#ill be irritated but in a few decades ill move on

[slippinmickeys]

Prompt: shortly after the breakup, mulder comes by to pick up something and finds scully felled by a stomach bug/flu/other non-fatal illness. Things are still awkward between them but also decades of history and love etc. what happens next?

It was all she could do to roll off the couch when the doorbell rang, wrapping the blanket around her shoulders and shuffling to the door.

Every muscle in her body ached, her head pounded, her nose was a faucet she couldn’t turn off and her throat was on fire. It was the flu, she had self-diagnosed, and it had leveled her. She had had to call in sick, a move her supervisor at Our Lady of Sorrows had met with irritation rather than sympathy, but at present, she felt too miserable to care.

At the door was — she hoped — the Hunan Palace delivery person bearing several orders of hot and sour soup. She hadn’t had much of an appetite, nor the energy to make herself anything substantive, but she knew she needed to eat. And the phone call to the local Asian restaurant had zapped whatever energy reserves she’d had left. The soup would act as a minor restorative.

She swung open the door, expecting to see Don, the usual Hunan driver (and one of the few people of her acquaintance who wasn’t as tall as she was), but her gaze had to keep climbing to identify the person at her door, and when her eyes reached those of her visitor, she visibly startled.

“Mulder,” she said, her voice croaking from disuse and illness. “What are you doing here?”

“Hey Scully,” he said, his face conveying an apprehensive buoyancy, “sorry I didn’t call first, I—geez, are you okay?”

“I have the flu,” she said weakly, as if it wasn’t obvious.

Several expressions passed over his face in succession. For the first time she noticed that he had a small bankers box in his hands, which he shuffled from one hip to the other. She sniffed and he followed her gaze to the box in his hands.

“I was cleaning out the extra room and found some of your things,” he explained. “I was in the neighborhood, and…”

Scully felt her eyebrows raise. Cleaning and Mulder weren’t two words that went together very often, certainly not since the depression that gripped him had forced her to leave him for her own mental well being. She glanced at his face. His color was better than since she’d last seen him, and the careworn look in his eye had faded somewhat. He looked like he was maybe getting regular sunlight and exercise. She smiled, despite how miserable she felt.

“Um, thank you,” she said, nodding at the box.

Mulder gave her a close-lipped smile of his own and took a step forward, sliding the box onto the floor just inside her door. When he straightened, he slid his hands into his back pockets and tilted his head at her.

“Scully, is there anything I can do for y-“

His question was cut off by the click of Scully’s front gate and they both turned their attention to see Don trundling up the walkway with a large paper bag.

“Miss Dana,” the man said, inclining his head at her politely, and handing over her food. The bag was warm under her hands, the paper felty and soft.

“Thanks, Don,” she said and the delivery man retreated back the way he came. Then she sniffed again, loudly. She could feel a trickle of mucus threatening to break free of her nostrils.

Mulder stood in the doorway, his brow a chevron of concern. Without removing his gaze from hers, he reached into his back pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, handing it over without a word. She paused before reaching out and accepting it. In the early years of their partnership, he was not the kind of man that carried one around. It wasn’t until her cancer diagnosis that she noticed he seemed to always have a handkerchief on hand, and she had used it to catch the leaking crimson of her lifeblood more than once. Something inside her clenched.

“Thank you,” she said, dabbing the cloth to her nose. And then a wave of vertigo hit her and she leaned hard against the frame, nearly dropping the bag of soup.

“Whoa,” Mulder said, reaching out a hand to steady her.

Before she knew it, he had taken the take-out from her, and was steering her back into the house, closing the door behind him.

“Come on,” he said sweetly, taking the blanket from her shoulders as she approached the couch where she’d been resting, practically falling back into it. He set down the food and snapped out the blanket, gently settling it over her as she laid down, lowering himself to sit next to her hip a moment later.

He reached forward and felt her forehead, his palm blessedly cool against skin that felt too hot and too tight. His hand lingered there, then moved the back of his fingers to her cheek, his touch light, almost a caress.

“You feel really warm, Scully.”

“Fever,” she agreed, not having the energy to expound any further. A fresh set of chills wracked her body.

“Have you taken anything?” he asked gently.

“Ibuprofen, a couple hours ago,” her voice was gravelly. “Might be time for-“

“Tylenol?” he finished for her.

She nodded weakly, trying not to appear too surprised.

“You know I always listened when you talked,” he said. She had no rebuttal. “Where’s your bathroom?”

She pointed toward it and he was off, reappearing a few minutes later with a bottle of acetaminophen and the water cup she kept in the bathroom. He handed over a few dusty pills and she swallowed them down, wincing as they passed through the ragged sharpness of her throat.

Mulder reached down and picked up the soup she’d ordered.

“Think you can eat something?”

She tried to sit up. “I probably should,” she said, but Mulder pressed her back into the cushions.

“I’ll get it,” he said, and he was once again off, and she closed her eyes, listening to him banging around in her kitchen a minute later, looking for god knew what.

It was nice having another person in her space, she discovered. All wasn’t quiet and still and lonely. Even just the soft sounds of Mulder’s footsteps in the other room settled a quiet and cozy domesticity over her space that had been lacking and she was lulled into an easeful drowsiness.

She dozed for however long until she heard the soft thud of a wooden tray being placed on the coffee table near her head. She opened her eyes to see Mulder shifting a few things around on the table, pushing aside some medical journals, and sliding a box of Kleenex and the TV remote where she could reach them.

On the tray was a steaming bowl of dark, oily soup and a sweating glass of water half filled with ice. Next to the bowl was one of the thin white napkins from Hunan Palace, and on top sat a silver, rounded soup spoon, one of the nice ones from her Aunt Olive’s china set. She pushed herself up onto an elbow.

“Thank you, Mulder,” she said quietly, suddenly feeling quite sorry for herself.

He kneeled down next to her and gave her a nod and she had the strangest urge to tip herself forward into his lap and howl at the injustice of her infirmity, of her empty, empty life. She knew his arms would come around her, knew he’d drop soft kisses into her hair, knew she’d feel all the love that still existed between them, love that they both studiously ignored, awkward as an empty table setting.

Instead, she swung her feet to the floor and considered the food in front of her.

“Is there anything else I can do for you,” he asked, “before… before I go?”

She merely shook her head, not trusting herself to speak.

He rose, his knees popping as he did so. “I’ll call later,” he said, his warm, heavy hand briefly on her shoulder, squeezing, “and check in.”

She reached forward and picked up the soup spoon and a few moments later she heard her front door open and close and the silence pressed back in, the stillness. The loneliness. She could still feel his touch.

[honeydots]

For the angst sentences, I have an either/or since I'd feel bad asking for both:

"I hate what Ive become" for xanlow

Or

"Dont act like you know me" for leokumi

"Don't act like you know me." 1.7k, leokumi from this ask game

Leo doesn’t exactly want to get into how he was captured. He is willing to say, however, that it wasn’t only him, so perhaps that makes it equally embarrassing for them both.

Right now, he’s currently in the middle of escaping some—ugh, he doesn’t know, self-proclaimed death cult—with none other than Prince Takumi of Hoshido. Whoever these lowlifes are who caught Leo off guard, they seemed intent on gathering different kinds of dragon blood—which means Leo needs to deal with both the consequence of their horrendous treatment of prisoners, and this moody enemy prince.

They’re quite close to getting out of their containment, actually. Which isn’t remarkable, this pathetic cult is ragtag and ill-managed. They happened to get lucky in Leo’s capture, and he’ll admit that Prince Takumi is just formidable enough that maybe they got lucky twice, and they’re paying for their lack of preparedness.

All that’s left is for Leo and Takumi to clear one hallway, then they can make a generally clean break for an exit. They’re just… Stuck, presently. The cultist’s tactics for keeping them from moving forward are working, and it’s only a matter of time before someone rounds the establishment and comes at them from behind.

It isn’t a particularly complicated hideout, a crumbling cobblestone fort that’s been out of proper use for decades, and Leo was able to retrieve Brynhildr without much trouble as they ran. Prince Takumi got his bow as well, and they’ve each been handling themselves fine. It’s just this awkward position they’re in now that’s giving them trouble.

The best they can do is pick off the poor excuses for cultists one by one. But it’s hard to do that when they’re firing back. They’re able to get a few of them, sure, but—

“This isn’t working,” Takumi grumbles through his teeth, firing an arrow and then slamming himself behind the wall as a burst of magic flies by. Leo, on the other side of the hallway entrance, scoffs.

“Clearly.” He exhales sharply, then casts a sharp and leafy spell down the hall, and assumes the cut off screams are targets hit. “Focus on the short ranged ones for now.”

Though Leo is feeling the effects of all his magic usage already. Sweat beads his forehead and goosebumps tickle his neck. He can feel his blood getting hotter, too. Forcing out more magic than he has to provide will make his very pores bleed, and fainting from blood loss would be the most intolerable way to lose. Especially around these cultists, who seem intent on using his flesh for the worst.

Takumi charges his arrow in his bow, magic swirling more intently the longer he holds it, then sets it loose. “And then what do we do about the far ranged ones, wise guy?”

Leo clicks his tongue. “I said for now, you fool.” Which earns him a glare. “We’ll retreat and make another way around.”

“Retreat where? Our cell? No way,” Takumi says back. He glances behind himself, then behind Leo, and then fires two rapid shots into the hall. Not even a moment later, he seizes an inhale through his teeth and narrowly avoids a dagger. “Gods. Long range against long range is so damn risky.”

Leo tries to prepare himself for another large spell. He isn’t sure how many more he can cast after this. One, maybe two, at least of the ones with the potency he’s been using. But he’s quickly reaching his limit. “Indeed,” he says, irritated. “But you are a bowsman and I am a mage, so unless you have any better ideas, retreating is our best bet.”

Takumi narrows his eyes, breathing hard. “Don’t act like you know me.”

“Am I acting like I know you by observing you’re using a bow? Primarily, even? And have been all this time?”

“How are you this annoying.”

Leo huffs. “I’m not sure your mumbling has been doing us any favors, either.”

Takumi glances towards the hallway. Then he rolls back his shoulders and exhales a steadying breath. “Hey. Do your big plant spell thing.” Leo nearly corrects his wording to anything but that, but Takumi goes on. “I’m going in right after.”

“Insanity. That spell won’t last long enough to be used as cover,” Leo says. “We’re better off retracing our steps—”

“Just do it! Do you complain about everything?” Takumi snaps, which is ironic, since he’s obviously been the stubborn one. Takumi narrows his eyes. “I can do close range, and I can do it well. You just need to watch my back, Nohrian.”

Leo gives him a look, quite unconvinced. But retreating will only work if they both do, and Leo has been getting ready to cast all this time. They won’t get anywhere if he tries to stall and leave it only to Takumi’s bow, and he won’t be branded as a coward who runs away alone. Especially not by this prince, of all people.

So, not approving of the plan but without another spell to perform, Leo lets magic drip out of him and into his tome, then lets it come back into his veins deeper, in vines and bark and poison.

He casts his forest of magic into the hallway, and Takumi bolts after, staying just far enough to keep from friendly fire. Leo watches, seeing some enemies turn to Takumi, and he uses smaller and more electric spells to keep them occupied.

Leo was quite uncomforted by Takumi’s confidence, but he’s surprised to say he does what he said he would. He keeps his bow in hand, but he doesn’t battle with it except for quick draws and finishing blows. He dodges, and fights by jabbing his elbow or throwing a punch against unprepared archers and magicians. Once he properly enters the fray, Leo doesn’t need to do much to keep him healthy.

It’s both relieving and concerning, in truth. Leo fully appreciates the certainty of getting out of this fortress, he admits retreating was a last resort, but—he didn’t anticipate Takumi might’ve had other skills, not to this degree. He’ll have to consider him wisely the next they meet on a battlefield.

Takumi finally clears the area. Leo doesn’t wait for a signal, he just runs up, fully aware they don’t have the time to waste. They proceed through the fortress wordlessly, steeping over bodies and extremely close to their freedom.

They’re right near the front gate when they hear talking. Instantly, they freeze and hold their breath, backs pressed a wall. There are people just on the other side of the gate, and Leo tries to listen.

“—on, man, just a tour? You guys—you guys do tours here, right? It’s totally tour worthy,” comes a voice clearly trying to sound more laid back than he is. Leo blinks, a little surprised at the subject matter.

“I do all sorts of tours, if you’re interested,” suggests another—was that Niles? Leo listens a little more intently.

“Wait—wait what’s that mean,” says the first voice, and then a female one sighs.

“Neither of you are helping,” she says sharply, as if smiling through annoyance, then speaks more sweetly. “We really just want to look around? We’re not looking to cause any trouble. It’s just, a really, really important thing we’re looking for—”

And who is unmistakably Odin chimes in excitedly, “Of extreme importance! Epic, and maximal, and most certainly heinous if not brought back into our fell, empty, and capable hands.”

Leo thinks if you could hear a cringe, he would’ve heard one from this woman. “Right. All that. Super important. So please?”

In a low voice, Takumi starts to speak, leaning just slightly closer to Leo. “I think it might be my retainers out there,” he says slowly, and Leo raises an eyebrow.

“Funny. I was thinking they sounded like mine, as well.”

Takumi glances at him, then glances at the gate. “Should we just make a run for it?”

Leo considers that for a moment. “I’m sure they’ll know what to do.”

And so, after one more brief and mutual look, Takumi and Leo both burst out of the gate and start running. And Leo was quite correct in identifying Odin and Niles, the former looking shocked and the latter looking highly amused.

“Never mind!” says Takumi’s male retainer, and among some shouts from the guards, the six of them charge away. Odin casts a spell behind them to keep any stray cultists off their backs, and Takumi fires a couple more arrows, seemingly for good riddance.

They find cover in a forest nearby, treading deeply until they’re sure they can take a moment to breathe. Takumi’s retainers start fawning over him immediately, and Niles and Odin give Leo some attention as well. He waves them off.

“I’m fine,” he says, wiping off sticky sweat from his brow. “Just more winded than I’d like to be.” He’ll need some time to recharge. Neither Odin nor Niles look convinced, but Leo isn’t going to be revealing any weakness in front of Hoshidans.

After collecting himself a bit more, Leo looks over at Prince Takumi, who’s smile from his talking with his retainers falls as he meets his eyes. Takumi pauses, then puffs out his chest and grips his bow tightly.

“Next time—we’re enemies,” he says. His retainers stare at him, then give their own unique glares to Leo. Takumi ignores them, gritting his teeth and wrinkling his nose. “For now… Thanks. I guess.”

Leo lifts up his chin, standing tall. “We’re still enemies,” he corrects. And then, with his head held high, he casts his gaze away. “But... Thank you, too.”

He doesn’t care for Niles’s eyebrow raise, nor for Odin’s head tilt. Leo just turns around and walks, and the pair of them follow readily, away from the cult idiots and the Hoshidan prince.

And Leo—he doesn’t look back. Of course he wouldn’t. He meant what he said, this war is nowhere near over. One little collaboration doesn’t change that, and obviously they’re agreed in that regard.

But, still. Even if Leo doesn’t check behind him… Some part of him wonders if Takumi does.

Just a small part.

[astrovagrant]

no editing we die like warriors (i am exhausted after this week of work and i do not remember how to write NOR how to make genuine dialogue, especially for avery. good day) - technically not fallout because i've couched it all in Vague Space Terms (ignore the [] brackets around things that don't have analogs yet), but these are technically fallout characters. avery, as always, belongs to silt @darkwingerduck

===========

barbershop duet

"stop moving, munir," wyn chastised, putting one foot on the wheel at the bottom of the office chair to stop it from spinning if the man sitting under her hands decided to pull away again. "one wrong snip and i'll have to give you a buzz cut instead."

munir made a noise not unlike a malfunctioning engine and immediately tried to move to look back at her - perhaps to spit back something suitably scathing - but she lightly slapped the top of his head with her free hand before grabbing the corded muscle at the back of his neck and forcing him to hold it where she needed it. he resisted, at first, but she kept the pressure on until he accepted the movement and looked forward again.

"i'm not a fucking dog that you're grooming - "

"you're right, i could muzzle a dog!"

"very original, sawyer. i'm sure you have plenty of people you like to muzzle in other ports, right?"

the retort lacked his trademark bite, though, so wyn patted the spot on his crown that she'd slapped a few seconds prior to reinforce the 'dog' messaging and turned her attention to the task at hand: shearing the ill-tempered customs officer at her mercy before he could think better of it.

avery's hair had been growing unchecked for more than seven consecutive visits to the transit station, and he'd passed into a phase of immense irritability as he struggled against the perennially hot operations department office, since it sat so close to a station reactor deck. the nigh-constant nasal sighs of overheated frustration were a bit funny, but it distracted him from more important (wyn-related) matters and looked a bit too unkempt - even for her. she'd decided enough was enough and led him with somewhat accurate promises of quick results into one of their usual, slightly more secluded spots for a trim. sure, munir's coworkers would wonder if they were fucking, but it wasn't exactly a secret. and, well… they still might, if she made quick work of it.

wyn combed her fingers back through his hair again before he could try to move, holding a longer chunk between two fingers and extending it to its full length, which was certainly longer than she'd ever seen it before. pursing her lips, she gauged the tightness of the curl, gave it a bit of slack, and quickly snipped the excess hair. another piece - pull, judge the target length, cut. the repeated movement held a certain meditative quality, and she found herself sliding back into an old, sleepily-remembered rhythm. 

under her fingers, avery was clearly trying his best to not fidget since her chastisement, and - to her satisfaction - succeeding. the slope of his shoulders had started high, tight to his sides as he fought the instinctive pull from her every movement, but seemed to relax by degrees. once wyn established a cadence, occasionally nudging his head or lifting his chin with the lightest of touches, she needed to hold back in expectation of the lurch less and less. there were several pauses where she thought she heard him inhale as if to speak, but whatever wrung-out irritability he had upon being coaxed into this had seeped away in the resulting half-resigned sighs. it was nice, actually; this was perhaps the longest period of time she'd gone around him without either of them opening their mouth, in any context. it made her work on his hair easier, and she found her thoughts wandering to the last time she'd done this, nearly a decade prior.

in her mind's eye, a smaller pair of hands held an ever so slightly shittier pair of scissors, the head under her ministrations smaller, too. the haze of memory dulled the irritation she'd felt at the time, since her brother's hair grew like a weed - much like the rest of him - at that age, and that was the second time that cycle she'd had to deal with his impatient wriggling on their lopsided bathroom stool. wyn came back to herself abruptly - she had been humming the janky undercity radio song she remembered being popular around that time, and cleared her throat before properly coughing into the bend of her elbow to cover the realization that she had no idea how long she'd been embarrassing herself like that for. not a peep from munir, though, which was… a blessing, nominally, even if it was a bit suspicious.

she'd finished clipping the shaggy curls at the back and sides of his neck, and stepped around their makeshift set-up to begin on the hair on the front of his head, diving in with renewed vigor now that she'd snapped out of her reverie. tight at his temples, then getting longer and longer as she worked her way to the familiar peaked shape of his hairline in the middle of his forehead. she intended to match the slightly-non-regulation mussed look he'd had a few months ago, when they… wyn paused before her next decisive snip of the scissors and looked down for a moment, trying to bridge the silence stretching between them and the background station noises after she'd stopped sloppily humming a pop song he'd never heard less than two minutes prior. to her muted surprise, his shoulders had completely relaxed to a natural slope and his eyes were closed, though they snapped open to borderline glare at her from under dark brows as soon as he detected the mildest shift in conditions - which was very like him, she supposed.

"what?" - and it wasn't a question, really, but a sharp demand as to why something had changed. wyn didn't deny herself a smug smirk as she considered whether or not he'd actually been enjoying himself - was he relaxed, even? the novelty factor in itself had her tickled. there was an undeniable appeal at having him at her fingertips in as unguarded a state as he ever seemed to get - not that she'd let him know that, of course.

"oh, nothing. just, um, wondering how this -" she flicked the still-long curl falling over his forehead, taking the open opportunity to tease him, " - even happened. did they push all the barbers out the airlock?" she bent forward slightly to leverage the rare moment of having a height advantage, leaning in to meet avery's gaze with a playful, eyebrows-raised expression.

he tilted his head back to look over her shoulder, then, the intensity of their eye contact for longer than a few moments still to be avoided. she knew by now not to take it personally, and quickly reached forward to cut the last, long chunk before their conversation got any more animated.

"no, and technically, this is your fault -"

wyn couldn't contain her guffaw, but she made sure to pull the scissors back from his face as she laughed. a scar would add a little something to the sharp planes of his cheeks, but she could just as easily take out an eye by accident.

" - since our one single aide who knew how to trim hair overheard your bullshit tales of stellar derring-do and, in a fit of what i can only assume was temporary lunacy, decided he was going to run off to the moon to chase fool's gold." the exasperation was palpable, but she could tell it wasn't entirely directed at her.

"you sound a little jealous, munir."

"jealous? as if i had the - " he paused to inhale sharply. "i just can't get a haircut that doesn't look like it was done by a fucking infant anymore, so color me anything but green. especially considering i'm sitting in a heat sink corridor letting a known criminal near my neck with a pair of scissors." 

agitated movement in his lap - she saw him rubbing a few fingers over some scars on the opposite hand, one of his most predictable poker tells and the prologue to more dramatic gestures if no one put a foot out to trip him.

"well, good news - i'm basically done. that wasn't so bad, was it? i think it looks quite fetching."

she held up her pocket mirror for avery, then, passing it off so he could inspect it himself. a flicker of surprise passed over his face, replaced quickly by a more genuine expression of relief - he seemed to remember himself, then, and looked at her half-squinted, instead.

"i'll admit, sawyer, i thought this was going to look like dogshit." 

she grinned guilelessly and made a gesture of exaggerated humility with both hands before leaning forward to brace her arms on the back of the chair behind avery's torso, falling on either side of his head as she leaned closer to his level - he gave no indication of moving away, which was an open invitation from munir if there ever was one.

"i used to trim my brother's hair when he was about yea high - " she held her hand up to roughly wave around her mid-chest. "his cuts came out to worse, though, because you cannot convince a ten-to-thirteen year old to sit still when he wants to go watch ships coming to port. but your curls are similar enough to get the gist."

munir's head tilted slightly again, brow furrowed, and his eyes trailed back to her face as if to clarify an unspoken question - and. oh, moons. she had probably never mentioned even having family to him over the course of their relations - and she should have kept it that way. stupid! it was nobody's business, and certainly not his.

"i didn't realize you had… um, family."

great.

"don't get excited, mun, i was just sharing a topical anecdote."

something in her face must have changed or gone hard at the comment, though, and the freshly-trimmed officer reached up to hestitantly tuck her mirror back into the breast pocket of her jacket, if only to have something to do with his hands.

"how… how long am i going to be paying for this? i'm assuming you won't take [credits] for it."

she put her smile back on instantly, grateful he decided to have the most basic ability to back the hell off - which wasn't always true of munir, but maybe the renewed ability to avoid overheating had sweetened the deal.

wyn leaned in closer as if to answer and released the lever that controlled stabilization on the chair with her foot - the chair went spinning backwards towards the corridor wall, and she used the momentum to pull herself into his lap. he yelped in surprise, the relative calm of the jury-rigged salon replaced with a lapful of smuggler, and automatically closed his arms around her in a vice grip - he did that without thinking whenever her trajectory suddenly entered his space, and she could admit she found it endearing.

once near enough to one of the largest pipes, she used her foot again to halt their transit, and the sudden shift sent the chair and its occupants into the closest foam-built wall. 

before he could start with any complaints, she reached up to grab his chin with one hand, guiding him in for a kiss.

"no credits from [ring] government employees, yes, but i take alternate forms of payment. would you know anyone who has something like that?"

wyn punctuated her tease with another press of her lips to his and a hand wound into his fresh haircut, months of familiarity melding into a pleasant warmth between them as she waited for his omnipresent churlishness to melt away - and at that moment, she found none. avery met her halfway, and she smiled into him with an authenticity that she didn't need to manufacture.

[veganandvegetarianlife]

Animals & Growth Hormones

In an effort to produce more animals at an increased rate for human consumption, many animals have been treated with growth hormones so that they can be raised and slaughtered at an expedited rate. At the same time, this leads us to consider how these animals are raised and treated for this purpose.

The fact of the matter is that if many people saw how many of these animals were raised, they would become vegetarians on the spot. For example, egg laying chickens are often raised with six to a cage. Each chicken only receives about 67 square inches of space. These chickens are also generally treated with growth hormones as well as antibiotics to increase growth rate and decrease disease. Free-range and certified organic chickens may receive more spacious conditions and are not fed hormones or antibiotics.

This brings us to another point. After you handle chickens, it is suggested that you use bleach to clean the surfaces so that you remove bacteria. Also, chicken must be cooked at certain temperatures and for a certain period of time to ensure that you will not catch any food-borne illnesses. It does not seem wise to eat anything that has to be handled with such care.

From chickens, you can easily move into how cattle are treated. First, you must consider dairy cattle. Dairy cattle are often given hormones that stimulate their reproductive processes so that it continues to produce milk. A cow will only produce milk after she has given birth.

They often live in cramped conditions and as soon as they calve, male calves are sent to become veal while females are raised to produce milk. The hormones that the cows receive cause the cow to produce ten times more milk than they would ordinarily. At the same time, they are hooked up to electric pumps, which cause irritation to the cow’s udders.

After a certain age, we really don’t need to consume milk. At the same time, we are not designed to drink cow milk, but human milk. We don’t milk pregnant women, do we? Just like our bodies were not designed to eat milk, we were not designed to drink cow milk and digest those proteins either. You can receive just as much and more calcium from green, leafy vegetables.

Many people, even by those people who eat meat regularly, have viewed the veal industry negatively. The veal industry is cruel, no matter who you are and how you look at it. The calves are taken from their mothers after they are about one day old. They are then kept in pens that prevent them from moving so that their muscle tissue stays soft and tender.

The calves are then fed a liquid, often containing beer, that is deficient in iron and fibre. This causes anaemia in the animal and produces the pale meat. At about 20 weeks, the calf is then slaughtered.

Turkeys are also produced in an inhumane manner. The consumption of turkey has become very popular over the past few decades, and it is eaten for more than just holidays. Turkeys are more aggressive birds, so they are kept in a confined and dark area to discourage their aggressive behaviour.

They are then overfed until their legs cannot support the weight of their body. This is because Americans want the largest turkey breast they can get for their holiday celebrations. Naturally and wildly, a turkey may live up to 10 years. These turkeys are slaughtered at 2 years of age. They also suffer from foot and leg deformities, heat stress and starvation. Approximately 2.7 million turkeys die each year due to the abnormal stress and disease of this process.

Many religions do not eat pork for their various reasons, and some meat consuming people don’t care for it either. Pigs are raised in similar unsanitary conditions. In fact, many farmers and workers on pig farms have died from breathing in the methane gas that is produced from the immense amount of waste that pigs produce at pig farms. Pigs are also overfed and kept in crates.

They have a limited range of movement that does not suit their natural behaviours. They may also be fed growth hormones and antibiotics. Pigs have natural rooting behaviours, and the captivity they live in does not allow them to live naturally.

Seafood and shellfish can be a part of a healthy diet. Fish contain a lot of nutrients that we don’t get from other meats. It contains a high-quality protein, essential nutrients, omega-3 fatty acids, and it is low in saturated fat. However, eating fish has its harms as well. Fish often contain mercury.

These levels are not usually bad enough to hurt us, but the Food and Drug Administration (FDA) and the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) are advising women, especially pregnant women, and young children to avoid certain types of fish and shellfish.

This is because some fish have high levels of mercury that are not safe for these people to eat. Eliminating fish from your diet is usually the last step in going towards a complete vegetarian diet.

Photo by Megumi Nachev on Unsplash

[digimarksposts]

7 stroke risk factors one should be aware of

A stroke or brain attack occurs when the blood supply to the brain stops. Cells in the brain begin to die within only a few minutes of no oxygen supply. This can hamper various body functions and basic movements such as:

Movement

Eating

Speaking

Thinking or remembering things

Control over your bowel or bladder

Control over your emotions

Control other vital body functions.

A stroke can happen to anyone at any time of any age bracket. To understand what it is and the stroke risk factors, it is also necessary to understand the types of strokes that can occur:

●      Ischemic stroke: One of the most common types of strokes that occur. Usually caused by clots in the blood vessels. These clots can be formed either by a blood clot, cholesterol or fatty deposits called plaque.

●      Hemorrhagic stroke: This occurs when a blood vessel bursts in your brain adding pressure to the overall brain and nearby tissues. This causes more tension and irritation.

Symptoms of Stroke:

Understanding the symptoms is as crucial as knowing what a stroke is. Moving on, let's learn about the various symptoms one experiences during a stroke. As mentioned earlier, a stroke occurs when there is a blood clot or blockage in the blood vessels that prevent oxygen supply to reach the brain. This leads to brain cells dying and lack of control over basic body functions.

Few symptoms of brain stroke are as follows:

●      Weakness or numbness of the face, arm, or leg (usually observed on one side of the body)

●      Having trouble speaking or understanding basic instructions

●      Problems with vision, such as dimness or loss of vision in one or both the eyes.

●      Dizziness or difficulty with balance and coordination

●      Problems with basic movements such as walking or raising hands

●      Fainting (loss of consciousness) or seizure

●      Severe headaches with no known cause, especially if they happen suddenly

Few rare symptoms that may occur are:

●      Sudden nausea or vomiting ( not caused by any present illness)

●      Brief loss or change of consciousness, such as fainting, confusion, seizures, or coma

●      Transient Ischemic Attacks (TIA), called mini-strokes

Stroke risk factors:

Before moving forward, it is important to note that strokes can happen to anyone at any age. Some risk factors can be managed while some cannot. The best neurologist in Bangalore who work at Trust-in Hospital, a multispeciality hospital in Bangalore agree upon the following stroke risk factors:

Risk factors that can be managed, treated or changed medically :

●      High Blood Pressure - High BP can increase the pressure of the blood being pumped through vessels.

●      Heart Disease - Blockages in the heart valves can lead to stroke.

●      Diabetes - Those with diabetes are at a higher risk of getting a stroke as compared to those who don’t have diabetes.

●      Smoking - As all are aware of the disastrous effects smoking has on our lungs, it can create massive blocks as well.

●      History of TIAs- TIAs are minor strokes which have similar symptoms as a stroke, but don’t last as long. If one has a history of TIAs, there is a possibility of them getting it again.

●      High Red Blood Cells Count - This is because higher count can lead to blood clots in the vessels which lead to blockages and ultimately stroke.

●      High Cholesterol Levels and Lipids- Maintaining healthy levels of cholesterol and lipid profiles can aid in reducing your chances of getting a stroke.

Stroke risk factors that cannot be avoided:  

●      Age - Old age is among the few factors that aid in causing a stroke which cannot be avoided. Those above the age of 65, increase their chances with every passing decade.

●      History of prior stroke- If one has a history of prior strokes, they are almost likely to get another one.

●      Heredity or Genetics - If someone in the family has had a history of it, it is likely you might be prone to the same.

Treatment:

The first course of treatment for any symptoms of stroke observed in self or a loved one is to immediately call the ambulance. The ideal team of doctors who can aid this path of recovery work at one of the best hospital in Bangalore - Trust-in Hospital. It is a multispeciality hospital with over 15+ departments and a highly skilled team of neurologist in Bangalore. They provide affordable and accessible healthcare to all under one roof. With their skilled team, they offer a complete patient-centric service that allows the patient to be stress-free through any procedure with complete trust on their doctors.

Keeping in mind the critical situation of patients who come in with symptoms of stroke, the first few steps taken by doctors are:

●      CT Scan of the brain

●      MRI

●      CTA (Computed Tomographic Angiography)

●      MRA (Magnetic Resonance Angiography)

●      Doppler sonography (Carotid Ultrasound)

Based on the results of the above tests, neurologist in Bangalore will draft a treatment plan best suitable for you based on the following factors:

Your age, overall health, and past health

The type of stroke you experienced

Severity of your stroke

Where the stroke originated

Cause of your stroke

How well you handle certain medicines,     treatments, or therapies

What course you prefer or is better     suitable for you.

Conclusion:

Covering all points of stroke, it is essential to understand the critical aspect of this disease. The faster one acts upon them, higher are the chances of survival. Another factor is a good team of doctors who attend to you during this difficult time. As mentioned earlier, if you observe any symptoms of stroke in someone closeby, contact Trust-in Hospital, the best hospital in Bangalore for their quick response and hassle-free ambulance service at +91-80-45174949.

Author Profile: 

Trust-in Hospital is a major multi-specialty medical hospital in Bangalore. Its mission is to provide high-quality, personalized healthcare to patients. The best and most skilled specialists work at this cutting-edge hospital. It integrates advanced medical technologies and modern infrastructure to provide comprehensive and cost-effective care to both outpatients and inpatients using a multidisciplinary approach.

[writingmaneskin]

Stolen Time - A Thomas Raggi Story || Chapter Four

Pairings: Thomas Raggi x Fem! Reader

Description: Thomas had one big love in his life and it all went to hell for a reason that he could never understand. Almost a decade later, the truth starts to unfold as he learns what really happened.

Words: 3.7k

Warnings: Contains heavy angst, mentions of death, abuse and mental health

A/N: Well, this chapter is certainly heavy so keep that in mind if you choose to go in. <3

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He went home only after the graveyard security told him to.

There was a hollow feeling sitting heavily in his chest.

A hollow feeling that haunted him. That threatened to eat him alive.

He wanted it to stop. He wanted the pain to stop. He wanted to be able to do something, anything to take time back and right the wrongs.

He put away his guitar, right under that framed picture that he’d taken of you and started stripping off his clothes, acting as if they held the layer of grief and that it could be so easily stripped away.

**

Hunger.

It was the rumbling of his stomach that woke him up. He was irritable, the sun shining brightly in his eyes. The audacity of the Universe acting like nothing had really happened, like his whole world hadn’t stopped.

Is that how people deal with grief? He wondered to himself.

He had dragged himself to bed after a quick shower and he knew that he had a date with Angie - an unplanned one but he needed to know everything. He looked at his phone on the nightstand, the dark screen not betraying the amount of notifications and sparing him the anxiety of looking through them.

He unlocked the phone and opened the chat with Angie, promptly ignoring the group chats with his friends who were trying to check in on him.

“Buongiorno! When can we meet?” He sent and put the phone down on the bed next to him and started fidgeting with his fingers as time barely moved.

The reply came a few minutes later.

“Same place, in two hours?” Angie wrote. Thomas hated the place but he was willing to meet anywhere. There was a force inside of him, pushing to be let out, to unleash his grief on the rest of the world so that maybe the pain would quiet down and let him exist… Anything would be better than this.

“I’ll be there. See you then.”

**

Angie stepped quietly in the kitchen and started the coffee machine. She had checked on Theo who was thankfully still asleep.

“Buongiorno.” Vic told her sleepily. The bass player looked like a sleepy angel and the sight of her had Angie’s heart racing.

“Buongiorno.”

"Did you manage to get any sleep?"

"Not really." Angie admitted. "I should start getting ready to meet Thomas."

"Are you going to tell him today?"

"Possibly… it depends."

"Angie, he has missed out on enough time with his child already. You can't keep them apart. Does Theo know about him?"

"Theo knows that she has a dad and that he is someone whom her mom loved dearly. She also knows that things have been very complicated."

"And you need to be honest with both of them. I don't know what kind of crap Y/N pulled but both Thomas and Theo deserve better than whatever this charade is and it seems that you will have to be the one to fix this mess."

"My sister didn't … She did what she could to protect both of them. You do realise how young she was, right? You have no clue what she went through and how it affected her. She was not perfect by any means but she died trying to make things right and you don't speak ill of the dead."

Vic looked at Angie who was gripping the coffee mug so hard that her knuckles were turning white.

"I can stay with Theo until you come back."

Angie looked at Victoria, her grip on the mug loosening.

"That's kind of you. Yes."

"Please, just tell him. I can't keep this secret from him. It's not right."

**

"I will be back before you know it." You hugged Theo who was clinging to you as if her life depended on it. "You are going to have a really fun sleepover with Angie and when I come back we can sit down and pick out the furniture for your new room."

Your child looked unconvinced but you couldn't take her with you. You had to meet him alone and try to start setting things right."

"Per favore,mamma." Theo gave you the same look Thomas would when he needed something badly but you couldn't cave in.

"We will take the next trip together, mio cuore. I promise." You held her close to your heart and prayed that they would one day forgive you.

Theo let go eventually, their tear-stained face breaking your heart all over again.

"Ti amo, mama."

"Ti amo, Theo."

You walked out of the apartment and got into the car ready to go find the love of your life and set things right. For his sake and Theo's.

**

Theo woke up later than usual and their face gave away that they had been crying again.

"Buongiorno, Theo." Vic offered a shy smile before Angie could say anything. She hated feeling like an intruder but she also felt very protective over this miracle of a human.

"Buongiorno, Vic." Theo offered a shy smile, one that made both Angie and Vic's days.

Angie went to hug the child. "I have to go to a meeting but we can go through your school things when I come back. How does that sound?"

"Will Vic stay with me?" Theo asked, looking between the two of them.

"I would love to hang out with you." Vic beamed at Theo. "We could find something fun to do."

"Sì, per favore!" Theo was beaming again. "Are we going to visit mama?"

"Theo… we could visit her, yes. But you know she wouldn't want you to keep going there." Angie tried to say. Theo teared up again.

"Mama is alone, Angie. I hate that. I hate that she never came back. We should go visit her."

"We will. And she is with us, Theo."

Theo glared and stormed out.

"I will take care of them." Vic promised. "Do what needs to be done."

**

Thomas arrived at the café about 20 minutes earlier than he had to. He lit a cigarette after ordering himself a coffee, he tried to get his hands to stop shaking.

"Hi, Thom." Angie walked up to him, startling him and making him drop the cigarette. He noticed how tired she looked and he wondered how she felt. Was she in the same amount of pain as him?

"Angie.. Can I get you anything?"

"A cup of chamomile tea would do wonders, thank you.” Angie smiled at him, her heart racing as she knew what was to follow.

Thomas brought back another espresso for himself and served Angie a steaming cup of chamomile tea as she requested.

“I went to her grave.” He admitted, skipping straight to the point. “I had to…”

“That’s understandable. I am going later today.” She told him, cursing at herself a minute later. What if he decided to go there too. He shouldn’t meet Theo at the graveyard. That was the last place for them to meet.

“Did she suffer?” He asked, dreading the answer.

“Thom…” Angie didn’t want to relive the moments of losing you. Not again. Not ever again.

“Did she suffer, Angie?” He insisted, not caring about the pain that he was inflicting.

“No. She died on impact.” Angie explained. “She died very quickly from what the inspectors and the doctors explained to me. She didn’t feel any pain.”

Tears started rolling down his face. He didn’t want to imagine that. He didn’t want to think of that. He didn’t want to think about what your final thoughts had been. He didn’t want to think about the life lost, yet it was everywhere, haunting him, making him slowly lose his mind.

Angie didn’t know what to say. It was too much, reliving it, knowing that she had to break his heart all over again, possibly having him meet Theo. She tried to calm her shaking and took a sip of the still steaming tea.

“I will keep visiting her. Not that it would change anything but still…” Thomas said shakily.

Like father, like child. Angie thought.

“I have something to give to you.” Angie reached for her back and grabbed one of your battered journals. She had been reading them, but this was the latest volume - the one that you had started after things had finally started going well for you. The one that you had rehearsed what you would tell Thomas finally.

“What is this?” He looked at the journal, afraid to reach for it as if he would be opening Pandora’s box.

“It’s Y/N’s journal.” Angie put the small book on the table between them. “The last one she wrote. She started it a few months ago when things finally started looking up for her and I think that you should read it.”

“Are you sure?” Thomas moved his look between the book and Angie.

“I am sure. There are important things that you must find out first and we can talk more after you read, if you choose to. Please… please just remember that she was very young and not everything was in her control. I will happily tell you the whole story but the wound is still bleeding for me too. Please, just… have patience. Patience and we will talk again.”

Thomas was too stunned to speak. He didn’t understand Angie’s words but he understood that he had to read something important. Something that you wanted him to know.

“I didn’t do enough for her when she was still here. If I can fulfil even one of the wishes she had, I will do so gladly.” He vowed. Angie flinched internally, trying to imagine (as she had for a while now) how he would react to the truth. How he would face Theo. How he would go about meeting Theo.

“Read the journal and call me, okay?”

“Okay. I will.”

**

The two of them parted ways not long after - Angie heading home to be with Victoria and Theo, Thomas heading home to read the gift that she had given him.

Angie got home relatively quickly after taking the longest route from the café so she could walk off the built up anxiety. She didn’t know how or what to tell Theo, she knew that she had to prepare her for either scenario but the technicality was unclear. How can anyone be prepared for such an epic meeting?

“Angie!” Theo threw themself in Angie’s open arms and clung to her.

“Hello, my little one.” Angie kissed Theo’s forehead and when Theo let go, Angie took off her jacket and stepped out of her shoes.

“Vic promised to teach me how to play bass!” Theo told her excitedly.

Great. That’s fantastic.

“That’s really nice, Theo. I am happy for you.” Angie started walking towards the kitchen.

“We are making pizza, Vic is looking up recipes for the dough!”

It was obvious that Theo already adored Vic, which made Angie scared because what if Thomas didn’t want anything to do with Theo. What would happen then with this new friendship?

“Ciao, bella.” Vic smiled from the kitchen. She didn’t ask anything about the meeting, she wouldn’t do that infront of Theo but the question was there in her eyes. “We are making pizza, want to help us?”

“I need a few minutes and I will help.” Angie promised and sat down on the sofa. Her hands were still shaking and she jumped when she felt Victoria’s hands on her shoulders.

“Hey, Theo, why don’t you look through the recipes that I opened and pick one that sounds most delicious to you?” Vic suggested and Theo rushed to the tablet to look.

“Thank you.” Angie spoke shakily.

“Did it go well? Did you tell him?” Vic spoke quietly enough that only Angie would hear.

“I gave him her journal. She had written down everything that she planned to tell him so I gave him that. It’s still like she’s the one telling him. I couldn’t do it.” A tear rolled down her face and she wiped it.

Vic squeezed her shoulders and started massaging them gently, the pressure more than welcome.

“I think you did the right thing. I can only imagine how you feel.” Vic tried to comfort the woman.

“I don’t know what’s right and what’s wrong anymore.” Angie looked down, trying to stop the tears. “I just want Theo to feel safe and loved.”

“They do feel safe and loved. When you were gone they wouldn’t stop talking about you and Y/N. They love you so much, Angie. Never doubt that.”

“That’s kind of you to say, Vic. Thank you for staying and for being here for me and for Theo and for helping.”

“Of course, I am happy to help in any way I can.”

**

He did everything mechanically.

It was like he was there but not really, the grief threatening to drown him, but a part of his mind yelling that he shouldn’t be feeling this way. He shouldn’t be mourning so hard. That part of him blamed him for not being there for you, blamed him for not being there at all. He was to blame for giving up.

He put the journal on the coffee table and looked at it, not knowing where or even how to start reading your private thoughts.

Get a grip, Thomas. It’s just a diary.

He took a deep breath and pulled the diary closer, flipping open to the cover page where you had scrawled some flowers. Thomas traced gently over them with his fingertips, an image of you drawing them coming to life in his mind’s eye.

Ciao, amore mio.

The first page had your name written down, as well as another name - one unfamiliar to him. Theodora.

Theo is moving home with me!!! You had written and he smiled. He was curious about who this Theo was but it was obvious that the notion of them gave you joy.

She is very excited to get away from her grandparents and I am so excited because we will finally be able to live as a family. Gods, I didn’t believe that this day would come. She is growing up so fast and she is so smart and funny and I love her with all my heart. Theo is sunshine in a human being.

I chose the perfect apartment for us and the deal is almost closed. Thankfully, my parents are not standing in the way and I will be able to go see Angie too. Agh, I want to scream from the top of my lungs! I have rarely felt such joy.

Maybe, one day I will be able to talk to Thom too. He is working abroad according to social media but maybe by the time that he comes back I’ll have the courage to meet with him and talk everything through.

He almost dropped the journal when he saw his name. Were you talking about him? You were afraid of talking to him?

The next few entries talked more about your job and the process of moving into your apartment with the elusive Theo.

Theo told me that my parents told them that I am not stable enough for this and all of it will go to shit eventually. Theo told them that they wouldn’t let it go to shit and that they should have more respect.

**

They hit them. My mother actually hit Theo for daring to speak on my behalf.

I hope I never see them again. I hope she and my father rot in hell.

Then came the next entry, where the handwriting was shaky. His heart started racing.

Theo is here with me. Finally!!!!! And I saw on social media that Thomas is bound to come back to Italy very soon. I am going to try and talk to him!! The band will have a show in Florence and I think I will travel to see them live and maybe I will get the chance to see him. I am hopeful.

Maybe there is light at the end of the tunnel.

They had played in Florence less than two months ago. He wanted to sob. Had you been there in the crowd?

He flipped to the next page.

There were ink splotches on the page.

I left Theo with Angie for an impromptu sleepover. Those two are inseparable.

I came to Florence.

… I saw Thomas. I saw them play, of course and it was insanely good. They are insanely good. I always believed in them and I am so proud of them.

He looked so happy. There he was, the love of my life, playing and giving his everything right there on the stage.

How could I ruin it? I hurt him enough already. He deserves better than this.

Do I deserve any better?

I chickened out. I couldn’t go up to him. I can’t.

He understood the tears, as his own flowed down his face once again.

You had been there and you had been too afraid to go up to him.

The next entry read:

Here’s what I would say to him if I were able to talk and not be completely chicken shit.

Thomas,

Hi.

I don’t know where to start.

I am sorry for everything and I know that a simple apology would not do anything to mend or fix the damage that I have already inflicted.

I hope you can understand that you are the last person I ever wanted to hurt yet it all happened where you were maybe the most hurt of us all.

All those years ago, when I said goodbye I did it to protect you.

I found out I was pregnant a few days before I broke us off. Unfortunately, my parents found out about it too. We were still children at the time and I did not want to have an abortion. They told me that I cannot live my dream and bring shame to them by having the child and maybe starting my family with you.

I told them that you should know. They promised that if I were to tell you and bring you into their greatest shame, that something horrifying would happen to you. Knowing them and their capabilities, I had no doubt that their promises would hold.

They allowed me to keep our child but sent me off away from everyone I knew.

Angie was allowed to come with me, as well as a governess and when our child was born, they tried their best to keep them away as much as possible from my “terrible” influence. I wanted to reach out to you and tell you what was happening and I did things in my desperation, which landed me in a mental hospital.

They claimed I was a threat to myself, to Theo and to Angie.

That I was unstable, unlovable.

I bided my time. I went through the program that they sent me to and was on my best behaviour. I finished high school, started university and started working just so I could prove that I could be with Theo.

Oh, Thom. Theo is… Theo is sunshine. Theo is my whole entire heart.

She is my greatest gift. The gift that you gave me unknowingly.

I understand if what I did hurt you too much.

I understand that I should have told you a lot earlier.

I am sorry for everything, Thom.

I don’t expect anything from you but Theo deserves to know you, and you deserve to know Theo.

There were more stains on the page. His vision blurred and he dropped the journal.

I am a dad? How can I be a dad? I know nothing about it.

He left the journal on the floor and took his phone out of his pocket.

“We need to talk.” He texted Angie.

“I understand.” She replied.

“I want to meet Theo.”

“Of course.” Angie responded almost immediately. “Would you like to come over for dinner?”

“Would that be a good idea?”

“Yes, of course. They are still grieving too and they would be more comfortable in a familiar setting.”

“Of course. Do you want me to bring over something?”

“No, Thom. Here is the address.” - she replied, attaching also a live location.

“Come over at 7.” - Angie added.

“I’ll see you then.”

He paced around the apartment until 5, running out of cigarettes quickly.

He got in the shower, scrubbed himself raw and started getting ready for dinner. Angie’s apartment was not that far from him and he knew that despite his best efforts, he was sure to arrive way too early to the dinner.

Screw manners. He thought to himself. It was 6.30 still when he got to the building.He didn’t want to stink of cigarette smoke so he resisted the urge to grab a cigarette and light one. He had put on his favourite pair of jeans, a shirt and a jacket. Not too dressy, not too casual.

“I am downstairs.” He texted Angie before he could light a cigarette.

A soft buzz came from the door and he opened it and stood in the foyer where about two minutes later, Angie showed up. She was wearing a dress patterned with flowers.

“Buonasera, Thomas.” She smiled a half-smile.

“Buonasera.” He nodded and handed her a bottle of wine that he had bought on the way there. He didn’t know what to get or what to do but he didn’t want to go empty handed. There was also a bag filled with all sorts of treats that he kept in his hands.

“Does Theo know…?” He asked as he started climbing the stairs after Angie.

“She does, she is very curious to meet you.”

“I am curious too.”

The rest of the climb was quiet. He followed Angie through the apartment door and he was hit by the smell of homemade food. Thomas looked around and saw what he would only be able to describe as comfort - the apartment was full of light (even as the sun was setting), there were plants and art everywhere.

“Buonasera.” A tall child came into the corridor to greet them. Thomas’ breath caught. He felt like he had been thrown back in time and he was staring at a mirror, only that mirror had the shape of your eyes, and your dimple.

“Buonasera.” He replied a moment later. “My name is Thomas.” He reached his hand out to the child.

“I am Theodora, but I prefer to be called Theo.” Theo smiled the most charming smile ever at him and he felt like the world had stopped completely.

“It’s lovely to meet you, Theo.”

[acemapleeh]

Dreams of Philadelphia (Chapter 2)

Word Count: 4595

Characters: America

Read on ao3

Read Chapter One Here

Alfred had been feeling like crap on and off for the majority of the year. It has started sometime in March, small enough to ignore and move on without much thought. April he was having a tougher time getting out of bed. His chest ached anytime he sat up and more things seemed to irritate his throat. A little castor oil and his voice was commanding and grand once more. His head ached something fierce but he chalked it up to a caffeine withdrawal.

He knew his men were ill.

A flu.

The word felt weirdly foreign to him. It didn’t sit right in his stomach.

He let his men take a few days to rest from their training, starting with one but soon growing to dozens. It had reached a thousand in a week. Disease itself wasn’t a new thing for Alfred, of course. He’d never had the flu before but he had been stuck in bed with yellow fever, measles, and smallpox. His country had its fair share of outbreaks in its short history, but the war was his biggest priority. He went through the spring without letting it hold him down. He had to believe things were fine at home. His medicine was rising in the world, medical institutes competing with the likes of those in Paris and Berlin. In the last few decades, things like smallpox, rabies, and anthrax were becoming a woe of the past. Whatever this was, he trusted a vaccine would be made and his people will be fine.

He only grew concerned at seeing those around him coughing and staggering. Francis was first. His body was already weaker than normal from his soils carved into, once beautiful fields of countryside were now a mass grave filled with hundreds of thousands of rotting corpses. He still stood upright, voice commanding his men to hold their ground as he fought with every breath and bit of strength his people could give him. He was just as Alfred remembered when he assisted him all those years ago. He had looked up to him, to men like Lafayette to guide him as he grew into adulthood. He had slung Francis’s limp form over his shoulder, he could feel the heat of fever through his jacket and wet coughs on his neck. He couldn’t believe what he saw. The battle had been won. Francis hadn’t any major injuries. The two were talking, collecting themselves, and assessing the entirety of the situation when Francis had clutched at his chest, coughing and hacking. His body was trembling and Alfred could see past the layer of mud the flush on the man’s face. Whatever the man was running on, whatever was keeping him upright was no longer enough.

Arthur was second followed shortly by Matthew come May. His father had hidden it well. To those who didn’t know him, he was only a little under the weather from fatigue. None of it stopped him from carrying on. Matthew demanded softly in the late hours of silent nights for the man to rest. Alfred never intruded in those moments. He hadn’t earned back that relationship. His brother was always better at caring for others anyway. Anything Alfred would say would only make things worse. Every ask of if the old man was holding up was met with condensation and denial no matter how Alfred tried to approach him.

Matthew was more or less the same. He was young, unable to have as strong a mask as their father had crafted to perfection over hundreds of years. Alfred also knew him too well.

They were together as brothers should be, side by side in battle come victory or defeat. His Matthew who looked at Alfred like he was an angel from the heavens when he came to his aid with bottles of maple syrup and warm clothes that smelled like the pines of home. They talked about baseball and other things that hardly seemed to matter as they sat by the fire and drank rationed alcohol with rosy cheeks and hearty laughs. His Matthew who hid from his family that something was wrong. His Matthew who found himself in a medical tent for two weeks sick as a dog only because Alfred had to drag him into one to begin with. His brother was weak from the war, the gas, the shrapnel, the disease that had been eating at his chest. Weeks and years of putting others in front of himself catching up. It felt wrong to leave him behind but the war would not be won by sitting still and waiting for death. Matthew had clung to Alfred’s hand, rasping in comforting French that he’ll be alright. Alfred had to fight, he was needed above all if they were going to win this thing. He didn’t want to. He wanted, at that moment, for things to be like when the two of them were young. He wanted to lay in his brother’s bed, curled up, and assure him that he was safe. It was childish and foolish and they both knew it. The sound of Matt’s wet coughs louder than the pounding rain echoed in his mind as he left the tent.

Alfred had received a letter from him a month later. Matthew assured him that he was fine and thanked him for the new boots in messy handwriting. He apologized if Death had informed him of his temporary passing, he wished as always for his brother not to waste any worry on him. The whole thing passed with little concern. His death only a footnote in the letter, the conversation going right back to enjoying the freshly received coffee and how much he hated the tea father was forcing on him to “lift his spirits.” Alfred kept that tear-splattered letter folded in his inner breast pocket, tucked safely in an empty packet of Lucky Strikes.

The summer made spring feel like a lost dream.

September was the beginning of a nightmare.

There was conflict inside him. He knew how close they were to finishing this, he should feel elated. But he felt wrong. His body felt like lead and his mind felt like he was swimming in a lake of molasses. Exhaustion from the war that his medical kit couldn’t take care of. The headaches were from the heavy artillery that never ceased, the soreness of his muscles from injuries that just were taking a little too long to recover, the shivers at night from the terrible weather. Autumn in France was dreadful. There were too many nights he sat up on watch, volunteering because he couldn’t sleep. The rain soaked through everything and the hallowing wind made him even more miserable. The wool blanket he pulled around him did little to warm him. Hell, he didn’t even want the thing and had argued with the man who forced it across his shoulders. There were other men who needed it more, who could die if they spent another cold, wet night with puddles soaking through the holes in their boots.

But he could not stop shivering.

He longed desperately for the southwestern sun to warm his face as he rode horseback in the deserts of Arizona. He wanted to sit on his porch in Pennsylvania with homemade apple cider watching the leaves turn to match the brick of home. He craved the comforting grits and crayfish of the south after a summer day of wading through the Mississippi River. He needed anything to get his mind back into the fight. Alfred couldn’t let his spirit waver.

He finally got his chance at Saint-Mihiel.

Alfred could take to the skies; perhaps, more importantly, he could take cockpit capsules without getting a second glance. It was his first large offense launched for him to take charge. He couldn’t afford to fuck it up. Their plans were detailed for penetrating German trenches using a strategy of combined arms. He was low on essentials for a well-balanced field army. Francis came to his aid without hesitation, loaning him half of the artillery, airplanes, and tanks he needed for this operation to be successful. Even with so much on his shoulders, Alfred was struggling to stand upright. Pressure was building and he hated the way his hands trembled over the controls.

His chest was screaming in agony worse than it had in the spring. It had to be this hideous weather. The roads were muddy and soaked his legs to the thigh. The rain drenched his uniform and the wind drove through the marrow of his bones. The hands hidden by gloves were bony, clammy, and cold.

A small syringe of blue glass was injected into his vein with a practiced hand. He had to stay awake no matter what. The only way he was going to rest his eyes this battle was if he was shot in the head or had shrapnel lodged in his throat and he bled dry.

Unlike other officers who took command from the rear, his were in the front lines in hopes of taking control of the chaos. He trusted them as he flew overhead alongside his air squadrons.

Morbidly, Alfred wished the entire thing took longer. By the evening of the following day, the Americans were withdrawn so that they could move to the upcoming Meuse-Argonne offensive. He held back for now. He had other places his help was needed. Around France he drove in his trusted jeep and marched on, his body only held upright by the cocaine, caffeine, and morphine that replaced his blood. Once in a while, when he was stopped at a camp, mail would catch up with him. Things were bad back home. New York, Boston, and Philadelphia were all struggling to keep this epidemic under wraps while simultaneously trying to make enough coffins to bury his dead. Newspapers buried flu reports in the back pages behind news of the war.

He soon found himself in Saint-Quentin with Jack by the end of September.

By this point, his vision was blurry no matter how many times he tried wiping his glasses clean of dirt and blood. It could have just been the fog he told himself, even though he was struggling to get those just a few feet in front of him in focus. Alfred couldn’t think of a word to describe how he was feeling. He was there to help break the Hindenburg Line. He was there to assist Jack and his men, to lead the way so the others could exploit this break. The Australians were low on men and those that remained were strained with exhaustion. Jack was being entrusted by the British to spearhead this attack despite these conditions.

Alfred didn’t know how much help he was offering the young man. The troops that he arrived with were inexperienced in battle but he was assured the Germans had such low morale at this point that their ability to resist was weak. He didn’t like the assumption but they had to work with whatever men and resources they had. His first job was clearing out German outposts in the northern section of the line. The British had failed in their previous attempts, their own troops exhausted like all the others. Again and again, they just had to hope the Germans were just as tired as they were. Off they went and it wasn’t until they were there had Alfred realized the lack of officers and leaders present. He tried to shout orders, tried to organize these boys that were afraid but his voice wasn’t carrying.

They had failed.

It was only the preliminary operation but a failure nonetheless.

He was in no better shape for the main attack two days later.

Alfred felt the losses. Each death made it harder and harder to hold himself up and take another step forward. He tried not to focus on the numbers, on the faces, the names, the families… He didn’t know where he was. The fog was thick but gunfire still sounded all around him. Shouts of confusion and panic were the only things that overpowered the noise. His heart was thumping, his vision swimming as he desperately dug through his pockets for his medkit. He had to pull himself together. Alfred had to lead his men, Jack was depending on him.

There was a gunshot to his left and there was pain in his cheek. A graze, it was only a graze but he couldn’t move on from it. It had hurt. No, Alfred thought, that couldn’t be right. His body was running on so many things that something as simple as a bullet grazing his face, hell, he’s been shot just about everywhere on his body in this fucking war alone, that it should not have frozen him in his tracks.

“On your left mate!”

Jack’s voice and form appeared from the murk, the slouch hat giving a distinct silhouette that shook Alfred back to the moment at hand. There were more forms closing in on them and he retrieved the pistol from his belt. He shot. He missed. They were getting closer. Jack was beside him with his rifle held securely at his side. The man Alfred had shot at before was now staggering as the Australian aimed and fired. Alfred was back in his element, the sounds of gunfire finally snapping him in place. His mind was running and running, moving his men forward with Jack alongside him to push them forward. His medical kit was left in the confines of his coat.

By the time it was all over, the fog had yet to cease. Alfred’s mind was back in its daze. He hadn’t realized he had been separated from the younger nation. He scanned the crowds of men. Shit. How far back did he lose him? He was certain they had crossed the canal together. He turned heel and ran, shouting the man’s name at the lifeless forms in hopes he was among them.

There was a shout from below and Alfred leaned over the edge of the old bridge. Jack lay on the riverbed several yards away and Alfred was quickly stumbling down the slope to reach him. The tan coat of his uniform was splattered crimson and his right shoulder was bent in all the wrong ways. Without wasting the time for arguments, Alfred was moving Jack’s arm to lay at his side, ignoring the curses and protests with every movement made. The sole of his mud-stained boot was placed firmly on the other’s ribs as he pulled Jack’s arm till a solid pop and shout were heard.

“You could have at least given me a fucking shot of whisky for crying out loud! Jesus, Joseph, and Mary what the hell is wrong with you!”

“I’m sorry, did you want to march all the way to daddy dearest with a dislocated shoulder and have him fucking do it for you?” Alfred was already going through his pack for whatever spare cloth he had to make a temporary sling. “I can easily pull it back out asshole. Stop being a grouser.”

“You’re a fucking cunt,” Jack swore, head laying back against the gravel. “You ran off ahead of me- I thought we were covering each other.”

“Okay, I’m actually sorry about that one,” his voice lowered as he worked a little more carefully at keeping the man’s shoulder in place. “This fucking weather has been throwing me off.”

“Yeah, tell me about it. It’s fucking spring back home, how the hell do you think I feel?” Jack hissed as Alfred helped him sit up. He pressed an arm around his chest and Alfred could see the stains spread. “Get me some morphine will you? I just need to get on my feet long enough till I get actual medical treatment.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m on it. Just keep still and try not to bleed out on me. Charlie will have my head if you die on my watch. Where do you keep your kit?”

Jack shook his head. “Used the last of mine on my last outing. Meant to get more but shit’s been so crazy I completely forgot. Just give me some of yours.”

Alfred’s tin kit was where he always kept it. Easy reach, familiar weight in his left pocket that hit right below his ribs when he ran. His inner left arm was bruised up and down from how many times he’s had to inject one thing or another. His mind was starting to catch up with his body’s messages of pain and his fingers itched to be closer to his favorite pocket. It was for Jack. It wasn’t for him. He opened the case, eyes scanning for the yellow glass on the end that he replaced time and time again. Well, every time but recently. “Sorry kiddo. I got pure ether though. How’s that?”

“I’m not an ether frolic nor do I plan on it. Just…” he sighed, undoing the buttons of his uniform, be it, difficult with one hand. “Give me a quick patch up. I’ll live.”

Alfred worked in tentative silence, Jack trying to keep a conversation going but it wasn’t working well. His thoughts kept trying to recollect the last time he had used his kit and got it replenished. Maybe he had been overdoing it. He had to though. They were just tools given to him by his military. He wasn’t doing it for fun. Alfred was only doing it because it was his job to keep on his feet. He sighed, helping Jack to his feet, and slowly climbed up the hill to rejoin the others. He needed at least some sense of victory and joy.

~~~***~~~

Alfred picked at the meat stew over dinner a few nights later. It warmed his hands in that little tin bowl and somehow they managed to get real vegetables. His stomach churned. Arthur was looking at him again. He took a bite of a carrot and started a conversation with Matt. It was dull. Man, this rain really has been something hasn’t it? Can’t believe Atkins was able to “borrow” these veggies from that farmer. How are those boots holding up from spring? This tea sure does taste like crap. Anything, anything, anything to prevent a real conversation from starting. God he wished Jack and Charlie could be seated with them but the pair was getting patched up in medical. Arthur could focus his fretting on his other two children but no, now all his attention was on Alfred and Matthew. He hated being stuck between two pairs of eyes that could actually read him.

Boring, idle chat was getting him nowhere. Arthur’s eyes were narrowed in on him and he quickly forked a sliver of onion in his mouth.

There was a start of a remark.

There was the saving grace of the mail coming in.

Alfred was on his feet, dumping whatever of the stew he didn’t eat into Matt’s bowl saying the man was running himself too ragged and needed the extra strength. He excused himself quickly, ready to turn in for the night after an exhausting day. Without waiting for protest or response, Alfred tracked down the mail boy and gathered the envelopes and parcel in his arms. All he could think about was the cot in his tent and sleeping throughout the night. It was quiet inside, the lack of eyes on him finally allowing a long sigh. The lantern glowed dimly as he sat on the cot, knife working on the first of the letters from home. His hands shook from the weight.

Nothing but death.

No matter where he was, no matter what he did, his people were dying.

Those young boys who had hardly had three steps on the front lines who had no voice to follow but their own of panic and fight to stay alive. They had never shot a man. Never killed another. It was Alfred’s fault. He couldn’t get his head clear, couldn’t get rid of the heaviness of heartache from wishing for the simple comforts of home.

There were hundreds of innocents at home, just wanting to support their country.

Their husbands.

Their sons.

Their loved ones.

Now whole families were dead.

Now there was no one to go home to.

Alfred wished he was in Philadelphia to shout at the major, to shout at the people who let so many deaths happen. Doctors and nurses who weren’t serving overseas were dying in their own fight. Colleagues were falling around themselves but they stayed at their post. A place Alfred had long associated with life and freedom, one of the birthplaces of who he was reeked of death. Open windows that once lead way to cheerful laughter and freshly made apple butter now let the souls of the dead pass through as well as the stench of decay. Fluids spilled from the cracks of doorways into the streets. There were no more coffins, no more trees to build them, no more space in the graveyard to keep up with the thousands of new residents.

In the dead of night, echoes of Latin prayers resounded through the streets as mass graves were laid to rest. Those were the lucky ones. It was impossible to keep up. The dead stayed where they passed and loved ones were too sick to move them, accepting and living life as best they could beside the rotting shells of their kin.

Home was supposed to be safe. Home was supposed to be a domestic heaven for these soldiers to look forward to going back to.

He clutched to the wool socks he was gifted. They were from a young girl named Julie. She was in the fifth grade and all the girls in her class got together to make care packages for those at war. Her older brother was out there, her father wasn’t well enough to serve the country but they wanted to do whatever was possible. She lived in Indiana in a little town Alfred had never been to before but he could see the old church that also served as the school building, the neat rows of tended soil, the river that ran through the center of town, and miles and miles of golden wheat.

A coughing fit took hold of him and a splatter of blood stained the new socks.

He had to get to Francis and his men. He did the math in his head; if he hurried, he could reach Montfaucon in two hours. He could leave first thing in the morning; even he could admit in his current state he wasn’t going anywhere fast. Hell, he didn’t even think he could get up from the bed now that he was seated comfortably on in.

There was a gust of cold air when the flap of his tent opened.

‘For fuck’s sake…’

Arthur was there to remind him of the officer meeting tomorrow morning which Alfred had completely forgotten about. The American kept his guard up, grinning up at the older nation as he always did. The cut on his cheek still stung and he vaguely wondered why it was taking so long to heal. The conversation was kept light but he allowed just a hint of vulnerability. Let Arthur think he got to the problem. His brows furrowed as he rubbed over the bloodstain on the sock, trying to hide it into the dark material. He was just homesick. He wished he could have been at the parade in Philly. He was just tired from the war like everyone else. Nothing special, nothing that should cause a raised brow or lecture from his father.

But his words just kept pouring out.

He removed his glasses to clean them, to keep his hands busy and not show how they were quivering.

He didn’t want celebrations. He couldn’t bear another case like what happened in Philadelphia to happen in every major city. There was nothing to cheer for. No reason to crowd close together on the streets. There was too much death on the homefront, too much death on his hands. Alfred couldn’t save them. It wasn’t just his soldiers who were dying, it was his people-

He cut himself short, feeling his throat tighten though he couldn’t tell if it was from sadness creeping in his chest or another coughing fit needing out.

There was a shared moment of silent understanding and Arthur’s voice was soft when he spoke again. Alfred just needed some rest and he would be back at it again. He was only human but that wasn’t entirely true. They were strange things but he didn’t like thinking about it. He took his father’s lie of being only human for the time being.

Another reminder for the morning and he actually had enough energy to make a joke. It felt good, a light flutter in his chest. Even Arthur clearly putting the mask back on to scoff at his comment gave a strange sense of comfort.

The tent felt cold once he was alone.

Alfred dossed down for the night and stared into the dark. He couldn’t ignore the trembling that had started in his hands that had spread to his whole body. He emptied his canteen but his throat was still dry. He tried curling in on himself, hands venturing under the rough material of his shirt. There was almost relief in how warm the skin of his torso felt. For the briefest of moments, he felt fine, not noticing the sweat that was collecting at his hairline and staining the beat-up pillow below. He felt the blood trickle to his upper lip and down his neck as the night went on tirelessly. He hated dying from disease; most nations he’s spoken to shared the feeling. It stuck him with his thoughts, of his guilt. His coughs rattled his whole body and even his back hurt from how often it occurred.

He buried his face in the pillow and began uttering prayers that had been instilled in him since he was a small boy. His cheeks were wet and his very soul felt corrupted and sick. His people were just as afraid, praying for their sinful nation to be forgiven, that this punishment of death and disease cease. Alfred couldn’t remember the last time he felt this way. The cross he wore close to his heart weighed him down and brought little comfort in this moment of fear. He wanted death to come overnight so there was hope he could return to his body by morning’s light. That his soul could visit his rivers and valleys, to ride the winds of the open plains and painted deserts, to be among the stars he loved so dearly. He prayed and prayed heart-shaking pleas for mercy till his throat was raw. He was always too afraid to do himself in no matter how much reassurance his brother gave him as he held a pistol steady to his temple.

At what hour he finally shut his eyes to rest he wasn’t sure. It was fitful sleep of strange dreams brought upon by fever but it was sleep nonetheless. He stayed curled in bed, trying to fit his whole body under the blanket that wasn’t meant for people of his height and build. He wasn’t home and he was in pain and that was all his mind could focus on.

Alfred could not muster any of his spirit to get back up.

[secretobsessionstuff]

the one recent anon about gentle caretaking is so so right, can you actually write something with that as a prompt for micah and alexi? both holding by the waist while the sickee is sick in the sink AND then by the forehead when it gets too intense in front of the toilet again. no scat please

I love this prompt so much and I had so much writing it! I hope you love it!! Thank you to the other anon who got this prompt started ❤

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

When Alexi went to bed at midnight, he was surprised to find the light on in the bedroom.

He had been looking forward to pulling Micah’s sleeping body closer to him as he himself fell asleep. Most nights he came to bed much later than Micah. It was their ritual. Alexi would wrap his arms around his boyfriend and fit himself perfectly into place. Half-awoken by the motion, Micah would make the cutest sound upon realizing that he was once again safe in the arms of someone who loved him.

Alexi was unusually eager for tonight’s ritual because he hardly saw his boyfriend all day. Micah was working on his manuscript non-stop to meet the upcoming deadline. The tight schedule meant that he needed to be alone. The boy was writing like he was running out of time…because he was. It was a particular exhausting stage in the process because his editor covered the document in red writing. As far as Micah was concerned, the red markups were nothing but blood—blood that marked the death of his favourite irrelevant scenes, the cleverest yet confusing lines, and the fun yet unnecessary side characters. Yes, killing your darlings is a taxing process that took all of Micah’s time and energy, and as Alexi would discover, his health.

There might as well have been an invisible Do Not Disturb sign on the bedroom door. The unyielding typing from inside the room also served as a reminder for Alexi that he couldn’t demand attention whenever he wanted it. He couldn’t just walk in and smother Micah in kisses until he did something with him. Now bedtime was Alexi’s only chance to be with Micah when he wasn’t distracted.

But the opening sentence still remains: the light was on in the bedroom.

Alexi stood confused on the other side of the door. This didn’t look like bedtime. Not hearing any typing from inside the room, he walked in to find that it looked a little bit more like bedtime. Micah was asleep, but at his desk. He wasn’t nicely tucked into bed. His head was resting on the desk next to his laptop. The screen was black.

“Micah? Alexi said quietly as he came over to his boyfriend. He clicked the space bar on the keyboard, making the screen come to life. So much red.

Micah never fully turned off the computer before falling asleep. His own sleep looked just as shallow as the computer’s. His back rose and fell sharply, and his breathing matched. He didn’t look restful at all.

“Micah, wake up, mon amour.” Alexi shook his boyfriend awake who shot up from the desk. Alexi was quick to grab hold of his shoulders. “Easy, you’re okay. You fell asleep while working.”

Micah squinted and put a hand up to the side of his head. His neck hurt from the awkward way in which he passed out. “What time is it?”

“Midnight…you never went to bed. Are you alright?” Alexi didn’t like the dazed look on his boyfriend’s face. His eyes were glassy and bloodshot, like they reflected what was on the computer screen.

“I wanted to finish the chapter,” Micah said while sinking back into the chair. His gaze sluggishly travelled to the screen. The late hour and the unfinished work made him groan and put his head in his hands. Like a slow-moving landslide, Micah dragged his hands down his face, rubbing his eyes deeply. It only irritated his already blotchy skin.

Alexi watched his over-worked boyfriend curiously. There was something romantic about a dishevelled writer. But this romanticized version did not belong on Micah. Alexi didn’t want a melancholic, candle-lit boyfriend who captured the essence of dark academia. He just wanted a boyfriend who slept well and who took care of himself.

The boy before him was not well. Alexi knew this even before touching Micah’s forehead. He knew it while he lightly traced his fingers over Micah’s cheek. He knew it for certain when he lifted Micah’s face with a hand under his chin. Micah’s laptop wasn’t the only thing overheating.

The boy’s eyelids drooped, forcing Alexi to crane his neck to make eye-contact. “Love, you need to go to bed. You’re burning up.”

“But I told Shannon I would have these chapters done by tonight.”

“Well Shannon is going to have to wait, isn’t she?” Alexi said as he grabbed Micah’s hands to help him up from the chair. Alexi quickly found himself supporting much of his weight as Micah’s head came crashing down onto Alexi’s chest. The boy let out a low moan. “I’ve got you. Are you still okay?”

“…’M dizzy.” Either Micah was having a stroke or was too tired to speak because the words came out in cursive. “…don’t feelgood.”

Micah proved his point (not that it needed more proof) by vomiting on the floor between their feet. The only reason he didn’t fall forward was that Alexi held onto his shoulders as he heaved.

“Oh gosh,” Alexi muttered under his breath. “Oh, you’re really sick, but that’s okay.” He said it so quietly that Micah wouldn’t even have heard it. He was telling himself that everything was okay.

Thankfully, Micah didn’t immediately heave up everything in his belly. The countless cups of coffee and handfuls of crackers were still nauseatingly churning in his gut. This gave him the chance to breathe and moan in pain.

He lifted his head slowly, making his tearful eyes look like pleading puppy-dog eyes. After wiping his mouth with his sleeve, he spoke with a voice so thickened by illness. “…my stomach hurts.”

Alexi allowed himself a second to feel broken-hearted by his boyfriend’s pain. Then that second was over, and he had to ease that pain just a little. “I would never have guessed it. Now, come on.”

The small intermission gave Alexi the chance to practically drag Micah to the bathroom. He could tell it wasn’t over by the way Micah kept a hand over his mouth. At least the toilet would be a better place to throw up than on the floor.

But Micah’s belly had other ideas. His sick and stubborn stomach couldn’t wait the two seconds that it would take to reach the toilet. As soon as Alexi got him to the bathroom, Micah made a sharp turn for the sink.

This round was much more productive than the last. A torrent of bitter black coffee and whatever other snacks Micah had for dinner filled the sink rather quick. Even the sight of it made Micah heave again.

As he continued to vomit, his vision blurred and blackened around the edges. Seeing the contents of his stomach was no longer the problem. The new problem was being unable to stand.

Alexi noticed the way his boyfriend leaned heavily on the counter and the way his legs wanted to give out. He switched from rubbing Micah’s back to holding him at the waist to keep him steady. It was oddly close to how he pulled Micah into his arms for their nightly ritual. This was not how he envision the night going.

“Don’t worry about holding yourself up, Micah,” Alexi said while spotting the white-knuckle grip that his boyfriend had on the edge of the sink. “I won’t let you go. I’m not leaving.”

Micah loosened his grip ever so slightly. He leaned back further against the body that kept him up.

After a few minutes of this, Alexi was startled by a change in sound. The heaving seemed to shift into choked sobs, each retch ending with a guttural moan. Eventually, Micah was left panting over the sink with saliva dripping from his lips. Actual sobs made his whole body shake. He tried not to look at himself in the mirror because he knew a dark-eyed stranger would stare back at him.

“Micah, are you…okay? Are you done?”

Micah shook his head to say no, shaking loose strings of bile that hung from his mouth. “I don’t want to do this anymore…I’m so tired, Lexi.”

Micah was tired. Tired of the stress he put upon himself. Tired of thinking that his worth came solely from his writing. He was tired of holding himself up when all he wanted was to let someone else carry the burden for a while. Alexi was so good to him. He carried the physical burden, that was Micah himself, so well. It was well past midnight now. Decades seemingly have gone by while Micah’s body broke down from the fatigue. Alexi knew that he was tired from heaving his guts up, but he was more than just physically tired. Unfortunately, Micah didn’t have the strength to tell him about the other kind. Fortunately he didn't have to.

“I know. I know, it’s exhausting.” Starting with his hands on Micah’s waist, Alexi gently trailed his fingers up the boy’s back. He felt as if there were a barrier between him and Micah. He couldn’t get as close as he wanted. All the gentle touches in the world couldn’t take away the pain. Still, Alexi didn’t take his hands away from his boyfriend, hoping that he was providing some comfort.

He also knew that touch was not the only way to offer comfort. “I know it’s exhausting to feel like you need to finish this project so that your life will have meaning. I see you everyday, working so hard to make your dreams come true. It’s tiring to do what you do. But you should know that taking a break does not mean that you’re giving up. You’re tired, I know, so sit down for a moment and lean on me.”

Micah listened. He exhaled slowly, letting the tension go from his shoulders. He let Alexi lower him to the ground, where they both sat in front of the toilet. Micah wanted to say so much, but…

He was breathing hard again. Alexi eased the pain in his mind, but the pain in his belly persisted. There was one last round before relief.

Micah’s head was heavy. Heavy with worries and pain. It was a struggle to hold his head up while another weak wave of watery vomit fell from his mouth.

Every muscle in his body wanted to betray him. His neck almost let go, but then something stopped his head from falling towards his chest. It was Alexi’s hand on his brow.

“Ugh…thank you,” Micah said breathlessly in between gags.

“I told you, I’m not leaving.” Alexi kept one hand on the boy’s forehead and the other on his back. “I’ve got you.”

And so, Micah’s stomach finally calmed down after his over-worked and under-fed body decided that was enough punishment for the mistreatment. An event like this certainly wouldn’t happen again because Alexi was going to make sure that Micah got enough sleep, and proper food, and down-time.

“Are you done?”

“Yes,” Micah said with a hint of a smile. He was already falling backwards into Alexi’s embrace.

[pheita]

Flash Fiction Friday: Tangled in Time

Yeah, it is Friday and I finished my piece @flashfictionfridayofficial. And another exploratory piece for my new OCs. Somehow this got so damn depressing and sad where I just tried to figure out why Sykova seems to know some things...

Tagging @ashen-crest @adie-dee @cometkov @abalonetea @kainablue @vivian-is-writing @viskafrer @writingamongther0ses @contes-de-rheio @stormbrightwriter

Note: babehi is some sort of soft pet name among siblings. Trigger Warning: mentions of child abuse, mental illness of some sorts

Moving up to the small group was not in itself something Sykova was looking forward to. It was clear to him beforehand how the groups would be divided. Just as he knew they didn't have much time left to practice their skills. The long road on the outskirts of town passed him by as he walked in his thoughts to the burrow that was his family's main home. Grandmother Koricana had sent for him, and no one kept Grandmother waiting. In a way, he was glad of that. A little distance from Miada would only do him good. Something about her irritated him, and he couldn't put his finger on it. Thoughtfully, he stroked his forehead with his hand. There were moments when he hated the family gift, and those moments were becoming more and more. Especially when it came to Miada. "Sykova..." His mother's deep voice brought him out of his thoughts. She was standing at the gate, waiting for him. He knew that sad smile too well. Immediately he knew why Grandmother had sent for him. "It's Lavynara, isn't it?" "She's lost herself again. We don't know why. She's been making such good progress." Sykova just nodded. He knew what his mother meant. Anger bubbled up inside him. Anger at his gift. Anger at what his ancestors had done to enhance that gift. But as always, he swallowed it down. This year, the unfathomable darkness would again get many fears, worries and the like from him. For a moment Sykova wondered if the unfathomable darkness even lived on that, but then pushed the thought aside. He had no time for that now. Here he was just the strongest gifted of the family, not the fired-up fox who drove all and everyone mad with growing enthusiasm. Like so many things, madness had system with him, but no one would understand that. Sykova stepped through the gate. The cold that greeted him was imaginary, he knew. Built up from decades of secret training so that no one outside the family knew what the gift was. Even if this was his family, he imagined a home differently. Without further ado, Sykova walked through the house to his sister's room. Lavynara was stronger than he, but her gift was fickler. In a way, he was glad of that, because someone as gentle as her could never have withstood the training. She sat by the window and watched some squirrels gather food. "Babihe?" asked Sykova cautiously. Lavynara turned and smiled at him, but her gaze went into the distance. He didn't want to know which version of him she was looking at. "Sykova. I'm glad you're here. I thought you were lost." "I always find my way back to you," he replied encouragingly.

An inkling of what she meant came over him. He pulled a seat cushion close to her and rested his head on her legs. Gently, she stroked his head and giggled to herself. "You're still so young." "You're also the oldest of us." "I know," she giggled again. "What did you see?" Lavynara sighed heavily. "The same thing you keep seeing. Something's going to happen, and you're going to be in the middle of it, little brother." "Mother said you lost yourself, but that's not true, is it?" Sykova turned her head a little, so he could see her. A mischievous grin appeared on her face. "I thought I'd give you a little space." "You see her?" "You mean your vixen? Of course, I do. I always have." "How come you never said anything?" Confused, Lavynara blinked a few times, then started laughing. "Sykova, we both know that our gift has its limitations. What would you have done if I had told you then?" He started smirking, knowing she had expected him to leave immediately to find Miada. He probably would have, too, if he hadn't seen her himself repeatedly, through the ages. "That's exactly what I mean," Lavynara laughed, nudging him on the forehead, "You know you guys need to get stronger?" "I'm doing my best, babihe. Miada ... is stubborn." "And you're smart and have the gift of foresight." "Which is basically the problem. I feel like I'm split. Here I'm just the crowning achievement of the family gift. There, the goofy fox who just plays pranks and loves to be rebellious." Again, she poked him on the forehead. Questioningly, Sykova looked at her. "Each of us is different at home than among friends." "I don't know if I would call them that." "But I do. Do you trust me?" "You're the only one here I trust. What are you going to do now? Keep playing crazy?" Lavynara just smirked again and looked at the window again. "I'll keep doing it as long as you need a break." "You can't do that," Sykova objected. The guilty conscience that she was going to expose herself to so-called treatments for this turned his stomach. "It's the only thing I can do for you. Please let me do it." He sat down and took her in his arms. "You don't have to do that. I'll be fine." "But for how long? Don't be silly, you need a break from everything. Do you think I don't know that you were sent to the best mentors by the council on purpose? They're no different from our family." Almost simultaneously, they both sighed heavily. "That's exactly the problem. No matter where I am, nowhere am I just me." A strangely calm smile appeared on Lavynara's face that made Sykova fear for a moment that she was lost after all. "Trust me, you'll find your place yet." For a moment he wanted to ask her how she was so sure, but Sykova knew too well, such questions were dangerous in this family. Instead, he hugged her tighter. It was all he could do right now.

[hellandholywater]

A Midnight Clear

It's Christmas Eve, 1896, and all Aziraphale wants is to read his book in peace. His plans are thwarted when he receives a special assignment, but a long-missed demonic visitor appears and sidesteps the Arrangement to grant Aziraphale's wish. In the end, the angel finds that all he wants is his demon back at his side, but where is Crowley?

Aziraphale/Crowley Rated: Teen & up 4k words

Read on ao3

Many thanks to my beta readers, @chiaroscuroverse​ and @wordsintimeandspace​, for making this story so much better than it would have been. I’ve made a number of changes since they’ve seen it, and any errors of style or substance are my own.

Part of the @go-july-celebration​

London, Soho, 1896

A knock came at the door of A.Z. Fell & Co. for the thirteenth time that evening. It was Christmas Eve — a night for peace and goodwill towards men — but after his reading had been interrupted by twelve groups of carolers, each increasingly intoxicated and off-key, even an angel might lose his temper, and this one had. The sign on the door clearly indicated that the bookshop was closed for the night.

Aziraphale leapt to his feet and stormed to the door, unlocked it and yanked it open, seething, intending to give this latest batch of warbling merry-makers a large and vivid piece of his mind. 

"Now, see here!" he began, but his next words came to a sudden, guttural stop. 

"Gabriel!" he choked as his eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. "And Sandalphon … what a lovely surprise!" Aziraphale stepped back abruptly and flung an arm out to invite them inside. He tried to wring the venom from his planned anti-caroling tirade and inject a bit of enthusiasm in his greeting to the Archangel and his underling, rather than the unmitigated panic he was feeling. He hadn't seen either of them for decades, and his mind raced trying to puzzle out why they were here in his bookshop now. 

Gabriel smirked at him as he unwrapped the scarf from around his neck and handed it to Sandalphon, whose metallic teeth glinted as he smiled insincerely at the Principality. 

"Calm down, Aziraphale!" boomed Gabriel, as if speaking to an audience in a large hall rather than the bookshop. "It's Christmas Eve! You should be celebrating the occasion, not shouting at people. What kind of angel are you?" he said, throwing up his arms in scornful emphasis. 

At this, Sandalphon let out a chortle that spoke more of schadenfreude than good cheer. Gabriel smiled at him indulgently, making Aziraphale feel slightly ill. 

"I do apologize," Aziraphale said, trying to resist the sarcastic tone he felt like interjecting. "It won't happen again. But, to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?" 

At this, Gabriel sobered, and he clasped his shoulder firmly. "Aziraphale, I have a special assignment for you."

"Oh?" The angel raised his brow and pasted on a smile, doing his best to look intrigued rather than indisposed. 

Gabriel continued as if he hadn't noticed Aziraphale at all, which he probably hadn't. (Sandalphon had noticed, however, and shot his fellow angel a rather nasty grimace.) "You're aware, of course, that Frederick Temple was recently nominated Archbishop of Canterbury?" 

"Ye-es, I thought I'd heard something to that effect."

"Well? Temple's participation in Essays and Reviews was nothing short of heresy! And here he is being rewarded for it with the highest religious office in England!" 

"Yes, yes. Terrible," said Aziraphale, furrowing his brow. He’d thought the essays rather funny, but he didn’t want to appear to disagree with the Archangel.

"Aziraphale…." Gabriel intoned deliberately and with more than a hint of condescension. "Did you even read the essays? Denying that true prophecies exist — refusing the very possibility of miracles — even questioning the eternal nature of damnation!" he scoffed, shaking his head. 

Sandalphon glared at Aziraphale as if he were personally responsible for writing and publishing the heretical texts, and nodded slowly. 

Aziraphale winced. "Yes, of course I've read them," he said, hoping fervently his irritation with Gabriel didn't show. "I can't say I find much to agree with in them."

"Duh!" said Gabriel. "And Temple's little writer friends hold too much sway with him. He's starting to have doubts of his own. That's why I want you to prepare a visitation for him, before he's officially installed as Archbishop. Remind the old boy of the divine power of Heaven."

"You mean…."

"Yes. The halo, the wings, the heavenly vestments — the whole nine yards."

"But…on Christmas Eve?" Aziraphale asked, thinking longingly of his abandoned reading. 

"What better time?" said Gabriel. 

"I suppose you're right," Aziraphale said as agreeably as he could manage, under the circumstances. 

"Of course I am! Now, hop to it, Aziraphale," Gabriel smiled, exchanging a toothy grin with Sandalphon. "I look forward to reading your report."

"Er, yes, quite," Aziraphale said as he showed the two angels to the door, and bolted it shut behind them as soon as he dared. 

His shoulders slumped as he resigned himself to a ruined evening. He went to his section on religion in England to locate the book with Temple's essay, in order to refresh his memory before he confronted the man.

* * *

A few minutes later, there came another knock. Beyond frustrated with the way his evening was going, and frazzled by the Archangel's visit, Aziraphale stomped to the door, unbarred it, and flung it open. 

"I'm not interested!" he started to shout at the fourteenth interruption of the night. The words died in his throat as he recognized the interloper. 

"Crowley!" Aziraphale said with a swirling mix of shock, relief, and something he couldn't quite identify. Something that hollowed out his chest and filled his stomach with butterflies. 

"Aziraphale," said Crowley quietly. "I know it's been a while," he started, but stopped abruptly as he found himself being hauled bodily into the bookshop.

Aziraphale poked his head out of the door and quickly looked from side to side. Satisfied, he withdrew and closed the door, the bell at the top ringing with finality as he locked and bolted the door. He turned around. 

"It's been 34 years, you great pillock! Not one word in all that time," Aziraphale accused. 

"I've been asleep. I'm sorry," Crowley apologized, sounding genuinely contrite.

“Asleep! For 34 years?”

Crowley took a deep breath. “Yeah. Well, after our last meeting, I was feeling sort of … melancholy. And I sleep a lot when I get like that.”

“Oh, Crowley….”

“It’s not a big deal. I just…I woke up today and thought I’d stop by, all right?”

Aziraphale just stared at him for a moment, drinking in the sight of him. Crowley was attired in a Homburg and black top coat over a black suit with dark red lapels. He was nearly clean shaven, with just neatly trimmed sideburns remaining. He was as dashing and handsome as ever. 

Crowley doffed his hat and set it on the counter. Aziraphale began to pace the floorboards. 

"What is it? What's the matter, Angel?" Crowley said in concern. "I really am sorry," he said emphatically. 

"Oh no, it's not you, dear boy. I just had a visit from Gabriel."

"Gabriel! What did he want?" 

"He wants me to appear to the new Archbishop — Temple — in full regalia, wings, halo and all. Tonight!"

"Ha!" Crowley started to laugh, then thought better of it. "An Angel of the Lord visiting, well … anyone these days, is hard to come by. What brought this on, then?" 

"There was a book he contributed an essay to, years ago, that had some rather … heretical content."

"Ahhh … the Essays and Reviews."

"You know it?" Aziraphale said in surprise. He narrowed his eyes. "I thought you said you don't read?" 

"I don't! I … skim," Crowley admitted. "Besides, that book is well known down in Hell. Top ten humor book since it was published. But Temple's piece isn't so bad. Why did Gabriel order a visitation for it?" 

"Gabriel is concerned that Temple's friends may hold undue influence over him. Seeding heresy."

Crowley shook his head. "Guilt by association. And the church on the verge of a schism. It's no wonder the humans are leaving it these days." 

"I'm sure that's just a temporary anomaly," said Aziraphale, sounding not very sure at all. 

"Right. Well, I suppose I'd better go and leave you to it," said Crowley. But he didn't move, and Aziraphale was heartened. 

"I was so looking forward to reading Dickens tonight…." He glanced coyly at Crowley for a moment, then quickly looked away. 

Crowley smirked at Aziraphale, then sighed quietly. "I suppose I could do the angel visitation bit for you," he proposed. 

"Oh, would you?" 

"'Course I would.”

"Thank you, Crowley!" Aziraphale smiled, reaching out to grasp the demon's shoulder in gratitude. He lingered for a few seconds, holding Crowley's gaze, gave his shoulder a squeeze, and withdrew. 

Crowley gave a barely visible shiver when the angel removed his hand, and Aziraphale wondered if he'd caught a draft. He was so sensitive to the cold. 

"Oh, I nearly forgot," he said, pulling a suspiciously book-shaped, festively wrapped package from inside his coat. He held it out towards Aziraphale. 

"Little Christmas present for you, Angel."

Aziraphale reached out and took it, grinning in delight. 

"Crowley! But I don't have anything for you," he said regretfully. 

"'S' alright, Aziraphale. It was my pleasure." Crowley gave it to him with a wistful smile. 

"May I open it?" 

"Please."

Aziraphale tugged on the end of the ribbon and set it loose, then carefully unwrapped the paper. It was indeed a book, housed in a red Morocco-backed slipcase, its spine lettered in gilt, with red cloth sides and chemise. Aziraphale tilted the slipcase and removed the white book, the stamped red and black design of the cover proclaiming it one of Oscar Wilde's most beloved works. 

"The Happy Prince and Other Tales?" 

Crowley nodded. "First edition, of course."

"Well! This is a lovely gift. The Selfish Giant has always been one of my favorite stories of his. Poor Oscar…. I do already have a first edition, but of course, another copy is always welcome!"

"This one's inscribed," said Crowley with an inscrutable smile. 

Aziraphale opened the book to the title page and read:

Aziraphale, my dear friend. May this book bring you as much joy as you have brought me. You're an absolute angel. ~Oscar Wilde, 1896

Aziraphale looked up and stared at Crowley open-mouthed, turned back the book in wonder, then set it down next to Crowley's Homburg. "You didn't!" Aziraphale said in disbelief. "He's in Reading Gaol, isn't he? How did you …?" 

Crowley smiled genuinely for the first time that night. "Richard B. Haldane, liberal MP and reformer, has been visiting Oscar from time to time, appealing for improved conditions for him. I simply impersonated Haldane and they let me in to see him."

"But… he can't have been in a mood to sign autographs — how did you get him to sign this for me?" Aziraphale said in amazement. 

"Oh, I took him some books and writing materials he hasn't been allowed. Convinced the warden it would be in his best interests to let him have them."

Aziraphale shook his head, then looked at Crowley as if he'd never seen him before. "You went to all that trouble for me?" 

Crowley just smiled crookedly. "It was no trouble," he said, and then, softly, "I'd do anything for …," he choked back the final word, biting his lip, but it didn't matter. He might have been confessing his every sin, the way the unspoken end of that sentence rang in the silence. 

Aziraphale was stunned. He needed to say something, to tell Crowley that he felt the same way, but he hadn't expected this revelation, and he just wasn't good at change. What did Crowley expect? What was he hoping for from Aziraphale? 

Crowley cleared his throat, stepped forward to reach for his hat, and suddenly he was in Aziraphale's arms. He froze for a moment, then he hugged the angel back quite desperately. They had rarely touched over the centuries, and never before had there been… whatever this was, with Aziraphale's hands fisted in the back of his coat and their heartbeats separated only by a few layers of cloth and thin corporations. They stayed like that for a long time, the seconds ticking by into minutes, and gradually relaxed into each other. 

"Thank you, my dear," Aziraphale said breathily into Crowley's neck. 

Crowley let a stifled moan escape him. 

Aziraphale responded with a sharp intake of breath. But he didn't let go. 

Slowly, Crowley straightened and withdrew. 

"I should go — get started on that visitation before it gets too late," he said reluctantly. 

Aziraphale was sure he was looking at Crowley with darkened eyes, and he was dangerously close to telling him to stay, to forget about the incoming Archbishop. 

Instead, the moment passed, and Crowley put his hat on and turned to go. His hand was on the doorknob when he was stopped in his tracks by Aziraphale's hand covering his.

"Wait," said Aziraphale softly. 

Crowley waited, holding his breath. 

"When you're done with Temple, will you come back here?"

Crowley nodded. "Yeah, 'course I will… if you want," he murmured. 

Aziraphale's hand squeezed his gently and then let go. 

"It's been far too long, dear boy. I… I'll see you when you return," Aziraphale said as firmly as he could manage.

"I'll be back before you know it," Crowley said. And he disappeared into the night and the fog. 

* * *

Aziraphale returned to his desk and tried to resume his reading of A Christmas Carol, but he was distracted, thinking about Crowley. He thought about his utterly perfect gift, and the visitation tonight that was so far outside of the Arrangement, Aziraphale couldn't see it as anything but another gift. 

He knew, on some level, how Crowley felt about him, but it had been more of a vague sense of love that radiated off of him. He'd never heard him use words the way he'd done tonight. "It was no trouble. I'd do anything for…," and, "'course I will… if you want," swirled in his mind, and warmed him from the inside out. 

He flushed as he thought about how beautiful Crowley was, his crooked almost-smile, his kindness, and how right it felt to hold him. And he thought about the way his stomach swooped just from touching his hand.

By 10 o' clock he'd abandoned Dickens in favor of Wilde, and at a quarter past 10, he began pacing the floorboards in front of the door, stopping every so often to peer out the window and watch for Crowley's return. 

He needed something to do to stop him from flying out the door in search of his demon. 

He got out two bottles of claret, and set them on his desk, then summoned a stockpot with a snap of his fingers. Another snap brought a bowl of oranges, a cup of sugar, a small cutting board and grater, and an assortment of mulling spices to the counter. 

Aziraphale studded the oranges with whole cloves and set four of them in a shallow pan. He opened the door of the cast iron stove, stoked the fire with a few pieces of split wood, and balanced the pan of oranges on top. After grating a quarter of the nutmeg, and peeling the ginger and slicing it thinly, he set the spices aside. He peeked inside the oven, sighed and snapped his fingers again, removed the pan of fully roasted oranges and set them on top of the stove. 

Aziraphale uncorked both bottles, poured the wine into the pot, and set it on the wood stove to start heating while he carefully cut the hot oranges and squeezed the juice into a tall mug. He added the sugar and spices to the claret and cleaned up the mess as he waited for the mixture to simmer. 

The angel sat down with Wilde and tried to read, but was unable to concentrate, glancing at the door every few seconds. Sighing, he got up and put a record on the gramophone, and started to tidy his piles of books, adding his resonant baritone to the choir of St. Paul's Cathedral as they sang:

It came upon a midnight clear, That glorious song of old, From angels bending near the earth, To touch their harps of gold:

"Peace on the earth, goodwill to men, From heaven's all-gracious King." The world in solemn stillness lay, To hear the angels sing.

Aziraphale strained out the spices, added the orange juice and stirred, sniffing the fragrant steam appreciatively. He closed his eyes as the song came to a close. 

For lo!, the days are hastening on, By prophet bards foretold, When with the ever-circling years Comes round the age of gold

When peace shall over all the earth Its ancient splendors fling, And the whole world give back the song Which now the angels sing.

When he opened his eyes again he noticed an ornament that was askew on the bookshop’s small Christmas tree. He straightened the ornament, and checked the rest of them while he was at it. The gold-sequined star on top of the tree gleamed.

The angel moved the steaming pot of mulled wine to a large trivet. He ladled two cups of the concoction into mugs and snapped a light miracle on them to keep them piping hot. 

As cozy as it was in the bookshop, Aziraphale felt uneasy. He checked the clock again, sighed and shook his head. It was nearly midnight. It wasn't like Crowley to take so long on a job. What if something had happened to him? It would be all Aziraphale's fault! 

The angel puttered around the shop, reshelving books and dusting everything in sight, though nothing needed it. He had worked himself into quite a state by the time the door opened, ringing the bell. He startled, and turned around to see Crowley slipping inside the bookshop. The fog had dissipated for once, and the clear night let in a crisp draft of air with a hint of snow. 

"Crowley!" he exclaimed, hurrying forward. 

"Hello Aziraphale!" Crowley grinned. His grin faded, replaced by a blissful expression, as Aziraphale hugged him tightly. 

"I'm so relieved you're back! It went well, then?" He drew back to look at Crowley. With one hand, he locked and then bolted the door. 

"Yeah, it went… surprisingly well," he started, but was struck silent when Aziraphale took his cold hand in his warm, soft ones, and led him to the sofa next to his desk. Crowley sat down, and Aziraphale, instead of sitting at the desk as he'd done every other time in the last century, sat next to him. He didn't let go of Crowley's hand, but rested it on his thigh. 

"Ngk," said Crowley, flushing beautifully. 

Aziraphale pressed a glass of the mulled wine into Crowley's hands, then picked up his own. "Tell me what happened, my dear. Why were you gone so long?"

Crowley nodded, taking a sip of the sweet, hot liquid gratefully. 

"Well, I took a cab to the residence of the Archbishop, and waited for the horses to trot off, and for quiet to settle there. I miracled myself into angelic robes and unfurled my wings, and cast a glamour on them to make them appear white. And then I popped into Temple's chamber with a burst of light."

Aziraphale hung on his every word as he described Temple's shock. 

"I thought he was going to have a heart attack, at first," Crowley continued. "He'd been reading in bed. He grabbed at his chest with one hand — very dramatic, it was. If he'd been wearing pearls, he'd have clutched them," he laughed. 

Aziraphale laughed, too, and squeezed Crowley's hand. He didn't let go. 

Crowley paused, taking a deep breath. "We wound up having an interesting chat about science and religion, actually," he said. "I sort of forgot why I was there. Sorry about that, Angel," Crowley apologized. He took a swig of the mulled wine. 

"I'll think of something to tell Gabriel," Aziraphale assured him.

"This isn't Smoking Bishop, but it's close," Crowley said curiously. "What is it?" 

"Oh — it's made with claret instead of port. Little creation of mine. I'm calling it, 'Smoking Archbishop,'" Aziraphale said proudly. 

Crowley cheerfully toasted the angel's ingenuity, taking another swallow of his invention and gazing at him fondly, his glowing golden eyes just visible through his dark lenses. 

Aziraphale preened under Crowley's attention, fluttering his eyes at him, and took a large sip of punch. "I'm just glad you're all right," he said insistently. "I shouldn't have sent you. It was an indulgence, so I could read, and I was too distracted worrying about you to enjoy it for long," he fussed, too caught up in his self-flagellation to notice his confession. 

Crowley brought their joined hands to his lips and brushed a kiss over Aziraphale's knuckles. 

Aziraphale blew out a sharp breath. 

"Angel, I'm fine. It's all right. It was a lark, to be honest. I had fun."

"But…you shouldn't spoil me so," Aziraphale fretted. 

"I don't mind," Crowley said roughly. 

"Well… Anyway, thank you," Aziraphale said, his voice like warm honey.

Crowley visibly melted. "Nggyeah," he babbled. "I…," he stopped speaking as Aziraphale brought his hand to his chest. Crowley gasped. Aziraphale was sure that, even through multiple layers of cloth, Crowley must be able to feel his heartbeat tripping under his fingers. 

"My dear…," Aziraphale started breathily, but the rest of his words got stuck in his throat as Crowley removed his hat, set it aside, and ran his free hand through his hair. His sunglasses followed, set down next to the Homburg. 

He looked straight at Aziraphale, and cupped his cheek in his hand, all of his defenses down. 

Aziraphale was thunderstruck. He felt so much love radiating from the demon, it was a miracle he'd ever been able to keep it cloaked from him all this time. Aziraphale felt as if he was going to discorporate on the spot. When he didn't, he turned his head to the left, and kissed Crowley's palm. 

Crowley managed a small, "Hnnggh," and dared to stroke Aziraphale's cheekbones with his thumb.

Aziraphale closed his eyes in bliss for a moment, then, unconsciously parting his lips, he leaned forward. Crowley's mouth met his with a softness and tenderness that would have shocked the demons of Hell. 

Crowley brought his other hand up, framing Aziraphale's face with his fingers. He deepened the kiss until the angel moaned. 

Aziraphale brought his hands up to Crowley's head, sliding his fingers through soft red hair. He ran his fingers around to the back of his head, pulling him closer, a frisson of excitement sparking through his body like fireworks. 

Crowley slid his hands down to the angel's shoulders and wrapped his arms around him, pulling him closer still. Aziraphale matched him breath for breath, kiss for kiss. From a church nearby, there came a chime, followed by twelve bells.

Aziraphale opened his eyes and drew back to see a dazed expression on Crowley’s face. 

"It's Christmas. Merry Christmas, Aziraphale," Crowley breathed. 

"Merry Christmas, darling." Aziraphale grinned. 

"I love you," Crowley whispered fiercely. 

Aziraphale drew in a sharp breath, then let it whoosh out again as he drew the demon's unresisting body close. 

"Oh Crowley … I love you, too," Aziraphale said shakily.

They settled back onto the sofa in each other's arms, and Aziraphale reached for his mug. Crowley picked up his own and held it aloft. 

"To… to Gabriel for being an utter bastard, for giving you the assignment that finally brought us together."

Aziraphale pursed his lips and raised his eyebrow, and Crowley looked uncomfortable. The angel relented with a giggle. 

"To new beginnings," he suggested with a smile. 

"To new beginnings," Crowley echoed, and raised his mug.

Outside the bookshop, snow began to fall. Aziraphale noticed the fluffy flakes out of the corner of his eye, and he turned his head to watch them fall. He turned back to Crowley, eyes shining brightly. 

"Snow, in London! It's a Christmas miracle!" he exclaimed. 

"Nonsense. It's going to inconvenience tons of people. They won't be able to see their families for Christmas dinner. Got to be one of ours.”

"Oh really?" Aziraphale smirked. "It wouldn't do for me to let you go home in this dreadful weather. You'll have to stay the night."

"I take it back, it's a miracle," Crowley intoned. 

Aziraphale beamed at his demon.

[wallwriterstuff]

Foundling ||Caius Volturi x Daughter!Reader

Warnings: Mentions of neglect and absent parent

Words: 4176

Taglist: @thelastemzy​ @kpopgirlbtssvt​ @a-avaunce​ @college-is-coming​ @alecvolturiswifeforever​ @broskibowser​ @volturidoll13​ @raindancer2004​ (hopefully this actually works this time!)

Summary: A request for @like-rain-or-confetti​ 

Caius has done a lot of terrible things over the course of his life, and the one good thing he did do he was never allowed to keep. After centuries of waiting, she finally gets to confront him for all of his deeds, the good and the bad. 

Most who knew Caius knew him for his rage, but not very many understood where that rage came from. It was like a chronic disease that plagued him always, the slightest things setting his volatile mood off. No, the blonde king was a ticking time bomb and whoever came across him knew all the while to tread carefully lest they lose a limb at best, their head at worst. His reputation proceeded him, his brutality well renowned, so the Cullen’s witnesses knew better than to cross Caius when he was busy warmongering, and he most certainly had tried his best to instigate something given that the Denali had had to inhale their sister’s ashes.  

“We cannot know the child will not be dangerous!”

“Regardless they have been consorting with werewolves, our sworn enemies.”

Edward could only hold his family tight and pray for reprieve, watching Caius scrabble for any excuse to end those he held dear because of one mistake. Granted, that mistake had grown rapidly to be the very centre of his world and he would not trade his daughter for anything, but despite her lovable nature Renesmee was very much his creation and the very reason his whole family was now in danger. It was a difficult conundrum to wrap his head around and he still didn’t have all the right answers but he had people on his side to support him, and for Edward that was enough. Caius didn’t relent. Marcus spared him a pitying glance, Aro’s eyes less forgiving but nonetheless understanding, and Edward caught the briefest glimpse then of everything that made Caius what he was. The root of all of his anger and hostility stemmed not from his lack of gift as so many assumed, but from a small, infant girl.

He couldn’t quite contain his surprise. Aro was very good at controlling his thoughts around him but this one had slipped free. Caius looked so much softer in this memory, all of his rough edges filed away. For once, his eyes were not filled with hate and fire but wonder and trepidation, a bit of fear perhaps. Edward recognised those eyes immediately even if he didn’t understand how he had found them in Caius’s face of all people, because those were the eyes he had looked at Renesmee with when he pulled her free of his mate’s womb. It was the doting, adoring expression of a father who held his world in the centre of his palm. Caius was not voting to kill Renesmee out of fear for their species, but out of centuries worth of spite, spite that Edward had what he could not.

He had given up his daughter.

Caius was the first to leave the battlefield, his jaw twitching as he fought the urge to snarl, and even Athenodora didn’t dare follow him for a while. For those who knew him best they were able to feel the hurt radiating beneath all that rage, and for the weeks that followed even their own guard members felt unsafe in his presence. Demetri and Felix had caught one of the lower guard sneaking from the castle, his hand freshly reattached – Aro had let him go when he saw why the younger vampire had wanted to flee. Even Jane had been a little ashen once when she returned from the dungeons with him, Caius looking no more satisfied than he had when he went in while she all but collapsed in her brother’s embrace. As the weeks dragged to months, Aro couldn’t help but think it was time to do something. Caius had spent more time locked in the tower the week previous than he had with them, seeking comfort from his mate. It gave them plenty of time to talk.

“It has been centuries Aro, the man deserves peace.”

“I had thought time would heal this wound, that for the sake of Athenodora he might have moved on.”

“The love of a father is far stronger than the forces of time.”

So Demetri became the first of the guard to know of this well-kept secret the very next day. His shock was quite obvious, his curiosity to, but he knew better than to ask questions as Aro described the girl, thought of the infant she had been when they last saw her, and gave him all the information he might need to grasp her tenor.

“I trust your discretion can be counted on, dear boy?” Aro asked. Demetri had nodded once, then turned and left without so much as a goodbye to the others. The tenor was warm and vibrant, something he could easily get lost in. Demetri only paused in his searching to hunt here and there, rest briefly in a few hotels while he washed and traced the tenor in the forefront of his mind more thoroughly, but his feet carried him swiftly out of Italy and into Germany, through Eastern Europe and into Asia. He was surrounded by the colours and aromas of cultures he had not seen for a few decades. Usually Asia was quiet, the peoples having so many myths, legends and folklore that it was easy for a nomad to blend in, their slip ups often cleaned up by the humans that recognised the demonic nature of the mysterious deaths they left behind and tried to rectify the situation through prayer and ritual. It served as a better warning they were attracting too much attention than any Volturi visit could – they had trained the humans well in this regard.

Demetri finally stopped alongside a high rise building in Yokohama, Japan. The city was the second most populated in Japan, a good place to hunt and hide for a hybrid he was sure. The tenor was brightest here, many floors above him, and Demetri pondered exactly how best to go about engaging with his target for a moment. He could sneak into the building and into her apartment but he didn’t want to startle the poor girl, especially not since he had no clue whether or not she was gifted – he didn’t fancy getting his ass lit on fire to find out. He could always wait to see if she emerged, follow her from a distance, though that was another sure way to startle her if she caught him. Peeling away from the wall, he seamlessly blended into the human traffic on the pathway, pulling his phone from his pocket to search for a hotel as he walked along. He would withdraw for now, ‘bump’ into her on the street as a random passer-by and hope his obvious vampirism was enough to make her approach him.

It took her less than 24 hours to move and, dressed down in some casual clothes, he set out to follow her. Eyes covered by irritating contacts, he made his way through the Sankeien Gardens, following discretely as she took a leisurely stroll across the acres of land dotted with colourful spring blossoms and buildings older than most of the humans wondering the place. She seemed quite content to take her time, lifting her phone to take pictures here and there of flowers and views she liked. Demetri played the part of the awed tourist well, trailing her for an hour and a half before they seemed to have looped the entire expanse of the Gardens and ended up back at the pond they had walked around at the start. She sat herself on a bench, staring out over the water with mystifying blue eyes. She still stood out from the others around her though, her posture a little too straight, hands folded neatly in her lap, a child of her time out of place amongst modern mortals.

“You would look far less suspicious if you took a seat.” He had no doubt that she was talking to him. Lips twitching into a smirk, he did exactly as she asked. Hands in his pockets, he sat beside her on the bench, his eyes fixed on the pond before them. The shock of white-blonde hair on her head was almost proof enough she was Caius’s daughter, but he still had to check.

“The sakura blossoms make for a beautiful view, Carina.” He said. She visibly stiffened, her fast-fluttering heart pounding strongly in his ears. She had that vampiric twinge to her scent, something overly sweet that marked her as vampire and tangled nicely with the deliciously human side of her, much like Rensemee.

“Volturi.” She hissed quietly.

Demetri chuckled wryly. “So, my reputation proceeds me.”

“I have not been known by that name for many centuries. Only one coven would still recall it.” She griped, fists clenching a little in her lap. Demetri glanced at her then, taking in the sharp cheekbones and square jawline that he saw often in his Master’s face. The glare she wore was vicious.

“Do not make me use violence in a place as beautiful as this princess.” He threatened idly, gaze returning to the water as powerful lights threw beams across the surface, making it glimmer darkly. The sun had disappeared long ago or he wouldn’t have been out to follow her, the overcast day turning more quickly into night-time.

“So that is all, is it? I am to be hauled away from my home without negotiation or warning on the whim of a madman?” she sniffed. Demetri looked at her curiously.

“You speak ill of a man whom you barely know.” He mused.

“I know enough.” She retorted sharply, her eyes meeting his. The piercing blue made his curious mind race – because Athenodora could not be her mother so who had given her those eyes? – but he kept his expression cool and collected. Demetri stood to offer her a hand, one she eyed with distaste and distrust. He had no ill-intentions, but a little charm never hurt, especially not when he wanted to get his way with as little effort expended as possible.

“My contacts will not last forever, I will need to go somewhere more private to change them if we are to make the most of this evening before we depart.” He informed her. Her eyebrow arched high, her expression one of disbelief.

“What, pray tell, do you think we would be doing this evening?” she questioned. He smirked.

“It has been quite a while since I visited Japan, even then my last trip was to Tokyo. This is your city princess, show me why I should let you stay.” He invited. She scoffed.

“We both know your orders would not allow for such a thing…does your silver tongue work most other times?” she wondered, slipping her hand in his and letting him pull her up. He blinked in surprise as she dusted off the backs of her jeans. Most women took to his charm easily, but apparently Carina was as stubborn as her father.

“I…” he paused, wondering how to make her change her mind. She smirked, head shaking and sending silken sheets of straight blonde hair over her shoulder.

“It appears to be broken entirely now, I would get that checked this evening while I pack a few essentials, if I were you.” She was already moving away by the time his brain caught up, and despite her obvious disdain for the idea, she was packed and ready to acquiesce his escort to Volterra. For all her stubbornness however not even she could fight off the physical needs her mortality demanded, and Demetri found himself standing watch over the would-be Princess as she slept in a hotel in Florence. The even rise and fall of her chest gave him a pattern for his thoughts to echo, an endless ebbing and flowing of questions he couldn’t find answers to. Carina had not been forthcoming in giving any and he somehow doubted that the Masters’ would be either. She was clearly displeased to be here, her sleep interrupted several times and a small frown creasing her brow for most of the night. It was an expression he only saw when she was unconscious and let her guard down.

She woke to an unconscious man in their penthouse living space, the corpse of his wife already lay atop the glass coffee table while Demetri sat with an ankle resting on the opposite knee, newspaper in hand. With an ungracious snort, she dragged her prey back into the bedroom and slammed the door behind her for good measure, only opening it to toss the body out once it was drained for him to deal with. Demetri’s eyes rolled a little. He wondered if Caius knew his hybrid daughter was an eternally dramatic, angsty teenager, and questioned if putting them in the same room together was a good idea. It was bound to be like watching two fireballs collide. Trusting her not to run while he was away, he left via the balcony to dispose of their meals while she got ready for the day.

He returned to find her with her bag by the door, looking smarter than he had seen her during their travels back to Italy.

“How unusually refined.” He commented, stooping to swing her bag onto his shoulder. She scoffed.

“You are planning on offering me up like a pig on a platter like a good little toy soldier are you not?” she retorted icily, “I best look the part lest your silver tongue not be the only thing about you broken.” Demetri frowned slightly, watching her carefully as they played the part of happy couple departing their hotel suite. Gianna had sent a car, something with air conditioning and plush leather so they wouldn’t have to exhaust themselves with another run. For most of the drive the radio played quietly between them, her eyes concealed behind sunglasses and staring out over the luxurious rolling hills and fields of vibrant green. When he was certain there was not too long of the journey left, and therefore not enough time for her to throw him out of the car and turn it around, he finally broke his silence.

“You seem to believe the worst of your father.”

She heaved a weary sigh. “His reputation proceeds him.”

Demetri kept his eyes on the road, weighing his words carefully. He had been a member of the guard long enough to know Caius’s behaviour was not unusual, and he had been in the higher guard long enough to hear snippets of conversation amongst the wives, amongst the Masters’. Seeing the confrontation with the Cullen’s and sitting in a car with her now it was quite obvious to him the source of his Master’s vexation.

“And if his words and actions were fuelled not by anger, but grief?” he questioned, voice quiet. She showed no outward sign of having heard him but the most minute clenching of her jaw was enough to prove to him he had given her food for thought, and with that they lapsed back into silence. It was not entirely pleasant, and the air between them stagnated long after they entered Volterra. She kept her head held high, her expression aloof. It was obvious to Demetri how alike they were now – they both were grieving and wore their pain like armour. He paused only briefly at the doors, just enough time for her to steel herself with a sharp inhale, and then he opened the doors. She lingered behind him as he strode forward, bowing slightly and glancing among his Masters’. Aro waved him away without fanfare, his eyes fixed on the young girl behind him. She stood just a little taller than Jane, petite and lithe much like her father.

Caius seemed absolutely rooted to the spot, his nostrils flaring as he took in deep lungful’s of air that was rapidly becoming saturated with her scent, the scent he had inhaled like an addict off a baby blanket till it ran dry. Aro drifted down the steps to meet her, Caius’s fingernail’s scraping the wooden armrests of his throne as he struggled to keep a myriad of emotions off of his face.

“Dear Carina, how good it is to see you home.” He sighed, extending a hand toward her. She stared at it in disgust.

“If I recall you were the one who ordered me sent away in the first place. I did not return for you, so let us be done with this charade father.” She stepped around Aro gracefully, leaving him quite obviously dumbfounded and irritated, his hand slowly falling back to his side. Caius shot to his feet like he was ready to flee, but he remained stock still as Alec warily drifted closer to him, palms turned out and ready to defend his Master at all costs. The sight of him and Jane drifting to his side seemed to enrage her.

“Carina…”

“Do not dare call me that name!” she snarled, “How long did it take you to replace me?” she cast a filthy look in Jane’s direction and the young girl growled quietly in response. Demetri almost flinched.

“They were Aro’s acquisition, not mine.” He retorted. There was absolutely no bite in his tone, all his bluster gone despite his rigid stance. Caius looked more powerless than ever as she folded her arms, staring at him expectantly. She had worn a short-sleeved dress for the occasion and her skin shimmered faintly in the light drizzling in through high windows. The tension was palpable.

“Leave us, dear ones.” Aro ordered. Demetri hesitated, frowning slightly, and he could see Alec and Jane’s obvious reluctance to leave to. Another firm order got them moving however, and Carina glanced back at him with agonised eyes. Demetri paused, searching her face and finding nothing more than a terrified young girl who didn’t want to face a father she knew nothing about by herself. He gave her the slightest of nods, a small and encouraging smile twitching up his lips. They were barely out of the throne room when the shouting began, and it lasted for hours. Nowhere in the castle was exempt from the noise and it quickly spread like wildfire that Caius’s daughter had returned, and she had quite the mouth on her.

“So you refuse to even see me now?” Caius demanded. If his voice had wavered nobody was so idiotic as to comment on it. Fists clenched, she trembled with rage.

“Tell me what there is to see but a petrified old man who let centuries pass before he decided to step up as a father!” her words were precise and cut deeply.

“I thought of you daily!”

“Do not attach thoughts of me to the atrocities you have committed!” she spat. Caius had faltered at that. For hours she had done nothing but scream about what a monster he was, about the things she had heard he had done. He sank slowly to the steps leading to his throne, unable to meet her eyes anymore. His grip was so tight the marble crumbled beneath his hands and he was left grasping at air.

“I…I wanted this world to be made safe for you…I…I tried to do right by you…”his upper lip curled back over his teeth, his expression a mask of rage it had taken centuries to perfect, one that concealed an unimaginable amount of agony.

“Do right by me?” she asked incredulously, “You abandoned me! I grew up without you, with no caretaker who ever understood me, shunned from one place to the next because you had seen fit to throw me away! My own father could not bear to raise the freak he had created.” Caius’s head snapped up and for the first time in centuries, he took a deep breath. He tried his best to quell the rage that simmered in his core, to shove aside the guilt and the grief. His daughter matched him like for like. She was his reflection, a carbon copy of his rage, and fighting fire with fire was not going to work. He was finally defeated.

“My war against the Children of the Moon led me to your door. I watched, as the filthy beast stared through the window…stared at you…you slept so peacefully, entirely unaware that the coven I had tasked with protecting you had failed…when I, when I returned to glimpse you one more time you – you were already gone.” The mere memory pained him, shamed him. The Irish had moved on so fast he hadn’t even been able to track them, their scent confused amongst the stink of wolves. Carina swallowed.

“Why? Why not visit me?” she demanded. Caius remained silent. What could he say? “Answer me! You owe me this! I always wandered where you were, why you let me go so easily! You owe me these answers.” Caius could only stare at her. She had grown since he held her last, no longer able to fit in the palm of his hand. She was the size of a sixteen-year old with a mind a millenia older, capable of recalling every wrong doing and forming opinions on the level of injustice each one carried.

“You have your mother’s eyes.” He blurted. It was all he could think to say, but it stopped the conversation dead. The silence rang around them, deafening in the wake of their previous screaming match. What were they doing? Their sweet reunion sullied by such foul words…

“Who…who was my mother?” she asked hesitantly. Caius sucked in a breath.

“A peasant girl,” he confessed quietly, “One Athenodora took a liking to and insist we…play with, for a while.” His voice echoed back to him off of the walls, Carina’s flinch something he didn’t miss. She nodded slowly.

“So, I was not even born of love.” She whispered.

“Perhaps not, but that did not mean I did not love you, the moment I held you in my arms…you were so small, so fragile for this world…how could I keep you when our enemies lingered at our door? You had to be safe, and safe was…was far away from me.” He swallowed, unable to look at her anymore. He was surprised when she shuffled towards the steps, keeping a few feet between them but sitting beside him nonetheless. Even with the distance he could still feel her heat, her temperature radiating from her like he was sat by an open flame. Another prolonged silence prevailed between them once more, and Caius wasn’t sure how to chase it away. How did he own up to centuries of ignorance? Of wrong-doing? How did he make any of this better?

Carina sighed heavily. “We have really made a mess of this.”

He looked to her in surprise, his shoulders sagging slightly in defeat.

“We have,” he agreed quietly, “But I should very much like to fix it, if you will permit me to try.” Carina quietly contemplated what that might look like for them for a moment, trying to imagine a world where her father was in her life. It had been so long and she had grown up without him…it was difficult to imagine where Caius might fit.

“I don’t need a father. I have grown out of the need for one.” Carina said quietly. Caius snapped his gaze away, a stiff nod all the acknowledgment she received. What had he expected really? A happy reunion?

“I see.” He murmured, pushing to his feet. Demetri had left her bag by the door and he was quite sure she would have no trouble picking it up on the way out.

“I do need a friend,” she spoke up, making his head turn, “I am especially in want of one who might know more about where I came from, if you could point me in the right direction.” Caius swallowed, not quite able to believe his ears. A slow smile twitched his lips upwards.

“I believe I may be able to assist you.” He agreed. Carina gave him a weak smile in reply, and Caius silently vowed it would be the first of many she gave him.

“I shall find accommodation then.” She decided. Caius immediately shook his head.

“Not at all. You may have a room here, you are welcome to one.” He said hastily. He would not lose her so soon after he had found her once more. Carina’s eyebrows rose.

“Will Demetri be nearby?” she asked innocently. Caius couldn’t help the scowl that wormed its way onto his face.

“And why does the location of his quarters matter?” he retorted. Carina grinned impishly.

“Because the pretty boy is not as clever as he likes to think he is and I did, admittedly, enjoy tormenting him on the journey here.” She confessed freely. Caius tilted his head, a smirk playing on his lips. Oh, oh she was his daughter alright.

“Something might be arranged.” He agreed.

“Wonderful.”

“If he is not cursing you within a week of your stay I will class your mission as a failure.”

“I will have him begging you to move him elsewhere I assure you.”

“Excellent.”

[soranis-sunshadow]

Why Hordak and all of his brothers are cult victims suffering from Religious Trauma Syndrome

A detailed (and very, very, veeeeryy long) explanation on why I take issue with dismissing Hordak’s trauma as “daddy issues” that is frequently done as a way to hand wave his background and the context for his actions all while attributing said cultic abuse and indoctrination narrative to a character that, though has a tragic, abuse-laden past has never actually been part of a cult. *cough* Catra *cough*

Lets see how deep the rabit hole goes shall we?

First off: The Galactic Horde is based on a suicide cult, with Horde Prime as its leader.  

That is irrefutable fact. It has been stated by the show runner and there are plenty of in-show examples of religious speak, religious themes pertaining to Horde Prime and his acolytes and even the interior design of Horde Prime’s ship is that of a grandiose Cathedral.

The source of this is an article by Polygon where the show runner breaks down what went into creating Horde Prime. (link in the notes)

Onto The Etherian Horde – though totalitarian in nature, it is not a religious institution – merely a military operation. Though the argument could be made that propaganda is used to instill an anti-princess agenda, no horde members are ever seen spouting doctrine or discrimination against their very own Princess in the ranks – Scorpia. Not only is she not discriminated against, she holds the rank of Force Captain. She also has the respect of her peers.

The only person that seemed to have taken it seriously is Adora, who - due to Shadow Weaver’s personal attention – has been raised with the specific mindset of a self-sacrificing martyr. After learning of the fact that Shadow Weaver has always known about the Heart of Etheria, it is not a huge leap to assume that in her bid for more power, her plan had always been to have Adora unleash the planet’s magic, possibly sacrificing herself in the process. Shadow Weaver had groomed her for this specific purpose.  (It’s one of the reasons for which the subject of Adora’s martyrdom hurts Catra so deeply –she had been witness to the manipulation taking place but was powerless to do anything about it for most of her life)

The other cadets are more well-adjusted and don’t seem to care much about the horde’s ideology or goals, not even Catra who has suffered the brunt of Shadow Weaver’s psychological and physical abuse and has been subjected to her manipulation too.  

The above exchange proves that even if there had been any indoctrination in The Etherian Horde, it has failed in affecting Catra’s judgment. I am legitimately surprised on how little credit her own fans give her and on how her perceptiveness and intellect is dismissed to have her fit into this “brainwashed victim“ agenda for more “sympathy points”.

With that having been said I’ll start this off with a bit of a definition: Religious Trauma Syndrome is a common experience shared among many who have escaped cults, fundamentalist religious groups, abusive religious settings, or other painful experiences with religion.

The symptoms of Religious Trauma Syndrome are comparable to the symptoms of complex PTSD. The symptoms are as follows.

(link in the notes)

I will discuss all of the symptoms and causes by turn and expand upon them.

1)      Cognitive: Confusion, poor critical thinking ability, difficulty with decision-making,

negative beliefs about self-ability & self-worth, black & white thinking, perfectionism,

Hordak’s whole misguided crusade on Etheria is an act of confusion. What on green Earth had ever convinced him that it would work in proving his worth to Prime? Hordak had been confused on the reason of his rejection, self-delusional even.  Hear me out:

Despite what Hordak himself believes, he wasn’t excommunicated because he was useless, he was abandoned for being born defective, aka for existing as he was created.

His inborn defect, by nature of being an unchangeable fact was not something that he could overcome in order to earn back the acceptance of his Maker. To a certain degree, he was aware of this but had refused to acknowledge it and as such, he has framed it to himself as “his defect makes him worthless”.

By overcoming uselessness and proving his competence in furthering Prime’s goals, he had convinced himself that he would be welcome back into his brother’s flock.

He had convinced himself that by proving his usefulness, it would erase his defect. He had given himself a reason for rejection that, unlike an inborn one, could be overcome - worthlessness.  His logic being that Worthless=Defective, if he were useful, he wouldn’t be defective anymore.

He has framed his accidental stranding on Etheria as a trial of faith, not a chance at freedom or bid for power and self-actualization.

In his confused reasoning, he had not realized that by attempting to prove his worth to Horde Prime, he would be in essence, proving that Prime had been mistaken about his deficiency. This was anathema to Horde Prime’s own doctrine – that Prime is all knowing, all powerful and Horde Prime is Never Wrong. His attempts were always destined to fail from the start, the premise was flawed at the core but Hordak’s own wishful thinking prevented him from seeing the fault in his mission.

This is how Hordak sees himself:

This defect => useless => worthless mentality can be observed when he projects onto Catra. I swear, everyone projects onto everyone else in this series.

This is an example of him emulating the only leadership he’s ever known  - that of Horde Prime and exerting Prime’s judgment over a supplicant or Prime – In this case Catra (what Prime would have done to him in the same situation). He imitates Prime’s way of speaking and even his facial expression during Prime’s “speeches” (look at position of his ears in this scene and that little dimple damnit!!!)

(yes, *sigh* I did a spacebat ear position diagram)

Horde Prime has that ear position even when possessing his little brothers to give his grandiose speeches:

Hordak’s and other little brother’s “default” ear position:

It’s worth adding that perfectionism is not only part of a symptom of his cult trauma but also a tenant of Prime’s doctrine making it a double whammy.

2). Emotional: Depression, anxiety, anger, grief, loneliness, difficulty with pleasure, loss of meaning

As they say, a picture says a thousand words…

To call Hordak depressed is like calling the ocean mildly humid.

He is alone, on a planet of primitive aliens (from his perspective) surrounded by potential enemies and in an incredibly vulnerable position due to his illness with no clear end to any of it in sight. He feels nothing for this world other than irritation at his inability to leave it. His only meaning and purpose is returning to his congregation, a purpose he is no closer to fulfilling than he was when he had started a few decades ago. The only open displays of emotion he manifests are that of anger, self-loathing., frustration, fear – in the blanket scene before he comes to his senses completely and starts masking the fear with anger… at the blanket… there was nothing else in the room to be angry at… ridiculous spacebat.

After Catra deceives him about Entrapta, he openly manifests grief and apathy as well.

3).   Social: Loss of social network, family rupture, social awkwardness, behind schedule on developmental tasks, sexual difficulty (no snu snu for religiously repressed spacebats... yet  *wink wink*)  

This one is self-explanatory.  He is in essence an exile on Etheria, away from all he has ever known. He is the only one of his kind on the planet, even Imp - his attempt at replication is not a proper replacement for the community provided by the Hive mind.

From a social perspective- he is a recluse and is not seen interacting with anyone in anything but a “professional “ manner.  The only exception to this is Entrapta’s interaction to him. Due to her indifference to his posturing, she is immune to his attempts at self-isolation. “Get out!” and vague threats of reprimands don’t work on her. Their shared interest in science allows Entrapta to force the interaction on him. (At least in the beginning of their collaboration)

Later, after having become accustomed to Entrapta’s companionship and having that ripped away, he tries to form a connection – at least of commiseration – with Catra:

 Even after she did this to him:

he still tried to form a connection through their shared need to prove their own worth.  

Did you catch that little detail? : “Victory is ours” not “mine”.

4.) Cultural: Unfamiliarity with secular world; “fish out of water” feelings, difficulty belonging, information gaps (e.g. evolution, modern art, music)

…                                

Do I really need to expand on this one? *Sigh* … he is literally an alien to this world, “fish out of water” would be an understatement.

 As we have established, he fits the bill of Religious Trauma Syndrome to a T. He presents all of the symptoms.

Now let’s move onto the causes of it:

 1). Suppression of normal child development – cognitive, social, emotional, moral stages are arrested

This one is self-explanatory. The horde clones and by extension Hordak are severely stunted in their psychological development and that is by design. They are deliberately kept from developing an adult mentality so as to never become a threat to Horde Prime or ever be able to break away from his control. Prime keeps them in a child-like dependency on him as a way to exert his power over them.  Should they ever develop even a budding sense of self, their indoctrination compels them to submit to correction and erasure ensuring that they never surpass this state of learned helplessness. Horde Prime encourages this self-flagellating behavior, deeming it a mercy, even a favor to be granted – to suffer in His Name.

Hordak shows almost no emotional coping mechanisms and manifests child-like tantrums of frustration as an only outlet for his emotions throughout the show. He attempts to hide any other attempt at emotion, with differing degrees of success.

Wrong Hordak is emotionally unstable and is prone to fits of crying. (However, due to the comedic fashion in which his arc is written, I suppose that this could be taken with a grain of salt)

The clones are not only prevented from growing and maturing mentally, they are also robbed of childhoods ��having been born in adult bodies and with the necessary knowledge to serve Prime literally programmed into them so as to make them able to serve efficiently from their first breath. As such, they are robbed of their formative years where one individual grows and develops naturally. Those precious experiences are replaced by Horde Prime’s literal programming through the hardware they have installed in their bodies to facilitate Horde Prime’s control over them (without their consent).  In essence, they are a people born pre-”chipped”

Regardless of their actual age, and despite the fact that they are intelligent, capable and responsible individuals, I see the clones as having the emotional maturity of toddlers.

They never had the chance to develop any emotional coping skills, they were never allowed to have emotions to begin with.

2). Damage to normal thinking and feeling abilities -information is limited and controlled; dysfunctional beliefs taught; independent thinking condemned; feelings condemned

This is The Galactic Horde’s core belief:

Along with:

Incidentally, Hordak does his version of this speech trying to puff himself up in front of his soldiers… buuut Catra pushes the Failure button and that snaps him out of his little Prime impersonation moment.  

More dysfunctional beliefs:

Condemnation of independent thinking:

Results in this:

No further explanations are necessary…

3). External locus of control – knowledge is revealed, not discovered; hierarchy of authority enforced; self not a reliable or good source

Prime exerts his dominance throughout S5 by force,

and coercion:    

He is even petty and vindictive enough to force himself into Hordak immediately after his speech and to kill Entrapta with Hordak’s own body.

As for the self not being a reliable narrator… Hordak believed this about his former position.

He is not prone to exaggeration or deception being woefully incompetent in the latter – both perpetrating and spotting it.  We have to assume that this is the way he saw his position in the Galactic Horde.

Season 5 revealed that all of the clones are equally disposable and interchangeable, there are no ranks. They are all equal tools whose sole purpose is furthering Horde Prime’s agenda. Horde Prime has no need for generals or delegating since he is able to inhabit his little brothers and be in more than one place at the same time. Hordak’s job in S5 was that of hall monitor and planetary acquisitions guy…

@cruelfeline​ goes into detail about the dissonance between what Hordak believes and what is actually his position in The Galactic Horde. A link to it is in the notes because Tumblr is being fussy. 

4.) Physical and sexual abuse – patriarchal power; unhealthy sexual views; punishment used as for discipline

Some people have seen this, ugh… form of penetration… ugh again… as rape allegory.

Not a hard thing to do since Prime himself is rape personified and he consistently forces himself onto and into his little brothers, Catra and later, the chipped Etherians.  Prime does nothing but "bad touch" people all of S5 and is particularly enjoying his disciplining of his "wayward little brother", the most unworthy and unlovable amongst his brothers. (According to the extended scene)

Here’s some more of Prime’s touching with rape subtext:

Here’s more of Prime forcing himself into his little brothers – they all seem to fight it and find it painful to some degree despite the fact that they have been conditioned to accept it and welcome it. Prime’s touch is a good thing, even when it hurts them.

Ironically, the one who fights this violation the least is Hordak himself. (this could be either because he’s extra repentant and wished not to further draw Prime’s ire or that his condition of chronic illness has raised his pain threshold)

The process of possession is not seamless and some of the clones appear to be unsettled by it after prime retreats from their bodies.

As much as this Utter Disaster of a clone wanted to finish his little speech about dirt and as much as he was gleefully enjoying it, after Prime was done with him… he just wanted his task over with…

            The very nature of their indoctrination makes them unable to escape what has been done to them nor change their whole world view without outside intervention – which is exactly the help that Wrong Hordak received immediately after being abducted from the collective by people who slowly de-indoctrinated him and offered him a supportive environment for all of that growth and healing to happen.

When the Best Friend Squad kidnapped him, he was ardent about his service to Prime and he only followed them because they deceived him in believing they were servants of Horde Prime.

By providing clear irrefutable evidence of Prime’s fallibility, deceit and the squad’s (mostly Entrapta and Glimmer)  moral support throughout this moral crisis, they (just Entrapta here *coughs* ) were able to wean him off of his programmed behavior and offer him an informed choice.

This is information none of the other clones, not even Hordak were privy to.

Even with this information, Wrong Hordak is still in emotional turmoil (though the show plays it for laughs – yuck)

The closest Hordak ever gets to walking away from Prime’s doctrine is this moment:

He was considering indefinitely putting it off to stay here, with her, and her worldview that he could be worth something, imperfect as he is. He is offered her emotional support and guidance.

Unfortunately... Catra nipped that in the bud before it could lead anywhere.

 After convincing Hordak that Entrapta betrayed him, her message of inherent worth was rendered null, to him - her unconditional affection and the notion that he could to live apart from Prime were a manipulation. This further radicalized him in his faith and need to prove his worthiness.

Not only did Catra remove Entrapta’s influence over him, she goaded him even further with this cursed little speech and her whole “yass queen moment!”. you know the one...

“Get.Over.IT! You don’t need Entrapta. You never did. You don’t need a Princess in your life telling you what to do. Look at what you’ve done without her. You’ve build an army. An empire! You and me, we don’t need anyone. Forget them all. No one matters, nothing matters but this mission. You want to prove yourself, prove your worth? Then do it! You and I are going to conquer Etheria. And then, they’ll all see!”

Both of them were in clear downfall in S4 and they amplified each other’s most negative tendencies. I will not hold this against her. 

             The last thing I want to mention is that for cult victims, it is incredibly hard, if not, almost impossible to leave their cults by themselves. The first step for leaving a cult in the real world is looking for outside assistance.

It takes enormous amounts of strength – an almost imaginable degree of resolve – to leave a cult, particularly when you may have been born into one and have no friends or connections on the outside world. Cult survivors are often ostracized by everyone they have ever known who remain within the organization. To a cultist, the world outside the cult is a hostile, sinful and dangerous place. The assistance of someone from the outside is crucial.

Only with the assistance of a “friendly outsider” or a support group can the former cultist change the world view with which they had been indoctrinated with (sometime since early childhood).

A cult and set of beliefs warps your whole world view to the point of delusion. Faith in the cultic creeds is more important than factual evidence. As  a matter of fact, the evidence in itself is evil, a contradiction to the creeds of faith and successfully denying it is an act of faith fulfilled. This mentality is encouraged in cults.

Many people in this fandom have claimed that Hordak, once pulled through the portal was free to do as he pleases. (he didn’t chose to come to Etheria – his arrival on the planet was accidental)

This is not really the case. Hordak never decided to leave the cult. He was still part of the cult when he was sent to his death on the battlefield for his defect and he was still a believer when the portal delivered him to Etheria.

In essence, Hordak didn’t leave his cult so much as he was forced apart from it, physically. In spirit, he still believed in Horde Prime’s dogma.  His experience is the equivalent of a religious man getting stranded on an island in the middle of the ocean. He is apart from his church, but his faith is still with him. Hordak’s faith hadn’t waned in the decades of separation. His purpose had always been returning to Horde Prime –hence the focus on building a portal and not on levelling towns with an arm laser cannons. He has proven in S4 that, had his main mission actually been conquest, he could have done it with not much difficulty – He wasn’t half bad at it actually. Instead, he delegated the conquest to his underlings and focused most of his attention on attempts at reuniting with Horde Prime via investigating rogue portals and trying to build one of his own.

Due to the nature of his “upbringing”, Hordak’s whole world view is warped. He has not had the benefits of a “moral” education from a human’s standpoint. Why would training cadets to become soldiers in your army be morally reprehensible when you, yourself, had been bred for war and have served your God with your first breath?

This was Hordak’s idea of a “normal” childhood:

What could he possibly know about the healthy raising of children?

Why would conquering a planet be a morally reprehensible thing when his God did this to places?

And this:

Before one ascribes evil motivation, for the sake of evil – one should bear in mind that these creeds were literally programmed into him. This is not a life he has chosen for himself– this is something he was born into, literally manufactured for, this is something that was done to him.

And for those that would have wanted him to regret his actions on screen, keep in mind that it will likely  take a lot of therapy and reeducation before he even comprehends the nature and magnitude of his crimes on Etheria.

(besides the fact that he had spent 99% of season 5 in an amnesiac daze doesn’t help with the whole remembering his crimes bit either)

The show runner has declared in one of her post show interview that he will make reparations for the damage he’s caused.

What more do people want from a person born and flung into an impossible situation besides his head on a plate?

Phew!

Long post was long

[thedevillionaire]

The Answer

Okay, a bit of soap opera time-travelling here. I've had a couple of asks about this, so...here's a thing. This is Cerberus before he and Kia become a couple, but not far before. He's broken up with his first bonded, Lilith, though only recently. And the omnipowerful Demon king may have pushed his formidable abilities just a little far in the quest to impress his new love interest... ---

Closing the door behind him as quietly as he can, even minor sounds seeming to echo through the escalating dizziness and imbalance now, everything feeling off-kilter, hypersensitive, and just…wrong somehow, Cerberus partially leans back against the reliable solidity of heavy wood as he removes his coat and hangs it on the rack by the entryway, sighing. He’s thankful at least that he’d got through the interview before the stronger repercussions of his actions started to manifest, and that as far as Kia was concerned, his assurance of I’ll be fine had been true enough. Or will be by the time he next sees her. A week should be more than enough.

At the moment, however, his world was viscerally misaligned, and worsening.

He sniffles, rubs his nose briefly against the insistent recurring itch but surrenders in short order, sneezing ferociously, unrestrained.

“HehAHHTSSCHHUUU!”

Lilith, with a startled squeal, peers out at him from behind the door to the library chamber, accusatory. “Gods, Cerbie, some warning?!” She rolls her eyes. “Bless you, I suppose, though you did just give me a heart attack.” She’d been confident that her solitude would not be disturbed, allowing her easy time to gather various bits and pieces, arriving and leaving smoothly, simply, unquestioned. He’s never here this day, this hour. She has almost a decade of precedence, and she’d chosen this time for a reason.

Cerberus, as taken aback by Lilith’s presence as she is by his, and entirely unclear on why it should be incumbent upon him to provide warnings of any sort to unexpected visitors, doesn’t have the luxury of time to process the situation further or, indeed, respond to her, as the sharp frisson of irritation refuses to be sated – although he does make an attempt to temper the inevitable reaction somewhat this time, bringing his elbow to his face in cover. “Hh-TSSCHH-uu! *snf!*” He blinks hazily; the very fabric of the house seems to waver in reality a moment. Ah, gods. Moving to walk through the foyer to the lounge room, he meets Lilith’s gaze momentarily, his focus uncertain. He sniffles again, breath catching.

Tucking the books she’s collected so far under one arm, Lilith exits the library with a sigh. “What are you doing here?”

“HuhTSCHuu! *SNFF!*” Another wave of disorientation ripples through him; he nevertheless manages to gather enough wherewithal to reply. “Sneezing, currently.” He pushes his hair from his face, sniffles again and frowns at her, vaguely wondering why he’s not managed to get the keys changed yet, or hers back, or…something. “I live here. What are you doing here?” Should have put a Barrier up.

Taking a tissue from the box on the coffee table, he wipes his nose and distantly wonders if his hand actually shakes or his perception is just that disordered at the moment. Everything seems shifted, awry, as if he was somehow not quite tuned in to himself, various senses trying to reset but not quite knowing how to do so. Fascinating in its own way, he supposes, though his ability to function as objective observer is proving…erratic.

Lilith regards him warily. “What’s wrong with you? You look dreadful.”

“Mm, I expect so. What are you doing here?”

“Just picking up a few more things,” replies Lilith, indicating the books with a nod and crossing back over to the lounge, their paths temporarily intersecting, “which I’d planned to do uninterrupted, hence why now, since you’re not supposed to be…”

A sudden paroxysm of coughing interrupts her. Cerberus excuses himself reflexively, presses his fingers to throbbing temples, his capacity to concentrate becoming ever more depleted and his interest – or, come to that, ability – in maintaining this conversation lessening by the second; there were more pressing concerns at hand. Another sniffle.

“Ugh, don’t breathe on me.” Lilith shoots him a look of distaste, steps further away. “I do not need a cold right now, thank you very much.”

“It’s not… *snf!* I don’t h-hh…” His breath catching against the buzzing distortion his body cannot yet reconcile, Cerberus knows that sneezing again is hardly going to help the situation but he’s also far past the point of caring, not that he can do much about it anyway. He leans against the back of the couch for support, his equilibrium and balance increasingly tenuous, and with deep inhalation sneezes into crooked elbow once more. “Hh-hh… hhAATSCHH-uu!” With a soft groan, he exhales heavily, tiredly, murmurs an apology through another series of sniffles, knows she won’t believe him. “I don’t have a cold.”

Lilith’s tone confirms his expectation as she regards him with unveiled cynicism. “Well, you could have fooled me,” she says flatly.

He sighs. “It’s aftershock."

Lilith half-laughs, half-scoffs a pointed dismissal. She expects his denial of early-stage illness but he usually has a better line in self-deception. “Don’t be ridiculous. What on earth would you even get aftershock from?”

Cerberus, exhausted and disinclined to elaborate or explain, moves to the staircase. He pauses for a short but necessary moment at its base, resting a hand on the banister, entirely done with the whole situation. “I’m honestly not up to this now, Lilith. If you desperately need anything from upstairs, kindly just…go about your business around me.”

He continues up the staircase.

Frowning in confusion, Lilith recognises the abnormality of this – of him not arguing the point, of him voluntarily admitting dysfunction of any kind, of him even being here at all right now, really. Gods, is he telling the truth? But he never… What could possibly…

“Cerbie,” she says with genuine curiosity now, “Cerbie, are you really…?”

He doesn’t stop nor does he turn to look at her, and she sighs. “Okay, okay, wait. I believe you, okay? Cerbie, wait.”

Again, he doesn’t.

Lilith moves to the staircase also, though she stops at its base. She looks up at him as he takes the few further steps to the master bedroom, still without any acknowledgment that he was even listening to a word she said. “Cerberus! What from?”

Cerberus, his senses disharmonic and finding his surrounds inconstant, opens the bedroom door as if from within a dream, as if experiencing a simulation of himself, and still does not look back towards his ex-bonded. He steps inside and hesitates a moment, gazing with a slight frown at warping, incorrectly angled walls which should be entirely familiar, sniffles sharply as a fresh and sudden vibrating shiver runs through him, triggering a rapid pair of sneezes almost before he entirely registers what’s happening. “HuhTSCHuu! Ah-TSSCH-uu! Oh, gods. *snf!*” The force of it leaves him more than a little lightheaded, and he puts an unsteady hand to his forehead, pushes back disarrayed strands of midnight, takes some time to steady himself – or at least reach the closest approximation of steadiness he can manage – but he finally offers Lilith a murmured reply, rich timbre and diction rather than volume carrying his words.

“Resurrected Sphynx.”

He closes the door behind him moments before collapsing across the bed, unconsciousness following almost immediately; he doesn’t even manage to take so much as his shoes off.

Lilith, stunned, is sure she’s misheard. She knows she hasn’t. She must have, though. She must have.

It’s not possible.

It can’t be done.

It’s simply…it is not possible.

Nobody should be able to… Nobody has that kind of… Nobody would even consider…

Except.

“You WHAT?!”

By the time she finally finds her voice she does not expect an answer; and, indeed, she does not receive one – not to that, nor the other question that enters her mind in short order. A question she doesn’t speak, but perhaps the more important, more interesting of the two: why?

Why would you want to? What reason could you…have for...

Ah. And she shakes her head as it occurs to her: there is only one answer which makes any sense.

She wanders briefly back into the library, writes FYI: Necromancy isn’t flirting xx on the notepad atop the desk there, smiles to herself in wry bemusement, and wonders if Kia has any idea yet.

[modern-inheritance]

Tell us your silliest Eragon and Arya head canons!

Hell yeah I can! Some of these are gonna be used for stories later, and may not be as silly as you might have wanted, but it’s mostly a collection of the weirdest and whackiest stuff I can remember putting down as canon for the MIC Eragon and Arya.

Eragon:

Eragon was not terribly prone to mischief as a child, but would often get dared by Roran or other children to do things and would give in. He was well known as a crackshot with anything, including his slingshot as a boy, and frequently these dares would involve Eragon hiding somewhere and using his insane aim to knock things out of peoples hands or set off natural Rube Goldberg machines.

When Eragon first went into the Spine when he was about 8 years old it scared the hell out of everyone. Search parties were formed but they couldn’t go past the outer edges of the forest due to superstition. Marian, Garrow’s wife, eventually grabbed Garrow by the ear and literally dragged him into the woods, after which the reluctant villagers followed. Eragon showed up perfectly unharmed at Brom’s house later, chattering excitedly about all the wildlife and cool new spots he had found.

This uncanny ability made some people think Eragon was a changeling for a while. He was teased about it mercilessly until Brom scared the hell out of the other kids. Brom was considered the authority on all things weird and magical, and when he firmly said that Eragon was nothing but human, the adults took his word as well. No one spoke of it after that.

When in his early teens and exploring deeper into the Spine than ever before, Eragon encountered a lost Urgal child. As Urgal children actually look remarkably human, Eragon just assumed the girl was a part of the fabled lost tribes of the Spine. He used his tracking skills to follow her original path back to her village, but when she ran into one of the huts and never came back out, he headed home. He mentioned it to Brom once, the old man sternly told him to never go back, and had all his ‘why’ questions shut down hard.

Even though he’s gotten used to his newfound elvish strength, Eragon still occasionally breaks things.

A combined headcanon for Eragon and Saphira: When one of them sneezes, the other also sneezes immediately after.

His favorite breakfast food is peanut butter and banana pancakes.

Sloan has a general dislike for him not only because of his frequent trips to the Spine, but also because Eragon once puked in his shop.

Eragon knows general ways to do women’s hair! When Marian was ill he would often help brush her hair for her and braid it. He eventually started asking Katrina and Elain for tips on how to do different styles, as he saw how happy it made his Aunt. He occasionally braids Arya’s hair for her, first using it as a way to help her get used to having people sitting behind her again, and later just for fun. Post-war, once word got around, the young girls and even the longer haired boys of the Rider school sometimes run up to him asking for help with their hair, which he gladly obliges.

Until first in Teirm and then later with the Varden and in Du Weldenvarden, Eragon wasn’t exposed to much in the way of tropical and subtropical fruit. When Arya managed to barter some kiwi at Tronjheim’s market and handed one off to Eragon, he yelled and almost dropped it because it felt, in his words, “Like a shaved horse nut.”

Saphira thought this was hilarious. She also fuckin’ loves kiwi.

Brom originally had vital organ protecting wards around Eragon as a toddler, but removed them as the kid grew. Not because he didn’t need them, but because Eragon had long ago proved to be a mix of the situationally unluckiest while results-luckiest person alive. He could be chased off a cliff by bees but would get up and walk away with just a bunch of bruises and a twisted ankle.

Eragon hated learning to swim. Like, clinging on to Garrow’s arm wailing at the top of his lungs.

Arya:

Is the accidental source of a ghost story in the Surdan borderlands. During the continued border skirmishes that were Arya’s first taste of combat, during the night she would get bored, sneak out of camp, cross the no mans land, and pilfer weapons and gun emplacements to bring back. Because no alarms were ever raised, no one was ever seen, and these thefts occasionally happened when the guarding Broddring soldiers backs were turned for just a few moments, the Broddring men began whispering about a pilfering poltergeist. Arya didn’t even know about this until decades later, when a young Surdan infantryman complained to her about his post at the border, claiming it was haunted and told the stories of .50 cals going missing.

These infiltration runs eventually became sabotage runs to destroy or disable artillery. And yes, I was influenced by this. 

Like Eragon relearning his strength after his transformation, Arya was very much not used to the more fragile makeup of human made items. Men in her group would often say ‘be gentle’ when passing her stuff like mugs or plates in the mess. Some people still do simply because they grew up around others doing so. 

Can move a dwarvish tank with her bare hands, and has on several occasions. There is a story behind this that several people on tumblr know the gist of, but I’ve never been able to tack it down well enough to write. But a team building/proving exercise during bootcamp to move a disabled tank a few feet turned into Arya and the other recruits she was with pushing the whole thing back into the repair shop. Some of the guys disabled the brakes, a couple climbed in to help steer (like you would with a car in neutral) after Arya pried the hatch open, and the rest posted on the corners of the tank to yell directions to her. The drill master had been kind of a dick to Arya because he didn’t trust elves (and generally didn’t want women in any of his squads) and Arya was sick of it. This was the result.

Arya sometimes acts as a drill instructor for Varden recruits. She, Glenwing and Fäolin were also frequently used as the ‘looks can be deceiving’ example for newbies when they were available. This usually involved games of ‘Go pick the elf up. Can’t? Alright let's see the elf do it. As you can see, this elf can pick you up and lift you off your feet one handed and not break a sweat. These elves are friendly, and will generally not throw you. Forsworn elves are not friendly. They will throw you.’ and other shows of speed, strength, agility and supernatural skills.

Arya occasionally works as a bartender at Coop’s bar. Her favorite drink involves grape soda.

Electroswing dancing? Electroswing dancing. 

Uses the elvish phrase ‘growing a pine tree’ instead of the more classic human phrase of ‘pushing up daisies.’

Was 100% not understanding that Fäolin was interested in her for a long time, while also not realizing she was interested in him. Clueless demiromantic/demisexual.

Very distantly related to Glenwing.

Naturally knows nearly every way to make Islanzadí’s eyebrow twitch in irritation.

OFC there’s more than these but it’s what I’ve got for now! Thanks for the ask!! Send mooore!!!

[sadoeuphemist]

They had fitted together a wheeled cart for the old knight, large enough to carry him comfortably, but not so large that he would be rattled about when the wheels jostled over the stones. They had harnessed the cart to the knight’s horse, and though normally no knightly steed would deign to drag a load behind it like a mere beast of burden, Sir Percival’s horse was as grayed as he was, and so trotted along placidly as Sir Percival sat propped up in the back, his armor warmed by the sun.

“My final, and most glorious quest,” he proclaimed, staring ahead with clouded eyes. He could make out light and darkness, the shape of a tree, but not the leaves or branches on it. He was looking at the horizon, and at the blue expanse of sky. “You are most fortunate, my lad, to be witness to this, the final day of a long and illustrious life.”

"Yes, Sir,” his squire said. The squire was a lad of about fourteen, walking ahead and leading the horse by the bridle. He had been picked by lot to accompany Sir Percival to his death, and, much like the horse, had accepted his burden rather meekly. He had polished Sir Percival’s armor the night before, fitted it piece by piece onto the frail old body. Now he walked steadily, his shoulders slumped as if there was a harness weighting them down. He had been silent for much of the journey, but at Sir Percival’s words took the opportunity to speak: “If you don’t mind me asking, Sir, I’ve heard of your many deeds, the, uh, the d-dragons slain, the - the knights defeated, and so on, and this quest, Sir, I don’t know very much about it, and, um...”

“Yes, yes, the quest!” said Sir Percival, trying to sit upright in the cart and only succeeding in rocking it slightly. His horse snorted and shifted its weight. “It’s the only quest, really. Every warrior slain, every army defeated, every drop of blood spilled - all hollow striving in service of the single quest above all else.” He waved his hand, his armor creaking, and beckoned the boy closer. The squire dropped back to listen. “The Grail, m’lad! The Holy Grail! The chalice that caught the blood of our savior Jesus Christ! The only thing worth questing for in all the world!”

Sir Percival settled back in the cart, his breathing heavy, his white sideburns quivering. The squire hesitated, hovering over him, and let out a sigh of relief as Sir Percival seemed to relax again. The squire trotted forward, once again taking the horse’s bridle in his hand.

“I had my chance at it, you know,” Sir Percival said, after some time. “Back when I was young.”

“Sir?” the squire said.

“It was ... My goodness, how long ago was it by now?” Sir Percival shook his head. “At my age, one tends to lose track of time. Not just the now, you see, but all the things before it, all jumbled up together.” Even behind the cataracts his eyes were distant now, dreamy. “I had my chance at it, in any case, made it all the way into the Keeper’s castle. The Keeper of the Grail, you know. All full of wondrous things. This beautiful young maiden, fair and rosy-cheeked. All these beautiful young people. A lance, a lance that never stopped bleeding. A wound that never heals. A lance in your hand that cries for blood, the wound always as fresh as the day your lance first plunged into flesh, the red red reminder of every quest and every kill -”

His lips tremored wordlessly for a moment, and then Sir Percival shook his head. “I had to ask the Question, you see. And I had been taught back then to not ask questions. And so I missed my chance.”

“Sir?” the squire said hesitantly. “The - the question?”

“The Question!” said Sir Percival, his spirits suddenly restored. “Yes, devilishly clever, that! Other, lesser quests would have you answer a riddle to succeed. But! If you’re given the riddle, the answer only follows from that, doesn’t it? It’s a simple matter of eliminating all the answers that don’t fit, and then you’re left with the only one that does. Childishly simple!

“But! If you’re given nothing, and expected to ask the Question first, what then? Oh-ho!” said Sir Percival, smiling broadly and revealing the few remaining teeth among his gums. “Now that’s a challenge few knights can ever conquer!”

“And ... what is the Question, Sir?”

“Well, it’s ... Obviously it’s, ah...” Sir Percival furrowed up his face, sinking back so that his head lay against the cart, squinting at the sun. “Give me a moment, m’lad, I’m not as young as I used to be. Just need a moment to think, that’s all.” Sir Percival yawned loudly, his eyelids fluttering. “Just go on, m’lad,” he mumbled, sinking into sleep. “Keep moving. Just a moment’s rest. I’m sure I’ll think of it. In time...”

...

“Sir?” came the squire’s voice, high and anxious. “Sir! I do believe we’re here!”

Sir Percival snapped awake, the blackness receding back so quickly that for a moment he was lost, and then could not remember what he had been dreaming. They had crossed the border of the kingdom quite a while back, and now a foreboding castle towered over them, its walls of black and battered stone. The ground around it had been torn up in times past by charging hooves and cannon fire, pockmarked with splintered lances and arrowheads and shards of rusting metal, and a ragged banner flew from atop the castle’s highest tower. But Sir Percival saw none of that.

In his ears rang only the sound of rushing water - a river, the sound of it babbling gaily against the stones, the coolness in the air, and Sir Percival squinted furiously, seeing the sparkling curve of the river, and what might have been the shape of a man crouched against it.

“Ahoy!” he yelled out gleefully. “Ahoy over there!”

It was indeed a man, weary-looking, gray-haired, though not nearly as decrepit as Sir Percival, sitting by the riverside with a fishing rod in hand, its thin line swaying with the current. “Ahoy yourself!” he yelled back, irritated. “We’re not at sea, you old coot!” Sir Percival continued looking on with a delighted grin.

The fisherman sighed. He was wearing royal robes, though worn and patched, and with a gesture that suggested he was used to being obeyed he motioned to the squire. “Well, get the old dunderhead over here, then! We might as well get this over with!”

The squire glanced at Sir Percival for confirmation, and then led the old horse forward gingerly, trying to navigate it so that Sir Percival would be next to the old fisherman without the horse splashing into the river, and then finally gave up and unharnessed the cart. The fisherman said nothing through all of this, staring moodily into the river, where not a single fish was troubling his line. Sir Percival was simply grinning, nodding on, gesturing impatiently, as the squire tried to brace him up from underneath his armpit, easing him out of the cart. “Um,” the squire said, glancing at the fisherman. “Um, if I could get a little help...?”

“Sat down here this morning,” the fisherman grumbled, rubbing at his thigh, and the squire could see that it was withered beneath the robes. “Nothing’s getting me up until it’s time to go back in. You’re on your own.”

It took a good deal of clanking and a great deal of effort on both their parts, but finally the squire settled Sir Percival beside the fisherman on the bank.

“Ah, there we go,” Sir Percival sighed, clapping his gauntleted hands down on his tassets. He was breathing heavily. “Been a while, hasn’t it, you old bastard?” he said jovially, elbowing the fisherman. “I tell you, Pelleham, bet you thought you were done with me back then, all those - those wonders in your castle dazzling me with their sorcerous charms -”

“That was my father,” the fisherman said impatiently. “And he’s up there in the castle.” He glanced at the highest tower, its face of scarred stone. “Doesn’t even get out of bed these days. Just lies there, day in, day out, wasting away. I’m Pelles, you remember? Pelles. Was barely even a man, first time you came.”

“Oh.” Sir Percival’s face folded up in wrinkles, his eyes small, his mouth open in a small black semicircle of bewilderment as he leaned in uncomfortably close, trying to make out Pelles’ profile. “Are you - are you sure you’re not - ? You sound just like him, as if - as if it hadn’t been a day - No, no, of course you’re not...” Sir Percival shook his head, slumping back on the riverbank, looking out dazedly at the currents rushing on. “It’s been years, of course. Decades. He was old when I first came here.” He looked hopefully at Pelles. “I don’t suppose I could see him...?”

“Just told you,” the fisherman snapped. “He’s gravely ill. Definitely not taking any visitors.”

“Ah. Of course.” Sir Percival looked down at his lap, folding his hands together.

“And you,” said Pelles. “What are you doing still gallivanting around at your age?” He ran a scornful eye across Sir Percival, the polished armor hanging on his withered frame. “Let me guess, yet another quest. A final quest. For you to perish in pursuit of some noble goal.”

“Yes, yes, exactly,” said Sir Percival, but all the energy had gone out of him. He was slouching in his rigid armor, the edge of his gorget cutting into his chin, though he seemed to barely notice. “We were ...” He smiled toothlessly, his voice gentle. “It sounded so glorious, really, when I proposed it to the King. The one quest I’d never fulfilled. It’s the only thing, isn’t it? The Grail? The only thing that matters in the world...”

“You knights and your damned quests,” the fisherman muttered. He bobbed the pole in his hand, letting the line waver. “What’s it accomplish in the end, hm?” He painfully extended his legs from beneath his robes, rubbed at his bare feet and let them soak in the water. “I spend my days fishing now.” He tugged at his line disgruntledly. “It’s about as productive.”

“No, no,” said Sir Percival dreamily. “You weren’t there for the old days, or perhaps you were still too young, then. Riding across the countryside, around every corner another quest awaiting us. An evil knight, a young damsel in distress...”

The man snorted. “You save a damsel, and then she’s safe to be kidnapped away again. You kill a man, and then you got to kill all his compatriots. When’s it end, eh, Percival? When’s it fucking end?” 

“Well. of course it’s the...” Sir Percival shook his head. “Of course that’s the point of striving, it’s the nobility of the struggle...”

“You conquer a castle, and always there’s a new one just beyond your borders,” the fisherman insisted, jabbing a bony finger. “You do what one man can, and your king sits up in his castle playing his games, and the world bangs on all around you. And in the end it’s just the Grail, the Grail, the Grail, the one thing you’ve never been able to attain.”

“I...” Sir Percival ran a gauntleted hand across his face, shuddering involuntarily from the touch of metal. “I’ve done everything I could, certainly, but ... It’s the youth, of course!” he said, turning stiffly to his squire, his face suddenly beatific. “We do what we can. We make the world as good as we can. And then it’s our - it’s the children, of course, who grow up and keep the quest alive...”

Pelles barely glanced up at the boy, snorting. “I’m my father’s son. As are you. And the old wars, and the new ones, they’re all the same butchery. We’ve both been around far longer than we should. Seen the change of ages. And it’s gotten worse, if anything. All the old atrocities, without even the idealism to temper ‘em.

“Boy!” he said, and snapped his fingers at the squire. “Look around you. Behold my kingdom, in all its tattered glory. What do you think of it?”

The squire stood awkwardly, knees locked, flushed with the sudden attention. “Oh! Uh, I don’t -” He cast his eyes around the scarred landscape littered with the remnants of battle, the shrapnel gouged into the soil. Riddles are simple, Sir Percival had said, eliminate all answers that don’t fit, but in his anxious state no single answer was winnowed from the chaff. “I - I don’t really see anything remarkable about it, Sir...?”

“Y’see!” said Pelles, a nasty grin on his face. “It’s the world we’ve made for ‘em. He’s too young to know any different.”

“No, no, no, no,” Sir Percival said, struggling to shift himself in his armor. “Listen to me, m’lad. If I’ve taught you anything let me teach you this. Despite all the world, despite every brutality in it, in the end we can still find salvation! The Grail -!”

“The Grail!” Pelles shrieked. “Men warring for the Grail, slaughtering one another for the Grail, throwing their lives away in an endless fruitless struggle just for the hopes of finally getting heir hands on the damned Grail -!”

“No!” Sir Percival boomed, and pushed himself upward, the metal joints of his armor locking into place, and for a moment he was standing gloriously on his own two feet again, a shining monument to knighthood as they both stared at him in wonder. “It’s the only quest worth doing,” he proclaimed, his words coming out in a rush, “I swear to you this. We must believe in a redemption through blood. In the promise of salvation -” and then his knees were giving way, the ground rushing up like a great black mountain, and he toppled forward in a violent clash of steel.

“Sir Percival!” the squire screamed, and rushed to him, struggling to turn him over on his back. “Help! Help me!’ he yelled to Pelles.

“I told you!” Pelles yelled back. “I’ve sat down and there’s no getting me up again without a retinue of attendants!” He was dragging himself up the bank regardless, his fishing pole abandoned, as the squire managed to roll Sir Percival over, hovering anxiously his ashen face.

“Heavy,” Sir Percival said, struggling to lift an arm. It might as well have been an anvil. “It’s never - it’s never weighed a thing before, the armor, never noticed I was wearing it -”

“You fool,” hissed Pelles, crawling laboriously to lean over him. “You stupid, stubborn old fool.”

“Oh,” said Sir Percival, a slow smile drifting across his face. “Pelleham. My dear Pelleham. There you are.” His head drifted languidly in Pelles’ direction. “There’s something I was going to ask you, but I can’t at the moment remember what it is.”

“It’ll be all right, Sir,” his squire said urgently, clutching his gauntleted hand. “You just - There’s the castle, and you can -”

“Lad,” said Sir Percival, turning his head back to face the sky. “Lad. Lad. What’s your - ? Your name, it’s something like that, Lad, it’s -”

“Galahad, Sir,” he said, stifling back a sob.

“Of course. Yes. Galahad.” He was seeing brightness. He was seeing light. “My good and faithful squire. Your first quest. And how well you have performed. It’s there, the Grail, right within your reach...”

Sir Percival’s eyes were wide and sightless, and his mouth hung open soundlessly. Galahad fumbled with the armor, unbuckling the straps that he had practiced, struggling to reach the heart beneath the metal chestplate. He shoved the steel aside, pressing an ear to Sir Percival’s hairy and sunken chest. After a few moments he sunk back, his face blank. “He’s dead.”

Pelles was sprawled out on the ground, grimacing in pain, and pushed himself up to watch his fishing rod floating away in the river. Sir Percival’s old nag trotted over, looking down at the body of its master, and gazed off distracted again at some shrubbery in the distance.

“Doddering old idiot,” Pelles muttered. The black castle cast a shadow into the sky, a monolith looking down on them. “At least you’ve got the cart if you want to drag him all the way back. We could bury him here, if you like,” he added, after a moment’s contemplation. “He’s got enough of a history with this place. I don’t think he’d be unhappy with that.”

He looked up, waiting for the squire’s response, and saw that Galahad was busy unbuckling Sir Percival’s belt, hoisting up the scabbard that hung on it. Around the boy’s waist the sword dragged against the ground, so he looped it across his chest instead, the belt going over one shoulder.

“What’re you going to do with that?” Pelles said.

Galahad awkwardly drew the sword from its scabbard, balancing the naked blade with both hands as if he had never held a sword before, pointing its tip towards Pelles, and then let it lower to the ground. “I want an answer,” Galahad said.

Pelles sighed, massaging his aching thigh, his leg stretched out upon the damp soil. “Go on, then.”

“The Grail,” said Galahad, his voice firm. “What’s the damn thing even good for?”

“Ah!” said King Pelles, and despite himself a laughter surged up from his chest, bubbling out inexplicably. Far downstream, his pole was a tiny splintered twig among the rocks, and the fish leapt sparkling through the river, fearless and free. “There you go! Now that’s the Question, isn’t it!”