. It watches and knows, sitting bulbous and comfortable in the ignorance of infinite knowledge. I serve a reckoning, a surging tide of destruction and pain.”

Martin could feel his pulse racing as Jon breathed, “The Lightless Flame.”

“The Desolation. Blackened Earth. The destructive, agonizing heat of burning flesh and land scoured of life. The light, the comfort of fire stripped from it, leaving nothing but the terror of its approach. When it triumphs, it will leave The Eye a burned and shriveled husk that sees nothing but its own agony.”

Jon spoke up again, starting to get into yet another tiff with Jude by the sound of it, but Martin wasn’t really listening as the two went at it, too preoccupied by dissecting the information Jude had just given him about the “god” she worshipped, the power she had pulled him into serving by force.

Martin rather preferred the term Jon had offered up for it to those Jude had given; lightless flames could still provide warmth if one didn’t get too close, after all, while desolation, blackened earth... those phrases spoke only to landscapes with all the life in them stripped away, spaces emptied by force of any comfort that might once have been found there.

The mere thought of it made Martin’s stomach turn a little... and yet, part of him wanted to agree that their “god” was the better one, the stronger one, destined to reign superior, even if all it could cause was destruction and pain.

Martin hoped, distantly, that he hadn’t reached the point where all he could cause now was destruction and pain.